Monday 17 October 2011

In which I come out of hiding

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? I have no excuse for my absence except that I am happy, and "happiness is a bitch to creativity"'. It's much harder to write about a Saturday night spent curled up on the sofa with a DVD than it is to write about emotional fuckwittery and crying in the bath, and it's also far less interesting for you to read! Also, I don't need the therapy like I did six months ago. And it was therapy. To paraphrase Caitlin Moran;

"You can always tell when a women is with the wrong man, because she has so much to say about the fact that nothing's happening. When women find the right person, on the other hand, they just... disappear for six months, and then resurface, eyes shiny, and usually six pounds heavier".

So, that's where I have been. Curled up on with Essex Boy in front of a range of DVDs, drinking white wine and eating ice cream, meeting friends and family, and reading the style section while he looks over the sports pages on a Sunday morning. He is kind, and clever, and funny, and it feels right. I haven't gained six pounds though. Not yet.

But that's not all I've been doing. While my weekends have become a blissful picture of coupledom (bookended by hours spent on the M25 and hundreds of pounds spent on petrol), I have also made the biggest commitment in my life as an independent woman - I've bought a house! After years spent living at home and saving my money like Ebenezer Scrooge, I have finally had an offer accepted on a one bed terraced house about fifteen minutes away from my parents. (I didn't want to be too independent, who would help me put the shelves up?) The house is a tiny two up two down, but it has a garden! And stairs! And a corner bath! And parking! It's perfect and I can't wait to move in - something which could take some time, judging by the speed the solicitors are currently progressing. I'm hoping to be in by Christmas, although I won't have any money left over, so the festive season will most likely be spent sitting on the floor in my empty living room, admiring a single bauble.

I'm excited and nervous about living alone. Being able to decorate the place myself, eat whatever I want, and watch endless episodes of Gossip Girl are all things which appeal to me immensely. Then there are benefits to come from not living with parents, like being able to come home whenever I want (rather than receiving a text message to check I'm still alive every time I work late) and not having to sit in my bedroom like teenagers whenever I have a friend round. There are a few things I'm worried about, of course - the expense is a major concern, because I won't have anyone to help me out and I've just spent my life savings on the deposit. And I'm slightly concerned about security, although if I'm honest, large spiders are more worrying to me than any other kind of intruder.

Overall though, I think it's going to be a huge adventure, and I can't wait.

Saturday 20 August 2011

In which men can do no right

Last week, a colleague of mine went on a first date. They had a lovely time, she said, and she enjoyed herself more than she expected to. The following morning, she received a stunning bouquet of flowers at the office.

The level of debate this bunch of flowers caused was unprecedented. Personally, I thought it was romantic. That's the kind of thing us girls are always moaning that men don't do, right? And we all know how nerve-racking it is waiting for him to text or call after the first date - flowers tell us all we need to know. He likes you, he had a good time, he wants to see you again. However, some of our other colleagues disagreed. The words "too much" were bandied about a fair bit. For her part, the recipient said they were beautiful, but that the date "wasn't that good".

This is the bit problem with men making grand gestures, particularly early on in the relationship. They don't know the girl that well, so they don't know how they'll be received. The thing is, the way you feel about the flowers in a situation like this is completely reflective of the way you feel about the man. If Essex Boy had sent flowers after our first date, I'd have been thrilled, but then I was mad about him from day one. If I hadn't liked him as much, I may have appreciated flowers, but they wouldn't have made me like him more... and if I knew I didn't want to see him again, they would just have made me feel guilty.

What do you think?

Sunday 7 August 2011

In which I try to unpack my emotional baggage

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a new boyfriend will suddenly become irresistibly attractive to all the men she liked before, none of whom were interested at the time.

Or maybe it's just me, I don't know. What I do know, however, it's that I'd really like to be enjoying these blissful early days with The Man I Am Seeing (aka. Essex Boy) rather than having a war of words over text  with Future Husband. He seems to have forgotten that I was interested in him, and it was him who stopped texting me; that many of my phone calls went unanswered and unreturned; and that the last time I saw him he told me he "wasn't sure" whether or not he wanted to be with me. He is also failing to understand why refusing to see me or speak to me now, and sending me multiple texts (including the immortal line "I was coming round to the idea"), has really, really wound me up. FH seems to think that the fact that he was "coming round to the idea" of going out with me is something I should be happy about, even grateful for. A few months ago, I was wondering why we weren't together. He's now demonstrated some pretty compelling reasons. I just hope that our friendship can survive.

Meanwhile, Essex Boy is making me very happy. I'm not sure how much I should say about him - it's much easier to disect the confusing and downright weird behaviour of men I don't care so much about, and much harder to talk about someone I like more and more with every passing day. It's now been a month since our first official date, and I've done the journey from Bucks to Essex a couple of consecutive weekends. We've also been to our work summer festival, meaning that our relationship is well and truly "out" amongst our colleagues. I can't overexaggerate how wonderful he is and how lucky I feel to be with him.

It's pretty scary, though. I wasn't planning to meet someone I felt like this about so soon, and as soon as I met him, I knew things were going to change. I'd be lying if I said I was over Former Love of my Life; I know I wouldn't go back to him, but yesterday I was reduced to tears by finding last year's Christmas cards (featuring brief, neatly written messages which masked a lot of pain and confusion - when I wrote mine I wasn't even sure we'd still be together at Christmas). As my feelings for Essex Boy get stronger, I'm finding that the pain of my break up is coming back to the fore. It's like I'm trying to deal with it so that I can put it behind me once and for all, but I'm not sure how long that is going to take.

