There is something very comforting (and comfortable) about being with someone on those kind of days, especially when the weather’s playing up outside. No expectations, no need to do one’s make up, change out of pyjamas. Warm, protected, safe and calm. Confident in the love and affection of the person you’re with.

Sundays in this foreign land of mine seem to be made for this cocoon of lazy domesticity. There aren’t any shops open and the flats are still (this is one of the occasions when I thank their funny by-laws about peace and quiet). At this time of year, the skies are grey, threatening snow or rain. There is a definite nip in the air. Perfect for not doing much with someone you love.

And I’m coping with them alone.

The last couple of Sundays have been spent in a state of flux. I have taken advantage of living on my own and relishing the fact that I have the freedom of being completely selfish about my time off and yet, at the same time, something’s been missing.

Whether it’s someone to doze off next to on the sofa, someone to make tea for (or, even better, make me tea) or to argue with about whether The Colditz Story or The Dambusters makes better Sunday viewing (the answer is, of course, The Colditz Story). It’s someone to collapse onto, your legs on his lap or you planted in the crook of his arm. Curled up.

I’ve started trying to fill up the Sundays with friends, outings, phone calls, pottering. But it’s not quite the same. I miss the companionship and I find myself getting a severe case of the green eyed monster at my loved up friends.

It’s a weird feeling, this feeling of pathetic need. I don’t do needy that often but when I do, boy, I do it well.

Model of a Modern Major General has been on the receiving end of my self-pitying rants for the last couple of weeks. (Normally I try and keep it to just that, something I deal with alone except for a few people whom I know will allow me to wallow, at least for a little bit. Until they tell me to buck up my ideas.)

However, yesterday, I found myself complaining to the American, Scotsman and Hungarian*. They had come round for a proper big fat roast dinner – on the pretence that we were going to talk some rugby chat and then watch the Scotland/Ireland game. They were, of course, actually just pawns in my evil ploy to stave off the feeling that I was going to die alone and be found 3 weeks later being eaten by my cats.

Anyway, it was yesterday that I realised that this condition (which I have decided to call Sundayitis) has got to a critical point. If my complete inability to find someone to spend time with has become the basis of a conversation with friends as we eat Sunday lunch, it must be a huge problem. One that needs solving. (in a very roundabout “Oh me? No, I’m fine without a man, I don’t need a boyfriend, please love me” kind of way, of course – can’t seem too desperate)

There is one fatal flaw. A gaping chasm which I haven’t quite figured out how to traverse.

There is a severe dearth of men in this one-horse town.

Don’t get me wrong, there are men in this town (this isn’t Coutts Crossing after all)  

it’s just that… well, they fall into a number of categories:

1. married
2. taken
3. taken but looking (not my bag, baby)
4. friends (not that I’m precluding the possibility of friends becoming something more but a) I don’t fancy any of my friends and b) it seems like a pretty silly thing to do. What happens if it didn’t work out?)

As you can see, there isn’t a category which is entitled “Single, financially solvent, sane, intelligent, amusing, charming, good looking straight man looking for a stable but exciting relationship”.

Funny that.

*as an aside, I really need to introduce you to my new group of friends here. And give them better pseudonyms.

Read the book

Useful – done that.

At the beginning

Yes, that’s how I normally read books dear twitter

i read _____ it was very good. It was good because…

Well here you go.

I read “Della says OMG!” it was very good. It was good because…

OK, I jest.

With a quote from Meg Cabot on the front cover (who not only wrote the Princess Diaries but also the fab Boy Meets Girl and The Boy Next Door – both of which are well thumbed additions to my bookshelf) claiming “A fun, delicious treat you’ll want to eat up in a single bite”, I had high hopes for “Della says OMG!”

OK, granted, I’m not in the book’s target age (being at least 15 years older than the teen age range it’s aimed at) but that’s never stopped before (see my recent re-reading of Black Beauty).

The premise of the book is simple but also something that every young girl has thought about, worried about and dreaded.

Della is a normal teenager – worried about boys, her relationship with her family and friends and how she looks. She’s an every girl – believable, likable and charming – the kind of girl you’d have liked to be friends with at school. Enter Dan, the romantic interest, the boy she’s liked ever since he gave her gave her a box of crayons on the first day of primary school (how easily us ladies are impressed at a young age – if only it was so easy nowadays!)

At a party, the lovely Dan (yes, I know, he’s too young… but that doesn’t stop me having a crush on him, right? And besides, any man who can quote Blackadder, even if he’s fictional, is ok in my book.) and Della have their first kiss. Everything seems to be going the right way. Until Della realises that her diary has disappeared.

I’m not going to spoil the rest of the book. I’m not going to tell you what happens. I’m not going to tell how satisfying it was. Sorry.

Needless to say though, I started “Della says OMG!” one Saturday evening and couldn’t go to sleep until I had finished it. With characters so authentic, dialogue so delightful and a storyline which will resonate with every woman (young, or old) “Della says OMG!” really is a great new addition to an already established teen fiction genre.

I found myself giggling, gasping and grinning throughout the book. It introduced me to new favourite words which have since made regular appearances in my everyday language (“hidying” being one of them – the act of hiding things before people come round in lieu of actually tidying).

