Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open

Boredom in the rush hour

2013-05-01T10:50:00.002+01:00

The bus was stationary, and I glanced across the road at an equally inert coach facing the other way.

There they were: 38 people seated in twos with a driver and portly guide at the front; the latter commentating into a microphone as her audience looked on.

Disengaged, half asleep, blindly staring out of the window; their tired eyes seemed to rest upon nothing and no one as the commuters around them moved with the purpose of the rush hour, while the historic landmarks of the city stood still where they have done for hundreds of years.

Unspeaking - save for two at the back pointing at a map - each person had the passive posture of someone who had nothing to do that day but listen and wait for the next thing to appear.

We sat there on our separate sides of the road, a bus of locals on one side, a coach of tourists on the other, and I looked at the passengers one by one and thought:

God, you look so bored.

I watched them, momentarily distracted from the dull feeling in my chest, the half-conceived thoughts and feelings in my head, the ideas that would never even see paper, let alone fruition, and the minutiae of life that confines itself to one solitary hour at the beginning of the day and another at the end.

And I wondered, as the bus pulled away and I prepared to join the flow of people on the pavement, if any of them had looked at me and thought exactly the same thing.

Writing as incentive

2013-03-20T12:03:00.001Z

The ability to write can get you a lot of things.

It can earn you money, gain you confidence, give you friends, put things in perspective and, well, it's a far more affordable option than therapy.

Armed with a pen or a keyboard, a bad day takes on an amusing slant instead of a painful edge, amazing experiences once articulated are never forgotten, and break-ups change from being the end of a story, to the beginning of one.

But more than all that, writing can be the push you need to do something you otherwise wouldn't.

In fact, it's amazing what can be achieved when you apply the logic "well, if it all goes tits up, at least I can write about it anyway".

Which is sort of the reason that when the fourth date* had yet to be arranged and my ridiculous girl-brain was doing somersaults - on which note, it's always those already in relationships who tell you how exciting dating is, only the rest of us know the terrifying truth - that I decided to stop waiting, and ask the question myself.

And because the path of dating never did run smooth, and the response or lack of it would have to go in writing either way and because, ultimately, everything is copy, I wrote:

So am I ever going to see you again, or is that it now you've seen my boobs?

...and pressed send.

So that's how today's story ended, with a fourth date arranged and some lessons learnt:

1) When in doubt, do it anyway, 2) Never underestimate the power of words, and 3) where possible, always use the word "boobs".

*Yeah, I skipped a few. Sorry.

Remember when we spent our Saturdays building forts

2013-03-11T16:52:00.003Z

On Saturday evening, in the downtime between getting in and going out again, eight people sat talking in a living room.

The sofas were in disarray and belongings were strewn everywhere after a failed attempt to "build a fort" (as you do).

Our enthusiasm for the childish task had gradually ebbed, and the participants, tempted away from the build by more Prosecco, now sat around on bedding, pillows and blankets talking in pairs and threes.

"It was a great party," said The Neighbour, sitting with his back against the radiator while I lay on the sofa; head on a lap, another friend's fingers raking absent-mindedly through my hair. "But there was a moment when I looked around and there were at least eighty people up on the roof".

"You weren't drinking that night, were you?" I said, remembering the night in question.

"No," he continued. "I was drinking juice and wasn't on any drugs, and everyone else was in their own world and I just remember thinking that the roof wasn't strong enough. It wasn't built to hold this many people. At any moment the roof or floors could collapse and it freaked me out. We later found out it was only meant to hold eight people."

We laughed now at the imagined, hypothetical disaster. But I remember the thought crossing my mind too that night, up on the packed roof of the old house on a London side street. And even now, on a sturdy floor surrounded by good friends in a flat that is now my home from home, the fear of things falling down was equally familiar.

In fact, these days, it seems a lot of us spend rather a lot of our time waiting for the game to be up.

We worry that our jobs aren't good enough, that we aren't good enough. We worry that we don't know what we're talking about, that our employers are moments from finding us out. That our achievements are flukes, not the result of hard work and talent, that we'll never be the people we wanted to be when we were younger.

We're starting to worry that our parents won't be around forever, and we regularly voice concerns (as we nurse the third hangover of the week, and it's only Thursday) that our lives aren't following the path they should (knowing, of course, that there is no such thing).

We worry that the boys who like us will lose interest, that the see-saw will always leave us hanging perilously in the air, waiting to be let down. We worry that our friends will grow up and move on before we do and we worry about the day when yes, that skirt really will be too short.

But this is the life we chose: the big city, the busy mid-week social lives, the 9-6 office jobs, the expensive, frenetic nights out, extended lie-ins, short commutes and rented accommodation. We wanted the freedom, the choice and not to be tied down - and that is what we have.

So we sit on pillows on Saturday afternoon, making contingency plans for the future, building forts from sofas and getting ready for the next adventure.

And all the while, we worry about the roof falling down.

First Date(s)

2013-03-04T12:25:00.000Z

Try a thing you haven’t done three times. Once, to get over the fear of doing it. Twice, to learn how to do it. And a third time to figure out whether you like it or not.
- Virgil Thomson

When you've been single for a while, you inevitably forget things.

You forget associations you once held; with places, activities and routines, you forget the spoken nuances that were once familiar: words, phrases, nicknames and in-jokes. Then finally, after what feels like far too bloody long, joy of joys - you forget why you were even with someone in the first place.

(That last bit's well good.)

Other things get forgotten too if you allow yourself enough time: what a heart flutter feels like, the nervous expectation of a text message, or the simple comfort of being physically and emotionally concerned with someone else.

And if you've spent your singleness occasionally arranging and then cancelling dates because something just doesn't feel right, or experiencing flashes of attraction that fade into nothing when the sun comes up, you're also likely to forget something else: the unmitigated terror of going on a first date.

You forget the process of choosing what to wear, and the nerves of picking the right place to meet; of getting it just right (not too busy, not too quiet, not too expensive, not too cheap, not too weird, no strippers, and a fire exit out the back - just in case).

You forget how you're meant to greet a person for the first time when there's the pretense of maybe, perhaps, something more happening between you than friendship, and the appropriate way to say goodbye when the end of the night comes and you suspect that might be the case - hug? Kiss on one cheek? Two? Lips? Handshake?

Then, after the event - you'll wonder how you still managed to get it wrong even after all that thought.

The texts once you're both home - well, you've probably forgotten how they're supposed to start and end too, and you forget how to infer "I like you, let's arrange another" without putting yourself out on a limb and saying exactly that.

Above all, after too long spent panicking about the prospect of dates and all they mean, you forget how nice it feels to be excited about seeing someone again.

But, you think, as you check your phone again and allow your mind to wonder a bit, like most forgotten things, you'll probably pick it all up again fairly quickly - given the chance.

Alright, not bad, good, better, best mate

2013-02-18T14:48:00.001Z

I was mid-whisk, giving my kitchen, face and clothes a liberal coating of pancake batter when she ran over and broke the news.

"New York is happening!"
"NOOOOO"
"Well, hopefully."
"NOOOOOOOOOOO. NOOOOOOO. No you may not."

