It’s not fair…

It’s not fair that I still ache while he just carries on.

It’s not fair that I’m left spiralling through memories, while he gets soothed by new attention.

It’s not fair that I’m replaying every word, every silence, every eye roll — while he’s rewriting the story to suit his ego.

It’s not fair that my honesty is called cruelty while his cruelty hides behind silence.

It’s not fair that I still want him sometimes, in the dark, when I forget all the ways he broke me, while he flirts like none of this ever meant anything.

It’s not fair that I question whether I was ever enough while he texts other women with no hesitation.

It’s not fair that I opened up, softened, learned how to speak with warmth and truth, while he still can’t say “I hurt you” without choking on his pride.

It’s not fair that I lie awake wondering how I could’ve shown up better, while he lies to himself about ever being emotionally present.

It’s not fair that I swallowed my anger to try and understand, while he spits venom and calls it honesty.

It’s not fair that I’m carrying the weight of everything we couldn’t fix, while he doesn’t even try.

It’s not fair that he gets to tell people I “changed,” while ignoring the version of me he shut down over and over.

It’s not fair that I’m the one who’s seen as unstable, while he was the one who downloaded the apps, looked outside the relationship, and still pretended to be loyal.

It’s not fair that I gave him so much of my softness, while he weaponised my emotions just to feel powerful.

It’s not fair that I am grieving someone who’s still alive, and doesn’t seem to care.

It’s not fair that I’m filled with questions, while he’s already out there, rehearsing lines for someone new.

It’s not fair that I took the time to grow and reflect, and he took the chance to run.

It’s not fair that I miss the version of him I never truly had.

It’s not fair that he calls my clarity a performance and my strength a threat.

It’s not fair that I still feel everything, while he pretends to feel nothing.

It’s not fair that what I thought was love… might have just been limerence!

It’s not fair that I can still see his spending habits — and now he’s suddenly generous.

It’s not fair that I watch him being chivalrous to others, while I had to split every bill and swallow my resentment like wine.

It’s not fair that I carried the emotional labour, the life admin, the planning, the responsibility, and still got told I wasn’t enough.

It’s not fair that I was made to feel greedy for wanting more than breadcrumbs, while someone else now gets the full fucking loaf.

It’s not fair that I gave him space to grow and instead he gave that growth to someone else.

It’s not fair that all the little gestures I once hoped for, the thoughtfulness, the effort, the softness, are now being handed out like they were always there, just not for me.

It’s not fair that I paid in full, emotionally, financially, spiritually, and still got asked to prove my worth.

It’s not fair that he’s out there being kind, thoughtful, generous, like it was always in him.

It’s not fair he’s doing all the things I begged for and acting like I never deserved them.

It’s not fair that the version of him I waited for finally showed up… but not for me.

But maybe what’s most unfair of all…
Is that I’m still here making sense of it —
While he just gets to forget.

And the worst part? He’ll never really see it. Never understand the quiet weight of what I carried. I poured everything I had into a cracked cup, holding him together while I came undone. I was the glue, patient, invisible, always working, always fixing, while he couldn’t even be sellotape for me when it was my turn to fall apart. He’ll say I changed. He’ll say I was moody, distant, hard to love. But he’ll never say I was tired. Tired of patching up his pieces while he ignored mine. Resigned, from being blamed for all the things going wrong. Or loyal, even when I was alone in the effort. Or a mirror for his own behaviour.

That’s not just unfair. That’s betrayal!

Because now he gets to show up shinier, held together by the very parts of me I gave without question. And I’m the one left peeling myself off his memory, trying to remember who I was before I poured so much into someone who never learned, or even wanted, to hold me.

This or that? #1

A new series of short writings to help develop my craft. Please vote ‘this’ or ‘that’. As a reader, which captures your interest the most?

