Having previously noted that it was, gaah, October, it's fair to note that it's now, gaah NOVEMBER. Which is obviously how time works around these parts, but still, ruddy November. It's all a bit much. So, lots to catch up on, namely:
1/ The big, triumphant 40th birthday party
If you are planning to have a large, organised celebration, then I can heartily recommend this plan of action:
i/ Relocate to new city some three months beforehand, with limited friend/family visiting opportunities
ii/ Go on exercise regime like never before and sign up for revolutionary Callipers of Doom-based eating plan
iii/ Get as many friends/family in one place at one time, and combine with dress that makes you feel like Joan from Mad Men and dim lighting
iv/ Arrive late because it's taken ages to get ready. And also, y'know, it's your party - there's no point trying to make an entrance if there's no-one there to witness it
v/ Have everyone tell you you look amazing and living in said relocation city clearly agrees with you
vi/ Genuinely feel amazing - and also have such a good time that you don't need to drink, thus waking up the next morning feeling a thousand times more perky than you felt the day after your 30th.
I don't usually like being the centre of attention in large groups, but it was definitely the best birthday I've ever had - and I never thought I'd be saying that at the beginning of this year. The weather was so gorgeous the next day that I found myself sitting on my friend Mel's roof terrace, reading the Sunday papers over a delicious lunch, dressed in jeans and a vest top. A good omen for my 40s, surely (and fear not, I made up for this maturity and sobriety by getting catastrophically drunk at my friend John's 40th three weeks later, at which I also had a brilliant time).
2/ Cheerful James and the Callipers of Doom
It's the new, 7-volume exercise series from JK Rowling! Well, not quite, but it does sometimes feel like there are the baddies Who Must Not Be Named (carbs and sugar) who are constantly joining forces with the Dementor-like X-Factor, Strictly and Apprentice in the war for my time, energy and enthusiasm. On the plus side, I have Potions of fish oil, water and increasing numbers of supplements. I have little to no idea what any of them are supposed to be doing (I am apparently 'zinc loading' currently, for example), but I just nod, hand over money and chuff pills like it's finally the 21st century and I don't need to eat actual food any more.
This has resulted in - ta-dah! - me losing 6.1% of my body fat since I started the regime on the 13th September (I last faced the CoDs on the 20th October, so not quite sure what havoc parties, hangover food whilst waiting for a plane at Gatwick, the occasional muffin and binge-eating half a tub of Ben and Jerry's last week after a stressful day at work will have wreaked. Let's hope not much). I've put on 5lbs of muscle in the same period, which is, James tells me, merrily burning off 250 calories a day for me, all by itself. Crikey, I'm practically Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby! Well, hopefully without the dismal end in a hospital bed. But you know what I mean.
James has now started referring to my arms as 'guns' whilst I try to assure him that I'd rather just keep calling them 'arms'. Men love a label, don't they? They can't just say, 'I'd like to have nicer arms/better legs', they're all, 'I'M BUILDING MY BICEPS' and 'I'M WORKING ON MY QUADS'. I'm not sure if this is better or worse than the approach that women take, which is to look at themselves like those pictures of cows that you sometimes see in butcher's shops, with all the different cuts of meat marked out. They find areas, either large or small, to parcel up into packages of dissatisfaction, criticism and self-loathing. Which they then decide to torture themselves with for years and use to defuse and deflect any compliment anyone dares to pay them. 'My, you have a well-turned ankle', someone might say (if they've emerged, blinking, from the Victorian era). 'That's as maybe', you reply, 'BUT LOOK AT THESE HATEFUL THIGHS'. I'm working on just saying, 'Thanks!' whenever someone tells me I look nice. It's hard to break the habits of a lifetime, but at the moment, I definitely feel I'm earning it.
3/ My first outing as an Edinburgh hostess
I finally got round to having a house-warming party - only about 6 weeks after I'd moved in (and still with most of my possessions in boxes, hastily crammed into the myriad cupboards that are now at my disposal). The 'warming' part of it nearly became literal when, halfway through, there was a mighty banging on my front door and a man telling me that the laundrette next door was belching smoke and it might be a good idea to evacuate everyone. We duly poured out onto the pavement (largely, it has to be said, because the entire party - bar one guest - was female and we'd got over-excited at the prospect of firemen). There were FOUR fire engines (they don't do things by halves round here). It was all very dramatic; as it's also a dry cleaner's, my colleague remarking that, 'the thing about dry cleaners is that they're all full of chemicals, so that could actually blow up...' did make me panic somewhat, but luckily it didn't (there weren't any flames to be seen, weirdly). As there was so much smoke, however, it was decreed that as my flat was on the ground floor, and smoke-free, the occupants of the flats further up the building had to take shelter in my flat till given the all-clear.
