The Feathery Stroker...

Last weekend I spent my Saturday at a tweet up. For those of you that our not lovers of twitter as I am, let me elaborate; a tweet up is when a small or large group of tweeters, who converse on twitter, select a time and date to be in a specific location at the same time. I know what you're all thinking; THAT IS SO WILD! You'd be right. We are the embodiment of Rock and Roll over on that social network. Quite Obvs.

Last weekend came the time for a tweet up once again and this time I was meeting with the creme de la creme. There were four of us in total and I'm afraid our Capital City was going to regret being the easiest location to house our wee gathering. I envisioned that this tweet up would bring out my girliest and giggliest side. It did. I even thought about grabbing a boob a two. What can I say, I was quite literally giddy. I felt as if I was 14 again and it was the first time I'd been allowed to go shopping in Brighton with my girlfriends, unaccompanied by an adult (when I was 14 and I did head off to the heights of Brighton for the first time, I wore a floor length skirt. With a slit up to my thigh. With a tight fitting jumper. And, if I'm not mistaken 'high heals'. It shames me even now to think of it. I have no doubt of my mothers laughter at her youngest daughter the whole time I was out. Let's move on now, shall we!? Thanks).

So what made the anticipation to this tweet up so very exciting? The location? Nope, I'm a total London whore. I'm lucky enough to have lived there and have the closest friends and family still residing in its effortlessly cool surroundings. The itinerary? It was lunch and a pub; hardly heart palpitating stuff there is it!

There was one reason and one reason only for my child like excitement, and that was the girls themselves. The conversations the four of us find ourselves in during our twitter ramblings replica the conversations I have with The Blonde One and Dynasty. Not an easy task.

I knew that we would get along famously. I knew that I would both snort with laughter and spit out my drink at least once. I knew I would laugh so hard that tears would leave my eyes and a little wee might escape from Athena (yes, she has a name). How was I so confident of this summary? Because they are all things that have happened when conversing with them on twitter. The thought of being alone without the restraints of a social networking site, well, I could only imagine. Don't try and imagine this yourself, you may implode. And then you won't be able to read my musings and that would cause me great sadness and I am almost certain that none of you want that, right? Guys? Guys?

The girls did not disappoint. They were warm, beautiful and so side splittingly funny that if the night had continued, singing involving "I will always Love You!!" may have escaped my lips. I may have even showed them my bra. Oh, shucks, I did do that. Don't judge me, I was nervous. It just happened. Like verbal diarrhoea but with my hands and the top of my bra. You would have done the same if you'd been wearing your pretty red bra too. Stop looking at me like that.

Moving on.

The subject, as we all knew it would, turned to men. Boys. We analysed current love interests and then laughed at the childest way we said (OK, fine, the way *I* said) "but look he left five kisses. He never leaves kisses. What does that mean!?" I'm telling you men do not do this. I imagine those conversations goes something along the lines of "Yeah, then I said 'Man, you are a little fittie. And she was like 'Yeah, baby!' So that's cool!" "Nice one, mate!" *throws arms in the air* If I ever thought I wasn't much of a girl, last weekend proved me wrong. I talked about The Boy with hope, lust and despair and blushed when answering questions about him. I giggled at the girls stories and found myself yelling "I know, right!! I've so done that. Why do we do it!? WHY!?" The feeling of belonging and normality filled me within a few seconds and stayed with me until I hugged them all good bye.

I couldn't possibly go into the fine detail, the blueprint of our day, however, one conversation has had such an impression on me that I feel the need to share with you all. It has changed me, perhaps forever.

The one that shall now be known as The Silent Crier (an ironic name that I hope will make her titter) shared an expression with us that her friends and her use to explain, in the simplest of terms, why a guy hasn't cut the mustard, tickled the funny bone or made the ovaries do backflips, and that expression is "The Feathery Stroker". I laugh even writing it.

Let me explain. The Feathery Stroker is a guy who doesn't take the lead. Who is so far removed from the lead that he's wondering around in a different country to the lead asking people for directions. In the wrong language. A guy who ASKS if he can kiss you, instead of just taking in his arms and surprising you before you can bite that bottom lip of yours (don't lie, we all do it!). A guy who cries silently when you're sleeping because of your beauty alone (yes, sadly The Silent Crier has had to suffer this. Hence the ironic name. Can you even imagine the horror!) A guy who draws you when you're sleeping (just, why!?). A guy who asks "am I doing it right?" during sexy time. If you're looking for a mood killer, look no further. I want to add "A guy who grabs his guitar and just jams, improvises a ditty about your beauty" but The Red Lipped One may hit me.

A Feather Stroker is a man that needs too much encouragement. A guy who doesn't scoop you up in his arms, kiss you and make your heart leap into your throat before you even know what is happening. A guy who wouldn't dream of leaving, knocking at the door a few seconds later only to kiss you, smile seductively and leave again. The Boy really knows how to make me melt sometimes.

To quote The Silent Crier herself when discussing our despair at a Feathery Stroker " 'Was it good for'... 'Can I touch your'... Get out now...go and cry silently at someone else" She doesn't mince her words and why should she. It's true. It's so hard to find someone you connect with and when that person turns out to have about as much sex appeal as a small rubber duck, well, it's enough to send our hormones into a rage.

Of course, there are some of you out there that are probably thinking, some of us like a gentleman. I agree, I haven't grown up on the novels of Jane Austen without developing a love of true gentlemanly conduct, but can you honestly say that Fitzwilliam Darcy would have turned to Elizabeth of their wedding night at said "sorry, darling, do you mind terribly if I just put my hand on your breast there? Thank you so much. Capital news!". Of course, he wouldn't. He would have grabbed her by her lace bodice and unbuttoned her dress so slowly that the chill running up and down her spine would have giving Bolt a run for his money. Would Fitzwilliam have pointed to the bed and said " shall we?". Not Darcy, he would have swooped up his new wife and placed her on the bed in one movement before kissing Elizabeth so passionately that she would have almost missed his hands touching and teasing every inch of her skin. Fitzwilliam Darcy is the definition of a gentlemen and not one section of his character screams Feathery Stroker.

But why should this have changed me so much? Because this week, when conversing with The Boy I have suddenly realised that perhaps from time to time I have let myself be a tad 'Feathery Stroker'. Or at least the capability of Stroker tendencies. This will not do. I have not stopped the mush, however, I have made sure I have not held back when it comes to mocking. If I don't like a feeble and feathery one, why should a man? So girls, boys, members of the animal kingdom, please listen; if you feel a spark or that undeniable heat between you and another, and the person that is looking at you has a mischievous smile and a longing in their eyes...just sodding kiss them. If you ask them beforehand, I will hunt you down and I will fart in your general direction before tattooing "Feathery Stroker" on your chest. Don't make me use my cross face!

If you have to ask, you might as well say "sorry, do you mind if my mother watches!?" for that is how much passion you have removed.

If you feels yourself having Feathery Stroker tendencies, just think "What would Darcy or Elizabeth do?" It may just give you the best kiss you've had all year.

Who's that girl? Who's that girl? It's...

Today I was feeling a little sorry for myself. OK, that's a lie, I was feeling a lot sorry for myself. How vile, I agree.

Not at work, of course (as you know I love my job. Hearts and flowers, revolting love and that), just to clarify. My team and I cursed the world for thrusting Monday upon us so quickly after the last one, joked about our in-sync foul moods and by the time lunch came around, I was me again. Laughing so hard at a text message a friend sent me that a colleague thought I was having a seizure. Sometimes my own attractiveness is overwhelming. How do mortals look upon my face and not weep with joy? It's one of the worlds greatest mysteries. Perhaps we will never know for sure.

After a brief chat with one of my fellow teachers and all round favourite person, I was feeling good. I walked home through my beloved city in all its Christmas festivity and I couldn't think of anywhere in the world I would rather be. But then I stepped into my tiny flat, sat on the sofa and thought how I would never again be sat here with The Boy teasing my way into his arms.

Why did I have to be a K-K-K-Katie girl? Why did I have to be complicated? What is the use of being quirky if the only person who finds my quirkiness adorable is in a relationship? For that brief second I didn't want to be A K-K-K-Katie girl. I wanted to be A Simple Girl. If The Boy wanted simplicity, I wanted to give him that.

And then, as if a spell had been cast upon me, I was over it. How? I shall explain.

My old tiny screened, video playing tv was on in the background (which is a habit I should get out of, I agree), and without warning I was reminded of who I am. Of me.

