STOP IT, PLEASE. WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

Ex Girlfriend of Former Bachelorette Dude Rants on Social Media about How He Hurt Her 

Read about it if you can be bothered. It's all here. Personally, there is little I care about less.

But what I do care about is the way people air their personal grievances on social media. Why do people do this? When did private lives cease to exist? And how will anyone ever be able to trust anyone again if we all just run to social media every time we are hurt or disappointed?

I see it all the time, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Celebrities and regular people, with or without huge followings, sharing with the entire online universe the most intimate details of their lives. The dates. The sex. The passion. The hurts. The breakups. The betrayals. The disappointments. The fights.

It doesn't sit well with me. As someone who literally makes a living from writing about my life, I am very, very clear about my boundaries. And let me tell you, I'm sure it's cost me a click or two. I could fascinate you all with tales of my romantic adventures over the past couple of years. I've had highs and lows you wouldn't believe. (Or maybe you would - you've seen similar scenarios played out on other people's accounts ad infinitum.)

I've had great sex and awful sex. I've been deeply in love and hideously hurt. I've had fantastic first dates and quite shockingly bad ones. I've had all sorts of experiences that I could have played out, blow by blow, on your social media feed.

But I haven't, and I won't, because it's just plain wrong. It would be undignified for me, it would grossly unfair to the men involved, it would be humiliating for my kids and parents, and - most importantly of all - it is none of anybody's business.

Why would I need complete strangers to understand my perspective on a relationship? How would that help my pain or healing, or allow me to move on with my life? And whilst yes, there is a definite salacious titillation in knowing why two people broke up - I mean, which one of us hasn't wondered about Tom and Nicole, or Princess Di and Charles, or Jennifer and Brad - how does it help the actual parties themselves to share their secrets online?

Have some dignity, please. Keep your private lives private. The world doesn't need to know every single detail of your lives.

And we also don't need the inevitable 'Bouncing Back from Heartbreak' stories or the 'Brave Jilted Girlfriend Rocks Bikini Body On Beach'. But trust me, people. They are on their way.

She's Gone and I Have Nothing to Wear

Though I'm still no style icon, back in my teens and twenties (and, er, thirties) I really had no idea how to dress. I tried, but I constantly got it wrong - you know, the right pants with the wrong top, or the right dress with the wrong shoes, or the right shoes with the wrong everything else.

My sister, on the other hand, always looked great. She had a very particular style - sort of casual, just-thrown-together cool. She wore a lot of cargo pants and brightly coloured singlets and little skirts and the occasional gorgeous patterned dress or top. She loved purple. She had so many purple singlets we all lost count.

I remember her wardrobe; it was basically a portarobe in the sunroom off her bedroom, absolutely chock full of clothes in no particular order.

Tanya laughed at my fashion choices. She laughed at a lot of my choices. I recall her once going through my CD collection which, admittedly, was rather woeful - lots of  Michael Jackson and Madonna and Smiths and Kate Bush (to represent both my upbeat and contemplative sides). And then she noticed one rogue, totally hip album, and pointed and cried out, "Oh look! You have some Massive Attack by mistake!"

Anyhow... every now and then she would let me go through her extensive wardrobe and pick out things I liked that she no longer needed. It was the best fun. I know she was the younger sister but it felt very much like a kid raiding her mother's wardrobe. Tanya bought a lot of stuff and discarded a lot of stuff and so I always came away with some new things to wear. Sometimes I'd want one of her newer outfits and she'd protest, but I nearly always got what I wanted. I'm persuasive that way.

And the thing about Tanya was.... She loved giving me her clothes. She loved it when I looked nice. She genuinely wanted the best for me.

She would have been so proud of all I've achieved, and she would have loved my youngest daughter so much. SO much. My baby turns eight on the 26th of November, three weeks to the day after Tanya will have been dead for eight years.

Today. The 5th of November. It's been eight years.

She was awesome. You would have liked her. All of you. You would have liked her. Most everyone did.

Eight years today. I miss her. And I miss her wardrobe.

I have nothing to wear.

Finally... An Excellent First Date

I had a brilliant date this week. One of the best ever.

We had connected online - on Twitter, to be precise - after corresponding about a project my date had been involved with. Unfortunately we live in separate states, but when my date travelled to Sydney for work we arranged to meet for lunch.

