

Chick-Lit

Saved

My Life

(Chick-Lit Trilogy book 1)

By Maureen Reil

Copyright ©2011 Maureen Reil

Updated Edition 2017

This book is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Maureen Reil asserts the moral right to be, identified as the author of this work.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Chick-Lit By Any Other Name (Chick-Lit Collection)

Chick-Lit By Any Other Name 2 (Chick-Lit Collection)

Lily Loves To Love

Sleepyhead Shares A Secret

I Hate Me, Who Do You Hate?

I Did Write What I Know

Chick-Lit Stole My Life (Chick-Lit Trilogy book 2)

Chick-Lit Staged My Life (Chick-Lit Trilogy book 3)

Chick-Lit Collection

Chick-Lit Trilogy

Mistletoe And Wine (Christmas Comedy Trilogy)

Mistletoe And Wine 2 (Christmas Comedy Trilogy)

Mistletoe And Wine 3 (Christmas Comedy Trilogy)

Christmas Comedy Trilogy

Let's Get Married (Let's Get Funny Fiction)

Let's Get Together (Let's Get Funny Fiction)

Let's Get It Started (Let's Get Funny Fiction)

Let's Get Serious (Let's Get Funny Fiction)

Let's Get Ready To Rumble (Let's Get Funny Fiction)

Let's Get Physical (Let's Get Funny Fiction)

The Finch Family Short Break (Comical Vacations Book 0)

The Finch Family Holiday 1 (Comical Vacations)

The Finch Family Holiday 2 (Comical Vacations)

The Finch Family Holiday 3 (Comical Vacations)

The Finch Family Holiday 4 (Comical Vacations)

The Finch Family Holiday 5 (Comical Vacations)

The Finch Family Easter Holiday 6 (Comical Vacations)

The Finch Family Bank Holiday 7 (Comical Vacations)

The Finch Family Christmas Holiday 8 (Comical Vacations)

A Granny Is For Life, Not Just Christmas

Let's Get Funny Fiction 1 (Three-Book Bundle)

Let's Get Funny Fiction 2 (Three-Book Bundle)

Let's Get Funny Fiction (Six-Book Box Set)

Comical Vacations 1 (Three-Book Bundle)

Comical Vacations 2 (Three-Book Bundle)

Comical Vacations 3 (Three-Book Bundle)

Wed To The Wrong Wayne

Christmas Crackers

The Desperate Dater's Intervention

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Things Can Only Get Better

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Dedicated to

Declan, Nathan & Kieran

Table of Contents

Week One (Friday)

Week Two (Tuesday)

Week Three (Wednesday and Thursday)

Week Four (Monday)

Week One

(Friday)

Have you ever slowly raised your head up from reading a book and looked down the barrel of a gun? I do not mean on the telly, but in real life. It is 'the' scariest thing that you will ever probably see. Well, I know it was for me and I suspect that the people around me are feeling pretty much the same thing. It is truly terrifying to know that a single twitch could end my life right here, right now and I have not even finished this chapter. Oh please, do not make the cold hard weapon the last sight I have before I depart this earthly being for the hereafter. So I force myself to glance away (which is not easy let me tell you as you rather fixate on the deadly piece of metal whether you want to or not). As I apologise in advance if you think I constantly veer away the story and go off on a tangent. For I tend to let my thoughts wander and literally lose the plot sometimes when I am under duress and having a gunman threatening you is one such occasion that calls for my mind to think of anything else but this, so please bear with me.

Anyway, somehow I managed to convince myself to peek out of the train window instead. I hoped for trees, flowers, butterflies or even a dreamy cloud ridden sky. In fact, anything 'nice' would be welcomed at this stage especially a rainbow seeing as it is a personal favourite of mine so this would be a huge help in order to lift my spirits in the event of my premature death. I am too young to die, I am not mature enough to listen to classical music yet and I had hoped to live to at least retirement age (mind you some people retire at 50 nowadays and to be honest, I was relying on a fair few years more than that). I've never been to Hollywood and I always said that I'd go before I died, therefore, I just can't leave this mortal coil unfinished so there it is in a nutshell.

God, listen up, I am talking to you inside my head. Can you hear my thoughts? Are you going to grant me a wonderful sight with which to feast my eyes upon before the end is nigh? Perhaps the almighty has taken into account my goodness of late as in, no chocolate bars whatsoever have passed my lips for a whole week (well five days to be exact and that's a 'week' in working terms). And this building that I see before me is going to be my reward for such sacrificing actions, because it's not me that's on a diet but my flatmate Cara and if she witnesses me gobbling down the dark stuff then she just can't resist a nibble or two and I mean to be super supportive just like I promised. That works out as, no more sweet stuff being brought into the home and it is a case of eating healthy this and healthy that from now on. Only what would have been the point of being totally fit and energetic if I am about to be shot?

I am not one of those people that worry about looking good on the morgue table, for I know that my other flatmate Mel does. She practically obsesses over her skin and would be far happier if she turned into a wax mannequin, seeing as then she would not age at all and it would always be the perfection that she craves which she would wear forever more. Me on the other hand well I'd rather enjoy life and limit my intake to small portions whilst doing the fun things like sports for exercise and if I risk the odd injury or scar, then that's part of the process of getting on with stuff. Is it not? At least it shows that you have lived a little and are not just out of the 'shiny wrapper', which Mel cocoons her body in, as she lavishly applies her expensive moisturising creams that claim the impossibility of anti-aging.

Back to this predicament, that could be my last if I am not careful. Well, did I get a special dwelling that has you literally gaping in awe at the magnificent architecture from a bygone era to be my final picture on earth? Should the unthinkable happen? No, I bloody well did not. When I notice the familiar, red brick colour of the terraced house that I spent my youth in. I soon realised that I didn't have such luck for all I saw was the inside structure of an old Victorian tunnel and even though it was expertly built and would no doubt deserve a round of applause just for withstanding the test of time. Sorry, but it did not do it for me. Indeed, I was not prepared to exit this world. I am not ready to go; I have never fallen in love and you cannot die before you get the chance to experience that for it would be morally wrong for a start.

I will tell you one thing for sure, I vow to come back and haunt, no terrorise this gunman and become the worst (best in terms of haunting) poltergeist ever if he shoots me dead or even fatally wounds me. Hold on; is that not the same thing? What I meant was, if I survive with say a bullet lodged in my spine and I can't walk ever again, I'll still hunt him down in my wheelchair and stalk him silly (if that's at all possible with the limited wheelchair access that we have in this city). I will make the rest of his life a total misery. This suspiciously sounds like the exact words that my last boyfriend used about me when I asked him to give 'us' another go and take me back. Oh well, you get the idea as the less said about the 'ex' the better or I might get all emotional if I continue down this pot-holed path.

Before I go on any further, please allow me to introduce myself whilst I have the chance and being that I am still alive and kicking. I'm Kelly Stanford and I'm 25 (soon to be 26, next month in fact) 5ft 8 tall today because I'm wearing heels but tomorrow I'll be shorter when I wear my flat boots. Eye colour this morning is slightly bloodshot from a wicked hangover, but they are usually hazel I think as I have also been told that they are green. To be truthful I am never sure what to put on forms seeing as my eyes do tend to change colour depending on my mood, which is beyond weird I know. My hair is currently blonde but I might go back to being a brown-haired woman soon, since it attracts nicer men that do not mind if you have an opinion or ones that do not just want to bed you.

I like romantic comedies when in female company because we can have a good old-fashioned 'ah' moment together but secretly, I also watch SCI/FI shows when alone. I often fall asleep with my makeup on and almost never brush my teeth for a full two minutes as you are supposed to do. I feel no guilt when I share other people's food instead of buying my own, since it would only go to waste otherwise. I fart in the lifts in work and then hurriedly step out to wait for the next person to smell it, as I go watch the monitors that are next to my desk on reception for a reaction when someone else steps inside them because it does make me laugh. Did I mention that I am also a bit childish in my sense of humour, or have you already guessed this by my sorry admissions so far?

By the way, the train had stopped because a cow had wandered onto the line; well this is what they told us over the tannoy. Last week, it was leaves on the line and before that freakishly in spring; we had had snow that was responsible for stoppages. Or there's often the old adage of a fallen tree being that this track does run right next to a forest of sorts which is getting smaller by the year and soon it'll be classed simply as 'woods' (not that I really know the difference between them). So anyhow, I did not think nothing of it until the dude sitting next to me had taken advantage of us in our stranded position when he had suddenly stood up and pointed the weapon at my head.

'Right, listen up . . . everyone stay calm. Don't scream and do as you're told and we'll all survive this together,' he demanded.

'Please don't point that thing at me, it might go off accidently,' I moan and trying to get through to him the seriousness of the situation.

'Shut up lady, I'm in control,' he replied in a put-on menacing tone that clearly was not his own, as he was obviously trying to disguise it so that we wouldn't recognise him. However, it did not matter as far as I was concerned because I do not know any armed robbers anyway so he could have used his own voice.

The dude standing before me looks scruffy enough to be homeless in his torn dark blue hoody that is covering his head, only to reveal that his eyes were shaded by sunglasses. He is also wearing a paisley bandana across his lower face, along with a faded khaki jacket and dirty jeans and frayed, pale trainers and leather gloves. If he is wearing those then he is definitely about to commit a major crime, since I have seen far too many cop shows not to know this. And he doesn't want to leave any trace evidence or even give the witnesses anything to identify him by, out of the ordinary example of what a criminal should be wearing (talk about stereotypes). I had had my nose buried in my book when he had gotten on at the last stop, so I was not particularly paying him any attention as this kind of thing does not usually happen around here.

I mean sure, we have had stabbings on the trains before (who has read about some in the national newspapers). Our last local one was, reported as being some schizophrenic that had not taken his meds that day. It turned out to be some poor lost soul that had been having a run of bad luck. First off, he lost his job and then the house before his wife left him and took the kids. It was only when his dog died that he was sent over the edge and he attacked those innocent people in the first carriage with superficial wounds, before badly stabbing himself in a bid to end it all. He failed in this too and is currently in jail.

Why it's practically considered 'the norm' nowadays if you live in a city to be aware of the growing knife culture but people running amuck with guns, well, that's not very 'British' of this guy. Firearms are still illegal here as far as I know and we have not suddenly brought in a law with the right to bear arms like the states, have we? Because I would not put anything past this new government and if I missed that specific news bulletin then sign me up now. I would feel a damn sight safer being a single woman that travels alone let me tell you. So take this gunman for instance; do you think he would be quite so keen if he knew that I was armed and ready to protect myself? No, I think not. Mind you, don't ask me to actually kill anyone as I'd probably just wave it around a lot and pretend that I would if threatened but of course I wouldn't, couldn't take a life even if it meant losing my own. I am not a coward; I am just 'pro-life' no matter what I suppose.

The gunman in this particular case does not smell as he looks. As in, I don't think he lives on the streets because that's definitely a designer fragrance if ever I sniffed one and believe me, I've smelt a fair few working on the 'luxury goods and gifts' counter at the huge Darlington department store in the city centre in my younger days. I did my work experience there, which enabled me to get a job on the same floor and with the same people once I had finished school. I had developed quite a nose and taste for the kind of rich lifestyle that I saw on a daily basis with my customers. Unfortunately, I will never be able to achieve this level of success on my own (given my serious lack of education and experience when it comes to job prospects and acquiring such a thing as an actual career).

Sadly, I did not see the point when I was at school having gotten in with a bad crowd by promising to do their homework for them, whilst they just wanted to mess around and not literally learn anything. I know regret is not the word for it but I had figured that if they were bullying someone else that was not in our gang, then they were not bullying me so it rather made sense at the time but I swear I never bullied anyone. I just did not try to stop it, which I know is just as bad but I was scared. So maybe some would say that I deserve it, if I were shot right here today.

Anyhow, I was stupidly going to marry someone rich and famous but I would settle for him just being rich if it meant that he was not downright ugly. Talk about a dreamer I had no chance back then with me being the definition of the term, 'plain Jane'. Only this duck had played sports and ate good to turn herself into something of a swan, having worked hard to master the type of fit body that most women would give an actual body part for if so inclined. (Note here that this then will not usually add to the ideal of perfection in a man's eye unless of course we're talking about my flatmate Cara's brother, who'd married a woman who'd been in a motorcycle accident and lost a leg. There is someone for everyone out there and this just proves it.)

I did of course; at one point consider shagging a decidedly below-average-on-the-looks-scale footballer since that is what my gorgeous friend from work did. Only in the end, I would not want to put-up with another cheating boyfriend (as in the one before the last one). Therefore, I declined my last date's offer to spend the night. Or even just warm my hands down his pants and cup his balls as I recall that it was absolutely freezing at the time and I don't care if it is the warmest part of a man's body. I would have to be in Antarctica with severe frostbite to do that with him. I mean if a man were going to be 'my man' then I would want him all to myself no matter how rich he is, or how good in the sack he thinks he is.

Tonya had set me up with her boyfriend's teammate on a blind date. By the way, Tonya is constantly trying her best to get pregnant by her man so that she can be set up for life even if he does not marry her and God bless DNA I say, as without it where would all the paternity suits be. If everybody is traceable back to his or her original source, then perhaps I will find my birth parents one day. I am glad to be living nowadays when it has that kind of technology available to all, but for how much longer I get to live in this world is entirely in the hands of this gunman here. Anyway, more about the lame saga that is my dating history later on seeing as I have a bit of a dilemma here people to deal with first so I must stop thinking and concentrate on my current reality. Trying to block it out with other thoughts does not work in the end and sadly, we all have to face our demons.

Now back to this precarious predicament where my life literally is uncertain. As in, what if the strong smell of his aftershave suddenly gets up his own nose and he sneezes and squeezes the trigger by accident? Not that I can name the particular brand that the gun-toting bloke is wearing per se, but if it was any of the women's fragrances then we would be talking. I fervently remain something of an expert there and probably always will seeing as I get sent many tiny sample bottles because my address must be on some computer somewhere. Hell, I am not complaining or letting them lot know that I no longer work in the industry. This way I always smell nice and have all the latest fragrances to choose from so it would not be in my best interest to fess up. What they do not know, cannot hurt them, right?

For the official record, I will not be able to give the police any more help on the identity score if they question me after the fact and that is only if I do live to tell the tale. Oh well, at least I can let them know that he's left-handed and he holds the gun straight up and not cocked to one side but is that kind of thing even important. I mean, it is not as if they are going to give him a gun in a police line-up and tell him to point it at my head in order for me to be able to identify him, is it? Speaking of seeing things, my eyes have started to water all of a sudden since I must be feeling weepy. I get like this when I am 'due on', or it could be all the pent-up emotion of fearing for my life that has something to do with it. Who knows? Only judging by my inner calendar, it could be a mixture of both.

'Oh God, do not move . . . my contact lens just popped out . . . stay still while I find it,' I ordered everyone, gunman included.

'You think I care about that, lady,' he replies. As I rush to lean forward in order to look for it with such aplomb that I bang my forehead against his handgun.

'Ouch! . . . That hurt,' I retort and squinting up at him.

'Did you just "pistol-whip" her?' a young man's voice asks from behind the gunman since he could not understand what just happened.

'No, I didn't. Now mind your own business if you know what is good for you,' insists the gunman and sounding a bit hacked off at the accusation of such a crime.

'But you don't understand. I cannot see properly without it and I need it today of all days, so I must find it.'

'And where are you heading off to, that's that important?' asks the gunman in his dubious cockney accent.

Think Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins and I feel a song coming on, seeing as it was my all time favourite film as a kid. Back then, I did not even notice the dodgy London (cockney) dialect. Well you do not normally since you are naturally more accepting as a youngster and perhaps, they were counting on that because it worked a treat and did not hamper the continuing success for generations to come. In fact, if I survive this then I can definitely see myself sitting down to watch it with (hopefully) not only my own kids in the future but my grandkids too. So they must have done something right to begin with on that much-loved movie and do not knock it, I say.

I totally ignored the gunman's question at first. Only it must have made him suspicious of my stares for he suddenly lifted his camouflaged bandana up a bit, so that I could not see his nose properly since it was slipping down slightly. I could not see his features clearly at this stage if I tried, without my other contact lens in so he need not have bothered. He had his own eyes covered over with wraparound shades. They were the expensive kind; I could tell that they did not seriously tie-in with the rest of his downtrodden style. Whereas, I am certainly not telling him that I have taken a day off work (on the sick) seeing as I am on my way to an interview at Plato Ltd (the fashion empire) since he might stalk me, or something.

The television and media company where I work now as a receptionist is about to be taken over by new owners. There are rumours going around that they will be sacking people left, right and centre and they always start with the last in, first out rule. And as I'm the first face you see when you enter the building then it'll be mine that gets it for sure, so I'm not waiting around to be pushed for I intend to jump ship beforehand. As I take my time to answer the gunman, while I try to come up with an alternative that is nowhere in particular that could be of any interest to him in the slightest.

'Don't point that in her face, unless you intend to use it?' pipes up the brave teenager (stupid more like) who is sat opposite me.

'This isn't a game. This is serious so I'd appreciate it if you would just shut up and let me answer for myself, thank you very much,' I insist at my young travelling companion. The gunman then ignores me and soon turns his attention on the teenager and points the gun at him instead, being that the youngster might be trouble in the making.

'You seem to have a lot to say for yourself, you little runt. Will you be so mouthy without your teeth?' The gunman raises his hand up and makes out that he is going to smack the lad in the face with the back of his leather-gloved hand.

'I'm going to the park. It is a lovely day for a walk, do you not think? Only I will not be able to see where it is that I am going, if I cannot find my contact lens. Will you help me find it?' I say in a bid to take the conversation back to something trivial. I did not mean, me, obviously (because I really do need to find my lens) but at least it might just detract from the other intention of this vile git of a gunman.

'You are going for a walk, eh . . . in those heels?' the gunman questioned and I knew I should have worn my flat boots today instead of tomorrow.

'Yes, I "power-walk" and these help me to build up my calf muscle.' The man in charge of our situation shook his head to show that he did not believe me. The only thing that will be building up if I do seriously strut about in these shoes will be my bunions. Thankfully, he seems to have finished with me as he lowers the gun and turns towards the rest of the passengers on the train carriage.

'Anything to declare . . . might I suggest that it would be in your best interest to hand it over,' shouts the gun totting dude and totally ignoring my attempt at making more small talk. He had raised the gun again when I had intended to carry on sprouting forth about the benefits of walking, in an effort to pass the time but also with the added attraction of nobody getting hurt in the process.

'Everybody, stay calm . . . let's just give him our stuff so that he can be on his way and we'll all be safe . . . OK!' says a balding man, as he lifts up his laptop in a peace offering to the potentially violent man that is playing God at the moment with our lives.

The gunman grabs the expensive machine off the balding man and then stuffed it into a large grey, empty backpack. I notice as the main man in charge bends down, that his top rides up and loses contact with his dark dirty jeans and he has a faded birthmark on his lower left-hand side. It is something that I must remember, so I stare hard and try to take in the outline and slightly raised texture of the pale skin. It is in the shape of Africa or is it South Africa, because, is not one a continent and one a country? I know that these little details are important to the police, but I do not want to look like a dumb ass if I do not know the difference. Jeez, I hope I survive this in order to give them the low-down. Only I really should not worry about my lack of general knowledge when speaking to the cops, as I am sure they have heard far worse crimes from others giving evidence.

'You can't have that. It was an anniversary present from my late husband,' said an older woman. As the dude with the gun takes no notice of her plea and rips the gold necklace away from around her neck with his free hand. The heartless bastard seems to be getting off on the distress that he is causing us.

I do not want to witness anybody getting hurt so I am busy willing the people on board this carriage just to play ball. I hope that it will all be over before we know it. (I mean, nothing is worth holding on to if you do not have your life left afterwards.) Meanwhile, the teenager pees his pants as I notice the wet patch through his jeans. I was not the only one, for the gunman mentions it aloud to humiliate him.

'Oh dear, you seem to have had an accident. If you needed the loo, why didn't you just put your hand up and ask?' The gunman succeeds in making the lad's face go red. He shamefully sinks lower in his seat.

'I need to go to the toilet, please,' I raised my hand and I was not even faking it just to get out of the carriage.

'I would like to go as well,' pipes up the elderly woman.

'Me too,' says the middle-aged executive.

'I was only kidding. Do it in your pants if you have to, but you lot are going nowhere until I say so,' replies the gunman with plenty of malice in his voice.

'Do you have to be so callous?' retorts the old woman.

'I can be anything I want to be . . . I am the one holding the gun, remember. Empty out your pockets. What is that bulge in your jacket?' enquired the armed robber to one of the male passengers in a cheap suit.

'Please don't take that. It is an engagement ring . . . I am on my way to propose to my girlfriend. Man, it taken me all year to save up for it,' the poor bloke replied with a pleading look.

'Oh, boo-hoo . . . I just love a good sob story. It makes this whole thing much more interesting, now hand it over or die. It's your choice.' This was the cold-hearted response from the dude with the firearm.

I really do not want to be here any longer so by way of withdrawing from the reality, I lift my reading material up to read a couple of lines from the novel that I'm holding on to. In one sense, it helps me to block out the scene from view just in case he does actually shoot someone who does not give him what he wants. I am busy squinting away at the words and trying to make out what they are, when I heard the gunman make his way over towards the teenager and me. Oh God, please do not let him hurt me because I do not have anything of value on me.

'Hand over the phone,' he demanded of the teenager.

'I don't have one.' The lad was obviously lying through his teeth.

'Of course you do, every teenager has a phone. I won't ask again.'

'If you want it that bad . . . you'll have to get it yourself,' stressed the lad, as he yanked it out of his jacket pocket and shoved it down his pants which were wet through with wee. This one is trouble, trouble for me as the gunman turns in my direction.

