If I’m honest, I knew deep down he wasn’t The One.
I was 21 and desperate to move to London after finishing university. Instead, I was living in a small northern town with the boyfriend I’d met on my course because I’d temporarily managed to convince myself that my relationship was more important than my career (he, categorically, did not want to live in London.)
Cracks began to show. I was working in a job I hated and my only friend was a colleague (who was much older, married and had her own sh*t going on.) The rest of the time, I hung out with my boyfriend and his friends.
Watch: MM confessions – relationship dealbreakers. Post continues below.
On Sundays he would play footy with his pub team (who literally treated half-time as a cigarette break) and I’d watch freezing from the sidelines thinking, what the hell am I doing with my life?
I wanted to be in London. Forging a career, making new friends, living an exciting life in a vibrant city.
I knew this comfortable, but quite frankly, boring, existence in a small town – where the highlight of the week was the roast dinner that warmed me up after watching a bunch of wheezing men having a kick about – was not what I wanted.
And it seemed my boyfriend had cottoned on to this fact.
One Friday evening, I drove home from work. When I walked into the house, he was standing in the lounge with his coat on, a bag slung over his shoulder.
Top Comments
Yeah no, sorry, you had broken up and the place belonged to you both. You weren’t there so he utilised the joint property. You have no reason to complain about an unmade bed (that was as much his as yours) and a bracelet.