Paint It Black

I'm holding myself at gunpoint until I complete this entry.

Don't fret. It's a metaphorical firearm. It's more of a "no-breakfast-for-you-'til-you've-finished-this" sort of gun. My reluctance to write couples with the white noise between my ears, making this all very difficult. However, people are starting to notice my absence in life and are worrying, and the absolute last thing I want to do to such kind folk is make them concerned. You want to know what has happened to Lizzie? So does Lizzie. Read on and see if we can't fathom it out together...

Since I last wrote, a spiral appears to have opened up below me and my sorry arse can do nothing but slide down it. Every time I feel I have a grip and might be able to climb back up again, something will give me a shove and I'll continue to plummet. The lower I slip, the less force I require to keep me descending. Enough with the metaphor - I'm still ill, and The Verve appear to be right.

It's a toughie to understand. Many people - including me - think "oh just SNAP out of it". I've had it before and I got better. In the decade that has passed since then, there were many times where I was low, but it was just the usual run-of-the-mill downs that accompany the ups of life. Face it, they come as a pair! You wouldn't notice the one unless you have the other. This is very different to that and I see it. I comprehend that I am not well. I couldn't be more fed up with it, and yet I have no fight in me. It's part of the illness.

Oh, but it's hard to write today! I apologise for the stunted tone. I have to get this all out so you can be reading it and making sense of my odd behaviour: The strange staring and silence; the self-hugging, nervous creeping, and shoulders up to my earlobes that make people think I am permanently cold; the lack of replies to emails or text messages; the crying - god, the crying - and crumpling, even in public. Leaving the house becomes more difficult. Minor panic attacks become more frequent. I'm tired much of the time. I sleep a lot, and wake in the night unable to relax. I surround myself with things that make me comfortable and rarely go anywhere without several changes of clothing stowed away in my bag. I must remind myself that these are merely symptoms of a cruel condition that renders me powerless to deal with it, and NOT who I am.

There's more that you can't see. This sense of hopelessness. Everything is pointless. 

The total lack of self-worth - that's a big one. I've never been a great one for blowing my own trumpet. The occasional parp now and then, followed by embarrassment and trying to pretend that someone else did it. The Big D has taken my instrument, snapped it in half and lobbed the pieces into a steaming, tarry pit. On Thursday I sat clutching my knees, tears streaming down my face, repeating the phrase: "I am nothing. I am nothing." This is how I feel right now. Worthless. And before you go all "Lizzie, you are NOT nothing blah etc" on my ass, let me point out that, kindly though it would be meant, it DOESN'T WORK. Your words would have as much effect as raindrops trying to soak a duck. I am so convinced of my immateriality that I find it hard to accept anything remotely nice that's aimed at me. This is somewhat puzzling, as it's unkindly words and actions that have contributed to this mental state. Recent events pool together to knock the wellness out of me, each one hitting like a hammer on delicate glassware:

* The "Committee" Incident (see last entry) - SMASH.

* The "You Sing Flat" Incident (bandmates' feedback) - CRASH.

* The "You are selfish, cold-hearted and shallow, only interested in parties and having audiences watch you perform etc" Incident (relatives' feedback) - SMACK.

* Being ignored by all of the blokes I have contacted on the dating website, and worse - being BLOCKED by the last one, with no explanation. I haven't looked at it since - THUMP.

Please note that these were all incredibly distressing, and I'm not going into any detail as reliving the episodes pains me. I also do not wish to pain anyone else by their implication. Situations like this are beyond my control. The only thing I am in charge of is my response to them. Not so when my little trickle of whatever it is that keeps a person rational and content was already struggling. Now it's dried right up and I don't know what to do to make it flow again. Each incident has reminded me that yes, I am not significant.

This is probably as hard for you to read is it is for me to produce. The reason I am doing it is because I want to spread some sort of understanding here. If you haven't been depressed, you have little idea of what this is like. Imagine the most beautiful sweet shop you ever did see. Full of delights and treats, piled high with more colours and flavours than Mr Wonka could imagine, even after a serious acid drop trip. Chocolates filled with every possible combination of fillings. Caramels, candies, creams: A veritable heaven of pleasure. (NB. If sweets don't do it for you, insert your own simile here. This one works for me, so I'm going with it.) Now imagine that there's a party going on inside the shop and everyone you know is invited. They're allowed to help themselves to whatever they want. They're tasting and sampling and laughing, and having the best time ever, doing all the things you want to do. But you aren't among them. Instead, you are outside, with your nose pressed up against the window, watching it all happen in front of you and desperately wishing you could participate. You're not just silent, you're crying, screaming to be part of it. The irony is you have only to open the door and let yourself in. And you know it. Just move to the door and pull it open. Go on... just a step. Some of the people inside notice you and point to the door. They may even help you open it, but they can't open it for you. Only you can't move at all. You can't even lift your arms. You can only look on in despair and longing.

This is how it is. Mr D has me in a headlock. I'm crippled by him, paralysed and he's gradually squeezing the life out of me. (I assume he's male - they seem to cause me the most trouble.) I feel as if I'm shutting down, gradually letting things go until there is nothing left. Sleep is bliss. 

When I'm sleeping I can't remember a thing about this lamentable situation. I sleep a lot, and I hate waking up. I have considered how good it would be to stay asleep until all this is over, waking refreshed and ready to face things. The problem is that time still goes by and events will still happen while I'm comatose. Such as that big birthday.

Yep, there's only a fortnight of my thirties remaining. It is traditional to wander down the old 

"... and what have I got to show for it?" road at this point in life. Well you already know where I am here, you've heard it all before: no kids, no man, no money. No wedding ring, no house, yada yada. Bo-ring. There are so many "I should"s in this situation. Yes, I should focus on what I do have, not what I don't. Mr D says not. 

Originally I was planning two big parties, with my band providing music at each as that's what I enjoy, whether I sing in tune or otherwise. It's more to do with giving people I care about a fun evening, rather than having them watch me. Anyhow, I had set a date for the first one - what would have been a dream come true: a huge event with family and long-unmet schoolfriends reuniting. But it was all so hard - finding a venue, convincing my bandmates they wanted to make the slog all the way over to the South East (where the shindig was to be held) and finding them all accommodation for the night. Not to mention actually getting people to come along! Plus, I am broke - how was I going to pay for all this? I couldn't face it, so I cancelled. I was devastated, but when July 18th came round, I was a quivery mound of gloop, clinging to the stair carpet and wondering how I could even have entertained the possibility of celebrating anything to do with me.

Someone told me today that I am "a force of love, music and creativity". What powerful words! I don't believe them, but I know that they are what I want to be, so I am holding them to me, repeating them in the desperate hope that they will have meaning.

