I just wanna wish you well...

I have a worry and my worry is this; yes, I know that I'm more than capable of moving on from The Boy (yes, him again, pipe down), the process is already in full swing, but I wonder; will there always be a tiny place in my heart that belongs to him and him alone? I feel there's a real possibility of that being the case.

There are times where all I want to do is share something with him, I laugh at some comment or story I am being told and his face pops into my head. *puff* And there he is. "Oh, The Boy would love this" I think "I must tell him!" and while I'm summing up whether I should send him a witty message there and then or wait until I see him in person, it suddenly dawns on me that, I won't see him in the flesh and we can't message each other anymore. This is the point when my eyes do that achey thing and my heart becomes heavier than an obese whale. I think about the last time we spoke and how horribly awkward and hurt I felt and I want to do a little cry. Of course, this is when my brain kicks in, mentally slaps me and forces his face to the back of my mind (bravo brain!). Which in itself is upsetting seeing as it's such a nice face. Bastard.

Yesterday I met up with a beyond wonderful tweeter who I shall call The Daddy One, and I shared a particularly humiliating "pillow talk" story that happened between me and The Boy. The Daddy One politely shared his own hilarious pillow talk story that rendered me speechless. No easy task. We both agreed his story made mine look completely normal. Well, we all talk about World War II post boom-chicka-wa-waaa, right? No? Well, now you've just made this awkward. I hope you're happy.

The Daddy One's story was witty. It was fun. And it was definitely worse than mine. *phew*

Two things immediately popped into my head; the first was how amazing it felt to find a boy who laughed at my awkwardness in a warm and friendly way. A boy to whom my quirky musings were a turn on and had lead him to present me with verbal grapes and flowers. Not many would have dealt with my incredibly unsexy pillow talk in such a comical manner. This is a rare trait and I have decided it is one I shall miss a great deal. Oh, here come those achey eyes again.

The second thing that came rushing to the front of my mind whilst listening to The Daddy One's story was how amusing The Boy would find it. Oh, how we will laugh at the realisation that I am not in fact the least sexy pillow talker in all the land. And then how he will mock me all over again for my WWII naked chit chat and then... Oh. Right. We don't talk anymore. That's the badger. How terribly annoying. Bugger.

The Boy and I have been playing this impossible back and forth game for so long and have built up such a bank of memories I worry that now it's all over, there will forever be times, when I'm not quick enough to stop myself, that my mind will leap frog to his face and a memory we have made. I'm not saying that I don't love the memories I have with this boy, this emotional fuck wit of a man (unintentionally, though it may be), far from it, but I wonder if there will ever be a time in my life when I don't think about him and sigh at what could have been if things were different.

They say you can't choose who you love, they have a point. I may still be hurting at his absence, but I know, or rather I hope that one day soon I'll be able to dedicate a rendition of Danke Schoen to him and I shall smile at what we once had. "Thank you for all the joy and pain..."

Now please excuse me while I eat my own body weight in pasta followed by a drowning of Nutella. Who says a broken heart can't be productive.

But only for now...

I have recently ended a friendship. And more. If I am truthful, I didn't end it. I didn't want to. I wanted to hold onto it with both arms and legs screaming until it gave up, hugged me back, stroked my hair until the tears had stopped, sung the entire album of Les Mis to me and told me it loved me. But I wasn't allowed. Utter bastard.

I have since spent the past three weeks trying not to think about it. Some days are more successful than others. Some days I hardly think of the situation and when my mind does wander over to that friendship I'm no longer allowed to experience, I smile at the complication that has left my life, at how simple my world has become and at how focused I can be at work. I am pretty much every Beyonce and Destiny's Child music video that was ever released. Well, y'know, the kicks arse ones. Who Runs The World, Girls! is basically performed in my head as I strut my way through the city of Manchester. Try it. The word "empowered" doesn't do the feeling justice.

But then there are those days when I'm amazed at how well I'm functioning whilst the internal screams and sobs ponder if he, The Boy, is even thinking about me? If I have entered into his subconscious at all, if only briefly? If at any one time during his day have I crossed his mind and he thought "I wonder what she's doing right now?" Or dare I even think it; I wonder he if misses me? Even if only the smallest amount.

Is this just plain old human nature? Is it our innate sense to ponder our existence in the eyes of others? Does everyone go through this? Have I finally Graduated into adult womanhood? I've never been prouder. And more frustrated. Because frankly, it is as exhausting as hell. Not that I would know if hell is exhausting having never been, but the expression seemed to fit and so I went with it.

