Deck the Halls

I’m sorry, was that Christmas? I appear to have missed it.

It only seems a week ago that I was condemning shops selling tinsel in September and now here we are, four days post-Christmas, lumbered with 94 cards, seven unused crackers and five vats of turkey soup. I didn’t even manage to put the decorations up until the 22nd, and now I’m going to have to dismantle them all again. Ah screw it, they’re staying put – I’m extending Christmas!

But aside from being somewhat fleeting, Christmas in our household was successfully merry this year. Apart from the moment I discovered that Mum had put ‘Time Delay’ wrinkle reducing syrum in my stocking. When I asked her if she was trying to tell me something, the reply was “Well of course not lovely, but you can never start too early”. Fantastic. I’m awaiting a brochure on back pillows to fall through the letterbox any day now. However, I did feel slightly reassured when my brother pulled soap out of his stocking. He didn’t bother asking whether he was supposed to be taking a hint.

On the whole the present selection under our tree this year was brilliant. With the exception of the gifts from our wonderful but mildly insane elderly neighbour, whose idea of Christmas shopping involves a shufty round her house for anything she no longer wants. This year’s treats included two candles with the wicks cut off, and an ornament of two snowmen with wire arms, glued together at the torso. But it’s the thought that counts.

In keeping with our family tradition, Christmas day began with me waking my brother up at an unreasonable hour to open our stockings together, sat on the floor in the hallway. When I first started waking him up on Christmas day, I think he only got out of bed to humour me because I was so excited. Now, I’m still just as excited but I’m also ten years older, and I think next year an 8am wake-up call might genuinely piss him off. The rest of the day consisted of champagne (again, at an unreasonable hour of the morning) followed by steady drinking with family friends until lunch at 4pm. Then of course comes the plentiful array of BBC Christmas specials, at which point Dad falls asleep in his chair and wakes up just in time for our evening film. This year’s movie was Harry Potter.

After this point, we are usually starting to flake so we either go to bed or re-fill our glasses. However, this year we had a family gathering the following day to prepare for (why they choose to do this on a day when we are guaranteed to be hungover I have no idea). This involved re-tidying the house and preparing cheery answers to “So, how’s the job going?”, “Don’t you look like your mother?” (which, given that I apparently need anti-wrinkle cream, is probably more uncomfortably accurate this year than ever), and finally, the dreaded: “So, any new men on the scene we should know about?”. Considering that my aunts and mother spend at least two hours a day gossiping on the phone, they must know that I am still single, and I can therefore never understand if they ask this question out of spite, or because they think it might re-enforce the importance of finding a male.

So, in typical English manner, the only real complaint I have this year is about the weather. I was sure that the freezing temperatures we’ve had to endure was a tell tale sign that we could anticipate a beautiful white Christmas. Oh well. You can’t have everything…but I live in hope.

So, to all of you reading this, here’s a slightly belated but still wholly enthusiastic MERRY CHRISTMAS! And a very happy 2009.

'Tis the season to be...

So this is the first time in seven years that I’ve had to endure singledom at Christmas. I never thought I’d say this, but all the complaining, cynicism and eventual drowning in wine and tears suffered by singles at this time of year is completely justified. Suddenly the things that I used to find endearing while I was blissfully happy, like couples ice skating or gazing into each other’s eyes over coffee, now just makes me want to hurl baubles at them. Or tell myself that he is probably cheating and she must be awful in bed.

It wouldn’t be so unbearable if I could do all the things I want to do to keep my mind off the fact that nobody loves me. But no, everywhere I go is chock-full with happy couples. They’re riding the tube, cuddling in the theatre, walking hand in hand in the park. Even buying books together in Waterstones. I’m not sure if there are more of them this year, of if it’s just more apparent now that I am looking through the eyes of a single. Either way, I’ve had enough.

I am not leaving the house until Christmas is over and all those warm festive feelings that have been flying around are replaced with the empty feeling of depression that arrives every January. I will curl up in front of the fire, consume endless amounts of mulled wine and mince pies, and watch every episode of Sex and the City that reminds you that men are the devil and that the most important relationship is the one you have with yourself.

God Bless

God bless the person who decided to put chocolate in advent calendars.

According to Wikipedia, this was the clever invention of 1950's chocolate manufacturers, who managed to successfully cash in on Christmas and boost their sales immeasurably. But I can't help but think that, while gross profit may have been the original function of sugar-filled calendars, surely their primary purpose today is to give everyone an excuse to eat chocolate before 7am?