'You get it for me,' the gunman said as if he were deadly serious if I did not.

'Listen here, this is not a movie . . . it is real and that is a real gun that can do some real damage. Give him the phone, right now,' I order the little sod that 'will not do as he is told' for once in his life.

'If you want it that bad, lady . . . then get it. I'll even enjoy it,' replies the cocky teenager and I feel nauseous all of a sudden.

'I'm telling you this for nothing; I will not put my hand down his pants even if you shoot me, so there,' I reply and refuse point blank to take part in either of their games any further.

I cross my arms in defiance and sit back in my seat with my head held high and deliberately turned the other way with my nose stuck in the air (I even threw a pout in there too for good measure). Remember, I have never been in a situation like this before so I do not really know how to handle it. To be honest, nobody does until they face it so please do not judge me by my thoughts or actions. As I am not being brave or stupid, I am just being myself and trying my best to stay sane in a mightily awkward moment to put it bluntly.

He looks me up and down, taking into account the cleavage that was 'put on show' for the sake of the male interviewer. The nice sounding one who rang me back with a time for my appointment. I also have on, 'an above the knee' tight stretchy skirt with high heels to best show off my hard earned pins, which nearly killed me in the exercising process of getting them into the kind of shape that make men sit up and take notice. Right now, I wish I were old, fat and ugly and then the gunman would probably not be noticing me at all.

'What's that?' he asks and lifting the lapel of my jacket so that he can catch a better glimpse of my brooch. It belonged to the only person who had ever treated me as being truly one of her own (my late, adoptive grandmother). The other members of my adopted family always kept reminding me of this fact. She had left it to me when she had passed.

'It was my grandmother's, but it's not worth anything. It's just costume jewellery and I always wear it when I need a bit of luck,' I express this without wanting to appear desperate to hold on to it. (I had already seen how sentiment does not affect this bloke; in fact, it does the opposite for some reason.)

'Why do you need luck . . . to walk around a park?'

'Err, I . . . don't. I suppose,' I reply and realise that he definitely knows I am lying to him.

As I unpin the brooch and he reaches out with the open backpack in order for me to drop it in, but what if it hits the laptop and one of the stones falls out. I have already lost two before so I had replaced them with clear ones from another bit of jewellery, which was not easy and I do not want to have to do it again. Only, I have a moment of madness and I too shove it down the front of my pants and copy the teenager who had managed successfully to hold on to his phone. Well, when I say copied, I tried, I really did but the wee just would not present itself. How come, when you can't get near a toilet for love nor money and you really need to go like yesterday but when you're trying to pee on command, you find that you can't even produce a teardrop amount of fluid? Is it nerves, or what? I do not know, but what I do know is that this menacing dude is putting his backpack down on the floor so that his hand is now free to do something else.

'Do I get the pleasure, or you? Perhaps, even him?' the gunman enquires and points to the teenager.

'I'll do it. I'll get the brooch out of her dirty knickers,' said the executive who stands up to show that he is keen, willing and able.

'What do you mean, dirty? I'll have you know that they were clean on this morning,' I retort and hope that they don't ask me to prove it as I reach down my frontage and produce the item that I look at, probably for the last time as I place it gently into the backpack.

'Sit down, pervert. And while you're at it, pop that watch of yours in there along with your wallet,' said the gunman to the businessperson, when he pushes the backpack across the floor with his foot towards him.

I certainly do not want any more attention. Whereas, I once again bury my head in my book in the hope that he leaves me alone from now on. Reading, even pretending to read is what I used to do at home when my adoptive parents were arguing. If I could just get lost in a story then the bad atmosphere surrounding me would go away and I would be able to blot it out of my mind and therefore, not get involved in anything too stressful (like a monster with a gun).

My adoptive parents only took me on because they had thought that not having children was the main problem in their marriage. Only it was not, for they did not really care about me or even bother in trying to create a happy place for me to grow up in when I was young. They kept telling me that it was better than a care home and I should be grateful that they do their duty by me. As in, making sure that I was washed and fed and went to school and they did not abuse me in any way, as long as I was a good girl. I was always a good girl, if only for the fear of finding out what happened to bad girls. I still am in a way, since I guess that it truly is hard to break the habit of a lifetime.

I had bought this 'Chick-Lit' book in the charity shop outside of the station in a bid to pass the time the other day. (You cannot go far wrong purchasing a bestseller for 50p, now can you.) And it was meant to while away the boring journey to and from work because I hate sitting there and staring into space or looking at the other passengers, seeing as you don't want to catch their eye since this can lead to embarrassing moments. I mean, if it's a working woman then she grips her designer bag tighter in case you're about to nick it and if it's a mother with a child, well enough said.

As I was trying to express, I intend to always keep my head down and not catch anyone's eye whilst avoiding any involvement in such things as 'people watching'. This can lead to men mistakenly thinking that you are giving them the 'come-on'. (It has happened on more than several occasions so I speak from experience here.) Never mind having to have the dreaded conversation of small talk because I really do not care about the weather. Alternatively, what programme you missed last night because you went out to dinner with so and so, that is having an affair with such and such or hearing that your baby is a genius (does not every parent think that). I do not need any more friends. Christ, I cannot even keep up with the ones I have already without people trying to muscle in on my existence at every turn.

I must have that kind of face that invites others to think of me as the friendly type. When all I want to do, is just be left alone to grieve the end of my relationship in peace and for as long as it takes to get over the fact that I was 'dumped' on Facebook. (I mean my boyfriend here obviously and not the website because as far as I know, I still have plenty of takers on that scale who want to befriend the persona I have created for myself online.) Not that it truly matters much to me anymore, since I did not love him. I guess I just wanted a boyfriend and hoped that it would develop naturally into something resembling a long-term affection. Only you cannot force yourself to love someone just because you want to find out what being 'in love' feels like. It was never going to work out, if I am being truly honest with myself.

Hell yes, I can tell the difference between 'real' friends and ones that are 'fake'. However, can my ex-boyfriend? As far as I know, he has already hooked up with a bloke pretending to be a woman and it did make me laugh when I found out about him taking 'her' to a banking function, held to celebrate something or other. They are always having celebrations that sadly, I do not get an invitation to be a part of anymore and it was probably for growing profits and huge bonuses this time. (So what recession was that again, I imagine them saying?) I also imagine them cheering as they clink their champagne glasses together. I sound like I miss the parties more than I miss the ex-boyfriend and that seems about right to me.

To be fair, when you only have a spare 50p to spend on a book and are facing a plethora of great titles, well, it hard to choose which one when I chose my current read. I had only bought this novel because there was a re-run of the movie on telly the other night. I had seen it before many years ago, but I watched it again (and enjoyed it again) and wondered how it compared to the printed version. They do say that you should always read the book first then see the film and not the other way around, or it might spoil your enjoyment of both in the end. I must be the only person out of my friends who had not read the book; hence I felt that I had to get it over with when I saw it on the bookstand in that charity shop. I have to say, it sure helps to calm my nerves if I read before I am about to do something major and hopefully getting a job counts as such.

I do not know whether you have noticed this but I do tend to go on a bit, so I hope you will forgive me now if I get back to the main story. I mean the one about the gunman obviously and not the Chick-Lit. He doesn't seem to like being ignored as I look up and peer over the top of my book, only to witness him storming across the carriage and using his weapon to lower my reading material altogether. As I sat there, looking like Popeye with one eye closed and squinting (not my best look, I will grant you that).

'What are you doing? Can you not see that I have the power to blow your head off if I feel like it? That "girlie" book is hardly going to save you. Do you think it is a shield? The blast would go right through it,' he says and being a little shocked that I seemed oblivious as to what was going on around me. I was trying to blank it out, yes.

'I'm not using it as a shield. Well, I am a bit but not in the sense that you think,' I replied and continuing to grip tightly onto my safety blanket of a book.

'Give it here and the handbag.'

'What? I have nothing else of value to give you.'

'Hand over the novel,' he demanded. Only I was determined not to show him any fear and give him the pleasure of seeing it. (Inside, it was a different matter entirely for I was a bag of wobbling jelly. It is a good job; I am not standing for I would struggle to stay upright.)

'Why would you want this, when she has a Kindle over there? This only cost me 50p from a charity shop.' It came out of my mouth before I could stop it, since I immediately mouthed an apology to the woman across the way; she had successfully hidden her compact eBook reader out of sight until then. As I blame this outburst on me being nervous as hell, for I would never normally grass someone up like that. (May I also note here for the record that I am not blatantly advertising a Kindle. I could have said here, Kobo/Nook/iPad/Sony eBook reader or whatever else is available on the market at this time. Therefore no particular product placement, were used intentionally in this story.)

'I want it, because you want it . . . no, you seem to need it.' He ripped the book out of my hands and popped it in the large pocket of his faded khaki jacket. I realised that he was nothing more than a sadistic bastard, who enjoyed making others squirm and a man like this is capable of anything so I had better watch out.

Without my book to hold on to, I had nothing else to focus on and I did not want to panic and freak out or anything because that might set the gunman off on a rampage with bullets flying everywhere. I could not live with this thing going wrong, if it was my fault. So I sat on my hands to stop myself from fidgeting and playing nervously with my fingers which I've been told in the past, can be utterly annoying. I had started thinking about my interview again and then, panicking anyway about not finding my contact lens. Do you know how the sense of foreboding hits you right in the pit of your stomach? This of course immediately overwhelms you with the need for the loo, because your bowels are about to take on a mind of their own through sheer terror. All of a sudden, your fate rests on the anxious finger of a probable drug addict that wants not only your money and possessions but also your novel because he is nothing more than a bully who likes to wield his power over people.

I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to take back control of the situation as I had firmly decided that if I needed to find my contact lens in order to feel better, then that is what I must do regardless of the risk. I could not just sit there any longer while the gunman played pretend target practice with us, just to get a reaction out of everyone for his own pleasure. He had his back to me and was busy picking on someone else, notably the woman who had tried to hide her Kindle from him. Hurrah, found my contact lens at last but I cannot just pop it back in my eye since it will need cleaning first.

It was just as I had been silently feeling my way around the ground in front of me, when the 'have-a-go-hero' of an executive must have decided that it was now or never. The bloke in the suit bravely stood up and pushed the gunman backwards. The calves of his legs bumped into me and the rest of him toppled over, as we both collapsed onto the ground into a heap and I had lost the damn contact lens once again. The hand that held the gun bounced on the floor and he let go of the weapon while the firearm landed next to the teenager, who had immediately bent down and picked it up. Meanwhile the gunman scrambled to get up and noting that he was now having a gun pointed at him, well, he did not hang about. He grabbed his backpack and fled the scene by running out of the emergency exit door.

'I guess, we should ring the police,' said the businessman and glowing with pride at his own quick thinking, which I hasten to add that if it had gone wrong then we could all be dead now.

'How will we do that, when he's run off with our phones in his backpack?' asks the elderly woman.

'He didn't get my phone,' says the teenager, holding up the gun.

'Put that thing down before you shoot someone by accident,' expresses the woman without her Kindle, while she gives me daggers from across the carriage. I do not blame her.

'It is all right . . . I've found it,' I say and being happy to be holding up the missing contact lens. I finally get the chance to use both eyes once again, that is, if that sod had not ran off with my cream handbag that contained the solution I need to clean the lens.

'I have some stuff in here you can use,' pipes up the old woman and opening up her bag. They do say that beggars cannot be choosers; I dare not look at the date on the plastic bottle before I use it.

'Well, now that you can see properly. How about "you" get the phone out of my pants and call the cops with it?' suggests the horny teenager as he thrusts his pelvis forward in my direction. He is still holding the gun; while I do hope that this is not a demand but said in jest or do we have another problem on our hands.

'I'd need more than a contact lens to find anything of interest in your pants. In fact, I'd need a magnifying glass,' I retort and sit back down in my seat with the intention of ignoring him in future.

'OK! I was only joking with you to lighten the mood. I'll do it myself.' He hands over the gun to me, while he does so.

Now all we have to do is wait around for the police to turn up and take our statements (or whatever it is, they want you to partake in). Only this means that by the time I am free to go, I will have surely missed my appointment. As I borrow, the phone from the teenager in order to ring Plato Ltd in a bid to let them know what has happened. It smells a bit funny if you ask me; therefore, I put it on speakerphone, since I do not need that thing anywhere near my face. Thankfully, they were very understanding and have graciously re-arranged my interview for me, for next Tuesday. Whereas, I closed my eyes in a feeling of total relief for barely a minute when the gun went off and it was truly terrifying to think that it was 'loaded and lethal' and ready to fire at any given moment all along. Well I warned you, that I had fidgety fingers.

Week Two

(Tuesday)

On this bright morning, I find myself racing around my bedroom and applying a fresh coat of makeup on the go. I don't even really need a mirror these days, seeing as I've got it all nailed down when it comes to eating toast and putting on mascara while doing up the buttons on my cream blouse. All, whilst shoving the charity copy of the second book about the famous 'Chick-Lit heroine' into my bag for the journey. I had started reading it over the weekend and I must say that I am enjoying it but I did not realise that it was not exactly like the movie. Or rather, I should put that sentence the other way around because the novel was out first I suppose. I curse that gunman because now, I am in the process of having to read the books in the wrong order until that is I can get my hands on a second, second-hand copy of the first one, again. It is enough to confuse anyone.

Another day off (on the sick) I'm afraid and my acting skills are definitely on the up, because I was even beginning to convince myself there for a short while that I was too ill to get out of bed. In fact, at one point I nearly cancelled my interview altogether as a result. Only now, it means that I am running late as usual and it'll cause me to do a frantic dash down those platform steps (and I may as well be wearing platform shoes judging by the unsteadiness of my usual gallop) in order to catch my train. One of these days, I am going to fall and break my neck for sure, that is if I do not mind my nifty footwork and take my time about it. I have my 'life changing' interview this morning (with a woman this time so out goes the sexy attire and in comes the professional businessperson look instead) for it had to be rescheduled due to the 'incident' as I refer to it. Perhaps I should tell her about my multi-tasking skills that I have perfected over the years. But then again, I will be giving away my tardiness and disorganised failings into the mix. So I am probably best to stick to the written words and do not let my mouth run away with me.

Just for the record, I did not shoot anyone the other day when the gun accidently went off. However, I am afraid to report that the padded seat next to me did not fair too well through it. By the way, the armed police were very nice to me afterwards. After they had mistaken me for the gunman and threatened to blow my head off in the process. As I saw it anyway but they would later claim that they would not just shoot me, for no apparent reason. It is a good job I was not wearing a backpack, is all I have to say to that.

Only I was too scared to let go of the weapon as they had instructed whilst my hand froze in fear and would not release the tight grip, even though I really wanted it to. I strangely felt more frightened of the cops who were there to help, than I did of the gunman who was there to cause us great upset. There is no telling how far he would have gone with that line, given the chance. Once everyone agreed that, I was not 'the' armed robber, simply because the other witnesses had expressly told the cops this on more than one occasion. Having explained that I had shot the seat by mistake (which to me sounds a bit like I meant to shoot someone else instead, when it should have said that it was purely accidental). The weight of the armed police in full gear was heavier than it looked, when they sat on my arm just in case I raised it up again with nerves and before they got the chance to prise the gun away from my fingers, one by one. I never realised before how strong those little buggers of mine were, as they weirdly went into 'finger lock' or something.

Anyhow, back to normal and back to reality as they say but I'm sad to note that today I'm without my late (adoptive) grandmother's brooch which was my lucky charm. I will have to wing it on the luck side and I will never forgive the gunman for taking it off me so that I no longer have it at on my person. Nevertheless, I am glad that he cannot take anyone else's stuff since the cops now have his weapon. Anyway, that jerk has taken up enough of my thoughts and I must concentrate on my interview techniques that I have mastered since I have been practicing with my flatmate Cara.

'Where's your brooch?' she asks with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. It bobs up and down when she speaks whilst also holding her mug of coffee with both hands, but not drinking it. I suspect her to be feeling the cold and she's just starting to warm up on this breezy Tuesday. As thankfully, it has finally stopped raining and having gone up a couple of notches on the old thermometer to be fair.

'That gunman took it. I told you last week,' I reply and brushing down my jacket in a bid to remove her hairs. Honestly, Cara is worse than living with a moulting dog since those strands of her cheap extensions get everywhere. I could make my own wig out of them.

'Nah . . . I thought he just took your bag and your book, but not your lucky charm too,' she says and popping her cup down in order to light up the cigarette with a plastic lighter out of her pocket. The colour of which matches her dark hair.

Cara is slightly overweight but far from obese. Only, she thinks it is a huge deal and has just started to obsess over it because she fancies a certain someone, who has moved in and lives above us in one of the other flats with his 'builder buddies'. It is handy I suppose, to have them hanging around but it is the getting rid of them that is the problem once they get a foot in the door. You do not want to be rude but our neighbours do tend to make themselves at home. Just because they have helped to fix the place up, does not automatically give everyone an invite to our 'girls-night-in' little soirees. I am not surprised about Cara's 'big weight' issues though, seeing as I had thought that it would happen a lot sooner than this. Our other flatmate is bombarding us with her thoughts on the subject and with her ever-increasing body image insecurities, but more on Mel (the glamour model) later. As I seriously have to get on with getting ready.

Where is my other shoe? I leave the room in a bid to find it and I swear we must have a one-footed thief around here somewhere. I can weirdly never find the right one to match up with the other right shoe and that is a left, as in, usually left under something else that is lying around. I will be damned, if I am changing my high heels for flats just because they are staring me in the face. God, I need some strong coffee in order to stop me talking gibberish since I cannot act like this in the interview. As the only thing they will be offering me instead of a job, is a taxi ride to the nearest mental hospital when I will have my breakdown right in front of them if I do not pull myself together and be cool, calm and collected. Perhaps, if I keep saying those words repeatedly then they might just work to steady the growing wobbles in my stomach. I suddenly feel a bit sick. Please do not let me throw up.

I am more nervous this week than I was last week. And this is all the damn gunman's fault seeing as I would've gotten it over and done with by now, having already psyched myself up for the interview once but I don't know if I can do it as well this time. In fact, it will be totally his fault if I do balls this up big style. If the police ever do catch him then I would love to get a message to him, stating precisely that. Seeing as then, he might find it in his cold heart to think twice about messing up other people's lives when faced with such a direct knock-on effect from his actions. On the other hand, he might not. Then he might savagely hunt me down when he gets out. Therefore, I am probably wise to keep quiet since it will be in my best interest to let it go and serenely get on with my life. However, it is hard when you go through something like that, well; it is bound to change you in some way and affect everything from now on for nothing will ever be the same again.

'Yeah, the bugger managed to get away with everyone's stuff in the end. It has been all over the news but they still haven't caught him,' I pick up the conversation and finally answer Cara, when I re-enter my bedroom. She had made herself a comfortable nest by rolling my duvet around herself and settling down onto my bed, whilst having found my missing shoe into the bargain. How can I sleep in a single bed and not notice a pointed heel sticking into the small of my back is beyond me? Then again, it only serves to remind me of the ex-boyfriend but the spike on my shoe is bigger than he is (if you know what I mean).

I am talking about, 'he-who-won't-be-named' for fear of him slating me on the internet since one of my boobs is slightly bigger than the other one. I am very self-conscious of it, ever since he publicly pointed it out in front of everyone at the pool party last summer in the local lido (public outdoor swimming pool to you and me). Why did it have to be me out of everyone there, who went in goal? We were playing water polo when I was humiliated, by not only my bikini top riding up to completely expose my bare breasts to everyone, or risk losing the whole game. In addition, did my boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend, who was commentating over the loudspeaker system) have to mention my obvious body flaw to all and sundry? Yes, he bloody did and I will never forgive him.

Why could it not be something that no one would ever strictly notice about my body? Say like an arm and having one longer than the other, since I could easily hide that by never putting my two limbs down by my side at the same time or simply mask from view with a rolled up sleeve. Oh do not worry; I got my own back on him when I had lashed the ball away from the goal only to squarely direct it right into his flushed face. The ball bounced off the microphone in his hand and that in turn then hit his nose with some force behind it. It was not broken (the nose I mean, not the microphone) as it was just a trickle of blood no matter how much he moaned about having to go to the hospital afterwards and getting reconstructive surgery. Honestly, he is such a wimp and I do not know what I saw in him in the first place.

'Perhaps, they never will catch him and that gunman could be on the run for years. Would you like to borrow my lucky rabbit's foot . . . it's on my keychain?' Cara suddenly said. And here's me thinking that she wasn't even really listening to me as she rose up to go and get it off the wooden worktop in the kitchen, where she'd left it.

'Well it wasn't so lucky for the rabbit was it, because he's missing a foot?' I say and follow her through, whilst grabbing my silk scarf off the back of the bedroom door on the way.

'I swear, it does work you know. I rubbed it and wished to meet a handsome stranger and I met Graham. When he dropped his hammer off the scaffolding and granted, if I would have been three paces forward then it would have brained me for sure but it did not. And I put it all down to the lucky rabbit's foot,' she said and a big grin spread wide across her face. The girl's obviously in love and by the way, he is one of the builders that reside upstairs in the flat above us.

'Good for you, but I think I'll pass. Sometimes you have to make your own luck. Now stop smoking around me, or I'll smell like an ashtray for my interview.' It was not the impression that I wanted to make, since it is a clothing manufacturer after all and I really want this post. I want the training to become a buyer and work my way up the company. It is about time I stopped pussyfooting around with dead-end jobs and took my first step on the ladder to a successful career.

'This is my breakfast,' she replied, having finished the cigarette and then she lit up another one.

