What, I've got to do another one? Is there no end to this unmitigated shitfest of hormonally imbalanced, self-pitying, tripe? You do know I've got a red carpet event tonight, don't you? Yes, of course it's an everyday occurrence what with being the world's premier agony aunt, but I've got to pop down to Hegleby Master Butchers for some thinly sliced, unsmoked bacon.

Now, I'm not one to complain but that's one of the problems with being a worldwide famous A-list celebrity, like what I am, it's just one red carpet event after another. It all starts out fine because you're all excitable at having an actual excuse to buy yourself a yummy new outfit but before you know it you're fixing tiny rags of fabric together with safety pins or glueing Gold Amex cards together to make a dress or wrapping a dead swan around your amazingly photogenic flesh or forcing your tootsies into a pair of Alistair McQueen Armadillo shoes with bacon slices clinging to your sexual organs. 

But even worse than red carpet events is the godawful plebs who accost you in the street. Now I know that life as a saddo is a pretty dreary affair and that actually spotting an honest-to-God, bona fide, super-celebrity such as myself is a cause of instantaneous trouser spunkies, soggy knickering, and all loss of bladder control, but this slice of Banoffee Pie isn't just going to eat itself and your not going to improve its flavour or my enjoyment of it by rubbing your cheek against mine and demanding a 'selfie'. 

Which is the best thing about students, who are so fascinated by their own uber-cool, acne-scarred, vapid, unexceptional lives that unless you're either something to do with the Student's Union bar, or a member of some tenth-rate band that nobody has ever heard of, or some spot-infested, vlogging, influencer, non-entity, then they haven't got a clue who you are. So quite how Miss lap-my-lovegroove got my address is a complete mystery. But seeing as she has, and because I'm contractually obliged, and definitely not because I have any interest whatsoever in whatever it is she's going to mither on about, let's go 'to the letter'. 

Dear Ms Cumble-dee Cumble-dumb

I have recently commenced a degree course in Environmental Science at Edinburgh Uni, Scotland, and it was suggested to me by my roommate, Natasha, that I contact you regarding my relationship situation. She seems to think your empathetic yet no-nonsense style is just what I need to work things out in my head. She told me that just now while she was conducting an online toy demonstration for a married gentleman who wants gift ideas for his wife; she's very good at multi-tasking that way, besides having many thought-provoking ideas regarding how a girl might fund her way through college. But I digress...

I went to school in a London comprehensive, where for the past two years I have been dating a very sweet boy named Barry. He and I have been very close, despite having significantly different interests. To be honest I was a bit of a Hermione when I met him and he really brought me out of myself with his BIG heart and his MASSIVE generosity and his HUGE swelling pride when he scored a try on the rugby pitch. Everything about him from tip to toe is just so... SUBSTANTIAL. Maybe that's why I promised him we'd stay together when I left. Okay, he's, how shall I put it, not the bookish type, but he has other very impressive athletic attributes. No finesse or imagination, per se, no self-awareness or any ambition as such, no intellectual curiosity or geographical knowledge or any broader cultural pursuits (aside from his interest in niche forms of Japanese animation to which he devotes much time) but he's such a sweetheart and I do want to be true to my word and to him. I miss his ENORMOUS capacity for warmth and affection after all.

That said, I've been a bad girlfriend and haven't responded much to endless loving if not terribly articulate texts and voicemails over the past few days. But in my defence, it's Freshers' Week here at the university so I've been looking for ways to have my outlook expanded. That's what I'm here for, to get properly stretched as a person. The Freshers' Fair was amazing. I got talking to all kinds of interesting people. Like Cameron from the Extreme Sports club, who's kind of like Barry with a Scots accent and actual thoughts; he wants to show me the joys of diving and paragliding and then introduced me to some hardcore canyoning, which sounds SO much fun. Or Jess from the Contemporary Arts Society who's REALLY COOL and wanted me to audition for her pan-sexual exotic dance review, only I'm not sure because she said there'd be intensive explorative multi-person rehearsals in advance of the performance, but learning new things is kind of what I'm here for, right? I also chatted with the Gaming and Roleplay society people - less thrilling, but my roommate Natasha says she'd like to introduce me to some underground Gaming and Roleplay clubs around the city that I'd find MUCH more interesting. I'm not 100% sure what she means by that, but she made it sound unmissable. Everyone's being so NICE here!!!

