F: Re: Things I Want to Achieve in My Lifetime

D, (after having been overwhelmed by your energy...) It strikes me that what you are really interested in academically is the theory of conflict and deeply divided societies. There are some really good websites on the whole NI thing from this point of view e.g.http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/, which has a comprehensive databse of everybodykilled by The Troubles and lots of stats on Ni and its status in the world.Maybe this could be how you complete your doctorate - through the political theory route? Though I doubt the jewels will be achieved then: unless of course you meet v rich man, and then you would have got the love one too. Perfect!

Anyway, here are mine:

1. To be able to cope with disaster and to be able to celebrate triumph, and not to be undermined or too distracted by either
   
2. To become genuine non-smoker
   
3. To fall madly, deeply, passionately, foolishly in love (and have it reciprocated).
   
4. To raise a child/children – not necessarily by giving birth
   
5. Watch all the films of the following directors – Egoyan, Allen, Lee, Bergman, Rohmer, Ozon, Jarmusch, Fassbinder, Almodovar. To meet as many of them as possible.
   
6. To visit Copenhagan (bizarrely obsessed by place. Not sure going on holiday is really achievement though).
   
7. To overcome my natural sloth and torpor and have home that is relatively pleasing place to live, not rubbish filled hovel
   
8. to learn to change light bulbs with confidence. Can sometimes manage it but sometimes they break or snap or you can’t reach the buggers.
   
9. To somehow train world that its is used in the following sentence: “can you see its lights twinkling” and it’s in the following sentence: “It’s a lovely day today.” Perhaps set up remedial grammar course at university.
   
10. To have a Chair established in my name.
    
11. Summon up courage to have laser treatment on eyes and be able to see properly again
    
12. To own a really beautiful and madly expensive piece of art that I love
    
13. Learn a musical instrument – maybe the guitar. If I could sing along too, that would be fab. More of a dream than anything else though as am madly unmusical person
    
14. To lose weight. To fit into (even across bust) size 14 Karen Millen red coat I fell in love with last year but that looked awful on.
    
15. Meet Sue Townsend and congratulate her on being towering genius.
    
16. Learn to drive.
    
17. To shut down the Daily Telegraph.
    
18. To be on the Question Time panel.
    
19. To be part of a movement that deposes monarchy and House of Lords and establishes true representative democracy in UK.
    
20. to be less erratic at pitch and putt. To do home course in around 45 strokes!
    
21. to knit a lovely jumper for myself
    
22. to keep on enjoying my job, and to keep on being OK at it.
    
23. Would love to speak Italian, and also to resuscitate my German.
    
24. To be as happy as I can be, without being complacent or foolish
    
25. “Devenir immortelle. Et puis, mourir.” (Godard. Sorry).

D: Things I want to achieve in life

"So what does one do on the crashingly boring train journey from Dorchester to London Waterloo?" I hear you trill. Why, one simply writes a list of the 44 things one would like to achieve in life. (The challenge I set myself was 50, but hey, I'm clearly just v low maintenance!) Enjoy, my girls. I invite you all to create similar lists. Maybe we can all get together in 20 years time (when our schedules finally converge), and see how we are getting on with achieving things on the list.

Things I want to achieve in life

1. Size 8 (in designer jeans)
2. Longer, redder hair
3. Long, natural nails of equal length
4. Love
5. Buy property
6. Buy new car
7. Run marathon in under 3 hrs 30 mins
8. Appear on TV panel of political debate (Question Time or similar)
9. Write ground-breaking feminist manifesto, cited in future years as the catalyst for the 3rd wave
10. Explore South Africa
11. Be invited to be keynote speaker at prestigious event
12. Own stunning (and shockingly expensive pair of diamond, citrine and smoky quartz earrings I have my eye on
13. Own enormous bling amethyst ring (surrounded in pave of amethysts or diamonds)
14. Write regular newspaper column in weekend broadsheet
15. Achieve black belt in kickboxing
16. Act in arty play
17. Speak and write fluent Italian
18. Become highly acclaimed partner in top law firm
19. Attain flawless complexion
20. Correct my deviated septum and discover the joys of easy breathing
21. Study nutrition and attain encyclopaediopic knowledge of nutritional qualities all food and vitamins
22. Speak and write fluent Spanish
23. Speak and write both fluent Arabic and Hebrew
24. Acquire profound understanding of stocks, bonds and shares
25. Become skilled at Ashtanga yoga
26. Regularly practise Bikram yoga
27. Read the whole of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu. In French
28. Take up piano playing again, and exceed Grade 8
29. Take up violin playing again, and work up to at least Grade 6
30. Study and attain profound comprehension of South African history (with ability to refer knowledgably to key literary texts pertaining to different eras)
31. Study and attain profound comprehension of English Tudor history
32. Study and attain profound comprehension of Israel-Palestine history (with ability to refer knowledgably to key literary texts pertaining to different eras).
33. Study and attain profound comprehension of history of conflict in Northern Ireland
34. Study and attain profound comprehension of 19th – 21st Century history of Balkans
35. Obtain deeper understanding of liver function and the impact of alcohol and bad eating on this organ
    Complete a doctorate
36. Be able to freely quote Shakespeare
37. Take my mum on long, exploratory trip of N.America
38. Attend a political cocktail reception, network madly and (a) build up list of useful contacts to help me get ahead in my career, and (b) confront key political figures about important issues (eg Blair on Iraq; Livingstone on everything to do with London)
39. Attend a TV or film awards ceremony
40. Be instrumental in attaining political justice for women in some capacity
41. Attend Glastonbury (something always comes up at the last minute, preventing me from going!)
42. Carry out a high profile political role
43. Select a dance genre and become skilled and proficient in it
44. Own a Vivienne Westwood dress

