It’s been two weeks since Jake left me in the middle of the ocean. And I think my life jacket is faulty. It’s not keeping me afloat. I’m afraid I may drown (in my own tears).

Then he throws me a rubber ring...

Oh God. I’m making myself cringe. I really shouldn’t write when I’m feeling emotional.

But I simply have to write. And I have no idea when I’ll stop feeling emotional. So I’ll start again without the analogies and just tell it as it is; I still feel like crap.

Then he sends me a text...

I’ve always loved you. I always will. Who I am now (the best bits – the worst bits are my own doing) I owe more to you than anyone. I want to live my whole life with the integrity, passion and ability to love that you’ve always shown. I’m not good with tragedy; sorry I dealt with this all badly. You always deserve the very best.

...and I accelerate through the five stages of dealing with loss;

He’s taking the first step towards trying to change my mind (denial).

He’s right – he did deal with it all very badly (anger).

Maybe he’ll agree to stay in London if I agree to a possible move overseas in the future? (bargaining).

That won’t happen. I’ll never be happy again (depression).

It’s over (acceptance).

His carefully chosen words are so thoughtful, so poetic, and so utterly lovely that I decide to copy them into my notebook so I can keep them forever.

Mia will be home soon. I have a shower, style my hair and put on my make-up; I’m ready for some (retail) therapy.

I’m pleasantly surprised to find I’m attracting a lot of attention. Perhaps I never noticed before because I wasn’t available? Mia dismisses my theory “No mum, it’s your nipples”.

My eleven year old daughter has just reduced my entire appeal to a pair of nipples!

She denies it, “It’s your nipples that get their attention and then they look at your face and realise that you’re pretty.”

She pauses then deadpans “Maybe you shouldn’t wear a white top when it’s cold”.

She makes me laugh all afternoon. And I go to bed feeling wildly euphoric! But I wake up feeling incredibly flat.

I remain upbeat until I drop Mia off at school. Then I go to the gym and pound the treadmill to clear my mind of Jake related thoughts.

It works. And I can’t help but notice Roberto pumping weights through the mirror. He’s probably the closest thing to physical perfection I’ve ever seen.

My jaw literally dropped the first time I laid eyes on him (shortly after my divorce). He noticed me too and things got pretty hot in the steam room one afternoon.

The physical side of it was incredible. Then after a few weeks (yes, it was that good), I tried to have a proper conversation with him.

It wasn’t easy. His vocabulary was somewhat limited. And my attraction to him waned rapidly.

I notice that he’s smouldering in my direction. Didn’t someone once say that the quickest way to get over someone is to get under someone else?

I start thinking about our encounter in the steam room.

This proves to be somewhat distracting; I trip over my own feet, land on my face and slide off the (fast) moving treadmill in a most undignified manner.

I take it as a sign that I shouldn't sleep with Roberto.

I go home and spend hours frantically cleaning instead. Then my new washing machine arrives.

And it's only when the delivery guy gives me a little pep talk before he leaves that I realise I’ve been (silently) crying the whole time.

I think I’m re-visiting the depression stage of loss.

There’s nothing left to clean. But I have to keep myself busy so I go to Sainsbury’s. I put a few things in my trolley then leave it at the bottom of the aisle while I get some fruit.

It’s gone when I get back. Someone has stolen it! How bloody rude! And it’s got my pound in it!

It doesn’t take me too long to spot the culprit; my trolley is one of the smaller ones and there aren’t a lot of people in the supermarket.

I march over and physically move her out of the way. I’m so furious that I don’t trust myself to speak.

I empty the trolley until I find my things at the bottom. I point at them indignantly. I don't know why she's looking so freaked out. She’s lucky I've managed to remain calm.

I walk off with my trolley.

Several aisles later it occurs to me that pushing her out of the way, throwing her shopping on the floor then pointing at my things without uttering a single word was probably somewhat disconcerting. And not at all calm.

It would appear that I’m not quite done with the anger stage of loss yet either.

I miss him so much. He’s left a huge empty space in my life. I read his text over and over again, sighing tearfully to myself.