PiB is, of course, used to my protestations about her long term travel plans. Having warned her off Australia ("God no. You don't want to go there. The spiders are HUGE"), Singapore ("Forget it. You'd drop litter when you're drunk and get arrested") and Dubai ("Love, they're very strict about nudity"), this time she seems more determined than ever to move Stateside ("No! Freezing in the winter, boiling in the summer. No good for the work ethic.")

The problem, of course, is not that she wouldn't cope admirably faced with any of the above. No, no - the girl can turn up late to a flight and still get upgraded to First Class.

Really, it's all down to the fact that I'd have to cope without her.

The "best mate" thing always seemed like a bit of a myth when I was growing up; a term placed upon any number of fleeting presences over the years. At one point, I'd have said I had a few - but, placed against the perilous landscape of my mid to late twenties - I now I realise they were merely "good", not best.

You know when you've got a best mate when, after a bit of pleading, they change their mind about accompanying you to a party - even though they're hungover to the point of dying and can think of nothing worse. "Oh, go on then. I'll come", they'll call you back and say, "But you better have some bacon for breakfast."

Best mates can count on each other to be plus ones to weddings, saving them from sitting next to an empty chair at a fully coupled table. "This is my lady-date!" she'll declare, and won't even blink when she later walks into the hotel room to find you lying in your underwear with a large bag of Pick 'n' Mix balanced on your stomach, absolutely hammered, laughing at the TV.

"What?!" you'll say, mouth full of jelly beans.
"Nothing. I'm going to have a bath" she'll reply.
"Well, don't lock the door in case you bloody fall asleep."

(A best mate knows that she always falls asleep.)

A best mate will pick you up off the floor whether it's alcohol, high heels or heartbreak that put you there. She'll take you to shops you can't afford, hand you a glass of champagne procured from a sales assistant, and then march you up to the make-up counter issuing instructions such as "she needs Dandelion. NOW."

In fact, she'll always drop everything (or at least bring him along) when the call comes. Even if that call comes on a second date across the other side of London, because "no, you're not OK".

You know you've got a best mate when you can predict the nature of their problem by the time of the phone call (9-11am = job / boy woes. 12-2pm = a catch up. 10pm-9am = drunk and teary).

What's more, a proper best mate knows the good blokes are few and far between, and the bad ones are to be prevented from causing more hurt, preferably by declaring "well, you can't sleep with the little bastard tonight, motherfucker. Because I'm going to pass out in your bed" (yes, she thanked me the next day).

"Look," I said later, picking pancake out of my hair last week, "It sounds amazing. And of course I'll support you wherever you go..."
"Aw, thanks."
"...But I will be doing my utmost in the meantime to make sure you don't."
"Oh. Thanks."

A best mate is always welcome.

Kids these days

2013-01-10T14:46:00.002Z

One of the most terrifying things about being in your late twenties is that every so often, you catch sight of a date of birth which ends in something like "2010".

If you're anything like me, you'll like to think that people just stopped being born after about 1995; a time in which everyone was caught up in deciding which Take That member to scratch a heart around with the pointed end of a compass on their pencil case, not merely Tweeting their adoration of Harry Styles.

You'll like to imagine that everyone alive now should, and indeed does, remember a time when knowledge came from libraries, not from a mythical "search engine", or - sod it - a time before the internet itself.

The fact that all our worldly information is so readily available now - to the point where our capacity for memorising things is shrinking - is indicative of a more pressing concern: that there are children in the world at this very moment who have never booted up a CDROM of Encarta Encyclopedia, and magically produced the exact same "research" as everyone else handing in their homework that day.

The same goes for mobile phones. It's not the instant, hyper-connectivity of noughties children that worries me; more that kids these days will never have to search through the Yellow Pages for a house number and mumble a greeting to their crush's mother,

"Hello, Mrs Smith. Is Daniel there please?"

...before making stilted, quiet, awkward conversation while balancing carefully on the stairs; an operation that was always hindered by the meter long ringlets of stretchy phone cord which never quite reached anywhere out of parental earshot.

Worst still, by taking their first "I fancy you" steps via text message or Facebook, kids these days will never have to endure the tell-tale click of a phone being replaced on its hook, followed by the hot-faced embarrassment of their older sister yelling "Oooh! Who's MARK? Have you got a BOYFRIEND?" from her listening post in the kitchen.

BT phone boxes must seem like relics of another time to kids these days; make-do street toilets, public drug taking cubicles, an extreme last resort if you forget your mobile - not a place your best mate used to call you from when her parents regularly barred outgoing calls from their house.

And let us not start on TV on-demand services, which negate ever having an all-out sibling war over who recorded over the only VHS copy of Ghost with an episode of Byker Grove, or whose cassette recorder ate the ribbon on the latest Now...! double compilation.

Oh, kids these days. Those poor people born in 2013, whose idea of nostalgia will be a screen resolution without HD.

They're missing out.

2013 Resolution: Never be bored.

2013-01-02T11:45:00.001Z

We sat around a table in the basement of a cocktail bar; the boys in bow ties and black jackets, the girls in sequins, sparkles and short hem lines.

(PiB was sporting a fox fur stole that, as karma would have it, she was allergic to.)

"So, let's have it" someone said, "New year resolutions?"

We went round the table, where the usual suspects (stopping smoking, a dry January and gym memberships) were touted as 2013 goals. Eventually it was my turn, and I thought for a moment.

"Don't know, really. Cut out the Ex. Try not to be an idiot. Cook more. Be bored less."

When it comes to resolutions, I subscribe to the school of thought that you can change the things you don't like at any time, not just the turn of a year. But for some reason, January 2nd, 2013 seems like a good date to make some real change happen to the life I've been bubbling along with - sometimes contentedly, other times not - for the last twelve months.

From starting a new job, to a sudden house move, an unexpected run-in (or ten) with The Ex, and the loss of an old friend, 2012 wasn't exactly devoid of drama.

But there was also a lot of good stuff: my friendship group grew wide and brilliant, fellow bloggers became mates in the real world, my new neighbourhood became a home, and being happy by myself became a default setting, instead of one I was having to accept without a choice.

Going on holiday, cinema visits, turning up at parties or events - anything that would usually be done in pairs or more, I made a concrete effort to do alone - and it paid off.

Occasional heart flutters proved that I wasn't dead to the idea of romance; just picky, enjoying my own company and recovering slowly from the last one. That took a bit of getting used to, especially when the world around me seemed to be falling in love or going out on dates. But here we are almost two years on from one of life's big crashes, and god, I'm ready to let that whole thing go.

Because last month made me realise I'm bored of it. Bored of him being in my head, bored of the word "Ex" coming up in conversation. I'm bored of playing nice when I see him in the street, bored of wondering how he is. I'm bored of blogging about him, of attributing any of the decisions I make to him. I'm bored of entertaining the idea that this ridiculous, silly man-child who did so much to make me happy, then so much to hurt me, could ever live up to my expectations again.

I can't un-happen what happened in January 2011, but I can stop the ex-related boredom from happening now. All that requires is to leave him in 2012, while I skip on into 2013.

It was a few hours into the New Year when we were back at someone's house in central London carrying on the party. I sat atop a kitchen counter - really quite drunk now, rum in hand - when a friend appeared next to me and said, "I've got a new years resolution for you."

