Tis the season to be Jolly.

I don’t think I have ever believed in Santa. It just seemed so remarkably inefficient that my parents would buy my presents and give them to a stranger to return them on Christmas Eve. Inefficient and beyond reasonable caution. It’s not just Santa I don’t believe in. I don’t believe in Christmas. I don’t mean that in an agnostic or even atheist way. I believe in the birth of Christ our Saviour. I believe in a season of goodwill to all and peace on earth. I just don’t believe in Disney, or Coca-Cola, or the need to send everyone I have ever met a Christmas card, to deck my house out in boughs of throwaway tat, or to eat myself into a sugar induced coma, or to buy shit no-one wants made by modern day slaves in Bangladesh wrapped up in a needless waste of tree, I don’t see the point in butchering a tree to stick in your house for a few weeks at most, or any of the other ludicrous and appalling behaviour excused with the rousing chorus of “but it’s Christmas!”.
I have in recent years become adept at avoiding Christmas. In the past I have worked in children’s homes and who could deny children in care a well staffed Christmas with all the trimmings? I’ve volunteered in homeless shelters, I once supervised a paedophile for a very long and painful week, and this year I had a severe bout of flu. Being bed bound gave me time to reflect on a few things. I realised I got exactly what I asked for. Nothing.
I learnt at a young age if someone asked you what you wanted for Christmas the correct, parent-approved, response was “I don’t know.” There was absolutely no point in being honest and saying Barbie’s Dream Castle when in fact you were going to be presented with a second-hand Sindy with matted hair whose head continually fell off. Christmas is so much easier when you’re very young and genuinely anything at all is amazing. I had some pretty ace presents – I was given many Sylvanian Families (more to my father’s unending pleasure than mine). Actually come to think of it, Sylvanian Families are the only presents I can remember appreciating. I was once given a bike I never wanted because my brother had begged and begged for a bike. I wasn’t allowed to ride it on the road because it was too dangerous, on the pavement because it would annoy pedestrians or in the local park because it was against the by-law. Which left our garden. And that was too small. Then there was the Commodore C64 (that’s a computer to anyone under 25) my brother really wanted. This was a joint present that lived in his room and I wasn’t allowed to use. When I was in a massive George Orwell phase of literature I asked everyone for more books. I was duly given some pious stories and the Jackie Annual. As I get older the presents get worse. As a teenager I was handed a yellow bra with the words “I know you won’t like it.” Why the fuck did you buy it then? Spot cream. What a pissing insult. A suitcase at 18 as a massive hint to leave home. My mother came back from a trip to Australia with a summer cardigan (yes ,Christmas is still in winter over here) with 8ft long arms. I really liked the colour but how the fuck are you supposed to wear that? The following year it was an appalling tie dye skirt in a size 16. I was, and still am a size 8. “Put some elastic in it,” she said. Oh, and there was a shirt to go with it. A totally clashing shade of yellow, possibly mustard, with a flower print on, and ribbons sewn in. And sequins. Let’s not forget the sequins. And of course it was too big. Prior to that she gave me make up which would have suited Naomi Campbell. It was cheap no-brand make up undoubtedly tested on animals and possibly small Vietnamese street children and I can only assume was designed for much darker skin than my own. This was the year my sister in law came for Christmas, although at this time she had only been my brother’s girlfriend for five minutes. She received a nice hat and scarf set from my mother. I got the shit make up for a black woman. This was the year I decided honesty was the best policy. I tried diplomatically to say I appreciated the thought, but it probably wouldn’t suit my pale almost translucent skintone. I was told I was an ungrateful bitch and wouldn’t be getting presents again. I took the make- up back to the shop and got £5 in exchange. I spent it on gin.
Last year I had to go with her on Christmas Eve to get my own present. I had the same age old problem of not being able to think of anything to ask for that I might reasonably get so what I ended up with more ill fitting underwear and pointed her in the direction of Lush. Lush, over run with over-helpful shop assistants. They put green stickers on the vegan products. They write ‘vegan’ on the vegan products. What did she buy? Honey bath soak. Honey. Bees died for that.
This year I saw my mother some time recently. I don’t know, September? July? Recently enough. She said, “Do you still wear that nice stone bracelet I gave you?” Being a pedant two words jumped out at me: “still” and “nice”. I don’t wear any jewellery ever nevermind about “still” wearing jewellery. Furthermore my mother has never given me anything “nice” so I really didn’t know what she was talking about. I managed to deflect the question and not say what I was actually thinking but she’s still offended I don’t wear whatever awful thing she is talking about. Nevermind how offended I am she took all the gold jewellery my grandmother left me before she died and gave it to my sister in law. A total fucking stranger. She’s never met my grandmother. I’ve only met her twice. And she has my birthright.
So this year when my mother asks what do I want and I still have my 7 year old self’s instinct to say “I don’t know” I managed to think of something. “Oh I saw a lovely diary in the National Gallery. It has a Renaissance painting on each page.” “Oh you don’t want that.” I hate her fucking habit of telling me what I do and don’t want. Maybe this is why I just can’t be bothered. “That’s boring. I’ll just give you money.” Just. I don’t mean ‘just’ as in a small amount. I mean ‘just’ as in no fucking effort involved. How boring. I literally got a cheque at the beginning of December and nothing else.
So I’ve figured it out now. All I want for Christmas is for my mother to pretend to give a shit about me for long enough to work out who I am. Or maybe she really is under the delusion her daughter is a fat black woman with a penchant for hideous tie-dye.

Not waving but drowning

Today I went to Buckingham Palace and saw the Queen. I waved at her, she waved at me. Well, she waved in my general direction. She wasn’t really looking where she was waving.

Later I realised I actually do fancy Mr N, the maths teacher, and not just because he’s the only man I know that I don’t already live with.

Later still, I had a drunken shower and noticed the bath taps looked like monsters’ eyes and nearly fell out the bath entirely.

I’m not yet sure which of these three things will become the most significant in the futre. I like to think it’s the bath taps. I was also asked to ‘save the date’ for a wedding. A wedding. My life is so far beyond being able to comprehend eternal married bliss I have yet to find a way to say ‘congratulations’ that doesn’t sound entirely sarcastic.

Anyways, we need some catching up. Since giving up on the boy whose name doesn’t rhyme with anything I also managed to give up on pretty much everything else. I saw him a few weeks later at the Offset festival. I was with 10 hot young indie boys. He was on his own and had dubious piss stains on his jeans by 3pm and was as drunk as a judge. We got on amazingly well. A little too well. Oh no! no kissing or anything like that. But after how badly it all ended we actually talked, and drank, and laughed and he kissed me on the cheek on the way home.

Since then I tried Speed Dating. Disaster. I tried Speed Hating. Disater. I tried speed wine drinking. Drunken Disaster. I had a date with my ex Rob the Knob that definitely wasn’t a date but I defintiely do still fancy him. Gardener Boy (my lust of last year) asked me out on a non-specified date which never materialised. A guitarist of an upcoming rock band also asked me out on a non-specified date which has also yet to materialise. And Stalker Boy is still stalking. What ho. But with a disatrous love life comes some funky homemade jumpers. Kissing goes down knitting goes up. It’s a strange karma seesaw.

And of course no story is a story without a dilemma. I’m not sure why but about every 7-10 days I feel the need to text the boy whose name does not rhyme with anything (lets just call him Richard). I think it idle curiosity. Will he text back? Do I care if he doesn’t? I have a destructive personality, what can I say? Rather shocked this time to have a sustained textual conversation with him. He had a hangover, I had a hangover, it was after all a Sunday. He was thinking of ‘debauchery’ (sex, in case you’re slow on the uptake). I’m not sure if he was thinking of me and debauchery in the same context or inidentally. I was invited to come over and ‘do his cleaning’. I was too hungover to entertain any such thoughts. He tried to be persuasive. I have no idea whether he wanted me to go over or whether he just wondered if I would. I didn’t. I sent one message since then and no answer. Hmmm. So now what?

And now what with Mr N, the maths teacher? I mean, he’s hot. But he’s a teacher. And I have to work with him. Eek.

And what about gardener boy? What about anything? Pass the Shiraz, I need a think. No, drink. No, think.

There's something wrong with me.

I'm broken inside.

