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.
Tuesday 4 December 2007
Sunday 4 November 2007
A singleton abroad
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!
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!
Thursday 4 October 2007
A crime of passion
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….
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….
Tuesday 4 September 2007
The Dreaded Hen Night.
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…
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…
Thursday 4 January 2007
Moving on
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?!
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?!
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