Damn the bacon sandwiches

Today has been reflective - it is interesting how the slightest nudge can bring memories flooding back, and start the mood deep contemplative.

I slept well last night - I was beyond exhausted. On Thursday night,I received a call from the Senior Daughter to tell me that the Junior Daughter had had a bad fall on Bristol station, on her way back from a short break in Cornwall. My heart pounded - the Junior Daughter is unsteady on her feet, and a fall is not good news, because she falls flat on her face.

Apparently Great Western were brilliant, and arranged for the paramedics to meet the train at Swindon to check her out. They advised her to continue on to London, and to go to A & E at the Royal Free, her local hospital. This she duly did, but no mobile phone reception, so Mamman sat up until 3 am waiting to hear what the prognosis was likely to be. We were lucky that the Senior Daughter was in charge, who always rises to the occasion and copes admirably, and eventually all was sorted out, a black eye, and a badly sprained wrist. A very good thing that Possetta Baddog was in the country with me as it was one less thing for them to worry about.

In the past, if the philanderer had happened, but not often, to have been at home, Mamman could have driven off to help out. but leaving three dogs now is a problem.

This scenario nudged back to my consciousness that the philanderer has never been there for the family in times of need and crisis. Always unavailable, always out of touch, and never to be relied upon.

I remembered all the times I needed to contact him - the hotel had never heard of him, non, the Monsieur had not been here for months, the recorded message saying that the hotel had been closed for a year for refurbishment, non, this Company had not used this particular hotel for a long time, non, Monsieur was not in his room, but Madame was ( oh really, I would say, funny that, because I was Madame, and the hotel would ring off instantly) Non, monsieur et madame were honoured regular guests, but had not been for a while (I had never been!) And on and on, and on, it went. The dinners he attended with his "wife Mrs W" not me, and friends of ours were there! And I always gave him another chance. What was my problem?

Do you know something? Someone said to me yesterday that they were convinced that he had serious mental health problems, and suddenly everything falls into place.

God, how I hate him, his lies, his profligacy, his needy grasping doxies who swallow all his fantastical stories - how I hate myself for allowing him to behave like it.

We hsve two beautiful intelligent daughters, yet, apparently none of us were good enough but to look at the substitutes, oh God, is he blind?

It all seems so trivial, so inconsequential, so ridiculous, so banal.

On Thursday, an old friend came to lunch. I had not seen her for over 20 years, - we had been friends in Kent when our children were little - we had all moved on - but she and I had continued to exchange cards at Christmas and the odd phone call. Her husband had a stroke 11 years ago, and then another several years later. He is "locked in" he understands everything yet cannot communicate at all. She adores him, she looks after him at home, they still travel to London on the train, to the theatre and opera, he loves still being able to do so, I salute her. She said to me simply "I love him". It made me realise that my husband had never even liked me, let alone loved me. He had never in 45 years ever made a gesture that showed that he even cared.

I remember breaking my leg some years ago - the next morning. up he got, I smelt wonderful aromas of grilling bacon and brewing of coffee, a little while later, the front door slammed, he had left for a day's rough shooting, complete with bacon sandwiches and flask of coffee - and had abandoned me for the whole day. No visit to the bathroom, no cup of tea, no breakfast, nothing. He spent 40 years in a marriage behaving like this, making my life with him a mockery.

One day, oh please, if there is any justice, he will come a cropper.