The Mean Reds

Hello, and welcome back! I said the Tinder Tales would continue, and I did not lie…

Tinder Tales #4

With number four, the awkward moment actually came on our second date. The first date went well; we chatted about ourselves, had a couple of drinks, and there was even a bit of chemistry. He walked me back to my car and – for the first time ever on a first date – we kissed. It was quite a good kiss, and I headed home with a spring in my step.

In fact, Mr #4 threw a spanner in the works that I had never even contemplated. We met for our second date at a restaurant local to me, a chain I believe, called Cleaver. He arrived a little flustered, but kissed me as he sat down – hello butterflies. But from there things got a bit awkward. There was chemistry, oh yes, but conversation was reluctant to flow. I turned to that old fail safe, the menu, and asked if there was anything he didn’t eat. I was contemplating various sharing platters – chicken wings, chilli nachos and the like – or a proper, hefty steak. Decisions, decisions. I knew he had a sweet tooth so was confident that a warm chocolate brownie would be appearing in front of me before we left the restaurant. He paused, menu in hand, and then uttered words I never expected to pass the lips of the 6ft something blonde ice hockey player next to me.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

Such simple words. Such a small thing – no meat. I have friends who are veggie, who eat kosher, and I can go for days inadvertently meat-free, simply because I like vegetarian food. The problem is, I also love meat. Suddenly a potential future together flashed before my eyes; nut roasts at Christmas, steak-free 14th March, no hearty beef stews in winter, or Moroccan pulled lamb shoulder with friends, slow-cooked pork sizzling on a BBQ… I’m salivating just thinking about it. Add in that that I have both shot and manually dispatched game birds, and I’m possibly not his type.

He went to Florida for a while. He may even have got back by now – I know he was due to be away for a few weeks – and while a part of me would like to see him again, I know I care too much about food and cooking. It’s not about what he does or doesn’t eat, nor is it about the reasoning behind it. It is about the opportunities and experiences it would close off to us were we a couple. I want to be with someone who actively enjoys food and cooking, and will be adventurous in what they try, both to eat and to prepare. Vegetarianism had never entered my mind as a possibility.

Sigh. Maybe I’m just too fussy.

 

Tinder Tales #5

First date easily 9/10, absolutely swept off my feet. I’d had some bad news the night before, and wasn’t fully feeling in the mood, but decided to go along anyway. We met by the flower stall outside Liberty’s, and he explained he’d booked a table at a bar nearby – number eight somethingorother road. We found the road. I saw a building with a number 8 on it. Eat. The sandwich chain. I looked next door. Agent Provocateur. Wasn’t sure either of these were really suitable first date material, but I swallowed my bad mood and went with it. What I’d failed to notice was an unmarked doorway between the two. With some irritation, trepidation and hyperbolic visions of underground muggings, gang rape, and murder, I followed him down the dark stairway. Far from the perilous site of a fatal attack, I was presented with a beautiful bar full of nooks and crannies in which one could curl up and sup on nought but exquisite cocktails and mouth-watering desserts. We whiled away hour upon hour – and cocktail upon cocktail – with conversation ranging from school (we went to secondary school fairly close to each other) to Plato (he was reading The Republic, or something like that). We shared a couple of desserts and sipped on cocktails containing liqueurs I’d never heard of, amontillado sherry, peat, and all sorts of other surprising things that tasted incredible. He offered me the chance to play a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card and leave, and I declined. At that, he kissed me, mid-date. Chemistry? Yes, so very yes. We carried on, dotting our constant conversation with kisses here and there, for hours more. Rather than nearly missing my train á la numéro deux, I actually missed it this time[i], and he hosted me for the night – accepting that I wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date, and not once trying to twist my arm. The second date was less than a week later and involved homemade chilli (cue text to a friend: “He eats meat!”) and a bottle of red with philosophical debates on the sofa. Third date lasted over 36 hours.

