A Step Back In Time ...

Good Evening, 

Walking into the public house, I thought to myself about how you could have quite easily missed bit if you have not been looking. A cold November afternoon wintered on outside as I took off my coat and got settled. Looking around at the compact bar area where many of the local residents drank the afternoon away in merriment I noticed the bunting of red, white and blue, Union Jacks proudly hung from the walls and somewhere there was a picture of the queen hanging proudly for all to see. It certainly didn't take long to hear the beautiful voices of the 30's, 40's and 50's serenading us all into a singsong. 

On a quiet and rather unassuming street down by a local park frequented in this day and age by dog walkers and joggers alike, The Devonshire Arms in Bedford's Dudley Street is probably one of my favourite pubs I have been to in a long while. There is something about the place that speaks to an inner, deeper part of my soul that as a twenty-six year old I cannot explain as to why. There was something about this pub, something about this day, Remembrance Sunday, that seems ever so poignant for me. The icy cold air of a November morning awaiting my father and his men (and now some women). The feel of pride that swells within me from my military heritage and background. The absolute sorrow and sadness of those left behind by the brutal snatching's of war and conflict. All balanced out by the warmth I found myself in The Devonshire Arms on Sunday afternoon. 

Accompanying my father whilst he collected a generous gift donation from the local boozer, Mr. Warehouse and I, along with the dog as well trundled into the rather busy public house following the Remembrance parade along the river. I had visited the bar a couple of times before, both with Mr. Cheese as our first date and as also an "ultimatum date" in the following spring. It had seemed nice then, both in the height of summer. But walking in here today seemed all the more different. Maybe, as I said before it was the decor and bunting and singers, but a part of me feels the same way about the The Devonshire Arms as I do about the Hotel Victoria from a previous blog post from last year "Newquay - New Life?". You see I fall in love easily (most of the time anyway) more-so with things than people, and strangely buildings are one of them. I seem to resonate with older more Victorian buildings, maybe one of the reasons I am writing to you now from a early 19th Century converted townhouse. I am somewhat fascinated by there history and the moments that their walls saw. I feel there energy and I want to experience and feel the times in which it cried and laughed. And to think that this is all from building's I barely knew.  

Maybe more recent films like Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Allied and Dunkirk have awoken a part of me that lay rather dormant for a while and only now am I exploring its possibilities. Many people, including Miss Tweedle-Dee and I believe in the phenomena that is past life. I would love to go to someone genuine and have my future read, but even more-so my past. I have a deep rooted uneasy feeling about deep water and whilst I love travelling the idea of a cruise makes me more than anxious. Is this because of my fixation with the Titanic as I have done ever since I was small or is this because I maybe was a part of something bigger in my past life? I also have a obsession with murder and horrific crimes including the work (if you can call it that) of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Josef Fritzl. Does this mean in a past life I had something to fear from these people? Notice how they are all men - Does that mean something? I don't know. I am so intrigued by this that I have begun to look into the possibilities of time slips, past life regression and even Deja Vu focusing on the premise that Deja Vu, at least in one of my opinions, is where you link seemingly unrelated things in your current life with these that you previously did, talked about or that happened in a previous time. 

Whatever the reasoning I felt a connection to The Devonshire Arms. Perhaps the atmosphere took me away on the sweet notes of the post-war karaoke and cosy nature of the establishment, or maybe, just maybe. Had I been madly in love with my sweetheart when they were taken to war only to experience the heartbreak when the earth shattering news came back that they were never coming home, forever destined to spend my nights drowning my sorrows at the bar. Was I one of the lucky ones whose soldier came home albeit changed forever but so happy to see me we embraced for eternity. Had I been a mother who lost their son to the battlefield and sat in the corner awaiting the postman, pleadingly with a letter to let her know that her boy was OK, both feeling the screaming horror or tearful joy that may follow. Maybe I was another parent saying preparing my child for a swift goodbye at the station ready for their new life away from the bombings in cities and towns, knowing you may never kiss them goodnight again. Or could I have been the one with the box round my neck and a suitcase to match. Or maybe it is just my fantasy. My Imagination. My Creativity. Whatever it may be, Lest we Forget those fallen ... 

'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 ... 

* * *

   Continued ...

* * *

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

A Midsummer Night's Disaster!

Hi,
 
So after another week of relentless searching for that perfect abode it has beaten me yet again. I can understand why boffins say that moving into a new home is one of the most stressful things a human can do. On the up side, the weather has been great here in this part of the UK. After walking around Sunny Bedford most of Saturday Miss Tweedle-Dee, Miss Tweedle-Dumb and I decided it was just too sunny to stay indoors and procrastinate and so we decided to head to the pub. To celebrate the weather, the three of us decided on a road trip and all went to Cambridge for the day, meeting up with Miss Tweedle-Dumb's boyfriend. A wonderful day out in the sunshine if I do say so myself and defiantly to be repeated!
 
However it is nights like this one, hot, humid and sticky that remind me of all those many moons ago (Not that long ago actually) when I was living in Northamptonshire after my separation from Mr. Workaholic. You see when I split from my Ex, we went our separate ways. He went squealing back to Mummy and I continued, although shattered, to work in Northampton. It was during those months that I was on a regular night out with my work colleagues - A mismatch of people from all backgrounds and ages with varying degree's of humour, tolerance and intelligence. Getting dressed up I decided that for the first time ever I would go out with my legs on show and bare from tights. I wore a red dress as well which apparently shows men that the wearer is amorous, fiery and lustful. Don't know about that given how the night ended?!
 
Walking into the posh cocktail bar the group of us headed straight to the bar and got a round in and it wasn't before long I was dancing along with the rest of them, giggling at our bosses embarrassing dance-floor shapes. After coming back from outside to get some air I went back to our table, although I had noticed a new pair of eyes in the room. A tall, pale, handsome figure loomed over the other side of the bar. I smiled and thought nothing more of the innocent looking stranger. As the night continued though I couldn't help but think about him, until that is he was tapping me on the shoulder. As I turned the handsome stranger lent in and said he like my dress and thought I was very beautiful. I was flattered and completely taken aback by the fact that someone other than my pig of an Ex-boyfriend actually fancied me. I returned the complement. From there on in we spent the next few moment complementing each others persona. Mr. Sick, as he shall be referred to, was wearing a mauve, designer polo shirt and a pair of tight, black, skinny-jeans finished off by a pair of branded boots which were slightly out of place for a chic city club. From progressing conversation I gathered his name, that he still lived at home with his parents and that he was a car sales man. For some odd reason I thought Mr. Sick looked slightly Irish; What with the dark-blonde hair combed into a stylish quiff, baby face and blue eyes I fell a little. However our encounter was to only be brief as I was swept away by a fellow work buddy to dance.
 
