Power Trip

I have spent the past few weeks in nervous anticipation of my first business trip abroad. Having bored all my friends to tears, practising my speeches on them and constantly seeking reassurance – the feeling of dread had escalated to a point where I would do anything to get out of going.

Fortunately, in hindsight, none of my wishes to break my leg or gain some terrible temporary disease to prevent me from going were granted, and I found myself leaving my comfortable flat in Putney at the ungodly hour of 6.00am for a plane to Frankfurt.

Of course, in a situation where I was already nervous, stressed and pushed for time, the plane was 1½ half hours delayed, leaving me no time to go to the hotel and make myself presentable. Instead I had to resort to a quick make-up job in the airport toilets, throwing on my un-ironed dress and jumping into a taxi heading straight for, in my opinion, the end of my career!

Perhaps it was a mixture of relief at these things never being quite so terrifying as we expect them to be, all my hard preparation paying off and feeling great in my sexy red power dress, but not only did I find the trip bearable – I actually enjoyed it. Particularly sitting in the bar afterwards with my friends, sipping champagne (compliments of the company of course!) and laughing about the day’s events.

On the plane home the next day, after a blissful night's sleep in the hotel and a delicious continental breakfast, I felt a certain glow and sense of professional achievement. The best part of the trip was to follow when I realised one of my life time goals; the man at the airport holding my name card waiting to take me home – finally I’ve become a grown-up!!

Bruised But Not Broken!

I got my car broken into this morning. And I’m feeling rather smug about it. Because even though my VW, green, golf is a little elderly now and obviously doesn’t have the sophisticated security measures of it’s SW6 neighbours – Jeeps, Mercedes, the odd Beamer…. I HAVE AN IMMOBILSER you w*nkers!!! Take that!!! Think you can joy ride off around Fulham – think again! They’d obviously had a good try because my steering wheel was jammed, but a little TLC and it was just tickety boo once again!

So following their immense failure in joy riding off into the winter rain, they’d then had a look to see if they could salvage their pride by nicking off with some valuable personal belongings. My car is not the tidiest, cleanest thing on the block, but they had obviously decided that there must be SOMETHING of value amongst the huge heap of junk. So they’d had a good sift through some old tissues, empty water bottles, a Top Shop bag, a petrol can, some sweetie wrappers, a pair of muddy wellies, a couple of tatty jumpers, a letter to my ex that I’d never sent, a piccy of me and my dad in a photo booth when I was seven and a wig left over from a fancy dress party. NOTHING worth tuppence ha’penny! So onto the CDs…Joni Mitchell, Aretha Franklin, Eva Cassidy and Shakira…all still happily present and accounted for – what a huge advantage it is to have music taste that everyone else thinks is terrible!

Not even the CD player was pinched – maybe they tried it out…and thought it wasn’t working…you have to give it a gentle nudge to make it work you see. So all in all, I have a bust lock and a new dent in the passenger side door…it’s nothing that my car and I can’t live with.

But I would have been gutted if they’d stolen it. Monetary value it has not – but it has oodles of sentimental value…for I bought it just after KP left. It had 127,000 miles on the clock and the retired granddad from whom I bought it, dropped the price to £200 because he thought I was struggling with the clutch on my test drive. (I just have a lazy clutch foot.) It was a horrible time but when the going got tough…my car got me going. It got me to work across Richmond Park when I couldn’t face the train through my hazy break-up tears. It took me to my family and best friends at the drop of a hat when I couldn’t face a lonely weekend in London. It took me on a liberating 800 mile roadtrip around the Devon and Cornwall coast, with the windows down and the music blaring and through all that, it hasn’t broken down on me once - not once has it let me down.

It had a dent in it when I bought it and since then it’s had it’s wipers snapped off by vandals, been towed away from outside my house by those criminals from Fulham council and from it’s latest adventures, it is now sporting a bigger dent in the passenger seat door. So I guess that you could conclude that my car and I are both a little bruised and battered around the edges from our trials and tribulations…but we are so NOT broken!!!

Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish

What do you write in the leaving card of the office player who once lured you into his games and taught you the hard way how he gained his reputation?

I am sitting at my desk pondering over this question a year after our brief affair. No longer am I emotionally scarred by his behaviour, but there is still a dent in my pride from having let myself be fooled by such a rogue.

Since I heard of his imminent departure, I have given this matter a lot of thought, and come up with the following options:

Breezy:
'Good luck in your new job, I'm sure you'll have a great time'

Hard Arse Bitch:
'F*ck off you prick!'

Apathetic:
'Best wishes in your new career'

Pathetic:
'I can't believe you're leaving. I'm going to miss you so much. I think you've lost my mobile number, it's ... Do Keep in touch xxx'

Having decided that breezy was too nice, hard arse bitch too bitter, apathetic too cold and pathetic too desperate, I gave up on the card and sent him the following email:

'A whole new office full of unsuspecting women...

Good luck!'