Over the next few weeks, we danced, we brunched, we drank wine, debated politics and philosophy, he tried – adorably – to make me breakfast and I subsequently taught him how to poach an egg, we dunked giant Bourbon biscuits into mugs of Earl Grey over a game of Scrabble, we watched Audrey Hepburn eat her breakfast at Tiffany’s while we ate brunch. He seemed funny, respectful, ambitious, hard-working, good fun. Possibly an over-thinker, but let’s face it I am the blackest of pots where that kettle is concerned.

But. But. There’s always a ‘but’. The last of this series of wonderful dates, I had a particularly painful arm on a day we had brunch at Seven Dials. The next evening, he called me to explain that he’d been thinking about the future and wasn’t sure he wanted any potential children we may one day have to inherit my genetic condition. We did talk over it all, but really truly, what it all boils down to is one simple answer: “Fuck You!”

***

I’ve been on one other date since that fiasco, and I hope to see him again so I shan’t jinx it by giving you details here. But Mr #5 has left me with some scars; I’d never before perceived my genetic condition, painful as it may be, to be a barrier to a relationship. Most of the time I have a strong enough perception of my self-worth to realise that it’s his loss, and if he’s flaky enough to turn me down because of the 1 in 20+ chance that any future kids – if we ever got that far ­– would inherit the more painful version of this condition from me, then he’s probably not the best person with whom to entertain the idea of a relationship. I mean, imagine something actually went wrong – not just a ‘maybe one-day’, but an ‘actually now’. What if a pipe burst, or the car broke down, or one of the kids got measles? It’d be a veritable Armageddon! I want to meet someone with whom I can face the challenges life brings hand in hand, all the stronger for having each other. But still, it stung, and on those days when I’m cursed with H. Golightly’s patented Mean Reds, it’s a new, looming spectre in the back of my mind.

“Every cloud has a silver lining” and this cloud was no exception. “Dickface”, as he’s affectionately known by some of my friends, has provided me with a lovely segue to bring me to the next, short but exciting chapter of my life: today was my first day at the INPUT Pain Management course at St Thomas’ Hospital in London. I have fondly nicknamed it St Thomas’ School of Pain, a name that brings with it images of a slightly twisted, Tim Burton-esque version of Mallory Towers. I might even have to get some ginger beer for a midnight feast. My goal is to try and expand the parameters of my life again, to re-encompass into it things I used to love but may have let go, and to do this independently, not having to rely on anyone else to help me cope with the pain. I’ve written before about depression, and I’ve written about the emotional reactions I have to parts of my body when they cause me pain. Those are just two of the experiences that will be covered on this course, and much more, in much more depth. It’s going to be a tough four weeks, but we’ve been told to approach it as an experiment, and in that spirit I shall be documenting some parts of it here. In addition, the philosopher in me is intrigued to see how others with chronic pain refer to themselves and their bodies: as one unit, or as two distinct entities?

Anyway, I digress. Today was Day 1, and in all honesty not much happened: a lot of introductions, to each other as well as to the staff; an outline of what to expect; initial assessments (I had to walk up and down a corridor for five minutes); and not forgetting lunch. Tomorrow is when the fun really begins. That said, it has  already got emotional a couple of times, and I predict that will only increase as we all start to realise we have four weeks ahead of us of facing up to that which we normally try to sweep under the rug. I might buy shares in Kleenex this evening.

And my love life? Well, I intend to see Mr #6 again – and soon if I can – but unless it goes tits up I’m unlikely to write about it for a while. All I hope for is some fun experiences, more intriguing conversation, someone to eat meat with, to feel a few fireworks, and to get through it all without being cast aside as damaged goods. Because I am one hell of a catch – I mean, even as I wrote the first draft of this in Leeds station, the cute barista in Starbucks came over to where I was sitting for a brief natter, then made me a free drink to make up for my train being cancelled.

If only I lived in Leeds…

IMG_1793    IMG_1795    IMG_1870

[i] Note to self: ask for watch for Christmas.

