Last of 2007...

Wow! 100th post! How fitting that it should be a retrospective of the year (yes, I know it's ridiculously self-indulgent but it's my blog, so there).

Firstly, my weight has thundered upwards and I'm now a shocking 1.5 stone heavier than I was this time last year. I am disgusted with myself, particularly after such an indulgent Xmas week. Things must, must, must change as I'm miserable and uncomfortable all the time.

Job wise I started my current one in January so it's been a year, virtually. It was great to begin with but the constant abuse of my time (made me work late on my birthday and miss drinks) and the rubbish pay are seriously starting to bring me down. I'm definitely asking for a pay rise at my year's appraisal (not something I've done before) and if that doesn't work, I think I'll look for something else.

Home wise I managed to move twice this year. Mine and A's flat in Fulham was lovely for 8 months but always temporary when she announced she'd bought a place. We are now in Brixton and although it was a struggle to get used to the culture change I now love the vibrancy of it. I can buy plantain at the market, three streets from my house - genius.

Man wise. Ha ha. It sounds revolting to say there are too many to mention them all, but frankly it's true. I started the year thinking I was on my way to being sorted, only to be chucked in February. From then on the online dating and real life meetings have led to many liasons and a couple of attempts at relationships, none going the distance. I have had many one night stands, many first dates, several third dates, many teenage snogging sessions, a couple of arguments, a lovely number of genuinely fantastic nights out, some exciting text and phone sex, two threesomes (one of each kind), a rampant holiday and one bloke with four nipples. I am no wiser about men now than I was 12 months ago but it's heartening to remember that neither are any of my friends.

Any new year is an opportunity to make a fresh start and resolutions will be firmed up in January. I must think about what I want from men and how I can change my destructive behaviour. This year has made me realise I'm not completely repulsive, and yet I still have shockingly low self esteem. Another thing that needs working on. Still, I love a challenge.

When bad men happen to good girls

I can't quite believe I've been blogging for over a year (despite the recent lapse in posting). I think I'll leave the bumper-navel gaze for the Christmas week when I'll be trapped in suburbia and bored stupid but for now I can't help my thoughts wandering to the beginning of this year when, as always, anything seemed possible. It's definitely been an odd one.

On Sunday A and I invited all our fave chicks over to the pad for a Christmas soireé. We provided an acre of buffet food and gallons of wine which of course, meant the evening culminating in the 'C*nt of the Year Awards 2007'. Each of us submitted a bloke from the year who has really screwed us over (mine was New York R but it was a tough choice) and the token engaged person among us judged which 'man' was most deserving of the title. It goes to show the levels of horror we've all endured this year when I tell you that R didn't win despite his stellar levels of fuckwittage. The winning bloke was submitted by F, whose ex-boyfriend she was with for 8 years recently texted her out of the blue after 2.5 years of silence. After a couple of hesitant texts, they agreed to meet and of course, alcohol flowed, a romantic meal occured and before you could say 'castrate them all' she was in his bed. A day or so later she mustered up the courage to text him (she was drunk) and 36 hours later, she got a reply which ended with 'see you around'. As if that wasn't bad enough, during the course of the date she discovered he'd lived with someone else for a year since their split; she's only just got to the point where she's ready to date again. A deserving winner, I think we can all agree.

There's not much going on in my life at the moment in terms of men, just a couple of flirtations (and a weekend of filthy sex with one which I really needed). This could be because my confidence has hit rock bottom due to my weight. It's been creeping on the last couple of months and I'm now really uncomfortable. Bloody typical just before the festive season - so like me to make sure I'm really, really fat after the holidays rather than being sensible and allowing a bit of a buffer zone. If only I was the type of girl who lost her appetite in the face of heartbreak rather than one who uses it as yet another excuse to comfort eat. Mind you, if that were the case, based on this year's experiences I'd be thinner than Posh.

FA's: Friend or Foe?

This week I am mostly on holiday. Which is dandy and jolly for the most part. I am free to rise when I wish, boil an egg in a languid fashion at ten in the morning or paint my toenails then immediately remove all the polish, cackling to myself while watching Richard & Judy Mark 2. Oh yes, I know how to live.

However, this week does involve me spending time with Functioning Adults. For those of you that don't know, Functioning Adults (FAs) are those of your peers that have somehow managed to wade through the general low-level neurosis, negative peer pressure, lucid nightmares in which your mother catches you having sex/taking drugs/molesting ferrets/dropping babies on their heads and all-encompassing self-doubt to emerge victorious at the end of a church aisle swathed in a white dress or morning suit depending on gender of aforementioned FA. It's kind of like 'It's a Knockout' only with shorter arms.

FA's are present in all our lives and, short of deleting them from your BT Friends and Family package, there's not much you can do to avoid them. Admittedly, women feel the shadowy presence of their FA's more keenly than men. This is because we have ovaries.

FA's are distinguishable by certain characteristics and there are many circumstances to which you must adapt. Here is a selection of what I just said then:

1. FA's are never single

2. They are not just co-habiting* but are either engaged or married

3. If they are engaged, they will have a constant ream of bridal magazines stashed about their person and fabric samples hanging from their bag at all times

4. If you are lucky enough to be their bridesmaid they will monitor your calorie consumption for a year and a half and make you go to Colour Me Beautiful (then cry for a week if you're not a Summer and make you dye your hair)

5. You must like the fiancé/husband without question and value his opinion on all matters

6. The fiancé/husband has the right to stare at your tits whenever he so wishes, occasionally choosing to enthusiastically vocalise the action with the phrase 'I would'

7. If your FA owns a house and decides to replace all the wooden doorknobs with glass ones, not only must you notice, you must also ask the place of purchase, price of knobs and entire thought process leading up to this crucial decision

8. If your FA's have a child and/or children you must be ridiculously excited to see/hear about/talk on the phone to them at all times. Especially at 6am on a Saturday when your FA is calling you for a quick chat because they've been up for three hours feeding, changing and watching 'Nibbly Pig Disbands the Third Reich' and she naturally assumes it's around lunchtime but can't check because all the clocks in their house are covered in baby sick

9. When you go for dinner with the FA's, especially those with children, you must remember that they are probably no longer having sex. To this end, and to get the best portion of tiramisu, you must regale them with glamorous and risqué stories of your urban single life. This is doubly important if you live in a city and they live in the 'burbs. Pepper your stories with throaty laughs, hair-tossing and knowing winks to the husband. Discreetly avert your gaze when he stands up with a stiffy

10. Never attempt to have a conversation with your FA if their child is anywhere in the room. Conversations attempted with FA's in the presence of their offspring generally follow this pattern:

FA (three hours after you arrive): So anyway, enough about us. How are YOU?

You: Not too bad. Oh, funny thing happened actually, you know that bloke I mentioned? The one who took me to that Greek restaurant?

FA: Stop that darling, please. Because you'll get stuck, that's why. Come and read dinosaur book, you like dinosaur book. Dinosaur! Dinosaur! Sorry, you were saying?

You: Er...right well anyway, after the disaster of the Greek place I didn't think he'd ring again but low and behold he did. Anyway, I decided...

FA: Jocasta! Jocasta! Don't stick your Lego there, its disgusting! Because I said so. I'm not joking, I know it's fun now darling but it won't be so much fun when mummy has to take you to Casualty again, will it? Remember Casualty? Yes you do, the nasty nurse had to put the cream in your special place, didn't she? And it hurt, didn't it? Right, so put the Lego down and come here. Barbie! Look darling! Barbie! Sorry, so you're at a Greek restaurant...

Personally I'm happy being a DA (Dysfunctional Adult). In the city DA's travel in packs, selfishly filling our days with shoe shopping, bed hopping and cocktail consumption. We gleefully kill off clutches of eggs with extra-strong Mojitos and pulverise brain cells with Merlot.

Unfortunately, the chances are there will come a point when your FA's become a positive influence. It is inevitable that, unless you are cursed with the same levels of deluded self-confidence and playboy joie de vivre as Peter Stringfellow, you'll eventually want to hitch your wagon to someone of the opposite gender, financially cripple yourself by purchasing a shoebox with windows and find yourself taking folic acid whilst flexing your pelvic floor in the queue at Waitrose. At this point you will probably start to appreciate the eternal struggle of unfounded optimism that is the life of an FA. You will go to them for advice and integrate yourself into their routines until one evening you find yourself serving tiramisu to a DA across your limed oak dining table, listening jealously to her tales of urban debauchery while your husband shuffles across the kitchen with a gingham chair cushion clutched to his crotch. Something to look forward to, then.



*It's never final until a ring is purchased - mortgage schmortgage

De ja vu

I don't know what's going on in my head these days, I really don't. After a year of more casual sex and dating than the rest of my life all together, I am still no closer to a) understanding men or b) understanding myself.

Communication between Red and I continues, however I can feel myself retreating. I've been on holiday this week, travelling round visiting friends and family in the home counties and as a consequence have been away from email anyway, but even my texts have been drying up. I think I knew all along that physically I just couldn't fancy Red which is really, really sad. So much about him appealed to me; his mind, his sense of humour, his interests, his compassion, however the physical thing - no matter how much I tell myself otherwise - is important. The memory of Red kneeling over me, and showing me his cock but first having to move his stomach out of the way is resounding more loudly in my mind than anything else. I loathe my utter superficiality but I am what I am. I don't expect people to be perfect, there just has to be an attraction. I would like to keep him as a friend but I worry we've gone too far for that. He had a problem that cropped up earlier today and his first thought was to text me for sympathy and help. I feel we've crossed a line.

