The 10 year old me

As I am about to embark on my 40th year I can’t help but look back on my life and ask myself the question, ‘Am I where I thought I would be at 40?” The answer is simply, no. In recent months I've found myself thinking back to my former decades with a nostalgia that I've never experienced before, and I realise that for each decade of my life I was quite a different person, distinct from the decade before, and with a different expectation of where I would be as I entered my 4th decade. So, as I find middle-aged-dom begin to unfurl its arms and embrace me I have decided to take a journey back through the decades and visit myself at ten year intervals, to remember who I was then, what consumed my world, and what my aspirations I had for my future. And you’re coming with me…

The years were 1984-5; my 10th year…

At 10 years old I was an extremely average child with shockingly red, messy hair and lots of freckles. My dad always referred to me as precocious, but I’m not convinced he knew what the word meant because I was anything but exceptional. I was far from popular at school, but not intelligent enough to be a geek. I was in some kind of no-man’s land as far as school clique statuses go, and in fact, I wasn't a big fan of school altogether. I went to an all-girls private school and had done since the age of 3. My best friend in school was called Paula, and I used to love to stay at her house because her mother would let us eat digestive biscuits with Philadelphia Cream Cheese on them. It was the first time I’d ever tasted cream cheese and I loved it. The girl I liked least at school was called Catherine. I don’t know what it was I didn't like, but she just rubbed
me up the wrong way. Ironically, years later she became my best friend and still is to this day. My best friend out of school was called Sarah. She lived across the road from me, went to the local state school, and was four days younger. Like me, she had red hair and we looked like sisters. We’d been best friends since (her) birth and spent many birthdays together, including our 10th. My mum took Sarah and I into the city a few days before my birthday and she bought us matching outfits; a little shorts and t-shirt set with a picture of ballet shoes on the shirt. Mine was pink and Sarah’s was blue. I secretly coveted Sarah’s outfit because my favourite colour was blue, but my mum’s favourite colour was pink, and as such I had a wardrobe full of pink clothes. All I wanted for my birthday was a really big dictionary. I loved words and learning the meaning of them. However, my birthday always fell around my parent’s busiest time of the year for work, and as such, I’d usually end up with whatever mum and dad could get off the toy shelf at the local supermarket on the actual day. This was the first birthday that I remember them getting me exactly what I’d asked for! It was a good year.

1984-1985 saw me buy my first single; it was the Ghostbusters theme tune. The big chart toppers that year were Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Wham! and Lionel Ritchie. Everyone was really excited about the Live Aid concert, and I remember watching the whole thing live on TV. That was a big thing because back then the TV rarely broadcast live concerts. Because of this, ‘Feed the World’ became the second single that I bought. Sarah and I set up a stall on our street and sold jumble and bric-a-brac to raise money for Live Aid.

We raised £30. All my friends began donning over-sized white t-shirts hailing ‘Relax’. But, I hated the baggy 80’s clothes, loathed leg warmers, and despised the big hair. Instead I opted for leggings and jumpers, and you’d more often than not find me curled in a corner reading a book rather than watching Top of the Pops. I was an awkward child and books provided me with an escape from a world I just never felt I fit into properly. I loved horses too and desperately wanted one, but settled for riding at the locals stables every weekend. There was no TV after midnight; all stations would shut down until 6 am unless there was a special event. The country was going mad for the latest electrical ‘it’ item; the microwave, and kids up and down the country were asking Father Christmas for Rubik’s Cubes, The Slinky, Cabbage Patch Dolls, and Scalextric. I developed my very first crush in my 10th year; on Sylvester Stallone. Don’t laugh! Back then he was a hottie, and never more so than in my favourite film of that year; Rocky IV. The crush died abruptly when he married Brigitte Nielson who I thought look like a tank. Snickers bars were called Marathons, Starburst were called Opal Fruits, and everyone was supping on the latest, newest drink; Cherry Coke. I remember a girl at school telling me she drank Cherry Coke everyday and I thought she was so cool because we were only allowed it on super special occasions.

It was during this year that the English pound notes were taken out of circulation and replaced by coins. I remember telling my brother that I didn't like them and that I thought they would be a fad.  The least-liked British coin, the Halfpenny (nicknamed the ‘ha’penny’), also was taken out of circulation this year. The only Britons that liked the ha’penny were kids. You could by two sweets for 1p (one pence = one cent) thanks to the ha’penny. I remember the day after it was taken out of circulation I went to my local grocery store and saw that all the ha’penny sweets had been bumped up to 1p. I thought it was a rip-off and refused to buy any more penny sweets. It was also the year that the coal miner’s strikes began, which would signify a seismic shift and divide in Britain, and British politics. I was too young to understand the implication of it all at the time.

This was also the year that we moved to South Africa. Ok, moved might be a slight exaggeration. The intention was there, but it didn’t come into fruition. Instead, it ended up being a very, very long holiday that took me out of school for some time. It was 1985 and all over the news in Britain were horrific scenes of battles on the streets in South Africa as people fought against apartheid. My older brother begged us not to go, but my parents seemed on a quest to find somewhere new to live. Just the year before we’d spent many months in Spain with the view to moving there before they changed their mind and we came home. You see, my parents were firm believers in life experiences being a valued source of education. Both of them had grown up in the war years and had left school by the time they were 12 to work in the factories. They had no formal education, and by the time we were 8 they could no longer help us with our homework as we had far surpassed them. We went to school with the offspring of doctors, lawyers, CEO’s, Professors – all very erudite and able to assist their children with their homework. Mum and dad realised that by comparison my brother and I often suffered because of their lack of schooling. However, what they lacked in education they made up in pure graft, working hard, providing a good home, and taking us all over the world. If they couldn’t figure out fractions with us, they’d take us to deepest, darkest Africa and give us an experience that could never be taught in any text book.

We started off in Johannesburg, the capitol. This is where my ‘Auntie Molly’ lived. She was actually my mum’s best friend from school, but we had to call her Auntie. I was really looking forward to seeing her as I’d always liked her. I was surprised when we arrived in Jo’Berg; everything seemed so calm, and placid. There were no riots, petrol bombs, or mass demonstrations at all. In fact, it was a very different picture to what we’d seen on the news back in Britain.

