Six Months to Get a Life Read online

  Six Months to Get a Life

  Ben Adams

  Contents

  Title Page

  Wednesday 26th March

  Thursday 27th March

  Friday 28th March

  Saturday 29th March

  Sunday 30th March

  Wednesday 2nd April

  Thursday 3rd April

  Friday 4th April

  Saturday 5th April

  Sunday 6th April

  Tuesday 8th April

  Wednesday 9th April

  Thursday 10th April

  Friday 11th April

  Saturday 12th April

  Sunday 13th April

  Tuesday 15th April

  Thursday 17th April

  Saturday 20th April

  Monday 21st April

  Wednesday 23rd April

  Friday 25th April

  Saturday 26th April

  Sunday 27th April

  Monday 28th April

  Wednesday 30th April

  Saturday 3rd May

  Sunday 4th May

  Tuesday 6th May

  Thursday 8th May

  Sunday 11th May

  Tuesday 13th May

  Wednesday 14th May

  Saturday 17th May

  Monday 19th May

  Tuesday 20th May

  Wednesday 21st May

  Thursday 22nd May

  Sunday 25th May

  Tuesday 27th May

  Wednesday 28th May

  Friday 30th May

  Sunday 1st June

  Tuesday 3rd June

  Wednesday 4th June

  Thursday 5th June

  Saturday 7th June

  Sunday 8th June

  Monday 9th June

  Wednesday 11th June

  Friday 13th June

  Saturday 14th June

  Monday 16th June

  Tuesday 17th June

  Thursday 19th June

  Friday 20th June

  Saturday 21st June

  Sunday 22nd June

  Monday 23rd June

  Tuesday 24th June

  Thursday 26th June

  Friday 27th June

  Saturday 28th June

  Sunday 29th June

  Tuesday 1st July

  Wednesday 2nd July

  Thursday 3rd July

  Friday 4th July

  Sunday 6th July

  Monday 7th July

  Wednesday 9th July

  Friday 11th July

  Sunday 13th July

  Tuesday 15th July

  Wednesday 16th July

  Friday 18th – Monday 21st July

  Wednesday 23rd July

  Friday 25th July

  Sunday 27th July – Sunday 3rd August

  Monday 4th August

  Thursday 7th August

  Saturday 9th August

  Monday 11th August

  Tuesday 12th August

  Wednesday 13th August

  Friday 15th August

  Sunday 17th August

  Tuesday 19th August

  Thursday 21st August

  Friday 22nd August

  Sunday 24th August

  Wednesday 27th August

  Thursday 28th August

  Saturday 30th August

  Monday 1st September

  Wednesday 3rd September

  Friday 5th September

  Saturday 6th September

  Sunday 7th September

  Monday 8th September

  Tuesday 9th September

  Thursday 11th September

  Friday 12th September

  Sunday 14th September

  Monday 15th September

  Tuesday 16th September

  Wednesday 17th September

  Thursday 18th September

  Friday 19th September

  Sunday 21st September

  Tuesday 23rd September

  Wednesday 24th September

  Saturday 27th September

  Diary note

  Prologue

  Copyright

  Wednesday 26th March

  My decree absolute came through today. I am officially divorced.

  I have never been divorced before. I thought it would feel different – either like being released from the proverbial life sentence, or maybe in my more pessimistic moments like being a discarded cigarette, cast adrift with the life sucked out of me. I didn’t know whether to celebrate or cry. In the end I just changed my Facebook status to single and went off to work.

  Despite my divorce, the world seems to be proceeding as usual. It is raining, the Russians and Ukrainians are arguing, the Northern line was packed and my fellow commuters were determined to get to work before me. Most managed it too. No one congratulated me on my divorce. No one seemed to notice that I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Oh well, life goes on I suppose.

  But what will life look like for a 42-year-old newly-divorced man with two kids? Am I destined to grow old alone, bitter and twisted with only the telly and the occasional visit from family I don’t really know to keep me going? Or can I make a new life for myself that involves being a proper dad, going out, meeting new people and even getting the occasional bit of sex from time to time?

  Tempting as it is to wallow in self-pity, spending the months to come immersing myself in soap operas and made-up dramas rather than acting them out myself, I have, this very day, decided that I will not feel sorry for myself. I will not be ‘done to’. I won’t mope around.

  In exactly six months’ time, on 26th September, I will be 43 years old. Birthdays aren’t normally a big thing for me but this one will be. I am going to throw a party and invite everyone I know. Well, maybe everyone except my ex. And my friends are going to celebrate my new life with me. I am going to get a life in the next six months.

  There, I have said it. If I say it enough times I might start believing it; which is why I am writing this diary. I am making myself a commitment, setting it down in black and white, that I will take control. I will get off my backside and make things happen. I will forge a new life for myself, one with my kids, with new friends and, who knows, maybe even a new love. I will sort my life out and I will do it by my birthday.

