Everything's Going to be Alright... Feel-Good Ideas for Finding Happiness Against the Odds

The funeral I attended yesterday was terribly sad, but also managed to be a wonderful celebration of Lucy's life, which I am lucky to have attended, and so very lucky to have known her.

Aside from the odd set back which I still have to - very actively - work through, I am working hard to take care of my mental health and recover, challenging negative thoughts, mind reading, worrying, ruminating, making assumptions with no evidence, and lots more. I've been recovering for a year and a half now, and taking responsibility for my wellness (while asking for support from others) is really important. Luckily I am a lot better - I am one of the lucky ones - and while I'll still be managing it for a long time, I'm at least having a good patch at the moment with the new medication, the therapy continuing and more...

What was clear yesterday from the discussions at the funeral was how important and enriching the people and activities that we fill our lives with. Even though Lucy is no longer with us, we heard stories of her infinite kindness, zest for singing, language learning, walking and doing it all supporting herself and others while pursuing ambitious academic endeavours.

It started me thinking about the things that help me to feel a bit better - whether I'm well and want to keep my health good, am struggling and need a boost, or am down right ill and need something to make me feel a bit better. Small things can help. Here are mine...

Music really makes me come alive. When I'm sad it can help me sit with my sadness, and uplifting tunes can make me smile when nothing else does. I can't understand a life without music!

The perfect feel good tracks. Not all my desert island discs,
but lovely tunes that uplift me through the dark moments.
Click here for the playlist on YouTube

Feel-Good Songs:

1)      Let the River Run

2)      Firework - Katy Perry

3)      Titanium - David Guetta featuring Sia

4)      Flashlight - Pitch Perfect Various Artists

5)      That Lady - Isley Brothers

6)      Ugly - Sugababes

7)      Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles

8)      Hoppipolla - Sigur Ros

9)      One day like this - Elbow

10)   Starting Today - Natalie Imbruglia

11)   In Demand - Texas

12)   Belfast - Orbital

13)   You Get What You Give - The Free Radicals

14)   Rhythm of the Night - Corona

15)   Shine - Tracy Bonham

(I should also add that a health rendition of Let It Go works WONDERS for my spirits!)

You even get subtitles! WIN!

As I've said before, enjoying good food and drink is both good for my health - the juices I drink to combat my anxiety feelings, the fish I eat a lot of to boost my bone density and eat some good fats, without empty carbs... and then there are the delicious empty cards, the sugar, the deliciously fatty burgers and friends and the warming, aromatic yummy dumplings. And as for Marks and Spencers' 'nom snacks'...bacon and cheese snacks. I salute you.

Feel Good Foods
The foods that are 'good' for me, and the foods that are gooood for me. 

So, I'm well fed. Yep. so I'm a happy camper with a mixture of the delicious and nutritious. There may be slightly more of the goood stuff around Christmas. I can neither confirm nor deny that there are about twenty packets of Marks and Spencers' bacon-wrapped-cheese morsels of delissiousness. That's a fair way to being contended. 

So next up is the clothing that makes me feel warm and fuzzy, which you'll be unsurprised to see from the photo montage contain a fair few warm and fuzzy items of clothing.

Snug, snug, snug, snug, snug.

Here are some of the places where you can get your hands on these snugly items:

From top left:

1. T-Shirt - VioletFlamingo

2. Maroon cords - Gap

3. Ear muffs - asoya.com

4. Gloves - Dents

5. Penguin jim jams - cyberjammies.co.uk

6. Christmas onesies - ebay.com

7. Hats - wheretoget.it

8. SNUG socks - surfdome.co.uk

9. Scarf - AndOtherStories

10. Coat - wardrobeoxygen.com

Imagine wearing all of these, because Mat won't let me have the heating on, and you'll have a pretty accurate picture of what I'm wearing most of the time...at home. I wear some at work, but even I feel that 'bring your whole self to work' might not stretch to a reindeer onesie. But you never know!

Right, I'm dressed in every snug thing, I've got positive tunes on, and I've eaten about 67 bacon and cheese snacks. What's next? 

