Take your boyfriend out all night, show him what it's all about

Scissor Sisters @ Red Square
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

You'd think, if you'd gone to the bother of raising three children, with two of them being of the considerate and multi-tasking gender, that unless you had done unspeakable things (and possibly even if you had) you would get at least one birthday card.

Instead, M got one age 24 nothing at all, one age 26 Happy Birthday text message (possibly prompted by an email reminder from me) and one age 28 email detailing his failings as a father and a human being and offering adolescent analysis of the same (possibly prompted by the same email). And this for asking (the ex, not the children) the questions 'do you think what happened when we split up was unfair to me?' and 'If so, what are you prepared to do about it?'

My word, I was angry. But I guess this is a long game, and I have the advantage of being old enough to have worked out that two entirely contradictory versions of reality can each be internally consistent and therefore equally true for their creators. If you're outside those realities, you need to acknowledge both sides, and I guess this is the mountain that the children of divorced parents need to climb.

Meanwhile, I have a few questions. If they're not talking to him, do I call them if he has a road accident? A heart attack? If they *would* want to be called to his deathbed, would they not feel utterly wretched for not having made the effort to understand what's happening now *before* he pegs it? And if they would, why not try to understand it now? Maybe I'm naive, as my own parents are 40 years married, but I figure your time with them is scarce enough, don't waste it, unless you're really fucking sure that you never want to see them again. Even if you are sure, it ain't easy.

And M is of course having a far harder time of all this than me... so when I won tickets to last night's Scissor Sisters gig in Trafalgar Square I half expected that they would stay in their envelope and we would spend Saturday night on the sofa watching crap TV, drinking too much and contemplating our navels. Instead he said 'fuck it, I need to get out of this place', and we got on the train to London.

We visited the toy museum where M worked as a teenager, and then went on a Fitzrovian search for whisky macs - it was the worst possible day of the month for me to be walking miles and standing up for hours, and I find balancing Scotch and codeine the only way to go when stamina is required.

Then R&J joined us in Ragam, where we had the best dosai this side of the subcontinent, and we were ready.

And it was a blinding gig. Kylie introduced it, Jake danced his beautiful ass off, and the awesome Ana Matronic spoke the truth about music being the best therapy of all. We believed her, the guys who climbed into Trafalgar Square's fountains believed her, and a I'd wager a substantial chunk of Africa (this was a benefit for the Global Fund to fight TB, malaria and AIDS in Africa) believes her too. Filthy. Gorgeous. And, you know, necessary. Thank you, Sisters.

So that was last night. We got home at 2 only slightly grumpy. Tonight, I plan to bite my 10 mg of Temazepam in half and offer 5mg to M. We all deserve to sleep.

joella