What you talkin' about?

Many times I find myself in the company of people who are unsure about their current relationship, but yet continue with said relationship as if something miraculously is going to change, or someone is going to wave the magic wand of love to magic everything perfect again. Wingardiumlove-eiohsarrrr.

Here is a list of similar behavioral patterns I have observed over the years in which I have grouped into labels and theories. If you find yourself reading this and thinking ‘wait a minute… that sounds like me.’ Slap yourself.

The fence sitters. And it should be common knowledge really that if you’re not happy in your existing relationship, perhaps you should work on yourself, attend to your own growth and development before seeking something else. I will stop it with the metaphor now. In the words on contemporary RnB Artist Drake - who 'hates sleeping alone,' Although i really doubt the chap doesn't spend the night alone often - these fearful excuse makers continue with their relationship because they ‘don’t want to be alone.’ And damn, those words are scary, those words are scary Virgin Mary!’ This lstrange thought up theory is by far the one that makes my teeth feel funny with its sheer clenchedness. I want to say, you are not alone, you have your friends around you, your family, you are surrounded by great people some of which you haven’t even met yet! What’s more? Get a cuddly toy! I ain’t joking - this is probably the most impractical and cringe-worthy excuse for staying with someone, and if you are childish enough to use this as an excuse – then you are childish enough to cuddle up to a stuffed animal at night. And that was harsh because cuddly toys don’t mean your childish – I have one!  No awkward bony limbs, no hair in face, cuddly toys can have their back to your without you getting all paranoid. There is no sudden movement, you control its positioning. YOU ARE IN CONTROL. But all jokes and weird admittance asside about cuddly toys  – you are not alone. And you cannot stay with someone in fear that you may end up being so. You are already a very alone person if you rely on the company of someone your only half interested in. Loner.

These culprits stay with their current partners in the belief that something better may come along in the future. Sitting on the fence, observing passers-by, holding out for something that may or may not even exist. There was a toss-up here to label this type of person as those who think the grass is perhaps greener, but there wasn’t quite the right phrase for it. (The grass could be greenererers?) But the view of the grass being greener is rather fitting here, these people live with a constant expectation that somebody else, somebody better, is out there. A bit like the truth in X-files. 

They turn their backs against their own lawns – eyeing up the perhaps sexier, more exciting, and more fulfilling patches of grass (bad metaphor alert) to attend to. And instead of maintaining their current lawn, perhaps investing a bit more time in its growth, attending to its needs, or just plain and simply growing with it, they fence sit and observe all the other lawns. And it’s not very fair really is it, on the patch of grass that thinks everything is fine and dandy, carrying on with life as if everything is okay. The truth is, it seems that these people wouldn't be satisfied if they owned the exotic Versailles gardens of France. They wouldn’t be happy settling in the depth of the beautiful gardens of the Neverlands. The grass is always greener. The saddest thing about them is that they have probably found and ditched the best thing that could have happened, but they will never know this – because the grass is always greener. Apparently. 

 The ‘I'm waiting for the right timer’s

These procrastinating undevotees assure their confidantes that that they will end it, in time, but they are waiting for the ‘right time.’ But may I ask, when is the right time to finish it with someone? On a Tuesday morning after Monday blues have mended? At 5:45 am on a Wednesday? Perhaps before Christmas, no after Christmas…Fuck it New Year, New start and all that. Friday afternoon perhaps, at least then you’ll be granting them the weekend to forget about you through means of strong spirits and nameless strangers. But let me suggest something, if you're not happy now, in the present and you are so concerned with this human formed concept of time, then why drag it out and harm both of your futures? - I like what I said there, yeah that's good.<-- good="" i="" like="" nbsp="" o:p="" s="" said="" that.="" that="" there.="" what="" yeah="">

'The ‘I’m waiting for them to do something bad, so I don’t look as bad-ee’s

 A long winded name for long winded approach. Similar to the aforementioned time evaluaters, these  suspects take more of an accusatory stand. They can’t face being the bad guy/gal so they wait for their partners to do wrong, as they require justification and reason to end their unhappy relationship. It also says to me that they person on the receiving end of the bad news, is someone prone to wrong-doing. So what are you doing with them then? Do you not have enough supportive evidence to go with? What wrong can they do to make you finally see the light? Do they have to stop you from going out again on a Friday night? Do they have to hurt you? Kiss / screw someone else? And if you are expecting this behaviour, then this person does not deserve your time anyway.  And what if they don't do wrong? Do you have to find something, anything possible that can be used as an excuse to end it with that person? 'Look, I'm sorry - I have had a really fun time with you but I just can't be with someone who, you know, who...I don't know - you're just too, um, your laugh, I'm sorry it’s just too ... too silly.'

The ‘I don't wana be alone-rs’

This post may seem like more of an intense interrogation session, but if you find yourself being able to answer any of these questions, then SLAP YOURSELF.

 I know in many instances and sometimes very extreme instances - we do feel trapped by our partners – and that’s really sad. But in other cases, I fear people just stay with their boyfriends/girlfriends for convenience, to bear through that quite horrible feeling of being alone. We are only human after all, and this means we have to deal with the burden of such intense emotions, and perhaps pondering over greener grass is one of them, but you should not be in a relationship if you feel this way.  We as a generation, where relationships are hard enough and influenced greatly by the media (especially the social kind), other people and our racy overactive minds, need to be strong and be honest with ourselves and with each other. If it's not working, of course try and fix it, but if it’s still not working post-fix - move on. You will be doing yourself a favour, and your partners. Don't be scared to be alone, no one is alone in this world – we have eachother and we have ourselves. Be your own best friend for a while, try ridin’ solo (not sure what my RnB referencing game is strong in this post), don’t try and drag something out that is not worth the time. And time is precious in this life.  

New year... old me?

First lets start by mocking my last post; 'no ones catching my eye anymore, I am so independent now, free and single blahblahblah.' 

I was really having a tough time deciding what to this New Year. I think I have mentioned in previous New Year’s related posts that I have inherited a superstition, which insists on a notion of however you spend your New Years Eve determines how you spend the rest of your year. And I am not afraid to admit that this was influenced by a quite tear provoking episode of The OC back in the day.

So recently, I have been speaking with a chap from back home (typically, I move to Bristol and end up interested in someone back at the place I fled from.) He is a D.J. in the local music scene, and someone I have crushed on for a very long time, but haven’t we all I suppose. He is no celebrity or anything like that, but well known if you're into that sort of music, and live in East Devon. I met him a few months back after the end of my short fling with the letter writer. I was out for a friend’s birthday and he was at the bar, I was in a foul mood because some gobby caa pushed me about because I spilt my drink on her equally as gobby fella. BY ACCIDENT.  So I was in one of those indestructible, 'I don't take no shit I am all woman’ moods, aka really bloody drunk.
I went over to the bar and asked if he was going to buy me a drink. He laughed and said; ‘why would I buy you a drink?’ Touché I thought, why should he buy me a drink? So I bought myself a G&T because that seems to be the craze these days, and probably went on to introduce myself as Sheila. We talked for a while and he asked how I knew him, probably prompting a response he has grown used to from the many fan galz, but I just said I recognised him from somewhere, unsure where. It was probably much cooler than the sentence originally formed in my head of: ‘OH MY GOD I USED TO GET TO YOUR SETS SUPER EARLY SO I COULD GET TO THE FRONT AND SHAKE IT WHILE TRYNA CATCH YOUR AMAZING EYES, YOU’RE SO TALENTED AND TALL I CANT BELIEVE WE ARE TALKING FACE TO FACE RIGHT NOW I CAN’T BREATH’

