Excuse Me, Please Can You Help Me Search For My Lost Pen Pal?

A friend of mine vividly remembers this phrase from his GCSE French. How many of you remember the days of Tricolore when you thought that every conversation in France started with strangely Greek sounding country music and always involved a gruff sounding man called Jean-Pierre who lived in La Rochelle?

Well, I'm revisiting those happy memories, because as I mentioned in my last post, I'm trying to learn Romanian. I have figured that the key to being happy in Bucharest will be knowing the language and therefore being able to get to grips with the local men.... sorry I mean culture....

I suppose the process is marginally less painful than those days in Secondary School. At least the the boys in my form are no longer flicking dried snot at the back of my head or passing notes behind my back that say 'Siani smells!' And I don't have to mindlessly repeat 'I want a ham sandwich' over and over as the card is held up in the air by a teacher who is seriously lacking in enthusiasm. Our teacher, whose name I can't even remember, made it plainly obvious that he would much rather be sitting in the staff room eating a baguette au camembert or whatever than teaching us. It also seemed that the French Department only had five cards- a ham sandwich, a cheese sandwich, vegetables, chips and steak. For some reason, family holidays in France never helped me in my language acquisition skills either, maybe because we spent most of our time looking round cathedrals (sorry, Mum) or in the pool, not conversing with the locals.

But being an adult with no GCSE or A-Level exam looming, I can learn a little bit at a time, usually in the car on the way to work. The only thing about that is that mouthing Romanian phrases to yourself makes you look a bit mad. Last week, on the way to work, as I was repeating the phrases in 'Unit 3 - Useful Vocabulary', I had to stop at some traffic lights. Engrossed in my studies, I happened to turn my head and saw a group of my Year 10s standing by the side of the road staring at me. I gave them a little wave and sped off, secure in the knowledge that their suspicion that “Miss is actually bonkers” were now confirmed. Actually, I think they realised this after I got on the floor and pretended to be a banana when they were in Year 8.

Anyway, moving swiftly on, I am determined that I am going to use this move as a chance to learn a new skill ie a language. Something to engage my brain in a new and different way. I'm very proud that I now know how to answer should I ever be asked how many sons and how many daughters I have. I can also find my way to the bus station and ask a shopkeeper for a kilo of green olives and a litre of milk. And the verb structures are starting to make sense in my head, although so far I'm still only on the present tense.

But it's not quite as simple as that. Learning Romanian is about me embracing a new life and starting to mentally detach myself from everything here. Strangely enough, yesterday a colleague at work remarked on how different I look. I have recently dyed my hair a shade later and got new glasses, but I'm also walking and carrying myself differently. I feel lighter, happier, as if I can't wait for what's going to happen next, like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

If my life was a book, this would be a new chapter. It would be entitled 'Siani Gets a Life'. If it was a chapter in a Tricolore textbook it would be entitled 'Siani Leaves La Rochelle – The Future Tense'.

Bucharest...Really?

I'm back. It's been a while. Sorry. Life took over for a short time and owing to work and other boring stuff I wasn't able to write. In fact, because of my huge workload I wasn't able to do anything except sit on my ever-increasing arse on the sofa, exhausted. My students had their exams and preparing them for those seemed to take priority over everything else. In fact, it took priority over my health and happiness.

Over the last couple of months, I have felt like I was drowning in a sea of paperwork and spending far too much time at school. Life has been, to be honest, pretty damn miserable. I spent the majority of the Royal Wedding weekend at home alone, marking, when everyone else in Britain, it seemed, was out buying Wills and Kate tea towels, lusting after Prince Harry, or getting absolutely smashed. (Or all three, but not necessarily in that order!) Something, I decided, had to change. If one can't celebrate a National Holiday like everyone else, I reasoned, then life must be pretty crap indeed. On arriving back at work on the Tuesday, I felt angry that I had given up so much of my holiday in order to work when, it seemed, people who hold more senior positions than I had spent it relaxing and spending time with their families.

In the first post I ever wrote on this blog, I vowed I would take this year to make myself happy, yet at this time, I felt angry about my work-life balance. I felt stuck, like I was running on a treadmill, going nowhere but getting more and more tired with absolutely nothing to look forward to. When friends I hadn't seen for ages would ask me what I had been up to lately, I didn't have anything to say – nothing that wasn't related to work or my students anyway. I had no stories any more. My life had become boring.

