Update #93


I’m downsizing my life, temporarily. It’s the most logical solution to the overwhelming stress that has crippled me of late and I personally think I should be commended for thinking logically as opposed to emotionally, like I usually do.

I have applied for an extension with regards to my studies and am assured that, under the circumstances, the request should be granted without any problems. I’m also downsizing my home, choosing a much smaller apartment that is easier to heat, easier to decorate and has much cheaper outgoings. I’m actually excited about the move now and even if it is a little forced, I am finding the silver lining in my recent eviction. I am also downsizing my friends and social circle. The old adage says you find out who your friends are when times are tough and this is certainly true. Not one of the people who have partied at my home, crashed out here for a weekend, lived here during their own tough times or come running here when in need of a shoulder to cry on has offered to help me with the horrendous task of moving house. Not one of them has offered to pick up a paintbrush, carry a box or even offered some words of encouragement. It would appear that my true friends can be counted exactly on one hand, no more, no less. It is a downsizing I am comfortable with. I’ll take quality over quantity every time.

The beginning of 2016 is proving to be a bit of a bitch, not just for me and my son but for Blue and Jemima as well. It seems incredibly unfair that we should be lumbered with such a phenomenal amount of shit so early in the year, but in the spirit of finding the silver lining, I keep reassuring us all that come March, things should start to look better. It has to. The world cannot cope with all three of us women falling apart at the same time!

In other news, the men who choose to pop in and out of my life whenever they feel like it are still proving themselves to be a bunch of idiots. The Mountie still attempts to cook for me or take me out, yet revokes any invitations once I remind him that I have no desire to sleep with him. Handsome and I have engaged in some flirtatious and innuendo filled messaging recently but I have my reservations when it comes to converting the fantasy talk into a real life situation. I haven’t heard any more from The One That Got Away, but I didn’t expect to.Just knowing he’s still around is enough for now. And then there is Mr. Surprise. Yes, he’s back.

Having deleted me from Facebook a few weeks ago I was sure Mr. Surprise was going to be nothing more than a rather embarrassing memory. He hadn’t contacted me since I told him I was dating Tex and had absolutely no interest in seeing him again. I was brutal, but he hadn’t taken the hint before that point so it needed to be done. When my phone beeped and alerted me to a text message later the other evening, I was not expecting it to be Mr. Surprise,

‘How are you? And your son? You married yet?! ;) xxx’

I was polite and civil but kept my response short and bland. I didn’t want to encourage this conversation at all, but I am still bound by a misplaced obligation to be nice to him on the grounds that we spent our childhoods together. I told him I was in the process of moving house , that my son and I were fine and that Tex and I hadn’t worked out.

‘I find packing boxes sexy,‘ came his reply. It stank of desperation.

‘I don’t. I don’t find anything sexy with the amount of valium I am currently taking’.

Somehow, in the deep recesses of Mr. Surprise’s mind, my response was an invitation to come over. I shot him down abruptly but he persisted. I turned him down three times. The first was met with,

‘Has this bloke turned you into a lesbian now?’

The second was met with,

‘So valium makes you frigid?’

The third was met with,

‘I’m worried about you. Can I come over?’

In the end I was so insulted by his refusal to accept the word ‘no’ that I told him I did not consider him a friend and regretted everything that had happened between us. He said he ‘understood’ and that was the end of the conversation…until the following night when he started again. Now, I’m just ignoring him.

So, men are taking a backseat for a while and everything else in my life, thanks to my decision to downsize, is slowly but surely falling into place. Its not perfect, but I’m hoping that life is just issuing me with the shit bits now so that I can get them all out of the way and look forward to a happier, more prosperous 2016.

Every. Single. Time.


Disney, chick flicks, romance novels, blame what you will but deep down inside us all, men and women, straight and gay, we’re all hoping life will bestow on us something akin to an iconic movie moment. Whether it’s kissing in the rain, running after you along a train platform or carrying you out of work Officer and a Gentleman style, we all crave a little something that lets us know the shit is worth wading through and that we too are deserving of a grand, heart swelling scene.

