Premature Adoration (and chocolate coins)

So Christmas has been and gone and here we are in the limbo between Christmas and New Year when I find I'm never completely sure what to do with my time.

I've been in my hometown since Saturday morning and whilst I love my family and have really enjoyed catching up with old friends, I can feel suburbia closing in on me like the walls in that Indiana Jones film. I got so bored on Boxing Day I ended up hitting the sales. Far too hard as it turns out but I bagged some glorious bargains and they're enough to make me realise that the eating has got to stop. The clothes are lovely and I am determined not to grow out of them any time soon! Must keep remembering this when faced with yet another stack of meat or bowl of mince pies and custard (or chocolate money which I inexplicably adore even though it's usually poor quality chocolate...why??).

A long time has passed since my last post (or so it seems to me) and in between then and now I had my second date with S. After work finished on Friday I went to the pub with a few of the guys from work to kill time before I had to meet him. Unfortunately I got a teeny bit drunk (not like me, I know). The good thing was, so did he. Unbeknownst to each other we'd both finished early and repaired to our local bars. We weren't hammered by any means but it meant when we met neither of us were that nervous.
Well, I wasn't until I saw him again. Honestly, I'd forgotten how much I fancied him and it really threw me. He looked delicious and I could barely touch my butternut squash risotto for the butterflies in my stomach.
We went to a pub after dinner and talked for ages until the blissful moment arrived (forgive my melodramatics but it rocked my world, really). I turned my head towards him to look around the bar and he leaned in to kiss me. I don't think our lips left each other's for the next hour. God he turned me on; the combination of his mind, his appearance and the fact that he kisses like a demi-god all basically served to turn me to jelly. He told me I kissed him how he'd always wanted to be kissed which was just about the best thing he could have said.
We kissed again in the tube and although I was trying to be coy I hinted I wanted to see him again but it doesn't look like it will happen until the new year now (although he invited me to his NYE dinner - I can't go but took it to be a promising sign). Later that night, this was the text I received:

"3 parts infatuation, 2 parts frustrated lust, 1 part premature adoration."

He even bought me a present which was a little embarrassing as I hadn't got him anything (it was our second date for crying out loud). I opened it when I got home and it was 'The Superior Persons Book Of Words'. May not sound like much but that's basically catnip to an obsessive linguist like me. I received one text on Christmas Day but nothing since. I'm compulsively checking my phone all the time which I must stop doing. I barely know the guy but he's got completely under my skin. I am a fully paid up member of the Crush Club. Again.

Yesterday I played Trivial Pursuit with my family and realised how little I actually know. Although, without making excuses, I did get some absolutely awful questions. For example, this was a 'history' question I got: 'How tall is Prince Charles?' Firstly, what the cock does that have to do with history and secondly unless I was his tailor or the Queen how would I know?? Incidentally, if you're interested, he's 5ft 10". Honestly, the unfairness of it. I sullenly crunched Twiglets and regressed to a teenager which is always so attractive. I cheered up later when my Dad and I had a West Wing fest. He introduced me to that show so we always watch either that or MASH together when I'm home. Just a little father/daughter bonding.

This will be the last post before New Year I think. Next time I do this I'll be back at work (shudder).

Happy New Year to all!

xxx

Christmas Joy

That's it. Work has officially ended and festivities can begin. I'm off to the pub.

Merry Christmas everyone!!

X

Stuffing

Oh my God I can't stop eating!

I'm seriously worried about my total lack of self-control when it comes to food at the moment. Having spent the last 6 months monitoring everything I ate and policing myself constantly I have now completely lost it.

Case in point: I just went to Pret and purchased a Brie (cheese for heaven's sake!) and plum chutney sandwich and a packet of lard-smeared crisps and consumed the lot in about fifteen seconds. That's on top of the Rice Krispies, mini mince pie, Santa tree decoration (chocolate), advent calendar sweet and chocolate digestive I consumed over the course of the morning. Yesterday I picked at chocolate all day long to the point where I actually felt sick (what am I, five??). The problem is, I'm in an office full of women and we're up to our eyes in foodie gifts from grateful clients. The desk opposite me is unoccupied so it's become the official home of every box of chocolates, packet of mince pies, truffles, Stollen, cashew nut tube and alcoholic beverage we've so far received. It's been a calorie fest for the last week with everyone hovering around my pod, eyes glazed with festive lust, carefully examining chocolate box menus and throwing back handfuls of cashews. How can I resist? It's like Chinese water torture only with chocolate not water and not as deadly. Admittedly that doesn't explain why I ate an entire garlic baguette to myself last night...

The perverse thing is, I've worked really hard to lose all this weight, I've just met a man I like and desperately want to impress and I've bought a sweater dress, but I'm scoffing like a compulsive eater in a pie-eating contest. I'm not going to call it self-sabotage yet, although it wouldn't be the first time. I'll blame it on the festive period and abundance of naughty treats permanently within my reach. If it continues past Christmas Day then I know I'm in trouble.

I didn't see C last night, I was just too tired. I think he was quite disappointed although we're back MSNing today. I don't know what I'm doing really because my thoughts are all wrapped up in S ahead of our date tomorrow. C is cute in a boyish kind of way but he's not on my wavelength like S is. I'm so excited/nervous about tomorrow night. I keep replaying our kiss over and over to the point where I'm in serious danger of jumping him the minute I see him tomorrow which wouldn't do at all. In the meantime, the casual flirtation with C is doing wonders for the ego in the midst of my self-loathing oink fest.