Then, out of the blue, a friend emailed, saying that they needed a Drama teacher at the school he teaches at in Bucharest and would I like the job? I thought about it for a while. And then I said Yes. Moving to Romania definitely wasn't something that was in my life plan, but how stupid would I be to turn down this kind of opportunity? Especially when I had applied for other jobs abroad and heard nothing.

So I'm off. My contract starts in August. However, I now feel trapped in some sort of limbo – as if I'm neither coming nor going. My students, after their first reaction of shock, seem to have become resigned to the idea and are now slightly subdued in class, not sure how to treat me now they know I'm going. My friends are divided into two groups, the 'Good For You' group and the 'I'm So Jealous' group. Some people, however, seem suspicious of the decision I've made, asking if it's a good idea or if Romania is somewhere I really want to live. Well, maybe it's not the first place I would have picked but from what I can gather it's a buzzing, vibrant European city. It'll sure be a change from rural ...shire anyway. Plus, with the low cost of living over there, I've calculated that I will be able to save over half my salary every month. From what I know of the school, the work-life balance is much more realistic and I will be able to do exciting things in the evenings, rather than just watching 'Supersize vs Superskinny' and then retiring to bed early with my faithful companion, Grazia magazine.

Of course, I'm really scared. Actually, pooing my pants would be a (slightly cruder) and more accurate description of my mental state at this point. I have roots in this area now – I've made friends and own a house. And I'm going to miss my students so much – especially the older ones. I have visions of myself, sitting in some grey flat in the dodgy part of town, totally alone, skyping my Mum and Dad and crying pathetically whilst downing a bottle of the local wine. (Just like a normal Friday night in then!) At certain moments, I'll have a flash of doubt, start panicking, and think What are you doing Siani? You must be bonkers... leaving everything that you know and going to live on your own in Eastern Europe!

Actually though, I'm not telling the whole truth. There is another reason why it was hard to make the decision.  A couple of months ago, I met a Man That I Really Liked and he, it seemed, liked me back. We had a few dates and everything was going swimmingly. But when I told him that I had been offered the job and was thinking about accepting it, he asked me not to call him again. I was pretty gutted. Sod's Law and all that.

It seems crazy that after waiting to meet a man for so long, I'm deliberately choosing not to continue the relationship, especially at the grand old age of thirty one when apparently, according to society, I should be thinking about having children before my ovaries start shrivelling up and I metamorphose into a crazy old spinster. I can feel that happening already - the crazy bit I mean, not the shrivelling ovaries,that would be a bit weird. I already have eccentric, set-in-my ways type habits and I've contemplated getting a black cat...

If I think about it rationally though, I know that if I chose not to go because of a guy it would probably all go wrong anyway and I would regret it forever. That's just the way life is. I'm pretty sure he wasn't The One (of many) as well – for example there were a few instances when I would say something and he would look blank because he didn't know what a word meant.

Anyway, I'm sure that I'll meet a sexy Romanian over there, someone perhaps who has a wider and more varied vocabulary. Not that I have high standards or anything, you understand. I have a plan as well - I fancy bagging myself a diplomat or ambassador (Ferrero Rocher anyone?) who's tall, dark and mysterious and speaks five languages. Then I can travel the world with him. I've already Googled a few of the embassies in Bucharest but unfortunately they don't put staff pics up. Shame.

When I think about the life that I want, I see travel, adventure, exotic places. As I said in a previous post, I don't see myself lying on the sofa here reading Star magazine, too exhausted to move because I've just worked a twelve hour day. Or spending every Sunday morning in the supermarket and every Sunday afternoon cleaning and doing school work.

Anyway, I think I'd better go and catch up on my studies. I'm on Unit 3 of 'Teach Yourself Romanian' and I need to get to grips with those pesky verbs. By this time next week, I'm hoping to be fluent.....

