![]() What next? Not this, I kept saying, working my way slowly and haphazardly towards the things that did feel right. I had chosen to come off the conventional path. I don’t disapprove of these things – I laughed out loud when I came across the “Boy, bye” cake online recently, and if a paparazzo had cared he could have caught me dancing down the road that first divorcee summer – but what I most remember about that time was a feeling of plotlessness. ![]() T here are many things I didn’t do when I got divorced seven years ago at the age of 34: I didn’t set up a divorce registry I didn’t throw my arms out behind me like wings while walking across a car park I didn’t send an announcement that I was consciously uncoupling with a picture of me and my ex sitting on a lawn in happier times I didn’t throw a party I didn’t order a cake iced with “Boy, bye” I didn’t erase all traces of my married life, burn love letters or throw my rings into the sea. ![]()
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