I’m very excited to see that Keris has a new book coming out (you can read the first chapter here) and I can’t wait to read it all. My recommendation now? Keris, please move into the adult fiction bracket. Please?

You can buy “Della says OMG!” from Amazon. (and I heartily recommend you do)

Ann and Margaret are in their twilight years. Ann’s late husband has been dead for 10 years now and this foray into lesbianism is a relatively new thing for her. Ann finds it all a bit exciting after her staid (and conventional upbringing)

Margaret’s always been “that way inclined, dear” but after the heady excesses of the 60s and 70s, never thought she’d find anyone to settle down with. And yet, here she is, with Ann.

Ann and Margaret now live a contented life in their small bungalow. It has a garden, which is a blessing. They pride it on being the best in the small Surrey village they live in. “Have you seen Barbara’s latest attempt Ann? Petunias! Frightfully common little flowers”

They first met at the parish council meeting (“such a boring thing, darling but one does like to wind up Norman”) and, recognising they were both women of a certain age, starting having regular kitchen sups together.

Margaret never had children (for obvious reasons) and Ann and Jonathan (“god rest his soul”) only had the one. Money was a bit tighter in those days so, much to Ann’s disgust, he had to be sent to the local comp. Since then he’s been a bit of a handful. Friends would probably describe him as “down to earth”. Ann winces everytime she hears him speak.

Ann came out to her son about 2 years ago. She thought, with him being “frightfully with the times”, that he’d understand. And he does, sort of.

Although why his mother can’t just find herself a “nice fella from down the pub” like other people, he’ll never know. He always feels slightly uncomfortable around the two of them but, as long as his mum’s happy, he has no complaints.

His wife hates the whole thing. She hates the forced ok-ness of it all. These lunches are a source of huge annoyance. However, her job as an office manager trains her to swallow her pride and take the rough with the smooth. Overall, this is one grisley speed bump on a very smooth ride.

I mean, don’t get her wrong, or anything, it’s not that she hates gay people. No, no. Some of her best friends are gay. It’s just different when they’re 24 and sniffing poppers.

Women in their late 60s don’t have sex, do they?

What do you get when you put me together with someone whose writing I’ve always admired, some food, a hangover (hers, not mine), wine (mine, not hers) and a pub full of characters?

A series of pen portraits.

It’s all too, too exciting. Like, literally, only three years after coming back from her gap year, Tor’s finally got a job! Sooo amazing! Yah – she’s going to be a nanny of all things! Can you believe it? Free car, no real responsibility. Best of all, she’ll be working for Rosie and Jasper – you know, Mummy’s friends from her flatting days in London? Rosie has such excellent taste in clothes and Jasper? Well, for an older man he’s a bit of dish. Brill.

Anyway, what better way to celebrate than getting slightly tipsy on wine with all her bestest chums?

John sits at the end of the table feeling, yet again, slightly out of place. He curses his parents for sending him to the local grammar school. “You’ll meet nice people there Johnny. Grammar schools are really not that bad nowadays”.

If only he’d gone to Radley like the others.

Thank God for Bristol Uni and the blessing of rugby. Now he was moving in the circles in which he should be accustomed. Shame the bevvy of blondes opposite can’t see that. He gazes at Lottie who, in turn, gazes at James.

James is in his element. Here he is with his friends, confident in the fact he’s the best looking chap in the bunch. He could have his pick of girls and frequently does. Including the divine Lottie who, despite her butter wouldn’t melt demeanour is a bit of a goer in the sack. Shame she’s thick as two short planks eh?

He does wish that John would buck up his ideas. It’s not like the Lottie thing is ever going to happen anyway – they won’t go out with just anyone. And yes, John’s good for a laugh but he’s not really part of the gang. Bonus being that John knows some super clubs down in places like Clapham and Wimbledon! Right out in the sticks of London. These sloany ponies are all very well but sometimes he’d like to get away from the “yahs” and the pashminas and puffa jackets.

Tom isn’t too sure what to think of the whole job thing. I mean, it’s great that Tor’s finally got something and all but what about the future? Their future? It’s not like he can say to his work colleagues that he’s going out with a nanny can he? I mean, it’s either one or the other. You’re either frightfully successful or you stay at home and look after the labrador. A Jane job (yanno, a job that just any ol’ Jane can do) just won’t cut it. He glances at Philippa. Now there’s a girl who he wouldn’t mind taking the office party.

Philippa is quiet, still recovering from another night in 151s

What do you get when you put me together with someone whose writing I’ve always admired, some food, a hangover (hers, not mine), wine (mine, not hers) and a pub full of characters?

A series of pen portraits.

Rupert’s wife really doesn’t want to be here.

She and Rupert got married early (some would say too early but what’s convention in the face of true love? And a stack load of cash). The wedding was nice enough – small, in an anonymous south London registry office with a lot of Rupert’s boorish friends and a couple of her squealing Australian ones. It wasn’t the fairy-tale princess affair she would have gone for but since neither she nor her family was paying for any of it, she didn’t feel she could complain. In the 3 years since, she’s half-heartedly looked for a job but instead she prefers to spend her time watching daytime television and flirting with the (also unemployed) guy next door. It’s nothing serious. After all, she loves Rupert, doesn’t she?