For the first time in my life, I'm aware of myself carrying some baggage into this new relationship. I'm so, so happy, but I'm all too aware that relationships that start like this can still end in raw, painful ways. That old cliché of "love like you've never been hurt before" is proving difficult, and I'm still holding back a lot of myself. I guess that's normal though, so early on. What I do know for sure is that while I'm lucky enough to have Essex Boy in my life, I'm going to hold onto him.

Tuesday 19 July 2011

In which living at home has some drawbacks

Since my relationship ended back in February, I have been living at home with my parents again. It's good. I get on well with my mum and dad - much better than I did when I lived here as a teenager, that's for sure. My brothers are lovely and entertaining, and I love that there is always company around when I want it. My washing is done for me and my parents own a dishwasher (something I have never had in rented accommodation), as well as a corner bath where I spend many happy - and sometimes less happy - hours. I have a lot more creature comforts than I would do in my own place, and always have someone to talk to.

And yet... after five months, I have come up against a problem. The truth is, deep down, I am still scared of my mum. Not in the same way as I was as a teenager, when all we did was scream at each other... in fact, we get on really well now, and I ask her for her advice on things all the time. The problem is that, despite the fact I am 26 not sixteen, I'd really like my mum to believe I'm still a virgin.

This is ridiculous, of course. I have had more than one boyfriend to stay over in the last ten years, and I've actually lived with two of them. Plus there was the diary-reading incident of 2001 - we don't talk about it, but we both know it happened. But despite this, when The Man I Am Seeing invited me to his house for dinner and, more crucially, for breakfast, my first thought was, "How am I going to tell my mother?"

My mum is not naïve. When she was fourteen, she had a boyfriend with a car. A few years ago, my nan found a picture of her as a teenager snogging my dad on the lawn, and was very excited to show it to us... until it turned out not to be my dad. When I once asked her to tell me something I didn't know about her, she revealed she'd dated a Moroccan boy when she was fifteen (I have no idea how; she never went on holiday abroad and she wasn't exactly brought up somewhere multi-cultural). However, my mum and dad did meet when she was seventeen, get married when she was 21, and they are still together more than thirty years later. Like many women of her generation, she missed out on being both adult and single.

I am not talking here about "having needs". My god, I certainly wouldn't admit to a one night stand! But I just can't decide how to position the news that I am staying over with a man relatively early on in the relationship, and that's a shame because the truth is that I think this guy is someone really, really special, and my decision to stay has just a little bit to do with sex, and a lot to do with spending some quality time together (and the fact that he lives an hour and a half away, and I'd like to have a glass of wine). I could just tell her this, of course, but like my teenage self, I sometimes think the less said on these things the better. I'll probably just tell her not to wait up, and then run. At least now I'm old enough not to have to ask my dad for a lift...

Saturday 2 July 2011

In which men are even more confusing than usual

Do you remember The Brazilian? Don't worry if not, I barely did. He's the sexy barman who asked me out and then disappeared off the face of the earth. At the time his disappearing act did upset me a bit, but three months on, I can't say I've been losing sleep over it. Or indeed thinking about it, ever, unless I'm talking to my single friends about the bizarre behaviour of men.

So I was surprised, to say the least, when he popped up on Facebook chat last week. I considered ignoring him, but curiosity got the better of me. Also, it did cross my mind that he might ask me out again, and I couldn't resist the potential opportunity to tell him to stick it. As it turned out, he wasn't planning to ask me out again, he was just dropping me a line to apologise for not calling me. (To reiterate, this was THREE MONTHS AGO.) In essence, he said I scared him off by being too keen. Now, this would not be entirely out of character for me. I'm sure I can come across as too keen, because when I like someone I do like to talk to them (astonishing, I'm sure you agree). However, that's not what happened with The Brazilian. What happened was that he asked me to a BBQ on a Sunday, and on the Friday I texted to ask him where it was, and he never spoke to me again. Was this wrong?! To ask where exactly I was meant to be and at what time for an event he'd already invited me to? I cannot help but feel that a man who is scared by a text message asking these questions may not be man enough for me. Presumably he is also scared of mice and spiders and the dark and hairbrushes, and that is not what I am looking for in a man, if I'm honest.

I wish I'd told him all this, but in the event I was so speechless over the whole thing I simply said it wasn't a big deal and then deleted him from Facebook. Effective, but not that satisfying.

Anyway, I thought that was probably my fair share of male weirdness for June, but then on Thursday, I received a text message out of the blue from Future Husband, simply saying, "I miss you, you know". Actually, I did not know, because after two great weeks of something vaguely resembling coupledom, he reduced his text traffic from two an hour to two a fortnight. I assumed he had lost interest, and realised I could do better. I momentarily questioned this decision, texting back, "Really?" to which I received a reply informing me that FH does "think about me on occasion". Unsurprisingly, this merely served to prove my point. I'm looking to be swept off my feet by a great wave of love. That was the romantic equivalent of standing in a rock pool with a dead crab.

The good news is, I have met someone who I like, and who I think might actually like me. We work together, sort of. There has been a coffee, and a lunch. We are making each other mix tapes. That's all I'm going to say for now, as I'm determined not to jinx it. But I promise if he disappears off the face of the earth, you'll be the first to know.

Saturday 18 June 2011

In which I try to move on (in more ways than one)

That's that, then. It would appear that my involvement with Future Husband is over before it even really started. He might be my oldest and best male friend, but he's crappy boyfriend material. Aside from the fact that he's barely texted me for three weeks, there are the following reasons: he was three hours late to an event we went to last weekend, having woken up a mere thirty minutes before I was due to collect him from the station, an hour and a half away; he is a hypochondriac who reckons he has cholera when he in fact has a slightly dodgy stomach (I'd like to think he was joking, but I'm not sure); and he managed to keep me up-to-date on his recent job hunt and coinciding life-threatening illness without once asking me how I was (since you ask, I had tuberculosis).

