I’m thinking about getting one of those old fashioned phones. You know, the ones with the dial on the front and a long spiral cord that we used to tangle our fingers in. Forget Smart phones that text, Whatsapp, message and email – I want to dial a number and talk. I realise this might sound a little crazy to some but what has happened to the art of conversation?

Let’s face it, funerals bring people together. Once the emotional upheaval of the service is over, the wake becomes a time to catch up and share memories with the ones left behind, especially the family. It’s easy to get caught up in the occasion and promise to be on the other end of a phone whenever you may be needed but for those left behind at the end of the day, promises fade like the flowers filling the corners of an empty house. The daily calls becomes occasional texts and eventually social media reminders of birthdays and the such like. It’s easy to feel forgotten and isolated, trust me I know the feeling. I felt hurt that my so-called friends and funeral attendees no longer wanted to know if I was okay but it took the death of my father in law for me to see things from the other side, sometimes you have to be the one to reach out and say hello. No one knows you need them until you pick up the dog and bone but no one feels remembered until someone reminds them.

Loneliness is, to me, a very subjective term. I don’t feel lonely but I hate being alone. I’m not really alone though, my dogs are great conversationalists, it’s very Shirley Valentine here. But I miss the companionship of another human, someone you can share your daily mind bubbles with. Someone who you can have an in depth debate with over dinner without drool pooling at your feet. Someone who rings you in the middle of the working day just to see how you’re feeling. Someone who can join the daily dog gossip, I’m not convinced some of my canine compatriots share my political views ( well they do have German, Scottish, Romanian, Norfolk, Mexican and Yorkshire loyalties). I’m in no rush however, it’s still kinda nice to curl up with a warm ball of terrier and listen to the dreams of squirrels, sticks and sandwiches….

‘‘They never talk about themselves but listen to you while you talk about yourself, and keep up an appearance of being interested in the conversation’ (Jerome K Jerome)

I must be one of the rare few that get more stressed by doing nothing rather than doing everything. Having spent most of my adult life chasing time and complaining about it, I’m now getting all teary eyed at not being able to. I come from a family of toilers, I’m not good at not toiling. What adds to the frustration is that it is not by choice and like most in my position, I need to earn to pay bills. If only I was ambidextrous but alas not and the continued pain in my right arm has made working limited. Thanks for nothing Doc.

Restricting things physically is not beneficial to my brain. As someone who has always wanted to write, you’d think this self inflicted ‘time out’ would be the perfect time to pen thoughts to paper but no. Brain has gone into blog fog. Actually it’s more like a pea souper at the moment. Every day becomes an endless one of menial daily tasks on auto pilot to the point where you just want to vent expletives at some one. Virgin Media got quite an ear full but that was their fault and deserved. My apologies to the poor bloke in India or Outer Mongolia who took the call however.

My lateness in writing this however is not entirely down to my endless education in time wasting, I went to my father in law’s funeral on Monday. It was a beautifully poignant service, the Ton Class Association banner and whistle got the tissues out, the naval cap atop the coffin and my sister in law doing her reading finishing most of the congregation off. But it was the wake afterwards that sent the mind bubbles into chaos. For those who don’t know hat a mind bubbles is, listen to Jo Whiley on Radio 2. Basically it’s all those thoughts that randomly run through your head. Anyway, I digress. Again. The last time I saw the Stewart family was at Tony’s funeral so you’d think I would feel the bond wouldn’t you? Nope. I felt like an outsider, an alien intruding. The sheer size of the Stewart/Stein family would scare the most dedicated journalist (a few celebs in there) to defect to the Daily Mail but it was the realisation that my only real link with the family was through the death of those we loved. And then there was the helplessness of watching my son who would rather have been on Mars that have been the subject of no weddings and too many funerals. My only saving mind bubble was that, although I had imbibed a little too much of the grape, would anyone really remember me?

Truth is, I was relieved to get home the following day. I missed the crazy of my dogs. They don’t judge or ask awkward questions. It was the first night since T’s death, I had spent a night in bed alone and I couldn’t sleep. I missed the irritation of scratching, sniffing, bed hogging and sleep woofing that has kept the mind bubbles at bay. I missed being home even if it was doing nothing other than time wasting dog cuddles and long walks….