Tired

I'm tired. All the late nights and early mornings of the last few weeks have caught up with me and I feel completely ruined.
Obviously the ten hours of drinking yesterday didn't help but this is more than that. This is a bone-deep tiredness that has me feeling as though I'm wearing a lead suit underwater. I can't really moan though. I don't have children, I don't work 20 hour days in a hospital saving lives, I have no one to blame but myself. Which is annoying; self pity is easier to enjoy when there is justification for it.

So, the Christmas party is over. It wasn't quite the horror fest I was expecting but neither was it that great. The lunch at Pizza Express was fairly generic (aren't they always?) but enjoyable enough. We then repaired to 'Funland' in the Trocadero for two games of bowling which my team lost. Two things of note happened; I realised I'm still rubbish at bowling and I ripped off a thumbnail. Otherwise it was strongly reminiscent of my teenage years. We were on a ridiculously tight schedule for The Fun and so after everyone except me, my pregnant colleague and my colleague with a bad back, went on the dodgems (honestly) we dashed to Henry's Bar in Covent Garden for a lightening round of drinks, then to the 'upmarket TGI Friday's'. Roobs, Oz Girl and I decided the only way we were going to cope with it was by basically caning as much alcohol as possible including several shots. This is a list of what I drank yesterday:

• Red wine
• Corona
• Vodka Diet Coke
• Champagne cocktails
• Mojitos
• Kir Royale
• Lemon Drop shots
• Bubblegum shots

A fairly impressive mix, I think you'll agree and yet I remained resolutely sober(ish). I think it was the fact that all that was spread over ten hours and the fact that we consumed a vast amount of food. The most drunk person was my colleague J who fell off his chair three times at dinner, downed glasses of red wine and picked up an entire slice of cheesecake in his fist and mashed it into his mouth. He is disappointingly bright this morning. I was in bed by 11:30 and must have been more intoxicated than I thought because I text S to say goodnight (felt my powerbase slipping as I did it). He replied though which was lucky with a very cute text which cheered me up after a strange day

I'm not totally convinced I want to see C tonight and so have not logged into MSN yet because he'll see me. It's not that I don't think I'll like him; I know I found him sexy and good company but I'm just exhausted beyond all sense. All I want to do is go home, force something of nutritional value down my throat and go to bed. I don't have it in me to be entertaining or alluring tonight. Still, it's early yet, I'll see how the day goes. I am keen to hedge my bets though so perhaps I'll just have to fake it for the cause. Wouldn't be the first time after all.

Baubles And Juggling

This afternoon is our work Christmas Party. Well, I say this afternoon, the Bucks Fizz is being poured as I type (11am). I'm not entirely sure what the thought process was behind the planning of this Christmas Party, as we're going for lunch at Pizza Express then, inexplicably, going bowling at the Trocadero. It would appear they confused 'Christmas Party' with 'Twelve Year Old's Birthday Party'. Hardly the chic, exciting glamourfest I was hoping for. After the (shudder) bowling, we're going on to a restaurant that was described to me as 'an upmarket TGI Fridays'. Quite what the ramifications will be for my sanity I have no idea. The only plus side to that piece of information is that they will serve cocktails, which I will gaspingly consume in favour of the 'set menu' we chose in August. Apparently I'm having the salmon which I don't recall choosing. Anyway, let joy be unconfined.
On the plus side, everyone is in a very good mood and we're all raring to get hideously drunk together and fall over a lot. I daresay there will be a cheesy club somewhere in the very near future, too. I guess the key is to make the best of these things.

It looks like I am seeing S on Friday night. Neither of us had much time this week but we were very keen to see each other again. I'm now wracked with insecurity about whether I'll still like him or whether I'll have done a 'typical me' and placed him on a gilded plinth when actually he's quite normal. Maybe it was the XO Martinis clouding my perception. I hope not. As I am spending the holidays with my family, much as I love them, it would be fun to have a naughty text buddy to cheer me up if things get a little slow. His emails are still making me giggle though and I've checked his pics again to remind me what he looks like and it's all good there (I usually forget what boys I fancy look like).

Slightly worryingly I remembered that I'd made a tentative date with C (he of Rebel Yell discovery night) for tomorrow night. He messaged me yesterday to confirm it and I, being the fickle cow that I am, agreed to meet him. I have no idea why except that I quite fancied him and thought it was worth double checking whether I really liked him or not. He apparently seems to like me quite a lot judging by the MSNing we were doing yesterday and that's got to be worth nurturing until I know how I feel about him and S in comparison. Let's face it, I'm not exactly doing anything unusual; men have been doing this for years. I've never thought of juggling as sexually liberating but it just might be.

Roobs has just found out I'm leaving as it was only announced yesterday and she was on holiday. She cried which made me cry. I'm going to miss her so much, I really hope this won't go the way of countless work friendships in the past and fizzle out without the gel of the workplace to keep us together. She's such a fabulous person, I fully intend to keep my claws in for as long as possible.

Angels and Demons

How does one extricate oneself from a bad date? No, let me rephrase that. How does one extricate oneself from a bad date if one is British?
Curse my inherent politeness and the horror into which it leads me. Damn my inability to insult others and my desperate need to please and be liked.

