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.

Letting go of my space…

Saturday 5th April

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

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

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

Sun 6th April

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

I was wrong. Nothing.

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

Mon 7th April

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

2pm: Still online. Still nothing.

3pm: Nothing

4pm: Absolutely nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dreaded Hen Night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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