tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68560386810626811782024-03-12T20:33:35.905-07:00Girl About Townecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-80482707626505655272012-02-04T12:44:00.003-08:002012-02-04T12:44:52.372-08:00The Myth of Mr Big<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #a64d79;">There’s always that one person who gets beneath your skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The what could have been, the one who got away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thing that keeps us from completely letting go is that tantalising, lingering niggle that Things Could Have Been Different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No matter how torturous and tear-filled my break ups I have usually managed to get to the point where relief kicks in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realise that it wouldn’t have worked and can see that our future together would have been marred and tarnished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes I can even feel pleased for them when they move on and find happiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then there’s just that one…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My friends all have a Mr Big too, their longevity intensified by Facebook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the thing they do that keeps us hanging on?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They play the game, and they play it well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The timing of their sporadic messages is impeccable, and they’re skilled at dangling a tentative carrot in front of our noses with some blasé comment - which sounds casual and spontaneous but is actually very well thought out - that infers they’ve finally got it together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all sounds very nice and anticipation blooms once again, but then they vanish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A while later, just when you’re giving up hope and feeling ready to call it a day, your phone vibrates and there they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so the cycle continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We just can’t stop that longing, somewhere deep inside, that Mr Big is going to come to Paris and rescue us from the manipulative Russian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is that just me?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #a64d79;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We know we’re not going to find Ms or Mr Right if we insist on holding on to Mr/s Wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we have to really, really try and let go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so good in theory, and is also great in practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It takes a lot of hard work and possibly a few more tears, but if we can bring ourselves to break the stagnant circuit we’re stuck in we might just find our niche.</span> </span><o:p></o:p></div>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-29967566966043451942012-02-04T12:44:00.001-08:002012-02-04T12:44:14.785-08:00Would you like to go out sometime?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #e69138;">Has anyone ever actually come up with a solution to the problem of where to go on a first date?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hard to chose somewhere that’s not cliché, not too suggestive, doesn’t involve the potential to trail Bolognese sauce down your front and is easy to escape from if things don’t quite go as planned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which in my experience happens just a little bit too often.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #e69138;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A drink always seems like a pretty safe bet, but it can be a challenge to have a proper conversation over background noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just not cool to start a rant about being unable to hear yourself think as stag parties chant and the latest chart fad warbles along in the background: no one really wants to date their parents, regardless of what Freud might say.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #e69138;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A film is a tricky one to manage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inevitably someone will have to make a sacrifice at selection time and is going to be fighting urges to throw popcorn at the person with annoying hair a few rows ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s the issue of whether to share the Minstrels or invest in a packet each, and is it just me who feels awkward sitting in silence alongside someone I don’t know, even if all social norms dictate that that is the right thing to do in the cinema?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #e69138;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dinner is an option, but it’s very high risk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are far too many opportunities to spill, dribble or choke and no-one can really bring themselves to escape out the toilet window before the starter is finished, no matter how dire and hopeless the evening is turning out to be.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #e69138;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So we need some new suggestions for date locations to bring us up to speed with the twenty first century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Places need to be quiet but not dull, of equal interest to both parties, with little need for consumables and flexible enough to allow people to either linger or scarper at the first sign of danger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jeez, it’s no wonder we’re all turning to the internet…</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-85435643354530143862012-02-04T12:43:00.001-08:002012-02-04T12:43:24.603-08:00Bring on Mr Nice Guy!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #c27ba0;">I’ve just got back from coffee with a mate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has a new boyfriend - one of my oldest friends, incidentally - and I have a potential date with a very nice man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That doesn’t happen regularly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I have plenty of dates with emotional screw ups and hopeless dropkicks but a Nice Man?