I hide away for many reasons. One important one is that I don't wish to inflict myself on anybody. I have little to say that is entertaining or interesting. Would you want to spend an afternoon with a sadsack of a girl, who is making Eeyore look like Mr Happy? I certainly wouldn't and I'm bloody stuck with her! I remember all this from the first time around, back in 2000/2001. There is no happy answer to "how are you?" and once the asker realises that no, I'm not OK, conversation grinds to a halt. What can you say to me? I wish I could help you, but I don't know. I usually receive a combination of sympathy, or suggestions as to what I might try to get better, or invitations to coffee or for chats, or talk of how this and that happened to so-in-so before. Suggestion-wise, I know exactly what I'd like to do... it's being able to do it. Mentally able. It's overcoming the lethargy and tiredness to get up and do a thing, and fighting the fears that come with that. What if, what if, what if? So in conversation, I'm conflicted. I know everyone is trying to help, but all I want to do is shrivel away and stop putting a crimp on their day. Any crack at courtesy is met by my sense of worthlessness, which bats it right back at its offerer and makes me feel guilty that I made someone feel that they needed to make the offer in the first place. I can't believe how much easier it was to have cancer than to have this!

Facebook too is a challenge. Everyone squeezes the best from their lives and uses it to paint their pages. Whenever I log on I see engagements announced, babies born, wedding anniversaries celebrated - they are particularly abundant this time of year, along with holidays to interesting places. I want to be happy for you, believe me I do, but Mr D puts his evil filter on everything. Instead of "Wow, that's wonderful! Like like like!" I think "Look at these lucky sods. Why isn't that me, eh? EH?" The opposite is also true - if I am reminded of those who have a much worse lot in life than me, the voices in my head all join together in a chorus of "You see? Look how fortunate you are, silly moo. You have a roof over your head and all your faculties. You are not persecuted by anyone other than yourself. So stop whinging. And put down that Mars Bar."

I was listening to this the other day:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p02xk5r8

The most notable comment was Andrew "Freddie" Flintoff - recently MBE'd cricketer. Apparently he was at the top of his game - Captain for England as they faced the Aussies for another round of Ashes excitement. Financially, incredibly secure. Young, healthy, famous. And yet he could barely get out of bed in the mornings...

I must confess to being scared. When I was in this situation before, I had fallbacks. I was living with people who paid the rent/mortgage so that I didn't have to worry. Their income also fed me and kept me warm and safe. All I had to do was exist until such time as I got well. It took a good couple of years, during which I lolled around munching comfort food and becoming Just like Jabba. Part of that was the fault of the antidepressant fluoxetine, which made me eat most things that weren't nailed down, and some that were. When I went to see the doc last week, I was in the worst state yet. She upped the sertraline tablets to 150mg - three times the dose I started with, almost a year ago to the day - and said that we'd review it in a month to see if I needed something else. The pattern I'm noticing is that it works beautifully for a bit, then (about six months later) I come crashing down. I could not bear to be taking something that makes me mainline Pralines'n'Cream like there's no tomorrow, and yet I may not have an option. Being overweight makes me incredibly miserable indeed. In fact, it is one of my biggest fears. So I'm frightened from the point of view of my bathroom scales, and also my bank balance. (See what I did there?) The crosswords keep me going. They just cover my rent, electricity, council tax and most of my monthly outgoings. Not including food. Nor petrol, nor my car. I am running out of money because I cannot go and find the extra work that I need to do. I cannot do it because Dirty D is stopping me. Two circular and weighty issues that have me quaking in my size 16 nix. (Size 16. For now.)

Fluoxetine: Sponsored by Cadbury, Pringles and Haagen-Dazs

The weather is not helping much, though it seems to be improving. A week ago last Friday, the day when it rained so much that I swear I saw Noah rushing off to the docks, I forced myself to go for a walk. Walking has proved helpful in the past and, as I hadn't executed any exercise for a bit, I thought I'd try. The metaphorical hand of my parent self grabbed me by the shoulder and shoved me out the door, clutching an umbrella and a backpack full of comfort clothes, and yelling:

"Get on with it! It'll make you feel better."

Parents are sometimes wrong.

Even with my iPod giving me its best calming music, I was on edge. My right shoe filled up with water almost immediately, and I unevenly squelched the route until the left one joined it.  The rain was cold, wet (well dur) and prolific. I silenced my 'Pod in preference for raindrops bouncing off the brolly, but this only served to make me feel more agitated. The whole venture was a mistake.

Minging in the Rain

Despite this, I never turned back. I forced myself all the way around, sometimes crying, always yearning to be back home. I was cold, soaked, tired, hungry and lonely. All such sad words. Reaching for a positive spin, I reminded me that as soon as I got in I could get warm and dry, rest and stuff my face - all of which might take my mind off the loneliness, which is out of my control. I should point out that it's not necessarily lonely for company. Those invitations for coffee/a drink/a chat are very real, and in good supply. Apart from the fact that I am very dull, drinking only decaf tea or water, I don't feel like talking. I'm fed up with going over and over this bollocks. As I said, I wouldn't want to talk to me! No. I am lonely from being single. I want to find someone who loves me. I want, I need, to be loved. Conversely, I have a massive need to give love. So it's GOT to be two ways. It's ridiculously difficult to find. Especially as the dating website activity has ground to a halt at the moment. I mean, how can I possibly sell myself to another person when I can't even sell myself to me?  

But I digress - back to the walk. I caned the last mile or so, reasoning that the more I legged it, the sooner I could stop. The second I was home, the panic attack set about me like a tsunami. OK, it was only small - more like a tidal wave. I saw it approach and felt it hit, washing over me in a torrent of fear. I took off everything that was sopped and left it in a soggy pile by the still-open door. Then off I went round the kitchen, pacing up and down while my breathing got faster, hugging myself and stroking my shoulders, repeating:

"You are safe now, you are safe. No-one can get you, you are safe."

I threw my damp near-naked self bedwards, and grabbed hold of the ted. Poor Bracc. He's well within his rights to demand overtime, even danger money. I'm cuddling him so tightly he's getting squashed out of shape and I have to keep plumping him up! (Woe betide any future partner... ) However, he'd be worth every penny. Much bear-squeezing later and calm arrived, enough for me to get on with feeding and resting. The only good thing that came out of this sorry episode was the five-figure number on my pedometer. I suppose I should be grateful that at least there was something.

So what the hell am I going to do? The drugs aren't going to solve this, they can only carry me through. I loathe them and their necessity. I tried a guided meditation session in the (very local) community centre. It was an interesting experience, right on that relaxing/stressful cusp. I was a bit rubbish, hiding from the rest of the group, staring moodily window-wards and saying little. When the woman in charge asked my email address, I reeled it off: thewizzylizzie@gmail.com.

"Funny that, 'cos I don't feel even the slightest bit wizzy these days."

I doubt I would have had the guts to go again this week, but the choice was out of my hands - they've broken up for the summer and won't be back until September.

I'm trying to hang in there with the musical theatre rehearsals, though that's also proving difficult. I originally became part of such a thing as a result of my first encounter with Mr D, so I know it's important to maintain it. However it's getting beyond Scissor Sisters now, in that I don't feel like singing either. Last week I didn't even feel like being. It's Calamity Jane - such a cheerful musical too, which doesn't help. Everyone else just blows in from the Windy City; I just blow.   