I have somehow agreed to go out with L tomorrow night. It will be the first time I'll have seen him since our disastrous third date back in May. He's invited me to a comedy night, which is just my kind of thing. The problem is, I don't know if he's inviting me as a friend or as a date. He could feasibly think that enough time has passed now for the dust to have settled on our brief period of dating so that friendship is possible, or he might genuinely like me again and want to date me. I have no way of telling so my only option is to go, look fab and not make a single date-like move. I will assume it's a friend thing, then if he happens to try and kiss me or touch me in any way (other than a platonic one) I'll know the score. Trouble is, if he doesn't try it on I think I'll be quite disappointed. The man may have been a headwreck in the past but my God he's damn cute.

Can't see the wood for the sleaze

This post was going to be different. I was going to write about how I ended up meeting and sleeping with my latest Myspace admirer (I'll call him Red). How he text me that day telling me he'd cut his lip shaving and I was worried it would make him even less attractive to me than I already thought. How I travelled all the way to see him still not quite knowing why, and the second he met me at the station I knew I didn't fancy him. How I realised I was so far from home the only thing I could do was persevere and try to get to know him. How we ended up in his tiny loft room in a shared house with dingy carpet and how the only things we had to eat were crisps and grapes. How physically, he was just not attractive to me. His pictures were clearly old as he had gained a lot of weight since then and had neglected to buy new clothes because his shirt was stretched taught across his body, the buttons gaping. How I managed to get pretty drunk and when he finally did make a move to kiss me it was clumsy and unpractised. How when it came to sex he seemed awkward and unsure and when I gave myself an orgasm as he watched, he commented afterwards how he was glad he made me come. I was going to write how, the following morning I was embarrassed when he played me some songs (he's a comedy musician) and just wanted to get back to London.

But in the last few days, my perception of my time with him has changed. The flipside has shone through like pin pricks of sunlight through a straw hat.

When I was on the train on the way down, he sent me an excited text telling me to enjoy the sunbathed fields and watch out for the white horse on the hillside in Wiltshire. When he met me at the station, Red was clutching a small, tissue-paper wrapped bunch of purple iris's which he shyly gave me as he told me I looked spectacular.
As we walked up the hill from the station, he pointed out buildings of interest and told me which artists had lived in which houses and which writers had drunk in which pubs. He bought me real ale and told me all about a children's book he's writing, encouraging an engaging debate on religion and atheism.
Before we went into his house, he stopped to apologise for the state of it, imploring me not to pay attention to the threadbare carpets and lazy student decor, explaining it was his only choice as a struggling writer and poorly-paid journalist.
When Red opened the door to his tiny loft room, it immediately felt like an artist's garret and he beckoned me to the window to show me the view high above the rooftops and out across the fields beyond in the dwindling autumn dusk. When I leaned over the desk to peer out the window, he rested his hand lightly on the small of my back and a gesture that would have felt sleazy and presumptious coming from another man, felt warm and affectionate. The only reason there were just crisps and grapes to eat was because when he asked if he should book us a table for dinner, I stupidly said no and that just snacks would do. When we were settled, he played me episodes of my favourite radio show about which he's writing a book and told me stories about the participants which no one without full cast access would know. He made me laugh. He produced joint after joint and we got stoned together, sitting cross-legged on his bed listening to comedy. When he leaned in to kiss me, it was my fault it was clumsy as I was most of the way through a bottle of red only I had been drinking and I blundered into his approach. He tenderly kissed my skin and seemed to marvel at my body, he gazed at me and stroked my face, smiling as though we were sharing a huge secret. When it was over and we needed to sleep, he fetched me water and tucked the covers around me, spooning me tightly and kissing my neck. I was surprised at how, although physically I didn't fancy him, something must have clicked because every time he kissed my neck or stroked my back, I was instantly wet. I could see he was frustrated at the clumsiness of our liaison and I recognised shyness in his eyes.
Since I've been home we've texted or emailed constantly. He's been so kind about me being ill the last couple of days. He properly thinks about things I tell him and gives me thoughtful, kind responses. He seems to adore me and intellectually and emotionally, I adore him too. Red is like me in so many ways and so unlike the parade of sleaze I've been subjected to this year.

However, my mind is in turmoil. I keep imagining what it would be like to be with him, forgetting for a moment the distance issue. Could I overcome the physical thing? I've been in that situation before and just couldn't and I think this might be marginally worse (back then I used to cry after sex but stayed because I loved who he was). He keeps saying he wants to lose weight so if he did, would it make a difference? I think it would, judging by the cuteness of his Myspace pictures. Plus, how often do we slate men who don't fancy women because they're overweight - am I really that shallow? Am I just idealising this man because he idealises me and basically I just want to be loved, regardless of how pathetic that is? Am I hankering after his meagre lifestyle in his lofty garret because I suddenly feel so vulnerable and lost living in a rough part of South London as opposed to the safe, sloany West (last night I watched out of my bedroom window as, under it, a troop of police searched and questioned a group of teens for drugs and weapons, eventually cuffing and arresting all of them for having PCP and weed - all I could think about was the safety and peace of Red's little hideyhole)?

I don't know how I feel but I know that I wait for his text messages and I crave his emails and if I haven't heard from him for a couple of hours I get twitchy. I can feel myself getting dependent on his presence in my life but is that just because I haven't met anyone else?
L, a guy I went on three dates with back in May and who basically went AWOL after the third, has been back in contact and asked me out again. Is this it? Am I doomed to fall prey to fuckwit guys who pick me up and drop me and treat me like crap, purely because I'm physically attracted to them? Is it time to start looking beyond that and fall in love with what's beneath? Or is that just a load of almost-thirty, Disney-crap desperation nonsense and if so, then where the fuck is the right one? All I know is, it's been a long time since a man's mind really caught my attention without the body to back it up. Rightly or wrongly, this guy is different and I just can't get my head straight. Sometimes I wonder what I'm waiting for.

Secrets and Lies

Blogging lost it's appeal for a while. Doom and gloom prevailed and frankly I was boring myself. Nothing of any major significance has happened since the last post. I moved house with my flatmate, A, into her brand new flat which was stressy but such a good move. The flat is gorgeous and we're in an area of London with so much more vibrancy and excitement about it that where we were in the leafy old West before.

On Tuesday night, work A and I went to the Soho Theatre to hear Abby Lee who writes the fabulous Girl with a One Track Mind blog discuss sexually explicit blogging and the affect it has on feminism. The evening was a sell-out and the topics ranged from the aforementioned to body image, kinkiness, misogynism and many others. It was utterly fascinating and I was thrilled at the end when I got the chance to chat to Abby and have her sign the book. A asked an extremely pertinent question while we had our five minutes regarding female to female misogyny and whether it's worse or just different than male to female. Thrillingly we got a mention in her subsequent post!

The only other thing to mention is the developing relationship between an online guy and me. Yes, another one and another Myspace one at that. We started emailing a few months ago when we discovered a mutual interest in ancient English comedy, particularly radio shows and an absolute obsession with Stephen Fry. As time went on our mutual interests became more and more evident and we genuinely started to get on. I was in a 'relationship' at the time and he never mentioned anything remotely sexual or leading in that respect, but I got the impression he fancied me from the comments left on photos and general affectionate tone.
Recently things have changed. He obviously knows I'm now single and was very sweet when I was coping with the fallout from R (ulterior motive??). Slowly but surely, things changed and we started flirting a little over email then text until we've recently had full blown phone sex. Issues with all this are:

• I worry that he seems TOO nice - is this just a cover to hide the fact that he's a deviant trying to get his way?
• He lives in the West Country so distance would be an issue for dating.
• He is not remotely my type - red headed and, well, a little chubby (but very, very cute nonetheless).
• I am concerned that I'm only 'falling' for him because I'm on such a rebound from all the rubbish blokes this year and am therefore sucked in by his chivalry, flattery and, quite frankly, adoration

The problem is, my battered heart thinks I deserve to be adored for a while. Selfish, I do see but this year has been ridiculously cruel, man wise so it's about time isn't it?

Gas and Electric

Of course its over. Took a while to die, though. He suddenly realised he wanted to try and win me back after the glitter of his holiday faded and he understood what a bastard he'd been. I agreed to go to dinner on Saturday and it was excruciating. I was angry, hurt and beligerent, he was uncomfortable, distant and jet-lagged. It was obvious things weren't working so we left on an uncertain note then I rang him on Monday night and ripped off the metaphorical plaster. He apparently realised over the weekend that I like him more than he likes me. Could have fooled me, seriously. Still, the chances of two people actually liking each other equally are slimmer than a gnat's wing so I shouldn't be surprised. I am upset, hollow and sad but not surprised.

So. What next?

Healing: Obviously, although addressing and dealing with another rejection feels like an insurmountable task right now.

Fun: Would be a good thing but I have to be careful not to slide down the slope of angry drinking which threatens every night.

Occupying myself with alternative activities: Well I move house in two weeks so that'll keep me busy, plus will provide a physical fresh start to go with my emotional one.

