wondering heights

no jacket required

2011-11-02T18:05:00.001Z

“I was wondering if you would go shopping with me?” ventures my boyfriend addressing the itch I couldn’t scratch that is his wardrobe.

By wardrobe, I don’t mean furniture but the disparate collection of unlikely clothing he seems to have acquired over his adult years. I ponder on how many of them just showed up on his doorstep, a little worn, looking for a warm box to sleep in and some love. On the plus side (a) they all fit (b) they often have some obvious previous function, like being waterproof, or warm or both and (c) they stop him from getting arrested for indecent exposure, so that’s something.

Interestingly, his attire’s general appallingness is directly proportional to how wonderful he is. He might be one of the world’s worst dressed men but he is also one of the world's best men. Yes, he wears his Blackberry in a holster ALL THE TIME but he has the heart of a lion (and is easy to get hold of); he is as sharp as a Hawkins; as emotionally astute as a Phil Collins power ballad and as sincere and fresh as a breath of sea air. He is the rose to my thorn and the sun to my mooning about, so what if he looks like he’s got dressed in a dark room for the last twenty years? A dark room somewhere in rural Russia?

“Of course I will go shopping with you” I reply evenly, still eyeing up the holster, my nemesis.

“Good. I’d like to get some new clothes. Tops and stuff” he concludes. Dear reader, he didn’t have to ask twice! Holster, schmolster! I have stonewash jeans and ancient fleeces to flush out. I’m mentally totting up the amount of bags I might be taking to Oxfam…

I grab my coat and he grabs his “And whilst we’re at it”, I nod to his jacket enthusiastically, “We can update that” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I was going to be gentle, go slow, catch a monkey but…

“What’s wrong with my coat?” he asks genuinely surprised.It’s hard to be tactful here. The coat in question is a light ski jacket in purple and turquoise. Turquoise? Even the name of the colour is dated, like saying oblong or Marathon bar or going to keep fit. It looks like a shell-suit in search of its trousers. There’s a hint of bat sleeve and more than a hint of mid-80s Iron Curtain about it. It’s so wrong you have to love him for it anyway. And then double-check his passport.

“I took it to the Czech Republic twenty years ago!” he protests.

I’m actually surprised he didn’t buy it there.

He looks a little crestfallen and I feel bad “Wow, its taken 20 years for anyone to tell me it’s a bit shit.”

“Darling, you’ve been wearing it for twenty years. Time to move on. Let it go…” I touch his smiling face, his Blackberry holster sticks into my hip. I decide to heed my own advice: the holster can wait.

And he is really easy to get hold of…

And with that we walk out the door in search of a new horizon and jeans. Definitely jeans.

you're not wise

2011-11-01T17:13:00.020Z

"So the cat can't get in"

Was my response to larger-than-life, landlord-stroke-friend's "Whatsis?" as he pointed to the heavy media tome resting atop my fish-tank.

This reference book, the size of two Rogets, an LOTR compendium and the entire back catalogue of Freemans catalogue pressed together, is an unnecessarily chunky, inevitably out-of-date...brick built by people clearly too Amish to Wiki. I don't know why I have it but right now, its full weight is helpfully bearing down on the lid of my tank. A talisman against marauding recently-adopted rescue cats. Ungainly, yes, but helpful I thought. Nicky (larger-than-life/landlord/friend) doesn't miss a thing - including the leftover blueberry scone I'd squirreled away in the fridge for later, which he is now eating. He's prodding the book disapprovingly.

“The cat? What Tigger/Tiger/The Bear? Watsisface?” he says, referring to my recently acquired feline. Nicky does't quite get domestic pets. To be fair, he is a farmer who rears cows destined for dinner plates. Animals are for outside “For fucks sake, Ness, wise yer head!” He shares the last bit of scone and contemplates Stan and Ollie, the two oddly inquisitive fish in question, as they mouth unspoken ooohs at the glass, not knowing that a weight of information separates them from having food and, possibly, being it.

‘I’ll tellya what” he says in his best ‘I’m just a country boy from County Down accent’ - which sounds A LOT like a Cornish pirate negotiating fees on the latest haul - “If that there wee fella" pointing a crumb-laden finger to the cat, "...manages to JUMP up here, then OPEN the lid on that tank, then PULL OUT that there feeding tray with his tiny, wee claws AND THEN catch those wee fish? You know what? You’ll be wanting to put him on the telly.”

He thinks more on the unlikely scenario. (Nicky's secretly fond of the fish.)

“Hell, if he manages to get those fish, after THAT? I’d cook him some chips myself to go with it but"

cauld call

2011-09-12T14:40:00.004+01:00

My phone rings. It’s an 0800 number so I know this is not going to be a solicited phone call but, for once, I have the time and, for once (and more unusually) the patience.

Cue a bored Scotsman in my ear.

“Hello this is Diamond Car Insurance, my name’s XXXX” I’ll interrupt this minor tale here to point out that his name isn’t really XXXX. It’s Dave. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, Dave:

“I’m just phoning to thank you for taking out your car insurance with us. Do you happen to have a couple of minutes for me now…?”

I don’t really but I’m in the middle of something a bit dull and therefore I’m easily open to opportunities of a distracting nature.

“Will it be just two minutes?” I ask. He ignores the implicit question within my question and launches into faux concern instead:

“Was everything okay? Hmm? Did you get your policy documents?”

In my head, I’m making that collective noise football crowds make when a goal is, against all probability, missed. In other words, this is actually a bit of a sore point.

“Well, yes. It took an email, two phone-calls and some really, really sarcastic remarks but we got there. Eventually.”

A shallow laugh rattles down the line. Clearly this is not why he’s calling. I’m waiting for the gear change.

“Well you have it now so that’s good. Good. Now, do you have two minutes of your time to spare for a quick chat?”

I pause unsure and wonder if this is a two minute top-up on top of my original two minute window. It’s clunky, asking again, a conversational grind of gears but he recovers quickly, slipping down to second as he glides into full sales patter.

“Looking at your policy, I’m sorry to say there’s been an oversight. You don’t appear to have our courtesy car cover right now”

And there it is. A sales pitch that manages to be almost untraceable. He is both apologetic for THEIR sloppiness and, in the process, carefully re(under)writing MY original choice as nothing more than an administrative error. Clearly, I would be INSANE not to want it. The onus is on me, a clever tactic of the confidence trickster.

“Yup, your records are correct. I don’t want it” I reply. The line has been drawn but Dave isn’t having any of it. He reaches into his boot for the big guns, a verbal sledgehammer made of fear and, I dunno, yet more fear.

“Well, you really should! What happens if your car gets damaged? Lost or stolen or written-off?” He says this like he knows this is definitely going to happen. “We will give you a complimentary car rental for a full 21 days…”

“That’s okay, thanks. I don’t need a replacement car”

This turns out to be the red rag to the car insurance bull. Dave is genuinely outraged. I can hear it in his breathing.

“If you don’t need a car, WHY have you got one in the first place?” he blurts out.

Now, I don’t know much about car insurance salespeople, I admit, but I’m logging this question under “Cheeky” rather than “Necessary”

Then, just for a second, I imagine him sitting there, cooped up like a battery hen. A headset stuck to his face, an unhealthy pallor bleached under strip lighting, stuffed behind a desk, next to a desk, between more desks that concertina across an open plan hanger where targets are stated on boards and barely reached and calls are recorded and monitored by middle-managing secondary school leavers who silently pray that they’re not working the weekend, spotty and wincing at the static charge sparking from cheap shoes on industrial carpet…

But time is a marching on and I have my own dull things to do:

“The car's for social use. I work mostly from home”

Realising he’s pushed his theoretical two minutes to the limit Dave switches tack again. He’s like a really crap mentalist. I can feel his targets slipping away from him. And I feel a tiny pang of sad.

“But what if your car is written off and you need to buy a new one? You’ll need a car then!”

“Okaaay. In that case, I would go around the corner – TO THE BACK OF MY HOUSE - and visit the numerous car showrooms situated there. At the back of my house.”

