Clearing out my email inbox the other day, and came across an email from my sister, The Gorgeous. Written at a time when I was at a particularly low point and having a hard time finding a job that was just *so*.
At the end she signed off with this
*You are here with purpose, you have sacred gifts and may you let them shine as brightly as intended.*
It's nice to have a little advice like that to brighten up a grey day.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Monday, November 14, 2005
Dal ati! Daliwch ati!
Apologies for the rambling, I'm tired after a busy weekend (hangovers get worse as you get older...) seeing old friends and making new, it's Monday and with it comes all of Monday things and a lack of inspiration. Instead of my own words here's one of my favourite poems, it's early Dylan Thomas and I've always gone back to it after every break up I've ever had.
My parents took pride in their Welshness, I was brought up with Shirley Bassey (let me tell you, my mother, an ex ballerina with the Royal Ballet can still do a fabuous rendition of Big Spender) and Tom Jones, my summers were spent in the Valleys of Glamorgan and Carmarthenshire exploring castles and climbing mountains and every March 1st The Gorgeous and I were sent off with daffodils on our lapels for St David's Day.
So it was no wonder that when my modryb and ewthyr took me out to Laugharne when I was 13, the romantic and naive in me saw a kindred spirit. A drunken tortured soak, who fell in love with words, and with whom I have been half in love with ever since.
Mwynhau, cariad.
You Shall not Despair
You shall not despair
Because I have forsaken you
Or cast your love aside;
There is a greater love than mine
Which can comfort you
And touch you with softer hands.
I am no longer
Friendly and beautiful to you;
Your body cannot gladden me,
Nor the splendor of your dark hair,
But I do not humiliate you;
You shall be taken sweetly again
And soothed with slow tears;
You shall be loved enough.
My parents took pride in their Welshness, I was brought up with Shirley Bassey (let me tell you, my mother, an ex ballerina with the Royal Ballet can still do a fabuous rendition of Big Spender) and Tom Jones, my summers were spent in the Valleys of Glamorgan and Carmarthenshire exploring castles and climbing mountains and every March 1st The Gorgeous and I were sent off with daffodils on our lapels for St David's Day.
So it was no wonder that when my modryb and ewthyr took me out to Laugharne when I was 13, the romantic and naive in me saw a kindred spirit. A drunken tortured soak, who fell in love with words, and with whom I have been half in love with ever since.
Mwynhau, cariad.
You Shall not Despair
You shall not despair
Because I have forsaken you
Or cast your love aside;
There is a greater love than mine
Which can comfort you
And touch you with softer hands.
I am no longer
Friendly and beautiful to you;
Your body cannot gladden me,
Nor the splendor of your dark hair,
But I do not humiliate you;
You shall be taken sweetly again
And soothed with slow tears;
You shall be loved enough.
Come on Baby, Light My Fire
The game, it appears, is back on.
Roll on Friday.
And thank London Fire Brigade for sparing one of theirs to take me for drinks this week.
All 6ft 2 of him.
Thank you thank you thank you...
I have a thing, you see, for firemen.
And cowboys. (...but more of that later)
So last week, at the bar, a voice behind me *You must be Canadian* and a somewhat lopsided grin.
I am indeed.
Very impressed in his correct placement of my nomadic accent.
And a fireman.
The game has just gotten a whole lot more exciting.
Roll on Friday.
And thank London Fire Brigade for sparing one of theirs to take me for drinks this week.
All 6ft 2 of him.
Thank you thank you thank you...
I have a thing, you see, for firemen.
And cowboys. (...but more of that later)
So last week, at the bar, a voice behind me *You must be Canadian* and a somewhat lopsided grin.
I am indeed.
Very impressed in his correct placement of my nomadic accent.
And a fireman.
The game has just gotten a whole lot more exciting.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Out of the game?!
I haven't felt properly lonely in a very long time, far from it. Even though there are days when I'd rather be wrapped up in the arms of my lover and I sometimes think about that picture perfectness of me and my lover, a bottle of wine and the sunset on Parliament Hill, right now that lover doesn't seem to be in my life.
And I really don't seem to be missing him too much.
