Hello from the other side- How Adele fucked us all up.

Are you one of the many people who got through the end of 2010/early 2011 to an Adele based soundtrack? Maybe not but I was one of those many women who warbled along to ‘someone like you’ /rolling in the deep’ as I cried and blogged about my recent ex.

Saturday 24^th October, doing just fine… I think. I wake up in a bed that is not mine but the situation doesn’t feel alien. I’m so lost I could be on mars and it would feel normal. But this is pretty standard. It’s 6am most of last night’s party animals are snoring off their hangovers but I am drinking tea and spooning a dog called Lucy watching the BBC morning news.

Leszo that dude we used to watch on Newsround is reporting on Adele releasing her first album song in five years. In my head I’m there righteous in the fact I’ve met him on more than one red carpet occasion and he’s ALWAYS late. I’m probably still drunk. It was a horrible week.

But we were in bed by 11:30 so I can’t have been that bad.

‘Hello’ plays,

Holy fuck,

I replay it on my phone

Hello, it’s me

I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet

To go over everything

They say that time’s supposed to heal ya, but I ain’t done much healing

 

Hello, can you hear me?

I’m dreaming about who we used to be

When we were younger and free

I’ve forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet

 

There’s such a difference between us

And a million miles

 

Hello from the other side

I must’ve called a thousand times

To tell you I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done

But when I call you never seem to be home

Fuck.

I blot it out for a while until it gets to the following night and over a miss spent G&T get emotional. Adele brings me back to a time I got over a long time ago. A boy whose now a man , married to a woman with my name. A young slim girl who was about to lose the plot, get fat never find love again but oddly find career based highs in terms of red carpet interviews and fringe festival performances of her plays that she never anticipated.

But god forbid had you told her, her final weight at the end of it and that he would be the last man to say he loved her, she (aka me) would have probably given up right there and cried her heart out even more than she already did.

I was so over him by then that even three years ago when my first monologue was performed in a crusty waterloo pub he didn’t feature in any of it. Not one of my plays.

But then I’m like oh shit this song means something ..it’s like sooo true (instead of doing what I should have been doing and saying well that totes discredits ‘twenty-five’ as my signature book/play title forever now)

I started to think about things. Judged the passed five years of my existence and began to feel quite sad. All this from an artist who once got me through things.

Fuck you Adele.

If you’re not careful you’re going to have hordes of hormonal woman who were on that page five years ago all taking back steps!

My last lover, the one I spent the summer with, the one who cut me deep has a new exciting game.

We haven’t been in contact properly for weeks but each night at around seven he blocks me on whatsapp and then unblocks me first thing in the morning, gives himself a day off on Sunday…

I only notice as he’s still half way down my chat list but it’s almost like set an alarm along with his morning wake up call *unblock Laura, check her whattsap pic, she’s anal when it comes to changing that*

Personally I’d get bored of having to click on my ugly face twice a day….

It’s like old school msn messenger where you’d go off and online again being like pinnnng I’m here! What does he expect me to do? Be like oh hey it’s you, you’re back, happy monday, how was your sandwich?!

He’s even taken the liberty to unblock me on facebook now – god know what he thinks that will achieve.

I only noticed when I typed ‘k’ in the search bar to give Kate some love – facey b clearly noted the fact I stalked him when we were together so bought him and his newly caught fish up straight away.

I read the memoirs of my former self. Five years ago she was so strong, so full of gumption determined it was all going to get awesome. I don’t have the gumption to tell her it pitfalls even worse and she will be cliff hanging for some time as she literally ‘rolling in the deep’

Last night I was feeling sorry for myself so instead of drinking I went on ASOS I end up placing one of those orders that’s so bad it qualifies for next day delivery and wake up next to a parcel that makes me look like a plus sized Sandy from Grease – Wet look leggings and off shoulder top what was I thinking?!

I ordered a couple of dresses for my first holiday in five years admittedly only three days out of the country but still. The first one a wrap dress is ill fitting and pulls on boobs and belly in the most awful way thanks to a zip I didn’t see online- I christened that one ‘Pregnant porn star’ and the second- one of those shift dresses that are in fashion now covers me up so well I look like a cream square… this one we name ‘dinner lady on the lash’

Both are a size 14,

She wouldn’t have even ordered something in that size.

She had principles

She was never going to get fat.

But she was naive and didn’t see how the tables would turn.

I travel in my time capsule to the blog that the internet forgot and pick up the ‘Someone like you’ themed blog…

There are several things in life that I am average to poor at, there are times that I wish someone at school had told me to try harder at maths as a background in numbers = lots of numbers in your paycheck. However when it comes to numeracy even basic counting has never been my strong point. Though essential to day to day life numbers just seem like a tool to weigh my life down, measuring time, dates, achievement or lack of, minus money and failed relationships.

 

Then there’s the dreaded question of the sexual number. Sleep with too few people and your inexperienced, sleep with too many and you’re a whore. But for single women as opposed to those lucky enough to sustain serial long term relationships the latter is inevitable. If you divide my “number” by the amount of years I’ve been sexually active for it works out as one every 3.5 months, hardly slutty in the scheme of things. Does a number really matter, should we conceal, should we even keep count in the first place or just give up when we reach 20? I remember an awkwardly drunken half argument when I first started sleeping with the cockney about how before he’d met me he was on three and I was around twenty three. I felt almost ashamed, and that was it there tears of shame, I tried to hide the mascara splodges in the bathroom but he came in, in a pair of highly attractive floral boxers, gave me a hug and told me it didn’t matter because he really liked me. Ironic now but at the time comforting that someone could show affection towards a remorsed slag.

I always said I’d dread the day that I lost count as it were. That very nearly happened in the living room the other day when this concept of number came up. I know that in the beginning of third year when I left my long suffering second year boyfriend i was on thirteen because he text me one Wednesday night saying “thirteenth time lucky?” but determining the exact number since then requires me to go back in time by almost two and a half years. Desperately trying to get an exact number to recalculate the math I started working it out on the back of an old envelope

 

Starting with number 13, Third Year:

Sloan Square,

Then Red Spike

Wrong Twin

Half French Fittie

 

Masters Year:

Italian barman

Duvet Guy

Jimmy Full of Himself

Bookish hobbit

Mr. Noah built an Ark

Cockney

 

Post Holloway:

Mr. Goldilocks

Bouch

 

(Please note that recycled men only count once so the original Casanova is not on this list as he was originally number 2)

 

Shit the bed there’s definitely one missing some where….

 

I turn to Bex and Neil for inspiration who are none the wiser until Gun boy shouts , “Rory Glover?!!” bugger how could I forget him. Yes in between the Bookish Hobbit and Mr. Noah built and Ark that would make the exact number, just don’t make me go back between four and thirteen as it could take me years….at least I got their names. When the Original Casanovas talking to me after a several months gap he tends to ask my latest count, as if he presumes that one day I will catch up with his 37 or whatever it is now. Fat chance of that….It’s as much as I can do to get a man to so much as look at me nowadays.

 

Rather than mulling over this, what I really should be doing is taking advice from my nineteen year old family friend and fellow wedding crasher. It’s hard to believe that two self respecting Methodist families could have created such wine glugging party animals but as long as we can still remember the Lord’s Prayer it’s all good. At just nineteen she’s already sussed out that the way forward is to date older men preferably a decade older than you as they spoil you and buy you nice things…almost put out that I never got on this band wagon at that age I reply with… erm I’m pretty sure my ex boyfriend bought me a VK at the student union once, does that count? To which we both snorted on our Summer breeze cocktail bowl and realise that I am getting passed it.

 

I was always going to be miserable this weekend. Exactly a year since I started dating the cockney and though I’m over it, it would be nice to say that I’d dated some other people started seeing someone new, maybe even been dumped by someone else considering it’s been a good six months since it was finally dead and buried. If I could go back in time and tell my former self that out of all my friends I’d be the first to land a job in central London and then be living in Fulham I think I’d have jumped for joy and downed a purple aftershock in celebration. But though these may be notable achievements and surviving redundancy was pretty lucky. I’m not happy, not really.

 

Refusing to allow myself to spend the day alone in my flat, wallowing in my own self pity, I agreed to go to a human rights conference with Gun Boy. Bex refused saying she was having her own human rights conference, consisting of a Sex In The City marathon. What’s the worst that can happen? Worse case scenario I could find the bar, get drunk and jump on the nearest hot vegetarian.

 

I felt like Hugh Grant in About A Boy, joining amnesty international to pick up fit passionate women.

 

However as it turned out this was not the case. I found the first lecture incredibly intellectually stimulating, east end child poverty and what can we learn from 1970’s feminism, have we reached equality has anything changed what did we achieve? Right up my master of arts level street…

 

By the time we get to the talk on stuffed but starving – the argument around the supermarkets and buying sustainable food I feel like a truly horrific human being especially considering the main bulk of my weekly shop comes from a mixture of the reduced isle in Sainsbury’s and the favourite Unileaver brand : Slim fast. Sat crossed legged in Bethnal Green town hall like the kid late for assembly I feel like these goodwilled moral and somewhat sexy vegetarians can see deep into dark soul.

Later that evening after a lovely selection of Mezze and apple tea in this little Lebanese restaurant on Brick Lane we headed back for the afterparty. I felt incredibly relaxed in my big arran cardigan, leggings flat boots and very little make up not in the mood for pouncing, just pretty chilled and content with myself. That is until I attempt to chat up the bar man….

 

The bar man in question radiated everything good about a human being in just the simple blink of his very blue eyes. I’d ordered our round and he smiled at me, I blushed and half smiled back. Half a glass of wine later Gunboy says I should try and get his telephone number. I’m like don’t be stupid he’s like well you could at least try and chat to him , what have you got to loose? So even though it’s his round he gives me his debit card and pin so I can at least stare at him.