So last week saw the start of the Chinese New Year, the Year of the Pig no less. So me being me naturally googled what 2019 would hold for Horses like me. Well, actually I’m a Fire Horse but the less said about that the better. Anyway, and more importantly, I wanted to know what the year ahead had in store for me. It’s an annoying part of my personality, I hate not knowing what’s going on. Unfortunately not a lot according to the Social Media Experts, us Horses are supposed to relax and take it easy because 2020 is going to be a challenging one. Really? More challenging than the last year?

When Tony died, I went through a phase of Feng Shui’ing the house, positive vibes and all that. I put water fountains in X corner and purple silk flowers in another. I did everything by the book, obsessed with the idea that I could swing the universe in my favour. So far, the universe and I have come to blows, more negatives than positives let’s face it. Danny Boy and Arry had a rare fight, Mo Cridhe got the giardia bug, probate is still a word that means zip all, my father in law passed away and to cap it all, my mentor and friend has last stage cancer. The stars have auto correct problems in my opinion.

I think there comes a certain point in widowhood where you cant’ move forward or backwards. Until probate is resolved, you can’t make plans for the future and social activities bring what has been lost to the present. I went to a school reunion this weekend which was the first since T had passed away. I found myself repeating the same spiel about Tony to everyone who asked. No emotion, just repetition. I’m stuck on auto pilot.

I had a rare moment on Sunday however. I slept an extra hour and woke up ‘star-fished’ in bed. For the first time in 9 months, I had used the whole bed, not just my side. Alice, as always, was tucked under my arm but the rest of the dog bed hogs had moved to their canine comfort suites elsewhere. It was a very odd feeling, part of me felt guiltily liberated but the other, a little depressed. What if the future meant being waking up in a double bed by myself but oh, how lovely to have a bed to myself? Sort of. The dogs find the idea of human bed space irresistible and before you say 07.30 , they find a warm spot on your pillow. I need to be more like my dogs, finding opportunities to relax regardless of what may happen in the future. And having a few furry bellies to snuggle into and forget about the universe and the stars for a while can never be anything less than a positive start to the day, can it?

“Do not let yesterday use too much of today” Chinese proverb

Tony would have been so proud of me last week. I took the punches but kept the temper in check. He used to say I fought first and thought later. I would rant and rave whilst he calmly stood there (probably watching the footie over my shoulder) until I stopped. Then he would pull me in for a hug against that gorgeous, warm chest of his. God, I miss that chest. But I miss not having someone to diffuse my pent up frustration and anger more, someone who would kiss and make it better.

I went to see the doctor about a pain in my elbow that, I have to admit, I’d been ignoring because I didn’t want to stop grooming. The doctor basically dismissed me, saying it was nerve pain because I had an old injury in my shoulder. I mean, she dismissed me in under two minutes saying a physio would sort it out. I felt patronised and annoyed. Then my mother in law berated me, saying my previous blog implied she was fat. I didn’t know she hadn’t heard of that song. She isn’t by the way. And to cap it all, my beloved Land Rover got broken into. Nothing was taken but I felt so violated. I took the punches, ranted and raved to the sky but didn’t lose my rag. The Scorpio’s sting was curbed, I amaze myself sometimes.

Danny Boy and Arry had a rare fight. Although it lasted less than a minute, it was enough for Danny to require stitches in his leg. Yet as soon as they stopped the scrap, they touched noses and forgot about whatever had set them off in the first place. Dogs are funny like that.

I think I’m starting to learn how to do this thing on my own. It’s easy to hate the unfairness of all that cancer bitch took from you but, let’s face it, what good would temper do? Can we change the past? No. Should we shout at the moment? Probably. Can we predict the future? Perhaps. My hurt and frustration at not having a sound board when needed isn’t going to help me get on with this widowhood thing. I tried doing the mindfulness stuff but my brain just doesn’t switch off and Tony’s relaxation breathing technique made me cough. I’d take up yoga if I could stay still long enough. But this Scorpio is rising in the right direction though me thinks, she just needs to keep the claws at bay.