New Girl, staring one my favourite American actresses, Zooey Deschanel, was squeezed onto my miniature screen and there I was; Jess Day (Deschanel's hopelessly befuddled character). No, I am definitely not as cute or attractive, and I have no issue with swearing (I like swearing. Swearing's my favourite!) but that aside, there I was. When New Girl first came to our shores from the Americas, an alarming amount of friends messaged, tweeted and told me that I was so alike Deschanel's character Jess, that if they hadn't known any better, they would have bet their mortgage that Jess Day was, in fact, based on me. I was flattered. I may have danced. I may have even sung "Who's that girl? Who's that girl? It's Jo!" but who can remember.

And it's true. In the very first episode of New Girl, we find Jess trying to be sexy for her (bastard cheating) boyfriend. She does a wee striptease whilst singing "I'm doing sexy things to the pillow!" before knocking over a plant. It always reminds me of the time I brought up my love of World War II history when lying naked with The Boy. Being Schmexy all the time is hard for some people, alright!!

Back to Jess; in that same episode we see her heading out on her first date since her boyfriend, Spencer, cheated on her. We find Jess stood in a pair of dungarees and heals as her best friend demands she changes and Jess' response; "I was going for a sexy farmers daughter thing. 'Ooh, I'm going to milk the cows. With my bucket!'..." I was once went to a slutty uni night dressed as a Norwegian Milkmaid. In Timberland boots. And a woolly Norwegian jumper. And a woolly hat. And no cleavage. And apparently that's not the sexiest look for a night out. Who made up these rules? WHO?

Like Jess, I like to burst into song. I like to quotes films, songs and anything else that has a tenuous link with the scenario I'm in. I like to don any accent that pops into my head. I like doing Kermit The Frog impressions. I like wearing my pyjamas to work with my hair in bunches, bear ears and conduct a meeting with a new parent. I like that Sister and I finished her wedding reception by dancing (the proper dance from the film. Obviously!!!!) to "So Long, Farewell". I am who I am and if works so well for Deschanel it earns her an Emmy nominee then who am I to change a winning formula.

I will still curse my ways for not being typical and always wonder how different and simpler my life would be if I didn't feel the need to quote Blackadder every time someone mentioned an aardvark. Or Dr Johnson.

On the plus side, it turns out that I really am quite girly. And here I was thinking my name was Clive.

Counting to five...

I am a teacher, did I tell you guys that? I forget. But I am. I teach two sets of children; mainstream and a small group of children with Profound and Multiple Learning Difficulties or PMLD as it's more commonly known. Minus all the paperwork that comes with it, I'm not sure I could physically, emotionally or mentally love my job more than I do. It is my savour. I don't live near my closest friends, but my job fills me with such joy that it makes the distance seem worth it. Most of the time.

The children I teach are very young and so I try to have a very nurturing but lively approach with them. With my mainstream children, if it is time for our all together carpet lesson and they are not sat how I would like them to be, I tell them that I am going to close my eyes, count to five and when I open them again everyone will be sat beautifully and ready for our lesson to begin/continue, etc and they will have made me so very happy (yes, basically, my working day is spent acting as if I am a Disney character). It has a near on 100% success rate. Their wondering faces as I open my eyes is something that is sure to raise a genuine smile that hits my eyes.

It has got me thinking; why isn't everything in life this simple? Yes, I have always believed that anything worth having is worth fighting for, but as I sit here trying to work out if 'what I really want' is the same as 'what is good for me' (and yes, it bloody well is. Just saying!) I can't help but think that sometimes, just sometimes I wish life were as innocent and simple as the minds of my beloved first class. When things are getting tough I will announce that "I am going to close my eyes, count to five and when I open them again The Boy will be there and say 'Fuck it all, I'm here for now'..."

Of course, if I tried this and by some miracle it did work I'd probably start questioning how The Boy got into my flat without a set of keys when the door is locked. And then I would assume that I am now a magical witch with powers. Obvs. I would begin running through all of the powers and spells that the Halliwell sisters have shown us all (The Charmed Ones. I confess, I really love that show!). Failing my ability to orb, I would check other magical powers by way of a very quick trial of my Samantha Stephens style nose twitch (Bewitched!). And then the realisation that I am very easily distracted would hit me at full speed and I would ponder whether this distractibility has any effect on my everyday life. Wait, sorry, what were we talking about again? How's your pet llama? That's right, yes?

I jest. Of course.

I know that it's all our complexities that make us who we are and are, in essence, what we adore in each others characters, but for this small period of time on this cold and bright Sunday, I would like nothing more than to close my eyes, count to five and have The Boy appear with no complications left. Really, is that so much to ask?

Hello stranger...

Is there any simpler joy in this world than People Watching? The eccentricities that make up the human race have baffled us for centuries. Why did Bernard get that particular type of cancer? Why is Hubert so much more intelligent than the rest of his family put together? Why is Pietro autistic when his twin brother Fred is not? Where does Josephine's obsession, passion and faith in Nutella come from?

We're all so incredibly different and yet somehow, in essence, we're the same. It's the complexities in our human nature and our lack of understanding in the great power of the human brain that leads each and every one of us to be fascinating and unique in our own way.

There are times during family dramas where I'm left thinking; how am I related to people that are so opposite to me? That is not necessarily a negative thought, more of an observation. And I doubt it not that they all think the same thing about me from time to time. And then there are those people on twitter who share their views on the world, and I find myself humming the "twilight zone" music because I can't help but feel slightly freaked by the intense similarities I share with someone I have never met before.

We are complex and we are the dogs bullocks, the cats meow, the llamas pyjamas, the shit. We really are pretty awesome and wonderful.

Perhaps this is why I find People Watching so very interesting and entertaining. Each morning I wait at the station for my lift into work from one of my favourite colleagues. Sometimes the wait can be less than a second, other times I sit and people watch for almost half an hour. I find it therapeutic and blissful.

It's at these times, when I am patiently sitting and waiting that I like to people watch the most. I look at their outfits and the way they hold themselves. Whether they stand tall and look straight ahead with an air of Royalty or whether they are more apologetic for their appearance than Death itself. Why is one the very definition of confidence and the other so low? I will never stop wondering.

So I like to give the people I am studying back stories. Mundane everyday scenarios, which always seem to end with the nervous looking heroine running off with the milkman or ticket man (to Paris. Obvs), to the far fetched stories involving spies working from this tiny borough of Manchester. Of course, they're living here because they are undercover and are being investigated by such a suspicious individual who will investigate every area of their life with such accuracy that our hero needs to have a pretty unshakable back story and fake life. Have I gone into too much detail there? Crap! I won't share with you then the plots that play out in my head for the simply dressed, timid looking female who, in my head, may look shy but spends her weekends as the powerful and seductive Dom to the CEO of The Co-Operative Bank plc. She may be timid in the wee small hours of the morning before the sun has risen but when she's in the penthouse suite in the centre of Manchester, there is no one who holds more power.

Today has been a wonderful day for me. Unplanned, remarkable events have taken place today and I've been walking around with such happiness, pride and excitement that I'm not going to lie, if today were a person I would have tugged on its collar until our mouths did meet and demanded heavy petting with only the raise of an eyebrow!

When walking home through the streets of Manchester tonight, my iPod shuffled its way to 'Silent Night' (no, I do not skip the Christmas songs. Yes, I do know it's only November. No, I don't care if you just rolled your eyes. Christmas songs fill me with joy, so suck it!), the gentle sound and classical rhythms cocktailed with the beautiful lights illuminating those familiar trees I have come to love, I could not keep the beam from my face. As each person walked toward me leaving this great city for their suburban homes, the fictional back stories for these magnificent people passing me by became less elaborate and more "rom com". For example, the couple that walked hand in hand were no longer any old happy couple but instead the couple that were going to enjoy a Christmas proposal. Involving fireworks, the sliding of that all important ring and the simple whisper of "What do you think?". I wish them every happiness. Fictionally.

Of course, the girl biting her lip and gazing over at the beyond dreamy guy one pace in front of her, who is looking quizzically into his feet are clearly both in separate and unhappy relationships but have, only moments before, given into their recent flirtation and shared their first kiss in the quietness of St Ann's Square. "Too Many Broken Hearts In The World" magically pops into my mind and I wonder if they will be brave enough to leap forward with their new found love.

People Watching reminds me of how important we all are to the ones that hold us dear and yet insignificant to the hundreds of faces we passed each and everyday. Nothing we do will cause the end of the world, so just relax and take a minute or two to look, really look, at those faces that pass you by. You never know when one might change your world.

Happy Diwali!

I grump no more...

This evening my train is running over an hour late. My train is near on always delayed. Since early September it has managed to be on time once. Although, I do sometimes get the hour earlier train. Still delayed but then possibly the original train isn't. It matters not, my train is supposed to arrive at one minute past the hour. It never does. It's less reliable than the Tory government. Yes, really.

