YOUR WEEPY weekend (a very long weekend) of mourning over that bastard breaking it off with you is coming to its natural end – Monday. Lest you want to lose your job, it's time to take off the sweats, put down the pint of ice cream and move on, right? Suddenly a wave of empowerment washes over you as you sit bolt upright, tissues, crumbs and cat falling off your sorry lap. “You know what?” you think “F**k him. Yeah... I'll show that good-for-nothing bastard what he's missing out on”.
With iron-clad resolve you get off the couch and into the gym, you shower again, you even change your clothes and start bothering with the details, like wearing knickers. Hair appointments are booked (after all, if there's anything we learned from Gwynie in Sliding Doors it's that you need to wash that man (and old colour) right out of your hair), food denied, heels and makeup worn at all times. What? You can risk bumping into him looking like a pathetic shell of a slightly puffy woman. Or so you think.