The Hounds of Love are Haunting me- I’ve always been a coward…

Every had those days where nothing seems to work? You try and give yourself Taylor Swift style effortless curls but end up looking like blow-dried sheep or attempt to give yourself killer smoky eyes to rival a catwalk model but instead look like a Soho drag queen?

Some moments are just set out to be disastrous from the beginning and there is nothing you can do to change the inevitable .

Everybody has those moments, those fantasies when they envisage bumping into a former lover and imagine what it will be like. They’ll be strutting along, long legged and high heel clad, being busy and important holding the hand of an attractive young gent or in a gaggle of girls. They’ll smile and nod or even say hello but you’ll carry on walking because you are too busy, important and caught up in the dizzy haze of your own self importance to so much as flutter an eyelash.

A stone or so over weight. Dashing for the peak hour train to Birmingham New Street with shit make up and being refused entry because you tried to pull off an off peak (with rail card despite being 3years too old for the 16-25) is not one of them.

It was Tuesday evening , I’d been working in the city for most of the day and was en route to a house viewing at the other end. I foolishly forgot to process the odds of getting on a peak time train with such a ticket and failed at the gate so attempted the back route. On my approach back that’s when I saw him. The original Casanova stood there looking like he still did a decade previously albeit in need of a haircut and I stare at him.

I bit my lip. He stares blankly ahead as if he hasn’t noticed me when we know full well that he bloody well has. Now this would have been fine if in my spaz of an ordeal I hadn’t had to go back the barriers and through again to the other side of the station sandwiched like a sardine en route the long ass stopping train to brum , with no seat, no plug socket 1% battery and no longer the stomach muscles to allow me to sit cross legged.

He of course is sat in first class, power, water and wi fi clad while I sit and slum it. When our eyes meet again he continues to ignore me. It’s a sad state of affairs and though I am over him and was so many years previously I begin to cry. Only for all of two seconds mind you. A sock tear not a phwoar marry me and have my babies kind of tear.

I make myself a little pit in the adjoining carriage. All I have to keep me going the duration of the extra long 2.5hour journey is a wifi-less lap top on borrowed battery time, a miniature bottle of wine (one of those one glass jobs) with no beaker and half a packet of Sainsbury picnic eggs.

My life is a sorry state of affairs.

Earlier that day I’d felt the happiest I had in a long time I was boss babing it , going places, had attending an epic film screening, had a great brainstorming sesh, caught up with some friends and seeing the nicest man I had in like forever – he even buys me socks and sorts out my mates double socket issues 😉

*vomtastic I know*

But now I find myself having to beg someone for a plug, cancel said house viewing and cry to him down the phone about how someone my mother used to refer to as ‘Captain Pugwah’ has rubbed me up the wrong way.

He tells me to calm down, that everything will be okay and not to let this spoil my lovely productive day. I don’t know how to take this, I am not used to this kind of treatment, the most the original cassonova would have done in this situation would have been to ignore my call and give me a lift back to his if I offered him a blow job then make me get the bus home in the morning.

I don’t know why it still bothers me, it shouldn’t, I should laughed it off but the truth is I’m still hurting for her.

My former self.

I really left her in a bad way. Lead her astray and let her do things she shouldn’t have.

Let her be too easy, too melodramatic too fond of him.

We haven’t clapped eyes on each other for almost three years. Good Friday, bleach blond , florescent pink dress, walthemstow, Blackberry phone. That ended in tears too.

I don’t think I’m actually upset, there’s nothing to be upset about it’s just an unexpected sense of shock having managed to never bump into him in the city for this length of time and in my head I thought it would be like something out of the Dido ‘white flag’ video in a bar looking nice. Not squished below deck on a suitcase while he warms  his arse in first class. It’s like the ‘London Midland train’s’ answer to that scene in Bridget Jones the edge of reason.

Spotify shuffles to Gwen Stefani ‘Used to love you.’ A song I have never heard before but it goes ‘I don’t know why I cry but I think It’s cos I realised for the first time that I hated you that I used to love you…’ – apt.

What have a learned in the 12 years since we first met?

How to be a woman.

And the women I want to be would never end up gittering over him whilst balancing her arse on the hairdryer poking her from inside the suitcase and necking that cup of wine. Instead it stays in the hand bag until she can at least sit down and she uses her coat to make a nest to avoid getting  hair implement induced piles.

The younger woman/older girl in me is so flippant  I fear she will hold me back from happiness and stop me from recognising the love that’s there. Because I push. I push push people away or suffocate them until they can’t breathe we all have our daemons and mine are beginning to work their way out slowly and delicately before I drown with them.

I’ve found something real, something that albeit not what I set out for  can take the drama, take the crazy and grow along with it throughout the trials and tribulations that the hounds of love bring.

At least I think so, if not at least it’s been fun and I learnt how to cook a curry.

The train leaves Coventry and is soon approaching Birmingham International. By this point I have moved on from the trav fest and find myself snotting out load to the latest James Corden car pool Karaoke with Chris Martin.

I look beyond attractive.

I’m so drawn in by the lol factor that I don’t notice anyone around me.

That is until someone comes out the toilet. It’s him we exchange stares we can’t not he’s inches away from me clutching a marks and sparks bag and I’ve just inadvertently heard him piss.

He blanks me it’s for the best.

I begin to think of what I have now, what I’ve learnt now and I panic *don’t fuck this up*

When I was a child: Running in the night, Afraid of what might be Hiding in the dark,
Hiding in the street, And of what was following me… Now hounds of love are hunting.
I’ve always been a coward, And I don’t know what’s good for me. Here I go! It’s coming for me through the trees. Help me, someone! Help me, please…

Oh man up, you’ve discovered the last line of a dying breed – the man before tinder, the land that time forgot, the ‘good catholic boy’ who genuinely cares and isn’t about to lynch you for chopping off your hair and wearing a ‘This is what a feminist looks like t-shirt.’

‘I don’t know what’s good for me, I don’t know what’s good for me….’

So naturally I fight it like the inner teenage dirtbag that I am I put up a big fat blockade to rival the Berlin wall and sit on top of it.

Naturally it breaks down and east and west collide.

That was a month ago….



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