Not that I've ever needed one.

There's no escaping it

That'll teach me. After weeks of hearing my peers sniffling and sneezing I foolishly let myself believe that I might finally make it through one Winter without sleepless nights and an endless supply of Kleenex. But in true cruel fashion, Karma has punished me for my presumtuous assumptions and reduced me to my current state of self-pity and Lemsip.

But in fairness to Karma, I probably heightened the situation with a three hour, predominantly uphill walk in the rain on Sunday morning. Which not only left me freezing an drenched, but also with the feeling that I had squatted a small horse. That alone probably deserves the punishment. Who gets up at 10am on a Sunday, and on seeing that it's raining, thinks "Yes, a walk might be just what I need"?

So hear I am, miserable and suffering...any sympathy welcome.

The Break-Up

General female opinion has us assuming that there are two main behavioural differences between men and women in the context of "the break-up". The first is that while a female might drown herself in wine or tears, a male will generally drown himself in a plethora of other women. The second: that it will take a man half the time to recover than it will take a woman.

But I read an article in Marie Claire last month that got me thinking. The author's argument was that women forget just how strong their post break-up safety net is. The minute the relationship ends, all it takes is one phone call to a friend and the dejected female will find all sorts of heartbreak-repairing paraphenalia being flung her way: Tissues, wine and Ben&Jerry's, followed by an appropriate number of verbal slurs against the "evil ex" and finally, days of analysing every element of the break-up until a hopeful conclusion is reached.

But guys have no such support. I think the example the author gave was something like this...

After watching the love of his life walk down the street and out of his world, Jon returned to the table where the guys sat waiting. He sits.
"Anna and I just broke up." He looks down at his glass. It is half-empty. Silence.
"How long were you together?" Asks a friend.
"Three years."
"Oh. Right." More silence.

And that's it. No tissues, no hugs, no 4am phone calls. Just a stab-in-the-guts reminder of how many years they had been happy.

I will never understand it. Men know that (for the most part) they are capable of intimacy, because they share it with their partners. They laugh, cry, share their deepest secrets...for heaven's sake they name their balls! So if they can share an open and honest relationship with a woman, why not with their friends?

Perhaps they don't realise the difference it makes to have someone to just talk at. Then when you've finished, to insist that (if you are the dumpee) he is an evil pr*ck who doesn't know what he's lost, and you were too good for him anyway. Or (if you were the instigator) that you did everything you possibly could to make it work and there really was no alternative. And finally, to drag you out dancing, ply you with endless rounds of tequila shots, and do them with you. This in fact might be the ultimate act of friendship: suffering the mother of all hangovers for your happiness.

I don't know. Perhaps it's seen as emasculating. All I do know is that if it wasn't for my own very strong and practiced safety net, I would still be aged 19, fossilised and clutching a bar of Cadbury's beneath a pink duvet.

21 going on 60

It's official. I am a thirty-something trapped in a 21 year old's body. Not only am I now completely incapable of dealing with hangovers, I find myself more excited by the prospect staying in with a glass of Rose and Sex and the City than I do by the idea of a night out.

I didn't really realise the extent of my downfall, until a recent car journey with my MD when mid-convo he said "You're very....mature for 21 aren't you?". When I enquired as to what inspired this insight, he noted that all the other 'young people' in the company spend their leisure time partying in central London, or in one case Ibiza...whereas I had just described to him my thrilling weekend which consisted of one early night, minus-one X-Factor finalist, five chapters of Pride and Prej...and a two hour dog walk with my Mother. I think it's safe to say I am not living it up.

But the real problem is, I don't even care. Having sucessfully destroyed most of my internal organs at university, I am looking forward to spending the next few years relatively sober. Call me crazy, but I actually find the idea of spot-free skin, a fully functioning liver and stain-free clothes incredibly appealing. In fact, I would happily go tee-total if it weren't for a) The stigma attached to it and b) My love of Rose wine.

And the hangovers. Oh the hangovers! How I made it to 9am lectures after consuming an obscene mix of spirits and wine the night before, I don't know. Nowadays, all it takes is two small glasses on a Tuesday night and I will need a good half an hour to write and email the next morning. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just the queasiness, but its when the 2pm heart palpitations and dizziness kick in that I really suffer. You know the feeling. When you swivel your chair to talk to the person next to you and it takes a good few seconds to adjust your vision and suppress the need to vomit, before realising that you've spun too far and are actually facing the wall.