'This doesn't count as part of a healthy diet, just because you replace something like a plate of "full English" with smoke. It's probably more calories if you analysed it and it's certainly worse for your health,' I lied just to make her stop, seeing as I have no idea about the calorie thing. Only I do know that not eating is not good for anyone.

'All the famous, skinny models smoke you know . . . it suppresses the appetite.'

'Did Mel tell you that? You never used to smoke until you met Graham,' I reply and pick up my keys to toss in my black bag. I had donated the old cream one to that gunman and I thought I was not going to mention him again.

'I used to smoke before you met me and you know what . . . I miss it and I didn't even realise this until I started up again.'

'Well if you quit before, then you can do it once more . . . how about giving it ago, like right now?' I think I got my way, for the spent coffee cup receives the stubbed-out ciggy into it. (This is also a personal pet peeve of mine since I can't stand that habit too, but that's the perils of living with someone who smokes and I presume you just have to put-up with it if you can't persuade them to resist temptation.)

'Yeah . . . babe . . . you should take those dirty trousers off. They have a stain right on the crotch area and we both know . . . why?'

'What? Where . . . I cannot see anything on them? Hell, I do not have time to change my outfit. I've got to go,' I reply and bending down to inspect myself, because I do not know what she is on about.

'In fact, you should take it all off and just be naked. You will feel better if you let it all hang out and then you can play with yourself under the table, no one will ever know. You know you want to and I'll help you get good and horny but first, I'll have to take this lollipop that I'm sucking out of my mouth so it's ready to please you in ways your mother never could.'

'Oh thank god, you're not talking to me. I don't know how you do it, it's beyond cringing,' I say as I realise that Cara has her earpiece under her hair and is entertaining a client in her part-time job as a phone sex operator. It is handy for her as its good money and something that she can do from home in her own hours and in-between her training to become a fully-fledged nurse in the making. At the end of the day it is all relevant anatomy, she says and we all do it so it really does not bother her in the slightest. It would me, seeing as it takes a certain breed of person to pull it off and that is a direct 'pun' if ever I heard one.

'What am I wearing? Well, it is short and sassy and it is a nurse uniform just as you requested. If you are ready for your bed bath then I will just get my big fat sponge and laver you right up to a soapy finish. Oh, you want me to soap up my boobies first . . . yeah, I can do that but my soft nipples will get hard for you and I might have to do things with my fingers that involve getting them all dirty. Do you want to taste them?'

'Oh please stop. I've heard enough,' I cry and stick my fingers in my ears while I walk towards the doorway and then, I take them out in order to wave goodbye to Cara. She puts a thumb up to 'wish me luck', just as she's starting to say something to the bloke on the line about what she'll do with that particular digit and where she'll put it. My toes start to curl tightly in my shoes with embarrassment for the abuse that my ears are taking, never mind, my imagination.

Cara is hardly looking at her most alluring best no matter how she is perceived to be and if this bloke could see her now, in the flesh I mean then he might think twice about paying premium rates for 'sexy time'. Only she intends to keep him on the line for as long as possible. She is sitting there on the wooden kitchen chair, having peeled off a face mask to reveal her bare and very perky coloured skin with the odd spot because she's due on. Right now, she is picking her nose with several sheets of toilet paper that hang down. It twists and turns as she gets to grips with whatever it is that's ailing her blocked nostrils and preventing her from breathing properly. (It probably comes across as sensual to the bloke to have her drawing in the air through her open mouth instead and almost sounds like she gasping for him.) Cara is wearing her brushed cotton pyjamas and thickset dressing gown with bed socks and fluffy cat slippers on her feet. She often complaints of feeling the cold more than others and by her attire, I would say that she is not lying.

Now all I need to do is to pop on my silk neck scarf and I am ready. I hope it gives my boring dark trouser suit an air of French chic and I might be able to appear a tad sophisticated so that they take my application a bit more seriously because I am, about wanting to work there (that's if they give me the opportunity to better myself). The train journey into the heart of the city was swift in terms of timekeeping and not too bad for 'people congestion'. I had even managed to bag myself a window seat whilst getting the earlier train than last week. The boss of the company where I currently work insisted that I took yesterday off in order to recover from what happened last Friday. He had told me to make it a long weekend and suggested that I go sailing, since that is what he does to relax and unwind. Does he not realise how much he pays me? I struggle to live off a meagre receptionist's wages for Christ's sake. How can I afford a yacht, when I cannot even afford a blow-up dingy? Honestly, some rich people have no idea about what it is like in the real world, do they.

The nearest I got to water in the end was soaking in my tub and even that was not as enjoyable as usual. It felt wrong somehow to indulge myself without suffering the pain of exercise first. I usually do it once I get back from playing badminton. However, they had cancelled the match out of respect for my recovery time, especially, after 'the ordeal' that I went through. Only nobody bothered to ask me if I wanted to play and I did, simply because it helps me thrash out my pent-up aggression and I could rather imagine the gunman when I smashed the shuttlecock to smithereens on the court. But it didn't happen so I spent the weekend hanging around the flat under the duvet and reading, eating and watching the odd programme on 'catch-up TV' in a bid to pass the time. I should have gone out instead.

The girls meanwhile were busy getting on with their love lives and obviously, that did not involve me. I had refused to be anyone's third wheel no matter how bumpy the journey to true love is. I'm talking about Mel's latest boyfriend here, well, Jasper calls himself this but she likes to think of him as being more suited to the term of boyfriend 'number 1'. She is constantly on the lookout for boyfriend 'number 2' and refuses to settle down with just one man. But Jasper won't take the blatant hint when she tells him this and thinks that she's just testing his love for her and one of these days, he'll be in for a wake-up call when she does start dating someone else as well as him. I wonder just how much he will put-up with, before Jasper realises that she is just not the marrying kind. (I feel a bit sorry for him in that respect as he does love her dearly but Mel is Mel and she just wants to have a good time with no serious ties.) Cara on the other hand is definitely ready to settle down, get that joint mortgage and have Graham's babies sometime in the very near future if he would let her. (Talk about desperation and is that not supposed to put men off you?)

Anyway, I finally arrive at my destination, having gotten a cab from the station and here I stand with my red trench coat belted tight against the growing swirl of autumn leaves that dance around my feet outside on the pathway. Being that it is still relatively mild for this time of year and almost warm dare I say it; because I have probably, just tempted fate to change it drastically and we will all be up to our ears in snow by next week. Only if there is one thing that I cannot abide, then it is having painfully frozen ears. I aim to enter the very wide steel and glass building with as much faith and belief in my own ability to easily get this job as I can 'fake' on the outside, seeing that I feel sicker than ever on the inside. So I chomp on some gum to not only freshen up my stale breath but give me something to do other than worrying about me totally messing this up, since you only get one chance to impress and I never asked for 'two' in the first instance.

I really wish that I could rewind time and it was still last week and I am here in my sexy outfit, which I know would impress the dude that was supposed to be interviewing me. Unless he is gay of course, but even those folk are not adverse to a woman looking 'fine' and still appreciate it when you try. Jeez, I would even be willing to become an honorary 'fag-hag' if that is what it took. I am not that proud, believe me, I have done it before and been made an honorary keeper of the 'penny coin' secrets. (This is another story entirely about one of the best night outs of my life and I will tell you all about it sometime, just not right now.) But I have done all the research I can do on fashion, seeing as I've gone through all the magazines I could find whilst borrowing a couple of books from the library as well. Whereas, I learnt a long time ago that 'Coco' is not a chocolate bean like the one I'd previously thought but a world famous designer instead (remember the perfume counter experience well it's paying off now).

Why did it have to be one of those revolving door types of entrance? It is not that I have a fully-fledged phobia about them (and escalators so do not get me started) but I am never quite sure on the protocol of using such a device for gaining access to a building. As in, do I barge right in there and push, but which way? What if someone else enters and pushes in the opposite direction? God talk about embarrassing when I recall the last time I tried to do that and my bag somehow got stuck in another gap entirely as I held onto the strap before reluctantly letting go and then, it went around and around on its own. It took me absolutely ages to retrieve it, seeing as there were many people using it at the time.

Just then, a bit of luck headed my way as I spot a bloke in full motorcycle gear delivering a large package. He was still wearing his helmet while the double flat door, electronically opened up for him so I slipped right on in there behind him and followed in his wake towards the reception desk. It feels oddly familiar seeing the woman sat there, for that is what I am supposed to be doing today rather than this.

'Ah, good morning . . . I'm here for an interview with Miss Kettle. My name is, Kelly Stanford,' I say when it is my turn, after the delivery dude had already been told to take a seat.

'Yes, we have you down here . . . you will be called up when Miss Kettle is ready for you,' replies the blonde receptionist, without even looking at me (how rude, I had thought for I would not treat someone like that). Therefore, I stand there waiting for some acknowledgement of being a person in another person's space. She sighs and lifts her head up from the computer screen, only to pout at me and point with her blue pen to the leather and chrome low-slung chairs across the way as if I cannot see where they are for my own two eyes. Does she think me daft or what?

'I'll go and sit down then,' I said and smile back at her. It is best not to upset anyone if I am going to be working here in the future, before I dutifully head for the seat next to the man in the biking helmet. He is holding a big brown box in his arms. Why do men nowadays all smell of such powerful aftershaves? It is enough to make you vomit when the back of your throat takes in the stench, so it rather has the opposite effect of what I imagine they are trying to achieve by wearing it.

I was not sitting there for very long (which seriously thinking about it) this was definitely a good thing since I would only suffer with more nerves than I can handle at this stage in the game. Whenever I have to stay put for any worthy length of time with nothing to do, then my fingers always start to fidget and look at the trouble I got into the last time that happened. Thank god for reading books is all I have to say to that, seeing as it has been my saviour on many an occasion before now. It focuses my mind for I have to hold onto it obviously, hence the fingers are settled and useful in the same instance and therefore not doing something they should not be.

Both the delivery dude and I move towards the lift area and then we head up to the first floor when told to do so. He did not speak to me and I did not speak to him, as we stood in silence inside the metal-mirrored elevator. I did think it suspicious that he did not take the helmet off. I mean if he had walked into my place of work then he would not get past me on reception until he did so, that is for sure. It is understood that you have to see who it is that you are dealing with in any occupation, do you not. I bet that blonde downstairs is new and does not know the rules and I could teach her a thing or two, about doing her job properly.

Maybe, I should mention this to Miss Kettle and if she fires her then I could perhaps take over the receptionist's job. That is, if I do not get the trainee buyer's one that I am applying for. Gosh, I really should stop this way of thinking since its so defeatist and I am surely jinxing my chances here by just saying it. Is confidence not the key to success? So that's where I've been going wrong all these years for I'm always losing not only my bravado at inconvenient times, but it wouldn't be me without the loss of the odd 'key' now and then too.

'Are you, Kelly Stanford?' asks a chic, middle-aged woman in a navy shift dress with a colourful scarf to brighten it up.

I knew I was right to wear mine, seeing as we have that in common already (hurrah and that is one plus point to me). She appears to have had some 'work done' on her features. Indeed, I think that she has been very successful at looking younger than she probably is. So it has paid off because believe me, I have seen some horrors and they are downright scary but not this one. When I am older, I have already made my mind up that I will not be getting the 'minimum' done. No, I intend to grow old disgracefully and show what a good time I have had by the amount of laughter lines around my ever-twinkling eyes.

'Yes, that's me. I'm here for the trainee buyer's job . . .' I reply and wonder, why did I just say that since she obviously knows why I'm here and now I'm probably doomed even before I enter the interview room.

'Right, take a seat in here and I'll just get your paperwork.'

She gestures towards a wooden chair with leather upholstery and leaves the small room. I sit down as gracefully as I can with my handbag on my lap. It strangely seems like I am holding on to it for comfort, before I nervously remove the black bag and place it on the floor. Then, it looks like it is messing the room up and I do not want to appear messy. Therefore, I pick it up and place it on her desk, which just looks downright cheeky. (I have not been here five minutes and I am already making myself at home and claiming her furniture in a territorial way by putting my stuff on it.) God, I have to get this right and treat this as some kind of test that I do not want to fail.

In work, I shove my bag under the reception desk and nobody is ever the wiser. Only I cannot do that either, since she will end up kicking it with her feet. In the end, I sling the strap over the back of the chair that I am sitting on but I dare not do this for fear of having it stolen in restaurants/cafés. Whereas, I think it is perfectly safe here and I have nothing to fret over so stop already. I swiftly remove my red trench coat seeing as I wasn't sure whether it was just me or was the heating too high in here, when I also awkwardly place my outer garment over the back of my chair.

All of a sudden, I wonder whether to sit on my hands seeing as then I will not fidget with my fingers (which I have already pointed out can be very annoying for others). I decide that there is no such thing as a simple interview; for Mel had suggested that, I treat this as such when I told her how anxious I was getting about it all. Can you tell how nervous I am? I hope I do not start stuttering my way through it, seeing as I do not normally have a speech impediment and I usually handle interviews just fine. I've been on plenty over the years and it's not like it's my first time but they were all for 'going-nowhere-girl' jobs and didn't mean that much to me but this one, this is 'The One' that I really want. I have to get it. I just do or my life will not be worth living if I lose my other job too. That gunman may as well have ended it, when he had the chance and spared me this humiliation. I am not going to get it, am I?

'Right . . . let's get started then . . .' says Miss Kettle on re-entering the room and before she had tripped over my black bag on the floor. It must have fallen off the back of the chair, when I had shoved my folded coat over it. Luckily, for her, she dropped the notes in the file that she was busy reading and grabbed hold of the desk instead in order to steady herself. Miss Kettle did not end up hitting the deck so thankfully she was not hurt, but just shook up a little by the unexpectedness of it all. I was too, since it put me right off my stride and I suspect that I am about to start stuttering any moment now. Until that is, I am offered a calming cup of camomile tea because I think we both need it after that.

I do hope she does not hold it against me and it spoils my chances of getting the job altogether. I might as well go home now if that is the case. I wish she would give me a hint as to what type of personality they are looking for, so that I can prepare my answers better. Or rather, alter my own one into what they want. As sometimes, it is not always in your best interests to just 'be yourself' and pray that they will take to you. Sometimes, it is better to put on a show and be the opposite of who you really are for instance, if you are an introvert then be extrovert and vice-versa. Alternatively, if you have a strong accent then tone it down as much as humanly possible for the duration of the interview.

This way, a) they can understand you more clearly and do not mistake your reply full of slang words for something quite rude. And b) speaking of something rude, if you're American, then please learn what a 'fanny' is in English terms and don't go on about it in mixed company (just like Cara's transatlantic Aunt did at the funeral for it could just as easily have happened in a formal interview like this). In addition, c) if you are a northerner and they are a southerner, then make sure that the obligatory 'north/south divide' does not play a minor part in it and become something of a major obstacle for you. Next, d) if all else fails, then put on a fake voice and speak like the royal family (not that I am suggesting in any way that they speak with fake voices or anything of the sort). Whereas finally we have, e) which is for, what the 'EFFING' hell do I know? As said on many an occasion by my late (adoptive) grandmother so please I implore you, do not take any of my advice seriously seeing as nobody else does.

Hold the front page, this is going too well I must say and I am practically enjoying it as Miss Kettle is rather nice and chatty and so down to earth that I quite forget that I am in an actual interview at all halfway through it. I did not flinch when I had blatantly lied and exaggerated a tad about my working experience. I was a bodyguard. I just did not add the fact that it was to my seven-year (adoptive) second cousin when I escorted him to the park on a daily basis, since those kids can be brutal when it comes to sharing those swings and he kindly paid me in sweets. I was a debt collector (of sorts) when I helped recover goods to the value of the length of their relationship, from Cara's ex-boyfriend's flat. My friend claimed that she had bought him the stuff in the first place anyway, so it was rightly hers to begin with.

The hobbies and interests part of my application form which I had filled in with a slight exaggeration and blatant erring on other side of truthfulness. Well I do play sport; just not sailing and I have my boss to thank for me adding that one at the end since he is always going on about it. The skydiving lie became part of my world, when I saw a charity celebrity one taking place on the telly so I added it in writing too. Did I mention, how easily influenced I can be sometimes? This is alongside the 'gold medal' that I got at the scouts (for making the perfect snowman) and not at the 'World Winter Games' for bobsleighing. Honestly, who is going to check that out?

I do play badminton and volleyball once a week. As I do go to the gym, just not only to exercise seeing as they have a great coffee bar that my girlfriends and I hang out in, in a bid to meet the fit guys there. The ones that do like to build-up a manly sweat, when we imagine it is because of being with us instead. I do read a lot, just not the classics like Homer and James Joyce and Shakespeare. Unless of course, they suddenly repackage them in shiny pink covers with swirly lettering and girly illustrations then I might just be tempted. Mind you, I did attempt them once but could not make 'head nor tail' out of them. On the other hand, should that be 'tale' in this case? I gave up and always preferred Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters any day of the school week.

God, I hope Miss Kettle does not start asking me questions on the subject matter of the books that I have listed. If she does do that then she will know that I am a fake, since I do not have a clue about them. Homer is that Greek dude and not the big yellow one on the cartoons, right. And wasn't his stuff written by several guys after the time was probably long gone and forgotten altogether, so they just made it all up (a bit like the bible I suspect). Did Homer write down stories and poems about people's lives and journeys? Was he the first one to do a proper travel guide?

Perhaps, I should not mention this in case I look like the fool that I so clearly am. I heard once that Shakespeare did not write his entire, vast collective works either. Should I mention this to make myself look educated? Maybe not, since I have not altered my exam results that much to appear much cleverer than I can successfully pull off without a serious amount of suspicions creeping in. I must say, those forged certificates that I did in work are utterly brilliant and it is a shame that I cannot share this skill. In that, I think Miss Kettle would be mightily impressed if she knew.

Anyway, I'm sure that I have this one in the bag because it's all going great guns and we're practically shaking hands on the deal, even if I do say so myself. Until that is, speaking of guns, the door bursts open and one is suddenly appearing to be pointed at my head and I just do not believe it. Fate cannot be that cruel surely and this will definitely put the dampeners of all dampeners on the proceedings. As I turn my head slowly to see that biker bloke and he is still carrying the cardboard box with one arm. Only this time, it is open and I can see a few bundles of tightly rolled up cash inside (probably from the safe here no doubt) along with various wallets and purses and odd bits of jewellery. He is robbing this place and I am right in the middle of my second heist in less than two weeks. Talk about having rotten luck, without my late (adoptive) grandmother's brooch.

'Take this off me . . . it is getting heavy,' he mumbles from underneath the helmet with the black visor still down and I might have known that that meant trouble. Did I not say as much beforehand?

'What . . . the gun?' I ask and knowing what he meant. He thrusts the box towards me but I was not going to make it easy for him, especially, after the way he has messed this up for me.

'You think you're funny, don't you? I could have shot you last week on the train when I had the chance but I did not, so you owe me. Now take it and you . . . put your valuables in the box and hurry up about it,' he replies and directs his latter request towards Miss Kettle.

'It's you, the gunman from the train. But where did you get another weapon from so quickly, when I'd ended up with your other one?' I enquired, having received the box on to my lap whether I wanted it or not. I did not have a choice and I did not realise how that could sound to anyone listening nearby.

'You know this man . . . and you have a gun too?' questions Miss Kettle and seeming a little confused by our actions. I swear, I saw the trainee buyer's job sprout wings before my very eyes and take off out of the open doorway. Never to be seen ever again. I wish I could follow it.

'Well, he's not exactly on my Christmas card list put it that way. But we have met once before . . . when he held up the train that I was travelling on . . . and the police have that gun now.'

'I didn't come here to catch up, lady. Put down the box and take out those plastic ties . . . put them around her wrists and ankles and tape up her mouth,' he ordered and I obeyed as I did not want to be shot by this man. I mean, I saw firsthand what damage a couple of bullets could do to a padded seat. (By the way, the second shot on the train was pure reflex and total panic, having fired the first one by accident.)

'I'm sorry about this . . . it's really not my fault if he robbed my bag last week and turned up here today. Please believe me, this has nothing to do with me,' I whisper to Miss Kettle as I gently place the strip of duck tape across her pink lipstick covered lips, before I bring her hands together behind her back and strap the plastic wire ever so loosely in place. I did not want to hurt her anymore than I had to.

'Tighten it, or you'll feel the full force of my anger,' he threatened me. I did as I was told while mouthing, the word sorry to Miss Kettle.

'I can't do it any tighter, or it'll cut off her circulation,' I moan as he inspects my handy work.

'Right, grab that box . . . we are out of here,' he announces. I see from Miss Kettle's eyes that she now thinks we are some sort of Bonnie and Clyde type of characters and look what happened to them. I have seen that movie and I do not want to die in a hail of bullets. I do not even like being in a hail shower of rain, since I notice the drastic change in weather outside the window (and I knew I jinxed it).

'I'll just grab my bag.' Jeez, how will I get away from him without putting up too much of a fuss?

'Put it in the box,' he orders in that horrible tone, which I do not like as it is so unappealing and frankly unattractive on a man.

'Hold on, it has gone cold outside,' I say, whilst putting the box down on the seat and picking up my red trench coat.

Only I did not have time to put it on since he had grabbed it off me and the gun was then, discreetly held to my side underneath it. He was forcing me to hold the box once more as he dragged me by the arm out of the room. And then into the same lift that we'd come up in, in what seemed like only a matter of minutes before but obviously it was longer than that. As I realised that I was his hostage and I prayed that he would not start shooting the place up, if cornered by another 'have-a-go-hero'. Not this time it seems, since we were about to walk out of that building no problem. The blonde receptionist did not even look up from her post and therefore, did not see the pleading eyes that I was giving her. Never mind, the warning signals that I was pointing with my fingers at the gunman alongside me. It was all plainly in vain and I worryingly did not know what this maniac had in store for me, or what his plans were next.

