Pieces of Me

Somewhat inspired by G2's Piece of Me when each week the paper asks a prominent figure to look back at their life through their favourite objects, I decided to challenge myself and see what materialistic pursuits matter most to me.

Not that I'm a prominent figure mind you, I just think it would be very interesting.

Or very depressing.

As it is I've moved something ridiculous like 14 times in 9 years. Even when I was responsible and bought a 3 bedroom house with The Ex to settle down and play not so happy families, never staying long enough to settle but just long enough to accumulate things that I felt I needed at the time.


1) My red cowboy boots. A bit scuffed and a bit worn but I treasure them all the same. And I'm wearing them right now.

2) My jewellery box. There's not alot in terms of high monetary value, no diamonds or precious jewels but I do own the most beautiful necklace in the world that was given to me by Lulu for my 30th, which only comes out on very special occasions. And a pair of beads from the 30's that belonged to my grandmother.

3) My photos. Of friends and travels and family. And my beat up old camera. I haven't yet embraced the digital camera generation, more a question of not having bought one yet as opposed to being technophobic.

4) My journals. All 12 years of them. It's always like a little journey to see who I fancied. And why. And question who was he?

5) My chanting beads. And my Gohonzon when I finally receive it in December.
(Or is that cheating as I don't yet have it?)

6) My Vivienne Westwood handbags. Shameful, I know.

7) My favourite books.

8) My mobile phone. Which I hate.
But it has loads of pics and texts and the phone numbers of the ones I love.

9) My diary. Because I would forget where I was supposed to be otherwise.
Or who I'm supposed to be on a date with this evening.

10) My kitchen gadgets. The Kitchen Aid mostly which I smuggled out of the Ex's house.

11) The painting Knickers gave me for my 5th year in England, which sadly has not yet been put up on my wall. I'm not allowed near drills.

After that, I can pretty much take it or leave it. I would of course make sure to grab whatever was left in the bottles of single malt or vodka tottering out in my impossibly high heels in the event of a fire, but the rest, I know I can always replace.

And as I am indeed a Lady, I can add to this list at any time dependent on my mood.

It's my prerogative.

If I was home

Yesterday, instead of feeling sad in London.

I'd have gone to the beach for a walk with The Gorgeous, our hands wrapped around take away coffees. I'd have listened and nodded and let her talk. We'd walk along the pier, lean against the railing while I traced the carvings with my fingers, we'd peer over and count the starfish.
Remember how many times we'd made this walk in our lifetimes, how right there my first love had held my hand and kissed me.
How right there she had had her wedding pictures taken, twisting her ring awkwardly around her finger.

We'd arrive late at my parents, breathless and flushed from the sea air, the sound of family and friends echoing through the rooms. My father would hand us caesars, take our coats and kiss our cheeks, smiling. My mother would cast disapproving looks our way, shake her head and return to the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand.

The dining room would be full, the tables crowded with conversation and food. Empty wine bottles removed, shouts over the last sweet potato, plates cleared. My father would run downstairs, return with his arms wrapped around liqueurs. The Gorgeous would jump up, berating my mother's choice of coffee and grab the cafetiere. More hands in the kitchen, grabbing cream, and plates and my home made pumpkin pies.

And we'd all sit back at the end, patting stomachs too full with food. The candles almost finished, discarded napkins on the table and on the floors, several hours later there would still be conversation and a reluctance to leave the table.

And then the flurry of goodbyes, everyone with plates full of food to take home, stomachs aching from laughter and too much turkey. And we'd stand in the kitchen, amongst leftovers and dirty dishes, The Gorgeous, my mom and I.

If I was home.

We won. Take 2...

I'm pleased to say that there was no inappropriate snogging.

I could be a little disappointed by that.

We won!

Yes we did.

She says garbled and drunk on a Friday night, grinning on the end of Brooky's Friday night post.

We won.

I stumble home.

Blind drunk, my handbag stuffed full of mini bottles of vodka.

The Swiss laughs at me.
But fuck it, we won!

What the frock...

I have a dilemma. Well, in truth I have more than one but I'll get to the other in a minute.

I've an Awards do this evening and in 5 hours and 17 minutes I need to be in a cab on my way to a swanky London hotel.

It's black tie.

We're up for several awards.

And last night when I should have been exfoliating, waxing, tweezing, tanning, preening and deciding on what I should be wearing this evening I was drinking champagne and eating too much food.

Which is where the dilemma now lays.

In my indecision I have brought two frocks with me.
I can only wear one and had I been focusing last night I wouldn't be in this mess. Which one do I wear? Do I wear the long black velvet evening gown with the embroidered wrap? Or the silk wrap?