But somewhere around the fifth read I start to find it a little patronising.

By the tenth read, I’m absolutely furious (and dry eyed). I’m dying here and he sends me a cliché ridden text? Four years of my life and all I get is a poxy, patronising text?

Shit. I’m starting to sound bitter. And that's not who I am.

But it’s enough of a shock to bring me to my senses; I do not want to become an angry, bitter, lonely old lady who spends my days rocking in a chair with a cat sitting on my head.

It’s time to move on. I post a light hearted request on my facebook wall;

I would like to meet a man who is attractive, kind, funny, fit, patient, loyal, aged 35-45, preferably with child(ren) of his own and without ‘issues’. I’m not holding my breath.

Then (several days later) a message lands in my inbox ‘I hear you’re looking for me’.

I sneak off to have a shower while everyone else is eating. My cunning plan pays off and the water stays gloriously hot.

But my happiness is short lived; we’re going to spend the night in a room with six other people.

The beds are tiny. And there isn’t much space between each one. I wait until Jake goes to the bathroom. Then I pop a couple of caffeine pills.

My roommates appear normal enough. But that means nothing. The worst serial killers in history looked like the guy next door.

I slow down my breathing and pretend to be asleep.

They all fall asleep pretty quickly. And the room reverberates with a symphony of snoring. I put my iPod on and sit up. I’m not stupid. I may not be able to hear them coming towards me now. But I’ll certainly be able to see them.

I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. Then I realise that my heart is beating really fast. This makes me anxious; which makes my heart beat faster.

It occurs to me that perhaps I should have just taken the one pill. I don’t drink coffee or fizzy drinks. And I rarely eat chocolate.

Therefore my body isn’t used to caffeine. I check the packet. I now have 400mg of it swimming around my body.

I remind myself why I took them in the first place; to stay awake and stop people stealing my belongings/masturbating over my feet/murdering me.

There’s nothing I can do about it now but ride it out. I try to steady my breathing and get my heart rate to slow down.

Then I get an unsettling feeling of déjà vu; closely followed by a vivid flashback to the early nineties when I popped an ecstasy pill for the first (and last) time.

I didn’t realise it took around thirty minutes to kick in. So I’d actually forgotten I’d taken it until my heart suddenly felt like it was going to burst out of my chest.

Apparently that point when you think you’re going to have a heart attack is the best bit.

I spent the next twelve hours curled up in a ball muttering “don’t like it, don’t like it, don’t like it”.

And I don’t like this caffeine buzz much either.

I turn my iPod up to try and drown out the sound of my thumping heart. It works. I can't hear it anymore but I can still feel it. I start pacing up and down the room.

Then I lie down (curled up in a ball). Then I sit up. Then I pace.

I manically continue the same process for the next seven hours while everyone else sleeps soundly. I’m starting to think that there isn’t one thief, rapist or murderer amongst them.

Or it could be that my constant state of alertness has thwarted their plans. I decide to go with that otherwise I’ll have put myself through this for no good reason at all.

I’m still jittery at breakfast. Jake looks concerned “Did you manage to get any sleep?” I tell him I slept like a log. Then I realise that my hand is shaking. And I’m spilling tea everywhere.

I’m still buzzing so we make really good time on the ascent. Then we get hit by sleet. And I start coming down from my caffeine high.

The sleet turns into snow; lots of snow that settles really quickly.

There isn't any shelter so we have no choice but to continue our descent (from around 2000 metres).

We’re on steep, rocky terrain which is dangerously slippery. Did I mention this is my first proper hike? I’m absolutely terrified.

I also have a thumping headache and an overwhelming urge to just say “Fuck hypothermia” and find somewhere to lie down.

But I don’t really want to die. So I start to (very) slowly follow Jake down. I’m so relieved when it stops snowing.

Then it starts raining really heavily. The descent should take four hours. It takes me seven. And it rains heavily the whole time. I am completely soaked through.

There is absolutely no way I’m staying in a bloody tent tonight. I demand to stay in the first hotel I see.

We walk in and immediately create a huge puddle in the lobby.