This evening is the worst yet. With each passing minute it gains two extra minutes in its "expected time of arrival". Most of the time the delay in time washes off my back as easily as my hair conditioner. No use crying over spilled milkshake and all that jazz. But not tonight. Tonight I am grumpy. Tonight life seems unfair. Tonight I want the whole public transport to be burgled. In the middle of the damn night with nothing left to its name but the timetable that it is suppose to be following.

Why am I so cross? Why am I feeling such loathing for an inanimate object when I have no where to be? I do have a mountain of paperwork but still. Did I have a bad day at work? Not at all. It was fabulous. The children adored the Diwali story of Prince Rama, his beautiful wife Sita, the Evil Demon King Ravana and the rather helpful and kind Monkey King Hanuman. We danced and sang to Jai Ho and This Little Light of Mine until we could dance no more. And on top of it all one of the cheekiest and most beautiful children I have ever had the pleasure to teach, one with severe and complex needs sat unaided for a short length of time. The pride that has been bursting through my veins today has been almost overwhelming.

So why the Hitler style hatred? I can think of only two reasons; this week is the anniversary of My Little Dragons death, and I haven't spoken to The Boy properly in just over a week. I can't remember the last time that was so. But now I am angry at myself. Of course I am going be saddened by My Little Dragons anniversary, he was more special to me than almost anyone I have ever met. But if my subconscious is really trying to tell me that I am now sulking at the absences of The Boy, then we need words. Strong, sweary words with bite.

I do not mope. I do not pine. I do not sulk. Never more have I needed to get a grip and be smacked on the bottom with a Woman's Weekly. And thanks to this post, I now have.

However, if you do see a curvy southern brunette walking the streets of Manchester, call out "Not tonight, Josephine" and should she turn and smile knowingly then I give you all full permission to slap me and ban me from Nutella for the whole evening.

Unless you are my twitter crush...
...But you'll know what to do.

No man is an island..

I found this post that I wrote back in September this year. It was during my first week at my new job. I'm not sure why I didn't post it, but here it is;

"I live alone now. Did I tell you that? No, of course I didn't. I disappeared off the face of the earth without so much of a hello for months. I know, I'm an awful person. Throw me in the gutter until I vaguely resemble Jean Val Jean in the beginning of Les Mis. Tad dramatic!? Well, that is my style.

I'm digressing, aren't I? Oh yes, I live alone. After a little light back stabbing from previous flat mates, it's been heavenly. If I want to leave the washing for a week; I do. If I want to walk around in my birthday suit; I do. If I want to watch the Para/Olympics 24 hours without break whilst having heart palpitations during every other event; I do. If I want to dance around to musical numbers at midnight; I bloody well do.

This week, however, things were different. I've started my new job. It was stressful. I was nervous. My stomach felt full and unpleasant. I was excited. I could barely eat. My palms became sweaty. My head felt light. I was exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Completely. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't wake up.

But because Manchester still doesn't hold the amount of friends that London or my hometown hold (YET), I had no one to tell. There was no one to excitingly ask how my day was when I arrived home. There was no one to offer to cook because of the bags under my eyes and the pain radiating down into my feet. There was no one there to gossip with about my wonderfully kind new team. There was no one to reassure me that I can do this. Or merely offer me up a rejecting-all-things-grown-up high five. I was alone. And I felt it.

To top it all, Dynasty was having early birthday drinks in London, The Blonde One drank so much white wine that her Saturday morning texts were somewhat amusing to a well slept best friend. However, they spent their Friday night drinking and enjoying each others company with a handful of other wonderful London living folk and I was not there. I missed out as I must get used to doing.

My heart is craving company but my head is too busy to give into her demands. For the first time my flat felt empty. If felt ominous. It felt cold. I wither on about the importance of independence and I still firmly believe in that, but last week independence could have screwed itself from here to the Indian oceans, and I would have done anything for some good old fashioned rescuing. What did I truly need rescuing from? I couldn't tell you, but sometimes we just all need someone, whether that be a family member, a friend or a lover, to swoop in and just be with you, next to you, there."

I have found it very interesting to look back at that post. I can honestly say I don't remember feeling such strong feelings, but they were obviously there. I'm very happy to report that I no longer feel the loneliness that took hold that week. I come home and I'm sometimes eternally grateful for the peace and quiet. The stillness of living alone. Occasionally, after a particularly stressful day I do wish there was someone here to make me dinner or do the washing up (something I hate so very much that if I ever found someone that would do my washing up for me, I would insist on us marrying that very day), but it never last for any length of time.

As for rescuing? I'd have to say that I'm unchanged in my view. As much as I believe we all need the opportunity to stand on our own two feet, to know that you can do it. If all else goes horribly wrong in your life, you can make it to the other side on your own, I also feel that no man is an island. Certainly not this man. So to speak (because I'm a woman. Obviously. Do keep up).

I have not always been of this opinion. Being as dyslexic as I am, during my GCSE years, A level years and so on I felt that if I had any help given to me, the grades would not be my own. I refused to let my mother even proof read my work. Stubborn fool comes close to representing me back then. The older I get, the more places I work, the more complex my job becomes the more I realise that you can't do it alone. And frankly, I wouldn't want to. Because of the complex needs of the children I now teach I have a team of five TA's and I can honestly say that without them you'd find me rocking back and forth. In a corner. Of the toilets. Muttering something about paperwork, display boards, meetings and therapy putty. They enable me to enjoy my job as much as I do and I'm grateful to them each and every day. Sometimes I get overwhelmed and manically hug them all. But whenever I do something truly bizarre and out of the ordinary I simply lie and tell them 'it's a southern thing'. I don't think they buy it.

When this years birthday plans fell through Dynasty dropped all her plans and came up to Manchester to spend the weekend with me. There's a reason she's such a favourite.

When I was financially as tight as a politicians tax forms, The Blonde One offered to lend me money until my new job started. I didn't take it, but the knowledge that it was there was enough to relieve the majority of the stress. I will be forever in love with this tiny blonde beauty.

A few weeks ago I became frightened when a drunken wanker tried to physically push me around on the street, The Boy reassured me that if I felt scared and needed reassurance again then he would be there to help me. Not matter what's gone on.

When I was sad and asked twitter for cake, My Twitter Soul Mate sent me homemade biscuits. With love.

And there isn't a blog big enough to mention my family.

I am not an island. Yes, I can probably get by on my own, but I don't want to. What is the point in great success if there is no one there to celebrate with champagne? And then laugh at your drunken dancing. What is the point in horrendous and embarrassing dates if there are no friends to relate the events to? What is the point in a home if you can't fill it with photos of those ridiculous members of the human race you adore? What is the point of screaming someone's name if you can't look into their eyes, smile, blush and mock them until they stop you with a kiss?

I may not be an island, I may be an entire world of complications, confusion and damn right frustration with all the people I surround myself with but I wouldn't be an island if you paid me all the money in the world. With no one to share it with, what would be the use of it?

Yes, I may have been overwhelmed in that first week of my new job and reading that post was more than a little uncomfortable, but if it reminds me of the ones I love and need, then perhaps we all need to feel a little lost and overwhelmed at times.

Now who's ready for a snog? I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy inside and I need to share it! *winks* (Told you I was a flirt!)

To flirt or not flirt...

From time to time I find myself being an outrageous flirt. I flirt with everything. Quite literally. I have even been known to flirt with Dynasty's sofa (it's a beautiful sofa that puts up with me when drunk. What else is there to do but flirt? Honestly, it'd just be rude not to. I do have manners, thank you). But is the flirting I, as so many others involve themselves in, helpful or harmful?

One method to mend my bruised heart has been to enjoy the distracting art of flirtation. Harmless flirtation. Flirtation that won't lead to anything scary or real. Flirtation that ensures I don't ponder away about The Boy. More than I do. But it has got me thinking; is there such a thing as harmless flirtation? Or is it all just a slippery slop to heartache?

A brilliantly witty twitterer I adore told me the only way to get over one guy was to get under another *blushes*. She's meant to be Catholic. Oh right, yeah. Good point. But I digress.

I didn't feel quite up for jumping in the sack with the first Tom, Dick or Harry that winked in my direction, I've never been that sort of girl. I doubt I ever will be. But a little flirtation to help brighten the spirits, now that is something I can do. Working in a school, my work flirtations are somewhat limited. No fluttering of the eyelashes by the water cooler for me. Although that has never stopped me day dreaming about Diet Coke Style Water Breaks that could take place. Schools just do not provide the eye candy you need when it is most desired. How I miss The Cute TA at times. Both of them.

