Well, that was exciting. The sun came out, the clock struck twelve and I left my office, crossed the road, stuck my new navy key thing in the terminal, extracted the brand new bike (with assistance) and cycled off round the City for ten minutes of fully exhilarating liberation. The brakes worked, the tyres were bouncy, the three gears were efficient and it was a bit like being Kylie as everyone is transfixed by the turquoise and watched agog as I glided by. Or maybe it was my cleavage that they found distracting. Either way, it was fun. It's been three years since I was a regular cyclist - living on the second floor of a building that's a drunken stumble from the nearest tube station doesn't encourage one to buy a bike - and I'd clean forgotten what a fantastic feeling it is. It's not cheap - £45 for a year's access, plus charges every time you use a bike for more than 30 minutes - but if I keep all my journeys under half an hour, the £45 is all I'll pay, and if you compare that with the inflexibility of bike ownership, plus the chances of them being stolen, it's a veritable bargain. As long as it works.
Now we just need to settle on a name. Barclays Cycle Hire is a) too long and b) features the Evil Corporate Sponsor. Thus I also discount Barcycle. Montreal's scheme is called the Bixi, a (what's that word that means when two words are smooshed together? Not enjambment is it. Grrrr.) smooshing of bicycle and taxi. Paris has the Velib (velo plus libre or liberte, not sure, either way: free bikes, or bikes plus liberty. Ca marche.). Some people are suggesting Borisbike, or Borike, but that seems to give Bojo too much credit for an idea that's been in the pipeline since way before he became London mayor. Equally, fan though I am of Mr Livingstone and happy as I am to admit the idea started in his tenancy, he didn't bring it to fruition so I think the Kencycle is a bit more than he deserves. I think something to do with the city will work best. Capcycle (capital bike)? Or does that sound like an ice cream? Londike sounds a bit lesbian but maybe we should grow up. OK, maybe I should grow up.
In unrelated news, last night I saw Toy Story 3 in 3D and didn't cry. Apparently this means I am technically dead. Am enjoying the novelty of being the one who's not emoting for once.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Meh.
So no one tells you that when you come home a bit late after a few glasses of wine and decide to change the wording - only the wording, mind - of the bit at the bottom of your blog posts that allows friends and strangers to show their approval by merely twitching their hand a fraction of an inch and applying an infinitesimal unit of pressure with their index finger, thereby putting a virtual tick in a virtual box, which translates to me as genuine psychological payment for the work I put in on these pages, NOT THAT I ONLY DO IT FOR YOU, but hey, I'd be lying if I said your praise and feedback were meaningless - so anyway, no one tells you that if you JUST CHANGE THE WORDING of that function, then it wipes all previous records of any box ticking, and you're back to zero on every single blog post since the dawn of time, with no visual sign of third party appreciation on any posts, and even if you change the wording back to how it was, the data is still lost forever and you're right back to being a loser with no boxes ticked at all, which is really quite annoying, even though only about, well, way less than one percent of the people who read this blog ever tick the boxes, which means there are either a lot of people who visit the site, read the blogs, enjoy them and then skulk off without ticking, which I think exhibits a level of laziness at which even I would balk, or there are a lot of people who do not enjoy the blogs but yet still read them, which displays a degree of stupidity and a lack of judgment that, well, I find depressing. It's not a flattering stat, but it must be true: most of you are either lazy or stupid.
Prove me wrong. Tick the damn box. Not this one in particular, but all the ones you've enjoyed over the past four years. Maybe a total change of mentality is needed. Here are your instructions: basically, tick the box unless you thought it was absolute rubbish, unless you finished it weeping with relief that it was over, unless it was the text equivalent of ocular rape. Don't view the tick as a treat. A treat would be a comment. The tick is just to say, 'Yup, read it. Well done for trying.' If you want to say something more meaningful, then comment. If you don't know what all the fuss is about, check out other people's blogs (there's a list down to the right if you need help). They're bloody littered with comments. Some of the blogs out there are so self-indulgent and miserable, they make LLFF look like... what's the opposite of self-indulgent and miserable...? Open-minded and chipper? They make LLFF look like... a Montessori teacher? But still, these people are inundated with supportive comments. I pour my heart out to you, I lay myself BARE and what do I get? Three ticks if I'm lucky. WHICH HAVE NOW BEEN DELETED. By me.
I'm so tired. Must go to bed. Anyway. I'd love to be so self-sufficient that I didn't care whether anyone was reading, but I'm not. Tick the mofoing boxes or I'll stop writing. Well, I won't. But I'll start only writing about politics. That'd learn you.
Prove me wrong. Tick the damn box. Not this one in particular, but all the ones you've enjoyed over the past four years. Maybe a total change of mentality is needed. Here are your instructions: basically, tick the box unless you thought it was absolute rubbish, unless you finished it weeping with relief that it was over, unless it was the text equivalent of ocular rape. Don't view the tick as a treat. A treat would be a comment. The tick is just to say, 'Yup, read it. Well done for trying.' If you want to say something more meaningful, then comment. If you don't know what all the fuss is about, check out other people's blogs (there's a list down to the right if you need help). They're bloody littered with comments. Some of the blogs out there are so self-indulgent and miserable, they make LLFF look like... what's the opposite of self-indulgent and miserable...? Open-minded and chipper? They make LLFF look like... a Montessori teacher? But still, these people are inundated with supportive comments. I pour my heart out to you, I lay myself BARE and what do I get? Three ticks if I'm lucky. WHICH HAVE NOW BEEN DELETED. By me.
I'm so tired. Must go to bed. Anyway. I'd love to be so self-sufficient that I didn't care whether anyone was reading, but I'm not. Tick the mofoing boxes or I'll stop writing. Well, I won't. But I'll start only writing about politics. That'd learn you.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Trick photography
It would be easy to imagine that I have a touch more get up and go than the average girl, but the fact is, my desire to move is far weaker than my Scottish penny-pinching habits. Sure, I want to learn new things. I genuinely want to improve myself and the things I decide to do always sound really appealing. In theory. In practice, I just want to quiche. I'd pretty much always rather go home and eat mini Babybels. Tell me about a new fun activity that's happening in a couple of months and I'll get butterflies of hypothetical excitement. Ring me up at 5pm on a day when I have no plans, and ask me to join you, free of charge, and I'll mutter something about needing to get my eyebrows threaded and totter off home to lounge in front of the TV in Primark velour.
Over the years, I've worked out that the only way I can force myself to do pretty much anything is to pay up front; if I don't book, I don't go. I find a course I want to do, I shell out in full; theatre and gig tickets are bought months in advance; cinema seats are booked asap, even when I know there'll only be about six of us in the screening room. So I reserve my space, and I schlep along grumpily, wondering why the hell I forked out for another STUPID course, and then I turn up, and everyone's really nice and I learn things and I go home and I'm so full of adrenaline and new-found enthusiasm that I can barely sleep.
This totally happened last night. I was sitting on my sofa at 18:15 hours, thinking I would pay £99 not to have to stand up and go on the After Dark photography workshop I'd merrily paid £99 to attend when I booked it six weeks ago. I'd been excited about it for six weeks, but now that I was on my sofa and it was due to start in under two hours, I suddenly wanted to do it about as much as I wanted to drink a mug of someone else's mucous. Actually, that mental image is too far even for me. Apologies.
But because I couldn't bear to waste £99, I stood up and went, and dealt with the vague humiliation/kudos that I'd had the cajones to turn up even though my camera wasn't an SLR and was the cheapest in the room by several hundred pounds, and the tripod that pre-dates me that I'd borrowed from my mum was described within minutes by the course leader as "particularly shit", and everyone else pulled their equipment out of expensive padded bags, whereas I have jettisoned my case as it's too fiddly for quick access, and now store my beloved Canon G11 in an old sock, one of a pair taken from a Virgin Atlantic flight back in the days when I was a pop journalist and used to accrue cool anecdotes about my job that I could impress people with at dinner parties.
And everyone else had amazing lenses, and apparently zoom lenses are rubbish for night photography as all the layers of glass create 'noise' or 'flare', but I did what I could and I am pleased with some of the results. My camera definitely has its limitations, but it fits in my handbag and if I even if I had an SLR I doubt I'd use it because I couldn't be bothered to carry it round. Although I'm not denying it would be fun to try.
This first shot is taken in the deserted Petticoat Lane market, looking towards the City. The brief was to capture the emptiness. I just put my camera down, allowed for a fairly long shutter speed and this was the first picture I took:
Over the years, I've worked out that the only way I can force myself to do pretty much anything is to pay up front; if I don't book, I don't go. I find a course I want to do, I shell out in full; theatre and gig tickets are bought months in advance; cinema seats are booked asap, even when I know there'll only be about six of us in the screening room. So I reserve my space, and I schlep along grumpily, wondering why the hell I forked out for another STUPID course, and then I turn up, and everyone's really nice and I learn things and I go home and I'm so full of adrenaline and new-found enthusiasm that I can barely sleep.
