All The Jingle Ladies

I have woken up on yet another Saturday morning with another cheap wine headache and probably another back fat roll due to excessive cheese consumption. 2019 resolution: Cheese only to be consumed as a fancy starter when on proper dates with sophisticated men, or when watching Love Actually alone for the 45th time. I’m not too fussy to be honest.

This thought about my life came to me with many others, sometime after 2am on a Christmas night out in a local chipper. Somewhere between the highly intoxicated man attempting to chat me up and the young couple borderline getting it on in front of me, two things hit me – this queue is moving extremely bloody slowly, and the realisation that this battered sausage and chips, like many before, shall be enjoyed on my own in my lob-sided bed that dips on one side (probably because the other side is so rarely used.)

Somehow after surviving the entire romantic run up to Christmas, that chipper managed to bring the feeling of loneliness to life. Their food I cannot fault them on, but their queue speed when I’m a bit locked and over-analysing my entire life? Bloody crap. It is quite possible that excessive amounts of Martini were to blame for this ‘poor me’ feeling, but that was necessary as it eased the awkward run in with exes who were all home for Christmas. And while it could have probably been quite possible to find one as a quick loneliness cure, I also have a strict 2019 New Year’s ban on falling head over heels for self-centred idiots and men who choose to act their shoe size instead of their age. I like to think this doubly applies to all those who are back for round two (or round eight… please hold your judgement, people.) These types have been a constant in my life since about 2016, so 2019 seems like a great year to finally comprehend that it is a ban, not a good idea. I repeat, NOT a good idea. Even if the aftershave his mum got him for Christmas makes you want to follow him around the dance floor as if he’s the Pied Piper, it won’t be worth it tomorrow hun. No pain, lots of gain.

And while the feeling in the chipper had been triggered by the fact that I was drowning in a pathetic state of self-pity for the night, I was also well aware of my age. 23 is lurking close by, so long gone are my nights of crying and meltdowns in pub bathrooms. Instead, 2019 shall welcome crying in my own bathroom instead. Much more sophisticated and appropriate for my age. Also, can be achieved in the comfort of my pyjamas while Netflix is paused. Ah, maturity. 

So don’t worry my fellow single gals, even if everyone is loved up around you, your time shall come, and probably bring a few life ruiners for you, because as they say (okay, my mum says it) men are like buses, you wait ages for one and then they all seem to arrive at once. At this point you may panic and abandon the lot – a classic Fox Files trait. So there you are, back at square one, just you and your burger sauce.

Oh, and don’t let outside perspective of other relationships fool you into thinking you’re flawed and unlovable. You’re not, you probably just wasted valuable man-hunt months of the year on a lad who turned out to be a bit of an absolute twat. Sickener really, isn’t it? Not to worry, as one of my best friends always says: Sometimes the trash will take itself out. For now, enjoy yourself, make yourself happy, have fun with the gals, and don’t settle for less than Harry Redknapp (even if he’s holding a puppy in his Tinder pic and looks well travelled, stay alert!) 

Happy new year guys, may 2019 bring you lots of self-love and an improved dairy diet.

Fe xx

P.S. Yes, this blog post title may have been taken from a Penney’s Christmas Jumper… but if the jumper fits…

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