Thursday, 29 December 2011

Before Too Long…There’ll Be Somebody Else, It’s Then That You’ll Know That You Wanted More…

Let me start by wishing you a most Merry of all Christmasses.  Hopefully as you read this, you are all snuggled up with your loved ones still patting a heavy stomach of mince pies and merriment, looking forward to the welcoming ceremony of 2012, and all that it may bring.

Incidentally, since you asked, I am sat typing this whilst Audrey struts her stuff in Breakfast at Tiffany’s on my DVD player, snuggled up in my most furry of fur coats as the boiler has decided to pack up.  Ridiculous.  Happy bloody Christmas.

Christmas, it must be said, was wonderful; short as ever for us retailing types, but wonderful none the less.  Mr Jeffery did me proud with his thoughtful and lovely gifts…which may have included a rather romantically wrapped key to his house….which may have been slightly more romantic, had I not been informed of this gift in a somewhat laughable incident prior to the festivities, in which I traipsed all the way back to London…with Mr Jeffery’s key still in my bag.  Cut to Christmas day, Nanny Musing is struggling to keep her cracker hat on her wiry fro, Mum is beaming over at me and love-of-life as we open wonderful presents and, surprisingly, we were subjected to Eastenders which I haven’t watched in years and, after that episode, I am overjoyed that I don’t; such relentless sorrow could not be endured of an evening four times a week. 

So we’ve hit the 3 and a half month mark and a wonderful 3 and a half months it has been; feels like years, but in a good way. But, as any girl knows, the first few months can also be what I like to call ‘The Woodwork Phase’; we’ve all been there girl meets boy, other boys from the past home in on some sort of inner radar device, girl is inundated with offers, apologies and such like.

It started with a Facebook message, about two months ago now.  It was from a bloke who ended up getting off with a friend of mine on one of my first nights out upon my arrival to London.  Ben was his name, though I remember calling him ‘Serge’, mostly because he had a beard and a friend named Tom.  This was also the night I fell in a bin, just to remind you how out of it I was.  Nevertheless, I digress, off ‘Ben’ and his friend trotted never to hear from again; life goes on, my so called friend disappears off the face of the earth and this appears early one morning in my FB inbox;
            ‘Funny how I remember your name after all this time, give me a message sometime, it was you I fancied, not your friend’.
Hmmm, wasn’t how it looked at the time mate, whilst I was busy trying to prise myself out of the bin.  I took great pleasure in a short message that said something along the lines of being a taken woman and ha ha and take care.  Honestly, men!

I don’t imagine for a second that Jon Richardson’s radar is anywhere near tuned in my direction, but it had remained a dream of mine to meet such a man who can make me laugh and cry simultaneously, with his humourous hatred for all mankind, and his cute dimples.  Alas, that dream came true at the start of December, in a basement tucked away by Old Street station, we had booked tickets for a sneak preview showing of Stand Up For The Week; little did we know how informal the evening would be.  Remember those ramblings a short time ago, a time when I had a firm belief I could be the woman for him?  Well, cut to Lovemenot virtually shoving me in Jich’s direction, a nervous request for a photo and a nervous acceptance, mission accomplished (disclaimer: Jich no longer allowed on my allowed list – he’s been replaced by Miles Kane)!  That’s the sort of spontaneity one can only find in London, how I’ll miss those moments.

What is it with them all?  You spend a good deal of your twenties single and ready for any eventuality (bolts out of the blue, celebs popping up on your doorstep) and you can’t even get the attention of the man who lives two doors up from your shop.  All of a sudden, just when you’re settling in to something new and serious, the lights go on…only this time guys, there really is nobody home.  Even Dream Boy attempted a minor flirt on our last meeting, something about absence making the heart grow fonder; no thanks DB, you of all people had time a plenty to see through my bashfulness and sort it out, too little too late!

And, as if these little flirtations weren’t enough, just when we thought a certain Gally had perhaps been asphyxiated by his own collection of overpriced, imported feathers (and other such hideous thoughts one conjures up in dark moments), he emails.  Well to be exact, I sent an email.  Something to do with laying ghosts to rest, I decided to send a quick email, a hello and a ‘hope you’re ok’.  He replied…and wanted to meet up for a drink.  I was shocked to my very core, not only had he been alive all this time, he was suggesting a catch up?  Not only that, it now appears he has set up his own fashion label with fancy website and interest from fashion bloggers already.  Well la de dah!  I’m 90% happy for him and 10% pissed off with this over-the-top success, as any ex would be – jammy bastard.

I suppose I thought about the drink, he knew about Mr J and my decision to potentially leave London for the love of such a good man, so there would be no wires crossed there.  Plus, there was the opportunity to get a few answers, gain a bit of closure, explaining that to Mr J, however, was a much harder conversation to have.  I decided it was a good idea, I responded to Gally with a few bits and bobs about the job etc – he never wrote back.  Oh well, closure accomplished I think – I know he’s alive and well and probably happy.  I guess there are some things we are not supposed to have answers to – like why the ‘Woodwork Phase’ will always crop up at the start of a new relationship, regardless!

Anyway, must get going, this rather lavish production of Great Expectations has me hooked, plus I have New Year’s Resolutions to plan…there’s no time to tell you of our first trip away together – to see Kasabian in Cardiff (awesome – on all levels), or our first road trip to Somerset (Mr J, an ex-employee of Nero, drank a Starbucks – I took photographic evidence).  Here’s to a fabulous 2012, I do hope you all get what you are hoping for; for me 2011 has been something of a turnaround…here’s looking forward to whatever 2012 may have in store. 

See you on the other side….

Mwah x

Saturday, 26 November 2011

On The National Express...There's A Jolly Hostess...Selling Crisps And Tea...

For the record, the Divine Comedy lied. There’s no jolly hostess, just a miserable, power-hungry driver, in a hideous jacket, barking orders to wear seatbelts and refrain from listening to music at an inappropriate level. Add to this mix a selection of the loudest, most in-love-with-the-sound-of-their-own-voice arseholes, that you could ever hope to be sharing a confined space with, and you are all set for a 3 hour coach journey from hell.

As I write this, it appears that I am sat in front of a new line up for The Inbetweeners, only minus the humour. No, I don’t care whether or not you passed your first year of Uni, or whether or not it’s a good idea to ‘get wit’ Rachel, who will probably hate you as much as I do, once she has had to endure your monotonous voice for over an hour. I’m mostly concerned with your ruining my literary enjoyment of Jane and her epic love for Mr Rochester, so eff off. And stop kicking the back of my seat. God, the ‘Yute dem’ of today…aaiiiiiii?!

