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.
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