Learning: Hmmm, difficult this one. I'm not totally sure what lessons I can take away from that last dalliance. Never trust the Scottish? When a bloke quotes you song lyrics the chances are he'll dump you barely two weeks later? If a guy says he's sharing a hotel room with a girl under ANY circumstances, run for the hills and don't look back? Don't trust men if their mouths are moving because the chances are, they're lying? Don't let the bitterness eat you alive...actually, no. I'm not sure that last one is possible.

My flatmate, A, said something insightful to me the other night. Which was this:

"It's like gas cookers and electric cookers. Men are gas because they can suddenly flip on a flame, burn hot very quickly then extinguish it in an instant. Women are electric cookers. They take a while to get warmed up, when they are they get really hot but they can't just switch off the heat - it takes a lot longer for the electric cooker to cool down."

Beats Mars and Venus as an analogy anyway.

Heartbreak

R arrived home yesterday morning. Within four hours of his return, I learned that the girl he spent the week with in New York utterly blew him away, that they developed very strong feelings for each other, that they spent all their time together and he met her friends, that she cried when he left and that there was an occasion where they masturbated in front of each other. He claims they didn't touch or even kiss and certainly didn't fuck but I don't believe him. I don't believe a word. He is also now smoking again because of her and yet I've smoked in front of him for six weeks and never had that affect. He says he now has feelings for two girls at the same time. The worst thing, the unbelievable horror of it all is that he cannot see why I might be upset about this. He genuinely believes he's done nothing wrong and has asked me to 'give him credit' for not fucking her when he had the chance. Apparently if she lived over here it would be hard for him because he would have to choose between the two of us but since she doesn't - hooray - decision made, he picks me. He is going to keep in touch with her and also sees nothing wrong with that.

I am, at my best, insecure and easily threatened. If I was to try and stay with this person now, like he's asking me to, I'd give my sanity a week, maybe two, tops.

Yesterday I ate nothing through the sheer all-encompassing upset of the revelations and the fucking heartbreak of it all. I roped F into coming out with me and pounded cocktails and shots all night as though my life depended on it. I got home at 1am blasted out of my mind, and passed into blissful oblivion. So far today I've vomited four times at work and spent ten minutes sitting on the floor of the toilet, crying. I cannot eat because the minute the food enters my mouth it becomes a hard lump, impossible to swallow and I vomit again (admittedly I've only tried this with a piece of dry toast but it's enough).

This is after just one day of self-loathing, anger, bitterness, jealousy, heartbreak, disbelief and frantic confusion. How on earth will I remain alive if I keep this person in my life?

And yet...and yet the needy, insecure little girl inside me, the part that fell utterly in love with him can't seem to let go just yet. What, in the name of Christ, is wrong with me?

Headwreck

R leaves New York tonight, arriving back in London at stupid o'clock tomorrow morning. I have spent the last five days and nights (mainly the nights) worrying, obsessing and torturing myself about what he might have been getting up to. Various reactions from friends and family who have kindly put up with me boring the collective arse off them with my issues, have made me even more uncertain about what to expect.

For example, the issue of him sharing a room with this girl has garnered supportive, 'oh I'm sure nothing will happen' type responses from my girlfriends however my brother (a man) reacted by exclaiming 'What?!' then sucking the air in through his teeth like a plumber surveying a boiler that's rusted off the wall. The issue of him switching his phone off and telling me not to text him because 'it's too expensive' has also received mixed reactions. Again, the supportive collective I surround myself with have decided this is perfectly reasonable and doesn't mean he's been planning a New York based shagathon with this girl and doesn't want to be disturbed. On the other hand my friend K who travels all the time and never sugar-coats anything reckons that's a load of old tosh as it's not that expensive to text from the US any more.

Basically my brain is spinning. I keep telling myself not to expect the worst but then would he switch his phone off for a week if he really liked me and was missing me? Would he not move heaven, earth and line rental to drop me a line to let me know he was thinking of me? Would he not have tried to reassure me more before he left that he would miss me and couldn't wait to see me again? I know it's only been six weeks but they've been so intense I feel as though some kind of affirming declaration wouldn't be inappropriate.

My feelings are all over the place plus I'm PMSing like a bitch so my only recourse to give voice to my frustrations, is to quote Sex and the City which I'm sure I'll be mortified about when all this is over and my head is straight again. However, mired as I am in the depths of my current torment it seems to fit. This is what I want and I don't understand why it's so far proven impossible to find...

'Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, can't-live-without-each-other love...'

I don't know where this thing with R is going but needless to say I'm rapidly retreating from it, back to how I was a few months ago where casual sex was commonplace and I actually felt confident. This emotions lark is far, far too difficult.

Big Apple, Big Upset

"There's something I should tell you about my trip to New York," he fiddles with his wine glass stem and doesn't look at me.
"Right," I say cautiously, my stomach already twitching.
"Well, you know when I said I was meeting friends there from Washington? Well actually it's one person, a girl and I've never met her actually, she's a friend of a friend."
"Right," I say, with an edge to my voice I instantly regret. I seem to have run out of any alternative words so for safety's sake I stick with this one word. "Right."
He explains to me the reason he didn't tell me this initially is because it didn't seem relevant however now we've spent so much time together he felt increasingly like he was lying to me. Apparently a female friend of his over here, knows this girl and said she'd be in New York around the same time and suggested they sightsee together as both she and R would be out there alone.
"There's one more thing," he adds, looking up at me. "We're sharing a room."
YOU'RE DOING FUCKING WHAT??????? Screams my brain.
"Is she single?" Asks my mouth.
"Yes. Recently."

This is one of those pivotal moments. It is a golden opportunity to behave in a calm, rational fashion and prove that I am premium, Class A, fantastic girlfriend material. I need to remain utterly aloof and detached from emotion as though the whole thing has nothing to do with me.

I fail.

"Right. So, why exactly are you sharing a room with this person?" I demand, exaggerating the word 'exactly' and twisting my face into mock curiosity and confusion.
"We just thought it would save money. Look, it was all arranged ages before I met you and she's only going to be there for the first two or three days, after that I'm on my own..."
I'm barely listening. Across my mind's eye flash images of this girl and my boyfriend sightseeing all day, wrapped up in scarves and hats, warming their hands on take away coffees and taking silly pictures of each other. The two of them by night finding dark little bars and underground clubs to discover new drinks, new music and new memories, then stumbling back to their little hotel room to... I snap back to the moment and tune into what he's saying.
"...totally understand if you're jealous. I would be, I mean I'm not even comfortable with you having male friends for fuck's sake. Look, I'm really sorry about this but I wanted to be honest."

That was two weeks ago. He left yesterday. In that two weeks I have skirted the subject, acted extremely happy and interested whenever he's mentioned it, and spied on this girl on Myspace relentlessly. She's not exactly stunning but she's not a total dog and let's face it, when you're a bloke who is pissed and having fun it really doesn't matter how a girl looks. I am not naive; R and I have only been going out for just over a month and although it's been intense it is still early days. He could feasibly sleep with this girl - all the opportunity is there. The only thing I can do is endure this next five days with my imagination running riot and wait to see what happens when he gets back.
Of course, the gremlin in my head that pulverises my self-esteem and clobbers my self-worth is busy whispering nasty nothings all day, telling me he won't be back in touch and if he is it will be to dump me.
I reached a low point the night before he left. We had a 'goodbye' phone call and he was utterly unemotional ('talk to you in six days, then!'). I was feeling rubbish and just then one of my Myspace boys rang me for the first time in weeks and we ended up having phone sex. He asked to see me this weekend, for 'a drink' i.e. 'to fuck' and I said yes. Just now I emailed him and cancelled. Although it's tempting to put myself on an even footing for R's potential return announcement it would be a hollow victory. If he does sleep with this girl I want to be fucking Snow White. It's the only way I'll feel remotely good about myself. Nice to know I've got the opportunity though.

Once this is all over, I really should consider therapy.

2001 Pies: A Pastry Odyssey

This is not glamourous. It's not exciting and it's really not the sort of thing a city-dwelling girl who owns mostly nice shoes and has all her own hair should admit to but it's time to vocalise the passion because, after all, ridicule is nothing to be scared of.

I absolutely love pies.

See? Now I've said that you're thinking 'Fatty Fatty Pie Eater' aren't you? You are, aren't you? It's OK, you needn't feel bad. It's simply a knee-jerk reaction rooted in playground mockery of the following sort:

Who ate all the pies?

Got hit with the ugly stick on the way out of the pie shop.

Likes a pie.

Hilarious though these erudite jibes are, they have inadvertently taken the focus away from the pavement-pulverisers amongst us and tarred the innocent pie with a lard-laden brush. Let's be honest, your average pie does contain a couple more calories than say, your average garden salad, this is an acknowledged nutritional fact backed up by pie scientists (pientists?). Pies are, like all comfort food-stuffs, essentially bad for you. No one finishes work on a Friday after a harrowing week and thinks 'Sod it all, I'm having a salad!' Salads are not comforting. They are cold and spikey and leafy whereas pies are crumbly and warm and satisfying. Anyway, I'm not advocating merrily troughing pies on a daily basis. Those would be the actions of a Mad.