Often you meet someone and they look different to their photos, or the connection you had in the written word doesn't translate to a real life chemistry. In this case we just clicked. From the moment we saw each other in the assigned location, to the moment I had to leave an hour and a half later, we did not stop talking.

Our time together was too short. I'm so looking forward to seeing her again.

Yes, she's a her. A female friend. And no, this post is not about coming out - it is about the joys of female friendship, and the strange reality that it is so much easier to find a connection with another female than it is with a man.

This Saturday night I have a date with another new friend. She's a bit younger than me, absolutely gorgeous, and fabulous fun. We met through work, and our interactions are super easy and relaxed. Another dear friend of mine is the sister of a friend, and when we were introduced at the party we both knew we'd be in each others' lives forever.

Of course I don't connect with every woman I meet. But in the last couple of years I have formed several real, rewarding connections with female friends, and yet - despite dating regularly - I have not felt it with a new man. And I'm not the only one. My single/divorced female friends report exactly the same thing. They meet women they connect with all the time, but not men. And it's baffling. Are men and women really so different? And if so, how can we bridge that gap?

"How could I have met 30 or more men and not one was right?" a friend asked. I couldn't answer, because my experience has been the same. And don't tell us we're too choosy, because all we are looking for is the same resonance that we feel with female friends. That feeling of inhabiting the same emotional landscape. Would you settle for anything less?

As my date this week agreed, true connections fill up our cup. And my cup is largely being filled by women (metaphorically, not literally, see 'not coming out' comment). I cherish my female friends. And girl dates really do lift my soul.

Dreams of the Dead

Shortly after my sister died I had a dream. It was unlike any dream I’d had before, or have had since. It was crystal clear and in full colour, with none of the sepia fuzz or blurred edges of regular dreams. It was absolutely indistinguishable from real life.

I was in a corridor at a party, surrounded by people, with music blaring. I looked up and I saw my sister dancing toward me. Tanya had been ill for years before she died, but in the dream she was healthy, beautiful, and radiantly happy.

She smiled at me, and we had a brief conversation, too intimate to be repeated here. But I said what I needed to say to her, and her reply was just what I needed to hear.

I woke up with an absolutely overpowering sense of having just had a conversation with my sister. Her voice rang in my ear, as real as the sounds you can hear now. It was odd and unsettling, but incredibly comforting to me.

I am not a spiritual person. I have never believed in the spirit world, or in life after death. I never for a moment imagined that I could communicate with my sister, and I’m still not sure that I did. But the dream felt like I had communicated with her, and it gave me the closure that I so desperately needed. It gave me a final conversation with my sister that I did not get a chance to have in real life.

Tanya has appeared in my dreams many times since, but never again in that same way. My dreams of her are often distressing; she is there, but I know that she shouldn’t be there because she is dead, and my dream self is confused trying to work it all out.

I asked friends if they ever dreamed of their lost loved ones and, overwhelmingly, they do. Some like D, whose husband died suddenly last year, have profoundly upsetting dreams in which their loved one is lost over and over again.  

“I'm always chasing him, begging him to come back, to stay with me and our three sons. He never answers my questions, never looks at me in these dreams. He just walks away and ignores my pleading. I hope to one day have a comforting dream with him in it.”

Others find their dreams to be uplifting, offering another glimpse of that deeply missed person.

“I recently renovated and moved into my late parents’ home,” says M, “and they visited me in a dream – they were so happy to be at my housewarming. I believe they were just letting me know they approve.”

And C, who dreamed of her late father when she was pregnant. “He came and sat next to me in his favourite tennis shorts, put his hand on my belly and told me we're having a girl and she will be fine. Two weeks later we found out we were having a girl and she is now almost seven. I believe dreaming of our departed is them coming to say hello.”

And yet many others, like me, feel bereft when they wake, as their conscious mind remembers what their dream state did not.

“It is comforting during the dream,” said S, who lost a parent, “but achingly sad when I wake and have to process the loss again.”

Of course it is sad. There is always going to be sadness in death. And I wouldn’t wish my dreams of Tanya away, not even the ones that cause me pain. It is okay for me to feel pain when I remember my sister, or when I conjure her in my dreaming. She was in my life for 37 years, and she will always be part of the fabric of who I am, whether or not she is still alive.

