From ‘Wednesday 9 May 2007’:

Bought a birthday card with ‘husband’ on it—it was difficult to get one that was not over-the-top.

I’m lost in this world of—‘I love you so much’.

That sort of thing—‘You are the only one’; ‘I knew the moment I saw you’—all this tripe—it’s because the divorce rate is so high—there’s a general pretence at this super-romance thing.

It’s a load of bollocks.

You meet someone—he seems right for you—you become entangled financially or because you have children—or you grow older and know that the grass is not greener on the other side.

You know the one you’ve got is as good as another might be.

You know you settle down into the humdrum.

What you have—it’s as good as anything—you settle.

Yes.  I’m happy enough.

He’s okay.  I don’t expect wonders.

I don’t want excitement.  I want comfort.

To be comfortable.

Yes.  It’s okay.

I’d miss him if he was gone.

And I couldn’t get an anniversary card—why was it we ended up getting married around about his birthday?—because they were all too lovey-dovey.

Let’s be English about this, shall we?

Let’s be dour Yorkshire-men.

Yes, I know—I’m a woman.

I think I’m in the past, in my mind.

Best thing to do is just to gabble on.

I looked at myself in the mirror today.

I don’t do that often now.

Sure, I see myself.

But I don’t look much.

I looked into my eyes, and you can’t, you know—you can only look at one eye at a time—and the same if you look someone else in the eyes.

But I made acquaintance with myself, eye to eye.

‘Really, Joan?’ I asked myself.

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