Lovin's for fools

I asked the ether, fate, the air, luck, anything that would listen, for a man to keep me company. “All I want,” I told the wall, “is man taller than me. Dark hair, dark eyes, a sense of humour, good taste in music and must like a drink. Well a few drinks. I just want a heavy drinker really.” And fate gave me Richard. He was EXACTLY all of those things. And his name doesn’t rhyme with anything. Perfect.
So we met in a dark dingy bar. I was wearing a ginger beard, you were dressed as a sailor. We had fun. We had vodka. We had Jagermeister. We had champagne. We had absinthe. I had a hangover. And we remade Jaws. Aaaaarrrrr shark! But I wasn’t sure if you liked me. I gave you a peck on the cheek and got nothing back.
So we both like vodka. How about we go to a vodka bar? A vodka bar made of ice. The bar was made of ice, the tables are made of ice, the chairs are made of ice, the glasses are made of ice. Its all ice. Except the vodka. So Richard and an over-zealous barman poured another 8-9 shots down my throat. Its time to leave. I’m a bit fuzzy. We have conversation. I’m not sure what about but it ends up with a lot of kissing. And very nice kissing too.
Date three: not really a date as we had both already arranged to go to the same festival weeks ago with our friends. I get there (late of course) and he’s wasted. Hmph. Pretty soon I’m wasted too and we have the best time ever. It rains so of course we snuggle up together. He kisses me again. Its so lovely. We agree all the shit bands are shit and all the good bands are in fact amazing. He has a perfect taste in music. He has beautiful eyes that always look a little bit sad. But he always smiles at me.
Date four: an acoustic night. I am almost on time. Richard looks ill. Is he ill? Or just unhappy I don’t know. We see an acoustic singer with an aocustic guitar and groan to ourselves slightly. Initially; it turns out he stopped my heart beating. “Go on love her, love her forever. I won’t tell her I told you to… lovin’s for fools, lovin’s for fools.” I wish those words were about me. I look at Richard and I notice he has melted too. Those sad eyes are weeping, but I doubt its for me. Not the most exicting date in the world. Emotive.
A week later: I get us free tickets to a television recording of a comedy show. We’re restricted to free nights out now cos we’re both so poor. And sober. After weeks of heavy drinking we both need to give our livers a rest. I was late, of course. We only just make it into the studio on time. Richard is trying not to show it but I can see he’s a bit annoyed. At the end of the night he asks “so did we have fun sober?” why yes. We did. “see? That’s another thing I’ve got going for me.” Ahhhh so you are trying to impress me. I like.
Next time: feels like I’m moving more into girlfriend territory. It’s the most uninspiring date going. We’re both skint and we’re both house hunting. I’m invited to sit in a pub in Bethnal Green waiting for Richard to look at house. The twist is we’ve both decided to have a sober night. It only takes him fifteen minutes, which was a blessed relief. But in that time I’ve had a pint of Guinness. I feel like I’ve been let into his real life now. House hunting, sobreity, talking about work. He tells me about the death of his father. And his ex. Actually he talks about her a lot. We head to Brick Lane and sit on the pavement with cans of cider and he puts his arm round me and its all just perfect.
I promised to cook for Richard. We’ve never really eaten together. Well, we never really eat. Just drink. So I go to a whole world of effort to make sushi and bake cakes. This is the first time he’s been to my house. This is the first time he’ll stay over. Fingers crossed. This is the first chance I really have to ask him if we can move this on. I want to be more than just your date. I want to be your girlfriend. Except… I have noticed you talk about yourself. You talk about your ex. You talk about your family arguments and you’ve only ever asked me “want a drink?” That is a bloody good question, ask it any time. Well, I’m excited. We meet at the train station. No kiss hello today. I’m worried about the rice. Richard wants to drink in the sun while it still shines. I just want to talk to him. In the park he talks about his ex, a fight with his brother and the loss of his dad. I know why your eyes are sad but I don’t want to. I pretend they’re not. You make hurtful quips and you don’t even realise they hurt. I have nothing to say. I can’t think of anything that won’t betray my hurt.
Back at mine you ask if I’ve stopped sulking. Sulking? You’re insensitive. I can’t say that. I don’t want you to walk away. I just like you so much. So much more than you like me. An uneven yoke will never plough a straight line. I know this, but I don’t want to. Those big round eyes bore into me as you make another hurtful quip. “Do you like anything about me?” I ask. I had to. This isn’t the night I planned. I see you visibly shrink and quietly say “yeah, I like you”. I start wittering. “I need some reassurance you fancy me even a little bit”, “I want to move this on” “I just want to know if you feel the same.” You’re so defensive. Am I that unfair? Is it wrong to ask? You give nothing back. “Isn’t it too early for all this?” you say. Yes, it is. I’m not ready to settle down and see you every day and let you rule my life. But I don’t like the way every time I see you I fear its going to be the last. Of course I can’t say this. I can’t say anything. I don’t know what I’m saying but every time I open my mouth it’s the wrong thing. I’m such a bad therapist. I work in communication and I still can’t say the right things. I thought we had kissed and made up. We defintiely kissed. A lot. Kissing is easier than talking. But on the doorstep I ask “will I see you over the weekend?” “I dunno,” you say because ‘no’ is too difficult. Its fine I understand. “Its too much pressure. I don’t know what I want”. That means you do, you just don’t know if you should say it.
That’s it. I got what I asked for. I got my perfect man and I fucked it up and I don’t even know how. He didn’t speak to me for days. In the end I had to ask. Again. I wrote what I thought had happened. I wrote I pushed him and I didn’t mean to, I just wanted clarity. We don’t have to change the way things are as long as I know they are still there. He wrote back. His last girlfriend was bipolar and I am exactly the same. I am insecure and irrational, and what? Needy? Too much too soon? Well, Richard, I am sorry your dad died. I’m sorry your ex-girlfriend was too difficult for you. I’m sorry you feel you wasted your life with her. You didn’t. And I’m not her. I’m not irrational or insecure. I knew you didn’t want me, not how I wanted you. I’m sorry this is too soon for you. Not that I am pushing you. You’re just not ready. I cannot be your stepping stone to hover on until your life begins again. I’m not a magic sponge to suck up all your pain at half time. I’m just a person. A normal person, not a bipolar person, a normal person who wanted to be loved. All of this is fine. We were unevenly yoked, it cannot be. I have moved on.

Fear of Falling

“I just like you too much”. That’s probably the worst reason I’ve ever been given when a boy has broken up with me. What does it even mean? Surely the point is to like someone, yeah?Its right up there with “you’re just too cool for me” pffff. Yeah. I am so intimidatingly brilliant. Its obviously so cool to knit, bake and stroke cats. My 70 year old neighbour is just way rocking. Hmph.
Well, now I know exactly what “I like you too much” means. I like you way more than you like me. I like you so much it hurts a little bit. Every time I see you I have to catch my breath. I think about you all the time. I replay all the thing we’ve done together, and imagine all the things we might do in the future. I have imaginary conversations with you. I had a dream about you. It was a slightly weird dream where you came to my knitting circle (just me, you and a friend staying in my house) and you knit me a pink crochet bikini but then refused to hand it over. Instead you wanted to give it to the topless models doing the phot shoot up the road. When I woke up I felt betrayed. I like you so much I never know what to say. I re-read your text messages hundreds of times. I can think of five or six ways to interpret each one and then I can’t decide what was intended. I text you and wait patiently for an hour. I wait a bit longer telling myself you’re busy. I wait longer, cos I know you’re busy. Two hours in I wonder if you got the message. Two and half hours in I think maybe I did something wrong, re-read what I wrote and think about clarifying it. Three hours later, having not sent a second message, I am covninced you don’t want to see me again and are pondering how to say so. Three and half hours late I get a message that starts “I’m sorry.” That’s it. You don’t want me anymore. I read on. “I’m sorry, I can’t make Tuesday” Oh! Phew. I like you so much I have these panic attacks every day. I like you so much I can’t quite cope. I know you don’t feel like this. I know you probably never will. Is it worth me waiting to see? I decide the only thing I can do is tell you.
“I really like being with you. I want to keep seeing you. But I don’t know what you want because you never say anything.”
“don’t you think it’s a bit early for all this?”
“erm yes. But this is what I feel. I just want to know what you think. I want you to be honest, you don’t’ have to pretend anything”
“when have I not been honest?”
“erm well how can I ever now? But that’s not it. I just wondered if you liked me at all”
“yeah I like you. I did. I’m not sure anymore. This is a bit weird. Its way too much pressure”
“right. I’m not asking you for anything”
“…”
There you go. I like you just too much. And now you don’t like me at all.

I mean, I don't really hate you

Patronising me is no way to win an argument. Relating every point to you is not going help. Its not about YOU I couldn’t give a shit about You. in fact, I almost hate YOU. Almost. If I did hate I would point out in a week or two you will get your exam results. Confirmation of failure will be fun to celebrate, won’t it? What are your life plans now? No, I know you don’t have a job. Are you parents still disowning you? I mean that must be tough not having anywhere to live when you finally flunk out of halls. Or a job. Yeah, good for you not needing to work while you erm neglected to study, but no job? At all? Not even a Saturday job to contribute towards the rent. Well I say rent, you need a house first don’t you? Still you have your rich mummy and daddy to fall back on… oh yeah, right, short memory, sorry. So erm what about your friends? You could sofa-surf for a bit, couldn’t you? Actually, where are your friends? I don’t think I’ve seen you hanging out with anyone in quite while. What about your boyfriend? I can’t imagine why he dumped you. I know he said “it just didn’t feel right” but did you really buy that? I mean that’s just what boys say when they can’t be bothered to give you the real reason, like they met someon else, cos it might start a fight. And boy do you like a fight! Not that that’s a bad thing. Necessarily. Obviously, sometimes people just want peace and quiet without uncalled for judgmenetal comments, misinterpreting everything, wild assumption making and your generally self centred, self obsessed view on life. But that’s just YOU, right? And if really hated you, I would let you know.

