Step into Christmas

IT’S not often you have to stop decorating your tree to watch an old lady die on TV, but that’s exactly what happened on Sunday.
Yes, Nana Moon has departed for the Albert Square in the sky, leaving teary eyes both on and off screen.
I’d finally summoned enough Christmas spirit to get my £5 bargain out of the shed and position it in the window when I noticed the Moons were doing the same — and that Nana was still alive. Having missed this episode during the week, I’d been told it was one not to miss, so the tinsel and trimmings were put on hold.
I thought I was late last year getting into the festive mood, but with a week to go I figured it was time to make the effort. I believe my humble abode is now up to an optimum standard. I’ve even made a festive feature using a fruit bowl, red tinsel, baubles and pine cones that Janet Ellis would be proud of.
The cards I have received are up on ribbons, my trinkets have been unwrapped and displayed throughout the place, and my very strange looking green reindeer with gold tinsel antlers is standing guard at the front door.
Although my cards have only just been written and posted, I did manage to get a head start on my present buying. The internet is such a brilliant thing — the only time I have been shopping on terra firma is to buy things for myself!
Give or take a few minor mishaps, I’m very pleased with the outcome of my purchases. I usually try to be considerate when buying for my loved ones, but sometimes time and money constraints get in the way. This year I think I’ve done quite well — no cop-out socks or chocolates from me.
I’ve already started the social side of the season. I always find it the best when nights out aren’t planned and just ‘happen’. If you put too much expectation into a night it usually bombs. The down side to these impromptu nights is being completely unprepared and ending up teetering along Union Street in driving snow and stilettos. I think it was at this point, walking under the sparkling lights and slipping about like Torvill and Dean, that I felt for the first time that Christmas was well on its way.
Where does the time go when it’s not around here? I can hardly believe it’s a year ago since I sat down to write my annual festive address to Singled Out readers.
It’s also almost a year since I laid out my New Year’s resolution — to find a suitable male to spend general lovely times with, who lives within a 50 mile radius, is single and is of a suitable age/maturity and intelligence.
I have to say I’ve failed miserably. As my friend says: “I’ve planted plenty of seeds — but sown no wild oats.”
The most recent chance of a romantic liaison was obliterated by a busy pre-Christmas season. ’Tis the season for carol singing, presents and turkeys but not for starting relationships.
One thing has changed over the course of 2005 — my feelings for my Favourite Ex — highlighted in the absence of his name in many recent weeks.
I shouldn’t say feelings really, because deep down there will always be some to an extent, but it’s my intentions which are different.
I can’t say when the turning point came exactly, but I have definitely moved on. Realisation to this fact came when I recently spent lovely times with a suitable male, who lives within a 50 mile radius, is single and is of a suitable age/maturity and intelligence.
Not once did I think about or compare him to my Favourite Ex, which I’m thinking can only be a good thing. So the seeds have been sown. Hopefully by the spring, these will bloom into something beautiful. Then again, I’m not very good with things like that — my poinsettia is already showing signs of giving up despite following its care plan word of word.
I think I should apply my advice for impromptu nights out to my love life — that is not trying so hard and just letting things happen.
I’ve got a good feeling that 2006 is going to be my year. I have been saying this for the last few years, but this time I actually believe it’s possible. I have a new enthusiasm and passion to let it happen.
I’ve endeavoured to put to rest any negativity and conflict in my life before the year is out so that there is a fresh start for everyone in the New Year.
If there is one thing I’ve learned in recent years, it’s the importance of friendship and trust, and the value of being given a second chance.
To be surrounded by my friends and family this Christmas is the best gift I could ever have.
I wish you all a very happy Christmas and all the very best of everything for a prosperous and healthy new year.

The lying, the stick and the wardrobe

WHEN was the last time you thought: “They’re talking about me.”
I don’t mean when you come out of the toilet with your skirt tucked into your pants, or when fingers are being pointed when words are whispered.
I mean when something is said on a TV programme or in a song and you instantly recognise yourself or can relate to the words.
This was the case last week when I consulted Trinny and Susannah for my Tuesday night tutorial of What Not to Wear.
I’d watched the previous week’s story of a Highland estate worker’s transformation into a sassy city butterfly, and was determined not to miss the next episode, when the magical duo would transform two people of my age and social position.
It’s amazing how many people hide behind their clothes; trying to use the colours and impact to make up for what they feel they lack.
One of the subjects featured in this week’s show was a medical student whose wardrobe of ‘auld manny shirts’ and ethnic prints were unsuitable for her chosen career.
As Trinny and Susannah battled with her to show off her redeeming features, the story behind her low self worth and body image came to light.
It’s a very important subject that I think all teenage old girls should become aware of. The ‘Beautiful People’ or ‘popular ones’ at school are only that from their own making. There is nothing special about them that you don’t have about you.
This girl had become so introverted, because of what she thought other people thought about her, that she had recoiled into this androgenous, squared-off shape, so as to not gain any attention, good or bad.
She’d got to the stage when she couldn’t accept a compliment, even from her own boyfriend, after years of jokey comments and digs from friends and colleagues.
I find the situation really frustrating now. When you are a young girl, you really believe the things that people are saying and you build up this image of yourself.
In my personal experience these people are usually adolescent boys.
If someone says to you: “They’re only being like that because they like you,” don’t believe it. If that was the case I should have been Miss World with all the ‘attention’ I used to get. Besides, the fact they were telling me I was ugly gave it away.
Years later they tell you what they said was only a joke, or was to keep in with the crowd at school ‘cos that’s what you do’. What they don’t realise is their comments snowballed and made you into the person you are today.
I’d just noted down the points Trinny and Susannah had given, when I turned the channel to be faced with another dilemma.
Now that I’d mastered how to dress for my age fashionably, I was forced to think about a future of facial hair and bodyshaper knickers.
Yes, I’m talking of course about the Grumpy Old Women on BBC 2, giving me warnings like once the middle age spread starts “don’t think it’s going to magically contract like it used to when you were in your twenties.”
Having a different dress size just about every month, these started a timebomb deep inside me, which quickened as the programme went on.
Sheila Hancock, Germaine Greer, Annette Crosby et al were all once young beautiful, and for their time fashionable women, who like me probably never thought age would never change them.
But that’s the thing, no matter how we try to stick to our own path, social perception and a personal need for acceptance are always going to play a part in how our life turns out.
I love What Not to Wear as it shows it’s really not that bad being you; all you need are a few cosmetic changes which can do a world of good to your inner well-being and confidence.
I get the impression that Susannah Constantine is a walking, talking example of this. I’m not really fussed about what Trinny says as, like half the show’s viewers, I’m not and never will, or look, be anything like her. But in Susannah I see a ‘normal’ person who struggles constantly to keep up with the natural glamour of her ‘popular’ co-presenter.
While it is easy for me to say be who you want to be, it may not necessarily be who you should be. I’ll leave all the self-confidence tricks to my learned colleagues.
Judy Garland once said: “It’s better to be a first-rate version of yourself than a second-rate version of someone else,” and I suppose that sums it up better than I could ever do.

Another must-read

I DON’T normally follow hype and try to avoid anything that is labelled ‘must-see’, ‘must-read’ or ‘block-buster’.
I think I may be one of the only people in the civilised world who hasn’t even seen one of the Lord of the Rings trilogy and have no intentions of doing so, much to my friend’s lament.
Not even the newfound love of Orlando Bloom that I am experiencing since watching Elizabethtown can convince me to watch them, or the fact that they have just been on terrestrial TV, thus cutting out the effort needed to go and buy or rent them.
I have only seen the first Harry Potter film, and while I did enjoy it, after seeing recent interviews with the stars I’m boycotting the rest. I understand these youngsters have grown up in the spotlight, but don’t they just know it.
I don’t like watching or reading things that I can’t believe in, like schoolboy wizards, or aliens fighting intergalatic wars, or strange little things with giant feet traipsing about New Zealand looking for a ring (I presume).
The only time before now that I have become involved in the ‘hyping’ process was for Bridget Jones and her two diary instalments, making sure that all those within my reach were told to read the books and watch the films.
This time I have given in to the peer pressure, and can be found at most free points of the day with my nose in Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code.
I’ve had it from all sides — ‘you’ll really enjoy it’, ‘what, you’ve not read it?!’, ‘you won’t be able to put it down.’
Every time I was on a train or a bus there would be at least three or four people with the tome. When my friend returned from a holiday earlier in the year she said there were at least two people in each row of the plane reading it.
I was determined that I would not follow the hype, but since hearing that it was going to be made into a film, which I would end up seeing, if only in a series of trailers, I decided I should at least try it. Now I literally can’t put it down.
I tried to get into it a few times, but I was too caught up in the terminology to concentrate and move forward through the story.
I started it from the beginning again on Friday. It’s now Monday and I am more than three quarters of the way through it. And that’s only been reading a few chapters in snatched minutes throughout the day and night.
Every time I think: “I’ll just read to the end of this chapter,” something else happens and I have to read on.
In this case I think the hype is well-deserved, and agree with narratives used on the dust jacket such as ‘breathless chase’, ‘exhilaratingly brainy thriller’, and yes even ‘the pulp must-read of the season’.
With music, it’s entirely different. My Favourite Ex is my ‘trendsetter’ in what I should and shouldn’t be listening to at the moment.
He gives me tips about what is going to be big, or just goes out and buys me it, which is nice. Already I’ve been able to get Jack Johnson, KT Tunstall, Stephen Fretwell and Jamie Lidell in my collection before the universal hype explodes.
I’ve been avoiding a bit of self-generated hype myself of late.
Although I’m still utterly confused about how I’m now feeling about him, I’ve continued to stay successful in ‘distancing’ myself from him in the last few weeks. Which is a joke considering we live more than a hundred miles away from each other.
I found out last weekend that he’d been out with his most recent (and probably favourite) ex on a date-ish night out.
The problem was, because the two incidents of my lack of communication and his reunion coincided, he put two and two together and got a jealous ex.
But I felt nothing — no jealousy, no hurt, no malice — just complete indifference.
Of course the Law of Sod came into play: the more I denied it, the more he believed it. But I just left him to it — I knew that I wasn’t jealous. It was a real turning point for me.
Which in turn worried me. I wasn’t about to fool myself that years of hype were only going to lead me to one day when I would just lose all feelings for him.
I do feel like I’m on the road to recovery. And I’ve got ‘the pulp must-read of the season’ to help me along.

