What is love? Baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me. No more.

Haddaway (some time in the 90s) 

 Love. It’s what we’re all seeking. It’s why we date. It’s why we torment ourselves date after bloody useless date. Relationship after goddamn awful relationship and why we keep returning to the dating scene after being burned and hurt so badly.

In an attempt to find love.

In an attempt to find our other half, our soul mate, the one, Mr/s Right.

In an attempt to find the love of our life.

But like Haddaway asked back in the early 90s. What is love and does it have to hurt?

I’ve been in love a few (two for sure, maybe three or four depending on what you count as love) times and each time, rather than being what I imagined it to be: sunshine, rainbows, strolls through the park, hand in hand, gazing lovingly at one another then getting home and ripping each others clothes off before making intense, passionate love on a rug in front of a roaring fire. It’s been like hell on earth.

Each and every bloody time.

It does make me question why I still chase love; as from my experience being in love fucking hurts, hurts like nothing else on earth.

I’m speaking from personal experience here but also I’ve seen it from the outside; watched family members and friends have their hearts stomped and trampled on in their quest to find love. I’ve watched beautiful, intelligent, sane women sob their heart out over fuckboys, players and arseholes who treat them with zero respect. Watched them go back time after time, to be hurt and broken all over again. All in the name and quest for love.

It’s hard to recognise what real love is when love itself comes in many guises and different forms; like F Scott Fitzgerald said, ‘there are all types of love in this world but never the same love twice’ and whilst we easily seem to recognise love when it comes to platonic love (with our friends and family) we seem to get much more easy confused when it comes to romantic love or ‘true’ love.

The characteristics of ‘true love’ such as that found in classics such as Romeo and Juliet, Wuthering Heights and the modern classic 50 Shades of Grey are desire and obsession. But is this really love? Or is seeking out this breed of love why we keep getting hurt over and over again?

Let me go over some of the types of love I’ve experienced myself…

Unrequited love or Little Mermaid Love

In the original fairytale, oposed to the saccharine, sugary sweet Disney version. After selling her soul and voice for a pair of legs – which incidentally cause her agonising pain with every step she takes. The Little Mermaid ends up committing suicide because her prince marries someone else.

Little mermaid love is a type of love that literally pulls your soul apart. This type of love has no redeeming features and I’m not even sure it can fully be classed as love, it just feels similar. For me, little mermaid love was like having chronic heartbreak; it was always there, the emptiness, like a big gaping whole. The feeling is very similar to heartbreak but just less severe and it lasts longer. People also aren’t as sympathetic to your cause and just tell you to, ‘get a grip and get over it’. Little mermaid love is ghastly, it’s the obsession and desire of true love but its only felt by one person and not reciprocated by the other: It’s like a schoolgirl crush on steroids.

I’ve had a little mermaid experience once in my life; I was just out of a very serious relationship and I guess it was my attempt at rebounding.

The guy (whom I shall call Devildick Fuckboy) in question was already in a relationship. Yes, I know how awful that is and I feel ashamed of my behaviour. It is simply not cool or okay to go with guys who are already in a relationship.

I literally obsessed over Devildick for a good twelve months, during which time he manipulated me and feed me scraps: telling me how unhappy he was in his relationship, how he’d break up with her after X,Y,Z event.

I waited patiently and cried in bed. Alone.

Not a single day went by when I didn’t think about him: how to see more of him, how to ‘steal him away’ from his girlfriend (now wife), how to make him love me in the way I ‘loved’ him.

I literally would have done anything for Devildick Fuckboy. I cancelled plans with friends and dates with other guys to fit in with his ‘schedule’; basically I made a massive mug out of myself. On one occasion we’d arranged to meet on a Saturday. I spent all week preparing: waxing, tanning, getting my hair and nails done. I bought a few new Jo Malone candles, had them burning all over the house. Bought in oysters, fillet steak and champagne for our dinner. Only for Devildick to stand me up to play golf with a friend two hours before he was due to come over.

My moment of enlightenment came about 6am one morning in a hotel room, watching him drool and listening to him snore. We had gone out for drinks and dinner in a large group. Afterwards, Devildick and I went back to a hotel, for which I paid- he didn’t so much as offer a penny. After an hour or so he fell asleep on me, snored all night and made me drive him back home at 7am in the morning because he and his girlfriend had a wedding to attend. It was after that point something inside finally clicked and I realised that my feelings on Devildick were wasted.