I have decided, therefore, that this is possibly the most difficult part to move on from. The not knowing. The wondering. The constant want to know if that other person is even as half as effected as yourself. Once that has passed I think I will be able to handle anything the world decides to throw at me, once again.

Because let's face it; everything is life is only for now.

To write or not to write...

I can no longer write. I am dried up. I've lost it. I may have to do a sob now.

My last post; a letter to my future Mr Rella went down better than a bottle of Amaretto on Christmas Day. Huzzah, I thought. What a wondrous feeling to connect with so many, I thought. I am basically a new found writer and wonderfully insightful person whose blog will become known around the world for its witty, heartfelt and warmth that will touch millions. I thought.

So why then, over a month later am I still writing paragraph after paragraph of utter drivel? Drivel that perhaps pre-successful post I would have sent floating into cyber space for you all to read over but now seems ill equipped to handle to hype of the last post. How did Austen do it? How did she turn out masterpiece after masterpiece? Oh, because of the whole literacy genius thing. Right. Yeah, I hear that helps.

Has it been that I have been sublimely happy over the past month and that I have had little to write about? Oh, how I laugh at the mere suggestion. 2013 has been one giant, metaphorical kick in the balls. I have had to deal with grief (more than once. In one weekend), heartache (again. But this time there was the devastation of closure. Closure that I forced and am now not sure The Boy will ever forgive me for), moving; flat, classes and teams as well as the mistake of an estate agent that almost left me homeless. Oh, it's been a modern day Austen novel that she would have been proud of. Her hero having been introduced (probably around the time I moved to The North!) was now having her life poetically shat on from a great height. In quick succession. One drama would have been difficult but manageable, however, having it all land my miserable lap to fight and deal with on my own was almost more than I could handle. I did though. I even moved every last piece of my belongings from one flat to the other single handedly when one friend hurt their back and The Boy had stomped on my heart and pride would not allow me to ask for his help. Although to his credit, he had offered.

So you see, I have had drama and heartache and pain and yet I sit down to my laptop or iPhone to lovingly release my feelings and...*tumbleweed*...nothing. Worse than nothing; drivel. How, I wonder, am I going to locate my MoJo? And where do I even begin looking?

As I sit here in my new, beautiful, tiled step-into-bath with heavenly spotlight (will I ever love anything as much? I find it hard to believe) I can't help but think that my moment of writing greatness has passed me by and I didn't take the time to appreciate it enough. Perhaps someone new will come along one day and inspire me in such a way that I dazzle you all again. Perhaps I will always be trying too hard to live up to one OKish post that I wrote once when high on painkillers, antibiotics and hurt from a boy I find it difficult to believe I will never not love. In a way. Perhaps I'll never live up to it and will one day be happy with the fact that I once wrote something that people called beautiful; that made a few grown men cry; that inspired me to want to achieve better.

And surely, we should always be trying to achieve greatness in our lives. In one area or another!? So I'm sorry if I never write anything you guys enjoy as much as my letter to my future, but hopefully I'll have fun trying to out write myself.

Who can say if I've been changed for the better...

Emotions are hard. They are painful to handle, difficult to read and impossible to predict. Yes, we all need them to be able to feel the wonderful elements of life and subsequently, we must feel the rough, the heartache, the pain in order to feel love and passion and joy with the maximum effect, but sometimes when you're ill and all you want is calm, emotions are almost impossible to deal with.

Realising you're not important to someone, someone you hold dear, is challenging to accept at the best of times, so throw an illness in and that's it, Niagara fucking falls.

At times tears can feel like the end, falling rapidly and without an end in sight, but then there are those times when they bring relief, falling slowly down your cheek one tear at a time. They bring with them the realisation that a part of your life, a part of you maybe over. These feelings are not necessarily a negative emotion but when you're filled with a physical pain of flu and perforated eardrums, the inner strength to see the positive melts away. No matter how much relief they bring, goodbyes fill me with a certain sadness.

So my way of saying goodbye to one part of my life (yes, it was a really REALLY massive huge stinking part of it) and to welcome in the new, I have decided to spend my sick day writing a letter to my future. So here it is, my letter to my future Mr Josephine Maria;

Dear you,

If I can do one thing for our future, writing this letter is it. Everything else I do may seem irrational, silly and possibly out of a Jane Austen novel, so take this letter as my apology.

