It's our quality time together

A big rack over a big butt any day

2010-06-23T21:11:00.001+01:00

Oh yeah baby – that’s what I’m talking about. Just listen. Name me the pop song equivalent of ‘I like big butts’ that goes on and on and on about breasts – the shape of them, how they move, what they’re like to feel, what they’re like in the trunk. Go on, where is that song?

When I was in Grade 5 – that is when I was 10 years old my best friend Monica commented while we were waiting in line to begin ball-room dancing lessons that I had a butt that wasn’t too small, wasn’t too big. She was 10!! Can you imagine how my 10-year-old self coped with such a random and unsolicited observation of my butt?

Nowadays I have men slowing down in their cars to yell out the window: Nice piece of ass baby. I have the checkout man holding me ransom while he packs my weekly shop telling me he likes a ‘woman with curves’. I have men on their way to work following me down the escalator to quickly praise the cut of my jeans.

All of these incidences and I could add many more to the mix – more times in fact than ‘I like big butts’ has been played at high school discos – I have been fully clothed. No mini skirts, jumpsuits or spandex in sight.

See the reason I chose big breasts over big butt is you can hide the dam things. You can cover them up. A turtleneck, a tailored shirt, a well-fitting bra.

Can you cover up your butt? Hell no! Even a light, draping material likes to cling to the contours, even wedge itself in the gap. Any trouser pant or jeans is just asking for it. There is no escaping!!

And there is nothing I can do about it – butt get on with it!!!

A lonely castle for a princess

2009-03-01T20:18:00.001Z

Let’s hope I am turning a corner and putting all those ‘arse-cakes’ behind me.

Arse-cakes: a term coined by my long-suffering friends to describe the over-crowded cluster of my ill-chosen romantic partners.

I quite like the sound of it, just not the endurance test of explaining why another one has gained new membership to this cluster.

And I think I could just about swallow the awakening of a pattern emerging but…it’s the ‘p’ word that disrupts my digestion of their sage advice.

“Every woman should be treated like a princess”

P is for princess. Does P have enough room to welcome in a prince too?

I can almost accept that ‘princess treatment’ was warranted when a woman had to give up so much of her freedom and choices to step into the role of a perfect housewife. Being a princess, I guess, was one of the perks that came with job.

Perhaps now it shouldn’t be perceived as a prerequisite of affirmation in how your beloved holds you so dearly.

Surely we’re prepared to forgo the tiara for a more equal footing of courtship?

Lonely but not alone

2009-02-26T22:24:00.000Z

I was addicted to Ally McBeal simply because the show always ended with the main character walking alone in the snow or the rain looking glum. To finely complement this scene came a sad acoustic guitar number.

It sat perfectly within my own home of self-pity. It was like the right cushion to go with my carefully arranged living room décor.

And well after the show had ended, I could tediously reconstruct the scene and the silent guitar number wafting in and out of my carefully placed steps. I was her aimlessly wandering the streets forlornly looking for love in a busy city full of strangers.

How romantic can you get?

Except when you go a bit deeper, this scene is just a tad too shallow.

There is a big distinction to be made when it comes to feeling lonely and being alone. I might be single, but thankfully being alone is actually not a reality I need to swallow.

Lonely is longing to feel intimacy with someone closer than your friend. Alone is the state where friends and family are not as near as they should be.

It is the one single danger a single person should be aware of. It is the one distinction you must grab hold of to avoid days of moping about and summoning the sad guitar music.

For it will never help in the end, as comforting as it may feel at the time. It is not your perfect Habitat fleece to own. It is highly flammable and completely unsuitable for your living room sanctuary.

I understand all too well its draw and aesthetic appeal. But I urge you to resist its pull, as it is only a fleeting comfort that harbours warmth to your own self-pity.

Days watching sad movies can pass in a blur with no uncomfortable moments of letting your security blanket go for a night of unexpected and welcoming opportunities.

Play it cool and put your coat on instead. I am going to anxiously experience a world beyond my living room to let go of the acoustic number in my head.

Primarni doesn’t come with a smile

2009-02-22T15:54:00.000Z

This ‘current economic climate’ is one long endurance test and muscle-toning exercise of our ability to post-rationalise those guilty shopping bags all the way home.

I am working out areas of my mind I’ve never used before in the quest to save a penny without scrimping on my materialistically-induced happiness.

Never before have I so fervently applied myself to the art form of baking. Recipes now followed to the last tablespoon and the oven sweating its poor socks off to keep up with one home-baked treat after another, which is then lovingly caressed by the glimmering glow of cling-wrap to await its stay in the over-booked freezer. It is then plucked out, transported with care to the office, unwrapped and nuked.

Yes, it is just one example of how I’ve let go of one treat to keep another one healthily in existience.

One new exercise regime I am finding hard to embrace is budget clothes shopping. I should feel overjoyed with my £15 ankle boot, but sadly it is over-shadowed by the black cloud of dissatisfaction.

I watch the glum androids of service staff as they avert their gaze over the top of many a greedy shopper’s head. And my thoughts wander to the utopian retail haven of enthusiastic, commission-driven shop assistants enquiring on whether I have the right size. I want to wander out of the dressing roam and bask in our collective admiration of the outfit choices I have made.

I want service with a smile.

Just like my frozen, home cooked lasagne in the middle after a five-minute microwave death it is time to deal with the cold harsh, fluorescent glow of when expectations collide with reality.

Over-attentive staff cannot survive in the bargain boot-camp environment of fallen clothes stripped off their hanger, shoes clumped in random piles and bonding with rolling tumbleweeds of dust and ill-placed human hair whilst the insanely glaring shopper negotiates their crazed path through what I liken to Discount Ground Zero.

So I wonder what has happened to this proud shop assistant.

Have they too adapted or are now rocking themselves to sleep after enduring a hostile day in a sparse, unforgiving cement shell that is now their nine to five retail home?

Or have they turned their back on the ‘crunch’ and sashayed off into the luxurious sunset with their smile and preened head-to-toe designer-draped self in tact.

Good on them I say. Good service should come with a price. And when all this is over I welcome your return and mine.

My credit card will be sure to welcome you with open arms.

Don’t take the player home

2009-02-21T20:40:00.000Z

Every woman’s worst pitfall is becoming the notch in a man’s belt.

For every woman entertains a morsel of romance to every affair encountered – regardless of its sordid nature or spontaneous eruption of desire. There must be an after-taste of purity that leaves a woman satisfied she was the one for whatever fleeting exchange of physical intimacy that occurred.

A woman in these instances is like an instrument that likes to be played well. She likes to be appreciated in producing the purest of sounds to appreciating ears. She is often giving in a good performance. It is music that tames the savage beast after all.

And that’s why players live such busy lives for the many instruments they get to play.

The temptation and desire for sweet, sweet music sometimes overcomes a woman’s instinctual nurturing of their long-term wellbeing.

I don’t think players are faltered by the creeping years of age and sensibility; they are just exempt from the fine-tuned performances of the women they seek.

It’s a catch twenty-two. The more a woman holds onto the purity and integrity of her performance, the more attractive she becomes to these players. It is the ultimate ticket they chase. For a player is obsessed with what they can’t play. The orchestra they won’t get to hear.

If you choose to be played, give them a note – but not your best one. Save that for you. And let it carry on until you find the right musician who knows how to get the best performance out of you every time.

A player for a season. A musician for a lifetime.

Hollywood killing us softly

2009-02-19T21:26:00.001Z

It’s evil. A genre of films has subconsciously wormed its way underneath the psyche of a currently unidentified vulnerable sector of society. It is slowly sowing the seeds for a very weak harvest of which the human race will suffer.

Okay, a tad dramatic. But it is worth painting a bleak picture for drastic measures to follow.

The growth of rom-coms is making the single woman suffer. For those feeling particularly vulnerable about their current relationship status, this genre of film feeds their misery in a way that liposuction temporarily cures the fat woman.

A cute band-aid for the trouble underneath.

Rom-coms breed unrealistic expectations of how romance should facilitate itself in a practical world. And women buy into these grand sweeping gestures on the celluloid screen and feel the hope that it will replicate itself in the reality we endure.

If we could all side-step the credit crunch, public transport and bad hair days then maybe, just maybe there would be enough space to let a little bit of Hollywood in. If we were all air-brushed the minute we left our houses and had undergone the Dr Phil confidence boot-camp, then perhaps, just perhaps that big magical soundtrack would sit behind the glamour of overcoming all the odds to get our dream-boat in the end.

But in practical terms, our lives do not resemble the Warner Brothers back-lot. And our dream-boats do not look like a George Clooney or a Brad Pitt.

It is a grey London day that is our setting with our leading man a little shorter, a little messier and a little less polished.

That’s not to take away from what is happening on the scene. It is still a beautiful thing.

All I am saying is make a little more room for reality and nudge aside the thought that romance should just be like the movies put it.

Do you really want to perform in front of a crew? Isn’t it just cute that only the two of you will know what romance and laughter really is?

DIY cleaning

2009-02-19T21:22:00.001Z

As you all know cleaning is close to my heart.

My new flatmate produced a toothbrush on her latest bathroom mission and my legs turned to jelly. I wanted to limply crawl towards her and I kiss her toes. Disgusting, I know! As she was standing by the toilet cistern of which was to receive her magic touch.

She then produced her polishing rag. That was when I knew I was finished. I was already on my hands and knees. It was a true Ghandi moment. I would’ve immortalised her then and there into the gold statue she rightly deserves!

People that clean and know how to do it well are my kind of people.

It’s not some OCD sympathy club. Far from it.

You see cleaning is not a selfish thing. It is appreciating the fact that anyone could come over at any time… and don’t they deserve clean sideboards and sparkling windows to match their company?

Lately, a few of my friends have evilly tried to slide me to the dark side. They have lovingly invested repeated, flourishing accolades of their paid-for cleaner: she irons my sheets so well and doesn’t steal a thing.

But I am not convinced. I know you are proud, you cunning things. You have won back time on a weekend that at moments of weakness I envy you so.

Just don’t come between me and my Hoover, or my flatmate’s toothbrush. Step back you lounge lizards and sip your lazy gin and tonics while I keep on the scrub with my Mr Muscle.

It is domestic therapy I am squirting on about.

While I spray, wipe and polish, so too am I eradicating the dust from my mental closet.

There is something so strangely therapeutic in mind-numbing tasks. Simultaneously I cleanse the four walls I live in – both inside and out. And the outcome is as strangely fulfilling as a messy night out.

When did single people lose their rights?

2009-02-19T21:20:00.000Z

Okay, it is a tad dramatic… but seriously come on!

My home, my sanctuary is now a barren field laced with booby trips just beckoning my foot or mouth to fall in. I’ve had to skilfully manoeuvre around my natural habitat to maintain my own sanity in the face of two couples co-habiting under the same roof I suffer under.

The kitchen and the bathroom seem to be the ‘hot zones’ where my patience dangerously weaves in and out of their occupation. My dinner sabotaged by their loving displays of conjuring up culinary delights to warm their cockles before copulation. My bathing subject to a hostile takeover as one partner after another stealthily slides under the radar to abort my need for warm water and a de-misted mirror.

My basic rights are under fire! This it seems is a survival story of a single person undergoing an endurance test no Navy seal would pass.

And I have not even touched upon the swift upheaval one experiences when conditions rapidly change – like a cease-fire. It’s an eerie silence before the troops come in.

I open the front door to find that two has become one – there is a sense of quiet and the deception that life has returned back to normal. And then like rapid-fire missiles of conversational chunks I embrace myself to take the hit.
Their barrage of love and gusto brought on by the absence of their other half, I take as body blows anaesthized thankfully by the affects of alcohol.

Temporary relief comes in the form of communication re-established between the two via a mobile phone interruption. But then it is back to action and the urgency is heightened as they unleash yet another tale of wounded emotions from a spurned advance of love or euphoria from a well executed move of commitment.

They are delusional. They’ve been AWOL and have deliriously come back home to a temporary existence of drinking, smoking, and swearing without the threat of their partner putting the alliance in jeopardy.

