Greek tragedy

There is a moment in every relationship when it begins, when love pops its head around the corner and asks “room for a little one?” and another moment when it slams the door hard in your face.

It’s usually something trivial. The time when he reads aloud to you when you are hungover – come on in, sit down, make yourself at home. Or, on the flip side, when he sneezes and a huge blob of snot lands on his lip but he doesn’t notice and goes to kiss you and wipes it on you. Slam.

It’s not that love just dashes from the sofa to the door because he sneezed. You could blow a gigantic snot bubble on your first date and get away with it if your date is smitten enough. No. Love had been trying to creep out for sometime, had even managed to get a hand on the doorknob and one leg out but the snot blob is the final straw.

I once went out with a psychopath and we decided to take a holiday to Kefalonia for a fortnight. The fortnight ended with me trying to lose him at passport control.

It wasn’t so much that he was a psychopath that put me off him, as much as the comment he threw my way halfway through the holiday. It was one of those acutely awakening moments, like stubbing your toe or biting your tongue, when all reality seems to shift for a second and you come to, thinking: “Sh*t, b*llocks, t*ts, w*nk!”

We were sitting perusing the menu at a fairy-lit taverna and I was feeling all Captain Correlli’s Mandolin about life, simultaneously gnawing on the rather alarming thought that I was in a relationship with a psychopath, when he shattered everything.

“Oh, but I quite like Jim Davidson.”

The world tilted on its axix. Yes I could take the jealous rants, the barbed comments, the sneering envy, and the possessive poison that blighted nearly every single moment of our time together.  But I take my comedy very seriously. This had to be a joke.

It was over.

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