The Girls Online

The Business of Dating

2009-03-13T23:52:00.006Z

I love dating. The excitement. The uncertainty. The fury. The champagne-induced adventures of Singledom. In fact, I have so many epic dating stories (remember Randy Doctor?) that I started a spin-off dating blog. And I have dated a real mix of people. First there was Love God. Then there was more Love God (against my better judgment). Then there was Condom Man (judgment severely impaired). And finally there was the Canadian Toyboy (well-judged, but then his student visa ran out and he skipped back to Toronto). In between all of them was The French One.

So I must confess my secret disappointment (amid the intense joy and blinding happiness, of course), when I became engaged to Football-Obsessed Fiance (erm, long story; I haven't been blogging for a while, and in the meantime I have betrayed the Sisterhood with my impending nuptials). Obviously I am excited and delighted at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with Football-Obsessed Fiance, but it does mean in our case no more dating.

You can therefore only imagine my delight last week, when Best Friend, who has recently relocated to Abu Dhabi (yes, life is still a parody of a soap opera), called on me to carry out a dating mission for her. She had met someone online, and before she booked a flight to meet him for a date, she wanted me to check him out. Did he have all his teeth? A second head? A personality transplant? (Yes, no, and thankfully not.)

So could this be a new trend? Date my friend? Maybe. Or perhaps it could be the start of the new business venture that Football-Obsessed Fiance is always trying to encourage me to start up.

And dating really is a whole business...

I’m Back, Baby!

2008-10-15T00:14:00.001+01:00

I wish I had something more profound to write, after 8 months in the blog wilderness. Unfortunately, I have consumed a paralysing cocktail of champagne and apple martinis (separately, of course) at a gallery opening this evening, and I cannot even see the separate words on the page in front of me, much less form them into coherent sentences.

I have no acceptable excuse for neglecting the blog for so long. All I can offer in defence is that between working a 12 hour day, dealing with modern day bureaucracy (I shall share the story of my lack of internet since 4 July another time), hauling my unmetabolised ass over to the gym in a desperate bid to return a Size Zero (sniff), holding down a relationship, and generally trying to be fabulous, there just haven’t been enough hours in the day to write about my life as well as live it.

I’m sorry, Feminist mothers. This is your legacy, I’m afraid. You fought for us to have everything, and we’re half killing ourselves in the attempt to meet this impossible expectation.

'Phone Fury

2008-02-12T13:00:00.000Z

I had THE most frustrating evening ever last night. I lost my mobile ‘phone. As I rummaged furiously through my bag, through the maize of lipglosses, chewing gum wrappers, vitamins, food diary and the various notebooks I use in a vain attempt to organise my life, I was overcome by a serious sinking feeling of loss.

There followed a blood pressure raising hour and a half of stomping angrily up and down the high street, retracing my steps, accusing everyone in my path of stealing my beloved ‘phone. In my local Tesco, where the staff are of sub-average intelligence, never have any clue of what stock they have or even what day of the week it is, and are capable of little more than staring at you blankly, whatever the request: “Were you in here this evening?” Yes, of course I was, you idiotic twat: why else would I waste my time searching for my ‘phone in here otherwise? At my local tube station, where the staff deserve an award for pompous disorganisation, appalling customer service and utter incompetence (to be fair to them, though, this seems to be the ethos of London Underground in general), they were even more unhelpful. Did you know that if you lose your ‘phone and file a lost property complaint, they will REFUSE to look for it unless you can provide them with your sim card number. HOW CAN I GIVE THEM MY SIM CARD NUMBER? I HAVE LOST MY BLOODY PHONE!!! Oh, and they suggested mailing the lost property form: “you can hand it in at the station, but we might lose it. It’s a mess in here.”

This happens every time I meet a man I decide I am interested in: I lose my ‘phone, which obviously makes it difficult to obsessively check my messages every 2 minutes. The last time I was interested in someone, I dropped my ‘phone down the loo and had to cancel an entire afternoon of meetings so that I could replace it.

Thankfully, the incident ended happily, but not before I had thrown a huge, public hissy fit and practically threatened to kill the staff of London Underground. My ‘phone was on my bed, where I had carelessly tossed it when I returned home last night. I had tried calling it to see if I could hear it ringing (twelve times, to be precise), but as the dryer was on at the time and my ‘phone was on the silent-vibrate setting, I was unable to hear it.

So I am happily reunited with my lifeline: my mobile ‘phone. And Love Object - he of the Oscar-worthy, outstanding dating etiquette - has just called me for 20 min conversation (in between running around buying another company), and even asked me what colour the dress I'm wearing to my cousin's wedding tomorrow is!

I love my lovely 'phone.

Doctor Dolittle

2008-02-08T17:02:00.000Z

Either Britain's medical schools are advocating a new type of bedside manner, or my doctor has just attempted to make a pass at me.

I have chronic eczema all over my body (it's disgusting), which refuses to go away, largely because I insist on training daily until I collapse in a sweaty heap, and this of course exacerbates the skin condition.

After battling the ridiculous NHS appointment system and fighting for my rightful position at the head of the queue in front of hypochondriac children and malingering geriatrics, I finally managed to secure an appointment this morning with what appeared to be a student doctor.

Having described the problem, I whipped off my top (yes, of course I am wearing a sexy Myla underwear set today, but the effect is ruined by the open sores and angry red lesions all over my chest). I expected him to recoil in horror and excuse himself for a minute so that he could vomit in the sink behind him. But instead:

"Hmmm," he purred, circling me and gently stroking my back. I felt shivers shoot down my spine. "How horrid for you," he continued, caressing me lightly and now whispering, "it must be so painful". His touch was very sensual, and continued for longer than was necessary.

(I swear I am not exaggerating this, by the way.) I studied him closely as he sat down in his seat, avoiding eye contact with me. Quite attractive, in a foppish English schoolboy way; one of those public service workers (eg teacher, police officer, etc) who, despite being fully adult, looks incredibly young to me, as I secretly still think I'm 21 and that public service workers are all much older than me.

The young doctor coughed nervously, and as he moved his hand to cover his mouth, I noticed that his palm was sweating.

"Do you... have a... boyfriend?" he asked, looking down at his keyboard.

"WHAT?!" I replied impatiently, failing to see the connection between my relationship status and a vile skin condition.

He reddened. "Well, just that when I had eczema on my hands, I felt too self-conscious to hold anyone's hand, and, um..." He coughed again, looking desperately at his computer screen.

Just then, the door burst open, and in walked Doctor Windbag (not his real name, obviously), my regular doctor, brandishing a camera. Oh yes, I had forgotten. Windbag is an expert in dermatology and has a bizarre academic interest in eczema. And now he wanted to photograph my chest for his latest lecture.

When I left the surgery 20 minutes later, I couldn't help thinking that I had just inadvertently played a part in a perverse, pornographic fantasy.

What has become of the NHS?!

The Way We Are... Or the Way We Want to Be?

2008-02-06T22:59:00.000Z

I finally watched The Way we Were last night, and oh my god, what an amazing film! Supergirl (nee "my friend I" – I have rebranded her) and I swooned over a very young and very gorgeous Robert Redford, although Supergirl managed to ruin the fantasy by googling his height mid-film, and moaning throughout that he was only 5"10.

I think the film raised some very interesting issues about what I shall loosely term performativity. Every reference to the film that I have ever seen or read (including that travesty episode of Sex and the City) has focused on the notion that men are simple creatures who avoid complication and confrontation at all costs, and may be passionate about strong, intelligent women, but will ultimately end up marrying the doll-like, intellectually unchallenging bimbo. And the film is about all those things, but so much more, too.

Leaving aside the obvious point (which I am tired of making) that you cannot categorise and simplify sex and gender in that manner, I think the film goes beyond this. Far from suggesting that Hubble and Katie are best off sticking to what comes naturally to them – he as a womanising, gorgeous, commitment-free lurve object, and she as a curly haired, ungroomed social rights campaigner – and that by being together, they are denying their true selves, I think the film does a good job of problematising categories of identity (which is my "thing"!).

Katie has started ironing her hair before she runs into Hubble again and gets it on with him. She may have made the (nauseating) effort to run around after him laundering his uniform, spending her food ration on steaks for him and generally being a bit giggly and flirtatious, but what he was attracted to – before, during and after they were together – was her leftish feistiness and political engagement. He still loves her at the end of the film when she goes back to unironed hair and shouty politics. Hubble can see beyond whether she has groomed or wild hair, and in turn Katie loves him whether he is being a lazy sod or a successful writer.

Ultimately, though, 3 things win: (1) political commitment over living happily ever after with Robert Redford (an heroic – if somewhat dubious – win); (2) going for the safe relationship over the passionate, exciting one (Hubble with the Mute Barbie and Katie with the faceless Step-Father to her child, who lets her walk around with that awful hair), and (3) while both characters struggle with their inner contradictions, actually, the woman is the powerful one who gets what she wants, while poor old Robert Redford ends up miserable, I think. Katie manages to nail her man thrice; she has him wrapped around her little finger, and she is simultaneously independent, fiercely supportive of her man, feminine, gorgeous (some of the clothes are amazing, as are Barbra Streisand’s cheekbones), highly intelligent, lovable, articulate, dynamic, etc etc. She gets to be a mother as well (good for her, if this is what she wants), and strengthens her matriarchal genealogy by naming her daughter after her mother. She ends up with her tragic hair in its natural state and even though Robert Redford leaves her, she finds a man who adores her unequivocally enough to take on the fathering of her daughter. Robert Redford ends up miserable, missing her and shagging a Mute Barbie. I know who I’d rather be.

Interestingly, though, the film turns a lot of popularly-held stereotypes on its head. Hubbell’s weakness is not other women – he only has one affair while with Katie, towards the end of their relationship. His weakness is Katie herself. The relationship is doomed from the beginning, and they split up at least twice, but he keeps on going back to her. He knows that no one will ever match up to her, and even his friend acknowledges (when his own partner has left him) that Katie is a special woman, and that being a man whom she has left must be particularly devastating. Another cliché the film turns on its head is that of the woman feminising herself to bag her man. Katie doesn’t need to do this. Although she transforms herself into a bit of a babe who cooks and irons for her man, what he is most attracted to is her feistiness and her passion and her mind (even at the end of the film) – although ultimately, it is all these things in the end which make them too different and make the relationship unworkable.

It’s just so depressing, isn’t it? Attraction: not enough. Lights on, windows open: not enough. I guess if two people are too different, the relationship can work for a while, but not forever. The worst thing is that Hubbell knows that no one will ever understand him or love him or support him in the way that Katie did - but he will still choose the easy option over her.

Where does that leave us, girls?

Doing it all Over Again

2008-01-28T23:18:00.001Z

My insomnia has returned, and I have returned to writing the novel I will probably still be writing when I am 100. And it is nearly spring, and therefore time to start thinking about preparing for what seems to be becoming an annual visit up North to stay with my favourite blog reader, A, for his annual Eurovision Song Contest party. Don't ask...

Race and Meaning

2008-01-20T22:07:00.000Z

This morning: 10.30am, Belsize Park, cashpoint outside Tesco.

I am waiting in line to use the ATM. Behind me is a black youth with Attitude. I glance at him and turn back towards the queue.

"What're you looking at? Got a problem?"

I spin round to face him. "No. Have you?"

"What are you looking at? Why was you staring?"

"I wanted to look at you."

"Why?" He is becoming aggressive. "What's your problem?"

"Maybe I find you attractive."

"Oh." He relaxes. "I can understand that..."

"I thought that might go down well." I smugly retrieve my cash from the maching, and totter off down the road.

1997 and the Cultural Legacy of Girl Power

2008-01-17T13:59:00.000Z

In 1997, I was living in Paris, existing on cigarettes and coffee (but still horribly fat), dating a musician called Jean-Pierre, and writing a thesis on decolonisation of the French empire and its demographic effects on the Parisian Jewish community. I qualified as a manicurist, worked at a salon called Jusqu’au Bout des Ongles, and dyed my hair pink.

Back in London, Five Feisty girls were jumping around in their platforms, banging on about Girl Power. And now the Spice Girls are back.

An article I read this week downplayed the cultural significance of the Spice Girls and the media interest their reunion has generated, dismissing them as of their time. I have to disagree. The Spice Girls represent more than mere transient, poptastic fun. 1997, devoid as it was of i-pods, Facebook and funky ringtones, was a highly significant year, in the way that the final years of a century always are. In 1997, the foundations were laid for the culture in which we exist today, and this was never epitomised better by anyone but the Spice Girls (except perhaps Peter Mandelson, but that’s another story…) Here’s why:

Around 1997, we started to see a new, different kind of openness in the media. Journalistic discourse shifted to the more confessional, with John Diamond writing about his battle with cancer in the Times, Ruth Picardie doing the same in the Observer, and Helen Fielding and Candace Bushnell semi-biographically diarising the relationship dilemmas of the modern woman. Around the same time, Germaine Greer started to lose the plot (it would be 2 years before she insulted F at an academic conference) and suddenly, we were talking about post-Feminism as though the Second Wave had never happened.

Spin ruled over substance. The rise and rise of the PR person, satirised in Absolutely Fabulous, seeped into politics in more aggressive ways than before (New Labour, anyone?), and celebrity ruled. Everyone became an idol. Tony Blair fashioned himself as the leader of the People; Diana was the People’s princess. In the Netherlands, a little known show called Big Brother was in production. It would later come to the UK, playing on our materialistic aspirations, encouraging us to reach the dizzy heights of vacuous celebrity for having achieved nothing.

One may, then, be forgiven for dismissing the emergence of any new celebrity phenomenon in such a fast -paced and short-lived vacuum as a five minute wonder. This may be true of Big Brother contestants, but not of the Spice Girls.

In an era of Feminist uncertainty, the Spice Girls redefined our way. Post the emasculating Thatcher years, the only Feminism we knew was homogenising and reductive, decidedly unfeminine and arguably excluded self expression. The Spice Girls introduced multiplicity into our discourse. They had balls and boobs and non gender-specific categories of identity.

That 4 of the 5 girls are now mothers and 3 of them have been plagued by persistent rumours of eating disorders is immaterial to their success. It is amazing and rare and absolute testament to their cultural significance that the Spice Girls have been able to achieve that level of success without critics reducing them to their biological function.

Now that’s Girl Power.

Having Enough of Having It All

2008-01-15T13:57:00.000Z

Who told women they could have it all? The person ought to be shot.

Statistics reported in The Independent today raise concerns about the rising age of motherhood. This is – rightly – presented specifically as a health issue, rather than a social concern. However, the article includes the annoying bleatings of a couple of (educated, middle-class, affluent, career) women, bemoaning the double standards of a society that pats Rod Stewart on the back for reproducing in his 60s, but cautions women over the age of 35 against having children. A female gynaecologist was even forced to apologise for urging women to bear children before the age of 30. Based on the available research and statistics of the health complications involved in older mothers (not to mention the strain placed on the NHS), her advice seems very sensible to me.

It is also important to separate these findings from the social implications of the female backlash to such caution. The director of a fertility clinic (gender unspecified) is quoted in the article as saying that society is imposing a “massive strain” on women by “forcing” them to choose between family and career. I disagree. I think that the pressure women feel under to “have everything” comes from women themselves, and that actually, “society” has been more than generous to women who choose to actively raise children and pursue a career.

The idea that women can – and should – be able to have children and take time off work to bring up their families, while at the same time enjoying the same privileges and opportunities as those in the workplace (male and female) who prioritise their careers is seriously misguided. It also serves to undermine the feminist cause from which it originated. First, because it posits an unachievable ideal (no one can have everything), and secondly because why should women who choose to be mothers be entitled to more than everyone else? As time has evolved, the concept of maternity leave has become unhelpful to the feminist cause (whatever the hell that is these days), because the benefits available to working women suggest a societal prioritisation of female biological destiny. Neither does it serve to promote the ideal of overall equality in the workplace: who else is allowed to take paid time off work to pursue their narcissistic desires?

Equality should be about generating choice and options for everyone, not privileging one group of people above another, and certainly not putting so much pressure on one group that you end up taking away their choice. Let’s be realistic: no one can have everything, and it is symptomatic of a very specifically western capitalist greed to expect otherwise.

Am I still a Feminist?

Bilan de 2007

2008-01-04T11:05:00.000Z

Well I have been extremely blog passive for the last few months, but I love D's round up so much, i will attempt one myself. Here goes:

Best Moment of 2007: Oh God, as committed, strong independent women of substance, should obviously say getting new job. Have to admit it might have been acquiring boyfriend though. Am failure to feminist cause, as would be no good as radical separatist.

Worst Moment of 2007: On my way to interview for aforesaid new job, the taxi driver got horribly lost, and drove me to the Northcott Theatre, rather than Northcote House. He then proceeded to careen all around the university campus in circles, while I felt horrendously car sick and increasingly panicked. I finally spotted a sign that said "pedestrian route to Northcote House" and ordered him to stop, at which point he accused me of being "a fucking bitch" who lied about my destination to avoid paying the fare! He chucked me out of the cab and drove of at high speed with the door still open, and in my rush to get out of the cab, I lost my mum's umbrella. I then had to go to an interview in tears, fifteen minutes late, hyperventilating, with mad hair, torn between a murderous desire to kill all taxi drivers and an equally strong desire to simply go to bed and wish it had all never happened.

Most Satisfying Moment in 2007: look on my former boss's face when he realised I was leaving and he was going to lose my RAE points! ha!

Least Satisfying Moment of 2007: being harangued in the street by a beggar in Bordeaux who told me I was so enormous I could be used to block the Garonne. This was because I refused to say good night to him.

Best Present of 2007: My friend S gave me a leaving present which consists of a frame still from her latest DVD, an art installation project on movement and stasis in Belfast. It is a unique print that no-one else in the world will have ever, and it is wonderful. The installation is currently being shown at a gallery in Havana, Cuba.

Best meal of 2007: has to be oysters and mussels at the cafe pineau in cap ferret. idyllic setting, great food, wonderful friends.

Worst meal of 2007: mistaking curry sauce for tomato ketchup and slurping sticky, gross curry sauce all over my bratwurst. Bratwurst smelt foul and was inedible.

Best exhibition of 2007: I think it would have to be the Surrealist exhibition at the V and A, although both Citizens and Kings at the Royal Academy and the Millais at Tate Britain come close.

Best Film of 2007: The Lives of Others. Emotionally satisfying, narratively gripping, and with a wider historical and political sense.

Number of weddings attended: 4

Number of funerals attended: 0

Number of days was paid twice: One ( a good day though).

2007 - The Round-Up

2008-01-02T22:05:00.000Z

Best moment of 2007
It has been an annus horribilis, as Her Maj would say. Nothing good happened in 2007

Worst thing that happened in 2007
Am spoiled for choice here. It’s a toss-up between the following:

-New Year’s Day 2007 (should have known then) when my date went horribly wrong and then someone tried to mug me and I ended up stabbing myself with my own umbrella (floored the mugger, though!)
- Being made redundant and spending the rest of the year wishing I’d moved to Italy and kept my job (will never understand my own logic)
- Putting myself on a dating website
- Months of chronic insomnia, exacerbated by the torturous belief that if I went to sleep I would have to wake up in the morning, get out of bed and resist the urge to end my own life. Yes, it really was that bad
- When I think about it though, I am amazed (and clearly very vacuous) by the realisation that the worst thing that happened to me in 2007 – and believe me, it’s bad – is that I gained weight and can no longer fit into my Size Zero hotpants.

Most spectacular wardrobe malfunction in 2007
Runner-up: Accidentally exposing my left nipple (again! – see last year’s round-up), this time to dearest Ken, our revered Mayor of London
Winner: The pink post-it/breast moment

Number of parties attended in 2007
Approximately 365

Amount of really grim vomiting stories resulting from said partying in 2007
At least 5 stand out. I was too out of it to notice the other 360

Celebrity sightings in 2007
- Stephen Spielberg (at a private section of the beach in Malibu – I know all the right people, dahhhling)
- An American Idol contestant (at The Grove in LA)
- Several Big Brother contestants (must start frequenting less tacky places)
- Princess Beatrice (must start frequenting less pretentious places)
- Noel Gallagher and Sara MacDonald (on Wigmore Street)
- Russell Brand (swoon! – in various places)
- David Gest (in Gilgamesh)
- India Knight (in Gilgamesh)
- Ross Kemp, Rachel Stevens, Jeremy Edwards (separately – on Christmas Eve)
- Noel Fielding (outside Annex Trois. J’s sister is a mad fan, and he called her and got Noel Fielding to speak to her, while I pointed my camera ‘phone in his face and took a blurry picture, and Noel Fielding’s friend told me I was out of order
- George Michael (at Café Nero in Hampstead). In fact, it wasn’t him at all, but for weeks, my friend I and I sat there staring at him marvelling at how little he was, until one Sunday he removed his cap and sunglasses and turned out to be black and not George Michael at all
- Les Dennis (scraping the bottom of the barrel here – coming out of the George Michael concert in June)

Amount of men dated in 2007
In excess of 50. I’m not joking

Best date of 2007
The one in the rain with the 22 year old. There was another good one somewhere in 2007, but it all ended in tears, tantrums, a little stalking, a lot of obsessing, and J threatening to call the police on me. My first date with The French One was quite fun too, until we were asked to leave the bar on account of "lewd and inappropriate behaviour". How very George Michael of us.

Worst date of 2007
Again: several contenders. The New Year’s Day date with the food diary and vitamins was not my proudest moment. I had a particularly awful date back in August with someone who had worked in Ghana and the only social observation he had returned with was the proliferation of prostitutes he had had to fend off. He said this proudly, as though they were women with a choice who had chosen to find him attractive. (I couldn’t even imagine a nymphomanic animal wanting to shag him. I left after 5 minutes.) Or the date where we had a shouting argument about the taxation system. He was a facist aged 37 who still lived with his parents and regurgitated their dated, suburban rhetoric to anyone who would listen. I would not.

Sanest and most functional man dated in 2007
The 22 year old

Number of times heart broken in the cruelest and most achingly painful manner possible
Erm, just the once, thankfully

Place discovered in 2007 where one can find – should one be mad and so wish – the highest ever concentration of pathetic, indecisive, dysfunctional, unreconstructed Mummies’ Boys
JDate

Number of evil bitch sisters (EBSs) who extorted flat out of mother in 2007 while i was miserable, unemployed and penniless
One. (The other EBS only managed to extort a holiday out of her.)

Amount of months spent not on speaking terms with said EBS, following pointless argument over tactical voting in general election
Eight (in sane families, people fall out over money)
Click here for an example of my family’s insanity

Number of lovely long-lost musician cousins befriended in 2007
Two. They are twins.

Number of new jobs in 2007
Two

Number of new jobs that made me want to poke eyes out and in which was forced to work in all-male office of racist, xenophobic, sexist, unreconstructed, hateful individuals, but that in hindsight only took because recruitment consultant was manipulative and good at her job, and because i was desperate, depressed, deluded and unemployed
One. One too many, though.

Number of new jobs in which slightly quirky boss is endeared by my scattiness
One

Number of self-help books read in 2007
Clearly not enough

Happy New Year!

2007-12-31T18:50:00.000Z

Am about to host a New Year's party. Why? Why? The original idea was to avoid drama at all costs, so fingers crossed. After all, what can go wrong if I am hosting my own party and not leaving my own home?

Am somewhere between serene/calm and full-on nervous breakdown right now...

I am SO glad to see the back of 2007.

Happy New Year!

Spotted!

2007-12-25T19:40:00.000Z

This one is hilarious. I was at the Washington (pub) in Belsize Park last night. Rachel Stevens and Jeremy Edwards were in there. I was sitting outside in the freezing cold (I was with smokers; post smoking ban in London, there is little choice!), when I spotted Ross Kemp (Grant Mitchell in Eastenders) sitting in the back of a Mercedes, just across the road.

Just then, a car pulled up on the same side of the road as me, and some drunken lads called out to their friend to join them in the car. A prolonged scuffle ensued, as the inebriated group attempted to manoeuvre their mate into the car. By this point, Ross Kemp had got out of the Mercedes, and was standing on the pavement, just a few yards away from me and the car of drunken guys. They noticed him standing there.

"Hey! It's Grant Mitchell! Grant! Oy, Grant! Hey, you know Phil Mitchell is gay!"

Ross Kemp took one look at them, and snarled: "So are you, you prick!"

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

We're Live!

2007-12-10T05:32:00.000Z

OK, check it out!

The much awaited new dating blog is live.

Check it out, and do give feedback!

SHE SAYS HE SAYS

The Only Way is Up

2007-12-10T05:28:00.000Z

Update! I have a new job. After a hellish year of upheaval and uncertainty, I am back in the City and loving it.

My new boss, S, is brilliant. When I arrived at the company, full of cynicism and convinced that all men over the age of 38 (it’s a rough estimate) in the workplace hate me and seek to destroy my career, I was only on a temporary contract. On Day 3, S offered me the job permanently and cancelled all remaining interviews with the other candidates. S, of course, is gay. He is also on a low-carb diet, used to train with one of my trainers at the gym, firmly believes that daily physical exercise is the key to a focused mind, and nodded sympathetically when I complained to him that the photo on my security pass makes me look as though I have just had a very obvious botox treatment.

"What are your weaknesses?" he asked me.