Something that I do look forward to - probably the only thing - is the weekly boot fair. Yes, the boot fair. Held on a field within easy walking distance from my home. I'm getting used to it, though I still hide under the brim of my sunhat, earphones wedged in as far as they will go as I browse. I'm learning to walk away if something is too expensive or to tentatively knock a seller down. To boldly haggle where no Lizzie has haggled before. It amuses me to go through the unwanted goods of others. I don't buy much, but I find it interesting to see what is on offer. The sort of things that will get me reaching down the side of my rucksack for a few coins are generally craft items - fabric, beads, buttons - and really cheap jewellery, that I can either wear as is, or refashion. Similarly clothing, especially as even charity shops are becoming too expensive for me, so that avenue of pleasure is, for now, closed. The first week I attended, I bought a jar of buttons for £2 and spent a happy afternoon going through it, sorting them into colours and packing away, for future crafting purposes. (Pinterest has a LOT to answer for. Sometimes I find that owning the materials is more fun than making anything out of them. You have the possibility without the commitment!) I enjoyed going through the spoils of my purchases that I've returned each Saturday since then. I don't have to justify this. It gives me pleasure and it harms nothing more than my bank balance, and the amount of free space in my wardrobes. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't sit in cafes and sup overpriced coffee, nor go out to cinemas or gigs. My vice is a few pre-loved DVDs a week, and some beads to play with while I watch 'em. Oh good god, I'm going to become one of those hoarders, aren't I? The kind that is found crushed under a pile of Encyclopaedia Britannica and all the Guinness World Record books since 1972. It's better than being eaten by your cats. Or is it?

The one thing that really bags my billy about the boot fair though, is how rude people can be. The number of times I've had folk barge me out of the way, or push in front when I am clearly browsing. Last Saturday the following occurred which almost ruined my usual BF buzz: While perusing a stall, I came across a small box of dolls' clothes. Crouching to inspect them, I realised that they were vintage, 60s or 70s, possibly Barbie/Sindy. I had a good look, and found a couple of Sindy labels on them to confirm. They were in OK condition. What fun it would be to have a rummage through and ID them, to see if they matched any of the partial outfits I had. I've got a bit of a collection and a smattering of knowledge - I was going to love it. It is precisely for finds like this that I go to these events! Just as I was preparing myself to ask the price, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Someone I knew from the Dursley theatre group. He's also a member of the Open Door club - an organisation which provides social activities for adults with learning difficulties.

"Oh hello, R" I said.

"What's that you've got there? What, old dolls' clothes? What do you want them for?" he asked, in his typical fashion. 

I didn't want to reveal to the stallholders that I collected as I was worried it would push the price up. 

"I... er..." I mumbled.

"How much for the dolls' clothes?" He interrupted.

How sweet, I thought. He's finding out for me.

"Call it a fiver."

A fiver? Great! Sold.

But before I could get to my cash, he'd handed his money over to the lady, who duly gave him his change. Right in front of my eyes. While I was still holding some of the the items.

"Er, hang on R... I wanted those..." I trailed off. What was the point? I put the dress I'd been looking at back in the box and walked away, so disgruntled that I abandoned my water bottle on the ground.

OOo I was fuming. What did he - a middle-aged man - want with a box of dolly dresses? Huh? And what on earth was the seller doing not giving me first refusal? Is that how this works? She seemed to know him too, though I could have been wrong. I'd been barged out of a purchase that would have made my afternoon. I seethed all the way around the next two rows of cars, unable to let it go. Why had I not been firmer and insisted that they were mine? Had I given him a concession owing to his condition? Had she? It's one of those things that I'm never going to be able to forget now. Dammit.

Despite all this, I seem to be doing well talking to strangers. While out the other day, a chap parked next to me, and seemed to be having trouble opening his car door.

"Are you all right there, sir?" I asked, gently pulling the door open and offering him support, "Would you like an arm?"

He laughed.

"That's what my wife always says."

"And I bet you always decline, don't you!"

With difficult he unfurled himself from the driver's seat, and stood ready to cross the road. He did look unsteady on his pins, and moved awkwardly.

"I've broken both my hips", he said, apropos of nothing.

"How did you manage that?" I expressed the appropriate concern. 

"I fell."

"Oh dear! Was it the drink?" I joshed.

"Yes!"

He saw the joke, hurrah. My turn to laugh. What a wit I am.

Of course, as I stood and watched him stagger across the road alone, clutching coins in his hands, desperate to get to the shop on the other side, a gentle breeze blew the waft of a recently-consumed brandy breakfast my way. And it wasn't yet 10am. Poor sod.

Ah well. Where do I go from here? I don't know. Wait for the tablets to take the edge off again, until the next crash. Face forty with a false fortissimo. Ask for help... but what help? I don't know what to ask for. All I know is I'm one very lost soul who just wants to find peace, but doesn't know where to look.

No mindless optimism to end with here. No witty "what is next for Lizzie" questions. I'm stumped. What IS next for Lizzie?

The Show Must Go On

I have a million-and-one other things to be doing, yet I awoke this morning with blog bubbling inside me, waiting to be released. (Coincidentally, it's a year to the day since I posted my first entry on here, so happy blogbirthday Lizzie Rebooted!) Much of interest is going on in the Life of Lizzie that I'd love to scribble about. Unfortunately, it's not going to be simple. I'm up against the challenge of reporting incidents without naming, upsetting nor misrepresenting the people involved. Not only that, but I must consider my feelings: do I really want everyone in the world to have access to my head? Surely some things should remain private? Yet, as always, the urge to share burns within me like untreated cystitis. Crack open the cranberry juice, and let's see how I do:

Firstly, here's a dating update:

Men who've viewed my profile: 73 89

Men whose profiles I've viewed: 79 94

I like: 16 16

Like me: 12 14

Mutual likes: 1 2

Messages I've sent to chaps that I haven't had a reply from: Still 8

Messages chaps have sent to me that I haven't replied to 'cos the bloke in question isn't really what I am looking for: Still 3

Ongoing GS messaging threads: 0 1

Dates: 1 3

Yes, I went on a date with a different chap, and he's turned out to be very sweet and a good guy, and we've been on a second date, and we're messaging a little, and... and...  I'm not going to go into any more detail! He's a smasher - I wouldn't want to pull a Lizzie and ruin things with a mouth-based foot incident. Maybe it's more fun for you when it does all go horribly wrong. Sorry to disappoint.

First-date-with-my-second-date nerves

NB The website isn't necessarily for romance. You get to say what you are looking for under the "relationship sought" bracket. These are the options:

* A fling

* Just friends

* Let's see what happens

* Long-term relationship

* Marriage

* Short-term relaionship

Some people tick 'em all. As I haven't a clue what I'm looking for (which is becoming more evident as the weeks pass) I've only selected "Let's see what happens". I think that's the most natural way out of this forced procedure.

I've been a bit too busy to surf Soulmates anyway, what with a flare of activity from the musical theatre direction. The two-day concert that I was in last week proved an effective absorber of time. Costumes were sewn; words were repeated til they sunk in; grooves were worn in the floorboards practising routines - all of which meant extra horizontal moments to gather enough energy to do it all again. It was the usual conflicting mix of heaven and hell.