“But are you sure you’d want to buy one from them?" You've really got to admire his stamina.

“Yes. I can honestly say I would definitely be able to buy a car I don’t need without the use of a replacement car I don’t need”

Defeated, Dave gives up. For a sweeping moment I feel sorry for him again. But it doesn’t last.

“Right, well, thanks for talking to me (BEAT) What about your breakdown cover… ?

His name's not really Dave. It's Stuart.

an education

2010-04-07T00:37:00.007+01:00

There must have been forty of us that day, seated in the Ian McKellen Hall, in the dusty, afternoon sun. Its a Saturday and we're volunteers on a training day at one of London’s most prominent HIV and AIDS charities. The day seminar is on the likelihood of HIV transmission across a broad range of sexual activities and the talk leaves nothing to the imagination – it can’t afford to. Many people shift uncomfortably in their seats but mostly because they are rubbernecking at the two seemingly ancient Irish nuns also gamely in attendance.

The volunteers’ trainer – who has probably seen it all - continues to spout, in some courageous detail, the ins and outs (sic) of various off-menu, mostly behind-closed-doors, activities. Every possible variation is noted and discussed. The nuns should play poker – they are completely inscrutable.

As the trainer finally winds up the session, a hand tentatively goes up. He looks over and sure enough, it’s a hand belonging to one of the two nuns sat, stooped and still, at the back. It is, in other words, A Hand of God. A palpable sense of expectation shoots across the room. The odd stifled giggle.

The trainer takes a moment to collect himself, a hint of a blush forming beneath his skin. The whole room legitimately swivels around and holds its breath

“Yes?”

Nun Number One, defiantly oblivious to the stir of excitement she is causing, looks to the trainer and in her soft Dublin accent asks in a surprisingly enthusiastic manner “Can you tell us more about the felching, please?”

the first time

2009-05-08T00:16:00.008+01:00

I lick salt spray from my lips and cold water rushes across my feet. I shiver. Do I really want to get in there? The waves loom menacingly on the horizon.

(So big, I’m so small.)

The board, wedged under my armpit, feels heavy. I curse my arms for being too short, the board too wide to hold comfortably. Having navigated this far down jagged shells and stony beach, fighting against this unseasonal wind which knocks me comically sideways, I wonder, is this really August? And more importantly, what am I doing here?

Another breaking swell smashes into my shins and knees. There’s nothing for it. I place the board on the surface. It floats giddily away, gently tugging on my ankle. I’m frightened but walk purposefully forward. Creeping deeper into the seeping cold. The snugness of my wetsuit is oddly reassuring as the board bobs alarmingly beside me. Beneath my numb feet, the velvet sand feels warm. Soft and still. Unlike here on the surface where water and air whip and spin wildly.

(What if I get disorientated?)

Suddenly, I’m waist high, chest deep. I’m not confidant enough to paddle out so I push myself forward, my six foot floating device effortlessly guiding me over the waves, lifting my feet as they pass beneath me. The top of a breaker slaps me full in the face. It’s exhilarating because I don’t drown. Each rise and fall creates an involuntary but victorious gasp.

As the ocean tilts and collects itself, I turn the board around and hoist myself on top. It’s not graceful. It takes several goes. I go right over the top and under a couple of times. Any ego (left on the beach along with dry clothes) is forgotten. Eventually, I position myself on top of the board. It rocks side to side as I struggle to gain my balance. And then I look back and wait…

The first wave rolls beneath me uneventfully. Passed through like a ghost. Disappointed, I watch someone closer to shore catch it on the turn. Hmm. I paddle. It's hard to get motion in the constantly undulating surface. I paddle harder still. Damn these short arms. Another wave slides beneath me. And then. And then. And then a wave captures my board unexpectedly. It throws me forward. I’m gliding! I’m flying! The sheer speed! The board rises above the water, stable, solid, rocketing towards the beach. I’m so overwhelmed I forget to try and stand. I'm on my knees. It seems to last forever. I belly laugh as I roll off, splattering onto sodden sand. The tide pulling at my toes and board.

“Did you see that? Did you see that?”

Water (I hope it’s just water) streams from my nose and face. I pick up the board and pad right back in. Fear and cold forgotten just to experience it all again.

bold as

2009-03-30T11:39:00.019+01:00

One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises. Not always good ones, true, but thems the breaks.

This past week has been particularly rubbish on the surprises front as various things I’d subconsciously pinned a few hopes on, unexpectedly slipped through the net. Or, to put it another way, the great bar-stool of life, the one reserved only for me, has suddenly acquired three wobbly legs. And a questionable spot near the toilets.

I was contemplating this clumsy metaphor on the bus home the other day. There I sat, right at the front (because that just doesn’t get old), feeling sorry for myself as the wind and rain rocked the top deck. Fittingly, winter had decided to make an unwelcome comeback further indulging the general melancholy when I noticed a boardroom, directly across from me, hovering above the snarling traffic, with its lights still on.

A late meeting was in full flow. I was glad not to be in their shoes (though my situation was hardly inspiring, stuck at the T-junction opposite, wondering if we’d ever get to join the stagnant flow of traffic creeping towards the Elephant and Castle) but I enjoyed my vantage point and studied the room in all its fluorescent detail.

A man in a pink shirt, washed out beneath the strip lighting, stood in front of a whiteboard. Twenty or so suited men, sat around the table, even from this angle, they were upright and attentive to the speaker's every word. Pink-shirted man waved his arms about, animated and Evita-like. I wondered what he was talking about with such enthusiasm: theglobaleconomicmeltdown? a management buy-out or worse, the dos and don'ts at a healthy & safety seminar? And then, just as the bus began to shudder slowly forwards, all the attendees, in that small boardroom, a stone’s throw from the Elephant, produced a variety of brass instruments which, up until now, had been completely hidden from view. I smiled as they began to play. Pink shirt man happily conducting at the front. I wasn’t expecting that at all.

One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises.

crowded house

2009-02-11T15:11:00.011Z

It’s been a lovely champagne-y kind of breakfast do for a crowd of actors, directors, producers and writers all represented by the same agency. A smattering of producers, not actually under my agent’s wing, have also attended - their production houses conspicuously emblazoned across the sticky labels we’re all wearing.

I’ve been at the agency long enough not to get heart palpitations at the thought of these annual get-togethers: shyness is a clichéd affliction for many in my world - and yes, some do have a very funny way of showing it - but networking is a necessity and, as such, brings on the mildly autistic inner children in many of us.

The room is vibrating with chatter. The venue is always the same, a lovely Italian restaurant on one of Soho’s more notable streets. I am trying hard to keep eye contact with the person I’m talking to whilst juggling a plate of toast and fresh salmon and a drink. I am distracted by my need for cutlery and realise all too quickly the design fault behind only having two hands and one clumsy body.

My colleague, not one for this standing around lark, has cleverly positioned herself at one of the deserted tables. Joining her involves navigating through lots of shoulders and elbows and plates and champagne flutes. My toast is getting cold, the salmon, warm. I make a quick assessment of my position and try to ascertain if it’s possible to squeeze through this forest of bodies with my manners intact. I may want jobs from some of these bodies in the future. I try not to spill anything.

A couple of near-misses later, I safely place my breakfast down. Still on my feet and, euphoric from the non-eventful plate-to-table odyssey, I volunteer to go back and get the coffees. My colleague is pregnant and therefore quite happy to sit this one out.

The coffee bar, in the centre of the room, is packed, utterly packed. A scrum of people peer over the tall counter as the restaurant manager, who seems as familiar with the complicated workings of the coffee machine as I am, presses buttons and pulls levers randomly. He’s being very particular about the cups, and the saucers that go with the cups, which all match, according to size and purpose, and appear to live in different places. After an excessive wait and an awkward conversation with a writer whose project I didn’t pick up, it is finally my turn. I’m on tiptoes and lean over the counter to be heard above the din.

