Years of well honeyed optimism

I have to learn to be the sophisticated woman I am perceived as.

In the meantime let my hot, salty, searing tears of utter disappointment with the shithole that life and its inhabitants manage to be at times fall on stony ground. I didn’t think it possible, until recently, to utter words like the previous. Now it’s reality.

One good friend perceived yesterday (she is Californian, my son’s father’s wife and Polyanna re-incarnated): If I were in your position I’d have most likely killed myself by now.

Cut to the chase.

Recently my life feels like a Hitchcock movie; maybe Sean Connery (Marnie) could rescue me, or that awful ginger haired London strangler might put an end to it all. I don’t want to be killed (particularly not with a tie by someone who peddles potatoes); Rhett Butler might, for a change, agree that tomorrow will be another day. Unlike him I can’t say “I don’t give a damn” (such a marvellous line). I do – give one hell of a damn.

U