The concierge tells us they’re fully booked. I know he’s lying from the way he’s looking down his nose at us. There’s no point arguing though. So I shake myself like a dog (in his direction) before we leave.

We try every hotel and refuge we see. Every single one is fully booked. It’s late in the day and the weather is so bad that anyone intending to camp has decamped to hotels and refuges.

I am cold, wet, hungry and tired. Somehow I’m managing to hold it together. But I can feel the mother of all tantrums coming on...

I'm confused.

I can understand raclette being one of only two dishes available on Switzerland’s National Day but chicken curry? That makes no sense at all.

Unfortunately, neither option is appealing. Curry does very little for me and I’m not keen on eating a lump of grilled cheese.

But I’m starving and this is the only restaurant open in the vicinity.

A cursory glance around me confirms that all the other diners have opted for the traditional raclette; which explains the unappetising aroma of smelly feet.

I decide to risk the curry. The rice is bland and the chicken is rubbery. Bad food really upsets me.

I’m even more upset when the bill arrives; that boil in the bag excuse for a curry cost me twenty pounds! I’m tempted to refuse. Then I realise I should have asked how much it was before I ordered it.

I also realise that having a curry and sleeping in a small tent with your (relatively new) boyfriend probably isn’t a very good idea.

Luckily I’m too tired to care. I desperately want to sleep. But it feels odd being fully clothed. And the level of effort required to toss and turn until I find a comfortable position is ridiculous.

I really don’t like the sensation of being restricted by the sleeping bag. How am I supposed to move quickly in the event of an emergency? What’s to stop some lunatic from setting our tent on fire? We wouldn’t stand a chance; we’d be frazzled.

I lean into my bag and pull out Mia’s Little Teddy. She gave him to me before I left “just in case you need hugs mummy”.

I close my eyes and try really hard to sleep. I’m finally about to drift off. Then I realise that my breathing is becoming quite laboured. I shake Jake awake, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe”.

He unzips the tent – then points out that the tent has a ventilation panel. I’m still not convinced that I won’t suffocate.

I lie with my head outside the tent. At least this way I have a higher chance of survival in the event of an arson attack. Unless they set my hair on fire. Or stamp on my head.

I exhaust myself with one horrific thought after another until I eventually fall asleep.

My hair is damp from condensation when I wake up. I’m cold, wet and smelly. I sleepily make my way over to the shower block.

I make the mistake of looking in the mirror. I have incredibly puffy eyes. And my skin is blotchy. I rummage through my bag. Shit. I’ve forgotten my Talika eye therapy patches. It’ll take hours for the puffiness to subside without them.

Then I remember that I have sunglasses. And that they’re big enough to obscure half my face. Panic over.

Thankfully the shower is hot. And it stays that way for almost a whole minute. Then it’s ice cold. Cold water is supposed to be great for toning. I keep reminding myself of that as I shiver my sore arse off.

The woman in the cubicle next to me is making the whole experience even more unpleasant with her rasping cough.

And she makes the most awful noise when she gathers up the flem in her throat before spitting it out.

This means I have to stand on my tip-toes and watch the floor for any signs of floating flem; which makes washing my hair more difficult than it needs to be. And in turn makes me colder for longer.

I decide I really don't like this woman. Then she starts singing (loudly and off-key). This is possibly the worst shower experience of my entire life.

Thank god it’s over. I wrap myself in a towel and try to get dressed as quickly as possible.

The other cubicle door opens. I turn around, curious to see what this tone-deaf-gruff-sounding-flem-spitting-50-fags-a-day-woman looks like.

‘She’ is a man. A large naked man. We stare at each other for an uncomfortably long time.

I must say something to break the awkward silence “Brrr...it’s so cold isn’t it?” Shit. I involuntarily looked at his (very) small willy when I said that.

He quickly covers himself with a towel and disappears back into the cubicle.

I do feel a little (no pun intended) bad. But what exactly was he doing in the women’s shower room? And why did he come out stark bollock naked? Is he some kind of pervert?

