misadventures of a single girl in london

Show me the money!

2011-06-13T09:15:00.000-07:00

Money is not a topic considered 'polite' to talk about so I’ll apologise in advance for the following (which will undoubtedly turn into a rant) but I am just so goddamned fed up of being broke (ok, maybe it'll start off as a rant). I work hard, I'm not frivolous with my cash, I don't have expensive tastes yet still I struggle.

Every month without fail, I run out of funds two weeks after pay day. For a fortnight, I just about manage to keep up with my own social life. A dinner here, boozy night there then I check my balance and shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I have £30 a week to live on for the remainder of the month. So my life goes: two weeks fun, two weeks hermitude, two weeks fun, two weeks hermitude, new pair of shoes, three weeks hermitude, and so on.

Friends don't appear to have this problem. Most earn more than me, some several thousand pounds more. Those who don't, have boyfriends who share their cost of living. Some are lucky enough to earn good money AND have a well-paid boyfriend. I am single (as you well know), work in an industry which is notoriously under-paid and haven’t had a pay rise for two years. I long for the day when my bank balance is actually in credit. When I don't come out in a cold sweat when the bill arrives; hold my breath when I insert my card into a chip and pin machine; or have heart palpitations when I check my bank balance.
Of course it's not all bad. I'm lucky in many ways. I live a nice life, I have amazing friends who I do fun things with (at least for the first two weeks of the month), I have a lovely home and I frequently get to travel to exotic places. But it is luck that enables all of this, not money.

The only reason I can just about afford my home is because it's a 'key worker' flat ie. affordable housing for public sector employees who provide an essential service. Clearly, given that I write fluff for a wedding mag, I do not fit that bill – fortunately, as a teacher, my flatmate does and thus she is rewarded the rare benefit of property at 20% less than market value. I am merely riding on her coat tails.

As for all the travelling. That is one of the lucky perks of my job. As I look after the honeymoon pages, it is necessary for me to go and visit the dreamy destinations we feature on group press trips with other random journalists. Admittedly, these trips don't exactly feel like work but I'd give my right arm to just be able to afford an actual holiday, with an actual friend, to decide for myself when and what I want to eat, where I want to go, and when I want to just lie by a pool and read a book rather than make awkward small talk.

Instead, I show up at these 5 star hotels knowing the credit card I'm handing over when I collect my key has no money on it, praying that the tap water is drinkable because I can't afford anything from the mini bar, hoping the bellboys will forgive me for not being able to tip them, and only eating and drinking during hosted meals in order to avoid any situation in which I might have to hand over my red hot credit card. Plus there's an evil irony in being a single girl forced to experience honeymoon after honeymoon ON MY OWN. I actually found myself drinking champagne in a rose petal bath on my last trip. It felt quite lovely until I realised how tragic it was.

I find myself fantasising about what it would be like to be a kept woman. I've never claimed to be one of those strong, enlightened feminists proud to be 'doing it for themselves' but still, I'm very aware that women these days aren't supposed to long for a man to come and rescue them. Worst still, my dream is not the modern WAG's ideal of a platinum Amex and VIP treatment in every designer boutique in town. No, my shameful fantasy is having a man who earns enough to allow me to stay at home and indulge my inner housewife. Yes, I know the women's movement would lynch me for such disregard for their cause. But come on, can you really say it wouldn't be a good life?

In my head, it looks idyllic. I'd jump out of bed at 7am and put on a pot of coffee while he showered. A freshly ironed shirt would be waiting for him when he emerged and after I'd kissed him goodbye and waved him off to work, I'd spend the day pottering around the house cleaning up, flicking through issues of Elle Deco, maybe doing a little writing then by the time he walked back in the door, I'd be waiting with a couple of G&Ts. Hello 1950s! Are any of you ladies still with me? No? Perhaps you earn more money than me.

Or perhaps your husband does.

Time to go cyber?

2011-04-13T09:13:00.000-07:00

It may be time to enter the world of internet dating – eurch, I don’t even like writing the words. But no matter how much I try to resist, it is becoming patently clear that it’s time to meet someone new. And that does not appear to be happening in the real world.

The lack of new blood means I’m stuck in the middle of a strange circle, made up of all the men in my life – past, present, and potential. Despite the fact that some are just friends, some are old news, and some are very bad news, I keep picturing them and wondering ‘what if?’ “What if he’s the one and I let him slip through my fingers? What if there could be a spark there and I just need to take a step to find out? What if I play the game for a while and see if they’ll change?

In clear, sober moments, I’m well aware that none of these men are the right ones but that doesn’t seem to stop me flirting outrageously, sending misguided texts, and wasting hours reminiscing. It’s a sad state of affairs and it has to stop but what’s the alternative? Clearly the chaste life is not for me. For better or worse, everyone needs a little romance in life and I’m finding that random bars and pubs are not the places to find it. Could match.com/mysinglefriend/Guardian soulmates come up with the goods?

My friend Sue certainly seems to think so. Rewind a year and she wasn’t quite so optimistic – having discovered her long-term boyfriend was cheating on her, she returned from life in LA cursing all men and swearing she’d never risk her heart again. But now, she’s doing just that and willingly so.

She was tentative about the online dating thing at first but dipping a toe in, she found that all the winks and nudges she received from these unknown men – on the basis of only her picture and a few witty words – did wonders for restoring her bruised confidence. Before long, she found herself having a drink with one of them and the next thing she knew he was up a ladder replacing all her dud lightbulbs - and DIY really means something, don’t you know?

Well, as it turns out, it doesn’t mean a damn thing, he did the classic freakout that it was all getting too serious approx 36 hours later. And that was that for candidate number one. Afterwards, I’d worried that Sue would pack away her saddle for good but instead, she brushed herself off and got straight back on the horse – heading out on a date with a handsome younger man (and she’d SWORN not to go below 31). It was just the tonic – he’s now besotted and while she’s not really feeling it, she’s happy to go along for the ride (so to speak).

So when I told her I was thinking of joining her online, she was 100% behind the idea – “You don’t even have to do anything, Carrie. Just sign up and wait for them to come to you!” It certainly sounded like an easier way to meet people than braving a conversation with a stranger in a bar…so I logged on for a little window-shop.

My criteria: male (obvs), 29-33, within a 5 mile radius.... I held my breath, waiting for all the handsome eligible men to pop up on screen. But that’s not exactly what I got. At first glance, yes, there were certainly plenty of men on there. But handsome? Not so much. Mainly there were beardies, baldies, and beer bellies. Scolding myself for being so superficial, I took another look, flicking though the pictures of those whose profile shot didn’t look like it belonged on a wanted poster. There was the odd one who looked okay, I guess…

I was quite taken with Steve’s rugged good looks until I came to a shot of him standing alongside other normal-sized men (5ft 11, Steve? Really?). Then there was Jim – a solid 6ft 3, with lovely brown eyes and a wicked smile though he did seem to be abnormally attached to his jaunty flat cap. “BALD!” Helen interjected, leaning over my shoulder. Ah.

What about Tom then? He looked nice enough, and who doesn’t love long walks in the park and cuddling up on the sofa with a glass of wine. Er yeah, okay, not exactly original.

Ah wait, here we go…Max, 32, 6ft 1, dark curly hair, lives Islington. Likes: dancing to old 45s in the kitchen on a random Tuesday night, spending all weekend playing scrabble in bed, doing things I’ve never done before. Dislikes: bad grammar, bad Chinese food, inappropriate public displays of affection. This could be it….

Seeking: intelligent, fun-loving, creative woman aged between 20 and 27. Eh, hang on. 27? Oh screw you, Max! You’re 32! THIRTY.TWO. Grow up and date a woman your own age.

Thus ended my foray into online dating.

A very unhealthy addiction

2011-03-13T09:10:00.000-07:00

Restraint has never been one of my virtues. I’d love to be one of those people who can have just one biscuit, one dainty slice of cake, a small glass of wine – but if I taste something I like, and particularly something I know I shouldn’t have, I can’t get enough of it.

I think I’ve always been that way. My dad’s favourite anecdote features me as a toddler hiding under the buffet table at my grandparents’ ruby wedding anniversary. Rather than mingle with my rambunctious relatives, I hid there all evening, sticking out my hand from under the tablecloth every few minutes to pilfer another jam tart or volauvent. They tried to tempt me out with the birdy song, the hokey kokey, even a tumbler of coke (which was a forbidden nectar as far as my mum was concerned) but I just sat there happily munching on treat after treat, ignoring the tummy ache that was fast developing, and muttering ‘leave me be’ while tugging the tablecloth back into place every time I was disturbed.

Dad likes to break this gem out every time I’m proffered the plate of biscuits round my gran’s house and though it’s a wonder I’ve not developed an eating disorder, the tale does do a pretty good job at summing up my appetite for things which aren’t good for me. It’s just that these days those things tend to come in skinny jeans and leather jackets rather than pastry cases.
So when my friend Debs asked me what I was giving up for lent this year, I reminded her of what I’d already given up: “Isn’t sex enough? Bread, chocolate and alcohol are my only guilty pleasures these days, I’m not sacrificing them as well.”

“Fair enough,” she laughed, “how’s the vow going anyway?”

“Great,” I assured her. And I meant it – since January, I’d become a beacon of virginity. No man had crossed the threshold of my bedroom and I’d even managed to break my nasty habit of giving in to late night booty calls from Chris, sending him the following response upon his last attempt: I AM NEVER GOING TO SLEEP WITH YOU AGAIN. STOP CONTACTING ME. I decided firm and clear was the best way to go.

I’ll admit this watershed moment was accompanied by a few tears on my part. I might have finally realised the boy was no good but there were still a flicker of hope that he might one day prove me wrong. But I was resolute - there would be no going back this time. I deserved someone who’d treat me well, who’d take me out and be nice to me…not just send me filthy text messages. And just a few weeks later, I met someone who seemed to fit the bill.

Bruno was polite, funny, attentive, complimentary, mature, self-deprecating not to mention frickin’ hot. And then there was all the ‘on paper’ stuff too, you know the things that aren’t really supposed to matter but really do ie. age (28), job (physio), living situation (home-owner/local), hobbies (boxing, guitar), nationality (Irish – a fellow Celt!). He was an instant hit with my friends and bizarrely seemed completely smitten with me.

I’m hoping all of this will go some way to explaining why I found myself waking up beside him one very hungover Sunday morning. In my defence, I’d really tried to resist his advances but with the girls singing his praises in one ear and him saying all the right things in the other, I was fighting a losing battle - my willpower gave way and my newfound restraint went out the window.

Lying awake as he slept contentedly next to me, I knew I’d made a mistake. And not because he was just another player, on the contrary, he seemed quite the opposite, he’d already made me promise I’d go to dinner with him the following week and he certainly didn’t appear to be in any rush to leave. No, I’d made a mistake because I wasn’t ready for this – and the mess inside my head was testament to that: Where was my phone? Maybe Chris had texted. If I was going to go out and sleep with someone, surely I should just do it with him? Why couldn’t it be him that was here? Him asking to take me out?

Yep, I’d gone straight back to insanity. And to make matters worse, when I did eventually sneak out of bed to search out my phone, his name was right there on the screen waiting for me – he’d texted at the precise moment I’d been giving in to Bruno.

Clutching my phone to my chest, I walked back through to my room, climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head, muttering “Leave me be” and wriggling out of Bruno’s reach when he stirred. I knew then that I wouldn’t meet him for dinner as we’d planned. I wasn’t ready to give up my unhealthy addiction to Chris yet. I’m still underneath that buffet table stuffing my face with things I know I shouldn’t.

A new me?

2011-02-10T06:43:00.000-08:00

So we’re one month into the new regime and so far, so not bad. I’ve successfully stuck to my vow of abstinence and I’ve even made some headway on the book…2000 words counts, right? I know, I know, these aren’t exactly noteworthy accomplishments but from a personal point of view, it feels like a step in the right direction. My usual new year’s resolutions (stop smoking, start budgeting, drink less) tend to last all of five minutes before I throw caution to the wind, buy everyone a shot, knock one back and head out for a quick cig. But this year, something’s driving me on like it never has done before – maybe it’s because I’m approaching another birthday, maybe it’s the fear of finding myself unmarried and still writing for a bridal title this time next year, or maybe it’s just the right time but whatever’s going on, it seems to be working.

Taking some time out for myself on a weeklong press trip to the Maldives undoubtedly helped a little. Yeah, I know, it would help most things, wouldn’t it? But before you hate me, can I just remind you – single girl, wedding magazine, four years – if they didn’t give me the odd treat, I’d literally have gone insane by now. And this time round, I decided to try out a new approach, opting out of the group fun with the other journalists in favour of spending some quality time with myself. Ugh, I hate that phrase – it sounds all self-help doesn’t it. “You just need to spend some real time with yourself, get to know yourself a bit better, reconnect” – like we’re not completely familiar with ourselves already. Frankly, most days it’s thoroughly anti-climactic to look in the mirror of a morning and see myself staring back. Anyhoo, I digress…so there I was being all sensible and serene – eating healthily, taking long swims, doing some writing, a lot of reading, and even (wait for it) some gym-ing (GASP!) - while the other girls in the group headed off for snorkelling trips, island tours, and kayaking lessons, when who should decide to pop into my phone and shatter my newfound calm: Chris, of course.

It was 7am Saturday morning my time and I’d just woken up early with the intention of doing the floor section of my new Ministry of Sound Pump Up The Jam workout DVD before breakfast (ridiculous but true). For Chris, it was 2am (big surprise) and he sounded…well, a bit perplexed really: “Hi, sorry it’s so late. I know what you’ll think but I’ve actually not been drinking in the extreme. I’m not even sure why I’m texting. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen you. I dunno… I just wanted to say hey…”

Rather than annoy me in the same way his previous late-night texts had done, this little mess of a message immediately made me smile. It wasn’t what he’d said so much as what was written between the lines: he was thinking about me, he missed me, and most surprisingly, he was reaching out despite knowing it wouldn’t end in my bed.

Breaking several promises to myself, I promptly replied and soon found myself in a nice little text catchup, which only ended when I conceded that I might be willing see him again…just not to sleep with him. This idea that Chris might actually want to spend time with me outside the bedroom was a new and dizzying concept to me - I blame the sudden rush of blood to my head it caused for sending me back to my old sinful ways. I kissed my phone, switched off the DVD, wandered out to the pool, ordered a bellini, and lit a cigarette. (Could it be any more clear how closely linked my bad habits are with my relationships?)
I awoke the next morning to a thumping at the door of my villa: “Carrie, it’s Jade. We’re leaving now – the boat’s waiting to take us out to the seaplane. Are you up?”

I so wasn’t up. I lurched out of bed, started wildly throwing things in my case, and desperately tried to recall the events of the previous day. Our PR, Jade, who was hosting the trip filled me in on our way to the plane: “You remember the bellinis with breakfast by the pool?” I nodded. “And the champagne at lunch?” Yup. “And the cocktails with dinner?” Uh huh. “Well then there was the dancing, the shots, the flaming shots, and the dancing on tables.” Oh god.

“Don’t feel too bad, at least you just went to bed after smoking that joint with the hotel band,” Jade reassured me, “Sarah went for a swim fully dressed, I threw up on my own feet, and we can’t actually find Violet.”

It was enough of a shock (and a hangover) to get me back on the straight and narrow, and since my return, I’ve cut down on the booze, kept up the healthy eating and lost half a stone; signed up to mentor a troubled teen with an interest in journalism; and started pitching freelance ideas out to several glossy publications.

No pesky men are going to knock me off the wagon this time. No way.

A very grand statement

2011-01-26T06:31:00.000-08:00

So here we are. Another new year, and what has changed? Not much for me. Still in the same job, still no progress on that book I’ve been planning to start for…oh, 10 years or so, and of course I’m still a fully signed up member of the singles club. This Spring, it’ll be 6 long years since I could legitimately be called someone’s girlfriend . Does that mean I get some kind of reward for my loyalty to the cause soon? A commemorative spoon or shiny plaque maybe? That’d be nice. I could hang it above my bed to mark the spot where all the trouble starts.

Ironically, at the turn of the last new year, my friends and I rather optimistically christened 2010 – the year of men. And in all honesty, there have been quite a few in these past twelve months but their roles have been more walk-on cameos than leading men. Maybe we should have been more specific with our expectations – it could have been the year of nice men who are not emotionally retarded, preferably over 5’ 11”, who don’t live with their parents, have decent jobs, and still believe in old-fashioned chivalry. Or to get right down to basics, men who want to date me rather than simply bed me. I’m beginning to think they may not even exist. If they do, they’re certainly not hammering down my door. Of course there’s one lingering thought that I’ve been trying to ignore but can’t quite seem to shake, maybe it’s not the men that are getting it wrong, maybe it’s me…

I definitely got things wrong with Chris. Any sane person would know that a man who states from the outset that he does not want a relationship and only gets in touch late at night when he’s feeling ‘fidgety’ is only looking for one thing – simple, no strings-attached sex. Yet I somehow manage to convince myself that our physical connection means much, much more and that if he just spends enough time with me, he’ll realise this too. Well guess what...that didn’t happen. And last month, I finally accepted that it won’t ever happen, calling the whole thing off and asking him not to contact me again. New year’s resolution number one: no more sex with Chris.