"I am very scatty," I told him. (It’s true; as my friend S says, I can write a business plan, but I can’t dress myself.)

"Yes, you are scatty," he smiled. "But you’re also very comfortable with yourself – you are true to yourself and don’t try to be someone you’re not, and I really love your quirkiness."

"Tell me," I said. "How did you manage to discern my scattiness after only 3 days? I was, after all, on my best behaviour."

"Well," he said. "This morning, when you were showing the Chief Exec into my office, you had a bright pink post-it note stuck to your breast, and you didn’t realise."

Oh, yes, the post-it note. I remember sticking it to the front of my dress when I had no free hands, intending to throw it away before I entered his office. Written on it was a reminder to myself to book a session of colonic hydrotherapy.

"That post-it note got you the job," he chuckled.

Much Ado About Nothing

2007-11-02T14:53:00.000Z

Sorry once again for abject crapness in keeping the blog current. For my part, the last year has gotten progressively worse, and writing about my life at the moment will only make it worse. I know how I feel; I don't need to sit here, relive my feelings and see the tragic synopsis in front of me, written in black and white. I'll leave it there and hope things get better soon...

Ageing Disgracefully

2007-09-29T00:19:00.000+01:00

Oh god. I'm thirty bloody one (it's my birthday today). I would moan about the misery that is my life at the moment (hate new job and concerned that will not get past probation period, which is on Monday; am slightly broken-hearted, resulting from complex situation that has effectively ruined a good friendship, have no money, etc etc - oh god, am even more depressed now) - I would moan about the above, but am frankly more concerned about how I will ever fit into the all-in-one hotpants ensemble I intend to wear tomorrow night to my bday celebrations. Will have to book emergency colonic tomorrow.

Two things happened tonight; one lovely and one interesting. My downstairs neighbour, M, (whom I have never met, as am never home and I am a v un-neighbourly Londoner) found me outside, smoking emergency cigarette (always, on the eve of my bday), and invited me round for (way too much) vodka and a bitching session about all men. Made me feel lots better.

Then, met I in Soho for more drinks. We were chatted up by lovely guy. To cut a long story short, we learned that we are intimidating to men (I is stunning, but I fail to see how I could have intimidated anyone tonight. I had got caught in the rain sans umbrella and was wearing an old pair of jeans I usually reserve for wearing when I'm cleaning the house). But anyway. Apparently, the way we walk into a bar spells "out of my league", and that's why no one will approach us.

You know what? I give up. Again. It's just a long, tragic descent to 40 now...

Update

2007-08-22T21:57:00.000+01:00

We've all been neglecting the blog, and we're very sorry! Facebook has kind of taken over as our favoured displacement activity. Here's a quick update from me:

P (the naughty one who never blogs) has just got married. The celebrations were fantastic - it even stopped raining for about 5 minutes - and I have only just recovered from my hangover.

I have been dating the world. I exaggerate not. Never one to do anything by halves, I am dating no less than 10 people. I have had to set up a spreadsheet to remind me who is who and when I am seeing each one. Had a minor crisis yesterday when I realised I had set up 2 dates for tomorrow night, but could not remember with whom, and would end up standing one of them up. Then I remembered that we are meant to be going out tomorrow night to celebrate L's birthday, so I couldn't make either date. I have sorted it out now, but am skating on v thin ice.

I am exhausted from it all. But I have many stories, which I shall share on the soon-to-be-launched new blog I am setting up with my (male) friend J on the dating scene. Sorry it is taking so long - it is completely J's fault and not mine, as we have agreed to write a little introductory blurb about each other, and he is refusing to write mine until he sees what I write about him. And I am too busy dating at the moment to write anything. However, I forgive him, as he kindly reassured me the other day when I went crying to him about my unrequited crush that I am indeed fanciable - when I am not being a mad, obsessive stalker. More about that some other time. And yes, this is the same crush from 3 months ago that I am STILL trying to get over, despite declaring at the time that I refused to waste 3 months obsessing.

Oh, and Love God has been calling and texting me 5 times a day. At least he was, until he discovered my friend M on the dating site. Now he is pursuing her.

My life is a soap opera.

Love God: The Sequel

2007-07-29T00:12:00.000+01:00

Love God is back on the scene. As I logged onto the dating site yesterday afternoon, his grinning face popped up onto my screen. This member wants to IM you, I was notified. I couldn’t resist.

Me: Well, well, well, if it isn’t Love God. How the hell are you?
LG: D, you sexy princess… when do I get to see you again?

We catch up on briefly on our dating experiences; I reveal only that I am nursing a bruised heart, trying in vain to prove to myself that there are plenty of other like-minded men on here I will click with, and that I am not looking for anything heavy; he tells me about the 2 failed relationships he has had since we last met. And then:

LG: So – you gonna come out and play again
Me: [in spite of self] Yeah, why not? But platonically…
LG: [clearly having not brushed up on his charm skills in the interim]: U mean I can’t undress you one day?
Me: Don’t push it, babe

Oh, what the hell? I left him my number and logged off.

Spotted in the Big Apple

2007-07-24T21:02:00.000+01:00

John Travolta. Alas, not wearing a white suit, earning money making pizzas by day, and letting it all hang out on the disco scene at night. Rather, being filmed walking in and out of a tanning salon, while hundreds of people took photos on their cell phones from behind a barrier. I didn't take a photo from behind the barrier, but probably more because I have a v crap phone that would not have been able to focus from that far away, than my own awareness of the absurdity of celebrity culture.

It's a Small World

2007-07-22T10:05:00.000+01:00

First of all, a confession: I am back on the dating website. Yes, I know I swore I’d never do it again, and I guess I can’t deny that a tiny part of me is looking… but really, I had 2 motivations for doing it:

I had 38 unread messages in my inbox, which I couldn’t access unless I resubscribed, and I was curious

I am really trying to move on from recent experiences and prove to myself that there are men out there who share a similar vision and purpose to their life, who have a social conscience, who don’t try to fit me in a box (or indeed a 5 bedroom home in suburban hell and try to immediately impregnate me), and with whom I can share a deep intellectual conversation, or visit an art gallery with or at least have an enjoyable coffee without one of us wanting to poke the other’s eyes out

It turns out, there are no men meeting these requirements. Although at least I am making an effort to move on.

But what is most alarming – and this is moving on from our recent discussions on related matters – is that between the dating website and Facebook, I feel as though my world is closing in on me. I recognise a lot of the people on the site as friends of friends on Facebook, and have not been able to contact some guys, as I know them to be either friends of friends I have dated, or – worse – ex-partners of friends of mine, where I know the history, and would be causing problems by getting involved.

The classic example occurred yesterday. It emerged that a guy I am meeting this afternoon (afternoon tea at Claridges, darling – for that pretentious reason alone, I know it’s never going to happen with him) knows both my sisters, and is completely mortified to have arranged a date with me (charming!). He has begged me not to tell either of them how we met – and even more alarmingly, he actually said to me that “should it become necessary in the future to disclose to them…” Eeek! I only agreed to a date, and I have made it clear I am not looking for anything other than a friend.

I have been going on a flurry of dates in the last 3 weeks in my bid to move on. I have enough material to write a book (and, oh, I probably will – some of the stories are utterly priceless). But honestly, all I want at the moment is to stay single, sociable, happy, fulfilled, and to move on!

I’ll keep you posted...

Celebrating Difference, Diversity, Individuality and Equality Through the Arts

2007-07-15T18:28:00.000+01:00

I have always been suspicious of any governmental scheme that sounds as though it is promoting spin and soundbite over substance. I have also been highly critical of the government’s policies on education. So I have never paid much attention to the “Fresh Start” scheme, which focuses on seriously underperforming state schools, where all options for improvement have been unsuccessfully exhausted. The school is closed and reopened on the same site, and is subject to reorganisational procedures.

A friend of mine is a dance teacher at one such school. Yesterday, the pupils staged a performance which she had helped to put together, and she invited me along to watch. What I saw of the performance, the school, the pupils and the dedication of the staff not only impressed me, but moved me practically to tears.

This particular school, located in an underprivileged area of central London, is a specialist arts and media school. Through the media of music, dance, drama and art, the school asserts its ethos of drawing out the potential of each child and instilling in them a thirst for learning, while bridging cultural, ethnic and religious divides. In addition to this, the school is committed to community-wide projects. These involve working with various arts foundations to benefit the pupils, as well as organising adult learning schemes in which the wider community may participate.

After being treated to Turkish dancing and African music, the main performance, incorporating music, dancing and drama, followed the title “Longing to Belong”, celebrating difference and diversity. The performers included a local group of adults with learning difficulties, and the look of pride and achievement on their faces at the end was absolutely priceless – and I am in awe of the teachers and pupils for putting the production together.

It is very easy to be “liberal” when you have the educated and economic freedom to be so inclined. It is also easy to fall for the misconception that you are worldly and open-minded just because you went to school or university with a culturally, ethnically and religiously diverse group of people. We need to be finding and supporting schemes that educate and allow everyone to live together in a mutually respectful environment. And the arts are an ideal way in which to effect this, for 2 reasons.

First, because education is about so much more than passing academic exams and going to university. It is about learning about the world around you; how each of us is a part of it, and has the ability to mould it and make a difference. It is about instilling in each individual a love of life and people and learning – and the desire to be a participating citizen. It is about realising the skills and abilities of every person and encouraging them to blossom. And this is not something that comes from memorising your times tables. A creative, extra-curricular hobby is an ideal way of teaching these values. Having the opportunity to showcase and develop creative skills is invaluable. It is complementary to the national curriculum; I know that when I took up kickboxing, I learned one of the most important lessons of my life: that anything is possible, but it takes time, perseverance, patience, dedication, belief and hard work.

Second, because, in contrast to other social and professional situations, involvement in the arts (in theory) transcends the socially-imposed barriers that divide us in the first place. In the boxing ring, the orchestra or on the stage, we are all willing participants, working together towards a common goal – what is more precious than this, and what better blueprint for living our lives can there be?

Facing the Facebook (R)evolution

2007-07-14T16:36:00.001+01:00

Who remembers life before the internet? An early convert, I remember when I lived in Paris – 10 years ago (eek!) - how frustrating it was that no one except my dad and a handful of university friends would communicate with me by e mail. I had just spent 4 months in Florida, and hated having to communicate with my American friends via a combination of a postal service that took 5 days, or pre-scheduled telephone calls.

Fast forward 10 years. The internet is now my primary form of communication. I use it for everything: for reference, research, several-times-daily communication with friends abroad; I use it to book travel and for most of my purchases: books, music, vitamins, superfoods, underwear (Myla, please, for anyone who wants to buy me a gift), men…

And then along came Facebook; the ultimate displacement activity tool for those serial procrastinators among us. I love it, and if any of you are wondering why we blog less than we used to, it’s because we’re too busy messing around on Facebook.

I don’t want to enter into any of the pretentious debates about Facebook that are currently appearing in the media over here. I think all those journalists are embarrassingly several steps behind the zeitgeist, and need to get over themselves. For god’s sake! It’s a social networking site, to be used (or not) as you wish (and most critics succumb in the end). Users have control over the content they share as well as their own privacy, and can choose to allow – or indeed block – anyone they wish into their network.

I’m also not interested in the – now dated – debate about the deterioration of communication and physical social interaction: we’re all busier now; we travel more and work longer hours; this has as much necessitated technological growth as it has resulted from the ever-developing modes of “virtual” communication. Blah blah blah – the upshot is that this is our reality now – get with it.

What I am interested in, however, is the extent to which Facebook (and to some extent, blogging) is eroding formerly rigid social barriers. Perhaps this is a specifically British concern, but as the popularity of Facebook has grown over here, any social reticence and desire for privacy we once had has started to disappear.

Some examples:

Last night, I was at a party. As I arrived, around 1am (busy weekend), I was accosted by a guy who was leaving:

“Oh – you must be D! I recognise you from your Facebook pictures! Shame we didn’t get to meet properly – A said she’d introduce us. I have to leave now, but never mind – I’ll message you on Facebook on Monday morning! Great boots you were wearing in those pictures, by the way, hahaha!”

And then this afternoon, my friend C called, to invite me to a brunch she is hosting at the end of the month. Before she hung up, she said (and I could practically hear her winking): “By the way, my friend M from Switzerland will be in London that weekend. He’d love to meet you – he saw your picture in my list of Facebook friends and says you have a lovely smile.”

Perhaps more astonishingly, a couple of guys from the dating website have – and I have no idea how – somehow tracked me down on Facebook, and are sending me messages. And in the last few weeks, I keep on receiving unsolicited “pokes” and friend requests from people I don’t even know – they see your profile in different groups and try to befriend you.

There’s nothing wrong with any of this: I ignore the creepy ones, message/flirt with the ones I think are fun, meet the ones I find interesting – and don’t accept friend invitations from people who are not my friends! But somehow, the casualness and familiarity that results from conducting your life from the end of a computer is spilling over into real, physical interaction. And actually, I rather enjoy it. I choose not to restrict my profile on Facebook; anything I have to hide, I simply don’t share it… and I rather like the idea of being seen. I like people being direct and forward, and although it’s a bit creepy that people I don’t know have checked out my profile – and admitted it to me! – before approaching me, I have to admit, I kind of like it.

Similarly with the blog: this is a creative outlet for me, and I have only shared the address with my friend J (recently-alluded to male platonic friend, upon whom I have bestowed the dubious honour of being my unofficial dating advisor; he has witnessed my greatest neuroses, and I figured there are thus no further secrets from him; he may as well read the bloody blog). Although most of the readers don’t know me, I still control what I share about my life (this is only a projected fraction); I choose not to share particularly difficult issues until they have been resolved, and out of respect, I protect the identities of, and don’t overtly share information about, the people I really care for (um, oh dear, apart from my mum and Evil Bitch Sisters). But there’s still something that delights me about the voyeuristic aspect of sharing some of my self, my thoughts and my life on this blog.

Facebook is unnecessarily feared and ridiculed by too many people. It is what you want it to be: a bit of fun and a way to keep in touch with lots of people at once (which is what it is to me) or – to some of my friends with high profile jobs – a bit of career publicity/propaganda. You can be as private or as public as you wish, and share or hide whichever information you wish. And indeed by watched by people you wish…

Oh, and that guy I bumped into at A’s party? Great guy. Witty, intelligent, charming, lots of opinions to share and stories to tell, fun, ambitious, attractive, confident, direct, persistent, etc… dammit, he’s only another bloody right-wing lawyer with offensive, xenophobic views on immigration, desperately seeking a Stepford wife.

Next!

Questions To Ponder Over

2007-07-07T20:00:00.000+01:00

How do you distinguish between genuineness and sincerity on the one hand, and bullshitting and fuckwittery on the other?

How can you be sure that the lovely things that are said to you come from the heart, and are true and real – and not being fed to other people at the same time?

Do you carry on looking for something if you’ve already found it; and when the results of that search repeatedly reinforce your gut feeling?

Which is worse: to take a leap of faith because your heart, head, mind and gut tell you to – and these end up being wrong and you get hurt? Or to put up the barriers, run away and risk losing the most significant, rewarding and irreplaceable opportunity of your life?

How can you be sure that while you sit pondering, someone else is not benefiting from the very thing you desperately want and are holding out for? How can you be sure that the opportunity that could be on its way to you will not be diverted to someone else because it was never meant for you in the first place?

What happens if you wait for something that is being sent to you and it gets lost in transit and never finds you, either because it no longer wants to, or because someone else has stolen it?

I consider myself to be a very good judge of character, and my gut feelings never fail me… but I’m absolutely petrified.

On Blair and Brown

2007-07-03T20:05:00.000+01:00

Irritatingly, the thoughts I wrote on Tony Blair’s departure and Gordon Brown’s leadership have vanished into cyberspace, and no, I didn’t back it up, and yes, I am a fool for not doing so.

Here are a few hastily reconstructed and crudely paraphrased points instead:

A bizarre, seemingly pointless and poorly written article appeared in the Sunday Times a couple of weeks ago by an outspoken critic of Blair (his name momentarily escapes me), basically saying that Blair’s dealings in Iraq etc were unforgivable and will overshadow his achievements, but hey, he smiled a lot, introduced Cool Britannia (if fleetingly) and engineered a new governmental trend in spin over substance (actually, I think that was Peter Mandelson in the ‘80s, but whatever), plus his almost evangelical belief that he was carrying out the will of God in Iraq was touching. And for that reason alone, isn’t Tony Blair a lovely man?!

I spent ages thinking about this, and – once I had stopped fuming and ranting – had to concede that I don’t entirely disagree with this, as uncomfortable as it makes me feel. However, I think that this is more indicative of how shallow our culture has become than it is testament to the greatness of Tony Blair.

I vividly remember the 1997 General Election. I stayed up all night watching it on TV with my cousin, and dancing round the flat at 6am when the Blairs arrived at Number 10, belting out D:ream’s Things Can Only Get Better, as my cousin sat sulking and chain smoking (he is a Tory, unfortunately), and those scenes really sum it up for me. We were always waiting for things to get better, and they kind of did, in the sense that Labour’s victory after 18 years of Tory government brought with it euphoria, optimism and promises of renewal and change. We had a handsome, young, cool new leader who used to have long hair and play in a rock band and who invited Noel Gallagher to Downing Street. Everything was about the “people”, and we somehow neglected to notice that behind the soundbites (remember “Education, Education, Education” anyone?) there was very little substance.

XXX

I ALWAYS say this, but I think that 1997 was a very interesting year culturally. Significant changes were coming about: in journalism, a new discourse was emerging, in which journalists turned their writing inwards and started writing about their lives (John Diamond writing about his battle with cancer in the Times on Saturday; Ruth Picardie writing a similar article in the Observer; Helen Fielding in the Independent – a column which was later developed into Bridget Jones’s Diary). Our growing interest in other people’s lives was displayed in the (then) astonishing scenes of mass public mourning following the death of Diana, Princess of Wales. Ten years on, we have become so media and PR savvy that it would be inconceivable now for the Royals to be so unprepared for such a reaction. Our interest in other people’s lives has grown to such an extent that our lives are practically one big reality TV programme. Everyone is a celebrity. Heat Magazine and Big Brother are only part of it. It’s all about the outer face rather than the inner substance. And perhaps that is why – even after Iraq – our enduring memory of Tony Blair is of his smiling face and he will be remembered fondly by a lot of people.

XXX

Gordon Brown is a different man, and I suspect one of more substance. Let’s see what his leadership brings.

_____

Addendum: I have been sitting in a coffee shop writing this, and had to leave hastily to use the loo in an adjacent bookshop, as someone was caught shooting up in the bathroom here (even Starbucks is not immune from insalubrious activity!). As I scrambled up the stairs en route to the bathroom in the bookshop in embladdered discomfort (breaking a toenail in the process – it really hurts, and I will now have to find alternative footwear to the strappy sandals I had intended to wear to Henley on Saturday), I stumbled upon a new biography, entitled something like “Gordon Brown: Prime Minister”. See? The man hasn’t even been in power for a week, and we already can’t get enough of his private life.

Insomnia

2007-06-28T02:49:00.000+01:00

We are praying for something else now; have become something else ourselves. For even at the point at which it all falls apart, when the battle is lost, when our fate is sealed, when the wound is fresh and we already know we will bear the scars forever- even then – we cannot help but hope.

There are no words, she says, and proceeds to fill the room with words, talking endlessly. The words rise up out of her and fill the room. They break away from each other and dissolve into nothingness. They circle me, strangle me. She speaks for me so I don’t have to, and I am grateful for her words.

Now, as then, what I feel cannot be expressed in language. It is a look, a touch, a curiosity, a desire, a warmth, an understanding, a gut feeling. There are no words for me any more; I don’t know how to put them back together, need the comfort still of their barrier.

Speak

I can’t.

Blair's Legacy

2007-06-26T21:26:00.001+01:00

To follow shortly. My evil new laptop is rebelling against me in that blood-pressure elevating manner that can only be the work of modern technology. I am working on it... we can't let our Tone step down from office without passing comment... and judgment.

D x

Coming Soon...

2007-06-26T20:39:00.000+01:00

In a somewhat grotesque parody of a popular American TV sitcom, I shall shortly be launching a spin-off blog from The Girls Online. It will focus on my experience as a Jewish singleton living in London. Yes, I KNOW I seem like an unlikely authority on this subject; my relationship history may as well be renamed a non-relationship history, I am the most cynical, unromantic and commitment-phobic girl I know, and following my recent 5-minute foray into internet dating, have called off the search and closed my window.

However, what I do have, aside from nearly 20 years of dating experiences and many tales – some amusing, some tragic – is an insatiable interest in and curiosity about the world and the people around me. Each person and experience in my life has (I hope) taught me something new and forced me to examine my own identity: as a woman, as a Jew, as a friend, a lover, a sexual being and a thinking person.

The new blog will examine some of these issues further, and will also explore other themes. Can women “have it all”? (short answer – no) Why, when I am so good at forming and maintaining relationships in general (it has been my key strength in my career for example) am I so incapable of having a serious relationship with a man? What internal identity struggles are forced to the surface by the whole (non-?)Jewish dating scene? How much of where we end up in our lives – and specifically with whom we end up – is down to social pressure and sheer fear of being “alone”?

And, in a fun twist, I have persuaded (bullied?!) a male friend to share the blog space with me, in an attempt to balance out the viewpoints. For as I said to someone last week, I’m not one for crude categorisations, and I rally against arguments based on biological essentialism, but honestly, sometimes, when it comes to men being a complete mystery to me, the evidence is sometimes overwhelming…

Watch this space.

Birthday Brunch and Postmodern Identity Crisis

2007-06-24T15:15:00.001+01:00

I am running down the rain-soaked streets, destroying the bottoms of my Juicy tracksuit (why is it they never drag on the pavement when it’s not raining heavily?). I am late, although thankfully, for the first Sunday in weeks, not hungover. The doormen swing open the heavy doors, and I stumble into the Wolseley and stand at the entrance, dripping wet and trying to catch my breath. From the middle of the room, Evil Bitch Sister No 1 (EBS 1) is glaring disapprovingly at my umbrella (captioned heavily with the words “Groovy Chick”) and looking as though she wants to kill me. We are here to celebrate my mother’s birthday.

“D!” trills my mother. “How lovely of you to finally join us!” The false jollity is a transparent dig at my timekeeping. "Let me look at you – I was beginning to forget what you look like, hahaha." (Note: I recently conducted an experiment to prove that, contrary to her perception, she is the one who never calls me, and if I neglect to call her for a couple of weeks, we will not be in touch at all. It has clearly backfired on me now.)

“You’re looking so much healthier,” she continues. “You were looking very gaunt earlier this year, and I was desperately worried. Now you look more… robust [ie you’re getting fat again] and you’ve got your colour back” [ie sunburned from runs in Regent’s Park]. I knew it! My thighs are ballooning!

EBS 1 smirks triumphantly behind her carrot juice, but says nothing: she is in a rare good mood at the moment, having successfully managed to manipulate and extort money out of my mother to buy a flat in West Hampstead.

I bury my head in the overpriced menu, wondering how – in a macrobiotic-friendly restaurant – I am still unable to find anything suitable to eat. I am already hot with irritation, and I remove my Juicy jacket to reveal a Little Miss Naughty T-Shirt. EBS 1 and EBS 2 squirm with embarrassment. “You look ridiculous,” hisses EBS 1. “You’re far too old to get away with that top,” says EBS 2. My mother looks despairingly at me. “Oh! You have some white hairs!” she exclaims, patting her immaculate blonde bob, as several people on surrounding tables look over to examine the growing visible signs of my aging process.

My mother is one of those irritating people who has never smoked and doesn’t drink, rarely exercises, has a largely stress-free lifestyle, still enjoys biscuits late at night, but has never had cellulite, and with the right make-up, can still pass for 47. She is 62. Unfortunately, I take after my father, who smoked 40 cigarettes a day, was an outrageous workaholic, lived on about 3 hours sleep a night and constantly over-committed himself to different causes. He was once mistaken for a pensioner by a pharmacist when he was still in his 40s.

“Now listen, D,” she continues, and I can tell from her tone that she is on a mission. The object of her last mission broke my heart, and she has been warned repeatedly to abandon her matchmaking attempts.

“I spoke to Auntie D last week, and she couldn’t believe that you live round the corner from her and still haven’t been round to them for dinner! She’d like you to come next Friday night. There’ll be lots of nice young people there!” EBS 2 makes funny faces at me in between bites of pain au chocolat. We all know what “nice young people” means, and she is grateful to have escaped from my mother’s latest matchmaking mission.

The mere mention of Auntie D is enough to induce a panic attack in me. Pushing 80, the woman is a walking warning against surgical intervention. The skin on her face is so tightly stretched, it is a wonder she can still talk; in fact she has such a prohibitive lisp, it is hard to understand a word she says, although her voice is certainly loud enough. Her yellow bouffant hair is more visible than the sun on a clear, bright day, her inch-thick make-up is so exaggerated that I would not be surprised if she were outed as a transvestite, and her intoxicating perfume poses more threat to the environment than any inland carbon footprinted aeroplane journey. My memories of family get-togethers are tainted not only with her presence, but with her insistence on informing me and everyone else present that I was very fat and needed to lose weight. Apparently now I am thin enough to merit a place at her dinner table, where I will inevitably be presented to a panel of (in)eligible Jewish bachelors.

