Stalked by an Angel

It’s a thin line between an angel watching your back and being on it. 

This, I have discovered to my cost, after my guardian angel started stalking me.

   

A friend has pointed out that this is what they have to do, otherwise how could they guard you. But I’m not convinced. Seriously. I am being stalked by an angel.

   

I don’t think I actively sought out a guardian angel, as I have so many people I don’t see in my life as it is, without having to cater for another. But I figured that with the flying advantage (do angels get Flying Miles, by the way? Just asking, because I’m a few thousand short for my next trip), they might be a little less demanding. Not so. 

   

If you read my previous blogs, you will know how Padre, the angel hunter and I, became acquainted; you will also know that I did not give the heavenly throng my credit card details.

   

However, ever since I made the briefest contact, the angel has been on my back (you see what I mean?). I have been told to fill in forms, click on links, get in touch by every means possible, otherwise I will lose the good fortune (mainly monetary) that is apparently winging its way to me (geddit?).

   

Padre is even more persistent than Adrian the astrologer, who appears to have given up on me. Padre has warned that I have just 72 hours before the angel gives up on me, too. It’s a bit of a strange missive, because he declares he “must reveal to you without delay” and then doesn’t relay anything of significance at all (it’s what I call a delaying tactic).

   

This revelation has to do with “a very positive thing for the proper progress of your imminent happiness.” Hmmmph. More delays. Is my happiness progressive, or is it imminent? Imminent, to me, means the next two minutes; progressive could be 2018, at the earliest.

   

Now, here’s the key: “A phenomenon in angelical magic will be triggered on your behalf after you have read this letter.” I tell you: it’s another slow week for angels, because mine (whose name I have forgotten) cannot stop writing to me. I suspect he is not even going to be taking Labor Day off.

   

The letter tells me that within one minute, “you will have struck a decisive blow against your greatest enemy.”

   

Okay. Let’s give it a minute. 60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53, 52, 51, 50, 49, 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, 42, 41, 40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, 33, 32, 31, 310, 209, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7 (I’m getting really excited now), 6, 5, 4, (I am wetting myself), 3, 2, 1 . . . 

   

Nope, nothing. I think it may be because I don’t really have any enemies. There are people I don’t like, but I get them out of my life pretty quickly (and if they don’t like me, I just put a curse on them). Maybe there are enemies I am not even aware of, lurking in the shadows, although I am beginning to think that my angel is making up enemies purely in order to justify his job.

   

The next 72 hours are going to be crucial, too, bringing about a “great upheaval” – 60, 59, 58 . . . No, I really can’t go through that again.

   

The “spiritual angelical forces” are going to sort everything out and help me “strike a decisive blow against your greatest enemy”. My life of “poverty . . . emotional loneliness . . . misfortune, burdened with endless problems, drenched in bad news” (geez, you really know how to cheer a girl up on a weekend) is going to be over. My angel is going to destroy the enemy once and for all.

   

Now, listen up, angel. Listen real good. Because I’m going to teach you something.

   

Your greatest enemy is always yourself. You are the only person who stops you from achieving your goals. All the external bad forces in the world are no match for the inner strength that, as humans, we carry within us. You can flap your wings all you like and smile your silly smile from your fluffy blonde cloud, but you won’t change one of life’s fundamentals: we are the guardians of our own destiny.

   

So stop stalking me, angel, and stop contacting my friends just because they are on my Facebook page.

   

When you come up with a cure for yeast infections that doesn’t involve sending one’s vagina to a yoghurt convention, feel free to contact me again; because, until then, you are useless. 

You can call it what you like, but stalking by flying is still stalking, whichever way you look at it. 

Stick to what you're good at and tell a few unsuspecting virgins they are pregnant.

Now go away before I set God on you.

  

  

  

 

   

New York State of Mind - for Emma Freud and Richard Curtis

Dear Emma, Richard and family. Welcome to New York! I am sure that everyone will be full of good advice here as to what you should do, where you should go etc., so I thought I would chip in with a few useful pointers, too. UK’s loss in NYC’s gain!

1.     Don’t “Rush to the Macy’s sale”. There will be another one in 30 seconds. Every day. For 365 days. And 366 in a Leap Year.

2.     Don’t go to Macy’s. If you don’t break your neck rushing to the Macy’s sale, sure as hell you will do so rushing for the elevators. That one woman with three hatboxes you watched in old movies has been replaced by 20 overweight women with strollers.