Just as we reached the set of electronic double doors, the light must have gone on, on reception I mean to let her know to open them for us. Only they did not budge an inch. We turned around to see that she was talking to someone through her headset. Then, the blonde receptionist was suddenly staring at us as she froze in time as if someone had just pressed the pause button on her skinny ass. Persons unknown must have managed to raise the alarm and the doors were not opening anytime soon. We were trapped and deservedly so. Seeing as this is just what should happen to the caged criminals that we were. (Well him obviously, not me but they do not know that for sure, yet.) Oh God, what will he do?

I wish now that we would have simply left the premises no bother. Instead of the alternative, as he brings the weapon out into view from its temporary hiding place under my trench coat. My outer garment lands on the tiled floor with little or no regard for the cleaning bill of the dirty aftermath. As I grip the box tightly with one of my hands and bend down in order to pick up my coat with the other. The next thing I know, the gunman had fired his gun. He had discharged his weapon or whatever it is that the army/police/terrorists/gangsters say.

The familiar sound was ringing in my ears afterwards. I never thought in a million years that I would be saying that. As in this time last week, I had only ever seen a proper gun on the telly before and certainly never up close and personal but now I feel oddly at home with them and practically on speaking terms. As I think about what to name it (like a pet). What is all that about? Is it some sort of shock mechanism and my mind's way of coping with everything? I would not even be able to tell you at this point, if he has shot me. I have gone very numb and besides, my coat is blood red, do not forget. I soon heard the gun repeatedly banging out its deadly chime of criminal activity. Why is he doing this to me? What have I done to deserve it?

Week Three

(Wednesday and Thursday)

Well, my dreams are truly shattered like the fragile glass that they were, seeing as I could not see that I would not have gotten the damn job anyway. Apparently, they had much more qualified people apply for it than me, or so the blonde receptionist had told me when questioned as to the nature of my 'sorry-to-inform-you' letter by way of a complete and utter rejection by them. I was so sad; I ate chocolate in front of Cara, which is bad of me I know for she had some too.

I had to find out for sure if it was anything to do with 'what happened' during my interview. The blonde receptionist assured me that it was not and I just was not right for the trainee position, because of my total lack of experience in the clothing industry (not to mention my fashion sense she added, cheeky mare). I have a good mind to retort back that she is extremely lucky to have her job. After letting the gunman into the building in the first place but I do not want to bring him up since every time I do, I weirdly seem to meet up with him again. Why are the 'Gods of fate' playing with my sanity like this? Have they nothing better to do, then piss me off on a regular basis?

Anyway, let me bring you up to speed on what went down when the gun went off in the reception area last Tuesday. A scared couple of people were waiting on the seats and hoping to be invisible to the gunman, right where we had sat only some time before. The crazy dude that was holding on to his weapon so tightly that his knuckles probably went white underneath those gloves, well, he pretty much went ballistic when the receptionist refused to open up the electronic doors as he had loudly instructed her to do, so he shot them. (I mean at the glass, not the people.)

He soon realised that it was the bulletproof kind, as I had edged slowly away from his loose grip on my elbow whilst the gunman robber was preoccupied and being intent on leaving the way that we came in. Perhaps, he has a thing about revolving doors too. Only, thing or not, I stepped inside said revolving door and dropped the box that I was carrying in the gap. I had then skipped into the next available slot so that I could freely push the stiff panel forward. Of course, he went and followed me into the space behind and strongly pushed the other way. Indeed, I did not get very far and ended up back inside, with him outside. He had pointed the gun at me and indicated with it that I was to leave with him.

Somehow I felt strangely empowered by the thought that I was protected by the bulletproof glass so if he could not come back in, therefore, I was safe. As I did not have, the foggiest about what he had in mind to do with me. I had a moment of quick-thinking aptitude that could have possibly saved not only my life, but also those still shocked and sitting in reception. When I jumped on the manual lock and shut it to, 'closed' so that the revolving door would revolve no more. Until that is, it was later opened by me when I would let the police in. In the meantime, the gunman thief had grabbed the box from the open gap on the other side and taken off with his stash of stolen stuff. Along with my goddamn handbag for a second time, also my other Chick-Lit book inside it as I seriously think that it might be time to give-up on me ever finishing them. Clearly, I can take a hint if my very being alive dictates it when I did not get the chance to read them and probably never will.

The truly irritating thing was the fact that the mobile phone he stole was the one that I had borrowed off Mel, since mine also went to him the other week and I had not gotten around to getting it replaced yet. I can kiss goodbye to it too, I suppose. Does this vile person even realise the aggravation that he is causing me? Does he even care? How did he know that I would be at this particular place and having an interview at this particular time? Is he following me? I do not mean in a good way like on 'Twitter' because I have millions of followers on there, all right, thousands. What I meant to say was hundreds, a hundred, near enough if you add a certain number of dubious ones that I had turned down or stopped following altogether, seeing as all they were interested in were selling me stuff. Only I do not have any spare money to spend, so what would be the point of us keeping in contact? I am not interested in any porn site so stop 'tweeting' at me since that can be an education in itself when clicked on accidently, but not one that I would ever mention on my CV. I do not have to be exact in my final estimations as to how popular I am. Let's just say that it's more than a baker's dozen and less than the number of men that I've slept with, so that should narrow down the field a little and put you in the ball park.

Speaking of which, is it perhaps one of my exes that has turned to a life of crime and he wants to, a) seek revenge on me for dumping him by turning my world upside down (and it was just my bad luck without my lucky brooch that he chose to rob that building when I was inside it). On the other hand, b) he feels a change of heart for dumping me and wants to reignite our relationship, but he is definitely going about it the wrong way if he does. Finally, c) the gunman is just some random nutcase, who enjoys teasing people and he has found the perfect person with which to carry out his sick fantasy.

Then again, I want to take back the last one as being final. Since thinking about it there is also, d) because the details of my job application were in the cream bag that he stole on the train and he must have just phoned that dopey receptionist to find out when my new interview was for so he's hardly detective of the year. It cannot have been that difficult to track me down when you know this. My money is on d), I do not know about you. You should have seen the way the cops questioned me; they practically insinuated that I was somehow involved with the gunman and granted it is rather weird that he chose to rob the two places that I was at on separate occasions. Only I am the victim here people. Remember!

'How long are you going to be?' Cara enquires. She tugs on my arm like an annoying child that wants to go for ice cream on the way home from the shops, only we are heading for the pub instead.

Thankfully, it is one of those ones where no one under the age of consent is allowed anywhere inside the premises. If it were up to me the drinking age limit in this country, should be 21 like in America. (Not sure if that applies to all states but it does to the ones that I have seen on TV, so it must be true.) Anyhow, my reason being is because I struggle sometimes to handle my own alcohol intake and I am older than that. I do not want to have to put-up with immature drinkers spoiling my fun just because they want to pick a fight, with me over a stupid stool. I have known in the past that such troubles have brought on drunken wars, which have been lost and won, over less.

I have also had a young person become violently sick all over my seat, when I had nipped off to the loo. This is what happened to me, the last time that I was out but at a different pub and it was the only stool left free in the entire building to be found anywhere. Note here that this is just bloody typical of my luck, without having my late (adoptive) grandmother's brooch with me. For the rest of that night, I had to stand up and my feet were absolutely killing me in those heels by the end of it. As I had refused to take them off because I wanted to appear taller than I naturally am. You do not see men suffering like that, do you?

'I think I'll choose this one. I love the sparkly pink cover. I like the blurb on the back as it sounds right up my street. Yeah, it says that it is hilarious and I do enjoy a good giggle . . . I will take it,' I say mainly to myself and hand over my 75p to the old woman cashier at the till (50p for paperbacks but hardbacks are dearer to produce, apparently, this rule even applies in a charity shop).

I run my fingers over the glittery raised stars and look in the fake mirror on the front. I assume that, that is what the story is about between the covers. (Not mirrors obviously, but being reflective and willing to change one's life for a better one by changing the person inside rather than outside.) It is not all; boy meets girl stuff you know in my reading experience. Seeing as sometimes, it goes a lot deeper and delves into issues beyond that. Only I do love a 'Happy Ending'. Finally, I smell the book, just to make sure that it does not stink of smoke like the last one that I got from here. It smelt my bag out for a whole week, even after dousing it in perfume. That is, after I had finished reading it and donated it back to where it came from.

Having just purchased another 'Chick-Lit' novel from the charity shop, I cannot wait to get started on reading it. The reason I was so long in choosing, was that they have such a great selection in this place. It is even better for choice than the bookshop across the way. I have never actually been inside it for the store tends to cater to the literary tomes that have won awards and celebrity biographies or strangely, books on anything to do with trains, planes or automobiles. The youngish owner who had inherited it must be a 'petrol-head' of sorts, or so I have heard.

In fact, he spends more time fixing up the broken engine on his vintage motor than he does on opening up his shop. He is only available for service three days a week (Monday, Wednesday and Friday) and never on a Saturday, which is the busiest time in the high street. I figure that he does not really need the money then and must be quite rich, as well as being a bit of a recluse. I have heard that he does not even seem to like people much, let alone his 'customers' which is a shame because I have it on good authority that he's rather dishy. I would not mind the chance to hook-up one of these days and find out for myself, if he is all that.

'Come on, hurry up . . . we'll not only miss "Happy Hour" at this rate but last orders too if you don't shift your arse into gear,' shouts Cara from her standing position on the cobbled street outside the cancer charity shop.

'OK . . . all right. I am coming already. God, are you that desperate to see Graham that you'd risk an injury to my ankle just to spend an extra five minutes with him?' I question her motives as I am being ushered out of the doorway. The garment in my hand, rapidly replaced back on the rail before we then rush along the path (in heels) down the road to the pub with the flashing lights in the window and it's not even Christmas yet.

The proprietor thinks that it adds a fun element to his establishment and attracts a certain clientele into his bar. What he means is the type of people who will not stop drinking until the bell rings for last orders and then they are, turned out on their ears. It literally means the difference between him staying open and making a healthy profit, rather than going bankrupt. (Like the country pubs that are permanently closing for business, up to 50 a week judging by the last news bulletin.) That is why all the other pubs around here are becoming 'family-day-out' venues. They have children in them, who do not eat the food that their parents pay for but just want to run around on the ball park instead and scream the place down to annoy the other costumers. Give me a good old-fashioned English (if you want to witness some decent entertainment) Irish (if you want to join in) Scottish (if you want a rowdy debate with your pint) or Welsh (if you want to bring in your 'friendly animals' type of pub at any time of the year.

Jeez, I sound a bit like a total 'pisshead' now, do I not? Only let me assure you that I am not; I just like to have a great time like any other young woman about town and I know my limits. If you will excuse me for peeing in the gutter at 4a.m in the morning, which is obviously the exception to the rule before curling up with the homeless/toothless woman in the doorway in order to keep us both warm whilst sharing her can of lager. When I had lost my bag and could not make it home. To be honest I cannot tell you the amount of bags that I have drunkenly left lying around somewhere, never to be worn or seen again (at least not by me). Christ, this is beginning to sound a bit like a recurring theme happening here, is it not. It is a good job, I have an abundance of bags to lose since I am privy to the cast-offs of my fellow flatmates and friends from work when they deem it is time to be 'out-with-the-old-and-in-with-the-new'. Thank God for sales, is all I have to say to this.

'Is you, having a drink then . . . what'll it be?' asked my date for the evening. I still cannot believe that I agreed to this, just so that Cara could spend the night with Graham. If she gets him drunk enough first, that is and those are her words, not mine. For I think she is too good for him anyway. Only what do I know when it comes to matters of the heart?

'Yes, thanks . . . I'll have a cider and black please,' I reply and shuffle along the booth, which isn't easy because it has got what looks like carpet on the seating and back rest. I hope it doesn't stain if I spill my drink, which has been known let me tell you seeing as after a fair few bevies (beverages) I tend to get a little clumsy. It is a great source of amusement to all my friends, but not me.

'Oh, I will have a cider and black too if you are offering, thanks,' pipes up Cara and breaking away from Graham's kiss to secure a drink.

'That will be a cider and black, what? Can I get you . . . a black pudding, a blacksmith, blackboard, black sheep or blackbird?'

'I was referring to blackcurrant juice, in with the cider,' I retorted and this could be a long night if he carries on like that.

'I know that . . . I was only pulling your leg,' he says with a chuckle and heads for the bar to order a round of drinks. Help!

Do you think they will notice if I just leave, like right about now? I really do not think I can last a whole evening with Den. I would much rather be at home by myself with my feet up and reading my new (second-hand) Chick-Lit book, if I am being truthful. Only I had promised my friend to go on this 'double date', seeing as Graham's older cousin is only in town for a few weeks on a family visit. Surely, I can put-up with him for one night at the pub because believe me, there will not be a second. I can say that with some confidence, since he is just not my type.

I do not go for anyone over the age of 40 anymore, no matter how good looking they were (only Den is not, so I do not have any regrets there). Besides, even if he was drop-dead gorgeous, we would probably have very little in common once the sex is finished. I was in a similar situation quite a while back and this particular dude kept going on about things from his childhood. I did not have a clue what they were, since I was not even born. What are 'Bay City Rollers' anyway? Are they some kind of hair product?

Whereas, Den is waiting for service and standing at the bar in his ripped jeans and heavy metal tee shirt that depicts a band that I have never even heard of and having covered it over by an open check shirt. He has his jeans tucked into his walking boots and is busy scratching the back of his rapidly balding head. He will lose what little hair he does have left a lot quicker than normal, if he carries on scraping at it like that. Den must have sensed that I was thinking about him, when he suddenly turns and catches me in the act of spying on him. I was staring and there is no getting away from it but I do hope he does not assume for a nanosecond that I fancy him or anything like that because frankly, I do not. It is just that it has been a while since my last 'first' date with someone and I am not completely adverse to show willing and pretend. All for the love and continuing friendship of Cara, since she would do it for me in a heartbeat.

Mind you, let us face it; I am not exactly the catch of the day, right? So perhaps, I should try him out and get to know him better before I make my mind up. Den whistles loudly to get the bartenders attention and when it fails, he does it again. On the other hand, no, I do not think I want to spend any more time with him than I have to and if he dares to whistle at me like a dog then I'm out of here. I am not that pathetic that I would latch on to any man just for the sake of it. (Not yet, anyhow, seeing as there is still plenty of time left for my chance of meeting 'Mr Right'. I am only young and with that in mind, I would put Den firmly in the 'Mr Wrong' category.)

Den puts two fingers into a 'V' sign and either, he is going to tell me to F-off, or he will do that 'army' eye thing. I would rather he told me to sling my hook elsewhere, since that would be my excuse to leave but he is not doing that, is he? I should be so lucky. My date promptly points two fingers at his own eyes and then, turns his hand around repeatedly to point at mine (as in, watching you, watching me etc). I smirk, out of embarrassment because everyone must have seen him do it.

God, he definitely thinks I fancy him now, as does probably everyone else around us. I must make it my mission to put him straight on that score but do it gently, since I do not want to upset his cousin Graham. He is sitting there with his dark shirt open to the bare navel in a bid to show off his tanned, taut body. In turn, it will only upset my friend Cara if he blames her for setting us two up. Talk about being stuck in a difficult situation and I finally understand what that saying means, the one about being stuck in between a rock and a hard place. Speaking of Cara, she is in seventh heaven of course since coming up for air on the kissing front. Who can blame her? When I have to admit that, the stench from Graham's aftershave is enough to choke a chicken and no hands required.

I am sitting there with nothing better to do than watch a spider crawl down from its expertly constructed web on the windowsill and wander across the dark wooden table from one beer mat to another. Is it not lucky to have one cross your path or is that a black cat? I do not really know if it is a money spider, but I do know that they fascinate me and I even had a pet one as a youngster that I called Steven. I caught him in a matchbox when he ran across my bedroom carpet one night and I put him in a jam jar with holes in the lid, so that he could breathe and I used to catch flies and bugs and feed them to him. I had even added a couple of sticks and some dried leaves for him to make a home for himself. I was obviously short of real friends back then.

Steven the spider did make himself comfortable; for he must have been blissfully happy to be living in my bedroom when he'd spun a small web for me to marvel at. I was devastated when my adoptive mother released him into the wild (our garden) because she said that it was cruel to keep him locked up, no matter how well I had looked after him. If reincarnation does exist then I am coming back as one of them, you can be sure of that. I would love to be a Black Widow because, do they not mate and then kill and eat him afterwards or something along those lines? Well I can fully relate to that since I have wanted to do that to a couple of my ex-boyfriends in my time let me tell you.

'There you go then. I got you lot, two each. So drink up my lover and I'll get another when you're done with that,' interrupts Den. He plonks the tray down on the table and squashes the poor spider in the process. If it was a lucky money spider, then we are all out of pocket now.

'Yeah thanks. Only I might change my order next time. This stuff will make me gassy if I drink them all evening,' I reply and sip on my cider and black. I was intent on avoiding the 'hammered' stage with my alcohol intake in the presence of Den, if I want to avoid at all costs becoming his 'lover' for real, as he calls me.

'Nice one, mate,' pipes up Graham to his cousin as he picks up his pint of lager and clinks it with Cara's drink. Graham is wearing designer wraparound shades that hang down from his ears and dangle around his stubbly chin like a plastic beard. This is never a good look on anyone, even in summer, never mind at the beginning of autumn.

'Cheers,' replies Cara as she too takes a sip before replacing her glass back on the table, so that her hand is free to rest on Graham's leg. If he is in the room, then she just has to be touching him like a magnet. It is as if he is her life source and without him, she fades into oblivion and needs the constant buzz of feeling him close in order to breathe properly. (Alternatively, does she still have that cold virus that is doing the rounds?) Anyway, I've never felt like that about anyone and if this is the kind of effect that love has on you when it makes you seem ill then sometimes it scares me if I ever will catch the bug.

'So, lover . . . I hear that you work as a receptionist. And in your free time, you like to play sports to keep fit and you read to relax,' says Den, ending the silence between us.

'Yeah, I play badminton and volleyball once a week. I love Chick-Lit books because I can relate to them, being a woman an all and dealing with life's issues . . .'

'Huh, I can just imagine the tight tops and skimpy skirts that you gals wear. I don't like books without pictures in.'

'I bet you can and I sort of guessed that,' I retort.

'Well I work at the forefront of the electronic sector of modern industry and I definitely detected a spark between us, so we'll rub along just fine,' he said and laid his strong arm around my shoulder in a bid to drag me in closer to him. I suddenly find myself nestled in his armpit and it was not the best of smells, put it that way.

'He's a salesman . . . works in an electrical DIY shop. Don't be lying to the girl and tying to confuse her about what you do,' pipes up Graham and downing his second pint.

'So . . . what hobbies do you have?' I ask Den as I wriggle free from his grip and frankly, come up for air just as Cara did before by pretending that I am in need of a drink. (Who exactly am I trying to kid; I am in the need of several more drinks if I am to get through this?)

'Oh, I like to watch porn . . . the nastier the better,' he replies. As I cough loudly while I splutter the liquid back into the glass in a bid to stop it going up my nostrils, because I hate it when that happens.

'I didn't expect you to be so honest.'

'I'm not; I'm only playing with you to get a reaction. You should have seen the look on your face. It was a right picture,' he chuckles along with his cousin. At least Cara could fully understand why I did not find him amusing, seeing as she glares across from the other side of the table in his direction.

'I daren't ask then, where your real interests lie?' I enquire and sit back against the seat for comfort; only the arm goes around me again. I want to be polite, I really do since he is only being friendly but I certainly do not want him invading my space like this. Any minute now, I am going to have to tell him off about it.

'Err, I build and fly model planes. I go to all the shows and exhibitions I do and you could come with me if you like. I travel not only around the country during the holidays with my caravan in tow, but sometimes aboard as well,' he replies and I wish I had not asked now, because I have just received an invite that I will have to turn down.

'How about you, Graham . . . what is it that you like to do when you are not working on a building site?' I chickened out of answering Den and brought other people into the conversation instead.

'Me . . . I love to play online poker. I lose more than I win mind but that do not stop the buzz for me. And until I have some responsibilities, then I don't see the harm in it.' I could tell by Cara's face that it was news to her.

'Well if we're all confessing what we get up to in our spare time. Then when I'm not being a student nurse, I run my own . . .' announces Cara, but I did not want her to be quite so outright and have her divulging something she will regret. What if Graham, disapproves about the 'sex talk operator' business that she does just to make some extra money? What if he goes and dumps her?

'You run a sort of dating website. Don't you, Cara?' I interrupt and I think she gets the message that I think it is for the best, to lie about it.

'Huh . . . well, I suppose you could call it that in a roundabout way,' she replies and thankfully leaves it at that.

'I might need to sign up for that if, Kelly here doesn't agree to be my lover,' says Den with a cheery wink and another throaty chuckle. So I hope he is joking because if he is not, then Houston, boy do we have a problem.

This is how the evening progresses whilst I have to put-up with Den becoming more rowdy by the minute, not to mention raunchy when the cheeky git deliberately pokes my boobs to see if they are real. The night wears on and thoroughly wears me down, while the drinks are slowly diminishing one by one. The only highlight for me was when Cara pointed out the lone bloke standing by the end of the bar. We were gathered around the quiz machine and trying to answer the questions as a group. It was the mysterious man, who owns the bookstore and guess what? He was as fit as they come. Talk about tall, dark and handsome. He was a similar sized frame to Graham and Den but much, much better looking (not that I am that shallow and only focus just on what people look like). I did not want to stare and be blatant about the fact that I fancied him rotten, from the moment our eyes met over a packet of pork scratching. Den had nipped to the bar area to purchase some. I had declined his offer of a nibble on his 'fat balls' as he popped the rounded, crispy delights into his permanently open gob for he never closes it when he eats.