Or do I wear the shorter dress with the full skirt? And then what wrap?

I have luckily decided on shoes, as I usually chose shoes first, accessorise and then dress upwards and these lovely shoes will go with both said frocks. But about an hour in they’ll start to hurt like hell which is why it's a good thing we're sitting down.

And drinking champagne.

Which then brings us about face to the 2nd dilemma. The champagne. Which always makes me giddy and happy, I can't always say no to that lovely bubbly glass.
And usually in this state I find myself flirting outrageously and inappropriately.
And as the men will all be in black tie, my heart will be all a'flut flut fluttering most of the night.

So I just need to keep these champagne lips from locking with ANYONE.
And I will be on my best behaviour.

And not end up drunk and disorderly on my flatmate's floor.

And not, I repeat, not snog anyone inappropriate.

Or at least die trying.

And then the date itself...

And then there's the date itself. The phone calls, texts, emails can not prepare you for this.
It's show time now, baby.

So carefully primped and primed, a little drink to take the edge off and then the meet, which in itself can be disastrous. I know, I think, in the first moments. I either get that Frank Sinatra feeling or I don't.
And if I don't, my heart does sink a little but I have also been very lucky.

I have yet to experience that REALLY BAD DATE, where the conversation dries up and I have yet to put the SOMETHING BAD HAS HAPPENED phone call to good use; I've had the marathon date where the kiss at the end of the night left me weak kneed and goofy grinned and that awkward 2 drinks "I'm very tired and how do I get out of here without that good night kiss" date...
Which is probably why I will never accept a dinner invitation first off, I prefer to go for drinks and then see how it progresses.

One of the worst experiences was several months ago when I allowed, at a very weak moment, a friend to set me up with his friend. A lovely bloke, by all accounts. Attractive, and a little younger than me. A doctor no less, and dinner was arranged. As he lived out of London (Bam!) and was a vegetarian (Bam!) he suggested I choose the venue. Bam! Bam! Bam!

This did not bode well.

I should have seen all the signs.

As it is I am painfully indecisive, and a carnivore. I tried vegetarianism once before, but it didn't last. So with some help from friends, we decided on Eat and Two Veg. Dinner. No drinks. Final nail in the coffin.

He was indeed lovely. And attractive. He was charming. And deep. So deep that pre appetizers he'd descended into the conversation about his ex and how he crashed his car because of her.
And as the starters arrived, it hit me. I was on a date with Doogie Hoswer MD. And not a glass of wine in sight.

Granted, I wasn't bored. But when he suggested after dinner drinks, reached over the table and held my hand, I knew then that I should have stayed at the bar.

This made me laugh...

For some strange and mad reason, several friends email me pictures of the Hoff on a regular basis. I have no idea why.
I never fancied him, well... maybe a bit as Michael Knight. Which is maybe why I was so disappointed when I went to Universal and saw that KITT in fact had an automatic transmission.

And was a Pontiac.

Trans Am.

Somehow between here and there it just got oh so uncool.

I should have been a nun

Frankly, dating is exhausting.

The preparation itself: the make up application, getting the hair to that just tousled perfection, the waxing, shaving, tweezing. The choosing of the right perfume, the not eating for days to get that smooth taut stomach, packing in several additional hours at the gym, the sunbed, and then deliberation on what to wear.

For me, the choice is simple. A little black dress but then... What necklace? What earrings, what rings? What colour nail varnish? What colour wrap, and how to wear it, around the neck, around the shoulders? Should it match the handbag?

And then, the shoes. It's raining, it's not! High heels, flats (never on a date, darling!), stilettos? Sandals? The new glorious pumps in pink, or black? And then the breaking in of said shoes so you can walk gracefully and elegantly and not be crippled by blisters.

Oh, the pressure!

Clean teeth, and body completely pinched, perfumed, waxed, tweezed, bronzed, toned, taut...

Caffeine. Caffeine. Caffeine.

I am a caffeine addict.

I will freely admit it, I am not ashamed.

I'm also not a morning person, ask anyone who's ever had the misfortune of trying to converse with me first thing in the morning. My housemates tend to steer clear of me, it took them only several days to realise that I wasn't actually ignoring them at that time of the day; I just don't have the power of speech and my favoured communication is a non committal grunt. Which is why I have never been involved with anyone remotely chipper in the morning; I am sure it would end with their blood on my hands unless, of course, they soothed my morning antipathy with a steaming cup of freshly ground Sumatra.

