I’m a hopeless romantic. To love and be loved is rare and precious. It doesn’t just happen, it requires work. Sometimes a lot of work. Having a great relationship isn’t just luck. Nothing good is achieved on minimum effort. It takes sacrifices. It takes compromise. It takes a concerted effort on both parts to make it work. It takes a level of emotional literacy that many of us simply struggle with.

Sometimes when our relationship challenges us, my husband asks if I still love him. And I say the same thing each time, “I love you intentionally and unconditionally.” That is, I love him because I have made a decision to love him, and when I married him I made a commitment to him until death. My love for him is unconditional in that he doesn’t have to meet criteria to earn my love. He’s good enough. I just love him as is. Which is not to say I don’t have boundaries, but I would not expect someone who professes to love me to be ongoing breaking those boundaries. Certainly not intentionally and without expecting consequences. That would require a serious conversation about our expectations from the relationship.

When love is good it’s the best. When you meet your match on more than just a superficial level, do whatever it takes to hold onto that love. Be open to grow and change to accommodate the strengthening of the bond between you. Don’t give up on it just because it’s difficult.

Love isn’t just a feeling. It isn’t passive, it’s active. Love is something you do. Do it more.

I have to be honest, I haven’t been crushing on anyone in ages. Apart from my insanely sexy husband that is. Always him.

Since my string of crushes on gay men in my teens, there hasn’t been much to write home about. I did, probably in my twenties, thirties, I’m not even sure, have fascinations with Jeff Goldblum and David Baddiel. As a friend pointed out, “Oh very Jewish then?” Which wasn’t exactly the reason for the attraction so much as I just rather like the look of guys with dark hair and brown eyes.

I did a while back have a girl crush on the worship leader with Hillsong United, Taya Gaukrodger (formerly Smith). I still think she has the most gorgeous face, but when she had shaved her head her beautiful facial features looked more stunning than ever. She also has a wonderful voice which is appealing.

I have similar feelings about P!nk. Beautiful woman, incredibly strong, physically and mentally, an amazing mumma, awesome singer and performer and a voice for women everywhere. For me that’s not so much of a physical crush as an admiration, but still. It’s probably as close to crushing as I can offer currently.

My first love was Andrew Benfield. I met him in church youth group when I was 17. I knew we were friends, what I didn’t know was that Andrew didn’t believe a boy and a girl could be just friends, so I guess he’d already set his sights on me. I was completely oblivious and my self esteem was so fragile I didn’t imagine anyone could like me in that way. Despite his intentions, he was far too afraid to ask me out, so eventually I asked him.

I was at sixth form college, he was already working. He drove a brand new, sporty car. He showered me with gifts. He seemed so much more grown up than me. He appeared so self assured, although I realise now it was all bravado. He actually believed he and his family were somehow special, untouchable even, ‘because we’re Benfields’. He actually was incredibly insecure. And he was disabled with a terminal heart defect.

We were married two years later, roughly at the end of the 6 months – 2 years life expectancy his consultant had given him. For me, at least, it didn’t take long for the cracks to appear. I was so young and had no idea how an adult relationship should look. I knew my parents were pretty dysfunctional so I looked to my in-laws, not understanding how my father in law was actually a controlling bully. He was very clever, generally appeared jovial and charming. And it seemed Andrew learned a lot from his father.

I loved him, and stayed with him despite a lack of intimacy, despite always being made to feel like I was too much, or not enough. Having no financial autonomy. Being told what to wear and how to style my hair. Having to account for where I’d been and who I’d been with. Never being able to resolve conflict, because he couldn’t accept his point of view could ever be wrong. Constantly being criticised and undermined. Laughed at. I just kept quiet, kept my head down, bit my tongue. For twenty years, eighteen and a half of them married.

I didn’t leave because I didn’t believe I could survive alone. And certainly no one else would ever love me. That’s what I’d been drip fed over years. My spirit was broken. And we were still attending a church that frowned on divorce big time.

The absolute redeeming feature of being married to Andrew, was the arrival of our incredible son ten years into the marriage. How the heck we managed to conceive a child given the rarity of any sexy time is still beyond me. But being a father changed Andrew for the better. He still hid his insecurities behind controlling behaviour, but not so much. And he was a great hands on dad.

When Andrew died aged 40 and well meaning people told me God needed him, I’m afraid my response was, “More than his 8 year old son did?” Christopher always had his daddy at home with him and the loss absolutely destroyed him. They had doted on each other.

It would be great to say my first love was a ‘happy ever after’ sort of love story, but life’s not always like that. It is as it is.

