Have you ever wished you could turn back time? No, I mean really, truly, whole-heartedly wished. I know every human once in a while turns an unsightly fuchsia colour when thinking about a previous encounter they would love not too have happened, and if they had the chance to go back a few steps in time to avoid the incident, there would be no question. But I mean it in a much deeper sense than that. Firstly, please don’t mistake me for one of those soppy fate-believing nitwits. You know the ones who believe that every activity of ones day, from feeding the goldfish, to giving an evil look to the Britney spears look-alike who ‘accidentally’ spilt her non fat mochacinno over your white pashmina on the train on your way to the office, will undoubtedly affect the outcome of the rest of your life? Well I am definitely not one of them. (Although I cant quite budge the teeny thought in the very back of my head, that if I hadn’t taken my pashmina to the dry cleaners that day, and had worn it to Jenna's as it perfectly matched my new cashmere twin set, then maybe, just maybe, her extremely too sexy Italian flatmate Marko may have given me a bit more than a lukewarm Heineken if you know what I mean).
Ahem. Anyway, sorry. So, back to this whole turning back the hands of time thing. Lets rewind to Monday June 12th. At around 9.15pm approximately. (I know you didn’t really need to know that part, but I do have a tendency for pointless detail). Myself, Lena (my old college buddy), and Jenna, probably my oldest friend and drinking partner, had gone out for a drink in our local town, Sarratt. We were in our usual hangout, Dinelli’s, which we religiously visited at least once week, and almost always finished off three, ok, four bottles of Jacobs creek Chardonnay.
So, as usual, we located a comfy leather sofa in the far right corner of the bar, and also as usual, we were checking out the talent. However, I was very disappointed at tonight’s turnout, the only remotely decent guy was someone who kind of resembled Phil Mitchell. But in a fat way. Ugh, not good at all. I would be more embarrassed at what I just confessed to you if we weren’t already nearly finished bottle number two. Now, the whole time we were busy man spotting and girly gossiping over a few to many b&h, there was an equally loud group of similar aged men sitting at the table right next to us.
Now you are no doubt thinking, well, was there no talent available there? Well, I thought not. The reason I thought not, was because each of the fours backs were facing me, typical, except for one, but let’s not even go there. More Peggy Mitchell than Phil Mitchell put it that way. Now the reason we were becoming more distracted by this table, was the fact that two of the four, were rather loudly egging one of the other guys on saying, “Just talk to her mate!” “Go on, what have you got to lose!” Being hopeless romantics, and typical females, we thought that this was quite a sweet conversation, considering it was blokes that were having it, so we decided to not too obviously keep schtum for a while.
After a few more banters between the group, the guy sitting nearest to me slowly stood up, ironed his faded blue jeans out with his hands, and it was at that moment, I noticed a rather obscurely shaped mirror positioned at a point where the four of them could perfectly see us at our table, but we didn’t even know it was there. Oh what drunken fools we are. But as the mirror had suddenly become apparent to me, I couldn’t help but wonder were these rather noisy individuals (to put it politely) egging their friend on to speak to one of us? Hmm. Whilst pondering this thought for a while, I realised my heart had begun pounding at an increasing rate. And the reason? The man in question himself. And yes, he was approaching our table. Now, I couldn’t quite work out if this guy was incredibly sexy, or just a bit too scruffy? Was his hair Beckham, or just greasy? Slowly, but very surely, he uncomfortably shuffled over, and placing his Stella Artois on the stained pine table, he cleared his throat nervously, whilst rolling up his French connection cardigan sleeves. All this time his eyes were firmly focused on his feet, and it was only when Mr.Peggy Mitchell cupped his hands around is mouth and shouted in a rowdy football supporter slightly too pissed way, ‘Go on my son!’ that his gaze caught mine.
I cant explain exactly what I felt at that moment, cause it was all a bit blurry, but lets just put it this way. Close up, this man was totally sexy. Totally Beckham. ‘Um..I’m really sorry to interrupt, but um..I never usually do this but can I maybe..um..get you a drink?’ For some reason, with that Lena got the giggles, as she too often did in situations like that one. Poor bloke-obviously thinking the joke was on him, he blushed something rotten, picked his nearly empty beer up, shrugged rather rudely at Lena, and made his way back to his mates. ‘No, wait!’ I cried, feeling fairly embarrassed at how high pitched that had actually come out. He quickly swung back around on his navy Patrick Cox loafer, and slowly a very cheeky smile spread across his face. ‘Was that a yes then?’

