The A-Z of Depressed Words

What can I say? The school holidays have begun and parents everywhere are faced with the challenge of keeping children amused for ridiculous amount of time. 

When did this keeping amused malarkey begin?  At the risk of sounding like the proverbial ancient fart, I used to amuse myself quite happily. Yes, yes, in perfectly innocent ways. 

‘Yeah, but you did weird things,’ said James. A long pause and then two words spat in accusation. ‘You painted.’

‘It’s true,’ I replied meekly. ‘I did. And I made things.’

‘Weird things,’ he repeated, firmly.

I frowned. Were dinosaurs made out of chicken bones weird?  And felt trolls? 

‘But I made money out of it all,’ I said defensively.  ‘Like I had an art gallery one summer and flogged my paintings; and then I did a haunted house and charged admission.’

‘Weird things.’

This sort of malarkey has never washed with James.  He’s never been a child who likes his own company. Some people just don’t.  When he was little I spent hours trying to instill in him a love of the arts – books weren’t just read, they were play-acted; rolls of lining paper were stretched out on the kitchen floor and we hurled paint around together; we made godamn musical instruments for pity’s sake. 

Some of it rubbed off.  He loves music (just doesn’t particularly want to play it himself). He reads furiously (but sticks to auto/biographies mainly).  But he refuses point-blank to do art or drama (too much of that around in real-life, he says).

So I guess there will be X-Box. There will be a lot of cricket and squash and a helluva lot of loping and sighing and eye-rolling. 

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘We could always go back to some of the old games.’

‘Like what?’ he said suspiciously. 

‘Umm…A-Z?’

This was a game we used to play on long car journeys (alongside one word/clause/sentence stories and car number plate dramas).  You know the score – you pick a theme (countries, cars, fruit, breeds of dog, authors etc) and go round in a circle taking the next letter of the alphabet. Jeez, it wears thin. 

‘Oh for **** sake,’ he said. ‘How depressing is that?’

And so, for your despond, I give you…

The A-Z of depressed words

A is for Apathy

B is for Boredom

C is for Crestfallen

D is for Despond

E is for Entropy

F is for Forlorn

G is for Gloom

H is for Hopeless

I is for Inconsequential

J is for Jaded

K is for Kiss (of Death) – interesting one – no really gloomy words start with K (C is pretty tough too) – the sound is just too explosive and cutting.

L is for Lost

M is for Morose

N is for Nylon (yes, I know but really…it is depressing, right?)

O is for Oppressed

P is for Pitiful

Q is for Querulous

R is for Redundant

S is for Sluggish

T is for Torpor

U is for Unremitting

V is for Void

W is for Why?

Y is for Yawning (as in chasm)

Z is for Zero

Can you add any better ones?  To accompany I offer you the wondrousness that is Edward Gorey. You haven’t come across him?  Oh, you lucky, lucky people. Go seek.

It's just a ride...

It’s been one heck of a ride.  One crazy, mixed up, muddled up time, it really has.  And I got to thinking…what have I learned?  When I look back over the last eighteen months or so, what have I learned?

Well. In no particular order…

Really tough hard exercise can sort out all manner of crap.

Listen to your body.  It really does tell the truth.  Unfortunately most of us stick our fingers in our ears and sing loudly.

Breathing is very hard.

Your mind will lead you astray. 
Meditation should be obligatory – for the mental health of the world.

Never tell anyone what to do.  It is not your business.

Contradictions abound.

Love your enemies – they have the most to teach you.  Seriously.

Nothing is real. Really.

Unfortunately banks don’t run on quantum principles.

Being Zen is tough.

When in doubt, play loud rock music.

.

Fasting for long periods and driving is not a good combination.

Think before you spout out shit.

Don’t think too much.

Sense of humour is the probably the most important character trait you can have.

If you can’t change your life, change the way you think about it.

We are all alone.

You can’t please everyone – don’t even try.

Nobody can save you. (I like Nobody).

If you love someone, tell them (yes, even if they’re psychic).

Try not to judge.

Dogs are small gods.

Gods bite.

Teabags lie.

Sugar is sweet evil.

Life is too short for gardening or housework – unless you enjoy them (you weirdos).

Friends that don’t like you just the way you are aren’t your friends.

Smoked tofu with almonds totally utterly rocks.
So do small knitted slugs.

Never judge a book by its cover (literally – ho ho – and metaphorically).