I will spontaneously break into song. A lot. If I say or hear a line that happens to belong in a song I know and love, it will take a mountain to stop me from singing it. And I have a terrible singing voice. If you want to shut me up, just kiss me.
Kiss me endlessly; don't be afraid to do it. Kiss me whenever and wherever you like. If I have chosen to be with you, I love you, so therefore do not ask, do not wait, just kiss me. I will love you all the more for it. Unless, of course, I am vomiting into a toilet. And then seriously, what sort of sicko are you? I'm vomiting, why would you even want to kiss me at that moment? Why? What is wrong with you?
I mock, but only when I care. Please take my gentle banter as a compliment. And please, for the love of Nutella, mock me back. Tease me. If you love me, I will know you are doing it to make me smile. And yes, you will be rewarded.
Use Nutella; you can always win me round with it. If you present me with it and I don't smile, you're in trouble. Real trouble. I don't know how to bring you back from that, but hopefully you'll know me well enough by then so surprise me. But not with your penis. If I don't want the Nutella you've handed me you can bet your fat arse I don't want your penis. Not at that time anyway.
Spend a day with me describing the film of us. Involve car chases, speeding fines and kicking someones butt on Senlac Hill before winning your girl (that would be the part I play).
Dance. Badly. I will adore you for it.
Kiss me, every morning. I know I've mentioned this before, but I can't stress how much love I feel when you are holding me close, kissing my lips.
Plan revoltingly romantic trips with me where we'll discover a city one historical fact at a time. It doesn't matter if we never go, planning them can be half the fun. And if you tell me that exploring my body is more important than exploring any city I may never recover.
Make love to me in every room in the house. And car.
Hold me when I'm sad. Love me when I cry. Laugh with me when I'm fun.
Take me on walks. Hills. Fields. Country villages. I may hum the tune from Pride & Prejudice, that simply means I'm happy.
Morning sex. If I need to explain that one we have a problem.
Tell me I'm the worlds ugliest crier, that the blotches and face swelling have convinced you that perhaps I am allergic to my own salty tears. But please, kiss me anyway.
I will send you cheeky photographs; don't be cross, just know that when you get home from work or wherever you are, my clothes are yours to be ripped off my body.
Don't cringe when I don an Eastern European accent. Life is too short, if you can't join me, just let me be.
When I am feeling sorry for myself, slap me. No one likes a moaner. Perhaps a jar of Nutella will lessen the blow.
Talk to me. I may like to talk enough for Europe but if you need me to listen, I always will.
Don't ever silently cry at night whilst watching me sleep. That's creepy, unnecessary and frankly, feathery strokers don't float my boat. If I'm that bloody beautiful as I'm sleeping next to you, rub my bottom and kiss my neck until I'm awake and we can enjoy the benefits of lying next to each other. Believe me, the benefits are multiple, mind blowing and the exercise is better than any gym! *giggles*
If you fantasise about me wearing your cricket or football shirt, just ask. I love you, I will do anything you wish. And yes, even if it's THAT football team, I will wear it for you. Be thankful.
Hold my hand when I need you to. Hold it when you need me to hold yours.
Let me wear my festive pyjamas. If you're lucky, I may even do my slow motion chicken dance in them for you.
Geek out. Whatever geeky interest brings out your boyish charm, embrace it. You will be at your most attractive when you do.
Never be embarrassed to share anything with me.
Love me. I don't know what the future holds, but if you love me let me know. The rest will sort itself out. I will love you. For as long as I can.

Life is short, let's have a little fun. Together.

Yours,

Josephine xx

I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly...

Last New Years Eve I was hypnotised. I was sceptical but my best friends (The Blonde One and Dynasty) wanted amusing and hell, I may not have been the best friend to them so the least I can do is humiliate myself from time to time for their amusement. Trust me, they're worth it. For those of you who read this blog regularly (*snogs your face*) you'll know this NYE's hypnosis filled me with confidence. Confidence enough to risk it all and move to Manchester. It may not have been all smooth sailing (step forward The Boy with your emotional constipation and well, we won't talk about money, it's vile) but it has been one hell of a ride that has finally lead me on a path that I want to be walking upon.

