Unholy Thoughts

Today is Theravadin New Year (Buddhist), Hanuman Jayanti (Hindu), Mahavir Jayanti (Jain), Good Friday (Christian) and Erev Passover (Jewish). Surely a day to have spiritually up-lifted thoughts and promote goodwill to all mankind. The vast majority of my mind is accepting of this and radiating altruism through every pore, but there is one small corner that is cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West and drowning out the rest. It's wrong. I know it is. I'm bigger than this. I control my thoughts, not the other way around. And actually I should be ashamed of my child behaving in such a manner. Mmwaaahhahahahha! Okay, maybe not.

Yesterday my ex-husband was 50. We've had a difficult relationship in the past with fault on both sides, but after over 10 years, I'm much more interested in being happy and living in the present for our split to continue to bother me. I sent him a text to wish him a happy birthday. I made sure our daughters, who were going to his party, had an early dinner, so they weren't late. I genuinely hoped he had a good day and it all went well.

This morning, I woke up and both of the girls' bedroom doors were shut, as expected. I had anticipated they would roll (quietly) through the door any time after 2 am, somewhat the worse for wear (the ex was putting money behind the bar and there's nothing a student likes more than a free bar!), so crept around in order not to rouse the slumbering beasts. I was grateful not to have been woken either by drunken stumbling up the stairs or the sounds of overindulgence meeting porcelain.

At about 10 am, I heard Jo moving around. I came upstairs with my cup of tea and poked my head round the door, expecting to see a bleary-eyed, pale-faced, pain-wracked lump of humanity, begging for either a quick death or a bucket of water and two paracetamol, but found instead a bright-eyed Jo, sitting up reading her book.

'Good morning. How are you feeling?'

'I'm fine.'

'Aren't you hung over?'

'No. Tasha's not home by the way. She stayed at Dad's.'

'Oh, okay. Why?'

'Because I didn't want her in my car.'

'You drove home?'

'I didn't drink. I didn't want to leave my car in the pub car park overnight.'

(I should just explain here that half way up the M4 on her way home for the Easter holidays, the head gasket on Jo's old car blew, so we had to go out and get her a new (new to her, at least) car - a whole other story all on its own - which she only picked up yesterday lunchtime.)

'Why wasn't Tasha allowed in the car?'

'Because she was throwing up and she'd already sat on a samosa on the back seat when we went from the pub back to Dad's, which she is going to clear up when she gets home.'

It turns out that Natasha had thrown up in the en-suite at her father and stepmother's flat (her father was doing the same in the other bathroom) and then again all over the spare bed, which her father had poured her into much to the annoyance of his wife, who much more keen on Natasha going home. She was summarily ejected at 10.30 this morning, brought home by her father, who I suspect is also in disgrace and sat with him on the kerb outside our house cuddling a roll of kitchen towel.

I know I shouldn't be feeling any glee whatsoever at the thought of the ex's wife having to deal with a husband vomiting in the bathroom and a stepdaughter vomiting in her en-suite ... but, I'm sorry, it made me laugh.

It's childish, isn't it?

I know. It is.

Mmmwwaahahahaha!