The Death of Drama

Lunndon Girl Life:

(noun: an animate form of existence)

Although Lent is now in fact behind us I have belatedly, and officially, decided to give up one thing – drama.

Those who have known me for years will probably scoff at this and think “Yeah right”… but honestly this is one thing that, after recent events, I think I’ll find easier to give up than chocolate.

I used to revel in my reputation to create dramatic distractions wherever I turned but, after my Easter weekend, I have to say my talent for drama is borderline crazy. Let me give you an example: Easter Saturday I, for the first time in five years as a Putney girl, decided to become interested in the boat race. My ex-boyfriend used to tease that my mere presence could create drama, so excuse my wonder that the race (for the first time since its 1829 inception) was restarted due to a swimmer. Not only that, but an oar broke and a team mate collapsed before the race was even complete.

Coincidence? Maybe. While I may not have been the aforementioned swimmer itself, I am wondering if next year I'd best not tempt fate and should just stick to not being interested, re-adopting my usual manner of annoyance at all the ‘non-Putney people’ who descend upon my ‘hood’, hiking up pub prices, packing out my favourite riverside café and disturbing my brunch. In the possibility that my presence alone did indeed prompt such mayhem, I promise both Oxford and Cambridge to next year stay at home and maybe start knitting a sweater.

While my direct influence on the outcome of the boat race is open to interpretation, the man drama I had this weekend certainly isn’t – that was mainly my fault. Seriously, I’m probably the only girl in the world who can have a ‘lover’s tiff’ with someone who isn’t even a lover. This is the way my last week rolled: Dated one guy on the Wednesday, fell out with another on the Saturday. Where did either get me? Nowhere.

If my male ‘adventures’ taught me anything these last few days, it’s to listen to my gut – and I don’t mean in that annoying way of the Actimel advert. As previously detailed in last week’s post A Fickle Fairytale, I recently went on a date with a guy who, attractive as he was and lovely as he seemed, I just didn’t feel ‘it’ for. After several promptings from friends and family alike, both equally tired of my reasons/excuses to say no to every guy who asks, I played along and went on the date. The result? I was right.

Trust me, usually I love being proved right but, in this case, it actually makes me sad. I wanted to feel something. I wanted to be wrong. The thing is though, when you find yourself responding to someone trying to kiss you with: “Sorry but I’m not going to make out in the middle of a street in Soho” – you know a certain type of connection is missing. Not to sound all ‘Loose Lizzie’ but, if I fancy a guy, I’ll make out with him the middle of a street, with an audience, filmed for the Six O’Clock news – nothing deters me.

As for the guy with whom I managed to have a lover’s tiff (minus the loving) the difference is that, at times, with him I have felt the ‘connection’ that was missing with Date Boy. I won’t bore you with the ins and outs of what happened here and there this weekend (partly because I’m still unsure myself), but I did learn that listening to outside influence spells nothing but the trouble I am now intent on avoiding.

Whereas once I used to think drama equalled passion, I now think there are more interesting ways to generate a frisson than fighting about things which are futile. Hopefully this Easter will have seen my dramatics die a death, much like Jesus on that cross - with no hope of resurrection.

And so, post-Easter, here is my pledge: To trust my instincts, listen to my own heart… 

… and, most importantly, just in case the next man who makes me want to kiss him on national television happens to be a Cambridge or Oxford graduate, learn to knit. 

A Fickle Fairytale

Lunndon Girl Life:
(noun: an animate form of existence)

Mother Dearest is beside herself with excitement.

Currently at home visiting the parents, in the last couple of days I have looked on bemused as mother walks around the house with a beaming smile on her face. She has lovingly ironed my clothes more than once, poured me glasses of wine before I even have to ask and today she rushed off to her coffee morning to regale her friends with tales of how I have pleased her so. Close friends of my own will probably presume that my landing a fantastic new job has something to do with her pride… but no. What have I done to make bring magic to my mother’s life? I agreed to go on a date. With a boy.

Yep, a real, live man asked me out last week and, as if aliens had taken over my body, I actually said yes – a word my mother was beginning to wonder if she had forgotten to teach me in childhood. I wasn’t planning to tell, but home for over a week prior to starting my new job, it just sort of… slipped out. Now, I’m dealing with a mother so excited, she came back from the aforementioned coffee morning saying: “I’ve told the girls! They’re excited too. They don’t think it will come to anything, but they agree that one date, for now, is progress enough.”