Lucky I was having a party anyway, then. And a good, if odd, opportunity to meet some of the neighbours (being still in London mode, I, naturally, hadn't seen fit to break the ice by knocking on doors, introducing myself and inviting them).
The bathroom, which I previously thought was haunted by the spirit of an 80s hairdresser, as it smelled mysteriously of perming fluid, now smells of rather acrid smoke. It's not particularly an improvement, but maybe a change is as good as a rest when it comes to matters olfactory.
Monday, 8 November 2010
Monday, 4 October 2010
Age shall not wither her
Blimey, October already! How did that happen? Especially as, if you're a keen reader of this blog, you'll know that I'm turning 40 this month. In four days' time, actually. Eek! How did that happen? When I was busy making resolutions and plans for a big party, it seemed ages away. 'Ah, it'll practically never happen', I thought. But then, as it always does, time got on a very large horse and galloped away from me and now, here I am, savouring the last few days of my 30s. Or clinging on to them like a fat man with a box of doughnuts.
At any rate, I thought it'd be good to do a progress report on this year's pre-40 resolutions, so here goes:
1/ Undergo incredible chrysalis-to-butterfly transformation
At the start of the year, this seemed highly unlikely. I've done diets, I've done healthy eating, I've had regular run-ins with exercise, I've read countless diet books and articles about tricks one can deploy in order to lose the lard; I've had 'big occasions' to aim for, at which I would look better in the photos afterwards if I were slimmer. Some of them worked for a bit, some made me miserable (the accidental 'stress diet' of the first three months of this year, say), all of them, to a greater or lesser degree felt like a giant chore and made me feel deprived.
But moving out of London, and (not too sound to wanky about it) trying on a different 'self' in so many ways has done the trick. I can't say it'll last - winter weather being what it is, and a Catholic church-ful of guilty pleasure TV hitting the box - Spooks, The Apprentice, Strictly, X-Factor - I can envison falling off the exercise band-wagon with an almighty thump. In the meantime, however, I've been going to the gym like a maniac, partly because of James and his Callipers of Doom (they're a great motivator), and partly because for once, I actually like going. I'm also trying my best with the 'giving up carbs' element of the fitness programme (excellent: I now feel guilty if I eat a piece of bread - that part's not really progress) and have been ingesting fish oil and drinking water at a rate that wouldn't disgrace a killer whale. I haven't had chips in ages, I'm not drinking much (other than the odd glass of red wine) and I'm not craving chocolate that often. Although I very meanly made one of my colleagues go out for a packet of Jaffa Cakes the other day, as we were all obsessing about biscuits, and then I didn't eat any of them. Which I think is a major coup.
As a result of all this, the second time I got measured (10 days after my first encounter with the CoD), I'd gone down from 22.6% body fat to 18.something-%! How mad is that? Totally wasn't expecting it either, as I didn't feel any different. I'm now prescribing industrial-strength fish oil (get 'em from Holland and Barrett) and pints of water to anyone who'll listen. I've got another mortifying measuring session this evening. I'm wondering whether I should 'fess up to the raisin Danish I ate yesterday that was as big as my head. I was feeling in need of sugar, bored of being good and rebellious - not a good combo. I'm happy to report, however It. Was. GLORIOUS. Well worth the billionty calories.
My friend John just emailed, saying that he now has a vision of me, Lara Croft-style, in a computer game where I kick the shit out of various authors and agents, while trying to reach the golden pain au chocolat. I love this idea and have named it 'Points Mean Pralines'.
So, to sum up, I have lost some weight and I'm happy about it. It's not Natalie Cassidy, 'look I've shed so much lard that I can justify having an exercise DVD and a 6-page spread in OK!' levels, but I'm pretty damned chuffed (and I managed to fit into a UK size 6 denim skirt in Gap the other week. Their sizing is nuts, and I had a 10-minute battle to get the thing off again, but still, it was a fair old thrill.)
The downside? Turns out exercise and eating properly does work. No magic solution, just hard graft. And not much of a social life, unless you have lots of friends who are gym freaks.
2/ Finish off my flat
Yay, I did it! Albeit literally an hour before I moved out of it (and with thoughts that the walk-in wardrobe could still be made to look like something worthy of Living Etc one day, instead of just a strange cupboard with a second-hand hanging rail in it). Part of me wished it was me that was moving into it instead of tenants, but now I have more space than I know what to do with (a spare room; a mass of cupboards; a kitchen so large I get lost in it; a walk-in wardrobe that previously housed a piano; an actual entrance hall) and to my mum's delight, it's a 15-minute walk from John Lewis.
