Nuneaton isn’t a small town. It’s actually a very large town! Chatting to a guy on a train recently, he mentioned that he’d never been to Nuneaton, but that it didn’t seem to matter where you were, there was usually a road sign mentioning it. Jasper Carrot has regularly abused Nuneaton in his stand up routines, along with many other comedians, so you would assume that in order for it to be mentioned, never mind ridiculed, it would have to be a pretty large town, probably with a wide and diverse multicultural population. Which it kind of is...but then if you speak to the neighbouring towns and cities such as Coventry, Tamworth, and Hinckley, they’ll all call Nuneaton the same thing.
Treacle Town.
The reason for this is the stereotypical view that people from Nuneaton are thick and slow. The thing with stereotypes is that they’re usually drawn from a number of people’s opinions of a shared encounter or view. Whilst I wouldn’t say that this stereotype is justified, the insinuation is, that the residents of this delightful mining town, are slow largely due to the high levels of inbreeding within the area. Very funny no? Chortle Chortle (note the sarcasm). Nuneaton’s 70’700 (ish) strong population probably disproves this theory somewhat, unless you’re happy to assume that a few families have been at it like freaking rabbits over the last few decades.
Despite its large town status however, Nuneaton has a small town mentality. It seems as though literally everyone knows everyone else’s business. When my seventeen year old cousin goes out and gets drunk, falls off her six inch stilettos and flashes the world her arse, I am guaranteed to know about it within approximately twelve hours. (Yes Hatty, don’t think I haven’t heard about your escapades missy!) Likewise, when I go out, get utterly gazeeboed and end up snogging some random, it’s pretty much a given that friends who up until four minutes and forty-five seconds ago had been enjoying a drink in a different pub/club, half a mile down the road, will descend to drag me away and prevent the humiliation of me discovering in my morning-after-the-night-before state that I actually copped off with the elephant man.
You know exactly what’s going on in everyone’s love life, home life and work life, and the jungle drums beat loud and furiously whenever there is gossip to be shared. Some people love this. Me...I’d never really let it concern me. My mum is Nuneaton born and bred, and I have always been used to walking through the town on a Saturday and bumping into people who knew me because of her. I moved here when I was eleven, so regularly bump into people I was at school or college with. It’s only now, that it begins to bother me. Every time I go out now, I spend the evenings amongst friends and acquaintances, which is great...but if you’re already friends with everyone, how are you ever going to meet someone who could be more than a friend?
The man-pool hasn’t been diluted by relatives, as our neighbouring towns would like to insinuate, it’s been diluted by friends!...or the brother of a friend...or the cousin of a friend...or the ex boyfriend of friend (and thus the golden friendship rule states you NEVER go there) or even just the random guy who has carnal knowledge of the friend of a friend, which means you can’t go there because it will make your friends relationship with her friend a little tense!!!
What I wouldn’t give to live in a large city, where the population is mixed with so many millions of people that no’one knows me, or knows anyone I know. Maybe then the odds of finding Mr Right won’t be completely stacked against me!! Failing that of course, I could always move abroad... maybe a wider man-pool and a sunkissed tan will help my spinster status??? Best start packing....Oz, here I come!
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Sunday, 13 February 2011
The House
This house has seen more things than she can bare to imagine.
The house doesn’t forget the two lovers, who spent lazy mornings wrapped up in each other. The walls hear what he says to her now, but they saw it for themselves, and they know he lies to protect her feelings. They saw the way he held the one before her, and heard how he whispered his love for her, just as he does with her now. Each wall in each room witnessed their intimacy, every stolen kiss, every passionate embrace, every time they made love.
She knows what the walls have seen, and hates that there was someone here before her. It doesn’t matter what she does, both she and the walls know, that his heart belonged to someone else before her. So she paints the ugly walls, hoping that she’ll paint over the images in her mind. The thought of their bodies tangled together, the realisation that if there’s been one before her, there could be one after. So she paints and makes the house hers. She stakes her claim on this life...on this home.
But new paint fades. It becomes tired and cracks over time, showing the truth written there on the bare plaster.
She knows that eventually, the walls will tell their story again. But what breaks her heart is that she knows it won’t be told to her.
The house doesn’t forget the two lovers, who spent lazy mornings wrapped up in each other. The walls hear what he says to her now, but they saw it for themselves, and they know he lies to protect her feelings. They saw the way he held the one before her, and heard how he whispered his love for her, just as he does with her now. Each wall in each room witnessed their intimacy, every stolen kiss, every passionate embrace, every time they made love.
She knows what the walls have seen, and hates that there was someone here before her. It doesn’t matter what she does, both she and the walls know, that his heart belonged to someone else before her. So she paints the ugly walls, hoping that she’ll paint over the images in her mind. The thought of their bodies tangled together, the realisation that if there’s been one before her, there could be one after. So she paints and makes the house hers. She stakes her claim on this life...on this home.
But new paint fades. It becomes tired and cracks over time, showing the truth written there on the bare plaster.
She knows that eventually, the walls will tell their story again. But what breaks her heart is that she knows it won’t be told to her.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
The Dreaded Scales!
Why is it that when you’re dieting, all foods, even those you wouldn’t usually pick off a menu, appear ridiculously appealing? I’m currently watching the cookery channel and practically salivating over the idea of sprouts. I hate sprouts???!