But that got me to thinking. Sex is what seems to get me in trouble. We all know that most women are incapable of separating sex from emotions so why do I continue to pretend that I’m any different? Maybe rather than sleeping with someone then developing misplaced feelings for them, I should figure out my feelings for them first – and more importantly, their feelings for me – before heading to the bedroom. Maybe that way I’ll be able to figure out the men from the boys, the rogues from the good’ uns. And maybe that way, by the end of 2011, I might not find myself here again – single, frustrated, disillusioned.

Of course knowing how my emotions tend to run away from me, I appreciate that it’s going to be hard to identify any real feelings from my more impulsive (horny) ones. As far as I can see, there’s only one way to be sure, which brings me back to that resolution. What I propose is a revision of the ‘no more sex with Chris’ plan. Perhaps it’s time to try extreme measures - to take sex off the table altogether. New year’s resolution number one (revised): No More Sex.

Bit of a grand statement, you might think. She’s got no chance, I hear you mutter. But that is precisely why I’m writing it down here for you all to see. I genuinely want to stick to this plan – and I figure declaring it publicly gives me more motivation to see it through than keeping it to myself. So here goes: I will not have sex in 2011.

And while I’m making grand statements, here’s resolution number 2. This is the year I will write that book I’ve been threatening you all with since I started this column. I figure if I aim to average out at a page a day, I could be churning out a chapter every month. And if, for one reason or another, life gets in the way and I don’t write a word one week, I’ll just write twice as much the following week. If I can keep it up, by next new year, I could have something approaching a first draft.
After all, if I’m not going to be having sex all year, I’m going to have much more time on my hands.

A Man’s Perspective

2010-12-04T06:38:00.000-08:00

I’ve just been given some pretty controversial man advice, and I’m not quite sure how to process it. According to my new love guru, Sam (more on him later), all the rules I’ve been religiously following for years are a load of old codswallop! Can this really be true? Lets see what you think. The conundrum was thus: Girl meets boy, girl falls for boy, boy seems to like girl but ‘doesn’t want to be in a relationship’, girl tries the casual thing but still wants more, boy stands his ground. What to do?
The strategy I’d opted for – on the advice of pretty much every woman I know and every dating guide ever published – was to play hard to get. I’d called a halt to the booty calls and vowed only to see him if he should man up and take me on a date. A fairly obvious and effective approach, you might think. But it didn’t seem to be getting me very far.

The Boy – Chris, if we must give him a name – initially seemed to respond well, agreeing that it was ridiculous that he’d only seen me fully dressed once and that he should indeed take me for a drink next time we arranged to meet up. But that ‘next time’ seemed to get further and further away. ‘How about Wednesday?’ I suggested. ‘I’m in Scotland,’ he responded, offering no alternative date. Okay so he’s just not into me then, I decided, promising myself that was the last time I’d get in touch with him and deleting his number (for the umpteenth time).

But then on Wednesday, the texts started. First, it was a friendly ‘I think I like Glasgow.’ Innocent enough so I sent a similarly innocuous reply and went to bed. But Chris wasn’t for letting me sleep. Every 15 minutes for the next two hours, he sent me increasing amounts of nonsense: ‘I miss you’. Oh really? ‘Are you still up? I want to talk.’ No. ‘I wish you were here.’ Yes, that’s because you’re hammered. ‘This hotel room’s not as nice as being in your bed.’ No, I’m sure it isn’t. Of course I didn’t actually send any of these replies – I did as any dating guru would advise, I ignored him.

Now, if roles were reversed and Chris woke up to a series of drunken texts from me, I can safely assume that I would be deemed a psycho and relegated to the ex-file. But in this case, what did I do? Woke up, hugged my phone, and skipped off to work, gleeful with the proof that he really did like me. And what did Chris do? Acted like it hadn’t happened and went back to being just as slippery as he was before. Of course he did.

That’s where my love guru stepped in. Sam’s a PR I met on a press trip a few months back, when Chris was initially causing a stir in my life. At the time, I was a little more optimistic about the situation but when Sam and I met up again, things between Chris and I were far from hopeful. I’d reached my limit (again), deleted his number (again), and vowed it was over (again). As I explained the whole situation, I fully expected him to say what everyone else was saying – you’re wasting your time, you deserve better, walk away then he’ll realise what he’s missed. Instead, Sam sighed, shook his head, and with a wry smile told me I was getting it all SO wrong: “You’re playing it WAY too cool! What you don’t realise is that men like girls to be a little needy,” he announced. Eh, come again?!

“You have to stop deleting him. Text him – or call him even – whenever you want to. Tell him how you actually feel. And don’t wait for him to take you out. He clearly likes you and is just scared of the idea of a ‘date’. Keep pushing for that and he will run. Just go round to his place one night. From the sounds of things, he always comes to you. Why can’t you go to him? Why does it all have to be on his terms? You should behave however you want to behave, stop worrying about looking needy, breaking the ‘rules’, or some ill-conceived notion of ‘having the power’. Be soft. Be yourself. And stop taking advice from other single women. Evidently, they’re getting it all wrong too!” (Good point.)

“Just try it my way for a while,” pleaded Sam. “What harm can it do?” 

Hmmm, what harm could it do? Lets give it a go and see…

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2010-11-09T08:48:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been all that comfortable with change. The comfort of the familiar is much more thrilling to me than being in a state of flux. Which possibly explains why I’ve stayed in a job I don’t really want for the past four years despite always knowing it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.

So when the news came that our company was selling the mag to a new publisher, based outside London, I wasn’t quite so upset as some of the others on the team. This could spell redundancy – and as I’ve been told over and over again by those who’ve been lucky enough to be paid off from similarly mediocre jobs, that could be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Keen to make the most of the situation, I immediately started firing off emails to various contacts I’d made on other magazines asking about freelance work. I scoured the job alerts everyday on specialist recruitment sites, and finally found the time to dedicate to doing the applications. I dragged out my portfolio from the dusty abyss under my bed and set about filling it with glossy pages of my best work. Having been at the magazine for over three years, I’d have a few months money to play with when they made me redundant but I wasn’t about to rest on my laurels. This change was the rocket up my ass I’d been desperately in need of.

Then finally, I got an interview – the first one I’ve had in 4 years and bizarrely, it was with the magazine right next to us in the open-plan office. It was going to be a pretty heavy day though. At 11am I had my interview, then at 1pm, the new buyers were starting individual consultations with each member of the team regarding their future. With any luck, I could be offered redundancy and a new job in the same day.

Of course, that’s not how things worked out in the end. Instead, after 8 weeks of leading us to believe that the magazine would be based in Colchester (a 120 mile round trip for me) and that those who couldn’t commute would be offered redundancy, they suddenly changed the goal posts. We were staying in London – at a new office yes, but not at a distance from my house that could be considered an unreasonable commute and thus redundancy was no longer on the table.

So where does that leave me? With two choices – go with it, stay at this bridal mag, and possibly stagnate there for another four years or walk away with nothing but the hope that better things are just round the corner. Play it safe or take a massive risk? I have no idea which way to go and funnily enough, I’m facing the same quandary in my love life.

On the one side, there’s Chris. A difficult, elusive, and totally frustrating man I find completely irresistible, and who is predictably playing the old ‘I’m not ready for a relationship’ card. And on the other, there’s lovely Mark – a blast from the past who’s recently reappeared and started making himself something of a fixture.

There might not exactly be fireworks between Mark and I but I could get used to the cosy nights in where he whips up a feast for me and we cuddle up in front of a DVD. And he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not exactly tearing his clothes off. It’s just nice spending time with him. And maybe nice is enough?

Or maybe it would be if I wasn’t spending every minute I’m with Mark wishing he was someone else. I don’t know what it is about Chris but he’s managed to get right under my skin. I’ve seen him a handful of times and every one has ended the same way – I won’t go into details (I had a telling off from my dad recently after he read this and got a bit of a shock – sorry pops!) but I will say that it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And I’m not just talking about in the bedroom – we get on so well that when we’re together, we’re both a little stunned by it. When he’s here, he never wants to leave but as soon as he’s out the door, he starts to freak out about it all getting too heavy and how he’s just not ‘in that place’ right now. I’ve been telling myself that maybe if I just play the game for a while, the barriers will come down but I’m also aware how naïve that sounds. Am I wasting my time? Possibly.

I just don’t know what to do - settle for something that’s comfortable and familiar, but not quite right, or pursue something that could lead to nothing but disappointment and heartbreak. It’s a tough choice and I don’t think I’m ready to make it in either my professional or personal life. So for now, I’m going to do nothing and hope a little time brings some answers.

Well I did tell you I’m no good at change.

Here begineth the lesson

2010-09-28T04:20:00.000-07:00

Given how well my first official date with Mr Stripe went, it was completely puzzling to me when he suddenly went quiet. He’d been in touch every day since we met, he texted me after the date to say how much he’s enjoyed it, and he’d promised to sit down with Matt that weekend and ask for his blessing for Date No.2. And now – silence.

Three days in, curiosity got the better of me and I sent a quick text to ask if anything was up. His reply did little to make me feel better: “Sorry. I’ll be in touch in a while to explain. Promise.” What the bloody hell was that supposed to mean? Had Matt kicked off? Had Tom had a sudden change of heart? Or was something more serious afoot? I guess I’d have to wait and see.

A few unsettled hours later, I was at the Topshop press day with Vickie, who was doing her best to distract me with champagne and shoes when he finally got back to me. ‘Sorry for all the mystery. Matt’s Gran died at the weekend and I’ve been busy sorting him out. It’s made me realise how terrible a friend I’m being at the moment. Can we maybe put things on hold for a while until things are back to normal?’

My first reaction was disbelief. “Lying shit – I can’t believe I’ve fallen for another one. Why do they all talk such utter bollocks?” I ranted. Vic wasn’t so sure: “Oh I don’t know. Why would he invent someone dying when he could just say that Matt disapproved. I think you need to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one. Maybe he really does just want to focus on being a good friend for a while.”

Oh. Okay then.

Fast forward three days and I’m out at another press launch (it’s the season for it). This time, it’s my friend’s PR Company who are launching a new male grooming line and I’ve gone along to show my support…nothing to do with the champagne at all but as it’s on offer…

Come 11.30pm, I can’t see straight, never mind think straight, and I decide I miss Tom. “I’ll just send him a little text to say hello, that can’t do any harm, can it?” I ask Liv, fully expecting her to wrestle my phone from my iron grip. But she surprises me: “Do it. What have you got to lose?”

Oh, ok then…

Me: ‘Hi, I know this is against the rules but I just wanted to say hi…. So hi! x’

Tom: ‘Oh hi, I was just thinking about you. Wish you were here. You been out?’

Me: ‘I have been out – think I may have had one too many top ups. You?’

Tom: “Same. Just back from the pub. In bed and feeling lonely. Maybe a little picture would help?’

Me (struggling to contain full force of my wrath): ‘Um Tom, I think you’ve got the wrong idea here. I am not about to send you any kind of picture and can’t believe you’d even ask. We’re hardly at that stage yet. Or likely ever will be now.’

Tom: ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I’m in a weird mood. Had too many pints with Matt earlier and just got a little carried away. Please don’t judge things on tonight. Lets talk tomorrow?’

Me: SILENCE

Convinced Tom had finally shown his true colours and feeling devastated for buying his nice guy act in the first place, I go to bed in tears. Awaking at 7am with the worst headache in the world and half a dozen more apologetic texts, I’m not so convinced. Am I being the prude here? Is this perfectly normal behaviour? Have I totally over-reacted? When I recount the tale to Debs at work the next day, she certainly think so: “Carrie, he clearly likes you. He got a bit drunk and a bit saucy – that’s not a criminal offence. Just loosen up for crying out loud.”

Oh. Ok then.

Half an hour later, I get another message from Tom. A picture message – of a bouquet of flowers with this text attached: ‘It’s difficult for me to send you real flowers right now but know if I could, I would. I’m sorry for being a drunken idiot and I will make it up to you soon. Promise.’

So what do you think happened next? Tom showed up, whisked me off my feet and proved he was a nice guy after all?

Don’t be ridiculous. That was the last time I heard from him. But the whole thing did teach me two very valuable lessons. Number one, I should listen to my gut, not my friends. And number two, men cannot be trusted.

Here endeth the lesson.

A Comedy of Errors

2010-08-29T07:58:00.000-07:00

So it probably won’t come as too much of a surprise that I found myself on a date with Mr. Stripe last week. Yes, he’d slept with one of my closest friends, and yes, I’d slept with his but despite the seedy circumstances, I managed to turn the whole scenario into a romantic star-crossed lovers thing.

‘What if he’s the one?’ I wondered. Should I just walk away out of a misplaced sense of loyalty? Or should I take a chance? After all, if we were to end up getting married, it’d make for one hell of a best man’s speech for Matt. And things had only worked out the way they had because fate had got a little muddled – like in Midsummer Night’s Dream when everyone ends up with the wrong partner until the faires intervened to sort the mess out. Maybe that was us and now we were getting the chance to put things right. Could I really argue with fate… and Shakespeare? Of course not.

Plus, while initially I knew little about Tom except he looked damn good in stripes, he’d charmed me in the few days leading up to our rendez-vous with a series of near-perfect texts. I’m notoriously harsh at judging people by their text-ability and he was coming out with gold stars all round. Good grammar – check. No text speak – check. Hilarious banter – check. Admittedly there had been a few misguided emoticons but perhaps I’d judged these too harshly. What’s the harm in a little wink or a smile to pep up a sentence?

Still, as I walked along Upper Street on the way to meet him, all sorts of doubts were flitting round my head. Was I a terrible friend for doing this to Laura? She’d said she was okay with it but we both knew that wasn’t true. And what about poor Matt? He knew nothing about his flatmate’s clandestine date and should I really trust a man I knew was lying to his best friend? What if it was all an elaborate practical joke and I was going to walk into the pub to be faced with the pair of them laughing in the face of my naivety? After all, Karma’s a bitch – and I’m not sure who’d win in a fight between her and her romantic cousin, Fate.

Pushing the door of The King’s Head open, I took a deep breath and prayed for Fate. And for once, my prayers were answered. There sat Tom, wearing a sheepish grin and another winning striped top. Phew. Standing up to give me a kiss on the cheek, he laughed: “Oh god, I’m so glad you’re on your own. I’ve been sat here thinking you were about to come crashing through the door with Laura in tow and throw a drink in my face.”

“Ha, of course not – I can’t believe you’d think such a thing,” I said, inwardly thanking god that he was as nervous as I was.

“Now I know I’m safe, I’ll get you that drink,” he offered, “I think we both need one!” His trip to the bar gave me the few seconds I needed to regroup and the perfect opportunity to reappraise. All I could really remember about him from our first meeting was that he was tall, dark, and had a nice smile. On closer inspection, he might not have been the hunk I’d imagined but there was still something about him I found completely disarming. And when he returned from the bar and we got down the business of actual conversation, I was as charmed by his personality as that smile.

The evening continued in the same vein for most of the evening, until Tom’s phone interrupted. Reluctantly reaching for it, he looked dismayed by what he saw: “It’s Matt…,” he said, bringing us back down to reality with a bang. “I can’t answer it. I can’t blatantly lie to him about where I am!” I helpfully shrugged as he sent the call to voicemail and switched the phone off. “I feel awful about doing this to him,” he continued, “I just really wanted to see you. I feel like things didn’t go the way they were supposed to the other night – I could have killed him when he jumped into that cab with you, and he’d kill me, if he knew I was here now.”

“So are you going to tell him?” I asked, not sure quite what the right answer might be.

“Well, I guess that depends on there being something to tell. If we were to see each other again, then yes, I’d tell him – but I didn’t think I should rock the boat before we knew if there was really any reason to.”

“And…is there?”

“I think you know the answer to that. I keep hoping you’ll say something stupid. It’d be so much easier if I didn’t like you...”
“I think you’re going to have to tell him,” I offered as he leaned in for a kiss.

“Yep, we’re definitely in trouble…” he concluded. “Give me the weekend – I’ll speak to Matt.”

And with that, we both headed home, with shared feelings of guilt, confusion, and hope - that all the drama was going to be worthwhile.

Two’s company, four’s a crowd

2010-07-29T08:46:00.000-07:00

I have something of a penchant for stripes. Everyone who knows me is very aware of this fact. Approximately 40% of my wardrobe is made up of striped items and they seem to have a mysterious magpie effect on me – I see them, I want them. Last Friday was no exception.

Arriving at Laura’s birthday drinks in Soho after work, my eye was immediately drawn to a man in a fetching striped t-shirt standing by the bar. It wasn’t just the stripes that were appealing either – he was very tall and very cute. Oh my.

Of course, despite consuming about a gallon of pink wine, I never quite managed to work up the courage to speak to him and when it finally reached closing time, I was about to admit defeat when he popped up beside me with a friend.

“Where you two ladies off to now then?” asked the friend. “Can we tempt you out for another? We know a great club in Kilburn.”