  I am going to commit events to writing whenever I can, to make myself push on rather than letting life pass me by. And you, my mythical reader, can assist me. You can let me rant without interruption. If you like, you can be my therapist but I am not paying you. Feel free to kick me up the backside when you are reading this and you notice too much negativity. Don’t go easy on me either. If you’ll forgive me a football analogy, don’t be Phil Neal to my Graham Taylor; ‘do I not like that’. I don’t want your loyalty. I want you to push me to get over my divorce and achieve a new life that is fulfilling and fun for me and my kids.

  Just so that you get to know me a bit, and maybe even empathise with me, I will tell you a bit about me and my situation. My name is Graham Hope. I am a 42-year-old divorcee with two kids – Jack, fourteen, and Sean, twelve. I did have a wife but I haven’t got one now. I did have a great house in Raynes Park on the edge of leafy Surrey but I haven’t got that now either.

  I am no Brad Pitt or Harry Styles in the looks department, or any other department for that matter. I have a more ‘lived in’ look, with a big nose and teeth that belong to a 42-year-old man rather than a Barbie doll. I am no ugly fat mug either, mind.

  I am currently living with my parents in Morden, at the end of the northern line and just past the end of civilisation. That’s a double whammy if ever there was one. I am living with my parents. And I am living in Morden.

  Am I bitter about my situation? Well, if truth be told, yes, sometimes I am. My divorce has forced a radical rethink of my dre
ams. Gone are the thoughts of growing old with my ex, travelling the world, seeing the sights and occasionally popping home to hear about Jack’s latest move during the football transfer window and Sean’s latest century for England. Now I have resorted to dreaming about my chances of pulling Kylie Minogue. OK, so the dreams still aren’t too bad but the problems start when I wake up and realise my future isn’t as mapped out as it used to be.

  You will notice that I keep referring to ‘my ex’. I have this thing about telling you her name. She is a person and until recently she was important in my life. I suppose as the mother of our children she is still important. But this diary is not about her; it is about me. If you want to read her diary then you are in the wrong place. If you want to sympathise with her then feel free but I won’t be giving you any help. She does actually write a diary; at least she used to. I flicked through it once when I came across it when I was looking for her car keys in her handbag. The one comment that stuck in my mind was, ‘Graham has a big ego and a small dick. I wish it was the other way around.’

  Back to me; in the wake of my divorce I’m a little bit lonely, missing my kids when they aren’t with me, worried about money and petrified about how long it will be before I feel loved again. In short, I have a long way to go to sort my life out. But on the positive side, I have some ideas. I might try internet dating as it could be a bit of a laugh, I am looking forward to saying ‘yes’ a few more times when my mates ask me out for a beer and … actually I can’t think of anything else positive at the moment.

  My mates didn’t ask me out for a beer tonight. There was no football on the telly either. So tonight I stayed in with my dad and drank London Pride out of a can, which is pretty much how I have spent most evenings since my wife and I went our separate ways (she didn’t go anywhere but I came here). My dad has fallen asleep with his head on the table now, so I have been left in peace to give myself a pep talk.

  Taking control of my life is a start, but if you take control of a car and don’t know where you are going, you may well go round in circles or worse still end up in Morden. So I need to set some goals. The therapists on the telly are always telling people to have goals. So after much thought and another can of London Pride, here are mine. By my 43rd birthday I will:

  Be a good dad

  Get somewhere else to live

  Get a social life

  Get a more interesting job

  Get some decent bottled lager in

  Get fit

  Now the more observant of you will have noticed that goals 5 and 6 might be somewhat conflicting. In my defence, I am not striving for perfection, only a normal life.

  And I have six months to get it.

  Thursday 27th March

  My second day of being divorced was much like my first. In fact it was much like every day for the past year or so. My ex and I pretty much separated last Easter, albeit with the odd brief reconciliation in the winter months. We just drifted apart, like some couples do. There were no sordid affairs with naked people hiding in wardrobes when spouses come home unexpectedly. At least not that I know of. There were no frying pan-throwing tantrums or punch-ups. There were just two people not bringing the best out of each other. We didn’t fight about who got the kids. We left it up to them and they decided to base themselves with their mum (I’m not bitter). We didn’t even fight about who got the house. I consider myself to be more of a lover than a fighter, but as a newly single man, I am beginning to discover I don’t do either very well.

  Today I went to work like any other day. I wish I could tell you I have an exciting job – something like a brain surgeon, a football commentator or a travel reporter. But actually I work in an office shuffling papers. Work for me is a way of earning money to live my life. So today I earned some money that I will end up giving a chunk of to my ex. I’m not bitter.

  ‘Short skirt Sarah’ at work noticed I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring today. By my reckoning it has taken about four months for someone to notice, or pluck up the courage to comment. I actually took my ring off on Christmas day and chucked it at my ex in disgust at being bought a ‘beard care set’ for Christmas. I haven’t even got a beard. ‘It hurts when you kiss me,’ she told me in her defence.

  ‘I am surprised you can remember,’ was my somewhat caustic response.

  I was a bit tongue-tied around Sarah. It isn’t that I’m particularly interested in her (obviously I wouldn’t say no if she asked). It is just that I am a bit tongue-tied around women generally at the moment, especially when they are attractive. My communication skills when I am around women seem to be similar to those of a four-year-old with a speech impediment.