If you are a particularly beautiful man without a job, please consider becoming a school care taker. With the lack of testosterone within most schools you would have near on all the women inside that educational building eating out of the palm of your hands. Can you imagine it...!? Sorry, I seemed to be a little distracted. What were we talking about again? Flirtation. Of course. Thank you, beautiful *winks*

I must make it clear that I really don't see all I do and say as flirtatious but others have said otherwise. I flirt as much with my girlfriends as I do with any male that comes my way. So all that know me know that I am merely a friendly girl who likes to make people giggle. When I become slightly timid, blush uncontrollably and smile in that deranged way only reserved for the truly smitten then we're in trouble. Then I want to be naughty. And I don't categorise the two different flirtations in the same league.

I feel that, for the majority of the time, I am sensible with my flirtatious ways. I have the smallest of crushes on a distant friends boyfriend. So I make sure that there is nothing that would ever be construed as flirting. Especially after the naughty dream I had about him a few weeks ago. I've never felt more guilty. And nothing was done. Damn you, Catholic guilt.

You all know by now of my love of twitter and although I have adored my interactions with my quirky followers for years now I have never really understood the whole "twitter crush" thing others talk about. How can you have a crush on someone you've never met? A proper crush that is. Not the ones we all get on a handsome celebrity or two. Friendship on twitter, yes, I understand completely. I have met up with a few tweeters and I've adored all of them. But a proper crush? A crush that makes you smile like a barefoot toddler at Christmas? I couldn't relate. And then it happened. I went and got all smitten. The boy in question, for obvious reasons now known as The Twitter Crush, was one of those tweeters that is so very amusing you don't think they notice your little tweets confessing your love of Nutella. Yes, you talk back and forth with them but surely they talk to everyone in the same manner? So when I was notified that he began following my Instagram account, well, I may have let out a little 'Eeek!'. Pathetic. I agree. You can imagine the smile that came racing to my face the moment he voiced his puzzlement at The Boy for not being with me. And let's not mention his dimples.

The flirtation between us is fun. And it's exactly what has been missing. Flirting with someone rather amusing with no harm in it leading anywhere has been one of the best remedies to my heart ache. So with thanks to the first person since I realised I could feel something real and passionate, I say as long as you flirt responsibly and know who you can and can't flirt with, flirtation is one of the best things in human nature.

I challenge you all to dabble in the art of flirting as soon as the possibility arises. When was the last time you actually flirted with your other half? But if nothing else go and flirt with that mouth watering piece of cake you've been saving. Or that glass of Rosé that always hits the spot with more perfection than a Chanel necklace. No, it may not tell you you are dead cute, but we must all start somewhere.

(Warning; always flirt responsibly. According to twitter, it may lead to lots and lots of trouble. Why is there not a degree in this!? Oxbridge, I'm free for discussion. As you were.)

So Long and Farewell, My Little Dragon

This Halloween should have been a celebration. My Little Dragon should have been surrounded by love and showered with gifts. He should have been free to spend his day building the biggest birthday Lego tower known to man, eat all the pasta that he could stomach and force us all to dance to McFly. But that didn't happen and it never will again.

My Little Dragon was autistic, he lit up my day with his smile alone and he was taken from my life cruelly, unjustly and without warning. He died. He was gone. And I was left without my ray of sunshine, My Little Italian Dragon. Life's harshest lesson was thrust upon me and I was not ready for it.

In less than two weeks nearly three years will have gone by. Since I said good bye. Since I last saw him. Since he last knotted my hair and said "I miss you, JoJo."

Accepting his death was a challenge I was not ready for. Are any of us ever ready to say good bye to a child we've known and cared for?

Although time has turned my grief for this wonderful boy into happy memories, there are times when I am so reminded of what I have lost that I'm left in a ball of pain. A pain nearly as violent as that first moment I heard the words "I'm so sorry, he is gone".

Tears do not come one at a time or gently. They come by the thousands and each one is desperate to be the first to escape my eyes. My tears and soul pour out as if in unison. My face swells, my head pounds and my eyes sting. I have learnt to give into the emotion. It takes over me and it is all I feel. It consumes me for that moment in time and there is nothing else. Nothing but loss. Nothing but pain. Nothing but sorrow. I do not let it niggle at the back my head or more importantly, my heart. I embrace the feeling and once I am ready to move on, I can, because I have let myself be taken over by the emotion I needed to feel.

Last night, when remembering My Little Dragon, I remembered why I wanted to put myself through my teaching degree. I want, no, scrap that, need to become the person he saw in me. I may still be treading the water of my new job with little grace and several mistakes but I know that I will find my feet. I will one day be able to keep my feet so firmly on the ground not even a tornado will be able to move me. If only to make this boys image of me become a reality.

Ey Up, My Little Dragon and once again, Good Bye. I will forever be building my Lego tower. I just hope that one day it'll be tall enough to reach you.

So Who Needs Roses...

Every so often a song comes along that can vocalise what you are feeling so exactly, simply and poetically that it becomes superfluous to even attempt to put it into your own words.

I have loved the song "I Won't Send Roses" from the musical Mack and Mabel since I first saw it in the West End as a child, but recently the song has become so apt to my own feelings that I felt compelled to share it. You guys are so lucky sometimes, it's embarrassing.

So here it is; 'I Won't Send Roses' by Jerry Herman followed by Mabel's reprise 'So Who Needs Roses'. (note that I do not own the lyrics to this song)

This. Just this...

Mack;

"I won't send roses or hold the door,
I won't remember which dress you wore,
My heart is too much in control,
The lack of romance in my soul,
Will turn you grey, kid,
So stay away, kid,
Forget my shoulder when you're in need,
Forgetting birthdays is guaranteed,
And should I love you, you would be the last to know,
I won't send roses and roses suit you so,

My pace is frantic, my tempers cross,
At words romantic I'm at a loss,
I'd be the first one to agree that I'm preoccupied with me,
And it's inbred, kid,
So keep your head, kid,
In me you'll find things like guts and nerve,
But not the kind things that you deserve,
And so while there's a fighting chance just turn and go,
I won't send roses and roses suit you so."

Mabel;

"So who needs roses or stuff like that,
So who wants chocolate, they'd make me fat,
And I can get along just fine without a gushing Valentine,
And I'll get by, kid,
With just the guy, kid,
And if he calls me and it's collect,
Sir Walter Raleigh I don't expect,
And though I know I may be left out on a limb,
So who needs roses that didn't come from him."

The Boy's pace is anything other than frantic, nor is his temper cross. I don't believe that he is preoccupied with himself at all, but other that...just call me Mabel.

And here I was thinking I was Clive.

Fifty shades of complicated

When I was sixteen my boyfriend and best friend at the time told me he loved me, that I was His best friend, that he was IN love with me but that he couldn't be with me. I was dumped and I was devastated. If someone who loved me so very much couldn't be with me, what chance did I have with anyone else!?

I now believe that he thought he could do better. I had many friends at secondary school but I wasn't considered the coolest girl in town. And surely, when you're sixteen having the coolest girlfriend is like, totally the most important thing, like ever. Duh! That title belonged to a good friend of mine. Let's call her The Simple Bitch (all will become clear). Every single boy in my strict Catholic educational building was unconditionally in love with The Simple Bitch. She did not wear short skirts and was not a slut. She was the typical girl next door. If you look at my post about being A K-K-K-Katie Girl, then this girl was most definitely A Simple Girl. No one stood a chance against her.

I must say though, seeing as she was meant to be a very good friend of mine (we spent every Sunday together for months during the Spring and Summer of our GCSE year. Shopping, walks on the beach, meals out and everything in between. We called them our "Lesbian Sundays" and I adored them), kissing my first love and best friend, who had broken my heart for the first time only the week before, was not A Simple Girl move. It was a bloody bitchy move. Hence "The Simple Bitch"!! If that was the salt in my wound, then hearing it via a drunken apology from my ex and not The Simple Bitch was like bathing the pain in vinegar, curry sauce and chilli. Constantly. It hurt. More than I think I let myself realise.

I moved on and dated other boys fairly quickly. *I* asked boys out (who was I back then?). But looking back at that facade of confidence, I'm not sure I was letting myself get over my first love and therefore move on from him. We were still friends for a time, my first love and I, and it seems to me that I could never let myself be truly exposed in the way I had been with him. If someone that loved me in the way he did could hurt me, how much damage could a nobody make!?

Of course, they couldn't. The scale of emotion was not in the same league so the scale of pain wouldn't be either. But subconsciously I wasn't willing to take that risk. Even if I thought I was.