When something about someone really bugs you, ten to one you have that self-same trait yourself. Which is hugely annoying.

Massage is the dog's bollocks.  Please read that sentence carefully. 

The truth hurts.

Use all your senses – all the time.

Religion is bonkers.

People are weird.

Never make assumptions.

Love really is the bottom line.

Be kind. Or at least try.

Avoid wankers. 

Sometimes incredibly meaningful-seeming things are probably just incredibly random but that doesn’t not make them incredibly wonderful.

Open your heart wide open.

Have no regrets.

Give it your best shot.

Don’t take yourself too seriously.

It’s not always about you.

It’s always about you.

Oracles are open to misinterpretation.

When dealing with arsewipes, just smile sweetly and nod.

It’s not worth trying to force the universe. The universe will snicker at you from behind its hand.

Never give up.

Know when you’re on a losing wicket and quietly pad out backwards making small ‘I’m not really here’ hand motions.

Never turn down a rain poncho.

Never ever EVER get a bikini wax by a girl who’s only done, like, two before.

I think that’s it.  So long and thanks for all the fish. *ring* 

A public service announcement regarding my neo-Nazi bush

I made a promise to myself a fair while back that I would not write about my bush. As you may have gathered, I have very little shame but surely, I reasoned, there are some things which really should remain private – between a woman and her own body – and not be shared willy-nilly on the Internet which, as we all know, is not a fine and private place. However, after yesterday I feel honour-bound, nay, beholden to break that promise.  In the interests of sisterly caring, in the true spirit of altruism, by way of a public service announcement, I share my story so that you may learn by my mistake.

I may have mentioned before that I love the local beauty college – I first went cos a mate of mine had a daughter studying there and said students needed bodies and faces for practice. 

‘We’re broke and no way can we afford spa or salon prices, right?’ said Nicky. I nodded sadly.  Yes, I know it sounds like I get a helluva lot of pampering but, truly, it’s all just ligging.  I get to try out weird new things (which is, indeed, fabulous) but nobody pays for me to get my toenails painted or my eyelashes tinted or my legs waxed.  In all fairness, I’m not high maintenance; I’m really not.  In the past I simply reasoned that excess hair was one way of keeping warm and that mascara (applied to eyelashes and eyebrows) was quite acceptable.  ‘But Charlotte’s crew…’ Nicky continued [sorry, that was a very long aside].  ‘…will do the lot for next to nothing.’

And so they did.  And how wonderful it was.  So wonderful, in fact, that I suggested to the Daily Mail that I should do a feature on bargain basement beauty – ie how you can get a total makeover (facial, mani, pedi, waxing, tinting, massage) for the price of an eyebrow wax at a London salon. They loved the idea – so much in fact that they gave it to Liz Jones to do.  Nice huh?  But anyway. 

I’ve become a bit accustomed to this being groomed malarkey.  It feels nice.  Makes me feel a bit better about myself, sad creature I am.  So, yesterday I trolloped along quite merrily (on my own, Nicky was away) and walked into a morgue.

‘Where is everyone?’ I said.

‘Well, it’s the end of term,' said the tutor. 'And so half of them have called in sick and, of course, all the final year girls have gone.’

No, those aren't mine...

This should have rung warning bells (ie all the experienced lot have buggered off) but I was miles away, off floating somewhere, so I simply sat back and got my feet pampered.  I love this bit, I really do. If they could pour hot wax all over my body, I swear I'd purr.  

When it comes to nail varnish I always let the girls choose.  Hence I’ve had sparkly silver toes, neon orange toes and gothy purple toes, depending on the taste of the seventeen-year old wielding the polish. This time I ended up with what Beth called ‘Disco ball toenails’ – vivid pink with pink glitter atop. The tutor looked slightly askance. ‘Don’t you want something that will go with everything?’ she said.  ‘It will,’ I replied with a smile.  ‘I only wear black.’

Then I was handed over to Hatty for my waxing.  Now, let me be clear, I have a very high pain threshold. I am almost ridiculously stoical. I also think that students have to learn, right?  When I was at college I even let my flat-mate (who was a second-year dental student) practice her drilling on me (yup, this was a hand-held drill with no anaesthetic).  So waxing? No problemo. But when she started tugging at my underarms like she was wrenching up perennial weeds, I couldn’t help it. ‘Ouch!’

‘Did I hear an ouch?’ said the tutor, poking her nose round the curtain with clear and evident glee.