Or maybe that is just me, living inside my head with the Mr. Darcys, Heathcliffs and Noah Calhouns of the literary world. I’ve always had a flare for the dramatic and years spent burying my head in arguably some of the greatest novels ever written is bound to have had an affect on me. I want movie moments, epic moments that fill you with excitement and tug at your heart strings, bring a hopeful tear to your eye and remain cherished stories told to the grandchildren over and over again. The problem with movies and books is that there are a whole load of other things that happen before the grand finale. There are the near misses, the hints, the innuendos, the trail of breadcrumbs that tells us there will be a happy ending, if we just stick with it. I’m trying so very hard to come up with an example of what I am talking about but all I can think of is the little girl in the red coat from Schindler’s List, but it is a piss poor example because that real life event was a long way from a happy ending. Anyway, we see the little girl wandering the black and white streets in one scene, then later on we are reminded of the harsh reality of the Holocaust and the loss of innocent lives when we see that same red coat in a mass grave at a concentration camp. The coat is poignant, maybe not critical to the story, but a breadcrumb that is left for the viewer leading to a devastating finale. Now, please forgive me for using such an example. I am neither crass nor inappropriate enough to compare my love life to the Holocaust, although I’m sure a rather macarbre argument could be made, but in the realms of cinematography it is a strong and vivid example of the use of hints and recurring themes to relay a story.

redcoatSo, back to my point…I’ve been missing my red coat (Sorry! I’d come up with a better example if only my mind wasn’t so very distracted by this monumental realisation!) There is a recurring theme in my life that is not ever present, but reappears from time to time to serve as a breadcrumb leading me to what I now believe fate has had in store for me all the time. I know what, or rather who, my red coat is.

It’s The One That Got Away.

Every single time the shit hits the fan and my life begins to resemble vomitting children on a fairground ride, there he is. The One That Got Away. Every. Single. Time. He was the first man I allowed myself to fully trust after I escaped The Junkie, having met him shortly after my father died. He was there when I embarked on my journey back into education and again when I had completed it. He was there when my son was small and we were going through some challenging and difficult times. He was there whenever I was frustrated and in need of practical help or something fixed. The One That Got Away has been there for every relationship break up, every house move, every emotional breakdown, every major life change I have experienced over the last decade and today, he was there again.

My son had rather chivalrously escorted me, his crazy and fragile mother, to a doctor’s appointment. We ran a few errands afterwards and as we stepped out into the street after collecting a much needed prescription from the pharmacy, there he was. The One That Got Away, complete with his trademark work jeans and builder’s boots (No red coat, I’m hasten to add. I’m so relieved to have left that example behind us!) We didn’t speak. In fact, I didn’t even acknowledge his presence, choosing to strike up a conversation with my son in a bubbly and confident tone that suggested life was great and wonderful and I most definitely was not on the verge of tears. As he walked past us in the opposite direction, I was hit with a wave of warming familiarity. It was fleeting, but the bond between us is still there.

‘You know that was The One That Got Away, right?’ my son inquired as we turned the corner.

‘I know. I was trying to be cool…’

My son laughed, ‘he wasn’t. He didn’t stop looking at you the entire length of the street!’

Later that evening, Weston came bounding into the house, armed with cardboard packing boxes. I was tired and would have barely noticed him, had he not been such a noisy bugger as he launched the boxes into the dining room,

‘Do you need these or can I have them?’ he mumbled apprehensively. I’ve been a moody cow of late and poor Weston has been walking on eggshells around me.

‘You take them,’ I replied.

‘They’re from The One That Got Away. He was on the doorstep as I came home,’ Weston replied, a knowing grin on his face, ‘Hes gone but, did you want me to invite him in?’

His stepfather had offered to procure some boxes from his place of work for me and I had been waiting on a message to go and collect them. It seems that someone had made the offer to deliver them instead. I saw the hint, the breadcrumb, and it felt almost as good as the finale.

I smiled, ‘No, its OK. I’ll thank him when I see him next’.

Its not the grand romantic gesture of the movies. He hasn’t built me a house like Calhoun and he’s not wandering the moors in a state of despair like Heathcliff, but as much as he can be, The One That Got Away is there for me. Every. single. time.