Generally, her life was good and she was happy. At 25 she was a world away from the small Australian town in which she grew up. And believe me, she isn’t going back there in a hurry. The only thing she can’t stand about her new life is these irregular lunches with Mr and Mrs Armstrong.

Despite assurances from Rupe, she constantly feels out of the loop, as if she’s not part of the family. Like an unwanted (and convicted) cousin, not the wife of their youngest (and dearest) son.

Ah well, at least they have the Putney flat. And there’s no talk of babies, yet.

Rupert, on the other hand, is in his element. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to see his parents that often. The trip down from the small cottage they own in the wilds of Yorkshire (“the locals are so divine, darling! Real salt of the earth”) is a long one and so nowadays it’s only the Christmas commute and Twickenham debentures which regularly bring them together.

This is a bit of a one off. His father has some board he has to sit on and his mother thought it’d be a perfect opportunity to stay “at the club” and come and see how he’s getting on in the big city. Still, it could be worse. 

His mother is attentive and loving. His father is amused by his work and sport anecdotes. Even better, he doesn’t have to pay. Having a wife is slightly more expensive than he thought. He’s getting through his allowance at the rate of knots.

Mrs Armstrong is trying not to let her annoyance with the younger Mrs Armstrong show. Couldn’t she have found some nicer clothes to wear? Jeans with a hole in the knee really aren’t the correct attire for a Sunday lunch, are they?

And Rupie’s looking so wane. Really, it looks like he hasn’t been fed in a month. Luckily she bought down plenty of freezer bags full of venison stew and a couple ton-weight of lasagna, ratatouille and shepherd’s pie (Roger’s lambs, darling. You know Roger, Jane’s husband. Jane? Come on dear, don’t be silly – you used to have the hots for her daughter, Rebecca? Live at the top of the village? She’s married now you know, Rebecca that is. Yes, frightfully nice chap. Some job in the city.)

She sighs, quietly. Why couldn’t Rupie have married someone just a little… well, a little more like us?

Mr Armstrong ignores all those around him. He has beer and he has rugby. What more does a chap need?

What do you get when you put me together with someone whose writing I’ve always admired, some food, a hangover (hers, not mine), wine (mine, not hers) and a pub full of characters?

A series of pen portraits.

So now, I’m putting my question here. Because it’s easier (as I have more than 140 characters) and I can show pictures instead of links. So here goes.

I have a wedding coming up. It’s a “hat” wedding (one of my favourites) and, on my last trip to the UK I attempted to buy a dress. The one I wanted looked awful on me (made me look horribly pasty) and so I gave up and bought another, just because. But I got thinking. Could this dress be er… dressed up.

And so I throw myself open to criticism. Go!

What do we think? If we agree, I may *repeat may* take a photo of the thing all together this evening.

UPDATE: Yes, the scarf and the hat will be the same red. Just couldn’t find a picture of the red I wanted. Necklace advice noted.

Paddy had met Alison at University. He played rugby, she played netball. She was one of those girls who tried so hard but never really lived up to the standards of the team. They kept her on because she was “frightfully organised” and so loved helping out. Besides, she was generous and kind and dealt with all that frightfully boring admin stuff.

Paddy and Alison met one AU night. She fell for his cheeky smile and unkempt appearance immediately. Here was a man she could love, she thought. Here was a man she could change. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he was the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

She was so struck, she didn’t notice that he was a little more interested in her thinner, prettier team mates.

10 years on and they’re still friends – Paddy relies on Alison to introduce him to new and willing ladies while Alison revels in the attention, all the while secretly pining. Her passion has never been consummated (unless you count that time when Paddy put his hand on her leg while recounting a particularly funny story) but she dreams of it constantly. At night, when she’s at home in her little flat with Jackson the cat, she wonders what it’d be like to have his 6’3” bulk filling the place up.

Alison waits for the day when Paddy realises he loves her – it happens in Jilly Cooper so why shouldn’t it happen in real life?

Paddy never had to try that hard at life. He rolled on through school, university and his job with ease. He is always invited to dinner parties. He is always invited to house parties. He is just always invited.

Sometimes he takes Alison along with her. Not because he likes her “like that” of course, I mean after all “it’s Alison! She’s one of the lads!” but because well, why not? She do anything for him and he enjoys her friends. On a regular basis.

Andrew’s only known Paddy for a couple of years. A vague friend of a friend from cricket. It’s only recently that they’ve become better friends. Andrew is settled in life. He has a good job as an architect, a steady income, steady friends, and, until a couple of months ago, a steady girlfriend. She ran off, ran away from Andrew’s charming smile and kind disposition. Ran to someone far naughtier, far dirtier and far more likely to mess her around.

Paddy has bought Andrew along his regular Sunday pub lunch with Alison (something which Alison resents slightly, she was wearing her favourite purple top in the vain hope that today might be the day). Paddy likes the fact Andrew’s there. Partly because he has someone to watch the rugby with and partly because it takes Alison’s dreaming stares elsewhere for a little while.

Paddy’s much more interested in the two giggling women in the corner.

What do you get when you put me together with someone whose writing I’ve always admired, some food, a hangover (hers, not mine), wine (mine, not hers) and a pub full of characters?

A series of pen portraits.

