“How long are you planning to stay out there for?” my friend asked me tonight. “I don’t know.” I gave him my favourite answer to any question these days. “Well, doesn’t matter.” he grinned.” I’ve already lost the bet…”
” Excuse me?” I raised an eyebrow (well I would if I had that very cool skill- I don’t. Yet if I had, this would be the ideal situation to have raised one eyebrow.) “I said,” he said, “to give it another six months after your break-up and you would be back home. It’s been nearly 12…” “So it has…”I said.
I would take the credit for it – be the independent woman Beyonce wants us to be but I’ll tell you my secret:
Truth is I phoned my mother the second week after the break-up, having spoken to her every night since the event. Most probably I lay once again on the floor, in a puddle of tears, heartache having reduced me to a heap of shattered human soul. “Mother, I think this is it. I think I am ready to come home now.” And she said: “That’s wonderful dear, so what are you planning to do when you get back?”
*Sigh* [cue sound of scraping soul back off the floor.]
“Ok mum, I’m going to have to call you back.”
Credit to kick-start repairs after any crisis in my life goes to my mother, with her endless encouragement to win against all odds: got to love her.