Helo, Cariad

So. Easter holidays. Why do I feel like I should be DOING SOMETHING GLAMOROUS? Competitive holidaying is something that many people at my place of work seem to go in for. I always find myself succumbing to the pressure during staff room chit-chat and trying to make a week with my parents in North Wales sound like a boutique mini-break in a country house hotel. Never mind that now I'm actually here chez parentals I've spent most of the week in my pyjamas, trying to get over a particularly nasty flu/cold type thing. Never mind that the most glamorous thing I will do all week will be hang out with my little brother and his friends at 'The Farmer's Arms'. No one needs to know that, do they?

Lots of people at work are, this Easter, popping off to various far-flung areas of the globe and will no doubt return looking brown and serene. I will return looking brown, but only because I've just had a spray tan at the local beauticians. I've also got a feeling that I will return chubby rather than serene owing to the change of diet and the fact that my Mum is a very good cook. She still makes dumplings from scratch and they're hard to resist. Also, her welsh cakes are to die for. My excuse is that it's cold up North, and I need the carbs. Or something.

Being back in North Wales after living in the South for so long takes some adjusting to. I've really started to notice the difference in accent. Up here, it's slower, more deliberate and more musical than the posh 'Middle English' manner of speaking that I've becoming so accustomed to (for example, barth, parth, grarss) Growing up in a culture where people switch effortlessly between English and Welsh as a matter of course has really stood me in good stead. Many of my peers who hail from this corner of the world are quick witted, articulate and easily able to play with language - an ability we gained very quickly when it transpired in the second week of secondary school that our French teacher would be teaching us in Welsh. Nowadays, my Welsh is pretty rusty but I am proud to say that I can still catch up with my all-time favourite soap opera 'Pobl y Cwm' (roughly translated meaning People of the Valley) and understand most of what's going on.

Another thing that I've noticed since migrating south is that people up here are generally much friendlier and will start calling you 'cariad' (the Welsh word for darling) 'love' and 'chick' at the slightest provocation. I'm really not used to that any more. They are also, generally, much more willing to engage in conversation and tell you all about their lives. A simple interaction in a shop can easily turn into a long conversation about, well, anything. My friend N was astounded at the friendliness of the general public when she visited last summer, and that was when we were on a day out to Chester, which is, of course, in England and where people are considered to be snootier than those on this side of the border.

However, my favourite part of coming home is the excuse to read the Free Press, the local newspaper. Apart from containing many amusing spelling and punctuation mistakes ('Judge's Daeth') the type of news it contains is always extremely entertaining. From ploughing competitions and sheep dog trials, from piano recitals and petty crime (eg Mr Jones's tractor has been stolen) to my favourite story of all, the story of the 'Crossbow Robber' who, I kid you not, held up the Morrisons' service station in the next town and then, after taking £4,136 from the till (along with vouchers and postage stamps, the paper was quick to note, he'd obviously forgotten to mail his birthday thank you letters) he ran home throwing away the coppers, his balaclava, gloves and the drawers of the cash register, thus leaving a trail right to his front door. A tricky puzzle for the North Wales Police to crack indeed! Actually, they were probably astounded to be faced with real life violent crime ("But Dafydd, I thought that only happened on The Bill!")

I actually have a couple of friends arriving later today who, I'm sure, will be slightly taken aback by the change of pace, difference in language and beauty of the countryside. A few years ago, I had a friend visiting from London, who, on walking through the town exclaimed, “But Siani, it's like a different country!” This was the same friend who was astounded at how dark it was at night (I'm really not joking) My idea of a tour of North Wales involves not climbing Snowdon but taking my guests out on a Saturday night to the local pub where there is karaoke until 1 am, where the smell of sheep dung is not quite hidden by the aroma of Lynx Africa and the drink of choice is a 'Lager Top.' Farmer watching is just as much fun as visiting castles and climbing mountains, in my opinion. Another bonus associated with a night out in North Wales is the price of drinks. Last summer, at 'The Farmer's Arms' I bought a round of three alcoholic drinks and it came to about six pounds fifity. Score!

So, am I jealous that I'm not lying on a beach, under a waving palm tree, cocktail in hand? No. Of course not. Where else in the world can I drink a cup of tea made with Welsh water, watch lambs jumping happily in the field across the river, enjoy the ever present view of the Clwydian range in the distance and be thoroughly entertained by the exploits of the most stupid criminal ever? Only in North Wales. Although I am absolutely bloody freezing.