Beauty. Okay, at this point I realise I may lose a few male readers. But bear with me because a few of these tips are good for everyone I think. The reason I decided to write about this is because my body physically manifests my mental health problems, and I think that's something that not everyone understands.For example, I have a psoriasis flare up on my scalp at the moment. Psoriasis is genetic and only occurs from time to time in my case, but it's not very nice, so I've been trying to treat it with specific medication. In addition to the juicing (which helps) and the medication for it, I then want to try to make the rest of my body feel better and try to keep my skin looking as okay as possible. 

It's not exactly rocket science to understand that when you feel crap on the inside, looking good on the outside can help massively helpful - or on the flipside, not looking great is miserable. 

Beauty products to protect, perfect, comfort, soothe...

Here are my favourite beauty products for feeling good (and preventing minor injuries!)

From top left:

1. Primer (Laura Mercier) - on top of a richer moisturiser for the winter, this helps keep my makeup from escaping in the winter chills.

2. Touche Éclat (Yves Saint Laurent) - to provide for all our highlighting needs in the winter when we've had not enough sleep and too much work. This has made me look a lot more human a fair few times.

3. Facial Fuel (Kiehl's). This one's designed for men, but it's a light, soothing and slightly astringent moisturiser that is great for after a shave, but I love it summer and winter under day makeup. It's great.

4. Vaseline (Vaseline) - good for cracked lips, for dry skin, for dry hands, for moisturising really dry skin (even on my face) I really appreciate this. (Plus, as a runner, vaseline is my saviour when I'm trying to avoid chafing!)

5. Poême (Lancôme) - my favourite perfume. The perfume that, when I wear it, people actually say I smell nice...so clearly I'm going to wear it forever. Please don't stop making in Lancôme!

6. Facial Cleanser (Kiehl's) - takes all my makeup off. Is smooth. Is creamy but light. Love this product.

7. Compeed - if you're going to a party or in new shoes, or like me want to do a long distant run, investing in some high quality blister protection helps massively.

8. Party Feet (Dr. Scholl) - not just for Christmas. These inserts for the soles of your shoes and heels protect rubbing, blisters, and enable me to actually wear heels for more than 10 minutes.

9. Nail varnish (Chanel) - I'm a recent Chanel convert but I do believe these colours are beautiful. Obviously you have to stink out the room / train carriage / office when you put it on, but nice nails are a nice touch. (I just need to work on the 'not-needing-the-loo-as-soon-as-I-put-it-on' problem.)

10. Finally...drum roll...Beauty Flash Balm (Clarins) - this is a miracle product. It peps up your skin, keeps your makeup on and even if you wake up with a hangover the next day, your skin will look fresh as a daisy.

So now I'm primped and pampered, warm in my pyjamas, well fed and relaxing because of the music... just a couple of other things that can help.

Uplifting Reads to Relax to and Rest with

Some of the books that I love, that have helped me feel better and that have helped me to 'feel' something when depression numbs my senses.

Feel Good Fiction and Fact
1. The Rosie Project - Graeme Simsion
2. Possession - A.S. Byatt
3. Behind the Scenes at the Museum - Kate Atkinson
4. Four Letters of Love - Niall Williams
5. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens (and others)
6. The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint - David Udall
7. The White Tiger - Aravind Adiga
8. The Velveteen Rabbit - Margery Williams
9. Stones into Schools - Greg Mortenson
10. Watermelon, The Brightest Star in the Sky, Rachel's Holiday, Sushi for Beginners...basically novels by Marian Keyes
11. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
12. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold

And finally here are some things that are important about all else but don't fit into a neat category!

Other Feel Good Factors

1. Holding hands. I want to hold hands with my husband for as long as I can. And I want to hug my friends. I've learned how powerful hugs and hand holding are. They remind me that someone is there, looking out for me, and that I'm looking out for them - that we're in this life together.

2. Love. "Love is the answer." Saying "I love you" to the people I love matters, and hearing it from them matters too. I'm learning about balanced relationships - learning that for every question I'm asked, I get to ask one back, and for every loving gesture I make, I might get one in return, if I'm lucky.

3. Sofa time. Those DFS no interest adverts annoy me intensely, but the importance of comfort at home is key. I can snuggle up on the sofa, in my onesie, with my face moisturised, my woolly socks on, my dumplings and plum sauce, my uplifting music playing and a good book. Ahh

4. Sleep - can't miss this out. See last week's post.

5. ParkRun and running. Keeps my health up. Gets me out. Helps me to eat burgers.

6. Writing. A way I can express how I'm feeling and feel better through being creative with words.

7. Winter walks - hopefully with snow, but cold clear days where the weather is so beautiful is a wonderful way to spend the day.