 

I order Gunboy’s beer which I can’t pronounce and opt for a Havana rum cocktail for myself. The barman asks if I would like it with coke or ginger bear, I say whichever’s nicest and am aware that I sound like a 12year old. He says definitely ginger beer. He takes a while to make it in almost awkward fashion.

 

“This had better be good now” – I awkwardly giggle remembering to smile with my eyes.

 

“Try it”

 

“Very nice”

 

And then I just said it….

“Whats your name?”

 

“My name? my names Tom, my I ask yours?”

 

“Laura”

 

“Hi Laura, I’m usually on the bar down stairs which I why I’m a bit on the slow side these evening, hopefully they’ll be keeping me on here permanently though”

 

He smiles, I smile back.

 

“Oh don’t worry , you’re not that slow, believe me I was the worst bar maid known to mankind, you get used to it after a bit, I’d better take these back to my friends, see you later.”

 

With a glint of achievement in my eye I go back to the others and the Havana cocktail goes to my head. It’s time to leave and I don’t even want another drink but GunBoy says that if I don’t get his number I’ll never know and what’s the worst that can happen? If I embarrass myself I NEVER have to see him again!

 

So I stumble over and order a rum and coke. Take a deep breathe and come out with,

“I guess you probably here this kind of thing from slightly intoxicated women all the time but could I perhaps have your number please?”

 

WTF did I just say?

 

 

“Erm yes of course but I erm sort of have a girlfriend.”

 

Now if I’ve learnt anything recently it is expressed in my behaviour here.. I go ever so slightly pink, half smile and say oh okay never mind about the number I’ll just have the coke if that’s okay? He hands me the drink, looks a little sheepish, I hand him my card and in the embarrassment of the situation realise that I CANNOT REMEMBER MY PIN!

 

I know theres an 8 and a 2 and an 0 in there somewhere but cant remember the other digit or the order and am so horribly flustered that I reach into my purse stuffed with old receipts in an attempt to find change.

 

“Erm I can’t remember my pin, so sorry just a sec.”

 

Oh crap I’m not sure I even have enough change and I don’t even want the drink this is too cringe worthy. I desperately try to count out the amount, he touches my arm and says,

 

“How much do you have, actually don’t worry about it. It’s cool.”

 

I am literally too embarrassed. Gunboy says it was a win win situation as the moral victory caused karma to give me free alcohol…doesn’t stop me from feeling like a total moron though.

 

Sleeping alone in my flat that night I feel pretty miserable, this weekend was always going to feel a little tough. I literally do not know where my year has gone, it all seems like yesterday yet a lifetime away. This time last year I was dressed as Madonna and pulling a fit bloke to a selection of dodgey eighties tracks and now I am sleeping alone in wine stained pjs. I ring Ollie and gain comfort from the message I left on his answer phone knowing that there would be no drunk texts or voice messages going to the inboxes of anyone but my friends that evening.

 

I wake up feeling equally as miserable, you know it’s bad when I resort to ringing my mother… she tells me that while I may think that there’s something missing and that I want to be with someone it would be too much for me right now, there are a lot of things that we thing we want but know we can’t have.

 

“Laura I really want a dog but know it’s not a good idea right now…the same applies to your love life.”

 

This is almost on par with last weeks advice of , “You should have learned from Drew Barrymore in Ever After, she went out when she knew she shouldn’t have done, stayed passed midnight, lost her wings and got whipped the next day….at least you only got a hangover ”

 

I patch up my roots and put XFM , the acoustic set of Adele’s “Someone like you” Blasts and I stand in my living room in nothing but my knickers and cry into my hot ribeana because it hits such a chord. The lyrics just do something. I close my eyes and ask the big man in the sky for help, to get out of this mess and stop feeling like this, I may be a black sheep but like the prodigal son he hasn’t forgotten me. It is Sunday after all and walking down the Fulham road road I sing “Go tell it on the mountain,” Onto “Jesus hands were kind hands,” and by the time I get to “Climb every mountain” I know I’ve completely lost the plot as this is not a Sunday morning hymn but in fact a song from the Sound of Music….. Technically it was sung by a nun so practically the same thing 😉

 

I don’t cry for you, I don’t cry for anyone, I cry for myself and hope that one day if I find someone that I like enough to completely let in and commit to that I don’t fuck it up like I did last time.

 

“I heard that your dreams came true. Guess she gave you things

I didn’t give to you. Old friend why are you so shy? Ain’t like you to hold back

or hide from the light. I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited but I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it. I had hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded that for me it isn’t over.

Never mind, I’ll find someone like you I wish nothing but the best for you too

Don’t forget me I beg. I remember you said “Sometimes it lasts in love

But sometimes it hurts instead.” Sometimes it lasts in love

But sometimes it hurts instead, yeah.

 

You know how the time flies, only yesterday It was the time of our lives

We were born and raised in a summer haze bound by the surprise of our glory days.

Nothing compares no worries or cares regrets and mistakes and memories made.

Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?

 

Never mind I’ll find someone like you I wish nothing but the best for you too

Don’t forget me I beg I remember you said,

 

“Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead.”

 

Well thanks former LPJ- You just added three onto my ‘number’ I conveniently forgot about 😉

I remember a girl from the year below me at uni messaged me saying it made her cry and that my post kept her strong. It inspired me to write more, feeling like some kind of female martyr…

These are the women who i wrote this blog for. With the exception of the one time I accused the wrong person of leaking this round the office (I still owe you that stella…) I don’t regret any of it. True the day it went viral I cried in the bath down the phone to Baxter and didn’t want to fot to work, but I did. It’s not like I got out of bed one day and thought you know what I’m gonna go shag someone’s boyfriend…wow what a delightful end to the day.

 

This is for anyone whose been dumped, anyone who loved someone who was bad for them, who craved someone they couldn’t have ,for the beautiful amazing women who are judged for being hopelessly single, not because there’s something wrong with them but because they’re not willing to settle for any old prick with two legs and a set of balls, for the carefree women who enjoy sex, play safe but are labelled sluts because they decide number twelve was fit but not right , for the girls that move on but can’t let go or vice versa , for the happy taken girls who can still appreciate my sentiment, for the hangovers, the vomit, the overdraft,those texts you regret and the nights you cherish. Yes you can sit there all Judgey McJudge with you doting husband, high flying job and trusty credit rating but if you’re so happy then why are you still reading or wasting your time passing words of disgust?

 

This time last year I thought I was happy and in a way i guess i was, but i was using new found lust and devotion as a distraction from a time line of serious things that needed to be accomplished and throughout all these happy moments in the back of my mind I was panicking about what i wasn’t doing but letting myself get caught up in it all and not acting on it… complete MA, get job, move to London. I achieved these literally by the skin of my teeth in the end and being forced to stand up on my own two feet and do it by myself, though difficult was the only way it would have worked. I spend so much time in this blog hopelessly document how pants my life is and want little I am achieving… and while in many cases this may be true, i am missing the fundamental point here….

 

If someone had told me this time last year that it was okay, I’d get a good MA in the end, get a job, move to London and end up in Fulham I’d be almost too ecstatic. Right now all i want to do is doss about at Holloway, be writing something intellectual on modernism in bedford library till 5am… sit in a seminar on the Holocaust, get pissed in the quad, go to the union, wake up , be sick and grab a monkeys all day breakfast before chilling out in medicine to some awful tunes that nashcam put on the juke box and do it all again…(okay I’ll give you credit for total eclipse of the heart)….. but the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. If i was to go back i’d be skiving lectures and falling behind within less than a week and wondering what the hell i was doing sticking to the floor in the same black box every week…

 

Summer was tough, I couldn’t get up in the morning was working two jobs, in Laura Ashley and the Monkey’s Forehead, in the health centre every other day , spent most evenings crying into a bottle of wine and had no idea where i was going or how the hell i was going to pull off an MA.

 

I may be single but I’m not alone… I may get drunk at the weekends but i no longer cry into a bottle of wine by myself. It’s not right just yet and it may never will be but I made it and that all that counts.

 

I was working as a barmaid in a student bar, “that much is true… but i knew that i would find a much better place either with or without you.”

Wow, well done little Peej.

Look how brave you were.

If only you knew

In my fourth year of uni I lived off the first Ellie Goulding album, just a year older than me , fresh and lyrical she said all the right things. I saw her in Benicassim and was like what a babe.

But then as she got bigger and better I was like urgh sod off Ellie you skinny arrogant slut bitch – gimme Talyor.

Then she brings ‘on my mind’ in response to the Ed Sheeran rant (which I was initially a fan of) and I’m like wooooooe

‘It’s a little blurry how the whole think started…. So I poured it down, poured it down. Next thing I know I’m in a hotel with you. And I don’t understand it you don’t mess with love you mess with the truth…and I know I shouldn’t say it but my heart don’t understand why I got you on my mind…you think you know somebody, you got yourself in a dangerous zone, cos we both had the fear, fear of being alone..’

Shit the bed Ellie, you’re back in the game.

But the thing is it’s not about what the lyrics say (yes my former lover and I had a blurry start where we ended up in a hotel room and then afterwards I wasn’t sure about it all but then as we progressed and the weeks went by he ultimately took control and screwed me over) it about how the lyrics empower you.

And Adele taking us back five years aint good practise babes.

A good mate of mine wrote this on facebook the other day-

‘”Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these years you’d like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya, but I ain’t done much healing.”

Come the fuck on Adele, it’s been like 5 years since you broke up with the twat. Let it go for christ sake”And as much as I adore the A initialised babe I have to agree!

You need to empower us again and show us you moved on liek we all had too….

Not so long ago I sat back at that table in Fulham where I wrote the above snippets and I felt I was over the worse. I want to stay that way.

Now former LPJ will you please eat the chicken nuggets I’m craving as your metabolism demolished them so much better than mine does now and I will get on and delete my ‘current former’ lover to stop him dancing about with me on whatssap (an app you have no need to worry about because you have a blackberry, a device that can only just about deal with your pissed texts let alone anything else)

And stop thinking about the cockney, his story ends up much better without you as will yours when the time passes, I promise.