Flaws and Jaws

I don’t recommend going on a date in a ginger beard. On the other hand it hasn’t done me too much harm as date #2 is in the pipe line. The story so far? Well it’s been a few weeks so let’s skim a few facts first:
(Useless G***, or UG from now on, says this blog needs more bullet points so blame him for the lazy styling)
*I finished my job at school, went to a yummy vegan café for a leaving do
*Had five days off (felt like an era) and went to the seaside and got sand in my pants
*Re-started ballet lessons and convinced myself I have whole body dyspraxia (a motor disorder)
*Took up spinning – my epic quest for thinner thighs is causing muchos paining
*Started my new job and hmmm three weeks in but ARGH! Oh and who should I see on my second day? SPANIEL! Oh and he fancied a chat. Grrrrrr.
*Went to a hippy-ish wedding in the lake district and got massively drunk on free champagne nicenice
*Went to two school discos (actual school discos in schools) and got massively drunk at one and just high on sugar at the other
Oh and ! internet dating relating news; four dates so far.

Date one: we met on a foot bridge in Camden. We drank ridiculous amounts of cider. I think I had an ace time but I was a bit squiffy. I think I liked him, but I was a bit squiffy.

Date two: this was drummer boy I thought I would actually like. Turns out he was a bit on the short side. We met in a cool pub in Holloway. He spent most of the night tapping his fingers on the table saying “ooh this is awkward.” Silence is golden, love, no need to fill all of it. He took me to the National Youth Theatre to see some horrific sixth form-esque performance bollocks. The plot was this: A boy took so much skunk he turned into a skunk. During Q&A the writer told us she was influenced by Kafka. I’m sure he’d be pleased at such paltry, underdeveloped use of metaphor. She also seemed to think it was the fault of parents that their offspring chose to get themselves addicted to drugs. *sigh* Drummer boy took me here cos there was a free bar – of orange squash. Bah ha ha! He ran into his mates – The Holloways funnily enough and this is where my heart really sank. Not only was he friends with such low lives he preferred to talk to them instead of me. No way to impress a lady.

Date three: didn’t actually happen. I was going to meet this boy, let’s call him Stalker, at a Pixies night in Islington. I had a friend coming from Manchester to stay and two other friends in London all coming. He was going with his mates so it was never going to be a high pressure date, after the last disaster. To cut a long and bitter story short my friends are cunts and didn’t turn up. Or tell me they had changed their minds. Or apologised. The next day I got an email from Stalker disappointed I wasn’t there. He’s also tracked me down on twitter and is stalking my every thought hence the moniker. A few days later I sent him an email saying we should go to do something fun, what did he suggest. “Are you asking me to ask you out?” FFS. Is this not the point of internet dating? If you’re going to be as useless as UG then you can twat off. There isn’t quite room in my life for one unmotivated, sloth-like loser let alone two.

The fourth date was a repeat of boy one. I absolutely had to go see Posh Josh’s band in town so we agreed to curry on Brick Lane followed by a bit of mathematic noise. Obviously we only got as far as curry on Brick Lane. But some kissing on the way home made up for not seeing the band.

Date Four is another boy yet to be named. Boy One has gone on holiday for a week so why not? I suggested we met up and went to an arts night remaking the Jaws film. I was about an hour late. Not entirely my fault as my new workaholic boss made me stay an extra half hour and then my train broke down. I was also a bit side tracked by not being able to find beachwear that was suitable to wear on a date i.e. not flesh flashing. I was hoping to be a background girl screaming “argh shark!” in a comedy horror manner. I ended up donning a ginger beard and saying something inane like “you’re going to ignore this problem til it swims up and bites you on the arse!” Absinthe and champagne made it all the less painful. But payback the following day occurred where I was nearly sent for looking like I had swine flu. High temperature? Check. Sickness? Check. Crippling stomach pains? Check. Runny nose, chest pains, sore throat, headache? Check all = must be swine flu. Well, no. Its just severe hay fever and a severe hangover. Although two weeks off work would be rather lovely….

Let's dance to Joy Division

Liar Lady Luck. Fate, Fate, Fickle Fate. The stars. Conniving Cupid. Karma. Put your trust in what you like but there is only one true law of nature I believe in. Sod’s Law. For the uninitiated, or non-British, Sod’s Law (also called Murphy’s Law) follows the basic premise “if something can go wrong it will go wrong at the most inopportune moment and with maximum annoyance caused with a double dose of irony”. Look, I found a graph to prove it. The table on the right even explains how to make your own scientifically proven Sod’s Law rating out of ten. Irony, whined Alanis Morrissette “is meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife”. That is a special sort of irony called Cosmic Irony and not the verbal irony the British love. Sod’s Law is pretty much Cosmic Irony. The Gods have decided to show what life could be if only you were perfect. But you’re not. So instead you can have this shit. Cosmic Irony is the gorgeous man on the internet dating site who is perfect in every way except under the heading of ‘interests’ he has written ‘steak’. How exactly can meat be of interest to anyone who isn’t a farmer or butcher? Sod’s Law is the only vegan I’ve tracked down so far is a nutter who doesn’t believe in global warming. Sod’s Law clearly stated from the beginning that searching for my perfect man would obviously bring up only one option – the guy Pippa already has her eye on. Damn. Maybe I should give up? But no. Sod’s Law says the day I stop my subscription is the day Alex, yes the real, Russian Alex, tracks me down and sends me an email beginning “we met in a dream.”

The winkers on the dating site have at least ‘entertained’ me for a week. If being equally revolted and horrified counts as entertainment. The Alex who asked to meet never got back to me. I suggested Thursday and that was the end of that. There is the guy in full combat gear posing with a gun. Oh attractive! The man with – is that six or seven?-chins. Another boy called Alex who is a special sort of ugly. Some guy who clearly wants to be Liam Gallagher…. And the list goes on. I’ve arranged to meet two of the others this week, have proposed to meet another (no reply as yet) and a fourth has suggested we meet for a one day festival in the near future. Not near enough so I shall schedule him in too.

That little lot were keeping my mind occupied. No more Spaniel. GM is totally loved up elsewhere. P/B and GM’s bands both had gigs on Saturday and I went to neither… just to get home and find I had got an email from P/B after all. Whoops. Still they’re all crossed off my list and I never have to see them again. Except… at my leaving do I was explaining to a teacher, the teacher Spaniel covers for, which school I was off to. “Oh, Daniel works there too,” she said. And Sod’s Law says I will be working very closely with him in the future too.

Love is a Noun and a Verb as well, you find it in the dictionary under L

I had a dream. It was 2004 I was doing my Masters Thesis and therefore going a bit mental when I had a recurring dream about a boy called Alex. He was tall, Russian. Dark haired, gorgeous, owned a pub (=endless gin) just perfect. In fact, he looked like Carl Barat from the back. I’m sure any sane person would come to the same conclusion: this was fate talking to me. My ‘one’ is out there and his name is Alex. All I have to do is find him.

Back in 2004 I was dating Matt the Twat. We met in our first year at uni in 2000 when everyone was a twat so it didn’t really matter. I ditched him because he just wasn’t ‘the one’. He turned up at my flat every fucking day til I agreed to give it another go. So we dated again, it was still awful. We got a flat together, that was rubbish. For a while I thought this was a s good as my life was ever gonna get. This was my route into a gingham curtained life with two cats, no children, a PhD and a non-descript job. I thought he might actually propose. He never did. I got bored of waiting. His lack of hygiene, obsession with Arsenal, love of the Beatles (possibly the worst band of all time), inability to get out of bed on a Saturday morning, wash bedsheets or vacuum eventually wore me out and I moved out. At the same time I met someone else I liked a lot better so while I couldn’t decide who was the greatest loser I saw them both at the same time. To be honest I wasn’t very subtle. Dim Tim knew about Matt the Twat and didn’t care. Matt the Twat amazingly never knew about Dim Tim even though I once kissed Dim Tim with Matt the Twat standing about two feet away. Amazing. OK so this little anecdote proves nothing other than I am not a particularly nice person. A few weeks later I split up with both of them. This is because Dim Tim bored me and Matt the Twat’s friend saw me kissing Stu with Odd Shoes (he wore one red and one brown shoe). I decided I didn’t need any of them; and acknowledged I didn’t deserve any happiness any more, ever again. And then I met Alex. Sort of.

