Almost since I was old enough to read, I have been an avid fan of romantic literary classics. I’ve spent years dreaming of the great hero and passionate love affair I’m hoping to one day experience. People often tell you that the love of your life is just around the corner (if that’s true this is either one of the world’s largest corners, or with my appalling sense of direction I’ve typically gone the wrong way!) but I’m still waiting for my Heathcliffe or Darcy to appear – preferably coming out of a lake looking amazingly sexy and inquiring most politely after the health of my family!
Truthfully; Mr Darcy, with all his good breeding and high social standing, doesn’t do it for me in quite the same way as the rough and rugged Heathcliffe. So much of a man he’s almost beyond human, and so mysterious he doesn’t even have a first name. I wonder if it’s this dream of finding such a hero, that has stopped me so far from finding my perfect partner. Everyday activities such as shopping with ex-boyfriends, have often become a cause for arguments or frustration. How romantic does it feel when you’re hoping for sympathy after a hard day at work and get ignored? Or you catch your man checking out the legs on the girl with a short skirt at the table next to you when you’re out for dinner? But when did Cathy and Heathcliffe ever go to Sainsbury’s to do the week shopping? When did Heathcliffe ever drive her to work and get mad with her terrible map reading skills when they went off course? Exactly – Never! They never did anything beyond running around on the moors in a fit of passion, and weren’t even both alive for the majority of their love affair!!
And if I’m really honest, I don’t even think I possess any of the qualities of Catherine Earnshaw or Elizabeth Bennett that would even attract such a man should I ever be lucky enough to come across one. In reality, I’m probably more similar to Lydia Bennett than I am Eliza (See my drunken phone story Not for the Faint Hearted to confirm this!) I admit, I do share Cathy’s big frizzy hair, (which no doubt she’d also correct if only she lived in today’s glorious times of ghds!) but running around on the moors all day would probably tire me out after a while. Romantic as it sounds, more than likely I’d get a bit cold and hungry, and ask if we couldn’t just go home and have a nice cup of tea!
I’ll never regret reading these great literary masterpieces, but having lived my whole adult life expecting this unrealistic portrayal of love to exist, I’m not sure their effect on me has necessarily been healthy! Jane Austen, with all her wonderfully conjured up heroes, never married. I’m not saying we should settle with a Mr Collins or a drippy Edgar Linton, but perhaps a Colonel Fitzwilliam or a Hareton Earnshaw wouldn’t be so bad – or even that boy in sales who you’ve had your eye on for a while?! I’m hoping at least one of these realistic heroes will be around the corner soon, and if it’s not quite romantic enough – we can still pick up Wuthering Heights and dream from time to time!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Saturday, November 18, 2006
My Deceptive Friend
Descending wearily down the steps from the tube last night, sober despite the midnight hour - because I’d come from work, I become aware of a woman asking another woman if she’s OK. “I’m fine,” comes the strangulated reply and then…more angrily “apart from the fact my husband’s f*cking another woman”. The others look shocked, nod and walk away. Remembering many a time on a platform in tears (albeit for different reasons), I offer her a lift anywhere she wants to go, but she’s not far from home. “He’s gone on that dating site ‘My Single Friend’” she continues…I flinch…I have a profile on this site, my friend nominated me, it’s not smutty like the other sites…everyone in London is doing it…even the married sort, it would seem. I want to ask her for coffee, anything so she’s not alone but I don’t want to interfere. “You’ll get through this,” I offer pathetically, before slinking away to my car. I watch her pull out her mobile phone before I drive away. I’m never one to judge infidelity, I sit on the fence as to whether humans were meant to stay faithful to one person for long periods of time or not. I agree the ideal is loyalty to one true love but I don’t know whether it’s realistic. I do however, think that fluidly and perhaps guiltily falling into an affair, is a totally different thing to purposefully pimping oneself out on an internet site that is meant for those people who have yet to find their first partner, let alone a second. So this man is deceiving his very pretty, barely past 30yr old wife. But he’s also deceiving me and other singletons in what should be a fun, alternative route to finding a mate. At times like these, I wish they’d bring back corporal punishment…I feel that castration would be an effective cure for his deception.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Not for the faint hearted
I know that getting ridiculously drunk is neither big nor clever and by no means do I intend this blog to become a forum in which to try and outdo each other with even more outrageous drunken stories; However I was given a bit of a wake-up call after a particularly drunken office party last weekend and think it’s a lesson worth sharing.
