Verbally incontinent spinster

Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. – Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. – Aloof. Unavailable. Ice queen. – quite fancy a snog though...

So once again I fine myself sitting here with my glass bottle of cabernet sauvignon, my M&S dressing gown and ancient Barbour wool hiking socks pulled high wondering where my 14 cats are. I don't have 14 cats, or even one for that matter, but it would be nice to have the full set to complete my downwardly spiralling life. Okay its not that bad. But its moments like this where you realise you are in fact Bridget Jones.
 

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"At times like this, continuing with one's life seems impossible... and eating the entire contents of one's fridge seems inevitable. I have two choices: to give up and accept permanent state of spinsterhood and eventual eating by alsatians, or not. And this time I choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect! Instead, I choose vodka. And Chaka Khan."
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I drink/ smoke/ eat too much, I'm hopelessly clumsy and "I'll always be just a little bit fat". Geoffrey probably wouldn't call me, and I'd turn up to Una's garden party dressed as a common prostitute. I've no sex life "I'm like Germain sodding Greer". Worst of all there not even a Mr Fitzherbert in my life to stare freely at my breasts whilst calling me Brenda.

But fuck it, I've fulfilled what I thought was unattainable. I managed to get myself into Central St. Martins. So hopefully I'm not just some borish bint in a bikini.

And maybe I'll avoid the alcoholics, workaholics, emotional fuckwicks and megalomaniacs and find Mr Darcy. But for now, I quite enjoy my relationship with a bottle of wine. After all, who wants to be dumped for a Naked American? Bridget Jones, you're fucking fabulous.

Now that I've bored you senseless with my pitiful life; "I am off, to bedfordshire."

God bless.