That, sadly was a self fulfilling prophecy in that I never have had a properly committed long term relationship since. Just lately a number of factors have come together; every boy I like already has a girlfriend; one of my best friends Pippa is off to France for the summer; when I was a student most of my friends were male. Now I work with women and children most of my friends are female. I don’t seem to get out much anymore. I mean I go to gigs regularly and dance lessons, but when was the last time I just went to the pub? No idea. So partly to make friends and partly because I am easily persuadable I created a profile on an internet dating site. I had absolutely no idea what to write. “Ladies! Imagine what it is men find attractive about you. Best not to mention your prizewinning knitting skills” said the advice page. Bollocks. That rules out my opening blurb. Fuck it. Alex would be impressed with my knitting. “I just want a boy who appreciates a hand knitted jumper and a home baked cake” I write. And I find a pic where I don’t’ look wholly deformed. That’s pretty much it apart from the compulsory information and stressing how indie I am. Within a week I have 46 winks. A wink is when someone sort of expresses an interest without talking to you. Winking is free. If I want to read my 14 emails I have to pay up. I give it a few days. Pippa moves back to France. I have the dawning realisation I am gonna be short of gig buddies this summer so I duly pay my £23. Twenty three pounds! I feel like a whore. Well the reverse of a whore, I’m the one paying. A pimp? No, that’s not it. What are those men who pay for sex called? Apart from just “cunt”? Anyway I feel like a man. Out of my 46 winkers only one is not a wanker. That’s a 98% wanker hit rate. 2% acceptability rate. Those statistics are not worth £23. Let me give you some examples:

Man with a twisted face. Attaction is 90% physical 10% intellectual. YOU do not cut the mustard. NEXT!
Overweight baldies no. 2-6. NO to all five you. I find fat repulsive and a little bit frightening. NEXT!
You sir are not 30. You are at least 46. NEXT!
No.8 is wearing a baseball cap and doing a rapper pose. NEXT!
No.9 is wearing the same bag in 7 photos and is standing in the same pose = lacks imagination. NEXT
No.10. Now I regret deleting this guy. He was at least funny. He is 56 (my profile is quite clear about the under 32s) he owns a helicopter, a yacht and appreciates fine dining. Me too. But I’m vegan and strongly suspect you used Google images to acquire that chopper. On reflection anyone even pretending to be that rich would have to buy me dinner at Saf (exquisite Raw Vegan gourmet restaurant) with cocktails before I suddenly realised age was an issue after all.
No. 11- 28 don’t seem to have read my profile at all. One of them thought my name was ‘indie’.
And well it doesn’t get any better. There is just one hopeful candidate at this point. Yup, just one. He is a drummer in a band and sadly looks like Paul Weller. Bleeeeuuuuuurghhhhhhh.

Another week on and I have had a few more winkers and a few more wankers but the pace has slowed considerably. I have now whittled it down to four to exchange emails with:
1. Weller-esque drummer. Apart from the appalling hair seems reasonably normal, well adjusted and likes a gin or five. Turns out also I own one of his band’s cds. I got it as a promo to plug his band and never did. Small world.
2. Gerbil faced Alex. A boy called Alex emailed me, what was I supposed to do? I got all excited he had dark hair and dark eyes and can tell his Balloons from his Bagpipes (probably. He hasn’t been made to sit A-Level Math Rock yet). Too late! I replied to him without looking at ALL his pictures. Now I realise he has what he must think of as a wistful pose into the middle distance but everyone else thinks makes him look a bit incontinent and confused. Now he wants to meet. Next week. I’m ignoring that while I try to work out how horrific a drink in Camden can be with a man who has the face of a small furry rodent.
3. A lawyer with no picture but definitely a decent record collection. I was intrigued. I asked for pictures. I don’t like what I see one little bit, but then he owns a rare Bis cd and he’s seen Pains of Being Pure at Heart live … so… I can date a guy for his record collection, right?
4. I can barely remember him now. He has dark hair, acceptable looking and a fairly decent taste in music. I would meet him if he ever asked.

So none of these guys will ever be my Alex. But one of them might be cool enough to go out with for a few drinks and bands. So here it is; do I take the risk of meeting internet nutters and being bored to tears (the horror of my last date with Mr I-Like-Meat still makes me shudder) or do I finally shout from the rooftops “YES! I am a SPINSTER! Get over it!” ? What would Morrissey do?

My heart still misses a beat, every time

Not so long ago ten days was a very, very long time with no Spaniel to pine after. Two week’s later I am so over him. The very next time I saw him after reality came along and slapped me in the face I saw him rather a lot. First of all I was trying to do a playground observation, who was on playground duty? Yup, Spaniel. Then I wanted to observe one of my children in her literacy session to work out how well she was functionally reading. Who does lunchtime literacy? Yup, Spaniel. I learnt very little about how much my student can read but an awful lot about how little Spaniel can teach literacy. I wanted to give him some feedback. You know, basic stuff like “‘durrrrr’ is not the sound D makes /d/ is the sound D makes”. He couldn’t have been less interested. OK so can I see her records of achievement? What? Why doesn’t she have one? Why don’t you have a record of how much she is doing? How do you know what she has achieved? He virtually shoves me out the door. Useless wanker. I can’t believe you blog about language and yet don’t understand the difference between a phoneme and a grapheme.

Also in those ten days I had my band night, saw The Horrors (perfect remedy to a bruised heart/ego), New Islands, Table Manners and Friendly Fires in a Pitch Black gig (hmmm free wine!), went to a photography exhibition, a Bollywood dance class and had a very expensive day in a spa being scrubbed, pummelled and rubbed. Not entirely sure why I had to be topless for a face mask, but meh. So yeah ten days is a very long time. Long enough for fresh heartbreak.

This will come as NO surprise to regular readers but I ended up quite fancying one of the bassists from one of the mathier bands playing my band night. Every time I turned around he was there trying to talk to me. He made fun of the DJ’s manboobs. I had a sudden flashback to snogging the DJ many years ago in his pre-manboob days in a sleazy Soho club. He looks revolted. He asks a lot of questions, more questions than casual interest would ask. At the end of the night Pippa and I agree one band will stay at my house, and the mathy band will stay at her house. Math Bassist (lets call him…. P/B = photographer/bassist) tries to find any excuse to stay at mine. I try to explain the illogic of the plan. He doesn’t buy it. Pippa tries to explain the geography of this to him. He doesn’t get it. Everyone else tries to explain to him the illogicality of squeezing eight bandite boys into my tiny flat and their equipment and the resultant drive half way round London in the morning before home on the south coast. He still doesn’t get it so I leave him and Pippa to argue and scarper with the first band. Before I leave he invites me to his photography exhibition a few days later. Oh I wonder…. Ok I promise not to get Spaniel stalker crazy this time.

In a fit of curiosity, or poor judgement, I post a profile onto a dating site. Oh I’m so bad at these things, what can I possibly say? I like knitting and baking and basically want to date some indie geek. Simple, honest and probably ineffective. More of this to come later.

The day of the exhibition arrives. My hayfever is so severe I look like I’ve had a pretty good cry. I’ve had a nosebleed for several days and I’m choking on the constant stream of mucus in my throat. It’s not a good look. I duly attend (with moral support). I see P/B he looks through me. He doesn’t speak two words to me. Literally not two. I got “hello” so he did actually see me. Thankfully his friend is a sweetheart. He shows me around and is lovely. And he’s very hot. Maybe I’m backing the wrong horse. An hour later the rest of us head to a club in town. I leave directions with his mate so they can catch us up. It gets to midnight and I’m in danger of choking on mucus so I head home. As soon I get home I get a text. “sorry I got mixed up. Where are you?” Yup, its P/B. Tut tut. We have a brief textual conversation. I’m a bit confused. I thought we were arranging to meet on Sunday. But by the end of it I’m not sure if he was just asking for my advice. By Sunday afternoon its pretty clear he might not have wanted to meet up with me. So in the evening I let him know we’re off to see a band in the evening and he should come join us if he’s free. He actually turns up. I am so easily persuadable we end up in a dead night club. The bouncers are incredibly unfriendly people. The six of us squeeze into a tiny booth. P/B has his leg pressed against mine for the WHOLE evening. If he didn’t like me he would move, yes? Oh I don’t know. The other five come from the West Midlands. I have nothing to contribute. We get kicked out of a club for the second time that night (24 hour drinking is such a MYTH) so the others decide to head homeward to New Cross. As I live in the other direction and have work in the morning I bail out. He hugs me rather closely and holds my arm firmly while giving me the date of his next gig. Hmm. Hopeful.

The next day I get a text from one of the others present breaking the bad news: "i'm sorry sweets! i don't kknow how to tell you- he already has a girlfriend". he shoudl have mentioned that earlier *sigh* But it's ok. I'm well acquainted with the familiar gut-punch of disappointment.

