Dates... and things.

And sadly, not dates as in a movie and dinner and exciting butterflies and Frank Sinatra singing on your first kiss tinglyness -ness

Dates as in the uprooting my whole life and shipping it overseas calendar sense.

Time has all of a sudden become my nemesis. I've even got a time line. Which is nice and not very pretty but it means I am so organised I don't even know what to do with myself. And now the flat 4 blocks from the beach is less of a pipe dream and now approaching reality.

I've booked freight and quit my job. And I have only 2m3 to ship the last 9 years of my life - it's a very very small space. And I have alot of stuff.

Yes, so this is it then; I finish work on the 30th. I'll be moving out of my place on the 31st - from this point on I shall be somewhat peripatetic, with The Gorgeous in tow... in London, Wales, Barcelona.

Back in London so The Gorgeous and I fly out, together on the 13th. Where I shall once again play at being Canadian.

In Vancouver.

Which will be my new home. And new party town.

Rock on, eh?

Meeting Mme Mojo

I can't quite shake the vision that my Mme Mojo is some glamorous Joan Crawford inspired drag queen, resplendent in 1920's embroidered chinese shawls and dozing on a red chaise lounge, a cigarette holder cradled in one perfectly manicured hand.

And any time I even so much as get a little pique, she lazily opens one heavily kohled eye, raises the cigarette to her lipsticked red mouth, takes a long draw and exhales slowly.

Closes her eyes, shakes her little head and drawls...

*Nooo, no nooo, dahhhling...*

Replaces the eye mask over her long lashes and falls back to sleep.

I think we're in for a stormy relationship.

I kiss you so much

Now, there are rare glimpses of quality in internet dating. Sometimes an email pops out of the rest and makes you take notice. Something different from the desperate reachings, the standard block email, something really charasmatic, witty... sexy even.

I'm a words junkie, I admit it.

And then sometimes, you get an even rarer gem. One of those emails that makes you stop and take notice; albeit for different reasons.

An email that makes you want to read it again and again. And each time, it gets a little better.


how are you princess?what's your name?I am hakan..I have a question??
why you are so sweet??
are you working at sugar shop?? :)

I kiss you so much.
Hakan :)

And I kiss you so much.

Mme Mojo

"Well it's bit like this..."

Chirac stirs his risotto and looks over at me, unconvincingly.

"...at this age, you dont really miss it. Really."

He reaches over to sprinkle some pepper in the pot.

"At least, " he shrugs his shoulders, "you can still imagine what it feels like, so technically you need never have to have it again..."

We both look glumly at the rain outside.

We're talking, of course, about "it".
My va va voom, my zha zha zha, my pizzazz.

My Mme Mojo.

It seems the fucker has made a detour and got lost somewhere, leaving me stranded in the heartland of chastity.

There have been a few attempts to try and reign her back in; a few furtive, coy glances at an attractive man in the pub. The start of a conversation. But as my heart wasn't in it, the follow through was utterly unconvincing, I just couldn't be bothered.

And after Brooky's observation that my pickiness was bordering on a future of spinsterhood, I signed up to match.com to get back into the dating game (and not just for something to blog about) - and was promptly inundated with offers of companionship from balding, overweight 40 something men.
I ruthlessly narrowed my match field - only to be rewarded with more offers from lonely divorcees and the odd 'perfect match'. I dated one of these odd perfect matches, who was perfectly nice and interesting and who sent me a Valentine.
But it just wasn't there, I felt nothing. No butterflies. No stirrings. Nada. Rien. Zip. Passion kaput.

Mme Mojo just slumbered on.

So I say, let her rest. I'm fairly distracted enough with the big old move, which is actually happening faster than I can organise. And my sister, The Gorgeous, has promised to throw a martini party on my return; so what better opportunity to woo, to shine, to flirt, to capitalise on my ever so slightly English accent amongst all those Canadian men?!

So I say, Mme Mojo, rest yourself. For you shall soon be very very busy indeed.