I cherish my weekend mornings, my only concern more the fact that I have to leave the comfort of my bed to get the coffee and the papers myself. I cherish the time I have to me, the freedom to see friends at the drop of a hat, to make Saturday night plans at 5pm or 8pm, to lose an entire day reading, to come home after impromptu drinks without having to check in.
I'm exhausted with the game, the whole not getting past the 3rd date stage (which granted is usually a combination of my incredibly high standards and the fact that no man is really that barmy, nor brave enough to continue dating me for long). I'm not interested in half heartedly pursuing, I lack the energy, the enthusiasm or the will. There was someone last May whom I started down a strange path of random and inappropriate snogging (managing, however, to collate some decent blogging material about it which will eventually find its way here) but in the end, it was never going to be much more than that.
His new girlfriend closed that deal a few weeks back, leaving me with my battered pride and a lesson hard learned.
The Swiss alluded that I had taken myself out of the game the other day, and perhaps I have. He asked when the last time I had gone up to a man in a bar, started a conversation, or tendered for a date and I really don't know. I cannot recall when the last time I met, or even saw someone, I fancied really taking a chance on outside of my current situation.
I know in my heart that it's not worth dating someone you know to be a dead end, hence my last 1 hr 20 minute date on the weekend. It's a vicious circle but I know I'm not prepared to go those 8 rounds to end up back on the floor again.
But in that same breath, how are you to know whether you're wasting your time unless you do get yourself out there, turn on the sass, and date again?
And I really don't seem to be missing him too much.
I cherish my weekend mornings, my only concern more the fact that I have to leave the comfort of my bed to get the coffee and the papers myself. I cherish the time I have to me, the freedom to see friends at the drop of a hat, to make Saturday night plans at 5pm or 8pm, to lose an entire day reading, to come home after impromptu drinks without having to check in.
I'm exhausted with the game, the whole not getting past the 3rd date stage (which granted is usually a combination of my incredibly high standards and the fact that no man is really that barmy, nor brave enough to continue dating me for long). I'm not interested in half heartedly pursuing, I lack the energy, the enthusiasm or the will. There was someone last May whom I started down a strange path of random and inappropriate snogging (managing, however, to collate some decent blogging material about it which will eventually find its way here) but in the end, it was never going to be much more than that.
His new girlfriend closed that deal a few weeks back, leaving me with my battered pride and a lesson hard learned.
The Swiss alluded that I had taken myself out of the game the other day, and perhaps I have. He asked when the last time I had gone up to a man in a bar, started a conversation, or tendered for a date and I really don't know. I cannot recall when the last time I met, or even saw someone, I fancied really taking a chance on outside of my current situation.
I know in my heart that it's not worth dating someone you know to be a dead end, hence my last 1 hr 20 minute date on the weekend. It's a vicious circle but I know I'm not prepared to go those 8 rounds to end up back on the floor again.
But in that same breath, how are you to know whether you're wasting your time unless you do get yourself out there, turn on the sass, and date again?
Monday, November 07, 2005
Saturday morning text
Saturday morning text message.
*Still fancy that drink tonight?*
Fuzzy headed and bleary eyed, I can only assume from the pounding in my head that this is going to be the start of a beautifully painful hangover.
I don't recognise the number.
*What drink?*
A quick scan of my broken memory. Remembering a lovely smile and random chit chat at the bar.
Ah yes. The tall man. Ad manager at ITV. Or ITN. Or channel four. Or five. Or was it the BBC?
*The Vine. Tonight?*
Ah yes. Andrew? Aaron? I can't quite place him. Adrian? Anthony? At least there'll be conversation. Skimming back, I remember him laughing at my jokes. We could only have been talking for a few minutes, surely? Time, however, has a sneaky way of passing when a bit tipsy.
So I agree.
Although it's a Saturday night. And Saturday night is never ever date night. Saturdays are cocktails with the girls, or long boozy dinner party nights. But I found myself in a situation where all my friends seemed to be elsewhere and the Saturday night slot was free.