But those twelve months were excruciating, agonising, painful: unrequited love is horrendous. I guess the pain that I felt was some sort of karma, my punishment for going with a guy whom I knew already had a girlfriend. I should have perhaps known that no man who cheats on his partner that way could ever be capable of love or real feelings. But there are some instances of little mermaid cases where the love is just simply not reciprocated for no other reason than one side just doesn’t feel it.

Unrequited love is by no means real love but it hurts just as much. It’s why every time I read or watch The Great Gatsby, I cry at little. I feel Gatsby’s heartbreak, his pain, his emptiness. I pity yet emphasise with his willing to change all he ever was and give his entirety to someone who is not worthy of him. I know what it feels like to stare at that green light across the bay night after night. A beacon of hope that one day, with enough of your love, things will turn as as you hoped.

Comfortable Love or Old Slipper Relationships

Another type of love I’ve experienced is comfortable love or as I’m going to call it, an ‘old slipper relationship’. Because like an old slipper it’s warm and comfortable and a bit boring. An old slipper relationship is much better and less painful than little mermaid love  as, for the most part, both sides feel the same way about each other. But for me, this type of love just feels like settling. There a quote that I’ve seen a few times on Instagram that resonates with me, “unless it’s mad, passionate or extraordinary love. It’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; love shouldn’t be one of them.”

Unfortunately, my way of thinking is likely to see me getting left on the shelf for the rest of my life. But I’d rather wake up alone at 50 than settling for a slipper.

Advocates of this type of love will claim they are ‘best friends’ which is all very lovely. You should always be friends with the love of your life but if that’s all you are; you really need to take a good long hard look at your relationship. Don’t get me wrong, there are some hung over Sundays were I just need someone to cuddle me, watch TV in bed with me and bring me pancakes. I get very envious of people in these types of relationships and consider finding my self a nice warm slipper and settling down. But I remind myself that emotions are meant to be raw, ugly, brutal: I want my love to be a roaring fire not a candle.

A major problem and regular occurence in old slipper relationships is that after years of slipperness; one side can become resentful. Suddenly, wising up to the fact they’ve `wasted’ years of their life; this may lead to affairs or even worse, one slipper leaving the other. Then all that’s left is a sad, battered, old, lone slipper whom no one wants.

It breaks my heart when I see these battered old slippers, trudging on with their day to day lives. We all know one as well, we all work with one: the lady in her 40s whose just gone through a divorce. Past her prime and a bit frumpy. Always looks a bit sad, the sparkle in her eyes gone…

Want to know if you’re in an old slipper relationship ask yourself this. Does your partner excite you? How many times in the last week have you got it on? And do you look at the person sat next to you and want to rip their clothes off or would you rather make yourself a cup of tea and watch a bit of TV? If it’s the latter. Congratulations you have yourself an old slipper relationship.

There may be old slippers out there who genuinely couldn’t be happier being slippers. Personally, I think love shouldn’t be routine and just about being happy or being comfortable and if that’s really what love is about then my friends or my sister are probably the love of my life as when I’m with them, that’s exactly how I feel-  happy and comfortable.

I have no label for the other time I’ve been in love: it wasn’t little mermaid as it was felt by both sides, it certainly wasn’t an old slipper as there wasn’t a day that went by that I felt ‘comfortable’. In fact, it was more like a rollercoaster, hurricane or whirlwind. It made no bloody sense at all. But despite, the turmoil and the ups the downs, I knew I only wanted to be with that person as the one thing in the world that could make me feel better was being held in his arms. I idolised everything about him, accepted him for his faults and failings (and their were many) and all I wanted was to make him happy. But even that love wasn’t, ‘true love’, it had a toxic element, it was too volatile, too fraught, too destructive ( for both us and everyone around us). Whilst love shouldn’t be smooth but it shouldn’t feel like you’re a daytripper to Alton Towers on acid. How does that saying go? ‘Find a man who ruins your lipstick not mascara’.

Maybe love is ultimately something we can’t explain, something that makes no sense. Maybe everyone has their own personal type of love that they are looking for or Maybe there’s no such thing. I mean even Disney have revised their view of love; in Maleficent the kiss of true love comes not from the prince but from Auroua’s mother figure: Maleficent herself.