After showing her an estate agent's window when she and dad came to stay recently, she got really over-excited and started insisting I buy a flat. 'I've only just moved into this one!' I protested. That didn't stop her and my dad going on a parental ram-raid round John Lewis, buying me things (bless 'em). Including a rug - the first one I've ever owned. Turning 40: it's all about the soft furnishings. I felt like a fresher (new non-stick pan, new wine glasses, new cutlery, decent pillows to replace the rubbish ones in the flat,etc), especially as, after they'd gone, I had an attack of the Sunday evening blues which felt very much like starting a new term.
3/ Go internet dating
Well, admittedly, I haven't done this, but I think my real-world dates with the MMMC must count for something. Yes, he's still texting, emailing and offering to take me out, paint my walls (I'm assuming this isn't some modern sexual euphemism) and even, the other day, sorted out my telly for me, which had previously resisted all attempts to get it to actually produce a picture. All of this chivalric effort has still not resulted in me fancying him, which led him to text after our previous outing: 'Nice to see you tonight, obviously keen to see more of you [MORE? We see each other once a week! I can't imagine seeing anyone more than that, unless I work with them], but sense you just like being friends, which is also cool, but if reading it wrong let me know'. A gent to the last - doing the 'where's this going?' chat on text, rather than face to face - I love technology sometimes. A relief - and he's now revealed a hidden love for Strictly, so we spent all of Friday and Saturday's episodes texting rude comments to each other about the celebs, costumes, judges and presenters. He seems to reserve particular bile for Alesha. (Perhaps he had a thing for Arlene?!)
John, who gets today's prize for being funny, suggests I need a Highland Fling to kick off my 40s (can't believe no-one's suggested this was what my dalliance with the MMMC was), so I might yet join Guardian Soulmates and try to write a profile that suggests I have a personality, but not that I'm deranged. It's a tough line to walk, that one. (See Enormously Irritating Katie on this week's X-Factor; I literally screamed 'NOOOO!' at the telly when Cheryl put her through).
4/ Do something new
Although I didn't manage to attempt to tango or join a choir, try some life drawing or learn to drive, I think the whole 'moving job, house (twice) and city' covers 'do something new' quite admirably. Having such a big change is a good way to kick-start the new decade and I'm really glad I've done it.
God only knows what will go on the resolution list for 2011 (win Nobel Prize? Marry Prince Harry? Have my life made into a reality series?), but I'm very glad that this year's been one in which lots of things have changed - and mostly for the better.
At any rate, I thought it'd be good to do a progress report on this year's pre-40 resolutions, so here goes:
1/ Undergo incredible chrysalis-to-butterfly transformation
At the start of the year, this seemed highly unlikely. I've done diets, I've done healthy eating, I've had regular run-ins with exercise, I've read countless diet books and articles about tricks one can deploy in order to lose the lard; I've had 'big occasions' to aim for, at which I would look better in the photos afterwards if I were slimmer. Some of them worked for a bit, some made me miserable (the accidental 'stress diet' of the first three months of this year, say), all of them, to a greater or lesser degree felt like a giant chore and made me feel deprived.
But moving out of London, and (not too sound to wanky about it) trying on a different 'self' in so many ways has done the trick. I can't say it'll last - winter weather being what it is, and a Catholic church-ful of guilty pleasure TV hitting the box - Spooks, The Apprentice, Strictly, X-Factor - I can envison falling off the exercise band-wagon with an almighty thump. In the meantime, however, I've been going to the gym like a maniac, partly because of James and his Callipers of Doom (they're a great motivator), and partly because for once, I actually like going. I'm also trying my best with the 'giving up carbs' element of the fitness programme (excellent: I now feel guilty if I eat a piece of bread - that part's not really progress) and have been ingesting fish oil and drinking water at a rate that wouldn't disgrace a killer whale. I haven't had chips in ages, I'm not drinking much (other than the odd glass of red wine) and I'm not craving chocolate that often. Although I very meanly made one of my colleagues go out for a packet of Jaffa Cakes the other day, as we were all obsessing about biscuits, and then I didn't eat any of them. Which I think is a major coup.
As a result of all this, the second time I got measured (10 days after my first encounter with the CoD), I'd gone down from 22.6% body fat to 18.something-%! How mad is that? Totally wasn't expecting it either, as I didn't feel any different. I'm now prescribing industrial-strength fish oil (get 'em from Holland and Barrett) and pints of water to anyone who'll listen. I've got another mortifying measuring session this evening. I'm wondering whether I should 'fess up to the raisin Danish I ate yesterday that was as big as my head. I was feeling in need of sugar, bored of being good and rebellious - not a good combo. I'm happy to report, however It. Was. GLORIOUS. Well worth the billionty calories.
