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 25^th, 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….

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…

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…

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.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGOf7-qHU1o 

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

‘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 14^th 1983 – 23^rd 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…

Mwah

'Let's Raise Hell In The Streets...Drink Beer And Get Into Trouble'

I would, first of all, like to dedicate this latest Blog post to the loving memory of a fabulous and, in his day, undeniably gorgeous actor, Jeff Conaway, who sadly passed away after an overdose on prescription drugs, on Friday 27th May 2011.  A great man was Conaway…obviously best known for his comb-flicking, hip-gyrating, dice-swinging, ‘how low can you go’ antics as Kenickie in everyone’s favourite 50s get up, Grease.  I will personally, however, never forget his bit-part in one of my so-tragically-awful-it’s-brilliant films ‘Jawbreaker’ as Marcy’s Dad, particularly his rendition of ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’, by Tiffany.  Jeff would want to be remembered in this way I am sure of it, we love you Jeff and hope you are looking down upon us, in that great 50’s themed dance-off in the sky.

So, May is over, and with it comes the end of my week of work-freedom, in which I have thoroughly adjusted to life as a full-time author, now having completed over 25,000 words of my future best seller!  I am, of course, now so consumed with my novel again, that I am imagining traipsing down a cobbled Berlin street all done up with red lips and a pencil skirt, off to see my secret lover…and that is all I will tell you, for you will have to read about Vera and her Dark Misfortunes, as and when it becomes a published best seller. Until then…I’ll have to keep Schtum!

I decided, after a particular cancelling incident involving everyone’s favourite ‘will he bother, won’t he bother’ sidekick ‘The Fox’, that I needed to ensure that my week off work was productive and that, after months of soul searching and getting to grips with actually getting off my arse and putting my novel ideas down on paper, I was probably in need of some like-minded, bookish types, who could further inspire my story-weaving and tale-spinning.  I suppose it is fair to say that I have, sort of, fallen in love with the Internet again, having found not just one, but two writer’s clubs to frequent.  Excitement all round, with a vain hope of meeting a bespectacled, tattooed, geek-chic male writer, on whom I can depend on for inspiration…and maybe cuddles.

Still, I digress, Wednesday reared its sunny head and I trotted off to Pimlico to my new Writer’s Club.  Set in a small Fine Art Gallery, I felt really quite refined as I stepped inside, exercise book quivering in hand, making polite conversation with the other 8 writers.  It was a brilliant evening though, full of exercises and debates and chances for me to plug Neil Gaiman’s ‘Neverwhere’ like a mad woman addicted to fantasy novels (which I am).  If this is what Writer’s Club is all about, I am well up for that.  Sadly there were no bespectacled male writers into whom, I could dig my claws, but there was inspiration flying around the room and copious amounts of tea and biscuits.  Roll on next week…

Mummy Musing and Step-Dad Musing also took a trip to London this week, to see Eric Clapton perform at the Royal Albert Hall.  Mummy Musing was on top form, arriving with some homemade cheese scones and a barrelful of hilarity as usual; they questioned why I met them with a Financial Times in hand…do not worry…I was simply keen to read Stephen Fry’s interview with Lady Gaga.  The biggest surprise came when Mummy Musing, after years of us talking about booking it, marched up to the Lyceum Theatre to book tickets to see Lion King, a show I have been DYING to see since its conception, however many years ago.  Being a die-hard fan of the film, September 6^th cannot come soon enough for me and Mummy Musing, and I will be eager to be kissed by an animatronic giraffe.