This totally happened last night. I was sitting on my sofa at 18:15 hours, thinking I would pay £99 not to have to stand up and go on the After Dark photography workshop I'd merrily paid £99 to attend when I booked it six weeks ago. I'd been excited about it for six weeks, but now that I was on my sofa and it was due to start in under two hours, I suddenly wanted to do it about as much as I wanted to drink a mug of someone else's mucous. Actually, that mental image is too far even for me. Apologies.
But because I couldn't bear to waste £99, I stood up and went, and dealt with the vague humiliation/kudos that I'd had the cajones to turn up even though my camera wasn't an SLR and was the cheapest in the room by several hundred pounds, and the tripod that pre-dates me that I'd borrowed from my mum was described within minutes by the course leader as "particularly shit", and everyone else pulled their equipment out of expensive padded bags, whereas I have jettisoned my case as it's too fiddly for quick access, and now store my beloved Canon G11 in an old sock, one of a pair taken from a Virgin Atlantic flight back in the days when I was a pop journalist and used to accrue cool anecdotes about my job that I could impress people with at dinner parties.
And everyone else had amazing lenses, and apparently zoom lenses are rubbish for night photography as all the layers of glass create 'noise' or 'flare', but I did what I could and I am pleased with some of the results. My camera definitely has its limitations, but it fits in my handbag and if I even if I had an SLR I doubt I'd use it because I couldn't be bothered to carry it round. Although I'm not denying it would be fun to try.
This first shot is taken in the deserted Petticoat Lane market, looking towards the City. The brief was to capture the emptiness. I just put my camera down, allowed for a fairly long shutter speed and this was the first picture I took:
Just F everyone's I, if you're interested... On a shorter shutter speed, the same photo came out like this:
Then I moved my tripod to take a different photo. This was the best one I managed. Could have improved on it but the group moved on. The guy in the jeans was our teacher.
Then we went to the Gherkin. It was really hard to get an interesting shot of this in the dark, so he suggested we leave the shutter open and up the exposure as much as we could. The maximum shutter speed my camera allows is 15 seconds, but it's interesting that, whereas in my earlier shots, the sky was totally black, here there is so much light in the London sky that it appears to be almost daytime. (Possible point of interest - our teacher's longest ever night time exposure was seven hours.)
By now it was nearly 11pm, and we walked to London Bridge. Here my camera failed me - shots of the next bridge along, Tower, simply didn't have enough clarity, the lights were blurred and it just didn't work. I'd need a prime lens for that, I think (ie. a lens that has a fixed length and cannot zoom), but like I said, the zoom is inbuilt in my camera and most of the time I'm delighted it's there. You win some, you lose some. Instead, I turned around and took the old favourite: long exposure of traffic as a bus passes. The vehicle moves too fast to be captured, but the lights make an impression and streak. It's cliched and hack, but I bloody love it. That's Southwark Cathedral in the background, and my night was worth it just for that shot.
So yeah. I get home after work and I'm floppy as if I've had a skeletonectomy, and all I want to do is stay draped across the sofa. But I've paid in advance for something, so I have to go, and I do, and it's great and I get home buzzing. It's just the law of my land. My guess is that we're all mad; the challenge of life is to work out the best ways to trick ourselves into behaving like people we respect and with whom we can live. Just call me Debbie McGee.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Just Another Narcoleptic Exercise
Jettison Arbitrary Negative Emotions
Jump All Nefarious Emissions
Juicy Apparel Never Enhances
Jellyfish Are Not Erotic
Jousting Always Needs Equines
Jeroboams Are Never Enough
Jerusalem’s Armies Need Education
Jails Are Nasty Ends
Judges Amplify New Evidence
Jane Attempts Nebulous Ecstasy
Jog And Nearly Expire
Jeer At Naked Etonians
Jet Around Northern Europe
Jeopardise Animals Not Economies
Jaunts Across Nevada Exhaust
Juvenile Alcoholics Neck Ethanol
Japes Are Not Effortless
Jazzercise Addicts Need Executing
Journeys All Net Experiences
Jugular Attacks Need Experts
Jittery Adulterers Nibble Earlobes
Joking Aside, Now Experiment
SOMEONE GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO.
Jump All Nefarious Emissions
Juicy Apparel Never Enhances
Jellyfish Are Not Erotic
Jousting Always Needs Equines
Jeroboams Are Never Enough
Jerusalem’s Armies Need Education
Jails Are Nasty Ends
Judges Amplify New Evidence
Jane Attempts Nebulous Ecstasy
Jog And Nearly Expire
Jeer At Naked Etonians
Jet Around Northern Europe
Jeopardise Animals Not Economies
Jaunts Across Nevada Exhaust
Juvenile Alcoholics Neck Ethanol
Japes Are Not Effortless
Jazzercise Addicts Need Executing
Journeys All Net Experiences
Jugular Attacks Need Experts
Jittery Adulterers Nibble Earlobes
Joking Aside, Now Experiment
SOMEONE GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO.
Welcome to Smugness
Welcome To Thebes (National Theatre) is a massive play. Massive in scope, in cast, in ambition. Thebes is a fictional African city, struggling to find internal stability after years of colonial rule. An Obama-esque entourage from Athens thumps in to help the new female leader with the transition, and the clashes begin: between Africa and the West, between ancient and modern, democracy and force, tradition and innovation, man and woman. The plot is big enough on its own, and then the uber-ambitious playwright heaps on another layer, updating Greek tragedy to the present and stirring the whole lot together. The characters are given names from prominent Greek plays (Antigone, Tyresius, Creon, Oedipus are all featured or mentioned), and, a little like I'd felt during Tom Stoppard's Arcadia last year, I couldn't help wondering if this was a writer who'd confused being as effective as possible with being as clever as possible.
The Olivier isn't a small theatre. I was delighted that my companion, Rob, has not yet discovered my blog, so I could happily bore him with all my gems from my recent NT tour. But so there we were, sitting in the whopping auditorium among over a thousand others, and yet I can't imagine that more than a couple of handfuls of people had the classical knowledge to understand a fraction of the Greek references that were bandied about. I'd studied Oedipus Rex, and I saw some weird play about Clytemnestra one year at the Edinburgh Festival. But my memory being what it isn't, I had no real recollection of anything. All I knew was that, in Greek tragedy, the blind man always sees the best and we're meant to come out feeling catharted. Not cathatered.
And that's me with English A Level and an MA in Literature under my belt. What about the rest of the audience? Rob didn't have a clue what was going on. The struggling modern African nation helped by allegedly benevolent but ultimately distant and selfish Western superpower stuff we get. But the classical stuff? I'm not sure it added much, to be honest. There were a couple of moments where an injoke about Oedipus being a motherfucker caused a bellow of smug laughter, but it only served to underline the fact that countless other 'hilarious' references were going unnoticed by the crowd.
There's no doubt that the playwright is a bright spark, and Welcome To Thebes is undeniably an impressive achievement. But it's also the hardest work I've had to put in at the theatre since the last time I saw Oedipus (which I reviewed at the time as "genuinely crap") and I've decided that maybe I don't like Greek tragedy. And maybe £15 to learn a life-lesson like that is money well spent. To be honest, last night won't really go down as significant in my theatre-going experience for anything except one moment, about a third of the way into the first half, when the blind man paused in the middle of one of his speeches, and the actors didn't flinch, but then it went on for a little longer than was comfortable, and then we heard a clear prompt from the desk, feeding him his next line, and I think that was the first time that I've ever seen anyone forget their words in a major play. It was startling. I never feel like I'm suspending my disbelief for a second, but then someone screws up, a strange voice comes in from beyond the stage, and immediately the spell is broken. Not to say it ruined the play. But I'll never forget it.
In other news, I have no other news. More on this story as it unfolds.
The Olivier isn't a small theatre. I was delighted that my companion, Rob, has not yet discovered my blog, so I could happily bore him with all my gems from my recent NT tour. But so there we were, sitting in the whopping auditorium among over a thousand others, and yet I can't imagine that more than a couple of handfuls of people had the classical knowledge to understand a fraction of the Greek references that were bandied about. I'd studied Oedipus Rex, and I saw some weird play about Clytemnestra one year at the Edinburgh Festival. But my memory being what it isn't, I had no real recollection of anything. All I knew was that, in Greek tragedy, the blind man always sees the best and we're meant to come out feeling catharted. Not cathatered.
And that's me with English A Level and an MA in Literature under my belt. What about the rest of the audience? Rob didn't have a clue what was going on. The struggling modern African nation helped by allegedly benevolent but ultimately distant and selfish Western superpower stuff we get. But the classical stuff? I'm not sure it added much, to be honest. There were a couple of moments where an injoke about Oedipus being a motherfucker caused a bellow of smug laughter, but it only served to underline the fact that countless other 'hilarious' references were going unnoticed by the crowd.
