From men to mid life crises, from Botox to Brazilians, from infertility to infidelity, every week Jacqui Leigh gives her personal take on being a fortysomething woman
Moving on
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The divorce is final and after a week of uncertainty (our house is eighth in a chain and someone along the line had messed up their mortgage) we’ve finally exchanged contracts and in two weeks time Mo and I leave.
I am surrounded by packing boxes.
Since we’re moving to a small flat I’ve spent the last couple of days clearing out cupboards. Powered by my daughter’s gummy bears I’ve been making endless trips to the recycling centre, hauling bags and bags of stuff to charity shops and giving the nicer things away to friends. Mo’s old toys alone filled the whole car. Luckily most of the bulky furniture belongs to my ex (no longer STBX).
Yesterday a hopeless young man came to pick up our bed which I had put on Freecycle. Outside our house he and his wife, a hippy chick with long dreads and ankle length skirt, struggled to get the bed into their camper van and finally gave up. Last thing I saw, the bed frame was making its way on two legs along our street.
So that’s it, after the rollercoaster ride of last year, it’s nearly time to go. The house is falling apart anyway after years of neglect. We were always too worried about money to spend it on repairs. I’m wondering how the new owners will feel about a house where doorknobs fall off in your hand, where the loo in the upstairs flushes hot (yes, I’ve got hot flushes) and howling gales blow through the rattling sash windows. I plan to write them a note, leave a bottle of something nice in the fridge and remind myself that they spent no more than two minutes in total looking around the house. I kind of think they’re planning to gut it all anyway.
Yesterday while I was at work my ex husband came to clear out his stuff. When I got home I was anxious that he’d still be here and then, when he wasn’t, anxious that he’d left me some kind of surprise. But apart from the whiff of stale fag smoke in the living room there was nothing, just piles and piles of his belongings wrapped in bubble wrap.
I can’t wait to be out of here. For me the reality of our relationship, the hopeless mess of our finances and the unrelenting anxiety really took root here, six and a half years ago.
This house has never felt like a home. I’ve lived in it surrounded by paintings and art that I didn’t choose, sitting on sofas I never found comfortable, no shelves allowed for my books or possessions, no proper wardrobe for my clothes and a bedroom that, in winter, was just too freezing to sleep in.
We’re staying with friends for a while and moving into our new little flat as soon as we can. In my head it has become a warm, safe haven, somewhere that’s completely and totally mine.
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