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s new to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #c27ba0;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #c27ba0;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Staci and I spent most of our coffee date screeching ‘But I’m scared!’, obsessively checking our Blackberries and wishing that we could just spend the next few weeks wrapped up within the safe confines of our duvets, watching trashy tv and eating Ben and Jerry’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which is exactly how we usually spend our free time, whilst whinging that there are no nice men out there and if Pete and Paul would only wake up and come to their senses then life would be perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #c27ba0;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #c27ba0;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Staci’s latest man went on holiday recently and brought her back a pair of Uggs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he presented them to her she was so nervous that she couldn’t look at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, when he suggested she try them on, she panicked and put them on the wrong feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took him to point this out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whilst she was regaling me with this tale my phone beeped, and as soon as I read the text from my Nice Man I dropped my phone like it was ablaze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to fight my urge to curl up under the Starbucks table, and I wanted my mum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even wanted to hear from my toxic ex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that a Nice Guy is a Good Thing, it’s just that it’s all so different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And different constitutes scary.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #c27ba0;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #c27ba0;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The truth is that Staci and I have spent so long trying to win over the impossible cases that we’ve started to forget that there are plenty of decent men to be found, if we stop wasting our energy on the losers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old habits do die hard, but nothing is impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, at the moment, I’m feeling optimistic…!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-55829299386467170582012-02-04T12:42:00.001-08:002012-02-04T12:42:39.158-08:00A Question of Honour<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #76a5af;">I fell in love yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I boarded the train with my pregnant friend and saw a very attractive gentleman clock her bump, jump out of seat faster than a cork popping out of champers and wave her over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my knees turned to jelly and my heart started fluttering I was pleased to notice that she had her left hand resting on her bouncing baby, her wedding ring flashing in the fluorescent light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But unfortunately my mystery man got off at the next station; that was a short lived romance, even by my standards.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #76a5af;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #76a5af;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A recent date of mine had a habit of pushing past me whenever there was a funnel neck in a crowd, and hopping onto trains whilst leaving me hovering on the platform; rightly or wrongly that was it for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conversely I once dragged a relationship out for six months as every time I tried to break it off he’d take my jacket, hold open a door or utter those three magical words ‘please, allow me’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there was the guy who wouldn’t let me walk on the outside of the pavement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t fancy him in the slightest, but by the end of that evening I could happily have had his children.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #76a5af;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #76a5af;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The thing is, I <i>adore</i> chivalry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am self-sufficient, I make my own decisions and I’m my own agent, but as soon as I become the subject of such manners (or witness it in close quarters) I’m putty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that some believe gallantry is dead, whilst others would argue that there is no place for it in the twenty-first century world, but I just can’t get enough!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are your thoughts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-73918774402125097222012-02-04T12:41:00.001-08:002012-02-04T12:41:23.479-08:00New Year New Me(n)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #93c47d;">As we glide into another year I find myself reflecting, yet again, on the current questionable status of my love life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this year things feel different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must finally be starting to move on and box those men away as, whilst writing this, instead of weeping into my roses and red wine I’m looking back with mirth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I guess you have to laugh…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #93c47d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #93c47d;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t have space - or time - to regale you with all my tales, but let’s focus on a few of my, ahem, most salient moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which, I believe, would be a) the caravan sanctuary b) ‘perfect on paper’ and c) my personal favourite: my very own Latino Patrick Swayze (honestly, we were in the running for Dirty Dancing III.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still just waiting for that call from Hollywood).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #93c47d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #93c47d;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, caravan and I met working on a campsite in France, and spent three beautiful weeks taking walks across the seafront, snuggling into our sleeping bags and hosing down garden furniture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in heaven, for twenty-one and a half entire days and nights.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #93c47d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #93c47d;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perfect on Paper is always a tricky one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, those guys who seem to tick all the boxes, the ones we go on date after date with, trying to make it happen but never managing to shake the feeling that it is just pure hard work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something is missing but, eventually, we manage to accept it and move on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which I did!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Six years ago!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet somehow I managed to fall into the paper ruse again, just last month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s passed now, but I’m going to be on red alert for that trap for a long time to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #93c47d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #93c47d;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And Patrick Swayze?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well what can I say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We met, we danced, his lips brushed against mine and my knees began to tremble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I didn‘t carry a watermelon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest, as they say, is history… .