Happy New Year

12/31/2007 03:32:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 11 Comments

After Ziggy and Zelda left last night I lay, comfortable and slightly stoned on my sofa watching the Christmas tree lights twinkle, I thought back to this time last year. Things couldn’t have been more different then.

I was ill all through last Christmas, one bug after another ensuring I missed the whole of Christmas and New Year. Still, not as bad as the previous year that involved out of hours GP’s for antibiotics, or the year before that which was highlighted by A&E on Boxing Day. This year has been wonderful. I’m incredibly grateful.

Christmas Eve was the time as friends we had planned to meet at Jen and Peter’s to eat and exchange gifts. Toes was to drive, giving Fruitrock and I a lift, but had a hissy fit shortly before we were all due to leave, telling Fruitrock to go without him, which she and I did, of course to receive a phone call from Toes about 20 minutes later wound up to the point of sobbing when he found out we’d taken him at his word and gone anyway. Despite Toes efforts to wind himself and everyone else up we all had a lovely, if brief time before leaving so Fruitrock could drive Kate home. We had driven past beautiful old Georgian buildings set in wide roads, chatting idly about how life might have been in the days they had been built, once so proud and strong, now so run down and dilapidated, some say deliberately so, engineered both by owners and government to enable the destruction of these glorious, strong homes for the more profitable, weak and ugly areas of ‘urban regeneration’. Once into the hideous regenerated areas with nothing to look at and certainly no room for children to play out of the darkness we saw this house, incongruous amongst the dismal darkness.

We got out of the car to take photos, laughing, obviously too loudly, despite the relatively early hour, as the householders came outside, we apologised and wished them a Happy Christmas, putting some change into the charity boxes and hurrying somewhat nervously back into the car, conscious we were in a very rough part of town, and being watched by other hidden eyes. Fruitrock drove away quickly, doors locked, on through increasingly dank and deserted streets, as we tried to find our way through the city and out the other side to the jarring contrast of the picture postcard country village Kate lives in with her parents.

It took less time to drive home, both Fruitrock and I being more confident of the navigation. Once back we chatted about the earlier row with Toes whilst Fruitrock helped me to prepare the few bits of food for the following day that I’d not been able to buy ready chopped or peeled before she returned to her parents.

Christmas day was equally enjoyable. I’d invited Geordie for dinner as he was also alone, on the grounds that he was my kitchen bitch. We were joined by Fruitrock in the morning, and later Zelda and Ziggy in the afternoon, which was a relief as I couldn’t have coped an entire day with Geordie’s bitterness. Despite that, and his being the primary source of my upset and paranoia over the Captain, it really was a fantastic day.

On Boxing Day I went to dinner at a neighbour’s house. This neighbour is in her 70’s, but far sprightlier than I, and had her son, who is no longer her son but her daughter staying with her through the holiday period. It certainly made for an interesting occasion! Her son’s sex change, from male to female has not been successful and has resulted in all sorts of physical problems, quite apart from the psychological issues and devastation to the entire family, his ex wife and children sadly refuse to have anything to do with him.

The following day saw The Captain back from his travels. He was on the phone almost immediately he stepped off the plane, unfortunately I was still asleep. With my phone on silent. Not the best start after the communication problems we’d had last time. I’d sent texts thinking he’d get them before he left the UK. He didn’t. He sent emails to an address I didn’t think to check. Both of us thinking for several days the other had changed their mind. Happily I woke up before too long, and was able to reassure him I hadn’t been ignoring his calls. We had enough time together for me to realise both that I’ve finally found the man who’ll dance with me in my own living room. And that I can’t dance. He’s gone again now, to dangerous places, to do frightening things. Once again we lost ourselves in each other's company, although we did make time to talk practicalities, but I’m still not sure what scares me the most, him being real, or not. He’s as though someone crawled into my head and found all those elements of my perfect man, putting them all into him. I suspect my lack of self esteem needs to think he couldn’t possibly be true.

This New Year I plan no resolutions, just to carry on trying to mend my life. 2007 for all it's difficulties, for me has been overall an incredibly happy year, a time when hard work has started to pay off. My hope's for 2008 are simply that it should continue. I wish the same to you all.


Perfectly Paranoid

12/26/2007 02:46:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 12 Comments

I know myself well enough to know that over analysing things is my worst fault. Besides, even if I wasn't self aware and honest enough to realise that, the blog might have been a slight indication, followed by all of my friends pointing said over analysis out to me. On a regular basis. Usually with glee. Occasionally with irritation. Or with a bit of false information thrown in for good measure. Just to see where I'll go with it. And how long they can keep a straight face at my increasingly panic stricken distress. Gullibility being my second worst fault. Obviously. The two do not make ideal bed fellows.

