The sun has got his hat on!

Welcome to the British summertime ladies and gentleman - where it's boiling and hotter than Egypt for a few days, thunders and then rains for about a week, before remembering that this is Britain and the weather is meant to be crap, so it goes back to being grey.

For today however, it's hot, hot, hot.

This is putting me firmly in the mood for holidays. I've even got my flip flops out and boob-tubes, I am determined to get myself a strapless base tan, so I won't scare people on the beach in three weeks' time.

Yes, three weeks!

Other than the sun shining, this week has been a topsy-turvy one, mainly because I've been ill for some of it. I don't do illness, I turn into a baby who just wants her mum. I spent most of Thursday looking like an anaemic vampire, thanks to a particularly nasty bunch of antibiotics, which clearly did not suit me. Thankfully I'm better now, although more than a bit freckly. I love the sun, but seriously, why do I have to look like someone threw freckles in the air and I looked up at the wrong moment?

This week has also presented a developing problem. I'm a bit confused to be honest, so maybe you could share some light on it.

There's this guy who I'm friends with on Facebook, who I went to school with but didn't really have much to do it, mainly because he never really spoke to anyone. Now, he seems like a nice guy, but he's in the middle of some messy long-distance relationship, one that is in the midst of a possible breakup. Whilst she's making up her mind, he seems to have found his voice and started talking to me. A lot. Apparently I'm on reserve.

Nice.

Now it's good to talk, you ask Bob Hoskins in those BT ads, but I can't help feeling like a second option. The other thing is that I don't actually like him like that anyway, I'm just chatting because I'm a chatty kind of person, and if someone talks to me, well I was brought up to think it rude not to reply.

Maybe that's why I get myself into such messes.

So I'm sort of struggling to not get progressively more insulted by this. Maybe it's harmless, but this does tend to happen to me a lot. Guys tend to navigate in my direction when they're in the middle of a break up, having major relationship problems, or just split up with someone. They chat to me, blah blah blah, and then they miraculously sort our their problems, realise they were with the right girl all along, and I'm forgotten.

Maybe they should put me on prescription for those with relationship problems - send your fella my way, he'll soon realise he was better off with what he had before.

This might sound a bit dire, but come on, once is unfortunate, twice is a bit of a bitch, but three times? You have to start asking yourself whether you're the problem.

So whilst I'm thinking it's nice to chat to people you haven't spoken to in ages, I can't help but have to bite my tongue whenever a compliment is thrown my way - I don't see why I should be anyone's reserve - you either want me or you don't, and more to the point, I also get to decide whether I want you or not.

I tell you, the nunnery is the way to go. If I wanted confusion and games, I'd go to Turkey.

Speaking of which ....

I can't wait, I'm so ready for sun, kebabs and Efes. I'm wearing suncream right at this moment, sunning myself in the garden, and the smell of it is transporting me somewhere eastern.

I've recently started wearing contact lenses again for the first time in a long time. I am meant to wear glasses, but because I'm shallow and far too bothered about appearance, I just don't wear them, so I often end up looking like I need a really good sleep. I've decided that the time has come to yet again get to grips with my eyeballs - literally. I'm alright with them actually, touch wood, although I get freaked out when I take then out, in case I can't do it and I'm stuck with one in my eye. This came about because the first time I wore them, a few years ago, one of the lenses split in my eye and I ended up having to fish it out in two bits. Not the nicest of experiences. But technology advances and all that, and now they seem easier.

The point of this ramble is that I'm going to take them on holiday so that I don't look like I didn't get in bed til 6am throughout the day, even though I possibly didn't get in bed til 6am. What I am worried about is having a slight incident like last time and ending up at a Turkish hospital, having some random poking me in the eye. My travel insurance is slightly substandard at the best of times, I don't think it would cover the psychological trauma.

Anyway, I have a life plan update.

Are you ready for this?

I'm so proud.

I've paid off my credit card.

I know this may not sound like a major event to you, but this is one huuuuge step in the right direction for me, and I have to say, I'm quite impressed with myself.

The more I think about it, the more I think the traumas of the last few months were sent my way for a reason - to give me a firm kick up the backside and sort myself out. Luckily, it's working.

You know what they say, every cloud ....

Like a phoenix from the flames

... or something less dramatic.

Dear readers, I am feeling good. Cue James Brown-style dancing.

If you managed to bring yourself to read my last post, you'll remember that I was wallowing in a very deep pool of extremely hideous self-pity, over something that should have been over with a loooong time ago. Well, I promised I'd rant and rave then get over it, and I've done just that, in fact I've gone one better and can officially say that I'm pretty much alright.