Every year at the beginning of November one of our clients puts on a big lunch flowing with wine and champagne. As I am fully aware how these events tend to turn out, this year I alternated between wine and water and by about 4.00pm (I know that doesn’t sound too impressive but bear in mind the party started at 1.00pm!), I am still very much in control of my faculties and I start to notice that my friends are becoming increasingly merry and even my hardened drinker boss is making me look sober. Feeling slightly uncomfortable with this unusual scenario, I know only one way to rectify things: I quickly discard my sensible glass of water and begin to thoroughly enjoy myself. This was my first mistake.
I must admit the next section of this story is not entirely autobiographical as my memory fails me from this point onwards. I have, however, done the best I could do to piece the brief flashbacks together into some sort of coherent story.
It’s now about 8.30 and most people have left (including all the important people from work thank goodness). I am at the bar having a rather inappropriate conversation with the bouncer when I realise it’s time to go home.
And this is when I get one of those fabulous ideas you only ever get when you’re drunk. I know! I’ll phone so and so from last year who dumped me/ignored me/was in love with me… So I phone an ex-flame who has shown no interest in me for the last 5 months. I’m not sure exactly how this conversation went, but I think it was something like this:
Me: Hi.
Him: Hello, who’s this?
Me: ME.
Him: Huh?
Me: (probably in my squeakiest, most high pitched, drunken, screech), YOU DON’T KNOW WHO I AM?!!!
Him: Oh. Now I know.
Me: (Realising I actually have no idea why I phoned and that I have nothing to say to this man I remain silent).
Him: Was there anything you wanted?
Me: No.
Him: Ok then bye.
Me: Huh?!
Great! Having commited the faux pas of all faux pas...I’m now on the train struggling with a far worse dilemma. Not being sick!!
A kindly woman (I assume she’s kindly but as I mentioned earlier the details of this part aren’t very clear) asks me if I think I ought to get off the train if I’m not feeling well. I agree, get off at Queenstown road, puke (sorry, I did warn you) and re-alight the next train. The rest of the night is pretty uneventful, I get home, go to bed and wake up the next morning feeling just a tad under the weather.
I’m supposed to be going back to mum and dad’s the next day, so I go to call them to let them know I’ll be slightly later than planned. Except my phone isn’t in my bag, or my coat pocket, or in the discarded heap of clothes sprawled all over my bedroom floor…
Once I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have indeed lost my phone on another night out, explained to mum and dad that I’ll soon be on my way but can’t call because yet again my phone’s been stolen from my bag (I know, I know, terrible thieves in London!) I’m about to leave the house when my mum rings me back. She’s received a call from a lady who found my phone.
She told my mum I had to get off the train to be sick, and I left my phone and my glove on the train.
Mum: How did she know you were going to be sick?
Me: I er told her I wasn’t feeling well.
Mum: She sounded foreign, where was she from?
Me: (Absolutely no idea there even was a woman let alone acknowledged her nationality) Uh, France?
Mum: (Clearly not amused with my irresponsible behaviour and vague attempts to redeem myself), well she’s handed it in to Richmond station. I have her number so you can phone her to say thank you.
As grateful and relieved as I am that the lady was kind enough to hand my phone in, it’s through gritted teeth that I phone her to say ‘thank you’ when what I really want to say is: Why on earth did you have to tell my mother?!!!
Every year at the beginning of November one of our clients puts on a big lunch flowing with wine and champagne. As I am fully aware how these events tend to turn out, this year I alternated between wine and water and by about 4.00pm (I know that doesn’t sound too impressive but bear in mind the party started at 1.00pm!), I am still very much in control of my faculties and I start to notice that my friends are becoming increasingly merry and even my hardened drinker boss is making me look sober. Feeling slightly uncomfortable with this unusual scenario, I know only one way to rectify things: I quickly discard my sensible glass of water and begin to thoroughly enjoy myself. This was my first mistake.
I must admit the next section of this story is not entirely autobiographical as my memory fails me from this point onwards. I have, however, done the best I could do to piece the brief flashbacks together into some sort of coherent story.
It’s now about 8.30 and most people have left (including all the important people from work thank goodness). I am at the bar having a rather inappropriate conversation with the bouncer when I realise it’s time to go home.
And this is when I get one of those fabulous ideas you only ever get when you’re drunk. I know! I’ll phone so and so from last year who dumped me/ignored me/was in love with me… So I phone an ex-flame who has shown no interest in me for the last 5 months. I’m not sure exactly how this conversation went, but I think it was something like this:
Me: Hi.
