… that “real” friends of mine read this blog too (hello T).

And then, when I remember (as I did this weekend when I received a text enquiring after “the crush”) I turn a hideous shade of puce and a wash of shame sweeps over me. Especially as T, dear friend that he is, may well have been discussed previously on this blog.

So what now? Do I censor myself, just because of T? Or, do I, more likely, see this blog as an opportunity for T and I to carry on our friendship in an odd, one-sided manner, where he gets to hear all about my dull problems and I never get to hear his?

I’m all embarrassed now, don’t know what to write. And certainly don’t want to divulge the details of the very young man (well, 24) who ended up in my bed on Friday night.

I am officially a cougar after snogging a 20 year old on Friday. I mean Jesus – I’m far too old. What surprised me is what a good snog he was. Worthy of a rematch should I ever meet him again. I’m sure the boys I snogged when I was twenty were all pretty rubbish. Too much tongue and washing machine tendancies. Shame I can’t remember what “Tom the twenty year old” looked like.

The Crush has informed me that once he comes back from Afghanistan, he’s making his way to Miami to teach Americans to play with helicopters. Probably. Oh, and he doesn’t know when he’ll be back. If ever.

I went for a job interview. The job’s in Switzerland. I still haven’t found out whether I’ve got it or not. Part of me really wants to go. It’ll be fun to be abroad, new country, new people, new experiences. The other half of me is so comfortable in my little world that I can’t quite bear to wrench myself out of it. Deep down, however, I know that if the job’s offered, I’ll take it. We’ll see.

Only 16 days until I fly out to see the parents. Just think, 3 weeks of sunshine. I’m fake tanning in preparation.

N has moved out of London.

I’m still broken. I can’t remember if I mentioned it but I got broken playing rugby a couple of months ago. A trip to the doctors on Thursday confirms I’m still broken (as if I didn’t already know that) and there’ll be no more rugby this year. The frustration is not becoming.

I realised the other day that it’s been *whisper* 7 months since I last… ahem… [it's a family show]. Yes, I know. 7 months. I also realised that telling men you’re really not into one night stands (which I’m not) is a sure fire way of them trying to persuade you that they’re the one and if you have a one night stand with them it’ll be the best thing you’ve ever done. Yeah, alright boys.

I am amused that it turns out I tell “my boys” out in Afghan more than I tell my friends sometimes. The girlfriend of one of the chaps I write to came round on Saturday (for a Strictly, X Factor, wine night) and she turned to me suddenly and said “what’s this about Switzerland?”. I’d told her fella and hadn’t bothered to mention it to her.

There’s an item on Jeremy Vine this afternoon about cyber bullying. It reminds me of when I was 16. The internet was new. Very new. Someone set up a site about me. Can’t remember why or when or what. I do remember crying though. What an odd memory.

Dear N -

You embarrassed me on Saturday.

I don’t know why you turned up to the club like that. I knew it as soon as I saw you. Glazed eyes. Feeble smile. Voice slightly too loud. I was embarrassed.

Did you notice I avoided you? Did you notice I did a lot of talking to other people? No, not to make you jealous. I was embarrassed.

I wouldn’t dance with you, no matter how much you tried to drag me onto the dance floor. I was embarrassed.

And I shouldn’t be. I’m not with you anymore. I’m not part of your life. People know I’m free.

But I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed for you. And I was sad too.

Please realise what you’re doing to yourself. Please realise you’re alienating people.

With love. Of course.

Hold onto your hats children, two blog posts in the space of a month. I know, I know. Sometimes I just spoil you.

I was commenting on twitter earlier (and if you don’t follow me, why the hell not!) at how content I was feeling recently. It hit me last night actually.

There I was, lying on the sofa, glass of wine in hand, something suitably rubbish on the television, having just eaten some supper. I was lying there and just…being.

I have great friends.

I first starting playing rugby when I moved up to London. At that point in time I was living in the east end of London (I know!) and knew pretty much no one. I had a rubbish job and I worked stupid hours. My room was tiny, my housemates were alright but not really my kind of people. I was lonely.

And then I met up with a great uni friend. He persuaded me to come to an event at the rugby club. Up I pitched and there they were, all these wonderful people, drinking, laughing, stupidly friendly. They sat me in the corner of the bar and proceeded to help me get very drunk.

5 years later and I’m still at the club, still playing rugby (well, not at the moment obviously) and the people I’ve met are brilliant. I don’t think I’d naturally be friends with some of them – I just wouldn’t have met them under any other circumstances not that I wouldn’t like them – and it’s that aspect of rugby that I adore. A big melting pot of different people who all have a passion in common. Well, a couple actually - rugby and beer.