8. Small animals - back to hugs and fun and life. Jelly cat animals are special friends.

And last but not least...love and commitment to ending the stigma around mental health.

Have a great weekend. Take care. x

Dear Stranger: My letter to the world on the theme of happiness (Mind Charity)

"Dear Stranger is a collection of inspirational, honest and heartfelt letters from authors, bloggers and Mind ambassadors to an imagined stranger. Insightful and uplifting, Dear Stranger is a humbling glimpse into different interpretations of happiness, and how despite sometimes seeming unobtainable happiness can, in the smallest of ways, become and achievable goal..."

...And when I read that summary provided on the Penguin website it seems that with the positive messages in the book, provided by the collection of writers, many of whom I greatly respect, that happiness which – to me – so often – does seem unattainable (or it does when I define it as being the end of depression) – starts to feel less vaporous.

Click here to buy Dear Stranger on Amazon.co.uk

Reading further on Mind’s website, the book describes the letters as a collection of the thoughts of a number of (named) authors, who “offer their innermost thoughts on what happiness means to them.”

After a lovely meeting today with someone who represents one of the clients which the company I work for works with to talk about what we are doing as a firm about our approach to raising awareness and lessening stigma around mental health, I offer this small missive to the world of the city, as my wish for happiness in the strange world in which I work.

Dear stranger,

This is a story about two little girls who grew up. Both began life as little girls who liked running around, reading stories and singing nursery rhymes. One of the little girls had bad nightmares, though, and found sleeping often terrifying. The other little girl loved imagination and reading and creating stories, and could sing nursery rhymes with all the actions almost as soon as she could talk.

The little girls went off to school. One of the little girls loved school, she loved painting and writing and playing hopscotch. She learned to wink from the dinner lady Mrs. Keene and loved using it as part of her cheeky personality. The other girl cried when she was dropped off at school. She didn't want to leave her mother and spend the day in the company of other children or adults who were not safe. She sometimes got horrible headaches and couldn't wait for the day to be over so she could go home.

The girls went to junior school. The first little girl wrote a poem about a daffodil which was put up on the wall. She learned to play the piano and the trumpet, she sang songs in the playground at break time and played ball games and elastic band games and cats' cradle. She made lots of friends and had great fun learning to roller skate, ballet (and then giving up ballet because it was boring to "point and close" on and on), ice skate, horse ride and take part in the school's winning speech and drama group. She could run and swim really well. Breast stroke was her best stroke. Once she showed all the other girls how to do it because her teacher singled her out as one of the best swimmers.

The second little girl was scared of the playground. She was made to stand on the playground wall all break time by three older girls and wasn't allowed to get down. It happened every playtime and in the end, she pretended to be ill and asked for permission not to go to school. She didn't say why. Her parents didn't find out for a while that she was being bullied. Aged nine it happened again with a different bully. The second little girl thought it was probably get fault, because she had, after all, been bullied before. She started to believe there must be something wrong with her. She also couldn't breathe very well and often felt too tired to go to school. Eventually she was diagnosed with asthma and started to have trouble with sports.

At senior school the first little girl made more friends and enjoyed the new clubs, the different subjects and the new uniform. She made sure she understood the right tights to wear, the right shoes, bag and everything else. She went to sleepover parties and pool parties and all sorts of other parties. She met boys at the boys' school, and enjoyed life in the "big" school. She found it exciting to be growing up. She enjoyed swimming and drama, she loved going to the cinema. She didn't always work hard at all her subjects but she still did pretty well in her school exams, especially in English and Latin, her favourite subjects. Her teachers told her she was doing well and could do very well. She knew she could do well enough in the subjects she cared about and she didn't try too hard at the other subjects because she didn't want the teachers to push her too much and stop her having fun.

The second little girl found it hard to adjust to big school. She got very tired and overwhelmed by all the new teachers. It was hard to learn every different teacher's sets of rules. It was hard to manage all the homework. She found it frightening and tiring to be growing up. It was hard. She found homework confusing and exhausting at times. She didn't get top marks in her exams. Sometimes she did badly. Her teachers told her she wasn't working hard enough. She needed to work harder. She tried to please the teachers but sometimes she found it too hard and because she didn't concentrate in lessons or understand everything, and because she was often too ill with asthma she had to go to hospital and she fell behind.

