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……………

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.