It is my firm belief that anyone, upon entering into a long distance relationship like mine, that spans miles (or, at least, a great deal of the M1); probably has many a vision of emanating a Marilyn-style traipse along a deserted train platform only to fall into the familiar arms of their distant loved one. In reality, long distance is not for the faint hearted; once you have negotiated the tube to Victoria in epic Paula Radcliffe-inspired timing, after another long day at work, there is barely time or leg room for flat to heel swaps and make-up application. Not to mention the half hour delay, or the lottery of who you might end up sat next to. Suffice to say, I chose National Express for their cheapness, certainly not their efficiency, or the opportunity to sit next to a grimacing man who does nothing but stare at Facebook on his phone for 3 hours.

Cut to a chilly November evening and I am on my way to see Mr Jeffery for a lovely weekend; there is dim lighting and a whole group of the aforementioned arseholes to contend with. Someone’s got hot food (strictly forbidden by the coachy powers that be), someone left the toilet door open (anti-social bastard) and the person sat opposite is sweating like Conrad Murray signing a prescription form (just not necessary, really). So much for my dreams of travelling the M1 in something akin to a coach version of the Orient Express. Not that I would wish to disappoint in the ‘arriving looking impossibly stunning’ stakes; using the poise of a contortionist, I have learnt to negotiate the contents of my make-up bag and shuffle my iPod, with little to no room for elbow movement. Win. Face on, heels on, passenger next to me may have slight bruise on arm for several days.

Still…almost 10.30pm and Broadmarsh Shopping Centre is in sight, plus the silhouette of a man, carrying a guitar and the promise of another fun-filled weekend in Rockin’ Notts, a city that draws me closer to it by the day.

A word of warning to the car-less dreamers of the world who, like me and Mr Jeffery, have fallen into the trapping of a long distance love; for God’s sake move and save yourself the agony of National Express journeys.

10.25pm Jesus…even System of a Down can’t drown him out…

10.30pm Aaahhh, there stands the very reason I make these journeys at all. The world, at once, makes sense again!


Sunday, 6 November 2011

All We Ever Want To Be...Is Floating In The Emerald Sky....

Things I believe I once said…

‘I really think it will take me ages to call myself someone’s ‘girlfriend’, I’m just too independent, yah.’ 

‘Yeah I totally know what love is, it’s hideous, I’m in love right now actually.’  (I wasn’t).

‘I’m not going to tell anyone for 3 months when I meet someone, because it always effs up.  No Mum, not even you.’

‘I’ve never been content, I don’t think I’m capable of feeling that.’

Truth is, in the great words of Carrie Bradshaw, ‘if I met me now, I wouldn’t know me’.  A thought I had to myself quite recently, whilst I was getting trussed up to go and watch the dapper Miles Kane RAWK out at Electric Ballroom last week. 

I looked in the mirror, ready to preen and pluck away, red-headed and lightning-bolted; the reflection was the same, I still looked like me, but it was an entirely different me.  A whole new Miss Musing with a whole new outlook on things, a new list of priorities (of which one rather gorgeous, scruffy-haired Nottingham-ite takes the top spot) and, finally, someone (aforementioned Nottingham-ite) to share it all with.  It took me precisely one minute to reply to Will’s lovely tweet after his gig, precisely one week to admit to myself that speaking to him was the highlight of my day and, precisely, one morning after our first Nottingham-based ‘date’ to call myself his girlfriend.  Having not been a girlfriend for a long time I expected this to take some sort of hideous getting used to.  Not true.  Feeling his fingers interlock with mine for the first time felt entirely natural and, so it would seem, was the referral to myself as his ‘girlfriend’ and using the term ‘boyfriend’ to describe this once-near stranger who had almost completely ignored me at Inspiral (yup Jeffo, haven’t forgotten about that neither)!

So when did it all change?  It seems like just yesterday I was whiling away the hours at work, moping and questioning and considering.  That never happened with him.  He strolled across that road in Camden, the wrong way, trademark fag in hand and everything changed, for both of us. No more questions, just pure, unadulterated clarity, and a hell of a lot of shit to get through first! 

And guess what? He even met my parents on one easy, fun, Byron-Burger munching afternoon.  Nobody has met my parents for years, not because they are hard to please, but because I’ve mostly been out with absolute twats.  The need to impress my parents became harder with every shoulder-hunching, shock-tactic loving, parka-wearing miscreant I dated and yet, everything just sort of fell into place with Will (aided, in Mummy Musing’s eyes, by the fact that he is a MASSIVE Beatles fan).  So what did my parents think of him?  They’ll let you know when he joins us for Christmas Day this year!

I knew we were going to be together and we were going to be O.K when I hobbled up those train station steps (yup, he wasn’t exaggerating) and saw him smiling at me across the ticket barriers. I knew I loved him very quickly afterwards, when Arcade Fire blasted onto my iPod on the journey back home and I knew I wanted to give it all up in London for him during a John and Yoko-style bed-in at mine a few weeks after that.  I said I had never felt contentment, but I feel it now.  No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world; I’m in love with the right person in the right place at the right time.  It took me a really long time to get here, but I made it!

I took a photo that night, the Miles night, it was the moment I looked in the mirror and realised that ‘older and wiser’ isn’t just a great song lyric, it was a frozen minute in time when everything seemed different, more exciting, more liberating, more fulfilling, more hopeful and yet everything has slowed down.  Ladies and gentlemen, gone are the days of bar-crawling and boy-chasing (literally) along Angel High Street, in their place are the cosy nights in with chicken casserole and dumplings and the love of a good man whose keen-ness to settle pretty much mirrors my own.  So much so that, in fact, he is worth the three hour horrible coach journeys, he is worth giving it all up here for, because what awaits us is sure to be the most exciting chapters of our lives!

Things I Catch Myself Saying Now…

‘When we get married….’

‘Yeah you’re cute, but it’s really not there is it.’

‘He’s The One’

I think when I started writing this Blog, it was because I was searching for something.  With Gally having left me high and dry with his empty promises and French Vogues and the likes of Dream Boy tugging at the heartstrings, I was living some sort of half-existence waiting and hoping that it was all out there.  It is.  It happened for Carrie, it happened for Paul and Linda and it bloody well happened for Stacey DuGuid.  And now it’s happened for me.  Which just leaves one question really…what the HELL am I going to write about now?!

P.S  For the record, Mr Miles certainly did himself justice that night, despite the breakage of his guitar not once, not twice, but thrice during ‘Come Closer’, he made us all proud (especially his Mum, who he had brought along), and it was lovely to have a good old Lovemenot and Miss Musing night out, we don’t have those so much any more…not with Young Cherub and Will muscling in on the scene.  We love you Miles and can’t wait to see you support those Leicester Lovelies in a few weeks!  

Sunday, 23 October 2011

The Good Will Out....