And the other pain about going out is the having to get ready part. I just dont have the energy to spend an hour in front of the mirror every Friday plucking, blending, and dousing my torso in a 'fake tan' which has both the look and consistency of crude oil. And then there's the aftermath of a night out to do battle with: stained clothes strewn about your room, sticky vodka rings on your surfaces, and that unique, residual smell of sweat mixed with sambuca that won't disappear for the next two days. Not to mention the photos appearing on Facebook the following morning of you air-guitaring on your knees in the middle of a grubby dancefloor with your skirt around your ribs...

See my point? A pair of PJs and a chick flick doesn't sound so bad now, does it?

The Life Plan

During my time at University, I had the pleasure of living with five beautiful, talented and wonderfully ridiculous women. And aside from our usual discussion topics of Mr Big, our daily calorie intake, and the aftermath of the Brazilian wax, one of our most frequent conversations was The Life Plan.

Every woman, whether she likes to admit it or not, has a Life Plan. There are some who try to pretend they are mysterious, adventurous, and happy to take life as it comes, because we presume that’s what men want. But deep down, every single one of us knows when we want to fall in love, to get married, to have babies. Most of the women I know have had their lives mapped out since they were 18.

Now, achieving the perfect Life Plan is entirely strategic, and works on the same principle as planning a dinner party. In this instance, one must start with the arrival of your guests, and work backwards to decide when to begin searing and chopping (or digging out the take away menu for Bombay Palace and nipping down to Tesco for some Pinot). Similarly with The Life Plan, a woman must start with the arrival of her baby (also known as the Baby Age) and work backwards from there, to determine when she needs to meet the love of her life. It usually sounds something like this…

“Right, I want a baby by the time I’m 26 (so I still have energy to run around with the kids)….which means that I will need to get pregnant by the time I’m 25. And I would like to be married for at least a year before then, and (obviously) leave a year to plan the wedding. Which means I need to be engaged by the time I'm 23. And I'd want need to live with the guy for a couple of years before that. Oh, and it takes at least a year of dating before you move in with someone, doesn’t it? So, if my calculations are right, I need to be with the man I’m going to marry…..a year ago. Oh. Right. Ok, well then maybe I won’t have kids until I’m 28...”

And so it continues.

And it’s ridiculous, because we all know that life never pans out the way we think it will. Yet we never factor in the possibility of break-ups, financial obstacles etc. Nope, it will all go swimmingly. In theory. But when we embark on The Life Plan, most women find themselves hitting a brick wall. Also known as the Male Life Plan, or lack thereof.

The mis-match of male and female Life Plans stems from the desired Baby Age. For women, this is usually around age 24-30; but for men it is anywhere from 30-45 (which funnily enough is the age when it is considered an atrocity for a woman to be single). You see the problem.

I blame the Banks (because that’s always fun, isn’t it?). Well, not the banks per se, but finance. The sole reason that men and women’s Life Plans are so asymmetrical is that as soon as a woman falls pregnant, it is usually assumed that she will adopt the role of stay-at-home Mum, leaving Dad the noble duty of working 9-5…for the rest of his life.

So you can understand why men are so keen to ‘live’ while they are young. Imagine knowing that from the day you start working, that’s it, you’re working forever. At least when we’ve had a horrible day at work, we can resort to that happy thought that this torture is only temporary, that it will be over once we are pregnant (which shouldn’t be too far away, right?). Hang on, perhaps that's the reason that women want children young. Scrap this “All I want is a loving family” bollocks - women just don’t want to work! Perhaps having a baby is just like having a permanent doctor's note...

But in all seriousness, as much as we would be prepared to wait that little while longer, biological constraints means that this really isn’t an option. Unconventional as it may be, women are actually most fertile at age 15 (although that would explain the rising number of Burberry-clad children pushing rubbish dump-retrieved prams around Britain’s council estates). But on the other hand, past the age of 30, the chances of a woman conceiving are dramatically reduced. According to the professionals, we should aim to conceive at least 10 years before the age our mother’s were when they hit menopause. That’ll be a fun conversation. Personally, I think I’d rather hazard a guess and take the risk, than utter the words “So Mum, about those night sweats…”.

