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!