40 is the new 30...

I find that the older I get, the more I appreciate being as young as I am. A contradiction in itself I know.

My friends, most in their late 20's, are, like me, looking for love. But they feel as though time is running out. It is 2am on a Saturday morning and I have just spent the past hour and a half convincing my distraught flatmate that there is nothing wrong with her, that she just hasn't found the right guy yet.

Why do we put this pressure on ourselves to 'have it all' by the time we hit 30? We expect to have got the study out of the way, got the travelling out of our system, be in a stable career, have met the love of our life, got married, and be popping out babies. That's a lot to fit in, in essentially 12 years (18-30)!

50 years ago, all we had to do was get married and have babies. But my generation, Gen Y, have put this new life-goal pressure on ourselves, and its all controlled by a ticking clock... But 50 years ago, living until you were 70 was quite an achievement. Now, it's considered the norm. We are living longer, fact

On average, women live, I believe, 7 years longer than men. My Nan says its because "women work so bloody hard all their lives dealing with men, it's our time off at the end to have a bloody rest!"

My Mum had me when she was 39. When I was younger, I didn't like that she was the oldest Mum in the playground. Now I love it. When she gives me advice, I know she is speaking from real, hardcore experience. She knows her shit. She is my best friend and my most favourite person in the world.

I think it is great that women want (and do) so much these days. I think we should continue to aim high and get everything we want (and deserve). But I also think we should give ourselves more time to do it in.

I say, 40 is the new 30. Let's embrace it.

Act like a child, and I shall treat you as one...

I dressed up as a school girl last night for the guy I was seeing who is a teacher. Bit warped I know but it was fun.

I knew it was going to be the last time we had sex because he has been all over the place emotionally and I can't drag my heart through that kind of shit. I couldn't cum though. I didn't want to because I didn't want to let myself go that much. I just wanted to 'go out on a bang', so to speak.

It's stupid, but I feel like there is some magic ingredient for finding someone special. Like, you know how they say 'it will happen when you are not expecting it' and 'stop looking and you will meet someone'. But I think all that is bullshit.

I think everyone, everywhere, is always on the lookout for someone special. Just look at The Farmer Wants a Wife. And "they" are right - you can't plan when it will happen, when it's the right person it just does. Take married people, for example...I'm sure when they get married they really believe they will be together forever, but how many people have affairs? Is that just the right person coming along at the wrong time?

I can't believe I used to just be able to give my body physically and it not mean anything. Now, I don't understand how someone can want me so bad in a sexual way (he was actually shaking touching me), and not want the rest of the package (I think it's a pretty good package).

I had to explain that I can get a fuck anywhere...that's not want I want anymore and I can't believe he treated me like that. I have done some slutty things in my time but the way he treated me this morning actually made me feel cheap.

How come so many guys you think are 'one of the good ones' turn out to be complete pricks?

I started crying this morning and he actually left. He left me crying. If I see a stranger on the street crying, I check they are ok. I don't just leave them. But he just left. Unbelievable.

And it really hurt. Crying like a schoolgirl. How ironic.

It's better to cuddle a Teddy than the wrong man...

I still sleep with my Teddy.

When I was about 12, I tried sleeping without my Teddy. Instead, I put it on the windowsill with the other teddies. But most nights, after going to bed, I would get up and grab Ted from his little spot and snuggle up with him, then replace him the next morning. I thought I was too old to still be sleeping with a Teddy.

Then, around 15, I reached an age where I thought it was cool, it a retro kind of a way, to still have a fluffy companion at night.

And now, I just plain don't care.

I have been ill all week and in the absence of my Mum, Ted has done a good job of comforting me. Aren't Mums great? They pick up your snotty tissues and hold your hair back while you hurl, all without a thought to themselves that they might catch your lurgy. Ted, whilst he can't pass me tissues or clean up sick, doesn't mind at all when I cough in his face, or steal the blanket away from him. He is just there.

Any men in my life have stiff competition to face in Ted.

You would think that my current squeeze (I'm actually talking about a man now, not my Teddy) would want to race to my bedside and mop my fevered brow when he found I was ill...ok maybe not race, but at least reluctantly walk with a pack of Paracetamol in tow.

But no. Although he was planning to see me on Sunday, he actually changed his plans in order to avoid me and my flu.