So it seems like we are stuck between a rock and a hard place. Or rather, between biology and ideology. But unfortunately, there is no difinitive answer, because every relationship is different. I guess sometimes ladies, we just have to cast away The Life Plan and hope that we find ourselves where we want to be...even if this means taking some detours along the way.

A Childish Question

One of the senior staff members arrived at work last week with his adorable newborn. Within seconds the news had spread, causing the entirety of the female staff to throw off their heels and join a 100m dash to reception, leaving a sea of bewildered male colleagues in their wake.

My question today is: what is it about men with babies that is so attractive?

Ordinarily our heads would tell us that just because a man is good with children doesn’t necessarily mean that he will also be good with women. In fact, it could mean that he’s just a big kid: a trait that is highly unattractive to a female looking for the potential father of her child. But no, in the presence of an infant, all of this brilliant logic seems to leave our heads as our uterus grabs the reins.

I’m sure there’s some fascinating Oedipal explanation for this but if you ask me, it’s down to the simple fact that that next to being in love, women want children. And putting the two together is like pairing Ben and Jerry…pretty much every woman’s fantasy.

So my advice to the guys out there: forget the sports car, the Gucci sunglasses and breakfast at the Ritz…get yourself a baby and never again will you have to work for a woman’s affections.

The Saturday 9am

One of the things I am really struggling with while working is finding the time (and money) for self maintenance. The weeks creep up on you so quickly that one day you’re a hairless beauty swanning round in a skirt and open-toed kitten heels, and the next you’re wearing a hideous pair of last winter’s boots to hide your unpainted toenails, and donning a pair of 200 denier tights to trap the hairs desperately trying to escape through the holes.

This week, my current hairstyle (if you could call it that) had become so offensive that I was forced to settle for that one slot in every hairdresser’s diary which is reserved for serious cases only: the Saturday 9am. I had to take it, I had no choice. It was for the good of all the unfortunate souls in my day-to-day community who had endured my appalling hair long enough. However, it was most definitely not for the good of my unsuspecting hairdresser, whose face dropped at the sight of me dragging a hungover shadow of my former self into the salon, sinking into a chair, and propping Marie Claire between my eye line and the unforgiving mirror in front of me.

But when she approached I made the fatal mistake of removing my shield. And the sight was far worse than I could have imagined. Clusters of pink blemishes appearing on my chin (made worse by poorly applied foundation), bags as deep and grey as a slate quarry, and eyes the size of button holes due to my inability to face liquid eyeliner at 8am with a hangover. My only comfort was that the cold morning had brought with it a layer of fog which meant that I would remain unseen by anyone standing over five meters away. If only the fog could have decided to hang a bit lower, perhaps just below chin level.

Luckily, my hairdresser was sympathetic, and one of the few who do not feel it imperative to jabber on at their victims for 40minutes solid. We chatted for a while about X Factor and volumising mousse, among other intellectual topics, and about 20 minutes later I felt I was coming to terms with my hideousness suitably well. Until she started blow-drying and another flaw was staring me in the face. Not only were my roots over 2cm long, they were in fact tri-colour. Between the solid line of my natural 'mousy' colour and the Scandanavian Blonde which I apply monthly, was a section of tell-tale faded blonde, which gave away just how long I had left my roots the last time. The only way I can describe to you my traitorous three-colour hair is to liken it to a carpet swatch. You know, the ones which get darker in gradients and, despite the fact that they fall in the same colour range, each section is quite obviously different to its neighbour.

But the ordeal was nearly over, so I gritted my teeth, plastered on a contented smile and focused my attention back to Britney’s re-invention. I tried desperately to remain sympathetic to her downfall, but I couldn’t help thinking: craziness aside, perhaps shaving her head wasn’t the worst idea. At least she’d never have roots.

Lost in Austen

Staying on the period drama theme, I would like to comment on the traitorous ending to the ITV Drama series ‘Lost in Austen’.

As is the case with many a series, the finale was its downfall. The director seemed to have mistakenly assumed that long standing Pride and Prejudice fans would be open-minded enough to enjoy a manipulation of the Elizabeth/Darcy ending that they hold so dear. Everyone knows that Mr Darcy has to end up with Lizzie. However, this series concluded with Lizzie running off to Hammersmith and Darcy locked in an embrace with time-travelling Amanda Price from 21st century London. To quote the man himself, it will not do.

And it was such a shame, because up until then the series had been fab. Imaginative concept, good casting, and although the Mr Darcy did not hold a torch to Colin Firth (a feat that no man should ever attempt), he was suitably rugged and smouldering to pull off a wet t-shirt. Which, as we know, is the most pivotal part of the story.

