After months of work pressures, noisy neighbours, house moving and worrying legal situations, the stresses have taken their toll on the relationship. It’s just over a week now until we leave north London behind and move to the suburbs south of the river, to a compact little place just for two. However, with a houseful of furniture, clothes, books and that miscellaneous category we’ll call ‘stuff’ to pack, it’s no easy feat.
I pointed out a social event this weekend; after being told that I still have so much to pack and prepare, I (very immaturely) lost my temper. Voices became progressively louder, until I raised a plate, looking as if I was going to through it at the wall, or worse, my partner. He (quite rightly) stormed out. I sat tearfully on the bed, trying to come up with some kind of escape plan before it was too late. Exhausted and emotional, I instead chose to slink off to the bathroom, spending several minutes debating what to do with the garishly pink razor on the shelf, before playing a pathetic game of noughts-and-crosses on my thigh.
Today, I went to work, doing my best to play the part of Sophisticated Young Professional. My eyes ached from crying and lack of sleep, but a good foundation can cover that. After downing several cups of caffeine to push past the fatigue, my bathroom visit reminded me of my adolescent cry for help – a habit I’d fought off for several months, and am definitely now too old for.
So there it is. Right beneath my no-VPL M&S pants. Six red, raw scratches, reminding me to hurry up, grow up and control myself before you give up waiting.