Auntie Mollie lived out in the leafy suburbs of Jo’Berg. She had a lovely bungalow style house, a swimming pool, a built in cinema style TV, and a slave. Yes. You read that correctly. She had a slave. Her name was Mary, and she was from the Zulu tribe. She lived in a building at the back of the house that could best be described as a converted outhouse. It was a 6’ x 4’ red-brick room with a toilet and sink in the corner, a small stove, a few hooks on the wall to hang her clothes, a shelf with a pitcher and bowl to wash

herself, and a cup and bowl to eat from, and a bed that was raised on stilts because in her tribe they believed that if the Loki Toki man came in the night and hit his head on the bed as he passed underneath that they would have bad luck for many years to come. Looking around this dismal squat I figured the Loki Toki man must have hit his head many times for her to be living like this. She worked from 6am to 8pm everyday and had to purchase her own groceries and make her own food in this room. Once a month she had to go back to her tribe to have her travel and work permit papers updated. It would take a whole day to get to and fro from her tribe, so she never had time to see her family when she got there. She would be docked a day’s wages for this trip, but without the updated papers she wouldn’t be allowed to travel, take any public transport, or work. She never had any vacation time unless her masters were away and then she was permitted to either stay, or go to her tribe, but either way she wouldn’t get paid. And she earned an absolute pittance, but every penny except for groceries she sent back to her family. I remember one day I wanted a cup of tea and went

into the kitchen to make it. Auntie Molly ordered Mary to make it for me. ‘White with one sugar please’ I said begrudgingly. I resented being forced to use Mary. Unfortunately, Mary mixed up the salt and sugar. One taste and I spat it out, and cringed as I did so because I knew there was no hiding it from Auntie Molly’s beady eye. Sure enough, poor Mary got the brunt end of Aunty Molly’s temper and as she received a harsh response to such a simple mistake my heart went out to the poor girl, and hardened against my Aunt. She was British born and raised and we did not tolerate this level of cruelty to another person at home. We did not have slavery, and this was not acceptable. Just because she was no longer in Britain did not mean to say she should be any less British. I was only young, but even I knew this was very, very wrong.

We left Auntie Molly’s house (for which I was very happy about) and we set off on a tour of the country. I have been on many holidays in my life, but none have stuck in my memory as much as this trip. It was an amazing, eye-opening, life-changing experience.  We went through Swaziland and visited many different tribes along the way, each with their own customs. They had little in wealth but they seemed so genuinely happy. Round houses could be seen dotting along the highways, and these were rentable for the night. They were called Rondavels and the beds were in the middle of the room. We went Ostrich riding, and learned that a male Ostrich mates for life with one partner, but the female ostrich finds another mate as soon as the male dies. I saw my first great white shark that had been caught in the waters we’d just been swimming in. We had to take Malaria tablets and they made me so sick that I stopped taking them and I then came down with a mild form of malaria. We flew to Mozambique in the ricketiest plane that I’ve ever been on and we sailed down the Zambezi River to watch the sunset. As soon as the sun passed over the horizon we were plunged into

darkness for there was no twighlight there. We trekked through the jungle to get to Victoria Falls. Everybody ate Biltong; a type of Ostrich jerky. It was foul. We drove through opulent cities full of wealth and white people, and then on the outskirts of the city we’d drive through shanty towns full of corrugated sheet housing and black people. Everywhere we went there was such a marked transition between rich and poor, white and black.

Everything was segregated. There were separate toilets, drinking fountains, bus stops. In all restaurants and hotels, the staff were always black, and the clientele were always white. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before in my life, or even learned about in school. Whilst the country was beautiful and beguiling, it was hard to have a good time when you saw the attitudes and treatment that were occurring all around you. It was so alien to all of us, to the life we knew back in England.  We refused to show any biased towards the black people, but we were shunned by the white people for our attitude.

My most poignant memory is catching the 12-hour train to Durban. It was a long ride for my brother and I and so we went off to explore the train. At the very back of our section there was a door that said, ‘BLACKS ONLY’. This only piqued our interest even more and we went through the door. On the other side, there was row after row of hard wooden benches nailed to the floor. The car was overcrowded and smelled badly. People were sat on the floor because the benches were full. A man carrying a baby looked up and saw us standing in the doorway. He got up and came over

to us. I thought he was going to tell us off for being in his car, so I started to back out of through the doorway. As we moved into the ‘white section’ a ticket collector came up behind us. He saw the black man and pulled what looked like a stick, or truncheon from his side. He raised it over the black man’s head and began threatening him with it if he didn’t move back into his own carriage. The black man scurried back into the car and I heard him say, ‘I just needed some milk for my baby.’

I later found out that this non-stop 12 hour train had a dining car, velvet seating, private carriages, pull down bunks, toilets, showering facilities, and a bar. But only if you were white. If you were black you spent 12 hours in an overcrowded carriage with hard benches, one communal toilet, no running water, and no food.

After some months in Africa my parents decided we should come home. It was never discussed, but I knew the reason that we were leaving was because we could never adhere to the Afrikaans way of life. We were British, and it was just not in our mindset to be able to condone, or tolerate the things that we saw out there. We arrived home late in the summer and England had put on her finery to greet us. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the vista was resplendently verdant with flowers piercing the landscape, and people of all colours walking on the street side by side. It seemed like utopia by comparison to where we’d come from.

I enrolled back in the same school, much to my great chagrin and life continued much as it had before…until the morning of October 12th 1984. I woke up and wandered through to my parent’s bedroom, as I always did.  It was a Friday and a school day.  Good Morning Britain always showed a Popeye cartoon between 7.25am and 7.30am and we’d climb into mum and dad’s bed to watch it before getting ready for school. Their TV was on but there was no cartoon today. Every channel (all 4 of them!) was dominated with the news of the IRA Bomb exploding in the Grand Hotel in Brighton during the Conservative Party Conference. The scenes on the TV were devastating; a building ripped to shreds, bodies being pulled out of rubble, people crying and screaming in the street. Growing up in 70’s and 80’s Britain we were used to emergency evacuations from stores and venues due to suspected Irish bombs, and we’d been taught in school what to do if we saw an abandoned package, and people had passed on stories of them exploding, but this is the first time I’d seen one, albeit on TV. And suddenly, the Irish threat seemed so more real and scary than it ever had before. (In later years most Britons, including myself, experienced evacuations and explosions firsthand as the bombs and threats became more frequent, widespread, and randomly targeted.)

Eyes glued to the telly, I remember asking my dad, ‘She’s not dead, is she?’, and he replied, ‘No, they didn’t get her. Thank God.’ And, I breathed a sigh of relief. Margaret Thatcher was still alive.

My love of politics started in 1979. I was five and it was the night of the National Elections. The country seemed to be abuzz. I might have been young, but even I could tell there was a feverish temperament to these elections. My dad was glued to the TV all night watching as results rolled in. Soon enough, it was time for my bed, but I begged to stay up and watch the elections. I admit it, I didn’t want to actually watch the elections, I just didn’t want to go to bed. Dad piped up in my defense and said I should be allowed to stay up and watch ‘history in the making’. I had no idea what he was talking about but it sounded exciting! Well, it wasn’t. It was as dull as dishwater, but my father’s captivation with it was intoxicating, and I wanted to be a part of that. Every time a result for an area was announced with a blue marker he’d shout out, ‘Go on Maggie girl!’ Every time a result was marked in red he’d holler, ‘You left-wing nutters!’ Who was this Maggie that so enthralled my father? She sounded like my kind of girl!