Old Demons, New Tactics


I had let the trauma of my past control me, dupe me into believing I was weak and incapable, but in between the hard flowing tears and the desperate gasping for breath, I remembered who I was. I was a girl who had held her family together since her earliest childhood memories. I was a girl who gave her heart to a man who beat her down to nothing, but managed to find a way to drag herself back up onto her feet. I was a girl who gave everything for the son she adores, sacrificing everything so he never felt loss at being raised by a single woman. I was a girl who always found her way in the dark, even when she was alone and afraid. I need to find that girl again, that girl who knew how to survive.

Stress is a trigger for my PTSD. It causes nightmares and flashbacks which inevitably lead to debilitating panic attacks. The attacks drain me, causing me to tire, but I fight the urge to sleep because I know what awaits me in my dreams. The exhaustion exacerbates the lingering depression and anxiety. When I finally succumb to the need for sleep, the whole cycle starts again. It creates an overwhelming sense of being trapped. It suffocates me.

I do not get anxious about being in crowds or strange places and I no longer flinch at sudden movements or cower at the sound of an angry male voice. I have learnt to rationalise these fears. I do not have such control over my dreams. I cannot rationalise them. Instead, my subconscious taunts me with the very worst of my memories and when I wake from what should be a peaceful slumber, I am already in a state of panic. In that moment I believe there are hands pulling at my hair, tightening around my throat, invading and groping at my body. I feel the lifelessness of pale, clammy skin. I can smell the stench of stale breath and feel the wet of words spat from a distorted, angry mouth. I am powerless. A physically weak and defenseless girl whose screams go unheard and whose vulnerabilities are violated. When I wake and realise that I am safe I sob uncontrollably, not with relief, but in a state of grieving. I mourn the loss of my life before I knew what those experiences felt like. I grieve the lost innocence, the wide eyed aspirations and a future bountiful to the point that my sobs prevent me from breathing and again, the waves of panic strike. Years of medications, meditations and therapies have not been able to stop the nightmares. I believe they will always be there.

Recovery can be harder than the trauma itself. Reliving the past to analyse it, over and over, being forced to face your own demons when running away from them is the only thing you’ve ever known, is an unrelenting struggle. I was able to live through the violence, abuse and neglect of my past because, quite simply, I had no choice. A lack of options means you keep going in the same direction, regardless of the consequences. It is only after the event, when the storm has passed and the sun begins to peak out from behind the clouds, that you become faced with the daunting challenge of gathering up the broken shards of who you are and trying to put them back together in a form that, at the very least, convinces other people you are normal.

I must admit that regular therapy techniques have never worked for me. A psychologist once told me it was because I was too intelligent and could see all the tricks of the professionals before they even implemented them and would have several rebuttals already prepared. He was right. I subconsciously fought therapy and every medical professional that tried to push it on me. This week I spent some time as an outpatient at a mental health rehabilitation centre. It was a preemptive strike. I have had too many ‘wobbles’ recently, too many episodes of self doubt and depression, too many thoughts about giving up on life. I needed a few days to, for want of a better phrase, get my shit together. It was this time away in a peaceful setting, where I could relinquish my responsibilities and focus on only myself, that I realised I don’t need to analyse and confront my past. I need to anaylse and confront my future.

I have strength. I have survived so much worse than the challenges currently before me. I am capable. I have built a future for my son and I against insurmountable odds and I can do it again. I cannot control the nightmares and flashbacks, I probably never will, but I can control how I deal with their greatest trigger. Stress.

I took the wrong lessons from my volatile past. I focused on the negative when what I really needed to do was remember how I survived those harrowing incidents. Back then, I took one day at a time. I prioritised the demands on me, did what was necessary to make sure I could get up in the morning and have the strength to fight another day. I did all this without even thinking about it. It was a basic instinct to survive. Nowadays my stress levels reach unfathomable heights because I do not live in the moment, I do not focus on surviving and getting through to the next day. Now, I look at a problem and analyse how it came into being, what I could have done differently, what options I have to move forward and what the possible consequences of each of those options may be. I account for my decision’s affects on everyone around me and their possible futures in five years, ten years, twenty. I dwell on the pitfalls, the potential errors, the obstacles. Put simply, I think too much and bring the stress upon myself. It was therapy that taught me to analyse and I have come to believe that the analysis of a past that was not of my making is in direct conflict with my basic need to survive right now.