The Art of Conversation

I went on a date on Friday night. Yes, you read that right. I actually had some drinks in the company of a man! I got my New Look five inchers out of retirement and dashed home from work after staff trampolining ( yes I know it's a bizarre concept, more on that later) them showered, changed, and got on the bus for the long journey into town.

I shouldn't have bothered. That sounds really harsh – he was a perfectly nice guy. That says it all really doesn't it... nice guy. I was quite bored and couldn't wait to go home and get into bed. Unfortunately I had to wait for the 11.25 home and so was stuck making polite conversation with a man who might as well have been from another planet. He is a detective (the one mentioned previously) and nice, intelligent, moderately good looking and considerate. But somehow, the chemistry wasn't there. I kept having to make inane comments to keep the conversation going and there were lots of long, uncomfortable silences where we stared at each other with absolutely bugger all to say. I think at one point there was even a conversation about the difficulty of parking in town and the pros and cons of the multi storey car park (Pay and Display or Ringo? Discuss) Yawn. I'm not being mean – I participated just as enthusiastically in the conversation as he did – but just because I was desperate for something... anything... to say. It was partly my fault though. My head wasn't there. I couldn't stop thinking about a certain someone who I've managed to forget about recently, namely Hot FB Guy.

He was at the aforementioned staff trampolining and I have to say, his skills were IM...PRESS... IVE. He was pretty damn bouncy. Unfortunately, mine leave much to be desired. (Read non-existent) Was not looking my best, had just rushed from bus duty and had very little make up on (eek) a huge spot developing on my cheek and a pair of tracksuit bottoms that had seen better days and were a little too short.... OK, I admit it, ankle swingers would be a better description. He told me a looked like a little pixie bouncing up and down on the trampoline (might have been down to the squealing noises I was making whenever I bounced too high). And I fell for him all over again. Godammit!

Whilst on the date with the detective, I kept thinking about the banter that I had with Hot FB Guy and the way that I crave his company even though we haven't spoken properly four four months. With the detective, it took him at least 10 seconds to get each of my jokes. If that's who's responsible for cracking crime in the area then God help us....

In comparison, Hot FB Guy gets me every time. To be honest, it could have been Brad Pitt (when he was hot, before the beard) sitting opposite me on that date and I wouldn't have been interested. I think I mean that as well...I must really like this guy.

However, he's probably got a girlfriend by now. It's been six months since we met and started the whole flirtation thing. I've got a feeling that I'm going to get screwed over again. Just because we've made polite conversation a few times.....When he waves at me across the car park at work I get unbelievably excited and start reading all kinds of things into it. J and I conduct whispered conversations in my office every lunchtime and the conversation pretty much revolves around 1. Where I've seen him that day and 2. If he spoke to me. It usually goes like this:

Me: ...and then, he asked if I'd finished on the photocopier and as he took his copies out he looked at me, no really looked at me like he was going to say something...!

J: Hmmm......I saw him in the canteen this morning... etc 

Not that I'm a sad stalker or anything, you understand.

I'm well aware that reading about me banging on about fancying a guy at work is pretty boring. Therefore, I'm going to get back to the main topic of this post, which is about finding someone you actually get on with and who 'gets' you. It's so hard and finding someone who you fancy and get on with is, in my opinion, nigh on impossible.

To illustrate my point, I'll tell you a story that J told me about a guy she went on a date with last week. He mentioned how he loves travelling. She then proceeded to wax lyrical about how she loves going to the airport, buying a stack of trashy magazines and watching the in flight movie on the plane. He stared at her with a disgusted look on his face before saying “Actually I meant travelling to new places and experiencing new cultures.” Whoops. Good job she didn't enlighten him about the all inclusive beer fest we went on in Turkey last year....he probably would have walked out. Strangely enough, they never saw each other again.

I've even found an unlikely confidante in another man with whom I have ace banter. Used to be Toxic Ex. We had a long phone conversation last night about why it's so hard to meet someone who you actually get on with. He told me that he's given up on dating. I told him about my date on Friday night. We laughed and I wondered why the only men I have good conversation with are totally unsuitable ie emotionally unavailable fuck ups or people who I've already been out with ten years ago.