This

The fluorescent lights glare as he wheels her down the corridors of St Johnson Hospital. A quite hum of busyness surrounds them, but Amber is paying no attention. Sat hunched as she waits for the next searing pain to rip through her stomach, she barely hears the urgent voice behind her state her name and date of birth to the nurse. Contractions and baby, words she makes out just as another jarring squeeze in her belly rips through her. Amber cries out as Jimmy hurriedly explains the contractions are just minutes apart. With a grace that comes with facing this kind of situation for years, the nurse gently and calmly leads them to an empty bed in the ward. ‘We’ll need to get you on the bed, so that we can have a feel for how far along you are’. The pain subsides but it continues to ebb through her body as Amber eases herself onto the bed with a grace that does not match the nurse. Legs akimbo the nurse snaps on a pair of gloves and covers her hands in a jelly. The searing pain courses through her body again, so much so Amber doesn’t even notice the impolite intrusion. ‘She’s ready, let’s get her to the suite’. Amber slides back into the wheelchair, incoherently answering the nurse that this is her second child, her first born 13 years earlier and never planning to have anymore, in between yells as the vice like grip on her belly reminds her why felt that way in the first place.

In the suite the midwife is gowning-up, the nurse bringing Amber in sharing relevant details. Jimmy hangs back to allow the midwife to get Amber into a birthing position. A blue sheet is placed over Ambers lower abdomen and thighs, Jimmy is back suddenly holding Ambers hand. In her consistently genial manner the nurse directs Amber to start pushing. Relief, Amber can finally channel the pain into something to do and thus, not more than 5 minutes later, the chorus of a new born baby fills the air, healthy, colourful, if not angered at the sudden change in ambient surroundings. Amber doesn’t have time to think as her baby is wrapped and placed into her arms. Tears streaming down her face, Amber gazes at the tiny bundle. Completely at the mercy of them, Amber chokes back a sob. How will she find the strength to do this again? Jimmy leans down and kisses her forehead. ‘She’s beautiful, and you are superhuman’ he whispers. Amber smiles up at him as he kissed her on the lips, the adoration clear on his face. Amber’s fears about how to adjust to a new baby with Jimmy’s history, and hers; a new addition to the family later in life than either of them expected but she was here now and nothing would stop them being the most loving and wonderful parents ever to have lived.

Or That

It’s Saturday night, mum is out with her friends again and I’m home with him babysitting me. I don’t mind, he makes funny jokes and bacon sandwiches which are my favourite. I have a new electronic hangman game which looks like a nintendo Gameboy but you can only play hangman. He puts funny words in. Sometimes they are rude. He tells me what the rude words mean which is more than my mum and dad do. Shit means rubbish. Wanker means somebody who is unpleasant. Penis is what boys have instead of a flower. He knows I love to dance so he puts the radio on and I show off my talent competition dance from school. My nightie rides up but he’s watching my dance and he doesn’t notice. I giggle and pull it back down before he can see. He asks me if I know what sex is. I’m 9, I’ve heard about it but I don’t know what it actually is. But I nod, because I’m don’t want to seem stupid. He excuses himself to make a cup of tea. I switch off the radio and put the TV on. It’s Saturday night and Family Fortunes is on. He lets me stay up and watch because it’s a game show and I like games. Afterwards, we will watch City Cop and then Silent Witness because I am fascinated with cop shows. Mum would never, I have to be in bed by 8pm. I like when he looks after me, I get to stay up late and he never tells mum. He keeps my secrets. The familiar voice of Les Dennis asks a young girl ‘top 6 answers, name something you do in the dark?’ ‘Sleep’ I shout, and it’s the top answer. He chuckles behind me, I turn to find him stood above me. ‘Clever girl’ he praises and smiles. ‘Name some more things you can do in the dark?’ The ladies on the TV give another answer ‘make love’. The host makes a joke and everybody laughs, including him. I don’t get it but I giggle anyway. ‘Do you know what that means?’ He asks Me. I nod and then turn back to the TV before the blush creeps up my face and he can tell I’m lying. I’m old enough to know and it’s embarrassing that I don’t. I climb onto the sofa and he offers to put the blanket over us. I can feel a chill and so I cuddle up to him, his hand rests on my lap, his fingers gently running circles against my knee. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel like a big girl. He lets me do things my mum and dad would never let me do. His hand slides a little further up. Not quite my thigh but close. You’re so special Amber, don’t ever forget that.

