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.
Sunday, 3 May 2009
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.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Dear Santa, please find me a flatmate…
It’s that time of year again. There’s a chill in the air, the red cups are back in Starbucks, and I spent yesterday drinking excessive amounts of mulled wine at a staff party. It can all only mean one thing – it’s almost time to head home for Christmas. Hoorah!
Now stop groaning all you killjoys. I have no time for Christmas-haters. What’s to be so upset about? The pretty lights in the street, the choir-singing, the festive films on the box? I can’t get enough of it. Plus, more exciting than anything else, I get to escape London and return to Scotland for a whole two weeks. And given the fact that I’ve been more homesick than ever over the last few months, and that I’m currently homeless – it couldn’t have come at a better time.
Yes, my evil flatmate and the scary dwarf lady have finally driven me out of my beloved little flat. After I dared to object to being woken up at 5am with screams of ‘You made me bleed’ reverberating around the flat, I was called rude, obnoxious, and patronising; and decided it was all too much to bear. Fortunately my lovely friend Liv has kindly offered me her futon to sleep on until I can arrange to get out of my lease.
Remarkably that issue is looking to be working out much better for me than I had expected. My landlady, who was previously cantankerous, cold-hearted, and brusque, has suddenly come over all charitable. Maybe it’s the spirit of Christmas. Anyway, what she has suggested is that I find someone to sign a new lease on the property with me…effectively meaning that the psycho twosome would have to go and I’d get to stay there with the person of my choosing. Amazing.
Trouble is the one and only person I actually would like to live with is still residing in Leith…and has as yet managed to resist my begging for her to move to London. Maybe we could start a campaign. GET CARINE OUT OF LEITH. Yes, that might work. I’ll arrange campaign posters, t-shirts, mugs and all sorts then we can sell them in Flux alongside the ‘I love Leith’ merchandise. There is a chance she could take it the wrong way of course. Then she might throw her handbag at my head like she did last time I pissed her off. Oops.
My alternative solution is to scour the ads online for my perfect housemate. It’s no mean feat, you know. I am effectively looking for someone with whom I can happily share my home – and who won’t turn out to exhibit any signs of hidden psychosis. They need to be clean (both in body and habits!), friendly, sociable but not too sociable, not obsessed with video games, considerate, non-smoking (or part-time drunken smoker only), and without a crazy partner who will move in and scare the living daylights out of me. You might think this wouldn’t be too hard to find but with the likes of these gems posted up there, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone sane left in London:
‘32 year old vegetarian male looking for flatmate into tree-hugging and smoking pot.’
If you are a fellow earth-lover who believes meat is murder and fur is feral, you could be my future housemate. I’m looking for a comfortable room with space for all my beloved plants, no silly rules about posters on the walls, and a laid back approach to personal hygiene.
‘Transgender individual looking for sexually ambiguous/adventurous housemates.’
Do you like men, women, and everything in between? Do you like having fun? Do you want to explore your sexuality in a truly liberal household with no rules and an open-door policy in all rooms. I am looking to set up London’s first residential sex den. Come join the fun.
‘Flat needed for single 40-something man and pet gerbils.’Myself and my five gerbils – Trixy, Vixy, Minxy, Billy, and Bobby – are looking for a room in a friendly houseshare with a fellow rodent enthusiast. Cat-lovers need not apply.
I mean really, what chance do I have of finding my perfect flatmate amongst all of these? Are you out there somewhere roomie? All I want for Christmas…is you.
Now stop groaning all you killjoys. I have no time for Christmas-haters. What’s to be so upset about? The pretty lights in the street, the choir-singing, the festive films on the box? I can’t get enough of it. Plus, more exciting than anything else, I get to escape London and return to Scotland for a whole two weeks. And given the fact that I’ve been more homesick than ever over the last few months, and that I’m currently homeless – it couldn’t have come at a better time.