However different we all are, I know without a doubt that if I needed help, they’d be there to delve it out.

I am starting to get a semblance of a social life back.

I know that makes me sound as if I didn’t have a social life when I was with N, and I did, but this social life is…different.

I still see him out and about – he still plays for the rugby club – but it’s ok. I can go out. I can chat. I can flirt with lots of different people. I can do all the things I could do when I was with him but… it’s different. And not necessarily in a bad way.

When I first broke up with N, I felt alone. Although I’d always vowed I’d never become one of “those girls” (you know the type, they get with a man and there’s no sign of them until they break up with said man) I think I was getting there. Sometimes, I’d not go out because “I couldn’t be bothered” but looking back, it might have been because I just didn’t want to leave the house – I was happy in my little married couple existence.

Now, I’m starting to go out more, try new things. The diary is slowly filling up and I’m getting out there.

I have some money. Not a lot, not enough, but some.

Ok, so I’m still hugely in debt from University and the money I earn just about covers the amount that wings its way out of my bank account each month but I still have some money.

Like today. I bought the box set of the West Wing. Because I could. Because I wanted to.

I’m lucky. There are lots of people who don’t have that freedom.

I’m in no way near minted but the fact that I have the chance to do something nice for me occasionally? That makes me happy.

I love the freedom that living on my own brings me.

Those nights when I don’t want to go out? I don’t have to. And I don’t have housemates telling me I’m dull.
If I don’t want to clean up my mess, I don’t have to. And I don’t have to clean up after other people. When it gets too much I can complain to myself. That makes it all the more fun.

I can walk around naked, I can have long baths, I can have a million and one books on the go and leave them everywhere. No one cares. No one needs to know.

I can live off pizza and chocolate and don’t have anyone nagging me. I can drink wine if I want. I can listen to shit music. I can dance around the sitting room singing to Mika.

When I come home at the end of the day, I walk up the two flights of stairs to my little house, close the door behind me, drop my handbag on the floor, and exhale. Peace.

I have fun crushes

Some of the men I fancy will never be mine. Some of the men I fancy don’t know I like them. Some of them are just impossible.

That, however, is not the point. The point is I’m crushing on men. And it’s fun. I like that frisson of excitement when I see them, get an email off them, have a drink with them. I like the flirting. More than that, I like the flirting which won’t go anywhere. It’s practice and, as we all know, practice makes perfect!

Sure, one day, I want more. A woman can’t live on bread alone (I was going to say something else there but I couldn’t think of a good enough euphemism so bread it is) after all. Sometimes a lady needs… company.

Alright, mind out of the gutter. That kind of company is always welcome but it’s also a bit more. Being taken out on dates. Being sent flowers (I love being sent flowers). Thoughtful messages. Someone to put my feet up on when sharing a bottle of wine in front of the X factor. You know, company.

In conclusion

Although it doesn’t seem like a lot – all of the above makes me feel happy. As for the other thing, you know, the company - that will come. Eventually. But someday, I know it will.

Until then… well, I’ll just get on with it.

I know you’ve been worried.

Images of me being taken to the abattoir probably have been running through your mind.

Maybe I’d been put out to pasture and was now spending my days eating hay?

You’ve been coming to this page, every day, refreshing every five minutes in the vain hope that a post from me will pop up, haven’t you. (ok, I know you haven’t, even a cow can read stats y’know) 

But the truth is, I’ve been busy. Work has exploded with, well, work like stuff. I have moved house, settled in started to get on with life.

And I had an epiphany.

People don’t have epiphanies anymore. They realise. They understand. They come to the conclusion.

Me? I had a full blown, lights, music and angels epiphany.

It was a Friday night. I was, as is my wont nowadays, sitting on the sofa having just finished watching Strictly. I decided to text N. Something inane, something random. I got a reply “am pissed. oh shit. trouble. kasdkjakjf”.

It was 10 o’clock.

And then it struck me. I don’t need this man. I don’t need his shit. Hoorah.

And I don’t.

Don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against people getting drunk. Hell, it’s been known that a drink or two has passed my lips once in a while (shocking, I know). But just getting that text reminded me of the bad things about going out with N. And I realised that, although I don’t neccessarily need something *better*, I need something *different*.

And so here I am, content. Busy at work but content.

Plus I have a crush.

But that’s for another time.

Sorry for the radio silence.

~~~~~

The last few weeks have been spent variously househunting, going on holiday, working my arse off, running, eating too much, drinking too much, thinking, thinking thinking.