My friend John just emailed, saying that he now has a vision of me, Lara Croft-style, in a computer game where I kick the shit out of various authors and agents, while trying to reach the golden pain au chocolat. I love this idea and have named it 'Points Mean Pralines'.
So, to sum up, I have lost some weight and I'm happy about it. It's not Natalie Cassidy, 'look I've shed so much lard that I can justify having an exercise DVD and a 6-page spread in OK!' levels, but I'm pretty damned chuffed (and I managed to fit into a UK size 6 denim skirt in Gap the other week. Their sizing is nuts, and I had a 10-minute battle to get the thing off again, but still, it was a fair old thrill.)
The downside? Turns out exercise and eating properly does work. No magic solution, just hard graft. And not much of a social life, unless you have lots of friends who are gym freaks.
2/ Finish off my flat
Yay, I did it! Albeit literally an hour before I moved out of it (and with thoughts that the walk-in wardrobe could still be made to look like something worthy of Living Etc one day, instead of just a strange cupboard with a second-hand hanging rail in it). Part of me wished it was me that was moving into it instead of tenants, but now I have more space than I know what to do with (a spare room; a mass of cupboards; a kitchen so large I get lost in it; a walk-in wardrobe that previously housed a piano; an actual entrance hall) and to my mum's delight, it's a 15-minute walk from John Lewis.
After showing her an estate agent's window when she and dad came to stay recently, she got really over-excited and started insisting I buy a flat. 'I've only just moved into this one!' I protested. That didn't stop her and my dad going on a parental ram-raid round John Lewis, buying me things (bless 'em). Including a rug - the first one I've ever owned. Turning 40: it's all about the soft furnishings. I felt like a fresher (new non-stick pan, new wine glasses, new cutlery, decent pillows to replace the rubbish ones in the flat,etc), especially as, after they'd gone, I had an attack of the Sunday evening blues which felt very much like starting a new term.
3/ Go internet dating
Well, admittedly, I haven't done this, but I think my real-world dates with the MMMC must count for something. Yes, he's still texting, emailing and offering to take me out, paint my walls (I'm assuming this isn't some modern sexual euphemism) and even, the other day, sorted out my telly for me, which had previously resisted all attempts to get it to actually produce a picture. All of this chivalric effort has still not resulted in me fancying him, which led him to text after our previous outing: 'Nice to see you tonight, obviously keen to see more of you [MORE? We see each other once a week! I can't imagine seeing anyone more than that, unless I work with them], but sense you just like being friends, which is also cool, but if reading it wrong let me know'. A gent to the last - doing the 'where's this going?' chat on text, rather than face to face - I love technology sometimes. A relief - and he's now revealed a hidden love for Strictly, so we spent all of Friday and Saturday's episodes texting rude comments to each other about the celebs, costumes, judges and presenters. He seems to reserve particular bile for Alesha. (Perhaps he had a thing for Arlene?!)
John, who gets today's prize for being funny, suggests I need a Highland Fling to kick off my 40s (can't believe no-one's suggested this was what my dalliance with the MMMC was), so I might yet join Guardian Soulmates and try to write a profile that suggests I have a personality, but not that I'm deranged. It's a tough line to walk, that one. (See Enormously Irritating Katie on this week's X-Factor; I literally screamed 'NOOOO!' at the telly when Cheryl put her through).
4/ Do something new
Although I didn't manage to attempt to tango or join a choir, try some life drawing or learn to drive, I think the whole 'moving job, house (twice) and city' covers 'do something new' quite admirably. Having such a big change is a good way to kick-start the new decade and I'm really glad I've done it.
God only knows what will go on the resolution list for 2011 (win Nobel Prize? Marry Prince Harry? Have my life made into a reality series?), but I'm very glad that this year's been one in which lots of things have changed - and mostly for the better.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Chasing Pavements
Best sight seen of late: yesterday morning, around 9.00am, I walked past two men in their mid-20s (jeans and t-shirts, trainers - y'know, normal), who were having an actual running race down the street. Complete with 'starting positions' and everything. Genius. I felt happy all day and then I saw a frog on the pavement on the way home! Quite a big one - kind of yellowy coloured.
So screw you, The Pope, I don't need to spend £12 million to see something unusual in Edinburgh.
So screw you, The Pope, I don't need to spend £12 million to see something unusual in Edinburgh.
