Space sluts in the slammer.

Odd title today. Feeling odd in fact. I have entered the slough of despond and been bitten on the bum by the snake of false hopes. After the 'do you forgive me' question asked on the phone by the Ex and the Non- Invite to the 50th wedding bash, whereon I was relegated to the Bertha Rochester role, I have indeed raved, ranted and generally been very wild. Not unlike a rockstar of the Ozzy Osborne type. And equally unattractive, let's face it. I was taken on a rollercoaster by the 'forgive ' question and weirdly today I recalled a number of incidents from the past that certainly DID merit a huge kick up the arse, eg the time he set up a meet with the hippychick -that had been our childminder!- while I was up in Scotland looking after our two wains then aged 6 and 4. Occurred to me that this current shagbag must be a veritable clone of the tangled haired cheesecloth wearer and reeking of patchouli and josssticks, not to say the weed. O Glorious Memory. Hmm. Ah well plus ca change, as the French say. Pass me the Forgetting Pill and roll on sweeter days.