This week saw myself and two friends (Laura and Gaga) returning to Fat Club. Whilst I was secretly rather pleased that I’d only put on 2lbs over Christmas, getting on the scales was still a rather traumatic experience. I always have this fear that when I step on the scales, rather than a weight, they’ll simply flash up with “One at a time please” or worse, they’ll just display that digital message “Errrrr”, which would essentially mean the scales were telling me that my arse had got so enormous they were now point blank refusing to tell me my weight for fear of me taking my own life, and perhaps the lives of some of the other members who’d been lucky enough to reach goal, in some kind of bitter jealous rage.
All three of us have our own personal goals, and we’re all determined to achieve them. For the first time ever I have set myself a deadline for when I want to reach my goal. I’ve never done this before, because secretly I don’t think I’ve ever felt I could achieve them. With the big three-oh approaching this time next year, I’ve decided I’ve got to have reached goal by then, and I’ve also established that it’s more than do-able, so definitely not an unrealistic target.
Interestingly though, going to Fat Club with two good friends is already making the world of difference to me from a motivational aspect. Now some would assume that there would be a form of competition between us, along the lines of who can get to goal first etc. The fact is, none of us have really discussed how much we weighed in at, or how much we want to lose. Given that we’re all varying weights, and are losing it for very different reasons, competition isn’t what’s motivating us. In fact, it seems it’s a mutual contempt for dieting that’s drawing us all together!
The last few days have seen us texting each other with tips on how to make it “not feel too much like a diet”, as well as complaints to each other about how hungry we feel, or how much eating the staple diet of your average house rabbit, sucks big time. It’s easy to become a diet bore when you embark on a new eating regime. People around you tend to get bored of listening to you harp on about not being able to eat nice things like cheese and cake and chocolate. They’re supportive at first, but the more you hate your diet, the more they wish you weren’t on one so they wouldn’t have to listen to your moaning. This is where your fellow dieters come in useful. If you don’t have them, then eventually your non dieting friends will tempt you to break your self imposed rules. They’ll practically shove goodies down your neck in order to stop your incessant whinging! Your diet buddies however will join in with the moaning, and complaining. This allows you to bitch about how unfair it is, refocus and carry on without spoiling all of your hard work.
Now obviously the biggest motivation comes from seeing results on the scales. We all have certain rituals for weigh in day. Myself, I always ensure I’m not wearing jeans for weigh in. (They can add as much a 1lb dontcha know!) In fact I’ll opt for a light cotton summer dress in the depths of winter if I think it’ll help me shift that ½ lb that I need in order to get my next half stone award sticker. (Yes, it’s true...even at 29 years old I’m still excited by getting gold stars for my achievements!) Gaga...well she’ll pretty much remove everything – bangles, tiny stud earrings, cardigans, hair grips...her underwired bra...(!!) If she could step on the scales completely in the buff I think she probably would! Other people drink wine the night before weigh in to make sure they’re good and dehydrated, and thus not retaining ANY fluids which could add to their overall weights, and I think any dieter will admit, that they’ll ensure they’ve gone for a tinkle immediately before weigh in (usually as soon as they reach the church hall the meeting is held at) in order to ensure any saliva they may have accidentally swallowed in the five minute journey from their house to the meeting is pee’d out literally seconds before “crunch time” on the scales. Well...you just never know – could be the difference between a loss or staying the same!!
Either way, with all of the rituals, and feelings of deprivation, I am cheered by my fellow diet buddies. I have a little support network I can rely on to slap me hard around the face if I’m tempted to indulge in a Krispy Kreme, and a constant reminder of why I’m being good. Given that I’m also part of their support network, I’m also motivating myself every time I offer them advice, or cheer them on, so it’s like a double motivator. I feel 100% confident that we’ll all reach our personal goals, and when we do, I think we’ll all be able to feel rather smug about it! Right, well if you’ll excuse me I have some zero point dust to go munch on...Dust? No? Dust?...Dust? No?...Dust?
This week saw myself and two friends (Laura and Gaga) returning to Fat Club. Whilst I was secretly rather pleased that I’d only put on 2lbs over Christmas, getting on the scales was still a rather traumatic experience. I always have this fear that when I step on the scales, rather than a weight, they’ll simply flash up with “One at a time please” or worse, they’ll just display that digital message “Errrrr”, which would essentially mean the scales were telling me that my arse had got so enormous they were now point blank refusing to tell me my weight for fear of me taking my own life, and perhaps the lives of some of the other members who’d been lucky enough to reach goal, in some kind of bitter jealous rage.
All three of us have our own personal goals, and we’re all determined to achieve them. For the first time ever I have set myself a deadline for when I want to reach my goal. I’ve never done this before, because secretly I don’t think I’ve ever felt I could achieve them. With the big three-oh approaching this time next year, I’ve decided I’ve got to have reached goal by then, and I’ve also established that it’s more than do-able, so definitely not an unrealistic target.
Interestingly though, going to Fat Club with two good friends is already making the world of difference to me from a motivational aspect. Now some would assume that there would be a form of competition between us, along the lines of who can get to goal first etc. The fact is, none of us have really discussed how much we weighed in at, or how much we want to lose. Given that we’re all varying weights, and are losing it for very different reasons, competition isn’t what’s motivating us. In fact, it seems it’s a mutual contempt for dieting that’s drawing us all together!