Now, I can appreciate that some men just don't make an effort to go to work, to go to the pub with their mates and that's fine. I'm really not that materialistic; I choose to dress they way I do because I like it, and just because I choose to wear skirts and dresses 95% of the time that doesn't mean to say that I expect my men to be immaculate all the time as well. I do like a man in jeans and a shirt, I do like a man with stubble and slightly unkempt hair; and contrary to popular belief trainers really do not offend me.
What does put me slightly off, however, is if a man makes no effort whatsoever on the first *date*.
Even if it is just drinks.
And so 8:15, off I trot. Denim skirt, brown boots, nothing too la la, nothing too risque... although I have worn my new matching underwear.
Just in case.
First impressions are made within the first few moments, so surely you want to at least try to make it a good one? A grubby fleece, creased chinos and a pair of the filthiest trainers I have seen (and I live with 3 men) go a long way to telling me a few things.
One is that pride of appearance outside of the office is sincerely lacking. Another is that he doesn't think I'm worth the few seconds it would take to run an iron over his trousers.
And so to drinks. Diet coke for him. *I'm driving...* which always puts me on edge. I'll have to be careful and not drink too much, ramble incoherently, think I am revered dating guru where clearly I am not.
White wine for me, because I'm in that sort of mood. And onto conversation.
Within minutes I know I'm on a date with North London's Dullest Man. I don't remember him being this dull, granted I don't remember much about him but surely surely I wouldn't have handed out my number if his conversation last night had bordered on the painfully boring? Or maybe he was fuelled by alcohol and enough spirit could transform him into a witty, well dressed, charismatically charming man in a way that Diet Coke couldn't?
I lasted an hour. An hour of listening to a monotonous droning on the specialisms of grouting. The painstaking detail of the choosing of his new bathroom. The colour choice of his new kitchen. But before he could get into hardwood vs laminate, I refused his offer of another drink, smiled sweetly, thanked him, said I was late meeting a friend, was nice to meet him.
And hot footed my new underwear out of there.
*Still fancy that drink tonight?*
Fuzzy headed and bleary eyed, I can only assume from the pounding in my head that this is going to be the start of a beautifully painful hangover.
I don't recognise the number.
*What drink?*
A quick scan of my broken memory. Remembering a lovely smile and random chit chat at the bar.
Ah yes. The tall man. Ad manager at ITV. Or ITN. Or channel four. Or five. Or was it the BBC?
*The Vine. Tonight?*
Ah yes. Andrew? Aaron? I can't quite place him. Adrian? Anthony? At least there'll be conversation. Skimming back, I remember him laughing at my jokes. We could only have been talking for a few minutes, surely? Time, however, has a sneaky way of passing when a bit tipsy.
So I agree.
Although it's a Saturday night. And Saturday night is never ever date night. Saturdays are cocktails with the girls, or long boozy dinner party nights. But I found myself in a situation where all my friends seemed to be elsewhere and the Saturday night slot was free.
Now, I can appreciate that some men just don't make an effort to go to work, to go to the pub with their mates and that's fine. I'm really not that materialistic; I choose to dress they way I do because I like it, and just because I choose to wear skirts and dresses 95% of the time that doesn't mean to say that I expect my men to be immaculate all the time as well. I do like a man in jeans and a shirt, I do like a man with stubble and slightly unkempt hair; and contrary to popular belief trainers really do not offend me.
What does put me slightly off, however, is if a man makes no effort whatsoever on the first *date*.
Even if it is just drinks.
And so 8:15, off I trot. Denim skirt, brown boots, nothing too la la, nothing too risque... although I have worn my new matching underwear.
Just in case.
First impressions are made within the first few moments, so surely you want to at least try to make it a good one? A grubby fleece, creased chinos and a pair of the filthiest trainers I have seen (and I live with 3 men) go a long way to telling me a few things.
One is that pride of appearance outside of the office is sincerely lacking. Another is that he doesn't think I'm worth the few seconds it would take to run an iron over his trousers.
And so to drinks. Diet coke for him. *I'm driving...* which always puts me on edge. I'll have to be careful and not drink too much, ramble incoherently, think I am revered dating guru where clearly I am not.
White wine for me, because I'm in that sort of mood. And onto conversation.