There's no doubt that the playwright is a bright spark, and Welcome To Thebes is undeniably an impressive achievement. But it's also the hardest work I've had to put in at the theatre since the last time I saw Oedipus (which I reviewed at the time as "genuinely crap") and I've decided that maybe I don't like Greek tragedy. And maybe £15 to learn a life-lesson like that is money well spent. To be honest, last night won't really go down as significant in my theatre-going experience for anything except one moment, about a third of the way into the first half, when the blind man paused in the middle of one of his speeches, and the actors didn't flinch, but then it went on for a little longer than was comfortable, and then we heard a clear prompt from the desk, feeding him his next line, and I think that was the first time that I've ever seen anyone forget their words in a major play. It was startling. I never feel like I'm suspending my disbelief for a second, but then someone screws up, a strange voice comes in from beyond the stage, and immediately the spell is broken. Not to say it ruined the play. But I'll never forget it.
In other news, I have no other news. More on this story as it unfolds.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Windrise
About six weeks ago, something potentially amazing happened to me. It was potentially so amazing that it didn't bear thinking about, since the chances of it moving from an amazing potential occurrence to an amazing actual occurrence were smaller than a fat man's desire for wheatgrass. And, indeed, it did not come to pass. So it was lucky that I didn't get excited when the Halifax accidentally paid over £5000 into my account twice (instead of the once they should have), because I'd be sorely disappointed now that my bank just phoned me up and told me they were giving the money back. Despite my lack of disappointment or outrage, I do feel objectively a bit perturbed. Forty two days, it took Halifax to realise they'd made a mistake. Forty two days. I'd say any person or organisation who takes forty two days to notice they've lost five thousand pounds clearly doesn't deserve it in the first place. But anyway. That's that solved. My control freakery is such that I'm actually slightly happier knowing that I don't have the money than I was when I wasn't sure whether I did or not. Now that is mental and no mistake.
What's also slightly perversely good about today is that the one guy with whom I was halfheartedly ebantering has announced that he is going on a date next week. I am humbly assuming that the date is not with me, since he didn't contact me to agree a night, so once I got over the vague smack of disappointment that he asked someone else for a date but not me, I realised that this means that literally every single one of my possible flirtatious routes has now been blocked off, and I am, after a week of procrastinating, finally actually Doing This Thing. The catchily-monikered Operation Take A Break From Thinking About Men Or Relationships So That You Get Some Perspective And Hopefully Realise That You Are Not A Failure For Not Yet Having Found The Right Guy For You But Are Actually A Roaring Success At This Game Called Life And Don't Let Anybody Tell You Any Different has begun.
Dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating. Gah. Talk about elephant in the room. I wonder what else I'll think about now. Hmmmm. I literally feel like there is tumbleweed in my head. I suppose the idea is not to think about anything. Just enjoy the Now.
Dating dating dating. Stop. Tumbleweed. Whistling wind. Tumbleweed. Dating. Tumbleweed. Whistling wind.
God. Maybe I will have to go to the gym. This really does suck.
What's also slightly perversely good about today is that the one guy with whom I was halfheartedly ebantering has announced that he is going on a date next week. I am humbly assuming that the date is not with me, since he didn't contact me to agree a night, so once I got over the vague smack of disappointment that he asked someone else for a date but not me, I realised that this means that literally every single one of my possible flirtatious routes has now been blocked off, and I am, after a week of procrastinating, finally actually Doing This Thing. The catchily-monikered Operation Take A Break From Thinking About Men Or Relationships So That You Get Some Perspective And Hopefully Realise That You Are Not A Failure For Not Yet Having Found The Right Guy For You But Are Actually A Roaring Success At This Game Called Life And Don't Let Anybody Tell You Any Different has begun.
Dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating dating. Gah. Talk about elephant in the room. I wonder what else I'll think about now. Hmmmm. I literally feel like there is tumbleweed in my head. I suppose the idea is not to think about anything. Just enjoy the Now.
Dating dating dating. Stop. Tumbleweed. Whistling wind. Tumbleweed. Dating. Tumbleweed. Whistling wind.
God. Maybe I will have to go to the gym. This really does suck.
Monday, 26 July 2010
And finally
Just because I have been rambling away in typical self-gripped fashion, it's not to imply that I am not hooked on the extraordinary Wikileaks/Afghanistan revelations. General buzz from the UK seems to be, 'What, you didn't already know that this was a shit war that's getting shittier?' and that if anyone believes the right wing yarns re. spiffing war heroes and possible victory, they're more naive than a kitten born in a nunnery. Not to deny that there have been some heroics along the way, of course. But really. Let's get out of there. And, in the meantime, thank our lucky stars that Wikileaks and its whistleblowers are still around to prove what everyone suspects.
Lukewarm turkey
I was going to write about my weekend, a harmless discussion of the great performance piece I saw at the National on Friday evening, Domini Public, where we all wore cordless headphones and had to stand in different places or make certain gestures depending on whether we were born in London, or had ever photographed ourselves naked, or earned over £20k, or had children, or had followed a stranger down the street, or believed that hierarchies were necessary to 'get things done'. It was interesting enough watching people move around the square, seeing who answered what to which question. And then there was the twist, which was unpleasant and fascinating, and ended up in me (amongst others) being mock-shot by my friend, Tracey, in front of a hundred strangers. It was a great hour, excellent value for £10, and I'd encourage you to go if the run hadn't already ended.
I was also going to tell you all that, if you are remotely interested in the National Theatre, you should definitely pay £7 at some point and go on one of their backstage tours. After years of good intentions, I took one on Friday before Domini Public and it was a rewarding way to spend an hour and a quarter, filled with gems about current and past productions, giving a good insight into the stage management side of things and the props department. Notes I took included the following:
But really what I think will be most of interest is not any of the wonderful, worthwhile activities I've been up to, but the topic that has really been on my mind over the past few days. Inevitably, it is men.
As noted last week, my therapist and I were discussing my desire for a boyfriend. Of course, it is perfectly normal for people to desire a mate. No one would say that there is anything unusual about that. However, I am a little bit different, in that my desire is less for an actual boyfriend (although that would be dandy) and more for the status I perceive I will acquire (in whose eyes, I have no idea) when I gain the acceptance of a respectable male. Being the only child of two wonderful parents who are still crazy (in love) after all these years, where their relationship has been far more a defining factor in their lives than their nationality, their career, their family or their bank balance, it was inevitable that I would grow up thinking that finding a mate was, pretty much, the only thing one needed to do to be viewed as a success.
Then I went to an all-girls boarding school. This was not a sensible move if one was trying to move away from the supremacy of Acceptance By Relationship. In between the near-constant steamy lesbian shower sessions, our focus was entirely on boyfriends. Not on sex. Not on kissing. Just boyfriends. In my seven years there, I never once felt pressured by my peers to lose my virginity; in my recollection, sex was barely even discussed. All we cared about was getting someone to go out with you. You could kiss someone at a party one weekend and come back to school. "Did you get off with anyone?" the ganets would ask. Occasionally, you would excitedly nod yes, blocking out the fact that his train tracks cut your tongue and that it was really difficult to feel like this was a romantic zenith when you're kissing on a bouncy castle and you can hear someone being sick in the rosebushes. But, to the ganets, the snog was not the goal. This was just an amuse bouche before the main event: possible boyfriendom. And so the agonising wait began, each morning's post a crushing disappointment as the longed-for letter with the appalling handwriting and Slough postmark failed to arrive. Finally, a couple of weeks later, you'd hear that the boy in question had pulled Clarissa at the Mariners and it would become clear that the relationship about which you'd fantasized (in between calculating how to get Take That to perform an impromptu gig in the Middle IV common room) was clearly over before it had begun.
And so the snog would be rendered meaningless, because it had come to nothing. Kissing wasn't an end in itself. All that mattered was finding long-term commitment. Getting someone to fancy you enough to stick their tongue down their throat was no challenge; getting someone to stick their necks out and tell their friends that they liked you, now that was a compliment. Without that, without the superior gender (and it wasn't stated like that, but that's how it felt) waving their wand (and it wasn't stated like that either, but who are we kidding?) in our direction, giving us their blessing, saying 'You are pretty, you are attractive, I am male, I know these things,' then we were failures. But all along, I was also a pain in the ass. I didn't just want ANY boyfriend. I wanted one I respected, one who I found attractive and interesting. So 99% of the time, when a guy was interested in me, I shut it down. Because they were normally complete freaks and, somewhat like Groucho Marx, I didn't want to be a member of any club who'd have me with their member.
Fast forward sixteen years, and here I am, nine days away from my 33rd birthday, and my subconscious still spends far too much time shouting at the rest of me that, unless a man tells me I am his be all and end all, I will have failed - but I am still enough of a pain in the ass that I won't settle for anyone unless they rock my tiny world. So I have been searching, and rejecting, and being rejected, for too long and it's tiring. And thus, last Wednesday, I agreed with my therapist that I would take a break from looking. That even though I have been trying, whether consciously or not, to find a bearable boyfriend every day I've been single over the past decade and a half (which, actually, adding together five years with H, two with Simon, two with Luke and cobbling together the rest, probably adds up to about ten years off the market and five years on), I should now stop the search. Which is about as likely as me deciding to stop breathing.
