Sleep tight in car heaven my orange amigo!

Good Evening, 

Today is a sad day. Today I have lost a good friend of mine and one that I think I will never forget. My first. My one and only. My beautiful Vivienne. 

Back in the throes of my youth in the warm weather of 2016's October, I met my Vivienne at a local reputable dealership. Taking public transport to a dealership I had my heart set on the 2011-plate little orange Ford Fiesta. A five-door hatchback with a 1.4L engine was everything I had ever hoped and dreamt for in my first car and with its high specification including a multifunctional steering wheel, automatic headlights and rain sensors she was certainly a thing of beauty. Small enough for little old me and big enough for the Doggy and other half during road-trips I was certainly excited to test drive the autumnal-coloured runabout and even more anxious to hear about what packaged I could choose from. 

I was financing the car, and whilst I did consider a brand spanking new motor at the time, the fact that it would depreciate by over a third just by driving it off the forecourt was a huge factor in why I chose second-hand over new. With one previous owner, no noticeable damage or scratches to her paintwork and a clean interior she was perfect. And so my little tangerine-coloured car was named Vivienne, after the flame-haired fashionista that is Vivienne Westwood. I think it fits and I have since found out that the Ford Fiesta orange hue does not come as standard and the previous owner must have paid a good deal of money for a paint job as good as what my Viv has. A special one of a kind you might say. Unique - Just like her owner! I was certainly eager to collect her and after a few weeks, our Vivienne was settling into her new home just right. The following few months lots of changes in my life including a brand new job and a serious amount of Adulting! 

Over the coming months that turned into years and my beloved Vivienne took many road trips; York where we drove for nearly five and a half hours because I didn't quite realise that the speed limit was 70mph and I was pootling along at 60mph. Then there was The Peak District where we struggled up hills and a crossed snowy mountains. The multiple trips to the seaside with our puppy and even facilitating us to take our poor puppy to the vets on the odd occasion. Countless shopping trips and visiting new places or seeing friends and family. It was on one of these occasions a few weeks ago where I was visiting Mrs Tweedle-Dumb at her family pad in our hometown of Houghton Regis near Dunstable. After a good few weeks of catching-up, constant laughs and seeing each other pretty much every other day it was time for her to go back to America and her husband. With her departure also came her parents move too as they too were moving out of the family home and away to the beautiful island of Anglesey in North Wales. 

Parking as I usually had, I didn't think twice about parking my car outside the family home, and I didn't think anything strange when I returned to my car much later on that evening for the drive home. It was not until the following morning when I went out to the car during my day off in order to get something when I noticed a huge grey and white stripe down the front passenger's side of the vehicle. The paint job itself was extremely noticeable, however, it was the huge dent to the door itself and the caved-in handle that gave me a shock. I was fuming. Not knowing what to do I called Mr Warehouse and hoped that he would have some advice for me that would be worthwhile. 

That evening after he arrived home from work we cleaned the car and inspected the overall damage. It was certainly not going to be a cheap job by any means as there were multiple scratches, scuffs and paintwork damage to the car and its bodywork, not to mention the fact that the window made a horrid scraping and scratching noise as it was wound down. Mr Warehouse could even that squeeze his fat sausage digits in between the window and the car door meaning that it was a security risk leaving it. As soon as I could I took her to a bodywork specialist in Bedford who explained that the work was very expensive and would far outweigh my £200 excess. Opting for going through the insurance I followed procedure and took Vivienne to another dealership which was approved. 

Checking her over, the Mechanic told of a very bleak and dark future for my little pumpkin. Explaining that the total damage to the car door and paintwork as well as some extras that needed to be done on the bumper, lights and bonnet to restore the condition of the car would reach well in excess of £3,000. I suppose unfortunately this means that poor Vivienne was on the cusp of being written off as a total loss which would mean my car would be scrapped or stripped down entirely, naked to her shell, her parts sold on. The kind car doctor informed me that the diagnosis would be more likely than not a write-off and that I should hurry home to check that I have purchased the all-important gap insurance. Gap insurance means that whatever the insurance company pays out for my poor old Vivienne, my gap insurance will cover the rest to what I have left to pay on my finance deal. This means that inadvertently I would walk away without a car and with the debt cleared meaning I can go out to find a new car or alternatively get a loan to cover the balance on a new car. 

This evening after finishing work, I noticed I had a text from the car mechanic who diagnosed Vivienne explaining that my vehicle was now a total loss and that my insurance company will be in contact with me soon. With this, I thought that it would be better if I called the insurance company this evening so I could get the ball rolling,  although after a lengthy conversation and many, many questions later the call handler finally revealed to me that my car was no longer insured under my policy and that as of the moment I get home and park her on my drive she will be classed as a category-N write-off meaning I would not be able to drive her ever again. 

Rolling her gently onto my driveway, solely dedicated to her and only her, I bid my 2011-plate little orange Ford Fiesta goodbye as I emptied her insides. Vivienne will be collected in the next few days and after that I should expect to hear what she is worth. To me, however, my first ever car is and always will be priceless. We have cried together, sang together, stressed together and even screamed and shouted together at times. All the selfies. All the memories. I literally thought I would bring my future babies home from the hospital in my Vivienne, car seats and all. Alas, you were beaten up by an unscrupulous driver and thus our adventures will continue no more! You have served me well dear Viv. Miss you already ... 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx 

Beware - The Stagsden Hag!