But let's start with the good before we move onto the bad and ugly (one and the same). Friday night was my date with S. We stupidly agreed to meet at Leicester Square and I hate Leicester Square. As I stood outside the neon flea pit of Garfunkels, clutching my bag tightly, pressed against the wall by the throng of frantic tourists, I wished we'd said anywhere else. It doesn't do to meet a date when you're stressed beyond all sense.
Suddenly, pushing through the crowd, came a tall dude wearing a hat that said 'I'm cool, the hat's cool but I couldn't care less' and a very nice pin-striped jacket layered over faded jeans. Our eyes met and I experienced a strange impulse to throw my arms around his neck and hug him. I have been known to be overly demonstrative but not with complete strangers. It became apparent very quickly that he was nervous. Perversley I am instantly at ease when I know someone else is nervous; a low level control thing I would imagine. We hadn't organised to go anywhere which on a Friday night, in Covent Garden and Soho, a week before Christmas was foolhardy in the extreme. Thank goodness it was a mild night because as a result we wandered around for a good 45 minutes trying to find somewhere that didn't have drunk Santas pouring out of it. We found a Mexican bar and drank XO Martinis and we started to click. He was funny. Not just 'I'm laughing on the inside' funny but genuinely, uncontrollably, deliciously funny. The even better part was that I made him laugh in equal measure. We finally found a small Indonesian restaurant with a table and settled down to eat. We spent three and a half hours at that table, sharing a sub-standard set menu and we didn't stop talking. I have to admit, he's a bit of a geek, but the good thing is I have latent geek tendencies and am now past the point in my life where I judge them in others. In fact I admire those that can factor them into their personalities. I found it endearing in S, he is tall and although slim seems strong, plus he removed the hat and I was relieved to find it wasn't covering any bald patches. Oh, I also discovered he plays about seven musical instruments and regularly cooks fabulously complicated and extravagent meals (in fact, on Sunday morning I received a text that simply said 'Smothering a duck in a balsamic maple syrup glaze and thinking largely of you.')
I wasn't sure what vibe I was getting from him until went got into the tube and he unexpectedly kissed me. For a long time, to the sound of caterwalling drunken revellers. It was a very good kiss and it was great to kiss someone taller than me, despite my heels. I missed my tube connection by two minutes so got the night bus from Notting Hill. As I was watching the lights of High Street Kensington whizzing past the bus window, he sent me a text that said 'You're lovely'.

On Saturday morning, I awoke to bright, crisp, winter sunshine and felt amazingly happy. I danced around my bedroom listening to Juice FM reggae and calypso tracks whilst hanging the washing and hoovering. I was slightly nervous about my date with the dark B, but buoyed by two good dates in a row.
The date started innocuously enough. We met at the galleries on the South Bank for the Dali exhibition. He did not look like his pictures. In fact, he looked about two stone heavier and five years older than his photos. Still, I decided to try and see past that, keeping in mind the poetic emails and erotic phone call we'd had (about which I now shudder with horror). After the exhibition we decamped to All Bar One and before I'd even finished my vodka and diet coke, I knew I wanted to get away from this person quickly, but I found that I just couldn't ditch him; I don't have it built into my personality. So, we had two drinks there, then he suggested we go into Soho for more drinks. We hailed a cab and found a tucked away uber-cool bar off Tottenham Court Rd. Oh look, I can't be bothered to write about this properly. It will be quicker to bullet point the horror. Here we go:

1. He constantly muttered with his head turned away and when asked to repeat something, inexplicably wouldn't
2. He talked continuously about his job as a trader and how good he was at it
3. He asked me virtually nothing about myself and when he did, could not have been less interested
4. In the cab on the way to Soho, he started talking about his 'sub-coetaneous' spots and actually used the phrase 'Pop, you bastard'
5. He was rude to the staff in the bar we went to, making ridiculous demands and barely acknowledging them
6. He took his sweater off when we sat down and I got a whiff of sour BO
7. He kept disappearing to the loo and it became quickly apparent he was coked up
8. Despite point 7, he still got very drunk
9. He kept grabbing me round my neck in a really painful way and pulling me towards him which was worryingly aggressive
10. He lunged in to kiss me after about half an hour with no signal from me whatsoever and managed a lip-touch before I pulled away
11. He was obviously very well off but knew it and demonstrated it, a lot
12. He was utterly devoid of humour, except when it was something he'd said
13. His teeth were buck, and the front two were either side of a gap you could have driven a truck through, giving him the appearance of a red-necked sister-fucker.
14. At one point, he actually drooled; a long stream of saliva left his mouth and dripped onto the table and, this is the crucial point, HE DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE
15. He called me a slut with a leering, public-schoolboy grin on his face

Finally, finally we left and despite my obvious revulsion to the point where I'd even given up talking to him in favour of letting him ramble, he insisted on holding my hand on the way to the tube. I instantly made it as limp as a manhandled protestor but to no avail. He attempted another lunge outside the tube but I managed to direct him to my cheek and eventually wrestled free and practically ran down the stairs. Fortunately he didn't 'do' the tube so there was no danger of him following me.