*The views expressed in this following post are the views of our Guest Blogger and have absolutely nothing to do with the views of the familiar Miss Musing...enjoy*

I thought it might be good for you all to get to know the man that has won Emma’s heart.  Here are a few snippets of information

My name is Will
I’m a 29 year old Aquarian
I’m a musician with various projects (day job as well)
My favourite film is The Life Aquatic by Wes Anderson
My favourite musician is Johnny Cash
I don’t class myself as an indie boy!
I don’t have tattoos!
I don’t believe in ghosts!
I can’t grow a beard.
It takes me about 10 minutes to get ready in the morning
I have scruffy hair (probably should spend more time getting ready in the morning)
I listen to records
I still have a video collection
I have no sense of direction (geographical)

I had a gig in Camden at a wonderful little venue called Green Note Café.  With every gig in London comes a worry that you’ll be playing to no one and it will be a wasted trip; so I sat on Facebook and invited all the people I knew that lived in London.  It was a chance for reunion with old friends and a good excuse for a night out.  I was surprised when I got a reply from my ex’s friend, saying that she was going to come along.  Didn’t she know that me and my ex weren’t together anymore??

Before the gig I saw Emma crossing the road towards me, which made me realise that I was going the wrong way!  She pointed me in the right direction and we got talking.  She’d brought some friends along with her, which made me feel less guilty about cutting short the rconversation to meet the friends that were already there.  The performance was good, nice crowd, free drinks and payment!!  After packing up my guitar, I headed out for my usual post gig cigarette and invited Emma out as well.  This was to kill two birds with one stone. Conversation with someone that had come to support me, and….. to take another two minutes off my life.  I had always thought Emma was a very attractive girl and from the off just felt comfortable in her presence but knew she was out of bounds.  She was my ex’s friend and that would have been wrong, very wrong, very very wrong (slap myself in the face)

We got on!

Very well!

It was at this point that certain questions were going through my head.  Why has she turned up if she knew my ex wasn’t with me?  Why is she looking at me as though she’s listening to every single word I say?  And the main question…….how good friends are they?

The day after, I tweeted Emma thanking her for coming to the gig, 'blah blah blah I like your hair.'  I don’t know why I sent that particular comment.  I think it was the fact that I really liked the way she looked.  I was showing appreciation for the radical change of hair colour since the last time I saw her.

There was definitely something there.  There was something I’d not felt for a long time, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.  The conversations carried on and I made sure I ended every tweet with a question so I could get a reply.  I was getting annoyed with the whole situation, why was she out of bounds?  If I was feeling like this then I was at least going to see if she was feeling the same.  It turned out she was but didn’t want to upset her friend and I didn’t want to upset anyone either.  I was due to head to Camden again to watch a gig, so I thought I’d test the water with the ex and cheekily asked if it would be weird if I met up with Emma and if could I touch her??  The reply was a good one basically saying that we were both nice people and to have fun.  Green light.

For many reasons the trip down to the big smoke didn’t happen, but Emma really wanted to see me and obviously I wanted to see her too (a lot!!), so I suggested that she come up to Nottingham for a few days.  It was quickly arranged and also a gig in Manchester was on the cards as well.  I was well excited, I couldn’t wait and made this clear on the phone to her.  We had started to talk a lot on the phone, sometimes up to two hours; this was when I knew it was going to be a serious thing.  We laughed so much and conversation was never awkward or dull.  I really liked her and I was nearly exploding with excitement the day I was meeting her.  Emma told me she couldn’t stop thinking about me, when I heard that, I thought my heart was about to jump out of my chest.  I was so happy that this may be something massive.

I was at the train station awaiting Emma’s arrival.  I thought I’d be more nervous, but the couple of pints I had had watching a couple of bands beforehand helped the situation.  We both knew that we liked each other at this point but actually meeting her was going to be awkward.  I really wanted to take her into my arms and kiss her straight away but did I really want our first kiss to be in a dirty train station?  We had jokingly talked about first contact in one of our many conversations.  We’d agreed a hug was going to be the best option.  The other options were shaking hands and, my favourite, heading into the nearest public convenience!!

She rang whilst I was waiting at the main entrance.  She was a bit confused about which exit to go to.  I found out later that this was an excuse just to bide a bit of time to calm down and to stop her legs shaking, as she was in heels.  I saw a nun walking up the stairs and at first, thought she’d made a special effort in a 70’s porno kind of way!  Emma had made the effort. When I (eventually) saw her coming up the stairs she looked stunning.  Her smile made me feel less nervous and at that point, I knew everything was going to be ok.  So I dragged her into the nearest toilet…not really.  We hugged.  The hug was a lot more comfortable than the hug we had in Camden.  The one in Camden lacked the spark that this one had, I was worried that I wasn’t going to be able to let her go.  I did though and we made our way to a lovely bar near the Castle.  We held hands for the first time, I know that isn’t even “first base” but it was really nice.  After a couple of drinks we headed back to my house.  We went on a bus!! The least romantic mode of transport ever!! 

Our first kiss was hilarious.  I think Emma said something along the lines of “shall we give this a go"?  Brilliant!  When our lips finally touched, after a few giggles, I was surprised at how fantastic it was.  Not going to go into too much detail about what happened after but the kiss was amazing and felt so natural.

The day after, we took a trip to Manchester for another gig of mine. I’m pretty sure Emma will get fed up of my songs before too long! I used to live in Manchester for 10 months of my life just after I got married.  Yes, I was married!  Unfortunately, for Emma she had to meet my ex wife at the gig along with lots of friends from my past.  This wasn’t something that I would be comfortable with but Emma handled it brilliantly.  The fact that she actually went, knowing about the situation, made me more certain that Emma was the most amazing girl ever.  I always had the idea that I would be best friends with my ex, but after that night, I realised that I didn’t want to be a massive part of her life anymore.  In fact, I wanted out and wanted to be part of Emma’s life in a big way.  That’s why I was glad that we’d made it official that day.  Strategically this day is also pay day! This means that I won't miss the monthly anniversaries!  Sometimes, once in a blue moon, I do think like a man.  Speaking of which, ask Emma what we got up to on the train!

So, we were in a relationship!!  Something I really wasn’t expecting to happen for a long time. They do say that 'IT' hits you when you’re not looking for it.  It hit me hard and also from an  angle that I wasn’t expecting.  I really wanted to see more of Emma.  We had planned for me to go to London, but that was weeks away and we needed to see each other before that.  She paid me a cheeky one night visit.  It was really nice to see her but work had really pissed me off by saying that I had to go in the following day!  No lie in with my girlfriend then!  I’d left her in bed that morning and she said that she’d walk into town and meet me for lunch before she got the bus back.  I gave her some very simple directions, but when she rang me she’d got lost.  As I mentioned at the start of this blog entry, I’ve no sense of direction and Emma informed me, after her little jaunt to the edges of town, that her sense of direction wasn’t great either.  I’m dreading holidays together!

Every time we part it gets harder.  I’m longing for the day that we can do stuff normal couples do.  I really feel as though I’ve found someone special.  She really is one in a million and am so glad to be able to call her my girlfriend.  Everything has happened fast and I really didn’t expect it, but there was no way I was going to regret not keeping in touch with “that Emma from London, the one that I really liked and got on incredibly well with," just because it was too soon or because she was friends with an ex.  I’m feeling things, she’s feeling things, everything is great.  We both deserve to be happy and we really think we can be.

