You Give Them Somewhere to Live and This is How They Repay You...

Shortly after my masculinity was thrown into question by a mere ladybird my room was invaded by even more of them. Because I now knew their identity I let them go about their business because everyone knows ladybirds are a friendly bunch. The very same day I was on the way to my local Tescos in Highgate when I came across a massive swarm of them on a street corner. I have never in my life seen such a sight. And it was highly inconvenient - I had to walk on the road to avoid them. I was later informed that there'd been an invasion of Asian ladybirds in Britain. I took this information and did nothing with it. A couple of days later I woke up to find at least 13 ladybirds having a snooze at the top of my curtains. I shrugged and left them to it.

This was in September.

Come November they were still wandering about and it was getting to the point where I was growing quite fond of them and able to tell some of them apart. I distinctly remember wondering if perhaps there was something wrong with the way my brain was wired.

Towards the end of November I went to The Wrestlers pub with my friend Al who lives down the road. One of the ladybirds decided he wanted to come along and I noticed him wandering about on my scarf and stupidly drew Al's attention to it. I felt a bit embarrassed - I was like the pigeon lady in Mary Poppins but with ladybirds instead of filthy ones.

Back in my bedroom I accidentally broke one's wings by not seeing it and squashing it with my Johnny Vegas monkey (an excellent boyfriend substitute as his arms are really heavy so you get great hugs without the hassle that would come if he were real). I was in tears because I knew I'd have to put it out of its misery. I was sat there eyes brimming saying out loud, "I'm really sorry, please forgive me" as, after waiting for ten minutes hoping it would recover, I squished it in a tissue. I felt shaken for some time afterwards.

In December things turned nasty. I started waking up covered in bites and in the most inconvenient places (wrists, ankles etc.). At first I thought it was because I'd had the window open and that mosquitoes had got in. But then I decided it was a bit cold for that. My next thought was that it was bedbugs which quite frankly is my worst nightmare. There's something really grim about the thought of something coming out of your bed and having a feast on your feet whilst you're getting a bit of shut eye. I couldn't work out why they would suddenly start biting though and my sheets were clean so there was something not quite adding up. And as a ladybird wandered past I came to the conclusion that I'd rather it was them biting me than bedbugs.

Perhaps they were getting me back for the tissue-squishing incident.

I was told that ladybirds don't bite people but when, two nights after receiving a particular bite, it swelled up ridiculously and I came down with a migraine, dizziness and nausea I thought I should look up ladybird bites on the internet. It turns out that the ladybirds in my room were indeed the Asian ladybirds who've invaded Britain. They're called Harlequin ladybirds and are known for getting all up in our ladybirds' faces and invading our houses. Word on internet street is that when food runs out they will start to bite humans. This made me happy and sad at the same time: happy that it wasn't bedbugs but sad that the LBs had turned on me. On a whim I put an over-ripe banana out for them and wasn't bitten again. I wonder whether I should be offended that they'd rather eat a bruised piece of fruit than me.

On Saturday just gone I was taking down my curtains getting ready for my move home and found out that not only do they use the top of the curtains as their bedroom but as their toilet as well. It was COVERED in tiny little poos. They were like minuscule versions of human poos. I felt like I'd found really disgusting treasure. I was quite surprised that over the whole period of their stay with me I never saw any of that yellow stuff they do. Do you remember being little and picking them up and thinking that they'd weed on you? Well I don't know if you know this but apparently that's actually blood - it's their way of playing dead so they don't get eaten.

I don't know about you but I feel like I've learnt a lot.

Man, I Feel Like a Woman

On the afternoon of Saturday 19th September 2009 I decided that I am a real man. If my giant turds, excellent DIY and bill paying skills weren't enough my masculinity was soon confirmed after having my ear chewed clean off by at least four hours worth of mindless babble. I sat there thinking to myself this must be how a man feels when a woman just talks at him about things he knows nothing about (i.e. The Hills) and/or has no interest in (i.e. The Hills)*.

I didn't know it yet but things were going to turn decidedly feminine.