The last few days have seen us texting each other with tips on how to make it “not feel too much like a diet”, as well as complaints to each other about how hungry we feel, or how much eating the staple diet of your average house rabbit, sucks big time. It’s easy to become a diet bore when you embark on a new eating regime. People around you tend to get bored of listening to you harp on about not being able to eat nice things like cheese and cake and chocolate. They’re supportive at first, but the more you hate your diet, the more they wish you weren’t on one so they wouldn’t have to listen to your moaning. This is where your fellow dieters come in useful. If you don’t have them, then eventually your non dieting friends will tempt you to break your self imposed rules. They’ll practically shove goodies down your neck in order to stop your incessant whinging! Your diet buddies however will join in with the moaning, and complaining. This allows you to bitch about how unfair it is, refocus and carry on without spoiling all of your hard work.
Now obviously the biggest motivation comes from seeing results on the scales. We all have certain rituals for weigh in day. Myself, I always ensure I’m not wearing jeans for weigh in. (They can add as much a 1lb dontcha know!) In fact I’ll opt for a light cotton summer dress in the depths of winter if I think it’ll help me shift that ½ lb that I need in order to get my next half stone award sticker. (Yes, it’s true...even at 29 years old I’m still excited by getting gold stars for my achievements!) Gaga...well she’ll pretty much remove everything – bangles, tiny stud earrings, cardigans, hair grips...her underwired bra...(!!) If she could step on the scales completely in the buff I think she probably would! Other people drink wine the night before weigh in to make sure they’re good and dehydrated, and thus not retaining ANY fluids which could add to their overall weights, and I think any dieter will admit, that they’ll ensure they’ve gone for a tinkle immediately before weigh in (usually as soon as they reach the church hall the meeting is held at) in order to ensure any saliva they may have accidentally swallowed in the five minute journey from their house to the meeting is pee’d out literally seconds before “crunch time” on the scales. Well...you just never know – could be the difference between a loss or staying the same!!
Either way, with all of the rituals, and feelings of deprivation, I am cheered by my fellow diet buddies. I have a little support network I can rely on to slap me hard around the face if I’m tempted to indulge in a Krispy Kreme, and a constant reminder of why I’m being good. Given that I’m also part of their support network, I’m also motivating myself every time I offer them advice, or cheer them on, so it’s like a double motivator. I feel 100% confident that we’ll all reach our personal goals, and when we do, I think we’ll all be able to feel rather smug about it! Right, well if you’ll excuse me I have some zero point dust to go munch on...Dust? No? Dust?...Dust? No?...Dust?
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Table For One (and a half - if you count the pooch!)
This Christmas saw me hosting dinner for nine of my family. It’s always nice to have everyone gathered around, and even nicer when it’s in the comfort of your own home. As my house used to be my grandparents house, it must have been lovely for them to “come home” for Christmas, and despite some slight disasters in the kitchen (only I could remember at 3pm on Christmas Eve that I hadn’t got the turkey out of the freezer! Terrence the turkey, much to the amusement of my friends spent the night in my bath to aid his defrosting!), a Christmas feast was delivered, devoured and enjoyed by all. The one thing that struck me however, was the sheer amount of food that I had in my fridge. It was packed full of vegetables, cheeses, meats and puddings, condiments, creams, custards and beverages. In fact with hindsight it’s a good job I forgot about Terrence because there would have been no room for him in the fridge!!
My fridge always looks kind of similar to Bridget Jones’s. You’ll usually find a carton of milk in there that’s on the turn, a wedge of stilton that would definitely need the edges scraping off before consumption, a jar of Hellman’s Real Mayonnaise (none of that low fat rubbish when it comes to mayo for me – ask anyone who knows me, it’s kind of my “thing”!) and a jar of Branston Pickle. Occasionally if I’m feeling indulgent there’ll be a tub of Greek style olives with feta cheese, and there’ll always be a bag of carrots. The carrots aren’t for me – the pooch adores them, and they’re good for his teeth and breath – a sort of natural doggie toothbrush.
The fact is, that I never have a full fridge because I never see the point in cooking anything when it’s just me.
Gaga is even worse than me. The most I have ever seen in her fridge was two bottles of Rosé, some cat milk and an emergency bar of Galaxy chocolate. Like me, she rarely cooks for herself. She’s a little worse than me however and does predominantly live on take away’s and dinners at her mums. I just tend not to eat in the evenings. If I’m really peckish then I can usually find a packet of prawn cocktail crisps lurking at the back of the larder. Gareth finds it all rather strange. He prepares himself breakfast, lunch and dinner each day, every day. If you look in his fridge, there’s always something green in there (and I don’t mean the kind of green that’s growing on my stilton), there’s fresh milk, some kind of meat, and various other tasty bits and bobs. He’s even got a fruit bowl...and it has fruit in it...rather than unopened post and stray pens that he hasn’t given a home to yet! We have argued that as we’re all singletons, and two out of three of us don’t cook for ourselves, perhaps Gareth is the odd one out. I suppose it’s down to his years in the Army, where the routine of eating three square meals would have been drummed into him from the minute he arrived for his basic training as a spotty gangly teenager.