Naming of the Rosies
So Jamie and Jools Oliver have finally had a son. They've called him 'Buddy'. Well, that's not so bad, I thought, until a colleague pointed out the middle name they've chosen for him.
Let's look at the array of horribly twee names with which the Olivers have saddled their offspring:
Poppy Honey Rosie
Daisy Boo Pamela
Petal Blossom Rainbow
Buddy Bear Maurice
Seriously, they should've saved themselves a lot of time and money and just bought four chihuahuas.
Let's look at the array of horribly twee names with which the Olivers have saddled their offspring:
Poppy Honey Rosie
Daisy Boo Pamela
Petal Blossom Rainbow
Buddy Bear Maurice
Seriously, they should've saved themselves a lot of time and money and just bought four chihuahuas.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
I am the Walrus
First off - very funny responses to yesterday's blog. 'You had us all VERY EXCITED and then disappointed again!' was a fairly typical reaction. 'Tell him to be more DANGEROUS and BROODING and then perhaps you'll fancy him?' was good advice - I imagined texting the MMMC and demanding that he stand atop Arthur's Seat, toss a caber off it, then bellow madly at the elements, before striding in a manly fashion down the steep, rocky slopes and picking me up bodily, with his wind-whipped kilt swirling round his knees like William Wallace (preferably without the woad). Either that or he should just ignore me for a week, and then I'll probably decide I passionately want to see him.
Anyway, news of the Other Man in my life, Cheerful James the PT. CJ and I have not had a date in some time, because I was flitting round the country (and France) and he was off on a course in Copenhagen. So I was almost excited about our session last night. Which, yeah, is pretty tragic, but now the Festival's over, and it looks like the weather is about to default to 'perpetual precipitation', a gal's gotta take her excitements where she can get 'em. But it turned out exercise was off the menu - instead, I was going to be CJ's guinea pig for all his new book learnin'. He'd been studying some bio-whatsit (I keep wanting to call it 'biomechanics', but it's not - I think it's called 'biosignature') which basically tells you why people store fat in particular areas, because of different hormone imbalances, etc, and how you can change that through diet and exercise.
In case anyone wants to try it, first off, you have to prepare for the mortification of having 12 - yes, 12 - fat sites around your body measured with those horrible calliper things. This included the mortification of having my chin(s) pinched by it, one of my boobs wrangled with (Me: 'James, is this just an excuse to grope ladies - whilst they're actually paying for it?') and him explaining that my back fat measurement of 28 should really be 17. Which meant that I have insulin problems and basically have to give up carbs. NOOOO! Why did I know this was going to be the result? Although, let's face it, the outcome was highly unlikely to be, 'The reason you're chunkier than you want to be is because you're eating too much fibre. Your body doesn't metabolise that at all well, unless you combine it with a lot of sugar and cake icing. I'm going to give you a programme of a slice of carrot cake every day, and then you'll need to top up with a brownie every Sunday - with Ben and Jerry's ice cream on top of it. It's the protein from the cream, combined with the sugar, that'll really work for you.'
No, apparently I have to ingest enough fish oil to rival a walrus. 'I eat loads of fish!' I said. Turns out for this plan, I'd have to eat about 30 of the fuckers a day. So I have to shunt down some crazy number of teaspoons of specially procured fish oil (lemon flavoured - like that makes it better) and drink buckets of water. Having tried downing as many cod liver oil capsules as I could get my hands on, and as much water as I could carry today, the regime is already pretty unwieldy. My work colleagues probably think I have cystitis as I need the loo every quarter of an hour. It's tempting to just take my laptop into the loo and work from there. CJ has let me off Phase 2 for the moment (giving up gluten, dairy and eggs, which will make breakfast a challenge. Not to mention every other bloody meal), so let's hope the Omegas and the H2O do the trick. Because it's very mean to suggest that you give up pasta and toast just as you're heading into winter - especially as, judging by the force 10 gale that was blowing up here last night, I'm actually going to need that insulating layer of fat.
Anyway, news of the Other Man in my life, Cheerful James the PT. CJ and I have not had a date in some time, because I was flitting round the country (and France) and he was off on a course in Copenhagen. So I was almost excited about our session last night. Which, yeah, is pretty tragic, but now the Festival's over, and it looks like the weather is about to default to 'perpetual precipitation', a gal's gotta take her excitements where she can get 'em. But it turned out exercise was off the menu - instead, I was going to be CJ's guinea pig for all his new book learnin'. He'd been studying some bio-whatsit (I keep wanting to call it 'biomechanics', but it's not - I think it's called 'biosignature') which basically tells you why people store fat in particular areas, because of different hormone imbalances, etc, and how you can change that through diet and exercise.
