Stomach is churning at the prospect of dinner tonight with Square Jawed Georgie who wants to meet up because he says “some things need explaining” and there are “some things you need to know”. What, what, what, what, what?

Is it fair to expect me to try and eat tapas with wobbly hands and wobbly lips whilst being told all my shortfallings? I don’t want to go! Tried to get out of it with a text suggesting it might be better just to have a drink rather than dinner. Got the curt response: “we can drink at the bar and eat at the same time”. Oh can we? I can’t imagine being able to eat a thing.

Shoes or boots? Shoes or boots? Shoes or boots? I cannot decide. Spent ages trying to pick a frock this morning then agonised on the train about making the wrong choice. Then my chum Rosalind’s words popped into my head, “You are not auditioning for the part of girlfriend” – indeed not. Which would look most fetching whilst perched on a bar stool though?

The only thing keeping me going through all this is the thought of Bette’s BBBeans. Truly. It is all I have to focus on to get me through tonight’s ordeal. I am on the hunt for navy beans or failing that haricots. I have also printed something out about what “fat salt pork” is to wave at a friendly butcher if I can find one in London’s West End.

“All About Eve” has arrived and is in my handbag. Rosalind is helping me to scope out a cheap DVD player tomorrow. She is being a ROCK throughout my break up trauma. I wouldn’t be surprised if she suggests that I stay at her place the whole weekend and have ourselves a little beanfeast to cheer us both up. What cocktail would go best with a big bunch of beans I wonder? We are going to need several jugs of something…

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