‘Er, yup,’ I said, while Hatty gave me a look that clearly said ‘Traitor bitch hag’. A teaching point was made (involving the firm pulling of skin and the correct speed of ripping).  Hatty didn’t seem to get the ripping bit. Once the tutor ducked out, she just went back to yanking… again and again. Sheesh kebab, the tears started springing into my eyes.  But eventually it was done. I couldn’t drop my arms but never mind.   

‘Right now...bikini area,’ she said brightly. ‘What do you want?’

Normally I leave Charlotte in charge of my bush. She is beautifully bossy, as only a gorgeous eighteen year old can be and when it comes to matters of beauty, I figure she knows far more than I so I let her do whatever she wants really – be it a neat trim or tortuous topiary.  Hatty didn’t look quite so confident so I decided to play safe.

‘Just neaten it up, huh? Just so I don’t scare anyone, okay?’

She looked doubtful.  Doubt is not good in these situations.  

And then the torture began. Oh dear mother of God what was she doing down there? It felt like she was karate chopping me; putting my bits in a blender and re-enacting the shower scene from Psycho all at once. By the time she’d finished I felt shell-shocked: in need of counseling, morphine and several stiff gins.  But I’m a trooper so I breathed deeply and tried to carry on a polite conversation with my torturer.

‘So, what do you want to do when you leave college?  Work in a salon? On the cruise ships?’

‘Heck no,’ she said. ‘I hate beauty. I wanna work with horses.’  

Ah.  As I walked out – bandy-legged - I felt like I’d done several rounds in a boxing ring.  I also felt…sticky. Weirdly sticky down below. Jesus, was I bleeding? I stuck my hand surreptitiously down my knickers and…couldn’t remove it.  What the..?  A swift tug (more ouch) and my hand came out with bits of what looked like Bostik attached to my fingers.  I drove home (fingers firmly stuck to the steering wheel) wondering what the hell had happened down there.  In the privacy of my own bedroom I stripped off and surveyed the damage. Holy crap! It was a war zone.  Chunks of sticky white goo (presumably the solidified wax) clung to clumps of hair. There were several bald patches, like I’d developed mange, and other bits remained perkily tufty. Shit, it looked like roadkill mixed with poorly plucked chicken.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  I should have checked it before I left but really, I just wanted to get out of there and lick my wounds in private (no, no, I don’t mean literally…that would be plain weird, right?)

Ah well, I soothed myself that at least I wasn’t off for a weekend of unbridled passion and repaired to the bathroom with a pair of scissors.  Yup, there was nothing for it but to cut it all off (bit like when a child gets chewing gum stuck in its hair or a dog’s arse gets monumentally matted with crap). So now I have the worst of all worlds – a sort of neo-Nazi cropped bush with bald bits roughly in the outline of Africa. Too much information?  Sorry.

Moral of the story?  Before you allow anyone near your bush, check their credentials.  Very thoroughly.  And always check your bush before you leave.   

A slug of my own

FrankieSachs sent me a slug.  A knitted slug.  It is a small thing of perfect beauty.  My favourite shade of orange and exceedingly silky.  With it came a note…

The Slug as Totem Animal

Everyone always has sexy totem animals.  Have you ever noticed that? 

Wolves and lions and hawks and shit.

(Respectable herbivores include: stags, bison, & wild stallions.)

A totem animal, we claim, is us.  That we are, at heart, lion or boar or wild stallion and that the spirit animal is an entity outside ourselves. “It chose me,” the bison or wolf or hawk, “because it saw I am a reflection of itself.”

I suspect the case is somewhat altered – that we choose our spirit animal as a symbol of what we wish to be, who we wish to be. How we wish others would see us.

This is why you’ll never meet some hippie dude on a train who tells you his spirit animal is a slug.

“Frankie Sachs”

30 June 2012

Being lesbian in Manchester

'She thinks we’re lesbians, you know,’ hissed Jane into my ear as we waited at the hotel check-in. 

‘So what?’ I hissed back, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Stop it!’ said Jane.

‘Lovers’ tiff?’ I said with a suggestive raise of the eyebrow. ‘Followed by make-up sex?’

Jane growled.  The woman behind the desk handed me two brown paper bags. ‘Your friendship cookies,’ she said, with an approving smile and over-emphasis on the word friendship. 

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said Jane in the lift. ‘What the fuck was that about? Friendship cookies? And why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?’