“Two black coffees, please. One, decaf”
“Two white coffees and one decaf?” he blinks, already looking for those titchy saucers.
“Sorry, no. Two black coffees, one of them decaffeinated.”
“Three coffees, one white decaf?”
“No” Somebody’s elbow makes sharp contact with my shoulder, “Two coffees? Both of them black. I would like one of them to be decaf, please.”
He’s confused. The milk’s burnt on the pipe and needs cleaning. “So how many coffees s'at? And which one of them’s the decaf?” he now yells over his shoulder.
I take a deep breath. “Look,” something in my tone has made him turn around, “One black coffee” I raise my forefinger in representation, “and then another black coffee – call it number two – but this one, decaffeinated.” a second forefinger rises up to join the other, "Please." This is the coffee ordering equivalent of Peter and Paul. He takes a moment to look at my fingers still saluting upwards over the counter.
“So you want two black coffees, one decaf?”
I smile and step back. I eventually remember to put my fingers down. And then I wonder how I am going to navigate these tiny little coffee cups, on their tiny little saucers, across this huge sea of people. Some of whom might, one day, employ me. I accidentally step on someone’s toe and, in the process, create an instant black moat around both drinks. I’d grab a napkin but I just don’t have enough hands.

blush

2009-02-04T20:59:00.002Z

We’re three hours into our first and, let’s face it, last date and I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever stop talking about himself long enough for me to interject.

Why did I stay so long? I simply don’t know. Is it low self-esteem? A misplaced sense of duty? Or a jaw-dropping, if slightly morbid, curiosity, now piqued on this quiet Saturday afternoon (one that wants to see just how badly it will all pan out).

I am now merely a witness to my own poor choice of afternoon companion.

How did I get to here? It’s a short chain of events really. He’s a handsome, gregarious man who works in the charity sector. I thought he was fun, a bit laddish, yes, but with an appealing social conscience that seemed to cancel out the little voice at the back of my mind, the one that was picking up the warning signs and suggesting I change course.

He stops long enough to take a bite of his sandwich. When he starts up again, he is comparing himself to Ghandi. I tune out for good but I’m reminded of the last time I agreed to a date with a man because, and I am embarrassed to admit this, of what he did for a living. Say it quietly. For shame.

Years ago, when I was living in the US, I met a smart, very bearded lumberjack-shirted geologist. Geologist? In the small town I was living in, that was definitely unusual to say the least. I was intrigued.

He offered to take me out for a curry - another unusual first in an oh-so quiet suburb of Boston, Massachusetts. I’d missed our national dish and, he seemed to know where I could get a fix.

He drove me, in his aptly-named pick-up truck, to an out-the-way curry house, in an out-the-way neighbourhood. Shirt and beard aside, I was charmed.

It was so refreshing to be around man who wasn’t a sports jock but as soon as our food order was out the way, he opened with:

“I just need to make it clear, from the start, that I’m not some kind of tree hugging hippy type. Far from it. I am employed by companies like ICI to help them get away with as much environmental contamination as possible. That’s just the way it is.”

I didn't know what to say. He offered me the poppadoms.

“Just so there isn’t any confusion…” he concluded.

I was suddenly aware that I was probably not the only woman who had agreed to go on a date with this man because of his being a geologist. I felt ashamed of myself and horrified for, and at, him.

Call me superficial, but I couldn't see myself dating a man who was wilfully damaging the environment - especially in a lumberjack shirt and a full-on man-beard.

white

2009-02-02T20:05:00.004Z

Well today has been a magical Monday. Central London doesn’t experience the extremes of weather often faced by other parts of the country so when it does, like today, it really is an event. I’ve never seen London like this before, and I’m in awe.

For the first time in eighteen years snow has fallen – and continues to fall – right here, in central London. It’s a wonderful sight to see. From Richmond to Wapping everything is covered in a delicious, crisp and barely negotiable layer. Most of us have had an unplanned day-off. A snow-day, like the ones we had at school.

I've been wandering around with little more than a camera and childish wonder. And I wasn't the only one.

The excitement and novelty factor hasn't gone amiss. Everyone’s been a bit more smiley and snowmen (and women) have magically appeared all over the city, a calling card for their creator’s wit and whimsy.

What a surprise to have grey winter morning blanketed from sight, a welcome and joyful reprieve from the Monday blues...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/wonderingheights/sets/72157613235540615/

meltdown

2009-02-01T22:57:00.008Z

It's not that I dislike her, she’s actually quite a nice girl, but she’s one of those people who has somehow managed to get into a position of some seniority without appearing to have an ounce of competence. Which is annoying at best.

This was a follow-up meeting from one we had six weeks ago. The one six weeks ago, involved lots of talking in circles and sweeping generalisations. The whole thing was punctuated by a nervous, politically-charged smile. And what appeared to be, a new catch-phrase. If it's possible for a person in real life to have such a thing.

The follow-up meeting was a mystery (there wasn’t anything to follow-up) but she seemed to want a catch-up anyway.

There are several of us from the company and we’re pitching just one idea. She hesitates before she speaks. This time, I’m going to count how many times she repeats the phrase globaleconomicmeltdown?. It is said, just like that, speeded up, moulded into one word and then pronounced with an uptalking high note at the end as if she is asking us if we’re still keeping up.

I hate to say it but I wonder if she knows what it means.

I had noticed her liberal use of globaleconomicmeltdown? the last time we met. It tumbled out of her mouth at an alarming rate. Sometimes immediately tailgating its last appearance. Like a string of long-awaited buses. It struck me then, as it does now, that she’s probably lifted it off a news report as something that sounds knowledgeable and usefully deflective - but it’s not convincing anyone.

Needless to say, we didn’t get very far with the pitch. She doesn’t have any money, you know, not since the globaleconomicmeltdown? She only uses the term four times in the 40 mins we are with her. I feel bad for counting. And for writing about it.

Like I said, she really is a nice girl.

the X factor

2009-01-28T15:48:00.011Z

“So how did it go?”

“What?” We've just been ice-skating and mostly I'm marvelling at not breaking anything. You know, bones, fingers, bread...okay, unlikely on ice.

“Your date! You know, the guy who’s been flirting with you? The one who’s held a candle for you for the last ten years? I mean, ten years!”

“It was very nice, thanks” which, admittedly, is a measured response but then I have sort-of known this guy for ten years. And what I know about this man makes me not entirely sure about him. He's a player.

“And?” demands N, a woman once known (by me) as the woman who doesn’t date but who, since I disappeared off the blog-cliff-face, has gotten herself into a very serious relationship with a lovely man thank-you-very-much. I realise N needs a new nickname. (And I may need a new hat.) I'll think on that.

“It went well” I continue, “We went for dinner, talked, laughed, drank wine, shared stories, you know...”

“Great, sounds good soo..?”

“Soo," I throw back at her, "he wanted to get his train back to Brighton. And we called it an early night. And he went home” I know this is a red rag to a dating bull.

“Oh. Did you arrange to meet up again?”

“No.” Case closed, I think.

“What do you mean you didn’t arrange to meet again..?” she’s officially incredulous like I've ripped up a rule book or something.

“Well, I figured, in an era of modern communications, there wasn’t a mad rush?” I can hear a trickle of defensiveness in my own voice. "Its not all corsets, dance-cards and watering the horses these days"

She pulls a face. I have no idea if she’s wincing at me, him, my joke or the boots she hired, which are one size too small.

“Have you heard from him?” She's still wincing to make her point. I don't think its the boots. I nod.

"A text"

“Good, and what did it say?”

“Err, thanks for a lovely evening...?”

“Hmm. Doesn’t sound great. Sounds formal,” she’s mulling this over “Any kisses? On the message, any kisses?”

“Err, yes”

“How many? Cos, you know, one doesn’t count - not these days." Touche.

I check. Its amazing to me that I have to check. I wonder if I like him that much.

"Three"

“Good, good, so you haven’t put him off…”

feeling groovy

2009-01-19T18:00:00.005Z

Today is a special day. Once known as Blue Monday, it is statistically considered to be the most depressing day of the year. But not any more, feeling gloomy is officially off the menu for Blue Monday has been renamed: International Optimism Day, thanks to a merry collective of individuals who, like me, really believe that a little kindness can make a big difference.