3.     Say stroller, not pushchair.

4.     Don’t even think of asking for a European wine outside of a smart hotel. There is only one. Pinot Grigio.

5.     Allow an extra 40 minutes for every restaurant experience you will be sending back the corked Pinot Grigio and debating with management holding it up to the light saying they can’t see any cork in it.

6.     Fear not for the “blizzard” everyone is already warning you about that will allegedly arrive in January. It won’t. It’s a flurry.

7.     Every man is gay. Keep Richard locked up at all times.

8.     Shop online at Peapod. Don’t do Fresh Direct, which is way more expensive. Don’t shop at Food Emporium unless you want to spend the next three days crying. And starving.

9.     Don’t attempt irony. I cannot stress this enough.

10.  Every 4^th drink is free. If it’s not, move on.

11.  Avoid Irish bars. People in them are even marginally less funny than they are in Dublin on a Saturday night. “You’re gonna laugh at this” means you won’t.

12.  Learn how to talk about sport in bars. Here are some useful phrases - all to be spoken in a VERY LOUD VOICE while (preferably) throwing a chair: F*****g moron! ISIS c**t! Tom is innocent! Yay, the Heat, maaaaan! No f*****g way ISIS c**t! etc. etc.

13.  There is no such thing as a free hot dog. They may tell you that in Rudy’s dive bar, but you will still be paying the price several days on. Trust me.

14.  Don’t snog anyone in Rudy’s dive bar. Especially after 3am. And especially if they have consumed a free hot dog. And REALLY trust me on that.

15.  Do not interpret the lit-up pedestrian icon at every junction as a signal that it is safe to cross the road. It isn’t. It is an incentive to every driver to accelerate and try to kill you.

16.  Customer service is second to none. Buy everything. Use it. When you are bored with it, take it back and say you want them to exchange it. They will. You won’t have three birthdays while arguing your case at the Marks and Spencer Returns desk.

17.  Don’t trust the Bed, Bath and Beyond 20% off coupons. You will find that most things are at least 25% less on Amazon.

18.  If you fall into the Bed, Bath and Beyond 20% off coupons trap, remember you can always take everything back (see 16).

19.  Don’t fly American Airlines. Ever. Life is too short. Unlike their waiting times, while they try to fix mechanical faults.

20.  Don’t watch FOX news. It is not good for your blood pressure.

21.  Do watch Suits (hot lawyers), The Good Wife (more hot lawyers), Law and Order: SVU (hot lawyers and cops with a mutilated body every episode), Mistresses (best garbage on TV), How to Get Away with Murder (or How to Get Away with Stretching a Weak Premise to its Limit), Chasing Life (the sometimes upside of cancer).

22.  Don’t give your phone number to anyone after 4am. You really will get a call the following morning from a stranger whose opening gambit will be: “Hi, we met on the subway last night.”  Some of us have learnt the hard way.

23.  Join Chelsea Piers. It is by far the best gym/sports venue in the city. Don’t opt for the “Are you happy to go circular?” in the pool. It is really a Jaws remake.

24.  The answer to anyone asking “D’you want to join me in a shot?” should always be NO. Shots are the Devil’s work.

25.  You will never bump into Jimmy Fallon. Be content with breathing the same air. Anything else is delusion.

26.  Central Park is full of mosquitoes and thousands of people who run or cycle in the opposite direction from the one in which you are traveling.

27.  Never spell with two LLs where one will do.

28.  They love Brits here. And I mean really love us. If in doubt, put on your best Downton Abbey accent. You will get everything for free.

29.  Address everyone as “Sir” or “Madam”, especially cab drivers. Over politeness goes a long way here – unless it is interpreted wrongly, in which case you will be stabbed.

30.  ENJOY! You are embarking on a great adventure that you will love! The UK’s loss is New York’s gain *sings Star Spangled Banner while saluting*. Oh yes, I forgot. Learn the damned words to that.

Walruses and Hobbits - Another Doomed Manhunt

I like men. I've never made any secret of that fact.

I enjoy the company of women and probably have an equal number of male and female friends. But when it comes to dating, men really have a much bigger pool in which to fish. Where they have an ocean, women don’t have even an aquarium. I’m not even sure we have a goldfish bowl. And, after last night’s experience, I’m beginning to think we don’t even have an eye-bath of eligible candidates.

