Razors and Hearts

Last night was a hoot, as expected, despite the fact that when the kiwi stand-up comedian asked if there was anyone in the audience from further afield, B shouted SWEEEEDEN and pointed down at my poor hate-being-the-centre-of-attention head. Immediately there were the jokes about flat-packs, but I a few large spritzers down the line I think I managed the awkward situation with a tiny bit of grace. Well, I just threw my hands out in an apologetic gesture at whoever in the room might have been more of a bespoke furniture type of person.

Left after the second act, who, despite mentioning B’s home town, wasn’t all that funny. Headed home and worked our way through another couple of excessively large glasses of wine and embarked on Shave Bonanza. I like things smooth. The first time I took a razor to B’s more delicate regions was during our dirty weekend in Amsterdam at the Krasnapolsky Hotel on Dam Square – a night that had seen us witness a tacky stripper pull a huge Italian flag out of her growler and ended up with a stolen flower arrangement and B trusting the very tipsy Yours Truly with shaving his balls. OK, not just his balls – all of it. There’s something delicious about sex when you’re truly skin to skin. Gosh, that man drives me crazy.

Unlike the last time I did the manscaping, last night I did a pretty good job and so now B is smooth as a baby in all the right places. It initially turned into a bit of a ritual, but over the past few months, I think I’ve let him down, so the scene awaiting me was a badly kept man garden and it took quite a while (and quite a lot of shaving gel) to get us back to perfectly groomed man business.

As well as B’s bits in order and hearty laughs at Headliners, yesterday also brought some very welcome news – B’s divorce is progressing well, finally! First we were all high fives and hugs and kissed and making toasts to the future, but on second thought, an overwhelming sense of pity is what consumes me. B’s wife has an illness, and on the assumption her disclosure isn’t lies or exaggerations, I feel awful for her. There is absolutely no sense of delight at her situation. Even without a terrible health condition, there was no sense of delight on my part – I truly feel incredibly bad for her.

It doesn’t excuse her actions or behaviour, but how I shudder to think what her life must be like. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.

Such a shame that this sorry saga has come to this. If only she’d recognised a year and a half back that no one wishes her any harm (quite the opposite) and instead of embarking on such a hate campaign, gracefully accepted B’s generous offers of support for life and getting to keep all of what he worked so hard for. Perhaps it was a blow that he moved on so quickly with me, who knows but I imagine that might hurt, or just general bitterness at her own situation (and to be fair, even though I’m not of the same ilk, I can see how you might turn mean and vindictive when your life is that shit) that caused for the past year’s antics to unfold, but perhaps now she’ll finally realise that her situation isn’t too bad.

Sure, her illness is one thing, I don’t dispute that and I only feel sympathy for her on that score. But, show me someone who’s not yet 50 years old, who can say they have a mortgage free property and an income for life that they don’t have to work for. That’s the stuff of dreams for most of us. B – despite being the sole income earner and therefore the only reason why she’s ever had what she has – now has to start from scratch. In your late 40s mortgage free and a guaranteed income for life VS in your late 40s having to get a new mortgage and work your bollocks off way past retirement age. Maybe, just maybe, she will one day recognise how lucky she is in that regard.

So, despite toasting to B finally being freed from this dark and negative being, I took absolutely no pleasure in reading through the stuff his solicitor sent him yesterday, as we both sat at the dining table reading it before going out. His ex isn’t exactly an advocate of the truth, but it can’t be all lies and if this is even close to how bad her illness really is, it’s enough to make me feel so sorry for her that my heart aches. Part of me wants to say ‘karma’s a bitch’ but the bigger part of me truly pities her. What a shitty existence it must be. I keep thinking up ways of making it better for her – anonymously of course – but perhaps her life won’t improve until she starts approaching it with a sense of gratitude rather than this black heart she appears to have.

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