I sew all my own sequins, you know. (To other people's gowns!) 

Heaven: Working as a team is the best feeling ever. I consider the group members as extended family, and all pulling together is a sensation like no other. The greatest moments are when we share laughter. Like in the second dress rehearsal, when our director informed us that during our silent tribute to the men and women who lost their lives in World War 2, the glitter ball for the next section began to descend slowly from the ceiling, in full visibility of the audience. Being one of forty-odd (or forty odd) folk guffawing away at the incongruous image for a full minute - well, it was divine.  

Hell: Ah, you really have to psyche yourself up to be on stage. It occurred to me that this would be the first ever show that I had done with this group that my ex ("X") was not involved in. Not only that, but it was to be his debut in the audience of one of my musical performances. (He's usually behind me, thrashing away at a keyboard and wondering where the flip I've got to in the music...) So the pressure was on for the Saturday night, when I knew he'd be watching. (Actually he was there the previous night, but that doesn't count as I hadn't known until after the performance.)

My first solo song was "When You're Good To Mama" - A feisty number, that I'd completely misread as being sexy when auditioning. This led to the director requesting me to "be more butch" about it. 

More butch, bitch!

In the dressing room, I made the change to the second of six ballgowns. (Yes, six. I didn't have much to do in the concert, but I was going to do it in style!) I puffed myself up with attitude; the song before mine began and I lobbed my false eyelashes at the unsuspecting make-up lady, who applied them with jaw-dropping efficiency. I strode off into the wings. I was ready. Bring it on.

The ACTUAL moment before... if only I had a photo-jumping time machine! 

Of course that is the point where it dawned on me that I hadn't connected my radio mic to the receiver pack. Oh, I'd put both of them on in my rigorous and swift preparation. But I'd neglected to attach them, thus rendering them useless. The cable from the headset was swinging loose between my increasingly trembly thighs. WAH! With Cell Block Tango in its dying moments, who could help? The only person in the wings with me was the stage manager. Imagine his surprise as I charged over to him, whipping up my skirt and bending over, and urging him to "Plug it in! Quick!" To strains of "He had it coming... he had it coming..." the poor chap fumbled about with my pants (where I tuck the pouch for extra safety, actually) and finally gave up, declaring "You'll have to ask one of the chorus to do it."

There was no chorus. What there was, was silence. The applause had died, the stage was braced for my entrance. I was going to have to go on and perform this powerful, low-pitched song unamplified. X would not be blown away by my musical prowess and magnetic stage presence, but instead was party to a rotten shouty version of said song, accompanied by moves that were more frantic than fierce as I tried to hover near the stage mics while retaining the drama. Only when I got to the second part did I realise that I could have grabbed the hand mic that we were using and waved it at the guy in the sound box, who would have adjusted accordingly. But it was too late. Dammit.

Flat like abandoned ginger beer. Dammit indeed. 

I returned to the dressing room more deflated than a sci-fi fan's inflatable female companion. What a screw-up! The applause following the song had been polite, but unrewarding - a comment on my ability. I sank into a chair and felt the pain of failure. However, we all know that the Show Must Go On, and go on it did. I rallied enough to partake of the remains of the first half, and sort myself out in the interval for Act Two. This began with a WW2 segment, and air raid sound effects to which we all had to react. In the darkness, ducking and wincing as the bombs hit, I acted my fishnets off. In mock fear, I closed my eyes tightly... and only one of them opened again. The glue holding my left eyelash on had got under my eye and stuck both halves of it together. It was impossible not to laugh! With my back to the audience I stage-whispered my predicament to the row behind me, who also dissolved into giggles which increased along with my panic as I tried to release everything while staying in character. The lights would be on in a sec and I'd have one heavily-lashed eye sealed shut throughout the most sombre part of the show. As missiles flew overhead, I had rendered several members of the cast (along with myself) useless. One even put her arm around me (also in character), asking "Are you all right, love?" while shaking with mirth. It was the funniest air raid ever. Luckily I managed to disconnect it in time, and all was well.

Then to my second solo - a chance to redeem myself after the first pitiful attempt. I had only one song to change into my dress for this, and one song after to change out of it. Dress on, hair ready, I grabbed the long gloves that I needed to wear and headed for the wings. Of course they were in the same state that they had been left in after the previous night's speedy transformation. Have you ever tried to put a pair of inside-out long gloves on quickly in the dark while listening as the previous number gets closer and closer to its close? It's not like rubber gloves, that you simply blow into to pop back into shape... oh no. It's like "Oh my god I've got two fingers in one finger hole and two finger holes merged together and three fingers in the thumb hole I'll have to go on looking like some sort of American fairground freak which will totally ruin the nuance of the song and I'll have blown it again oh my god oh my god that's applause... I'm on!!"

The phantom arse-grabber of Old Thornbury strikes again...

 Amazingly, I untangled myself just as I stepped onto the stage, and executed "Fever" with a calm sensuality that I was most certainly not feeling! Cue a rapturous response and my spirit soaring off the same distance as it had plummeted an hour earlier. Heaven and hell in equal measures.       

Before the above palaver, I was aware of how comfortable I am on the stage. During the opening numbers I wasn't nervous. It was totally natural to me to be in front of a sea of faces, making like I was in an old-fashioned nightclub, thrilled to see the Grisettes highly kicking their dainty heels (they were the Spice Girls of their day, don't you know?) then joining in with the rousing chorus. I do love it.

Of course the divine/devilsome analogy creeps out to the offstage drama that is being part of a theatre group. We are all performers, and so do things with a lot of spirit and feeling. Two days ago we held our AGM. I've been on the last two committees, gently nudged into the position of Vice Chair last year as no-one else stood. In fact, it was quite a poorly-attended meeting. Not so this year...

A quick note about committee work: While it's time-consuming, not only with duties to do, but worrying about duties to do, it is most rewarding because you are giving something back. I am always proud to be part of the body of folk running the group, even though it can be a thankless activity. And that's at best! At worst, you put yourself in for quite a bashing email-wise when anyone in the group is disgruntled, which can be often. One can't please everyone every time. It's funny how people rarely get in touch when they're happy with something you've done, eh? I know how much this can mean, so I try to give positive feedback to people, no matter how small. If you're reading this, why not give it a try? Pay it forward - compliment a colleague or pal on something that you genuinely think they've done well. (NB No lies! You must feel it, or it doesn't count.) Do it now! You'll make their day.

Now then, back to Wednesday night: The outgoing Chair has had a rough year, and as VC it has been my duty to cover his absence. I was aware that he might not make the meeting due to a family situation. By 6.30pm I imagined that all was well as he'd not been in touch. Just check your email Lizzie, to make absolutely sure... Fifteen minutes later I was hurtling toward the hall in my car, gulping the air nervously and quaffing Rescue Remedy by the bucketload. My third ever AGM; my second on the committee; my first on the executive committee; and my public chairing debut.