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Letting in ‘la vie en rose’

I realised recently that I seem only to have written for this blog recently when I have been particularly down or irritable about things – if indeed any of the last few posts can be called ‘recent’. This was not why I started writing this blog. Or it was, but not as a vehicle to share my woes, but rather as something to distract me from those woes and encourage me to focus on the bright side of life (cue Monty Python whistle) by sharing funny moments and yummy cakes as I learned more and more about country life. The problem with this theory, I thought, was that as I became more acquainted with mud and any terminology associated with it and its world, the fewer and further between the anecdote-worthy moments came. I have realised that I was wrong; in fact, firstly I became less embroiled in country life when I got a job in the wine trade, a distinctly less tweedy industry than the shooting one. I also broke up with Mr Farmer, meaning no more weekend jaunts on Sally the Combine Harvester. Secondly, upon leaving the shooting trade and joining the wine trade, life just got busier. And moving from WineWorld to Unilever only intensified that busyness.

Amid this busyness, life, to paraphrase a postcard I saw recently, is trying not to pass my family and me by so much as to run us over – and then reverse just to be sure. Despite this, I don’t want to turn this blog entirely into a portal of doom and gloom. I think as it evolves, this blog will become a blend of woe and (I hope) wit, of complaint and cake. In short, it will continue to be an outlet for whatever is on my mind. But I want so very much to push and push and keep open the door that life is trying so hard to close, and to let in la vie en rose as Miss Sabrina Fairchild would put it. And as such, I want to refocus on why I started writing here – to refocus my outlook on life, to see the Mississippi pie amid all the mud. As such, I have been wracking my brains to think of something positive or at least humorous to write about, say a scrumptious new recipe I’ve tried, or an amusing anecdote to share. One of the few new recipes I’ve attempted in recent months, I sadly cannot claim as my own – I followed someone else’s recipe, almost verbatim – but it WAS a cake and I DID make it, so I figure it counts. It was also my little brother’s wedding cake. (My ‘little’ brother is in fact a great dangling thing of almost 6ft 4, with arms too long for his already-overly-long self.) That cake was by far the most all-American thing I’ve ever cooked, in honour of the all-American bride. It was baked to welcome Ariel into our family and, at least as far as I was concerned, to cement her role as ‘sister-in-law’ in my life (because let’s be honest; that was the point of it all!) with as much chocolate icing and peanut butter cookie dough as it is possible to fit into one cake. As such, it deserves a post all of its very own – so you can be confident that the future of this blog does still hold some cake.

Since moving to my new cottage in Cobham – yes, Cobham, and no, I can’t afford it – I have noticed that I seem to have succumbed to a Waitrose infection; the only recipes I’ve really tried other than the wedding cake have all felt deliciously middle class. I sometimes feel I should be somewhat ashamed of this, but I’d be foolish to pretend I’m not middle class, surrounded by matching tea towels, oven gloves and apron, with my yoga mat out in the sitting room. So instead I’m choosing to embrace it! I’ve tried cooking quinoa, but as I’ve not yet really created a recipe using it worth sharing, that’s pretty much a dead-end (or more of a cul-de-sac?) I have made rosemary-roasted almonds, which have potential to be absolutely delicious, but I’ve not yet executed them to a standard to make it a recipe worthy of sharing. I’ve made hazelnut granola, but it’s a similar situation there as to the almonds with regard to the standard of execution. This whole non-Aga oven thing takes some getting used to. The homemade granola was attempted partly to avoid the extortionate prices of this newly-fashionable breakfast fodder[i], and partly so – I kid you not – I could add soya powder to the mix to get more protein into my breakfasts. I’ve made peanut butter Overnight Oats as per the minimalist baker’s recipe, fed to me via a friend. In fact, I’ve made them regularly and am about to whip up another batch to take to work tomorrow. I may not be dating a Chelsea footballer, but I am still feeling remarkably Cobham.