Which is why I'm currently a tad stressed. A bit paranoid maybe. A lot paranoid even. It's this guy. The Captain. When isn't it? A guy that is. Despite being known for my over analysis and gullibility, laughably I'm known as the sensible 'go to' friend the rest of the time, so of course it's a man. Obviously I'm only paranoid because I really like him. If I wasn't that interested, I wouldn't have given him enough thought to be paranoid, like er, the 3 others currently lurking in the background I can dredge up if I really put my mind to it. At least one of whom has contributed to my current paranoia. Forget Bridget Jones, she to my mind was but a pale imitation of the levels of hysteria to which a woman can truly hype herself up to when really keen on a man. And stupid enough to not only take advice on the subject from her friends, but ex boyfriends and erm, not exactly ex boyfriends, but not exactly current ones either. I have already admitted my stupidity here, so before anyone goes too overboard in the comments, please remember I've also admitted to being gullible and therefore will believe whatever you say.

So why the paranoia? Well, leaving aside the over analysis and worrying lack of self esteem (mine, not his) this is all stemming from varying opinions of friends.
Fruitrock 'he's far too good looking to be accessible, forget about him, and go with Toe's colleague instead' (referring to Tall Time)
Geordie 'he's married you know. I can feel it in me water.'
Roland 'sex. He just wants a shag. Only I love you really. No, I will not police check him for you. It's immoral. Are you sure you won't suck my cock?'
Ziggy 'haha, he's a mercenary. Get him to give me a job'
Zelda 'stop making her paranoid you horrible lot. Don't listen them, besides, have you seen him? Bugger what he might be, just fuck him'

Once the paranoia had reached it's full height, I stopped, calmed myself, and realised that this was all about other people's agenda's, nothing to do with mine. Me, I was scared of something entirely different. That this one might just be for real. Who he says he is. And that truly is the most frightening thought of all.


Work's night out

12/18/2007 02:03:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 9 Comments

  • Rule No. 1 :What happens on your best friend's Christmas work night out stays on the night out.
  • Rule No. 2:If behaviour on said night is so bad it forces others to use you as a human shield it shall leave Rule No.1 null and void.
  • Rule No. 3 If using a pole/wall/person to lean on for support to try and dance others will think you are something you are not. Particularly when combined with bendy joints. Probably a pole dancer. Yes, even after multiple falls, dislocations and the odd breathing problem.
  • Rule No. 4. Do not, under any circumstances experience any condition that may require you to attend a hospital in the days subsequent to said nights out.
Recently (date fudged to protect the not so innocent) I attended the social event of the year. Or not. Toe's work night out. Debauched carnage. I attended the 'after party' last year where I first met Roland...he was escaping in fear for his life chased by several cougars who not long after ended up semi conscious on the floor exposing themselves for all to see. One of whom picked herself up, got a taxi back to her car and drove herself home. Why? Well she needed to be on shift a few hours later of course! With that in mind I thought I was prepared for this year. Stupid, ridiculous, idiotic, reckless thought.

It started quite calmly, as these things do. Bad location, worse music. Not even the kind of cheesy pop that gets everyone up and dancing, the kind that somehow manages to clear the dancefloor. Still, the DJ was a nice guy. Married to one of Toes colleagues. It didn't take Toes long to try and 'help', but it was past that really. Still, after an hour or so and enough booze it didn't seem to matter too much. For some at least.

The true horror of the sight of an insane, drunken, late middle aged, overweight woman, lacking most of her teeth attaching herself with a vice like grip to the cock of whichever poor man had failed to hide in time and attempting to drag him on to the dance floor will forever remain burnt into my brain. Unfortunately. Worse still that seemed to set off some of the other women into a penis grabbing frenzy, hyped up probably by the smell of fear or perhaps by the panic in the men's eyes, and if unable to reach said appendages they responded by drunkenly waving around their little fingers...y'know, as if the men were the ones somehow failing to make the grade. Which, unsurprisingly is how I ended up a human shield. Toes and his mates very quickly figured out if they jammed as many of themselves into a tiny love seat as possible and draped me across themselves the women wouldn't be able to reach any part of them, and I will be forever grateful they had no interest in me. The women that is. The men were a different story.

