A ‘Eureka!’ moment probably heralds my ideal start to a day, not due to the fact that I want to be hurled at lightning pace into consciousness from the depths of my sleepy wallow but more often because it is indicative of me finally making sense of the nonsensical. All too often I’ve felt I’m drifting through life, jumping from one emotional ice-flow to the next and never really making any headway but this morning at 3.45a.m. I sat bolt upright in bed and that very word escaped albeit somewhat lazily from my lips.

“Eureka ….!”

This weekend I like many went to see the new Tim Burton blockbuster “Alice in Wonderland” and again like many, I found myself critiquing it’s visual highs and lows as is my tendency in the rather annoying style of a “sudden expert” when the mood takes me. I have opinions, you see, and sometimes .. nay, most of the time people are not interested in those opinions but I enjoy the charade of pretending I know what I’m talking about.

No; the inestimable value which I have to admit was lost on me at the time of watching is how uncannily close to my life the plot line is, was …. and will almost certainly continue to be. As an entree to this far-fetched theory let me open with the fact that Hamish, the ridiculously foppish suitor to Alice in the opening scenes, bore an uncanny resemblance to an ex of mine; apart from the vivid red hair I’d say he was identical in every way to Mr Distant Cynic. With my wide-eyed amazement barely noticeable behind my 3D specs, I breathed a sigh of relief as Alice dashed away in curious search of the white rabbit.

And down the rabbit-hole she fell, to face her various challenges in pursuance of what she knew to be right and just.

I wonder how many of us have likened ourselves to Alice? To the girl whose stubborn inquisitiveness was so strong that she would knock back anything marked “drink me” just to get her to the next stage? I’ve already referred to my own challenges as emotional ice-flows but maybe I would have enjoyed the process more had I taken on the mantle of adventurer much in the way that she does.

And the well-know and documented characters .. how many of them bear a resemblance along with the newly-added Hamish to people I have known?

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum I could cast several times over, from both my current life production and previous versions to boot.

I’ve known too many Red Queens, not nearly enough Mad Hatters and only one or two White Queens. However the truth is, dear reader, that I could easily cast myself in all three roles. Not just the  one .. it needs to be the full set.

My occasionally sarcastic and bitingly cruel tongue is indicative of the Red one and whilst I strive to imbibe those around me with White gracious perfection day-to-day, I have to admit the former comes with far more ease than I’ve ever been entirely comfortable with. My personal favourite will always be the Mad Hatter. Johnny Depp described his character as “A mood ring, his emotions are very close to the surface”. Oh yes. The mood ring.

This story for me is about the preservation of hopes, dreams and aspirations. Finishing off the Jabberwocky who belittles in an attempt to get me to sit to heel seems to have become an everyday occurrence. He takes on many guises of course; some are classically obvious and some are closer to home. From yawning boredom to laughing disdain and from unreasonable demands to insensitive expectations, it’s good to keep your sword to hand.

And so in an attempt to reconnect with the here and now I’m going to drink from the cup of my imaginative restoration (let’s just give it the working title of “tea” for now ..) and reassure myself that nobody should be left with their dreams in tatters simply because they chose to take on the Jabberwocky.

Only the currency of self-belief will purchase a ticket to see your hopes come alive.

My book will be written.

Occasionally I make decisions that in the scheme of things are small and insignificant but the prospect of seeing them through fills me with much glee. Today I made such a decision.

I pledged to buy a cocktail shaker, a set of various shaped glasses to contain such refreshments and a book of recipes extraordinaire.

The truth is I’ve been talking of creating cocktails for a good few months now, but a big life chapter is coming to a close and it is therefore entirely appropriate to don the walls of my experience with new hues of enlightenment and mastering the perfect dry martini seems a good place to start.

Cocktails and the making thereof are just the start, you see.

And with a plop of an olive into a martini glass I move with the swiftest of keyboard manoeuvres to a subject very close to my heart.

Writing.

It must be down to the fact that I’ve been suffering from an ongoing bloggage (my term for “blogger’s block”) that I feel such a sense of relief. You see, I love writing. I love words, I love playing with them, re-shaping them and even making them up. My current favourite is “biscuital” which could be used thus …. “it was a tremendous biscuital arrangement” to describe a magnificent display of bourbons and custard creams.