But bless me, I'm trying. I removed my profile from the dating website I was on, and I must say, after my collated run of morons, that has felt less like a sacrifice than a sigh-heaving relief. And I am not going speed dating tonight, even though I bought the £10 ticket ages ago and I think I look quite good at the moment as I have a new dress that goes well with my unexpected suntan (shoulders and face only - the remainder of me still has the colour and texture of an uncooked Eccles cake) gathered on yesterday's walk. I am trying very hard indeed to forget about flirting, and have managed to cut back to only one extremely slow e-banter conversation that I don't think will come to anything really, since the guy in question is even more judgmental than I am, and not only wouldn't want to be a member of any club who would have him as a member, but would actively want to nail gun anyone who suggested such a thing and consider doing so as a public service, because surely any girl who wanted to meet him would be a danger to herself and society at large. There's a fair bit of self-loathing there. But underneath all that he's quite funny and I'd be interested to meet him. OTHER THAN THAT there is no one. I promise. I'm being good.
Still, it's like giving up heroin. I imagine. What is the methodone equivalent for people who are addicted to finding a relationship? Lots of meaningless sex wouldn't work because it's the social acceptance I crave from a third party, who has to be male, saying 'I am handsome and funny and intelligent. And I want to spend my time with you.' Ultimately, I have to believe that that is a load of crap and that the only person who decides whether I am good enough is me, and why would I entrust such a fundamental role to some stupid man who doesn't even know me very well? But that kind of cheesy, American self-acceptance is probably a long way off, not helped by the fact that everywhere I go, everyone admits that life is better when you're in a relationship, and that being single is a lonely pastime for people who are unlucky and/or not good enough. It's freaking annoying because I am clearly amazing, hilarious and, in almost every way, happy.
And that's what I keep finding weird: beyond the Seal of Approval thing that I so obviously want from a boyfriend, I'm not that bothered. As I've pointed out many times before (but not so much that this lady is thought to be protesting too much), my life is pretty much perfect. I don't sit looking woefully at the other end of my sofa thinking it's lacking a scrotum. I am not gagging to have babies just yet - walking past countless suffocating family picnics in the sun yesterday afternoon I heaved many a sigh of relief that my neck doesn't yet have that extortionate albatross swinging off it. I don't need a boyfriend to do my DIY - I feel pretty capable of most things and my dad is more than adequate for the rest. I don't feel I need a man to organise my bills, or earn money, or take me to the cinema. In fact, the fear that he might at any point vanish/die can make relationships so unpleasant that I'm not sure they're even worth it. Really, I just want one to say he's my boyfriend so everyone knows I've passed The Test, appear with me at the odd function, and kiss me regularly. Oh, and I'd like one to come to the opera with me. A night at Covent Garden is the most romantic experience I can imagine and going with girls feels wrong. I've got tickets for two productions this autumn and if I don't have a man at my side for at least one of them I'll strop. Since I'm not allowed to actively pursue anyone, if you're single, in possession of a Y chromasome and would like to be considered for this role, feel free to drop me a line via the comments section. It's Rigoletto and Cosi Fan Tutti. Don't all shout at once.
I was also going to tell you all that, if you are remotely interested in the National Theatre, you should definitely pay £7 at some point and go on one of their backstage tours. After years of good intentions, I took one on Friday before Domini Public and it was a rewarding way to spend an hour and a quarter, filled with gems about current and past productions, giving a good insight into the stage management side of things and the props department. Notes I took included the following:
- The National Theatre site is the size of Trafalgar Square, just over two acres
- There are 850 full time employees
- The biggest theatre, the Olivier, has 1160 seats, and more lights than seats
- The stage and seating in the Olivier is based around a traditional Greek amphitheatre, but whereas the latter normally has 180 degree seating around the stage, the Olivier has 118 degrees of seating, which is apparently the extent of male peripheral vision. Women have slightly more. Either way, it means that when you're standing on centre stage, you can see every seat in the house without turning your head. We tried it. It's quite amazing.
But really what I think will be most of interest is not any of the wonderful, worthwhile activities I've been up to, but the topic that has really been on my mind over the past few days. Inevitably, it is men.
As noted last week, my therapist and I were discussing my desire for a boyfriend. Of course, it is perfectly normal for people to desire a mate. No one would say that there is anything unusual about that. However, I am a little bit different, in that my desire is less for an actual boyfriend (although that would be dandy) and more for the status I perceive I will acquire (in whose eyes, I have no idea) when I gain the acceptance of a respectable male. Being the only child of two wonderful parents who are still crazy (in love) after all these years, where their relationship has been far more a defining factor in their lives than their nationality, their career, their family or their bank balance, it was inevitable that I would grow up thinking that finding a mate was, pretty much, the only thing one needed to do to be viewed as a success.
Then I went to an all-girls boarding school. This was not a sensible move if one was trying to move away from the supremacy of Acceptance By Relationship. In between the near-constant steamy lesbian shower sessions, our focus was entirely on boyfriends. Not on sex. Not on kissing. Just boyfriends. In my seven years there, I never once felt pressured by my peers to lose my virginity; in my recollection, sex was barely even discussed. All we cared about was getting someone to go out with you. You could kiss someone at a party one weekend and come back to school. "Did you get off with anyone?" the ganets would ask. Occasionally, you would excitedly nod yes, blocking out the fact that his train tracks cut your tongue and that it was really difficult to feel like this was a romantic zenith when you're kissing on a bouncy castle and you can hear someone being sick in the rosebushes. But, to the ganets, the snog was not the goal. This was just an amuse bouche before the main event: possible boyfriendom. And so the agonising wait began, each morning's post a crushing disappointment as the longed-for letter with the appalling handwriting and Slough postmark failed to arrive. Finally, a couple of weeks later, you'd hear that the boy in question had pulled Clarissa at the Mariners and it would become clear that the relationship about which you'd fantasized (in between calculating how to get Take That to perform an impromptu gig in the Middle IV common room) was clearly over before it had begun.
And so the snog would be rendered meaningless, because it had come to nothing. Kissing wasn't an end in itself. All that mattered was finding long-term commitment. Getting someone to fancy you enough to stick their tongue down their throat was no challenge; getting someone to stick their necks out and tell their friends that they liked you, now that was a compliment. Without that, without the superior gender (and it wasn't stated like that, but that's how it felt) waving their wand (and it wasn't stated like that either, but who are we kidding?) in our direction, giving us their blessing, saying 'You are pretty, you are attractive, I am male, I know these things,' then we were failures. But all along, I was also a pain in the ass. I didn't just want ANY boyfriend. I wanted one I respected, one who I found attractive and interesting. So 99% of the time, when a guy was interested in me, I shut it down. Because they were normally complete freaks and, somewhat like Groucho Marx, I didn't want to be a member of any club who'd have me with their member.
Fast forward sixteen years, and here I am, nine days away from my 33rd birthday, and my subconscious still spends far too much time shouting at the rest of me that, unless a man tells me I am his be all and end all, I will have failed - but I am still enough of a pain in the ass that I won't settle for anyone unless they rock my tiny world. So I have been searching, and rejecting, and being rejected, for too long and it's tiring. And thus, last Wednesday, I agreed with my therapist that I would take a break from looking. That even though I have been trying, whether consciously or not, to find a bearable boyfriend every day I've been single over the past decade and a half (which, actually, adding together five years with H, two with Simon, two with Luke and cobbling together the rest, probably adds up to about ten years off the market and five years on), I should now stop the search. Which is about as likely as me deciding to stop breathing.
But bless me, I'm trying. I removed my profile from the dating website I was on, and I must say, after my collated run of morons, that has felt less like a sacrifice than a sigh-heaving relief. And I am not going speed dating tonight, even though I bought the £10 ticket ages ago and I think I look quite good at the moment as I have a new dress that goes well with my unexpected suntan (shoulders and face only - the remainder of me still has the colour and texture of an uncooked Eccles cake) gathered on yesterday's walk. I am trying very hard indeed to forget about flirting, and have managed to cut back to only one extremely slow e-banter conversation that I don't think will come to anything really, since the guy in question is even more judgmental than I am, and not only wouldn't want to be a member of any club who would have him as a member, but would actively want to nail gun anyone who suggested such a thing and consider doing so as a public service, because surely any girl who wanted to meet him would be a danger to herself and society at large. There's a fair bit of self-loathing there. But underneath all that he's quite funny and I'd be interested to meet him. OTHER THAN THAT there is no one. I promise. I'm being good.
Still, it's like giving up heroin. I imagine. What is the methodone equivalent for people who are addicted to finding a relationship? Lots of meaningless sex wouldn't work because it's the social acceptance I crave from a third party, who has to be male, saying 'I am handsome and funny and intelligent. And I want to spend my time with you.' Ultimately, I have to believe that that is a load of crap and that the only person who decides whether I am good enough is me, and why would I entrust such a fundamental role to some stupid man who doesn't even know me very well? But that kind of cheesy, American self-acceptance is probably a long way off, not helped by the fact that everywhere I go, everyone admits that life is better when you're in a relationship, and that being single is a lonely pastime for people who are unlucky and/or not good enough. It's freaking annoying because I am clearly amazing, hilarious and, in almost every way, happy.