At dating footballers I may have so far failed, but at just plain dating I have… well, so far, also failed. My ‘single’ status indicates fairly accurately that every attempt I have made at a relationship has not exactly gone veil-inducingly well. Since Easter however, shortly before the aforementioned move to Surrey, my love life has been as unsuccessful as any moment in my romantic life.[ii]

After my best friend, her boyfriend and I has between us consumed more than a bottle of wine a piece, I decided she was right that after over a year single online dating was a great idea, especially as I was moving to a new area where I knew no one. This moment of enlightenment was followed by the two of us (she and me) composing a lengthy and beautifully written Ode to Me with which to grace my shiny new dating profile. Once done, and thrilled with our masterpiece, we submitted it to be reviewed and edited by her lovely boyfriend. What had been a number of paragraphs of positively stunning prose describing every favourable aspect of myself (at least if read through rosé-tinted spectacles) was streamlined down to about five lines. And while I say ‘edited’ I’m pretty sure our original version didn’t include the line,

“Good brain, good eyes, good abs, good c*ck = a good start!”

But, while it may deceive potential suitors into thinking I have the ability to be succinct (HA!), we decided to go with it. They say ‘in vino veritas’ so I’m not sure what this says about my friend’s boyfriend. However, given that subsequent male friends’ amendments to my profile include clog-dancing, bear wrestling and intergalactic conquest on my list of hobbies, I’m not sure I’ll take any of them too seriously.

While the online dating site in question wasn’t actually Tinder, a friend of mine has taken to posting Tinder Tales on Facebook, and I am going to steal borrow his title for the anecdotes that now follow – so thank you James for being my inspiration. If I’m really lucky, a little extra humour from your original posts may have become mixed up with the plagiarised titles.

Tinder Tales: #1

My first date actually didn’t go too badly. It was spur of the moment – always good – with one of two guys with whom I’d been chatting a day or two. He offered to drive to my neck of the woods – apparently a good start. He could only make it quite late, but as it was near me, I wasn’t too fussed. He said he’d be wearing a red jumper – so I was now only going to be peering curiously at every guywearingred alone in the pub, rather than every guy; a marked improvement. I couldn’t get the pub on the phone, so set out a bit early with a book to secure a table. On walking in, the pub confirmed that they had plenty of tables available – because the kitchen was closed. Sunday trading. Bugger. Never fear, I had an idea; I drove quickly to another pub nearby, and confirmed that they had both space and an open kitchen. Brilliant. I quickly texted my date, hoping to God that he would illegally check his phone while driving.

Installed in a comfy window seat, I wait…

I read my book.

I hope he got the change of venue.

I order a drink.

Please don’t let me have been stood up.

I read more of my book.

Lucky it’s a good book.

The barman comes over. The kitchen will be closing in five minutes.

I order two burgers – you can’t go wrong with a burger, right? Is this confidence or arrogance? Or foolishness?

Please God don’t let me have been stood up.

I read some more.

The food arrives.

Oh god, I can’t eat two burgers.

Well, let’s be fair, I can – but it wouldn’t make it any less embarrassing.

At that moment, a guy with a familiar face walks in. Is that him? He’s wearing a red jumper, and he’s evidently looking around for someone, but he’s not who I was expecting to meet. But he’s not the guy I thought I was waiting for. Didn’t he say he was 6ft 2? Oh shit. Of the two guys I was chatting to, he’s the other one. Hmm. I evidently haven’t quite got the knack of this online dating thing yet.

In fairness, I would still have agreed to meet up with him had I correctly associated profile-to-person, so decide to go with the flow. And – yesss! – he likes burgers. It was purely confidence after all (or so I tell myself.)

We eat our burgers, we chat, we have another (now non-alcoholic) drink (we’re both driving) and we’re getting on quite well. Then they start stacking the chairs upside down on tables around us. Oh yes. Sunday trading. We have now been on this date for less time than it took him to drive to it.

Date 1: 4/10, though not actually in virtue of anything to do with him. Fanciable, easy to talk to, no immediate spark fireworks. Would probably have scored the date a 6 if it hadn’t been for the series of organisational debacles. We have actually stayed in touch, so who knows? As yet, still firework-free, but maybe one day things will change (and we’ll remember to have dinner on an evening when pubs are open normal hours.)

