I tell it like it is.

1. Mum farted and stank the place out just as the male nurse arrived to give dad an enema (she denied it of course)

2. I was then treated to sound effects of the results of said enema for a good ten minutes.

3. Dad was given a painkiller, which he claimed disagreed with him before it even hit the back of his throat.

4. Nurse suggested he sleeps effects off. Mum then interrupted the rest of our conversation with keen observations (in Turkish) such as “I think he’s wearing a wig” while staring pointedly at the poor man’s head.

5. The surgeon who was supposed to be here at 10am may now not arrive until 1pm, which means I’m bloody stuck here until then listening to mum’s heavy breathing and dad’s whining.

6. Dad finally stopped whining and fell asleep then mum immediately woke him up by slapping his arm several times and shouting "are you asleep?" at the top of her voice. HELP!!!

My siblings found my text hilarious and I thought it was ok to make light of the situation; it was a pretty common type of surgery so we were certain he would make a full recovery.

We were wrong. And my heart has been breaking piece by tiny piece ever since.

His lucid days are becoming less and less frequent. There are still occasional flashes of the man he used to be yet that seems to hurt more. My father is a survivor who no longer wants to survive. He has thrown in the towel and reclines in his chair, day after day; unshaven and clad in a tracksuit waiting for death yet fearing it's arrival.

His pride never allowed him to be anything other than clean-shaven and impeccably dressed. He wore a shirt and tie even if he wasn’t leaving the house. And he was fearless, so bloody fearless. He drove through heavy gunfire to get us all to the safety of the ironically named ‘Happy Valley’ refugee camp. Then when I became very sick, he drove through it again to get me the medicine that would save my life.

My father intuitively named me after a flower that grows wildly in the mountains. And he understood that even the wildest of flowers need strong roots in order to survive.

He kept me alive by not letting go. And it hurts like hell that I can’t do the same for him.

His dark hair is evenly speckled with grey giving him that sexy salt and pepper look.

He’s ageing very well. But will he continue to do so? I squint at him, trying to work out how he’ll look ten, twenty years down the line.

Will he still be pumping enough iron to maintain those Popeye arms? Will he lose his hair? I lean forward and run my fingers through it “Gosh, you’re not going to lose your hair any time soon are you? It’s so thick”

Oh. I meant to say that in my head. And running my hands through his hair is hardly appropriate ten minutes into a first date. But he isn’t a man who scares easily. He playfully asks me if I’d like to check his teeth too then opens his mouth wide.

I can’t help but laugh. And that reminds me that first dates are supposed to be fun.

l decide to loosen up and simply enjoy his company. And stop (not so) silently going through my check list of ‘qualities-I-require-in-a-man-in-order-for-a-relationship-to-last’.

Then it hits me - I’ve become one of those women I used to scoff at; the ones who viewed every man they met as a potential life partner.

I remember my indignant response to a casual acquaintance (of a certain age) who patronisingly advised me (after my divorce) not to worry and that she was sure I’d find someone soon.

My retort was immediate and sharp “That’s your search! My search is for inner peace and understanding”.

That bloody well told her. Seven years on and the focus for my search seems to have shifted somewhat, along with my bust line. And I don’t think that’s a coincidence.

I’m starting to feel like I’m running out of time. I calculate that I have another five years maximum of looking hot; five years to settle into a loving relationship so they won’t mind so much when it all starts to slide.

On the positive side, I don’t want any more children so at least I don’t have the added pressure of my biological clock ticking away like a time-bomb.

I’ve been mulling all this over and nodding occasionally at Matthew as he speaks but he’s just asked me a direct question. And I have no idea what it was.

I quickly tune back in and realise that Matthew is charming, articulate and incredibly sexy. Yet something tells me he’s less Mr Right and more Mr Right Now.

It’s all going well until the waitress mixes up our dessert order; he reacts by shouting at her and banging his fist down on the table, sending the glasses crashing to the floor.

He must either really want his tiramisu or he has serious anger issues.

Then it suddenly occurs to me why he’s been looking a tad uncomfortable all evening; it’s difficult for him to put his arms down properly because they are so big.

And his head looks disproportionately tiny on top of his over-pumped up frame. A sneaky suspicion enters my mind. Is he on steroids?