I got home tired, upset and emotionally drained. I ate chicken Super Noodles and a Dime bar and watched Friends in my pyjamas. The only highlight of the evening had been that every time I went to the loo I was texting S. He felt like my lifeline out of the horror of my situation into a kind, happy world. Not to put too fine a point on it - it was him with whom I wanted to be. Granted, having the flesh torn from my bones by a cross-eyed water snake would have been preferable to that evening but still...food for thought.

Oh by the way, the picture has nothing to do with the post, it's just my favourite Dali sculpture; Homage to Terpsichore which I saw on Saturday.

Red Sky In The Morning

Ignoring the very hungover camera work, I found the colour of the sky over West London so amazing this morning at 7:30 I had to take pictures of it.

She Cried More, More, More

I think I might have a problem. I seem to have absolutely no resistance to alcohol and have totally lost the ability to know my own limits. Every time I become incapacitated, I hear my mother's voice ringing in my ears telling me that no one likes a drunk girl. She's right, it's utterly unattractive and shamefully weak. My friends have informed me that I'm actually very good at hiding my intoxication but I think that might just be because they're as drunk as I am. On the other hand I've had a lot of practise hiding it from my parents throughout my teenage years spent necking Diamond White in suburban parks (classy). I know it's Christmas and the season of extreme indulgence but I'm not sure how much more my liver can take.

Last night was my first date from the website. We went to an upmarket 1950's themed bar for mojitos which we drank to a soundtrack of classic soul, progressing through American rock much to the delight of the work party crowd of which we seemed to be the only two people not affiliated. I spotted C waiting for me at the tube station before he'd seen me which gave me the chance to check him out. He was casually well dressed in a vintage brown leather jacket and dirty-wash jeans. He was only a couple of inches taller than me but fortunately I'd remembered to wear flats following the graphic designer/Laverne incident. Artfully messed up dark hair and big brown eyes were the first impressions I remember. We walked to the bar together and were teasing each other before we ordered our first drink and this theme continued throughout the night, both of us delighting in the other's love of sarcasm and witty oneupmanship. We decided we wouldn't talk about work which made things initially a little hard because it's default conversational setting for meeting new people but after a while it made things really interesting. The evening was a spaghetti tangent of subjects including juggling copulating monkeys, blow job lips, gun shows and cryogenic hair.
As the preamble to this would suggest I was drunk but it got worse when we invented a new game. It was very simple and we named it 'Least Ordered Drink'. The premise being that when you find yourself in an establishment boasting a glittering array of obscure spirits, you request the Least Ordered Drink with bonus points if the bottle actually has dust on it. Last night, the spoils were a thoroughly dusty bottle of bourbon, thrillingly called Rebel Yell. It tasted like an amalgam of Southern Comfort and Jack Daniels so we drank it with Coke and ice.

Eventually he remembered that he had been due at Pacha for his work Christmas party over an hour ago and we were miles away from Victoria so we had to cut it short. A good thing with hindsight because one more Rebel Yell and I'd have been on the floor.
We got the tube together and draped ourselves around the central pole in the carriage, our faces close while we whispered nonsense to each other. He somewhat ruined the moment by informing me that my eyes were bloodshot from all the smoke which immediately punched a hole in my thin self confidence. He made up for it though by kissing me very sexily, in full view of the tube carriage. We kissed all the way to his stop. Before he left, he told me he wanted to see me again and kissed me hard, holding onto my waist and pulling me close. He actually asked me to go to Pacha which (thank God) I refused, then hinted that he didn't really have to go to the party i.e. could come home with me. I refused this too, not only because my housemate's mum and sister are staying over for her mum's 60th birthday and the noise of The Beast With Two Backs coming through the wall is not the sort of highlight she deserves to remember, but also I never heard back from the graphic designer after rushing to bed with him and I feel a little hollow.

When I got home, I crawled into bed and was on the verge of passing out when my mobile rang. It was the dark man, B, who at just before midnight was still at work. Being drunk, I was quite open about being in bed and naked and he whispered to me in such a way that I squirmed with delight. I'm meeting him tomorrow and apparently it's up to me what we do. Oh blimey - no pressure then. What does one do with a man who clearly has contempt for the usual day to day pursuits? I suggested coffee and he practically snorted in derision so in irritation I suggested we fist each other on PCP in a car park then, which made him laugh and lightened the moment. I think I'll ask him to meet me at County Hall Galleries for the Dali exhibition which I've wanted to see for ages. That's suitably dark and twisted. Then maybe I'll just stun him into submission with Rebel Yell.

Tonight is my date with S who makes me laugh and seems handsome from his photos. We're meeting in Soho which I'm so excited about as I adore it there and haven't been for ages. I'm already thinking of all the little tucked-away bars we can patronise. I think by tomorrow I'll be as jaded as B which might actually bring our outlooks in line.

Pimping Online

Earlier this week I joined a dating website.

Given my recent disaster with the milk-fed gimp you'd think I'd steer clear of pimping myself out online. However the mistake I made then was that there was no photo available whereas on this site, it's virtually compulsory. I did no research, just signed up with the first one Google threw at me, paid my month's trial fee and sat back. Yes, I could have searched and messaged like a breathless nympho but the low-level fear of rejection persists so instead I decided to see who found me.
The first flurry of emails I got was astonishing; around 40 in about three hours and this was in the middle of the day! The initial excitment wore off as I trawled through the collection of oddballs that were clearly at home, waiting for fresh meat to sign up. Still, it continued but out of the messages that came in, 99% probably got deleted. No, I haven't considered moving to Cumbria...yes, 35 really is my top age limit so 48 is pushing it, sorry...Only three children, really? I had to learn very early on that you cannot reply to everyone that messages you which completely goes against the grain of my inherent British politeness. Most give up if they don't get a reply but some are more persistent which is when the 'ignore list' (or sin bin as it should be called) comes into play. When they cross the line into stalkerville, you're always glad you didn't respond (one guy called me a 'brat' for not responding which I found oddly endearing).