X

P.s I’m sorry but One Direction very much still exist in 2015 , ironically he will ‘settle down, find a girl and be married now’ but it won’t hutt you and your weekly travel card is only ever going to go up… And yeh your hair thins and never really grows back but at least gets passed that chubby crop phase. Soz/#EVERYCLOUD

BUT IT’S A THOUSAND TIMES BETTER THIS WAY!

‘Watch me whip, watch me nay nay’ – how to sleep through a summer, slut it up and other tales of moral indecency…

‘If anyone askes we met in a bar… If you’re looking for a stay at home wife who f**ks like a pornstar and cooks like Mary Berry probably give up now. If you’re intrigued by the idea of taking out a slightly dysfunctional creative genius you may just be in luck. Bit too classy for one night stands but not looking for a live in boyfriend either (far too in love with my own bed)
Big fan of gin, banter, gourmet burgers and The Smiths.

Find me in the queue for Greggs battling it out for the last sausage roll…

After several failed attempts and looking for love in the wrong places,that became the blurb on my internet dating profile.

I’d soon begun to realise that practically all men are either taken, rebounding or complete and utter sex pests.  A tragic fact that was playing havoc not only with me but all my single friends alike. I had become part of a community of single girls all at different points in life but on the universal wave length that being a solo woman in the gauntlet of modern dating where technology made everything hopelessly confusing was a tough, tough existence.

But the difference here was that I didn’t deserve a relationship, not because I am a bad person or a cheating slut bag, but because I was on my own rebound from life and no one could save me other than myself. In fact you could say I’d successfully managed to sleep through summer.

From the nasal blockage of high pollen count right up to the first changing colour of the leaves he was there. And with very little day time routine I allowed him to carry me and my increasing wine dependency in between my dedication to afternoon naps and early 00s ITV Bill repeats.

He was my drug. A quick hit to make me feel womanly and desired but like all highs there were side effects, cheap substitute hits, judgement for taking something potentially damaging  and of course the come down.

But I didn’t care. I was a cat stuck up a tree with a crate of fresh cream. The dairy overload was likely to give me the shits but the jump to the ground seemed far more difficult especially as there was no guarantee I would land on all fours.

The fact that he was rebounding from a ten year relationship wasn’t ideal but with very little to focus on in my mundane lack of routine I was able to get hooked onto something that wasn’t real.

He’d be a dick I’d react like a total dick and together we would dick things up. It was a like a match made in the bargain booze liquor isle.

Summer 2015- I didn’t wear a pair of shorts, I didn’t go to a festival, I didn’t have an ice cream, I didn’t wear sandals, I didn’t go to the beach.

I slept, I got drunk, I ate shit, I wore stilettos, I got laid.

And I didn’t fall up the escalator at Angel station once…. (Because I wasn’t there)

 Say you’ll remember me

Standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you’ll see me again even if it’s just in your wildest dreams

It’s amazing what a failed fling can teach you about being a woman. I don’t see anything as complete failure as each situation teaches us more about ourselves. The good, the bad and the down right questionable, everyone will bring out something different in us.

And it was with this relationship that I found sexual empowerment as a woman.

Hands up who’s had pissed up sex and the guys either tried to get rid of them shortly afterwards, smuggled them out like an illegal immigrant in the morning OR the worse crime of all- REFUSED TO SPOON.

Admittedly sometimes you’re so ashamed you want all of the above but this was never like that.

In the world of pornography feminists tend to fall into a number of camps. But it’s not something I’d ever felt strongly about. Like most people I’ve watched porn now and again but I’d never looked at the women and thought you dirty slut bags or oh what objectification. I was completely indifferent to it (mainly cos I didn’t really like the idea of watching someone with an unachievable body shape get shot in the face with man juice) As it made me feel both inadequate and slightly vom tastic. And I’d certainly never seen enough of it to know one porn star from the next.

However he had a favourite and her name was Sacha, Sacha Grey….

Now due to a mixture of intrigue and nothing else to do with my Tuesday morning I checked her out.

And oh my, she was filthy.

Even I couldn’t sit through more than five minutes of her growns without wanting to gag her to stop the noise. But she was certainly very good, she was simply playing a role. The starlet that the punters wanted to see.

I gave her a google…

Now as well as winning awards such as best oral scene in ‘throa-t a cautionary tale’ and best anal sex scene in ‘anal cavity search 6’ *VOMS*

She’s an incredibly intelligent woman and the same age as me. She graduated school a year early, is a singer, has written books, acted (in none adult material) and quite the advocate. She took Grey from the famous Oscar Wild novel portrait of Dorian Grey (legend) and her twitter shows a normal pretty girl with the description

‘Funky. Hot sauce enthusiast. Single Malt Drinkin, Dean Martin Wannabe.’

She is far from a dirty ho bag, she’s an incredibly intelligent hot woman who not only reads and shit but has used the adult industry for empowerment and literally bang herself from working class routes to where she wants to be as a woman. Leaving the industry in 2010 she writes, reads, sings and supports worth while causes.  Far from the stereotype of the blond eastern European perma tanned wailer most people would associate with such things.

Now I’m not saying I’m about to lose three stone and flash my vag on red tube but it’s quite the perception changer.

Curvy and carrying extra pounds in the wrong places I never attempted to hide my body around him like I had done so many men despite the fact that I was fully aware his ex girlfriend was incredibly slender. Even in the most awkward of situations I never once felt unashamed or unattractive.

But that gets me on to another point- my treatment of other women. I had never met his former lover but it was as if I knew everything about her and I despised her. Not because she’d treated him horribly and wanted him back but because I hadn’t heard a decent thing about her. And there I was judging someone who’d I’d never met, another woman who for all I knew could have a very similar story to tell.

And that’s the thing- we judge , we all do it. Someone who I don’t know has been feeding back things about me and my behaviour to family members who already have it in for me as it is. Someone who to paint such a picture must not only not know me but despise me too – for no reason other than what we can perceive online.

So why do we do it? Why do we judge people we know nothing about? Why as women are we meaner to each other than the opposite sex?

It’s an age old question with an answer I’ll never know but we’ve all been there.

But are we ever the guiltless party ourselves?

A lot of people have out grown me recently because whilst the world has kept spinning I’ve just stayed put in my own little diamond of Peter Pan syndrome. A Robinsons squash that was once good strong but now needs to be diluted to taste..

Who the fuck am I and what was I doing?

Who needs to drink excessive amounts of white wine five days a week to function? No one. Who bathes in it until she can’t see and then can’t justify her behaviour because everyone goes oh well she was just drunk so why believe her?

Me

Pinot Grigio- The greatest lover I ever had…

I’m so lost.

Heavy night, it was a heavy night, feels like we’ve come back from the dead…

We’ve stopped taking booze to the bedroom with us because we don’t need it we are worryingly each other’s natural highs. That and the fact that wine turns me into a gremlin and I spill it everywhere. The last time he poured half a bottle of pink down the sink because it was damaging me then laid down the duvet off the bed and slept with me on the floor curled up and comfy so I couldn’t hurt myself.  When he was mean his actions were questionable but in reality he did care deep down.

As usual we have a lovely Sunday followed by an end of week fight, and this time it’s brutal it’s his week off and he promised to take me out at the weekend but cancels to go fishing. As usual it stems around the fact that he freaks out about effectively being in something that’s heading towards a relationship and bolts then trots back when he’s worried I’ve found another stallion to mount me.

Nearly the end of August, still no sunburn.

At the beginning I was the one kicking him out of bed as my hayfever got the better of me. Now he’s the one lifting my weary head. Because I have got comfortable.

It gets to the bank holiday. I am broken from debauchery. He wants me to come out I flounder, he’s treated me like the back end of a foot and mouth ridden cow for the previous week so I should tell him where to jog on. But I’ve asked for this, I’m the sexting master. I am a weak woman and women have needs.

I keep him waiting and I don’t meet him and his friend until after midnight. I’m back in Cannock I’m stood in the exact same place as my friend dipped her ass to ‘watch me whip it, watch me nay nay’ but it feels utterly bizzar.

Watching him dance like a loon I soon realise I had nothing to worry about in regards to him being out on the trot. It makes me like him more. His friends quite fit. I admire his jumper.

We drink we dance we shot. Oasis plays. We got to get a cab. We fall over. We go through the Macdonalds drive through. His mate eats my cheese melts and I vow I will never forgive him.

The taxi drops us at his. This unchartered territory. There’s a dog, oh god there’s a dog.

NEVER INRODUCE ME TO DOGS THEY WILL ALWAYS WIN

Said dog is so soft and sleekly and gives me a good old munch. We go to bed and surface around twelve , he goes down to try and find my handbag, his mum asks what he’s doing , he says he’s looking for something she says

‘It’s in the hall with the shoes- how many sugars does she want?’

There is soon a cup of tea in my paw and I begin to feel more human. We stay together upstairs till four and I meet his dad for the first time on a venture to the bathroom in a dressing gown with half a hair extension hanging our – smooth. We stay together till four and then he leaves to get his car. I fanny around in the bathroom desperately trying to reattach my stray hair extensions which are beginning to look like rats tails.

When he returns he comes to get me says I’ll have to meet his mum.

Okay I can do this.

I take too steps, fall arse over tit down the stairs, a hair extension in one hand and the dog licking the other as his dad walks in wondering if someone has been maimed. I thank his mom for letting me stay and she says everyone falls don’t the stairs the first time they stay. He admits that every girl he ever bought back (although I am the first in a decade) has done the same. I feel beyond special (not) and munch the dogs for sympathy.

He takes me for dinner. It’s five, we should be hungry but when the food comes the gammon turns my stomach and his face is a whiter shade of pale. He sips a stella and I chug a wine in an attempt to feel normal again.