As the night wore on and after another trip to the bar we met again. Mr. Sick said that he had to go as his friend was sick and he needed to get him home and would have to go with him. Tipsy, I had said that Mr. Sick could stay with our group of friends and pointed in the direction of my work friends at our V.I.P table we had blagged earlier in the evening. Obliging Mr. Sick left to see his friend off in a cab and then returned with two bottles of beer. "My mate has left this one untouched, you can have it if you like and I'll buy you a fresh one after." He said. Dubious I took the bottle of warm beer and thanked him. He only added to my suspicions though when he said "Don't worry, its not spiked with anything!" Instant flop. I smiled and grinned but at the next available opportunity I put the beer on a table hoping he wouldn't notice. He didn't and after buying me another rancid beer we decided to attempt that age old tradition of dancing. Lets just say that Mr. Sick's dance moves were across between Elvis and Michael Jackson being struck with a tazer gun. It was at this point I noticed he was drinking incredible fast, although I didn't think anything of it. After a while Mr. Sick and I decided to head to a new bar and after walking into the fresh summer air we started to converse again. I bragged about how I lived by myself and had and en-suite room as he stared at me in awe. I knew at that point what would come of the evening. Mr. Sick and I headed to another club and straight to the bar we went, although I was buying this time - I was sick and tired of lousy beer. Passing him his drink we danced some more.
 
Suddenly Mr. Sick grabbed my hand and dragged me outside! Teetering on heels in the chilly air I asked what the plan was. Mr. Sick shrugged his shoulders. There was no point in beating round the bush. Both of us knew where the night would end and after I had spouted off about living alone I thought it would only be rude if I didn't show him where I lived. So we hailed a cab to take us back to mine. After a few smug looks and smirks from the driver I started to talk as if we had been together for ages and that this wasn't just some randomer, this didn't quash the taxi drivers looks though and I felt as though he had seen this story a million times before. Pulling into my quiet cul-de-sac Mr. Sick graciously and generously paid for the twenty-quid taxi fare and we left the cabbie and his opinions behind. Opening the door to my room I let Mr. Sick take a seat on my bed as I showed him my bathroom and asked if he wanted a drink. I felt as though I was in some cheesy rom-com and Mr. Sick's next comments didn't help. He had noticed some erotic fiction on my bedside table and decided that the best thing to do would be to say "Lets reenact some scenes?" To think that if Mr. Sick had ever actually read the book in question, then he could have ended up in a compromising position with a gag ball and some handcuffs. Regardless of that the lights were dimmed and we started to kiss.
 
Not the best kisser of all time although not the worst, although he did have a thing about moving the hair out of my face whilst making-out and loved touching my facial features. Somewhat romantic, but after a while you feel like your a piece of Braille. Although when it come down to the heavy stuff, well, he really didn't like receiving oral. I mean most men go mad for that kind of stuff, and I have been told that I'm 'experianced' in that department. His loss though. When it was my turn to lay back and think of England, all I could think about was the systematic and robotic nature of his hand movements. It was like I was a stubborn stain that needed to be cleaned. When it then came down to the nitty gritty, Mr. Sick attempted, but it was very much a 'is it in yet?' affair. Not my kind of party. I decided to play the tired card and we both rolled over. Mr. Sick attempted the 'big spoon' position and I succumbed.
 
It was only when I opened my eyes again that I heard Mr. Sick retching. Bolting upright just in time to see him puke all over my bed, splashing both me, the duvet and the floor in vomit. Thankfully I didn't have to cart Mr. Sick to the bathroom as he made his own way there, finishing in the sink. Rubbing his back I thought about what I had let myself in for. After profusely apologising he tried to kiss me. Nope. Returning to bed and tucking Mr. Sick in like a child I somehow thought how I was doing the right thing. Most women and indeed some men in my position would have just thrown them out on their ear after what had already happened. But I couldn't. The thought that he could be roaming the local area like a lost animal, drunk and being sick was something I could not live with. So I kept awake and whilst the sun came up and the birds started to sing Mr. Sick lived up to his name a further three times, covering my bathroom in barf. There wasn't one thing that didn't suffer. Towels, toilet, shower door, bath mats, clothes basket, shelf and mirrors were all destroyed by the exorcist like puke-fest. Finally as morning broke and I looked at the clock, the screaming 10am told me that he had to go. And so I released him back into the wild, not even exchanging numbers. Only names.
 
And so that is the story of Mr. Sick. A genuine tale of drunken mess and a hero that was willing to let a mess like that back into her bed to sleep it off. The worst part about it was that he still wasn't Irish. If anything he told me he was originally from Manchester. Close enough I suppose. For some odd reason Mr. Workaholic was thrilled to hear of my bedroom misfortune and used it as an excuse to wheedle his way in again like the slimey toad he is. But still I keep on searching - Both for my new pad and for a new man ...

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

The Blind Date ...

Evening All,

So whats new this week, eh? Well alot in fact. As I am sure you know I have had a very busy weekend. On Saturday came the shopping which nearly gave me a heart attack having spent nearly £100.00 in my favourite high street store. Sitting in the car after some frantic and high energy retail therapy Miss Tweedle-Dumb, Miss Tweedle-Dee and I decided it would be best to head home and start preparing for my blind date! It took a total of nearly two and a half hours to primp and preen me to a knock-out level for my blind date. I had the works; eyebrows - which killed like a bitch, full face of make-up, hair and nails too as well as my outfit. By the end I was ready to present myself to my parents and the rest of the public. Mumma Bear was very happy, almost crying at one point stating how grown up I looked and what a transformation I had made. After being dropped at the station by Miss Tweedle-Dumb I nervously stepped out of the car and headed for the platform. Petrified I boarded the train to take me to central London. Still bricking it I made my way to the area surrounding St. Paul's Cathedral but somehow walking past the monumental structure of beauty its self, seemed to calm my nerves. Taking a few moments to collect myself together and secretly having a pep talk I continued to walk into the restaurant where my blind date was already waiting at the table.