Evening All, 

Standing in the freezing cold and blustery wind that I thought was going to take me off like Mary Poppins, my frustration and anger was growing minute by minute that we sat in the car park of our future wedding venue, Stagsden Village Hall. For weeks I had been trying to arrange an appointment whereby I could view the building again with a fresh pair of eyes and alongside my fiance Mr Warehouse after we had booked it for our special day. Finally, after some communication issues, I was told that the original lady though we had met on site the first time that we viewed The Village Hall that she has now moved on and how work commitments meant she could not dedicate enough time to the running and upkeep of the village hall and its users. 

With this in mind, I had been put in touch with another lady who assured me that she would be here. The difference was that we were not alone and accompanied also by a potential caterer who had met us on site in order to see the facilities that he would be working with in order to give us some scope for a menu. 
"This was getting ridiculous" I raged to Mr. Warehouse and the caterer as the wind howled and I stormed around the property. It was now nearly half an hour later than planned and after getting up at the crack of dawn in order to make it for my 9:30am appointment, I was seriously vexed at being seemingly stood up. All things considered, the delay would not have been a huge problem had I been alone and had not consumed 4 bottles of wine the previous evening along with Miss Hackney who had come round for gossip and to offload on the week she had. 

Fragile to say the least I had been up until about midnight drinking only to then get up early the next morning in order to drive Mr Warehouse to work at approximately 5:30am. So yes, I am sure that my patience was quite thin anyway and my temper was wearing by each minute that slipped by. 
"I could have been in bed asleep, or binge-watching craft and life hacks on YouTube, or maybe even hitting the road for a morning run?!" I fumed to my entourage. So many more things that I could be doing better than standing around waiting for someone to turn up if at all. I was constantly calling the numbers that I had for the village hall which were only one or two. When no one answered I decided to email an urgent request to the contacts I had, and again to no avail. 

Just as we had discussed with the caterer that there was to become a time where none of us could wait around all day, a large red people carrier came bungling into the gravel car park and out stepped a woman in her mid-thirties and a gentleman about ten-years-older. She asked for my name and said that she was here to set up for a party the following day. I jokingly said with a little bit of annoyance in my voice that I hoped she had a number and had prearranged an appointment since no one had actually turned up for ours. The lady and gentleman explained that they had booked the whole the following day for a party and that they were there today to set up in preparation and to collect the keys. 

It was at this point that I started to get angrier and started to wonder if something sinister had happened. Just as the caterer had come to say he was unable to stay any longer a silver sports car come whizzing into the gravel car park, nearly missing some of us standing around and pulled up to a halt outside the front door. Out popped a chirpy retiree who had mentioned "good morning". Barely being able to hold back after waiting around for nearly an hour I marched over and asked what had happened which made her late for our appointment. She scowled back at me the caterer and Mr Warehouse and proceeded to explain that our meeting was at 10:30am and she was not late. 

Taking a deep breath and mustering all I could by not wanting to smack a bitch in the face, I allowed her to open up the village hall as I explained that I was not the 10:30am appointment and that this was the poor woman and her gentleman friend behind me that had arrived on time to set up the venue. 
"Oh yes well there must have been a mistake and I do apologise but it is of course run by volunteers don't you know" was her response, to which I could handle no more. I made the gestures that we should probably rearrange a better and more suitable time that would be convenient for both of us since there was already someone setting up the hall to which the retired old hag just ushered us in and said to look around. I didn't feel comfortable and explained that the lady and gentleman in the car park had hired the hall and were clearly setting up for an event that they did not need anyone wondering around taking photos or getting in the way when they have hired and paid good money. On hearing this, however, the lady who was setting up the hall with her friend was quite sweet and had said they did not mind us walking around and taking photos if necessary as it was clear there had been a major misunderstanding. So nice! 

Accepting I walked off with my caterer in toe, dashing for the kitchen, Mr Warehouse following and maybe throwing a tut or sigh about the place as he went. However last Stagsden Village Hall is large in comparison to its other contenders we had on the list, it was no stately home and on many occasion, I kept bumping into either the lady and her gentleman friend setting up or the old bag herself. At some point, a group of two or three workmen came in to assess the state of the foyer to lay down some new flooring and then a few moments later another elderly gentleman joined the "Stagsden Hag", tinkering about with the Gas and Electric metres in the middle of the corridor. 

Frustrated beyond belief I think the woman figured that I wasn't best pleased that her and tried to stay out of my way. When it came time to leave I asked her for her mobile number so that this incident would not happen again. Yet again she ran off the bullshit spiel that this is "run by volunteers and there must have been a mistake", that was until I pulled up the email which clearly stated the date and time of which our appointment was. Now I acknowledge that as a side note I was probably a little ratty that day. A combination of very little sleep, lack of food and my bloodstream being made up of at least 30% Rose I was in a foul mood. Add in the fact that it was incredibly windy and very cold as well, all whilst I was on time (which anyone who knows me knows this is a rarity in itself) and someone else was late. I suppose in a way that I have blown this a little out of proportion but the way I see it is that I am sure I will laugh about this in years to come however at the moment I am still narked. Mr Warehouse and I left there Saturday morning, hoping against all hopes, that the "Stagsden Hag" would not be the one handing over our keys the day before our wedding next year. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx 

Drain-Pipe Dreams

Hiya, 

I suppose, as it is for most engaged couples another weekend in paradise and another wedding fayre Mr Warehouse and I are off to! What with having to call out breakdown yet again for no less than a third time in less than six weeks for my little Vivienne who was unable to start because of battery troubles and Mr warehouse encountering at very much a similar scenario with his motorbike stuck on a building site, outside our new home in the middle of the Bedfordshire countryside for nearly five hours as he awaited to be recovered back home we were certainly ready to have a relaxing couple of days off. After the week me and my Fiance (still love saying that) have endured we were more than excited to wander round wedding fayres at overly priced venues, sipping champagne to pass our time despite the miserable weather outside. 