Obviously I'm basing the first decision to respond on appearance and whether it fries my onions. Sorry, but show me someone that says looks don't matter and I'll show you an ugly liar. Seriously the initial attraction is always physical. Granted, it may not be sustained if the vessel is beautiful but empty so personality/beliefs are still massively important. If they're cute and I think their profile is cool and their approach is creative, then I respond. So far I'm talking to 4 guys. All surprisingly different people and not just in looks. I'm meeting the first one tonight after work before he goes to his company Christmas party at Pacha. It's nice in a way because there's an end in sight with his prior commitment so if it bombs we don't have to make excuses. He's my age which is annoying because I was aiming for older given my recent fuckwittage minefield but he's very cute and funny so we'll see. Plus he works in media so understands the sort of industry I'm in.

My second date is tomorrow night with a lovely guy who is older (hurrah), very handsome and very, very funny. In fact, it's scary how similar our sense of humour is and our emails have got progressively more relaxed and intimate. I'm slightly worried about going too far in case these dates are total let downs but I tend to get carried away. One thing I decided was that I was going to embrace this experience. There's no point joining a dating website then behaving like a rabbit in the headlights the whole time. Be prepared to message, talk on the phone and actually meet!

The third guy is a bit of a question mark. His initial approach was massively intense but I took it to be quite tongue in cheek although I didn't reply. He used the phrase 'destructive mire of mutual self obsession' but it was done with eloquence and wisdom. He then emailed me again, lamenting my silence but again his email was so, so eloquent and so exciting that I was compelled to reply. It's so typical of me. I am so dazzled by romantic, passionate men. Men who are a little off the wall, a little dark with whom a passionate, dangerous affair could ensue. I don't know why there is this side of me, I really don't. I had a traditional upbringing and have had a fairly mundane life to date yet I meet someone who could be voted Most Likely To Die In A Hotel Room and I'm hooked. Maybe that explains the whole Kate/Pete thing. Perhaps she's compelled by his tortured soul.
So I replied and he came back with something written so simply, yet it was so supremely erotic I am ashamed to say I re-read it just to feel the tingle in my loins.
Last night he called me and we talked for an hour. He is dark but is a commodities trader so is also apparently, independently wealthy. He was at work when he called me (at 9pm) and after the phone call I got a text saying 'Hard to concentrate thinking of you'. Sorry, but what woman isn't going to melt after reading that? We may be meeting this weekend, despite the fact that I am slightly afraid of him.

The fourth guy is the sunshine to third guy's shadow and is a very happy, Scottish IT consultant. He doesn't immediately thrill me but seems very sweet so we'll see what happens there.

I am nervous ahead of tonight but hopeful too. It's such a marvellous distraction, and a superb ego-massage to boot and so far I can highly recommend it if you have the right mentality. Oh, and a very, very thick skin. My view may change after the first few dates. We shall have to see.

A Story About The Past

Last night I had a dream about someone I haven't seen or thought about for a long time. It's an odd sensation, waking up from a dream like that. It's almost as if you've connected with that person in some way. It left me feeling slightly melancholy but oddly happy.
It's probably too grandiose to say he was my first love. In fact, that's utter bollocks. I wasn't a virgin when I met him and he was going out with someone else and we never actually had a relationship. We just shagged. A lot.

It was my first job out of school and I was a receptionist. I was sixteen years old and basically didn't have a clue about life, men or working for a living so I was in a perpetual state of tension for a good three months. However it was a great, young company and I soon made friends and settled down. I don't remember noticing him until about six months into my employment, but when I had I couldn't get him out of my mind.
He was twenty eight and manager of a department based just off the reception area. I knew he'd noticed me but I was naive and couldn't believe anyone as handsome, successful or as old as him (oh, the irony!) could look twice at me. But look he did. It started off with casual, flirtatious comments, stolen looks across the office and cigarettes companionably smoked together on the fire escape. He'd been off for a few days before my first Christmas at the firm and I'd been missing him dreadfully, or rather with the wisdom of age was probably missing the attention. He was there on the last day before the holidays and a group of us decamped to the local pub to end the afternoon. I sat with my friends and ignored them, only nodding vaguely whilst I held his gaze across the pub and drank Archers and Lemonade in what I thought was a seductive fashion. After a while he got up to leave and, God bless my youthful arrogance, I got up and followed him out. He was waiting for me.
I'm sure we spoke but I don't remember what was said. All I remember is that he kissed me. With his hands cupped round my face and in my hair like a proper grown up. I'd only ever kissed boys. Usually ones who thought kissing involved either licking the area of the face around the mouth or just forcing their tongue roughly down your throat. He was soft, and sensual and to my little sixteen year old heart, an absolute God.