‘I never do,’ I said simply. ‘It doesn’t fit. Anyhow.  Even if I did they’d just think we were married lesbians. Get over it.  And the friendship cookies are…cute.’

We walked out onto the top floor.  Penthouse area.  ‘Ooh, are we in the honeymoon suite?’

‘Probably,’ said Jane sourly.  ‘We appear to have been upgraded.’ 

‘Yippee,’ said I, bouncing on the vast bed.  Jane rolled her eyes.  ‘This just gets worse and worse.’

Let’s backtrack.  I, as you know, am broke, actually beyond broke but let’s not go there.  Hence I am Jane’s charity case.  Along with supporting various bona fide good causes, she undertakes to cheer my life up by sending me the occasional aid parcel of Jo Malone candles or taking me to gigs.  This time it was the Stones Roses in Manchester – and very amusing it was too.

Being Manchester and being summer it was pissing it down. ‘Haven’t you got any other clothes?’ said Jane, eyeing my small weekend bag (given to me by, yup, Jane).

‘I’ve got clean underwear and my toothbrush,’ I said.  ‘What else do I need?’ I pride myself on travelling light.

‘Er, you do know this gig is in a field, right?’

Well...sort of...

Oops.  I’d kinda assumed it would be in a stadium.  For pity’s sake, the last time I went to a gig in Manchester it was in the student union. I didn’t know Manchester even had fields.  I was wearing a t-shirt and jeans and sort of heeled boots and a skinny jacket (y’know, standard rock chick stuff).  Jane had sensible trainers, a hoodie and a mac.  ‘Oh, for God's sake. You’ll have to get a poncho,’ she said crossly.

‘Oh no.  No ponchos.’  I have photographic evidence of the last time I wore a poncho and it isn’t pretty.   Jane gave me ‘the look’ and bought a poncho.  

‘I’m not wearing it,’ I said.

Then the hail started falling. Scrub that, it didn’t fall – it sort of flung itself at us.  We ran for the bar.

(Okay, random thoughts about outdoor gigs.  Why don’t you cover the bar area?  In fact, why don’t you provide ANY sort of shelter for people who are foolish enough to wear normal clothes for your concerts?  And why don’t you sell the following things inside the perimeter fence: ponchos (or, preferably, something more aesthetic than a large piece of plastic); wellington boots; warm clothing; socks; furry hats, gloves?) 

What sensible people wore...

‘Right,' said Jane, firmly. 'I’ll have four gins and slim-line tonics, please.  What kind of gin do you have?’

The girl stared sideways at Jane as if waiting for her to crack into a gin. I mean, grin. 

‘Well?’

‘Umm, we don’t have gin.’

‘Vodka?’

‘Er, shall I tell you what we do have?’

It was pretty simple to see: lager, cider, Coke, some kind of alcopop and bottles of exceedingly dodgy looking wine. 

‘Oh just bloody great,’ said Jane as the hail lashed her back and she struggled with an umbrella and her purse. ‘Four bottles of red wine then.’  At which point two young guys, with cute open faces like puppies, snuggled up under the brolly and made her laugh. Well, it was pretty funny, four of us all desperately trying to keep out of the now horizontal lashing rain-cum-flying missiles. 

‘Will you put the fucking poncho on now, for the love of God,’ said Jane. I knew when I was beat.  But, riddle me this, how do you wrangle four bottles of wine, an umbrella, Jane’s capacious rucksack, my tiny shoulder bag, two adoring twenty-somethings AND a poncho when the ground is fast becoming a mud pool?  Which was when Jane started laughing…hard.  ‘Only you…’ she said, nearly snorting her wine. ‘Only you could get your head in the wrong bloody hole. Take the bloody thing off and start again – and you (prodding a boy-child) hold this.’

And so it went on really.  We watched the Wailers, we watched some guy I’d never heard of, we watched Liam Gallagher, we watched The Stone Roses.  We drank wine that made me wince at every sip. We got adored a ridiculous amount.  I tell ya, all you women who say you never meet blokes – go to a Stone Roses gig (or something similar). Seriously. It was about 80 percent men (admittedly all pissed out of their skulls and admittedly not all terribly attractive and admittedly all probably married with wives skipping around in joy at having off-loaded them for the day) but they were very male and they sure weren’t backwards in coming forwards, if you get my drift.  But not remotely in a predatory way – it was just very very funny.  And my ego blew a huge kiss to the guy who just gently touched my arm and said softly, ‘I have to tell you, you are absolutely gorgeous’ and then vanished into the crowd. 

