Life as a lady in London is complicated. Men will take you out for fancy dinners only to drop you halfway through the main course for a business client. Long lost cousins will get you drunk on £50 bottles of wine and confess they want to bed you. And flatmates will bring home sleazy Spaniards to clog up the shower plug with pubes. I moved to the city just under a year ago. Since ditching the provincial 'burbs for the smoke's bright lights, I've learned to deal with the highs and lows of what London has to offer.
It sounds pig-headed to say I lead a colourful life. Everyone has their own story - and I'm sure mind is monumentally dull compared with the Christian loon who hollers at gaggling girls on Piccadilly Circus - and often tells me I'm going straight to hell.
But it's not very often that we get to reveal our innermost thoughts to the world. If there's one thing that defines Londoners - we don't talk. We don't do relationship chat in the office - and wouldn't dream of telling the old lady on the train about our medical ailments.
So from body image, to boyfriend woes, to friendship fracas, and work bust-ups. This is where I tell it like it is - no secrets.