'That will be . . . Bolivia . . . it is. Just press the bloody button before the clock runs down,' demands Den on his return and speaking with another mouthful of his snack. The smell of his breath hits me and it puts me right off him even more, if that were at all possible.

'Bolivia is not the capital of Peru just because you've heard of it. That is a country in its own right, the last time I looked on a map. It's Lima, I'm sure of it,' I say out loud, having become more vocal the more I drink which is usually the case. Only nobody is paying me any attention. Graham's busy arguing the toss with his cousin Den whilst I think Cara's lost interest altogether, since this machine is taking her boyfriend's attention away from her and she doesn't like it one little bit.

'It is Lima, you're right,' voices an opinion from the bar next to us and the bookseller bloke has spoken, to confirm my choice as being the correct one. Only my date will not listen to either of us, or his cousin. Graham had finally agreed to go with our answer because he was not 100% sure to begin with. Meanwhile, Den had reached out and frantically pressed the wrong answer onto the machine's screen. We lost all the money that we had stored in the virtual bank and hoping to buy with it, the king's banquet of all takeaways on the way home. I guess that was a money spider after all, seeing as our luck ran out before the time did. We could have continued and won big, if it was not for the insect killer amongst us.

Anyhow, the dilemma had arrived in all its firework glory. Bookseller bloke is not going to come over and chat with me because; 1) I am clearly on a date with Den and 2) he's something of a recluse so what is he doing here? There's also 3) he is probably shy and I am not. How can I temporarily get rid of Den without him knowing? Thereby, I could focus all my affections on the bookseller bloke. Without having the poor dude running for the exit in sheer terror at my obvious attraction for him. Would it not be brilliant if he were interested in me too?

All right, I know I am getting a little ahead of myself here seeing as we have only exchanged glances so far. I want to believe in love at first sight, does not everyone wonder if it truly exists for him or her? Is that not what we are all after when we look around a room and hope beyond hope that the person that our eyes settle on is, 'The One'? I know I do, every time I go anywhere. So call me a soppy old romantic if you like but it is the truth and I am glad it is out there since I have nothing to hide or to be ashamed of in this life. (Besides the slight difference in boob sizes that is and I thought that I was not going to mention that again, but blame the drink for turning me in a drunken bore.)

Well, here goes nothing as they say and I really have nothing to lose but dignity itself. I deliberately spill my drink in my own lap, in a ploy to leave our table and rush over to the bar area for a towel on which to dry my damp dress. I look like I have wet myself so I explain to the bookseller bloke with a slur 'I've shpilt my drink.' I dab at the moisture whilst hoping that it does not stain and perhaps, this was so not worth it if he rejects me. I want him to like me, please like me (I not too proud to beg).

'You need some tonic on it, that'll get it out. I can order one for you if you like,' he replies and I am all ears, for I dig his foreign accent.

'When I shaid that "I" shpilt it . . . I meant to shay that my date did it. I'm not that clumsy,' I lie with a wicked grin and wish I had not, because now he will think that I am with Den and I am nothing of the sort and never will be.

'If you're on a date, then shouldn't you be getting back to him?'

'Nah, it's not really a "date, date". It's more of a favour to a friend.'

'Oh, I see. Well in that case, if you're not romantically involved with anyone then I feel free to let you in on my secret . . .' he says and stops to sip his red wine.

'Which is? Do not shtop there . . . you can tell me. I won't tell anyone if you don't want me to,' I whisper in his ear. He smells of soap. I love a nice soap; it is very pleasing to the nostrils and not overpowering in the slightest but simply clean and fresh.

'It's just that I've seen you around and I've been meaning to get to know you better. But I'm a bit shy about these types of things,' he replies and looks down, so as not to catch my eye in case he blushes. Too late, seeing as I spy the telltale signs of a pink flush peeking out from his perfect cheeks. Can this man get any sweeter then he seems? If he carries on like this, then it will not be my fault when I gobble him up right here and now and sod the calories. I always did have a bit of a sweet tooth and to say that I am hungry for him is something of an understatement. I wish, he would make like a lollipop and let me lick him. Oh my, that could sound quite rude and I am a lot more than tipsy at this stage in the game than I look, am I not?

'But I thought you were a recluse. People are shtarting to gossip that they do not shee you around much. They were beginning to think that you're a certified weirdo, or worse,' I repeat what I have heard from Cara and friends. I can see her out of the corner of my eye and trying to gain my attention with her blatant waves. I am ignoring her, so that I can spend more time with this cute dude. I mean, I cannot leave his side until I know his name and number at least.

'What's worse than being called a weirdo?'

'A pervert, obviously,' I retort and placing my hand on his arm to steady myself, for I was becoming a little wobbly on the old heels.

'Oh right, I knew that.'

'Weirdo, on the other hand just means shtrange or odd. Huh, if we all examined ourselves more closely then we all probably have shomething about us that is "different". Is that not what makes one human and sho interesting to others? But that other name means shomething disgusting and nobody ever wants to be called that.'

'Of course . . . it's silly of me not to realise this. I guess I'll settle for "weirdo" over that tag any day,' he replies with a smile. I actually sigh with happiness because he has that kind of effect on me, just being in his presence. Unlike my date, who decides to come on over and interrupt us since I seem very willing to swap his company for this man's attention. Only Den looks like he has had enough of sharing me.

'Hi! I am, Den . . . Kelly's date for the evening. We are just leaving, so if you do not mind we will be off. Good night,' said Den politely as he escorts me away by the waist.

I did not even get a chance to get the bookseller bloke's number, or his first name. I do not want to be formal and call him Mr Brockman (from 'Brockman's Books'). I smile at him and roll my eyes as I put on my jacket and he smiles back in secret, without anyone seeing us. God, I feel a rush of excitement build in my stomach. Only it is not from the thought of having a takeaway and going home to watch a movie with Den. It is from the idea that if I follow this up and say, wander into his shop one day then we might just get to talk properly. On the other hand, we could go out somewhere and share a coffee. Who knows where that will lead? Fingers crossed on that score, since sometimes you just know when there is certain chemistry between two people. You cannot explain why, but you do.

Whom exactly, am I trying to kid here? He was probably just being nice to the damsel in distress at having a wine stain on her dress. I had switched from the cider and black to the other alcoholic beverage after a couple of halves. Sure, I am drunk at present so please excuse my silliness to think that he would actually fancy me. When I sober up, I will realise how whimsical I was being back there and wishing for something does not make it happen. I am always like that though when I meet someone. Being 'full on' I mean seeing as I can see wedding bells before I can see they're flirting with every other woman, amongst their other faults. I do not want to be hurt again so soon after the last one, so I do not need a relationship just yet. I do need time on my own to heal.

However, like most things in life, you will be disappointed once you get it so that is a real shame because you really liked him at first and he really liked you too. Until, you get to know each other and it was plainly obvious that you were certainly not a match made in heaven, but hell. Luckily, I will not be having that particular problem with Den. Right from the off, I was adamant that we would not be an item but will he take the hint, will he heck like. I might have to resort to actual bodily harm if he continues to try to kiss me, as we make our way back to the flat with our takeaway in white carrier bags.

I guess he got the message in the end. Only, the other two snuck off to Cara's room instead of watching the movie with us. Den just groped me unexpectedly when he latched on to my left breast and squeezed it hard. I'm 'due on' so you know what that means if you're a woman for it can be excruciatingly painful just to put your bra on, on certain days of the month. The one Den chose to molest is the now famous slightly smaller one and nobody would ever have know this in the first place, if it was not for my ex getting out his tape measure just to prove a point.

He was rather anal about things like that and at first, I would found it rather endearing. I will not say what I found it afterwards, but let us just say that I knew where I wanted to put his 30cm ruler. Anyway, I was just starting to enjoy not only the movie but also eating my prawn-curried rice. Then it happened, Den had pounced on me so I did not hold back when it came to filling him in on the 'Do's and Don'ts' of double dating. He went back to Graham's flat with his tail firmly between his legs and lesson taught; even at 40, it is never too old for a dog to learn a thing or two.

'Are you all right? You look a bit peaky,' asks Mel the following day on the Thursday. She encourages me to copy her and pinch my cheeks for added colour, as we shuffle along the busy pavement in our rush to get to the jewellery shop before it closes for the evening.

'Yes, yes I am fine . . . it is not a hangover. I just did not sleep too well. So I sat up and read and as a result, I'm a bit tired I guess,' I reply and take a bit of my cherry red lip-gloss off my lips using my forefinger in order to dab it onto my bare skin.
I am attempting to improve my not only my outward-bound look, but my outlook on life in general. Is this how people feel after having gone through something dramatic? The being a bit down about everything I mean because I have never felt this bad before even when the longest boyfriend that I have ever had, dumped me unexpectedly. All nine months of it and I thought we were 'in love' and getting serious but we were not. It was just the sex, which we had in common because whenever we were not doing it, we did not have anything to say to each other. So how can you form a proper relationship with someone if you never speak, seeing as its gets rather tiring after awhile? (I mean on both counts.)

'I didn't know we'd have to ride on one of those things to get to his place,' I moan as I spy the oncoming escalator in the centre of the vast shopping mall. With it being next to the conflicting smells from the food hall, well let us be honest here, it does not help with the queasiness at all.

'I don't understand your reservations. What can possibly go wrong?' asks my companion as Mel steps onto the folding metal steps no problem.

'I'll be right there. You go on ahead and I'll catch you up,' I reply, as the memories flash before my very eyes to bring me back to a time when I was my much younger self so I cannot blame the alcohol. I had slipped on an escalator and got my hair caught in the damn thing. Where I had had visions of it squashing me to death and eating me alive, well, I was only a kid. The sad news is that after it stopped (for someone had pressed the emergency button) I had to have my beautiful long hair cut off so that the people in charge could rescue me from its deadly grip on my scalp. Therefore, you see why I hate them to this day and I swear my hair never grew back the same way.

'Come on, hurry up,' shouts Mel from the top in encouragement.

'I'm coming. Jeez . . . just give me a minute here,' I retort and sounding harsher than I intended to but I was getting a little miffed, mainly with myself for being such a wimp, if anyone.

As I forced my right leg on, by lifting it up with my hands in order to take a giant step over two of the metal ledges at once before wobbling greatly. It was moving when I followed this on with the left. To balance myself, I spread my feet out wide to the edges of the glass walls and held on for dear life by bending forward like a hunchback. The teenager behind me giggled and I am so glad that someone is amused, because I am not. I had overcome one obstacle by leaping off the top of it and straight into the open arms of Mel. Indeed, I then find out that there is a second one to face my fears with so I must suck it up and do it all over again. Only this one is going down. Why did we have to come up here, just to go down again? Who in their right mind designed this place? Apparently, it has to do with making you see more of the shops and that way, you will be more tempted to wander in and perhaps buy something according to Mel. That is a load of poppycock for a start; I could not wait to get out of there.

We finally arrive at our destination, having got down the second damn escalator with me holding onto Mel's back shoulders as she went in front so that I did not fall forward as I had envisaged. While doing what appears to be like taking a food lovers trip around the world, for I've never seen so many different types of culinary delights all crammed into one space before. Anyway, Mel shows her face at the glass door so it is immediately and electronically unlocked as I follow behind her footsteps.

'Are you still having that nightmare?' she enquires and stops to hold the door open for me as I enter the shop.

'Yeah, the one about me chasing the gunman here, there and everywhere and when I finally catch up with him and am just about to pull off his big black helmet . . . I wake up.'

'That sounds quite rude. Can anyone join in this conversation or is it private?' pipes up Jasper, who is Mel's number one (and only as it still stands) boyfriend when he pops out from behind a tall glass encased, display stand.

'Why have you asked me here? You know how busy I am, with my modelling work and everything,' moans Mel, until her eye catches something spectacularly sparkly over on the other side of the shop. She does not wait for his answer as she wanders off in that direction, in a trance like state beckoning her to all that glitters.

'So . . . Kelly . . . I wasn't expecting you to be here,' says Jasper and looking peculiarly anxious as he nervously smoothes down his slicked back, dark hair with his fingers. This is unusual for him, since he is such an altogether kind of person and usually so cool with everything that he never lets anything get under his skin.

'Well, I wasn't expecting to come along either but I had nothing better to do. Having been signed-off work, with what happened over the last couple of weeks. My boss said that I should buy myself some jewellery to cheer myself up. He says that's what his wife always does when she's down . . . or up,' I reply and realise that Jasper is sharing that same funny look of having had a reality check just like my boss did when we'd spoken. I had turned up at reception for work, but they ordered me to go home again. I was not to return to work until fully recovered from my ordeal. I do not think Jasper was really listening to what I was saying though, since he seemed pre-occupied with other plans.

'Let me explain what's happening here. I am about to propose to Mel and it will not be romantic if I have a "customer" in the shop,' he whispers back, as he flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

'Well I know where I'm not wanted. Mel, I'll leave you guys to it . . . bye,' I said and turn on my heel to leave the premises.

'What? You are not leaving without me. Now come over here and try this on for size. It's Fabulous with a capital F,' she demands and returns to my side in an attempt to drag me over to try on a diamond tennis bracelet that rests in a glass cabinet. She succeeds, by tapping the top of it with her long nails in an effort to make Jasper open it up with his special key.

Mel and I have come to the jewellery shop that Jasper owns, which also displays a large window of his best stuff out onto the high street on the other side of it. I do not quite know yet what I am doing here exactly, seeing as I was asked by my friend to be some sort of moral support. Mel had noticed that her boyfriend has been acting all weird lately and dropping massive hints about settling down. He came up with questions and observations like on, how happy his parents still are as they had celebrated their 30th anniversary (pearl). In addition, how much does she think people should spend on a typical white wedding nowadays? How many kids she wants? Along with other intrusive stuff, this had then helped her to connect the dots. Well I had told her that if he does not ask her to marry him one of these days, then my name is not Kelly. I guess I was right all along, since he has just confessed as much right to my face.

Actually while we are on the subject of confessions, I must admit that Kelly is not my real, first name if we are being honest. It's Anne but I prefer my middle name so I swapped it around and I got it done properly by deed poll and everything, making it fully legit and all. Only do not tell anyone, as even my best friends do not know this about me. I recall that the last time I went by that particular name, was when I was forced to appear by my adoptive mother's side in that amateur production to do with the 'Annie' title, about her getting a gun. Everyone thought it was totally cute to have someone playing the part with the same name and this is the type of people that I grew up with, so you can probably understand where I'm coming from now. Christ thinking about it, I do have a slight connection with weapons. (Be it a fake one made out of plaster-of-Paris mind but there's no denying that it's still there, isn't it?)

I really have to banish that gunman completely from my thoughts; otherwise, I will never get over what he did and I will be still going on about it in years to come. My friends say that the reason that I am starting to obsess a little over him, is the fact that I do not have a man of own in my life at present that I can turn to for comfort. What am I supposed to do? Am I to hook-up with anyone, just so I will not have to deal with this alone? I do not think so as it is not my style. Besides, if I want romance/realism then I can get a dose of it from the Chick-Lit books that I read. And all without suffering the personal type of grief that often comes with having to deal with the opposite sex, when they don't live up to your high expectations. No, I will leave the characters to work that one out and I can just sit back and enjoy the ride. As I have vowed not to pursue the promise of happiness with the bookseller yet, since I need to straighten my head out first before I do anything majorly on that scale. It might take awhile.

So now, I am not particularly interested in forming a new relationship and snagging myself a boyfriend. Only my friends tell me that by doing this, well, I have just set the wheels of destiny in motion since this is when you will surely meet the love of your life. I do not really believe in all that 'talk' so I will just carry on as normally as I can, given what has gone down over the last couple of weeks. Who can blame me for feeling a little strange and out of sorts with myself?

Regardless, Jasper decides that whether I am here or not and it could very well spoil the intimate romantic moment of a lifetime. He is going to go through with his plan to make Mel his wife. When Jasper suddenly takes Mel by the hand and whisks her away to the other side of the shop, as they leave me standing there with the diamond bracelet wrapped around my wrist. Meanwhile I am thinking that I will never be able to afford this in a year of wages, so I discreetly remove it by undoing the clasp and silently placing it back on its stand. I am aware that there is not a lot that I can afford in here, until I spy the key rings across the way for they are bound to be cheap, right. Wrong, I can buy practically the same one down the market for half the price. Only, if I do not purchase something here when I have said that I will then I will just look like an idiot (which is probably the 'norm' for me).

Whereas, I spin the display stand around in a determined effort to pick one and just be done with it. I will have to put it on the credit card, since Mel did not give me enough time to go and get some money out of the cash machine, which I might add is only across the bridge walkway. Mel had wanted to get here quickly because she is going out later and it takes her ages to get ready. Me on the other hand, well I can go for a night out with very little makeup on and still in my work clothes along with my hair hanging all out of the ponytail for a ruffled and slightly bedraggled effect. Sometimes this certain look has its own specific appeal and wins over the various men that I have met. Sometimes though, clearly, it does not always work out for me when I have no drinks bought for me all night. Never mind, the bonus of receiving an actual kiss from someone that I fancy rotten.

Unfortunately, I was a little too enthusiastic in my ways as the key chains suddenly went flying off the stand in the shop whilst I was daydreaming. They'd spun around too fast as it was a tad more free rolling than I'd anticipated, before falling down onto the display desk underneath them. It made such a clatter in the process as the metal and various gemstones hit the glass and scattered across it but thankfully did not break the thing altogether, seeing as it is the toughened kind. I got several funny looks from Jasper as he is busy showing Mel some of his more 'special' pieces. I think that this is the first time she has actually been in here. I know it's mine and it'll probably be my last since I can't afford any of this stuff, so I feel totally out of place when I hold up the last key ring that I'd picked up. It looks like; it is a bone of sorts but with decorative carvings on it.

'I'll take it, have it wrapped in a pretty bow and delivered to my address, there's a good man,' I say in a jokey, posh voice. Only they ignore me and it is not only the gunman, who can put on a silly tone to his vocal cords when he wants to. My God, we have something in common. What the blazers does that mean?

Meanwhile Jasper leads Mel over to a high desk with a big red velvet cloth draped across it, which is obviously covering something important underneath it. As I think, I can guess what that will be. Therefore, I go to put the key ring back along with all the others but I am not really looking at what it is that I am doing. For I cannot take my eyes off the cloth, seeing as all is about to be revealed. When I wonder whether to get out my mobile phone and digitally capture the moment forever. Although of course, I do not have my phone or Mel's one anymore since that bugger buggered off with them. It was then that I pushed the key ring back onto the display stand in a jabbing motion, only I was a little too eager to do this and it accidently fell over all together and made an even bigger mess on the tiled floor where Jasper attentively stands behind the counter. Why could it not have fallen the other way, onto the carpeted side where the customers usually congregate? Jasper and Mel both glare at me for my continuing clumsiness, since I think that I have spoiled the moment with my fidgety fingers.

'Don't mind me. You both carry on. Pretend that I am not even here. I promise to stay absolutely still until you are through and then, I will pick up the mess,' I announce and make like a statue.

'Err . . . Mel. My darling . . . will you do me the honour of lifting that cloth up and giving me your answer,' says Jasper and kneeling down on the tiled floor. While I figure that, he would be better off kneeling on the carpet instead. Especially, since a couple of the key rings had skated across the hard surface and having found their way under his left kneecap with all his ample weight on it. The poor dude yelped out in agony and if anything can put you off saying yes, then it is the thought that you have hurt him already and caused him great pain even before he gets the bill for the nuptials.

'Are you OK?' asks Mel. I am saying nothing, just like I promised.

'Yes, yes. I am fine . . . lift . . . up the damn cloth so that I can get up already,' he replies to her question and seems to be fighting back the tears (of being crippled for life or unexpected emotion or both).

'Oh my God, this is totally out of the zone but . . . yes; I would like to be your wife. Nobody has ever asked me before, but I'm not signing a "pre-nup" or nothing like that because I believe in true love,' said Mel as she helps Jasper up off the ground, since I don't think he could get up by himself if his life depended on it. I am gobsmacked by the amount of beautiful diamond rings that he has laid out on the velvet cloth in the large ring display tray to form the words, 'MARRY ME?'

'Go on then, my darling. Pick one of those dazzlers, just like I picked you and nothing shines brighter in my eyes than you do,' he says and goes to kiss her. Only Jasper catches her cheek when Mel turns her head to choose the biggest rock she can find.

It was the dot at the bottom of the question mark. It does not matter if it does not fit, she will get it made to and it does not matter about the price. However, it had better be the most expensive ring in the entire place if I know Mel and I do. I know the way she thinks and if he thinks that she truly adores him then sadly, he is delusional but they do say that love can grow. Well I wouldn't bet on the outcome of a spring wedding lasting in married bliss by the time the leaves fall off the trees of the same year, put it that way. If I try to interfere and tell the two of them to wait then they will suggest in return that I butt out as it is their business and like I said, nobody ever listens to me and takes my advice anyway. Mel always insisted that she wanted to get married in her 'prime' so that the wedding pictures would be forever beautiful and shallow as that sounds, I guess that particular wish can now come true. What the hell, it's their life to mess up not mine. Besides, I have always secretly wanted to be a bridesmaid, if not an actual bride.

There I was, on my knees behind the counter and picking up the key rings that had spilled across the tiled floor. Mel was busy smooching with her fiancé and admiring her engagement ring. Some of the key rings even went underneath the counter, which is just bloody typical of my luck as nothing ever comes easily to me. And I'm trying to reach them with the long broom handle, when some madman bursts into the shop and starts shouting something about not doing anything stupid and playing the hero. I would recognise that put-on voice anywhere, since it haunts my dreams and regularly turns them into nightmares. Jasper did not lock the shop door properly after we had arrived, when dealing with other matters and now the gunman is standing in front of us. I spy him from my crouching position behind the glass counter. Only there is no hiding place for me either, seeing as he can see right through it. He is wearing the black biker uniform again, since this seems to carry favour with him for doing his robberies as of late.