So, back to my pie-passion. I wasn't raised in the kind of household where pies were regularly consumed. My mum used to make the occasional pie if people were coming round but it would generally be sweet and more often than not, open-topped. That's where I first learned about 'blind baking' which involves covering a pastry base in a dish with a layer of dried-out beans to weigh it down and protect it. I found those beans fascinating as a child. They would sit, hard and colourful in their jar until they were forced to endure extreme temperatures fulfilling their destiny as guardians of the sensitive layer of pastry, then cooled and poured back in the jar to await their next searing adventure. Mind you, I didn't have many friends then and there's only so long you can spend playing swingball with yourself.

My grandmother used to make amazing pies, mainly savoury ones. As a child I would have rather given away my entire Barbie collection to my brother and watch him decapitate each one of them than eat kidneys. However, granny could bung the pig-organ in a pastry casing along with some steak and gravy and I just yummed it up.

We used to take our summer holidays at the same farm in Cornwall every year. Enter, the variation on a theme: Pasty Obsession. The woman who ran the farm used to make pasties for dinner once a week. Her method was the traditional Cornish one, involving huge chunks of steak meat and potatoes and pastry the thickness and consistency of a house brick. There wasn't a straight line to be found on that woman, but you could have used her lips as a ruler when we had the gaul to ask for gravy. Admittedly I still adored these parcels of joy but by God they were dry. It would be been easier to chew your way out of a coal shed than eat one without gravy (unless you're a horny-handed son of toil eating one on a tractor, in which case pulling a small, portable gravy boat out of your barbour jacket pocket is just stupid).

Doris (or Mrs Pastry Hands as I wish I'd had the nous to call her at the time as they were always, always cold*) had a unique method of pasty-making. She would tailor them to each guest's shoe size. Fine for a dainty-footed nine year old like me but dashed challenging if you're a hefty size fourteen like my dad. His pasty used to hang over the sides of the plate. I was jealous.
It sounds obvious but it really is the pastry that makes it for me. I love the crumbliness of short, the flaky crispness of filo, the lightness of puff and the softness of choux. However, there are certain ground rules or, to be less totalitarian about it, observations I would like to set out regarding the word 'pie' and what it really means to me:

1) Shepherd's Pie, Cottage Pie, Fish Pie: OK, so technically these are pies in that they are a 'filling' covered by a 'lid'. But where is the excitement or satisfaction in a lid of mashed potato? Where's the craftsmanship? The investment of cold-handed time? The crisp, satisfying layer disguising the delicious mystery within? Boiled root vegetables smeared over mince with a fork does not constitue an honest-to-goodness pie. No matter what Delia Smith might say.

2) Dessert Pie (e.g. the flan, tart or tartlet): OK so the base is at least pastry, this is a step closer than the jokers listed above. However, without the lid to cut into, it's like opening what you think is a new jar of coffee, only to find that some bastard's got there before you and robbed you of the teaspoon-through-gold-foil pleasure. Another disappointment to add to the myriad of small disappointments that make up Life. Although on this note I should point out I am a huge fan of banoffee pie however the correct method of making it calls for a biscuit not pastry base. Another fallacy uncovered.

3) Lids Alone: Read your gastro-pub menu carefully, fellow pastry-lover or you may be caught out by this one. Does the menu describe the steak and ale pie as having a 'pastry lid'? If it does, order at your peril, for this loose-bottomed prankster is bound to ruin your luncheon. Is it a thrifty way of saving millions on expensive pastry ingredients? Are you actually supposed to eat/keep the ceramic dish? Or are you just in the establishment of a deceitful, pub-owning git? What's the point of pouring stew into a ceramic dish, slinging a layer of pastry down on top and serving it with peas next to it on a plate? What an absolute load of tossycock. Go for the fish and chips in beer batter. I would.

4) Fray Bentos Pie-in-a-Can: Just don't. Ever. Seriously.

5) The Australian 'Pie Floater': A perfectly good meat pie, needlessly immersed in pea soup and decorated with ketchup. I mean honestly, what the fuck?

6) Chip Shop Pies: God these are good. I mean, really good. My first job was working in a chip shop and I hated it. I hated the heat and the permeating smell and the fact that I had to scrape squashed chips out of the treads of my shoes every evening. But I loved the pies. They served a chicken and mushroom that could make a confirmed pie-obsessive weep vinegary tears. Complete buggers to wrap, especially with a portion of large chips but I could forgive them. Basically, your average chip shop pie or indeed any pie purchased in proper pie form from a supermarket or similar ticks all the boxes. Gorgeous, rich, oozing fillings encased in crumbly, slightly sweet, short pastry. Ultimate comfort food? Yes, my friend. Oh yes.

*You have to have cold hands to successfully make pastry or it goes all crumbly and sticks to your rolling pin, prompting you to fling the entire lot in the bin and sob behind a locked door while your dinner guests sip sherry in the front room and pretend not to notice.

Tired and Emotional

10:30pm - Arrive at front door and fumble in cavernous bag for keys.

10:32pm - Fingers eventually touch keys in bottom of bag. Get arm caught in bag strap during attempt to extract said keys. Drop keys back into bag. Pause to indulge in heavy, shuddering sigh.

10:34pm - Manage to relocate keys and remove them from bag slowly but successfully.

10:35pm - Attempt to focus on keyhole.

10:37pm - Success! Keyhole is now singular, rather than plural. Poke key in general direction of hole.

10:39pm - Get key in hole. Turn key whilst congratulating self for remembering to push door at the same time. Say 'Motor skills are great!' out loud in the street.

10:40pm - Shut and lock door. Stagger purposefully towards the stairs leading to inner front door. Briefly consider removing man-traps disguised as shoes from feet but conclude that as feet are now mere bloody stumps after a day encased in the instruments of torture, a few stairs aren't going to make much more difference.

10:42pm - Trip up the stairs, land on one knee and fling handbag high and long, carpet-bombing the landing with the contents.

10:43pm - Remove shoes and hurl them up onto the landing in a fit of pique. Switch light on to prevent further accidents.

10:44pm - Scrabble about on hands and knees gathering up the scatter-gunned contents of handbag. Do final bleary-eyed check of carpet. Hope I haven't left a tampon lying sweetly in front of neighbour's door.

10:45pm - Enter flat being really, really quiet.

10:46pm - Flatmate is still awake so need for quiet is negated. Hurrah! Happily slam door and fling down bag and shoes, calling a cheery greeting to flatmate.

10:48pm - Flatmate joins me in the kitchen and observes me gazing unseeingly into the depths of our fridge whilst using the open door to prop self up. Flatmate proffers the suggestion that I may be a tad inebriated. I cannot deny this. Mainly because I can't speak properly.

10:50pm - Flatmate gently eases me out of the fridge, extracts a can of Coke and leaves me to fend for self.

10:52pm - Extreme excitment! Have found a bag of microwaveable egg fried rice! Yumorama! Rip top off (of bag not self) and slam microwave door with a flourish. Slamming doors is fun.

10:53pm - Rice is taking far too long to cook and am starving so root about in the fridge again. Find cheddar.

10:54pm - Due to my inability to wrap food properly, the outside of the cheese has the texture of heel-skin. Find knife and risk life by hacking away at the manky bits to reveal the glossy yellow cow-joy underneath.

10:55pm - Microwave pings. Remove bag of rice, probably burning hand on steam but will worry about that tomorrow when can actually feel it. Bag apparently needs to stand to cool. Emit derisive snort at Uncle Ben's ludicrous and extreme health and safety procedures. Shovel cheddar into mouth to appease the beast which appears to have taken up residence in stomach. A thought swims lazily through the bath of wine in my cranium and presents itself for inspection. It is this: Hmmm, cheese before bedtime. I wonder if I'll have a nightmare.

10:57pm - Empty rice into bowl. It looks dry. Cover rice in dark soy sauce. It looks brown.

10:59pm - Eat rice while attempting conversation with flatmate. Make a profound statement regarding piece of political news on the telly. Flatmate nods and smiles at me, I can tell she's impressed. Can't remember what statement was though.

11:05pm - Flatmate goes to bed. I dump bowl and associated equipment into the sink. I don't remember why I needed the round pizza slice-roller thingy but it's covered in cheddar so was clearly useful.

11:06pm - Quickly pop to bathroom to remove make up and clean teeth.

11:12pm - Realize have been staring at self in mirror for over 5 minutes.

11:13pm - Make up has turned to scrambled egg on face. Scrape it off using tea-tree infused wipe. Get tea-tree infusion in eyes and pause to stamp foot in pain. Finish removing make up whist squinting, and clean teeth.

11:15pm - Remove clothing and leave scattered across bedroom floor. Climb into bed.

11:16pm - Oblivion

05:10am - Eyes fly open. Horror noises/visions immediately cease and realise have been in the grip of terrifyingly chilling nightmare.

05:12am - Finally get up the courage to sneak an arm out from under the duvet and switch on light.

05:13am - Am so spooked I can't actually move. As am contemplating whether crazed humanoid beings with red eyes and gigantic mouths protruding shining white pointed teeth, riding quad bikes round a cul-de-sac in the dark might actually exist, my hangover kicks in.

05:14am - Ow.

05:15am - Reach bravely for glass and drink water. Paracetamol are on dressing table but cannot possibly leave protective cover of bed in order to retrieve them. Big-toothed-suburban-quad-bikers might be hiding under bed.