He drops me home, we kiss. That’s the last time I see him.

We’ve got to close again, on the Thursday he’s out with his mates and they take his phone because he’s texting me too much… he is thirty fucking four.

I go cold then warm back up he stays warm, then goes a bit dickish I go bat shit.

I have spent every day for three months in contact with him and now it’s gone I’m slightly lost at the same time as beginning mightily pissed off. The thing is this isn’t the first time he’s gone cold turkey.

I feel about as classy as a pound shop tampon.

I’ve  wasted a summer, have been a drunken tit and probably hurt more people than I would care to mention in this whirlwind of crazy.

What would Taylor do?

Crawling back to you, do you ever think of calling when you’ve had a few?

Maybe I’m on the rebound too? I’m no field of daisies cotton scented dream myself.

I’ve had problems recently which I’ve sat on until they burst.

And exs have come back to save me. Be it the Original Casanova sorting out my beef with the ‘department for work and piss take’ or my sixteen going on seventeen year old sweet heart sweeping me off the street wiping away my tears and feeding me Dominoes while his baby giggles and dog munches my feet.

Each gesture brings me to tears and my love doesn’t stop. But that’s because people don’t stop but as we grow the meaning of that love gets cateorgorized like a library. Naturally some go to the back with the dust covered encyclopaedias whiles others end up in the bloody short loan section that charges you a fortune a day when you’re overdue…

And that’s where the lust and compassion I’d had for him ended up.

The short loan section.

In the months we spent together I helped him through it all. And even though we both knew our situation was only temporary he vowed he’d never go back to her. I said he could leave me for whoever he wanted and I’d deal with it but if he went back to her that would be it.

And that was exactly what he did.

When he told me it was like a sharp splinter of glass going down my throat and cutting straight that bit that pangs when you get sad or anxious. I can’t get the image of them at it out of my head an I feel like a complete and utter moron.

Don’t be mistaken, I did not love this man but I cared for him a great deal. And after all the time I spent comforting him, holding him and taking away the pain I felt cheated.

So much so that I made the cringe worthy decision to plug my grief into a poem based on the last scene of ‘Ten things I hate about you’

*disclaimer – adult content below*

Dear Fish Boy,

I hate the way you fuck with me and act like you don’t care,

Then when we’re out you’re all over me and don’t like it when other guys stare.

I hate the way you wear the same clothes that camo belt seriously has to go.

And when you’re mean to me I just go running back, don’t ever think I’ve stooped so low.

I hate it when you treat me like shit but still expect me to rim your ass,

Then wonder why I won’t take it hard – a girls gotta have a bit of class!

I hate it that you’ll never be over her and just see me as your rebound girl,

But I still give you what you want and deep throat your cock till it make me hurl.

I hate your bad grammar, your silly dumb laugh and the fact that you made me cry,

I hate that I work hard to make you smile and that you don’t even try.

I hate it when you’re always stoned and choose stella over me,

I hate it that you know my body inside out and have even seen me pee.

I hate it when you throw silent strops and then refuse to reply.

When I see those big blue whattsap ticks but you only respond when you’re high.

I hate your causally racist remarks and that you can hold your booze better than me,

I hate that when you spoon me it makes me feel safe and that you make a banging cup of tea.

I hate that you say you don’t want a Mrs. But still expect me to tickle your back- It’s confusing for a girl like me…..

I hate that I’m the best thing you’ll ever have but it’s a fact that you just can’t see.

I hate it when you make me smile and that you have the cutest dogs.

I hate that your the best in bed, I’ve had my fair share of frogs.

I hate that I like to send you filthy pics and act like a dirty whore,

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you,

Not even close,

Not even a little bit,

Not even at all.

I saw him one last time and he looked different. There was a bottle of half used baby oil (not with me obvs) in the side door of the van and it made me heave.

I felt so alone.

I felt so silly.

He looked different, he’d changed almost (apart from perving on the arses of unsuspecting blond bar maids that is)

Even though we were meeting on unsettling terms he’d made an effort. Which I hadn’t in my converse and baggy top (I’d learnt years ago that heavy make-up and tits out on such occasions just make you look like even more of a lost cause)

I was wearing the expensive coco chanel perfume my mum had sent me for my birthday but I’m so used to it I could even quite make it out on my skin. By the end of it I’d always worn YSL Paris with him another scent that masked into me as it reminded me of my aunties bedroom in the early nineties.

He smells lovely and I accidentally breathe it in not for sensual reasons but because it’s where my head falls and the scent is comforting.

He pushes me away and lights a spliff.

He talks about her, we argue and instead of slapping him, crying or saying something I’d later regret I slam the van door bang shut to the point that it echos and stop home. In my converse like the 17 year old Avril Lavigne wannabe I once was.

This isn’t his fault, it’s ours we were both rebounding from something, for him, her, for me, my former life. And if he hadn’t have run back to his darling I would have run back to mine (London) eventually anyway.

It still doesn’t stop it from hurting like fucking hell though.

I think comforting thoughts.

The smell of my mother’s perfume on a woollen jumper, the feeling of being wrapped in a towel and dried down after a bath, hair parted at the side with a fine tooth comb. Green jumbo pyjamas. Those are my earliest memories. Images of mother hood…

We could never procreate our kids would be nuts either that or his once ex would stab me in the tits.

He said that I’m incredibly clever/witty/funny. That he thinks one day I’ll make it big but not in Wolverhampton, that wouldn’t I rather have the red carpet than a miserable midlands flat?

God knows what I want. I feel like I’ve lost my mind but then I realise it’s just another chapter in another tale.

I am still pro choice, pro feminism , pro cats just slightly more empowered and changed by my summer adventure. Everybody hurts but It doesn’t have to define us.

I’m judged for my exploits but what does it matter if I still have my self worth?

I think of Sasha and I hold my head high

He says that one day he wants to end up in my book.

Well darlin’ I’m promising nothing.

And yes as you said- I can be soppy as fuck but am stronger than I think.

To quote an old friend ‘women are like tea bags, only when you drop them in hot water can you see their strength!’

But for what it’s worth it’s been fun Babe

x

‘What’s my age again?’ trying to adult and other fables…

Like most people I hate Mondays. I still can’t pin point whether it stems from not learning my spellings in primary school, double P.E in year 7 where the gits made us traipse across a muddy field to get changed in an icy cold mobile hut (child abuse right there) or the sheer horror of 19th century poetry in first year undergrad English which always drove me to drawing doodles of cats to prevent me from falling asleep in the Windsor building- either way I’ve never recovered from that sickening Monday morning feeling.

Another week to get through.

I thought it was because like most people I couldn’t be arsed with another week of routine and regulation. I mean there were times when I was working in London that I’d stay in the local pub at home till last orders and get the 7:15am train into Euston just to stretch out the arrival to destination of dread. But even when life lacks meaning and you’re devoid of all responsibility that shitty pit of the stomach feeling still lingers.

I crawl in at seven not because I got wrecked but because I am a rebel without a cause. A late twenties once young professional who now just acts young. A second wave of late teens/early twenties where I hurricane without consequences for my actions. Because I can.

I throw myself into a bath of hot water, lather myself in lashings of Soap and Glory, give myself an hours nap and then cat stretch out of bed. If I’d have pulled this kind of stunt this time last year I’d have to throw my bottom half in the shower, neck  a berocca, scramble around for some stray tampons, lace my mop with dry shampoo, run down the road with oyster card in one hand, heels in the other and pray not to vom on the tube.

But this girl doesn’t have to worry about such things. Because this girl doesn’t exist in the real world.

I feel like a poor man’s version of Hugh Grant in ‘About a Boy’ who splits up his days into units of time – ‘All man are islands, and what’s more, I am an island…I’m bloody Ibiza!’

But that’s not how it was meant to be, not really….

What’s the date? Fuck, shit, wanker bollocks…

It’s the 17^th. I’m late.

‘I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date- no time to say hello goodbye, I’m late, I’m late I’m LATEEEE’

Before anyone panics and chokes on their Nescafe – that’s not a metaphor for accidental conception.

I hop in a cab for deepest darkest Brierley Hill. My hair is scraped back into a messy pony tail , I am wearing a pug print t-shirt, no makeup and converse. I can see why the 18 year old check out girl  ID-d me the at the weekend presuming I couldn’t be much older than her.

Sat in the waiting room I sip cold water and read the generic posters. Self-help, what to do in a crisis, healthy eating, women’s refuge etc. My stomach is rumbling as I had a fruit pastel Ice-lolly and all I can think about is the Greggs I spotted down the road… reckon they’ve got the cheese and bacon turn overs in? Shit I’m meant to be gluten free.

She calls me in. I can already tell she’s going to take no shit from me and the chances of sympathy will be minimal. But that’s how it’s meant to be. Anything has got to be better than the yummy young mental health doctor and motherly social worker who looked like they wanted to castrate every male who had every come near me. And good old Doctor K-Dawg who told me that he sees many people go through the system but it’s rare to meet anyone as clever as me and that’s half of my problem as I battle with my brain. My ego doesn’t need rubbing. A rocket needs to be placed up my arse.

As the Psychologist goes through case notes from February (good old NHS waiting times) I take the usual approach, minimal eye contact, and short answers. Confident and self-assured.  But I look like a child, I shuffle my feet like a child (A director note I once gave to someone playing a 17 year old in one of my plays to bend her feet in her converse, an action I can no longer displace)

Unlike the ‘digging out my soul approach’ she goes through the notes and questions my behaviour.  I am honest and open – In these types of sessions I do not cover up the truth, everything from binges to recreational substance abuse is laid out on the table because there is no point in me being here if I am going to portray myself as a fucked up Princess Di.

She is clever, she gets it. She tells me she thinks I will not benefit from one on one therapy as I already know what I’m doing wrong, I’m self-aware and conscious of my actions and that in itself is the problem.