“Kilburn!” I baulked. “That’s miles away. How about the Russian bar?.” (The Russian Bar’s not as salubrious as I might have gone on to make out – but it is 5 minutes from my house so it worked for me!).

“I’m up for that,” Mr. Stripe piped up gallantly. “Lets get a cab.” And that’s where things all got a little muddled. After hailing a taxi and doing the required haggle over the fare, I jumped in – just as Laura had a change of heart. “I think I really just need to go home. It’s nowhere near my house, I don’t feel too good, and I’ve got to get up early tomorrow.”

No amount of pleading would change her mind and after a few minutes of fruitless negotiations, the friendly friend jumped in the cab beside me, told Mr. Stripe to make sure Laura got home okay, and shut the door. As the taxi drove off, I was still trying to fathom what exactly had just happened. Somehow, I had ended up in a cab on the way to a very dubious late night bar on my own with a man I’d known for approximately 30 seconds, while Laura was apparently being escorted home by my Mr.Stripe. This was not how things were meant to go.

It took the fifteen-minute drive, many reassurances from Friendly Friend that he was a good guy, and a very large gin and tonic to finally get my brain on side with the circumstances I’d found myself in. Truth is, Matt (as it turned out his name was) did seem to be a nice bloke, he was also pretty handsome…oh what the hell!

Waking up in bed beside him the next morning, it took a few moments to piece back together the chain of events and once I had, I’m not sure my sober brain agreed with the over-eager drunken one from last night. Matt, on the other hand, seemed gleefully happy…”So when am I getting to see you again?” he asked, reaching over for my phone to type in his digits.

“Ummm, I’m pretty busy this week to be honest…”

“Next week it is then,” he declared, while calling his own mobile from mine, in an apparent effort to locate it. “Ah, here it is,” he beamed. Yep, and now you have my number without me even giving it to you. Smart cookie. “I’m just going to give Tom a ring,” he said, walking out to the terrace, as I buried my head back under the pillow berating myself for being an idiot. Reappearing five minutes later, Matt had an announcement: “Ha, you’ll never guess where Tom is…Laura’s house! Think he did more than get her home okay!”

No, No, No, No, No! That was not supposed to happen. Mr. Stripe had spent the night with Laura?! Didn’t she know I liked him? This was a disaster.

Finally managing to coax Matt out of the door, I immediately texted Laura. She called five minutes later: “I’m so sorry. It totally wasn’t planned but we just found ourselves at mine, alone, and you know, it just kind of happened.”

And what could I say? I did know. I’d done exactly the same thing with Matt. Deciding to chalk it all down to drunken nonsense, Laura and I laughed it off and said our goodbyes. Now, I just had to let Matt know a date wasn’t on the cards and it could all be forgotten – but I wasn’t ready for that yet. Delaying the inevitable, I logged onto facebook. And my heart literally leapt in my chest. I had a message. From Tom:

“Hey, Matt’s going to kill me for this. If you fancy a drink sometime, get in touch…”

Oh holy crap, what do I do now?!

The Real Thing?

2010-06-26T14:18:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard before that the second you finally stop thinking about someone, they’ll pop back into your life, but when John appeared next to me in the pub the other week, I literally couldn’t have been expecting it less.

“Hey, what you doing here?’ I sing-songed - trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant.

“Well I live practically next door so you know…” Bollocks. There I was being all ‘what you doing on my turf?’ and actually I was on his.

“Oh of course! Well how are you? You good?”

“Yeah, pretty good. You?”

“Yeah, great. Well apart from my dramatic morning,” I began, launching into a nervously babbled version of the porch swing tragedy.

“Wow, heavy, well it’s nice to see you, I just have to go upstairs and catch my friend up but we’ll talk, yeah?”

“Yeah, cool. Okay.”

And that was that.

“Well that was awkward,” Liv quipped. “You okay?”

“Um, yeah, that was weird.”

“You upset?”

“No not at all,” I answered – and shockingly I meant it. Given that I’d not laid eyes on John since he kissed me goodbye on his doorstep after a particularly frantic quickie, you might think I’d be overcome with passion on coming face to face with him but as it happened, I felt absolutely nothing.

“Talk about an anti-climax,” I laughed, shrugging my shoulders, and following Liv outside to where the rest of our friends were waiting. “Time to find a new man to obsess over!”

Still, something was bothering me. I just couldn’t fathom how for the past few months, I’d somehow convinced myself that John was this massive missed opportunity. There was no spark there, no chemistry, barely even any conversation. And looking back, if I’m honest, I’d known from the beginning he wasn’t right for me – I’d just chosen to ignore the facts and go for the fairytale. The whole relationship had been dreamt up by my over-romantic imagination.

Realising this was liberating but also a little disturbing – mainly because I suddenly saw that this wasn’t the first time I’d done it. Truth be told, there had been many men I’d convinced myself I loved when in actual fact, there was nothing real between us at all.

First there had been Harry. I was 13, he was 17 and I thought he was magnificent. When he dumped me, I cried myself to sleep for months and, true to form, just as I finally started to feel normal again, he knocked on my door and begged me to take him back. It was the moment I’d been dreaming of but suddenly, I realised he wasn’t what I wanted at all. While I’d originally told everyone he was sensitive, deep, and intellectual – in reality, he was just dull. The real reason I’d gone out with him? To impress - a girl in 2nd year bagging a 5th year prefect was unheard of and, against all odds, I’d managed it. But did I actually want to be in a relationship with him? God, no!

After that, there was with Michael– for 2 years, I spent every moment I could with him, tortured my parents for forbidding me to see him during my exams, and shed many a tear at the thought of leaving him behind for university. In the end, I met someone else before I’d even started my degree and unceremoniously dumped him. Truth is Michael and I had nothing in common, spent most of the time we were together watching TV, and barely even fooled around but if I scrunched my eyes up, he looked a little like Noel Gallagher – and back then, that was reason enough for me.

After Michael, I had what I now recognise to be my only two real relationships. Both pretty serious, both long term, and both ending in broken hearts (in one case, his. In one, mine). You might think that after that, I’d have learned the difference between actual love and my imagination – but you’d be wrong.

Next, I spent two years imagining myself to be in a relationship with a boy who had a girlfriend that whole time. We’d sit up till 5am talking, drinking red wine and smoking before tumbling into bed together - then I wouldn’t hear from him for a week. I was convinced he’d wake up one day and realise I was his soulmate. In actual fact, I woke up one day and realised he was a narcissistic twat.

I moved on to Alex – possibly the most obvious mismatch of them all. An uber-trendy tattooed punk who rode a BMX, drank whisky, and played guitar in a metal band. We literally had nothing in common but the moment I slept with him, I decided I loved him. After a few more sleepovers, he disappeared into the ether – probably after noticing that my CD collection wasn’t quite as similar to his as I’d made out.

So what was it that had done it with John? He wasn’t older than me, he looked nothing like Noel Gallagher, and he definitely didn’t have the dark tortured artist thing going on. No, he was just nice to me. And it had been so long since someone had been that I’d decided that was enough.

Sad, huh? Well you’ll be pleased to hear now I’ve realised the error of my ways, I plan to settle for nothing less than the real thing. No more faking it…well not outside the bedroom anyway (come on, sometimes it’s just polite).

Drama, drama, drama!

2010-05-28T08:06:00.000-07:00

My friend Mary says my life is like a rom-com. She doesn’t mean that I’m hilarious and on my way to a happy ending. What she’s really saying is that I live with my head in the clouds, invite drama at every juncture, and am slightly ridiculous. She may have a point.

Take last weekend. The plan was for a boozy afternoon in Hampstead’s finest beer garden but come mid-morning, the sky had turned a menacing shade of grey and the wind was getting wilder by the minute. Pottering around, getting ready, I suddenly heard an almighty crash coupled with a hysterical scream. What’s Debi broken now? I wondered to myself, leaving my bedroom door firmly closed (she breaks things a lot so it’s sometimes easier to pretend I haven’t noticed). “Shit! CARRIE!,” she yelled crashing in the door. “YOUR SWING!!!!”

Okay, this was more serious than I thought. I’d bought said swing – actually more of a swinging bench, a porch swing if you will – for my 30th birthday, spent two days single-handedly constructing the thing and was anticipating many warm evenings out there with a glass of wine being rocked gently to-and-fro (yes, I said 30 not 60). One day it would be moved to sit proudly on an actual porch of an actual house where a beautiful man would sit and read me poetry (okay, I may have watched the Notebook too many times).

“What’s happened?” I demanded, pushing past her and running out the patio doors to the terrace. And there, where the swing once sat, was…nothing. “What the….?” I stuttered as Debi leaned over the side and ominously pointed down: “It was the wind,” she said. “It just picked it up and…well look.” And there it was, my beloved swing teetering on the edge of the warehouse roof next door. “Oh. My. God.” I managed. “How the fuck are we going to get it back up?”

Fortunately Liv appeared and went into teacher mode (she’s surprisingly good in an emergency): “Calm down and call the council,” she instructed, “And do it fast, if the wind catches it again, it could fall all the way down.”

“Down? As in to the ground?,” I stuttered. “Well the council will be no good. I’m calling the fire brigade.”

Hearing the approaching sirens, Liv and I dashed downstairs, only to find the worst had happened - the remnants of my swing lay in bits scattered all over the road, broken, splintered, and beyond repair.

“Is this yours, girls?” asked one of the firemen. “You’re bloody lucky. It could have fallen on someone.”

I digested this. “Do you think that might have broken its fall?” I asked sincerely.

A triple vodka and red bull later, I’d finally regained the power of speech but I was still far from seeing the funny side. “Carrie, we’re over an hour late. Lets go to the pub. It’ll make you feel better,” Liv somehow managed to convince me and twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting opposite her on the tube.

Staring blankly at the feet of my fellow passengers, I noticed a charming pair of scruffy Converse among the usual medley of sandals and brogues, and instinctively looked up to see if they were attached to a similarly charming man – they often are. They were this time too. But not just any man…

Felix was a friend of my old flatmate. I’d decided he was adorable the first time I met him, when he was all scrunched up on our couch in a grey hoodie complaining of a hangover. Inevitably it wasn’t long before we ended up in a clinch in my bedroom. Deciding an uncomfortable hello was best avoided, I put my headphones on, looked the other way, and hoped he wouldn’t notice me, but the next thing I knew, he’d sat himself down in the seat beside me, and proceeded to pat his knee invitingly at the very pretty girl I’d only just noticed he was with.

Could have been me, I thought to myself wistfully, before remembering why it wasn’t. Felix and I had kissed yes, but it was only that once and for very good reason – it was terrible. He’d practically choked me with his tongue, making the classic error of equating volume of saliva with degree of passion. I smiled to myself, then something in me clicked (the next phase of shock maybe?) and I had an uncontrollable urge to burst out laughing.

“What you smiling at?” boomed Liv from the other side of the carriage. I made frantic shushing actions, hoping she’d get the hint then just about managed to keep it together until we got off and I really let it go, collapsing onto the platform in hysterics.

By the time, we reached the pub, I’d finally regained my composure. “Wow, you’ve had a rollercoaster of a morning,” said Jane when we regaled her with the tale. “At least you’re here now. The drama’s over.”

“Wanna bet?” said Liv. “I’ve just spotted drama number 3 and he’s standing right behind me.”

“What do you m…..” I managed before I saw him, and my heart started racing again.

John. Of all the bars in all the world.

This really can’t be good for my nervous system…

New and improved

2010-03-29T03:15:00.000-07:00

I’ve never really bought it when my thirty-something friends claim their thirties to be so much better than their twenties. Gaining a few wrinkles and a whole load more responsibility doesn’t sound like that much fun to me. Particularly when you haven’t found someone to share those responsibilities with or tell you your wrinkles are cute. Funny thing is, it’s only been a month since my 30th birthday and already, I think I know what they mean.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been so desperate for everyone else’s approval that I’ve not really thought about how I feel about myself. But somehow, in the last few weeks, I’ve become a lot more comfortable in my own skin. And as it turns out, now I’ve finally learned to accept myself, it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.

Take that date I mentioned last month. I’d known the guy for a good few months, in fact I met Sam at the very same singles night I met John, but due to circumstances (ie. me kissing John, and Sam kissing my flatmate) I didn’t think there was anything on the cards for Sam and I. That would be breaking the rules, I know. Saying that, when six months down the line, Sam was still getting in touch and suggesting he and I met for a drink, I thought, well why the hell not? Liv wasn’t interested in him. John was long gone. And if truth be told, I’d quite fancied him that first night we met. So when he asked me out for a third time, I finally accepted.

“I’m going to be good though,” I told Rob, when I broke the exciting news that I had a date. “I’m staying off the wine, I’m not going to get drunk, and I fully intend to be home – alone – by midnight. It’s the new me.”

“Yeah, right,” was his response. “I think I know you better than that.” And I sort of feared he was right – particularly when I found myself shaving my legs, slipping into my best undies, and having a super-huge pre-date gin and tonic.

As soon as I arrived at the pub and sat down with Sam, I knew I wasn’t into him. He was nice enough and not bad looking but he had no zing about him, not even an ounce of throwdown, and when he told me he had dreams of being a DJ and liked ‘really filthy electro’, the final nail was in the coffin. Despite all this, I have to admit that the twenty-something me would have decided that the best way to get through the evening was to get plastered. I would have accepted when he invited me back to his for a cup of tea, woken up in his bed the next morning hating myself, yet still agreed to see him again – then spent the next few months trying to get myself out of it. All because I was flattered that he liked me.

The new improved thirty-year-old version of me took a different tack entirely. I was pleasant enough, stayed for a few hours, had three or four drinks (politely declining the offer to make them doubles), then made my excuses, gave him a peck on the cheek and sent myself home with this subtle brush-off: “It’s been really nice catching up. I hope everything goes really well with your budding career. See you around sometime maybe.” And why did I do this? Because finally I realized I didn’t need some random guy to make me feel good about myself. Frankly, I’d be much happier on my own.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun sometimes. When I met a very funny, very charming, very tall Texan the following weekend- I didn’t think twice when he invited me back to his. He was a sweetheart and we had a great time together but he wasn’t really my type so the next morning, when he took the liberty of saving his own number in my phone, I never made any promises to call, I didn’t give him my number, and I didn’t feel bad at all knowing that I’d never get in touch with him. What’s the point in pretending?

And perhaps most impressively, when John got in touch out of the blue a few weeks ago, I didn’t freak out, throw my phone across any rooms, or start wondering ‘what it all meant.’ I just replied – I was friendly, he was friendly, it was all very grown-up. Of course then Laura had to ruin it all by giving him a right grilling when she bumped into him at another of those singles nights. “Weren’t you the guy that was dating my friend Carrie? Didn’t you say you didn’t want a girlfriend? So what you doing back here then, eh? Eh?”

“Er, having a night out with the boys…” he responded. “Just because I’m out, doesn’t mean I’m looking for a relationship. We’re just having fun.”

And you know what? Finally, I think I get what he means.

Older...and wiser?

2010-03-02T14:26:00.000-08:00

It’s official people – I’m thirty and single. How the hell did that happen? A couple of months ago, it looked like I might actually meet the milestone with a man at my side (and wouldn’t that have been a novelty?). Even when things with John started to go wrong, there was always Rob…wasn’t there? Well, no actually, as it turned out, I was wrong about that too.

It seems five months of being my beck and call guy was about as much as Rob could take. And who can blame him? He might have pretended he was fine with the whole ‘friendship’ thing but what we had was never really a friendship. He thought if he hung around for long enough and made himself indispensable to me, I’d eventually fall in love with him. And part of me hoped he was right about that but the other part of me – the selfish part – just loved having someone around I could depend on.

Every day he was there on email making my working day oh-so-much less dull. At night he was either at the end of a phone, or he was there at my side - in the pub, in the cinema, in a club, in a taxi, on my couch. The days of him making romantic proclamations, trying to hold my hand, going in for a kiss – they were mercifully gone but our relationship probably couldn’t strictly be described as platonic. Was it platonic when I cuddled in beside him on the couch and slept there? Or when I rang him at 4am crying because some other guy had tried to kiss me? Or when he’s spend hours compiling playlists he knew I’d love and we’d both pretend he hadn’t made them specifically for me? Or when he’d scare off every other man that came near me with a proprietorial stare? Er…maybe not.

People talk about friends with benefits, but we were more like boyfriend and girlfriend without benefits. “I’m not going anywhere,” he’d assured me on numerous occasions. And I believed him. Of course, when he met someone else who would hold his hand and didn’t relegate him to the couch, that promise kind of went out the window. It was the daily texts that dwindled first, then the emails became fewer and far between, then I realised a month had passed since I’d seen him. I knew I was in no position to complain. He didn’t owe me anything. He’d done nothing wrong. Yet I felt completely abandoned. And when he sent me an email to say he might not make it to my birthday party, I finally lost it. “You officially suck. Drop me a line when you can fit me into your itinerary” was my very mature and not at all irrational response. Of course from there it descended into an email-nightmare-athon, which reached a crescendo when he called me a brat and said he wouldn’t bother coming at all then. I mean WTF?

