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.