Anyway, this was around three months ago, and since  then we have been texting, and FaceTiming,  promising meet ups, cancelling meet ups (more on his part,) not texting, not FaceTiming, drunk dialling, leaving hideously embarrassing voicemails (more on my part), discussing shameful snippets from said voicemails, texting, Facetiming, repeating the above, and that’s it really. It’s strange because I’m not quite sure what he wants from me. We could be good friends I suppose, but he did kiss me and tell me I was amazing when we met…And I don’t let shit like that go…even if we were scuppered. You know me.
I did get funny on his post boxing day bailout, after we had planned my first visit to him in his place of residence before I made my way back up to Bristol. I thought he was making excuses when he replied to my text saying his car had failed and so he wouldn’t be around as he needed to sort it out ON A BANK HOLIDAY. I’d been out with some friends and over indulged in the Prosecco, and the more Prosecco we drunk, the more brutally my friends became who later agreed that I was never gonna see him again, he probably isn’t that interested - all coming together like sisters doing it for themselves. ‘He don’t deserve you babe.’ ‘It’s all or nothing though it’s all or nothing.’ ‘He’s wasting your time girl.’ R-e-s-p-e-c-t stylin.’

So I replied something quite shamefully immature along the lines of ‘Well that’s a bloody shame, see you never!’ like some Devon bred wanabee Paris Hilton. I say along the lines of, I had to delete our text thread the next day because I couldn’t face my shameful reply, and I didn’t want to risk the temptation of another inadvertently candid voicemail. To my surprise, I received a text the next day, and he was rather displeased at my paradoxical statement.  ‘That was a bit blunt, was hoping I’d see you soon rather than never, safe travels X.’  I called him back, I couldn’t live with myself knowing I’d upset the chap that turned down my many attempts at getting to know him face to face rather than screen to screen. No answer though. I text him saying sorry and explained that Prossecco was no longer my friend.
New Year’s Eve Eve, still planless.  A delayed text of course, apologising he missed the call all those days ago and asking if I had any plans for the subsequent evening. I was feeling a little over confident after a glass of Rose and admitted I was thinking about making my way down to a watch him make music. He was playing a gig in Torquay as mentioned once during a blurred vision FaceTime, but technically I hadn’t received a sober invite. I was missing a sober invite.

New Years Eve, no response to my unsubtle hint and my friends from work invited me to a house party at theirs. Umming and Arring as if music maker was going to show up out of the blue with a Limo and a sparkly party dress (for me,) they told me to get a grip and join them. And they were right.  I should spend my New Years with the beautiful faces of Bristol I was blessed to have met over the preceding year, not wasting time waiting for confirmation on whether he wanted me to be hanging around him at New Year’s or not. And I hadn’t received confirmation at this point, so it was clear enough to be a no. But there I was, as always, holding out for something hopeless.

I did go to the house party, of course I had to text him first, just to let him know that I probably wasn’t going to make it anyway and I was off to a siiiick house party in Bristol with wonderful people. Alas! A near instant reply; ‘Oh gutted, you bail out, have a good night! Xx’ SAY WHAT!? Me? A bailout? But I was waiting for you to want me to come, I was waiting for you to want me! I deleted the number again to avoid the voicemails.
I had a great time at the house party, dancing around a living room with the most caring and loving bunch of people. At quarter past twelve I had a missed call, I called him back, blushing that I could potentially be the first port of call after the lines unjammed. We drunkenly spoke and laughed, I was in taxi to a Bristol club and he was in his way to his gig. ‘Wish you were heres’ were exchanged as they always are post-midnight and jokes were made about my taxi making a detour to Torquay.  We made a FaceTime date for 3.00 am as that was when he would be back at his friends after his set. Deal.

The rest of my New Years was filled with dancing, laughing, spilling of drinks, hugging and wishing happy new years to strangers. Feeling a little fuzzy headed, I looked at my phone and it was out of battery, I had to get home to make sure it was charged from my FaceTime date, I couldn’t miss this important event! TAXI!

The taxi driver had no choice but to listen to my rants and raves about how busy the clubs were and how unfair it was to charge such an extortionate amount after an already money demanding time of year. We stopped off at a cashpoint so I could draw out more money, even the price of the taxi had gone up ten pounds. I got to the cashpoint and two guys were stood behind laughing at me as I started to empty my bag in a desperate attempt to find my debit card. It was as if they knew this was a common occurrence for me, the misplacement of my debit card after a boozey night out.

I started to panic and curse, and one of the chaps stepped forward and said: ‘You’re lucky its New Years,’ and he went to the hole in the wall and drew out my taxi money. There are some wonderful people in the world. The taxi driver stepped out of his car angrily, and my New Years hero, smiled at me as he paid for a taxi he had nothing to do with.

I caught a glimpse of his face and nose ring (my fave),  all slightly difficult to make out in the early house of New Year’s day and after copious amounts of red stripe. But I liked what I saw and in my drunken and overwhelmed state, I invited them both back to mine for a cup of tea and a bank transfer. One of them, hero’s friend, seemed a little weary of this offer and decided he would go on to where they originally had planned. But the Hero, agreed to come back to mine for a cup of tea. And it really is as innocent as it sounds, I was in no way prepared enough, shaved enough, or sober enough to do anything of the sort. Plus I had only just met the guy.

Please note, when I told my dear mother this story the next day – she warned me I needed to be more careful. And she is right, but I have a strong instinct with people – Oh yes I get my fickle heartbroken a lot, but as peculiar as it may sound to whoever is reading this, I know I am safe, and I know who I can trust in terms of my safety (outside of love and relationships if that makes sense, because I am shit at that part.)  I also warned him not to try anything funny because my best friends/ roommates mother had bought us both rape alarms for Christmas. No joke.

As we were walking back, he introduced himself as Shannon or Sharron, believe me I wish I could remember which. I remember thinking he was trying to beat me at my own name game (I probably pulled the Sheila card). He was very funny, a little cocky but charming with it. Just how I like ‘em.

But there was something a bit more to him, I am still unsure as to what and I don't think I will ever be sure.  At one point our hands became held and we laughed questioned what we were doing, we both shrugged and continued anyway. When we got to mine, I made us both a shit cup of tea and we played music from some of my rather questionable playlists. I lit a candle and we sat opposite each other on my sofa.  He put on one of my favourite bands, (who I wouldn’t have expected him or anyone to know of) and selected my favourite song on the album and we both sung it to eachother. At that moment, it was as though we had anything and everything in common. Cheesy/ yucky/ cliché I know.
It was strange but nice and we kept reiterating this too each other, ‘this is weird isn’t it?’ ‘Yeah but it’s nice isn’t it? ‘Yeah but it is quite weird isn’t it?’  Then I had a smooch on my sofa with a stranger that paid from my taxi.  