These little girls have different lists of achievements, as you can see, and on they went. One of them went to university and got a degree. She got a job with a prestigious graduate charity and then a job in the city, all in her twenties.The other one had health problems with stress, grief, depression and anxiety throughout her twenties and got a degree with difficulty. They both fell in love with a wonderful man, but one of them - now a young woman - seemed to find it easier to have a great time and enjoy every moment together; the other young woman was plagued by anxieties about herself and worried about their relationship frequently. One was promoted several times at work, worked internationally and was recognised a number of times for her achievements; the other found the depression returning at intervals and spent some holidays resting in bed for fear of confessing her illness to a world she feared would not understand, and because she could not accept the weaknesses and failures she saw in herself.

So, reader, what do you think happened to those two little girls? As you have probably guessed, because you are wise and discerning, and used to stories like these, those two little girls were one and the same. In fact those two little girls grew up to be me.

Now you will say to me, "Writer, you have not told a tale of happiness, which I thought was your purpose?" And I will say this to you: I read my own story back again and again, and I remind myself that I am the happy little girl alongside the sad; I am the confident high achiever alongside the shy, fearful and tearful teenager. I am the woman who has made a successful career in spite of suffering episodic depression, anxiety and trauma. I am she. 

When I need a reminder of the definition of happiness, I can look at parts of my own life. (And when I want a reminder of sadness and hurt, I can do the same, but enough of that for now.) I shall celebrate the happiness when I can, and be thankful for every happy moment past, present, and yet to come. And throughout my life, as you have seen, there have been threads and strands and patches of happiness, alongside any sadness you may see or know of. So, please, dear stranger, remember that. And lastly, I wish a wish for you: yards of happiness of your own, among all the threads of sorrow. Keep looking backwards and forwards for happiness because it can and will find you, somehow, somewhere, and treat others with the kindness that you try to show yourself.

With love, Jessica

The Story of Us: Ten Year Anniversary Post

Wednesday, 17^th June, 2015. 10 years, 11 months and 364 days post courtiship commencement.

I’m taxiing out of JFK as I write this to return to London after a beautiful New York wedding and a precious few days spent re-exploring and adoring the wonderful city that I was once, for two years, so lucky to call my home. My eyes always dart around expectantly the various paths leading from gate to runway because I am so accustomed to this being the place I depart from, not just to return to London, the town I call my home, but to return to Mat, my now husband, but always lover and friend, who is my home.

Cutting the cake on the happiest day of my life

Again and again, by habit, I look out of the window as once I did aged seven on my first ever flight. “Will this be the turn that takes us from ground to the sky?” “Surely we’re travelling too slowly? How will we ever get off the ground?” “Surely we’ve been taxiing for hours. When will we take off, when?” “Is it time to take to the sky now? It must be, it must.” “Are we nearly there?” At every turn or surge of the engine from the plane my heart beat quickens, my breathing shortens. I am, with each slow turn of those three small aircraft wheels one step closer in my mind, always, from here, to being back ‘home’: back to my beloved.

Goodbye JFK and NYC. See you soon!

Tonight it is different: here we are together sitting side by side on the aeroplane. I’m not finishing up wiping my eyes and ordering Thai food from Enthaice to help create a carbohydrate food coma and lull me to sleep as he flies off. He’s not sleeping already as I excitedly board the plane and wait for every tiny movement forward towards being at home with him once more. We are travelling, hand in hand, to the place we have made our home, but which is, in reality, wherever we are together in all of the world, as long as together we are.

Here's a little more about my husband, whom you know less well than me. Mat has just jeopardised any chance of sleeping soon by delightfully extracting a stray eyebrow hair (very discretely, of course) with a spry finger and thumb, and now sits with eyes watering and nose recoiled beside me. I’m changed into my flight gear, i.e. comfy jungle pants and sweatshirt, wiggling my toes in sadly non-couture red and navy striped furry flight socks. We are – as ever – carrying on the life that we have built with one another day by day since we first met more than ten years ago, and since we started “going out together properly”, as I put it, ten years ago this day.

