The radio was loud enough to drown everything out. Suddenly the lyrics hit her, she listened closely to what the teenager was singing, no doubt she was only 15 and controlled by some large, old man who could tell her what to do and what to say. But the lyrics were hers, and they were sung from the heart.

So you think you got it all worked out,
You got your hot pants on, you got your arse right out,
You think that you’re something new and special,
Me and my drab dress; we wont do at all,
I spent so long trying to fit the prototype,
I got the stick thin heels but I never got it right,
What’s the use, what’s the point?
You got the wrong girl,
So you can do what,
You’re doing down there ‘cause I’ll be flying higher,
Waste your own time, I don’t care,
Anything you can do, I can do better.

Exactly how Diane felt. She'd never been in the popular crowd at school. She was quiet and studious, she didn't party hard, she worked hard instead. She took pride in her work and not in her appearance. She knew she was a pretty girl but she had never made an effort. Boys didn't notice her because she was the jumper and jeans who stayed in the corner with orange juice at parties. They were only interested in the short skirts and cropped tops clutching bottles of cheap cider and cans of value lager.

Then when she got into college and found herself mixing with people she'd never known before, she came out of herself, she became bright and bubbly, the girl everyone wanted to be around, but no one wanted to be with. She had plenty of friends but she’d still never had a real boyfriend. She’d been with boys but no one special; she didn’t have time for them. Diane was determined, determined to succeed in life. She knew what she wanted, how to get it and she knew deep down that whatever she did, she would get to wherever she wanted to be.

And she was right. Here she was, driving to her gorgeous home in the car she’d always secretly dreamed of driving but never thought she would be. It was her only luxury when she became a registrar. The car and her house were the only things she truly loved in life. She’d worked hard to get them but they were material possessions.

All you girls,
You look and flip your hair and wonder why I’m still here well,
You’re superficial; I’m a misfit,But baby that’s ok,
All you girls,
When you look into the mirror tell me how you appear,
Well you’re superficial; I’m a misfit,
You're superficial, I'm a misift, but that's ok.

Diane wasn’t superficial. She may love her car and her house but she had nothing else. There were men in her life but they had never stuck around. Apart from one, and she’d loved him so much it hurt, but he wasn’t right for her and as much as she tried to change herself to make herself right for him, she knew it would never work. She still loved him now but it was different. It wasn’t lust now, she trusted him, she admired him, she respected him. And it was all requited. Except for the love, she could never read him like he could her, she could not fathom what he was thinking when he looked into her deep brown eyes. His face showed no trailers of what epics were telling in his heart.

Apart from him, there were no other special men in her life. Tom was creeping around her, trying to get into her affections but she couldn’t tell if he was genuine or whether he just wanted a good time and then he’d leave her, with no warning. Just as so many men had done before him.

So you got your little groups and gangs,
You got your VIP, your member only things,
Your happy-clappys and your VC crew,
And if you get in their way they got 10 on you,
Well I don’t wanna be in that game,
Don’t wanna follow the leader, no way,
What’s the use, what’s the point?
You got the wrong girl,
So you can do what,
You’re doing down there ‘cause I’ll be flying higher,
Waste your own time, I don’t care,
Anything you can do, I can do better.

The words echoed around the car. Diane didn’t know where she stood at the hospital. She was a registrar, one definition. She was Tom Campbell-Gore’s current "lady-friend", another definition. She was the ex-girlfriend of a dead nurse, yet more labels, even worse she was the heart-less cow who aborted his baby. She was the confidante of a disgraced cardio-thoracic, the list was endless.

She longed to be like she was at school. Diane Lloyd, undefined. At least then she couldn’t be compared to people. She was constantly glared at, as if to say “Who are you and why are you here?” But people didn’t take any real notice of her, she blended into the scenery, quietly reading her books or doing tonight’s homework before she got home.

In Holby she was happy, always trying to help, to be the best surgeon she could. Sometimes she felt unstable, like she couldn’t survive without someone being there to pick her up when she fell. But she knew she was wrong, she’d been through enough to prove that she was strong and could cope with whatever life decided to throw at her next.

So what we don’t look the same,
So what I don’t play your game,

She wasn’t going to follow Tom around like a lap dog, that was Ed Keating’s job. She was going to play it cool. If she couldn’t have whom she really wanted she’d go for the next best thing. Apart from he was a little higher up the food chain, when Diane did something, she really did it.

She wasn’t playing games with Tom. She was there if he wanted her and by doing that she didn’t leave herself open to damage and destruction. She’d been there and done that. Diane could and would survive alone if she had to. But she didn’t want to. She liked to have men paying her attention, she lapped it up and shone.

But she had competition. Little miss red shoes and her perfect hair, her solution to every problem Tom could possibly come up with. She was the type of person Diane had despised when she was at school. Anita was the short skirt and the cropped top but this time they were designer and the cheap cider was Tattinger champagne drunk not from a plastic cup, but a crystal flute.

All you girls,
You look and flip your hair and wonder why I’m still here well,
You’re superficial; I’m a misfit,
But baby that’s ok,
All you girls,
When you look into a mirror tell me how you appear
Well you’re superficial; I’m a misfit,
You’re superficial, I’m a misfit.

Anita could never be a misfit. She could talk her way into any circle, her soothing dulcet Scottish tones could persuade even the most stubborn male.

Diane couldn’t do that. She wasn’t materialistic and she wasn’t vain. She looked how she looked, like it or not. She’d never change for anyone but herself and surprisingly enough, as the last bar of music flowed through the air in the car and out of the slightly open window, Diane realised. She was happy.

But that’s ok.