A couple of hours passed and he became less of a stranger as he told me more about himself and his six year old son – I gave up on the silly jokes and told him about my move to Bristol and that I liked singing but couldn’t sing loud enough to join a band.
Interrupted at 3 am by the previously instigated FaceTime call.  I explained I had to take the call but I would be right back, and that he should wait right there, but he didn’t have to wait if he didn’t want to. And if he didn’t want to, he should leave his number. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I went into my room to take the call. Mr Music maker was with a lot of his friends and himself and his company were all very drunk and rowdy. I can’t remember much of what was said but my Face on the screen seemed to be passed around to a lot of drunken, lairy males. The connection was poor (in more ways than one) and I didn’t want to leave my New Year’s hero alone in my living room, so I told my FaceTime date I would call him back in five.

I went back out in to the living roomto find him was scribbling his number on a bit of paper. Are you going? My mind was in two places, I wanted to stay and talk to the kind hearted chap who paid for my taxi, the one with a son, a sense of humour, a nice face, a nose ring, but I also had a date with an IPhone screen.
As Shann/rron left  he said it was really nice to meet me and we agreed that I’d call him after his shift tomorrow, you know, really mix things up a bit. I went back in to my room, alone, and I became frustrated at my answerless phone calls as my FaceTime dates phone was now switched off (out of battery? I don’t know.)  I fell asleep to my own paranoid thoughts that he didn’t want me to call back so turned his phone off. Prior to this, I left him a voicemail.

New Years Day, with a sore head and two half full cups of tea left on my coffee table proving that last night was not some strange dream. I picked up the piece of paper with the mobile number on and took it back to my room. My hungover head, slowly reminisced over the taxi money, our conversations, the giggling, the singing and the kissing. I fell back to sleep clutching the piece of paper like a right old saddo.

I woke up again at about 5pm, trying not to feel guilty that I had wasted the day, reminding myself that I wasn’t the only person in the world not leaving their bed on this particular twenty four hours. I decided to text the number scribbled on the paper that was now under my pillow like an offering to the tooth fairy. Something became very clear as I typed the number in to my phone. There were twelve digits. TWELVE DIGITS. He wrote down an invalid number. Of course, I tried a few options, one of which I was sure must be the number because who has four 1’s in theirs? Nothing, no reply. I tried one last number, and had a response through iMessage. ‘Who’s this?’ I responded perhaps a little too eagerly, ‘I’m not sure if this is the right number, but it’s me Chelsea?’ ‘Chelsea Stoke?’  Fuck sake.

Facebook? Yeah, it could be an option, but then my mind battles with me, perhaps he gave the wrong numbers on purpose. And if I did guess the right number and he didn’t text back because perhaps he didn’t want to – what would it look like if I was then to stalk the realms of Facebook … oh heyyy, me again, shit tea maker, debit card loser! It’s meee!

 At least its completely taking my mind of music maker, who never did return my call.
 SHANN/RRON If you are out there, thank you for paying for my taxi and not leaving the right number to avoid any potential upset. You are my favourite stranger.

So either this year means I will be spending time with beautiful strangers on my Sofa, only for me to never see them again. Perhaps that is the best thing for me. :)
New Year, same me. But as always, it’s always fuel to my ongoing man hunt as my sisters boyfriend referred to it once. And, it makes a great story. Bring on the trumpets and failed flings 2k16, this year is the year I’m gonna make a book outta all this.


Here I go again, sat in front of my laptop debating whether or not I should blog about another man related event that has occurred in my life. The reason for my hesitation is perhaps because I feel a tad ashamed of myself, fearful that this next post may lead whoever to read it to think of me as a bloody idiot. And maybe I am I bloody idiot, and maybe I'm not afraid to admit it because I know I am not the only one in this crazy monogamy meddling, fidelity fearing generation that makes questionable choices and decisions on who they decide to spend their time with.

I recently blogged about my bold move to Bristol. Quite modest of me to describe my own life choice as bold, but where I come from, both in residence and in mind, it was difficult for me to move away from the my home-town, after many failed attempts at doing so before. This move has not only aided my journey in getting over my dubious past, but it also has been a great opportunity for me to re-discover myself, which, some say can only be done if you travel the world, climb a mountain, or visit a couple of mosques in Thailand. 

Some habits stay with us no matter how old we get. I used to compete with myself daily during school to write my name neater and neater on the top right hand of the page - more and more immaculately each day - setting myself the target that by the end of the year I’d have written it the neatest way possible - more pristine and perfect  than all of the name signings that had gone before.  I still practise today, doodling over my notebook at work to see if 26 years of practise has taken its course. 

Other such peculiar goals would and still do include; passing the next target (be it a drain, a lamp post or someone walking their dog) on the pavement before the approaching car beats me to it, or washing up whatever is on the draining board before the person helping me with the dreaded after dinner deed places the next utensil down to dry. 

The reason I refer of such peculiar habits is because I fear that one of my mind-generated routines will remain with me as the aforementioned have. This is my habit of meeting members chaps, dating them, hanging out with them, and then freaking out that they aren't the ones for me, meeting them, telling them, getting upset and freaking out that I may have made the wrong decision. (I must mention here, this has only happened perhaps three times, I like to exaggerate. One of which is detailed in this next post.)

Friends and family members, that are very much in love, say to me. ‘You’ll find the right guy, and you will know straight away that he is the right guy.’ Okay thanks, but when, where, what, when and how?  And why hasn't it happened yet? And that's easy for you to day as you've found the right guy? Others say to me, ‘I didn't really like the guy at first, but we spent more time together and now look at us, we’ve just got back from our engagement holiday in Vienna.’ Okay thanks, but I have met lots of guys that I didn't really like at first, and I don't think they liked me all that much either, so how on earth would we get to Vienna? 

With this paradoxical advice I am given, I really don’t know where I stand in terms of meeting the right guy, or where the right guy might be standing for that matter. But for now, here’s another story for you:

My brother recently started dating a girl from work, not something I could do as strongly indicated in my last blog, but I was pleased to be invited over to his girlfriend’s house for a gathering one Saturday. We were instructed to dress to impress and bring a bottle or two. (Two.)

I had already formed judgement on the guest list after looking at the Facebook event.  I wasn't too fusses until my brother mentioned that his girlfriend was friends with a fair few 'lads' from school and the poor boy was nervous about meeting them. 'Relaaax,' I told him, as I scrolled through the Facebook page to see what and who I was up against.  

Of course, the one guy Josh that most caught my attention over the other attendees was of course to be the one I hit it off with the following evening, him having no idea that I already knew what University he attended, that he enjoyed motor cycling and he had recently visited Iceland.

We got to my brothers girlfriend’s house and after cocktails were poured, we made our way into the living room. My eyes immediately clocked Josh’s. He was sat down, beer in hand looking pretty bloody dapper. He got up to shake my brothers hand, he boasted a beautiful little smirk. Holy shit this guy was tall. 

Unintentionally staring while him and my brother spoke about the potnecy of the cocktails, he turned to me as if I was an old friend: 'Hullo there, I'm Josh, nice to meet you!'I know who you are I thought - and then came that awkward British man opposite British woman moment, the sheer uncertainty on whether to shake hands or pretend to be Europeon for three seconds. I awkwardly put my hand out and looked up at him, 'I'm Chelsea, I'm his sister.' I nodded at my brother who ever so slightly frowned at me, as if to tell me to stop acting weird.'  Josh gently took my hand and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.  I said something twattish and cliché like 'Woaah! Easy!' And he laughed and his smile calmed my nerves a little.  He was very well spoken and had a permanent smirk on his face that he wore well. He began chatting away to my brother, all the while looking at me as though I was included in the conversation about motorbikes and his trip to Iceland. I know about your trip to Iceland, my inner voice mocked. 