05:16am - Resolve to lie awake with light on until time to get up. Ponder the situation I find myself in. Did I have a nightmare because I ate cheese before bedtime, or did I have a nightmare because I told myself I probably would have a nightmare because I ate cheese before bedtime? Were the old wives right or am I in possesion of a brain that is ridiculously open to suggestion? Decide never to attend end-of-the-pier type hypnotism show in case end up shouting 'Testicles' every time someone says hello to me for the rest of my life.

08:30am - Wonder whether actually am on the tube or whether in fact this is just one long, elaborate, lucid dream. Bump hand with rice-steam burn against some bloke's record bag and realise that I am very much awake. I have mixed feelings about this.

Right click

"I think I'm going to change my Myspace status," he murmurs into my right ear.

"To what?" I ask sleepily, as I move my butt further back into his crotch.

"To 'In a relationship'."

It's not possible to tell with the lights off, but I freeze. Did he just say that or has my fuckwit-addled brain finally blown a fuse and affected my hearing? I must consider my response carefully so as not to freak him out. His man-brain has obviously decided this was worth going to the trouble of actually forming words for but any slight overreaction on my part could quite easily cause them to be retracted. I consider the best path to take and make my move.

"Really?" I ask airily as I coincidentally move his hand up to cup my breast.

"Well I don't really want anyone else contacting me for dating on there right now. I only want to be seeing you. I want people to know I've got a girlfriend."

Good God, a double whammy of unexpected committment-speak. Relationship? Girlfriend? Have I mistaken a particularly butch lesbian for a bloke? I shuffle my bum back even further and feel proof that no, I definitely haven't.

"I like that idea," I say, sounding on the verge of sleep but feeling a thousand miles away from it. "I think I'll do that too then."

"Cool," he mutters, kissing my neck and causing shocks of lust to fire through my body. I turn my face towards him and we kiss.

The next day I log onto Myspace a little after 9am. Sure enough, his status reads 'In a Relationship.' It makes me smile.
I remember when asking someone to be your boyfriend/girlfriend involved a frustratingly vast amount of mixed messages, hints, subtext and confusion. Now you can simply select an item from a drop-down menu and everyone knows you're together. Welcome to the digital age.

Clean slate

I got the all clear, one day shy of a full week of torture. I had spent the previous evening, curled foetus-like on my bed sobbing my heart out, convinced I had some terrible illness. I had held it together for days but the worry finally broke me and I gave into a sleepless night of panic. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more of it, my phone beeped and there was the text message I'd been waiting for for what seemed like weeks.
I count myself very, very lucky. It is a cliché but it feels like I've been given a second chance. My life, pathetic and shallow though it might be, is precious and I'm the only one who can protect it. Next stop: quitting the fags!

Things between R and I have continued apace and I think I might actually have a proper boyfriend. Not someone I'm 'seeing' or playing games with or just fucking but a proper, bona fide, lovely boyfriend. We seem utterly besotted with each other. This morning I got an email that simply quoted the following Nick Drake lyrics at me:

I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my handOr felt sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you're here
Brighten my northern sky.

I need this man in my life.

Waiting to exhale

After months of procrastination, self-delusion and general ostrich-like behaviour I finally took the plunge. Yesterday, I had an HIV test.

Well, not just HIV; also syphillis, gonorrhea and chlamydia. My friend R (she of holiday jollity) had the tests recently and was negative. She and I have a similar, occasionally lax attitude to casual sexual protocol and her being OK gave me hope. Stupid, naive, idiotic hope founded in nothing more than desperation, but hope nonetheless.
I don't set out to be careless, I really don't, however there are times when I've been too drunk or just too damn horny to care (mainly the former). This is inexcusable, immature and very dangerous. We are all told from the second we reach sexual maturity to take precautions otherwise things ooze and occasionally drop off or in rare cases, you drop dead. Quite why I have been playing fast and loose with my own health of late is unclear. Therapy could very well be an option. Anyway, I now have to wait up to 10 days to receive the results. This is Day 1 and I'm already in hell. I'm convinced I am riddled with disease and have already made mental plans regarding my palliative care. Extreme possibly, but it's my macabre way of preparing myself. I am hoping for a reprieve, another chance to stop being so irresponsible and save my own life. I'm currently making a lot of deals with God.

In other news, I have met someone lovely (I know, I know - they always are). R is an indie guy with superlative taste in everything retro, primarily the 60's. He is Scottish with a soft, lilting accent and astonishingly blue eyes. We have so far only had two dates but they have been fun, romantic and exciting. This morning I received a text from him that said:

'I've just woken up and the first thing I thought of was you.'

This is a delightful contrast to N who was practically bipolar and M who ignored me for 6 weeks then rang me drunkenly at 1:15am last Saturday morning to ask whether he could come over. I took great delight in refusing then ignoring his calls for the next two days. The fact of the matter is, as I explained to my friend F when she went off on a tangent regarding the horrors of dating, I see it as a numbers game. Dating is excrutiating and often a total waste of time but then so is sitting at home night after night watching Celebrity X Factor on Ice and fighting a losing battle with a tub of Ben & Jerry's. The pizza delivery guy is never going to ask you out, no matter how wistfully he might eye your chocolate-stained pyjamas when you open the door. I might be getting clobbered but at some point all this effort has to pay off...doesn't it?

Wake Up and Smell the Gulibility

I don't know. Perhaps I just have a tendency towards unfailing romantic ideals in the face of absolute and continual disappointment. I wouldn't have said so about myself but it's becoming more and more apparent that my utter willingness to believe the best about men can withstand more pressure than a large slab of lead.

Traveling N returned home just before my holiday. Having known each other for just two weeks prior to his departure, we spent three months emailing and texting almost every day. I tried not to get too invested, I really did but it was hopeless. In my mind, he would return, gather me up in his arms and not let me go for at least half an hour or until one of us needed the loo quite badly. What actually happened was that he turned up in a mood, managed to call me fat and insult my job choice within approximately 4 hours. Oh, and we had to go dutch on lunch. Despite that, I slept with him that day (I know; weak). After this appalling display I went on holiday and vowed to sack him off when I returned. He asked me to lunch and over lunch was a different person. He was apologetic, kind and full of remorse claiming jet lag and nerves as the root causes of his knobbery. I was won over and decided to give him another chance.

The night before my birthday he wanted to take me to dinner. We met at the tube and, once again, he was in a mood. Sorry, but this was MY birthday dinner, supposedly and yet here I was doing my manic cheerleader impression, trying to cheer up a guy who I wasn't even sure I actually liked that much. In the bar we actually bickered. I bickered with a guy I've met a handful of times who's intention had been to take me out for the evening and convince me he was worth a shot. He called my opinions stupid (we were discussing politics) and told me I clearly had no experience of real life or real people (we were discussing infidelity - could we have chosen more volatile topics?). We were in danger of descending into actual drunken rowing so we went to eat (I had to suggest and then find the restaurant). Throughout the meal I tried to be civil and ignore the barbed comments coming at me. I asked him why he was being such an arse and he said it was because I was being defensive without actually thinking that perhaps that was because I was being attacked. As the meal ended, I escaped to the toilet to breathe deeply and chastise myself in the mirror. When I returned, the waiter was poised with the electronic card reader thingy.
"Oh thank goodness," my tormentor exclaimed. "I was about to put the whole meal on mine."
The real shocker is that once again, I slept with him. Now, in my defence it was the eve of my birthday and I didn't want to be alone. Physical comfort was required and he was clearly willing to provide it. Plus I was quite drunk.

On Monday I spent the day in Brighton with four friends to whom I relayed this sorry tale. The open-mouthed horror with which they received it made me grateful they weren't furnished with weaponry. Thank God for friends - they have all confirmed what I knew to be true. That he might have a nice side and might be good in bed but by God he's got issues and is actually a bit of a bastard. Enough was enough. I sacked him off by email (I'm chicken). He's text me a couple of times asking me to see him to 'discuss it' but I won't. I've had enough blokes knock my always-shaky self confidence in my lifetime and I finally realised it was only me that could preserve my own sanity. I'm aging physically, perhaps I'm at last beginning to age emotionally as well.

If we took a holiday...

In the case of holidays, in the past good food and a quiet place to sun worship have been highest on my agenda. However in the past, I have only ever ventured abroad as part of a couple, intent on relaxing together and hopefully having as much sex as possible, punctuated only by visits to quaint tavernas and the odd place of cultural interest. However, given my single status and current obsession with sex and partying I jumped at the chance to take a holiday with one of my newest pals. R is an absolute inspiration when it comes to both men and partying and we often meet to compare stories of filth and shame (in fact, we have vague plans to one day turn our 'Hall of Shame' into anonymous memoirs).
The destination was chosen for its cheapness on all counts. We arrived at 10:30 on the first night and were out the door by 11:15 to sample the delights of the locale. Our first venture onto the main drag of the town prompted us to walk close together, arms linked and eyes wide. We were easily the oldest visitors there by a good seven or eight years and felt it very keenly. Coltish girls in tiny shorts and bra tops tottered past, ogled by young lads in Osaka t-shirts and too much Lynx deodorant. Our only recourse, we soon realised was to spend the week blind drunk. Which we did. Well, the nights anyway, the days were spent lying very still by the hotel pool, trying not to be sick.