Yes, admittedly he couldn’t make it because he was busy shooting a video with his band all weekend and yes, apparently his missus wasn’t even around, she was holidaying in India till the Sunday. But the night of my birthday would make it two months since I’d seen him. TWO MONTHS! Couldn’t he see why I was upset? He’d ditched one of his best friends the moment a girl had come along. That was just rude.

In the end though, after having a rant to my poor mother about the whole thing, I had to admit that I might not have been entirely reasonable. “Well it sounds like you were being a bit of a brat,” were her wise words. “You can’t expect his life to revolve around you when you don’t really want him and someone else does. I’m not surprised he reacted the way he did.” So I swallowed my (already battered) pride and sent another email telling him the cause of my brattish behaviour: “I’m sorry. I just miss you.”

Of course, he didn’t make it to the party, and much as I hate to admit, after having a fabulous night surrounded by the people who love me, I still went home, crawled into bed and called him. We spoke for ages and it was nice – but it was also the last time. That night, I finally realised I had to let him go. Truth be told, I never should have let him get so close in the first place. It wasn’t the healthiest relationship for either of us. Besides, I managed perfectly well on my own before he came along, and I can manage perfectly well on my own now – particularly now I’s all grown up!

And just to prove how strong and independent I am, I’m taking control. In the last few weeks, I’ve asked for a promotion, been commissioned to write a piece for an actual glossy magazine, and begun the process of getting a mortgage on my flat. Who needs a man to get ahead? I have a feeling 30’s going to be a good age for me.

Oh yes, and I have a date on Friday with a very handsome man.

So there.

Festive frustrations

2010-01-26T04:23:00.000-08:00

After the drama of the last few months, I had idyllic fantasies of my Christmas with the folks in France. I had visions of myself coming over all zen, realising that there were more important things in life than pesky boys; that I was perfectly at ease with my own company; and frankly way too good for either of them. Of course, that’s not exactly what happened.

What did happen was a catalogue of disasters, beginning with getting so ill on the plane that I spent the first three days of my trip in bed. This unanticipated period of convalescence gave me way too much time to think, resulting in my mooning over the whole thing with John way more than the dalliance deserved and sinking into a heavy fug I just couldn’t seem to lift.

Thankfully come Christmas morning I made a miraculous recovery and was just preparing our annual Champagne breakfast when the mood was ruined by an unwelcome text. As soon as I saw his name on my phone (yes, HIM – as in John, as in the man who wimped out of our relationship weeks before, and whom I’d not heard a dicky bird from since), I lost it, hurling the phone and several expletives across the living room as my bemused parents looked on. “I’m sorry but he doesn’t get to do that! He doesn’t get to remove himself from my life then pop back into it on bloody Christmas day! And he certainly doesn’t get to call me by a nickname, and ask how ‘Damo’ and the family are – what’s he playing at?”

“Er, think I’ll go and set the table,” mumbled Dad, shuffling off while I looked demandingly at Mum, as if she’d have the answer. “Maybe he was just thinking about you, sweetheart…” she suggested. “Well he doesn’t get to,” I huffed, sulking off to the shower. “And he needn’t think I’m responding!” *Door slams*

Of course, I did respond. And by the time, dinner was done and Dad was forcing me to watch the Michael MacIntrye DVD, we’d exchanged several chatty texts and I was feeling pretty perky about the whole thing. Sadly, a family fallout over breakfast the next morning (my mum had overcooked the eggs – an error which somehow escalated into talk of divorce) put an end to my short-lived positivity and any hopes I’ve had of cosy family bonding. Instead, I passed the hours surfing the net – a seemingly harmless pastime, which inevitably ended in disaster.

Perusing my emails, I realised I’d overlooked the latest newsletter from Meddlers of Honour – the monthly dating night where J and I first met. Laura had tried desperately to get me to attend the December event but given the whole mess it had gotten me into last time, I’d refused. Still no reason not to check out if any potential hotties had attended, I thought, clicking on the link to the photogallery. And it was then that my heart literally plummeted into my stomach.

There was John - who, just to recap, didn’t want to be in relationship with “anyone” and was too busy “getting over a long-standing virus” to be physically able to maintain anything casual – caught on camera, with one hand grasping a bottle of beer and the other draped languidly around the waist of some blonde (yes, I know I’m blonde but that’s no reason not to use it in an accusatory tone towards other blondes – besides, mine’s real). I was livid.

The anger threatened to spill out of my eyeballs but I managed to transform the tears into rage. “Lying little fucker,” I yelled. Mum was at my side in a second: “What’s he done now?” I pointed at the screen, waiting for a similarly outraged reaction to mine, but it didn’t come.

Instead, she turned traitor on me. “But Carrie, that doesn’t mean he lied to you. It means he was never there looking for a relationship in the first place. And didn’t you tell me he texted you a couple of weeks ago to say he’d been forced into a kiss with a girl and that all it had done was make him miss you?”

“Er, yeah.” (Okay so we had been in touch that one time).

“Well there’s your girl.”

It was plausible, but I still couldn’t let it go…hence the irrational text: {So I just saw the pics from meddlers. Hope you had more luck this time round than you did the last time.}

I knew I was provoking an argument but wasn’t it about time? I’d been pretending I was okay about everything all along, but why should I? He hurt me and all I’d done was reassure him, and tell him it was okay to treat me that way. Well screw that, it wasn’t okay.

Of course, his explanation pretty much exactly mirrored my mum’s theory – with the additional fact that he’d been dragged there against his will, and a question: “Why can’t you understand that it’s because I like you so much that I wish circumstances could be different?”

“Because that’s bullshit’ seemed an unreasonable response so instead I typed the following: {All I understand is that things were great until you decided you’d rather be miserable and alone than have anything more. And the only ‘circumstances’ there are, are in your head.}

His answer: {I know this}.

And thus we finally reached stalemate. There was nothing left to say so I deleted his number and every text he’d ever sent me, and I did what I always do in times of need these days – I called Rob…

Me: I’m back in town tomorrow – fancy meeting up for a drink?

Rob: Er, yeah, but, well…I can’t tomorrow. I’ve sort of got plans. Actually I’ve met someone…

Me: *silence*

Rob: Carrie, you still there?

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit……………

Nothing serious?

2009-12-20T15:56:00.000-08:00

A few days after our lost weekend, John headed off to New York on holiday, unwittingly leaving me to fall foul of temptation. It all started innocently enough; with a few of us girls going along to a party one of Rob’s friends was throwing in a nearby bar. But a few hours later, when I let him kiss me, I knew I was on a slippery slope. Realising I’d made a mistake, I wasted no time in telling him that all I could offer was friendship. But his reaction wasn’t at all what I expected. “You’ll come round,” he assured me. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He was true to his word too. When John got back, we picked up right where we left off, but Rob was always there in the background, charming me with his banter via email, sending me playlists he thought I’d like, asking me again and again to give him a chance. Most of the time, it was easy to give him the brush off but then John started acting weird. He assured me it was simply because he wasn’t feeling well, that he’d felt wiped out ever since he got back from New York. And sure enough, when he went to the doctor, they informed him he had glandular fever.

But I knew there was more to his sudden distance than an illness, and over lunch one day, he dropped the bombshell. “What do you think about what’s going on between us’?’ he asked. It felt like a trick question. “I thought we were having fun,” I offered.

“Yeah, good, me too,” John agreed. “I just can’t get into anything serious right now.” I tried not to look like I’d just been punched in the stomach, and attempted to figure out in my mind where I’d got things so wrong.

It didn’t add up though. John had never exactly played things cool. From the very beginning, he’d made it very clear that he was keen. Keen enough to want to talk everyday. Keen enough to dub Fridays ‘our night’, to dub the pub where we’d had our first date ‘our pub’, to confess that he’d told all his friends, his work colleagues, even his parents all about me. And what’s more, he’d been on at me to meet his parents for weeks. And now this?

“I bumped into my ex last week and it just made me realize how much I still haven’t dealt with the whole thing.”

Of course, I should have known there was another girl involved. He’d told me about the ex before – she was his only serious girlfriend and they’d split up when he left her in India and flew to New York because ‘he needed space’. He’d told me he felt awful about it, that she’d never forgiven him, and that they’d never met to talk it over. But why now, a year later, was it an issue again? I had no idea, but I knew one thing, I wasn’t letting him have the upper hand here. He’d been honest with me so it was time for me to come clean too.

When I told him about Rob, he looked confused. “So are you like dating this guy?” No, it was nothing like that, I assured him. “Have you slept with him?” No. “Are you going to?” No. “I just wanted to be honest. He’s around, I like him and he’s made it clear he’s not going anywhere. He made me a mixtape for god’s sake!” I joked, attempting to lighten the mood. “Which was annoyingly good.”

Now it was John’s turn to look like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Lets go for a walk on the Heath,” he decided, regaining his composure, and putting his arm round me. “I’m glad we’ve talked about this.”

“So what shall we do on our night this Friday, my dear?” he asked a while later when he’d taken me up to the top of the heath to see his favourite view of London. “And how do you feel about pet names?” So we were back on.

Of course, it didn’t last. A few weeks later, after many more perfect dates, many soppy text messages, a romantic night in a hotel for John’s birthday, and even his suggestion that we go on holiday together, he went cold on me again. Bizarrely, he’d introduced me to his mother 24 hours before bombshell number two came… “I think we should have a break for a while. I need to focus on getting well, and I still feel like I’m not in the right headspace for all this.” So we were back to the ex-girlfriend.

That night was horrible – I hadn’t realized quite how much I’d let my guard down till I found myself in tears on the floor of my bedroom. I’d agreed to this ‘break’ but I knew we were never going to go back to the way things had been, and finally, my self-preservation gene kicked back in…“I can’t do this, John. I can’t pretend I’m okay with this, and I can’t wait around while you decide how you feel so I’m going to make it easy and walk away.”

And that was that.

And you know who was there to put me back together again? Rob, of course. He’s been an absolute gem, making me laugh, taking me out, and somehow charming every single person in my social circle so it feels like I’m being indoctrinated into some strange Rob-loving cult. I know he’s not doing any of this because he wants a friend but he’s stopped pushing me to give him more, and if going along with it means I have someone to take me to the cinema to see It’s a Wonderful Life on Christmas eve and text me in the wee small hours to tell me I’m beautiful, then it’s pretty hard to walk away from.

I just wish I could give him what he wants for Christmas. And I wish I wanted the same thing.

Sex, lies...and a DVD

2009-11-25T03:42:00.000-08:00

It took approximately ten minutes after giving Rob my number for the guilt to kick in. What was I thinking? I might have only known John for a couple of weeks but things were going great so why was I set on sabotaging it all?

It was time to backtrack so when the inevitable text arrived from Rob asking me out for a drink, I (perhaps belatedly) told him the truth. Thankfully, he took it in his stride, laughing it off with a quip: ‘I can’t believe I’ve missed out by a fortnight!’ and moving onto the important matter of setting his friend Mark up with my mate Rowan – it was time for us to play cupid – a role I was much more comfortable in than (faux) femme fatale.

Absolved of my guilt, I was all ready to move smoothly onto the next step with John, but there was one more unexpected hurdle coming up…

‘You’re going to hate me’ was the subject line of the email awaiting me on Monday morning. Huh? Was I about to be dumped just when I’d decided to be a one-man woman? With considerable trepidation and a sinking heart, I hit only to find myself snorting in amusement just a few seconds later.

While this was certainly a confessional, it was not one designed to send me on my way. In fact, it was John finally owning up to a little white lie, presumably because it now looked like I could be around for a while. He’d lied about his age - when he told me he was 25, he’d been a little generous – he was 24…almost. There was a month till his 24th birthday making him very nearly 6 years younger than me. An unsurmountabe age gap? Clearly not (well not considering there were 17 and 18 year olds in my back catalogue anyway!) but John was seriously, and very endearingly concerned.

I toyed with the idea of feigning fury but his email was just so sincere that I couldn’t bring myself to do it, letting him off the hook with barely a second thought instead. Hasty maybe? I didn’t think so. I was too excited about our third date to worry about it much…and why? Because this time there was no reason for the date to end with a goodnight kiss. This time, a sleepover was on the cards. Finally.

Come Saturday night, I was in a frenzy – What to wear? Where to meet? What if I’d changed my mind about him? What if he’d changed his mind about me? – fortunately there was just enough time for a quick glass of wine and a calming cigarette before date o’clock. While giving myself a little pre-date pep talk in my head, I was interrupted by my phone – a timely text from Rob asking for Rowan’s number to pass on to Mark and enquiring if there was any chance I’d seen sense and given up on John yet. And don’t ask me why (the wine? The nerves?) but for some strange reason, I found myself telling Rob about John’s little lie.

His response: ‘I’m imposing a new rule in my dating game. If they’re a different category on x factor, they’re out. That excludes under 25s. Seriously though, lying already? That’s how it all starts, you know.’

Realising how stupid I’d been to share that particular nugget, I shook off the seed of doubt Rob had planted and ran out the door. Time to get this show on the road. And prove Rob very very wrong. However, sitting outside the pub with John twenty minutes later, I wasn’t at all sure about things. He seemed younger somehow, he even looked younger to me, and the enthusiasm I’d found so irresistible before now came off as puppy dog keen. Maybe this wasn’t going to work after all. But then he kissed me, and all my doubts evaporated.

The rest of the evening was pretty perfect truth be told. John had miraculously managed to book us a table at one of my favourite restaurants. He made me laugh and he was the perfect gent - holding doors, pulling out my chair, insisting on paying the bill…walking me home. And when I woke up in his arms the next morning, any trace of doubt had disappeared. This was good - six stupid years were not going to change that and neither was Rob.

It was with great reluctance that I kissed John goodbye that afternoon. And when he surprised me by showing up on my doorstep the following morning with coffee and a copy of my favourite soppy film on DVD, I fell in that little bit deeper.

Who was the lap dog now?

It's true what they say about men and buses...

2009-11-09T06:38:00.000-08:00

Spending a week consuming my body weight in cheese and wine at my parents’ new home in France was something I’d been looking forward to for months – but now John had arrived on the scene, I can’t pretend I wasn’t a little worried. Could the initial buzz of a successful first date last all that time when I was hundreds of miles away? I wasn’t convinced.

However, much to my surprise, it didn’t seem to be a case of out of sight, out of mind. Every day, without fail, there he was in my inbox saying all the right things. And by the time I touched back down on the asphalt at Stansted, I had just a few inconvenient hours in the office to get through before date number two: a couple of after-work G&T’s by the Thames.

Sadly our Indian summer wasn’t in evidence that day and when I started shivering, we thought it best to head back to The Lock in Camden – scene of the first date…and as it happened, scene of our first fight.

Well fight might be over-stating it – it was more of a debate resulting over John’s shocking confession that his all-time favourite band was Coldplay. I mean, come on, Coldplay? The least ‘rock’ rock band of our time. Here I was thinking I was dating a musical genius, and yet he seemed to have no discernable music taste at all.

Okay, yes, I may have been a little harsh – it was the gin talking – anyway, he seemed to take it well, simply silencing me with his lips every time I overstepped the mark. We reached a truce when we discovered one band for whom we both shared a liking. “See the difference between Coldplay and Elbow is that Elbow have throwdown,” I preached. “You know that raw passion that just grabs you? As opposed to sending you to sleep which seems to be Chris Martin’s forte.” (Yes, I’m annoyingly opinionated when I’m drunk). “So would you say I have throwdown?” John asked, as we left and he cornered me for another kiss. “It would appear so,” I laughed, managing to prise myself out of his arms just long enough to throw myself in a taxi as he looked on pleadingly.

“I think your boyfriend misses you, love,” laughed the driver. “He’s NOT my boyfriend!” I fired back, shocking even myself with the force of my response. But It was true…things with John were great – I felt totally at ease around him, he made me laugh, and there seemed to be a mutual struggle to keep things decent once our lips touched - but there was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that made me think he might not be boyfriend material.

However that little puzzle wasn’t to be solved this weekend. Much as we were both evidently keen to tear each other’s clothes off, V Festival beckoned for John and as he drove off for a few days of debauchery with his mates the next morning, I was headed to a friend’s birthday BBQ in London Fields. A day where I expected to get a little tipsy, acquire a touch of sunburn, and have a laugh with my mates – what I hadn’t bargained for was meeting someone new.

But somehow after 8 hours of solid drinking, I found myself spending most of the evening sat in the beer garden with a personable young chap called Rob. The gin had brought out my feisty side again and looking for another debate, I started probing his taste in music. Only Rob surprised me on that front – his was flawless, and we soon abandoned the debate in favour of a mutual love-in over our shared favourites. Still, when it came time to leave and Rob asked for my number, I was genuinely surprised. I hadn’t been looking at him that way at all, but could I? Maybe.

What to do? While one side of my brain was saying: ‘Don’t do it. What about John?’ the other was putting forward a convincing case for the other side: ‘You’ve been on two dates, he’s not your boyfriend, you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket, what harm can giving him your number do?’ The second voice won out and as Liv and I drove off in a cab, I tried to ignore her staring at me incredulously. “Well you’re becoming quite the little femme fatale, aren’t you?”