More cocktails were consumed, shots were shotted, and soon came a drinking number game recommended by Josh. A little tipsy at this point,  yet I managed to fluke it and win a few rounds. ‘You’re good at this,’ Josh said, his smirk widened and I smiled, a little embarrassed and overwhelmed by his but an intense and flattering glare. My brother gave me that look again.

The night proceeded to a student-fuelled cheesy club and I don’t know who arranged such a thing but we somehow all ended up in  V.I.P area with Leis decorating our necks and vodka shots decorating our fronts. Vodka shots.  Shotso of Vodka. I don't know when I will discipline my self enough to avoid the very drunk that makes me very mouthy, and very, very drunk.

As the night went on, my mouthiness became mouthier. To my likening, I was challenged by Josh, every sarcastic or mocking remark I made was either  matched, or bettered. 

After my match had been met, I took his hand and we made out way to the dance floor. (Dance floor sounds a lot more inviting than a floor covered in sticky drink spills, broken glass and girls falling all over eachother.) 

Next, we were dancing, cheesy club style. Now, I do usually see everything wrong with a little bump and grind, I can't stand watching a couple, (be it a couple of strangers or an actual couple) slide up and down each other like they are rein-acting our favourite scene from Jungle book,  but on this particular evening,  ALL DIGNITY ESCAPED ME. It was a little bit out of character, but I couldnt see anyone we knew. It seemed we had lost everyone at the point  or perhaps they were avoiding us and our little overconfident show. I'll never know. 

In the early hours of Sunday morning, Josh decided it was his time to leave and as he did he asked for my mobile number. I fibbed and told him I didn't have a mobile so I typed in my home address into the notes on his IPhone. Don’t ask me why. We took separate taxis home and I fell asleep in my clothes and mascara.

Post weekend, I had booked a Tuesday off work for life admin and while sipping on a shit cup of tea I flinched at my mind montage, playing back scenes of me and posh boy dancing. I visited his Facebook profile for the second time,  a reminder of the face that was near mine for most of Saturday night.

Moments later, and these sorts of things are always so very timely, I heard the letter box go. I raced down the stairs as if I knew I was going to receive something more enticing than my bank statement or council tax bill. It had crossed my mind a couple of times what Josh would actually do with my address, but I really did not expect the chap to go to the trouble of writing me , the mouthy drunk girl, a letter especially after I'd fibbed about not having a mobile in the 21st century.
I would have loved to have been the postman, who not even 10 steps away would have heard me shriek in disbelief, 'OH MY GOD ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?' I ran back up the stairs almost tripping over my haste, repeating the words ‘He wrote me a letter, he wrote me a fucking letter?!'

The brown envelope was addressed to 'Chelsea (Girl with no number),' followed by my address, perhaps only legible because I knew it was my address. Not scoring too highly on the handwriting side of things, but that's just my inner child sneering after my many years of handwriting practise on the top left hand side of the page. 

The letter read:
Dear Chelsea,
First of all I would like to take the time to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the ‘’bullshit ‘’ exchanged last night.
So if you’re free one evening this week or on the weekend, let me know. It would be a pleasure to see you again.

Just so you know, my handwriting is not usually this bad, but holding a messenger owl in one hand whilst writing is pretty tricky.

                                                                                                         (Mobile number)

*the owl reference is to do with my collection of owls, ornaments rather than the real things. I have an owl tattoo on my wrist which automatically prompts me to disclose information on my ever growing collection.
I noticed on the envelope - and I do love my coincidences - a stamp that read National letter writing week and the dates begun from Monday up until the end of the week. This is perfect, I thought, already tearing out a page from my notebook to start writing back. I wasn't going to text him, no no no, I was going to reply by the same means. My head was going crazy, 'Oh this is perfect, imagine the wedding speeches, 'It all started with a letter, and, who writes letters any more right?' Shitttttt,. shit, shit.  

Dear Josh,

Thank you for your letter. I appreciate you taking the time to so neatly present your mobile number at the bottom of an even more neatly presented letter, but as it is ‘national letter writing week,’ which coincidentally was only brought to my attention by the envelope that was pushed through my letterbox this morning by your owl messenger, I thought it apt to reply by the same means.

I hope you get this in time,
I am free Saturday PM

          Chelsea (Girl with number: Mobile number here)

It's funny writing a letter, because you don't really know if they will get it and when they will read it. A little note stating 'seen 10:15am' doesn't come swooping through the letter box once the envelope has been opened. It was noth a refreshing but long waiting game

A few days later, I was on the bus to meet a friend for dinner, My phone rang with a number I didn't recognise and I presumed it would be my different-mobile-number-a-month friend calling me to tell me she was late, or I was. To my surprise, and I was surprised, I was greeted with a very enthusiastic ‘Hullo there, I’ve just read your letter!’ I'm cant quite re-iterate how I responded or what I sounded like as I was caught off guard and I am crap at talking to people on the phone. It was a bit of a blur. But he heroically kept it brief, telling me he was very much looking forward to Saturday and that he would pick me up at eight. A phrase I only thought apparent in American romcoms. 

Saturday night came around a little quicker than my nerves could handle. But it was refreshing to feel nervous about a date, or rather, refreshing to actually be going on a date after such a long time. Between the exchange of our letters and the movie-like phone call, we had text eachother some lengthy messages. None of that, 'what you up to?' 'Not much you' shit. The texts  showed interest and ingenuity and granted me a comfortable feeling that this quite charming, mature and thoughtful chap who had a 'good place in mind' for our first date, could change my perspective on my poor habit of failed flings and repetitious relationships .

I dressed up in a little black dress which puffed out slightly at the bottom. My asda priced black wedges were ruined by the spilling of sticky drinks and I didn’t want him to know they were the only nice shoes I owned. I wore my little black pumps and a floral jacket and put my hair up all big fifties style. I felt confident and excited, but as the time crept to eight o clock, I couldn't quite seem to calm my pre-date nerves down. A glass of rose wine had to be consumed. 

8.00 p.m. on the dot, my door knocked and my stomach knotted. Five days ago this door was accustomed with a letter written by the very hand that was knocking on it. I couldn't fathom the strange fate of it all. I answered the door, and there he stood in all his charm and glory, tall, handsome, well dressed and even more well-spoken than I could remember after Saturday nights wine, cocktail and vodka intake.

I was nervous, ridiculously nervous. I answered the door and mumbled an ‘oh hello!’ as if I was expecting some other dashing gentleman to arrive at my door. I continued to mumble, signalling for him to follow me upstairs so I could finish my already finished hair (aka glass of rose wine I had stashed in the bathroom to polish off before I left) I went in to the bathroom, finished my wine and hid the glass in the cabinet. I closed my eyes in an impromptu prayer that the evening ahead should go well. Please let it go well, please let it go well.