Within minutes I know I'm on a date with North London's Dullest Man. I don't remember him being this dull, granted I don't remember much about him but surely surely I wouldn't have handed out my number if his conversation last night had bordered on the painfully boring? Or maybe he was fuelled by alcohol and enough spirit could transform him into a witty, well dressed, charismatically charming man in a way that Diet Coke couldn't?
I lasted an hour. An hour of listening to a monotonous droning on the specialisms of grouting. The painstaking detail of the choosing of his new bathroom. The colour choice of his new kitchen. But before he could get into hardwood vs laminate, I refused his offer of another drink, smiled sweetly, thanked him, said I was late meeting a friend, was nice to meet him.
And hot footed my new underwear out of there.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
sambuccafruliapplevodkasodamojitos
I have a
stinking
horrible
horrid
monster
of a hangover today.
I know I shouldn't have.
I mean, I should have just said no and not ordered those shots of sambucca, waving money over my head and encouraging that huddle of hard core drinkers at the bar(although technically not my money at all... sorry sweetie, I will pay you back. Promise!)
I know that when 2am found me in Chinatown, ordering dim sun from tired bow tied waiters at the Dragon Inn and being part of that hazy, drunken early am Soho'ness, that I should have just gone home after the bar shut and crawled into bed.
The turnip paste and pak choi was too much of a temptation.
And I am concerned that I have acupuncture with the Dishy Doc this afternoon, and am now worrying that perhaps acupuncture and hangovers do not go well together; the waves of death and the shakes are not going to help matters.
And what happens if the Dishy Doc inserts his needles and as my body is all sambuccafruliapplevodkasodamojitos, I spontaneously combust, leaving nothing of me but my fabulous earrings?
stinking
horrible
horrid
monster
of a hangover today.
I know I shouldn't have.
I mean, I should have just said no and not ordered those shots of sambucca, waving money over my head and encouraging that huddle of hard core drinkers at the bar(although technically not my money at all... sorry sweetie, I will pay you back. Promise!)
I know that when 2am found me in Chinatown, ordering dim sun from tired bow tied waiters at the Dragon Inn and being part of that hazy, drunken early am Soho'ness, that I should have just gone home after the bar shut and crawled into bed.
The turnip paste and pak choi was too much of a temptation.
And I am concerned that I have acupuncture with the Dishy Doc this afternoon, and am now worrying that perhaps acupuncture and hangovers do not go well together; the waves of death and the shakes are not going to help matters.
And what happens if the Dishy Doc inserts his needles and as my body is all sambuccafruliapplevodkasodamojitos, I spontaneously combust, leaving nothing of me but my fabulous earrings?
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Google Schmoogle
I am an avid Googler and I will admit to a sneaky little Google on any man I'm about to date. I don't see it as being a stalker as some of my less Googling friends do.
It is more a sort of security measure.
A girl can never be too careful these days, and I'd prefer to know if he's a psychotic axe wielding murderer.
Or spends his days posting on some wanky S & M site.
Or if he incites racial hatred. Or is homophobic. Or bigoted.
Or secretly married, gay or a philandering toerag.
A brief glance through the posts can tell you loads. I don't have the time nor the inclination to read all the results. Just a quick sneaky peek. Not stalker like behaviour at all, is it?
I've even got the hand signs for Googling, a sort of aerial typing action with both hands. Like air guitar, but with a keyboard.
On Saturday talking to a friend about oh, something I can't quite recall at this moment.
So I turn to him and say
"You can always, you know… "
Cue hand gesticulation.
He quite rightly looked blank; as I also have a habit of not completely finishing sentences instead letting the words trail off in the vain hope you've caught enough of the conversation to either guess what I'm about to say or finish the sentence for me.
He blinks at me. Expecting a finish.
"...Google!" I say finally.
So when my gorgeous friend Kenny, all bright eyed says he has the most fabulous man for me, my first instinct is of course to sneak a little Google. Which I would do, but Kenny has set me a dare.
Dared me *not* to Google him.
And here I am at work, fingers poised over keyboard. I know his name. I know he's an actor. And I know what West End play he has just finished.
It is so overwhelmingly tempting... I almost can't stand it.
It is more a sort of security measure.
A girl can never be too careful these days, and I'd prefer to know if he's a psychotic axe wielding murderer.