Going back

So there it is, in the phone calls, voices crackling over mountains, land mass, oceans. In emails organising freight, and promises of snow capped mountains and a flat 4 blocks from the beach.

Coming home.

I had to.

Last summer amongst sun drenched vineyards, I knew. That sometime between then and now I'd have to make that decision, that 9 years had pushed and pulled me under, that the difference was somewhere between catching my breath and stepping forward or staying still while all around me changed. That going forward meant going back, that when I woke up and realised my dreams were tangible that it would be time. And so it is.

Now.

And the secret I've held onto, shared only with those closest to me, is now out. It had started to pick away at me, sleepless, and when I slept nightmares of amputated hands and my parents' back yard. Stuck somewhere between where I wanted to go and where I wanted to be. Somewhere between never settling, forever moving and a future where I could at a push, make tentative roots.

And so this week, I resigned.

Started a time line, booked freight to ship over books I could never part with, my bed, my table, photographs. I've started being ruthless; going through paperwork I've carried with me for 9 years, cards and letters, legal papers from the sale of my house (the last time I felt like a proper grown up). Looked up boot sales to sell all that which should go to a good home, made piles of the clutter that has followed me from house to house. Sentimentality cannot be budgeted.

And in between I've started to daydream, locked in limbo between now and what's to come, writing down what I'll miss and what I won't, what I'll gain. Tried to imagine my weekends, not along the South Bank but bracing against the bitter cold, learning to trust my feet again. Not spent lying on the Heath but amongst sand and sea. Of clean streets, and soft drawls. Of Sunday mornings not at Bar Italia over espresso, but with my flesh and blood, lazy fingers thumbing magazines at Caffe Artigiano.

Home.

The next few weeks will go by, suddenly and with purpose. There are bags and boxes to be packed, loose ends to tie up. I've changed my vocabulary; no longer fluid flippancy and vague suggestions but confirmed dates. Flights to be booked, a Canadian passport long since expired, to be renewed. Flurries of emails, CV's and favours to call in. Courses to be chosen, schools to be researched. Leaving drinks every Friday night at the pub round the back.

I shall miss it, London. More than I think I can ever say.

Ummm... Er...

Still reeling.

There.

In my inbox.

A Valentine.

Well, an ecard Valentine from the MoMA.

From the boy I went on a date with last week.

Hmmm...

I never realised how easily I can sell out, and how excited I was by it all. Even if I don't fancy him.

The thought was lovely, though.

*beams*

A lady. A train. And a bondage bear.

There was a lady on my train this morning.

Well actually, yes there were a lot of ladies. And alot of men. But there was this one particular lady who I'm going to focus on because the story is about her, so...

...the lady is holding a teddy bear.

As it is I'm not a huge fan of stuffed animals, and stuffed bears are as welcome to my life as an audience with Nick Griffin (exceptions of course to Paddington Bear, he's alright. I also like real bears, although they're not so cuddly. And they smell)

And the bear, I notice, is wearing a little bear bondage kit. And for some reason, unbeknownst to myself or my fellow commuters, the lady is trying to involve all of us into interaction with said S&M bear.

A little like this:

Step 1) Attempt eye contact
Step 2) Wiggle bear's head
Step 3) Attempt eye contact again

and so on.

Now I'm not a morning person on the best of days, and today especially after my alarm didn't go off and I woke up in a panic, desperately trying to get out the door in time, I'm certainly not radiating any Feel the Love energy at all.
And surely there is something not quite right about anyone trying to make eye contact on the 9:50 Thameslink, surely there's some unspoken agreement between commuters - Please don't look at me, I'm reading the newspaper /my book / playing with my mobile / my hands / my shoelace ?!

Then, the strangest thing. As the train pulls into Kings Cross, and she starts to get up, she shoves the bear in my face.

"Check out my website!Bearsex.com*!"

(*Or something along these lines, needless to say I haven't checked it out.
I've been to Prowler, and I've seen those magazines)

Then put the bear in my fellow commuter's face.

