He looked like a younger Tom Conti. We’d met in an out-of-the-way bar in Battersea where I was out drinking with N (the woman who refuses to date). It was a place so innocuous, we’d found it by accident and, at the time, I was living on the same street.
N was delighted by his accent. But let's make no bones about it, what appealed to me most about The Frenchman was that he didn’t work in the media, he was some kind of restaurant guru. This made a change. You see, when you add that ambiguous catch-all of ‘works in media’ to your job title, two things happen: first, you have something in common with 50% of the London population.- even my postman is writing a book, which explains why he is far too busy to drop off parcels but not too busy to write out one of those While You Were Out (I Couldn't Be Bothered To Carry Your Parcel) notices. I guess it's that bit closer to his real vocation.
And secondly, anyone who works in the media will spend most of the date trying to figure out how many degrees of separation lay between your respective worlds. Answer: never more than two (and Facebook is an Orwellian nightmare).
Soo, getting back to The Frenchman, he wasn’t really my type. (Tom Conti isn't my type.) And he had nasal hair. Which I felt bad about noticing. But it’s amazing what a second bottle of wine and some sideline cheering can do (from a woman who doesn't date) and so one thing led to another: yep, I boozily agreed to meet him again. Drunk in charge of a diary. There should be a law against it.
On the second date, I quickly learned that The Frenchman was entirely preoccupied with his own mortality. His thick accent and my complete inability to speak French properly (for shame) made it difficult to quite grasp the full range of his reasoning but, with a few prompts and the power of mime, I did catch the odd expression such as “need to settle down’ and ‘have kids soon’. Hmm. Alarm bells were ringing. Struggling, to lighten the mood, I asked why he hadn’t settled down yet.
Mouth turned down, shoulders raised theatrically he replied, “I am a restauranteur and have travelled all over the world. I have dated some of the most beautiful women in the world." Fair enough, I thought. He continued, "Till now, given the choice between dating the most beautiful woman in the world and dating someone who is funny and clever....someone like you.” He nods in my direction to underline his point, " I would have chosen a beautiful woman - but now I am older..." The rest of his sentence hangs in the air, lifeless.
I stop feeling bad about him looking like Tom Conti and having nasal hair and get myself the hell out.
Monday 22 October 2007
Sunday 21 October 2007
beauty tip
Unlikely as it was, I found myself trying on a dress in a high street chain notorious for selling very large, mostly wooden, costume jewellery to middle-aged women. I’ve never understood the attraction of wearing half a tree around the neck but then I'm not old enough to understand. Another ten years or so and things could be different, I might be eyeing up my wooden coffee table and wondering what it would look like with my favourite top.
So, I'm in this shop, not because of a premature bout of Dame Judi-itis, but on a recommendation from a costume designer who claimed it was a good place for the odd ‘find'. My find was a surprisingly slinky silk dress and I was trying it on when I overheard two women by the jewellery display:
“That looks good, Rita, that does” the first tentative voice pipes up.
“Aye” says the tryer-on in a flat Yorkshire tone. She doesn't sound all that impressed.
“It's very…large, isn’t it? I mean, for a necklace...” ventures the uncertain friend, “Isn’t it heavy? All that wood?”
“It is that, love" sighs the wearer, “but at least it draws attention away, you know, from my face.”
So, I'm in this shop, not because of a premature bout of Dame Judi-itis, but on a recommendation from a costume designer who claimed it was a good place for the odd ‘find'. My find was a surprisingly slinky silk dress and I was trying it on when I overheard two women by the jewellery display:
“That looks good, Rita, that does” the first tentative voice pipes up.
“Aye” says the tryer-on in a flat Yorkshire tone. She doesn't sound all that impressed.
“It's very…large, isn’t it? I mean, for a necklace...” ventures the uncertain friend, “Isn’t it heavy? All that wood?”
“It is that, love" sighs the wearer, “but at least it draws attention away, you know, from my face.”