‘See,’ I said to Jane. ‘They don’t think we’re lesbians. Not here.’

‘They’re too pissed to care,’ she said as some bloke unzipped himself and peed right in front of us. I had to concede she had a point – we could probably have been full-on snogging and they’d still have tried their luck. 

Back at the hotel, having dropped off our last orphans, a pair of lads from Runcorn (‘it’s the arsehole of the arsehole of the arsehole of Britain’ one of them said mournfully in the cab), we finally got to bed. 

‘Right,’ said Jane. ‘You stay right over there,’ pointing to the far left-hand corner of the vast bed. ‘And I’ll stay right over here.’

‘Look… relax,’ I said.  ‘I never move a muscle when I sleep and anyhow, I’m not going to jump you in the middle of the night.  Much as I love you.’

‘You never know,’ she said. ‘You might think I was someone else.’

I just sighed and switched off the light.  And slept…like any sensible lesbian. 

Oh, what was the gig like?  Yeah, alright...  :-)

The Hobbit (movie v book) plus free book giveaway

I re-read The Hobbit the other night.  I can’t remember when I first read it; in fact I couldn’t remember a whole lot about it at all. Which, come to think of it, is pretty damning, right?  I’m pretty sure I read Lord of the Rings first – when I was about ten, if I recall.  And then again, when I was thirteen and again when I was sixteen.  Let’s just say I was a bit obsessed with it.  Okay, let’s be really honest here, I was more than a bit obsessed with Aragorn.  I had a serious downer on Arwen because, really, what kind of vapid wimp was she?  What did she do when her beloved rode off to battle?  Er, give him a flag. 

Nope, I identified with horse-girl Eowyn because, frankly, she is the only female character in the entire trilogy with any kind of get up and go. 

“I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death. But I do fear to stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.”  Attagirl.

Then again, she hasn't got a lot of competition as female role models are pretty thin on the ground. The elves are just too wafty, Goldberry sings and that's about it...which leaves... Shelob. Great.  

Nope, Eowyn it had to be. And, anyhow, I kind of went off Aragorn a bit by the third book – he was much better as grubby gloomy old Strider.  By the end, he’d morphed into stereotypical king material. And poor Faramir, poor doomed Faramir with his bonkers father, riding hopelessly against impossible odds.  Yeah, I shifted allegiance, fickle teenager that I was.

Anyhow. Back to The Hobbit.  After the broad vistas of LOTR, it all seems a bit tame.  The characters seem too small.  The adventure too trifling.  And what’s at stake?  Gold.   Y’know, not the freedom of the known world; not the soul of mankind but…jewellery. Okay, and a lost kingdom but, tbf, the dwarves (in the book anyhow) seem far more focused on the bling than the homeland.

Lately James has been asking me to read to him at night again. Yeah, he’s thirteen. So what?  Curiously, I love reading aloud and for some even more curious reason, he seems to enjoy listening to me. And there is nothing nicer at the end of the day to sit on the edge of his bed, with the SP curled up and making the odd grunting noise (or scratching off a flea), and just lose ourselves in a story.  We had galloped through the latest Rick Riordan (The Serpent’s Shadow) which was, have to say, a total cracker.  In comparison, The Hobbit seemed…umm…a bit boring, a bit slow.  And no jokes.  Yet James seemed to enjoy it.  Well, he said he did. And, anyhow, in a way it doesn't matter what you read...if you're reading, if you're hanging on to a little bit of childhood. Right? 

My view?  Well…a few thingies bothered me.

*  Too many dwarves. Just way WAY too many dwarves.  I never did get to tell ‘em apart.  Apart from the grumpy leader one and the fat one.  The rest? Just dwarves. They all came across the same. Is that dwarvist?  Bite me.

* Gandalf. Bit of a bumbler really. Flits in, flits out.  And, like, why did he get Bilbo to go on this quest thingy anyhow?  

* Elrond. Now, am I reading this right but it seems to be saying he isn’t ‘all elf’ if you get me. Look…page 70… “In those days of our tale there were still some people who had both elves and heroes of the North for ancestors, and Elrond…was their chief.”  Sooo, why was he all arsey about…oh, never mind.

* Elves in general. Much more sprightly and silly than LOTR.

