In Too Deep,

I can already tell that this is going to be one of those blogs that I write more for me, and then look at and think, okay, maybe don't publish that, because of the fear that it leaves me feeling a little exposed. 

I'm sat here listening to what can only be called Romantic Ballads (no, seriously, that's what the Spotify playlist called them) and I can't say that it is helping with the whole effort of not getting emotional. 

Almost a year ago, a relationship that I had been in for a long time, and which I had emotionally committed to in such a thorough way came crashing to a not so abrupt end. It had been a long drawn out process that I can genuinely say wasn't helpful or healthy for either of us, and the truth is that it took a very long time for me to pick myself back up after that. A very long time.

Despite that, I worked on building the life that I wanted, which is an ongoing goal, but I am in a much better position now that I was 12 months ago. 

Now, I'm not going to say I'm over it, because I don't think I could commit myself to that, but I have got to the point where I could be happy, and that's dangerous.

Dangerous? Well, yes. Despite the fact that I can be alone, I can do things by myself and only be mildly uncomfortable, I am happy with my own company and don't really need to leave the house at weekends if I don't want to, the dangerous thing is, I like being in a relationship. 

I like having that special person I speak to all the time, that I can feel close to and that I can laugh with. I like having that commitment to that person. I don't know why, I just do. 

And danger occured. 

Out of nowhere - I wasn't even looking for once, appeared this man. In my usual styling, I'm not going to put his name on here, but C walked into my life quite casually, and then that was it; he was there. 

I'm not going to say that meeting him felt like nothing I had ever been through before, because it was like something I had before, and maybe that was part of the problem. In the space of when I stopped writing these blogs and when I started again, I met him, I started dating him, I stopped dating him and I realised I had fallen for him. And I also realised how much I hated that I let myself fall for him. 

Now, I know it's not like you get a choice in it, but really, I should have known better. He's in a place in my life that it will be a while before he will be gone, or I would have to do something drastic to get rid of him, and I don't want to do that. Partly because I don't want rid of him from my life. The beautiful thing about it has been that despite the fact that there have been tears, there has been pain, and there has been a bit of heart break, on my side at least, it's been pretty amiable. Most of my breakups have been screaming arguments or accusations and all that sort of thing - this has been a very polite, I guess. 

So, why am I mentioning this? Well, because, right at this moment, I don't want to write anything to do with romance, because it makes me want to tear my own eyelids off. I also don't want to ruin the thing that I wrote for NaNo by writing something stupid like, and they broke up because happy endings are for Disney and everything sucks. But where would we be if I didn't have an excuse for not writing? 

Catch you later.

Despite the Protest of Injured Fingers,

I decided it was better to write this early and have it waiting in the wings so to speak, in a kind of Blue Peter, here's one I wrote earlier -esqe style...  And then I forgot to post it! WELL DONE CHARLIE!

It's that time of year again where I start making badly veiled references to camping and an almost feel my readership groaning as they wonder how many times I will do this - All of the times, kids, all of the times. 

As we head into April, the nights are brighter, moods are clearer and the only rain we're praying for is our imaginations. I'm much more settled in my job than I was in November (where I had been in post for a day before the madness started) and I am hoping that there will be time, though not an ample amount I am sure, to commit to the doing of a thing. 

Much like the camping trips of my youth, I am attempting not to plan too much and will be flying by the seat of my pants. Yes, there is a funny photograph which goes along with the memory, no, I will not be sharing it. 

It's going to be a funny old month though. Despite the fact that my Easter plans have unfortunately changed from what I thought they were to be, I am still not going to be in London. I'm going to Yorkshire with my parents and the dog - I'm not sure if I had previously mentioned that they have got a dog, but yes, that's a thing, and we are taking him on his first holiday. As much as my idea of a holiday would be trotting off to a cottage, sitting by a roaring fire and having the dog pottering around, it is not really for the Easter holiday when the temperatures are supposed to be such that the roaring camp fire feels as though it is burning in the air. 

Here is goes, cringe if you must, so I will be pitching up to Manchester mid month, praying for a miracle and a steady stream of ideas, climbing mount improbable and abseiling down the other side, wearing odd socks, getting muddy, getting soaked, eating snacks, though leaving the pork scratchings for the dog, hoping that only my imagination rains and that the trees are alive with the sound of inspiration. Procrastination can take a hike, there will be no one manning its station. Pacck you marshmellows and grame crackers, wash your socks in the sink, layer up on the jumpers and let the wasps drown in your hot vimto drink. The world is going mad, or might have already gone, so hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the Camp Na No retreat we go, with a notebook and pen, we're doing this again, hi ho, hi ho, hi ho. 

Catch you later.

As If I Needed,

I have gone and done myself an, albeit minor, injury.

Last week, in a fit of infinite stupidity a message between brain and muscle got confused so instead of moving a whiskey glass upwards and sideways, I moved it diagonally, smashed it into a table, smashing it and slicing open a large cut in my finger. As that was bleeding profusely and refusing to heal quickly - it was pretty grim - I apparently failed to notice that a glass splinter had lodged in another of my fingers. Now that the cut is healing, the glass splinter is causing me a few problems.

Part of the problem with this is it is on my dominant hand and my other finger is still sore from the injury it sustained. My typing speed has taken a real hit and as this splinter is in the tip of my index finger, which is my main digit for typing. It's also pretty vital for pens and quills, so I can't even handwrite everything.

It might seem like I'm being dramatic - it surely feels dramatic when people around me are insisting I go to a walk in centre or something - but it really is rather bothersome at the moment.

Hopefully it won't have too dramatic an effect as it is almost Camp NaNo and I think, after much debate, I am going to commit myself to a project, though exactly what that is going to be I have not quite put my metaphorical finger on.

Catch you later.

A Room of One's Own,

Hello my digital darlings.

I can't believe that it is March already and I haven't actually written anything on here. It seems strange until I remember that life has been such a busy mess the last few months that I've been returning home on a Friday evening, collapsing headlong across my bed and not moving until Monday morning. (This is only a slight exaggeration I assure you).

So, what was it that was on my mind to prompt an exercise of the fingers and thumbs?

Well. Several years ago I was given a book called A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf. It is a combination of essays discussing the needs of a woman in order to write, though it is based in a different era where women were allowed to read but were excluded from particular libraries and, where they could read the same texts, were not allowed to receive degrees at most universities.

Though times have changed dramatically from this, the idea that what women need is a room of their own and money in order to write and create has not changed. In order to have any hope of committing the time which the craft takes as well as the energy and everything else which is demanded by the notebook and pen (other other writing implement at your finger tips) women, well, anyone of any gender or no gender at all needs space, time and independence.

I've picked this up and put it down a few times and I have wondered why, but I think it was an issue of I didn't want to pick it up completely until I knew that I was ready to commit to it again.

I have kind of been the same with dating. I admit to having spent the last year seeing people and thinking about what I wanted, and a lot of times it felt like what I wanted was to go back to what I had before, but recently I realised that I can't.

This last year has not changed me, but I have reacted to the things which were placed before me a little better than I used to, and I can see that I am building parts of the life I have always dreamt of.

So this is it. I'm ready to commit back to the blog, so I'll catch you later.