And that's what I keep finding weird: beyond the Seal of Approval thing that I so obviously want from a boyfriend, I'm not that bothered. As I've pointed out many times before (but not so much that this lady is thought to be protesting too much), my life is pretty much perfect. I don't sit looking woefully at the other end of my sofa thinking it's lacking a scrotum. I am not gagging to have babies just yet - walking past countless suffocating family picnics in the sun yesterday afternoon I heaved many a sigh of relief that my neck doesn't yet have that extortionate albatross swinging off it. I don't need a boyfriend to do my DIY - I feel pretty capable of most things and my dad is more than adequate for the rest. I don't feel I need a man to organise my bills, or earn money, or take me to the cinema. In fact, the fear that he might at any point vanish/die can make relationships so unpleasant that I'm not sure they're even worth it. Really, I just want one to say he's my boyfriend so everyone knows I've passed The Test, appear with me at the odd function, and kiss me regularly. Oh, and I'd like one to come to the opera with me. A night at Covent Garden is the most romantic experience I can imagine and going with girls feels wrong. I've got tickets for two productions this autumn and if I don't have a man at my side for at least one of them I'll strop. Since I'm not allowed to actively pursue anyone, if you're single, in possession of a Y chromasome and would like to be considered for this role, feel free to drop me a line via the comments section. It's Rigoletto and Cosi Fan Tutti. Don't all shout at once.
Friday, 23 July 2010
New choice
Last night I was at home on my sofa, all geared up to sit there all night and mope and feel sorry for myself, and then somehow I managed to shake myself out of it, and I stood up, changed my clothes, put on my make-up, left the house, walked down the road, got on a bus and a train and then walked to a strange bar, walked purposefully down the stairs into the dank basement room and joined a circle of a group of total strangers who were all pointing at each other and shouting loudly. It was a warm-up game for an improvisation comedy workshop, and I went along because I went on an improv beginners' weekend course a month ago, and it was absolutely excellent.
It's excellent for me in particular, because I am a control freak and I like boundaries and rules and clarity and I hate surprises and unplanned events. I particularly hate the thought of failing, especially when I have been seen to be trying hard at something, and most of all what I hate is the thought of making a fool of myself in front of other people. And improv is all about doing all of those things for fun. And after a while, the threat of not being 'good enough' or 'funny enough' starts to evaporate, and you just laugh and find yourself rolling on the floor with people you've never met, pretending to be a cup of tea for the amusement of others. Last night, two men were in a zoo scenario, talking about shooting one of the animals with a tranquilizer gun, and so a few of us started being the animals, and crawled on stage on our hands and knees, and then I got quite close to the zookeeper, who felt threatened and shot me, and I reared up and then died on my back, and lay there while the two humans decided what to do, but meanwhile the rest of my pack of animals started dragging my carcass across the floor back to our lair. I ended up covered in basement pub dust and giggling like mad.
One of the best exercises I've had to do is called 'New Choice'. You're working with a partner and improvising a story, but at any point, after any one of your suggestions, if they don't think it's good enough or it jars for some reason, they can say 'New choice' and you have to try again. So it might go:
J: I was walking along the street last night...
P: New choice
J: ...along the seafront last night, and I saw a dolphin...
P: New choice
J: ...a walrus...
P: New choice
J: ...a man drowning. I stripped off my clothes...
P: New choice
J: ...without stripping off my clothes, I ran straight into the sea and swam towards him. I could hear him screaming, 'Help!'
P: New choice
J: ...I could hear him screaming, 'Sandwiches!'
P: New choice
J: ...'Fuck off! I want to die!' but I didn't believe him. I reached him and started trying to drag him ashore, but he was lashing out...
P: New choice
J: ...he started trying to drown me
P: New choice
J: ...trying to kiss me. And his breath was terrible.
You get the idea. What was wonderful for me was that, the first time I was 'New choiced' I thought I'd feel like the person was saying, 'FAIL, that was a STUPID SUGGESTION you MORON', but in fact, because everyone gets 'New choiced', it feels way more like 'Hey, c'mon, you can do better than that, sexypants' and instead of shrinking in confidence, you actually start to enjoy it. The less you think about it, the more free your choices feel and the more funny they often are. It is all amazingly liberating and, for £5, I challenge people to have a more fun night out in the smoke. I'll be going again.
And then, of course, because I'd finally forgotten about vanishing guy for a whole two hour period, when I then checked my emails on arriving back at home, I found he'd messaged me. A lame message, an 'urgh, thank god I dodged your bullet' message of 'I need to sort my head out and I don't want to hurt someone who I like and respect.' Like and respect so much that you leave them hanging for FOUR DAYS while you piss about being selfish. Wow, I'm flattered. Anyway, I sent him a blinder of a reply this morning, three paragraphs of unadulterated pleasure that should, if I'm any good at this writing lark at all, make him feel like a total twunt. Case dismissed. Let the weekend begin.
It's excellent for me in particular, because I am a control freak and I like boundaries and rules and clarity and I hate surprises and unplanned events. I particularly hate the thought of failing, especially when I have been seen to be trying hard at something, and most of all what I hate is the thought of making a fool of myself in front of other people. And improv is all about doing all of those things for fun. And after a while, the threat of not being 'good enough' or 'funny enough' starts to evaporate, and you just laugh and find yourself rolling on the floor with people you've never met, pretending to be a cup of tea for the amusement of others. Last night, two men were in a zoo scenario, talking about shooting one of the animals with a tranquilizer gun, and so a few of us started being the animals, and crawled on stage on our hands and knees, and then I got quite close to the zookeeper, who felt threatened and shot me, and I reared up and then died on my back, and lay there while the two humans decided what to do, but meanwhile the rest of my pack of animals started dragging my carcass across the floor back to our lair. I ended up covered in basement pub dust and giggling like mad.
One of the best exercises I've had to do is called 'New Choice'. You're working with a partner and improvising a story, but at any point, after any one of your suggestions, if they don't think it's good enough or it jars for some reason, they can say 'New choice' and you have to try again. So it might go:
J: I was walking along the street last night...
P: New choice
J: ...along the seafront last night, and I saw a dolphin...
P: New choice
J: ...a walrus...
P: New choice
J: ...a man drowning. I stripped off my clothes...
P: New choice
J: ...without stripping off my clothes, I ran straight into the sea and swam towards him. I could hear him screaming, 'Help!'
P: New choice
J: ...I could hear him screaming, 'Sandwiches!'
P: New choice
J: ...'Fuck off! I want to die!' but I didn't believe him. I reached him and started trying to drag him ashore, but he was lashing out...
P: New choice
J: ...he started trying to drown me
P: New choice
J: ...trying to kiss me. And his breath was terrible.
You get the idea. What was wonderful for me was that, the first time I was 'New choiced' I thought I'd feel like the person was saying, 'FAIL, that was a STUPID SUGGESTION you MORON', but in fact, because everyone gets 'New choiced', it feels way more like 'Hey, c'mon, you can do better than that, sexypants' and instead of shrinking in confidence, you actually start to enjoy it. The less you think about it, the more free your choices feel and the more funny they often are. It is all amazingly liberating and, for £5, I challenge people to have a more fun night out in the smoke. I'll be going again.
And then, of course, because I'd finally forgotten about vanishing guy for a whole two hour period, when I then checked my emails on arriving back at home, I found he'd messaged me. A lame message, an 'urgh, thank god I dodged your bullet' message of 'I need to sort my head out and I don't want to hurt someone who I like and respect.' Like and respect so much that you leave them hanging for FOUR DAYS while you piss about being selfish. Wow, I'm flattered. Anyway, I sent him a blinder of a reply this morning, three paragraphs of unadulterated pleasure that should, if I'm any good at this writing lark at all, make him feel like a total twunt. Case dismissed. Let the weekend begin.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
What's the alternative?
Hahahahahaha, goodness me, wasn't yesterday's blog HILARIOUS! Thanks to everyone who texted and emailed (and there were, genuinely, many) to say how FUNNY my FAILED LOVE LIFE IS. Sigh.
OK, I admit that I was slightly playing it for laughs. But it was a bit like going 'I'm fat' and then everyone else going 'Yeah, you are.' I guess what I find troubling is that it's not even remotely exaggerated. The facts are there. I have been rejected by a lot of men. Sure, I've knocked back a few too, along the way. But that doesn't really make it hurt any less when it happens to you.
So why does this keep happening to me? I genuinely don't think I'm even doing anything wrong. I'm not too picky. I'm not waiting for a man without flaws. I am not unattractive. I'm not thick. Of COURSE I don't let on that I'm actually just as much of a mentalist as any other girl. I don't show them my cellulite. I don't tell them about the time I blogged about wanting to wear an engagement ring. I don't coo over nearby children. I keep quiet about the fact that I like the towels in my bathroom to be folded in a particular way so that they fit properly on the towel rail. I tend not to mention that I'm on anti-depressants, or that I am likely to turn to fat. Instead, I ask them lots of questions, and we talk about music and theatre and film and yoga and travel and all that other stuff, and I laugh at their jokes, and I keep the conversation light and fluffy, and we goon around and it's all good. And they enjoy themselves, dammit. But then they go home, and they think about it, and they think, 'Yeah... actually, no.' And then they evaporate.