I’ve long since stopped wondering whether my initial, hyper realistic dream was anything more significant than just my brain grieving a loss. I know now that it really doesn’t matter. Whether it was my sister visiting me from beyond, or my subconscious being super kind to my conscious, is irrelevant. It helped me more than any grief counselling or sympathy. At the time it was just what I needed.

My sister is gone, but she lives on in my dreams. And I cherish that. It means she is still with me, that she is not forgotten. I hope that I dream of her for the rest of my life.

This column first appeared in Sunday Life magazine

Divorce. Marriage. Does it even matter?

Yesterday, I heard that two more couples I know have split. In that past six months, there have been five separations in my wider social group; in the past year, nine.

Now, you'd think that as a divorced woman I'd be delighted to hear of more women and men joining my ranks. More people like me! We're everywhere!

But in fact it deeply saddens me. I still very much want to believe that relationships can last the distance, that some people are gloriously happy in their marriages - or, at least, happy enough.

It's strange that this is so important to me. I am someone who fiercely believes that the value of relationships is not related to their length. A relationship is not invalid because it doesn't last forever. Some of my greatest friendships, and indeed my greatest romantic love, did not last forever. The fact that they had a shelf life doesn't at all change the profound impact those people had on my life, the tears and the laughter we exchanged, the support we offered each other, the experiences we shared together.

And yet I still want to know that some loves can last forever. I adore the idea of friendships spanning an entire life. I feel happy when I see an elderly couple holding hands and learn they have been together for seventy years.

I know some very happily married people and their happiness really does elevate me. There is something almost magical about a couple happily in love after twenty, thirty years. They are like a touchstone, proof to me that love can endure over time.

And every time I learn of another separation I feel pained, particularly when they are a couple I had thought were well suited. I feel sad for the kids, I feel sad for another lost touchstone, and, most of all, I feel sad for the partners. I know what they're about to go through. I know how rough it is.

Sometimes I even feel frustrated. When a person tells me that their ex is still their 'best friend', I don't quite understand why they would split. Wouldn't it be brilliant to be married to your best friend? Isn't everything else fixable? But I know - or at least, I remind myself - that separation is never the easy alternative. It comes at a huge price - socially, emotionally, and financially. No-one chooses separation without very good reason.

So tell me. Are you in a long term happy marriage? Do you know someone who has been happily married forever? Is there hope for marriage? And - most significantly - does it even matter???

the sweet spot

Have you ever done a hill start in a manual car? It's very tricky to learn. You have to release your right foot from the brake whilst depressing your left foot on the clutch, but you have to find the sweet spot in the middle; release too quickly and the car will roll, release too slowly and the car will stall.

Well, for me, parenting is a bit like driving a car, and my love for my kids is the clutch, and my anxiety is the handbrake. And I am constantly needing to find that sweet spot between the two in order to drive smoothly and not roll down the hill.

Too much anxiety paralyzes me. I worry endlessly about my kids, I fantasize about worse case scenarios and I don't want to let my children out of my sight. If I wasn't constantly mindful, I could be consumed by anxiety. I can feel that person in the back of my mind, that crazy anxious parent who sees danger in every corner and awaits the day some terrible tragedy will occur.

But I won't be that person. I made that decision when my kids were born that I would not cripple them with my anxiety, and I haven't. I will not allow the dark thoughts to enter. I push them away and allow my kids to take risks. I send them down the road and let them play in the park and allow them to climb tall trees and encourage them to be independent.

I will not be that anxious person, not for their sake, and not for mine.

And yet... and yet... the anxiety is there. I won't allow it full expression, but it is there. And so I use it, I channel it, I hone it and I finely tune it so that it serves me and my children well. I access it when I need to. I allow myself moments of dread. I allow myself to think of what might be, just for a few seconds. Just enough. I release the brake, just a little bit.

I find the sweet spot. I find that sweet spot where I am not paralyzed by anxiety, but feel enough vulnerability to appreciate in every single part of me how lucky I am that my kids are okay. I find that sweet spot where I feel that surge of pure love, still so strong even after nearly 16 years of parenting. I find that sweet spot where I can stand over my sleeping child and feel overwhelmed with love and gratitude. Because anything could happen, and it hasn't. They are here.

The brake and the clutch. The anxiety and the love. I'm moving forwards. My hill starts are smooth.

The Huge Flaw in Online Dating

One of the tough aspects of being single (apart from, well, the loneliness, the sexual deprivation, the having-no-one-to-go-to-the-movies-with, and the talking to myself at night) is to learn about other people finding partners. It's not that you begrudge anyone else a love interest; it's just that you think, how come they can find someone, and I can't?

