Although I rarely let the truth get in the way of a good story, today I write about a life transition, so I will first include a health warning. This health warning is directed firmly at myself for one of the best ways to kill something beautiful is to compare it to something else; there is an outside risk that this blog may unwittingly read as a comparison of my ‘old’ life with the something ‘new’ that is currently unfolding. As there is absolutely nothing wrong with my old life – indeed I have grown to love it (and my own company) very much – I am as surprised as you will be about this greedy life pivot.

So what am I writing about and why am I bothering to over share?

Well loyal reader, I am about to condense two sixty-something bodies into my teeny tiny cottage and I intend to do this without burying anyone under the patio (my love of dark crime drama withstanding ). This is the reverse of an expansion project; happily I am discovering that condensing allows you to keep all the good things and discard the chaff.

I am as incredulous as you will be about this turn of events because I have made reference many times to the tiny little retreat that I have renovated (the leaking roof/asbestos ‘journey’/Thumbelina – sized kitchen etc), a cottage that I now love to bits. Like me, my cottage will always be a little saggy around the edges, but who wants symmetry when you can have character and quirk? Buying this cottage was a heart-over-head decision; my head sometimes regrets the thirty steps which wind up to my front door but my heart thanks me every time I look out at the view. So I post this blog to give a shout out to vulnerability. I also post this blog because my Oldest Friend (OF) – she who nudged me into this blogging milarky in the first place – notes that the import of cutting a new set of door keys should not be downplayed. ‘Irreverence is all very well’, OF tells me, ‘but it makes my heart sing to see you finally joining up some head and heart decisions when it comes to romance. It just goes to show that we should never lose hope in late life relationships.’ (I choose to ignore the ‘late life’ part and thank her for her relentless patience).

Weirdly this opening of my front door (not a euphemism) feels like a no-brainer and perhaps even more strange, it doesn’t feel as if I am giving anything up. I say this not out of smuggery, but as someone who has burnt her own fingers in the past; I am faintly shocked to find that I still have a sense of romantic adventure and can cross some of my self-imposed boundaries. I write this because no late life romancer (or anyone for that matter) needs someone to complete them, but I do need to acknowledge that it is a bonus gifting to find a soulmate in weirdness.

I know you will be curious to know how this union of quirkiness came about, and as I am testing out my new super power of vulnerability, buckle up for the narrative. Apologies in advance for the length of this piece.

When I met Himself a few years ago we were both happy singletons. With our respective past histories it is a miracle that either of us were dabbling in the dating world again and when our paths cross on a dating site for ‘Fitness Singles’ I am ashamed to say that we bond over a love of dark chocolate rather than our respective sports or lycra. We speak before meeting to check that neither of us sounds like a Dalek and then arrange a coffee (up there with dark chocolate in my list of dating criteria). Although I tell Himself in the first five minutes of meeting that I always have an exit strategy on a first date, I am intrigued to learn that Himself’s uncle used to run the cafe on my favourite – and obscure – Cornish beach. I stay for a second coffee rather than choosing to escape.

We were both just looking for someone to go and ‘do nice things’ with rather than prospecting for a future life merger. Both of us were happily settled and equally quirky. We had both gone on the dating site to prove to ourselves that we were ‘brave’ and that dating sites are rubbish. Once we discover that we actually get on, the only downside to this free-spirited dating approach is that we live two hours apart from each other. We reason that this is a positive thing for no-one likes to come across as needy. We both love words as much as dark chocolate (Himself top trumps me by being a published author) so I gamely draft an irreverent dating contract. I find a copy of this document while condensing my paperwork this week – for full disclosure I offer you a sample below:

‘For the purposes of this Confirmational Relationship Contract, the author suggests that both participants refer to the original Relationship Terms & Conditions before signing, noting that signing this Contract will be legally binding.

Travel:  Herself confirms – rather grumpily – that she can add a caveat of 2 hours to travel time, on account of the excellent reception she always receives in the Shire and the positivity Himself demonstrates when he deals with the same travel time + traffic endorsements en route to Bristol. 

Fitness:  Both participants have demonstrated their commitment to fitness and this contract confirms that any heart monitoring  – or ankle tracking – devices can now be removed.  Himself has additionally demonstrated his excellent capacity to support physical fitness at running events, and by signing this document he can assume that Herself will eventually get her act together to repay this compliment and join him at some organised cycling nonsense.’

You get the drift.

Well reader, this arrangement has worked well over the years. Petrol prices and commute time have been negated by my addiction to long podcasts and our mutual belief that as we both live in such beautiful locations that this has offered a no-risk Airbnb-type side quest to our relationship – along with excellent catering and some much needed variety on our individual Strava accounts. On his first visit to the cottage Himself is endeared further when he climbs the thirty steps without an oxygen tank or complaint before turning around and and gasping, ‘and now I will soak in the view’. I knew immediately that he ‘understood’ the heart of my purchase.

What we had not factored into this arrangement was the increased difficulty of leaving each other’s sanctuaries at the end of each weekend. Being SO very much older than me, Himself then decides to retire and living apart (from both a head and a heart point of view) starts to become more painful and less logical.

I do not remember who first suggests that we engage heads as well as hearts and draw up a Venn diagram to scope out if we can realistically condense two lives into one, but suddenly pen and paper appear.

For the purpose of due diligence this Venn diagram morphs into a full SWOT analysis. We keep this document pinned to my fridge door for a couple of weeks but even then have to admit that the Strengths and Opportunities sections drown out the Weaknesses and Threats. I highlight my capacity to snore like a fog horn on both the Weaknesses and Threats sections. I even refer back to our original Relationship Contract to reassure myself that I am still not obliged to own a bike.

Although no approval is needed, we know that friends and family will temper our enthusiasm if we need a reality check. Himself’s daughter: ‘As long as you are happy Dad and as long as she is not a psychopath, you have my blessing’. Himself: ‘I am feeling lucky, I will gamble on one out of two’. My daughter: ‘You have certainly taken your time Mum. Now stop faffing and navigate Ikea with the good grace needed to maximise your storage capacity’.

On my very first visit to Himself’s home, if confirmation is needed that I am dating a fellow weirdo, the evidence is plain to see; not everyone can boast a fairground rocket standing in their living room (again not a euphemism) . Having been the inspiration for one of Himself’s children’s books and being home to ‘Handle Bar Hound’ (another fictional character), I know that this rocket willneed factoring into any binding relationship contract. Said rocket appears in all four quarters of our fridge-bound SWOT analysis and has now found space (sorry) ahead of himself’s final orbit date to the cottage next week – 12th August – the date of the next total eclipse of the sun. Even Himself could not write this narrative.

So we stand on the brink of a domestic transition. Old furniture has gone, new furniture is on order, and our respective charity shops are pleading with us to hold off donating any more books or crockery. Our weird and wonderful lives are as aligned as they are ever likely to be and, if Himself still has energy enough to climb those thirty steps next week, we shall have lift off.

Looking back at the contract drafted in the first months of our burgeoning relationship, I am heartened to read that our transition was always written in the stars/small print – head and heart were both accounted for along with a goodly stash of dark chocolate:

“This contract confirms the official and public status of this 60+ something relationship and permits that future casting is permitted (tick), once both signatures have been collected (tick, tick). It should be noted that, although this is a probationary contract, both parties have been brave enough to close their Fitness Singles accounts (tick, tick), stock up on dark chocolate (tick) and become officially exclusive.’

In the spirit of full vulnerability I promise to keep you posted. My head says that the expansive dark side of this relationship – namely chocolate – will be counterbalanced by those thirty steps; my heart says that our story will remain quirky and weird. A total eclipse of the heart.