Everything's gone green

Hope is the cruellest emotion. When Pandora let the world’s greatest evils out of the box she let out hope last of all. You could interpret that as hope was the remedy in the bottom she nearly missed. Hope is the tonic that gets us through ills and burdensome labour. Or you could interpret that as hope is the greatest evil of all, the one entity that will crush you and break you and shred you into a thousand painful pieces and melt you into a million tears.

So I had my training course with Spaniel. The other trainee didn’t turn up. So this is meant to be. I get Spaniel to myself for an hour. Not the best start. I can’t find the right CD, I can’t log into the computer, now I’m flustered. In comes Spaniel. I fall over a chair. Great. How to be a twat in one easy movement. He laughs, “someone shouldn’t have left a drill trailing over the chair” then he untangles me. Oh gosh. “What are they even drilling?” I squeak. Oh gosh my voice is doing the high pitched squeaky thing it does when I’m all flustered, or talking to rock stars, or people I fancy or my boss. My face is most probably red. Damn. Ok once we’re over the first hurdle I manage to get started with the training. Except this isn’t the computer programme I was expecting. Right package, but different version. I could do with five mins to have a quick go myself but Spaniel is straight in there, pressing any old buttons, not doing things in my order, asking questions ahead of the game. Hmmm. Ok so you obviously know computers and you think you’re clever. Lets put you in your place. I ask a few difficult questions around semiotics and linguistics. His turn to be flusterred. He comes up with a bollocks answer. I put him straight. Balance of power restored. Possibly. If he actually recognises I’m the one that’s right. So moving on. He draws me a picture of a squirrel. And a frog. And he makes me laugh. Ok are you trying to show off because:
a. you’re a boy and boys can’t help it
b. you’re arrogant
c. you trying to impress me and indirectly flirting.
Oh I do like C. A tiny little seed of hope has been planted in my heart.

Its half term. I’m not going to see him for ten days. In those ten days I manage to have an entire imaginary relationship with him. He even imaginarily dumps me. I am imaginarily crazy. Oh no, that bit should be “I really am a little bit crazy”. This is so, so wrong. I mean what do I really know about him? I need stop getting obsessive and remember he is just a normal person. Perfection does not exist. And all I need to do is find a way to talk to him. I have four weeks left in school. I see him only on Wednesdays. Therefore, I have four more days to see him, four opportunities to suss him out and ask him out.

Ten days later a plan has hatched. I’m going to invite him to my band night at the weekend. Nothing weird about that. I have asked other people at work. He likes good music. I know because I spoke to him at Beach House. He might not remember, but it happened. So all I have to do is find a time to start a conversation that goes “oh by the way, you like good music yes?” etc, etc. The opportunity doesn’t arise. He is always with children (and how unprofessional would it be to talk in front of them) or with adults (who will earwig and gossip). Damn. I successfully manage to find out his surname. Small score I suppose.

I did need to know his surname for work, but now I know would it be so wrong to Google it? Hmmm, just a little peek at facebook. I just need to know the essentials, age and whether he is in fact single. Is that so bad? Could save us both a lot of embarrassment in the future. Here goes. First off there are not too many Spaniels in the world. Pleasant surprise. But an awful lot of this can’t be his… can it? A blog about language. I start reading. I start to think this is sexy, I mean a boy that likes good music and linguistics. But then the more I read the more I think this is pretentious toss and some of it isn’t even factually correct. Right ok… lets assume that’s not him. Oooh myspace! Good. He’s 27. NICE. Still younger than me. Just. But I can settle for that. In summary (I will spare you the details of my MI6 standard spying) I know most of his life history thanks to his blog (turns out that was his blog), all the books he’s read, exactly what he has listened to in the last month, seen the holiday pictures and even a video, he’s doing a Phd, he likes cats and metaphors. I think he might actually be perfect. And he smiled at me today. A lot. Maybe he does like me? But remember perfection does not exist, there must be a flaw.

So now I have three options. I want to invite him to my band night because that’s in the realms of normality. But to do so in time I would have to send him an electronic message. As we have no mutual friends it would be fairly obvious I went to the effort of looking him up in order to invite him. There it is. I can pretend it’s a casual as I like, “oooh I’m inviting everyone!” I could say. But he would know. My cards would be on the table.
a. fuck it. Invite him. Its not *that* weird is it?
b. don’t invite him. Wait for the next Wednesday for another opportunity to not speak to him and let the sands of time slip through my fingers.
c. do nothing. Give it up as a bad neurotic mistake. Anyone who makes me feel this ill cannot be good for my mental health. Lovesick. That’s what it is. I always feel a little bit sick when I think of him.

OK I seek advice. The general consensus is “what do you have to lose?” Answer: my self respect! When he laughs in my face and tells everyone the weird ugly girl asked him on a date, what a loser! Fuck it. Option a, you’re a winner. But not right now cos its 1am and I don’t want him to think I’m drunken stalking him. I want him to think this is a perfectly reasonable, rational decision. That little seed of hope has just grown a shoot.

I struggle through another day of work feeling sick every time I think of him wondering if this is such a great idea. No-one this perfect exists. He is either actually a massive wanker or some other blonder, prettier, more petite girl got there first and isn’t gonna let go for me. *deep sigh* ok I need one last look at a photo so I have a very clear picture of how stupid I sound in order to draft an email. Oh wait, wha’ts this? Flickr pics? Erm… I shouldn’t. oh go on then. Oh fuck. There are hundreds of pictures of the same pretty, petite blonde girl. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Oh wait 2007! Maybe?? Dare I think it… they might have split up? Hope blossoms forth. Recent pics please! oh last weekend, that’s nice and recent. Oh DOUBLE FUCK IN A SHIT SANDWICH. They are still together. Posing on sunny days in the park. Feeding ducks by ponds. Watching bands (is that Jenny Lewis?) Look at them there, snuggled up in matching Christmas jumpers. They’re so fucking happy. Hope sheds its seed, spitting its vitriolic poison straight into my weak, weak heart. I am choked in its bile. I cough and splutter, with bitter tears running down my face. I am such a terrible person that I begrudge them this happiness because I dared to hope.

everyday is like sunday

Last Friday night I got the train to Plymouth to see my ex-landlady, Ruby, for a much needed beach break. I have never been to Cornwall or Devon before, this is *excitement*. I arrive about midnight. Back at Ruby’s we have a bottle of wine and catch up on the goss. Its amazing how time flies when you’ve got a full bottle.

So in danger of oversleeping the next morning I am rudely woken by tiny paws jumping all over me. Dear lord, my head. There was a lot of clattering downstairs. Can’t believe Ruby is awake already. Ten more minutes. That’s all, ten more minutes with cat and I’ll come down. Then I fall asleep again. Woken later by a ring at the doorbell. Ruby goes to answer. Cat is still sleeping on me. Upside down on his back with his cute little back feet in my face. Bless him. Bloody hell, its only 8.30. What time did Ruby get up? Eventually, about an hour later, me and pussykins get up. “Who the bloody hell, is that?” asks Ruby. What? I know I look like shit first thing in the morning but come on, I’m not unrecognisable. “Where did that cat come from?” wow, I thought it was Ruby’s cat. Apparently not. Apparently, he had broken in through an open window and found the nearest snugly bed with me in it. Purrrr.

We spend the day at Tintagel Castle pretending to be Arthurian knights charging about the place, thankfully minus the chain mail. Well, bored of that the rest of the day is spent in glorious 23 degree heat picnicking in Merlin’s cave. Well, this is the life. If it wasn’t for the factor 30 I might actually be in danger of getting a tan.

No trip to Plymouth is complete without a gin or two. However, attempting to drink all the gin in Plymouth is probably a very poor idea. Thankfully, for the good people of Plymouth the gin distillery is closed for business. It all started off brilliantly, but five hours later some Scottish man is pinching my drink in a blues bar and I’m rather pissed off. I might be too pissed to drink it myself but you cannae have it, lovey! The next thing I can remember is getting home in cab and realising we have no cash. So that’s a drive back to a cash point and a u turn home again. £45. fuck. Ooh! There’s some gin. Yum yum. We have a conversation that started about food, moves on to the sensory integration issues of the cat (my theory is he was taken away from his mummy too early in life and now has a few attachment problems) and ends somehow with me crying. Not just weeping drunkenly. Crying in full mourning. God knows what that was about.

The next day I am once again woken by the stamping of hefty paws all over me. Oh hello! He (now called Michael) looks rather shocked to see a human in his bed. I lov you Michael but I am just way too fucked to tickle your chin. I wake up sometime later with Michael determined to get under the covers with me, closely followed by Ruby. I’m not sure I can move. There is some sort of small, furry creature burrowing in my brain and its killing me. “Zilpha, we have to get up! Its 12.30!” oh fuck. I tried to move. It bloody hurt. Michael isn’t impressed; cat wants cuddles. Hang on, where the hell did cat come from? All the doors and windows were locked. Hmm…

Sometime, just before 3pm Ruby and I managed to choke down enough pain killers to be able to stand up without swaying under the heavy, heavy pain of hangover. 45 minutes later we arrive on a beach. A quick strip off, run into the sea like a pasty white whale, splash about, run back to our towels and have a ten minute sunbathe. No kidding, its now time to drive all the way back to Plymouth to get my train home. The sea is exactly the best cure for an evil hangover. We should have done this earlier. Five hours of train journey back to London grime. Can’t wait to come back.

