I’m feeling like crap again. I seem to have picked up a bug at work, which has manifested itself as fatigue, blinding headaches and a sore throat since Friday evening.

You’re probably sick of all the memes and quizzes on this blog; I know I am.

I haven’t written much in the last week or so on here, nothing of any consequence anyway.

I have a love/hate relationship with this blog. Tonight I hate it. In the morning maybe things will be different.

Today was a good/average day overall, which does not explain my sudden downward spiralling.

I saw a fat bloke knitting with bright pink wool on the train. He’d just started his “piece” so I couldn’t tell what it was going to become.

At lunchtime a guy stopped me in the street and exclaimed, “If you were my girl, I’d…” He didn’t finish his sentence (thankfully). I walked on.

Later on, a cute guy said hi to me. I was on a mission so I hurried on.

I’ve almost finished this book I’m reading, it’s a nice romance about a photographer and a scientist by Michelle M. Pillow.

My neck aches. Going to go. I hate this blog. Does that mean I hate me? Probably.

Good night.

Maybe some of you have wondered why I call myself the Urban Recluse. Well, here’s some evidence of my self-imposed social isolation. Right now I should be at my friend Ahmed’s birthday party, but instead I’m at home feeling rather guilty for not going out.

He invited me to his party last year, and I didn’t go. My excuse was that I was on my period. I wasn’t lying, but I could have gone if I’d really wanted to. So I felt obliged to go when I heard about this year’s party, but also reluctant to go as I’m an anti-social freak. I felt sure that I would be judged unfairly by his friends, and as I wouldn’t know any of them (except for maybe 2 people that I hadn’t seen in nearly 10 years) I felt rather reluctant to go.

Although Ahmed’s invitation was apparently marked RVSP, I didn’t confirm my attendance as I wanted to think it over. He sent a reminder text last week, then called me on Thursday to check whether I was going. I said yes, as there was no polite way to decline without sounding like a bitch.

Today I started preparing to go. I had a shower and started to sort out my hair. I had some dinner, and as is my custom when I’m eating alone, I read the thriller that I am currently reading. When I finished dinner I realised that I preferred the option of continuing my book rather than going out to a party to partake in small talk with strangers. Oh, and I forgot to mention the karaoke portion of the party!

A lot of people will wonder if I’m sane. Sometimes I wonder that too. Most people on the planet seem to enjoy getting together, meeting strangers, talking about whatever – I’d rather stay in with a book. I’m 26, not 96.

Now, if the party had been at a nightclub, I probably would have gone. I like to shake my booty.

Most people I know have one. The Ex. Not just any old ex-lover, but the one whom we loved most intensely, and who broke our hearts when he/she left.

I saw that ex last Friday morning on the train. I’d missed my usual train to work and had to take a different route. I sat down at a window seat and listened to mid-tempo RnB while I looked out the window.

I don’t why, but he crossed my mind when the train arrived at his old stop. I wondered whether he still lived around there. Then as if I’d caused him to appear I saw him preparing to get on the train. He walked past me and sat in the next row, facing away from me. All I could see was the back of his head. He had cut his hair, but I was 99% sure it was him.

I felt strangely numb, like I was prodding at a scar, expecting to feel pain but instead feeling nothing but a healed wound. I couldn’t help but look at the back of his head, thinking about the strangeness of being so near to someone for whom I had cared so much and with whom I’d shared so much intimacy.

I could not talk to him. I was afraid of confronting the past. I was afraid that he’d turn around and see me. That he’d see that I had not changed in the last five years. I felt awkward. I remembered the scene in Sex and The City when Miranda ran away from Steve after their breakup. I wouldn’t have done that if he’d seen me, but I could appreciate her embarrassment.

I’d had boyfriends before him, but I hadn’t fallen for any of them. I fell for him, but in my heart I knew that he didn’t feel the same way. He liked my personality primarily, not my looks. I  thought that he was so cute and funny, and I didn’t think that I was pretty enough for him. I guess I was waiting for him to figure that out, and he did, eventually.

I’d felt so inadequate that I gave him things to show my affection – a hat, a t-shirt, a watch. I gave him a neck chain for Christmas which he lost in a fight.

I wondered how his child was. He had had a girl with his previous girlfriend, and had been going through a lot of drama with her.

He was a few years older than me, so he must be about 30 now. He’s probably in some high-powered computing job – he was training in that field when we were together.

All of those things were running through my mind.

I forced myself to look away from him and look out of the window at the unfolding scenery. I was rewarded by the sight of a rainbow. Although I could still see him out of the corner of my eye, I focused on the rainbow and the message that I could take from nature’s lesson.

At my stop I rose to my feet. I took one last look at him then left the train in a melancholy mood.