When friends are faced with depression I tell them ‘one day at a time’. I tell them that if one day at a time seems like too much, to just focus on getting through the next five minutes. It is time I took my own advice, as best I can given the darkness that follows me. I do not need to fix everything about my past and create a perfect future right this instant. I can take it one task at a time. I feel somewhat pathetic when I compare myself to other people, going about their lives and juggling careers and families and demands and stress without so much as a second thought, but then I remember that these people probably aren’t having to avoid the demons that I am. They can go home, open a bottle of wine and discuss their dramas and worries with their nearest and dearest. Even if I do that, I still have to go to bed, to sleep, and face a night alone with the demons others have left at my door. I am different in that regard and so I must find ways to cope that differ from those around me. I realise now that it is not failing. It is not weakness. It is survival.

Here Comes The Rain


They say it doesn’t rain but it pours and recently I have found that to be true. There are metaphorical and literal rain, sleet and hurricane winds, all of which were unpredictable and all are beyond my control.

After struggling to lift the spirits of my depressed teenage son this week, I have now been told that my landlord has decided to convert my large townhouse into two separate apartments and, consequently, we have been served an eviction notice. This is always a risk with renting a property instead of buying one, but as a lone parent for the past sixteen years, purchasing my own home has always been out of my financial reach. Renting is my only option.

I am now frantic. In eight weeks I will be forced to leave the place I have called home for the last four and a half years. I will need to find thousands of pounds for rent in advance, deposits, estate agents fees and removal costs. I will have to sort, pack and clean a three story, four bedroom house most probably by myself. I have to find somewhere new and affordable, in an expensive location, for my son and I. It is said that moving house is one of the most stressful things you can experience in your lifetime. Having done it several times over the last two decades, I can only concur.

More than the stress and the inconvenience of this recent housing dilemma, I am plagued by an overwhelming sense of loss. I love this house. I love its wooden beams, steep, narrow staircases and low doorways. I love how my living room, adorned with books, can accommodate twenty wasted people during a house party just as easily as it can feel cosy and intimate on a rainy evening, snuggled up under blankets with a movie. I love looking out of the kitchen window over a fast flowing river, framed by blossoming trees. I love how nobody bothers with the broken doorbell anymore and instead just shouts my name from the high street when they want to come and visit. I love how the brick fireplace in the dining room lends itself to a beautiful Victorian-esque Christmas Day lunch. Most of all, I love the memories; The dent in the hall where Walt fell over drunk, the mark on the living room wall where Shortstuff head butted it during his sleep, watching Adele pass out drunk while still standing at the kitchen sink, the Halloween parties and Vagina Appreciation Day celebrations. So many friends have passed through this front door and so many times the laughter has echoed through the maze of rooms.

As one door closes I am now faced with the dilemma of finding a new one to open. I love my home town but cannot help but wonder if this is a sign from the universe that I should be moving onto pastures new. The gypsy blood in my veins is rushing at the thought of packing up some essentials in a bag and hitting the road for an indefinite period of time, spending time with my son exploring this vast and fascinating world. Working abroad has always been in my future plans, but I thought that would be in a years time, or so. Maybe this is the shove I need to make that particular leap sooner rather than later. For now all I can do is hunt down boxes, gather up the rolls of packing tape and reassure my son than Mummy will, as always, make things right in the end.

A Mother’s Failure

When my son was only three years old, he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. His nursery school had called in an expert to assess him when they found it difficult to control his behaviour. He would insist on running around when other children sat quietly to eat their lunch. He would talk all the way through story time as the other children sat in silence. He would take part in fifteen different activities in the space of ten minutes. Despite being a lively, clever and sociable child, all of this led to them believing he was deficient in some way, unwell, disabled.

