Dear Diary,
Tonight Im sitting on the edge of my brokenoff life, wondering how Ill get through NewYears Eve alone. My husband shouted, If thats how it is, Ill move back in with my mum! and my mother snapped back, Then you sit here by yourself! I have nothing left at the shattered trough no lover, no job, no prospects. And the clock is ticking toward the holidays.
Mothers voice trembled when she heard the scandalous news. All those nerves, you blame that wretched bloke, your socalled boyfriend! Hes the one who led you astray! Think youre the only one who broke down because of him? she hissed. Martynmy husbandjust smiled and replied, Well then, start making up, Im waiting!
In my life, dear Blythe Whitaker, there have been two curses: not the usual moneydraining ones, but rather the lack of a decent bloke and a steady career. Though Im not entirely convinced about the first.
My two woes turned out to be my husband and my beloved boss. As it often happens, they werent a pair cheating on each otherno one was being unfaithful. They simply poisoned my world one by one.
Martyn was clever, witty, a brilliant conversationalist, and utterly romantic in theory. In practice, when it came to working together, he would always be sick, tired, too busy, or just not ready. He did love a good meal, especially when it was something tasty he cooked.
Everything unfolded like a familiar English folk tale:
Pop, go have your porridge!
Wheres my big spoon?
Before we were married, we were content with brief meetups, cheap takeaway pizza dinners, a dash of intimacy, and banter that crackled with jokeshardly the blueprint for a marriage, but it seemed perfect at the time.
I fell for Martyn head over heels, never noticing that he was in a perpetual quest for himself and for work:
Ill find somethingpromise Ill tell you first, love! hed jest. We laughed, thinking it was all terribly amusing.
Martyns humour was above all praise; he started calling me Elf and Little Elf, and I returned the nickname Martian. No, not a literal monkeyjust a cheeky term, like calling someone a rascal. It felt lighter, not offensive, and I certainly didnt intend to hurt him.
The wedding came, and Martyn moved in with me, though a thirtyyearold, cheerful husband like him hadnt managed to secure his own flat.
Jokes wont pay the rent! my mother warned, clearly not fond of my new soninlaw.
But who could stop him? He wasnt a comedian like Rowan Atkinson, nor a sitcom writer.
The first misunderstanding hit when the rent was due. I was short of cash, so I did what any sensible wife would doasked my husband for help. It turned out Martyn spent most of his days at home, looking for himself and for a job. He claimed the best way to search was to lie on the sofa, where thoughts flow easier, as he put it. He even worried that tomorrow he might be called up for military service while already exhausted.
Pay from your own pocket! Martyn suggested with a daring grin.
My own cash ran out this morningspent it on groceries! I replied, surprised that married life wasnt what Id imagined.
Then use the wedding gift money, and Ill top it up later! he offered.
When? I asked.
Laterwhen the soups done and the cats fed, he chuckled.
We received about £200000 as a wedding gifta generous sum, but our parents had stopped supporting us once we were married, insisting the husband should now provide. Their own generosity was limited; my mother and father had cut us off, urging me to fend for myself. My own salary had already run dry.
I dipped into the wedding fund, then again, and again. Unsurprisingly, the rainyday stash melted away quickly, like snow under a summer sun. When I dug into the box again, it was empty, though my calculations had shown there should have been something left. Turns out Martyn had taken the leftovers to buy new headphones. He didnt understand why that was a problemthe old ones dont work any more! he joked.
Are you going to be a monkey, Blythe? I snapped.
Come up with something, youre my crafty one! he retorted, teasing. I tried to be creative, but the idea went beyond decent humour, and I postponed the plan until after payday.
Did that stop him? No, he didnt sprint off to find a job. He kept his usual jokes, I cant stand being ignored, especially by Eleanor! Then he finally said, Enough of the banter, little elf, I miss you and we reconciled, though a sour aftertaste lingered.
Borrowing from my mother until the next payday became a habit, hardly lifting my spirits. One day my motherinlaw had had enough:
Well, Martyn, earned any gold yet, or are you still living off Blythes neck? she demanded. Martyn fell silent, unable to answer the harsh truth. Better to pretend not to hear the barbs.
My second curse was my boss, Marta Borrows, the terrifying head of my department at the firm where I work as an economic analyst. Marta was a rare combination of cruelty and selfimportance, a stark contrast to any kind of warmth. She was an ageing, solitary aunt who despised everyone simply because they existed without her permission. She hated both men and women, having endured three failed marriages where every husband cheated on her.
