The Nemesis Programme

I have of late noticed a space in my life, a sad and empty void nagging away at the back of my mind. This morning I finally identified it for what it is: I am, for the first time in several years, lacking a Nemesis.

Over the years it's inevitable that one develops rivalries with members of the same (or occasionally the opposite) sex. Generally you share at least the fringes of the same social and professional circles, just enough that you run into each other every couple of months. You probably didn't get on all that well to begin with, although you could never quite put your finger on why.

The Nemesis relationship itself can be triggered by anything from the most trivial of events to the most unforgivable. Perhaps you overlapped one too many boyfriends for comfort; perhaps she married your ex-lover; perhaps she became NBF* to your OBF** or perhaps it's something as ostensibly insignificant as sharing too much history - perhaps she can, unforgivably, remember you when you had hair the size of Pluto, pock marked skin and braces. It may not even be a specific event: maybe she's just your polar opposite - a fresh-bread-baking, skipping-through-the-meadows, Brownie-pack-leading sprite whose giggling, child-like existence puts your hackles up to the ceiling.

Either way, she's Not Your Kind of People, and your occasional run-ins and frosty encounters have delighted and horrified bystanders in equal parts for the last few years. But what to do when the relationship peters out, when she no longer excites that spark of irritation, and when - horror of horrors - you actually find yourself getting on quite well? Oh, the emptiness! The sense of loss!

But fear not. For those who, like me, are currently lacking a suitable candidate for their own Nemesis Programme, I have developed a brief guide to identifying a new arch-rival - because we all need a bit of (un)healthy competition in our lives.

The Nemesis Programme

1. Your chosen candidate should be pretty, but not too pretty - enough to stop you from eating that fifth slice of chocolate cake, but not so much that you have any real fear of being outclassed by her unexpected arrival at a mutual friend's birthday bash.
2. She should be newsworthy (and I don't mean tabloid headlines). A good Nemesis will provide a source of gossip and conversation for you and your friends for months or even years to come. Oh my god, did you hear what she did? Did you see what she wore? Can you believe what she's like? (A Nemesis who flies discreetly below the radar is never going to generate any real satisfaction.)
3. She should, like Mary Poppins, be no more than practically perfect. If you can't find a loophole through which your scorn can slip you're just setting yourself up for a losing battle and a bad self esteem trip. For example: Cameron Diaz would be a Bad Choice.
4. Your mutual acquaintances should be arranged on both sides of the argument. You can't pick someone who no-one has time for; where's the challenge in that? Where's the fun? Ideally you want about a 40/60 split - enough people on your side that you can have a good bitchfest, but enough on hers that you can work up a decent head of steam over the number of people who Just Don't See What She's Really Like.
5. It has to be mutual. If she secretly wants to be your friend then she's not really a Nemesis and you're just throwing rocks into an open window. But if you're fairly sure she's thinking the same about you, you could be onto a winner.
6. Know your Nemesis. If she's got a way with barbed compliments and you have a five-minute delay on your witty comebacks, you'll need plenty of pre-preparation time. Equally, if she has a group of large and hairy devoted male friends, make sure you have a really good innocent expression for when they come to have A Quiet Word with you.
7. Never forget: dealing with your Nemesis does not exempt you from the Rules of Life. Slanging matches are not the picture of grace; always be polite. Any woman worth her salt can make her opinion on someone perfectly clear while never straying from the most blameless of conversation. (Although, to be fair, practise makes perfect on this one.)

I could go on, but the real joy of the Nemesis program is finding out what works best for you. Just one word of warning, though: make sure you check each application carefully. Are they a potential arch-rival or are you just hiding the fact that you fancy the pants off them? (We are not a romcom.)

Ah, the good old days. I have my eye out for a replacement, you know... let me know if you spot anyone suitable.

*New Best Friend
**Old Best Friend

The wit and wisdom of women

Overheard on the bus this morning: "So I told him, yeah, if you want to keep me til we're married, you'd better start putting your hand in your pocket once in a while, you know what I mean?"

Wise words indeed.

Hiding the evidence

This weekend the Boy went away to play with some of his more unsuitable friends. Like any reasonable woman would, I took advantage of his absence to book myself in for a 90 minute deep tissue massage at the Ki Mantra salon.

I walked in to be greeted by a six foot three African god with muscles layered on muscles and an open, friendly smile. The smile put me at my ease – maybe a bit too much. It wasn’t til the massage started that I realised that I should have been more concerned with the muscles.