~~~~~

It’s been nearly 6 months now since I broke up with N. In that time, I think I’ve changed a lot. I’m a little more lonely. I’m a little more reticent. I feel like I’m a desperate old woman. I’m shy and a little more scared.

~~~~~

I didn’t realise how nervous I’d become until I came home from work the other night. My housemate had been watching the cricket, drinking beers while he watched. He was drunk. He was high spirited. He and one of my other housemates were messing around, play fighting, shouting. I got scared. I didn’t like the fact that there were men around me, shouting.

~~~~~

I move into my own place next week. A new beginning. A whole flat all to myself. I pretend I’m not scared of the prospect. I pretend that I’m looking forward to the adventure. Underneath the bravado, I’m scared that I’m going to be alone. For the last four years, N has been my best friend. He’s been the person I went to with a problem. That I cried to. That I laughed with. That I bitched to. That I relaxed with. He was the main person in my life. Now he’s not there.

~~~~~

I went to a party on Saturday. Surrounded by friends and yet… and yet still not completely sure of myself. Not sure whether I was welcome. Whether people wanted me there or whether I had turned into one of those people that are just tolerated.

~~~~~

It feels like I have to go through the whole process of making friends again. I’m not sure I remember how. I made an effort on Saturday. I talked to new people. I had a bit of a flirt. I spoke to my old friends. I asked them round to the new flat. I asked them to come and see me. I don’t know if they will. I don’t know if they want to.

~~~~~

For the past couple of months, I’ve been using N. Scratch that, we’ve been using each other. It’s going to stop. Although I know I don’t want to go back, in the haze of the next day hangover, it hurts. It was a stupid idea to start with. It’s a stupid idea now. It’s going to stop.

~~~~~

I need to establish a little black book.

His arms curl around me. Branches, surrounding me, giving me roots.

I can feel his familiar body behind me, moulding to my shape. I can feel him breathing on the back of my neck. Warm, regular breathing, lulling me to unconsciousness.

In this cocoon of arms and legs I am safe. I am not alone.

The alarm pierces the fug of sleep.

I slowly wake up and stretch across the empty bed.

Another day has begun.

“I’m running away”, I whined. “There’s no way I’m doing this.”

I pause, eyeing up an escape route.

“You don’t believe me, but I will.”

Blonde grins at me, sips her wine and then studiously examines the “speeding ticket” we’d both been handed, ignoring me.

“Welcome to tonight’s Slow Dating event” I read. “You’ll be give four minutes to get acquainted with each other. At the end of each four minute date we will ring a bell. Guys, you move on to the next table. Ladies, stay where you are.”

That’s easy for you to say. Every part of me is urging me to bolt. We’re sitting outside a pub on New Oxford Street. From the outside, its black paintwork makes it look more like a goth joint than a bar for slick, hip, city dwellers. This doesn’t bode well.

I glance around, mentally summing up everyone I see. Fat. Ugly. Desperate. Too short. Too… meh.

Somewhere a bell rings. I take a deep breath. This is it. Plunging, headfirst, back into the game.

I settle myself at table 6, sticking the rather embarrassing name tag on the table, hoping against hope that there will at least be someone semi-interesting to talk to. Blonde sits next to me, ready to pre-warn with a well practiced look if my impending date is going to last 4 minutes or 40.

I have a couple of stock questions in mind, just incase things are really going slowly.

Thankfully, my first date, B, the Scottish pharmaceutical software engineer is perfectly nice and easy to talk to. Shame he’s ugly. The next 11 dates aren’t much better. Every time the bell rings, my heart sinks a little further. Wine slips down my throat far too quickly. Why don’t they have waiters at this thing? And then, as soon as it begun, it is over. I thank my last date and high tail it to the door.

For your amusement, below is the word for word transcript of my notes on the evening (additional notes added in the cold light of day in italics.)