As the matradee took my coat and showed me to my table I glanced at the person I would be spending the next few hours with over dinner. My date stood from his chair to greet me and we had an awkward European kiss before sitting down, whilst I had to do a more awkward movement of sitting down whilst the matradee pulled out the chair for me and sadly then attempted to push me in not realising I was indeed a heffa-lump in disguise as a beautiful women. Almost immediately after that we were asked what we would like to order which threw me off given the fact I had only just realised where the menu was. After asking for a few moments to decide I struck up conversation with my blind date. Shock coursed through my veins as my ears sharped to hear his voice. I had been set-up with someone who I had previously stated that if I was ever to encounter a date with such person 'I might just have to shoot myself in the face right there and then'. I was hoping for a date with a sexy Welsh or Irish accent, but instead I was sitting across from a handsome Liverpudlian lad. To be honest though, it wasn't as bad as anticipated as his accent wasn't as strong as I expected, I mean I had heard worse and at least he wasn't Scottish. Soon though the dislike of his accent faded and I started to see past it.

Astonished, my Liverpudlian date handed me the wine list which was encased in a posh looking leather bound book. I say shocked because I have never had wine with a man before. Mr. Workaholic rarely drank and when he did it was always a pussy drink like a brightly coloured alcho-pop. Still in awe of the gentleman across from me I flicked through the pages knowing that I was having an abnormally indecisive day and that making a decision was going to be tough. Closing the wine bible and handing it back to my date I asked him to choose as I was useless at making decisions on anything of late. And that was the first thing that we shared in common, indecisiveness. The first of many you could say as for the rest of the date we talked food and not much else. Giggling away,we were uncouthly interrupted by a waiter. Still reeling from the fact that Mr. Accent drank wine, we agreed on a sweet rose to settle our nervous stomach's. But then came the fumbling and odd procedure of the customers checking weather the wine is in actual fact out-of-date. I'm pretty sure that should be somebody's job out back - checking if the wine is off so that consumers don't have to. Nevertheless, Mr. Accent and I played along the game and became wine connoisseur, swirling it round and round in our glasses, sniffing and tasting. Was tempted to gargle but thought that might be too far.

As the date progressed, I found out that we had much more in common than originally thought. Mr. Accent and I had a passion for baking and loved to experiment with food which was another blow to the system as the most adventurous Mr. Workaholic got was chicken dinosaurs and potato waffles. Its funny how right now you think I am joking but oh no dear reader, this is true - Mr. Workaholic lived on chicken dinosaurs and potato waffles only to be alternated between chicken aeroplanes. Mr. Accent however was very keen on fish dishes and his favourite pudding was a speciality of mine - Sticky toffee, date and walnut muffins with gooey toffee sauce. Ironically as Mr. Accent and I were poured another glass of overly-priced wine we both selected a fish dish for our main meal, however, Mr. Accent's dish was missing the bacon. I didn't say anything but after the waiter had left I think Mr. Accent had sensed that I was wondering why he had refused the tastiness that is bacon. Another surprise. "I am a practising Muslim" Mr. Accent explained and whilst he has piercings and tattoo's he still believes in the core values of the religion, not that I had a problem or anything. The conversation soon left food and we went on to discuss family and life back home. As we continued our conversation the waiter arrived with our food presented beautifully and piled high on our shiny plates.

Chowing down on dinner in the most elegant way possible, I started to take in some of the features of Mr. Accent. Dressed in a rather provocative T-shirt showing an attractive young women biting at her own top in a sexual manner which was teamed with tight dark jeans and a black blazer Mr. Accent looked every bit the gentleman he was proclaiming to be. Mr. Accent was slightly bigger built to some of my previous Ex's and was quiet a bit older too - only twenty-three, but still older that prior love-interests. Mr. Accent, although a practising Muslim due to his father's heritage he was Caucasian and thanks to his mother's Norwegian background he had the most beautiful blue eyes. They sparkled like aquamarines in the light of the restaurant, large pupils indicating Mr. Accent was liking what he saw. With his facial hair and combed hair Mr. Accent resembled a face I knew of but still to this moment I cannot think as to where from.

Throughout pudding we discussed previous relationships and what exactly we were looking for. I explained in as little detail as possible about how Mr. Workaholic had just randomly one day came home to tell me he no longer wanted to be with me. This, although I thought was a horrendous way to break-up was topped by Mr. Accent. I was perplexed to learn throughout our conversation that Mr. Accent had been previously engaged to his last partner and was with her for a considerable amount of time before she cheated and ended the relationship. After discussing feelings and fears of a new relationship from both of our situations, I could see how hurt he still was by talking about his ex-fiance's infidelity and I tried to move the conversation onto better, more positive things. I think though that in hindsight he is still a little hung-up on his Ex and would like to rekindle things with her. It would seem a shame if Mr. Accent was to get back with his Ex as he is such a lovely guy and deserves much better than her cheating skanky ass.

The date ended well though and on a high. After nearly having a coronary after paying fifty-quid towards splitting the bill, Mr. Accent and I left the restaurant, but not before telling the matradee off for trying to dress me in my coat when that was clearly his job to do as a proper gentleman. Obviously this was never said out loud but I am sure that is how it would of happened if vocabulary was involved. Walking into the cool summer air surrounding St. Paul's Cathedral we exchanged numbers and went on our way into the night. Cleverly Mr. Accent had bagged a hotel room for the night and I couldn't help thinking that I should have too. By the time I got home it was gone three in the morning and I was shattered. Falling into bed I made a decision for the first time that day that although Mr. Accent was a charming, handsome, wonderful man it was sadly not meant to be. I am sure though that one day he will make a lady very, very happy.