And of course it did, it went better and beyond well. He took me to a 1920's cocktail bar, almost as if we were persevering the letter writing era. We sipped cocktails at a table in the corner, a candle flame burning in the middle and Jazz music played in the background. It was all very fancy and romantic. and after a few Ginni Hendricks, Josh became a little confident, placing his hands on my waist as I ordered us more cocktails at the bar, on my thigh under the table as if it was a secret, on my face as he leaned in for a kiss over the table. Cautious of the candle mind you.

With more cocktails came more confidence, and I led him to the Jazz fuelled dance-floor. Just as I did the Saturday night prior although not getting so stuck to the floor as i walked. We danced in ways, a little, no, a lot, classier than before. I was being twirled around and tilted back (I didn't even know I could do that shit). I felt like everyone was looking at us, and I LIKED IT. Everything about the evening was perfectly old fashioned, ‘right up my street’ my close friends would say to me when I later swooned over the evening with them the next day ‘And he wrote you a fucking letter!?’

By far, the best and classiest first date I have ever been on, in fact the only date I can really, really class as a real first date. 

This was the start of lots of little romantic dates and meet ups over the subsequent two months.  Our second date rather hastily followed the Sunday morning after the Jazz and Gin. It was a groggy but sophisticated visit to Queens square to look at vintage and retro cars. Again, unintentionally following our old fashioned theme. I felt like I had escaped the twenty first century, looking at cars I didn't know the names of before being treated to eggs benedict. I know darling, I know. 

We agreed we would see more of each other.

As the weeks passed, I got to know Josh quite well. We went to bars, and restaurants, for walks in parks and over bridges. He was charming and funny and he enjoyed it when I mocked his pompousness. When he spoke, especially when making a joke or witty comment, he would follow it up with a loud ‘Uhhhmmm and he'd look at me with his confident eyes as if it was the cue for for me to giggle girlishly. He also said nice things about me, I had nice eyes, I was funny and that he could tell I really cared for people close to me. 

The thing I most liked about Josh, was that he remembered shit. My favourite film, what was on my work agenda, why I died my hair ginger. He was interested in me and what I had to say. He also remembered I had a thing for canned lemonade drinks, so when I went round to his one night and he had stocked up on a six pack and had them chilled in the fridge ready for my arrival, I knew I was in the right place.

One evening, he promised to take me to the best lemonade place in town. As we walked underneath the pretty lights reflecting the harbour, he sat down with his legs dangling over the water. I sat down beside him as he pulled out two cans of lemonade out of his bag. He was an old romantic.

Of course, in the romantic life of Chelsea - the old fashioned love story does not continue. I won’t delve in to the dark and complex depths of my mind, but after eight weeks, I still wasn't getting where I wanted to be, or where I thought I would be with Josh. Perhaps alter ego Sheila go the better of me when I cried to my best friend that something must be wrong with me because I wanted to like him more than I did. I wanted to take it further. And I really did, there was nothing I didn't like about him. Ridiculous, I realise. Friends, family members questioned me, hoping I wasn't calling things off because he was 'too nice.' 21st century girl style.

But this wasn't the case. I guess it was when I was round Josh's  house one evening, it was getting late and the poor chap, after all his efforts, charisma and chivalry, was perhaps entitled to 'second base,' and I yes I am referring it to second base despite turning 26 this year.  (In fact I may  forever refer to it in pre-virgin terms , besides I've come a long way since calling it hanky-panky.) I sat up to avoid falling asleep and he asked me if I would like to stay over. I had denied the offer on two occasions before and I still didn't feel ready enough. At this point I think I knew we couldn't continue, because I didn't want to stay over then and I couldn't imagine my self staying over ever. I told him I had an early start and that I would see him the following day. 

That night, my body tossed and turned as did my mind.  The two opposing theories outlined by friends of 'Love at first sight,' or  'Stick at it and then you will feel love' battled with my brain. Neither theory seemed to be working for me.  

I know what you are thinking, or even shouting at the screen right now; ‘WHAT IS EVEN WRONG WITH YOU, YOU TWAT!?’ And that’s fine, because my mind shouted at me in the same accusatory tone.

I suggested we meet for a drink the following day. Arguably more nervous than I was before our first date,I met him at a bar, ordered my self a white wine spritzer, him a beer and I was completely honest. Not so honest that I let him in to the strange and dangerous complexities of my own incomprehensible head, but honest enough to assure him that it wasn't him, it was me - of course I didn't say that 'cause I may as well of just shot myself there and then, but you know what I mean. Without me disclosing too much, he so charmingly understood. He was appreciative and kind. But what else would I have expected.

He went on to say he was glad we didn't take things further, his hands calmed mine as they shook and his assuring  voice calmed my nerves. He mentioned a time in his past where he felt similar. This made me feel more of a human and less of a weird, soulless relationshiphobe. Although ,following this, and I don’t wish to add to my already mounted twat label, he did say: ‘People can be on different paths at different times and it’s a shame. I felt like you do now for a long time, but  after meeting you, I don’t feel like that anymore. But I do understand.’ Inner voice: ‘you’reatwatyou’reatwatyou’reatwat)

We ended our short and sweet fling with a long cuddle, after he dropped me to my house. We both agreed we would ‘still be friends.’ But no further contact has been made. I wish him all the happiness and greatness he deserves.

Maybe he just wasn’t my type. Gah! I don’t even know what my type is? But I can say with confidence that I am no longer the 18 year old girl that likes the bad boys. My mum no longer serenades me with that crap song by an ex-XFactor contestant, so that must mean something 'with the bad boys, are always catching your eye!' Mum used to sing to me when it came on the radio years ago; altering the lyrics slightly whilst pointing her fingers at me accusingly, 'your eye!,'  concealing the jibe as a jovial dance move that wasn’t actually choreographed in the music video. Mum, and readers, the bad boys aren’t catching my eye anymore, in fact no one really is. Maybe, and dare I say it after my complaints and digs at those who have said it to me - ‘I’m not in the right place for a relationship?’

I’m in the right place for myself though, and I think that’s the problem. Even though its not a problem. I am happy being on my own - and I use the term lightly because I am not really on my own at all.  I am surrounded by a beautiful family and friendship circle. I have a lot of love to give and I am happy giving it to them. For the first time, I am doing things for me, I’m doing things that I wouldn’t do normally if I was still residing in my little ghost town in Devon (went to see the ballet the other day, I mean come on!) I have time to write, to be, and I wouldn’t be doing all this if I was in a relationship with someone I was unsure about (and people do that!)  And whilst doing these new things, visiting new places, I do not wish to be stringing anyone along because I have been strung along, and its ‘orrible. I  will NEVER allow myself to do that to someone else, cause, that’s a bad habit. I will continue to neaten my handwritten name, and step on the drain before the car overtakes me, but the habit of meeting people and holding out for something that isnt quite there, is a habit i have broken. Startingggg....now. 