Toxic Attraction

Maybe, just maybe - it’s me. Why for example did I say no to the sober and successful accountant, who actually against stereotype, also happened to be laugh-out- loud funny, a fantastic kisser and who stated very early on that he rarely dabbled in the purely casual as what he really wanted was permancy – a lifetime love or love for a lifetime. As I try wherever possible to tell the truth if it’s me doing the letting down, I told him over dinner (that he insisted on paying for despite my dragging him half way across London to meet me, already slightly inebriated, in my after work pub), that I had met someone else, someone grieving because he had just lost his dad and that I liked this other guy - Blue Moon (http://sistersinthecity.blogspot.com/2006/08/once-in-blue-moon.html) too much to want to date anyone else. He thought for a moment and then asked “Are you sure you really like this guy and it’s not just that you recognise he’s lost from his loss – as are you from yours - and that maybe, just maybe you think that somehow you’ll find the right path together?” In red wine cockiness, I determined decidedly that this was most definitely not the case and that I appreciated he was looking out for me but that I just simply really liked this guy. He nodded and we finished our meal amicably and without so much as a hint of dejectedness, he kissed me goodbye and coolly never initiated contact again, although he politely answers when I call him, as I have done from time-to-time. And you know, eight months on, maybe, just maybe he was right. Eight months on I’m still seeing Blue Moon, that is I see him when he wants to see me and when he doesn’t, I tell myself, no bother, he just needs his own space right now and I concentrate my thoughts on other tortured souls who might Major in perhaps Drug Addiction or Alcoholism or failing that, Minor in Dishonesty or Nonchalance. I attract it. Or maybe, just maybe I’m attracted to it?

Why Broken Hearts Hurt

Why broken hearts hurt... A new study suggests the psychological hurt of a break-up is just as real as a physical injury. Two areas of the brain that respond to physical pain also become activated when a person is dealing with social pain, such as being dumped. The researchers believe that the pain of being rejected may have evolved as a motivating force that led humans to seek out social interaction, which is crucial for the survival of most mammals.
(Laura Schaefer - http://http://msnuk.match.com/matchscene/article.aspx?articleid=6431&TrackingID=511021&BannerID=558924)

So break up pain has evolved so that the lonely and broken hearted will desperately seek out another's bed to take away the hurt...thus ensuring the survival of the species. Personally, I couldn't have given a hoot about the survival of the wretched species when I was in break-up hell. I'd have probably thought it a good thing we all stopped copulating so that no other poor bugger had to endure the pain of abandonment. And as for it being just as real as a physical injury...tell us something we don't know - it's like a disease! No appetite, dizziness, nightmares, forgetfulness, chest pain, stomach pain, panic attacks. Give me a broken arm and a six week plaster cast anyday. A broken heart aint so easy to mend.

Margarita Tears

So tonight dissolved into a stream of salty, sad, tears. I didn't really want to go out anyway. I had been persuaded to come out for dinner by the man that I had dated after my celibate seven month 'getting over KP phase' - let's call him Mr Comfort. We dated from last September to this February, sporadically. I spent the first two months fighting the relationship out of deluded loyalty to KP and then I gave in...to hugs and comfort and feeling wanted again. Except, he never really wanted me. Six weeks after we met, he tore his Achilles tendon and my female instincts kicked in. This man needs me he can't shop, drive, go to work, live. I'll do his shopping, I'll pick him up from the airport, I'll look after him, feed him, be with him. All the female nesting instincts that had been banished to dormancy by KP's sudden departure became useful again. No need to tend the weeds in the garden or make the rented, shared, household resemble a couple's honeymoon home...this guy needs me. And he did for a while. Whilst he was on crutches, and he couldn't see his friends and he felt helpless, depressed and lonely. And then...quite simply, I wasn't 'the one'...in fact in six months, I wasn't even the girlfriend. And so to tonight...what brought on the sad, salty, tears? Well, a friend of his commented last Christmas, that I 'had to be careful', that Mr Comfort was not all he seemed. And a year on, I'm well aware that he is not all he seems...that there was, besides me, a Lara and a Sara and a Polly and god only knows who else. But Mr Comfort and I have become familiar with the ridiculousness of our relationship, the fact that I know what he gets up to and yet we still manage to maintain a close but mainly non-physical affair. However, tonight, I went out to dinner with Mr Comfort and this friend who had warned me all those moons ago against our relationship. And I brought the friend's Christmas comment up...in a jovial 'should have listened to you' sort of way...and when there was a quiet moment, the friend suddenly said into my ear, "you shouldn't have said that - you were bang out of order. Mr Comfort and I are close friends, we've had a brilliant summer sailing together and what you've just revealed jeopardises our friendship." Maybe it was the margaritas streaming through my blood...I don't know. But I couldn't hold back the salty tears. I wanted to irrationally scream..."do you know what I did for this guy?" "Have you any idea that I did everything for him when he needed me to even though I knew that ultimately I didn't mean enough to him?" But instead I went to the girls' loos and cried. And the other girl at the dinner...my friend, came and found me, weeping for everything I've lost and everything I haven't found. His words hit at the very heart of my loneliness and inability to find someone that will love me just for me and who will want to have my children and allow me to nurture and cherish and do all the things that my female instinct wants to do but can't. Because I'm just a single London city girl, finding that her lifetime dreams...can not easily be fulfilled.

25yr old, Blue Eyed...Dud!

So I saw him for three evenings out of four before I escaped to Paris. I know, maybe a case of too much too soon but it seemed right. And then, well…he just didn’t call…or text...or email. So many communication choices at his disposal in our exciting technological age, but he couldn’t work out how to use any of them. Thus the 25 yr old, blue eyed stud, turned out to be a bit of a dud!