The flirtation continued in the new year and got stronger. This was in the days before mobile phones became smaller than hatchbacks and widely available and email didn't exist yet in our office so our contact was limited to times when we were alone which wasn't often. He used to sneak in on me in the post room, shut the door, push me up against the wall and kiss me, touching me urgently. I know, I know what it sounds like but I wasn't some teenaged Lolita and he certainly wasn't taking advantage. There was full complicity on my part. I knew he had a girlfriend but I didn't care. He'd told me she was virtually psychotic and that they were always breaking up. He didn't use it as an excuse to kiss me, he just told me when I asked about her which wasn't often.

Over the course of the year our illicit moments got more frequent. He used to 'give me a lift home' which was code for drive to the local park, stop the car somewhere secluded and virtually fuck in it. I remember the first time I gave him a blow job and he told me to bite his cock I was so shocked. It seemed so deviant to me (again, the power of hindsight). How the hell we kept this all a secret I'll never know. Once I gave him my knickers at the start of the working day. His boss was off so he was using his office and he told me later that he had to drive all the way back to the office after hours because he'd left them in his boss's desk drawer.

It wasn't until the following Halloween that we actually ended up having sex. It was fancy dress and I knew I was going to dress up for him. I was an oh-so-mature seventeen year old by now after all. I went as a witch but actually I went as a slut. Long black boots, short skirt, see thru top that had a vague resemblance to cobwebs and blood red lipstick. It worked. He barely left my side all day and that night I went home with him. He fucked me all over his flat for hours, smoked with me and drank tea naked, then drove me home (fully clothed). I think I changed a bit that day. I realised what the power of sex really was, in an albeit slightly juvenile way. I didn't really learn to exploit it until years later though.

From then on we slept together frequently. I learned to drive and got a car so we drove in tandem to his flat. Once he went in ahead of me and came running out a few minutes later clutching a rubbish bag (as an excuse). It turns out she was indoors which was a close call. He bought me my first legal drink on my eighteenth birthday and by this point I was convinced I was in love with him. I was distraught whenever he was out of the office or when we were forced apart at the weekends. I lived for workdays, basically.
I went through some difficulties with the company during my third year. I'd been in hospital for a couple of months following really serious surgery and they refused to pay me for my time off. I came back to the company for a few weeks but quit soon afterwards. I knew I was leaving him behind but I was eighteen now and knew I had to move on. It was so sad but the right choice. He was never going to break up with his girlfriend and I was growing into my sexual self, drawing on the energy and experience my time with him had given me. I never got any real emotion from him though. He never gave me any indication that it was anything other than lust which was so hard to get my head around at that age. I still sometimes have trouble separating sex and emotions now so how I coped then I have no idea.

I got on with my life, moved away and grew up. Years later I moved back to my hometown for a job and started working with someone who worked for that first company at the same time I did. He'd actually been her boss. Anyway, I confessed all about the affair and she was so shocked but suddenly became thoughtful. She eventually told me that he'd once told her about a girl in his life who had 'really got under his skin' and that he'd considered leaving his girlfriend for her. I have no way of knowing whether he was talking about me but the timing fit and I like to think he was.

I bumped into him a couple of years ago in my hometown and was sad how much but also how little he'd changed. He was in the same job, driving the same car and looking strangely old and tired. In my dreams however, and I have dreamt about him before, he's always twenty eight and so handsome - like James Dean I always thought. Why I dreamt about him last night I don't know but it's made me revisit that time in my life. Looking back I almost can't believe that happened to me. As a twenty eight year old I couldn't fathom getting involved with a sixteen year old boy so heaven knows what drew him to me. Whatever it was, I'm eternally grateful.

Late Night, Awkward Morning

There are few moments quite so awkward as the moment you wake up next to someone and realise the soporific veneer of alcohol has utterly dissipated leaving only hoarse voices, unspoken words and the embarrassed covering up of skin.

So the date with the graphic designer went well.

Let's start from the beginning. The client lunch on Friday began at 1pm and ended at 4:45. The food was amazing (turns out Pan Asian is a good thing) even though I had to dissect an entire sea bass having been shown to be the least squeamish person at the table. The wine was an extremely good Sauvingnon Blanc and several large Baileys were consumed (Christmas law). I arrived back at the office just before 5pm and hid behind my screen trying to do my make up whilst feeling distinctly woozy. I was late for the date but only by 15 minutes and the graphic designer was sitting alone looking gorgeous in a soft blue sweater. Unfortunately the second he stood up to greet me, I realised the heels were a mistake. It transpired later that he's actually 5ft 10.5" which is by no means miniscule, however as mentioned in my last post, I was at least 5ft 11" in my new boots (unattractively and inexplicably named 'Laverne' by the retailer).
I recommenced the white wine and we immediately relaxed into easy conversation during which he me made me laugh lots. No sign of the reticent email-buddy of recent weeks, thankfully.

We got drunk. Oh blimey did we get drunk. My lunch had precipitated a surge in my affection for alcohol (never too far under the surface) and so when we moved bars and he decided to introduce me to dark rum, I thought this was a fantastic idea. Many, many rounds later the shots started and my resolve to be a grown up was trampled by the sheer brute force of my drinking binge.
He kissed me in the bar and despite my obvious intoxication I can categorically state it was the best kiss I've had in a long time. I can still remember it now - I melted (I've been doing a lot of melting lately but this isn't necessarily a bad thing). Fast forward through a whispered conversation, the securing of a cab and the fumbling of keys and light switches. The sex was frantic and obviously drunken but I was still capable of maintaining a good hour which under the circs was impressive (so was he which is much more impressive). The last thing I remember was him spooning me as I passed out.