   

Despite liking men, I’ve also never made any secret of the fact that I don’t want one for keeps. Unlike puppies, a man really is just for Christmas. Well into my fifties, I think that is unlikely to change. I’m just too distrusting of the male species ever to be able to commit. When you wonder if you should hire a Private Investigator to find out what your fiancé is up to in the limo on the way to the altar, it’s safe to say marriage may not be for you. True, it’s never got that far (the altar bit; not the PI), but I’m pretty sure everyone is up to no good. I’d make a great prosecutor. But I digress.

   

So, back to the dating. My friend Catrin asked if I would like to try out a free singles night in a hotel bar (I’m going to keep the finer details out of this, for reasons that will become apparent). I’m always up for meeting new people and doing different things, so readily agreed.

   

I’ve never had much luck on the dating front, though, as readers of my constantly Retweeted piece about the dastardly LA Singles will know. I’ve been targeted by Easter bunnies trying to thrust their carrots upon me, hobbits who lied about their height, and every chain-smoking dwarf from Wisconsin.  

   

The problem with this date night was that it was specifically targeted for people over 50. Now, while I am over 50, there are very few men in that age bracket I would go for unless under the influence of chloroform (Judge Alex Ferrer: you are, of course, the exception to the rule. Donald Trump: you’re not). Most men don’t age well, and while I went for older men in my twenties, I am now more attracted to men who are in their twenties. Intellectually, they bore the pants off me (metaphorically: I haven’t worn underwear for 20 years - but I digress again), but as the saying goes: they can’t do it well but they can do it often.

   

It’s not true that age equals experience. Men who were crap in bed when they were young are just as bad, if not worse, when they are older. You only have to look at what they ask for on the Ashley Madison website to see that. A tamer list of sexual requests it would be hard to find (just look it up when you need a really big laugh). So, I wasn’t optimistic on the over fifties front.

   

We arrived at the hotel where two women sat behind a desk waiting to register participants. I’m not a big name badge person, but that was the only way we were going to get cost price drinks, so it was a small price to pay for ruining my Issey Miyake top (that was another thing: dress had to be “business casual” – what the heck’s that when it’s at home?).

   

We almost didn’t make it further than the desk because the women had such a struggle with the spelling of the Welsh name Catrin. It was like pulling teeth. We nearly missed Happy Hour in the time they took to get it right. “Catherine without the H,” my friend attempted, for the hundredth time. Obviously, that got us nowhere either, because it wasn’t strictly true. I tell you: Jaci was a breeze in the park after that.

   

So, we were finally in. Suddenly, a French man (another hobbit - geez, did nobody ever hear of growth hormones?) appeared beside us and touched Catrin’s right breast in what appeared to be an attempt to secure her stick-on name badge. He was 103 if he was a day. Next, a walrus appeared at my side, claiming to be a criminal psychologist.

   

Oh, dear. That was a really big mistake on his part. I have spent the past three days watching wall to wall Criminal Minds, so there is (obviously) nothing I don’t know about criminal psychology. Shoulda left it, walrus. You specially shoulda left it before you asked: “What are your favourite TV programmes?”

   

The walrus was also in the early stages of dementia, because he asked me what my favourite programmes were at least five times. It’s always gonna be Suits, The Good Wife and Criminal Minds, mate (did I mention I’m an attorney, too?).

There was an attempt at entertaining us with a 'close-up magician', who tried to hypnotise us with non-existent snake oil. We had to imagine our hands were glued together with said oil and then try to pull them apart, the premise being that we wouldn't be able to. Er, we did.

Maybe he would have better luck with cards? "I just saw you put the card in your pocket," I pointed out. My friend thought I was being cruel, but call me old-fashioned, the one thing I want from magic is something that actually looks like magic, not somebody fishing around in their pocket for small change. My only hope was that he would be able to make the walrus, who was slithering towards us again, disappear. Alas, he couldn't do that, either. 

   

This was not going well. Then, a bizarre thing happened. A few Oriental ladies whose total age would not have come anywhere near 50 arrived and started to hit on every man in the room. You could almost see the words Green Card in shining lights above their heads. A bald, fat guy – let’s call him Whaleman – wasted no time in putting his tongue down one Miss Pearl of the Orient’s throat. Well, it was less of a kiss and more of a devouring. When half of her head disappeared, I was a hair’s breadth from calling paramedics.