Tinder Tales #2

Having agreed to meet Date 2 in a wine bar in St Pancras on my way back from a meeting in Bradford, I am a bit flustered and hot after rushing around to find the place having got off my delayed East Coast train. But he’s wonderful. We get on like a house on fire, the wine is good – and he’s not put off by my interest in it. The bar lets us order by the carafe – perfect for trying a couple of different bottles without having to get through a couple of different bottles. We venture into the treacherous waters of politics, and survive! We get into philosophical debates that at no point evolve into arguments, and yet are utterly absorbing. He isn’t afraid to disagree with me – bliss – and can actually hold his own in terms of number-of-words-spoken-per-minute – no mean feat. The words ‘awkward’ and ‘silence’ did not feature in our language. I glance at my phone – and gasp when I realise I’m going to miss my train if I’m not careful. We carry on nattering on the tube to Vauxhall. And, upon saying goodbye, I realise the fatal flaw. He’s really, truly great. He’s interesting. He’s attractive. But I’m just not attracted to him. We go to say goodbye, and as he leans down, I find myself figuratively scrunching my eyes closed and wincing, desperately thinking ‘don’tkissmedon’tkissmedon’tkissme’. I spend the train journey home feeling such a bitch – as though I’d led him on my enjoying myself. Turns out enjoying someone’s company does not chemistry make.

After I let him down, I received a message saying that he was already considering me “the one that got away.” Slightly scary. Slightly glad he doesn’t know where I live. Still, a lovely evening. (5/10)

 

Tinder Tales #3

This date could not have been more cringeworthy. I’ll spare you the finer of the details, but after much optimism-inspiring Whatsapp chat, my balloon was burst with a sharp pointy thing. Or, to be more precise, a dull instrument.

He wanted to meet in Wimbledon, because there were ‘nicer bars’ than in Epsom. I’d not been to Wimbledon since a shopping trip at about 16, so I went along with it. On the train on the way there, he asked me if I was “classy”. He also joked that if I wasn’t attractive enough, he’d pretend I was his sister when we were having a drink. Nice start.

We met outside the station. He didn’t know where we were going. Thought All Bar One would be a good place to start. Wasn’t sure where it was. He wasn’t pretending I was his sister. A compliment? With a bit of help from Siri, we got to All Bar One and at the bar, I ordered an Old Fashioned. He didn’t know what it was – ‘cause cocktails are a bit girly for him.

Hmm.

The Old Fashioned wasn’t on the menu, but classic that it is, the barman offered to make me one anyway. I said thank you. The drink I was presented with had bourbon in. That’s about the only resemblance it bore to an Old Fashioned. It also contained fruit juice, a wedge of lime, and a good head of froth after being traumatised in a cocktail shaker. Call me a stickler for the rules, but that just isn’t an Old Fashioned.

I’ll spare you a blow by blow account, but as the evening progressed, conversation proved to be painfully slow moving. But never fear; he’d obviously read some advice on dating, including that it was a good idea to ask your date questions about themselves. Phew! Cue his question:

“You don’t have very long fingernails, do you?”

It’s not often that I’m stumped for words, but that did the trick. At some point, we set off to head to our second bar – somewhere he apparently really liked. We went in, I went to look for seats while he went to the bar. There were no seats. I got back to the bar. He had decided it was too loud, so why didn’t we go back to a pub-y place we’d passed on the way? And without so much as a drink, onto bar three. In fact, bar three/the pub (and yes, the pub-y place was in fact, a pub) brought with it the highlight of the evening – a live guitarist complete with some pretty good acoustic covers. I hummed along as we attempted to make conversation, until a game of Name That Tune evolved. This was going quite well, relatively speaking, until Mr Guitarist decided to play his joker and switch to a medley. I got quite excited with the first couple of lines and explained it was a track from one of my favourite albums (Woodface by Crowded House if you’re interested.) I carried on singing along to the medley, and he said something along the lines of ‘wait, I do know this’ at which point I turned and explained that was because this part of the medley was Rhianna. Mr Guitar continued to chop and change songs and track after track, mostly well-known, passed by prompting no response beyond a frustrated and/or bemused look from my date, who didn’t understand how the guy was getting through the songs so quickly. I tried to explain the concept of a medley. I gave up. I heard a few chords from Wonderwall and thought we were on to a winner. And yes! Sure enough, he says “Wait… I know this one…”