Marathon Aches and Pains

The London Marathon 2006:

Exasperating Highlights: All the bloody fun runners. Arrived at Charing Cross station to find a man wearing a wall of balloons on his back. He asked everyone on the train to help him blow up more balloons. Apparently last year he ran with a foot long wall of teddy bears (why???) on his back, but it was too heavy, so he decided to go for balloons this year. He was a v small man, and I was slightly concerned that with all the balloons on his back, he would take off into the air. Luckily, no such incident was reported. Another man on the train was planning to dress as a "fat, jolly policeman" (again: why?). One man was hitting golf balls for the entire distance, which was v annoying for people who wanted to run seriously.

Most Infuriating Moment: That bastard armadillo (fun runner again, not a real one, obviously) who overtook me in the NY Marathon turned up again (except that it is actually a rhinoceros, apparently). Had a few competitive minutes, as we tried to outrun each other; thankfully I eventually overtook him.

Most Humiliating Moment: Losing my battle against the 20 people dressed as a giant millipede. Not only did they get in my way, so that I missed seeing my friends M, D, J & K as we ran over Tower Bridge, but they overtook me. And - oh god, this is soooo humiliating - when I got home, 2 people called to say they had seen me on TV running next to that bloody millipede. Even worse - they showed a rear view. Not sure whether to be flattered or horrified that my arse is so easily identifiable amongst some 40,000 runners.

Best Marathon Moment: Overtaking Jade Goody at Mile 12. Hoorah! She looked knackered, and apparently ran the race in plimsoles and had to be carted off to hospital at 18.5 miles.

Marathon Moment F Would Find Most Amusing: Passing a runner in a charity t-shirt for premature baby unit in a Taunton hospital, being interviewed by the Beeb!

Most Pathetic Excuse From Friends For Failing to Spectate Me and Feed Me Bananas and Lucozade Along The Route as Agreed Prior to the Race: "Accidentally" ended up in pub while waiting for me to pass, and ended up getting drunk and losing track of time (thanks A, D, S and V).

State of Body Post-Marathon: Not good. Tried to stretch hamstrings, but was unable to even lift leg. Ran self a bath when I got home, but was unable to sit down in it, so had to shower. Is an effort to lower self onto toilet seat - and get up again. Injuries not helped by cruelty of fellow Londoners pushing me out of way on tube this morning, ignoring my limp so that they could get a seat before me.

State of Mind Immediately Post-Marathon: Vowed never to run another marathon again

First Action Upon Rising This Morning: Put name down for LA Marathon 2007. Bring it on!

Panic!

Am in advanced state of panic. 26.2 miles is v long distance, especially when I have not done any long runs since January (although I have trained for 2 hrs a day at the gym). Went to The Mall today to see the finish line, but typically, they haven't even set it up yet! The Mall was full of tourists (and, amusingly, an errant guard from Buckingham Palace, marching the wrong way down The Mall), and the road was also full of horse shit, courtesy of a Changing of the Guards ceremony. What a welcome sight that will be tomorrow, having just run 26.2 miles.

Encouragingly, I have managed to persuade lots of people to come and spectate tomorrow, and between friends, family and colleagues, I have counted 12 groups of people coming to cheer me on, so that should keep me going.

Less encouragingly, my mum came round before to collect a banner. I tried on the vile running trousers (a polite term for leggings - how attractive), and her reaction was "hmmm, not very flattering", which didn't do much to relax me. So now I have to worry about being overtaken by Jade Goody AND appearing on TV running and looking like an elephant.

And I still haven't got anywhere near finishing my essay, due in on Tuesday.

Re: Selling Out or Buying In?

My own thoughts on this issue, from a different perspective. I'm not responding to D as such, but relating interesting events which happened in the last few days and have shed light on the varying ways in which our gender informs our professional and our personal lives. and I suppose my overall comment would be this: although I agree with D that sounding off about your right to do whatever will never be conducive to excellent promotion prospects at work, it is still incumbent upon us to recognise that gender is a factor in how we are treated, and (even if only privately) our awareness of this IS part of our feminist consciousness.

Example number 1: I was at home in Devon last week. My Mum launched into this description of an article she'd read in the Daily Mailygraph about women who'd given up high flying careers because they wanted to stay at home and (her voice turned gooey at this point) "look after their lovely babies." It always distresses me greatly, when my mum, whom I love dearly, assume great identification with, am immensely grateful to, and really enjoy spending time with, burbles this kind of reactionary shite, without even attempting to deconstruct it (even though she in fact, despite her mad love of babies, always went out to work apart from when my sister A was very little). So as I was pulling on my walking boots ( we were heading out to Paignton zoo) I pointed out to her that the problem with this was the selling of these women as perfectly contented in their femininity (a la feminine mystique), that in fact they hadn't really given up their careers but were being bank rolled by hubby in some set up "business" of their own and that no-one anywhere suggested that the men were trying to "have it all" by having careers and children, that the men should sacrifice their financial independence and hard-won professional respect in order to reproduce. Why is it always seen as women who have babies. yes, they push them out at the end, but usually the man has had some say in the matter of producing the child in the first place. It's like when newspapers and politicians bang on about women "choosing" to have babies late. Yes, because all these men are so ready to support women and help them raise their children and it's merely selfish women saying to all these 25 year old men "oh darling I couldn't possibly have a child yet because I have to climb the career ladder." For fuck's sake! Unfortunately I always produce this rant for my Mum, and get very angry with her, and my poor Mum ends up saying something like "well I just really like babies" missing the point entirely.