Gareth can be quite...hmm how can I put it...honest at times, and I think both Gaga and I felt suitably ashamed when he accused us of not looking after ourselves. There’s nothing worse than someone like Gareth audibly tutting and shaking his head at you whilst telling you, “if you won’t look after yourselves why would you expect anyone else to?” to make you feel a little guilty that you’ve essentially been a bit lazy and have neglected yourself. We all know that a healthy attitude to food is important, and that regular healthy and satisfying meals are key to good physical and mental well being. It’s just that it can seem so pointless when it’s only you. The effort it takes to cook and wash up after a meal, when it’s only you who’ll be eating it, always seems a bit OTT for my liking. I don’t mind doing it for nine people at Christmas, but just for me??
Nevertheless, I have started the year as I mean to go on, and have (for the last four days) cooked myself a sensible dinner every evening. Unfortunately my portion estimates are a little generous given that I’ve always been used to cooking for two, however the pooch doesn’t seem to mind, as he’s getting the left overs. Now the only problem I have is that given I started out with nothing in my fridge, after rustling together four meals, you can imagine how little food I have left in my house! Today’s meal of hearty vegetable soup with bread was improvised (it was supposed to be something far grander) as unfortunately it seems that even when frozen, some food, if left for over a year in the freezer, still goes bad! (This disappoints me greatly as it means that the majority of the food I have in the freezer is now inedible – bad times) It looks like a trip to the supermarket is in order to re-stock!
It’s all part of the master plan of course. Healthy eating, regular exercise, less alcohol consumption...my body is a temple (no jokes about the size of the Taj Mahal please). Aren’t new years resolutions great? Well...ask me in February and we’ll see if I’m still sticking to it!!
My fridge always looks kind of similar to Bridget Jones’s. You’ll usually find a carton of milk in there that’s on the turn, a wedge of stilton that would definitely need the edges scraping off before consumption, a jar of Hellman’s Real Mayonnaise (none of that low fat rubbish when it comes to mayo for me – ask anyone who knows me, it’s kind of my “thing”!) and a jar of Branston Pickle. Occasionally if I’m feeling indulgent there’ll be a tub of Greek style olives with feta cheese, and there’ll always be a bag of carrots. The carrots aren’t for me – the pooch adores them, and they’re good for his teeth and breath – a sort of natural doggie toothbrush.
The fact is, that I never have a full fridge because I never see the point in cooking anything when it’s just me.
Gaga is even worse than me. The most I have ever seen in her fridge was two bottles of Rosé, some cat milk and an emergency bar of Galaxy chocolate. Like me, she rarely cooks for herself. She’s a little worse than me however and does predominantly live on take away’s and dinners at her mums. I just tend not to eat in the evenings. If I’m really peckish then I can usually find a packet of prawn cocktail crisps lurking at the back of the larder. Gareth finds it all rather strange. He prepares himself breakfast, lunch and dinner each day, every day. If you look in his fridge, there’s always something green in there (and I don’t mean the kind of green that’s growing on my stilton), there’s fresh milk, some kind of meat, and various other tasty bits and bobs. He’s even got a fruit bowl...and it has fruit in it...rather than unopened post and stray pens that he hasn’t given a home to yet! We have argued that as we’re all singletons, and two out of three of us don’t cook for ourselves, perhaps Gareth is the odd one out. I suppose it’s down to his years in the Army, where the routine of eating three square meals would have been drummed into him from the minute he arrived for his basic training as a spotty gangly teenager.
Gareth can be quite...hmm how can I put it...honest at times, and I think both Gaga and I felt suitably ashamed when he accused us of not looking after ourselves. There’s nothing worse than someone like Gareth audibly tutting and shaking his head at you whilst telling you, “if you won’t look after yourselves why would you expect anyone else to?” to make you feel a little guilty that you’ve essentially been a bit lazy and have neglected yourself. We all know that a healthy attitude to food is important, and that regular healthy and satisfying meals are key to good physical and mental well being. It’s just that it can seem so pointless when it’s only you. The effort it takes to cook and wash up after a meal, when it’s only you who’ll be eating it, always seems a bit OTT for my liking. I don’t mind doing it for nine people at Christmas, but just for me??
Nevertheless, I have started the year as I mean to go on, and have (for the last four days) cooked myself a sensible dinner every evening. Unfortunately my portion estimates are a little generous given that I’ve always been used to cooking for two, however the pooch doesn’t seem to mind, as he’s getting the left overs. Now the only problem I have is that given I started out with nothing in my fridge, after rustling together four meals, you can imagine how little food I have left in my house! Today’s meal of hearty vegetable soup with bread was improvised (it was supposed to be something far grander) as unfortunately it seems that even when frozen, some food, if left for over a year in the freezer, still goes bad! (This disappoints me greatly as it means that the majority of the food I have in the freezer is now inedible – bad times) It looks like a trip to the supermarket is in order to re-stock!
It’s all part of the master plan of course. Healthy eating, regular exercise, less alcohol consumption...my body is a temple (no jokes about the size of the Taj Mahal please). Aren’t new years resolutions great? Well...ask me in February and we’ll see if I’m still sticking to it!!
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Laughter - There's Nothing Sexier!
One guy once told me that he wanted a cook in the kitchen, a lady in the parlour and a whore in the bedroom. He wanted a woman with principles and manners, someone ladylike and presentable, yet sexy and provocative behind closed doors. As women, we’re expected to be alluring and slutty in secret, yet demure and successful in public. Men want to have their cake and eat it, and, it seems - we’re programmed to give them what they want.