Let’s face it, this blog is never going to win the Nobel prize for literature. It’s never going to provide any revolutionary business advice to help you secure the top position at BP and I don’t envisage Stephen Fry commenting on any of the posts anytime soon. But it’s an outlet for my angst (which can be severe at times when biscuital supplies have dwindled) and it gives me a bit of a giggle. It soothes the fevered brow of my various challenges and allows me to process the crazy stuff. Most of it of course isn’t crazy at all, it’s just normal when compared to other’s experience but when it knocked on my door, it was crazy alright.

Another milestone of the day has cutting one or two people out of my stream. Now I know that means sweet Jack to anyone who doesn’t use Twitter so let me explain .. when using Twitter you can create separate streams of people you ‘follow’ to make life a little easier in the monitoring of such. Occasionally certain people end up in there that well, frankly shouldn’t be there at all. They show themselves to be false, incongruous and pretentious; all the things in fact that I was raised to abhor.

This afternoon that was rectified after which I proclaimed to my pal “I am FREE!!!” which is, on the face of it, a bit pathetic. That I have felt hemmed in by a Twitter stream is no-one’s fault but my own but there we have it. Anyone can find themselves up a one-way version of Deadend Alley anytime at all. Take heed of this cautionary tale and create your streams vigilantly, pruning wherever and whenever necessary. People that manage to irritate the very air that passes through your nostrils via Tweetdeck really shouldn’t be allowed to linger for too long.

And so I can greet the end of the day with a wry smile on my face in recognition of the fact that I re-engaged with my free spirit before it was too late. I cast off the shackles of conformity that despite my resistance have found their creeping way around my limbs from time to time and I said in a defiant and definite tone .. “martini, anyone?”

It is not my habit to quote song lyrics but I have to dip into Billy Joel’s catalogue and pull out the following ..

“And it seems such a waste of time,
If that’s what it’s all about.
Mama, If that’s movin’ up then I’m movin’ out.”

So …. martini, anyone?

Men understanding women, and vice-versa.

Think about it. How long have we debated and cogitated the little nuances together with the huge great chasms that make our genders so infuriatingly different, so intriguing. So exasperating!

When all is said and done I’m a practical kind of girl; if there’s a use for something I’m there waving the flag. It gets the Debsy seal of approval. If there is no use however, then I kind of scratch my head wondering “why?”. Except for ridiculously high, feet-deforming shoes (preferably from Gucci); they’re beautiful and therefore don’t need to be useful.

Which is why I don’t understand the growing trend for our great minds of science to learn how to clone sheep, or maybe create a hybrid pig-cauliflower to eclipse all previous test-tube horrors

No, scientists need to do something useful for the good of all man (and woman)- kind. We need to be able to inhabit the mind of the opposite sex for a week.

Cravings, hormones, mood-swings et al. Give it to us. We’re sick of condescending books that tell us why the objects of our desire act the way they do.

Now I would hazard a guess that there are people of both sexes out there who would balk at the thought, but why not? All those who sit lambasting men or women as “a nightmare” and “certifiable” really need to walk in the accused’s shoes before dishing out such damning critiques.

I discussed this very subject with my pal Rachael earlier today, and I am ashamed to say I came out with the obvious statements like “A week drinking beer, watching sport and viewing inappropriate material on the web … how tough can that be?” But thereby hangs my point; I must think it’s easy being a man, and I’m pretty sure it’s not. So show me!

As for female idiosyncrasies, well I think it’d need be a particular week, not any old week that men experienced, those that is who chose to accept this challenge. Yes, THE week. Those seven little days when you don’t know whether you want to laugh, cry or throw a plate at someone. Those seven days when even the teeny tiniest little task is overwhelming, you could quite easily throw yourself on the floor sobbing and wailing because nobody understands, loves or appreciates you and where’s the chocolate, anyway?

Now as I woman I accept my hormonal fluctuations. I haven’t embraced them exactly, and I’m still longing for the day when what we know as “the menstrual cycle” is replaced by something more civilised like “state-funded massage” (hey, if we can put men on the moon … why not?). But I don’t understand hormones and I fully appreciate how men must throw their hands up in desperation. So step up men … experience the joys that are thrust upon us every four weeks.

Having said all this I fear I’m painting a bleak and dreary picture of what it is to spell your name w-o-m-a-n.

Not at all.