  I definitely need to hone my response when someone comments on the lack of my wedding ring, as today’s conversation didn’t go swimmingly.

  ‘Oh Graham, what’s happened to your wedding ring?’

  ‘Sarah, I took it off because I have been officially divorced for two days now, I am single and living with my parents and seeing my kids at weekends.’

  Short skirt Sarah finished making her cup of tea rather quickly and left me alone in the kitchen. I guess my response was a bit overpowering, in the same way as an innocent ‘How are you?’ enquiry at the tea point might not be anticipating an ‘I have cancer and only 4 weeks to live’ response…

  I remember when I used to be in with the drinking crowd at work. Every Friday night, most Friday lunchtimes and other nights too, I would get invited to various drinks to celebrate Fred’s leaving, Emily’s engagement, John’s promotion, Gemma’s new hairdo or Eamon’s ‘coming out party’. I am now considered too old to receive such invites, or maybe too married. We will see if they start flooding in to my inbox again now that I’m divorced.

  On my way home from work I took a significant step forward in achieving one of my six goals. I bought six bottles of Stella. That’s one goal ticked off and we are only one day in to my quest. Let’s hope the other goals are just as easy to achieve.

  I phoned home tonight to check in with the kids. Jack was out playing football and all I got out of Sean were a few grunts and a fairly unenthusiastic ‘see you at the weekend’. What do I expect? They are teenagers, I suppose.

  Just so you know, Jack is the obsessively competitive sporty child who will give any sport a go but particularly likes football and cricket. He’s at that age where he is beginning to discover girls and as a consequence is conscious of his self-image (whereas I am at that age where I am forced to rediscover girls and am conscious of my self-image). Jack likes to ‘fit in’ and is embarrassed by anything that differentiates him from the norm, like having two parents who don’t live together.

  Sean, on the other hand, is less sporty. He does like cricket but he hasn’t inherited the same competitive gene as his brother. He is more easy-going and less interested in what others think of him. He isn’t afraid to make a few waves, either with what he says or what he does. He once joined a school knitting club because he wanted to make himself a hat. He is friends with anyone who has a Sony gaming device. Sean seems to be taking our family changes in his stride, on the outside at least. Both Jack and Sean are good kids, so far without too much attitude. But give it time…

  Friday 28th March

  Work was quiet today. Most people in my office ‘work from home’ on Fridays. I bought cakes for the few that were in and sent an email to everyone in the company telling them that there were cakes in the kitchen. That’ll teach the bastards for starting their weekends early.

  I made some small progress with goal six today. I went swimming after work. I hate swimming. I hate the whole experience of driving to the pool, getting changed in a cubicle you couldn’t swing a wet pair of speedos in, messing about with a locker, swimming up and down without actually going anywhere and avoiding the annoying bloke who swims backstroke and expects you to dodge his flailing arms.

  Why did I go swimming if I hate it so much? Well, I was getting ready for work this morning and noticed that my trousers were a bit
tighter than they used to be. I found another pair in my wardrobe and tried them on but they were tight too. I must be putting on a few pounds. I suppose eating mum’s butter-rich food and drinking dad’s beer could have that effect on a man. Maybe I have always been a few pounds above my peak fighting weight but I haven’t paid too much attention to the fact until now. I haven’t been particularly self-obsessed until now. If I am to meet someone new, I don’t want them to wince when I rip my shirt off. I am not trying to be a Stallone or a Schwarzenegger, but I wouldn’t mind losing a few pounds and building up some muscle.

  Morden swimming baths is, metaphorically speaking at least, a million miles from the posh private membership health clubs of Wimbledon. The paint is flaking off the tiles, the showers are rubbish and the toilets stink, but I can’t afford luxury gym memberships these days.

  I am not a bad swimmer, but within seconds of getting into the pool this evening I was reminded that I am not a particularly good swimmer either. Some ten-year-old squirt shot past me doing breast stroke while I was thrashing down the pool doing crawl. My trunks came down every time I pushed off from the end. I wouldn’t have been too bothered about the trunks thing but for the fact that just after one of the most severe slippages, Sean’s none-too-shabby form teacher complained to the lifeguard that it was putting her off her stroke. Sean, if you get a bad school report mate, I am sorry.

  I am feeling slightly apprehensive at the moment. No, actually I am feeling scared stiff. My mates, who I was convinced had lost my number over the past few months, have eventually phoned and asked if I want to go out clubbing. Now this is probably where you start getting to know me. I like going to the pub as much as the next middle aged man does. In fact, I like nothing more than sitting in the Raynes Park Tavern or the Morden Brook having a few jars with friends. But what I have never liked, even when I was a young student, was going to night clubs. Are they even still called night clubs? Anyway, when it comes to dancing, I have something in common with horses – I have two left feet. Modern music makes me feel like I am about to have a heart attack, it is too loud and the bloody lighting in those places is normally so dim that I worry I might not find the toilets when I am desperate after a few pints.