Ninety minutes of pummelling later he had worked every knot and every clunk into putty and found my stress centre – the lower lower back. Yes, you heard it. My bum is stressed.

By the time I got home I was exhausted and barely able to move; last night I slept restlessly and my muscles squeaked with pain every time I shifted. But today? Today I feel great. My neck is looser. My back is no longer aching. There's just one challenge I need to address before the Boy comes home – and that’s the fact that I have enormous bruises in an unmistakeable handprint walking up my spine from bum to waist.

Er, honey, it was like this…

It Could Be You

That LiveJournal debate

Ever read something that made you sick with disgust?

The concept itself is bad enough. What horrifies me the most is the number of comments saying not just that this is okay, but that any man or woman has the right to ask me if they can touch my boobs. To me that is not only offensive but also unpleasant and, if it were to come from a stranger, downright threatening.

LiveJournal is in a frenzy over this post and with reason. It's a frightening indictment of the world we live in when what I want matters more than your feelings about your own body. Because what it ultimately says is that your body is here solely for their amusement - and that's just not right.

Does blogging about something really make you an expert?

Teh interweb is a marvellous thing. It gives us a voice and it gives us a platform to express our opinions. We love it, and there are now so many millions of blogs being created every day that no one can really be bothered to count them anymore.

Imagine that plethora of voices reaching out across the ether, sharing their thoughts on politics, on the media, on relationships, on shoes, hell, on the weather. Some of them have been going for years, creating little pods of self-referential knowledge, referencing and cross-referencing each other, more and more thoughts thrown out there into the clutter of cyberspace.

But does that really make them worthwhile? Does the sheer length of time you've spent talking about something make you an expert, a self-appointed social commentator? I'm not sure. Is the Oxford Circus preacher a serious religious analyst, just because he's been there for so many years? Would you really expect the Daily Telegraph to seek out his opinion for an in-depth discussion on the state of the Catholic Church, or the declining Anglican congregation?

Maybe you would if he was a blogger. If he'd been putting his opinions out there via RSS feed and not a loudspeaker, who knows where he'd be today. More and more it seems to me that being a blogger makes your opinion worthwhile; apparently, the platform gives credibility to the content. And what a platform it is!

In its favour, blogging has given many silent voices a chance to be heard. Think of the war zone bloggers; think of the escorts (led by the inimitable Belle de Jour); and all the other societies and sub-sets of societies who have been brought to the public's attention in a way that a decade ago they couldn't even have dreamed of. I'm not arguing with the value of that. But on the other hand… on the other hand, you have Me, the ego. The voice that repeats persistently: if I can be heard, surely I must be worth listening to?

Take me as an example. You see, I know that I can run everyone else's lives much better than they can. I can improve their clothes, their hair, their shoes and probably their love lives to boot. (Not yours, of course; you, O Best Beloved, are my honourable exception.)

Of course I may, heaven forbid, be wrong. Perhaps my shoes are just as bad as the Uggs and Crocs that threaten to overwhelm our streets. But either way, does giving me a blog really make my opinion any more valid? Wouldn't that just be a bit crazy?

And yet every day we have national press and magazines including comment from "leading bloggers", people who have nothing to say that makes them stand out from the crowd, nothing to add that any one of the readers couldn't have added for themselves. But somehow, because they said it online, in this exciting medium that all of a sudden is sitting firmly within the mainstream mindset, it has more value.

Some industries are more guilty than others. Where once there was a handful, there are now scores of marketing blogs analysing the industry, discussing the latest trends and critiquing competitive campaigns - many written by people with more years of University than they've had in the industry, and for the sole purpose of self promotion. Am I claiming that's a bad thing? Not necessarily. It doesn't invalidate their viewpoints, and surely the beauty of blogging is that it can bring each and everyone of these new and unique viewpoints out from under their bushels.

But neither does it validate those viewpoints. It remains just an opinion and we, O Best Beloved, are no more or less than we were before we put it there. Uploading it into the uncaring void does not make you an expert on your topic - and especially not when it's a topic that rests firmly on the foundations of self-promotion.

I wouldn’t take this post too seriously, though. You've only got my word for it, after all, and what am I? Just another blogger floating out there in endless cyberspace. Who made me the expert?