The best things for me? Lipstick, hair and all the things you can do with it (Dannii Minogue is testament to the fact it doesn’t have to be long hair ..), perfume, acting coy, high heels (yes, I know I’ve mentioned them but they are … sensational!) and feeling like you can conquer the world when you’re on top of your game. Being a woman is incredible and you men don’t know what you’re missing.

Similarly you need to sit, analyse and pester all your friends about your love-interest. Yes. Pull every conversation apart that you ever had … put it all back together again and be even more confused than the point at which you started. You need to do that.

And we girls need to take everything, anything and everyone at face value. A friend of mine once said “If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and sounds like a duck, what do you think it is?” He was an idiot. You see girls hate all that black and white stuff, especially when there are so many shades of grey and numerous other palettes out there, but I cannot deny I’d like a piece of the “noir et blanc” action please.

All things considered, I’m far more relaxed these days about this topic, but I wouldn’t mind a trip round the male psyche. I’d like to say I understood why we’re different rather than purely accepted it, and to do that you have to experience it. As I repeatedly tell my son, “you don’t know until you try something”..

Imagine a world where the sexes understood each other. Finally.

Boring, or blissful?

Hmmm.

They say if you want to meet someone then you should stop looking, don’t they?

I have to hold my hands up and admit that I thought that was a vicious rumour put about by people who get sick of listening to their single friends bemoaning their relationship lot (or lack of, as the case may be). And who could blame them? Being single but wanting to be in a relationship can be a miserable existence .. I should know, I was that soldier. You can picture marrieds everywhere emptying wine glasses, rubbing their eyes and stifling sighs as their single friends lament the passing of their latest crush-fest, over and over and over …

Of course it’s not socially advisable to go public about your longing to be one half of a pair and so I donned a cheery facade and battled on. But there can be no doubt that I bent more than a few ears of friends with the in-depth analyses and second-guessing that goes hand-in-hand with newly-established dating patterns.

Being single is far from the worst condition you can find yourself in, but there is only so many nights in front of Greys Anatomy painting your toenails you can take before said toes start a-tapping in restless acknowledgement that you’re .. well, a bit lonely.

Now I have made no secret of dabbling in the dark world of online dating. To me it was the dating equivalent of an unpleasant medical procedure .. you had to go through with it to get over to the other side .. the side that was a lasting relationship with someone special. I failed miserably. I went through the unpleasant procedure many times and the result was always inconclusive. So I decided to administer treatment myself by deleting my profile and retreating back to base.

And in the middle of all this I joined Twitter which some may know as the social networking site on which people discuss their sandwiches all day; in reality it’s a global forum that gives you immediate access to like-minded individuals and to unlimited information on any topic you could think of. And for me it laid the path very quickly that led to J.

I remember the very first time I saw his profile photograph (or as we in “the know” call it, his avatar). In fact his photograph was and is very obscured offering up no visual clues to help you pick him out in a crowd, but something registered. I was interested. He was unassuming, lovely and charming. He was all the things you can’t ascertain from an online blueprint.

Now I’d like to say I knew we would end up dating but I didn’t. I do suppose however that my interest, which developed into intrigue kept me focussed on maintaining a steady progress in the direction of that first coffee date.

If that counts as scheming then I’m guilty as charged, and quite happy to take the rap I might add.

And so the point to my rather rambling account this evening is this .. if J and I had been profiles floating aimlessly on 2beekum1.com then I think it’s fair to say we wouldn’t have met, and that’s because we almost certainly wouldn’t have matched each other’s blueprints. So .. before you could have uttered “I’ll have a skinny latte please” the concept that was the first coffee date would have evaporated into thin air. We would have eliminated each other from the running.

And at the depression of the delete key I would have missed out on the feeling of excitement I get at the prospect of seeing him each week, of the instant smile that creeps across my face when he messages me and that lovely warm glow inside because life feels a lot better these days.

OK .. I know all this is a tad on the schmaltzy side compared to my earlier posts on this blog but I needed to make a point today having read the appalling account of how a dating site has expelled 5,000 of it’s members for putting weight on since they created and posted their profiles.

Seriously .. would you be interested in dating anyone who even hinted they were concerned that you weren’t quite as physically perfect as they’d hoped?

Lots of people are making pots of money by implying they can connect single people on these sites using logic and calculating means.

And I know for one it doesn’t work like that.