We haven't actually discussed the demise of this phase of our relationship, but then we didn't discuss the start of it either, which could possibly be why we ended up as 'friends with benefits' for two months, rather than any sort of proper couple. I'm not going to deny the quality of those benefits, but it wasn't quite what I had in mind. Still, I am sure that we will stay friends and laugh about this in years to come.

Probably.

Anyway, as a result of these realisations and the fact that I have been out every night this week, I found myself with a very quiet weekend on the horizon, so I decided to make a start on the flat hunt. For years now I have been saving my pennies in a variety of ISAs and e-savings accounts, and thanks to the generosity of my parents, who have let me live at home for years without contributing more than the odd loaf of bread, I now have quite a bit saved. Thanks to my recent promotion, I'm also in a position to get a mortgage (terrifyingly, they seem to think I'm actually 'a good asset' - I did not wear my Kurt Geigers to the meeting). So this morning I headed off to my chosen location to visit lots of estate agents. One or two of them actually listened to my specifications - safe area, parking, bath, and balcony/direct access to gardens - and led me to the conclusion that I will easily snap up a place of my own. Just as soon as I've saved another twenty thousand pounds, plus money for fees. Like I said, easy.

So you see? I don't need a man. Not even a little bit. I am an Independent Woman, as Beyoncé would say. My life is fabulous and full and I am happy and healthy (apart from the TB) and my future is full of excitement.

And besides, there's this cute new guy at the office...

Sunday 5 June 2011

In which love is in the air

Despite owning a pile of rom com DVDs as tall as I am, I'm struggling to think of any films where the main characters actually say the words "I love you". I suppose they don't need to - in the movies, all it takes is a kiss, or even just a look, and intentions are clear. In real life, intentions aren't necessarily so clear, even to the person who says those three little words. Maybe you know that you love a person, and have been waiting for the perfect moment to tell them; maybe you are scared you will lose them, and say it to stay on the safe side; or maybe the words just slip out, while you're, ahem, otherwise engaged.

Yes, I told Future Husband I loved him. Yes, I did it while my mind was on other things. Yes, that is a euphemism. I don't know who was more surprised, me or him. I suspect me. Where the hell did that come from? Afterwards, I put it down to a strong friendship and even stronger hormones, and he was gracious enough to let me, but I worry that now I've said it, I've played my hand far, far too early. It didn't put either of us off our stride at the time, and in fact we had another wonderful weekend, filled with kisses, dopey grins, red wine and pizza eaten in bed. Now though a week has passed, and I have barely heard from him. This first bit of a relationship has always been my favourite, but I'm beginning to think I've finally grown up - I'm missing the security of knowing how someone feels about me, and I'm bored of game playing.

Three days and two hundred and fifty miles after my indiscretion, I watched two people who have done away with all the games pledge their undying love to each other. Forces Wife is now a real wife, having tied the knot with her lovely man under an uncharacteristically blaring sun in a pretty Northern seaside town. She looked so beautiful and happy it brought tears to my eyes, and I even forgot to be jealous (for most of the day, anyway). This couple have got love and happiness nailed. They know they have faults, but adore each other all the same. They are independent, but happiest together. They respect each other, and respect their relationship. They would never do anything to hurt each other, because they know how lucky they are to have found one another.

Watching them smiling their way through a clumsy first dance routine, oblivious to anyone but each other and just so happy to be together, I thought of us ten years ago, where every relationship was a drama and we never thought we'd find true love. I'm thrilled that things have changed for at least one of us!

Sunday 22 May 2011

In which I wonder what exactly is going on

We all know that there are rules around dating... but does anyone have the faintest clue what they actually are? I only ask because I have no idea what I'm doing.

Yesterday I went on a second date with Good On Paper Guy. Yes, a second date, despite the fact that I didn't really want to go on the first one. You may assume that when we met for drinks the first time, my reservations were cast aside and the sparks flew. You would be wrong. The date was perfectly nice, but I still didn't fancy him. The reason I went out with him a second time was that he was persistent, and I'm too polite to say no. Having attempted to avoid the situation with a variety of transparent excuses, I eventually bumped into him in the pub on Friday night, where he said "So are you going to let me take you out again?" and I found myself saying "What about lunch?"

Lunch was undeniably lovely. We went to a Michelin starred restaurant and sat outside in the sunshine drinking wine and eating amazing food. He was sweet and entertaining and interesting, and refused to let me pay my share despite the fact the bill came to more than £70. (In fact, there's a good rule for men to look out for - if I'm insistent about paying my share, it's because I don't plan to see you again and don't want to take advantage.) The trouble is, what if he asks me out again? What can I say? Ending a relationship is one thing, but admitting you don't even want to see how things might progress seems really cruel. On the other hand, I'd really rather that I didn't end up marrying him out of politeness.

In other news, Future Husband returned from his holiday with a beautiful framed print he had bought me in an antique shop, and we spent a happy afternoon kissing like teenagers. Meanwhile, we absolutely failed to discuss any elements of what's going on between us, which is odd because we talk about everything, all the time. To further complicate matters, I've spent so much time being indoctrinated by elements of The Rules that I have now developed a phobia of texting or calling a man, even if I have known that man for more than two decades. If you think that sounds mad, it gets worse: I haven't even read The Rules, somehow I've just learned them via osmosis. My loved-up friends think I'm mental, but if a potential date is going to disappear off the face of the earth (as seems to happen to single friends, male and female, with alarming regularity), I'd much rather that he didn't realise I was interested in the first place. Of course if you're genuinely not interested, men will behave like perfect gentlemen, with regular, witty texts and expensive lunches.