Thirty Facts About Myself

1. I was born a month premature and with laryngitis. My parents were told my survival was touch and go.
2. I was born in Winchester UK.
3. I had a period of selective mutism when I started school.
4. I had a pet mouse for my fifth birthday.
5. As a child I hated chips/fries/sautéed potatoes.
6. I left school with 10 O levels and 3 A levels (just).
7. My first full time job was working in dementia care.
8. I was married to Andrew at 19.
9. I have one son born in 2000.
10. I was widowed at 37.
11. I had major spinal surgery in 2010 giving me titanium rods in my lower back.
12. My last job was in a children’s nursery.
13. I have a level 5 childcare qualification.
14. I have twice had to leave higher education due to my mental health.
15. I graduated at foundation degree level aged 42.
16.  I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder type 2 when I was 44.
17. I also have a personality disorder diagnosis.
18. I dyed my hair pink for around 5 years.
19. I was once introduced to former prime minister John Major.
20. I spent a couple of years experimenting with BDSM and swinging.
21. I married Martin when I was 51.
22. Both my husbands are/were big and tall and were qualified chefs. Apparently I have a type.
23. We share our home with a cat, a bearded dragon, a chameleon, a royal python and tropical fish.
24. I have an obsession with vintage Christmas decorations.
25. My weird ambition is to model plus size fetishwear.
26. I like to eat shrimp/banana foam sweets. All the shrimps first then all the bananas.
27. My favourite toy is a large penguin plushie called Ian.
28. I drive a black Corsa called Ali.
29. I also have a motorhome called Roger.

30. My favourite colour is pink

Firstly, and really importantly, treat me with respect and never be tempted to patronise me. I know my neurosparkly brain and mood disorder make me confusing or awkward to be around sometimes, but I’m not stupid.

Feed me snacks. Martin discovered tea and cake works wonders at winning me over, but chocolate works equally well.

Take me out for dinner. I love an excuse to get dressed up and put make up on.

Meet me for coffee or lunch. With a side of shopping!

Give me gifts. They don’t have to be expensive. Just let me know you saw something and thought of me.

Take me to the beach. If you don’t want to paddle in the sea with me, hold my stuff and take pictures. Buy me chips. Or an ice cream.

Take pictures of us together. One day I’ll just be a memory, you’ll cherish those photos.

Watch the sunset with me.

Hug me. Cuddle me. Hold my hand. Touch me. (Delete as appropriate to our relationship).

Send me pictures and memes of cute cats or penguins.

Share my enthusiasm for the things that excite me. Don’t make me feel stupid for my weird passions.

Talk to me. I want to know all about you. The details, the weird and wonderful stuff that makes you you. And I want you to be genuinely interested in my stuff too. That’s how to win my heart.

This is a no brainer. Unlike favourite book, film, TV series, where I had to give the subject matter some serious consideration. At the risk of letting down the widow community, and not saying Andrew, the person I miss the most is unequivocally my Dad.

After My Mum died, Dad leaned into me for emotional support, and for advice in so many areas. He had helped me financially for all my adult life and from childhood he’d always been the man who could fix things. Often to Andrew’s annoyance as he himself wasn’t so practical like that. His annoyance, to be honest was always equalled by mine, when he’d attempt some task, way beyond his capabilities, full of bravado, only to fail miserably and I’d end up asking Dad anyway.

But in the years after Mum’s death, I had the opportunity to really get to know my Dad. We would spend time together socially, going for coffee or lunches. He’d pop round to mine every Tuesday, after he’d finished his shopping and we’d put the world to rights for a couple of hours. We took wonderful trips to Butlin’s together. I used to attend all his hospital appointments with him. We spent many hours at meetings with the renal team at the dialysis centre. He was due to soon start dialysis at the time he died.

I’d always loved my Dad, but my mother had done her best over the years to keep my attentions on her one way or another. She wanted me to believe as a child that Dad didn’t care about her and she deserved pity. It wasn’t really until I was hospitalised in my twenties for my mental health that I saw how very much my Dad cared for me. He visited me every other day, and would take me shopping for goodies, or to the pub for an hour, just to get me away from the awful psych wards. All the while my husband didn’t visit because he claimed he couldn’t afford the petrol. And My Mum? Banned from visiting me because she caused me too much distress.

After we’d both lost our respective spouses, my Dad became my absolute rock. It almost felt like there wasn’t anything he couldn’t make better. And I cherished his company. And that makes for an expansive gap in my life. I miss my Dad.

Well, I’ve made it to half way through the challenge! That’s better than I expected.