What’s my idea of love? I want something so electric, lightening is jealous. I want someone to infuriate me and soothe me in equal measure. I want to be with someone whom I am never going to get bored of or with, someone I can talk absolute shit with at 2am in the morning, someone both whose body and mind excites me.

I don’t need a man to provide for me, save me or take care of me; I’ve got that covered. I want my equal: the other half to my lunatic, alcoholic, perverted, sarcastic, cynical black soul.

I randomly met Politics Guy on Facebook, he added me as a friend and started to message me. Despite the fact he had be-friended a perfect stranger, with whom he had 1 mutual friend, on a social media platform, he appeared to be relatively normal so I thought that I would at least give him a chance.

One of my pet hates is meeting a guy online and becoming his penpal for weeks and months afterwards. Look mate; I have a life, I have friends, I have people to see and places to be. I really can’t be doing with inane conversations about your day. If you’re hot I might tolerate your behaviour for a tad longer than I probably should. But, after a few days you really should be asking me out on a date or swerving the messages.

The politics guy was very direct and I like that. Direct, to the point. You know where you stand.

He seemed to be my type: tall, intelligent, the posh boy accent I like, a few rugby pictures- legs looked decent. And after a day or so, he asked me for drinks and dinner.

“Alicia. I’m unexpectedly at a loose end this evening. If you are too, would you like to join me for some food or drinks?”

“Sure. Why not Politics Guy, I’m at a loose end as well. What were you thinking?”

“Well, I’m a member of the RAC club in Pall Mall. Do you know it? We could head there for around 7.30?”

Half an hour later I received another phonecall.

“Alicia I think I should just explain how you should be dressed this evening.”

Oh bloody hell, I thought. It’s either fancy dress or some swingers’ party were I need to be dressed in Latex or Leather. Typical bloody politician. The dirty dog, my grandma always said the guys at Westminster were kinky. I don’t even mind, he doesn’t even know me and I don’t own any latex outfits…

“The RAC club is very conservative and you need to dress appropriately. What did you have in mind to wear?”

“Well I was thinking Black latex catsuit 30 seconds ago until you told me that it was conservative. Guess I’ll just go with a pencil dress.” I joked.

Him, completely missing any humour: “I think the pencil dress would be suitable.” Wear that.

After hanging up, I fumed for a little while about the audacity of him telling me how to dress for a date. Like I was some sort of idiot. I always dress well for dinner dates and felt quite patronised that he would feel the need to double check on my attire for the evening.

I arrived at Green Park tube station, ravenous, having missed lunch. A little Marks and Spencers trip was in order so I didn’t make the same mistake I did with the Trader and eat half my body weight in food at dinner.

So I bought myself, a sandwich, some Percy Pigs and was going to go for a can of coke until I spied some Mojitos in cans. Can of coke or a mojito for Dutch courage? Mojito it was…

By the time I arrived at the RAC club, I had finished the sandwich and was happily munching on my Percies and finishing off my Mojito. I stuffed a couple (six) more sweets in my mouth whilst I delved into my bag to send a message telling Politics Guy I was there. When I heard…

‘Alicia?’

‘wweloo’,  I tried to say with a mouth full of Percies, cocktail can in hand (pure class me). He laughed and I attempted to make the situation better with offerings of jelly sweets, ‘wanfpt a Wercy Wig?’ Gulp. Swallow. Whilst I stuffed the remainder of the packet along with my empty can of mojito into my Chanel. (I’d never normally do this with a nice handbag, but the mortification made me panic and I didn’t know what else to do with them). He looked at me like I was simple and asked, “Shall I dispose of the rubbish properly rather than you having to put it in your handbag?”

I nodded and reluctantly handed over the Percies and mojito can (which had drenched my handbag). Oh I am so special needs at times.

“Shall we go inside? I should warn you my friend has unexpectedly turned up with a date. So there are four of us eating. Is that ok?”

I thought, ‘it’ll have to be wont it’. But after the Percy Pig/Cocktail Can introduction I thought I had better be more polite and told him, ‘of course’.

My Chanel continued to leak mojito as we as we traversed through the numerous grand, empty rooms in the RAC club; It was like a little alcoholic Hansel and Gretel trail. “There’s lots of rooms, what are at they all used for?” I asked as we wandered.

