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.

Finding direction

Which for any one who has known me can attest that it is something I lack in quantity. I have always just thrown myself into anything and everything I do with no real sense of what I want to achieve, no road map to keep me going in the right direction. And so I believe this last year has been all about showing me to this place now, a place where I actually am questioning what I want and why I want it. Who my role models are and why. When I go out on a date for the first time with someone new what am I expecting? And what do I want from the relationships I make?
I have had lesson overload of late and am trying to trawl through everything, find the clues that are there and that will be my touchstone for a continuing education.
I'm not entirely sure as to where I should start then, maybe men, romance and internet dating as it seems to be my favourite past time and also the one thing I keep messing up with such grace.

I have been on a lot of dates in the last several months, and I have been extremely lucky with the men I have dated. In truth I have dated more men I have met through the internet than men I have met in the flesh in the last 10 years. Yet it is not information I volunteer wholeheartedly, instead only letting a select few of my colleagues know as there is still somewhat of a social stigma with internet dating. Many of my closest friends would never dream of taking part in it themselves; instead observing my chaotic dating regime from a safe distance as one would a road accident. Which is a pretty fair analogy, really. They're the ones who get the post mortems and who in the case when I fell a little too hard for someone, the ones who wiped away the tears and coaxed me back into the dating game.

A new male friend Kittsy, whom I know only through the fact he is dating my good friend Tiki (and yes, they met online) is of the opinion that internet daters are the dredge of society. However, he for one has found love or at least a sense of happiness with Tiki. And I wouldn't describe either of us as dredge of society, instead disagreeing wholeheartedly with his particular theory. I may be somewhat unlucky in love, but I am most definitely not a dredge. As it is I have dated a doctor, a barrister, a financial analyst, an artist, an oil trader, an award winning art director... All relatively harmless, all successful, charming, witty, and handsome; just not suitable for me. Yet all of them have shown me something new, and helped me little by little regain that ragged self esteem.

I am however ever sceptical about it, yet I can't deny that thrill when I'm in the start of something new, that anticipation, the nerves, the excitement – and I think that's where it all starts to go a bit downhill. Because the real thing never seems to be as good as my imagination and these men are reduced to their simple mortal states. And who can really compete with the vision I have in my mind, the man I have built through images and 4 hour long phone calls - even I have no idea what happens after that.

Despite my jaded cynicism, I can't quite seem to break away from it, where else can you date men you have already vetted for religious beliefs, newspapers and choice of leisure activities? Sounds cold and clinical but I'll be damned if I meet a man I like, only to find out too late that he's a Tory with a guilty pleasure in reading the Daily Mail. Better to save yourself from the heartache and know for sure before you commit yourself to that first date.

Where the FUCK is Rochester

It's in Kent, my dear. It's one of the Medway towns.

She said, sliding the map over to me.

How the hell had I ended up here? In Rochester?

Easily.

It had started several months earlier, I had seen his profile and despite he not meeting the majority of my criteria something about him appealed to me.
We mailed.
We texted.
He had a meeting in London...
Would I look to meet him afterwards?
Nervous apprehension, sweaty palms, outfits discarded and revisited. He had me already, in his words. So we met up steadying nerves and loosening tongues through pints of lager and hand rolled cigarettes. The attraction seemed mutual, and suddenly it was last orders.

I'm a bit tired and as I've said, more than a little tipsy, the kisses had gone to my head and the beer had made me giddy. And so I text Knickers to let her know I'm on my way home, as I always do as she tends to get worried about me when I'm on a new date.

She gets a bit worried and sometimes I don't blame her because I have this thing, you see, where I know I'm hammered. And I know how to get home. And so I stare straight ahead and pretend I'm sober. Probably doesn't fool anyone but me. There is nothing quite so obvious as the drunk who's trying to look sober. Especially if it's a woman.

So as the train pulls into my station, I gather my belongings as gracefully as I can, and follow the rest of the pack off the train.

Wondering why Bromley South looks a bit different tonight.

And to my horror, I realise it's because Bromley South is not Bromley South.

It's Rochester.

And I have no idea where Rochester IS. Let alone how the hell I'm going to get home as I've just watched the last train back to London pull out of the station.

So I call my local cab firm, ask for a cab from Rochester. The operator laughs, quotes me £80.
£80?

Eighty pounds STERLING? As it is payday's 2 days away and all I have is £15 in my wallet.
I call Tiki in panic. She laughs, mutters something to Kittsy, I can hear in the background

"Where the fuck is Rochester?"