Jesus Christ Fenton.

She says I have some Peter Pan issues going on. She is right.

This isn’t the responsible twelve year old who could be trusted to take her little sister over the park and change a nappy without causing an apocalyptic shit storm This is a woman on the edge of reason.

She discusses how I had to grow up and mature very quickly, that I had lived that I fitted into, the uni bubble, the young professional. And now I’m in a life that doesn’t seem to fit. A life that I have been displaced from for 9years and so now I revert to the teenager. The child is battling the adult and it’s unclear as to which one will win on a daily basis. So when I try to ‘adult’ I am automatically treated like a child as it’s not what people expect.

She says that this confusion of self can lead to me being misunderstood, putting my foot in it without realising and ultimately being lost within the wrong perception. Because I don’t have a personality disorder, I’m just a bit lost. I was a good little girl. The teenager who played the flute and drank tea. And now I play the rebellious child to make up for what I wasn’t

I can’t keep peddling the sob story that I’m fucked up because I spent most of my teens wishing my step father would fall off a cliff. I’m approaching thirty.

I thought twenty five was the off the scale year, hence the play, twenty seven is practically the sequel – quarter life crisis II – Year of the shit storm.

The thing is, I can ‘adult’ when I want to. Shit I remember going to uni at 18 and being around people who’d never even switched on a washing machine at all but then I got lost in the fog. I remember singing along to Blink 182 ‘What’s my age again’ and wishing I was 23 so the lyrics made sense. Four years later it still applies….

I was just so desperate when I came home and had had so many interventions from people thinking I was losing the plot, I genuinely thought I was a class A crazy, handed myself in thinking I was going to need some kind of electric shock therapy to get myself human again.

But I was wrong. I just had my own minor crisis, and now the light is at the end of the tunnel…. I can do this- I can move through all of this and become who I need to be.

Because we all become ‘Adults’ we just ‘adult’ in our own way….

there But even when you

‘If I recover, will you be my comfort?’ Getting through the inbetween to awesome…

is it just me or has Taylor Swift suddenly become the spokes person for all women in their 20’s? I mean Swifty has got some good perspective… ‘I stay up too late, got nothing in my brain, that’s what people say, I go on too many dates. But I can’t make them stay, at least that’s what people say, but I keep cruising, can’t stop, won’t stop moving. It’s like I got this music, in my mind, saying it’s gonna be alright’ And lets not forget the classic ‘Got a long list of ex lovers, they’ll tell you I’m insane…’cos darling I’m a nightmare dressed like a day dream.’ I am most definitly a nightmare dressed like a daydream… apart from when hungover in my pjs the morning after, then I’m an apocolypse but arnt all women?

I am currently at a lost hurdle, not like being 19 again and deciding to add berocca to a glass of wine to avoid a hangover (grim) but this ever nearing sense of reality of still being a teenager surrounded by adults as everyone grows up and leaves me behind. The amount of people whove tried to help save me with interventions, but the simple fact of the matter is that I haven’t changed, I just haven’t grown up and I’m worried I never will. I tell a lie, I finally have a double bed in my room at home (box ticked) but all it means is that I’m even more unlikely to get up on time. I made a packt with myself yesterday, I packt that I would finally buck up my ideas and become functioning human being who flurished on a diet of clean eating and mental wellbeing instead of cheap wine, fast food and oral contraceptives. But then I’ve been saying that for years. So instead I did what most girls do, attempted a diet shake for breakfast and changed my hair. Both made me feel better but neither could aid my inherant crisis of being both unable to play it cool or avoid the temptaion of the fridge.

Living away from home was acctually easier as I never had food in the fridge so unless I wanted to deal with the guilt and shame of stealing my flat mate’s cheese or blowing my weekely budget on a pizza there was no chance of me spending the entire night picking at what soon became a small buffet to rival a Marks and Spencer’s picnic platter… I have begun to revert to my student days, dates that invlove full days in bed and hungover Tuesdays. Bceuase I have no responsibilities , no one to answer to and nothing to stop me from acting like a total prick. I wash my face with cold water. I didn’t decide to spend the rest of my life paying off an expensive university education for me to be skirting the drain.

But am I? No, not really, I never took a gap, a year out before, inbetween or after study like so many do I just jumped from one thing to the other. So this is my gap. What my gays refered to on Monday as my time to sort me out before I come back to London and to them. But right now I don’t know what I want. If home where the heart is after all? My desk is a mixture of unfinished manuscripts, sweet wrappers, burnt out candles and diet pills, the epitome of class meets woman on edge. I often loose hope, worry I’m taking backwards and sidewards steps but if there’s anything I’ve learnt over the passed few months it’s that there is no set path and so many young women are fighting the same fight, be it ignoring their pervy boss and the temptation of a maccys quater ounder with cheese or balancing the quest for success between christenings and crap Tinder dates it’s all relative.

I light a candle and chew on another vitamin pill that promises me long hair, nails and eternal well being. It makes me feel a bit sick as it slips down my orsophagus to be processed by my wine fucked intestines and I realise why… because you know what, the only thing that can promise that kind of thing to yourself is you. And I promise myself better

From scrambling for the pants to scrambling for your sanity- why honesty is the best policy.

We’ve all been there, waking up, slightly stuck to someone thinking ‘where am I? who the fuck are you? Oh christ I look like Alex Cooper’

Scramble for the pants, scramble for the pants.

‘Where the sod are my pants? Oh god they’re  awake, did we? oh we did.’ The stroll out into the daylight, the awkward goodbye, the shaming sense of reality of ‘oops I did it again.’ For modern singletons the ever illusive one night stand is an inevitable eventuality. And more often than not it can be a one sided one where one of you see’s it to be something else. I’ve been the cruel victim of both and in my old age have tried to be as kind as possible when I’m the ‘had one too many Sambucas and thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea even though I don’t fancy you’ dick.

But occasionally the stars will align, they’ll be a full moon out side and the angel Gabriel is in residence and you change your mind…

After Mr. Tarzan I decided I couldn’t do it anymore, that I was destined for a life of celibacy cats and cadbury’s heroes but there was this other thing….

I’d been on this date with this guy who I wasn’t entirely sure about but had optimum respect for as he chose not to drive that evening to prevent awkward sober silences. He’s older than me, I’ve still yet to so much as snog someone over thirty despite being well into the dark side of my twenties and I really don’t think it’s a good idea to get involved with another tall ginger bloke as people will begin to think I’ve got some sort of fetish.

However it’s fun and through no fault of his own he manages to get me smashed. I don’t remember a fat lot but for some reason despite deciding to drunkenly style his hair with my hands covered in Whetherspoon’s burger grease he wants to see me again. I’m clearly just that smooth…

But sat there after the Tarzan incident, making the decision that I don’t want to so much as sniff another man for the foreseeable future I text and cancel what would be our second date the following week as I’m just not in the right place- possibly the most grown up thing I ever done.

But what I failed to take into account was that he is a grown up bloke so when he is completely normal about the whole thing, says he’s had a shit time of it too and if I ever fancy a night out to let him know- no pressure my brain suddenly starts twitching. Before I know it, it’s sunday afternoon,  I’m feeling attention seeking and in the mood for wine and I’m sat there with him in the Hogs Head in the prelude to what will be our second bender. As he enters he kisses me and I can’t look him in the eye. So I resort to my usual defence mechanism of looking past someones head and talking to the wall. Sexy.

Time passes and I begin to question my home town, there is literally no where decent to eat unless I fancy what feels like my 50th beer and a burger deal of the year. As the wine goes down easier and my body loosens I feel that wave of tipsy hunger that makes you feel like you could inhale a KFC, no just any KFC, a tower burger, Zinga wrap AND popcorn chicken. God I’m filth. All dainty behaviour goes out of  the window as I find myself once more munching like a sexy pot bellied pig on a dirty concoction that definitely breaks every rule of my dwindling diet and increasingly present bread allergy.

It’s a sunday and I’m shotting sambuka. He thinks it will help the post dinner digestive yull. I think if I drink much more I may vom. Either that or my liver will think I’m back at uni again and start craving vodka redbull on a Monday.

We’d already done the crying sin of the one night stand on our first date so finding my reboud state pacing the sam steps i go to the bar with his card to order our drinks along with a water for me. I put the card in my mouth while I fish for my lipstick, I  put everything in my mouth (no pun intended) and then, my tongue goes numb oh wait I remember this faux feeling oh now, oh fuck,

I find myself gargling the water in an attempt to get rid of an accidental high. It’s only 5pm on a sunday… oh fuck i’ve broken the law, I didn’t even ever have underage boose or sex. This is bad.

Could be worse at least it wasn’t ket. I don’t even know what ket tastes like but I don’t fancy my chances with accidentally digesting horse tranquilizers.

I wake up in his arms.

After that night we become close, he takes me away the following weekend the waitress makes a passing comment about being cold and calls me his girlfriend. We shrug it off.  I see him on the sunday when I’m back from London, he picks me up from the station and I find comfort in him. We have drinks  and on the way home my 27 year old self leads him to the park for a cheeky poke like a teeneager on heat. But it feels feels right , I think I’m getting butterflies

Do you remember the Butterflies in the pit of your stomach when your teenage crush passed you in the corridor? That tummy fluttering moment when a new flame touches your hand? The adrenaline rush when you’re clattering up the escalator as  he waits for you outside the ticket machine at the tube to take you out for dinner? The heart plummeting moment when your ex walks into the pub…It’s been so long since I felt the good kind of butterflies that I am beginning to think they are overrated. A faux feeling that never really existed outside the realms of Jacky Collins novels and poorly cast romcoms.

But I panic that this could be that little flutter.  The real deal like when that psychic i went to on a some work ‘wellbeing night’ told me in May 2014 I’d meet this older man that would sweep me off me feet and would like me for real in a way all the others hadn’t…. she was right about everyone bitching about me so why not this?