“Hardly,” I scoffed, “besides, I’m not very good at it – I’m already wracked with guilt.” And on cue, my phone rang…

“Hello? John? Are you there? I can’t hear anything over the music…” then I realised he wasn’t actually listening, he was in the middle of a crowd at V festival holding his phone up so I could hear the song that was playing.

“It’s looking like a beautiful day….” Elbow sang out, as I groaned and dropped my head in my hands.

Things were about to get complicated.

Braving the singles night/Part 2

2009-09-30T03:08:00.000-07:00

Last time I wrote, I'd just braved my last taboo – the dreaded singles night. So was it the complete dud I expected or has the last-minute appearance of a rather lovely man forced me to eat my words?....

It’s a little unfortunate that by the time John made his move, I was inebriated enough to have lost the all-important faculty of my memory. But I do have half a dozen or so blurry recollections of that first encounter at ‘Meddlers of Honour’… 1) His bold declaration that as soon as he walked in and saw me, he was determined to talk to me - and only me. 2) The embarrassing ease with which this statement totally bowled me over. 3) The fact that 5 minutes later, we were glued lip-to-lip. 4) His apparent disbelief that he was kissing the most ‘beautiful girl in the room’. 5) My complete disbelief that anyone could think this was the case. And 6) my absolute determination to not allow this to go the way of a one-night stand - there was no way John was coming home with me.

Which I guess is why just a few nights later, I managed to find myself en route to a date with a man I knew nothing about, except his name and the fact that he was a VERY good kisser. I’d taken precautions against the chance of walking straight past him in the pub, when I inevitably failed to recognise him, by asking him to meet me outside. And as I approached, I breathed a sigh of a relief. First of all (and perhaps most importantly) he was there. Secondly, he did not appear to be a) a freak b) short and c) unattractive. So far, so good.

Could it also be significant that my favourite 80s song of all time was playing in the falafel shop next door? I silently thanked Mr Stewart for reminding me that ‘We don’t have to take our clothes off to have a good time’ and headed inside the Lock Tavern with renewed determination to behave myself.

But it wasn’t easy. The first hour or so of our evening was spent reminding ourselves of all the things we’d talked about when we first met but couldn’t remember. Things like the pleasing fact that John had studied music, played piano and guitar, and had been writing songs since he was a nipper. And the not-so-pleasing fact that, at 25, he was more than a little younger than me. As I debated in my mind whether having a passion and skill for music outweighed lacking a few formative years, I inevitably became distracted by more superficial issues ie. how blue his eyes were, how close he was standing, how tall he was, and how I really, really wanted to find out if he was as good a kisser as I remembered. Unfortunately as I had to attend my brother’s band’s single launch party and John had a family meal he was supposed to be attending, it looked as though this question may remain unanswered tonight. Or at least it might have done if I’d let him go…which is why I convinced him to ditch the folks and come with me.

A few hours later, after he’d been forced to endure a particularly insane gig from The Vivians, and the trauma of meeting their larger-than-life frontman, (my wayward older brother), John seemed shockingly unfazed by it all. “Doesn’t it at all worry you that this is only our first date and my brother has just had you in a bear hug for the past five minutes?” I asked, wondering if what I saw in his eyes was bewildered amusement or out-and-out fear. “Nope,” he laughed.

“Or that I’m almost half a decade older than you?” I continued. “Nope,” he assured me, backing me against the wall outside the pub and laying one of those knee-weakening kisses on me.

“Come home with me,” he breathed, as we came up for air. “Nope,” I managed, sliding out from between him and the wall and hailing a cab. “I’ve got to be on a plane to France in a few hours.”

“When are you back?”

“A week.”

“So I’ll see you then?”

“I guess you will,” I agreed, hopping in the car.

As I drove off, it began to sink in that for the first time in London, I’d just met a man who did not appear to be emotionally retarded, or only after one thing, or terrified of committing to anything more than one night in my company. Could this actually be the case? Maybe I hadn’t given ‘Meddlers’ the credit it deserved. Or maybe I was about to get myself into something that would inevitably end as it always did - badly.

‘Beep, beep’ my phone trilled, interrupting my reverie, as a text popped into my inbox. It was him: 'I hate France' was all it said. And it was enough.

Who the hell cared about self-preservation? This was going to be fun…

Braving the singles night...Part 1

2009-09-01T07:02:00.000-07:00

Despite having been for all intents and purposes pretty much single for over 5 years now, I have resolutely refused to go down the horrific route of organised dating. Speed-dating events, internet dating sites, singles ‘supper clubs’: you can call it what you want but I’ve long been of the belief that these places are populated by predatory players, sad singletons, and losers of the highest degree.

I’ve had to become slightly less vocal with this opinion as more and more of my successful, attractive, and perfectly eligible single friends have opted to give it a go, but still, there’s no way I could accept that was how my story could get sewn up. What about romance, fate, the star-crossed lovers effect? Stumbling across your soul mate in the supermarket. Eyes meeting across a crowded room. Those stomach-flipping moments when you realise you’ve just met the one. I was still set on the fairytale. And in no fairytale I can imagine would there be a door charge, a tick list, or an uncomfortable dinner party with a bunch of overbearing strangers.

Which is why I couldn’t quite fathom what had happened when just a few weeks ago, I found myself roped into attending London‘s newest singles night: ‘Meddlers of Honour’ with the tasteful tag line - ‘the dating night where every single person gets hooked up’. I’d been seduced by the fact that a very good friend of mine had signed up to be a ‘meddler’ ie. one of the matchmakers at the event whose job it was to circulate the room making introductions.

“So, see anyone you like?” she asked hopefully. “Eh no is the short answer to that,” I replied, having scanned the room, taken in the medley of unlikely characters, and retreated to a quiet corner in the hope of avoiding any unwelcome advances. “Give it time,” she instructed. “And get another bottle of wine in.” It looked like it was going to be a long and painful night.

My meddlers buddy Liv was more optimistic having spotted a beefy long-haired chap who bore a vague resemblance to her fantasy husband (one Nathan Follow ill - the entirely unattainable drummer in Kings of Leon). Only this particular attendee was not there in the capacity of singleton; trussed up in a long white coat and holding court in the ‘Love Clinic’, he was one of the ‘Love Doctors’ - one of two self-appointed experts in dating who were there to dish out advice and convince all the undate-able that they were in fact the catch of the century. “I’m going to go talk to him,” she announced. “What shall I say?” “How about ‘Doctor, Doctor, my sex is on fire’ I suggested helpfully. “Only he might just recommend cranberry juice.”

Responding with a raised eyebrow and a shake of her head, she stalked off to stake out her prey, leaving me at the mercy of two over-enthusiastic young men who’d sat down next to us and now set about making their moves. With all the arm touching and knee grazing going on, it was clear they’d been reading up on flirting techniques, thankfully a few well-placed shudders and bored facial expressions were enough to convince them they were fighting a lost cause with me and they skulked off.

I breathed a sigh of relief and set about demolishing the bowl of love heart sweets on the table in front of me, while trying desperately not to make eye contact with anyone. It didn’t work: “Carrie, I’ve found someone who’d really like to meet you!” Laura piped up, appearing beside me with man in tow. “ This is James…” Hmmm, maybe she’d got it right, I thought, giving him a quick once over - battered old jeans, plaid shirt, dishevelled hair artfully arranged to fall over one eye. “Eh hi…” I stuttered. And then, as he flicked his hair out of his face to say hello, I saw it - “Oh!” - the word ‘nose’ seems insufficient to describe the giant pointed beak that took over most of this poor guy’s face and as I desperately tried and failed not to look directly at it (could I turn to a pillar of salt?), he attempted to strike up a conversation. “So Laura tells me you’re a writer, I’m a writer too, I write music reviews for The Times.” In ordinary circumstances, this would indeed have been a reason why he might appeal to me but seriously, was Laura insane? “Maybe I should leave you guys alone to chat…” she offered. Clearly she was insane. “Actually, I was just about to nip to the bar. I’ll catch up with you later yeah,” I responded practically sprinting away.

And the bar was where Liv found me an hour later, when Doctor Love had departed, and I was half way through the second bottle of rose wine and quickly losing my ability to see straight. “Can we please go home now?” I begged. “Let me help you with that bottle first,” she decided, wrestling it out of my iron grip. “He left, no goodbye, no number, nothing.” “I’ll get you a glass,” I answered, turning to hail the barman.

But by the time I’d turned back, she’d been approached by a new man, and simply winked as she walked away with him and - even more upsettingly - with the wine, leaving me proffering an empty glass.

That’s when he made his move. “Hi, I’m John. Looks like you need a drink.”

“You know what John, that’s the most appealing offer I’ve had all night.”

To be continued…

Indecent exposure

2009-05-24T09:26:00.000-07:00

I have just seen the most shocking thing - I feel slightly nauseous thinking about it again but I feel it is my duty to recount the experience here.

So I’m at my friend Jen’s house enjoying a few civilised drinks in the back garden with some of the girls, when what can only be described as a fucking mentalist joins the party. She’s a friend of a friend who is visiting for the night and before she even walks through the door I am warned that she’s a bit schizo - understatement of the century. You know those girls who are so insecure and desperate for approval that they’ll do anything for attention? Well here was possibly the most extreme example of one I’ve ever met. She was like a dog chasing its tail to get a treat from its master, only with possibly less developed social skills.

As soon as she arrived in a whirl of fake tan and bleach blonde hair, she halted conversation to tell a story about a date she’d been on where she’d caused a fight of such epic proportions that one poor guy ended up in a coma. Not getting quite the awed responses from us that she’d hoped for, she upped the ante by announcing that she’s just had her clit pierced: “Look…” she said whipping her trousers down before anyone had a chance to object or avert their gaze. “It goes through the hood and I am telling you, it make things sooooooo much better”.

This time she had me, I sat there stunned not knowing quite how to react to the spectacle of a woman I’d barely met displaying her private parts in all their Hollywood waxed baldness. Thankfully, by this time it was blessedly dark making the view a little less graphic than it might have been earlier…cue Lou: “I can’t see it,” she says, peering in for a closer look. “Here,” says Fliss, brandishing a lighter, “just as well you’re so bald down there or you could go up in smoke!”.

Morbid curiosity satisfied, we manage to convince our exhibitionist to pull her pants up, but no such luck getting her to sit down: “Can any of you do a crab from standing?” she asks, readying herself for a demonstration. “I can!” and with that her arms shoot up, and she falls backwards, smacking her head on the paving stones before righting herself . “See!” she exclaims proudly, arms and legs akimbo, fanny pointing skyward again. “Wow, that’s ace,” Jen manages while we all struggle to stifle our laughter, “your head okay though?” “Oh yeah, it’s fine, I do that all the time,” she answers. That explains a lot, I think, only just managing to keep myself from saying it out loud. The bash to the head does seem to shut her up for a while though so I decide to take the opportunity to escape before the next act starts.

As I’m walking out the front door, I hear her pipe up again: “Did you know I’m double jointed? Wanna see what I can do….”. Eh no, time for a sharp exit.

Falling off the wagon

2009-05-03T08:45:00.000-07:00

So the funny thing about celibacy? It seems when it’s unofficial (ie. when you’re just having a bit of a drought), it’s a damn sight easier to stick to. Conversely when you have made the vow publicly to numerous actual people (I say numerous in the hope that more than just my mum reads my column. Hi Mum.), it suddenly becomes much more of a challenge.

No sooner had I hit send on the email containing last month’s column (and brave assertion that I had transformed into a beacon of virginity), than temptation arrived on my doorstep. And I’m talking literally.

Since I moved into my lovely new home back in January, the house next door has been sitting empty but the other weekend, all of a sudden, there came the distinct sound of someone tramping up and down the stairs heaving boxes. A new arrival in our hood. “Ooh new neighbours!” I proclaim excitedly to my housemate Johnny. “Yeah, I met them earlier and you’ll be pleased to hear it’s three boys - one of whom is apparently just home from touring with his band.” Potential Hot Indie Boy next door - amazing.

Fast forward a few hours, I’m leaving the house to meet Liv for lunch and bump into said HIB on the doorstep. “Oh hi, I’m X, I just moved in ne….” he trails off and we both look at each other incredulously.

I’ve met this particular HIB before. In fact the last time I saw him, we were pretty much in a liplock for the entire evening. Afterwards there was some flirtatious texting but given the fact he lived up North, it seemed pointless to start anything up. I knew I’d see him again at some point as he’d just signed to my friend’s record label - but I wasn’t quite expecting to see him directly outside my front door.

“Eh hi X, this is a bit of a coincidence,” I manage, as a flush creeps up his neck - shy boy this one. “Hi Carrie, I had no idea you lived here. This is mad.” Indeed it is, I agree and approximately 2 and a half minutes of awkward conversation ensues before I make my excuses and we both turn to leave with stunned smiles frozen on our faces.

Since then, I have successfully managed to avoid bumping into him, but the knowledge that he could be laying in bed on the other side of the wall from where I lay my head, immediately unlocked the door in my mind to the kind of thoughts my vow was supposed to quell. ‘Well as long as I don’t act on them,’ I tell myself. Before promptly going out and sleeping with the first man who chats me up. Whoopsadaisy.

The result of that particular encounter was a plethora of embarrassing lovebites, a sore head, and the lingering worry that I may have acted like a wanton hussy (I can‘t be sure as the old memory had been dulled into submission by a cocktail of white wine, brandy, and sambuca). One thing I was sure of - I had no idea what this man’s name was, I wanted him out of my bed sharpish, and I never wanted to lay eyes on him again.

Of course, what with my life being a ridiculous chain of embarrassing events, I bumped into him in the same bar just a few days later. Fortunately I know the bar manager….so I had him barred. Problem solved.

Deciding this was an inevitable slip-up on my path to a virginal existence, I attempted another night of white wine induced drunkenness to test my mettle. To minimise the chance of bad behaviour on my part, I decided to make it a Thursday night out, hoping that the anticipation of work in the morning would stop me going too far, and to take my mate Laura, who promised to ensure we remained civilised.

Sadly, after the nth glass of cheap white wine which they were proffering for free at the 1st birthday of my favourite Camden haunt, things began to go downhill. The process went roughly as follows:

9.30pm: Laura and I are approached by two young men asking for a light.
10pm: Laura and I decide party is lame and head to nearby bar with said young men.
10.30pm: Laura and I are aghast to discover they are just 21 and still live with their parents.
11pm: Laura and I have a tequila and decide to relive our youth vicariously through them.
11.30pm: I am waltzed around a kebab shop, ending in a heap on the floor.
12am: We hail a cab to one of the boy’s houses (or rather parent’s house).
12.30am: Boy breaks out vinyl collection and presence of Leanord Cohen album convinces me he is wise and mature beyond his years…
1am: …he may even be my soul mate.
2am: Laura passes out in the spare room after exhausting game of charades.
2.30am: Boy number two goes home, leaving me and boy number one to discuss the merits of Neil Young’s back catalogue.
3am: Boy tells me I am pretty.
3.15am: I’m pretty sure you can guess.
…
8.30am: “Oh holy crap, I start work in an hour and I have no idea where I am!”

I’ve decided celibacy is like dieting - as soon as you decide to stop indulging, you want to stuff your face with cake constantly.

Out of action

2009-04-03T09:01:00.000-07:00

Well folks, it’s been a while! Apologies for my unexplained disappearance from these pages but I’ve had to take it easy on the writing front after breaking my wrist during London’s freak February snowstorms.

There I was, walking home from work – with perfectly sensible shoes on, I hasten to add – when I slipped on the ice and landed in an ungainly heap on the ground. After recovering from the embarrassment, I realised I couldn’t actually get up as my wrist wouldn’t support my weight. It being London, and it being the tourism rush hour on the Millennium Bridge, I sat there for a while before anyone came to my aid. But it was worth the wait.

I saw him approaching determinedly through the crowds as soon as he spotted me. He was tall, dark, brooding and all wrapped up against the cold in a huge scarf and battered up old biker boots. Just looking at him made me feel a little better and before I knew it, he was standing directly above me. “You really went down there. Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to help me up.

I think I must have sat there stunned for a couple of seconds before I accepted his hand and he wrenched me up off the ground. When he did, I was suddenly distracted from my amorous daze by the searing pain that shot through my arm. “Shit, my wrist!” I exclaimed, eloquent as ever, and my eyes filled with tears. “Here, let me see,” he insisted taking my arm gently and pulling off my glove. “It doesn’t look too good, I’m afraid. I think we need to get you to a hospital.”“We?” I queried. Surely this gorgeous specimen of a man was not suggesting he escort me to the nearest casualty ward. I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. And of course, I was right.

Sorry dear reader, but that little episode was just my imagination running away with me. It didn’t happen that way at all. Much as I’d love to be, I am not the heroine in a romantic comedy and stunningly handsome men are generally not in plentiful supply in times of crisis. No, what actually happened is a kindly old lady helped me up and sent me on my way with a “You should really be more careful, dear.” I hobbled off crying my eyes out, got on a bus to Archway Hospital (picking up my reluctant friend Liv on the way) and spent the evening in the Accident & Emergency waiting room trying to ignore the drunk old man sitting on my right, who had quite clearly peed his pants, and the off-his-face young man on my left who was so enamoured with Liv that he dropped his pants right in front of us. Not so nice as the fantasy but much more in fitting with the hopeless narrative that is my life, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Speaking of hopeless, another skill I have been developing over the last couple of months (along with left-handed typing) is my ability to walk away from men who are clearly very bad for me.I’m not quite sure when my mindset shifted from wanton hussy to born again virgin, but recently I seem to have developed something akin to self-respect. The unfortunate result of this is that I cannot bring myself to continue with a love life full of meaningless encounters and as such, have sworn off men. Well sort of.