That first night we scored. A group of guys from Birmingham were out in force and we accompanied them on a crawl of a few bars, purely to find our bearings. (An interesting point to note and one that has great influence on our behaviour is that in the resort, when one drink is ordered you always get one free and invariably a shot too for good measure. I have never been anywhere that encourages liver-abuse quite so unashamedly but then again I've never been to Glasgow). Later that night (or early the next morning) I was on the balcony demonstrating my talent for regulated breathing combined with careful teeth placement on one of them, whilst R got a vigorous workout inside the room with his friend. It was to set the tone for the week. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of squadies on the island and we were thrilled to be able to do our bit for our 'brave boys'. Worryingly, my 'par amour' for a couple of nights was a paratrooper aged just 20. Enthusiasm made up for a lack of technique in the bedroom, predisposed as he was to the classic 'jackhammer' shagging as favoured by most young men who have yet to realise that there is a major difference between their hand and a vagina. I managed to slow him down somewhat from warp-speed and he actually showed a great deal of promise. His best friend apparently suffered from the same issue, R reported later. You think I would have noticed, given that at one point during our first night with them, the four of us were copulating in the same room. R and I have now very much established our friendship, given that we have seen more of each other than any of our other friends. A couple of nights later we met up with that group again, minus R's recent bedmate. Undeterred, while I got down to round two with the paratrooper, R snared one of his best mates but not before, quite sweetly, 'marrying' him in our favourite bar. I was in the bathroom at the time but on my return I was told that their scariest looking army friend had been the vicar, a very drunk group member who had been trying it on with me all week (with no success) was the best man and another had been a bridesmaid. I was to be the photographer, apparently. I obliged and ended up with a really lovely photo of the 'happy couple' kissing. Had they been an actual couple it would have been one for the album, however as it is the photo is blatant proof that given the right amount of alcohol, geniune affection can quite easily be faked. This is worth remembering.

At the end of the week we dove into our favourite indie bar (an oasis amidst the 'banging choons' of the rest of the island) for a quick nightcap before retiring. Four cocktails and several Sambucca shots later we got talking to yet more army boys. After approximately fifteen minutes of innuendo-laden conversation, I agreed to accompany one of them, a corporal, back to his shared apartment. I can honestly say I have never in my life been lucky enough to wriggle around on such an astonishing body. His main function in the army, it would seem, was training recruits in the gym and my goodness it showed. I spent a good few seconds just admiring him before we got down to it. Although 23, he had passed through the embarrassed fumbling stage of life and clearly understood what was expected. I was pretty much helpless and was thrown around like a rag doll for a great deal of the session. We wrecked his bedroom with the sheer passion we both threw into the sex. We pulled beds away from walls, we knocked over tables, we broke a glass and, most worryingly, managed to knock the switch on an oven ring, turning it on. We realised later just as the hairdryer which some idiot had left on top of it started smoking. I never found out whether he was able to remove the puddle of melted green plastic from the stove - I was just glad we weren't electrocuted or asphyxiated from chemical smoke.

All in all it was a good holiday. I learnt that actually, sex with younger men can be very fulfilling as they seem endlessly happy to please and were always impressed by the experience of an older woman. I learnt how to set light to Sambucca shots in my mouth. I learnt that seven nights straight on the lash is my limit and that actually, sunbathing makes hangovers worse. I learnt I now have a sense of humour about difficult and trying situations whereas in the past I would have spent the week in tears rather than making the best of it. I also learnt I have a great friend in R who is a fantastic partner in crime and someone with whom I now have enough in-jokes to annoy the rest of our group for a year. I'm skint, tired and pretty jaded but overall it was definitely worth it. Not a bad tan, either.

Stupid Girl

I waited a very-restrained three days before emailing M after our date. He replied in fairly short order with a chatty email that included questions which I went back and answered, including a couple more of my own to keep the contact going.

That was the last I heard from him and that was 5 days ago.

Why are men like this? Why do they feel it's completely unnecessary to keep us in the loop re: decisions that involve us? I mean, strap on a pair for fuck's sake! Also, I thought women were supposed to be the fickle ones; how is it possible to decide within the space of an hour and two emails that actually you don't want to talk to someone ever again. As usual I completely misunderstood the situation and thought maybe he actually wanted to date and have a giggle. Note: I am NOT viewing every man as the father of my children. I enjoy having fun and while I wouldn't mind a relationship with the right person I'm not about to rush into anything. Why do they assume we are all picking out wedding dress fabric within four seconds of them saying something vaguely nice to us?

Needless to say with my ego more battered than it's been for ages, my weekend was always going to involve me desperately fishing for validation from men. This ridiculous mindset and far too much wine on Saturday night led to F and I pulling several men and taking them back to my flat. She slept with one of them and I had a threesome with another two of them. Quite what the circumstances were leading up to this I've no idea. I was wasted so there are fairly substantial gaps in my memory which is worrying. Thank goodness they were 'nice' boys because they could have done anything to me and my friend. This is an inestimably scary thought. I have got to stop this excessive self-destructive behaviour. It's starting to scare me now as I'm really putting myself at risk. Although all my friends pretty much seem to be the same so maybe I should be questioning what the heck is wrong with all of us. I guess self-esteem issues would be the main reason but (and I know I'm biased here) we're all pretty cool girls so why we should feel so utterly inadequate is beyond me.
R and I have just booked a week's holiday to Malia in Crete which is basically the clubbing capital of the islands so actually the chances of more of the same are high. Still, at least with any self-loathing incurred on holiday you can fly far, far away from it at the end.

N returns home in just over a week. The three months have flown by. I am very excited about his return but I'm worried about the reasons why. First of all, I fancy him like mad, secondly we've really got on well during the time he's been away and I'm eager to have voice on voice conversation rather than text or email. Finally though, in my mind he has emerged to represent protection, comfort and security. This is dangerous, mainly because I don't know how strongly he feels about me, despite hearing from him on an almost daily basis while he's been away but also because I am likely to make a very stupid decision because I'm feeling vulnerable. I must try my hardest to tread carefully with this one but my excitement levels as the day of his return approaches are threatening to overwhelm me.

Ego

M got back in touch with me last week. We spoke on the phone for about an hour on Thursday night and arranged to meet up on Saturday night. He came over to my neck of the woods and we just did a couple of the local bars. My flatmate was away so inevitably he came back to mine which I was fine with. I'd been worried I wouldn't fancy him given that I was really out of it when we met but boy, did I fancy him. He is all charisma coupled with sparkly eyes, a gorgeous body and an absolutely killer smile. Back at my place we carried on drinking, played music, got off with each other and basically messed about until about 5am. As he was leaving on Sunday morning, he said he'd like to 'do this again'. I agreed and told him to call me, to which he responded 'Well you could call me, you know.' I replied that I didn't like to assume and his response was simply 'Assume.' Fair enough then. To be honest though he's way next weekend and the one after so I've really no idea when I'd see him again anyway. After that, I'm potentially going on holiday with my friend R so things could quite easily fizzle out. I hope they don't though. He does seem to be a bit of a lad but obviously that just makes him more attractive to me. I'm very preoccupied with thoughts of him at the moment and I'm annoyed with myself for giving in to yet another crush.

N is due back in just over two weeks. I can't believe how quickly this three months has gone. I'm still very keen to meet up with him when he gets back but honestly I can't really remember what he looks like or what his voice sounds like...he's become a sort of wispy memory and I'm slightly concerned that I'll be disappointed or vice versa. Still, nothing ventured obviously.

I discovered last week that The Ex is moving his girlfriend into his flat. This is surprising because a) I didn't know he had a girlfriend and b) we've only been apart for 9 months so this is astonishingly quick work on behalf of a confirmed commitophobe. She is apparently the diametric opposite of me; sporty, laddish and with an utter aversion to make up. This is a good thing though - had she been a clone of me it would have been creepy. At least this way I can be sure that I just wasn't the right sort of match for him, rather than just a rubbish version of a type he adores. Needless to say after finding out just a couple of weeks ago that that a previous ex is getting married, I was feeling extremely inadequate. Perhaps that's why I'm in full blown crush mode with M - maybe my bruised ego is just crying out for some validation. No change there then.

Wildchild

For the first time in ages I absolutely and completely let go. You may find that statement surprising given the lack of self control evident in recent posts but last Saturday, at the Wildchild dance festival I partied harder and with more abandon than I have for years. We arrived, following a stomach-lining Wetherspoons lunch at the site around 3pm. Undeterred by the rain we checked our coats and dived straight in The Cross nightclub (the festival was based around The Cross, The Key and Canvas in Kings Cross). As an avid Spaced fan I was thrilled to be in the club in which they filmed the 'clubbing' episode (I kept that to myself at the time). We danced...and drank...and danced for hours, visiting different tents and clubs as the day wore on. At around 8pm I found myself dancing in an outside tent with the rain pouring down, puddles underfoot and nothing but a strappy vest covering my shoulders. I got talking to a group of lads, one of whom immediately caught my eye. M was tall, dark and oh yes...very handsome. We all spent a couple of hours dancing and laughing in there until the main festival closed and we decided to make a night of it in The Key.