Anyone else have a mother who discusses their love life at her coffee morning? Honestly, at the moment I feel the need to form my own coffee morning – a support group for daughters with a mother like mine.

The woman, I swear, is obsessed. Watching the film ‘The Help’ last night, I couldn’t help but laugh when one of the lead female characters was berated by her own mother for her lack of boyfriend, charmingly informed that her eggs would ‘dry up’.

I asked Mother Dearest if the scene reminded her of anyone. “Not at all,” she replied. “The problem with you isn’t that you can’t get a man, it’s that you won’t. You’re a commitment phobe.” With that she smiled and got up to leave the room, briefly turning back to add as an afterthought: “And besides, I couldn’t give a toss about your eggs, dear.”

Well goody, that’s something we actually agree on. I have to admit that my eggs don’t particularly concern me either – I prefer to leave things like that up to fate. The commitment phobe comment however, while it may not be the first time I’ve had that particular accusation levelled at me, is this time giving me cause for concern.

You see, ‘The Date’, I’ve pretty much written off before I’ve even been on it, coming up with a million reasons why the guy isn’t right for me. It’s insane, because he really couldn’t be nicer. What’s more, the evening I met him I had noticed him all night, then when he actually came over to talk to me… I started nitpicking at reasons why I wasn’t feeling ‘it’. But in short, I’m worried it was just because he was too nice.

We girls all say we want the fairytale. For the final result, indeed I do… but for the chase, I’ll take the Big Bad Wolf over Prince Charming any day of the week. The night before I met my ‘nice boy’ (as my mother would say), I’d spent an evening chatting/flirting with a male friend of mine who teasingly told me I was “quite hot”. When I pretended to balk at this, he laughed, asking “You’re not used to the ‘quite’ are you?” Indeed, quite.

Now Date Boy, as he shall henceforth be known, couldn’t have been more the opposite. To look at, he appeared handsome, brooding and mysterious, reminding me of a young Jeremy Irons. To talk to, he was gentlemanly, polite and full of compliments, reminding me more of Downton Abbey’s Matthew Crawley.

The thing is, though, I have a huge crush on Downton’s Matthew so my indecision must be an indication that Mother does indeed know best. It could also be a sign that the aforementioned male friend knows me better than I think. He accused me of being ‘hard work’ you see… and I’m now thinking he’s right, I can be. To date, I’ve had two long-term relationships, incidentally both with men who knew how to say no to me. Contrary to popular opinion, I do like that – there’s nothing sexier than a man who stands up to me. But will Date Boy? Would Matthew?

This time, I’ve decided to stop pondering and simply take a chance. After all, I had been looking at the guy all night, surely I should at least meet for a friendly drink? Maybe, just maybe, he’ll peel off the layers that night – just like Granny – and reveal a touch of the Big Bad Wolf.

So off down the dating road I go, although with slight trepidation about the prospect of happy ever after. Just to be on the safe side, I have told Mother Dearest not to get too excited, for there probably won’t be wedding bells ringing anytime soon. She said that’s fine, she’d rather use my parents’ savings to go on holiday anyway…

But she did offer to lend me some money in the future – just in case I ever do decide I want to freeze those eggs.

Spring Cleaning

Lunndon Girl Life:
(noun: an animate form of existence)

I know I tend to have dramas on a fairly frequent basis but, right now, I’m becoming a little bit alarmed by the decidedly non dramatic turn my life is taking.

Currently freelancing from home on a professional basis (writing – nothing sexual/illegal I hasten to add), I seem to have lost the ability to function on my usual personal level.

Since assuming my freelance status I feel the need to share, by way of a cry for help, that I have cleared out my three wardrobes, organised every drawer in my flat (the colour co-ordinated piles of lingerie probably need to be seen to be believed) and honest-to-God, today I started sorting my DVDs into genres – alphabetically of course.

My problem is that, when called upon to work from home, I tend to come alive only at night. During the day in the confines of my, albeit cosy and cute, tiny flat, I tend to find that without the banter of an office I don’t feel that creative. Between the hours of 9pm and midnight however, it’s as if lightning strikes and I can write for Britain. Tonight, by 4am, I have already completed a commissioned travel review piece and now, rather than bed, have started on this blog post.

