The gate is still broken.  The logs are still piled up to the sky on either side of it.  It's raining again. I squelch out of the car into the cow-shit and in my cream cashmere top and manicured finger nails reach around the orange bailer-twine which is vaguely keeping the gate held to, and pull the wooden five-bar structure open, as usual getting the green lichen into my finger nails and all down my front; my 'top stylist at Toni and Guy hairstyle' matted wet to the top of my head, making me look like Esther Rantzen.  

I have been waiting for nearly three months now for my kind friend to sort out the electric  'ram' which makes the gate work automatically, without my having to get out of the car.  I think I might prefer to just pay!

The wind's in the wrong direction again, so I have to lean down and pick up a huge, heavy slimey stone to keep the gate open while I get back in the car, drive it through, and get out again, and kick away the stone with my damp, stained suede high heeled boots, lean over the mossy stone pillar to get hold of the twine and shut the slippery gate;  get back into the car and gaze with dismay up my potholed drive and the mad jungle that now runs along either side of it, while the house stands above, looking grey and forlorn,  the paint peeling off all the rotten window frames.

I pray that my second house-rental hasn't been here and seen it all like this, while I have been out collecting Beloved Daughter from school.

I collect the post from the box outside the door, and a letter with no stamp or address falls out. I open it, and inside is a cheque for over £2000 from my July rental, no additional comments.  God she must have been disappointed, I think to myself.

I email her to thank her for the cheque, and to once again apologise for the sense of neglect and decay that must emanate from my wonderful home.

By return she writes: 'I thought the house looked lovely, huge, and very pleased that it was straightforward to find and quite close to Ashburton for shopping (I like Ashburton).   The dog and I had a bit of a wander down to Hexworthy and around which is also very pretty. My American sister-in-law will love it.  
 
'We are quite serious walkers so some recommendations for good walks close by would be great if you have some. And my daughter and her boyfriend would love a recommendation for a good hacking stables, she doesn't get much chance to ride in Paris!'

Well blow me down.  I write back that I never go for walks - that is what the horse is for, so I can sit down going up hill.  But thinking about it we could not be more perfectly placed for short, middling or long walks, including pubs and/or total wilderness, north, south, east or west. And I am very familiar with all the hacking stables nearby, each offers something slightly different so that there's something for everyone.

This entrepreneurial stuff is such a roller-coaster. Depressing, elating, frustrating, all-consuming.  Perhaps my home is nicer than I thought!  And maybe I'm not very rural.  Although I was exaggerating about the cashmere and the manicure. All my jumpers are black!

I've told everybody that now I need to make money I am going to limit myself to just one Lady Who Lunches a week.

This week I'm doing three.

Yesterday was the Jilted Wives Club, and today I simply couldnt resist joining my brother and his two edible friends on their yacht , as they sailed back from the Scillies via Newton Ferrers in Devon, and on to Chichester.  This is an annual event, and as usual they treated me like Lady Muck and took lots of pictures of me.

In fact it was the last time I had lunch with them, that they took the picture that I subsequently used in all my internet dating sites, so that has become very memorable.

I like sitting on boats in the sun, but am not too keen if they start moving along over waves.  So as the boys fussed over me with delicious 'Bladder Wine' (wine served from the bag - box and thus origin long since discarded to save space) and cold meat and salad, I found myself expounding on what had been bothering me during the night.

Once you are no longer a nuclear family, you don't fit in.  I scoffed at James, who charmingly tried to reassure me that all the wives are terrified of a glamorous single woman like me getting anywhere near their husbands.  "That's just a silly cliche!" I reprimanded him, meaning it.

I think people generally  like to be involved with people in similar situations to ourselves - our own 'tribe'. But I don't have one  near me.

X has just completed on a small flat at the poor end of Parsons Green in London and I think he is going to have loads of fun.  There are millions of single people like him living within a stone's throw of his new home.

No one at all lives within a stone's throw of my house, let alone anyone in my situation.  I'm wondering whether I am mad to be so determined to stay in this large, expensive, worrying, demanding, inaccessible place, especially assuming both my children will soon be at boarding school.  I am at a crossroads.  X has started a whole new life.  Perhaps I should consider that too.  Divorce changes everything.