However, I have to admit, I was absurdly touched to arrive home to these on the doorstep.

Last week, Blonde wrote about how she feels like a fraud – how, even now we’re 10 years out of school with degrees and jobs and houses and dependants (in her case, Colin the cat, in my case, my plants), it doesn’t feel like we should be here, being grown up.

I feel the same, constantly. And I also feel guilt. Guilt that I’m not doing this whole “being a grown up” thing very well.

This feeling is reinforced by the plethora of wedding invites, pictures of small children and smug couples who seem to invade my every day life. And it’s not all envy – I promise. All of these people deserve all of their happiness and I’m flattered that I’m asked to help them celebrate. And yes, I want it too. I’ve never been afraid to admit that.

And so the guilt is felt even more acutely because, despite knowing what I want, and despite knowing (sort of) how it’s achieved, despite all this, even now, I have no stop button.

When I was 18, 19, 20, this was fine. I was allowed to be all go-go-go. I was at University, I was young, and it was kind of expected. And I relished it. I went out until all hours, I drank vile cocktails, I flirted (a lot), I had strings of boyfriends, near-friends, friends with benefits and a variety of others in between. And that suited me fine.

21 hit and I came to London. I settled in. I found my feet and then, at 22, I met N. This was my grown up stage. I was in a committed relationship, I paid my bills, I was in contracts, I went out (on occasion) but there it was, I was a grown up.

Four years later, and I’m on my own. A year after that, I move country and start all over again. And this, it seems, is where it’s gone a little awry.

I seem to have regressed back to my Uni stage. Except this time, I’m not 18 anymore. 10 years have passed and I’m finding this lack of willpower, this lack of stop button, is causing me more angst than I’d like.

Weekends have become a joyful blur of going out with friends, meeting random people, occasional liaisons and lazy Sundays. And it’s fun, and I enjoy it, but is this the way I want it to continue?

Do I want to become one of those women who are perpetually alone, bouncing from one fling to another? Do I want to be greeted by the man behind the bar at the local nightclub? Do I want to be that person who always asks “where to next?”

No, I want to be a grown up.

It amuses me somewhat that all my male friends seem to have this ingrained belief that my “Mr Right” is going to seemingly appear before me (blinding flash and puff of smoke optional)*. Sometimes I feel like I could be in Snow White with the amount of “someday your prince will come“s going on.

So what do I do? Do I curb my – ahem – natural enthusiasm and become a sensible being? Will this make me more grown up? Do I embrace what I seem to have become and deal with it? Will this make me more grown up? Shall I change completely and become a new person? Will this make me more grown up?

The answer, as ever, continues to hide from me. And so, for now, until the answer arrives, I will continue to complain, and feel guilt, and rant to myself on this blog, and annoy my friends about it.

Sorry.

*It has not escaped my notice that all my male friends have found their significant others and therefore are no longer the cynical beings that I once knew!

As I waited for the automatic gate to open, I could only think of one house I could go to.

[backtrack]

Fursty Ferret moved to Wimbledon pretty much straight away after University. Once I was ready, having cut my London teeth on Mile End, Elephant and Castle and Balham first, I followed. Partly because it was great to be near him (and I was fed up of trekking across half of London just for a beer and a natter) and partly because, well… it wasn’t Mile End.

Since then. he only ever lived a short bus ride or rollicking walk away. Constantly moving house, FF liked to live in a certain way – a fluid movement of people, friends, lovers, family, lots of parties and always up for a greasy spoon on a Sunday morning.

About a year before I broke up with N, however, FF had moved into a lovely big house just down the road. He lived with four other lads – Welshman, Teacher X, Wonder Womaniser (later to become “the Superhero Who Changed”) and Low Morale Boy.

Collectively, they were known as the House of Heroes.

It was this house that had the best parties, with the most carnage, the most booze and the most general debauchery. This was my home away from home.

[fast forward back to where we were]

And so, when I found myself alone on a cold, February evening, I knew where I had to go.

Teacher X had been living in the House of Heroes (and with FF, having flatted with him at Uni too) long enough not to be fazed by a ringing doorbell in the early hours of the morning.

From the moment he opened the door, the House would change forever. For they were to let in an outsider – Tokengirl.

And so, for a few months, the House of Heroes become and House of Heroes (and Tokengirl). When the house finally disbanded, in the haze of late summer there was a sense of sadness. I would miss the fact that I had company around me the whole time (and, conversely, relish the fact that I was alone). They would miss… I’m not sure, I think they probably missed taking the piss out of me.

Anyway, I think my fellow housemates would be even more dismayed if they stopped to think how much fame and fortune we could have each got had we sold the rights to the House of Heroes to a reality TV producer.

I can see it now

[wiggly, blurry screen and appropriate music]

Voiceover Guy (VOG): It’s Friday night in the House of Heroes and Nuttycow has just come back after a long day’s work.

[nuttycow walks into the kitchen and looks aghast]

[camera pans round to show general debris and mess. In the background the faint noise of a tin whistle can be heard]

Nuttycow (on phone): Hey Fursty Ferret. Quick question for you. Er… is it normal to come home and find Welshman and Low Morale Boy um… playing rugby. Naked. In the garden?

Fursty Ferret (muffled): Can you see any port around?

