Unforgotten.

Tomorrow it will be three years.

The date is a scar, the loss remains poignant.

I sometimes wish that l could

Feel the weight of you in my arms

Smell the warmth of your skin

Watch you sleep.

I often wonder

What your future would have held

Whether you would have had my dark eyes or his green

My offbeat humour or his sense of injustice.

I know that

Everything l had would have been yours

That love and pride would have consumed me

But that l didn't have the strength to give you them then.

Cherished as my first, you maybe my only

Always remembered, a shadow ever loved

Irreplaceable.

Tomorrow l will shed your tears

Flowers on an empty grave.

And the winner is....

I must make a confession. One month ago l committed a crime more abhorrent than any l have committed before. At least, not since l eliminated an entire nest of mice with a glue gun and glitter. But that is another story. No, this was much worse.

 I had a moment of empathy for Gwyneth Paltrow. *If you need a vomit break, please go now*

Yes, for a brief moment l felt l had a millimetre of common ground with that smug, Madonna-befriending, yoga-mat toting, macro-whatever diet munching, wife of the whining Chris Martin. Specifically, her nauseating Oscar moment.

Now, it was not that l had a significant wardrobe oversight, and wore a corset designed for an ample couple of breasticles as opposed to a couple of enlarged nipples. Either eat some meat, Gwynnie, or invest in a gel bra. Nor did l subject millions of viewers to a sobbing,  rambling, rather desperate 'speech' that resulted in the same millions of viewers reaching for the nearest bottle of morphine to numb the pain.

I did, however, receive my first ever sports award. As one who was always chosen last for the team at school, this was an overwhelming event. So much so that l guarded my shield fiercely for the rest of the evening, growling and baring my teeth at anyone who dared to come near. It was my bedfellow for the night, and remains so to this day. I may even buy it a special red velvet cushion. Apparently l am supposed to give it back next year. I may emigrate instead.

But it must be my year. For a couple of days ago, l received another award, from the lovely Frisky Virgin herself.

This is a dangerous award for someone who enjoys a power trip as much as l. The reason l became a teacher was the opportunity to meld young minds on a daily basis. It still amuses me to 'embellish' certain information within the classroom, and for it to be returned, often verbatim,  in 30 pieces of homework. If you ever bump into someone in a few years time who is convinced that flamingos only have one leg, or will argue that polar bears are Grizzly bears that have been interbred with the DNA of a chameleon, it is likely they have been taught by myself.

But l digress. This award means l have the power to change three (only THREE?) things to make this world a better place. Realistically, it would take me years to get this world ship shape and bristol fashion, but l suppose l have to start somewhere.

1.) 'My Bad'. Anyone uttering this phrase should be placed in stocks and have soiled nappies aimed at their open mouths with giant catapults. I have no idea where this phrase originated, but it is usually said in an offhand, abrasive manner that implies an apology that is absent of any sincerity whatsoever. But that is not my main bug bear. It is that it makes no sense. My bad what? My bad cooking? My bad piano playing? My bad smelling fungal infection? Either finish the sentence properly or learn how to apologise in the correct manner.

2.) Caravans. In this day and age, l see no point to caravans. They are a somewhat unsatisfactory compromise between tents and hotels. Flimsy walls, uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, an inescapable 'toilet' odour, minimal cooking facilities, and cold showers. They cause more traffic jams than any other vehicle. When parked en masse they distort the natural order of nature. They need to be annihilated. I suggest employing teams of ninjas to push them off the cliff tops on which they are perched, one by one. This should send out the appropriate message.

3.) Bad tattoos. Admittedly, this may be subjective, but since l am currently wearing the Overlord cape l am making the rules. Any persons found with tattoos on their chest, calves, thighs, neck, face, fingers, breasts,stomach or buttocks will be forced to wear plasters (band aids for you American citizens) over said body art, lest it be offensive to the Overlord's eyes. There shall also be restrictions on the subject matter. As this list of banned items is rather extensive, and includes everything from names of children to dolphins, all tattoo artists will be appointed by her Overlord, and will be required to submit all designs for approval. It should be noted that anything deemed 'Celtic' will automatically be burnt and a scream of frustration will be heard across the land.

Small changes, but not insignificant.

Oh, and apparently l am supposed to pass this award on too. So, lucky subjects, here goes. Although it will do you good to remember the afore mentioned story of the mice. I have glue guns and glitter a-plenty for those who forget who the TRUE Overlord is.