“Well, this is the drawing room and over there is the knitting room.” He explained.

“Pardon. The what room?”

“Knitting room”, he said for a second time.

“Knitting room?” I screeched back in a very loud, very scouse voice.

I tend to get more Scouse if I am angry, surprised or have had a drink. The disbelief of institutions still having knitting rooms in 2015 took me by such surprise that I sounded much like a female Jamie Carragher.  “Well if you’d let me know I would have brought my yarn. Is that even legal nowadays. Knitting rooms?” I asked as a very large painting of Winston Churchill gazed down on me menacingly and disapprovingly from the wall.

“Well of course. Where are the ladies going to congregate to do their girl talk? There’s also bedrooms upstairs for the guests to use if they wish.” And he gave me a sly little wink. Urghhh. Pervert, I’d just met him. Just my luck to find a sexist pervert.

I didn’t reply. What was there to say? I just gave him a foul look and hoped he’d got the message.

We arrived in the lounge bar and Politics Guy introduced me to his friend and his friend’s date. Politics Guys’ friend was a drunker, posher version of him. His friends’ ‘date’ was a very pretty, 19 year old, 6 foot, Eastern European girl who couldn’t speak English. Whom the friend claimed was ‘a student’. (blatantly an escort).

Champagne and food was ordered. Yay! I have to say I was disappointed that they ordered ‘nibbles’ opposed to proper food. Thank God, I’d got that sandwich and Percy Pigs. Politics Guys’ friend, who worked in The City (Natch!), had finished work at 3.30 and was already off his barnet and it definitely wasn’t just alcohol from which he was intoxicated.

Checklist for City Workers

1. Be a wanker or dickhead.
2. Be arrogant.
3. Think you’re much smarter/better looking than you actually are.
4. Flash cash about distastefully, it has to be salmons though. No 20s or 10s and definitely and certainly no 5s.
5. Be Loud, Be Brash.
6. Have a 22 year old, blonde PA from Essex who doesn’t mind her bottom being groped on a daily basis.
7. Generally be off your barnet for at least 12 hours of every day.

Conversation throughout the evening was mainly had between the two men: the Eastern European girl gazed on mutely whilst pushing a lettuce leaf and a tomato around her plate. And about an hour or so into the date, I became the focus of the conversation, to which there was a distinct mocking tone.

The two public schoolboys were most certainly bullies. I am not the type of person to freely allow myself to be bullied by anyone. I was given a tongue in my mouth and a brain in my head and I was not going to let these two talk to me like I was inferior.

“Oh Liverpool, how unfortunate.”  Declared the friend.

“What do you know of Liverpool? When was the last time you visited?” I asked.

“Oh I’ve never been North of Oxford unless you count Edinburgh.” he proudly declared.

“That’s the type of thing I find unfortunate, you’re missing so much of our beautiful country by being so narrow minded about ‘up North’. I pity you.” I snidely said.

To this comment, politics guy scoffed. “ ‘Tis rather grim up North though. I lived there for a few years when I was at Durham Uni.”

Now I know Durham, I lived there myself for years, the place is absolutely beautiful. It has centuries of history, beautiful countryside and the most magnificent architecture that people across the world go to visit. So I felt I had to defend my little, old Duzza and put Politics Guy in his place.

“Oh, Durham isn’t that the OxBridge rejects university? And you’re in Politics. Sad how that someone who is a representative for the political party in control of the country feels that way. What policies does your party how in place to distribute wealth in the UK, lower unemployment levels ‘up north’  and make life generally ‘less grim’ for us?’

Politics Guys’ face was most unhappy and I knew I was NOT impressing at the RAC club. Presumably going to an all boys’ boarding school, working in Westminster (ladies only make up 29% of parliament) and socialising in clubs were woman were sent to a ‘knitting room’ had left him unable to converse with the fairer sex.

I thought it was time that I made my excuses and tried to leave, “I’m awfully tired Politics Guy and I’m up terribly early tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go home.”

“How about instead we get one of those bedrooms upstairs?” he ventured with a sleezeball stroke of my arm.

“We shan’t be doing that. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And with that, I waved goodbye to my escort friend, picked up my drippy Chanel handbag, blew a kiss to Winston as I walked passed the knitting room and searched for my Hansel and Gretel mojito trail out of the building.