"What's that then?"
"Don't take it the wrong way. I've known you about a year now, and it's just something I've noticed."
"Go on, I can take it. I'm hardcore. Like a lion. A massive pissed lion."

He paused, raised an equally drunk eyebrow.

"You should be more open to stuff. People, mainly. You should give people a chance more. You know, let them in a bit."

And just as I was about to spout the same old excuses, I remembered my resolution.

"Yeah. I want to. That should be easier now. I'll give it a go. But first I have another new year challenge. I want to do the DIRTY DANCING LIFT."

Then I drained my drink, turned up the music and took to the other side of the kitchen floor for my run-up.

"Ready? GO GO GO"

As I crashed to the ground for the fifth time in as many minutes, I concluded that while some things will inevitably change this year; others will definitely not.

No, how are you?

2012-12-17T11:16:00.000Z

When we bump into each other every Sunday and you say we must meet up, are you actually meaning it, or are you just being polite?

The text message left my phone and marked itself as delivered. His response pinged back a few minutes later.

I do mean it, I've just been busy and I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me any more. How are you anyway?

And so eventually the day came when our diaries converged; three months after silence last descended. We sat opposite each other in a cafe between our two houses late one Saturday morning. My food arrived and as I lifted the fork to my lips, and chewed, nausea rose in my stomach.

"Urgh. I'm struggling a bit this morning. Do you want it?" I pushed my food to him.
"Yeah alright. Late night?"
"Early morning." I conceded.

It's then I pinpointed what I missed; the ease of it all. The ability to be so hungover you nearly vomit the next day and he just rolls his eyes and reminds you of the last time he held your hair back after a particularly heavy night in Vegas.

We laugh.We get on. We always have.

We talk and walk, taking in our local area. We catch up, we talk about how he's doing; his new exercise regime which is keeping the demons away. We don't touch on where he went for those months, why he went quiet. We hug and leave each other hours later; him with a promise of meeting again soon, me with a glimmer of hope.

I'm more surprised than I probably should be when my text message a couple of days later goes unanswered.

***

He's still lurking in my mind two weeks on, when myself and PIB are seated in a restaurant eating lunch.

Talk turns to ex-boyfriends, and the cycle of getting over someone. The protracted, long, drawn out process which is made infinitely harder when you still get on with them, when you often bump into them in the street each weekend and when, despite your efforts, you still can't let the barriers down for anyone else.

"Have you ever told him what he's done to you?" she asked, placing her fork to one side. "That he basically completely shattered your trust in everyone? Yes, he had a breakdown. Yes, he had depression. But what about you? You'll always protect him, because that's what we do. We protect boys like him because we don't want to hurt them. We mother them, tell them these huge things they did don't matter. But they do matter, and he's selfish, and he doesn't know how you are, which..." she paused and I felt tears fill my eyes, "...isn't too good, at the moment."

Which is strange, I thought, because that's exactly what my instinct said after three minutes in his company that day, a flash of innate knowledge that was later clouded by familiarity and hope.

The omission of a single question.

No. This isn't going to work because he hasn't asked how I am yet.

He'll never ask how I am, except to be polite. He doesn't want to know. And that's probably why he goes off the radar. He's protecting himself, and he always will do.

"Besides" the PIB said, resuming her lunch. "Regardless of anything that happens, I'd still kick him in the balls."

And sometimes, in a world where people are often just being polite, I think that's probably the best course of action.

The Great "Oh Shit, I'm Single At 28" Blog Post of 2012

2012-11-13T13:50:00.003Z

In the last couple of months, the ratio of single-to-not in my friendship group has shifted slightly in the other direction.

With my Housemate, Partner in Breakup and the Fashion Editor all tentatively dipping their toes in new relationships this autumn, it's safe to say that my 28th year will probably be known as The One With All The +1s.

It's been a while since my last post, and no, love hasn't removed the need to blog, but something else has - relief, that I didn't find myself feeling jealous, bitter or resentful of my friends who have coupled up.

In a lovely twist on common assumptions, they have become happy in their fledgling relationships, and I in turn have remained happily single. It was the surest sign so far that while occasionally the longing to find someone does grip me, perhaps things are as they're meant to be for now.

But being single at 28, I'm realising, is a different kettle of fish to all the years before it. There's an added pressure, subconscious and spoken aloud, that things have changed. We're all thinking ahead in ways we never used to.

And while some friends are embarking on things, others are ending them for much the same reasons; last week, it was The Lawyer who made the split from her long term Younger Man. Unlike previous breakups, it wasn't arguments or infidelity that sealed this deal, but the fact that her bloke's vision for the immediate future (marriage, babies, and perhaps, on the off-chance, him willingly introducing her to his parents) didn't match with her own.

It was the PiB who noticed another nuance in 28 year old coupled life; that her having a man on the scene appeared to have prompted an increase in dinner party invitations.

"Its all 'Oh you and The Engineer must come round for dinner with me and so-and-so, and Other Coupled Friends" she mused to me the other day, continuing, "to which I thought 'where were these invites when it was just me before?' I only ever got told about the mad, drunken nights out."

Although that hasn't been the case for me, another sentiment has. "I'd love to see you happy", sighed a friend the other week - before clarifying "You know, with someone" - as if the two were synonymous.

Perhaps my version of happy is the wrong sort of happy in the eyes of some, but as long as I'm pleased for my friends and not envious of them, that's something I'm happy with for now.

And so we finish with a quote, from a BBC article I was sent yesterday:

"In the course of my life, I have loved and lost and sometimes won, and always strangers have been kind. But I have, it appears, been set on a life of single blessedness.

And I haven't minded. Or rather, I realise, I haven't minded enough. But now I kind of do. Take dinner parties. There comes a moment, and that question: "Why don't you have a partner?"

It is usually asked by one of a couple, with always a swivel of the eye to his or her other half, so really two people are asking this question.

And I struggle to answer: "I have never found the right person... I am a sad and sorry manchild... I am incapable of love... I am a deviant, and prefer giraffes."

Picture this (don't. I'll kick off)

2012-09-26T14:56:00.001+01:00

Me and cameras have never really got on.

While others are entirely at ease with being on captured on film (or nowadays, should that be screen?), I've spent my life avoiding having my photo taken. Even as a child I'd often be seen running away from the clicking lens; stubbornly covering my face or bursting into tears when my parents managed to snap me unawares.

Thankfully, the urge to have a huge tantrum faded over the years. But point a camera at me now and I still shrivel a bit inside; becoming the picture of awkwardness instead of the confident 28 year old I might have pegged myself as minutes earlier.

It's just I've never really known what to do. I become instantly aware of my face, of the attention being on me, of needing to brush that front bit of my hair down and produce the perfect pose, or worse - much to my guilt - having that sinking feeling that those next to me will inevitably look better.

Although these feelings go through my mind, I still smile, pull a funny face, grab a friend, get into the moment, whatever. I'll try to act like I'm not bothered whether the result's good or bad. You won't find me zooming in and inspecting the damage, or demanding a re-take so that improvements can be made; mostly because I'm never sure what I'd do differently the second time.

Where photos were once pinned on bedroom walls and framed as good, bad and comically terrible memories, on show for only those we invited in to see, now we live in a different world.