Have fun:

Mr Condescending

For Everything, A Reason

Left Alone With A Full Moon

Sarcastically Bitter

The Barreness

You Don't Need A Cock To Rock

Things l now know.

It has been a while since l last wrote a blog post. It was under another name, in what feels like another life. I shall spare you the gruesome, gut wrenching details, safe to say that the episode in question shall simply be known as 'The Heartbreak'.

A positive event then, and l could ramble on in some life affirming, pump your fist in the air, 'my cancer is cured and l want to make sweet love to every flower l happen upon' type of way. Unfortunately, all that malarkey makes me want to regurgitate my chicken chow mein and form a model of Dante's seventh circle of hell. No, the hours l have spent piecing myself back together are worthy of Humpty Dumpty himself, and have taught me only one thing: basic survival. Therefore, as the Ray Mears of broken hearts, l am about to selflessly share a few tips that may help you through, should you end up in a similar, unfortunate, and unexpected situation.

1.) I am not one for promoting binge drinking as such, but you will need alcohol. In excessive amounts. You will dance into oblivion and sink into a sweet sleep. You will imagine yourself as Grace Kelly amidst adoring suitors. You will be numbed from the heartache and sit on kerb sides stealing strangers' kebabs at 3am. You will rediscover the laughter you thought had been erased from your bank of emotions. It will feel fantastic. But you must be prepared for the feelings of self loathing the next morning, as you peel yourself off a random bathroom floor with one shoe missing completely and the other sailing on a sea of vomit in the toilet bowl, whilst you clutch a cone to your chest on which you have drawn a remarkable (in its abstract qualities) likeness to your ex.

2.) You will need a soundtrack to your pain. You won't be able to listen to any of the music you already own as it will most likely provoke unwanted and rather torturous memories of happier times. So you will find songs that sum up your current emotional state succinctly, listen to them/sing along to them endlessly until someone around you has the sense to misplace the CD and your I-pod in the recycling bin. Under the dead cat and mouldering teabags.

3.) Take up a violent sport. Squash, hockey, rugby, it doesn't matter which. I took up rugby. The reasons are threefold: firstly, the adrenalin and fear of having your body crushed by another human being who is frankly the size and weight of an iron water tank instantly outweigh any other concerns your brain might be occupied with; secondly, the inevitable physical pain of broken bones means that although you are still crying into your breakfast first thing in the morning, it is lessened by the screams of pain you utter as you attempt to scoop soggy Weetabix into your mouth with shattered fingers; and thirdly, the amount of drugs thrust into your arms by the ladies of the NHS to relieve the afore mentioned pain also induce a peaceful sleep, free from the anxiety dreams of attacking your former lover with a dustbin lid and a vacuum cleaner in a quite inappropriate, yet strangely satisfying, manner.

4.) In your vulnerable and tear stained state, it might seems callous to utter the words 'Internet Dating', but l heartily recommend it as therapy. It is a quick fix solution to one's otherwise battered and bruised ego. You can flirt shamelessly via email, and the second party does not need to know that at that precise moment you are sobbing along to 'Mumford and Sons' (or whatever your music choice), wearing your ex's hoodie (still trying to locate his 'smell' in the armpits) and chocolate stained jogging bottoms, sipping lukewarm cup-a-soup as you have lost all will to live like a human being and not as an animal. You are not interested, of course, but  the attention will DO YOU GOOD, as my mother used to say about liver and onions. If you do it well, you may even get a free meal and/or trip to the cinema to boot. Then you can delete the emails and start all over again with a new victim. Mercenary? Most definitely. But curative nonetheless.

5.) My final tip is to throw yourself into an addiction to trash television. There is plenty to choose from: Strictly Come Dancing, X -Factor, One Tree Hill, Desperate Housewives, Glee, Waterloo Road, Skins, This way is Essex, Gossip Girl. The list is endless. You need it. It will rot your brain but the desire to escape the seeming mire of your own life can only be satisfied vicariously through the mewlings of Cheryl Cole and Simon Cowell as they bitch fight about Cher's ability to give blowjobs to the floor staff. If nothing else, it will give you something to distract the supermarket checkout staff with as they insist on commenting on the food in your basket. "Chocolate. Wine. Crisps. Tissues. DVD. Broken Heart is it?".

Indeed it is, my dear, indeed it is.