The boys on the boat, all in sound, happy marriages, didn't really have any views on this line of thought of mine, and wandered off, doing the washing up and preparing to make the most of the sunshine and wind by sailing on to Salcombe that afternoon.

This Thursday my favourite aunt is coming down from Edinburgh to stay with my mother, 1 1/2 hrs away in Dorset.  I feel the irresistable urge of another lunch coming on.  Yes. No. Yes. No. Yes!

I bet we're the only house in the world with daffodils still blooming in the garden in May!  What a cold winter's tale.

As they're about the only thing that's blooming.  Or so I thought.  By yesterday lunchtime (spent with the Jilted Wives Club at the Endsleigh, the poshest hotel in the South West, total bill £12.50 each for the best sandwiches and Spritzer available in the universe) I was becoming despondent.  I have been pouring myself into my five post-breakup-money-making-ventures for over a year now, and all have come to nothing.  Not a single B&B enquiry, despite having spent three solid weeks on creating a fabby-dabby-doo website: www.wydemeet-dartmoor.com, complete with SEO (Search Engine Optimisation - which means all the things you have to do to get it at the top of Google, which I believe has now become an even more significant skill as part of the marketing mix than advertising or PR).  Breaking about even on my first house rental and no sign of the cheque, now due, for the second.  No further bites for my poet.  A blank in my brain about  how to make this bloggy thing commercial, and 40,000 words written of my book.

I am now overdrawn for the first time in 25 years.  And no sign of things improving.

And then yesterday tea-time: Ping!  An email from a Swiss couple wanting to stay for a night or two in August!  And then, Ping!  My July rental lady emails to say she would like to drop the cheque round personally! Wowee! There are signs of life after all! Fancy that!

Never mind that I don't want to do August B&Bs because the children will be at home, and that the mower's at the menders, so if my potential rental turns up she'll run a mile if she sees that jungle.

All is not lost.  Trip Advisor must have sprung into life.  I will forward the swiss couple to my friends' fantastic hotel, Prince Hall, just up the road, and perhaps we might enter into some mutually beneficial arrangement over time, if this happens again.

Just when you think there is no light in sight, bingo! I now have the energy to get back to my poet's ringrounds, investigate getting advertising onto this site and going public on it to my 2000+ email contacts, and adding to my book.  Just needs a little kick up the arse, and off I go again!

I'm going to make Esteemed Partner Rich and Famous (even though he doesn't want to be).

Just as I did with Ex (who did).

And you heard about it here first!

You see, EP can cure headaches!  It's true, because I know! First hand! And it's so, so simple!

That Anadin ad, 'for tense, nervous headaches'  has caused SO much misunderstanding. EP explained that your actual brain can't hurt.  So my constant, on-going headaches aren't being caused by stress.  They are simply caused by my holding my head in the same place for too long - writing this for instance.

EP says the little muscles in the back of the neck aren't designed to hold up such a big heavy thing in one place for hours on end.  They are meant to dip and dive as you move your head a lot, when you're not doing unnatural things like sitting in front of a PC screen all day.  He says everybody knows this already, but I don't think they do.  I certainly haven't read about it in the Daily Mail recently.  And have been under the impression for years that Nothing is just as ineffective as Anadin.

I call EP 'Artist of Touch'.  He releases these seized muscles by gently putting increased pressure on the 'trigger points' which are causing them to jam, resulting in the pain that you feel in the muscles further up around your skull.  I sat quietly in a kitchen chair while he exercised his technique on me.  It took about 15 minutes, while my sceptical mother, back towards us, carried on washing up the family lunch.

Well blow me down.  It worked.  I mucked out the horses and came back smiling.

And the next day I consciously moved my head around as I was bashing away on the keyboard (no one was looking, so it didn't matter that I looked like a crazy woman (or 'special', in the rather unattractive words of Revered Son).  Come 4.30am that night, and no daily dreaded headache appeared.  Wow!