And so the quest continues to find me a man. If you are over twenty-one and have matched most of my 'Hit List' (Sexy hair - Preferably dark, Gorgeous eyes - Again preferably dark but open to suggestions, Good teeth - Because nobody wants to make-out with a horse and Nice shoes - Just because) then please feel free to apply below. Besides, there is always next time isn't there. And it's not all a waste as I have a good friend in Mr. Accent. There is also a busy bank holiday weekend coming up. Miss Tweedle-Dumb's birthday, a night on the tiles with Miss Chocolate and a day trip to the seaside - Yes, alot to cram into one weekend. Somewhere in all of that fun I have to make time for drinks with Mr. Mot which I am sure will end with another story to tell.

'Til next time, Love A.Lou :) xx

Lights, Camera, Action!

Hello All,
 
Bloggers Note: This post has been changed as per Wednesday 15th May 2013 as a result of some advice given to me regarding
                           subject matter. Don't worry I am sure I will update your more at a later date :) - - - Love A.Lou xx

After an explosive edition last week with views of Trials and Tribulations (of a 20-Something) rocketing to over a thousand last week I would again like to say a big thank-you and that it is very uplifting to come home from a hard days work to see that people still care, so thanks guys!
 
Now, where do I begin on the week I have just had? It started normally, and included an evening sifting through my e-mails deciphering crap from keep. I came across an e-mail from a website looking for people to join in with a new show. After pondering on it for a few days and a deep conversation with Mom I decided to just apply. Attaching some photos and clicking send I never thought it would go very far. Thursday evening after going swimming with Miss Chocolate and as we were about to go into my local for something to eat, I get a call. I answer. Its the production company asking me some questions regarding my application. Sitting in the car while it poured with rain outside I answered honestly and truthfully to the questions asked of my life in general. Ten minutes later, the young female voice asked if I was free Saturday afternoon to come down to London for a casting. And so a plan was set in place that I would go to the city for a casting that following weekend. Munching down on dinner Miss Chocolate and I giggle and chatted about what it would be like and weather anything would every come of it at all.
 
Saturday rolled around as soon as anything and as I started to prepare for my journey I had a call from Miss Tweedle-Dee, stating that she was going with me and to meet her at the station. Once I was ready I blagged a lift with a concerned father to the train station and waiting in the car until the train came, explaining to my Dad that everything would be OK and I would keep safe and all the rest of reassuring you have to do when your off to the Capital. Stepping out into the cold and wet from the car was not pleasant and I soon realised that the hours I had spent on my hair, prettying it, was a waste of time. Meeting up with Miss Tweedle-Dee we headed to the big lights of London and headed straight to the infamous Oxford Street to purchase some bargain buys before hopping on the tube again. Coming out of London's St. Pancreas/Kings Cross Station Miss Tweedle-Dee and I headed for cover as we unsuccessfully dodged the wet weather. Wisely we agreed to split up and that I would go to the casting whilst Miss Tweedle-Dee waiting in a nearby coffee shop. As I started to walk down the long city street I began to realised that this might not be such a good idea. I was soaked right through, my wet, pink shirt clung to my body, my hair was a mess and my make-up made me look like a soggy panda. Was this really going to go anywhere? They would take one look at me and just say "Go away, you are ridiculous!" Although as I thought this I still continued walking and it wasn't before long that I could see the building in question I needed to be.
 
Walking into the building I was greeted by a young receptionist and after a brief conversion involving a short, blonde, middle-aged women we were directed to the bathrooms to freshen up. Upon arrival at said bathroom I noticed that the hair I had spent the previous evening and this morning trying to perfect my locks was all in vain - This mop was going up in a chic, messy bun. The make-up was also adjusted before tackling the sodden blouse. Seeing that the hand dryer was a modern, stick-your-hands-in-and-blow-off-your-skin kind of machine made me pause for a second. How would I dry my shirt? The only way I knew how to I thought. Sweeping my arms through, bingo-wings included I dried my sleeves well. Now it was for the rest. As I squatted in front of this contraption pulling my shirt inside and waving frantically to keep the blowers going I wondered how silly I looked to the middle-aged, blonde lady in the bathroom with me. Shyly she struck up conversation and I could tell instantly she was a nervous wreck. Try to put her at ease I calmed her thoughts that the room was going to be filled with skinny, blonde, busty women looking for love. On the contrary I was thinking that the room would be stuffed with older females, looking for someone they (and their ten cats) can spend the rest of their days with. Well we didn't have long to wait as we walked into an office where we were given some forms to fill out. Trying to make small talk we discussed our lives previous and I discovered that she too came from the Home Counties surrounding London, fancied members of a well-known boy band and was previously married but in her words 'divorced that good for nothing lay-about'.
 
As I was scribbling down my details and reading through the terms and conditions a tall, handsome man walked in with brown hair and deep chocolate eyes. Just my type of man. Only thing is he was wearing a blue and white checked shirt, the kind that Mr. Workaholic used to wear to work. Great I thought. I'm now about to be interviewed by my Ex's Doppelganger! Walking into the lift he asked if I had ever done anything like this before as I was very calm and relaxed compared to others he had seen throughout the day. I said how I was used to camera's and the 'acting/fliming' environment as I studied media production and theory at college. As the lift reached the its destination he explained the process of the next few moments. Sitting down I started to tell my story. All of the questions were similar to the application and the phone call I had on Thursday evening so nothing to nerve-shattering. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome asked about my parents and their relationship. Now this was a difficult one to try and skirt around. If you hadn't already known, my parents split when I was just seventeen and one day but the legal proceedings have only just been sorted out. When I say 'Parents' now (in my blog) I refer then to my Dad and his partner. My mother? Ahh, see that is another one. A whole different story in a whole different library! The long and the short of it was that I wanted to maintain a relationship with my father after he was asked to leave the family home and this was something that my mother detested; so much so after a couple of months she chucked me out on the streets and told me to go live with my Father which was impossible since he was living at my grandparents. Luckily my uncle took me in until I moved in by myself, but I haven't spoken to my mother properly since. I call Dad's partner Mom just to make things easier to understand, although I would say it to her face.