Of course it was a bloody yes. I was pissed, horny as hell, and hey, this guy was probably the best offer I’d had in months. But oh, what a mistake. What a life changing, heartbreaking mistake. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it. You do? Oh, well, ok, I’ll try to give you the edited version. And what’s the unedited version, I hear you cry? Well, that’s another story entirely.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Skyler Hamilton, a twenty six year old Piscean vegetarian. There seems no point in describing the way I look to you, as by the time you have finished reading this, I would have no doubt reinvented myself. I do that a lot. But just to paint a rough picture in your mind, right now, my hair is chocolate brown with dozens of layers, worn halfway down my back, and wavy. My eyes are their natural colour at present, no wacky contacts this month, just plain hazel. My skin is pale and slightly freckly, I gave up the sun beds six months ago after my Auntie Lou was diagnosed with skin cancer after over use of the more aptly named, deathbeds. I am very into the hippy chick look at the moment, I have a wardrobe full of long flowy linen skirts, oodles of unusual dangly earrings made of all sorts of things from feathers to bronze butterflies, and a few to many beaded scarves and accessories. The only thing that always remains the same is my figure. Ladies don’t curse at this book and hate me, but no matter what I eat, I never seem to gain weight. I am 5’7”, a size 8, with 32c boobs. And I have been for as long as I remember. Ok, so maybe it helps that I’m a vegetarian, but most of the time, I can guarantee, you are far more likely to see me stuffing toffee into my gob rather that tofu. But anyway, are you getting the idea? Good. But like I said, don’t permanently store that portrait into your mind, I will probably be a sporty blonde next month. (maybe not though, already done that).

My job, well, I hate using that word, cause I find it so hard to refer to what I do as a job. I absolutely love it. And from what I have heard, very few people actually ever say that about their work. But really. It has been my dream, my ambition, my wish even (ok, I’ll calm down a bit) forever, to be doing this every day. I am a kindergarten teacher. Oh, you’re surprised? Well, you’re not the only one. Most just don’t think I’m the type. A lot of new people I meet, see me as materialistic (probably because of my designer handbag obsession), and stuck up, snobby, and spoilt. (Probably because my parents passed away when I was twelve, leaving me to inherit their five bed, two-acre garden detached country house). Oh they are so wrong. So far away from the down to earth, funny, dreamy, caring, and often insecure Skyler that only those closest to me know. Which is why I love what I do so much. It is a breath of fresh air to escape the superficiality that I so often see. I love being me, teaching, helping, and playing with these gorgeous kids, knowing that maybe, just maybe, something that they learn from me at such a young yet perceptive age, may influence them later on in life.

So now onto men. I think, that one of the best things that can happen to you, is to meet one and fall in lust. You may disagree, but I also think that one of the worst things that can happen to you is to meet one and fall in love. Ninety percent of the time, love stinks. Ten percent of the time, love is beautiful, love is amazing, love is a gift. If you ever experience love like the latter, don’t ever let it go. You are in the luckiest minority ever invented. You are probably expecting me to say I am unlucky in love. Surprise surprise, you’re right. But, I am very lucky in lust. Up until a year ago, I was engaged to Justin, a policeman who I met when he pulled me over for speeding one Saturday morning when I was in a huge hurry to make it to a friends wedding. Yes, really, that is how we met. It was a whirlwind romance, we were together for just four months before he popped the question, and I happily accepted-why wouldn’t I, I was in lust. Of course I never made it down the aisle. Something was missing, that vital something that would’ve eventually turned the lust into love. It was a great relationship. I am happy it ended, as I have always believed marriage is for life. I don’t believe in divorce and remarrying. In my opinion, there is only one person out there for you, and trying to find another once you have experienced true love is plain greedy. But just how do you know its love? Well one thing's for sure, don’t ask me that question. I certainly never knew before I met Nathan, the guy in Dinelli's that night. And then stupid me, after getting to know him, I thought I’d cracked it. I thought I finally understood what all the fuss was about; I thought it was real love. Forever love. Well, on my part it was. And if you promise not to tell a soul, it still is. But clearly Nathan had something entirely different in mind. So here’s where I’ll begin my story.