[nuttycow looks around]

Nuttycow: Yes, two bottles on the table

Fursty Ferret: Ah, that’d be the port challenge then

VOG: Little did nuttycow know when she moved into the house that various heroes tested their suitability by undertaking the port challenge – a bottle of port in an hour.

[quick voiceover: this is for adults only, do not try this at home]

[cut to next scene]

VOG: It’s Saturday morning and the boys are cleaning up before going to rugby.

[shot of boys playing indoor baseball – a game whereby they…er… play baseball inside. Welshman is batting, Wonder Womaniser is bowling, Fursty Ferret and Teacher X are fielding. Nuttycow is cowering on the sofa. The purpose of this game is that any plates/bowls/mugs etc that get smashed in the process means less washing up]

Continuity guy: Tune in next week to find out how nuttycow protects herself from drunken people sleeping in her bed and who wins the House of Heroes shoot out (hint, it’s not the pigeon).

If your life was a reality show, what would it be called? What would they play on the highlights?

I’ve decided that every month I’m going to try and set myself some challenges to follow (which hopefully I’ll keep up for more than the month). They will be personal, they may not make sense, but they will make me a better person. I hope.

Here goes.

Things I like doing which I’m going to stop doing because they’re bad for me

Drinking: Obviously (well, obvious for anyone who actually knows me) I’m not going to stop drinking completely – fun and exciting nuttycow comes out when I drink – who am I to deny the world of such a nice person? However, the glass (or two) or wine when I get back from work during the week isn’t needed. So that’s going to stop (and believe me, I’m not happy about it, sometimes the thought of wine is all that gets me through the day)

Twitter/Facebook/Google Reader: I love Twitter and sometimes Facebook is the only thing that keeps me going (what can I say, snooping is fun). Google Reader is where I catch up with everyone out there and find out what they’re doing. But all this interaction and activity is eating into the time when I should be working. And, while thus far in life, I’ve managed to get away with it, I’m starting to feel a little guilty. I’m blaming old age. So yes, a tweeting, facebooking hiatus. Not during the day.

Smoking: This is a slightly tougher one for me. Model of a Modern Major General would be in raptures if he thought I was actually giving up totally. I’m sorry to disappoint but I don’t want to do that just yet. However, the fact that Bad Influence has managed to go a month without smoking (much kudos to her for that) has got me thinking. I’m going to be a bit more disciplined.

My normal smoking routine is:

• one in the morning while waiting for the bus
• one mid-morning with a coffee
• one after lunch
• one mid-afternoon with yet another coffee
• one waiting for the bus home
• maybe two in the evening.

But this is going to change. I had one this morning. I’ve already rejected the offer of my mid-morning and I intend to reject lunch and mid-afternoon too. I’ll then have one this evening (without wine – booooo). Slowly, slowly, I’m going to cut down. I’m not that worried about it – I’ve done it before. Just never stuck to it!

Things I hate doing but I’m going to start doing because it’s good for me

Gym: I hate the gym. With a passion. It’s so…. dull. Plus I don’t like the fact that people I know can see me getting hot and sweaty and looking generally more rubbish than I do normally. However, having yo-yo’d on the scales for the last month, it’s time to stop complaining and do something about it. I’ve bullshitted for months and months about how I’m going to get down to the gym and all that rubbish. It’s about time I put my money where my mouth is. It can’t be that difficult, can it?

Ironing: This is a weird one but it’s true. There’s a spare bedroom which is just heaving with clothes that need ironing. And I’m always too bloody lazy to do them (well, come on, ironing is just the most soul-destroying activity!) Having a bit more self-discipline to get the ironing done as soon as it’s dry will be good for me. Plus, it’ll make my mother proud.

Blogging: I don’t hate blogging. Hate is a bit of a strong word. However, sometimes, the thought of sitting down and crafting something worth publishing is just too much. I know so many of the people whose blogs I read spend time and effort crafting posts and thinking about themes and all sorts. I don’t. But I should. If I’m going to take writing seriously, which I want to, then I need to start thinking about what I’m going to write and start doing it regularly.

So, that’s my plan for changing the way I live. Slow and steady eh?

What are you going to change about yourself this month?

Is it wrong that I saw this and I thought…

Idiot! Married doesn’t have a capital letter when it’s not at the start of a sentence. It’s not a proper noun or the name of someone, is it? Oh, and I’m pretty sure “d’oh” has an apostrophe, otherwise it just stands for Department of Health. Oh, and if you’re updating your facebook status so it runs on like that (ie. N is getting married) then “is” really shouldn’t have a capital “I”.

Seriously guys, could you ever see me with someone who makes such basic grammatical mistakes?

No, I didn’t think so either.

This weekend has been a whirlwind of fun, but sometimes slightly odd, occurences.

It all started on Friday at a party in the upper echelons of Lausanne (read, a bloody huge hill away). Three of my closest friends here were celebrating their birthday and so the whole crew was there.

Many drinks were consumed (mostly by me, apparently), many games were played (I lost at beer pong and flip cup. The less said about that, the better) and, a little unsurprisingly, I got a little er… tired and emotional.