When I got off the tube, I had a message awaiting from Politics Guy.

“I want to get you naked.”

Wow. What a gentleman he was. He was promptly blocked on everything and I was left shouting

‘Next…’

So, I’ve had a little sabbatical (sorry guys). Truth is, I had kind of lost my datespiration, become bored of the whole scene: dreadful dating apps, even more dreadful men, dreadful invites to, ‘chill and watch Netflix’.  We allllll know what that means, don’t we ladies? No sooner do you get over to his and he loads up some truly awful rom-com, five minutes in, his creepy, pervy hands start wandering and then he tries to ram his slimy snakey tongue down your throat.

Sorry, not for me but thanks for the offer.

But don’t worry, in my absence from the World Wide Web, I’ve manage to clock up a few more dreadful dates to share with you all. Firstly, I must make a confession. I’m afraid to say: it’s happened again, I’ve succumbed to my addiction (the other addiction not the champagne one, I succumb to the champagne addiction every other evening). The other vice seems to be large rugby playing men. T’is these Neanderthal-esque creatures that are my number one choice of hombre: my catnip, my poison, my huge, hairy downfall. All the guys I’ve ever cried over have, at some point in their lives, thrown an egg-shaped ball around a field of mud.

*However, off tangent, but of late there seems to be an increasing number of Polo players finding their way to my social media pages and throwing in likes, favourites and follows. Strange, as before I moved to London I wasn’t actually aware that anyone bar Prince Harry actually really played polo, never mind could make a career out of it. Perhaps before long I’ll be writing a post on The Polo Player. I should imagine that instead of the ‘Netflix and chill’ line, polo players would use a line such as, ‘would you like to come round to mine and see my ponies’ and if I’m honest, it probably would work a treat. ‘Why, yes of course. I’d be delighted to come over to yours and play with your pony.’ *

But rugby boys, seem be a very bad habit that I just can’t seem to break. I don’t attempt to try to find them. For instance, this weekend, I was casually keeping myself to myself when over struts some rugby boy and friends with shots of Cafe Patron after about six said delicious bean infused tequilas, number swoping and I’m embarrassed to say, a club neck or two (hey- blame the Patron) I casually asked his profession, only to be told, ‘I play professional rugby’.

Aww for fucks sake. Again? I mean it’s getting to the stage where it’s a legitimate problem. I’m actually genuinely terrified about this World Cup coming up as it’s going to bring an influx of them to London which will probably result in an occurrence such as my ovaries spontaneously combusting or something similar.

Whilst many members of the rugby community are dreadful human beings, one or two of them actually are very sweet. One league player that I dated last year was a particularly sweetheart (if a little scary and stalkerish). But to be honest I’ve put up with worse and what’s a little stalking? At least it shows they care.

I met Rugby Guy when I was home in Liverpool last summer. He played for one of those North West rugby league teams that begin with a W (or do all the rugby league teams begin with a W?) He was sweet, kind, naïve and also far too bloody young for me. In my defence I didn’t know he still practically a child until a couple of dates in. I mean he was 6’2’’, about 17 stone and had a full on beard. No-one expects out the blue, their very manly date to suddenly announce they just turned 22 last month.

So, it turned out I was dating someone not long out of adolescence, someone who would have just started secondary school when I went to university. And whilst physically, he didn’t look particularly young. It was his attitude which gave him away as youngster. Firstly, one of our first few dates (his choice, bless him) was to the safari park to see the animals. I drove. I felt distinctly like his mother as he leaned up against the window to make funny faces at the baboons whom were trying to pull my new car to pieces. These ‘amusing’ faces he was making, made one particular male baboon markedly angry; which led to the enraged simian punching a little dent in my car bonnet, pulling off my aerial and then jumping down to shit on the road right in full sight of us.

‘Want me to get out and beat the little fucker up?’ he asked.

‘Nooooo, they’re dangerous.’

‘No it’s ok, I deal with worse every weekend.’ He continued.

‘Please Rugby Guy do not beat a monkey up. He’s just a monkey, he doesn’t realise he’s destroyed my car.’ I begged.

‘It was the shitting right in front of us, I was going to beat him up for, I mean that’s just disrespectful. The little monkey fucker knew exactly what he was doing. And doing it front of you. I mean I have to protect my princess don’t I?’ and with that he kissed me.

