A Table in Paris

I sit at a chequered table on a corner of the Rue Saint Dominique, sipping un café and gazing dreamily at the Eiffel Tower rising above the roof tops of the Parisien street buildings. The sun is trying to escape grey clouds so that it can shine on me.
***
I arrived in Paris late last night, exiting the metro at Saint Michel to a view of Notre Dame glowing gold against the black of night. It reminded me of a time four years ago when I would take the six hour train to Edinbugh to see KP, leaving Waverley station to a view of the castle shining like a beacon on the hill and enlivened by the prospect of mojitos at Olorosos with my new man. Last night my anticipation was to see old French friends and while away the evening over several bottles of vin rouge and hearty chat.

My first stop was the hotel - an eccentric one star affair, in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the Latin quarter. I was greeted by an interior draped in leopard print velvet and random strokes of multi-coloured war paint. This conjured up images of an artist proprietor who's spent much of his life travelling through Africa and then retired to this little hotel, unleashing all of his influences on the interior in one crazed, artistic flourish.

A shower and a short taxi ride later and I was amongst friends in a lofty, Parisien apartment, kissing cheeks and clinking champagne glasses as we started an evening that would tumble into the early hours of the next day.

***

I put down my pen, sip my coffee and lean back. The sun has come out and I stretch and smile, tilting my face towards the warmth. It's so good to be here, alone, at this table in Paris.

Right For Now or Right Forever?

Anyone who’s been single for a substantial amount of time will understand the feeling of emptiness which occasionally occurs during the odd spells of men drought. Don’t get me wrong – by no means do I think the single life is empty – far from it, I am a firm believer in singles living far more exciting, fulfilled lives than many couples. However, when you haven’t had a date for a while, or even if you have, but haven’t met anyone who gives you even the slightest urge to rush home and rip their clothes off, you can start to forget you’re a woman and wonder if you’re ever going to feel that blissful new crush rush ever again!

I have just emerged from one of these droughts into an exciting new fling but have one major concern. I am absolutely certain that I will never want to marry this man! Accuse me of being old fashioned or taking life too seriously, but I’m not sure there’s a point embarking on any sort of relationship if you know from the beginning that it’s not going anywhere. I am happy for the moment and I certainly enjoy being lavished with attention; but I cannot ignore the voice niggling in the back of my head telling me to stop wasting my time.

Much as I enjoy an active and spontaneous single life, deep down what I really want is to find a man who I can eventually settle down with and have babies! At the same time, I am only a hot blooded woman, who needs some fun to break the monotony of waiting for that man to find me. This poses the dilemma of whether the short term fix of having fun and filling that void for now will prevent me from achieving my ultimate goal of finding a husband.

Should we only pursue something which has the potential to fulfil our long term dreams, or is it worth staying with someone right now who is not right forever?

Second Chance Status

I'll be brief as I know Sister Bridget has a desperate dilemma to post and needs the full attention and advice of all you bloggers. Please do proffer your words of wisdom in the comments...we've heard that there are a few of you with us now!

Suffice to say that the 25yr old, blue eyed, stud rang me. It was apparently a terrible catalogue of unforeseen happenings that led to me being STOOD UP! We are now at 'second chance' status. I should now set the record straight and text all the random male recipients of my drunken texts and say…“Maybe some of you are alright after all.” But I thought that might make me look a little psychotic.

Don't Drink and Text

Why do I never learn? Why do I not understand that texting after copious amounts of alcohol does not a classy woman make. Last night, in momentary drunken madness, I wrote a damning summation on the male race and then sent it to members of that race – at random. The helpful replies have thus far included; ‘Have you considered lesbianism?’ (predictable) and ‘Oh dear, what’s happened now?’ The latter I find vaguely worrying in its insinuation that disasters involving me and the male species are commonplace.

The reason for this attack of the ‘all men are b*stards’ syndrome is quite simple. Last night, I was STOOD UP for my second date with the 25 yr old, blue eyed, stud – our first date having taken place last weekend. I had already surmised that communication was not his forte but concluded that just because I work in it and like to think I’m quite good at it, that doesn’t mean that everyone else has to be. I had therefore been content with the vague arrangements to meet ‘somewhere local’ after his footie finished at 7:30pm. At 9pm, still awaiting final arrangements, I rang him. “Hi, um…just wondering if you’ve been abducted by aliens, had your mobile nicked or just plain stood me up? I’m thinking the latter so I’m going out now”.

Hence why, several glasses of wine later, I found myself staggering back from my neighbours, gleefully texting about the inadequacies of the male race to all and sundry.

