There is no doubt in my mind that the sudden appearance of summer contributes to my change in mood but as I sat on the front stoop last night bathed in the evening warmth, I felt a weird sense of calm. Note the word ‘stoop’ as opposed to doorstep, it sounds much more whimsical doesn’t it? Think green pastures, frolicking puppies, cowboy hat and a tall glass of iced tea. The lines of the parallel universe, the one where I was still married to Tony, seem to be fading and I’m not trying to keep that channel open anymore. I’m getting used to being me.

I spent a lot of the week with various friends, catching up over drinks and dog walks. It’s slowly occuring to me that I can do whatever I like without having to compromise although I do tell Callum where I am even if it goes in one headphone and out the other. I think my confidence in making solo decisions is getting there although I still have moments of self-doubt. I’m still useless at household finances though but I have discovered the word ‘budget’ which to many is a revelation. But the future still scares me. Yes, I can go out with no one asking me when I will be back, I can buy things without anyone tutting at me and the new extension is designed entirely as moi would like it but I’m how long will the feeling of happy independent me last? I wish I’d stop worrying so much and just enjoy the calmness I have now instead of thinking of the years ahead.

On the plus side, if you ever wanted to get a personal boost, online dating is the perfect panacea. Its also great fun in that you have an imaginary red button you can press when the 5 ft tall, 21 year old sends you a message. This is also much more fun when done with girlfriends and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. I have however chatted to one or two who seem genuine and are happy to stick to the friendship boundaries. The idea of actually dating anyone still terrifies me but I think as long as I bring Arry with me I should be ok, he is a great judge of character. I suppose once I’ve got over the first one, the rest might be less daunting. And to Alex I ask, “when do I tell him I have 10 dogs?”…..

“Don’t accept your dog’s admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.” (Ann Landers)

I have noticed recently that some people treat you as ‘short of a few brain cells’ once you become a widow. The logical side is apparently the most deeply affected, I am obviously unable to make decisions without their ‘expertise’. As I have mentioned before in my previous blogs, I have had to learn all about household finances and where to find them, I just don’t remember repeating any wedding vows that included one of us losing the grey cells should the worst happen. Of course, those of you who know me well know that I have developed selective hearing over the years, much like my dogs. I know they mean well but I have to learn by my own mistakes and that may well include a few mishaps on the dating game.

Making a decision about sharing any part of my future with someone other than Tony has mixed emotions, after all we were a partnership that had lasted 28 years and frankly, I assumed 28 more. I trusted him completely and the idea of ever loving anyone else is the furthest thing from my mind. But here’s the thing. At 25, you are attracted to that certain someone that makes your heart go boom and your nether regions go bing. At 52, you want a companion to share your common interests with but not necessarily your bed. Over the last year I have become quite the independent woman but I do miss having someone to talk to over a meal or better still, go on holiday with. Arry and Alice may share my duvet but I can’t really have a debate on current politics over a pizza.

If I could give any useful advice on filling out out dating questionnaires, I would say ask a friend. And do it with a glass or two to bring on the giggles once your ‘advert’ goes live. I have no desire to get married again or have anymore children, I think my being 52 with a 20 year old son and 10 dogs should be a clue but I would like to hope there is someone out there that fits the mould. As the saying goes, the power is in my hands. and so far I’m enjoying the experience.

“Dogs never bite me. Just humans.” (Marilyn Monroe)

My new relationship with myself isn’t going well at the moment. Me and I have had a bit of tiff over my lack of financial savvy which, although a common issue with couples I’m sure, is rather important when one is “tout seul’.

Tony was the sensible one in our marriage, he was the Stewart accountant. I, however, have always had a somewhat ‘loose’ attitude towards the Bank of England. Actually I called it eternal optimism much to Tony’s dismay. I’m embarrassed to admit that I know next to nothing about mortgages, interest rates or meter readings. In fact, the first time the electric company needed one, I had to ask a friend which meter it was. Tony always took care of everything, romantic yes but I realise now, highly impractical. Note to Government, a college course in household financial wizardy?

However, I’m learning how to be sensible. Quickly. I’ve banned take-aways even though they are so convenient when living in a kitchen-less house because of the builders and I’m much more store own brand even when choosing the above kitchen design. Thanks to my money saving expert of a neighbour, Michelle, I have finally been trained in the ways of Ebay. I’m going to get T-shirts printed with the “Be More Michelle” slogan. Luckily the woofers aren’t too fussed about their daily diet or sleeping arrangements but I would like to point out that they eat far healthier then I do and their ‘personal exercise assistants’ cost a small fortune. Running my own household is not going to be as simple as I had envisioned but I’m learning.