I explained my life as it is and described some of the things I enjoy doing and had been through in my 20-something years of being on this earth. I skimmed over the 'thing' I had with Mr. Coffee as in all honesty it wasn't much to brag about. But when it came to talking bout Mr.Workaholic, suddenly I became alone in the room. Just me. And as I opened up about the day Mr.Workaholic came home to tell me he no longer wanted to be with me. It was so raw and fresh at the same time that I felt naked and exposed for the first time in many months. Talking about it in such a bare way made it all seem so real and like it had only happened yesterday. I didn't cry, but it could have easily turned into that if I had carried on. The subject of children and the white picket fence came up and I admitted that I wanted it all, just not right now. I said how I wanted to have fun first and experience life before settling down. After calling it a wrap, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome and his female colleague remarked on how mature and wise I was for my age and how such a young, vibrant, bubbly person can have endured so much in such a short amount of time. I knew that they weren't just talking of relationships but also the fact that my own mother threw me out at just seventeen. I was used to it though, everyone seems to feel sorry for me, I don't know why?

Taking the trusty lift downstairs again and walking back to the office, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome said again how cool and collected I was and made clear the next steps in the process. Filling out yet more paperwork and reading a heavy contract I listened to the other women chattering on about lives outside of this building. Most of them I could tell were from London just by their accent and how they spoke. 'Ive been travelling for nine years around Romanian, Russia, France and the Middle East' and 'I went there on my gap year actually' were a few of the phrases throw around by the socialites whilst I tried to read through the extensive pages of boring contract. Finally signing and handing back my papers I waited in the room of city dwellers and there I listened more to a middle-aged women discussing how her boisterous and confident attitude didn't bode well with men and thus the lack of relationships. Once I was cleared to go I thought nothing more of heading straight out the door and back to the coffee shop where Miss Tweedle-Dee was waiting for me.

Skipping down the wet high street I savoured the sights of the city; the tall buildings, grey pavements and loud noises made me grateful of my quiet suburbia back home with Mom and Dad. Arriving at the coffee shop I found a rather tired Miss Tweedle-Dee watching TV on her smart-phone and texting friends. "Before you start, if you want a drink you should get one now" she said. After dithering for a few seconds I went to get something to drink. As I approached the back of the queue I saw a friendly face. Is that who I think it is? It was! It was two very famous members of a English boy-band whose name sounds like McSky. I was very happy and thought about asking for a photo but figured since one of them had their hood up indoors and they were dressed casually that they were attempting an incognito snack break. After rushing back to Miss Tweedle-Dee and announcing my findings of their order I raced back to gawp at them some more. Once they had left I placed my order and once seated safely at my table with Miss Tweedle-Dee beside me I told my tale.

After slurping down our beverages Miss Tweedle-Dee and I headed back to the tubes for some last minute shopping and sightseeing, winding up at Marble Arch next to Hyde Park for some dinner. I enjoyed our little trip and whilst nothing may never come of the casting specifically, it was a nice experience and one I can share with you all. Maybe this is a step in the right direction for me as far as dating goes? Mind you I better not be settling down too soon I have mine and Miss Chocolate's romantic weekend away coming up soon so hold on tight for some more prowling nights out.

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

The Grass Might Not Always Be Greener On The Other Side

Evening All,
 
I hope you have been keeping well. I have. So, after last weeks awkwardness with Miss Tweedle-Dumb's and Miss Tweedle-Dee's work colleague, Miss Lace, I am pleased to announce that everything is as normal and we are in mutual agreement that Miss Lace's feelings are not serious. At least that's what I am being told, I still feel that there might be more than meets the eye - Watch this space!
 
This week I finished my job with the local flooring company and once I had passed all my training with my new company I took my last journey to outer Bedfordshire to say my goodbye's and collect my things from my old office. Everyone was somewhat shocked to see me go which surprised me given the fact that nothing was rarely kept quiet, especially someone leaving. Regardless they were all lovely and courteous about my departure and wished me all the best as did I. To be honest I actually felt a little sad I was leaving despite only being there less than four months. I suppose I just felt as if this would be the final in a a long string of jobs I have previously had. A small part of me felt let down recalling what Mr. Workaholic had said last time I had to encounter his massive, fat head. (See Post 'A Shock, An Invitation And Compulsory Meeting') Mr. Workaholic's words still ring clear in my ears as I remember him attempting small talk in the seating area of my local bank.  Referring to the flooring company role I had recently landed at the time he scoffed 'So, are you actually planning on keeping this job then?' At the time I was so shocked and taken aback by what he had said that I simply brushed it off icily and said something like 'Of course' but secretly I was completely blown away by his arrogance and sheer uncompasionate nature, given the fact that we had sent nearly two years of highs and lows together, you would think he would be more thoughtful of what was coming out of the hole in his face. Maybe not though! However it is not this Ex that plays on my mind as much lately. Following a date night with Miss Chocolate and and old college friend, Miss Tatts,  of ours a few weeks ago my first serious boyfriend has been popping up more often than usual. As we all bumbled down the residential street towards Miss Tatts house we passed a familiar driveway. Upon closer inspection I noticed a copper haired gentleman in the driver's seat of a learner vehicle. Chills sparkled up my spine as I realised I had just seen my first love in nearly four years.
 
I suppose we all have a love boxed up inside us labelled 'The One That Got Away' and for me that was my first serious relationship with Mr. Ginge. Now, Mr. Ginge arrived on the scene shortly after I finished attending High School with Mr. Coffee and Mr. Woof; and long, long before Mr. Workaholic. We met rather conventionally though Sixth Form. Childhood sweethearts you could call it. On my first day I made friends with a young chap who introduced me to all of his peers. Amongst the misfits and outcasts was Mr. Ginge. Taller than the rest at about 6ft something and with fiery red hair he was hard to miss. At the time I was unusually shy and when it came to our first encounter Mr. Ginger made sure I wouldn't forget him. Thinking I was cool a few days into term, I handed round a note pad for everyone to sign their mobile numbers and e-mail addresses so as to contact them outside of the study hours. But when it came to Mr. Ginge's turn he disregarded my simple blue Biro he took out a massive black marker pen and began to write his details in the rest of the book, using up a page for a single, scrawled letter. Smiling and acting coy we flirted for a week or two both inside and outside of the school gates. Looking back I can see that he boyish pokes, jokes and hitting was just a bad attempt at flirting and an excuse to touch me. Men, eh?
 