Friends indeed

BEING surrounded by friends and loved ones makes you realise how lucky you are just to be little old you.
Sitting at the top of the dinner table I felt like a proud Italian mother looking at her brood. With only a few exceptions outwith control, I had overcome the logistics of getting all of my friends in the same room at the same time; something that had never happened before, and probably will never happen again.
Before I could get to this content and nostalgic state I had to tackle a hung-over Glaswegian missing the bus; a settee not being delivered on time; a blocked drain and the inability to find something to wear, despite having spending power — it’s always the way isn’t it!
I’m usually a nightmare shopping anyway, but I usually give myself the best part of the day for shopping expeditions such as this. I must have put two of my friends, who actually managed to get the bus on time, through a living hell.
By the time I had met the suffering straggler I had my outfit sorted — all I had to do was get home to condense the long and stressful process of ensuring five women had suitable appliances, power points and mirror space to get showered, dried, straightened, made up and dressed into two hours.
As the birthday girl I was seated at the head of the table. It was quite fitting actually — after all they do say your friends are the family that you choose, and for the purposes of the evening I was the Mama.
I’m very lucky to be able to call these people my friends. They’ve been there through all the good times, and more importantly, the bad times.
You could almost make a dateline using them to chart different periods of my life.
Firstly you have my best friend, who out of all of my friends is the one who I’ve known longest. My favourite memory is seeing her walk down the street with a ‘for sale’ sign over her shoulder after a Hogmanay party.
Then you have my two flatmates from college, who I was thrown together with seven years ago when we were youngsters away from home for the first time. Our friendship continues to grow and grow and I know we will always be close, even if it’s not geographically.
Then there is the college classmate who lived on my bedroom floor for the majority of term time — the one who had earlier missed the bus; the one who once put dry pasta in my microwave and the one who has glitter ingrained into her skin.
Joining her at the other end of the table, and from that era of my life, is a friend who started as a friend of another college friend. She gives the best advice, regardless if you want it or not. Next to her was another college friend who I had lost touch with in recent times. She’s just such a nice person, and perhaps didn’t deserve being put through the said shopping trip from hell.
Since returning from college days I’ve been privileged to meet another group of fantastic people.
There’s my pre-engaged friend — waiting after six years for her boyfriend to give at least some indication of an impending marriage; MNBF (My new best friend) with whom I clicked in a major way after (and not because) I groped her live on stage;
My frustratingly single friend, and recent holiday companion, who makes a good impression on everyone she meets. It’s just a pity she can’t do a good impression, though I think her ‘Paul Daniels’ is magic; The friend who knew I would join her falling about the floor laughing at ‘golden parsnip’ crisps. She thinks she’s the last to know everything, when in fact she’d be one of the first people I’d tell anything;
Another friend who has embraced the love of beautiful shoes and haute handbags, but has never seen a complete series of Sex and the City; and finally the one who last weekend was faced with the dilemma of saving her hair or £60 handbag from the rain, and who led the way to the Manhattans and French Martinis of a bar Carrie and the girls would be proud of.
Excuse me for being poetic now, but I suppose the relationship I have with my friends can be summed up as being like a cocktail; the main ingredient being me, with all different flavours added for contrasting results.
I really hope that in years to come I can still count on these people as my friends. I would hate to look at pictures from the night years from now and say: “What was her name again?”
Regardless of where they are, or the length of time between our meetings I couldn’t imagine my life without any of them. Our friendships have remained strong and true in the face of adversity, some for as long as eight years, so I’m confident they will endure whatever comes in the future.

Closer to closure

SOMETIMES all you need to do is take a step back and look at things from an outsider’s perspective.
And if you can’t distance yourself from the cause, get someone who is on the outside to give you the wake up call you so desperately need.
You’ll know yourself that it’s a lot easier to work out a friend’s problem than even contemplate your own.
My help came in the form of an email with the subject line ‘WARNING: the following contains a long and offensive rant about your favourite ex’, and followed the news that I’d finally bitten the bullet and told him how I felt.
That particular conversation had ended with me being satisfied that he was still the same guy that I’d fallen for in the first place seven years ago. Depending on who you ask, this isn’t necessarily a good thing.
On the whole, the email contained an unbiased observation about our relationship which scattered the clouds of my judgement.
The writer reckoned it was now or never, and basically put into words what the angel on my shoulder has been trying to tell me all along.
It also reminded me that there is a colossal difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. Unfortunately for me, or us, we both hold different definitions for the feelings we have.
After our little telephone tête-à-tête I feel like a massive weight has shifted.
I’m not just putting a brave face on things because they didn’t go my way. I’m genuinely relieved that finally I had some kind of closure.
The reason a first love makes such an impression is you have no reference point to which you can compare how you feel. Worse though, they then become the reference point to which all other relationships are compared to.
I’m now free to get on with things, without the temptation that the grass could have been greener if I’d hung around long enough. And now if he’s interested it’ll be me he’ll have to wait for.
I only wish that I had listened to the same people when I was wasting time on Mr Can’t Attach, Won’t Attach, who it seems now can and is.
He said recently that maybe if I had waited long enough for his epiphany I could have been his Provence bride next year, but I seriously doubt that.
We’re back to being what we should have been in the first place before other temptations got in the way — one young writer and her esteemed colleague — and I’m very happy about that; and that he’s at last found someone for whom he’s attempting to change his bachelor ways.
I don’t think that I can wait until the new year to make a fresh start so I’m just going to start now. I’m cutting all emotional ties to anyone I can even remotely describe as an ex and just getting on with it.
And what an opportune time to do so. I hate to tell you but there are a mere 1,639 hours to Christmas as I write this.
My diary is filling up with plenty of functions, festive and otherwise, for me to find the next unsuspecting ex.
Only last weekend, a few days after the make or break phone call, I was out on the town three nights in a row. I have to say it wasn’t very good for my constitution but it was very good for my self esteem.
It was like my eyes were open. Not once did I pick up my phone to text him, or worse phone him, and I don’t think I even compared anyone to him.
Things worked out so well that I felt empowered enough to tell him not to come up for my forthcoming birthday celebrations. All I’ve been thinking and worrying about is that he was coming up, and what would happen when the inevitable seven hour build up of alcohol hit the inevitable seven year build up of frustration.
But now all I can think about is what it should have been all along, without any old baggage overshadowing it — a great excuse for a great night out, with great friends. And not a ex amongst them.
If the boys don’t appear on the night, I don’t mind. I’ve got my girlies — all dressed in pink and good shoes. What more could someone ask for?

'Tis the season

JANUARY must have been a very boring, yet busy month, as I’m surrounded by people having babies.
For me, this is not necessarily a good thing, as some of you may guess.
A colleague came in with her little bundle of joy today and I swear I almost ate it. Dogs three miles away were the only ones who heard my squeals.
I think for someone of my age I may be uncontrollably and unhealthily broody. All I can think about is getting married and having babies. Even stories of two-day births and stitches don’t put me off.
And before anyone says it, yes I know I need the man first, at least for the marriage part.
I was never the little girl who dreamed of exactly how her wedding would be; I didn’t even want to be the bride when my neighbour and I were dressing up.
However, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to get married to our other neighbour, who is now a very attractive young man, but because this girl had seriously affluent grandparents, hence her superb hand-me down dressing up box.
My favourite was a long-sleeved emerald green dress with gold braiding around the neck. It may as well have been real gold I loved it that much. I’d probably think it was the most hideous thing now.
I, on the other hand, had the hooped petticoat of my hired flower girl dress and a fuchsia pink nightie belonging to my dear departed grandma.
I thought for years that I would never get married, but I’m coming round to the idea that every marriage is different, and it’s what you make it.
I know someone who has a ‘wedding book’, with details of where she wants her wedding, details of the reception, what her dress will be like, and even keeps a guest list which she updates every year. She doesn’t have a man either, and heaven help the one she does get if he even mentions marriage. “I’ve got something to show you....”
I’ve been at my friends for a while now to do a ‘Muriel’s Wedding’; and just go and try on wedding dresses for the day. Unfortunately, like Muriel, sorry Mariel, there is no ‘Tim Simms’.
Details for my big day are pretty sketchy. I would want a wedding that would reflect my character rather than what was expected.
I really don’t think that my friends take me seriously that I want to fly off and get married by Elvis in Las Vegas, then come back and have a big party.
And I can just see their faces when the band leader says: “Can we ask the bride and groom to take the floor for their first dance,” and they hear the unmistakable first few bars of Walk of Life.
Most marriages end in dire straits, so why shouldn’t mine start with them. No self-respecting family function is complete without that song.
Other than that I know what my dress won’t be like, and that I wouldn’t follow a traditional path.
So, you can imagine my delight when I read that Robbie Williams is of my way of thinking.
He said recently that a big traditional wedding was not his thing and that he too would rather get married in a Las Vegas wedding chapel instead of a big Jordan and Peter Andre type affair.
He just wouldn’t be with someone who would want a traditional wedding.
He’d just say: “Babe, finish lunch. Do you reckon we should get married?”
And I would say: “Babe, you had me at babe.”
I don’t really need to have much of an excuse to have a party — granted getting married may justify it.
At college, the student union’s Hallowe’en party always doubled up for this poor student’s birthday ‘do’. When I left, I carried on the tradition, albeit on a slightly smaller scale.
So for the last few years I have always had some kind of get together, which usually doubles as a reunion for my far and away friends. They usually have a theme — I’ve been a pregnant Posh Spice, a bunny girl and Minnie Mouse amongst other things.
This year will be no different. And it’s happening all too soon. And they’re all staying with me.
I realised with panic, that despite me doing lots of other little jobs, the ones that were started in time for their last visit haven’t yet been finished.
I now have a detailed plan of what’s to do in each room. I’m getting there.
Saying all of this I’ve realised my marriage wouldn’t really be that traditional either. I wonder if Robbie would mind doing the chores if I took care of the DIY?
I had to laugh when I heard Corrie’s Jack Duckworth say last night: “First there is the engagement ring, then the wedding ring, then the suffering.”
Like me, I’m sure a lot of people spend a lot of time thinking about the actual wedding day, and not the marriage years after.
Maybe for my next party I’ll just have a wedding theme to get the whole big dress and mass attention out of my system. No groom required.

