Sunday 18th April

Ex-husband Andy left at lunchtime. 

Between ex partners or spouses there is, with any luck, a gaping chasm between civility and friendship. I have been labouring under the misapprehension that ex-husband Andy and I were somewhere north of civil in a little town called ‘Believe-me-im-only-putting-up-with-you-for-the-kids’. 

Astonished to learn that for the last three years I have been thoughtlessly exuding ‘you complete me’ vibes without any regard for poor Andy and his feelings.

This makes me, apparently, at least partially responsible for the untimely and hasty end to his relationship with the replacement. 

That and she caught him in the toilets at Wetherspoons on Friday night with his tongue down her cousin’s throat. 

Came downstairs this morning to find Andy wandering around in his pants looking for the remote as, he informed me, Hollyoaks had started. Went into kitchen to double check that oven is definitely electric and not gas and when he shouted that ‘he takes two sugars with his’, wondered if not drinking alcohol at 9:30am on a Sunday is a hard and fast rule or merely a guideline. 

Dimly aware of conversation in the sitting room but  heard somebody propose a barbeque and in a rash and self serving moment picked up the telephone and dialled the replacement’s number to ask her to reconsider. 

When she eventually stopped laughing, I explained that I was well aware of the predicaments that Andy and his unreliable trousers get themselves into but that he is desolate without her and terribly, terribly sorry. I tried to keep the desperation from seeping into my voice but have to admit that the tail end of the conversation was more a plead-fest than anything else. 

She finally relented when I reminded her that, he does after all, have a jolly nice car. 

Andy was a little more difficult to convince as the Teenager had just helpfully pointed out that he had ‘Sky-plussed’ the Man U v Man City game from yesterday. 

As I waved Andy a fond but firm farewell it occurred to me that there are, most definitely, worse things than being a single parent. 

Disorganised, or otherwise.