• K – Irish. Air traffic control [when asked what his perfect job would be. Something to do with the high-vis vest he said]
• C – Irish. NZ. Climb [instantly forgettable. Broad accent and ginger hair.]
• J – Taiwaan. Find himself [incredibly quiet. Blonde wondered whether this was so us ladies had to lean forward to hear him giving him a perfect view down our tops? His photo on the site shows him spread across a bed. His big mission in life - to find himself.]
• R – Essex. Fat. DJ [need I add more?]
• T – Malaysia. Red Wine. Champagne [a man with a passion for wine. And that's about it, it seems]
• P – Dull. Gay. Grand Designs ["Have you been to an event like this before?" I ask. "Ooh yes," he says "lots. But no one's ever ticked me" I wonder whether the reason he hasn't had much success is because he keeps going to straight events.]
• J – Mad lottery man [apparently J goes to a lot of speed dating events. Like, every week. Apparently he makes things up. Evidently, he's slightly mad... or a little slow - backed up by the fact that my friend's 2 year old can write better than he could. This week, his parents had won the lottery. Yes, really. "What's it like talking to a multi-millionaire?" J asks me. I bite my tongue but want to answer "I don't know. I'll let you know when I meet one"]
• Y – Kuwait. Sweet but no cigar [a nice guy. Not my type but I nice guy. To be fair though, anyone would seem nice after the mad lottery man.]
• R – Indian. Wants to change the world ["I've been in London for 3 years," R tells me, "but I don't really have any friends. I have people I work with but no one I could go out for coffee with." I'm tempted to tick him, just so he feels wanted.]
• M – Costa Rica. Film [this is all I got out of M. He talked a lot. Nothing sunk in. Obviously, not a great date.]
• Y – Numbers [again, if the lasting impression I get from a man is "numbers", I don't think it's going to be the love affair of the century.]

And so, this morning, an email came through, asking me to tick my favourites. 3 minutes later, I receive this…

“We are sorry that you didn’t tick anyone from this event. The good news is that under the terms of our guarantee, you are entitled to a free event in future (any time within the next six months).We run regular events near you and invariably there are completely different people at each event, so fingers crossed that next time, there may well be someone who rocks your boat.”

Does this mean I have to do it all again?

“Oh come on,” Blonde cajoles. “Just think, if it all goes horribly wrong, at least we can make a blog post out of it.”

My foray into the murky world of singledom has, thus far, not been exceptionally successful. On doing a quick tally this morning, I find the average age of people looking at my dubious profile is 38. Considering I’m looking for men from 28 – 35, I don’t think I’m really hitting the mark.

As sure as I am that “ash” the 76 year old, 5′7” widow is a lovely guy I’m not sure I’m right for him. He’s looking for someone who “enjoys dressing up when required” and “likes to go to Dinner Dances”. I don’t think jeans is going to cut it. However, I am “a good Driver” and “as an extra bonus” I can “drive on the Continent”. What makes me feel a little sad is that fact that the poor man has been alone for 13 months and his son has told him “it’s time to move on”. Harsh.

However, I persevere. And this is why it comes to pass that Blonde and I are going speed-dating (or, as the organisers put it “slow” dating – you get a whole 4 minutes per date) next week.

And now over to you, dear readers. What the hell am I going to say?

…for your guests, that is.

1. Free bar

To me, this is a bit of a no-brainer. I understand that some people just don’t have the budget but for me, a wedding is a celebration and therefore should have free alcohol in order to help the er…  celebration

2. Minimal use of children

I don’t mean in the slave labour kind of way – that should be done as much as possible (kidding, kidding, don’t report me to the NSPCC). What I mean is ok, people have children, I can’t begrudge them procreation. What I can get a bit miffed at is the fact they feel they have to bring them along to weddings. Weddings are adult things. They’re all about love and sex and marriage. They’re about getting drunk and flirting. They are not about small ankle biters tripping up unsuspecting guests and making drunken 27 year olds feel like they should have done more with their life.

3. Get a good band

I know music is subjective but when you’re planning your wedding, realise that not everyone shares your taste of music. Also realise that if people are drunk enough, they will dance (see point 1). Therefore, get a band that rocks. They should be a) good and b) play classics. Rehashing bad pop songs from the last 40 years does not count. Neither does playing slow songs at 8:30 in the evening. Who’s in the mood for a slow dance then?

4. Don’t force cheesiness on your guests

The first dance? Don’t do it. What could be more embarrassing for you or your guests than watch you and your beloved shuffle your way round an empty dancefloor to “My heart will go on” sung by an overweight backing singer. Not a lot. That’s what.

5. Make sure you have a good mix of people

I know that old people are obligatory at weddings. I know the ugly cousin who you’ve never spoken to probably needs to be there too. But the rest of the guests. These are yours. Have a good mix. Have single people, taken people, straight people, gay people, older people, young people. Make sure you have one “gets on with everyone” person on each table. Get your bridesmaids/ushers to do the work of introducing people that will get on. How pleased would you be if your wedding resulted in another? Well exactly.

6. Help out with logistics

If you’re going to have your wedding in the middle of nowhere (which I fully intend to) then make sure you help your guests out. Give them numbers of cab companies. List local B&Bs/hotels etc, give good directions. There’s nothing worse than people having to leave at 10:30 because they’ve got to get the last train home.

