back up blog

I recently got dumped (my mother is very proud she raised a winner). In turn, this also means that by default I became single. This bothers me, because at no point was I aware that I was ever a 'double'. Admittedly, I am often too much for some- I'll go straight to your head and make you declare your love for the whole wide world before you throw up on your new 'shag me' shoes and pass out in the loo- but to quantify myself like a drinks measure hardly seems fair. I might start referring to myself as a split mixer or lager top, as in 'SWF w. GSOH WTLM three quarters of a chilled Kronenberg pint whom desires nothing more than a squirt of lemonade to take them to the required legal serving as dictated by our great Queen under her Majesty's weights and measures act of 1963'. Bit catchier than just my name, isn't it? Hand-in-hand with newfound singledom (* groan *) is several instances of bizarre, teenage-like behaviour that I fear may just be the begin...

This week my hairdresser told me I have hair like Jennifer Aniston. I also met my literary hero Alexander McCall Smith. He didn't pass comment on my hair. I think I prefer my hairdresser- mainly because I retained some element of dignity in the time I spent in her company. I did not, it has to be said, retain any semblance of anything even remotely like dignity in the time I spent in his. I didn't mean to be a plonker, but the only memory I can fathom from meeting Sandy (as, apparently, his friends call him) is shaking his very large hand, and then bursting shamelessly into sobbing tears leaving my brother to mutter something about the lovely cucumber sandwiches at the afternoon tea we'd just indulged in as he slyly captured the moment on film. I'd been doing so well, too, having refrained from pinching the extra cakes left on the table after his reading. I'd thought about it- I always carry a big handbag with me. I could have had a bonafide feast on the way home. W...