In case anyone wants to try it, first off, you have to prepare for the mortification of having 12 - yes, 12 - fat sites around your body measured with those horrible calliper things. This included the mortification of having my chin(s) pinched by it, one of my boobs wrangled with (Me: 'James, is this just an excuse to grope ladies - whilst they're actually paying for it?') and him explaining that my back fat measurement of 28 should really be 17. Which meant that I have insulin problems and basically have to give up carbs. NOOOO! Why did I know this was going to be the result? Although, let's face it, the outcome was highly unlikely to be, 'The reason you're chunkier than you want to be is because you're eating too much fibre. Your body doesn't metabolise that at all well, unless you combine it with a lot of sugar and cake icing. I'm going to give you a programme of a slice of carrot cake every day, and then you'll need to top up with a brownie every Sunday - with Ben and Jerry's ice cream on top of it. It's the protein from the cream, combined with the sugar, that'll really work for you.'
No, apparently I have to ingest enough fish oil to rival a walrus. 'I eat loads of fish!' I said. Turns out for this plan, I'd have to eat about 30 of the fuckers a day. So I have to shunt down some crazy number of teaspoons of specially procured fish oil (lemon flavoured - like that makes it better) and drink buckets of water. Having tried downing as many cod liver oil capsules as I could get my hands on, and as much water as I could carry today, the regime is already pretty unwieldy. My work colleagues probably think I have cystitis as I need the loo every quarter of an hour. It's tempting to just take my laptop into the loo and work from there. CJ has let me off Phase 2 for the moment (giving up gluten, dairy and eggs, which will make breakfast a challenge. Not to mention every other bloody meal), so let's hope the Omegas and the H2O do the trick. Because it's very mean to suggest that you give up pasta and toast just as you're heading into winter - especially as, judging by the force 10 gale that was blowing up here last night, I'm actually going to need that insulating layer of fat.
Monday, 13 September 2010
Courtly Love
As part of my new life in Edinburgh, it appears that my Relocation Relocation fairy godmothers, Phil 'n' Kirstie, have also granted me a MAN. Yes, in exciting news from Purple Towers, it appears I have a Pseudo Boyfriend. Crikey! Wasn't expecting that.
I met him at a dinner party, which I'd been invited to via some string-pulling by my parents. (The hostess was the sister of an old friend of theirs). Hearing on the grapevine that I was friendless and alone, the call came through: 'We're having a dinner party! Would you like to come?' Well of course I would! The chance for free food and a good nose round someone else's house is rarely refused. I put on a frock, I bought a proper bottle of wine and teetered over rainy cobbles in unsuitable heels (anything other than trainers are, it turns out, classed as 'unsuitable heels' in Edinburgh, unless you're going everywhere by taxi). I arrived at what I presumed was the correct address. The house was vast. The building's entrance hall was akin to the foyer of the Natural History Museum, just minus a dinosaur skeleton. The flat's foyer (is it still a flat if it's 'over three floors'?!) had loads of glass cabinets in it full of china, like the V&A. I proferred my plastic bag with the bottle of wine in it, and slightly regretted the fact I was wearing a denim jacket and a backpack. I instantly felt like someone on a gap year who's been sent round to one of their parents' friends' houses for a decent dinner.
This wasn't really helped by the host (who's 20 years older than his wife), announcing to everyone when he introduced me that, 'We don't know her at all!' Umm, that's not helping with the impression that I just passed your house, saw you had people round and banged on the door hoping for some upmarket charity.
Anyway, everyone was very civil to me. I got told I was 'brave' a lot. People do this, I've found, when you tell them you've moved cities and jobs and you don't know anyone. I find it a bit odd - it's not like I'm a doctor in a war zone, or Tony Blair's security guard at a book signing - but I just nod and smile and put on my cheerful, 'Well, you know, I'm doing my best!' face.
It was a bit of an odd fact that everyone (out of about 12 people) seemed to be on at least their second marriage. One such couple, Hamish and Plum (!) had recently got married. For Hamish, it was marriage no. 3, for Plum, marriage no. 2. Both had several children. Hamish looked to be at least mid-50s and Plum looked like a well-preserved late 40s (she was the sort of woman who does a lot of aerobics and wears floaty chiffon tops with large 'statement' necklaces for dinner parties and has expensive blonde hair). 'How did you meet?' I asked. Hamish then told an extraordinary story about how they'd met through the Telegraph's internet dating service. Their first date was over lunch, after which they were so mutually blown away that a flurry of texts, phone calls and emails ensued before Hamish had to go on a business trip a week later, to New York. From New York, he decided he simply couldn't bear to be without Plum for a moment longer. He phoned her and asked her to marry him. She said yes. AFTER A WEEK. They hadn't even had a snog! It was like wandering into a copy of OK!
