A Woman Scorned.

Recently I received a flurry of hate mail on my blog. Although the author made efforts to cover their tracks by posting their comments as ‘anon.’, I had a sneaky suspicion I knew who the culprit was.

 

To fill you in briefly, some time ago I had a relationship with a man. To cut a long story short it transpired that said honest devoted boyfriend had a small secret. Not that he was half Lithuanian, voted UKIP or even harboured a desire to wear women’s clothing but that he had been, nay was still, in a 12 year relationship with somebody else. 

 

I found out at 5 o’clock on a Sunday morning when said ‘other half’ spent an hour and three quarters outside my flat screaming obscenities at the ‘fucking cheating cunt’, that would be him, to ‘get out of that slag whore’s house’ that would be me. 

 

It was all rather dramatic and not something that Sister June (yes, I live above a nun) had experienced before, I shouldn’t wonder. 

 

I should say I was shocked to the core but actually I wasn’t surprised in the slightest having experienced cheating men before in my life, I’d almost grown to expect some kind of tom-foolery. If anything I was taken aback by his crafty forward planning and ability to keep his other lifestyle a secret, given that he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Actually, at the time, being a diligent community member I was more concerned that he remove the screaming item from outside my flat than I was at the fact that I had been lied to for the last 3 months. I had already managed to set alight the Nun’s flower box with a cigarette butt a few months previously; I didn’t need half of NW1 thinking they had an ageing prostitute living within their midst.

When we did eventually discuss the situation it transpired he was having trouble (ah bless the poor lamb) deciding who he wanted to be with and I am sorry to admit I wasted a significant number of the months that followed (I may choke on the word years) dancing to his tune and arguing with the ‘enemy’, who continued to make rather a ritual of her Sunday morning screaming sessions.

 

So much for girl power. Now I’m not suggesting we book a bonding holiday to the Miami together but why is it never the man that gets the blame? At the time, despite being as much in the dark, most of the time at least, about his cad-like antics as she, he got off scot free and we, like screaming banshees, fought it out between ourselves, month after month of winning and loosing the prize.