Then another man walks in. And I realise I’m in the men’s shower room. Oh. I hurry back to the tent.

Jake drains my blisters and wraps up my toes. I strap the backpack across my bruised hips and we set off.

The pain really kicks in around the half-way mark. But I am determined to walk through it. And I’m doing quite well. Then last night’s curry starts making strange noises in my tummy.

I ask Jake how close we are to a bathroom. He checks the map. There isn’t one until we get to the refuge (which is at least two hours away).

There’s no way I can wait that long. He suggests I use my She-wee. I tell him I can’t. He asks me why. I tell him the clue is in the name. He looks confused.

I lose my patience (and my decorum) “I don’t need to wee Jake! I need to poo and I need to do it soon!”
He finds a relatively secluded area and digs a small hole. Then he keeps a look-out as I crouch over it. Oh the indignity of it all.

We’re still in the honeymoon period of our relationship. So I’ve been very careful not to fart, burp or do anything remotely unladylike in his presence. Now I’m (loudly) pooping into a hole with my trousers around my ankles.

I’m very subdued as we continue our ascent. We stop for a break and Jake pushes my hat back to kiss me. I pull it back down.

“No! I don’t want you to see my puffy eyes and my blotchy skin. It’s bad enough that you had to drain my ugly blisters, not to mention listen to me doing something in the woods that only bears should do. And I’m not a bear!”

He has a smile playing on his lips. I can tell he’s trying really hard not to laugh at me “No you’re not.”

He pulls off my hat, removes my sunglasses and plants gentle kisses all over my face “You’re beautiful and your blisters are cute”. I tell him he’s a liar “Ok. Your blisters aren’t cute but your feet are”.

I ask him if the bear in the woods incident has made me less sexy. “No..... but you did fart a lot in your sleep last night and that was kind of off-putting”.

I’m mortified.

Then he bursts out laughing. “I’m only joking!” His laughter is contagious. He pulls me towards him “Now stop being so silly and kiss me”. I do exactly as I’m told.

Then I eat lots of chocolate and the sugar rush lasts long enough to get me to the 2,500 metre Grand Col de Ferret. I feel a real sense of achievement as I happily pose for a photo with Little Teddy.

We’re about to enter my favourite country, Italy. And we’re going to spend the night in a dry refuge instead of a damp tent. Surely things couldn’t get any better?

No but as it turned out, they could certainly get a lot worse...

I jump up and down on the sofa while Mia hugs the TV.

“Mia, can you hear anything?” She listens intently before shaking her head.

"Neither can I sweetheart. Isn't that wonderful?" She tells me I'm being weird then goes back to hugging the TV.

It's blissfully quiet. I had almost forgotten the wonderful sound of silence; it feels so good to be home.

Then the doorbell rings. Bollocks.

Alison walks in brandishing a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine “Welcome back!” She pushes her daughter Megan towards the living room “Go and play with Mia”.

Then she gives me a big hug “I’ve missed you so much”. How strange. We’re not exactly close. We’re simply neighbours who exchange pleasantries over the garden fence occasionally.

And we haven’t even done that since she drunkenly flashed her breasts at me. Perhaps she thinks that incident forged some kind of friendship between us.

“I love your hair! It really suits you and it’s so shiny”. She starts stroking my hair.

Her over familiarity is very unsettling. I move my head out of reach "How did you know we were coming back today?"

She hesitates for too long before answering “I didn’t. I saw your car in the drive when I got home”.

She seems a little twitchy and nervous. I hope she isn’t going to expose herself to me again.

I lean in as she speaks so I can discreetly check her breath for alcohol.

Then she asks if she can use the bathroom before rushing off upstairs “We’ve been out all day and I’m a bit desperate”.

There is something very odd about her behaviour. And I intend to get to the bottom of it.

I turn to Megan “Have you been somewhere nice today?” She shakes her head. Apparently they’ve been at home all day waiting for us to come back.

Alarm bells start to ring;

How did Alison know we were due back today? Why did she lie to me about being out all day?

Why is she so desperate for the toilet when she has two of her own? And why go to the one upstairs when the one downstairs is closer? I tiptoe slowly up the stairs.