I would have been so much calmer if I'd thought it through, but I honestly hadn't expected to have to do this. For example, I would have made sure that someone who arrived as early as I did had the key to the hall! This would have meant no milling about outside, getting more and more worried as the mill-ees increased and the minutes until we started didn't. I would also have had a printed copy of the constitution on the table in front of me, to be absolutely sure of procedure, and not have had to keep consulting my fellow members in front of my other fellow members. 

I decided to proceed as naturally as I could, while keeping things relevant and concise. Nobody enjoys a meeting! Especially when there is Rambling On. I read the outgoing Chair's report and got into the swing of my duties. I was feeling quite competent and comfortable. Until we got to item six on the agenda: Election of officers and members of the Executive Committee.

I make no mention of the underlying politics or internal issues that the group may or may not have. This is about my experience and what turned out to be the most humiliatingly painful ten minutes of my young life so far. My year as VC had done something to me that I had not been expecting - it showed me that actually I, Lizziechops, da Chops da Liz, was capable of chairing a committee, all grown-up and efficient-like. Not only capable, but that I actually enjoyed it. And no, it had absolutely nothing to do with power! That doesn't bob my barge. No, what I liked was looking at a situation from all angles, weighing it up, and making decisions based on what was fair and good for as many members of the group as possible. As such, I decided to put my head above the parapet and stand as Chair. Why not? I've served two years; I'm outgoing VC; the Chair is stepping down. It's a no-brainer, this. Of course, it didn't occur to me that anyone can stand for Chair, as long as they are a member. Well dur! And someone - let's call them "D" - did.

It was between D and me. Quick discussion decided us on a secret vote. Voting forms (and NOT scraps of hastily-torn A4. Uh uh. Nope.) were handed out, collected back, and counted. Too late I remembered what inevitably happens to me when I do parapet-protruding - my bonce gets shot clean off my shoulders. As the "returning officer" returned, I knew he was about to tell me that it wasn't my day.

Everything went slow for a second. My dream of Chairing the group so dear to my heart was dashed. Ah, but not to worry. The vote for Vice Chair is next. I have another chance!

*sigh*

To save time, re-read the last two paragraphs, because history repeated itself almost as soon as it had happened. The only differences were the one other candidate ("H" this time), and the fact that I already knew what the outcome was going to be as I feebly scrawled my own name on my voting slip, with as much futility as a squirrel attempts to cross the M5 on a Friday night. I shrink from competition of any kind. I'm not a popular girl, probably as I'm surly/gloomy/strict/antisocial in varying amounts. If I had thought harder, I could have saved everyone a second vote and all that paper! 

This time I mouthed H's name to the returning officer, and he could only nod apologetically. I smiled resignedly. Of course. And so my humiliation was complete.

The people sitting in front of me had rejected me in favour of someone else - twice! (It's still rejection, no matter what the reasons are.) I knew it. They knew it. And now we were going to have to look each other in the eye in the face of my double defeat and continue with the meeting, as the new committee only come into force at the end of it. Other officers were voted in, and final body of group reps chosen. My name was on this list. I had thought that I would still want to be part of the committee whatever the outcome. However now things had changed. To see that the group had no faith in me, nor valued what I had to offer made me wonder if I'd just be wasting my time. The only reason I might have stayed would be for some sort of continuity, but - as a member pointed out - why was that important? Why indeed. Their words had the same effect as a kick up the butt to an indecisive platform diver.

"I withdraw my nomination," I said as I plummeted, hitting the water with a belly flop. I was no longer on the committee.

And yet there was still the rest of the agenda, and I was the one that had to get us through it, including reading another report from the absent Chair (also Publicity rep). All eyes were on me. I had nowhere to hide. Miraculously, I willed the tears back into their ducts, and, as my lobsterly skin returned to its usual shade, I pulled off one of the greatest acting jobs of my life. Great in terms of size and effort. By the time we got to the end - and we did get to the end - I was drained. I had enough left to smile at the friends who offered me sympathy on my way to my car, and keep smiling until I was safely out of eyeshot.

Bracc offers his sympathy, though it's hard to bear.

Having relived that minuscule episode for this blog, I find myself wiping away tears. It was deeply unpleasant. However I have learned a lot in the last twelve months, and I've been using all that, and all that I gather about me, to get me through. Yes, there has been blubbing. There has also been quite a bit of chocolate (anyone notice shares in Nestle going up?) When I got back to my home that night, I didn't know what to do with myself. I was still in a state of shock and... well, it's similar to grief I suppose. There are five stages of that, and I must have gone through four of them simultaneously with everyone watching! I went to bed but sleep wasn't going to happen. Instead, I used the "Letting Go" meditation (hello Jason) and imagined the whole evening being washed away as I stood under that waterfall. I did feel peaceful afterwards. The tablets in my system are doing magical things too. I'm also focusing on the good stuff - Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive, like we told everyone to do in our concert (just after the war!) I am no longer a committee member: I have more time to work; a chunk of worry and responsibility disappears; I'll have one extra free night per month. What's more, there is a lot to be said for dignity. I think I have managed to hold on to mine this time, for once! Above everything, the support from my friends is immense. A select few, but I'm so touched by their words and actions.

I'm facing quite a peaceful weekend. In the sense that it'll be mostly work as the Food Fair is in eight days' time and I'd really like to make the most of it being Father's Day the day after. It's also auditions for the next show on that day, but I don't know. I think I've had enough rejection for one year. Maybe I should pour my energy into some different vessels? This is not giving up - The show always goes on. It just might be time to change the stage.

Will fathers' fare get flogged at the food fair? Will Lizzie audition for Calam or will it be "anything I can do, you can do better"? Will that poor stage manager ever have enough therapy to get over the pants episode? Brace your eyeballs for more blog, coming to a screen near you this summer...

Pick Yourself Up, Dust Yourself Off...

Ahhh Friday night's optimism becomes Sunday afternoon's comfort eating. No, Monday afternoon's. (Frickin' Bank Holidays!) At least I have a rehearsal this evening to break the silent solitude.

So how are you doing then? Good? Good.

*awkward cough*

Oh OK, OK... I give in. I suppose you are wondering how The Date went? If the title of this entry didn't already answer your question, you'd better read this: 

I was really excited, knowing I was going to spend a bit of time with someone single and straight, who I already knew I liked enough to meet, and vice versa. All I did on Saturday morning was get up and begin to get ready. The deliciousness of the weather prompted me to walk into town (the long way). This also meant no fancy clothing concoctions, as it's not pleasant trudging several km in heels. I went for my wafty walking uniform - long dress, crochet bingo wing-hider, sensible-but-pretty sandals. Hair in a bunch, touch of eyeliner, nothing more - part of Being Myself. 

Nervous pre-date Lizzie

Feeling the warmth of Spring on my legs and the fresh, invigorating air, I was almost annoyed that I had couldn't spend more time wallowing in it. I was accompanied by an earful of gig music, in preparation for the evening, but that wasn't helping me to stay calm. So I bunged on some Debussy and chilled out to the strains of Clair de Lune, somewhat incongruous in the sunshiney morning with sheep shouting at each other in the background.

