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 CafĂ© 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