AND.  EP can do the same thing for backs too.  In fact it was problems with his own back that got him into researching trigger points.  He is probably the greatest expert on them in the South West, but is currently too modest to blow his own cornetto.  He could change the lives of thousands and thousands of pain-racked people.

So I am going to tell the world about him and his special powers!  But I am not quite ready to yet.  I've got to market my B&B, House Rental, and Poet first.  Then I will be Onto It.  Watch this space!!

Well! Here we are! How exciting that we are up and running at last! It is lovely that you are reading this, and we hope you will choose to come and stay at Wydemeet Bed and Breakfast very soon.  We much look forward to meeting you,  and hope to provide you with  a luxury break of  5 Star standard!

The house martins have arrived and are swirling around the gardens and barn; and after this late Spring we have never before seen so many flowers blooming down the banks towards the garden gate onto the moor.

Finally the grass is growing and we must deal with it; and watch out that naughty pony Elwyn is away safe in his 'prison', before he contracts that horrendous spring grass disease: laminitis. 

I seem to have gone a bit 'lookist' recently - or perhaps this is a permanent state of mind.  You certainly wouldn't believe it to look at me, for all the time I appear to spend thinking about the subject.

If you're not interested in appearances I don't care at all if you skip the next few blogs.  I am going to write about headaches (the cure for) next anyway, so that'll make a change.

Last Monday, I leaped out of bed, threw on a few clothes, and rushed downstairs to prepare Beloved Daughter's pony for her, just in time for her to join Kind Neighbour for a short ride.

As we went out of the gate together, me in a vest, no bra, a fleece, some jodphurs and no knickers; my hair matted and what was left of  yesterday's mascara and eyeliner smeared down the sides of my face to my chin, Beloved Daughter casually commented, "You look better without make-up."

This was a conclusion I had been slowly moving towards on my own. But why? Make-up is designed to improve your looks, not make you look worse.  

I think this is a touchy, sensitive, intensely personal subject area.

Should you, for instance, tell your best friend that her teeth are yellowing and need bleaching, her heavy green eye shadow makes her look like a 70s retro, her eye-liner and mascara are all blotchy, her foundation is much too thick and exaggerating her open pores and wrinkles, her haircut is terrible  and the colour she's chosen for it makes her look older than if she just left the grey streaks in it, and that the clothes she's wearing make her look fatter than she is?

I think such comments are helpful, and the mark of brave, real friendship, if they are true, and if they are something that she can do something about. Especially as we all get older and our eyesight worsens, so we can't see ourselves all that clearly in the mirror.

I had been trying to emulate all those young people with apparently flawless matt skin, who embrace the use of these new kinds of foundation that didn't exist in my day.  I've also borrowed some black, black eyeliner from my great friend Annabelle who works in the city in central London.

But Beloved Daughter is correct.  It all just looks wrong, wrong, wrong in the back of beyond in Dartmoor, so I am going back to tinted moisturiser, a bit of mascara, and chapstick as a cheap and natural alternative to lipstick.  Thank you, Beloved Daughter! You are my true friend!

It has come to my attention that some of you chaps out there, back on the dating game after a decade or two, just don't get it that you are missing out on potential love-matches because you have forgotten how to dress. Or don't realise that you smell. Or you're covered in hair in all the wrong places. Et cetera.  

Maybe you haven't had a partner for so long, or they have loved you so little, that you haven't been sufficiently bullied recently to stay off that slippery slope leading down towards Sad Old Gitness.  Perhaps you think that love conquers all - whatever you look, smell or feel like. Wrong. Us girls do mind. A lot.

It's worth remembering that like you, we're also learning to get our eye in, to fancy middle-aged men complete with crepey necks, baldness, grey hair, paunches, bad backs - etc.  The last time we were on the market all the boys were in their twenties and thirties!

Probably also like you, us middle-aged women tend to be under the impression that we still look the same as we did way back when. It's only the lack of wolf-whistles from building sites, and our mirrors, that remind us that we look all of our fifty-odd years. We mustn't expect too much either.

Anyway - I think it's worth bothering with the things that are easy,  which make you look normal - not vain, but not neglected  - making the most of what you have left, and unconsciously showing some respect for your potential partner, so that you  stay in with a chance.