And I am determined to keep my eternal optimism cap on, Tony would expect nothing less. Of course, I’ll keep playing the Lotto too…….

“If I had a pound for every time my dog made me smile.. I’d be a millionaire.”  ( Steph Harris)

About six months after Tony died, I made a rash and I would suggest one glass too many, decision to join an online dating agency. I know, internet browsing and alcohol don’t mix well but it was a lonely and confusing time post T. I must look back at my blogs and check my mindset me thinks. Anyway, whatever the reason I filled in the questionnaire and posted my bio. Two weeks later, I cancelled the subscription. I definitely wasn’t ready for all those 26 year olds swooning at my photograph, dark glasses and all. I would like to point out, I did not check the box for someone younger or shorter than me but it seemed that I attracted 5 foot 2 twenty-somethings.

Fast forward to current 12 month status and I’m in a happier place. Or at least a more settled one. I feel as if I’ve grown wings for the first time in a long while. Reducing my work load has given me the chance to spend time with friends and oddly, discover London. But it hasn’t been easy, there were, and still are, days when you just don’t want to leave the house. But you force yourself to because the alternative is miserable. So I’m learning to be me again. However, there’s no denying that I miss the fun of having a companion to share the daily grind with. I don’t see myself falling in love again to be honest and my bed, well let’s face it I have very snuggly bodies to share it with.

A great friend is determined to pen the right profile for me when I next decide to throw myself into the dating pool again, she’s even taken proper photos of me looking vaguely presentable without sunglasses. I think Alice looks better than me in the photos but then she’s an all round man eater of a Border terrier. She thinks yoga, loves nights out with friends, museums, hates flying and I’m thinking yes but there is a small but important point. This gal has 10 dogs. Maybe answers on a postcard please?

” if you eliminate smoking and gambling, you will be amazed to find that almost all an Englishman’s (woman ahem) pleasures can be, and mostly are, shared by the dog” (George Bernard Shaw)

One of the most frustrating things about trying to start life again as a widow is that no one else is on your boat. And to make matters worse, the proverbial vessel is chained to the dock and you’re the only one without the key. I don’t do well in boats, I get seasick looking at them. Less looking out at a new horizon, more pacing the poop deck.

Tony was forever telling me to be patient and slow down and let someone else have control. He also told me to always read the instructions but as there doesn’t appear to be any for this particular boat it’s difficult to change the habit of a lifetime. I think the feeling of helplessness at not being able to save Tony from that cancer bitch has probably added to my need to be in the driver’s seat so it’s incredibly frustrating when others don’t move at the same pace. Apart from Arry, my German Shepherd. He and I both have the insane stop and full speed mentality except that I don’t feel the need to bolt out the front door no matter how many times it’s opened, do a garden circuit and bolt back in again. Why do dogs do that?

The biggest headache is not being able to get answers from the solicitor dealing with Tony’s estate. I have absolutely no control here and honestly, I’m bashing my head against a brick wall hence the above. A snail could get to the finish line quicker. Not knowing how you can plan your next journey means you just go round and round in circles. To add to this, the extension is on hold as the builders are waiting for the last steel to hold the kitchen ceiling up so they can finish the job. The warehouse has it but they are waiting for a delivery driver so poor Tommy and co. are sitting twiddling their thumbs. I know the feeling. And then there’s my window guy who has to find a time slot to replace the decaying glass and my tree man has fallen out with his girlfriend and I hate to bother him with ‘when can you finish the job?’. Bit insensitive even if I am stomping my feet. The only consolation is that I’m not spending any money which definitely puts me in the ‘doing something novel’ category in Tony’s books.

So I stand on my little ship (my father in law always told me off when I called a ship a boat) with my four legged deck hands keeping the waters calm until we can steer straight ahead.. Except Arry, he’s still looking for the door keys. I know the feeling….

The most affectionate creature in the world is a wet dog (Ambrose Bierce)

Well, I’ve made it through the first year without Tony. I don’t think it actually qualifies me for any accolades or money off vouchers but thanks to my besties, four fifty-somethings let loose in Ramsgate made the weekend one to remember for all the right reasons. And now that the jet lag has dissipated, I feel a strange sense of calmness seeping into me. It’s like stepping into the sun at L’Horte (the family home in France) after 12 hours in a car. A sense of peace. I am suddenly just me. Not us, ours, we, they. Just me.

