Sunday again, and it’s cloudy, so technically it should be a good day. I might go for a run later.

Just at the moment, though, everything feels completely and utterly shit.

After he’d left me standing outside my flat and gone upstairs, I felt just as though I’d made a total fool of myself. It was a kind of a dull awareness, still feeling a bit warm and fuzzy due to having two glasses of wine (two glasses! My God), but now – in the cold light of a dull and windy December morning, all I can think of is how I told him happily that I’d been sectioned, not once but twice, and how he froze when I kissed him, how he extricated himself from my clutching fingers and then ran as fast as his legs would carry him up the stairs.

What on earth did I think I was doing? He must have sensed the desperation coming out of me. No wonder I’m a complete nutcase. No wonder I can’t get out of the flat without checking everything forty times. Now I’m not just a nutcase, I’m a desperate nutcase who needs a shag so badly she practically has to pounce on the only male who’s shown any interest in the last year. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, this man was a psychologist – if anyone knew what madness looked like, he did.

When I got through my door, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was wet with tears, which I must have been shedding without realising, whilst he’d been kissing me. Under the tears, my cheeks were fiery red. I didn’t look as if I’d just been kissed to within an inch of a heartbeat, I looked as if I’d been dumped.

Which, in a way, I had.

On a more positive note, however, all this provided such a great distraction from my normal woes that I managed to get away with only checking the flat once last night. Once.

I didn’t sleep, though. I lay awake for hours, going over everything he’d said, and everything I’d said, trying to analyse the bits where I thought he’d been trying to tell me he fancied me, and all I could come up with sounded lame, could be interpreted differently: that he wasn’t ready for a relationship (which he’d actually said) and nor was I (which he’d said as well) and that he’d had a shit time with his fiancée. The subtext of it all seemed to be that he needed my company and enjoyed being with me because, clearly, if neither of us wanted a relationship, then he was perfectly safe spending time with me, without me pouncing on him. All of which he’d said, right before I fucking pounced on him.

Shit.

At about three in the morning, I got out of bed, turned the heating on and sat shivering in my dressing gown for ten minutes with a cup of tea. When the warmth started to seep through, I decided to have a go at the deep breathing thing. Why not, after all? I had fuck all else to do.

This time I tried hard to do it without thinking about Stuart. Thinking about him now might make things worse, not better. Of course, the harder I tried not to think about him, the more impossible it became. I looked up to the ceiling, listened to the roaring silence inside my own ears, wondering if he was having trouble sleeping too. If he was, it was because he was lying there wondering what on earth he was going to say to me the next time he saw me. ‘Um, hello, yes, I know I kissed you back, but really I’d rather shave my own eyebrows off than kiss you again. Would you mind not pouncing on me again? Thanks awfully.’

I even tried giving myself a severe talking-to. I am not going to let this hold me back. I am recovering from my OCD. I am going to get better, every day. I am recovering because I  can do it. All he did was point it out; he’s not making me better, I’m making myself better.

After that, I had another go at the deep breathing, and this time I managed it. Just for three minutes, and it was a relief when the timer went off. I did feel calmer after that, crawled back into bed, and, as it started to get light outside, finally managed to sleep.

This morning I woke up and for a moment I could only remember the feeling of being kissed, how delicious he tasted, how strong and warm and safe he felt, and then I remembered the context of it all and I felt sick. After my eight o’clock cup of tea, I decided to be brave and go for a run. I got kitted out in tracksuit and trainers, eyeing the clouds through the window, daring it to rain. That would just about finish me off, I thought, and would be no more than I deserved; half an hour running through rain, or better yet sleet, would just about serve me right.

I checked the flat three times, which wasn’t bad, but not good either for a weekend. I used a big safety-pin to clip my door key inside the pocket of my tracksuit, checked it was secure, then at last I could set off.

It was windier than I’d realised, and my route to the park meant I was running into the wind most of the way. By the time I made it to the park gates I couldn’t feel my face any more. Inside the park, I managed a sprint all the way up the hill, breathing until my chest hurt and then catching my breath at the top, gazing out across the view, all the way down towards the river, Canary Wharf and the Dome. The clouds were scudding across the sky, getting darker and stormier by the minute.

I headed off back down the hill, completing a circuit of the park, getting back to the gates just as the clouds broke and big droplets of icy rain began to fall. I thought about sheltering under the awning of the café, which was closed, but I don’t like hanging around in the park any longer than I need to, particularly in this sort of half-light when you can’t see who might be approaching. So I ran on.

And, of course, by the time I got back to Talbot Street the rain was easing off to a light drizzle. I was soaked, my hair spiked up in all directions by the rain and my own sweat, my cheeks stinging from the cold.

Just as I got to the house, the front door opened and Stuart came out. He was so busy checking that the door was properly closed behind him that he didn’t see me at first, and for a moment I contemplated diving behind next door’s gate.

Too late.

‘Hi!’ he said, and his voice was so bright and friendly that I was taken aback by it.

‘Hello,’ I said, breathing hard, wishing I could have run just a little bit faster and made it home before he’d come out.

‘I’m just going to go and buy some things for breakfast. Do you want some?’

‘Um – I need to get changed,’ I said, lamely.

‘That’s okay,’ he said, eyeing my soaking wet tracksuit. ‘You go and get some dry clothes on. When you’re done, come up to the flat. Bacon and eggs alright?’

‘Lovely,’ I said.

He gave me a grin and went to pass me.

‘Stuart,’ I said.

He turned back to me, keys in his hand.

‘I just wanted to say – er – thanks. For last night. For – you know. Not coming in. For turning me down. I’m sorry, I think the wine went to my head a bit.’

He looked confused. ‘I didn’t turn you down.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Didn’t you?’

He took a step towards me, and put one hand on my upper arm, the way he’d done that night to calm me down. ‘No, I didn’t. I just didn’t take advantage of you.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘No, it’s not the same thing at all. I wouldn’t have turned you down.’

He gave me a smile whilst my heart pounded, and not from the running. Then he said, ‘See you in a minute,’ and set off towards the High Street. I stood and held my breath and watched him until he turned the corner.