Part of me reasons that this is a very logical and sensible thing to do and completely understandable. And the other part is just hurt. I am the other side of the world from my family, I was very ill. And I needed a little company. And more importantly, and this is what puzzles me as to whether I should be wasting my time on this shmuck, is that I would have been there for him. So where does that leave us?

For the mean time, it leaves me and Ted. And I'm quite happy with that.

Random musings...

Lately I have had many random ramblings pop into my head that I thought would make for an interesting post. I always write things down on my phone if I don't have time to think about something but want to ponder it later.

Having looked at my latest musings, I don't think they qualify for a whole post each. However, I thought they were quite funny so I will share them with you...

1. My friend Steph recently came out with these words of wisdom, "Boys are yucky - like disposable tissues. Good to throw dirty, used tissues away." I'm not quite sure why this struck a cord with me but it did. Perhaps I have been studying drama too long now and can find meaning in anything. If only boys could be disposed of as easily as tissues.

2. Why do they place condoms next to the pregnancy tests in pharmacies and supermarkets? Is it to remind you what will happen if you don't pay an obscene amount of money for what is, essentially, a bit of Glad Wrap. (Wow, puts a whole new meaning to the words Glad Wrap hey!) So, if you are in 2 minds about whether you should pay $20 for one little packet, your eyes stray to the right and you realise that $20, in comparison to 9 months of being fat and 18 years of actually having to be a grown-up, is really quite a good deal.

3. This was just a drunken comment my friend Sue came out with when we were very drunk...she was talking about winning drinking competitions and I said that it didn't make you look very good having downing competitions to which she replies "It doesn't matter, I down better than my baps look!"

4. Why do people in Brisbane continue to wear hats when inside? Do they not know that it's not the done thing?

5. I think it's unfair that, whilst going through puberty, we girls are told that boys are 2 years slower at developing than girls. Why lie? What not just tell us, there and then, at the ripe age of 13...to look around the room... 'cos girls, this is as good as it gets. They don't mature much past that...fart jokes will, to them, always be funny, and they will always be obsessed with boobs.

6. I have noticed that people say "um" before saying their name...listen out for it. It seems to happen particularly in doctors surgeries. For example:
Receptionist: "What's your surname?"
Random person: "Um, Robinson."
Receptionist: "And your first name?"
Random person: "Um, Jessie."

Do we forget our names when put on the spot?

Just as I am

I spent 2 hours at my friend's hair salon today, trying to decide whether to get my hair and the extensions I have in permed, so as its permanently curly, or to get some new hair extensions and become a red-head. I decided on the latter...think dark Lindsay Lohan stylee rather than ginger-nut biscuit.

I then got home and had a mini break down, furiously trying to unclasp my current hair extensions and in the end just ripping or cutting them out of my head, leaving me with much less hair that when I started. It seems the extensions began to resemble the 'old me' and that I needed them out out OUT!

I really don't know when this 'new me' started. It wasn't a concious decision to change, as I have said before. But my hair, which was dark, straight, long and sexy in a slutty Playboy way, suddenly represented everything that I'm not anymore.

I don't want to be that person....you know when you know you look good...but guys look at you, and then look at their buddies, and give each other that 'yea, I would fuck her' look? And then they look at you in that 'yea, come suck me then' look?

Soon after, you pass a girl or two, who look you up and down. Here in Swindon, we refer to the expression on their faces as 'dogging' (as in, "did you see that bitch just dog me up?") Then comes the cackle from the group of girls as they are far enough out of ear-shot to bitch about how short/tight/tacky your skirt was.

And, although you still know you look hot, you don't feel beautiful.

Then there is the person that I am apparently becoming, in which you can be walking along...say in a pretty white dress, little makeup if any on, hair in a pony tail or loose ringlets, and you walk past a guy and he actually looks at you. And then you walk past a girl and she smiles at you. Because you seem like a 'nice girl', someone wholesome enough to smile at. And you feel beautiful.

Having said all of that, it's not others opinions of me that make me feel good or not. I used to be able to go out, tarted up to the nines, and looking bloody good (though I say so myself!) and not give a damn what people thought. When guys looked, I would stick my boobs out further and wiggle my arse more. When girls dogged me up, I would give them a pitiful look, flick back my straight long hair and toddle off in my stilettos feeling even greater about myself because someone thought I looked good enough to be jealous.


