Knee Deep in Knightsbridge

How was your Bank Holiday weekend?
Fun?
A good time?
Spent enjoying the fruits of your loins and working days?

Good. I'm glad.
Mine was none of the above.

Why?
Well, it was not until Friday morning at precisely 9.28am that The Father of My Child turned up to pick up our 9 year old son's passport. Yes! I relented. I said he could have his passport and take him to France after he assured me that he would, in fact, bring him back into London before nightfall on Bank Holiday Monday.
Well, what with school and all it seemed The Right Thing To Do.

So?
So I missed the 'plane to Edinburgh, I'd been planning to take.
How Come? I hear you cry.
Well, on Thursday evening, when I should have been hot-footing my way to Heathrow, I was still in doubt that The FMC would be taking our son for the weekend. At All.

So I stayed in town.
Stayed and waited for the long, grey tendrils of Friday's dawn to filter down through the weeping plane trees out the back of The Hovel.
And by 9.28am My Prayers were answered.
Too late for me to join my mates in Scottie The Brave.
So I ended up reading a lot. Seeing some friends I hadn't seen in a long while and generally chillin' in Central London.

My Goodness what an expensive life we lead.
Him booking flights he doesn't take. Because he hasn't bothered to check if it's OK avec moi.
Me missing flights I want to take because he won't back down until the very, very last minute and let me know that he will capitulate to my, not very ridiculous, demand that our 9 year old son be in bed by 8pm on a schoolnight, not trudging wearily in from the last EasyJet flight inbound from Nice at two in the morning on a school night.

Not a great advert for Parent of the Year is it?

Fair Does I hear you murmur.
Well, Yes and Non. He screamed down the blower that I'd forced the issue on bedtime on a school night out of 'Pure Spite'. I could feel the spittle splashing onto my face, metaphorically of course, as he ranted down the line. Spite?
Rich innit?
Nothing I do concerning my son's welfare is done for spite.
Booking the cheapest, latest flight is nothing but going to cause trouble or is he missing the point?
So what does he call not giving us any money at all for six months? What does he call leaving us in this tiny, damp basement for two years? What does he call pissing off and leaving me and his son alone and bewildered as he rants and raves at my stubborn insistence he homes us as any multi-millionaire property developer father should do?

It feels like GroundHog Day for me.
And, I've had enough.
I've had enough of The FMC's endless dicking about in his pursuit of a Cheap Seat.

And I've had enough of writing this blog.

It's been my lifeline in times of great pain, sorrow and bewilderment.
But it's also run a Cat 'O' Nine Tails through what has passed as My Life.
So it's time for it to die a death. For it to be strangled as the last vestiges of the Worst Two Years Of My Life fade into the Great Blue Yonder.

Readers, do not take this the wrong way.
You have been, on the whole, kind, loyal and supportive these past two years.
Although, it would be wrong of me not to thank The Boys at the ADVFN website for their peculiar torrents of abuse and downright malicious penmanship when it came to matters Proteome.
Dear, Dear Proteome.
His Mistress Proteome. She now languishes at 27.5p today.
Where would we have been without her?
About £3million and a nervous breakdown better off.
But Hey! Who am I to moan on eh?

It's time for me to move on to pastures new.
Get on with my exciting, New Life and forget about this grim 'n' ghastly episode in what passed for my life from late 2006 to early 2009.

Confidence?
It's coming back.

It took two long years but I got what I needed. A home for me and My Boy. A safe home that we would not be thrown out of ever again. Not ever be thrown out of before Christmas with just 8 short weeks notice as he went to bed with a nervous breakdown and a bottle of scotch leaving us homeless, jobless and out of a family.

We've got what I fought for after over a decade of cohabitation.
We are the lucky ones.
There are many of you out there who are not, and never will be as lucky as we are.
Please don't ever think that you are far from my thoughts. Because you are very close to my heart.
You, the unmarried mothers of England.
You. Yes, You. The one with no rights.
No rights at all when the Love of Your Life goes Tits Up without warning leaving you with the kids, no home, no income and nowhere in Law to rest your soon to be very weary head.

Take Heart from My Story.
Take Heart from Lord Lester of Herne Hill who, with his Odysses Trust, is aiming to get the Law changed sooner rather than later. It will be too late for me but this blog is my stepping stone. My stepping to a new and better, more secure life.

I've finally exchanged on the house in Fulham.
It will be ours on July 1st and so Life Goes On.
A New Man.
A New Job.
A Happy Son.
What more could I ask for?

The FMC?
He will never change I guess.
As My Rottweiller said; 'You picked him, for better or for worse.'
A somewhat unfortunate choice of words methinks but you get my drift.

So I'm going to write my book. My Book of My Blog.
It will be the copy and paste, slash and burn bodice ripper of TwentyFour Months in My Life.
It's keeping me up nights. But in a nice way.
So I'm going to put KDIK to bed.
And be done with it.
You might hear from me occasionally.
But don't hold your breath. Knee Deep is taking a Long Sabbatical from pouring her heart out. It's time to go back to the stiff upper lip and embrace that Oh-So-English culture of 'coping'.

Did I do the right thing? My attitude to this is would you protect a paedophile? A mass murderer? So why protect someone who did what he did to us, his family, with his madness and badness? Why should his appalling behaviour towards us go unnoticed?
As Lili The Shrink said to me; 'Living with a bi-polar sociopath ain't easy.' And she was right. I found it impossible. When our tiny son started to copy him banging his head against the walls of the tiny three room basement flat we ended up in, after our home was sold to pay off his debts to the Inland Revenue, I knew it was time for him to get help and for us to have some space from him.
How did he take it?
Badly. He ran away from us and he ran away from his doctors at The Priory and went on The Bender From Hell.
Do I have regrets?
You bet. I read this piece by Lesley Garner in yesterday's Daily Telegraph. It helped me put it into perspective.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthadvice/lesleygarnerlifeclass/5427990/For-years-after-my-ex-husbands-suicide-I-was-tormented-by-guilt---but-I-was-not-to-blame.html

Living with someone as difficult and ill as him became too much. I am no nurse. He refused to take the medical help he was offered. He ran away screaming from his specialist at The Priory. What more could I have done?
Who knows.

He spent two nights in Chelsea Police Station last year. He's lost his driving licence for the fourth time. Which at 67 ain't a great look is it?
Not when you insist on your son going to boarding school in Oxford and go back on your promise to provide a car for the mother of your child. But then his is a life is littered with broken promises and broken hearts he has left, without a care, on his road to Damascus, Denver or wherever The Hell it is he is going with what remains of his breathing time.

Which is one of the many reasons why My Boy is coming Home to me. Back where he belongs. In the saggy but very loving bosom of what is left of his disintegrated family. A family that now includes a dachshund puppy and burgeoning aquarium full of new friends fishy and aqua-tastic.

Will I start another blog?
I'm not sure.
What's there to be unhappy and miserable about anymore?
Will I be FedUpInFulham?
I doubt it.
Will I be F***dOffInFulham?
One can dream on?
But you get my point Boys 'N' Girls?

If you need me for anything just leave a comment and I will get back to you. Let us say 'Adieu' not 'Goodbye'. I am not far away.

I wish you all Peace, Love and Happiness.
Now Go Hug A Tree and Get on with what's left of your lives eh?
That's what I'm going to do with mine.


Love This One:




And My Boy's learning THIS one for his end of term eggs trava ganza:



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