Reader, I married him.

Another divorce dream. Whoever thought that mere separation was enough to effect some sort of psychic change that would allow you to begin a new way of life, well, they were wrong.

Since the papers have been filed, I have been treated to an entire elaborate set of revisionist dreams. I thought I was past all this. Not so, says my subconscious. Last night’s dream had these interesting components: my chest of drawers filled with the other woman’s old Converse sneakers; a group of people who were saying how nice she was; my house taken over by these people, leaving me with nothing; a group of casual visitors to the grounds that had to be flushed out and sent on their way, one of whom protested by sending his large Doberman to jump on me, sniffing at my face; an outdoor café filled with the trays of empty strawberry tins and two foster children, heading to their new life in America; and finally, getting into a car that was too small for me, with the ex and my child and a load of baggage, and grumpily moving off.

Now, I’m well aware that one of these images alone would probably fund at least a year’s worth of mortgage payments for a lucky (or hapless) shrink. But so many! It’s a spa detox of the mind. I can only guess at the underlying messages within most of these. But there is a theme, oh yes; I can see a definite theme. Things that belong to me are taken over, and images of happiness and caring (dogs, strawberries) turn into images of last suppers and death and fear.

Ok, so good so far. But what does this oceanic sweep of dream world negativity mean for me overall? Is it that, now, process in hand, unstoppable (well, it could be stopped, but who wants to?), the reality of it all is sinking in? Not so much a case of ‘oh, what are my chances for happiness at my age and situation, etc. etc.’, but rather ‘that was my chance at happiness, and now it’s filled with old shoes’. I know some men who, bleak in their marriages, surround themselves with other couples, all equally unhappy. They console each other with their greater financial security and exude socially permissible sanctimonious smugness. Sometimes in moments of weakness, the very brave hint at an emptiness threatening the edifice. But for most of the time it’s a universal condemnation of those who would give in to an emotional wasteland. Love! They can only say it pityingly. Love! They cry from the rooftops, it’s a mug’s game! For children and those whose faith remains intact! Or as someone I know used to put it, ‘the triumph of hope over experience’.

However, I think there could be a flaw in this casual hypocrisy. After all, they all stumbled their way to the altar, or at least to joint bank accounts. And they didn’t risk the afterwards that such a seismic break creates. What else haven’t they risked, complacent in their dismissal of others not as fortunate?

Let me put this another way. I asked a class if they thought ‘Romeo and Juliet’ was a love story. Of course, they all agreed. But it has a very unhappy ending, I said to them, it’s a tragedy. There’s death, despair, destruction. Yet the world sees it as a great love story. Do you think Shakespeare was trying to put people off grand passions and falling in love?

One of them put up his hand, glumly. ‘He couldn’t, miss’, he said with all the world-weary intonation of an old man shaking his head over a cup of tea in the caf, reading the paper. ‘They’d just keep doing it. You can’t stop people from going after love.’ A few of his cohort mumbled their assent. No one disagreed, however unhappy they seemed about the prospect.

So then, love - the inevitable torment. Looking at it from their point of view, my story actually becomes the symbol of love. It’s not the white wedding, which inevitably leads one’s thoughts to its inverse operation, and it’s vast capacity for deceit, mostly of the self. It’s the divorce, symbolic of our ‘going after love’, and giving us, at least some of us, the ones without children and a few too many grey hairs, the chance to go after it again. We lick our wounds and begin yet again, caught in society’s thrall, forced to pantomime an indefatigable taste for not giving up.

What if we want to give up? What if we read Shakespeare, and say, ‘no thanks mate, no tortures of the soul for me’. Look at Macbeth, Hamlet, Romeo. All heroes whose tragic flaw was that they let their secret (or not so secret) desires lead them. Whether Shakespeare was observing, or cautioning, is finally incidental. Personally, I’m tired of tortures of the soul. I’m hoping that all these dreams are a catharsis of sorts. I am shocked at how angry I am in the night, how I pull out drawers of shoes in front of wine drinking revellers, and dump them. How I admire a pair of new high heels, then, realising they are hers, throw them across the room. How I tell Doberman owners I’m not frightened of them, how I cry over the desecration of my belongings, and look at the ex with contempt, while letting him drive.

I met a woman at a party over Christmas. Somehow we got onto the subject of relationships, and I told her a morsel of my own story. She was not happy with the emotion I was still displaying. I only found this out later from our mutual friend who was giving the party. Apparently, she had declared that I was still too wrapped up with the old relationship, that I was bitter, and I would never be able to move on, because potential suitors would see that. Hadn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t. My entire emotional life summed up and dismissed. My feelings in the matter judged, and judged wanting. I hadn’t ‘picked myself up and got back in the race, that’s life’. Maybe I did seem like an old dog, sitting in the corner, licking old wounds, until the source of the pain was self-inflicted. Maybe.