Eventually, come about 6am I will no doubt venture to my comfy bed with its over-sized cushions that I love to snuggle into, remaining there until about noon… upon which time I predict I will awaken and dutifully morph into the aforementioned Stepford Wife wannabe. Between my body waking in the afternoon and my mind catching up at night, my friends are all in offices, my fun-filled options sadly few and far between. Even so, the fact that I’m already planning a cleaning attack on my, rarely touched, oven tomorrow is certainly cause for concern.

If I don’t sort my routine out soon, I’m worried my friends will disown me. A close friend sent me a text message today enquiring as to what time I’ll be arriving at her birthday celebrations this coming Saturday. A party? Yey! I love parties… So why did I reply and tell her I had just washed my shower curtain? Her reply: “That’s f&*king funny”. Trust me – if you knew me before I came over all domestic Goddess, you’d find it funny too. Painfully so.

So there you go, I’ve put it out there. I’ve admitted that my new freelance routine is presenting some unexpected personality problems. While this freelance period will be somewhat short lived and my, office-going, normal hours of creativity will soon be resumed, my long term plan to be a novelist has now been thrown into doubt…

Seriously if all I can do during a day at home is polish my jewellery (one of yesterday’s fun filled moments), how on earth am I supposed to find inspiration for the romantic, chick-lit, bodice-ripping type novels I’m planning to retire early to, permanently, one day write from home?

Maybe I’ll just change tack slightly and write a ‘Good Housekeeping meets Sex and the City’ type tome. I did say I’m particularly creative at night, so I’ll take the fact it’s now approaching 5am as a pretty strong indication that with this present idea, I’m onto a future winner. Who would have thought a bit of spring cleaning would reveal not only a whole new level of shine to my bathtub, but also my calling in life?

Now all I need to do is get a little beauty sleep, select a racy little number from the aforementioned colour co-ordinated lingerie and wait for tomorrow’s visit from the dashing older gentleman that is my postman.

Don't forget – the upcoming novel will keep you 'posted' as to how this turns out...

Coffee Cupid

Lunndon Girl Life:
(noun: an animate form of existence)

Last Saturday I met up with my old flatmate for a caffe latte and catch-up. Unfortunately for her I ended up having very little to say, so engrossed was I in staring with wonder/raw lust at the beautiful man sitting at the next table, listening to his ipod and sketching away intently.

Regular readers of this blog will know I have ‘history’ when it comes to the artistic types. Once upon a time I spotted a beautiful Frenchman in a bar (also pencil in hand) and, suddenly coming over all inspired, promptly walked up to him and asked to see the contents of his sketchbook. In that instance, I readily admit that alcohol brought us together – fate had nothing to do with it. Last time I checked though, Starbucks had yet to offer Pinot Grigio Frappucinos – although personally I think they’re missing a trick or two.

Sadly, they’re not the only ones. I haven’t been up to any tricks, or had any treats, in quite some time – it’s just so hard for me to find anyone I like. Imagine my shock then, when Monday afternoon also provided a little more coffee induced eye candy for moi, in the form of a sexy suited businessman in Café Nero – in Croydon of all places. A distinct lack of wine infused coffee again prompted me to leave without attempting to exchange any lingering looks, berating myself for breaking my New Year’s resolution to be ‘nice’ to men I fancy. Had sexy suitor looked my way, chances are he’d have received a frosty gaze instead of a flirty smile. Trust me, I really am that smooth.

If these two Coffee Cuties were gorgeous, they had nothing on the guy I spotted today on the tube. To say Tube Totty was the epitome of what I look for in a guy – tall, dark, handsome (yep, I’m that clichéd) is putting it lightly. Hell it was all I could do but stare open mouthed, nudge my mother… before walking past him to alight and, instead of a winning smile, reward his beauty with a stroppy hair flick and a strut away from him. My friends say my inability to be pleasant towards men I find attractive really has to be seen to be believed.

Twenty minutes later, having deposited Mother Dearest at the hair salon, I was sitting in Starbucks. Laptop at the ready to blog, I was thinking how ‘inspiring’ it would be if Cupid could wave his magic coffee beans and show me my Tube Totty once more. I kid you not, two minutes later the man himself walked in.