On the eve of my 17th birthday we began chatting via E-mail. Mr. Ginge had just got in from doing Cadet's training to be in the Army and was tired but had something to tell me. As my eyes scanned the laptop screen that evening I read over and over how this handsome lad that I had only know for less than three weeks was telling me how beautiful I was and how he loved to hear me laugh. "I love your cuddles," he typed continuing with "your eyes are something magical too." Flattered and still in slight shock he asked me to be his girlfriend. Cockily I said that if he had the balls to do it in person I would oblige and so he vowed that tomorrow on my 17th birthday he would ask me out. Less than 12 hours later were standing on opposite ends of the court-yard at Sixth Form avoiding each other completely and discussing what to do with friends. Finally after a whilst our friends forced us into a quieter area together and then scurried round the corner to hear what was going on. With me hiding behind a fan of birthday cards and Mr. Ginge chewing on the end of a yogurt sachet, he made the proposal again. within moments of me saying 'yes' we had all our friends rallying around us congratulating and asking for kisses and weirdly pictures of the newly 'wed' couple. Following that happy moment came more than a years worth of terrible times in my life, all of which Mr. Ginge stuck by me. I think its safe to say that there were more low's than high's and he could have easily ran a mile at the first whiff of trouble. But he didn't. He stayed with me and made life bearable. Some of my brightest moments I shared with that man and I can honestly say that there will always be a place in my heart for him.
 
However all was not well in paradise and after transferring to College in mid-September we hit a rough patch. Mr. Ginge and I went from seeing each other every day to barely seeing each other once a week and it took its toll. After a while I wondered weather this was it. Was Mr. Ginge 'The One'? Was he the man I was destine to grow old with and start a family? Was this all life had to offer? After a year and a month I called an end to mine and Mr. Ginge's relationship. He was devastated and completely at a loss with heart-break. Ironically I was to undergo the exact same treatment less than three years later with Mr. Workaholic. Like me I never fully explained myself before calling it off and like Mr. Workaholic, wanted to see if there was more to life than just that. Sadly I think that that initial first experience with Mr. Ginge made my separation from Mr. Workaholic all the more harder. I knew that this was something that Mr. Workaholic had to do in order to live life in a way that would not have been possible given our relationship, but ultimately that decision is one I hope he both regrets and looks back on as I do with my relationship with Mr. Ginge.
 
A part of me wonders weather Mr. Ginge thinks about me as I think about him. Does he wonder what I am doing? Does he think about what I do? Does he reflect on the memories we shared? I do. I sometimes contemplate what life would be like now if we had stayed together. Would we have moved away together to university? And would we have built the foundations of life yet? All these things I shall never know. So maybe I learnt the heard way that the grass might not always be greener on the other side ...

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

A Story I Have Wanted To Shared For A While ...

Hi Guys,
 
What a week it has been. So, after last weekend Bank Holiday antics I have recovered quiet nicely thank you, although the fact that my ex-boyfriend otherwise known as Mr. Workaholic keeps plaguing my thoughts. I mean seriously. GET OUT OF MY HEAD! I suppose it all started with a weird dream I had about a week ago including him and Miss Tweedle-Dee, but strangely no Miss Tweedle-Dumb. Unable to wake from such nightmarish slumber I was forced to relive the last scenes of our relationship in dream-state, full-blown hysterics included. But since then Mr. Workaholic seems not to have left and is there in my mind, constantly reminding me of the good times. I'm glad my conscience takes over and reminds me of the bad times though. But amongst the raging battle inside my head I try to reason with myself. Yes Mr. Workaholic was a brilliant lover, the best maybe, indulging in all manner of fantasy and wild exploits - but you have to remember that this was also the same person that left you screaming and begging in absolute turmoil as he drove away, leaving you in the home you used to share. Upon this boiling pot of emotion and memories I am able to pluck out a good tale for you all. Now I warn you it is a tad odd, especially for a man just out of a long-term relationship, but rest assured it is truth and is something I would like to share with you all, something I have wanted to pollute your minds with for a while ...
 
It was a warm summer morning when I stepped off the plane from Dublin after visiting family in Southern Ireland following the split. I had a lot of time to think it out and come to the conclusion that this was it. Since everyone I knew was working I had no-one to pick me up from the airport and take me home. All but one. I had no choice but to call Mr. Workaholic and ask him to help. Of course he obliged and picked me up, probably out of guilt that he had caused this all but regardless when I saw his girlie white car pull up to where I was standing outside the terminal I couldn't help but think that things might just go back to normal and we could make it work. After what I was about to hear nothing could be further from that statement. I attempted making small talk and avoiding eye contact with him for a good few miles down the motorway until Mr. Workaholic asked how my trip had been. I replied honestly and described it as one of the worst experiences of my life, working out how I was going to function without him. I was courteous though and returned the question, feeling anxious and not wanting to talk about myself for once. Starting normally, Mr. Workaholic stated that he had gone away for a few days to clear his head and visit his sister in the North-East of England. Watching the world whizz by on the M1 and struggling not to throw up in his presence, Mr. Workaholic told me he had gone out and had a few too many drinks. But my heart nearly stopped when he told me that he had hooked-up with someone. As Mr. Workaholic began the gut-wrenching tale I felt myself crumble inside, the car spinning and my head once clear now drowning, flooded with pictures and thoughts. He asked me if he should continue or if I needed fresh air. Stupidly or not I decided that I needed to hear this and that it would do me good, maybe even help me to move on. And so he resumed.
 
After some heavy pre-drinking at their hotel to lift Mr. Workaholic's mood (As if his mood needed lifting any further up his arse), his sister and their cousin went to a club and were continuing to drink when a young man came over and struck up a friendly conversation. As the night wore on, Mr. Workaholic needed the loo and so left in search of the 'little boys room'. Once there he relived himself and turned to leave, however, so intoxicated was my Ex that he was approached by another male whom started sizing him up. Now for any normal person you would think this wasn't unusual - You know, two men squaring up in the bathroom alcohol, women, ego's and possibly drugs involved it could get messy. But oh-no, this wasn't any old bathroom. This was a bathroom situated in a busy part of the city centres Soho district. A place where Mr. Workaholic wouldn't usually attend. His sister and cousin are both Homosexual's and Mr. Workaholic was in a bathroom of a very busy and well-known gay nightclub. Swaying from side to side, Mr. Workaholic was offered oral sex by the stranger he had bumped into. Mr. Workaholic accepted. The strange man got onto his knees, unzipped my Ex's jeans and placed him into his mouth.
 