There’s nothing logical about finding happiness, which makes it even more prized.

It’s fair to say that this blog has become more efficient than any therapy I could have entered into. On occasion I’ve had comments within minutes of posting a heartfelt rant that have both supported and challenged me. Without a shadow of doubt airing my views and experiences has been both progressive and comforting at the same time. We all sing from similar hymn sheets it seems … some are a little further ahead than others and some merely prefer a different tempo.

One question has been omnipresent since the conception of “This is how I see it ..” however, and that was … what if my circumstances were to change? What if I met someone who caused me to view relationships in a different light? What if I had to soften the tone, drop the cackling humour and surrender to the fact that I may need to alter the course, rethink the content and consider new material?

When you’ve experienced a succession of bad relationships you soon learn to embrace being single, but for me it wasn’t too difficult given that I’ve been extremely fortunate in other areas of life. Yes, of course a lifelong, happy coupling would have been the icing on the cake but it’s been a good few years since I sobbed into my duvet over that little conundrum.

So .. penning a blog that charted the various hilarious and incredible dating disasters of Debsylee brought a smile to my face and hopefully others to. Being a social soloist was the inevitable consequence but heck, we could all have a good laugh about it.

Now, it’s important I clear up one important fact because I think to date I haven’t ever made reference to what went wrong in my significant relationships prior to this most recent self-imposed period of singledom. So the truth is this .. I was lied to. Every time. And not tiny little white lies .. nasty gut-wrenching black untruths, none of which involved other women (that I know of) but life-altering all the same.

So venturing forth across the wilderness that is emotional solitary confinement I held my ideal of an honest, completely open and true relationship close to my heart. And time after time I felt let down until I started to come to terms with the fact that I may never find that ideal in anyone.

I retired to the sidelines and started penning previous entries, resigning myself to accepting that maybe what I was looking for didn’t exist. I abandoned my search. The game was over in a tournament that I wasn’t sure I wanted to participate in any longer.

Secretly I rather fancied myself as a latter day tragic heroine whose only mistake was that she stuck to rigidly to her ideals. I mused that the weary epic trail across the desolate sands of my solitude would make great reading one day in the form of a best-selling novel.

This was until I met a man who embodies all the ideals I had etched onto my rather principled little raison d’être.

Suddenly I’m struggling for words I can assemble and arrange that do justice to the course of recent events. He is, you see, really rather special.

Rather uncharacteristically I feel I don’t want to become overly verbose on the subject of our relationship which I suppose should be viewed as progress.

My friend Rachael commented today that I should start future posts with “when I was on the [dating] circuit ..”

Well, I can safely say I never thought I’d be penning a post like this … when I was on the circuit.

Do I sound smug? I’m really not; I’m simply enjoying being wrong.

People who know me reasonably well will tell you I’m a forgiving sort of girl … eventually. I do a fairly sound job of mentally analysing life events and coming to rational, fair conclusions when disappointment rides into town.

I also know that it’s exceedingly unlikely that my actions, neuroses and hang-ups alone were responsible for the various failures that have strewn my path when it comes to relationships; that said I don’t mind taking it on the chin when I mess up.

So my approach to relationship spillages, crashes and breakdowns is simple … learn from them and move on. Increasingly I find however that men will say they are “friends” with their ex’s, maybe like it’s a testament and honour to the memory? I really don’t know the answer here because the concept is most definitely alien to me. And here’s why.

It’s not that I’m a cold-blooded and heartless bitch; I may like occasionally to portray that image but the reality is I’m nothing like that. My feeling on this topic is that it’s impossible to have a purely platonic and caring friendship with someone you once had feelings for. Let me give you an example.

It must be at least six months since I finished with Mr Distant Cynic .. or maybe that should be “petered out” with. We had gone in the space of ten months from being keen to indifferent for a whole variety of reasons, needless to say for my part the indifference grew to the extent that one day it dawned on me that I hadn’t spoken to him for two weeks. The spark had well and truly gone out. Thank goodness. What was once a flame was now spent ashes in the grate of another seemingly pointless episode.

At the end of our little sojourn I finally made it to the place on the page that everyone around me had been at for some time; Mr Distant Cynic had capitalised on my loneliness when I relocated last year. He spends much time abroad on business so the set-up we had of me being available for him when he was home was efficient to say the least. Once that penny dropped I found it remarkably easy to make all the necessary emotional realignments at lightning-speed.