We're defined - online, at least - by the profile pictures we choose to represent us. Photo editing apps like the iPhone's Instagram capitalise on this need to show our best side at all times. We're given filters, fading and flashes of brilliant white to transform our faces and surroundings into something that's, at times, almost unrecognisable from reality.

Instagram smooths away the bad bits, fading them into sepia, giving images a nostalgic, wistful, aged look they're not old enough to have. Defining features are either blanked out or enhanced. An overcast, rainy day is given a romantic blur with a hint of warmth that wasn't there. A blemished face is made deathly pale against dark, vivid eyes.

At a later date, I imagine a generation of children wondering where our faces went, and pondering what we really looked like in our twenties.

For a camera-phobe like myself, Instagram and the like should be the answer to all my worries. Except my impulse to cringe at photos of myself extends even to the flattering ones, after all: what does one do with a nice photo these days if you don't feel confident enough to share it?

To publicly show off these nice photos feels strange; it's like my brain hasn't yet caught up with the 21st century need to have to show a lot of people enhanced images of my face.

Didn't that used to be considered - perhaps, maybe, slightly - a little bit vain?
My aversion to the endless stream of flattering self-portraits in my online feeds is probably less down to genuine concern for those who need that all important "like", and more because I don't have the confidence to do it myself.

And sometimes, I don't know which side of the Instagrammed fence I'd rather be on.

My childhood aversion to the camera remains, but at least I've conceded one thing from my parent's covert tactics - that the best photos will always be those you don't know are being taken.

"He knows when you're happy. He knows when you're comfortable. He knows when you're confident. And he always knows when you have carrots."

2012-09-11T11:19:00.000+01:00

This might sound obvious, but pets are a subject that will divide a room; those who have owned and loved an animal, and those who haven't.

Most people can empathise with the crushing weight of loss when their friend goes through a break-up, or when someone close to them loses a family member, or receives some shocking news. We know what to do, what sympathies to offer.

But with pets, the bond is closer - and not many people really get it unless they've been there. It's a relationship that happens almost entirely on a one-on-one basis; the walks, the training, the clearing up, the feeding, and it happens 365 days a year.

And never has that complete trust and bond been more acute - or, indeed, more important - than between a horse and it's owner.

I was 16 when I bought my first horse after 10 years of lessons, loaning, and hanging around my sister at the stables trying to bag a ride on hers. It was the second equine addition to our family.

Huge, imposing, lively (translated into horse speak: "not a novice ride"); a handsome beast who held his head high and - much to the despair of my rear end - preferred to jog rather than walk. Not being the tallest girl in the world as a teenager - or ever, come to think of it - the words "pea on a mountain" were a common utterance at shows, and it was often suggested that Velcro would be a good extra for my saddle when we took to the showjumping or cross country course due to the sheer power and height in his jump.

We spent a lot of time together, me and him. Summer days, winter nights, Christmas Day, and days when ice froze the water buckets and fingers felt like they'd never be warm again. I fell off, I got back on. We'd set off on ambling hacks around the London suburbs, I'd swear at drivers who came too close to us and hold softly spoken, entirely one-sided conversations while his ears flicked back and forth in response.

He waited patiently while I travelled as a 19 year old, then came to university with me. He slowed his fast pace when friends and boyfriends "had a go". Eventually, when the time came for me to return to London, he stayed. My replacement was taller than me, but had my name. She took over his care, but he remained mine.

Last week, I rushed up to see him after getting an email saying he wasn't well. By the time I arrived, he seemed brighter than I'd expected - and even after a while apart, his head flew up and he marched over to the gate when I called his name. I fussed, hugged and advised on what to do. I fed him copious amounts of carrots, took photos and reluctantly left him a couple of hours later, chomping away on his dinner, reassured that he was on the road to, if not improvement, then at least a graceful retirement.

So it was a bit of a shock when, two days later, I got an early phone call from the stables telling me that he had died, suddenly, but naturally, in his stable that morning.

Not everyone will be able to understand that strange little connection owners have with their horses, the best I can explain is this: losing your horse after twelve years is a bit like saying goodbye to a very old friend.

Sometimes it's unexpected, occasionally it's for the best, but it's always sad. And on some level, I think everyone can probably relate to that.

To talk, or not to talk? I know. Let's just talk about something else

2012-08-30T16:05:00.000+01:00

Sometimes, I think we all share a bit too much.

We've never revealed so much information about ourselves on so many subjects, to so many people, all at the same time. Many of us spend entire hours of the day telling people what we're doing and thinking at any given moment; making careers, friends, relationships and sometimes even enemies in the process.

Companies are spearheading the sharing movement; it works for them. We tell them what we like, what we don't like, we tell our friends what we said to the companies, and the companies what we said to our friends. The need to tell doesn't stop at brand pages. We sit in a pub and upload our thoughts to the internet and out loud to those around us, or check online to see what other people have said - sharing, always sharing - but rarely coming to any conclusions.

Sharing is good - it's caring, or so we're told - but sometimes sharing can be counterproductive.

The way I see it, some people are natural talkers. They talk as a way to get things off their chest, to reassure themselves. They talk to one person, then another, then another, until a situation, issue or problem has been covered multiple times from every angle. They discuss, analyse, consider, gather opinions, then put down the phone then do it again - answering texts or WhatsApp messages in between calls.

Others are slightly more reticent about opening up out loud. It's not that the issue bothers them any less, but instead of talking they might write it down, think it all through, read a book about it, and brush off intrusions in the shape of questions from Talkers. Questions that usually begin "So, what's happening with...?", staving off discussion until they've reached their own conclusion. They select one or two people to confide in about what's going on - a close friend who has picked up some discord in their voice - but they rarely take the issue to the floor.

Neither approach is better than the other in my experience, and we've all probably given both a go at some point. Naturally, the Talkers are bound to be irritated slightly by the Non Talkers, and visa versa. But the point remains: everyone deals with problems differently.

The problem I had recently was that I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to analyse why, after two months of meeting up and being in regular contact as friends, the Ex dropped off the radar again. I had nothing to contribute to my friends' questions about our latest departure from each others lives; no new insight to give. In lieu of facts, and not being a Talker, I had no burning desire to discuss the "maybes" and "perhaps".

It played on my mind, but I answered all queries with "I don't know. I couldn't even speculate" - because I couldn't. I found out he was ok, at least, then let it go. The whole Ex episode was like having a best mate back from abroad for a few months, having a brilliant time together, then having them go away again - and that's just how life goes sometimes. I missed his company, but things are what they are. Normal service, I knew, would eventually resume.

Days later, along came a Zebra. One brilliant night of promises and excitement which in the end, came to nothing. Yet again, talking about it in any depth seemed pointless. Still, I was asked about this boy I'd only met once, usually after days when I hadn't thought about him at all. I appreciated the care, the interest: but couldn't see the point in discussing silence.

And so, spiralling downwards and bogged down by the need to share and talk and discuss the same old things, I went on holiday for eight days - by myself. I booked flights and accommodation in a hostel. I went to a little known place in a well known country, with the aim of seeing what it was like, and finding something new to talk about.

I met people from America, Holland, people from the UK, from London, Australia, New Zealand, France, Germany and Italy. I met walkers, cyclists, backpackers, holidayers, surfers, groups, pairs, and solo summer sojourners. Some I knew for an evening, others for the whole week.