As we flew past a service station Mr. Workaholic recoils as he remembers how the stranger's bristly beard brushed his private parts whilst his member continued to stay soft. "Your not getting hard, are you not turned on?" the knelt man asked looking up holding the still limp extension. Not saying a word Mr. Workaholic adjusted himself and walked away, leaving his dignity and his self-respect behind. A few hours later after kissing a few women, and men, Mr. Workaholic was drinking at an empty table whilst his sister and their cousin hit the dance floor. Another young man approached the lone Mr. Workaholic and asked if they could be friends. Being naive he befriended the party goer and before long more alcohol was consumed and a seedy friendship formed. By this point apparently a fight had broken out between his cousin, his sister, his sister's girlfriend and her girlfriend's ex-partner back at the hotel. Shattered, Mr. Workaholic took the invitation from his new found 'friend' to spend the night before heading back to the hotel in the morning when everything had calmed down. And so as the sun rose over Northumberland, Mr. Workaholic left, to a flat in a part of the city he didn't know, with a man he had only just met. Classy. Upon arriving at his 'friends' address, my Ex was encouraged to undress and share his bed. Consumed by fatigue and intoxicated as he was it happened and before long Mr. Workaholic was fast asleep.
 
Pulling off the motorway I was hoping that one day, Mr. Workaholic would get a rude awakening for the way he treated me. Little did I know that the story was not yet finished. Moments after slipping into a deep sleep, Mr. Workaholic was roused in a way many females are accustom too. Only this was a man. A 'friend'. And this 'friend' was now poking Mr. Workaholic in the lower back with something hard and moist. Realising what this was, my Ex, not being freaked out or disgusted at all simply rolled over and said to his 'friend' that he was not gay and did not want to have sex with him. Reluctantly the 'friend' stopped pursuing Mr. Workaholic and shortly they were both asleep again like nothing ever happened. But it wasn't long before long though that there was a loud knock on the door of the apartment, although no-one heard until it was too late. Suddenly the bedroom door flew open, and with this Mr. Workaholic jumped out of bed, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. "What the fuck are you doing in bed with my boyfriend!" Shouted the large, muscular man fizzing with anger at the rumpled sheets and a nearly naked man accompanying his partner in bed. The frightened boy that was the love of my life ran to the bathroom and locked the door. As Mr. Workaholic's hangover crept in, he searched the bathroom for a way out, but all in vain. Spotting some cash on the sink and grabbing his clothes Mr. Workaholic made a dash for the door, using the stolen cash to pay for a cab back to the hotel.
 
As we arrived at the beautiful terraced house we used to share he asked how I was. What could I say? For once I was speechless, only able to mutter something about how disgusted I was and how sick he makes me feel. For some odd moment I started to laugh. Almost uncontrollably. Crying tears of amusement, grief and shame. Pulling myself together I got out of the car, only to see a large green and yellow 'TO LET' sign next to our once happy home. I stood there. Shocked. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked quietly. "I didn't want to upset you." was the pitiful response from Mr. Workaholic.  Unlocking the door and walking into the house I barely recognised it. Mr. Workaholic continued to explain that his cousin whose girlfriend was pregnant at the time was moving into a new home and needed some stuff so he had sold it to him. Our sofa, stuffed with memories watching TV, making love and cuddling. Our side-dresser that Mr. Workaholic's mother had given us as a moving in gift that I loved and he loathed. Gone. Upstairs our beautiful iron-posted bed had disappeared, the very bed we first slept together in and the one where our story together began. Our second, smaller bed in the spare-room was also amiss, as was the dining table and chairs. Our whole lives were just gone. No warning. No preparation. Just gone. After dropping my luggage indoors I begged him to stay and not leave me alone in the house for fear of my 'dark-cloud' returning. He didn't. He left. Mr. Workaholic just kissed me on the head (inappropriate as it was) and left.
 
That night was my lowest, but I am proud to say that the 'dark-cloud' has left now, and gladly has not been back since. I am in a much better place, with friends and family around me. I have come a long way from the girl crawled up in a ball reading and watching television as an escape from a reality she wasn't ready to face. I am stronger now. Stronger than never before. But one day he'll realise, yes, Mr. Workaholic will realise that I was the best thing he ever had ...

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Teenage Kicks

Hello,
 
Now as I explained in my last post, I had been invited somewhere important. At the time I couldn't divulge much more as other attendees are avid followers and would have foiled my plan. So, a few weeks ago I got talking to an old school friend of mine who also happens to be in a band with and close friend of Mr. Coffee's - I know, I know; Just bear with me on this one. So after we had done away with small talk I started discussing booking him and the band for a charity fundraiser event I am planning on hosting in the coming months. He agreed and I said that I would get back to him with some of the details. Anyway, I heard nothing from him until I had a social-networking invitation to an event where by his band was playing ... along with none other than Mr. Coffee himself. In a flap I immediately messaged Miss Chocolate, knowing that she would probably not give me a lecture about 'going back to old flames' as much as Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb would. And so a plan was conceived that Miss Chocolate and I would go on a bar crawl for St. Patricks Day, which would just happen to end up at the same location as the gig and at precisely the right time. All week, cunningly planning and plotting what to wear and how to have my hair, thinking up a good alibi and what to say. Now this would not have been such a big deal had it not bee for the earlier incident of bailing on me, (See post 'Time to Say I Told You So ... ')  but regardless as the week flew by yet again, Saturday night loomed ever closer.
 