I went out in Swindon the other week and I could not believe my eyes. The skirts had got shorter. The jeans tighter. The boobs bigger. The hair straighter. Through the course of the evening I witnessed:

-A woman giving a man a blowjob on the street
-A heavily pregnant woman bump and grind her arse into a bloke to some RnB on the dancefloor
-A man, who had fallen asleep in the chip shop, get carried out and placed on the pavement outside
-The police walk past said man, point, and continue walking
-On the drive home, a girl run into the road screaming for help, fleeing from a bloke a few metres back. I slowed the car and she jumped in crying, telling us to 'just drive'. We dropped her at a petrol station where her friends picked her up.

I have always been a far cry from all of the above I am pleased to say.

And the attention I want now is different. I am comfortable without being tarted up. I feel hot when I am just in my pajamas, my hair in a plait, with my glasses on, first thing in the morning. I'm happy just being me.

And I want someone who wants me, as me. I want someone who calls me pretty instead of hot. Who says I'm good at talking rather than good in bed. Who rings me randomly just to chat, rather than for a booty-call.

But if I don't find a man with all that, then that's ok too. Because I am happy being me, just as I am.

Paella, Vino y Sol

Hola!

I am in Spain, with a belly full of Paella and mucho red wine. I am pleased to report it is very hot. I have not got out of a bikini in 4 days and the tan is coming along nicely.

Not much has happened which is why I have not felt the blog-need. Being back in England for 2 weeks reminded me why I left - it is crap. No two ways about it. And the main thing that the UK did have going for it - courtesy - has been abandoned. The country has gone to the dogs. A sad time.

I was very bored a few days ago here in Spain, it being just me and the parents, but now I have relaxed into the very laid back swing of things and am enjoying myself. I unfortunately had a few home-truths revealed to me that I would rather have not known about. My dad's dad had an affair, as did my mother with another married man before she met my father (who was also married when she met him). Confused yet? Me too. Having worked it all out, none of my elders have not had an affair, that includes both my parents, and both of their sets of parents respectively. I come from a long line of it. God help me.

I guess I should talk about Ross, although I can barely be bothered. He came down the Friday I got back, it was ok but nothing special. The sex was great when I finally allowed it to happen - after a good 10 hours in each others company (which for me is pretty good). But the conversation didn't flow. You would think after 8 months of not seeing each other that we wouldn't be able to stop talking, but no. We went to Bath for the day and walked by the river, then had a lovely Thai meal followed by the theatre.

A 'nice' day (I hate the word 'nice' as it usually seems so non-descript, yet here it perfectly sums it up) but he didn't rock my world. He didn't hold my hand or kiss me once, and, whilst I'm not big on public affection, a little bit of intimacy doesn't go astray.

So he left on the Sunday (it was father's day) and I haven't heard from him since and I'm actually not bothered. I believe he is giving me all he can in his own way. But it's not enough. He did talk about moving to Australia - we spent a delightful hour looking at where his company had offices situated in Oz and at that point I thought there might be hope. But until he actually does something and actually wants me then I'm not going to waste time over it.

But at least I got all that out of my system. I move on pretty fast.

Now, I don't know if it's the sea air, too much sun or the abundance of vino but I've got thinking lately about a certain someone back home (Oz home that is). Although I don't know if I'm just latching on to him because there is an absence of other interests? So I will wait until I am back in 2 weeks to check out my feelings for sure.

We have been really good friends for a while now, in fact we used to date, and I can talk to him about anything. We often chat shit for hours and it's lovely. He treats me very good, a gentleman. And I have been insanely jealous after reading his emails containing details of his frolicking with other women.

There is a lot of potential that we haven't followed through on previously. And I know that if it didn't work out romantically, our friendship is strong enough to survive it. Maybe I have just been reading too many trashy romance novels on the beach in which the story line is basically: 'he was right under her eyes all along'.

My cousin came over with his 20 month old son (I say cousin, although due to my messy little family history, he is actually my brother's cousin, but not mine) and it made me so broody. There are kids everywhere. The Spanish seem to have kids younger than most of the West - around 25. Or maybe they just look younger because of their Mediterranean diet? I'm not saying I want a husband and babies...there is still a lot of the world I would want to explore.

But it would be nice to explore it with someone who holds my hand, and shares a bottle of vino with me.

The Done Thing

I am now back in sunny England and yes, it is raining. I guess I would kind of be disappointed if it wasn't.

I would like to put it out there to the universe - Is there a trolly at Heathrow that is not wonky? My god, it's like trying to guide a drunk person home, through a crowd, after you have just spent 24 hours on a plane.