Later that night I was taking a zinc tablet in my bedroom and instead of shaking it out on my hand I instead opted to throw my neck back and chuck it straight in. As my eyes went up to the ceiling I spotted a round, black thing. I wondered what it was, thinking perhaps it was a very large bit of dirt. But then it started moving. At first I thought it was a ladybird but it just seemed too big, especially given how high my ceilings are. And then it appeared to be changing shape - this thing was black and morphing and was definitely no ladybird - and that's when I decided there was undeniably a mutant bug in my room. Suddenly without warning it spread its before hidden wings and took flight landing on the door. It was such an unexpected movement that I squealed and threw my arms up in the air. This would have been much less dramatic had I not been holding a pint mug full of water at the time. I spent the next five or so minutes monitoring its location. Then, shape shifting, it moved to the top of the door and disappeared into the crack between the top and the frame. And then its wings kept appearing - huge and menacing. I was horrified. It was nearly bed time and I couldn't bear to turn off the light with this monster cavorting about the place with potentially enormous teeth and a penchant for human blood. I text Vic asking that if she was awake and not busy could I talk to her because I was having issues. She called straight away concerned that something awful had happened. Not yet Victoria, not yet! I informed her in a screechy, high pitched, decidedly girly manner that there was a peculiar creature in my room. She suggested killing it and although I was tempted I knew I couldn't. I live by the moral code that you shouldn't kill insects (unless they're in pain) even if the one in question is a mini killing machine. I got off the phone and mentally devised a plan of action: I'd wait for it to move away from the door and then run out and get a glass (the mug would not do - keeping an eye on this thing once captured would be vital) to trap it in. I eventually got out of the room and when I returned the unidentified insect was on the picture rail and then I couldn't see it anymore. If there's one thing worse than seeing a UI in your room it's knowing it's there but not being able to see it. I went towards the Sainsbury's bag that was doubling as a bin and noticed the bug was hanging out on it. With the speed of a girl on the verge of heart failure I put the glass over it feeding a Fred Astaire CD inlay underneath to stop any attempts of escape and then I took a closer look. It was only a bloody ladybird wasn't it?! In my defence it was on the yellow side of red and had more spots than is usual. I took it out to the kitchen window and tried to let it out. It wasn't having any of it and decided to stay. At least it was now in the kitchen rather than my bed.

I'm not sure what got into me. Perhaps I was brainwashed by all the Hills chat.

There have been various times when I've been called upon to remove creepy crawlies from the vicinity of real girls. There was the time in halls when I had a frantic call from my friend Nikki to come over to her block to get rid of an insect. I patronisingly rolled my eyes and shook my head feeling a sense of purpose as I wandered over. I saw it and I have to admit I was worried. We had no idea what it was - it looked like something out of Jurassic Park. Although I was pretty scared given its size and dinosaur-esqueness I covered it with Tupperware. Imprisonment, I feel, is as as good as getting something out of a building. At least you know where it is and it can't come crawling back to pounce on you when you least expect it. We went back to look at it a bit later and it had turned into two of the same prehistoric bug!! After that freakish behaviour there was absolutely no way I was going near it. We found out quite some time later that one of the boys had found another one and put it in with the other one. We were sure it was an alien that had multiplied all by itself and was planning to take over the world. We also found out later that it was actually a may bug** and not the end of the world as we knew it.

So that wasn't the best example of my manliness but what about these?...

Once when living in a student house I refused to wash a massive house spider down the plug hole and he lived in our bath for a bit. I named him Archibald and I was quite upset when he left. (I'm under the impression he was actually murdered by one of my housemates.)


When I finished university I did a week's dance course in a London studio and found what I thought was a dung beetle on the toilet floor. I couldn't have found it in a more appropriate place. I wanted to take it to the zoo in case it had escaped but it had been crushed a little bit by the door so I decided to take it with me to nurse it back to health. I did this by sitting it on a bit of cucumber. It didn't work so I laid him to rest in a friend's garden. This same friend stamped on my dreams by informing me it was not a dung beetle but a stag beetle so probably not a zoo fugitive.

I feel I have now restored your faith in my masculinity. If I haven't then I happily challenge you to a duel. Yes I am indeed a medieval man.


* Since I wrote this (N.B. I wrote it a while ago but have only just got round to posting it) I have met two men (straight) who love The Hills. It appears I am more of a man than a man.

**Writing this I learnt that a may bug's official name is a cockchafer. I wonder why this is - a masturbation experiment gone wrong perhaps?

Update with Excuses

Yesterday I moved back to my home town "oop north" with the intention of taking a month to sit down and write. I am fully aware how neglectful I've been of my Toilet Blocker blog (excuses: I was promoted to a job that took up 100% of my working day, had no internet access in my new house and then was made redundant so was in a big head pickle) and with that in mind I've decided that I have to write something for it every day even if it's just: "Today I ate five Weetabix and had a big poo". This will probably be the content of most of my posts so you have that to look forward to.

There's a bit of a backlog of things that I've written in note form that need expanding on which will also be posted. These include the story of babysitting my friend Victoria's boss's baby, poo stories from Cornwall and the story of being terrorised by unknown creatures in my bedroom. It's going to take some real motivation on my part but it's something I've got to do or else my existence is basically pointless. Hello, dramatic!

The amount of procrastination that has already occurred whilst just writing this update is quite something. So far I've looked in my bag about four times, been to talk to the librarian to ask if my library card is out of date when I know full well that having not used it for five years that it is five years out of date and I've also flicked through a three days out of date local newspaper which has either had the majority of its pages pilfered or there's just not much to report. Given the front page story consists of a massive picture of a bus that got stuck in the snow I'm thinking it's the latter.

I will see you tomorrow with something that is hopefully more substantial.

With love and wishes of healthy bowels,

Toilet Blogger

Public Transport Paranoia

When I'm on a bus I get a tiny bit upset when two free seats become available and the person sitting next to me moves. I take it personally and wonder what I did wrong, "Am I unsightly? Do I smell?" when I know full well I showered and deodorised that morning. Unless I'm really pooped and need a window seat to stop my head from lolling about I tend to stay put when the free seat situation arises so not to offend my travelling partner. I am sure they'd prefer me to leave but I'd rather stay put so they feel loved.

This morning I had the most wonderful bus experience I think I've ever had, on London transport at least. I was next to the window and a beany-hatted, plaid-trouser-wearing, guitar-holding man sat next to me. An excellent experience in itself but wait, it gets better. This fellow forfeited SEVEN sets of free seats by the end of the journey. I have never seen the phenomenon of that many free seats on a morning bus journey but that is besides the point. I was so happy I nearly told him I loved his trousers (they reminded me of my favourite pair of pyjama bottoms) and wondered if it would be inappropriate to hold his hand. You'll be pleased to know I settled for prolonging the leg to leg contact that occurred when the bus turned a sharp corner (this may have been when the driver nearly ran over a little girl). This is what I have to resort to these days to get male physical contact - either touching them on public transport or going to partnered dance classes where you get held by a multitude of men without them expecting to get in your pants. Ideal.

Sadly he didn't get off at my stop but I smiled at him as he let me out and then we had a moment through the window. Aah.

I regret not complimenting his trousers.

50 Quid and All for a Bit of Free Cake...

The news about The London Paper has inspired me have a root around in my old Facebook notes.

In April 2008 I wrote my first 300 word article for The London Paper's reader column (here is my second offering) but they never published it. I told myself it's because they can't print the word blowjob. So I published it on Facebook instead and now I'm publishing it here as well. Ha! That'll teach them for rejecting my ramblings. And now onto the main event...

50 Quid and All for a Bit of Free Cake...
April 2008

Two years ago I signed up to an escort agency, somewhat naively it turns out. Having graduated from university and getting nowhere on the job front I thought it’d be the perfect solution and all I’d have to do is accompany men to weddings and that meant free cake. Brilliant. After paying the £50 joining fee I was contacted saying there’d been a lot of interest in my profile and I’d get £1000 for an evening. I was amazed.

‘And I don’t have to have sex with them?’

‘Of course you do,’ the man scoffed.

‘Oh, but on the website it said no sex.’

‘We have to say that because it’s illegal,’ he replied patronisingly.

He then attempted to persuade me to ‘touch’ men if I wasn’t going to have sex with them. I told him I wouldn’t even if I was offered a million pounds. I was left feeling a bit silly and £1,000,050 out of pocket.

I had a few calls after that from clients themselves to whom I explained the no sex deal. They liked to barter, suggesting that perhaps we’d like each other. I wanted to reply, ‘If you’re needing to pay for sex I’m thinking that’s unlikely.’

Things went quiet.

A couple of months ago I had a missed call from a number I didn’t recognise so I called it back. ‘Do you do massage?’ Um no. Then the other weekend I received a text referring to me by my escort name asking if I’d be free for a date anytime soon. Instead of ignoring it I replied explaining how I’d naively joined the site. The negotiations began on his part and I had to explain that I don’t do physical contact and am purely company to which he replied, ‘So would that rule out some kissing and touching?’ I text back, ‘That would entail physical contact.’ I then received this: ‘So would a blow job or hand job be out of the question?’ Hmm let me see…

This week I have had two other men get in contact and yet I only paid for a year’s membership. Perhaps the website feels guilty about the false advertising. Tonight I decided to log on and on my profile it said, ‘I am signed up on a no sex basis.’ It appears men willing to pay for sex are not willing to pay for an eye test.

Secret Squirrel

If there is one thing you should know about me it’s that I cannot sleep on an empty stomach. I was already aware of this information and yet last night I attempted to embark on slumber with a gurgling stomach. On the rare occasions that this has happened in the past I have waited it out fooling myself that sleep will battle it out and defeat hunger; four hours later I’d crumble and then go and eat some (haha).

So last night I gave in within 15 minutes of having been horizontal instead of wasting hours lying awake with only my chattering stomach for company. Like a secret squirrel operating under the cover of nightfall off I went foraging for nuts. I felt nuts would be less offensive to my toothbrush than BBQ Pringles or a clove of garlic so I stood in the kitchen in my pants and ate 45 grams of cashews. I wasn’t fully satisfied after my ‘feast’ but short of eating the Pringles and the garlic there’s not a lot I could do about it. At least my flatmates didn’t catch me with my boobs out popping nuts in my mouth.

And with a brush of her teeth and a sigh of relief the secret squirrel fell asleep.

The Prince's Rainforest Project

Supervisor Steve and Sanitary Bins

You may be aware that my supervisor Steve is the funniest man ever to have walked the land. I would very much like to give him his own television show but as I am in no position to do such a thing he remains Head of Despatch at our postproduction company. Here are some of his antics in the last week or so…

On Thursday last week Mike had a bit of milk left in the bottle once he’d used the rest for his cereal so he asked Steve if he wanted to drink it as he tends to enjoy our dregs. On taking a sip Steve stated seriously, ‘God, that milk’s cold. I can feel it entering my lower colon.’ If this wasn’t amusing enough he went on to say, ‘I can feel it rushing past my appendix.’ I was laughing so hard at his deadpan expression and choice of internal organs that saliva nearly fell out of my mouth. On typing this up the hysterics began again so I’ll be sure to read this little paragraph if I’m ever feeling miserable.

The same day our other supervisor Jack had a clear up of his desk area, which inspired me to do the same as I’m a bit of a scrap-paper fiend. On sorting through my pile of paper I came across a poem I wrote about a year ago; in an attempt to get Mike’s comedic juices flowing I'd set us an exercise from the book of a comedy genius whose stand up comedy course I had attended in 2007. The task was to write a love poem written by a sanitary engineer. This is mine:

Love Poem of a Sanitary Engineer (bog fixer, sanitary bin installer/taker awayer)

How I love thee, Sanitary Bin,
Not only your outsides but all that’s within.
The glistening fluid that highlights your grey hair,
Makes me want to stand all day and stare.
I’ve never smelt a smell as sweet,
As the smell that you excrete.
And the way you overflow with love and rose stained strings,
Fills me with desire and makes my heart sing.

Personally I think this is quite good but I feel the title should be something more like Ode to Sanitary Bin. That would be more fitting and romantic.

On Friday Steve used the word gusset twice and said that you can eat pubic crabs if you feed them up enough. I won’t be accepting an invitation to dinner at his house in a hurry.

On Tuesday of this week, after eating two of the brownies I made at the weekend, he declared, ‘She’s good at brownies that go in your mouth and brownies that come out her bum.’ That man has a way with words. I’d go as far as to say he’s the Shakespeare of the 21st century.

On Wednesday however his Shakespearean reputation was in tatters when he insulted me in front of everyone in the office. He was saying that we are all ageist (he is around 50 years old and has a real age complex) and so I took it upon myself to remind him that he could be done for sexual harrassment and weightism, as he’s constantly telling Mike that he’s a fatty, so he has no legs to stand on. We were all laughing about it and having a good time. He said that he wouldn’t call Mike fat if he actually was and then these words came out of his mouth, ‘You don’t hear me saying anything about Sonia’s complexion do you?’ and rather than realising he’d gone a bit too far he continued to go on about my skin and how it makes me have low self esteem. It was word vomit central. I was so shocked I exclaimed, ‘Oh my god, Steve!’ and as I looked at my computer screen tears involuntarily started coming out of my eyes without so much as a facial crumple. I was hurt that he used something against me that he knows I struggle with. I could hear him typing an email straight after and I nearly said, ‘If you’re typing an email to me I wouldn’t waste your time,’ but I didn’t want to seem presumptious. But sure enough I got a new email alert and this is what he’d sent:Sonia - I am a fucking twat.

I didn't mean any of those comments. When I start I do not know when to stop.

You are the last person that I would ever want to hurt.

I am so sorry. Please forgive me.

A few seconds later he came over and said, ‘Did you see my email?’ to which I replied that I was not interested. He kept saying sorry over and over and then proceeded to ask me what I was having for tea. I asked him very politely, ‘Please can you just leave me alone, is that alright?’

The next morning he came straight over to me saying such things as, ‘Are we going to forget about tomorrow?’ (he meant yesterday) and, ‘Just be the bigger person here.’ I went a little bit mad and said, ‘Don’t you dare make me feel bad for something that YOU have said to me,’ and I suggested that he leave things for a while. As a man with a daughter around my age and a wife you’d think he’d know better. You’d be wrong.

Today after a frosty start we are starting to see some sunny intervals and I’m sure come next Monday I’ll be singing his praises and quoting his genius but no doubt he’ll wind me up again with his antagonistic ways some time soon.

All in a (well eight) day’s work.

(Please note that Steve has a Yorkshire accent.)

Steve, Mike and Jack

A Lovely Story About Poo: Number Two

There has been a lot of talk about Britney in past blogs and I feel I have been neglecting the topic of toilets. Anyone accidentally landing on the Ramblings of a Toilet Blocker blogspot could be forgiven for feeling lied to and I wouldn’t hold it against them if they sued me for false advertising.

So this blog is for them…

A few weeks ago I went for dinner with a friend, let's call her Paula, who is in a very complicated on/off relationship. She was telling us that she had been talking to her ‘lover’ on the phone whilst she was sat on the toilet doing a poo. Paula decided that it would be appropriate to tell him what she was up to and he said, ‘Nothing you could do would put me off you.’ Lovely sentiment but wait, it continues... ‘I would use your poo as toothpaste.’ I WOULD USE YOUR POO AS TOOTHPASTE, people! Now I love poo but this, my friend, is taking things too far. I draw the line at touching, eating and using it as toothpaste.

I don’t know about you but talk of number twos really does tickle me. Another friend was recently trying to explain which photo she favoured of a number that had been taken at a party. She said, ‘I love the one with me looking up like a turd.’ I did enjoy her description. Not long after this, and I can’t remember what it was I'd said to evoke this reaction, she exclaimed, ‘I’m so excited, I might need a poo.’ I tell you I laughed quite heartily at this, especially as said friend isn't really one for faecal chat. She really has drawn the short straw with me as a companion.

My supervisor Jack decided it would be a good idea to start tickling me the other week - we are all very professional where I work - and I had to shout, 'No don't!!' and explained to him that I needed a poo and that if he continued I might accidentally go on my chair. A sure fire way to stop a tickler in their tracks. It wasn’t a lie though; I really did need to go.

He was telling me that one of the bookings guys likes to use the phrase 'Chew my poo,' when clients are being demanding. I do enjoy a sentence that rhymes. I often hear the same guy cry, 'Shit the bed!' when things aren't really going to plan and a more recent one that really took my fancy was, 'Shit cakes'. I liked this because I like poo and I like cakes, a perfect pairing if ever there was one.

In May I went to my friend Alex's gig at Monkey Chews in Chalk Farm, the same place I met my poo soul mate, and I was very excited because I knew that she would be there. I hadn't seen her since that first time but she would always text me intermittently with tales from the toilet and brighten up whichever day it was she’d send them. After she and Alex had serenaded the audience nine of us were stood in a circle downstairs and the subject of poo came up practically straight away. There were a few people in the circle who I’d not met before including a girl who confided that she'd been constipated of late. I told her to try eating a salad of avocado, tomato and cucumber, which usually gets me going. At that moment I mentally distanced myself and realised I was chairing a Pooaholics Anonymous meeting. People were looking to me for anus-related advice. I finally felt like I had a purpose in life and it warmed the cockles of my heart.

Another day in May I was having bowel issues which I think may have been due to nerves (it appears I am not only an emotional eater but an emotional pooer too) as I was going to the birthday party of the object of my affection who I wasn’t convinced wanted me to attend. I spent much of the day with my least favourite of all the poo groups: diahorrea. I was waiting for my friend to meet me so we could go together and my stomach was still churning so I text her telling her if she happened to have any Immodium I would love her forever. She didn’t have any but I think I’ll probably love her forever all the same but that is not relevant to this story so I shall continue... Once inside my stomach chilled out a little but, such is the case when you’re drinking pints of water, I soon needed a trip to the lav. Disaster struck when I decided to read the door-locking instructions, that were sellotaped to the door, even though I had used the toilet various times in the past and had had no problems. Reading the instructions confused me and I managed to pull the handle off the door. I went in search of someone to help show me the way when I came across the boy I was quite fond of and so told him of my predicament. We went into the toilet and he demonstrated how to do it locking us both in and then, joy of joys, he kissed me. I will forever remember being in that overlit bathroom being kissed by someone I really liked as East 17's ‘Stay Another Day’ could be heard playing in the living room and a girl’s screams emanated from the bedroom. It was a moment when lighting concepts and the need to wee were the furthest thing from my mind. A magical moment I’m sure you’ll agree.




Passing Firetrap at Seven Dials in Covent Garden on my lunch break a few weeks ago and I was delighted to see the best window display I've ever had the pleasure of setting my eyes upon. Unfortunately they’ve now changed their display to chainsaws which are very pretty but do not rub me up aesthetically quite the same way. Luckily I got a pic in the nick of time so all is not lost.

Last week I came down from the poo toilet at work to have Mike waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase. He ran ahead of me into our office to tell Steve to stop his clock. It took me two minutes to do my business. They don’t say I have rocket sh**s for nothing!

I was just searching for this blog in my documents so I could finish editing it as I have been highly unmotivated of late and I came across a Word document containing potential blog ideas. One was so relevant to this blog I had to include it:

“Fri 4th April 2009 18:14

Just went into the loo to wash the sugar off my hands from my fourth donut of the day. I read the typed sign on the door as I went in which says, ‘Please do not poo!!!!’ and someone has written in pen in tiny writing underneath, ‘In the sink’. That amused me. It reminded me of the time I was in the Betsey Trotwood pub in Farringdon having a wee and there was a sign on the inside of the cubicle door saying, ‘Please do not poo in the toilet’ and someone had written underneath it, ‘Where would you like me to poo then? In the bin?’ Oh it did make me chuckle. Was up there as one of my most enjoyable non-poo toilet related experiences.”


Earlier today I was chatting to a friend on Google chat who told me that he was typing from his toilet (reminiscent of ‘Paula’ and her 'lover' apart from the fact I don’t want to use my friend’s poo as toothpaste) and he even typed the sound effects for me so that I could be fully involved in the experience. I helped by finishing it off with ~@~ which in the world of Google chat creates the picture of a poo! This trick was shown to me by a random American fellow I met outside a pub in the interval of a comedy night I was doing the door at. He gave me the greatest gift I have ever received – the gift of poomoticons. Now you have that gift don’t be scared to share it.

I hope you have enjoyed these ramblings of a toilet blocker (you’ll be pleased to know the designated poo toilet at work is getting used to my mammoth poos and doesn’t blog quite so much these days) and that you are having a lovely day.

Forever yours,

Toilet Blogger

Bitter 'Bout Britters

Oops I Did It Again…

…I made yet another dim-witted decision. The only difference with this one is it’s probably the most ridiculous of all my bad choices and has brought to my attention just how many times I am left disappointed through unskilled judgement.

On Wednesday last week at around 5pm I was offered 3 free tickets to see Britney in concert. This came an hour after my flatmate emailed to tell me that she’d got a ticket for £5. I was pretty devastated, as by the time she’d checked to see if there were any more there weren’t so it seemed like fate when I was offered some free tickets just as I was contemplating suicide. However they were for that very night and I had already agreed to work on the door of the Moonfish Rhumba boys’ comedy night and because I’d let them down the last couple of times I didn’t want to do it again, not even for Britney who I have loved since the beginning of time.

The following day at work I was offered two more tickets but this time for the sum of £100 and for Saturday night’s concert. It was my chum Rachel’s birthday that night and I did not want to let her down so again I turned down the tickets.

On Friday the same guy offered me his tickets for £80 but still the birthday came first. Then the Production Manager came down in the afternoon and said, ‘Sonia, you like Britney don’t you?’ I groaned, I couldn’t take much more of having to turn Britney down. My luck was in though, lending truth to the phrase 3rd time lucky, as she told me that she could get me tickets for Britney on Sunday for £2 each! I nearly died.
She is a member of a thing called Audience Club where you pay a certain amount a year and then you only have to pay the booking fee for such wondrous things as Britney concerts. She brought me the confirmation email and told me that she didn’t have her membership card on her but they never check. This worried me somewhat as it would be just my luck that I’d trek to the O2 and then be denied a ticket but this was a risk I was prepared to run. There had to be a reason that I was offered Britney tickets three times in just as many days.

Sunday came around and Victoria accompanied me on what turned out to NOT be the giant mission I expected the defunct Jubilee line to cause. Nervousness about the impending potential ticket rejection accompanied us on our journey; Vic was more nervous than I was as she was more optimistic about our chances of getting our mitts on the ticks. Because I was 87% expecting to be denied I wasn’t quite so worried. We decided that I would go to the pick up point on my own as the pressure would be too much if I had to make up stories about where my membership card was. I had however decided I would be honest and say I didn’t bring it because no one ever checks it. I approached the ticket booth and stated I had booked my ticket on line and gave the name of my Production Manager. The lady asked if I had an email and so I handed over the extremely crumpled print-out (my attempt at trying to get the ink to come off where it said to bring the email ‘along with your audience club membership card’). Thankfully she didn’t ask for the card but she did ask me a question that will haunt me forever more, ‘Would you like VIP standing or 4th Tier seating?’ Alas, a choice had been bestowed upon me. Hmm, standing up close or sitting up top? It was a tough one. I shouted for Vic. She looked frightened. Had my attempts to blag tickets failed? When she got to the ticket booth I smiled and asked her what she thought. We deliberated for quite some time and then settled on seating. We screamed with delight when the tickets were in my hand. I was concerned they might chase us and say, ‘You are far too excited, can we see your membership card?’ but they didn’t so we went to S&M (Sausage and Mash) Café. As we ate I was being very quiet and I took this as not quite believing we had tickets to see Britney Spears. I had never been to a concert before so for my all time favourite pop star to be my first was beyond comprehension.

We finished our food and went to get a coffee and a scone (for me) and then made our way up to our seats. And that’s when I saw I’d made the wrong choice. Had we picked VIP standing we’d have been able to TOUCH the stage. As it was we were right at the top where, yes, we could see the entire stage but when you’re in a plane you can see an entire ocean and yet not the fish that are swimming in it. I told myself it was better where we were because it’d be a pain standing for a few hours. Then Ciara came on. I am also a massive fan of her for she is the most amazing dancer. And she was amazing from where we sat if in fact it was Ciara that was on the stage. It could have been any Tom, Dick or Harry apart from the fact she had quite a cleavage on her, which is saying something considering I couldn’t make out her facial features. For some unknown reason they hadn’t put the big screens on for the unfortunate ones in the rafters so it was like watching the TV in someone’s living room from out in their garden.

It wasn’t until Britney came on (could have been a random off the street for all I knew) and the screens didn’t that the misery truly overtook me and my mind was alive with all the other decisions I’ve made in my life that have left me disappointed. I’ve always known I don’t like to be given too much choice but never really knew why. It was at this moment I realised it’s because I don’t trust myself enough to make the right decision and because I never listen to my gut feeling I always end up making the wrong one. I was thinking about things so much that I started to cry. Thank goodness it was dark and I had a tissue in my bag. I didn’t want Vic to see me upset.

Vic kept saying she felt guilty for saying we should sit but I without doubt knew, and told her, that it wasn’t her fault. I should have heard the words ‘VIP standing’ and cut that woman off before she’d had a chance to say ‘seats on the roof.’ What on earth possessed me to even question which tickets would be better? A choice made from being cautious and practical (best to be comfortable) rather than trusting my instincts that I can’t seem to decipher anymore. It’s like I’ve ignored them so long they no longer speak to me or such inconveniences like logic and other people just shout over them.

When we went our separate ways at Tottenham Court Road tube Vic apologised again, and again I told her it wasn’t her fault. She saw my eyes fill up with tears, which set her off, and I felt awful that I hadn’t been able to hide my heartbreak. And I know that this must sound absolutely RIDICULOUS to anyone reading this but I don’t think I’ve ever been so upset, not even about a boy. I have to emphasise the fact this wasn’t just about Britney (the tickets only cost me £4 for goodness’ sake), it was about realising that my life isn’t what it could be because I’m an imbecile.

Now I see my quietness was due to subconsciously knowing I’d made the wrong ticket choice rather than not quite believing I’d be ‘seeing’ Britney Spears. My reason for being offered tickets so many times was now apparent. It wasn’t because I’d end up looking up her skirt but to teach me I need to get a grip where opportunities are concerned.

I walked home from Tottenham Court Road so I could have a good cry and when I got in I decided to write a list of all the rubbish decisions I’ve made and what influenced me to make them…

-Turning down the role of Mary in the Nativity play at one of my primary schools. I made this decision because I thought my mum and step dad would mock me for having a husband who was a boy. As it turns out they never came to see it and I had to deal with being demoted to the chorus where I was made to wear a bow tie.

-When I was about 8 years old I went to see my auntie’s friend be a contender on Gladiators. At the end the Gladiators came out and did a lap of the arena. We were in the 2nd or 3rd row and I remember catapulting myself across the rows in front shouting Cobra’s name as his cheekily pranced past but he didn’t hear me and I remember feeling utterly heartbroken. I just about managed not to cry on the way back – apparently I was more mature back then. I don’t think I’ve felt that way again until last night. To be honest short of throwing myself into the ring there’s not much I could have done to have won a smile and a hand slap from the man and that occasion wasn’t really about decisions but I thought it was a good example of feeling inconsolable like I did on Sunday.

I kept the rest of my childhood years pretty minimal in the bad decision stakes as far as I can remember. I’m sure I’ll think of more examples after I’ve posted this though.

Then came university…

-I was in the cheerleading squad from shortly after it was conceived so when it came to appointing a new captain a year or so down the line I was one of the few original members left. I wanted to put myself up for captain but I knew another girl (not an original) wanted to be captain so I stood down. Only afterwards when a few girls came up to me and told me they thought I might put myself up and were sad that I didn’t was I a bit gutted. Once the new captain was in power we were made to audition and although I got through I was the only original member left. It became elitist, we didn’t cheer at enough games and yet we were made to wear our uniforms on nights out even though we didn’t do anything and I was embarrassed to be on the team. Another example of making the wrong choice because of someone else.

-As many of you will know I have been single since the beginning of time. This could be partly to do with my awful choices where men are concerned. I made many a mistake where my heart was concerned at uni due to only liking inappropriate men - those with girlfriends, those with carrot dangling fishing rods but with no actual interest in ever letting me have more than a nibble and those who liked to stick their carrots in same sex rabbit holes. One day love arrived unexpectedly in the form of a Greek fellow who I was very good friends with and whom I worked with in a shop in town. I never fancied him and was definitely under the impression that he didn’t fancy me. In the summer holidays after my second year at uni we got chatting on MSN messenger and he told me that he’d always fancied me. I was dumbfounded – I had never suspected a thing. He then arranged to come and stay with me for the weekend and I was worried, as I’d never viewed him in this light. He came to visit, as a friend, and we got on like a house on fire as we always had and then he went in for the kiss. Internal panic need not have occurred. Kissing him was a joy and we spent the whole weekend snogging each other’s faces off. After that we were in constant contact emailing each other every day and it looked like it could go somewhere. And that is when I made the decision that I is at the top of my list of biggest regrets of all time (it has now been pushed down to 2nd place). I ended things before they could go anywhere because I thought having a boyfriend would interfere too much and annoy my friends. I have a habit of ending things before they’ve even properly begun (I can usually tell when something isn’t going to work) but this time was different. This time I knew I was making a mistake. It was all very amicable and we’re still friends but he’s now married with a dog so that nicely rubs salt in the wound. An example of not listening to my inner voice and doing something because of other people.

When I left university I was still a member of this model website where photographers get in touch to use you to practice taking pictures. A guy got in touch who lived in my home town and I went to meet up with him to talk about what sort of pictures he wanted. He was in his mid thirties and seemed a bit odd but I chose to ignore this and we set a date for him to take some headshots. I went to his flat on my own and I imagine I probably didn’t tell anyone where I was going. It was fine though, if a little awkward. The next time I went he wanted to do beauty salon shots so he asked me to put a towel on and a facemask and some cucumber on my eyes. I did as he asked and he took the pictures. When we’d finished he asked if he could get some massage shots. I asked him how that would work and he told me he’d put the camera on automatic so he could massage my back. Warning bells started going off and although I hate people touching me who I don’t know very well I didn’t want to appear unprofessional so I lay on the table face down. He pulled out some Co-op own brand baby oil and started to rub it into my back, the camera going off at regular intervals. This went on for an uncomfortably long time but again not wanting to appear unprofessional I stayed quiet. The massage then took a turn in the wrong direction. His hands started to move from my back down to my sides and up towards my breasts. This was where I drew the line. I flinched and yelped, ‘Have you got enough pictures now?!’ He must have taken this as some sort of invitation as he then said, ‘I can turn the camera off and carry on?’ My eyes must have been popping with horror. I told him that wouldn’t be necessary and ran to the bathroom to change. I called my friend Mark who I knew was in town but when I got through to him he was on his way back to the village where he lives. He must have heard the panic in my voice because he told me he’d come straight back into town and get me. I don’t think I could have been more relieved and I felt sick as I tried to tell him what had happened. I could smell the baby oil and I felt violated. The ‘photographer’ sent me a text message which I came across the other day when I was looking through the inbox of an old phone: ‘Sorry if you thought I was out of line but I did ask permission and stopped when you requested.’ Mark said that he was blatantly trying to cover himself in sending that text. Stupidly I never reported him. I really hope he didn’t get his mitts on anyone else or do anything worse. I can’t think of a more obvious example of not listening to my intuition. Even on the initial meeting I should have decided not to take things further. Ah well, you live and learn. But not me, apparently. Less than a month later I went to Huddersfield on a bus on my own, and I know I definitely hadn’t told anyone about where I was going, to meet another photographer but fortunately this time wasn’t as dodgy though it did still have its moments.

In October of the same year (it was 2005) I auditioned to be a character at Disney Land Paris and made it through the final audition even though I messed up the dance part because I was stood at the front and had no one to follow (my memory is awful where dance steps are concerned) but I improvised with some Brady Bunch style moves and they seemed to like it. They wanted us to leave ASAP but because I was saving to do a volunteer placement in South Africa the following April I asked them if it’d be alright to come after I’d done that as I worked out I wouldn’t be able to save enough money working at Disney. They said that would be fine and as I left I double checked, ‘So I’ve definitely got the job?’ and the man said, ‘Yes.’ So I went back to work in the Natwest call centre – the only thing that got me through was the promise of sticking a cartoon character’s head over my own.

When I was coming to the end of my time in South Africa I still hadn’t heard anything from Disney and I was worried especially as I’d sent them a few emails over the 6 months since I’d auditioned so they wouldn’t forget me. Finally they got in touch saying they’d never guaranteed me a place. I was mortified. I had made a decision based on practicality and other people (bastard charities!) and ended up losing out on my dream of being a Disney character. I swore I would boycott their films but this didn’t happen, as I’m quite partial to a bit of Mufasa. I don’t regret my time in South Africa at all – if I could have stolen some of the orphans I would have – but I’m sure had I gone to Disney in October I’d have scraped the money together somehow.

When I moved to London I met a guy when I was helping his friend promote a break dancing company. We arranged to go out on a date and because I was new to London I arrived a bit late, as I wasn’t yet used to the tube system. (Also I’m always late for everything, though I am improving.) When I got there he called me to ask where I was and I told him I was outside the exit. He asked if I could see various landmarks and I couldn’t. He told me to walk towards something so I did as he said and walked to where I thought he was talking about. He called me back and started shouting at me, and I mean properly going off on one. I was a bit upset and thought if he was being horrible to me at this stage I should probably leave that minute but, yes, you’ve guessed it, I didn’t and it turned out I was at the back exit rather than the front. We went on our date which was alright in the end but 5 weeks later he sent me packing on a bus in floods of tears after shouting at me again because he couldn’t tolerate the fact I see the good in people and that I say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and that was the end of that. Again me not listening to my instincts and being disappointed as a result. As it happens we’ve bumped into each other a few times since then and a few months ago we started going on dates again but although it’s been left open and he keeps asking to see me but I haven’t been making the time. I see now that I should probably just cut it off completely.

There have been countless other mistakes that I have made but this is already novelesque and I don’t want to cause you blindness from looking at your screen for too long. Many more boy related mistakes have been made, a more recent one was that I met someone who I was in constant textual contact with but I wasn’t sure if I fancied him even though I love ‘conversing’ with him. Then my friends met him and very much approved and thought it would be a good idea to go there and so I took this as good reason to pursue him. We kissed and I well and truly fell for him and then out of the blue he put an end to things before they’d even started. It was so unexpected as I’d not demanded anything of him and I told him it was like he’d punched me in the back of the head. It reeked of the Greek boy episode – this guy’s fear was palpable but he’d made his decision and I was left upset though I couldn’t be too angry with him given I’d done the exact same thing in the past.

But it’s the Brit episode that’s left me broken. It seems many of my disappointments have stemmed from trying to keep other people happy or caring too much what people think. I take full responsibility for this weakness – I am blaming no one but myself. Not wanting to let people down isn’t a bad thing but not trusting what your heart is telling you over someone else’s opinion is an awful thing to do. I don’t know how I’ll go about working out how to know what I should be listening out for within myself; I always get logic and instinct mixed up it seems. These examples might sound petty and insignificant but for someone whose favourite motto is ‘It’s better to regret doing something than regret never having done it at all’ it’s an example of mild hypocrisy. Things have got to change. I have to get a grip on my life. Good choices start today people! Today.