...its a couple of years old, and I have kept the mouldering Sunday supplement it came in. Time to chuck it out, but I want to keep these contents for posterity. Dunno why, but this really speaks to me.....
Evolution Of A Man - by Tom Stubbs.
First published in Style, The Sunday Times, April 10 2005.
"The explicit text messages on her mobile confirmed it: after five years together, the "love of my life" was cheating on me. So I called a Luton removal company and packed her off at first light, along with her shoe collection and every photograph, ticket and piece of correspondence we had ever shared. She could take it all. I preferred not to pick over the carcass of our relationship in search of edited highlights. I waved goodbye to her in the brilliant morning sunshine, all happy, like one of the Famous Five. Inside though, my emotional landscape was crumbling like condemned stone cladding. I went to bed in shock. It was as if someone had died.
Next morning, as I lay in the bedroom of my newly reminimalised bachelor flat, a plan started to form. I knew I couldnt carry on as normal. I had been in love with someone who had never really existed, which meant I was left with a gaping five-year void in my life. I needed to start living again immediately. To move on. To evolve. In a huge act of denial, I decided I would import a whole new lifestyle, designed by me and based solely on what I wanted.
My rough course of action was as follows. Step one: fill life with good, wholesome stuff. Step two: adhere to ambitious lifestyle plan, as set out on Missoni multicoloured notepads. Step three: never look back. By the time the pain was over, I would be living a completely new life, the result of my own emotional witness-protection program.
The changes were far-reaching. No stone was left unstyled. On our last evening together, the parasite and I had bought an entire grocery shop, which left me with a kitchen full of stuff I had no idea how to cook. My old culinary skills were one-dimensional and uninspired, but I was determined not to get stuck in the same depressing routine. Driven by fear of decaying food and my "no-wallowing" policy, I began to cook. Books were procured on the subject. I wanted to learn how to prepare fancy little deserts and eat them with special coffees. I looked into cake making courses. I set my sights on mastering pear torte and lemon mascarpone tarts.
It was all in stark contrast to life with my ex. We had shared an almost fetishistic pursuit of fast-food deliveries and takeaways, which we indulged in three or four times a week. With the new order in place, however, shish and doner lost their allure, burgers lost their magic. I was determined to reconstruct my diet along with my life, and began eating more healthily than Tarzan. My food-shopping rituals were completely reinvented. I began popping into niche vendors in town, each foray into unknown food territory underlining my new found freedom. Papaya and pak choi became emblems of my growing confidence, a sign that, perhaps, after all, I was finally happy on my own.
With no relationship to sap my energy, I discovered a whole free life on top of my existing one. I enrolled at Italian language classes, where I studied with a fresh vigour. This seemed essential to my continuing evolution. It required focus, an excellent diversion when I was feeling low. And with the new language came new thoughts and new conversations. Alla fin fine, la vita e bella.
I decided to keep drinking to a minimum, realising that any sustained session would inevitably lead to a downward shift in mood. Smoking was also to stop. I didnt want to smell of fags any more. I stopped buying cigarettes and, despite having one of west Londons finest lighter collections, ceased to carry one. I had to stop sometime, and the time was now. We had been a smoking couple. I became nonsmoking single man.
My lungs played a big part in my evolution. For four months before the split, I had already been running a couple of times a week, partly driven, I think, by an instinct to prepare for a tough time ahead. Now, though, it became a quasi-religious activity, augmented by visits to the gym. Fitness is the way forward for dealing with painful emotions. It affords an indispensably clear head and leaves you feeling good about yourself. I even developed a seven-pack (the usual six, plus a hernia)
Other physical engagement proved to be good medicine, too. With my apathy banished, I addressed the decorating I had been putting off for years. I turned my bathroom into a millennium watermelon: Prada pale green and pillar-box red (restful with a menacing edge, I felt). Seeing a new room appear in front of you is most cathartic, and must for the brokenhearted. They should do a reality-TV show that covers both: Unlucky in Love, Happy in Homebase.
Looking at my flat, I noted that I needed eight lampshades and lamps. This sparked a new period of carefree purchasing. Taste is a piece of cake when you've got some spare cash - theres nobody to please but yourself. And shopping solo among legions of turgid couples is very liberating. Your pace is better, you invariably have more fun, and you are far better dressed.
The upgrade ethic was applied to other areas. To claim I had neglected my wardrobe would be a lie, but now I took things to the next level. I poured time and newly freed finances into the project. New outfits equal new moods and sensations. The Roxy Music mood was seeping into the smoking trend and coming out all Biba.
I took public transport increasingly rarely. My Ford Capri became a Saab turbo. The Capri was inextricably linked with the life that had gone sour. I gave it away, with all the cassettes still in it. The Saab had a radio. And I was surprised how much power steering can soothe an aching heart.
When Heal's called to let me know that my new ceramic and chrome standing lamp had been delivered, I realised that I hardly recognised myself. Two months down the line, I had filleted the remains of my old life and grafted a new roster of activities and values onto the bones.
But was I happy? In some ways, I can honestly say that I was the happiest I had ever been in my life. My work was visibly improved. I was fit, functioning, and in control. Life was full. But I was still the same person. You dont ever change that, really. You can clean up your act, change your hobbies and habits, run off your paunch and wear more stylish clothes, but, in the end, you are still left with the hurt. You still have to take the pain.
What makes the difference is how your choose to do your time. Bolster your spirit with worthy pursuits and wholesome stuff. Spend time and energy on yourself. Its the standard prescription from women to their pals when they split up nastily. Its like teaming up with yourself as a partner. Youve got carte blanche to go crazy. You have a licence to hanker after new stuff and to be noncommittal while youre sampling it.
I'm hoping to drag it out for another year at least."
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, I am not sure I can face it.