   

People have always told women who want to pull a guy never to sleep with them on the first date. Here’s my advice: sleep with them only on the first date – because on last night’s evidence, by the time the alcohol wears off, you’ll want to rush the hell out of there and get back to the bar for last orders.

   

Now, give me a map to the twenties disco. 

Where’s Harry Styles when you need him?

Googleaphobia - and Fear of Fear

I’m not ill very often. 

In fact, the last time I had to take to my sickbed was May 1999, although I think that had more to do with the man I had just started seeing rather than illness.

   

That doesn’t stop me being a complete hypochondriac. I once steamed open a letter from my doctor to a specialist where I was going for X-rays, and it said: “An exceptionally healthy young woman who worries unnecessarily about her heath.”

   

I think it has less to do with my own health and more about how much I read about the arbitrariness of life. At any given moment, an aneurysm can send you to an early grave; cancer can suddenly be discovered throughout your entire body. Our entire existence spins on a dime.

   

Last night, I developed earache. Naturally, I thought it was a brain tumour and started to worry about my belongings spread throughout the world in different countries and who was going to clear them all. More to the point, who was going to find me? No one I know has my address in the US, and the first anyone might know about my demise would be the Daily Mail’s sub-editors staring down at a blank page where my weekly copy should be.

   

Then I noticed that the bottom of my feet were a strange colour. I took to Google to see what this could possibly mean, then developed an even worse headache with the worry of how I would live when my legs were chopped off to stave off whatever infestation was clearly developing. And did you read about this new tick that can give you a disease even worse than Lyme’s?

   

It transpired that my foot problem is nothing more than the brown dye on the sandals I haven’t worn for a while transferring itself to my bare heels; my ear and head problems are down to my Armani glasses. I need glasses only for reading, and my Tommy Hilfiger ones are a joy (which may be why I have had three pairs stolen and keep having to replace them). But the Armani – my head feels like the filling in a Sumo sandwich. It’s not that they are especially tight; they are just so heavy. I’m clenching my jaws in my sleep again, too – reading late night Google diagnoses does that to you – and that, too, can give you head pain.

   

I worry about the health and wellbeing of everyone around me these days. If my friends are off social networking for a couple of days, I am all but ordering flowers for their funerals. I see the planes and helicopters fly over the Hudson every day and am always relieved when one passes my window without exploding. I am suspicious of anyone carrying a bag and travelling by themselves (that’s me, too, which may explain why I am always stopped by Customs, who clearly share the same anxiety).

   

We live in anxious times – and thank god for the quick thinking men who overpowered a suspected terrorist and prevented a catastrophe on the train headed for Paris last Friday. It’s when anxiety takes over our lives that we need to start worrying (you see? That’s something else to worry about). When I look down the list of how many phobias there are, I begin to realise just how anxious I really am.

   

I don’t have Arachibutyrophobia - fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth, because I don’t eat it (largely because of a hatred of it sticking to the roof of my mouth, I hasten to add). I don’t have Bogyphobia - fear of bogeys or the bogeyman (but then that’s probably because when I was little, I was told that if I didn’t go to sleep the bogeyman would come and get me, so I slept soundly through his visits). 

I possibly have Chrometophobia/Chrematophobia - fear of money - which is why I never have any, I suspect. 

And I probably also have Lutraphobia - fear of otters -  ever since I saw Mij the otter in Ring of Bright Water was chopped in two by some workmen with an axe when I was seven. My mother tried to comfort me by saying it was a cousin of Mij who had come to visit (Christine Evans quickly corrected me on that delusion in school the next morning, and I returned home, hysterical). But maybe this isn’t a fear of otters, just a fear of careless workmen wielding axes, and I don’t think there’s a name for that.

   

My heightened state of anxiety these days, though, I am going to put down to a whole new phobia - Googleaphobia. Because, no matter what happens to me, my friends, or in the world at large, I am onto Google to investigate further, and now I live in fear of what I am going to find there.

   

I could just stop, of course, but Googleaphobia is a fear akin to a scary ride at the funfair: you’re frightened of it, you know it’s going to terrify the shit out of you, but you want it anyway. You’re hooked on the fear.

   
So, I’m going to keep going with my quest for life support from Google, just to see how many more lunatics are out there offering services they can’t actually deliver, and preying on my fears about everything in order to fill their own coffers.