This time, I don’t have the energy to fight my mum on this one. My dating website experiences as well as my mum’s attempts to marry me off make me think of what Jacqueline Rose wrote in the introduction to her brilliant book, States of Fantasy. I often think of this: she referred to the postmodern identity crisis; belonging “everywhere and nowhere at the same time”. This is how I feel. I know on paper I’m a “nice Jewish girl” (as long as I have edited certain details on that paper, hahaha!), but the suburban sell-out dream that will be waiting for me at Auntie D’s Friday night dinner table will just not do it for me.

It’s a funny place to be. I have just fought my way through the most difficult 6 months of my life, and have come through intact: a little bruised and still cynical, but stronger, self-confidence intact, still optimistic and still curious and excited about life, grateful for the many relationships in my life and all the opportunities I am fortunate to have. I have learned an enormous amount about myself over the last 6 months. I am looking forward to starting my new job on Tuesday. Everything is falling into place. I belong everywhere…

…and yet I also belong nowhere.

Fragments and Perspectives

2007-06-23T18:00:00.000+01:00

I am very nervous about posting this item. It is taken from the novel I am writing. I would be interested to hear readers' feedback (thegirlsonline@gmail.com).

__________________

Where there is language there is often silence, and where no words are spoken, a thousand meanings resonate. Mixed meanings, sometimes. Misunderstandings.

There were no expectations, no over-hyped anticipation, just a feeling, a knowing, like the time I was summoned to The House, and I knew the announcement before it was made. I had sat down in the annex and written it, written my response, purged it from my system. So I was calm. And when we came face to face, we continued from where we had left off, which was nowhere – and yet everywhere. Like the announcement, like The Pond, like standing on the balcony in Israel: it was meant to be, and it was part of me. It was an oceanic feeling, and it was like the ocean; vast, clear, natural, sparkling, and just there. But hidden beneath, there is a destructive anger that can consume and kill and leave you helpless and drowning.

The words in The Rooms are all the same. We share the same Story, the same history, but the contexts differ. Although I am silent, my story is spoken for me in The Rooms.

My context is The Pond.

I experience my hunger now as something beyond a physical presence. I carry it inside me. It is there in my heart, scratching the wound that has not yet healed. It is there when I wake, there when I sleep, when I walk, talk, think, breathe… it is an ache, a yearning, a desire, and it engulfs me completely. It comes from the place in which I store my memories, my language, the feelings associated with that time. It is my temps perdu, and it has returned to haunt me.

She is emphatic: The soul does not leave the body until after the death. I don’t believe her, though. I know that we received an unspoken message beside The Pond.

It was beside The Pond that she took my hands, looked deep into my eyes and promised me that it wouldn’t happen. It did. 3 weeks later. It was driving alongside The Pond that I threw a lit cigarette out the window and it missed and lay on the back seat of the car, burning a hole in the upholstery, and I panicked and turned around and forgot to steer and almost crashed the car. Another time, I was driving past The Pond, circling restlessly because I hadn’t heard any news, and she called me and told me that it might happen, it might just happen, and she couldn’t bear to speak the words; her voice was barely a whisper and when I made her repeat them, she shouted them out. The words bounced off the surface off The Pond, like a painful bellyflop, and slapped me in the face. I nearly crashed the car that time too.

I want to be you, I think. I want to inhabit your body and your soul. I want to be in your life and to be your life.

Always a drama, by The Pond. When we were undercover, trying to be inconspicuous, and they found us and took us away, the sirens blaring. In the storm, navigating our way around in bare feet with no umbrella.

When he pulls me close to him, the outside world melts away. There is no sense of time, of past, present or future, no loss, no pain, no lack, no hunger, nothing to purge. There is only the here and now of the embrace. I am light, unburdened, unencumbered. As in the hospital room, nothing else exists; nothing else matters. This is all there is. Just… this.

The Pond is my link to the past, I think. Water is another transcendental element. Natural, powerful, flowing. It washes away. It extinguishes my fire. It can drown…

I have left my body. My soul is somewhere else. The hunger is now nausea, like an abjection waiting to happen, that I cannot control, that does not happen somehow. I cannot feel my body; neither sexually, nor physically; neither as too much, nor too little. It is melting away, but without my knowledge or consciousness. It is changing; I am changing.

Cynicism and Hope

2007-06-22T13:48:00.000+01:00

Big shout goes out to my (male, platonic) friend J, who I am sure will still be on a break from his billable hours reading this blog by the time I publish this note. I emphasise the platonic quality (much to his amusement, I'm sure) as this seems to be the only type of male relationship I can manage (although ironically, we were mistaken for a couple last night - I am still giggling about that!).

I do cherish the ever-dwindling pool of platonic male friends in my life who have not sold out to the NW London suburban dream (or who at least feel guilty and ambivalent about it if they have!) and who struggle to reconcile their successful careers with their desire for intellectual and moral integrity. Few men I know would "get" some of the items we publish on this blog, and if I were to meet a man I thought would be able to understand, chances are I would be very, very interested in him, and would be too petrified to open myself up to the extent that I would share the blog with him.

These platonic male friends are great. As I said to J just now, being friends with him definitely helps me to understand men, because I can see how men can have all these great qualities (above), yet be just a little less sorted when it comes to women - and that doesn't make them bastards. And the rest of them - as Saab Man proves - are probably gay. Or involved with someone else.

Our lives didn't become more complicated, F. Years of experience and knocks have eroded our innocence and turned us into cynics.

I'm kind of still secretly harbouring a certain fantasy, though...

Revelations

2007-06-21T17:35:00.000+01:00

Saab man is gay. But he also indulges in "recreational straight snogging." As D had cause to sigh only a few weeks ago, since when did our lives get so complicated? His jacket is still on the floor of my office, awaiting our next meeting...

I'm So Sad...

2007-06-20T20:48:00.001+01:00

... I really am. I have just spent the last two and a half hours writing notes and a whole bloody essay on an art exhibition, which not only will no one read, but for which I won't even be rewarded a grade! And this was meant to be a day of relaxation for me!

I need a stiff drink. Now. Which I can't have, as I'm on another detox.

A Bit of Kulcha

2007-06-20T18:25:00.000+01:00

Today, I engaged in a cultural activity that did not involve my usual (academic, you understand) analysis of how the High Street has interpreted the latest catwalk fashions. I took myself off to the Tate Britain, to see the How We Are: Photographing Britain exhibition.

The exhibition itself was very patchy; some of it was very carelessly put together, parts of it bordered on social offensiveness (in terms both of what it omitted and what it chose to include out of political correctness), and some of it was outstandingly wonderful. My cultural outing was marred only by a sweaty man with terrible body odour and halitosis, who kept getting too close and breathing heavily on me, and having to be ushered outside for half an hour when the fire alarm went off. (I find fire alarms really bloody irritating. I always refuse to leave my desk at work during fire drills, and once, the office services manager had to forcibly remove me from the building, because I was trying to close a deal with a client who was about to go on his honeymoon and I thought the contract was more important than standing in the street, while self-important jobsworths paced up and down in fluorescent yellow waistcoats (in broad daylight!) barking orders. But anyway, I digress.)

I adore photography, which has rightfully earned respect as a form of art in itself, as well as serving as integral historical documentary and an important journalistic form. I did feel that the exhibition could have made more of this. Focusing chronologically from 1840 until the present day, I thought that the era divisions were a little random. The first part of the exhibition seemed to look more at early photographic technologies and themes, and it only became more socially, politically and culturally exploratory later on.

Its opening claims that “[t]he unique story of British photography exposes a strong social conscience, a love of the ordinary, an intense curiosity and the constant need to record” were overblown and over-generalised: doesn’t all photography necessarily do this?? I also found the idea that the photography represented “a constantly shifting notion of British identity” bordering on offensive. First of all, the only Britishness in the exhibition seemed to be Englishness(!) and secondly, I didn’t feel that the exhibition explored this theme enough. In many ways, much of the exhibition had been thrown together randomly.

In 2 of the sections, the explanatory blurb boasted of the proliferation of women photographers very early on, which was pointless and patronising. If they were trying to make a statement about how inclusive of minorities they are (after the “Britishness” gaffe), they failed miserably: to include a mere 3 photographs of the Suffragettes, one of the most politically and socially significant political movements in Britain (none of which included iconic images of women chaining themselves to railings!) in the 20th century, was an absolute travesty.

I have taken pages of notes, which are very boring to read, so here are a few of my thematic highlights (I am glossing over photographic postcards, and themes of gardening, cookery, the countryside and natural history, all of which I find crashingly boring):

1. Images of celebrities and royalty. I love portraits. One of my favourite spaces is the National Portrait Gallery, where I am known to indulge my obsession with Tudor history and can spend hours staring at portraits of King Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth I. I am fascinated by the 3-way interaction between the viewer, the artist and the subject, as well as the propaganda aspect and constant shift of religious values. Portraits in this exhibition included a collection of portraits of Queen Victoria, portraying her variously as wife, mother and monarch.

2. The portrayals of the “little people”, banding together to fight, in their own small ways, for social change. There was a great collection of photographs published in New Left Review from Humphrey Spender (1936), of the Jarrow Marchers, a group of 207 men, who marched to Parliament from North-East England to demonstrate against poverty and unemployment.

3. How photography, perhaps more than any other art, can simultaneously convey the dichotomous relationship between poverty and affluence and show war and glamour almost comfortably co-existing in one single still.

4. Playing around with different notions of nationhood. This was more implied than explicitly shown (but what would you expect from an exhibition of Britain that only looks at England?). I really enjoyed the snapshots of early-mid 1950s life in Bethnal Green (Nigel Henderson), of mid-late 1960s Notting Hill (Charlie Phillips) and Roger Mayne’s Southam Street collection (1957-ish), showing the shifting cultural diversity on Britain (specifically London!)’s streets.

5. Fashion and style! Yes, I have a particular interest in this, but actually, it reveals a lot about progressive culture, particularly post-WW2. I loved Norman Parkinson’s collection of beautifully dressed models, theatrically posing against a backdrop of the city (Fashion and the City – 2 of my greatest loves!) and Derek Ridger’s portrayal of the new wave of London clubbers, looking at Punks and New Romantics. (But where were Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm MacLaren in all of this??! – another weakness of the exhibition). There was also some work by Jason Evans; a shoot entitled “Strictly”, which appeared in i-D Magazine in 1991. Styled by Simon Foxton, it showcased a collection of macho streetwear, which was also very effeminate, and was modelled by black men, in an attempt to break stereotypes.

6. The political consciousness, anger and social rage of the 1970s (which I could happily and wistfully talk about for hours – oh what has happened to us?) There was also a shift in form and representation (which I won’t go into here), and a lot of the photography turned from documentary to satire, where “Britishness” was cariacatured. I found the most powerful and moving images in the little detail (and this I particularly enjoyed because of my strong interest in other people):

· Nancy Hellebrand’s images of random Londoners in their (mostly squalid) homes (ps, the “Britishness” was very London-centric);

· Chris Killip’s portrayal of the effects of economic decline on the people of North-East England

· Homer Sykes had produced some excellent images which played around with themes of representation; his images included accidental participants and spectators to the central image – brilliant

· Martin Parr’s colourful satire on the attitudes and aspirations of the English middle classes – I loved the self-awareness and problematising of the fact that he had benefited from the very political order he opposed (don’t we all struggle with that but do nothing about it?)

7. Significant social changes and Thatcher-hating in the 1980s

· A couple of excellent Anna Fox images were used, looking at office workers around 1987. Apart from the ghastly hairstyles, fashions and brick-sized mobile phones, one image showed the reception area of one office with a picture of Maggie hanging on the wall behind them. It was creepily Stalinesque, and also kind of reminded me of the excessive Sadaam imagery in Iraq. Also, another image of yuppies stuffing themselves with rich, fatty food

· Aspirational “Britain” – in this case Romford, Essex, around the time of the “Right to Buy” council-owned homes policy

· Greenham Common…

8. The final part of the exhibition, focusing on the 1990s until the present day (when, interestingly, the commercial aspect of photography as a genre has largely given way to the acceptance of photography as a valid and respected art form – again, sloppily compiled – included some powerful images:

· Chris Harrison’s postmodern images of WW1 memorials in contemporary surroundings, eg outside a large Tesco store. Yes, it’s vulgar, but it’s also modern, and represents change, movement, modernity, the cycle of life, the future, rebuilding, a shared history and future, etc, as well as being representative of (at least) London architecture

· Penny Klepuszewska’s “Living Arrangements”. God, I found this so moving. 4 images, showing simple, everyday objects belonging to elderly people, against a dark background, eg one of those old-fashioned handbags old women always carry, or an old-fashioned radio or a blanket. Intended to address loneliness and bereavement in old age, it also reminded me of those heart-breaking Holocaust images of piles of people’s abandoned and very personal possessions, like shoes or glasses, or carefully labelled suitcases.

· Albrecht Tuebke’s collection of images of random citizens of London. Not images of stereotypes or people who blend into the background, but some of the more eccentrically dressed and interesting-looking people one finds in London (usually harassing you on the Underground).

Finally (if anyone can still be bothered to read on), the Tate Britain invites members of the public to contribute their own images to the exhibition (how fabulously postmodern, darling!), under the theme of portraiture, landscape, still life or documentary.

I am going to think about what image I could contribute…

I'm Getting a Grip...

2007-06-18T20:24:00.000+01:00

Overheard: a conversation between a man and woman (friends or siblings, I decided), while sitting outside Fresh and Wild in Camden this weekend, enjoying the fleeting sunshine. The woman has been moaning at some length about her boyfriend’s inability to commit.

Man: Well, I think that the majority of people in relationships just… kind of… drift. They don’t want to think about where it’s going; they just want to live in the moment, because it’s easier to carry on without engaging in scary questions about the future:

Woman, clearly still harbouring utopian fantasies about living happily ever after with her boyfriend, mumbles something in protest.

Man: I think that the population is divided 70-30. There are those 30% of people who know what they want, and are absolutely sure that they want to be with their partners for life [PS, I interject here, to add that my friend I thinks it’s more like 5%. Personally, I think it would be a miracle if that figure was even 1%.] The other 70% simply don’t know what they want and are just in the relationship because carrying on is easier than questioning it and opting out.

Woman looks like she is about to faint. Ever the cynic, I suppress a smug smile as I carry on eating my sunflower seeds, and squint at them behind my oversized sunglasses.

Woman: But you’re in a serious, committed relationship. You’re in the 30% surely…

Man: I change my mind all the time. I can be in the car and I’ll turn one corner and think “yes, I definitely want to marry her and have children with her”, and then I’ll turn another corner and think “no, it’ll never last”. But it’s too much headf*ck to think about it too deeply, so I just carry on in the relationship, not sure where it’s going or whether I actually want to be with her.

________________________________________________

And you know what, Girls? I don’t find this jaded or depressing. I think this is normal. People don’t know what they want, and that’s fine. We all have issues, and a bit of headf*ck and confusion is fine by me. One certainly doesn’t reach one’s 30s without having “issues” (just ask my analyst, hahaha). I don’t believe the perfect person or the perfect relationship exists, but I believe that occasionally, someone a bit special may come along, for whom – for some inexplicable reason - you’re willing to suspend your cynicism and commitmentphobia and make a go of it. I’m not prepared to do it for just anyone (hence removing myself from the dating website and the dating scene in general), but I know when someone special has walked into my life. And until (or, indeed, if ever) he decides to get a grip, I am going to invest in the people who may be exasperated by me sometimes, but who love and adore me unequivocally and are prepared to invest in me: my Girls!

Let's Pretend

2007-06-18T16:08:00.000+01:00

I keep on changing my mind about older man. This weekend was a pretty full-on older man experience, beginning at five on Friday when we met in the pub. We spent all of Saturday together, and it was really quite pleasant. He wasn't too annoying, and even if I did have to pay for lunch because once again he is skint, he bought a Rioja on the way home, and we sat around, listened to my new Charlotte Gainsbourg CD, played Scrabble, and watched Eric Rohmer movies. A perfectly pleasant way to spend a Saturday evening, and I fell into a state of sleepy relaxtion and felt quite content. I had definitely melted by the time I made us a quiche and allowed myself to have the "what would we name our babies?" conversation (they are keeping my surname, unless they are boys. With boys, I really don't care at all). Basically, I was playacting "being in a relationship" and at certain moments, it suits me - and is nothing really to do with the person who is on the receiving end of my playacting. It is more like I'm still at playgroup and doing let's pretend, with a little boy who is suitable simply because he is there outside my Wendy house (without the sexual dynamics at that age, obviously!) On Sunday, however, I woke up and my mind had shifted. I rushed out for an early brunch with the girls, before meeting older man at three to be picked up by his brother-in-law and go to his sister's house for Sunday tea. I met his Mum, his sister, his brother-in-law, his cousin, his niece (16) and his nephews (7 and 5). It was fine, unremarkable even: I chatted to his Mum about bowls, his sister about Australia (she lived in Sydney), his niece about GCSE coursework and his nephew (who was deadly cute, and asked me straight out if I was going to marry older man, much to our general amusement) about Dr. Who and birthday presents. On the way home, older man lent over to me and said "You should be proud of yourself. You can mix with an ordinary working class Belfast family". What did he think I was going to do?! Anyway, for all that they may be 'working class' in origin, I would question that assessment now - a nice house with a big garden, three kids, two cars... there is a certain 'upward mobility' perhaps? His sister dropped older man and I at Stranmillis roundabout, so I suggested a quick pint at Cutters before home. As I walked along, Bristol J called me to say she had split up from her boyfriend. I handed over my purse to older man, told him to get us a couple of pints, and plonked myself down on a bench in the pub garden to carry on talking to J. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up, and there, smiling at me, was Saab man. "Don't let me interrupt, but come over for a chat when you're done, " he smiled.
Older man came back out with two pints. I was still on the phone. "Let me talk to her" he said. "I can give her the benefit of male wisdom." "No, "said J on the other end of the phone. Although he was trying to be nice, the arrogance behind this statement got to me. He has met J once, and she found him peculiar (he talked to her non stop about William Golding novels). Why on earth would she rather talk to him than me, her friend that she has rung up??? He then nagged me to let members of the girls become his friends on facebook! Why does he need to infiltrate my life in this way which is quite frankly creepy? After I hung up, he pulled a face. "You've not got any money in your wallet, and you said you did." I was puzzled. "I have some cash." I opened my purse, and there gleeming away were six pound coins. "Oh" he said, "I thought you had a note. I thought we (!!!!!) had more cash than this. It really is just a pint then. Oh, and can you pay me back for the one I just bought you?" Saab man caught my eye again, and I excused myself and went over to chat to him. I felt my spirits lift as he introduced me to his friends as "the girl I met on the plane" and they all smiled knowingly. The girls he was with looked pretty and trendy and slim, but I didn't feel too intimidated. "Let me buy you a drink," said Saab man, "to make up for being such a lazy eejit and not getting in touch." We chatted some more, until Saab man pointed out that older man was waving at me, and I made my excuses. Through the evening, older man kept on hugging me and kissing me. He began to get soppy and needy. "But I'm a good nice person. I will protect you. Nothing bad will happen to you while you are with me." I was upset I hadn't been invited to a party where some of my friends were, and he kept on saying "but I'm your friend, I love you, I'm a good person, my judgement is more important." I couldn't help comparing Saab man, sat at a bench a few feet away, twinkle in his eye, chatting away, waving at me occasionally, with older man, who while he was saying sweet things, was quite frankly beginning to bore me. I'm sure if the right person was saying these things it would be adorable, but it began now to get faintly irritating. We went home. The dirty dishes from the quiche were still in the sink. As I cooked it, older man had promised to wash up. "I'll do it tomorrow," he said. "When tomorrow" I thought. I filled the sink with hot water and began to wash up, and he sat eating a bowl of cereal and reading. I thought of my friends at the cool party to which I hadn't been invited. I thought of Saab man sitting in the pub garden with his mates. And I knew in my heart of hearts that I would rather be with any of them than there in my flat. I didn't want to play Let's Pretend anymore. I know I must seem fickle and changeable to older man, but it is just that at times, it's my favourite game to play - it makes me feel content and secure. And then other times, I just want to tear down the Wendy house out of sheer bloody boredom, and get outside.

Spotted!

2007-06-14T20:24:00.000+01:00

Best one yet! Noel Gallagher and Sara MacDonald, on the corner of Wigmore Street and Welbeck Street, Central London, crossing the road.

6 Years On

2007-06-13T08:15:00.000+01:00

On this day, at this time, 6 years ago, I was driving through Hampstead. To the outside world, it was an unexceptional day; a slightly cloudy June morning, the air still damp from the morning dew. Local residents were beginning to stir, and women gathered at the foot of their front gardens still in their night attire, collecting the mail and stopping to gossip.

The few cars travelling northbound on the A41 at this hour moved as steadily as the heartbeat of my father, lying in a hospital bed in a high dependency unit down the road. As the morning progressed, the traffic would slow, and so would his heart. But while the traffic on the A41 would keep flowing, my father’s organ function would never resume. By the end of that day, the residents of Hampstead would have returned home from work, the sun would set on another day in June 2001, and my father would be dead, his lifeless body still warm, as it lay several metres below the ground in rural Hertfordshire.

Losing a parent – and I believe this to transcend any age and stage of life – is literally unrooting. The pain of loss is so tangible that it manifests itself in physical pain. I felt as though someone had reached into my body and ripped out my heart. But there is also an unknown security to many people with 2 parents in the grounding offered by being someone’s child. It places you within a context; the structure nurtures and protects you, and you understand yourself as the product of particular ancestries. Losing that, or part of that, literally threw me.

I learned, in the days and weeks following his passing, about my father as a person. I watched his parents, wife and other daughters mourning him; observed the loss felt by his close circle of friends; listened to the anecdotes of business partners, old acquaintances and childhood friends. This, while comforting, was at the same time a very alienating experience: the man who had taught me to swim, ride a bike, read before I had even started school, (pushy Jewish parents!), who taught me how to change a tyre on a car, who spent hours explaining to me the structures of European politics, was not just my father: he was an independent person, known to many people in lots of different ways. Again, this was quite disconcerting; I didn’t know what – or who - I was mourning.

With hindsight now, I recognise that my behaviour and life in the last 6 years has been part of an attempt to build a structure and foundation for myself that was knocked down when I lost one parent (and the relationship with the other naturally shifted as a result). I threw myself into my career and my further studies with vigour, drive and determination, I changed my lifestyle and diet, became an exercise enthusiast, ran 3 marathons and took up kickboxing and weight training, and lost nearly half my body weight. I set myself harder and more demanding goals than my father ever would have required of me.

In the process, I have become incredibly strong. With no one to rebel against, I have instead adopted a conciliatory attitude towards my dad. In a strange way, our relationship has continued and matured beyond his death. In his absence as a sounding board and someone to argue politics with, I have had to learn how to form an intelligent opinion by myself (still working on it!), and become more confident in delivering an argument. And somehow, I have taken on many of his characteristics. A growing cynic, I hold no spiritual beliefs about my dad looking down on me, but I do feel that I carry him inside me, and this continues to form the person I mature into.

I still feel that a part of me is missing, but in its place, a new part has grown. This morning, as the traffic moves steadily through the streets of London, just as it did on that morning 6 years ago, the cycle of life continues.

Let’s make the most of it.

Blind Light

2007-06-10T21:36:00.000+01:00

So I managed to squeeze in a couple of days in London in between all my marking, and had the opportunity to spend a sunny Friday afternoon at the Southbank. I went to see the Antony Gormley exhibition at the Hayward, and it was absolutely fascinating, to the point where his work pushes one to reconceptualising the relationships between space, place and the body. I will pick out two key installations that I loved

1) Event Horizon: this is a project which sees life-size figures - casts of the artist's body- placed on rooftops and streets around the Hayward. All the figures face towards the gallery's main outdoor, roof-top sculpture terraces. A whole series of paradoxes and oppositions thus occurs. The streets and the roofs surrounding the gallery become the site of the work, but the place for viewing it (the gallery) has been emptied of content. Therefore, in order to see the sculpture, we also interact with the city scape itself, which becomes part of the sculpture. As the eye seeks out a far off figure on a roof top a mile away, so it also takes in the scope of different shapes - the soft curve of the London eye, the blocks of the Shell building, the triangles of the Hayward roof. The built city turns into sinuous sculpture, a play of shapes. Or the sculpture becomes architectural, part of the city, fixed into its buildings. Furthermore, people on the viewing galleries looking at the sculptures point to horizon, huddle in groups, forming the shapes of classical sculptures themsleves as they hunt for sculptures elsewhere. So the people on the sculpture terraces themselves become sculptures, part of a living, flexible sculpture. Our bodies are like the casts of Gormley's figures, husks that contain us, but are not us.

2) Blind Light: Blind Light also offers this kind of paradoxical play between the act of looking at art, and the act of being part of a work of art. From the outside, you can observe people vanish as they enter a brightly-lit, cloud filled box. Inside, the visibility is extremely limited (less than two foot) and in the middle of a gallery, you feel yourself lost on top of a mountain, unable to see anything (but your hands, following the wall to guide you round, can be seen by people on the outside). People giggle, loom out of the mist. Sound carries. It is spooky, disorienting, and there in the middle of the city, you feel the strangeness of other places.