Of course, if I am more honest, there is something somewhat disingenious about this rant. While I think it is perfectly correct and logically unfaultable, and I believe it when I'm saying it, I wonder if part of the reason i get so angry is because part of me does want this too. Well, i wouldn't want to give up my career, but I do think I would like a family, and it depresses me when I think about it that this is a "choice" I won't have. I never used to think this but recently I have been wondering about where I see myself going in terms of these sort of goals. I even imagine myself living in some dire provincial town (e.g. Taunton) and having sprogs and being happy. Then of course common sense kicks in and i know it would drive me mad through boredom in a month. But why does this fantasy have such appeal for me at certain points?


Example 2: Last night I went to the Errigle to meet S for a few pints, and it all turned into a bit of a drink fest. We stumbled out at gone 1, popped to the Hatfield to get more booze (amazingly useful post 1am off licence) and ended up back at S's dancing on tables and swigging red wine til 3:30. It's times like this I love Belfast. S knows loads of people and we bumped into some really old mates of hers, in both senses of the word. I shall call them Tom and Tim. They were both very old in the chronological as well as friendship sense, like old enough to be our fathers, but a good laugh, and I ended up having a very animated conversation with Tim about Irish literature, film, famous people of Leicester, the year Simone Signoret won an Oscar (1960, fact fans) etc etc. What I'm saying is that i was probably (unintentionally) tipping over into flirting because for God's sake the man's 50 if he's a day. Anyway back at S's at the end of the night Tim came over and sat next to me and started asking me about what I wanted from relationships and what I thought of men, while trying to hold my hand under the table. We ended up getting a taxi back. He tried to hug me in the cab, and was stroking my hair holding my hand etc. I have to say had he been 25 years younger I would probably have invited him back. It was quite funny because he asked for my phone number, and I said oh ok then, but neither of us had a pen, so the taxi driver found us one, and then I didn't have any paper either, so the taxi driver gave me his receipt book to write my number on. God knows what the taxi driver thought (when I got into the car I began singing clouds from both sides now very loudly by Jodi Mitchell and asked him if he was a Jodi fan). So we shall see if he rings me (Tim not taxi driver!) . But anyway my point is Tim blahed on about how he was looking for a soulmate, and about how he would still consider having children and part of me was thinking my goodness it's amazing that you feel able to still think about your life in the way I am when you're 20 years older than me, and part of me was so annoyed as couldn't imagine 50 year old woman chatting up 30 year old man, but part of me was also flattered by the attention all the same. Basically I seem to be saying that despite it all, at the end of the day, in my personal life I find it very difficult to "be like a man". I think D is right to advocate it, and i agree with her points about being pigeon holed, but the things I want and the things that concern me do seem very linked to my gender. Even if I am aware that it's a result of socialisation rather than an innate biological imperative, that I wasn't born a woman but became one, that I am essentially engaged in a 'performative' trap, that women signify 'to-be-looked-at-ness' and passivity and we should challenge these binaries, it still makes no (little) difference to my everyday. How blimming depressing is that? Of course I suppose one strategy is to reclaim it (enjoy high heels lipstick etc), to hybridise it (worry about wrinkles and also have job that pays bills) but I don't know.

Thoughts very welcome.

Selling Out or Buying In?

Went to my mum's for breakfast this morning (cue from Evil Sister No.1, who was also there: "Boo, hiss, scowl, gnarl – what are you doing here? When will you be leaving?" Whatever.). Over a yummy pain au chocolate and my first gulp of caffeine in ages, my mum proceded to update me on the lives of all her friends.

One friend, M, moved to Australia a few months ago, got in touch with someone she hadn't seen for 30 years and pursued him endlessly until, enticed by a seemingly carefree and independent woman and bored by his 30-year marriage-with-2-kids-in-the suburbs, he embarked on an affair with M, in her words becoming "obsessed" with her, constantly calling and turning up on her doorstep. Well of course he did – she initiated the bloody thing, put him in a situation where of course he wasn't going to leave her alone, and then she "couldn't help but" sleep with him. Unsurprisingly, it ended unhappily. Turns out M is not quite the un-needy, carefree, independent soul she makes out she is. Presenting herself in the way she did was fine for a mid-life crisis-induced affair, but ultimately, the woman he wants to be married to is the "more stable" one, the suburban homemaker who makes him feel safe.

This induced an interesting conversation. I have complained to all of you at various points that friends have told me that if I want to have a relationship I need to "tone it down" (yes, someone actually said that), "come across as less independent", "stop putting up the armour and be honest about my vulnerabilities", "men feel intimidated by strong women". All these comments have infuriated me. Yet, I am beginning to think that there is a good point to these last 2 comments.

