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.
Sunday 20 December 2009
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Sex, lies...and a DVD
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 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
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?
Monday 9 November 2009
It's true what they say about men and buses...
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.
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.
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Braving the singles night/Part 2
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…
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…
Tuesday 1 September 2009
Braving the singles night...Part 1
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…
Sunday 24 May 2009
Indecent exposure
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.
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.
Sunday 3 May 2009
Falling off the wagon
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.
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.
Friday 3 April 2009
Out of action
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.
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.
Friday 16 January 2009
new year, new plan
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.
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.
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