By her fifties, she presided over a department, childless, with two cats, and danced tango twice a week. She handed out termination notices left and right. When a junior colleague, Pete Rylands, jokingly suggested she might be better at leading a folk dance than flaunting her figure on the ballroom floor, Marta instantly fired him, exclaiming, Youre no longer employed here! The joke was lost on her, and no pleading could change her mind.
I feared Marta and froze in her presence, as many did. Yet, for a while, fate seemed to be on my side.
The night before NewYears, I fought with Martyn againmore often now, over trivial matters that snowballed into a heap of accumulated grievances. For the first time, he even mentioned divorce.
The next day I came to work intent on drafting a proper SMS to the man who had wronged me. I decided to call him not Martian but Martianess, hoping the extra syllable would sting more. I rewrote the message:
Dont think, you little monkey, that Im scared of your words! Ill quit on my owngo bite your elbows! Stop showing off, or Ill hand you over to the zoo; theyre already waiting for you!
I signed it not as Elf but as Whitaker, making it clear I was serious.
The message turned out just the way I wantedhumorous, like my husband liked, and it conveyed everything I felt without outright cruelty. Still, I didnt want to end things in a deadheat.
NewYears is fast approaching, and as they say, the way you greet it is the way youll spend it. Divorce? We hadnt even spent a full year together!
Just then my boss stormed in, shouting, Whitaker! The annual report is a messfix it and tell me when you can hand in the corrected version, or youre out! She took her dose of adrenaline and left, feeling victorious. I stood frozen, as protocol demanded when the boss lady entered. The black cloud over my life was expanding.
I skimmed the report, found the error, and sent a hurried SMS to my boss saying Id have it fixed by lunch. I also texted Martyn.
Three minutes later Marta called me:
Who, pray tell, is the monkey here? she asked coldly, eyes on her phone. Planning to hand me over to the zoo, Whitaker? Ha!
My heart thudded and sank; I realized Id mixed up the messages. The word monkey had never seemed so apt for my terrifying boss.
It felt like something out of a sitcom or a comedy filmonly no one was laughing. I stared at the floor, unable to explain, because everything seemed absurdly realistic.
Marta declared, So you wanted to quit? Your wish is grantedyoure no longer employed here! She seemed ready to toss me into a toilet for good measure. Your dues will be calculated today; you wont have to work any longer. By the way, enjoy your trip to the zoo!
She added, Maybe your own monkeys have finally arrived.
In the end, the boss won. I should have been more careful with my fingers, Blythe.
Stunned, I left the office and spent an hour and a half getting ready. With the money Id finally received, I drove home on my cactusmy odd substitute for flowers.
Now, start making up, will you? Martyn said as he entered the hallway, smiling. Its timeyou wrote youd sort this out by lunch!
Hed read the SMS meant for Marta, realised Id been trying to reconcile, and was overjoyed.
Why did you bring a cactus instead of roses? he asked. Honestly, a man isnt meant to give roses!
My properness is right here, you see! I shouted, nerves frayed. Do you know where Im about to stick this cactus? You got me fired because of you!
In hindsight, it all made sense. If we hadnt argued yesterday, I wouldnt have sent that SMS, and none of this would have happened. The chain of logic was sound.
Why is this my fault? Martyn asked, genuinely baffled. Did I mess up again?
Im not your dogs business! I snapped.
What? I dont get it! he muttered, ignoring my threat of dismissal. Little thingswill they just pass? So, you dont want to make up? Fineif thats how it is, Ill go back to my mum! And you sit here alone!
Back to square one: Im left on the shattered trough, with no partner, job, or future. And how will I spend NewYears?
My nerves are cursed! my mother concluded after hearing the drama. Its all his fault, your scoundrel husband! Hes the one who led you astray! Who did you cling to? Hes like a soap bubbleshiny on the outside, empty inside!
She urged me to be more careful when choosing a man, to be picky. Dont bring home strangers! she warned.
Its alright, dont cryno one died. Rest for now; your father and I can feed you easily.
Mother invited me to spend NewYears at her house. Her friend promised to bring her handsome, single son. Grandma joined them, chiming in, A loss, dearlet another lad tap his spoon elsewhere! Hes been fretting over free vinegar, gobbling the whole house! Both mother and grandma echoed, Pick your suitors more wisely!.
Martyn and I finally split; wed grown apart, becoming petty, harsh, and utterly clueless. Even the legendary satirist Stephen Fry would say we should have been more meticulous.
Take heed, Blythe, especially with your textssee what can happen when youre not careful. Ive learned my lesson the hard way.