If at all possible, can I recommend not dislocating anything at a party full of drunk medical staff. Oh, and definitely don't dislocate anything in your throat that might cause breathing problems. The drunken gleam in the eye of male nurses as they get excited and think they might get to do all manner of disturbing things to you is more frightening than scary middle aged cock grabbers. Particularly when mention of medical kits is made. Although I suppose that could well depend on your perspective. Not being either scary, late middle aged and lacking of teeth or possessed of a cock. Though the later might be interesting, unlike this blog. Anymore. If ever.

Back on subject. As I say, do try to avoid dislocations around drunk people who happen to be medical staff in their other lives. Whilst being a human shield Toes reached across me and his arm rested across my neck. Of course I dislocated. Something. Thyroid maybe. Possibly larynx again. Toes didn't think so, he said last time he could see how far it came out the side of my neck before it went back in. I think it probably was, just not with the same force, so not the same level of muscle spasm in response. Toes' reaction was immediate though. He must've felt it go. I wasn't too bothered. Could breathe but not speak immediately. Just couldn't make any sound for a moment or two. I could feel some spasming which was stopping me breathing but it wasn't lasting more than 20 seconds or so. Nothing to worry about. We went to get some fresh air, and I realised that I was generally having one of my spaz attacks by this point. Legs going like Bambi on acid as my hips flicked in and out and knees joining in the fun. Although I'd only danced to the odd track earlier and I had either leant up against a pole (literally) or been holding on to someone I knew at the time I was taking the piss out of myself and this was the response. My body had just had enough and didn't want to work anymore.

Fortunately Toes and his friends were looking for any excuse to get out of there so we sat in on a sofa by an open door where all the smokers were hanging out so I could let my breathing settle and Toes and his mates could make disturbing comments about medical equipment and cars. Fortunately I was the only one driving. 10 minutes and glass of water later all was fine but it was pretty obvious I wasn't going to be doing much supporting myself, my hips were a mess. Toes, having made sure I was ok went off to invite people back to his place, and after falling over as I tried to get up, one of his friends Tall Tim carried me outside and lay me down on a picnic bench where he gave me a hand put my hips back in, which whilst sounding potentially kinky, wasn't.

We left about half an hour later, my legs still doing the Bambi trick, but life is unsurprisingly much easier when you have 5 men with you all happy to carry you around. If only.....but no, neither the DWP or the 5 men would go for that one. More's the pity.

The 'after party' turned out to be the 5 men and me. You'll be pleased to hear I managed to cope with such an arduous task though. I fell over multiple times until I gave up on the idea of walking all together, lay on the lounge floor and wrapped my legs behind my head in an attempt to get my hips into their sockets. The men, in time honoured fashion, drank, indulged (not in me you filthy minded lot!) and carried on playing the far more interesting Nintendo wii all night until the first of them had to leave to start a shift the next morning.


Amazing Cancer Curing Water!!!

12/15/2007 05:14:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 6 Comments

Yesterday when I went to see Toes he was drinking water from a glass bottle. Nothing unusual in that. I drink water all the time, very rarely do I drink anything else, perhaps some fruit juice, although not from a bottle, but that's not very interesting. Not like water that can cure cancer. Now that's pretty amazing I think you'll agree, and that's what Toes told me he was drinking. I was amazed. My friend Toes had the cure for cancer in his hand! We could make a fortune. All we had to do was the same cunning trick I perform at home on a daily basis to drink my water easily. Fill up the bottles from the tap. Perhaps put them in the fridge even for that nice, icy cold refreshing, 'corpy pop' taste.

Toes however was serious. He insists he is drinking water that will at the very least prevent, if not all together cure cancer. Toes if anyone is new to this blog is a staff nurse with 5+ years experience. He did not take my laughing so hard at the cancer curing water that I had a raggy doll moment
ending up on the floor for a good half hour or so too well. I had to suggest a trip to Woolworths to stop the discussion, or rather argument about the water’s complete inability to cure cancer raging all afternoon. We know how to live the high life. Oh yes.

Later, after Woolworths, and diversion to Tesco as Woolworths hadn’t stocked the Christmas tree lights we’d all been after (but did do a fine line in crappy children’s toys of which Toes bought many) we ended back at Toes place for dinner, joined by Fruitrock and another colleague of Toes, Tall Tim who I’d met at Toes Christmas night out. The debate about the cancer curing water sprang back into life.