This is a wonderful exhibition. It makes you think hard about what it means to look at Art; what it means to live in a city; what the difference is between sculpture and architecture; what the difference is between inside and outside. Where does the body stop and the world begin? As I walked back across the river, feeling the delightful warmth of the day on my back, I felt a contentment spreading through me, as I experienced the city itself as a work of art, a kaleidoscope of ever changing colours and shapes. It made me think that one of the functions of art is one that asks us to relook again at our surroundings, that suggests something new about our most basic experiences, and that reminds us of our common humanity. Go and see this exhibition!!

Celeb Sighting Alert

2007-06-10T14:27:00.000+01:00

This morning, sitting NEXT TO ME in Cafe Nero in Hampstead...

George Michael

And I have been given free £100 tickets to see him in concert tonight.

Lalalalala

A Candle for Daddy

2007-06-07T20:36:00.000+01:00

Flame

There is a flame
Inside my heart
It burns
It rages
It flickers
It lights my being
I carry it
always

It enlarges my heart
It melts my heart
It bleeds my heart
Powerful,
It rips out my heart
It severs the bond between sisters
It will not go away
Will not be extinguished

At the end of the battle,
The fight to exterminate me,
It burns still,
The miracle flame

Symbol of
Survival
Of hope
Of luck
Of love
Of memory
Of destiny

The inferno

I am burning alive
I am a human fireball
Writhing in agony
And then it softens
As a scented candle
But it is there, always
Constant as a Sabbath candle

It transcends
My history
My future
Our shared pasts
Simultaneous, universal time

It grows
It shrinks
I feel the cold
But my fire still burns
Angry and threatening
Familiar and comforting

I light a candle
The match is forgotten
But the flame still burns
I carry it
It possesses me
We carry each other

I light a candle

Daddy

D, 22 Sivan, 5767

Being Older

2007-06-02T03:40:00.000+01:00

Found this poem today. Says it all really. By one of my favourite poets, Roger McGough.

Scintillate

I have outlived
my youthfulness
so a quiet life for me

where once
I used to
scintillate

now I sin
till ten
past three.

Spotted! - and Beauty Tip

2007-06-01T19:16:00.000+01:00

Such is the depth of my recent activity that I have these 2 items to report:

Spotted at Gilgamesh (again) last night: a thin-looking and very black-haired David Gest, dining with - opinion is divided here, due to alcohol-induced blurred vision and general darkness inside Gilgamesh - a woman who we think may have been Glenn Close, an actor whose name I can't remember and a beefy bodyguard type person.

Beauty tip (this is incredible): If you want to tie your hair up (eg at gym or to sleep), but don't want to end up with an unsightly dent in your hair, use a (clean; unworn!) pair of lacy French knickers! It's amazing. Everyone will think it's a scrunchie. And it bouffs up your hair as well, leaving you looking uber-glam and dent-free!

Sleeping Beauty

2007-05-28T00:39:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time, a little girl was born to two loving parents. They had a nice little home in a little cul-de-sac in the middle of the country, and the little girl played with other children who lived in the cul-de-sac, and rode her bike, and walked to school through wind, and rain, and sunshine. She had lots of dolls to play with, and she called her favourite doll Rosy Primrose. She had lots of books to read, and her Mummy wrote her stories to read when she came home from school. This little girl loved lying in bed, and complained when her Mummy woke her up to go to playgroup, so everybody called her Sleeping Beauty.
One day, her Mummy had another little girl. This little girl was very adored by everybody, and because a middle child had died, she seemed even extra special. Then, their Daddy got a new job, and the little family moved from the cul-de-sac to a big white house by the sea. Sleeping Beauty grew up in the big white house. She read her books, and played with her sister, and went to school. Sleeping Beauty didn't like school very much, but then as she got older, she discovered that she enjoyed some of the subjects, and really liked studying History and languages. Everyday was like being nested in a big duvet, and Sleeping Beauty was asleep even when she was awake. She enjoyed being in a safe home, and even if she was asleep, it was comforting, and everyday she felt cherished. Sleeping Beauty didn't want to leave the big white house by the sea, but her Mummy told her she had to go out and see the world, because she would rot if she stayed asleep in the idyllic place by the sea. Sleeping Beauty cried at the thought of leaving, and felt scared by the thought of big cities, and unknown places. But her Mummy told her she would be ok, she had to awake from the dream one day, so she left.
Sleeping Beauty blossomed away from the big white house. She studied hard, and went to parties, and met princes. Many princes tried to kiss her, and she let some of them. Sleeping Beauty didn't need a prince to wake her up though; she travelled afar, and lived in exciting new places, and discovered that cities weren't scary, but were full of life, and culture. She felt wide wide awake, aroused from the pleasant slumbers of her childhood. Life seemed sparkling and vibrant, and Sleeping Beauty enjoyed seeing new places, kissing new princes, and meeting wonderful new friends, who were all wide awake too.
Now, Sleeping Beauty doesn't know what to do. Sometimes, she thinks that carrying on being wide awake is the best thing. It's so much fun, and there is so much still to discover. But it's tiring, and sometimes her eyes are sore, and her head aches. All around her, her other friends are gently beginning to snore, and sometimes she even goes and helps them pick an extra silken pillow, or celebrates while they wrap themselves in a golden blanket. Friends ask her which bed she thinks is most comfortable, and sometimes her friends pick what seems to Sleeping Beauty a bed of nails, but Sleeping Beauty understands it is still a bed, and sometimes you just feel the desperate need to lie down.
Sleeping Beauty wants so much to stay awake, so she won't miss a thing. But she is worried about who will keep her company when all her friends are asleep? So far, only unsatisfactory beds have been offered to her. But, alone, awake, staring at the small dark hours where sleep just won't come, Sleeping Beauty allows herself to fantasise about feather beds, and goose down pillows, and sleeping in a big white house by the sea...

A Message from the Universe

2007-05-23T16:06:00.000+01:00

I am back in Belfast after a long weekend in London, indulging in the following: attending a hen night; putting the world to rights (and watching an obscure German film) with my friend Marty; catching up with the girls (of which more anon). I flew back from Stansted on Tuesday afternoon. The queue in check-in was atrociously long, and the queue through to the x-ray machines nearly as bad. When I finally made it through, I had merely five minutes to smoke a cig and buy a nice bag at ted baker before hurrying to my gate. When I arrived, stressed and exhausted at my gate, I saw that a chair was free, but covered in coats, bags etc. I asked the young boy sat next to this free chair if he could move his stuff, and he obliged. "Blimy," I said to him, "wasn't that an atrocious wait?" This boy then explained that as he had been out clubbing at G.A.Y. the night before, and had drunk "at least seven" cocktails, before being seduced by the (gasp! black!) night porter at his hotel - the first time he'd had a black man, and, he confided, he'd loved it - something about London "makes you feel dirty" he announced - he'd missed his earlier flight and had been hanging round the airport for hours. Basically, he was a cute, funny, ginger haired gay boy, and we enjoyed camply imitating the air stewards while waiting to board the plane, and making stupid jokes about how high and fast Sleazyjet might take us. When we finally boarded cute ginger gay boy grabbed my hand and asked if I'd sit next to him, as he was scared of flying, and I was "a lovely person who he'd eat up if he wasn't gay" (in fact, I would eat him up, but that's immaterial). I thought of my book in my bag that I was dying to read. I thought of the fact that on flights my ears block and I can never hear anything anyway. And then I thought oh sod it, and plonked myself next to him. He began to excitedly look through the in-flight magazine asking me what perfume I wore.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. A tall, dark-haired man asked me if I minded if he sat next to me. He sprawled his madly long legs over the chair, and sat reading his Times. We did up our seatbelts, and cute ginger gay boy asked me if I'd ever taken Valium - he said I seemed like the type!!! c.g. gay boy lent over me to chat to tall man. "Sorry we're giggling," he said, "I'm a little nervous. " Tall man looked up from his Times. "Not at all, not at all." Then he turned to me, and asked why I was visiting Belfast. I told him he should be broad minded enough to not be fooled by the accent, and that actually I lived in Belfast. "Really?" he smiled. We began to chat about where we like to go out in Belfast, my job, his job, London and how ineffably cool it is, and then the drinks trolley came out. Tall man nudged me - "Let me buy you a drink". As I sipped my gin and tonic, cute ginger gay boy nudged my other elbow. "You're good," he said, awe struck. "You're getting a new boyfriend, aren't you?" "What's that?" asked tall man. "Are you going to marry her?" asked cute ginger gay boy. "Oh yes" said tall man, "and we'll invite Stelios to the ceremony". I said that I thought if you got married after meeting on an Easyjet flight, you should be entitled to free flights with speedy boarding for life. "So, F", said tall man, "do you drive?" "No", I admitted. "Oh, let me give you a lift back from the airport then, it's no hassle."
We carried on chatting/flirting.
Once we disembark off the plane, and are stood waiting for our bags, I appraise tall man. V V tall, about 6ft 4. Cute dark hair and dark eyes. Young (in fact, exactly one month younger than me, I found out). Good accent - Belfast, but softened by a few years in Dublin. Slim. Great jeans. (He does all his clothes shopping at Selfridges in London).

We made our way to the long stay car park. Then he showed me his car. I was expecting a Renault Clio, or a Ford Focus. No, it was a massive fuck off Saab with cream leather seats, and a woman who told you off if you weren't wearing your seatbelt. Tall man (maybe massive Saab man now?) carried on chatting away, and we got into a good conversation about Tony Blair, and whether or not he is sincere, or just a bloody good actor. Maybe it was the gin and tonic, or the cream leather, but I was getting good vibes -the best I've had in ages.

As we turned onto Stranmillis Embankment, tall man said, "So, F, you have to give me your number so we can meet up. I've got a bunch of great mates I'd like you to meet." "Sure," I said. He drew up outside my house. "So, what's your number then?" he asked. I gave him my number. "What's your surname?" he asked. "Really, do you have to know?"I said. "It's really strange and embarrassing." I told him, and he laughed. "And no, I don't know what it means, or where it comes from," I added. "Well, I'm not going to forget you now," he laughed. "I'm out on Saturday for my birthday," I said, "give me a buzz then, and we'll see if we can all meet up." He rang my phone, so I had his number. I got out of the car, thanked him for the lift, and shook his hand. He drove off, bipping his horn as he left.

Oh God. Does he like me? What about the mates thing? Is it a mere friendly thing, or is it more???

Anyway, whatever, the universe has sent me a message. I'm not that interested in older man, and more is out there, waiting on Easyjet flights. Thank God for the low cost flight revolution.

Little Red Riding Hood

2007-05-22T22:43:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Little Red Riding Hood. Little Red Riding Hood was a happy, playful little girl, who had many friends and a mummy and daddy, and she lived in a pretty house with a nice garden.

One day, Little Red Riding Hood decided she wanted an adventure. She decided to go in search of the rainbow, so that she could climb up it and reach the sky and touch the stars. She left her mummy and her daddy and her house and her garden, and she went off in search of the rainbow. She visited lots of different places and saw lots of different things and met lots of different people along the way. All the while, she could see the rainbow in the distance, but every time it looked as though she was getting close to it, she would turn a corner, and the rainbow would be far away in the distance. But Little Red Riding Hood was determined to find the rainbow and climb it and reach the stars, so she vowed to carry on and do whatever it took to get there.

But Little Red Riding Hood’s legs were not as strong as she had thought, and after years of walking, her joints were sore and her legs were bruised, and sometimes her ankle was sprained. However, Little Red Riding Hood had some lovely, supportive friends, and if she had difficulty walking, there was always Snow White to carry her, Cinderella to drive her, or Sleeping Beauty to drive her a little further along her journey in search of the rainbow.

Now, some of these friends were not real, but were a figment of her imagination. Tinkerbell was one of these imaginary friends. Whenever Little Red Riding Hood was too tired to carry on walking, she would cry “Tinkerbell! Tinkerbell!”, and Tinkerbell would magically appear and speak kind words of encouragement, and remind Little Red Riding Hood of how wonderful it would be when she finally reached the rainbow and climbed it and touched the stars. Little Red Riding Hood did not know that Tinkerbell was only a figment of her imagination, but it did not matter, because Tinkerbell urged her to continue on her quest, and without this, Little Red Riding Hood might have given up. Little Red Riding Hood loved Tinkerbell, who was her fairy godmother, and she was very grateful to her.

So, with the support and encouragement of her friends, Little Red Riding Hood carried on with her adventure. She had been on her journey for so many years that she did not remember why she had originally wanted to touch the stars. But the lovely house with the garden in which she had spent her childhood was very far away, and may not have even still been there, and Little Red Riding Hood’s mummy and daddy were not there any more, so she carried on looking for the rainbow.

After many years, the strain on Little Red Riding Hood’s legs became too much, and one day, while walking in a wood, her legs buckled beneath her, and she fell into a ditch. Years of walking and walking had depleted her strength, and try as she might, she could not lift herself out of the ditch. It was muddy and slippery, and each time it looked as though she was about to climb out of the ditch, she would slip and fall again. It was growing darker and darker, and starting to rain. There were some wolves in the wood, and they growled at her, menacingly. Little Red Riding Hood was a little scared, but she thought of the rainbow and the stars, and knew that soon, she would manage to climb out of the ditch and find the rainbow, before it became dark and the wolves started to eat her.

But Little Red Riding Hood could not climb out of the ditch. And Snow White, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty wanted to help, but they were busy on their own adventures, and could not reach the ditch before darkness fell, to save Little Red Riding Hood from the wolves. Little Red Riding Hood did not know what to do. Then she remembered Tinkerbell, who was not often around, but who would always come when she called her. She cried: “Tinkerbell! Tinkerbell!” But Tinkerbell did not come. So she tried again: “Tinkerbell! Tinkerbell!” But there was no sign of Tinkerbell. Tinkerbell, her imaginary friend, had moved to an Never-Never Land, an imaginary place that does not exist on earth, where the grass is very green and the sea is very blue and the sun always shines, and there are no muddy ditches or rain, and the people live in houses made of glass, and everyone is happy all the time and has strong legs that will carry them to the rainbow in the sky.

Tinkerbell was very happy in Never-Never land, and did not remember Little Red Riding Hood, although she did not mean to abandon her role as fairy godmother. She thought that Little Red Riding Hood had strong legs and was so determined to reach the rainbow and climb it and touch the stars that she would succeed on her own. In the fantasy world she occupied, there were no such thing as rain or muddy ditches, so she never imagined that Little Red Riding Hood would be prevented from continuing her journey. Instead, Tinkerbell thought it would be fun to throw stones at Little Red Riding Hood in the ditch, all the way from her home in Never-Never Land, not realising that the stones would hurt Little Red Riding Hood.

But even in the fantasy world, the bubble can sometimes burst. On the very day that Little Red Riding Hood discovered that she had very strong arms, and she could lift herself out of the ditch using her arms instead of her legs, it suddenly started to rain in Never-Never Land. It rained and it rained and it rained, and no one could stop it. In fact, there was no one left to stop the rain, because no one lived in Never-Never Land, except for Tinkerbell. It rained so much that the sky opened and stones fell from the heavens. They landed heavily on Tinkerbell’s house that was made of glass, and all the windows, doors, walls and roof smashed. Tinkerbell did not have a house any more, and the grass was not green any more; it was muddy from the rain. The sky was grey instead of blue, and the sun did not shine any more. Tinkerbell was on her own in a ditch, but there was no one to save her, and she did not have strong legs or arms to help herself out of the ditch, as she had always used her wings. Now, her wings had disintegrated in the rain.

Little Red Riding Hood emerged from the ditch, dirty, muddy, bruised and injured by the wolves in the wood. She did not know if she still wanted to find the rainbow and climb it and touch the stars. She did not know if she would ever find her mummy and her daddy and her pretty house with the nice garden. But she had discovered that she had strong arms and real friends in different places, such as Snow White, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, who, even if they could not lift her out of the ditch, would think of her if they could and that would help to make her stronger. Little Red Riding Hood could survive anything.

And as for Tinkerbell? Well, as they say: people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

On Scumbags and Being the Other Woman

2007-05-20T15:08:00.000+01:00

Am resurfacing now, recovering from last night’s party chez my friend J in Kensington. One of those really fun, debauched evenings, involving record amounts of champagne and 5am collapse.

J recently split with P, the love of her life, for various soul-searching, heart-rendering reasons (which I hope can be rectified). They are still the best of friends, and still live together, although in separate bedrooms, and with another 2 flatmates.

I really like P. He has always treated J well, and makes her happy. He is highly intelligent, and one of the very few people who understands the confusing internal struggles I grapple with on being a corporate sell-out who does not want to give up her career. He has integrity, is not motivated by money and, on a salary in excess of what I have earned in the last 3 years, refuses to buy a property, as he does “not believe in it”. I am very endeared by this.

However, last night, P made a pass at me. Obviously, I can’t go there; it would be unsisterly towards J, and just wrong. It’s not as though by turning him down I feel as though I’m missing out on the love of my life (in which case, I would have to discuss it with J before acting on it anyway). But: WHY – out of ALL the men who EVER show an interest in me, am I ALWAYS the other woman?

I’m not talking about the random chancers who don’t know me, such as the bloke who lives next to my local tube station who keeps running out to give me his number (again) every time I pass, or one of the guys at the gym, or men who try to pick me up in bars or even local cafes. I am referring to men who already know me in some capacity, which whom I could conceivably share a functional relationship. They never want ME. They are always off-limits in some way, and at most want me as their bit on the side.

What happened last night was typical of the situations I keep finding myself in with men who are off-limits, or who are with someone else but still think they can try their luck with me. It started off with a meaningful conversation about careers and identity crises, progressing to flirtatious groping (slapping my arse, grabbing my waist, trying to drunkenly cuddle me, etc), and then, when we found ourselves alone in a room for a few minutes:

P (stroking my thigh): Sweetie, you have lost SO much weight… you look fantastic

Me (starting to feel slightly uncomfortable; believe it or not, I find it hard to tell when someone I respect is attracted to me, and I have an even harder time believing that anyone finds me attractive!): Erm, thanks…

P: I like your shoes… your feet are tiny… like the rest of you… just don’t get too skinny; Jewish girls are meant to be voluptuous! So… are you seeing anyone?

Me (alarm bells beginning to ring, but too drunk to move, and physically incapacitated by wooden wedge platforms): Oh no, busy with job-hunting and studying at the moment, and I’m not really in the right place for dating. I’ve had some bad dating experiences in the last few months, and my heart is still feeling a little bruised from the last guy I met

P: Why, what was the problem?

Me: Just someone I have seriously fallen for, but he is already in a relationship, and clearly not interested

P: The guy’s an idiot! You’re beautiful, intelligent (etc etc). He’s a fool to pass up on such a great opportunity. He should want you enough to fight for you

Me (feeling desperately sad, as in total agreement): hmmm… ok, let’s go and find J

P (ignoring my attempt to stumble to my feet, and instead trying to plump up the cushions around me): So, is it important to you to meet a Jewish guy?

And thus ensued a whole conversation about what I am looking for (theoretically, of course, as I have just sworn off dating for the moment), and why he is off limits, before I finally managed to rise to my feet and went off in search of more champagne and dancing. He did drop a few more lines on me throughout the evening (eg when he caught me inspecting myself in the mirror: “admiring yourself? There’s a lot to admire!”) and when I passed out for a few minutes around 4.30am, I awoke to find him trying to kiss me. Look: he is still essentially a decent guy – most of these men are – and at least he had the grace to look sheepish and embarrassed and not meet my eye when he, J and I went out for coffee this afternoon when we awoke. But somehow, I always manage to tap into the bad side of men; the side that is not content; the side that is confused, that does not know what he is looking for, the side that wants to switch off from reality and have no-strings-attached, commitment-free sex. And this is ALL they want from me.

And that’s ok… sometimes. But not when he has a history with one of my girlfriends, or when he is still in a relationship. And certainly not when I really really really like the guy.

WHY - when I am so good at forming relationships in general – does no amazing man want to have an actual functional relationship with me? Why do I seem to bring out the worst side of all remotely decent men? Why do I always end up doing all the chasing, and why does no man think I am worth fighting for? City Boy thinks I intimidate men because I am direct, confident and independent. Well yes, but at the same time, I am just as insecure, confused and messed up as the next person.

And I have learned 2 things:

When it comes to men, I don’t want what I can’t have. I know what (who!) I want, and if I can’t have him, I’m not going to push it, but I’m not going to settle for second best either
I am definitely getting to old to party like this any more…

Raping Ourselves

2007-05-17T21:55:00.000+01:00

I am incensed and outraged to read a report in tonight’s news about this case, currently being heard at Inner London Crown Court. It involves 2 teenage girls, alleged to have been gang-raped in a park by 3 13-year-old boys. The – female – lawyer acting for one of the defendants has apparently suggested that one of the girls not only consented to the attack, but, being overweight, would have been “glad of the attention” (I am paraphrasing from the article).

This claim is a travesty, and makes me LIVID. First of all, there is a fundamental distinction between sex and rape. The latter is NOT sex, it is violence. I shan’t elaborate further on this point, which has been debated extensively elsewhere. What I would like to pick up on is the idea that – being overweight – the girl was necessarily unattractive, insecure, deprived of sexual attention and therefore hungry for any kind of “affection”, even a violent rape (oh how can anyone equate rape with affection??).

I speak as a woman, a feminist, a sexual being and a former fat person. I have known what it is like to be a UK Size 20 and an American Size 0. The suggestion that an overweight woman is obviously unattractive and insecure is outrageous. Yes, I have chosen to transform myself into a UK Size 6, for many reasons, all of which are personal to me. I am a driven person who thrives on challenge and pushes herself to her limits. I like wearing hotpants, bikinis and skinny jeans. I am competitive and like being thinner than other women. I am a shameless fashion victim, and if Size 0 is in, well then that’s what I want to look like. But you know what? I loved and hated my body when I was fat, and I love and hate my body now, too. When I weighed 12 stone (the apparent weight of the victim at the time of the attack), I honestly felt sexy. I had cleavage and curves and lovers who loved my body.

Yes, if I am honest, there were definitely many, many occasions when I had ill-judged liaisons with men because I felt fat and ugly and flattered by any sexual attention. But this had as much to do with being young, awkward, having attended a single-sex school, and being sexually immature. A woman’s body image does not necessarily result from her actual body size or shape; it is a complex issue relating to many facets of her self. Even now, aged 30 and half the size I have been for most of my life, I have to closely question my attraction to any new man I meet; inside, I am still a fat person who is flattered by male attention. But make no mistake: there is consensual sex and then there is rape. To suggest that a woman who feels unattractive (if this was even the case) would actively court such a sick, violent violation of her body is really quite disgusting. I feel shocked and sad that such an assertion should be made by a female barrister. It is untrue, unsisterly, and seriously misguided.

On Girls Who Have Had Their Hearts Trampled On a Few Times Recently...

2007-05-16T17:04:00.000+01:00

(ie Self!)

Omigod, I think I'm in danger of turning into a Saysbian.

New Vocabulary

2007-05-16T13:43:00.000+01:00

Such is the rapid pace of change in contemporary society, that new words are constantly being invented to reflect changing social mores. Here are three that have been used, in context, by myself this week alone.

Smirting - this activity has not started in England yet. It began two weeks ago in N.I. and has been happening in the Republic for the last two years. Smirting is what happens when you go outside of the pub/ club/ restaurant for a smoke, as you are no longer allowed to smoke inside, and strike up a flirtatious conversation with a fellow ostracised smoker. E.g. "Where did you meet him?" "Oh, we were smirting outside Radio K on Saturday night."

Lunner - the lazy person's equivalent of brunch. Meeting, hungover, for a very late lunch with your female friends, so late in fact that it segways into dinner, especially when you decide to get that extra round of cocktails in. E.g. "We were out until 7 in the morning, so we decided to meet for lunner".

Saysbian - a straight girl who has had her heart broken by a man, and therefore claims to be a lesbian. She isn't gay, but oh God she wishes she was. E.g. "I really liked her and we had a snog but then it turned out she was only a saysbian".

On a More Positive Note...