At this point, the guitarist is singing the word ‘Wonderwall’. My date turns to me blankly; he in fact does not have it. I tell him it’s Wonderwall by Oasis. Oh yeah. He paused. Yeeaah I knew I knew it. Silence. Increasingly awkward silence, but thankfully the guitarist continued. My date then made the awkward silence more awkward, if less silent, by saying,

“I really think I’m more intelligent than I’m coming across.”

Lost for words twice in one evening. A record. I told him musical knowledge didn’t equate to intelligence, which is true even if both tend to feature relatively highly in guys in whom I’m interested. But he may have very different musical taste to Mr Guitar. But then again, doesn’t everyone know Wonderwall?

I’d have given him the benefit of the doubt, even if not a second date, until he turned to me and asked rather pointedly “so do you consider yourself quirky?” I don’t know why this got my shackles up, but it really did.

Two days later I get a message from him. There was apparently something he didn’t like about Saturday night. Morbid curiosity got the better of me and I asked what. I wondered which, of the many, many awkward moments had irked him most. His answer was that he couldn’t stop thinking about me. This took me by surprise, and was in a peculiar way even quite sweet. I told him I was surprised, that I hadn’t thought he’d had a great time and that I’d felt he thought I was a bit odd.

“I do think you’re odd. It’s endearing.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was one slightly patronising step too far for me. We haven’t stayed in touch.

Score out of ten: two, because I didn’t go home crying, it wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t stick it out for good manners’ sake, and if I’m honest 1.8 of the score is for the guitarist and the fact he included It’s Only Natural in his medley.

At this point I’m going to pause with the Tinder Tales, and shall resume another time. Please be reassured that a) there aren’t too many, b) I will tell you all about the wedding cake just not right now, and c) I actually went hedgerow-harvesting today, and have bowls of ‘hips, haws, sloes and even a few blackberries scattered around my kitchen, so will be playing with those in coming days – and will do my bestest to write about those escapades.

To end my post, I want to gift to you one further dash of la vie en rose, by sharing with you one of the stories that has made me laugh the most in recent months.

Last year, a friend of mine ordered an almond hot chocolate in Starbucks as a treat for himself. He paid, likely chatting with the baristas as he’s a nice guy like that, and knowing him very sweetly thanked the person who handed him his hot chocolate. He took a sip, right there and then… and pulled a disgusted face. As the barista hurriedly queried if anything was wrong with the drink, his expression melted into dejection and disappointment – in himself, as well as his drink. “No, there’s nothing wrong with it,” he said, “I just forgot I don’t like almonds.” The barista, at least in my imagination, tried to hide her smile as she asked if he would like another drink instead. But, never wasteful, he told her he would keep this drink as a punishment to himself, so he wouldn’t forget next time. I don’t know why this anecdote tickled me so much, but it had me in fits when he first told me, and still makes me chuckle every single time I think of it.

[Exit stage right, whistling:]

Quand il me prend dans ses bras…

 
           Slightly overdone Hazelnut Granola   The Wedding Cake   Peanut Butter Overnight Oats

[i] Or lunch. Or dinner. Or dessert. Or whenever you’re peckish, and have a large spoon to hand.

[ii] … except for one misguided relationship towards the tail end of my time at university that included letters exchanged between solicitors, 4am texts to my boss at the time threatening to end the relationship if I didn’t leave work early, being kicked out of the house, buckets of tears, and briefly an unwelcome third party briefly getting involved (a very pretty English Lit student. Not my favourite person in the world) and the hideous moment where you realise HE is breaking up with YOU. Resulting note to self: even doormats have too much self-esteem to put up with that shit. Rinse (very well), but do not repeat.