I met a guy months ago – from that dating site I was a member of. He gave me his number pretty much straight off, which admittedly unnerved me a little, but I was pacified by the fact that he told me he wasn’t really sure what the “on-line dating etiquette” with regards to number swapping was, but figured if I wanted to chat to him when we were offline, that was the best way to do it... A week or so, and several e-mail conversations later I decided he didn’t appear to be a serial killer, so I dropped him a text, and our conversations continued. He seemed as cute as a button – always knowing the right thing to say to make a girl feel at ease, so it was a no-brainer when we decided to meet up. I really wasn’t expecting much – I’d been on dates with sweet guys, and whilst they were always pleasant, they never really rocked my world. I always worked on the principle though, that the worst thing that could happen was that you could make a new friend.
We arranged to meet at a pub near me (what? – it’s my prerogative as a woman to ask that the date takes place in my territory – a guy who wants you to travel to him clearly doesn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body!) and by sheer fluke we both pulled into the carpark at the same time. When he stepped out of the car I was surprised by how tall he was. Even with a sizeable heel he towered over me – which admittedly sent me a little weak at the knees right from the off. I was instantly attracted to him, but I don’t think it was necessarily his looks that attracted me in the first instance...in fact I know it wasn’t... The first thing he did when he got out of the car was take the piss out of me....and that’s what did it. He laughed at my mardy driving face (in all fairness he did nick the parking space I was attempting to occupy, and at this stage I didn’t know he was in the car!) and told me he'd nearly turned around and driven off! It made me laugh, and ladies and gentlemen...there is nothing sexier than a guy who can make me laugh.
I’m a bit of a joker – my friends and colleagues will testify to this – it’s not something I’m always aware I’m doing - in fact sometimes I make sarky and somewhat distasteful gags in the most inappropriate situations. I very clearly remember the phone call I received from the hospital asking me to gather my brothers together to come and see my Dad after his heart bypass surgery, and the comment I made directly after putting the phone down. I was at work, so had to explain why I was suddenly leaving. I turned to a colleague, knowing that the only reason they’d be calling us in was because he was either already dead or about to die, and said;
“Well it would be just like the melodramatic old git to die on us!”
Appropriate or not, humour acts as a band aid, an ice breaker and a conversational tool for me. I use it to put people at ease and diffuse awkward situations (even if ultimately the situation affects me in the most negative way) and more often than not, I just like people to enjoy themselves when they’re around me. The problem with being the one who’s always cracking the jokes, is that it’s very rare that someone comes along who genuinely tickles me, so when they do, it completely takes me by surprise. This guy got me hook line and sinker, just by being funny...by being brave enough to take the piss out of someone he’d only just met, and having the balls to bare his personality right from the off...oh okay...it kinda helped that he was cute too...but I’d like to think his sense of humour would have kept me interested, even if he’d looked like the elephant man!
Now do guys secretly want the same thing? Someone who can make them giggle? Sure they love the sexy seductress thing (and we kinda love being that for them), but ultimately, if they were given the choice, would they go for someone who looks hot and is a “whore in the bedroom”, or will they go for someone who’s genuine and can make them laugh? I’ve always believed that if you find someone’s soul attractive, the way they look to you will always be sexy...which is why some of us (erm yes...me included) wouldn’t kick Simon Cowell out of bed for farting, and yet others would dry heave at the prospect of having to get close enough to his high waisted trousers to unzip them!
I guess we’re all after different things – some people are driven by looks, others by intelligence and the ability to stimulate them cerebrally. Some people are driven by lust and physical attraction, others by feeling secure and protected. Some of us have had enough hardship in their lives that they just want to laugh. They want to laugh so hard that their sides ache, and they genuinely feel joy again. Whatever the attraction though, I know what I want, and perhaps just knowing your own mind is the most important thing...so what do I want you ask?
I want laughter...and an older man...a much older man with a big bank balance...and a nasty cough!!
I met a guy months ago – from that dating site I was a member of. He gave me his number pretty much straight off, which admittedly unnerved me a little, but I was pacified by the fact that he told me he wasn’t really sure what the “on-line dating etiquette” with regards to number swapping was, but figured if I wanted to chat to him when we were offline, that was the best way to do it... A week or so, and several e-mail conversations later I decided he didn’t appear to be a serial killer, so I dropped him a text, and our conversations continued. He seemed as cute as a button – always knowing the right thing to say to make a girl feel at ease, so it was a no-brainer when we decided to meet up. I really wasn’t expecting much – I’d been on dates with sweet guys, and whilst they were always pleasant, they never really rocked my world. I always worked on the principle though, that the worst thing that could happen was that you could make a new friend.
We arranged to meet at a pub near me (what? – it’s my prerogative as a woman to ask that the date takes place in my territory – a guy who wants you to travel to him clearly doesn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body!) and by sheer fluke we both pulled into the carpark at the same time. When he stepped out of the car I was surprised by how tall he was. Even with a sizeable heel he towered over me – which admittedly sent me a little weak at the knees right from the off. I was instantly attracted to him, but I don’t think it was necessarily his looks that attracted me in the first instance...in fact I know it wasn’t... The first thing he did when he got out of the car was take the piss out of me....and that’s what did it. He laughed at my mardy driving face (in all fairness he did nick the parking space I was attempting to occupy, and at this stage I didn’t know he was in the car!) and told me he'd nearly turned around and driven off! It made me laugh, and ladies and gentlemen...there is nothing sexier than a guy who can make me laugh.
