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!