Dear Leg,

Dear Leg,

You’re hurting me. I know many parts of my body hurt me, but recently you’ve been doing it better at it than the others, more so even than Right Leg, Back or Head. And if the pain wasn’t enough on its own, it and therefore you make me limp sometimes. Like this morning for example. Limping even though I am a fit and (relatively) healthy 26 year old woman. That attracts attention, and even pitying glances, from absolute strangers. I don’t like that. It upsets me. If I’m going to attract attention from passers-by I want it to be because I am happy, confident, smiling, polite, friendly. I don’t mind being sad – it’s natural – but I don’t want to be pitied. It, and therefore you, also make me feel like a fraud, because in five minutes or five hours or tomorrow, I won’t be limping. There are so many people more worthy of pity and absolutely any ensuing empathy. I know I also probably attract at best some incredulity and at worst ridicule; despite your best efforts I’m still wearing heeled boots today. But I can’t really blame my choice of inappropriate footwear on you, even if I wanted to.

I resent you. I resent you for so many reasons. I resent the pain. I resent that even though I exercise, and make extra effort to eat what you supposedly need to recover and cool down and stretch, you still choose to hurt me. I eat within the stupidly small timeframe you give me to do so; it takes me longer than that to shower and dry my hair, meaning I’m often found awkwardly with struggling to get my damp body back into my underwear with a recovery bar clamped between my teeth, or trying to dry my hair with already aching arms and my mouth full. I resent that even though I stretch, and my flexibility is good, you choose to spite me there too. Because while if I don’t do it you hurt more than you have any right to, if I overdo it even slightly, I can’t feel bits of you sometimes for weeks. It’s a very fine line you’re making me tread. I also resent that even when I can’t feel you properly because you’ve gone numb in places, about the only thing I can still feel is the undercurrent of pain flowing up the pathways of my nerves. Nerves that I’m learning to identify by tracing the route pain takes up and down my limbs.

I resent that you make me tired. Yes, this is in conjunction with the rest of Body, but in hurting me worst you are currently therefore you are the most culpable of the despicable lot of you. Even than Face, who has also developed a knack of making me feel stupid (how many people have you heard complain of ‘face ache’?) I resent that even when I let you rest up to, sometimes even more than, ten hours a night, or sit inside on a beautiful bank holiday Monday afternoon so that you can be propped up with no weight on you, you pick and choose whether to feel better depending on whether it suits you. I resent that if I don’t sleep enough, I lose the resilience I’ve learned and still work on and strived to achieve and still strive to improve. And I resent, so very much, that you sometimes you use pain to deny me the sleep I need to cope with that pain you’re so cruelly inflicting.

I resent that you made me sit down all night at my friend’s hen party a few years ago, when I should have been up dancing with her, celebrating how much she was loved by everyone present, her upcoming marriage to her lovely fiancee, their future lives together, and in short celebrating life. I won’t be modest; I know I was an excellent bag-watcher and provided a port in the storm of fun whenever someone needed a five minute breather. But you should have let me dance, even just for a little bit. I even wore flats all weekend, just for you. But you still chose to spite me.

I resent that in the last two years you’ve scuppered me repeatedly, at times so much I’ve had to be helped out of my car into the house in phases, pausing for moments to recover and regather my wits in the garage, then the tack room, then the kitchen before making it to my bed. That you caused me to have to be carried upstairs like an invalid because I couldn’t stand, helped into a bath like a patient in the hope that the heat would ease the torment. You’ve hurt me so much I’ve bitten pillows and screamed into mattresses. I got my own back a few times by digging my fingernails into you, once so hard you bled. But let’s face it; I’m losing out there too. You inflict pain on me; I feel it. I inflict pain on you; I still feel it. It’s a two headed coin when I’ve called tails.