Fast food fast love

Today I found myself in McDonalds, alone, scoffing back a quarter pounder meal with chips and a diet coke. Whilst scoffing, I looked around to see if there was any other solo scoffers and was disappointed to find that, nope, it was just me. I couldn’t quite bring myself to count an old man who was hunched over his crossword and crap cup of coffee.
I’ve been doing this for years you know, eating Mcdonalds on my todd, looking around at the couples and the families, not sure if it is guilt I feel for eating at this media slated, vegetarian hated franchise or, complete despair that I am on my own in a fast food restaurant, gobbling up salt ridden chips and slurping sugar mounted cola like there is no tomorrow (is that why they call it fast food? No one really takes the time out to appreciate the authentic and exquisite taste of a big mac meal with gherkins…)

I am on my own in a fast food restaurant. Again! What am I doing? That’s what I think to myself. But then if we delve deeper into the supersize cup of ice and diet coke…why am I on my own?
Well, for starters. I have this new thing where I just lie to guys I meet out. I can’t tell the truth, about anything. Not in a sinister or malicious way. It’s all rather jovial and informal and in most cases quite sarcastic. If they ask my name, I say it’s Sheila. And when they laugh at the seemingly outdated, old person related label, I pretend I am insulted. I loved Drama class in school and I relive my love for it through these boozey nights out in the variety of pubs in Bristol. I can keep a straight face better than most, some fall for it and persist to call me Sheila for the duration of our, most of the time, short acquaintance. Those who don’t quite fall for it, are persistent to learn my real name, in which I respond something bitter such as ‘why would you want to know my real name?' Or 'what do youuu care..' Other lies include, being Czech, being much older than I actually am, or ending up in Bristol after a tragic boating accident, leaving me stranded on the harbourside and working in one of the bars, and I don't tell them which one.

Most of these chaps I am either not attracted to, or smell from a mile off their  stench of chauvinism, narcissism, egotism, Lynx etc. The ones that I do quite fancy end up being victims of the 'pretend to have met them before' act where I become insulted at their bewildered faces, showing confusion, sometimes guilt, because they don’t know who the ruddy hell I am.
Most nights end with the guy’s bidding Sheila farewell and I end up alone in a taxi, wondering if Maccy D’s is still open, talking to a foreign taxi driver about the hopeless romantics of this generation.

Said taxi drivers follow on from this to tell me I'm a good girl, and that I will meet the right man soon. Kudos taxi drivers.

So why then, this alter ego, Sheila? Sheila Tequila if we are at the bar and I am trying to get a free drink. Well, maybe I just don’t want to let anyone in. Perhaps I am just a very bitter and twisted single female who has resorted to this behaviour because nothing else has really worked for me. Maybe i'm just plain crazy. Whatever the theory,I think, I am quite HAPPY with it. Because normally I am stood there with open arms shouting ‘ COME ON POTENTIAL BOYFRIEND, I DON’T LIKE YOU MUCH, AND VICE VERSA, BUT WE COULD GIVE IT A GO!’ I quite like pretending not to be me; when I actually managed to get a barman’s number out of it the other day, (and that was all Sheila, I've  never had the confidence to do such a thing before) after three or  four texts I became irritated and bored of him twisting everything  I said into some sordid suggestion, so I deleted the damn thing. And it felt good to not bother replying one Saturday night when he suggested I smoke something illegal with him and check out how 'sick' his room is.
For once in my single life, I’m actually having fun. And not the type of fun I would regret if I were to roll over to find something other than my stuffed owl teddy bear, someone who has made  my room smell of breath and lynx.

 One thing that has helped me not want, is the fact that the very chap who evoked the ‘powerful response from within me,’ the fuel and the trigger for much of my blogging and blogworthy life experiences, has actually had a child. He is now a dad. When I first heard the news, or rather saw the news because a dear acquaintance of mine thought it’d be appropriate to show me the scan via snap chat screenshot. post tequila, I cried like the little baby to be born nine months later. I was in a pub back at home, it was Christmas and I cried like a spoilt brat would if Santa had put a satsuma in their stocking. And NOT because I wanted to be carrying his offspring, no no no, but because I was sad that he got the family and the partner and the house and instead I was childless, partnerless and mortgageless, moving to yet another city to see if it could offer me more than my previous residencies ever had. P.s. i dont want a mortgage really i was just being spoilt.

And Bristol has offered me much more. So thank you for that Bristol.

For the first time in 6 years things between us went quiet. No late night drunken messages, no break up rebounds, no gossips from the small town residents who told me everything he ever said, did, didn’t say, didn’t do. I thought the father to be had finally stopped being a little boy.
Then one month ago, a month before his newborn was born, I had a message from him.
‘I hope alls well with you.’

Now, that’s not even a question. Thats a rhetorical statement that said to me that he expects me probably not to be well because I’m always messing about moving places and things.  I replied, of course I did. And I’m not proud; it’s a terrible habit of mine, like biting your nails or drinking too much. We then got talking, a little more than we should have been. And he asked me If I ‘had a fella yet.’
 When I replied, 'a boyfriend? Me? Don't be silly,'  (I always put myself down around the likes of him) he asked if I had turned lesbian. Some sort of pre-baby fantasy perhaps, or more likely checking if he still had me there on that threadbare bit of string. Then again both scenarios are as likely as eachother.

A  couple of months later, Facebook notified me of the baby's name, weight, birth, fathers resemblance, mothers rapid loss of baby weight etc and admittedly I had a little moment in Asda when Pixie Lott came on. I had to stop and  look down at the single woman remnants of my shopping  basket, because tears were stinging my eyes. I soon got a grip and told myself to grow up, and to put back the wine and chocolate and baby grow that I wanted to sharpie  ' My daddy is a twerp' on and pop in the post. The latter was an exaggeration. After I got over my initial crazy lady moment,In my head, I wished  him all the best and his child all the happiness, and I think this is now  where we draw the line. Of course, there will always be the slight bitterness stinging these positive thoughts, but I'm only human eh?

And why has this all helped me? Because I never want to go through that again. Which is a bold statement because who knows what could happen, but for now, I want to be risk free, and I want to feel in my heart, mind and soul that whoever I chose to share more than one drunken night with, is worth it.

I.e. the right 'one' if you like, and I do have much distaste for the phrase, will be the person who I won't introduce myself to as Sheila.

And if I was to bring a metaphor in to this, because you know I  love my metaphors, I guess, my relationships are a lot like a quarter pounder meal. I know they are bad for me, and yet I still go with it, thinking it's tasty and fulfilling (no innuendo intended)! They don't last long, and shortly after it's over, I get a funny sickly, regretful feeling in my stomach. So, from now on, I won't be eating in McDonald's on my own, pondering my single life. Instead I will wait happily and patiently to be wined and dined, in a nice gourmet restaurant, with real food, and a real man ;)

Why Helen Fisher is my new found love...

I watched a Ted Talks the other night by Helen Fisher and she pretty much made it all make sense. when it comes to love.

Which is nice really, because love really doesn't make any bloody sense at all. At least I don't think so. I strongly recommend her talk 'Why we love, why we cheat,' as it gives love a different kind of spin on cheating rather than 'you complete aresehole, how can you do this to me,' and looks at it in terms of biochemistry and evolution.

I won't go into too much detail, that's for Helen Fisher to do, and for you to find out but I do want to write down what I took from it.

Helen, (I don't want to call her by her second name because this isn't an essay and it seems a bit rude) begins her talk by introducing three different love states. These are :

-Lust - the ole hanky panky (yep, still referring to it as that)
Romantic attraction - i.e romantic love
Attachment - deep feelings of union with a long term partner. the 'i'm ready to make a baby with you' kinda love.
Her talk goes on to discuss how we can experience these different states of love at different times, but also dangerously at the same time. Which is where cheating comes in...perhaps because we experience these rushes of want for another, new or different type of love, we seek it in other people. We are so far in the attachment stage, which is lovely of course, but what happened to lust? Where the heck did that go the frigid little prick...