We talked about travel, politics, backpacking, food, drinks, partying, drugs, toilet habits, and embarrassing moments. We discussed books, films and technology, and nothing at all. We shared funny stories about friends no one else knew, exes no one had heard of, brilliant nights out in countries some of us had never visited, weirdos we'd met in strange clubs. We got pissed. We sat on bunk beds, lay on beaches, relaxed by the pool, cooked and ate.

No one asked me whether I'd heard from my Ex. No one wondered if the boy I hooked up with one night ever got in touch, or what I thought about this friend or that one - and something remarkable happened - it all paled into insignificance.

I flew back to the UK feeling upbeat, positive, and resolving to do it all again another time.

"No, that's done now," I said to the Housemate, not answering her question directly, as I returned home and she returned to an old subject. "New leaf, positive mental attitude 'n' all that. No more talking about him, or them. Fresh start. I'm over it."

And for the first time in a very long time - thanks to a holiday on my own - I really, really was.

Not everything has to mean something (but now and then, it'd be nice if it did)

2012-08-02T18:16:00.001+01:00

"That can't be it."
"It is it. Look."

People were standing outside the front door when we arrived, and we all entered the house together. Our worries about being too early were unfounded; it was before midnight and yet already what seemed like hundreds of people in various states of fancy and un-dress filled every space.

Blue lights replaced normal bulbs, music pounded through each doorway; no room bore any trace of its normal domestic function. The kitchen a dj booth, the living room and what were probably bedrooms home to dance floors that rivalled any club, with a beautiful, packed, friendly crowd and electric capacity to match.

Our blue off-licence carrier bags remained slung over our wrists all night as we squeezed into a room and joined the throng, making fleeting friends with whoever ended up next to us, before eventually heading off to the terrace to cool down.

He was talking to some friends, and had a prop that caught my eye. We soon got chatting.

Drunk, laughing, swapping drinks and getting along well, he came along when my friends and his relocated to the dance floor below. A hand on my back as we talked, arms wrapped around my waist; my friends long dispersed, his prop and my drink discarded.

It was getting light some hours later when an announcement about the police replaced the music on the speakers.

"Well, looks like it's time to go home" he said.
"Yeah." I replied, holding my tail as we walked hand in hand down the stairs.

And with that, a lion and a zebra stole off into the dawn; together for a night, and - it turned out, as days passed without a word - no longer than that.

But sometimes, that's just how it's meant to be.

Two things I like about the internet

2012-07-16T11:53:00.001+01:00

There are a couple of things that make the internet one of my favourite places to spend a bit of time.

The first is the cross section of people you encounter: Here. Be. Everyone.

Put any subject, any group, any strange question that just popped into your head into Google, and there will be at least one other person seeking out the same thing (although I have, thus far, been thwarted in my attempts to find out the name of those fuzzy sticker things with ribbon tails you used to get at the dentist. What are they called?).

Over the years since the internet came into my life (circa 1996, when my sister, my dad and I gathered around what I know now to be a chat room, conversing with a middle aged man called "Rhino"), I've found people online who converge with me on a variety of subjects that my offline friends didn't 'get'. It's brilliant, it's what keeps me coming back.

Which brings me to the second thing I like about the internet. Discussion.

Yes, it's all out there. Fans of music I've never listened to, pygmy goat videos, all manner of pornography, religious discussions, pro-anorexia support groups, bombs, cats - lots of cats - and a whole raft of bloggers reviewing everything from politics to Mac cosmetics to countries.

You like all that? You can go and sit with your fellow online friends and charm each other with thoughts 'til the cows come home. I, on the other hand, will sit here and look at YouTube videos of bouncing greyhounds; blissfully unaware of the terrorist groups plotting world destruction on the other side of the virtual garden fence.

Other than to sate curiosity or arrest criminals, there seems to be no need to seek out and engage with those who don't share your views online. But we're human, so occasionally morbid curiosity takes over and we do. Luckily, there are forums for that, too. Places where conflicting opinions are encouraged. News sites, opinionated blogs, the comment sections of online magazines.

But the key to discussing things on the internet is:

1) making sure you get the right end of the stick - is this an appropriate place to air my views?

2) accepting that, when all is said and done, those who don't share your opinions are not evil. They're just different.

Nor are they wenches, or hopeless individuals who will fritter their lives away "racking up" so many men that by the time they meet a husband (who will be disgusted by their previous behaviour), they will be too old to have children anyway, and men will never look at them in the same way as they do now.

Did that seem out of the blue? It did to me, too. Yet the above is something I came up against on Friday. And Saturday. And Sunday. There are currently six comments still waiting in a moderation queue, repeating more of the same.

A group of people discussing their way of life on one side of the internet took issue with the way I'm living mine, and blogged about it. Two men arrived in the comments and told me exactly why I was Doing Life Wrong. The blog post that sent them here had a stream of condemning, religious, fanatical thoughts beneath it which I read, shook my head at, took no heed, and didn't look at again.

I didn't weigh-in on here. A lot of you did (thank you), and then came the inevitable, horrid trolls. Eventually I enlisted the comment moderation and then turned them off altogether (late on Friday, while I was out with my mates being a drunk, childless wench). Fatigue had set in. I was bored with an argument I didn't start and had no interest in, and it was a stale mate.

At which point I'd go back to rule 2 of discussing things on the internet: accepting that airing views is one thing, but repeatedly forcing them on others who don't share them - on their personal blog - is another.

It's a free internet. Say what you like. But at least have the common courtesy to do it in a forum where the subject is up for discussion, and respect the differing views you find there.

Because here's the thing, Simon, Mark et al: this blog is about my life. I invite people to read about it. But despite what the comment section might have you think, none of the choices I've made or am currently making are up for debate.

You want to exchange views, lecture and discuss the right age to have children? I'd start with The Sunday Times (£), Stylist Magazine, Vagenda and, as recommended by Kat in Friday's comments, XOJane.

They've got bigger circulations than here, and authors who probably have more cause for arguing online than I do.

Until then, you have a nice day on the internet. And please, leave me to have mine.

The Restless Days

2012-07-11T12:57:00.000+01:00

Every so often, a feeling of utter restlessness kicks me repeatedly for a few weeks.

When it does, concentrating on anything other than The Big Picture becomes a huge effort. Time at work is spent staring blankly at the now irrelevant tasks on my screen, and work e-mails no longer seem to be important. I lose interest and spend the time daydreaming, wondering and pondering instead - is this it? Is this all there is? What else do I really want?

While most of the time, this niggling feeling can be allayed by material things such as a nice cup of loose leaf tea, a chinwag with a friend or a Wispa Gold, during these restless days, the only thing that seems to lift the veil is the forming of a plan.

In the past, the second it's dawned on me what the answer is, the weight lifts and I can start to enjoy the menial day-to-day stuff again. It might be deciding to say "Sod it" and book a round the world trip (a decision I made one day a couple of years back), quitting your job for something more fulfilling, or just doing something you haven't done before.

With my 28th birthday approaching in a couple of months, a self-imposed benchmark that'll put me firmly in the late twenties camp, this restless feeling tells me now is a good time to Do Something.