In The Smith, having brunch. Note Mat's inability to smile naturally 

for the camera. I love it when Facebook friends comment that

 he's looking as if he would rather be anywhere else. <3

I have planned to write a post to celebrate our ten years together for at least the last two months. “Mat,” I said (although we call each other by different, special, just-for-us names which I will refrain from citing here, since something of our private life must, I believe, be preserved just for us) “would you mind if I wrote in my blog the story of how me met and started going out as a celebration post for our tenth anniversary? I would so love to tell it because it makes me happy every time I think of it.”

“No,” he replied, neutrally, “that’s fine sweetheart. That sounds like a lovely idea.”

He is so giving. One of the shyest people I know, and he consented to my whimsical fancy of describing the miraculous wonder of our two separate souls coming together as one. Thank you, my love, for giving me this anniversary gift. The fact that you have shared it is yet another display of your acceptance that I am the way that I am and that we are especially suited to one another in spite of our differences.

Friday, 19^th June, 2015, 10 years, 1 day post courtship commencement.

So, how did it all begin? Like many of the great romances, it began by being a total non-starter. I had just left Oxford after my final exams and a great friend and tutor had recently passed away, which had left me spinning in grief and devoid of my usual structured direction; A kind mutual friend of my late friend helped me to continue to live my dream of being in London despite the additional complexities that grief brings to moving away from one, safe, known life to a sprawling metropolitan new one, by arranging a short term position from me at the Institute of Education, working for the (then named) London Leadership Centre. It was an admin position paying a basic starting salary for such a city-based public sector post, and we were to be based in Tavistock Square. After leaving all my designs on a Brideshead Revisited life in Oxford, here was the entrance to another such dream-like existence, among the Bloomsbury set and within one of those talled terraced houses with their Juliet balconies and French doors, from where I continuously expected Mrs. Dalloway, or one of her descendants, to emerge.

Such was (is?) the lack of any kind of disability accessibility support in those buildings that it was to the third floor (i.e. up three tall flights of stairs) that I must climb each day to my new administrative post. Our office rooms were tiny and housed at most two desks at a time. Dorian* was my office mate, a thirty-something officianado of the place who not only knew everyone who was anyone (or wasn’t) but could also tell me how to swing two council flats out of the London borough of Hackney, plus apply Touche Eclat and eyeliner to perfection before our (many) outings for lunch and dinner in the area. 

(*not his real name)

Bloomsbury, where romances begin...

Dorian was a gossip specialist, and with an extremely practised and rarely convincing air of disinterest, politely asked me for my background: university education, origins, love life etc. At which point he declared when I confirmed that I was without a boyfriend currently, that he had the perfect match for me, a Cambridge-educated Philosophy graduate with a PhD who was to be found somewhere in the basement of the building, and apparently was also single and potentially slightly melancholy and quiet. Dear reader, I confess these qualities did not present themselves to me as recommending traits for a future suitor. Added to which, the thought of being matched on a blind date I found abhorrent in the extreme: think: if you are matched up with someone by a friend, if you find yourself going out with someone who is markedly less a) intelligent, b) funny, c) good looking (okay, clearly ‘c’ was ‘a’ but I didn’t want you to have ultimate confirmation of my propensity (especially in my early twenties) to be shallow).

No, oh please no, not the multi-coloured jeans and shell suit combo!!!

As it turned out, the mysterious basement man was as reluctant as I to proceed with the proposed blind date, and so it was called off. It was not until four or five months later that I finally came face to face with him, in the basement, which also happened to be the stash for stationery. In case you are not aware, allow me to enlighten you that working for an institution linked to education almost undoubtedly links you inextricably with a world where post-it notes are king. Scarcely a day goes by where the tiny sticky multi-coloured paper pages are not employed for a multitude of means. I ventured down to the basement in search of this very thing, but was almost mortified with embarrassment at the prospect of meeting someone to whom I had not been formally introduced (I really was still very much in the Oxford world) and with whom I had been suggested as a potential romantic target. Therefore I marched, face downcast, past this chap who appeared to be wrapped entirely within a navy overcoat covering all of his person except his slender neck (and it was a very cold room) and muttered a quick “Hello” before retreating once more to the safety of my tiny cubbyhole four floors up.

Not that we still have any of these. No, not at all.