‘Is Maggie the favourite to win, dad?’ I remember asking.
‘Actually, no, she’s not.’
‘Then how do you know she’ll win?’
‘Because she’s what this country needs.’

I fell asleep at some point in the night, and woke the next morning in my bed. My thoughts flew to Maggie and I raced into my parent’s room. Dad was already watching TV and there was a lady on the screen stood outside a black door. She was wearing a blue suit and waving her hand.

‘Did she win dad?’
‘She did, love. Maggie won. First female Prime Minister. This is going to be the beginning of a whole new Britain.’

From that point on Margaret Thatcher was always referred to as ‘Maggie’ in our house, a name which the rest of the nation adopted for her too. She was a familiar figure in our house, like a member of the family. Dad followed Maggie’s career avidly, and I was always sat at his side. Dad and I stayed up all night in 1982 when Maggie sent troops into the Falklands Islands to win them back from the Argentine invasion. We stayed up all night for the 1983 elections, which Maggie won again. It was after these elections that a new opposition leader was installed to fight her; Neil Kinnock. I remember every time this man came on the TV dad and I would yell, ‘Neil Pillock!’ (On a side note, I saw Neil Kinnock in Parliament recently, and he smiled at me. Just his face brought so many memories from my childhood and I could barely resist the urge to shout out our nickname for him! For American friends a ‘pillock’ is a British slang term for a stupid person.)

But, on that day in 1984 our Maggie showed a new kind of resolve. The bomb had been meant for her. It had missed its target but it claimed several other lives, left people permanently disabled, many injured, and demolished a hotel. The attack happened at 3am. At 7am she requested that a local clothes shop open early so that people could buy new clothes as everyone had lost everything in the collapse of the hotel. By 9.30am, just 6.5 hours later, she addressed the country from the Conference. Everyone had expected her to cancel the Conference in the aftermath of the bomb, but her defiance was another Churchillian moment in her premiership which seemed to encapsulate both her own steely character and the British public's stoical refusal to submit to terrorism. This was the defining moment when I realised what I wanted to do when I grew up. I wanted to be Prime Minister, and more to the point, I wanted to be Margaret Thatcher.

I was very lucky to grow up in a woman’s world. It’s not a phrase you here often, but it was very true for me. I came from a very matriarchal family with a mother that ruled us with a rod of iron. I went to an all girls’ school with mostly female teachers, and a very formidable headmistress. The Head of State was the Queen, and the leader of my country was Margaret Thatcher. If ever there was a time in British history for women to soar, this was our time. Because of these influences in my life I feel I was never destined to be a wallflower, and I knew that even when I was 10. My near-40 year old self might have fallen spectacularly short of the 10 year old me's aspirations, but I'm OK with that. How many do people do you know that ended up in the profession they'd chosen in their early years? At least my juvenile dreams were large and bold.

I feel privileged to have grown up and experienced such a life-changing, historical period. It is these early influences that shaped my awareness, ambitions, passions, and character. Looking back now and thinking of that time, I remember trying to figure out what I’d be like at 15, 20, 30, or 40. I just couldn't wrap my head around it at all. It was just too, too far away for my young brain to comprehend. The most I hoped for was to be married, for my best friends to still be Paula and Sarah, to have two kids; a boy and a girl that I was going to call John and Jill, lots of dogs and horses, live in a big house, and earn lots of money.

Oh, and of course, be Prime Minister.

Be My Bad Valentine...

I’ve always considered V-Day to be somewhat of a commercially contrived holiday designed to make singletons feel like they’re inadequate and missing out on something that the rest of the cosmos seems to be revelling in, yet at the same time make couples feel they’re under-achieving in their relationships and failing to provide the ultimate romantic experience on this one-off, rather un-impressive cold, grey February day. 

My attitude towards this day has always been that if you have someone who treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) this love does not have to be proved on a one-off, Hallmark-poster child holiday. I mean, I’ve always done the obligatory card, etc. and expected only that in return, and for the most part I have not been disappointed. However, despite my low expectations and indifference towards the day I’ve had some fairly dire V-Day experiences. There have been some spectacular, epic fails that shocked even apathetic-little-‘ol-me into an un-invited awareness of how cruel this holiday can be at times. There are three that stand out in my memory…

The first one

I was only 17 and had fallen for a boy I’d met on a cruise to New York. He was my first big emotional-something. I can’t really say love because in retrospect it was more like my first awakening to feelings

towards the opposite sex. Having attended an all-girls school all my life I’d had little interaction with boys, and as such when I did, I clearly failed the necessary life skills to cope with the situation and would reduce to an incoherent, blubbering, giggly mess. So, Mr Cruise-Boy was my first lovey-emotional-thingy and man, I was smitten. But, he lived in Washington DC, and I lived in the ever-so-exciting backwater-middle-of-

nowhere-north-of-England. Our first (and only) V-Day came five months later. I was a little surprised to receive absolutely nothing. This was, after all, my very first V-Day with a partner and I guess I’d been hoping for something (this was clearly long before my present day cynicism kicked in). But, nothing came, not even a phone call (pre-email days). I was fairly gutted, but opted not to say anything to him about it, yet was kicking myself for being such a sap as to send him a card. As he was five years older than me I thought that perhaps the holiday was more of a kids thing, and I’d shown my immaturity by partaking in the V-Day rituals. Again, having no prior experience with the opposite sex, or V-Day ceremonies I was on a whole new learning curve here.

One month later he came to visit me in England. Well, he was actually running an errand for his father in the UK, and coupled it up with coming to see me for a few days. They were magical, wonderful days showing him all over my little Kingdom, and I was so sad when they came to an end. On the drive to the airport I decided to pluck up the courage and ask him about the V-Day card…

Me: “Did you get the card I sent you for Valentine’s?’

Mr Cruise-Boy: “Yes, I did. Thank you for that.’

Me: ‘…..okay….I think yours might have got lost in the post.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘I doubt it. I didn’t send one.’ Now, I’m a little startled as this wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

Me: ‘Oh. Right. Ok.’ Ensue awkward silence…not quite sure where to go from here. Fortunately, he seems to pick up on my disheartenment. 

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You seem disappointed. I’m sorry if you are, it’s just that I couldn’t afford it.’ Eh? What?

Me: ‘…You couldn’t afford a card and postage??’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No.’

Me: ‘It couldn’t cost more than $5, and you couldn’t afford that?’ Absolutely incredulous now because clearly this isn’t a kiddies-only holiday, and clearly he should have sent me a card.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No. I get a monthly allowance from my father whilst I’m at university, and I had no more of that allowance left to be able to send a card.”

Me: ‘Oh….” Not quite sure what to make of this…

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘If it’s any conciliation I did feel guilty for not sending one…” smug smile starts to spread across my lips… ‘but I’d spent all my money on Lucia, and had none left over for you…’ smug smile instantly vanquished from lips.