I’m a bit of a joker – my friends and colleagues will testify to this – it’s not something I’m always aware I’m doing - in fact sometimes I make sarky and somewhat distasteful gags in the most inappropriate situations. I very clearly remember the phone call I received from the hospital asking me to gather my brothers together to come and see my Dad after his heart bypass surgery, and the comment I made directly after putting the phone down. I was at work, so had to explain why I was suddenly leaving. I turned to a colleague, knowing that the only reason they’d be calling us in was because he was either already dead or about to die, and said;
“Well it would be just like the melodramatic old git to die on us!”
Appropriate or not, humour acts as a band aid, an ice breaker and a conversational tool for me. I use it to put people at ease and diffuse awkward situations (even if ultimately the situation affects me in the most negative way) and more often than not, I just like people to enjoy themselves when they’re around me. The problem with being the one who’s always cracking the jokes, is that it’s very rare that someone comes along who genuinely tickles me, so when they do, it completely takes me by surprise. This guy got me hook line and sinker, just by being funny...by being brave enough to take the piss out of someone he’d only just met, and having the balls to bare his personality right from the off...oh okay...it kinda helped that he was cute too...but I’d like to think his sense of humour would have kept me interested, even if he’d looked like the elephant man!
Now do guys secretly want the same thing? Someone who can make them giggle? Sure they love the sexy seductress thing (and we kinda love being that for them), but ultimately, if they were given the choice, would they go for someone who looks hot and is a “whore in the bedroom”, or will they go for someone who’s genuine and can make them laugh? I’ve always believed that if you find someone’s soul attractive, the way they look to you will always be sexy...which is why some of us (erm yes...me included) wouldn’t kick Simon Cowell out of bed for farting, and yet others would dry heave at the prospect of having to get close enough to his high waisted trousers to unzip them!
I guess we’re all after different things – some people are driven by looks, others by intelligence and the ability to stimulate them cerebrally. Some people are driven by lust and physical attraction, others by feeling secure and protected. Some of us have had enough hardship in their lives that they just want to laugh. They want to laugh so hard that their sides ache, and they genuinely feel joy again. Whatever the attraction though, I know what I want, and perhaps just knowing your own mind is the most important thing...so what do I want you ask?
I want laughter...and an older man...a much older man with a big bank balance...and a nasty cough!!
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Can Girls Suffer From "Man-Flu"??
It’s no secret that I’m not very good at being ill. I actually think this is because I don’t get ill very often. It’s normally a once (maybe twice) a year event, and so unfortunately I don’t handle it very well.
If you could all take a moment to visualise me now. I’m sat here up to my ears in used tissues. I am probably single handedly responsible for the destruction of a mile wide section of the rainforest, which has been used to keep me well stocked in mansize Ultrabalm tissues. Over the course of the day, the whole world, has literally fallen out of my nose. Seriously, on one blow I swear to God I evicted a small family of Armenians and a Whirlpool washing machine (circa 1994) from my nasal cavities...I could have been mistaken, obviously...I mean it’s not like I spent ages dissecting the contents in the manner of Gillian McKeith or anything weird like that...it’s just that’s what it looked like!
I have been dosed up on max strength cold and flu capsules, throat sprays, mucus friendly cough mixtures (to aid a productive cough, I’ll have you know!) and lemon flavoured menthol drinks since yesterday. Quite frankly, I’m smacked off my tits on cold remedies and I’m not 100% sure I should be taking them all with the glass of red wine that I’m currently enjoying...but I like to fly by the seat of my pants, so I’m gonna roll with it.
How come some people can handle being poorly better than others? Some people deal with flu like it’s a walk in the park...me...I’m like a man with man-flu. I’m convinced I’m actually about to shuffle off this mortal coil. It’s not just because I’m a drama queen (which I am a little, I’ll admit) but genuinely, because I don’t get ill very often it feels like I’m dying. God only knows what I’d be like with something like child birth. My problem is though, is that I’m not at all gracious about being poorly. I complain mercilessly about it, and I know that I sound like a whiney cow, but if I don’t verbalise how miserable I feel, I’m likely to just curl up in a corner and sob to myself...which on the whole would be far more disconcerting for my work colleagues I’m sure!
The only person (sort of) that seems to want to give me sympathy in my time of need however, is the pooch. Reliable as always he has stationed himself at my side, since this rotten lurgey first set in. He dutifully fusses around me when I’m struggling with a coughing fit...which basically just means when I start coughing he sits up, cocks his head to one side and looks at me in a worried manner, as if to say;
“Ooh ‘eck mum....that doesn’t sound right!”
Understandably everyone else feels I should really just be getting on with it! I get it...I’m a disgrace to my sex, I should be able to handle illness better than this...But the way I see it...hopefully one day, I’ll have kids of my own, who will get poorly and need looking after, and so I won’t be able to be this self indulgent. Until then, I plan to let everyone know when I’m not feeling 100%...and maybe (just maybe), someone might feel inclined to look after me a little....someone other than the pooch that is!