The Optimists Society, which is more a movement than a group, promotes and encourages random acts of kindness - acts often playfully aimed at complete strangers. At the heart of it, there is, I think, a profound truth: by looking after others, we look after ourselves. It's probably one of the most joyful ventures I've happened across in a long time.

You can read more here:

http://www.theoptimistssociety.co.uk/

I'm happy to call myself an optimist. Are you? Happy Monday!

baby talk

2009-01-06T23:00:00.003Z

“Why don’t you have a baby? Don’t you want one?”

She’s weighing me up. Her eyes blinking up at mine with genuine concern.

The question has come out of the blue. It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re watching back-to-back Cbeebies cartoons whilst chomping on a couple of chocolate pudding cups.

“Urm, I don’t know, Ery. Maybe I’ll have one, one day...”

My friend’s five-year old daughter continues to gaze at me thoughtfully as if wondering whether to take the topic further. It’s clear she’s not entirely satisfied with my answer. And, like a miniature John Humphrys, she’s not going to let it drop.

“If you had one, you could bring it over to my house" her voice drops coyly, " I could tell you how to have one…?"

Now I’m intrigued, if slightly horrified about what she might say next.

“Really, Ery?” Where is her mother when you need her, I wonder.

“Yes, its easy really” she confides, “All you need to do is to wish really, really hard. And then your belly gets big. And then, you have one”

I smile. “But you’ve got to wish really hard” she emphasises her point by leaning her elbows onto my knees and scrutinising my face up close. She's being very serious and its apparent that I'm not. The whole effect is nothing less than comic.

I take it as a cue to respond in kind.

“Okay, Ery, I promise to remember that. You know, to give it a go, sometime” but it proves really, really hard to keep that straight face.

time bending

2009-01-05T23:21:00.010Z

I really have a problem with getting up in the mornings. This, I believe, could have something to do with my problem about going to bed in the evenings.

Right now, I’m tired, I'm yawning and instead of calling it a night, I've opened up a new blog entry. I don't know why I do that. I could be brushing my teeth and heading up the wooden hill, well, not quite the wooden hill, I live in a flat, so more a wooden... plain - anyway, the point is, I’m in the throes of a compulsive delay tactic.

Quite simply, I’ve never really got past that youthful desire to push my bedtime to as late as I can get away with. I still want to stretch time and wring every valuable minute out of my evenings. Children are great believers in stretching time to suit - ever try to tell a small child that you're both leaving in 5 mins? They hear 'now' or 'not now' in fact, it would be easier to get a small child to understand the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the two-state solution than to get them to understand such an abstract construct as time.

Partly, my pushing the 'not now' evening envelope is a bit of a hangover from childhood (okay, that's quite the hangover) and partly, its just that I really, really like to potter. I can be very industrious when it comes to not doing very much. Its good thinking time. Also, there is something very delicious and satisfying about a state of tiredness when relief is imminent.

Of course, being a recovering Catholic, my delaying-going to bed on a work-night, also affords me a dose of guilt to play with. Actually that kind of guilt-hit works with many other forms of delay: shoulda, woulda, coulda gone to bed/filed a tax return/done my homework etc. (Not opened the electricity bill yet? Woo hoo!) It all adds up to the procrastination thrill. And that IS something I thought I’d grow out of.

But maybe, once a procrastinator always a procrastinator. Procrastinating about how to solve the procrastinating, I suppose. I blame Catholicism myself. Guilt's addictive.

Still, is it really such a misuse of time? As long as I get up eventually, fill in that tax form (and send it), do my homework before a given deadline, no harm's done. I know I do my best work under pressure so maybe I get my best sleep in under six hours.

And if not, there's always the chance of a power nap on the Northern Line in the morning.

christmas spirits

2009-01-02T23:05:00.030Z

I was at a loss. Most years I am, to be honest.

There’s something uncompromisingly conventional about what is expected of us at Christmas and, being single and not on good terms with either parent, I am just one of those awkward people who don’t quite fit.

But this year was different. I decided to volunteer for Crisis at Christmas, a charity that, over the Christmas period, opens temporary shelters across London for the single homeless. It was a fitting choice. Kicked out at 17, I was a member of the hidden homeless whilst studying my A-levels many years ago. From makeshift beds and spare rooms all over the county of Buckinghamshire, I lived an uncertain and miserable existence - but I was one of the lucky ones.

So, that is how I found myself, in the early hours of Christmas morning, searching for this year's makeshift dependency centre nestled underneath the towering chimneys of Battersea Power Station. The only real giveaway to its existence (in a disused office space) was a couple of hi-vi vests standing by a gate. Warm smiles greeted me through the darkness as I was the second member of the relief shift to arrive. These volunteers had worked all night - and they were clearly ready to call it a day.

Nearer the entrance, I found a few more glassy-eyed volunteers keeping awake in the the cool, crisp air. Behind them, a handful of guests, on a festive all-nighter, busied themselves with cans and fags and staggered about like slow-moving zombies. A kindly volunteer welcomed me aboard and offered to show me around. At reception, I was greeted warmly again. What struck me straight away, apart from the smell, the modest twinkling fairy lights and the odd bag of empty tinnys, was the incredible goodwill and blunt graciousness from volunteers and guests alike. I was out of my comfort zone but that seemed okay.

The eight-hour shifts get split into two-hour segments with duties throughout the centre rotated as fairly as possible. And there are so many duties to choose from: the gate, the information point, the café, the kitchen, keeping an eye on the sleeping area, fire-duty, toilets duty, arts and crafts to assisting in IT or hair-dressing. You’re never asked to do anything you feel uncomfortable with and you feel looked after by the more experienced shift managers, everyday heroes who have many years of volunteering under their belts.

The first and most important duty I was assigned (along with half of my Christmas Day-dodging shift) was to ‘float’ around. After the initial briefing, I head onto the floor. 'Floating' means wandering about and talking to the now-rising guests. The smell of cooked bacon over-rides everything as they sit down in clusters in the canteen. I feel nervous. I don’t find it easy to talk to random strangers at the best of times but homeless addicts? What to say? ‘Do you come here often?’ doesn’t seem like a good idea.

I look around and see an influx of volunteers standing around the room, self-conscious and equally panicked. It reminds me of the school disco during a slow number.

Then I meet T. A regular at the dependency centre, an alcoholic with an eleven year habit, a casual taste for crack and a surprising passion for the beauty of maths. He carries a book on algebra in his shabby coat pocket. We talk at length about the punkier end of physics. I want to understand string theory. He wants to get a degree.

Before long, I’m donning rubber gloves (loo duty) and giving as good as I get with the more outgoing guests. T seeks me out to show me his new haircut. He’s clearly very pleased but plays it down “yeah, its quite useful, actually”. Back in the canteen and one marriage proposal down, I cheer on the afternoon’s karaoke and help out in the arts department. Watching over those who just need to sleep brings unexpected satisfaction and there are moments, little moments, littered though the day that touch my heart deeply.

However, there was one guest I'm ashamed to admit to giving a wide berth. She looked like the kind of person who spends all day picking fights from park benches. Her concave frame emanated latent aggression and I didn't want to catch her eye. As it turned out, she loved karaoke and spent most of the day with a microphone in her hand. Eventually, inbetween power ballads, she walked towards me to make a call to a fellow rough-sleeper. Her long-mousey hair sticking like glue to her skull, pinched face and hunched shoulders, she was concentrating hard on getting her point across.

“…this place is great! You gotta come! They’ve got free food! And beds! And karaoke! And..." she leaned against the wall to steady herself, "It’s like heaven! I’m having my hair and nails done later!”

The slurring couldn’t hide the exclamation marks or her girlish enthusiasm. It was heaven.

Later, I was silently willing her to win the bingo - she never wins anything, she complained - but she didn't so she gave the cheerful bingo caller some good-natured grief instead. We all laughed and enjoyed the ride.