The chap sitting next to me, who I'd been having quite a good chat with, looked at me, his jaw agape. 'Well, d'you want to get married?' he asked. 'Yes, are you free on Tuesday?' I replied. He emailed the next day to apologise, saying he thought a proposal was the only option, and asked me out for a walk with his dog. So Jane Austen! He came and picked me up in his car and everything. Having had many jokes about how his car was massively uncool, second hand, etc, I was expecting him to turn up in a Fiat Punto. In fact, he drives a BMW. In what world is a BMW the height of uncool? Very odd.
Anyway, we had a very pleasant day together, and I seem to have seen more of him over the last few weeks than I normally would of my best friends (the hazard, perhaps, of not knowing many people here). As he runs his own business (a management consultancy) and only reads wanky business books, he thinks my entire life is glamorous and fascinating. Which, of course, is fine by me. I've decided that my role is that of his Cultural Advisor, and have been supplying books (which he emails to tell me he's started; I'm slightly worried he thinks of this as 'homework'), trips to the Festival and a film. (The Illusionist, if you're interested - it's set in Edinburgh, it's really beautiful and unbearably sad. It's not a great 'date movie', but I wanted to see it. And I was adamant, if only in my own head, that this was not a date).
Yes, for there is the great tragedy of the man who has come to be known in my office as The Mild Mannered Management Consultant. (A moniker that makes him sound like he has a superheroic alter-ego, who of course I would fancy MADLY). I just don't fancy him. File under 'gift horse, looking in the mouth of': he is nice, he is kind, he pays for everything (despite me begging him not to), he picks me up and he drives me home (he lives totally the other side of town). He emails, he texts (he even sent me a long text in French, when I was in France the other week), he thinks I'm great company. But he doesn't make me laugh, and that's a deal-breaker for me.
However, he hasn't yet made any moves in the 'passionate embrace' department. Which leaves me with a conundrum. Is he A/ playing a very long game, akin to a Chaucerian demonstration of courtly love? B/ just the kind of man who likes driving women around and paying for things, entirely platonically or C/ actually entirely friendless apart from me? It's all rather confusing. And no-one wants to be the person who embarks upon the 'Just Good Friends' chat whilst the other person is thinking, 'Ooh, get you! I wasn't aiming for anything other than Just Good Friends, actually'.
The unfortunate effect of having a love life that's akin to the Kalahari Desert, however, is that all my friends and family have decided that as someone's finally asked me out (more than once), he's The One, and I must marry him. I spoke to my mum and sister after our first 'date', who cackled like a pair of witches and immediately started planning the commissioning of special marital tartans (the MMMC is Scottish). 'Can't you force yourself to fancy him?' everyone keeps asking, as though I am actually a Jane Austen heroine, who needs urgent saving from a life of penury by a well-meaning, well-off but horribly dull vicar. No! No, I can't. That's kind of the point of a boyfriend: it's someone you fancy. Otherwise, they are just a friend.
I might have to start internet dating to take the pressure off.
I met him at a dinner party, which I'd been invited to via some string-pulling by my parents. (The hostess was the sister of an old friend of theirs). Hearing on the grapevine that I was friendless and alone, the call came through: 'We're having a dinner party! Would you like to come?' Well of course I would! The chance for free food and a good nose round someone else's house is rarely refused. I put on a frock, I bought a proper bottle of wine and teetered over rainy cobbles in unsuitable heels (anything other than trainers are, it turns out, classed as 'unsuitable heels' in Edinburgh, unless you're going everywhere by taxi). I arrived at what I presumed was the correct address. The house was vast. The building's entrance hall was akin to the foyer of the Natural History Museum, just minus a dinosaur skeleton. The flat's foyer (is it still a flat if it's 'over three floors'?!) had loads of glass cabinets in it full of china, like the V&A. I proferred my plastic bag with the bottle of wine in it, and slightly regretted the fact I was wearing a denim jacket and a backpack. I instantly felt like someone on a gap year who's been sent round to one of their parents' friends' houses for a decent dinner.
This wasn't really helped by the host (who's 20 years older than his wife), announcing to everyone when he introduced me that, 'We don't know her at all!' Umm, that's not helping with the impression that I just passed your house, saw you had people round and banged on the door hoping for some upmarket charity.
Anyway, everyone was very civil to me. I got told I was 'brave' a lot. People do this, I've found, when you tell them you've moved cities and jobs and you don't know anyone. I find it a bit odd - it's not like I'm a doctor in a war zone, or Tony Blair's security guard at a book signing - but I just nod and smile and put on my cheerful, 'Well, you know, I'm doing my best!' face.