I try the cab office, downstairs, in a semi drunken state make my way to the desk.
"Where the fuck is Rochester?" As politely as possible.


It's in Kent, my dear. It's one of the Medway towns. She said, sliding the map over to me.

So here I am. Stuck. In a Medway town in Kent. And the next train is 5 hours from now. And as I prepare to settle in for the night, luckily the woman in the cab office takes pity on me, makes me tea and invites me into the office. And then my phone rings.
It's Knickers.
Sleepily. "Where are you babe?"

Ummm...

"Rochester?!"

Suddenly awake.

"How'd you get there M?"

"Um, I don't think the train stopped."

"How are you getting home?"

"Train..."

"What time's the next train M?"

"Uhmmm, ermmm..."

"M babe? Where the FUCK is Rochester?"

I hate to think of the sub conversations that then went on from that simple phrase.
It's been bad enough retelling it and I've promised I'll never make fun of anyone who falls asleep and ends up in some far flung commuter station again.
And I had to promise Knickers I'd bear her first born child as she was the one who had to crawl out of bed, get in her car and drive the hour and a half to find Rochester station, collect me from the warmth of the cab station to take me home.

Disappointment...

It started last night, I'm sure of it.

There were 16 men in total, probably more, but 16 I know I can definitely put a finger on for letting me down last night. Wayne Rooney started it, with his tempestuous little tantrum and the remaining 10 players, 5 subs and Sven then contributed to England's abysmal performance against Spain last night. I love football, and I wholeheartedly support England - even over Wales
Sorry Mom and Dad but it's more to do with the fact I know the England players.
I mean, who plays for Wales?!

*silence*

Exactly!

But last night I couldn't even muster up the energy to watch the end of the game, it was that dismal.
So there.
That's my first disappointment with men, a whole bloody team of them. Followed this morning by God (HE made it rain, and today I potentially have a "date"), the engineers working near Shortlands who have dug up the pavement making me walk on the road and through muddy walkways, (not great for suede boots - fashion before function, my friends) the bus driver who sprayed me before failing to stop despite the frantic waving of arms, the train driver who arrived late into Blackfriars station, the man in front of me in Pret who counted out his coins to pay for breakfast (thus indulging the London impatience in me) and the bus driver who braked suddenly causing me to spill latte over my boots...

And so, into work and despite the hot web designer I'm currently pursuing's "I'll be back in later to reply to your mail" there has been no communication from him. Hmmmm...
And my new bible "He's just not that into you" taught me I never ever need to chase a man so that's what I'm doing.
Taking a back seat and letting him come to me, which has worked alright for the moment but I'm not so sure that British men are used to this tactic, and I know that I'm not used to it. I'm used to bowling in there headfirst, and going after what I want.
So here I am.

Not really waiting all day for his email. Which when it finally does come is to cancel at the last possible bloody minute.
But really.
I'm not disappointed.

Fairy tales

It really is a funny old thing; love, relationships, fidelity. As it is we've been reared on a diet of idyllic fairy tales, our understanding of love nurtured at an impressionable age, expectations gleaned from stories of beautiful damsels in distress and the dashing men who rescue them. A somewhat rose tinted glimpse of perfection, the hope that we too will meet the perfect man, fall in love, forsake all others and marry The One. Happily Ever After.

But for me, this raises a pretty fundamental question; are we really destined for just one person?
One lover to the end of our dying day? Or has the rate at which the population is currently expanding given us a lot more choice than just The One?

I'm not entirely sure that we are monogamous creatures.
We are after all only animals, despite the expensive grooming and cloth. Or is that all just smoke and mirrors? Morally when we commit to love and treasure someone, we should do just that. We commit to remain faithful, mentally and physically to just one person.


For the rest of our lives.

Pretty bleak prospect, eh?

According to a press release by the BBC 11% of single people, and 11% of people no longer in relationships think that adultery should be the 8th deadly sin; whereas only 5% of those in stable relationships agree that it should be added. So does that mean 95% agree that cheating on our partner is not a sin?

As it is I'm not married, nor am I in a relationship. And I can't remember what it feels like to be in love so count me out of that equation. My inability to develop lasting relationships with members of the opposite sex are legendary.