As with most social events  I attend nowadays, MIQ was there. His normal, lovely, chatty, amusing, slightly cynical self. There was a little banter, a little north/south divide inspired rivalry and more than a little laughter. However, by mid-evening, while I did… well, whatever I was doing at that point (possibly taking drunk photos) he was … otherwise occupied… with someone else, J. (Someone else? It’s not like there was an us to start with. Silly girl) Anyway, as I drunkenly put it later that night (in a rare moment of fortitude) if it had to be anyone but me (which it did), I’m glad it was the girl it was. She’s awesome. Book closed on that episode I think.

In order to avoid the wrath of exuberant Swiss police, the party broke up at about midnight and we wandered down into town to a club. Well, most of the party wandered. J and I skipped into a taxi (sensible, even when a little worse for wear). I meant to go home at 2. In fact, I told everyone at the party I was going to go home at 2, no matter what. I had to be up the next morning etc etc etc. Home at 2. Yes.

To be fair, I did start to make my way (slowly) to the exit at 2 but then got pulled back onto the dance floor. What was I to do? People wanted me to stay *cough*.

I eventually got home at 6. Ah.

Apparently I ended up pulling a pair of brothers. I say apparently because… well, because it’s true.

Oliver, the younger brother, and I had a little snoggette in the club (I believe this is just after I tried to leave for the first time). Which was nice. Can’t remember how it came about but hey, a snog’s a snog.

When I eventually made it out the door at around 5:30, I started walking home (please read stagger and alone). Through the haze, I vaguely hear someone behind me. It’s Alexander the elder. “I’m going to walk you home” says he. I didn’t quite know what to say to this so I just surrendered myself to the gentlemanly German. I invited him up for a morning cup of tea (it was 6 o’clock, tea time). We drank said cup of tea and then  I kissed him, just for lack of anything else to do. Oh, and because he kind of looked like that guy in Dead Poet’s Society.

I woke up 2 hours later (yes, that’s right, 8 in the morning, on a Saturday) to drive down to Geneva for a surprise 70th birthday party. I was not on sparkling form. Something which was commented on, quite vigorously, by the son of the birthday girl (if you can call a 70 year old a girl?)

“We’ve only got a half Imo” he said, each word hammering my head like a pneumatic drill. “Normally you have the attention of the whole table. Normally you’re the life and soul. What happened?”

I could not partake in the copious amounts of wine going round. Partly because I think I was still a little drunk. Partly because I was too busy chugging water in order to get rid of the desperately bad hangover which was creeping into my brain.

The rest of Saturday involved tea and Inspector Morse and sofas and cheese. Sunday saw me practising my French at a local market, smuggling wine and watching Ski Sunday. Rock ‘n’ roll, eh?

So that was the weekend. Fun, but weird. Fun for the friends  and the drinking and the dancing (although I couldn’t move on Sunday – damn you high heels) and the laughing and the games.

Weird due to the brothers (although, you know, that was fun too) and the MIQ question.

The weirdness continued this morning. Not only was I out of the house at 6:45 and going for a run. Voluntarily. Without a gun to my head or anything. Not only that madness but, this morning I received a rather odd email from the Crush.

Good morning. I am just emailing to say goodbye. To be honest I probably won’t be in touch that much. I will leave you to enjoy yourself without a random guy bothering you. It has nice to [have been] in touch,however, realistically I don’t think we would ever get to catch up. Good luck and take care

?

Dumped. Already. Dumped even before, well… even before anything.

Ok, ok, I know I haven’t been dumped. Forgive me, I’m taking a bit of poetic license here. But it’s a slightly odd email to send. Totally out of the blue but, considering the timing, I am in the mood to forgive…it was sent at 5 this morning and I happen to know he was on his way to get on the plane which was taking him to the War Zone. Again. Another 5 months away.

Those circumstances will do strange things to people’s heads, I’d imagine. Which is why I didn’t take the email personally and replied with this little gem:

And you think you’ll get rid of me that easily? HA! Chance would be a fine thing.
 
I don’t know what kind of access you’ll have to email but I’ll continue to pester you until you give in and send me a postal address.
 
Hope you had a safe journey and I’ll speak to you soon (if emails can count as speaking?).

I’m all class.

How was your weekend? As odd as mine?

Happy new year Miss Moo [a nickname which he still calls me, nearly 2 years after we broke up] Hope all is well with you. Interesting news….am engaged and will be married in October so buy a new hat!!

It’s not a surprise. Fursty Ferret had pre-warned me. N had met him for drinks late last year and apparently it had slipped out in conversation while N was drunk (no surprise there then!)

So how do I feel?

Anger. Angry that I waited around four and a half years for him to pop the question to me. FOUR AND A HALF YEARS. For fuck’s sake, we had the ring picked out and everything. And yet, nothing.

Depression. Ok, so he’s older than me, he’s a little nuts but he’s a nice man. Deep down. But dammit – he’s getting married. He’s getting married. And I’m not.

But most of all, I feel…

Relief. Oh god, relief. Thank god it’s not me. Does that sound bad? I loved him. He loved me. We were happy. Once. Should I really be feeling such gratitude that I’m not marrying him?

I needed have worried too much.

