25 February 2007

Singled Out on a Saturday Night



There are 30 of us sitting around a long table in an authentic Italian pizzeria. We are awaiting the arrival of the soon-to-be-surprised birthday girl, whose husband – in an impressive display of Outstanding Husband etiquette – has been organising this secret soirée for months.

The birthday girl, M, is one of my oldest and dearest friends, and we have been celebrating birthdays together for many years. Debauched partying at London nightclubs have given way to intimate dinners in the suburbs, but the same, familiar, core group of friends have turned up to support M’s transition from her 20s to her 30s.

In the year since our last gathering, changes have been taking place in all our lives. I take my place at the table, in time to catch the tail-end of a conversation between J and H, two halves of separate Married Couples.

J: So hopefully, we should be exchanging in the next 2 weeks
H: Fantastic! So where is the new house?
J: Just round the corner. And the good thing is that the people who are buying our flat are first time buyers, so there’s no pressure for us to move out immediately. It’s going to be so great to have a whole house to ourselves.
H: Yes. Because when you’re in your 30s, you need a house, don’t you?

Feeling a little out of my depth, I turn to the 2 Newly Married Couples sitting to my left, S&V and S&N. They have just met, and are comparing notes on how they know M.

S: …and I’m just the Husband, along for the ride!
N: Me too!
They reach across the table and shake hands conspiratorially, bonding in their shared marital experience. The conversation quickly turns to Children: when to have them, the best day care arrangements and other important decisions.

I sigh to myself. The most important decision I have had to make this weekend is whether or not I am too petite to carry off the latest “it” item of clothing; the new high-waisted, flared K Jeans from Topshop.

And thus the tone is set for the remainder of the evening. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot A, the only other Singleton in the group. Relieved, I gesture to her, and she sits down beside me. A large, crisp, glittering diamond sparkles from her ring finger. Fantastic. Another one struck by the love bug. Suddenly, the comfort that comes from relaxing in the moment with an old, familiar group of friends has given way to a panicked anxiety about a lonely, partnerless future, in which all shared experience that forms a point of contact with my old friends is eroded in favour of disparate lives.

No time to contemplate this one further tonight, unfortunately; I am off to a wedding now.

24 February 2007

Party number 2

So last night there was yet another party to go. Hurrah!! On Thursday, I packed my small blue rucksack with my swimming stuff, fully intending to have a swim and go home post my MA seminar. However, as the seminar finished and we hovered outside smoking and I was being quizzed on the finer points of melodrama by my students, N suggested we headed to the pub to carry on the conversation. It was a great evening - I have a lovely M.A. crowd this year. 5 pints and no food later, at 3:30am, I stumbled drunkenly up the road, only to find - shit! bollocks! that I had no contact lens solution in the flat. My contact lens solution was of course, back in my office, in my swimming kit. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to sleep in my contact lenses. The only problem with this was I had an after care appointment at the opticians the next morning!

The next morning I am quizzed by a v serious opthamalogist about my contact lens wearing habits. Do I remove them every night? Do I wear them for no more than 12 hours a day? Do I wear my glasses at least twice a week? yes, I lied. Then of course she shone a light into my tired eyes, onto which the contact lenses were stuck like glue, and pronounced that my eyes were showing a worrying amount of blood vessels, and even though they were fine and healthy, she wanted to keep my under closer surveillance, and I will now have to have after care every three months. Oh, if only I had told the truth - that the things had been in my eyes for the last 36 hours, and I was dying of a hangover and sleep deprivation.

So to comfort myself I wandered into Oasis and bought a gorgeous black jumper dress. I love it! So I even had a nice outfit to wear for the party (jumper dress, slim black trousers, heels). I also bought a great new conditioner (Aussie 3 minute Miracle), and put on my Nars bright purple eyeshadow and did Siouxie Sue style eyeliner. I was feeling pretty ready for a party (unlike last week's grey jumper fiasco).

The party was fabulous. It was hosted by J (whose brother G we bumped into last week). He is a practising artist and lots of his artist friends were there. One of them H was hilarious and told me that were he not gay he would just eat me up for breakfast! He makes statues of women which he uses in his live performances, and I have offered him custody of my life size Marilyn Monroe cut out (she is currently languishing in a cupboard). We are going to have a handing Marilyn over ceremony soon, and she can have a whole new lease of life in avant garde art works. Another guy D has set up an alternative Karaoke - it is called KaraTribune. It is just like Karaoake, but with recordings of famous political speeches on the screen and the text of the speech scrolls in front of you. J and I did "I have a dream" by Martin Luther King. The host as Hitler was scarily good! It was a bit of a shame that J and H got into an argument about the role of theory for a practising artist, an argument H tried to resolve by removing his trousers and underpants. He then got v contrite afterwards. I left at this point (hate conflict, also eyes were killing me by this point) but J stayed, and texted me this am to say that J and his girlfriend M were serving breakfast to everyone dressed as a rabbit and a paramilitary!

