There's a funny thing about black holes, I've just discovered - they're far more frightening from the outside looking in.
Those of you who read this blog, know that an event of momentous proportions was due to occur this weekend. I was unable to fathom how my life would proceed from Saturday night onwards. I was, in fact, having a small identity crisis (this following on from my mid-life crisis in August). I would hate you to get the wrong impression. I'm not normally a crisis-ridden person. I'm far too lazy. Crises are hard work. All that angst, soul searching, navel gazing and teeth gnashing. A brief synopsis of walls being hit were: the 10-year gap between mentally accepted age and actual chronological age, the ending of a two and a half-year stint in the part-time job from, well not hell, exactly, but certainly hell's ante-room and my last little fledgeling flying the nest and to Sunderland of all places - even further away than Cardiff, where her sister has been resident for a year now.
The age thing currently resembles a cooled rice pudding - looks smooth and solid on the surface, but don't press too hard or you'll crack the skin.
The job thing - my God, what a relief to be away from the dark place. They were still playing with my head even on my last day. I just need my CRB check to come through so that I can start the new job. Squeaking just a little as it means I'm currently income-less. And seeing as I've just had to pay for Joanna's car to be serviced, fixed and MOTd on top of kitting out Natasha for her new life oop north, that's not a comfortable place to be. Please, nice Mr Policeman, PULL YOUR FINGER OUT!!!!
Which brings me on to the biggest thing. The untying of the last apron string. It was fine. Well, okay it wasn't fine, but it's going to be fine. Jo left on Thursday and I was anxious when she left, but she arrived in Cardiff in a time that meant I refrained from asking what speed she had been doing on the motorway. There are some things you just don't want to know. I miss her, but I'm used to her not being here. I know how her not being here works.
Natasha and I left for Sunderland on Saturday morning. All her things rammed into the car. Spotting all the other parents on the motorways also taking children to Uni - kitchens and bedrooms fighting for space in the backseats and boots. The odd stuffed toy with its face squashed up against a window. Lots of things to talk about and concentrate on. The windscreen wipers shredding in the middle of a downpour just outside Rugby, entailing a slight detour to Halfords to get new ones fitted. Wanting to stop for lunch, but discovering that all the diners and restaurants were on the southbound side of the motorway and northbound were only dodgy-looking truckstops. Which actually worked out okay in the end because at about 3 o'clock we found a Toby carvery en-route to Sainsbury's and had a gut-busting roast, so I knew that at least she'd had one decent meal before the onslaught of freshers' week and the rivers of alcohol that are likely to be flowing down her gullet in place of food. We collected her key and carried her bedroom stuff all the way up to the fourth floor helped by the lovely older brother of one of Tasha's new flatmates, Emma. We bagged her cupboard in the kitchen and unpacked the boxes and bags that had been decorating the dining room table at home for about three weeks. Did the Sainsbury's shop and unloaded that into Tasha's shelf in the fridge and drawer in the freezer and the inch and a half of space left in the cupboard. By which time it was 5.30 and I needed to go, as I had a two and three-quarter hour drive over to Whitehaven in Cumbria, where I was staying overnight with my bff, Emms and Tasha needed me to go because her other flatmates were starting to congregate in Emma's room on the middle floor and we both wanted her to get to meet everyone before the bin-bag party at the Students' Union bar that evening. My eyes were dry when we said goodbye at the door. My heart broke on the way out of Gateshead when I drove past the Angel of the North and I asked it to look after my baby. I was in stasis one second and howling the next. I barely remember the trek across country. My view was partially obscured most of the way. I soaked Emms's shoulder and then her husband, Paul's. I was given tea and then fed a thai curry in front of a roaring log fire. By the time Emms and I went to bed just before 1, the searing pain was down to a dull ache and I was only occasionally being side-swiped by a rush of tears. Jo kept texting me to make sure I was okay.
Sunday morning I was fed bacon and eggs and home-made bread and had my cards read (its all good news, I was thankful to hear). I was also forced to purchase goods in 4-year old Rhianna's beauty shop. Most of which I was told were inappropriate for an occasion that only Rhianna was aware of and advised that I had actually bought something else instead which was far better for Rhianna's purposes and did I want to wear all of Rhianna's perfumes, yes I did, no I definitely did, all of them at the same time.
I left at lunchtime, sent off with many hugs and kisses, regiments of angels and copious sprinklings of fairy dust and accompanied by Radio 4, which successfully kept away a couple of wellings-up, arriving home just after six.
Today I woke up and ... I'm okay. Just don't hug me quite yet.
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