Doesn’t seem that romantic does it? A kiss in the middle of a safari park, from a guy who wants to beat up the monkeys, in front of a pile of monkey poop. But I found it quite cute at the time.

A few dates in, this one wanted to meet my friends, family, take me away on holiday, he was a little bit of a dreamboat as far as guys go. Although, I felt all this was a little naïve: he was too sweet and too keen and that kind of put me off a little.

Any guys reading this may think that they can’t actually win, and in reality you can’t. Us women will always pick fault and find something wrong. Me especially, I’m the worst. You can also guarantee I will really, really like you as long as you have no real interest in me. The moment that changes and you actually seem keen, your very presence will disgust me: go figure that one out.

Rugby Guy was very persistent about meeting my friends and family, it was early days,(far too early to introduce my lunatic of a mother to him anyway) so I kept on trying to delay the meeting. Until one evening Rugby Guy decided to take matters into his own hands and stalk me and my mother around the Trafford Centre. ( a large shopping mall)

Rugby Guy, knew what my evening’s plans were as I had discussed it with him that afternoon. He told me that he himself was headed to the cinema with a friend and we would catch up later in the week.

During our shopping trip. I took my mother to Yo Sushi for a sushi and some prosecco and took a series of Snapchats of the retarded woman attempting to use the chopsticks.  Both the waitress and I tried to teach her to use them but alas it was not to be, she threw a maki roll all down her top just moments later. It was so painful to watch that the waitress thrust a wooden spoon that they give to the children at her and ended my mother’s chopstick ordeal.

‘Where are you? Yo Sushi?” Rugby Guy asked of my Snapchats.

‘Yes’.

‘Which one? Selfridges?’ he continued.

‘Yes. Why?’

No reply. Hmmm, he must have gone into the cinema I thought.

So after the sushi fail, me and the mother took ourselves around Selfridges for a bit or retail therapy. Then, in the women’s clothes section, suddenly from behind a rail, up popped Rugby Guy.

‘Hiiiiyaaa’ an enthusiastic Lancashire voice chirped from beside the pencil dresses, ‘so you going to introduce me to your mum?’

Oddly, Rugby Guy did not think his behaviour strange in the slightest and proceeded to have a nice little chat about California rolls, chopsticks and wasabi with my mum for the next ten minutes. Whilst I looked on dumbfounded.

‘Are there any dresses here that you like?” he asked me enthusiastically. ‘I think that red one would look great on you, would you like me to get it for you?’ he ventured, perhaps sensing my uneasiness at our, ‘chance meeting’

Bless. As strange and stalky the behaviour was he still was a cutey. Like a big, overgrown puppy.

‘No thanks Rugby Guy, I’m rather tired and we have to drive back to Liverpool and feed the dogs.’ I hinted to my mother. Luckily, she took the hint and backed me up in my lies. Rugby Guy looked crest fallen, dejected and broken. I felt like I’d just shattered his little puppy heart.

On the way out my mother passed comment, ‘seems like a nice lad but the stalking is a little bit strange isn’t it? And his eyes are too close together. Never trust anyone with their eyes too close together. I don’t think he’s the one for you sweetheart.’

And she was right, he wasn’t, I was just using him to keep myself busy because I was in Liverpool over the summer. It was cruel to string him along any further. So I tried to cool things down a little. Despite his offers to take me on holiday to Mexico the following week, come and visit me every week in his off season and oddly, pay for my new car.

I distanced myself; took my time getting back to messages, made up excuses about being busy at the weekend – every weekend. And blatantly flirted with other lads on Facebook where he could see it. Eventually, poor Rugby Guy got the message and in a fit of fury, deleted me from all of his social media, only to add me again a week later and then delete me all over for a second time.

I do think I acted a bit cruelly with Rugby Guy but at the end of the day he was simply too young and too naïve for me. I maybe should have come clean and told him this, opposed to gradually disappearing but I have no back bone. I couldn’t possibly have looked into his little puppy dog eyes and told him it wasn’t going to happen.

Sadly, since last year my encounters with rugby folk have not been as pleasant. Perhaps it’s a type of karma, perhaps it’s because most of them have enormous egos. Whatever it is, I feeling its time I sought out some help for my addiction ( I wonder if The Priory has dealt with cases like this before ) and called

‘Next’…