Friday 12 October 2007
nak'd
He was moderately known. Not a Heat-style profile but certainly recognisable. The kind of man who probably suffers from a lot of "Oi! You! I've seen you on the telly!" in the supermarket. He came in to play a small part for one episode. Nothing fancy but he still approached it with all the intensity of a young De Niro. Which was fine, except it was a bit part and this was a TV comedy not Brecht.
He was, in short, what you might call a bit precious. Handle with Care emanated from every pore. Even the thick-skinned, seen-it-all sparks gave him a wide berth less he went Baby Jane on their respective arses.
Being a single camera show, things were predictably taking longer than expected. He started to fret as he waited sulkily by the tea urn. Like a humourless grey cloud, he hovered over the rest of the cast indignant at being made to wait. We sent him back to the relative comfort of his dressing room for a few minutes. Fifteen minutes later and our Second was asked to return him to the set.
She knocked on his door. "Enter", he grandly commanded. And there he sat, in an armchair, facing the door, in all his glory. Legs spread and, bar a small, carefully placed cushion, completely naked. Mighty pleased with himself, he held her eye for a second too long.
"DON'T! Get up." She cried as he went to do just that.
Perhaps he didn't want to get his costume dirty.
He was, in short, what you might call a bit precious. Handle with Care emanated from every pore. Even the thick-skinned, seen-it-all sparks gave him a wide berth less he went Baby Jane on their respective arses.
Being a single camera show, things were predictably taking longer than expected. He started to fret as he waited sulkily by the tea urn. Like a humourless grey cloud, he hovered over the rest of the cast indignant at being made to wait. We sent him back to the relative comfort of his dressing room for a few minutes. Fifteen minutes later and our Second was asked to return him to the set.
She knocked on his door. "Enter", he grandly commanded. And there he sat, in an armchair, facing the door, in all his glory. Legs spread and, bar a small, carefully placed cushion, completely naked. Mighty pleased with himself, he held her eye for a second too long.
"DON'T! Get up." She cried as he went to do just that.
Perhaps he didn't want to get his costume dirty.
actor
It was the fag end of the evening. The gig had finished and the pub was desperately trying to close around us. En masse, and after much clucking about, we all head off to the West End for a late night tipple.
He was somebody I vaguely knew through the group of friends I was with. We chatted for a bit at the crowded bar as we both vied for the barman’s attention. Small talk about common interests and friends: nothing too big, too deep or too intimate. It passed the time as the drinks were poured.
Later, on leaving the club, I notice he is leaving too. We walk the short way along Oxford Street together. More polite talk ensues as we step around the early morning drunks and beeping street cleaners. But, as I turn to say goodbye, he grabs my arm, confused.
“So, are we going to go back to yours now?”
The plain assumption takes a second to register. I look at him blankly for a moment as I mentally re-scan the evening's events to see how we ended up here. This is not a man I find attractive in any way. Aren’t actors supposed to be able to read people? Doesn’t that go with the job description?
“I’m sorry, X but I’m not really interested in a romance right now.” I panic and therefore lie.
“That’s okay," he says completely unfazed, "we can just have sex.”
Smooth. I pass on his kind offer.
He was somebody I vaguely knew through the group of friends I was with. We chatted for a bit at the crowded bar as we both vied for the barman’s attention. Small talk about common interests and friends: nothing too big, too deep or too intimate. It passed the time as the drinks were poured.
Later, on leaving the club, I notice he is leaving too. We walk the short way along Oxford Street together. More polite talk ensues as we step around the early morning drunks and beeping street cleaners. But, as I turn to say goodbye, he grabs my arm, confused.
“So, are we going to go back to yours now?”
The plain assumption takes a second to register. I look at him blankly for a moment as I mentally re-scan the evening's events to see how we ended up here. This is not a man I find attractive in any way. Aren’t actors supposed to be able to read people? Doesn’t that go with the job description?
