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.

Misteltoe and wine

I MUST have drunk most of the world’s wine-producing countries dry and eaten the equivalent of Willy Wonka’s annual sales over the last week.
Oh well, it’s Christmas time, tis the season to be jolly and all that. Unfortunately, I’m now feeling the after effects two days later and am not at all looking forward to doing it all again this Friday. Not that I have to but oh well, it’s Hogmanay.
I hope Santa brought all you were wishing for. I must have been doing something right because he gave me something I thought was impossible to find.
Yes, he’s not too old, he’s not too young, he lives in my postcode area, he’s single, has little or no baggage and I’ve known him for more than two minutes. Result.
I should never have let him go the first time, around this time of year, a few years back, but that was then and this is now. I’ll keep you posted.
The effects of my three-day binge did little to keep me from the crazy world of post-Christmas sales. That was until after our supposed hangover-curing feast for lunch, then I wished I hadn’t got out of bed.
To use the word ‘heaving’ to describe the crowd also spending would be a severe understatement.
And it’s the truth universally recognised that when you have money you can’t see anything you like. Vouchers meant for a Hogmanay outfit were in serious danger of burning a hole in my beautiful stocking-filler handbag.
So feeling very ill, flushing with practically every movement, and wishing we didn’t drain yet another glass at lunch, I was glad I didn’t have to go through the rigmarole of trying things on, as most of the dressing rooms were closed.
Allow me to be completely and unashamedly discriminatory for a few sentences. I know many of you have beautiful children, and I appreciate you feel it’s important to instil the importance of fashion at a young age, but please, please, please!
If shops are discriminating against people who may not be the perfect size ten and can’t pick something straight off the hanger without trying it on — why can’t they discriminate against buggies at one of their busiest times?
If it wasn’t screaming children (hello! Hangover!) it was mothers and other such chancers using their chariots to ram raid and then barricade themselves into the best sale rails, leaving us singletons of nil confinements waiting patiently for them to move in front of some other unsuspecting ‘cooer’.
I’m also looking for a sponsor to develop my idea of a city centre conveyer belt to let shoppers get from A to B without having to dodge and distress people going the other way. Thinking along the lines of those in airports, how great would it be if you could just get on and off where you need to and conserve much needed energy for the sale. I think it’s a winner.
It was so bad I wasn’t even feeling the love for huge price cuts in the shoe department — let that be a warning to everyone. And there were so many beautiful pairs in my size that were calling out for me but a) I hadn’t put on good shoe-trying-on-shoes and b) Sitting down and standing up too much was not ideal.
I battled on though, determined that I would not be going home empty handed. My quest was fulfilled when I was just about to give up. It was only five and a half hours later but the vouchers entitled me to pass go and collect a truly beautiful dress for all my post festive functions. Well at least one anyway.
I’ve been invited to an annual dinner dance at the end of January and expected to be partnerless for it. But I’ve been permitted to look that far ahead (maybe because he’s already seen me in the dress and it is truly beautiful, despite me looking like I was recovering from three days of Christmas spirit) so that’s a good sign.
Thinking about other occasions which will be coming up shortly, I can’t believe that I will have been writing this tripe for a year when St Valentine’s Day comes around once more. Well done all of those who have been able to keep up with it all. I’m getting there.
And thank you for all those who continue to give me inspiration, sometimes without knowing it (and then finding out later)!
I wonder if this time next year I’ll be sitting signing off wondering what this new year will bring, and hoping my Valentine’s Day will be spent with someone other than David Gray on CD.