I felt great as I neared the town - confident, attractive, optimistic - but was hanging off my wristwatch: Ten minutes, five minutes, no minutes... no agreed text that he'd arrived. Was I going to be stood up? Maybe the traffic was hideous - bank holiday Saturday on the M5 is no picnic. (OK, it is a picnic - inside your car, as you slither forwards at 5mph wondering why you bothered to leave the house.) Suddenly, a message pinged onto my phone. He was parked and mobile. We met under the... the... what is that thing in the centre? Is it the town hall? Under that. I bounded towards him (thank you Liszt for the mood music) and the date began.

He was lovely and tall, and not bad-looking. In fact, I had a little belly flip of excitement. But I of all people know that that doesn't account for much, it's just a first impression. He was a decade older than me, but carrying it off beautifully - you'd never have guessed his age from his face. I could see it later though, in the way he behaved. His first comment was that I looked summery. I laughed and replied:

"Mffle wrgs rgrgrghh ngghhhh" in an intelligent way. So much I could have said here that would have been erudite or girly, and that was all I managed! Calling upon my vows of honesty to furnish me with words I said:

"I'm sorry, but I'm incredibly nervous!"

"Well I'm incredibly hungry," was his response.

I think that sums it up really.

Imagine an old-fashioned balance, like the Libra scales. One dish is YES and one is NO. Now imagine that everything that happens is a weight going into either dish, until the balance is tipped one way or another. That's the way it goes when you meet someone. You start out with neutral feelings. As you get to know them, the weights pile up. If you are lucky, they mostly land in the YES dish, leading to a point where you realise that you like this person, and they will probably be part of your life for a bit longer. The opposite may also occur. Sometimes the weights will stack up very quickly. If that happens on the positive side, you're looking at serious chemistry! Also, some of the weights are heavier than others. For example, when he said he had children and that they lived with him most of the time... CLUNK into the NO side. But when he made a joke about something-or-other (which I can't remember at all now, so it wasn't that significant), TING into YES. I don't have time to nip onto PagePlus and do a graphic! I'm sure you've got the analogy.

His NO side filled up steadily throughout:

* "I love Formula One"

* Driving a really new, white Audi A3...

*... incredibly slowly around country lanes

* Every time he mentioned a recording artist that I had never heard of

* The "music" we listened to in his car

* Saying "Oh yes, tweet tweet" when I commented on how beautiful the birdsong was

* Telling me story after dull story, which did have points and were sometimes interesting, but were a long time coming

* Asking little to nothing about me, then making me feel like he wasn't listening when I was telling him.

* Talking politics.

* Playing a game called Ingress, which involves creating portals with your phone, only you actually go to places to do this. The upshot of which is that you arrive in an area of stunning beauty (such as Uley, to where we drove for a drink,) then spend all your time with your face in the screen instead of looking at, oo I don't know, ANYTHING ELSE. (Actually, I found the concept of the game intriguing, but I didn't see the connotations immediately.)

Oh man, it isn't fair of me to pick on him. He did manage to get some content in his YES dish. He was attractive. His height was really appealing. (Though any git can be tall, I suppose.) The funniest bit was where I bet him 10p he would get baked bean juice from his brekky onto his impossibly white trousers (White trousers???  NO). We put our coins on the table, and I lost hideously. He claimed his prize and high-fived his victory. It was all daft and it made me laugh. Sadly those moments were few and further between as time passed.

Don't forget that his own scale would have been doing the same. I imagine I lost lots of marks for being myself, which is fine because - as I am going to bang on repeatedly until I get it - what is the point in pretending? I found myself talking a lot about the way I looked. I've only noticed this on reviewing the date. God, I don't think I'm really that self-absorbed, am I? (She asks, while writing a blog all about herself...) But I do have a lot of hang-ups, many related to the physical. Living alone kind of magnifies this.

All this aside, I thought he liked me. He stuck around for ages, and said goodbye warmly, almost affectionately. I went off to my gig feeling positive and a bit crazy. I didn't care that I had crowbarred myself into ridiculously tight plastic trousers, or that there were fewer than ten people forming our audience, including the bar staff. We gave ourselves to the Forces of Rock!

The Forces of Rock got me into those trousers. Them, and a shoe horn. 

(https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wango-Jango/655145284619335 - to see vids from the night)

I tried to message him a bit during the evening, but his replies weren't forthcoming. I did receive a couple, with a tone flatter than my un-brassiered chest. The next day I still felt possibility, but with no further responses, I imagined he did not. In the end, I made my mind up to ask a direct question. Rip the Elastoplast of truth right off the hairy armpit of doubt in one go. Give me that sting now! Let me know either way, I said. Don't leave a girl dangling, I said.

He didn't. The word "Sorry!" and the phrase "Yesterday was under lovely," (though that could have been a typo, but I can't think of what he meant to put,) plus some other brief but firm statements sorted it out. I said "Not to worry, good luck with it all, bye!" and then came gravity's rush, and the cold linoleum of rejection hit my cheek with its oh-too-familiar "thwack".

How conflicting is that? No chemistry; little in common - obviously nothing was going to come from this. And yet all I can do is question what I did wrong? Was it the way I looked that put him off? Was it worrying about the way I looked that put him off?? (That's a big fat yes. I may have wobbliferous thighs, but I'm not stupid...) I think I was surprised that he'd picked up on the finer points, having appeared to barely notice me the whole time. (That's another NO clunk right there - emotionally a closed book.) I'm a bit cross with me for being upset. Rejection always hurts, I suppose. There is also pain from having been given a glimpse of the way things could be. A distant memory of what it is like to be loved resurfaced, and I experienced this huge sense of relief. The knowledge that someone wants you, and is counting the minutes until they can touch your face again... but that you feel the same way about them. Oh, it doesn't come along very often. Not for me. If you are one of the lucky ones who has that, revel in it! Don't let it fade. We are a long time dead

But look - it's saved me the worry of working out how to reject him while also considering his feelings. It's given me fuel for writing, and I'm not bothered about how frank I can be. I don't have to listen to F1 cars going NYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW in the background while I put his white trousers in the wash and call the kids down to their dinner! Most importantly, it's given me the chance to understand more clearly what it is I actually want: about who I am, and the sort of person who is going to improve my life by being in it.

For example, I know now that I need romance. I need a chap who finds me gorgeous, and tells me so; who wants to look at me and finds pleasure in giving me pleasure. Which would be exactly the way I would feel about him. I knew my date owned a cat, so (following the recommendations of my sisters' mog Jaffa) I purchased some nibbles for said pet, as an ice-breaker. Not flowers, not chocolates, but duck-flavoured Dreamies. Yet when I presented them to him, he was more startled than grateful. My YES dish on his scale didn't even wobble. What a waste of good Dreamies. Jaffa, forgive me!

My guy would have to notice his surroundings too. Yesterday was a cracker - the best, beautifullest, brightest day of the year so far. Sunshine, bluebells, such birdsong!! How could anyone be ignorant of that? Yet we walked from the pub to Uley churchyard, not to actually look at Uley churchyard, but so he gather a point or two on his computer game! Then we left. We drove around the splendid English countryside, putting on its best display, and he was babbling about faith school funding with weird prog rock blaring from his car speakers, drowning out everything except, sadly, his voice.

