Just a Small Town Girl


Just a Small Town Girl is the alarm on my phone. Ther phone was a gift from my ex-fiance and the alarm is one she used to use. Naturally then, I’m reminded of her when I’m woken by it, alone.

Many things remind me of Danielle (she’s told me that it’s okay to mention her by name: she’s innocent but doesn’t need protection) and sometimes I even seek things out.

I miss her, as you would someone who was the love of your life and whom you lived with for nine months. Often I’ll reminisce at night as I fall asleep, alone.

I had everything: a great life in a beautiful home with beautiful girl. And then I threw it all away. I’m truly sorry to Danielle (I’ve told her many times) and to (perhaps for?) myself. I have many regrets but that loss was my greatest. If only I’d not returned home to Sidcup after the first month of starting to dry out at my mum and dad’s. I went back too soon, temptation got the better of me, I drank and the unfortunate events which split us up the first time and relegated me to Tonbridge happened again. We were in love though, desperately missing one another and we both wanted me home. I’ve rarely been more relieved to be somewhere as when I got back that day. But then history repeated and we split up again; permanently.

I’d been told by others and by Danielle herself that she’d moved on. So had I at one point, with my ex-girlfriend (later to become second fiance) but it wasn’t the same, of course.

Danielle and I were over: she’d moved on; she’d gone.

So I was pleasantly surprised to receive a call from her on Sunday. I’ll not go into the finer details as some of it is her private business which she entrusted to me and I will not betray that trust. She recognises though that writing down my thoughts is therapy for me, so won’t mind me relaying that which affects me; and has affected me in fact.

Danielle (“Dan” to me and her friends; also “Danny”. “Sweetie” and “Baby” to me and me to her) has had a rough time of things over the last three months or so and her contemplation of things led her to phone me: I’m glad she did. She said I was the first person she thought to call: I was honoured. But the question in my mind was, why? We’re over; she’s moved on; she’s gone. But you don’t get over someone who was the love of your life quickly: she said that. No baby, you don’t; I haven’t and I won’t. Great minds eh Dan? And ours (remember that?)

So I’m part of the problem and that makes me a little sad. Obviously the simplest solution (to my mind and in my ideal world) would be for us to get back together. Water has passed under the bridge, dust has settled but I caused irreparable damage with my conduct towards Dan. You can love someone without being with them.

She’s a great girl and I want what’s best for her. If that’s someone else and he makes her happy, then I’m pleased for her. We remain friends and I’ll do my best in that capacity if I’m required. If Dan needs me to step back even further to help her get on, I’ll do that. I don’t want to but I’d do it if it helped my friend. I love her, always.

And that’s how the conversation ended:

“I love you”.

“I love you too”.

“I miss you”.

“I miss you too.”


I miss so much about that life and the things we did together; the one I threw away.

  • Snuggling up on the sofa, watching TV: Cheers, Countdown, Pointless, CSI…
  • Watching extreme cinema / “Video Nasties”
  • Getting the snake out (not a euphemism)
  • Going to Waitrose on a Saturday for the weekend Guardian, then spending the day in bed reading, whilst having brunch: tea and crumpets for Dan; bacon and egg muffin for me. We had no need for constant talk; just to be together: best friends, soulmates; made for one another and together for keeps. then I threw it all away
  • Having the kids over at weekends. Playing with them in the garden; Dan teaching Louis French; me doing maths with him. Meanwhile Lola was always Lola
  • CDs, DVDs and books: lots of CDs, DVDs and books, accumulated together by us as a couple
  • Cooking and sharing lovely meals; my kitchen: Dan wore the trousers, I wore the apron
  • Talking, as we did late into the night and early morning often
  • Sleeping; holding legs, as we did
  • Punctuating the days with cigarettes
  • Dan’s Steve loving and looking after Steve’s Dan

I miss Sidcup and Bexley in general. Today being Thursday, we’d normally go out separately: Dan to run a quiz night and me to play poker. But we’d always return home to one another. Part of my problem (besides the drinking) was my insecurity and paranioa: how was little me able to pull a six-foot super model? I did but I never fully accepted it. I drove Dan away.

  • Borrowing the mother in-law’s car. Days and nights with friends and families, spent as a couple
  • My engagement ring

I miss the home we shared. I miss heat, light and and running water. Most of all though, I miss my Bunkey (my self-coined pet name for her, which was reserved just for me: she may be with someone else soon but she’ll never be anyone else’s Bunkey. I miss my love; our shared love. I miss my world and hers, which I was. And she was mine.

A week today would have been our anniversary. I mourn our passing now and will do moreso next week.

And that’s why I’m dwelling; still full of regret and still mourning. I can’t get over it but I should move on.

I’m glad I got this all out: thanks Dan.

I’ll always love you.

Just a Small Town Girl (my gorgeous little thing). 

I’m living in a lonely world without you. 



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