Oh well, I guess we can’t have everything. But a note to future directors: don't mess with Austen.

Further to my Previous Post...

In response to my previous post, it seems I have a contradiction on my hands. It is interesting that mentioning anything remotely feminist seems to be the one motivation for the males of this world to revolt and finally become interested in something we have to say (and ironic, that we should use feminism to achieve the one thing we have been willing men to do since the Suffragettes came to town). Goodness, I'm becoming cynical in my old age.

Anyway, as I was saying, I seem to have come across a counter-arguement. So, in respect for balanced reporting, and for the male species, I feel it is only fair to examine it. My first challenge came from numerous outraged male friends, who are adamant that they always holds doors open and mind their manners in the presence of the fairer sex. And the second came from the reliable London Metro, with a slightly different sentiment. The small opinion piece from which this emerged was entitled: 'Manners or Sexism?', and consisted of male readers' opinions on appropriate train etiquette. One particular entry read the following:

"I have stopped being a gentleman to strangers as you no longer get any thanks. I used to always let women take the last seat on the train and regularly didn't get so much as a smile. When there's pushing to get on a train, nine times out of ten it's a woman who's responsible. So, the reason there are fewer gentleman is because there are no longer any ladies." (J Bebb, Surrey)

I must admit, he has a point. But I would ask you, Mr Bebb, to make allowances for situation. We are enduring public transport for heaven’s sake! Evaluating our behaviour while we are starting to feel and smell like a pack of sardines is hardly fair. Now, if you put a drink in our hand and tell us that you prefer women without make up, you will find us much more genial.

It is also important to consider that the reason you did not receive a smile is that we may simply not have noticed your gesture. I spend 98% of my commute actively trying to block out the fact that I am riding a train at all (which is pretty hard to do whilst getting on and off, which accounts for the 2%). And as for the pushing….we have to push harder: we’re smaller! A woman needs guts to force her way off a packed train and avoid spending her morning enjoying the graffiti-embellished sights to a from London Waterloo, until rush hour eases.

This said, I do think that J Bebb makes a relevant observation, albeit a somewhat exaggerated one. The world could do with far more pleasantries, regardless of gender. So I put to you this compromise. Ladies, don’t let the London rage get the better of you, and gentlemen…please, please, please prove me wrong. I can't believe that chivalry is dead quite yet.

Oh to be Elizabeth...

With every new exposure to period drama, I am increasingly convinced that I would have belonged very well in Jane Austen's England. Aside from the lack of women's rights, and the unjust system of social hierarchy, the 17th Century would have been a wonderful time to have lived. Only if you moved in the higher circles, obviously. And didn't have to marry a horrendous man for his £10,000 a year.

Oh, to live the life of ladies. Ladies who were encouraged to read, to write, to sing. To spend their time enjoying beautiful scenery and wholesome company. These pleasures were their life, rather than things to be sacrificed because of their lives.

And wouldn’t it be fantastic to live in a society where dance skills were not only obligatory; but a virtual necessity? There would have been no drug-driven maniacs brandishing glow sticks at Miss Elizabeth Bennett. Everyone was expected to be accomplished, to appreciate the arts. As opposed to today's offerings, which consist of drunk uncles butchering 'My Way' on the karaoke, and light switches being passed off as 'Art' at the Tate Modern. Back then, music came from instruments, not mixing decks. People sung in tune, with melodies and harmonies and symphonies. And with nobody suggesting that I ‘Smack my bitch up’ or ‘Superman that hoe’.

And believe it or not, people actually spoke to each other. They valued one another's company and kept engagements. Rather than screening phone calls from family members, or cancelling dates with a last minute text. And because they spent their time reading and writing, rather than watching Jeremy Kyle, the majority of them were well read. Or if not, at least literate.

And the men. The men were gentleman. Even the scoundrels were confined by manners when out in society. You certainly wouldn't get some drunk chav spilling his Stella over you and grabbing your backside, whilst grunting obscenities into your ear. No, in Jane Austen's England they were all poise, charm and manners. Even the ugly ones, which advantageously rendered them much more attractive. There was courtship, stolen glances. Men had to ask a father's permission for his daughter's hand, before they asked the lady herself (which really is just common sense, because let's face it, there can be no more rigorous screening filter than a daughter's father).

