The Girl Code – One theory of equations we SHOULD have been taught in maths!

If X = Boy + Boy’s ex-girlfriend’s best friend (got that?) then X must stand for …

*WARNING POTENTIAL GIRL CODE RULE BREAK!*

If X = Boy laughing at Girl’s best friend + Girl saying nothing then X must stand for …

*WARNING POTENTIAL GIRL CODE RULE BREAK!*

If X = Girl A leaving Girl B on a night out for Boy then X must stand for …

*WARNING POTENTIAL GIRL CODE RULE BREAK!*

You get my drift.

Sadly, the occurrence of actions X are all too frequent within the realms of sisterhood and the bonds of said ‘hood’ that those platform-wearing, lycra-loving Spice Girls used to bang on about in the 90’s are now well and truly pledges of a much simpler, far less girl on girl crime filled past. 'I had a friend who used to leave me on nights out to sleep with a guy she was seeing on and off' said one source, 'then one night at the pub he started saying the horriblest of things to me but my friend just stood by and laughed along with him.' Sigh.

Now I was no maths whizz at high school, often sat with my hand waving frantically in the air for hours before accepting my fate as the annoying number pitching neighbour but it doesn’t take an A* student to work out that clearly the Girl Code is one algebraic equation best avoided. Come on ladies, it’s no Pythagoras theorem that all those involved are heading for disaster, or worse, Jeremy Kyle’s STI ridden sofa. "And the lie-detector results say you were lying you rotton filthy git!" are not the words anyone wants to be hearing at half past 9 on a Monday morning! Only recently as I awoke swimming in my own despair did I experience first-hand the real necessity of abiding by one of the golden rules that comprise the Girl Code: do not hook up with any of your best mate’s back catalogue of exes.

OK OK OK, so whilst you’ll be thankful to learn that in reality, this did not happen and the despair in which I was swimming in was merely fluid of a bodily sweating-nature (phew!), I am however, admittedly guilty of one thing – dream cheating with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend. What does this mean I hear you ask? Despite what you are all thinking, I am not in love with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend (Sorry *George) nor does it mean I have fallen out of love with my own (Sorry Will!). Perhaps, as thorough consultation with one friend has suggested, (we're an odd friendship group consisting of a tarot card reader, a dream analyst and a plain old realist) I expect to be cheated myself in some way, who knows. What I do know is that the experience was enough to make me count my luck I wasn't a regular in Hollyoaks!

But let's face it, we're all guilty of a Girl Code rule break here and there. You see, being a girl is tough. It's as much a Girl Code to let your best mate ditch you on a night out for their long time loving, 'Peter Andre' looking crush than it is for your friend not to ditch you. Confusing I know. I once trawled Facebook for hours in my desperate attempt to prove to a past fling that in some way or another, I was connected to his new girlfriend, i.e. that she was my sister's ex-boyfriend's best mate's dog walker. Not very Girl Code. So why are we all at it? And is it ever OK to fall for your friend's former flame?

Maybe this wasn't such a simple equation after all...





 

"How did I end up here?"

Were the words I found myself uttering as I’m ushered by security into the BT Tower lift only to be met by another stony-faced attendant and asked to display my name badge. Ears bursting as we soared 7 metres per second to the top of the tenth tallest building in London, I nervously flashed my ID card that read, ‘Charlotte Turner – Closer Magazine’.

Usually about as unspontaneous as Katie Price is orange, this was so unlike me. Only one month previous I was training to be a primary school teacher, playing ‘sticky sticky glue’ with 10 snotty nosed six year olds hanging off my fingers like the 21^st century Pied Piper. Whilst this may sound like to some i.e. Father Christmas, what dreams are made of, I had other ideas, ideas that would see me sipping complimentary white wine, scoffing miniature portions of Fish and Chips and staring at the Female Boss herself as an intimate audience member of BT Infinity presents, Tulisa Live on the 34^th Floor.

As the lift doors to the 34^th floor open, so too did my mouth. Gobsmacked, I casually selected my drink of choice that was offered to me upon entry with my best, ‘yes, free alcohol is served to me by a man in a penguin suit on a daily basis’ swagger in tow. In reality, I’m sure my unemployed, £30,000 quid in debt Essex girl grin told another story. I couldn’t believe my luck. The 360 degree panoramic view of London that stared back at myself and my boyfriend who I’d earlier made an SOS phone call only hours previously desperately trying to rope him in, was enough to give me butterflies, not merely because of the height in which we were viewing it. At 9:30am earlier that day, I’d stepped through the doors to a world where what Cheryl Cole eats for breakfasts is front page news as a 22 year old wannabe writer beginning her career like thousands of others as an unpaid intern at Closer magazine, happily legging it through a torrential downpour to collect the Editorial team's morning sausage sarnies. Now, here I stood only hours later representing one of the most popular gossip magazines on the planet surrounded by the biggest in the journalism business and I was loving it.

Admittedly, whilst I can’t claim to be Tulisa’s biggest fan and walking past a clan of anxious fans eagerly clutching ‘Tulisa’ memorabilia in the freezing cold gave me flashbacks of my 7 hour stints as a 15 year old obsessed with McFly hanging outside venues wishing for nothing more than to catch a glimpse of my idols only to be barged to the back of the crowd (never underestimate the actions of crazed teenage girls!), made me feel extremely guilty, I found myself bopping along to the X Factor favourite’s latest tracks. The lyrics of her new single ‘Visa’ played repetitively over and over in my slightly tipsy head until it hit the pillow later that evening. It wasn’t too difficult mind you, the song went a little along the lines of ‘Check my visa, check my check my visa’ x10. (I urge emigration to please put Tulisa out of her misery and check her bloody visa.) After lining up unashamedly for a picture with the singer, alternating with my ‘pretending not to care’ boyfriend in order to take it in turns posing next to FHM’s sexiest woman of the year, my first ‘perk of a journalist’ had come to an end.

My return to Closer HQ however, saw me quickly return back to earth, my intern duties of distributing post and making endless cups of tea reminding me of how far I have yet to go if my writing was ever to make such a glamorous lifestyle reality. Whilst this might not seem like to some, i.e. Father Christmas, what dreams are made of, seeing my first piece of writing published on closer's website made the trips to the local cafe in the rain seem well and truly worth it. And let’s face it, it beats having billions of kids hanging off of every last limb!

 

p.s.

Note to self: Never, under any circumstances approach security and claim, “I’m with Tulisa”. I was flustered OK!!