At 30, I've only ever had 2 serious relationships. Obviously neither was The One, but that never stopped either of them breaking my heart in different ways. And in both, there was infidelity. My first love cheated on me, and I felt betrayed by the man who swore he loved me with his whole heart. I never got over the betrayal, yet when I turned to another man in my last relationship, I felt only a fraction of guilt I should have. And the next man I tried to have a relationship with after that? I'm loathe to admit that that also ended with me being tempted by the charms of someone else.
To this day, neither ex knows that I cheated on him; through my actions I found the courage to leave both of them very quickly afterwards.

So does this make my actions any more, or any less wrong because I was miserably unhappy? Especially as the most confusing thing about it is that morally I knew that what I was doing was wrong, yet at the same time I am struggling to see the cardinal sin in it all. I certainly never went looking for an affair, maybe just a way out. After all, I am a romantic at heart and I believed those fairy tales.

But what these stories never prepared me for was that the damsel in distress sometimes finds that forsaking all others for her perfect prince is not so easy as it seems.

30

So what happens next then? What is the next decade going to bring me, and where am I going to allow myself to be taken?
30 is the new 20.

Apparently.

I'm looking forward to it, surely it's got to be sweeter than my 20's? The 20's were all about excess. Excess drinking. Excess smoking. Excess baggage. And excess heartbreak.
No thanks.

I've had enough of that. I want to turn a new leaf. I want to drink responsibly, but granted...I probably won't. I've given up on that occassional social cigarette - that was my stipulation when I started to train for the 10k. Safeguarding my lungs seems somewhat more important than that little drag every now and then.

And all that baggage?

No thanks, that I shall leave at the curb. I don't want to bring that into my new decade and I sure as well do not want to accumulate any more.

Ditto on the heartbreak.

I'm still convinced that 2005 will be the year of love, and although the greatness of 30 does not from cynicism break, I still believe whole heartedly that my own great love affair is just around the corner.

And I think that there's where the journey will start to get very exciting.

Temporary Insanity

Temporary insanity is the only thing I can imagine to have acted this way. I am a tit. Offically.

Someone had taken my logic and replaced it with this neurotic insecure lunatic who for some reason was looking back at me. And all about a Boy. The WelshOne. Who for the first time in ages gave me butterflies, and who made me realise that there are lovely men out there...

I called the WelshOne Saturday afternoon and left him a message. Now, answer phone messages are always hard to call because you want to be sexy and funny. But it's just a message.
And you're just a voice.
And how can you conjure up the sex appeal?
So instead, I panic. And babble something so randomly bland like "Hi, it's me... uh, LadyMissM (although I use my real name obviously). Give me a call when you get this...
Fine, there's nothing wrong with that... I think.

No call.

No text.

Hmmmm.... speak to Knickers about it, she says call him back Sunday, he may have no signal as was supposed to be climbing/with his mate/ his phone may be dead as it went straight to answer phone/ he could be on a tube/ my phone/ his phone could be playing up/ football's on... see my frantic and desperate grasps here?!
Especially as am already freaking that I have spent the night at his house (although did not get up to anything I shouldn't) and have been out of the dating loop for a while, and still coming to terms with liking someone and being totally unsure of where I stand.

I love this feeling.

So Sunday am. Phone rings, t'is the WelshOne.
We chat. And make a date to go for dinner tomorrow night. Fabulous.
I have made it to the 3rd date, this is a personal best.
So in my excitement and comfortable glow, I ask him to accompany me to an engagement party for one of my best friends the following Saturday night.

Oooh, not boding well. He seems a bit taken aback.... Is it too soon to ask him to a party? Can he read my mind and see that I'm a neurotic freak? So I ramble and witter on about how cool MsD and her fiance are, and how much fun it will be... and if it's not too weird, it would be great if he could come....
Ah hell.
But I recover, he says he'd love to. Plans are confirmed, Smith's tomorrow night.

Frantic text to best friend, Knickers.

"He just rang, we're going for dinner tomorrow night. Didn't get message until 1am. I feel better now."

*Send*

Shit.
Ooooh!
Shit
Shit
Shiiiiiiiit...

In another display of complete stupidity and not paying attention... I do not send the text to Knickers. I scroll past her name to the WelshOne.

*Send*

Cold fear of dread.
Oh god oh god oh god... while on phone to Knickers in vain hope I haven't been so stupid, a text message comes in.
From the WelshOne.

"Don't think you meant to send me that. See you tomorrow..."

Just shoot me now, the humiliation.

Temporary insanity. Obviously.