Me: ‘Who’s Lucia?’ Calm, calm, keep calm, it’s probably his mother.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘My girlfriend.’ I’m sorry…your WHAT?? ‘I bought her a card, flowers, balloons, and took her out to dinner. After I’d paid for all that there was no money left over in my allowance to send you a card.’ Incensed, eyes darting from side-to-side, wildly considering dumping him in the middle of the Moors to fend from himself, foot getting heavier on the pedal, heart racing, blood boiling….

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You look angry….oh, you thought we were exclusive…”

Me: ‘Thought had crossed my mind.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘But, I never told you I was going to be exclusive with you.’ He laughs condescendingly, ‘how silly would that be considering we’re divided by an ocean!’

Me: ‘You’re right. You never said we were exclusive, but you also never said you were dating anyone. And given all the letters you’ve sent me pouring out your un-divided love and adoration, well, forgive me for assuming exclusivity.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You shouldn’t be upset.’ Shouldn’t I?! ‘It’s you I love, but you’re not around, so Lucia keeps me…occupied in your absence.’

Sometime later, arriving at the airport I kissed him on the cheek, gave him a hug, got back in my car, rolled down the window, ‘….just one thing before you go. Lucia can keep you…occupied for as long as you like’ He smiles, ‘yes, but you shan’t be occupying anymore of my life going forward’ The smile from his face vanishes as it emerges smugly on mine. I put my foot down and drove out of his life.

The Second One

The years passed after The First One, and each time I was dating around Valentine’s I knew not to expect much, and my expectations were met readily. Requisite cards and small shows of affection summed up the V-Day experiences, and I was content with that. Then, a decade after The First One came The Second One. From day one it was a tumultuous relationship, which shouldn’t have got out of the starting gate, let alone past any hurdles. We actually met at Christmas, and got together in the late January. For our first V-Day he was overseas in Europe on business. As we’d only been dating for 10 minutes I wasn’t fussed about the lack of arbitrary offerings.

Over the course of that year it became quite obvious to me that he wasn’t over his ex, and I often felt I paled in comparison to the memory of her, and paid for a lot of her sins. No matter how much he tried to convince me that I was being dillusional I just couldn’t allay this nagging feeling that he was only biding his time with me. Then came V-Day. He’d been promising me romantic dinners, and strolls by the river, and for the first time ever I got my hopes up. However, on the actual day I had to work late, so instead of going out for dinner he said he’d cook me dinner at his house. I was so excited at work I could barely contain my excitement. As soon as the clock struck the hour I was out of there like a shot, straight into my car, and on my way to his house. I tried calling several times on the way, but his phone just went to voicemail. When I reached the house it was in complete darkness. Ha ha! A surprise, I thought! However, upon entering, there were no warm welcomes, or shouts or ‘Surprise!’ Instead, I was met with darkness and silence. I went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There were vodka and tequila bottles strewn across the kitchen, a few up-ended cocktail glasses, and absolutely no food. I made my way around the house, turning on lights as I went, looking for Mr Requited-Love. Eventually, I found him passed out in the bedroom in a blind drunk stupor. I tried to wake him up, but he was having none of it.

Heavy hearted at the realisation of yet another dismal V-Day I trudged downstairs to pour myself a cocktail. On entering the kitchen I saw a single tulip sitting in a glass of water. I’d missed this before amid all the alcohol bottles. I went over to it and saw that it had a very small card attached to it, the type of card you’d normally get with a bouquet of flowers. I opened it up and it said, ‘To Susan. Happy Valentine’s day’ Oh, Ok, so he hadn’t totally blown me off. And, it might not be an actual bouquet of flowers, or a proper card,

but it was something, and it was definitely better than nothing. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little disheartened at the lack of sumptuous dinner I’d been promised, and his preference to get annihilated instead of spending the evening with me. Hey-ho. Such is the reality of V-Day, and this is exactly what happens when you come to expect something.

I set to cleaning up the kitchen of all the alcohol debris. As I was throwing the bottles into the bin I noticed a crumpled up piece of paper lying on top of the trash. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this, and nothing special either, but something, somewhere deep inside told me to look at this piece of paper….

“Did you get the bouquet of flowers I sent to you? I hope you like them. I know tulips are your favourite. I didn’t include the little card that went with the flowers because I was afraid of what your boyfriend would say if he knew they were from me. This is silly. I can’t stop thinking about you. We should be together on this day, not with other people. Please come back to me. I love you with all my heart. Susan means nothing to me and I would drop her in a heartbeat if you said you wanted to give us another go….”

The Third One

Another decade later and I meet The Third One. I’m older now, and wiser (marginally), possibly less cynical and a little more realistic. But, The Third One, is different. He’s honest, kind, caring, loyal and faithful. Qualities I hadn’t encountered before. And, in fact, he is The One, and in time becomes TH (The Husband). My mantra had always been if someone treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) you don’t need a

commercial holiday to prove this love, and this was never more the case than with The One. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t do, or say something to make me feel loved and secure. But, having someone so special in my life made me want to do something even more special for him on V-Day. Yes, for the first time ever I wanted to buy into the commercialism of this holiday. I wanted The One to know that he was special to me 365 days a year, but on this one day I get to put that affection on a silver platter and spoon feed it to him in love-heart-shaped dollops, and show it off smugly to the world.

Unfortunately, for our first two V-Day’s he was working away from home. But, the weekend after V-Day he’d always come home ladened with armfuls of flowers, a gigantic card and lots of kisses and cuddles. In return, I’d make us a sumptuous, candlelit meal, and we’d simper and coo at each other across the table. It was wonderful.

And then in 2013 he was actually going to be home for Valentine’s Day. I was so excited to be actually able to spend the evening with him for the first time that I decided to really push the boat out. When he got home from work I drew him a bath. Whilst in the bath I brought him the newspapers and a scotch on the rocks. Upon alighting from the bath I served him a three course candle lit meal. At the end of the meal I presented him with a large box of chocolates and his card. After dinner, we cuddled on the couch and watched Football (which I hate). By 10:00pm I could no longer contain my curiosity…

Me: ‘Have you had a nice evening darling?’

TH: ‘This has been the best Valentine’s ever.’

Me: ‘Oh yay. I’m so glad you enjoyed it…but…I was just wondering…’

TH: ‘Yes?’

Me: ‘Is there anything for me? A card maybe?’

TH: ‘You wanted something? You were expecting something?’

Me: ‘As is normally our custom on V-Day, yes, I was expecting something!’

TH: ‘Oh crap.’

Me: ‘Please tell me that’s an ‘oh crap’ because you’ve left it in the car and you don’t want to go out in the cold to get it’

TH: ‘No, not exactly. More of an ‘oh crap I didn’t get you anything’

Me: ‘You what?!?!’

TH: ‘Well, you said you didn’t like flowers on V-Day so I wasn’t about to buy you any.’