I know, it's only got to be right once. And actually, my therapist and I decided that I wouldn't be pro-active about boys for the next ten weeks. So I'm taking down my online profile and all men can get stuffed. And then I read this in the Graun this morning and I thought, 'Hmmmm, maybe...' And then I thought about never having heterosexual sex again and I thought, 'Yeah, that's not going to work.' The quest will continue... but not 'til October.
OK, I admit that I was slightly playing it for laughs. But it was a bit like going 'I'm fat' and then everyone else going 'Yeah, you are.' I guess what I find troubling is that it's not even remotely exaggerated. The facts are there. I have been rejected by a lot of men. Sure, I've knocked back a few too, along the way. But that doesn't really make it hurt any less when it happens to you.
So why does this keep happening to me? I genuinely don't think I'm even doing anything wrong. I'm not too picky. I'm not waiting for a man without flaws. I am not unattractive. I'm not thick. Of COURSE I don't let on that I'm actually just as much of a mentalist as any other girl. I don't show them my cellulite. I don't tell them about the time I blogged about wanting to wear an engagement ring. I don't coo over nearby children. I keep quiet about the fact that I like the towels in my bathroom to be folded in a particular way so that they fit properly on the towel rail. I tend not to mention that I'm on anti-depressants, or that I am likely to turn to fat. Instead, I ask them lots of questions, and we talk about music and theatre and film and yoga and travel and all that other stuff, and I laugh at their jokes, and I keep the conversation light and fluffy, and we goon around and it's all good. And they enjoy themselves, dammit. But then they go home, and they think about it, and they think, 'Yeah... actually, no.' And then they evaporate.
I know, it's only got to be right once. And actually, my therapist and I decided that I wouldn't be pro-active about boys for the next ten weeks. So I'm taking down my online profile and all men can get stuffed. And then I read this in the Graun this morning and I thought, 'Hmmmm, maybe...' And then I thought about never having heterosexual sex again and I thought, 'Yeah, that's not going to work.' The quest will continue... but not 'til October.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Two years in the life
Yeah, OK, OK, anyone who knows me can probably guess the reason for my sluggishness to write. Stupid, stupid XY chromosomes and stupid, stupid me for being stupid enough to be optimistic.
Let's recap. My last serious relationship, i.e. where both parties were happy to call the other their 'boyfriend' or 'girlfriend', ended in August 2008. My first date after that weighed approx. 28 stone. The next one kissed me on date one and then vanished. The next one kissed me on dates one and two, said he really liked me and then said he wasn't looking for a relationship. The next one dumped me before he'd even met me, by vanishing on the day of our proposed date. I wasn't so much stood up as sat up, in that I didn't even need to leave my sofa to find out that he wouldn't be there. Then I started regularly seeing a guy whose commitment-phobe tendencies were so glaring as to make it stupid of me to even kiss him in the first place, so unlikely was I to convince him to commit. After three months or so, we called it quits. Then I didn't date because I was sad. Then I met the Glastocrush, but let's be fair, that was never going to last. And it didn't. Then I went on the ridiculous date with the guy from Clapham, just to appease my mother that at least I was trying to be open minded. Then there was the date with the Lying Dutchman, the guy whose fictitious ex-girlfriend kept updating his profile, and others so boring that they didn't deserve an anecdote. Early this year, I met another commitment-phobe, which kept me mental until late March. Then there was the weird German, the guy who designed weapons and the penis guy, all in one week, the guy who kissed me in May and sent me a text afterwards saying "Next time, let's...", inferring (I think you'll agree) that there would be another date, and who then vanished. And the magician, who also did a Houdini. And the posh guy who I went to a pub quiz with, who never texted again. And the education journalist who said he'd love to see me again and then disappeared. And the beautiful teetotaller when neither of us felt any chemistry. And the lovely OCD picnic maker. And now this guy, who asked me out for a third date by text message on Sunday night and hasn't been heard from since.
And, you know, it's fine, and I'm fun and gorgeous, but god it's hard to keep perky. I don't think I know anyone who's been knocked back as many times as I have. I feel like the world's shittest boxer. ANYWAY. What was amazing was the incredible massage I had on Monday, given by this adorable and amazingly powerful Japanese guy, and the giggles I got when I turned over and my boob popped out from under the towel and both of us tried to cover it up. When I say 'popped', it was probably more 'flopped' but this isn't the time for negative body images. Got to run.
Let's recap. My last serious relationship, i.e. where both parties were happy to call the other their 'boyfriend' or 'girlfriend', ended in August 2008. My first date after that weighed approx. 28 stone. The next one kissed me on date one and then vanished. The next one kissed me on dates one and two, said he really liked me and then said he wasn't looking for a relationship. The next one dumped me before he'd even met me, by vanishing on the day of our proposed date. I wasn't so much stood up as sat up, in that I didn't even need to leave my sofa to find out that he wouldn't be there. Then I started regularly seeing a guy whose commitment-phobe tendencies were so glaring as to make it stupid of me to even kiss him in the first place, so unlikely was I to convince him to commit. After three months or so, we called it quits. Then I didn't date because I was sad. Then I met the Glastocrush, but let's be fair, that was never going to last. And it didn't. Then I went on the ridiculous date with the guy from Clapham, just to appease my mother that at least I was trying to be open minded. Then there was the date with the Lying Dutchman, the guy whose fictitious ex-girlfriend kept updating his profile, and others so boring that they didn't deserve an anecdote. Early this year, I met another commitment-phobe, which kept me mental until late March. Then there was the weird German, the guy who designed weapons and the penis guy, all in one week, the guy who kissed me in May and sent me a text afterwards saying "Next time, let's...", inferring (I think you'll agree) that there would be another date, and who then vanished. And the magician, who also did a Houdini. And the posh guy who I went to a pub quiz with, who never texted again. And the education journalist who said he'd love to see me again and then disappeared. And the beautiful teetotaller when neither of us felt any chemistry. And the lovely OCD picnic maker. And now this guy, who asked me out for a third date by text message on Sunday night and hasn't been heard from since.
And, you know, it's fine, and I'm fun and gorgeous, but god it's hard to keep perky. I don't think I know anyone who's been knocked back as many times as I have. I feel like the world's shittest boxer. ANYWAY. What was amazing was the incredible massage I had on Monday, given by this adorable and amazingly powerful Japanese guy, and the giggles I got when I turned over and my boob popped out from under the towel and both of us tried to cover it up. When I say 'popped', it was probably more 'flopped' but this isn't the time for negative body images. Got to run.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Whirlwind.
I've been crap and I'm sorry to all three of you. Thursday I had a second date. It was good and now I wish I'd never met him. Nothing less fun than the vulnerability associated with actually liking someone. Will try and forget all about him forever. On Friday, Lucy came to London and placed upon me the heavy burden of the fact that she has two children and doesn't live in town and rarely gets a night off and had driven all the way just to see me so, well, you know, we just HAD to go out in Hoxton and eat Thai food and drink much wine, and then go to another bar and have fruit smoothies for health and cookies for fun and wine for stupidity, and Lucy decided to see what zambuca coffee tasted like (fail), and then go to a club and dance until 2am with boys who were born in the latter half of the eighties, boys who were good looking enough to take their shirts off when they got hot, and of course I had to kiss one of them although I can't remember which one, even when I look at the photos - all I can remember is pulling away and going, "Urgh, you taste of Red Bull." What a charming and petite nymph I am. And then chips from a kebab shop and absurd and unexpected self-control from me, only about seven hours too late, and home on the nightbus.
And then on Saturday I woke up in that curious and deeply unpleasant wasteland between still drunk and more hungover than you'd ever known it was possible to be, and Lucy and I had bacon sandwiches and then I got on a coach in Waterloo and drove to Cambridge to sing in a concert in King's College chapel, to the best of my knowledge one of the most glorious buildings in the whole world, with a nine second acoustic and, at 8pm after five hours of rehearsal, a distinguished audience; and at the party later I was able to say thank you to my choral hero, nonagenarian Sir David Willcocks, without whom etc. etc., and when he'd thanked me and turned away it was all too much and I burst into tears. Pulled myself together afterwards with some Oyster Bay and then tepid rosé in plastic cups on the coach, got home, passed out, woke up on Sunday aching as though I had been a woefully underprepared contestant on Overnight Gladiators without my knowledge, did yoga, sweated as though doing Bikram while actually just in my normal-temperature flat, then went to see Eva's new baby and then off to Mayfair for more rehearsals during which I thought I was going to faint or be sick, or both simultaneously, collapsing into a pool of my own vomit, a bit like I was dissolving into bile a la the Wicked Witch Of The West, or was it East?, but managed to avoid that attractive end by sitting down, and then drinking Lucozade and eating Soreen, and then we performed another whopping great concert, exhausting and exhilarating, followed by a restoratative pint with my parents and an unexpected lift back to my home and a phonecall with Grania where my tattered sanity was hacked into some semblance of shape with her cat o' nine tails and Polyfilla.
Today I am mostly trying to stay upright.