To follow is a little guide  which I've put together using all the comments I have received recently from round about, and which moves down your whole body from top to toe.  Call it purely personal, but it might help a bit, now that we have to acknowledge that we have all, bugger it, moved into middle age.  

HAIR (or lack of it) ON YOUR HEAD
Long hair dark - good; long hair grey - bad.
If you're nearly bald, accept the fact and have what's left cut relatively short too. Bald and straggly? Ugh.
Comb-overs - after all that's been said, how can anyone still think these could possibly be a good idea? As bad and as obvious as limp handshakes.
A proper good haircut is now essential, no more barbers' cheap short back and sides. You can't 'just leave it' anymore either.

FACE
Eyebrows, nosehair, earhair needs to be regularly trimmed so that we can't see it, or you will look like an old tramp, or Dennis Healey. Don't be embarrassed to get yourself a pair of small scissors to do this with, and keep them near you!
Contacts rather than glasses if your old eyes haven't got too dry for them.
Light frames rather than big heavy frames, unless your face is so ugly it needs covering up
Absolute no to light-reactive lenses - all you will be missing if you try these are a white stick and a Labrador in a harness
Brown/black stubble - nice.  Silver stubble - yuck.
Just because you can still grow hair on you chin, if not on the top of your head, doesn't mean that you should.

BODY
Don't mix looks - you might be country cazsh, town cazsh, nautical, beachy, sporty, dinner party; but not all at once, so don't go mixing fleeces with lambswool sweaters with floppy linen trousers and boots. Streamline your look.
Tuck in all shirts - the 'vertical hang' from even the tiniest paunch is revolting, and, presumably, also draughty. Beware of unelasticated fleeces and jumpers that might further draw attention to this problem.
Don't put thick shirts under thin jumpers
Creased clothes make you look like an old tramp rather than a young hippy
Woolly jumpers make you look fat
No anoraks unless they're Musto

LOWER HALF
Tailored and fitted is much better on saggy old bumpy bodies than floppy or combats - these are designed for young surfers with tight torsos.
Hurray! None of us is old enough for elasticated waistbands yet!
Trousers need to be long enough - too short and you look like an idiot
Avoid open toed shoes, now that your toenails are going thick and yellow. Women's do too, but we cover them with nail varnish so it doesn't show so much.  Flip-flops with the bit that goes between your toes might just be OK; sandals are an especial no-no and worn with socks, even if they cover your toe nails, are absolutely verboten.
You are too old, or not old enough, for trainers.  They are for yoof, or for lame old grannies.  Or Americans. They should be reserved for the gym. And must never be bright white.
Thick soles are for female fashion victims and male chavs.
Long, thin willies, I mean wellies (blast my spell-check), are utterly delightful. Short, wide ones are horrid.
Avoid light-coloured shoes, and never choose white ones - these are the preserve of Essex girls and pimps.
Skinny swimming trunks can only be worn by Daniel Craig. Oh, and Tom Daley.

SMELL
I have received several reports of men who live singly smelling 'musty'. Really. No one can kiss someone new who actually smells old. Wash your rarely worn clothes and air your cloakroom and coats.
Make sure your home doesn't smell of old cat.
BO is horrid on an old bloke. Seek out soap, shampoo, deodorant and pouffe-juice.
Keep up that old habit of cleaning your teeth twice a day.

Charity shops are a good source of cheap nice clothes if TKMaxx, Primark and M&S are beyond you.  I have just come back from Newton Abbot with two lambswool jumpers and a Saville Row morning suit, all for £25.  I will sell the morning suit on ebay for a profit if nobody wants it.

Having checked the internet for a similar list of do's and don'ts for the older man, I have come across a ghastly geriatric white-haired American  moron with a beard, wearing a stupid jacket and tie, on www.whow.com, who says the exact opposite of what I have come up with, so I may, possibly, on this one occasion, Be Wrong!!!!  Serve me right for being so bossy.