I get the shakes. I get irritable. Bleary eyed. My tongue feels fuzzy and I get faint. I need to wrap my hands around that divinely frothy cappuccino, I need to feel that sharp espresso coursing through my veins. There is a profound joy in taking those first few sips, only then can I feel a desire of any sort to function. I read somewhere that in Saudi Arabia a woman can divorce her husband if he doesn't keep her supplied with coffee. I say "go girl!". I'd certainly react against any fool who came between me and my morning fix.

I think this may be the result of my canadianess, maybe like my fondness for crispy bacon and blueberry pancakes. Together.
I'm actually offended by tea, unless of course it's green. Or white. But none of that brown stuff. Doesn't do it for me at all. Dusty nasty tea leave shite. Nope. Give me that perfectly beautifully brown roasted coffee bean.

And am not sure where this is going at all.
I have a hangover.
I missed my run.

And I've not yet had my morning coffee.

August grey

It's August.

It's the silly season.

And it is a cold and grey London afternoon; which wouldn't be so bad if there was more to do instead of stare glumly out the window at the streets of Farringdon.

I have tried though, really I have. I'm completely up to date and organised with all the tedious jobs I leave to the last minute.

Yes. It is that bad.

It's the same as everyone else around me. We're just all staring blankly at our screens.

Blinking when we need to blink.

Drinking when we need to drink. (well, not really like that, the ouzo went home with me the other day and no longer graces my desk. I can only think that that is a good thing otherwise I may be tempted)

Stare.

Blink.

Gulp.

Buck up, buttercup!

Last October proved a turning point in my life.

It wasn't serious, in that it wasn't life threatening. If treated, the chances of it ever developing into cancer were miniscule. But there it was. On the form that called me in for a biopsy. In the voices of the doctor and the nurses.

It was just a word, after all.

My body suddenly felt hollow. I felt betrayed. I wondered why I didn't feel any difference in my body. There were no aches or pains that alerted me to the fact that there was something wrong with me.

I have always been terrified of cancer, I don't know why. It is the only illness that as a child would fill me with dread, I remember a girl from our neighbourhood being diagnosed with leukaemia when I was 6; and then asking my parents if it would happen to me too.
Could you get it from touching? From climbing the same tree, or drinking from the same glass?
For several months I knew that I too would one day get sick, that I too would lose my hair. It was the romantic musings of a child, but I played it out in Technicolor dream in my mind. My parents around my bed, my sister holding my hand, the neighbourhood holding candlelit vigils while I, brave, heroic, pale told them all in hoarse whispers that it would all be okay before I faded off into a gentle death. If I had at that time been introduced to Dylan Thomas, I am sure that "Do not go gentle into that good night" have played a key role in the above scene, while I bravely fought off the invisible demons inside my bones.
To tell you the truth, at that age, I most likely had no idea of what leukaemia really was, all I knew was that it was cancer and when I finally plucked the courage to tell my mother I suspected that I too had caught this leukaemia, she told me in no uncertain terms what I would have to go through just to diagnose it.

Years later, I heard the tale of one of my closest friends' partner who has had multiple bone marrow transplants, chemotherapy and radiotherapy and who lightly joked that the worst thing he could ever hear was the doctor telling him that a) he needed a bigger needle and b) he needed another stronger doctor to help him push said needle in.
It made my childhood romanticism of dying seem almost insulting to him.


And so in October last year I had treatment to remove the abnormal cells, and I healed.

And waited 8 long weeks for results which I knew would give me an all clear; and in these 8 weeks I made a pact to myself that I would get healthy, that I would set myself a challenge that was both physically and emotionally demanding.

I have never been a runner. I have never liked to run. But somehow I was inspired to make it my mission to run the London Nike 10k in October 2005.

So where am I now then? I've been called back for another screening as at my last check up they found more abnormal cells but I'm not worried. I have been told that this is normal. I start running next week and I'm fairly excited about it.
I'm going to have the sort of discipline I've never had before.

I've told friends.

I've told my sister.

I've made pledges.

I need to keep to my schedule and do it.

And if I ever feel the need to slack off, I have the words of my sister "Buck up, buttercup!" to keep my feet flying.

Missing the boat

I had a particularly peculiar feeling the other day, the day that I got the email from the WelshOne about his impending move. Not about him per se, more a feeling that I somehow seem to have missed something.
I felt as if I had nipped out of the party to get some champagne, and by the time I'd got back the boat had sailed without me and there I was, stuck on the shore watching everyone having a good time; doing things that responsible adults should be doing, getting married, buying houses, moving in with their beloveds, having children.