The chirping of an alarm wakes Amber in the dim morning light. The memories of her fitful nights sleep linger for a moment before they vanish. Her heart is racing and for the briefest of moments she remembers why and then it vanishes. Amber flicks the alarm off and drags herself to the bathroom, steam rises as she switches the shower to almost scolding, the way she has done since she was a teenager. Soap and shampoo cleanse Amber as she brushes her teeth and starts to plan for her day. The recent case of stranger assaults on women have been escalating. She knows it’s the same offender, but he’s elusive and giving her and her team the run around. A Detective Inspector in the Drewsborough Police force, Amber has been a rising star over the last few months, closing more cases than any of her peers. But this case is frustrating her more than any of them. No evidence. No a drop of blood, hair or spit. No CCTV, and no obvious intelligence that links any of the victims. The water washes away the bubbles and Amber sets about drying herself and her hair. She dons her black tactical trousers and force issued shirt, pressed to perfection, crease lines perfectly symmetrical. Hauling on her socks and tactical boots, Amber moves downstairs and switches the coffee machine on, adding her favourite Sumatran coffee pod. A bitter taste but with a hint of chocolate, she drinks it neat, a small but luxurious creature comfort she’s come to enjoy over the years. Amber grabs her bag and tucks her lunchbox under her arm and heads out the door to HQ. Her first job of the day is to brief her superiors on the investigation so far, and she has nothing. The escalation of violence she has seen before, which means it’s only a matter of time before somebody dies and Amber can’t have that on her conscience.

Are you always spoiling for a fight?

It’s been a while. I’m so angry. With everything. Everybody. My hormones are Crazy (with a CAPITAL C) so that is exacerbating the whole thing. The last 6 months have felt very lonely.

I can’t tell if I’m an awful person who doesn’t make any effort or whether it’s just that I’m the sister, lover, mother, daughter, niece, friend that everybody has as a last resort? It has led me to reevaluate who I am as a person and as I’m always spoiling for a fight I figured I should probably get back to journaling, but even this is feeling like a chore. I found an online conversation prompt guide from Self space.com which covers a whole host of topics, including those in my current situation. There are 10 questions to answer. The first one:

In what ways was growing up difficult for you?

Wow, going deep from the off. Buckle in then.

I don’t like to dwell on things that I feel are unfair. Everybody is dealt a hand in life. But for a day or two every month I absolutely insist on picking a fight with everyone! I withdraw and then complain nobody wants to know me. Family, friends, it’s a whole thing. And whilst I know in almost all respects that I’m being unreasonable, and that my own withdrawal from life and people around me is my own doing, I also can’t help but think some of my intuition is spot on!

And perhaps it’s because I’m not listening to my intuition that it is getting worse over time?

I haven’t spoken to my Dad much since the start of this year. ‘Oh spoiler alert, the girl who struggles with relationships has daddy issues’ Yes, folks, I’m a walking cliché.

It all kinda started towards the latter end of 2023, I noticed he would only get in touch when he wanted something. His ‘something’ at the time was my investment into what I can only describe as a ponzi investment scheme. You put £50 into this savings account and artificial intelligence would level it up everyday. Kind of like stocks and shares. The more people you recruited the faster you could level up and earn more interest. By the time Christmas came around the Ponzi scheme fell through (I turned £50 into £200 so credit where its due) but it was a risk to anybody who didn’t pull out in time and others had invested significantly more.

Of course, by this point, I’d give it a go and wasn’t interested in doing it again. So when dad asked me to invest again, I declined. It feels like we haven’t spoken properly since then. I love my dad a lot but effort has never been his strong point. We (my son and I) saw him in May for our birthdays. Although I reached out on Father’s Day and visited him, he was out with the family having a Father’s Day dinner. Without me. Let that sink in for a moment.

And so that’s the last we spoke (well, text). Annoyed as I am though, it’s heartbreaking that I don’t seem to have much of a relationship with my dad. We’ve never been close in a typical father/daughter way, but it’s also never been as distant as it is now. He doesn’t even attempt to see his grandson!