Or spends his days posting on some wanky S & M site.
Or if he incites racial hatred. Or is homophobic. Or bigoted.
Or secretly married, gay or a philandering toerag.
A brief glance through the posts can tell you loads. I don't have the time nor the inclination to read all the results. Just a quick sneaky peek. Not stalker like behaviour at all, is it?
I've even got the hand signs for Googling, a sort of aerial typing action with both hands. Like air guitar, but with a keyboard.
On Saturday talking to a friend about oh, something I can't quite recall at this moment.
So I turn to him and say
"You can always, you know… "
Cue hand gesticulation.
He quite rightly looked blank; as I also have a habit of not completely finishing sentences instead letting the words trail off in the vain hope you've caught enough of the conversation to either guess what I'm about to say or finish the sentence for me.
He blinks at me. Expecting a finish.
"...Google!" I say finally.
So when my gorgeous friend Kenny, all bright eyed says he has the most fabulous man for me, my first instinct is of course to sneak a little Google. Which I would do, but Kenny has set me a dare.
Dared me *not* to Google him.
And here I am at work, fingers poised over keyboard. I know his name. I know he's an actor. And I know what West End play he has just finished.
It is so overwhelmingly tempting... I almost can't stand it.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Those crazy blues
I shouldn't post when I'm sad.
Or feeling less than 50% because what comes out is not really what I want to read myself, let alone allowing others to read it.
My last post was written when I was feeling less than fine. When I was having one of my crazy blues.
At my lowest point several years back, I sat across from the doctor, shaking. I couldn't see past the next hour. I wanted to curl into a ball and hide. I talked, she prescribed.
3 months waiting list to see a therapist. I would need to attend AA meetings regularly. I would need to take this prescription, the side effects of which would make me anxious, shaky and may disrupt my sleep.
I went to AA, someone talked about being clean, held up a chip. He used to drink his own vomit, it had alcohol in it. I walked out.
Whatever rock bottom was for me, it surely wasn't going to be that.
I never filled the prescription either, I was not going to mask how I felt by numbing myself.
I find it amusing now, as the Doctor flipped through her book of anti-depressants, talked about addiction; subsequently issuing me with an addictive medication.
She acknowledged the symptoms, loss of appetite, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, sleeplessness. Fluoxetine, it seems, has several side effects. Anxiety being key.
At the time I failed to see the irony.
She peered over at me, looking at her watch, dismissing me. I wanted to shout "Help me" but I couldn't find my voice
I quit my job. I joined a gym. The Ex (who was at the time, the Boyfriend) tried. The funny thing is he is a manic depressive, in denial.
(I am sure there is a skit in there, take 2 depressed people, make them fall in love, add an interfering mother in law (his mother) and a small space.
Add alcohol and petty arguments. Sit back and watch the show!)
We spilt up, surprisingly. Whoever was up one day was not going to last the other's down day. I should have spiked his meals.
And I have my ups and downs, I get out of bed and put on a smile. I get through the day. I had a bad week but I'm feeling better today. Already it will be a better week.
I went to a series of lectures on Saturday, met some amazing people and heard some incredible stories. Spent some time with people who are incredibly important to me and cherished my time with them. I'm bored of being tired of being tired.
I want to find my voice again and hopefully get back to amusing anecdotes.
So please, bear with me for a little while longer. I have a few more stories to tell and next time I promise to come back with something amusing.
Or feeling less than 50% because what comes out is not really what I want to read myself, let alone allowing others to read it.
My last post was written when I was feeling less than fine. When I was having one of my crazy blues.
At my lowest point several years back, I sat across from the doctor, shaking. I couldn't see past the next hour. I wanted to curl into a ball and hide. I talked, she prescribed.
3 months waiting list to see a therapist. I would need to attend AA meetings regularly. I would need to take this prescription, the side effects of which would make me anxious, shaky and may disrupt my sleep.
I went to AA, someone talked about being clean, held up a chip. He used to drink his own vomit, it had alcohol in it. I walked out.
Whatever rock bottom was for me, it surely wasn't going to be that.
I never filled the prescription either, I was not going to mask how I felt by numbing myself.