Fairytales…

We’d taken a week off because I was busy with this that and the other but we were meant to have an evening out on the sunday after I returned from a hen party. We text in the morning the general flirtations, and then at lunch time while i have my gorgeous nephew in one hand and an oven manual in one hand he decided to text me saying,

‘Hi is it okay if we leave today, weekend of booze and no sleep is catching up on me’

Prick

But he then precedes to tell me he thinks he has sunstroke.

I feel sorry for his heavily ginger skin, I too am not sure I can stomach a full on bender after a weekend away so suggest he comes round.

He does.

I am more naked than ever before, this is my childhood room, it ecompasses my hopes and fears, it’s like a blue lagoon with a pink splash and for all my sins still has an A4 of Courney Love as a fairy and a black and white snippet of Jude Law above the bed. I was a baby in this room, I shared it with my aunty, my mum, it was my refuge as a child and a home as a teenager, the room where I lost my virginity, It’s my safe place.

I’ve had so many other rooms, I lived away for eight years…. but this one is different. Other the year the photos of eighteenth birthday and teenage parties have come down, replaced with photos of other benders but it still breathes me and therefore I am ironically more cautious of letting anyone into here than my own vagina (And that’s not just cos my sexy parts are tidier lol)

We have the mindblowing sex I expected and then as we reflect and banter I ask if he’s having an early night, being ill and all…

‘i’m going for drinks with my mate and then a chinese’

I want to chuck him out there and then but part of me sympathises with his – we are both on the rebound from a 9 year relationship – his with a chavvy drug addict, mine with my independance.

So I breathe in, i mean i eventually kick him out when he admits to have never watched let alone read Harry Potter but that was more in gest.

As he leaves I poor a glass and hit the piano. My house is a strange place of classical, music, flower fairies and the set of what feels like a midsommer murders episode.

He texts me saying thanks for  this evening,  I’m like for what? letting you shag me and still get to go out with your mates instead of entertaining my apparently poor company?  He has no idea what he’s done or how he’s made me feel so i leave it.

‘Guess it’s true we’re no good at a one night stand Guess it’s true, I’m not good at a one-night stand. But I still need love ’cause I’m just a man. These nights never seem to go to plan I don’t want you to leave, will you hold my hand?
Oh, won’t you stay with me? ‘Cause you’re all I need This ain’t love, it’s clear to see. But darling, stay with me’

Or not,  It gets to Monday and when he texts me I’m still pissed, I have worlds worse melodrama with the bank so he is the least of my worries. When I don’t reply he goes ‘had a bad day?’ i’m like is the Pope catholic? turns out he’s seen my facebook status about my battle with Barclays and all like ‘ saw it on fb so sorry to hear that sends hugs and kissess…xxx’

I say I’d rather he sent me to the pub, he says he would if he could but he can’t.

I ask why?

He writes ‘ you probably don’t want to hear this..’

He’s typing….

My heart jumps into mouth,

I don’t want to hear this so I call him…

‘Whatever you’re typing I’d rather just hear now…’

*invisages him back with his ex and saying tarar a bit*

‘oh I was just sending a photo… I’m on pint number thre…’

DON’T YOU EVER DO THAT TO MY FUCKING BLOOD PRESSURE AGAIN – LIKE EVER!

I say I’m worried he might have an alcohol problem (this coming from worlds biggest waster)

He say’s he’s enjoying being single.

We arrange to go to Nandos on Wednesday – as he’s never been an therefore isn’t an actual person, even Rojo’s been to Nandos…

The thing is he doesn’t realise he’s not really single… being single is getting your fifth wedding invite and arriving to all of them without a date. When the most sexual thing on offer is a threesome between yourself, a pack of stella and a Dominoes mighty.

He had an affectionate girl to text, sex when he fancies it, and companionship when he needs it. That’s not being single. That’s having your cake and eating it.

Last night I got drunk. I know he is going to cancel on me to go fish for the fifth night in a row and I can feel the anger brewing.

In my hungover state this morning i’m like meet at 7:30? promise not to turn into a post wine gremlin 🙂

He’s like ‘Shall we leave it till next week. now. I’m going to go fishing. Lots of fish being caught and I need to be there x’

Fish…. those things you lure in with bait, catch with your lines… ensnare and hurt, hold them for jokes and them throw them back into the water…. sound familiar?

My friends are all like fuck him the bastard. But I leave it I am disappointed but I may as well just leave it rather than get pissy and regret it later .’

When I don’t reply sometime late I get, Are we in a mood? when I dont reply, ‘that’s a yes then’ I tell him the above and the response I get is ‘Xx’ two kisses. What am I meant to do with them, swallow them and fart them back out>

This is my fault, I was unsure so made it out to be casual out of kindess, And then I got feelings.

I thought he didn’t realise what he was doing but was soon told- ‘oh he does, he has been wounded by a woman. He’s  clearly not over it, so he’s doing whatever he wants and is protecting himself because he’s afraid of getting hut. By not getting involved in how you feel, or caring too much because you’re symbolic of what hurt him -I.E a woman’

This makes sense but why is it always me , I set out to be the nice guy, have a one night stand with someone I dont want to be with but had a laugh with, Am at that tragic point where I need a friend so a night out is cool with me… then I fall for him and am victim to my own words.

They say honesty is the best policy. But how do you turn round now and be like , hey dude you cant treat me like this – ‘I am, I feel, this girl’s a person you now…’  Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do then to make plans only for you to cancel them on the same day?

My friends said I should either tell him to fuck off or how I feel but I can’t do either. How do you even say, hi mate so I said all that shit about not getting attached cos i didn’t fancy you, thought you weren’t right for me and felt guilty for letting you take me out, paying for everything and shagging you… but now I think you’re alright, I like you, in fact i really like you and I take back what I said…. FML.

If he liked me that much he wouldn’t have cancelled anyway. I’m free on Saturday now and if I had an inch of pride left I’d text him being like heyyyy saturday?!  But I don’t.he just wanted sex and I let him have it with the extra bonus of me being fun.

Moral of the story boys and girls? Protecting people who you don’t know from the start will come back to bite you in the ass. Honesty is the best policy.  I am accidentally hurting over someone I thought from the outset I never wanted to be with…No everyone says he’s using me but the truth is he isn’t…i gave him the invitation to do so in the first place.

I think I’m coming down…

.

‘I wish you could meet my girlfriend who lives in Canada’- boys who bullshit and girls who go crazy…

No matter how much older or supposedly wiser I get it never fails to baffle me just how pig stupid we can be when blinkered by the illusive veil of lust.  In pidgin English the pointless and sometimes neurotic crap we do when we like someone.

I am no stranger to the ridiculous games and outlandish lies men can tell. Everything from microwaved phones to monkey run public transport have made an appearance over the years but sometimes you get an absolute corker that just makes you stand back and think wow… dear god why couldn’t I have just been born a cat? I do crazy things, from texting too much to voicing explicitly the fact that they have been a completely see you next Tuesday (after accidentally drowning in the bottom of a wine bottle obvs) But occasionally girls do bat shit mental things that make me feel a lot saner about my life…thanks ladies.

After returning to the jungle and making me feel like a bit of a pillock, Mr. Tarzan came back about six weeks ago.. initially over a dodgy tree that eventually span into a web of filthy text messages that would make even Katie Price blush, but it was exciting. I did think it odd that he chose to respond via facebook after rejecting my friend request when we were dating…some excuse about a crashed wattsap, smooth but I didn’t question it.

He was impressed with me turning my life around and I was impressed that he was indulging his time in me. It was him who turned it flirty one night when I was minding my own busines, he said he wasn’t seeing anyone he’d been too busy. Sounded plausible.  This goes on for a while and as he’s actually texting me at the weekend I begin to question weather I acctually was bat shit crazy for going neurotic about his weekend houdini acts  and accusing him of having a weekend gf.  Who I imagine was tall with an ironing board stomach, luscious hair, drove a nice car and didn’t bus hop stinking of gin like I did.  Anyway on the Monday he tells me he’s moving to Canada, he’s got a 12 month visa, a job lined up and leaving in search of a better life. All fantasies of rekindling that Shrewsbury born flame over some posh red wine next to an open fire as Ed Sheeran’s ‘Thinking Outloud’ plays go out the window. BUT  after a series of msgs detailing exactly what he’d like to do to me under the desk we decide we should meet up for one hot night before he goes away , to finish things off.

Now I’m aware this screams, ‘run you silly bimbo you are worth more than this!!!’ but I fancied the pants off him and you always want what you can’t have. I find myself giggling as the Avenu Q song ‘My Girldfriend who lives in canada gets stuck in my head’ – a song about ‘tall tales’

Ohhhh…
I wish you could meet my girlfriend, my girlfriend who lives in Canada.
She couldn’t be sweeter
I wish you could meet her,
My girlfriend who lives in Canada!

Her name is Alberta
She live in Vancouver
She cooks like my mother
And sucks like a Hooverrrrr

Apparently he leaves mid June. He goes quiet.

I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself this week and as Barbie like as it sounds men who tell you how hot you are, are an instant ego boost. And this ego needs scratching.

So I msg him.

I say I’m his end if he fancies meeting up for a drink or something. Now to my delight he respons with ‘Drop by mine on your way home and have a brew, in all night’

I find myself filling with glee- oooh at his (parents) flash country manor, do I get to meet the dog? Maybe we could have a moonlit stroll in the grounds? He loves me in heels but there’s no way I’m going stomping round the countryside in sky high stilettos. What about those cute little kitten heels? OMG his favourite knickers are fresh out of the wash AMAZING.

Must. Keep. Cool.

I reply with okay if you like, Milk, no sugar medium consistency aha what’s the address?

#excited.com

He’s typing eeeeek.

I remember that sensation of getting butterflys when I could see he was online and typing back to me on watsapp with three xxxs with promises of taking time off work so we could go on an adventure.