I love music, but making it more than watching it. If I hear something I like, I can't help but sing it. I SING. My bloke is going to need to be able to sing along somehow, not necessarily in a literal sense. Musical theatre groups are what I do. I perform on stages, in pubs, on street corners. (Not that sort of performance. Tch.) Whoever I'm with has GOT to be OK with that, and even more - they've got to want to be part of it in some way. Watching, or helping, or (be still my beating, hopeful heart) performing too. Be someone who gets up and does things.

I learned, through our "conversation", that I am not materialistic in the slightest, but I'm aware that I need to be working harder to earn more money so I can live. I am creative, immensely so. My house IS scattered with boxes and piles and drawersful of Things To Make Other Things With (that I won't necessarily use, but will enjoy the possibilities that they possess). I am the sort of girl who enjoys browsing recycle stores and charity shops. This is me and I am proud of that.

Argh it's no good, I can't concentrate on working today. I can't concentrate on anything. I feel that my pride has been burned by all this, and my heart is heavy. I have had a quick look on the GS website, mainly to change my profile slightly and add a new picture from the gig. The site tells you who viewed you, and this information appears chronologically. So if someone looks at you again, their picture comes to the fore. I noticed that my weekend date's pic was first in the row, meaning that he'd viewed my profile again, which did surprise me. I imagined it was to make absolutely sure he was done with it. Now, if you see someone on the site whom you like, you click a "like" button, similar to Facebook. That's how we first noticed each other - a mutual clicking. However, just as on FB, you can "unlike" somebody. I noticed the number of Chaps Who Like Me had gone down, so I had a look, and yes - he no longer likes me. I returned the favour, blocking him and hiding him, and deleting his number from my phone. I'm trying to forget the whole sad thing. While at the same time, climbing straight back onto the horse that threw me.

I can see this being a long and painful journey.

Dating website stats so far:

Men who've viewed my profile: 73

Men whose profiles I've viewed: 79

I like: 16

Like me: 12

Mutual likes: 1 (was 2 - see above) Neither me nor this other guy have contacted each other yet. I was leaving it to him, as I made the first move the last time. 

Messages I've sent to chaps that I haven't had a reply from: 8

Messages chaps have sent to me that I haven't replied to 'cos the bloke in question isn't really what I am looking for: 3

Chaps who liked me that I have blocked because they are clearly unsuitable, barely being able to speak English and living in different continents: 2

Chaps who have viewed my profile after seeing that I have viewed theirs, or "liked" them, who have subsequently not got in touch in any way: Lost count

Ongoing messaging threads: 0 (was 1, but we know what happened there...)

Dates: 1

Am I being too picky? Should I be pickier?

I've only been registered since 14th May, and signed up a week before that, so I suppose it's early days. On the site, one sees the pictures first, along with a user name and an age. So maybe my picture is not reeling 'em in! Once you click on a pic, you then get to read the profile and look at other pictures. You've seen my images (in Meet Me On the Corner). Here are the words that go with them:  

Well hello to you!  That IS a nice outfit you’re wearing.

It's a bit creased, mind. You could have ironed…

er, no… no, it’s all right. Please don’t get up. I'll squint.

I’m just a girl, looking for a bloke: Someone who likes things I like and values things I value; Someone who approaches life from the same angle as me; Someone to learn from, who would also enjoy being taught; Someone tall, who would be great company and fun to be with; Someone to love, and to be loved by.

As you can tell, I am not very demanding.

I also do sarcasm, but only in the previous sentence.

You need more?

Well, I'm incredibly open and honest.

I'm always ready with a merry quip or a comforting word to suit the occasion (and several that don't - e.g. the now legendary Flat Pack Coffin remark of 2003...)

I'm also a little miffed that it's come to this - selling myself to strange men on the internet using only pictures and words. However, needs must as the devil expectorates in your physiognomy.

So, if you’re looking for a puzzle-compiling, gig-playing, biscuit-baking, larynx-twanging, show-directing, Facebook-using, chocolate-munching, MS Excel-excelling, stage-performing, outdoor-walking, quiz-setting, meditation-learning, harmony-singing, straight-talking, guitar-strumming, charity shop-browsing, yoga-partaking, kitchen-pottering, Grade 8 recorder tooter with a biochemistry degree, who enjoys Red Dwarf, League of Gentlemen, Dickens, Pratchett, Viz and Die Hard; a punctuation fan, whose ambition is to have Alexander Armstrong congratulate her on a Pointless answer; a pantomime-writing music lover, and future Nobel Literature Prize winner* with an eclectic iPod selection, a head full of ideas and a big heart – then I’m your girl!

And if you managed to get to this point of my profile and I still haven't scared you, message me and I'll try a bit harder...

*No responsibility can be taken for me not making the shortlist. Or not having a book published. Or not actually writing one.

They are very similar to the ones used on Match.com. Maybe they aren't suitable for GS? If you know me, you'll be more informed as to whether they paint a good picture of who I am. I think they do, and therefore my concern is that I am scaring men away, as I have done for a lot of my life. I have to be true to myself as a date would find out soon enough if I wasn't. Being true to myself in spite of this.  

Also, here is what I am looking for, updated with what I learned recently:

Height is always good (I'm 5' 9" without shoes on...) Hair is nice, but not a deal-breaker. Both would be mere icing on a kind, caring cake, with whom I would have more chemistry than Mendeleev's dreams. 

Music rules my life - I play, I sing, I perform; I help others to play, sing and perform too; I listen, I learn, I sing some more. I am highly self-aware. I notice my surroundings and adore the countryside. Breathing in fresh air, hearing birdsong, absorbing beauty and spontaneous days. Conversations involving two-way speaking and listening. Old-fashioned romance lights me up inside - giving and receiving in as equal amounts as possible. I love to laugh and I don't take life too seriously.

These things are so important to me, to have someone to share them with would be more than I could wish for.

Reading my fellow Soulmates' profiles sometimes makes me cry. I feel as sorry for them as I do for myself. I hope I can see a happy side to this again soon.

To summarise, it's not quite Square One that I am back to. Square One Point One, perhaps. I am prepared for a lot more of this shit, and thanks to #01, I am much more aware of what to expect from this dating lark. Though I'm subdued now, I know that that feeling of crazy empowerment is within me all the time, ready to be unleashed, and that keeps my flame of hope flickering away, as always.

Will there be enough chocolate in the fridge to get Lizzie through to Tuesday morning? Have there been any bites on the Soulmate hook since this post was written? Has Lizzie nailed the alto part to New York, New York, or will it be tuneless note-stabbing in the back row again? Has anyone seen the flying f*** that nobody gave? Sigh. Happy Bank Holiday folks  

Meet Me On the Corner

I've got a date.

He seems nice, and from his one profile picture, he looks OK. But you can't really tell from a picture what someone is going to be like, can you? 

My profile pic. Can you tell who she is yet?

You can't even tell what they really look like! I know some delicious-looking folk who just don't take a good photo. Likewise, I know how many pics I have to take, from all different angles (usually me looking up to the camera) before I get one that I'm happy with, though it often doesn't bear much resemblance to me. Everyone comments "Wow, what a lovely picture" and I think "Hehe, little do you know..."  