Just an ordinary girl

Somehow I missed this article from Caitlin Moran on the amount of time most people spend having sex. The average (3 to 13) minutes doesn’t sound too unreasonable - any less than three minutes and you have to wonder whether was really worth your while getting your kit off in the first place; any more than about thirty and you're either going Tantric or, let's be honest, you're just not doing it right.

One of Caitlin's comments in particular rang a bell with me. Sexual one-upmanship - we've all been guilty of it. Think about your teens and early 20s: wasn't the most important thing to claim not only the most notches on your bedpost but also the most outlandish and flamboyant sexual escapades to make your friends scream in delighted horror when you related them in their full technicolour glory? ("But how DID you get the duct tape off again? What did the vicar say? Has your mother forgiven you yet?")

If I run the gamut of my social circle today I find submissives, doms, switches, exhibitionists, voyeurs, fetishists and more, each outdoing the last in their unusual sexual practices. Special snowflakes one and all, open-minded to anything that comes their way - unless, of course, you want to just have sex. What, no rubber? No leather? No live-action video streaming? Good god, woman, what kind of freak are you?

It's not just sex it's happening to, either. In most things, this social circle is as open-minded as they come. If I was polyamorous they'd love me for it; if I decided to paint my face white, dreadlock my hair and invest in dayglo Lycra they'd accept me as a Cybergoth. The problem is that I don’t do any of that - I like my "vanilla" lifestyle. And it's when I say that that they look at me in disgust. You don't want an alternative lifestyle? You aren't stretching the boundaries of society and challenging the status quo? What are you, some kind of bimbo?

There's always the temptation to lie, to make up some extravagant fantasy or sexual fetish so that they can sigh with relief and accept me again. But instead, inspired by Caitlin's article, I think it's time to come out of the closet. So here, O best beloved, is my confession.

I like high heels. I like champagne. I like my fast car, I like my Islington flat and I like extravagant, brightly coloured cocktails. I follow fashion (albeit with limited success) and I go to members' only bars. I enjoy my PR job and damnit, I love my Jimmy Choos. I'm happy to admit that I aspire to the Sex and the City lifestyle and - most shocking of all - I can say all of this and still have a fully-functioning brain.

So here's the bottom line. If I can accept your two girlfriends, your four boyfriends and your need to be beaten with a cat-o-nine-tails three times a week, then you're going to have to learn to live with my lifestyle choices too. And if the Boy comes home tonight and proposes 13 minutes of vanilla-as-you-like missionary style sex I'm not going to kick him out of the bedroom, because I'm pretty damn sure we're both going to enjoy it.

(Still, I'm keeping the handcuffs on the bedpost... just in case.)

Wedding jitters

No, not mine! Honestly, what kind of girl do you think I am?

In a few scant days I will be walking down the aisle as Best Wench to C, the bride whose hen night we celebrated a fortnight ago. For her it's an enormous adventure as she takes the next step into the rest her life with the man she loves and for me, it's a wonderful chance to celebrate a good friend.

It is, however, not without its challenges. Ranking high on the list is my vertiginous choice of footwear, a beautiful pair of bronze peep toe heels which are the one extravagance in an otherwise demure and bridesmaid-appropriate outfit. Five inches of stiletto-heeled confidence? Yes. Disaster waiting to happen? Possibly.

But even that precarious balancing act isn't the one that's really keeping me awake at night: it's the company we'll be keeping. You see, C's friendship group is quite expansive, and I've mixed with her posse on and off for several years now.

Can you see where this is going?

... yes, I'm going to be walking down the aisle in front of a whole herd of fully paid-up members of the Ex-Boyfriend Club. Hurrah!

Any girl would want to look her best when she faces down those ravening hordes, but alas, it is not to be. The Best Wench's dress has been carefully selected to complement the bride's stunning antique gold gown and most definitely not to knock anyone's socks off on its own account - exactly as it should be, I hasten to add. But I can't shake the feeling that no matter how friendly I may be with the exes, on some deep, dark level nothing would please them more than for me to trip over my hem and tumble down the aisle like a gigantic taffeta landslide - as long as I do it in a way that doesn't detract from C, of course.

There really should be some kind of law passed to keep ex-boyfriends away from social engagements. No wonder this country's going to pot.

PR genius?

Ashley Highfield leaves the BBC for Kangaroo - only a week after kicking the bandwidth debate firmly back into the front pages of the national media. Nice moves, my friend, whether they're yours or the BBC's quick thinking PR team.