Love me do

IT’S one thing finding someone to love, it’s a completely different thing making sure they are worthy of it, and that you’ll get some in return.
I’ve unwittingly set a standard when it comes to my favourite ex that no one can possibly live up to. He’s perched up there on his pedestal of perfection, crushing anyone who comes near the summit with a single blow.
I go through stages of just loving him as friend and knowing that anything more may ruin our close relationship; to believing I’ll never love anyone as much as him and missing him so much that I actually physically hurt.
But it’s a losing battle because I’ll never broach the subject with him, because I don’t know how he feels, and I’d rather not know, than know he doesn’t.
That’s not to say if someone else came along that I wouldn’t try to break the hold — they just haven’t yet.
I would like to share with you a story which just goes to prove that some things, and some people, are just too good to be true.
I gave up quite quickly on my foray into online dating — doomed as it was from the beginning when my profile was rejected.
But the friend who introduced me to this phenomenon has lasted a little bit longer. Already she has been on several dates; some memorable, some completely forgettable.
“Tall, athletic build, Bruce Willis look-a-like. Enjoys Aikedo, salsa dancing, and the countryside,” said the profile.
Impressed by the information, she eagerly contacted ‘Bruce’ to find out more.
Unfortunately, he replied with a photo attached, confirming that he was not the tall, strapping rambler she had in mind.
This poor chap obviously thought because he was bald meant that he looked like the Die Hard star, and, as my friend so eloquently put it: “In his world I would be justified in saying I was an exact clone of Angelina Jolie.”
His athleticism also caused criticism: “He probably thinks being able to down 20 pints in a row is considered an Olympic sport.”
Before that there was Mike, who at first seemed charming and lovely. However, after she told him it probably wasn’t meant to be, his true Gwen Taylor-loving self was exposed, and my friend’s inbox was soon full with emails proclaiming his undying love for both of them; her letterbox with signed photos and memorabilia of the ‘Barbara’ star. At the last update, he was giving out her email address for character references. She thought it best not to reply.
I think from now on she will stick to profiles with photos, if she’s going to stick with online dating at all.
I was tempted to remind her that if there was a tall athletic Bruce Willis look-a-like looking for love, he probably wouldn’t have to look far, and especially not on a dating website.
Finding failure instead of love in front of a computer screen, I decided to return to the manual method of meeting people face to face; there has to be someone that even comes close to the pedestal perching perfect one out there?
On my first ‘research trip’ I bumped into someone I held a certain level of affection for. Nice-looking, affluent, single and asking for my number, he bought me a drink, and asked me if we could get together sometime.
He was definitely too good to be true. When he did finally get in touch, it was for a favour. People like me just don’t get people like him.
Take a left in the minefield of love and dating, and you will find yourself taking a PhD in Sod’s Law.
My ‘Angelina’ was with her last boyfriend for a whole 18 months and didn’t need a partner for anything the whole time. Now, faced with a wedding next year she’s on the look out for a plus one ‘preferably male and good looking’.
However, she was slightly miffed to find that the bride has not only presumed she is single at the moment, and will be unattached at this time next year, but automatically presumed she would be using her gay male friend as a straight pretender. Not that she herself hadn’t already considered it, it was just entirely different for someone else to.
It would however be returning a favour: a few years ago, she spent the whole evening acting as his girlfriend for a night out with his unsuspecting parents.
We both seem to have no problem attracting men — they’re just the wrong ones.
On a recent weekend away, another friend and I met two lovely men. They were charming, friendly, funny, and attentive. They saw we were two girls from out of town and came over to introduce themselves and make sure we were enjoying ourselves.
It’s just a pity that they were both in their seventies, and took the seats that the next group of attractive young men coming in the door could have filled.
I’m a grade ‘A’ flirt and I’m enjoying practising these skills with unsuspecting randoms at the moment, not getting into anything serious, but rather enjoying myself and getting much needed male attention at the same time.
The only problem is I’m still being crushed my crush, just waiting for the day that he either tells me he loves me, or loves someone else.
But I’ll survive until then. I’ve practically lived my whole life with one unrequited love or another. And in the words of JM Barrie: “Let no one who loves be unhappy. Even love unreturned has its rainbow.”
And I’ve certainly led a colourful life up until now.

Half empty, or half fool

FOR WEBSITE READERS ONLY

WHENEVER I see reports of binge drinking females in the news, I always have a smug little chuckle to myself, and think ‘thank goodness I’m not as bad as that’.
After my shenanigans of last weekend, now I’m not so sure.
No matter how inebriated I have been in the past, I’ve always remembered what I’ve said and done, albeit sometimes with a little help from my equally sorry friends. Mostly, it’s things I’d rather have forgotten.
I’m now faced with the dilemma that there’s still at least two hours and four conversations I know nothing about, and probably never will.
Ten and a half hours of alcohol resulted in my automatic homing device kicking in and me seeing far too much of my newly bought pine toilet seat.
The main culprit of my unsteady demise was the free alcohol laid on at a corporate do, which had a midday kick off. Add to this a heavy lunch, with a side order of school day reminiscence.
If only I’d stayed in the same company for the remainder of the day; I probably would have been home long before I was, but I had a prior engagement with a group who were only cracking open their first refreshments at 9pm.
Instead of thinking, ‘I’d better stop now’, I joined them and continued at their pace, forgetting I already had an eight and a half hour lead on them.
During the evening I discovered beer goggles really do exist. I also tried out lesser known brands of wine goggles, vodka goggles and apple liqueur goggles. I was strutting around with my hair down thinking I looked perfect, when in fact the reality was more like Rick Parfitt.
I never want to feel like that again. Four days later while I am writing this, I’m still feeling the effects.
The morning after the night before, I tried to piece together the jigsaw, ashamed and uncertain about my behaviour. I woke up not knowing what I’d said and done, how I got home and where I’d been, and I’ve got to the point where I don’t really want to hear any more.
All I wanted to do was sleep, but I was stuck in that restless kind of mode, that you want to get up and do things but when you try you can’t move.
After updating my nearest and dearest on my whereabouts and wellbeing (or not so in this case), I got a window of movement and grabbed it.
In the five minutes it took me to get to my friend’s house it had worn off and from then on I felt rubbish again.
Anything I ate or drank just sat in my stomach, waiting for a way out. I think I can safely say I will never be bulimic. It just sat and sat and sat.
Despite nearly dropping off all day, sleep evaded me that night. The few hours I got was full of dreams about a giant inflatable Screwball Scramble game in the middle of a lake; the same lake that then had giant submarines in, and the one that I was dancing in fully-clothed with a young and very attractive long-haired man in front of a Scottish castle. The reason I know it was Scottish was because it was purple. Don’t ask, I don’t know.
In the days following, we all sat around dissecting the evening, having a laugh about just how bad we were, and it would have been funny if the conversation didn’t keep coming back to me.
I feel I was very lucky, that all I came away with was a dodgy belly and a sore toe. There are so many other young women who disappear from their group of friends, and never come back.
There are dangers in binge drinking, but I think the biggest problem is self control, of which I seem to have very little. Like Zammo, I’ll just say no in future. We always say ‘never again’ but I really think I mean it this time.
I’m going to test the ‘I don’t need drink to have a good time’ theory; one I have held with high regard for a while, but not actually put in place of late.
No, but seriously.

A piece of cake

THERE is nothing quite like a good ceilidh to boost your spirits — I’d say it was on the same par as a ride on the waltzers.
For this particular wedding hooch and tchooch, there are not enough superlatives in the Oxford dictionary to describe what a good time was had by all.
The last reception I’d been to before this one was reminiscent of a Peter Kay sketch: the drunk dad dancing with any skirt that moved; little boys sliding over the dance floor with their ties round their heads; granny in the corner moaning that she wanted to go home, but managing to hang around long enough to moan about the buffet, and then that she couldn’t get a taxi to take her home.
To avoid fooling myself into the need of buying something new, I’d planned in advance exactly what I was to wear, thus cancelling the need to have the usual alternatives on hand, just in case.
So you can imagine the panic-filled stupor I found myself in two minutes before I was due to be picked up, when the zip on my chosen skirt burst. I don’t just mean a little burst at the stitching — I mean a fat-spilling, earth-shattering point of no return burst, and not something that could be fixed with my makeshift sewing kit I’d got in the Brownies.
Up until this point my hair had been sitting lovely, my make-up was done and I’d been sitting about in my scabby old dressing gown, waiting until the last minute to get dressed.
It wasn’t just a case of changing the skirt — the top, shoes and bag only went with THAT skirt so it all had to change.
By the time I was en route, tear-stained and feeling fat and frumpy, my entire wardrobe forming a bleak layer on the floor, I convinced myself I was not going to enjoy myself.
However, whenever I walked through the door and was approached by said drunken dad brandishing a bottle of white wine/vinegar he’d acquired from the meal table, the one man band played Dire Straits’ Walk of Life as if he was waiting for my arrival, and I was on top of the world.
By the time I was heading home, I couldn’t give a monkey’s what I had on, what I looked like, or where I’d been. It’s funny that isn’t it? I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it doesn’t matter how great I look when I go out, I still return home in the same hair-up, shoes off, mascara-massacred state.
To avoid the chaos of these previous nuptials, I had several options of outfit, and accessories on hand. I even invited my ‘partner’ round early for him to advise me, after all he had to be seen with me all evening.
Knowing it was a ceilidh I was preparing for, my mother had put a piece of elastic into the bust of my beautiful dress to keep it up, and I relinquished the chance to wear a pair of beautiful shoes, opting instead for my old, scuffed dancing faithfuls.
And I’m so glad — I was not off the floor all night, and thanks to the said old faithfuls I wasn’t ‘on’ it either.
By the end of the evening, I’d provisionally booked the band; telling them I would have to get back to them with a date, venue and groom’s name as soon as I knew it.
I then proceeded to mingle amongst the post-bar/pre-bus company, inviting anyone who would listen to my wedding; telling them I would have to get back to them with a date, venue and groom’s name as soon as I knew it.
I joked that by putting the cake I had neatly wrapped in a napkin under my pillow that night that I’d know who the man was at least. By their blank reaction I thought it may have been one of those childhood stories mothers are duty-bound to tell you don’t exist.
But no — it seems I just wasn’t doing it right.
You are supposed to take a small piece of wedding cake, pass it three times through a wedding ring before you put it under your pillow.
Alternatively, I could have put the cake under my pillow and put a borrowed wedding ring on my wedding finger. Before going to bed I should have arranged my old, scuffed dancing faithfuls in the shape of a T. Again, my groom should then put in an appearance in my dreams.
The only thing I got from the experience was an unsettling dream about one of my dancing partners that evening and a stained pillow case. Somehow I don’t think a borrowed wedding ring would have helped matters.
Still, until the next time I am enticed into borrowing rings and wrapping cake, I’ll settle for dreams about the dreamy Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson in tuxes.
Go see Wedding Crashers if you haven’t already.

