Tuesday 26 February 2008

A breath of fresh insanity when all you have is air

It's cold out there and on any other day I might want to crawl home to bed and retire underneath the duvet. But not today: on Friday I got the promotion I've worked towards for the last two years, and so today I'm more enthused and happy than I've been for many a moon. Oh frabjous day, and so forth.

Celebrations started unexpectedly on Saturday morning when the Boy du Jour turned up on my doorstep with the makings of breakfast-in-bed and the Saturday papers. Even better, he then encouraged me to play two hours of PlayStation (which he hates) without a word of complaint while I kept up a running commentary on pretty much every single scene change. While I kicked seven shades of crap out of my pixellated opponent he drank coffee, read the Times and rolled his eyes at me every now and again. (Which I choose to take as a sign of affection.)

Eventually, martyred to the limits of any man's endurance, he unplugged me so that we could scoot off and spend the night with some Winchester-based friends of his. Lovely people and a great example of the kind of relationship I aspire to; our host rustled up a fantastic three course meal while his girlfriend had a beer and a gossip with us. Of course my Boy nearly bust a gut laughing when I suggest he used this as his new role model, but c'est la vie. He made up for it by not breathing a word on Sunday when a combination of slight hangover and extreme hormones encouraged me to insist on a four meal day with a sushi break partway through.

Love me, love my crazy eating.

Wednesday 20 February 2008

As clear as mud

Here's a moral story for you, O Best Beloved, and a reminder of the fact that men and women are just not meant to understand each other.

A couple of months ago the Boy du Jour asked me to put this coming weekend in my diary so that we could go and see some friends of his up in Winchester. No worries, said I, and accordingly scrawled "booked" across the days in question.

Then, last night, I received a text from the Boy informing me that in fact this "weekend trip" referred only to Saturday. Fair enough, I said, shall we do something on Friday night? No, apparently not; he's out with friends for someone else's birthday celebration. Um, but of course I could come along to that if I want?

Nein, danke, I said (being firmly of the opinion that an invitation at two days' notice where everyone else was booked a month before is not a real invitation at all). You have fun with your friends, I'll go hang out with my posse and we can meet on Sat.

Except of course only one of my trusted posse is available on a Friday night at such short notice - and that's Matt, my hairdresser. So it's (an admittedly much needed) restyle and a quiet night in for me.

Honestly, though, talk about a failure of communication. I blame the inexplicable mental manoeuverings of the male of the species, which complex concept I can sum up rather more easily in one simple and exhasperated word: men!

Tuesday 19 February 2008

Mrs and Mrs... Smith?

Luckily the post-Valentine's panic had the opportunity to subside over the weekend. Were this not the case, the arrival at my flat of an envelope addressed to Mrs and Mrs Boy du Jour (confirming our hotel booking for a friend's wedding) might have sent me into a bit of a tailspin.

I think it's rather presumptious of them, actually. Why, just because I made a booking for two people, must I be a Mr and Mrs? Surely any hotel of sense would have just sent the confirmation letter to the Miss whose name appeared on the credit card with which the booking was made?

For all they know I might be a Miss and Miss with no Mr involved at all. I almost wish I was.

Monday 18 February 2008

Happy families

Strolling through Islington in the sunshine yesterday afternoon, cap pulled down to hide my unmade-up Sunday face, I found myself really appreciating my freedom. The sunshine had brought the families out; all around me mums were struggling with shopping bags while devoted dads attempted to prevent small, screaming children from throwing themselves into the oncoming traffic. Parents no older than me snapped at each other while they waited for the bus and tried to contain what seemed to be a small horde of their beloved offspring. There but for the grace of god, I thought. If the Evil Ex and I had stayed together I might be in those poor sods’ shoes today.

Just the thought made me shudder. Kids? Thanks, but you can keep them. I can't even imagine what it would be like to want one, let alone two, three or a whole herd of my own; I can barely get myself home after a night on the town, let alone look after a whole extra person. Swapping Monsoon for Mothercare is just not very high on my priority list.

It made me think about my broodier friends. Even those who don't particularly want kids right-now-this-minute are pretty sure that family life lies in their future. When I say “it’s not for me” or even the less convincing “I don’t know” they look at me like I’ve just announced that I want to marry a giraffe. Apparently, now that I’m 28, I should want children, and the idea that I don’t is as alien to a lot of my peers as the thought of popping a sprog the size of a football out of my… well, you know… is to me. Well, I hate to disappoint, but as far as I'm concerned the only reason for children is so that you've got someone to look after you when you’re too old to do it yourself.
I just don't see the appeal.

That’s not to say that I may not change my mind one day. Maybe that’s a (terrifying and heart-attack inducing) conversation that I’ll be having with someone in five years time, who knows? Being in love with a man and wanting to "share that experience" with him may well be a different kettle of fish – but wanting children just because “that’s what women do”; well, to me that just seems a bit crazy. And nothing scares me more than the thought that Rational Me may be overwhelmed by hormones in a few years time and become convinced that this is what I want, when actually it’s just a biological imperative taking away all the things I really believe. (When I say “nothing” I'm obviously excluding spiders, burglars and vampires.)

But luckily all that lies somewhere in the future. Isn’t it nice to have something to look forward to?


In the meantime I've enjoyed a positively blissful weekend. Long, leisurely mornings; a refreshing stroll in the sunshine and some light browsing in the Angel antiques malls; a relaxed restaurant lunch over a glass of wine with the sun pouring through the windows onto my back, while outside harassed parents pushed buggies and chased their beloved children down the Essex Road. Oh, I’m sure that most of the time they’re ecstatically happy with their choice (the 5am wake-up calls, the screaming tantrums and the constant faint smell of baby sick trailing them around), but for today, for tomorrow, for the foreseeable future, nothing short of Sean Bean could persuade me to join their harried ranks.