It's done with, I'll keep my memories thanks very much (because they still make me smile), and I'll bid it goodbye.

So onward and upwards.

I'm actually smiling again, how good is this?!

So other than super-gluing my stubborn heart back together in a very over-due fashion, what else have I been doing?

I've been propositioned by a trans-sexual.

I hope you weren't drinking coffee reading that, I wouldn't like to be responsible for third degree burns or broken laptops due to water-logging.

Yeah, you read it right - propositioned by a trans-sexual.

The person in question asked me if I fancied trying something with extras - literally. You'll be pleased to know I politely declined the offer. Which means I basically ignored it.

This is why I think it's probably wise that I give up on this other half business, because I clearly don't attract the right ones. I've got nothing against trans-sexuals in the slightest, if you like that kind of thing, but not for me - nor are overly-suggestive artists, erotic massueurs, stalkers or downright weirdos.

It's a losing battle, I tell you.

One thing I have decided though, is that I want Will.I.Am to be my best friend. He's hilarous. I want him and Gok Wan as my bessies - can you imagine the fun we'd have?! And I'd be seriously well dressed of course, and uber confident thanks to Gok's magic words. I've decided that this plan will complete me as a person.

A girl can dream.

Other than deciding which celebs are going to be in my posse, I've generally been panicking about the size of my suitcase, whilst at the same time deciding that the size of my belly is just as it will be, and sod anyone that has a problem with it. See - this is serious progress going on right here. I've come to the conclusion that I am what I am, and that's basically the end of it. The suitcase however, that is slightly worrying.

This has all come about because the wonderful Havas bag handling people at Dalaman wouldn't know the word 'gentle' if it bit them on the backside, and because of this my pretty pink suitcase that up to now has gone around the world with me, is looking a tad bit tired and battered - not to mention sporting a pretty hideous hole on the side. So that's gone to the big luggage park in the sky and I've had to have a new one. Now you should know that I'm not thrilled with it in the first place because it's red, not pink, so we started off on the wrong foot anyway, but it's a litle smaller than my other. This wouldn't be a problem had I not had trouble zipping the other one up, but I did, so this is posing somewhat of a challenge. Packing for this jolly is going to take some serious creative thought.

Looking on the bright side, summer is meant to be putting in an appearance tomorrow - it's sort of peeking through the curtain as I type this. About bloody time too, I've never known having to wear a coat, scarf and boots in May before. Of course, now I've jinxed it and it will probably rain for the rest of the year. Sorry folks.

God, this blog's random today - it's because I'm feeling a bit light y'see, it's all this getting over the boy thing, it's a really nice feeling - y'know feeling normal and not mental. If I could ever be classed as normal that is .....

Therapy

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm going to rant and rave and wallow in self-pity, but I can assure you that once it's out of my system, it'll be gone. I promise.

I think some people might see this as good news, in fact I know a lot will, but right now, to me, I feel like someone has punched me rather hard in the stomach - and I'm not talking a little weedy punch either, I'm talking a big, fat Amir Khan punch.

Ouch, to put it mildy.

As soon as I mention his name, well sort of name, you'll all moan and groan and probably not read anymore, but I can assure you, this is purely for my own therapy, because if I don't write about it, I'll probably cry and rant about it, and there's no way I'm messing up my eye make-up again.

The boy.

I'll pause for the groan.

It's been hanging but over for months, but I'm a girl and a cancerian one at that. And us cancerian girls fight when we feel, and oh my, did I feel. So despite it all going a bit wrong and him being, what I can now confidently call a twat, I still had the knowledge in the back of my mind that I'd see him in summer - and y'know, maybe like the films - he'll change, he'll see what he's lost and he'll want another chance. Yeah, I know, hilarious, more chance of Kilamanjaro melting. I can now quite categorically say that I've had my pink, sparkly bubble very much burst.

Hello reality.

The basic truth of the matter is that all the signs were there, I just chose not to see them, and I made some pretty crazy choices in the process. The only saving grace in the whole thing is that there literally is nothing more I could do, so it's not like I could look back on it and think 'if only I'd done ....' or 'what if', because the only 'what if' in the whole sorry state of affairs, is 'what if he wasn't such a monumental dick?'

Alas, he is a monumental dick, and sadly not in a positive sense either.

A coward too.

With dodgy eyebrows.

Who owes me 16TL.

But anyway, that's one year of my life I can't get back. Not the good bits, I'll keep those, because despite the whole pathetic story, I have nice memories and I had a hell of a time, but the bad outweighed the good, I just chose to sugar-coat that and pretend it didn't happen.