There I go getting sidetracked again with unnecessary details. I suppose what I wanted to ask you is how you think I can manage all my exciting new uni opportunities while maintaining a long-distance relationship. I love Barry, I truly do. He's such a darling and I'm sure I don't deserve him and his GIGANTICALLY sweet nature. But I also want to shed all my inhibitions and fling myself recklessly into the wild thrusting, pumping melee of uni life and taste absolutely everything. You know, lick it all like I'm in a big sweet shop. Maybe Barry will want to hear about all my adventures in learning.

What do you think? (Got to go. I asked Natasha for some tips on earning money and she said that if we worked together on some projects she has in mind, student debt would NOT be a problem. She's so entrepreneurial!)

Yours sincerely,

Lydia Lovegrove.

Dear Licky Lovegroove

Now call me a name snob, but Barry! Really? All this twaddle is about somebody called Barry. Now a Tristan or a Sebastian or a Tarquin might be worth going all cunty dreamy over, but Barry! For fucks sake. What's he drive Lydia? No, don't tell me. Let me guess. I bet it's some wanky, pretend, hot-hatch with customised paintwork, chrome accessories and a pair of furry dice hanging from the rear-view mirror. I'll bet he does a stunning handbrake turn and that a hot date night involves doing doughnuts in the car park at the back of Aldi. Please tell me it hasn't got a personalised sunstrip with Baz and Lyds on it, or I might just be sick in my shoes, and they're Alistair McQueen classics, darling.

So let me be frank (another shit name by the way), sweetie. If Baz is as massive, huge, substantial, enormous and gigantic as you seem to think he is; and who am I to cast aspersions on your basic penis measuring skills; then you can bet your student loan debt that no sooner was your back turned than the neighbourhood sluts were all over that jumbo sausage like a hoard of drunken bitches feasting on a takeaway kebab at four in the morning. 

Besides, what are you, Maria von Trapp or some sort of Carmelite Nun? And even if you are; because I've checked the order's rules and there's nothing in there about chastity; there's a very good reason those cross things have handles because even divinely inspired goody two shoes need to take matters in hand from time to time. And you can bet your last slice of mouldy pre-sliced white loaf and the remains of last night's pizza that Baz isn't contemplating a life of celibacy as Shaz Sluttypants is wanking off his magnificent wang and spurting his prodigious jism across her full-fat tits around the back of Sajid Warsi's convenience store. 

It's Uni-life, sweetie. There's a reason that they pack you all together in cheap, new-build, meningitis spawning, fire-risk ghettos and it's not just to keep you all away from us adults so that we can carry on living our worthwhile lives without having to endure all your whining shit. It's called getting to know each other. And when I say getting to know each other, yes, I do mean inviting Cameron to hardcore his way up your anal canyon, and yes, that does mean practising horizontal exploratory dance routines to the Scissor Sisters with Jess, and yes, you do need to assist Natasha with her online vibrating double-dildo demonstrations. It's what being a student is all about; that and spending three years off your tits on Lightning White cider. These are the best years of your life, allegedly, and you owe it to yourself, your family, and me to uphold the reputation of students everywhere by demonstrating that you're a debauched little slutpot with the morals of a Bangkok hooker.

Oh, and when you next see Natasha can you tell her that her Mother says to stop sending daily blog videos to her Father because he's getting all excitable in the bedroom department and there are only so many headaches I can reasonably claim to be suffering before he packs me off to the hospital for an MRI scan.

Yours in the expectation that you get your tits out for the boys, or girls, or for anyone who has assigned themselves any other form of sexual identity, or just because they're tits and woo hoo here they are.

Cum Girl (Mrs)