7. Feed your guests

I know that you’re likely to have a sit down meal with most of your guests but, if you’re budget’s a bit on the small side, you might invite a load of people just to the reception. If so, let them eat too. Why not offer cheese, biscuits, chutney, fruit and port at around 10:30 – that’ll help them soak up some of the booze and stave off those hunger pangs. And besides, everyone loves cheese!

8. Don’t let the speeches drag

It’s lovely that everyone wants to speak at your wedding but please don’t enforce it on everyone else. If great-uncle Alan from Atlanta wants to tell you how pretty you are, can’t he do it later. When no one else is listening? Eat. Listen to the father of the bride. Listen to the groom. Toast. Drink. Dance. Enough.

9. Don’t force compliments

Guest books. I hate them. Imagine, you’re slightly tipsy and the happy couple are asking you to think of something nice to say. All you can think of is “Why aren’t there any single men here you bastards? Don’t you care about us single people now you’re married?” and yet you end up writing “Congratulations! I know you’ll be very happy together! Just think, if you last 15 years and you’d have killed her instead of married her, you’d be free!”

10. Have fun

It’s your wedding. If you’re not having fun, no one else will.

Everyone, but everyone, is getting married. Yes, even you’re probably getting married. You just don’t know it yet.

It’s been just over 3 months since the N thing and I think I’m ready to start doing new things. Meeting new people. Having some fun. There’s only so much moping around one can do on a Saturday night. I’ve complained endlessly about how lonely I’ve been and so now I’ve decided to actually do something about it.

And this is where you come in, dear reader.

I’m contemplating the online thing. Does it still have such a stigma against it that I need to call it “thing”? Can’t I just come out and say I’m thinking about online dating? It’s given people blog fodder in the past. Could I be one of those? Could I put myself through it?

If the answer to these questions is yes, I could and I will, how do I go about it? Where do I start? How would I describe myself?

“Sad lonely old woman looking for a fling to cheer herself up.”

Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a winner.

Over to you.

When I was younger, I used to laugh at the problem pages in magazines.

“Dear Audrey,” some poor unfortunate would write, “my boyfriend says that if I don’t sleep with him his balls will turn blue and burst all over me. Is this true? Does it make a difference if I take it anally?”

Audrey would then tut tut and proceed to explain to the lady in question that “my balls will go blue” is just a poor excuse used by a certain section of society when they want to get their rocks off. She would always offer a pamplet or premium phone line number of some sort and that would be that.

The one “problem” I never understood however, was that of sleeping with the ex boyfriend. “Why would you do that?” I’d ask myself. “Why would you go back once you’d decided it was over?”

Surprisingly, it’s quite easy.

But the really weird thing? The really really weird thing? I’m ok with it. I know what it was. I know it doesn’t change what is. I think he’s aware of what it was and what is. N and I aren’t back together. We’re not going to get back together.

I actually feel much better because of it – maybe it’s because we ended on such an unfinished note. But yesterday was fun, we hung out, we had a giggle, we messed around. And then I left. And it was ok. And I’m ok.

It’s been three weeks. By rights, this should mean that I’m starting to live my life again, right? In reality, I’m not. It’s too far down the line to continue boring my friends and so it falls to you, dear anonymous internet, to take the burden of my woes.

I’m lonely.

Shit, I know I’m not really lonely. I know there are people out there who are really lonely – those without another person in the world. Those who have nobody.

I have people. I have my friends, I have my family. But you know what? I feel alone. Ergo, I am lonely. In my own self-obsessed, pathetic little way.

As I lie in bed at night, schizophrenically relishing and fearing that vast expanse of bed I can stretch across. Feeling cold and small. And alone.

I wake up in the morning, Radio 4 abusing my ears, telling tales of doom and gloom, recession, depression and rain. I wait there, listening. Showers, doors banging, footsteps. Noise, everywhere. And yet I am there in my room, in my own separate bubble. Alone.

I sit in the office. I look at the to-do list. The piles of paper. The parcels. The radio burbles in the background.  Computer beeps. Clicks. Thames keeps on flowing by. Sun skipping off the surface and into my eyes. And I don’t do what I should. I just sit here. Gazing, daydreaming. Alone.

It continues. A perpetual circle. No progression. Just spirals. I feel fine. I don’t feel fine. I feel fine. I don’t feel fine. On and on and on.

And I’m alone.

He sneaks into my mind unbidden. A thief, stealing my sanity.

In the shower, watching the news, watching the world go by. “I’d like this” he says, “I’d find this really funny. Why not tell me all about it next time you see me?” or “Do you remember when we did this? Do you remember how happy we were?”