Although I came crashing down to reality this morning when I received a phone call from the housing association. Answering I heard a familiar although melancholy voice on the other end of the line. Over the last few months the house had slowly ground to a halt in terms of any updates. After jumping through several hoops and bending over backwards in order to get our Mortgage Offer back in July of this year, Mr Warehouse and I was told that our initial handover date when the builders would have fully completed the property, inside and out, ready to hand over to the housing association that we were purchasing half of the property with would be mid-August. With this in mind we hoped that we would have a completion date and moving in prior to Mr Warehouse's birthday, plenty of time to move our stuff in and get settled with even a few moments to steal in our new garden before the sun eventually made its departure for the winter. Handover Date Move Number One! I was told that it would be another couple of weeks or so and with that Mr Warehouse and I prepared for a move around or even on the Bank Holiday Weekend in August!

However after hearing nothing and following the long weekend off, I spoke to the gentleman who had initially sold us our new home but sadly he did not have the news that we were hoping for and that the properties had not been handed over. Handover Date Move Number Two! In fact, what had happened that morning was a rather important and integral meeting between the builders and developers of the plots and the housing association. The local housing association had basically said that they were not happy with the standard of homes they were being given and that given the amount of snagging that needed to be done it may be some time before they would accept any sort of property from the builders and developers. Unfortunately the estate agents were not privy as to what the snagging was or how long it could potentially be. The reality was that it was all internal and nothing structurally was wrong with the build, theoretically meaning that the snagging could simply be down to the fact that the paint job isn't done to a high enough standard or that a screw isn't screwed in properly to a door handle. 

I asked for a new handover date so our little family could try and calculate a rough idea of a completion / exchange date and therefore a move date so we could organise things like TV, broadband and get some quotes or book a removal company for the big day. Again, I was told that it would be about a week and with that crap news returned to my desk and emailed the Boyf the bad news and although Mr. Warehouse and I had a few things planned on the run up to my birthday weekend we were still looking forward to moving into our new home shortly. 

However as we neared our third provisional handover date from the builders and developers to the housing association I had another phone call. Handover Date Move Number Three! It was at this point I nearly dropped the milk as the new handover date was being pushed until the end of December 2018. Frustrated and angry I had to keep calm and remember that I was in a lucky position that I would be one day able to afford my own place of safety, tranquillity and warmth; something that many people across the globe even tonight will not have. 

The following morning I checked my emails only to see a reply from the housing association, apologising profusely for the fact that they would have to postpone the handover date although with this came a small silver lining. Handover Date Move Number Four! The email did go on to say the new handover date was to be expected on the 28th of September 2018, three-months earlier than anticipated the day before. Mr Warehouse and I were assured that this would be the final change and hopefully everything would be handed over and we would be in our home just in time for Halloween! 

But sure as sure can be, as the date grew closer I had another dreaded phone call. Handover Date Move Number Five! As before I was told our new handover date would be would be postponed another week due to snagging and lack in quality that the Housing Association were expecting. Trying to hammer down an exact reason as to why the snagging was still continuing to be an issue and so I tried a softer approach in order to try and get a definitive handover date that would not move - Friday 5th of October 2018. 

As the next few days passed in a blur of meetings, I had a frantic phone call from Mr Warehouse asking if I had seen the most recent email from the housing association. I had not. On opening up my emails I could see what he was so upset and angry about. Handover Date Move Number Six! With less than 48 hours to go until we were expecting handover to take place, I was now reading an email that stated this would not be the case. Our new handover date? Over a fortnight away on Friday 19th of October 2018. Fuming and almost on the brink of losing my rag with everyone involved in our house buying process I called my contact at the housing association and asked her what gives. She basically told me in not so many words what I was reading between the lines of her email to me and the other future-neighbours on the street in that the list of snagging issues that had been brought to the attention of the builders had not actioned appropriately. Nothing more to say or do I ended the phone call and informed Mr Warehouse to keep him in the loop.

With the whirlwind of family dramas, wedding planning and my mounting workload I was looking forward to potentially having a week off to move into our new home, although cutting it fine for the spooky season of Halloween and "Trick-Or-Treat-ers". Only this morning I answered a phone call I had been hoping wouldn't come. Handover Date Move Number Seven! As with the last times the postponing was as a result of poor quality of work, although this time my Housing Association contact was not so coy with her responses. She blatantly admitted that the list of snagging given to the builder the last time over two-weeks ago had not been done at all and now we were to be expecting a provisional new Handover of 31st October 2018. But wait - There was more ... 

Continuing our conversation I could sense that the person on the other end of the phone line was nervous and anxious about something. It was then that she dropped the bombshell! Turns out that the floor plans that we were initially shown at the point of sale with the building specifications and dimensions were wrong. And not by a little either. The plan that my Fiance and I were sold was that upstairs on the first floor following on from the stairs positioned on the right-hand side of the property, we were expecting to have the main bathroom right in front of us with a large privacy window so as to allow for natural light, followed by the two double bedrooms to the front and the back of the property. Although this had changed from our initial plans and now will be the main bathroom sandwiched between the two double bedrooms and will not include a privacy window potentially making it dark and unnaturally lit.