Night of shining amour

IMAGINE the scene — I’ve been seduced by a night of drunken debauchery immersed in small town mentality, surrounded by my demons (two of whom I’ve just overcome), and I’m now being chatted up by a random.
I feel a pat on my shoulder, and turn round to be faced with my first love.
Suddenly, I’m transported almost 15 years back in time to the local park, wearing cerise leggings and a cerise polka dot top which had invariably been bought from a clubby book. When I say polka dot I mean in Twister-like proportions.
I’m happily cycling around, on my equally cerise bike (I think I can see where my aversion to pink stems from), when around the corner a youth on a bike comes flying towards me, showing no mercy.
If the eighties’ equivalent of a white stead was a BMX, my knight in shining shellsuit then appeared from nowhere and came to my resuce. He went mad at the kamikaze biker for scaring me and told him that if he messed with me, he messed with him and that was not a good plan.
I now see that it was a complete set up, but at the time I fell for it. He was my hero.
We held hands all day (probably about an hour), and just before I left, he kissed me with the most delicate kiss and asked me to be his girlfriend.
When I told my boy-space-friends at school that I had a boyfriend, and who it was, they immediately warned me off him — basically because he was from the other school and so was obviously bad news.
It was nothing to worry about anyway because I never saw him again. He was filed away and I probably wouldn’t have recalled him, had it not been for this weekend. In fact, I’m writing this, surprising myself at how much I actually remember.
It was one of those ‘I know you, I do, I know you’ moments when I turned to face him. He had me at hello. That, however is the extent of my debauched memory.
The morning after the night before, I tried desperately to piece together what had been said. I’m sure one of the first things I said was I used to love him and that he’d grown up to be a ‘nice young man’. I hope I stopped myself from pinching his cheek. And what cheekbones they are!
I definitely remember him asking if the random, who at this point had put his arm around me in an ‘excuse me but we’re in the middle of something’ manner, was my boyfriend, and me asking him if his girlfriend was with him. I thought it would have been a waste of time to ask if he actually had one and so presumed that he would have to — looking that good. But no, she wasn’t because no he didn’t.
There seemed to be a pink haze all around him and I could hear or see no one but him. We just stood there smiling at each other. We had a moment.
I woke with a start, and a warm, fuzzy sense of confusion — as if he had been the last thing I’d seen before I’d fallen asleep.
Was he really as nice as that? Had my mind gone into slow-mo overdrive and it had merely been but a fleeting glance? It felt like it had lasted forever, but my mind was numb and not differentiating between fantasy and reality.
All I wanted to do was sleep but I couldn’t get his image out of my head. Now, three days on, the fragments are fading and I can barely remember what he looks like.
I wonder if in 15 years time we would meet again — Brigadoon style in the same place at the same time?
I figure the reality is I’ll probably meet him next weekend, and every weekend for the next fifteen years, and be sick of the sight of him.
It was all worth it, however, for reminding me of such a silly story from my youth.
And for reminding me how grateful I am that I now buy my own clothes.

Love and marriage

AFTER almost five decades, Mr Can’t Attach, Won’t Attach has decided life is indeed too short, and he is attaching in the most momentous way possible.
The death of a close friend has spurred him on to live life to the full, so he has bitten the proverbial bullet, and asked Juicy Lucy from pilates class to be his wife.
No one is more delighted for him than me. Well, apart from my mum.
Knowing him as I do, I can completely understand why he wasn’t taken seriously when the subject of marriage first came up.
So, I can imagine how Juicy must have felt when, on a visit to his mum’s memorial bench in the middle of the city, he got down on one knee and proposed. It’s just as well she had somewhere to sit.
Before this story, I was finding it to hard believe there was a single romantic bone in his body. He was definitely in contention for the ‘least sentimental man I know’ title by his own admission. Considering the first thing I heard about this girl (and when I say girl I mean only five years older than me) was that her flat was on the same road as his beloved football ground you can see why.
Now here he was describing a scene straight from a Richard Curtis movie.
He’s currently preparing for a ‘Meet the Tuckers’ style weekend, where he will not only meet her parents for the first time, but will ask her dad for permission to marry her. I’ve told him not to get involved in any scenario which involves an antique vase full of grandmama’s ashes and grumpy looking cats; and to make sure that her dad isn’t actually an ex-CIA special agent with a polygraph test waiting for him in the basement.
The wedding date has just about been set, pending this weekend’s outcome, and I have offered my services as bridesmaid/usherette/guest. Somehow, I think it’s his turn to not take me seriously.
Talk about life imitating art — I always considered him to be most like the Sex and the City’s Mr Big of my life. One of my friends even turned a bit ‘Charlotte’ and exclaimed that could have been me — then pointed out the parallel of when Big married Natasha. This ‘Carrie’ will not be crying over this wedding announcement.
I know it would never have been me; there will never be the moment on a Parisian bridge where he tells me it’s always been me.
And he can relax to the the news that there will be no ‘Graduate’ style wedding hi-jack either. I wish nothing but the best to both of them, and can only hope that his new-found romantic tendencies last long enough to cover the impending nuptuals.
I’ve been surprised over the last fortnight at the reaction to my last column. I thought I was on to a new thing with the whole internet dating thing — but it seems some close acquaintances are already on the case.
After a false start, with my profile being rejected, I chose love at ‘second site’.
This was my latest message: “Alan, Andy, Barry, Chris, Craig, Danny, David, Frank, John Paul, Kenny, Kev, Kevin, Mike, Raj, Rob, Simon, Steve, Steven, Stuart and Trevor have viewed your profile in the last 24 hours. 67 people have viewed your profile in the last week”.
I haven’t actually done anything about it — I’m just sitting back smugly, lapping up all the cyber-attention my ‘not-too-dissimilar’ profile has been generating.
I’m fascinated at what people write about, and what they genuinely think will attract people.
Example one: “I thought all my Christmases had come at once when I read your profile.” Lucky me!
Example two: “I’m happily married but am looking for some discreet friendship anywhere in Scotland, can travel.” What a catch — and he can travel!
Example three: “I walk up to a woman and she says hi. I then say I am having a bad day and well the rest is history.” I was never very good at history at school, but I think he is fighting a losing battle.
My friend is enjoying continued success with this selection process, so I figure it can’t be good for both of us.
I’m actually really enjoying being single just now. I’m learning to like my own company again and I think I need to do this before I expect anyone else to.
Mr Can Marry, Will Marry and his news has completely shaken me to the core.
It got me to thinking that life is too short; that you will meet the right person if you just relax and enjoy life; that you can deserve to find happiness regardless of past mistakes; and most importantly that you can’t change what’s already gone, but you can make changes for what is to come.
Sometimes you just have to let people realise things for themselves.

Love at first site

 
I’VE got a new spin for you, said my friend. Try this internet dating site, she said. I’ve had lots of replies, she said
Buoyed by her success story, I entered my details (or at least details not too dissimilar to mine), pressed ‘submit’ and waited.
While I was online I had a look at the potential suitors, offering their ‘not too dissimilar’ profiles for my perusal. I’m a ‘go for a nice personality’ kinda gal, but I must admit I only looked at those with photos.
I’m thinking because she lives in a larger area, she had a bigger bunch to pick the best from, so I wasn’t too surprised by the selection offered up to me.
I am a great believer that a man should approach a woman, so despite seeing a few that took my fancy, I quit the site and waited once again.
It was with delight that I opened my e-mailbox the following day to find a message from the site. She had said it was good, but not that good.
Believe me when I say I am used to rejection. To be rejected from an online dating site before my profile was even featured is taking the biscuit.
Reading on, I found it was because I’d made a grammatical mistake writing my own name (well, my assumed name for this experiment). After the humiliation, I couldn’t bear to reapply, playing the ‘it’s only for desperate people’ card, while still keeping it close to my chest, and quit the site.
I’m back to the whole ‘there’s no hope for me’ state of mind. I’m all for fate, and coincidences and love at first sight, so when I stumbled across another site on my way out of ‘dating for the desperate’, my bubbles started to rise to the surface once more.
“By learning about the personalities and love lives of our inner goddess, we can be more intuitive about our own romantic relationships.” Apparently.
After taking the ‘Which Goddess are you’ test, I’ve discovered I am Demeter, goddess of agriculture and fertility, with a little bit of the love, beauty and sexual rapture of Aphrodite thrown in.
According to expert Agapi Stassinopoulos, this means that while I feel the need to care for others, my own needs often are not met and I must learn to say no. The Aphrodite part means men are drawn to me (no mention of them being the wrong ones!), however I tend not to form permanent attachments to lovers.
To me, this means I need to find either a farmer or a gynaecologist, but no — a Hermes man is my best bet — ‘charming, childlike and seductive, rather like Hugh Grant’.
Again, I quit the site, after reading the ‘childlike reference’. On a night out in a city of about six million people, the first person I met was hotty young boy from last year — you know the one who throws drinks at concerts? — a little too childlike for my liking.
This is the second time I’ve just happened to bump into him. It wasn’t fate so much as my past coming back to haunt me. If it had been Hugh Grant I wouldn’t have minded as much. The thing is he seemed EVEN younger this time, which is silly as he was almost a year older. Unfortunately, so was I.
One thing I am a strong believer in is love at first sight, having been witness to it on several occasions.
One such magical moment was seven years ago, sitting on a tumble dryer in communal drying room at college, when my favourite ex walked in.
Another was when I met someone fairly recently, who shall remain nameless, who I’d only previously spoken to on the phone. That wasn’t so much love as a potential love.
But it does exist — and researchers at Ohio State University have the proof.
Professor Ramirez says: “Earlier research had assumed there was a cumulative effect that happens in the first days of meeting that helps determine how relationships will develop. But we are finding that it all happens much sooner than that — literally within a few minutes”.
They didn’t mention anything about a cumulative effect lasting seven years, but there’s still hope. He is a Hermes man after all.
Findings of a compatibility report: “These two make a delightful duo. They have distinctive understanding of each other’s dreams and desires. You don’t have to dig too deep to see why this relationship is so right. Cancerians believe that home is where the heart is and Scorpios need loyalty which they can get in masses from their Cancerian counterparts.” It’s written in the stars.

