Not Married, Not Bothered. Carol Clewlow

      ‘And it’ll be furnished with antiques – wooden chests and expensive rugs and brass incense lamps, the sort of stuff you see in House and Garden.’ And since I was spitting blood by now I thought I might as well end with a flourish. ‘And for sure there’ll be a fucking maid who comes in every day so you don’t have to lift a finger.’

      ‘Ah, now there you’re wrong.’

      Fergie had found something to take issue with. A relieved smile flooded across his face. ‘There’s definitely not a fucking maid.’

      His head bent to mine as his voice became distinctly gossipy and conspiratorial. ‘Matter of fact he was quite open about that last time we spoke. Said things were a bit thin in that department.’

* For the record, I’ve never set foot in a Holy Communion service, this mainly thanks to my mother who neglected to send me to confirmation classes. I do, however, have a bicycle. It’s a Rock Hopper. Twenty-four gears, chrome alloy frame. A thousand quid’s worth of off-road riding.

      ‘Look … you want it, you don’t want it. What?’ – Lennie, like Autolycus. A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles … Again, more (oh so much more) of Lennie later.

* An interesting point is that single men generally do not possess this supportive ‘Greek chorus’, something reflected in the grim reality of the mortality figures. According to Department of Health statistics, single men living alone after the age of forty-five, particularly those single second time round, post divorce or separation, are twice as likely to die prematurely as single women in the same situation. They’re also more likely to succumb to a whole range of ‘quality of life’ illnesses – rheumatism and diabetes that sort of thing – allegedly because their evenings are more likely to be spent playing the couch potato, washing down a takeaway curry with beer, this as opposed to the spinsta, who’s probably out with friends at the gym or an exercise class, returning home to share low-fat lasagne and a pot of yoghurt.

      ‘How awful…’ This from Magda with a shudder. Magda won’t do any sort of exercise that requires special equipment or clothing. She does yoga (of course), some special variety known only to herself and some swami halfway up the Himalayas.

† Some late news re cats and spinsters. According to some new research, a cat can make a woman more sexy and attractive, this thanks to a parasite that can leap from little Tigger on to humans, causing a condition called Toxoplasma gondii. This condition, which may be infecting up to half the population, is good news or bad, depending on whether you’re male or female, i.e., whereas females who catch it may well begin to suffer from the sex kitten effect, men become more scruffy and grumpy. Apparently, in the most serious cases Toxoplasma gondii has been known to lead to entire personality changes – depression, antisocial behaviour, but most interesting of all schizophrenia, the last of which, it seems to me, could have serious implications for Magda. She has, after all, four cats, so there’s every chance she has, in fact, contracted Toxoplasma gondii and is now suffering from schizophrenia. This would explain her decision to marry herself.

       D is for … Death, Divorce and Moving House

      It may seem trite, it may seem like something straight off the self-help shelves, it may even, in its own way, appear radically revisionist in these dangerous Me-generation times. But still I believe it’s worth taking a Count Your Blessings approach to Life, focusing on the plus points rather than the minuses. In this vein, think, oh, think, oh lucky spinster, more to the point, thank your lucky stars.

      Divorce will always be something that happens to other people.

      You’ll never have to:

      divide up: the dishwasher

       the washing machine

       the fridge freezer

      separate out: the duvet covers

       the cutlery and crockery

       the garden implements

      sort through: the holiday snaps

      the DVDs

      the CDs

      the videos

      You’ll never have to fight for that complete set of Jeffrey Archer.

      It’s amazing how many Ds you can find to go with divorce.

      ‘Discord … dissent … dismemberment …’

      ‘Dissection … disruption … um … dissolution …’ Nathan, with his lips drawn back in the eternal faintly mocking smile as we played the game together.

      That was the night he told me he was divorced; Nathan, like an old iceberg, only a small jagged part of him poking up out of the water.

      ‘I didn’t know.’

      ‘There was no reason why you should. I hadn’t told you.’ The way he leant back calmly in the plastic-strung chair, a hand curved around his chin, his face all white and bright from the street stall’s fizzing gaslamp dangling above us.

      ‘So who was she? How did you meet?’

      But his lips were clamped closed now and the shutter had dropped down over his face. Nathan. The Man in the Iron Mask.

      ‘It doesn’t matter, Riley. It was a long time ago.’ Buttoned- up Nathan. Tight-lipped Nathan. Nathan, with what seemed to be a loathing of sharing this tittle-tattle about himself, as if he believed it was frivolous, idle, unnecessary gossip. ‘It’s of no consequence.’

      Nathan, with this formal, old-fashioned way of talking. Drawing his tentacles in with it, covering himself like one of those sea anemones. And all this the reason why it’s so hard to reconstruct him now, making me realise how very little in the end in those four months together in Bangkok I really got to know him. Nathan with his It doesn’t matter … and It’s of no consequence. And It’s nothing to do with us, Riley.

      I said to him that night, ‘My parents should have divorced,’ perhaps playing for his sympathy. There was concern anyway, a warmth in his eye when he looked up.

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Are you? Why?’

      ‘Because it’s not good. To have unhappy parents.’

      It was the first time I’d heard that, I remember. Almost thirty years ago when such things were not said so easily. When people were more stoical.

      ‘Isn’t it. Don’t lots of people have unhappy parents?’

      ‘Some do, yes.’

      ‘And you?’

      ‘Maybe. Yes. But they were already middle-aged when I was born.’ Again that look, his fork suspended in the air as if he was considering it. ‘I guess by the time I got old enough to really look at them, they were old too. Too old and too traditional to show it.’

      I don’t know why our parents didn’t divorce when I come to think about it now. God knows, my mother threatened it often enough.

      ‘I’m off. You see. I don’t need to be stuck here with you.’

      ‘Good. I couldn’t be happier.’

      ‘The girls’ll come with me. You know that, don’t you?’

      ‘Not a chance.’

      ‘Did he really believe that?’ I said to Cass. ‘That he could take us?’

      ‘I