finally, the food post

A note on this post: I've made references to my eating disorder on this blog before but never really explained it. I was reading Shapely Prose today (it was in my head, yet again. God damn I love that blog), namely this post about calories. I was going to explain how I often find myself looking at the calorie content of foods and why that bothered me. And I started trying to explain why I should be loving food now and enjoying it - possibly even more so than most people - and to do so I added some parenthesis to explain. The following is what was in those parenthesis, I've never written about it before and aside from the occasional comment about my "problem with food" I don't really talk about it. My family treat it mostly as a rather awkward joke, now that I'm safely out of the other side and very few of even my closest friends understand much more than "[I] used to be fussy". Take it as you will.

I've had long and torturous struggles with food all my life, it started when I was three years old and continued right into adulthood. I got slightly better at sixteen, around the time I started eating meat but the problem wasn't cured. I just had a slightly wider array of set meals to cycle through. Then, in May of last year, I started eating. Really eating. Not just forcing food down my throat because I had to, or gorging myself on junk because sweets were the only thing that really tasted good but really, truly eating.

I used to have a food phobia, to the extent where if I didn't know, and like, every single ingredient within a dish I would not touch it. That wasn't as simple as it sounds either. The following is a small sample of the foods I did not like

Avocados, any kind of fish, bananas, mushrooms, tomatoes, kiwi fruit, beans, pears, broccoli, lentils, chick peas, sweetcorn, aubergines, courgettes, milk, eggs, brown bread, seafood, cheese that wasn't cheddar, seafood of all varieties, coconut, cherries, coffee, spinach, honey, marrow, melon, squash, leeks, cabbage, yoghurt... That's just the tip of the iceberg and oh yeah, and I was a vegetarian. The presence of any of these items even NEAR something I was meant to be eating rendered it completely untouchable.

But it was more than just that:

I wouldn't eat anything with a texture that wasn't as it should be. Cereal is meant to be crunchy therefore any sogginess whatsoever made it inedible, if I was persuaded to try yoghurt even one lump would make me retch, likewise custard. I couldn't eat icecream if it was even slightly melted and anything with "powdery" texture made me gag - I once didn't eat chips (my staple foodstuff) for two whole months because one had a slightly weird taste.

Even foods I liked weren't safe. A slight bruise on a strawberry would make me feel queasy, once a slice of apple browned it was no good to me (I once sat for nine hours - literally nine, it got dark and everything - at a picnic table while on holiday in France because I refused to eat the last bite of my cheese and apple baguette because the apple in it had browned. Good one Dad, if I wasn't going to eat it then I sure as hell wasn't going to eat it after it had been sitting in front of me for nine fucking hours). Slight charring on anything? Not a chance. It had to be just right, if a meal I loved wasn't served exactly how I was used to it I couldn't eat it. I cannot stress enough here how I'm not talking about wouldn't, I'm talking about actually, physically couldn't.

As you may have guessed forcing me to eat anything I didn't want to lead to me throwing up.

I latched on to any food I liked and would eat it two or three times per day, sometimes for several months, sometimes for a week, until I inexplicably "went off it". There was no rhyme or reason to me "going off" food I just did and nothing, upon nothing could change my mind. My mother, my ever loving long suffering Mother indulged me in this. We ate separate meals anyway (she lived off steamed fish and vegetables for most of my childhood - apparently problems with food run in the family) and it was much easier for her to cook me one of the four (or very occasionally five) meals that I would eat than to battle it out with me. I could happily go without food and an excuse to not eat supper would have actually been welcomed. For several months she baked an uber gooey chocolate fudge cake every single week - complete with fondant icing - because it was the only thing she could get me to eat for breakfast. I was fifteen.

And I got a little better in uni, I could pick bits I didn't like out of my food - or more accurately: pick out the few bits that I did. I developed a few staple dishes for restaurants so that I could always be sure to find something I could order. I hid it well, I managed it.

Food still sucked.

And then a year ago something snapped. It wasn't a gradual change but a sudden switch. I woke up hungover and dazed in the most inappropriate person's home that I possibly could have done. I was at the end of a massive spiral of bad behaviour and self sabotage. I dragged myself into the kitchen and numbly stared at the mug of coffee in front of me, coffee which I did not drink. As he placed the plate of food he'd made in front of me I was faced with my worst nightmare, scrambled eggs, burnt sausages, bacon with the fat left on, brown bread - toasted and charred at the edges and a heap of fried mushrooms glistening with oil. In that moment I had a single thought running through my mind and that thought was "fuck it".

