Self Fulfilling Prophecy

I know this isn’t something I should readily admit to, but my main goal in life since I was about 16 has been to find a husband. I went to university, as much to meet my ideal man, as to gain an English degree. And although I have mainly lived my life doing things that I enjoy, in everything I’ve done, there has always been a secret hope that Mr Right will be doing it too!

With my naïve hopefulness so cruelly crushed from such a young age, and instead of meeting a husband at university, I met a variety of arrogant, alcoholic rugby lads (probably more down to my own poor choice than anything else, but that’s another story!), I eventually accepted the possibility that I may never find my dream man, and consoled myself by forming a back-up plan.

Again, I know it sounds rather depressing that such a young (attractive!!) girl in her mid 20s should be making back-up plans, but as I had been on the husband hunt far earlier than most, perhaps my cynicism and disillusionment hit in earlier too. My back up plan has mainly consisted of living a fun single life, filled with friends, a great career and lots of exciting hobbies and interests – but most importantly is the part where I have a test-tube baby! My friends and family laugh when I tell them this is my plan, and tell me I shouldn’t joke about such things. But the truth is, I am deadly serious. Having a baby is as, if not more, important to me than having a man, and I don’t want to live my life worrying that I might miss out on both of my life’s ambitions. It scares me too much to believe I have to rely on someone else to fulfil my biggest need and would rather live my life knowing that I can take control of this myself – if need be.

As I’ve mentioned before, I have recently become involved with a nice young man, who I shall hereafter refer to as Mr Bridget. Much as I have always wanted a boyfriend, being so used to my single routine, I have been finding it hard to adjust. Also being such a blabber mouth and completely incapable of keeping anything to myself, I have of course, filled him in on all the details of my back-up plan, test-tube baby and all!

Mr Bridget brought it to my attention, that although I always claim this is my back-up plan, it has become so important to me that it is gradually evolving into plan A rather than plan B. In order to protect myself from disappointment I have begun to prepare a bit too seriously for bringing up a baby on my own. I have become so self sufficient and independent of men that despite all my moaning about wanting a boyfriend, when it comes down to it, I am too reliant of my single life that I cannot give it up.

So now I am wondering how much truth there is in what he’s said. I can’t give up my back-up plan because it protects me from becoming too needy and allows me to believe I can cope on my own. But by giving myself this safety net, have I allowed myself to give up the real dream? The dream of a family, and more importantly at the moment, of giving more of myself to someone else and running the risk of becoming vulnerable?

I don’t know whether I will be able to do it, but I think it’s time to give up plan B before it prevents me from living plan A.

Taking The Day Off

I'm poorly. In bed. Woe is me.

Trying It On

Recently, I’ve found myself contemplating telling Chatterbox that I love him, and not in the drunken, silly way of that Sunday*. This isn’t because I actually love him because I don’t, not yet. It’s rather that I’m thinking that if I say it, the sentence will be momentarily suspended in mid air - a cloud trail formed by Cupid’s Red Arrow. I can then quickly take a look at it from a distance and decipher how far I am off believing it, or whether I will ever believe it.

But instead of uttering those three little words, I asked Chatterbox whether he ever felt like saying something just so that he could hear himself out loud and see what emotional response it might provoke. And this is what I quite like about him, because he didn’t tell me I was slightly psychotic, pronounce complete incomprehension and dismiss me as ‘being arty’ as has been known by previous entrants to the post of boyfriend, when I'm deemed to have asked something peculiar. He replied in a matter of fact way - “No, but I have tried a colour on a canvas to see whether or not it’s right and then washed over it when it wasn’t”, which struck me momentarily dumb because I guess I just wasn’t expecting an answer that was quite so pretty, or one that showed understanding.

And we all try it on don’t we? From the relatively insignificant trial… who hasn’t shrugged on a man’s jumper to see how it feels? To the rather more significant. Recently, a friend of mine announced that she had sort of been thinking about maybe seeing what it might be like to try for a baby, because she was sort of curious to see how fertile she might be and it could sort of take a while, so maybe she’d have a little try… just to see. The problem being, that either Popeye must have been eating his spinach or Olive Oyl must have been eating her oily fish, because Swee’Pea only needed one pop at the cherry! And of course she wouldn’t want to paint the picture a different colour now, but she's a little wary of the wet paint.

So it’s best I'm a little cautious when ‘trying it on’ I think, not least because at the moment, it’s maybe too early to know if the colour is right and actually I don't much feel like washing my Chatterbox away...

*'That Sunday' http://sistersinthecity.blogspot.com/2007/01/discombobulated_11.html

V-Day in the life of Sister Bridget

After many years of being single on Valentines Day; trying out various ways to deal with what I came to know as ‘the worst day of the year’ including boycotting the whole thing, speed dating or other fun nights out with my single friends, I finally have a boyfriend to share it with! This year, my lovely man is cooking me dinner, spoiling me with gifts and lavishing me with attention which of course is all wonderful and splendid! Except silly old me, is never happy and when I am so indulgently presented with a huge bunch of roses and balloon at work, instead of displaying this everso proudly at my desk, my face goes a deeper shade of red than the roses themselves, I leave my balloon in reception and run to my desk and hide them, hoping that no-one will see what’s just happened!