Charles Manson, for example. He has found a fiancee and I don't have a date for Saturday night. Do you know what that does to my ego? He is a serial killer with a swastika carved into his forehead and a life sentence for murder! Clearly I am doing this all wrong.

In reality, however, I have decided to take a break from dating for a while. But taking a step back  has given me some valuable perspective, particularly about the online scene. 

It is very difficult to meet people organically if it is not through contacts. I don't meet people through work contacts because I work from home, and there aren't many people here.  (Hang on... I hear something in the kitchen.... No, no, it's just the cat.) And I don't meet many people through friends because very few of my friends know anyone single who is even remotely suitable for me. So if I do want to meet people, I have to either hang out at pubs (and seriously? I'd rather eat my own bedsocks) or go online.

But there is a serious problem with online dating: it is inextricably tied to appearance. Now, here's the irony - I am not someone to whom appearance is particularly important. I have been madly in love with men who are not at all conventionally attractive. But that's because I had time to get to know them, and fell in love with them for their personality, and the attraction followed.

When you are dating online, you simply don't get that opportunity. You cannot possibly date everyone, and so you have to be selective. And how do you select? Most men give only the briefest of bios, so all you know is their age, educational status, suburb, whether or not they have kids, and a short tag line. If there is Bob, who you find physically unappealing on initial look, Phil, who you find physically unappealing on initial look, and John, whose appearance appeals, who are you going to pick? You'll pick John. 

Hello, John! Is it me you're looking for?

Now, it's possible that you would find Bob or Phil attractive if you went out with them several times and got to know them, but that's a huge amout of time to invest on a complete stranger. And most of us just don't have that much time.

There are thousands of Bobs and Phils online. Maybe one of them could be my future partner. But the paradigm of online dating means that I probably won't find him, because I don't have time to spend getting to know thousands of men in the hope that one of them will become attractive to me after several dates. And so I'll stick with the Johns, which a) is incredibly limited, because there aren't that many Johns online, and b) is a ridiculous criteria for meeting people.

But how else do you do it? How would you do it? How do you do it? Is the man in the picture single? Do you think he's financially secure and is comfortable around children?

And has Charles Manson's fiancee ever tried RSVP? Do you think that's what pushed her over the edge??

I Love Them

By now you will all be familiar with the terrible story of Luke Batty. As a mother, as a separated spouse, as a single parent, as a human being, I am devastated by his death.

I don't have anything to add to the commentary on the tragedy. And this post isn't designed to be controversial, or to get hits. I just need to write it, for me, and for my kids. It is about love. It is about joy. I love them. I love them.

The depth of feeling I have for my children overwhelms me. It brings tears to my eyes as I sit at this computer. After nearly fifteen years of parenthood, it remains as strong. I feel grateful for my kids every second of every day. I get tired. I get sick of housework. I get frustrated. I get bored. But every time I look at those three incredible people, I am consumed with love.

My son is fourteen, and growing up, and becoming a man. But every night he wants me to kiss him good night, and every time he does I feel lucky. I go into his room and I run my fingers through his shaggy hair, and I kiss his still-smooth cheeks, and I tell him how much I love him. I am so in awe of that amazing kid. I feel ridiculously proud of who he is becoming.

My daughter is twelve, and is beautiful inside and out. She radiates warmth and understanding, she is generous and kind. In the mornings, if she is still asleep when I wake, I like to sneak into her bed and 'steal her warm'. In the evenings, when saying goodnight, I kiss her on the eyelids and pretend to eat her eyes. I cannot believe that I created her. She is the best person I know.

My six year old is just like me. She dances with abandon, composes poetry on the spot, laughs hysterically and cries passionately, and wants endless hugs and love. She has a heart-shaped face and massive saucepan eyes, and every morning when she emerges from her room it is like falling in love for the first time. I cuddle her like a dolly on my lap. I could stay like that for hours.

I love my kids. I feel so intensely lucky to have them. I can't bear that other people have been deprived of theirs. My parents lost a child. My sorrow for them is almost worse than the pain I feel at losing a sister. I want my parents to share in the joy of my children. They generate enough joy and enough love to go around.

I am so sorry, I am so hideously sorry for Rosie Batty. I wish her long life, and I hope that one day she will find peace.