Sprang back into life is perhaps not a good way to describe my laughing so hard that I do the whole Bambi on acid thing whilst my hips flick in and out so hard I collapse on the floor in a big heap laughing even more at myself. It appears to be an amusing sight as it makes everyone else laugh, thus sending me into further howls of laughter and less and less able to control my body. Fortunately it’s quite a useful way of distracting from arguments. Tall Tim was equally amused by the claims of the cancer curing water. Disregarding the multiple raggy doll experiences, even through the laughter Tall Tim, Fruitrock and I were a little hard pushed to come up with why the water Toes was drinking would never, not under any circumstances cure cancer, other than the fact its water. My old chemistry teacher would finally be proud of me.

It’s OK though. Today I have been sent multiple articles by Toes to ‘prove’ the water can indeed cure cancer. I personally don't need to read them to know that cancer cannot be cured by water, bottled or otherwise. However, I am looking forward to spending another hour or so on the floor of his house paralysed by laughter when round 3 of the amazing cancer curing water debate gets going.


Page 18 Other Information. IB50 Form

12/14/2007 10:47:00 am BenefitScroungingScum 16 Comments

Updated: In the interests of clarity, with one or two edits to remove swear words etc, this was the actual answer I provided on Page 18, other information of my IB50 form. The form had to be returned today, so I will have no idea throughout all of the Christmas and New Year period whether or not this review will mean my claim will be denied.

I would give anything really I would, for things to be different. You see, if things were different I wouldn't have to fill out this form telling you in minute and trivial detail how I walk, how I lift, how I sit, how I stand, how I think, how I feel, and even how I piss and shit, or, more precisely how I don’t. As, after all, that's all you're really interested in.

In the past few years I’ve learnt to live with my condition, an inherited genetic disorder that for reasons I’ll never know, whilst I was still just a child was said to be ‘seeking attention’ and turned usually clear sighted doctors blind. I’ve had to, there’s been no alternative. No choice. No cure for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (EDS), not even a treatment in sight. Just stronger and stronger pain relief, that in an ironic twist of fate doesn’t work as well as it should, and if you happen to be lucky enough to live in an area that provides it, expert physio.

Despite all that, despite the mislabelling, the trauma, their insanity and very nearly mine, somehow I’ve found a way.

I accept it now. It’s just a part of who I am. Like the brown eyes and curly hair, or being 4’8, my need to be nice to everyone, to always put myself down, or my irrational fear of spiders. It’s just another part of all the many things that go to make up me.

Except now, forced once again into filling out these forms, it’s not just one part, it’s an all consuming everything. Nothing secret, nothing sacred. Every minute detail of my life must be revealed, recorded, repeated, repeated, and repeated. And then some more, endlessly made to fit into these boxes. Humiliation at a level never quite complete. All that effort, all those things that go to make up me, a person, a life, they are not relevant here. So, really, I would give anything for things to be different.

I would give anything not to have to fill out this or any other benefit form, give anything not to have to tell you, a faceless, nameless stranger details of my life so intimate that day to day I try not to think of them myself. How from one day to the next I never know the level of disability that will greet me. Will I fall as soon as I try to get up, or will it be a little later? Will it be in public or private? If I dislocate both hip and SI joint all in one go will I lose control of my bladder, or worse my bowels? Will I have to rely on a complete stranger for assistance? If that stranger is a man, will he, like so many, take advantage of the situation to grope my tits or arse? Will he like so many think I don't realise? Worse still, will he think it doesn't matter because I'm 'just' a cripple? I never know. But now you do. In triplicate.

So really, I would give anything for things to be different. To be able to earn my own living, not to have to ask, not to have to beg. Not to be forced to tell you everything yet again.



12/11/2007 05:13:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 14 Comments

Sometimes, every so often, other people confront us with the realities of our behaviour. In the light of that, and honest spirit of this blog I have a confession to make.

Hello, my name is Bendy Girl and I'm a man'oholic. Not just any men you understand, no, a very specific type of man. Men who are 6'2, dark haired and good looking. I am a cliche. A 4'8 tall cliche. What's worse is that it took one of these men to point out said addiction to me. I am shamed.

Not enough to stop though. I'm far too addicted for that.


The Great Pretender

12/06/2007 09:38:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 18 Comments

I made it to the Post Office without incident yesterday (a minor miracle in itself) and collected the parcel containing the rabbits Zelda and I had ordered from Lovehoney at the weekend. I was amused by the constant stream of women going in to collect parcels the posties had failed to deliver for one reason or another, the thought of all these bored housewives going to collect their sex toys kept making me giggle.

