Amsterdam

Ex-Husband and Much Younger Girlfriend (who must henceforth be referred to as Much Younger Fiancee since they got engaged a few weeks ago) are away this weekend with our two gorgeous girls.

It feels all a bit wierd, as they are staying with friends in the country with whom Ex-Husband and I have been friends for almost twenty years. I first met G & E within a month of arriving in London from South Africa, way back in the late 1980's. So long ago that Nelson Mandela was still on Robben Island.

Ex-Husband is playing in a cricket match today, organised annually by G. It's strange to think that had we not got divorced, I might be sitting on the boundary of a West Berkshire cricket field right this very minute. Instead, it's Much Younger Fiancee who is sitting on the boundary and here I am, blogging about it.

The good news is, I'd much rather be here than there. Actually, that's not true. I'd much, much rather be in Amsterdam.

And Amsterdam is where I would be if Brixton Man had not shattered my heart by calling time on our relationship recently. Right now, we'd both be on bicycles crossing some quaint little bridge over some sparkling canal on our way to the van Gogh Museum. Or back in our hotel room, having filthy sex.

In May we had decided that a weekend away would be fun. We chose this weekend because Eldest and Youngest Daughter would be with their father. I chose Amsterdam because I once lived in Holland a long, long time ago (I was the same age as Eldest Daughter is now) and I haven't been back since. And I have always wanted to visit the Red Light District. So I duly went ahead and booked our flights, using the few remaining BA airmiles that I had to my name (acquired while still married to Ex-Husband, back when we still had lots of money and would fly merrily hither thither and yon, not giving a damn about our collective carbon footprint, as we hadn't yet heard of the term.).

A few weeks later, Brixton Man decided that 'things were just not going to work out'.
'But what about Amsterdam?' said I, plaintively, trying hard not to cry.
'We could still go, I suppose,' said Brixton Man. 'I could come along and carry your luggage.'

Many years ago, I attended another cricket match. Towards the end of the day, when the opposition were batting, Eldest Daughter (almost five, whiney & very, very bored) asked how much longer before daddy came off the field and we all went home. Minutes earlier, I'd overheard someone say that the game was almost over, given our team's brilliant bowling and the fact that the last remaining opposition batsmen were completely crap.

Armed with this knowledge, I informed Eldest Daughter that we would be going home very soon 'because the rest of the batsmen are all completely rubbish, darling'. And who should be standing right next to me but the next batsmen himself, donning his pads and preparing to go out onto the field and (I can barely bring myself to write this) .... HE ONLY HAD ONE ARM!!!!!

Have just received a text from Eldest Daughter. They're on their way home. Ex-Husband pulled a hamstring and had to be carried off the field (that'll teach him; I bet he was showing off in front of Much Younger Fiancee). They should be here in about twenty-five minutes. So, time for me to hide the Marlboro Lights, brush my teeth and prepare to welcome home my two little darlings.