On the ground floor as you come in the front door you would be greeted by the staircase on your right hand side as before. To your left would be the kitchen in a horse shoe shape with the door facing the oven on the exact opposite wall. Next door on the left hand side would be the downstairs bathroom which would include a privacy window facing out to our driveway. Entering through the door at the other end of the hallway to the front door would be rectangular Lounge/Diner, stretching the length of the property and leading out into our large garden through a patio door which would also have an adjacent window. Whilst the layout of the ground floor still contains the staircase on your right hand side and the same horse shoe shaped kitchen with the door facing the oven on the exact opposite wall, the downstairs bathroom was now to be positioned under the stairs on the right rather than the left meaning that a privacy window would not exist. Continuing through the door at the other end of the hallway to the front door would be a now "L-shaped" Lounge/Diner, stretching the length of the property and eating into the area where the downstairs bathroom was supposed to be. 

Shocked and Gobsmacked I asked about the reasons why this had happened and how out had only been now, several months down the line into buying our first time that we were finding these details out. Furious I was ready to call the builders and rip them a new arsehole. That was until my Housing Association contact explained that in actual fact the floor plans, initial dimensions and specifications for the house had changed in the very early days of the build process. The house builders and developers themselves had actually been very upfront with their decisions and had explained fully to the housing association the builders change in plans and layout. Unfortunately it would have appeared that this information was not passed through to the sales people within the housing association itself and that our property and our Semi'd neighbour were sold the properties on the basis of the homes being a completely different layout to what they were being built as. 

Taking it all in I ended the phone call and called Mr Warehouse immediately to try and discuss our options. The contact at the housing association of was sincerely apologetic for the fact that there had been a huge fuck up and had explained that because of all of this that we would be well within our right to withdraw from our contract to buy going on to state that the responsibility would also live with the housing association in order to make payments to our solicitors, mortgage lender and mortgage broker, reimbursing us totally for our cost and making us at ground zero again. 

The other option we have is to suck it up and live with it, literally. The fact of the matter was that Mr Warehouse and I were already highly committed to this purchase and with such a huge investment of most if not every penny of our savings we will have not much choice. Obviously in a way it is nice to see a housing association company as large as this one looking out its future customers, making sure that the homes are up to scratch and safe (even if it is on selfish terms as if anything was to go wrong we would be calling up the housing association to come and put it right rather than the builders or developers) but quite frankly selling us a house that was completely built not in the specified way we were told it would be is not on. 

And there I was saying that buying a house was not stressful at all. Where we go from here I don't know but one thing is for certain and that is that me and Mr Warehouse will need to view the property in person before we make any snap decisions. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx 

Queen Eliz-a-bus and other stories from the annoyance of Public Transport!

Evening Everyone, 

So day in and day out I make the journey to work, like most people. Some people cycle, and, on the odd occasion I join them. Some lucky people drive, and, I do not join them. And with that it leaves the rest of us all commuting via public transport. Now if it so happens that you live in Europe, where public transport is some of the best in the world in my view (despite hardly ever using it) or if you live in a big, well connected city like London or another capital town such as Manchester, Edinburgh or Dublin then public transport pretty much sucks ass. 

I am a well established 'Bus Wanker' - A term coined from hit UK Telly show 'The Inbetweeners' as a mean derogatory term used for those whom have not yet purchased their own piece of metal on wheels. Now please don't get me wrong I would love to learn to drive and afford my own car but with salaries are being kept at minimum inflation rates both here in Britain but also probably across the world which means any hope of me learning, passing, buying and finally getting on the road are nigh on impossible on my annual income, especially since I have over £700.00 worth of rent, gas, water, electricity and food bills coming out not to mention council tax and the likes coming out of my bank every month it is expensive enough to live alone without throwing a car into the mix as well.

A while ago now, there I was being contacted by an Agency as I was out of work at the time and they have a job that is perfect, the boss thinks I'm fit for the job in hand and all is set up ready for me to start as soon as possible. But wait. What is this? They refuse to give me employment simply because I don't drive and so using public transport would be an inconvenience for them as a company and apparently dangerous for me to travel down long country roads after and before work. This is ridiculous and I cant believe that employers are actually getting away with this. Why would you advertise a job with an immediate start date and urgently needing to be filled if your going to refuse people that are willing to commute and are willing to work. It makes no sense. I wouldn't have minded if it had said "Driving license required" or "Needs to drive due to rural location" but no, nothing. I cant see how this would be missed off a job advertisement if it was essential or at least a preference from an employer. Surely if someone is willing to commute nearly an hour and a half they are good enough for the job. I call this false advertising of the worst kind; getting someones hopes up in offering them a job and then turning them down, just because they don't drive.

I read on-line recently that a lady was offended by the endearing term 'Bus Wanker' and most upset she took to Twitter to voice her concerns: "Whats wrong with the bus, i like it, you get to meet random people of all types, you get a free Metro to read, you can listen to your ipod, you can chat to interesting people, or drink a coffee or can of lemonade etc, have lunch on the run etc. why?" Well dearest questioner, let me enlighten you as to why *Cue twinkly fairytale music*

I think some of the worst things about having to use public transport is the fact that it is always late. Most people who know me are well aware of my inability to be on time for anything (despite my New Years Resolution of 2015) but buses, in all and every capacity I think, are just beyond silly sometimes. You could meet a man, get married, have 3.4 children with him, divorce and then have a heart attack all in the time it takes for the sodding bus to arrive. It always seems as well that buses and trains are never punctual when you need them to be. Job interviews, meetings and appointments, all of them cancelled, post-poned or delayed because of some technical error or human cock-up!