It was a bit of an odd fact that everyone (out of about 12 people) seemed to be on at least their second marriage. One such couple, Hamish and Plum (!) had recently got married. For Hamish, it was marriage no. 3, for Plum, marriage no. 2. Both had several children. Hamish looked to be at least mid-50s and Plum looked like a well-preserved late 40s (she was the sort of woman who does a lot of aerobics and wears floaty chiffon tops with large 'statement' necklaces for dinner parties and has expensive blonde hair). 'How did you meet?' I asked. Hamish then told an extraordinary story about how they'd met through the Telegraph's internet dating service. Their first date was over lunch, after which they were so mutually blown away that a flurry of texts, phone calls and emails ensued before Hamish had to go on a business trip a week later, to New York. From New York, he decided he simply couldn't bear to be without Plum for a moment longer. He phoned her and asked her to marry him. She said yes. AFTER A WEEK. They hadn't even had a snog! It was like wandering into a copy of OK!
The chap sitting next to me, who I'd been having quite a good chat with, looked at me, his jaw agape. 'Well, d'you want to get married?' he asked. 'Yes, are you free on Tuesday?' I replied. He emailed the next day to apologise, saying he thought a proposal was the only option, and asked me out for a walk with his dog. So Jane Austen! He came and picked me up in his car and everything. Having had many jokes about how his car was massively uncool, second hand, etc, I was expecting him to turn up in a Fiat Punto. In fact, he drives a BMW. In what world is a BMW the height of uncool? Very odd.
Anyway, we had a very pleasant day together, and I seem to have seen more of him over the last few weeks than I normally would of my best friends (the hazard, perhaps, of not knowing many people here). As he runs his own business (a management consultancy) and only reads wanky business books, he thinks my entire life is glamorous and fascinating. Which, of course, is fine by me. I've decided that my role is that of his Cultural Advisor, and have been supplying books (which he emails to tell me he's started; I'm slightly worried he thinks of this as 'homework'), trips to the Festival and a film. (The Illusionist, if you're interested - it's set in Edinburgh, it's really beautiful and unbearably sad. It's not a great 'date movie', but I wanted to see it. And I was adamant, if only in my own head, that this was not a date).
Yes, for there is the great tragedy of the man who has come to be known in my office as The Mild Mannered Management Consultant. (A moniker that makes him sound like he has a superheroic alter-ego, who of course I would fancy MADLY). I just don't fancy him. File under 'gift horse, looking in the mouth of': he is nice, he is kind, he pays for everything (despite me begging him not to), he picks me up and he drives me home (he lives totally the other side of town). He emails, he texts (he even sent me a long text in French, when I was in France the other week), he thinks I'm great company. But he doesn't make me laugh, and that's a deal-breaker for me.
However, he hasn't yet made any moves in the 'passionate embrace' department. Which leaves me with a conundrum. Is he A/ playing a very long game, akin to a Chaucerian demonstration of courtly love? B/ just the kind of man who likes driving women around and paying for things, entirely platonically or C/ actually entirely friendless apart from me? It's all rather confusing. And no-one wants to be the person who embarks upon the 'Just Good Friends' chat whilst the other person is thinking, 'Ooh, get you! I wasn't aiming for anything other than Just Good Friends, actually'.
The unfortunate effect of having a love life that's akin to the Kalahari Desert, however, is that all my friends and family have decided that as someone's finally asked me out (more than once), he's The One, and I must marry him. I spoke to my mum and sister after our first 'date', who cackled like a pair of witches and immediately started planning the commissioning of special marital tartans (the MMMC is Scottish). 'Can't you force yourself to fancy him?' everyone keeps asking, as though I am actually a Jane Austen heroine, who needs urgent saving from a life of penury by a well-meaning, well-off but horribly dull vicar. No! No, I can't. That's kind of the point of a boyfriend: it's someone you fancy. Otherwise, they are just a friend.
I might have to start internet dating to take the pressure off.
Political Correctness gone, if not a bit mad, then fairly cracked out
I found out recently that you're not allowed to call 'temps' 'temps' any more. I've no idea why (it's not, after all, as bad as my habit of referring to work experience people as 'workies', is it?)
No, the PC term for temps now is 'mobile workers'. Which, if you are one, has the unfortunate effect of making you sound like a prostitute. Who owns a car.
No, the PC term for temps now is 'mobile workers'. Which, if you are one, has the unfortunate effect of making you sound like a prostitute. Who owns a car.
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