"Check out my website!"

I don't know about you, but a strange lady's bear pressed into my face at that time is most offputting.

I really am a romantic.

I just hate Valentine's Day.

I always have. It's not a new thing, it's not a single thing. As it is, I split up with The Ex three years ago on Valentine's Day; a truly fitting and cheerful end to 5 years of co-habitual unhappiness.

The following year, I spent all day in the pub, got very drunk, proposed to the man in my local kebab shop (he said no, and looked horrified), was carried home by my dear friend Big Al, promptly fell off the chair I was left in and then had to be put to bed by Knickers.

Last year, a few days before the big ole V day, I posted a very very saucy handwritten Valentine to the very naughty Northern Mark, whom I was dating at the time. It was only later that day, he casually mentioned in an email that all his post was opened by his assistant. And that the long term girlfriend (of whom I knew nothing until this time and was a good friend of assistant) and he had been reconciled only the night before. Luckily I had not signed my name on the aforementioned letter.

Or left a forwarding address; otherwise I am sure I would still be looking over my shoulder.

And so, the day steadily marches on and when asked if I would be sending any Valentines this year, I thought no.

Until I saw this.

I think I may have changed my mind.

With love and kisses

Lady Miss M
x x x

Go SOUTH

...life is peaceful there.

Apparently. Or very very cold.

As The Swiss is always complaining that I never ever write nice things about him (I'm sure I did at some point, but I digress) I'll throw in another shameless plug.

Even though it was in The Telegraph. And I have since had to explain that no, actually they are not nude mountaineers.

I mean, c'mon. After the conversation I had with The Swiss yesterday when he went running in the cold in just a t-shirt and shorts and the damage it did to *ahem* a certain appendage, can you imagine what would happen being out in the snow for prolonged lengths of time?

Naked?

I know I can't relate but I'm sure my male readers may.

Not just another day in the office then, eh?

Look at Your Walls

I'm off to see my friend Chris' exhibition at the Design Museum tonight.

He did the same projection in Sketch last year, I can only imagine how I'd feel if the wallpaper started moving after a few drinks...

Okay... it's the Bloggies

And you know what that means.

A whole load of new and interesting blogs to explore, to keep me giggling hysterically, nodding with glee or simply yelling obscenities at the screen.

*ahem*

So, then. You can vote here.

And enjoy making new friends. Here. Here. And here.

And in no way was this a shameless ploy for me to influence any of you to vote for Anna and her Little Red Boat.

Really.

But should you be looking, she's under "Best British or Irish weblog".

Political faux pas

I try not to talk politics with my parents, although sometimes the temptation to stir a little is far too great and I just can't seem to help myself.

My father, you see, is very supportive of all my beliefs. As long as they coincide with his own, which does make the discussion of anything political a very delicate matter indeed.

In 1996 I once made the mistake of voting for a party my father loathed. I was a student at the time and so the party promising lower tuition fees, tax cuts and an increase in healthcare spending won my vote. My father, a staunch Conservative based purely on his business acumen (as opposed to any personal beliefs apparently) was horrified.

Last October on a visit home the subject came up at a dinner party, the ensuing argument,with my mother red faced, my father stony faced, our guests silent and my sister and I holding our ground, ended in a stalemate.

Surely, we argued, you raised us to have our own beliefs and to fight for what we believe in?

As long as it's not a liberal or socialist government, apparently. We Marquise are very stubborn.

My father still smarts a bit (although I know he is also very proud) of the fact I chose to work for the news site I did. His father was Labour through and through, and a very close friend of James Callaghan. My father still has books signed "From Uncle Jimmy". So how and why he took up the blue banner I am never sure. And I've learned it's better not to ask.

And now, the Conservatives have won the Canadian elections, albeit on a minority. But a Conservative Government after all.

I'm dreading speaking to my father about it, as I'm not sure how much of a benefit Harper will be (although kudos on the GST, boyo) and I'm wondering how long it will take for him to snuggle up to Blair and Bush.