After a while M and I began kissing and basically didn't stop except to dance or get more drinks. My first couple of friends left around 2am, then the next lot at around 4:30am until the only person I knew in the place was M. Not having ever been a real clubber I was amazed to find I was the last one standing at 6am. Well, I say 'standing'...I was actually slumped on a bench in the chill out area, defiantly smoking my last ever legal cigarette indoors (the ban kicked in at 6am that day) when M came and found me. We went back to mine, arriving home around 6:30am. We spent the day in bed, not eating and not sleeping, just exploring each other. I found him overwhelmingly attractive and the heady cocktail of no sleep, no food for almost a day and sexual arousal meant we were obsessed with each other and only each other for hours.
He left me around 7pm that Sunday with a raging stubble rash around my mouth and sore muscles in my thighs (well, it's been a few weeks). Not certain whether I'd ever hear from him again I was thrilled when he text me asking for my email address the following day. He confirmed he'd like to see me when he returned from holiday. Despite the way we met I had thought perhaps he was interested in me in a dating sense, however when I received a call from him on the morning of the third day of his holiday which, it became quickly evident, was a telephonic booty call I began to have my doubts. Of course I obliged, my self esteem is too low not to, but I was left feeling a bit hollow. I'm fine with 'just sex' normally as I never real feel that much of a connection with anyone but M was different. In between the marathon heavy petting session of that Sunday, we talked a great deal and found we had lots in common. He's intelligent and successful with a great sense of humour leading me to secretly harbour hope that he might develop into something more...substantial. He gets home tomorrow so we'll see how things go and whether he even contacts me. I think I would see him again, if not just to have the chance to hop onto that fabulous body but also to see if I can't persuade him to think outside my box.

Dirty Discourse

I wonder what it is that makes men want to talk filth at me. I've been myspacing with a guy on and off for a few weeks. The emails were friendly and funny, both of us discovering mutual love of certain films and comedy shows. There was never really a hint of sexuality about them, instead it was just the odd 'hey how are you?' approach (from him, admittedly). Then before I know where I am, we've exchanged mobile numbers with a view to possibly having a date and suddenly utter filth is being pedalled via text and email. I can't remember who started it but it culminated in us have phone sex last night. We also exchanged videos - his of himself wanking and mine of me rubbing my breasts. I actually made that ages ago for J when we were sleeping together but kept it for some reason (guess this was it).

I seem to get carried away very easily but I'm not sure why. I'm kind of coming to terms with the fact that I'm a slut although it really doesn't sit well. But is it obvious over light-hearted email that I have an appetite for dirty talk that could make Roy Chubby Brown blush? This is the fourth guy in a couple of months who has led me rapidly down the primrose path of dirty talk. Maybe I just attract them. It doesn't happen to any of my friends though. They lament my seemingly unending filthy shenanigans, going on about how they never find themselves in these situations. I don't honestly know how I do though. It just...sort of...happens. Anyway, the latest filth-monger and I are having a date at some point soon and it's pretty much guaranteed we'll end up having sex. This is fine with me as I am extremely horny and I am in no way looking at him as a long term prospect. Any man who wants to bang me before they've even met me is clearly not the future father of my children, just a cock to be enjoyed.

This Saturday I'm going to Wildchild which I'm really looking forward to. It's going to be an utterly mad day commencing at 1pm with lunch and wine then continuing until...well until we literally drop I guess. Having said that, I'm going with a group of friends who frequently get on it for 24 hours straight so I may well be the first one to go! The weather's supposed to be rubbish but hopefully after several bevvies and some good DJ sets we won't care. My friend F is coming and we're treating it as her 'end of twenties' blow out. She is dreading thirty and I can't blame her. I'm 29 in two months and absolutely hating the thought. I feel as though I've only just started to enjoy my twenties thanks to a string of unsuitable relationships, and now they're about to be snatched away from me. Must make this last year count...

Fear and Loathing in London

I have got to stop doing this. Yet again I am at work, hungover as fuck having not been home all night. A and I (who else?) were out with workmates for someone's leaving do last night. We decided pints of Stella were the way forward and consumed many, along with tequila shots. We were relatively well behaved up until the end of the night when, just as we were loitering in the main area of the bar wondering whether it was worth cabbing it into Soho, we were approached by a cute guy wearing specs asking what we were up to. At this point we were keen to do anything other than go home so we latched onto Specs and his friend who suggested we go back to Spec's flat which happened to be a couple of streets away from the bar and our office. I don't know how we manage it but again we'd found a guy who was apparently very, very wealthy and lived alone. His two bedroom flat in Marylebone looked like something out of Elle Decoration complete with a real zebra rug on the lounge floor (Specs took great delight in showing us the bullet hole in it's head - urgh), dark wood trim on everything and bathrooms with slate tiles and Molten Brown products all over the place.

The night rapidly got extremely debauched. The party favours came out, the drink flowed and A and I threw ourselves bodily into the whole night with absolutely no regard for the consequences facing us in the morning.
I can't remember at what point the porn went on but I remember glancing up at the TV, seeing it and not being remotely peturbed. I also realised at this point that the friend had gone and it was just the three of us left. Specs had been kissing me at random points throughout the night and I suddenly decided I really wanted to go down on him. A was fine where she was so I dragged him into the bedroom and started to blow him. Unfortunately my mouth was completely dry to the point where I couldn't actually produce any saliva so, embarrassingly, I had to stop and go for water. I wandered through into the lounge, sipping from a glass and sat down with A to watch the porn, temporarily losing interest in my previous activity.
Specs came in having had a shower in just a towel. He really had the most gorgeous body so the combination of that, the porn and being utterly off my face meant I decided I wanted to have sex with him, right then. I stripped off and lay back on the zebra rug (urgh) while he went down on me very enthusiastically. Now, I've never had a threesome and although this wasn't one, nothing prepared me for experiencing this kind of thing in front of one of my best friends. Had I been sober...well, had I been sober that never would have happened but hypothetically had I been sober I wouldn't have been able to relax but as it was I really got into it. After quickly slipping a condom on (thank God I had one), he fucked me. Right there, on the zebra rug in front of my friend who was texting her boyfriend.
Afterwards A and I went to bed in his room and Specs took the spare room. This morning we woke up to find him pottering about getting ready for work. He left us in the flat and we slowly got ourselves together. Fortunately we were five minutes away from work so after a quick detour to McDonalds we were able to arrive half an hour early. Luckily, because everyone here was out last night, our hangovers have blended in with everyone else's and so far no one has commented that we're wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

I worry about myself though, I really do. I don't understand what makes me do this kind of stuff or exactly what I'm trying to run away from or replace. There's got to be something because this behaviour is not normal. The self loathing is mainly due to the hangover, I know that but I also know that I need to sort myself out. I woke up really missing N and wishing he was around. Maybe all I'm doing is creatively killing time until he gets home and I can see whether I have a potential relationship on my hands. Honestly though, crochet really would be a better way of doing it.

An Update

I haven't felt very inspired by my life recently, hence the gap between the last post and this one. I hit a bit of a low after the J debacle and spent some time wallowing which was pointless but I obviously needed to get the frustration at being taken for a mug out of my system. Which I now have. Hurrah! Anyway, here's a quick recap of recent events...

A from work and I went on a stupidly large night out which ended up with us meeting a guy in a bar in Soho (where else), getting horrendously drunk and taking a rickshaw back to his large and astonishingly posh Covent Garden flat where we drank until the early hours and the guy and I kissed whenever A was out of the room. The three of us went to bed together, but in the 'Morcambe and Wise' sense rather than the 'skin flick' sense. We all wore pyjamas and he read us a bedtime story (this is true). Later that morning after not enough sleep, he woke me up and took me into the spare room where he proceeded to shag me senseless. It was lovely but I wish I'd been more sober to appreciate it. A and I staggered off to work around 3 hours later, still drunk, late and clutching two sausage McMuffins apiece. I stayed in touch with and recently had a date with the guy (who, it turns out lived alone in that amazing flat and is my age but stupidly wealthy) which went well but have heard nothing since.

That night, before we met the rich bloke, I blew the owner of my favourite bar in his office downstairs. Flirtation has been going on for weeks and weeks so something was bound to happen. That was it.

I am still in close contact with N who is travelling. He's been in touch almost every day since he went away which I'm really surprised by but like a great deal. We're still keen to meet up when he's back but there's around 6 weeks still to go and anything could happen even though I miss him though and think about him all the time. I'm trying not to romanticize anything we might have which would be easy to do given the 'lovers separated by the ocean' theme of it all. I'm taking care to remain a little cynical about the whole thing so as not to be utterly disappointed when he returns.

This weekend was my best friend's wedding. I was the bridesmaid. I travelled down to Hampshire on Friday and immediately got thrown into organising and helping. This continued right the way through until 1am Sunday morning when it finally finished. The bride looked stunning and the day was lovely. I developed a minor crush on the best man who was single and very flirty with me the whole time (at one point we escaped the reception and went to the local pub together for a pint - naughty but fun). There was no opportunity for anything to happen, sadly but as he was leaving he told me he thought I was gorgeous and took my phone number. This was largely pointless as he's currently travelling the world and only back for the wedding. Still a nice ego boost though.

That's about it, really. Not the most exciting couple of weeks but definitely not the most boring.

Clarity?

What was I thinking? I mean really, what on earth did I think was going to happen? That somehow getting involved with several men at once wouldn't end in tears and would in fact result in everlasting happiness? With the benefit of hindsight it's laughable that I could have been such a twat for so long.