My shift was over almost as soon as it had begun. I was tired and glad to be going home – and grateful I had a home to go to. It was dark again, the late-shift had arrived as fresh-faced and nervous as I was. In the entertainment area, the disco was kicking off. The beer, wine and Christmas spirit in full flow.

As our shift made their way out of the building, I saw her again. She was sitting outside, can in hand, watching us leave “thank you” I heard her say to our parting backs. This time, I caught her eye: “Really, thank you for spending time wi’ us" I waved and smiled back. Too choked to say anything else.

ducks

2008-06-22T18:30:00.004+01:00

“So I saw Will on Tuesday”
“Oh yeah? How’d it go?”
“Confusing. We both have feelings for each other but he keeps giving me mixed signals. He tells me he’s fallen for me and that he’s mine but in the next moment tells me there’s a wall around his heart because he knows he’s leaving the country again. The other Will, you know, Counter-Terrorist Will, thinks I should call it a day. He says if it walks like a duck and sounds like a duck, it’s a duck.”
“Yeah, wise words.”

“Sorry, what does that mean?”
“That actions speak louder than words, I suppose. But I get it. He is going to leave the country again and he is more practical about these things than, say, I am.”
“Fair enough. He does have a point and he does this a lot, doesn’t he? I mean Afghanistan one minute, New York the next….”
“Eh? No, not Counter-Terrorist-Will, other Will, the one I’ve been seeing for the last six months. Or not, as the case may be.”
“Ooh, I thought we were talking about Counter-Terrorist Will. Are you seeing him again? You kept that quiet”
“That’s because I'm not. Now, pay attention!”
“So tell me again. I’m confused. You and Will – who isn’t Counter Terrorist Will – really like each other but not enough to make it work when, or after, he eventually leaves the country?”
“That’s the long and short of it”
“Hmm”
Al, looks at me doubtfully for a minute as he tries to formulate a tactful question, one he hopes will help clarify the situation. Good luck, I think, I’ve been struggling with this one for months. I resort to metaphor.
“Its like Will and I…”
“You and Travelling Will not Counter Terrorist Will?” Al interjects, excitedly.
I nod, “..are on a large ship…”
“What? Like a cruiser?”
“Ah-huh…heading for an iceberg. If one of us doesn’t steer us away, we’re going to hit it. “
Al looks at me, unconvinced.
“…and disaster will strike?” I add unnecessarily.

“Tell me again, which one of you is the boat and which one of you is the iceberg?”
“Honestly Al, I’m losing the will…”
“Which one?” he replies.

an open letter to BT

2008-04-24T19:13:00.003+01:00

I have never had to contact you about an internet-come-phone problem before. But there’s always a first time, that first time being today. I am having intermittent service disruption with both my phone and my broadband. I work from home so it’s something I need to address swiftly.

And I do. I spend half an hour on my mobile phone speaking to a nice man in India. We go through all the motions: what's blinking on my router; assessing that incoming calls are fine, outgoing are not etc. He has a long script to wade through. One that involves repeating everything that he's done, that I've said and what he's going to do next. He's very polite. It takes twice as long as it should. And I'm on my mobile. During the day. Time is literally costing me money. I am finally handed to the faults department, having all agreed that there is one. I am dealt with by a surly woman, she has a flat Lancashire accent and latent anger issues. She tells me how to check my line. It involves a screwdriver and prising open the socket. It’s a bit of an adventure. It feels flirtatiously manly. Like Kylie in her Neighbours overalls. Surly Woman gets annoyed when, at the next stage of the quest, I don't have a second phone to test on the socket. I find myself having to defend my one-phone lifestyle choice (“Its a one-bed flat, I live on my own, I only use one phone at a time, more could be deemed reckless…” etc etc). She's not impressed. She's incredulous. “Well, borrow one!” I hate to admit that I’m still in my pyjamas at this point (let’s just say it’s well past that time of day when people raise eyebrows at ordering something stronger from the bar). Who could I ask? “What about family and friends?” she offers sarcastically. Sure, but none of them live anywhere near me and what with it being a work day...I neglect to tell her about my attire. She tells me to try my neighbours (the few I do know are out, its that whole work-day thing) plus, I live in London. It isn't Eastenders. We don't all hang around the pub's joanna singing tunes about the Lambeth Walk. Us Londoners don't like to know our neighbours. We don’t want to look into the whites of their eyes in case they turn out to be axe murderers. Or religious fundamentalists. Or fans of Boris Johnson. Surly Woman's had enough. She's drawing the line at me not having a second phone. She practically accuses me of making the problem up as she darkly forewarns me of engineer charges for wasted time. (Shame that policy doesn't work the other way, eh readers?). I can almost hear her waving a well-manicured finger at me. Satisfied she has done her bit, she tells me she’ll get the line tested and that someone will call me back between 2-4pm. I’m assuming an engineer from the inner sanctum of the faults department. It’s ten minutes to 2pm already. I weigh up the chances of being caught in the bath. The guilt of not getting dressed has got to me. I wait. And wait. At 5.30pm, I call BT again. I feel more in control. That might have something to do with getting a bath in. I speak to Gareth he’s friendly and not bossy at all. He warns me not to call an engineer out until I have obtained that all crucial second phone line test. Who are these Naomi Campbells of the telecommunications world? I begin to imagine horses’ heads left in customers beds by disgruntled BT engineers. We’ve reached an impasse. So now I wait for my unsuspecting neighbours to return home to see if I can borrow theirs because BT engineers are far too delicate to look at a line problem unless they absolutely know its just a line problem. And their line at that. They won’t get out of bed for anything less. But how am I supposed to ascertain that it is indeed just a BT line problem? And whether it’s internal or external? Isn’t that what BT Engineers used to be for? What next? Will the NHS be demanding its patients to self-diagnose before allowing them to see a doctor?

Really, BT, your customer service is anything but.

extras

2008-03-27T22:27:00.008Z

The hall was filling up quickly. It was barely eight in the morning and I stood in one corner, behind the TV monitor, discussing the script with the writers. The sparks were still rolling cable around me and the director was deep in conversation with the DoP. I look around the room trying to tot up in my head how long it will be before we start turning over. We are on location, and time really does mean money.

As I'm sizing up the scene before me, I slowly become aware of a man staring at me from across the floor. Judging by the skin-tight leopard skin and long tartan scarf, he is one of the first coach-load of Rod Stewart impersonators (circa 1974) to arrive on set. We need to fill the room with them. He catches my eye and gives a nonchalant nod, one that seems entirely at odds with his appearance. I double-take. An enigmatic smile plays on his lips. At least, I think it is. It's hard to make out what is going on underneath that enormous blonde Rod-wig. There it is, he smiles lazily at me again. Surely he's not actually flirting with me? He readjusts his leggings. Well, they are tight. I blink. Embarrassed, I look away and immediately fall back into the job at hand. Logistics. Timing. Team.

"Excuse me"

I look up. He's now the other side of the monitor. He laughs and waves his hand at his outfit as if for me to inspect. He seems quite pleased with the costume and leans in, companionably:

"Soo, I couldn't help but notice you across the floor and wondered what you have come as...?"

It strikes me his outfit is more Atlantic Crossing than Maggie May. I look down at my jeans, T-shirt and trainers. I'm already wearing cans around my neck and the script is tucked under my arm.

"The producer'' I reply with a firm smile, "I've come as the producer."

He scuttles away, mortified and I feel quite sorry for him. He'll get thrush if he's stuck in those trousers for too long and at this rate, that's very likely indeed.

eastenders

2008-03-25T11:15:00.009Z

"Don't you toast that?" I ask politely. Admittedly, slightly intimidated.

Her young face smacks of hard living. Her black kohl-ed eyes narrow as she sizes me up over the counter, her gold chains glinting in the early morning sun. I'm no mind reader but the way she holds the butter knife in her fist suggests there are other uses she could put it to.