Yes, I think the 1800's would have been a most delightful time to be a lady.

It's here...

Well, it's officially Autumn. How do I know? Because a conker impacted my head this morning, while walking to the bus stop.

I had walked past it, but something made me turn back and pick it up. And after clasping it in my cold palm for a second, I realised what it was. Childhood. At a time when my life is moving so fast...it was incredibly comforting to close my eyes, feel the wind lift my scarf, and become that nine-year-old tomboy again, collecting conkers in my dungarees.

But when I opened my eyes, a surge of sadness hit me harder than the conker had. So much time has passed. And I am never going to feel like that again...To be so carefree that my only concern was who was going to sit in the go-cart, and who would have to pull. I call it a 'go-cart'; My brother and I would slot a plank of wood through the collapsed, metal frame of an unused pram and drag each other around on it, using a skipping rope as reins. To us though, it was a go-cart.

Mid-thought, life interrupted me; just as is always does. And as usual, the bus was packed.

Writing Assignment - First Chapter of 'If Only You Knew'

After a late champagne lunch and a series of emotional goodbyes, it was all over. As a blast of warm air hit me on the way out, I pictured Bridget Jones storming out on Daniel Cleaver to RESPECT by Aretha Franklin, and wished I could have made a more memorable exit. Except that my boss was female. And hadn’t cheated on me with a skinny American. But a well-timed exit theme tune might have been nice.

As I steered my way through the crowds towards Shepherds Bush station I took in my surroundings for the last time. In the metropolis of London it’s far too easy to get swept along with the agitated commuters and miss the quirks that the city has to offer. As the station came into view, so did the distinctive red, orange and green Rastafarian hat of Bob Marley. Well, not actually Bob Marley, but an uncanny look alike who has happily played his flute outside the station for the past four years, despite the fact that the case at his feet remains empty. I returned his boyish grin and reached into my bag for my purse when my mobile started ringing.

“Hello, Annabel Rose speaking.”

“Hi darling, it’s me.”

“Mum, you’re still calling on private number.”

“Well I don’t have time to faf around with all these settings. I should have never let your father choose it for me. Apparently I can take videos with it. What on earth would I want to take a video of?” I can’t help grinning at the thought of dad trying to teach my technology un-savvy mother the wonders of Bluetooth.

“I’m just about to go down to the tube, Mum. Is everything ok?”

“Oh yes, fine. I just wanted to know how your last day went. Isn’t Paul picking you up?”

“No, his conference ran over so we’re meeting for dinner. But today was lovely. It’s going to be strange not having the girls around.”

“I’m sorry darling, I’ve drawn a blank. Remind me when you start at Live?”

“Wednesday. Mum I’m sorry but I really have to go, I’ll ring you later.”

“Ok sweetie, send my love to Paul.” I returned my phone to the comfort of my Chloe bag and looked up to realise that I had been standing directly in front of the station’s turnstiles. Avoiding a poignant glare from the robust station attendant, I grabbed my ticket from my coat pocket, rammed it into the slot and trotted hastily towards the escalator. I loved riding escalators as a child. In fact, I remember being hauled aside by the security guard at Notting Hill Gate once for trying to run up one the wrong way. But now, between the handrails which move that second faster than the step, and the posters that remind you of all the broadways shows you still haven’t had time to see, I would much sooner walk. On the up side, it does give me that extra minute to study the subtly expensive ring on my left hand.

As I neared the bottom of the escalator, I beamed in the knowledge that when I turned the corner, I would be able to once again admire the beautiful arches and lines of the words which filled me with pride: “Paul Bellamont, A Dangerous Obsession”. Aside from being slightly eccentric, Paul was everything I wanted in a man. As a bestselling novelist he had his share of fortune and fame, but it was his passion that I admired most. Our engagement itself had been a whirlwind one; a chance meeting in a taxi queue followed by a date at the most prestigious jazz club in London. Then two months, three bouquets sent to my office and a weekend in Venice later, he proposed. Given his past extravagancies, I should have seen it coming. But on my 26th birthday he knelt beside me in a room filled with everyone I loved, and I was dumbstruck. In fact, a good thirty seconds passed before I could give a reply. I suppose I had convinced myself it was all too good to be true…

Mid-thought, I realised that the tube was approaching and quickly claimed my position at the very end of the platform, trying not to wince as the carriage screeched to a stop. The doors jumped open directly in front of me - not by accident, I might add - four years of tube riding teaches a girl a thing or two. Now this is the fun part.