I find it amusing now, as the Doctor flipped through her book of anti-depressants, talked about addiction; subsequently issuing me with an addictive medication.
She acknowledged the symptoms, loss of appetite, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, sleeplessness. Fluoxetine, it seems, has several side effects. Anxiety being key.
At the time I failed to see the irony.
She peered over at me, looking at her watch, dismissing me. I wanted to shout "Help me" but I couldn't find my voice
I quit my job. I joined a gym. The Ex (who was at the time, the Boyfriend) tried. The funny thing is he is a manic depressive, in denial.
(I am sure there is a skit in there, take 2 depressed people, make them fall in love, add an interfering mother in law (his mother) and a small space.
Add alcohol and petty arguments. Sit back and watch the show!)
We spilt up, surprisingly. Whoever was up one day was not going to last the other's down day. I should have spiked his meals.
And I have my ups and downs, I get out of bed and put on a smile. I get through the day. I had a bad week but I'm feeling better today. Already it will be a better week.
I went to a series of lectures on Saturday, met some amazing people and heard some incredible stories. Spent some time with people who are incredibly important to me and cherished my time with them. I'm bored of being tired of being tired.
I want to find my voice again and hopefully get back to amusing anecdotes.
So please, bear with me for a little while longer. I have a few more stories to tell and next time I promise to come back with something amusing.
Friday, October 28, 2005
What ifs and worries
On the phone to my mother last night.
"How are things?"
Fine, I say. I know she is sad, I know that she is worrying half way across the world.
Silence.
And there it is.
"Before I go to sleep, I worry about you. You and The Gorgeous. I worry that neither of my girls are settled."
I hold my breath.
"But I know that you will be."
I don't know how to respond to that. She sounds so certain that I will settle at some point. Find some nice man and be happy. As if being happy is justified by me having a partner.
I admire her unfaltering belief that this will happen, I am after all, a woman.
And I am expected to do just that.
But how can I be so sure that my match is out there? My clairvoyant has banged on about this bloody emperor for 2 years now, teasing me with his presence, her assurance of his commitment in my life.
Grand, I think. He's tall. He's handsome. And he's a bit rugged.
But what happens if he never appears in my life?
What happens if I never meet someone who can keep me interested for longer than 3 weeks?
And is that really something I should be worrying about?
"How are things?"
Fine, I say. I know she is sad, I know that she is worrying half way across the world.
Silence.
And there it is.
"Before I go to sleep, I worry about you. You and The Gorgeous. I worry that neither of my girls are settled."
I hold my breath.
"But I know that you will be."
I don't know how to respond to that. She sounds so certain that I will settle at some point. Find some nice man and be happy. As if being happy is justified by me having a partner.
I admire her unfaltering belief that this will happen, I am after all, a woman.
And I am expected to do just that.
But how can I be so sure that my match is out there? My clairvoyant has banged on about this bloody emperor for 2 years now, teasing me with his presence, her assurance of his commitment in my life.
Grand, I think. He's tall. He's handsome. And he's a bit rugged.
But what happens if he never appears in my life?
What happens if I never meet someone who can keep me interested for longer than 3 weeks?
And is that really something I should be worrying about?
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Preholiday rambling
Life over the last few weeks has been a bit of a roller coaster.
I'm aware that life is going on around me, that there are some amazing things that have happened, some horrific things, some sad, some overdue and some exciting.
But I just can't seem to get my head together at the moment, to be able to take each little fragment as it happens, acknowledge it and then prepare myself for the next onslaught. To be able to digest it, give it the respect it deserves and then move on. I feel as if I am a spectator in my own life, watching a series of tableaux played out, knowing these are my memories and these are my thoughts.
I'm just feeling slightly indifferent to it all. I'm still happy, and I'm still laughing; I'm definitely not shedding any tears so it's not sadness.
It just is at the moment.
Nothing right, nothing wrong.
Life just keeps on coming.
I'm aware that life is going on around me, that there are some amazing things that have happened, some horrific things, some sad, some overdue and some exciting.