From that day, from that moment I ate everything. I took bites out of things without even looking at them first (while I was digging into a Mediterranean salad in Pizza Express one day last summer my Mother cautiously asked what was on my fork. "I don't know" I replied taking a bite. "It's tasty though." This response brought her to tears), I learnt to cook (which, incidentally I rock at in the most amazing way), I thoroughly enjoy my food.

Which is why I went from a skinny size 8 (US size 4) in college to buying my first pair of size 14 (US 10) jeans last week. And I struggle with it sometimes, longtime readers may remember that at the beginning of this year I went on "a bit of a diet and exercise kick" (read: torture regime), and yeah I lost about 15lbs...by working out for over two hours per day and eating less than 1200 calories. I get obsessive about it - Last November I dropped down to about 800 calories a day. My period stopped, I spent a good two months convinced that I was pregnant and no amount of pregnancy tests could convince me otherwise. My body is not meant to do that. The women in my family are soft, we have curves and round faces and really truly terrible arms. We have boobs and hips and look sodding awful in T shirts. I've started to accept this and, while finding someone who seems to think I'm gorgeous no matter how much I weigh or what I look like in skinny jeans does help, I'm still working on it.

Which is why I get upset with myself when I look at the calorie information on the side of the cheesecake I pick up in the shop, it's why I get pissed with my idiocy when the deciding factor between the duck wrap and the fajita chicken is because the duck has fewer grams of fat (no mayo you see), it's why I hate myself for feeling proud when I wasn't hungry all day. Because my problems with food never, ever, EVER stemmed from my wanting to be thin. Because I had issues and I got over them and now that I can finally enjoy the pleasure I spent almost two decades denying myself I find myself faltering. It's why I read Shapely Prose, and why my copy of The Beauty Myth is dog eared and underlined. I'm still trying to come to terms with all the baggage surrounding the issue but I think, I hope, I'm almost there.

Still, at times like today when I chose the duck wrap, when I considered skipping Naan bread because "I [didn't] really need it", when I feel guilty for having more than one slice of cheesecake because I felt like it I realise just how far I have to go.

the thing about normality

So here's how it works. Some people are just resolutely normal. Vanilla, regular, decent, straight edged: however you want to put it they move in the same direction as the rest of society.

And I'm not saying that's a bad thing.

It's just that sometimes these people, these lovely ordinary folks don't quite understand what it's like to be, well, Odd.

My flatmates are two such people. I love them to death, I really truly do, they are the closest thing I have to family here in London and my life would be an utterly worse place without them - G makes me sandwiches every single morning, worries about me when I'm out late and makes sure I eat when I'm home in the evenings. B and I share bottles of wine and cheesecake while we watch stand up comedy and catch each other up on our lives (we live together but only spend time actually together once every month or so, out lives don't cross paths for more than half an hour at the time). They are my best friends, my caretakers and my confidantes.

And yet.

They don't understand what it is to be weird.

They are both incredibly good looking people, they wear clothes that are cool but not overly fashionable. They go to work during the week, at weekends they go out with friends and they visit family. They love sports and blockbuster movies. They spend sunny Sundays at the park, they go on holidays abroad twice a year. She reads popular fiction, he goes running, they watch TV if it's on and occasionally they buy a series on DVD. She straightens her hair before a night out, he lifts weights to keep in shape.

They are normal.

They don't understand what it is to be weird. 99% of the men that B meets in her day to day life will understand her interests, they understand that she likes to go shopping occasionally and loves romantic comedies and that sometimes she goes out with the girls for an evening. The same goes for G, girls will always understand that he wants to go to the park to play football, that he wants to go to the pub to watch rugby with the boys. These things are expected.

So they don't understand what it's like for me when I find someone else who has read the collected work of Tad Williams, or Girl Genius or Runaways. Who knows what it is for the self doubt to stop only when the words are flowing onto the screen. Who gets that sometimes it doesn't matter if it's sunny outside, all you want to do is hole up and play video games for nine hours straight. That spending all day in bed with a new book isn't a waste of a Sunday. That living in a made up universe might actually be healthy. That rush of connection when I meet a new person who is just like me.

They don't understand how I can feel close to people I've never met, purely because they love the same movies as me. How I can instantly fall in love with someone because they don't think my keeping a journal is weird and overindulgent. How I can know someone I've never even spoken to because I read their blog and it touches me.