Yes, I remember. And I still ache. A dull nausea which starts in my stomach and then creeps up and wraps itself around my heart.

The evening started well (despite the disastrous England performance against the Welsh).

“He’s on such good form tonight” friends said, “much happier than I’ve seen him in months.”

And he was. Happy. He was chatty, laughing, playful.

I left them to it. I was shattered and had a vague notion of playing rugby the next day. An athlete should always be at her best, I joke, putting out my cigarette.

I am woken up an hour later by shouting. Dazed, half asleep, I stagger to the bathroom to find it flooded. Water all over the floor, seeping into the hallway carpet. N is there, angry, shouting. “What the fuck’s going on with the fucking loo?” he asks. Loudly. Forcefully.

I mumble platitudes. Trying to wake up. Grabbing a toothbrush, I prop up the stopcock and the water stops gushing.

Anticipating bed, I wander back to the warmth, cosiness that I’ve just left behind.

*CRASH*

Turning, I see N, in the kitchen, sweeping things off the side. Ranting, shouting. Angry.

“Calm” I say, “what’s wrong? What can I do?”

He rants some more, eyes blazing, looking at me accusingly. “I hate this fucking house. I hate [this place]. I hate everything. Don’t you tell me to calm down. Don’t you tell me to calm down.” He has me up against the side. Scared. His hand is on my neck. There’s no pressure but his skin is burning me. I can feel my heart in my throat, thudding, skipping.

“Get out” he says.

I put on some clothes to sound of crashing mirrors and overturned tables. Without a backward glance, I shakily unlock the front door and trip down the stairs out into the open.

As I walk down the road, I get an odd phone call. “I’m a little irate. Goodbye.”

I stay with friends. They give me tea and whiskey. Offer cigarettes and sympathy.

A sporadic sleep, punctuated with “what if” dreams, dawns into Sunday. After rattling around a sleeping house, I decide to walk back to the house. Carnage greets me. The house is empty.

I turn when I hear a key in the lock. It’s N and his eldest brother. I see the telltale cotton wool in the crook of N’s arm*. N’s brother looks at me with kind eyes. Crying at the thought of what I’m about to do, I go back to the bedroom and put things as quickly as I can in my bag.

“So you’re really going? Running away? Well just fuck off then, don’t bother trying to get in contact.”

I turn, bag on shoulder and leave. His brother is waiting outside. “I’ll keep in touch,” he says. “I’ll let you know how he gets on.”

* After I left on Saturday night, N tried to commit suicide. A classic, cry for help attempt some would say. Half a bottle of gin, all the tablets he could find. He doesn’t remember anything about the night or the next day. He knows it’s over. Everytime I think about him, I cry.

As I gingerly opened the back door, I worried about what I would find. I picked my way over the glass. Silence permeated through the flat.

An sharp intake of breath as I saw the extent of the damage. Mainly superficial. Mainly “things”. But memories, lying there, smashed on the floor.

I picked up my bag, quickly packed a couple of things and let myself out.

EDIT: To clear things up. Sadly, it wasn’t strangers who did this. It was N. It’s all over.

Very Bad Cat recently wrote a list about why her husband was awesome.

I don’t have a husband. I do have an N. Here’s his list:

• He makes me laugh – a lot.
• He’s not afraid to be silly – if anyone knew the pathetically sad things we got up to together when at home I think they’d be sending round the men in white coats.
• He’s a mine of information. That boy knows all there is know about history. I do the English stuff. He does the history.
• I love the way he gets so excited about the oddest of things. Winning University Challenge, for example.
• He’s passionate. It drives me nuts when he argues with Newsnight but actually, I love the fact he’s so passionate about the world.
• He’s not a good boy all the time. I know, I know. But I love the fact he’s not perfect.
• He’s getting better at being more adventurous. The fact that I have introduced this element to his life and he’s taken it on makes me happy.
• He’s proud of me and tells me so.
• He makes me feel beautiful. Even though I know I’m not really, I am to him. Weirdo.
• He’s curious. About the world, about learning new things. He always wants to know more.
• He is vulnerable. Sometimes.

A follow up to this rather sad and miserable post.

N and I had a chat on Thursday. I was positive. He seemed to understand my point of view. We made plans. Plans to change. And yet…

 And yet this weekend, it just didn’t happen. There were tears (mostly mine) shouts (mostly his) things broken (ours) and bags packed (mine).

I’m staying with some friends at the moment.

I haven’t left N. I haven’t broken it all off. I’ve moved out to give him some time. To give me some space. For him to start making the changes he needs to make. For him to think about where he wants to go, what he wants to do.