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>History being the operative word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #93c47d;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #93c47d;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well at least I have some times to look back on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hesitate to use the word ‘good’, so maybe I’ll settle for ‘interesting’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d love to hear your equivalents…!</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-57631871484282852872012-02-04T12:40:00.000-08:002012-02-04T12:40:08.717-08:00Winter Wonderland ... ?<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">And so winter approaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ahead lie months of cuddling up under a blanket with a hot man, a hot chocolate and long afternoons filled with back to back episodes of ‘Come Dine With Me’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just one vital ingredient missing for yours truly, then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I am working on it…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last month I had a date with a nomad Kiwi surfer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was very sweet, but really worth investing in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just don’t see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve dabbled with the ex: we’ve had the standard ‘how are things?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘I’ve been doing this and that’ and ‘so glad things are working out for you’ chat (complete with ambiguous ‘x’ at the end of the conversation, just to keep things ticking over).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then there was the date with the ‘perfect gentleman’, where I somehow ended up paying for not only my dinner but his as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do like to think that I’m a modern woman but I’m not even happy about going Dutch too early on, so I don’t think I’ll ever consider myself enlightened enough to buy into funding a first date for the both of us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But where does this all leave me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok, I know the answer deep down: stretched out on my sofa complete with a chocolate sachet for one and the trusty Tivo box, whilst I argue with myself over where it all keeps going wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But you’ve got to give me points for perseverance: tonight it’s a local Bobby (he helped me out on my way home the other night after I’d had a few drinks and decided to take a ‘short cut’) and tomorrow it’s my friend’s cousin’s girlfriend’s brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t even remember how we got to that one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I do have ‘Come Dine’ on stand by and my Highlights at the ready (plus a stash of full fat Galaxy drink, just for those real extreme cases…).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone care to join me?</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-1770572868938392782011-10-23T15:23:00.000-07:002011-10-23T15:23:54.875-07:00Faking it<span lang="EN"><span style="color: #a64d79;">I have a lot of respect for my ancestors. How those women managed to survive entombed in whalebone corsets, the only relief coming from the occasional waft of smelling salts, amazes me. This is perhaps the only point over which I won’t kick up a fuss if ever faced with my Edwardian relations telling me that I have been spoilt by modern life and wouldn’t know what it’s like to really suffer.</span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> I decided to take the plunge as the date of my niece’s Christening encroached and I still hadn’t got any further in losing my, ahem, Christmas weight. I’d ordered my dress in my ‘smaller’ size, after resolving to run ten miles every day and survive solely on goji berries, which was precisely why last week I found myself in the Debenhams changing room with a selection of drop-a-dress size mechanisms and an over-eager assistant.</span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> I was unsure as to whether my first offering, which I had been assured was in my size, should be pulled up or yanked down. I opted for the former but only managed to slide it up as far as my knees before the friction became too much. I had to pause for a breather before grasping the upper hem, in the same way that I’d cling onto a cliff edge for dear life, and tugged. I’d got it halfway over my backside when my helpful assistant called out to check on my progress. </span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> ’I’m fine!’ I squeaked, taking a deep breath and resuming my clawing grip on the nylon. I knew I sounded like a constipated grizzly as I felt my triceps take the strain, but desperation was kicking in. The underwear inched up my trunk, every millimetre making a difference, but unfortunately my hopping around on the spot didn’t take my boots into consideration. </span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #a64d79;"> I didn’t actually flash, but the bruise along my temple did lead to a few raised eyebrows after my Godmotherly duties. But at least I sported a cinched in waist and, due to my depleted oxygen supply, needed little bubbly to get the after party started. Perhaps the Edwardians were onto something…</span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-69848732699379806542011-09-26T07:25:00.000-07:002011-09-26T07:27:30.305-07:00Marriage? P'ah... (?!)<span lang="EN"><span style="color: #0b5394;">This week I have been congratulating myself on getting through yet another wedding season without blubbering into my cake about the sorry state of my love life or succumbing to a night of ‘passion’ with the sleazy middle-aged usher that even thrice divorced Aunt Mavis rejected. When questioned about my thoughts and plans for nuptials and children I have been proud to turn my nose up at all that jazz and make a thing of concentrating on my career and snubbing the idea of spending <i>all</i> that money on <i>just one day</i>, like the liberated, privileged twenty-first century woman that I am; my real achievements, I (occasionally waveringly) assert, lie in the field of work. After all, anyone can just meet a guy and get married, right (cue wobbly-mouthed smiley)? But to pass the mileposts in my professional life, as the first woman in my family who has had such unparalleled choices and opportunities? Now that’s success and progression. Right…?</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN"><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span lang="EN">An article in London's Evening Standard on July 7<sup>th</sup> attacked the summer flick </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">Bridesmaids</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> for conveying the message that getting wed should be viewed as the greatest achievement in a woman</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s life. Hear hear! I cried, pleased to be able to arm myself with support to carry on with my ball-busting career journey (as well as to avoid facing up to a few home truths). But when I conferred with my friend (a first-class Oxbridge Phd student working on a cure for cancer) her response was somewhat different to the fervent agreement I had envisioned. </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">Well yes, I think that getting married probably would be one of my biggest achievements. I mean, I know I can clone cells and find a cure for cancer (ok, maybe she didn’t quite go that far…), but finding a man I like enough to spend the rest of my life with? And to have that reciprocated?’ Well that really would be impressive!</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> Hmm. I was actually hoping for a bit more support there…</span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-54991070618242038442011-09-26T07:23:00.001-07:002011-09-26T07:23:38.930-07:00You never make me scream...<span lang="EN"><span style="color: #38761d;">Right ladies, honest answer now. What do you do when you meet the seemingly perfect partner, who wines and dines you and treats you right, shows you respect and doesn</span></span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t push it then, on that night when you finally decide to go ahead with the deed, doesn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t quite, well, live up to expectations? Interpret as you will.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> This time last year I was as chuffed as a lovestruck teenager to hit it off with a friend<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s sexy, older, Italian housemate. I felt my heart flutter like an overexcited daddy longlegs as his lips touched mine, but unfortunately the adolescent similie didn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t lift as he proceeded to slobber all over me in a way that I would expect a bloke nearly twenty years his junior to have done.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> Then there was the Bostonian banker. He did have his plus points, but they were coupled with a rather miniscule, ahem, appendage. Let<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s face it, that was never going to hit the spot. I was heartbroken when it ended, but I must confess to a certain underlying sense of relief.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> Another couple of significant exes shared an uncanny likeness for attempting to win the time trial, with only that one goal in mind. In fairness they were considerate of my needs - rather sweet in a way - but I do now have a rather different interpretation of <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">rampant rabbit</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> to before. And not in a good way. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> But is the physical side of a relationship really so important that it<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s worth losing an otherwise perfectly good catch over? Can you really teach an old dog new tricks? Yes, maybe so, but by the time you</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">re in your mid-late twenties you really would hope that they at least had a secure foundation to build on. I think it might be time I went for a different kind of guy</span><span lang="EN-GB">…</span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-38722073653205370752011-09-26T07:22:00.000-07:002011-09-26T07:22:19.238-07:00Lymphatic Drainage...??<span lang="EN"><span style="color: magenta;">I‘m going on a diet. That’s not really news - I’ve been on a diet since about 1976, and I was only born in the eighties. But this time it’s serious. This time I’m accompanying my Ryvita, thrice (honestly!) weekly runs and those infamous yoga sessions with two extra measures: lymphatic drainage massages and I-Lipo sessions. And in a few months’ time I’m going to possess a svelte figure that Britain’s Next Top Model would be proud of.</span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …</span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all. </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off. </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.</span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting… </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: magenta;">So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …</span> </span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-24211587439004266392011-09-15T03:59:00.000-07:002011-09-15T03:59:04.054-07:00Happy Ever After ... ?<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: blue;">There is a Facebook group called <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">Disney ruined my love life</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">. You may read that and laugh. But then you may read it again and think, </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">hang on a sec </span><span lang="EN-GB">…</span><span lang="EN"> so did Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte and Bridget Jones and Julia Roberts </span><span lang="EN-GB">…’</span><span lang="EN"> I could go on.</span></span><span style="color: blue;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"> The media fascination with <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">happy ever after</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> has left us spoilt by the notion that to be in love means grand gestures, fireworks and immaculately timed orchestral crescendos. Not to mention endless nights of fervent love making complete with mind-reading synchronicity and simultaneous orgasms from the offset. Or maybe I just speak for myself.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"> Real relationships are not perfect, because real people are not perfect. We all know too well that that first time together is awkward and fumbly, and that even after years of practice a night of passion can result in a knee to the eye or some unexpected sound effects. And as for dropping off curled up in each others arms? Forget it. Bones are hard and people are wriggly.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"> It<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s no news flash to say that it</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s the little things that make a relationship special - having someone who makes your coffee just right, takes out the rubbish when it</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s raining and remembers to buy milk - but it can be easy to forget to value - or indeed to carry out - such gestures, and all too tempting to hold on to adolescent fantasies. Maybe occasionally we should take a reality check on our expectations. And anyway, let</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s be honest - would you really want someone to come flying in through your window at midnight, fresh from Carpet Right, declaring their undying love for you? I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">m pretty confident that if Aladdin were to try that in my flat he would be tied up and handcuffed before he could even blink (by the <i>police!</i>). Maybe not quite the romantic ending I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ve daydreamed about, but at least now I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span></span><span lang="EN"><span style="color: blue;">m a realist.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-50997999616900544922011-09-15T03:53:00.000-07:002011-09-15T03:53:59.542-07:00Just Say No....!!!<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #444444;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #444444;">There are countless unspoken rules and regulations around dating and relationships, yet we repeatedly insist on learning from experience before concurring that we should have listened to the voice of reason. Even if that did come from our mum. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;">Here are just a few of the many lessons I have learned from my colourful (chequered?!) relationship past of when it’s best to Just. Say. No. (Not that I would listen to my own advice … )</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><b><u></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="color: #444444;">When you hooked up in a club last Saturday </span></u></b><span style="color: #444444;">Sitting across the table from someone you were dry humping down the local joint last week is painful. Unless you<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">re only after one thing, but then I wouldn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t bother with the courtesy cocktail.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><b><u><span style="color: #444444;"> </span></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="color: #444444;">When his accent is too strong for regular conversation</span></u></b><span style="color: #444444;">If early conversations are peppered with <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">what?</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">huh?</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> and </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">sorry?</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> before ignorant assent, followed by your worrying if you</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ve just declared allegiance to the far right, then the relationship will be a struggle.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><b><u><span style="color: #444444;"> </span></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="color: #444444;">When you<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">re more into him than he is into you</span></span></u></b><span style="color: #444444;">You will send too many text messages. You will Google him regularly and you will find a reason to be outside his office at 5.30 on a weekday. It<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s really not healthy.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><b><u><span style="color: #444444;"> </span></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="color: #444444;">When you are as mismatched as cheese and vinegar crisps</span></u></b><span style="color: #444444;">No matter how intriguing it may seem you know it<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s not going to work. Otherwise it would have already been invented. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><b><u></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="color: #444444;">When he<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s questioning his sexuality</span></span></u></b><span style="color: #444444;">Just wait until he<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s figured it all out. Take my word for it.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><b><u><span style="color: #444444;"> </span></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="color: #444444;">When a blast from the past appears on Facebook</span></u></b><span style="color: #444444;">Whenever that <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">hey, how</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s it going?</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> message pops up on screen, no matter how long after the ending of a relationship, it</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s best to quickly hit ‘delete’. It finished for a reason.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"> </span><b><u></u></b><br />
<b><u><span style="color: #444444;">When he<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s a Latin salsa instructor and you</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">re on your gap year</span></span></u></b><span style="color: #444444;">Need I say more? (Though it was great fun whilst it lasted<span lang="EN-GB">…</span><span lang="EN">)<b><u> </u></b></span></span><br />
<b><u></u></b><u></u></span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-1034881916396656432011-09-15T03:49:00.001-07:002011-09-15T03:49:52.426-07:00Holiday Romance v. Domestic Bliss...<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <span style="color: orange;">Early holidays with your other half are exciting and magical: someone’s on hand to slather on your sun lotion and you can cuddle up on the balcony late into those balmy evenings, sipping fruity cocktails and making plans for the future. Plus, of course, there’s a whole new arena for those extra curricular activities. But it does put paid to one rather integral part of those precious two weeks spent out of the office and lazing around the beach - the Holiday Romance.</span><span style="color: orange;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: orange;">My alternative to the above example of domestic bliss is little less clichéd. A number of us would willingly trade our blossoming life long relationship with John, complete with three star all inclusive featuring live entertainment and overpriced giant sunglasses, for a fortnight hurtling around on a moped with Darius, slurping from lemons fresh off the tree and skinny dipping in shallow waters sparkling with luminescent algae. We’re flattered when Darius tells us that we are ‘different from the others’ as, after all, he’d know; he really understands women.</span><br />
<span style="color: orange;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: orange;">What did you opt for this summer? I’d like to say that I went for the former, that I’ve finally traded my meaningless and shallow existence for something more heartfelt and real. But, unfortunately, that’s not the case. I had a fantastic two weeks with José the barman, though I was happy to return to my desk and continue with the search for my John. Because no amount of pina coladas and star gazing with the locals can beat that first blissful holiday together. I’m not waiting to hear off José and I’m not booking my next flight out; I won’t make the same mistake again. Because at the end of the day two weeks off life with Darius is great, but there’s nothing quite like having your own John, waiting on the sofa with a cuppa at the end of an autumn day.</span><br />