2007-05-16T13:33:00.000+01:00

Oh, the mundane, vacuous things that make me happy. Here they are:

I have completed no fewer than 6 rounds of aptitude tests in the last 3 weeks, and all scores are apparently “impressive” and “way above average” (although perhaps not such an accomplishment when one considers that most of the population can’t write a sentence without incurring at least one spelling error). My brain has not completely turned to jelly. Although I have still not been offered any of the jobs I actually want
I have completed about a million (ish) personality tests, (including several from S’s husband, who is training as an occupational psychologist). Apparently, I am very extroverted and outgoing, extremely driven, and an anomaly in that everything motivates me. All my responses represent an extreme on the scale. Oh, and no further comparisons drawn between me and Maggie Thatcher. Which is the bit that makes me happy
Kate Moss has launched her eagerly-awaited collection at Topshop, maxi-dresses, gladiator sandals, embellishments, the new boho and slogan tees are all the rage, and I have NOT SET FOOT in Topshop since March, nor have I bought a SINGLE item of clothing in the last 3 months. I am a model of self-restraint, strength and determination (erm, or just very skint)
I have indulged in 2 consecutive weekends of excess, gluttony and alcohol abuse, and still somehow managed to lose 2 kilos. I have replaced my navel jewellery in celebration. My thighs have calmed down, and I am pleased to report that I am back in the size 6 petite hotpants. I shall be shaking my booty in them this evening
Just as I have sworn off men, there has been a sudden wave of interest in me. These include several messages from the people on the dating website (which I have not even read, as internet dating is too much hard work, plus I have no desire to become a Stepford wife), a male friend of over 20 years who has suddenly declared his undying love for me (I am shocked and distressed), and a kind offer from a former client (business, not anything dodgy, thank you very much), to become his mistress. Despite the material perks, I am even more distressed by this offer, and have obviously declined, as well as reported him to the relevant industry body
Oh, and I start a new work project tomorrow. It’s just a one-off project, so I can take my time finding the “right” career path, without feeling as though I’m completely selling out, and with enough money coming in to vaguely function in the meantime

Twinkle toes

2007-05-15T01:20:00.000+01:00

Indeed, D! As J and I were walking down the road to our local, J told me that on the BBC news website there were about 200 comments concerning whether or not Gordon Brown would be a good Prime Minister, and 2,000 about the "injustice" of the "block voting" in Europe. Oh yes, it was so much better fifteen years ago when the Serbs and Croats were killing each other rather than voting for each other in a naff singing competition! Bring back ethnic cleansing, then we might be in with a chance!
I have finally recovered from my cold and so have hit Belfast's social scene with a vengeance. Saturday night saw us gathered at H's for a Eurovision party, but we were upset that Ukraine didn't win, with their funky silver suited Su Pollard lookalike. We went out to Radio K which was just the most fun night ever, and I wore my new funky sandals to show off my newly pedicured feet. Older man drank gin and tonic after gin and tonic and got utterly pissed. I had to bow out of the evening early at about 2:30 am to escort him home. At home, I asked him how much he had drunk, and remarked he seemed to drink a lot. He began to sob, telling me he was a "good person" who would "repay me a thousand times if I had faith in him."
The girls told me seriously over bloody marys and ulster fries on Sunday that it was emotional blackmail and I had to be hard hearted, and think of myself. J told me that it was too much hard work. I know she is right. I came back home and fell asleep on my bed and proceeded to have a disturbing dream. It began with my looking desperately for a room for a lesson I was taking. I couldn't find the room anywhere. A train arrived, and I was suddenly on a river bank, in a 1970s movie with Meryl Streep, Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman. Dustin Hoffman was an evil madman who captured me in a huge fishing net and trapped me. But I thought it's ok, it's only a film, I can catch a plane. The plane failed to take off and taxied down a motorway surrounded by traffic. Then I was in a spooky cemetary with my parents, surrounded by fog. Let's take this path though I said to them, this is the safe path. But no, F, said my Dad, we'll get our feet wet on that path. Then I woke up. As I texted to L, my unconscious is very unsubtle. But I'm still loving my pedicured feet!

The Changing Face of Eurovision

2007-05-14T21:47:00.000+01:00

There's nothing like a bit of light-hearted fun to bring out the very worst type of latent xenophobic imperialism in Britons. Yes, I am referring to the Eurovision Song Contest.

With every passing year, the Eurovision Song Contest becomes an increasingly self-referential parody of itself. Its musical sophistication has not matured alongside what we – in Britain – recognise as modern sound, and the delightful campness, kitsch and truly dreadful costumes have now given rise to the practically compulsory inclusion of at least one transvestite performer. The show has made an institution out of Terry Wogan, and his dry, ironic comments are as much an expectation of the contest as the tuneless, forgettable entries.

This weekend, I was whisked off to Blackpool by some zealous Eurovision fan friends of mine, to visit some even more die-hard fan friends, who threw a truly fantastic party, complete with personalised score booklets for each guest. We had to score each performance on categories including song, sex appeal, costume and performance. Fabulous!

However, the euphoria of such a fun weekend has been overshadowed for me by the outcry in the UK following the result. Now, I, for one, thought the UK entry was “on the money” (as Simon Cowell would say!), in terms of what Eurovision has always been about for us: Euro-trash pop, deliciously camp, a bit saucy, ironic, post-modern (sorry if that sounds pretentious, but it is), with dated choreography and dreadful costumes. Yes, I also thought the UK would score higher points. However, what everyone seems to be forgetting is that it’s not 1977 anymore. We are now in the 21st Century, and Europe (albeit with dodgily-defined parameters for the sake of Eurovision) has moved on.

Are we forgetting the breakdown of the Soviet Union and Yugoslavia, not to mention Britain’s own involvement in subsequent events? Are we completely oblivious to the emergence of new, independent nations? These have impacted on the changing face of Europe not only politically, but also culturally. Frankly, I’m not bloody surprised that Baltic and Eastern European nations would rather vote for each other than for Britain (and I certainly didn’t hear anyone in western Europe complaining when nations this side of the continent used to score highly off their neighbours back in the day). Furthermore, what we all seem to be overlooking is the fact that alongside the emergence of new nations comes the kind of national and cultural specificities that embrace different musical forms. The UK entry in this year’s Contest was representative of the old sound of the Eurovision Song Contest. But today, the borders of Europe have shifted, and glasnost (for want of a better word) has paved the way for countries outside of western and central Europe to express their popular musical sounds. What is a camp joke for us is a serious(ish) contest for other nations, and represents a significant step forward in the expression of freedom and emerging cultural forms.

I feel quite sickened by the cultural imperialism displayed by the British media in the light of Serbia’s victory on Saturday night. It is tragic that such attitudes are alive and kicking in 21st Century Britain; we are happy to ally ourselves with the US, to go charging around the world interfering in other countries’ foreign policy, starting legally questionable wars, refusing to fully embrace the European Union, and then when it comes to the Eurovision Song Contest, we are suddenly European again and think the rest of the continent owes us a vote.

Oh, and for the record: Eurovision? Pur-lease! Give me Justin Timberlake any day.

Meltdown!

2007-05-09T21:57:00.000+01:00

I am having a meltdown. I am FED UP of modern life, in which we are forced to become categorised commodities; in which we unwittingly prostitute ourselves to the conventions of the corporate and cultural world, just to survive.

I have had enough of bloody recruitment procedures, which typically involve at least 3 interviews, 2 hours of bullshit aptitude tests and ghastly personality tests (which always make me look like Margaret Bloody Thatcher – yes, that is what I have been told). I have 3 degrees and an astronomically expensive education behind me, as well as nearly 10 years of tirelessly slogging my guts out, working upwards of 12 thankless hour days, and all of this is reduced to a 2 page CV, which I am presenting at interview after interview after interview for jobs I don’t even want to do anymore.

I think all relationships are crap as well, and I think that dating websites are morally wrong, especially without subjecting the men to rigorous vetting procedures where all their past (and bloody continuing) relationships are declared and analysed. What is the sodding point? To meet someone, get married (the most ludicrous and unnatural institution ever, as are ALL relationships), for the man then to prove shockingly inept and communicating or knowing what he wants, and to then result in inevitable divorce at best, or a lifetime of suburban hell in bloody Taunton (or equally dire local equivalent) at worst? And all of this trades off a socially constructed notion that we all have to be in a bloody heterosexual relationship and get married and reproduce. What for? So that our children can become over-qualified and waste their skills, knowledge and drive on sell-out careers that merely serve to keep the patriarchal economy ticking along nicely?

I have neither the energy nor the inclination to throw myself into the impending summer wedding season, in which I am forced to spend vast amounts of money on other people’s life choices, especially when those life choices embrace the Great Myth of Eternal Love, and involve swathes of floaty white fabric and soft, pretty flowers and everyone being sickeningly happy, and me having to buy an engagement gift, a wedding gift, pay to go to TWO bloody ceremonies (including hotel room, which I shall occupy ALONE, as I am the only Single Person in the world), AS WELL AS the hen night celebrations, in which, as usual, I shall have to pay for an entire dinner avec drinks, when I typically neither eat nor drink in restaurants.

And yes, of course I’ll feel better tomorrow, but not before I’ve returned to being a complete sell-out.

What is Happiness Anyway?

2007-05-08T16:33:00.000+01:00

All in all, the last few days have been the most miserable time I have had for ages; thankfully alleviated by the fantastic weekend I have just spent, being whisked off by my friend S, to stay with our friend K. The last weekend we spent together, a veritable 3 days of excessive hilarity and mirth, made it into my best moments of 2006, so this weekend was guaranteed to perk me up.

Last night, upon my return, I got myself together (shortly before my evening out was ruined by the car breaking down and a late night trek across London with the AA - but that's a whole other story), and sat down to write a list of reasons why the things I think I want won't actually make me happy. I shall refer to this list repeatedly, as I am determined not to spend 3 months obsessing and being miserable.

Reading through my list this morning, and then F's post below, I remembered a wonderful article, written by John Diamond at the end of 2000, a few weeks before his death from cancer. Entitled Reasons to be Cheerful, it was published in The Observer on 31 December 2000. That New Year's Eve marked for me the beginning of an annus horribilis, in which, following a disastrous start to the year, my own father was diagnosed with cancer, and passed away 4 months later. As the 6th anniversary of his death approaches, I am reminded of how I read and re-read this article, and how much it helped me gain perspective. I am reproducing it here.

Like most journalists I'm loath to let light in on the magic that is the editorial process, but this was the first commission I've had in 20-odd years in the game which read quite so much like an extract from a suicide note. 'Just tell me, John, what the hell is the point of it all?' said the email from the editor, although it probably had somewhat more potency before I coyly changed the word to 'hell'.

Bizarrely, people hint at much the same question all the time, although few of them put it quite so starkly or are prepared to pay me to try and answer it. This is hardly a boast: were you in my position, they might do the same to you. They think I know something nobody else knows, that I've found the secret answer to a question which, through fear or embarrassment they can't quite bring themselves to ask.

My position is this: I have an apparently terminal disease which doesn't allow me to make any realistic plans for more than a couple of months ahead, a voice which stopped when my cancerous tongue was removed, a diet entirely dependent on the food blender, and a fair to middling amount of pain on most days. To add insult to cancerous injury, I neither feel the need of nor can I discover any comfort in religious faith and I take refuge, legally or otherwise, in no more than the occasional dose of mind-nudging drugs.

And yet most of the time, and within the usual limits, I seem to be happy, even - given my willingness to accept commissions like this one - smugly so. What, they want to know, is the trick?

Well, yes, there's the nice house and the reasonable income from a cushy job that lets me show off in public the loving wife and family, the circle of supportive friends who indulge me in my various whims. To that extent, I suppose I have it all, or as much of it as it's possible to have under the circumstances. But those circumstances do make a difference: I might have it better than most tongueless terminal cases, but I know of no scale against which one can compare friends, family and possessions with the prospect of a long and healthy life. Would I swap a child or a friend or the family house for a new working tongue and a clear scan? Don't even ask, and not least because I'll never have to make the choice.

But it's a fair assumption on the part of my inquisitors: with so little time left for living, what is there to live for?

The easy answer is Philip Larkin's about none of us ever being able to get out of bed in the morning if we had any real sense of our own mortality, and it seems to be an answer borne out by the mortality statistics. Depressed and fraught as we're all meant to be with our fast and unlivable modern lives, last year only 5,000 or so of us were so desperately unable to cope with it all that we killed ourselves, which ranks the act of suicide alongside one or two of the less common cancers as a cause of death. Even if we don't know what there is to live for, we all want to carry on living. Well of course we do - it's what we're programmed for. A species which could take life or leave it alone wouldn't get anywhere like this far in the lottery of evolution; I imagine that death is as much of an unwanted shock to the day-old and senile mayfly as it is to the average Briton who has reached the age at which death is to be expected.

Indeed, before all this happened to me I used sometimes to wonder what it must feel like to be 78 or 82 or 90 and wake up every morning knowing not that today might be your last, but that whatever happened the chances were against life continuing for much longer. How, I wondered, could the Saga company sell holidays to all those elderly types in their elastic-waisted trousers and their treble-E fitting sandals? What were the customers expecting to bring back from their gentle cruise in the Med? Memories? But surely they have enough memories. What can you do with memories when you have only months or a few years to play with them? How can you relax on that cruise when every morning you wake up surprised still to be here and anxious that tomorrow you might not?

Except that here I am, a nominal 47 but in the position of an energetic and slightly breathless 90-year-old with most, but not all, of his faculties, knowing that the chances are against my seeing more than one more birthday and yet I wake up as keen as ever I was to improve the shining hour. I am as happy as I seem to be, yes, but that's because this side of sociopathy or advanced religious zealotry we can only take so much happiness before we are saturated with it. We have a limited capacity for happiness, but an almost infinitely unlimited capacity for, well, not unhappiness exactly, but non-happiness.

Which, I imagine, is why much of the time we are as fulfilled by the various forms of personal non-happiness - anger, disappointment, envy, hatred, frustration, fear, alienation - as we are by contentment. This article, for instance, is a rarity in the British press, with its chirpy positivism and its imminent injunction to look on the bright side. Apart from tales of individual bravery, endeavour or luck, most newspaper stories are designed to enrage, upset, frighten and otherwise encourage all those negative emotions of jealousy and territoriality which we seem to relish, which is why papers published by the types who ask 'Why can't there be more good news in the papers?' invariably fail.

But the truth is that in the developed world, for most of us, most of the time, life is as good as it ever could be and infinitely better than it was for any generation preceding ours. As a teenager, I was, like millions of others, taken with the utopianism of William Morris's News From Nowhere and the description of a society where equality and social justice prevailed and as a result fear, anger, jealousy and the rest of it fell away. It wasn't just that everyone in that impossible world had plenty to eat, a roof over their head and fulfilling work, but that they never woke up feeling grumpy, never envied anyone else their greater happiness, never suffered, in short, from the iniquities not of economic distribution but those of serotonin levels and pain thresholds.

Yes, I know it's easy for me in the soft South to say it, and I know that there is real poverty and deprivation in the country, that the income gap is widening and the distribution of the country's wealth is getting less equitable by the day. And yes, I know too that it's no comfort to the freezing pensioner or the confined single mother at the end of her tether to know that three or four generations ago their lives would have been regarded by the freezing and confined masses as normal or even comparatively desirable. But the fact remains that for the first time in the history of our species, the vast majority of us in the West have more than enough to eat, somewhere relatively warm to live, the ability to move ourselves around the country and even the world as the fancy takes us, a sufficiency of resources with which we can entertain and distract ourselves.

I understand why when the Roundtree Trust reports on poverty in Britain it annoys Daily Mail readers (or, more usually, writers) by including a TV and video recorder in the list of essentials without which normal life isn't considered possible, but I can't bring myself to believe that the reason for most of the unhappiness in the country has to do with economic imbalance as much as it does with some innate need for a couple of portions of discontent as part of our psyche's emotional diet.

But even if you can't agree with that as a description of the country as a whole, let's look at it as a description of you and me, that part of society which reads lengthy essays in broadsheet Sunday newspapers and which, by that definition, has enough superfluous income to afford the paper and enough superfluous time to read it.

The other week, I wrote in this paper about alternative medicine. Briefly put, I was, and am, against it because I think it doesn't work on real organic illness. I don't want to rehearse that argument again here, but what I didn't point out in the piece is that the boom in alternative medicine has little to do with the failure of orthodox remedies to cure serious disease - the vast majority of people with heart conditions or cancer or what have you still, quite rightly, submit to the orthodoxy - but with the alternativists' claims to be able to deal with illnesses which orthodox doctors can't diagnose, let alone treat.

They are, if you like, the luxury illnesses, the illnesses which can be afforded by a society with too little to worry about. In my pre-cancerous, hypochondriacal days, I was forever presenting my GP with vague symp toms of even vaguer illnesses, being sent off for blood tests, investigations to see whether my fluttering heartbeat was a sign of something more organically entrenched than a mere fondness for too many cigarettes, late nights and dodgy social situations. They are the illnesses which result from overexpectation, from the belief that we can feel happy, comfortable, positive, motivated all the time. But to feel that good that often you have to be pretty stupid in that way that stupidity so often manifests itself, as a lack of imagination.

But because most of us aren't stupid and do have enough imagination to posit a world beyond our immediate and personal space and time we create worries which previous generations wouldn't have had time for. It's no coincidence, for instance, that animal rights as anything but the most intellectual of concepts has arrived as a popular movement only with postwar prosperity. Only the rich, with their Gore-Tex and Polar Fleeces can afford to be sniffy about animal skins; in polar societies where you skin a seal or die of hypothermia the options for animal liberationists are more limited.

Or we worry about televised violence but rarely stop to consider that ours is one of a handful of recent generations which only sees that sort of violence on television. I, for instance, have never seen a dead body in, as it were, the flesh, but I doubt if my four-times great grandfather escaping the pogroms of Russia could have said that, or even somebody brought up in a big city during the war. My children have seen only the most cartoon-like violence and are none the less shocked by it; a London child 200 years ago would have lived in a town surrounded by death, disease, prostitution, violence and poverty on a level we can only imagine.

It's the same with politics generally. Until relatively recently, mass political movements were still about basic rights of food, shelter, education and self-sufficiency. The reason fewer people vote these days, or turn up to political meetings, is that for the vast majority of us those rights have been fulfilled. The nearest thing we had to a political rally this year had nothing to do with the rights of man or human suffering or any of the subjects which my forebears - or even my younger self - would have recognised as the sort of thing which brought a country to its knees; no, it was about the price of petrol, and although at one level it was about the conditions that lorry drivers and farmers operate under, for the most part it was about how much it costs us to drive in our own cars into work every day.

The nonsense of the campaign as a chapter in the movement for human rights became most apparent when the lorry drivers hijacked the spectre of the Jarrow March to push their essentially petit-bourgeois message. But then, that's the nature of modern politics and the only time you'll see the old political icons these days are in adverts for mobile phones or foreign holidays where phrases like 'Join the revolution!' and 'Cry freedom!' are bandied about for a generation which knows nothing of their provenance. Just as we have luxury illnesses to replace the real ones, so we now have luxury politics.

All of which seems to have distracted me from the chirpiness I promised and, more importantly, the answer to the editor's question.

And the answer is this:

This is what it's all about. It's about reading a paper on a Sunday morning while you're thinking about whether you can be arsed to go to the neighbours' New Year's Eve party tonight. It's about getting angry with me for having different opinions from yours or not expressing the ones you have as well as you would have expressed them. It's about the breakfast you've just had and the dinner you're going to have. It's about the random acts of kindness which still, magically, preponderate over acts of incivility or nastiness. It's about rereading Great Expectations and about who's going to win the 3.30 at Haydock Park. It's about being able to watch old episodes of Frasier on satellite TV whenever we want, having the choice of three dozen breakfast cereals and seven brands of virgin olive oil at Sainsbury's. It's about loving and being loved, about doing the right thing, about one day being missed when we're gone.

And that's all it's about. It isn't about heaven and hell or the love of Christ or Allah or Yahveh because even if those things do exist, they don't have to exist for us to get on with it.

It is, above all I suppose, about passing time. And the only thing I know that you don't is that time passes at the same rate and in much the same way whether you're going to live to 48 or 148. Why am I happy? Because I'm alive. And the simple answer to the question 'What the hell is the point of it all' is this is the point of it all. You aren't happy? Yes you are: this, here, now, is what happiness is. Enjoy it.

Heartbreak and frustration

2007-05-07T17:46:00.000+01:00

All last week was glorious, beautiful, freakish weather. I wore my little Topshop smock every day, and sat on the steps outside slurping Starbucks Frappuccinos and chatting to friends in 25 degree sunshine (unheard of at any time of year in N.I.) I taught my M.A. students in the park, and sat discussing the ethics of representing the nuclear holocaust while frisbees zipped around our heads. We had an ice-cream rather than a coffee break.

And I felt fucking dreadful every single day. I hated Belfast with every fibre of my being. I would wake up in the morning wanting to cry at the thought that I am trapped here forever. I looked at people sauntering down the street and felt sick with jealousy that they get to live in a place where they are not 600 miles from their family (other times, I must remind myself, I am so lucky I am not further from them). I resented the fact that I am going to have fly for the fifth time in a month to go to a friend's party next week. (Not that I even mind flying. It's the airports I hate). I thought how many birthdays, book launches, dinners and celebrations I have missed, or had to organise months in advance to be able to afford to attend. In the shower, I counted how many times I have seen my friends in the last few years in Belfast. I thought about how I was having to impose on a friend yet again to be able to grab a couple of days in England later this month. At work, every time an email arrived about research, I fretted about the lack of prospects here.

I have had two job interviews in the last two weeks, both of which held out the prospect of a move back across the water and to a better, more focused institution.

I got neither job. I didn't realise how much I wanted them til I didn't get them.

On Sunday, my friend L was at brunch. She is visiting from London where she now lives. Her flatmate and my friend C works at one of the institutions that rejected me. L told me, via C, that two members of the panel, the ones who work in my area, wanted to appoint me. But they were placed under pressure by other (older) panel members to appoint another candidate who had expertise in a cognate area, even though I was better qualified in the main area. It was a similar story elsewhere - I was appointable, I performed well, I "will be snapped up" when the "right job" comes along. The right job is like the right man - a chimera. It makes me so angry when interviewers say this to you. It's so patronising. Why will any interview anywhere, ever be any different? Metaphorically at least there will always be a better candidate.

At least the weather broke on Sunday. My friend P was over from England on a stag do. I met him and we went on a bus tour around the murals on the Shankill and the Falls before brunch and bloody marys. As we drove around Harland and Woolf the skies opened and rain poured over us. Giggling, P and I turned my broken umbrella into a little tent and sat shivering underneath laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Somehow, the rain was much more conducive to my current mood, and underneath the grey skies and rattling hailstones, I felt a tiny bit of optimism creeping back in.

Small World of Singledom

2007-05-03T19:45:00.000+01:00

We are such a dying breed that random people in my life are now encountering each other. My friend I is dating a headhunter I have been working with.

Am off out partying now. I have given up on men altogether.

Bouncing Back

2007-05-02T11:29:00.000+01:00

Well, it’s been a traumatic, obsessive, angst-ridden, man-problematic few days, but I have bounced back, and taken on board the conflicting advice from all my lovely friends.

Here is what I have learned:

(Cliché, but:) Men are all the same

When it comes to men and relationships:
I either
(a) disproportionately over-inflate a situation in my mind, so that I idealise the man in question and have to have him now, with all clear judgment and objectiveness severely impaired OR
(b) My self-defence mechanism kicks in as soon as I am rejected or a complication arises, and I have an amazing ability to switch off and detach

I want what I can’t have. As soon as I have it, I don’t want it any more. I will never be satisfied

I need to be in control, but I need the challenge of fighting for that control

Relationships are complex and complicated

Most people – even lawyers, would you believe?! – and especially men in the context of relationships – are non-confrontational, and will always take the easy option

One key skill (which I have picked up from the male-dominated work place) I have is separating issues from each other. It means that ultimately, I can see a situation clearly, eventually apply perspective and walk away (relatively) unscathed

On the whole, I am comfortable with myself (despite my numerous hang-ups)

My body is completely fucked up from marathon running and over-training, and I have weight-trained my lower body to excess in the last year. I need to build up my glutes, slim down my thighs and increase my daily amount of aerobic cardiovascular activity (this last point, obviously, I have not learned as a direct result of my dating experiences in the last week!)

Update

2007-04-26T13:51:00.000+01:00

It's not happening on the Scottish lawyer-turned-academic front. Why do people have to have such complicated lives?

Going out partying with I tonight.

The Eye of the Storm

2007-04-23T13:51:00.000+01:00

On Sunday, my group of Belfast girl buddies abandoned their usual Sunday routine - meeting at Rain City at 2pm for brunch, bloody marys, and gossip - for a day out at the North Antrim coast: they have formed an "Eye of the Storm pro-surfing group" and have swopped booze for bodyboards. We headed out at 9:30 am(!!!!), a time never before seen by self on a Sunday, and headed to Whiterocks beach for a spot of body boarding. The water was freezing, the sky was grey, the waves were tiny...but it was excellent fun. My hangover cleared and I contentedly splashed around, until the sea seeped in through the hole in my boot and I had to declare myself frozen to the bone (we hired wetsuits, natch. This is the Irish Sea we're talking about!)Weirdly, then, I ended up discussing older man and self and whether or not we're in a relationship while floating around and surfing over waves. As we drove back to Belfast, singing at the tops of our voices to H's excellent i-pod selection (special mention here to Wuthering Heights, just made to be bellowed out loud), H and J teased me about older man. "Where has he been all day?" asked H. "In bed, waiting for me," I joked. I then revealed that I had left him my key while out for the day, so he could come and go as he pleased, and didn't have to leave my flat as early as I did. I also admitted that on Saturday we went into town together and bought new bedding together as he suggested that having only one double sheet was madness as means I always have damp bedding after washing my sheets. "I'm going to start calling him hubby," trilled H. "Fuck" I said, and opened the window and lit up a cigarette. "Anyway",said H, "I bet he's waiting at home with a surprise for you." H was right. When I got back, older man had cleaned and tidied the flat and bought me a Roxy Music cd and a Werner Herzog film as a surprise. He had filled the fridge with various goodies, and bought stuff for himself so he doesn't have to keep using my shower gel etc. Was obviously delighted by this, and sat snogging him on the sofa for ages while listening to Bryan Ferry. Then however he turned to me and said "Do you want to watch something?" (No, obviously am not in mood to watch TV!!!) "OK" I said sulkily. Older man said "what do you want to watch?" "I don't care" I sulked. He got out of his DVD boxset of the Twilight Zone, turned up the TV to some mad volume, and asked to sit in the dark so he could concentrate better on the screen. Meanwhile I banged around moodily to find my cigarettes and sat smoking and fuming. Older man started to laugh. "You're so funny" he said. "Let's go to bed". "Are you sure you don't want to watch more of the Twilight Zone?" I asked. "No, let's go to bed" he said again. So we did, and it was great, but hate the fact I was made to feel bored and unvalued as man sat watching stupid TV show. We really might as well be married!!