I'm single. I have no big responsibilities. I know that if I stay doing what I'm doing (e.g. get up, go to work, repeat until age 65), I'll look back on this little chunk of life and wish I'd done more. The question is, as ever, what?

While the small matter of a flat lease and generally being head over heels with London at the moment prevent me from straying too far for too long, I have made the small but no less significant step of booking a week off work in August.

There are no other solid plans at the moment, just a few self imposed rules: the week can't be spent in England (I owe my Vitamin D levels that much), and it's got to be something that puts me a little bit out of my comfort zone.

All that remains is to decide on a destination, book some flights, and learn the following phrase in whichever language applies,

"Table for one, please. And make mine a G&T."

The merging of two generations (and an idiot in the pub)

2012-06-25T23:35:00.000+01:00

"You two looked like you were in a pretty deep conversation earlier - so tell me, are you going into a relationship, or just coming out of one?"

"Ha! Neither. I'm happily single and have been for about a year or so. It's all good." I replied, before extolling the virtues of a single life in London.

The two Canadians had joined myself and a friend at our table after the football. They'd shuffled over as the big screens rolled up, bought a round of drinks; we imparted our London knowledge and now the conversation had moved on. Somehow, the subject of age came up. I told one of them mine, and was completely thrown by what came next.

"Isn't 27 a little old to be single?"
"Pardon? Too old?"
"Yeah, like if you want to have kids and stuff - isn't 27 a bit old to still be single?"

Once I'd picked my jaw up off the floor and provided a response which didn't include nearly as many swear words as I'd have liked in retrospect, it wasn't long before I was wishing them a good night, and making my excuses to go home.

The next morning, his question was the first thing to come to mind.

Too old?

"Oh, that's just the Canadians" reassured the PIB when I regaled her with the story later on, "When we went away, our hotel was full of them. They'd all married by 21, and for the most part divorced by 30. They do things earlier, having families and the like. London's just...well, it's just different for us."

Right though she may be, the whole thing forced me to acknowledge something that has been creeping around my mind for a while now: that society's changing, and our generation are the guinea pigs.

We're a generation living in rented accommodation, with friends instead of other halves, or even still at home with parents. We're working hard at our careers and relationships come second, we travel the world after university instead of beginning the hunt for a job, often not finding a permanent one until well into our mid twenties. Even in our careers we're feeling our way: the jobs we've got now didn't exist when we started uni.

Marriage will happen - at some point - but not now, not yet, not while there's fun to be had. And kids? As a 27 year old girl who spends her nights surrounded by mostly single friends, and mornings in bed with a hangover and the vague but cheering memories from the night before, the idea of being responsible for a child is nothing short of terrifying.

Our lives are different to the ones we grew up expecting. Somewhere in the depths of 1996, there's a gaggle of thirteen year olds who thought we'd be married with kids by now - or at least paired with someone who wanted that with us - but instead, we're nowhere close.

For the most part, we're happy. We're doing well. We're well adjusted, fun to be around, brimming with experiences and stories to tell. We look at those who settled down young and feel bad: they're the ones missing out, not us.

However, there's no denying it, we've had our long term relationships, they've broken up and now we're single again. But it's different this time around.

There's an edge to it; a desperation creeping in, a scrabble to locate the nearest hot man in any given vicinity.

If you squint and look around the pub at 11pm on a Saturday night, over at the group of girls laughing, dancing, hugging, chatting and doing shots, you can sometimes see and hear the point at which the old generation, the one that told us we'd be settled by 30, is meeting this new one; where you can have it all - but later, and detect a bit of panic. It's in our conversations and the back of our minds; the way we search the people at the bar.

This doing it later stuff, it's a nice idea in our heads, and we're doing it with gusto. But our hearts haven't quite caught up yet.

So, are we too old? No, we're not too old. We don't look it, we don't feel it, we don't realise it.

But if by some stretch of the imagination it turns out we are, then we'll surely be the first generation to know about it.

It is what it is.

2012-06-18T15:12:00.001+01:00

My first date in nearly a year was with my Ex.

It wasn't labelled as a date, it didn't feel like a date, but it did have all the markings of a date.

The stipulated meeting time, the location, the choice to take our seats in the empty back row (although, ostensibly, this was to avoid the reams of children at the front).

But it wasn't a date, because there was no crafty hand holding, no kissing, no making excuses to touch. No small talk. Just conversation until the film started then silence punctuated by in-jokes; then the rest of the day spent wandering fairly aimlessly around London.

A week later, we did it again.

And now I think - how much do I try and explain it to you? The news that he's back in touch is something kept between me and a select few friends; the ones that don't judge my decision to meet him and sit and listen, and get him out of the house on the bad days.

My decision to keep it quiet doesn't come from being worried about reactions, the well-meaning but wholly unnecessary warnings to be careful, but more because it seems the right thing to do, in much the same way that I felt cutting off all contact for months was the right thing to do, too.

How can I expect anyone else to understand that, far from leaving me bewildered and confused, it's actually nice to sit and chat about things I haven't been able to think - let alone talk - about in over 18 months? Travelling stories, the little moments I had to forget because they involved him, the moving out, our flat, the jokes, the people we met - good times that were amazing until it all went wrong in the space of a week.

And, of course, to hear and try to understand the reason why.

"I just want to feel normal again." he said, as we sat in my living room on separate sofas last night, "But sometimes I think it's karma."
"Karma for what?" I replied.
"For what happened with us."
"Nah. I don't think it's karma. It is what it is."

And for now, that's just how it goes.

And then we talked.

2012-06-08T08:47:00.000+01:00

"I'm not going to sweeten it for you - last year completely shattered me."

We sat in armchairs at the back of an otherwise empty pub, save for a couple of regulars at the bar. Him, a pint of beer. Me, "better make it a stiff G&T, please". Low music filled in the gaps when we just sat there, looking at each other with something amounting to disbelief that we'd both just met, having moved two roads away from each other.

"No, I know. I deserve it. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. I still don't. I just got freaked out."

There was no anger, no shouting, no resentment. That's the thing about cutting off all contact with someone entirely for so long; you've already been through all the emotions.

Over the last year, I'd often wondered aloud and on this blog when the pay-off would be. Friends often congratulated me on being able to pretend he didn't exist, but there was always a nagging doubt in my mind: what was the point if he does exist, yet you never really got any answers?

Now, I realise cutting off all contact means you can sit there and talk eighteen months later, and when the time comes, you want to talk. Not because you want them back or because you're aching for someone, but because you're alright now. And when you're alright, it means the talk isn't peppered with digs, asides, tears and hurtful words fuelled by shock and rage.

Cutting off contact gives you self-worth, confidence and the ability to get on with your life - you put your efforts back into being you again, and concentrate on making solid friends instead of amends with someone who was the opposite.

What it doesn't give you is the knowledge of what was real (something flicking in his brain, like a switch) and what wasn't (anything of substance with another girl, him not wanting to contact me, him dancing on a cloud of glee somewhere, etc).

We left the pub after a couple of drinks and circled around the block. We passed by my flat and his, remembering travel stories and swapping tips about the area in between the relationship chat.

