Since Mum died in November 2015, I've endured two failed romantic relationships. Both were complete wastes of time in hindsight, but I only have myself to blame for thinking they might be different than others that came into my life before them.

If she was alive, Mum would have told me "C'est la vie!" and urged me to move on with a positive frame of mind.

To that end, the most common phrases I hear from men are: "I'm not like other men" (bullshyte - so far, ya'll are alike, including my three former husbands), and "I'm a man of my word" (what a load of codswallop!).

I should have joined a convent when I had the chance, in particular the Carmelite order of nuns who often take vows of silence and live in solitude. Only then would I have attained the peace and quiet I've always craved, mainly in order to write.

Now I'm just too damned cynical and suspicious to put forth the effort anymore, or to tolerate the drama inherent in relationships.

Fictional love (re: writing) is so much better than reality.