Love God, Part 2

2007-04-23T10:34:00.000+01:00

Surfing the dating website yesterday, an instant message popped up on my screen. The ubiquitous Love God wanted to chat. Here's the conversation:

LG: How's u stranger

D: Good thx! So you haven't given up completely, then!

D: Good weekend?

LG: Yeh, not bad, and u

LG: Where u been?

D: Gilgamesh (v disappointing; standard has gone right down since it opened) and On Anon for a friend's bday

D: Wot about you? Any more dates? Any talent out there??

LG: No more dates and you?

D: no

LG: I take it ur waiting for me?

D: Well after you set my world alight on Thursday night,

I knew no one else could ever match up!

D: See, you're not the only charming one!

LG: So u never told me what u thought

LG:?

D: Erm, no I never got the chance to tell you because you scarpered as soon as you'd finished your drink!

LG: So tell me now young lady

D: I think that neither of us fancied the other - although it was fun - but I appreciate you trying your luck after a clearly dry weekend, hahaha!

LG: yeh, it's been quiet this wknd, my little D

D: Not found your Cinderella then, Prince Charming?

LG: I have she lives near [area where I live] station

LG: and works in [area where I work]

D: I don't think the slipper fits this time... but I can hook you up with Buttons, if you like??

LG: okay, okay i'll just stick with Buttons then

LG: i've got to rush hun, you be good and lucky, you seem a lovely person xxxx D: you too - seriously. Really hope it works out - let me know x

I'm telling you; it's a jungle out there.

Partner in Singledom

2007-04-22T14:04:00.000+01:00

Well, we’d sweated together, experienced the dizzying heights of euphoria together following a hardcore session, admired each other’s bodies, and met up the following night for a repeat performance.

And last night, we went out partying. I’m talking about I, my new friend from the gym (what did you think I was referring to?!).

A dying breed of person currently in my life, I is also a 30-something Singleton. (Yes, F, you were one of the last ones, but, in a shameful betrayal of the Sisterhood you have been cruelly snatched from the Single life by Older Man, no matter how strongly you wish to deny it.) A veteran of dating websites (6 years!), she has many an amusing tale to tell.

I is welcome addition to my social life. Unlike most of my married friends, she does not have to rush off Cinderella-style before midnight, to return to her duties as a wife and mother. A some-time resident of LA, she is as fanatical about exercise as I am, is the same size as me, as enthusiastic about fashion, and like me, is eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Kate Moss-designed collection at Topshop (1 May, everyone!). A fellow North-West Londoner, she frequents the same city hotspots and has a penchant for the same brunch venues as me.

As we sat at the bar, critically surveying the proliferation of 20-something smock-clad, pob-sporting clones, we lamented the ever decreasing pool of eligible, worthy men, and gloomily mulled over the narrow range of options available to strong, independent, feisty women, whose progressive demands are becoming ever more difficult to meet.

At midnight, it was on to another bar in town, to celebrate the 30th birthday of my friend, J. May I bring a friend along, to add to the guest list? I had asked him on Friday. Of course, he had replied, and I had sensed the mischievous glint in his eye. Especially, he continued, if said friend is a previously unmentioned mystery lover. In the event, I turned up alone, for what was a fun evening of partying, before returning home alone to no further messages from men on the dating website.

And so today, I have once again awoken to the prospect of yet another working Sunday, plotting the career that inevitably serves as one of many deterrents to potential suitors, and spending another solitary afternoon in the park or a café with the Sunday papers.

At least I have a new partner in crime to enjoy Singledom with, though.

The Digital Revolution

2007-04-20T19:11:00.000+01:00

Check out the gorgeous wonderfulness that is Jett Loe talking about the digital revolution on You Tube. I don't really care about the pontificating about the change from the motion of projection to the stillness of digital, I prefer the sexy way he smokes his cigar and sups his tea. But it is all quite interesting, and who knows I may even plagiarise some of it for my interview next week!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PS46H7UkBBU

Date Number 2

2007-04-20T11:54:00.000+01:00

Love God had been calling with increasing regularity, with a never-ending stream of charming one-liners. As the week progressed and my goodwill waned, his cocksure confidence gave way to a growing wave of desperation. Where previous gems had ranged from the sublime “Love God is the only date you’ll ever need!” to the ridiculous “So! I finally get to see my beautiful Princess D tomorrow”, by Thursday, he was resorting to the less witty “Nice day, today” and (when I had given up responding altogether) “Let me know either way if you’re still up for meeting tonight”.

Displaying a disconcerting lack of knowledge of anywhere in London not in Primrose Hill and a reluctance to venture into Central London (which is where I primarily socialise), he finally settled on an unknown bar not far from where I used to live with Male Model.

I arrived on time, to greetings of “’ello, laaaave” from the bouncer, aptly setting the tone of the establishment within. Dinghy and grotty, the bar had been kitted out with optimistic neon lights in a putrid pinky-purple colour. A discotastic range of primary-coloured flashing bulbs highlighted a makeshift dancefloor, on which 3 chavvy girls dressed in their best market stall micro-mini ra-ra skirts, with scraped back, highlighted hair, gyrated. A haze of smoke concealed the rest of the bar, while loud music blared from every orifice.

Love God arrived, easily discernable by the fact that he was the only other person in the bar above the age of 12. We relocated to an equally chavvy, but thankfully quieter, pub around the corner, and headed to the bar.

“So, D,” said Love God, gloomily resting his head in one hand. “How many of these bloody things have you been on?”

I muttered a response, marvelling at his sudden loss of charm and optimism.

“I mean,” he continued. “I’m not going to meet my future wife on a dating website, am I? I’ve had 3 dates so far – nice enough girls, but I know it’s not going to happen, so there’s no point meeting again, is there? And, you know, some girls even suggested meeting for dinner! I’m not going to waste time and money on that, when there won’t be that attraction – what’s the point? I’ve paid my subscription to the site now, so I’ll turn up, have a quick drink, stay for half an hour and then get out.” He handed me my glass of still mineral water.

“I won’t take that personally,” I informed him, kindly, resenting the extra half hour I had sacrificed on the treadmill for the sake of this soirée. 5 minutes into the date, and I was already wondering if it could get much worse.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and in marched G, my randy former neighbour. A martial arts teacher, he had once lured me into his flat, under the guise of “showing me a few moves”, which he did. I had managed to escape by slapping his tongue out of my mouth, kneeing him in the groin, and escaping into the comforting arms of Male Model, who was thankfully arriving home at that moment. G had just proposed to his then girlfriend (now his wife), and never gave up pursuing me. I came to fear bumping into him as much as I feared the evil cat who used to roam around the block.

G spied me. “D!” he shouted, enthusiastically scrutinising my breasts. My date had indeed just got worse.

The rest of the evening (all 45 minutes of it, before Love God decided that, having finished his drink, there was no point staying), was actually not bad. I counselled Love God on his attitude towards finding love, and challenged his claims of indifference – why pay to be on the site and bombard me with messages, if you think you won’t get anything out of it? In return, he impressed me by correctly identifying my jeans as being from the Victoria Beckham Rock & Republic range (although he must have checked out my arse very subtly, which I guess is equally as impressive!), and, when the conversation inevitably turned to fitness and martial arts (I can’t help myself; at least I kept the vitamins and food diary hidden), and I told him how I had floored a mugger on New Year’s Day, he said “but you’re tiny!”, at which point, I momentarily thought I could love him; earlier that day, I had practically been in tears to L, during a walk in Regent’s Park, over the perceived uncontrollable expansion of my thighs.

So, that was that. Love God is no more. He left me, a forlorn figure zooming off down the road back to Primrose Hill, his cocky confidence stripped down to defensive fear of still being single at 40, no doubt one of many on the dating website. “My friends tell me that all the women on the site are desperate,” he had confided in me. “Either desperate to get married, or desperate to get laid.”

“Yes, but isn’t everyone?” I challenged.

And apparently, it’s not just women. When I returned home to resume the online search for my next victim, a box flashed up on my screen. This member wants to instant message you, it said. I quickly checked out his profile. He was stunningly gorgeous, with ripped, toned, muscles, and based in Florida. Phwoarrgh! I clicked yes. It turned out he had been turned on by the claims in my profile (taken out of context, I must add) that I am naughty. Are you really naughty? he wanted to know. It turned out that he, too, was being naughty. Very naughty. All I will say is that he had a web cam, and he was definitely left-handed.

Girl with GSOH seeks solvent male

2007-04-19T15:18:00.000+01:00

No, D, I don't think you are being shallow at all. I am struggling with the same dilemma at present. Older man spoke to me at length on the phone on Monday evening. He finally admitted he is "stony broke" with a huge bank loan to pay back. He spoke some more about it last night in the Crown, even offering me facts and figures. I have no desire to know just how deeply indebted he is, nor do I want to have anything to do with the issue. It's his problem. And yet...as soon as you become even slightly involved, it weirdly mutates into your problem too. The following things have happened

1) He told me when he last admitted to a woman how in debt he was, she backed off big time and told him "Love doesn't put bread on the table." He said he was profoundly hurt by this, and thought it v shallow. I thought, God, she is far more sensible than self.

2) He told me he would love to be able to sweep me off my feet and feels upset he doesn't have the money to do this. Contradictorily I think do you think that being able to flash the cash is what would make me change from my current attitude of bemusement and advice to take things more slowly (i.e. I am not having your baby) and prioritising my desire for a career "elsewhere" over a two week-old "relationship"? (Shallowly it might be!)

3) He has no cash already, even though pay day is not for another week. This means I have already started subsidising us. So far, I have bought: two packs of condoms (£6); taxi home (£4);bottle of wine (£6); chinese takeout for two (£12.60). He has however promised to take me to Belfast Zoo as a treat when he has been paid. I'm so pleased he loves zoos too! But does this make up for being on the verge of bankruptcy??!!

Would I say he was a "Loser"? No, I wouldn't say that (or at least not because of his dire financial straits and rather mundane job). As my friend Marty pointed out in the pub on Tuesday night (most randomly he started on the whole topic of money with no prompting from self, who didn't even mention its current focus in my life), you are just as much of a loser if you do a job you hate for 80 hours a week, however much money you earn. But we do all have to live in the current world, and life is expensive. If you want to have a life, you need money to do it.

Girl on the verge of a nervous breakdown

2007-04-16T19:18:00.000+01:00

So, it's over. Over! the event that has been haunting the back of my mind for weeks, and been more upfront in the last few days... my job interview at "elsewhere". All that preparation, blood, sweat and tears, for a 35 minute discussion about me, my future, my research (am I essentialist? Where do I see the future of my field? Why have I applied for this job? How do we reconcile the conflicting demands of students for vocational training and high critical awareness?). I have practically had a nervous breakdown over it, such is my mental trauma associated with interviews, my hatred of them, and the general anxiety they provoke. But I had a sudden ephiphany moment on the train. Fuck it, I thought. I totally went there and did my best. Sure, I managed to miss out one of my best lines (about consolidating and enhancing my research profile - bollocks) but at the end of the day, if they don't want me, they don't want me. I gave it my best shot. They will let me know next week. Also I should report that older man texted good luck to me this am, which I thought v sweet as he has been saying that he doesn't want me to go. The only problem is, I was counting on knowing the outcome of this interview before deciding whether to fly off to another interview next week. Now I have to go through the same anxiety all over again!!

Love God

2007-04-15T14:12:00.000+01:00

My phone is vibrating. I reach into my implausibly oversized handbag, through the maize of lipglosses, wet wipes, discarded chewing gum wrappers and the portfolio of notebooks I use to control my scattiness (must clean out my handbag), and pull out my phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey! Is that D? Love God here. This is your lucky day!”

Oh for God’s sake. “Erm…”

“From the dating website! Love God! How’re you doin’, D? Oh! Wait! Hang on, I’m just trying to locate this property on the map… I’m a property developer. I’ve just been sent through a property. I’m probably going to buy it, yeah. I just want to see where it’s located, but I can’t find it… can I call you back in a couple of minutes?”

Against my better judgment, I agree, although it is clear to me that I am unlikely to ever want to spend the rest of my life with “Love God”, let alone a single evening in his company. He calls me back.

“So, D. You look beautiful in your picture – really exotic. Where are you from?”

“Um… London.” I roll my eyes. I am a cynical Jewess, I think; that much should have been obvious from my profile. Of course I look a little ethnic, and I’m hardly going to fall for a line like that.

“So, D! When are you going to have dinner with me?” The same question he has posed to me in his the three e mails and 2 text messages he has already sent me in the space of a week. “I’m cocky, aren’t I? I’m very direct. A real go-getter! I see what I want, and I just go for it!”

Hmmm, I think. Cocky? Direct? Love God? Honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Just try your lines on me, and see what happens. You may find yourself working harder than you’ve ever worked in your life to impress. This could be fun…

“Well, Love God,” I say. “You’re giving yourself a lot to live up to.” I can practically hear him smirking on the other end of the line. “So,” I continue, “How’s Thursday night?”

Blogging under the influence

2007-04-14T23:42:00.000+01:00

Have just spent a lovely day with L. We went suit shopping and I spent £336 pounds on a jacket, top, skirt and shoes in Hobbs. Such is the dull and unglamorous nature of my existence that my credit card company baulked at the expenditure and assumed the card had been stolen! i had to confirm my identity on the phone and then have to ring them tomorrow to unblock the whole card! For Fuck's sake! We then retired to the 4 Seasons and drank copious amounts of champagne, to the point where L began discussing her aberrant nature! And I constructed, deconstructed and reconstructed my 'relationship' with older man. For someone who claims not to think about things very much, I am good at subjecting my life to protracted (if slightly drunken) analysis. Anyway, as L and I agreed while dipping strawberries into champagne, sometimes the most fun times and the best things are with friends. So, our various entanglements with men not withstanding, I salute D and L: D for being her wonderful, driven, funny, hilarious, auburn haired self, (seeing you yesterday has made me miss you all over again)and L for her wit, insight, self deprecation (which she does so well) and supportiveness (oh and LONG raven hair, and pale arms despite deadful body lotion with sneaky fake tan enhancement!!). I love you both, my wonderful girls!

Click-a-Date

2007-04-14T15:44:00.000+01:00

V fun evening last night with F, who (hurrah!) is in London for a few days, staying in P’s flat (aka The Naughty One Who Never Blogs). P has gone away for the weekend, and – after I had chided F for Betraying the Sisterhood (on account of the new boyfriend) and teased her a bit (a lot, actually) for being a bit loved up, and even spoken to said older man on the ‘phone, we got round to trying to sort out my love life.

My love life at the moment is entirely internet-based. (In fact, as I write this entry, I am engaged in an instant message dialogue with a gorgeous 25 year old French guy, who – as a bonus – is over 6 ft tall!) We rifled through my online in-box, discounting the messages from anyone who looked like an axe-murderer (one of them really did!), anyone who had unrealistic expectations bordering on the delusional (eg guy based in Switzerland with 2 kids, and Brazilian guy who is not Jewish, not willing to convert and can’t speak English (so why try to hook up with British girl on Jewish dating website, for God’s sake?!) and thinking up flirtatious replies to some of the other messages.

My search has been narrowed down to 3 candidates. One is a ginger-haired investment banker (but I won’t judge him until we meet), one seems quite nice – F seemed more interested in him than I was, though! – and I think I know his brother, and F and I sneakily checked out his profile on Facebook and checked out some of his mates. The third – somewhat disconcertingly – calls himself Prince Charming, and I have already flirted online with him, and will no doubt continue the naughty text messages once I have recharged my phone.

2 issues that keep coming up, though:

Amusingly: I made a point of saying in my profile that brownie points will be given to any man who comments on the auburn-ness of my (now fading) hair colour. And I have been inundated with affirmations of my redheadedness. Which is always good to hear (especially now that I am discovering at least one new white hair every day)
I keep coming up against declarations of astonishment that I have never had a relationship. And it provides them with the perfect excuse for a nauseating line: “What, beautiful, funny, sexy, intelligent girl like you?! Don’t believe it!” (gag)

So, I’m off to speak to my prospective dates. Instant messaging session with the French guy has got a bit steamy. Will let you know how it goes…

In which F feels a bit sheepish

2007-04-10T14:49:00.000+01:00

Ok, I have an admission to make. After smugly blogging about my excellent negotiation skills, it all fell apart a bit. Last week, I saw older man on Monday night (when we reached our agreement); Tuesday night, when he turned up at the pub quiz, and we all partied on at J's til about four in the morning; Thursday night, when he unexpectedly turned up at The Parlour, where I was meeting J and H for a drink. On Thursday, my friend M came into The Parlour at about seven to find me sitting hand in hand with an unknown man. Her curiosity was piqued. M and I went off for tapas in town together, and M quizzed me about older man. How long had I been seeing him? What with the situation? Did I fancy him? Could we chat together? (Answers: 3 weeks, no strings, yes, yes). M asked me why I was resisting his requests for a relationship. I wondered why I was resisting his requests for a relationship. Then I remembered some wise words from the least likely pin-up girl for heterosexual coupledom, L, who told me that if I really wanted to have a partner and kids within five years (cf my narcissism questionnaire) I should stop shagging young boys and find someone "nice". Older man is "nice." M and I moved on from the tapas bar to the Duke of York, which was heaving, it being the first evening of the long Easter weekend. Older man was there. We chatted, we kissed, I knew I liked him. I went outside for a cigarette with J. "I think I might like older man" I confess. J is shocked. Later, older man, J, M, and another random colleague I bump into in the street, D, all get a cab back together. Older man is v quiet: I regale cab with tales from my youth. Cab in hysterics (it's the booze). Older man and I get out at my flat. Older man tells me how warm and funny and wonderful I am. Is hard not to enjoy hearing that. We stumble back to my flat. I get older man some water. "Have you got a straw to help me drink it?" he asks like a five year old, and begins hiccuping. I help him off with his clothes and lie next to him, reminding him to drink the water every five minutes as it will help him not be sick. We lie together chatting about the evening. It is very cosy. Older man asks me if colleague D will be shocked he got out of cab with me. "No," I say. "He will just assume we're going out together." There is silence. "Are we going out together?" asks older man. "Does that mean not snogging or sleeping with anyone else?" I ask. "Yes" says older man. "Oh, Ok, let's give it a go" I say. "You've made my year" says older man.
The next day I fly back to London. I'm missing older man now. I hope he feels the same way. I'm scared he's changed his mind. Goddamn, am I in a relationship??!!

In the Jungle

2007-04-09T21:33:00.000+01:00

It's a jungle out there, it really is. I finally registered myself on that dating website, and you would not believe the people who are on there. The fact that they are all short-sighted, follically-challenged and in - ahem - not great shape is a given (it is a Jewish dating website after all), and actually, I am not judgmental about things like that.

I have found 2 drop-dead gorgeous men on there, but one of them is divorced with 2 kids (sorry; too much baggage) and the other looks suspiciously like someone I once snogged, plus I got a bit confused with all the virtual dating possibilities, and accidentally sent no fewer than 5 nudges to him to indicate my interest, so he probably thinks I'm a mad cyber-stalker type now.

Even though I'm sitting at home browsing for suitable dates, the stench of desperation that one finds at an actual Jew-do is palpable. I only signed up this afternoon, and I already have 14 messages in my in-box, 4 requests for instant messaging (which I ignored, having read their profiles - "eating fast food" is not a viable hobby), 2 flirts and an e-card.

I'll let you know how it goes...

In which F explains about projection

2007-04-03T15:19:00.000+01:00

To my great surprise, I have finally acquired an object I have not had for a long time and I am looking forward to making good use of it. Yes, girls, I have a fuck buddy! It is of course the older man referenced in my previous post, A Threshold. After what was (as I think I mentioned before) fairly good sex, I left for Bristol. Upon my return, older man joined J and I for our weekly pub quiz. Older man had split up from his long term partner 8 months ago or so, and during a particularly lonely time, met a woman on-line (on a games site! My God! but hey, no judgement). He and the woman had struck up a fairly intense friendship, despite never meeting in the flesh, and she was visiting him for the first time this weekend just gone. On Tuesday night, he quizzed me. Should he give up his chance of happiness with this woman for me? Could I offer him a serious committed long term relationship? (I think he is slightly needy and delusional). I pointed out that we had only known each other for five days, and I couldn't possibly promise him anything. He came back home to mine, and then got all troubled about being "unfaithful" to this woman he'd never met. I suggested he went home. He left my flat. I settled down to watch Frasier. He came back ten minutes later, saying he'd changed his mind, and he couldn't get enough of me; I was his dream woman; he couldn't believe he'd met me. I told him that he should calm down, I was only human, and he was obviously projecting. LOVE being in control, and being the sensible one. Anyway, on-line woman arrived this weekend. Hey, guess what, it was strained and awkward, and they didn't get on that well, even though apparantly she is lovely and they are going to be "best mates". Older man has realised that this was almost entirely an imaginary relationship he had. I explained about projection again. He asked me if I saw us going anywhere. I said we could meet once a week, for sex; we may occasionally go and see a film together if he wants; he can come to the pub quiz. I then laid down quite specific instructions about the sex. We are completely free agents who owe each other nothing. I think I've negotiated a good deal.

I Carried a WaterMelon!

2007-04-01T23:49:00.000+01:00

I had a fabulous Saturday night! It's been the Belfast Film Festival all this week, and I have been indulging my love of culture - a Chris Marker documentary from 2002 about yellow cats on walls in Paris on Wednesday, a Jennie Livingstone 1990 documentary called Paris is Burning about the 1980s Harlem ball scene on Thursday, and a Japanese animation tonight. But Saturday night was the best! The Film Festival transformed the Harland and Woolf paint yard into a huge outdoor screening site and we went to a drive-in movie. Six of us drove down in a two car convey, bought hot dogs and popcorn, and tuned in our radios, for a wonderful evening of Dirty Dancing. What a great movie. What a great soundtrack. And so much fun watching it in a car, making silly remarks about the plot inconsistencies (like the way "Baby" gradually dances in fewer clothes so at one point she is in bra and shorts!), lighting up cigarettes after the sex scene, and singing at top volume to the songs. Altogether now: I've had the time of my LIIIIFE and I. OWE. IT. ALL. TO. YOU...

Of course, I had a moment of reflecting upon Belfast and the radical changes that city has lived through. As we drove over the Lagan, the new Belfast glittered at us - the Waterfront Conference Hall, the Liberty statue (a woman in steel), the Hilton, the Odyssey concert arena. Then we turned into the paint hall, a massive space in the middle of the shipyard that used to be used for painting the enormous ships constructed here in the early decades of the last century, including of course the Titanic. Harland and Woolf was the heart of the city, and the two huge yellow cranes, Samson and Goliath, are still symbols of Belfast. But now it is deserted, a barron, desolate wasteland, used only to screen cheesy Americana. The industrial past has gone, and the city's future is one that looks towards post-modern plays of images. But this in itself has to be an improvement on the parochialism and sectarianism that has blighted this area (Harland and Woolf would only employ Protestants for example). As we left the yard singing and everyone tootling their horns, my heart soared with love for this city that has seen and survived so much.

Get With The Programme, Girls!

2007-04-01T10:46:00.000+01:00

I have been having the best laugh on Facebook, an online networking community. You set up your profile, link up to friends who are already registered, and before you know it, the network snowballs, and you have dozens of friends. You can also share photos and messages, and set up groups. I am enjoying it so much, having recovered contact with old friends from primary school and various other milestones of my life.

Now, L has accepted my invitation, and set herself up a profile. P (the naughty one who never blogs) hates technology. But F - it's time for you to get online. Remember what happened with this blog? I nagged you all for months, you eventually relented, and now you can't get enough of it.

Get on Facebook. Now.

Summer's Lease

2007-03-27T12:13:00.000+01:00

I have managed to create a ridiculous and expensive dilemma for myself!! What to do this Summer?? First off, I have, as all single gals do, to make the rounds of the John Lewis gift list and celebrate my good friends tieing their proverbial knots. In fact, already my Summer is looking a tad busy:
1) 7 April - M's engagement do - pub in Clapham
2) Mid-May - R's hen night (good one this - stretch limo, tea at Claridges, cocktails)
3) Early June - R's wedding (want to go, as love R dearly, and we were v close buddies in Bordeaux. Also think will be fun. But can only get double rooms at hotel at £100 a head and I will not know anyone there but self. Brave face time).
4) Late July - Gaby's wedding. (V V excited about this, as will be cool NY wedding at a Hudson River winery - how fab is that. Incredibly happy for Gaby, who is an even closer Bordeaux buddy than R. Also, maybe I can play up the accent thing and appear aloof and mysterious, rather than sad and desperate as a lone female).
5) P, the evil non-blogger, is also tieing the knot into a veritable Gordion affair with a girls' night and two weddings. The hen do clashes with Gaby's wedding, but I will attend one of P's celebrations (P is doing a Liz Hurley).