"Did you ever feel..." he began, as we neared the top of my road.
"Like I wanted to beat the absolute shit out of you? Yes."
"Er, I was going to say...the opposite. Like, did you ever feel like you wanted to chase and try and sort things?"
"If things had been different, I would have tried. If you'd come in all apologies and wanting to work things out and making a huge effort, then I probably would have done. But you weren't "there", and I couldn't risk it. I would have been jealous and couldn't have trusted you."
"I thought about doing that. But my head just wasn't there."

We stopped near my flat and stood opposite each other.

"It's been good to see you."
"Same."
"Do we...stay in contact? Or would that be weird?" he ventured.
"I wouldn't mind staying in touch. But it could be weird. I don't know."

Then we hugged, a huge long hug that lasted minutes rather than seconds, and I felt tears about to slip for the first time all evening.

"Ok. Right. I'm going to go now. See ya later."

And with that, I walked into my flat.

A chance encounter

2012-06-06T22:23:00.001+01:00

It had to happen some time. I knew it would. It was always just a question of when.

For nearly eighteen months I've played the situation through in my head: what would I say? How would I react? What would it feel like?

In the event, it happened entirely unexpectedly; a chance encounter. I'd turned the wrong way out of the supermarket to go and see what had happened to cause the police to cordon off part of the main road.

There was a split second when I recognised the person walking towards me. I stopped walking. Stood still in the middle of the pavement, staring for a couple of seconds while my head told me who I was about to bump into. He glanced at me. Did a double take, then he stopped too.

"Hello."
"Hello."
"Long time no see."
"Yes, yes it is. How are you?"

We did the British thing: the pleasantries. We acknowledged the awkwardness of the situation, the weirdness, the shock of seeing each other after so long. And then,

"Do you...do you want to get a drink or something?" he said.

And so it was that this evening - a normal Wednesday night - I found myself in a pub, talking for the first time since it ended, to the boy who broke my heart.

How to put a dampener on a lovely summer evening

2012-05-25T14:05:00.004+01:00

Picture the scene.

You're up on the roof terrace of a pub in Kings Cross with some friends, enjoying the last couple of hours of sunshine and demolishing fruit-stuffed glasses of Pimms as the day slips seamlessly into balmy night.

After an hour or so, you glance down at the bench next to you. Then you look at the floor. You glance nervously to the opposite seats (maybe you put it over there?) and for reasons unknown, start patting your pockets- as if you normally pop your handbag in your jeans for safe keeping.

"What are you looking for?" says a friend, having seen your eyes step up their frantic search behind you and on adjoining tables.

"Oh, just my handbag..." you reply, all casual, like.

Others join in the search.

"It's definitely not here."

"No" you sigh, acknowledging what you knew when you first looked down. "It's gone."

That's annoying, you think, the Pimms and Prosecco softening the blow slightly as you borrow a phone and start cancelling things. Someone alerts the bar staff, another friend tops up your glass and two others go and rifle through the bins outside, returning with three other stolen credit cards in their hands; none of them yours.

Someone tops up your glass.

You mentally list everything that was in the bag: your everyday survival kit.

Wallet (no cash these days, thankfully), debit cards, drivers licence, National Insurance card. Boots, Tesco, Necter, spare SIM card. Diary, phone, Oyster card. Bus pass. Bits and bobs you keep close. Moleskine diary, your plans for the next few months, the ideas written in the back. Your shit HTC phone that you actively urged people to steal regularly, but feel a bit lost without now that it's gone.

On your way back from checking the toilets, the calm feeling is shattered by the realisation that you've also lost the key card for your block. The keys to your flat. Was your address written anywhere?

Your glass is filled again.

The bank arrange for emergency cash, you get a taxi home. Your housemate lets you in.

The list of things you've lost continues to rack up the next morning as you start your day. Earphones. Mac cover-up. Dior lipstick.

Throughout it all, you're calmer than expected. A friend sums it up nicely with a cautious question.

"Urm, was it...it wasn't....it wasn't...The Bag, was it?"

"No, no. Thank God."

"Phew."

"I know." you sigh, hangover creeping in as you write down all the things you have to do before you can get to work. "Every cloud."

How many times have you asked / been asked The Question this week?

2012-05-07T19:57:00.000+01:00

There's one question that, as a single girl, you get asked almost repeatedly.

No matter who you talk to, no matter their relationship to you; close or not, good friend, or someone you've just met, aged 27 or 62:

"So, any men on the scene?"

The answer, of course, is always the same. My eyebrows raise slightly, my mouth purses together, the shoulders hunch up and shrug a bit while my head shakes.

"Nooo, no...." I say, staring at my plate before quipping "...not for a while. Off men! Yeah. No. No, no. Well, it would be nice, but well - you know! Where do they hide! Har har. Ahhh. Sooo..."

And while I don't think I'd like the answer to be "Yes, I have a boyfriend and we are planning babies" just yet, I would quite like it to be "Well - got a few options but, you know - nothing serious".

Because immediately after I've answered that question, I'm overcome by the feeling that I'm not quite making the most of this single malarkey; that I'll look back and regret not being more carefree and saying "yeah, why not" more often, and only have myself to blame.

After all, everyone else seems to manage it. At a time when it seems like all my friends are going on one-off dates, re-kindling old flames, bringing boys back to their houses and kissing their co-workers, it's all I can do to sit there and wonder out loud where they find the cast of these inappropriate, exciting stories, while I have none whatsoever to tell.

It can make you feel a bit silly, a bit like there's something wrong with you. It can make you wonder if, in your darkest hours after the break-up, you drunk dialled T-Mobile customer services and demanded they block every male in your phone book from ever contacting you again, so frequent is the tumbleweed blowing through your text message inbox.

And then sometimes, you remember that the other week you walked out of the doctors surgery and a bloke followed you, asked you for the time, whether you had a boyfriend, and then whether you'd like to go for a drink. You remember that you politely declined, standing, as you were, in the rain outside the doctors clutching your futile prescription for the pill and wondering when people started picking up girls in waiting rooms. You remember that you took his number anyway purely at his insistence, "in case you change your mind".

You remember, of course, that you didn't.

And so, you stay single, dateless and the question is repeated the next weekend: so, are there any men on the scene?

No, you sigh, there are still no men on the scene after year and four months of singledom, but for now, at least, the thought is there.

Dig if you will a picture... of the last five days chez moi

2012-04-26T22:27:00.001+01:00

Think back to the last time you didn’t have a television in your house.

And for the smug Billies about to scroll down and press publish on their “actually, I haven’t had one for years and I quite like it. Anyway, got iPlayer for the snooker, innit” comment, please think back to the last time you didn’t have the internet, either.

Now, I think I’m right in saying that this situation alone will put most of my techy, culture-savvy readers back to circa 1995. But if you, by some stretch of the imagination, have neither of these things in 2012 and enjoy a spot of conversation in your silent abode instead (there’s no radio either, before you start on the joys of Radio 4’s evening schedule), kindly think back to the last time you had no TV, internet, radio or chit-chat over the kitchen table.

In fact, put the sources of any usual conversation abroad. Lets say Spain. Or Cuba. Also, remove any cats, dogs or parrots from the equation.

(Quiet in here, isn’t it?)

Oh! I forgot to mention. You’re single, without a flicker of interest from any corner, so don’t go imagining any spontaneous “hey you, watcha doin? i’m bored :)) xxxxxxxx” text messages will be arriving any time soon.