Adventures on Viagra

So last Saturday GM &band has a gig in Shoreditch. I had an invite. “only if I’m on the guestlist,” I half joked. “Of course,” he said. I get there, there’s some sort of 30th birthday going on. Hmmm. Wrong bar. He told me the wrong pub. Prat. I get to the right pub. No guestlist. Prat. I’m on the brink of saying “fuck this I’m going home” when he turns up, makes me ay an entire five pounds to get and then fucks off again. Dick. A random boy at the bar buys me a drink. Hmm small consolation. The rest of the night is spent with GM’s ex Mental Michelle as I know noone else. The band go home without saying goodbye to me. The next day I get a text saying “come to Leicester for a party…” no thank you. You missed the boat.

So GM is written off the list. It’ all about Daniel-hopefully-not-a-spaniel now. No news on that front.

In a fit of a desperation about my fat thighs I join up to a 80s aerobics class. This is exactly like being the fat awkward one at ballet aged 6 all over again. Everyone else knows instinctively what to do. I’m permanently going the wrong way, can’t move legs and arms at the same time and I’m very aware I’m the only one who doesn’t own trainers or a tracksuit. I’m wearing leggings and an awful t-shirt. Hmmm.

Exercise, I have often said, is bad for your health. Proof comes the next day when I’m full of a very snotty and bloody annoying cold. That evening I go to see Friendly Fires with Pippa. We’re on the front row. I get through a million tissues. The band are okay. I’m uninspired. Hmmm must be the cold. I get home all I want is my bed, porridge and a hot water bottle. Instead I get a text out of the blue. Its Posh Josh! Ha! Oh!

PJ: hey, how it going? You up to much?? Xx
Me: well helloes I just got home from friendly fires gig. You? Hows things?
PJ: ah cool how was it? Im just on my way home from Lincoln, we thought it would be funny to take some Viagra in the van on our way home… wasn’t really that funny. Xx
Me: dear lord! You’ll all be bumming each other before you meet Milton Keynes!
PJ: Ha, it wasn’t proper stuff. Everyone just feels sick lol, always fun wasting money on fake Viagra
Me: ha ha! Well I’m whacked out on painkillers. Probably not as much fun. Hmmm. Enjoy your night.
PJ: ah the classic painkillers ey. You too give me a text if you get bored, I shall be up for some time… the joys of driving to stupid places. Xx
Me: I might be up for a while, I’m rocking the Hendrix. When’s the next London gig? I’m not entirely convinced you know who you’re texting x
PJ: lol of course I no… good time in Brixton :) um I’m not entirely sure tbh. Where bouts in London do you live? Xx
Me: Holloway in north London. It’s a fun place to be x
PJ: Is that near royal Holloway uni by any chance.. probs a stupid question. X
Me: yeah it is and the met uni is on m street why? Fishing for an invite?!
PJ: ah coz I’ve been up there a couple of times to see a mate at uni. I wasn’t fishing lol, are u handing me an invite then. X
Me: oh noes! I really wouldn’t know what to do with three boys on Viagra… really… I wouldn’t…
PJ: lol no its cool we’re on our way to mates house anyway. Lol whats your preference on the number of guys on fake Viagra then x
Me: Its all about quality not quantity x
PJ: is that one then. X
Me: I’m sure a lady never tells. Anyways I’m off to bed … I think I took too much aspirin :s night x
PJ: ok tell me one day. Night night xx

'Bustin makes me feel good

Daniel rhymes with spaniel. I dearly wished it rhymed with something else. I have this theory about boys’ names. I believe their most defining characteristics rhyme with their names. Evidence from exes so far; Rob was a bit of knob (Robtheknob), Ross was a tosser (Ross=toss), Matt was definitely a twat, Andy was a paedophile – ok, I haven’t worked that one yet. Its not just my boyfriends who have rhyme-names. My raw friend’s current on-off is Nickthedick. And Pippa’s current new beau is Meke. So far he is a geek and not a freak. Lets hope that lasts.

Anyway, Daniel. He’s a supply teacher at one of the schools I work at. We’re only in at the same time one day a week so opportunities of flirting are slim. Opportunities of flirting in front of children are higher but oh gosh, I’m not that shameless. Not by half. I have been trying to invent reasons just to talk to him but I’ve not been doing so well.

Tuesday lunch time, I get a phone call from one of the senior members of staff. She has decided we’re not doing the sign-song the children have spent two weeks learning at tomorrow’s special opening as the children just aren’t good enough. Lets me just re-iterate this is a special needs school and these kids are never gonna do a High School Musical. Sitting in assembly and taking part is an achievement enough for them, and one which should be recognised. Following the phone call I drop everything at the school I’m actually at and run, literally run, to the other school to sort this mess out. I had to break up a fight amongst teenagers on the way there which left me with little time. I ran like the wind. Arrived all red faced and sweaty and probably dishevelled. I walk into the assembly just in the nick of time for one final rehearsal before tomorrow’s opening. Oh! There’s Daniel. I grin at him. He smiles back. He has actually noticed I exist. The whole of the school is sat in a big circle with a hole in the middle. I’m shoved into the hole and have to sign to everyone. We do the song several times, so I start at 12 o’clock and work my way round each time we do a verse. I get to Daniel. He’s sat with five children. I’m so obviously only signing to Daniel and singing with my cat screetch voice. He smiles at me, with what I take for genuine happiness. Later on, I wash my hands in the toilet. In the mirror I notice there is still salad in my teeth. All that time I thought he was smiling at me he was probably just laughing.

I spend my evening with Pippa in a Ghostbusters remake. I have my heart set on playing Janine, the squeaky voiced secretary. I have to audition for the post so give it my finest high pitched Noo York drone. I get the part, hurrah! Its gets to my scene… huh?! Someone else is on the stage in my role. She’s not even as good as me  So much for Bustin makes me feel good. Bustin makes me feel a bit rejected.

Wednesday. It’s the day of the opening. We have a special celebrity guest coming to cut the proverbial ribbon – it’s a family friendly tv comedian. The comedian isn’t given a microphone. Noone can hear what he says. The children wouldn’t understand it anyway. They don’t understand why they’re out in the rain for an hour with all these strange people. The whole thing is a total farce. The police are here too. With horses. I take some of the bored children to stroke the horses and have a bit more fun.

At some point during the morning I’m standing next to Daniel when one of the managers is asking about training needs. Oh yes! I’m offering training in symbol communication. Why doesn’t Daniel come? “well, I’m only supply,” he starts. “not sure the school would pay for me.”
“But its free! It’s the course I run. You would have to do it with me though I’m afraid”
He smiles. I swoon, ever so slightly. I hope noone noticed.
“Zilpha is doing a session next Friday, why don’t you go?” says the manager
“Well, I am but if you’re not in I have time on any Wednesday afternoon. I’m very flexible. Whenever you like really” please, please make an individual appointment. I want you all to myself. Oh wait. Did I say that aloud? No. phew.
“Friday will be fine,” he says.
There is some happiness in my heart.

After lunch its time for the signed song. The other speech therapists are out on a training course. The literacy teacher is out on a course. All the proficient signers are out. Its just me and the useless managers to get this together. The rain is still splattering. The comedian has gone. Most of the parents have gone. The councillors have gone. A few laggers hang about. The head introduces the song. Badly, of course. I’m suddenly on centre stage. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The children were supposed to be at the centre of this. This is possibly the most humiliating five minutes of my life. Nothing has gone to plan and I end up signing in front of the whole school and guests. Noone joins in. Not one person. Not even Daniel.

I spend the rest of the afternoon hiding in my office trying to get some peace and quiet. Oh fuck. The tone deaf music teacher starts up next door. He not only has no ability to sing he doesn’t seem to be aware he can’t. *sigh* what do I have to look forward to this evening? Oh noes. Posh Josh’s band are playing in my neighbourhood. No thanks, boys. There’s only so much humiliation and pain I can take in one day.

A week in the City

You know those green tags you get to hold wads of paper together? Treasury tags? Yeah? I got one of them holding my trousers up. I sat down in front of a class of teenagers (we were trying to answer some why questions; why do people open the window? Why do people put ice in their drinks? Real toughies. Real toughies to this class anyway) and pop! went not the weasel but the button at the top of my brown cords. That’s what you get for buying clothes in Primark. And for another week of cider drinking and cake munching. Grrrrr. So start the day in humiliation, it can only get worse, right? Well actually it didn’t get too much worse. In fact, it got a lot better; I popped into John Lewis on the way home and bought a bag full of wool to knit a new jumper. When did I get so old?