I know, I know, I am very ungrateful and undeserving of such attention. It’s not that I’m not grateful; I love the flowers and I love the gesture, it’s just I don’t like the thought of sitting in work surrounded by such obvious displays of affection. I might as well stand up and shout ‘Look at me everyone, I have a boyfriend - I am so much better than all you single losers!!’ And bearing in mind I am still quite nostalgic of my single losery days, and have always hated anyone in a couple on Valentines Day, particularly the types that display their love so blatantly, it would be rather hypocritical of me to do so!

But now, Mr Bridget has got wind of the fact that my balloon is still in reception, and I have learned that Valentines Day can still be troublesome even if you are in a couple. It just puts so much pressure on people to be romantic and prove their love, when I believe this should be done through the little things all the year round. Or maybe too many years of being single have turned me into a permanent hater of Valentines Day and I should just shut up and enjoy it!!

Bah Humbug!

Valentines day is classed along with Christmas and New Year in my book and I say BAH HUMBUG to the lot of them!

Well that is until some lovely boy sends me flowers and or a card. This year I have nothing (although the post hadn’t been when I left home) so I will be in a fairly quiet mood all day long until I get home later tonight with a spark of hope in my heart that there might be something there for me. When there isn’t I shall be taking myself straight to bed to end the day as a bad lot!

My bad mood is exacerbated this year by my ‘single girl’s best friend’ (the electric blanket) - dying on me last night and the fact that the boy I live with has asked me not to come home too early as he is having a romantic meal in. Oh and Bad Mannered Boy claimed to adore me over the weekend. These are not the actions, or rather non actions, of a devoted boy…..

V-Day in the Life of Sister Louise

My Chatterbox couldn’t get a reservation at any of the restaurants to which he wanted to take me, so in the event, V-Day came a day early and we went to Hunan on the Pimlico Rd last night...

http://www.londontown.com/LondonInformation/Restaurant/Hunan/8dc3/

It’s the sort of place where you try and wedge a napkin under the table leg to stop it wobbling and three waiters come to your rescue to do it for you. It’s rather like a large dinner party, in that there is no menu, you tell the chef what you don’t eat and a little of everything you do eat, lands on your table shortly afterwards…it was fun…and thoughtful as Chatterbox knows I have a fear of Menu decisions.

A card has just arrived from ‘My Secret Admirer’. Having been told to look out for the post however, he’s really my ‘Not So Secret Admirer’. But I can live with that.

Happy Valentine’s Day!! Tell us about yours!!

Manners

As a girl (surely I am still a girl – nearing 28 doesn’t make me a woman does it?!) struggling in the dating wilderness, I find that lack of manners are the worst thing to deal with. When I say manners I am not referring to the way a man holds his knife and fork or whether he holds doors open for me, in fact the door thing always makes me slightly awkward. No, I am referring more to time keeping and communications.

I respect all dating rules at the start of a relationship. For example, I am all too aware of the three day rule and that it can even, at a push, extend to five days. It’s a code that I can’t quite dispense with, (despite all the talk about not playing games) but sometimes men overstep the mark from following the rules of the game, to just plain old bad manners – which I just cannot abide! I know I sound like someone’s Grandmother, maybe even my own, but if I am waiting for a man to call when he said he would and he doesn’t, it drives me to distraction!

I think of myself as quite a self sufficient girl. When I am going out with someone I don’t expect to see or hear from them every day. Contact every other day and maybe seeing each other twice a week - or less, is fine. I also think I’m quite sensible about phone calls. I never call twice in a row and I apply the same restraint to texting. But if a man says he is going to do something, then I expect him to do it!

I am currently bemoaning the lack of manners in a man who I have finally started dating after years of flirty friendship. Apart from the fact that texts remain unanswered for days on end, he is constantly firming up arrangements really late. The other weekend, we arranged over the phone to go to dinner on Tuesday - we would firm up details nearer the time. Come Tuesday afternoon, I texted him and suggested a mutually convenient place to meet at eight o’clock. By seven o’clock I still hadn’t heard anything and my anger levels were beginning to simmer slightly. At seven thirty he finally texted to say he’d be there at eight. So I had to race around and get ready (boiling angry at this point). To top it off, he was then an hour late, leaving me alone in a pub. He texted to say he was running late just as I was about to leave the pub, giving me no option but to sit around and wait for him - charming! However, the evening was fantastic after that. We got on really well and when I mentioned that I would be meeting up with a mutual friend of ours, he asked if he could come along too. I said I would let him know what the plans were and duly texted him the day before to invite him. He never even replied. I heard from him two days after the event asking how it went and inviting me out that Saturday. I was so angry that I didn’t answer.