And in the meantime, I need to say it: I love my kids. I love them. I am so lucky to have them. I am a woman truly blessed. I will sneak into their rooms and I will kiss them while they are sleeping. I will burst with pride when I hear their daily triumphs. My heart will constrict with pain when they tell me their challenges. I love my kids so much. I love them. I love them.

Could You Love a Surprise Package?

Years ago, I read a quote from my old nemesis, Nicole Kidman.

"My kids are adopted," she said, "so they are both surprise packages."

At the time, I didn't have children of my own, so that made perfect sense. If your kids are not your genetic material, then obviously you don't know what you'll get.

But then I had my own babies - three of them, in eight years - and I realised something quite remarkable.

'Natural' children are surprise packages, too.

My son was born the spitting image of his father. He was like someone had taken his dad's head, shrunk it with voodoo, and stuck it on a baby's body. It was weird. And his personality was a lot like his dad's too, only with a bit of his paternal grandfather thrown in for good measure. But of course, he became more and more of his own person, and now, at 14, he is no-one but Himself.

My big girl looks like her late auntie Tanya, and a bit like her siblings, and a little bit like me. In terms of personality, though, she is an outlier in our family. She is cheerful and laid back and easy going and relaxed, and I couldn't have predicted that in a billion conceptions.

As for my five year old, well, she's a maniac. And whilst that's not necessarily strange in itself - I mean, there's a little bit of maniac in me - it is the ways in which she is nuts that surprise me. She chats to chairs and does interpretive dancing in the street and gets massively excited about immunisations. I don't understand her a single bit, which makes raising her all the more fun.

So my point is this: natural children are surprise packages. Which make them not so different to adoptive children, or, for that matter, foster children either. And this is what I was thinking about yesterday, as I attended a Fostering Summit in honour of UN International Children’s Day.

I take my hat off to all those parents who give their love and support and time and energy to children who are not, genetically, their own. I wish more people would do it. Currently in NSW alone 900 new foster carers are urgently needed.

I heard a professor talk about a follow-up study of foster kids at aged 23. Those who did well were the ones who could name someone who had cared for them. Those who were not doing well were the ones who could not. No-one had ever loved them.

This broke my heart.

If you think you could care for a surprise package, make some enquiries. Because all children are surprise packages. Just not all of them are loved.

Note: This is not a sponsored post. I wrote this because I was very moved by what I learned at the summit.

Just Because

Today a PR company sent me a onesie, and it made my day.

Now bear with me, this is not a sponsored post. I'm not going to (yet again) extol the virtues of the onesie. But I am going to extol the virtues of gifts.

Even though the onesie was sent to me by a PR company, and even though I'm sure they did it so I could promote it on social media, it still made me feel special. Because they knew I love onesies and they went to the trouble of tracking me down and sending me one. And it worked. It made me feel super special. And it was a high point in a fairly crapstick day.

They say it is better to give than to receive, but it is pretty bloody awesome to receive. And it is especially nice to receive for no reason. Birthday presents are lovely, but a gift just because is the most meaningful present of all.

This year I have been on the receiving end of gifts, from friends who have known I'm having a rough year. Lana, for example, bought me a gorgeous little dress that she saw me admiring in a shop when we strolled by. It was only $250* but it meant so much to me that she bought it for me, and every time I wear it I think of her and feel good.

Gab the Wonder Babysitter also bought me a present - a little silver bracelet that she found online. This one was about $1100**, and if I didn't love it just because it was so cute, I love it because she gave it to me just because.

I've also received the odd gift (think jars of Nutella and 'Dear Fuckface' stationery***) from online friends who knew I needed a boost. My beautiful friend Kylie sent me flowers for no reason. And my mum buys me endless presents - from $8 Ugg boot rip offs to sparkly tops to slankies and hot water bottles and mugs - and they make me feel so cared for. They make me feel loved. Even the purple slanky. Especially the purple slanky.

Now, my point isn't to rave about how I love receiving gifts, or to solicit for more, because I have enough. My point is to remind myself and you about how happy we can make people with the smallest little gesture.

It's not about the gift, per se. It's not about the money. It's about showing people we love them and appreciate them just because. It's a meal or a chocolate bar or a pair of socks or a hairclip. It's a pen or a book or a tank top or a onesie (sorry, couldn't help it). Or it's a card or an email. It's saying 'I'm thinking of you. You're special to me. I love you. Just because.'

