I don’t feel any better after yesterday’s post. I’m not purged. I think I might even feel worse. Those exes are going to have to stay lurking in the dark corners of my past. I don’t care. Let them lurk. I don’t feel like washing any more of my dirty laundry in public. And I don’t want to drag out any more skeletons from my closet. I don’t think it helps to rake over the past. It just opens old wounds.
Best to let sleeping dogs lie.
But for completion’s sake, let me just get one last one off my chest, the one before the F.O.B.. The one that nearly was “The One”, but wasn’t.
His name was Sam. I met him on a wild and windy day, down in the remote, rugged lands of West Penwith, in the heart of Celtic Cornwall. A magical, mystical landscape unchanged for centuries, full of folklore, faith and faeries. I was walking on an ancient coastal footpath that cut right through Sam’s medieval family farm, and as I strolled through, he stepped out of the stone farmhouse to feed the chickens.
He was tall and handsome, with a lean body, the brightest, twinkliest, piercing blue eyes, and perfect white teeth. His skin glowed. He smelt like the earth. He looked like the healthiest, happiest man I had ever seen. I stopped in my tracks to stare. I couldn’t help myself. He smiled cheekily, “Hello there. What’s your name?”
We shook hands, and I noticed how strong and warm his grip was. I told him I had just moved into the local village. He welcomed me into the parish, and then we went our separate ways. If ever there was love at first sight, this was it. All the way home, my heart wouldn’t stop thudding for thinking about him.
He called me that very same night to ask me if I wanted to come over and watch the sunset over the sea, while he fed the cows, and then go out for dinner. I was over the moon. Elated. I could not believe my good fortune. At last, I thought, the Gods have answered my prayers and sent me the man of my dreams.
I rushed over in a daze, and spent the most charming, romantic evening of my entire life. We never made it out to dinner. Instead, after a radiant sunset, we sat in his house simply holding hands and talking by the fire. We didn’t want to break the spell by going out into the outside world and having to interact with other people. We were totally content to float in our little bubble of sparkly, warm, fuzzy happiness.
Everything seemed so utterly, ridiculously perfect. He was as enchanted with me as I was with him. We talked about everything under the sun, and then he walked me home across the moonlit meadows. We courted for 2 months, and kissed, talked, laughed and held hands. We were crazy for each other, we didn’t want to spend a moment apart. But we didn’t actually sleep together for weeks, until we were both sure of each other’s love. Some things are worth waiting for. It was terrribly old-fashioned, but I loved it. He was the quintessential country gentleman. A rare breed, and I had found him.
Our romance was like a fairytale. A storybook romance. Something you dream about, but never believe it can happen to you. But like all good stories, this one had a horrible ending. After all, what’s a good love story, without a little tragedy thrown in?
He told me from the very beginning that he didn’t want to have children. He was widowed, and had made a promise to his late wife that he would never want children. She coudn’t have children, see, so he thought he was doing the right thing by her.
Naively, I thought I would be the one to change his mind. After all, he loved me, didn’t he?
I wanted children more than anything, and a big happy family to grow old with. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want this dream too. He was a farmer for godsake. They all have big broods. I moved in with him, and set up house, confident that in time he’d change his mind, and we’d go on to have lovely, rosy cheeked, strapping laddies and lassies. It was going to be my happily ever after. At long last.
Only he never did change his mind. He couldn’t break his promise, even though his wife was dead and gone. He was a man of his word. A man of honour. And that was that. The End of the Great Love Story. I strung it out for much longer than I should have, always hoping I’d wake up one day and he’d have changed his mind. Eventually I realised it wasn’t going to happen, no matter what I said or did. Heartbroken, I moved out and moved on.
I still can’t quite believe it. There must be a lesson in there somewhere, but I’m not sure what it is. One thing I learned is that when a man says he doesn’t want to have children, then he doesn’t want to have children. Most men are pretty simple, straightforward creatures. Best to take them on their word, and not stick around waiting for them to change. Or even worse, try to change them.
Eventually, after a period of mourning, I ended up in the arms of the F.O.B., another pear-shaped, love story scenario gone wrong. But at least I’ve got the bunny to show for it, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.













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