Something that has really annoyed me recently and for the last like forever is this. When your terribly late for something, job interview, work or meeting friends then it is the ultimate frustration when you get onto a bus or a train in that matter of fact and it ends up not going anywhere. Now obviously the reason for this is that it is not scheduled to leave once I am on board, but its annoying when your in a hurry and you need to get somewhere fast. Then, when it is time to go it just poodles on down the road, or tracks without a care in the world. No urgency. Just bumbling along like its on a jolly kids cartoon. Really gets on my nerves!

Another thing that really gets on my wick is this. I'm on a bus on the way to somewhere of importance. Nothing is awry, Bus is on time and I'm happily hungry so I crack out my nachos that I have just bought from a bangin' High Street food chain we all know and love (especially after a night out) - Subway. There I am tucking into a quick snack when a little old lady, sweet as you like pokes her nose in and points at the sign on the bus door. 'No food or drink allowed to be consumed on this bus' it reads. Courteously yet peeved and wishing the Grim Reaper was lurking about, I stop and put my nachos away. "Moany old bag, just on you way for a coffin fitting are we dear?" I thought, angrily. I think someone must have been jealous, I mean who does she think she is - The bus queen. Her Majesty Stagecoach. Queen Eliz-a-bus. I don't think so!

So as the bus pulls out of the station I am starting to get more and more agitated at the fact she has halted my munch time! About ten minutes into the journey I notice an Asian mother and her children on the bus when the mother gives her child a pear. I think nothing of it until it dawns on me that the Bus Queen is not interrupting their snacking. Why I think? Maybe it is because if a little old white lady in her seventy's asked an Asian women to stop her little Asian boy from eating a pear on board a bus then she would probably be shown the racist card and maybe even the finger coupled with a few choice words. So I keep quiet but secretly think to myself about how an adorable Asian boy with curly locks and big brown cow-eyes can eat a pear with his Mummy but me, a single twenty-something young (beautiful, intelligent, witty) women isn't allowed to eat her nachos in peace. I mean it's not like there is a law stating that you cannot eat on the bus. Smoking is illegal (In the UK anyway) but consumption food or beverage is not 'Queen Eliz-a-bus' so next time butt out, or my nachos will be going splat-chos all over your face. 

And with that I now come to the end of a long rant about public transport and retire to my bed, where I will rise in the morning and take the bus to work. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Holding On ...

Bloggers Note: I have recently decided to start a thing going whereby if you yourself have a 'Trial or Tribulation' that I can help with then feel free to drop me a free and fully confidential message by popping it on a mini form in the right-hand sidebar or email me at: Abbbey4@gmail.com. Also If you have any ideas on how to make me sound or look more interesting then just do the same! :) xx

Evening One and All, 

Sat on the hard wooden chair it was crunch time. Purple walls reflected my inner emotions; a mixture of what used to be clear, colourful feelings. Now they were muddled and confused. On the one hand I could sympathise and understand fully what my best friends were doing and why they were doing it. On the other I knew better than anyone how my relationship was, how Mr. Cheese made me feel and ultimately what made it tick. The question was though - Is it still ticking?

So pending the somewhat flop of last weekend away with Mr. Cheese I have been struggling yet again with my emotions surrounding the situation I have now found myself. Sat in Miss Tweedle-Dee's lilac dining room I felt as if I was at an intervention. No, I was addicted to drugs. Neither was I addicted to alcohol. No. It was because of my poor relationship that I was here and that the only thing I was addicted to was love; Or at least the idea of it anyway. With my good-cop/bad-cop roles forming in my head I desperately tried in vain to avoid answering questions from Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb. With no success I said I needed time to think about what needed to happen following the weekend that I had with Mr. Cheese and as to how I (or maybe we) were going to make things better and get them back on track. I have indeed tried not to dwell too much on the mini-break away to Bristol with my boyfriend however it is hard to see what good moments we shared when one night had ended in tears for at least one of us. I wont wholly bash the holiday entirely as that obviously wouldn't be fair, but I think what is correct to say is that for one reason or another, things are no where near as rosey as they once were only a fortnight ago. And as a result of last weeks post and a few brief chat's with both of my Tweedles I have come to the conclusion that maybe this is the 'compter de la fin'. 

The thing is that even from the very beginning I knew this was going to be hard work. The fact that Mr. Cheese and I are both damaged good from previous relationships-gone-wrong, coupled with the normal everyday strains of a long distance relationship doesn't help. It is a tough one as there is so much that is good and righteous with our relationship. For starters his family are just blindingly brilliant in every way. Momma Cheese is what I one day hope to aspire too. She is kind and caring, completely ditzy and reminds me totally of myself at times. Pappa Cheese is much the same, the head of the family and always one to compliment me on how funny I always find him, despite the rest of the clan wanting to die with embarrassment. The two younger brothers are hilarious and are always on hand with some lively banter and a good story or two. The oldest brother I have not yet spent enough time with him to comment entirely on although I hoped that it would have been more. Mr. Cheese's grandparents are again funny in their own little ways and are just wonderful old people through and through. I wouldn't have a bad word to say about any of them at all, even if I tried. It is just utterly heartbreaking to know that they might not be playing centre stage in my life for much longer. 