Me: ‘Roses. I said I didn’t like red roses on V-Day because they’re far too cliché! I never said I didn’t like flowers. And besides, you bought me flowers for the past couple of years, so why would you suddenly now decide to not buy them?!’

TH: ‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that.'

Me: ‘Putting the flowers aside, where’s my card? I can assure you I’ve never, ever said I didn’t want a card.’

TH: ‘I didn’t think you’d want anything today…’

Me: ‘No, of course not. Why would I want a Valentine’s card on Valentine’s Day?’

TH: ‘Oh crap. I’ve really messed up haven’t I?’

It turns out TH had got his wires crossed. As we’d always celebrated V-Day on the following weekend, he’d got it into his head that even though he was home for the actual holiday that we wouldn’t be celebrating until the weekend. Needless to say the very next day he came home with several bunches of flowers, the world’s biggest V-Day card, and proceeded to eat humble pie for sometime afterwards.  

The thing is when it’s someone you really, really love the disappointment is felt all the greater. Whilst the actual acts of betrayal from previous V-Days were more premeditated and harsh, and yes, I was hurt at the time, the actual level of disappointment was not that great because I expected little better from them. It’s when you have an expectation, especially from someone you love, that the pain of the disappointment is acute.

This Year

So, it comes to V-Day 2014 and I decided I’m throwing in the towel. I am not putting myself out, making dinners, or drawing any more stinking baths. I am having a man’s V-Day and not doing anything at all. I am sitting on the couch, avec un verre de vin blanc, and having dinner made for me. Ca va?

TH, still eating the last crumbs of humble pie from the year before, is conducive to this idea and agrees to make me dinner. Yippee! However, TH can’t cook. His repertoire of culinary delights include bacon/sausage and egg sandwiches, or crockpot surprise (the surprise being the varying number of odd combinations of food included in the Crockpot). So, my dinner prerequisite was that it couldn’t be made using a Crockpot, or a frying pan.

My man rose to the occasion, sought out my finest cookbook and set to the task. 

I have to say I was dubious, especially when he asked me what ground black pepper was, or if shallot was a relative of the carrot, or when it said a clove of garlic did it mean the entire bulb….but he battled on.

I was not permitted into the kitchen during the Culinary Festivalus, but was supplied with ample wine and contently read my book whilst delicious smells emanated from the kitchen. 

I did sneak in at one point on the premis of re-filling my wine glass, but I really just wanted to take a picture to mark the occasion! 

There was the occasional, ‘What the heck is this?!’ and ‘Why on earth would you do stick that in there?!’ but he sallied forth.

Two and a half hours of cooking later, and behold my feast. To start with - Salad Lyonnaise (Dandelion and bacon salad).

For main course - Carre d'agneau roti Provencale (Roast Rack of Lamb)

Accompanied by - Pommes de terre roties a l'ail (roast potatoes with garlic)

and Ratatouille

I have to say that is was magnificently delicious. Michel Roux Jr would be proud of TH. I know I was! And, I have to say it was the best Valentine's Day ever, for both of us. He loved cooking it as much as I enjoyed sitting back, relaxing and having dinner made for me. I think a new precedence has been set!

Of course, now I know TH can cook I might be taking advantage of this again soon...

New Year's Resolutions - 21 days later

So, it’s been a month since I started my New Year’s Resolutions, and I know you’re all dying to know how I’ve fared. Did I adhere to the 21-day challenge? What have I done that challenged me? Did I muster the balls to throw myself out of a plane? (As if, but I’ve got your attention now!)

 I’ve possibly been a little reticent about posting this article because in true Susan style I’ve somewhat failed spectacularly. Ok, I might be being a little harsh. Some areas have succeeded marvellously, some areas have (through no fault of my own, you understand) been subject to influences beyond my control, and other areas have been a direct result of my inability to assert any level of motivation/dedication/desire (delete as necessary).

 So, here you are; an update on my 21-day challenge:

• Drink 1 litre of water a day – Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy! I hadn’t realised before taking on this challenge that I was actually drinking about 1 litre a day (and not just wine!) But, when I added it all up it came to 1 litre spot on. So, I decided to up the challenge to 2 litres, which is more in line with what I needed to be drinking. Oh. My. Dear. Sweet. Departed. Liver. Who? Who in their right mind actually manages 2 litres of water a day? One litre was easy, but by 1.5 litres I began to feel like my liver had been set adrift and all my internal organs were floating around my internal cavity. By 2 litres the crossed-legged dash to the loo at two minute intervals coupled with my liver begging for a lifebuoy became too much. So I cut back to 1.5 litres. And there it shall stay until I feel ready to take on that last climb to the summit of 2 litres.

• Eat at least three vegetables/fruit a day – Yeahhhh. I thought I was doing well with this.  Either
  • I’ve been duped, or whoever came up with the rule book for this ‘5-a-day’ needs to be fired… So, I’d drink half a glass of orange juice at breakfast, half an apple at lunch, and the other half at dinner. Ta da! Three fruit a day. Only, it’s not, is it? Oh no, you have to eat a whole, entire apple for it to count as a ONE. Who wrote this rule book? Surely if half a glass of orange juice counts as one, then half an apple should count as one. But, oh no. So, I thought I’d supplement it with another glass of orange juice to up it to 3 a day. Yeah, turns out all I was doing was upping my calorie count because apparently no matter how much orange juice you drink in a day it only counts as one!? Again, I ask, who on earth wrote this rule book?! So, the upshot is that I’ve made it to two a day and have not yet fathomed how to eat an entire other vegetable to get it up to three.
    
    
    

• Do at least three exercises a week – pfft. Well, I tried. No, honestly I did. I went running around my local park, which is .5 mile all the way round. I got about a quarter of the
  way and collapsed in a wheezy, blustering, red-faced heap in the mud. Ok, so running was definitely not my game. So, I started going to a circuits class during lunch at work. I’ve been twice, which is a 100% improvement on the running. It’s not as bad as running, but I’m not sure it’s my bag either. I just don’t do jumping, and sweating, and sprinting, and contorting my frame into body-shaped-hieroglyphics all in the name of getting fit. It just seems so un-gainly. I like dancing. Why can’t there be dancing fitness classes? I’d love them. But, not Zumba. I hate Zumba. I end up tripping over my feet wearing big trainers whilst trying to do dainty salsa steps. Not at all lady like. I haven’t entirely given up the ghost yet on this one. Just having trouble finding my stride and something that suits my asthmatic, ill-conditioned, disproportioned body.
  
  
  

• Lose that blasted last stone – see above two items for all the reasons why this has not been in the slightest bit successful yet. I have faith though! I will lose that stone!

• Read 12 books – I read three quarters of one book…and then I started another. Nothing  wrong with the first book, but it was a case of, ‘concentrating really hard, concentrating really hard…ooh, look shiny thing!’ I am determined to read 12 books this year, even if I end up having to read 12 in one month.

