Causes, Triggers and Trips Abroad

The latter years of the nineteenth century were fraught with distrust, tension and bitterness between countries that would ultimately lose millions of lives between them in the Great War. France was resentful of the loss of land to Germany in the Franco-Prussian War; Britain was wary of Germany’s burgeoning navy (as was Germany of Britain’s military force); Austria disapproved of Russia’s support for the Slavic move towards independence, whereas Turkey supported Austria, thereby setting itself against Russia. Little wonder then, that by 1882 Germany, Austria-Hungary and Italy had banded together to form the Triple Alliance and by 1907, France, Britain and Russia formed the Triple Entente. Just in case. But what seemed like an insurance policy, indisputably was a factor in the explosion of events lasting four years, commonly known as the First World War. Confusing stuff … at least it was for Baldrick in Blackadder Goes Forth:

“ … there must have been a moment when there not being a war on went away, right? And there being a war on came along. So, what I want to know is: how did we get from the one case of affairs to the other case of affairs?”

So, a trigger was needed. The stage was set; all that was needed was for a metaphorical director to stroll along and call for ‘Action!’ And if you listened in history at school, you’d know that that director was Gavrilo Princip, the Serbian who assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austrian throne. Princip did not cause World War One; he just removed the fateful block of wood from the game of Jenga that was the precarious relationship between the six countries comprising the two alliances.

And as Edmund replied to Baldrick:

“ … the real reason for the whole thing was that it was too much effort not to have a war.”

Whenever I witness a knee-jerk reaction to a situation, I think of the chain of events leading to the First World War. I do not wish to detract from the misery and horror of a grim four years in our history; it is everyone’s duty to ensure that the suffering endured by everyone involved is fully acknowledged and appreciated. But the forty years leading up to the declaration of war is fascinating in terms of cause and effect, man’s paranoia and the self-fulfilling prophecy.

Decisions are not easy. Well, some are. My decision to reverse all the way back down the lane I had mistakenly driven up yesterday was an easy one, as Option Two involved doing a three point turn in the field I was heading towards. I had performed this manoeuvre before and had to call upon my brother-in-law to tow me out, so I decided upon Option One. And as I am not Jack Bauer, Option Three rarely makes itself known to me.

My decision to accept a job offer abroad was not easy.

I chose to complete my higher education in Brighton, as I was making great strides in the theatre and my dream was to become an actress. Brighton was – and still is – a pretty cool place to hang around for making your way in the theatre. I had intended doing a bit of travelling before embarking upon my degree, but I retook my ‘A’ Levels instead in my gap year, on account of the poor show first time around. I married after graduating and as ex-hubby no 1 struggled to cope with my acting dream, I put it to one side and even let a few lucky breaks go to some other lucky wannabes. I had thought that I would move away from Brighton, even if it was temporary, at some point, but he wasn’t keen. We had an opportunity to move to London, but still he wasn’t keen. His job took him all over the world (he got a lucky break thanks to a slightly sinister quirk of fate) and I nobly volunteered to up sticks and join him here, there and everywhere. But no. It wasn’t a big deal; my priority was the children and I was happy being their mum whilst gradually easing back into the workplace as they grew older. But it slightly irked me that I had been the one with the travel bug – not him – yet he was indulging in travel and not considering the limitless possibilities available, especially for the children, if we took some risks and moved abroad just once maybe … and just for a while.

Eventually we parted company and the children were hurtling towards secondary education at a rate of knots. I remarried and thoughts of travelling became distant and unimportant. But as the children grew up, those travelling thoughts travelled back into the forefront of my mind, where a decision was made.

If I find myself on my own, I’ll work abroad for a bit.

Mostly, this thought remained inside my head, because I wasn’t on my own and I wasn’t wishing to be. But then I did find myself on my own. The children had wandered off to university and ex-hubby no 2 had wandered off to Mongolia.

I applied for a job abroad. I thought I had the job. But I didn’t. And then I started to embrace my home city in a way I hadn’t embraced it for a very long time. I was too busy enjoying myself to think about moving away and anyway, I was seeing this ‘wonderful’ Rastafarian. But as you know (if you are a seasoned follower of my blog), that ended when he ceased to be wonderful and so I started applying for jobs again.

But then I met Cute Guy.

I haven’t mentioned Cute Guy, because I was in possession of a modicum of optimism over Cute Guy. And I couldn’t possibly write about a budding relationship (or non-relationship) if I wanted to remain in possession of said optimism. Any men in my blog have been mentioned retrospectively and as none of them worked out, they provided entertaining writing material from the superior vantage point of Mount Hindsight. If a blog post is to be treated as a story, then each man must provide me with a problem and whereas the problems with Cute Guy are apparent now, they weren’t whilst I was hoping things would develop. Or rather, the initial rush of joy associated with a potential new relationship, was crashing over potential problems in the same way that an energy-filled wave, glinting with the rays of the sun, bursts onto the foreshore and covers up craggy rocks and slippery seaweed.