And as for me, well I feel like I’ve been put on rations. Those nights in where no one is in is scarce. I am adapting and letting go of lamenting about the good ol’ times.

Plus I am doing what any good survivor does – I am preparing my bunker for when times really do get tough. The one place that is still my own is my bedroom. And slowly but surely I acquire the necessary possessions to achieve an indestructible fortress of solace.

If you see a potty by my bed that’s when you know the war has really hit home.

Football & shopping

2009-02-19T21:16:00.001Z

Somewhere someone decided what boys like and what girls like.

I’d like that ‘someone somewhere’ to meet all the boys and girls who don’t like the things we should. We are grossly disadvantaged in the manoeuvring of the complicated social threads that we all try to seamlessly bridge in making friends and influencing people.

What is a boy to do if he doesn’t like football? Are you forever exempt from the regular celebration of drinking, burping and growling your way through ninety minutes of action with your fellow beasts?

This penultimate exercise in male bonding is a unique moment in time where the jobs you have, the cars you drive, the girls you shag are left to the sideline and nothing else matters. It’s where mates are made.

So poor, poor non-football-loving male is out of the game so to speak. It is so unfair.

This matter is close to my non-conforming heart – for you see, I am a girl, and shock horror, I don’t really like shopping!

It’s what girls do right? And supposedly they do it really well. Some of my friends not only indulge the concept of retail therapy they have turned it into a fine art where the credit card is more toned than their power-plated thighs.

Evil fluorescent lighting, row after row of bad taste and unhygienic dressing rooms with complimentary bundles of fluff and hair hovering in the corners from the previous tenants just leave me curdling with disgust and contempt for those girls that regularly partake in this pastime.

Why would I like it?

It’s a constant dressing, undressing, zipping, unzipping, buttoning, unbuttoning squeezing and contorting into this season’s trends to find the generic outfit that fits – only to discover it will be what everyone else will wear just like you tomorrow.

Baahhhhh. I just don’t see why you would do it unless you really had to. And this is where I become two steps behind when it comes to female bonding.

My girly friends would scream louder than the announcement of a Marc Jacobs 70% sale, if I told them I magically liked shopping. It would bring a new dimension to our friendship. We would spend hours dipping into our favourite shops, bags on hands like prized camels tripping along the Sahara. We’d gush in delicious delight and momentously toast our friendship with bubbles and giggles at the champagne bar.

Would the bubbles be enough? If I was drowning in it, then maybe… maybe it could make me forget evil lighting, dirty dressing rooms and the pain of seeing myself in three mirrors simultaneously.

Thank god that someone somewhere who wrote the book on what girls like, what boys like decided we all like the pub. Because that’s where I am heading after thirty minutes of retail hell. Sorry boys you have another sixty minutes to go.

Avoiding expectations

2009-02-19T21:02:00.000Z

As I heartily embark on another slice of birthday cake to mark another year of well-kept existence, I have begun to deal with the growing side order of expectations.

I guess it comes with age. Although, unlike a fine wine that matures it reaps no benefits. The expectation to follow a course set by the masses is one I am not easily digesting.

It seems a little unfair to expect that the three-course meal of mortgage, marriage and multiple offspring should be to everyone’s tastes. It also seems a little out of order to assume we all want a seat at this table.

By avoiding these expectations and freely exploring what is delectable to my palate, I’ve been spared the pain of indigestion.

I am one of the lucky few it seems.

But it doesn’t leave me with an after-taste of smugness for I must witness many of my friends desperately queuing or queue-jumping for a seat. Their relief of fitting in is palatable.

I wonder when they get there – when mortgage, marriage and multiple offspring – will they delight in the experience or be hungry for the next course?

Like any good chef, sometimes the pressures of timing can overshadow the passion of savouring what we have now. It all becomes a little scientific and bland without that lovely unexpected burst of flavour a secret ingredient like spontaneity can bring.

Give me a tapas bar any day – it all comes at once and it’s totally free-style.

Blats

2009-02-01T20:00:00.001Z

A new word for my daily vernacular. Blats – short for blatantly. And I for one am loving it!
Because it is a good measure of where I am at.

After a period of much-needed rejuvenation, care of many a messy night with the ‘yoof’, I feel age lines have softened or are magically absent from the face I look into the mirror. A healthy sashaying of my thirty-something hips in my skinny jeans is a consequence of these times.

But now I know. Well it’s ‘blats’. It’s a short gig, not a tour for me.

I like that I know I can’t keep up. I like that I exit stage left for my own comfy bed, not a space on the floor. I like that I complain the music is too loud or Class A drugs are not compelling enough to bring me to the next sunrise. I like the idea of dinner parties over warehouse all-nighters. I like sushi, not a cheap greasy kebab.

I like that these choices have arisen from choosing the alternative. I like that I’ve been there done that and now know what I prefer.

It’s ‘blats’. I should not blatantly disrupt the journey they undergo in appreciating these preferences.

It’s also ‘blats’ that we should know better. We should not kid ourselves. We do not have the luxury of reliving this all over again – because quite frankly it is selfish.

There’s nothing more self-indulgent than a ‘mutton dressed up as lamb’ masquerading and consequently gate-crushing youthful optimism.

Why turn your back on the experiences you’ve gained?

Don’t don your slippers and reading book just yet. Forget crochet and golfing lessons. That’s not what I am advocating.

I just think it’s time to stop pretending, and be proud that the ‘yoof’ get us for exactly who we are. Their cynicism is sharpened to butcher’s precision – they will see past that and put you in the corner.

Blat’s. Get out of their grill and just keep it real yah?

It’s my drama and I’ll cry if I want to…

2009-02-01T19:56:00.000Z

First of all I know this sounds like a stomach-churning truth, but I absolutely delight in hearing friends of mine discuss their relationship troubles.

Horrible I know!

But in a way it validates my choice to stay stubbornly single. And it reminds me that the glow of relationships only burns as brightly as I imagine in the honeymoon period.

But I have so typically diverted the subject back to me. Bad me.

Anyway, I have discovered that the girls I know who have enrolled themselves into the ranks of the ‘strong female army’ have feelings too. It is just a case of breaking them.

This can involve calorific treats or a wine-soaked soiree, but over time this soldier will soften and not pull rank.

I am fortunate enough to know some independent, feisty spirited women who have sub-consciously enlisted in this boot camp. I know – for I have wisely decided to go AWOL.

We are trained to fight on, to not question our innate vulnerability that comes with being a female, and to not succumb to a healthy barrage of self-pity. We are the women who bounce back from a long-hard battle of ego bashing and wear the brave smile as a badge to our dazzling armour.

But enough is enough. A semi-retired soldier can penetrate this built-in mind-set and encourage a disruption to protocol.

Because you are only as strong as the tears you allow yourself to shed on the battleground.

And that’s a true soldier’s soldier – a woman that lets her guard down.

Grumpy old woman

2009-02-01T19:51:00.000Z

Oh goodness… I didn’t know about this. I was prepared for age lines, longer hangovers and a relaxed six-pack, but no one told me I would become grumpier the older I get.

Oh indeed I am.

Meet grumpy old woman: I over-sigh at people asking silly questions in queues, grunt at commuters with back-packs, hiss at the ‘pram brigades’ in pubs, tutt at colleagues not putting their mugs in the dishwasher, glower at wait staff not taking my order instantly, fume at help-desk staff’s inability to give correct information and huff at the youth of today expecting it all to be handed on a plate.

See… I am not even kidding. I am grumpy. I never used to be. I put this done to becoming older.

And even more worrying than my overall annoyance with the general public is my lack of tolerance for those who are actually nice to me – my friends. Re-arranging social commitments, forgetting that is their round or just hearing the same grievances about their partner makes me want to ‘grump’ my way back home.

Grumpiness is often the result of intolerance and impatience. Where did my tolerance and patience go?

It would be lazy to blame the erosion of my calm demeanour on London living. I think every Londoner has a degree of this environmental malaise lurking somewhere in their system.

No, I think it is more than that. I believe in order to protect yourself from getting the permanent ‘hump’ you must be resilient and dedicated to your immune system of letting things get the better of you.

That’s where my brother’s judo mantra comes in handy: embrace the feeling and move on. Or if that doesn’t float your boat, how about a little Karate Kid action: wax on, wax off.

I am not prepared to become all Zen and bring out the joss sticks, but what I will start doing is letting it wash over me.

And, I think a light dose of remembering what it was like to be me twenty years ago will surely help: I didn’t get the Barbie doll I wanted so a few tears went a long way to knowing that at the end of the day these things happen for a reason.

It is probably worth mentioning that the particular model of Barbie doll eventually had to be recalled because of some pelvic malfunction.

So wax on, wax off my friends.

The incredible difficulties of not knowing what’s right

2008-11-09T19:58:00.000Z

Where is left and where is right, is something that doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has. I have failed in recalling those little tricks: look at the L shape your hand makes – that is left.

I experience a mild form of panic on a daily basis that a situation will arise where I have to instantly stipulate a left or a right, in fear of being exposed as the village idiot.

Tourists on Oxford Circus standing still, questioning maps and looking eagerly for a friendly eye to offer directions sends my stomach on the spin cycle. I am afraid I cannot fulfil my duties as a welcoming Londoner; I must look rudely down and walk on. I am of no use to you – my visitors.

A far greater pitfall is a trip to the optometrists. It is a rapid-fire drill of look to your left, down, right, up, and now left again. Oh my, does my brain go AWOL on these occasions. Needless to say my drill sergeant was left bemused as to how a fully functioning, adult member of society can fail such a basic task of knowing their left from their right.

Further 'mental issues' arising from this malfunction of basic knowledge is giving directions over the phone to friends. The point of reaching X often results in a snake-like journey and sporadic conversations involving random landmarks to pull off mission impossible.

As you can see I am grossly disadvantaged in life.

And much to your surprise and mine, I am discovering I am not the only one. It is a healthy dose of naturally induced ecstasy to stumble upon a ‘non-comprehendus sufferer’. In a flurry of excitement and relief we divulge our tales of horror and battle wounds. It’s not easy living a life where right and left is just so impossibly hard to grasp.

So, I believe I am the first member of the LR anonymous support group. I am here to share, support and nurture any other fellow individual with this similar shortcoming. Come forth and expose yourself in moving forward with haste. We will get some direction to our lives whether it is a left or a right turn we must take.

Double, double standards

2008-11-04T21:14:00.000Z

The feminist movement has done so much, but it can only move so fast. So in my generation there still exists a few nasty residuals of living in a man’s world.

Never do these effects resonant so loudly as the work place. I think this is a consequence of the women who work within these four walls.

We have become the perfect illusionists of creating a sense of equilibrium amongst the sexes and supporting our fellow gender on the pursuit to rewrite the boy school’s rules.

We know, the balance of equality is as fragile as the agility we exhibit in manoeuvring around office politics, egos and double standards.

So therefore, as we should, we must tolerate a woman’s prerogative to exercise her own free will within this risky minefield that is the office environment.

To undermine this choice is to go against the principle of trailblazing: a woman is a person who does her job well within that organisation.

To say that it is acceptable for a man to embark on an office affair with a junior female member of staff but intolerable for a woman to mirror the same scenario is double, double standards to me.

Why are we in this place?

Has competition turned so sour that a woman has lost her right to empathise or to enjoy that the pull of lust is not exclusive to one gender.

What a pity that we are not forward-thinking enough for our fellow generation of women.

In our generation, yes we have had to compete. We’ve had to fight for our worth, salaries and the appreciation of a battle-hardy soul that is still in tact despite our monthly hormonal challenges.

But now is the time to let go and educate. It’s our legacy to educate and adopt open thinking.

A woman getting off her face on a Friday night shouldn’t be gossiped about by the girls during their Monday morning latte. A man has done it many times before. Nor should office meltdowns, one-night stands or grotesque displays of grandstanding.

Because bet your bottom dollar you’ve already seen a man do it yesterday. So why today do you see it as somehow wrong for a woman to do the same?

It definitely ain’t the man that’s talking about it. It’s you.

And you are double trouble. You are the woman that wants it all, but can’t allow for some slip-ups along the way.

Where did you go so wrong?