Men since then have come and gone and some have tried to feed me the same old crap. Their words may have been slightly different but the meaning and melody have always been the same. They have merely wanted to get into my pants and then go on the prowl for more pussy. Sorry, to be blunt, but that is the way it is. For many of the male species anyway. Little did they know that I was brought up by an Italian Catholic and you need to be pretty damn special to be with me. Sorry, for wasting your time *triumphant smile*.

However, it is not all the fault of the male population. I'm beginning to think that I, too am to blame. Yes, there have been some arseholes that have tried to worm their way into my heart, but there have also been some stand up men, nice men, sweet men who have liked me. Who have wanted to sweep me off my feet and wrap me up in a mass of flowers and presents. I can't be so unfeeling that not one of them hasn't touched something in this guarded heart of mine. No, some did stir some emotion inside. But it never felt enough. Not to let my guard down more than I did. I have suddenly come to the worrying conclusion that the reason it wasn't enough is because they were Simple Guys. They are the X factor equivalent of the amazing singer that gets booted off in the first few weeks because they don't have "it". The personality is just not quite right. There needs to be more.

Putting ones finger on what that "more" is exactly is more complex than trying to explain Newtons theory of relativity to a small deaf monkey.

So not only do I appear to be a complicated "Katie Girl" but I seem to want a complicated "Katie Guy". How can I possibly be annoyed by The Boy's emotional constipation when perhaps that is what turned my initial attraction into something more? C-c-c-complicated.

He is not the only complicated man that has stirred more than a mere warm affection inside me. The Cute TA (not the inappropriately short shorts wearer of my home town, but the northern beaut that opened my eyes to the benefits of lovey-dovey mush). The Cute TA turned me into a smitten teenager at the age of 27. It was impressive. And revolting. In equal measure. The knowledge I had received a text message from this boy was enough to plant a smile on my face as big as the one found on The Cheshire Cat. His gentle mix of mockery and compliments is something that should be studied. I was powerless. And this before I add my penchant for cricketers with a geeky glint in their eyes. I was quite literally weak at the knees.

So what went wrong with him? Did he turn out to be another Simple Guy? No, of course not. I liked him. He must have had something more. In short, he simply disappeared. And then came back. With the mushiest of flirtations. He was so open I melted all over again. But what's that? Yep, he disappeared one more time. Yes, I did mope around the flat a little but ultimately, he was just a pleasant distraction from The Boy. The Boy that was in my heart. Even then I believe. Damn my devious hidden emotions. However, now The Cute TA has opened my eyes to a whole world of mush that apparently I don't find as revolting as I once thought. Double shit.

All in all, I am a hopeless case. A complicated-unsure-of-what-I-want or how-to-go-about-getting-it girl that only wants complicated-unsure-of-what-they-truly-want men.

Eleven years on from the pain of my first love and I have come full circle back to square one. Where is a terrorist with a bomb to blow up square one when you need one!? Jeeesh!

My relationship (for want of ANY OTHER WORD) with The Boy is complicated. So perhaps that is the true reason I am finding it near on impossible to walk away. Do I really like complicated that much? Surely not. *sighs* Perhaps I feel that we're not finished. He likes me, he tells me and shows me in so many ways. It's I that now want more. Perhaps I know if I walk away I have to start all over again and the thought is too exhausting. Perhaps being with any other non-complicated guy right now would feel like settling. Or maybe, just maybe I'm simply a sucker for pain and I couldn't possibly give myself a fighting chance at a simple life. Should I just give into the torture and build myself a Red Room of Pain. But without my own Christian Grey, who would show me around all things kinky!?

With all this new information to mull over, I'm off to buy enough cake to fill my stomach until Christmas.

K-K-K-Katie girl...

I think we're all now aware of my current heart ache. No!? Really!? Seriously, where have you been? Please tell me you at least know that there is a new James Bond film out. Or how old Ella Henderson is on this years X Factor? If not, I can only conclude that you've been hiding out in a cave awaiting the George Bush presidential reign to end. It's all OK, he's gone now. The Americans have had someone with a brain for four years now.

Back to the heart ache? Right. Excellent. I have come to the conclusion that when it comes to matters of the heart, just as with everything else I try my hand at, I do not go about it in the "normal" way. Being dyslexic, my brain does not function in the same manner of those of you with a neurotypical brain. It journeys all around the houses, so to speak, to solve an equation or learn a new word. Why? No one really knows for sure, but that's the way my diverse dyslexic brain works. And I wouldn't know how to begin going about my day without my disfunctional way of doing things. This has followed me through childhood and well into my adult life. Not only do I tackle my academic life in this manner but it would appear that I enter into everything I do with this scrambled, mixed up, complicated way of thinking.

But what does this mean for my love life? In short, I am a K-K-K-Katie girl. For those of you that have seen the magnificent film "The Way We Were" staring Barbara Streisand and Robert Redford, you'll know exactly what a K-K-K-Katie girl is. For those of you that haven't, let me clarify this a little. K-K-K-Katie, played superbly by Streisand, is feisty, passionate, opinionated, determined, witty and intelligent. She knows her own mind and she's not afraid to voice it. She goes about her life involving herself in things she believes in, not necessarily what's fashionable. Or seen as "proper" or "correct". In essence, she's complicated. To put it mildly.

She is not the sort of girl who "sluts" up every Halloween or any other fancy dress outfit she dons. She does not wear high heals to college because she is a girl and boys like girls in high heals. She'll wear them because *she* wants to. She doesn't give a tiny rats arse if you're dressed from head to toe in Gucci or Oxfam. Or whether your paycheque is in six figures or not. But boy does she have class and style.

I may not embody every characteristic of K-K-K-Katie, however, I resemble enough to tip me over the edge from being a "simple, girl-next-door" girl to simply being "complicated". In a black and white world (as first brought to my attention during an episode of Sex and the City) there are two types of girls; The Simple Girl and The Katie Girl. Unfortunately for my love life and heart, I am a Katie girl.

I'm quirky (or so my twitter crush informs me. Double eeek!) and silly. I'm a scruff bag and my thought process does distract itself to the most peculiar of places. I am passionate and loyal to a fault. I mime along to my favourite songs. Even in public. Because occasionally, it's just bloody fun pretending you're in a music video. That is me. From a baby with sleep apnea to a deaf toddler with several speech impediments (several. My mother says she remembers ten. How can a person have TEN speech impediments!!? HOW!? Oh, the embarrassment). From an overtly confident child with a penchant for logic puzzles to a serverely dyslexic teenager with a crushed spirit. And now I am an young adult with a burning passion for special needs education and the children we can all help. So much so that I pushed through a Special Needs specialism as part of my old universities teaching program before I left. Not before ruffling a few university feathers though. I am complicated. Quirky and complicated.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a simple girl, please don't get me wrong, I'm just not one of them. And if I think I play at being me badly, how much worse would I play at being A Simple Girl!? Sometimes I wonder how much easier and kinder on my heart being A Simple Girl would be. But then I remember my blog; all the autistic and other complex children I have worked with; the wonderful people I have met; my friends; my life in general. Would it have happened if I wasn't A Katie Girl!? Most definitely not the way that it has. I may have to let my Hubbell (Robert Redford's character) go and I may end up being heart broken as a result. Perhaps I am too complicated a girl for the men of my dreams to suffer but maybe that's the price I have to pay for being the way I am.

I just hope that one day I am mature enough to say "Your girl is lovely, Hubbell!" and mean it.

Let's punch Monday in the face...

I am feeling beautifully chipper this morning. Perhaps it's because I'm spending a few days with my beloved niece who can magically make even a fart seem cute. She's a talented bugger. Perhaps it's because I will shortly be singing a whole host of Disney songs with my mother and sister (no, alas, we've never grown up). Perhaps it's because I'm seeing my favourite Uncle (shhhhhh!! Don't tell anyone I said that. Rude!), Aunt, Grandma (the one that likes me) and two of the most perfect twin girls (my cousins) the world will ever know. Perhaps it's because we're all visiting Lacock tomorrow (the village in my favourite Pride and Prejudice AS WELL AS Harry Potter. Must remain calm. Must not yelp. Must keep happy dance to a minimal. Am not the youngest member of the tour group. I'm not hopeful). Or perhaps it's because I've finally given in to my feelings for the boy and have stopped trying to fight or displace them. My guess would be that it's because I'm still in bed. Shallow as a puddle!? What!?

Whatever the reason, I'm smiling and it doesn't involve cake. Today is wonderful.

