How Cher Lloyd Helped My Heartbreak (and I’m not joking)

You know it’s time to sort your life out when a Cher Lloyd song comes on, and you catch yourself thinking “Mm, yeah, I can relate to this. This is so meaningful!” rather than pressing mute as quickly as possible, and/or throwing your radio into the nearest toilet. This happened very recently and violent alarm bells began ringing, warning me to stop feeling sorry for myself. Moping and sulking over a break up will help nothing, especially if this forlorn self-indulgence makes you enjoy Cher Lloyds’s painstakingly atrocious songs, wear baggy leggings and an inside-out cardigan as a daily staple outfit, or publicly cry into your Strawberry Daiquiri after 2-4-1 cocktail night has turned into a 8-4-8 cocktail car crash. This form of sulking also quickly becomes dangerously expensive, and being single and poverty stricken is something I refuse to be.

So I am trying to be more positive and carefree, wear pyjamas less, and completely avoid scenarios in which I end up shouting “I’M ON THE REBOUND BABY!” at unsuspecting members of the public, at the Slug and Lettuce, on a Tuesday. No good can ever come from this. Ever.

My plan is to distract myself by perfecting (I say perfecting – acquiring may be a more suitable word) my culinary skills, writing and ranting on my blog more frequently, and spending more time outside in the (occasional) sunshine. And just generally spending less time in bed watching 10 Things I Hate About You. I would say I plan to spend more time concentrating on my work and going to the gym, but I would simply be lying. Contrary to popular belief, the gym does not heal a broken heart, it just makes you realise that you have astoundingly weak pectoral muscles, and nobody wants to face up to that fact.