On top of this, J and J and I obviously had a marvellous holiday last year in Venice and Bologna and would like to repeat the girls' trip thing. I suggested a Bordeaux/ Toulouse/ our friend H's mum's gite in the Lot et Garonne jaunt lasting a week or so. Belfast J was well disposed to this idea, and I got v enthused about idea of going back to Bordeaux, which has changed a lot since my lectrice days, with a new tram, and a new pedestrianised area, and a v cool cinematheque. I hope my favourite bars, La CComtesse (with two Cs!) and Paris-Pekin are still there. Oh and that cool Latin American one in rue des Piliers de tutelle with the cheap Mohitos. I expect we might sup a pint at the Connemara too. I would get to talk French and drink Monacos and buy Biba magazine for a mere 2 Euros. We would then go and eat gaufres avec sucre on the beach at Arcachon, and have huitres and moules on Cap Ferret while watching the sunset over the dune de Pyla. Bliss. However, Bristol J has a bee in her bonnet about how she has never travelled far afield, and this has been exacerbated by her new relationship with a 23 year old boy who had a gap year (basically his entire account of the trip consists of how cheap beer is in Thailand and how hot girls are in various cities). J, having never travelled much out of Europe other than to visit an ex-boyfriend who was working in the States now wants to TRAVEL and France is deemed too dull. Actually after her wilder ideas, she has lighted upon a fly drive round California, taking in LA, San Fran, the Grand Canyon, Vegas, and the Northern coasts. Sounds good no? Also I have the wardrobe for it post my Oz trip. Giving away part of her motive though is her comment "why should we fly to LA? It's a shit hole", a rather vehement view from someone who has never been there, and the opinion belongs of course to her boyfriend, who did tell me you can get beers for five dollars there if you know where to go. I think Bristol J wants to prove to her boyfriend she can be young and adventerous, and also does want to make the most of being single at the moment -fair enough. Belfast J is shit scared of flying (I think she should just get Valium personally), refuses to consider long haul, and also is a bit skint. She refuses to coutenance America. Both of them have suggested I just do both separately. Frankly I would have to win the lottery, (spesh with US wedding to attend), and I think we would have a better time if we went away as a threesome anyway - twosomes can get hard work after a while (though C and I had a great time travelling round Spain). Last night in the pub Belfast J was saying well maybe in 2008 when I have more money and have taken a fear of flying course I'll consider it. I was thinking yes, let's say to Bristol J to do it the year after next, and all go to France. Received upset text from Bristol J this morning saying the staffroom was horrendous, with colleagues showing off engagement rings and talking about ski-ing at Easter, and begging to go to the States. Bristol J points out I have known her much longer than I have known Belfast J. God, what to do?

Virtual Dating

2007-03-26T20:35:00.000+01:00

Those readers familiar with this blog will know what a sucker I am for displacement activities (I came up with most of the links you see on the right hand side of the screen). The more banal, fantastical and time-wasting, the better, as far as I'm concerned. I have whiled away many an afternoon when I'm meant to be compiling a Very Important Business Report happily conducting internet searches for such things as the best value sushi knife in London, or perhaps taking the Which Scent is Best Suited to my Personality? Test on the Guerlain perfume website.

So I guess it had to happen sooner or later that I would - despite my recent vows to just give up and remove myself from the "market" - chance upon a dating website. OK, so I haven't joined - yet - but I am seriously considering it (just to see), and to this end, I have spent the last hour searching for vaguely presentable photos of myself, editing out incriminating evidence of drunken friends and sneakily airbrushing out the less flattering elements of my image.

I will have a think about it tonight, and tomorrow, I will decide whether or not to unleash myself on the unsuspecting Jewish singles scene. I wonder which I'll find first: a new job or a new boyfriend?

A Threshold

2007-03-26T14:44:00.000+01:00

So, on Thursday evening, I crossed a significant threshold in a 30 something girl's life, and slept with a man over the age of 40!!! Surprisingly it was pretty good. I'm still quite shocked. Then on Friday morning, I had to get up, fend off attempts for another go (never got this whole early morning sex thing - would far rather sleep for hours, and have sex when fully awake) do all my washing up which had been piling up into a massive tower awaiting the plumber (who actually came on Tuesday - oops), pack, stop off at chemists and buy morning after pill, go to work, email, send off some stuff, and I was still at the airport by midday! For it was my best friend J's 33 rd birthday this weekend, and so another threshold has been reached - a whole year of blogging. Cheers, girls!

Where Did We Go Wrong?

2007-03-22T11:36:00.000Z

Brilliant interview with the author Marilyn French in today’s The Times. Virago is republishing The Women’s Room, to mark its 30th anniversary. French is a feminist of the type with which I most identify; a militant, old-school 70s activist. One of my earliest childhood memories is of sitting on the floor in front of my mother’s bookcase, thumbing through the dog-eared pages of the thick novel, its harsh black cover a symbol of the bitterness I would later come to understand as the expression of Woman’s doomed place in society.

Looking at the picture of the 77-year-old French this morning, I was encouraged to see a tough-looking woman; she is after all the author of what 30 years ago was considered a brave, daring, groundbreaking book, has since survived cancer, and unlike many other feminists of that generation, has become neither a complete sell-out, nor has she given up and resigned herself to her culturally-prescribed destiny. She is also pictured in full make-up and dressed in bright colours; a far-cry from the manly scariness of the late Andrea Dworkin. This is what we need to see; a feminist who is a Woman; as French herself points out, the likes of Margaret Thatcher could only be accepted as Prime Minister by becoming a pseudo-male: the Iron Lady. Here, we have an integral feminist, someone who has been instrumental in shaping our cultural inheritance, but who has done so unapologetically embracing her femaleness.

So where has she been? And where are all the other women like her? What has happened to their voice? What have we, the next generation, done for our “daughters”?

Two points she makes in the article (crudely paraphrased below), which really stand out for me are:

(1) That literary conventions are not merely technical devices, but actually mirror our societal attitudes. We need to look no further than art, literature and media to see that these conventions have regressed in the last decade. There are no real feminist ideas portrayed on screen that are not satirised.

(2) That although we live in a world that principally values money and power, yet what is considered to be “women’s work” – and what, due to the economic workings of society, remains largely performed by women – is unpaid. What kind of value are we placing on even contrived roles for women in society? That their work is either unpaid, or they are forced to take on the characteristics of Man?

I feel ashamed and sad. While I agree with French that we don’t have the choices we think we do (it is impossible to have everything, and rigid societal conventions, work practices and tax systems mean that it is largely women who stay home to take care of children), I think that we take for granted what our Sisters went through for us. The tireless campaigns, demonstrations, daring books that were written… what have we done to carry on their good work, and what sacrifices are we making for the next generation?

Celeb Sightings from La-La Land

2007-03-12T05:49:00.000Z

Well, you can't get more A-List than LA, darling. And here are some of my celeb sightings from today:

Sanjaya Malakar from American Idol, tonight at The Grove, with his parents. N shamelessly tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he was on American Idol. He was v sweet and shy, and his parents looked v proud.

Stephen Spielberg, this morning, at the beach in Malibu. He walked past me with a small child, having a bizarre conversation about the rocks. (I was perched on one of said rocks, watching my friend D surfing, while trying not to be run over by one of the overly energetic, enormous dogs racing along the shore.)

Several familiar-looking Triple-Zero (or so it seemed) waifs, shopping at Fred Segal this afternoon (as you can see, I have had a v productive day)

Seeing as the friends at whose beach house we were hanging out count amongst their neighbours the likes of Mel Gibson, Danny DeVito and Jennifer Aniston, I do feel that my celebrity-sighting potential quota has been under-achieved, but I still have some time here left.

On the way back tonight, I realised that the last time I was on a beach was in 2003, and the last time I went on a holiday that did not involve (a) my family, (b) a manic city, or (c) a couple of frantic days tacked onto the tail end of a business trip, was in 2002. And the last time I went longer than 48 hours without mobile phone access was in 1993.

No wonder I'm so frazzled.

Dumbledore's Wisdom

2007-03-08T01:17:00.000Z

Last week I went down to Dublin to meet up with L, and hear her and top shot NY professor give papers at a Seminar at UCD. Having spent hours chatting with L in her hotel room, and not really sleeping very well due to the fact my room was a) above a nightclub b) incredibly hot and c) vibrated, I was utterly exhausted by the time it came to go back to Belfast. I fell asleep on the train, and even snored much to the amusement of the two kids sat opposite me (I could vaguely hear them giggling through my tired haze). I got back home, power napped for an hour, and then went out to Bop yestrum, v trendy evening full of gorgeous young things swanning about, which I normally wouldn't have bothered with, but it was a good friend of mine's leaving do: she is leaving Belfast to travel round India for a few months, and then is going to live in Brighton. She will be sadly missed. Anyway, it meant that on Sunday I was too shattered to do anything but indulge myself in re-reading my favourite Harry Potter novel, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I love it especially for Dumbledore's wisdom at the end, which I am going to quote to you now.

Harry has just defeated the evil Voldemort for the second time. Voldemort had haunted a diary and incarnated his 16 year old self in its pages. When he was 16, he was called Tom Riddle, and like Harry was a pupil at Hogwarts. Harry realises that he has a lot in common with Tom. Both are half-Muggle, half Wizard; both are orphans; both have dark hair and green eyes; both can speak Parseltongue, the language of Snakes. Harry fears that he is evil. Furthermore, the Sorting Hat wanted to place him in Slytherin, the House full of dark magic, and the one which Tom Riddle was in. Does the Sorting Hat know that Harry is really evil??

"So I should be in Slytherin," Harry said, looking desparately into Dumbledore's face. "The Sorting Hat could see Slytherin's power in me, and it..."
"Put you in Gryffindor," said Dumbledore calmly. "Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many of the qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue...resourcefulness...determination...a certain disregard for the rules," he added, his moustache quivering again. "Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think."
"It only put me in Gryffindor," said Harry in a defeated voice, "because I asked not to go into Slytherin...."
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, beaming once more. "Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities."

Greetings From La-La Land!

2007-03-07T10:31:00.000Z

Hello from LA! I am recuperating in the sunshine, having just run the LA Marathon. Oddly, LA seems to really agree with me; so much so, that I have just extended my stay by another week. Am having a blast, staying with my friend N, lounging by the pool, playing Superheroes with her 3-year-old and being drooled on by her 5-month-old (the latter, obviously, being less fun).

I have managed to surpass my own record, and was back in high heels the day after the marathon. Sadly, though, my excessively pale English skin failed to stand up to the 81 degree sunshine (funny, that!) on Sunday, and I got horribly sunburned running the marathon, and am sporting unsightly tan lines.

So here are all the things I am loving about LA:

Everyone here is as neurotic, high-maintenance and demanding as me. Would you believe I can go into a restaurant, pick any dish, and completely customise it, removing or adding items on a whim, and requesting that things be done to the food that the chef has never even thought of?! And they don't bat an eyelid - amazing. When I do this in London, everyone thinks I'm mad, but here, everyone does it.
Dressing down. Victoria Beckham has been blasted by La-La Landers for her excessively contrived style, and rightly so: everyone dresses down here. I packed a low-maintenance wardrobe of jeans, bikinis and juicy couture tracksuits, and I'm loving its simplicity.
Healthy food. Leaving aside the proliferation of fast food chains (raaaa! Ban them!), there are an abundance of Japanese food restaurants (yum) and a delightfully enormous branch of Whole Foods Market, all within walking distance.
Overly-obliging customer service. OK, so on a bad day, I call it cultural prostitution and think everyone is hankering after a tip, but everything here is happy and sunny, and I am loving how my requests for various items of Laura Mercier's collection and new Juicy Couture lines have been met with efficiency and enthusiasm.
24 hour gyms. Oh. My. God. Simply genius. I have already signed up for temporary gym membership, and will be resuming my 5am workouts this very morning.
Being liberated from my mobile phone. My 13 year relationship with Orange ended in December, when I signed up with T-Mobile. I have regretted it since I arrived here and have had no network coverage. Several angry 'phone calls and e mails later (their customer service staff are trained to remain calm, bright and happy throughout angered exchanges, which only serves to infuriate me further), their helpful advice has been to turn off my 'phone, remove the battery and sim card repeatedly, until it picks up a signal. Unsurprisingly, this has not worked. However, for the first time ever, I have been completely uncontactable, and it has taken a week, but I have stopped checking for messages every 2 minutes, and it is strangely liberating.

So La-La Land is turning out to be a bit of a hit with me. Of course, I have had a few encounters with Orange County airheads at various parties and evenings out, but that's material for another blog post. Until then, dare I say it, I am actually quite relaxed...

Singled Out on a Saturday Night

2007-02-25T16:46:00.000Z

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.

Party number 2

2007-02-24T18:15:00.000Z

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!

Men!

2007-02-21T16:58:00.000Z

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?

Normal Service Resumes

2007-02-19T16:26:00.000Z

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.

The Purse of Truth Speaks (and my unconscious)

2007-02-12T15:42:00.000Z

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.

My Sex Hormones

2007-02-09T16:57:00.000Z

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.

Closing the Window

2007-02-07T12:02:00.000Z

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…

The Purse of Truth

2007-01-24T13:58:00.000Z

In a previous post, L referred to the 'Yes/No' purse she bought me at Spitalfields market, as a birthday present. Last year, with my friends J and J in Italy, I discovered this purse has magical powers. It has yes on one side, and no on the other. If you ask the purse a direct question, it will answer you. You can however, never ask the purse a question about yourself, only other people. It has been devastating in its accuracy. It predicted J and D's split. It also could have saved her the £8.99 she spent on a pregnancy test, but she didn't believe it when it told her she wasn't having a baby. It told C she would marry A without a problem (which did indeed happen), and is predicting a family for them within the year. More worryingly, it predicted not such good things for P's thesis. But I expect it was having an off day that day.

Moving On Up

2007-01-23T17:00:00.000Z

And so the end of an era is nigh. At the beginning of next month, Male Model and I shall be parting ways, and I shall never again have to live in a block of flats. Oh, raaaahh, these bloody newbuilds, with their paper-thin walls, lack of sufficient windows and fire-proof heavy doors. The whole set-up is too communal for me, especially given my proximity to Screaming Orgasm Woman upstairs, Dope Smoking Students downstairs, and Sleazy Martial Arts Expert Avec Fiancee Who Every Once In A While Makes A Pass At Me opposite. And that ghastly cat, thanks to whom I live in constant fear. Will it be lying in wait for me on the stairs in the morning, its clear green eyes glinting with evil as it stares me out and refuses to budge? Will it jump out at me when I open the front door, its tail (shudder!) raised in hatred and defiance, as it hisses threateningly at me? The constant fear and uncertainty generated by Evil Cat has raised my blood pressure immeasurably.

And Male Model. Hmmm. Well, I certainly won’t miss the mess and the dirt; the shoes left all over the place; the grubby fingerprints on the glass coffee table, the dog-eared evidence of his having perved all over my art (not porn, thank you very much) books, the sodding fish tank and his dubious methods of cleaning it; the numerous and pointless electrical gadgets…

Although, bless him, the boy has been an absolute sweetheart, counselling me through my recent difficult period, giving me boy advice (which sadly has not helped at all), supporting and encouraging me, feeding me leftover Christmas chocolate and various delicacies from the M&S food hall and generally being very lovely.

But, the time has come for me to continue my slow progression up the Northern Line, further into the centre of London. Hoorah for urbanism! My new living companions will be South African Male Accountant and South African Female Teacher. I dread to think what cringeworthy stereotypes we collectively form of a Jewish household, but they are lovely, around the same age as me, and more importantly, committed to a clean, tidy and hygienic lifestyle.

Now all I need is a new job. And if anyone is offering to make all my dreams come true, please bring me a man with no “baggage”, who will not break my heart.

My Personal Guide to London

2007-01-16T15:59:00.000Z

So, the time has come to depart back to my Belfast life of work, teaching, and the odd pint or a hundred... Have just had an email from a friend bringing me up to speed on the Belfast gossip, and blimy! in my six month absence, people have had babies (1, female), got engaged (1 couple: L knows the man involved!), split up (2 couples), bought houses (3 people), got pregnant (3 people)... Do you see what a normal, productive, family, house, couple world it is? No wonder I don't fit in!!

So here is my idiosyncratic guide to my personal London "must do" list. If you do this, you have, in my opinion, experienced much of the best the capital has to offer. But I expect the other girls will have v different lists...

1) The Southbank

Throbbing cultural heart of London now, rescued from the indignity of being "South of the river". There are great restaurants, bookshops, and of course the NFT, the Hayward Gallery, and the National Theatre. Take a stroll from the London Aquarium to Tate Modern/ the Globe and marvel at the views and everything you can do. Try and ignore the stupid people standing still for money - never get this form of "entertainment".

2) Tate Modern

It gets its own entry. I still don't like the general hang of the paintings -it leaps around too much in time for my own pedantic liking, though they have some fabulous stuff. But the two very contemporary exhibitions I have been to see Pierre Hugyhe and Fischli and Weiss have been revelations - wonderfully curated, accessibly presented, witty, warm, and thought provoking.

3) The National

While we are on a general cultural vibe, must also record just how wonderful the National is these days, especially thanks to Ken's inspired decision to get rid of the traffic by Trafalgar Square. You can sit and have a sneaky fag (if you are still a smoker!) and admire the view, then go in and see some of the best paintings in the world, for free....And have a coffee or a wine in the Rooftop restaurant of the National Portrait Gallery next door, great views over Trafalgar Square and back down to Whitehall. You can fantasise being a sniper and being able to get Gordon Brown!

4) North London

For me, the best bit of London stretches from Camden out to Hampstead and Highgate and back down to Angel. There are vast areas of park (Waterlow, with wonderful views back to the city; and, of course, Hampstead Heath), millions of cafes, bars, and great pubs such as the Flask in Highgate Village - C and my's new local. I just love the vibe of North London, even if in the summer I had the odd nostalgic moment for Putney and the river...

5) Night Buses

Did you know my friend Marty has lived in London for a decade and never taken a night bus??!! To me,this seems strangely symbolic of a fear of risk - how self controlled do you have to be to NEVER EVER have had an evening where lust, or drink, or sheer bloody fun, have prevented you from catching the final tube? Night buses are a godsend. They are a safe way home (usually!) and they criss cross the entire city. You feel strong and independent getting one, and sometimes you have funny conversations. Don't sit next to someone who is asleep though, they might wake up and vomit on you.

6) Buying Sunday's paper on Saturday evening on the way home

And then in my case, never having time to read the thing in the week. But makes you feel part of happening, throbbing metropolis, where the news is always available, and life is lived at great speed

7) El Commandante

My beloved local pub! A shrine to Che Guevara run by two Bolivian political refugees. It's always a fiesta in there.

8) The quirky little museums

Any one of these three: easy to look round, fascinating, and entirely different. Freud Museum; Sir John Soane's Museum; Lord Leighton's House (the last has a quite mind blowing Arabian room)

9) The shopping!

It always overwhelms me, the quality and range of choice you can get. An hour or two in Selfridges or a browse along the King's Road will fulfill all your consumption urges, and blow a hole in your savings.

10) South Ken

One of the venerable London neighbourhoods. My pattern is arrive, go for crepe at the Creperie de South Kensington, go and buy Biba magazine at the French bookshop, watch a film at the Institut Francais. Alternatives include a traipse around the V and A, where you can do everything from admiring some Vivienne Westwood shoes to a piece of 14th century religious art, then a meal at the Cafe Daquise, which as long as you are not with drunk lairy friends and don't bump into your life's mentor, is fab, with proper old world Polish classics - love the blinis in particular.

11) The East End

I'm sneakily adding this a bit late, but I went for dinner with P on Tuesday night and we ended up at a restaurant near Old Street and I'm reminded just what a peculiar and particular part of town this is, with the contrast between the Hoxton trendies (they still exist) and the hundreds of curry houses on Brick Lane (they aren't going anywhere). I have done some of the most unexpected things here - gone to a gallery opening with L and some of her friends, where we critiqued photographs showing terrible poverty and injustice while sipping gin and tonics; gone for a curry at one in the morning with my friend J and a load of guys from the passport office; gone for curry with my ex-boyfriend because his new girlfriend being more health conscious than self doesn't "do" curry - I'm his naan bread whore; spent happy hours wondering around Spitalfields market buying things I don't need but love anyway (like my trusty bobbly scarf).

12) The Electric Ballroom in Camden

Relive your youth! Drink cheap (ish) beer, dance to Tiffany, snog a boy you don't fancy!

The Past, The Present, The Future

2007-01-15T15:51:00.000Z

2 entirely unrelated things have happened in my life that have pushed me towards a series of thoughts about the way I conceive my relationship to the past and the future, and the contradictions, instabilities and complexities of my position. On the surface, these two acts have nothing to do with each other, and one is political, the other personal. Yet they are entirely intertwined. The first is the announcement on 6 December by the bastard Gordon Brown, my personal number one hate figure and regular feature in my pub rants (he has only made one other blog appearance, a miracle)that the government will be placing a "green tax" on flying. This will come into effect on 1 Feb, and shockingly in my opinion, will be charged retroactively i.e. even if you bought your tickets months ago, you will be charged the extra tax, having to pay it in cash at the airport!!! So how then is this green? The environment doesn't give a toss how much you paid to produce the carbon, the carbon has the same effects. So by charging people this supposedly green tax that is meant to curb the behaviour AFTER the behaviour has already been committed, the hypocrisy of the whole enterprise is laid bare. And I shan't even start on Tony "but of course I must fly to Miami" Blair. Of course, my particular venom has been raised on this point because my job is in a location which means to see my family, my friends, to have any semblance of a cultural life, and to engage in any meaningful way with the world, I am forced to get on a plane. Now my flight has doubled in price overnight thanks to the government. Is the government going to use the extra tax raised to build a high speed train link between England and Ireland? I doubt this very much. Flying isn't much fun for anyone unless they are superwealthy - I spent fifteen hours stuffed into cattle class just last week to get back from KL - so the idea that making people pay an extra forty quid will make a difference is laughable - people already put up with so much, that it must be obvious to all but a fool that the benefits of flying to many people far outweigh the disadvantages - getting to see the world, see their relative and friends, experience otherness. To be honest, I think that is all FAR MORE IMPORTANT than some putative future generation. I don't give a fuck that in a hundred years time, other peoples' grandchildren will live in a radically different and more unstable world climitically - I prefer and value my present more. In fact, I value my present ability to fly cheaply and easily over some hypothetical future disaster that may occur to me. And here we move onto the second event. On 6 December (same day as GB made his announcement!!) I smoked my last cigarette. I can't say I will never have another again (post posh meals and house parties are always v tempting) but I have given up, and am determined not to cave in. I have managed the pub with Marty and brunch with D without succumbing. I hope I can cope in Belfast without the support of my friend nicotine, but I'm going to give it a bloody good go. I wonder what my motivation is for this? For my statement about flying was always the one I used to explain my smoking - it is immensely pleasurable, relaxing act, an ideal quick compensation (everything going wrong? a cigarette is always there to comfort and sustain) which enhances most events. Why do I care about some future horrible disease faced with an enjoyable evening in the pub with my friends, of which smoking is an intrinsic element? I find myself puzzled by my own determination to give up smoking. I wonder where the motivation - strong as it is - has come from. For an optimist, I have always rather dreaded the future, which seems to me shadowy, dark, and full of potential problems, and have lived in, nay revelled in the present, in immediacy, and in engagement with present circumstances and situations, underlined by a nostalgia for the past. Maybe this is why I've never felt the urge to buy a home, and my savings are strictly as a rock against "the scary future." Does giving up smoking suggest I am secretly more invested in the future than I know? Still going to bloody fly as much as possible, though. In fact, maybe I shall use the money saved by not smoking to buy extra air tickets!

Big Brother and the Curse of Modern "Celebrity"

2007-01-11T21:09:00.000Z

Aaahh, a new season of Celebrity Big Brother: the tears and the tantrums over shopping lists, the mindlessness of grown adults, desperate for adulation, sitting around a squalid house all day doing bugger all, the inexplicable watchability of such vacuous crap... what is it about this programme that endures?

Since the late-nineties, there has been an explosive growth in our fascination with other people's lives. It started with Candace Bushnell's New York Times(?) column based on her life as a thirty-something singleton.Helen Fielding penned a similar column for the Independent. Both became best-selling books, and were later adapted for the visual media; Bushnell's for the small screen, and Fielding's for the big screen. Around this time, a journalistic vogue for diarised observations in weekend supplements had begun; Kate Muir in The Times on Saturday writing about living as a Briton with her young family in Paris, and later, in Suburban Virginia. This writing became far more intimate and personal when Ruth Picardie serialised her battle with cancer in The Observer, and John Diamond produced a similar account of his own illness in The Times on Saturday (Diamond's story was also showcased in a BBC documentary).

Our bubbling fascination with the lives of media faces facilitated what in another media age may have been regarded as the audacious interviews with the Princess of Wales (Martin Bashir) and the Prince of Wales (Jonathan Dimbleby), and which certainly became apparent in the collective public mourning that followed the death of Diana.

