Oh, pants.

As I arrived at Angel yesterday afternoon a stray gust of wind revealed to me that my nice new summer dress is in fact a tunic. Apologies to anyone at Angel late tea-time; I'm sure you wanted to see my pants about as much as I wanted to show them to you. (In other words... not a lot.)

So what do I do now? Do I brazen it out with black tights and heels and pray that we have a gust-free summer? Or do I relegate it sadly to the wardrobe as one of those impulse buys that just were not meant to be?

One thing I'm sure of: I ain't wearing it with no leggings.

Death by shopping

Help help, I'm addicted to Ebay!

It started off with my beloved but barely-worn Manolos. Those were snapped up sharpish by a lovely young lady who wanted to wear them to her sister's wedding. And it started me thinking. What about all those Hobbs and Whistles dresses that I've never actually worn, sitting sadly in my spare wardrobe waiting for the moths to find them? What about the fairly sizeable percentage of my shoe collection that never gets worn? What about the shopping sprees that result in clothes that never even get the labels taken off? (I rarely make it back to the store in time to get a refund.)

Eventually I'm going to start selling things I actually like and what will I do then?

How can I stop??

Juggling knives

Polyamory. I just don’t get it - for so, so many reasons.

One of my friends has recently given it up in favour of a more vanilla approach and I've been picking her brains on what attracted her to the multiple-partner lifestyle in the first place. I mean, the principle is great - if it works for you, why not - but where on earth do you find the time?

Before the Boy came along I maintained a healthy Dating Portfolio of gentlemen friends who would take me out to dinner and accompany me to the cinema and theatre when occasion demanded. I was never short of a plus one and the little black book was in quite good shape. My weeknights were busy, my weekends were full, and all was right with the world. (And yes, I do have a Rule about what constitutes a Portfolio lifestyle and what just constitutes sleeping around a lot… but that's a subject for another day.)

But none of them were relationships. None of them required more than an occasional phone call or email; they were fun, they were great company, and they didn't require maintenance, investment or, crucially, any kind of angst at all.

So how on earth do the polyamorists do it? How do they maintain two, three or four partners without going completely bonkers? Where do they find the time? The enthusiasm? The energy?

I don’t get it and I certainly couldn’t do it, even if I had the inclination. And I can't quite shake the feeling that if you're not the "primary partner", you're really just picking up someone else's sloppy seconds. Isn't that a bit squicky?

Pay It Forward

Today I'm on a quest. Don't worry, it's not connected to yesterday's bitter anti-cycling rant: our two-wheeled buddies are safe from me, for the moment.

No, this is a rather more altruistic project. Over the course of the day I'm going to compliment three random people for no good reason - other than that I think there's something great about them, whether it's fabulous shoes, shiny hair, witty conversation (can Twitter be witty?) or something else I haven't thought of yet.

I'm going to do this for no good reason other than I've noticed that no one seems to smile in London any more. It's one thing on the tube on the way to work when everyone's a bit miserable, but it's different when it's the end of the day, the sun's shining and there's everything fine about the world. And what makes you smile more than a compliment you weren't expecting?

I'd like to enlist your aid in this project too. If you're reading read this today, the 25th June, then I’d like you to give someone else a compliment. Maybe it's a stranger, maybe a colleague, or maybe a friend who isn't expecting it. Make them smile. Maybe they'll pass it on.

Cyclists: first up against the wall

Like everyone, I have a List. You know the List: the people who'll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes, if you have your way. Don't try and pretend otherwise, I know you've got one too.

Today there's a new entry at the top of my List: cyclists. Seriously, guys, can you please make up your minds whether you're a road vehicle or a pseudo-pedestrian? Yes, yes, I know - a road vehicle. That's your story and you're sticking to it, right?

Fine, if that's the case, I'll treat you like a road vehicle when I'm in my car, and I'll do the same when I'm on foot. But you're going to have to make a couple of commitments to me, too. You're going to have to stop at red lights; you're going to have to indicate when you turn. You're going to have to stop riding silently up behind me on the pavement before screaming to a halt and swearing at me when I unsuspectingly veer a bit to the side and narrowly escape the pleasure of your full aluminium-framed weight in the small of my back.

And no, I don't feel any need to apologise for the generalisation; not when I'm greeted almost every morning by the cry of "bloody pedestrians" from some wretched cyclist as they rocket along the pavement or roar across a red light six inches away from me.

I'd like to think that we can get on ok if we both stick to the rules. But don't test me, people. I have a big stick and I'm not afraid to use it.

Boy of the year?

This weekend the Boy and I celebrated our one year anniversary at Le Pont de la Tour, the ex-Conran restaurant at Butler's Wharf.