My thinking is that if a man behaves in this way he is just not keen. However, when I didn’t answer his texts I was then bombarded by texts from him. When I eventually agreed to go out with him again, he did the same thing as the last time and didn’t let me know what was going on until an hour before. Naturally, being a proud sort, I told him that as I hadn’t heard from him I had made other plans and then went home for a bath! I have now decided that this man is a waste of my time but the fact remains that whether I like someone or not I would never behave in this way. If I say I am going to do something I do it, or call someone in good time to say I can’t. Is this not simple manners?

Maybe it is the fact that my last boyfriend was equally ill–mannered that makes me particularly irritated by all this. He was constantly not turning up, or turning up hours late only to be severely put out when his dinner had gone in the bin or I had gone out. So, am I suffering from once bitten twice shy manners militancy or are manners in men really in steep decline?

Ice Ice Baby

My colleague has an injury, a damaged coccyx from tumbling down the stairs after one too many vinos. This morning, I found a rather dramatic way of putting her and the rest of the office out of their general misery. I shall recount in present time for effect.

At 9am, I receive a parcel from one of my clients. After tearing through the outer brown cardboard, I am presented with a large white box, sealed all the way round with brown gaffer tape. "How exciting!" I think and eagerly take a letter knife to the lid, levering it open to find a box full of ice. Brief thoughts of anthrax and terrorist activity pass through my mind, but I decide that I don't really fit the demographic profile of a "prime target" and therefore, the prize buried under this huge mound of ice, must be worth digging for. But how to get to it? The ice is so cold to the touch that it burns my fingers, so I plod over to the sink, tip the lot in and start running the hot tap… retrieving the treat - a tiny tub of ice-cream - from the bottom of the box before returning to my desk.

Believing my task to be satisfactorily completed, I am somewhat alarmed five minutes later when a fog starts to creep over the kitchen wall partition and leaves a trail like morning mist under my feet as it continues stealthily towards the back of the open plan office and under the MDs feet. At the same time, the office manager starts shrieking from behind the partition - the kitchen sink and pipes have frozen and she is frantically digging the ice back into the box with a spoon. Mental note. This is dry ice and apparently not the same as the stuff that one puts in their gin and tonic with a wedge of lime. It is made of Co2. I look up "dry ice" disposal methods on the internet…"keep in container and leave to sublimate…” (too late!) "don’t touch..." (how do we get it out of the sink then?) and "don't inhale... concentration in excess of 1.5% carbon dioxide may cause death. At higher concentrations, displaces oxygen in air below levels necessary to support life". I look through the haze enveloping the office, envision imprisonment for manslaughter of colleagues and decide that perhaps we should open a window.

"Signs/Symptoms Of Overexposure: At concentrations >1.5%: Hyperventilation/headaches/ dyspnoea/perspiration. At 6-10%: Headaches/dyspnoea/perspiration/tremors/visual disturbances. >10%: Unconsciousness w/out warning. Cryogenic burns".

My colleague says she can't breathe properly. I tell her (hopefully) that maybe it's like the gas they give to women in labour and that it will dull the pain from her damaged coccyx.

Am currently wrestling between the urge to play this at top volume in the office ... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vp-is6S_b_g or keep the necessary low profile.

All together now... "Ice, Ice..."

What's Knocking at Your Door?

There are things in life that we don’t talk about much, not to our best friends, our sisters, brothers, boyfriend, no one. We might touch on them occasionally when our tongues are loosened by alcohol and our façade is momentarily fractured, but generally we avoid discussion of them. I’m talking about secrets, oddities, weaknesses, fears... they form the rich tapestry of life, they make it interesting. They are the basis for a million blogs. The receptionist that shared a bath with the Managing Director, the troublesome eczema that’s really caused by obsessive hand washing, the infectious jollity of the girl who in reality gets a helping hand from ‘happy’ pills because she’s thought about topping herself one too many times. We know these scenarios exist, because they set tongues wagging and spread in hushed whispers across offices, homes, neighbourhoods, friends and families.

And these are just the physical manifestations of fear - worries that we’re on the right path, loving the right man, in the right job, being the right sort of person. The voices in our heads that tap, tap, tap away, pulling us in different directions, challenging us to check that we’re doing everything in our life that we should be doing.

I like my new boyfriend but every now and then, in a rewind, flashback moment, I think I’ll love KP for the rest of my life. I fight it every time the play button defects to rewind…I keep on pressing fast forward, fast forward please ...next frame, next scenario, move on. I fear not ever being able to move forward totally. To be one of those sad people…that you hear the carer in the old people’s home commenting on… “Oh yes, she’s on her own you know…never married or had children…I heard she had her heart broken once and never found anyone else”…

Tap…tap…tap….