And then on Saturday I woke up in that curious and deeply unpleasant wasteland between still drunk and more hungover than you'd ever known it was possible to be, and Lucy and I had bacon sandwiches and then I got on a coach in Waterloo and drove to Cambridge to sing in a concert in King's College chapel, to the best of my knowledge one of the most glorious buildings in the whole world, with a nine second acoustic and, at 8pm after five hours of rehearsal, a distinguished audience; and at the party later I was able to say thank you to my choral hero, nonagenarian Sir David Willcocks, without whom etc. etc., and when he'd thanked me and turned away it was all too much and I burst into tears. Pulled myself together afterwards with some Oyster Bay and then tepid rosé in plastic cups on the coach, got home, passed out, woke up on Sunday aching as though I had been a woefully underprepared contestant on Overnight Gladiators without my knowledge, did yoga, sweated as though doing Bikram while actually just in my normal-temperature flat, then went to see Eva's new baby and then off to Mayfair for more rehearsals during which I thought I was going to faint or be sick, or both simultaneously, collapsing into a pool of my own vomit, a bit like I was dissolving into bile a la the Wicked Witch Of The West, or was it East?, but managed to avoid that attractive end by sitting down, and then drinking Lucozade and eating Soreen, and then we performed another whopping great concert, exhausting and exhilarating, followed by a restoratative pint with my parents and an unexpected lift back to my home and a phonecall with Grania where my tattered sanity was hacked into some semblance of shape with her cat o' nine tails and Polyfilla.
Today I am mostly trying to stay upright.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Cheese alert
Two weeks on and I'm still thinking about Glastonbury. There's something so extraordinary about standing in a field with 80,000 other people, all united by a common purpose, listening to songs that make your hairs stand up on end - that crowd mentality that explains football obsession the world over, but which, I would argue, reaches a higher level when there are musicians onstage rather than players on the pitch, because of the lack of competition - we are all bound by one shared goal, there's only one team playing and we all want them to win. It's an enormously uplifting experience, often literally as you're lifted off your feet by the force of the heaving crowd. "Some people think I'm bonkers, but I just think I'm free, man I'm just living my life, there's nothing crazy 'bout meeeeee." Gotta love Dizzee.
And then there's the other extreme, standing in an empty chapel at 8pm on a Monday night, knackered from the weekend, rehearsing heavenly music by Monteverdi or Pergolesi, hopefully doing it some sort of justice, concentrating properly, no room for thoughts of men or motors while you're reading notes, singing and watching the conductor simultaneously, a meditative space in the maelstrom.
And there's my burgeoning ukulele addiction, my growing opera buffery, Chopin, Elgar, Rachmaninov, West Side Story, some lesser musicals, dancing to blues on Charlotte Street or indie at The Roxy. All are forms of release, all are heady, luxurious and emotional, all are necessary. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to enjoy the full spectrum. Spain just won the World Cup but for us music lovers, well... we're all winners every time a good song comes on the radio.
Ick.
In fringe news: it's actually OK. I wore it back in some sort of makeshift turban thing on Friday (odd decision, I'll admit) and he didn't seem to mind. Since then, I've found that, provided I spend six or seven hours styling it each morning, it actually looks OK. This would be unmanageable except I still have a skin-rippingly annoying cough which wakes me up with agonising frequency every night, so there's plenty of time to do hairstyling. Or read past entries of my own blog. Which is obviously more fun.
And then there's the other extreme, standing in an empty chapel at 8pm on a Monday night, knackered from the weekend, rehearsing heavenly music by Monteverdi or Pergolesi, hopefully doing it some sort of justice, concentrating properly, no room for thoughts of men or motors while you're reading notes, singing and watching the conductor simultaneously, a meditative space in the maelstrom.
And there's my burgeoning ukulele addiction, my growing opera buffery, Chopin, Elgar, Rachmaninov, West Side Story, some lesser musicals, dancing to blues on Charlotte Street or indie at The Roxy. All are forms of release, all are heady, luxurious and emotional, all are necessary. I feel incredibly lucky to be able to enjoy the full spectrum. Spain just won the World Cup but for us music lovers, well... we're all winners every time a good song comes on the radio.
Ick.
In fringe news: it's actually OK. I wore it back in some sort of makeshift turban thing on Friday (odd decision, I'll admit) and he didn't seem to mind. Since then, I've found that, provided I spend six or seven hours styling it each morning, it actually looks OK. This would be unmanageable except I still have a skin-rippingly annoying cough which wakes me up with agonising frequency every night, so there's plenty of time to do hairstyling. Or read past entries of my own blog. Which is obviously more fun.
Friday, 9 July 2010
Q: How long does it take to RUIN MY LIFE?
Right. That is IT. I have fucking had it up to here and, worst of all, it's all my own stupid fault. I have a date tonight, my hair is looking lank, and I thought I'd go and get my fringe trimmed. My usual Japanese hairdresser doesn't work on Fridays, so I had another Japanese hairdresser.
"Freenge treeem?" she asks.
"Yes please," I say. "I was growing it out but I've decided I don't like it. So I want a blunt fringe, very chunky, taking in more hair than it was before." I explain what I mean by pulling forward some hair from closer to my crown. She nods and gets to work, cutting with precision until it looks just like I want it. Then she pins about half of it back and starts thinning out what's there. I wiggle uncomfortably.
"Please don't thin it out too much," I say. "I want it to be quite chunky. Blunt. You know?"
She nods and smiles and keeps going. And I sit there. I sit there like I'm fucking paralysed, all the while knowing that what she is doing is RUINING MY HAIR.
"You ok?" she asks. "You hot?"
"No, I'm not hot," I say, "just please don't thin it out any more. I want it blunt. Straight across. Not thin. The whole point of taking more hair into the fringe was so that it was thick. I have thick hair. Why are you making it look thin? Are you deaf? Why the hell are you working here if you can't understand WHAT I AM SAYING? STOP FUCKING SMILING AND NODDING." OK, I didn't say most of that, because I am polite and pathetic and PC. I tried to make my point though, and she nodded and smiled and then busied away doing the exact opposite, and I couldn't move because I am a moron.
And now my fringe is lank and pathetic and I hate it and no one will ever fancy me again, and I paid her the £3 she charged to trim it and gave her £1 extra as a tip and I will never go back and I will never have my hair cut again by someone who can't speak English, and yes, that's probably an awful thing to say and I am a keen supporter of global migration and immigration into the UK and diversity and variety of services and melting pots and tolerance but THIS IS MY HAIR we're talking about and it is serious.
"Freenge treeem?" she asks.
"Yes please," I say. "I was growing it out but I've decided I don't like it. So I want a blunt fringe, very chunky, taking in more hair than it was before." I explain what I mean by pulling forward some hair from closer to my crown. She nods and gets to work, cutting with precision until it looks just like I want it. Then she pins about half of it back and starts thinning out what's there. I wiggle uncomfortably.
"Please don't thin it out too much," I say. "I want it to be quite chunky. Blunt. You know?"
She nods and smiles and keeps going. And I sit there. I sit there like I'm fucking paralysed, all the while knowing that what she is doing is RUINING MY HAIR.
"You ok?" she asks. "You hot?"
"No, I'm not hot," I say, "just please don't thin it out any more. I want it blunt. Straight across. Not thin. The whole point of taking more hair into the fringe was so that it was thick. I have thick hair. Why are you making it look thin? Are you deaf? Why the hell are you working here if you can't understand WHAT I AM SAYING? STOP FUCKING SMILING AND NODDING." OK, I didn't say most of that, because I am polite and pathetic and PC. I tried to make my point though, and she nodded and smiled and then busied away doing the exact opposite, and I couldn't move because I am a moron.
And now my fringe is lank and pathetic and I hate it and no one will ever fancy me again, and I paid her the £3 she charged to trim it and gave her £1 extra as a tip and I will never go back and I will never have my hair cut again by someone who can't speak English, and yes, that's probably an awful thing to say and I am a keen supporter of global migration and immigration into the UK and diversity and variety of services and melting pots and tolerance but THIS IS MY HAIR we're talking about and it is serious.
Friday, 2 July 2010
A terrible, terrible thing has happened.
As if things in my dietary existence weren't bad enough, I had a further upset a little over two hours ago. Feeling ill and full of self-pity, I went out to forage for some lunch. The terrain near my workplace is heaving with familiar options, but I had heard talk of a new place around the corner, and innocently made my way towards it today, fully unaware of the nightmare that awaited me therein.
As soon as I stepped over the threshold I knew I had committed an appalling error. The place was rammed full of heavily satisfied customers. It was sparkling clean. And the brightly lit, glass-fronted counter winched me in, displaying its wares like a vindictive peacock. In front of me was a vast selection of the most tantalising, the most inventive, the most drool-forming sandwiches I have ever seen in this or any world. In fact, to call them sandwiches would be to do them a disservice. These were beyond sandwiches. They were masterpieces of sandwich craft, the Platonic ideal sandwich, the uberwich. I felt nervous and humble in their presence, so obvious was their greatness. It was unclear whether I should buy one or bow down.