They don't understand how it makes me feel when someone tells me how much they love my tattoos. They don't understand because they just have skin like everyone else, they may have hangups and insecurities but nothing about them inspires a visceral reaction in others, nothing about them has the power to repulse on sight.

For them it's easy. You find someone attractive, you get to know them and provided you match on the big things, raising kids, religion, politics, the details all just work themselves out.

They don't understand that for me it's the other way around. The details come first. I fall in love with the words, with the ideas, with the mutual acceptance. After that part, everything else is easy.

So... I've been away

I've been gone for a bit. Don't get me wrong, I've been here and everything I just haven't been here. As such.

Some stuff happened. I went away with my friends from high school, one final hurrah before one of us weds. I spent a day teaching in a school and I have never been happier about my future. I spoke to the ex Mr TheOdd, for two hours, for the first time in a year and a half. I messed things up severely with a guy I've known for years, who crossed a line with me that we can't erase. A guy with a girlfriend. A guy I've come to realise that I can't live without. A guy who knows me so well it frightens me, who psychoanalyses me so accurately it makes me hiss and spit, a guy who loves me despite all that. A guy who got over it and wouldn't accept me doing anything other than the same. A guy that I've spoken with more in the last week than in the entire of our three year friendship. A guy who despite me spending most of our time together being downright cruel to him, never gave up on me. A guy who handled my freak out, my weirdness and yet still adores me. A guy who I'm now proud to call my best friend.

So I'm back.

I missed you guys.

a realisation

I make my ham and cheese sandwiches with mayo.

I listen to Less Than Jake and Bad Religion. I can name the make and model of most mid-priced hatchbacks. I can kick anyone's ass at Tiger Woods Golf despite never having owned a copy. I can go to work on under three hour of sleep. I'm a beer snob. I understand the political events that led up to the Second World War. I drink Kopparberg Pear Cider. I know the rules of cricket. I make mean chicken fajitas. I got my lip pierced. I can find my way around Brighton. I know what the clutch pedal is for. I can mix mojitos. I know that the trick to curing a hangover headache is to get up for a couple of hours and then go back to bed. I can cook scrambled eggs. I understand why people willingly go to war. I passed my degree. I have the name I always wanted.

I make my ham and cheese sandwiches with mayo.

I don't give them enough credit, the men who've had an effect on me. I took at least something away from every single one even if they don't know it. The ex Mr. TheOdd more than any of them, he makes up most of that list, and yet I never say it. I find myself not allowed.

I have friends who in their fierce protection of me won't hear a good word said about him. They're the ones who never really knew him, anyone who did nods along with my mantra of "awesome guy, great friend, rubbish boyfriend" because it's true. They loved him, spent years hanging out with us, they were the ones awake with us at 3am laughing and debating. They attended classes with him, knew us as friends and still ask me how he is. Because we were so close it's unimaginable to those who knew us that we would no longer speak.

It's true; I've been angry with him. I was angry about the way he treated me and anyone could see that part of that anger was really for me. Anger at being a doormat, anger at turning into the girl I said I wouldn't, anger at cowing down, being meek, willingly losing myself. That anger's gone now, I have myself back, and all I really want is to celebrate the woman I am today, giving credit where it's due to those who have influenced me. But some of those closest to me won't even allow me to say his name, they demand that I refer to him as "the ex" or "the weasel" or they go off into hyperbolic ranting that I know is only meant to make me laugh but still leaves me feeling uneasy. I can't tell them to stop, they're only showing they love me and, if I'm honest, when I try I either get reprimanded for going soft and giving in to him (because evidently he is aware of how I refer to him in conversation) or corrected, made to feel guilty for having good feeling towards him at all. Even when I explain. They are angry with him, still, so that I don't have to be and I love them for that.

Even so, there is something to be said and so I'll say it here because I am able to. Because nobody is going to stop me.