I find that where one sits on the tube can determine the extent to which your evening might be free of PMS induced outbursts. Pick the wrong train at the wrong time and you can easily find yourself cringing beneath the armpit of an over-worked stock broker. But today, as I perched on a seat opposite a smartly dressed male and glanced at the toned arms that flexed beneath his shirt, I decided that this particular evening would be smooth sailing. I have always been a strong believer in window shopping, be it a beautiful man or that damn pair of Jimmy Choo’s which I still couldn’t afford. But that was all about to change - the shoes, I mean, not the man.

Four years at Prime had equipped me with a valuable insight into the world of brand experience, but it was time to move on. There was a time when I had enjoyed marketing strictly female brands. Whether perfume or pantyliners, I knew the target market better than I knew myself. But after our third Tampax promotion, I decided that I needed something more challenging and applied for a higher and infinitely better paid post as an Account Planner at Live.

A sense of pride crept up on me and I found myself smiling, which I quickly discovered was being reflected by the muscular blonde stranger opposite me. Hoping that something impossibly intelligent or witty would fall out of it, I opened my mouth to speak. But at that same moment the train lurched, screeched and plunged the stranger’s elusive smile into darkness.

Unrealistic Expectations (Men steer clear)

At the risk of sounding like a complete damsel, I've been wondering...Is it too much to ask for a man to just fight for you? I can't help feel a bit cheated, having been exposed at an impressionable age to films like Robin Hood, Pride and Prejudice, and The Notebook, which instill into young girls such false expectations of love that no man will ever be good enough. Are there any Mr Darcys or Noah Calhouns out there? Or do they really only exist in films and power ballads?

As depressing as this is, ladies, I am starting to think that 'he' really isn't out there. I just don't think that men know how important it is for a woman to feel irreplaceable; to feel like someone's life would be incomplete without them. There is nothing more frustrating than hearing "Ok. If that's what you want", when all you want to hear is "No. I love you, and I'm not letting you go." And for me, it's a deal breaker.

But if men really don't know this (or they do, but don't want to damage their delicate egos) does that mean that I should stop expecting? Is it sensible to end a relationship that is not 100% perfect, solely because there might be someone else out there who will turn up at your door and tell you that you're fantastic and breathtaking (and all the other things we emotional women love to hear) and will do anything to keep you in his life?

I know I might never find it, but I refuse to give up on romance that easily.

Whoops...

Granted, this is horrifying. But can you truly say you've never been tempted Ladies?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/merseyside/4253849.stm

Writing Assignment: Chapter Beginning

“If you loved someone, you loved him and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love.”

I have reads this four times over.

In 1949 George Orwell wrote 1984: compelling, unconventional; one of those books you read for experience rather than pleasure, so that you can talk about it with others and pretend that you posses layers of unearthed knowledge. Admittedly, it really is thought – provoking and even I can appreciate its poignant relevance to society today. But that’s not why I have read this sentence four times over.

My concentration was broken three minutes ago by a forcedly genial battle between one raised English accent and two fast – paced French ones. A slow, grey haired man at the red desk behind me has spent the past three minutes explaining, with little success, to a bewildered French couple that their travelcard will take them only as far as Putney Bridge. I still do not understand precisely the zones system which dictates the London underground. Evidently, neither did the French couple. I suppress a smile as the frail information attendant repeats for the second time that if they want to go to Wimbledon they will need to buy another ticket, and that Tim Henman would probably not be playing as it is no longer tennis season. At this point, I catch the eye of a woman in a red summer dress sitting opposite who rolls her eyes and returns my grin. I was not the only one enjoying the dialogue. After a further two minutes the old man’s patience wears out and he hurriedly offloads the couple onto an unsuspecting platform attendant.

Eventually, the impregnable conversations of passers by and the monotone platform announcements of Waterloo Station fade once more into the background, allowing me to return to the year 1984. It feels like only thirty seconds has passed when my literary bubble is burst once more. This time by a screaming child. That child that appears at every station, that jumps off benches into the path of oncoming passengers and screams to high heaven at the words “not today”. I always feel for the parents. This particular couple appear to have given up reprimanding and are now feigning ignorance, silently willing the next five years to pass quickly. Reluctantly, I bookmark page 190, return George to the bottom of my tan shoulder bag and, zipping it back up, close my eyes.