It also explains why casual sex isn't casual, and perhaps why sex should never have been tarred with the brush that is 'casual.' This is where the interesting biochemistry part comes in; Helen describes the hormones released during hanky panky (I'll get there one day) such as floods of oxytocin and vasopressin, the hormones linked to feelings of attachment. Helen reckons we can naively fall in love with someone we thought we were just having casual sex with. There. I said it.

So what do I think about this? Well, I think AMEN! I have been battling it out with my own brain and hormones for years (see pre-posts): why can't I find someone to be with for a long time? Why do the people I meet and hear about seem to lie and deceive? Why do I find myself being attracted to a whole range of different people, only to end up back at Celine Dion and cheap bottles of Rose?

Because I am HUMAN. That's why. Are we genetically programmed and evolutionised to just meet and stick to person? Perhaps not.  We are in a sense, in love with lots of things, places, food, music - of course it is different with people - but we love our family, we love our friends - surely it's difficult for us to love just one thing. I like pasta, but I am not just going to eat pasta forever.

Okay okay, so there is a big difference between pasta and partner choice, but what I am getting at is that, perhaps we need to take the pressure off things a little bit in order to figure out what it is we really really want. What it is our minds are telling us.

*Please note, I am not saying everyone is a cheater, I am not condoning cheating, I am not saying you should cheat. If you want to messabout with lust while you have already formed a committed attachment with someone else, then you should not be attached to that someone.

Tradition, media, films, books, history has all taught us a way of life, trying to reinforce a tradition that was perhaps never really there in the first place.  To have one partner, to marry and settle down with a chap you fell in love with when you were fifteen. Only to get to fifty and think WAIT A MINUTE THIS MAN BORES THE SHIT OUTTA ME.

Okay, so I may be going against some things I preached about in my earlier years of blogging, where I completely fall head over heels in love (or so I thought) with someone, where my on going man hunt did nothing but fail me. Desperate to find'the one.' only to find three that were quite similar. But as I get older, and witness not just my own experiences, but those around me. The pressure of finding this perennial relationship is overcompensated.

Another side note ( I have to make these because else I am completely dropping myself in it,) for those who are in long term relationships, married, children etc - hats off to you because you are showing us it can bloody be done, and it does work. But, as I said in my previous post, you people are the exceptions. The exceptional exceptions and I only wish we could take a page out of your photo albums - because it is beautiful when it happens.

To conclude, I like Helen's idea of the three states of love. It makes me feel a little better about myself and also more forgiving toward those past experiences of mine. (Again not condoning cheaters.) Another thought of mine, quite linked to this idea )and perhaps a feature for my next blog) we should appreciate the variety of people, flings, relationships, flirts, crushes we form in our life time. They give us experiences and grant us the privilege of being where and who we are today...If one doesn't work out? We had the experience, we had some good times, the bad times made me stronger and here I am today going on a date with someone I perhaps may not see again? But the food was great and I learnt about the off-side rule. Silver lining and all that.

Bridget Moans

So I moved to another City to embark on a new adventure that will take my mind off the crazy past of mine. A past that I do no longer regret or reminisce upon, because it has happened - I can't change it, and I am quite grateful for it because amongst the quite absurd times, there have been some brilliant times. Times that have made me who I am today, and times that make for a great story/blog.

One thing I have learned, and have somehow managed to do, as you can perhaps tell by reading this blog - is not take it too seriously. Learn to laugh. Learn to love, yourself.

I started working for a new company two months ago and I was introduced to a gentleman, a bit older than myself. He was handsome and tall and wore nice shirts. I said to myself, 'No Chelsea, don't start, you want to be you, you want to be single, and you are not to get involved with someone you know nothing about just because he has nice shirts!'

One lunch time, he sat next to me and asked how I was getting on with the new role. The fact he came up to me and initiated conversation when the only stimulant involved was coffee made my mind start ticking about what it would be like to be with him. Crazy, I know, but I also know that I am not the only one. The Ch sound of his name made my name and his compliment eachother.

Then came the Facebook friend request and the drunken messaging commencement on a Friday evening. He was at a stag do and I was out in a bar near where he lived. Please bare in mind I did not stalk him to find out where he lived, I am bad, but not that bad. He'd previously told me where he resided in a conversation about how well I knew the City:  not very well at all, which he so supportively reminded me of later on during our fugacious acquaintance.

Red flag (1) - I asked what he was getting up to for his friends stag do. His response: 'we are at a strip club now, I can't stand them, looking at poor excuses for women makes my skin crawl!' First of all, yes you do like strip clubs you MAN and second of all, strippers are poor excuses for women? How very misogynistic. I think they are more woman than some , with their voluptuary assets and ability to shake it. Perhaps he thought I'd agree, I wish I disagreed a bit more, instead I just pretended I didn't read that part.

In one of his messages, he did suggest that I come and watch him play football one weekend. Now, I'm not going to pull a red flag here because it was nice to chat to a guy who was so passionate about something other than himself or say...pot. But let me tell you now- I cannot tolerate football. And this isn't a queue for some feminist rant or to complain about their pay rates.  My name is Chelsea for Petes sake, believe me I have tried, but it just doesn't interest me. I thought I best put it out there early on so he could decipher whether he wanted to carry on chatting to a girl who hated football so much that she refused to speak to any bloke that would call her 'Arsenal' or 'Man U' for a barrel of laughs. ' Unfortunately, I'm not into football but if the sun is out I'll be happy to take a stroll down some time.' Keep it cash, keep it cash.

Eventually, in amongst are to'in and fro'ing of Facebook frolicks, I was asked out for a drink. My mind ignored the fact that he hadn't been able to make me do a trusty lol yet and instead focused more on the fact I was being asked out for a drink, in a new city with a guy a bit older than me took over. And I said yes, without hesitation. I traveled across the daunting city to meet him after his football match.  I stood at the bar he recommended for fifteen minutes with two pints of cider, remaining chirpy and positive after receiving a text that he was running late and finishing his pint with the lads. Gentleman.

He arrived and I found us a seat, and we spoke about him for two hours, and me for none. He told me everything about his ex girlfriend, (red flag x 3), where they had been, why they split up, how they met, how long they had been together. He also spoke a LOT about football. My mind wondered occasionally back to film I had recently watched the Jack Nicholson in. But still, I remained assured that this could be something, this could be it! Silly aren't I.

The night became hazy after we polished off our numberless cider and headed to a cocktail bar, bad idea. I woke up the next day with a sore head and even worse, him sound asleep next to me. Now I know, nothing happened. I mean, yeah, we kissed because my lipstick was now more his, and we must have kissed because as I got up to find something to wear that wasn't last nights clothes, he grabbed my arm to pull me back down and left a nice wet alcoholic breathed lipstick stained smooch on my lips that were glued together with sheer awkwardness. Sounds like a new shade.

I made us both tea but I couldn't finish mine. Perhaps it was the fragility of my stomach after the previous nights binge. Or maybe it was because I couldn't stomach any more talk about his ex-missus or the fact he moved on to ask me if I'd ever been in love before. A question that bewilders my mind so much that I become agitated and nauseous. I shrugged and asked 'Are we really talking about this right now?' Like there was a possibility we could revisit the conversation in the future.