I know, it sounds awful, but I took great pleasure in being the teacher’s pet. Ok, so ignore the fact that my fellow students were learning their third, sometimes fourth language. Ignore the fact that I was taught French at school and ignore the fact that I was showing off, a little. Vincent (the slightly gangly but sort of goodlooking teacher) shot me looks of gratitude as I explained, in English, the difference between voila and voici and the nuances between ou etes-vous and d’ou etes-vous*. I reveled in the fact that my fellow students asked me questions – as if I was the font of all French knowledge.

And I know it’s not going to last, and I know they’ll probably put it me in a higher class where I’ll feel like the dunce extraordinaire but today? Today, just let me bask a little.

*and I apologise now for the lack of accents – I can’t figure out how to do them.

And I did know. And it confused me.

It was 3:30am on new year’s day morning (and yes, I know, nothing good ever happened after 2am). The wedding party was winding down, the bride and groom had not-so-subtley escaped to consummate their marriage and I was left in the bar with the heavy hardcores.

Earlier the previous day, we had all gathered together for the nuptials of two of our rugby friends. 150 people together on new year’s eve to celebrate the love the two prettiest people you’re ever likely to meet and gossip about how beautiful the inevitable hordes of children are likely to be.

She, the tall, thin, dark haired type. Looks good in everything (she even wore a binbag to a party once and, yes, you’ve guessed it, looked stunning. Damn her).

He, the tall, broad, dark haired, once slightly bad but now totally devoted type. A changed man.

“Colin?” (as she shall be known for a very long reason known only to myself) I enquired, “I know you’re going to be a smug married and therefore us single lasses don’t really matter anymore but seriously, is there going to be anyone single at this wedding?”*

“Oh yes!” she said, “there are 6 single men and 6 single women”.

6. Out of a party of 150. Out of which 100 of whom were probably already known and therefore out of the picture. The odds = not good.

The wedding was as fun as I thought it would be. All dancing and drinking. Acquiring pet barmen (well, I had to ensure that a ready supply of “my” red wine was available, didn’t I?). Making sure the Australian best man knew his place. No hands-eating (this, I hasten to add, was the boys of the table and involves eating without using your hands not a lack of people eating their hands). Making hats out of party poppers. Drinking (did I mention that?)

And so, as the hours rolled on, more and more people gave in and went to bed until, there we were, the waifs and strays. 3:30 in the morning, several bottles of wine, shots and various other things down. There was the Drunken Kiwi (taken), the Excitable Silverback (taken), the Dwarf (taken), the Cheeky Chappy and the It’s Always The Quiet Ones (IATQO for ease of typing).

It was when outside having a cold and wind-swept cigarette that I noticed the strange behaviour from Cheeky Chappy and IATQO. Were they…. were they flirting with me? Were they both being overly suggestive? Was their conversation a little too innuendo lain?

Did conversations with IATQO need to be at such a low volume level that heads were drawn together? Did he have to have to stand quite so close? Did that hand need to stay on my arm? Were clandestine conversations in corridors really needed? Did eyes have to hold each other for so long?

And Cheeky Chappy, was it just me or did he have a particularly heavy pour? Was the grin a little too sparkly, the eyes a little too winky?

Now (as friends of mine will attest) I’m not normally one to back away from flirtatious and suggestive conversations. Most of the time, I’m the one instigating them. No, the thing that slightly concerned me about these conversations was the age of the participants.

At the grand old age of 28, I feel I am fully entitled to be a tad freaked out when a 21 year old (IATQO, younger brother of the bride) and 23 year old (Cheeky Chappy, a friend of mine) take it upon themselves to (and I quote) “try it on”. I get even more freaked out when the assorted company we’re in start debating which of the two I’m going to take “home”**

Is this what my life has become? Am I, finally, an OWILF (OW in this case standing for “older woman”). And, in addition, does this mean I have to become a cougar?

The worrying thing is that this isn’t a new phenomenon. The young men thing, that is. Looking back over the last couple of chaps I’ve had dalliances with (and there haven’t been that many sadly. A little bit of a dry spell going on here) they have, for the most part, all been younger than me.

Now, I’m a huge fan of education. You know, ensuring knowledge is passed down through the generations and all that jazz. I feel that it’s my responsibility, if I meet a man, to inform, coach and generally improve him as much as possible. In a stupidly subtle way of course – men would never stand for it if they realised that they were oh-so-slightly being moulded.

The changes can be small, from teaching him to not leave towels on the floor to medium, teaching him how to cook more than just a boiled egg on toast for example to major, evolving his kissing style from “meh” to “OMIGOD!”***

But with the younger generation? I’m not entirely sure that I should be the one to be responsible for the up and coming men of this world. What happens if I gave bad advice? What happens if I scar them for life? Legions of future girlfriends and wives would curse my name for ever more.

And so, I took the easy way out. I sloped off to bed and left the two of them to it.

Since when did I become so sensible?

*In my defence, I don’t normally use weddings as an excuse to pull and I certainly don’t normally ask whether there’ll be anyone single there. It just so happens that it was new year’s eve and there’s nothing more depressing that trying to say happy new year to 74 snogging couples and an elderly grandmother – all of whom are ignoring you.

** neither, in case you were interested. I admit, I was tempted by IATQO but come on – he was 21! CC never had any appeal for me. For starters, I know him too well. Secondly… just no.