Our thoughts are with you, brave family-rearing soldiers. While you dandle your little darlings on your knees (and try to stop them choking on a spoon) I’m off to my next glass of wine and the grand plan to run away to Russia with the Boy du Jour.


Bring on the fur hats and vodka!

Friday 15 February 2008

Lions and tigers and bears!

The fabulous Valentine's Day plan may have worked a bit too well. After a lengthy evening of champagne and, for lack of a better phrase, intellectual conversation (isn't it nice of me to spare your delicate feelings) somehow general self-congratulation about how great we are together ended up in a conversation about moving in. Him and me. In one house. Together.

I don't remember how it happened (I have a terrible feeling it may have been my fault) and I can't really think about it because whenever the conversation resurfaces in my mind all I can hear is the blood pounding between my ears. Thunk. Thunk. Whoooosh.

I know I love him and I'm gradually coming around to the idea that he might just be the man for me, but somehow the idea of living with A Boy again sends me into a spiral of panic. It doesn't help that only the previous day I'd been reminiscing about the nightmare experience I'd had living with Another Boy a few years ago and the whole disaster was still fresh in my mind when the topic came up.


But let's be thankful for small mercies - at least the panic didn't hit til Boy du Jour had left this morning. Last night it was all "what colour shall we paint the spare room" and "can we have an apartment with a river view" and "where will we put all your [his] crap". It took a full twelve hours for the implications to sink in and now I'm actually a little breathless with adrenalin and it just won't stop.

Get a grip, woman. Not all men are the Evil Ex. You broke the six month barrier with Boy du Jour without breaking a sweat and he's put about 90% of your neuroses to rest without even noticing they were there. Saying you might want to live together in another six months isn't exactly a massive step. You can totally take this in your stride.

Oh god, I'm going to faint.

Thursday 14 February 2008

Because you're worth it

I know it's not cool, but I love Valentine's Day. Some of my best memories are of the 14th February - perhaps most of all the year when Lovely Best Mate leapt through the door, holding a rose between her teeth and bearing a massive box of Milk Tray "because we're worth it and what do stupid boys know anyway".

Big Valentine's Day kisses to you all, you lovely people.

Tuesday 12 February 2008

I Love You Marmite

Last night, cruising through Angel looking for Valentine's accessories for my humble abode (which I've decided to turn into the Moulin Rouge for the evening of the 14th), I found what I can only call the Best Valentine's Present Ever. Yes, it's I Love You Marmite, a "limited edition" Marmite pot with added champagne extract. Completely unnecessary and yet somehow entirely fabulous.

Instantly I purchased one for the Boy du Jour (if it turns out he doesn't like Marmite then we obviously were never meant to be) and called the Wicked Stepmum to suggest she gets one for dad, who is also a bit of a Marmite fiend.

"DARLING," she said, hooting with laughter. (Sorry, WS, but that's pretty much how it was;) "I've just found the exact same thing in the jewellery shop in the village. They're doing them with special silver lids. Your father will think it's just TERRIBLE but really it seems more than apt."

Oh well, great minds I suppose. Hmm, a silver Marmite lid... she's right, it is terrible, and yet somehow... but no. I must stop this chain of thought at once.

Later that night, as the Moulin Rouge plan crystallised, I hit on another genius idea. Why not send the Boy a series of themed photos over the course of the day before he arrives at mine - a flash of costume, a feathered mask, a bare shoulder with a feather boa falling seductively across it. What could be more simple and yet effective?

Simple my ass. Hell, I know the costume I've put together is awesome (never mind what he thinks, I fancy the heck out of myself in it), but arranging a sultry pose and then finding a way to take a picture of it yourself without a) falling over, b) pulling a stupid face or c) covering half the shot with the camera itself is bloody hard work. Two hours of hard work resulted in five just-about-acceptable photos which I've saved in a well-hidden folder and refuse to look at again until I've had a large glass of wine this evening. If they pass muster, then great. If not, it's into the deleted bin before I accidentally send them to my mother.

I'd share a few of the more successful ones with you, O Best Beloved, but I'm not sure we know each other well enough just yet.


Friday 8 February 2008

Love, or something like it.

At some point last night the topic of Valentine's Day came up over a couple of drinks.

"Obviously I told the Boy du Jour that he didn't need to get anything for me on Valentine's," I said. "But I realise now that it was a lie and in fact I require a diamond as big as my head in order to maintain the stability of our relationship. How can I rectify this potentially disastrous situation?"

Thoughtful silence ensued. "I believe a drunken text message is in order," opined one esteemed compadre. "It is after all a trusted, effective and time-honoured method of communication."

"An excellent strategic plan!" I cried, and thought no more of it for another two glasses, at which point I zipped off the suggested text with my customary wit, irony and general fabulosity.

At least, that's what I thought at the time. He hasn't exactly replied, which I can only assume is because his entire attention is now occupied with the question of where to find said diamond.

That's really the only rational explanation.

Thursday 7 February 2008

Well, you have to start somewhere.

On my way to work this morning the heel of my shoe wedged itself into a crack in the middle of the Farringdon Road. As I knelt on the tarmac wrestling to get the bloody thing loose, cars honking like this was the most unreasonable thing they'd ever seen and half the pedestrians in the area stopping to point and laugh (just you wait, my friend, it'll be your turn tomorrow), it crossed my mind that this has really happened once too often. If I don't start keeping a record, even I'm going to start thinking I was making it up.

I hope I'm going to learn as we go, but I can't make any promises.