I am swimming Southwards, and as the joyful hum of the beach recedes, the sea’s wet clapping quietness surrounds me.
The water is warm, the sun gently leaning to the West. I feel a timid kind of happiness.
Not the heavy-duty, my-life-is-so-fecking-perfect-I could-die variety, but nevertheless, a thin, fragile, in-spite-of-everything-I-am-still-standing (well, strictly speaking, I tend not to swim standing, but you get my drift) and-right-this-second-life-is-sort-of-close-to-perfect kind. Which all things considered, is pretty good.
I see three main reasons for this:
- Yeeeeeesss, hallelujah, at long last, I am on holiday! In fact, I am somewhere around halfway through my 3-week break, and work (what work?) feels mercifully far away.
- My antidepressant is good shit.
- This morning, a cute guy tried to chat me up at Montpellier’s train station, and I have generally noticed a decent amount of male attention lately. Thought of the day: Skimpy Summer dresses and tanned legs should be available on prescription too.
But there’s an underlying fourth reason, currently digging holes in the sand and splashing in the waves: My kiddos. I keep having moments akin to the revoltingly-soppy-bullshit abundant on Facebook, when I just cannot believe I have such beautiful, kind-hearted, clever, lovely children. They amaze me. There (sick-bags are available in your seat pockets).
This said, rest assured that their ability to be disgusting-brats-I-just-want-to-throw-in-the-bin is also amazing at times.
And for the last few days, they have been joined by the boy they consider a funny kind of sibling: Mr Nice’s son (hence why 3 smurfs in the pool picture).
It’s a long story… Which cut short could be something like (I recommend having an extra cup of coffee before reading, on account of staying alert):
- Bear with me, I have a thing going on with numbered lists at the moment.
- Our kids (aged 5, 6 and 11) had been kind of brought up together for just under three years, when Mr Nice and I separated at the end of last Summer.
- Mr Nice and I both solemnly promised the children that they could still spend time together and count on the two of us.
- Mr Nice promptly turned into Mr Big Bastard and decided to do the exact opposite.
- Responding to our distraught children, Mr Nice’s son’s mother (are you following?) and I, ensured they could see each other regularly.
- Over the last 10 months, Mr Nice’s son’s mother and I have actually become friends.
- Mum+son have joined us for a few days holiday in the South.
- We’ve all had a fantastic time, and sincerely hope Mr Nice sunburns and catches stomach flu.
End of story.