But I just can't seem to get my head together at the moment, to be able to take each little fragment as it happens, acknowledge it and then prepare myself for the next onslaught. To be able to digest it, give it the respect it deserves and then move on. I feel as if I am a spectator in my own life, watching a series of tableaux played out, knowing these are my memories and these are my thoughts.
I'm just feeling slightly indifferent to it all. I'm still happy, and I'm still laughing; I'm definitely not shedding any tears so it's not sadness.
It just is at the moment.
Nothing right, nothing wrong.
Life just keeps on coming.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Untitled
I'm going on holiday in about 3 hours.
Well, in about 3 hours I am going to leave the office and then I'll be unofficially on holiday. Officially would start at 9:30 tomorrow when I should be at my desk, coffee in hand.
But I won't be.
I'll be on a coach.
Sort of spoils the whole ambience. The coach, I mean.
I can assure you that I'd rather be on a tropical beach, listening to the sound of the waves against the shore, a bag full of all the books I've yet to read beside me, a fully charged ipod with all the songs I'm supposed to be discovering.
But I will be listening to some new music, and I will be reading a new book. (Any suggestions gratefully received)
And I will also have a few hours to myself, well... besides the other passengers but I will have several uninterrupted hours of reading.
That is bliss.
Well, in about 3 hours I am going to leave the office and then I'll be unofficially on holiday. Officially would start at 9:30 tomorrow when I should be at my desk, coffee in hand.
But I won't be.
I'll be on a coach.
Sort of spoils the whole ambience. The coach, I mean.
I can assure you that I'd rather be on a tropical beach, listening to the sound of the waves against the shore, a bag full of all the books I've yet to read beside me, a fully charged ipod with all the songs I'm supposed to be discovering.
But I will be listening to some new music, and I will be reading a new book. (Any suggestions gratefully received)
And I will also have a few hours to myself, well... besides the other passengers but I will have several uninterrupted hours of reading.
That is bliss.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Waltz
It's been so long since I properly fancied someone I'm not entirely sure what to do. I can fall in and out of love at the drop if a hat, fantasise about that man who just walked past me but to have a crush, a weak at the knees, hot flush, cannot speak crush... well that's a completely different matter.
I do have the odd mini crush here and there, with people I know I shouldn't and men I know I'd never really want to bring me Sunday morning papers and coffee. Even the last few fleeting relationships I've had have been with men I was fond of, whose company I somewhat enjoyed, rather than than a truly overwhelming want to be with them. I always felt as if I called the shots, the curtain would come down and it would be The End when I got bored enough to call it.
And there have been a few others who got me all tongue tied, whose very presence dissolved any ability from me to make conversation, let alone hold their gaze. Men who as soon as I saw them made me weak at the knees, and turned me overwhelmingly shy so that instead of appearing cool and calm, I came off as rude.
This is then where the major problem arises. Now that The Swiss has made me realise that it is okay to ask a man out, I all of a sudden have a new found power. It is possible after all to go up to that smart, sexy, attractive man whom I fancy like mad, smile and deliver... *Shall we go for a drink?* or some other slick and sassy invite.
As an old fashioned kinda gal who hasn't had to ask a man out in years, the prospect simply terrifies me; as that smart, sexy, attractive man has already rendered me a paralyzed mute, how ever am I ever going to be able to waltz over and get those simple six little words out?!
I do have the odd mini crush here and there, with people I know I shouldn't and men I know I'd never really want to bring me Sunday morning papers and coffee. Even the last few fleeting relationships I've had have been with men I was fond of, whose company I somewhat enjoyed, rather than than a truly overwhelming want to be with them. I always felt as if I called the shots, the curtain would come down and it would be The End when I got bored enough to call it.
And there have been a few others who got me all tongue tied, whose very presence dissolved any ability from me to make conversation, let alone hold their gaze. Men who as soon as I saw them made me weak at the knees, and turned me overwhelmingly shy so that instead of appearing cool and calm, I came off as rude.
This is then where the major problem arises. Now that The Swiss has made me realise that it is okay to ask a man out, I all of a sudden have a new found power. It is possible after all to go up to that smart, sexy, attractive man whom I fancy like mad, smile and deliver... *Shall we go for a drink?* or some other slick and sassy invite.