• Start a blog – something in this list that I have succeeded at! I’m actually loving doing it, and getting some great feedback. I’ve also had the thrill of one of my posts going ‘viral’ (What it’s like being married to an MP), which I never thought would happen.

• Have 12 new experiences that challenge me – now this I have utterly excelled on! I have not just had one experience that challenged me, I’ve had two! *sniff* very proud of myself.  The first challenge came in the form of conquering my fear of those fugly fleshy funguses; mushrooms. Dear God, do I hate those little gray sacks of vomit-inducing hell, but I brought some into the house, actually cooked with them, and resisted all urges to go all GI Jane on the one that sat on my plate throughout a whole meal. You can read more about my culinary escapades with the devil’s haemorrhoids here.
  
  The other challenge came when I cut my hair. ‘So what?’ I hear you say. Yeah, well, my hair is the only thing I like about my entire body. The Only Thing. And, in being The Only Thing that I like about my entire body it gets treated like a Goddess. My hair and I have been on a special journey to get to this point, because trust me, when I was little it was quite possibly the thing I liked least about myself. You see, as a child my parents were exceptionally busy, and having a younger brother it was much easier to take us to one place to get our hair cut than to two. I lost out on this deal and ended up with a boys barber cut for the first 5 years of my life. Whilst my younger brother was a flaxen-haired little cherub of a bouncing baby, I was by contrast a rotund, chubby, bowl-haircut-sporting red head.

Someone took pity on me around the age of 6 and insisted that my hair should be grown out. You’d think this would solve the problem, but no. I went from child-sized red-headed bowling ball, to crazy red-haired banshee child. No matter how much my mother tried to tame my wild red locks, I always looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.

This continued until I was 12 when my mother decided in her infinite wisdom that I needed a hair cut. She must have really favoured the girls-looking-like-boys look that she’d opted for in my pre-5 years because I pretty much went back to the modern version of that; a short, back and sides. But, if that humiliation wasn’t enough, it was insisted upon that I have a rats tail; a long, straggly, streak of red hair creeping down my back like a hairy crimson spine. I hated it. The next day at school the girl that sat behind me made fun of me All. Day. Long. This then inspired everyone else to make fun of me too. Going home in tears I begged my mother to let me cut the tail off, but she was having none of it. A week of torture later and I cut it off myself and pretended to all un-sundry that it had miraculously ‘fallen off’. Thinking this would stop the taunts at school, I proudly went in the next day ‘de-tailed’. Pfft. Turns out the rats tail had been just the icing on the cake, and in fact the whole boys-cut in general was a source of merriment.

 So, some months later my mother figured they best way to stop the taunts was to have my hair permed. So, now I was a girl with a bright red, short, back, and sides, with a perm on top – I looked like a scalped little orphan Annie. The taunts became so much part of the daily routine that I’d only really notice if someone forgot to mock me. My humiliation was utterly complete, or so I thought.

It was then that I decided to try take control back of my hair, and I began to grow it out. So, I’m 12 years old, feeling all-hormonal and awkward as hell, not the prettiest creature out there, full set of braces on my upper teeth, and now I’m sporting half a head of straight hair, and half a head of permed hair. Those in-between years of desperately trying to grow out my hair, whilst daily straightening the permed bits (because we didn’t have straighteners back then), which actually only made the hair frizzy and stand on its end were awful. For most of my early teens I looked like Worzel Gummage. Needless to say I wasn’t inundated with a lot of interest from boys in my early teens.

Then, at the age of 14 something miraculous starting happening. Not only did my hair reach an acceptable length so that the last dregs of the perm could be cut out, but my hair started to turn lighter. It went from a real copper-knob-rusty-red, to a deep auburn colour, to a strawberry blonde. This is when I actually started to like my hair, and it’s also when I decided to never, ever-ever let anyone else decide a haircut for me.

By the time I reached my early 20’s my hair was long and completely blonde, and I loved it. And, so my love affair with my hair began.

This continued until last year. Who knew, but apparently losing a lot of weight in a short time frame can have a detrimental effect on hair retention. And this is what happened to me. I lost 5 stone in weight, but also ended up losing half a head of hair. When it first started coming out I was distraught. I’d wake up to handfuls on my pillow, and dreaded washing my hair as this is when the most hair loss occurred. My doctor said it was normal and would right itself in 18 months time. 18 months?!? To a woman that might as well be 18 years. So, I was sporting this really, really long blonde hair style that, by the day, was getting thinner and thinner. Eventually I had to face facts that my hair was no longer thick enough to hold a long hair style. Gutted. So, biting the bullet, I went to the hairdressers and had 6 inches cut off. That is the most I’ve had cut off since I was 12, and it took every ounce of gumption I had not to yank the shears out of the girl's hands and go all Edward Scissorhands on her. But, even though I couldn’t wait to get out of the salon and cry my heart out, I had to admit that my hair looked much, much better. This was a couple of weeks ago, and my hair feels ridiculously short to me now. I don’t feel ‘attractive’ anymore (not that I ever really did, but what vestiges I had of feeling attractive have been diminished), but I know I did the right thing. And when, in 18 months, my hair grows back, I will then grow my hair out and resume my love affair with my long hair.

What is it actually like being married to an MP?

“What’s it like being married to an MP?” is the inevitable question I’m asked when people find out who my spouse is, all the while looking at me with an eager anticipation as though I’m about to give them a glimpse into a life of wining and dining with movers and shakers. My go-to pithy retort is always, ‘I’ve never been married to anyone else so I have no basis of comparison.’ Cue a few obligatory laughs, the conversation moves on, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Phew. Awkward situation averted. Because the truth, which is definitely not the answer people want to hear, is that it’s not easy. In fact, it’s downright hard work.

 

Marriage in general requires work, and in what I've said and about to say I’m not detracting from that. But being married to an MP is a different type of work. In the beginning of our relationship I was quite blind to the repercussions and implications that went along with his job. And I never realised it would be quite so far-reaching as to consume my life too, turning it so completely on its head that it was no longer discernible from my previous life. I’d like to say I slipped into the role of WOMP (a Westminster nickname for Wife Of MP) with great ease, but I’d be lying. It has been the steepest learning curve I've ever encountered with many a pothole along the way that I've tripped up over. I've done my fare share of kicking and screaming, been wrapped over the knuckles for mis-behaving, and done a lot of silent, smiling steaming. But, as with anything, it gets easier over time.

 

But, what is it really all about? Is being married to an MP really that arduous? Most people think it’s the life of Riley with schmoozing galore, and a never-ending cycle of glitz and glamour. Read on for the real story!