I accepted the diagnosis at the time for it was an answer I had long been seeking. From six months old my perfectly placid and content baby boy had refused to sleep for any longer than a four hour period in twenty four. He seemed to lack an awareness of danger, could not be distracted or placated in the ways other children were and was constantly ‘on the go’. As he grew older, and my foray into teaching put me in touch with other children sporting the ADHD logo, I began to question the diagnosis given to my own son.  I had realised he was perfectly capable of concentrating when locked into certain, favoured activities and that in fact, he almost ‘zoned out’ and became completely oblivious to the world around him. I noticed he was often confused by the actions of others around him and had created coping mechanisms, such as talking excessively, to counteract this lack of social awareness. He was unable to decipher facial expressions, tones of voice or body language and gravitated to children much older than himself who seemed to have the ability to tolerate his quirks and foibles more than peers his own age. A new expert, a new assessment, and my son was given a new label. Autistic Spectrum Disorder.

ASD is, for the most part, a blanket term given to those who show signs of autism in varying degrees, making them difficult to pigeon hole into one specific category such as Asperger’s Syndrome or Pervasive Developmental Disorders. My son didn’t even make it onto the spectrum when considering his verbal skills, but suffered quite severely with flexibility and social behaviour. Over the years we have found ways to conquer these problems and, with our trusted toolbox of life hacks and support skills, he has grown into a polite and intelligent young man with the world at his feet. The only issue we struggle with now is his complete inability to see himself as strong, capable and deserving.

My son is 16 years old and is suffering with depression. Having fought this mental health battle myself since I was a teenager, I feel nothing but complete and utter heartache for him. I would not wish those feelings of loneliness, hopelessness and uselessness on my worst enemy, let alone my beautiful son who I love with every fibre of my being. He believes nobody likes him, that he is not clever enough or talented enough to follow his ambitions and that he is a waste of space. His growing irritability and repressed anger are now morphing into outbursts of unexplained tears and a desire to isolate himself. No matter how many times I validate his feelings, comfort him and try to advise him on ways to cope, he is still sinking further and further away from me. I would do anything, absolutely anything, to have that uncontrollable, wild and inquisitive three year old back again. I feel the excruciating pain of my heart breaking. The most precious thing in this world to me is broken and I am failing him at every turn.

We have come so far, my son and I, in conquering this world and our ailments together. His ASD diagnosis was all but a distant memory these past few years and his future was so very, very bright. He was hardly ever home, always running off to meet one social group or another, always planning activities and asking me for money to fund them before rushing out the door with a ‘Bye! Love you Mum!’ He was like every other strappingly healthy teenage boy, so busy investigating the world and the people in it, with not a moment to spare for his dear old mum. Oh how I loved seeing that. When his first love falsely accused him of rape last summer, his world took a dramatic downward spiral. That first love, which should have been an innocent and cherished memory, became something so dark and sinister that it shook him to his core. He stopped seeing the world as a wondrous place full of possibilities and interesting people and instead began to doubt himself and all he thought he knew. It was his trigger into depression and I have been unable to undo the damage it has caused.

My son has postponed his application for the Royal Air Force because he says he is ‘too fat and unfit’ for them to employ him. This is far from the truth. He enrolled on an art course at the local college but has convinced himself he lacks any artistic talent and  has fallen behind with his coursework, which only adds to his daily stresses. His college lecturers seem to think threatening him with failure will motivate him, despite me telling them it only feeds his self-loathing. He no longer reaches out to friends, believing they never really liked him anyway and they have better things to do with their time. He is giving up on everything he ever wanted. I used to joke that I would consider my parenting skills up to par if I managed to get my son to 16 without needing therapy. He is now in therapy and I carry that burden of failure like a heavy weight across my back. I have cleaned every scraped knee, tended to every cold and nursed every sickness, but this I cannot fix. How does a mother, broken herself by the failings of her own parents and her own poor decision making, help mend the only person in her life who deserves more than she can offer? How do I bring my baby boy back from the brink? How do I stop him from becoming me?