Now, being back on English soil, I was expecting to pleasantly smile as British correctness took over...I'm talking about etiquette here, people. The Done Thing. Within minutes of landing, I was queuing for passport clearance with my EU passport (thank god I didn't have to wait in the International line, which was 3 times as long and moving half as fast.) And, much to my disgust, 2 guys pushed in front of me in the queue. It's just not The Done Thing. But it's also not The Done Thing to actually speak up and comment on it. You just look around and sort of 'tusk' with other people, and look at the 'pushers-in' with disdain. So I did just that. I did The Done Thing.

The two gents proceeded to talk very loudly about thier dull little lives and I continued to stand behind them glaring. Now, I don't condsider myself racist but one of them was certainly not of full English origin, so I guess his behaviour can be excused, as its not The Done Thing in his culture to be polite.

Which brings me to my next whinging POM moment - where have all the English people gone in London? After making it through clearence and collecting my bag, I continued to be cut-up by Indians with their spastic trolleys, barged into by Africans with their big bags in tow, and eyed-up by dirty Korean men.

Nobody gave way to me. You would think being a single girl and reasonably attractive - although obviously not up to my usual standard after flying for the aforementioned 24 hours and eating yucky plane food (having said that, one of my best picks ups was after an international flight as Beeso can testify), that gentlemen would be polite enough to help a woman out. But no. Apprantly England has lost its politness in my absense.

So, 33 hours door-to-door, I arrived, fought my way through the mixed-race crowd and found...nobody to pick me up. They were late. 2 hours up the M4 was all they had to do. I had travelled 33 and was on time. I couldn't get the back cover off my phone to change over to my UK simcard to call them. I didn't have my parents phone numbers anywhere. And I didn't have any UK money on me. Fuck.

Fortunately, resourcefull little thing that I am, I found a payphone that took creditcards, spoke to a Yank to get connected, and phoned my brother, the only number I could remember, who rang Dad who then found me.

We drove home down a relatively quiet M4, with beautiful blue skies through the tranquil English countryside, at a pleasant temperature of 22c and it was suddenly all worth it. Drivers were not undertaking, or hopping from lane to lane, there were no Yutes (is that how you spell it?) or truckdrivers high on speed. My equilibrium had returned.

Now I'm sat in my bedroom, watching 10 horses in the field outside gallop powerfully along together through the mist of the rain.

Maybe England does still exist, I guess you just have to look for it.

Chapter 1 - The Virgin

I'm reading a book by Ayn Carrillo called Good Vibrations.

It's about a 'good girl' discovering her 'bad side' and all things sexual. She describes herself as a 'vibrator virgin' having never used a vibrator, and writes a 'Porn-to-do list' which keeps the story moving forward as she goes to a strip club, reads erotic literature, etc.

It sounded like my kind of read but it's actually quite boring. I have done everything on her special to-do list so reading about it is rather dull in comparison. I think I'm the opposite to her - a 'bad -girl-turned-good'.

I've lost my identity a bit.

I used to be the girl who was always shagging, or talking about sex and vibrators. I was the friend who people came to for confidential advice on blowjobs/anal/buying their first vibe. Indeed, this blog had the underlying intention of being very 'forthcoming'; as I explained to a fellow-blogger when asking for advice about commencing a blog - I was worried things I might say could be too x-rated for those weaker at the knees.

But now I have very little to 'forthcome' about. Being 'sexual' (for want of a better word) was who I was. It was a very big part of me. So to suddenly lose that overnight is quite a shock.

Now this blog is going to turn into a 'coming-of-age' story. So sorry about that, I will try to pepper it with sexual references as I go.

I'm actually attempting to write a book myself. It's about all the different men I have slept with, and what lesson was learnt from each one. I would like to share the first chapter with you to see what you think...


CHAPTER 1 - THE VIRGIN

Everyone always remembers losing their virginity. (Unless you were very, very drunk...but then it doesn’t count anyway). You remember where you were, how you felt, how ‘it’ felt and, of course, the name of the lucky significant other being blessed with ‘taking your cherry’, ‘popping your cork’ and ‘opening the gates’.