I think Cathy summed it up the best with her final line.

Please don't fuck it up.

A date is for life, not just for blogging...

Says Kenny, fixing me with a very long, very serious look.

I have been hibernating, most of January. Not quite a recluse, yet definitely not taking part in any society highlife. I have, in truth, been in Bubble World.

And Bubble World is indeed a very very nice place to be, it is tranquil, peaceful, calm. Yet at the same time, unsurprisingly anti-social.

But January is indeed a maudlin month, non? We're all broke, or so I am, desperately counting pennies and rushing to Coinstar. Staying in with friends and DVD's, coffee at Bar Italia and the British Museum on weekends. The weather encourages us to stay inside, wrapped in fleeces and duvets, curled up with good books (my guilty pleasure this month, Nancy Mitford)Finding ways to pass the time.

Indeed on my birthday, which came and went without the usual fanfare and excitement turned out to be impromptu hot chocolates at Paul and the Henri Rousseau exhibition (because The Lovely had free tickets) and an evening stroll along the South Bank with the lovelies.

And so, walking along the Broadway with Kenny on Saturday night, I decided it was perhaps time to move out of Bubble World, return to socialising, shake off the January cobwebs and now I'm back to heels (albeit with a slight limp, physio starts tomorrow) maybe even date a bit, get the blog back on track.

Kenny, fixing me with a long serious stare...

*Ahhh, M... A date is for living, not just for blogging...*

I may have to rethink that angle then.

Trust

Main Entry: pe·do·phile
Pronunciation: 'pEd-&-"fIl, 'ped-
Variant: or chiefly British pae·do·phile /'pEd-/
Function: noun
: one affected with pedophilia called also pedophiliac
Pedophilia: sexual perversion in which children are the preferred sexual object

Main Entry: paedophile
n : an adult who is sexually attracted to children [syn: pedophile]

And so the teacher at the centre of the Kelly row suggests that he is not a paedophile, and therefore does not pose a risk to children.

I tend to disagree.

Paedophilia is not a disease, nor an ailment. It cannot be cured. It is a sexual preference and like all sexual preferences it is up to that person whether or not they can control their sexual urges. In 1980, he was 34 and an adult. With adult desires. The pupil he was convicted of assaulting was 15.

Whether or not she consented, or whether or not she was the one pursuing the fact still remains that she was an underage child and that by acting on any impulse he abused a position of authority. I appreciate that it is in no way as black and white as that, and that I am in no way an expert on the human mind psychologically or physically, yet I have lived in the shadow of the fallout of a paedophile’s advances. I know what the emotional scars can do.

At 15 years of age, regardless of how worldly I felt and how mature for my age I was, I was still 15. Not completely developed mentally, physically, psychologically and in no way prepared for the emotional complications of a relationship with a much older man. I can only speak for myself, and not for the above, who went on to marry, have 3 children and maintain their relationship for a further 19 years.

All the power to them.

But the facts are still thus. Whereas he may never pose another threat to children, he was at one time attracted to a one. He may yet again and therein lay the risks. He says he is not a paedophile, and he will not “re-offend”.
He may not, it is not uncommon for an offender to assault one victim over a prolonged period of time and never re-offend.

So does he deserve to continue to teach? No. If not only for the sake of his own security and safety.

Young women are incredibly impressionable, or so I was at that time. The relationships we form with our tutors and teachers are incredibly precarious and are a cornerstone in forming the relationships we build in future, at that age I know I pushed the boundaries to see how far I could go. It is easy to develop that spark, that crush, ready to embark on a great love affair. In truth I struggle to believe that at that age we have the emotional capability to understand our desires, let alone the full appreciation of what it is to conduct a sexual relationship (let alone enjoy it).

And so if we cannot trust in our elders to act responsibly and morally, how then are we to develop stable relationships in future?

A little Dylan Thomas and a little Rousseau

Clown in the Moon

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

Dylan Thomas