I really cannot believe that it is happening again. Is it Groundhog Day? It will not stop until I get it right. Perhaps, I am living in some sort of permanent nightmare and I cannot wake up from it no matter how hard I pinch my left arm until it is red and sore. Whatever happened to, 'robbing the rich to feed the poor' since I unfortunately fall into the latter category. However, this fiend is no 'Robin Hood' let me tell you that for nothing. The gunman bobs the gun up and down as he points it at me to signal that I am to get up so I do and join my fellow hostages in our plight of him robbing our possessions. While I hope that, he has not progressed to doing anything else since these things do have a habit of escalating. I do not know which is worse now, me thinking about going back on those escalators outside this place to get out of here or dealing with the gunman. As both are potentially bad for my mental health but now, they cancel each other out in the fear stakes.

'Just give him the stuff and he'll leave,' I say as if I know the routine down pat by now.

'Is this the same gunman that robbed you before?' asks Mel of me, because she can tell by my face that this feels oddly familiar and is very weird at the same time. I nod my answer to let them both know that yes, unfortunately, it is him.

'I'm not going to just hand over my goods, just because he has a gun. You said that he never actually hurts anyone. Well, listen up you thieving git. I won't be the soft target that you're used to,' says Jasper bravely, as he grabs the broom out of my hands and starts hitting the gunman with it over the head. It has next to no effect on him, since his helmet protects him so he can take it but the wooden handle cannot take the beating and snaps in two. Mel and I immediately cling to each other in fright at what the outcome might be. Just as they were like two bulls in a china shop, where the 'damage was done' as a major scuffle broke out between the blokes. But all of a sudden the gun goes off in the ensuing struggle between the two fighting men and then, an eerie silence descends on the scene as we all go into shock, bar one.

Week Four

(Monday)

Thinking back on it, it was Jasper's own fault that he shot himself in the foot and I mean that literally. I told Jasper that the gunman would not intentionally shoot him if he played ball and that he should just hand over the stuff, because that is what he pays his insurance for after all. Surely, nothing is worth losing a little toe over in the gamble of defending his stock. Only would Jasper listen? No, he bloody well would not and ended up paying the price of a lost pinkie in the process.

It took place when Jasper had managed to tackle the gunman to the ground and having successfully grabbed the gun out of the gloved hand of the robber. Only to spring back up onto his feet with it and accidently run his finger over the trigger in all the excitement, without paying much attention as to which way the weapon was pointed at the time. (I thought that I was the only one with fidgety fingers.) So of course, the inevitable happened and Jasper immediately dropped the thing on the ground that had caused him so much pain, not to mention everlasting grief. As a result, the gunman picked up his weapon. He then went on to rob the joint, taking not only all the expensive looking jewellery that he could stuff into his giant holdall but Mel's brand-new engagement ring as well whilst her fiancé lay bleeding on the carpet and it'll take more than a tonic to get that stain out.

I did not really care that this vile bloke had made off with my bag containing the sparkly Chick-Lit, hardback book with the fake mirror on the front which I was half-way through reading. I was just glad that he was gone in a flash. (If the gunman carries on like this, then he will have a bigger handbag collection than me. Just what type of man exactly are we dealing with here, if he is into handbags?) The thing that forced the gunman to leave abruptly was when Jasper managed to crawl across and raise the alarm by pressing the secret button underneath the counter and thus, alerting the police as to what was going down. Jasper was lucky that the gunman did not shoot him for it. He was however terribly brave to try to protect Mel and I like that and put his own life on the line.

Obviously, it was mostly Mel who Jasper cared deeply about so who can blame him for trying to save her? In doing so, Jasper just became her 'hero' right in front of her very eyes. I think Mel will definitely marry him now for sure, judging by the way that she is looking at him in a new light. Strange turn-up for the books, is it not? One minute she is thinking about marrying him for the sake of marrying him and then, it turns in the blink of an eye into something much deeper through a shared bad experience. You could not make this stuff up and if you had tried to write it all down and turn it into a story, then nobody would believe you. Only it happened. I swear it really went down in real time, in real life and I witnessed it for real. Therefore, in my eyes I should become the chief bridesmaid over Cara. I mean, hello, after all that I have gone through to bring these two people together like this. It is the least they can do to thank me.

Anyway, it is a new week, a new day and a new start. I am just glad to be returning to work. It's the longest that I've ever been off and I wouldn't have minded, if I'd have had the money to go away on holiday for the duration of it but I didn't. Overall, it has been a total waste of my life really and those precious moments I can never get back. I'd insisted that I didn't need any more time to recuperate, seeing as I was getting a tad worried that they were coping too well without me and if that happens then I'm definitely for the chop. I was also starting to go a little stir-crazy without the company of others, whilst the girls were out and doing their thing. As there is only so many hours in the day that you can read before you start going cross-eyed. The written words begin to merge on the page and blend into one big fat jumble of letters (just me then and I really should book an eye examination to see if I need to change these specs for stronger ones).

Before all that, I think I will nip into the bookshop on the high street in my lunch hour. Who needs food when there is love to feed you? This being a cringe worthy winner on the 'sop-monitor' of all sayings I know but yes, I am going to face the situation and take a chance on the bookseller bloke. I think my friends are right and I should find myself a man to take my mind off a certain someone with a gun. Otherwise, I will become very paranoid about him and that will be the end of my sanity and me, as we know it. Please do not be making any comments in the back, about me having already lost it; you know where the exit is because it has a picture of you running for it. I am going mad, am I not? And in that case, then I've nothing to lose but my pride as I've said before so I think we've already established that I probably lost that a long time ago.

'You don't have to be "menthol" to work here but it helps,' jokes Tonya. She pops a throat lozenge into her mouth and offers me one from the packet, as I hear the sound of it bashing against her teeth.

'No, thanks . . . I'm fine. I do not have a sore anything and that is what I have been trying to get through to the boss over the last couple of weeks, but he insisted that I stay home. Sorry that you had to cover for me,' I reply, as I place my headset on and prepare to answer any incoming calls to the place where we work on reception.

'Honestly, honey . . . no problem and I even got a bonus for it which I wasn't expecting, but they'd said that I deserved it. You know me, I never think that I do not deserve the better things in life so I was well chuffed.'

'Yeah but now, you are not well and perhaps you should go home and rest up. I should be covering for you instead.'

'Nah, I'll be all right. It is only a bit of a cold; I have taken my meds so I should be fine. And I need to do my job just to take my mind off the big disappointment.'

'That footballer didn't dump you, did he?'

'God no, he would not do that because the sex is too good. But I got my period so I'm still not pregnant, yet,' she moaned with a pout.

'Maybe, he's shooting blanks. I wonder if there's a way to get him tested without his knowledge.' Note here, that although I do not approve of what Tonya is doing when deliberately trying to trap a wealthy man. I also cannot condemn her outright because gold-digger or not, she is still my friend and I have to be supportive in whatever she chooses to do with her body. Besides, trying to talk her out of it did not work as I have already done that and failed miserably. (I told you, nobody ever listens to me even if I am being the voice of reason and with only good intentions at heart.)

'I could take a full condom along to the clinic. But would they test it without his consent, even if I paid them . . . that's the question?'

'I was under the impression that you were pricking his packets of condoms with the safety pin that you'd secretly attached to your knickers. So how would you get a "full" condom if that's the case?'

'Well obviously, I wouldn't do that one and I'd tie the end of it to stop any spillage before placing it into the Tupperware. I mean it has to be airtight, doesn't it?' Tonya replies with a decisive nod of her head to show that she is serious.

'I thought those brand of condoms have spermicidal stuff on them. So wouldn't that affect the outcome of any test anyway and it wouldn't be accurate then?'

'God yeah, you are right . . . I will have to come up with another plan. Who would have thought that getting pregnant would bring such hassle with it?'

'Oh I know, women are getting pregnant all the time and some of them do not even want to become mothers and here is you, desperate and still without child. It's just not fair, is it?' I sympathise and check the time before taking my handbag off the front desk and placing it down underneath where I am sitting, so that it is out of the way.

'No, it's so not fair . . . Jeez, it could be me that has the problem with my baby making machine. I never thought of that.'

'I'm sure you've nothing to worry about. But there's nothing stopping you getting tested, is there?' I say to reassure her.

'Yeah, I think I will as it'll put my mind at rest. Good morning, can I help you?' says Tonya as she stops talking to me and focuses on a new arrival in the reception of the modern building, while we start our working day in earnest.

'Who's that?' I enquire once the person in question has left our desk. He is safely standing fully out of any earshot range, as he waits to enter the lift.

'Oh that's the new media consultant Mr Ellis. He started here last week.'

'Oh great . . . that will be a "one in, one out" policy and it will be me, I just know it. I can feel it in my water. He is rather dishy. Is he married?' I ask and leaning over in order to get a better peek into the monitor that shows the silent, moving picture taken by the camera inside the elevator.

'Don't bother drooling over him.'

'Why's that? He's married then.'

'Nah, just gay but they do say that everywoman should have a gay husband,' replies Tonya and filing her talons.

'What would be the point of that?'

'Not in the literal sense. He would just be your "best friend" when your real husband isn't, or can't be for fear of losing his masculinity.'

'You're, well up on the ins and outs then. Aren't you?'

'Yeah, my brother's gay. His friend's agreed to be my gay husband when I get married.'

'Is this something that you register and put on the gift list for your nuptials and expect to receive all wrapped up in a shiny big bow?' I jest and we both snort at the mental picture it evokes in our minds.

'Well, it'd definitely add to the ambience of the wedding night that's for sure.'

Christ, I dare not tell her about the time that Cara and I drunkenly wandered into a private party at a club in town. We had thought that we had died and gone to heaven, when we saw the number of good-looking men there for the taking. We had figured that it was something of a rugby do where no women 'were allowed' due to the boisterous nature of those songs they sing and the amount of alcohol consumed. I mean, men who happily bathe together do not necessarily need any women around to have a good time, do they? Anyhow, we had assumed that it was one of their drinking games and we could perhaps play along, when the challenge went out to see how many penny coins they could shove up the foreskin of the penis and the one with the most won a bottle of champagne. Obviously, we could not join in but we did referee to declare a winner and to be fair, they were behaving like 'proper gentlemen' in how they treated us with the upmost respect. We later found out that they were all gay rugby players but it did not matter as in the end we had one of the best nights of our lives. Boy, can they dance their cotton socks off for such big lads. They definitely put us two to shame.

Come lunchtime today and I am following my heart and hopefully, it will lead to a dream come true when the bookseller bloke and I get together. If not, then it'll be a total disaster and I might as well hook-up with the gunman seeing as he seems to be the only one keen on sharing my company these days, apart from Den that is but he doesn't count. I have already tried to explain why, so please do not make me do it all over again. The less encouragement Den gets the better as far as I am concerned, so chalk it all up to experience is what I say. Only Den will not let it be, as he keeps asking Graham to ask Cara to ask me if I will go out on another date with him. Honestly, it is like being back in the playground and I am half expecting him to run up and pull my hair any second now to show me that he likes me.

Thank God, Graham's cousin called Den is going home this week. The cheeky git even had a bath in our flat the other night and used up all the hot water, so that I could not have one when I got back from volleyball. I'd staggered in all sweaty and looking forward to soaking away the aches and pains of doing an actual sport and it hurts somewhat when you're not that terribly fit to begin with, since I don't exercise every day like a maniac like some I could mention (meaning Mel). Let me tell you something for nothing, it sure takes its toll on the muscles that you did not even know you had and have not used for the last couple of weeks. Anyhow, I did not notice the puddle of soapy water on the tiled floor that Den had spilt earlier on and had not bothered to mop up, when I went arse over tit and practically garrotted myself within the realm of the toilet seat (which is hard to imagine but true). He had even peed on it and left it wet.

Den has been bugging me no end, as he hangs about our place with Graham and Cara and I will be glad to see the back of him that is for sure. Moreover, no, I will not be seeing him off and wishing him 'bon voyage'. However, I would be willing to contribute towards his train ticket, if that is what it took to 'be shut of him'. Unless of course, I did not believe that Den was actually leaving and instead he was thinking about moving here on a permanent basis. Only then perhaps, I would need actual proof that he really was going to vacate this city. I would then turn up and have to see it with my own two eyes, before I broke out the champers to celebrate his departure.

I know I sound harsh, but I just do not like the dude and I always go with my gut feeling and it is telling me to be very wary of him for some reason. That and the iffy tummy I had after he had offered to cook dinner for us. I swear I found a plastic bead in my chilli and it was certainly like no hard bean I have ever tasted before. The bloke tried to kill me with kindness. It was his way of thanking us for all our hospitality (not that I really wanted to give it in the first place, but there you go).

The quaint but old bell above the shop door rings out when I enter the bookstore and the guy who owns it pops up (almost in surprise) from placing a novel on the lower shelves that you have to bend down to reach. Unless of course you are as small as a kid but thinking about it, I do not notice any children's books on first glance and perhaps he keeps them at the back of the store. I have never been in this place before, seeing as my friends informed me that they did not stock my kind of literature needs so why bother. Only, if I had known what a charming man lay behind the Victorian bow fronted shell of a building then I would have made a point of visiting sooner rather than later.

If I am starting to come across as a bit of a man-eater, then let me assure you that I am nothing of the kind. I do not intentionally chew them up and spit them out; it just happens that way sometimes. To be honest, I have been on the end of a few fair 'roasting' relationships and got myself burned I can tell you so all's fair in love and sex, isn't it? Then again, how come it never feels like that when you are crying into your ice cream and making it melt before you have even had the chance to eat it? I am talking from personal experience here; it never tastes the same after that for its kind of salty. While you can make of that, what you will but let us just put the record straight. Men have dumped me more times, than I have dumped someone so surely I deserve to bag myself a bargain in the love market. I would dearly like to 'own' this male specimen, if he is offering himself up for the taking that is.

'Hello, how are you?'

'Oh, I am fine . . . I just popped in to buy a book,' I reply and nervously look around the room stacked with them. I am not so confident without the ale inside me.

'Maybe, I can help you find what you're looking for. What do you like to read? If you tell me, then perhaps I can recommend something for you,' he says and walks towards me, for I seem to have frozen on the spot all of a sudden. He is even 'fitter' and more handsome; sober (not him obviously with the drinking but me). And usually it's the other way around as in the more I drink, the better looking you become scenario but that rule certainly doesn't apply here.

'Yes, I can read . . . err . . . I mean, I do read and I like to read "Chick-Lit". But I don't know if you have any of those types of books in stock,' I said and search with my eyes for so much as a pink cover or even some swirly writing with a cupcake, cityscape, pair of legs, shoes or even handbags. No, not a handbag since that only serves to remind me of the gunman. Shit, I do not want to think about him anymore but my stupid thoughts will not let me.

'We do have a small selection by the more well-known authors of that genre. So if you'll just follow me then I'll show you where they are.' I did as asked and dutifully shuffled along behind him.

'Yeah, I have read that one and that one . . . not had the privilege yet but these are all brand-new and at full price. I usually buy my books second-hand and for a fraction of the cost. Do you have any of those as I'm on a bit of a tight budget to be honest?' I ask as I notice that he goes slightly red in embarrassment, for me.

Only I am not ashamed of being a bit on the poor side of life so why should he be, for me. It is just the way, it is. I have long since accepted my fate and I just get on with it. I am not one to bore you with tales of my misery because frankly, we are hardly living in Dickensian times so it could be worse and I have my health. I have my job (for now) and if not, then I have state benefits to fall back on until I get a new one. All thanks to God, the government and generous taxpayers like me. Life is fully worth living to the max since I have my friends and an adoptive family, which mean the world to me (now that the parents are happily divorced and the warring parties declared peace between them). So what more could I want, besides, a decent man to share everything and nothing with I suppose and I'm working on that right now.

'As a matter of fact, we do have several, second-hand "Chick-Lit" titles that I accepted the other day off a bloke who was looking to get rid of them,' he replies and points to the wicker basket of discount books on the counter.

'Thanks. I'll take a look,' I say and I am just about to start rummaging through them, when I notice the big clock on the wall.

'What's the matter? Have you read those too?'

'No, it is not that . . . I have not even glanced through them properly yet. It is just that I did not realise that my lunch hour is almost over. I'll have to leave now if I want to make it back to work on time.'

'You know, it is such a nice day that I am going to shut up shop for the afternoon and take a drive into the countryside. It might be the last chance before the weather turns. I'm going to have a picnic and curl up with a good book under a tree.'

'Sounds great, I wish I could do that . . . just take off like that and be spontaneous. Right well, enjoy your day but I must be off. I'll pop back in for that book sometime,' I say and feeling pleased that I have made the first move at least, on making contact with him I mean.

'How about joining me for that ride? I'm sure you'll enjoy the picnic too, or have you already eaten?' he asks and goes to open the door for me and being the 'gentleman' that he seems to be. I am not one of these diehard feminists, who think that it is an insult if a dude offers to help her with certain things. On the contrary, I love it as it makes me feel rather special and taken care of and we can all do with a bit of that.

'Are you asking me out on a date?' I enquire and stop in my tracks right inside the doorway.

'Yes, I suppose I am.'

'But I don't even know your name, your first name I mean. I know your surname is, Brockman from the sign above the door.'

'It's, Conrad . . . but you can call me, Brockman if you like. I answer to anything these days . . . even, "weirdo"!'

'Huh, you remembered about that. Nobody actually calls you that, it was just me. Not that I meant, that I call you that but I was shamefully drunk and disorderly at the time so take no notice.'

'I'll bear this in mind, for the next time you're like that,' he jests.

'I like the fact that you're foreign, but I can't place the accent. Where is it that you're from?'

'I'm from the Netherlands, Holland to be exact and my late uncle originally came here for a quieter life away from his ex-wives. And I came here to study.'

'You don't look very "Scandinavian" to me, not being blond I mean.'

'That's because I'm not. I am considered Nordic, but mostly Dutch by other nations.'

'Right yeah, I knew that. What is it that you're studying?' I retort with a lie and then change the subject in order to hide this dumb fact.

'I'm doing engineering but, I also have the shop to run these days. So it's taking me longer to finish my studies than I'd anticipated.'

'Well, to finally answer your earlier question. I have not eaten anything apart from a sore throat lozenge that my friend gave me, not that I have one mind but it was better than nothing I suppose. I spent my lunch hour getting here and yes, I'd love to spend more time with you but what about work?'

'You can just phone in sick. Pretend that you have a sore throat for real or something,' he suggests with a hot smile and it just melts my solid reservations into liquid form.

I am actually going to go with him and I do not even really know anything about the dude. The excitement of it all frankly has me fit to burst, as I want to let out a big fat girly giggle right in front of him. Then, toss my hair and bat my eyelashes and do all that other stuff that constitutes when a woman is 'in heat' and flirting with intent. I cannot take my eyes off him. I would not be surprised if my backside starts to swell up and go bright red like an ape, for it is definitely time to call in the vet and have me put down. Why they should make it a crime and they probably have in some countries for all I know, to be this criminally attracted to someone? I am acting outrageous nowadays and doing stuff that I would not normally do, so they will have to lock me up if they want to make me stop behaving like a woman on the edge of starting something special.

Anyway, he closed up the shop and I phoned into work. I had claimed to be having something of a mental meltdown, by having returned to work too soon after the 'incidents'. And the next thing I know, is that he's sat beside me and having donned a strong splash of manly aftershave so he must mean business where I'm concerned if he wants to smell nice for me. Only if I am honest, I prefer the lovely understated but clean soap scent that he had in the pub. So there I am with a pair of massive old-fashioned goggles on my face, which are really starting to hurt around the eyes as they pinch the skin. While he drives me along the country roads and being up high enough in this seat to get serious vertigo and so as not to be able to duck down before anyone sees me. It is not so much an ultra trendy sexy vintage sports car that I had in mind when he had suggested this drive and I am regretting it already. We are travelling in what appears to be the next model up from that famous car in that kiddie movie. Oh, what was the name of it? Ah yes, 'Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang' and if this vehicle suddenly takes flight and he becomes 'The Flying Dutchman', then I am hitting the reject button on this relationship forth with.

Perhaps, I should have asked what kind of transport he had before I agreed to this. It is not so much my wild hair blowing in the wind that I am bothered about, but the deep recess left on my face once I take the goggles off that truly bothers me even before it happens. Frankly, I would rather get nasty bugs in my eyes than suffer this humiliation seeing as someone points to us and cheekily takes a picture. It is probably a redeeming feature that nobody can actually recognise me in them, so I am afraid they are staying put. I will deal with the damage to my skin later and here is hoping that it is not permanent.

My date had attached the picnic basket to the backside of the car, because this thing does not even have a proper boot. We soon came across some sheep. Conrad clearly thinks it is funny to scare them with his 'toot, toot' of a pathetic horn that you have to squeeze just to make a sound. Next, we had to deal with some people on pushbikes, which were in the way and not veering to the side to let us pass. In that, they were too busy wobbling along the road. Well I had yelled at them to move over, since they were taking no notice of the stupid sounds otherwise coming from this vehicle. It did the trick and probably scared Conrad into the bargain too, for I can be forceful when I want to be. Ask Den.

We finally arrive at our destination. As Conrad, leaps out of the vehicle on his side and runs around it in order to help me get down from my seat. He holds my hand, whilst I grip my handbag and rather unsteadily shake my way down the couple of foldout steps. It certainly was not as elegant getting in the damn thing earlier on either. I had had to practically belly flop aboard it from the ledge that runs along the bottom of the car and spin around in a scramble, just to get myself into an upright position. (I did not know that it had a couple of foldout steps under the rim, did I?)