I remember being horny before I even knew what being horny meant. By the time I was 15, I was ready. I knew what ‘it’ was and I knew I wanted it. Preferably NOW. But the act of actually losing ‘IT’ had to be so special and important, so meaningful and loving. About a month before I met the virgin I had been invited to a party. The idea of a party when you’re 15 isn’t, as you tell your parents; ‘a few of us having maybe an alcoholic drink or two...but I don’t really want to drink because I don’t want to get drunk and not know what I’m doing...’ In fact, its quite the opposite; getting as drunk as possible, preferably without throwing up, and making out with whoever it is you have had your eye on at school, or perhaps more accurately; whoever your eyes happen to land upon - and that’s only if you can actually see straight. Good times, great fun. Anyway, there was this boy I had kissed a few times and he had taken me to the cinema and held my hand. We discussed - via text I am hasten to add (I was easily wooed) - whether we should ‘do it’ at said party. But then I got my period. So that made the decision very easy for us.

I can’t recall first laying eyes on the virgin, my heart didn't skip a beat, I didn’t instinctively know he was ‘the one’. I was a month or so away from my 16th Birthday, on a cruise around the Caribbean with my family, we had fallen in love very quickly, within a couple of weeks, and were finally alone in my cabin onboard, despite my dad’s best efforts not to leave us alone.

The epitome of all the best virgin one-liners.

“Is it in?” both of us uttered.

I am sorry to report that after feeling around and deducing that it wasn’t anywhere else, then that must mean that yes, it was in. And whilst I couldn’t feel much it still managed to rock my world. At the time anyway. I would just like to point out that the reason behind not being able to sense a great deal was not due to me having a gaping great *insert your own preferred term here*, it was certainly due to his, eh-hem, undeveloped form. Unfortunately one of many I was to encounter. I was with the virgin for over a year - a long time at that age. He lived 5 hours away by train and every other weekend I would begin the long trek down to his house.

Before I lost my virginity I remember being so certain that I would be one of the careful ones who always wore a condom and was sensible about sex. But then a virgin has never experienced that dying urge of a throbbing cock positioned just outside your very wet and aching self. At which point a condom, although somewhat at the forefront of your mind, is not at the front. The first weekend I went to see him we ran out of condoms but continued anyway. Very silly I know. And Monday morning, on my lunch break at school, I trudged around 3 chemists until I finally found one that would supply me with the morning after pill. Then I worried for the next few weeks and convinced myself everyday that because I had a spot/my boobs hurt/I was hungry it must signal impending motherhood. Although there is always that part of you that wouldn’t be entirely disappointed if you were. And there is always that tiny part of you that is disappointed when you’re not. Even though it would be terrible and you totally couldn’t handle it and there are so many reasons why not and its a BABY for crying out loud...it’s also a *sigh* baby. Biology is to blame.

Lesson #1: Falling in love is the best.

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

I've just found out (via bloody Facebook) that the Londoner was most likely cheating on me. Bastard. I'm not bitter and twisted because I want him back...I'm bitter and twisted because he screwed me over. That hurts.

With hindsight, I am pleased we split because now it means I'm going back to England and seeing Ross. Plus, the Londoner really couldn't spell all that great (he wasn't the brightest spark in the box) and got mixed up with his exclamation marks and question marks?!?!? Seriously.

And he didn't last all that long. Or want it all that much. Which is really not good enough. Besides, sex only gets you so far.

I'm just not used to being cheated on and dumped! What the fuck.

Rant over.

Thanks for listening.

What the hell do we know?!

On a Girls Night last Friday, something struck me...what the hell do we know?!

There we were, six girls ranging from 21 - 31 years of age, most of whom are single, or unhappy in there relationship (only one, the 31-year-old is married)...all giving each other advice on men and relationships. But really, what the hell do we know?

Posing this question to the group, there was a momentary pause as it sunk in. Why are we asking advice from other people who are single? Or who are in a relationship, but seeing a couple's counsellor? Shouldn't we be seeking answers to our heart-ache woes from people who are happily married, or at least, in a loving, prospering relationship?

I feel sorry for blokes. I really do. When they date a women, they are not just dating one woman. Oh no. Unbeknown to them, they are dating at least five other women as well (and with none of the benefits of dating five women at once). So they are not just dealing with one emotional female, but a whole fleet of them and their moodswings. All of whom have a different opinion of what he does, what he says, and how he shags.

Poor buggers.

How often have you thought one thing, been so sure of it, then spoken to friends and your view has flipped 180? Or, at least, it puts a thought into your head which wasn't there before...a new way of looking at something.