Now, given that we had spent ten months or so seeing each other on and off (more “off” than “on” towards the end needless to say..) there was a tendency to think we could be “friends”. I believe “staying friends” is taking the finality out of it, a little like a safety cushion to shield you from the blow that it’s all over.

Mr Distant Cynic had boasted on several occasions that he was friends with a number of his ex’s; indeed he once commented that a few of them were now married and that he knew for a fact that the new husbands hated the “arrangement”. I imagine a thoughtful and considerate ex would bow out but no, he found that quite amusing. Can you see where I’m going here?

And so yesterday when after several months of zero communication his message popped up on Skype, I sensed he was on an information gathering exercise. And I was right.

After opening gambit chit-chat he asked “so how are you? How’s business? Family? Is there a new man?”

I deftly answered the first three questions and body-swerved the forth, knowing that he would come back to it again. And he did.

So this time I answered that yes, I had been seeing someone. I also added that it was early days but that he was probably the most genuine and honest person I’d met in long time. Because that was the right and true answer to his pointless probe.

Out of politeness I then asked “and how about you?”

“Yes am seeing someone …” he answered, “unbelievably she’s even busier than I am…. which suits me fine …. she is a very lovely person …”

So all in all, you might say that’s a great result for both of us, which of course it is but I feel that was a conversation we’d have been better off not having for one simple reason … pride.

We all like to think we left an imprint on the minds and hearts of our ex’s, don’t we? Not to the extent that they can’t move on and find happiness elsewhere, but in the moments when their minds drift off for a moment wouldn’t we like them to think “oh … she really was something else” (in the dreamy and wistful sense …)

You see, when I said I was seeing seeing an honest and genuine man, what I really wanted to tag on the end was “he’s the complete opposite of you”. And I’m sure he’d have wanted to come back with “oh bully for you”

And when he told me his new squeeze was a “very lovely person” I desperately wanted to retort “and I wasn’t, I suppose???”

These thoughts and desires are not conducive with leaving wistful imprints .. just a nasty aftertaste.

In truth I think maybe people have all sorts of other reasons for keeping in touch and for “staying friends”. Maybe they are harbouring a deep-rooted hope that it isn’t really over. Perhaps at some point they think “benefits” could be added to the equation. For me it’s quite straightforward; I’ll nod in acknowledgment if I bump into an ex in Tesco but that’s as far as I need to go.

Once you’ve said your goodbyes it’s better to nurture the memories rather than stir up the residual resentment.

After all … they’re called “ex” for a reason.

I guess we can all point to times, people and events in our lives that we later credit with causing a seismic shift in our way of thinking. For me one of those times was my first job in field sales, the person was my sales manager, a lovable man who played the trumpet for the Salvation Army band at weekends and the event was a discussion we had about letting nerves get the better of us.

Now Gorgeous George was not the type of man you’d expect to see in a role of that ilk; typically I suppose these days we expect ruthless, results-oriented individuals to be leading sales teams. George was nothing like that; he was a “people person” in the truest sense of the term who instilled very early on in his team members that there is no such thing as inferiority when it comes to your fellow man.

And that worked both ways. In restaurants he struck up conversations with waiting staff and would chat for a few minutes with the vendor of a copy of the Big Issue as he handed over a pocketful of change. Similarly he explained very succinctly why nerves where often unfounded when it came to making a key sales presentation to a room full of decision makers.

“Deborah … tell me .. have you prepared for this presentation? I mean … have you really prepared? And don’t bullshit me …”

“Yes George”

“Then why are you so nervous? You know your stuff …. if you stumble a few times they won’t know because they don’t know what the “perfect presentation” should look like … you know that because you’ve written it!”

“But such a lot rides on this presentation George; I’m worried”

“OK, OK … then answer me one question …. what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Well … the worst that could happen is that I completely fluff it and we lose the deal”

“No … that’s not the worst that could happen. The worst that could happen is that one of them takes out a sawn-off shotgun and shoots you in the knee-caps because your presentation was so bad. Don’t you think? Surely that’d be far worse than us losing the deal because you fluffed your presentation?”

That was George’s skill; he instantly could bring a perspective to a dilemma you were facing that caused your angst to evaporate into thin air.