The weekend was every bit as depressing as I thought it would be. I was angry and upset and I didn't really do anything except get my hair cut and eat my body weight in Phish Food. However I came out of it with the realisation that I deserve everything I get. If I mess around and choose to sleep with whoever then I must expect emotions to eventually get tangled up. It's not true of all women of course, I don't subscribe to the theory that all women are unable to separate love from sex but I know that with me it's only a matter of time. Two or three sessions, I'm detached. Any more than that though and apparently I start to yearn. Still, at least I've learnt my limits although frankly I feel like steering well clear of it all for a while.

Having said that though, I've had some truly lovely emails from N while he's been travelling. He's still got around 8 weeks to go which is a shame as I'm finding I'm really missing him. I've spent a long time trying to ascertain whether I miss him because I'm hurt and need the comfort or whether I actually like him. At the moment I'm pretty sure it's the latter but I guess this will become more evident in time. It's just refreshing how honest he is about how he's been feeling and how much he's been thinking about me. I'm touched that in just two weeks together I seem to have had such an impact. He managed to get under my skin too though. I cried the last time I saw him (although he doesn't know this) and found I was extremely melancholy at the thought of possibly never seeing him again, although if the email contact keeps up to this degree it's highly likely I will.

Mug

There is a moment of clarity that, when you experience it, leaves you reeling. I had that moment this week.

On Sunday night, J (the ahem...model) took me for drinks and with his best sincere face on, told me he wanted to start seeing me properly. He told me that it wasn't all about sex, that he liked me for me, that I was special and that he even wanted to accompany me to my friends wedding in June. Finally, after weeks of ignoring his comments about the issue, I started to succumb. I actually started to wonder whether I could make it work. I talked to my friends about it, I asked opinions and relayed snippets of conversation and allt agreed he sounded sincere.

On Wednesday night, at his request, he came back. He was late. He didn't want to eat because he wasn't hungry so neither did I. He bought a DVD but fell asleep 10 minutes in. He fucked me but only he came. He told me all about this girl he could have shagged that day at the gym. The following morning, despite telling me on Sunday he'd see me this weekend, he relayed a catalogue of commitments all involving female models and booze. When I said 'But you told me you were free this weekend', he said 'Did I?' He left while I stood, dizzy from the realisation that I'd been utterly suckered. Comments on his myspace page and ones that he's left on others have confirmed my suspicions. Obviously I wasn't only sleeping with him but I didn't say one way or the other. He on the other hand, promised fidelity (even though I didn't ask for it) and yet deceived me at every stage.

I am trying not to be sad and feel foolish but I do, I really do. I have been a fool and now I have a bank holiday weekend stretching in front of me with my flatmate away and not a single plan to occupy me, bar getting my hair done. I know what will happen and I'm dreading it. I will wallow. I will cry. I will mourn the loss of yet another shred of dignity and I will lament my advancing years and the fact that I am still, despite all my efforts, single. Yes, it's melodramatic and I will probably read this back in a few days and laugh at my melancholy hyperbole but right now? Right now I can't decide whether to bawl my eyes out or find the nearest man and punch his face in.

Huh?

I am lucky enough to work for a company that not only lets you wear your own clothes every day, as opposed to those of a Jaded Wage Slave but also allows you to listen to the radio at your desk. I tend to believe, quite cynically, that it's more based around wanting us to spend more time at the aforementioned desks than to kid us into thinking we're at the very hub of workplace cool. However those are the sorts of musings that lead you to carve your way out of the office with a paper knife and into forensic history.
It is my choice to listen to Kiss FM which I realise many find wholly offensive, so I do so discreetly through my pink earphones. I happily tap away with a joyous mixture of hip hop/dance/r'n'b filtering into my brain and providing a happy soundtrack to my otherwise lacklustre days (modular office furniture is marginally less depressing to look at with Beyoncé warbling away). However, due to the inability of Kiss to play anything other than the same 25 songs in differing order throughout each show, some of the more ludicrously-lyriced numbers have got under my skin and made me ask 'Why should it possible to make a record that consists solely of faux-street nonsense?'
Case in point: Current 'hit' Da* Bump by Mr V and Miss Patty. Here is a sample of the lyrics:

This is the way we move it, This is the way we party, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, This is the way we feel it, This is the way we started, With a da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, This is the way we move it, This is the way we party, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, This is the way we feel it, This is the way we started, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump,

It's not the most inspiring start to a song is it? One might be fooled into thinking perhaps they were just using a ghetto variation of vocal warm up exercises (me me me becomes yo yo mo fo). Let's give them a chance to redeem themselves for the superlative Miss Patty's section of the song. Here she is then:

Shake what'cha momma gave ya, Shake what'cha momma gave ya, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, Wave your hands in the air, Wave'em like you just don't care, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, Sisters in the house tonite, Let me know you feel alright, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, Let me hear ya'll scream, Fellas you know what I mean, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, We all come down to the club, To get loose and have some fun, Da da dibidi bump bump, Da da dibidi bump bump, Pass the dutchie to the left hand side

Now, I realise they're not the first 'artists' to write fairly nonsensical lyrics, after all one can't fail to remember Des O'Connor's classic hit 'Dick a Dum Dum' or Abba's haunting track 'Dum Dum Diddle (my darling fiddle)'. It's just that somehow these early efforts have the veneer of innocence. In today's exceedingly verbal world, shouldn't it be easier to come up with a really awe inspiring hook for a song without resorting to the babblings of a drunk teenage girl in a bus station? Oh, and don't get me started on their shameless pillaging of the classic Musical Youth in that last line. Step away from the dutchie Miss Patty.
Also, when did it become cool to employ session chipmunks to give an edge to your efforts? First the laughably un-convict like Akon with 'Lonely' and now Mr V and Miss Patty have got da 'munk on board for Da Bump. Who is this chipmunk? Is he to become the next Ja Rule, popping up in guest spots on every new release to catastrophically ruin it (I think Mr V was doing pretty well on that front by himself).
Of course there is the argument, as Salt N Pepa took the trouble to remind us, to 'pick up the needle, press pause or turn the radio off' (name that song) but I like most of the other offerings from Radio Smooch, I really do. I even don't mind Sean Paul, the Grand Master of unintelligible lyrics but I've nothing against an honest dancehall effort, it's a different genre entirely. My only recourse is to simply persevere with songs such as 'Da Bump' and Dada's 'Lollipop' (I'll lick your ice cream, you can lick my lollipop' - oh can I? thanks awfully) and wait for the good shit in between. The Kisstory hour (see what they did?) is pretty good although like the albums entitled 'Old Skool', 'Back in the Day' and 'Now Time to Look Into a Pension' it does tend to make me feel the wrong side of young.

*Street for 'the', apparently

Jumping the gun?

Well it appears I may have been slightly premature in writing off the men in my life. N has so far been travelling for 6 days and has already emailed me 3 times. From the tone of the emails I can tell he's happier and calmer for getting out of London and getting some head space. He has told me he's missing London and me but I think that's just early days talking. I'm sure once he gets into the swing of travelling solo again and embraces his situation that will wear off. I have found that I've thought about him every day and have been delighted when his emails have appeared. I don't yet know whether this is due to him not having been gone a week yet and whether the feelings will fade. He's going to be out there for at least another 11 weeks as it is. For now though I hope he stays in touch. He almost feels like a departed lover that I am waiting at home for which is nonsense really but strikes a chord with a terminal romantic like me. A told me jokingly she thinks I'll end up marrying him (another terminal romantic) and, idiot that I am, I started daydreaming about it. Talk about impressionable.

J has also been back on the scene. He called me out of the blue from a day-long modelling assignment at the weekend to chat and tell me he'd been thinking about me in his more idle hours. On Monday he emailed me to say that although he was surrounded by pretty girls the whole time (thanks for that), 'they were muppets and it really made me appreciate you, you're really special to me.' I still have no idea what's going on but for now it's definitely just sex. The dom/sub conversations have started again and for our rendezvous tonight he's apparently bringing handcuffs and is going to 'play' because he feels I'm ready. I'm slightly apprehensive but I haven't had sex for two weeks and quite frankly I'm gagging so I'll go along with whatever.

L is the only one that really does seem to have fallen off the radar which is a great shame. I didn't hear from him all weekend and lasted until 4pm on Monday when I emailed him in an exceedingly breezy tone to ask how he weekend was and what he was up to this week. I received an email back with a detailed itinerary of all his activities which take up every night of the week with no suggestion of us getting together ever again. He may as well have just said 'I don't want to see you' but clearly that's impolite, exceedingly unBritish and not part of the rules. We exchanged a couple of matey emails but that was three days ago and I've heard nothing since. I can't work out whether his silence is due to him worrying about something personal he told me last week and perhaps my reaction to it. In which case it's up to me to contact him to offer (mute) reassurance that I'm not bothered and would like to see him. However perhaps I did something or said something to put him off the last time we met but I've been replaying the whole evening and for the life of me I can't imagine what it might have been. Finally though, perhaps he's just lost interest. One thing I've learnt about men (and myself) since I started this voracious dating is that impulses, desires and apparently genuine feelings can disappear as quickly as they arrive. It's finding the ones with staying power that's the challenge. The search continues...