Thank you, Adam. For everything. I honestly believe I'm a better person because of you.

a retrospective

I don't understand about complementary colors
And what they say
Side by side they both get bright
Together they both get gray

But he's been pretty much yellow
And I've been kinda blue
But all I can see is
Red, red, red, red, red now
What am I gonna do

I don't understand about
Diamonds and why men buy them
What's so impressive about a diamond
Except the mining

And it's dangerous work
Trying to get to you too
And I think if I didn't have to
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill myself doing it
Maybe I wouldn't think so much of you

I've been watching all the time
And I still can't find the tack
And I wanna know is it okay
Is it just fine
Or is it my fault
Is it my lack

I don't understand about
The weather outside
Or the harmony in a tune
Or why somebody lied

There's solace a bit for submitting
To the fitfully cryptically true
What's happened has happened
What's coming is already on its way
With a role for me to play

I don't understand
I'll never understand
But I'll try to understand
There's nothing else I can do

~Fiona Apple Red, Red, Red

VisualDNA

Stolen from BlondeSavant's blog because it is so very, very cool - here is my VisualDNA:

Read my VisualDNA™     Get your own VisualDNA™

I know, two posts in one day - insanity.

Look, it's not you. It's me.

Inspired by several sources (Jezebel's newly emerging series, Manda's Friday tradition, some comments on the state of my mortal soul and my inherent love of lists and talking about myself) I've decided that there are some more things you must know about me, Internet, if we are to continue on. And so in a crazy amalgamation of my inspirations I present:

Fifty things you probably will never need to know about me, handily split into manageable bitesized chunks, but nevertheless will ensure that you will know me better than 90% of my general acquaintance by the end of the post.

...about the way I look
1. The pendulum of my self image swings wildly between "I'm hideous" and "Holy shit I'm actually rather pretty" with literally no mid-arc point of "meh". There is no reason for this. And contrarily I actually feel better about myself when I compare me to others.
2. I am ludicrously vain, I watch myself walk past in mirrors, shop windows, metallic surfaces of any kind. If it's reflective I will check myself out in it. This is reflexive.
3. My childhood anorexia was in no way linked to body image.
4. I have an ongoing love affair with my own hair. Occasionally I find this weird, but seriously people. It's gorgeous, silky, well behaved and longer than it's ever been before. I love it.
5. I hate my arms with the kind of passion that people usually reserve for baby killers and people who club seals. I never have bare arms in public. I don't care that they "aren't that bad" I feel like crap with them on show so I'm not going to take off my cardigan no matter how bloody hot it is.

...about my home
1. I've never been able to do the whole "student living in one room" thing. My crap is spread all over the house, along with everyone else's. Although mine takes up roughly five times the space of theirs put together.
2. My flatmates B and G are a couple. And they're lovely.
3. Between us we have 5 TVs, 3 DVD players, 2 PS2s, 3 Laptops, 1 PC, 1 Gamecube and 5 Stereo systems. We have no idea how.
4. Whoever cooks is exempt from washing up. G and I only ever remember to wash up because B is a neat freak and we're scared of her.
5. I keep my pretentious books on the two sets of shelves in the living room and in the hall, my trashy novels are kept under my bed. Yes, I am ashamed of half the things I read.

...about me and the arts
1. If I had to choose only one of my senses to keep it would be sight because I would die without the ability to read. Plus I could still enjoy anime.
2. In my opinion there is nothing better in this world than going to a midnight screening of a movie you're desperate to see and then discovering that you're the only one there. Nothing.
3. Music just doesn't "do it for me" the way it seems to for other people, I'm chameleon like in my tastes and very few songs move me to feel much of anything. I've never been obsessive about a band and unless I can hang out at the back by the bar I hate concerts.
4. I think that if a movie was filmed in a particular language then that is the language it should be watched in. Dubbing is the work of the devil.
5. Art galleries are sanctuaries for me but more often than not I end up sitting in a corner completely engrossed in what I'm writing. I think I just like the quiet.

...about me and men
1. Although there have been more than one when I refer to the Ex Mr. TheOdd it is always the same person. I don't like him very much, although I used to. I have been single now for the longer than I ever have been before. I have also been happier than I have ever been before. I'm pretty sure these are related.
2. I've never slept with someone for the first time when sober. This really upset me until polling my friends and realising that a) I make it sound a loads worse than it is b) I don't actually suffer from beer goggles to any great extent and c) at least I can remember all of them.
3. I don't have many male friends. I went to an all girl's school so I find interaction with guys kind of awkward, plus I'm incredibly suspicious (and arrogant) and instantly assume any man who is nice to me has an ulterior motive.
4. I find it actually cripplingly embarrassing to admit to liking someone. I simply cannot do it. I have not one single clue why but I feel like if I do all my dignity will be stripped. Which is insane as after the Ex Mr. TheOdd I'm not entirely convinced I have any.
5. I've been in love twice, one of them I dated, one of them not. One I still have feelings for, one definitely not. Neither loved me back. This doesn't upset me, in fact it makes me kind of glad.