We need to find the balance between taking on board enough advice so as we don't find ourselves recklessly sailing off into the sunset with some crusty-nobbed freak... and letting so much advice on board that our ship sinks.

That metaphor made much more sense in my head. Look away now if you are feint at heart but for those that are wondering, the crusty-nobbed freak refers to an ex of mine who once had, well, a crusty nob. Like dried Cornflakes on the end. Yuck.

Anyway, my conclusion here is to walk alone for a while. I'm going to see how I end up not listening to anyone's advice, just my heart.

Hopefully I won't encounter anymore cereal varieties along the way...

Oh! Sorry, I forgot I existed for a second there...

I'm sat here with my cup of tea, as per usual, typing and clicking away on Facebook with my glasses on...looking very English as I sip my tea with my little finger in the air...

...and who should add me on Facebook but Number 20. As in, he wasn't even memorable enough to give him a fake name...the only reason I have any recollection of who he is, is because you always remember your multiples of '10'. At least I do, anyway. When you have had more than 20 men, before you have had 20 years of life, you remember each decade with disturbing clarity.

I recently 'culled' a lot of Facebook friends...I had around 400 friends, of which I culled to around 200. Even now, I swear to God, I couldn't name 200 people I know. I guess Number 20 was one who just didn't make the cut, even in Cyberspace. Who are these people?! I don't care what they are doing, or how they are feeling. Forget 'Sam is...' more like 'Who is Sam?'

But I feel bad clicking 'ignore' on friend requests. So I don't. I just kind of...leave them there. In Reject-cyberspace. Eventually, they fade away. And I don't feel bad.

It's like when you see someone you know but don't want to talk to on the street. And you either look at your phone as you pass them, or look behind you as though you heard a noise, or (my favourite) look into the distance as though you are SO engrossed in your own, deep, meaningful thoughts, that you don't even notice what world you are in.

Then, if they do talk to you, you can sort of 'jump' in shock - not just at seeing them, but at the mear idea you actually exist outside of your own head...

Just me that does that? Ok then...

When did that happen?

Growing up. Sneaks up on you doesn't it?

I used to be able to go and get laid every weekend without giving it a second thought. It's easy for girls isn't it...if you want some, you can get some. And don't get me wrong - I'm not 'past it'. I can still go out and get some with great ease. But that's the problem - it's got too easy.

In the past month I have been on 3 dates and had 4 guys in my bed and, although given the opportunity, I couldn't fuck any of them. I just couldn't. And I'm not entirely sure why. As I said before...it's been second nature in the past. In order to get over people I get under others. But I think I have grown up. And I don't like it!

On the flip side, I used to convince myself that I wasn't going to have random sex anymore, that it had to mean something. But inevitably I would always get horny and one thing would lead to another and...well, you know the rest. But now I want to get down and dirty but my head is stopping me. Now it really does have to mean something.

I guess it shows my growing maturity - that I now want more from men than just sex. I want someone who wants my body to cuddle, as well as shag. I want someone who (sometimes at least) makes love gently. And I want someone I can talk to after they have made me scream.

Growing up. Sneaks up on you doesn't it?

Ross

I'm just having a cup of tea before heading off to the salon this morning to get a spray tan and my hair cut and coloured...all in preparation for tonight's birthday celebrations!

We (the girls) are heading out on the 'Wild Boys Afloat' river cruise on the Brisbane River, it should be highly entertaining! It's bizarre, I have seen more female strippers than I can count and yet never a male stripper. I always find the females amusing so I expect the men to be more so!

Feeling much happier about everything now. Haven't heard from the Londoner since my birthday 5 days ago - where he text happy birthday at 11pm and I didn't reply. He only got fined $150 for the court case so there is really no excuse for him to still be having his little breakdown. Granted the fight was an extreme thing to happen but 'worse things happen at sea' as they say, and if he allows his whole life go to shit when one thing goes wrong, then he's really not the sort of man I want to be with.

Which brings me to Ross. Usually I use code names for everyone but this guy is everything, I can't sum him up in a pseudonym. His voice is like melted chocolate. His eyes are like a deep abyss. He makes my heart not just skip a beat, but stop completely. I have been besotted with him for nearly 3 years, after more mind-blowing sex than I can even remember in one solo-session with the vibrator...

About a month ago, when I was with the Londoner, he finally admitted that he has always felt the same way but is scared of it. I burst into tears, it was so good to hear him say that but I was trying to make a go of it with the London and besides, he is in England...