Now like many people I have laid awake at night worrying over the years. I’ve worried about relationships, about money, about work … and all my laboured efforts and sleepless nights I’ve chalked up haven’t made the slightest difference to any of the various outcomes. I still wake and avail myself of a bit advanced hand-wringing coupled with a toss and a turn from time to time, and it continues to not make the slightest difference. And then a few months ago a Facebook friend shared a nugget of wisdom offered by his first wife on the subject ….

“Worrying is like paying interest on money you haven’t borrowed yet”

I doubt anyone has brought worry into its allotted perspective quite as brilliantly as Janet Goodman did in that instance.

A little earlier today I swapped comments regarding my last post concerning positive attitudes and it led me to wonder why some people seem to get stuck in ongoing negative cycles that they can’t break. And this I find an odd quandary for me to roll around my head because I’ve worn the depression T-shirt a few times in my teens; I’ve taken antidepressants that made me feel like I was on another planet and I’ve woken up of a morning thinking “Oh God, not another day …”

But I guess the difference now is that I’ve lived to tell the tale. Several times over, and then some.

Confidence, positive attitude, call it what you will … it isn’t a skill, a quality or an attribute. It’s the knowledge that no matter what life has in store tomorrow, next week or next year I’ll deal with it. Good or bad.

I used to believe not knowing what the future held was a drawback, but now I see it as definite advantage. A canvas waiting for me to de-blank it.

I mean … what’s the worst that could happen?

There is one thing you can be sure binds us together when it comes to relationships …and to be clear I’m talking about all relationships here, not just the intimate ones. And that is this ..we’ve all been disappointed at some point.

That’s not to say that every relationship will let you down, but in the main there will have been a falling short of the mark that caused us to retreat, sob, lick our wounds and sob some more in the worst cases, and to shrug our shoulders in resigned acceptance in less severe instances.

When we invite people into our emotional space we attach hopes to them in terms of their behaviour and consequential outcomes, we hope, will weigh heavily in our favour. The more we like a person, the more hopes we attach. It’s like planting a garden. If it’s of critical importance to you that it blooms to perfection then you’ll tend it regularly, ply it with fertiliser, stand and wait for green shoots to appear. If on the other hand you don’t care one way or the other, you might chuck a few seeds about in homage to whatever BBC2 gardening bonanza caught your eye as you channel-hopped one evening.

Hopes, dreams, aspirations … if you hang on to them for dear life and fail to implement a qualification process that tells you whether they are realistic or not, they become one thing. Expectations.

Some where deep down we might start to conjure pictures of a happy ever-after with someone we just met or else we possibly imagine our child opening his practice in Harley Street thirty years hence as he walks into his new classroom on his first day at school. If you’re really adept at this process you will imagine these things happening before there is a “someone we just met” or before you’ve even taken a positive pregnancy test.

We like to dream, we should all live in hope (despite there sometimes being no apparent reason why that’s a good idea) and aspirations gave birth to the profession that is marketing. Expectations, however, seem to be the root of disappointments and let-downs, dashed and disregarded like insignificant pieces of flotsam and jetsam floating on the cruelly hostile sea of hope.

Now I can’t hold my hands up as a visionary on this subject for I too was practically olympic-standard at imagining the “whole roses around the cottage door” scenario when it came to fledgling relationships. And then after what seemed to be an indeterminable number of gargantuan bitter pills my friend Ullie spelt out my solution in brilliantly simple terms…

“You should never enter any relationship with expectations. They are the seeds of misery. Rid yourself of expectations and you will enjoy the relationship for what it is in real terms, not what you’re willing it to become”

Ullie was unequivocally correct.

Only yesterday I had a vivid reminder of how ignoring this advice can play out when I was targeted with a nasty little message left “anonymously” on Facebook.

Some time ago I became aware that a chap had taken a liking to me, he wasn’t my type in any way shape or form but he could be mildly amusing so we occasionally swapped banter. Every time I reaffirmed the distance between us, he seemed to ramp up his attempts to preen and parade himself in front of me like some prize-winning bull, often in front of his easily amused friends.

It became harder to feign a smile in front of Mr Jack T. Ladd, especially when he proclaimed pearls of wisdom like “You and I are so alike. We both have an air of mystery about us.” Explaining to him that it wasn’t mystery in my case, it was indifference felt like it possibly would have popped his balloon with a force he wasn’t ready for. So I chose to dodge him at every given opportunity, often very unsubtly.