For a while, I did neither, merely standing slack-jawed in front of the display cabinet examining my options. Did I want the one with the sunblushed tomatoes, charcuterie meat, mozzarella slabs and avocado fanned out atop feather soft brioche? Or the perfectly-pink roast beef wafers rippling among a duvet of rosemary loaf? Like a rabbit in the headlights, I was unable to move, well aware that any choice would be my downfall but utterly powerless to leave. Eventually, I chose the tuna melt, reasoning that its lack of red meat made it a 'healthy option' and choosing to ignore the fat implications of the word 'melt'. The speed at which I returned to my desk must surely have counterbalanced the imminent weight gain in a small way. Unwrapping the paper bag's contents, I was well aware that I was stepping into an abyss.
The first bite was like some sort of edible joke. It far outstripped any mouthful of any lunch I have ever had in my life. The bread was ostensibly foccacia, but as foccacia should surely be - not rubbery and cakey, but thin, salty, floppy and flavoursome. And of course, there was tuna and mayonnaise and melt, but there was also tomato, small chunks of aubergine, spinach leaves and tarragon. I don't even LIKE tarragon but in this combination I was confused and delighted. It would be a lie to say that I wept, but for the five minutes that it took for me to eat that sandwich, I was as close as I've ever been to a Damascene conversion.
And now there is, of course, no going back. I can vomit up the sandwich, but I can never not have eaten it. Forever, there will be the memory, not just of the tuna melt, but of the other sandwiches on offer at that glorious place, so close by, with its friendly staff and ability to accept card payments. From this day onwards, lunch will be an eternal battle of self-will, one that I will inevitably lose (and yet win) day after day until I explode or go broke. No longer is the Breakfast Bowl in Pret my biggest temptation. Kids, we have a new enemy in town. If you are passing through the City and are in need of a coronary for any reason, I could not recommend Birley's highly enough. But if you fancy remaining at a safe weight, then stay the hell away from there. It's too late for me, but please, for the love of god, save yourselves.
As soon as I stepped over the threshold I knew I had committed an appalling error. The place was rammed full of heavily satisfied customers. It was sparkling clean. And the brightly lit, glass-fronted counter winched me in, displaying its wares like a vindictive peacock. In front of me was a vast selection of the most tantalising, the most inventive, the most drool-forming sandwiches I have ever seen in this or any world. In fact, to call them sandwiches would be to do them a disservice. These were beyond sandwiches. They were masterpieces of sandwich craft, the Platonic ideal sandwich, the uberwich. I felt nervous and humble in their presence, so obvious was their greatness. It was unclear whether I should buy one or bow down.
For a while, I did neither, merely standing slack-jawed in front of the display cabinet examining my options. Did I want the one with the sunblushed tomatoes, charcuterie meat, mozzarella slabs and avocado fanned out atop feather soft brioche? Or the perfectly-pink roast beef wafers rippling among a duvet of rosemary loaf? Like a rabbit in the headlights, I was unable to move, well aware that any choice would be my downfall but utterly powerless to leave. Eventually, I chose the tuna melt, reasoning that its lack of red meat made it a 'healthy option' and choosing to ignore the fat implications of the word 'melt'. The speed at which I returned to my desk must surely have counterbalanced the imminent weight gain in a small way. Unwrapping the paper bag's contents, I was well aware that I was stepping into an abyss.
The first bite was like some sort of edible joke. It far outstripped any mouthful of any lunch I have ever had in my life. The bread was ostensibly foccacia, but as foccacia should surely be - not rubbery and cakey, but thin, salty, floppy and flavoursome. And of course, there was tuna and mayonnaise and melt, but there was also tomato, small chunks of aubergine, spinach leaves and tarragon. I don't even LIKE tarragon but in this combination I was confused and delighted. It would be a lie to say that I wept, but for the five minutes that it took for me to eat that sandwich, I was as close as I've ever been to a Damascene conversion.
And now there is, of course, no going back. I can vomit up the sandwich, but I can never not have eaten it. Forever, there will be the memory, not just of the tuna melt, but of the other sandwiches on offer at that glorious place, so close by, with its friendly staff and ability to accept card payments. From this day onwards, lunch will be an eternal battle of self-will, one that I will inevitably lose (and yet win) day after day until I explode or go broke. No longer is the Breakfast Bowl in Pret my biggest temptation. Kids, we have a new enemy in town. If you are passing through the City and are in need of a coronary for any reason, I could not recommend Birley's highly enough. But if you fancy remaining at a safe weight, then stay the hell away from there. It's too late for me, but please, for the love of god, save yourselves.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Becoming round again
Fascinating though I am in every possible way, my weight is so cyclical that even I have started to find the pattern massively boring. Massive being the most appropriate word. I start at Bad Weight A. I feel fat, so I exercise and eat less. My thighs tone up a bit, my bingo wings shrink, and over the course of a few months, I reach Good Weight B. Good Weight B is never as low as my original goal, Unreachable Weight C, but it's OK. I fit into some thinner jeans. I get cocky.
And then I get ill, or I go to a festival, or the snake bites, or some other event disrupts my routine, and I stop exercising. Without the threat of undoing lots of hard gym work hanging over me, I then just give up altogether and start eating normally forbidden food such as cake. And this is where the cruel part kicks in. For a blissful couple of months, I don't gain. I remain at Weight B. "This is brrrrrrrrilliant!" I think, delightedly, inwardly clapping like a seal. "I've finally done it! I've permanently altered my metabolism! I'm now one of those people who can eat Pret a Manger pizza wraps for lunch every day and never go to the gym and still remain lithe and slender like a standard lamp." For several weeks, I cruise along at Weight B in a haze of smugness, wearing skimpy clothes while knocking back Krispy Kremes with gay abandon.
But gradually, inevitably, I start to creep back towards Weight A. At first, I am in denial. "I'm not heading back to Weight A," I chuckle confidently. "That muffin top over the edge of my jeans? An optical illusion - it's my shit Ikea mirror. Fucking Swedes." Or later, "I haven't got fatter! OK, my dress is tighter - but that's because it shrunk in the wash! Yes. Even though I've washed it on the same setting a billion times, this is the one time that it's shrunk. Yup. Definitely. That's what's happened. It's all Hotpoint's fault." And then a few days or weeks later, I finally concede that I'm heading back to where I started, with 'motivation to exercise' about as high on my things to do list as 'drink Rooney's vomit' and no desire whatsoever to eat anything that isn't topped with melted cheese or mayonnaise.
No prizes for correctly identifying that I am currently reaching the nadir of Bad Weight A, tired and a bit ill after Glasto, DESPERATE to avoid the gym, unrelentingly and frantically craving deeply unhealthy food and booze from the moment I awaken to the moment I go to sleep. I'm not sure what will kickstart me onto the slope to Good Weight B, but it sure as hell better hurry up before I need to be wheeled around by a third party and have to buy two seats on aeroplanes. Hmmmm. Maybe I'll go on a gym kick as of Monday. Yes. Monday sounds plausible. And still pleasantly distant. I'm off to the vending machine.
And then I get ill, or I go to a festival, or the snake bites, or some other event disrupts my routine, and I stop exercising. Without the threat of undoing lots of hard gym work hanging over me, I then just give up altogether and start eating normally forbidden food such as cake. And this is where the cruel part kicks in. For a blissful couple of months, I don't gain. I remain at Weight B. "This is brrrrrrrrilliant!" I think, delightedly, inwardly clapping like a seal. "I've finally done it! I've permanently altered my metabolism! I'm now one of those people who can eat Pret a Manger pizza wraps for lunch every day and never go to the gym and still remain lithe and slender like a standard lamp." For several weeks, I cruise along at Weight B in a haze of smugness, wearing skimpy clothes while knocking back Krispy Kremes with gay abandon.
But gradually, inevitably, I start to creep back towards Weight A. At first, I am in denial. "I'm not heading back to Weight A," I chuckle confidently. "That muffin top over the edge of my jeans? An optical illusion - it's my shit Ikea mirror. Fucking Swedes." Or later, "I haven't got fatter! OK, my dress is tighter - but that's because it shrunk in the wash! Yes. Even though I've washed it on the same setting a billion times, this is the one time that it's shrunk. Yup. Definitely. That's what's happened. It's all Hotpoint's fault." And then a few days or weeks later, I finally concede that I'm heading back to where I started, with 'motivation to exercise' about as high on my things to do list as 'drink Rooney's vomit' and no desire whatsoever to eat anything that isn't topped with melted cheese or mayonnaise.
No prizes for correctly identifying that I am currently reaching the nadir of Bad Weight A, tired and a bit ill after Glasto, DESPERATE to avoid the gym, unrelentingly and frantically craving deeply unhealthy food and booze from the moment I awaken to the moment I go to sleep. I'm not sure what will kickstart me onto the slope to Good Weight B, but it sure as hell better hurry up before I need to be wheeled around by a third party and have to buy two seats on aeroplanes. Hmmmm. Maybe I'll go on a gym kick as of Monday. Yes. Monday sounds plausible. And still pleasantly distant. I'm off to the vending machine.
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