Grey matters

2008-11-04T21:03:00.000Z

If life gave me a manual I wouldn’t be the confused person I am.

The closest I’ve ever got is a driver’s manual… and still I was confused. Giving way? But what happens if you think the person that got to the intersection second looks nicer than you, or is in more of a hurry?

I always let them go first; even though in black and white print it told me not to.

I wonder if my parents who embraced hippie-love would be mortified to know that our generation, in some weird kind of rebellion, have embraced the black and white rules that they fought against.

For a lot of people it just seems easier.

The code of conduct – morals heading into the 2000’s got a lot more complicated. No wonder rules are an easy and comforting security blanket.

Morals are a minefield of newfound liberty, equalising of the genders and uncertain freedom walked by an unsteady foot.

For example – relationships.

Being the middleman in a break-up is never a busy bar you would choose to buy a drink.

Finding yourself in the middle of two friends about to call it quits is never going to be ideal. It is hard not to hear both sides of the story and not pass judgement. And then you have last orders when one party decides to tell you that they have moved on.

Is it my responsibility to tell the ‘other half’ that ‘one half’ has moved on?

Questions of morals and loyalty interweave a detailed web of introspection and self-evaluation. If the shoe were on ‘my foot’ I would want to know the ugly truth – even if it is last orders.

Maybe that’s why with a bit of Dutch courage, I thought about my sense of morals first.

It would be easier to stay for another drink and see their relationship on paper for the black and white rules that we cling onto. Maybe it could work? Maybe over time? Maybe with a bit of post-rationalisation it could be all right? But would it really?

I think that rules can be broken. And in relationships it is the only time we can thrive in the grey area. But, sometimes…. Just sometimes looking at the black and the white it is the only way forward.

So I said to my friend the best piece of advice I have ever had given to me: do whatever you can to get over them. And if it means calling them up to 20 times a day – do it.

There are no hard and fast rules to breaking up. It is just the grey area of leaving someone behind that you have to get through.

Coming out of the closet, without actually being in a closet to begin with

2008-11-04T20:56:00.000Z

There are many taboos I’ve seen broken and accepted: tattoos, rehab, same-sex relationships, sex before marriage…

The list goes on. They are more like 'by the by' kind of things now. If you haven’t broken some kind of taboo in your lifetime, you’re seen as a little dull.

And furthermore what seems dull is these broken taboos no longer have the drama to go with it. I simply don’t want to be out-shocked anymore.

I still like my innocent moments of gasping: the reveal of a tattoo, the disclosure of an affair and coming out of the closest.

Recently, I don’t think I gave enough drama to a friend who came out. I knew she was. I just thought she wasn’t comfortable telling me, and I was too polite to ask.

But don’t rob me of my ‘gasping moment’ when she does. It is fun.

Fun why?

Because I don’t ever want to be some cynical, jaded old know-it-all who can’t appreciate that being gay even now is hard to say. I don’t ever want to just take it all in as something that is as normal as the inflation of milk, bread and the papers.

It has resonance for the people I care about. There should be some healthy drama to go with it. It is all about celebrating their decision to do things differently to what their parents did.

So we all knew she was a closet lesbian, so when she steps out of that closest, I want her to have her finest threads on and see it as her moment to shine.

And furthermore, she was never living in a flat-packed Ikea closet, it was absolutely bespoke to her.

Memo to boys: get over it

2008-10-14T21:03:00.001+01:00

I’m sorry to say your time is up. No longer can you wheel out your inability to express yourselves based on the past.

The security blanket of ‘macho men unable to cry because society has told them they can’t’ has now been well and truly removed from your grasp.

Men now emote. Your heroes do it on the big screen, the little screen, in autobiographies and during interviews in the changing room. Their emotions bring nations to their feet and throngs of adoring women.

Men now talk. Because their fathers have mellowed and seen the error of their ways. Thanks to a few self-help books, and an erosion of stubbornness in their years, they reach out to their sons for an open discussion.

Men now express. As it is celebrated and has worth amongst the people they do it with. A man who can talk about his feelings is seen as stronger than the pack mentality once behind him.

Men now are softer. Thanks to a beauty industry supporting them: moisturizers and preening are now socially accepted norms. Your softer side is superficially catered for and widely appreciated by the women around you.

And just like the women today who cry double standards, there is enough effort going on to change this that to rely on the past is simply lazy measures.

So suck it in and take it like a man: talk about your feelings, cry with the rest of us and embrace your vulnerability.

For women are wary now of the dinosaurs who won’t adapt. You will simply become extinct.

Turning thirty and exercising constraint… almost

2008-10-14T20:46:00.000+01:00

I will never buy into the thought of acting your age. To do otherwise, is turning your back on nature’s form of botox. Dressing your age, drinking in moderation, thinking before you speak is all the elements that bring on the lines and make you boring as fuck.

I’m not saying that dressing like a piece of old mutton, binge drinking and grandstanding is acceptable. I’m just advocating a sense of healthy rebellion.

Age in some cases is irrelevant. And should not be seen as a benchmark to the experiences you have.

But what I am finding slightly challenging, is letting go of some of things I gave no thought to in my twenties.

Eating three meals a day, exercising regularly and getting a good night’s sleep in my own bed have suddenly become paramount to my day-to-day equilibrium.

And what can disturb this self-imposed balance of maturity, wisdom and fragile grip on control is finding infinity with the twenty-something males I hang out with.

I relate to them. But not from a platform of hindsight, but just because they are going through the same shit I am. They wake up with mid-week hangovers, deal with break-ups based on acrimonious decisions to part ways, and have the same zealous drive to make their mark on the world.

I don’t think I’ve lost my innocence yet: that blind faith that no one can do it quite like me. That the world is still waiting to hear about me. That I can change the way things are done like no one else.

It does sound slightly cocky. But why bite into the cynical cake that everyone eats into in their thirties?

The only difference I’ve found to age is when the twenty-something male fancies me. That’s when I feel old. I don’t want spontaneous nights with cheap wine, college art projects, bad furnishings or naïve view that love conquers all.

I just want a male who will never buy into growing old the way society tells you to.

Why do we shit on bigger girls?

2008-10-14T20:34:00.000+01:00

Bigger girls: Taller than the average male, not the bijou statue representing the socially desirable body type. Could also be applied to a girl fitting the petite mould but big in personality, confidence or ability to do job well in a male-dominated working environment.

The beginnings of this observation are going to be slightly messy, so prepare yourselves – you have been warned.

Today a rather large, stubbornly positioned poo was found in the girl’s toilet at work. Much to my horror another female co-worker towards the end of the day unwittingly brought me in, to witness that this body by-product had not dislodged itself from its earlier position at nine in the morning.

Like a naughty schoolgirl, I brought three younger male members into the sanctimonious realms of the female cubicle to share my shock and hysterically giggle about girl-poo.

I knew they would enjoy my juvenile fascination with pooing. A few pictures on a mobile phone were taken (not by me, I might add). And I felt a sense of light relief in a day that was seriously over-stuffed with ‘grown up stuff’ for my liking.

But the laughs stopped there – for the males were a little distraught with the thought that women poo – let alone a cheeky fart.

Why do men struggle so with the biological fact that women do what they do: fart, burp and poo? Why is it deemed so unlady-like?

And when they chose to play CSI-detective and get to the bottom of it, why did they pick the big girls as suspects to this rather large piece of evidence?

Surely a little woman can do a big job like this as well?

It just seemed a little unfair that their suspects were women bigger in statue to them. And the unsuspecting, bijou lady who brought this to my attention was deemed to have shady, ulterior motives.

See no matter what size a woman is you just can’t win. Surely the evidence should have been a point of celebration. She had the balls to let go of the shit men want us to believe?

BFF*

2008-10-14T20:22:00.000+01:00

*Best friends forever

I remember my first half moon pendant – I shared it with my best friend Kate. As a whole our friendship would survive well into our adult lives of career, marriage and family. We would live on the same street, double date with our husbands and share a chardonnay after a long hard day at work.

And just like Beaches I would be the performer, she the preened professional. Unlike the flick, we would escape AA meetings, useless two-timing men and terminal illness.

We lived in wholesome Australia, where thanks to a daily dose of Home and Away, we thrived on innocence and isolation. Our view on friendships was as shiny as the half moon pendants we proudly wore around our necks.

I have no idea where Kate is now. Maybe she is married, maybe divorced. She could have a 9 to 5 job or be a stay at home mum. Hopefully she hasn’t experienced useless two-timing men or a terminal illness.

But I just don’t know. We lost contact. And I have no idea where my half moon pendant is.

The innocence of friendships in my adolescence, I’ve let go for a far more grimier version: less Home and Away, more Hollyoaks perhaps. I guess that comes with growing up and taking off those rose coloured glasses – replacing them for a pair of shades with a slightly darker view.

It’s not all doom and gloom; it’s just accepting that not all friendships are forever.

Some more or less resemble this season’s trends: they work short term, but then less appropriate next year. In a cruder sense, they outlived my need.

And it was the same when we had the pendants.

Your BFF in school could change as quickly as ra-ra skirts were in. It was just a little easier back then as it was more socially acceptable. You could easily bundle up last year’s friend in a bin liner, take them to Oxfam and feel you were doing a good deed: letting them free to discover a better owner.

But now, oh now… it is almost like a social taboo to do the same trip to Oxfam. Maybe you’re a tad too fickle, too haughty, too above your station.

Why is that? Have we lost our appreciation in the beauty that nothing lasts forever? That temporary happiness is just as worthy and valued over something permanent. I mean we never stay in the same job forever, so therefore it’s okay that some friendships move on too.

Just like jobs and trends – seasonal friendships should not be overlooked for the joy and satisfaction they bring.

How do you separate the wash?

2008-09-18T21:37:00.000+01:00

So after a month with Doctor Chardonnay and a few sobering sessions with friends, I have broken free of the pattern of bad weather. A cheesy expression I know – but sums it up just about right.

The practicalities have been dealt with: his clothes from my house removed, cleansing process of my room sorted. Thank you Mr Muscle Domestic Cleaner. The word is also out: we are no longer a couple, and hence exist as separate entities.

Done and dusted.

Just one lingering dust particle remains. Who are my friends and who are his?

This is not a difficult debacle or a bitter pill to swallow – it’s far more complex than that.

When times were rosy I embarked on the social circuit of his friends. And for the most part his companions were genuine, sweet and thoroughly likeable people. I got along well with them because I chose to put my best foot forward – I gave them me. It was an uncensored, unassuming me that took them on face value and not as his friends.

Of course, I was worried about judgement day. No one likes knowing that their partner’s friends can’t stand you. But I knew the only way to pass the test was to side-step people pleasing and see that they could spot a fake a mile away.

And in the end – I liked them as them.

So, do you give up friendships based on past associations?

Is it acceptable to continue a friendship with your ex’s friends? Or are you meant to let this go as well?

It seems such a shame to do this when based on such genuine feelings they became my friends too. It was hardly like I was pretending that I got along with them so well.

But is there a ‘loyalty line’ I am crossing?

If I can move on should I assume that my friends and my ex could too? Is it reasonable to expect resurrecting these friendships once based on the premise that I was a couple can still healthily exist? Or is it an umbilical cord to an old me that I should let go?

In a way I hope not. Because I like to think that even when in a relationship I still existed as me – my own separate being that could forge friendships based on who I was and what I stood for. And I hope that these mutual friends felt the same genuine motivation in knowing me. I certainly didn’t spot a fake Fendi-friend.

Well, I guess I’ll stick to the motto if it’s not fake, then keep it real.

I spy infidelity…

2008-09-17T20:47:00.000+01:00

Thankfully, I no longer have to worry about this. I am single, so therefore I could only cheat on myself, with myself. A bit boring I would think.

Unluckily for some of my friends the issue of infidelity is one they are facing. And if only the act of infidelity was so cut and dry as sleeping with someone else. If this were the case the outcome would be a no-brainer: accept it and stay, or move on.

But what I am learning through my friends is the actual definition of infidelity. It ain’t like the movies.

Does infidelity cover lying about your relationship status? If you choose to not declare your current state of affairs should you be deported from the moral high ground? Is this just an oversight or an act of deceit that warrants the stamp of infidelity?

Surely when you are in a relationship, it is more than just common manners and decency to deftly bring into conversation you are in existence with a partner. I am not dictating that this should be the case applied to every encounter you have with a stranger. But we can all pick up the vibes of an interested party.

Do the decent thing and not lead them on. Not just for the sake of your loyal partner, but the person in front of you who fancies their chances with you.

Next case in point of undefined territories of infidelity: flirting. Never should one lose the art of flirting whilst still in a relationship. But one should be acutely aware of the precise line of crossing it.

Flirting is a dangerous game to play when your partner isn’t looking. What happens when they do look your way? Will they appreciate your close contact with someone else as meaningless fun? And do you possess the willpower to not be dangerously tempted and take it that one step further?

I am not sure humans were ever meant to be monogamous. But that’s what we’ve brought into. And in a way that’s what your partner has too.

Infidelity takes on many strands. It unravels back to abusing loyalty, trust and respect of the person who has chosen to be with you. So, it can be as subtle as non-disclosure and as exhilarating as dirty dancing with someone else that qualifies as an act of infidelity.

Feel free to post-rationalise at your will, but at the end of the day it is only you who will get bitten. I believe in ‘love karma’ – fuck with that and you’re likely to be sitting on your ass in your eighties with five cats and no one to love.

They say: Everything happens for a reason…

2008-09-17T20:40:00.001+01:00

Do we believe them? ‘We’ being everybody else out there who thought this year was going to rock.

This saying is one that is wheeled out for every occasion: redundancies, rejection, relationship malfunctions… It is the one size fits all of clichés.

Got no advice? Then wheel this little puppy out. It’s great.

But why is it great?

I’ve been on the receiving end and have actually experienced a minor glow to hear these words. I haven’t skipped home, but it has definitely made me see the light at the end of the tunnel… and just possibly, just possibly I’ve considered the fact that the lumpy turd that has landed on my doorstep day in and day out is some cosmic endurance test of my positive thinking.

With a little perseverance, optimism and belief in this cliché, I will see that fate has once again interrupted and produced a scenario way beyond my wildest dreams.

I will see my impatience and intolerance has been challenged for the greater good. I will garner life-affirming lessons that will carry through to my retirement of lazy gins on the back deck in my eighties. I will impart small gems of wisdom as I go along care of this Oprah-like journey of rising above it all. Thankfully I will not develop a cranium of her size.

But in the meantime, and in the quest of seeking enlightenment, this cliché really does piss me off. I want to stamp all over it and tell it to fuck off. I am sick and tired of waiting for life to do its ‘divine intervention’ – I want it now.

Just like horoscopes, it seems this cliché caters for the masses. And just like horoscopes, I will pay attention to it daily in the hope it is self-tailored to me and all the things my little heart desires.

What you talking about?

2008-09-17T20:32:00.001+01:00

I’ve decided that there are two types of conversationalist: those who do substance, and those who do not.

Need a little defining? My pleasure.

Those who do substance can deftly cover a girth of topics from politics to penises. They can delve into these subjects with revealing a little bit about themselves along the way. And, can penetrate into more intimate matters of the human psyche.

For those that do not do substance this all sounds rather deep – and surely a tad scary. That’s the misguided, amateur’s perspective on the art of substantial conversation. The virginal-like caution they exhibit when talk takes an interesting turn is both sweet and frustrating at the same time.

Those that flit, flirt and tease around the edges of substantial conversation do so as they’ve truly mastered the art of chitchat more comfortably than they should.

This is not to say that casual chitchat, frivolous banter, or chewing the fat should be frowned upon or seen as infinitely inferior. I acknowledge that without its existence we would be unable to enter so effortlessly into the substance.

But to rely solely upon it, really does sort out the meek from the brave. And hence limits your opportunities to forge bonds, establish your own sense of self and satiate your thirst for humans and the way the world works.

On a more crude, scale of social Darwinism, those who do substance increase their chances of an invite – be it as an unexpected guest at a dinner party, an impromptu work drink, or an extension of the conversation with the person you’ve found yourself fancying.

Putting all the analysis aside, it comes down to one thing: intimacy. And the consequence of this, is feeling closer to the people around you.

All the substantial conversations I’ve had with people has brought a little skip to my step for the courage it takes to share with them exactly who I am.

And that has all the makings of a life overflowing to the brim of relationships based on love, laughs and lots of last orders.

Stalking... an unnecessary evil

2008-09-06T19:30:00.000+01:00

I swear to god without the advancements of technology, breaking up with your ex would be a hell of a lot easier.

Like a monumental thud, a resonating pebble in a pond, the Facebook announcement of a broken heart on a progress report haunts all of us so. I can’t count the amount of revelations I’ve come across of close, mutual, not-so-close friends announcing their break up electronically.

It just seems so crude, so informal, and so distant. I see the broken heart, so do I wall-to-wall them and ask if they are okay?

I would rather discover this change in their life via a face-to-face contact at the pub. It would go something like this: So how is life? Oh, you’ve broken up. How are you feeling?

Not some public announcement for your 200 friends to stumble upon when they log in.

Thankfully, my break up has by-passed that. I refused to play ball on Facebook and disclose my relationship status. I just saw it as something for me, and for me only to discuss at my liking.

But I still stumble upon Web 2.0 advancements.

I can’t manage to quieten my curiousity. I want to know what my ex is up to.

It’s not like I am seeking some pleasure that he is curled up crying himself to sleep. I guess I just want to know he is not curled up being spooned by somebody else.

But you know what? It is none of my business anymore.

He is a free man and entitled to roam the stables of single fillies. I just wish that Web 2.0 wasn’t around for me to keep checks on his progress.

With all my willpower left to muster, I must let go of scouring his Outlook calendar for non-work related meetings, checking on his Facebook pages and his friends. I have to cease being the cyber detective I have ashamedly become.

There are no clues to be gleaned. It is just over. I made the decision too. It is time to face up to facts.

Stalking only brings more questions, which will never be answered online. The Q&A session is only fully resolved in person. And failing that, it is up to me to fill in the blanks and move on.

With just one facial gesture, the questions are answered. No riddle there.

I could twitter about that…

Are independent girls mean?

2008-08-15T23:54:00.001+01:00

When Lindsay Lohan starred in Mean Girls the setting was an intricate spider-web of high-school hang-outs away from the class room.

I didn’t think that this would apply to a woman like myself embarking on the scary, yet liberating (so I am told) decade of being in your thirties.

But strangely and eerily relevant is this plot.

Are the cool kids the ones that do co-habitation and babies? Are the mean girls the ones that hold steadfast to their independence?

Let’s just clear up one thing now. You can be independent and still be in a relationship. They can exclusively intertwine and become a modern day fairytale.

It is possible to love someone and not move in with them, or have any instinctual womb-like callings to have their children.

Do I have to justify my independence? Or do you think it is a consequence of commitment-phobia?

Women my age have seen their mothers and fathers embark on the conformity of divorce. It is no longer a social no-no. Like swings and round-abouts, the truth be told, it is now an exception to have your parents happily married just the once and still pleasantly be together.

And so with the choices our parents have made to break-free from their parent’s generation of the rigidity of marriage and legal commitment, we too seek to disrupt the conventions our fellow love-seekers aspire to.

Maybe it is all right to consider a future without a partner.

Maybe, just maybe, it is all right to think of having a child without a father. Or having no children at all.

Are independent women okay with having to acknowledge, or maybe through fate having to accept a future of doing things on their own?

I am not so sure.

Society and women have a long way to go. But we are closer to seeing that settling down is a freedom that we now have. The choice has to become ours.

And the challenges are just as challenging. I challenge that you can be single and still be a worthwhile human being. So many people attach their own sense of worth through being attached.

I challenge that a woman can have a mind of her own and still be loved. She is not on her own. I am not. I have friends, family and who knows… maybe a dog.

When did working become so unhealthy?

2008-08-03T17:57:00.000+01:00

Like an epidemic it is sweeping across London infecting those who once had a social life and perspective. It is leaving those affected with constant exhaustion, lack of clarity and hunched shoulders.

A temporary cure it seems is short, sharp bouts of intoxication accompanied by monotonous, mundane whinging surrounding the very place they are seeking to escape from. This alcoholic ritual is then ended with a wallet stuffed full of forgotten bar receipts that can or cannot be expensed. The latter usually determined by the ability to get past ‘fuzzy head’ syndrome the morning after.

It is so tempting to account these habitual patterns of escapism as a healthy release. But is it? When nothing is resolved and you’ve lost the ability to resume conversations with normal everyday civilians about the joy of life.

Other more enduring side-effects are general lack of sleep, the lost art of home-cooking, tunnel vision and a stubborn denial that nourishment exists outside the work place.

For some, there are more serious consequences. This can involve a break-down of a relationship – because if your absence is the only thing you can bring to a duo, then surely it is doomed. And potentially more fateful, is the loss of yourself – of who you are and what you do beyond your ‘nine to five’ job.

Its reached epidemic proportions. Like a relentless virus it shows no mercy, even to those of the strongest will. It thrives on the inability of individuals to say no. And when the rest have given in, it is no easy feat to stand alone and not succumb.

So are there any preventative measures one can take? Just the one – don’t get a job in advertising.

Channelling Grace Kelly

2008-07-17T21:12:00.000+01:00

In difficult times one has gleaned an important insight – do it like Grace Kelly.

Difficult times could be considered breaking up with a partner. Grace has come in handy on many an occasion – especially when the broken romance begun, lived and died within office confines.

It’s the sweet and the sour that experiencing an office relationship brings.

Sweet being the taste of minimal effort required when day-to-day contact is a lovely likelihood in the throes of springtime flourishing. Sour is the offset of a faded dream wafting through the stale air-conditioning vent of my now restricted-access workspace.

But just like Grace I resist chav-like notions to exact Burberry-esque bitterness on the ex. The thought of relocating his clothes from my house onto his office desk in a heap, or on the streets is tempting.

But would Grace lower herself so? No she would not.

I could cry epic proportions of public tears too – if I was not Grace. Maybe if I was more Croyden-like with the makeshift facelift. Surely the tension of the hair being pulled so tightly into a ponytail would be motivation enough.

This just isn’t dignified.

Too few people actually impart this gem.

Moving on gets easier when you carry it off with a bit of dignity. It might feel like a massive effort – but so too is donning a pair of killer stilettos and taking on the cobbled streets of London. But wow, do you look amazing.

Dignity is more than just keeping up appearances, it’s about putting on a brave face and taking it all in your stride.

Oh bloody hell, I just remembered the Mika song. Dam it …

Girls who catch cabs...

2008-07-05T23:05:00.000+01:00

I chuckle, I gahhh-fffwwahhh

Girls who regularly catch cabs live in a world of their own.

I would love to catch cabs here, there and everywhere.
But sadly I don’t think my ‘fake’ Chloe purse would allow me.

Some of these girls have the fakes as well.
But they have the ‘real’ money-making boyfriend or the ‘real’ money-making job to make that cab-journey home a guilt-free ride.

Or maybe they don’t…

I could hardly place these cab-ferrying women in an Old Man’s Pub.
But yet they come to my resting place.
An Old Man’s Pub.

They dabble in civilian life only to cleanse themselves with a Black Cab ride home.
They drink house wine or sup a dirty pint.
They dip their toes in the puddle of normality.

But it all seems real to me.

An evening dripping in pretension at Soho House, or any House for that matter, is as dirty as buying a kebab from my rodent-ridden local.
Pretending that a job in advertising is glamorous, important and well-paid is a futile exercise in ignorance - and on the same par as convincing yourself that one day you'll give to charity.

Who knows what makes these private-membership-loving-kittens happy?
I just hope these ladies bereft of a well-used Oyster Card, will temporarily ditch the Black Cab pretense for a temporary night of keeping it real.

It will be cheaper.
It will be relaxed.
And there's always in-house entertainment provided on a night bus.

Does breaking up get easier?

2008-07-05T22:13:00.000+01:00

You would think like any thing in life, the more practice you have the better you get.
So does breaking up with someone get any easier?

I still rely on the staples of getting through these things: tears, wine and good friends.
They all serve very well embarking on the new flight of single-dom.
But I don’t really think I have ‘breaking up’ fully nailed.

I still ask myself: Is it me? Will I be alone for the rest of my life?

And the older I get, the more complex it becomes.
Should I learn to accept that the ‘right package’ won’t come along and take what I can get?
Or should I keep window-shopping until I see the right thing?

When do I need to think of myself reaching the used-by-date?
And should I start looking back on the past to investigate any patterns of behaviour that aren’t serving me well?

I think the more you break up the more questions arise.
There is timing – catching the right flight.
There is the issue of baggage – you have a defined limit you can take on any flight.
And there is the destination – is it a holiday stop-over or something more permanent.

Most importantly when is the right time to board?
And I am escaping or just giving myself a break?

So many questions…
At least on long-haul flights you can rely on the fact that they will provide alcohol and comfy socks…

What do you do when summer hits?

2008-05-26T18:19:00.001+01:00

Let me say before I even begin… I am the minority.

Leaves on trees, sun on the back, happy people on the tube… oh, bless. People feel happy again.

But I don’t.

I liked grey miserable mornings. They were like the perfect handbag to match my mood.

Just because the weather has changed do I have to feel happy again? Come on. As a collective group of grumpy Londoners we united. Weather shit. Tube shit. Lack of quality coffee shit. Lack of exposure of skin to sun shit.

I felt shit. But everyone did as well. Just because it is sunny do I have to wake up and feel good about life again?

What a struggle.

But I will convert. Tubes are better when you wake up earlier. Legs are seeing sun when you take a breather in the park to catch up on the papers. Job gets easier when you see a change in the pattern. Relationships grow when you know that things can only get better not worse. Holidays bring you a wave of relief that a new haircut cannot deliver.

And time can just stand still. At least for a while until I have caught up on what was an everlasting winter.

It is time to thaw. A meltdown is just as good as a springtime.

Breaking things... does it work?

2008-05-26T18:15:00.000+01:00

The worst thing is looking back and knowing that I should’ve known better. It is not my sycophantic streak I am pampering…

It is just the realisation that some stuff needs a healthy dose of disruption. Habits are as comfortable as a welcome mat. It’s a familiar home to come to when times get tough.

That’s why holidays can be the most stressful things on this planet. The mat looks different and isn’t where it should be.

The day has a plan that you are not yet privy to and are forced to stand still. It is the home of reflection that you have stepped over. It is brimming over with freedom and potential.

How do you handle that, when routine tells you not to?

How do I deal with things that should’ve worked out on paper but haven’t? How do I let go of the assumptions I’ve made?

I made these assumptions as much as the hope I cling onto. If you work hard, you get something out of it. If you care for someone, you don’t get burnt.

With fingers scolded I realise that this is no holiday.

It’s part of waking up. Breaking patterns is good. It makes me feel scared. It’s the in-between stage that is the exciting part. Like a holiday, I realise that things don’t need to be the way they were before. Sometimes doing things differently offer up a new host of choices I haven’t previously considered.

It’s a new itinerary with some interesting destinations along the way.

Imaginery friends

2008-05-05T20:58:00.000+01:00

Someone asked me today if I had an imaginary friend…

Boy, could I do with an imaginary friend now! This grown up thing is not all it is cracked up to be.

There is a lot more to be had than dealing with job, shelter and love of all creatures large and small.

It is dealing with expectations that is the killer.

Am I expected to know it all by 30? Should I be worried that I haven’t quite figured out the work-life balance? Should I care that I am not the person I thought I would be when I was in school?

I shed ideals for reality. I make compromises for practical reasons. And I fall into bad habits that wake me with a guilty reminder as rigid as my alarm clock.

I take shortcuts. I let people kill the kid in me to get a serious dollar go further. I stop playing to ease a mind that worries me far beyond the day ahead. I lose the passion for people’s plights a world away from me.

I stop fighting. I let go.

But I haven’t given up.

So this imaginary friend pops up in the most appropriate situations to remind me. I do have a choice. I wasn’t born with a manual or a contract.

I was dealt an ever-changing card of hands. There is a bit of a gamble, along with lady luck who makes an short-lived appearance. But I am still in the game.

Shedding skin

2008-05-05T20:55:00.000+01:00

I thought I could do it, but I can’t.

In the attempt to be someone I am not, it has actually brought out my neurotic side. Thankfully it is temporary and nothing a hot bath can’t fix.

I can not be a doting girlfriend. I cannot spend all my time with him. With a huge sigh of relief, I realise he cannot do it either.

That’s another reason why I have loving thoughts for the guy. He gets me.

Somehow along the way I bought into the fact that in order for it to be ‘romantical’ it had to be 24/7. It was the intensity that cemented the relationship. It was the timesheet of love – the hours acquired, the small breaks in between that determined the health of the relationship.

But after striving to do that, I have realized, I have made myself quite sick in the pursuit of it. I lost the ability to function healthily without him, I lost the nourishment of friendship and I did not feel the exciting butterflies touching my insides when I was spontaneous.

Instead I felt burdened by the weight of expectations. I felt I had to perform beyond the expectations I had. I felt I had to fulfil the requirements I had conceived society would want me to. In short, I compared and contrasted my relationship to theirs.

Never did I look within and see I have a semi-annoying, but patient guy holding my hand while I nagged him down the street.

So, tonight I peel off some layers of expectations. Because he is worth the tears of onion skin, but he deserves more. Less tears, more action.

An anorexic social calendar

2008-03-28T09:14:00.001Z

When I look at my diary I believe it is truly starved of any form of spontaneity. I see birthdays, leaving dos, over-due catch-ups, compulsory office socialising... I even see in tiny elated scribble a memo to self: Staying in.

I believe I have become obsessed with the need to fill my waking hours fulfilling obligations. It has become a sweaty workout of squeezing social with work commitments, health with cultural needs, boyfriend with friends, creative with practical considerations…

Are we all this busy? And do you all enjoy the same sick adrenlin rush I do when I am racing from A to B to F to Z?

You see, I think the act of being busy has somehow become representative of the fact that I am such an important person on this planet. If nobody wanted me, why would I be rushing?

This full diary is a superficial truth that I much prefer to stick to rather than fix. Hell, who needs to sleep, rest and contemplate the meaning of life? God damm it, I am busy ‘doing’ the meaning of life.

But I fear I am so wound up doing it, that the feeling it bit I ain’t getting. And surely, that’s not worth starving yourself of a hearty chunk of doing fuck all.

Why you should never say: I love you

2008-03-17T22:57:00.000Z

These three words are as lethal and as loaded as ‘I’m sorry’. The weight behind the afore-mentioned phrase is elephant in proportion and as over-used as the Hallmark cards it’s printed on.

I have witnessed the ‘I love you’ used on many a battlefield. The first time it is said is typically akin to a long-fire, patiently judged shot to the heart. Ever after, watch for the quick-fire succession of ‘I love you’s’.

You know when a death of a relationship is closing in – you’ll be ambushed by this three-word statement. It is used to induce guilt and offer the attacker a perverse sense of elation and smug victory.

Before I continue… I am not bitter, twisted, mad or sad. I just lament the days when ‘I love you’ was sacred. It had yet to become commercialised. There were no tacky teddy bears with shiny hearts emblazoned with a slogan as fluffy as the filling.

And in the days where domestic bliss was untouched by political correctness, it was a free expression of love. It was innocent, pure and private – just meant for two.

There were no cringe-worthy, yet strangely watch able couch-jumping declarations of it on Oprah. And for us non-celebs, it didn’t come with any notion of practicalities like a pre-nup.

Love doesn’t seem like love to me.

I worry that as soon as I say the words, I will destroy what I have co-created. I am cautious it will become a cliché. But most of all, I fear that it will mean less and less the more I say it.

And why not feel this way? I see it has become everything it is not: manipulative, deceptive and shallow. It has become a yardstick to the success of a relationship, rather than a beautiful consequence of it.

It has lost its way.

The art of cleaning

2008-03-04T09:55:00.000Z

As the pace of life gets faster, does that mean we become dirtier? Is cleaning one of the first things to go in order to keep up?

Or can we blame our parents…

Maybe it was their quest for us to succeed – to go one step further than them – that meant cleaning lessons simply gathered dust? They made the decision for us: less cleaning, more professional networking.

Could this be why twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings look at me blankly, almost stupidly, when I explain that I defrosted the freezer? (I haven’t done it yet – but I am thinking of it).

This question swiftly arrives on my messy doorstep as my soon-to-be-former flatmate moves out this week. She is… and this is the most nicest way to put it… allergic to elbow grease and blind to her own nasty mess (including the bathroom).

Don’t worry, I am not about to unleash a bile-ridden rant and take you down to the ‘emotional dump’ of fallen flatmates. She has, just sadly, brought to my attention the lack of passion for Mr Muscle.

I can sense you sceptically eying my plastic yellow gloves with suspicion – you think I am a ‘Monica’… I suffer from an anal need to control my surroundings… I simply have no life and cleaning is my substitution for social interaction…

Well, shame on you.

I have been described as easy-going, have friends and go out often. I am a normal person who enjoys a clean house.

But I have to say, when I say these words out aloud, it is I, who feels like a dirty social outcast. The shame of it is more to bare than the dusty side-boards I’ve just spotted.

So why is grime not a crime?

God, that was a little cheesy… but I bet you never thought someone who likes to clean has a sense of humour too.

Death by butter-knife

2007-11-11T18:42:00.000Z

I am sure everyone knows the morbidly fascinating fact that you are more likely to be murdered by someone you know.

And when I first heard this, my knee-jerk reaction was to consider who would’ve or is currently contemplating terminating my life, as we know it. Lucky for me this list of candidates is short.

But now I found myself feeling that the shoe is on the other foot. I shouldn’t be worrying about my own death, I should be concerned about the murder I am likely to commit should my flat mate’s mother stay another day in my house.

Ironically, I am the prisoner in my own house. Thankfully my cell has a comfy bed, wireless Internet connection and occasional conjugal visits.

However, it must be said that rehabilitation is far from sight. This eighty-year-old woman is testing the limits of any human’s tolerance. It is physical and mental boundaries that she likes to push.

Would you like to know of recent torture methods she’s tested me on? Hours of Frasier and food channel footage, mind-numbing conversations over one exclusive topic – the wonders of her backward Australian town, constant tutting over anything ‘unlady-like’ – this can include short skirts, drinking, smoking and a non-Aryan boyfriend.

Yes, you too would be reaching for the butter-knife. Why would this be my implement of choice?

Because I can’t tell you how many nights I have had my own basic need to eat hijacked for the lard-fest she cooks to present to her doting daughter. Followed by, like a bitter after-dinner mint, an in-depth analysis between the two of them on their culinary success.

I know this is a very un-like me. It is a rant. And this blog was never the vehicle for this uncensored emotional release.

But what are my alternatives? Maybe the job would be easier done with a steak knife?

It’s just the same, without the uniform

2007-08-03T16:06:00.000+01:00

So we replace mum’s home-packed lunches, homework and teachers for more home-packed lunches (only we are responsible for the soggy sandwiches), homework and bosses.

Think you can escape the pitfalls of the schoolyard now you’re grown up. Think again.

The minefield of en vogue open-planned offices only encourages a more advanced version of popularity games and social cliques.

Who are you friends with? Whose mailing list are you on? It is school all over again. Only this time we are a little bit older and wiser.

Are you the bully or the bullied? Are you popular or still looking on from the outside?

Whether you think you’re above all of this is irrelevant. The jockeying for position exists regardless of your input. Your refusal to partake probably even drives the engine more so.

Office politics is a more grown-up replication of the school-yard popularity contest without the hormones. Friendship alliances are even more critical and wield stronger results. Whether it be a promotion or demotion, who you hang out with affects your grade just as much as it did in the class room. Let’s do the algebra a boss is unlikely to hand a sweet bonus to a minion they don’t like.

The rules don’t change either. You’ve got lots of friends – chances are people in the office are going to be nice to you. Why piss off Miss Popularity when she’s only going to talk to half the company about you at the pub?

And if you like watching it all from the edge, then observe and enjoy my friends, the persuasive techniques administered by those who value popularity as much as a job well done. It is more than butt-licking the boss, it is taking notes from the bible of How to Win Friends and Influence People. It’s doing the coffee run, it’s dictating the after-work curriculm, it’s a well-worked finger on the pulse.

You see nothing changes after graduation – cool is still the currency that opens doors and sees a full inbox.

In essence, it is playing the game of perception. It is not enough in this competitive sphere to just be good at your job. You have to make others think that you are good at it too. And how do you do that? By determining and managing people’s perception of you.

What kind of person in the office do you want people to think you are? We all have an office persona – so what’s yours? And how do you make it work for you?

Are you the school-yard bully that scares others into doing a good job? Or do you go for the sycophantic approach and convince others you are from the wrong side of the tracks aiming for a better life? Or maybe you’re consistent and stick to the allure of the enigmatic loner you were when Clearasil was still your best kept weapon.

I am not saying its right; all I am saying is that it is foolish to deny its existence. Don’t think we’ve risen above all of that simply on the basis of our age/maturity. Just do the things you never had the balls to do at school because now you can.

Brain-washed into being sexy?

2007-08-03T09:19:00.000+01:00

Have you ever wondered why there are so many photos of you on a night out doing a face that can only be explained as half Barbie-pout, half psycho-killer. Or my other favourite, is the ‘face’ of looking wistfully in the distance with lips a calculated distance apart to resemble the throes of an orgasmic moment.

I am charged and plead guilty to the above offences.

Maybe I could blame it on the beer, the wine, or the combination of the two. Or I could just face facts.

I am compelled to capture a moment that epitomises my innate sexual and sensual self. Or, so I try.

Do I do it because I think nobody else can see it? Or do I make the same mistake over and over again like Kylie and the botox because I am brain-washed into believing I SHOULD be sexy?

After all, a photo is immortal – it lives on longer than us. And so it is that the guilty pursue a long-lasting memory of being valued as sexual gods existing above the meek who can’t pull off the ‘face’.

I’ll face up to brutal facts again. I prize a photo of a perfect expression of me any day over a ‘nice’ shot with a friend.

We all know vanity is selfish and the feather to which we brush our egos, but what drives us to project our sexual self in photos as opposed to another self?

I have no immediate answers – so therefore I will revert to pouting while I ponder this question. Snap away if you will.

Sharks and brooches

2007-08-01T13:33:00.000+01:00

I work in advertising and it is all sell, sell, sell, sell.

I am starting to think life itself is not that far removed. In particular, I am considering that putting yourself out there in the great wide ocean of dating draws similar parallels.

What scares me is the sharks.

And it isn’t the ones with the big fins and testerone – it’s the predatory females I am worried about.

The female sharks that have had their fair share of the pickings and want more – those are the ones that make diving in quite a peril. Swim at your own risk some might say.

Alright, enough of the loaded analogies. What I am talking about is the thirty-something woman. They are the ones that have played the game and yet confuse me so.

Why are they so hungry but predatory at the same time?

Why do they want to play survival of the fittest when they don’t feel they are at the top of the pack? Are they secretly in love with the downfall – biting off more than they can chew?

These women I see as powerful: great careers, good dining experiences, enviable wardrobes and a vast expanse of knowledgeable topics. All the things that I am sure I can reach over time. Yet they are there and not enjoying it so.

Their game is so much more complex than a man’s avoiding commitment and the next date.

I think women are just as confused about their feminity as men are confused with their loss of masculinity.

Women are far more sexual aggressive and proud of it. But it doesn’t really seem to go hand in hand on a practical sense. It is like taking out a designer bag whilst wearing track pants – it isn’t a match made in heaven.

I guess we haven’t quite learnt how to accessorize. And it is blaringly obvious we are getting it wrong. We should be proud of being sexually liberated while wearing the brooch of vulnerability. We should be sleeping around but taking into account that underlying all of that our instincts are motivated towards settling down.

We should be as open about our sexual exploits as we are by our need to feel taken care of.

Women have already fought the battle of washing up the dishes and having one night stands. But we haven’t won the fight of being independent women that can allow ourselves to let go for a man that wants to take care of us.

Desperado or deliciously diligent?

2007-05-30T12:07:00.001+01:00

The radar. Some people have theirs so highly tuned it doesn’t have a sleep mode. Others, like myself need to turn them off blinker mode.

Recently, I went on holidays with two of the most out-of-action girls I’ve met in long time. Romance or fling hadn’t played a part in their daily lives for quite a while. Yet their radars were a true technological feat to behold. It could pinpoint and see a target a mile away.

I was truly envious.

What did it take to turn my radar up a notch or two? I need an upgrade or flick-through of the manual.

I guess, I made them my manual. And studied them so.

Now, I am wondering if I’ve over-studied.

The other night in my attempt to be a cultural, intelligent and slightly bohemian academic I went to a talk about the developments and ramifications of autism spider-webbing its way through popular culture.

Diligently, I was quite absorbed for the first five minutes, until a certain speaker reflected on his own personal experience spoke. Delightful.

My attention went from romancing about my pre-meditated, philosophical ravings of topic, to day-dreaming about how his slightly feminine hand gestures would feel on my face.

It then went from his touch, to pondering what he would like for breakfast, to finally wondering what I would need to do to press his buttons for all of this to eventuate.

Oh yeah, somewhere in the mix there was a little debating over whether he was gay or not due to slightly feminine hand gestures.

Abruptly I was snapped out of this reverie when reality took a side-swipe at my visage.

Am I desperate or deliciously diligent? What kind of person perves at a man in a place like this?

An honest buck

2007-05-30T12:04:00.001+01:00

A homeless man on the tube the other day asked for money. And guess what? He got it.

His approach you ask?

“Can I please have some money to buy some drugs?”

And as I got off, I heard my mate say: “If I had a few spare pounds, I’d give it to him – at least he was honest.”

And it made me think we must really be lacking in honesty if he stood out so much by his demonstration of it that people could reward him so.

We must really feel that we live in a dishonest world. Or at the very least crave it, so that we treasure it when we see it.

How honest are we really? And when is it okay to let it go a little bit?

Because let’s face it sometimes honesty can be a bit too much. We’d all appreciate packaged bite-sized chunks of truth rather than buying it in bulk.

The honesty line confuses me as much as working in the ambiguous line of advertising. Am I above the line, though the line, offline, online or a line unto itself?

I am guilty of hearing the line: “Oh my god, you’re so honest.”

And by being this way, it has often encouraged people to play the honesty game with me.

Why do I use the word ‘game’. Because it goes like this: “To be honest with you, I don’t play games.” A little scary – when I’m only half-way through the first pint on the first date. Jesus, where did that come from? I was still on the ‘do you like dogs debate’.

It’s kind of funny because where honesty comes out of nowhere – often an ulterior motive seems to follow quickly behind.

Am I being too honest with you now? After all, I’m revealing the true cynical side of me when I hear a guy make this ‘honest’ declaration.

Why do you have to declare it? Shouldn’t it be obvious?

Or, are we merely professing that when it comes to meeting someone not all of us are truly honest. How would we handle that?

“I’m a man that’s just been dumped and henceforth will have weighty insecurity issues until I do something about it.”

Or

“I just fancy you for a shag but I want it under the pretence of being meaningful.”

It seems honesty doesn’t lead itself to mystery. And that is the one downside in the dating game. Do you really want to know everything about someone after you’ve finished your first pint?

A healthy addiction?

2007-05-28T17:07:00.000+01:00

The gym. A proper workout for the neuroses whether you’re in it or out of it.

I know there are a lot of people sheepishly paying monthly sums for a membership that they’re yet to use or see its value.

I also know, from personal experience, that there are others whose frequent trips have justified said membership. But are we really getting our monies worth?

Or are we simply living in denial and feeding an unhealthy addiction?

Lately, I have seen the gym as less of a mecca for those being responsible about their weight to those of us who use it as haven to atone our sins. It truly is a minefield of guilt that I weave my way through all the contraptions to tone and perk those softer bits.

My life has become dominated by sweat and carbs. No longer has it become a measure to stabilise my ‘outside world’ of pints and chocolate binges.

Surely, I should be at an age where the quest for washboard abs are over. Surely, I have reached an inner calm with the way I look and what I have to work with. Surely, I can relax that the teenage litheness I once possessed is no longer achievable.

I find the more I indulge in this place, the more it calls me so.

I cruelly critique that body I see in the mirror.

Maybe it is my competitive nature that I am indulging: ‘I might be this age, but I have got a better body than most women born in 78’. It’s awful to think like that. Ridiculous even – sadistic some might say.

An ego out of control and in need of a firm reprimand – not another sweaty session on the cross-trainer.

But I can’t stop. Because if I do I won’t win the race. I’ll simply be softer, not harder.

And that’s the irony – I know I am too hard on myself.

Tears for some, but not for others...

2007-05-28T17:05:00.000+01:00

Lately we’ve seen men open up and get familiar with their softer side – literally. There’s a new market for men’s skincare and it’s perfectly natural these days to hear a man’s concern about his waistline.

There’s been tears too. And not just on the pitch. Anything from break-ups to bad days at the office are getting the waterworks started.

Don’t get me wrong, I think women love it. We’re embracing it and seeing our fellow counterparts as deep, emotional, in tune human beings. In fact, some women see it as a major turn on.

So now they've reached our level why are they dissing us so?

The other day after nature intervened with that-time-of-the month, I found myself having my first official ‘office cry’. The stiff upper lip I had adopted in becoming the ‘serious career woman’ was swiftly eroded in one foul swoop by a conference call with the client.

And so it was with wet cheeks of despair I conceded the death of my ‘career woman’ alter-ego. And so it was too, that 'men to the rescue' flocked around. My flapping wings stilled by the heroic efforts of the soothing masculine touch. How men love a damsel in distress.

After my rescue, I was left in a brilliant haze of utopian living. But not for long.

Another woman cried that day and it was my admirable heroes that commented on how her tears were merely symbolic weapons of manipulation. A cunning plan to get them to succumb to her demands.

In their eyes, her tears were not worthy.

Why is it okay for some woman to cry and others not. What does a woman have to do to validate her tears?

I have of course, very typically over-analysed this. My flimsy hypothesis wonders if the petite woman has more leeway in this emotional fairground. Small in stature – hence not a threat, but in constant need of looking after should she fall in a metaphorical pit-hole of life.

Or, is it that the woman in a position of control should be made of stone, and therefore have lost the ability to feel. This governs she may shed no more tears. Is it simply her lot in life to deal with?

Whatever it is, you would think that the open arms we extend to a crying man should be justifiably offered to all women of size and position. Come on, give us a break. At the very least offer us a tissue.

Am I the Berlin Wall of relationships?

2007-05-02T14:31:00.000+01:00

For such an open person – well that’s what I like to think of myself – this really is a scary question to tackle.

But I think it’s time I should.

I love patterns. Patterns on clothes, patterns in the weather – but not the patterns in the men I chose and the outcomes I stitch myself up with.

My break-ups are the Berlin Wall of break-ups. Fortified, rock-solid, impenetrable. And with no positive view of what’s on the other side.

I am not asking for pity, nor I am playing around with self-pity. I am just observing a pattern and a wall so high that I don’t know how I am ever going to climb over it or break through it.

In a weird way, I am truly fascinated by other people’s break-ups. Theirs seems to involve drama and tears. Explanations and epilogues. Mine are engulfed with silence and brain-teasers. All occurring with a wall between that the answers will never be.

Maybe it is me that builds this wall and they simply decide to end it from the other side.

Is it me that puts the blocks in place and when it’s close to finishing they chip in with the final piece?

I guess in a way by protecting myself I make it so easy for them to walk away. I’ve got everything – I’ve got a perfectly built wall why would I need anything else, including them to make the world a better place?

If only they could see Berlin now. A city that rejoices in a wall fallen – bursting with hope of broken patterns and brimming with proud potential.

The tug

2007-04-25T17:24:00.001+01:00

It’s that momentum which leans you into a kiss. It’s the electricity that buzzes around you. It’s that overall feeling of wanting to be as close as humanely possible to them.

The tug. It’s a powerful and addictive thing.

But is it essential at the start?

Do you learn to be more realistic and pragmatic about meeting somebody the older you get? Or is this a symptom that only the most common-sense rational being adopts to relationships?

There are two schools of thought here I have gleaned from my ‘market research’.

The first being that the tug is not necessary at the beginning stages but can evolve as a result of getting to know someone more intimately.

The other school suggests that the tug is compulsory right from the start. If it’s not there, it won’t ever arise – no matter what efforts of positive thinking go into the mix.

Oh my god this is tricky. And I doubt that Phil or Oprah can assist.

I won't be converted

2007-04-25T17:19:00.000+01:00

Richard Gere and Julia Roberts have a lot to answer for.

When Pretty Woman came out you could hear a collective sigh from women worldwide. It was completely unrealistic and disturbingly dark but yet so, so, so romantic.

A modern day fairytale that led all women to believe a man was possible of change and grand declarations of love.

It also meant relief – a Richard Gere for every woman just around the corner. Even if he did spot you on said corner wearing your finest Sunday track-pants, he would see something special and stop that limousine.

And for someone like me, this all-time classic was a glowing affirmation to remain the ‘die-hard romantic’ in the face of those trying to inflict the harsh realities of love in practice.

I can’t count the amount of times people have tried to convert me. Their exasperation clings to me like the sweet, fruity odour of a nearby alcoholic on a long tube ride. And their frustration just as palpable as a 15 minute tube delay on a Friday night home.

It’s not stubbornness calling. It’s just that I don’t want to change. I like fairytales. And really, I can’t see the harm in that.

After all, I am not hurting anyone. And I’m definitely not hitchhiking onto another popular rom-com and transforming into a forlorn, chain-smoking Bridget at home. I’m just getting on with it.

You see, for die-hard romantics like myself, we know it will be well worth the wait. So while you’re all getting impatient with the delay or choice of ride – we’re sitting back taking in the view.

Why there’s an age limit to being the party drunk…

2007-04-12T18:09:00.001+01:00

I have one friend, and I bet some of you do too, that’s always going to end a night in one of two ways: passed out or out for a good fight. The latter usually doesn’t involve punches, although she’s been known to take a good swipe – no it’s usually an excruciating debate she delights in. It’s painful to be an audience member.

At first, I admired her confidence to throw caution to the wind and literally throw it all out there. But now, the older I get the more of a liability she becomes. Let’s face it a dinner party with a party drunk always ends up being a messy affair. Dessert takes on a whole new meaning and the after-taste is always bittersweet.

Why is it that most of us grow out of it while some still revel in it?

And are those of us who know better – that take ourselves off to bed when the inevitable effects of wine kick in – just being a tad judgemental?

Do you reach an age where it’s unacceptable to be so uncontrollable when it comes to drinking?

When most of our social lives involve the most affordable social lubricant, being alcohol, it does put those who don’t know when to stop in a tricky spot.

Also, the concept of social drinking moves into a different realm the older you get. It ain’t so much about a pack of cards and tequila shots, but good food and fine wine. The emphasis changes from getting hammered to just having a good time.

So are they the way they are, because nobody told them about the ‘shift’? And what right do I have to look down my nose at them when they’re losing it?

Is it actually really more about me deciding that there IS an age limit to being the party drunk than their decision to keep on drinking that’s the problem?

When you move on, and others don’t there’s always going to be more than a wine hiccup to deal with. It does make for an uncomfortable morning after.

Is the trophy cabinet empty?

2007-04-10T14:23:00.000+01:00

I love waiting for the next ‘in flavour’ topic the media jump on. And recently the fashionable topic for winning column inches is the end of the trophy wife.

But I am not buying it.

The trophy wife is like killer stilettos to fashion. They’re here to stay no matter how impractical they can be on a night out – because they make you look good.

Yes, stiletto shoes and trophy wives can hurt but they also get results. Men still appreciate them. They might be high maintenance but sometimes they’re impossible to resist.

More recently a different variation of the trophy wife has come to the fore making it even more popular – it’s the WAG. She knows she has to look good and then the rest is easy streets. Hell, we’re even making reality TV programs around this new, more ambitious version.

I don’t dispute that there are more men seeking the less shallow option in striving for marital bliss. And that there are more women out there happy to fit the bill and let their brains lead rather than their booty – I am one of them.

But to suggest that the days of a woman being solely desired because of how she looks and what benefit it has for a man to have this aesthetic accessory are over is perhaps a tad unrealistic in the real world.

For a lot of young men being confronted with the spirit of a young woman and their independence is daunting. More than daunting in fact, it has led them to question their role in what they can bring to a relationship.

On more than one occasion, I have had a man ask what can they provide me if I seem to have it all. In a strange way it is like trying to figure out what to buy someone who has everything. What value can your present give them when they’ve gone out and got it all themselves?

But that’s when I go out and put a little heart into it. I buy them something that they’ve never even thought of and because it has come from me it has a special meaning.

If only all men could think along the same lines. That’s when I think the day of the trophy wife will be well and truly over.

So until then, some men will go for the easy option and choose a wife that looks good and can be cared for. She will adore him – even if it is just his wallet.

But to give credit where credit is due – the column inches are well worth it. If only for the fact that it highlights we are heading in the right direction.

Long hair and handkerchiefs

2007-04-03T16:16:00.001+01:00

My nan for most of her life had long hair and a handkerchief in her bag at all times. She wasn’t Audrey but she was a lady – there was no question about that.

Cooking, knitting and the art of being a good hostess were areas undoubtedly she reigned supreme over. Oh yeah, she was also a mean bowler!

In my time, the feminist wave kicked in where these finer skills weren’t always looked upon with the same regard in her day. What a shame. Because I learnt far more from my nan about being a woman than Naomi Wolf could ever teach me.

My nan taught me there is no shame in standing by your man. Even better she stuck by him when sometimes his argument had a few leaky holes.

She also showed me that a cheeky wit can take you a lot further than a feisty tongue. Your point will always have a lot more resonance if it’s delivered under the veil of humour and insight.

And leading by example (moving to the other side of the world), she fostered an adventurous spirit in me. So just like they say: behind every good man is a good woman – behind every strong, independent woman there’s a generation of women behind her that have compassionately paved the way.

For that, I owe my nan. So this is not about her going, it is about promising to live up to the potential she saw in all of us.

Oh, and please indulge her and carry a handkerchief with you wherever you go.

Mental note: work on being spontaneous

2007-03-21T14:31:00.000Z

Random and hectic in London… but definitely not nearly as spontaneous as what it should be.

That was the conclusion I came up with when I had to book in a date to see one of my friends a month in advance. I thought this a little strange, but when I looked over the next two weeks in my diary I realised life was jam-packed with birthdays, leaving dos, work hob-knobbing, catch-up lunches… and well, where is the free time??

Is this the way it is when you grow up? Life becomes planned and impulses are pushed to the kerb to keep up engagements.

The only commitment I had in the student world was a last-minute cramming session because spontaneity ruled! Dropping in to see a mate for coffee inevitably spilled over to waking up on the couch with a smashing headache and the destruction of empty wine bottles and over-flowing ash trays. And it all seemed relatively fine and seemingly the norm.

Whereas now, a scenario like this is played out and you’re left playing catch-up. You’ve either decided on staying in (because it is criminal to subject the rest of society with your state) and reorganising your plans from the comfort of your couch. The guilt you feel kind of kills the impulses of the night before. Or you’re forced to ignore the best wishes of society and drag yourself through another social engagement. It’s only after you’ve had the second hair-of-the-dog does some of your guilt reside.

How have I got to this point – I have to plan to be spontaneous. It kind of defeats the purpose doesn’t it?

Meet Miss Prude… ‘Hi!’

2007-03-20T10:41:00.000Z

Am I being prudish? Can romance come from www.com? And can I put myself out there and leave my dating life up to a click of a button?

Do not fear. Virtual courting does not await me just yet…

But then it got me thinking… how am I going to meet all these men naturally if they’re spending most of their time surfing for virtual hopefuls on the net?

It’s hardly like internet dating sites are going to go away?

But do I want to be telling my grandchildren romance happened at a manoeuvre of the mouse and a witty email exchange that led to a date.

Can I not have a natural freak occurrence and meet a man in a bar?

Charles Darwin was no hottie

2007-03-19T11:09:00.000Z

I have yet to delve into temptation and become a tasty cyber-morsel for some surfing sperm provider. But, it has raised some interesting questions about us bewildering species…

In true Darwin-style it really is survival of the fittest. And whether it be offline or online knowing what’s in your league and out of your league is vital to dating life.

So how do you know what league you’re in? Did I miss the “league call” when puberty hit? Or is it randomly assigned to you, like a nickname is?

Also, what I want to know is… can you move up and down a league? Or is it simply a case of league-for-life.

Online leagues are defined primarily by your photo. That is, apparently why it is a “life essential” to have many photos – it increases your chance of sensory appeal.

I’ve also gleaned from the on-liners that it is of great offence if an ‘out-of-leaguer’ approaches an ‘in-league’ prospect. So, does it merely come down to looks in this environment?

Religion, job, smoker or non-smoker does not seem to come into play here (although they do ask) – only side profile, face on and random shot of natural beauty reign supreme.

Maybe there is hope in the off-line landscape. But still looks are the big clincher. It seems you have more of a chance here as you can play up on your other factors. For example personal hygiene, overall sanity and non-psychotic tendencies are also valued.

Having said all of that though, you must still be fully aware of your league. And the only certain thing about that is, no one knows if they’re in the right league or not until they’re told. It’s when you’re not deemed the fittest that you want to give Charles Darwin a big old smack.

Fuck evolution and all the rules. Leagues are for those not fit enough to fall in love.

On a night like this...

2007-02-23T16:49:00.001Z

Sometimes it takes a night like this to remind yourself what would the world really be like without men?

And I am not talking on a sexual sense – I am referring more to the way women and men think. Men think black/ white – women think grey. And would we want it any other way?

After all grey is created from the careful combination of black and white. The decision to mix the two and see what comes of it.

But in this murky water women live in, sometimes over-analysis is over-kill and what we need is a definite reference point. Call a spade a spade. What is black is black. What is white is white. No what if’s. What could have been’s. What maybe’s…

Being around men is liberating and frustrating. And it is this dichotomy that a woman thrives on. Because we can do both. We can think in black/white, but also in grey. But men struggle to do both.

And really we shouldn’t be asking them to mix the palate.

One thing, despite all the tables being turned thanks to the feminist wave, is women still crave certainty. And men deliver the goods. Certainty is the ability to think in these solid areas of black and white – they will not budge.

And for women in the face of change, no matter how strong we are, we are even more uncertain than our mothers – because we have far more to choose from. Grabbing hold of a man’s instincts to see the world in black and white is something we should willingly embrace.

It gives us the anchor to explore the world in grey. And when we love them for that, they get to see a more complex picture that is truly beautiful and diverse in every way.

VIP = Very Important Prat

2007-02-02T10:06:00.000Z

When I was younger and the university student surviving on endless variations of packet pasta I really did think that one of the measurements of my success would be the endless VIP invitations I would acquire.

I have arrived to this crucial pinnacle of success. Sadly, it is nowhere close to the fantasy realms of my VIP leather lounge and buff, bronzed cocktail waiter I imagined.

Think plastic cups, over-priced drinks and young, infantile things running around with one hand on their jeans unnecessarily yanking up the denim – despite the fact that their boxers lived uncomfortably under their armpits. This was no haven for fantasy or illusion – rather a cesspool of shredded dreams and faded hopes.

Yet those around me looked so smug while I twisted and turned on the definitely fatigued leather lounge chain-smoking like the jaded jewel I am. And boy, did I ham it up. I called upon every cliché Jewish hand gesture I know from those over-hyped American sitcoms I could draw upon. I used every single lip muscle to pout harder than Keira Knightly on coke.