But I don’t make an effort either. And I’m at a point in life where I need to decide if I want to continue a relationship with my dad, and if so accept I will have to make the effort forever. Or whether to cut the relationship entirely. I’ve considered asking to meet him and understand why the cold shoulder but I lost my grandad in February (Mums side) and I am certainly still grieving him, so I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face what is a very real reality that my Dad just doesn’t love or care for me enough to make the effort. He reached out very early on when my Grandad died but since then there has been nothing.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few months crying about this, but never really considered how my Dad might feel about this situation. Is he feeling as hurt as I am? And if he is, is he considering cutting the relationship cord too? Because that fucking hurts. But, surely it would be better to know than be in limbo? Could he be suffering from his own form of mental grief? Upheaval? Disconnect? And if he is, now I feel guilty, because what kind of Daughter doesn’t reach out to support her own Dad?

I honestly don’t feel like there is a positive perspective at all. I’m either a shit daughter and I feel bad (although I can do something about that) or I have to accept I have a shit dad? Its no wonder I’ve never been able to set boundaries with men, when this is the example my own dad sets… abandon me but I’ll love you anyway. Unconditionally.

Back to the question: yes, growing up was difficult for me. I was born to two teenage parents and I was not expected. I then grew up very much straddling the bread line to a Mum and Dad who were either arguing, or separated and bitching about each other. I don’t really recall any hugs. Like bear hug, deep squeezes, and I don’t recall a lot of ‘I love you’s’. I’m sure there were those things, I just don’t have any memory of them. I was a bit of a rebel, grew up being a problem child, who was very clever and mature for my age. What that means is that my parents were still young, getting drunk in the social club, and I was learning to be self-sufficient and dependant from a very early age.

By the time puberty hit, I was a fully functioning young adult. Getting home, cooking dinner. I’d then spend my evenings wandering the streets of my local (middle class) Council Estate, playing Kerby or Acky 1,2,3 with my friends. It was the 90’s, and Playstation’s hadn’t quite taken us by storm, and entertainment was learning the dance routine to Spice Girls wannabe. I had to suffer through some terrible stepdads until my Mum met her current partner (they are still together 20 years on). Then I was a teenager with hormones at secondary school. My body changing bought some unwelcome attention from a family friend and I ended up on the receiving end of gifts for sexual favours. Thankfully, it never got too X-rated, because he died. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that his heart gave up on him and thus that whole episode was buried with him. I’ve never admitted that to anybody but given that during this time, my Grandad (the one who passed away) ended up in prison, and my Dad had a new wife and son, I think I felt abandoned. My mum was around, but with a newfound love, I went seeking validation elsewhere. I started skipping school, jumping the train to Sutton Coldfield, hanging around in the park. I started swimming at the school baths on Friday evenings with friends and would sneak into the school yard with a boy and make out with them. I started smoking, encouraged by my Dad, and started drinking (encouraged by my Dad) and by 16, I was very much a typical loser high school drop out. I’d managed to scrape together some GCSE’s but my prospects were bleak.

Then, at the sweet old age of 15 and 10 months, I met Andy. He was a nice guy, not somebody I was attracted to at first and that was fine because he had a girlfriend. We ended up hanging out a lot because his best friend and my best friend were dating (or whatever 16 year olds do). Over the course of a few months, and by the time I hit 16, Andy and I had grown close. Only, we had a snag. His girlfriend of 4 months was pregnant. I left Andy to decide how to move forward. He decided to end the relationship and shortly afterward we got together. I knew it would be a challenge, dating somebody who was going to be a father, but we did it anyway. Andy settled me down. I found a college course studying forensics. It seemed like a good choice, I felt a sense of injustice based on my own personal circumstances and wanted to do my part to prevent it happening to others. Or getting justice for others. And honestly, since then my life has continued to improve on itself. Andy and I spent 13 years together. But eventually we fizzled out. I dunno if its because I outgrew him, or if that settled feeling wasn’t enough, or whether his lack of effort in the end triggered my sense of abandonment, but I found myself needing validation again. Thus followed a period of 7 years seeking various forms of pleasure which brings us pretty much up to date now. Facing the same sense of abandonment that has been so familiar to me over the years. It’s what I have come to expect from men.

I wont lie, writing all that out has felt cathartic. But it doesn’t even begin to deal with my present situation. I need to begin somewhere. Small steps, maybe start by reaching out to my dad, asking him how he is and go from there. See if I can rebuild this relationship into something I can stomach.

Thanks for reading if you get this far and, if like me you have a dysfunctional family, do you recognise it and accept it, or have you cut ties?

