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.)