But what I see are people that expect me to act as though nothing ever happened, as though I’m a clean slate, waiting again to be written upon. But I am stubborn. I insist upon bringing my battle scars with me. I’d like to think they give me some dignity, separate me from the hordes of horny young things, battling it out over packets of imported crisps on Australia Day, eager to hook up with the hotties, and finally with almost anyone, just to make a night of it. And from those who chose once, chose best, chose wisest, and don’t question it any further, lest the whole creation collapse around them. I’d like to think of myself as more of a Colonel Brandon figure, wounded, kind, not the most exciting rake at the ball, but ultimately one of the best. Of course, the colonel was Jane Austen’s dream, whose failure to make an appearance in real life possibly led to her early demise. That’s no good. Or maybe I’m just too susceptible, too open to interpretation, too quick to accept the blame for my lack of second act.

I can’t be bothered to refute or discuss these claims. Or wear my medals. Or wait. Forget it.

Table for one, please.

Lamb chops

As I stood there, before the butcher’s window, the sharp stained odour of blood and sawdust in my nose, I knew I was lying. It didn’t occur to me all at once, but the idea, once begun, possessed a kind of elemental force that captured my innocent attention, let loose by chance upon the evening. I was drawn by the red and white curls of perfectly formed lamb chops, 15 pounds a kilo, meek and waiting for the ultimate conclusion of the dinner table. I said how nice they looked, how I didn’t really eat lamb but maybe just this once.

The smell was strong in my nose, as I tried manfully to find something among this carnage that appealed to me. It all looks so good, said my friend, and I nodded, unable to voice even a small part of what I felt, knowing anyway that it was a waste of time. Chickens, round and white. Racks of lamb, with little white socks and frills. Roasts, also 15 pounds a kilo, waiting to be put in some expensive John Lewis pot, one given as a present at a wedding that could only seal artfully two destinies, and lead them to their rightful place upon the hill. A basement kitchen, reclaimed from the servants, briskly yellow and white, Wellington boots in all sizes lined up, straw mats, flowers in vases, Corian countertops, all trace of renovations eliminated.

There was a smaller yellow chicken as well that caught my eye. Corn fed, it appealed to my colonial sense of what a chicken should look like, unaware that chickens were any other colour than yellow before I began my exile, over 20 years ago. It was wrapped in plastic though, and it looked sterile and store-bought amongst the gaudy and extravagant display of flesh laid out for my approval. Within, there were sausages and chopped meat for the standard child’s meal of Spag Bol that I was expected to produce at regular intervals, cementing my membership to this clan of proper meals, and things properly done. However, I had already forgotten any purpose I might have had in stopping there, caught as I was in my lie, denying both the twitching of my nose and my vain summary of the shapes of red flesh in the display window. It does all look good, I repeated again. Should we get something? Again, another lie. 15 pounds a kilo on one meal was an extravagance, unnecessary of course, but almost tempting for the sheer theatre of it. I am a person that spends 15 pounds a kilo on lamb chops for dinner. I do go home, uncork a good bottle of Bordeaux, listen to Radio 4, and decline Latin verbs for the greater education of my child, while listening to his attempts to climb the first ladder of success, the music grading system.

It was such a good dream, that it held me there, caught in my lie, even to myself (it’s the money that had jinxed it, not even the overpoweringly warm metallic smell of blood had managed to keep me from my fantasy). I had noticed there was a problem, but I tried to ignore the sense of worry, convincing myself that it didn’t exist, and credit cards could surely pay for one dinner, and music lessons could be bought and I was here, wasn’t I?

Never mind the larger fables I had armed myself against. The loneliness of modern life, that trite cliché, disregarded at all times except perhaps another Saturday night. The fact of the divorce papers finally going through, nothing remarkable, certainly expected, and mostly desired. There was really no reason it should fall into the category of all things avoided. Except maybe that the girlfriend had been clearly heard in the background, assisting with the answering of questions in response to the court’s summons. Only a simple series of yes or no questions, similar in their demand of right or wrong in the way ‘have you ever been treated for depression’ is not what you tick when answering health questionnaires or online dating surveys. But there she was, in the background, really nothing more than the dot on the i to the whole process that had brought the ex and I together and apart. We had spoken on the phone briefly the summer before, and she had mentioned her desire to help out the ex, give him direction; her hope that he would finally find himself. I looked upon the litter of the last several years. The remains of the dinner party, the next morning, the fine glassware red stained at the bottom, the crisp napkins soiled and soft, thin porcelain smeared with fat. Uneaten morsels gently congealing in heaps. What was once a good idea turned to detritus, shrunken and dismal in its waiting to be rectified and restored.

I stared at the meats, willing one of them to seem like a good idea. But not even the lie was working. I saw a fortune squandered and anticipation discontinued, then only blackness before my eyes, as I closed them, as I turned away. The gaily lit window, promising home and warm dinners. The gay cadence of her voice in the background, obviously joyous that this rupture was about to be made final, so that she could begin her resurrection properly. The tiny lights upon the lampposts, Edwardian and festive in their memory of Christmas and their struggle against the darkness.

All was good. The paving stones still old and uneven, the fairy costumes in the window still waiting for doting fathers to twirl their occupants, the pub still pulling pints in its yellow smoky comfort, the white linen tablecloths and candles, too early to decorate Saturday night diners. All was fine. Money was saved, dinner would be had, tea would be brewed, bedtime would come. Nothing was out of place, or unexpected.

Only the memory of the lie, hung bitter behind the air, and followed me down the hill, colouring the evening air, like the quick cold fading of sunlight in a winter garden.