Luckily, and unsurprisingly , he had to leave swiftly for training, of the football kind, so he didn't stick around too long that morning. He asked if I would like to come and watch him play. The first time I have ever been grateful for a hangover.

Work on the Monday wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be, we said good morning in a professional manner and exchanged 'are we cool?' glances across the office. Something felt terribly unsettling about the weekends events, but again, my inner old romantic tried to fight its way through telling me 'this could be it, this could be it, give it some time.' It even went as far as thinking I could be the new Bridget Jones and that an office romance could be the best thing for me.

So for a couple of weeks, I tried it.

It was more like a really shit version of Bridget Jones. As the days went by it just got more awkward. He wouldn't catch my eye at the right time, instead I'd look up and seek his as I was picking the winter infused dry skin off my left nostril.

Not only this, the cold weather meant that  I didn't come into work all dazzling in my short skirt or sexy office dress, it was far too cold for that. So two pairs of leggings and an oversized charity shop cardigan later, Mark Darcy wouldn't look twice at this scruffy cow.

I don't wear heels, my legs are too lanky and I resemble an intoxicated bambi when I have ever attempted the devils footwear. I wear the same old pumps every day, one of them coloured in with a black sharpie because I dropped the tippex pen on them. Classy. So when I caught him as analysing the crap out of the new starter as she walked by; the Romanian beauty with her daring inched heels, perfectly plucked brows and more hair than a horses tail, I'd just end up feeling a bit shit.

One time, I thought I'd try and entice him with a cheeky bend over motion as I filled up my water bottle at the water dispenser (to be quite honest you don't really have to bend down, it's easily accessible at  arms length but what the hell.) However, the water bottle didn't seem to quite fit underneath the nozzle, too busy focusing on my stance, I didn't realise how much water went everywhere. Everywhere. Instead of turning around to those who may have witnessed my utter error, I just got up and walked away.

He later on confronted me about this event, and I went red faced, denying all knowledge.

Red flag x 1 - Perhaps I should have called it a day here, when the in the office flirting was chaotic, lifeless and difficult. But noooo, inner old romance wanted me to have a boyfriendddd.

All in all, Bridget Jones, Smidget Shmones. Surprisingly, I was asked out on another date. But, I say date. He actually text saying 'I'm pretty tired tonight, shall I just come round yours and we can chill and watch a film?' CHILL!? WATCH A FILM?! What are we married? No, I want dates, lots of dates, preferably ones where you turn up on time and I don't have to pay for our cider!  (red flag x 1)

I persuaded him that we should go out for some Pizza, I knew a restaurant near where I live, (being very aware of his middle class affirmation (I know red flag!) I  ensured that it was well researched beforehand. And it was lovely, the food, the drinks, the restaurant. The two hours I spent with him talking more about his football and his ex? Not so lovely. I felt like saying 'If you're ex is so great why don't you just marry her,' but instead, I smiled and nodded and fed his already large ego with more then I'd eaten pizza.

We came back to mine again, snuggled on the sofa like couples do, and he kissed me and said he 'REALLY' liked me. 'You don't even know me,' I stated between kisses, to which he replied 'Well let me get to know you better upstairs' (red flag x 1 for added sleaziness.)

NO-said logical me, No no no this cant happen. You don't even like the guy that much, he is obsessed with himself, football and his ex, Which is enough to nip this in the bud right now. I complained I was tired and putting myself to bed. He followed and stripped down to nothing but his ego, my shoulder could not have been colder, I reached for the light switch and mumbled something about work in the morning (conveniently I was working overtime) and I was wide awake until I heard him sleeping.

When he left the next day, I kissed him on the cheek and told him I'd text him that evening. I did. I said I had moved up here to get away from complications and didn't want to start something that could potentially lead to more.

Now call me vague, but I meant that to mean more ... complications. Mr EGO, on the other hand took it to mean something completely different. His response?  'Hmm, sad news. You're right it could definitely lead to more, but if you're uncomfortable with it I understand. You've just moved to a big city and everything's new so I get that. Don't worry about it Chels, I'm a big boy and I'll get over it, it's a shame as I thought it could have been something really good.'

So in two weeks I got to know quite a lot about this chap. I managed to make him REALLY like me by not saying much at all. I managed to start something and end something in a very short space of time, realising that I let it go on for longer than it should have. BUT, for me, it is a record,I normally hold on to things and people so tight trying to kid myself that it is real and worth it, that it's going to make everything that has gone on before worth while. And that's not a valid reason for getting to know someone, to 'help you forget' or 'move on'. You should get to know someone because you want to, now, in this present moment.

Another life lesson in the crazy mixed up world of relationships, if you don't feel it from the start, then you probably wont ever feel it.

Another life lesson - You are not and never will be Bridget Jones.

Young, single and ready to.....think of the many good reasons there are for being just this!

How I really feel about being single.

I feel good. I feel better. I have no paranoia or anxieties. I don’t get all pissed off and bitchy when the guy I’m seeing or whatever it is these days, ‘likes’ the profile picture of the pretty girl with longer hair than me. I don’t have to make plans that evolve around his plans. 

I don’t get upset when the plans we make don’t go to plan. There are no plans, there is no ‘we’. The only plans are my own pressureless plans that I may or may not go ahead with. I don’t have to worry about him not texting me back quick enough.

I don’t have to read into said texts without x’s on the end. I don’t feel the need to look my best all the time, or to sneak out of bed in the mornings to fix my hair or re-apply the makeup I wore to bed the previous night. (Gross) I don’t have to worry about what his friends and family might think, what my friends and family might think.  

I have fantastic nights out with my fellow non-relationship-ee’s. I don’t have to worry about what he’s up to. I don’t look to the future as much and panic about whether or not we will last forever. I live in the now, in the present and welcome any opportunists and opportunities that fly my way. 

I am not made to feel silly, insecure or insignificant. I write more, read more, speak more. I have a little more cash to myself. I have a lot more time to myself. A lot of girls go on about the sexual side of things when they are single; ‘I haven’t had sex in sooooo long,’ but ask yourself? Do you really miss it? I think the porn industry has kinda ruined it for us and we just kinda get used; we might as well be blow up dolls the way some chaps go at us. (Sordid I know but so true and perhaps another blog for another time.) 

But seriously, I don’t miss that. I can live without it, but everyone is different. And different, that’s how I feel being single. I feel different, in a good way. There is so much pressure to make a relationship work in a generation where we too often see them fail, and the removal of that pressure when you become/are single, is such a weight off your mind and heart. Sometimes, my inner voice ridicules my external self; ‘24 years old and you’ve never had a relationship last longer than a year, useless!’ But then I take a look at the list I have just devised in this post, and think – well, it’s not a bad thing. 

Perhaps it is the type of chap I am drawn to that has got me here today, and I am not saying that all relationships result in some of the disadvantages I have listed, but I am sure, in all of us singletons, there are ways we can celebrate being single. And I don’t mean so we can go out on the pull and take Joey Essex doppelgangers home to our parents’ house for a one night only special guest appearance; I mean for US, and just for us. Being single is not a bad thing, and if I, Miss ruddy Moan-a-lot, can find more than one positive advantage to ridin’ solo as some refer to it, then it must be okay.