This weekend was full of people making me feel old. First my friend turns 27 (still a year younger than me) and asks, “How’s your love life Zilpha?”
“Dead. I was seeing someone but now I’m not.”
“Was he much younger than you?”
“What? No! why?”
“Cos they usually are.” And then she reels off a list of losers, invariably younger. Hmph.

Well before I started feeling totally fat and decrepit Pippa and I fly to Glasgow. The bus to Stanstead takes longer than the flight. Its all so exciting! Well, not for Pippa. She was terrified. I couldn’t’ stop giggling. Not every helpful, but take offs are hilarious and way more fun than rollercoasters. We land and Glasgow is almost sunny. For saying I slept on the bus, the plane and the train I’m knackered. We make it as far as cocktails on Sauchiehall Street and totally miss Errors DJing. Nevermind, Saturday is what its all about: The Rakes are in town woohooo! We manage to squeeze in a museum, the School of Art, a fabric warehouse (yes, I’m a total geek), tea in the Mackintosh Tea Rooms a Chinese and an interview with our favourite skinny London art rockers. Sound checks are boring as hell aren’t they? We wait an hour “for the band to have showers” according to tour manager Ash Brown (his actual, real name) even though I rang Jamie and know he’s in the pub with Alan. Just as I think about having a little sleep on the skany sofa Lasse walks in. “I just need to have a shower,” he says. Yawn. Lasse and Chris entertain us in the dressing room with cups of tea and awkward silences waiting for the others to arrive. When they do it’s a whirlwind of “Morrissey came to see us last night!” and tales of drunken fist fights and flying pints of lager on the rest of the tour. “Zilpha, can you do me a favour?” asks Jamie, coyly.
“erm I suppose so. Only if its sexual”
“If I make a cup of tea can you give it to Ash?”
“ok then what?”
“no that’s the joke. Give him a tea and a biscuit and say ‘I know you like a brew at this time’”
The rest of them stifle guffaws. I strongly suspect the joke is on me but do it anyway. Ash accepts his tea and bourbon with grace. The rest of them roll around laughing. I have no idea what that was all about but they can come play practical jokes on me any time. I do like a bourbon (a bit too much judging by my current waistline).

The rest of the evening was spent in the company of two older locals who promised us a night of Galswegian binge drinking. Pippa is on a mission to find a deep fried mars bar. We fail with the urban legend but to get the Galswegians hammered and begging for the beds by 2am, not before we sample a local old man’s pub (Queen karaoke :s) and a soul night which was like gatecrashing someone else’s bad taste wedding.
Sunday, spent eating even more and hoping to feel better soon. The heel falls off my new Office shoes and I spend the rest of the time hobbling unevenly hoping noone notices. Glasgow for all my love has some amazing vegan cafes. Hmmmmmm cake.

I get home and the kitchen ceiling is still drip drip drip drip dripping through the light fixture. Hmmmm. Make a mental note to never turn the light on again.

Monday, Tuesday, same old same old. Wednesday the Rakes at Koko! Yeeha! I spend more of the day on the phone or email trying to get guestlist tickets than actually doing any work. (shhhh don’t tell my boss). But we were promised! Phew eventually they arrive. 5pm (in a vegan café stuffing my face with cake again) a text comes from Jamie, “sure you want the tickets? Cos my mates do too.” Oh noes! We got here first. We give it some welly on the front row. Someone has to keep the crowd going, right? On the way out the bouncer says, “you girls not going to the aftershow.” Aftershow? Oh well if you insist. Point us in the direction of the party! Yeah party! I get hammered (once again) with Jamie’s ex, while Pippa stays sober and serene. I feel like the awkward out of place one in a room full of beautiful people who instinctively know how to dance while I can only wonder what the hell I’m doing here. Suddenly its not so much fun.

On the way home I meet two new cats. Both black and white, one with a tail one without. We make friends. I sit on the pavement stroking them for about an hour. Dear lord. Work in the morning.

Thursday, to be honest, my head has felt better, I drag myself through my day. Oh for sleep. But no. Now its my turn to be horrified. I stupidly arranged a work night out on the London Eye. Sounds lovely, I’m shit scared of heights. I turn green everyone laughs and my head aches from the strain of not being sick. No sooner have we hit the ground than we’re off running to the next Rakes secret (not so secret party). Its ok, but why are the Rifles headlining? They remind me of Robtheknob (rtk). The bassist looks like Rossthetoss (r=t). This is no fun. Ex-boyfriend hell. Pippa ain’t loving it either. All a bit Kasabian. So we leave early. I am once again a bit drunk. How the hell did that happen? Drunk enough to get home and text rtk. He’s awfully friendly. As he is, until it involves actually turning up for something. Now I’m confused again. Do I still like him or not? Bollocks. I think I passed out.

Fridays don’t count. I’m mainly on time for work. Well ok, 20 minutes late. Again. The evening is spent baking and grateful to have a night in. Saturday is the day of the Posh vs Chav picnic. I am of course posh. Well, its hard to be a chav when you can’t eat fish fingers or sausage rolls or trifle. Hence the baking. I made delicious ginger cupcakes with lemony frosting. Hmmmm cake. Pack a bottle of apricot wine and off we go! Either chavs have been banished or everyone decided to side with Evelyn Waugh: this is like Brideshead Revisted with more Bakewell Tarts in cricketing whites (and that caused a fight). Stop off on the pub on the way home and funnily enough I’m a bit drunk again. I should go to a super trendy club with a super trendy friend but I just aint feeling super trendy. I’m feeling fat, gin soaked, grass stained and fugly. Its nice to have a cat on my knee and a chill out on a Saturday for a change. The cat goes out for the night and then it’s just me. 10pm. Probably a bit late to get changed and go anywhere now. A bit early for bed. When did I get so old?

snowflakes in springtime

It’s been a funny old week. I’ve mainly been eating mince pies and knitting snowflakes. Outside spring looks like summer and the rest of the world is enjoying 16 degrees (in old money, I don’t understand farenheit). I am no optimist, I’m knitting a winter hat.

I’m feeling pretty poor at the moment. Too many spontaneous trips to Brighton, meals out, bottles of wine or gin and making plans for the summer. So I empty out the piggy bank fingers crossed for about twenty pounds, count up all the pennies and what do I have? Pfff. Not enough to take to the bank. Oh and I owe my flatmate £60 for council tax I’ve been ignoring. My lovelife is a shrivelled up dried prune. No word from GM, no word from Posh Josh. Not a peep from Ross=Toss. Ahh never mind. I’m off to Brighton again anyway. This time in support of an upcoming band night run by a much younger friend. He has four bands playing. I pretend I’ve heard of one. They sound like 65daysofstatic which is unfortunate. 65daysofstatic are very good and this new band doesn’t do it quite as well. At times they sound exactly the same. I start to wish I had come to Brighton for the whole day instead of trying to avoid vegetarian shoe shops and health stores. The sun was shining wonderfully but it took me four hours to get ready and the best bit of the day was spent on a train. Those four hours consisted mostly of procrastination and indecision. I wore jeans and a fairly plain non-descript jumper.

The place was packed out with hot indie boys in skinny jeans and black rimmed glasses. The bands were amazing and people bought me drinks. And I collected at least one phone number. This is what happened in my head. In reality seven people turned up, the bands were loud (one could even be described as ‘metal’), my young promoter friend was in a terrible mood, was rude to everyone lost a pile of money and threatened to not pay the bands. I met a boy called Harry Salmon. This was not his real name. His real was Twiz. I imagine this is not his real name either. He had a notebook full of random scrawlings and half formed song lyrics and ill formed logic. “Let’s go to the casino!” he said.
“But I have minus eighty pounds.”
“Yeah but you could double your money!”
“Then I would have minus one hundred and sixty pounds”
“Huh?”

Sunday night I was planning to see the Bridge Gang. I love this band dearly. And it’s free. By the time I have finished baking mince pies, cleaned up and thought about it I decide it’s a bit on the late side and I can’t face another night at another Shoreditch gig on my own free or not. Tuesday night I decided I really can’t afford trainfare for another trek to Brighton this time to see the Rakes. Thursday night I pass up free tickets for the Virgins, and more excitingly Lesser Panda. I know little about the latter band, but fell in love with the song Ghostdance and desperately want them to play my band night.

Monday, the leak from the kitchen has got progressively worse. It’s now a pretty steady drip. I totally forget to ring the landlord. On Tuesday I remembered. By Thursday (today) still no-one has been to have a look at it. I step over a bucket each time I enter the kitchen and avoid turning the lights on. I sometimes wish I spent my money on rent or moving house and lived somewhere less like a revolting squat. But then in the morning I am flying to Glasgow in a poorly budgeted mission to see the Rakes again. It has been a week of missed opportunity and constant disappointment. The weekend is forecast for heavy constant rain, and heavy constant fun times.

