I feel terrible.

Actually, to be more accurate, I’m feeling tragically sorry for myself. And it’s all because of Uni Boy.

Normally, I’m pretty good at pulling myself out of the black hole of despair, but today I’m in full-on Eeyore mode. I just can’t stop sniffling. My eyes are pink and big, fat tears roll sporadically down my cheeks and onto my lap. Yep, it’s that bad.

We’ve spent the afternoon messaging each other. He’s still telling me how gorgeous and wonderful I am … he just doesn’t want to see me anymore.

Yes, I know that it was only ever going to be a fling, but somehow it didn’t feel too bad when the end was predestined by circumstance. But now that I’ve been officially dumped – AGAIN – I just feel awful and unlovable and … thoroughly sorry for myself.

Actually, it’s unfair to say that I’m feeling sorry for myself because of Uni Boy. I’m clearly feeling sorry for myself because of ME. The top and bottom of it is that I just don’t like being dumped; the identity of the perpetrator is almost immaterial.

I can’t help wondering why no-one ever wants me. What’s wrong with me?! I know a it’s ridiculously negative way of thinking and I should squash the thoughts at source, but my life is littered with men telling me how charming and attractive I am, and what a great friend I make … it’s just that none of them, for whatever reason, actually wants to be with me.

Despite Uni Boy’s many flaws (not wanting me being the most prominent), being with him really did make me happy: his hugs had a way of banishing negative thoughts and his kisses took me where little angels play sweet melodies on tiny golden harps. Still, we have the same stupid sense of humour and I’m sure he’ll make a very good friend, once I’ve got over the mortification.

And this is the main point: I’m sick of being The Friend.

I’ve remained friends with almost all of my exes, except The Only I Almost Married, and we were never friends before. I’m everybody’s bloody friend … but still I’ve got no-one to call my own; no-one to curl up to on cold nights and no-one to give me a squeeze just because they feel like it.

The worst of it is that I’m one of the world’s most affectionate creatures. I like nothing more than human contact in any of its forms: when I’m sad, just stroke my hair and I’m soothed; when I’m happy I’ll celebrate with kisses and hugs; when it’s cold, full-body spooning is just what I need; and when it’s too hot for contact, I’ll link little fingers and be happy.

Which is why it feels so unfair that I’m always alone: no hugs, no kisses, no spoons. Nothing. And with every failed fling I see a life of solitude laid out ever more clearly before me.

Enough!

I need to get out of this way of thinking; I need a change of air. So it’s pure fortune that tonight I’ll be boarding a plane for Istanbul, a trip booked when I was still reeling from the news that my ex was to be a daddy. Booked, in fact, on the fateful day that I got it together with Uni Boy.

And I know I should count my blessings: I’ve got no ties, nothing to stop me zipping off to foreign climes whenever I feel like it. And let’s face it, who can remain glum when they’re off to see the Blue Mosque and eat köfte while watching the sun set over the Bosphorus?

I think about it for a moment. I’m healthy, I’m happy(ish) and the unexpectedly independent configuration of my life lets me do whatever I want. What is there to complain about? I pull out a guidebook and start reading about the highlights of Istanbul.

Ladies and gentlemen, Eeyore has left the building.