A friend of mine is trying to persuade me to go on a TV programme called ‘First Dates’. She thinks I might find an equally batty dog person. Now I don’t have a face for the screen, my nose is broken and I have a gap in my back teeth. Bless Alex, she said I was being ridiculous and my cheekbones are lovely apparently. I was relaying this conversation to one of Tony’s best friends who also said I was being ridiculous; “Don’t be silly Soph” he said, “they take all sorts”. I love Phil, he knows how to make a girl laugh…..

There are some weeks I have found that can take you to the edge, the one just gone was a prime example. The stress in waiting for that ever dangling probate carrot coupled with endless bills makes me want to cry and scream of the unfairness of it all. The “why me?!” shouts to the Gods above make you feel selfish and useless at the same time especially when you don’t have that calm, solid shoulder that you always leant on at times like these.

I was loading my car for the morning walkies on Tuesday when my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number but unusually I answered it, ready with the ” don’t you think it’s a little early for PPI?” retort but it was my mother in law, Jenny. Jeremy, my wonderful, kind and loving father in law had had a heart attack and died. Shock, disbelief, guilt for the “why me” earlier thoughts went through me and then the realisation that we were both widows now. And Jenny had lost not only her son but her husband too in the space of only 8 months. And then there’s my sister in law, Frannie who had already had to fly back from Australia when her only brother died, now had to do the same for her Dad. I felt sick. There was me shouting about ‘me me me ‘ when , for them, it was a double whammy.

Callum and I drove down to Jenny on Saturday morning. We would have gone on Friday but of course, something always puts plans awry. Danny Boy and Arry had a very rare spat which ended up with Danny having stitches in his leg, my dogs seem to be getting as wound up as their mum at the moment. However we got there, 3 dogs in tow (not Danny Boy, rest for him). Jeremy’s car blocked the drive entrance which was the first oddity as he always moved it before we got there. I had to get in it to shift it forward, that felt wrong and intrusive for some reason. But I did and having unpacked car and dogs, I hugged Jenny and we went inside whilst Callum took the dogs into the garden. The last time we did this was at Christmas and unpacking the car meant unpacking presents, wine and treats – not an orchid to say sympathies or several boxes of cheesy biscuits because Jenny wanted them.

Over the weekend we talked, cried, reminisced. It struck me how different the two of us approached the early days of widowhood. Jenny had nearly 60 years with Jeremy, I had 28 with Tony. Both of us have led an independent life from that of our husbands’ in the sense that we had different interests and friends as well as time doing things as a couple but how we cope with the loss is purely our own. Jenny is one of the strongest characters and Jeremy adored her for it as we all do. She’s a ‘get on and do it’ kind of personality so it was tough to see her crumble and cry, something I still haven’t done but feel it’s looming in the near future if the last few weeks are anything to go by. I found myself suddenly being the ‘expert’ widow and giving advice when asked even though it felt the wrong way round as Jenny has always been the oracle when I needed her. And Jeremy too.

The next few days and weeks are, I think, the easier ones. Organising the funeral, thanking and inviting friends, sorting out paperwork, orders of service, catering etc keeps your mind focused on everything other than yourself. I will be on standby for whatever is needed from me but I know that it is the days and weeks after that Jenny will need us most. And Frannie and Steve (her other half). For them, life has given them the best reason to shout “why me?!”

I think I’ve reached the ‘grey’ stage of widowhood. It’s the bit between the chaos of sorting out your past life as a married person and the frustration of not being able to move forward until probate is finalised. You live in a sort of functioning fog; sleep, eat, work and repeat. It becomes the norm as the rest of the world carries on around you. The rush of friends popping round, ringing and messaging you starts to fade as others get on with their lives and you feel too needy to ring them. So you don’t, you just close the emotional door and pretend you are fine on your own. Clients book in their dogs for grooming or boarding and you smile and say yes. The ‘how are you doings’ become ‘can you/would you’ and you say yes. Anything to fill the days ahead. Home and work become a safety net, the routine keeps you going.