I think I’ve babbled on too much now and think this will be a good point for Emma to pick it up, to tell you all about how amazing I am! And modest...but first...I shall end with a list of things that I really like about Emma....

I like her eyes and how whenever I tell her that I love her they well up.
I like it how she fits into me when we sleep or cuddle.
I like how she gives me a taste of my own medicine winding each other up.
I like the fact that she loves things that I can’t stand. It makes for interesting conversations!
I like her caring nature
I like it how she’s so clever. Every day’s a school day with Miss Berry!
I like that I don’t have to pretend around her to impress.
I like all the bits that men are supposed to like
One thing I don’t like is that she lives FUCKING MILES AWAY!!!!

Sunday, 18 September 2011

You Rearrange My Mind....

Firstly, I should profusely apologise (again) for the lack of posts of late.  Things are taking their toll in this whirlwind life of mine (again); it doesn’t seem five minutes since I was looking around potential new houses and beating myself up over my lack of commitment to the date that never was, with Bob.  That was August.  I woke up this morning, surrounded by boxes, in the midst of my life, all packed up and ready to be shipped off to a new home and a new start, with nothing but the thought that September sure is shaping up to be something special.

Kitty leaves in less than two weeks for her big travelling adventure.  Cue a weekend in Devon saying Goodbye to her and her boyfriend before they officially jet off on September 25th, for up to a year.  How I will miss my surrogate sister, it will be strange not to have her in the country, safe and sound and just a phone call away, but she’ll be having the most incredible time doing something she has dreamed of and planned for so long, so for that I just want to wish her all the best on her travels and to say that I am so proud of her for making it all a reality.  Kitty, I love you very much and I will miss you terribly, please keep each other safe…and please bring back a souvenir…a cork hat perhaps…or Hugh Jackman?!

I also want to send a very public and heartfelt thank you to the generosity of Miss Paula Kelly, avid supporter of my Blog, work friend of the Travelling Kitty and selfless and lovely giver-upper of two beautiful vintage fur coats, which are now nestled in my wardrobe ready for colder climes.  I can’t believe you have been so lovely as to give them to me, having read that I wanted one for this Winter.  Thank you so much and I will find a way to return the favour! 

Well, all of this aside, I would be lying if I said there wasn’t another reason I had been a bit quiet on the Blog front of late and that, yes, that reason is somewhat boy-shaped.  Entirely boy-shaped as it happens!  You see, a funny thing happened on the way home from Camden a few weeks back, after a meet up with a friend at his gig, who I hadn’t seen in a short while, the funny thing being that I couldn’t stop thinking about him and it took a whole day before I realised how much I was enjoying our Twitter chats, or how little I was caring about the unknown faces in the vicinity that I would have fantasized about before.  Needless to say there was nothing straightforward about it, the circumstances would be tricky to say the least, the potential was maybe worth it and, it soon became clear, the feelings were reciprocated.  All new territory for a girl so obsessed with all things unobtainable and unreachable.  Which leaves only one question, what the hell am I supposed to write about now?

The trouble with writing something as open and honest as I do, is that I start to think that me and my wild imagination are capable of jinxing all those situations that I tend to scrutinize and analyse in my posts.  For so long now I have, in the deepest and darkest spheres of my over-active mind, blamed the Blog for the epic failings of so much that has gone before me.  So that’s all I can really bring myself to write about this new and strange and beautiful thing.

Fear not though, because not only is the mystery man very lovely, he is also some sort of literary knight in armour offering to guest write my next post, about us and about me.  I hope you don’t mind but I said yes.  Not only does it rid me of my own inner irrational fears of effing it all up with my typing; I guess it’s the one thing I have always been searching for when writing this, a glimpse into the male mind and all its trials and tribulations.  Even better, a glimpse into the mind of a man who seems to quite like me!  So it’s on its way and I do hope you enjoy our guest-writer’s musings, when they get here.  I promise it will be business as usual soon….

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

We Keep Holding On To Nothing...We Keep Typing We're Not Talking

So tell me, what is a girl to do on a Saturday night?  When the Saturday night in question was the impending date night with a certain buff builder; not to mention the not-so-shock of the cancellation of that already-postponed date, a mere few hours prior to meeting, by text message.  Angry doesn’t quite begin to cover it.  Not because I especially wanted to even date Bob by that point, but because his patronising text seemed to suggest I had wanted something from him that he couldn’t give due to having ‘a lot on at the moment’.  Not true.  Well mate, I too have a lot on, too much writing, too much work, too much fun and too much daydreaming BUT, would still have tried to make time in my life for you had I deemed you worth it.  Thank the Lord I realised you were perhaps either a player or clinically insane before your cruel brush off on Saturday.  I retract all worried and self-abasing statements from my last commitment-phobic post, I only wish I had got up to all sorts of no good with The Fit Toff on my stockroom futon whilst Bob was busy making all sorts of plans and promises that, it now appears, he had no intention of keeping.  The truth is, in my come down, I decided that he was either too insecure to actually go through with a date or perhaps someone closer to his hub of a hometown had come along; either way, he was clearly a waste of my time and phone bill.  And no Bob, I won’t be continuing to ‘talk to you and see what happens’, I would rather spend my time getting to know someone who actually intends to get off their arse and develop something on a face to face basis, either that or eating my own pancreas.  Bob= Fin, Miss Musing = Actually Quite Relieved.

If there is one thing I have learnt in my turbulent 27 years on this good Earth, it is that there is nothing more reliable than trusting your own gut instinct.  I wrote my last post with a twist in my stomach and a sincere uncertainty about Bob and all his wonders, not to mention developing yet another inappropriate crush on someone else.  Yes, he was saying all the right things, yes, the conversations were regular and it felt good to have attention from someone like him.  Then came a rather domineering and drunken phone conversation, which solidified my inkling that Bob was, perhaps, slightly twattish after all.  I’m not one to be told what I should be doing, so was not prepared to accept comments on my social living arrangements from someone whose job consisted of running Mummy and Daddy’s construction business.  You bought your own house when you were 25?  Good for you, didn’t put yourself through Uni though did you, or up and leave your home town at any point to experience the big wide world, so up yours.  It seemed to me that Bob, in all his bulky and dominating glory, was used to dating girls with less personality or interests, someone who would worship the ground him and his t-shirt designing, marketing-strategy-endorsing, charm-oozing ego walk on.  Not for me I’m afraid, not with that need to tell me what to do and how to live any way.  I was already turned off by his sheer intensity, this almost completely killed it. 

Still, on it went, against my better judgment and much with my daily distractions of Fit Toff and my work’s Brand Day, a day where each and every saliva-inducing article from the upcoming collection is dangled in front of our beaming faces, with the texting dwindling and a half-arsed apology for the ‘relentless calling’.  No no Bob, it wasn’t the ‘relentlessness’ of the calling, more the inappropriate content and the dickishness of your questions really.  Friday, the original date night, was postponed AGAIN and the knot in my stomach grew ever tighter, needless to say the final text was no shock to my system, just an annoyance that I had sought to arrange an outfit and dinner plans around my date.  Still, I didn’t dwell on it, the usual cutting remarks in an intelligently-typed text message and I was near enough forgetting his name.  Your loss Bob and Islington’s gain as it happened.