If dating is a game, does anyone happen to know how one would go about winning it?

Monday 16 May 2011

In which I wonder what it means to be single

It is three months since the Former Love of my Life and I made the decision to split up, and it feels like three years. I still feel like I'm drowning if I think about him too much... but I've realised that I'm going to be ok. I don't know when, or if, I'll ever wake up and not care about him, but I've realised that even when something heartbreaking happens, life is good. And I've learnt a few things about being single:

1. Girlfriends are the best. A girlfriend told me that the only possible reason that The Brazilian hadn't called is that he'd died. When I told her he'd updated his Facebook profile that morning, she told me I was in denial. I laughed so much I forgot to be sad.

2. You have more friends than you think. I have driven to Wales to spend the bank holiday with a dreadlocked uni friend, been clubbing with a girl I haven't seen since I was 10 and her hilarious friends, watched the Royal Wedding with friends I've seen every few months since I was four, and been to a gig with a Twitter friend I'd never met before. And that's just the start of it.

3. You meet men everywhere - but you might not care. When I was in a relationship, I thought I might be missing something, or someone. Now I realise I probably wasn't. There are gorgeous, kind, sweet men everywhere (as well as some grade A tossers) but most of them aren't for me. I'll wait for someone exceptional, thanks very much.

4. Bathtimes are depressing. God knows why, but I've lost count of the number of times I found myself crying in the bath. Often I accompanied the crying by mournfully singing Adele songs. Maybe it's a rite of passage for the broken hearted. Exercise damage limitation and don't take a glass of Pinot to the bathroom with you.

5. On a related note, Pinot is depressing too. Drink Martinis instead. You might fall off your stilettos and graze your knees like a schoolchild (hypothetically, of course) but you're less likely to end up sobbing under the duvet.

6. You can be really, really selfish. It's awesome. When I was in a relationship, mine was the "sensible car", with five seats and boot space. I've since bought an apple green convertible. I also bought clothes I knew my ex would hate, and had my hair cut the way I wanted it for the first time. Can you believe I'd never decided on my own hair cut without wondering if a guy would like it? Jeeeeezus.

7. You will remember what you actually like. I have listened to Adele's new album pretty much every day, I have watched the Sex and the City movie about six times, and I've filled the gaps in between with the Cold Feet box set and a pile of books. Oddly enough, I haven't watched a single episode of Top Gear.

8. You can plan for a future which is all about you. Yes, I hope to get married one day, but before then I plan to buy my own flat, with money I have saved up, and decorate it however I like. Pink, probably.

9. You should buy a Rabbit. Don't ask questions, just do it.

10. Being single is a permanent state of hopefulness. You could meet your next Great Love anywhere you look. He might be your best friend, or the guy you meet at the bar, or someone you work with, or the drummer in the band, or Prince Harry. Tonight might be the night you meet him. Or it might just be the night you drink fifteen Martinis and graze both your knees.

Sunday 8 May 2011

In which I agree to a date I don't really want to go on

I've been a bit quiet of late, what with the two bank holiday weekends, a trip to Wales, a hen do, a new car and a promotion all happening in the last two weeks! I've been far too busy writing angry letters to banks and insurance companies (a bit of a speciality of mine - I should start a sideline in professional complaints) to have any time left over for blogging, and with so much going on, I haven't really known where to start...

Future Husband* went on holiday last week, but spent the whole week texting me. When he got back, we spent nearly two hours on the phone. I even told Forces Wife about my feelings for him, as he was her first love, and under normal circumstances I wouldn't go near a friend's ex for all the shoes in Louboutin. She told me to go for it, bless her. I didn't think she'd be upset, especially considering that she is marrying a wonderful man is in less than a month, but I felt very uneasy about it all the same. It's a weight off my shoulders to have her blessing.

So FH and I are slowly maneuvering our twenty-two year relationship into new and much more dangerous waters. I haven't seen him since our amazing weekend together, partly due to his holiday, and partly due to the fact that (I have now remembered) he is wholly unreliable. I was supposed to be seeing him today in fact, but he went out last night and didn't wake up until three. Maybe this is why we're not together! Still, I'm excited to see where this might go, despite the fact he's a mature student who's incapable of setting an alarm.

In the meantime, I found myself agreeing to a date with a man who is incredibly Good On Paper. I met him at birthday drinks for one of my lovely colleagues, we hit it off, and the following day he asked my friend for my number and texted to ask me out. He's thirty-something, works in IT, drives a BMW, owns his own flat... and I don't fancy him at all. It's not that he's unattractive - he's actually lovely, and really fit - but I'm just not feeling the spark. However, in the name of playing the dating game, I found myself saying yes to post-work drinks next week. It doesn't sit that well with me considering the situation with FH, but that's almost why I agreed to it - it would be easy to start treating FH as a boyfriend, and he isn't. Yet. Still, I feel a bit bad for leading Good On Paper Guy on when I'm fairly certain there won't be a second date, but isn't that what being single is all about? Meeting people, having a laugh, enjoying each other's company for a while...

So we shall see. Neither the date with Good On Paper Guy nor the next meeting with Future Husband have been confirmed yet, and with my recent track record I won't be putting any money on either of them actually taking place!

*I'm beginning to wish I'd chosen a different moniker... 'Future Husband' has lost its irony in recent weeks!