Callum called me into his sacred space (parent speak for bedroom) the other day, he had been transferring old camcorder tapes onto his computer. Video footage from time with friends before we were married to the special day, honeymoon and beyond. He asked me if I wanted to watch any of it, funny because I still find it difficult to watch any of Macgyver but I had a weird need to have a peek. A couple of hours later, Cal and I were laughing and commenting on Tony’s antics, the 90’s fashion and most definitely our son’s youthful parents! There were so many happy memories on those tapes and not once did I feel emotionally distraught, on the contrary I felt like my body had an inner smile. We did good T. Sadly the camcorder was replaced by the mobile phone by the time Cal was born so we don’t have his early years on video. Phones get changed and content lost sadly. I’m making the decision to back up all my phone video content tout suite, memories are irreplaceable. And now, I suppose, it’s time to make new ones. Who knows what the future holds but for the moment, I have to learn a whole new language. It’s called Me.

“I am because my little dog knows me” (Gertrude Stein)

My dearest Wormy,

It’s been a year since I held you in my arms. I still can’t get my head around the fact that you are no longer here, I feel like I’m living in some sort of parallel universe and at some point everything will return to what it was. I can still hear you, feel you lying beside me in bed watching your DVD’s and smell your ‘life’s okay now you’re here’ smell. I can still see your incredible blue eyes light up when you laugh and and your lip tic because you can never lie. I miss you. I would like to point out that the football hasn’t helped, I’m sorry Liverpool didn’t quite get there but you still have the Champions League . I hope you haven’t broken any chandeliers up there with your leaping about.

Life would be a lot less stressful if you were here by the way, just so you know. Your will and estate alone has caused me no end of anxiety and sleepless nights, I never knew you were so complicated darling. Mind you, you’d probably tell me to be patient and it’ll all get sorted eventually. I’m trying. Dickie as ever has been your best friend and a calming influence for you know who. I’m sorry for swearing at you so much but I don’t have your chest to lean on.

The Coven girls are taking me away this weekend. They have been the best friends a girl could ever have. I wish you could have met Alex, you would have loved her and Tom. They have been a tower of strength for both me and Cal. And Cal has been accepted on his college course, I’m a beyond proud mum. You have amazing friends too but you know that. The footie gang , Phil who refuses to let me wallow in grief, the best neighbours in Michelle and Trevor, Cheryl, Simon and Oliver. They’ve all badgered and prodded me to make sure I’m okay. And our families of course.

I’m sure you’ve noticed the renovations on chez Knollys, you would have liked them but not the money I’m spending. Oops. I’m sorry about the Camellia too but hopefully it will get over the trauma and blossom again. I’m sure you are pleased with my decisions on the work front, very overdue but I know you would be proud of me for taking that step. It’s a step without you though. I was a bit nervous about your reaction to my tattoo but I like it and you know I never do what others expect. The dogs have been my backbone over the last 12 months, I would never have kept my sanity without them. Mind you, they’ve driven me to insanity on a regular basis too. Yogi is better now that Callum is home but I think if he could talk, he’d need a therapist. I will never know a dog’s thoughts after they watch their human pass away in front of them. I hope you don’t mind the lilac colour in the bedroom, it calms me.

I miss you babe. It’s a weird existence without you but I thank you for Callum. He’s my rock just like his father. I suppose I’ll come to terms with the word ‘widow’ eventually, your Mum is right, it’s a horrible name tag. At least I have the woofers to add though. Say hi to your Dad and all my furries up there; Scout, Hero, Rupert, Jordi, Amor, Ash and my beloved MacGyver. Always know that I love you babe and you are remembered forever by all of us down here.

I love you always and forever…. (ditto)

Sonic xx

I went out for lunch with my mother-in-law last week at the V&A. I only mention the last bit as we had been to see the Dior exhibition which is stunning if you are lucky enough to get a ticket. Anyway, for an hour or so, we became ladies who lunch in posh places and catch up over a glass of wine.

It was over the decadent Pinot that Jenny posed a question to me, “why do you call you blog the widow plus woofers?”. Now I have to admit, the answer seemed rather obvious to me but I replied that I felt it was a catchy title. “I meant why do you call yourself a widow? I don’t label myself with that word, I’m just me” she countered, “and it reminds me of a spider”. I nearly snorted my wine. However, once I had rebalanced my breathing and stifled the giggle, I pondered over her comment as the conversation turned to less provocative conversation. Why do define ourselves with such a dreadful tag? And will Jenny always be my mother-in-law or does that change now I’m theoretically not actually married to her son anymore?