A Potentially Indecent Proposal


When addicts have their drug of choice taken away from them, be it alcohol, food, sex or one of the plethora of things that can propel someone down that slippery slope of addiction, they often find themselves replacing one vice with another. Alcoholics, for example, are known to crave sweets and sugary delights, drug addicts may use alcohol as their legal alternative and smokers fill their empty hands with food to distract from their nicotine cravings and satisfy illicit urges. I am not a sex addict, far from it, but having had my carnal itch satisfactorily scratched for the last few months, only to have it ripped away from me without warning or time to find a suitable replacement, I now find myself batting off the urges to replace one former vice with another.

The loss of one young, attractive, sexually able man in my life has not had me reaching for the cream cakes or lines of cocaine. I am not eating away my feelings or snorting my way along the yellow brick road to self destruction. I am not looking to replace one vice with another. I am not even intentionally looking to replace the provider of that vice with another of equal or higher talents,  but when the itch starts to stir I find myself craving someone so very, very unexpected.


I want Handsome.

Only, I don’t want him at all. I’ve trawled through his Facebook photos and not one image made my groin tingle or a nipple ping. I’ve replayed all the conversations we’ve had in the past about our sexual preferences, his predilection for dominance played against mine for subservience, and yet nothing about them has peaked my interest to the point of uncontrollable sexual desire. I’ve even thought back to the drunken episodes where Handsome and I have, for one bizarre reason or another, found ourselves locked at the lips and I cannot recall anything toe curling or breathtaking about the way he kisses me. For all intents and purposes, Handsome’s continued attempts to bed me have fallen to the wayside because nothing about him has ignited a sexual desire in me. And yet, I cannot get the man out of my head.

I am aware that as I withdrawal from the safe, tender, affectionate physical relationship I had with Tex, I am purposefully swinging the pendulum to something very different. I want dark, rough, dangerous sex. I want the kind of sexual relationship where I am once again serving within boundaries that I recognise, boundaries that will not see my head infiltrated nor my heart made vulnerable. What I want from Handsome is an arrangement that gives me what I need physically but does not penetrate me emotionally. There is something about his character that tells me he can manage this for me. Charming, intelligent and with a quick, dry sense of humour, I am and have always been comfortable in his presence. But there is something darker about Handsome, something that runs a little deeper. There is a look in his eye akin to a wolf as it stalks it’s prey; cold and calculated, patient and entitled. It’s not hot or sexy or any other synonym for aesthetically pleasing but it is alluring and animalistic.  I am dragged closer with every glance.

My proposal is simple, indecent yes, but still simple. I want one evening a week where he and I can play, uninterrupted and without limitations. It has been quite a while since I have been able to indulge my BDSM kinks and I know Handsome would take up the responsibility willingly. The trust I place in him as a friend, combined with the apprehension about sleeping with someone new and relinquishing myself to them entirely, is a dichotomy that I don’t mind admitting excites me. A dominant to my submissive, he can fuck me any way he likes on the proviso that we do not sleep together outside of this allotted time. Turning this into a casual fuck buddy relationship is not what I want, nor do I want the random 3am booty calls that may come with it or the lack of discretion that a casual relationship seems bound to. One evening a week, to ourselves, to become lost to the rest of the world and submerged entirely in sexual desires, socially accepted or otherwise. This is not an arrangement for bragging rites or bravado, lad points or bed notches.  I want this just for us. Handsome and I exploring the side of me that is not in control, in all the ways he has previously promised. What I want, however, is the one thing I absolutely do not have the courage to ask for.

The fantasy of me on my knees before him, of my hair wrapped around his fist, of the sound of the riding crop as it hits my bare flesh, it will never come to pass. As vivid and detailed as the fantasy may be, I could never bring myself to ask him, or any man, to indulge in that kind of disconnected but deeply intense sexual arrangement. This is my alternate drug, my rebellion from what was intimate and sweet, but like the alternatives offered to all addicts they are never quite as good as the original vice. In my heart I know this is not sexual desire I am feeling for Handsome. This is a desire for punishment. This is me letting the darkness take me because even when I am submissive, bound and gagged and being punished for letting myself think I could ever be that normal, sweet girl next door,  I am still more in control and less vulnerable than in any other type of relationship. This is a desire to prove myself devoted and diligent to a man. This is a desire to be needed after a rejection.