So. In conclusion, I need a bloke with a GSOH. And one who I fancy. Right. That's easy. Actually, the frustrating thing is that I've already found someone. Someone who, unfortunately, is really not interested in me. Someone who is very good on a trampoline.

Choose Life

In the next couple of weeks, I have to make a really big decision. I have to make the kind of choice that could have drastic consequences and change my life forever. As I am a typical Sagittarian who is flighty, indecisive and changeable, this decision is proving to be really tough.

Here in the UK I have a stable job, a lovely flat, fabulous friends and a fairly comfortable lifestyle (Well, by that I mean I can visit Primani with a clear conscience). But I'm still restless. In the first posting of this blog, I vowed that I would take this year to make myself happy. It's now the time of the year when teachers start looking for new jobs. I've applied for one in Dubai and am scouring the internet for others.

If I got this job, I would be moving to a country which is warmer and could offer a better lifestyle. I would work less hours, teach smaller classes and get paid more. But more importantly, I've come to realise lately that I'm working so hard my life is passing me by. I don't want to turn around in ten years time and realise that I'm forty and all I've done with my life is devoted it to other people's kids. (And done one helluva lot of paperwork... whoopee!)

My Dad recently asked me where I see myself in five years time. The problem is, I don't know. I really don't know what I want. There isn't really anything to keep me here, in the sense of  not having kids (not biological ones anyway) or any responsibilities that I can't walk away from. I could quite easily go abroad. This country is expensive, cold, and stressful. Teachers' pensions are being cut and the cost of living is soaring.

I regularly work a twelve hour day and then spend an hour lying on the sofa watching rubbish TV before falling into bed exhausted. I keep wondering if this is all there is down for me – working a 50 plus hour week and then working all day on a Sunday marking coursework doesn't seem right. I really don't want to moan and rant about how crap my life is but the hours I'm working at the moment do seem a bit excessive. On the rare nights I'm not working, I'm too tired to make the most of the time I have. My job, I'm sure, is a direct contributor to the fact that I haven't met any nice men for ages. At the moment, I feel like my life has come to a standstill, a full stop. I don't like being stationary, running all day but not getting anywhere except exhausted.

And yet I've worked really hard to put down roots in this area. I like the fact that I've built such strong relationships with the students at my school and the other staff that I work with. I live in a really beautiful part of the country and own a lovely flat. I suppose I've just come to realise that having a successful and frantically busy career comes at a cost to one's personal life, health and general well-being.

I am afraid of all the things I'll miss if I go abroad.  However, I remember a conversation I had with my friend S whilst living in Oman. She was listing all the things she missed about the UK. She mentioned crisp Autumn mornings, crunching through fallen leaves and cosy country pubs. Then she paused and said 'But I've just realised that I hate the cold, rarely walk through fallen leaves and don't go to the pub that much either.' The ideas of the UK that she was holding in her mind was fantasy, not real. It was an idealized view of the life she had left behind.

I have been considering just quitting my job and then seeing what happens. I could rent my flat out, do a TEFL course and go travelling. The idea is tempting. I can see myself mincing around on a beach somewhere, or doing a Julia Roberts in 'Eat Pray Love' and cycling along a road that runs through a paddy field, wearing a white trouser suit and looking radiant. The problem is though, that real life isn't like that. In real life, I'd probably be covered in humongous mosquito bites and looking all sweaty. Knowing me, I'd probably be cycling fast to the nearest toilet after partaking too enthusiastically of the local cuisine.

I'm hoping that something will happen soon. Something will happen to give me a sign of what I should do. Someone will offer me some pearls of wisdom about the meaning of life and all that. If only a fairy god mother would descend from the sky, wave a magic wand and make the decision for me.

So, where do you see yourself in five years time? What picture do you have in your mind? In my picture, although I can't say exactly where I am, I'm definitely not lying on the sofa, reading Star magazine and watching Gok's Fashion Fix. There's got to be more to life than that......hasn't there?

Money, money, money....