So right about the time I should have been nuzzling on the bearded Bob in some secluded bar with a old-school Jukebox, I was actually out at Feeling Gloomy (which, surprisingly did not reflect my mood) – the sophisticated, Indie big Brother of the O2 Academy’s Club Du Fromage.  The Reason?  It was the Young Cherub’s Birthday and I planned on jacking in my Alcohol-Free August and partying like it was, well 1997 actually, with plenty of Ash to go round.  Unfortunately it was not just Ash, but also Jagermeister, they had in abundance, cut to a stumbling 4a.m finish and revenge is sweet, especially when downed with Red Bull, apparently. 

Wonderfully, there was the also return of Random Northerner, now no longer so random, perhaps I should change his name?  Indeed we’ve talked of many things since our first meeting, he had even convinced me to send him bits of my novel.  I guess it remains to be seen what sort of critic he can be, or just how un-random he can be too.

I did decide, in a rather unkempt state on Sunday morning, that it was best to steer clear of men-folk for a while.  Truth is, they don’t get any easier, even the ones with houses and innate maturity are often just as problematic as the younger ones, with the innate need to act like schoolkids.  You just don’t know where you are with them, the chancers whom everyone thinks you kissed when you didn’t, the ones with and without other halves, the ones who you think really like you often don’t and the ones who you think hate you are probably in love with you.  By Monday morning, however, I retracted that statement once again, aided by the sight of Fit Toff sipping his coffee and reading his high-brow newspaper in the window of Starbucks, oh what a toff-like sight for sore eyes he was, the urge to write my phone number on a napkin becomes ever more unbearable.

So day off today, and I’m off to get a few provisionals, before going to my friend’s gig this evening in Camden.  But, to be honest, looking out at the grim weather, there is nothing I would rather be doing more than snuggling up with a True Blood marathon and a box of Malteasers.  I’m sorry this hasn’t been a more positive dating experience for you all, but then if you wanted to be inspired by accounts of someone’s perfect dream-life, then you wouldn’t still be reading mine!  If, however, reading how to eff it up, or have it effed up for you time and time again is your thing, then, as always, I look forward to our next rendezvous.  And rest assured, the magical day that it does finally turn around, you will all be cordially invited…

Saturday, 13 August 2011

Whatever Happened To The Lives That We Once Knew?

So it appears, in the game of dating, I am actually my own worst enemy.  Again.

A while ago, a distant acquaintance of mine updated his status with a rather brash statement simply saying ‘Can’t Commit For Shit.’  After I had finished my eye-rolling and general ranting about how ‘typical’ this was of him to display that so proudly for all to see, I actually started thinking about it, it wasn't long before I came to the rather hideous conclusion that and me and him may not be so different after all.  Here’s my thinking…

There is a Bob, a lovely Bob with whom my path crossed on an impromptu night out in Angel just before my holiday.  There is an impending date, once we’re over my holiday and then his accident at work and then something about some riots going on across London in its entirety!  We met weeks ago, impending doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He is so-called Bob, simply, because he is a builder.  He’s tall, beardy, very very attractive in a very very Miss Musing kind of way – if Tom Meighan had procreated with Ryan Dunne, he may well have been the outcome.  He writes, he has his own house, is quite the entrepreneur and loves music and fashion.  In short, without detailing the immense texting between us, he’s a little bit like the male version of me, only with more financial stability, more facial hair and, perhaps, more sense.  Plus, he is older and seems to think I’m someone quite special, yes, finally I am fraternising with mature male company (hear that bump?  That’s Mummy Musing’s head hitting the ceiling as she jumps for joy)!

So why, oh why, am I already freaking out about it?  Why am I sat, mulling over the lists of things I haven’t done yet?  Why was I left, drunkenly reeling after another near miss with the Ginger Prince a few weeks back?  Why the sudden urge to flirt with every man I see?  I enjoy my intense texting sessions with Bob, the little ‘good morning’ messages, the quirky things we have in common, the promises of an ‘amazing’ first date.  My friends see this as a potential turning point and, whilst most of me agrees, a part of me niggles over the things I have wanted to do but haven’t yet; I’ve never slipped my phone number into the pocket of a stranger, never been to the cinema on my own, I haven’t nuzzled as many beards as I would have liked, never had the chance to tell Dream Boy how I feel.  Too many things to do and now, potentially, no time in which to do it.  I can feel myself running away from…well…myself.  Every second man I commute with in the mornings jumps out like an extremely attractive surprise package, ‘yes Miss Musing, whilst you’ve been dodging the Kingsland line due to it’s general overcrowding problems and sheer unreliability, this bevy of bearded hotties have been slowly gathering together for your viewing pleasure…go on, take your pick.’  It’s like my version of a Diet Coke Break mirage, on acid.

And, just to add salt to the wound, just when I thought he had left the country, the beautiful Toff-like creature I have been lusting over in St Johns Wood, suddenly walks bang into me one evening and I am left, trying to control my overwhelming urge to kiss his gorgeous face – if only to distract from his awful dress sense.  Cut to Friday morning and my BSA reports are out the window, in favour of imagining all sorts of sexy scenarios with my Toff-stranger.  So what’s wrong with me?  At the end of my phone sits the nicest man with the nicest messages, and yet, I seem to be rebelling against it, not to mention finding excuses to stare at my shop window whilst watching Fit Toff’s arse swagger down the High Street in a pair of ugly tight trousers.

Could it be that I am incapable of being serious when it comes to something potentially worthwhile?  Or is it that I have been so long chasing the tails of the emotionally and physically unavailable, that I am simply having trouble adjusting to this new and exciting phase called ‘girl likes boy, boy might not be a twat’?  Is the tick-tocking of the ‘settling-down clock’ edging ever closer to my perfectly poised ears?  In a perfect world, the relationship and the prospects would be there, and yet I am still a walking juxtaposition of what I want, what I actually need and what I am forever drawn to, all mashed up in a flame-haired, immaculately-presented nightmare.  I hate to admit it, but perhaps it is an injection of too much Bradshaw-inspired over-analysis and that, really, I just need to shut the hell up and go with it.  I can almost feel Lovemenot’s eyes piercing through me as I type as I am, after all, getting a bit ridiculous.  My forehead feels heavy, must be the phallus, that appears to be inextricably growing from it with every year I get older, but by no means wiser.  Maybe, just maybe, we all have our barriers and it is down to the right person to want to break through them, therefore, providing the security we need when entering into relationships, with all the trepidation of entering into World War 3.  Then again, normal people who fall into the ‘all’ category don’t fall in love with people in less than five minutes, or stare at swaggering arses when they should be re-merching their floors (as unsubtly as me anyway – the waiters and waitresses of Café Rouge are DEFINITELY on to me).