Sweet dreams

ANOTHER wedding, another slice of cake, an-other vain attempt at telling the future by putting it under my pillow.
The results from this experiment were, however, slightly alarming. Not only did I dream of my supposed future husband, I also dreamt of the kids who would jump on the bed of a Sunday morning, the fresh white sheets and the sun rays streaming in the window.
Sound ideal? Not when the subject is someone I should not be dreaming of and someone who I now have to try to face regularly without imagining him facing me on my pillow.
There were also the feelings you can have for or about someone in a dream which steals into your conscious — like anger, love, jealousy, or worry — sometimes without you being able to remember why.
I’m now looking at my ‘dream lover’, just pondering — what ifs aplenty. The dream felt so real and idylic that I was disappointed with reality when I awoke.
When I see him now, I still get that rosy glow the dream was immersed in.
Three times in as many weeks, people who I haven’t seen for a while have commented they are surprised I’ve not settled down with a husband and kids by now, because they thought I’d be one of the first.
Even my ‘dream lover’ unwittingly slipped in a ‘marriage material’ comment, and then questioned my blush.
I was surprised that they thought this of me. Playing mummies and daddies when I was young, I was always 19 and called Julie, so I suppose I always thought, like these faces from my past, that I’d be well settled down by now.
The question is why are these well wishers coming out of hibernation now — making me question myself.
I’m still totally puzzled as to where I am meant to find these potential suitors, and how I’ll know if they are worthy of my marriage plans, or if they’ll run out the nearest door when I mention anything about the long term.
It takes me back to the ‘why doesn’t she have a boyfriend, she’s funny’ scenario of so many columns inches ago.
The new kid on the Singled Out block and I were discussing this very topic the other night. Our friendship happened quite by accident but I’m so happy it did.
She is the kind of person that can put what you have been struggling to say into words effortlessly. She reckons we are both of the age that if we stand any chance of being settled down and ready for some quality time before children come along, we have to allow ourselves to be found, and not let our age get in the way.
She also agrees with me that it’s best to find out, right from the beginning, whether it has the potential to go long term. If someone says they just want a bit of fun, or they’re not looking for a ‘big thing’ — don’t take it to mean ‘but if I’m with you long enough I could change my mind’ even if these are the exact words they use.
My problem is, when I’m married I want that to be it. The end. Til death do us part. Forsaking all others. Happy ever after.
I’m very unsettled by the modern day phenomenon of ‘starter marriages’ — young couples tying the knot for the first time not considering what marriage really means, not seeing it as the long haul they should; going into it with a ‘suck it and see’ approach.
The romance, the full-blown white wedding, the first house, promising careers, a full social life and a healthy bank balance are the dreams of so many couples, only to be shattered when reality rears its ugly head.
I read in a recent article: “While most marriages are entered into with the best of intentions, some see their first failed marriages serving as dress rehearsals for more stable marriages later on in life”.
I read with amazement the story a few weeks ago about the centenarians celebrating their 80th wedding anniversary. Nowadays, couples see it as a milestone that they reach eight.
While celebrating a couple’s recent 25th anniversary, we had a laugh imagining our own anniversary parties, with our circle of friends surrounding us like the happy couple’s were surrounding them.
For these future parties, I’ll probably still be scraping together a platonic plus one at the last minute.
Considering I’ve never lasted longer than a few months at time in a relationship, you can understand why I am cynical about things. The fact I just spent half an hour trying to figure out how to spell cynical shows I haven’t used it for a while.
As I’m writing this, my favourite ex has just slated my past performance in relationships sending me spiralling into ‘I’m doomed’ mode. I pointed out that we are in fact as bad as each other, and therefore probably ideal for each other — our own misgivings would cancel the other’s out.
I’ve just had my next wedding invite through the post, and secured my platonic plus one with months to spare. Hopefully by the fortune telling powers that pillow covered cake holds, I’ll discover if my sub concious is any better at commitment than my awake self.

Playing to win

IF, like some of my friends, you thought I would be appearing on your screens in the Big Brother house last Friday night I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m still here.
It’s quite disconcerting to walk into a room and your nearest and dearest start laughing. Apparently, though, they had a wager on that I had secretly applied for the sixth series, after threatening to last summer.
And am I not so glad I failed to get that application in. I don’t think I would have lasted the first night!
Lesley is actually Little Britain’s Vicki Pollard in disguise; Science would get fed up of me saying “Eh?” after everything he says; and I’d be worried Mary would abduct and take me to whatever planet she’s due to visit next.
I think I could safely say I would be the quietest, most subdued person in there. In fact I would probably be the token boring one.
It’s strange to think of yourself being in the public domain like that. The housemates this year only seem to be interested in the benefits their notoriety will bring. And it seems the more obnoxious and unlikable you come across, the more you are loved and kept in by the viewing public.
It’ll only be a matter of time before like-minded individuals dish the dirt in our newspapers. And if it’s in the tabloids you know it must be true. I wonder what people would write about me!
Cast your mind back to the very beginning and you will remember Craig went onto the show to win money for charity, and for others it as a self-improvement and confidence building exercise. Now you are guaranteed your week or fifteen of fame. Some stay afloat, others sink into oblivion.
Talking of fame-seeking no hopers who should sink into oblivion quite literally, Celebrity Love Island springs to mind — someone please take their boats!
The only decent ones in the programme were Jayne Middlemiss and Lee Sharpe and now programme makers have taken them away to play ‘Cilla’ with their affections. It’s all going to end up in even more tears.
I have first hand experience of Paul Danan — somebody should take away his E numbers and keep him out of the sun for a while.
I have to admit I would love Callum Best’s babies, but let’s face it: our genes would surely mean the said babies would be alcoholics from birth.
And I can’t decide who I can’t stand more; Abi Titmuss or Rebecca Loos. I don’t think it’s purely coincidence that their surnames can be easily edited to become profanities, which best describe them.
The reason most of the contestants are famous is they’ve slept their way to success. Why do they feel the need to show us what they do best, on national television?!
I’ve got to say though I’m hooked. It’s like car crash TV — you have to watch it because it is so surreal.
It’s also educational — if you ever become famous you’ll know if you get offered the chance to go to Celebrity Love Island, exactly what kind of person the general public think you are.
My very own ‘reality’ show transmitting at the moment involves concocting a wedding outfit from my private collection, after a disaster last week.
I had a family function on the Saturday to which I ended up wearing the second option for a funeral from the day before. I was feeling fat, frumpy and miserable about myself, so black was definitely the colour.
It didn’t help that I developed a film this week to find pictures of my lovely Valentine’s bouquet from my lovely boyfriend.
But I have tried to be very good this week, eating better, thinking positively, walking more and trying not to lose the bet with my favourite ex that I’ll answer to Ronald McDonald’s temptations.
I think I’ve cracked it though. My outfit has come together beautifully and has reminded me why I buy things ‘just in case’.
I spoke too soon last week — nothing more has been said about our planned getaway. I’ve heard about last minute deals but this is getting ridiculous. I have been doing well on the ‘getting over him at last’ stage, and hardly flinched when he told me he was possibly becoming romantically linked with his first ever girlfriend again. Hardly!
I think I just need to get out onto that ‘field’ which I’m expected to play again. I’ve just been offered a night of ‘beautiful shoes and vodka’ so things are looking up.

