I’ve been attending a divorce recovery course. Technically, I’m still only separated, but it’s really only a matter of time before I’m upgraded from paradivorcée status to full membership of the Put Asunder Club (TM).
The legal process has been somewhat hampered by the fact that there are lawyers involved, but this is to be expected and isn’t worth bitching about*. In any case, since it’s more likely that Hell’s snow-cone export programme will be turning a brisk profit before Mrs K and I reunite, the inevitability of the outcome is not in question. We are both hopeful that it will be some time before the universe collapses inwards, but I’m not going to hold my breath just yet.
Fortunately, the organisers of the course don’t discriminate against underachievers, so I also get to hang out with other social pariahs and be miserable. It’s kind of like being a Goth, but the music is better and they don’t have a strictly enforced dress code.
* Actually it is, but I don’t want to sidetrack myself into another rant about the legal profession.