My heart is pounding as I write just thinking about the demise of The Cheese. A saga lost to what? Not enough affection? Lack of attention? Loss of passion? A deficiency in lustful convictions? But even as I sit here as I have done for the past week and wonder how or when I shall end it I know I don't want it too. I care for my boyfriend very much. I even have gone as far as to say that I love him which is a monumental thing to say to someone when you have loved and lost to the highest degree before. We have a laugh, albeit a grown-up one the majority of the time. We bounce off each other and enjoy the companionship and friendship more than anything. However, maybe that is the issue. Maybe I am only but a friend to my dear Mr. Cheese. I hope I'm not but I am clinging onto straws in order to differentiate between me and some of his other female friends. The majority of people would say sex, and yes, in all essence of the phrasing it is but love-making is never as high on Mr. Cheese's agenda as it is on mine, that is clear from the weekend recently experienced. After such a long time of wondering if it is me or not I am starting to think that it is far from my fault things are failing in the bedroom department. I have tried everything from suspenders to football shirts, corsets to flavoured condoms and even switching up the moves and gears but nothing seems to make the difference. Now I know I'm not a Victoria Secrets model but I used to feel confident within myself and my body. Somewhere along this journey I have lost that. 

I love Mr. Cheese to pieces but I know that from a relationship I need it to forthcoming and fun and energetic and lively and exciting. Right now I feel unattractive, under-valued, unloved and unwanted. As soon as my boyfriend of nearly a year are alone together, he fails to respond to my gestures of love-making. He doesn't want to rip off my clothes or touch me up in all the wrong places. As a girlfriend it is my duty equal to that of my partner to initiate sex, but I constantly find myself on top and asking the question ''Do you want to have sex with me?''. Sometimes I just want to scream with frustration at the lack of sex drive he has. I don't want to ask the question but I am increasingly fighting the urge to get him to see someone specialist to see if there is anything wrong biologically that makes his sex drive so low or as a reverse why mine is so high? It is not that when Mr. Cheese and I have sex that it is bad sex. Far from it. When we do finally get to that moment in time where my boyfriend (in my head at least) finds me even mildly attractive that he wants to engage in the ultimate submission of love, it is fantastic. Fireworks, breathy sweet nothings and squeals of pleasure are all exerted with passion and heat and intimacy. Its just that for me it is not enough and when you only see each other on the weekends in between juggling friends, family, career and home-life it's hard but I still can't fathom why, even after ten-months, we are still not at it like rabbits on heat. 

Maybe it's the distance? I have always said to myself I would never purposefully engage in a relationship that took me further than the neighbouring counties boarders, but falling for Mr. Cheese was not something I planned and nor did I initially want. I don't want to break it off with Mr. Cheese. I feel like we have both made such an effort to try and make it work, myself mainly. I just don't know how much longer I can keep my head above water. It's almost as if I have developed a catch-phrase for every time something goes wrong simply concluding every issue with 'it'll get better'. I'm just not sure that better is coming. Maybe I am right. Maybe when football season is over things will improve? Maybe when Mr. Cheese moves back to the 'Shire in a few weeks time it will improve? Maybe when Mr. Cheese returned from Ghana in the winter things will improve? Question is will we even last as a two-some until Mr. Cheese's African adventure in September and if we do will I exists after? 

Meeting outside Farringdon Station in London on Saturday night I was dressed to the nines and ready to cheer on the England boys playing against Italy in Brazil for the World Cup 2014. Freezing I waited for Mr. Cheese to arrive so we could meet some of his friends in a local bar. Arriving I saw that look again where he almost looked proud to have me on his arm. With my legs and breast meat on show that night I thought I would pull out all the stops in the attempt of fixing the problems of the Saturday beforehand. Trying to talk to him honestly about my feelings whilst pacing round the cobbles of The Big Smoke nearly getting lost and running out of time before kick-off was not how I pictured this to be. It seemed though that Mr. Cheese is reluctant to discuss any of this with me at all. Finally we arrived outside the pub. Stopping in the street I asked him simply not to make me cry again and to only love me and keep me happy. A simple request that by the end of the weekend would yet again be left in tatters. After having his best friend stay at the flat after the game had ended we didn't have any time alone to talk in depth about the problems that were constantly present. The following morning en route to breakfast with the Cheese Family just off of London's Oxford Street I attempted again to bring it up. Failing to see the importance of such a discussion and the perils that lye with not attending to such issues I was shrugged off and only to be told that "this was not the weekend to discuss it". Feeling hurt, deflated and utterly devastated I did what I always do best and put on a brave face and smiled for the camera's as we entered the restaurant for Eggs Royale and Americano's with the family. As I sat round the table it was as if I was hiding a hideously deplorable secret. I thought to myself sharing bread with one of his brothers and laughing with his Mom that this may well be the last time I see them again. I never thought it would but I felt a physical twist in my heart and I had to take another sip of my coffee to steady myself. It hurt. It really hurt. 

All these things I have to take into consideration. The family. The separation from one another. The distance. The hope that it may get better. Yet again everything is swirling round in my head like a heavy night out and trip to the local kebab shop. I hate feeling like this. I shouldn't feel like this. But I do. It seems that this has been said so many times that I'm not sure if it matters anymore? There just is no fight there from him - To fight for us, for our relationship. I hesitate to think about how any relationship involving two 22-year-old's should be like this, especially in the short time we have been dating. Its stale. Not out of date yet but definitely stale. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

A Mothers Love: Part II

Bloggers Note: I have recently decided to start a thing going whereby if you yourself have a 'Trial or Tribulation' that I can help with then feel free to drop me a free and fully confidential message by popping it on a mini form in the right-hand sidebar or email me at: Abbbey4@gmail.com :) xx

Evening All, 

Scrolling through my social media pages in the lazy haze of a Sunday afternoon I noted the popularity of giving love and appreciation to the single person who bore their very existence. Yes. Sunday was Mothers Day in the UK and amongst endless streams of comments, mother-and-child selfies and lovingly prepared roast dinners I couldn't help but yet again feel that very slight loss of something that had never really existed in the first place ... 