Ciao xx

Goodness Grief

Its been a weird few weeks. My emotions have been running high and low with lots of normal in between. Zaps of frustration have become my best friend but that has led to some snappy remarks. I’m argumentative. If you tell me a red jumper is a red jumper, I will tell you that no, it is not in fact red, it is Burgundy’! I have stooped to that level of pedancy (?). And for what?

But it goes deeper and I’m beginning to figure it out. The frustration bubbles up when I feel overwhelmed. And it’s the little things that really get to me. They are so trivial but the burst of agitation I feel over them is not.

I’m so giving. Generosity is my gift to the world, helping others, being reliable, making sure everybody is looked after comes as natural to me as breathing.

But the last few weeks, where I’ve been struggling and needed people to look after me, it just hasn’t happened. Or at least not to a standard I offer to others. It’s been exhausting directing everybody at home and work.

And yep, communicating my needs is something I am responsible for, for others to be able to know what I need, but I just haven’t had the energy. And most of the time it sounds like nagging. Or I am accused of nagging. Or moaning.

I was asked today; what would happen if you stopped doing all the things for everybody? What would be the consequences?

And I said I’d feel cruel. If I didn’t get my son out of bed and into the shower and sort his clothes to get dressed and tell him to brush his teeth, empty his bag, sort his lunchbox, make sure he had all his equipment for school…he’d go to school, hungry, trampy and end up in detention. That would be cruel.

I’m a bad colleague or boss, or not a team player if I don’t help pick up work from others. If I don’t constantly drive forward, customers don’t get the best service. But I absolutely cannot keep supporting them and do my own job effectively. I have to step back. I had a meeting on Monday with a colleague to organise responsibilities. It was a way to set boundaries. And honestly, I feel so much more relieved and a bit lighter, it’s made my week if I’m honest. I have my lanes and I will not be budging a single millimetre outside of them!

And then there is home. Mr no-name and how we approach life. I remind myself that he is in his infancy of adulthood really, whereas I have had years of practice. Thoughtfulness and romance are hard to deliver when your missus is being a moody mate. But I do feel disrespected at time. I’m never late to take him to the train station, but we are never out the door when I want to be. I find the pen leak, that is not in my bag and share this, to be told the next night the pen has leaked and the following morning it’s me finding the fucking pen leak. And leaving 10 minutes later than I wanted to!! See what I mean about getting wound up over trivial matters?! And if I don’t support him, I’m a bad girlfriend!

So then I ask..is my reliability and generosity just kindness, or am I a people pleasing push-over, made to feel guilty when I express a need? Let me tell ya, I’ve had enough of that in my life.

Maybe I have to learn to accept that I’m organised and the men in my life (at home or work) are not. Last minute Nelly is fine when it’s on my terms. But not when I’m already pissy.

So, I’ve decided the answer is checklists. A run down for everybody to check their responsibilities and save me wasting my breath. And if they end up at work or school hungry, missing the train, getting detention, being held accountable in performance meeting, then they will learn to be autonomous.

Or maybe, just maybe I’m grieving and all of this is just a phase which I will move past if given time, space and patience.

But until then, sucks to be you boo…

…too harsh?

Art of Rebellion – Poetry

The dreariness seeps in, as my eyes adjust to the lightened room. The darkness of winter behind us. The daily grind begins, wash your face, bush your teeth, do your hair, get dressed, eat breakfast.

You move, sluggish, and familiar through the streets of your town, to greet your desk and the piles of work, that never ends as you toil and toll down your list, chatting amiably with your colleagues that lurk.

You eat lunch, that’s the same, drink your water. The lame daily grind, keeps you in a bind, and it doesn’t ever seem to fill you with wonder.

And when the day ends, the same journey begins, back to home full of more things to do. Like the washing, the ironing, the cleaning of rooms, and the cooking of more samey food.

I don’t mind it, not really, these steps that we take, to keep the wheels of life turning. But somewhere deep down, in those moments of quiet, I grasp onto a strong sense of yearning.

I’d love to embrace the night swan song, start my day with a step that does spring. Why should I insist that I brush, shower and dip, so the noses of others don’t sting?

What if the pile of work that is mine, neatly folded and stacked, was left to dishevel and mess? While I skip and dance, to a song in my head, uplifting my mood, could I forget?