Him: Hello, who’s this?
Me: ME.
Him: Huh?
Me: (probably in my squeakiest, most high pitched, drunken, screech), YOU DON’T KNOW WHO I AM?!!!
Him: Oh. Now I know.
Me: (Realising I actually have no idea why I phoned and that I have nothing to say to this man I remain silent).
Him: Was there anything you wanted?
Me: No.
Him: Ok then bye.
Me: Huh?!
Great! Having commited the faux pas of all faux pas...I’m now on the train struggling with a far worse dilemma. Not being sick!!
A kindly woman (I assume she’s kindly but as I mentioned earlier the details of this part aren’t very clear) asks me if I think I ought to get off the train if I’m not feeling well. I agree, get off at Queenstown road, puke (sorry, I did warn you) and re-alight the next train. The rest of the night is pretty uneventful, I get home, go to bed and wake up the next morning feeling just a tad under the weather.
I’m supposed to be going back to mum and dad’s the next day, so I go to call them to let them know I’ll be slightly later than planned. Except my phone isn’t in my bag, or my coat pocket, or in the discarded heap of clothes sprawled all over my bedroom floor…
Once I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have indeed lost my phone on another night out, explained to mum and dad that I’ll soon be on my way but can’t call because yet again my phone’s been stolen from my bag (I know, I know, terrible thieves in London!) I’m about to leave the house when my mum rings me back. She’s received a call from a lady who found my phone.
She told my mum I had to get off the train to be sick, and I left my phone and my glove on the train.
Mum: How did she know you were going to be sick?
Me: I er told her I wasn’t feeling well.
Mum: She sounded foreign, where was she from?
Me: (Absolutely no idea there even was a woman let alone acknowledged her nationality) Uh, France?
Mum: (Clearly not amused with my irresponsible behaviour and vague attempts to redeem myself), well she’s handed it in to Richmond station. I have her number so you can phone her to say thank you.
As grateful and relieved as I am that the lady was kind enough to hand my phone in, it’s through gritted teeth that I phone her to say ‘thank you’ when what I really want to say is: Why on earth did you have to tell my mother?!!!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Breaking the Pattern
Mr Right Now (http://sistersinthecity.blogspot.com/2006/09/right-for-now-or-right-forever.html) and I have been discussing our ‘relationship’ and have reached an understanding that it's not really going anywhere. This is mainly down to the fact that I don’t see us together in the future, nor do I seem to know what I actually do want. Everything’s very amicable, we’re great friends; we both know this needs to end, but neither of us wants to be the one to end it.
Finally, Mr RN, takes the plunge and decides we should break up. Instead of deciding this myself, I have forced him to do it, and instead of making this easier for him, I turn myself into the victim and resort to crying so that he has to comfort me.
I know my tears are weak and my need for comfort unfair, but it seems that I only know how to play the role of the dumpee and not the dumper. Once It’s officially over, I suddenly become far more keen and need to see him all the time. I’ve lost my security blanket and don’t like the possibility of him meeting another girl.
Then it dawns on me: I wasted five years in this situation with a previous ex-boyfriend – calling him, leaning on him for support, not quite letting him go, and forcing him to be the strong one to end it even though it was my feelings preventing us from being together.
And here I am again.
It would be so easy to follow this pattern, to replace my old security blanket that I relied on for so long with this lovely man who offers so much comfort, friendship and support. But now I know what I’m doing and how unfair I’m being, I think it’s time to break this pattern and set him free.
Finally, Mr RN, takes the plunge and decides we should break up. Instead of deciding this myself, I have forced him to do it, and instead of making this easier for him, I turn myself into the victim and resort to crying so that he has to comfort me.
I know my tears are weak and my need for comfort unfair, but it seems that I only know how to play the role of the dumpee and not the dumper. Once It’s officially over, I suddenly become far more keen and need to see him all the time. I’ve lost my security blanket and don’t like the possibility of him meeting another girl.
Then it dawns on me: I wasted five years in this situation with a previous ex-boyfriend – calling him, leaning on him for support, not quite letting him go, and forcing him to be the strong one to end it even though it was my feelings preventing us from being together.
And here I am again.
It would be so easy to follow this pattern, to replace my old security blanket that I relied on for so long with this lovely man who offers so much comfort, friendship and support. But now I know what I’m doing and how unfair I’m being, I think it’s time to break this pattern and set him free.
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