There was a drunken snog with a very dashing and fashionably bespectacled gent at a party last month, but in contrast with my usual carefree behaviour, upon discovering that he had a girlfriend I walked away. I’m not going to lie to you, a few months back I would have taken him home in a heartbeat telling myself that it was him that was in the wrong, not me. But this time, the thought of the way I’d feel in the morning when he sneaked out of my bed and skulked home to his girlfriend was enough to make me say no. I’ve finally realised I’m worth more than that and if I’m ever going to get any one else to see that, I need to turn over a new leaf.

The latest challenge to my self-enforced celibacy came on Saturday night when I bumped into a certain young man that my friend had previously tried to set me up with at her birthday. On that occasion, despite the acknowledgement that we both liked each other, nothing happened due to the fact that we were never left alone together. Weeks later, I was disappointed to learn that he’d got himself a new girlfriend and I’ve not seen him since. Until last weekend when he confused me further by failing to mention the existence of said girlfriend, spending all night flirting with me, asking me to go back to a ‘house party’ at his (which consisted of about 4 people!), and then when I did, asking me to spend the night – in his bed.

I’m proud to say that once again I took myself home alone – frustrated but with self-respect firmly intact. How very dull for us all.

new year, new plan

2009-01-16T06:03:00.000-08:00

So how many of you have been thinking of quitting your job and running away to live in the country of late? I certainly have. I am so not loving being back at work in this bustling metropolis.

It’s only been three days since the festive holidays officially ended and in those three days, I’ve transformed from a totally chilled out, well –rested, and happy individual, into a tense, moody, and exhausted wreck. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sleep that’s the biggest problem or a come-down from my Christmas sugar high, but the lack of Quality Street combined with switching from a good ten or twelve hours a night (plus the occasional afternoon nap) to a measly six does not a happy-Carrie make. More like hari-kari.

I have resolved that the only way to get through January alive is to look ahead in excited anticipation of February’s arrival. Yes, that freezing cold and dreich month that most of you dread is my favourite month of all. And why? Because it’s my birthday – and best of all, unlike all my oldest and dearest friends, I won’t be turning 30 this year. Hoorah!

I’ve a whole year of my twenties left and I plan to make the most of it – starting with my party to end all parties: an 80s-birthday-Valentine’s-prom extravaganza. There’s to be big frou-frou dresses, bowls of punch, much drunken dancing, and hopefully lots of lovely boys in tuxes rocking out to Billy Idol and The Cure. I cannot wait.

Plus to add to the joy that is February, my new position of Travel Writer on the mag is kicking off with a weeklong press trip to Vegas. Vegas! It’s too good. Quite clearly I don’t have thousands of pounds to gamble away at the roulette table, but you know who does? All the rich, older, handsome men crowded into the casinos throwing the cash from their bulging wallets around. I just hope they’re not all dreadful fat Americans with Hawaiian shirts and trucker caps. Eurch.

The other good thing about keeping myself so busy in February is that it will distract me from the fact that I am chickening out of the promise I made to myself last year – that if I was still working at this wedding magazine by my 29th birthday, I would quit my job and move to France to write my much-anticipated (by me) first novel.

It’s not that I hate my job – with trips to Vegas, not to mention all the free cake on offer, it’s not half bad – I just don’t feel like it’s taking me anywhere career-wise. According to my teenage dreams, I was supposed to have written a bestseller by now. (I was also supposed to be married with my own home, at least one bouncing baby, and enough money in the bank to never have to worry about whether or not I can afford those fabulous new shoes…but lets not go there.)

This year brings the perfect opportunity of escape – my parents are flitting to France in March to a pretty little house in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a room in there chosen specifically for this purpose. Mum says as soon as she set foot in it and saw the beautiful view of the Pyrenees out the window, she said: “This is the perfect place for Carrie to write her book.” But the bottom line is – I’m too scared. Scared of throwing away a perfectly good job for a pipe dream that could amount to nothing; scared of getting there, sitting down in front of my laptop and being unable to produce a word; scared of opting out of the rat race then not being able to get back in.

The other thing keeping me here is the glorious fact that I have found a wonderful new home, with three lovely individuals, one of whom just rang me to tell me they’re all cooking me a special welcome dinner on Friday night to celebrate my arrival. Awww.

So, all things considered, I’ve decided to give it another year here in London then reassess. With any luck 2009 will be the year, I become an uber-successful writer who can afford to pack in the nine-to-five for a profitable freelance career. Thus allowing me the time to get started on that book – and to re-introduce my afternoon nap habit.

Dear Santa, please find me a flatmate…

2008-12-16T06:00:00.000-08:00

It’s that time of year again. There’s a chill in the air, the red cups are back in Starbucks, and I spent yesterday drinking excessive amounts of mulled wine at a staff party. It can all only mean one thing – it’s almost time to head home for Christmas. Hoorah!

Now stop groaning all you killjoys. I have no time for Christmas-haters. What’s to be so upset about? The pretty lights in the street, the choir-singing, the festive films on the box? I can’t get enough of it. Plus, more exciting than anything else, I get to escape London and return to Scotland for a whole two weeks. And given the fact that I’ve been more homesick than ever over the last few months, and that I’m currently homeless – it couldn’t have come at a better time.

Yes, my evil flatmate and the scary dwarf lady have finally driven me out of my beloved little flat. After I dared to object to being woken up at 5am with screams of ‘You made me bleed’ reverberating around the flat, I was called rude, obnoxious, and patronising; and decided it was all too much to bear. Fortunately my lovely friend Liv has kindly offered me her futon to sleep on until I can arrange to get out of my lease.

Remarkably that issue is looking to be working out much better for me than I had expected. My landlady, who was previously cantankerous, cold-hearted, and brusque, has suddenly come over all charitable. Maybe it’s the spirit of Christmas. Anyway, what she has suggested is that I find someone to sign a new lease on the property with me…effectively meaning that the psycho twosome would have to go and I’d get to stay there with the person of my choosing. Amazing.

Trouble is the one and only person I actually would like to live with is still residing in Leith…and has as yet managed to resist my begging for her to move to London. Maybe we could start a campaign. GET CARINE OUT OF LEITH. Yes, that might work. I’ll arrange campaign posters, t-shirts, mugs and all sorts then we can sell them in Flux alongside the ‘I love Leith’ merchandise. There is a chance she could take it the wrong way of course. Then she might throw her handbag at my head like she did last time I pissed her off. Oops.

My alternative solution is to scour the ads online for my perfect housemate. It’s no mean feat, you know. I am effectively looking for someone with whom I can happily share my home – and who won’t turn out to exhibit any signs of hidden psychosis. They need to be clean (both in body and habits!), friendly, sociable but not too sociable, not obsessed with video games, considerate, non-smoking (or part-time drunken smoker only), and without a crazy partner who will move in and scare the living daylights out of me. You might think this wouldn’t be too hard to find but with the likes of these gems posted up there, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone sane left in London:

‘32 year old vegetarian male looking for flatmate into tree-hugging and smoking pot.’
If you are a fellow earth-lover who believes meat is murder and fur is feral, you could be my future housemate. I’m looking for a comfortable room with space for all my beloved plants, no silly rules about posters on the walls, and a laid back approach to personal hygiene.

‘Transgender individual looking for sexually ambiguous/adventurous housemates.’
Do you like men, women, and everything in between? Do you like having fun? Do you want to explore your sexuality in a truly liberal household with no rules and an open-door policy in all rooms. I am looking to set up London’s first residential sex den. Come join the fun.

‘Flat needed for single 40-something man and pet gerbils.’Myself and my five gerbils – Trixy, Vixy, Minxy, Billy, and Bobby – are looking for a room in a friendly houseshare with a fellow rodent enthusiast. Cat-lovers need not apply.

I mean really, what chance do I have of finding my perfect flatmate amongst all of these? Are you out there somewhere roomie? All I want for Christmas…is you.

No accounting for taste

2008-11-16T05:55:00.000-08:00

My taste in men seems to be undergoing something of a strange transformation. If you’d asked me a few months ago who my ultimate crushes were, I would have responded without a second thought: Noel Gallagher (who I have loved blindly since the ascent of Britpop back in 1995), Caleb Followhill (the sweating, growling, and utterly captivating front man of Kings of Leon), and Joaquin Phoenix (the epitome of ugly-sexy). I think it’s the slightly tortured artist thing they’ve all got going on, coupled with that insouciant ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that gets me every time.

But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)

Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”

But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.

After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.

If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.

And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.

So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….

In therapy

2008-10-03T09:08:00.000-07:00

I've never really had much time for all those awful self-help books that desperate women buy into. You know the myth propagated by Bridget Jones that all single 30-something women are sat at home with a copy of ‘The Rules’ and a bottle of Chardonnay on a Saturday night? Well I hate to shock you boys, but it ain’t true - we’re out having fun just like you lot.

I’m proud to say that the closest thing I have to a self-help title on my book shelf is ‘The Book of Answers’ - which is basically the literary form of a magic 8 ball and generally asked such profound questions as ‘Should I wear the lace-up black platforms or my black suede boots today?’ So taking my scepticism into account, you may well wonder how it is that I ended up spending my Saturday afternoon sat in a boardroom at the Ritz surrounded by frantically scribbling women at a seminar entitled ’The Secret Laws of Attraction’.

Ostensibly, it was because myself and my new Deputy Ed Laura had decided it could be transformed into a great feature about how to get the perfect marriage. Truthfully, it’s because neither one of us is capable of saying no to anything that is offered for free (she‘s a fellow Edinburgh-er, you see). Since Laura joined the magazine, a typical day for us goes thus: Slap-up meal? “Of course!” Bottle of champagne? “Sure.” A day at the Ritz and a free lunch? “Where do we sign up?”We also both secretly harboured ‘Sex-and-the-City-esque’ visions of ourselves stalking into the swanky hotel, all dressed up to the nines, and stifling our laughter as poor dishevelled single women in their forties poured out their tales of woe and desperation.Of course, that’s not quite how it went in the end.

For one thing, we soon realised that the seminar wasn’t at all a lecture on how to get the perfect relationship - it was a life-coaching session to teach people (yes, there was even a man present) how to attract success in every area of their lives.The coach was a New Yorker who had transformed herself from a steely high-powered banker, to a wealthy entrepreneur, wife, and mother - all after one day when she found herself weighing up what would be more attractive: going to work in her office or stepping out in front a bus!And what she had to say wasn’t the usual crap about the battle of the sexes, learning to love yourself, and meditating (barf). It was actually just basic common sense. The short version: how can you expect to achieve anything in the future when you don’t know what you want or need? And your life right now, here in the present, is a shambles?

Just by posing a few pertinent questions, she had us all realising what exactly it was about our lives that was falling short, how to go about fixing those things, and what our true needs and goals were. And believe me, the answers to all of these questions were not at all what I expected. Who knew that one of my top needs in life was simply ‘to be right’? (well, yes okay a few of you might have, but I had no idea!). Throughout the day, Laura and I, who had both arrived as cynical Scots, found ourselves enthralled, enlightened, and emotionally challenged, in a way much more befitting of soppy Americans.

Rather embarrassingly, there was even tears - for Laura it was reaching a realisation about a past relationship; and, rather unexpectedly, for me, it was frustration and anger at my brother that caused the sudden welling up. We soon realised that none of the women there were needy or pathetic - 50% were strong self-aware women seeking some kind of clarity in their lives and relationships, and the other 50% were blagging journos like us. Oh yes, and there was that one man - who I think may have been on the pull (smart guy).

When home-time came round and the coach kicked our asses out so she could take her kids to see the Lion King, I was so hell-bent on starting on my road to success that I very nearly cancelled plans to go to a party with a free bar, in favour of going home to make over my flat (I said ‘nearly’ - I’m not that stupid).

Anyway that was two days ago, and I’m already making headway in sorting my life out - my home is now spotless from top to bottom; my clothes are all clean, ironed and put away; my paperwork is all filed; my bills are all paid; and I have appointments with the bank, the dentist, and the optician. I’ve eventually accepted that if I’m ever going to be comfortable in my own home, I’m going to have to move out of this flat that my flatmate and his pyscho girlfriend have taken over, and I’ve started looking for a new place. I’ve resolved to do something I love every day, whether it be writing, dancing, or pampering myself. And perhaps most importantly for me, I’ve promised myself that I won’t be taken advantage of - not by my flatmate, not by my brother, and certainly not by another stupid boy.So far, so good - I just hope I can keep it up.

And if any of you can put aside your doubt long enough to just give it a go too, I swear you’ll be glad you did. Even if all it means is having a tidy sock drawer for a few weeks.

For more info, visit www.lifecoach.com or get yourself to Borders and buy either Coach Yourself To Success or The Secret Laws of Attraction (McGraw-Hill) by Talane Miedaner. Even better, buy both! (And no, they’re not even paying me to say this!).

Behaving like a teenager

2008-09-03T09:15:00.000-07:00

It’s been something of an odd month for me. Miraculously, there has been two boys on the scene (yes, two!) and even more miraculously, I haven’t fallen for either of them.

First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.

Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”

Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.

But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”

‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.

“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.

“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.

When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.

The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.

What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.

Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”

What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.

It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.

Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...

(non)-dating and deleting

2008-08-03T09:20:00.000-07:00

Why are men so bloody exasperating? Are they given a special class at school that we don’t know about that trains them how to mess with our heads?

I can just imagine it: ‘Yes, boys - that’s it, you tell them one thing, then you do something completely contradictory. You act caring, interested and committed enough to get them into bed, then you leave with a casual ‘yeah so see you soon’. You take them out for dinner, suggest a follow-up date, then go off the radar for weeks. And you never, never answer their text messages anything less than 12 hours after they’ve been sent. Now go pro-create…but use a condom.’ It really would explain a lot.

I’ve been dating (but not really dating) one grade A student from this particular class for going on six months now and I’ve just about reached my limit. Well to be honest, I’ve reached my limit a few times, but it’s like he has a sixth sense that picks up on this so whenever I delete his number and swear I’ll never so much as look at his myspace page again, a text or email will promptly pop into my inbox asking if I fancy a drink sometime.

And that’s another infuriating thing - it’s always ‘lets go for a drink sometime’ not Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, or whatever, just sometime. Any attempts on my part to clarify when this ‘sometime’ might occur, are generally rebuffed or ignored completely. So we rarely ever get to the stage where we actually go for a drink, instead it’s this minefield of random texting and occasional emails that leads exactly nowhere.

What’s the point? It’s not like either of us is getting anything out of it - unless you count the boost to his ego or my recurring headache. And if it’s really getting to me so much, why can’t I just end it?

This Monday morning, I woke up with a renewed determination to opt out of the game - I deleted his number, all his texts, all my sent texts, any calls to him on my call register and every single one of his myspace messages (even the one where he originally gave me his number that I usually fall back on when I delete all trace of him from my phone). I was done - for good.
Only last night, I’m sat explaining this very situation to my friend Alice when my phone rings. And it’s him.

What the fuck? He never calls - NEVER. And he’s supposed to be busy tonight so what the heck does he want anyway? Of course, I can’t actually answer to find out because I’ve just been making Alice swear to hold me to my promise that it’s over. So I just give my phone an intensely dirty look and put it back in my pocket. Strong or what?

Only not really…fast forward three bottles of wine, and Alice and I have decided that it’s not lame boys that are the problem - it’s us. Why can’t we just accept that not all men need to be the latest love of our life? Why can’t we just have no strings fun? Let them take us out, wine us, dine us, and sleep with us then not spend the next 24 hours wondering why they haven’t called? Why can’t we just accept the good stuff for what it is and be satisfied with that?

Why? Because we’re all mental. Every single last one of us, no matter how intelligent, self-sufficient or sane we are in every other area of our lives, can be brought to our knees over some pathetic boy.

So anyway, Alice and I go back to mine, continue drinking and telling ourselves we’re going to transform ourselves into callous sex kittens, then I remember I do have his number - I’d written it down along with all the other numbers in my phone when I changed my mobile a few weeks back. ‘Do it,’ says Alice, and that’s all the encouragement I need. I hit send and the text is
on its way.

And so the game begins again. Seriously

Poison ivy

2008-07-03T09:25:00.000-07:00

MISSING: Tall, outgoing and happy 27 year-old man answering to the name of ‘Dom’ and wearing a smile.

I have a very sad announcement to make – I have lost my flatmate. He has been kidnapped by an evil dwarf lady who eats nothing but soya beans and self-confidence – his self-confidence, that is.