And I'm going to do it more. Because the people around me have been so good to me and I appreciate them. I appreciate you. I truly, truly do.


*okay, $20, it was on the Specials rack
**which is a total lie, I don't pay her that well
***BEST STATIONERY EVER

M & E: A Love Story

Last night at about 9pm I realised I was out of milk. This is not uncommon for me, given that a) we get through litres of milk a day, and b) I have twenty billion things in my head at any one time and would forget my nose if it wasn't directly attached to my face.

I sighed heavily and trudged out of the house to the shops. I was extremely tired and a little cranky, as a) it had been a long day, b) two out of three kids were still awake, and c) I had tons to do before bed. All I wanted to do was get to the corner store, get my milk, and get home.

I pulled up outside the store and saw that the light was off. The owner's son, M, was closing up. My heart sank. In desperation, I called out "M! Stop! Can I please just have some milk?"

"Sure thing, mate," he said cheerily, and ducked into the store to fetch the milk. "Pay me next time."

M is a big, bald Greek boy who loves a beer and the footy. And, as he approached the car, I noticed that he was glowing like a pregnant angel.

"I got married yesterday!" he cried, pushing his face into my window, his face nearly split in half with the most magnificent smile I'd ever seen.

"OH MY GOD!" I screamed. "I didn't realise it was yesterday! Congratulations!"

"It was the best night ever," he told me, beaming. He was ecstatically happy, literally shining with joy. I couldn't help but smile with him.

"Is E around?" I asked. E is M's new wife. She is a big, beautiful Jewish girl, who I thought to be M's sister for years because they look so similar.

"She's over there!" M said, pointing down the road. He called her over and E bounded up to my car. She, too, radiated happiness. M wrapped his arms around her and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. Their love was so infectious I felt high. I wished I had been at their wedding.

"M sobbed the whole way through the ceremony," E told me, rolling her eyes. It made me laugh.

M and E have been together for ten years. TEN. They seem as madly in love as they did in those very first years. Now, as a writer, I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about the challenges of relationships, and M and E do not negate those. I am sure they have had their rough times, too. But they did remind me, just for a few moments, of the pure joy of true love. It is there and it is heart-soaringly magnificent, and it can be found in a suburban store in Sydney.

And I am grateful for having a glimpse into it last night. M and E, if you read this, congratulations again.

And THANK YOU.

Kristen Stewart, Prince Charles, and LOVE

Poor Kristen Stewart. Seriously. She is twenty-two years old, has made a stupid mistake, and is now dealing with the consequences in front of the whole world. Can you imagine that? I've had shocking times with my husband, and it's bad enough when the kids come in and see us fighting, but I can't even conceive of the pressure of paparazzi waiting outside my home to catch us in the act, and teenage girls screaming at me because I've destroyed their fantasies about perfect love. It would be hell. Utter hell.

Kristen is twenty-two years old, and she had sex with her director - an older, handsome, powerful man - when she was off on location. Now, I've been on film sets, and let me tell you, they are seething hives of infidelity. Everyone is doing someone else. I'm not saying it's right, I'm not saying it's fair on the partners, but it is like summer camp for adults, with a lot of stress and late nights and alcohol and spectacularly good-looking people thrown into the mix, and a certain amount of bed hopping is bound to happen.

Everyone interprets things differently, but I read Kirsten's apology and felt sick for her. To me, it wasn't a publicity stunt, or a manufactured statement, it was a direct appeal to her boyfriend to forgive her for being such an idiot. 'I love him, I love him, I'm sorry,' she said, and I wanted to cry.

love love love

I love love. I really do. It kills me when people who are truly meant to be together are kept apart by circumstance or error. I am such a sucker for a happy ending. I must be one of the few people in the world, for example, who celebrated when Prince Charles and Camilla finally got married. Charles had loved Camilla all his life (as a good, loyal tampon does), he had been pressured into marrying the wrong person, and in the end, he was reunited with his true life partner. That, to me, was a fairytale, no matter what a dick Charles was, no matter how completely un-fairytale-like he and Camilla are.

Charles married the wrong person, and Kirsten had sex with the wrong person. The stories aren't similar at all, except that they're both about true love being thrown off its path. I just sincerely hope that, like Charles and his bride, K Stew and R Patz manage to find their way back to each other.

Love is too important to let die over a stupid mistake.