Let me rebel the routine, revolt the regime, break free from the binds, fuck the formality, demolish the drills and prance on the patterns of life. Who cares about me and the way I behave? Let me be bold and brash, misbehave.

I’ll eat chocolate for breakfast, pizza for lunch, maybe I won’t have dinner. Who made the rules, a society of ordinary? Whom stated we must act accordingly?

Be Quiet! They say, ‘don’t be so loud!’, ‘Stop shouting’ they scream to a pitch! I hide and I skulk, letting my head bow low, my excitement nothing more than a stitch.

In time. It’s not easy to be me, cooped up in life’s monotonous party, that evokes few dreams and more boredom. But, I smile as I whisper, when the quiet flickers, and write my art of rebellion.

Dear Furniture

What did you see when the spark went out? Was it soft and sudden or was there a shout?

For help, or a plea of a soul in pain, could you tell me please, could you live it again?

In the wake of my loss, and the secrets you spill, do you know how sad and heartbroken we feel?

Did he suffer, did he yell? Did he try to tell? Or did he drift, swiftly, into life’s eternal lift?

Up to the heavens, away from the dirt, could you tell if his death caused any hurt?

Do you feel cold? Your heated blanket now gone, books, do you wish for one last page to be turned?

And music, now silenced, cassettes and CD’s, vinyls and symphony no longer played freely.

Do you feel the same loss, same gaping hole that is left, of the soul of a giant, our memories bereft?

What did you see at his final curtain, did you try to reach out, hold his hand or hug him?

Did you whisper out loud, and say ‘it’s ok’, we’re here to take care of you, like any other day.

Did he smile? Was he scared? could you tell from his face, that the draw of the afterworld, was a much better place?

Dear furniture…I hope you bore witness to a man with no grimace but watched him slip into the night, a man full of peace.

The Grief

In the muted spaces between grief, she navigated dual sorrows. As her dear friend’s final chapter unfolded, she stood steadfast, a silent guardian to her teams collective grief. The girl’s heart divided, torn between a fading present and a past she failed to cherish, she had a job to do, but she allowed herself this small amount of time to reflect and grieve for her losses.

The curtain fell, along with any flicker of hope that the events of the past 3 months were nothing more than a bad dream, leaving only the fragments of stories told between friends, shared laughter and tales mingled with the bittersweet symphonies of farewells. She always assumed there would be more time. The room echoed with the silence of loss, an unspoken requiem. The emptiness she felt saying goodbye to her friend, mirrored the void where Grandads presence once stood, the two departures entwined in a cruel dance.

Her body shuddered as the stark truth became apparent. In comforting a friends twilight, she had dimmed the glow of her Grandad’s sunset. Grappling with the paradox of being there for one, while inadvertently being absent for another, her re, wet, blotched cheeks, the evidence of the weight held of having to say two farewells.

In the silent wake of their departures, her world echoed with unspoken regrets. The feelings of grief mirrored in both of her relationships and weighed heavy. Chair’s sat empty, possessions sat frozen, silent witnesses to the departed, and rooms carried the secrets of their final moments. Her love, like the sun, illuminated their absences. But time, relentless, had stolen any chance to remind them both. The epiphany dawned too late, leaving only a room haunted by echoes of could-have-beens.”

The tissue in her hand, crumpled to nothing, soaked by the tears of sorrow and the pain of having to do it all again in a few weeks. She walked out, sharing in the grief of other friends and family, tears falling silently for the only man in her life whom she had truly loved.

New Group – Please Join Me!

God it’s been ages huh?!

Boy, do I have some writing to do lately.

All in good time…but I launched a writing group.

Eeek…I actually took a leap of faith.

Everything in my head is saying don’t do it. But I’ve done it.

It’s a private group, but anybody can join.

https://www.facebook.com/share/akNuDnVNB2EuQpCS/?mibextid=K35XfP

I would LOVE to see you in there ❤️❤️❤️

Witty Title – Chemistry

The thing about true chemistry is that it never goes away. It can die down, but it only takes a flicker of a memory to reignite all the fire and passion that you once knew. I’ve written a lot about people I’ve had chemistry with, and it’s interesting now that I can understand and feel the difference between a physical attraction and an all-consuming sense of love. I still have some physical chemistry for Mr Big and maybe El Capitano deep down somewhere, not that I feel it on a day to day basis, I know it’s there, because I find these men attractive.