Yes, my lovely flatmate has found himself a girlfriend and since her appearance on the scene a few months ago, he has turned into a shadow of his former self. Gone is the happy-go-lucky boy who’d greet me with a cheeky grin and a bear hug every day, and in his place there is a rather confusing chap who flips between all-consuming black moods brought about by another battle with his lady-nemesis, and very occasional highs, which I suspect are the result of marathon sessions in the sack.

Actually, I think this is where her power over him must stem from. He has conceded himself that she makes him miserable, that she’s hard work, and that (and I quote) “it’s not even like she’s that stunning and it makes it all worth it”, yet somehow she still occupies a place in his life…and his bed. I would have given him more credit than being a lad that falls for big boobs and a domineering personality but somehow her sex kitten act has him hooked. She stalks around the place with bright red lipstick, towering heels, and the lowest cut tops you can imagine, and, like an obedient little puppy, he follows with his tongue hanging out. What is wrong with the boy?

And for all of you reading this and attributing my reaction to jealousy, can I just point out that it’s not just me that feels like this. Oh no. Every single one of his best friends has taken me aside to complain about the girl and Dom’s addiction to her. According to them, she’s known in their crowd for being a complete nightmare, apparently she parades around the clubs they go to like she owns the place, and expects every man to fall at her tiny little feet. They can’t stand how she treats Dom, demanding his undivided attention and making a scene every time he fails to live up to her lofty expectations, yet none of them will say anything to him. Instead they bend my ear about it and make me even more exasperated.

On the odd occasion I do get the chance to talk to Dom about it, he just looks forlorn – either defending her with a heartfelt “but she’s so sweet when we’re alone together and no one else sees that” or dropping his head in his hands and vowing to end it. Of course, whenever he attempts that, she breaks out the big guns (so to speak). And the next morning, an array of sex foods from strawberries to crème caramel (yuk) have magically appeared in my fridge, and they hole themselves up in his room for the day. When they finally emerge, she has the smug look of triumph on her face, while poor Dom looks slightly delirious.

To make matters worse, not only have I lost my fun flatmate, I seem to have gained the girlfriend as an honorary one. And let me tell you, she ain’t a bundle of laughs to live with. When she’s not picking a fight with Dom, or trying to look all seductive on the couch, she’s messing around in my kitchen cooking up strange vegetarian dishes that stink the house out (it seems she only breaks her super-healthy diet during their foodie sex sessions). My cupboard and fridge are filling up with gross-looking health foods, various odd-looking meat substitutes, and jar after jar of vitamin and mineral supplements, and my bathroom is overflowing with gloopy blue bath products from Lush. Incidentally, what the hell kind of ‘sex kitten’ shops at Lush and Holland & Barrett – surely it should be champagne, caviar, and Chanel all the way?

Perhaps I should hatch a plan with the boys to stage an intervention. We could lock Dom in his room for a week for a ‘she-devil detox’, ring round some of the old notches on his bedpost to remind him what fun it was to play the field, and force feed him manly food like steak, pizza, and chips to rid the poor boy of the taste of sushi and soya that’s threatening to damage his tastebuds permanently.

Of course what’s more likely to happen is that I’ll continue to try to be supportive as he tears himself apart every other day. I’ll watch quietly as she stomps all over his heart and I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart. There’s really not much else I can do…short of an extermination.

Letting go of my space…

2008-04-03T09:36:00.000-07:00

Saturday 5th April

It seems that for once I am the only person in my life who is not embroiled in some kind of romantic drama. Everyone else, regardless of their good intentions or hopes, has found themselves in a relationship that is falling apart at the seams.

One of my best friends is searching for a way to save a long-term relationship that may have been dying ever since it became ‘long-term’, another has been crushed by a selfish boy she mistakenly trusted with her heart, my flatmate is on a roller coaster ride with his ‘poca chica loca’ who he refuses to let in but won’t let go, and my brother is struggling with the conflicting demands of groupies and a girlfriend. And me? Well I’ve met a lovely boy with whom I’ve shared a few lovely dates, and all would be hunky dory if I could stop thinking about how it will inevitably all fall apart if I let myself get emotionally involved.

Still, at least for the moment, I feel safe. Safe in the knowledge that he’s still interested. That he’ll call. That we’ll see each other again. That even if he’s not quite sure about me yet, he’ll be back for more.But I don’t want to feel too safe. It’s when you get there, when you really let them in, that it all blows up. Funny thing is, I think we’d all rather blow up than be alone.

Sun 6th April

I took a step towards letting my guard down today. I had no idea until a few weeks ago how much I’d built up a wall. But then when I found myself stuttering through another goodbye, unable to show any real feelings towards the boy, to give away the fact that I might actually like him, I realised that letting another one walk away could be worse than risking my heart again.So I sent a text…a simple text. A casual text. A ‘playing it cool but not too cool’ text. “Thanks for another lovely evening last night. Lets not leave it so long this time”. It took me an hour just to work up the courage to hit send. But I did. And to be completely honest, I had total faith that in a matter of hours, my doubt would be disproved and a reciprocally ‘playing it cool but not too cool’ text would wing its way back to my phone.

I was wrong. Nothing.

How very arrogant of me to assume. Seems there’s more truth in that ridiculous ‘when you assume, you make an ass out of u and me’ phrase than you might think.

Mon 7th April

1.30pmArgh, the curse of myspace. How am I supposed to concentrate on writing a feature about the perfect wedding, when I can see he’s online? When I know he can see I’m online. And still nothing.It’s impossible. Caving in is inevitable. So I choose to end the torture and send one of my signature ‘easy breezy (secretly anything but)’ myspace messages.And guess what? Nothing.

2pm: Still online. Still nothing.

3pm: Nothing

4pm: Absolutely nothing.

5pm: Ok, now I’m angry. What’s his problem?

He’s got pictures of me saved in his phone, we’ve slept in each other’s arms more times than I can remember, he’s sung his head off in my shower, we’ve baked a bloody cake together, for god’s sake. And now, he can’t even respond to a stupid myspace message.

8pm: Oh holy fuck! I may have solved the mystery of why the boy’s not been in touch. Did you know that the mythical computer programme that claims to tell myspace users how many times individuals look at their page does actually work? Do you realise this means that every time I’ve clicked onto the boy’s page to see if he’s been online, or to check if some other floozy’s been messaging him, there’s a possibility he knew? And more importantly, can you believe Carine has only just told me this?

I don’t even want to think about how many times I’ve given away the fact that I’m interested without even realising it. We’re easily taking three figures here. I thought I was playing it so cool and actually there’s every chance the poor boy thinks he has some scary psycho stalker.

I’m telling you, social network sites are the work of the devil. They’ll be the end of us all. And of any chance we might have ever had at a normal relationship.

My name’s Carrie and I’m a myspace-aholic. It’s time to go cold turkey.

Mixed signals

2008-02-04T02:45:00.000-08:00

I seriously think there is something wrong with me. Either my love life is actually cursed or I am officially the worst person in the world at playing this so-called dating game.

One minute I’m besotted with some guy who can barely commit to a text message never mind an actual date, then I somehow end up dating a guy who I don’t remotely fancy but who I can‘t seem to say no to every time he asks me out. Ah, she’s just desperate, I hear you say. But you know what, I wish it was that simple. If I was desperate, surely I’d be happily dating this latest guy, not kicking myself each time I find my fingers involuntarily responding to his text message, not backing off every time he leans in for a goodbye kiss, and not having this conversation in my head in the first place.

When he first asked me out, I will admit it was possibly the volume of mind-altering substances in my body that led me to accept (and the fact that I felt obliged after already snogging the face off him in my inebriated wisdom), but now, what’s my excuse?

He texted last night asking if I fancied supper this week (apparently posh boys say supper, not dinner- yes, he‘s posh but we‘ll get to that later), I spent all of an hour trying to pretend he hadn’t texted at all, then came up with this genius reply: “Sure, supper would be lovely but I seem to have lost my diary so I’m not quite sure when I’m free. Can I let you know tomorrow?” Will you check out the mixed messages here… “supper would be lovely”- that sounds keen, no? But then what’s this nonsense about losing my diary? I’ve not lost my diary, I never lose anything, I’m just putting off the moment that I actually have to commit to a date.

Then today I’ve gone from being 100% sure this morning that I’m going to call it off, to deciding this afternoon that as I have quite a quiet week ahead, dinner (or supper - whatever!) might actually be nice. A few hours of to-ing and fro-ing later and then somehow there’s a text on the way to him saying “I’m free any night but Wednesday”.‘Ach, what harm can dinner do?’ I say to myself. ‘We’ll have a nice meal, a few drinks, then I’ll get a cab home at a reasonable hour and all will be fine.’ Only that’s not what he has in mind - apparently he wants me to go to his place so he can cook me supper…yeah right! Sorry but it doesn’t take a genius to work out what that means. There’s no way I’m making the mistake of going to his place (again).

Yes, okay, I am skipping a few significant parts of the story here. I have indeed been in his house before…on Friday night, after attending several parties and consuming way too many drinks and far too little food, I somehow found myself stranded in Battersea with him at 7am after a mutual friend‘s birthday. It would have cost me 40 quid that I did not have to get a cab back to mine in the North, and frankly, I was way too wasted to be allowed anywhere on my own. At the time, I’m sure the alcohol helped me rationalise it. The next afternoon, when I woke up at his place, it all seemed rather different.

This is the moment I should have got the hell out of there and deleted his number. Of course, I’m way too polite (or messed up in the head - which is it again?) to do that so I wind up here, agreeing to see him again (cue the moment where I spend the next couple of paragraphs convincing myself this is a good idea).

Maybe this time, I’ll change my mind and decide I actually like him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with him. In fact, on paper, he’s quite the catch. For a start, he’s my age, which means he’s much more mature than all the young indie boys I usually waste my time on. Plus, he’s a gentleman - he wouldn’t dream of letting me pay for a thing, always remembers to holds the door open, kisses me on the cheek when I arrive, and takes care of getting me a cab home (on his business account, but still it‘s an improvement on the night bus!). He’s got a good job as a restaurant PR which means lots of lovely meals in very nice restaurants and occasionally free champagne. He’s funny, confident, and he has his own flat - which is very rare in London (even more rare is that it’s not a hovel). And most importantly of all, he makes it plainly obvious that he really likes me - he always calls when he says he will, he acts totally engrossed in everything I say, and he tells me I’m beautiful all the time.

Now for the cons, he’s not just posh, he’s super posh - he’s from an intimidating wealthy family who own a massive global beauty firm. They have houses all over the world, and go skiing every Christmas for god‘s sake. (Eurch, I bet he even calls his parents mummy and daddy!) Con number 2: from what I can gather, he’s quite the fan of recreational drugs. Con number 3: he wears a long coat and carries a man-bag (is it wrong that I find the last con most offensive of all?). Oh no, wait, con number 4 - I don’t find him attractive. What I do find attractive is how nice he is to me. And oh, it’s been such a long time since someone’s been that nice to me.
One more date couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Could it?

An American in London

2008-01-04T02:53:00.000-08:00

Well I’ve settled on my new year's resolution...never again am I allowing myself to be roped into some strange psuedo-relationship via email.

The American decided to pay me a little visit - and it was…how can I put it...an unmitigated disaster? Yes. The longest two days of my life? Yes. Painfully awkward? A huge eye-opener? And a valuable lesson learned? Yes, yes, yes.

Who'd have thought that the same man who regularly makes me laugh out loud with his witty emails, who has a similar passion for writing and working in the media, and professes to love all the same films and music as me, would turn out to be such a bad match? Certainly not me! I knew he wasn't conventionally the most attractive of guys but I figured his blinding personality would make me see beyond the receding hairline and over-sized snozz. Turns out the hairline and nose were much worse than I remembered, and the 'blinding personality" was strangely absent.

After quickly realizing that there was not a flicker of chemistry, I thought perhaps we could still manage to spend a pleasant couple of days together as friends, but he apparently didn't cotton on to this lack of frisson and consistently made ill-advised attempts at grabbing my hand, or resting his sweaty palm on my knee. What could be worse than being forced to spend 48 hours in the company of someone you find repulsive who seems to be under the impression that you're in the midst of a romance? Not much it seems - well apart from the guilt that comes with it.

I felt awful that he’d come all this way with certain expectations that clearly were not going to be met. I felt awful that the only place for him to sleep outwith my room (which there was no way he was setting foot in!) was a tiny two-seater sofa in the lounge. I felt awful that I may have led him on. And most of all, I felt awful that every time he opened his mouth, I wanted to punch him. It sounds mean – but I just couldn’t help feeling that way.

Just to make it through his last night without jabbing a fork in his hand (or my own eye), I knew I was going to have to get smashed. I managed to sink most of a bottle of wine over dinner before I realised that me getting drunk, would mean him getting drunk too…and thus an added risk of wandering hands. Taking him along to a house party where we could lose each other in the melee seemed the ideal solution so we crashed the party of a friend of a friend and I set about my avoidance strategy. It worked pretty well to begin with– I met two lovely Scottish boys who were happy to keep me entertained/surrounded while the American stood on the other side of the room switching between looking at me like a wounded puppy, and giving the boys the death stare. Of course, he soon got fed up and came over with his coat on declaring that he was leaving. I couldn’t bring myself to be such a rude hostess, that I’d let him go home by himself but what would happen when we were alone and drunk? It could have been a disaster. Fortunately I came up with a new genius plan…I’d take my new best friends with me!

Needless to say taking home two random boys did not go down well with the American, who went to bed in a huff ten minutes after we got back. I, of course, had to stay up and entertain my guests which resulted in me not waking up until 12.30pm the next day with a banging headache and strange recollections of the three of us giving each other piggy back rides around the house and trying to do tricks on my flatmate’s skate board in the street at 6am.

I tentatively crept out of my room and caught a glimpse of a present and a post-it note on the dining table. My heart leapt for a second as I thought he had left early to spare us an awkward goodbye. Sadly, he’d just nipped out ‘for a walk’. When he returned, I did the whole “oh, I’m so sorry you’ve had to entertain yourself, you should have woken me” thing, to which he replied “well I didn’t know if you were in there by yourself” – cheeky sod! Thankfully there was only an hour left before he had to leave for the airport and as I had installed myself on the couch in my pyjamas to make it clear I wasn’t going anywhere, we just sat in awkward silence while he watched the telly, and I watched the clock. Eventually the time came when he had to head off and after a polite hug, he trotted off alone to the tube station.

I shut the door, did a little jig of joy, and set about washing every towel, sheet, surface, couch cushion or anything else he may have touched. As I cleaned, I thought about how I had got it so wrong and realised my new year’s resolution should actually be two-fold…not only will there be no more emailing, there will also be no more putting huge emphasis on what a guy does, what music he listens to, what films he watches, and how many intelligent opinions he has. In fact, someone with terrible taste in films and music, a completely different job to me, and no intelligent opinions whatsoever could be the way to go.

Or maybe not.

Going loopy

2007-12-04T02:57:00.000-08:00

I am driving myself insane. In the last two weeks, I have transformed from a relatively together, completely grounded, straight-down-the-line person into a complete nut-job. And all because of one stupid boy.

I knew it was a mistake as soon as I gave him my number. In fact, I was suspicious as soon as he even began talking to me at the bar. He was handsome, he was funny, and he was chatting ME up. Something had to be wrong. But then, well he kissed me, and everything got all messed up, didn’t it? There was that sudden feeling of impending doom coupled with a delicious trembling in my legs that I knew spelled trouble…of the completely irresistible kind.

‘Maybe this one would be different;’ I told myself. Maybe he’d be nice to me. He certainly seemed nice when he took my number, and offered to take me out the following week. He seemed nice when he told my friends he’d definitely see them soon. And he seemed more than nice when he told me to stop playing it cool and insisted I take his number. So after spending the whole night on cloud nine, I spent the next three days freaking out because he hadn't texted or called.

By Tuesday night, I couldn’t take it anymore. The three-day rule period had come and gone, I was a bit pissed (shocker!) and totally fed up of his number taunting me from within my phone, so I texted him with some hilarious joke (well it seemed it at the time) about him obviously having been abducted by aliens. Miraculously, he texted back right away, suggesting we go out the following night. As it happened, I was already going to a bar launch that night with a few friends but rather than postpone, I just invited him along with his mates. I figured more people, less pressure.Of course, when I actually got there, I was so nervous, I took it out on the white wine and can only vaguely remember him showing up. I think it was all very fun, I know we had a bit of a laugh, I definitely remember a goodbye kiss and his suggestion that next time we go out it just be the two of us. But then it all goes rather blurry.

By the time I got home. I was completely smashed. I crashed through the door, attempted to give my flatmate Dom a hug, promptly fell over then scooped myself up and went off in search of the phone, having decided it would be a great idea to call the troublesome boy. Unfortunately, he answered and even in my drunken state, I knew after speaking crap for five minutes, that it hadn’t gone well (it may have been Dom sitting shaking his head at me that gave this away).

Since then I’ve been caught in a really confusing cycle. He texts, I get excited, text back, then nothing. I get fed up, delete his number, then the next day he texts.I used to be so content in my own company and so involved in whatever I happened to be doing at the time, that if my phone rang or beeped, there was a 90% chance I wouldn’t even bother picking it up. Now, I so much as feel a vibration in the air and I leap for my phone. It’s exhausting.

