In my twenties – OK, OK, and early thirties – I went through a ‘bad boy’ stage. I know, so cliche! But like all bad decisions, I really committed.
My prerequisites for a man included a temper problem, a few tattoos (not arty ones, scary ones), loud and robust in nature and little respect for the law, in fact, little respect for me.
And so it was that I found myself at the tender age of 23, sitting in a courtroom holding hands with a man who was just about to be sentenced to jail. Again.
But let’s go back a little further than that because these things don’t just oopsy daisy happen.
It all began one cold winter night when I was living back at my parent’s house during university holidays.
I had just hopped out of the shower and was drying in front of our fireplace in nothing but a towel. All of a sudden, my brother came bursting through the front door with a friend in tow.
Horrified that I had been caught in just a towel, I raced to my room – but not before noticing my brother’s friend was hot.
Like, really hot. I don’t mean to brag, but your girl can clock a hottie from a mile away. He caught me running half-naked through the house, let out a laugh and followed me to my room.
He knocked on my door and said, “Hey, I’m *Jack (not his real name), and I’m heading out to the pub with your brother. Want to come?”
I mean, the bloke’s bravado was impressive, but I was still recovering from my almost-nude run. I yelled, “No!” and huddled, embarrassed, in my room until they left. I looked out the window as they were getting in his car, a...
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