My week off was topped off with a night out, to officially wave goodbye to the stunning Miss Lloyd, who returns to her home country of Northern Ireland at the beginning of June to retrain as a PE teacher, and spend a few mad months in Magaluf beforehand.  We went right back to where it all started, which was B@1 in Shoreditch; a rather camp group of waiters, a lot of Lionel Richie and one incredibly boring rugby player later, I realised I had consumed more spirits than I thought humanly possible and remembered why I don’t like to go to that bar too often.  That was where, for those of who will be familiar with my earlier posts, I have picked up the most random of men including Mr Ryman’s the Bar Manager and the Shoreditch Serge-A-Like.  I was, however, compared to a Suicide Girl pin-up, which is a new one to add to the list, danced the night away with Lovemenot, and saw Miss Lloyd, and her fabulous new pink lipstick, off in style.  I will not be blogging my goodbyes just yet though, as we are planning another night out next weekend, then I’ll have something fittingly tear-jerking to Blog, I am sure of it.  And I may even have to mention the ‘Tom/Ryan’ mix up – he’s the lead singer Lloyd, the fit one!  For now, I shall just dedicate this Gaga-inspired Blog title to you and your wicked and wonderful ways.

Now to a little fable I would like to name ‘The Fox and The Phone Call’.  Yes that’s right, The Fox’s lack of consistency and general bad planning, was very much at the forefront of my mind in the last week; so much so, that I actually deleted his number for a second time vowing that all 22-year-olds were now indefinitely struck off the list.  We had planned a Sunday meet up, one that I actually declined a lovely dinner date at our friend Hannah’s house to attend, only to not hear from The Fox until midday THAT DAY (please bear in mind that we would potentially have been meeting up in the PM), when he seemed to think a snivelling, half-apologetic text message and something about planning an observed lesson would suffice.  Now, anyone who knows me, will know I can play the frosty White Queen to a ‘T’ as and when I need to…Yup that’s right, Barbara Kellerman has nothing on me (look her up, I can’t be bothered to explain; if you are so uncultured as to not have watched the BBC’s adaptation of Narnia in 1989, religiously, then it really is not my place to re-educate you), so I saw it fitting to simply reply ‘OK’ to his message and declare to Lovemenot and Hannah (re-scheduled dinner was lovely, thank you) that I would not be seeing him again.  Some thought this was harsh, I thought it important to state my dislike for being let down at the last minute.  Still, there was running, there was writing, there was signing for something reflexology-based and there was a rather splendid morning spent at Maison Bertaux with my fellow Comedian-stalker Miss Pritchard, to take my mind off of The Fox's questionable antics.

Cut to a breezy Wednesday evening, I am leaving my Writer’s Club, all inspired and writer-like, I pull out my phone to find two missed calls and a voicemail from…THE FOX (obviously I memorised the last few digits of his number).  I left it a good 45 minutes before calling back, to his copious apologies and promises to make it up to me.  We agreed Tuesday, the planning is up to him as a way of ‘making it up to me’, yes I caved, of course I did, I'm not made of stone.  Lovemenot, after some consideration, concluded that a) I was a flake after agreeing, in such a short space of time, to see him again and b) he must really like me, as she didn’t think he would get in touch after my extremely blunt message.  If you hadn’t gathered already, Lovemenot is somewhat laid-back compared to me, hence why Mr On-Off-On-Again-Off-Again was never just Mr On-Off.  Still, she implores me, much like I implore myself, to go forth and Fox it up, see what happens and, in the mean time, dodge boring rugby players at all damn costs – epic FAIL.  So we’ll see what Tuesday has to offer; I am aware that he is hoping for good weather and that we are meeting at Highbury and if the previous dates are anything to go by, it will most probably involve copious in-taking of Cider, I should think. I just hope to God it has nothing to do with Arsenal, or football at all really.

I think that’s probably about all from me, it’s fast approaching 11pm and I am determined to get to the 26,000 word mark by the time I drag myself back to work on Wednesday.  I do hope you all plan to see in June in a fitting manner, having acquired more crud from our VM department to‘re-love’, I am off in search of a vintage hat stand and some fairy lights.

Mwah

PS  Dear Harold Camping – you were wrong about May 21^st being the last day on Earth.  Your stupidity did, however, result in being responsible for approximately 250 deaths by suicide.  My question remains this; Darling, why bother moving the goalposts to October, when any half-normal person knows you are nothing more than a strange and insane old man with a rather painful grudge/need to feel important and special?