"Grill's broke"

She holds my eye for an uncomfortable nano-second before returning to attack the open bagel with a plastic gloved hand. As she slaps the butter across it with vigour, my eyes slide around the shop. The lino is cracked and peeling. I don't know if it started out that yellow. The counter is scratched and grey, the walls spattered in grease. A worn glass cabinet holds prepared fillings in metal trays. The egg mayo has grown a dry golden crust. It has seen better days. Clearly, I am regretting my breakfast-on-the-run decision but there are limited options at this end of Brick Lane at this time in the morning.

A builder enters and the girl behind the counter does something unexpected: she smiles warmly back at him. She is a different woman. She cannot do enough for him - or his two mates following up the rear. Her eyes twinkle as they share a joke. When they get to the red-or-brown-sauce part of their complex order, she remembers I am still standing there. Her face drops. She flings the discarded bagel into a bag and barks a price at me. I hand over the money and she gives me change in her still gloved hand.

As I step outside, I wryly look back up at the shop sign "Hot Fresh Beigals" it reads. I look at my change, it's short. I can't be bothered to run back over there for a handful of shrapnel. Instead I step across the road and into a hair salon for my early appointment. Its a beautiful, kind-of-arty looking salon filled with beautiful, kind-of-arty looking people. One street across, it's another world. The contrast doesn't escape me.

marketing man

2008-02-14T00:45:00.005Z

He does look a bit skanky but he has an impressive range of fruit and vegetables on his stall. So shiny you can see your face in them, so bushy and green and irregular in shape, they whisper 'organic'.

He's not there every day but, in a half-arsed attempt to withhold money from the coffers of the supermarket giants, I'm quite keen to buy fresh produce from him whenever I can. Which isn't as easy as it sounds - you need to catch him actually working.

I did once ask him what his days/times were because that seemed like a sensible option. He's more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel. But he was very vague. Said sometimes he was there every day. Which sounded a lot like sometimes he isn't.

Wanting to make the most of this rare sighting, I kept him on his toes with a long list of seasonal leafy things, which one by one, he carefully flipped into brown paper bags for me. At the end of the transaction, an afterthought really, I asked:

"Do you have any herbs?"

"Sure," he replied and leaned in conspiratorially, "What you looking for? An eighth? Some skunk?"

"No" I say slowly, as if speaking to a child, "I was thinking more along the lines of coriander and basil"

I think I might have an idea why he has such a sporadic approach to his market presence. Sainsbury's can rest easy.

the waiter

2007-12-09T18:06:00.002Z

Hello, two stories on a theme...

WAITER
I was meeting N, the woman who refuses to date, for an after-work drink. She wanted to meet in Clapham. And had suggested one of those well-known, but entirely indistinguishable, wooden-benched, wine emporiums.

I arrive early and, with a glass of wine in hand, grab a seat by the window. Halfway through my drink, a table-waiting Jason Bourne, surreptitiously appears at my side and, in one movement, slips a little silver tray under my elbow. He disappears before I can utter a word. On the tray, a piece of neatly folded paper. I know it's not the bill – I’d paid at the bar. Hmm. Something tells me this is not legitimate bar business.

I open the hand-written note:

“Hi, my name is Andro” it reads, “and I am a trainee hairdresser at XXXX, on the XXXX and I need a model to work on. I couldn’t help but notice your roots needing doing and would like to offer you the chance to have your hair coloured by me. 25% discount. Just come into the shop at XXXX. Many thanks, Andro”

I look around. And there he is, standing shyly by the kitchen door. He waves his fingers at me. I respond back with a ‘thank you for noticing’ half nod/smile. I want to let him down gently but don’t know what unspoken sign would impart 'I’m sorry but I already have a hairdresser.'

Albeit one I'm, apparently, overdue to revisit.

WAITERS
I'm editing a book of poetry for a friend. We arrange to meet one morning, last week, at a trendy-looking pub in downtown Camberwell - which is somewhere between our respective neighbourhoods. We're meeting at 11.30am. Which seems a tad early for a pub but it looks like a good place for coffee and chat and free WiFi, should we want it. Not that I was bringing my laptop. Not to Camberwell. A place where the great, the good, the not-so great and the damn-right dodgy all fight for a bit of pavement space amongst the numerous yellow police boards asking for witness information. Some of the pubs have been gentrified, hinting of urban renewal and a brighter tomorrow (at least, for some), but mostly, it's a neighbourhood in hard times, and it shows.

I arrive a bit early and try the pub door but it’s locked. The staff are inside and they look surprised in a way that suggests this pub is not opening for 11.30. I sit on the bench outside, waiting patiently. People look at me funny as they walk past but then, I am sitting outside a pub, on a weekday, waiting for it to open. I am being watched. I look up to the window to see two of the staff peering down at me. I guess I don’t look like your typical alcoholic. And then a man arrives, who does. He too tries the door and is incredulous to find it locked. “Can you believe it’s closed? I’m gasping!” he complains to nobody in particular.

His whole demeanour suggests he isn’t exaggerating. He jumps, companionably, onto an adjoining table. He assumes I must be gasping too. He seems amiable, if tetchy. He’s a little too close. “I haven’t been able to get a drink for a few months” he volunteers rather darkly, I study his tattooed face for a moment and decide against asking why. He cranes his neck to look in the window again. A Celtic design stretches across the back of his head.

We sit in relative silence for what seems like an age. Both waiting.

I feel uncomfortable but he's completely unaware of that. “I’m not from around here, you know, I’m from North London,” he offers by way of an explanation. Pedestrians walk by and instinctively avoid eye contact with us both. “The pubs open much earlier there” he adds cheerily. I crack a smile at that.

Suddenly the doors open. My new companion springs up “ 'ere love, you can get a drink now. I’m gasping, I tell ya” and with that he marches in.

Within ten minutes, my friend arrives and we get down to work. I forget about my bench companion - but hope he eventually found his way back Up North.

the frenchman

2007-10-22T01:07:00.001+01:00

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.

beauty tip

2007-10-21T23:53:00.002+01:00

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.”

nak'd

2007-10-12T19:59:00.001+01:00

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.

actor

2007-10-12T00:36:00.001+01:00

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.

moody blues

2007-10-10T00:14:00.001+01:00

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...

second life

2007-10-01T13:06:00.001+01:00

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.

magic magic magic

2007-09-22T23:46:00.001+01:00

My two phobias are a little weirder than most, admittedly. One: don’t throw things at me - a ball, a set of keys, a Frisbee, ‘the book’ (if you’re police) - because I will cower like a maltreated dog. To say I catch ‘like a girl’ would be wildly inaccurate - I don’t catch at all.

I was confronted by Weird Phobia Number Two in a pub last night. I could see his shiny jacket, from the corner of my eye, as he sharked in and out of the Friday night crowd, looking for unsuspecting punters. My heart beat a little faster. The pub in question, a really nice neighbourhood bar in Kentish Town, was celebrating its anniversary and, to mark the occasion, they’d put up balloons (ahh) prepared lots of finger food (double ahh) and booked, surely not, no, it can’t be, too late they have, they’d booked...a magician.

I could see him bothering a few people at the table nearby. Too close. I started to feel warm under the collar. It's an odd aversion to have to explain to C, a good friend of ten years, who happened to be sitting there with me. She took it in her stride (again, ten years) and, like most people over the age of twelve, I don't think she's particularly wild about them either. This meant we were bound, by the law of the universe (or sod), to get an unwelcome table visit.

Magicians, like cats, always gravitate to the person in a room who likes them the least. Cats, being contrary critters by nature, get off on that. Why sit on the lap of someone who actually wants you to? Where’s the cat fun in that? Magicians, meanwhile, are like passive-aggressive bullies. In sequins. Driven by ego, they are magnetically drawn to proving their brilliance to those who dislike them the most. People like me. And I really dislike them in the same way that some people dislike clowns, or celery or George Bush.