The bathroom door is open; she isn’t in there.

I find her in my bedroom on her hands and knees looking under my bed. I watch as she retrieves a red bra which does not belong to me “What are you doing?”

She looks up startled “Don’t judge me!” I tell her that I’m not interested in judging her but I am interested in how her bra came to be under my bed.

She bursts into tears and starts telling me how unhappy her marriage is. I cut her short “I just want to know why your bra is in my bedroom”.

Apparently she had a fling with one of my builders “and you had sex in my bed?” I am incredulous.

“I knew you’d judge me! You don’t understand what it’s like to be in a loveless marriage”. I tell her that I don’t give a shit about her cheating on her husband. But I am very upset that she did it in my bed.

Then I realise that if she hadn’t forgotten her bra, I would never have found out and I would have slept in those sheets. That is so disgusting.

She is still babbling on about her unhappy marriage as I strip the bed.

And she is getting progressively louder and more hysterical “We haven’t had sex for over a year! What was I supposed to do? He won’t even touch me”.

I tell her to keep her voice down and remind her that her daughter is downstairs. She eventually calms down. And asks me what she should do.

Ordinarily I would be a little more sympathetic to her plight but her lack of respect has really pissed me off. So I suggest she splashes some cold water on her face before she leaves.

I’m still fuming when Mia and I join the rest of the family at a Turkish restaurant to celebrate my brother’s birthday.

I have a quick flick through the menu and opt for something other than the usual shish kebab. But I’m not sure of the correct Turkish pronunciation for the dish that I want.

And I know that they will laugh at me if I get it wrong. It’s bad enough that I speak Turkish with an English accent.

So I play it safe and order it by number “Otuz bir (31)”. My mother looks horrified “You can’t say that”. “What? 31?” She apologises to the waiter who is looking a little flushed “She doesn’t know what she’s saying”.

I don’t understand “Why can’t I say 31?!” Then I realise that a hush has descended over the restaurant. And everyone seems to be staring at me.

The silence is broken by Ayse and Melek’s hysterical laughter.

Apparently 31 in Turkish is slang for male masturbation which effectively means that I ordered a wank.

I look around the table “Does everybody know about this?” They nod. Ayse splutters “I think you must be the only one that doesn’t” before cracking up again.

I suppose that makes sense because I don’t really mix in the community; the only Turkish people I spend any time with are my family. And it’s not really a topic of conversation that would ever come up.

“But why 31? Ours must be the only language in the world where a number means that. The number 13 would work better as the 3 could represent the hand” I start to illustrate what I mean.

My mother slaps my hand “Stop it, you’re making it worse”. But my curiosity has been aroused “Can anybody tell me why it’s called 31?” No. It just is. I try to let it go.

Then I find myself lying in bed still mulling it over. 69 I get, its’ meaning is clearly represented by the shape of the numbers. But I just don’t get 31.

It’s so random. There is no logic to it at all. It is yet another one of those inexplicable Turkishisms that I can file away along with the six month henna party and their unique approach to puberty;

When a child is six months old, the whole family gather together and the poor child has a lump of henna tied to one foot and one hand with pieces of silk whilst prayers are read from the Koran.

Then a wicker tray full of peanuts is passed around, each person throws in money and takes out a handful of peanuts in return (which makes them the most expensive peanuts you’ll ever eat).

The henna is kept on overnight before being removed, leaving the child with two orange splodges.

My mother insisted that I had to do that with Mia. And I agreed on condition that she could explain its meaning to me. She couldn’t “It’s just something we’ve always done”.

She had also used the exact same words to justify her bizarre reaction when I started my period;

I knew absolutely nothing about periods so when I started shortly before my eleventh birthday I thought I was dying. It took two full days and nights of constant worry before I confided in my mother.

Her reaction was to slap me hard across the face (as dictated by tradition) before bursting into tears and hugging me until I couldn’t breathe.

It was confusing to say the least.

But back to this whole number 31 thing – is there anyone out there who can shed some light on it for me?