Yes, my evil flatmate and the scary dwarf lady have finally driven me out of my beloved little flat. After I dared to object to being woken up at 5am with screams of ‘You made me bleed’ reverberating around the flat, I was called rude, obnoxious, and patronising; and decided it was all too much to bear. Fortunately my lovely friend Liv has kindly offered me her futon to sleep on until I can arrange to get out of my lease.
Remarkably that issue is looking to be working out much better for me than I had expected. My landlady, who was previously cantankerous, cold-hearted, and brusque, has suddenly come over all charitable. Maybe it’s the spirit of Christmas. Anyway, what she has suggested is that I find someone to sign a new lease on the property with me…effectively meaning that the psycho twosome would have to go and I’d get to stay there with the person of my choosing. Amazing.
Trouble is the one and only person I actually would like to live with is still residing in Leith…and has as yet managed to resist my begging for her to move to London. Maybe we could start a campaign. GET CARINE OUT OF LEITH. Yes, that might work. I’ll arrange campaign posters, t-shirts, mugs and all sorts then we can sell them in Flux alongside the ‘I love Leith’ merchandise. There is a chance she could take it the wrong way of course. Then she might throw her handbag at my head like she did last time I pissed her off. Oops.
My alternative solution is to scour the ads online for my perfect housemate. It’s no mean feat, you know. I am effectively looking for someone with whom I can happily share my home – and who won’t turn out to exhibit any signs of hidden psychosis. They need to be clean (both in body and habits!), friendly, sociable but not too sociable, not obsessed with video games, considerate, non-smoking (or part-time drunken smoker only), and without a crazy partner who will move in and scare the living daylights out of me. You might think this wouldn’t be too hard to find but with the likes of these gems posted up there, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone sane left in London:
‘32 year old vegetarian male looking for flatmate into tree-hugging and smoking pot.’
If you are a fellow earth-lover who believes meat is murder and fur is feral, you could be my future housemate. I’m looking for a comfortable room with space for all my beloved plants, no silly rules about posters on the walls, and a laid back approach to personal hygiene.
‘Transgender individual looking for sexually ambiguous/adventurous housemates.’
Do you like men, women, and everything in between? Do you like having fun? Do you want to explore your sexuality in a truly liberal household with no rules and an open-door policy in all rooms. I am looking to set up London’s first residential sex den. Come join the fun.
‘Flat needed for single 40-something man and pet gerbils.’Myself and my five gerbils – Trixy, Vixy, Minxy, Billy, and Bobby – are looking for a room in a friendly houseshare with a fellow rodent enthusiast. Cat-lovers need not apply.
I mean really, what chance do I have of finding my perfect flatmate amongst all of these? Are you out there somewhere roomie? All I want for Christmas…is you.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
No accounting for taste
My taste in men seems to be undergoing something of a strange transformation. If you’d asked me a few months ago who my ultimate crushes were, I would have responded without a second thought: Noel Gallagher (who I have loved blindly since the ascent of Britpop back in 1995), Caleb Followhill (the sweating, growling, and utterly captivating front man of Kings of Leon), and Joaquin Phoenix (the epitome of ugly-sexy). I think it’s the slightly tortured artist thing they’ve all got going on, coupled with that insouciant ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that gets me every time.
But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)
Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”
But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.
After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.
If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.
And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.
So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….
But in the last few months, odd schoolgirl crushes seem to be popping into my repertoire. First came the clean-shaven, smooth-skinned, singing, dancing teen sensation Zac Efron of High School Musical fame (insider tip - he’s even hotter in Hairspray), then I found myself strangely attracted to one of the cutest members of X-factor boy band JLS (yes, really), and literally five minutes ago I heard myself utter the following shocking words: “Considering Gary Barlow used to be the fat one who couldn’t dance from Take That, he’s looking pretty handsome these days.” (Yes, I am ashamed but it’s true.)
Generally the reaction to any confession of these strange fancies has prompted a look of utter incredulity, followed by total disgust. “You are kidding, right?” said Vickie. “Um, no…”
“You are a strange, strange girl Ms Mitchell.”
But is it really that strange? What’s wrong with being attracted to nice guys? When did every red-blooded woman in the world decide that the only man to capture her heart (or loins) would have to be a bad guy – a rebel without a cause who couldn’t articulate any emotion, and just stomped around looking sulky with a fag dangling out of his pouting lips. While this image is still undoubtedly sexy, I think I have bad-boy fatigue.
After years of falling hopelessly in love with the most arrogant, selfish, and cold-hearted man in any room, I think I just want someone to be nice to me. After all, there’s a lot to be said for a nice guy. Just look at Reese Witherspoon – she went from tousle-haired lothario Ryan Phillipe who cheated on her and broke her heart, to puppy-dog Jake Gyllenhaal who looks after the kids, takes her for long walks on the beach and holds her hand. Not too shabby. Then there’s London’s favourite supermodel Kate Moss who has finally moved on from a self-destructive relationship with drug addled Pete Doherty to the woolly-scarf wearing Jamie Hince, who just wants to whisk her off to the country and look after her.
If cosy nights in front of the fire, romantic walks, and hand holding is what’s on offer, I’m jumping on their bandwagon. I’ve kissed goodbye to my gorgeous but terribly vain toyboy (even valiantly resisting his parting offer of a final romp). I’ve given up on a potential liason with a fellow ‘Leither in London’ when it became patently clear, he was only after one thing. And I’ve stopped frequenting the indie bars of Camden, which are essentially wall-to-wall bad boys.
And guess what, no sooner do I make my vow, than I’ve stumbled across a potential nice guy right under my nose. There I am fighting through a crowded bar at my friend’s birthday party when a young man with a lovely face (and those puppy dog eyes) brushes past. “Cute’ I think. ‘Hi Carrie,’ he says. Eh, hold up how does he know my name? Then I realise I’ve actually met this guy at least twice before and dismissed any potential flirtation because he was…yes, you guessed it…too nice. Well not anymore – bring on the niceness I say.
So we trundle outside for a cigarette together, and something wonderful happens. He holds the door, tells some drunk bloke off for bumping into me, then leans over to light my cigarette before his own. Ladies and gentleman, I think I have found myself a gent. Now I wonder if he has Zac Efron’s moves….
Friday, 3 October 2008
In therapy
I've never really had much time for all those awful self-help books that desperate women buy into. You know the myth propagated by Bridget Jones that all single 30-something women are sat at home with a copy of ‘The Rules’ and a bottle of Chardonnay on a Saturday night? Well I hate to shock you boys, but it ain’t true - we’re out having fun just like you lot.
I’m proud to say that the closest thing I have to a self-help title on my book shelf is ‘The Book of Answers’ - which is basically the literary form of a magic 8 ball and generally asked such profound questions as ‘Should I wear the lace-up black platforms or my black suede boots today?’ So taking my scepticism into account, you may well wonder how it is that I ended up spending my Saturday afternoon sat in a boardroom at the Ritz surrounded by frantically scribbling women at a seminar entitled ’The Secret Laws of Attraction’.
Ostensibly, it was because myself and my new Deputy Ed Laura had decided it could be transformed into a great feature about how to get the perfect marriage. Truthfully, it’s because neither one of us is capable of saying no to anything that is offered for free (she‘s a fellow Edinburgh-er, you see). Since Laura joined the magazine, a typical day for us goes thus: Slap-up meal? “Of course!” Bottle of champagne? “Sure.” A day at the Ritz and a free lunch? “Where do we sign up?”We also both secretly harboured ‘Sex-and-the-City-esque’ visions of ourselves stalking into the swanky hotel, all dressed up to the nines, and stifling our laughter as poor dishevelled single women in their forties poured out their tales of woe and desperation.Of course, that’s not quite how it went in the end.
For one thing, we soon realised that the seminar wasn’t at all a lecture on how to get the perfect relationship - it was a life-coaching session to teach people (yes, there was even a man present) how to attract success in every area of their lives.The coach was a New Yorker who had transformed herself from a steely high-powered banker, to a wealthy entrepreneur, wife, and mother - all after one day when she found herself weighing up what would be more attractive: going to work in her office or stepping out in front a bus!And what she had to say wasn’t the usual crap about the battle of the sexes, learning to love yourself, and meditating (barf). It was actually just basic common sense. The short version: how can you expect to achieve anything in the future when you don’t know what you want or need? And your life right now, here in the present, is a shambles?
Just by posing a few pertinent questions, she had us all realising what exactly it was about our lives that was falling short, how to go about fixing those things, and what our true needs and goals were. And believe me, the answers to all of these questions were not at all what I expected. Who knew that one of my top needs in life was simply ‘to be right’? (well, yes okay a few of you might have, but I had no idea!). Throughout the day, Laura and I, who had both arrived as cynical Scots, found ourselves enthralled, enlightened, and emotionally challenged, in a way much more befitting of soppy Americans.
Rather embarrassingly, there was even tears - for Laura it was reaching a realisation about a past relationship; and, rather unexpectedly, for me, it was frustration and anger at my brother that caused the sudden welling up. We soon realised that none of the women there were needy or pathetic - 50% were strong self-aware women seeking some kind of clarity in their lives and relationships, and the other 50% were blagging journos like us. Oh yes, and there was that one man - who I think may have been on the pull (smart guy).
When home-time came round and the coach kicked our asses out so she could take her kids to see the Lion King, I was so hell-bent on starting on my road to success that I very nearly cancelled plans to go to a party with a free bar, in favour of going home to make over my flat (I said ‘nearly’ - I’m not that stupid).
Anyway that was two days ago, and I’m already making headway in sorting my life out - my home is now spotless from top to bottom; my clothes are all clean, ironed and put away; my paperwork is all filed; my bills are all paid; and I have appointments with the bank, the dentist, and the optician. I’ve eventually accepted that if I’m ever going to be comfortable in my own home, I’m going to have to move out of this flat that my flatmate and his pyscho girlfriend have taken over, and I’ve started looking for a new place. I’ve resolved to do something I love every day, whether it be writing, dancing, or pampering myself. And perhaps most importantly for me, I’ve promised myself that I won’t be taken advantage of - not by my flatmate, not by my brother, and certainly not by another stupid boy.So far, so good - I just hope I can keep it up.
And if any of you can put aside your doubt long enough to just give it a go too, I swear you’ll be glad you did. Even if all it means is having a tidy sock drawer for a few weeks.
For more info, visit www.lifecoach.com or get yourself to Borders and buy either Coach Yourself To Success or The Secret Laws of Attraction (McGraw-Hill) by Talane Miedaner. Even better, buy both! (And no, they’re not even paying me to say this!).
I’m proud to say that the closest thing I have to a self-help title on my book shelf is ‘The Book of Answers’ - which is basically the literary form of a magic 8 ball and generally asked such profound questions as ‘Should I wear the lace-up black platforms or my black suede boots today?’ So taking my scepticism into account, you may well wonder how it is that I ended up spending my Saturday afternoon sat in a boardroom at the Ritz surrounded by frantically scribbling women at a seminar entitled ’The Secret Laws of Attraction’.
Ostensibly, it was because myself and my new Deputy Ed Laura had decided it could be transformed into a great feature about how to get the perfect marriage. Truthfully, it’s because neither one of us is capable of saying no to anything that is offered for free (she‘s a fellow Edinburgh-er, you see). Since Laura joined the magazine, a typical day for us goes thus: Slap-up meal? “Of course!” Bottle of champagne? “Sure.” A day at the Ritz and a free lunch? “Where do we sign up?”We also both secretly harboured ‘Sex-and-the-City-esque’ visions of ourselves stalking into the swanky hotel, all dressed up to the nines, and stifling our laughter as poor dishevelled single women in their forties poured out their tales of woe and desperation.Of course, that’s not quite how it went in the end.
For one thing, we soon realised that the seminar wasn’t at all a lecture on how to get the perfect relationship - it was a life-coaching session to teach people (yes, there was even a man present) how to attract success in every area of their lives.The coach was a New Yorker who had transformed herself from a steely high-powered banker, to a wealthy entrepreneur, wife, and mother - all after one day when she found herself weighing up what would be more attractive: going to work in her office or stepping out in front a bus!And what she had to say wasn’t the usual crap about the battle of the sexes, learning to love yourself, and meditating (barf). It was actually just basic common sense. The short version: how can you expect to achieve anything in the future when you don’t know what you want or need? And your life right now, here in the present, is a shambles?
Just by posing a few pertinent questions, she had us all realising what exactly it was about our lives that was falling short, how to go about fixing those things, and what our true needs and goals were. And believe me, the answers to all of these questions were not at all what I expected. Who knew that one of my top needs in life was simply ‘to be right’? (well, yes okay a few of you might have, but I had no idea!). Throughout the day, Laura and I, who had both arrived as cynical Scots, found ourselves enthralled, enlightened, and emotionally challenged, in a way much more befitting of soppy Americans.
Rather embarrassingly, there was even tears - for Laura it was reaching a realisation about a past relationship; and, rather unexpectedly, for me, it was frustration and anger at my brother that caused the sudden welling up. We soon realised that none of the women there were needy or pathetic - 50% were strong self-aware women seeking some kind of clarity in their lives and relationships, and the other 50% were blagging journos like us. Oh yes, and there was that one man - who I think may have been on the pull (smart guy).
When home-time came round and the coach kicked our asses out so she could take her kids to see the Lion King, I was so hell-bent on starting on my road to success that I very nearly cancelled plans to go to a party with a free bar, in favour of going home to make over my flat (I said ‘nearly’ - I’m not that stupid).
Anyway that was two days ago, and I’m already making headway in sorting my life out - my home is now spotless from top to bottom; my clothes are all clean, ironed and put away; my paperwork is all filed; my bills are all paid; and I have appointments with the bank, the dentist, and the optician. I’ve eventually accepted that if I’m ever going to be comfortable in my own home, I’m going to have to move out of this flat that my flatmate and his pyscho girlfriend have taken over, and I’ve started looking for a new place. I’ve resolved to do something I love every day, whether it be writing, dancing, or pampering myself. And perhaps most importantly for me, I’ve promised myself that I won’t be taken advantage of - not by my flatmate, not by my brother, and certainly not by another stupid boy.So far, so good - I just hope I can keep it up.
And if any of you can put aside your doubt long enough to just give it a go too, I swear you’ll be glad you did. Even if all it means is having a tidy sock drawer for a few weeks.
For more info, visit www.lifecoach.com or get yourself to Borders and buy either Coach Yourself To Success or The Secret Laws of Attraction (McGraw-Hill) by Talane Miedaner. Even better, buy both! (And no, they’re not even paying me to say this!).
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Behaving like a teenager
It’s been something of an odd month for me. Miraculously, there has been two boys on the scene (yes, two!) and even more miraculously, I haven’t fallen for either of them.
First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.
Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”
Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.
But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”
‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.
“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.
“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.
When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.
The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.
What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.
Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”
What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.
It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.
Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...
First there was Haris. As soon as I laid my eyes on this one, I knew he was trouble. He was tall, obscenely cute, and had that cheeky glint in his eye that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Plus, according to my friend’s boyfriend who worked with him, he was also only 18. So, in a rare moment of clarity (or more accurately sobriety), I decided to keep my distance.