After waking up at sparrow's fart to go shopping with Papa and spending all day pampering myself into oblivion I was finally ready. Strangely Papa dropped me to the station and was concerned about how I was getting home, who I was going out with and all the other things a parent worries about. I do love him sometimes, but on this occasion I think he knew I was up to something and was just digging around for the scoop! As I sat on the train gulping down Orange Juice and Vodka it took me back to my teens and reminded me that there has never really been a point in life where I haven't been obsessed or fixated with something or someone, usually multiples of different things at the same time. And Saturday night was no different. Although, reading this back in my head does make me look a tad infatuated and preoccupied by Mr. Coffee and his participation in the evening. I'm not. To clarify, I am merely interested in pursuing him further. I would, after my resent encounters with Mr. Coffee, like to confront the coward and ask him what the hell he was playing at and how he feels about me. Well I got my chance didn't I ...
 
After arriving in town and heading pretty much straight to pub in which Mr. Coffee and his band were playing, Miss Chocolate and I settled into the bar stools to have a drink. However, Miss Chocolate is more of the clubbing and pubbing type, not usually accustomed to loud rock music in a small, stuffy pub. Regardless of those factors she embraced it with every bit of muster the girl had and towards the end of the session, I even caught her singing along and dancing with the best of us. I am proud to say that I broke her gig-virginity! As we were sitting at the bar having a chat, I was tapped on the shoulder by another old school friend who just happens to also be Mr. Coffee's best friend and fellow band-mate. I introduced him to Miss Chocolate and asked why he was hear, fully knowing the answer before I even asked it. He explained that he was here with 'the band' and that they were scheduled for 9pm. After a few tid-bits of small talk he left. Miss Chocolate and I mooched around for a bit, having a cigarette, complaining about the wet and 'inappropriate' rain before my shoulder was yet again disturbed by an important person. Mr. Coffee! So it seems that after bumping into most of his band-mates, a few mutual friends and his step-dad, Mr. Coffee had came over to say hello. But I had more for him than hello! I was fully ready to turn around and give him a big piece of my mind, but as I turned to greet him all hope of controlling the hormonal teenager in me dried up. Deep brown eyes, dark floppy hair and a smile that I needed my RayBan's for. Even better looking that I remembered I tried to compose myself and we started the standard conversation. My alibi worked a treat but there was still an elephant in the room to confront.
 
"Why didn't you turn up?" I asked as Mr. Coffee's face went cold and fearful. He knew what he was in for. "I'm so sorry. I was scared and panicked. I just thought that you wanted something more than I was willing to offer you. I really am so sorry. You must think I am a dick?" was his reply. I was fuming, yet still on cloud nine. Odd feeling that - Wanting to throw your drink on someone but knowing that if you do your just going to add to their sexual-appeal. Mr. Coffee shuffled from foot to foot for a while just repeating himself over and over, apologising constantly. I had told him in the past that I didn't want anything serious like the last train wreck of a relationship, but just wanted some fun and to share the coming summer with and I felt that I needed to reassure him of this again. The conversation of a NSA relationship came into the chat's limelight only to be stamped on by his band being called up. "Will you stay?" Mr. Coffee asked, pleading me to stay. "You know I have always wanted you to see me play with the guys." I turned to Miss Chocolate and her face said it all. I had to compose myself and become hard and cold - Show him whose boss and that I am still upset with him. "Mmm, I don't know, my friend wants to head on to a nightclub now so I don't know, I might." I replied as my legs resumed from their jelly-like state. After accepting this, Mr. Coffee turned to walk away, tail between legs.

As Mr. Coffee began to play I took a prime position in the already large crowd and for the next half hour I was propelled back to being fifteen again, admiring a band I knew well, shaking my hair and singing to what words I knew. I concentrated hard as I watched Mr. Coffee's eyes frantically search the crowd for my face, not knowing weather I stayed to watch or not. After a few songs I caught his eye and Mr. Coffee sent me a wink which nearly killed me. I felt like I was in the front row at a Elvis Concert. If I wasn't ready to blow before - I sure as hell was now! Annoyingly though there was a young Polish man standing behind me and throughout the whole set he was trying to kiss me and talk to me. I just smiled as I couldn't fully understanding a word he was saying, given the noise and language barrier. Looking back now my intoxicated state he looked like a blonde lab rat and, and as I couldn't hear him I just continued to smile which only seemed to cement in his head that I was his for the evening. At one point I think he even asked "If I buy drink for you, you come home with me, yes?" and in a flap I promptly pointed to the tall, dark and handsome musician onstage and said that I was dating Mr. Coffee. Instantly his hands flew up in the air and he apologised, however, knowing that Mr. Coffee was already struggling to see me, I decided to play and flirted with the foreigner, hoping that Mr. Coffee would see and sweep me off my feet, saving me from this manic stranger.

Once the band stopped playing I got ready to leave, but not before Miss Chocolate had something to do with it. As Mr. Coffee stepped off stage I was pushed forward into his arms. After I had composed myself and stepped out of his bubble the flood gates opened and I gushed about how much I enjoyed his performance. We stood around for ages nattering before I got the eye from Miss Chocolate, indicating that it was time to leave. I explained to Mr. Coffee that I have to go and asked him several times to come along to the nightclub and continue the party, but lack of finances gave that idea the boot. Reluctantly I bid farewell and turned to leave. But then I remembered a task I had been asked to do earlier on in the evening by my drinking buddy. I turned back to the hot musician. "My friend says that were not leaving until we kiss and make up" I said boldly to which Mr. Coffee replied with some lame excuse that he would never be able to live it down in front of his friends and step-dad who were just on the table next to us. As I pulled away from a hug our eyes met, earthy brown matched with sea green. But just as I was about to turn and leave Mr. Coffee pulled me in close for a quick kiss on the lips. Sneaky, cheeky and throwing all inhibitions to the wind! I loved it. Following a swap in numbers I skipped out of the pub with his lips still burning on mine.

So where are we now. Well after gaining advise from the all power love-goddess that is Miss Chocolate I am being told to play it cool and text him mid-week which is tomorrow, so I shall keep you all posted on this as it unravels but I'm not hold my breath, especially after last time! But it wasn't just me who got lucky on Saturday night, Oh no! The luck of the Irish stuck Miss Chocolate when she met up with a guy she had met online. Safe to say that his profile picture was probably Catfished from a search engine!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx