As I sit writing this latest post, I feel like a writer in her truest form. I am sitting at my desk in my linen trousers that are a size too big, listening to acoustic versions of my favourite songs, sipping on a glass of the infamous red, red wine, and every now and then I glance down at my gorgeous border collie who is sleeping peacefully about 3 feet away from me.
I’m feeling quite reflective over the events of the past few weeks. I have attempted to write for LDS on numerous occasions, only for me to get half way through my post, to find that in the blink of an eye, everything has changed.
My recently divorced older sister has loved, lost, loved someone else, then lost him, then loved the first guy again and now…. Well… I don’t know. But I’ve told her if she continues to call me at work, at home and on my mobile 15 times a day then I’m going to call the police.
We had an incident involving an inadvertent voicemail to one guy which resulted in my sister falling through her patio door onto the concrete upon realisation that she had exposed herself as a love thirsty, sex deprived bunny boiler. Then we had another incident involving an inadvertent facebook wall post which somehow ended up with me taking the flack (being the wonderful sister that I am) and therefore exposing myself as a love thirsty, sex deprived bunny boiler. And on both these occasions, when called upon for advice, I told my recently divorced older sister, exactly what I told my best friend who was loose on the London Dating Scene 5 years ago before she met her gorgeous, perfect boyfriend…
“Dude….. You’ve gotta stop stalking people! It’s not attractive!”
You can’t make it any clearer than that can you?
So what about me I can hear you asking???? WELL…. Despite what previous posts have suggested, I am, for the first time, in a very long time… inexplicably, extraordinarily, blissfully happy.
I’m waiting for him to finish his paperwork and have a bath, after which I will walk the 0.2 miles to his house where he will cuddle up to me on the sofa and smile as I tell him all about my day at work. When I had to pass a message on from a guy named Mr - name pronounced - Coman, name spelled C-O-C-K-M-A-N. I also want to tell him about how my nieces dance teacher told my sister that she is an exceptional child of whom we should all be very proud . Then I want to hear all about his day, no doubt he’ll have some funny anecdote about his life as a drainage specialist. Gross but funny.
I’ve straightened my hair tonight, something which I’m undoubtedly sure he will notice. He always notices that sort of thing. He would notice a needle in a haystack I’m sure of it! With those gorgeous hazel eyes that have the slightest rim of blue around the edge, and the tiniest spot of green in the middle.
Where it’s gonna go, I’m not sure. Is it gonna go anywhere? Again, I’m not sure. But what I do know is that at this moment in time, nobody on the planet is as inexplicably, extraordinarily, blissfully happy as I am with the one, the only…. Older family friend!
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
The ‘Family Friend’ and Me: Part Two- By Emma Gilbert
From the second I opened my eyes this morning, I knew that something had happened last night that would make me wish it hadn’t.
As if the throbbing headache, along with the half empty glass of red wine and twix wrapper at the side of the bed weren’t enough to give it away, I invite you to read the following statement that was posted on my Facebook status, at half past 2 this morning
“If you can’t make mistakes in your twenties, then when can you make them? Just do it! Deal with the consequences later. That’s what Nurofen was made for!”
You can imagine the horrified look on my face as I scrolled down the page to see that every man and his dog had found something to say about this ludicrous statement, and so on that note, I decided to boil the kettle, light up a ciggie, and take a walk down memory lane, in attempt to recollect the events that occured, through the course of the nightmare that was last night.
The first step on this path to self destruction, was to look at my inbox to find a text message from the “older family friend” that read as follows
“No thank you, I’m done with women, they are a nightmare! Take care Emma”
You’re probably asking yourselves what I could have said or done to this guy to hinder such a direct and gutting response. The text that prompted such a response was; “Do you fancy some company?” Now I know that those of you who read volume one of this story are probably wondering why I would send such a message to the guy who, following our night of passion, failed to send me that make or break text that I had convinced myself would never come. The truth of the matter is that after 5 torturous days, that text message did eventually come, and on Wednesday night of last week I found myself back succumbing to his exceptional wit, handsome good looks, and older man charms.
So last night, after several glasses of that infamous red, red wine, I decided to bite the bullet once more, only to be knocked back and left devastated. The next step on my path down memory lane..... The dialled calls, which I think can be best explained in numbers:
3 – Older family friend
17 – recently divorced older sister
1 – last years summer fling who broke my heart to go travelling around Thailand
4 – Childhood best friend who stole my boyfriend when were 15
6 – Millionaire Aristocrat who wooed me 3 years ago when he stayed at the hotel were I then worked as a receptionist
At that point the half-empty glass of wine that was still sitting on my bedside table was looking increasingly tempting, never the less I decided to persevere, and take the third and final step by checking the sent messages.
Well... It’s amazing how 2 bottles of wine can help you to bring out feelings that you never knew existed! Apparently I am tormenting myself trying to work out how I have been such a nightmare to handle over the course of the past few weeks, apparently I am the epitome of everything I never wanted to be, and apparently I hope that there are no hard feelings toward the older family friend and me, and that we can go back to exactly how we were before! Crazy!
I suppose it was inevitable that at some point during this scenario I was going to embrace my inner bunny boiler, and thanks to that lovely red, she came out shining! Armed and dangerous!
So this afternoon, after drinking my weight in coffee, and sucking on Marlboro lights like they were lollipops, I sent what I strongly believe was my final text message to the “older family friend” which read as follows
“Sorry for being a nuisance last night, I’d had a lot to drink as you probably gathered. You have made your feelings clear, and I won’t be bothering you again”
To that, I had what I think has been the fastest response to any message I have ever sent to this guy, and that was:
“Its fine, take care Emma”
On that note I will leave you with the reassurance that I have learned my lesson, and in the future will do my best to stay away from the exceptionally witty, handsome, charming, yet emotionally unavailable older men who are armed with the potential to break my heart.
Instead, I will go back to my life as I knew it before, remaining hopelessly devoted to myself, and not forgetting of course, to the infamous, trouble making, red red wine.
As if the throbbing headache, along with the half empty glass of red wine and twix wrapper at the side of the bed weren’t enough to give it away, I invite you to read the following statement that was posted on my Facebook status, at half past 2 this morning
“If you can’t make mistakes in your twenties, then when can you make them? Just do it! Deal with the consequences later. That’s what Nurofen was made for!”
You can imagine the horrified look on my face as I scrolled down the page to see that every man and his dog had found something to say about this ludicrous statement, and so on that note, I decided to boil the kettle, light up a ciggie, and take a walk down memory lane, in attempt to recollect the events that occured, through the course of the nightmare that was last night.
The first step on this path to self destruction, was to look at my inbox to find a text message from the “older family friend” that read as follows
“No thank you, I’m done with women, they are a nightmare! Take care Emma”
You’re probably asking yourselves what I could have said or done to this guy to hinder such a direct and gutting response. The text that prompted such a response was; “Do you fancy some company?” Now I know that those of you who read volume one of this story are probably wondering why I would send such a message to the guy who, following our night of passion, failed to send me that make or break text that I had convinced myself would never come. The truth of the matter is that after 5 torturous days, that text message did eventually come, and on Wednesday night of last week I found myself back succumbing to his exceptional wit, handsome good looks, and older man charms.
So last night, after several glasses of that infamous red, red wine, I decided to bite the bullet once more, only to be knocked back and left devastated. The next step on my path down memory lane..... The dialled calls, which I think can be best explained in numbers:
3 – Older family friend
17 – recently divorced older sister
1 – last years summer fling who broke my heart to go travelling around Thailand
4 – Childhood best friend who stole my boyfriend when were 15
6 – Millionaire Aristocrat who wooed me 3 years ago when he stayed at the hotel were I then worked as a receptionist
At that point the half-empty glass of wine that was still sitting on my bedside table was looking increasingly tempting, never the less I decided to persevere, and take the third and final step by checking the sent messages.
Well... It’s amazing how 2 bottles of wine can help you to bring out feelings that you never knew existed! Apparently I am tormenting myself trying to work out how I have been such a nightmare to handle over the course of the past few weeks, apparently I am the epitome of everything I never wanted to be, and apparently I hope that there are no hard feelings toward the older family friend and me, and that we can go back to exactly how we were before! Crazy!
I suppose it was inevitable that at some point during this scenario I was going to embrace my inner bunny boiler, and thanks to that lovely red, she came out shining! Armed and dangerous!
So this afternoon, after drinking my weight in coffee, and sucking on Marlboro lights like they were lollipops, I sent what I strongly believe was my final text message to the “older family friend” which read as follows
“Sorry for being a nuisance last night, I’d had a lot to drink as you probably gathered. You have made your feelings clear, and I won’t be bothering you again”
To that, I had what I think has been the fastest response to any message I have ever sent to this guy, and that was:
“Its fine, take care Emma”
On that note I will leave you with the reassurance that I have learned my lesson, and in the future will do my best to stay away from the exceptionally witty, handsome, charming, yet emotionally unavailable older men who are armed with the potential to break my heart.
Instead, I will go back to my life as I knew it before, remaining hopelessly devoted to myself, and not forgetting of course, to the infamous, trouble making, red red wine.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
The ‘Family Friend’ and Me- By Emma Gilbert
It’s interesting, every once in a while, to sit back and reflect on how we have changed since approaching our mid 20’s. Those extra few pounds that cling in the worst places are just that little bit harder to shift, the 4 hours sleep that we used to survive on, now barely get us through the morning. The hair that used to immaculately fall into place with little or no effort has all of a sudden become dull and brittle after years of abuse from crazy lotions and potions designed to make us look, what we considered to be cool, at the time.
One thing that hasn’t changed however, and I’m sure you will agree, that regardless of how much we’ve mellowed, what we’ve learned, and how much we’ve grown, we still find ourselves back to that same sorry state. Waiting for that phone call or text message that never comes.
It all started around a year ago, when the “Older Family Friend” moved back to our local area to set up a business, and as a close family friend, it was inevitable that we were going to bump into each other on occasions for one reason or another, just like it was inevitable that we would at some point find some kind of reason to exchange phone numbers, and just like it was inevitable that eventually, I would succumb to his ridiculously handsome looks, exceptional wit, and older man charms.
2 weeks ago, on a Sunday afternoon, I walked into the local for a drink with my superhero father, who is the only man never to let me down. Of course, the older family friend was there, looking stunningly sexy, and armed with a smile that was enough to make any girl weak at the knees. He complimented me on my choice of outfit, and asked me how my week had gone. This made me smile as he knew damn well how my week had gone, given that we hadn’t stopped texting each other, unbeknownst, of course, to anyone else. So 2 hours, and 4 large glasses of wine later, my father had left me in the capable and trusted hands of his friend, who had promised to keep an eye on me. (You never stop being their little girl). As you can imagine, I was in my element, like a schoolgirl who had finally got the date she dreamed of with her crush but I wasn’t expecting what was to come next….. “I’ve got a few things I need to sort out this afternoon, but do you fancy coming down a bit later?”
It was like one of those moments you see in films, where the shy young girl isn’t quite sure if the handsome stud is talking to her. But on this occasion he was, and so, 2 hours later, there we were, on his sofa, sipping coffee, putting the world to rights, and snogging like two teenagers on heat. At 4:00am, after declining his advances, which he maturely accepted, I wandered home with hazy eyes and a smile on my face that lasted the whole week. The text messages came through thick and fast, and all I could do was desperately tell myself that no way could this possibly go any further.
But… As it goes….the following Friday there I was, at a loose end, not quite sure what to do with myself, and so I decided to bite the bullet and ask if our handsome family friend wanted some company for the evening. It turns out he did, only this time his ridiculously handsome looks, exceptional wit, and older man charms were far to much for me to resist, and on that note….. well you can guess the rest.
The following day as I sat at my desk, I did everything I could to resist the urge to send that text. You know the one I mean. That ‘’thank you for a lovely night, can’t wait to do it again soon’’ text, and surely enough, my resistance paid off. The text that I’d dreaded would never come, did, and do you know what… It felt good!
The following week, a similar pattern of events occurred, and the next day I decided that as he had been the one to crack first the last time, it was only fair that I reciprocated. At 5:30pm on Friday afternoon I sent it and went back to my evening as it was, checking my phone at reasonable intervals to see if I’d had a response. It’s now 8:00am on Monday morning, and I’m afraid to say, that it still hasn’t arrived.
Despite the non-appearance of the message, I refuse to be cynical. When my recently divorced sister asks me if this is what to expect on the dating scene, I will adamantly tell her no, that every barrel has it’s bad apples, and experiences are there for us to learn from, and also why I will continue to wait for that make or break text… Even though in my heart of hearts, I’m pretty sure, it will never come.
One thing that hasn’t changed however, and I’m sure you will agree, that regardless of how much we’ve mellowed, what we’ve learned, and how much we’ve grown, we still find ourselves back to that same sorry state. Waiting for that phone call or text message that never comes.
It all started around a year ago, when the “Older Family Friend” moved back to our local area to set up a business, and as a close family friend, it was inevitable that we were going to bump into each other on occasions for one reason or another, just like it was inevitable that we would at some point find some kind of reason to exchange phone numbers, and just like it was inevitable that eventually, I would succumb to his ridiculously handsome looks, exceptional wit, and older man charms.
2 weeks ago, on a Sunday afternoon, I walked into the local for a drink with my superhero father, who is the only man never to let me down. Of course, the older family friend was there, looking stunningly sexy, and armed with a smile that was enough to make any girl weak at the knees. He complimented me on my choice of outfit, and asked me how my week had gone. This made me smile as he knew damn well how my week had gone, given that we hadn’t stopped texting each other, unbeknownst, of course, to anyone else. So 2 hours, and 4 large glasses of wine later, my father had left me in the capable and trusted hands of his friend, who had promised to keep an eye on me. (You never stop being their little girl). As you can imagine, I was in my element, like a schoolgirl who had finally got the date she dreamed of with her crush but I wasn’t expecting what was to come next….. “I’ve got a few things I need to sort out this afternoon, but do you fancy coming down a bit later?”
It was like one of those moments you see in films, where the shy young girl isn’t quite sure if the handsome stud is talking to her. But on this occasion he was, and so, 2 hours later, there we were, on his sofa, sipping coffee, putting the world to rights, and snogging like two teenagers on heat. At 4:00am, after declining his advances, which he maturely accepted, I wandered home with hazy eyes and a smile on my face that lasted the whole week. The text messages came through thick and fast, and all I could do was desperately tell myself that no way could this possibly go any further.
But… As it goes….the following Friday there I was, at a loose end, not quite sure what to do with myself, and so I decided to bite the bullet and ask if our handsome family friend wanted some company for the evening. It turns out he did, only this time his ridiculously handsome looks, exceptional wit, and older man charms were far to much for me to resist, and on that note….. well you can guess the rest.
The following day as I sat at my desk, I did everything I could to resist the urge to send that text. You know the one I mean. That ‘’thank you for a lovely night, can’t wait to do it again soon’’ text, and surely enough, my resistance paid off. The text that I’d dreaded would never come, did, and do you know what… It felt good!
The following week, a similar pattern of events occurred, and the next day I decided that as he had been the one to crack first the last time, it was only fair that I reciprocated. At 5:30pm on Friday afternoon I sent it and went back to my evening as it was, checking my phone at reasonable intervals to see if I’d had a response. It’s now 8:00am on Monday morning, and I’m afraid to say, that it still hasn’t arrived.
Despite the non-appearance of the message, I refuse to be cynical. When my recently divorced sister asks me if this is what to expect on the dating scene, I will adamantly tell her no, that every barrel has it’s bad apples, and experiences are there for us to learn from, and also why I will continue to wait for that make or break text… Even though in my heart of hearts, I’m pretty sure, it will never come.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Stressing!- By LA London
The last couple of months have been incredibly busy for me since work has slowly begun to resume its role as the number one thing in my life. It's been a joy to be reunited with my old friend Stress again. I'd missed him these last couple of months. When we said goodbye at my work leaving party I knew it was only a temporary thing and we would soon each other again. Our relationship is one that can never die. Yet the problem of having a relationship with Stress is that it often leads my own boyfriend feeling abandoned and frustrated. Somehow his perfect version of a ménage-a-trois doesn't include me, him and my on-again / off-again lover called Stress.
I am one of those people who work best under pressure. I am also quite anal and somewhat of a perfectionist. I like things to be in order and follow a system or schedule. I used to pretend I was go with the flow and "easy going." I realized I was not as carefree as I thought, when on a vacation to France a couple of years ago my friend woke up in a fright one morning because her alarm didn't go off putting us about 45 minutes behind on my perfectly planned schedule for the day. Hers was an honest mistake, but she felt so bad that she whittled down her normal 30-minute shower to measly 5 minutes. She was showering with the fear of God in her. I wasn't too bothered by her tardiness because as any good planner would know you always give yourself at least 30 minutes leeway but I did realize maybe it wasn’t a good thing that my friend was afraid of me.
I know from that story I sound like a horrible vacation companion but the truth of the matter is both my friends and my employers have always benefited from my over excited preparation skills. I have planned amazing birthday parties, impressed clients and outshone the most talented of my anal companions. At my side during those successful moments was my buddy Stress. When Stress and I work well with each other everyone wins, when we don't my poor boyfriend suffers.
In the last few weeks I have been depending on Stress more and more regularly. We've been staying up late to work on projects as well as trying to find the energy to host my friends from America who were visiting. My loving boyfriend did the best he could and smartly tried to leave me alone. He'd noticed the warning signs - I was moodier than normal and was quieter than what he deemed appropriate. To be honest, I was actually quite mean. Everything that was frustrating me about work and having to entertain guests I was taking out on him. After two or so blow ups for seemingly no reason he tried to remedy the situation. When he asked if there was something wrong, I, through grunts, told him that I was okay or fine or tired or a combination of those things. Why I couldn't just say I was having relations with Stress again I don't know. I felt guilty for putting Stress before him and I didn't want to get caught. I was having an affair and wanted to keep it secret. But like every good affair I began to crumble at the pressure of keeping it private.
When my boyfriend discovered that I reunited with Stress he did something quite unexpected - he told me I had a decision to make. I could either choose him or Stress. I'd always wanted to be the point in a love triangle but this was one that was not what I had in mind. Where were Hugh Grant and Colin Firth fighting for my honour outside a pub? He said that if I was going to value Stress over him than I should probably just be with Stress. At first I chuckled at such a silly personification then I took in the seriousness of his words. Although I wanted to stay on top of my anal game I need to find a way to do it without the dependency of Stress or I would lose someone uniquely more important to me. Having been in long distance relationship for so long I'd never had to choose one or the other before. My work-world and my relationship-world never overlapped. But now that we're living together in the real world I would have to find a way to do them both - without Stress.
I am one of those people who work best under pressure. I am also quite anal and somewhat of a perfectionist. I like things to be in order and follow a system or schedule. I used to pretend I was go with the flow and "easy going." I realized I was not as carefree as I thought, when on a vacation to France a couple of years ago my friend woke up in a fright one morning because her alarm didn't go off putting us about 45 minutes behind on my perfectly planned schedule for the day. Hers was an honest mistake, but she felt so bad that she whittled down her normal 30-minute shower to measly 5 minutes. She was showering with the fear of God in her. I wasn't too bothered by her tardiness because as any good planner would know you always give yourself at least 30 minutes leeway but I did realize maybe it wasn’t a good thing that my friend was afraid of me.
I know from that story I sound like a horrible vacation companion but the truth of the matter is both my friends and my employers have always benefited from my over excited preparation skills. I have planned amazing birthday parties, impressed clients and outshone the most talented of my anal companions. At my side during those successful moments was my buddy Stress. When Stress and I work well with each other everyone wins, when we don't my poor boyfriend suffers.
In the last few weeks I have been depending on Stress more and more regularly. We've been staying up late to work on projects as well as trying to find the energy to host my friends from America who were visiting. My loving boyfriend did the best he could and smartly tried to leave me alone. He'd noticed the warning signs - I was moodier than normal and was quieter than what he deemed appropriate. To be honest, I was actually quite mean. Everything that was frustrating me about work and having to entertain guests I was taking out on him. After two or so blow ups for seemingly no reason he tried to remedy the situation. When he asked if there was something wrong, I, through grunts, told him that I was okay or fine or tired or a combination of those things. Why I couldn't just say I was having relations with Stress again I don't know. I felt guilty for putting Stress before him and I didn't want to get caught. I was having an affair and wanted to keep it secret. But like every good affair I began to crumble at the pressure of keeping it private.
When my boyfriend discovered that I reunited with Stress he did something quite unexpected - he told me I had a decision to make. I could either choose him or Stress. I'd always wanted to be the point in a love triangle but this was one that was not what I had in mind. Where were Hugh Grant and Colin Firth fighting for my honour outside a pub? He said that if I was going to value Stress over him than I should probably just be with Stress. At first I chuckled at such a silly personification then I took in the seriousness of his words. Although I wanted to stay on top of my anal game I need to find a way to do it without the dependency of Stress or I would lose someone uniquely more important to me. Having been in long distance relationship for so long I'd never had to choose one or the other before. My work-world and my relationship-world never overlapped. But now that we're living together in the real world I would have to find a way to do them both - without Stress.
Friday, 26 June 2009
No Way Baby!- By Fiona Bond
There was a time when summer had marked the start of long balmy evenings idled away in a beer garden or weekends spent trudging across a mud-drenched field in the name of music. When dancing in clubs until 6am and then stumbling home barefoot along the beach were the signs of a good holiday. But while I was still relishing the chance of an illicit encounter with a handsome stranger across a crowded bar, my friends had become consumed with the promise of an altogether more sedate existence: mortgages and marriage.
My best friend was moving in with her boyfriend in what was her first step, she admitted, down the path of engagement, marriage and children. How had I missed this? My surprise at the rush to settle down and feather a nest when still in our mid-twenties was, apparently, rare. All ‘their’ friends were settled, she’d attended two weddings this year and oh! had another three to attend this autumn. What to wear? What to buy? Would they prefer the glass bowl to the Nespresso?
In my quest to fill my time with bikini diets and summer jaunts, it would seem I had missed my cue to join the baby race. Conversations were now littered with talk of magnolia décor, spare bedrooms and Vera Wang wedding dresses. Marriage and babies were planned with such military precision, these women could have done the SAS proud.
I wasn’t sure whether to be concerned for their sanity or my own. Had I missed the proverbial ‘boat’? While I sat at dinner parties listening to the chorus of women singing the praises of a twosome existence, I did so with mild amusement. Their talk of finding ‘The One’ and ‘not being able to imagine life’ without their other half smacked of 1950s ideals. I feared the notion of commitment jarred with my fierce need to retain my independence, the fairy-tale trappings of romance smashing painfully against a sobering reality.
My best friend explained her desire to be part of a couple as a form of safety net. Wherever she went, she did so as a package deal and it boosted her confidence. I wondered if she had a point? I was so used to turning up to parties, ready to sing for my supper with sordid tales of debauchery and hideous dates to entertain my coupled-up counterparts that at times I’d morphed into a characterture of myself.
But did she never desire to be single again? Did she not crave the reckless flirtations and freedom?
Without hesitation: ‘No.’
Foursome dinner parties, cookery classes, Sunday morning paper runs and shared slices of homemade apple pie were a far better alternative.
It would seem that from the very first moment the Stepford Wives pulled on their mothers’ white cocktails dresses, wrapped a pseudo-veil around their head and cradled their dolls, they were destined for life as a wife.
I had little doubt that one day I would hanker after that too. But at 25 with the prospect of evenings spent arguing over the washing up and debating whose parents to spend the weekend with, the idea of spending a long summer with me, myself and I was all the relationship I needed.
My best friend was moving in with her boyfriend in what was her first step, she admitted, down the path of engagement, marriage and children. How had I missed this? My surprise at the rush to settle down and feather a nest when still in our mid-twenties was, apparently, rare. All ‘their’ friends were settled, she’d attended two weddings this year and oh! had another three to attend this autumn. What to wear? What to buy? Would they prefer the glass bowl to the Nespresso?
In my quest to fill my time with bikini diets and summer jaunts, it would seem I had missed my cue to join the baby race. Conversations were now littered with talk of magnolia décor, spare bedrooms and Vera Wang wedding dresses. Marriage and babies were planned with such military precision, these women could have done the SAS proud.
I wasn’t sure whether to be concerned for their sanity or my own. Had I missed the proverbial ‘boat’? While I sat at dinner parties listening to the chorus of women singing the praises of a twosome existence, I did so with mild amusement. Their talk of finding ‘The One’ and ‘not being able to imagine life’ without their other half smacked of 1950s ideals. I feared the notion of commitment jarred with my fierce need to retain my independence, the fairy-tale trappings of romance smashing painfully against a sobering reality.
My best friend explained her desire to be part of a couple as a form of safety net. Wherever she went, she did so as a package deal and it boosted her confidence. I wondered if she had a point? I was so used to turning up to parties, ready to sing for my supper with sordid tales of debauchery and hideous dates to entertain my coupled-up counterparts that at times I’d morphed into a characterture of myself.
But did she never desire to be single again? Did she not crave the reckless flirtations and freedom?
Without hesitation: ‘No.’
Foursome dinner parties, cookery classes, Sunday morning paper runs and shared slices of homemade apple pie were a far better alternative.
It would seem that from the very first moment the Stepford Wives pulled on their mothers’ white cocktails dresses, wrapped a pseudo-veil around their head and cradled their dolls, they were destined for life as a wife.
I had little doubt that one day I would hanker after that too. But at 25 with the prospect of evenings spent arguing over the washing up and debating whose parents to spend the weekend with, the idea of spending a long summer with me, myself and I was all the relationship I needed.
Monday, 8 June 2009
The Pity Date- By LondonBelle
How did I get stuck with the fat one? And how the hell did it get as far as coffee?
Friday night already feels forever ago; forever but not forgotten. How could it be? I’m sitting here with an extra from The Teletubbies, about as far down into my seat as I can slide, just praying this city will pull through on the anonymity front! Please God, let this be over soon, it’s not even worth the tube fare.
Apart from the obvious there are three things wrong with this situation. 1. The coffee I am clutching is not strong enough, (and I could have had a vodka and tonic for this price.) 2. The sun still has glorious reign of the sky, and we all know everybody looks better after lights out. 3. I am on The Pity Date.
The Pity Date, for those blessed with an immunity, is the result of consuming your body weight in wine and giving out your number to a guy you can’t tell arse from face. It’s the one where you think “Hell, why not? What’s the worst that can happen? He’s a nice guy. A nice personality’’.
To his credit, he had the patience of a saint. This one held back my hair whilst I painted the pavement and (between chunks) sniffled over the falling rates in Panda Bears worldwide. I really felt as though I owed him one date. He listened, he nodded and I probably didn’t notice him looking down my top. I convinced myself this made him “a nice person” …the old “inner beauty” shit that all previous encounters are supposed to warn you against. The more I drink the more I feel sorry for the ugly ones. This guy, he fell right out of the ugly tree and left a huge crater at the bottom. He’s ten men rolled into one, with a face I wouldn’t sit on. And he’s American.
I should have known a romantic encounter wasn’t on the cards when he kissed me, after my dinner had come back up the way it went down. Still, at least I didn’t sleep with him.
Today we sit here in a coffee shop, right in the West End. Centre of the fucking universe! I tried half heartedly to ditch him once. I told him where I would be waiting, made it elusive, hoped he might not show. He showed.
I’m mostly silent whilst he fills me in on every boring detail; I swear this guy remembers his own freakin’ birth. I think about all the wonderful things I could have done with an afternoon at home; cleaning the lime scale from the kettle would be preferable to this. I’m bored, he’s not very witty and his accent is grating on my nerves. My temperature’s rising, (possibly this guy has his own equator?) but I can’t excuse myself again; he must already think I have bladder like Penny Piss-A-Lot. I have nothing to say to him and every time he touches my leg I feel my vagina healing over, screaming up at me its disappointment in my choice of date! I have never been less attracted to someone in my life. I sit scrutinising his every move, every feature. I’m alarmingly jealous of the gentle curve of his man-boobs; subtly comparing them to my own. This has gone too far.
I’ve learnt a lesson here, but I’ve already retaken this class a dozen times. Don’t say yes to The Pity Date! There are no examples of it ending well and who would want it to? Sure he’s rich, but I bet he’s no good at…
Just then my thoughts and my eyes stray down south; there is only one thing his jeans are bulging with and it is not massive manhood. Fuck it, I give in. I play my ringtone on full volume, tell a lie with very little effort or conviction and make a quick exit. We both know what just happened there, he only tries to call me once again…
It’s not me it’s him. It’s always them!
Friday night already feels forever ago; forever but not forgotten. How could it be? I’m sitting here with an extra from The Teletubbies, about as far down into my seat as I can slide, just praying this city will pull through on the anonymity front! Please God, let this be over soon, it’s not even worth the tube fare.
Apart from the obvious there are three things wrong with this situation. 1. The coffee I am clutching is not strong enough, (and I could have had a vodka and tonic for this price.) 2. The sun still has glorious reign of the sky, and we all know everybody looks better after lights out. 3. I am on The Pity Date.
The Pity Date, for those blessed with an immunity, is the result of consuming your body weight in wine and giving out your number to a guy you can’t tell arse from face. It’s the one where you think “Hell, why not? What’s the worst that can happen? He’s a nice guy. A nice personality’’.
To his credit, he had the patience of a saint. This one held back my hair whilst I painted the pavement and (between chunks) sniffled over the falling rates in Panda Bears worldwide. I really felt as though I owed him one date. He listened, he nodded and I probably didn’t notice him looking down my top. I convinced myself this made him “a nice person” …the old “inner beauty” shit that all previous encounters are supposed to warn you against. The more I drink the more I feel sorry for the ugly ones. This guy, he fell right out of the ugly tree and left a huge crater at the bottom. He’s ten men rolled into one, with a face I wouldn’t sit on. And he’s American.
I should have known a romantic encounter wasn’t on the cards when he kissed me, after my dinner had come back up the way it went down. Still, at least I didn’t sleep with him.
Today we sit here in a coffee shop, right in the West End. Centre of the fucking universe! I tried half heartedly to ditch him once. I told him where I would be waiting, made it elusive, hoped he might not show. He showed.
I’m mostly silent whilst he fills me in on every boring detail; I swear this guy remembers his own freakin’ birth. I think about all the wonderful things I could have done with an afternoon at home; cleaning the lime scale from the kettle would be preferable to this. I’m bored, he’s not very witty and his accent is grating on my nerves. My temperature’s rising, (possibly this guy has his own equator?) but I can’t excuse myself again; he must already think I have bladder like Penny Piss-A-Lot. I have nothing to say to him and every time he touches my leg I feel my vagina healing over, screaming up at me its disappointment in my choice of date! I have never been less attracted to someone in my life. I sit scrutinising his every move, every feature. I’m alarmingly jealous of the gentle curve of his man-boobs; subtly comparing them to my own. This has gone too far.
I’ve learnt a lesson here, but I’ve already retaken this class a dozen times. Don’t say yes to The Pity Date! There are no examples of it ending well and who would want it to? Sure he’s rich, but I bet he’s no good at…
Just then my thoughts and my eyes stray down south; there is only one thing his jeans are bulging with and it is not massive manhood. Fuck it, I give in. I play my ringtone on full volume, tell a lie with very little effort or conviction and make a quick exit. We both know what just happened there, he only tries to call me once again…
It’s not me it’s him. It’s always them!
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Summer Plucking- By Fiona Bond
There comes that time once a year when summertime hits. The boys call it ‘Boob Monday’, I prefer to think of it as the start of long, hazy days spent drinking Pimms al fresco, rolling around in hay (male companion optional) and floaty dresses. As the clock ticks back an hour, balmy evenings pregnant with anticipation of summer fun set in. The boys may have a point though as the woolly jumpers and overcoats make way for rising hemlines and plunging necklines and with it arrives the start of a 90-day grooming ritual.
Neglected leg waxes? Check. Too many mince pies and a lovely bit of a cottage cheese thigh as a result? Check. Fake-tanned hands and face matched with a deathly pale stomach and legs? Check. This would take some work. I unfortunately did not have the smug comfort of knowing I could be in possession of sandpaper legs and still have a boyfriend who thought I was Angelina Jolie.
After spotting a woman on the tube sporting her new summer sandals with delightful yellow, curled toenails and tufts of bristles protruding from her legs, I decided on emergency action: a whole weekend of pampering. Yes ladies, desperate times call for desperate measures.
I promptly ordered myself some teeth-whitening strips off the internet after a recommendation from a friend.
‘They are brilliant. Exactly the same as a dentist but for a fraction of the price.’ Christ, she was like the Max Clifford of the teeth world.
Unfortunately, instead of sitting in a flashy chair in a gleaming white room making eyes with a George Clooney type, I was left trying to seal sticky, chemical-smelling strips to my teeth while trying to avoid looking like the Predator. It was a mistake venturing out the house for a bottle of wine and promptly getting ID’ed by the check-out guy who mistook the strips for a brace. Next stop: all manner of waxing treatments which would require me pulling some very strange positions Dita von Teese would be proud of, followed by a manicure, pedicure and finally a spray tan. Now I’m not sure how many of you have enjoyed the delights of the spray-tan but it almost resembles something out of ‘Ghostbusters.’ After being placed naked in a black pod with fetching cotton-wool shoes on the soles of my feet, the beautician got up close and personal with all my squidgy lady bits with what looked like a very large hoover full of brown sludge. To make matters worse, I was told to pull on a swimming cap that should never been seen on a woman under the age of 85.
‘What have you done to yourself?!’ my friend Alex yelped as he set eyes on me.
‘I caught the sun,’ I lied. Best not to admit I spent the morning frantically waving my arms and legs up and down while the Hoover Lady turned me a glowing shade of tangerine.
‘Caught the sun?’ he retorted. ‘What, and climbed in it? You look like a bloody jaffa cake.’
Great, I had paid £30 and my pride to be told I looked like a McVitie’s biscuit. To make matters worse, I think I was starting to smell like one too.
‘Being tanned covers up a multitude of sins,’ I argued. Just like the age-old adage that black is slimming, tanned pins were able to carry off dimples far better than their milk bottle-white compatriots. My recent £3.99 cellulite-busting buttock brush had failed in its duty and with the sun and handsome young males coming out to play, time was of the essence.
‘And being orange isn’t the biggest sin?’ Alex looked quizzical. ‘I don’t understand why you girls bother, you all look much better pale anyway, it’s far more natural.’ One more utterance of that word and he would be wearing a jaffa cake.
Hallelujah for female friends who completely disagreed. ‘Once it starts to wear off in a day or two it will look fab and totally natural,’ Susan piped up. And there we have it; while men harp on about ‘natural beauty’ convinced we emerged from the womb full of fresh, glowing skin, silky hair and rosy cheeks, we women know they just have no idea how much hard work and unnatural tweezering, plucking and primping goes into that illusion!
Neglected leg waxes? Check. Too many mince pies and a lovely bit of a cottage cheese thigh as a result? Check. Fake-tanned hands and face matched with a deathly pale stomach and legs? Check. This would take some work. I unfortunately did not have the smug comfort of knowing I could be in possession of sandpaper legs and still have a boyfriend who thought I was Angelina Jolie.
After spotting a woman on the tube sporting her new summer sandals with delightful yellow, curled toenails and tufts of bristles protruding from her legs, I decided on emergency action: a whole weekend of pampering. Yes ladies, desperate times call for desperate measures.
I promptly ordered myself some teeth-whitening strips off the internet after a recommendation from a friend.
‘They are brilliant. Exactly the same as a dentist but for a fraction of the price.’ Christ, she was like the Max Clifford of the teeth world.
Unfortunately, instead of sitting in a flashy chair in a gleaming white room making eyes with a George Clooney type, I was left trying to seal sticky, chemical-smelling strips to my teeth while trying to avoid looking like the Predator. It was a mistake venturing out the house for a bottle of wine and promptly getting ID’ed by the check-out guy who mistook the strips for a brace. Next stop: all manner of waxing treatments which would require me pulling some very strange positions Dita von Teese would be proud of, followed by a manicure, pedicure and finally a spray tan. Now I’m not sure how many of you have enjoyed the delights of the spray-tan but it almost resembles something out of ‘Ghostbusters.’ After being placed naked in a black pod with fetching cotton-wool shoes on the soles of my feet, the beautician got up close and personal with all my squidgy lady bits with what looked like a very large hoover full of brown sludge. To make matters worse, I was told to pull on a swimming cap that should never been seen on a woman under the age of 85.
‘What have you done to yourself?!’ my friend Alex yelped as he set eyes on me.
‘I caught the sun,’ I lied. Best not to admit I spent the morning frantically waving my arms and legs up and down while the Hoover Lady turned me a glowing shade of tangerine.
‘Caught the sun?’ he retorted. ‘What, and climbed in it? You look like a bloody jaffa cake.’
Great, I had paid £30 and my pride to be told I looked like a McVitie’s biscuit. To make matters worse, I think I was starting to smell like one too.
‘Being tanned covers up a multitude of sins,’ I argued. Just like the age-old adage that black is slimming, tanned pins were able to carry off dimples far better than their milk bottle-white compatriots. My recent £3.99 cellulite-busting buttock brush had failed in its duty and with the sun and handsome young males coming out to play, time was of the essence.
‘And being orange isn’t the biggest sin?’ Alex looked quizzical. ‘I don’t understand why you girls bother, you all look much better pale anyway, it’s far more natural.’ One more utterance of that word and he would be wearing a jaffa cake.
Hallelujah for female friends who completely disagreed. ‘Once it starts to wear off in a day or two it will look fab and totally natural,’ Susan piped up. And there we have it; while men harp on about ‘natural beauty’ convinced we emerged from the womb full of fresh, glowing skin, silky hair and rosy cheeks, we women know they just have no idea how much hard work and unnatural tweezering, plucking and primping goes into that illusion!
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
Family Gatherings With Mr Beige- By Fiona Bond
There’s an invitation which all singletons come to dread; the family gathering. Having sworn myself off men following my awful credit crunch date, I had no Tom, Dick or Harry on speed dial and with the ‘tonsillitis, bird flu and leprosy’ excuses all well and truly used up, I had little choice but to admit defeat.
Armed with a bouquet of flowers and not nearly enough alcohol, I had a new-found understanding for people who divorce their families. Once upon a time there was Adam and Eve. Family gatherings have been going downhill ever since then.
‘Oh mum will be so delighted you’ve come,’ my cousin Anna greeted me. ‘We all thought you’d dropped off the face of the planet.’ No such luck. ‘Alone?’ she enquired.
‘No, I have my imaginary friend Eddie with me,’ I joked. It was no joking matter it would seem; I was 25 without the slightest hint of a boyfriend and so it would seem, a future of smelling like cat-wee, dinners for one and an unhealthy obsession with Lambrusco loomed.
‘She still hasn’t got a boyfriend,’ Anna announced to anyone within a ten-mile radius, as if I had just confessed to mugging an old lady on the street.
‘A pretty little thing like you can’t get yourself a lad? What’s the world coming to?’ I felt the slap on my buttock before I heard the croaky voice. Ahh I was wrong, I also had the joy of fending off the advances of Berties, Alberts and Harolds to look forward to.
‘I was married at your age you know,’ an old lady I didn’t recognise took it upon herself to inform me. Christ what was this? Burn the witch at the stake day? ‘You girls these days…hmmm, it’s all career or drugs or lesbianism.’ WHAT??? In the last ten minutes I had gone from a single twenty-something to a cocaine-snorting, hard-nosed lesbian. How come it hadn’t entered anyone’s mind that I might be standing there alone because I just hadn’t met anyone fun enough to stand there with? It was then that it occurred to me that I could have turned up with Fred West on my arm and it would have been preferable. In a sea of bouncing babies, home-made cakes and moustached-husbands in beige V-necks discussing the latest cricket scores I didn’t fit in.
‘You know, my friend Frieda lives in Norfolk and she has a lovely boy, widowed you know. Hasn’t yet found himself a lady to brighten his days you know? Lovely boy,’ one family ‘friend’ told me. Throw in a stately home, foppish hair-do and a randy pastor and it was bang out of Jane Austin. I nodded politely while I sipped my wine desperately wishing it were vodka. I figured there was little point in arguing my point as it would only add towards my ‘suited and booted lady-lover’ image so instead I smiled sweetly, agreed to lots of dates I would never go on and cooed over far too many babies.
After all I figured that once I had endured my three hours penance, any first date or relationship would be a walk in the park and by this time next year I may have found my very own Mr Beige to stand still with.
Armed with a bouquet of flowers and not nearly enough alcohol, I had a new-found understanding for people who divorce their families. Once upon a time there was Adam and Eve. Family gatherings have been going downhill ever since then.
‘Oh mum will be so delighted you’ve come,’ my cousin Anna greeted me. ‘We all thought you’d dropped off the face of the planet.’ No such luck. ‘Alone?’ she enquired.
‘No, I have my imaginary friend Eddie with me,’ I joked. It was no joking matter it would seem; I was 25 without the slightest hint of a boyfriend and so it would seem, a future of smelling like cat-wee, dinners for one and an unhealthy obsession with Lambrusco loomed.
‘She still hasn’t got a boyfriend,’ Anna announced to anyone within a ten-mile radius, as if I had just confessed to mugging an old lady on the street.
‘A pretty little thing like you can’t get yourself a lad? What’s the world coming to?’ I felt the slap on my buttock before I heard the croaky voice. Ahh I was wrong, I also had the joy of fending off the advances of Berties, Alberts and Harolds to look forward to.
‘I was married at your age you know,’ an old lady I didn’t recognise took it upon herself to inform me. Christ what was this? Burn the witch at the stake day? ‘You girls these days…hmmm, it’s all career or drugs or lesbianism.’ WHAT??? In the last ten minutes I had gone from a single twenty-something to a cocaine-snorting, hard-nosed lesbian. How come it hadn’t entered anyone’s mind that I might be standing there alone because I just hadn’t met anyone fun enough to stand there with? It was then that it occurred to me that I could have turned up with Fred West on my arm and it would have been preferable. In a sea of bouncing babies, home-made cakes and moustached-husbands in beige V-necks discussing the latest cricket scores I didn’t fit in.
‘You know, my friend Frieda lives in Norfolk and she has a lovely boy, widowed you know. Hasn’t yet found himself a lady to brighten his days you know? Lovely boy,’ one family ‘friend’ told me. Throw in a stately home, foppish hair-do and a randy pastor and it was bang out of Jane Austin. I nodded politely while I sipped my wine desperately wishing it were vodka. I figured there was little point in arguing my point as it would only add towards my ‘suited and booted lady-lover’ image so instead I smiled sweetly, agreed to lots of dates I would never go on and cooed over far too many babies.
After all I figured that once I had endured my three hours penance, any first date or relationship would be a walk in the park and by this time next year I may have found my very own Mr Beige to stand still with.
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