...about my Family
1. I am the only person to have ever been University educated on either side of my family.
2. I'm also the first grandchild on both sides - although not the eldest.
3. My Mother and I speak to each other pretty much every day owing to the fact that we both have really boring jobs.
4. I refer to my step-father as Grumpy and fully intend to encourage any children either I or my step-brother have to do the same.
5. I adopt aunts on a semi-regular basis. So far I have about six. I adopt sisters too although that's much rarer and there have only been two women who have inspired me to do so.

...about my life Online
1. There is only one mention of me on Google under any permutation of my real names, this wasn't intentional but I'm very happy with it.
2. I am an Internet attention whore and get fairly obsessive about it. I know, there's a shocking fact you never knew. Although: I read a hell of a lot more blogs than I comment on.
3. Google reader may have in fact prevented me from being fired.
4. I used to use the alias "Eternally Ignored" but ditched it when I moved out of my self-pitying phase
5. I, personally, believe that due to the existence of spell checkers illiteracy is even less forgivable online.

...about me and food
1. I eat out of boredom and fast out of distress.
2. My sweet tooth is legendary.
3. Desserts should be warm and ideally served with vanilla icecream. (Examples include my home made toffee apple crumble, chocolate brownies and golden syrup sponge. Exceptions to the rule: Cheesecake and chocolate mousse.)
4. I'm not a fan of sandwiches. I like them but I can think of better foodstuffs.
5. Once I decide I like something I'll happily eat it every single day for at least a couple of weeks, often this involves having the exact same meal every day for lunch and occasionally again for supper, I see nothing wrong with this.

...about me and emotions
1. I'm contrary. Pointing this out to me just makes me worse. I know this. Doesn't mean I can change it.
2. I overshare. Badly.
3. I get very, very paranoid. I can quite happily convince myself that any conversation that's going on slightly out of ear shot is about me.
4. My god, I look terrible when I cry. In the real world I don't cry when I'm upset, only when I'm angry. Books and TV make my cry all the time though.
5. I feel in colours.

...about my friends
1. I suffer from "only child syndrome" according to my high school friends, making me selfish, whiny, determined to be the centre of attention and unable to share. Luckily they pretty much kicked this out of me via a systematic campaign of what can only be called "bullying" over the years. And I love them for it.
2. I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people so unless I see someone every day I tend to lose touch with them very quickly. Facebook has made my life a much more sociable place.
3. I'm keenly aware that my friends have flaws and I'm not prone to hero worship. Most descriptions of my friends begin with "I love X but...." they know this and do the same about me.
4. We don't have drama with each other. Although I thrive on the drama that other people have in their lives when it comes to my own friends and the relationships between me and them there is no fighting, no back stabbing and no scheming. I find it too exhausting and anyone that that kind of thing happens around doesn't class as a "friend" for very long.
5. I have several different circles of friends which never cross over, some people find this odd but the number of nicknames I have alone makes this arrangement much easier on everyone.

...about the things that make me... me.
1. I love lists. Like, love them. Everything makes more sense in list form. Especially if there are ticky boxes involved.
2. As we've already mentioned I don't find puppies particularly cute. I can't help it. I think I still have a soul though.
3. Nobody finds it weird any more when my answer to the question "What are you up to this evening?" consists of "Oh not much, I have to kill Rasputin and then hunt down some photos of naked men for this tailor... I need a new dress for my animated mannequin you see".
4. I have really specific compulsions. Mess and dirt I can handle (OK, OK I barely notice) but if something is out of order it sets my teeth on edge until I can fix it.
5. I won't feel validated unless you comment.

tuesday morning D&M

I'm in a self-analysing mood at the moment and lacking a digital camera, scanner or any other gizmo to make my post more entertaining than it currently is we're left with only my words to provide diversion. About this I am very, truly sorry. Today's post is one of big questions and fairly intense introspection. Again, I'm sorry.

