So, I am Eliza Gray. I live in a tiny thatched cottage in a village in the rolling English countryside. Lovely... on a sunny day. Dark, dank and dull the rest of the time. I am divorced. Gitface, as I like to think of him, left me for his toyboy nearly 13 years ago, four months before the emergence of our daughter, Lily. Now, despite recently being a multi-millionaire, he’s left us practically penniless.
I am a jobseeker. One without qualifications or experience. Or a CV.
At my feet as I type is darling Dusty, my faithful hound, a golden retriever with white whiskers, who, like her dog-sister Lily, is 12 years old (though a marvellous 88 or so in dog years).
This isn’t a blog about girlpower. It’s a blog about no power. That’s what happens when you hit 50. Gray by name, grey by nature. That’s what I’ve become! Invisible to the opposite sex, doormatted by my child, selectively ignored by my dog.