My point is this: although I would not ever advocate suppressing one's essence for the purposes of meeting someone, perhaps sometimes we are too political – I feel that women need to be strong and independent so this is what I portray. However, the facts are that (a) I am also as vulnerable and fucked-up as the next person, and (b) sorry, but men are intimidated by this, and as controversial as this sounds, sometimes, you have to work WITH a system, rather than AGAINST it.

I have always worked for shockingly male-centric, old boys' club type companies, and I learned a bitter lesson in a previous job, when I made a comment about the inherent sexism behind the remarks of a senior male manager. I was summoned to a formal hearing - with a witness and someone taking notes - and told thatI had to give the company the opportunity to defend itself (still makes me choke with anger), and that even if I chose to drop the issue, my complaint would still go down in my file. I realised then that I could choose between dropping it or being true to my principles. But the point of being true to one's principles is to bring about political change. What change would my comments have made? All that would have happened had I made a complaint was that I would have been known as a trouble-maker, and my career would have been prejudiced. So as a woman, I would be jeopardising my career prospects, and would have ultimately reinforced those men's perceptions of "emotional women, always missing the point". Eventually, I fought hard enough to have no reference made to the incident on my notes. I played the game, worked "like a man", and within a year I had been promoted. As far as I am concerned, this was an excellent lesson to learn for my future legal career. Surely the best way I can help to advance the cause of women in the workplace is by – I hate to express it this way, but – working like a man, and not playing the woman card. If women did this, perhaps more of us would make it to the top of the career ladder and pay scales. I want to be judged as a good lawyer, not as a woman who happens to be good at her job. And yes, I am saying that I want to be judged "as a man", but that's only because it is a male world because not enough women are in the same game as men – we differentiate ourselves. I don't think anymore that being that kind of feminist is conducive to social change. Same in politics, as F and I were discussing only yesterday. Posit yourself as "Woman", and you are rewarded with the job of Education Secretary or Health Secretary, or perhaps even more patronisingly, Minister for Women. Posit yourself as a gay man, and you are rewarded with Minister for Culture. Time to break down the barriers, I say.

Annoying Things About the London Marathon

1. Registration for the London Marathon takes place at the ExCel Centre, which is in the middle of bloody nowhere. Registration doesn't start until 11am, so everyone with a job has to take half a day off work to register. This did not seem to be an issue for the scores of OAPs present when I went to register. Clearly seeing said OAPs has done nothing for my waning confidence in my ability to (a) finish the race and (b) finish the race in one piece - I am now tormenting myself with thoughts of being overtaken in the race by the entire elderly population of Britain. Oh god.
   
   
2. The freebies are crap. When I registered for the NY Marathon, I got at least 2 t shirts (which admittedly I promptly lost and would never have worn anyway. I hate it when people wear old marathon t shirts), some cool posters, some energy bars and gels, some Tylenol (which I was forced to take at Mile 2, when I tripped on a bottle and twisted my ankle) and some blank banners and hooters (which obviously I had no use for, as I was on my ownsome, and there were no loved ones present to see my charge through the finish line, a triumphant, sweaty mess).
   
   
3. Orange flavoured Lucozade - yuck. And they only give it to you every 5 miles. At the NY Marathon, they give you Gatorade every 2 miles.
   
   
4. The London Marathon starts in South London. I will have to get up at the crack of dawn to get there, and I don't think the tubes run until 7am on Sunday morning, so I don't even know if I will get there on time. And North London is much prettier to run through.
   
   
5. The London Marathon is notorious for its proliferation of fun runners - those bloody annoying people who dress up in silly costumes or do ridiculous things, eg that man who ran it backwards. I will never forget that humiliating moment during the NY Marathon, when I was overtaken by a giant armadillo. I almost gave up there and then.
   
   
6. Lack of transportation to the start line. I know I keep going on about the NY Marathon (one of best life experiences so far, and a city I adore), but they provide coaches to take runners to the start line. In London, the tubes don't even run until 7am, so how can I get to a mainline station on time to get a train to Greenwich? What is wrong with Ken Bloody Livingstone (Mayor of London)? Clearly spending too much time being a champagne socialist in the bar of the 4 Seasons Hotel in Canary Wharf (where I have spotted him before), and not enough time sorting out London Underground.
   
   
7. Training for a marathon in London is such a miserable experience. Apart from the constant rain, runners are so unsupportive of each other. Whenever I am in NY, I always run in Central Park, and other runners are so friendly, and they talk to you and give you good tips. At one point, I was running a 15 mile route through London to work, 3 times a week for about 4 months. During that time, I passed the same people along the route, and not one of them even so much as grunted at me in acknowledgement of my existence. Having said that, though, it is this same blunt indifference towards strangers that is so characteristic of Londoners that caused me great amusement at the London Marathon exhibition the other day. There was a woman there representing the LA and Las Vegas Marathons, handing out flyers and making fake, sycophantic comments to everyone (eg "Have a great day!!"; "Check out the Vegas Marathon, it's so great!!!"). It really made me giggle - that poor woman was making such an effort, and it will be so unappreciated by the Brits, who have a completely different approach to customer services.

Most annoyingly though, I am not ready for it. And I am going to be wearing v. unflattering 3/4 length leggings, which are great for running in, but look vile. I dearly hope I am not captured on TV. Or - even worse - overtaken by Jade Goody.