We live in London – what are the odds? Well, apparently quite similar to the odds of my ignoring him a second time, ficking my hair, staring out the window and applying my lip gloss. As for Tube Totty, he looked up, saw me, smiled a smile of recognition, then looked around the coffee shop, looked back at me, lingered nearby in the doorway before leaving… You get the picture? If it had been in a movie, it would have made for the cutest, most frustrating scene.

Sure, the guy might not have been interested. Maybe he was looking around, nervously thinking ‘there’s that bitch from the tube who nearly took my eye out with her hair’, and maybe he lingered in the doorway simply because he was racked with insecurities about his decision to order a cappuccino over the healthier option of a peppermint tea. In my dream world, he was also cursing the fact that those Pinot Grigio frapps are not yet on the market.

Whatever he was thinking – I wish I’d had the guts to ask. Sitting here writing this, I’m glancing up at the door every thirty seconds in the hope he decides to come back for a refill. On one hand I’m happy, for the fact I’ve found three men attractive in as many days is nothing short of miraculous. On the other hand though, I’m worried that by the time I get up the courage to talk to guys I find hot, time itself will have caught up with me and I’ll be anything but.

Recently, dating site e-harmony asked me some questions in relation to my personality, linked up to a competition they were running to help people find their soulmate. Now dating sites such as e-harmony aren’t really for me, but I do respect those who sign up and effectively take cupid, romance and fate into their own hands.

With this in mind, I’m kinda hoping this blog post goes viral. Send it, share it, re-tweet it – I challenge followers of this blog to challenge my fear of taking the lead. Who’s to say he won’t discover this blog? Stranger things have happened.

After all, out of all the coffee shops in all of London-town… he had to walk into mine.

Click here to see how E-Harmony can help you seal your own fate.

An Extension of Beauty?

Lunndon Girl LOGIC:
(noun: a systematic form of reasoning)

The other day it was announced that Marilyn Monroe has been voted ‘Best Beach Body of All Time’, in a survey carried out by department store Debenhams.

Almost fifty years after her death, the result of this survey isn’t at all surprising. Buxom, blonde and beautiful, the tragic Hollywood starlet boasted the sort of looks that one would certainly look twice at, on the beach or otherwise, possessing a sparkle that made her shine in any crowd. She wasn’t perfect, inside or out, but it’s her indiscretions and imperfections for which the public remember, and continue to love, her for today.

Watching Dancing On Ice recently (Sunday’s I like to turn my brain off, don’t judge me), one thing struck me even harder than that skate on Jennifer Ellison’s head – the lack of originality in the female contestants.

I honestly couldn’t tell one from the other. On they skated, one by one, each dressed in the obligatory glitzy outfit… each with a long blonde mane of hair extensions flowing in their wake.

Now before my darling friend Loo Lovely becomes beyond exasperated at my continued ‘obsession’ with hair - yes hon my obsession might be growing, but at least that’s more can be said for the natural hair on many a modern day female.

I admit, yes, I prefer my locks long, but I also prefer them au naturel. Not once last winter, after I regrettably chopped off my own mane, did I ever contemplate warming my (suddenly) cold neck by permanently gluing someone else’s hair to my head. When put like that, doesn’t the whole practice just sound bizarre?

Ok, I missed my hair. I missed flicking it, I missed using it to hide my face when hungover and most of all, vain as it sounds, I missed the compliments my curls attracted. When last weekend down the pub a random girl in the ladies’ loos told me I had amazing hair, I smiled and thanked her. I didn’t reply with a, “Cheers, it could be yours too for X amount of money – here’s the telephone number of my stylist”.

It’s the same reason why I don’t think, development of wrinkles allowing, I’ll ever contemplate plastic surgery. If someone tells me I’m pretty, I want to be able to think: ‘Ah, that’s lovely. I guess I scrubbed up well today’. Not: ‘Fab! Didn’t my surgeon do well?’