For the next few months I drifted down from North London where I lived to Bloomsbury each day, enjoyed outings to the museums and bars nearby and felt quite the thing at times, especially when a good friend and I blagged our way into a London Review Bookshop event and he and I both ended up giving interviews to camera in celebration of its publication, in spite of the fact that neither of us had the faintest idea for which occasion we had crashed the party…and I ended up in the BBC2 programme about it (vague sentiments of praise are clearly useful to editors everywhere). I also dated a young French man and had a fun time visiting some swanky restaurants in my London-styled looks. That was not to last, but luckily it was my pride rather than my heart which hurt more as that liaison ended shortly after it began.

Great Shop. Great Party.

At some point I realised that I really must find something to do – some direction – and that this could not happen at the Institute. Over a lunch at Heals with the same wonderful friend who helped me to find the job there in the first place, she suggested I apply to the Teach First scheme, which apparently was ‘very up and coming’ and a good idea for a bright graduate. It appealed to me because it was a two year programme. I thought, “Well, I can probably stick it out for two years, if I get in, and it would be good to have something like that on my CV perhaps.” A tome-sized application form and an assessment centre later, I was lucky enough to gain a place. Great!

Heals: where great ideas are formed and great lunches had!

Wait, though, I don’t actually know anything about teaching. (Not so great.) So what will I do now?

During the time of this application, our Bloomsbury existence had been uprooted from its styled, decaying glamour, to a chic new location just off Tottenham Court Road, with security badges, glass and chrome and spacious open plan design. This meant a move, of course, plastic crates for the removal of our belongings I.e. the post-it notes) and a reshuffle of desk arrangements. And thus it came to pass that I was allocated a place in the ‘temporary staff’ section of the floor, opposite that same young over-coated gentleman who was my one-time blind-date to be, Dr. Matthew Carmody.

Mat (as he is known) came in once a week just for the afternoon, since he was administrator for the course “Working Together for Success” or something like that, and sat quietly at his (brand new) white desk eating a baguette sandwich and eating his Walker’s crisps, usually plain, sometimes salt and vinegar. Reader, I may have been too bashful to attempt a self-introduction when we had no reason to speak, but at the rustling of a crisp packet I could no longer resist. I. Had. To. Have. A. Crisp.

We started to make polite conversation, once a week, as I sat there pretending to work despite the fact that my programmes had largely concluded, and he sat there doing (I assume) the same. We chatted about this and that and then we went our separate ways until the next week. It was only when I received a telephone call from Teach First to accept my application that it struck me to ask Mat for assistance. I had learned from our chit chat over crisps that he was also a teacher aside from his IoE job – and I needed (I really, really needed) some advice in that respect. Mat – thank you, Mat! – accepted my invitation for an after work drink for the selfish purpose of my learning what on earth I was letting myself in for by signing up to teach a bunch of kids in Walthamstow and Chingford aged eleven to sixteen.

Now then, it is time to point out that in no way was this invitation issued as a date or anything like. I was asking for advice from a work acquaintance. End of. To illustrate this point I will introduce the following evidence: that en route to our chosen venue of The Sun pub on Tottenham Court Road, I asked Mat if he wouldn’t mind stopping off, on the way, so I could go to Boots, and then proceeded to buy a packet of feminine hygiene products which I (quite publicly) purchased in full view of Mat. This was not, therefore, I repeat, not, intended to be a romantic encounter.

A very serious Mat. A very amused me.

In The Sun, I think I remember Mat kindly got in the drinks, a large glass of red for me and a pint of London Pride for him. And we talked about teaching: what sort of lessons did he teach? What were the students like? Did he give homework? Did anyone actually do the homework (yes I know, former teachers, I never did it!)? What format did lessons take?

In the hour and a half that passed I learned two things: one, that teaching in 2005 was different than anything I had experienced or was thus far expecting from my next job; two, that Mat Carmody was definitely amusing, interesting, and someone I felt suddenly a sense of sparkle in my stomach for. I did a figurative double take. “Huh. He’s really nice. Was there a frisson?” We parted and I went on back up to north London to see a friend, to practise some singing together and catch up post Oxford. “So, how's your love life, Jessica?” he asked (or something like that. Bridget Jones eat your heart out!). And I looked at him, straight, and said, “Well, maybe, because I think I actually just had a drink with someone who is really nice.”

And so, reader, we all lived happily ever after. 

Yep.

Of course we didn’t! This is Britain. It took me long enough (and him for that matter) even to say “Hello,” let alone to acknowledge an interest beyond simple, uncomplicated, no strings friendship. What did happen was that we were very definitely friends after that night.