Thursday 21 April 2011

In which it turns out that all is not quite what it seems

Today was a beautiful day, and with the bank holiday weekend almost upon us, my team decided to treat ourselves to lunch in the sunshine. Wandering back to the office with two of my colleagues, the conversation turned to the colleague who (unbeknown to them) recently asked me out, and the fact that he is dating my schoolfriend.

"Really?" questioned my brunette colleague. "He's seeing someone?"

"Mmm," I responded with forced nonchalance. "It's early days, but he seems to like her. I think he cooked her dinner the other night."

Brunette raised her eyebrows and replied, slightly frostily, that she supposed that it was a good thing he was looking outside of the office for once.

Obviously, my interest was piqued, so I questioned this. "Ooh, no-one you know," replied Brunette, who has worked at The PR Agency for a lot longer than me. "I think he had a thing with someone who left last year, and, well... we did exchange a couple of emails."

I glanced at her but she was staring pointedly ahead. "Um..." I ventured. "I exchanged a couple of emails with him too." Now Brunette looked round, so I continued with a wry smile, "He asked me out."

"He asked me out!" said Brunette, looking surprised.

Now I wondered what I'd gotten into, so I quickly explained that he'd cancelled on me. "He's cancelled on me five times!" said Brunette, now starting to laugh. Just as we thought it could get worse, our companion chimed in, "He hit on me too."

Brunette and I both turned to stare at Blonde, who is married! "We went for lunch," she continued, "and afterwards he emailed saying he knew it was inappropriate, but he thinks I'm really great."

By this point we were all in stitches. "He sent me that same email!" I squealed. "But without the bit about it being inappropriate!"

"He's probably got a template set up in Outlook!" laughed Brunette, and we all dissolved into fits of giggles.

Further investigation suggests that he's been 'involved' with Brunette the longest, with Blonde coming in a couple of months ago and me most recently. We haven't checked the dates exactly, but it seems there may have been some cross-over between Brunette and I - it's not impossible that he was emailing us on the same days. We've decided to put out a few feelers and see if anyone else has been in any way involved - it seems likely, don't you think?! You have to have a grudging respect for him really. He's been putting a lot of trust in the idea that we won't talk to each other about it... either that or, as Forces Wife suggested, he's completely shameless!

The gentleman in question is leaving work in a couple of months, so we have plenty of time to plot our revenge. We'd like to bring to his attention the fact that he's been caught out... and preferably in a fairly public way! As he's dating someone, we don't want to go down the obvious route of asking him out and then all turning up, in a John Tucker Must Die type scenario, but we've got plenty of time to think of an alternative... and if you have any ideas, I would love to hear from you!

Monday 18 April 2011

In which something changes

In light of my recent disappointments with men, I turned to the one guy I knew I would have fun with: Future Husband. Last time I saw FH was a year ago, and we went for a very expensive lunch at Inamo in Soho (if you haven't been, you must) followed by a wander round Fortnum's to buy gold leaf-encrusted cakes which we later ate in Trafalgar Square. This time we decided to go all out and make a weekend of it, the highlights of which included:

Eating zebra steak at my favourite restaurant. It was so good you could have eaten it raw, which at one point I pretty much did as we were laughing so much I forgot to check it was cooked.

Raiding my parents' cocktail cabinet and staying up until seven in the morning drinking my dad's expensive vodka. I don't remember the last time I saw dawn - I'm just not that hardcore.

Listening to Bruce Springsteen records. If there's one thing I like more that listening to Bruce Springsteen CDs, it's listening to Bruce Springsteen records. I love that gorgeous scratchy sound and the way that replacing the pin on the record is a thousand times more atmospheric than skipping the track on a CD. The records included live versions of 'Fire' and 'Cadillac Ranch', which I love, and while we listened to them we sat outside drinking wine.

Laughing at 'art' at the Tate Modern. We loved the sunflower seeds, but were less impressed by the school coat hooks covered in mud. I mean, what?!

All in all, it was the best weekend I've had in a long time. There's just one thing. Sitting in FH's kitchen, listening to Neil Diamond and watching him do the washing up, I suddenly realised that I might just be absolutely, head over heels in love with this gorgeous man.

Oh, shit.

Wednesday 13 April 2011

In which I ponder the meaning of 'honesty'

Honesty is a prized quality. We all want honesty in our lives, from our friends, our co-workers and our lovers. Nobody wants to be lied to. But the trouble with all this honesty is that people are fickle. If you're too honest, there can be consequences, because what you want today may not be what you want next week.

Of course, I've been pondering this for a reason, and I'm sure it won't take a genius to work out that that reason involves a man. A couple of weeks ago, around the time I was being messed about by The Brazilian, a colleague of mine was having a flirtation with one of my old schoolmates. It turned out that the schoolmate had a boyfriend, and somewhere along the line my commiserations with The Colleague ('Why are all the good ones taken?' 'Why don't men call?') turned to flirting, and he asked me out.

Now, it's always a risk to get involved with a workmate, but knowing that he'd been headhunted and would be leaving soon, I accepted. Drinks with a handsome single man? Yes please. Plus I liked his honesty. I liked the straightforward way he said he liked me and would like to get to know me better. (Yes, it's that word, 'straightforward', again and no, it didn't work out well for me last time but I live in misplaced hope.)

To cut a long story short, the date didn't happen. Deja vu, anyone? The schoolfriend broke up with her boyfriend and The Colleague decided to go out with her instead. He cancelled our date, claiming to be a 'one women guy', which would be have been admirable if he hadn't forgotten that (for the time being at least) that one woman was supposed to be me.