Upon which, I rip the goggles off my face and immediately rummage in my bag for a mirror to check the damage. I bloody well knew it, my eye area and lower forehead and upper cheeks have puffed up like a saggy pink balloon and I have a deep red rim running around the edge of it. Not the best look to seduce someone, I think you will agree. I may as well have stuck a suction cap on my face, seeing as that is what I appear to have done to myself.

Conrad's goggles on the other hand had fitted him perfectly and he is practically unscathed by the fact that he has just taken his off too. Mind you, Conrad is used to the pinching of his skin so he has surely become accustomed to it but mine has not. I am wondering how long this effect will last. I run my fingers over my face and knead it a little in a bid to try to regain some circulation, not to mention bringing some feeling back to the resounding problem patches. I can just about see out of my eyes for they are that puffed-up and practically closed altogether. He actually did the 'jump-back-in-fright' thing when I turned around to look at him and he saw the results of me wearing those bloody goggles. I hope it does not stay like this for ages and he's not that put off by my current facial features.

'Do you like "Foie Gras"?' he asks, having set up the gingham picnic blanket next to the river. What a great spot Conrad has chosen?

'I do, I love the taste. Only I always feel guilty eating goose liver pâté because of the way, the poor animals are force-fed to develop the big fatty organs. Don't you?'

'Oh you can eat this stuff with an untroubled mind; it's not made by using the "Gavage" method of feeding,' Conrad replies and offers me a cracker with a dollop on top. He is seemingly intent on feeding me by hand, but I am not sure if I like it or loathe it to be truthful. (The 'being fed' by him bit and not the food, since that was delicious.)

'Thanks, I'd love a drop of champagne to go with it,' I say as the crumbs from the cracker fall down the cleavage of my blouse. I had opened up more buttons than I normally would for work purposes. As I had eyed up the bottle by the open basket, along with a selection of cheeses and mixed fruit yogurt treats.

Overall, even with the crunchy breasts that when rubbed together on movement deemed to make itchy dust down my top half, I soon relaxed and quite enjoyed the picnic. The only sounds around for miles on end were the occasional chatter of the birds and the trickle of water flowing from the slow moving river down by the embankment. It was so beautiful and peaceful, just as Conrad read a few poems to me about nature that sure made the whole place come alive for me. They were by a famous poet that was 'well known' for capturing the essence of whatever he was writing about with the perfect word choice to summon up the moment and draw you into it. I have never even heard of him or read his stuff before but I have now and it is so true, love is such a learning curve. (That is what that means, right?)

Anyhow, I lay my head on a small plump pillow from the car that now rested in his lap. As Conrad leaned his back against the big weeping willow tree and its umbrella of dappled shade, which protected us from having to use any sunscreen. It really was such a lovely way to spend a lazy afternoon and 'playing hooky' from work. I should do it more often. And I know that I could have done it quite readily over the last few weeks but it's not the same when it's legit and besides, it wouldn't have been as much fun on my own and being without the delightful company of a certain Dutchman.

We soon got all silly when I asked him about his favourite book and I was a little surprised to find out that it was a children's title, being 'Winnie-the-Pooh'. I have read it obviously, but not since I was a nipper and if it is that good then perhaps I should go back and re-read it with grown-up eyes as they do say that you see things differently. As a result, we'd ended up playing 'Poohsticks' when we stood on the old dry stone wall bridge with a road in-between the thick walls. Having dropped our chosen twigs into the steady stream of water below. Then, we chased to the other side where we waited to see which one won the race and appeared first from out of the darkness. Mine had a fork shape to it and I had figured that that would help to steer it to victory by balancing itself on the surface. It didn't and even having a 'best-out-of-three' didn't secure my winning in the long run, seeing as his one that was as straight as an arrow won fair and square every time. Oh well, you cannot win them all and I will just be glad to win over the affections of Conrad at this stage in the game.

'I want to kiss you?' he says out of the blue and turned to face me right where we stood, having straightened up after leaning over the side to peer downwards into the gentle breeze that had blown strands of my hair all across my puffy eyes. I did not really mind the fact that my features were now in hiding and would not scare him off so much.

'Well, what's stopping you? Not me, that's for sure,' I replied blindly and puckered up for the kiss of the decade. No, century, no, millennium, oh you get the picture and there is no need for me to exaggerate here any further.

I didn't give a hoot about having to wear those stupid looking goggles all the way back home after that because I was in seventh heaven, whatever that means as I'm not really up on my religious education to be honest. However, I do know that I am falling for this man in a big way and that is Major with a capital M, as my friend Mel would put it. Speaking about friends, I cannot wait to tell them once my face has gone back to normal since they will think that he has hit me if they see the puffy eyes, or even made me cry at least. As I hang around the bookshop to share a coffee and more of Conrad's time, which I am certainly not upset about. While he makes the drinks, I make my way to the Chick-Lit books that he'd said earlier on were second-hand and being situated in the wicker basket over on the counter top, along with a couple of other genres. I cannot read 'Horror' for it will only give me nightmares and frankly, I have enough trouble sleeping since that gunman entered my world as it is.

As I flick through the familiar titles and pick them up to study them further and it confirms my fears by what I see. These are my ones, the very ones that I had stolen off me by the gunman. I can tell this by the fact that the corners of the pages that I've read, I'd turned over to make a triangle by way of bookmarking where I'm up to and they're still in the same place. One even whiffs of my perfume that I had sprayed it with to mask the smell of smoke from the previous owner. No, it cannot be. The gunman and the bookseller cannot be the same person, surely not. Saying that, they are the same build and use the same overpowering scent on themselves and that was a put-on accent if ever I heard one from the gunman. Did it have a slight Dutch twang to it?

My mind was racing; my feelings were all over the place. Then, I felt someone's presence behind me so I turned around slowly only to come face to face (sort of, since he was wearing a black helmet) with none other than the gunman. As I had, his weapon pointed at me once more with him being dressed in all his biker gear. Only what was the point of hiding his face any longer, when I know that it is the bookseller in disguise and it does not take Sherlock Holmes to work this one out for his or herself?

'You can take the helmet off. I know it is you, Conrad Brockman.'

'I heard my name and I'm coming right now,' says Conrad as he wanders back into the main room of the bookshop, carrying a tray of coffees and those little Italian biscuits that I love. I can never remember the name of them and since my mind is full of fear at present, I do not have a cat in hell's chance of remembering it.

'So, you're not him. I got this all wrong. Who are you then?' I ask the gunman and being totally confused, because I had thought that I had it all worked out and so much for my detective skills.

'Who is this? Do you know him?' asks Conrad of me and why does everyone assume that I know the dude when clearly, I do not.

'He keeps following me around and robbing people,' I reply as if I am getting used to the idea and believe me, I am not.

'Are you here to rob me too?' asks Conrad and freezing on the spot, because he did not even put down the tray.

'I'll take whatever cash you have and hand over the keys to your car as well,' said the gunman and pointing his weapon at Conrad, who started to shake with fear and the cups on the saucers started to rattle.

'Believe me, you won't want that car. It is ancient and you have to wear goggles. Look what they've done to me,' I pipe up as I point at my still puffed up features on my face.

'Shut up, Kelly. I am done with you. I'm going home so you won't have to put up with me any longer.'

'He sounds like he does know you,' expresses Conrad and I could not agree more.

'Oh my God . . . Den is the only person I know that's going home today. It's you, isn't it?'

'Kelly, why did you have to spoil things? I could have been and gone and nobody would be any the wiser as to whom I really am, but now that you have sussed me out. Well that changes things entirely, does it not? I can't leave behind any witnesses, thanks to you,' replies Den in his own voice as he lifts the helmet off his head and aims his gun at Conrad. Jeez, he is going to shoot him for real this time.

I have to do something because frankly, it is my fault in the first place that Conrad is in danger and I could not live with that. I might not have to, if Den carries out his threat and ties up those loose ends that might lead to his arrest when we identify him as the gunman that has been all over the news. Thankfully, the police did not mention to the press about my connection to every crime scene and I agreed to testify once they had caught him. Never for one second, did I suspect that I was practically living with the gunman for the best part of a month. Seriously, Den had spent more time at our place than in his cousin's flat. Graham had warned me that Den's infatuation was getting out of hand but this is ridicules behaviour if he thought that it would endear him to me in any way. If anything, I hate him even more if possible.

The Chick-Lit book that I am holding on to is the hardback one that has a fake mirror on the front and I lift it up to shine the reflected spotlight right into Den's eyes, which temporarily blinds the dude with the gun. As I then leapt on Den and bashed him about the head with it. I was so angry and to be honest, I did not quite know where it all came from or that I could even be so violent. It did the trick, Den dropped the weapon and I picked it up as I ordered Conrad to ring the police. The poor bookseller looked more scared of me than the gun-toting robber did by the end. Shockingly, I scared myself most of all.

To be fair, in a roundabout way, 'Chick-Lit saved my life' (and Conrad's but I did not want his name in the title). After this, my days were back to normal and that is just the way I like it. As for my relationship with Conrad Brockman, well, sadly that was 'not meant to be' seeing as he never got over the shock of seeing me beating a man half to death with a book and I know how he feels about those. He clearly loves them more than me and who can blame him since you usually know what you are getting when you settle down with one, but people on the other hand.

Before I sign off, let me explain what happened with Mel and Jasper. They did get married. Only it turned out not to be as I had expected, when thinking of a big white wedding. For it was straight down the register office in the town hall, before the blessing. They had gone all spiritual since the incident with the gunman, where they could have lost their lives and it affects some people like that but not me. It took place within six weeks and I was chief bridesmaid (dream come true and tick that box). Let me tell you that I was never a fan of themed weddings beforehand, but there was something quite magical about this one. We had dressed up in medieval costume and pranced around a blazing log fire at dawn on a winter's day, whilst humming and mumbling an ancient tune to awaken the Gods of nature. I did not know the actual words, so I just improvised and sang the national anthem for I felt quite patriotic at the time for some reason.

In the light of everything, I was just happy that they did not actually sacrifice anything, mainly me. Specifically, when I saw the big knife that came out to cut the ivy vine which shackled the wedded couple together forever, so that they could actually walk away after being 'bound up' in it for the duration of the ceremony. By the end of it, we were all a bunch of naked 'tree-huggers' whilst seeing fairies and wishing to sprout wings so that we too could fly away and live inside a giant flower. For the life of me, I do not remember much after that mushroom wine. It was so potent that Jasper might very well grow another pinkie to replace the one, which the silly sod shot off during the robbery. Stranger things have happened, according to the high priestess or Goddess or whatever she calls herself. Only do not dare ask me what was in that love potion that I had purchased off the main woman in the big hooded purple cloak who was conducting the proceedings. Just do not call her a witch or she might put a spell on you, is what I was warned by Cara. I am so scared; I dare not move a muscle never mind speak I thought at the time.

And speaking of my other friend, indeed, Cara's still going out with Graham even though they went through a bit of a rough patch when he'd accidently found out about her other activities shall we say, over the phone. He went 'ballistic' at first with jealousy. Until that is, he saw how much money she was making from it since she is actually really rather good at all that 'sexy talk' and you have to hand her that. I know that Cara has made many men happy and probably kept them from doing something much, much worse so when you put it like that, it does not sound so bad at all.

Oh and by the way, the stinky love potion worked. Not that I got the benefit of it but like I said, Graham is once again in love with Cara and that is just the way we intend to keep it (whereas I am not convinced either way on this score, when I genuinely think about it). I mean it sounds absurd if you weighed up the odds of the love potion being solely responsible for someone's destiny. Well my faith lies with the money side of things taking precedence over proceedings since the happy couple have decided to move in together and rent a house and you can't do that on just their wages without her 'extra income' playing a big part, now can you?

As I end this story single, just like I started it but fear not dear friends for my well-being and let me leave you on a far happier note than that. I got the freaking job as the trainee buyer for the clothing manufacturer after all, which is just as well since the company I worked for had let me go from my last post. Thankfully, they kept Tonya on and she is going to need the work. That footballer bloke caught her in the act of pricking his condoms and she had confessed to wanting a baby and he dumped her on the spot, such is life. Over the next couple of days, we are moving in together and becoming flatmates because we get along so well and we are both on our own so it makes sense.

Anyway, it turns out that Miss Kettle saw the 'Chick-Lit' book inside my open bag when she had tripped over it as it was on the floor of her office. Turns out, she is a massive fan of that genre too so Miss Kettle figured that I could not be half-bad a person if we shared similar tastes in literature. Plus, I was number two on the list of job applicants and when their first choice dropped out of the running when having to go back home and look after a sick relative (sad I know, but whoopee time for me) so it was all mine for the taking and I took it.

I often wondered if it had anything to do with getting my lucky brooch back that had belonged to my late (adoptive) grandmother. I suppose I'll never know the answer to that but hey, I've used up a lot of luck lately so I think I'll just keep my head down and concentrate on my new job for a while. Hold on, check him out for he is fit and I have just met my new boss. He was the one that was supposed to interview me originally and I probably wouldn't have got the position if I'd have made it in on that day, because I would've been too 'goggle-eyed' to pay much attention to what he was actually saying. (This only deems to remind me of Conrad and his vehicle, so I must change the image in my head right away.) See, things happen for a reason. So do not worry too much and just go with flow I say as I know from now on, I am.

The End

Thank you for choosing this book. If you enjoyed it, then leaving a positive review is very welcome and much appreciated as it may make all the difference when someone is considering taking a chance on an author that is unknown to future readers. There are other entertaining titles available from Maureen Reil, which do not appear in description here so please check them out at your favourite online eBook distributor and happy reading.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Chick-Lit Stole My Life

(Book 2)

It should have been another ordinary month but when Kelly Stanford and her mates leave a nightclub, everything changes for good as they walk right into a feeding frenzy of global attention for cameras are suddenly in their faces from every angle. This all came about because of a Chick-Lit novel written by one of her friends, which depicted a relationship between Kelly and a real life prince charming. Is it true or is it fiction? As the press and paparazzi turn Kelly's world upside down and inside out but romance is still on the cards, despite this intrusion. Of course, none of it really matters at all if she cannot find her lost, late (adoptive) grandmother's lucky brooch, with or without the help or hindrance of a certain paparazzo. Why does he seem strangely familiar to her? She can survive this with her dignity intact, can she not? Only will one of the paps live, long enough to tell the tale?

To discover the answers to these questions and more, read the funny and often farcical novella that is the second book in the trilogy. Chick-Lit Saved My Life is the title of the first one. Look out for book three; Chick-Lit Staged My Life as it is available now for purchase at a checkout near you.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Chick-Lit Staged My Life

(Book 3)

What promised to be an exciting time for Kelly Stanford as the Chick-Lit novel about her life is all set to become a Chick-Flick? Of course, it soon turns into the month from hell once more as she embarks on the trip of a lifetime to Los Angeles and finds herself right in the middle of a mystery, or two. Who is the person trying to kill someone that Kelly is working for and who exactly are her birth parents, since she had always known from the get-go that they had adopted her. Will she ever find love again and will she get back her late (adoptive) grandmother's lucky brooch from the woman who had borrowed it?

To find out the answers to these probing questions, read the funny and farcical novella that is the final instalment in this fun filled trilogy. Chick-Lit Saved My Life being the first title and book two is also available called Chick-Lit Stole My Life. They can be enjoyed separately as single stories or bought together to give an entertaining overall picture about the humorous life of Miss Kelly Stanford.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Robyn Cross was looking forward to Christmas but not anymore. Not after she found out that, her husband cheated on her so she wants to divorce him despite loving the bones of the man, which makes it worse. Only first, they decide that for the sake of everybody they know and love that they will spend one last perfect Christmas together and try to fake it until they make it past not only Christmas but New Year's too and even beyond their daughter's birthday. If they can just last that long without giving the game away that is, for this is all for show remember so no forgetting that and falling back into old habits. However, if they do fail then that will surely ruin the festivities altogether for not just them but their family too. Well they are all going on a three-day trip to a Winter Wonderland Hotel Experience, so the atmosphere needs to be warmer than the weather outside since that is cold enough for snow.

Will they succeed and make it a memorable Christmas for all the right reasons? Will they mess up despite being on their best behaviour, when the ex turns up to pour fuel on the fire?

If you are in need of some funny festive fiction to get you laughing through this special season, then pick up this hilarious British novel which contains a few swear words so you have been warned. While you can be glad, you are not Robyn Cross for actions have consequences and they are not always so easy to make good on as she finds out but will you.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Desperate Dater's Intervention

Lacey Stanmore breaks up with her controlling boyfriend. Only he insists that they are merely on a break and not broken up for good at all. However, Lacey is determined to find herself another dude to replace him instead. This idea finds Lacey falling back into old habits and she becomes a desperate dater once more. When she goes out with men that are hardly the cashmere jumper of marriage material and more like a cheap suit made of polyester, since they hardly measure up to her neighbour. Unfortunately, for Lacey, the man she secretly loves from afar has a long-term girlfriend so that is never going to happen. Hence, Lacey asking for advice from her flatmate when she needs a Plus-One for the party she is going to the following weekend so her friend sets up a dating intervention for her. Where she enlists the help of certain people close to Lacey so they will choose her next dates for the week ahead and by the end of it, Lacey might have found love you never know or at least something that resembles a decent date at least. Well if you go on a series of consecutive blind dates in a row then one of them is surely going to turn into a second date, right. This of course sees Lacey having more hilarious and some might say disastrous dates then she knows what to do with. While nobody would believe her if, she wrote them all down and put them in a book but its true.

Will Lacey get the man of her dreams or just end up with a nightmare and a headache, not to mention the heartache?

This laugh-out-loud story is a British romantic comedy novel and it contains a few swear words too. So if it sounds like your cup of tea then please enjoy sensibly.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Short Break

(Comical Vacations Book 0)

This British funny fiction is the prequel in the Comical Vacations series that takes place the year of Kitty's divorce and before the first Finch Family Holiday kicks off. We find Kitty Finch trying to get to grips with life without Mason after seeking a friend on-line to share her time and troubles with but he turns out to be more trouble than he is worth. When things gets weird she tries to end their friendship, only he is not having it so she persuades her sister-in-law that she needs a short break. As Darcie suggests that Kitty accompany the couple on their three-day trip. However, it does not remain just the three of them going on an Amsterdam adventure when other Finch family members wangle a ticket to ride so they all travel in style together to their destination. Well the transport was certainly stylish but Kitty's attire was anything but and this turns out to be the least of her worries. How will she handle the fact that her newly ex-husband is coming along too and who is the mystery woman with him?

It was not all fun and games for Kitty when she discovers that things are not going her way no matter how hard she tries to deal with stuff that could prevent her enjoyment and talk about unrequited love, for it is catching on. Especially when Kitty ends up gate crashing a hen party and pretending to be someone else just so she can join in. Before she tastes the local delicacies with a new friend, not to mention the bike from hell that makes her suffer with embarrassment never mind physically with her health issues. There is also the Red Light District to contend with, where all her worst fears came true. Overall, it was a memorable stay in the end and to find out more just read this hilarious story of one woman's quest to keep her sanity and her sanitary towels intact.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Holiday 1

(Comical Vacations)

WISH YOU WERE HERE would be the words written on a dirty postcard from Blackpool that Kitty Finch would send home to the rest of her family, if only, they were not already there with her. So meet the Finch family as Kitty's Mum and Dad in the year of their 25th wedding anniversary take them lot back to the very place where they had spent their first ever vacation together as man and wife, in a Blackpool camp-site for a typically British seaside holiday. Spend time getting to know the multi-generational clan and their little ways, which can drive a person bonkers if you have to live with them for ten days like Kitty did. Will Kitty be able to enjoy the excursions, when plagued with the arthritis she suffers from? On the other hand, will she want to end it all off the top of The Blackpool Tower through embarrassment before their final day is done? Will everyone else survive the holiday come to that?

There are a couple of surprises joining them for the ride and plenty of comedic complications to overcome. Can Kitty really put her marriage to Mason behind her since the divorce and perhaps, have a holiday romance with someone new? Read this funny, feel good fiction to find out. The Finch Family Holiday is the first book of laugh-out-loud, short novels (series titled Comical Vacations) to feature the hilarious antics of Kitty and company. So be on the lookout for The Finch Family Holiday 2 as it is available now.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Holiday 2

(Comical Vacations)

Fancy a fun British holiday with the wacky Finch family in The Lake District then you are very welcome to join them for their second zany outing. In this laughter-filled story, Kitty has found herself a boyfriend that she met through the internet and she has invited the current man in her life to come along with them. Does her ex-husband approve of this new dude and does Kitty care if Mason cares? Will Kitty's continuing battle with her health issues interfere somewhat with them having a good time, not to mention the mishaps, misunderstandings and general mayhem all round?

Everyone tries their best to bond together on this exciting trip, only to rub each other up the wrong way. While a blast from the past manages to upset an excursion and causes Kitty yet more grief. As Kitty wonders if the local myths truly exist and is there a monster lurking at the bottom of the lake. Moreover, can a witch really put a curse on Kitty when she is made of stone? This is the least of her woes when she suspects a real post office robbery has taken place. Is it a crime to want this ten-day stint away from home, not to end up a complete disaster? Go on; I dare you to crack open the cover of this holiday scrapbook looking journal to find out what they did on their vacation. Be warned however that you might want to read book 3 as a result, which will follow this funny adventure for another one soon.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Holiday 3

(Comical Vacations)

It is that time of year again folks, yes summer is here so batten down the hatches because the Finch family are heading for Cornwall to stay in a holiday home by the sea with its own secluded beach. Sounds idyll, sounds relaxing and sounds like a lot of fun in the sun so one out of three is not bad since all is not what it seems and how is Kitty Finch supposed to chill out when there are certain people winding her up from start to finish. As extra members of the clan are joining them for the ten-day humorous adventure so sparks could fly if someone lit a match to ignite the tension, sexual or otherwise. There are days out to look forward to in Cornwall where the Finch family discover new things, try out new stuff and resort to old tricks when needs be.

