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.