Let’s face it, there’s no way you can inject any happiness into the word widow. I mean, you can have a happy marriage or an amicable divorce but losing a life partner is not a chosen path. Unless you’re a murderous spider. Even translated into other languages it sounds depressing; ‘veuve’ in French, ‘vedova’ in Italian, ‘viuda’ in Spanish. Like I said, it’s not a word we choose to label ourselves with. But is Jenny right? Should we just be defined as ‘me’ and not the product of a life changing event?

My son came home after a month or so away and Yogi Bear went nuts. I could have got a million hits on social media if I had recorded the reunion but my son hates cameras so the happy canine conga with the rest of the pack bouncing along remains private. And I joined in the happy dance too, my boy is home. Yup, I can be mum for a while again. He came well-equipped with dirty laundry, a bottomless appetite and lots of hugs. Being Mum is certainly a word I love to be defined by because I’m a much better me when he’s got his feet up on the sofa surrounded by furries even if there’s only a corner left for the lady of the house/widow/dog owner/blonde/middle aged/mother/female/…..insert label….

“a dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance and to turn around three times before lying down” (Robert Benchley)

I decided this week that mind and body need exercise. With all the mental see sawing of last week, it was time to “accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative” (great song by Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers 1945 by the way). And with a potential glimpse of sunny days on the horizon, the less sag the better.

I have to admit, I have developed an aversion to exercise post Tony dying, after all he was a devoted gym junkie and look how that turned out. Nevertheless, having spent a couple of days in the presence of my superfit sister and sister-in-law (the push ups made me go green and not in the environmental sense), I dusted off the yoga mat, made a decent space to practise and downloaded a few programs on the tv. I’d like to point out that I know it isn’t ideal to have a tv in the bedroom but there’s nowhere else to put it whilst have the house is being renovated. Anyway, it serves a purpose. As does Yogi Bear who feels his presence at one end of the mat is motivational and occasionally raises a back leg in sympathy. Still a fitter bod might help the mindset and the inner confidence one needs to feel better about oneself. I am in the zone.

A few on my local support group have been musing about the pros and cons of dating websites. I hate the lonely evenings but to be honest, I worry about my trust in starting again after 28 years. But it would be nice at some point to meet someone who could fill the void so I had another look at a few recommended sites, eek!! How do I write a suitable profile? Who would want to respond to me? I’m 52! Oh, the drain on my new yoga-fied self-confidence! But I don’t want to be that sad, lonely, crazy dog lady so how can I find a bloke? What would they think about Arry? Would Neo have an epiphany? I think this is the point where I write this is to be continued as my dogs have definite views on peeps…. gives food, walks a lot, gives food, walks a lot, likes Antiques Roadshow, walks a lot, hates dog baths, likes Sundays everybody in bed a lot…..answers on a postcard please….

“When a man (woman!)’s best friend is his dog, that dog has a problem”(Edward Abbey)

I suppose it was inevitable that I would encounter a pot hole or two somewhere on this journey, I just wasn’t expecting so much subsidence afterwards. After 11 months of widowhood, I thought I had this coping thing down to a fine art but life has a habit of testing you apparently.

Like most of us Britons, the prospect of an Easter weekend bathed in warm sunshine was enough to bring on a happy dance. I am definitely a sun bunny. I dug out the factor 50, cleared the work decks, charged the kindle and decamped to the front garden with equally joyous dogs. I also had an invitation to Sunday dinner with close friends which of course, I accepted.

I wonder if my sub conscious knew something I didn’t because unusually for an evening with friends, I decided to drive over and forgo the drink. It was halfway through the meal when I had what could only be described as a minor panic attack. I don’t know why but knew I had to go so made my excuses (can’t leave the woofers too long) and came home. I felt like I felt the day after he died, disengaged from life and numb again. What the hell happened?

It’s taken a few days for me to defog the brain and bring some clarity to the hiccup. I think the looming first anniversary is a psychological niggle but the complete family sitting round the table was probably the proverbial straw. I will never have that again and that’s tough on the mentals. But I’ll dust myself off, bandage the bruises and get back up the hill. I just have to watch my step a little more carefully…

“You know, a dog can snap you out of any kind of bad mood that you’re in faster than you can think of.” (Jill Abramson)