My opinion on events like this is quite straightforward. If you like somebody and you throw out bait several times which they chose to ignore, then they don’t like you. Simple. And when if you’re a man throwing said bait, be in even less doubt. Continuing to puff your chest up that bit more and plunge in once again is only going to ensure that when the realisation sets in that the interest is not mutual, the catastrophe will feel so grave it should make the six o’clock news headlines.

And so Mr J T Ladd went on and on and on. And I backed off and off and off.

And then yesterday evening to my Facebook Honesty Box question “Tell me something you probably wouldn’t say to my face” I got this (anonymous) response ..

“I think you are a coward which i find disappointing. I would never have a problem saying that to your face mind you, just never got the opportunity.”

Now anyone who can’t be bothered to capitalise “I” isn’t worth a huge amount of bother anyway, but that just happens to be a bête noir of mine that I battle with constantly amidst the many grammar and spelling affectations that haunt me.

And, in case you are wondering, I knew this to be Mr Ladd … for one simple reason. He and people like him can’t just let their expectations go because they think everyone is waiting for their next promised installment, so when they sense the game is starting to run away from them they seize on that critical match-winner … the last word, preferably a nasty toxic one.

Building expectations is never advisable, particularly when you have no knowledge of the person you’re constructing them around. Which is why Ullie was spot on with her advice.

But if you really can’t help yourself donning a hard hat and erecting some scaffolding in preparation…. then learn to let them go gracefully.

Or even better … live in the moment and let the rest go hang.

Given the latter day fashion for making five and ten year life plans I should hold my hand up and admit to dismissing the whole idea as a load of pointless tosh. In my experience whenever I’ve “planned” to achieve anything life has tossed me a curve ball which has necessitated a total rethink of what I’m about.

However the one thing I do with irritating regularity is to look at where I am and decide it’s a long way off where I’d hoped to be. Which is rather laughable given my admission that I hadn’t “planned” to be anywhere. If I haven’t given thought to what I want to achieve, how do I know I’ve not managed it?

Of course, the answer is quite simple. I’m restless, ergo I can’t be where I’d hoped I’d be even if I had sat down and written a five year plan that undoubtedly would have had my Tesco shopping list scrawled on the back at some point ultimately ending up in the bottom of a shopping bag. Couple that with the fact that I like to adopt an intuitive approach to decision-making and you might see why the wood that is my future can’t be identified for all the trees in its way. If I had written a five year plan you can bet your aspirational values I’d have been scoring it through a fortnight later and re-writing it.

You see … I’m a “live for today” and “by the seat of your pants” kind of girl. I rely too much on what “feels” right. I know what I should do, but my edict is that life is too short so it’s better to wait and see what the universe has to offer before you start determining which route you’re going to travel which may in some far fetched instances necessitate constructing your own motorway (that’s a euphemism for “starting a pension”)

I am by nature a restless soul. If we had met on a cruise liner at in the 1930s almost certainly I would have been the sad woman with the haunted look in her eyes who was seen regularly pacing up and down the deck at 3am in the morning. My mother used to regularly despair of me as a teenager proclaiming with much consistency “the problem with you Deborah is that you’re never happy …”

I understand what my mum was alluding to, but she wasn’t strictly correct. I was happy, indeed I am happy … but I am always looking to break the monotony that everyday life can hold with the occasional stimulating episode (I am talking, of course, of stimulation of the mental type)

It was some eighteen months ago that I packed up all my worldly possessions and bundled them along with my son into a vehicle marked “destination Lincoln (city of my birth)”.

The first few weeks were fine, the novelty remained fresh for some time that my parents were just around the corner. I was back in the bosom of my family. It felt nice, warm and reassuring.

After a few months however I started to crave the dynamic edge that the south-east had frequently volunteered amidst all its stress-laden duplicity. Say what you like, but there is more “happening” at any one time in London than any other city or town in the UK in terms of ideas, creativity, opportunity and vision. There’s also an equal amount of not-so-great attributes, but they have quickly faded from my memory.

Lincoln on the other hand may not display quite the same ebullient verve but it’s where I was born and it is where a goodly part of my family still live. It is full of landmarks, buildings and family memories that in an instant transport me back to being a little girl. And when you’ve been emotionally dehydrated and miles from home, the succour that can bring should never be underestimated.