He offers to ‘see me home safely’. I politely decline so he insists on walking me to the train station.

I lean in for a peck on the cheek, he goes for a full on kiss. He pushes himself against me. I discreetly run my hand over his trousers, conducting a quick ‘feel test’.

Yep. He’s definitely on steroids....

I have a confession to make.

I haven’t been writing this blog in real time. But I can bring you up to speed pretty easily. My mother is still insane. Mia is still the centre of my world.

And I'm completely and utterly heartbroken.

I took a calculated risk when I decided to get involved with a man exactly twelve years and eleven months my junior.

I gave it six months.

It was supposed to be a fling. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him. He wasn’t supposed to become my best friend.

I tried to end it on more than one occasion. But he stopped me every time. He kissed my fears away.

He told me I was the most beautiful, complicated woman he’d ever met. And that we’d always be together.

So I overcame my fear of water and climbed into a small boat with him. And I trusted him enough to let him row us to the middle of the ocean.

We made it to four years.

Then he just dived into the sea and swam off. And I’m not sure I can find my way back without him.

I feel so lost.

If only I’d known that our trip this summer was going to be our last. I would have cherished waking up with him every morning.

It could have been our beautiful long goodbye.

Instead I quietly obsess about the way the sun highlights the lines on my face. And I become moody and withdrawn.

I can’t keep competing with girls half my age. It’s exhausting. And expensive; dracula therapy and bull semen don’t come cheap.

I’m so wrapped up in my own unhappiness that it takes me a while to notice Jake has become distant.

Then everything starts to unravel ridiculously quickly.

“This isn’t working is it Jake?” There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. He finally speaks. And it all comes tumbling out.

He’s been struggling with it for the last few months. His life’s changed. His career’s taking off. There are new paths opening up for him. He wants to move overseas when he qualifies. He wants to raise a family.

And it’s clear that there’s absolutely no place for me in his future.

But he can’t let me go. He’s confused. He asks for more time to decide what he wants.

It feels like a stay of execution.

I barely eat for days. I have one sleepless night after another. I feel sick and totally detached from everything around me.

I'm driving home when No Doubt’s 'Don't Speak' comes on the radio. 'I really feel that I’m losing my best friend, I can’t believe this could be the end’.

By the time it gets to ‘It’s all ending, I gotta stop pretending who we are. You and me I can see us dying...are we?’ I have to pull over because I can't see through my tears.

This is killing me. I can’t wait for him to make a decision. I send him an email.

I love you sweetheart, I always will but sometimes all the love in the world isn't enough to make a relationship work. And our relationship has run its course. We both know that. You taught me that I could climb a mountain. I'll never forget that. And I’ll never forget you. Goodbye Jake.

He calls immediately. I don't pick up. Everything feels so surreal. I knew this was going to happen. But I still can't believe it. He sends me a text 'I'm seeing you on Friday – whether you like it or not'.

He arrives Friday evening looking tired and sad. His eyes fill up as he tells me he's not strong enough to deal with this right now.

I hug him. Then we kiss, slowly at first then passionately, desperately. We make love all night. We both know this might be the last time. I try to submit every touch, every kiss to memory.

I wake up in his arms in the morning. I ask him how he feels now. He tells me he’s still confused. He still doesn’t know if he wants to be with me.

And that stings like hell. I had thought, for one moment, that perhaps we could find a way to make it work.

That’s when I finally realise the blindingly obvious; there’s always been a part of me that believed this would last. I honestly thought we could defy the odds and stay together.

How utterly bloody stupid of me. And Demi. But at least she gets to hate Ashton because he cheated on her. At least she gets to be angry because he behaved like a total prick.

All Jake has done is what I always said he would do; he has grown up.

I gather all his things together and put them in a bag. I give it to him and ask him to leave. I refuse to exist in a state of limbo.

This is the first time I’m breaking up with someone I’m still in love with. And it's unbearably sad.

We’re both crying as he tells me how much he loves me. How certain he is that he’ll never meet anyone like me again. But he doesn’t try to stop me ending it this time.

He knows it’s the right thing to do. He just didn’t have the strength to do it.

I watch him dive into the ocean. And I can only hope I have enough strength left to find my way back safely.

Then I remember that I got into the boat wearing a life jacket....