*** and don’t try to deny it you lot, I know I’m not the only one here. I know (at least I hope I do) that in all your relationships, you’ve changed your fella and, I bet, you’ve changed too. It all goes hand in hand in the great mature relationship thingy.

I wonder that people have to cultivate wonder in their life? For me, there is wonder all around me, all the time.

Wonder in my beautiful surroundings, wondering at the strange Swiss, wondering at how no matter where you play it, rugby is still rugby, wondering at my friends, wondering how things work, wondering how I got so lucky.

This post is part of #reverb10 – a chance for bloggers to reflect on what’s been done and what’s to come.

For more information, visit the reverb website.

It was at the end of April, two short months after leaving the UK, that I decided that I had to let rugby go. More importantly, I had to let my closest group of friends go and make my own way forward.

I knew that they’d probably always be there (as it has proved since. I’ve been back twice this year and each time we’ve all fallen back into the same routine. I may no longer be playing but I still feel a part of the team and I still feel that I could count on any of them if I needed to) but at the time it was a huge decision for me.

Rugby, or more specifically, the rugby club and its members, had been a major part of my life for the last 5 years. My whole life was taken up by them. Meetings, training, supporting, games, drinking. Every weekend was a rugby weekend in one way or another.

And then suddenly it wasn’t.

And I had to make a choice.

Did I want to spend my weekends worrying about what was going on without me or did I want to spend my weekends making new memories?

There really wasn’t much of a choice, was there? I had made the first break back in 2009 when I decided to move out here. The second break was made at my leaving party in February 2010 and now, here, was the final break. April 2010, I decided that I wasn’t going to go on tour.

That one small decision was part of my “oh my god, I hate it here” stage of moving country* but, looking back, it was the right move to make. I needed to make that break from the old me to the new me. If I hadn’t of made that decision, I think I’d still be hanging on to old friends when there were plenty of new ones out there to be made.

That’s not to say that I wanted to cut myself off completely from my old friends. Hell no. Some of my closest friends are in that group of mad, loyal, funny, beautiful, welcoming people. It was, however, time to expand my horizons. 

And so with that decision I let go of my old life. And starting adding to it, making my new one.

*After the initial elation and excitement of moving, about 2 months in, you get the “what have I done” stage of moving abroad. After this stage, it goes two ways. You either hate it forever, or you fall in love with your new home. Luckily for me, I’ve fallen into the latter category.

This post is part of #reverb10 – a chance for bloggers to reflect on what’s been done and what’s to come.

For more information, visit the reverb website.

It’s done by day and, since it’s now the 10th, I’m going to change the rules a little and number it instead. That way, I won’t feel so guilty about being on prompt 13 when it’s the 20th etc. I will be finished by the end of December though. I promise. Sort of.

We’ll start of easy, shall we?

Prompt 1: One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

Exploration

2010 has been a year of new horizons and new experiences. I’ve moved countries and started all over again. I’ve had to make new friends and get used to a new language and a new way of doing things.

Last year was about moving on and finding out who I was after N. This year has been about becoming who I want to be and taking advantage of being on my own.

What about next year? What do I want that to be about? Part of me thinks consolidation – I’d like to concrete myself here and make my new life complete. The more mischievous side of me thinks sod it, next year’s going to be about adventure.

I want to look back and next year and say to myself “yes, this was the year that I lived”.

Bring it on.

What would your one word for 2010 be?

This post is part of #reverb10 – a chance for bloggers to reflect on what’s been done and what’s to come.

For more information, visit the reverb website.

You get the picture.

Anyway, it all boils down to this (and apologies if this gets a tad gurrrrl power – that’s just the mood we’re in at the moment):

Men need to treat us better – they need to treat us the way we deserve to be treated. We shouldn’t stand for anything less. We won’t stand for anything less.

So PJB and I came up with a list. A list of things we want in our men. It’s not very scientific but I figure if we found a man like this, we’d be happy ladies.

• Men have to willing to woo us. After all, if you want to sleep with us, we’re going to need persuading.
• When they kiss us (and they should be gooooood kissers) they should do that whole hands on face/playing with hair thing. We like that. A lot.
• Until men have wooed us enough for us to deem it a suitable time, they should put up with the fact that we want to do (and I quote PJB here) “a hell of a lot of really good kissing”.
• They should be willing to do the gentlemanly things – hand on small of back as they guide us through a door, pulling out our chairs, filling our wine glasses before theirs.
• Thoughtful little gifts and flowers. We want them.
• Old fashioned romance and old fashioned looks – dashing, handsome and manly.
• Try and be a little thoughtful. Why not make us a cup of tea/get us a glass of wine/slab of chocolate just because you think we might like one? We’ll think you’re fabulous. 
• Charming – charming to our friends, our mothers, our bosses. Everyone. But not so smooth that they’d slide up hill. That’s horrible.
• Adore us. Adore us so much that you don’t come out with bullshit about how you don’t want to hurt us. Or that you’re “not in the right head space right now”. That’s balls. We know that if you really liked us, none of that would matter.

Oh, and they should have pretty eyes, nice hands and a nice arse.

Not a lot then.

What would you add to the list?

P.S. Bad Influence? You’re incredibly beautiful and I adore you. There you go. Something nice on my blog about you. For once.