Mad about the boys

 
THE VERY high ‘take-my-breath-away’ film star pedestal which Owen Wilson has been casually sprawled out on over the last year has been sensationally rocked.
The Starsky and Hutch star did have the unique and inexplicable power to have me sliding down my seat, squealing (as my viewing companions can testify when we Met the Fockers) every time he appeared on the screen. Those one-liners, that Southern drawl, and those eyes were all accelerators to the dangerous speed of my heart.
Some came close — Hugh Grant for instance, in the Bridget movies, and About a Boy. Oh and Love Actually, (well just Hugh Grant really), and Colin ‘I like you, just the way you are’ Firth.
Now Wilson has some serious competition. Yes, I came, I saw and he conquered — ‘The Wedding Date’ is on my stairway to heaven, and climbing.
For those of you who are not familiar with Dermot Mulroney, you are seriously missing out. In his new movie, The Wedding Date, there are at least two of the aforementioned ‘sliding down my seat, squealing’ moments, which I am not going to ruin for you here in print.
I have to warn you, these specific two lines would almost never be taken seriously if they weren’t being uttered by an utterly gorgeous actor, so lap it up.
Someone recently spun a similar line to me, and however sincere it was meant to be, it was filed under ‘disregard and discard’.
To give you an idea, they are the type of things you hear when you fall in love when you’re drunk. Or the ‘you had to be there’ or ‘I know it sounds cliche BUT’ things you fail miserably when reiterating to sceptical listeners, who weren’t there.
He also played the best friend of the wedding kind in the Julia Roberts film of the same name, and appeared as Rachel’s colleague Gavin in a few Friends episodes. So if you’re sitting in the cinema this week, thinking ‘what was he on?’ you heard it here first. I guarantee you’ll leave wondering what he’ll be on in the future.
Dermot also impresses because he can sing and he can dance. These are two things my circle of friends find attractive in a man, as well as good teeth and tidy finger nails. He is also one of Brad Pitt’s best friends. What more can you ask for?
When I asked one of my friends what they liked to see in a man, she replied: “That they are breathing.”
It makes me wonder if men have the same type of basics that we have to adhere to before they look any further. I know some who have bra size specifications, body shape (whether big or small), and even hair colour preferences.
It’s just a shame that you have to get so far down the line with someone before you realise that the ‘good personality’ you were attracted to had a use-by date.
I asked my favourite ex what he looked for in a woman. I won’t tell you the first bit of his reply, but this followed: “Everyone is different, but mostly I think being funny, sexy and not scared to get the pints in. Oh, and sympathetic to our egos.”
That basically covers every single girl I know, so there must be something we’re doing wrong! Something I’m doing wrong! I wish a little fairy would come and set us straight.
Talking of my favourite ex, and did you really think I’d get through a column without doing so, we’ve finally set a date.
Now, before you go running out to buy the hat, Mama, I mean only for the ‘boys’ weekend we’ve been planning since the beginning of time. Numbers have depleted however, and now it is only me, him and his best friend so that should be interesting.
I’m trying to push myself to find someone else, basically to prove that there is someone else out there who isn’t him, that I could love. I’m starting young because I know it will take some time. He’s my compatible comparative companion; everyone else has to measure up to him.
The weekend we have planned will be the ultimate test. The unwitting best friend has managed to find the smallest form of accommodation in the world in one of the most rural parts of Scotland. And there will be alcohol.
He’s going to have to like my ‘good personality’ and lump it; you can’t exactly go on a ‘boys’ weekend with the entire contents of your make-up drawer and your straighteners. Can you?

Otherwise engaged

IF I told you I’d spent the last week steaming and stripping in a chemical-induced haze, don’t get the wrong idea.
Being the DIY diva that I like to think I am, I was first in line to help my mum move, and transform her dull new dwelling into chez chic. It was more DIY SOS than 60 minute makeover in the end, but we’re getting there.
I spent most of the time on a step ladder, with no two legs the same length, and running up and down two sets of stairs with heavy boxes.
I really was glad to get back to work this morning for a rest!
Painting the skirting boards of five large rooms, twice, certainly does give you time to mull over whatever is on your mind, as it is literally as exciting as watching paint dry.
My favourite ex is still single (and still my favourite) and has realised that he is so much better off without his most recent ex. Something, I hasten to add that everyone told him quite a while ago — sometimes you just have to let people get there themselves.
Every time he leaves the house his mum’s parting words are: “Don’t fall in love”.
We’re still talking about the ‘bachelor break’ we’ve been planning, as a send off for our soon-to-be teacher friend, for the last few months. As yet there are no firm plans, and I suppose it will all hinge on girlfriend status, so nothing is certain.
I’ve been invited to Spain again in September with his family, but I’ll hold off on packing my sunglasses and bikini just yet — my place was taken by his ex last year.
We’ve been getting on a lot better again recently, because there isn’t the tension of asking how he is without sounding like I have an ulterior motive.
So, we’re both single again. I hate it when it’s like this as it’s just a matter of time before one of us finds someone else who is not the other one.
I was having a chat with my best friend the other night, talking about love, life and everything. She just wants someone to come home to (who isn’t her moody flatmate), someone to hug her when she needs one (who isn’t just a friend) and someone “to wipe away the insecurities of life”.
But the problem facing her, and I would think all other singletons, is where to find this person, and when to find time for them. Her social life is more hectic than mine!
We both agreed that the place we’d like to find them was at home waiting with a romantic meal for two, ready with a hug and an insecurity blanket.
At the moment, I’m thinking that my attitude to men is that of my attitude to babies. I love them dearly, and would love one of my own, but until then it’s good to hand them back when you get fed up with them.
I can’t wait to see the Wedding Date, where Debra Messing (Will’s Grace) hires the gorgeous Dermot Mulroney to go to her sister’s wedding with her. As far as I know they fall in love and live happily ever after.
I’m thinking my next date won’t end up the same. I’ve ‘hired’ someone to be my plus one at a forthcoming wedding. Life does imitate art, but I’m not holding out for the ‘just like the movies’ ending in this case — his fiancée is currently planning place settings and bridesmaid bouquets for their own nuptials.
I’ve also made a new friend in my brother’s ‘is she, isn’t she’ girlfriend. For the record she isn’t — they’re ‘just good friends’.
It scares me to say we are so similar, especially when I know that she is likes my brother, and worse that he likes her. The very fact that my little brother is romantically inclined to anyone scares me but then I remember it could be worse — I’d already met and fallen in love with my favourite ex by that point and look where that’s got me!
At the moment I’m taking one day at a time, trying to spend as much time with the people I love, and have loved, and basically just have as much fun as possible without worrying about ‘what ifs’ and ‘whens’.
I have a busy social calendar lined up, which is half full rather than half empty and things are looking good.
It just shows: “If only we’d stop trying to be happy, we could have a pretty good time”.

What's up doc?

IT SEEMS spring has finally sprung — the season of sandals, short sleeves and skirts is finally here, and so let the shopping commence!
I have two events coming up which I need something to wear for. Potentially it could be just the one which I wear twice, but I know that’s not going to happen so there’s no point in saying it.
The first event is a whirlwind wedding which I’m very much in favour of. Hearing their story you may think it’s a bad idea, but if you knew them, you’d realise they are made for each other, so why wait! The second is a royal event, which I have been invited to for ‘services to journalism’. I already have the hat, thanks to nuptuals of last year so all I need is the rest.
And no it’s not the Royal wedding. I wish now Charles and Camilla would just be allowed to get on with it. When their engagement was announced I walked bang into a baker’s queue debate on the subject. Whatever has happened in the past, although perhaps it shouldn’t have, has happened and there’s nothing we can do about it. The romantic in me says it just shows that things are meant to be, however much we deny our feelings.
It seems it is also the season of the ‘break-up’. The last time we spoke my favourite ex was still single, despite the fact the lady in question was hoping he may not have got the text message she sent from Down Under, which made him sink down under yet again.
I’m currently awaiting an update. The fact I haven’t had one for a few days worries me that he may have fallen back under her spell and is too scared to tell me, as I’d previously warned him that if he took her back again, that would be it between me and him. I didn’t actually mean it — I couldn’t not know!
I’m starting to think that there’s something in the water causing people to break-up with their respective partners at the moment. I’m hoping that they don’t think it’s less complicated being single — if they do they obviously don’t read this.
It speaks volumes that I was still getting ready as I locked my front door on Saturday night, because of a date with the Doctor.
Doctor Who you might ask? — see what I did there?! “She’s funny. Why doesn’t she have a boyfriend?”
I’ve just heard on the radio that the leather jacket is back thanks to Doctor Who, according to the world-famous fashion house that is Littlewoods.
After only two episodes I’m completely hooked! It’s just so camp and cheesy, and gorgeous (Christopher Eccleston). And you know how I feel about doctors. It did my current health state a world of good to see that enigmatic smile.
I was out for a birthday soiree at the weekend with a few friends, and their friends. I had been due to be away for the weekend but I didn’t make it, and luckily my friend knew this and saved me from a boring night of Saturday TV.
I do of course mean after my appointment with Dr Wow, and the fantastic and cruel Strictly Dance Fever. Luckily it was to be an alcohol-free night for me or I might have been tearing up the dance floor with some freestyling later. All that was needed was the Dirty Dancing medley and I would have been on fire!
The sights you see when you don’t have a gun. I’m sure some of my fellow clubbers had their fashion sense completed exterminated at birth.
Some took the ‘boho chic’ principle a little too far, and some the ‘getting dressed at all’ principle not far enough.
There was too many bad hair extensions, too many blonde clones, and far too many pairs of cowboy boots for my liking. Not since the platform trainer have I detested footwear as much. The minute this fashion accessory loses its unbelievable appeal I will laugh in the faces of all those who bought them.
And there was not a leather jacket in sight. Or a hot young doctor.
Not that I actually made any pains to find out. Although thanks to my surroundings I felt confident, attractive and stylish, I also felt ancient. The fact that I was almost asked for proof of age was laughable considering all the ‘babies’ wandering about.
I’d best go — my favourite ex is trying to get me, and my nose and my heart is getting the better of me.