I'm in one of my "happiness in blue" moods at the moment so forgive the semi-morose tone of my post. My very mild synesthaesia means that I associate colours with almost everything, days, numbers, pieces of music (although that's more of a dynamic thing) and also emotions. Those who know me well instinctively understand my happiness scale based on what colour I'm feeling - happiness in pink is the scary one, it's brightly chipper and usually steeped heavily in denial, happiness in green is my favourite because it feels something like closing your eyes and tilting your face towards the sun. Happiness in red is distracted and shivery, it comes from an evening surrounded by friends or catching a boy looking, it leads to humming and glazed over eyes. And then there's happiness in blue - it's a late Sunday night with a bottle of wine kind of happiness - it's reluctant, introspective and a little wistful because you know the feeling won't last, it's a quiet contentment that comes from understanding that while the rest of the world is out of control and careering off the rails that now, in this moment, you're doing OK and everything is quiet. My voice goes down a couple of notes when I'm happy in blue, the speed of my speech, usually lightning paced, slows down to be understandable, I feel happy to drift.

As some of you may know my life at the moment is a seemingly endless quest for some kind of purpose. My problem has always been that I'm an "all rounder" presented with far too many options. I know it seems wrong to complain about this, being faced with too many choices is always better than being faced with no choice at all, but I spend most of my life worrying that I picked the wrong course, chose the wrong path and that it's too late to turn back and run in the opposite direction. The first divergence and the one that my mother cites as being the one that I'm most unsure about was the day that I abandoned words. As a child I was in love with words, I still am, but back then they were the things that defined me. When it came down to making a choice between science and language I picked the former reasoning that although I loved both it was science that required the formal training, the further education. There's no real point in sharing this, you understand, except to provide some kind of background to my current confusion. I love science, I find it fascinating but I've been coming to realise more and more that it isn't the research that I find interesting. It's not the results and the charts that stir me - it's our interpretation of them, our reaction to the discoveries that others make.

I may have found a way to marry the two halves of me, or more precisely: those around me may have found it. Content as I am to drift at the moment and unsure as I am about what course I should be taking I decided to let three of the people who know me best, and love me most, give me their points of view and for once I actually listened. From the basic idea, through to the practicalities and finally the overcoming of obstacles it's quite shocking how three people outside my self can so quickly solve all the problems that I've spent the last five years at least constructing.

Why can't I do that?

It's a question of perspective I guess.

Aside from the question of "what am I going to be" the other one I'm facing is "who am I going to be". Oddly, this one is remarkably simpler to answer.

The basics of this is that this winter I will legally be changing my name. I'll still be Alex, I love my first name and despite its history it's too much a part of my identity to change it but I have no such attachments to my middle and surnames. My middle names are easy: I have two and I would only like to keep one of them. As it stands my three names are as such (and considering I have two of the world's most common middle names - in combination anyway - I have no qualms about revealing them to the internet in general, or rather the six people that actually read this blog and the one person who stumbled here via a search engine):

Alexandra Elizabeth Anne

I hate this for several reasons. Most mundanely, it doesn't fit on forms. More personally I dislike the reason I was given all three of my names, officially I was named after "the three princesses of England" which as a sentiment actually makes me want to vomit, my mother had nothing to do with this decision as she was told that she would be having a girl and her name would be as my father decided. Unofficially: I also share my name with one of my father's "ex" girlfriends. Cynical you may say but he chose a rather un-orthodox nickname for me, one I hated as a child and took me eighteen years to finally shake from all but a couple of family members and one or two childhood friends, and it just happens to be the name that she was known by. Still, Elizabeth is a family name - it belongs in part to my mother and my grandmother so I'm happy with it but I figure as long as I have the choice I'd rather drop the Anne - I never use it anyway.

My surname is the main point of this name changing exercise. I have been estranged from my father - by choice (mine, not his) - for over seven years now. My paternal grandmother remarried when I was an infant so she doesn't share my name and, aside from one uncle and his wife, the only family members who do are my father, his father (comments regarding apples and the distance they fall are valid here incidentally) and my two younger brothers - both of whom I've never met, nor care to. It's a name that I feel no connection to. Up until a couple of years ago this was tolerable - my mother had kept her married name when they divorced in 1990 and so sharing my name with her was something I'd grown up with. Then she remarried. I had always planned on taking my husband's surname when I married - purely selfish reasoning on my part, I've wanted to jettison this name for as long as I can remember. But now more and more I'm beginning to feel itchy at the prospect, I'd like to keep my own name and my own identity when, if, I eventually marry but I'm not happy with the identity I have.

And so I have decided to change my name, not just to something random but to my step-father's surname. People have either declared this "sweet" or "weird" and the comments have come in equal measure. There are many reasons behind my choice: to share a name with my mother again, because although he would like to I am too old for my step-father to formally adopt me, because it sounds far, far nicer than my name now.

There, those are the two questions I am facing at the moment. I almost think I have them answered.