(Almost) Severed Limbs and Pre-Marathon Panic

So my hopes of having a quiet Easter weekend spent relaxing and finishing my essay did not exactly go according to plan. Decided to clean entire flat on Monday (best displacement activity ever, when one has essay to write), including moving around half the furniture. (This is v ill-advised thing to do - I always lose enthusiasm half way through, leaving unresolved mess in my wake.)

At some point, I decided to make myself something to eat, and somehow ended up having gruesome accident with kitchen knife. (Note to self for future: if I am ever abducted and tortured in my own flat, I won't stand a chance; despite paper-thin walls, none of the neighbours responded to my blood-curdling screams for help. V. alarming, considering last week a woman was discovered dead in a flat in Wood Green. She died 2 years ago, and the TV was still on. Apparently, there is outrage and disbelief in the Italian media about this, because to them, it is inconceivable that none of the neighbours noticed anything amiss. Also reminds me of the time I broke my ankle and was lying helpless and face down in a puddle in the pouring rain on Gray's Inn Road, and people stepped OVER me.)

Anyway, whole incident was pretty grim, and I ended up calling the NHS Direct line. They were v good and efficient, and the doctor I spoke to told me to go to Casualty immediately. However, he was unable to tell me where my nearest hospital was, and suggested I call the police to find out. The police! In the end, I called Male Model (somewhat sheepishly, as had shouted at him yesterday morning about his mess), and he cut short his game of golf(!) to drive me to hospital (bless him). Ordinarily, I would have been thrilled to sit in Male Model's brand new Porsche, zipping through traffic in Hampstead, watching beautiful people soaking up the Bank Holiday sunshine. Sadly, the experience was marred by the torrents of blood gushing from my wound, and my general irritation at being stuck inside cleaning up after Male Model (filing all his paperwork, for god's sake) while all the other residents of NW London, it seemed, were strolling on the Heath eating ice cream.

Oh and while out for an early morning run the other day, I slipped, fell, and injured my ankle. 4 days to go until the London Marathon, and apparently, running 26.2 miles is not the best thing I can do for it! Am REALLY REALLY seriously nervous for the marathon this time. Cannot sit still, cannot sleep, and keep on having long, torturous dreams about not finishing.

Re Emily's kiss and tell, I know one shouldn't judge, especially if one does not know any of the facts or parties, but here goes anyway: chances are that "he" was married anyway, and whether or not she"still has feelings" for him is probably a matter of supreme indifference to him. And for god's sake, they have apparently only had one "night of passion" - hardly a full-on declaration of lifelong love and trust. But the question is this: should Emily kiss and tell? Given that the woman is always portrayed by the media as either the sex-mad, evil, predatory vixen or the poor, weak downtrodden little wife, do we think "good on her" for taking the money and running, or is she merely fuelling societal perceptions of female sexuality?

Kiss and Tell

Journey back to Devon was fine, but something amusing happened on the train I thought I would share with you. It was a fairly crowded train, full of braying posh people (always AMAZES me how many posh people are on trains to Devon. I notice, however, very few of them make the change to dire plebian Paignton train at Newton Abbot. They are picked up in 4x4s in either Exeter or Totnes). Actually this reminds me of something very funny I overheard last time I was on the train: yummy Mummy got on, carrying baby in carry cot in one hand, with four suitcases in other hand. Porter came behind her carrying yet more stuff and blonde girl of about seven skipped along with small pink bag behind them. She spent ages rummaging around in her purse before saying to the porter (probably a "Customer Services agent" these days) "I'm frightfully sorry, I've no change at all, but if you have a fiver, I'll give you this tenner!" He said oh don't worry about it and got off train. The blonde child danced around and said " Mummy, Mummy, shall i go and find us seats in first class?" Mummy replied, rather curtly, "no darling, we have our seats reserved here". Child replied "but why Mummy? There's no room here Mummy" and Mummy replied "because bloody Daddy was too mean to buy us seats in first class!" I assume normally they travel 1st class courtesy of his work: obviously on this occasion major slumming was required. Amazingly she got off at Taunton (but I expect they have country cottage in depths of Somerset countryside).

Anyway what happened this time was even better. I was sat opposite a girl who was very pretty and had a sweet face, but who unfortunately was wearing far too much orange foundation. She also had lots of blonde highlights, French manicured nails, lots of black eyeliner and was covered in fake tan. She was just sat reading OK magazine when her mobile rang. Here is conversation (her responses only obviously).

"Hello?"

"Hello, who is this?"

A laugh and a blush. Her hand flies to her mouth. "Excuse me, but how do you know this?"

"No, no, sorry, I couldn't do that."

"Well, no, we're still friends, I couldn't do that to him..."

"Yeah ok thanks Debbie, bye".

The girl sits looking shell shocked for a minute, then instantly rings another friend.

"Oh my God, you won't believe what's happened to me, Debbie Manderly from the People has just rung up..she wants me to sell my story...but how does she know... no, I wouldn't, I wouldn't, I couldn't do it to him, but how much money do you think I'd get. She said it would help me break into modelling. But I don't want to be a model. And she said she thought I did. I mean, who's told her about me and (voice went mumbly at this point, but think said) Darren/Darien sthg similar."

Then rang off from that phone call and rang Tom. Tom is her flatmate, who is at work.

"Tom guess what yadda yadda"

She and Tom hatch plan. Tom is going to ring Debbie back (Debbie is persistant and has texted her phone number to Emily, the girl) and say he is Emily's flatmate and see how much money they will offer for the story third hand.