“I’m sorry, X but I’m not really interested in a romance right now.” I panic and therefore lie.
“That’s okay," he says completely unfazed, "we can just have sex.”
Smooth. I pass on his kind offer.
Wednesday 10 October 2007
moody blues
There’s no getting around it. I’ve been in a foul mood for two whole weeks. And it's getting tired. I can put it down to a combination of things: work has been up and down all year - mostly down. Is it really a year since I last worked full-time? That’s being freelance for you. It makes me want to take up a brass instrument and play forlornly by a long-forgotten pit. Worse, I will still have to pay a large chunk of money I didn’t earn to the tax-man. Maybe I can offer him a goat? Or a share in my first born, should I ever get around to it? These people are notoriously hard to please. And persistent.
Plus it’s now October and summer has officially bypassed us. To rub it in, there are Christmas decorations winking at me from shop windows and last week, in a fantastically chi-chi Shoreditch hair salon, I heard my first Christmas carol.
I may have to jump off the nearest bridge come January. Which will be about right as that's about the time of year I'm likely to get fined for wrongly filling in my tax return. Again. It's amazing to me that we can live in a society compelled to warn us that a packet of nuts 'MAY CONTAIN NUTS' and yet we're all supposed to raise the intellectual bar and navigate our way through the quagmire of clauses and sub-clauses that constitutes our tax laws at the drop of a P45. Perhaps it's all easier than I imagine. Am I taxslexic?
And I know it’s not just me feeling the seasonal pinch. This time of year, when summer greasily slips into a dank, wet autumn, London becomes a disagreeable place. Tube riding elbows find their way into soft flanks, people push and shove and drip their umbrellas unapologetically into your lap. Everyone wears a face like the proverbial smacked arse and there’s an overwhelming feeling of back-to-school blues. Suddenly, the big kid waiting to take your lunch money and the double-whammy of double-maths before break, are not such distant memories.
Resignation drips from every rotting leaf, late bus and dejected free paper. These short days and dark nights take some getting used to.
Still, this week – and not a moment too soon - I started work again. This is good news as, for six weeks, I will be paid actual folding money. Now, if only I could find a way to unravel the great mysteries of the Inland Revenue...
Plus it’s now October and summer has officially bypassed us. To rub it in, there are Christmas decorations winking at me from shop windows and last week, in a fantastically chi-chi Shoreditch hair salon, I heard my first Christmas carol.
I may have to jump off the nearest bridge come January. Which will be about right as that's about the time of year I'm likely to get fined for wrongly filling in my tax return. Again. It's amazing to me that we can live in a society compelled to warn us that a packet of nuts 'MAY CONTAIN NUTS' and yet we're all supposed to raise the intellectual bar and navigate our way through the quagmire of clauses and sub-clauses that constitutes our tax laws at the drop of a P45. Perhaps it's all easier than I imagine. Am I taxslexic?
And I know it’s not just me feeling the seasonal pinch. This time of year, when summer greasily slips into a dank, wet autumn, London becomes a disagreeable place. Tube riding elbows find their way into soft flanks, people push and shove and drip their umbrellas unapologetically into your lap. Everyone wears a face like the proverbial smacked arse and there’s an overwhelming feeling of back-to-school blues. Suddenly, the big kid waiting to take your lunch money and the double-whammy of double-maths before break, are not such distant memories.
Resignation drips from every rotting leaf, late bus and dejected free paper. These short days and dark nights take some getting used to.
Still, this week – and not a moment too soon - I started work again. This is good news as, for six weeks, I will be paid actual folding money. Now, if only I could find a way to unravel the great mysteries of the Inland Revenue...