Little do you know.

One reason why I decided to sign up was because I am fed up with not meeting anyone new. I also miss going out and doing stuff with a special someone. Y'know - let's get a coffee, let's go for a walk, let's see a film. So when he suggested we meet up, I said yes right away. We've only exchanged a couple of messages, and they've not been that wordy. (Actually, mine were more on the long-winded side. I know you'll find that hard to believe.) I also think that I'm better in person than on paper. Anyone who has met me knows that I like to smile and laugh, and make daft jokes. These things come across less well in the written word.  (NB I like to smile and laugh. I don't always get the opportunity. I'm trying very hard not to descend into miserable old bag-ness, though it seems easier some days.)

Such a miserable old bag...

So we are going to meet on Saturday morning. Somewhere local to me, which is a relief, as I'll feel safe. I have to reassure myself a lot these days that I am safe and OK and that no-one is going to hurt me. I'm not talking about physical pain - it's more of a comfort thing, to calm the panic and tension I often feel. I know it's odd meeting in the am, but I have the gig in the evening, and I would like to rest up beforehand. There's no "I'll-be-under-the-clock-wearing-a-red-carnation" here. It's all "I'll text you when I've arrived". Plus I'll probably recognise him from his pic. Technology leaches a bit of the romance out of things.

I am, of course, terrified. For so many reasons. In fact, I am blinded with an adrenalin headache, that started yesterday when the event was confirmed, and is now into to its twenty-fifth hour. The only time my jaw has unlocked is when I'm pouring chocolate into it. My whole bod is more wound up than Zebedee after a month of abstinence.

Firstly, what if I hate him? When I announced the date on FB, I had a flood of supportive comments. Plus one about a rhino, but never mind. Several friends remarked that I'd know within minutes of meeting if I like him. I imagine the same would go for the opposite emotion. My fear is that I'll think he's rotten, but won't want to hurt his feelings by clearing off directly, and therefore I'll be stuck with him. I know that even if my initial reaction involves holding back a mouthful of sick, I would still give him a chance, in case I am wrong. I can always walk away. I don't ever have to see him again. It's just tough disappointing someone. I'm never comfortable with that.

Then the antithesis, which is worse as I'd have no control over this: What if I think he's the bee's knees, but he thinks I'm the mule's stools? My self-esteem will probably be assuming this every second I'm with him, and I'll have to keep reminding myself that he wouldn't be there if he didn't want to be. Also, that this is just a meeting. Two people, having a drink and talking. It is NOT a binding legal contract to spend the rest of our lives together. 

We're meeting in public, in daylight and I shall NOT be inviting him back to mine, nor giving him my address. That's a bit of fear that I can deal with, for now.

Ah, this whole internet dating thing has left me feeling fragile. It seems so forced; artificial, even. I've returned to a shrinking, forlorn being, hugging myself and having the occasional blub. The necessity for this whole thing - the process, the pantomime - it makes my heart sore.

Reading the profiles on the website, I'm often struck with a feeling of inferiority. I'm never going to be good enough for these chaps. This is Guardian Soulmates - recommended to me by several folk, which is why I signed up. Of course I should have considered the fact that a lot of its users are Guardian readers! Dur. I am not. I don't read broadsheets. Or even newspapers. (BBC News Website, in case you were wondering how I know what's going on.) So there are many highbrow blokes on there. I've already encountered a film director, travel writer, actor - even a double Emmy Award winner! It's not just jobs, it's attitudes too. I know I have to ignore the profiles declaiming celeb culture and soap operas (not that I'm into either, I just work with them...) and find the ones that match me. It's hard not to feel belittled. Match.com was similar, but from the opposite end. Most messages I received were littered with bad spelling, text abbreviations and - gasp - misplaced apostrophes. To me, that's just as big a turn-off as halitosis! So from being a big(ger) fish in the Match pond, I move to being a relative tiddler in the ocean of Guardian, and quite frankly I'm floundering.

Is this my sole-mate?

I am frightened of all these scary new blokes and longing for the comfort of already knowing someone and not having to go through all the tedious introductory blah-blah. While I do have those moments of soul-sucking loneliness, I also have times where I'm almost relieved not to have anyone else to worry about. I sit at my laptop, binge-watching Frasier, my glass of water at my side (not wine), having just toasted a few marshmallows over the gas cooker for pudding. Who would put up with such quirks? In past relationships, I've suppressed them, worried that I'd scare my partner off if I revealed the real me. I don't think that's healthy. Somewhere I must summon up the gall to be myself and back that up.

I have an increasing desire to change my appearance in some way - like I don't wish to look like me any more. Is this what they call a mid-life crisis? The few grey hairs poking out and taunting me are just asking to be dealt with. I have even been seriously considering a tattoo - just a small one - to remind me to live. I feel I'm dowdy, mumsy (without actually being a mother) and bland. I want to exude colour and fun, not look like a sixth-form prefect from 1952. I'm pretty sure this is all in my mind, though my sagging skin and bagging chops don't help. 

Make-up-free me

Incidentally, the pics in this blog entry are some of the ones that go with my profile. It's not a sudden attack of narcissism! We're instructed to use a variety of recent pics that build an idea of what we like and what we are like. Full-length ones are recommended. You'll have seen most of them before. I don't seem to have many up-to-date ones. This one's the oldest, from Jan 2014:

I enjoy a good strum. (Not a euphemism.)

I know I need to be patient. I remind myself that this time three years ago, I was half way through a twenty-four week period of chemo hell. That's where I learned patience. I bucked against it every day, every painful fatigue-fuelled hour. It got more and more difficult as the sessions went on, like climbing an increasing incline. However I got to the top in the end. I'm forever being told "when you stop looking, that's when you'll find someone." As a single person, I don't think you really ever stop looking. I had made a conscious decision to do that, but it didn't work, hence all this palaver.

Full-length and floaty

I am also scared of making a bad decision. When vulnerability comes a-knocking, reason escapes out of the bathroom window, thus leading to some questionable life choices. And yet I'm going on this date. I think I've only ever been on one date before. It was in my teaching days, and it was dull. I was relieved to escape the guy, who looked like Penfold.

Crumbs, Chief! She's watching Frasier again.

I knew he looked like Penfold beforehand, but I still agreed to go out with him, giving him the benefit of my mounting doubts. The animated Penfold was quite cute and cuddly, if a bit wet; the date Penfold was so much less. The only underwear he managed to divest me of was my socks, via the boredom method. I allowed a polite amount of time before I "simply had to get back to do some marking." That was my one and only foray into the dating world.

Yes, this is how I treat blokes who lie about their height

Saturday's chap doesn't resemble a cartoon character. He's tall (so he says) and intelligent, and I am going to meet him with my baggy chops held high, being the very essence of myself, as that is all I am.

Will it be love at first sight, or Gaviscon all round? Will he turn up, see me and run? What the hell am I going to wear? BROAD daylight - what was I thinking? All the answers and more to be unleashed on your eyeballs very soon...