We are all in suspense. Phone rings. Tom has spoken to Debbie. She seems like a hard nosed bitch apparantly who is not at all surprised that Tom would consider doing this. Emily and Tom discuss tabloid cycnicism. Emily wonders if she would have any respect. Transpires Tom, if he could supply photos of Emily and a description of what she told him about their "night of love" would get four grand. As Emily says, that's not bad for third hand.
Emily sits in silence for a while. Then she rings her Mum. "Guess what Mum, yadda yadda" Conversation as follows "Tom told them I'm in Torquay for the weekend. Oh do you think Tom would sell the story, no. No Mum I couldn't do it, 'cos I do still like him. he still speaks to me. But can I trust Tom, mum? Why did I tell Tom? Do you think I should, really? Really?"

At this point unfortunately her signal broke up. Other than raising my eyebrows at her when some nutter started ranting loudly at the conductor about how awful it was this train didn't go all the way to Penzance, made no contact with her and she spoke to no-one else but went back to doing some v boring looking work.

I wonder if Tom will sell her story?

Re: The Price of Beauty

F - sounds like a brilliant weekend in bristol; have also had similar strange social experience in Clifton village when went down for H’s birthday. Six of us, all girls, walked in to the pub, and overheard someone say 'Oh, here come the divorcees...' ???? Mind boggles.

Totally agree that Legally Blond is a brilliant film. This guide is obviously for women who want to move in with men who are complete chauvinistic troglodytes. It is utterly ridiculous to have to pretend you don't bleed (ARGH) and to hide tampax - why? is there no cupoard or drawer in the bathroom? Is the idea of inserting something in to the vagina too traumatic for a live in boyf unless it is his unreconstructed) cock? please. And yeah, what if he's moving in to your place? should you still have to hide your tampax? And also, i do not have a 'knicker drawer' i have a sort of pull out tray with ingerie arranged beautfully on it in sets and fabrics.

Also am v annoyed that women are encourged to hide bodily functions in the name of 'femininity' particularly also farting and burping. Am not saying that this should be practiced indiscriminately as would be horrible in anyone, but sometimes, one just has to. Is not a crime. Further am irratated that men and women are clearly not able to have adult conversations about these life changes and their implementation according to these magazines, we all revert to our 1950's most boring stereotype.

Finally as a skinny woman i can confirm that it does not make you happier, smarter, more successful, or more attractive to the blokes you would like to attract rather than freaks or weirdos.

In some kind of wierd symbiosis, have also misplaced make up bag, so

longchamps makeup bag (a gift) - 30
clarins beauty flash balm- 27
shu uemura eyeshadow x 2 - 24
shu uemura brush - 22
body shop bronzing pearls - 12
Nars lip stain - 21
eyelash curlers - 5
Dior mascara (bought in NY) - 22

total 163. wow. seems mad. should say that am actually managing quite well without it.

Re: The Price of Beauty

F, I am STAGGERED. How on EARTH did you not end up in HOSPITAL? I had 2 small glasses of white wine on Sat night, and nearly collapsed! Am highly amused by your exploits, though, and spat out mouthfuls of wheat free muffin in amusement as I was reading your post this morning. You are one of those oft-cited statistics written by smug columnists in faux-concern about "female binge drinkers".

What ciggie-waving gesture did I used to do? Oh god, I miss smoking so much. Is bloody unfair that smoking causes fatal diseases. Why has no one invented danger free cigarette yet?

Re: The Price of Beauty

Just back from a madly toxic weekend in Bristol celebrating J's 32nd birthday (which means oh my God that we have been friends for 14 years). Much as i love J, I have to say that even I felt as if I had entered into some kind of government anti-binge drinking campaign as we toured the streets of Bristol boozed up on a Friday night. I got to J's at five, after a long plane trip, and we had
1) half bottle each of Faustino VII Rioja - my new fave, actually, at her flat
2) 2 martinis at Henry J Africas
3) at least four double vodka and tonics at Clifton Wine bar
4) Shots: black sambucca, (at which point K wanted us to set fire to our mouths!), B52s, and then, stupidly, B53
5) at least three more vodkas at the nightclub
6) bottle of champagne at the nightclub
7) at least 30 cigarettes.

I ended up in this late night bar called the Park talking to an awful man who was "in the Marines, yah" and would "deffo send my kid to boarding school, bucks them up a bit, yah" and then ignored him and sat on N's lap waving cigarettes round madly like D used to do in the olden days and telling him that I was going to get my eggs frozen as they were all going off at which point he volunteered to fertilize them for me- and we draw a veil over rest of the evening. Miraculously I wasn't actually sick (though I do vaguely recollect lying in the road giggling). the scary thing indeed is that I was probably more sober than most people out on that evening. Maybe it's just I go to different sorts of places in Belfast, but Bristol strikes me as a lot more lairy.