With butterflies in my stomach,  I carefully stuck up the sign reading "£8450, MOT until November, 149,000 sedate miles" in the windscreen of my Range Rover, using the piece of selotape I had prepared earlier, slammed the door shut, and ran round the corner to Esteemed Partner's house, so that he could drive me home, as I sat shaking in his passenger seat.

I had driven my beloved Range Rover, 'King III', named after Jeremy Clarkson described the Range Rover as 'The King' of the road, the eight miles down off the moor, and parked it on the grass in front of a bench, just behind the bus stop, by the Ashburton junction of the A38, bang opposite Ashburton Motors, which sells second hand four wheel drive cars at twice the price of mine.

'Foolhardy' was how Esteemed Partner described my action, through gritted teeth.

'Your mad!' exploded Sashka.

But sure enough, within 24 hours I received a phone call about it from someone calling himself 'Kouros', and was in a muddle because I didn't know whether he had seen it in real life, or come across it advertised for auction on ebay. I have now been trying to sell the thing since February!

Anyway, Kouros said his friend had seen it parked on the grass, and that he would come and give it a go on Sunday.  'Fat chance' I thought, by now quite used to no one wanting my adored car.  'Who cares, anyway - F-it; I'll keep it and flog Bill."

That evening I asked a couple of friends to bid for the car on ebay, to make it look as though somebody was interested .  I did get one enquiry and then countdown began... four hours left for someone to bid £7,500 and it was theirs. Three, two, one ......... Nothing. Gone. Auction over. Nobody. Another £17 in advertising costs down the Swannee.

Meanwhile, every time the phone rang I thought it might be the police saying they had towed my Range Rover away at vast expense and added several points to my licence, or Esteemed Partner reporting that someone had covered it in scratches, or that the wipers and/or wheels had gone missing, or, indeed, the whole thing.  After five days I could bear the tension no more, and Esteemed Partner dropped me off by the car, for me to drive it home.  Instead I went into Ashburton Motors and asked the very nice staff there if they would like to sell it for me, for a huge commission.

"No one would ever do that," they assured me (very nicely).

So I went to the Country Wholesalers to buy some horse-food and bumped straight into the arms of riding-boyfriend James, and told him my sad story.  James used to own the identical car, same colour, year, mileage and price, only his had cost him £12,000 in repairs whilst mine, much to James' envy, continued to work most of the time.  "My friend John will sell it for you," he said cheerfully. "He sold mine."

And the next thing I know is my Range Rover is on the forecourt of a small country garage in Ugborough, and kind James is driving me twenty miles home, with a stop for a baguette in the sun as a thank you in the Church House Inn on the way.

Saying goodbye to my car was like saying goodbye to a dog or a horse.  I will probably never see King III again, although John doesn't anticipate selling it quickly.  In the meantime,  for £300 it will be made to look immaculate, and for whatever it costs more, the rattle in its engine will be eradicated (I hope).  And kind young John is only going to take 10% commission! He's going to call me in a couple of months to let me know how things are going, but in the meantime will thoroughly clean King III on a daily basis.  That will make a change. And now I've got some space in my driveway. And my head.

Well.  Apparently I got divorced just now. Ex has sent me an email telling me, 'truly hoping for only good things' for me.

I say. What an anti-climax! After ALL that!  I mean not just the year of planning the wedding and the £10,000+ that it cost, but all the anguish of the split, and the incredible hassle and vast expense of getting all the right bits of paper together from the bottom of old drawers, and exact, precise wording onto the divorce forms - and then it's done. Bingo. Without you even knowing.

I really don't know what to feel - if anything much at all. Is it an excuse to share one of the £12 Lidl bottles of champagne I have carefully put by, with Esteemed Partner? That would make a nice change from Cava, and he will be very pleased to hear that I am now a 'Free Woman'.  I think it is very touching that he cares.

Or should I go and smoke a fag at the bottom of the garden by the manure heap and feel sad? I simply don't know.

What I do know is that I must hurry off into Marvin in order to get to the school in time to hear Beloved Daughter singing 'For All the Saints' in the school Chuch Choir.  Perhaps I should first change into a Little Black Dress in which to mourn the end of my eighteen year marriage properly.