And then Reader, I am married him.

Not really, this isn’t Jane Eyre. But I have been thinking about marriage a lot recently. First of all a friend from university had a birthday which prompted me to send a card, eventually, about a week late. This friend has been with the same guy for 12 years. They have been married for maybe 3. I met him ten years ago and thought he was a cock. He was an arrogant, know-it-all show off and my friend was a vivacious, independent and beautiful woman with a first class degree. Over time she has wilted into an overweight, under-confident alcoholic and has been off work sick for the last year following a drink-driving car crash. She was the drink driver, obviously. She wilted under the glare of his constant criticism, the casual manner in which he gradually isolated her from all her friends and restrained her financially by a constant string of obligations she couldn’t afford, from a wedding in New York to a slightly too expensive house, wrote her car off to prevent her going anywhere and at least on one occasion punched her. According to her blog her life is a perfect canvas of sunshine and rainbows. Baking, gardening and a pet cat, or my ideal lifestyle. One entry she records “I’m such a lucky wife. My husband cleaned the bathroom.” Amazing. Did make me think. Who am I to think her life never reached its glittering potential? Maybe she thinks I’m equally pathetic for never settling down, buying a house, keeping a job for more than a year, keeping a house for more than a year for that matter.

The same day I receive an invite to a wedding in the Lake District. The bride already has two children and is significantly older than the groom. I did wonder why you would choose to have children with one man but not see him as worthy of marriage and then marry another man a decade or so later.

The next event that made me think of marriage was Sunday’s Facebook announcement my cousin is getting married. We’re not a close knit family; I’ve only met her twice. We’ve had more electronic contact than real world contact. She will be getting married in southern Spain in a red and blue dress and honeymooning in Indonesia. December happens to be a wonderful time to have a holiday in Spain. I get a polite email saying “close family only.”

Sunday morning I woke up convinced I was in love with a man I barely know. He is rather good looking, flirty and lovely. He just happens to be in a moderately successful rock band too. And gay. I thought maybe bisexual. He does flirt rather a lot. We have an as yet unfulfilled sushi in soho date. All indicators of bi. Turns out, one msn conversation later, he was stringing me along and is in fact seeing another man in a glam-rock-pop-electroclash outfit. Our relationship may have been pure fantasy but nevertheless I feel crushed and despondent. He takes pity. He has an engaged status on Facebook and needs a name to put after it. Oh why not. All my hopes of not settling for second best have been dashed. I am Facebook engaged to a gay man I have never met. I am total fail.

Old Enough to Know Better

... or The back story

When I am old and have dementia no-one will be able to tell. A few weeks ago I put a band night on with a friend. It was so much fun. Some of my favourite bands came to play and we actually made some money for a wee change. But things are never straight forward. I’ve had a bit of flirting with one of the guitarists. Bit of flirting, bit of heavy flirting, bit of mutual thigh rubbing. Lots of texts and emails. Lots of late night drunken msn conversations. Tonight would indeed be the night. Except his (lets call him GM) ex girlfriend is there and he seems to be a bit confused. Oh and I still have stitches in my mouth following oral surgery. NICE. Bit rank tbh, they smell and they look vile. I prolly shouldn’t have told him this. I know I shouldn’t have told him this because when I made my sophisticated move (“fancy a snog, love?”) I was rebuffed with “you’ve still got stitches in your mouth”. True. “But your mate Josh didn’t mind.” Yeah that’s right. Someone else got there first. Bassist in another band. So GM not interested I wander back to Posh Josh. Wander – stumble drunkenly. In between snogging Posh Josh and snogging Posh Josh some more I accidentally kissed someone else and I’m not entirely sure who. I have ideas. It was either the singer or the other guitarist from GMs band. You see I was trying to kiss him (whoever he was) on the cheek but missed, kissed his lips and carried on a bit. Oops.

So the next morning, I feel dog rough. Bit confused. But happy. I mean, I have no intention of seeing Posh Josh again but he kissed me. That’s good. And he asked for my number. And then eventually he asked my name. Log in to Facebook. Work of the devil! Who does facebook think I might know? Oh yeah, Posh Josh! Oh go on then lets have a peak. How old is he? 21?! Hmmm could have been worse. GIRLFRIEND???? Oh noes! Check the pictures…. Oh yeah no internet irony here. This is no fake relationship. What a rat. Send him a text message. Generic rubbish something like “hope you had fun! Thanks guys for playing my gig!” he can’t possibly misinterpret that, can he? Well, I never did get a reply.

Fast Forward a week. I have not heard much from GM but he is on tour. Too busy to reply to texts perhaps. Or perhaps its because another ex is hosting the York party and he’s confused over that too. Pfff. Anyway forget all these losers its Good Friday! Foals are in Brighton! HURRAY! I’ve got a pint of Guinness, the support band are on, I love my friends, I have a sudden massive urge to turnaround – ARGH! Posh Josh! And Girlfriend! Two feet away damn. He so made eye contact with me. Raced her out of there kick march. Well, fuck you boyo, I haven’t done anything wrong. So down a pint and say hello. Bollocks this could go wrong. Singing to myself in my head “just keep smiling, just keep smiling” (to the Finding Nemo tune) I am as polite as pie to both of them. “Lovely to meet you” I say straight at her. Yeah, so clearly mutual. That’s a look that would stab me up in a dark alley. Pppffff. Drink another three pints of Guinness. Oh why? I’m raging drunk and got three hours of journey time home. *sigh*

Ok Saturday I feel appalling. Nothing new there. Remember not very much. I think a bottle of red wine was consumed on Brick Lane. Oh yeah I remember now. And a bottle of vodka when I got home. A little one. Hipflask sized. I’m not an alky.

Easter Sunday.. man, I’m rough. Up rather early for Church. Wobble lots. Miss the bus. Fuck. Finally get a bus. Miss the stop. Fuck. Run, run, run. Oh text! Run and read! Its GM! I do exist! Oh it’s a generic “Londoners come to our gig tonight” hmmmm perhaps. I reply “perhaps, but you know it’s a religious festival today” “I’ll be cross if you don’t come” he says. Yeah true dat! Cos I didn’t go and not a word since.

Easter Monday. How on earth am I hungover today? I don’t deserve this. Posh Josh and band have gig walking distance from my house. It would be rude not to go. On the other hand I’d be alone. Hmmm. OK I will go, only cos I like the band not him. So I will go late, and blend in at the back. Not speak to him. It will be fine. Doors are at 8pm. I get there 8.45 hopefully they’re not onstage yet. Oh fuck. Swim Team dropped out, doors now open at 9pm. I’m early. Early and alone. Joy. Pint of Guinness it is then. And another. Oh look at me. You can’t not look at me. I’m the only fucking person here. Me and three teenagers and the support band. The support band are rather good. Have another pint. Posh Josh is definitely ignoring me. I read the paper. Definitely ignoring me. So his band are on. I feel rough. Very, very rough. They’re good. Very,very good. I feel a bit sick. After the gig I run to the loo. Feel a sweaty arm around me. Its Posh Josh! He says something. I stare blankly feel a bit sick. Chat drunkenly to the support band. Offer them a gig another time. Feel ill go home. Outside Posh Josh is on the phone. Probably to his girlfriend. He takes the phone away from his face but doesn’t hang up I notice. Hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. Hmmm not sure about this. I fail to smile. I go home.

Tuesday. MY WORD. Do I feel grim. The builder is trying to knock down a wall while I am trying to stay up right against it. He should ask me to move. He doesn’t. I don’t. The world is an agony. Supposed to go to a raw restaurant tonight. I’m not sure why raw food is so expensive, its not like it takes much to heat. Anyway I can’t cancel I hardly ever see this friend so I go. On the way there I try not to heave. Eat and eat. Wow! Its all so nice. And I do love a merlot. Mmmm. Half way through dessert (chocolate and orange marble cake garnished with pansies) I feel ill. Ahh nevermind, it’s a shame to waste food and its too bloody expensive. On the way home I have a sudden stabbing pain in my fat belly. Oh fuck the bus is a long time coming. There’s something stuc in my throat. Get a tissue, have a cough, fell better. EXCEPT … not just a cough. Damn. Why are there no dark alleys left without CCTV? Fuck. I’m sick on the pavement. Worse. I put a tissue to my face and end up back splashing myself. IN MY HAIR. MY FUCKING HAIR. Oh and my eye. Nice. Purple lumpy sick in my hair and eye. Turnaround. Fuck. I had an audience of Tapas eaters over the road. *weeps* wipe my face and hair as best I can. I wish it would rain and wash the pain away. No rain. Get the bus. No bumps please I still have a belly full. Oh I recognise that woman. Oh noes! A psychotherapist form my real job has just got on the bus. She looks at me quizzically. Yup. I still have vomit on me somewhere, don’t I? damn.