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<span style="color: orange;"> </span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-29451879578197212572011-08-29T07:22:00.001-07:002011-08-29T07:22:24.434-07:00Summer in the City<span lang="EN"><strong><u><span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Summer in the City</span></u></strong><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></span><u><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></u><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #351c75;">We love summer in this country. From that moment in March when the first warming rays appear until sometime in October when we finally have to accept that winter has returned to our shores we are in its feverish grip. And not only do we experience summer as a season, but also Summer as a state of mind. </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">Regular summer involves living our everyday lives against a temporary backdrop of warmer temperatures and a bit of extra sun, maybe moving out of the lounge to the beer gardens when it gets really warm and on occasion walking instead of taking the train. But Summer is about total immersion.</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">Us Summer worshippers are easy to spot. For eight months of the year (Summerites like to push the boundaries of conventional summer) we develop separation anxiety if we are away from a park for longer than half a day, become incredibly sensitive to sunlight, develop phobias around encasing our feet in leather or pvc and live on a diet of sausages, Pimms and houmous. For Summerites the calendar says it is July and therefore it is Summer, regardless of meteorological deviation. It<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s really that straightforward.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">I myself am a self-confessed Summerite, but do you qualify with me? It<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s easy to find out; just answer the questions below:-</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">In the past seven days have you <span lang="EN-GB">…</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">- worn shorts and/or flip flops for at least a portion of five days?</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">- taken to substituting your regular drink for one or more of the following - Pimms, cider (bottled) or lager (if this is not your usual tipple)?</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">- eaten enough baguette and guacamole to wonder whether you are single handedly supporting the French and Mexican export markets (what do you mean the guacamole in my local store doesn</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t actually come from Mexico?)?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">- gazed with longing at your cosy winter boots as you slip your blistered feet into yet another pair of ornate flip flops that just don<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t live up to their comfort expectations?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">- spent at least one evening sitting in a beer garden, covered in goose pimples yet appalled at your mate<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s suggestion to go indoors (Indoors?! But it</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s Summer! Have you forgotten the rules?)?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">- Eaten your lunch in a park under that big tree that just about shelters you from the elements?</span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">- Spent a night lying awake wondering if you are going to get food poisoning from that chicken that was still frozen despite its char-grilled disguise? </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #351c75;">If you answered <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">yes</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> to four or more of the above then you, like me, are officially a Summerite. Congratulations! It</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s a great club. And the fantastic news is that we still have over three months left of Summer, despite what the cynics might say. Get out there any enjoy it! </span></span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-82844239285294979092011-08-29T07:20:00.000-07:002011-08-29T07:20:37.931-07:00Upward facing dog position? Yes please ...<span lang="EN"><span style="color: #660000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong><u>Upward facing dog position? Yes please ...</u></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #660000;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">Last week I finally achieved one of my lifetime ambitions. I did a hand (ok, head) stand and gracefully allowed my legs to fall past the 180 degree mark and land in a beautiful arc which I held with the discipline of a natural gymnast. Well, pretty much. (I don</span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t like to big myself up or anything </span><span lang="EN-GB">…</span><span lang="EN"> )</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">I had long since given up on ever reaching this goal, settling instead for the usual - getting a degree (check), buying a house (hmm), finding the perfect man (less said about that the better), writing a novel (check), locating the perfect pair of winter boots (still in progress) and watching every episode of <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">Friends</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> 300 times (well on my way to achieving that one). Yet despite everything I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ve always felt that something was missing.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">At school I<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">d practice my, ahem, flips, religiously alongside my more athletic counterpart who could spend hours whipping herself backwards and forwards in a hypnotic trance. But I could never get beyond the back-flop, inevitably resulting in an extremely painful winding followed by a watery </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">m fine</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> kind of smile, masking my fear that this time I really had given myself permanent paralysis. Hence the eventual evaporation of my enthusiasm.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">Until, that is, I found yoga. I saw attending classes as something of a rite of passage into proper young professional lifestyle, but my fear of irreversible contortion delayed commencement for as long as possible. Then one lazy Sunday, after a horrific lunch at Auntie Bev<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s involving a grand misunderstanding (on my part) and praises for the upward facing dog and legs up the wall positions (her part), I decided it was time to get initiated. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">And that was how, six months later, I found myself in the inverted position (another element of Auntie Bev<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s conversation now making itself clearer), with my head full of blood, my veins full of adrenaline and my legs commencing their fall. But don</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t go thinking it was simple; I did experience all those crests and troughs that come with the journey to the top, from the futile air kicks and unexpected forward rolls to the emergency trips to casualty (ok so it wasn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t that extreme). But it was all worth it in the end.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #660000;">To avoid complacency I<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ve already set myself a new target. By Christmas I am going to be able to stand in a statuesque one legged pose for at least thirty seconds. And I thought my twenties were supposed to be easy!</span></span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-55046948430989372472011-08-29T07:17:00.000-07:002011-08-29T07:17:12.479-07:00Online dating<span lang="EN"><strong><u><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Online dating? Ooh, controversial...