I don’t know whether it’s a good sign that he’s still texting, or a bad sign that he hasn’t actually booked in the next date. Part of me thinks I’d be better just writing the whole thing off so I can go back to being a sane person again.The most ridiculous thing is I’m sure I used to be quite good at all this. Before I moved to London, there was generally always at least one boy that I had an ongoing text-flirtation with and it was great fun. But somehow in the last two years, I seem to have changed into an insecure, untrusting, emotional wreck. And who knew?

There’s been no men on the scene for so long, that I’ve been living under the ruse that I am totally clued-up, chilled out and nonchalant about the whole thing. I’ll even admit to being condescending to Carly when she has her weekly emotional breakdown as a result of some boy failing to text her, or worse, blatantly myspacing other girls and not her.Thank god, this one doesn’t have a myspace page or I’d really be in trouble. Googling him was bad enough. (Yes, googling him – we all do it, didn’t you know?).

Now don’t laugh but I’m sure I just felt my handbag vibrate. Hang on……yes, that was him. Replying many hours too late since my text message last night, which I’d promised myself was his last chance. And still no mention of a second date. Argh.

Right, I’m switching my phone off. Or maybe I should fling it in the Thames on the way home. But then Kieran wouldn’t be able to get in touch when he gets here on Thursday. Did I mention that? Yes, my email buddy from NY is coming to visit. Note to self: kissing boys gets me in trouble. Possibly even boys who live on the other side of an ocean.

A singleton abroad

2007-11-04T03:02:00.000-08:00

I just got back from the most ridiculous, tacky, and OTT press trip I have ever been on…incidentally it was also the most fun - by a mile.

When my editor received the invite, she guffawed (as only editors know how) and emerged from her office clutching the offending article by one corner like she might catch a horrible disease from it. “I’m not sure if this is your cup of tea, but it’s certainly not mine so if you want to go, feel free,” she said, dropping a print out of the trip’s itinerary on my desk.

Now, to be perfectly honest, I knew before I’d even read the thing that I was going to say yes. I’ve admittedly already got a bit of a rep in the office for taking advantage of every press freebie that comes my way, and if it involves spending a few days relaxing at a luxury resort and getting paid for the pleasure, I’m most definitely there. But even to me, this trip looked a bit much - four days in Antigua at the opening of a new ultra all-inclusive couples-only destination brought to us by the Caribbean’s most commercial resort group with raucous parties every evening and the company of international press, C-list celebrities, and the groups most loyal customers (ie. wealthy vulgar Americans). It sounded awful but I figured I could opt out of all the activities and work my way through the final Harry Potter tome so of course, I graciously accepted.

Fast forward a few weeks and I’ve arrived, my group of eight UK journalists, one PR and two reporters from E! Entertainment are sat in the lobby drinking our first glass of Champagne and waiting to be shown to our rooms when the concierge finally presents me with my key and I run off upstairs to investigate the mini-bar situation. And boy, am I in for a treat - there’s no ‘mini’ about this bar - it’s a proper bar with full size bottles of spirits, a fridge stacked with beer, wine, bubbly, and mixers, and a basket overflowing with calorific nibbles. I’m so excited I don’t even take in the four poster bed, whirlpool bath, plasma screen TV, or ocean-view balcony before pouring myself a welcome G&T. Well, there’s not much time to waste. Shaggy takes to the stage soon to kick off the first evening’s festivities.

Expecting a cheese-fest that will be more likely to make me cringe than join in with the grinding, I am pleasantly surprised by what turns out to be a great show. I forgot just how many Shaggy songs I knew, and all us girls end up having a brilliant time dancing by the side of the stage to classics like ‘Oh Carolina’ and ‘It Wasn’t Me’. Shaggy even starts to look quite attractive in an unexpectedly disarming way. So much so that I consider hanging out with the E! Entertainment crew, who plan to hijack him for an interview when he comes off stage. Then I realise that coming onto Mr Lover Lover himself would be very wrong indeed and I send myself to bed.

The next day, I somehow end up volunteering to go zip lining in the rainforest and find myself with my stomach in my mouth flying from tree to tree in the pouring rain 3oo feet above the ground. It’s obviously all a bit much for me because I max out on fun by 9.30pm that night and sneak off to my room (and Harry Potter) before Sean Paul even takes to the stage.

When the final night arrives - the dreaded pool party - I fully expect to duck out early again, unable to bear the embarrassment of being seen dancing in a bikini, but something miraculous happens. I end up first in the pool, and stay there for a full three hours dancing my little socks off and occasionally getting out to drag someone else in.I manage to convince all the UK crowd, a Californian couple we met on the zip lining trip, and also one of the company directors of the resort group, who seems to be getting a little flirty in the hot tub! He is undeniably attractive and charming but as one of the hosts of the whole event and having recently hit the big 4-0, I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just doing his job - schmoozing and boozing.

At least that’s what I thought to begin with, but after sinking my umpteenth margarita, I notice the vibe has changed. I decide removing myself from the hot tub (and him) is the best idea so I head onto the (dry) dance floor for another shimmy. But barely half a twist into the song, he’s at my side: ‘Lets go for a walk on the beach’. It’s not so much an invitation as an order and I can tell by his eyes that walking isn’t what he has in mind. I am shocked! I mean, admittedly I may have encouraged his presumptuous attitude earlier in the evening by plucking the cherry out of his Pina Colada and proudly showing off my skill at tying the stalk in a knot with my tongue, but come on, everyone has a party trick, it’s not my fault if people misconstrue that particular one as an act of flirtation.

Anyway, I digress, to get back to the moment…the question on deck was did I want to go for a walk on the beach. And I must confess that I really, really did.So I went – and like the rest of the trip, it was completely ridiculous, a little bit wrong, but unexpectedly quite fun!

A crime of passion

2007-10-04T03:07:00.000-07:00

I have shocking news. I have been a victim of crime. I guess I really shouldn’t be so surprised. I do live in what has to be the UK’s crime capital. And of course, spending the majority of my weekends boozing it up in Camden probably isn’t the safest way to pass the time. The most ridiculous thing is that this was no ordinary crime, it was a crime of passion…well, kind of. I guess I better stop rambling and explain properly.

Basically, I’m dancing away in the back of a dingy watering hole on a Saturday night when some ropey looking dude in a Snoopy t-shirt comes over and starts sidling up to me. Now, as I’m sure you all know, I’m a bit out of practice at giving guys the brush-off so after attempting to ignore him for a few seconds, I eventually lose the head and tell him to f-off. Not the subtlest approach, but it seems to work, he mooches off, his tail between his legs, and I get back down to the business of making a tit of myself on the dance floor. Sadly this does not last long and the lights go up exposing all the cool scenesters as sweaty acne-ridden 15 year olds in need of a good wash. Time to leave methinks.

I grab my bag from under the table where I’d stashed it and start scrabbling round for my phone to find out where the next party is. No mean feat when my bag’s about the size of a suitcase and, as is usual form, after five minutes, I give up and ask a friend to ring it to make things easier. Funny thing is it starts to ring then fades away. She rings again and nothing. Odd. Or maybe not.

Hels suddenly realises that at the exact same time we stopped hearing the phone’s ring, Mr Snoopy skulked out of the door. We rush out in hot pursuit to find him standing outside as cool as a cucumber chatting away to a group of lads. Not wanting to jump to the wrong conclusion, Hels rings the phone again. Suddenly his pocket lights up and starts vibrating. I launch into a vitriolic attack screaming at him to give me my phone back, and he just looks at me like I’m mental. Fortunately we have muscle on hand, Hels’ boyfriend, Jon, saunters over with his drunken mate Matt in tow. While Matt’s so pissed he looks like he doesn‘t know where he is, Jon manages to appear just about threatening enough. “Empty your pockets, you c*nt,” he growls. Snoopy does as he’s told and after pulling out just about everything else he has in his pockets (in a hopeless last ditch effort to appear innocent, I assume), he hands over the phone. “I found it on the floor and thought it was mine,” he whines. Cue me: “YEAH, YOU FOUND IT IN THE BOTTOM OF MY F*CKIN’ BAG, YOU THIEVING F*CKER!” In his first wise move of the night, Snoopy makes a sharp exit.

Jon is hot on his heels. “NO JUST LEAVE IT! HE’S NOT WORTH IT!” Hels and I squeal in hysterical-melodramatic-drunk-girl mode. Being a gent at heart, Jon drops the hard man front and swaggers back over. “Have you got everything else?” he asks (obvious question, you might think). “Eh, yeah, I think so. I didn’t actually…OH HOLY CRAP, THE SCUMBAG‘S GOT MY PURSE!” I yell, and we all break into a sprint after him. Trouble is we have no idea which way he went.

Jon runs one way, Hels and I run another (slightly hindered by towering wedges which refuse to remain on my feet), but there’s no sign. We all meet up again at the High Street, where Matt eventually catches up with us, and in between pants, manages: “what the hell are we all running for?”. He clearly has no idea what has just happened. Poor Matt.

And poor me. My purse is gone, with all my cards, all the crap I carry around for sentimental reasons, and what could be anything between £0 and £40 in there (I have no idea how much I’d spent on gin by that point). We decide there’s only one thing for it - we jump on a bus back to Jon & Hels place (and leaving Matt asleep on the backseat), head up to their flat to get over the trauma with a little help from a six-pack of Fosters picked up at the corner shop, and a bag full of weed that somebody kindly gifted Jon for his birthday. Being un-seasoned tokers, we all pass out a few hours later feeling a bit queasy.

It’s a sad story, I know. Who’d have thought a man scorned could be so vicious? Or perhaps, it wasn’t the knock back on the dancefloor that did it. He may have just been another professional petty thief. And the Snoopy t-shirt, a cunning disguise so victims assume he is a harmless geek. But this story does surprisingly have a bit of a happy ending.

A week and a half later, I arrive at work to a message on my voicemail. “Hi! This is Piers Roberts. I run the design festival in Holloway where you lost your purse, Lucky for you, I found it so give me a call and I’ll get it back to you.” Huh? Somehow my purse took a week to travel from Camden to Holloway, then turned up at some artsy event - could Snoopy actually be a creative soul at heart? We’ll never know. But at least I’m getting my purse back.

Now I wonder if this Piers Roberts is a handsome chap….

The Dreaded Hen Night.

2007-09-04T03:14:00.000-07:00

Despite having to frequently come up with new ‘fun’ ideas for hen nights in my capacity as writer on a bridal magazine, there’s little else I find more terrifying than groups of drunken girls out on a mission to embarrass themselves.

Frankly I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than be seen donning a pair of flashing willie-shaped deedly boppers and a tacky slogan t-shirt. So when it came time to plan my best friend Louise’s last night of freedom, I was determined there wouldn’t be an ounce of tack.

With the date set for mid-August, I optimistically decided the weather would be fine and laid out plans for a surprise champagne picnic in the meadows followed by a cabaret show in the Spiegelgarden. The dress code would be strictly black tie so posh frocks and heels were the order of the day and calling in the services of a friend with a catering business meant the picnic itself would be a cut above your average volouvant and soggy sandwich fest. Or so I had hoped.

Things were marginally complicated by the fact that there were four other bridesmaids who had their own visions of the perfect hen night - visions that included helium balloons with L-plates printed on, furry bunny ears, fairy wands and silver deedly boppers for each of the guests, as well as a shot glass on a chain and a veil complete with flashing lights for the hen herself. The cold sweats had started and we hadn’t even reached the night itself yet.

Then I checked the weather report. Rain, rain, and more rain. Fan-fucking-tastic! There’s no way the garden gazebo we’d planned to erect would stand up to that kind of wet weather. We needed a plan B, and with only 24 hours to go, we needed one fast.

That’s when my knight in shining armour stepped in. Will from Isobar saved the day offering the lovely Iso-lounge as stand-by venue should the rain be so bad we would have to abandon the whole picnic plan. Then disaster number two struck - the caterers backed out. Time to roll up my sleeves and get an apron on, I guess.

Many hours later, a stonking picnic (or as it turned out, buffet) was all ready to go - yummy smoked salmon, a huge mozzarella, tomato and basil salad, various nibbles, lots of fresh crunchy bread, a fantastic cheese board, a big platter of juicy strawberries and a hamper of sweet treats provided (gratis, no less!) by the lovely people at Harvey Nichols’ food market.

It was all transported to Iso-Lounge, the embarrassing balloons structures were erected, bubbly poured, and the party began. But to be honest, my memory of events from here on in, is a little blurry.

I recall being horribly embarrassed by my mother, clutching the new version of the Kama Sutra I‘d brought along for a laugh, and proclaiming that she thought my dad must have written it as there wasn’t a single manouvre in there that they hadn’t tried. Nice.

I remember forcing all the guests to remove their dodgy headgear before we reached the Spiegelgarden just in case the bouncers didn’t fancy letting a hen party invade. Of course, I faced a barrage of abuse when I refused to take off my chic black fascinator…well, it’s hardly the same thing, is it?!

The next thing I remember is being disappointed that the show we’d booked in to see wasn’t actually in the beautiful Russian mirrored Spiegeltent I had expected, but it’s less fancy sister, the Bosco Theatre. Still, the show was hilarious and all went well until the bride's sister kicked off and started screaming at me - apparently i was being too noisy and raucous during the cabaret show. As if I would! Little quiet me! And more to the point, it's a cabaret show in the middle of the festival on a hen night...how can anyone possibly be too noisy?! I think I deserved to let my hair down after spending all day in the kitchen preparing a gourmet picnic for 20 people anyway. Hmpf.

After the show, the drinking continued for many hours in the Spiegelgarden. I think I got lost for a while. I remember wandering around on my own in the rain close to tears because I couldn’t fine my way back to the party after heading off to the toilet alone. I eventually found them when I heard a piercing shriek come from their direction. Apparently the bride-to-be’s veil had brushed the nightlight on the table and gone up in flames. A helpful guest threw a drink over poor Louise to douse the fire and she had promptly fallen over with the shock, knocking over our table and the one next to us and spilling everyone’s drinks all over them! It was clearly time to go home.

I left the majority of the party in various states of despair and drunkenness sitting on the pavement in the rain awaiting their lucky cab driver who would drive them back to Dunfermline while I managed to bag a lift back to Leith.It was 4am, I was pissed as a fart, and despite all the drama (or perhaps because of it), everyone had had a ball. The hen night was officially a success. Now I’ve just got the wedding to make it through…

Moving on

2007-01-04T03:20:00.000-08:00

Everyone I know has a scary age. My friend Sara’s is 35 because that’s as late as she’s willing to leave it before she has kids. Carine’s was 30 - she couldn’t stand the idea of leaving her twenties and still being single (fortunately she fell in love just a few months before). For me, it has always been 27. And in 3 weeks, I’m there.

When I was about 12, I had my whole life mapped out on a timeline and by 27, I was going to have it all – the loving husband, the beautiful kids, the perfect home and the dream job. Things were on track for a while. At 21, I graduated. At 22, I fell in love. At 23, I found the love nest and at 24, I applied to teaching college.

Then there were a few hiccups. I had my heart broken. I had to move out of my home. And I was turned down for teaching college. After all that, I shut down in a lot of ways and I decided to do the only thing I still had a passion for – writing.

As each year has gone past, and the scary age has loomed closer, I’ve become more and more worried about ticking all those boxes. I might have been pursuing the writing dream but the job didn’t seem to be any closer, and without the guy, how could I have the kids and the family home? Everything seemed to be getting further and further away.

The path I was on took me to London, but as I’m sure a lot of you know, I wasn’t happy there either. I used to devote most of the words in this column to complaining about every aspect of my life down there - the vacuous social life, the over-crowded buses, the pittance of a wage and the astronomical rents. I thought I wanted something more real - a nice flat, a decent salary, a normal job, and my family & friends to be just a quick bus ride away.

So I came home. I got the flat, the job, the salary. And I was ecstatic…for all of a week. Then I realised that wasn’t what I wanted at all.

Something shifted in me in the time that I was away but I wouldn’t let myself feel it. I convinced myself that I was immune to London and all its fake lustre. I was so busy telling myself it was all wrong and I wasn’t cut out for the world of the glossy magazine, that I couldn’t accept there might be life out with Leith, that there might be an alternative plan to the one I’d set out when I was just a kid. But coming home meant I couldn’t deny it anymore. I need something bigger now, something grander, something that no one can ever take away from me. I need to go back to London and do it properly.

So that’s exactly what I’m doing. In a little over a week I head back down. And I have a funny feeling that this time it might be permanent.

It took coming home to realise what I really wanted and it has taken coming home to let go of the things I had put so much value on before.

I look at my friends now who are settling down, having kids, getting married, buying houses (and believe me they’re all doing it) and I know I’m not ready for that yet, or more importantly, that I don’t want it yet.

But while I might not be in any rush for the man, the kids, the house and the white picket fence anymore, it’s comforting to know that I managed to tick at least one box before I hit my scary age - I got the dream job.

Exactly four days before my 27th birthday, I start as Features Writer at a bridal magazine. I can’t quite believe that someone’s actually going to pay me to write.

Now why the bloody hell does it have to be about weddings?!