Is it the annoying smugness? The standard-issue spangly jackets? The prissy hand movements? Or the association with the Masons-like Magic Circle with its aura of school ground politics, one-upmanship and almost universal bad hair? Whatever it is, it makes me want to scream ‘get a proper job’ whenever one sidles up in my direction. And, yes, it’s probably a little unfair and maybe they don’t all sound like Paul McKenna and yes, they probably train very, hard to keep up ‘the illusion’, thank you very much.

Still, they are bloody irritating. And what use would they be in a crisis? What good would they be if, in some unseen awful catastrophe, we suddenly had to survive on our wits and some poorly remembered Ray Mears factoids? Unless one can actually pull a bloody rabbit out of a hat, they'd be cockroach fodder with the life expectancy of a Star Trek extra.

Course, as predicted, this particular magician came over just as soon as he’d finished boring the other table. C saved the day, flashing her brightest smile she held him off with: "I’m sorry, my friend here gets a little panicky around magicians, you know, in the same way some people get a little freaked about clowns…?"

At first he walked away confused. Perhaps he’s never met anyone who didn’t want to be ‘entertained’ before. Then he got a little annoyed and came back over: "No skin off my nose, s’not like I have to do this" Quite. But then, it's your choice. Like it's my choice not to be a participating audient. How would he like it if I walked in on him having a quiet drink in a pub and forced him to play Scrabble or watch an entire series of The Wire (because I find THAT entertaining)?

So, that’s it. Balls and magicians. I’d see a hypnotist about my problem, but then, knowing my luck, he’d turned out to be a stage one.

compass

2007-09-20T16:56:00.001+01:00

“You’ve got to be in it to win it”

This is the kind of well-intentioned, if slightly irritating, advice friends, happily ensconced in (so-solid) relationships, dish out in spades.

They are normally the same people who’ve never actually Done It themselves, although they all know a friend of a friend who met their partner 'that way'…now they’re married with 2.3 kids, half-a-labrador and living in the suburbs in domestic nirvana, you know you really should give it a go, blah, blah, blah, what have you got to lose? I am talking about internet dating and the answer to their question is simple: my dignity.

Like communism and sliced white bread, internet dating seems like a good idea. A concept based on good sportsmanship and convenience, which somehow, in practical translation, is brutal and not very good for you. Having said that, I’m quite sure (cos a friend of a friend of a friend has, apparently, met their life partner through it) that, even in the cynical world of cyber romance, there are proper winners – perfectly matched souls whose glitteringly paths on the information superhighway of love wouldn’t have crossed under normal celestial town planning. But, in the same way that, after a major rollover, Camelot’s going to be phoning somebody, somewhere to tell them some bloody good news, the vast majority of us will be screwing up our numbers and throwing them out with yesterday’s takeaway. Quite simply, the odds are not on our side.

So why am I taking this advice to heart when I know I have more chance of being stuck by lightening or being eaten by sharks AT THE SAME TIME than find a half-decent man on the internet? Because, my inner compass appears to be stuck and it hasn't led me to that special someone in the real world.

Trouble is, I already have a terrible reputation with men. To say I am known for being a little unlucky in love is a bit like saying Italians are known for quite liking pasta. Even this blog entry is a request - made by several friends – for a quick rundown of my more notorious encounters. Too bad. I don't have the energy to delve into those right now. However, for the amusement of friends (who’ve heard these all before anyway), friends of friends and complete strangers alike (hello), here is a quick rundown of a few internet dating highlights from this year. Brace yourself.

The Ad Exec – a funny and intelligent date until halfway through dinner when he suddenly leaned across the table and said matter-of-factly:

“Oh, I didn’t realise you had such large breasts. Look, I’m not really a breast man so hope you don’t mind if I don’t fondle them very much?”

The Accountant – A very, very, very, nice man who, tragically, happened to be very, very, very dull.

Him (in full flow): "I’ve got this GREAT drinking story to tell ya, really wild. Soo, I’m at this work do, right? And I drank waay too much. I mean, waay too much. I was sooo drunk that, when I staggered to the toilet – and BELIEVE ME, I don’t remember this at all. Anyway, I stagger into the toilet. OFF MY TITS! Head to a stall and walk in on my boss ON THE TOILET! And, because, you know, because I was sooo drunk? I just stood there and pointed at him. And I laughed. I didn’t even CLOSE THE DOOR!!! It was BRILLIANT! You know what I mean?”

Me: “I don’t know what to say.”

The Guy Who Did Something in Housing – “I don’t fancy you” he says on my arrival. He bears more than a passing resemblance to Toad from Toad Hall.

The Mute – Worked in design. Didn’t speak and barely lifted his chin from his pint glass. He dribbled.

The Embittered Literary Agent – Yeesh. Angry man.

“I know what you’re going to do, you’re going to stay for one drink with me before buggering off PROBABLY TO ANOTHER DATE because, well look at you and then look at me…you girls are ALL THE SAME! You know, you really need to go on MORE THAN ONE DATE with a man to see if you have the chemistry – its not all about looks!”

The American Security Consultant – touchy feely in email, turned out to be an utter fascist in real life. Really, you could probably see that one coming. I didn’t.

The Movie Writer – in his photo, he looked a bit like a young Robin Williams. In reality, he looked like Robin Williams. Only older.

I can’t decide if its my shoulders or my internal compass that needs a damn good shaking...

pens

2007-09-18T15:07:00.001+01:00

Biros are like cats. They appear unannounced and inveigle their way into your house. Collecting in bags, work surfaces, pockets and coffee tables, they can be as omnipresent as police officers at a football match. Today, I found one nestled underneath my kettle, I’m assuming for warmth. Uninvited, they fool you with just enough ink to get you started on that sentence/your shopping list/the phone number you’re taking down, before fading to an untimely end.

Who buys biros? I’ve never seen anybody purchase one. I certainly haven't but, as I look around my cluttered desk, there they are, silently accumulating, like plastic snowdrift, in my desk tidy. Where did they all come from? Black, blue, red (red? I would never choose red…its the biro equivalent of shouting). And yet, there they sit. Chewed lids, no lids, black pens with red lids, blue pens with black ones, the ones with splodgy ink, the ones with no ink (I never quite get around to throwing those away). Then there’s the yellow Virgin Atlantic pen, a purple Tate pen, a pencil with ‘New York’ and an image the statue of liberty, repeated in a jazzy style, along its trunk. I have been to all these places, true, but I’ve never felt the urge to splurge on customised stationery. What I have done is inadvertently collect other people’s memories. These pens are evidence of other people's lives. Amongst my ill-gotten biros sits one clicky pen. It has ‘White Hart Lane Therapy Centre’ printed on it. I’ve never been to White Hart Lane, let than know seek a therapist there. And I can’t imagine why anyone would want to advertise they had, on a pen.

And yet, when push comes to shove, when the bottom line is reached, when the fat lady stops singing and the ball’s in my court, I never seem to have a pen on me. They disappear as mysteriously as they arrive.

“I know I’ve got one in my bag” I say, searching in my portable leather tardis. “Hang on...”

A full five minutes of ‘oh nearly' ‘hang on’ and few false ‘ah-hahs' later, all I’ve managed to retrieve is a hairbrush, my make up bag, an umbrella, my wallet, a bracelet I’d forgotten about, some cinema tickets from last year, my diary, a writing pad (talk about rubbing it in) but no pen. Maybe it went for a walk. But I need to write something down. What to do? I lean across to a person sitting near me:

“Excuse me, have you got a…?”

the procrastinator

2007-09-14T18:27:00.001+01:00

I’ve got so much to do: bills to pay, accounts to balance, jobs to chase, invoices to write, scripts to edit (for work) scripts to read (for friends), presents to buy, cards to sign, a house to clean, a dentist to find, a gym to actually utilise at some point before I turn forty…

There’s always something I should be doing.

It’s always been a problem. I was a crammer at school. One of those people who, after a quick revision session at the back of the schoolbus, left their exam results in the lap of the gods. I hated homework. I really resented spending those few precious hours between home-time and bed writing 500 words or more on why Elizabeth The First Was a Terrible Monarch (that’s a Catholic education for you – never knowingly underselling itself).