Handsome knows all this and I take comfort in the way he sees into the shadowed parts of my soul, but I won’t do it. I won’t ask him. Like all addicts and those held back by an indulgence, I know this craving will pass, eventually. There will come a time when I don’t berate myself for being unable to maintain a normal, regular relationship, a time when I am reminded that I am of worth with my clothes as I am without, and a time when I don’t feel the urge to succumb to the kinky and depraved web of a dominant man. Eventually, all thoughts of Handsome will leave my head and I’ll be left wondering what the hell this phase was all about and whether or not I should reconsider my medication. Until then, I must find reserves of willpower and strength to ensure the fantasy of this potentially indecent proposal remains in my head, not in my bed.

Who Are You & What Have You Done With Lola?!

Maybe it is the lack of sex, but my head seems to be making reckless and insoluble decisions on the behalf of the rest of me recently. I’m not even sure I’m me anymore or if I’ve been taken over by a very convincing but far more stable version of myself.

Firstly, I appear to have stopped smoking. Yes, yes, I know this is a good thing, what with all the lovely health benefits and financial gain that goes along with being a non-smoker, but I happen to like smoking. I have no desire to quit. At least, I didn’t think I did. I had a few days where money was a little scarce and the cash was flowing out a little faster than the tide was bringing it in.  I decided that tobacco products were a luxury I could not really justify and so refrained from making that usual daily purchase. What amazed me was how easy it was to just not smoke. So I tried it for a few more hours, which led to a whole day, and now I’m on day five and I had no intention at all of going this long but have hit a battle of wills with myself over who can be more stubborn, the proud-and-defiant-smoker me or the do-anything-to-prove-everyone-wrong me.

As if that isn’t weird enough, the Mountie invited me out and I said yes. In fact, he did more than ask me out. He did this whole speech on how we deserve to give things a go as a proper couple and then invited me over to his place where he intends to cook me a meal. This Friday evening. I don’t want him. I don’t believe we have enough between us to sustain a platonic friendship and I don’t want to use him for casual sex. I have no interest in meeting up with the Mountie whatsoever and yet, I said yes. I said yes to being alone, in a house, in the middle of nowhere with no convenient means of escape with a man who I just know is going to try and fuck me when I absolutely, unequivocally know the last think I want to do is go anywhere near his penis. And, I’m pretty sure his cooking isn’t going to be that amazing and I won’t even be hungry.

Finally, it may be a good thing that I’m not beating myself up about Tex but even my response to that little clusterfuck has got me baffled. I haven’t stalked him on social media once. I haven’t got all dressed up and ‘accidentally’ bumped into him in the pub and I haven’t casually inquired about him among our mutual friends. In fact, Little Lady and I had a good old fashioned girly bitch and moan this past weekend and Tex’s name didn’t come up once. OK it did, but that was from her, not me. I totally shrugged off the whole topic with next to zero effort. I just don’t care. Yes, this is a fabulous way to respond to a relationship non-starter, but I am genuinely concerned by the lack of fuck giving. Its so not like me. Surely I should have spent at least some time berating myself for being too fat or too this or too something, before cursing his name and wishing the fleas of a thousand camels infest his groin, but nope. Nothing.

So, I don’t know where Lola is or what they’ve done with her. I seem to have her memories but not her typical reactions to things which, if this blog is anything to go by, is probably a blessing but is still very curious nonetheless. Maybe she’ll come back when she gets laid, if she ever regains the sex drive that shes pretty sure she left someone near Handsome’s tonsils at New Year (Yeah, he’s rattling around in my head which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever and yet I seem quite content to have him  filling a lot of the daydream sex fantasy quota recently). Or maybe she needs nicotine. Maybe a cigarette will sort this mess right out and the emotional wrecking ball that is Lola will come back with full force and inept decision making skills once again. I have no idea whats going on or where its going to lead, but I imagine this bizarre turn of events is going to get interesting at the very least!