   

My fear of having money is about to get a whole lot worse with these crooks, I fear. 

Fear of fear. 

You see? I’ve got that, too. 

Bring on the men in white coats.

  

  

  

  

   

Planet Barmywood

I gave up on my guardian angel. 

Having been promised a lot of money by September 9^th, I began to have doubts about the likelihood of anything materialising when some payment I was expecting this week failed to appear. Apparently, it was sitting on someone’s desk at the office, having got “lost in the system”. If an angel can’t sort out basic office organisation, I’m not optimistic about his ability to re-order the entire cosmos to my benefit.

   

No worries. Having briefly dipped my toe into the celestial waters, I am now discovering a whole load of other people desperate to sort my life out. It doesn’t need much sorting, to be honest. I love living in the US, I have great friends and family and really love my work. What my new band of internet helpers are picking up on, though, is that life could be a lot easier on the financial front. That’s probably true for everyone, but these do-gooders have a knack of making you feel as if you are extra special in your problem and, more to the point, they are extra special in their being the only people who can get you out of whatever mess you have created for yourself.

   

Today’s little helper comes from the world of astrology. Now, I have mixed feelings about astrology. I don’t believe for a second that the world can be divided into just 12 types, but it’s true that we are affected by our surroundings, planetary or otherwise. I call that science, though. Do I howl looking at a full moon? Well, no. But there are certain times of year that fill me with more joy or sadness than others. Of course, that might have less to do with Uranus (*sniggers childishly*) and just mean I can be a moody bugger.

   

But in my new quest to become a wonderful human being, I’m willing to give everything a go. Including Adrian. Adrian, the astrologer, who has written to me citing Susan Boyle as my role model. “Briefly deprived of oxygen at birth,” he explains, “by sheer stroke of luck (she) made it to the end”, achieving “INTERNATIONAL STARDOM” (Adrian’s capitals). She found, he enthuses, her “Ultimate Destiny, and has been living it ever since.”

   

Now, I don’t like to be picky, but that’s not strictly true, is it, Adrian, love? There is not an atom of “luck” in Ms Boyle’s story. She was singled out by a TV producer who spotted a good story, thrown at the altar of ratings, and subsequently sacrificed her sanity in a series of public meltdowns, one of which included singing with a mop in an airport terminal. Living destiny’s ultimate dream, or what!

   

Just like my angel did, Adrian tells me that I am on the verge of “something really empowering”, although he says that if I tell anyone about it, nothing will come to pass. Oops. Sorry about that.

   

It has to do with the “Transit Period” I am apparently about to enter, and it seems I have asked for help at exactly the right time, wouldn’t you know it, because of where Mars and its influences are currently based.

   

I quickly learned, from my initial mini-reading, that I am “extremely intelligent, philosophical and imaginative”. No shit, Sherlock. I “analyze everything” (double shit, Sherlock), and there is a “fog” that has been pursuing me “practically since childhood” (don’t beat about the bush, will you, Adrian?). All will become clear when I receive my six free books when I “partner” with Adrian “to combat the misfortune” and unleash my “Life Force”. Well, when I say “free”, that’s after the “MUCH REDUCED” cost of a lengthier reading, and a discounted rate that comes with another “DO NOT SHARE” warning.

   

Now, I see what you did there, Adrian. Like my angel, you tell me that I “MUST” act fast and not “mull it over”. You people really don’t like hanging about, do you? This is my life we’re talking about here, mate, and I don’t think Mars is in a hurry to go anywhere fast, so if a planet can hang on for a few more days, I’m pretty sure you can, too.

   

So, back to my Transit Period. The next 12 weeks are going to be hugely significant, and my lucky number is 10. If I have an important meeting, I must insist on it taking place on the 10^th of the month (that’ll go down a blast with the editor of the Daily Mail) “or 10 o’clock in the afternoon” (sorry, Adrian, but you seem to be a bit out of kilter with how time actually works). 

If I catch a train, I must make sure I am in the 10^th car (that’s going to be a fun request on the two carriage run up the Welsh Valleys), and 12 is my number for happiness, and the one I must use to conquer misfortune. Eight is my “most auspicious number” that is also “lucky for travel and in financial matters.” 

Hmmm. I broke up with one of my exes on December 8^th, after he cleaned me out financially and travelled to Boston to live with a nurse. I’ll hold fire on the number eight, thanks very much.