I then spent the whole of Saturday recovering and reading piles of women's magazines that J has lying around her flat. God, they are so awful, I don't know how anyone can bear to buy the things. for example, one of them had a guide to how to move in with your boyfriend which included "don't leave your tampax in the bathroom, hide it in your knicker drawer" (yes, that's practical, what are you meant to do, drop blood all over the house while you hunt round for your elusive tampax?) and "pretend that you have a cool taste in films even thought you really only enjoy Legally Blonde and Sleepless in Seattle". Now I actually think Legally Blonde a great movie, could have been a Marilyn vehicle, but for god's sake - this idea that women are complete fluff with no intellect and that women themselves are meant to find this amusing rather than patronising or demeaning - I know it's been said before, and of course, as feminists, we should respect the right of other women to read demeaning trash, but I actually think J would be a happier person and not so dependent on male attention for her confidence if she just binned the bloody lot. Also of course they are all obsessed with how skinny celebrities are, and body size. It's maddening. When I see how fucked up so many of my female friends are over their weight it drives me crazy that these things actually condone the idea that the tinier your body a more worthy person you are.

Anyway, I sympathise with you D over your annoying make up loss. I was intrigued so thought I would so similar calculation for contents of my own make up bag, which I have on my lap, having just returned from Bristol:

1)Clarins Beauty flash balm - £21 (always buy in duty free at airports)
2)Clinique eyeshadow I guess about £15 (bought years ago when horrendously delayed at stansted airport)
3) Boots no 7 mascara £6 (you have to love boots)
4) Boots no 7 lip glosses, 5, varying shades £10 approx (present from J)
5)Clinique 'happy' perfume £25 (always buy in duty free, love it and get through it like the clappers)
6) Boots cucumber cleanser £2.59 (hurrah for boots)
7) the bag itself is wonderful and irreplaceable - Anya Hindmarsh with a picture of a girl asleep on a plane: present from L, bless her, orig value approx £65.
8) Clinique 'stay true' lip pencil (present from L), approx £20
9) Emery boards and hard skin rub thing (P bought in summer to tackle my toes), approx £5
10) tweezers (present from Mum) approx £2
11) Abri facial scrub (present from J, but would heartily recommend) approx £3
12) 'Wondergirl' shower gel and shampoo (present from Mum bought in San Fransisco) approx £3

Have realised my entire make up bag consists of presents. Maybe my friends are hinting?!

grand total: £178

The Price of Beauty

Am INCANDESCENT with rage. Once again, yesterday afternoon, my scattiness got the better of me, and I left my makeup bag at the gym. It has not been handed in or found, and I have searched everywhere for it. It has been stolen.

That makeup bag, containing my daily essentials, is full of my most needed – and most expensive – products. It has taken me years to discover which products work for me, and some of them, I have had for years.

Here is the total sum of my loss:

Mac makeup bag (limited edition), with (lovely pink) brush set – Bday present in 2004; prob worth about £25

Laura Mercier eyebrow tweezers (bought in 1999) - £15

Laura Mercier Secret Camouflage Concealer (expensive, but my previous one lasted for nearly 3 years!) - £25

Laura Mercier Secret Concealer (unjustifiably pricey, as only lasts 6 months, but excellent product) - £18

Eve Lom Kiss Mix (a gift, and I have more at home) - £18

Secret Camouflage brush (particularly pissed off at the loss, as left one on plane back from NY last July, and one in a hire car in Florence last November) - £22

Shu Uemura blush in stunning shade of pink (kindly donated by P last summer - given to her as part of goody bag from some event) – guessing about £23

Stila mascara in teal (an excellent product, which I was thrilled to find, following the discontinuation of the only other light brown, natural-looking mascara in July 2003 I have ever found - £15

Stila lip glaze in lovely shade of pink (blagged it off makeup artist on photoshoot in Milan – Stila lip glosses look great, but last about 2 mins) - £15

Pout lip polish (had free voucher for it a couple of years ago; recently discovered in bathroom cabinet) - £10

Pout lip pencil (do not remember buying, but found under bed last month) - £10

Makeup Forever blush brush (bought in Paris in 1997!) – about £15

Chantecaille eyeshadow brush (I want to cry) - £25

Total value: £236

I hope the bitch who (effectively) stole my face catches an irreversible skin infection.

Presenting P

Name: P

Age: 30. Marked the occasion with wicked party in hip London bar

View From Balcony of Flat: Sublime view of Thames, especially during sunset (once you have blocked the pretentious “work-in-banking” neighbours from your immediate line of vision). Fact: on a clear day (like when does that ever happen in London?), you can just about see P’s flat from the London Eye

Cute Quirky P-isms: Has 2 hooks on the wall from which something new and exciting is always hanging, depending on the mood du jour/political climate/theme of soirée. Favourites include funky bags and sexy lingerie. Uses shoes as ornaments, esp. on bookshelves

Major Achievement by Age 25: Became published author!

Things Only P Can Pull Off, The Attempt of Which Would Induce a Minor Breakdown in the Rest of Us: Throw gourmet 5-course dinner party with lots of yummy exotic food at the drop of a hat with gallons of champagne on tap, while cheerily floating around in impossibly glam outfit and killer heels without so much of a hint of stress or repressed feelings of hatred towards demanding guests

Style Qualities Coveted by Everyone Who Knows P (apart from fabulous underwear and shoe collections): Amazing ability to not only wear clothes for 15 years and keep them in pristine condition, but constantly be at the height of fashion

Top 3 Rants: Asian men, bad literature, cynics and rinkydinks

Presenting L

Name: L

Skin: Porcelain white, completely unblemished, entirely resistant to aging, and akin to the complexion of a 4-week old infant. Bitch