And at the end of the day, the best I could muster was a mediocre diva exit stage-left. Did anyone notice? No – apart from me. I wonder if the Very Important Prats I considered swanning around my aurora of faux-cool came anywhere close to being a bigger prat than I was.

Did I live for the moment? Did I take it all in and let it go? Most definitely not. I judged it all, like the cynical, professional, non-eating packet pasta fool I am.

Bring on not caring! And please let success reconsider the person I am now.

Tired and ticked off

2007-01-10T13:28:00.000Z

Lost

2007-01-10T13:27:00.000Z

A brain teaser

2007-01-10T13:26:00.000Z

She didn't say much

2007-01-10T13:24:00.000Z

His hands loved his hair

2007-01-10T13:22:00.000Z

Profile of impatient commuter

2007-01-10T13:20:00.000Z

Profile of commuter

2007-01-10T13:18:00.000Z

Headphones on

2007-01-10T13:16:00.000Z

Angry am

2007-01-10T13:14:00.000Z

Little, old person

2007-01-10T13:12:00.000Z

Skinny man in beanie

2006-10-09T13:51:00.000+01:00

Smokey ladeee

2006-10-09T11:46:00.000+01:00

Ass! I just assumed.

2006-04-10T13:29:00.000+01:00

She asked me. I felt so warm ... almost like I had just taken a generous sip of tea and it was sitting pretty in my tummy.

What fools we are to assume? And we do it all the time. That's where tea and assumptions are linked here:

I assumed she had an ulterior, uglier motive for not asking me for tea. She assumed I didn't drink tea.

**mental note** I have a strong desire to whittle on about the social ramifications of assuming. But I think tea deserves a quiet, understated elegance of just letting this moment be.

Tea for two!

2006-03-29T16:53:00.000+01:00

It has spread... there are now two of them who do the tea round without offering me a cup.

And to show that I am not 'refreshment anal' as some of you like to think, I did a hot drink run the other day. I even made a selection - fresh coffee from a big machine thing, and instant coffee. So there!!

What is happening!?!

Tea or no tea?

2006-03-12T19:28:00.000Z

Now before I start - there's nothing wrong with me. I simply don't like tea. I've never tasted it. Never had a cup in my life. And before you offer to make me one - don't, I won't drink it.

Onto the good bit... (it's tea-related)

Every morning, at the same time, without fail, this girl walks around the office asking who would like a cup of tea. A lovely gesture, I think. She even walks up to the guy that sits next to me and has a joke to accompany her tea-making gesture.

But do you think, even if I did like tea, that I've been asked? No.

What's with that? Why hasn't she asked me? She knows my name. She knows where I sit. She even knows that occasionally I have a hot beverage in the office.

Is this her subtle way of telling me she doesn't like me?

Weapons of mass destruction: a mascara wand and a tube card

2006-02-28T18:47:00.000Z

Women - think carefully about your actions. They have consequences. And these consequences have the potential to resonate across the human race.

All it takes is a bit of care. Use your weapons carefully. They have the potential to protect you or backfire against you.

Enough of the rhetoric - I'm shooting from the hip. I'm talking about the senseless act of women applying their make-up on public transport. What a way to shatter the illusion!

A woman's beauty is based on illusion. The look of long eyelashes - thank you mascara. The appeal of golden brown skin- bring on St Tropez. And for plump, youthful lips - seek the ever helpful Anti-Freeze cream. These are just some of the secrets we keep under lock and key.

Did you ever see Cleopatra jump in the public pools for her milk bath, or a geisha girl stop to re-touch her face in the middle of the street?

No. Because most women, no matter what nationality, know that the art of beauty is making it look effortless. Men are meant to believe that we simply wake up looking like this. And for the most part, there's a secret joy women experience in convincing men of this.

So why must some women carelessly destroy what other women have taken such care and skill to conceal from men? It's an art-form in itself, let alone the art of painting one's face.

With one wave of a mascara wand on any form of public transport, and a woman has single-handedly brought down everything that is sacred.

And can I just say that I've never seen an uglier sight than a woman squinting into a hand mirror, hand shaking, mouth open to ridiculously apply a dubious line underneath her eye. I mean, have you ever heard of a woman being picked up when applying her make-up on the tube!?!

Forget about saving time and think about your fellow woman first. Consider what weapon of choice you want to use and when. Think peace, not public transport.

I'm blogged up

2006-02-21T11:29:00.000Z

As this is a new hobby, I thought I would go about doing some research on blogs.

There's a lot of there. A lot of people have a lot to say about people just 'saying stuff' on the net. In particular, it seems, there's more about what not to do, than what to do.

And that's why I'm blogged up! I have a blockage. And not to fear, it is not of the physical kind, but more of the mental kind. How can you be spontaneous when you have a mile-long, mental list of things you just shouldn't do? And if you accidentally commit a blogging crime, your punishment is embarrassment and shame that spreads beyond your existence in cyberspace!

How can I be myself? Or, how can I be who I want to be (let's face it that's the major benefit of personal expression on the net)?

You can't. Not when you have the echoes of the 'no police' invading your thoughts while you tap away.

Maybe I'm being precious. After all, I like words but I like freedom of expression even more.

Is a root vegetable in or out this season?

2006-02-14T20:26:00.000Z

Sadly there's an unforgivable trend sweeping the country. It's fashion at its worst and its kidnapped the innocent and unassuming, suburban fruit and vegetable aisle.

Don't get me wrong - I love my greens. But I just want to be able to eat them, without feeling like a fashion victim.

Last year's rocket sits there on the shelves knowing its time being 'in' is definitely over. Only the 'retro season' can bring it back to its former glory. And right beside the 'has been' rocket sits the flavour of the month, the 'in thing' - meet watercress. Even Jamie Oliver can't get enough.

What's a girl to do, when failing to keep up with the latest in shoes, she must now follow the seasonal trends of fruit and vegetables.

No woman, no cry

2006-02-11T10:07:00.000Z

What a strange world we live in!

There once was a time when a woman could dramatically fall to the floor in a flood of tears. The dashing man would rescue his damsel in distress. And that was the end to a wonderful and alluring display of femininity.

It's enough to make you all warm and fuzzy, right?

My how the times have changed. Now, we see a woman - her body taut, her jaw set. She quickly scurries off to the office toilet cubicle to silently cry. There is no dashing man to come to her aid. Rather, a constant whirring of an over-worked air-conditioner to comfort her.

No woman, no cry. That's the mantra a lot of women carry as soon as their heels hit the office decks. It's a man's world still. And to let loose a raw emotion or shed a tear is a dangerous walk down the planks. It's professional suicide.

'You want to have a cry? Well do it on someone else's watch!'

And you're probably thinking this little upstart lesbo-nazi feminist here is taking a few swings. But you know what? It's not just men that are making women walk the plank - sadly, it's women too.

While men out there are taking the plunge and crying over things other than football matches, women are holding it in. The tides have changed. It's women who are telling other women not to cry. It's women who are encouraging other women to 'show no fear'. And it's women who look down and criticize the emotions and tears of another woman.

And what a shame. We've conquered so much but without the emotion and tears of joy to express it - what does it really mean?

Pretentiousness or an economical use of space?

2006-02-08T16:23:00.000Z

...That is the question.

I'm speaking about the use of one letter as a substitute for a person's signature at the end of an email.

So instead of a friendly 'Claire', it becomes a stark 'C'. And it glares at me from the bottom of the hotmail window. Despite how warm or glowing the correspondence makes me feel -- when ended so abruptly me, I'm left empty and barren.

Is it pretentiousness that drives a person to opt for one letter? Are they thinking 'I'm so busy I don't have the time to tell you who I am'? Or do they think they own that letter - for example, no other names start with C? So in their world a Chantelle, a Charlotte or a Charlize doesn't exist.

Or are they grabbing onto the latest market jargon of being 'time poor, cash rich' folk? It could be that they are merely exercising this fact of being 'time poor'. It is the economical use of spelling their name with just one letter that regains some precious time. But is it really worth it if your name is Will?

Now, I'm kind of guessing that I will receive a few angry responses. Because a lot of people out there do it.

Some days it's good to be controversial.

Why hold in a sneeze?

2006-02-05T19:17:00.000Z

...For years I've struggled to answer this question.

I've seen all kinds of people commit this unnatural act -- from bold business men to savvy secretaries. Even cheerful children, who should be free from these cruel forms of social conditioning, have held in their sneezes.

And for what?

Is there a feeling or a pleasant sensation that occurs after one has restrained themselves? Are you looked upon more favourably for your ability to not sneeze?

I can't see there being any obvious advantages to holding in the sneeze. Because remember that urban myth - seven sneezes and you're guaranteed an earth-moving orgasm.

So go for it - let it rip. You might just be one step closer to feeling truly orgasmic!

I love a good sauna session

2006-01-31T16:14:00.000Z

I'm curious. And I think it would be good to throw this question out there: Does anyone know why the sauna is good for you?

Also, while we're on the subject...

Do you think that it takes a certain type of woman to love the sauna? Is there a character trait that defines why some women love to steam and some love to sweat it out?

Any thoughts?

Well, funnily enough, I have a few. You see, I think that determined, ambitious, slightly stubborn women love to sweat it out. It gives them the continued satisfaction that even when they're horizontal they're still sweating - still working. They're not taking time off. Or even time out.

For these women sweating it out in the workplace is the burden and the passion they like to carry throughout the office and into the sauna.

And this was the serious realisation I came to, after taking great delight that my sauna tolerance had increased by a hot 2 minutes. I felt more woman than ever as I stepped out of my hot box after 12 gruelling minutes of sweat-dripping pleasure.

I wonder if I can make it to 15 minutes?

I've changed my identity

2006-01-30T16:35:00.000Z

I've outgrown moo moo. I never really liked it you know. It was one of those silly names that just kind of popped out of my head. And then before I knew it my little fingers were tapping it out on the keyboard.

But you know what? I don't really blame me for being that silly. Because there seems to be a lot of instances these days where you need a username or a password - even 'your real name' to do some thing... ANY thing.

So, it's no wonder 'moo moo' trickled over my lips - I had already exhausted all the sound, reasonable usernames, passwords or profile names!

I'm 28 and it ain't too late...

2006-01-30T13:01:00.000Z

...Yes I know the title is a little 'Dr Seuss-like' but that's one of my signature writing styles that I'm embracing, rather than rejecting.

...Yes my 'Dr Seuss-like' writing has been rejected on occasion but sometimes you must persevere in the face of adversity.

And now we can finally get onto the meaning of the title - since I've already dealt with 'writing paranoia'.

I'm 28. I've just become it actually - been it for 8 days. I'm not sure it's the greatest start to being 28: a ridiculous all-day long hangover, about to lose my job (was asked to consider a career change) and my bum is still too big to get into my favourite pair of black trousers - despite the fact that I've been to the gym 21 times since 23rd December 05.

However, I'm an optimist - so hence the second part of my title: ... it ain't too late. I'm relying on the fact that it's still the start of the year, and as I'm still in my twenties: it ain't too late.

Ain't too late for what I hear you ask? For a lot of things really. It's not too late to learn new tricks. It's never too late for great things to happen! And it sure as hell ain't too late to realise I need to change a few things about my life...

I'm starting over again

2005-10-07T13:18:00.000+01:00

Hello there... I just felt that the first ever entry was a little lame. I couldn't spell and that is just blasphemous because I am technically meant to be a copywriter. Also, I felt that I sounded like a perfectly good candidate for AA, which I am not. Although, when you think about it sometimes during the day you can pine for a pint... I'm not saying every day, just some days.

I still like tuna though!

So, a little bit of trivia for the day: If you use sounds when you clear your throat, it is very harmful for your vocal chords as they grind together.

I just thought of that as a guy walked past my office and cleared his throat. But handy to know because it is coming up to winter.

The state of tuna in this country

2005-10-06T13:48:00.000+01:00

I am writing about tuna as my first topic. It is something we all have in common and therefore a good starting off point... ooppps I nearly spelt 'pint' which means I may have been having an impure, alcholic thought and it is only 1.50pm.

Anyhow, I like tuna! I eat it mostly every day and it makes me feel quietly satified about life in general.

Share me your thoughts.