And yet there are those who scupper that routine and badger you into going out even when your mind says ‘no no I’m okay here’. They seem to have a sixth sense for when you are feeling at your lowest and take you out of the dirge. From a last minute text “do you want to go to the cinema this afternoon?” to a “let’s go and see an exhibition at the Tate of someone you have never heard of but might enjoy this weekend” , they get you out whether you want to or not. We know them as friends but they are so much more.

Tony had over 150 people at his funeral, something none of the family expected but were incredibly touched by. He lived for his friends and family and it showed. It wasn’t just the number of donations to the charities we supported, it was how important his friends felt attending his funeral was. People came from as far as New Zealand, Australia and the US to say goodbye and reminisce with others. It was, to say the least, a very special day. But life goes on and the months pass and promises to keep in touch become a murmur.

The funny thing is that those who you least expect are those that walk back into your life. One of Tony’s oldest friends from childhood who, despite living in Australia now, has kept in touch as has one in Ireland. I have to admit his offer of bringing a couple of dogs and having his country cottage to myself is very tempting , I’m hoping Brexit doesn’t ruin that dream! But those who know me best are the ones who never forget. A trip to the cinema and a walk through Leicester Square was memorable as Tony and I spent much of our dating days up there. I loved the exhibition at the Tate, who knew I’d like stained glass that much? And the lunch followed by another cinema showing that ended up in a 5 hour chit chat and far too much wine in the pub was just what the therapist would have recommended.

Friends come and go, that’s life. But this widow will always appreciate the last minute “let’s go” even if I might sound grumpy at the time. Ignore my negatives because your positives stop the fog. As my dogs would say, if they could, every day is a great day to get out of the house…..

It’s been a pretty awful week. To be honest like most weeks, forgettable as in nothing really happened. Just another week counted off, week number 34 to be precise. But it was the first one that almost broke me, I almost stalled the engine.

I don’t think anyone can be prepared for widowhood, it’s not as though it something that’s taught at school or practised like a driving test. It’s like you learn on the job, rushing around like a sugar-shot six year old for the first month or so sorting out funeral arrangements, direct debit changes, account closures and mountains and mountains of paperwork. And then suddenly everything is done, your job is finished. Probate is out of your hands, that part of your life controlled by faceless legals but you keep the engine running because if you don’t, you’ll stall it. And if you stall, will you break down? So you just keep your foot on the pedal, filling your days with work and mundane tasks so you can collapse into bed every night and go through the same the next day.

But I have a secret fuel for my engine, woof oil. For all the times they have hogged the bed, barked at next door’s cat, pooped where you step and left dog hair on every piece of furniture, they are there when you need a paw. They make you get up every morning because you have to go to the park and act like you’ve never seen a park before. They kiss you at the moment you least expected it but needed it most. They snore, fart and bark in their sleep but you know you’re not alone at night.

And so I introduce to you my ‘woofers’; Arry, Alice, Danny Boy, Simi, Evee, Gizmo, Yogi Bear, Neo, Mo Cridhe and Coco Loco. The best engine oil ……

Tony always played football on a Sunday. It was the one day of the week he relished, whether they won or lost. He’d then come home, shower and watch the footie on the telly whilst I read or wrote, we always knew what to do on a Sunday.

Tony died in my arms on the 17th of May 2018 at the age of 56. He had just been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer but it was a cardiac arrest that took him from me after 28 years together. The suddenness of it all and the days that followed is a story for another day but the emptiness builds with time. You spend so much time in the first months sorting out what needs to be done so you can carry on without your other half, you aren’t prepared for the ‘what to do now’ when you have filed the last statement. So what to do on a Sunday now?

A great friend who lost her husband two years ago told me not to make any major changes in the first year. Don’t sell your house, don’t change your job, don’t move country. And so far, I haven’t gone that far but I have made a decision about Sundays. Sundays are family days now. The dogs don’t go to the park, we lie in. I get up and make coffee and get back into bed . I watch the news surrounded by sleeping pooches who don’t seem to mind not going to the park, in fact they seem to be reluctant to move at all. It’s as though they know Mum needs this. Dogs are funny like that. I’m not sure what else Sundays will entail but lying in bed with a laptop and a cup of coffee surrounded by pampered passed out pooches is a start.

That’s me, a widow plus woofs starting life again.