This is where honesty comes into it all, because in cancelling our date, he said, "I know it's shit, and I'm sorry Ruby, but I'm just being honest with you". Do I want that kind of honesty? The kind that says, 'I chose to date someone I'd never met before over you'? The kind that allows him to hurt me and then claim the defence of honesty? The kind that allows him to forget that a week ago he was being honest when he said he wanted to go out with me?

Of course, the honest response to this would be, "Ouch - please excuse me while I go and cry in the ladies"... which is why I chose to lie outrageously, claimed I couldn't care less and then turned up at work the next day in a new dress, seamed stockings and six inch stilettos. What else could I do? I've been asked on two dates in the last month, and neither man has hung around long enough for even one drink. This is not an impressive record.

Still, onwards and upwards! And until then, I have a weekend with my Future Husband* planned. In the name of complete honesty, I've already told him that if he dares cancel on me I'm going Glen Close on his ass.

*Future Husband became a firm friend age four, when we realised we shared a birthday. Looks like a young Bruce Springsteen, dated Forces Wife about a decade ago, our parents would like us to marry. Despite having looks, charm and intelligence, he is almost certainly not my future husband.

Sunday 3 April 2011

In which I do not go on a date

I decided what to wear to the BBQ. It took a week, but I eventually chose skinny jeans, a loose-fitting vest and sky high heels. I was pretty confident about it. It's a good look. I'm wearing it now in fact, as it is the day of the BBQ. I'm wearing it to watch Cold Feet in my bedroom.

The Brazilian didn't call. It was a promising start, with the texts, and the call, and some more texts during the week, but we never actually managed to arrange anything and I haven't heard from him all weekend. Maybe I'm just being naive, but I wouldn't be surprised if he just had a busy night at work last night and isn't even awake yet. Still, it's disappointing and more than a little embarrassing, given that I told half the people I know that I had a date today.

I hope this isn't what it's going to be like, dating. I'd like to actually attend a date at some point, rather than just spend my weekends wondering if my phone is broken. Of course, it is the 21st century, and I could just call him, but where's the pride in that? I'd almost definitely just end up feeling worse.

In the meantime, Former Love of my Life has been in touch, in a Facebook message to everyone he knows, asking us to his birthday party. He's going to an 80s club, something we'd been talking about for months before we split up. Obviously I'm not going to go. Obviously. But I do now get to be included on the many, many messages from all of our friends, who I no longer see as we have split up, planning a night out I originally suggested. Lovely. Why did he invite me? Surely he doesn't want me to go. Surely he knows I don't want to go. I loved him far too much to be friends. Last time I saw him I burst into tears in seconds.

I would worry about what it all means, but to be honest, as with The Brazilian, I suspect it means very little. I spend my whole life talking to my girlfriends about what men mean and in most cases they appear to be mainly forgetful, lazy or confused. In the meantime, women (or me at least) insist on overanalysing every single thing and we just make ourselves miserable. The game playing is exhausting, isn't it?

Monday 28 March 2011

In which I embrace single life... and the barman

The last few weeks have been hard. The reality of my relationship ending really hit home; the Former Love of my Life finally moved out of our flat, signalling a real end to everything we had. I went to pick up a stray birthday card and burst into tears; it was not a high point. I realised what a waste of time my flirtation with The Journalist was; he has a girlfriend, and if I'm really honest, I can't be doing with the hassle. An old school friend got engaged, another one bought a flat with her boyfriend... and Best Mate told me she's having a baby! I genuinely couldn't be happier for her and her lovely fiancé, but all these couples have been together for less time than I was with the Love of my Life - it's really hammered home what we could have had, and never will.

So when one of my school friends invited me up to London for a night of vodka and karaoke to celebrate her birthday, I dragged my tired little self into my highest, sparkliest heels and onto the train. And it was there, several vodkas in, that I met The Brazilian.

He was working behind the bar, and he hit on me. I can't remember the last time that happened. In my experience, boys are shy, and as I am not so shy, I tend to lead the way on amorous encounters. But The Brazilian flirted with me, bought me drinks, asked for my number... in fact, he said "You give me your number, yes?" in a way that really didn't suggest it was a question at all. That confidence, that accent... when he kissed me, I actually melted.

My first single girl kiss. It was everything I might have hoped for and more. He'd have been a superb kisser even without the tongue stud, but as a girl who likes a bit of metal on a man... wow.

However, I know how dating works. Men do not call. Barmen who smooch with customers over the bar especially do not call. I did not expect to hear from him again. Except then, less than 24hrs later, he texted me, asking if I'd had a good night. He said he would call me the next day... and he did. It's sad that I should set so much store by a man calling when he said he would, but my last flirtation was with The Journalist and we all know how that ended (no, he did not email me).

Anyway, The Brazilian and I talked for a hour, about music, films, travel... all the usual. He told me his full name, and believe you me, it's a good one, straight out of a Jilly Cooper novel. The perfect name for a sexy foreigner with whom I may have a small fling. Just a small one, because I'm under no illusions that a Brazilian barman with a tongue stud is likely to be anything more than perfect fling material. But I was touched by how straightforward he was - he called, he asked me out, no messing. I'm meeting him on Sunday for a bbq at his friend's place.

What on earth am I going to wear?

Saturday 19 March 2011

In which I need a little lie down

I haven't been properly single for a long time. I was with my last boyfriend for three and a half years, and the one before him for two, and the two before him for six months each, and if I'm honest, there wasn't much of a gap between each relationship. If I'm actually honest, there wasn't any gap at all. This means I haven't actually been on the look out for hot men since I was nineteen... which explains a lot.