</span></u></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> <u><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></u></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #741b47;">Online dating. What are your thoughts? A great way to meet people in a technological world? Or just for desperate freaks who lack social skills? A quick way to separate the wheat from the chaff? Or yet another measure to ensure that by 2030 nobody will actually have to talk to anyone else? The possibilities are endless <span lang="EN-GB">…</span><span lang="EN"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">But whatever your opinion online dating is live, and it<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s big. New sites seem to spring up daily and it</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s no longer taboo to mention you</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">re going for a drink with someone you met on screen. So I decided to give it a go.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">I dabbled in a few sites before I committed for a month and created my profile. </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">Then I waited excitedly, with my laptop perched on my knees, for the man of my dreams to click that button and start the romance of the century. I sat for three days before accepting that my love life had hit a whole new low. </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">So I set myself two challenges. I was to contact at least five blokes per day, </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">and I had get my subscription fee back in the guise of meals and drinks. Then I could deem the experience a <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">success</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">. And if none of those 150 guys got back to me? Well, I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">d happily regress into teenage mode and declare them all losers. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">My index finger took over and started clicking and a few days later I began to reap my rewards. I told myself to avoid unfair dismissal, but it<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s not easy when you</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">re receiving messages such as </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">I have a big fantasy for girls like you, we could have lots of fun </span><span lang="EN-GB">…</span><span lang="EN"> let</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s meet ... </span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> or </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">You are JUST the girl my mum would love! Come to my weekly family lunch this Sunday, 12 Copse Hill for 1.30,</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> or </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">I think we could have something really special. Here is my mobile number xxx, and my land line xxx, and my office number xxx, and my parent</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s, in case you can</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t get hold of me xxx, and my home e-mail is xxx, work xxx, and private xxx.</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> Private? What</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s private? In the world as I know it </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">private e-mail</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> and </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">home e-mail</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> would fall into the same category.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">I trailed through every message to find the one that held promise and right at the end (of course) I hit gold! CityMan483 presented as a nice guy with a good job, a sense of fun and an intriguing glint to his gaze. He introduced himself and suggested meeting up for a drink, which I agreed to readily. Then came his reply. <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">Great, I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ll look forward to it. Can you bring a bobble hat?</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> Sticking with the open-mindedness I responded by saying that I felt it wasn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t really bobble hat season but would wear a distinctive royal blue top so I would stand out. </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">No,</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> he replied. </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">It</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s just that I have a thing about girls in bobble hats and I think you</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">d look great in one. Don</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t worry if you don</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t have one, I have a hot pink number that would really suit you. I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ll bring it with me.</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47;">And that, as I<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">m sure you can imagine, was the end of that. Now, if you</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ll excuse me, I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">m going to go back to my </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">refresh</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> button. I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">m sure that at this very moment Mr Right is steeling himself up to click that link, and I wouldn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t want to miss that magical moment for the world </span><span lang="EN-GB">…</span></span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-44284546083330025272011-08-29T07:08:00.000-07:002011-08-29T07:08:02.805-07:00I just want to swing ... my first trapeze lesson<span lang="EN-GB"></span><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><strong><u><span lang="EN"> 'I just want to swing </span><span lang="EN-GB">…'</span></u></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> <u><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></u></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN"><span style="color: #38761d;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Why, for the fourth time in a year, am I finding myself perched thirty feet above ground on a rickety plank, my life held in a pulley and my brain castigating my eyes every time they dare to glance downwards? Oh yeah. Because I signed up for a flying trapeze lesson. </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">Having spent childhood idealising about running away to become an acrobat, and adulthood harbouring a suppressed fantasy along not dissimilar lines, you may think that finally getting a chance to live that dream would leave me on top of the world (no pun intended). But there</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s an important thing</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">to remember about fantasy - sometimes it should remain just that.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">The first time I didn<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t really need the bar. My fingertips clung on for about five seconds after hurling myself off the platform, complete with a wail to rival an air raid. I proceeded to career into the safety net in a mesh of haywire legs and sticking out arse, with rope burns bubbling up under my arms. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">My second attempt wasn<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t much more successful, but at least I was finally able to accept that I hadn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t missed out on a glittering circus career through failure to exploit a raw talent. At take off I was more Quasimodo than Spellbound and apparently </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">didn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t trust enough</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> in the slip of a girl who was perched at the top, there to support my weight and allow me to lean over at a diagonal with my chest out, bottom in and head up, before releasing me to daintily jump off the platform and swoop in a graceful arc through the balmy summer</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s evening against the backdrop of the setting sun. My lack of confidence was through no disrespect to Harri, it</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s just that I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">m not the slightest build out there and despite her rippling muscles and obvious competence I do have trust and dependency issues (though it</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s not the time or place to go into that right now).</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">But after a stern self-recrimination (including a reminder that Harri is not my ex-boyfriend) I became encouraged to let my defences slide and put my trust in the professional. On my third attempt I did as I was told and stood tall and proud, head up and shoulders back, Harri taking my weight from behind as I waited for the <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">hup</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> command to jump. Success!</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">Legs up! Legs up!</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> Shouted Harri</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">s partner in crime from the floor. </span><span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">Legs up! Hook onto you knees! Like the others!</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> Hook onto my flaming knees? Who the hell did he think I was? </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> <span lang="EN-GB">‘</span><span lang="EN">I just want to swing!</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN"> I shrieked back, much to the amusement of the more advanced class stood off to the sidelines, all lithe limbs and sculptured physiques. And swing I did, until my bingo wings gave up on me once again. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">But I leave you with a shock - on my fourth and final turn I managed not only to launch myself off without belly-flopping yet again, but also to backflip off the trapeze and land (relatively) gracefully in the net! All that stuff I said about fantasy remaining in the mind? Forget it! And what I said about accepting that I hadn<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t missed out on a hidden career opportunity? Well, I</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">ll leave you with that as a cliff-<i>hanger</i></span><i><span lang="EN-GB">…</span><span lang="EN"> </span></i>(I<span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">m sorry, I just couldn</span><span lang="EN-GB">’</span><span lang="EN">t resist</span><span lang="EN-GB">…</span><span lang="EN">)</span></span></span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6856038681062681178.post-8952271496702846842011-08-29T06:55:00.000-07:002011-08-29T06:55:08.729-07:00<span lang="EN"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u><strong>Lymphatic drainage anyone?</strong></u></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span></span><u><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></u><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">I‘m going on a diet. That’s not really news - I’ve been on a diet since about 1976, and I was only born in the eighties. But this time it’s serious. This time I’m accompanying my Ryvita, thrice (honestly!) weekly runs and those infamous yoga sessions with two extra measures: lymphatic drainage massages and I-Lipo sessions. And in a few months’ time I’m going to possess a svelte figure that Britain’s Next Top Model would be proud of.</span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">I’ve started with the massage, intended to reduce toxins in my body through gentle, sweeping movements. I booked in for a Saturday treat and spent all week dreaming of relaxation in a warm, candle-lit room, accompanied by sounds of the seashore and a masseuse’s nimble fingers. However the reality turned out to be slightly different …</span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">On arrival at the salon I was taken down to the therapy room and instructed to strip from the waist down. Once I was stood there in my knickers the therapist produced a pair of what appeared to be space pants and told me to get in. My face said it all. </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">‘I know, it looks a bit funny doesn’t it?’ She spoke to me in a similar manner to how I speak to four year old children, and I went straight into role. Nodding dumbly I glanced at the trousers she was shaking in my direction, then up at her encouraging grin, and tentatively lifted my leg. I was way too intimidated to risk a telling off. </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">A few minutes later I was lying out on the table, stomach and sweaty legs sticking to the spacesuit, whilst the therapist plugged a few leads into a technical-looking box. She offered my a pile of magazines, which I obligingly took, then grinned before walking away, with promises to return in half an hour. The child in me wanted to call her back and ask her to stay, but the sleek, suave young professional wouldn’t indulge it. And anyway, it was at that point that I got distracted by a mouse running up my in-leg and a breeze block being plonked on my belly.</span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Actually, once I got used to the seemingly random pulsations combined with the rising and falling of the sweeping strokes, the experience was rather pleasant. When my therapist came back I didn’t leap onto her crying and clinging (I couldn’t - I was still plugged in) but instead welcomed her with my career woman smile and graciously allowed her to unwrap me as I peered down at my previously wobbly bits. Ok so they were still wobbly - I hadn’t experienced an out-of-this-world miracle or anything - but I was sure they were looking slightly more sculpted. Which I have never noticed after a gym session. Hmm, interesting… </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">So did the lymphatic drainage really work? I believe so. Or was it just another case of the Emperor’s new clothes? I think not. In fact, I’m so confident in its success that I’ve booked up another couple of sessions to get into shape for my brother’s wedding. Move over Tiffany Pisani …</span> </span>ecg30http://www.blogger.com/profile/03324169511875413143noreply@blogger.com0