* The necromancer. Sauron, right?  Routed from the forest and banished.  At no point does he pick up on the ring malarkey – even though he made the darn thing. Okay, so I’m missing something here but I can’t be arsed to burrow through LOTR – remind me, someone, why he’s able to ‘feel’ the ring when Frodo has it; but not before?

* From banishment to massive evil empire in…what?  Fifty years?  Hmm, on second thoughts, that’s perfectly possible. As you were...

* Smaug. HUGE wasted opportunity for dramatic tension, IMHO. Does he ever really threaten?  Nah.  And how does he get killed?  Off-set. By some random guy that comes out of nowhere.

* Bilbo is fifty, right?  So how come he looks like this?  On second thoughts...scrub that. 

Am I being a miserable old cow?  Is this the danger of re-reading books years after you first encountered them?  Mind you, like I said, it’s not like The Hobbit were on my ‘Favourite books of all time’ list.  And, having said all this, I confess I am looking forward mightily to the movie.  Check out the trailer below - it's a cracker!  And I reckon this will be one of those rare cases when the film might well be one hell of a lot better than the book.

Except (update) - see here - my thoughts on the movie  ...  

Did you like it?  Have you read it to your children?  Would you like to?  I have a couple of copies (no, not my old one - new, new, nice and new, unthumbed by my grubby paws) to give away if you’d like to try it out. I may even throw in a bit of dragon hoard if you’re very lucky (or maybe an invisible ring). If you’d like a copy let me know in the comments – and make sure I can get hold of you one way or another. 

And check out the Hobbit blog: http://www.thehobbitblog.com/

Writing agony aunt columns by committee (Who's the goat of your life?)

Okay, so I write an agony aunt column for Natural Health magazine. Each month I’m given a dilemma and I have to come up with some sage words of wisdom for the unfortunate soul in distress. Don’t ask me how this came about as I too doubt my credentials for this role.

Anyhow. This month’s dilemma rolled in.

"Dear Jane. I have a really good relationship with a genuinely kind, nice man. I know I should count my blessings but I just can’t stop thinking about my ex – who is quite the opposite, wild and unpredictable. I can’t get him out of my head. What should I do?" 

Hmm.  So I asked Adrian.

‘She won’t ever be happy with him,’ he said firmly. ‘And, anyway, she wants to have her cake and eat it too.’

What a bizarre expression that is.  So I Googled it and discovered that pretty much every language going has some kind of variation on the theme of having it both ways.  And, weirdly, the vast majority involve either cakes or goats.  For instance, we have…

On the goat side…

Czech: Aby se vlk nažral a koza zůstala celá - The wolf is full and the goat stayed whole.

Serbian: Не можеш да имаш и јаре и паре - You can't have both goatling and money.

Bulgarian: И вълкът сит, и агнето цяло - Both the wolf is full, and the lamb (pseudo goat) is whole.

Polish: Wilk syty i owca cała - The wolf is full, and the lamb (goat) - whole.

And on the cake side…

Hebrew: אי אפשר לאכול את העוגה ולהשאיר אותה שלמה - you can't eat the cake and keep it whole.

Dutch: Jij wilt kiezen én delen - You want to both pick (a part first) and split (the cake)

Swiss: Du chasch nit dr Füfer und s Weggli ha - you can't have the five cent coin and a Swiss bread roll.

In Persian the phrase apparently goes ‘To have donkey and God as well’ but let’s not go there, huh?

Anyhow…I posted this on Facebook and a lively debate arose around goats and cakes.  And then I thought, hey…let’s see whether my friends can shed some light on this poor woman’s problem.  So I asked.  And they replied.  Like this…

Tommy:  First, do no harm.  (I can't get the Withnail quote out of my head... "We mean no harm")

Marek: Second, keep doing them both.  (Men, huh?)

Susie: I would first ask her what about excites her? What traits did she find attractive? Did he break it off or did she? Is there unfinished business? I also don't think someone should have to count their blessings to stay in a relationship. Either she's happy there or not.  (Oooh, sensible).

Me: Okay, keep talking. I'll put the kettle on.  I need 500 words.

Susie: Okay... Is it a good relationship in her mind or is it good because of what she thinks other peoples' opinions will be? How can she get her new guy to exhibit some of the traits of her ex that she likes- like unpredictability?  Maybe she needs to start being unpredictable. (Which does not mean I am telling her to dump new guy and go back to ex) but rather experiment with new things that give her a thrill. (hmm)

Susie: And I am wondering whether the sex is good? Cause maybe that's the issue?  (Who knows?)