Last week, I was driving to work, and as I got to the bottom of my parents' driveway, this gorgeous man ran past. He was gorgeous. (And just to be clear, he was running in a keep-fit kind of way, rather than an escaping-from-the-law kind of way.) While I accept that 7.45am, while I'm in a car, isn't exactly the ideal time to meet a man, the village I live in is pretty small. Everyone knows everyone, so I was confident that I could probably track this man down later. Sure enough, mere seconds later, I saw him run past my youngest brother, who was on his way to the bus stop - and he waved at him! Score!

I then promptly forgot about the incident until a few days later while I was drinking wine on the sofa with my mum, and when I remembered, I realised that I wasn't sure if he had actually waved at my brother, or just gestured in a "thanks for moving so I can run past you" kind of way. So when I asked if he remembered a guy running past him in the street several days ago, I wasn't really expecting him to - but he did! The conversation started well (started being the operative word):

Me: Really?! Do you know him?!

Youngest Brother: Yeah.

Me: Really?! Who is he?!

YB: Callum.

Me: Callum. How do you know him?!

YB: He works with me at the brewery.

Me: The brewery. Is he nice?!

YB: Er, yeah.

Me: Excellent. Excellent. By the way, how old is he?

YB: Nineteen.

Nineteen? Nineteen?! WHAT? When did nineteen year olds start looking like that? Not when I was bloody nineteen, that's for sure. He looked at least my age. Older probably (I'm very youthful). But nineteen. And that's when I realised - nineteen year olds look like men now, but I can't date them. Same goes for pretty much anyone up to the age of twenty five, which means that I am going to have to be very careful indeed. Can't go round fancying nineteen year olds. No good will come of that.

NB. It is only as I write this that I realise Callum was born in the Nineties. Dear god.

Saturday 12 March 2011

In which I take a trip down memory lane

I mentioned in my previous post that I know The Journalist likes me. The story of how I know this is a particular favourite of mine, so please indulge me while I take a trip down memory lane...

Some months ago, I attended a launch party held by The Journalist's publishing house. There was champagne, and there was wine. My colleagues and I have a hugely inflated sense of how much we can drink at the best of times, and we'd had a long week. We drank some champagne, and we drank some more. We ran out of champagne and started drinking Pinot like it was water. Except nobody drinks that much water. The Journalist's colleagues were not much better.

At some point, one of two things happened. Either, the event ended, or the booze ran out. I genuinely don't know which. However, we weren't yet ready to call it a night, and headed off into the night in search of a pub. We found some little boozer with sofas and sambuca, and that's when things started to get interesting.

The Journalist was off at the bar, and I was sitting with a mixed group of my colleagues and his, when I realised I'd been in conversation with the same lad for some time and had no idea who he was. I politely pointed out that we hadn't been introduced, and he told me he was The Designer from The Journalist's magazine. I said, "Hi, I'm Ruby from The PR Agency," and he burst out laughing. He actually threw his head back with mirth and howled "So you're Ruby from The PR Agency!"

This concerned me, as well it might. I waited for him to calm down and wipe the tears from his eyes, and then questioned where exactly he knew me from. He explained, "The Journalist has a picture of you on his desk." At this point, I relaxed a bit. The Journalist and I have attended many events together over the years. We have been in the same place at the same time on numerous occassions, almost all of them the type of occassion where a camera would be present. Admittedly, I couldn't think of an exact time where we'd been photographed together, so I asked, "Really? What picture is that?"

The Designer descibed the picture. My hair was longer then, he said, and hanging over my face. I was wearing animal print. I may have been mid-dance. I recognised this picture. The Journalist is not in it. It was not actually taken at an event where The Journalist was present. In fact, it was not taken at a work event at all. It was taken on a night out with Forces Wife some years ago, before I even met The Journalist.

This came as something of a shock.

By this point The Journalist had started glancing over, perhaps concerned at the level of laughter and multiple looks being thrown his way. He looked at me, bemused. I beckoned him over and waited for him to sit down. I then said, "Do you have a picture of me on your desk?"

The look on his face would make a superb photograph. In fact, it did, as The Designer, ever more thrilled with his storytelling, was waiting for this moment with camera at the ready. There was horror, and confusion, and humiliation, and finally resignation. There was a grimace, and a hand over the eyes. I asked exactly how my picture came to be on his desk.

The Journalist explained, without entirely meeting my gaze, that he talked about me so much that for his birthday two of his colleagues (who I also knew well) had found the picture on Twitter and turned it into a birthday card, which ten months later was still pinned to his desk. I'm not sure what I did during this time. Laughed, I think, and expressed an opinion that it was "a bit stalky."

The rest of the evening is a bit of a Pinot-induced blur, but two things stand out. The first of these was that, some time further into the conversation, The Journalist gave up trying to defend himself, sighed, and said, "But you know I fancy you, right?" at which point I explained that, no, I did not know. The second is a recollection of myself at the bar with a colleague, repeating the words "Who knew?" over and over again. Because really, who knew?

In which The Journalist does not email me

I mentioned in my last post that my birthday bought with it a text message from The Journalist. He said he thinks about me a lot, I'm "pretty wonderful" and, crucially, that he would email me during the week. To be clear, those were his exact words: "I will email you during the week."

I should never have got my hopes up as a) my birthday was a Friday and he texted at 11pm, meaning there is a 100% chance he was drunk, b) he has the memory of a goldfish and has been known to forget entire conversations held less than 24 hours ago and c) he has a girlfriend. I realise he doesn't sound like much of a catch at this point, but you have to trust me when I say there is just something about this man. He manages to make all his failings utterly charming (except the part about having a girlfriend).