I met Cute Guy at The Cabaret Bar. I’d moseyed along there one Monday, hoping that Original Blues would be there to provide some company, but he was in London so I sat on my own. An excitable chap came and sat next to me and provided some jolly company for a while and then the Rastafarian appeared on the other side of me. He left, disgruntled that another man was showing interest, even though we were not in a relationship anymore. He sat on the next table and chatted to an acquaintance. At some point I went outside – possibly to make a phone call – I forget – and the Rastafarian’s acquaintance had got there before me and was smoking.

We introduced ourselves to each other and he told me I was pretty and I thought he was cute. The Rastafarian appeared next to me and the jolly chap seemed to have followed him out. Jolly Chap had changed the dynamics of our conversation from engaging chit-chat to shameless flirting and as I wasn’t interested, I was rather dismissive. He took the hint and left, visibly grumping as he made his way up the road, on foot. The Rastafarian quizzed me over him and although it wasn’t his business, I was cross with Jolly Chap’s lewd suggestions so I divulged all and confirmed that yes, he had been chatting me up and no, I was not interested.

So, it was the Rastafarian’s turn to visibly grump, which he did, all the way back inside and left me alone with Cute Guy.

The latter thought that the Rastafarian and I were still in a relationship, which was understandable, given the way he behaved towards me whenever we happened upon each other in a pub. I emphasised the lack of relationship between us and then Cute Guy asked me out. I turned him down, as he seemed quite young.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he said, as he left, with a shrug and no trace of grumping.

We ran into each other a few more times and things changed.

I don’t regret Cute Guy, but I do regret my eternal optimism. I was kept at arm’s length from the start, bluntly being told that we were ‘not a thing.’ That was fine … at the start. But after a while, decisions need to be made about whether or not one is ‘a thing’. I wasn’t the one to denounce the ‘thingness’ of our relationship, so I expected any change of heart to originate from the one who did. In retrospect, I know that I should have broached the subject, instead of remaining silent whilst slowly falling for he who would not be ‘a thing’. But I will take a hint and when the invites round to his place dried up (I drove whereas he didn’t and any suggestions I made for meetings failed to reach fruition) I began the recovery process.

I also started applying for jobs abroad again.

Then I met someone.

“If I think I have a chance of a decent relationship with a decent person … I’m staying put,” I announced to the children.

All applications were put on hold, while I used this final stronghold as an excuse.

We had two wonderful dates, despite wiping his dog’s bum clean on one of them (definitely on par with the Wimbledon Man devil chicken, exploding red wine and humping dog debacle). But we have remained friends only, on account of his reluctance to commit whilst going through a tough time personally.

Back to the job applications.

Then I met someone else (this is not a regular occurrence – sometimes, decent men are like buses).

I made a similar announcement to the children about staying put if it worked out.

But … no. Similar story … not over previous relationship etc but – well, we were already friends so things have simply returned to their previous state.

And then I was offered a job.

The trigger was this final rejection. The stage was set; I cannot say that this latest disappointment has caused me to fly 4,000 miles away with a flourish that Beau Geste himself would admire, but it was that last Jenga piece sliding away, bringing down all my excuses and obstacles, that prompted my signature on that job offer.

Obviously, all relationships have disappointed me because I am single. There would just have to be one that hadn’t for me to be not single. But I am feeling generally disenchanted with the male gender (sorry guys – I hate to generalise but I only have my own frames of reference on which to base my feelings) and whereas my idle yearning to live abroad just for a bit is a long term factor in my decision, recent rejections over the past year are the short term triggers.

I do not go looking for relationships. But I like to go out and men take an interest because that is how things work when you are a woman alone. I do not congratulate myself on being particularly attractive – in fact, I mostly feel rather dissatisfied with myself – but there’s someone for everyone and so on and so forth. But I feel hurt by the men who have worked hard to display an interest in me and made themselves attractive and allowed me to fall for them, if only a little, only to become remote and treat me to the ‘we’re not a thing’ … ‘I’m not ready’ … etc … rhetoric. And my healing process evidently bucks the trend, as I am still waiting to toughen up.

I won’t stay abroad for long. I’ll miss my children too much. I’ll also miss Brighton and all it has to offer, such as my home, my dog, the rest of my family, my friends and the Brightonness of Brighton. But I need to do it, just to see what it’s like and if I don’t, I’ll always wonder.

And because it’s a bit like running off to join the Foreign Legion … and because it’s become too much effort not to go.


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