Still, I know I’ve not completely lost it yet, as I managed to see immediate sense in knocking back the advances of the aging ‘band manager’ in the queue at Starbucks earlier today.  ‘Really liking your tattoos daaaahhlin’, said he, an oldie playing it ‘cool’ with an Innocent Smoothie and, most likely, a heart condition; probably older than my Stepdad too so, in short, thoroughly disturbing.
‘Thanks,’ thought I, 'only I didn’t really get myself permanently etched just to ensure that I would be leered at by has-beens, actually'.  Still, off I trotted, Skinny White Mocha in hand, ‘see you again, yeah?’ Not if I see you first, Gollum.

Well, impending date is almost certainly next weekend now, so we’ll have to wait and see if it delivers or, perhaps more importantly, if I deliver. 

In other news…I think I might be in love with Miles Kane.  See?  There I go again…

Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Don't Go Back To Dalston...Don't Go Up The Junction

I am sat, writing this brief post, on a somewhat calmer evening than last.
  An evening that saw all hell continue to break loose in London, only this time, it was actually on our doorstep.  Last night, Dalston was subjected to the reign of hoodies, I am truly thankful to the heroic Turkish shop-owners who took it upon themselves to fight back and rid Kingsland High Street of this hideous infestation. 

It had been a good day and all, Lovemenot and I had finally found a new house; complete with four lovely new housemates - and a garden, Stickels was on the verge of being offered his second Running-position on a TV programme – thus his dreams were coming true, then our world was suddenly drowned out by ominous news coverage of rioting in Hackney and thundering helicopters hanging overhead.  We were gripped to the TV as we watched thugs setting light to anything they could find, watching from our balcony as police cars chased groups of ‘hoodies’ along our road, and stood helpless as the Twitter feeds filled up with news of unthinkable scenes happening but five minutes away.  We were too scared to sleep, too eager to know what had happened and whether it would return.  And now, word on the Twitter Feed is that it’s hitting other major cities in England and I am failing to see an end to it all.

I don’t confess to being a political follower of any sort, I leave that to people who really know what they’re talking about; but it all seems to come down to greed to me; not a revolt against the tragedy of Mark Duggan or job cuts or anything like that, just pure greed.  Thing is right, when I was little and there was something that I really wanted, be it a holiday or something minor, like a cuddly Troll, I was always taught that you had to save up for it and earn it; which is probably why Twinkle sat, pride of place, in my little bedroom for quite the length of time that she did.  I grew up realising that nothing came for free and I still live by the cold, hard facts (much like most people in the world) that in life, you simply can’t always have what you want or, that you have to work for it.  That is all down to my Mum bringing me up in the right way, and that’s what I believe is missing for the mindless, senseless arseholes who are wreaking havoc on our great cities.  Nobody to look up to, so no sense of right and wrongand no real place to be, so they take it upon themselves to steal from everyone else.  

We now have youths, many of them too young to understand the word ‘government’, let alone what they are fighting for, storming our streets and terrorising our societies, or what’s left of them, protesting against the Police with no real idea as to why they are there.  If you believe in something so strongly that you have to take a stand, please do be my guest; if you want Grants not Fees, by all means march.  If you want better working conditions, strike until you can strike no more; but don’t falsely advertise your burning of bins and mugging of injured people as protesting, you are simply doing what we would all do have we not evolved and developed human spirit; turned on your own.  The irony of it all being that only in the UK could rioters, wearing £100 trainers whilst organising meet-ups on their £400 IPhones, ‘claim’ to be in poverty.  There are people in underdeveloped countries fighting for their basic rights to clean water and medical help, not lashing out for a 42” HD-Ready Plasma TV they think they somehow ‘deserve’. 

I would love, at this time, to be regaling you with my latest witty reports on the weird and wonderful world that seems to so constantly surround me, but this is all that has been, and remains on my mind, whilst the faint whirring of sirens police somewhere in the distance.  So I could spend all night blogging about Bob and Croatia and my lovely new house, which will sadly take me from the wonders of Dalston but lead me on a path to a much happier lifestyle, but where is the sense in all of that?  Not when there are kids running rings around our policemen and setting alight to the livelihoods of so many people.  A friend of a friend has had to watch as the bike shop where he works in Camden, was torn apart and set alight in live news coverage; so all my little woes and joys seem really rather silly at this moment in time.  It makes me so sad that this is what it has come to, sad and scared for the future.  I’ll shut up now, being that I normally spend my life pawing over boys and living in a fantasy-world, chances are I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I do know the devastating effect this could have on us all, and I don’t like it, not one bit.

Jon McClure...not afraid to sing what the public are feeling

Thursday, 28 July 2011

‘If I Was My Heart…I’d Rather Be Restless’

Having set back on British soil a mere three days ago, I cannot help but be currently fighting the urge to get straight back on the plane and jet off to foreign climes…everything has annoyed and upset me in recent days…here is why…

1)      Airport Transfers – who the hell invented them?  In truth, I have never had an airport transfer go so terribly wrong.  You know the drill, you wake up ridiculously early and drag yourself around getting ready, to ensure that you are the required ’20 Minutes Early’ ready for Mr Transfer and his magical bouncing van; only for him to be ten minutes late to pick you up with no word of an apology.  Not only that, due to some hideous mix-up (and I am blaming the driver, he looks like he doesn’t listen to a word anyone says, whilst brushing his hair in the rear view mirror), we are then kept waiting at another hotel for another passenger…who does not exist…only to make us 45 minutes late for check in.  Lovemenot felt the wrath of my blows that day, the incessant finger-drumming on my suitcase, the nervous fanning of my passport as I thought I would pass out from stress, combined with lack of food (yup, no time for anything, thanks to you, vain, hair-brushing little tosspiece).  Thank the Lord we made the flight in the end, and that the transfers in England were somewhat smoother.  Otherwise I might have spontaneously combusted.
2)      Boys – enough said.  You go away for a week to avoid thinking about them, then one of them gets in touch, then effs off again, then you can’t stop thinking about that other one that you should not be thinking about anymore.  I’m exhausted from just writing that alone.  Trouble is, if it is so meant for me to be forlornly drifting about half-meeting time-wasters and forever wishing for the love of ‘im who shall remain nameless, then I’m really not sure I can be bothered with it all.  Perhaps I’ll abstain and make some sort of feminist stand.  Hmm...Oh…he’s fit.
3)      Slow-Walking people.  I have lived in London for near enough two years now and my patience has disintegrated to absolute zero; why hasn’t anybody else’s?  There we are, Lovemenot and I, filled up on Panini, trying to negotiate our way through Victoria station as if we were sun-tanned, maxi-dress-clad farmers, trying to herd cows with briefcases.  Not only are there queue-jumpers in the line to top up your Oyster, we are continually caught behind some idiot trying to ‘take in the view’ of the Underground; it took all my strength not to scream ‘Move, You Remorseless Bastards,’ so had to make do with nipping my suitcase wheels on their heels instead.
4)      Aside from the unspeakable goings-ons in Norway, it was devastating to come home to the news that Amy Winehouse had passed away.  A favourite of mine, her Back to Black album rarely left my CD player back in 2006 and I often turn to her beautiful, heartbreaking tunes for consolation and escape.  Such a shame to lose such a talent, especially as she seemed to be turning such a corner from her troubles.  I hope, wherever she is now, she is finally at peace.  We will always love you Amy, your music and legend will forever live on.