...but I have decided to go back to England for a holiday in 2 weeks time...

By the power vested in tea...

Where would the world be without a nice cup of tea?

Each sip seems to have a knack of making things appear brighter.

The Londoner didn't ring and I didn't see him, so I didn't need to decide on which shoes to wear! But his Facebook status reads "is on his way to Sydney with a sad face" Yes, I have been stalking him on Facebook. That's another thing I'm not sure we could live without - Facebook. Tea and Facebook.

I went on a date last night - I will refer to him as 'the accountant'. It was quite cute, he picked me up from drama teaching and we went and sat by the river as the sun attempted to redeem itself after all that pissing rain. It was obvious he was trying to kiss me and eventually I let him because it was easier that trying to avoid it any longer. (When you are sat wrapped up in a rug shivering, and someone's lips are only a few inches from your face, there are only so many times you can cough or wipe your nose or go 'look over there!' to avoid it).

I felt like a bowl of milk the way his tongue was lapping away at me. I tried biting it but that just encouraged him more. I thought perhaps his technique might be good in other places, alas I don't think with kissing skills like that he could ever turn me on enough for me to let him get down that far.

And his hands are small. Never a good sign.

But it was nice enough - we watched a movie and went for dinner, conversation flowed easily. But he held my hand on the way to and from the car which made me a bit sick in my mouth. Then he offered to walk me to my door. Ha.

Anyway, I'm going to a comedy club with the accountant tonight as I got some free tickets for my birthday and my friend Lucy let me down last minute. Would be a waste not to go. It's just difficult because he is ready to settle down. He knows what he wants from life. And I don't yet. There is so much more of the world I want to see. And he doesn't make me heart go 'boom' like the Londoner.

You know that feeling when you are trying not to think of someone and yet the more you try not to, the more everything around you reminds you of them? Like a song that's stuck in your head and although its annoying you and you wish it would go away, you find yourself humming the catchy little tune all day long. Then it finally gets out of your head...and you hear it on the radio. That was the Londoner for me yesterday.

Alas, time for another cup of tea.

Men are like shoes

Men are like shoes.

I made this sweeping statement as I contemplated the intricacies of my life whilst shopping, (as we women do), and found the parallels between men and shoes to be rather overwhelming...

To start with, all shoes (and men) look great from a distance - it's only when you get closer that you realise most are ugly and the good looking ones are sold out, (or gay). After working your way through a dozen or so shops and trying on a few (or 40+) pairs, you fall in love with one set, and go through whatever pain barriers you must in order to get them. Then what happens? They bloody hurt! Sure, at the shop when you were laughing and joking and deciding whether you wanted them or not they seemed perfect. But then on your first official night out together they start pinching on your little toe. And weeks later there may be parts of you that are sore, but it was worth it.

Besides, you really like these shoes, right? So, you put on some plasters (excuse my English terminology - band aids), and you put up with a bit of pain because there is sooo much right about the shoes and you can really see a future with them - you even stop wearing your other shoes because these are your favourites.

Then they decide they are going to move to Sydney...
Ok, so perhaps this is where the similarity ends. Alas, despite being a POM, I like to think I am relatively sane and do acknowledge that shoes (although some would argue men as well) do not have a mind of their own.

But this one does - The Londoner. I can't control what he does or what he says or how I feel about him. And whilst it annoys the shit out of me, I love it.

So, to elaborate on my story for those who have made it thus far...
After 3 wonderful, although sometimes sore months, he got arrested for being in a fight and announces he is up-and-leaving just as soon as he has appeared in court, with no plans to return. Like the heels breaking on your favourite shoes, I took quite a fall. For the past 2 weeks, despite being in the same city, we have not seen each other. We have partaken in a cat-and-mouse style chase, where neither one is always the cat, nor always the mouse. I believe some call it "phone tag". I would see him ringing and not answer. Then ring him back hours later and he would do the same to me. My mum has always taught me "Treat 'um mean, keep 'um keen" - and I can assure you that more often that not it works...

Sure enough, he then decides he might be coming back in 2 weeks time as he actually loves Brisbane and thinks it will be too cold in Sydney - you would think being from London he could handle the chill factor, which makes me question (and hope) the reason he might be coming back, might in fact be, because of me.

His court case is in 2 days time. He flies to Sydney that afternoon. I am seeing him tonight.

Now, which shoes shall I wear?!