When it comes to trends, be it fashion or beauty, I prefer to go with what suits me – not necessarily what Giles Deacon or Trevor Sorbie each suggest for the season ahead. At least with clothes though, mistakes can be changed, but what of beauty trends such as botox, bum implants and, of course, those dreaded hair extensions? The complications that botox can bring have long been documented, a girl once died following her quest for a J-Lo derriere and one look at Naomi Campbell’s thinning locks, a result of hair extensions tugging at her scalp, is cautionary tale enough for me. Looking at the line-up for Dancing On Ice, it's clear that such cautionary tales go straight over the (fake hair-ed) heads of many a girl today.

When did we girls all wake up and decide to look the same? Are we seriously all brainwashed by airbrushing in magazines into thinking that beauty is only achieved through faking 'perfection'? What is perfection anyway? I hate my nose, yet an ex-boyfriend told me it was his favourite thing about me. It's corny yes, but actually very true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. All I'm pondering in this post, is why so many girls are also missing how much truth there is in the saying: 'Variety is the spice of life'?

Elizabeth Hurley may have once caused controversy when she declared Marilyn Monroe to have been “fat” but in my opinion, I’d rather be Marilyn’s version of ‘fat’…

Than Ms Hurley’s botox-ed, hair extension-ed version of a sheep.

That Loving Feeling

Lunndon Girl LOGIC:
(noun: a systematic form of reasoning)

This past weekend, I was referred to as ‘that’.

Honest to God – ‘that’. How lovely. All I was doing was minding my own, happily merry business, when the comment in question was spoken by the doorman of the club I happened to be vacating at the time. Did the guy I was with leap to my defence like a knight in shining armour? Did he heck as like. On the contrary he merely laughed, grinned in response at the bouncer, slapped me on the back and told me I should take it as a compliment.

‘That’ a compliment? The other day I got a little bit excited when a delightful man offered me his seat on the tube, yet clearly to be called ‘that’ should have been the charm offensive I was looking for. “He must have thought I’d pulled you tonight and you were out of my league, so was merely wishing me luck”, my friend explained. Indeed… with ‘that’. Oh God… Never mind ‘that’. Has it really come to this?

Yes ladies, on this Valentine’s Day I am pondering the art of romance and how I am supposed to be flattered by a bouncer who smiles at girl, then grins at the boy walking beside her before saying: “Good luck with that.” Oh yes, and there was also a cheeky little nod in my direction apparently. So there’s no doubt about it. In this case, I was most definitely the ‘that’.

When it comes to receiving compliments I’ve certainly had better, so forgive me if I don’t rush to embrace what I can get. If I did that, I’d be dating the guy who once told me: “I have a lot of options… but if you date me I’ll make you my top priority”.

Somewhat worryingly, this Valentine’s Day the only romantic correspondence I have received is a ‘romantic’ text message from a ‘gentleman’. With this in mind I can’t help wondering if, in the days of multiple dating and rising divorce rates, the aforementioned line that shocked me then is really a rather romantic offer now. After all, aren’t I always saying I want a man to make me his top priority…?

Whatever happened to the days when we made an effort? And it’s not just men, we women are just as bad. In all honestly the most ‘action’ I’ve had lately is some cheeky facebook fun with a somewhat flirtatious friend. Have I ever actually said anything, God forbid, to said friend’s face? Well, yes, but given I was a little tipsy on the eve of my birthday, I officially take no responsibility for words spoken that I can no longer remember… What I do remember, is the days when my first boyfriend aged 16 had to phone my parents’ house to ask to speak to me, before adorably stumbling over the words: “Will you go out with me?”

Can you imagine either sex, regardless of age, doing that today? It’s just like Drew Barrymore’s character says in the movie ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’:

“I miss the days where you had one phone number and one answering machine. And that one answering machine housed one cassette tape... ...and that one cassette tape either had a message from the guy or it didn't. And now you have to go around checking all these different portals... ...just to get rejected by seven different technologies.”

Anyone dating in the current romantic climate will know exactly what she’s talking about. One friend just messaged me (on facebook) asking how many Valentine’s Day cards I had received, telling me he was going to send one but had figured it would “get lost in the pile”.

Cute hon, but I’m afraid a hopeful text and a couple of extra pokes (sadly, again on facebook) are the most I have attracted so far today, therefore I’m opting to spend the evening with one of my favourite girlfriends…

No doubt bemoaning how when it comes to the realities of romance, today things are rarely ‘that’ simple.