The Reversion to the 1950’s family roles

I have always considered myself somewhat of a feminist. Among other things, I waited until in my 30’s to get married. OK, in part that was because I’d never met anyone I wanted to marry, but it was also because I often saw marriage as career-blocker for women. In marriage we become placated and comfortable. Shrouded in this security our sight line moves from the career path to the stove, and from ambition to the iron, making sure that our families have full bellies and clean, ironed clothes and finding utter contentment in just that. I admit my view was very jaded, and it was based on a few friendships I’d seen change irrevocably after nuptials. I am pleased (and quick) to say that this is no longer my attitude. But, nonetheless, I wanted to ensure that whomever I married shared, among other things, the more menial tasks that are more often than not placed on women. I wanted to be an equal partner. I found this in Alec. Being a confirmed bachelor when I met him, and a neat freak, he was deft with a hoover and handy with a mop (these obviously weren't his only strengths!)

 

Oh, how I've been mocked. The reality of the situation is that he’s never around to be able to help with household chores. Working in London four days, and three nights a week I keep the homestead fires burning in his absence. When he is home it is literally to eat a meal, change a shirt, and lay his head on a pillow for a few hours. He. Works. All. Of. The. Time. All of this, of course, means that I have been left with pretty much all the household duties. To be fair, when he does have a bit of spare time he does his bit, but he is well aware of the shift in balance within the house. I spent the first year of our marriage in denial about this seismic shift, but the ever-dusty home, and over-piled laundry basket knocked me out of the delusion of what I expected our marriage to be like, and into the reality of what it was actually like. I do have to say though that Alec always makes sure I know how much he appreciates everything I do. And, for that alone, it makes the monotonous tasks all the more durable. But there are times, like when I’m ironing the 16^th shirt from the load of washing he’s brought back from London, or cooking a meal at midnight because he’s come home from a late night meeting and is starving, and I’m possibly cursing the in-equality of the situation that I remind myself that making my husband look smart, feel loved, comfortable and secure (which is how he makes me feel everyday) is a great joy, and that this umpteenth shirt, or this late night meal is a small price to pay for that happiness. It is then that I smile because I have become the exact ideal I never wanted to be, and I’m OK with that…now.

The invisible social life

And it’s not just household chores that he gets slipped from. Above and beyond the routine errands, he also has little time for us. Yes, he comes home on Thursday night, but no, we don’t have a weekend together. He’s out all day Friday at surgeries, usually has an event on Friday night, out all day Saturday. We try to keep Saturday night and Sunday for ourselves, but this isn't always possible. So, at absolute best we have 1 day, and 1 evening together a week. During this ‘downtime’ he’s usually so tired that all he wants to do is sleep and relax. So, during the week I rush to get all the chores done so that what little time can be afforded at the weekend isn't marred by tasks, and we can have a few un-interrupted hours together. Well, I say un-interrupted, but I’m lying. His phone is never switched off and to that end he’s never ‘off duty’. This was hard to accept in the beginning. It was a while into this new lifestyle with Alec before I could fully appreciate the tranquility of staying in on a Saturday night.

All this means that we are pretty much busy all of the time, and because of this we’re always having to cancel, or re-arrange plans because an important meeting, or something has cropped up. And, trust me, nine times out of ten an important something always arises.

Because of this people tend to think we have these über amazing social lives full of glitz, glamour and highbrow social events, but the truth is far from that, and much more mundane. We’re just really, really busy, or really, really hibernating. I can’t deny that there are some ‘highbrow’ events that I've nepotistically received an invite for, such as lunch with the Prime Minister at Chequers, or meeting the Queen at Buckingham Palace, and I can’t refute that the exuberance of the Houses of Parliament isn't lost on me every time I walk those hallowed hallways, or that I deny the rubber-neckers a wry smile as I drive through the gates of Westminster. But for every ‘glamorous’ moment there are a thousand mundane ones in its wake.

As part of our resolutions for January 2013 we instituted a date night. Each month one of us had to take the other out, out of the house, out of the village, and spend some quality time together. We even put dates for the year into our diaries and told Alec’s staff that these dates were carved in stone and couldn’t be moved. It was June by the time we decided to abandon the idea after only managing to stick to a few date nights, because as always, an important something came up and like a tidal wave, wiped out all personal plans.

The big stuff

I can live with losing the date nights. I can tolerate having limited downtime with my husband, and I’ve even learned to accept all the household chores, but one of the hardest pills to swallow has been the solitude. There are times when it gets lonely, and no amount of interaction with friends is going to plug that Alec-shaped hole. I doff my cap to spouses of service men and women, for their loneliness must be far more acute with their partners being away for months at a time. You have my utter respect and admiration.

But, it’s not just the loneliness that’s frustrating. What’s worse is the doing things alone, enduring life’s highs and lows alone. You can guarantee that when something big happens he is persona non grata. The day I got moved to a new position in my job and was devastated? Alec was in a debate in Westminster Hall for 4 hours and couldn't be reached. The day I got a new job? Alec was in back-to-back appointments and couldn't be disturbed. The day I had surgery? He managed to get a half day slip and came to Leeds, sat by my bedside for one hour, and then went back to London. When I was taken to hospital and kept in for a few days and had no one to look after the dogs? Alec was on a three line whip and couldn't leave London. Thank God for friends and family who came to the rescue. Lately, the ‘big stuff’ issue is IVF. We’re about to start our third attempt. During the first attempt Alec could barely be there through any of it due to commitments in London, and it was quite hard to go through it alone. After that, we orchestrated the next attempt during summer recess. Now, we've moved to a clinic in London, in part because it means Alec can be more involved. But when he’s not there for the big things, good or bad, it is these times that are the hardest to endure because they are an awful reminder of that fact that for much of the time I live a single life. And, I don’t like it.

 

Modern-day Feudalism

Being a WOMP means that you are obligated, nay expected, to give indentured servitude. To this end your presence is sought demanded at dinners, events, functions, fetes, fairs, conferences…you name it, you’re supposed to be there. Actually, no one really cares when you’re there, and certainly even fewer actually speak to you, other than to ask you what it’s like to be married to an MP.  But, if you’re not there...woe betide you! The ferocity of the naysayers is un-rivaled, all quick to point out to anyone else who’ll listen that the lack of your presence was ruefully noted and won’t be forgotten. Ever. Tut tut. Naughty girl. So, as dutiful wifey, I go to these events, play my part, smile a lot, and then I sit through Alec’s speech. Now, I love my husband, and I find him engaging and interesting, but there’s only so many times I can hear the same speech  before I have completely exhausted my mental capacity for litany, and train myself to become a professional lagophthalmos (someone who falls asleep with their eyes open).

You’re also expected to take part in any charity event that your husband participates in. Again, no one really cares if you do it, but they sure as heck notice you if you don’t. To this end, in the name of charity, I have donned an ill-fitting wet suit and swam Lake Windermere. Everyone clapped Alec on the back whilst I silently suffered from what I can only deem to be a water-born strain of e coli. Recently, I wore a onesie to help Alec raise money for his latest charity (see www.justgiving.com/ashelbrookemp). These are the lengths you go to for your husband, and in the name of keeping up appearances!