The seven year glitch

How many times have I now told you that my favourite ex and his favourite ex have got back together and split up?
I’ve lost count. It seems now finally that it is over. I’ve told him that if he takes her back again that’s me and him finished. I think he got the message.
She’s currently enjoying a three week holiday in New Zealand, while he has been preparing a make or break speech for her return. He was due to tell her that she had to make a decision once and for all, and if it was positive they should progress to moving in or similar.
Meanwhile, I was preparing myself to be dancing in a lilac dress with the token gay man in Julia Roberts-style at the end of his wedding — a) I don’t suit lilac and b) I know too many gay men for that to be eventuality.
Also mirroring My Best Friend’s Wedding, he brought up the pact we’d made at college that by the time we were both thirty, if we were single, we were meant to be together. Then came the conversation that we’d known each other for longer than some marriages last — seven years.
Then came the awkward moment where I tried to tell him I loved him, didn’t want to see him hurt and that he was making a big mistake with this girl, without telling him that I was in love with him, and it was because I wasn’t that girl that it was a big mistake.
His decision-making process was certainly a family affair. My mama told him he should quit wasting time and go out with her daughter; his mama said if she loved him so much she wouldn’t hurt him; his brother is fed up with him being so miserable and his dad just wants peace to watch the football.
But before he could put the finishing touches to his all or nothing epic speech, a message came from the land Down Under to say that she didn’t think it was going to work out, and that she wanted to get it sorted before she came home.
Surprisingly, he sounded upbeat when I just spoke to him. Whether that’s just an act to prevent me from uttering those immortal words, beginning in ‘I told’ and ending in ‘you so’, I don’t know.
The last thing I want to happen is for him to sink back down again. But he said himself it’s a big relief that it’s happened now, because he would have always been waiting for the moment when she changed her mind again.
Don’t get me wrong, if he were to find another lovely girl, whose love for him was unconditional I would be behind it 100%. I have resigned myself to the fact that the best- in my role with him, won’t change back to girl- again.
Unless by some unbelievable circumstances he gets to 30 and hasn’t found anyone else. Or he has an epiphany and remembers the day we first met and fell in love in the college laundry room and can’t bear to be without me.
Mama says he just needs time. He’s got four years before the decision is taken out of his hands.
So now the four of us (me, him, his brother and his best friend) are planning a bachelor weekend away — using flights he bought for a getaway with her.
We’re all single, young and attractive human beings who don’t concentrate enough on ‘me’ time. We’re just going to get away and enjoy ourselves.
It should be funny, if only for the mix of characters involved. I have seriously contemplated trying to write a sitcom about the four of us, based on our topsy turvy lives, loves and laughter.
I’ve often said that I long for love to happen like it does in the movies, when all the time I’ve been living an Oscar winning script.
Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love in laundry room, girl leaves college and said boy. Boy goes back to ex girlfriend.
Girl gets in touch with boy, who has split up with said ex. Boy is miserable and says he loves girl and wishes they’d stayed together. Girl falls in love all over again (Not that she ever fell out).
Boy does too but with someone else (Or at least he thinks he does). Boy splits up. Meanwhile girl falls in love. Boy gets back together. Girl splits up. Girl pines for boy. Boy splits up for good. Girl ponders ending to script.

Clouding my vision

 
I’VE just returned from a delightful weekend in the bustling metropolis that is London, England.
We shopped ’til we quite literally dropped, saw the sights, met the stars and eyed up all the talent — all in just three days!
All the while I kept one eye out for the man in my dreams. I thought I saw him in the supermarket at home before I left so I shall be returning there asap for another chance meeting.
For those of you who don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, and I’m sure there will be many, I am suffering from a recurring dream in which I meet a lovely young man who I’m sure I know. But just when things are going good I laugh in his face and ruin everything.
Just to update anyone who is following this strand — I managed not to laugh the other night and found out his name was Michael.
It’s like I’m watching the two of us in a film. It’s getting a lot clearer and I’m remembering more about it.
I now have more of a recollection as to what he looks like — think of the baseball player on the new Impulse Thrill advert and you’re just about there. If anybody reading this recognises this description you can contact me through the missing persons incident room at your local newspaper!
He also bears an uncanny resemblance to the hotty young boy I met at the end of last year, but I’m trying not to dwell on this as his name wasn’t Michael. I can’t actually remember what his name was, but I’m sure it wasn’t that.
Also, the fact that he looks like someone I already know bursts the bubble that this may actually be literally ‘the man of my dreams’! Either that or I’ve deleted his number. And forgotten his name.
Talking of dreams, and more importantly adverts, I refer you to the one for Options where the woman has to chose between the fantasy of hot chocolate and the room full of hot half naked men.
I said last week I’d come face to face with my fantasy, when Steve Jones was interviewing Richard Gere on TV the previous weekend. I take that back.
In a TV studio in London, in the words of the Gigolo Aunts, is where I found my heaven.
We may all swoon at the sight of celebrity men on the TV, but what you may be unaware of is the wasted talent operating the camera, looking after the stars and chaperoning the audience. Hopefully they are only one step away from being in front of the cameras themselves. It would constitute mental cruelty to the viewing public if they remained in the shadows.
And it didn’t just stop at the studio. Everywhere in London my travelling companion had to battle to prise my eyes away from anything that moved; waiters, tube travellers, policemen, shop assistants.
It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase sightseeing for me.
It was great just to get away for the weekend — away from the stresses and strains of the relationships surrounding me.
I’m getting daily updates from my favourite ex now that his relationship with Little Miss Can’t Do Nothing Wrong is back on the track it derailed from with disastrous effects not so long ago.
My two former college classmates and best friends, are now not speaking and are preparing to face each other at a forthcoming birthday party of another mutual friend. I’ve warned them I’m not taking sides and that if there is any problems I’m just dancing away from them.
It occurred to me when we were ascending to 30,000 feet this weekend, that clouds are very much like relationships.
Stay with me on this one — I hope it makes sense. I’m going down a dangerous philosophical route here.
When you’re flying above them, the clouds look so solid and reliable that you want to throw yourself into them. But when you realise they are actually transparent and weak, and a simple thing like a wing (or distrust) can slice through them with ease, you land with a bump at your destination, and look back and wonder why you couldn’t see through it in the first place.
At the moment, my favourite ex is on cloud nine, a storm is brewing for my college friends, and I’m just floating along.

Footloose and fancy free

I CAN’T decide whether it is more stressful to be single on Valentine’s Day, or not — having spent my first ever with a boyfriend.
On the first anniversary of this column’s conception, I decided to take a look back to where it all spawned from — February 14, 2004.
I spent that day miserable, desperate and half-drunk, wishing there was someone out there (excluding my best friend or my mother) who loved me enough to take time to send me a little token of their appreciation.
This year, I was faced with a completely different scenario — What the hell was I meant to get for my beau, the inexperienced Valentine’s virgin I was? Ever since I was dumped on February 13 one year I’ve left things to the last minute.
It would have been easier to know what I was to be getting in return — not that I was expecting anything (!)
Do I get him aftershave (= he smells)? A DVD, CD or game (he’s already got it or he doesn’t like it)? A little teddy clutching a heart (no comment)? Lovely candles? (Too girly) ARRGGHH!
And then there’s the card: After only two months into the replay of our relationship can I use the word boyfriend? All my love? Together forever? I love you? And many more verses which I would never use and which should never have been printed in the first place. I’d love to hear from anyone who bought one which said: “I love you more than I love the dog”.
I was a very lucky girl — as if St V. was making up for over 20 years of nothing. A beautiful bouquet of velvet red roses arrived, complete with ‘To a wonderful girlfriend’ card and a newly released DVD.
In return, he got a very plain and sophisticated card, a delicious meal (delivered or I wouldn’t have used the word delicious) and some relaxing massage oil, to be used once I mastered the art, without him ending up in traction.
I was accused of only buying it so that I could use it too — totally untrue of course — and had to laugh when a colleague admitted his partner bought him 24 bottles of his favourite beer. Just so happens it was her favourite too. Good plan.
I’ve since decided men get the better deal, not just at Valentine’s but in life. It’s so easy to buy a bunch of flowers, a box of chocolates, a dinner date. Purely for research purposes I had a look at the ‘girlfriend’ cards and they too were a lot better than our offerings.
I take this to mean women care a lot more what is actually said in or on the card, whereas men just glance the one they are given, while heaving a great sigh of relief that the one offered in return received an acceptable response.
Another thing — If a man doesn’t know what to buy for his Valentine, there are numerous females he can call on for help — mothers, sisters, friends, shop assistants.
Who do we have? Fathers who need a 3-week warning that the day is approaching, brothers who prefer to wait to see what they get first, and other disillusioned females who after only 2 years would be more than grateful to get a ‘hello’ in the morning.
So scrub everything I said about Valentine’s. This dog has had her day and is satisfied with that.
Talking of satisfaction, I’ve had a lot of feedback about my earlier comments about choosing the fantasy over the hot chocolate. If you don’t understand what I mean, you’re either not a regular reader, or TV viewer.
I switched on yesterday to find my fantasy on screen — the lovely Steve Jones interviewing the delectable Richard Gere. And Richard was dancing, and Steve was just, well, sitting there — that was enough.
I did promise last time that I would tell you what happened when I went for my recent reunion with my favourite ex at one of our old haunts.
Let’s just say I will never be able to listen to the Dirty Dancing medley again, without going weak at the knees and this time in no way related to thoughts of Patrick.
After getting ‘Footloose’, we inspired the DJ to put on the megamix, which he dedicated to the ‘Johnny and Baby’ of the dancefloor. To say I had the time of my life would be an understatement. We had rhythm, we had music, who could ask for anything more. Mind you, rhythm was always one of his strong points.
After our choreographically sound spectacular, I spent the rest of the night protecting him from a South African lesbian who was an old next door neighbour of his during the times of ex-girlfriend no.1. Basically she wanted his body, but literally only his body. The words ‘turkey baster’ and ‘no commitment’ were used — closely followed by ‘She’s turned me to celibacy, get me out of here’.
So I did. And that’s all there is to tell.