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   Continued ...

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7:56pm and  I was still waiting. I should have been there by half past. And now I'm late. I wouldn't mind but the reasons for my tardiness was not self-inflicted. Yet again my parents were arguing. The divorce had only been announced lass than a fortnight ago and it was several days since we learnt as to the apparent catalyst being my fathers adultery. You see tonight was an important one for me. I was meeting my first proper boyfriend's parents for the first time and I was already nearly thirty-minutes late meeting Mr. Ginge. Finally I could take no more and storming past my pre-teen brother covering his ears so as not to hear I raged up stairs to tell them to stop. After several weeks of fighting and relentless spats my father left. As children, my brother and I were told that he was a useless father and to 'look what he had done to us, just left us' were her words to us explaining his departure. Funny thing is out of the whole experience I can never remember the moment in which my father walked out of the front door. I recall my brother in hysterics, begging him not to go and wailing for his Daddy consoled only by an equally devastated big sister whom yet again was left to pick up the pieces. And like before things fell to me to take care of. The washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, packed lunches, school bags packed, homework, bills and everything else in between that in my eyes a parent should be doing. As the visits to a particular male friend increased the more and more lonely I became. My brother began to lash out at me not knowing how to deal with such a colossal life change and we clashed a lot. In the end Mother found it easier to simply take him with her on occasions and leave me waiting for their return, sometimes not until the very small hours of the following day. As a result and not unsurprisingly I began to slip deeper into an unknown depression. 

My resentment grew as the weeks passed us by. Weeks grew to months and as I continued to juggle home-life, sixth-form and work it left me little time to socialise with friends or even see my boyfriend. A part of me knew how much of a rock he was in my life but it is only now looking back on our relationship just how much stability he provided. On many occasions I was forced to cancel plans with friends or Mr. Ginge to go home and clean only to be greeted with a blank stare on my Mother's return from a night out with male company. I began to get paranoid. Constantly wondering where she was or who she was with, whether she had a car crash or was dead somewhere. I would never know. She seldom told me or my brother where she was going of an evening and told us that it was her business and not our concern. As a result of a constant not-knowing I would stay up late into the night and even on a few instances would wait until sunrise to make sure my mother came home. A few times she didn't and it was those times that concerned me the most. In my eyes she was still married and as a married women with two children still of educational age should be at home and not out chasing tail. 

I tried to be their for my brother as much as possible but it was hard when at sixth-form all day and then work in the evening. I worked alongside my mother in a school as one of my first jobs so would normally see her coming into work as she was going out. One evening in mid-November I didn't see her car in the car park and when I enquired as to her location the office staff simple shrugged their shoulders as if it was a regular thing. An hour or two later I get a phone call. Its my brother. He's in state crying and hyperventilating down the phone. After calming him down he was able to explain how he had been hungry after getting home from school and didn't know when dinner was so was trying to cook some food. In an accident the oven had caught fire and whilst no-one was hurt and their was no major damage my twelve-year-old brother was in total shock and needed someone with him. Where was my mother. No-one could get hold of her not even the emergency services. After this our neighbours kept a watchful eye on us and a few time had threatened to call social services as a result of the lack of parenting. Motherly intent came soon though as she tried to prop me and my brother in front of a therapist to try and help us come to terms with the divorce and as pointless as it was all I wanted to do inside was scream! 

After months of turmoil and as I sat in a empty house on the 31st of December 2008 I knew things had to change. Just how much they would alter in the next year would be something I could have never predicted. As the temperature cooled even more so than before, so did my Mom's attitude towards me. She started to invite her new beau round to what was once the family home and on occasions we would attempt replicating family time like sitting down to a nice dinner or watching a film. But something didn't feel right. I actively disagreed with her views and opinions voicing them to her and others. Outraged at her behaviour one evening she stormed off as I was left with the house-work. Then in comes this man who happens to be a 'good friend' of hers and tries to give me a pep talk on why I shouldn't answer back to the person who gave me life. Appalled, I told him where to get off and that telling me what to do was my fathers job not his. A spiteful comment followed and from that moment on we never saw eye to eye. As a result I was outcast and never invited to movie-nights or day trips out. 

In the months that followed January that year I was constantly unsure of life. Every weekend without fail as I called my Mom to let her know was staying at Mr. Ginge's for dinner she would create a scene ending either with me having to leave early with no sense of why or threatened with being chucked out. Nervousness and anxiousness took hold every single time I picked up the phone or dialled her number on an unbroken knife edge just waiting for the next fight to break out. On several dates I can recall being told as Mother left with my brother in one hand and car keys in the other that I should be gone by the time she is home. When asked where I should go she simply answered that she did not care. Many a time I found myself in a family members car or on their sofa just crying, begging and pleading them not to take me back. I hated it there. I hated her. I had enough. I wanted out. But no-one knew what to do with me and as the manipulating adult in the situation everyone around me was simply told that I was a troublemaker and that I kept running away. She even tried to get my Dad arrested for kidnap at one point as I sought refuge with my grandparents who happened to be offering him a room since moving out of the marital home. This went on for nearly eight-weeks, a constant cycle of promises and let downs. In between all my other exploits I was still trying to find time when I could steal some moments away with my father whom I missed like mad. Crying out for help as I begged him to help me I knew he was powerless in bringing me solace. That was until we planned a what should have been a wonderful weekend away. It was to turn out very very differently. 

