Nothing is perfect. Life is messy

I like to walk around with bare feet and I don’t like to comb my hair.

Beyonce Knowles




I hear the cliche all the time when people say, things happen when you stop trying.

Although in my case they did when I wasn’t trying at all.

I am better single. Well I thought I was.

Then Amelie came in to say hello.

It had started with exchanging pleasantries after I had bought a french stick with cheese from her.

Amelie was the lady who ran a catering company we used for every event or meeting we needed food for.

She would also come and do a morning run, or drop orders in, which people loved. She would even come around on a Saturday morning as there were always people working.

I started not to eat breakfast at home, just so I was hungry when she came in and had a reason to buy something.

She was funny. In a crazy, chaotic kind of way. I had heard her talking to other people in the office and it seemed her life was also a little crazy. She had an amazing ability to make really bad decisions. She wasn’t stupid, she ran a business, but if there was a fifty-fifty choice to be made, she would make a third one.

Like the time she’d come home one day and found her boyfriend in bed with her best friend. A week later, after she forgave him and let him back into her bed, she found him in bed with her brother.

She was pretty. Not with a film star perfection, but in a warm, appealing, magnetic kind of way.

A smile, revealing perfect teeth.

Eyes that sparkled and danced.

Brown hair that always looked like it needed to be tied back, but never was. So, she spent the whole time brushing it out of her eyes.

Then there was her choice of clothes. Every morning she would come in wearing another explosion of mismatched colour.  She had the dress sense of a nine-year-old.

She seemed to just wear the things she liked, rather than things that matched.

It was like she had got ready in total darkness and just hoped.

Sometimes she would look stylish and elegant.

Other times she would look like a sofa from the seventies.

Of course, that’s fine when you are eight or nine, but more disturbing once you became a grown-up.

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