I've now woken up to the fact that it did happen, which is just as well really because it is now official that I will never see him again. And that's not a threat either, it's a geographical fact. There's something very wrong when a dude decides to up sticks and move cities to get away from you. I'm not sure whether I should take that as a diss or not, but I don't think I will, I'll just put it down to him being ... yeah, you guessed it, a monumental dick.

So, what now? Sigh, mope for a few minutes, block, block, delete. Goodbye forever. You have made your choice - you also made the wrong one.

Oh, and try and phase out the negative voice in my head going 'it's because you were ... (insert here), a) too miserable, b) not pretty enough, c) not slim enough, d) not rich enough (ha bloody ha), e) too clingy, e) just not memorable enough.

Yeah that's just me being a monumental dick now, I'll get over it, nothing a huge bar of Dairy Milk won't solve. I guess that's another positive to it, see I'm finding them now, the whole slim right down, glam right up and sashay my arse past him to make him see what he's missing plan can end. It's sad really, I was looking forward to that bit, I've now been robbed of the look on his face. Mind you, the diet wasn't really going that well to be fair.

So now that's all over, I do feel a tad bit bereft and feel the need to fill my head with something else, because I'll be honest, I've not thought of much else, despite protestations to the contrary. Right at this moment, I do feel a little free though, which is a novelty, maybe this holiday will be one to remember for all the right reasons, and one I won't come home from with borderline depression.

One can hope.

So I'm sorry for the hours of ranting and raving, I'm sorry for being so hideously blind to what everyone else could plainly see - but I'm a romantic and I wear my heart on my sleeve. The major positive? I know my worth, he's taught me that.

So y'know, thanks.

The D Word

Dating. A word that strikes fear into the heart of single girls everywhere.
Before you smug coupled-up types start sniggering, just remember what life was like before you decided to stick with the one sat at the side of you for life, thus giving up the trauma of having to meet random weirdos in a mix and match type situation, trying to figure out whether the dude sat opposite you is the right one or not. More often than not, said dude is certainly not the right one, hence why dating is a hideous exercise.

Now I'm not anti-social, I'm a pretty chatty and friendly kind of girl, I'm just not the world's biggest fan of sitting in a pub or restaurant with someone I barely know, attempting to make small talk as though we're long-lost friends, whilst silently figuring out when is a socially acceptable time to leave. I'm crap at small talk you see, I'm even rubbish at the hairdressers.

It makes me shudder thinking about it.

The whole dating scene in America would just make me want to emigrate. They're really big on dating aren't they? Well, if Hollywood is to be believed they are. In chick-flicks, the girl in question is jauntily going out with about four different guys on dates, all very non-commital, before whittling it down to the one she fancies most of all - which is generally the bad boy who leaves her bawling her eyes out into a tub of Ben & Jerry's, whilst the one that got away runs into the sunset with a giggly blonde. Of course, this being Hollywood, the one that got away always sees sense and they're reunited in some teary-eyed event, usually accompanied by crowds and running into each other's arms with appropriate music in the background, usually Coldplay or something equally Dawson's Creek-esque.

Sigh.

Why can't Hollywood be real?

But anyway, back on topic.

The whole dating scene terrifies me. What happened to just meeting through friends, being mates first and then hey presto! Suddenly you're three months in and the awkwardness never really happened. Nope, now we're forced to arrange meetings and do the whole 'let's talk about you' routine, silently dreading the offer of a lift home and the cringe-worthy 'will he/won't he' first kiss scenario.

Am I coming across negative? Well that's probably because I've never had a good first date. It's a catalogue of disasters that have left me wondering whether it really is me that's the problem.

Maybe it is, maybe I'm just far too picky, but I'm a Cosmo girl and I've been brought up to believe that I deserve nothing less than the best for me. I had a blip last year, I will admit, I thought I could settle into a life of half measures simply because I was blinded by something akin to love, albeit what I now realise was one-sided. I know now I could never have lived that life, because I could never enter into a relationship where it's considered okay to treat me like dirt because I'm English, and therefore in his warped mind, considered untrustworthy and lacking in morals. Charming isn't it? The quite ironic thing about the whole affair is that the only person in the pairing that was untrustworthy and lacking in morals was him, and certainly not me.

Ain't hindsight a wonderful thing?

The thing that worries me about this whole anti-dating stance of mine, is how the hell am I ever going to find anyone if I refuse to date? It seems that I am certainly not going to just casually bump into someone over the satsumas in Tesco, that stuff just doesn't happen in real life, so what I've realised is that I need some sort of Baby and Jonny Castle-type situation a la Dirty Dancing - preferably without the dodgy perm.

Now where to find my Mr Castle? Hollywood?

I'm out of ideas. Answers on a postcard people .....