But enough of this sordid gossip! Let us return to our usual highbrow tone: ladies and gentlemen, I present for your delight and edification the latest of the essential Rules for Life. This was in fact one of the first Rules ever to be set in stone, but I think it bears repeating. Oh, how I'd love to say that this little gem isn't based on real life experience!... but sadly, that would be a lie.

It comes in three parts, so pay attention, girls. You really can't afford to miss this.

6a. If you must wear the ill-advised minidress you bought in your teens, avoid at all costs sitting on the ground.
6b. If you have no choice but to sit on the ground, do at least try to keep your knees together.
6c. If you really, really must sprawl on the grass, for heavens' sake get a bikini wax.

Alas, the memory alone brings a tear to my eye.

Fragmented thoughts

I have the most terrible giggles this morning. I'm busy multitasking between two of the big things on my to do list - an analysis of the uses of colour in the creative industries over the last 50 years and an introductory media pitch for a sexy new client in the online video arena (it's true - digital media gets all the fun stuff) - but every now and then I have to put the phone down and just have a good snicker to myself.

I can only assume it's the sunshine getting into my bones - and possibly also the fact that I'm only 24 hours away from having a shiny new house slave. Sorry, did I say slave? I meant equal and respected live-in partner. After all, as anyone who's met the Boy will have noticed, he's really very resistant to being walked over. (I think that's one of the reasons we get on so well.)

Pffft. Partner. I hate that word. How unromantic can you be? Although I suppose it could be worse - I'll never forget meeting the at-the-time-boyfriend of a schoolfriend's mum and being introduced with the unforgettable words "darling, this is my long-term boff".

Boff. Now there's a word we need to bring back into circulation.

Mmm, tasty

Well I never. Apparently 7am is the peak time to leave my flat. Suddenly, instead of the hordes of yummy mummies pushing their squealing offspring through the gates, the development is rolling in sharply dressed, chisel-jawed, 30-something Adonises. Why did I not think of this before? Of course the mummies aren't doing it alone; someone has to be bringing home the bacon while they're taking little Alexander to his pre-school improvement group. ("He's terribly smart for his age, you know.")

The yummy mummies and I have an unspoken agreement to keep a polite distance from each other, and have done ever since I was invited to join their select group and they discovered (oh the shame!) that I worked for a living. But not so the tasty dads. They're a charming crew, given to holding doors open and initiating early morning chats as we stroll up the road towards Angel. The fact that I'm quite obviously off to work is a bit of a novelty for them and they take it with rather more good humour than their wives.

I feel a bit bad that I can't really tell them apart, but one tight-bodied Adonis really is much like another at that time of morning.

The countdown begins

Oh, and in case you haven't been counting, it's now only four days (FOUR DAYS) 'til the Boy du Jour ups sticks and moves (a small selection of) his worldly goods into the Angel UberFlat. In preparation I've cleared out a sizeable chunk of the second wardrobe, including a big selection of clothes I'd completely forgotten I owned. What on earth was I thinking? What use would I ever have for a cropped evening jacket in gold brocade, a faux satin DJ or a frankly bizarre blue and brown netting tent-dress? (I blame Monsoon for that one: I get a bit overexcited when they get new stock in, no matter what it actually looks like.)

On the plus side I also rediscovered the dress I wore for my 25th birthday party (which is only five minutes ago, for the record) and it looks fab, arguably rather more so than it did when I was 25. Is that even possible?

High tea and tasselled nipples

Last Saturday was my friend C’s hen party, organised by Best Wench yours truly.

The day started with some proper old-fashioned civilisation – high tea at Fortnum and Mason’s, surrounded by layered silver trays piled high with sinful pastries, crust-free sandwiches and, of course, plenty of pink champagne. Several hours, a small pause and a quick change later and off we whirled to the evening’s entertainment at new favourite haunt Volupte, where Mama Jo King and her bevvy of lovelies entertained us over dinner with the twirling of tassled nipples and some really fabulous renditions of old classics including Shirley Bassey’s Big Spender and the inimitable Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend (ah, so true).

So today I'm thinking that it may be time to give up the day job and run away to join a burlesque theatre. The only problem with this marvellous idea is the conflict with my previous plan B, which was running away to sea to become a pirate. The two can't be completely incompatible, though - burlesque piracy, anyone?

Rules for life: contd.

5. Contrary to popular belief, chocolate is not the answer.