I stopped giggling when I got home and managed to get the parcel open. I'd chosen the Platinum Rabbit purely because it was the only one I could see clearly marked as not containing latex (I'm too sensitive to latex to use latex gloves or condoms). This thing is huge. Significantly bigger in girth and longer than the Jessica Rabbit that Zelda had ordered. I left it stood on the table all afternoon, mocking my fear of it's size while the smaller rabbit that of course I couldn't use taunted me from it's box. Every so often I eyed it up, just to see if it was still as worryingly big as I thought it was. It was.

Zelda came round in the evening to collect her Jessica Rabbit and to watch the series finale of Heroes (was it just me, or was the ending a bit of a let down?) As soon as she arrived she tore into her rabbit, at which point the laughing started. It has a face on it. Whilst mine looked all vaguely futuristic and cool in its disturbingly large way...the Jessica was just hilarious. Party pink, stinking to high heaven of medicinal type latex, and to cap it all off, someone saw fit to try and hide the fact it's shaped like a cock, by, horror of horrors, putting a little face on it, and trying to turn the glans into hair.

Heroes over, and Zelda gone home, I decided to give 'Freddy' a go. The lounge was warm and dimly lit by fire and candlelight, so with some music and reading matter to entertain I was all set to conquer my fear of the size of this thing. Half a tube of KY later it had eaten my orgasm and left me with several tears and internal bruising and Freddy was named. Not quiet the wildly multi orgasmic screaming success I'd imagined.

The only easy bit to use on Freddy was the buttons to control the vibrations, and even then once covered in copious amounts of lube they became a bit tricky to negotiate. I do realise that I'm petite enough to make Kylie look like a strapping lass, but I can in some senses compensate for that by the sheer good fortunate (oh the irony!) of having a genetic disorder that turns me into Elasto girl. If a bit broken. Stretchy I do well. Stretch enough for Freddy. Not happening. The vibrations were so intense even on the lowest settings that it was just uncomfortable, and eventually I worked out that the shaft needed to be, shall we say less constrained to do it's rotating thing.

This morning both my hips were out, one shoulder dislocated so badly and so loudly as to startle neighbour out of the chair she was sitting in, I found tears internally as well as externally and I feel as though I've been kicked in the kidney area. Back to the drawing board. Or right now, Nabootique.


A tax too far

12/05/2007 03:17:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 6 Comments

It's neither leisure, nor luxury, when you're not able to walk properly, but thanks to EU regulations, now motorised disability scooters are to be subject to £300 import tax on top of their initial £2000 cost.

Obviously another measure designed to help us all into work.


Red warning boxes

12/04/2007 01:18:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 8 Comments

Thanks to Mary, who just let me know about the problem, I'm now aware that my hotmail account was flagged on her blog with all sorts of red warning signs and cross boxes.

This has been a problem with my incoming hotmail ever since I set up this particular account, anything I post on this blog flags up red warnings and failed delivery, but if I open it anyway, its all there. Same goes for any comments I leave on my own blog. I have no idea what the problem might be, when I go to try and check I just get messages about phishing scams and dire warnings not to register my own email as 'safe'

Blogger seems to have been playing up of late, all sorts of problems with formatting and the like, but I'd just assumed everyone had the same problem with hotmail getting upset about comments left on individual's own blogs. If anyone knows anything about this, or how to sort it out, I'd be really grateful?


12/04/2007 01:09:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 0 Comments

Aaargh. The Post Office closed at 1pm. Of course. Thankfully I rechecked the 'sorry you were out' card before I left the house.


Run rabbit, run!

12/04/2007 12:21:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 5 Comments

On Saturday, much to Ziggy's amusement, Zelda and I ordered ourselves a Rabbit each from Lovehoney. Apparently Zelda already has a rabbit but her room is such a tip she can't find it. This is to be my first rabbit, I've always found the size of them a bit intimidating previously, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My previous trusty vibe has run out of batteries and I can't open it to put new ones in. I'm sure Ziggy would rise to the occasion so to speak and offer to help me out with that task just as he does with all sorts of other things, but frankly that's just taking the piss. There are some things a girl simply can't ask her mates to do for her. Cutting up my food in public, or carrying me up and down flights of stairs I deem acceptable. Changing the batteries on my vibrator I do not.

I did check that this new one had a simple screw opening instead of some daft squeeze and pull mechanism. Being single and having to use the damn thing on myself is chore enough, having to buy a new vibrator every time it runs out of batteries is taking it to a whole new level of needing a man.