Monday 1 October 2007
second life
There is a huge gaping chasm between the person I want to be and the person I am. The person I want to be - or PIWTB - is, right now, running on a treadmill. She’s getting a whole hour in before her Pilates class starts. She is on first name terms with her postman, the taxman, ALL her neighbours (and not just the ones who look normal). She’s down with the local kids, reads to blind old people on Sundays and goes to lunch at The Ivy with Gordon Brown. She often follows that up with cocktails at George Clooney’s. Okay, okay, maybe not the last two. Gordy and George are on first name terms with the Person I Will Never Actually Be (PIWNAB). But I’m over HER now.
PIWTB is my alter ego. The one who unwittingly taunts me from the shadows of a parallel-but-quite-handy-for-local-schools-and-M25 universe. She’s always one step ahead. Doing something I feel I ought. Course, she would never taunt me intentionally, she is too nice for that. She’s really Potential Me in Technicolor and Dolby Sound. The one teachers used to lament over. She is currently writing the novel I’ve been threatening to write For Ever. She won’t let me see it in case it gives me any ideas. She’s like that. She wants me to evolve at my own pace. In fact, she’s been writing a blog for years now. Its being made into a book/TV/film with Cameron Diaz in the lead. She might well meet George after all.
She's always there, somewhere. She’d have written this blog entry last week instead of indulging in a week-long bad mood.
She never has a bad hair day. Like me. Right now. I’m not going to leave the house.
She would though. She’d never be that vain.
Always that one step ahead. (Sometimes its quite a big step, admittedly). She gently cheers me on. She inspires by default. Some days she is so out of reach she can be mistaken for the PIWNAB. Sometimes, I think they might be the same person – with a simple Clark Kent disguise separating the two. Other days, she’s almost in reach. I can smell her perfume (we share the same tastes there).
It’s amazing to me that there are people who will spend hours and hours of their real lives living a bona fide Second Life online. Their Baywatch avatars living the electronic dream: house, car and business…selling avatar clothes and avatar furniture to avatar friends. Maybe it’s a way of escaping their PIWTBs or, worse (for some people) their PIWNABs.
For me, a woman who doesn’t even own an electronic mouse (really, no-one understands how I function full-time on a tiny laptop without one) that just isn’t a possibility. I like this world too much. If I can, I’d rather materialise those dreams right here. Or at least have fun trying. I think my PIWTB would agree with that.
PIWTB is my alter ego. The one who unwittingly taunts me from the shadows of a parallel-but-quite-handy-for-local-schools-and-M25 universe. She’s always one step ahead. Doing something I feel I ought. Course, she would never taunt me intentionally, she is too nice for that. She’s really Potential Me in Technicolor and Dolby Sound. The one teachers used to lament over. She is currently writing the novel I’ve been threatening to write For Ever. She won’t let me see it in case it gives me any ideas. She’s like that. She wants me to evolve at my own pace. In fact, she’s been writing a blog for years now. Its being made into a book/TV/film with Cameron Diaz in the lead. She might well meet George after all.
She's always there, somewhere. She’d have written this blog entry last week instead of indulging in a week-long bad mood.
She never has a bad hair day. Like me. Right now. I’m not going to leave the house.
She would though. She’d never be that vain.
Always that one step ahead. (Sometimes its quite a big step, admittedly). She gently cheers me on. She inspires by default. Some days she is so out of reach she can be mistaken for the PIWNAB. Sometimes, I think they might be the same person – with a simple Clark Kent disguise separating the two. Other days, she’s almost in reach. I can smell her perfume (we share the same tastes there).
It’s amazing to me that there are people who will spend hours and hours of their real lives living a bona fide Second Life online. Their Baywatch avatars living the electronic dream: house, car and business…selling avatar clothes and avatar furniture to avatar friends. Maybe it’s a way of escaping their PIWTBs or, worse (for some people) their PIWNABs.
For me, a woman who doesn’t even own an electronic mouse (really, no-one understands how I function full-time on a tiny laptop without one) that just isn’t a possibility. I like this world too much. If I can, I’d rather materialise those dreams right here. Or at least have fun trying. I think my PIWTB would agree with that.
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