Which brings us to Saturday morning; 10:35am and we are awoken by the sound of a motorbike starting outside my window. We stumble around trying to find his discarded underwear whilst I desperately try and cover up with my embarrassingly ratty dressing gown (mental note: buy sexy kimono-type robe befitting a single girl).
He was very sweet and left quietly, kissing me briefly on the lips at the front door, promising to email/call me today. I'm honestly not sure I'm bothered because although he was sexy and intelligent and we had a great time, I am disturbed by the fact that we are both capable of being shockingly sluttish. But how typically spoilt of me. I wanted to have sex with him but lost respect for him because he had sex with me so soon. Now, in my overly-active imagination, he is a cad and a bounder (in the traditional sense) and will never be the sort of strong man I ultimately want who will take care of me, resist my advances, kiss me goodbye, put me into a cab and call me the next day to make sure I'm ok. He's out there somewhere and in the meantime, random snogging and sex is turning out to be huge amounts of fun. That's despite the awkward conversations I had to have with my housemates following the event. We are not a house of sluttish types who bring boys home regularly so this was quite an event. I probably overplayed how embarrassed I was in an effort to negate their perception of the filthiness of my behaviour and it seemed to work because after a while we were all giggling about it and I was sharing details over tea and digestives on Saturday afternoon with Radio 4 in the background. Oddly wholesome in contrast to the alcoholic haze of the previous night.

As an aside I've just told Roobs all about it on email and she replied with 'you are truly fabulous'. That remains to be seen but it made me smile nonetheless!

The End. The Beginning...

The deed is done. The clock is ticking. I have officially resigned from hateful-job hell! Hooray for new starts, a lovely fresh new year and the start of the journey back to joy.

My line manager, to give him credit, was lovely. He's not based here so I had to do it over the phone which was rubbish but necessary. I think the reason they assigned me to him after I spectacularly clashed with my original line manager was because he's a trained counsellor and me being the overly-emotional, exceedingly verbal person that I am was able to gel immediately with him. Therefore the guilt is overwhelming because I don't want to let him down but I could not feel more relieved now the decision is made. I actually feel a little bubble of happiness somewhere down in my tummy. No sudden movements as it might pop...instead I will carefully nurture my little bubble until it becomes a giant happy vessel filling my veins and making my brain float happily around in my skull.
I don't know what I'm talking about but I thought I'd go off on a random poetic tangent and not delete it afterwards no matter how crap it is, so there you are.

Also, today is date day with the graphic designer. I'm quite nervous because I've really got to like him which is always a mistake. However seeing as it took him about three weeks to actually ask me out, the email tennis was all I had. I am trying to remember the lessons learnt with the musician, i.e. not get overexcited, not get your hopes up etc and so far I'm sticking to it. I'm wearing a pretty laid back outfit of long fitted black jumper, patent cinch belt and jeans. After a lot of deliberation this morning, to the point where I missed the bus, I decided to wear heels. I can't remember how tall he is - in my mind's eye he's over 6ft but I'm now probably 5ft 11" with these on so hopefully he's not a midget. They're not just massive Elton John platforms by the way, I am actually 5ft 8" in my bare feet.

Client lunch in an hour which normally I would dread but lovely Roobs is coming with me. We're taking three of them to the Great Eastern Dining Rooms for Pan Asian fusion cuisine. Whatever that is. Hey - it's a free lunch!

Also, got an email from the metrosexual which was lovely. The music theme continued in that he's off to see not only The Wonderstuff this weekend but also The Levellers! I feel like I'm having the same conversations I had when I was sixteen. Very odd. Still, harsh as it sounds he's on the back burner for now. I've put too much effort into originally-reticent graphic designer so tonight is important. If he's as reticent in real life as he can be on email, or decides that me having actual hips like a proper woman is a problem then the metrosexual may become more interesting. To put it bluntly, I haven't had sex for two months and I am determined to get laid before Christmas! Ding dong merrily and all that.

Drowsy Wasps and Metrosexuals

Urgh. I am hungover. My head feels like a box of drowsy wasps and my throat is raw from the grillion cigarettes I smoked. I went out with my housemate last night to a generic bar in Soho, ostensibly for one bottle of wine which turned into two and finally, a third was ordered. It was pretty nasty house wine as well, hence the drilling headache this morning but we were really past caring after the first one.

We got talking to some boys which lifted my flagging spirits no end and one boy in particular seemed to be paying some attention. To be honest, I thought he was gay. Not the most attractive first impression but he was really funny and smart so I just figured he'd be fun to chat to, sexual persuasion aside. However, as the evening progressed, the arm-touching and maintaining-eye-contact-longer-than-normal started and when he put his hands on my hips to move me out of someone's way and then left them there, it was clear which team he was on. To use a rather wanky term, I get the feeling I was in the presence of a Metrosexual. A handsome guy who is straight but can happily talk about Louis Vuitton bags (which we did, much to my delight).