21 February 2007

Men!


OK, so my Window is definitely still closed. However, the f*ckwit in whose face I most recently slammed it is trying to worm his way back in now. Bloody men, honestly! They waltz into your life, staying long enough to create havoc and induce cynicism and bitterness, before running off again. Then, the second you display the remotest amount of vulnerability, they come flying back, usually at the worst possible moment. I am completely submerged in job interviews at the moment. I have had 5 interviews this week alone, each over 2 hours long, and 2 of them involving Powerpoint presentations. I don’t have time for game-playing!

In the absence of Male Model’s strong, manly arms in which to hurl myself for comfort, I have formed an alliance with City Boy (aka new male flatmate), who is himself a commitment-phobic singleton in his thirties with zero relationship history (although he is pushing me to set him up with my friends, despite having pulled no less than 3 people in last week alone). I can sense that Suburban Teacher (aka new female flatmate), while a lovely girl, will not be able to empathise; I am basing this surmise on the four (FOUR!) bunches of flowers she received on Valentine’s Day.

So I confided in City Boy about my Window, and he confirmed that men do indeed feel an evolutionary need to “protect”, so they are drawn towards openly vulnerable women. But here’s the question: should I open my Window for this man, or should I forever banish him to the mercy of the harsh elements outside?

19 February 2007

Normal Service Resumes


J had her flat warming party on Friday night. I was busy filling in my job application for 'elsewhere' and got a panicked phone call from her at quarter to eight, as she was by herself in pub. Dashed down the road, with no time to do hair, make-up, or put on my party glad rags. I was indeed wearing the big grey jumper of my weird dream (see previous post). When I arrived at the pub, J was sat with two men - one, G, is the brother of a mutual acquaintance of ours, who was a teaching assistant last year; and the other was his friend, R. G and R were out for a few quiet pints but we soon persuaded them to join us at the party. In fact, as soon as I arrived, I started flirting with R (my lines included - what would you do if you were ruler of the world? if you had to lose one limb, which one would it be? if Malcolm Rifkind or Norman Tebbit were to be Prime Minister, which one would you chose? do you not feel guilty that your job contributes to a massive carbon footprint [he works in advertising, and his main client is Honda cars]? Do you write poems that rhyme? Would you rather be Superman or Spiderman?) Have realised my 'flirting' consists of bombarding people with stupid questions. At the party, R and I sat on the sofa together, and I managed to regale him with my knee story. Indeed, that was slightly embarrassing, for just as he was asking "And how does your knee feel now?" and I was giving the entirely predictable response "If you play your cards right, you might get to find out later", the room fell weirdly silent and everyone listened in. At around midnight, R invited his friend P over. P turned up with tequila. At half midnight, R and I were stood by the fridge. R lent over to me. "I'm sorry, F, I've just emerged from something really really serious and heavy...I'm not looking for anything right now. I had a terrible Valentine's Night." At this point, I was abit non plussed, as we were still in the friendly chat arena. I responded "But that's fine, we're just having a chat." He leaned closer, so close that his tongue is practically in my ear. "I feel guilty. I've been leading you on." I looked at him. "Maybe I've been leading you on." Then, his "nothing serious" caveat in place, he lent over and started snogging me. Men never fail to amaze me with their chutzpah. By this point, his friend P was utterly blasted. He was being aggressive about the music (he wanted the Smiths) and out of nowhere he and J were shouting at each other. He was calling J an English cunt and saying how much he hated us colonialist bastards. At which point J asked him to leave (I think one can be a colonialist bastard in one's own flat). He then locked himself in the bathroom and began hitting things. R broke off our mammoth snog to whisper romantically in my ear, "I really want to have sex with you, but I have to get P home." I said to put P in a taxi, so he headed off down the street, poured him into a taxi, and came back to the party. By this point it was half three, so we left. We went home via the 24 hour Spar, where I bought (to the amusement of the man at the kiosk) a pack of condoms, 20 Marlboro Lights, and a pint of milk.
The next day, sat at 4pm in Cafe Paul Rankin, feeling slightly nauseous, forcing down a latte and a raspberry and almond slice, I felt how strange life is. It is as if the last seven months haven't happened, and here I am back in Belfast again, and nothing has changed - well other than visiting my friend S in the evening, and seeing her seven months pregnant.

12 February 2007

The Purse of Truth Speaks (and my unconscious)

So, I have just had my full first weekend back in Belfast. Overall, it was a dispiriting experience, full of the following: dysfunctional men, who either a) told me how much they enjoyed anal sex, and how much they want to shag my friend J, while their girlfriend and "life partner" is sat opposite or b) turned up at the pub, and slammed down my spare key, telling me they were fed up with being nagged for return of aforesaid key, after ONE text asking for it; weak willed responses to nicotine cravings; annoying encounters with sales people (no, we can't keep a rug behind the counter for you to pick up later in a taxi, therefore you must drag it all round town; no, you can't get the new contact lenses you've paid for until we have charged you £25 for an "after care" test; no, Marks and Spencers no longer sells baked beans!); and a flat full of bits of crap (and birthday cards for the last six years in random piles in drawers - am so sentimental) but no functioning TV aerial leads. Harrumphh. What is a girl to do? Why, consult the purse of truth of course.