I was reminded recently about an old flame. We didn’t have chemistry really, it was merely just a desire to have sex often, which we did. I’ve blogged about the pilot on this blog before, and I happened to be sharing this with Mr-No-Name. He asked me, I’ve never given you an experience like that before because you’ve never blogged about it.

I mean he’s right. I’ve never blogged about our sex, little does he know he features in here a few times.

But it’s not because there have been no memorable experiences. Gosh, I can think of loads; the train car park, the stairs, the time we were supposed to go to the gym, the first time, the time his fingers worked some crazy fucking magic, THAT shuddering Sunday afternoon. We have literally ruined furniture together. And I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever had better sex. Not even el Capitano, and I’d define the entire time I had with him as pleasurable. But none of it came with any sense of satisfaction. Sure there was a lot of pleasure, but it was always fleeting because there was no love, no commitment and just one very confused, sex obsessed, caution to the wind, flirty thirty year old. But the reason I don’t really write much about Mr-No-Name is because I don’t need to. I’ve never been so certain about a person. He’s as sure in my life as my right arm. And so I don’t need to write about him, because I’m not overthinking and I really only tend to write when I can’t make sense of my thoughts. And I guess I’m a little reluctant to break the sanctity of our trust with each other. Our intimate moments are ours, and weirdly, I want them to stay that way.

But I want to write about him. I don’t really like this word, but I don’t know what other word fits tbh; he is my soulmate, I have these ultra-heady moments with someone I truly and deeply care about, and who despite his past and some questionable behaviour, truly and deeply cares for me. I’m turned on, by almost everything he does and he does fucking nothing tbh. He just exists. I often find myself thinking back to the intimate moments we have shared and feeling the familiar ache inside me that just needs him instantly. And once that is in my head I can think of nothing else. Im addicted.

And it’s not just sex either. No sex is worth the drama that comes with him, that’s for damn sure.

But we truly are a couple. We can deep dive into all topics and aspects and communicate to a level I have never had before and that intellect just adds fuel to an already burning fire.

Best friends, hot for each other and meant to be. I feel a bit sick saying that out loud, but I’ve been the girl scoffing at the idea for long enough. I’ve been around enough men to know that Mr-No-Name is just right somehow. My Goldilocks of boyfriends and will be in my life forever in whatever form, but I really hope it ends with a ring on it and a happy ever after.

Witty Title: Wild (1)

I’ve done some pretty crazy things in my time when it comes to impressing a guy I have a crush on.

It started pretty young too and I guess the fact I have done wild things as an adult too, suggests there was at least some merit in the madness.

My first memory of impressing a guy comes as a 7 year old. My Nan and grandad would take me on holiday to an English holiday site in their caravan. I loved the kids club, there was always something to do when the sun wasn’t shining and I couldn’t dig for Australia on the beach.

One night there was a Karaoke show and my favourite song at the time was Neil Sedaka ‘Oh Carole’. No idea why!

Encouraged by my family I put my name down, but I had the biggest crush in Tony, the blue coat who ran the kids club. Obviously 7yr old me didn’t understand crushes or the fact that this adult would have zero interest back for legal reasons, but I wanted to be noticed all the same.

He called my name, I remember walking on stage in front a room full of people, smiling sweetly at my crush Tony, secretly happy with myself that he’d notice my confidence, my blonde hair and he’d want to be my friend.

As I stepped up to the mic I realised how many people there were. And that was the only thought I had as the music started up. I couldn’t remember the lyrics. I managed the first ‘oh Carole’ and then my voiced seized up, stage fright took over. The music carried on for a few bars, but no words came out. I must have looked petrified because next thing I know Tony was back out sympathetically asking the crowd to give me a round of applause for ‘giving it a try’.

I ran off red faced and crying, the experience well and truly scarred into my brain that not only could I not sing or remember the most basic of song lyrics, but also that I’d ruined any chance of making Tony my boyfriend.

I never sang karaoke again.

Oh Carole, I am but a fool.