I know he loves me. I know he hates himself and the way he is at the moment. I also know that he can’t solve it all on his own.

So I’m sleeping in an empty bed, hugging a pillow, wishing it was him.

I won’t give away the ending (because it hasn’t ended yet) but start from the beginning

Sometimes I just don’t know where to start. This blog is supposed to be here to help me vent. To help me rant. To help me get my thoughts into order. But somehow, I just don’t know where my thoughts are and what I need to say. Sometimes I find myself lying to myself. Pretending that everything’s ok. When I know it’s not.

My “friend” is N. It’s him who’s drowning. It’s him who’s so scared about what’s going on in his mind that he just doesn’t know where to turn next. It’s him who can’t see a way out of the situation he’s in. And it’s me who struggles. Me who feels so helpless, knowing that I can’t help him. That only he can help him.

The tears. The anger. The guilt. All of it is directed at me and it all makes me feel like it’s my fault. When deep down I know it’s not. I know that deep in his head, the hormones are flying around, making him feel like this and I know… no, I don’t know anything.

Sometimes I think it’s me. It’s me that’s driven him to this. Was he ok before he met me? Was it all ok? Did he get on with life without the worry and stress of me. Do I do this to him? Do I make him feel so helpless that he lies, sobbing next to me? Do I block his way?

I know I shouldn’t let it get to me like this. I know that it’s not being helpful. I know that I need to be the strong one and stand by him while he gets himself better. And I’m trying. I’m trying to be that person but the pain of seeing him like this eats me up inside.

I had to get out of the house this afternoon. I felt suffocated. I had to just leave and get some fresh air. Try to get rid of the headache. The pain. I went round to my best friend’s house. I cried. I embarrassed myself. I tried to put it out of my head and cheer the fuck up. On the way home, all I could think is that maybe I’d open the door and be faced with… and be faced with what? Be faced with death? Be faced with my worst nightmare. That N would have been so lost, so scared, that he would have just gone ahead with the things he thinks about? It ran through my head again and again. I didn’t know what to feel. I still don’t know.

I don’t know anything. I don’t know.

I feel like it’s pulling me under too. And I don’t know how to stop it.

As recently as 20 years ago, living with a partner (urg, hate that word… can I just use boyfriend and be done with it? You know what I mean) boyfriend before marriage was not The Done Thing. Now, it seems to be more of a norm. Whatever it is that governs our social mores has moved with the times and living together is more acceptable. According to random statistics on the internet:

four times as many people in this age-group [twenty and thirty-something] now choose to co-habit rather than get hitched, compared with ten years ago.

Nowadays, even the Queen approves.

I am one of those “twenty somethings”. N and I have been living together for three years. It’s never occured to me that we wouldn’t. We love each other. We have fun together. Why wouldn’t we want to spend our time together? (ok, maybe let’s not answer that question…!)

I see co-habiting (another evil word) as merely a precursor to getting married. A “try before you buy” scheme.

But what if living together was still taboo? Imagine the shock one would get in the first week of wedded bliss when you realised* that

• try as they might, men will never be able to understand the concept of loo seat up/loo seat down
• you will still be expected to do the washing and ironing, the cooking and general tidying no matter how busy you’ve been at work. Oh, and if the man in question has to put away a couple of plates, he’ll then complain that he does all the housework
• cutting toenails and leaving them in the bath is acceptable
• wearing the same pair of underwear for three days is hygenic. Honestly
• eau de sweaty man will become a permanent fixure in the house
• if you’re cooking, make sure it’s man size (ie more than it would take to feed a small developing country)
• the “floordrobe” is a perfectly viable place to keep your clothes

 
Of course, on the flip side (she says, stealing the odd phrase from her American chums) the men in ours lives would be equally distraught to find out that

• before (most) women look half decent in the morning it takes time. And skill. And hogging of the bathroom
• all of us (without exception) love some form of trashy tv that you will hate. And be forced to watch. And understand. And discuss
• we don’t really understand what it is you do. We nod and smile and hope you’ll stop talking
• sometimes we just can’t be arsed to have sex
• or cook
• or clean

 
What do you think? Better to have the surprise of living with someone for the first time in the knowledge that you’re going to have to put up with it for the rest of your life or would you rather know what you’re getting yourself into?

LizSara gave me this slightly unlikely post title to write about. And so… here I am.

It occurs to me that “Why men think like rabbits and women stroke them” would be an excellent name for a Sex and the City style self-help book.

In it, Chuck (they’re always called something like Chuck) would earnestly explain to a dewy-eyed reader that all men are inherently wonderful and the only reason the relationship isn’t working is because all women are wrong. All the time.