Beyond the dinner and events, I am also expected to go canvassing. This is the art of knocking on people’s doors and asking their voting intention. In the name of canvassing I can lose a tremendous amount of my personal time.
Oh, how I would love to meet a friend for food, or go shopping, or sleep in on a weekend, but that life is not mine anymore. If there is one thing on this planet that I abhor, detest, and loathe it is canvassing. There is simply no joy in trekking door-to-door in the driving rain having people lob abuse at you. Of course there are the days when the sun shines and the

people are friendly. I think I’ve experienced one, sometime, a long time ago. However, the absolute worst aspect of canvassing is the letter boxes and doors. You spy a ‘bad door’ and covet the notion of slowing down to allow one of the other canvassers to get their first. A bad door, you ask? Well, a good door has a doorbell, and/or a door knocker with a letter box at waist height. A ‘bad door’ has neither knocker, nor bell and/or has a letterbox near the ground. Why so bad? Well, rapping your knuckles against hard wood all day long in the driving rain and bitter cold leads to dry, cracked, and bleeding knuckles. This is exasperated by shoving your hand repeatedly through letterboxes that act more like Venus Hand-Traps than mail receptacles. But, the letter boxes near the ground, they’re the worst. By the time you've got down on your hands and knees to reach the thing you've lost most of the pile of flyers in your grasp, so you end up crawling around on all fours shoving and retrieving flyers, whilst the rain is turning the whole lot into papier-mâché. Owners of ‘bad doors’ should be fined for cruel and unusual punishment. Why not wear gloves, you ask?: Obvious reasoning, except you can’t grab a single flyer whilst wearing gloves, so bear handed it has to be.

Canvassing gives you a whole new respect for the postman, but the postman seldom has to deal with the unpleasantness canvassing can incite. You don’t have to agree with my politics, but it takes as much effort to be rude as it does to be nice. So, if I happen to knock on your door sometime, please be nice to me!

Smile please, you’re on candid camera!

Alec is never off duty. Ever. Which means that I’m not off duty either. This means that no matter where we go or what we do we’re always on display and open to comment, discussion, or criticism. I learned this the hard way. During our first year together, being oblivious to this spotlight lifestyle, I tried to engage Alec in my lifestyle. Anyone who knows

my husband knows he’s a frustrated rock star, so for his birthday I rented a karaoke booth for him to sing his little heart out. Mid evening he left the booth to use the facilities and was confronted in the bathroom mid-stream. Every dinner, or event we went to, he was always recognised and his counsel was sort. So, I took him off to the coast for the weekend to have some alone time. Everyday we bumped into a constituent. That’s when I decided the next holiday had to be out of the country, so we spent a few days in Spain. Sitting in a little café having breakfast one morning, someone walked by and said, ‘Hello Alec, mind if I join you?’ And, poof! Alec is instantly working again. By the end of our first year I realised it was me that had to change my lifestyle to accommodate him, because it just wasn't possible for him to be part of the world I’d known up to that point. This is when we took to hibernating. Closing the doors, shutting the curtains, and spending time in our house, just the two of us, all alone. And we love it!



On the occasion that we have gone on holiday, something has always ‘come up’, that has in some way up-ended the vacation. We've never had a holiday that hasn't run into some kind of stumbling block. On waking up on the first day of our honeymoon in August 2011, in a quaint New England Inn, we were met with the news that Parliament was being re-called due to the riots. In April, 2013 we decided to take a long weekend in Scotland. We’d been there 2 days when Parliament was recalled for Margaret Thatcher’s death. At the end of August, 2013 we’d just failed our second IVF attempt, which happened on my birthday. We were both feeling emotionally bedraggled, and decided to go away for a long weekend, just to lick our wounds. Bags packed, about to walk out of the door, and Parliament was recalled for the Syria debate and vote, and I was left licking solitary wounds.

Whilst it is Alec who lives his life in the spotlight, mine is definitely skirting the edges. OK, I don’t get noticed in the street, but I have learned (again, the hard way) to be extremely careful what I say, what I put out on a public domain, and sadly who my real friends are.

This has been the steepest learning curve of all. I didn't want to believe any of my friends would betray me, or my husband. But, I had to re-evaluate this position when one of my ‘friends’ sold pictures from my Facebook to the Sun newspaper. Instantly, I found myself questioning every friendship and every friend. Because of this I’m very careful now whom I bring into my ‘inner circle’ of friends, what I say and to whom, and unfortunately along the way have had to make tough decisions on whom I could and couldn't trust.

There have been times in the past few years whereby I've been vicariously disliked e.g. someone doesn't like my husband’s politics and they lack the mental capacity to differentiate a dislike of politics with a dislike of the person. Being married to him, this dislike has been extended to me. You can spot these people a mile off; you've never/barely ever spoken to them, but they won’t shake your hand, or look you in the eye, they make disparaging comments, and walk away from you as you get close to them. I found this hard to take at first, and actually took it quite personally. I’d spend ages mentally ruminating what I’d done wrong to these people until Alec made me see sense. My response to them has always been a charm offensive; I will make you like me, and I will make you see beyond your limited parameters. For the most part, this has worked. But, then there’s always the anomaly, that person that really is a nasty piece of work, and it’s got nothing to do with politics. They just have a sadistic pleasure in trying to get you to let your guard down. It is because of all the above, but mostly this latter person that I have to be very careful about everything I say and do. No matter how riled, goaded, or provoked I am my response has to be placating, ambiguous, and executed with a smile. You have no idea how hard I have to bite my tongue sometimes!

Would I change my life?

Not for all the tea in China! Yes, my life has changed irrevocably since I met Alec. Yes, it’s barely distinguishable from my previous existence. Yes, it’s hard work, long hours, little down time, little alone time, everyone wants a piece of him, and you’re never off duty. But, my husband has changed my life for the better. I think back to my previous life and it feels cold, un-relatable, and definitely not a place I ever want to go back to. Despite the fact that Alec’s job is all consuming to our lives I know that I am a top priority for him, as he is for me, which makes accepting all the above all the easier.

One thing we do have in our favour is my interest in politics. You need to be interested in politics for this kind of relationship to survive. Without that interest you will suffer because the never-ending meetings, conferences and dinners will be excruciating. Even the conversations with your own husband will be limited because trust me, all politicians eat, sleep, breathe, and excrete politics and it’s all they know to talk about. At least Alec and I can talk the talk with each other, which keeps us even more connected.

I might have gone into this situation blind, but sometimes a baptism of fire is just what you need. As difficult as it may have been at some points Alec has always been there to support, help, guide, and defend. He really is my hero. He often says that he couldn't do his job half as well as he does if it weren't for me. But, the truth is he makes me a better person just by being him, and in fact it’s me that needs to pay homage to him because I couldn't have gotten through these past 4 years without his un-wavering support.