Actually, you’re right. Something’s missing from this picture.

Can we add in some rain? Make it the constant, dreary, near-torrential stuff that puts paid to any form of socialising after work, because not only are you watching the pennies anyway, but it's windy and cold, so all anyone wants to do is go home and watch the Apprentice instead.

And don’t go on Twitter via your phone! Your phone is a nightmare anyway, but you can't even resort to that now. No, no. Because everyone’s talking about the TV programmes you’re not watching – and that’s really annoying.

So there you ha… wait. I almost forgot the knee. The knee! You also have a gammy knee which has chosen this very week to take on all the characteristics of a particularly rickety elderly person and send lots of fun pain whizzing around whenever you try and bend it, for no apparent reason.

Blimey. Don’t forget the knee. That hurts.

Tell you what. Go to work. Come home. Cook your dinner (it's pasta, again). Read a book, have a bath. Take some pain killers. Go to bed. Listen to sirens. Fall asleep.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it? It is!

Now wake up and repeat this process again the next day. And the next. And the next.

I know what you’re thinking. “Is it the weekend yet?”

No. There are still 24 hours to go until the working week meanders to its spectacularly quiet, slightly soggy conclusion.

But soon it will be Friday, and your housemate will be back from holiday.

Then, and only then, may you permeate the silence and join in with a rousing chorus of “HIYA! You’re back! Woo! Shall we get the internet sorted and buy a telly? Yeah. I’ll get the wine in."

And not a moment too soon.

All change, please.

2012-04-20T22:32:00.000+01:00

Urgh, change. What a hassle.

There you are, trotting along nicely when all of a sudden in comes change; expensive, shocking, annoying change, ballsing up your finely tuned plans with the latest startling revelation.

Change is the friend who lets you tell your happy news, before dropping in their own and stealing your thunder. It's that idiot who walks in the room and makes everyone say "Oh, God, not you again. Haven't you done enough?"

In short, change is a bastard.

But you know, as much as change gets in the way of an otherwise happy life, I'm struggling to think of a time where something good hasn't come out of it.

Break-ups lead to a better social life and new, improbably brilliant friends.

Change makes you realise that your parents will never say "I told you so" when you crash, burn, and return home (again). The neverending search for employment - weirdly - always seems to lead to a better job than all the ones you coveted along the way.

Previously reliable friends might suddenly call time on your living arrangement, but then you find yourself living in an area of London you've liked for ages, with a new, equally single housemate and a commute that takes you on a daily bus tour through your favourite parts of the city.

Change can cost more money per month, but it can also give you an original wood floor and massive windows. It can leave you without internet or TV for a while, but give you conversation over a glass of wine instead.

When you think about it, change isn't out to piss you off, it's just showing you another way to do things.

Change isn't that bad, really.

But if things could just stay like this for a little while, then I'd really rather like it.

Expectations Vs. Reality

2012-04-10T22:58:00.000+01:00

There's a nice scene in 500 Days of Summer when the screen splits in two.

If you haven't seen the film, it's when the main character, Tom, goes to his ex-girlfriend's house for a party. On one half of the screen, you've got his expectations playing out and on the other, what actually happens in reality.

It's nicely done, and if you're anything like me, it'll send your stomach lurching for him whether it's the first or fiftieth time you've watched it.

I think it's the way the expectations and reality converge at various points and then split off, just like they do whenever your thoughts have time to wonder each day. Whether it's playing the lottery and realising you haven't won (again), or just sitting opposite a nice looking bloke on the tube, catching their eye once, and building an entire situation in your head where they follow you off the train at your stop and ask you for your number.

Of course, they don't - you get off the train without a word and never see them again. But the happy scenarios are always there keeping us entertained on a boring journey, and occasionally - very occasionally - playing out in real life in the most spectacularly perfect way possible.

It's a bit like when you've been thinking about a bloke who caught your attention the other week and what would happen if you bumped into him, then you get to the top of the stairs at Kings Cross Station and - bloody hell - there he is. Standing right there.

This is it, you think, that moment when the stars align and you catch each others eye and end up giggling on the concourse, sharing a backwards glance when one of you eventually drags themselves away, phone number in pocket. This is the start of something grand.

You look over, try to meet his eye while running your fingers through the front bit of your hair. You keep looking to check it's him; that you're not about to go "Oh hello, it's Bloke From Last Week, isn't it? Nice to see you again!" to a complete stranger.

You pause your step and your eyes meet, your mouth opens and the very first inkling of an almost-"Hi" comes out of your mouth - but his phone is held to his ear, and he's looking around as if he's trying to find someone. He hasn't recognised or registered you. The moment is gone, and you carry on walking and look back, kicking yourself for not trying harder. Definitely him.

Bugger.

And just like that, it's back to reality.

Mended?

2012-04-04T00:12:00.004+01:00

"You're mended" came the PIB's assessment, as we sat in a cocktail bar late on Saturday night.

The weekend had been full of the things I like best: zipping around London, meeting new friends and catching up with old ones. Friday night was spent in the company of Future Housemate and later, some of her (male) friends; one of whom had caught my eye and attention from the start.

"Look at me all talking to boys 'n' that!" I'd exclaimed excitedly to the PIB the following night, "He's probably got a girlfriend, and he's probably really young. But we talked a bit. And he was lovely".

Ok, so it's just talking - hardly a string of illicit dates or marriage, not even texts - but it was nice to feel normal again. In fact, the entire weekend had felt exactly how being single in London should feel: exciting and full of endless possibilities. The broken heart a vague memory in the distance, well and truly mended.

So when the e-mail popped into my inbox on Monday night as I pottered around on the internet - a name I hadn't seen bolded and unread in there since last March - I wasn't really prepared for the zap of panic that came over me.

Here it was then, the long awaited contact. No subject line to determine what it might contain. What's he e-mailing me for? My heart started racing as I stared at my inbox. How should I reply? Should I just delete it? Why now?

The reasons for the above became clear seconds after I took a deep breath and opened the e-mail. And there it was in all its glory: a spam link. Hurrah for the ironies of modern technology; after a year of no contact, my ex boyfriend was sending me links to porn.

Don't check the other e-mail addresses to see if her name's there. Don't. Don't. Don't.

Oh, fuck it.

Click "more". And sure enough, among the other lucky recipients was her name, too.

After a few minutes of staring at the e-mail, my heart beat returned to normal. Just spam. I pressed delete.

But when the second e-mail arrived today at lunch time, in the midst of a day where the to-do list was getting longer while the working week was getting shorter, it knocked me back again, and I took myself outside for a walk.

It felt faintly ridiculous to be teetering on the verge of emotion in Pret over an e-mail about, well, absolutely nothing at all - a warning to undisclosed recipients not to click on any links in my previous e-mail, his e-mail got hacked, thanks.

It felt stupid to feel slightly disappointed that it wasn't just to me, apologies with a by-the-way how are you.

It was alien to see his name come up and his words on the screen - no matter how impersonal they were.

And it's a strange thing to admit when you're an advocate of being single, taking what life throws at you and being happy with it, that you might actually want someone else now. Because deep down, you know a ridiculous spam e-mail sent to an entire address book wouldn't bother you so much if another person was on the scene.

Can you ever really get mended until you've moved on to someone else?