I have tried to upload a beautiful version of "No day but today" by the mesmerising Idina Menzel live from the Manchester Palace Theatre. I found a recording which explains that the video is actually of the ceiling (I know how to treat you, don't I! Or will do when i catch up with technology) but it matters not because Idina's voice is as clear as the sea off the bay in Corfu. However, I appear to be struggling. I am still in bed after all. So here are the lyrics and I will endeavour to upload the video as soon as I can get myself to a computer...

"No Day But Today" by Jonathan Larson RIP, taken from the Musical Rent. (These lyrics are the version Idina sang at her concert) (I don't own the music or lyrics).

"There's only us.
There's only this.
Forget regret or life is yours to miss.
No other road.
No other way.
No day but today.

There's only us.
Only tonight.
We must let go to know what's right.
No other path.
No other way
No day but today.

I can't control my destiny.
I trust my soul.
My only goal is just to be.

There's only now.
There's only here.
Give in to love or live in fear.
No other road.
No other way.
No day, no day but today.

There's only us.
Only tonight.
We must let go to know what's right.
No other road.
No other way.
No day but today."

...the wait for the vocals will be worth the wait. I hope. Good morning, let's punch Monday in the face together, shall we!

Not tonight Clive...

As I struggle my way through mending this heart of mine, I can't help but feel a little deflated. What exactly is the point of it all if it doesn't result in me moving on? Why make myself feel momentarily better if my feelings for the boy have not changed? It all seems a little superfluous, for want of a better word.

I am trying not to think about him, but when his office building is at the end of my road, the chances of that are slim to none. I have tried to distract myself by cheekily flirting with some rather dishy men I know. If anything, this has made things worse. They have not been unsuccessful flirtations, however, as nice as the world of witty banter has been, they have all missed that wee spark, butterfly feeling, ridiculous smiling, biting your lip, whatever-effects-you-when-a-certain-boy-is-talking-to-you feeling. Which has lead me to the conclusion that I would rather have my boys crap and disjointed version of fun than anyone else's perfect hearts-and-flowers version of a relationship. With this is my head, what chance does my heart have in rebuilding itself?

The trouble as I see it is that I have been so accomplished at building a protective wall around my heart (I grew up in 1066 country. Full of castles. I learnt a thing or two about protective buildings. Naturally. My history teacher will be so proud!) that there is no way of getting in unless I lower the drawbridge. Which happens but rarely. However, it has become apparent to me that the boy that makes me turn to mush is not on the outside trying to battle his way into my heart. He's on the inside. I suspect he's been there longer than I have ever realised and what good is this protective wall surrounding my heart if the boy I'm trying to protect myself from and move on is comfortably watching homeland on a sofa smack bang in the centre of my heart!? I am trying my very best to remove him, but as I said, this protective wall is pretty strong. Apparently it's just as successful at keeping feelings in as it is at keeping them out. Bugger.

In short, I'm fucked.

Love really does change everything. I'm so confused at the moment that I don't even know who I am anymore. I think I'm Clive, is that correct!?

I sing the body electric...

And so I continue with this superfluous challenge of mending my breaking heart. Let's face it, the only thing that will ever mend pain of this manner is time. And possibly friendship. However, I am determined to distract myself until time has begun the rebuilding process.

The next suggestion was to listen to a whole range of love songs. Celebratory love anthems, depressing melodies that tug the chords of your heart strings, the whole enchilada. I can do this. I love to sing. I live on my own. I can belt out some musical classics until I am so filled with fatigue I forget about anything else. This was going to be better than dancing along to 'jump' with Hugh Grant. Oh, really!?

Perhaps it was my inner actress, who so desperately wanted to be centre stage during my childhood days, that made this a rather emotional one. She just had to make the songs that bit too realistic. Bitch. Perhaps it was the choice of songs themselves. Perhaps it's because after years of locking away my girliest of emotions they are now all fighting to be front stage and I'm finding it just too exhausting appeasing them all. Perhaps I am simply a moron. Whatever your conclusion, although I must confess the songs helped, they also brought up fresh wounds of rejection. Hello wound, have you met salt?

It began so well, there was aggressive bursts of female power that could have rivalled any Spice Girls or Destiny's Child music video. In fact, Destiny's Child were fantastic. Is it too late to send them fan mail? If I said I danced around the flat emulating the "Say My Name" video, I wouldn't be lying. If they ever decide to be a four piece again, someone please give them my details; it's magic in the making. Trust me.

Feeling slightly over confident with my new kick-arse girl power persona, I headed for the musicals. Big, big mistake.

Firstly, let me explain that this boy (you know the one; tall, good looking, can't commit) and I share a mutual love of Les Mis (I promise you he's not gay!). In our time we have sent each other sober and drunken texts regarding this exquisite musical. And don't get me started on our love of Eponine.

So you can imagine the atmosphere change once our beloved Eponine began to sing about being all alone again with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. By the time she was telling me that without her "his world would go on turning, a world that's full of happiness that I have never known!!" I was gone. Tears falling and my chin wobbling with such angst it could have given Claire Danes a run for her money (by the by, is there a person out there that can stay dry eyed when Claire Danes is crying? Have you seen her? Have you? It's traumatic. She deserves an Oscar alone for that chin. The woman is wondrous. But again, digression seems to be the name of the game).

With the mood decidedly more somber and filled with "what if's", the choice in songs took a turn for the blue. I could suddenly find a connection with each and every love song that passed my ears. Some gave me hope, some made me angry and some filled with regret for ever voicing that what we had wasn't enough. How do these other women do this all the time? It's exhausting. No wonder it scares him. It bloody terrifies me. Why do I want this again? I forget.

I still felt sad, I still felt lonely, I still felt lost, but I didn't feel alone. I am clearly not alone in rejection. And in many ways I am luckier than so many others. This boy cares for me, he likes me and he thinks I'm beautiful; the fact that he's not in the same place as I am doesn't mean I'm a repulsive beast who will die alone supplying food for months for my pet llamas. Or alpacas.

Whilst singing (weeping) my way through my iPod I stumbled across a little known song "Being Alive" from the musical 'Company'. The lyrics sat uncomfortably with me. The truth often does. The song is about, yes, you guessed it, a commitment phobe. His friends are agreeing with his issues when it comes to relationships but wisely utter "You've got so many reasons for not being with someone, but you haven't gotten one good reason to be alone" before Robert (the vocalist) voices the fear in "Someone to need you too much, someone to know you too well, someone to pull you up short...someone you have to let in, someone whose feelings you spare, someone who like it or not, will want you to share a little. A lot!" These, in a nutshell have always been my issues. I have no trouble with someone needing or relying on me, however, the thought of them wanting to be "let in" and "know everything about me" does not sit well with me. However, I realise that although this is scarier than a lonely walk down an alley in front of an axe owning maniac, I was finally ready for it. The next stage that is, not being anywhere near an axe murderer. Come on, now.

If I only move through the next stage with tiniest of baby steps, it matters not. Nor does it matter that I reached this conclusion on my own and had no one to help me through the next stage (yet). The important thing is that I've reached it. I am there and I am determined to stay there. My bloggers challenge to mend my breaking heart has taken on a new level; mend heart and don't allow commitment issues to get in the way any longer. This has become fifty shades more difficult.

After these songs and realisation. Sadness was still etched within, but it no longer filled me. These songs had built on the tiny hope that Angel Cake and Love, Actually had begun. And long may it continue

Eight is a lotta legs, David!

As you may now be aware, I am currently hurdling my way through as many heart break remedies as I can tolerate in attempt to mend my slowly breaking blood pumper.

It's surprisingly fun. I tell myself that the only reason I'm watching weepy films, eating cake and basically tuning myself into my very own clichéd chick flick is to report back to my wonderful followers on this, my rather therapeutic blog. Not because a boy couldn't give me all I wanted. However much he thought he was trying.

Next was the turn of Love, Actually and Cake.

A much beloved twitter companion, I shall name her The Killers One, recommended it and seeing as I think every word she tweets is gold dust, I followed her command.

First thing was first; which cake would be my weapon of choice? I say this, of course, as if there is a choice for me when it comes to cake. There isn't. It's Angel Cake. It's always Angel Cake. I know, I know, how could I love a cake that's so dull in looks and taste when compared with so many others? I put this to you; how could I want to be with a man who so obviously cannot deal with a relationship although he clearly has feelings for me!? Exactly.

And to be completely honest with you, I rather like the simplicity of Angel Cake. It's neither too brash nor too heavy. But I feel I'm digressing. Where was was I? Of course, heartache; that's the bugger.

So armed with my Angel Cake, I loaded up the Richard Curtis (screenwriter, director, the whole enchilada) and was ready to think of the boy, to whom the very need to start this whole mended heart began, for two hours or so. My hopes for feeling better were not high. If my beloved ice cream hadn't worked then why would cake? And I much prefer Beaches as a film. But off I went.