I have a friend, and for many years we talked about running away together to Cornwall; her, me and her dog. It was always our contingency plan if life became too much. Oh and it had to be in a vintage VW camper, obviously. Not sure where the money was coming from to buy said camper to be honest, and knowing what I know about these fabulous old vehicles, we’d probably need to hire an on board mechanic too. Female though, the only male allowed would be the mutt. But my friend’s life circumstances have changed pretty dramatically in the last three years, so our fantasy runaway may have to be put on hold for a few years.

Realistically, if I was ever in need of an escape now though, I would be more likely to head to Devon than Cornwall. I love both counties anyway, the pace of life and the coastlines ongoing attract me. Oh and the cider! But I’m more likely to favour Devon now because I have someone there I could run to, if I ever needed a bolt hole. Someone who loves me unconditionally and would be the perfect friend to offer me a safe space if required to explore my feelings. Someone who gives the best advice and isn’t afraid to kick my ass if needed. Where I’d be loved and cared for until whatever sent me running felt manageable again. And my vitamin sea tanks are refilled.

Because at the end of the day, running away is rarely the answer. Life has a habit of following you. Some respite is good, trying to escape permanently, not so much.

I said to my husband earlier the title for today’s challenge and added, “I have no idea, I don’t think I have any style!” His reply was, “Pink and fluffy!” To which I replied, but what about the sparkly and embellished with penguins?” He agreed.

I think I would describe my style as eclectic at best, chaotic at worst. It has been noted that I wear a lot of dresses, and all year round. I like dresses, they’re generally flattering. I know the styles that will suit me and can generally shop without trying on. I do love an excuse to get dressed up, love a posh frock, especially a retro frock. Give me a 1950s style swing dress with petticoats and seamed stockings and I’m well away. I like to think I can look good when I make the effort.

When we go travelling in our motorhome I have a completely different wardrobe. I have fantastic casual pull-on slacks, with large pockets, easy care tops or T-shirts and Rogering trainers (so-called because our motorhome is named Roger). As an aside, my Rogering trainers tick a lot of boxes re my style. Firstly, they’re really comfortable. They are mostly leopard print with cerise pink trims and pale pink laces. Both pinks have sparkly thread woven in. I absolutely adore them. And they were a gift from my lovely husband.

Although my day to day look is pretty unexciting; I rarely wear makeup and my hair is decidedly hit and miss since I ditched the dye and the six-weekly cuts, but I do always have an amazing manicure! It’s a self care thing. Other stuff can slip, but not my nails!

My other passion is for dressing up in lingerie or low-key fetishwear (faux leather, leather, PVC etc). I have a lingerie profile on Instagram where I share my body positivity and pretty undies. I’ve had a dream of being a plus size fetishwear model for years, but it will remain forever that; just a dream.

So, my style; pink, fluffy, sparkly, leopard print, retro, big pockets, fabulous nails, pretty frillies, faux leather, embellished with penguins and accessorised a floral Cath bag. Does that narrow it down?

I was an avid reader as a child. To be frank, I wasn’t very outdoorsy, I wasn’t overly sociable, and there certainly weren’t all the gadgets back then to amuse the children of the 70s. Reading was my go to. I never had a shortage of books or comics to read. My Mum rarely refused if I asked for a new book. My reading age at school was always ahead of my physical age. I would very often sit with a book until I’d finished it. And then I’d start a new one.

As a young adult with a full time job, a sick husband and some voluntary work for good measure, I discovered the joys of so called chick lit. Wonderful frothy stories of love, adventure, friendship and fun, and always with a happy ending. Perfect for dipping in and out of, or taking on holiday. I’ve enjoyed many different authors as time has gone on.

More recently I enjoyed some of the historical stories set in the Second World War, or subsequent years, about girls working in factories, or shops, and the like. I also read a lot of what I branded ‘sob stories’ about survivors of child abuse or growing up in care. But they can be pretty traumatic.

I’ve always enjoyed erotic fiction, both reading and writing. Perhaps unsurprisingly. Despite not being true to BDSM principles, I really enjoyed the Fifty Shades trilogy.

But my favourite book, that I’ve come back to over and over is a poetry anthology. I have always loved poetry, again both reading and writing. And the book I love most is a collection of the top 100 popular poems as voted for by the viewers of the BBC’s The Bookworm in 1995. It contains so many of the poems I loved at school; the classics. There’s truly something for every mood. It was gifted to me by a manager in one of my retail jobs, and I have cherished it since. It’s not so pristine as it once was, for it is well read and well loved. And I anticipate I will treasure it for many more years to come.