Maybe his visa didn’t work out? Maybe I can get him to fall flat on his face over me. I hope his dog likes me. Dogs love me, and moms and siblings ahh I’m gonna nail this! Must.stop.thinking.

‘sorry my ex girlfriend hacked into my facebook. I’m not around at all today sorry.’

My heart beats fast and I feel a little sick. He told me he’d been single for over a year. No woman however crazy would still do something like that after all this time surely?

Then I get a msg with his address.

‘Your ex gf hacked into your fb?!’

‘Yes she’s crazy. She’s pissed because I went on holiday with my gf’

GF

My heart drops. I feel a little tear building.

‘what you said you’d been single for ages? And you have a girlfriend? I feel so stupid now. Were you seeing her when we met?’

‘Anna’

He then deactivates his account…

I don’t know what I feel more stupid over. Girlfriend. Urgh. No one goes on holiday with someone they’ve known for like a month unless they are smitten kittens. The lying toe rag. Was he seeing her at the same time? Did he choose her over me? As if he could commit to someone after all. All these thoughts race through my head and I feel pathetic. Would I really want to be with someone who sex texts other girls? Would I want to go on holiday with someone like this? Probably yes, anything to get out the rain jesus. And now I don’t even have the novelty of stalking her. For the best. I was just so much happier being unaware and thinking he was just this sociopath who didn’t want a relationship and was off to live in some Canadian forest where his only interaction would be with the odd beaver. No thats not a euphemism.

Silly Bridget.

It would have been worse if I’d have gone round. It would be like that scene in Bridget Jones where she turns up in the rabbit costume to find the skinny American in the bathroom. I bet she’s like a size two.

‘Oh you haven’t just met.’ ‘I thought you said she was slim?’

And then I go running out into the rain make-up splattering everywhere, go home and cry in the bath. ORRRR to the soundtrack of ‘I’m every woman’ I come out with something witty and intelligent put him completely in his place and walk out head held high with his entire family secretly high fiving me. I feel more sorry about the girl who sent me that msg, she must feel really shit. Pretty clever idea though I almost want to air high five her too. Maybe there was no girlfriend? Maybe he’s stuck in some kind of Me, Myself and Irene meets Fight Club battle with some dude called Malcom who shares the same body? Maybe that’s why he disappeared at the weekends… stop thinking Laura.

But I just don’t know what to believe anymore. I’ve inadvertently got myself caught up in this distorted love square thanks to the stalking qualities of social media. No wonder the little shit didn’t want to add me on facey B! If Bridget Jones was set in 2015 it would have only been about 10 minutes long. Wattsapped Daniel and seen he was online so had it out with him that way, saw the American stick insect like one of his profile pics, worked it all out and met Mark on Tinder.

I sit here thinking why is it always me, I swear only I could manage to get myself into these situations with world’s most dysfunctional men. Then again at least I haven’t tried to send someone somewhere on false pretences to get my own back. Well I guess there was that one time I sent the binty barman round to mine on the bus for a threesome while me and El giggled at his expense on the other side of London. Okay that was bad but that’s another story.

So I leave you with this thought- when you’re feeling stupid , alone and like you’ve done something that little bit crazy, remember there is someone about to make more of a tit of themselves and do something that little bit more batshit than you are right now. Moral of the story? Trust no boys ever, except your brother, you dog and maybe your gay best friend, they are okay. And while we’re at it probs never send explicit texts until a man officially belongs to you. they don’t deserve it otherwise.

Keep hope and trust in Bridget, she is your friend.

After

‘Wake me up when September ends’- Loosing yourself at the end of the twenties tunnel…

First day of June and the weather is enough make the happiest of bunnies want to slit their wrists. Where’s the sun? Where’s the shorts weather? I spent fifty quid on impulse buy flip flops when we had that random oasis of April sun and now they’re gathering dust…

Well I didn’t but I’m sure someone out there did and are now regretting moving the waterproof boots and quilted anoraks to the back of the wardrobe. There was always something magical about summer evenings, that feeling of being young and free, the notion that anything could happen- Club Tropicana drinks are free…

I started writing this blog over two years ago now as a picture book to piece it all together in the hope that in the end of it all I’d have got somewhere and reached whole new dizzy heights. It was a very simple and achievable premise but I was wrong. I have taken the crisis of the ‘twenty something’ to whole new levels and since then I have even less money, less self esteem and have managed to further isolate myself.  I used to be a bit of a joke because I was a hot mess to go. Now I am the biggest joke out because I am 27,. living at home , single and flab fighting,  on a string of prescription meds with about a tenner to my name. And this time I really can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.

It’s tempting to become a hermit and sleep the summer away, I may be a vegetable but at least I’m not a drunk. It wasn’t as bad when everyone was battling their demons but as time goes on and more and more people get their shit sorted, transcending into adults while I stub my toe on the corner of a 1998 Brownie Guides annul that was having a fling on top of a pile of relics lead by an old Sum41 album ( that legitimately happened) I begin to panic.

I secretly believed that I would always manage to suss it out eventually. But when more and more people make digs about how I will never have any money or settle it’s easy to feel like you’re slowly evaporating into your duvet. I’m strong, I’m feisty, I’m a go getter but recently I’ve just lost the spark that kept me going. Like all these blog posts have blurred into one, into a cyclical nature that will not change.

At least the one night stands, night bus crawls and hungover Mondays were a starting point?

I moved home to wrestle the demons, to sort it out and to a certain extent I did, the knots in my head have loosened and the negative chemicals diluted. But now it’s suffocating me. Like I’ve been sentenced to living on a lead. A sentence that I chose for myself and find it increasingly harder to appeal.

When we were younger we used to read that trashy magazine, ‘Pick Me Up’ out loud on the field as stories like ‘impregnated by hubby’s evil twin’ and ‘a parrot ate my face’ made us feel better about our lives. They posted a facebook status the other day asking  their readers if they felt it was selfish and a strain on the NHS for older women to to be having babies… AKA OVER THIRTY.

Jesus wept.

I’ve only got two and a half years till dirty thirty and managed to be mistaken for an eighteen year old the other day. Have I missed the boat because I spent the past decade training myself to be a writer and floundering in the rat race instead of finding the illusive Mr. right and popping out beautiful blonde sprogs?  I believe that everything happens for everyone in time but the rut I’ve got myself in is like getting burrowed in a cold damp cave.

I can’t afford to do anything with my summer and am in a possesive and controlling relationship with my bed- it wants to see me all the time and wont let me leave. Being a bit of a tradge fest wasn’t too bad when I was a hot mess because I was working long hours living in the city and daily human contact with more than my gran and the post man meant that I actually had things to write about.

I am now struggling, worried that I’ll never make it back, like I spent eight years in Narnia and now when I try to get back through the wardrobe all I can see is furcoats and moth balls. Brilliant.

The highlight of my day was being tweeted by some company called ‘Cure and Simple’ offering me two quid off mail order bacon….sexy.

In the words of Green Day – ‘Wake me up when September ends…’

of it all

Because we are living in a material world and I am a material girl- guilt, gluttony or glamour?

Self pity and wallowing aren’t attractive qualities `but sometimes there are those days when you wish it was socially acceptable to wear Pyjamas for all occasions. One of most nerve wracking scenarios is said to be waiting for the outcome of a job interview, test results, waiting for the illusive Mr. right to text back….. bollocks to this- the most stomach retching experience is sitting in your pjs scared shitless…. laptop open, webpage loading. You’ve built yourself up to this all morning, spent a good three days scared to look but now you have the confidence, you have the power- you can do this…. Do you what? you may ask- that brave and heroic task my friends is checking your back balance ten days after pay day.

You take a deep breathe and count to ten.  The damage looks something a bit like this…

£300 -Bill payment- effectively bailing yourself out for the money you borrowed from family whilst unemployed.

£72.66 – Selfridges (necessary purchases including sensible black shoes and two tops because you needed something to wear on a night out and the Topshop changing room queue went round the block)

£64.30 – Jack Wills- You were out of incredibly essential basic tops and exercise where that washes well AND THERE WAS A SALE.

£44 -Bank charges- the gits

£30 – Apple- left phone charger at home, had a load of meetings and was officially screwed (rookie error)

£27 – Browns Birmingham- meal for one that got out of hand.

£17.86 – Boots- emergency tampon trip but am still so immature that I have to fill a full basket full of crap and there was 3 for 2 on Soap and Glory #dangerous

£14.95 – Just Eat.com – don’t even remember this and am meant to be on a diet- FML.

£5 – United against Malaria- They gave me a pretty pink bracelet okay?!

Several other transactions made up of cash point trips for taxis, cheap wine and bad decision making – Available balance £249 pounds. Jesus wept.

I sit on facebook – the usual procrastination tool all these beautiful people photographed on beautiful locations with beautiful significant others- the last time I went abroad was Summer 2010 which thanks to festival eating gave me the shits and left me looking like a lobster in a bridesmaids dress. When i was between the ages of 20 and 21 I was obsessed with the tanned , Ralph Lauren wearing home counties posh boy with blue eyes which could make even a one eyed dog swoon. Completely out of my league but always very nice to me. Post university my news feed was littered with images of him jet setting in Dubai with an equally beautiful bronzed goddess snaps of them champagne sipping an designer clad as I sit in my primark pjs sipping on a bit of stale chardonnay.

Today facebook tells me that along with hoards of other post university couples that are now engaged and will probably no doubt in course have equally beautiful bronzed babies. It’s easy to sit there, watch these people on their South of France souries and think – what the fuck happened to me.  But in reality they were always living in a different league- the Jilly Cooper style lifestyle of prep school and polo. I once tied very hard to mimic this, in a Karen Millen dress and Gucci sunglasses at the Guards Polo Club Windsor with my little graduated bob- it’s laughable to think about it now but at the time I thought I was the bees knees – the things we do to fit in.

