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One of our late night e-mail exchanges inevitably descended into talking about what went wrong. It got worse when Shug posted on Facebook that he’d be appearing at The Kings Theatre in Beauty and the Beast. So, when I was in Mc Phabb’s the following Friday and E-Dog asked me if I wanted to go to trapeze classes with her, I pounced on it, and said yes. My envy for his quirky lifestyle wasn’t even slightly dented when I read he’d be playing a Cheese Grater. I then instantly regretted it, and hoped she’d forget she’d asked me, but no.

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‘Just remember, this has nothing to do with clowns.’ Excited to be back in the real world, I immediately e-mailed the Clown. I went back into the room and sat on the end of the bed. My hands started to tremble so I tucked them under my legs. I don’t mean fiddling with tarot cards and crystal balls. When I was living through the Clown Horror I would give up on him and delete his number, countless times, but he’d always come back to torment me. I jumped out of bed, opened my laptop and googled the Clown’s website. Rather, when a relationship ends, I can never imagine moving on, and meeting someone else. We all do, even though we may be changed and a bit exhausted. So, I came to recognise the number as it was constantly popping up on my phone.

So I know the moping stage will pass and someone else will come along but, at the time, I just cannot imagine it.

I’ve thought of writing a letter to myself, to be opened six months in the future, saying ‘Look moron, I told you this would pass. ’ I could then tuck it away in a drawer, knowing that when the time came to open it, I’d be miles removed from the grizzled, miserable sop I am now.

So, although I chose to break up with Shug, I couldn’t help missing him but at least I was able to pin-point what I was missing: not his sulks or his prima donna behaviour, but the whirlwind of activity he brought with him.

My natural state, I hate to say it, seems to be depression.

I find it all too easy to slump in a chair and stare at the wall, slowly starting to hate myself. Shug had removed all the glitter and activity from my life and I lacked the guts to create it for myself. I fell for him so completely as he was the ultimate in energy, colour, in a life totally removed from mine.

Shug banished all this with his mid-life mania and pulled me along with him. In this flimsy emotional state, we began e-mailing each other. We’d given one another a few buffer weeks of distance, but then tentative e-mails sprang up. It’s OK to do it after the anaesthesia of a few months, but we’d only given it three surly weeks. I let the same thing happen with Shug, and now here I was again, on my own, in the same old flat feeling the same old grimness.