Money. It doesn't matter, does it? Surely, it's what's on the inside that counts? Well, I'll refer you to that bit in Pride and Prejudice when Lizzie Bennett sees Mr Darcy's estate for the first time and realises that she might just fancy him after all. And please remember that Lizzie Bennett isn't a gold digger by any means. She's the most independent of the Bennett sisters. She's an intelligent woman. She could see that Mr Darcy had the complete - and very large - package...(it was the white breeches...!)

Seriously though, so many relationships break down over the issue of money. Being skint brings out the worst in people. It makes them bitter, miserable and angry. My first proper job in London was as a sales person for a holiday company. I was on fifteen and a half grand a year and it was absolutely horrific. I was living with my boyfriend who was working in Wetherspoons and earning about half as much as me. I couldn't afford to pay the TV license and I distinctly remember hiding upstairs with the lights off when the TV licensing people rang the doorbell. Living in one of the most exciting cities in the world but being so poor was not fun at all.

Speak to anyone who has spent night after night lying next to their partner, staring at the ceiling and wondering how they're going to make rent that month. Or spending their life in a monotonous cycle of work/supermarket/home and never being able to afford to do anything because they simply can't afford it. As someone who spent the last part of her marriage supporting her partner and getting little in return except grief, I am now whole-heartedly looking for a man who has more than ''four hundred pounds a year.'' And a country pile wouldn't go amiss either....

Do I want to find someone who can match me in terms of salary and make my life easier financially than it currently is? Yes. Does this make me a bad person? I don't think so. I would like to find someone who doesn't suck his teeth and look worried when the bill for the two margherita pizzas and bottle of house wine arrives. Or make you pay for it because he's 'forgotten' his wallet. It happened. More than once. However, with the man in question, I don't think this was actually because he was skint. It was because he was stingy.

I absolutely hate stingy men. I think it's the biggest turn off ever. On the first date, I believe that the man should pay. Of course, I'll offer to split the bill, but I would think it odd if he was to agree. Later on, I'll happily pay the bill, but at the beginning, I want to feel that the man is happy to spend money on taking me out.

On a Sunday, scrubbing the shower, I am angry that I can't afford a cleaner. I would love to come home and find the house clean and tidy. I would also love to be able to afford to get my hair dyed at a salon rather than doing it myself in the bathroom. (Actually, I've probably spent a small fortune on new bath mats and so doing it myself is probably a false economy...)

I started thinking about this difficult issue of money because a friend of mine has been trying to set me up with a friend of hers. I looked at his picture on Facebook and didn't particularly fancy him. Then she told me that he earns around seventy five thousand a year. Instantly, I perked up. His substantial salary made him seem, to me, instantly more attractive. Actually...maybe I'm not shallow after all, maybe it's not the money. Maybe it's the fact that to have a high paying job one must be ambitious, have drive and be intelligent, all qualities that I value? This guy is a police detective and I do find that quite impressive. The idea of him bashing down a door and shouting 'Police' makes me feel a bit funny. Also I can imagine him questioning someone, in his shirtsleeves and sporting one of those cool sets of braces that hold a gun, like Brad Pitt in 'Seven'... mmmmm....Actually, knowing my luck he probably looks less Hollywood and more Sun Hill.

Now, here's the unfeminist bit we're not supposed to admit to. Please don't think badly of me when you read this...

Sometimes I do fantasize about having a rich husband who buys me jewellery and a beautiful house complete with a live-in housekeeper. On a cold winter evening, when I climb the stairs to my flat after a twelve hour day at work, arms weighed down with supermarket shopping and unmarked A-Level portfolios, I think how nice it would be to have money so I didn't have to work quite so bloody hard. I am, as the phrase goes 'having it all' but sometimes, 'it' is just too much. On the days when I'm so tired that making an omelette for tea seems like a major mission, being a lady who lunches seems like a really attractive option. Do you hate me?

My Inner Fatty

On Saturday night, in a packed bar on the Isle of Wight, I met a really cute guy. I got knocked against him and as I apologized, I noted that it hadn't been that unpleasant an experience and if someone had knocked me against his (rather muscular) chest again, I really wouldn't have minded. I had had a couple of drinks and noted only through my wine-induced haze that he had a really nice smile and sexy little wrinkles round his eyes. He took my number and we exchanged some rather flirtatious text banter the next day.