Up popped the opening credits and almost instantly Hugh Grant had me smiling. No, he wasn't playing the quaint essential Englishman, Charles ("Don't be ridiculous. Charles died 20 years ago!" 50 points for anyone who correctly guesses the film. Is there anything this blog doesn't give you! IS THERE?), nor was he uttering obscenities for the first three minutes of the film, but he was there and his voice touched me in a way that almost nothing else had all weekend. All bar my beloved twitter/real friends that was.

This was good start. Hell, let's go wild, I thought, let's open that Angel Cake beauty before the opening credits have even finished. It's possibly the best decision I've ever made. It's a toss up between that and the first time my mind merged pancakes and Nutella. And yes, I merged them well before crepes were ever sold on the street of England in those French style booths.

By the time Lyndon David Hall was blasting out "All you need is love", I knew my evening was not going to be quite so weepy as the previous. Of course, I had forgotten Emma Thompson crying to Joni Mitchell after her prick of a husband gives a beautiful necklace to that whore of his assistant, but those would be tears for Emma. Not me. Totally acceptable.

Having this cheesy, romanticised version of love delivered to me in between some witty one liners and a handful British stereotypes was exactly what any friend, mother or health care professional would order to chase those blues away. I adored it.

I was left genuinely smiling for longer than a nano second. We were finally getting somewhere. Hurrah, I hear you all cry. Well, perhaps I was not quite at hurrah but I wasn't crying and that was as good a start as any.

The jury is definitely back on this one and it's positive from start to finish.

Beaches and Ice Cream...

I have set myself a bloggers challenge to mend my broken heart. My best friend, Dynasty, unlike me, is a proper blogger. She is a fashionista with a passion for a bargain and her blog is widely recognised in the fashion/blogger community. I've gone months without even writing in mine. Shoddy behaviour.

As a fancy blogger, Dynasty is often set blogger challenges to complete by other fancy blogger types in the crazy world of fashion. I remember her creating a rather spectacular Asian style bedroom with minimal effort (she's a talented bugger that best friend of mine). With this as my inspiration, I have set myself my own blogger challenge; to test and report back the most affective way to cure a broken heart. Although my heart may not have been smashed into a thousand pieces deliberately in the form of a painful break up, it has been chipped away at until finally, last night, it listened to my head and came to the realisation that The Boy, to whom it belongs, could not give it anywhere near the love it deserved.

There's that old saying of "sometimes the kindest thing to do is to let go" and I know eventually I will see the benefit of this, however, right now, I still want to hope and letting go feels too painful for words. My heart and head have given up though and I cannot continue to hope without them.

So here I am, ready with my mission to mend all that feels so let down and inform you of my successes and failures.

As I stated in this mornings post, last night I tried the one and only cure for a broken heart I could remember from those half a dozen or so chick flicks I can actually stomach; Ice cream and a weepy film. I did not get on well.

I choose the film Beaches. I felt it was a safe choice. The main story is that of two friends, CiCi and Hilary. No mushy love scenes to pour salt into my very recent wound. Clever. There is also a fair bit of singing in the form of the wonderful Bette Midler. Yes, my Bette Midler impression is pretty dyer but being all alone, it mattered not. I could sing along to my hearts content. And of course, there was chocolate chip ice cream. A sure fire way to lift the spirits. This was bound to help begin the healing process; wrong.

The story of CiCi and Hilary's friendship just reminded me that my two closest friends were over 200 miles away in the city that is my safe haven. So very far away from my little flat in this northern capital. How were they going to come and rescue me at such a distance with their own lives to handle? Cue Niagara Falls. Have I mentioned that I am the worlds ugliest crier!? No. I am. Blotchy, puffy, snotty and all my facial features temporarily merge into one great blob in the centre of my face. When I say temporarily, I, of course, mean for several hours. My attractiveness is astounding sometimes, it really is. Even my dad once stated how unfortunate I look after crying. My dad. The man who has loved me for almost 28 years. I think you get the idea.

So with my face half swollen, red and damp from my leaking eyes, I began to join in with my favourite part of the film; the Christmas section. Cue "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" and "Come All Ye Faithful" IN LATIN!! Happiness was round the corner. Christmas songs!! Oh, how many times in one evening can a girl be wrong! I was beginning to get a complex. Singing Christmas Carols when unhappy is impossibly sad and not something I shall ever repeat. Unless I'm auditioning for the part of Fantine in Les Mis. If I could sing, I would have nailed a Fantine audition last night.

So Christmas was in front of me and suddenly all things other than Christmas were vile to me. Where was Christmas to bring the snow that would wipe away my autumn blues!? I began to feel sorry for myself; an emotion I loathe even more than heart ache. Time for ice cream, I thought. I stuffed a large amount down my reluctant throat and can honestly say I felt nothing. Not one thing. Perhaps it was too soon for ice cream. Perhaps it was too late. Either way, all the ice cream did was fill a stomach that didn't need feeding. I wish I had been eating from the tub. Yes, you may resemble every girl with a broken heart cliché that has ever been written into a book, film or tv series, however, it just makes good sense. I filled a bowl full of ice cream that I forced myself to eat. What a waste of perfectly good ice cream, but I simply couldn't bare to have it sat in the bowl looking at me as if to say "You can't even manage ONE bowl? Who are you?". Ice cream doesn't speak to you, no? Just me? Well, that's a worry, isn't it. But I have other things to deal with at this time. Back to the ice cream; If I had simply taken the tub I would been able to stop after two mouthfuls happy in the knowledge that I'd tried. Not be forced to eat the entire bowl. The last time I had no desire to finish a bowl of ice cream was the day after my tonsils had been removed. I was six. It was first day since who knows when that my hearing was over 20%. I'm still awaiting the radical transformation that *this* ice cream disproval will bring. Anytime now. I'm sure of it.

Talking with The Blonde One (the other bestie) this morning, I have come to the conclusion that although my pain over this boy is very real, the biggest mind fuck about the whole situation is the thought of starting all over again.

How do people do this? Again and again?

This is clearly too large for my naive-relationship-fearing mind to cope with on its own. I needed reinforcements. I obviously turned to twitter. My beloved followers have suggested all manner of wonderful methods for me to try out. Some I already had in mind; some that made me howl with laughter and some that are down right naughty. They did good!

So for now, the next stop is; Love Actually and Cake.

As for Beaches and ice cream on the day you realise that your heart has finally given up the ghost and has gone into hibernation; I would say give these two a miss. Unless you are in fact auditioning for Fantine. Perfect blend of weepy, singing and depression. What a night in!

Oh, and for those of you that were wondering, I did go for a walk earlier, The Smiths did turn up on my iPod and there was not one sniff of a tear from my end. I'm telling you, I'm harder than SuperMan. This blog may just be working.

There is a light that never goes out...

It is a few days until my birthday and I've come to the realisation that the one person I would love to spend it with can never be what I want him to be. With a heart full of sorrow and my eyes leaking from the pain, I except that it just isn't to be.

Seeing as my conduct surrounding relationships is far from the norm, I fear my recovering will take the same path. Last night, I tried, what I'm confidently told is the full proof heartbreak method of "ice cream and a weepy film". Beaches was my film of choice (death and singing; perfection) and chocolate chip ice cream was its partner in crime. Not even one millimetre of my heart feels mended. Huff.

Where do I turn now? As I lie here on my bed, head aching from the tears I've already parted with, I'm left fearful that with my best friends 200 miles away, I may fall short of successfully sorting this pain in my chest. Without them to sort me out I'm left to wander to streets of Manchester with nothing but my iPod and my thoughts. I've quite literally turned into a Smiths music video.

So, I have decided that my beloved blog holds all the answers. I have neglected you all and I am ashamed of this fact. I will now put my forlorn energies into testing all the methods I am recommended to mend my broken heart. I will report back and the next time a man, woman or beast (I'm not here to judge) breaks that heart of yours, you will know which method of recovery is for you.

People wonder why I've been avoiding relationships for the majority of my adult life; turning into a Smiths video is surely all the explanation you need.

Just for any locals of you out there, if you do spot a weepy girl in maroon trousers struggling to sing "to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die" just leave me be. I'm in the middle of important research.

Unless you have cake. Then definitely offer cake!

Where did all the nice kids go...?