Will Kitty's cousin get the better of her on this comical vacation? Will Kitty Finch be involved in any holiday romances or just watching from the sidelines, as per usual? Will a cardboard figure and a knitted scarecrow survive the vacation to go on another one?

So come along and catch up with the funny Finches as they show you what having a British family holiday is about. As it brings a bonding experience, it brings memories that will grow old with you and it brings love if you are lucky. If you forget the fights, the bickering and the temper tantrums then they all got along famously and you will too if you choose to spend some of your leisure getting to know Kitty and company all over again. Before that is, they embark on yet another hilarious outing in novel number four so take this as a warning not to forget to book early or risk missing out.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Holiday 4

(Comical Vacations)

This year's Finch family holiday finds them flying off to France for ten days in the rural French countryside. Only Kitty Finch seems to spend her vacation time searching for something whether it is a home for a pet, a handbag or a holiday romance. Not to mention the mystery man and his yellow socks that brings trouble her way. All whilst avoiding the unwanted advances of a certain somebody who does not know when to take no for an answer but should know better.

As the Finch family come across plenty of people to share their time with including German neighbours, English ex-pats and even a French farmer to name a few. One of the men Kitty meets is special enough to take her fancy for a French fling, so start reading this funny French farce to see if she succeeds despite the exes who are hijacking her holiday fun. Whether it comes to randy rabbits, randy monkeys or randy men it is all part of the experience.

This trip turns out to be full of surprises, especially, when someone suddenly gets down on one knee. How will Kitty handle such a bold declaration of love? Come on another comedy adventure with the Finches to read all about it in this laugh-out-loud British novel. As hilarity ensues and chaos continues but somehow against all the odds, they still manage to make it a memorable Finch family moment that stays with them long after the event and without having to look back at any holiday snaps to enjoy it.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Holiday 5

(Comical Vacations)

Who wants to go on holiday when they are ill in bed? Kitty Finch does not so she does her best to get out of the annual family holiday but no, her parents are having none of it so she is going to Turkey whether she likes it or not. Since they will probably kidnap her if, she does not comply and come willingly while she never imagined part of that sentence actually coming true on this trip. Anyway, they are soon off to the airport where her nightmares begin and not for the only time on this holiday does Kitty wish that she had stayed in bed and had not bothered getting up. Not that she wants to appear ungrateful about going on a five-day all-inclusive package holiday in the sun during the school half-term in October, it is just that she will be face-to-face with her ex-husband who she hasn't seen since the wedding fiasco and the less said about that the better.

Anyhow, things start looking up for Kitty when a new man comes into play but it also sees Kitty trying to avoid trouble she had not thought about since Amsterdam (The Finch Family Short Break, book 0 and prequel to the Comical Vacations series). Having read The Finch Family Short Break before this one then you will understand the way Kitty is behaving when she fears for her life to bring about plenty of laugh-out-loud moments. It is not all doom and gloom for poor old Kitty because she does get to experience things in Turkey that she never would, had she not gone there and some aspects of it she even enjoys. To find out what happens to the funny Finches in their ongoing saga, simply pick up a copy of this comedy romance novel to see what a British family holidaying abroad gets up to when left to their own devices. Just do not expect it to end there because the Finch family will be back for yet more shenanigans in the next book that is coming soon.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Easter Holiday 6

(Comical Vacations)

Let the good times roll since Kitty is excited to be going away for four fun filled days on their first (of many and hopefully not the last) Finch family holidays, together with her boyfriend for a short stay in a quaint B&B. Where she hopes they will get to spend some time alone as well as with the rest of the clan. Well, she would be more excited if she could shake the damn stomach bug she seems to have picked up probably from work as there is a lot of it going around and even her poor little nephew got sick so obviously Kitty is bound to catch any virus too knowing her luck. Only it will not stop her going for the Easter celebration up in Scotland, in the Highlands to be exact where real men wear kilts and women wear a shoe size twelve if Moira is anything to go by.

Whether it is a haunting by a ghost in the guesthouse or hunting for Nessie and the lost buried gold coins connected to Bonnie Prince Charlie or seeking the precious playing card belonging to her brother, then you can be sure that Kitty will give it her all even if it costs her more than her dignity in the end. There is also a secret to keep, a secret to reveal and a secret admirer to deal with alongside a beast on the prowl to be sure. As this mini vacation has plenty of cringe-worthy situations and surprises galore to cope with but Kitty has survived worse so she may be down temporarily but she will never be out for the count for long as she always bounces back. Therefore, travel with them on this trip for some funny feel good fiction from the British Finch family in this book 6 but be on the lookout for the next novel (book 7) in the Comical Vacations series as it will be out soon enough since the story continues...

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Bank Holiday 7

(Comical Vacations)

Now normally Kitty Finch loves a good wedding so at first she was excited at the thought of heading down to Berkshire and spending it with the rest of the Finches on a farm over the long bank holiday weekend. Okay, her enthusiasm was mainly because she saw it as a chance to be in a famously posh romantic setting with her ex since Kitty wanted to rekindle their relationship. I mean who does not fall in love with love when surrounded by so much joy, sentiment and happiness but not when she finds out he is bringing a 'plus one' and she is feeling fat or should that state fatter than usual because of her pregnancy.

Especially after finding out the nuptials of her cousin are going to have cameras in her face, which granted you expect at weddings so no biggie but this is not just by your average wedding video man. For she heard they are steaming it live onto the internet to her horror and we all know the camera adds ten pounds but in her case, it is bound to be more. While Kitty has been for a scan at the hospital with her dad, only to end up with a new accessory for her troubles so she is dreading what it will look like in the actual wedding album. If Kitty was under the impression that she could hide at the back to avoid not just the lens but also her exes then she had better think again. When an accident occurs and Kitty has to step in to someone else's shoes but not with her swollen feet so thankfully she gets to wear her own footwear in the end, however, it still doesn't help her walk down that aisle any better.

Joining Kitty and company in this hilarious mix of mayhem and merriment are a baby doll, naked butlers and a male escort plus a whole lot of laughs along the way. If this sounds right up your street for some fabulous funny fiction, then why not read this British comedy novel and that way you can observe the goings on from a relatively safe distance. So until we meet again in book 8, enjoy this one.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

The Finch Family Christmas Holiday 8

(Comical Vacations)

This is it folks, the final Finch family holiday in the Comical Vacations series (nine books in total). It finds Kitty Finch heading off for a Christmas break with some of her family, past and present, plus picking up a friend or two along the way. It is exciting to go on a Nordic liner for a mini Christmas cruise, so they are all looking forward to this trip as long as it does not sink. Well knowing her luck, it will not take Kitty long to scupper her chances of enjoying this ship and all it has to offer so they could all end up at the bottom of the sea if this were any other kind of novel. Only that is not a very 'happy ending' so she feels confident that they will make it back to dry land and they do. Not before there is upset all round of course and a stupid bet to win first, whilst the pranks soon become the bane of her life.

After which they embark on the next leg of their journey to travel up to the north of Norway for an ice-filled fun treat. When staying at the snow hotel and getting to see and try things that they have never tried or seen before. All while ignoring certain issues that could ruin the whole vibe. Will Kitty ever get the love she deserves? Should she even have attempted to win a silly wager? Can this British family ever have at least one lousy holiday without everything going tits-up for Kitty Finch? Are they in real danger of not surviving and we are not just talking about a second chance at romance here? Would Kitty be able to claim she truly had the time of her life, or would she be lying through her gritted teeth?

Well it is time to kick back, put your feet up and tune everything else out in order to read this festive funny fiction because it plans to put a smile on your face and a chuckle in your belly just in time for Christmas. On the other hand, if you are reading it after the New Year then it is early for the next one so either-way it is a win-win situation to put yourself in and don't tell me you don't deserve that.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Christmas Crackers

How do you survive Christmas when your life is literally on the line, never mind your heart? Maybe Piper should not have gotten involved with an unsuitable man in the weeks running up to Christmas. To say it caused confusion and conflict that could lead to chaos when pretending to be something else, did not cover the half of it. Only the dude went and kissed Piper under the mistletoe whilst she made the mistake of falling for him, even if he was dressed like a woman at the time. Did Piper get more than she bargained for when trying to win some much-needed money? As this Christmas was supposed to be better than last year after that one turned into a sad event that Piper will never forget. However, the start of this season was looking up for the lonely single mother since landing a job at HOBBITS as an in-store demonstrator.

Could this Christmas turn out to be a cracker? Hell, it might go with a bang if she is not careful at the Christmas party. As a misunderstanding has every chance of bringing her world down to make it two Christmases on the trot to go from good to bad. Will Piper gain a better life for herself and her baby if she takes a leap of faith? On the other hand, would it be better all round for Piper to leave it be before things get even more complicated than they are already? So rest up for a while and settle down to enjoy this sentimental but very British, humorous and heart-warming novel since a feel-good festive read is bound to leave its reader in a merry mood.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Wed To The Wrong Wayne

What do you do when you are in the private chapel of an Irish castle ready and willing to marry the man of your dreams, but the groom is missing? Well you do what any other reality star marrying a rock star does in those circumstances when the world is watching and waiting for you to fall from grace and him to fall on his arse, drunk. You fake it. This is what you do. It is the only way out of a bad situation if you do not want the humiliation of being 'jilted at the altar'. Not to mention a potential lawsuit from the magazine deal and Callie Temples does not want any of it, so she is truly grateful when the perfect replacement is on hand to stand-in for her absent partner.

At least this way, it buys them some time to find the real Rocco and switch the husbands on honeymoon before anyone outside of a select few is any the wiser. Sounds like a plan and it just might work a treat, if it were not for Callie having doubts that she wed the wrong Wayne. Callie later learns a secret that puts their very future in jeopardy. What makes it more upsetting is the fact that her long lost father wants to have his say and he will go to any lengths to make that happen. While her new hubby has a real life girlfriend that they are trying to keep in the dark so as not to hurt her, but will she hurt him if the truth comes out. Will Callie get the fairytale ending to her story? Even a psychic pet pig cannot predict that one. Why not read this British, heart-warming and humorous chick-lit novel to find out if it all turns to tears or cheers for the bride.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Let's Get Married

(Let's Get Funny Fiction)

Jasmine receives a message unexpectedly from an old university friend who she had made a marriage pact with in the past. Seriously, who in their right mind would have thought that he would want to marry her if Jasmine, was not married by thirty? Surely, this is a joke because nobody does that kind of thing for real, right. With Jasmine being the nice person that she is, she decides to let him down gently by pretending that she is already married to someone else so there is no need for him to visit. Only he is coming to town on business anyway and would like to meet her new husband.

There is one problem with this course of action. Jasmine doesn't have a hubby knocking about the place, when she comes up with a crazy plan to get herself a groom and fake a whole white wedding just to prove that she has indeed found her 'happily ever after'. So with plenty of laughs along the way and even when, it involves a horse head rubber mask being worn, it was all going so well. Until . . . it did not.

This is a British romantic comedy, short novel of approximately 51,000 words.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Let's Get Together

(Let's Get Funny Fiction)

Jodi Spears is fast approaching her thirtieth birthday, but it is not a date that she is looking forward to anymore. Since her world was turned upside down and rocked to its very core when her husband decided to jump off a cliff instead of staying with her to deal with the crippling debts that he had gotten himself into, that were unbeknownst to her at the time. She lost everything as a result, when the business went bankrupt and this included her home so she now lives in her car in-between house-sitting jobs and uses her wages to pay what she can off the money still owed.

The latest abode where her boss at the agency sends her to, is on a cliff top which unfortunately for Jodi is very similar to the one which had claimed the life of her late husband. As her drinking increases, so does her growing attraction for a hunky guy that she met called Reece and at last things are starting to look up as Jodi sees a light at the end of the dark tunnel she has been trapped in for nine, long hard months. However, it is never going to be that easy for Jodi seeing as she suddenly gets a blast from the past walking right back into her life and nothing will ever be the same again.

This is a British comedy romance, short novel of approximately 53,000 words.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Let's Get It Started

(Let's Get Funny Fiction)

What is a girl to do when she is suddenly jobless, loveless and homeless all in the spate of an afternoon? Well she goes on holiday, which is what she does. This is the sorry situation, which Emma Brook finds herself in so if anyone deserves a vacation then Emma thinks it should be her and the destination chosen is exactly what she needs to get over her ex and move on with her life. So with the help and guidance of a family member and a new friend, Emma is set to prove to Gabe and herself that she is not 'boringly normal' like he'd cruelly insisted she was and she can be adventurous and daring. But it's all not as easy as it sounds when the only man Emma falls for has a secret of his own, which he was trying to keep from her ever finding out about. So a spot of revenge/rebound sex is out of the question then, or is it? It all comes to a head when Emma returns home to face her ex and claims to her friends that she had a holiday romance with a Greek God lookalike to show that she was indeed over Gabe. Low and behold, this mystery man actually turns up to complicate matters further. Will Emma regret her white lie, or will it be the best thing that ever happened to her?

This is a British Chick-Lit short novel of approximately 55,000 words.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Let's Get Serious

(Let's Get Funny Fiction)

What should you do when your boyfriend wants to propose live on air? Should you a) confess up front that you're already married before the cameras are in your face and risk losing him, because you never meant to lie but you never mentioned it either. On the other hand, b) try to avoid being alone with him (ever again) so that he will not get the opportunity to ambush you with a surprise engagement ring. Or c) play along with it and accept his offer of marriage and that leaves option d) which stands for divorce, which is what you should have done ages ago seeing as it's been five long years since you've actually seen your husband in the flesh. Speaking about the absent husband, just to complicate matters even further begs the question. Did they have to make a pact to hook up again five years down the line and get back together for good, if neither of them had found happiness with another person by then?

And this is the problem that Faye Allen faces on the programme where she works, while the TV presenter is busy trying to make her own mark on telly so that she can fulfil her ambitions and one day host her own show. Only a scandal like this could sink her career boat that was sailing along quite nicely, until this happened to scupper her dreams. As it is decided, that the best course of action to take in this situation is to head off to Gibraltar to get it all sorted and Faye has a close encounter with a monkey for all her troubles and it would not be for the first time. So read this funny fiction in order to find out how Faye handles having a fiancé and a famous husband plus a demanding workload all at once, which ends up crossing the line right over into every single part of her life and completely wrecks havoc all-round as a result.

This is a British comedy romance, short novel that is approximately 50,000 words in length.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Let's Get Ready To Rumble

(Let's Get Funny Fiction)

This is the comedic story of what happens when girl meets boy, boy meets boy and girl meets fox. As unrequited love, secrets, lies and the reality of working with a celebrity on her own show whilst wearing silly costumes all become a part of Ivy's world.

Here are the top five pros and cons of Ivy's life.

PROS:  
1. Ivy loves her job as a sign language interpreter.  
2. Ivy loves her flatmate Zak.  
3. Ivy loves her mother.  
4. Ivy loves her old friend Taylor.  
5. Ivy loves the idea of working on TV.

CONS:  
1. Ivy loses her job as a sign language interpreter.  
2. Ivy's flatmate Zak is gay and off limits.  
3. Ivy's mother is Bi-Polar and a Cougar.  
4. Ivy has only ever been a friend to Taylor.  
5. Ivy does not have the confidence to work on TV.

Conclusion: Ivy is in need of a change. She needs to feel love and security, which would be far less complicated to achieve if everyone involved could just learn to tell the truth. So follow Ivy in this comedy romance on her fun filled journey to a better future, well, it cannot be any worse than the past.  
This British short novel is approximately 65,000 words in total length.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Let's Get Physical

(Let's Get Funny Fiction)

To: All Readers  
Subject: Let's Get Physical

Hello all,

This is an email to tell you about Millie Reed's story. She is an identical twin sister to Megan Fitzpatrick and they have not spoken for years because Megan stole the love of Millie's life and married Milo. Millie returns home for the funeral of their grandmother. Well things are said, things are agreed and things are changed forever when they decide to do a sister swap and take on each other's lives for one month. Will Millie be able to become Megan and do, her proud? Will Millie acting as Megan, manage to mend the marriage to Milo? Will Millie overcome obstacles preventing her happiness, or have regrets in the end at being more like Megan than she bargained for? They do say never work with children or animals and always leave your ego at the door so this just proves that theory as sound advice. Pity nobody followed it.

Enjoy this British, humour filled short novel of approximately 69,000 words and discover how physical appearance mixed with physical attraction can lead to physical exhaustion from the comical complications of trying to be like someone you will never quite be like, no matter how much you want it.

Take care and speak again soon.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Mistletoe And Wine

(Christmas Comedy Trilogy)

Molly Compton is going home for Christmas to spend the holidays with her family, but this is not such a joyful time that she's actually looking forward to it after what happened to her last year. For Molly is adamant that she will 'grin and bear it' and get through it with the aid of the odd glass of wine, come hail or snow. Even if it means digging up ghosts from her past to sort out the present and help with the future, then she will cope somehow. So with a sprig of mistletoe to hand and a will of iron, Molly Compton is determined to enjoy all the fun of the festivities if it kills her and that is only, if she doesn't kill someone else first.

WARNING: This book contains (1) No guaranteed fuzzy feelings of a sentimental nature. (2) No recipes whatsoever to be found written inside its pages. (3) No religious explanations are in this story about the true meaning of Christmas. However, it does contain plenty of Christmas cheer and merriment and yuletide yearnings in this festive funny tale about an ordinary woman whose dreading having the Christmas from hell. Only, could she end up having the time of her life instead?

This British short novel is the first in a Christmas Comedy Trilogy and is approximately 52,000 words in total length. To complete the trio of books, look out for Mistletoe And Wine 2 followed by Mistletoe And Wine 3.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Mistletoe And Wine 2

(Christmas Comedy Trilogy)

Molly Compton is once more travelling back home to her parent's house for yet another Christmas to treasure in the memory banks and just like the previous time, it doesn't turn out quite the way she'd planned it. But with all her presents bought online (tick box and pat on back for being so organised) and with her Secret Santa gift being left safely unopened on her work desk (well that's another box ticked and wisely so) since she really didn't want an embarrassing repeat of her Christmas past. No, this Christmas was going to have to be strictly a family affair (tick box for being such a good daughter/sister). Since her boyfriend Harvey is working overseas so he'll miss all the joy and merriment that she's bound to have despite this fact (and tick box for being such a lovely girlfriend who didn't make that much of a fuss about his absence, or the upset if he doesn't make it back for the anniversary 'of when they'd first kissed'). As she could have found a way to endure it better, if only it wasn't for the surprise or two or should she make that several in the pipeline before the week is out. After this, it is 'every man for himself' when Molly got the sinking feeling that nothing will ever be the same again (and you can forget ticking anymore-bloody boxes because it is game over). Join Molly, family and friends for a festive funny tale that will remind you, just what Christmas is all about and that being together no matter what happens next is only half the fun of it.

This is the second book of British, Christmas comedy short novels and being of approximately 55,000 words in total length. Look out for book three to complete the trilogy.

Also by the author Maureen Reil

Mistletoe And Wine 3

(Christmas Comedy Trilogy)

Dear Santa,

I've been a good girl all year, especially to my sister who'd made me lose weight before her wedding or I would not have been allowed to attend it. And some people have a strict dress code at their nuptials, but Alice insisted on a strict diet for the bridal party so as not to spoil the pictures by having a 'fatty' in the main ones (which were her words not mine, so no offence big guy). I have loved and done my best by my family, my friends and most of all, the special one who shares my soul, my bed (but not at my parents house for they won't allow it under their roof if we're not married). And I don't mean my dog either when I mention bringing me joy beyond my expectations (although he does matter hugely to me) but I speak about the great love of my life, being the one and only Harvey Brands (so do ignore and excuse the happy tear stains on the ink). I've included a little wish list if you'd care to look it over and perhaps find it in your generous heart to grant me at least one or two of them, then I would be eternally grateful and believe in the magic of Christmas forever and a day.

1. Please make my sister Alice be nice to me.  
2. Please, make this upcoming year the best ever.  
3. Please, make the following week dry and bright with cold, not freezing to death weather.  
4. Please, make this Christmas/New Year a joyous occasion for everyone I know and respect.  
5. Please, make everything turn out perfect if it is going to be my last Christmas at home.  
6. Please, make this winter white wedding the stuff of dreams, not nightmares.  
7. Please, make my gift a spa retreat, as I need it to relieve the stress of organising a wedding.  
8. Please, make wishes 1-6 come true and I can live without the spa date if I really had to.

Thank you for taking the time to read my begging letter. I fully understand why you didn't bring me a million pounds last time, it was silly of me to think that you'd carry that kind of ready cash on your person to deliver down the chimney (which would make it 'dirty money') when everyone knows you only carry toys and presents in that sack. If I really want to win the lottery then I will have to buy a ticket like everyone else I suppose so here is to winning my fortune in the future, cheers.  
Yours faithfully,  
Molly Compton (age 30⅓).  
XXX

P.S. This is the third and final book in the Christmas Comedy Trilogy of British short novels and is approximately, 64,000 words in total length. With wishes all round for a Happy Holidays and a peaceful New Year once again. While inviting you to read all about the farcical frivolity of sharing this Yuletide tale with our Molly, family and friends for a funny, fun-filled festivity and together we will be sure to make it one to remember.