And if I’m shallowly honest, I resent that you force me to go through all of this, and still you cling on to those bloody stretch marks, and hold on to scars like a miser. And of course the hair you grow just has to be dark and noticeable, making regular shaving a necessity. You have dry skin that seems to drink any moisturiser I give you in huge gulps. You are just that bit too long for a Topshop long-leg length and yet also that bit too short for Long Tall Sally trousers – two pairs of which I’ve taken to be shortened, just to try and get trousers that fit me. Being more accommodating would be no fun for you, would it? To be fair, I’d accept all this without a grumble if you’d knock off the whole inflicting pain bit you’ve become so accomplished at, but given that you won’t stop that bit, can you really not drop even just the orange peel patches? Have you not heard of compromise?

But, even as I write this letter to you, while I’m sure that my resentment will cause rifts and barriers between us for many years to come and that you will continue your very best efforts to make life difficult for me, you should know that I still love you. I don’t think – though I’m always not certain – that you do it on purpose. In fact, I am actually proud of you. After all, you are one of just two who carry me around all day long, often in stilettos because though I know they make life harder for you, they make me feel good and smart and the turquoise ones especially are fun.

Last year you proved to me just how much you can do, when I agreed to go on a 5k run with a friend on the proviso that she let me walk whenever we needed to. And you didn’t need to. Not after three kilometres when we got to the viaduct, or after five or even eight kilometres, as we ran through fields and down to the reservoir, over stiles and up hills to breath-taking views, through muddy fields of cows. You got stronger, and faster, and carried me on a hilly 10k race around Petworth Park. Your endurance improved and you carried me, smiling can you believe, over the finish line of the 2014 New Forest 10mile run. And just three weeks ago, you carried me 13miles around the beautiful town of Hastings, making the extra effort to take me across the route to high five small children cheering everyone on from the side lines with their little hands held up on outstretched arms. You kept going while Chest decided to stab me with every breath like it did two summers ago, making me hold my breath for as long as I could before silently screaming through a single inhalation, pain white hot in my chest. Deprived of oxygen when you needed it most, after over two hours and 12miles into the run, you still kept going. And you sped up towards the finish line. Do you realise just how incredible that is?

I choose to make you my friend. I will continue to try and make you stronger, and balance the tightrope of post-exercise non-numbness-inducing stretching, and juggle protein bars and hair driers simultaneously in the gym changing room. I will keep smiling on days you make me hobble around the office, in the hope that people notice the smile instead of or at least before the limp, and as a result I might resent you that fraction less. Being really honest, I’m going to keep wearing stilettos, but I will make sure I stretch Calf of an evening as well as that of your twin Right Leg, even if I haven’t been to the gym. That way you won’t suffer unnecessarily in the way you make me suffer (two headed coin, remember?) And if you’re really, really hurting me I’ll give in and wear the ugly-but-comfy shoes with mattress soles, just in case it softens you up a little. I will try not to mark you with my fingernails when you hurt me. I will try to rest you when I think you need it, even if you don’t hurt me less as a result. I will try to keep sleeping, to let you rest and recover and repair, and I will use everything from chamomile tea and lavender oil to medication to help me sleep through whatever levels of pain you choose to play with at night, so you can rest and recover and repair even if you don’t choose to give me the night off. You won’t play ball; it won’t be quid pro quo, and I accept that. But nonetheless I’m going to keep looking after you, stretching you, moisturising and shaving you, trying to accept the orange peel bits of you as best I can, even if you keep hurting me. I’ll try to forgive you when my trousers are that bit too short or drag on the floor slightly, and try to remember that you keep me up on Feet all day, even if you hurt me while doing so. And in return, I hope you will keep me on Feet for as long as you can, and pain or no pain; that you don’t give up. Together, we’ll keep going and keep running and keep looking good in turquoise stilettos and we will keep living. Not only that but we will enjoying it in spite of the pain.

Yours, always,

Emily

Memento from Hastings Half 2015