If you could all take a moment to visualise me now. I’m sat here up to my ears in used tissues. I am probably single handedly responsible for the destruction of a mile wide section of the rainforest, which has been used to keep me well stocked in mansize Ultrabalm tissues. Over the course of the day, the whole world, has literally fallen out of my nose. Seriously, on one blow I swear to God I evicted a small family of Armenians and a Whirlpool washing machine (circa 1994) from my nasal cavities...I could have been mistaken, obviously...I mean it’s not like I spent ages dissecting the contents in the manner of Gillian McKeith or anything weird like that...it’s just that’s what it looked like!
I have been dosed up on max strength cold and flu capsules, throat sprays, mucus friendly cough mixtures (to aid a productive cough, I’ll have you know!) and lemon flavoured menthol drinks since yesterday. Quite frankly, I’m smacked off my tits on cold remedies and I’m not 100% sure I should be taking them all with the glass of red wine that I’m currently enjoying...but I like to fly by the seat of my pants, so I’m gonna roll with it.
How come some people can handle being poorly better than others? Some people deal with flu like it’s a walk in the park...me...I’m like a man with man-flu. I’m convinced I’m actually about to shuffle off this mortal coil. It’s not just because I’m a drama queen (which I am a little, I’ll admit) but genuinely, because I don’t get ill very often it feels like I’m dying. God only knows what I’d be like with something like child birth. My problem is though, is that I’m not at all gracious about being poorly. I complain mercilessly about it, and I know that I sound like a whiney cow, but if I don’t verbalise how miserable I feel, I’m likely to just curl up in a corner and sob to myself...which on the whole would be far more disconcerting for my work colleagues I’m sure!
The only person (sort of) that seems to want to give me sympathy in my time of need however, is the pooch. Reliable as always he has stationed himself at my side, since this rotten lurgey first set in. He dutifully fusses around me when I’m struggling with a coughing fit...which basically just means when I start coughing he sits up, cocks his head to one side and looks at me in a worried manner, as if to say;
“Ooh ‘eck mum....that doesn’t sound right!”
Understandably everyone else feels I should really just be getting on with it! I get it...I’m a disgrace to my sex, I should be able to handle illness better than this...But the way I see it...hopefully one day, I’ll have kids of my own, who will get poorly and need looking after, and so I won’t be able to be this self indulgent. Until then, I plan to let everyone know when I’m not feeling 100%...and maybe (just maybe), someone might feel inclined to look after me a little....someone other than the pooch that is!
Saturday, 4 December 2010
One Man and Three Little Ladies
It’s a well known fact (amongst girls) that women behave slightly differently when we’re in the company of other girls, to when we’re in the company of men. When you’re in the company of men, you are generally mindful that your language should be ladylike, that you should maintain a certain level of decorum, and the conversation choice is carefully selected to ensure you don’t bore men to death. When you’re with your girlfriends, it’s entirely acceptable to spend up to an hour talking about shoes, and the perfect heel height. If you’re bitching about other people, you’re not afraid to use coarser language, and (especially after a couple of glasses of vino) the behaviours seen within a gaggle of girls can be raucous, giggly, loud and very often screechy.
So what happens when you find you’ve let a heterosexual red blooded male into your female circle of friends? I was wondering this earlier as Gaga and I sat in our friend Gareth’s flat gossiping like the girls we are. I’m quite certain that Gareth feels he’s gathering a great deal of intel on the enemy by spending so much time with us. He’s in the enviable position of having myself, Gaga and Princess there to learn from, as he observes us in our natural habitat... But I wonder, as a man...what must he think of us??? In all fairness, I was mainly wondering this after announcing that I was;
“wearing a £15 pair of knickers, and had at least £8’s worth stuck up my bum”
I then proceeded to adjust the wedgie situation in one quick (but not-so-elegant) manoeuvre. Sometimes I forget he’s not actually one of the girls, and often end up mortified by my behaviour when I remember he’s there! I’m not the only one to do things like this however. Last week on our usual Saturday trip to the coffee house - our very own Central Perk, Princess, (who to be fair to her, was suffering from the mother of all hangovers) forgot whose company she was in and announced;
“Shit... I completely forgot to put a bra on today”
It was hilarious to watch poor Gareth’s face as that mental image flashed up in his head, and he battled with the urge to say something blokey and smutty. The thing is he’s integrated so fully into our little gang that he hears everything, and has an “access all areas” pass to the daft, neurotic, inane and ridiculous world of my female group of friends. He sits and listens while we discuss our dating disasters, he humours us by not complaining when we talk about shoes/make-up/clothes etc, and always tuts in a suitably “don’t be ridiculous” manner when we complain about our weight, the size of our ankles/arse etc. He also does a really good job of controlling his gag reflex when we talk about our period pains or our preferred methods of birth control, and doesn’t appear to judge us when we say absolutely awful things about people we don’t like. But what I’m wondering is...what does he do with all this information? Is he sharing it with his guy friends? He’s gone out with his guy mates this evening, and all I can imagine him doing is taking them to one side and saying;
“Geez guys, trust me, these chicks are NUTS!...Did you know that it only takes an average of seven minutes after sending a text before they start complaining about the fact they haven’t had a reply?!”
Or maybe he’s storing up all this insider information, so that when he meets Miss Right in the future, he better understands the female mind, and can therefore be a better Mr Right for her? (I’d like to think it’s the latter, but I suspect it’s probably the former!)