Back on the mainland, I made friends with him on Facebook and was shocked to see that this man is a bona fide hottie with a body to die for. And a beautiful blonde (ex?) girlfriend. Instantly, I began to feel totally insecure.

Now, I know that I'm by no stretch of the imagination fat. I always say this to my friends and they always look at me blankly. By saying this, I'm not asking for them to validate me and reassure me that I'm thin. I know very well that a size 8-10 is not heifer territory and that really, I should be spending my time thinking about something else more valuable, for example the melting of the polar ice caps or Third World debt. But seeing that guy's pictures on Facebook with his buffed near perfect body threw me into a blind panic and made me think immediately “Well, if he ever wants to meet up, I'll have to go on a diet for the week before....”

Not that he will ever want to see me again. Because, you see, looks wise, he's way out of my league.

Last year, in the wake of my divorce, I met a guy at Salsa who I'll just call JM. He, I thought, was drop dead gorgeous. Every time before I went to see him in London, I would run into town after school to buy a new outfit, even though I had plenty of perfectly nice clothes to wear. I always worried constantly about what he would think about my body and that as a salsa DJ who hung around with loads of beautiful South American dancers, he would consider me fat. It drove my sister (who was living with me at the time) so mad that eventually she banned me from talking about him and anything connected with my appearance. I think “Shut the f*** up Siani or I'm going to give you a good slap,” was exactly what she said. My sister never has been one to mince her words....

It really wasn't vanity though, it was insecurity. Having just split up with my ex husband who had attacked me so absolutely and left me feeling like the worst person in the world, I was unable to believe that anyone would ever actually fancy me again. I thought I would get over it. But meeting the Hot Islander has made me realise that it's never going to go away. Whatever I do, there will always be an inner fatty waiting to break free, complete with all their insecurities.

I'm not unusual though. Most women I know have the same issues. Most women I know think that their stomach is too big, arms too flabby, boobs too saggy, thighs too fat, legs not long enough. My friends and I regularly have conversations where we almost competitively list our worst features They usually go something like this “Look at my bingo wings, I mean look at them,” “Well at least you haven't got thunder thighs like me.. etc.”

“Well, my legs may be thin but I've still got a huge moustache....blah blah blah.”

I have, I like to think, an exceptionally good looking group of friends. In fact, every one of my friends, I would say, is beautiful. All my friends have attributes that I love, and yet none of them are wholly happy with themselves or how they look. In fact, the only person who is happy with her appearance is my sister who lives in Africa. There, larger women are celebrated and therefore, she feels no pressure to look a certain way. I haven't seen her for a while, but in all her pictures on Facebook she looks radiantly happy. In all my pictures on Facebook, I look vaguely uncomfortable and strained as I try to pull in stomach and put my tongue in the roof of my mouth (apparently it makes one's cheekbones stand out). Unfortunately, for some reason, it makes me look like I'm trying to swallow a golf ball. I do try not to smile in pictures because smiling, I believe, gives me chipmunk cheeks and horse teeth. Like Victoria Beckham being hounded by the paparazzi, I am mortally afraid of looking happy lest I look fat.

Anyway, back to JM from salsa. Eventually, I realised that he just wasn't a very nice person. And at that moment, he stopped being so good looking and became, in my eyes, really ugly. It took about two seconds for me to realise that he wasn't hot at all, he just had a pretty face and that was about it. It was almost as if his mask fell away and, like in a science fiction film, his features became twisted and distorted. I knew, from then on that I would never fancy him again because he had shown me his true self, and this true self was self-absorbed, empty and lacking in any kind of empathy.

I wonder if it's the same for guys then. Would the Islander fancy me more if he got to know me and my winning personality a bit better? Does a great sense of humour cancel out a moustache, flabby thighs and the beginnings of a double chin? Hmm....

I'm not going to end this post with a feminist type sentence that implores all women to love themselves for who they are, thunder thighs and all. Instead, maybe we should all try to get a little bit of perspective. We should make the most of what we have and enhance our best features. Brains and beauty is a great package. Having a pretty face isn't the be all and end all, but it helps. Add a great sense of humour and a working knowledge of current affairs, and you're onto a winner.