We drank champagne as the sun went down behind Tower Bridge, laughed over the year gone and speculated wildly about the ones to come. Devoted waiting staff ferried caviar (mine) and oysters (his) to and from the table as we talked and talked. (I know, I know, but I'm just not designed to live on a budget.) Afterwards, we walked back to London Bridge station along the riverside under the moon, all talked out, enjoying the night.

It was a wonderful evening. It was over the top, it was unnecessary, it was ridiculously extravagant, and it was perfectly us.

To celebrate, and as my anniversary present to him, I’ve had a lock put on the inside of the front door. He's earned a bit of freedom by now.

The Prisoner: Redux

Yesterday I accidentally locked the Boy du Jour into the flat for the second time. In protest he shaved his beard off, which was a very strange thing to come home to. I was so surprised that I walked straight into the (closed) kitchen door, knocking myself silly and narrowly escaping a self-inflicted black eye.

On the plus side, once the severity of the de-bearding had been explained, the building's managing agents agreed to pay for the cost of getting the lock fixed. Small mercies, right?

Goodbye Manolo

I am so very sad today.

Last night I finally bit the bullet and put my dearly beloved Manolo Blahnik heels onto ebay. It hurt, it really did; but for the last six months they've just been sitting in my shoe racks unworn and unappreciated, and something that lovely should really be on display. I firmly believe that designer shoes were made to be worn and it turns out that these, as beautiful as they are, just don't work with the rest of my wardrobe.

Oh, my achey breaky heart!

Never too late for extensions: the Agyness Deyn "look"

Agyness Deyn (is that how you spell it? I can't be bothered to check) has a lot to answer for. I passed no fewer than five women on the way to work today all sporting Agyness-esque cropped bleach-blonde hair. Alas, none of them had taken into account that very few people can pull that look off. Hell, it's questionable whether even Agyness herself can do it - and when that's the case, mere mortals should certainly be steering clear.

So sayeth the bitter brunette.

What friends are for

I have to confess that I’m a little disappointed in my friends.

Over the last couple of months I’ve been getting to know the Boy du Jour’s posse, and one of the things I like most is that they’re obviously a tight knit bunch. That’s not just an idle comment: at the Boy’s birthday party a few weeks ago, one of his friends took me to one side and quietly let me know that “if you ever hurt him, I’ll have to kill you”.

I teased the friend in question about it a bit on last week’s holiday and to his credit he wasn’t all that embarrassed. A couple of the other people listening even chimed in with their own contributions – albeit of a rather lower standard (you know who you are, Mr “I’ll poo in your bed”).

I came away from the conversation rather touched at the loyalty the Boy’s crew have to each other. But it made me think – where are my friends in all this? What threats has the Boy had to warn him off breaking my tender and fragile heart? If I’m honest, I’m a bit disappointed in the sisterhood. I’d expected better.

Still, never too late, right? :)

Is there a Dr in the house?

Why yes, yes there is – Miss Almostalady Jr, actually, who yesterday survived her Viva with flying colours and is now only a few pieces of red tape away from being an official and honest-to-God Doctor of Physics, and high-energy super awesome Physics at that.

I headed up to Oxford after work yesterday to join the celebrations. I met the Physics group at the lab where they were drinking champagne and eating chunks of a rather suspicious-looking cake. “They baked it specially,” Dr G told me happily. “It’s in the shape of our super duper experimental somethingorother*.”

For your edification, O Best Beloved, the super duper experimental somethingorother looks something like this:

I didn’t say anything til we got to the restaurant for dinner. The staff pushed together a long table and a round table for us to sit together and the physicists clapped their hands together happily. “The table is shaped like the super duper experimental somethingorother too!” they cried. “Hurrah!”

“No it’s not,” said my two glasses of wine on an empty stomach. “”It’s a big cock. You do all realise that, right?”

Silence. Eventually, tentatively… laughter.

Still, the night warmed up from there with the help of several bottles of wine and a cocktail stop at Old Orleans, a cheese-tastic haunt of mine from student days. Most of the group cried off at midnight, pleading work the next day, but Dr G and I had no such problem. So on from there we went to a student bar rock night, where I nearly gave the bar staff apoplexy by insisting they dig out their one bottle of Laurent Perrier and put it on ice for us. We danced our socks off til some time after 3 and eventually, cheerful and knackered, retired back to Dr G's flat.

The lady of the hour:

The lady of the hour plus friends:

The lady of the hour plus champagne...

The lady of the hour plus balloons!

Congratulations Dr G!

*this is, obviously, not exactly what she said

What I Did On My Holidays

After all that drama we finally got away from London to spend (almost) a week in the grounds of the rather lovely Shropshire-based Combermere Abbey with a mixed group of friends – partly the University crew and partly from the Boy du Jour’s circle, all brought together by J and B, the only couple brave enough to organise such a diverse (ed: crazy) group of people.