The Journalist likes me (more on that later) and he knows that I like him. When we were both in relationships, we emailed sporadically, met up for the occasional drink, and flirted outrageously within fairly safe parameters. Because we were both unavailable, we knew where we stood. We were on equal footing - if either of us had called an end to it, the other would have coped just fine. When things cooled off significantly a few months ago, I won't pretend I didn't miss him, but I knew it was best for everyone concerned.

Of course, now, everything is different. I'd written him off until I got his text message (our first contact since his birthday a couple of months ago) but now I was all over the place again. Yes, things would be easier if he was single, but I'm not going to get involved in trying to make that happen. However, I do like him, he is great company, and a few drinks and some flirting would be nice. Hardly admirable, but there you have it.

The week started, and continued, without an email. On Monday, I was ok with this. It wouldn't do for him to look too keen. On Tuesday, I started to obsess a tiny bit. Just a tiny bit. By Wednesday, I was jumping six foot out my chair every time an email came through (I work in PR and receive approximately 500 emails a day). On Thursday morning I thought, f*** it, it's only The Journalist, and emailed him.

Then the real fun started. He didn't email back. I realised that if I checked his Twitter account, I could see if he was tweeting from "web" or "Blackberry" therefore allowing me to ascertain whether or not he was at his desk and receiving his emails. In short, I became a crazy person, in a surprisingly short amount of time.

And then he emailed: "No, I will not go out with you. I have a girlfriend and you are a mental person. Due to cutting edge technology that you are currently unaware of, I am able to see that you have checked my Twitter account 47 times in the last four hours. Yes, I have your email. Yes, I am ignoring you. Please leave me alone and get help."

(This didn't actually happen. But it could have done.)

That night, I convinced myself his email would be waiting when I got to work the next morning. It wasn't. So I broke every rule in The Rules and DM'd him on Twitter. I kept it light. I asked if he'd got my email (I know, cringe) and said it was unlike him to reply. And he messaged me back straight away! He said, yes, he had got my email, but he was very busy and had forgotten to respond. He said he wasn't sure if he was busy next week, but he would let me know via email. He said "I promise." There was a kiss.

So, what we have here is a situation where he has, to all intents and purposes, said he will email me during the week. I am in trouble.

In which it is my birthday

It could have been a recipe for disaster. Recently single, living back at home with my parents, and officially closer to thirty than twenty, I must admit I had some reservations about my birthday. Don't get me wrong, I love birthdays. All that cake and alcohol, and people buying you nice things you don't need. This year though, I'd had to cull my present list a few weeks before the event (an espresso machine ceases to be the perfect gift when you no longer have a kitchen) and I'm still at that stage where a few glasses of wine lead to inconsolable sobbing after lights out.

As it happened though, I had a wonderful day. Best Mate and I caught the train to London, where we ate cupcakes and fancy pizzas. I also had my first ever facial, and a bellini with my lunch. Perfect.

That evening, I came home and shared a Chinese takeaway with The Family and Eldest Brother's Girlfriend, who I adore. We listened to American Anthems (THREE CDS!) and my brothers did a superb (if disturbingly high pitched) rendition of Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. The Girlfriend and I polished off two bottles of Pinot Grigio and generally had a lovely time.

Just as I was heading off to bed, I felt that familiar wave of slightly drunken melancholy wash over me, but then I got a text message from The Journalist. The Journalist and I have, shall we say, a mutual appreciation for each other, but he has a girlfriend and until recently I had a boyfriend. However, a text to wish me a happy birthday and tell me he still thinks about me wasn't entirely unwelcome, and managed to head off any Bridget Jones impressions.

The following day I put on my best dress and headed out for dinner with some of my very favourite people: Best Mate and her fiancé picked me up on the way, Forces Wife and her fiancé came down from Lincoln, Cousin and his girlfriend left the baby at home for the first time, and The Hostess With The Mostest kindly left her husband at home as well, preventing me from being the only single person at my own party. We ate exotic meat (ostrich anyone?), drank copious amounts of red wine, and then nearly broke our ankles climbing over a wall on our way to drink more red wine. Best Mate bought me a cupcake cookery book, Forces Wife's fiancé bought me a pashmina from Afghanistan, and even Geordie Lass sent me a care package of chocolate, wine and girly DVDs. The whole weekend was perfect, and reminded me that my friends and family are some of the best in the world. Thanks boys and girls - you really are something special.

Thursday 3 March 2011

In which I'm traumatised by a car insurance salesperson

If you have just come out of a relationship, and you think maybe you're not miserable enough already, make some phone calls to service providers. It's a real treat. In the two weeks since my relationship ended, I've done a pretty good job of burying myself in deep, deep denial. Unfortunately, the break up meant I had to update my car insurance. It almost pushed me over the edge.

Me: I'd like to remove one of my named drivers please. Former Love of my Life.

Insurance lady: You'd like to terminate Former Love of your Life?

Me: Terminate? Um, I suppose so, yes.

Insurance lady: Ok, so we are going to terminate your named driver, Former Love of your Life?

Me: Yes please. That's the one.

*Pause*

Insurance lady: So I see you have three named drivers: Your Father, Your Mother and Former Love of your Life. Which one are we terminating?

Me: Former Love of my Life! Please.

Insurance lady: Ok, so we are terminating Former Love of your Life?

After ten minutes of this, I felt like terminating myself. Removing him from my car insurance (ergo, my life) needs to be like ripping off a plaster - painful but brief. That conversation was more like gouging out my heart with a blunt spoon. And it cost me £17.50.

Now to arrange the "termination" of the contract on our flat...