This morning, my flatmate and I have agreed that mobiles should come with an ‘I am drunk button’, which, once activated, blocks all outgoing texts until it can be reasonably assumed that the phone owner has sobered up.

In the meantime, I am left to nurse my hangover and await another day and I think, (having got the message loud and clear)…another man.

Running Free

As ever the single girl, I believe one of the best ways to feel truly independent and free of the occasional no-boyfriend blues which hit us all from time to time, is to go for an invigorating run around one of London’s parks. Not only does this leave me feeling fit, healthy and energised, but it also helps toward obtaining a nice trim body - a definite help in finding a man, should I once again feel inclined to do so, after the post running glow has worn off!

Having spent countless evenings running with my girlfriends while discussing our recent relationship dilemmas and adventures, I was very excited last weekend when my current romantic interest suggests we go for a run together. Feeling rather smug at the prospect of running with a man rather than complaining about not having one, I heartily agree.

Before we set off, I kindly tell him not to feel bad if he can’t keep up. I have done this run many times and I understand that he’s not used to such long distances. I realise that this considerate prep talk was slightly unnecessary after having to stop 3 times before we make it halfway through whilst he is barely out of breath!

Once we reach the halfway point, I tell him this is where my friends and I stop; congratulate ourselves on how well we’ve done, make excuses for why we haven’t done as well as we could have, and decide to come running every night for the next 2 years! He nods and smiles, slightly bemused by my eccentric babbling, and suggests we do some sit-ups. I settle myself down comfortably on the grass, and have got through about 20 sit-ups when I discover that I’ve positioned myself uncomfortably close to a pile of dog poo! Horrified, I surreptitiously stand up and pretend that I’m ready to go back. He’s grinning sheepishly and when I ask him what’s wrong he finally admits ‘um – I don’t know how to tell you this but you’ve got dog shit on your back!!!’

I run back to the car faster than I’ve ever ran before! All my usual post-run feelings of empowerment have been completely eradicated by some stupid dog deciding to have a shit where I felt like lying down! Full of shame, I set off home having learnt one lesson: If you are going to do something to boost your confidence as an independent and strong woman – do not take a man!!

The Times They Are A-Changin'

I meet this birthday, the year before the great milestone of 30, with slight trepidation. I am entering the last year of my twenties - am I leaving behind the best days of my life? What will my thirties hold for me? Are smoky clubs with sticky carpets a thing of the past - to be replaced with hot cups of coco and early nights?

Slide back 10 years and I was starting University and although I didn’t know it at the time... about to meet my now husband. It was the beginning of a special journey through my 20s where I would gain a plethora of new experience, both good...and bad.

Another 10 years back and I was nine - a child and although my memory fails me slightly, I am sure it involved a carefully selected group of other nine year olds, a trip to the zoo and a McDonald’s happy meal.

9 years before this I entered the world. How time flies!

So what can I expect from the last year of my twenties? Well, I think I'll start it off with a few glasses of champagne and see where it takes me.

Happy Birthday to me!

Briefly Remembered

"I didn't realise until I remembered him, that I had forgotten him," says Anna Blundy, in this week's Grazia, about the father she lost at nineteen. Grief is a strange emotion. So many of us go through our every day existences, grieving for someone who has died, or, as is pertinent to a close friend of mine - someone who hasn't yet been born. I grieve for someone alive but absent. Last night, curled up under a blanket with a stinking cold, stoically caught through blatant over-excess last weekend, I found myself in front of Sacha Baron Cohen's "Da Ali G Show". It was Borat's exclamation of "Wow-wah-wee-wah" (his general greeting for a bit of fine totty), that reminded me of KP. Once again I saw him, as if it were yesterday, in the build up to a big night out. I would totter into the room in my glad rags, freshly made-up and organising my handbag. He would stand from reading the paper, the crinkles in his cheeks breaking into a smile and he'd throw his arms out and shrill "Wow-wah-wee-wah" - Borat style. And I would glow from his attention. Ridiculous, that I should remember him by this. But it's the little memories that pop up from time-to-time that bring fleeting miss-you-moments for a past that will never become future. And I didn't realise until I remembered him, that I had actually forgotten him. These days, the glimpses are brief and I get on with my life. I haven't seen him in six months and it's been over for eighteen. Forgetting is nature's coping mechanism. So it must be difficult therefore for a fellow Sister who's grief is kept alive every month. And even though it's different to grieve for someone you've never known rather than someone you have, it's still grief and anyone who has experienced it in any form, understands, even if it's too painful to discuss every day.