   

I’m even more doubtful of Adrian than I was of my guardian angel, who was at least offering a bit more free up front. But then I’m suspicious of anyone who asks me for money in return for giving what they should, as a decent human being, offer for free.

   

You see? Typical Scorpio.

  

  

  

  

  

   

CHEMO BECOMES HER - CHASING LIFE (AND DEATH)

WHHHAAAAAAAAATTTT?

   

I haven’t screamed at the TV since The Good Wife dispensed with Will Gardner (Josh Charles), an event from which the show has yet to recover. I doubt it ever will, and I suspect the next one might be the last series.

   

But this week, I found myself screaming out loud again in ABC’s Chasing Life, when April (Italia Ricci) discovered her new husband, Leo (Scott Michael Foster), dead in bed when she delivered him an Italian dessert. It remains to be seen whether Leo died as a result of his previous cancer or April’s cooking on the Italian night she had lovingly prepared to make up for their not having had a honeymoon. Did Leo choke on a gnocchi dumpling? Did some spaghetti strangle his colon? At any rate, for the moment it’s put me off eating pasta before indulging in sex.

   

I wasn’t consumed by the same uncontrollable sobbing I had been when Will was shot in the courtroom, but it was still a stunner of a surprise (terrific writing from Joni Lefkowitz). Leo, after all, was the character who had come through and was being a rock for April, so to go in his sleep seemed so unjust (although I suspect that Scott’s contract for the part he landed in ABC’s new series Blood and Oil helped him through).

   

I love this series, which has evolved from the basic premise – a woman desperately trying to hang on to life – into a drama in which every single character is chasing life in his or her own way. It is amazingly well cast, with great performances and great writing. The screen loves Ricci, in particular, and she really is breathtakingly beautiful, especially with the short hair. I hope no one will take offence if I say, in relation to April, that chemo becomes her.

   

As a TV critic of 30 years, I see most things coming, but Leo’s death was another twist that completely passed me by because I was too busy thinking about other things: first, if The Man in the Mask (can’t remember his name, sorry) would have to take it off, if and were he ever to get the opportunity to perform oral sex (I don’t know, do I? I’m not very up on sexual germ warfare in the cancer world); and second, why Uncle George (Steve Weber) was destroying the book written by Thomas (Tom Irwin), April, Natalie and Brenna’s father.

   

Well, I’ll tell you why: because when Leo was choking on his gnocchi balls, I worked it out. The “baddie” in the novel is not Thomas at all, but George, who has recognised his own evildoing but needs it to be buried. I also suspect that George is behind Thomas’s death (if, indeed, Thomas IS dead). We might well be headed for a Cain and Abel scenario here.

   

It was clear it was going to go awry when April handed George the manuscript (which was very thin, by the way) and said: “It’s my only copy.” Oh, no! Not the only copy! Not the only copy that will be lost/burnt/put through a shredder never to be seen again!

   

This is a part of the story I’m just not buying. Number one: if Thomas was such a great secret agent (or whatever he turns out to be), he would surely have kept something on file or on a memory stick. Number two: if April is such a great journalist, she would never have handed over such an important piece of information without making a copy of it (small wonder she had the push from her job). We can only hope that Natalie has had the foresight to do that.

   

George is too good to be true, anyway, despite what his current girlfriend, Miss Pearl of the Orient, may think – or even Sara (Mary Page Keller) for that matter, a woman who is always gagging for it, so much so that she has now had to take up running to disperse all that sexual tension.

   

Talking of gagging for it . . . Will Brenna ever get through a sexual encounter without being interrupted, dumped, or being the dumper? She should take a leaf out of April’s book, who, for a cancer victim, gets more sex than anyone else within a 100 mile radius. True, her partners might not wake to see daylight, but you can’t have everything. Sometimes, it’s a thin line between getting laid and getting laid six feet under.

So, will April end up with Dominic (Richard Brancatisano) after all – the man we all really thought was “the one”? Who knows. But whatever you do, Dominic, heed this advice: no carbs before bedtime. 

And if April starts singing Tempo Di Dire Addio (Time to Say Goodbye) as she serves up the gnocchi, get out of there, pronto (or rapidamente, as the Italians say). 

Hanging around for the tiramisu is a big mistake. 

Just ask Leo’s embalmer.