Happily lovehoney sent me an email yesterday to let me know the order had been dispatched so I was expecting the delivery. Unhappily however the postman arrived when I was in the bathroom. Of course. More irritatingly it wasn't my usual postie, who is such a star he knows to hammer loudly on the front door and wait, and wait, and a bit longer whilst I make my way to the front door. Usual postie really is such a star he'll knock loud enough to wake me up and wait while I manage to get downstairs (no easy feat that!) So now I've got to go and try and collect the parcel from the post office a couple of towns away, after I've waited the requisite amount of time for the parcel to get back there. After that I may be gone some time!


T'internet dating

12/03/2007 02:11:00 pm BenefitScroungingScum 5 Comments

By my standards, this weekend has been quite the social whirl, though when I started to reflect upon it for this post I realised it was no wonder I struggle to meet attractive, available men, I just don't go anywhere to meet them. The 19 year old who's clicked yes to 'are you interested' on facebook definitely doesn't count; Ziggy being only 21, boys of that age I have offering me sex a plenty. Unfortunately (or perhaps not) the toyboy thing just doesn't do anything for me, I prefer my men to be...well, men.

Mostly I tend to socialise with my friends either in my home or in one of theirs, with occasional trips to a pub or bar thrown in, usually somewhere cheap, but nice to eat, crowded places with lots of drunk people not being the most ideal situation when you wobble like a weeble at the best of times. Toes, as previously described throws amazing house parties, but they aren't exactly regular events, which all leads me back to how difficult it is to meet people once you're past your early 20's and for whatever reasons want something more than the binge drinking scene so pervasive in northern England.

Last week, in a bizarre coincidence, I was contacted by two different men I'd 'met' the first time I tried internet dating. One who joined facebook and added me to his friends list, a bit strangely as I've never actually met him, and although once he'd managed to remind me who he was, I did recall we talked quite often and frequently over a period of time, it was 3 years ago, and I probably blocked him from my msn for some reason or other, and the other, who popped up in my msn, charmingly with a display photo of his spindly dick. Which is just what I wanted to see on a dull monday afternoon. In the rain. I did ask him why he felt the need to display his penis to all and sundry, for which he didn't seem to have much answer. I said, that as a grown woman I'd seen my fair share of cock thanks, omitting to mention most were far more attractive than his could ever hope to be, and that the cyber thing just didn't do it for me. We chatted briefly while the photo of his cock just sort of hung there, pathetically, and he went away.

So, I'm thinking about internet dating again, or I will be once I have any money, as unlike those two guys I don't really fancy trying to recycle whatever blokes are left kicking around my msn from the last time I tried. I've heard all sorts of horror stories about it, but the biggest problem I've had when trying internet dating is the sheer volume of of messages, usually falling into distinct groups
The blokes who look like and have all the charm of Jabba the Hut, who then get really nasty when sent the standard thanks but no thanks response. One such charmer sent me an email clearly designed to get in a girl's pants, that read,
'hi ...your not interested in me ?...you have not even spoken to me ...i think this is such a shallow thing ? you don"t deserve anybody ...bone head' Actually, I had a fair few along those lines, along with multiple messages from strange, very elderly American men who missed the irony and self deprecation in my profile and were keen to reassure me that my beauty meant I would find the perfect man in time, oh and if I was interested they'd be in the UK on such and such a date and would like to 'treat' me well. Yeah, seems like whatever I do to my profile a good proportion of guys think I'm an escort. Go figure.

Then in amongst all the dross, abuse, marriage offers from sub saharan Africa are the emails from the nice, decent guys that tend to get overlooked whilst dodging the abusive bullets. As I feel I've wasted my money on previous internet dating experiences sending endless polite 'sorry, not interested, good luck' emails and hiding from my pc whilst debating the need to contact the police for protection, if I'm going to spend money on internet dating again, I want to be sure I can actually get my money's worth. So to speak.

Don't get me wrong, when it actually comes to the date part, I've never had any major problems. Apart from the guy I went out for lunch with and really did have to threaten with the police if he contacted me ever again. Strange, he'd been the perfect gentleman throughout the date.

Other than that over the years, any men I've actually met have all been who they've said they are, looked pretty much like their photos, and not been hiding any major criminal convictions. For me the problem seems to lie prior to the date. After all, actually going on a date with me is an experience like no other, what with the food cutting up, lack of breathing and falling over. It takes a brave man indeed. No, where I need help and advice is earlier in the process. Ways to explain my jobless, poverty stricken, bendy cripple state would be good. Preferably before the actual date.

So, other than suggesting a 'mass' internet dating experience for the single bloggers, I'm out of ideas, and have decided to open it up to you lovely lot...........