Much to the incredulity of his male friends, Gareth has developed his own little harem, who unquestioningly entertain him with silliness on nights out, cook for him, pick up his dry cleaning and give him lifts whenever he needs them...in fact all the things we’d automatically do for our girly mates - courtesies that aren’t usually extended to members of the opposite sex...and why do we do this? Well to be fair, it’s because men are simple creatures, and as a result they simplify things for you. If you’ve been wronged by a friend and bitch about them, girls will intensify the witch hunt by goading the bitchfest....a guy will become confused and point out;
“but didn’t you do something similar to so’n’so the other week?”
thus highlighting your double standards, bringing you back to reality with a bump. Likewise if a guy doesn’t text you for a day, and you complain to a girlfriend, between the two of you, you can blow everything out of proportion, and before you know it, you’ve got visions that the reason behind the delayed reply is because he’s secretly got a wife and kids tucked away somewhere, and can only text when they’re not around. If you complain to a guy friend like Gareth, you get a non-committal shrug of the shoulders and a simple;
“He was probably busy when you texted him, and now he’s forgotten to reply”
Guy friends take the drama out of every situation, which truth be told makes life refreshingly easy sometimes. Of course, we’re girls so we enjoy a bit of drama, but every now and then it’s nice to be brought back down to earth and reminded that life doesn’t have to be crazy to be fun. Besides, it’s nice to have someone to mother a little... we haven’t got kids of our own yet, and as Gareth has the mental age of a six year old, it’s kind of like having a child!
So what happens when you find you’ve let a heterosexual red blooded male into your female circle of friends? I was wondering this earlier as Gaga and I sat in our friend Gareth’s flat gossiping like the girls we are. I’m quite certain that Gareth feels he’s gathering a great deal of intel on the enemy by spending so much time with us. He’s in the enviable position of having myself, Gaga and Princess there to learn from, as he observes us in our natural habitat... But I wonder, as a man...what must he think of us??? In all fairness, I was mainly wondering this after announcing that I was;
“wearing a £15 pair of knickers, and had at least £8’s worth stuck up my bum”
I then proceeded to adjust the wedgie situation in one quick (but not-so-elegant) manoeuvre. Sometimes I forget he’s not actually one of the girls, and often end up mortified by my behaviour when I remember he’s there! I’m not the only one to do things like this however. Last week on our usual Saturday trip to the coffee house - our very own Central Perk, Princess, (who to be fair to her, was suffering from the mother of all hangovers) forgot whose company she was in and announced;
“Shit... I completely forgot to put a bra on today”
It was hilarious to watch poor Gareth’s face as that mental image flashed up in his head, and he battled with the urge to say something blokey and smutty. The thing is he’s integrated so fully into our little gang that he hears everything, and has an “access all areas” pass to the daft, neurotic, inane and ridiculous world of my female group of friends. He sits and listens while we discuss our dating disasters, he humours us by not complaining when we talk about shoes/make-up/clothes etc, and always tuts in a suitably “don’t be ridiculous” manner when we complain about our weight, the size of our ankles/arse etc. He also does a really good job of controlling his gag reflex when we talk about our period pains or our preferred methods of birth control, and doesn’t appear to judge us when we say absolutely awful things about people we don’t like. But what I’m wondering is...what does he do with all this information? Is he sharing it with his guy friends? He’s gone out with his guy mates this evening, and all I can imagine him doing is taking them to one side and saying;
“Geez guys, trust me, these chicks are NUTS!...Did you know that it only takes an average of seven minutes after sending a text before they start complaining about the fact they haven’t had a reply?!”
Or maybe he’s storing up all this insider information, so that when he meets Miss Right in the future, he better understands the female mind, and can therefore be a better Mr Right for her? (I’d like to think it’s the latter, but I suspect it’s probably the former!)
Much to the incredulity of his male friends, Gareth has developed his own little harem, who unquestioningly entertain him with silliness on nights out, cook for him, pick up his dry cleaning and give him lifts whenever he needs them...in fact all the things we’d automatically do for our girly mates - courtesies that aren’t usually extended to members of the opposite sex...and why do we do this? Well to be fair, it’s because men are simple creatures, and as a result they simplify things for you. If you’ve been wronged by a friend and bitch about them, girls will intensify the witch hunt by goading the bitchfest....a guy will become confused and point out;
“but didn’t you do something similar to so’n’so the other week?”
thus highlighting your double standards, bringing you back to reality with a bump. Likewise if a guy doesn’t text you for a day, and you complain to a girlfriend, between the two of you, you can blow everything out of proportion, and before you know it, you’ve got visions that the reason behind the delayed reply is because he’s secretly got a wife and kids tucked away somewhere, and can only text when they’re not around. If you complain to a guy friend like Gareth, you get a non-committal shrug of the shoulders and a simple;
“He was probably busy when you texted him, and now he’s forgotten to reply”
Guy friends take the drama out of every situation, which truth be told makes life refreshingly easy sometimes. Of course, we’re girls so we enjoy a bit of drama, but every now and then it’s nice to be brought back down to earth and reminded that life doesn’t have to be crazy to be fun. Besides, it’s nice to have someone to mother a little... we haven’t got kids of our own yet, and as Gareth has the mental age of a six year old, it’s kind of like having a child!
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