It was whilst he was describing his recent holiday that I suddenly really wanted to kiss him. A relevant piece of information at this point is that when I'm drunk I become really, really passionate and excited about iconic music from my past. If I'm in a bar and the opening bars of Place Your Hands or Like A Prayer or pretty much anything like that comes on I'm in raptures. Anyway, he was describing a beach party he'd been to where, as the sun began to rise over the water, they played Sweet Child of Mine by Guns N Roses. I completely adore the opening bars of that song as it has particular significance for me due to a time in my formative teenage years and just thinking about it, especially when intoxicated basically makes me melt. As if that wasn't enough, apparently they went on to play Mr Jones by The Counting Crows and after that, Brown Eyed Girl. The way he described it was amazing, I could shut my eyes and almost hear the songs and see the sunrise.
But I'm getting carried away. I think I'm still slightly drunk actually. Oh, interesting point though, I realised I can walk and snog at the same time - all the way to the tube. Well of course I kissed him, I was drunk and he was fit! We swapped cards (trying to be grown up) but I don't know if I'll hear from him. Still, it was a lovely distraction.
A and I got home around 12:30, only to be woken up at 2am by K getting home and vomiting really loudly in the bathroom with the door open. Tis the season to be jolly...

I verbally accepted the job offer today which is exciting. Once I get the paperwork through I'll be able to give notice here. I'm scared but also really excited about the move. I cannot wait to get out of here and leave this horrible, pressured, terrifying job behind me. I just really hope I've made the right choice. I'm so sick of making wrong ones.

Anyway, I'm off for a sausage sandwich.

A Job Interview Without Cocktails

This morning I had a job interview. It was my first one since signing with three recruitment agencies and being ignored by two of them.
I was quite excited about the role before I went and having been interviewed by the girl I'd be working with thought I'd actually quite like to be called back for a second interview to meet more people and hear more about it.
I got back into the office having told them I was having a client breakfast meeting (hate lying but needs must) and logged into my email account. The recruitment consultant had emailed me to say they'd offered me the job.

Now given that I met this person for 45 minutes this morning before she'd finished her Starbucks grandé latté I paused to consider whether her gut instinct was due to a lack of caffiene but apparently not. Initially, my usual default setting of PANIC that sets in in times of stress kicked in but once I thought about it I realised I was actually keen on this job. However I know me, having been me for 28 and a half years and I know that I'd need more to go on than that. I've pushed for a follow up meeting after work tonight to meet some more people and have a squizz at the offices. This means I can then go home, write lots of pro/con lists, drink red wine, talk to my housemates about it for three hours, not sleep at all then make a snap decision tomorrow morning.
When I initially floated the idea of the follow up meeting to the consultant she went all used car salesman on me, saying things like 'Well of course if you leave it too long to make a decision, they could see someone else they like' and 'Given how hard we thought it was going to be to make the transition from your current role, I'd think seriously about this'. OK, two points there. Firstly they've spent the last three months looking for someone for this role and until today, still hadn't found anyone so the chances of them finding an abundance of available people that they love in the next 24 hours are slim. Secondly this was my first interview and I got offered the role so potentially it's not going to be that hard if I miss out on this one, is it? Honestly. Those terror tactics used to work but as I've got older I've realised that if something's meant to be, it's meant to be. Slightly hippy but true.

In other news, the graphic designer is still emailing regularly ahead of our 'hot date' on Friday (his words not mine). He's taking me to a bar that describes itself as 'a retro-sexual haven of cosmopolitan kitsch'. Now what the hell does one wear to that?? I'm thinking smart/casual with cleavage. Not stripper cleavage, obviously...just a little Friday night cleavage to keep things interesting.

Escape

My spirit is officially refreshed. Blissful escape from the city was exactly what I needed and blissful escape I got.
I am lucky enough to have a very good friend who, along with her lovely fiancé, owns a listed cottage in the villageiest village in Hampshire. I arrived on Saturday lunchtime and we went straight to Winchester for the Cathedral Christmas fair. They'd set up an ice rink in the inner courtyard, around which rosy-cheeked kids and slightly frazzled looking parents hared and wobbled respectively. The stalls were lovely if not shockingly overpriced but it seemed reasonable under the circumstances to pay £1.75 for a jar of onion marmalade the size of a thimble. We indulged in 'genuine' Cornish pasties and meandered through the festive throngs on the high street, enjoying the odour of roasting chestnuts and the distant sounds of carollers from the Cathedral grounds. Saturday evening saw us return to the village to light the wood-burning stove in the cosy, low-ceilinged living room of the cottage. We picked happily at olives and crisps and drank red wine heated in front of the stove before mooching off to the local pub for local sausages with local wine served by a local person.
Sunday, far from being a day of rest, was a day to leap happily out of bed at 9am, wolf down a bacon sandwich and yank on borrowed wellies and a hat I wouldn't normally be caught dead in, to begin our 'authentic country walk'. Up hill and quite literally, down dale we went for over two hours until we arrived at the pub, cold and covered in mud for a refreshing pint before heading back to the cottage to dry off and eat steak pie and potatoes whilst looking at wedding bumph for next year's extravaganza.
I arrived back in London refreshed, healthily tired and happy last night. I heated up a left over naan bread and dipped it in my homemade onion marmalade then slept the kind of sleep I haven't slept since I was a child.

This morning on the tube, the man sitting opposite me blew his nose directly into his hands and wiped it onto his trousers.

Why am I here again...?