I am off on holiday tomorrow.

No more work for me for a good few weeks. I shall shortly be jobless and homeless.

It's all fine.

Will update when I can, but the access may be scarce.

Last night I went to the theatre dahlings, and saw Billie Piper in Treats.

I enjoyed it, although I had expected something funny, and it was a lot more serious than a simple comedy, with a bit of a twist.

I do like Billie though. I am not ashamed to say I used to listen to her music when I was a lot younger, and the temptation to yell "Because we want to!" was strong.

I also like her because she divorced Chris Evans and did not feel compelled to take any of his money. That is rare these days, and something I did myself, although my ex was not quite so rich. (She says, in the understatement of the year.)

I can't wait to see her play Belle de Jour.

In other news, I am departing these lands in a few weeks, firstly for a holiday, then secondly to live in another country for a year. Quite exciting and the job and accommodation have seemed to sort themselves out for now.

The love story with N continues, and I am so incredibly happy, that I fear the details would bore you senseless. I am not so much a walking cliche, as a skipping, singing, smiling cliche.

I am very lucky.

I read this in the Metro this morning. To sum it up, a girl has a party, gets drunk and decides it would be a good idea to climb out of a window, climb on to a garage roof (attached to but not part of her flat), and dance. She stepped backwards through a skylight and hurt herself quite badly. She recovered.

Most people would probably be thankful to have survived, and perhaps in future remember that windows are not made for exiting a building, and that dancing on a roof when drunk is perhaps not a bright idea. If they wanted you up there, they would have put a door there. Most people would chalk it up to a drunken mistake and be more careful next time.

Not this girl. She is suing her landlords.

She is suing her landlords for damages. They did not warn her that it would be dangerous to get fucked up on booze, climb out of a window and on to a garage roof and dance like a lush.

The garage was not even part of the property she was renting. She was effectively trespassing.

Disgraceful.

What a great idea. Check this out, buy a copy and contribute to red nose day.

And no, I am not in it. I am too afraid of rejection and don't think I have written anything particularly funny enough.

Have a nice weekend everyone.

Stories like this get me all fired up.

Why? Because they remind me of my biggest fear in life.

Not spiders, not death, not heights.

My biggest fear is that I will settle down and have children with someone, I will age and lose my figure and my youth, and then my partner will run away with a younger, more carefree option.

We will all age of course. We will all get wrinkles (I have some already). No doubt if I have kids my figure will never quite be the same. I think I can deal with that. But what if the person I choose to procreate with can't.

It happened in my family, perhaps that is why it's my biggest fear. I have seen the devastation, I had a front row ticket. Fuck it, I was in the performance.

So how do you guard against it? Is it a certain type of man who is always searching for the better option? I know in the cases I know of personally, the man is usually fairly comfortable financially (before the divorce darling), and reasonably selfish. He often has an attitude that life hasn't handed him what he deserves, he's not quite as sorted as he expected to be. He doesn't appreciate the things in life that perhaps I might value (health, family, love), but is more interested in the materialistic. Nothing is ever good enough. He might wear flashy clothes, he might drive a sports car.

But he doesn't wear a sign.

Oops.

I haven't posted in a while.

I've been busy, working and living, and trying to make the most of being in this city before I have to leave.

How on earth do you leave a country when the person you have fallen head over red-stiletto-heels in love with is there? How do you move to a new country you have never even visited, where you know noone, have no job, and no place to live? How do you say goodbye to all the friends you have made? How do you make new ones?

Fucked if I know.

But I have to do it, because my visa ends here, and I have no way of getting an extension. I can only hope that N and I survive long distance, and somehow, someway, something works out. Time will tell, I suppose.

I am over at Angry's place today. Metaphorically speaking of course. Some of you may not know that I was the first commenter ever on his blog, so I suppose it's only fair that I am the first guest blogger when he is away. I feel a teensy bit like I am cheating, as I haven't been much of a blogger lately.

Come and visit.

For many women, their weight and eating habits are a source of discontent, or struggle.

Not all, but many.

You only have to open a magazine to see the current trend for Size Zero, and the backlash. People are actually dying to maintain this level of scrawny. It's not feminine, nor is it healthy for the majority of women.

I did write a post recently about my recent exercise binge, and my horror at putting on a slight bit of weight. I actually have no idea how much I weigh, and I don't intend to find out. I'm still a size 8, and I don't like to get scales obsessive, or dedicate too much time to thinking about my body. (I would rather think about someone elses body, frankly.) I am still exercising a bit, and I am happy enough.

It wasn't always this way though.

A few years ago, I was in an unhappy relationship, and I started to comfort eat. I weighed the heaviest I had ever weighed, and I hated it. I felt enormous, and my partner at the time was not the best for aiding my self esteem. In order to get back to my normal size, at my partners suggestion I started going to the gym a lot. Four times a week, I pushed hard at the gym, three of those times with a personal trainer. My partner was a gym fanatic, and ate strict meals with a delicate balance of protein, carbs and fat. He expected me to do the same. I was miserable.

"What are you eating for lunch then?" he would ask.
"I don't know. A sandwich, some crisps."
"Cut out the crisps then." He would say. "I have tuna and salad, and some cottage cheese with rice crackers."
"I don't want to cut out everything that I like." I would reply.

I had a suit that I wore to work. The skirt was a few inches above the knee but by no means a mini.

"Oh, you really shouldn't wear that. It's not flattering. Throw it out." He said.
"Throw it out? It was expensive."
"You just don't have the legs for it babe. It's horrible."
"Oh." I never wore it again.

"You aren't fat. You just need to tone up your legs a bit." He said repeatedly. "Just here, and here...and here."

I went for a few years without wearing short skirts, shorts, anything that would reveal my untoned legs to the world. Now, when I look at my legs, I see the flaws first. Interestingly enough, my bra size increased to a 32D which was fantastic, but that didn't seem to be celebrated much.

When I moved to the UK, I started to wear short shorts. With heels sometimes. I went to a festival once in small black shorts, and the girls asked where they were from. "I would love some, but I don't have your legs." One of the girls said. I was amazed.

The worst thing is, at my heaviest point I weighed 60 kilograms. That's 135 pounds. I am 5'6. I was by no means overweight, and I was reading Weightwatchers books, taking diet pills, eating strict meals and exercising determinedly.

Fuck that.

Ironically, once I left the relationship my weight dropped off.