The grounds of the Abbey included not only an extensive garden, woods and honest-to-God maze, but also a large lake where the braver members of the group swam on sunnier days. Unfortunately I watched Lake Placid one too many times in my misspent youth and preferred to keep away from the murky waters, sticking instead to exploring the woods and climbing trees in an inefficient and deeply inelegant fashion.

The relaxation schedule was pretty intense. A small group of slackers took a day off to head to the local spa, while a few more dedicated individuals had treatments done in the comfort of their own cottages (an on-site service provided by the Abbey’s staff). Another great convenience of the holiday was the honour bar facility where you could pick up all of life’s little essentials, from beef bourguignon and potato dauphinoise to local wines and beer, sticky toffee pudding and all the ice cream in the world – 24 hours a day. (The beer ran out on day two and wasn’t restocked for almost 48 hours; I’m not sure they’d really expected the Boy and friends.)

Another brave posse ventured out on Thursday to the Hawkstone Follies, expecting an easy two hour stroll with some nice caves to explore at the end. How wrong we were! Hawksmere is not only atrociously mapped (and very, very easy to get lost in), it’s a three hour round trip that’s uphill all the way.

The caves, once we found them, were very fine, with all the winding underground passages and mysterious caverns you could ask for – but by the time you’ve slogged out there and realised there’s no quick route back, the heart does rather sink. Still, we held it together 'til the very last minute, when one of the party went missing after a rash decision to take a route marked “short cut”.

Alas, if there was one thing we’d learned by then, it was not to trust the signs. Some time later a sad little text arrived as the rest of us sat in the sunshine outside the visitor centre, eating ice cream. “Lost in hills and attacked by trolls. What now?”

Eventually we gave up and sent the park rangers in with their Land Rover to pick him up. Really, at a time like that, surely even a man can ask for directions?

All in all, an excellent holiday. Time to start planning the next one, methinks...

Leaving London: a story in 28 hours

I'm back from holiday!

Believe me, the exclamation point is justified. The first 28 hours of the holiday, you see, saw me and the Boy du Jour (I can’t believe no one has pointed out the atrocious grammar in his name yet) attempt to leave London several times and succeed in getting a grand total of three and a half miles from the front door.

How is this possible? Oh, it’s surprisingly simple. It started when Connery’s engine went on strike some three miles up the A1. The first we knew of it were the plumes of smoke billowing out of the engine – mostly grey but sporting a few ominous strands of black. On with the hazard lights and over into the bus lane we went, to await the RAC’s arrival an hour or so later.

Action shot:

Now the RAC is a fine institution but the Morgan was a bit beyond their skills. After another two hour’s exploring and a lengthy discussion between the RAC, my dad and my garage (thank god for mobile phones) we agreed that nothing more could be done. Connery would need to be taken down to the garage for them to make him well again. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll go get the train today and I’ll take Connery down next Friday.”

It took a further hour to get Connery home, engine rigged with a 20-amp fuse and a spare battery plugged in and sitting on the passenger seat to keep him running. The RAC man tailed me back with luggage and Boy transferred to his van, and eventually we deposited the broken car at home. Well, at least I'd (sort of) pre-warned the Boy about Connery’s tendency to shed his essential guts en route.

So onto the number 73 bus and off to Euston we went, only to find that we’d missed cheap fares by about six minutes. Never mind, can’t be helped; we parted with a small fortune for our tickets and had just enough time to whisk round M&S for a picnic and still get on the 3.48 train.

That’s when the train manager’s voice cracked into life over the speakers. “There’s a slight delay on the departure time. Please accept our apologies.”

Whatever. It didn’t bother me unduly at that point (I was already halfway down my first mini bottle of wine) but about 20 minutes later it became more of a problem. “Unfortunately there’s been a fatality at Kings Langley,” we were told. “No trains are currently leaving Euston. We have no estimated time for departure. Please look for alternative routes to your destination.”

The Boy and I looked at each other in horrified silence for a moment, and then the giggles started. Still, we stuck it out for another half hour and finished up the picnic before bowing to the inevitable and going home to get very, very drunk.

Our eventual conclusion was simple. London is an fabulous city and it’s essential for the stability of the nation that its fabulousity levels are maintained at all times. Obviously on Friday a large proportion of fabulous people had left town and the powers that be just couldn’t risk us going too.

Seems reasonable enough to me.

So the next morning we sallied out again, this time to National Car Hire on Pentonville Road. They had a car but they also had a three hour queue which we took turns to stand in while the other went for coffee and a bit of fresh air. But then, at long, long last, we were off to Shropshire, sat nav in hand and bloody determination in mind.

Holiday, here we come!