I thought it was a phase but here I am, well beyond school-leaving age, with three scripts to re-storyline and a looming deadline. Am always amazed at how industrious I can be in these circumstances. So far today, I have been to the supermarket, swept up the leaves in my garden (it’s September, an utterly pointless exercise), I’ve done the ironing, booked a train ticket, surfed the internet (that’s three hours, right there) THEN noticed my windows needed cleaning…

There is a delicate balance between how pressing a task is and how inventive the displacement activity must be to offset it. I once went to Barcelona on a train to avoid looking for a job. I’m hoping for a seriously complex set of script notes soon as my skirting board needs a repaint. Meanwhile, the scripts I’m (supposed to be) working on sit patiently on my desk. A Mexican stand-off. We both know that, at some point, within the next few days, the adrenaline will kick in and I’ll be reaching for them with my pen in hand, ready for business, no messing. They look completely unflustered by this. Boy, they’re good.

street hecklers

2007-09-03T00:15:00.001+01:00

Every woman gets used to it, I'm sure. The street hecklers. Men in white vans, the builders, the gobby one in a passing group of lads on a big night out. Like tired comics, we all have our routine responses to them too. Tried and tested. This is no time for a delayed reaction.

Then one day, one comes at you so unexpectedly, so spectacularly out-of-the-blue, it leaves you wondering if you have a neon sign above your head. Appalled at not being the Master of the Quick Response, you replay the offending incident over and over in your mind and torture yourself with the plethora of alternate responses you might've plucked from the ether if you'd had your wits about you.

Such an incident occurred to me when I worked in Covent Garden. Each lunch hour, I would navigate my way through herds of tourists, living statues, irate shoppers and gypsies selling 'lucky heather' on a search for something to take back to the office. One day, whilst passing the long haired, slightly greasy, part of the scenery, pavement artist, I hear

"Oi, you! You're almost good looking!"

I turn, and as I see the spittle on his beard evaporate, realise he's talking to me. In a street full of people, I am being appraised by the Simon Cowell of tramps. I can feel my lunch getting cold in my hands as my face burns. I mutter something unintelligible and walk away.

Of course, in a parallel universe somewhere, I reply "Oh yeah? And you're almost an artist" as I step on his chalk rendition of the Last Supper - every day for the next three months.

But in reality, what can you possibly say back to a tramp?

paint cans and other explosive elements

2007-09-02T23:29:00.001+01:00

“Sorry love, you can’t come on here with that”

“With what?”

The bus driver nods down to the two recently purchased paint cans in my hand. I’d just bought them from B&Q and I'm attempting to board a bus on the Old Kent Road. But he isn’t having any of it.

“’Course, if you’d put them in carrier bags, it wouldn’t’ve been a problem. But you see, I’ve seen them now, so you can’t get on”

He looks like a normal person. But he's carrying that smirk of officialdom. He's enjoying this far too much. This is a man who doesn’t get to say ‘no’ enough.

“What? Because I’m carrying paint…?” I venture, trying to piece together some/any logic. “But they’re sealed” I protest.

“Yeah, but see, it’s a fire risk’

“A what?”

“Now if you’d put them in plastic bags, I would’ve let you on – but I can’t now, can I?” A reptilian smile passes his lips. “And, to be fair, no other bus driver will let you on with ‘em either. You need to put 'em in bags...or walk.” This is all news to me. Is he? Ohmigod, yes, he is, the man is actually gloating like a Bond villain. Who gloats in real life?

I’m a long way from home and the cans are feeling heavy. The other passengers begin to tutt and shuffle their feet impatiently but I’m not letting this go, this man is clearly an officious idiot.

“So putting paint cans in plastic bags somehow stops spontaneous exploding, does it? Are the anti-terror squad aware of this major breakthrough?”

Unfortunately for me, it’s hard to keep the sarcasm from tripping uncontrollably off my tongue. I’ve fallen straight into the bus driver’s hands. He tells me in no uncertain terms to get off the bus and it looks like the tired commuters are willing to help his cause, if it means the bus will get going again. I’m beat. I tell him he’s an arsehole and get off the bus. He gives me a two-fingered salute and laughs theatrically as he pulls away.

Must stop goading unreasonable bus drivers.

Eventually, a long bendy bus pulls up. I get on from the back and keep my head down, just in case…

elephants

2007-09-02T15:39:00.001+01:00

She was on time. I couldn’t miss her as she sloped down the escalator at Waterloo. Seventeen years since we knocked about together (and almost all that time apart). Seventeen years and she looked EXACTLY the same. Bar her hair. Which was now a sophisticated, grown-up bob. She looked great.

P was my best friend at college. We did our A-levels together in a rundown polytechnic, both preferring a smoky, hairy, student refectory to the conservative constraints of a long-outgrown school common room. Needless to say, being in an arty college environment did nothing for our concentration levels (which were poor-to-middling at best). Displacement activity became our speciality. We always found inventive ways to entertain ourselves. None of it constructive.

I haven’t seen anyone from my hometown pretty much since then. I left in 1990. There were good reasons why I didn’t look back. Reasons I'd mentally packed into neat little boxes and stored away deep in my subconscious - only to have them uncovered and then reclaimed, many years later, whilst sitting in a therapist’s chair. From some things you just can't escape.

Mine was a regulation unhappy childhood and one I'd managed to keep at a healthy distance from the friends I grew up with. Even at school, I managed the mess of my real life with an attention to detail Max Clifford would be proud of: on the surface, I really kept it together. This was not a question of dignity, like most teenagers, I was simply desperate to appear normal. Occasionally, things would leak, like any good news story, and word would get around. Like the time my mother tried to run me over (luckily, she was a terrible driver and over-shot) or when she pretended she didn’t know me in the street - in front of my friends. Frankly, these things were hard to put a positive spin on. But nobody ever mentioned it, it became our very own room-living elephant. Tension was punctured, with unspoken camaraderie, by a swift change of subject, something fun and upbeat like who was currently shagging that slapper in the 4th year...

Seeing P again brought it all back. The boys, the laughs, the stupid outfits we wore. We effortlessly slipped back into each other’s speech patterns, rolling from one dusted off memory to another. Cliché number one: I laughed until I cried. Cliché number two: the years quite literally melted away. Happily, we had as much to say about our lives now. Similarities abounded in the most unexpected ways: work, men, life. I realised the very fear which had motivated me to leave all those years ago, was the glue that had made P stay. There is no rhyme or reason, right or wrong, better or worse, it’s just about muddling through.

As we drank our own body-weight in wine, we talked further, deeper. Shared secrets were aired, dead friends remembered. Things that didn't need to be forgiven, were. Tearfully, the elephant was finally acknowledged and let out to graze. I’m glad we found each other again.

doppleganger

2007-08-30T00:20:00.001+01:00

"You know who you look like, don't cha?"

"No, why don't you tell me" I reply. I'm sitting directly behind him as my cab driver cranes round to look at me again. I know what he's going to say but am happy to go through the charade again. It's always cab drivers.

"The think is, right, you look just like her when she was young, right? Just like her! You know who I mean?"

Yes, I think do. "No, why don't you tell me."

"You don't arf look like a young Maureen Lipman, that's who! Maureen Lipman! But when she was young like."

"Really?" I say. It's the age specific-ness that always gets to me.

I am often compared to other people. I think I have one of those faces. In the late Eighties, it was Jennifer 'Dirty Dancing 'Grey. Mostly, I get compared to Sarah Jessica Parker - although I take that more as a compliment than fact. But it's the cab drivers who always go for Maureen. I once looked up pictures of her on the internet. Pictures of when she was young - I couldn't quite see the resemblance.

Then one day, I met Maureen Lipman herself. She was playing the lead in a West End show called Glorious. She was terrific. I went backstage, with a mutual friend, to congratulate her. We wove our way through an appreciative crowd of well-wishers to a busy dressing room. Barely through the door, she took one look at me and exclaimed:

"Ohmigod! You look like me when I was young!"

So, it's not just cab drivers then.