Only this morning inadvertently I played one of my Grandma’s favourite tracks, The Hungry Years by Neil Sedaka, and I found myself crying for her for the first time since we lost her five years ago. You see, my Grandma was probably the kindest woman I ever met. As her first grandchild she doted on me, I was and will always be “her Debbie”. She only ever looked at me with pride and a smile on her face.

Lincoln is the place where many people I love are, spiritually and physically. It may not be the most exciting and cutting edge of locations I could choose to settle in but it’s home.

And yet I feel I’ve returned back to my birthplace and that now it’s whispering “I raised you .. you were never meant to come back … you were meant to fly away on to something else”.

But just like the dutiful and doting parent I’ve come to regard it as, Lincoln is sticking with me for now.

I may still be thirty miles south of satisfactory but I’m edging closer to knowing where I need to be.

It’s quite astonishing the truths you can uncover when you’ve lived as an adult for a few years. Of course living as an adult doesn’t always equate to your age; my son for example oft displays more maturity in one word than I can eek out of my whole being.

No … living as an adult in my book is recognising life’s lessons for what they are, and not blithely taking the same route, making the same decisions and arriving at the same unsatisfactory conclusions. If it didn’t work out last time the chances are fairly high that it won’t next. Being “grown up about it” means walking away on occasion, taking a risk without being consumed with fear and seeing that the hurtful actions that others display towards you is actually testament to their own inner demons, not yours.

Surprisingly I’ve witnessed some pretty hostile behaviour towards me since my marriage broke down over three years ago, and it still leaves me scratching my head as to why that might be. What makes it even more baffling to my little brain is that it has for the most part come from other women who I’ve come to call (affectionately, you understand …) the bullyhags. Surprising, baffling …. sad and grossly disappointing. You kind of hope your own gender will be batting for you … supporting you through the good times and bad. And generally when times are bad they will support you, but there comes occasion when your day starts to brighten that a few seem intent on spoiling it.

The bullyhags will offer up a few choice sharp and sarcastic words, some deliberate attempts to freeze you out of conversations and relationships and display an underlying inference that moves are afoot to undermine your happiness.

I recall being bullied first time round by the very unrefined Susan Smith when I was thirteen because she’d heard on the grapevine that I had taken a liking to her beau, the even more unrefined Mark Firth. I should point out that I never use real names in this blog unless (I’ve just decided) they have at some point displayed the characteristics of pond life. In this case I deem my decision to name and shame wholly justified.

And so having my polo mints snatched on a daily basis because I had embarked on a crush that was the first of many unsavoury repetitions cast me in the role of the bullyhag’s future victim.

The only good thing about being intimidated in such a manner when you’re a child is that it’s done in a very obvious and visible way. Other children witness it and there can be no doubt as to what’s going on.

As an adult it can be a very different affair. It’s often done subtly, at close quarters and quite viciously. There’s often no warning nor is there an obvious reason why the perpetrator has selected you as their would-be prey. As I said … baffling.

I was a little girl who spent her entire childhood trying desperately to please and impress her father so it comes as a bit of a blow to think that there are people out there quite willing to take you down just because they don’t like the cut of your jib. And for no reason other than that.

Friends have said this is often the work of a jealous mind which always amuses me. Given that some offenders have been in secure relationships with no obvious problems financial or otherwise, I wonder how they think my life feels at 3am in the morning when I have tossed and turned in my bed wondering how my bills were going to get paid and what my future held. And I wonder how they think it feels when I look at my son and worry that I’m letting him down and not giving him the childhood he deserves. But then again, given that the bullyhags are adults I’m sure they take all that into consideration before they launch their subversive venomous attacks.

Put quite simply it appears the bullyhags like to select victims that they deem “getting a bit too big for their boots”, someone who may appear to be making progress and who just needs to be taught a lesson. I guess you only have to acknowledge the column inches in the newspapers given over to tales of woe, tragedy and torment to appreciate that bad news will outsell good any day of the week. We just don’t seem comfortable with the nice stuff. That seems for me to be one of the biggest tragedies of all.

Clearly because I’ve written a whole post dedicated to the bullyhags I’m admitting that I do get affected by it all .. but less so these days simply because I don’t have to wait for the bell to go at four o’clock to make my escape.

Inferiority is a state that’s much easier to fend off when you live your life as an adult.

Was that the bell?