I AM a bit of a marshmallow about taking revenge, getting my own back, sticking in the knife, exacting justice and that sort of thing.
Not that I'm a saint. Not at all. I'm just a coward. I plot and scheme into the wee hours and used to scare my family with my devious, deceitful and delightfully bitchy ways until they realised that I wasn't actually going to get off my butt and nail so-and-so.
It took my husband several hair-raising months to realise the same and now nobody I love takes me seriously – which is a good thing.
The problem with my type, though, is that we're push-overs and suckers for punishment. Instead of picking up the phone and yelling incomprehensible swear words at the cow who neatly "forgot" to be my BFF, or actually seeing a lawyer rather than just threatening an erring company with legal action, I create a Dallas-flavoured drama in my own head, complete with heroes, heroines (self), a solid storyline (Beth wins, always) and a happy ending (Beth is not only slim and rich, but incredibly nice and spiritually evolved).
None of my anger, jealousy, resentment or outrage at how badly some relationships have ended for me, ever sees the light of day.
I moan and bleat and whine to a choice few, bending their ears and exhausting their free minutes – but I never actually get closure.
A series of incidents in the last few years is a prime-cut example. I was slowly and oozily – like a wine gone bad and poured into the sink – eased out of two close friendships without my consent.
One day we were the circle of trust and the next, you could have sworn I was a diagnosed leper – even though I wasn't.
For months I yonked and howled at the moon, my man and the friends I still had left.
I almost broke plates in my despair at the unfairness of it all and I fantasised, in neon detail, about how these awful, cold-hearted so-and-so's were going to feel the wrath of my pain and humiliation, whether via karma or my plan for world domination.
As usual, nothing happened.
I licked my wounds and they went about their business, planning secret rendezvous and braais, smiling and waving politely and generally being those people who know they have won, so they'll still greet you at the shops with grins as wide and insincere as Cheshire cats.
Revenge is sweet, but only in books. They've done studies on this sort of thing and sadly, science agrees that you just have to move on. If you don't, you'll end up in a B-grade soap opera like I did, scripting cliff-hangers and eating more – which is pointless, since you'll then not only be a social outcast, but fat as well.
My friend Podge says Hollywood has a lot to answer for. Women think they're up to the task of avenging their burst egos, thanks to movies such as Fatal Attraction and this latest hot-shot show Revenge.
It's not that you won't feel a bit better and a whole lot of smug when Ms Two-Faced gets her just deserts – you will. But, she says, it's like pudding. Once it's eaten, it's gone. And you're left with a bad feeling that you're going to pay for it in the morning.
I hate it when Podge is right.