I would love the disposable income right now to just jump on a flight and get some summer sun… but in reality I’d probably get pissed, give myself sunstroke and get stung by a jelly fish.  There is nothing like that feeling of going to the glossy beauty counters , being treated like an A-lister (as they’re all on commission) and purchasing beautiful , sweet scented items of make up in gold packaging wrapped up in soft materialistic tissue. Grabbing a glass of Kir Royal in the Selfridges Champagne bar, because you can. Snuggling into a White Company Dressing Gown and feeling like the Queen of Sheba. Getting a taxi from Soho home to Fulham because you’re too pissed for the tube and secretly believe you might have been Audrey Hepburn in a past life – it’s all relative.

But these material things- are they really necessary, do they really make us happy? Especially if like me you took a pay cut, are surviving on 15k a year, have moved back in with your family and should know better? A Benefit mascara and a pressed powder won’t get you out of redundancy (even if it does come with a free mirror) and a chicken caesar salad with a glass of fizz in Balans won’t mend a broken heart. But then what does? Whilst given the choice between a soft Mulberry bag and the love of an intelligent man who finds my quirks and tragedies sexy and endearing, I know what I’d choose, but until that day comes we may as well find small pleasures in the little luxuries we can, be that a candle lit KFC or moonlit minute in Mulberry – providing it doesn’t make us bankrupt, as women we all deserve a little bit of glamour…

Sex in the suburbs- the dangers of being a small town singleton.

There is nothing worse than the embarrassment of bumping into someone who’s seen you legs akimbo. You can dress it up how you like but whatever degree of ‘stand’ it was be it a one night wonder, three week fling or full blown marriage material there is always going to be a slight air of awkwardness on both sides.

At school, college or campus based uni bumping into a lover/ crush / crazy stalker was a given. You were prepared for it. When getting ready for a night out at the student union I was fully aware of the eventuality that I may very well find myself staggering past the rugby player I’d bought home the week before locking lips on the dance floor with another blonde cheerleader and shattering my dreams of the elusive hoody wearing, hand holding, facebook official relationship I had in sight. At school you’d know your crushes time table and plan your hair washing days for the night before you had a lesson together so that you could flick your hair mid page turn and look like something out of a Lo’real advert- at least that was the idea…. I swear I got through more lip gloss en route to D-block on a Tuesday afternoon than a Friday night nightclub toilet. I can still remember that stomach wrenching sensation of walking into the college JCR on a Monday morning, seeing the guy who’d walked you home the night before laughing with his mates over at the foosball table, knowing full well that even though you’d spent the evening before staring up at their Sum41 poster and naming their collection of monkies, they would blank you. And if they did catch your eye it would be at the exact point in which you were taking a munch out of a sausage sandwich with ketchup on your nose – attractive.

But as we grow older and move away from institutionalised constraints, things change. Living in a city, while you could very well bump into a former fling, in reality the chances are minimal and unless you work together, when things blow up you’re safe to walk away in the knowledge that they wont see your mascara tears on the tube. I’ve been single on and off for a long time now and while I don’t flaunt it about, I’m no nun either – a fact of life which was just fine until I moved back home and got sucked back into that school like bubble where if you’re the kind to go out- everyone knows your business.

Whilst I’m not in the market for marriage I still have a level of pride and a small shred of dignity to keep intact. One which as single shaker in a tiny town is beginning to become stretched. A few months back in London we had people from home to stay when my flat mate asked how we knew each other my mate responded with a universal truth- ‘the same way everyone in sedgley knows each other- shagging people.’ In the same way as uni, anyone you pull that one time will no someone you know – be it your brother, lover’s mother, primary school teacher or someone you bought a hamster on that one time in 98…. There WILL be a tedious connection and fifty mutual facebook friends.

With this in mind I should have prepared myself for the inevitable crash and burn. Or at least worn something better than a baggy French bulldog t-shirt and pink skinny jeans. Pastel young dreams.

It was a Sunday evening and we fancied a pint. Everyone knows the best place for a Sunday pint is the Beacon so that’s what we did. It was that cold breeze of early summer that makes you want to sit outside but one fag and half a pint in your freezing your nipples off so you go inside. We sit on the wooden benches and the familiar fear pops into my head of ‘shit, what if I get a splinter in my bum?’ So far a standard start to Sunday drinking.

My friends innocently, ‘Did anything happen with that chap from last week?’

I take a large swig of my cheap wine…

‘He’s sat over there…’

This comes as a shock to my friend as in the LPJ land of by gone days I’d have made a right song and dance out of it. Bumping into someone like that would start a familiar cycle along the lines of this-

Get the fear, start talking loudly, ferociously reapply lip stick, look like a clown, sip drink quickly, make glass look like a clown in the process, make a point of going to the bar to talk to them leaving a poor friend to idly mooch around face book while my OTT giggle echos and I make a massive tit out of myself- not with LPJ mark 27.0.

‘We’ll have these and move on then?’

‘I’m fine’

And I was, admittedly it was awkward as hell, I’d had a mini fling with someone not much older than my little brother (classy) and while it was just a bit of fun It’s always embarrassing when you’re the one who gets the shame of the text msg based dump. That was only Wednesday. I smiled and said hello as he walked past and caught my eye because it would have been rude not to but within ten minutes the soap opera that unfolds is something that could only happen in Sedgley….

They start talking loudly about a girl he took out on Friday.

‘OMG look what she’s been sending me after just one date!’

As they laugh about this poor girl and devise the perfect ‘let’s not take it any further text’ the angry feminist in me starts do over time. He would have been sat there having a very similar conversation about me at one point, giggling and laughing along at my expense. I feel for the girl even though I don’t know her and find myself getting angry both of our behalves. As he dictates the words he’s about to send , remarkably similar to the ones I’d received only days previously, the soundtrack to Chaka Khan’s ‘I’m every woman’ come’s into my head alongside the image of that Bridget Jones scene where she say’s she’d rather have a job wiping Saddam Hussein’s arse than working inches from Daniel Cleaver and the words just leave my mouth….

I turn to the next table and call his name in a normal, none threatening conversational tone, he turns round. Everyone looks at me.

‘I’ve still got the same text you sent me on my phone the other day if you want me to forwarded it to you so you can use that instead to send to her if you like? Instead of drunk typing a new one from scratch?’ I say it so sincerely and unquestionably that he looks like he wants the ground to swallow him as I turn back round and his friends laugh at his expense but it’s what happens next that puts the icing on the cake…

He whips out a photo of the girl in question and the woman on the table behind pipes up- ‘Isn’t that your girl?’

Her father was sat directly behind him and had been for the entirety of the conversation. Moral of the story? If you’re going to shag about in a tiny town – don’t shit on your own door step….

These cringe scenarios of melodramas with past conquests are something I’d put behind me a long time ago – in the box with the NUS card and Topshop discount. So seeing the funny side of the joke no longer being on me, I have added a new rule to my roller parchment of bad dating etiquette

• don’t date anyone within a ten mile radius of your house, former school or local pub, you may as well just post your tits on ‘spotted Sedgley’ for all the good it will do you…..

But keep your head held high because one day your prince will come and if he doesn’t then so what- the only person worth finding is your fabulous self.

And just as some free advise for anyone out there reading this- never fuck with a writer…

‘You’re so sexy beautiful, everyone wants a taste…’ Why it’s okay to want to be single

As a woman with a dating track record to rival Bridget Jones, I like many other girls in my situation thought I had some kind of pre-conditioned disease. A disease in which society had labelled me a dried up spinster because I went along to events with a pair of high heels and gin an tonic as my plus one and spent my Christmases devoid of that magic little gold gift under the Christmas tree. That my sexual experiences became one off incidents with ex, perves and commitment phobics and the closest I was going to get to marriage would be the likelihood of badly worded proposition from a dodgy Russian after a visa.

Then recently this lightning bulb moment forged half way between the first nights of summer and another short lived encounter hit my smack bang in the middle of my forehead.

We were driving through Warwickshire with the windows down as the sun blazed- that magic first summer style sun that makes you feel like something fresh is coming and anything could happen. I remembered that sensation, the first week back at uni after the Easter holidays just that first glimmer of sun set off the spark for what felt like eternal summer. Just a whiff of warmer weather and the place turned into ‘Costa del quad’ with everyone suddenly donning flip flops and consuming copious amounts of pimms on the grass. It was a hazy time that made hangovers and hay fever all blend into one.

And in these first few weeks of the season I still feel that warming vibe. As we drove my friend asked me the dreaded question face by all singletons- ‘so tell me about your love life’ as I drooled through the odd place I’d found myself in after a few years of turmoil she said it was okay to not want a wedding by Wednesday to have fun for once and not worry what anyone thought about me because I was effectively getting over a bit of a life shock.

Now I’m not saying there is anything wrong with being in a relationship or embarking on a lasting commitment for that matter- but it’s okay to say that right now it’s not for you- you don’t need to have an excuse or justify yourself for choosing a solo summer. I’m the first to admit that I love being around  men – the way it feels to be held by one, the sexiness of sitting in the sun with a lipstick print on your wine glass as they take your hand and place your hair behind your ear. BUT they also fart, moan and can become pretty incontrollable drunks – which combined with a force as feisty and ill behaved as me can spark a chemical reaction for chaos.

But for a girl to turn round and say she’s just happy having fun with someone makes them sound like a bit of a slut bag. And if you don’t except said slut bag status the arrangement can become laced with jealousy and paranoia. Because we’re only human after all right? Or does it? There are the terms ‘single,’ ‘taken’ ‘other.’ I propose a ‘single, ‘taken,’ ‘strawberry’ approach- Strawberry being that light soft and fruity summer sensation- the not too heavy flirty fruit that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Something that adds flavour to summer without going gooseberry sour. Because why take the fun out of dating and getting to know someone? Sometimes it’s time to take a chill pill and let nature rather than the social expectations of technology take it’s course….