According to the purse of truth, the outlook for J is fairly rosy. It agreed that she should shag her friend P when he visits her at her parents' house at Easter; it also thought that D still wasn't over J.

I did not ask the purse of truth anything. But I have decided to apply for a job elsewhere. I then proceeded to have a disturbing dream about this elsewhere, in which I was shortlisted for an interview, but turned up wearing jeans, a big grey jumper and walking boots, with no presentation prepared. We traipsed around the university which looked just like a comprehensive school, and everyone else was wearing gorgeous party clothes and amazing glittery shoes. I think my unconscious is trying to tell me something.

09 February 2007

My Sex Hormones


Cannot cope any more. We are moving tomorrow, and the flat is in a shocking state of disarray. My side of the living room contains rows and rows of boxes, all labelled, categorised and sub-categorised (who knew I had so much stuff?!). The other side, belonging to Male Model, can only be described as a hazardous waste ground, with piles of clutter strewn around, old receipts and chocolate well past its best-before date falling out of black plastic sacks and random objets thrown carelessly into unmarked boxes. He has also deemed NOW an appropriate time to buy himself a giant plasma screen, which is sitting in the middle of the room, rendering it impossible to pack, clean up, tidy up or even move.

To make things worse, I have developed acute eczema, which has disfigured my entire body and is bleeding and very painful. I went to see a Chinese doctor today, and ended up paying £75 only for her to inform me that not only do I have eczema (yes, I KNOW, for f’s sake, why would I bother coming otherwise?), but I have acne as well, and this is apparently due to the fact that my “sex hormone” (as she put it) is unbalanced. Any untrained amateur could have figured that out, based on the information I supplied about my PCOS and f-ed up menstrual cycle. And honestly, based on the evidence that I scare all men off, it’s no bloody wonder that my “sex hormone” is out of sync.

I’m kind of wondering, though: perhaps my shockingly low oestrogen levels are linked to the fact that I repel heterosexual men?

Just a thought.

07 February 2007

Closing the Window

I am closing my Window. I am double glazing it and locking it. I had reinforced the panes, yet still some insalubrious characters had managed to break and enter (a metaphor that will sound filthy when you read on and see where I’m going with this), leaving shattered glass and devastation in their wake.

For those of you not in the know, The Window is a concept immortalised in Sex and the City, and is a rule underpinning every miraculously functional relationship. The theory is that couples only get together when their Windows are simultaneously open (and – sigh – love can flow through them as gently as a summer breeze).

Two people can be on the same page of the same book. They can be heading towards similar goals in life; they can be each other’s ideal match. But if one Window remains closed, they’re never going to get it on.

My relationship Window remained firmly shut throughout my twenties. I was too busy building my career, partying, shopping, looking for new adventures, enjoying the freedom of hanging out with lots of different people. I never felt that anything was missing. Until, shocked into conformity by the crisis of my 30th birthday, the dwindling group of former clubbing buddies who would rather stay in on a Saturday night and be loved up, a little curiosity, and – oh alright – sheer bloody loneliness, I decided to open my Window.

And I tried, I really did. I went on dates with men I met at various parties, business networking events, at a child’s birthday party, at a fundraising evening; I even went out with two people (although separately!) I was seated on the “singles table” with at a wedding. I have emerged from my experiences with enough material for a book on How Not to Behave on a Date, and a slightly trampled-upon heart, by a v creepy man I was foolish enough to open up to, ignoring all alarm bells, until he turned out to embody Freud’s entire career’s worth of findings on dysfunction.

And now I give up. It is 4 months on, and I already have enough material to write a book on the good, the bad and the ugly dates I’ve had in that time. From the creepy one who decided he was in love with me after our first meeting to the one who “forgot to mention” his fiancée, not to mention the ones I’ve inadvertently managed to send running for their lives in the opposite direction, and several unrepeatable encounters with others. I’m telling you, it’s desperate out there. And I just don’t have the head space for it. The obsessing, the game playing, the self-doubting the dating game induces. It all requires too much effort, with – in my case – too little result.

And so I return to committed Singledom. Saturday runs in Regents Park, just me and my ipod; Sunday brunch with girlfriends, lone weekend afternoons sitting in a café in Hampstead, people watching, browsing the odd exhibition on my own. No hassle, no heartache, no effort. I’m closing my Window, so that my heart remains intact while I focus on sorting out my career issues and living arrangements.

All is not completely lost to any interested parties, though. My Window may be double-glazed, but a committed intruder will always find a way to penetrate shatterproof glass…