I suppose I should try and look forward with reasons to be perhaps proud, excited and cheerful, one would hope so anyway, what with it being July and hot at that, so here are a few highlights…

1)      Simultaneously purchasing a fast-outselling CD via the Paypal app on my phone, whilst negotiating the Baggage Reclaim at Gatwick.  It was tough, a challenge indeed but, yes, in a few days, one of the 50 remaining copies of ‘Death in the Afternoon’ will be winging its merry way to me.  Mr C, I implore you to be proud of me, just this once; such a feat takes both great skill and dedication.  I expect a firm pat on the back next time I see you, or a punch on the arm, which is evidently more your style…
2)      Not one to wish Summer away, except that I do, because I’m a Winter baby, the previews for AW11 look immense.  Nothing like a cinched silhouette wrapped up in winter woollens and military-inspired embellishment as far as I’m concerned; you can keep your sweaty, overheated underarms and grubby Frodo-feet, Summer.  Indeed AW11 is upon us, it’s all lady-like and power-dressing and it’s all in Marie Claire, Glamour and Elle – all of which were perfect holiday reads.  Lovemenot will be able to stock up on her Naff Jumper collection she has been fantasising about all holiday; whilst I am pleased to see Fashion’s obsession with Fetish and Goth is still very much in the picture.  Watch out Black Lace Urban Outfitters Mini-Dress, I’m a-comin’.
3)      I also really really really really want a vintage fur coat, I really really really want one…
4)      Bob.  Hmm Bob.  He was there, then he was gone, dived on the twat pile or so I thought; turns out he might well be back in the game again and, for once, through no twattish fault of his own.  One will not count one’s chickens, but Bob may well be the one to watch…
5)      One more blissful week off work…no need to handle the staffing issues, the looming Brand Day or the general custom I seem to be getting in my store for another week.  Jemma is up for her Birthday, I expect we’ll go and see Amy’s house and we’ve got a rather epic Friday night out to look forward to.

Anyway, that’s enough of my miserable drivel for today, I think they call it jetlag or something?  That’s what I’m sticking to anyway, despite the one hour time difference between Britain and Croatia.  Anyway, must dash, I will have more Croatian musings for you shortly, right now I have a date with a dice and I do believe it may be time to unleash my inner Christina Hendricks…..

RIP Amy Winehouse September 14th 1983 – 23rd July 2011

Friday, 8 July 2011

Everything Was Everything...But Everything Is Over....

