cupid’s arrow
We all know what it’s like at the end of a long-term relationship, you need time and distance. Without these, all you recall are the bitter silences, the rancorous arguments, perceived shortcomings and disappointing failings. Only with a little time and distance will you be able to revisit the promise and expectation that you shared, the excitement of innocent goals, and the blind faith that this was it, this truly was what it was always meant to be.
However, no matter how much time and distance I allow between Dave’s and my divorce, I can’t seem to recall any of the former to alleviate all of the latter. We were both in it together, just he and I, against everything that mattered: we were going to inform the banking boys that they weren’t really the masters of the universe but very naughty boys, we were going to slim-down in our campaigns against obesity & the food lobby, we were going to learn the lessons of history and not throw our weight around internationally, we were going to cooperate with our neighbours but also fight our corner for the right to eat at the top-table. We may have called it the ‘big society’ but it was just the two of us, hand in hand. Oh the plans we cooked-up over country supper.
In coalition with our pals from the next block, we were going to colonise the country outside of the M25 (why, Gideon, on his pre-premiership sabbatical, had even discovered a fracking wasteland somewhere in the frozen north), we were going to be able to cancel our soon-to-be-unnecessary medical insurance, top-up the leccy-car whenever and wherever we chose, send our kids to the closest school, and even ensure they had jobs afterwards. Crucially, we’d never give up on each other and we’d see it through to the very end. Winners never quit and quitters never win.
Sadly, it wasn’t to be. An unnecessary referendum and a ham-fisted, half-hearted campaign put paid to our plans.
Turns out his bullingdon buddies never liked him after all. Pork’s off the menu. By the same token, Dave had been paying lip-service to his Witney congregation and jumped ship from the back-benches with the revolving non-exec door to public-speaking spinning like propellers on Sir Green’s finest. Pay-restraint plans have been restrained. My pension’s gone south. Libya & Syria proved too hot to holiday. And our tartan-wearing tenants’ noses are so out of joint they’ve just served notice. WLTM GSOH for LTR but not at my expense again.