—-

CHAPTER FOUR: YOU’RE DOING IT ALL WRONG AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT

Hank and Charlene have lived together for seven years.

Charlene used to be pretty but now spends her time teasing her bleached blonde hair into French twists and buying tupperware.

Hank has an expanding waist and a penchant for lettuce.

They used to have the perfect relationship. He used to by her 24 ‘carrot’ diamond rings. She used to give him blowjobs on a regular basis. Lately Charlene has been feeling that Hank would rather potter round the garden than spend anytime with her.

“Hank, honey bunny, do you love me?” whines Charlene. Hank creases his nose, farts and goes back to sleep.

What’s going on? Why has this perfect relationship gone to the dogs?

It’s all about self-actualization people. Charlene needs to take her hands off the hot stove and think about what Hank wants in life. He’s a wonderful man. She’s not treating him right.

Men are biologically wired to breed like rabbits. Women are biologically wired to be clean the hutch and prepare the salad.

If you want your man to love you, you have to do what they want. All the time. At the moment, you’re going about it the wrong way. Don’t question him, stroke him. Don’t argue, cook. Feel like shouting? Why not clean instead?

Here are a couple of handy hints from me, Chuck, lover extraordinaire.

1. Feed them carrots (men love the sweet stuff)

2. Stoke their nose (and pull their ears)

3. Don’t introduce them to dogs (if you want them to love you, introduce them to your pretty friends and don’t be annoyed when they sleep with them. Men are programmed to breed remember)

4. Clean their hutch (buy everything for them, whenever they want it. Make sure their house is clean and tidy at all times. Think about women in the 1950s – they never lost their man, did they?)

—-

Yes, I rather think I could write a self-help book.

Do you feel better? I do.

Lesson one: When you’re going to be late and/or plans change, let your lady know. It’s not hard. It makes a difference. It shows you’re thinking of her.

Lesson two: You may not like America’s Top Model/I’d Do Anything/other random crap but she does. Watch it. Don’t complain. Think of all the wonderful things she does for you.

Lesson three: Try and remember the names of her friends. Nothing annoys her more than when she’s trying to gossip and you keep on interjecting with “Who? Was that the loud one with ginger hair.” No, it wasn’t. And even if it was, that’s not the point of the story.

Lesson four: Help make decisions. “I don’t know” is not a viable answer.

Lesson five: Do little things for her without her having to ask. If you’d like it, chances are, she would do.

Lesson six: The laundry fairy needs a break once in a while. Find out how the washing machine works and use it.

Lesson seven: The iron is your friend. You don’t like ironing your shirts? Don’t put someone else through the pain.

Lesson eight: Tell her she’s beautiful. Not “hot”, not “fit”. She is not a small pig – don’t call her “babe”. Unless she is actually royalty, never call her “princess”. If you have a pet name for her, use it. She’ll love the affection behind it.

Lesson nine: Drunken smelly boys aren’t fun. If you’re in a state, do her a favour. Sleep on the sofa. Really, she’ll thank you.

Lesson ten: You can look at other girls. You can even flirt. It ends there. And if you do flirt make sure you set the boundaries.

Congratulations. You are now ready to graduate to almost-there human being. Advanced course taking bookings now.

I make no apologies, this post is just an excuse to get some pretty arses up on my blog. You ready? Good.

Milla (her again!) has questioned why women think rugby men are good looking. I feel it is my duty (and, I cannot lie, my pleasure) to use words and photos to explain the attraction.

Compelling argument one: variety is the spice of life

No matter how you like ‘em… tall, small, chubby, thin, there’s a rugby man for you out there somewhere. The diversity of the positions means that there are a huge range of different body shapes and sizes playing.

Compelling argument two: Real men

Unlike other sportsmen, rugby men rarely feel pain. They can carry on playing with head injuries, broken fingers, toes, ribs. This makes them manly. Fact.

Compelling argument three: they’re not footballers

They don’t fall over and pretend they’re hurt. They don’t argue with the ref. They don’t get paid far too much for doing bugger all. They don’t play football.

And surely that’s reason enough?

There are obviously lots of other reasons:

They’re generally all aminable chaps
They tend not to get involved in orgies
The game stays on the pitch
All problems in life can be solved by a beer

I’m slightly biased, I must admit, since N is very much a rugby man. However, having once dabbled with the football playing fraternity I can honestly say that a rugby man makes a much better boyfriend. For me. I’m not saying that all footballers are bad. I’m not saying that they don’t make good boyfriends. I am saying that I can’t imagine spending that much time with someone who obsesses over the wrong shaped ball.