Marek: Jesus…

Trisha: I think she should organise to do something wild and unpredicable with her genuinely kind, nice man, why wait for someone else to be wild and unpredictable? (can you teach an old goat new tricks?)

Susie: Hmm…so you’re not liking my answers, Marek?

Marek: that was not a comment, Suzie, but a suggestion. :o)

Susie: lol

Sarah: What she really has here is two relationships which is actually rather greedy of her. She should stop wondering which one is right and start looking at her need to covet both. She wants her cake with jam on. And is behaving like a randy goat. :-)  (Ooh, you tell her, the randy goat!)

Marek: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7SxklIZBBIM&feature=youtu.be

Susie: aaah

Theo: All very interesting and I can see where some of you more sensible, considerate people are coming from, but I'm really more interested where the goats fits into all this, should someone be thinking about calling the RSPCA?

Marek: The goats fit…The goat fits into the cake.

Me: She wants her cake with jam on? Missed that one earlier.  This is all great stuff, people, I’m gonna go down hard on this greedy goatish bitch.

Charlotte: Her preoccupation with her ex has nothing to do with his personality or the difference between him and her current boyfriend. He's still in her mind because for some reason or other, sub-conciously the former relationship is unfinished business. Perhaps he dumped her and never quite explained why. Perhaps she finished with him when she was in fact still in love with him. (That's the thingy with these darn dilemmas - you never know the full story).

Susie: I always wanted to have an agony aunt colum.  (At this rate, mine will be up for grabs)

Marek: The goat (we don't know her name) could leave boat... both cakes and travel offshore... And they wood... would sing: 'Pie, pie, Hollywood Hills...' http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCB01p0pBs0

Charlotte: Me too, Susie! (Umm, split it between you?)

Anne: Bottom line is who will treat her the way she wants to be treated. At the end of the day, when she's settled down, which one is going to be there in the evening for her and the kids? You can be happy with excitement once in a while. You can't be happy without kindness and loyalty in your life. Excitement is good, Commitment is a whole lot better.  (yeah but...)

Charlotte:  But unless the ex is interested in taking her back, then it's rather a moot point, surely? Sounds like she's in a rebound relationship and still holds a torch for the ex.... Next!

Sarah (different one): I think she should take up baking, crack some eggs, cream some sugar, fling some self raising flour about and see if her new man does the wild and unpredictable act of licking the bowl. :-)  (okay, so that made me snort out loud)

Veronica: She's fucked, basically. It'll be about the sex. It always is. But the ex won't make her happy. She needs to go cold turkey and live without the danger. Sadly you can't turn kind, nice men into bad boys that make you scream - you can't 'plan' to be wild and unpredictable - but maybe she can learn to value security and comfort over the rollercoaster that is her ex. Kindness and loyalty, as Anne pointed out, are far more enduring and nourishing. Tough call, though. She needs to treat it like an addiction. One day at a time. And keep herself busy. And delete his number from her phone. And not drink too much.  (Now there speaks a sensible woman).

Philip: She should buy a goat and start baking her own bread. She will then be too busy to wonder what she should do. If that doesn't work, get another goat. (er, okay)

Marek: And milk it good. (right)

Philip: Forgot to ask, is she pregnant by the wild n crazy guy? If so, his job is done & Pappa Predictable's turn begins.  (Jesus)

Marek: But then the barking syndrome would apply.

Philip: Marek, do you mean somebody might ask, ‘Who let the dogs out?’

Marek: Sort of.

Philip:  Jane, I know you want a 500 word answer, but beyond buying a goat, or goats, there is not much you can tell the woman, especially if she is using birth control measures. Perhaps cold ocean bathing and buying an ereader might help. (Fifty Shades of Grey and a goat?)

Adele: This isn't about the ex. She's just bored in general. Tell her to get a life!  (Yessir!)

Ashen:  I'd go for goats. They're a wonderful addition to the here and now factor in your life. Which reminds me, I need to find the story I wrote about finding a goat - having come out of a similar situation.  (Which sounds like a story in itself) 

Marek: Everybody needs a goat in his life. What’s the goat of your life?  (Well, what is? :) 

So, there you have it.  Cakes, goats, dilemmas and agonising by committee on Facebook.  Now, over to you...what do YOU think the goat should do?