Months of planning an preparation had gone into planning my bank holiday weekend with my father. My brother opted out of spending the weekend with us and so it was to be Dad-and-Daughter time with my grandparents camping somewhere in the countryside. I had planned to go to sixth-form in the morning and take that afternoon/evening off work but on hearing my plans Mother had forbidden it knowing full well that this would hinder my fathers plans of a settled weekend with his baby girl. I decided that for the sanity of all parties I would just tell my Mom that I was going to work when in actual fact I was not. This was a little white lie that was to back-fire in the most cataclysmic way. The evening before was like many prior and I had waited up until 4.30am to make sure Mother was home safe. Reluctantly retiring to bed I knew I would not sleep tonight. As the sun rose on that May morning I heard the familiar sound of a car reversing into the driveway at high speed. The well-known hum of the engine cut out and the car door clunk open. Thin stiletto heels clacked onto the concrete and echo up to the front door where I heard the key turn in the lock and hearing her walk into the lounge and shut the spring hinged door behind her I knew Mother was home. It was less than an hour to pack my bag, make sure everything was ready for my brothers morning ahead and make my way to the end of the road to meet my Dad at the bottom of the road to take me to sixth-form. Trunching down the stairs I knew full well that my mother would be in the front room awaiting my arrival however when crashing through the door I found her in a slumber on the sofa. Noticing she was not awake yet and completely KO I decided to make a run for it. Sprinting to the end of the road in the freezing cold was like a breath of fresh air in my lungs. I had never felt so happy or been so pleased so see the bright red Landrover parked up. I dumped my bag in the boot and hopped in the front, not turning back to look down that street for fear of what I might see chasing after me. 

After finishing double-English Language and Literature I again took pride of place in the front passenger seat alongside my old man. Clipping in my seat belt he turned to me and asked if I was still sure about doing this and what repercussions may happen as a result. I nodded, at that point never more sure of anything else in my life. Take me away Daddy. Save me. As we started our journey the phone calls from Mother began, firstly it was just a text message to see if I wanted to meet up with her for lunch, which I knew was a sign she was on to us as she had never taken an interest before. After that the phone calls became more frantic and constantly making my phone vibrate with aggression and fury at the betrayal. Eventually I answered. It was her. Like a maniac she flew off the handle shouting and screaming at me as my father watched my world fall apart once more in front of his very eyes. The entire three hour journey to the campsite was eaten up by the poison that had been building up for years, infecting me yet again and bringing me to a shaking, nervous wreck. The last thing she said to me was that waiting for me when I get home would be my belongings on the front lawn in black bin bags. A mere shell of my former self I hung up and was taken in by my grandparents on arrival and calmed down. 

The weekend passed in a blur and soon enough it was time to go back to the hellish normality I was bound to. As before I anticipated that the remarks of being thrown out were lies and words of hatred with no meaning just callous intent, although a little part of me did wonder whether this would be it. I didn't have long to wait and as my father and I pulled into my childhood street we both took a large breath and prayed it would be alright. Pulling up outside the suburban home we all once dwelled the engine had barely been turned off before the front door flew open in a fit of rage. Out swang big black bin-liners. My clothes, my shoes, my stuffed animals, my books, my ornaments, my belongings. Everything a seventeen -year-old-girl should have was bundled carelessly into thin bags and deposited as promised on the front yard for all to see. Under instruction from Father I remained in the car. This did not stop the tyrant though from approaching me. As the shouting match started and my case was brought to the table she burst open the passenger side door screeching in my face, bellowing about my wrong doings and how much of an awful person I was. Taking no more of it my father gathered the rest of my things as I bravely fought back tears and shielded myself from her reign of abuse. Getting into the car Daddy yelled at her to let go of the car. She did not. The car was started and the engine growled into action. Daddy said it again and again it was ignored. Taking no more Dad put his foot down and started to drive off. Mom ran after the car attempting to keep up but her less than agile size made it impossible for her to keep up. stumbling her grip on the car and me was loosened and I watched as she screamed at my departure in the wing mirror. 

And that was one of the last encounters I had with my mother. As the years have gone by I have grown up and learnt to stand tall and proud. There were times after that moment where I thought things could possibly be salvageable, but over time her reluctance to accept that whilst I told a little white lie she was mostly in the wrong for throwing her first born and her only baby girl out onto the streets with nothing more than her father's net to catch her as she falls. In the beginning I thought that maybe one-day things could be different and that we would share happy memories together despite our past but I now know that this is fantasy. On occasions we have been in the same room together but it has rarely ended well, either ending up in an argument or one of us leaving. Her manipulating ways have not changed in the past seven years. Nothing has. She still proclaims that I left of my own accord and has even fallen out with her own siblings about this and other things surrounding our non-existent relationship. I suppose in a way I have come to realise that I will never have a mother-of-the-bride. I will never see the tears at how beautiful I look after the labour of my first child. I will never know what it is like to be hugged and loved and told that I am special to her. That is something I know I will never have. But I'm OK with that all because I am in the knowledge that one day I shall share in that with my own children and vow never to make the same mistakes again. 

And so, Happy Mothers Day to one and all, may you cherish your Mom's. Appreciate their love and commitment and all that they bring you because anyone can bring a child into this world, but it takes a mother to raise it. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx