Sometimes in life, you look back, with hindsight and wisdom, and it all makes sense - a new, more profound understanding of yourself and meaning comes out of a unfortunate incident and you feel somewhat - compellingly philosophical.

At other times however, armed with none of the above but solely information that was previously withheld, you look back and reach, in a non-similar but equally forceful way, a REALITY that BAM - hits you right on centre in the face, and knocks you out. Well temporarily -  I'm not quite lying in my own pool of blood. 

The sequel to the previous episode "Honesty isn't the best policy", is worth a brief yet acute examination, the simple conclusion is - I knew something was up.

Let me begin by enlightening you with a personal history of the perpetrator concerned - that very figure causing a thousand and more worms to niggle in my head back in August, a frustration pulled up high like Simon Cowell's trousers - but way above the navel line in this case. 

A man of 29 years of age, previous relationship history status:

- Girlfriend of 5 years: on/off, he was mean to her (take my word for it), she is now married (as of August) to one of his best friends (no longer, as might be concluded) who she used to confide in when he was mean to her (hence the "take my word" bit).

- Girlfriend of 1.5 years: Brazilian, gets Brazilians, is belly dancer (not a good one), got a reception job with fake references (through him), since then has tried to marry an EU citizen (in August) but was barred by UK marriage agency (?) which viewed the marriage as a sham, flew to Slovakia, got married there, tried to fly back to UK within one week of her visa expiring, blocked at Heathrow airport, flew back to Slovenia, posed in front of a field of woolly sheep with her legs astride and thumbs up in the air like she could not be happier if she was Santa Clause's wife, posted the picture on Facebook, somehow managed to apply for a 6 month visa to the UK, wriggled her way back, called him to tell him she was back. Oh and one last thing: fuelled his obsession for non existent (bar airstrip landing) fuzz down below.

And along comes innocent me: meets him in November last year, starts seeing him in April this year, thinks that he is a wonderfully nice, rare, decent, trustworthy, reliable man. Didn't see it having a future from the outset but liked him enough to give it a go, ends up having to put up with a load of crap, breaks up with him in May, gets back together with him in June, he breaks up with her in August, she gets in touch in November, start to see each other "casually" again in November. 

- Girl in Canada: meets him in January this year in the UK, welcomes him and his friend to Canada (where she LIVES) in March this year, talks to him on Skype, invites him to Canada again in August, starts seeing him while he's in Canada, comes to visit him for a few days in November, tells him she is in love with him in November and he concurs. 

Never mind how I found out about the Canadian specimen in all of this (rest assured I discovered this rather than was told), but I found out, in DECEMBER. 

The moral of the story in all this/insights/philosophy: there is definitely (normally) a reason when someone goes to the same country to meet the same bunch of people twice in 6 months, and comes back having diminished interest in you (even when they deny hiding anything and tells you about the "group" activities he partook in), that nice guys (on the surface) who everyone likes may not be very nice in the slightest to their girl-friends, and even bottom-of-the-barrels can find two girls to string along and not feel guilty about it, since by theory one is not within reachable proximity. 

I hate myself

Because I want to better at running and yet secretly hope the weather is too bad to run (even when I WANT to run). It turns out it's snowing. But I still hate myself because the speed session wasn't cancelled and I COULD have gone.

I feel guilty and hate myself for wasting time feeling guilty and spend the whole time feeling guilty rather than running. Then it turns out the people who ran wasted their time because it was aborted after 15 minutes due to safety concerns. And then I hate myself for hating myself so much for not going in the first place. Like BIG DEAL. BIG DEAL that it's a BIG DEAL.

Which means it was definitely a big deal.

Because while I'm writing this I question why I'm doing it and try to remember the last thing I was doing and abandoned.

Coffee is the only thing that will calm me down because it suppresses my appetite stops me going mad because I'm so hungry ALL THE TIME.

Honesty isn't the best policy?

Funny little things known as "feelings" have taken hold of me recently. They're a particular bitch, however, when met with none of the intensity with which they were projected. So when such niggling thoughts such as 'why hasn't he... yet' start boiling over the brim of your mind, making you want to pull out hair to starve the little buggers, what can one do to soothe the soul? Yoga, meditation, or scream-therapy?!?

A friend at work recently introduced me to the book "Why Men Love Bitches". It highlights the broadly "unattractive" traits women tend to exhibit in dating and urges its readers to act in opposition to what you really want to do. The theory is that women's natural inclinations are likely to drive men sprinting down the nearest alley rather than the aisle.

After being gripped by its analysis of the male psyche, exemplified by simple explanations of why men exhibit specific behaviour, I began to see sense.  I had always believed that male stereotypes only applied to a subset of emotionally unavailable, stubborn, arrogant, self-righteous guys who I had no pleasure of knowing, but the book strongly advocates the power of suppression and the forgery of emotions as conducive to making you irresistible to the man of your dreams.

So the next time wriggly head-worms were disrupting my zen, I tried to suppress them by practising the book's techniques with vigour. It started out promisingly, and I blitzed the life out of ebbing insecurities with like a dictator taking out dissidence. Splat, went my need for a man to validate my self-worth.

Unfortunately, this mighty stronghold crumbled within days – my exasperation outstripped the patience of my calm conviction, and I was once again out of control. I found myself teetering, on the brink of heated emotional outburst that was a sure springboard to an icy pool of rejection.

So now what? I've not managed to learn how to be a bitch and so no one will love me?

Well no, the right thing to have done, I suspect, was to persevere until I became a potty-trained super-bitch and cultivate an innate rebel of romance. But I have no time to wait at the finish line, arms held out in anticipation for a meaner me – stood in a sort of chair pose squat, I tend to envisage.

My new life philosophy was instead to live life 'in-the-moment' and ignore how painful undesired consequence can be. The idea came to me while listening to the radio – the Exciters (a 60s American pop group)  advocate a form of straightforwardness called 'honesty' in their classic "Tell Him", which quickly became my relationship anthem. To be fair, it worked for Ally McBeal (yes the 90s TV character), and she's my idol.

So off I went, humming my song with the full chorus of imaginary harmonies behind me and texting the man I'd been casually seeing to tell him that, in fact, I missed him when he was away. I even admitted to knowing that I shouldn't have, yet I still missed him. Honest. To the point. Heart on sleeve, like the girl in the song. 

I sat back and waited, I did. Until I thought was close to making out the shape of a tortoise edging into my eye-line. 

Buzz, my Blackberry messenger, jolts me out of the Mirage: "I fell asleep, let's talk tomorrow".

Huh, I thought. That's what I've been waiting for? A tortoise would have been better. Even so,  I persevered, adamant I would be able to squeeze blood out of stone.

"OK, call me when you're free?" I added.

And call, he did. One week later, and in response to a text I that said "[complaints]... you d*ck"; followed by another which apologised and explained that what I really meant to write: "you f*cking d*ck".

A d*ck he was. But I should've known better. Or maybe If I had learnt to be a super duper bitch, the way of the best selling dating bible, he may have long gotten down on one knee and begged for my forgiveness. Fat chance; but oh, conjecture, how you tease me.

Feel the fear and do it anyway? Not when there is hell to pay

Part of the challenge to becoming the "girl in the song" is to do more of that which I normally fear, or just outrightly reject. While my better judgement remains sufficiently anchored, yours truly has decided to take on a "yes" attitude in the new year.

As long as it doesn't result in a stretcher scenario, a bit of a yes goes a long way. While the physical manifestation of this mentality could simply be taking off my clothes and posing naked, or skinny dipping in the Thames under the watchful eye of MI5 HQ, I don't feel sufficiently ambitious or even certain that I would want to be that girl who become but of her own jokes. Therefore, rather than actively pursuing dare-devilish stunts or obscene acts for the sake of doing them, I'm adopting a greater willingness to rise to every day challenges, being more spontaneous and generally overcoming my inner struggles of courage and fear.

Which is where London's highlight attraction Winter Wonderland comes in. Last week was the first time I visited without just browsing around and chasing after a hog-roast sandwich, Jamie Oliver style. While I like the idea of watching fast, exhilarating rides and people screaming and kicking in the air with joy and torture, I would normally prefer to indulge in the quieter pleasures of life- a more cerebral enjoyment based on interest and curiosity rather than the primal and no-more-than-adrenalin-induced modern fight or flight response masked as an easy thrill. My intention this year was to sample a variety of "fun rides": House of Fun, the Ghost Train Ride, as well as the more interesting parts unique to Christmas: Santa's Grotto, the Bavarian food market and arts and crafts stalls. Which is why it is crucial to agree beforehand with your companions which attractions they are likely to want to visit and will try and convince you to visit too.

It is particularly a problem when the companion you are visiting with has not an inkling of what the word "vertigo" means and the type of irrational fears it evokes. "I have vertigo" was dismissed with a quick following of "go and get some tokens so we can get on the Ski Jump". The Ski Jump is a ride where you are strapped into one seat in a circular array of seats attached to an arm-like structure which raises you slowly to an angled height and then drops, spins or flings you (in some instances the combination of all three motions) in a multitude of directions, until you are topsy-turvying through air and becomes as confused as a bat.

The first drop immediately roused a forceful regret in me for undertaking the unnecessary torture of this gratuitous process, as I was hit by the helpless panic of being hurled towards the ground by the contraption which held me. The sensation of my constricting chest and my suspended heart caused my body to physically repel against the downward motion as my back arched acutely into my seat. The worst parts were the split seconds during which you've almost been flung to the height at which you will eventually be dropped, you start to lose momentum and you hover and suspend in space while your brain quick-fires the impending danger, until suddenly gravity grabs hold and you are once more accelerating towards your fateful destination.

After three iterations of the same sequence, the ride finally came to a stop and we were lowered back onto the ground. A faint nausea was present but I felt quite proud and victorious in having endured the five minutes without permanent damage or any sign of having to throw up. I even felt confident enough to agree to testing out the Power Tower later, the ride that pulls you up vertically to the top of the tower and then just drops you to free-fall to the bottom. What was I thinking - a few minutes after walking away from the Ski Jump, my previously clear minded straight walking self became a swaying and slanting advancement requiring not only one but two persons to support me. And the worst part was that while this was briefly alleviated by munching on Jamie Oliver's free-range hog roast sandwich which was made with the freshest and tastiest whole meal bread I've had for a long time, the discomfort and suppression of hints of regurgitation stayed with me beyond Hyde Park Corner and only dispersed the next morning, some 12 hours after had I made my bed to lie in.

What did I learn from the experience? I'm not sure. Perhaps that my body is too set in its old rickety ways to take such shocks to the system and that as someone with fear of heights, it might just serve me better to be content with visiting Santa's Grotto next time, like a 5 year old child. The experience gave me ample indication that I should surrender to accepting that there are just some challenges I cannot endure, and that it is sometimes OK to admit to not liking to or being able to do something. So while I am still open minded about what I'd like to try next, I might give it more than the five second thought I invested this time round when someone inevitably, at some point in the future, puts the option of extreme sports on my table.

Liberation of the Soul?

Previously on the girl in the song....

I was on a high. I had gathered up enough courage to ask a man out, and while it wasn't a roaring success, I can take some solace in knowing that a coffee, sat across from this slightly unpolished and tumbled man of a man may be on the cards when I return from the far East in 4 weeks time. Wasn't the experience liberating? my friend asked. To be honest, it gave me a sense of achievement, but only nominally in that I could now tick off the "I asked a guy out for real" box on my list of cringe worthy events to come. Clambering over the barrier made the challenge itself seem diminutive in hindsight, especially since the act itself was less of a sweat-soaked, palm-clammy struggle than I had come to expect. I didn't feel the liberation of the soul talked of in legends and memoirs, but a slight anticlimax which raised my threshold for stimulus even higher.

I decided, amongst all things that "two days before my trip" required me to perform, to embed in my narrowing schedule some groundwork, and while I wish I could say for the task of "filling my suitcase", I'm referring yet again to the tenuous courtship I speak of above.

So I set about putting the second wheel of my plan into motion. I figured that four weeks was a long time for one to forget about another, so some sort of fade-proof stamping or etching onto one's memory to was in order. I decided to strike up a further conversation.

"Have you been to Beijing before?", he asked.
"I went a couple of years ago to watch the Olympics"
...
"and I lived there until I was 8 so I speak the language"

Perhaps I've been lucky and sheltered in the contacts with people I have made in life thus far, but never have these comments failed to generate at least a hint of interest or a curious remark. Nothing here but an upturned and sustained smile upon his face, like a moulded expression on a ventriloquist doll.

"I haven't even packed yet and I'm leaving tomorrow!" I continued. "My suitcase is almost full and I haven't taken half of my luggage yet!"

"you're taking a walking wardrobe with you then". He says. I chuckle and agree. A glimmer of hope... followed by a very steadfast silence.

"Are you going anywhere nice this year?", I asked.
"No not this year, I'm saving up for a car".

Finally, something we have in common, well sort of.

"I'm learning how to drive!"

After I make a few more animated comments about running people over with my car, and a reply from him about that being the best method for moving people out of the way, Silence himself, like a patient observer, crept back in to stand over me in mockery .

As my toolbox of wit and charm empties in front of me, I remind myself of one more trick up my sleeve (literally) which has never (since July 2010 when the incident occurred) failed to generate a gasp, a screech or a backward hop of some form or other. The Jelly Fish Sting. And trust me it is nasty. But when life strips you of all your weapons, you have no choice but to surrender with something more basic.

Maybe he's secretly blind and can't see, or maybe he's been caught up in cross-fire before and witnessed someone yank their own foot off in agony to leave a raw ending spewing blood; whatever circumstances his lens of life have presented him, there was barely a flutter in the reaction to the warm pink imprint of a sea creature tenaciously stitched into the skin on my wrist. The only sentence I managed to coax out of him with this elaborate contrivance was "You know what they say you are meant to do with a jellyfish sting...". My reply to that was of course witty and relevant, but with no further avail of establishing a fully fledged conversation.

Someone probably should have gagged me right there and dragged me away against my will, but I just don't like to be defeated, especially when I'd invested so much time and effort. Everyone likes to talk about themselves, and while I still shudder at this act of desperation, I went onto ask:

"What do you guys do behind there then?"
"Nothing much, go on the Internet, watch some football, send an email to Maintenance"
"You could read a book I guess"
"Nah, I don't really like reading books"


WOW. Who cares if you don't read or can't read, but unless this awkwardness isn't making you wanna wrench out your guts, you gotta give something, sometimes. Right?

I say my pleasantries and walk out without turning my head. But alas, it is pouring outside and I don't have an umbrella.

Don't ask a man out if you are leaving the country in 3 days, for 4 weeks

Sometimes when push comes to shove, you just have to roll with it, especially if you've been shoved right into the deep end. You could say that's what happened to me when a colleague decided to ask out the security guy on  reception for me. To be fair, I was the one who started the ball rolling when I gushed about my little crush over an office coffee. The conversation she then went onto have with him apparently went something like this:

"Hi there, what's your name?"
"X"
 "Hi X. Do you know Y(first name)?"
"Y, Z (surname)?"
"Yes"
"Yea I do"
"OK. Well, would you consider taking Y out on a date?"

Security man's face turns red and he swivels in his chair to look at his security colleague who is standing behind him. His colleague gives him an encouraging grin... he turns back to my colleague.

"Ooooh. (pause pause) Do you need an answer straight away?"
"Oh no, I'll leave that for you and Y to sort out"

My colleague trots away up the stairs and messages me. I dismiss it all as a bluff. Four hours later, I am mortified when I realise she is telling the truth as she reveals the above details in a little too much detail for it to be a hoax.

What would you have done in this situation? If the situation is also that you must walk past reception every  day in order to get to and from your office. Least damage?

Apparently not. OK so he seemed nice - I once glimpsed him helping an old lady out of the building - and there was something slightly brooding and tortuous about him which I was drawn to. I thought he was quite handsome, but I've been advised that's partly due to my Disney coloured vision which portrays him as a prince and me in a tower.

After consulting credible friends who told me to smile and walk on by next time I'm in sight -"the ball is in his court" they all said - I paraded onto the court like a tempestuous child and threw many more balls in his direction, as well as a few up in the air.

Perhaps my courage ran a little loose - I was feeling righteously brave while at the same time motioned on by my aspirations to become a freer spirit and fuelled by a song on my ipod called "Tell Him". Above all, I couldn't bare the thought of awkward glances and knowing smiles for the rest of my career in the building. So I decided to resolve this once and for all, and for 4 hours before I did so, I ran up and down the corridors to ease my nerves.

The prelude was that I'd bagged a colleague to walk out of the building with in a casual, breezy way, from which I was going to break off and approach reception like a cool, sophisticated lady. Unfortunately a stumbling block in the form of a post man engaging him in conversation forced me to divert my plans and hold back in a minute space between two sets of doors waiting for another smooth entry opportunity to present itself. Scrunched up in the corner and spying through a slit, I smiled awkwardly while others, justifiably and genuinely trying to make their way out of the building, squeezed past me through the constricted space and wondered why the hell I was there in the first place.

When the coast became clear:

Calm, cool, collected, I walked up to reception

"Hi, how are you?"
"Hi, alright thanks"

I Look down at the reception area to see that the keys I've been looking for all week was lying next to his right hand!

"That's my key!"

A lot of frantic tapping at the glass later and him struggling to see anything but his own hands, he picks up my key ring and puts it in my palm.

"So, Is it true that my colleague came down here and spoke to you?"
"yea she did"
"wow that's embarrassing"
"No... I was just a bit taken aback really"

Random man walks up to reception and waits with a work-related request, I presumed. So I step aside and wait for him to ask his stuff... Moments later

"Well I'm really sorry about that... (pause) All I said was that I thought you might be a nice man, and she kinda just ran with it. (he adopts an awkward grin on his face which is less attractive)

"So...do you wanna get a coffee sometime? No pressure!"

He chuckles, takes a deep breath and says:

"The thing is, I've just come out of a long term relationship, so I'm trying to ease back into it"
"Oh OK that's fine"
"But yea coffee sounds good..."
"OK. Well, I'm going to China for 4 weeks on Thursday, so when are you free?"
"That's the other thing, I work 3-11pm on weekdays... what about Friday?"
"Er, I'm going to China for 4 weeks on Thursday..."

The longest pause in the history of realistic lengths of pauses before they turn into silences. Shall I come in and call it all off? 
"I tell you what, I know your name now, we'll keep in touch"
(easy breezy) "OK cool, sounds good. Well I'll see you later then"

This is where the conversation should have ended. But, I apparently like to stick pins into a barely inflated balloon.

Pop (or just wilt). Shrivel.

Suddenly I see: I'm not a very nice person

Perhaps you think this little project of mine to become the girl in the song has frivolous beginnings and is sourced from a spring of boredom and self-indulgence, with no real emotions attached to it. Well, I definitely was feeling bored and slightly numb (from the cold) while taking my usual district line journey to work as the month of October was clinging on by its last rays of sunshine. These journeys normally involve no more than periodic intervals of you staring at the person opposite you, them staring back at you, and then you looking down at your fingernails. Every now and then a nice looking fella sits within my vicinity and I stop looking anywhere else. Other times, the nice good looking fella stares back and I think the feeling is mutual, only to discover much later that everyone is staring at me because I accidentally drew on my face that morning.

So, as I sat there on this particular day dreaming about dragons and mermaids, I noticed an elderly Chinese man sitting opposite me with his fingers on his temples, his frown lines bundled together high on his forehead and his eyes painfully closed. He seemed to be suffering from a headache. I noticed, but went on dreaming. Periodically, I awoke and shifted my eyes towards the man who on a few more occasions was adopting further expressions of suffering. The funny thing about physical suffering (and I'm well aware there are sufferings of greater significance in this world of which I am not referring to here) is that I often relate it to something personal that just needs to be worked through e.g. when you've fallen over, banged your head against the wall (I walked right into the edge of one 5 days ago and just stood there recovering) or when you've got menstrual cramps (sorry boys), the pain will end but you just have to wait it out. However, when he started to sigh and further tense his face tortuously, I began to think that this may be more than a migraine.

At Mansion House station, I realised that everyone else in the carriage was noticing this man but sat there like dummies. What if something terrible was happening to him and we only realised when it was too late? Maybe there was something I could do to help, my mind imagined all sorts of predicaments that he could be in and how awful they might have been. The right thing for me to do was to ask what was wrong.

Temple station. As the train stopped I decided to get off my seat and go over to him. But I could feel my heart beating out of my chest and my mind toiling with the most ridiculous thoughts imaginable:

• I've got two bags on me, how was I going to neatly do this without having to take both bags over with me and losing my seat (the man was 3 metres from me)
• What if I shock him by going over there
•  What if I fall over when the train starts moving again