Trouble is, when he noticed me making moves to leave, he decided the complete opposite: ‘Aw you leaving already? I was just about to ask if you wanted to go out for a smoke…’ Looking up into his pleading eyes, my resolve faltered: “Well we are heading outside, so feel free to come with.”
Fast forward ten minutes, and I seem to have morphed into a giggling schoolgirl, Haris flirts in that super-obvious way that’d make any girl blush: standing directly in front of me so I’m forced to touch him just to get him out of the way, holding my gaze a little too long when he’s talking to me, asking if I’m a cuddler and if he can try out said cuddles, and basically just being ridiculously over the top and childish. It’s preposterous…but it’s fun and (I’m not going to lie) extremely flattering.
But the cigarettes smoked and my friends getting restless, it’s time to go. I turn back to Haris to say goodbye, and he leans in to give me a farewell kiss on the cheek, only that’s not where his lips end up - he playfully bites my neck then, probably in reaction to the shock on my face, quickly counters with a “Sorry, was that too much?”
‘Well hell yes, of course it was too much! I’m ten years older than you!’ I think, only I don’t actually say anything.
“And would it be too much if I kissed you now?” ‘Yuhuh!’ Say it out loud, Carrie.
“Ok I’m going to kiss you now.” ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ So yes, I kiss the beautiful boy, and it’s literally like being transported back to the days of public snogging at the school disco, only better, because this one can actually kiss.
When I eventually pull away, I turn round to Vicky staring at me open-mouthed in shock (or maybe admiration). “I think I better leave now,” I manage and push Haris away before he can cause any more trouble. “I cannot believe you just did that” exclaims Vicky. “I know, it was bad, wasn’t it?” “No, it was f***ing amazing!”she beams. “You should have got his phone number.” I practically float home.
The next day Vicky walks into work looking like the proverbial cat with the cream. “What?” I ask suspiciously. “What would you say if I told you I’d given Ian your number to give to Haris?” “I guess I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m not sure I’d mean it,” I smile. And this is how, a few nights later, I find myself rushing home from work to shave my legs and change my Bridget Jones-style granny pants, before going to meet Haris at the tube station.
What follows is the most ridiculously fun night ever - and one I’m afraid I’ll have to censor due to the fact that my dad occasionally reads this. Short version…we go for one drink, he tells me he turned 19 that week, I decide that’s much more acceptable than 18 and we go back to mine. “So we‘ll do this again, yeah? The sex I mean...” says Haris as he’s leaving to catch the last train home (yes, to his parent’s house). “Hell yes,” I say - out loud this time. There really was no other possible answer.
Then Ben came along with a different kind of offer altogether. In every way that Haris is inappropriate, Ben is appropriate. He’s 31, he owns his own flat, he’s looking for a girlfriend and he wanted to take me out on actual dates. And who was I to argue with a handsome man whose opening gambit was “I think you should give me your number, we should date, fall in love, get married, have six kids and live happily ever after. What do you say?” “I say lets start with the number and see what happens.”
What happens is we go for date number one, I think ‘Hmmmm, he’s thinner than I remember’ then quickly get rip-roaring drunk and end up spending the latter half of the evening in a cosy clinch in the corner of the bar. The next day I have no recollection of whether I really like him or not, so when he calls to ask me out again, I accept. And it’s this time that I realise he could never be for me.
It’s partially the bad shoes, and partially the wonky teeth, but most of all, it’s how keen he is - how much he’s putting himself out there and hoping I’ll do the same; how earnest he is when he asks if I’m having a good night, how pleased he looks when I kiss him (yes, okay, I kissed him again), and how he asks me on date number three before we‘re even half way through our first drinks.
Being the polite (and hopeless) girl that I am, I agree to date 3 then do the unforgivable…I cancel via text less than an hour before we’re scheduled to meet. Then I call Haris...
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