As an old fashioned kinda gal who hasn't had to ask a man out in years, the prospect simply terrifies me; as that smart, sexy, attractive man has already rendered me a paralyzed mute, how ever am I ever going to be able to waltz over and get those simple six little words out?!
Shame
The Swiss has slightly shamed me in his email. I realise I haven't posted in days, not because I have nothing to say, I do.
I always do, that is a fact, it's just that I can't seem to get a handle on my words.
I have an opinion on just about everything at the moment from the BC Teacher's strike, to the Tory leadership campaign, and back to Canada's slip into unethical governing. But I could care less whether or not Adam Bloody Rickett became an MP. Unless he took his shirt off that is.
I've seen some decent films, finished Kafka on the Shore but am unsure of what to pick up next, Cloud Atlas seems a contender albeit a late one. I'm not dating, in fact it was rather ungently pointed out that I have not been on a date since The Actor.
Back in July.
I'm not even snogging anyone, appropriately or inappropriately. And as I seem to living my love life vicariously through my housemates after fantastically falling flat on my face with the last two boys I decided to fancy, I'm wondering just what the hell I AM doing on the nights I'm out?!
I always do, that is a fact, it's just that I can't seem to get a handle on my words.
I have an opinion on just about everything at the moment from the BC Teacher's strike, to the Tory leadership campaign, and back to Canada's slip into unethical governing. But I could care less whether or not Adam Bloody Rickett became an MP. Unless he took his shirt off that is.
I've seen some decent films, finished Kafka on the Shore but am unsure of what to pick up next, Cloud Atlas seems a contender albeit a late one. I'm not dating, in fact it was rather ungently pointed out that I have not been on a date since The Actor.
Back in July.
I'm not even snogging anyone, appropriately or inappropriately. And as I seem to living my love life vicariously through my housemates after fantastically falling flat on my face with the last two boys I decided to fancy, I'm wondering just what the hell I AM doing on the nights I'm out?!
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Lost Vagueness
I have a party this evening.
But not just any party. No no no no indeed.
The invite for this party very coyly suggests it is the party to end all parties. And we are to dress gorgeously.
Apparently there will be music and dancing, acrobatics and poker, whisky tastings and lounge areas, and the theme... the theme is Lost Vagueness.
What, I puzzle, is Lost Vagueness?
Is it all 1950's movie star glamour, cocktails dresses, sweeping eyeliner and impossibly red lips?
Is it all Twiggy-esque smoky eyes, false lashes and pale lips?
Or something in between?
Is it the sexy yet demure black wrap around dress, with sheer glossy stockinged legs and very high heels? Or is it the classic black dress with the full skirt? Is it the spanish shawl or the silk wrap?
And how, I wonder, when everyone has been invited, are we all to squeeze into those marble and gold loos, with makeup bags, and hairspray, perfume and powder, dresses and decisions to bedeck and bejewel into our glorious glad rags?
But not just any party. No no no no indeed.
The invite for this party very coyly suggests it is the party to end all parties. And we are to dress gorgeously.
Apparently there will be music and dancing, acrobatics and poker, whisky tastings and lounge areas, and the theme... the theme is Lost Vagueness.
What, I puzzle, is Lost Vagueness?
Is it all 1950's movie star glamour, cocktails dresses, sweeping eyeliner and impossibly red lips?
Is it all Twiggy-esque smoky eyes, false lashes and pale lips?
Or something in between?
Is it the sexy yet demure black wrap around dress, with sheer glossy stockinged legs and very high heels? Or is it the classic black dress with the full skirt? Is it the spanish shawl or the silk wrap?
And how, I wonder, when everyone has been invited, are we all to squeeze into those marble and gold loos, with makeup bags, and hairspray, perfume and powder, dresses and decisions to bedeck and bejewel into our glorious glad rags?
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Which sportscar are you...
Apparently...
A Lamborghini Murcielago...
They say,
You're not subtle, but you don't want to be. Fast, loud, and dramatic, you want people to notice you, and then get out of the way. In a world full of sheep, you're a raging bull.
http://www.tomorrowland.us/sportscar/
Still I'm not so sure that colour would suit me. I'm sure I'd look better in red.
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