I am now the only single female in my group. In truth, I think I may be the only single person in our group and most of the time I am okay with that, in fact I relish it; especially during the tears and rows and strife that come only between two people who love each other. No thank you very much, I had 5 years of that and am pretty content without it these days.

But this week has also made me realise that indeed it's okay to want to share this life of mine with someone and despite knowing that I am freakishly picky, that if I am going to commit myself to one man he has got to be something phenomenally special, with the ability to make his way through the jumbled obstacle course to my heart, it doesn't stop me feeling like somehow I seem to have missed something, while I was off to the off licence to get that bottle, those around me seemed to be making radical decisions, developing relationships that meant something and while I was the last to leave the party, tipsy and dazed with another unsuitable candidate, they had left with something more tangible. Had moved on from the party, made homes and engagements. Got to the boat on time and moved on.

Single men seem to be few and far between, Nurse K even jokingly emailed me saying that, like me, she always checks the left hand for a ring these days. Gone are the days we looked at eyes, legs, mouths, and er... that pert, apple cheek ass.
It's all about the ring finger these days. And even if that man is not attractive, if he appears to be single - well, that man's stock goes up ten fold.

Sad.

But true.

Ramblings of no importance whatsoever

So there I am, in the gym after a particularly gruelling cardio session comprising of rowing and cycling, my hair is wet with sweat, my face is red and I'm bent over the glutes machine, my butt in the air, my back leg straining against the weights, glutes tensing... a not very dignified position, and all in all I am not looking particularly glamorous, attractive or well... to put it bluntly I looked like hell.

Now The WelshOne, for those who remember, was the nice young man I dated last year and the only man in the last 2 years whom I've dated in that time that has given me that butterfly feeling.
Granted, we didn't date for long and it was almost a year ago but I still remember how he made me feel and so, even though I know we have both *MOVED ON* it was still with a tinge of regret that when he announced his impending moving in with new girlfriend this week, I replied with an ever so slightly through gritted teeth "Congratulations, am so happy for you etc etc bloody etc"

I have seen him since The Great Smiths' parting, granted... and every time I saw him again a little of those butterflies decreased until I was fairly sure that I was *over it* and that it wasn't him I was pining over after all, rather it's those butterflies I'm missing. And we have in truth had several email exchanges so if I was to see him again, it wouldn't be that big a deal... non?!

Well, unless I'm bent over the glutes machine in a rather undignified position? And turn around, hair lank, red faced to face him? Grinning like a fool at me.

So the good news is there was no twinge, no butterflies, not even a moth and lo and behold someone I used to fancy saw me looking less than my best, and if you think of all the other things I should be worrying about, really... that's a pale comparison.

Budget schmudget

According to the Budget unveiled yesterday, from April 1st I shall be a colossal £4.74 a month better off.

However, if I smoked, drank pints, drank more wine and purchased additional bottles of spirit I'd be £5.28 better off.

Hmmm...

All fair in love and woe...

Despite the fact that I have a great career, a fantastic social life and the confidence that I am not a social pariah, I'm going to have to confess to one of my worst personality traits, those certain unsettling bouts of insecurity about men and dating. It is by far one of the most frustrating feelings in the world and believe me, I have read all those self help manuals before you ask, thank you very much. The best advice that I have read, and will now pass on is that by allowing myself feel those insecurities, I am not in control of my own emotions.
Wow thanks! Believe me, I could have spotted that particular observation a mile off, I am after all a woman and in no way am I in control of my emotions.

So I've subscribed to the whole "He's just not that into you" theory of Greg Behredent and Liz Tuccillo.

Now I steadfastly refuse to ask a man out.
Period.
If he's into me he'll ask me out.
Sounds simple, right?
Umm.
Not really.
Because sooner or later you're going to meet that particular guy and think wow, and all these theories we've carefully cultivated and established in our heads are going to start to look less than satisfying.

I don't play games, you'll say. I like him, you'll say, why shouldn't I contact him? Well I'm afraid to say that I don't have the answer to that gem. If I did, believe me I wouldn't be sat here writing this, I'd be revered as a dating guru and curled up in the arms of my own personal Adonis.

As it is, despite the cynicism, my new dating regime has borne marginally better success. Or so it appears.
I am also adamant that I will not make the first contact after the date, if he's really into me, he'll be in touch.
Right?
Sure.
Sure he will.

But the question still remains, why do we, as these strong confident women, allow ourselves to indulge in this inane and useless sense of insecurity? Surely we know better, know that we are worth more than that Casanova who says he'll call and then doesn't. He shows all the signs of being interested, and sends off all the right signals. Talk about misleading.

And if he wasn't going to call, I'd prefer to save myself that bruised ego and get the honest truth.