Truckles: Where much red wine was drunk in the London summer sunshine

We arranged drinks again, this time just for fun, in a couple of weeks, and spent a happy two hours drinking red wine in the courtyard at Truckles near the British Museum talking all things, Classics (me), Philosophy (him), music (both of us) and his dashing tales of derring-do, such as being so squiffy at a friend’s wedding that he looked out of the window and his glasses fell off his face, to be retrieved the next day in the flower patch outside, and the fact that in the car going back the combination of hangover plus student car vibrations meant he temporarily lost sensation in both arms. (I then went off to the opera, quite half (or more) cut, myself, after that. The opera I saw is a distant memory. But I’m sure it was very good and the Champagne at half time was excellent.)

No idea what was happening but it was surely very good.

We had another such drink, and by this time I knew that I was, pretty much, in love with Mat Carmody. He was so funny, interesting, kind and gentle that I had set my cap at him, but even had I not my heart had decided that he was for me. At this point he had still not asked me out, but I had invited him to attend my birthday party with other friends, a dinner in central London in a few weeks’ time. I had had a long experience of the classic Oxford ailment that is unrequited love throughout almost the entirety of my degree, and had no desire to repeat two and a half years of a similar experience. Therefore, I thought, there is only one option. You cannot wait for him to make the first move in case he never does. You must ask him out. And so I (sort of) did. And what is more, I told myself, you must hope that something happens before that, but if nothing does, then you must ask him out (properly!) yourself, and if it doesn’t work out, never see him again until your heart has 100% moved on. No more nonsense waxing and waning. Get on with it!

At our last drink before this event, knowing we were both soon to leave the IoE anyway, there was little risk of meeting Mat again should my bid (if it had to be me who made the move) so I had a plan in place which meant I could thoroughly embarrass myself at my birthday party, in the presence of all my closest friends (which, in reality, doesn’t separate this birthday from any other). Unfortunately we had relatively little time together at this drink as Mat had to go home to mark essays.

…

At this point I wasn’t exactly optimistic. I mean, what guy picks essay marking over drinks with me? Answer: someone who is clearly not interested.

Despite this, we walked together to the bus stop and I still hoped that we might at least reach that ‘awkward moment’ where, waiting from the bus, we might share a first kiss? As we walked there I said, gesturing towards Rathbone Place, “So, I’ll see you on Saturday?”

“Yes. Hang on, so when you said you were having your party at the Eagle, I assumed you meant somewhere in Clerkenwell, not the Eagle round here.”

Great. Not only is he dashing home to mark third rate philosophy essays rather than staying in town for dinner and drinks with me, he very nearly lost any chance of turning up at my party at all by heading to a place miles away from the actual venue.

And no. Transport for London did not deliver our first kiss, because, contrary to every other time, the bloody bus turned up right on time. Thanks a lot TFL. You really outdid yourself this time in your support for romance.

Thanks a lot TFL. Crushing romantic liaisons by turning up on time. How dare you?!

So how did the story end? With the help of my best friend and me drinking Champagne at 10am (as she couldn’t attend because of a very serious back injury), we had our little birthday brunch of our own with some cheesy chick flicks and brut Champagne to give me Dutch courage before we left.

Champagne, giving la courage to les braves everywhere.

And at a dinner on one of the hottest days of the year, surrounded by my friends and being grilled by all sides, my beloved Mat (who hates hot weather and was looking massively annoyed and about to expire) took the oh so subtle hint I dropped as a practised flirt with the classic, never again to be used line, “Please come and sit next to me because I want you to sit next to me,” and finally. Finally. At after dinner drinks he bought me a gin and tonic, and as we waited for it to arrive, he put his hand on my hand. And that was the start of us.

Our first date venue. Happy Memories!

Ten years later, here we are, still holding hands. A fair few challenges along the way, the path to true love never did run smooth, and there were job changes, commutes, many tough times with our health and trying to be together across London and also across continents, but here we are. We went back to our first date venue - Putney's Boathouse down by the river for a celebratory drink to toast ten years together.

Thank you Mat Carmody for sticking around with me, and for being so understanding about everything. My partner in life, love and laughter. I love you always. (And thanks for all the post-it notes. They've come in very handy over the years.) x