After a difficult couple of years it is safe to say that I am slowly losing faith in people. Or, at least, the overall goodness in humanity that I see from day to day. As a child I naively thought that Disney had it pretty spot on and eventually, only good things happened to good people. Yes, of course something frightfully horrid and unpleasant had to take place (and in recent years those tragedies have become so heart wrenching that I have been known to wipe away more than one lone tear from sad wee eyes), however, when push came to shove (also know as 'by the end of the film'), there was always a happy ending for the heroine, and in this life that would be the part I play. And just to make sure things were right, while our heroine gets love and more the bad guys get their comeuppance. Whether that be being trapped in a genie's lamp for all eternity or at the hand of a Robin Hood arrow, it matters not. 


Even away from the cheese of Disney, lets take Austen, still we find that after a little tricky dicky situation all comes good and everyone runs away with everything that they ever wanted. This is, of course, entirely unrealistic and leaves real life falling a little short of these fairytale endings.


I am now 27 and supposedly wiser than my Disney watching wide eyed childhood self and yet the lack of happy endings in my life and others around me are only really becoming clear now. Watching so much Disney, Austen and musical extravaganza I really only have myself to blame for this and blame myself I do. We, apparently, can't live up to happily ever after. 


It is not only the happily ever after fables that have given me this warped perception of the world, it is also the fault of both The Blonde One and Dynasty. They are too good to me. I have had so many years of their kindness, wit and brilliance that I expect every single person I meet in life to meet up to their exacting standards. I don't hold up to these high standards, so thinking everyone else can is altogether hypercritical, but these are my expectations and they are hard to shift. 


I am not saying that all my other friends are the shits on the shoes of The Blonde One and Dynasty, don't be ridiculous. For one thing, some of them don't even deserve the title 'the shit on the shoe...', I'm not sure they quite live up the mere 'poo particles' that make up the shit, let alone whole pieces of shit themselves. I sound cruel. Of course I have made a whole group of bloody spiffy new friends that deserve no such harsh words. The Country One, for example, is one of the reasons I have not committed mass murder of numerous occasions in the past few months. I only use The Blonde One and Dynasty because they are old trusted friends that have more than stood the test of time with displays of undying love and have been there time and time again when my faith in humanity is waving. 


The older I get the more I realise that I am truly lucky to have such amazing individuals as friends. And I get to call them 'Best friends' and everything. I could quite literally jump them frequently. I love them more than Nutella. Need I go on with this public display of affection!? 


Here's the problem, as I see it; with these expectations set unrealistically high I have become disillusioned with the rest of the human race. These poor schmucks are wandering around the planet behaving like every other human and I can't help but think 'what a bitch!', just because they don't go that extra mile that I know The Blonde One, Dynasty and a handful of my other friends would go. 


I forget that, deep down, not everyone is good.


I know without these demons of society we would not appreciate the true greats of humanity, but why, can someone tell me, do these evil wrong doers not end up being thrown off a castle by The Beast? Or left alone and sad with only their frail and boorish daughter for company? Why do the cuntish not get put in jail for being evil wankers? Maybe the questions should not be those, perhaps the question should read; why have I been engrossed in these tales of good vs evil if they have simply lead me to confusion and heartache over the unkind nature of others? 


I don't expect everyone to run along the meadows befriending small animals, nor do I expect everyone to quit their jobs and become charity volunteers living off the kindness of others. It would hardly be fair to give up everything that you have worked hard for, that is not what I am perplexed about. I simply don't understand why some people can't and don't feel guilty about their treatment of others? 


If everyone was just a little more considerate and a little less self centred the world would surely resemble It's A Wonderful Life or Pride and Prejudice and be a little less like Resident Evil or Nightmare on Elm Street. 


Movements such as ARK (Acts of Random Kindness) clothes, are becoming fewer and acts of mindless vandalism are becoming common place. I am not saying all is lost, I have not given up hope and I am not saying that this generation is worse than any other, more that I am suddenly noticing that the longer I plod on with this life of mine the further I am from my happy ending and I'm sure, as a little girl, I was edging closer toward the good ship lolly pop, not further away. 


I admit to sometimes saying a few harsh words at the soppy happy endings that ruin some half decent films, but right now, with my faith in the world being lower than the temperature of the North Pole, I would take that happily ever after and I would run. 

Look into my eyes...

Hello...? Helllllllllooooo...? I am still here! Honestly. Cross my heart and hope...well, you get the picture.  I would forgive you for thinking I had dropped off the face of the earth as my silence has been uncharacteristically long, but I have not. I am here, see; *waves manically* 


I have no explanation for my long absence, however, I am back and I am back for good. I have missed pondering the world with you all and I promise not to leave it quite so long in the future. But now on with the show as they say in the theatre. 


An interesting thing happen on New Years Eve. I recreated Beyonce's 'Crazy In Love' video in a Carpet Shop with Maybelline's girlfriend. This isn't actually what I am referring to but I have felt the need to share this fact with everyone and anyone I know since that rather fun event. Alas, there is no photographic evidence of our almost identical rendition Beyonce's classic but mark my words, it was...pretty damn awful. No, the event that I would like to share with you is the hypnosis I was placed "under" during this drunken celebration. 


This New Years Eve was spent how all New Years should be spent; playing word games and getting a little too merry with Dynasty and The Blonde One. This may sound dull to you but perhaps your words games have never lead to someone yelling out the word 'wanking' as a suggestion for 'something that is good for you'. Embarrassed of myself I may have been but dull it was not. 


This year the setting for NYE was Dynasty's parents new abode. It was after midnight, I had drunk half my body weight in cheap fakeo-no-makeo Champagne and one of the other party guests wanted to show off his hypnosis' skills. As ever I was the one that was pushed into participating. The Blonde One even admitted her bullying ways in her merriness when asked why "Jo" should be the first victim, her reply was simply 'Because we always bully Jo into doing everything first'. My Best Friends, Ladies and Gentlemen. 


However it came about, it matters not, there I was sat on a chair in the kitchen with half a dozen intoxicated individuals staring down at me, my oversize eyes wide with scepticism and my head beginning to thump from all the alcohol. I was feeling as awkward as an Alpaca in a field full of Llamas. The hypnotherapist asked if I had any reason in particular to want to be hypnotised, "because it'll be amusing for Dynasty and The Blonde One" seemed a little immature and disrespectful so I plucked for the original and ever coherent "Eeer, maybe, well, I don't know, what about, urm, something like...confidence? Yeah!? I mean, yeah, OK, confidence?" It seemed the least dangerous. So confidence is what he aimed to give me and in five short minutes I was going to wake with a new found self - esteem. And if it failed, well, no harm done. Yes, there was a chance that I would perform a "fake orgasm" each and every time I heard the word 'Poughkeepsie' but I was too tipsy to worry about such tomfoolery. The Blonde One and Dynasty wanted to be entertained.  


Before, during and immediately after the actual hypnosis I felt no difference. When he said "Sleep" and pushed my neck down I obeyed, not because I fell into a deep sleep but because even under the influence of alcohol I just couldn't bring myself to be rude. Everyone was watching him 'perform' and I couldn't let this stranger down. In hindsight this seems ridiculous but as I mentioned before, I was more than a little squiffy. While I was "under" or "asleep" I could hear everything that was going on, including Dynasty's mother belting out a musical number with her husband in the adjacent room. Perhaps I wasn't really "under" at all or perhaps Mummy Dynasty is just that powerful a singer that her talent breaks through the barriers of space and time or wherever you are suppose to be during a hypnosis. Perhaps we shall never know. Which ever it was it made it increasingly difficult to convince myself that I had in fact been placed under hypnosis. My mother, however, has raised a me to be polite and so when it was all over I pretended I felt a warm buzz of confidence and thanked him graciously. I, of course, didn't believe anything had happened whatsoever. I felt no difference. Apart from a little embarrassed that people had witnessed this man tell me that I was "a strong, intelligent and beautiful woman" while lifting my arms up and down like a rag doll. 


With all this being said, it has now been 18 days since NYE and I can honestly say that I have felt more confidence in these last eighteen days than I did for the entirety of 2011. I have been antagonised at work and felt claustrophobic living at home and yet my confidence has not faltered once. 


I am not saying that this man is a genius, perhaps a decent amount of time with my besties after a longer than average absence from them and the power of suggestion was enough to firmly kick my own self-esteem back where it belongs. Perhaps I have always been a big headed git and 2011 was just a blip. Perhaps I am in denial about my January blues and February will hit me like a tone of bricks and you'll find me slowly rocking back and forth in corner. Whatever it is, I am not complaining right now. I will now always wonder whether my own power of positive thought has helped me put my shitty 2011 behind me or whether I really was hypnotised, but frankly, feeling this good, I don't give a tiny rats arse. 


Thank you, you wonderfully bizarre UB40 singing hypnotherapist, I think you may have helped me more than fifteen jars of Nutella. And that is saying something.