 So it’s really been a while since my last post, ah yes, the sweet memories of May…back when work was just a dim distant memory and the word ‘disciplinary’ was just a faint threat to my staff members, who continue to baffle me with their lack of consideration for either their job, or their manager.  It does appear, after all, that you really cannot trust anyone in your place of work, with money, with turning up on the correct day to work the correct shift, or even to tag items correctly, so that the expensive fabrics from which they are crafted will not reach the customer looking like a long-lost rag that has been dragged through every floor of the Oxford Street Primark.  Hmmph.  Rant over, and disciplinaries are no longer an idol threat, but currently a daily routine, especially for money-snatching little no-hopers; may you rot in your self-imposed hell with your manipulative boyfriend and his Ken-doll hairline.
June…it’s been the best of times, it’s been the worst of times.  The best because the weather has been awesome, I’ve been scouted to model for a slightly eccentric woman, who is currently putting together a photography exhibition and because I was ecstatic when ‘The Reverend’ himself, Jon McClure, tweeted back to my arse-kissing message of love from both myself and Mummy Musing (she rates The State of Things over the second album, I am torn) sending ‘Big Love to me and my Mom’.  Plus, I keep winning competitions, tickets to comedy shows, tickets to watch 8 Out Of 10 Cats, tickets to see Hey Sholay gigging, you name it, I’m winning it.  The worst?  Well, the Fantastic Mr Fox has turned out to be much less than Fantastic – more on that one later - plus, with June always comes the cold and hard reminder that in just one month’s time I will be one whole year older; not to mention that this month I was stood just feet away from lovely Jon Richardson and said ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to him, what a loser.
Now for more fables of The Fantastic Mr Fox and his fantastically disappointing, ahem, performance.  I do believe the last time I left you, I was all excited and girlish, looking forward to a proposed date in Highbury.  That date was alright, albeit not the romance of the century I was secretly anticipating.  He took me to a lovely Pizza restaurant and we discussed shabby chic decoration and The Vaccines (boring).  He was, once again, trying extremely hard to come back to mine in the afternoon; I am sad to say that I caved, I think I was much distracted with a Twitter competition from Off The Kerb that I had entered to win tickets to a comedy showcase, that sort of says it all really.  Cut to a week later and The Fox was on a random holiday in Romania, whilst Lovemenot was consoling me over my near-miss with Jich at the Comedy Store (see, I am literally winning everything), assuring me that there would be more chances for me to dazzle him with my sheer perfectionist-isms and my self-assured innate ability to be the one to make him happy.  I was, once again, laying focus on people just out of arm’s reach - very typical of me - as opposed to facing the issue that Tuesday’s time alone with The Fox felt, well, a bit weird and uncomfortable, not to mention, um, premature, complete with a lack of consideration for how the lady in question (little old moi) may be feeling.  I’m not one to discuss such intimacies in detail over my Blog, but I was shocked at the whole thing; 4 dates, one massive let down and, to make matters worse, I didn’t even enjoy cuddling him, and I am sucker for a cuddle with a man and his paunch. 
            Still, the weekend came and went, and with that went Miss Lloyd, on her merry way with an Indian takeaway and a rather stunning new pair of shoes that I wanted to covet.  Word on the street is, she has returned from her Magaluf getaway early; that’s what new love does to you, apparently.  The Fox was now back on British soil and sending me texts on an overheated bus, something about a fit new haircut and renaming himself ‘Lauro’.  I laughed a bit, so out for dinner we trotted again, only this time it was Japanese, which is a real issue for those of us who struggle to eat in front of people we find sexually attractive.  Tiger beer and conversation were both in full flow and The Fox returned my ‘Prestige’ DVD, which I had, to be honest, lost sleep over since it was swiped from my collection by his chubby hands; I blame it on an early college memory involving an ex-boyfriend keeping my Muse CD for over a year.  The Fox did also take it upon himself to ask some rather difficult questions about my ex-boyfriends, taking a real interest in the now-ancient Gally situation.  I was squirming in my seat as he questioned whether or not I really had liked Gally at all (I see, so he fancies himself as quite the psychologist now) and then questioned why there had been no relationship since.  Part of me wanted to tell him the truth just to wipe the smug look off his face, ‘yes mate, and thank your lucky stars that never even got off the ground, because I can tell you, if he were to swan in now, flick his hair and tell me he had thought of nobody but me ever since our eyes first met in that particularly un-busy bar on that particularly cold April’s evening, I’d be out of this mediocre Thai restaurant and on the first tube to King’s Cross quicker that you could say ‘but I thought we were going to get tickets for Derren Brown.’  The other, more rational part of me decided that The Fox’s new haircut was nice and that it was probably time to test the water with a ‘make or break’ dinner date…at my flat.
            The scene was set, the risotto was bubbling in it’s pan, Lovemenot and the Young Cherub had decided to stay at our flat and provide some sort of welcoming committee for The Fox.  I was pacing, not sure I wanted him to come over, considering every possible outcome, whether or not he would be presumptuous enough to bring an overnight bag, whether or not he would bite my lip again, because I really hate that.  Anyway, 8.20pm arrived, off I trotted to the station only to meet The Fox, and his overnight bag, halfway.  He met Lovemenot and Cherub and Stickels, he took control of the Ipod whilst I cooked and he talked, again, incessantly about Arctic Monkeys.  It was now far too late to tell him that I, in fact, think the Arctic Monkeys are really quite average and that I find it a travesty that their middle-of-the-road tunes have overshadowed other amazing artists from the Sheffield music scene.  Dinner was over quickly alongside the bottle of wine that I had bought as a back-up, being that my date had arrived with NOTHING.  Yes, that’s right, I was already resentful of the fact that I had rushed home from work, spent money on ingredients and had spent time preparing a meal, for The Fox to rock up with a bag containing nothing but contraception apparently.  What came next was another hideous attempt at intimacy that felt nothing but clumsy and passionless and ended, once again, prematurely.  Cut to an awkward two hours with no contact, whilst we were watching ‘Crash’ on the laptop, The Fox made up some excuse about needing to go home and that, my friends, was actually the last I ever saw of him.  I could not be happier about that last sentence. 
You see, there comes a point in the dating game, when you realise you just don’t want to carry on, the dates, the small talk, the pretence that you think t’Artics are ‘incredible’.  For me, that notion was sealed at about 9.30pm on that Saturday night; a night I had, perhaps, hoped would swing the other way and would put to rest my strong gut feeling that The Fox was never meant to be, but only drew me closer to the conclusion that I really could not be bothered to be in presence again, clothed or otherwise.  I didn’t find him attractive anymore, I wasn’t in the least bit excited by his company and cuddling him just felt so undeniably wrong.  I’m a very busy girl these days, and I know now that I’m not willing to invest my time into someone who doesn’t send my heart and mind racing.  I know what I am capable of feeling, I am capable of meeting someone at Old Street station and knowing, instantly, that they are going to have a profound effect on my life, only to kiss them on a moonlit, rainy evening on cobbled pavements some few months later, just the way I had always dreamed.  And it is memories like that, fellow musers, that make The Fox seem so small in the great scheme of things, and people like the aforementioned, so worth waiting for.
Oh well, the intimacy issues aside, the dates were sort of fun and it has taught me that, with all the things I am and all the things I want in a relationship, a 22 year old boy will not be able to provide me with them plus, there are plenty more bearded fish in the sea.  One, in fact, lives near where I work and, though I have yet to start the eye-sex I seem to so frequently enjoy with swept-fringed, sandy ginges, I have every intention of doing so, should I see his blazered, swaggering, toff-like, frame in the near future.  In short, he is HOT, I am picturing retro-inspired picnics in Regent’s Park and long, hot Summer evenings in his penthouse suite.  Note to self: stop making up personalities for people before you have even uttered a word to them, you know this does you ABSOLUTELY NO GOOD WHATSOEVER.  Whilst we are on the subject of men, one cannot bypass a mention on the rather gorgeous, checked-shirted, curly-haired man who shot a heart-stoppingly sweet smile at me, on the tube home from Writer’s Club the other night.  He was lovely, trudging about at Highbury and Islington station, rocking his head to his music (I would have guessed some 70s prog rock); perhaps I should have said something, only it was extremely late and he could have been a murderer.  Plus, he reminded me whole-heartedly of the unspeakable Dreamboy, and I am not yet so deluded as to believe that if you can’t have the one you want, make your own, cut to images of me teaching him to ‘speak like DB’ or, even worse, we bump into Dreamboy together, only for Dreamboy to look him up and down and say ‘Ah Emma, I always knew you were in love with me, that is why you used to stare so inappropriately and flirt like a hussy with my friend.’  So I left it, with a faint hope of seeing that smile again one day, when I am a bit more sane, perhaps.
            As this post is turning into quite the celebration of love, I should also mention that Lovemenot and The Young Cherub are officially In Love, actual real, slightly sick in your mouth love!  They’re inseparable, they share clothes, he has bought her a survival kit for when she stays at his house and they do the secretive-talking thing on the train when commuting together!  Of course Lovemenot is sky-high, which is fabulous, but it does also mean that as newly smug-lovers, they feel the need to share the loving feeling and are in the process of trying to set me up with someone at The Cherub’s house party this coming Saturday.  It’s not that I necessarily mind, but the subject in question, Random Northerner, has been raised as a potential suitor due to our shared love of Milburn, which could be dangerous.  But still, we’ll see, he is very nice apparently and has asked if I will be there (we presume ‘Milburn-girl’ is me).
            You’ll be most pleased to know that, since beginning this post, I have turned 27, and it wasn’t quite the crisis I was imagining.  There were lots of lovely messages, pressies and a very relaxed day out shopping with Lovemenot, having feasted on some of her lovingly prepared pancakes for breakfast.  It was also lovely to have a catch up dinner at the rather gorgeous Navajo Joe’s in Covent Garden on Saturday night with Miss Hayhoe and Miss Bascombe, having not all been together for a year now.  I did say no Birthday gimmicks, being all miserable and that, but I got a massive golden E balloon that almost made it home, had it not got caught and ripped on a street sign.  So nearly a week into the big 2 and 7, nothing much has really changed.  I still have a funny life, I still have the same face, I still have a half-finished novel and I still, evidently, can be the target of spots, as one has delightfully decided to appear on my chin this morning, ‘meeting a potential love interest tomorrow are we Em?  ‘Ave that.’  Thank you.                 
Anyways, I must go, I have a day date with Jon Richardson’s new book (in the absence of being able to say one word to the real thing), an evening date with an old friend and his new band, plus a need to make a decision as to what the hell to wear to this party tomorrow night, you know, just on the off chance that Random Northerner might actually be worth having more than just a Milburn-gushing convo with…