So where, a year on, is my confidence now? Well actually, it's pretty high. Is it still riding high due to that funny, reggae signing hypnotised? I doubt it highly; my feelings for an emotionally unavailable dream of a man killed that long ago. Around my birthday actually, which was delightful (And where are The Boy and I now? Almost exactly where we were at that first post where I realised I had turned into a Smiths video. Him unable to commit; me unable to quite let him go. Yes, we tried becoming just friends, his conscience and feelings for me didn't allow him to hurt me any longer, however, he missed me (I melted when I saw those words. Naturally) and I was unable to say "piss off until you can commit you bloody emotionally stunted beautiful man". I'm still convinced that statement would have gone down swimmingly. Missed opportunity or what! Ahem).

So why then am I feeling so confident? Work is wonderful, yes, but that's not quite it. For I still have a degree worth to learn there.

No. Quite simply, I've met someone so to speak. To be completely honest I haven't met them. Only online. You've Got Mail, (IMBD the film if you find yourself lost at the reference) if you will *hides behind hands and plunges face into pillow Meg Ryan style*. I know. I know. You can stop rolling your eyes at me. I've already rolled them a million times. Yes, this person could a serial killer from Milwaukee but who is to say they're not Tom Hanks? My Joe Fox? (see You've Got Mail to understand!) Oh, hush your noise. He's not even from Milwaukee.

It matters not, we cannot be together. I own a small bookshop Around The Corner and he owns big nasty Fox Books that is going to put me out of business. No, wait? That *is* You've Got Mail staring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. I'm not Kathleen Kelly? He's not Joe Fox? Shucks. That's that out of the window then.

The real details are not important, nor is the guy. Not to you. Whether it's a country, a job, religion, a fetish for bondage that is keeping us apart, we are not together and that is the way it is. The end. However, I wanted to thank him. I wanted to thank him for helping me more than he can ever realise. Because of my subconscious need to be complicated and my lack of all things verging on mushy and romantic I have not (or possibly not *let* myself) click with more than three or four men in my lifetime. I know that seems surprisingly few for someone who didn't marry their childhood sweetheart at 16, but there you have it. I'm a cold hearted cow. There, you were all thinking it. Perhaps this is why I have been holding onto The Boy for such a long time. Yes, he is and always will be one of the, if not THE nicest, most generous, just all round wonderful human beings I have ever met (and man alive the boy can kiss...ahem) but possibly my ridiculous thought that he was the ONLY boy that could ever make my stomach flip more vigorously than The Cirque du Soleil was a stubborn, idiotic thought that has lead me nowhere.

As I've stated and as The Boy affectionately tells me often; I'm odd. I've always known this and it's something that bothers me not, however, I've always thought that finding a man that didn't mind this would be perfect. I was wrong. I've been so wrong.

This other boy; my online boy; my Joe Fox; this witty, talented, kind, sweet boy has made me realise that this is all wrong. I *have* been settling. I have not been giving myself enough credit. But that is going to change. This boy likes me not in spite of my Kermit the Frog impressions or 1066 geek out moments but *because* of them. He does not roll his eyes at my little musings and oddities, he lets them warm his heart. He finds them adorable.

My thought that The Blonde One and Dynasty would be my soul mates and a boy would just be someone to have fun with and to help fill my house with laughter is wrong. I will always love The Blonde One and Dynasty more than I can possibly express but now I want more than just a boy to have fun with. More than someone who will put up with my need to perform every Les Misérable song at one point over the year. More than someone who tolerates my frequent Eastern European accent or my slow motion chicken dance. I want someone who will fall in love with me just the tiniest bit more every time I get the giggles at some immature fart joke. Or sing out of tune in the shower. Who will not accept that wooly festive pyjamas are my thing and put up with them with the hope I'll don the sexy corset the next night but will see me on my sofa wearing those festive bad boys and get a big giant beautiful erection.

My Joe Fox has made me realise that not only will I find someone who will not just be settling for me but I will find someone who will wake up next to me every day and think its Christmas bloody day because they get to have my peachy bum all to themselves. Thank you, Joe. Thank you for finally helping me see something that The Blonde One, Dynasty, my mum and who ever else have been trying to convince me of for well over a decade. Thank you for the stomach flips, the tingles, the smiles, the glow, thank you, for allowing me to be me. I may not be able to have you (*sobs uncontrollably whilst rocking back and forth* dramatic, what?) but I will no longer settle for anyone less than imperfect. Anyone less than you.

And you, my dear readers, shouldn't either! Don't settle for someone who is settling for you. Don't settle for someone who "puts up" with your imperfections. Give yourself to that person who adores you for them. Who couldn't imagine or love you without them.

Now, if I could just book Joe Fox out for a wee ego trip the next time I have a job interview, that would be wonderful. Thanks. You take card, right?

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.