It was not long after this that Big Brother burst onto our screens. Media commentary at the time was focused on the pseudo-psychological experimentational aspect of 12 strangers thrown together, in what would now be a laughable analysis. But we were hooked. I am often scorned at for my long-held assertions that Bg Brother is no merely trash TV, but is in fact an ironic, post-modern look at our contemporary culture. In fact, I would argue that that first screening of Big Brother represented a ivotal moment in what has now descended into our deplorable demand for quick-fix solutions and the worship of virtuality.

The first group of housemates to enter the Big Brother house did so in ignorance of what awaited them at the end of their stay. From the second series onwards, Big Brother's raison d'etre was permanently altered. The "innocence" was lost, and contestants entered in the conscious knowledge of possible fame and fortune.

That Jade Goody could emerge from the Big Brother house a celebrated media figure is central to understanding our shifting perception of modern celebrity. Her "anti-hero" status in the house - being shockingly thick, her resemblance to (in her own words, as well as those of Graham Norton) Miss Piggy, her stripping off in front of the cameras during a drunken game and the fact that her mother was a one-armed former prostitute lesbian with a voice guaranteed to make even the most hardened smoker ditch the ciggies forever - nevertheless secured her what was at the time unprecedented media attention for a Big Brother contestant. Ironically, this was the making of her actual celebrity; now reportedly worth millions (although questionable), she has barely been out of the pages of Heat Magazine since, and has her own column in Now Magazine. She recently launched her own perfume, Ssshh (if only she would!) and having now made the transition from "lay person" to "celebrity" - and modern-day definitions are arguably practically interchangeable - she has earned 3 documentaries of her own, charting her "celebrity" life; one about the opening of her beauty salon, one charting the creation of her perfume, and the third following her search for a personal assistant.

It was the post-Big Brother "success" of La Jade that acted as the catalyst for contemporary notions of celebrity. If an "ordinary" person could become a celebrity - appear in magazines, attend parties with the glitterati and earn a bit of money - well, anyone could do that. Cue a plethora of popular "reality" TV programmes, featuring ordinary people (eg Wife Swap). Furthermore, once the notion of celebrity had been downgraded to the likes of Goody, and even worse, Jodie Marsh - who was propelled into our consciousness following her appearance in a documentary about Essex wives - it twigged that already-existing celebriies could boost their media exposure and attempt to revive flagging careers by appearing on celebrity versions of reality TV shows (I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here and Celebrity Big Brother). Thus our understanding of the concept of celebrity shifted again; you're hardly goin gto get the likes of Madonna on a show like that, so you end up with disgraced entertainers with mental health problems (Michael Barrymore), socialites (Tara Palmer-Tomkinson) and even politicians (George "Best Mate of Sadaam" Galloway). "Celebrity", then, has moved from being about glamour, mystique, a projected, controlled image, to putting it all out there, neuroses and all (Barrymore again, and - famously - Vanessa Feltz), playing the new rules with the media to win over the public.

The irony of this is not lost on the producers of Big Brother. The inclusion in last year's Celebrity Big Brother of Chantelle Houghton, a "non-celebrity" who folled her fellow "celebrity" housemates into thinking she was an actual "celebrity" was a self-consciously humorous tongue-in-cheek nod to modern day celebrity. Houghton went on to win the show, emerging from the Big Brother house a bona fide celebrity. Jade Goody herself has entered this year's Celebrity Big Brother house, this time as a celebrity. Her mother - herself a pseudo-celebrity, following her recent appearance on another reality TV Show, Extreme Makeover, in which she was filmed having drastic plastic surgery - also appeared in the Celebrity Big Brother house this year.

Proof indeed that we are all "celebrities" now. Websites such as YouTube offer instant worldwide coverage to anyone who cares to expose themselves in this way. But where will it end? Once you have a film premiere full of Jades and Jodies and no one else, you have to wonder - what is celebrity?

To me, the celebrity reality TV shows, in which celebrities are essentially selling themselves rather than the talents that have brought them celebrity status in the first place, are both symptomatic and a driving force of a modern culture in which core values and principles have been eroded in favour of style. Look at New Labour. Look at the Cameron-led Tories. It's endemic. I despair of this society that teaches us that quick-fix solutions are the answer to our woes. Flabby tummy? Forget daily sit-ups, just have a little tummy tuck during your lunch hour! An emerging generation of poorly-educated barely literate teens? Just turn any old institution into a university, lower national exam levels and hey presto, we have 20% (or whatever the statistic is) more university graduates than 30 years ago, when it actually meant something to have a degree!

Where will it all end? And yet in the meantime, I do find Big Brother so very compelling to watch...

Things to Sulk About

2007-01-10T21:59:00.000Z

1. Bills bills bills bills bills
2. Male Model and Friend are hogging the widescreen TV in the lounge with their puerile X-Box antics, preventing me from watching Desperate Housewives - my sole purpose for getting through the day. They have been playing an imbecilic football game for the last TWO HOURS ("Oh maa-ate! That was offside!"; "goo-aaal!!!" and much football chanting, etc
The strap on my wooden wedge platforms has broken, and the shoe repair people say there is nothing they can do
I dropped a weight on my finger at the gym (again) and it really hurts
I am missing a couple of talks at Jewish Book Week that I REALLY wanted to go to (the Judith "Gender Trouble" Butler/Julia Kristeva and the Linda Grant/Samir El-Youssef ones), as I will be running the LA Marathon
I have not started training for said marathon, which takes place in less than 2 months, and it is constantly cold, dark, windy and rainy, so once again, I shall be horribly unprepared
I love Tsubi (which has just changed its name, inexplicably, to Ksubi ++) jeans, but their sizing is UNFAIR. The Scooters fit me fine, but I cannot get the Lean Beans paast my thighs. My entire day has centred around this quest, with much grunting and swearing in the loos at work and extra thigh and gluteal exercises at the gym, but to no avail. And now I have resorted to the comfort of TWO bars of chocolate, which is obviously going to prove v unhelpful. Also, Ksubi jeans come with a highly disconcerting label, reading along the lines of "holes, holes, holes, we love holes, the more the merrier, the bigger the better. Our jeans are designed to rip". Surely this is cop-out excuse for badly-made jeans? I resent buying "premium denim" that will inevitably become unwearable rag. Gorgeous jeans, though
Lust-Object Man has not called, adding weight to my developing suspicion that I am indeed walking man repellent, in a mere 2 hours of whose company a budding flirtation can be irreversibly destroyed

On Beauty

2007-01-10T05:45:00.000Z

It is one of life’s greatest injustices that my talents as a potential beauty editor remain as yet dormant and undiscovered. However, the advantage of being a blog contributor is that I get to inflict my knowledge and expertise (tongue firmly in cheek, here!) on all who may care to read on.

(Note: I did consider expanding my mini guide further into clothing and fashion buys, and to this end, I ventured into the West End after Saturday's gym session (all in the name of research, you understand). However, with the sales on and my bank balance already strained a week into the new year, this proved too dangerous. I finally had to abandon the operation when I nearly got into a catfight with a young teen in Topshop over the last pair of silver foil-esque leggings (yes, I know, it was a v foolish move; I have now ordered them online – much safer). )

(Note 2: Echoing the words of Nigella some years ago, when she wrote the beauty column in the Saturday Times magazine (for which she was completely unqualified, and which read like an advertorial for Eve Lom and Laura Mercier), this study is necessarily subjective; these are merely the products that work for me.)

So: here are my top tips:

Best Cleanser: Eve Lom. I have it on good authority from my friend J, who is rather partial to her facials, that EL herself is “a bit of a superbitch” – but no matter; the woman is a skincare guru and her cleanser – which I have been using since 2000 – is simply outstanding, even if you can’t be arsed to do that tiresome and time-consuming 7-step skin pinching thing every night

Best Moisturising Products for Face and Eyes: A tricky one, this. As I have previously indicated, I am the ultimate consumer. I adore shopping, I love acquiring new things, and I am a total sucker for anything with pretty packaging that promises to make you look younger and more beautiful. As a consequence, my bathroom resembles Selfridges’ make-up hall and my pores are clogged with useless chemicals.

These are my favourites:

OC8: Sentational. Mops up the T-Zone oil that is so irritatingly characteristic of combination skin such as mine. You can use it over foundation, as an alternative to moisturiser, and at a mere £10, it is a bargain. (Bloody difficult to get hold of, though.)
Nars: Balancing Moisture Lotion. Just a great moisturiser that makes your skin all lovely and soft and smooth and plump. And I adore the Nars brand.
Nars: Super-Acqua Serum (or similarly entitled). An outstandingly brilliant product. Just amazing. It's made up of 85% water (I told you I believe everything I'm told by beauty experts), and while one may wonder why one has to pay £65 for a small tub of something that comes out of any tap for free, I can assure you that this product has worked wonders on my ravaged-by-constant-flying skin. I never fly without it, and nothing else even remotely measures up. Really.
Eve Lom Day Cream: This is what I am currently using. With its all-important SPF 15, it provides my skin with the extra moisture the cruel, windy winter British climate has robbed me of. Plus, as my skin continues to age at an alarming rate, I find myself increasingly drawn towards Eve Lom's firmly-held belief that we don't necessarily need every product all the time - ie, just a little bit of help here and there. A thrifty piece of advice if ever I heard one
Eve Lom TLC Cream: Simultaneously a dose of Vitamin C, a skin-hangover cure, a cheater's alternative to 8 hours of sleep, a flying remedy and an undereye cream. And god knows I am in desperate need of all the above. Superb.
Nars: Nourishing Eye Cream: Haven't used it for ages, but love the product

Best Cheaters' Products to a Glowing Complexion: V predictable verdict here, but here goes:

Nars: Brightening Serum: Fabulous product. It is slightly irridescent, and can be used all over the face, mixed with foundation or just used as a highlighter. Oh, and it's Nars (again)...
Becca: Does a similar product, and I used to use the white one, until Space NK stopped stocking it and I have not been able to find it since (grrr). Nothing has ever quite measured up to the Becca highlighter
Clarins: Beauty Flash Balm - and the one for eyes as well. A staple of any make-up bag. I usually use it to freshen up after a flight, especially if I have fallen asleep and half my face has rubbed off onto my inflight pillow - it cleverly gives the illusion of a happy, healthy glow
Origins: Never a Dull Moment – a zingy, zesty scrub; great for first thing in the morning. Gives you a fresh glow
Yves Saint Laurent: Touche Eclat. Rightly a cult classic. Just watch out for camera flashes – if overapplied, it can make you look old and ghostly in photos

Best Blemish Zapper: Back to Eve Lom. Her Rescue Mask is an absolute life saver for oily blemishes and red blotchiness. Her Dynaspot works similarly, but is applied to specific blemishes. I would not be without either product

Best Make-Up Bases: Laura Mercier, all the way. I don’t even use foundation. Her tinted moisturiser – with SPF 15 offers me enough coverage (as I have no desire to look like a masked Oompa Loompa, like my sister), and used with the concealers (see below), you can create a beautifully flawless base

Best Concealer: I use Laura Mercier’s Secret Concealer under my eyes. As someone who never sleeps and who is fast aging, it takes a miracle product to conceal the dark circles under my eyes, and this concealer is just excellent. For blemishes and red patches, I use Laura Mercier’s Secret Camouflage – brilliant product, as you can mix two shades together to match your skin tone. I also recently tried YSL’s undereye concealer, which I thought was good, but looked a bit caked on – I am not that bloody old, after all

Best Eyebrow Shadow: Laura Mercier (again). She does these great dual-shade palettes, and I use the auburn one – after years of eyebrow plucking disasters that I was only ever able to rectify with grey or brown shades, I have finally found the perfect colour for my hair and skin tone. It lasts for ages as well

Best Blushers, Eyeshadows and Eyeliners: I go for colour, quality and brand-funkiness, so it’s Nars and Shu Uemura all the way, with my current preference for Shu Uemura’s cheek colours (way more flattering shades for me) and eyeliners (they glide on beautifully, and I also love their Ice-Pink white eyeliner for inner eyelids – a far better colour and texture than Nars’ version) and Nars’ eyeshadows, especially the dual palettes. They have funkier colours and I love the quirky names

Best Lip Colours: I don’t wear lipstick (although I’m on the hunt for the perfect red; not an easy quest when you are a pale-skinned redhead and red lipsticks tend to make you look like a clown), but I adore lipgloss and my home and office are littered with dozens of tubes of the stuff. I tend to wear one at a time, for months on end, before making a new discovery and switching my allegiance. Currently, I’m wearing MAC’s Plushglass in Fulfilled, and I love it

Best Nail Polish: For sheer cult status alone, it has to be Chanel. Remember Rouge-Noir in the mid-nineties? And the recent, limited edition Black Satin? Fabulous. (Little-known fact here, which causes much amusement to friends who discover this for the first time, but I am actually a qualified nail technician! I took a course about 10 years ago, before acrylics and gels etc became fashionable and I had outrageously long and terribly impractical fingernails that I had pierced)

Best Beauty Treatment: People absolutely balk when I recommend this above every possible beauty treatment in the world – and my mother was particularly horrified and disgusted when I told her this was my number one beauty treatment – but I swear by colonic hydrotherapy. Not only is it the best detoxifying treatment (which thus improves the condition of your skin and hair), but once you have cleared out your colon, you absorb nutrients more effectively, which will ultimately improve the health and condition of all your organs. Once your insides are healthy, you will look fabulous on the outside, too (unless you’re hideously and irredeemably ugly, that is)

Best Hair Products:

Shampoo: My hairdresser is banging on about Kerastase at the moment, so I’ll give it a mention, although I haven’t tried it myself. The best shampoo I ever used was truly excellent: Philip B’s White Truffle Shampoo, but I absolutely cannot justify the £35 price tag. Currently, I use one of the following: Phillip Kingsley (I have several of his ranges), Burt’s Bees (ditto), Bumble & Bumble. All are adequate; it’s really the conditioner you have to take care over
Conditioner: I absolutely love Aveda’s Madder Root colour conditioner for auburn hair. Love it. Despite the alarming and unwelcome emergence of the odd white hair, I have not yet had to colour my hair (since the Blue Hair and Pink Hair and – briefly – blonde hair disasters when I was at university), as this gives my hair the helping hand it needs
Hair Styling Products: Sebastian for straightening and Tigi for post blow drying funking up. I use Elizabeth Arden’s Eight-Hour Cream in emergencies

And I dread to think what my bathroom cabinet would be worth if I auctioned it off...

Immaculate (Mis)Conception

2007-01-09T12:05:00.000Z

I cannot settle, cannot fall asleep, have been unable to sleep for the last few weeks. Every time I lay down, I feel the heavy unease deep within, the stirring in my belly. Something is not right.

A glance through my diary reveals nothing. I frantically rip through the pages, trying to jolt my memory into recognition. Still nothing. The fast pace of my city life, the hundreds of people I encounter each week, the whirl of my social life – it’s all a timeless blur to me, and I can’t attribute any dates to these events.

Each day is a struggle. I feel the life growing and dying inside of me, the heart beating sometimes with hope, sometimes anxiety, pulsating with the energy of a life that wants to be lived, felt, savoured, experienced… and whose potential I continue to suppress.

I have tested it, just to be sure. It says there is nothing there, but I just know. I can feel it. I am swelling up, rounded and swollen from my wounds, heavy with the burden. It is growing daily and I am powerless to halt it.

My body has become detached from my mind. My hair, a voluminous bouffant of frizz and unruliness, refuses to co-operate with my GHDs. My blood sugar levels are uncontrollable, defying the attempts of the Guggel herbs that have worked so well thus far. Despite my inner resolve, my hand repeatedly reaches for the left-over Christmas jar of Celebrations chocolates, the pile of empty wrappers covering the top few inches of the bin, a testament to my loss of control.

Though perceptible perhaps only to myself, I am beginning to resemble a mid-90s pop star, my rounded belly nestled between the waistband of skin-tight jeans and a tight t-shirt that barely covers the growing mound. I wonder which spineless cad has left me in this nauseous pit of worry and destruction, and it makes me yearn for a long-forgotten time, when sex was still unconditional, non-politicised and altogether more innocent.

The stirring inside me is unrelenting. The contractions and the nausea and the pain and the anxiety, and I am floored by its intensity. Whatever the outcome now, it will have touched my life, etched another indelible trauma upon my soul, added another defensive layer for the next poor sod who may or may not come along to peel off. I will be forever bound to the deluded sod who thought he could project all his fantasies and ideals onto me, who fought to stop me from running, but who then ran himself; sprinted, disappeared, melted, disintegrated, until it was as though his physical self had never existed. Except for the painful, pulsating evidence that remains inside me.

In the morning I awake. The contractions and bloatedness have gone, replaced by intense, crippling fatigue. A familiar sensation of dread I have experienced many times before, but not for nearly 4 months now. I look down in time to see the familiar dark-red droplets stain the toilet bowl.

It is back.

I got my period.

I am not pregnant.

What the *%!@???

2007-01-05T12:37:00.000Z

I soooo need to rant about this: Lembit Opik and Gabriela Cheeky-Girl??? Huh????? How is that even possible? No disrespect to either of them (except him; he is clearly having a mid-life crisis and can't believe his luck. And her, actually - I mean for god's sake the girl released a song called The Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum) with her scarily itentical twin sister - but each to their own, I guess), but how are they both so loved up after like a week, when they have nothing in common? I mean, can you really see her having fun at the Science Museum, or discussing the future of the Lib Dems with him?

I am normal and functional by comparison (remember, we are pretending the food diary and the vitamins don't exist), and yet I am STILL a living, breathing man-repellent. Why? Why? WHYYYYY???

I'm off to buy my books now, so that I can morph into Andrea Dworkin and pretend I'm not bovvered by any of this.

I Want, I Want, I Want

2007-01-05T12:20:00.000Z

Right: Time to engage with one of my overwhelmingly many new year's resolutions. I vow to read more literature of intellectual substance - erm, just as soon as I have finished this week's Heat Magazine.

Here's my wish list:

Cristina Sommers, Who Stole Feminism?: How Women Have Betrayed Women
Ariel Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs: Woman and the Rise of Raunch Culture
Andrea Dworkin, Intercourse
Andrea Dworkin, Heartbreak: The Political Manifesto of a Feminist Militant (this title sounds like one I could have written myself, actually!

Typical!

2007-01-04T08:52:00.000Z

So I too have a typical New Year's Eve tale to relate, illustrating only too well the problems of over determination associated with this date about which L and D have both blogged previously. Sydney, my location for New Year, is probably the New Year Eve's capital of the world. They celebrate the New Year with not one, but two firework displays! And, what's more, P, my sister's boyfriend, had bought a group of us tickets to an island in Sydney harbour, Clarke Island, from which one can look back and see the opera house, the city skyline, the harbour bridge, and the harbour filled with boats. It was ridiculously romantic - an island in the setting sun, the harbour bridge in the distance, a live jazz band, doing all the old numbers (Besame Mucho, By the Sea, The Look of Love etc), hundreds of boats with lights twinkling in the harbour, fantastic fireworks, pink fizzy wine to be slurped continiously (parents refused to let me buy pink champagne, saying it was a waste of money buying a ninety dollar champagne to be drunk out of plastic cups. Sometimes I wish my parents weren't so bloody pragmatic about absolutely everything. Still, did manage to buy four bottles of pink stuff for ninety dollars, so hurrah). All was fine til midnight, when my sister, under the influence of pink fizzy wine, and being a sensitive soul really, burst into tears. She told us about a boy she had been nursing this year who died of bowel cancer aged 23, and told us she can't not believe in life after death given her job and what she sees, and that she is very upset with Mum for wanting to give her body away to medical research when she dies! She and Mum sobbed on the ferry all the way back to Circular Quay, surrounded by drunk Aussies chanting "four-nil, four-nil" (I am so unsporty only realised this was an Ashes reference when someone started asking me if I enjoyed cricket).
Mum and Dad then left for their hotel, and we began the long walk home (no taxis to be had). A, my sister, was still a bit tired and emotional on the walk home, which was a bit horrendous (crowds of drunken youths, rubbish strewn everywhere). She and P began to bicker and were obviously building up to a big row, so I left them slightly and walked ahead. Alas, the group decided not to return to my sister's flat for sparklers, as has been planned, but to another friend's flat. I meanwhile returned to our alloted meeting point, A and P's flat. Therefore I was left, sans phone, sans key, in a road full of drunk people, for over an hour, unable to get into their flat, with awful men bellowing at me to "cheer up, it's New Year!". I was able finally to get a security guard to ring my parents' hotel room (at 3:30am!!); my Dad rang P, who ran back home, full of apologies. What a crap start to the New Year and one that felt like a terrible metonym of my life, as I begin 2007 drunk, alone, feeling lonely and upset, as streams of happy people go onto a party somewhere else.

2006: The Round-Up

2007-01-03T20:42:00.000Z

OK. Have stopped sulking and feeling sorry for self long enough to produce a summary of some of my highlights of 2006. Voila:

Greatest achievement of 2006: (revealing my core vanity and vacuousness here, but) getting down to a size 6. Only 49 remaining aspirations to achieve now on my list of 50

Biggest regret of 2006: I don’t believe in regrets, but if I did, I guess it would have to be the untimely demise of my breasts (see above)

Best fashion moment of 2006: the welcome return of puffballs, ra-ras, fishnets, leggings, legwarmers, fingerless fishnet gloves, skulls, metallics, and various other items that I can foresee looking back at the photos of myself in a year’s time thinking "what the fuck?", but can momentarily get away with

Worst fashion moment of 2006: accidentally exposing my left nipple to a room full of sexually repressed male colleagues

Most careless and gruesome accident of 2006: nearly cutting off my little finger with a kitchen knife while attempting to de-stone an avocado, having bloodcurdling screams ignored by selfish neighbours and having to be rushed to A&E by Male Model

Most fun and inspired Sunday afternoon activity in 2006: hosting a Topshop party at home – shopping, champagne, girlfriends and 2 style advisers, all without stepping out of your front door – it doesn’t get much better than that

Most important items lost in 2006, due to innate – and probably incurable - scattiness: make-up bag (the little one, containing everyday essentials; total value – around £300), running trainers that had run 2 marathons in, Laura Mercier eyebrow brush that I have tried to replace several times, but annoyingly all the Laura Mercier Counter assistants in department stores across London are denying ever existed, mobile phone (in black cab, last week)

Most carefree and childish moment of hilarity and wild abandon of 2006: dancing round K’s kitchen with S, pretending to be Maria Von Trapp, belting out the entire soundtrack of The Sound of Music, while simultaneously taking the piss out of Andrew Lloyd Webber. The entire weekend.

Best magazine of 2006: Grazia, hands down. But hey it used to be Heat Magazine, so I surely deserve some credit for at least ensuring that I have now progressed to reading trashy mags intended for my own age group, and which contain some news items that don’t include Z-list celeb sightings

Celeb sightings in 2006: (excluding MPs): Russell Brand (swoon! – at Gilgamesh), India Knight (also at Gilgamesh, on a separate occasion. I am clearly either v trendy or frequent v pretentious N.London soirees), Michael "utter fruitcake and pointless waist of space" Barrymore (in Hampstead), One of the Maria contenders from How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria (in Belsize Park), Princess Beatrice (at the Tatler Black Book party)

Most Memorable Diane and Michael Moment in 2006: When they won that award for This Week at that pointless Channel 4 political awards ceremony, and stood on stage gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes, with Michael making some lame joke about people watching porn. Not as good as the Diane-Michael moment on 7 July last year when they were deconstructing the London bombings, and Diane was getting carried away going on about how she bumped into some of the "mayor’s officials" after the Live 8 Concert, and how they – and I quote – ended up "drinking champagne in a top London hotel"… at which point, Portillo interjected, to quip: "just another day in socialist Britain!" It was one of those classic moments you couldn’t script. When oh when will those 2 get it on?

I have countless resolutions for 2007. Here are a few of them:

Get a new job. ASAP.
Stop compulsively plucking facial hairs (my friend S is reading this, and I know she will be applauding!)
Tone down aggressiveness, not swear so much and develop aura of calm and patience (I give this one about a week)
Not argue with sisters (doing v well so far, as they are both abroad at moment, and neither of them is talking to me anyway)
Reduce visits to Topshop to maximum of 2 a month. When making clothes purchases, carefully consider practicality and necessity of each item, before making balanced decision and returning to store the following day, rather than calling every branch of every store in London with Grazia Magazine page references, making unreasonable demands for reservation and delivery, then rushing to store, knocking down innocent shoppers in aggressive determination to bag said item, which will invariably lie shamefully in dark corner of cupboard
Stop obsessing over weight and never ever ever allow food diary or multi-tiered daily vitamin holder to be seen in public again. Never admit existence of either to any living soul (blog readers aside!)
Reduce gym sessions to maximum 5 times a week and for no longer than 2 hrs at a time. Substitute 2 sessions for street jazz dance classes
Not run a mile every time a man shows interest in me (it doesn’t happen v often, so shouldn’t be too difficult to achieve!)
Stop being complete slave to trashy culture. Read more books and articles that are more intellectually weighty than Heat Magazine. Attend more theatre productions and art exhibitions without having to be dragged there by F (who is cultural goddess)

And so begins another year…