Colour of Aura (according to D): Rich, dark red

Career: Phenomenally successful. Has already surpassed the achievements of her (much older than her) colleagues, has a CV that is simply too long and complicated to read, and has written more books than some people have ever read. Sometimes all goes quiet from L’s corner, and we know she’s fretting over her latest masterpiece, holed up in a secret location so her publisher can’t get hold of her

Why L is so Unique: You could literally look at a brand of clothing (Jesiré), food type (rich, dark chocolate, mango, goat’s cheese), alcoholic beverage (Kir Royale), piece of jewellery (ethnic and detailed, with lots of stones) or colour (rich, dark red, of course), and think “L” – so strong is her aura

Essential Item Without Which L Cannot Function: Coffee. Lots of. It’s like her petrol

Number of Exhibitions At Which Portrait of L Taken By Famous Photographer Has Been Exhibited: 1. One more than the rest of us, though

Top 3 Rants: Dogged persistence of heteronormative patriarchy in 21st century; Yummy Mummies who run over people’s feet with stupidly enormous strollers containing impossibly tiny offspring; the fact that academics are not paid more than City traders

Presenting F

Name: F

Enviable Character Feature: Sickeningly well-balanced

Age: V. touchy subject. Has irrational paranoia about age, in manner that threatens said well-balancedness. Is in reality a mere fraction older than the rest of us, and ironically, is the only one of us to still spend every weekend partying (read "drinking") as though she was still 18

Education: Practically more degrees than limbs

Special Skills: Incredible ability to form well-reasoned, well-informed, articulate argument at the drop of a hat; even more incredible ability to consume entire contents of a well-stocked bar - and live to tell the tale the following day.

Amusing Relatives: The Essex Communists (yes, apparently there is such a thing, and I have met Uncle Jim personally. George Orwell would be smirking in his grave)

Celebrity Fans: David Trimble. Well sort of. F was once in the audience of Question time, giving one of her well-reasoned rants, and David Trimble voiced his hearty approval for "the comment made by that lady over there"

Unfortunate Accidents Involving Major Limbs: Was arriving on holiday last year in Perpignon, and had barely stepped into hotel when she slipped, fell and smashed knee into a million pieces. As ever in France, the pompiers came to her rescue (the pompiers seem to be the most overworked public service in France, attending every major and minor incident). And so began an entire summer of watching non-stop old episodes of Sex and the City, as she convalesced chez her parents in Devon (see below)

Sources Words of Wisdom From: Sex and the City and Bridget Jones ("the book, not the travesty film"). I kid you not. The girl has a PhD, and is one of my last remaining links with intellectual life, and these are the only things she quotes at me. Encyclopaediac knowledge, though.

Has "issues" with: Taunton (vile sounding town somewhere near Devon) which according to F, "represents everything that is awful about the world". It is apparently a "mediocre place", with "crap shops". Really though, Taunton represents suburban domestic coupledom for F. Other "issues" include women's magazines and biological clocks

Introducing The Other Girls

D: Having spent weeks begging and pleading the other Girls to write their introductory profiles, I have finally snapped at their technological ineptitude and written their profiles for them.

Presenting D

Name: D

Age: At 29, I am the youngest of The Girls, a fact I shall cherish milking for the next 6 months, until I turn 30.

Height: 5”2. I stopped growing at the age of 12.

Hair Colour: Meant to be auburn, but has faded to chestnut, probably as result of mad experimentation while at university (eg, blue streaks, fuscia highlights. Once went blonde for about a week, but hated it). Have recently discovered alarming increase of white hairs, testimony to the fact that it’s all downhill from here, looks-wise.

Living situation: Shacked up with male model who was still at primary school when I started university. He does not know where the vacuum cleaner is stored, uses the ironing board as a shelf, thinks the oven and fridge are self-cleaning, and recently placed the just-used net from the aquarium on the washing-up rack. Last November, it took 2 industrial cleaners SEVENTEEN hours to clean the flat – without even touching my bedroom. He is, however, devastatingly handsome, and with one gaze into his deep blue eyes, can be forgiven for all of these things. Having separate bathrooms helps.

City: London – North of the River only, darling. It remains one of my ultimate ambitions to move “north-west, but further in”, and I am slowly working my way further up the Northern Line. This may remain an unfulfilled dream, due to increasingly outrageous house prices in London.

Life: On paper, life is fabulous. I have a great job, which takes me travelling all over the world, and have spent the last 5 years fighting the male corporate monster and other fiercely competitive, ambitious women for my place on the career ladder. On New Year’s Day 2004, while voraciously eating off a monster hangover at a café in Islington with F, I announced that I was suffering a quarter-life crisis (a self-indulgent term, nonetheless recognised as an actual syndrome), and decided to retrain as a lawyer. Two years (and several thousand £s later), I exist on 5 hours sleep a night, my social life is a shadow of its former glory (I see more of my colonic hydrotherapist than I do most of my friends) and – most shockingly - my shopaholism has been reduced to the purchase of just ONE item of clothing since last September. I am very committed to my exercise routine, which even I am now prepared to admit, has long been an outlet for my innate obsessiveness. It also explains the early morning starts.

Most unappealing habit: Compulsively plucking the hairs on the lower half of my face. I sit at my desk at work with a pair of tweezers in my hands.

Top 3 things I’m most likely to rant about: Oh god, where to start? The Daily Mail (practically a euphemism for everything that’s wrong with this country); London Underground; North American self-help books.