A Man’s Perspective

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Ch-ch-ch-changes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here begineth the lesson

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

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

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

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

Oh. Okay then.

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

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

Oh, ok then…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: SILENCE

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

Oh. Ok then.

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

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

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

Here endeth the lesson.

A Comedy of Errors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And…is there?”

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

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

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

Two’s company, four’s a crowd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh holy crap, what do I do now?!

The Real Thing?

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, pretty good. You?”

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

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

“Yeah, cool. Okay.”

And that was that.

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

“Um, yeah, that was weird.”

“You upset?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drama, drama, drama!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John. Of all the bars in all the world.

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

New and improved

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Older...and wiser?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So there.

Festive frustrations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well there’s your girl.”

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

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

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

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

His answer: {I know this}.

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

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

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

Me: *silence*

Rob: Carrie, you still there?

Shiiiiiiiiiiiit……………