My Dream Man

Lunndon Girl Life:

(noun: an animate form of existence)

My darling grandmother is 89 and currently living the good life in a luxury old folks’ home. She’s so ‘loop the loop’, she thinks her stay there is free instead of the customary £2,500 per month, sings Silent Night in July and thinks an old boyfriend of hers comes to her room every night.

For this, I’m not half jealous. I’m over 50 years younger and, I’d like to think, significantly hotter, yet the only night-time visitor I’m having right now makes me want to be a fighter, not a lover. While my Grandma happily skips off to bed at night to await her long lost dream man, I’m starting to hate going to bed. Right now I’m dreaming awake in the day, wondering what my sleep at night may bring.

You see, I suffer from sleep paralysis. I mentioned this once before in The Twilight Zone, a post which actually generated a lot of responses from friends who I had no idea suffered too. Though the condition will apparently affect 50% of us at least once in our lifetime, it amazes me how many people look at me like I’m crazy when I mention it. The fact that I regularly find myself seemingly pinned down to my bed as I hear the toilet in my bathroom flush three times (I live alone), is reason enough that before I did some research and understood what was happening to me... I tended to agree.

Described simply, sleep paralysis is what occurs when the body has shut down for sleep, yet a person’s mind is still awake. Such a state of consciousness can cause the ‘sufferer’ to experience hallucinations, visual or auditory, and it is in this state I tend to find myself right before I hear my toilet flush of its own accord… or my own ‘dream man’ appears.

Most sufferers of SP report sensing a presence in the bedroom with them, a presence that predominantly feels male. Ever heard of incubi? Some people believe that these experiences are in fact visitations by a demonic presence that appears with the intent of having sex with their chosen ‘victim’. Somewhat bizarrely, a significant number of such claimants even say they enjoy the experience. Each to their own…

Personally, I can’t imagine ever going through enough of a man drought to lay claim to that and would readily like to state here and now that, no matter how depressingly boring my love life may be at times, I’ve not yet turned to the dark side. Last night my own ‘male’ hallucination licked my ear and sang an evil sounding song about me in my ear. I’ve always wanted a songwriter to dedicate a number to me, but I was actually thinking more along the lines of James Blunt and ‘You’re Beautiful’. As my mum would say though, and indeed I think has said about my nightly visits: “Beggars can’t be choosers”. Nice.

Given that apparently only 2% of the population will experience this state on a regular basis, it probably goes without saying that I am unimpressed to have suffered from SP since I was ten years old. Apparently it’s meant to be hereditary, yet my own mother had to look it up just to make sure her daughter hadn’t actually inherited her Grandma’s loopiness, so God knows who I can actually ‘blame’ for said affliction.

One of my best friends, Loo Lovely, has never experienced SP but is seemingly fascinated by all that it entails. She even sent me a delightful picture of a naked blonde girl in bed throwing her hands up in glee towards what appeared to be a ghost-like figure (thanks for that hon), following my ‘confession’ to her that while there has been no ‘incubi’ experience for me, sometimes the hallucinations do have sexual undertones. A grope here, an ear-lick there. Hmm, maybe I have just been single for too Goddam long…

Before my mother starts making enquiries into whether or not we can get a two for one deal if I’m sent to the home to stay with my Grandmother, I would like to categorically state that I, for one, steadfastly believe the scientific explanation for SP. It’s true I believe in ghosts and once upon a time, I wasn’t too sure if these experiences were a natural state of mind and body playing up, or the supernatural playing with me. Last night though, while it was by far the most terrifying experience of SP I’ve had in a long time, it also felt like a dream. A ‘dream’ where I just so happened to be wide awake…

To be honest, this morning thinking over it, the whole experience is becoming a bit like sharing my bed with a boyfriend who I’ve kinda grown tired of and can’t ever be bothered to have sex with. It always starts the same way… I lie down in bed and will be beginning to drift off, when I’ll suddenly feel a heavy presence on top of me. Right about this point I’ll inwardly groan thinking: “Oh God, not again”.

The one glimmer of hope I can see on the horizon, is that I have never yet experienced SP when sleeping in a bed with someone else. With this in mind, I can only hope that when I find my real life dream man…

Mr Hallucinatory Dream Man, will forever disappear.