A table for one, please.

What a difference six months makes. I bet you just sang that. I know I did. As a result I'm now getting filthy looks - it appears it's not appropriate to serenade the person sitting next to you in the library. No one can say romance is dead.

Well; actually, I probably can.

Saying as the closest I come to human contact these days is brushing up against someone when the bus makes a sharp break. Nothing gets the old blood rushing quite like public transport. Can I have an all day ticket and partner for life please?

I jest, being single isn't all that bad. You have the freedom to do whatever the fuck you please without a single 'what are you doing now?' text. Saying that - my response on Saturday night would have been something along the lines of, ''Making pea soup and stalking pictures of bearded men on Instagram, you?'

I wish that last line could be a humorous exaggeration - but it's hard to deny with a kitchen that looks like Flubber's just hosted an orgy.

But I'm not so jaded that I can't still appreciate the public expression of true love. Or at least liking someone enough you give them a good shag and the occassional M&S Dine in for two deal. All I can say is that they seriously underestimate how much two people can eat. Or one person for that matter...

I still feel a warm smile creep across my face when I see an elderly couple - hand in hand, with matching grey parkas strolling down the street together. The timeless serenity broke periodically by chirps of, 'Did you let one rip Jim, I bet you bloody did!' and 'Oh god, I really shouldn't have had that fourth cup of tea...'.

I think anyone who can endure more than twenty years of having to lie next to another sweaty body and peel their crusty underwear off the bathroom floor deserves nothing but admiration. And vodka. Lot's of vodka.

I note the difference six months makes as once upon a time I was a lady of the Limelight. And Laverys. Hell, most of the alcoholic establishments of Belfast. I use the term 'lady' very loosely here. Very loosely indeed. Nothing says 'introduce me to your parents' like pushing your bare arse up against a kebab shop window.

Why am I single again? Oh, yes. Now I remember.

Shame. So much shame.

Until next time you beautiful people xo

The Post Berlin Blues

Generic "I'm in Berlin" profile photo

They say heaven is a place on earth. They weren't bloody lying. I've seen it. I've felt it. I've smelt it. And it's bearded with the aroma of beer and curried sausage.

No, it isn't your drunk uncle in the chippie - it's Berlin. The living, breathing utopia of liberation and legal drinking on the streets. A gin on the commute to work you say? Good show, sir! 

The temperature however, was a pessimistic bastard who didn't dare peep his head into the positive digits. Everyone suddenly turned into a drunken European Bambi, with fingers as numb as Kristin Stewart's facial expression. But in all honesty, the chill only added to the metro-chic the city seemed to ooze from every tastefully graffitied street corner. A lifetime away from the penis infected "street art" of Belfast. Not that I'm saying penis's can't be beautiful, but it's hard to appreciate something that often looks like it's from the reduced section of Tesco's deli.

50p? I think I'll give it a miss, thanks.

The few days in the captivating capital also gave me a free pass to embrace my crippling hipster urges. Drink this non-commercial beer while listening to electro music in and old power factory. While wearing a beanie. Well, if I must! And yes, even as I'm writing this I'm contemplating throwing a sharpened vinyl at myself. #youdontmakefriendswithhashtags

I've now come back down to earth with an almighty thud, thrown back into the depths of uni and work. An amalgamation of early starts, shit hair days and attempting to serve the general public without using the phrase, 'No I don't work here, I'm just wearing this libido killing uniform for the bant'.

Ahhh, La vie est belle.

*Bullshit.

I'm also trying to come to terms with once again being submerged in a city where culture is having a croissant with your copy of The Belfast Telegraph in the morning. Unless it's made with the blood, sweat and red wine induced tears of a baker named Pierre, I don't want to touch that flaky imposter. Which is coincidently my nickname when I don't use Head&Shoulders.

And with this short insight into my fleeting euro adventure I bid thee Auf Wiedersehen. And goodbye. And bonjour. xo