Uborka spent the weekend recuperating from its brush with death, and is now able to sit up in bed without assistance and sip a little chicken soup, if it’s not too hot.
The Pete part of Uborka is still slumped in the corner, deathly pale and too weak to click his mouse button. The Karen part of Uborka is bored of feeling poorly, and looking around for something to do.
So I thought I’d stop trying to entertain you with all that wit and originality that Pete does so well and I can’t imitate, and do a bit of soap opera instead. It’s a long time since you’ve heard about what’s going on in World of Karen.
It’s nearly a year since I started writing Rise v1 and you ghouls came to my rescue with advice and support and tea.
It might amuse you to learn that since I left Hungary, Ken has suddenly found it in himself to send me several emails a day. It used to be too much effort to send a single SMS. He kindly keeps me informed of Pigger’s progress [he has had a bladder infection recently; Ken always did loathe litter tray duties]; occasionally tells me that he regrets everything and wishes he hadn’t lost me; and gives me rather too much information about his complicated lovelife. He is currently dating a hungarian girl in Budapest, who conveniently works very long hours, and travels to Bucharest most weekends to see a romanian chick who he finds a little bit too bossy.
I continue to reply to his emails because I mean to keep him sweet until I have that divorce thing all signed and sealed. I can put the wheels in motion in November this year, on the [rather shaky, but apparently it will do] grounds that he deserted me two years ago when he moved to Hungary. I don’t fancy trying to push this through any hungarian courts, so desertion is far and away the easiest option, even if I have to take the papers over there myself.
Meanwhile, I am enjoying living by myself. It’s nice having my own space, things set out exactly the way I want them. The place is reasonably clean and tidy, and I’ve discovered a world where you don’t need to go to the bottle bank more than once a month. On the other hand, living so far away from Pete sucks. Every Friday night, one of us drives for two and a half hours; our weekends are packed, and booked up months in advance; and then on Monday morning – disgustingly early – there is another 2.5 hour drive. It’s tiring, it’s expensive, it’s absolutely worth every minute and every penny, and if I told you that we were going to look at a flat next Saturday, will you promise to keep it a secret?
We’re only looking, you know. To get an idea of what’s on offer. Honest. Maybe after christmas, if we still feel the same, we’ll make some sort of decision about the future…