What dreams may come

I AM being haunted by a figment of my imagination — or at least that’s all he is at the moment.
I’ve been having a recurring dream in which I meet this young, really good looking guy who I instantly recognise as someone I know or have known.
The only thing he says to me is: “You don’t remember me do you?”
I start laughing and continue singing the Hot Chocolate song which the line comes from. It’s one of those dreams where you can’t control what you’re doing, hence the fact that I’m singing.
He replies by saying: “I haven’t seen you for so long and then you just laugh in my face?” And then he leaves.
When I wake up I don’t have a clue who this guy is and have merely a fuzzy recollection of what he looks like. I make a mental note not to laugh the next time so I can find out more, but my subconscious lets me down.
Could it be that I’m actually dreaming of ‘the one’ or is that just far too cheesy? I wake really annoyed with myself because I KNOW who it is but I just can’t grasp it.
I don’t think I’m the only one who has approached a perfect stranger in the real world because I know them, and just don’t know how — like the Billy Connolly sketch: “I know you. I do, I know you”.
All too often it turns out the stranger knows you too but not why or where they fit into your life.
The last time this happened to me, we discovered he was born in the same ward on the same day ten minutes before me. Purely coincidental maybe but strange all the same.
It’s happened too many times for me to dismiss eventually meeting this ‘dream guy’ in the land of the living.
Can you imagine what I would say: “Erm. Yeah I dreamt about you, like, years ago and I knew one day I would meet you”.
It sounds like the plot to a Drew Barrymore film. A really bad one.
And so from dreams to nightmares. While writing this I am preparing my head for another reunion with my favourite ex in a few days. When you read this it will already have taken place and you’ll have to wait another fortnight to find out what happened.
I’ve invited my best friend along for moral support — moral being the operative word now that I am ‘with boyfriend’.
The ex is also now an ex after his girlfriend finally bit the bullet and called it quits. Now he’s sunk even deeper into his ‘ten months and two significant break-ups’ depression.
What he needs now is his friends. This weekend they will consist of his ex and now taken girlfriend stifling a mutual attraction, his brother who despite being a really top guy can’t find a top girl, and his best friend and former college roomie who has just split up with the long-term girlfriend who he can’t get over. My ex phones him when he wants to cheer himself up.
Before you decide this is a recipe for disaster, just think of the characters in Friends: their love lives were all intertwined and they managed.
Trust me — although it doesn’t sound it, it is a good idea — a night out on the town, no pressures, nobody waiting at home — well at least not for them. Just pure unadulterated fun with the lads.
As he says, it’s something he should have concentrated on last year before he got himself involved in another no-hope relationship. Like having one long last fling before settling into something you don’t want to get out of.
As everyone should bear in mind, loves may come and go but friends are there forever — a peach of advice my mother keeps administering like a broken record.
One thing I’m finding difficult regarding my new-found non-single status is I want to spend as much time with my friends as possible. Believe me this is not an easy feat considering they are all over the place both geographically and mentally.
But I also don’t want to neglect the boyfriend, and vice versa.
That’s the problem with being a singleton so long — you get used to your independence and availability to be here, there and everywhere depending on who wants you or needs you.
I think this is something the favourite ex needs to experience for a while — using his time just to chill and enjoy being young, free and single, tall, dark and handsome.
Something tells me it won’t last for long.

Spoonful of sugar

I’M not sure what the policies of Mr Blair et al are regarding the future of the health service, but in my opinion it’s looking bright.
After relying on TV’s Dr Christian Troy for my white-coat-eye-candy needs over the last wee while, finally the checked shirt and cord-wearing fifth year medical students are showing potential.
Feeling flushed and dizzy, I left my most recent consultation, wondering if the doctor/patient rule still applied if he was a student.
But who could blame me when the questions I was being asked by this lovely, lovely man were: “Does it tingle in the morning?”, “Let’s talk about contraception” and “Squeeze me like you want to hurt me”.
I’m getting a strong premonition that if this influx of hot doctors continues, there will be a lot more patients in our waiting rooms.
The dentist I had at college had a similar problem. It was really hard to get an appointment with him because he was so popular with the ladies. With his mask on you could only see his bright blue eyes, and so he went a long way to cure my fear of going to the dentist.
It’s not really a turn on to have a really hot guy look into your mouth and tell his nurse about the state of your teeth. Especially when you threaten to faint every time you either sit down or stand up. And I don’t mean because of him.
Having a hotty dentist is a good reason to keep your mouth happy and healthy so you get one of those ‘I was a good girl for the dentist today’ stickers.
I would have to have major dental surgery and visit five other dentists to ensure my pearly whites impressed him.
That reminds me of a friend who recently hired a cleaner to sort out the ‘surface damage’ in the family home. I’m not saying that her house is untidy, it just has the lived in look most other families have. I was there before the cleaner had started and the place was spotless, so much so I thought she must have already been. I’m thinking Mrs Mop won’t know what’s hit her when the family relaxes into their old routine.
Talking of routines, I’m very suprised how well I am settling into mine as bona fide girlfriend. I’m preparing for our first official public engagement later this week — new shoes are definitely called for.
It was great to be invited to something for the first time having a partner, instead of trying to think who to take. Or worse still having to go solo.
I recently went for a night out with his friends and their girlfriends and for once didn’t feel like the spare part in the corner. There was, however, a point when I wished the floor would open up and swallow me whole. An advert for an instant chocolate drink came on the background TV.
The main character is given the choice of her ultimate fantasy — namely a room full of half naked men poolside, sprinkling rose petals and preparing to tend to her every need — or a mug of the advertised hot chocolate.
I personally would choose the fantasy but as usually happens with these unbelieveable ads, she picked the sweet treat, saying the other was merely a fantasy.
Unfortunately by this point in the evening I was quite vocal, whether through my growing confidence or just the insanely coloured alcopop I was drinking.
I asked the girlfriends, if they were given the opportunity to spend one night with their favourite celebrity would they? It was one of those hypothetical questions, but by this point I’d gone too far in their eyes and there was no going back. It was as if I’d made a really sick joke after someone had died or something.
Even the guys said they wouldn’t which was blatant lies.
My boyfriend admitted later he actually would. Ever so slightly too late for my ever decreasing confidence.
Back in the days when I was a singleton, you know, a few months ago, I worried that as soon as I found someone I’d like to ‘see what happened with’ I’d be tempted by the greener grass.
My favourite ex, the college love, has been in touch about his relationship which was going so well as it’s hit a rocky patch. If I wasn’t so happy and content in my current state I may feel differently. His girlfriend says she needs space to sort out what she was doing, in her head.
This has affected him greatly because the last time he heard ‘space’ and ‘sort my head out’ it was the last words he heard from his former girlfriend. You remember the ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ scenario I told you about last year?
I try to give him completely unbiased advice but when what you want to say isn’t what he wants to hear, you end up sounding like the jealous ex. Where in the past this might have been the case, now I just really don’t want him to get hurt, and I’m sorry to say that’s the way I can see it going.
Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point
The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of Blaise Pascal

Love is the Pitts

MY friend sent me a text the other day simply saying ‘Brad and Jen — There’s no hope for any of us now’.
She was of course talking about Brad Pitt and his wife Jennifer Aniston whose formal separation was announced on the 11 o’clock news between tsunami death tolls and murder suspect updates. I would like to officially state, contrary to rumours circulating, I had nothing to do with the split.
Apparently, the reason for the break-up is Brad wants kids and Jennifer wants a career. As far as Jen and I are concerned, that’s where our similarities fork — my dream career would be having Brad Pitt’s babies.
He stated in a recent interview that he could never say his marriage would last forever, saying: “I'm not sure if it really is in our nature to be with someone for the rest of our lives”.
You’ve hit it right on the head there, Brad. I have been carrying about a keyring for the last few years which says: ‘Waiting for the right man. Meanwhile having fun with the wrong ones’. I think I can safely say I’ve followed that piece of advice to the letter.
My air hostess friend also uses this as her mantra, although where I get the occasional text or phonecall from ‘the wrong ones’, she gets holidays in Budapest and state-of-the-art DVD players. I’m obviously not getting it ‘wrong’ enough.
Things are still going well with the new ‘boyfriend’. I wonder how far in it gets easier to say that word? I suppose until it progresses to ‘fiance’ which is even worse. No, I’m not getting any ideas — just stating a fact.
I totally freaked him out by telling him about a dream I had when he gave me an amethyst engagement ring.
Once he’d come down from the ceiling, he simply turned to me and said: “Anyway, it wouldn’t be an amethyst — it would be a diamond”. Moosh!
Then the other night, as I left him and his friends playing poker (which I was seriously failing at) I discovered he’d rigged up a stereo in the bedroom because he knows I can’t sleep in silence. Moosh!
I don’t do conventional relationships very well, as those of you who read my tales regularly can appreciate, but I’m a lot more comfortable with these signs of affection from him, probably because I believe him; that they’re not just cheesy lines to keep me ticking over.
Psychotherapist and author Phillip Hodson (you’d know him to see him) says that focusing upon long-term compatibility when looking for your ideal partner, rather than always worrying about being single, is the only way to guarantee long-lasting romantic success.
“Solitude is as good for the soul as socialising,” he says. “Stop looking for ‘the one’, focus on what is happening in your life right now and be happy with yourself”.
My friend stopped looking for ‘the one’ only to find ‘the one who got away’ keeps reappearing in her life. And his timing couldn’t be any worse.
Their relationship definitely does have a ‘When Harry met Sally’ formula. Just when she’s single and ready, he’s not, and vice versa.
Only this time it’s she who is enjoying another fine romance, and he, left heartbroken by yet another girl who is not her, is being left to wait to see how it pans out. Knowing him, he’s not the type to save himself for her, so guaranteed, if and when her current relationship ends, he will be taken in some form or another.
Here’s her dilemma: She knows her current squeeze is not ‘the one’, just like Brad knew Jennifer wasn’t and Carrie knew Aidan wasn’t, and that it’s never going to last forever. She really loves him but just not as much as ‘the one’. Just like Carrie loved Big.
The sensible side of me tells her to concentrate on what she has just now and see how it goes, but the romantic in me says to follow her heart, even if it means breaking someone else’s. What would you do?
And what would Elvis do? I’m addicted to watching his films since receiving a gigantic box set from Mama Claus.
If only life was as simple as in Viva Las Vegas. Granted she had very little on, but Rusty Martin merely had to dance up to Lucky Jackson, and that was it — love at first sight. Mind you I defy anyone dancing with Elvis not to fall in love with him.
Plus, they only had 85 minutes to fall in love, have a major fight and then make up, whilst packing in a vague storyline, colourful dance numbers and ten or so songs. If only real life love could have a time limit.
Maybe my friend should set a date whereby if her ‘one’ hadn’t whisked her off her feet, she could just forget about him. Easier said than done — maybe she’d have more luck applying to be Brad’s baby-maker.