Trick Me

This week was Mybug's birthday and he celebrated at Heebie Jeebies. Unfortunately, I couldn't make it, and I really wanted to go, I have a new dress to wear and everything. I am so in need of a good night out after all this studying, I cannot tell you. Once this is over, I'm really going to let loose - with anyone who will join me, frankly.

Yesterday I took a night off and invited Dedalus over. We watched The United States of Leland, which was pretty good and featured a solid cast, including the cute little kid from Freaky Friday, Mr. Rachel McAdams, and the rather underrated Don Cheadle. We had a good long chat before we put the movie on too. And I learned how he likes his tea. It was nice, if a little "sparky".

The thing with Dedalus though, is that whenever he meets a girl, I know before he even tells me. And I know when he's stopped seeing her too. How do I know this? Purely from the tone of his text messages. Single, he is real eager to meet up and make dates, suggesting movies and places we should go; when there's a girl on the scene, I get lots of vague references to his 'hope' of meeting up 'soon'. I'm sure this is natural and that I would probably be the same if I met someone new, you tend to forget anyone else even exists if there's a new love in your life. But Dedalus has a history here, and it makes me nervous. Well, not nervous. Hesitant. Do I keep my guard up with him, waiting for him to meet his next serious girlfriend and get real busy, or do I let myself relax into the friend thing, and accept him as part of my life again?

I just keep thinking of that old saying: fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice...

I guess it's not that big a deal. Judging on past performance, arm's length is probably the best place to keep him.

In the Cut

Okay, guys. I know I asked for your advice and then went and did whatever the ballyhoo I wanted anyway. But believe me, you are in good company. I completely ignored my sister's considered opinion as well. I decided to go with 'Muffin's short and sweet 'Oh for fucks sake will you text him you're doing my head in already.'

So. I sent a simple Hey, I just heard, you okay? He answered, saying he didn't have a scratch but his car was dead. I replied Ah well at least you're okay, that's the main thing. Alfie rides again. (I actually refer to him as Alfie. It's our little joke.) He sent an amused reply. And then, I left it.

I feel good about it. I was the grown up - as per. And then I moved on.

Well, as far as he knows, anyway!

The thing is, I have reached a final conclusion about Alfie and I. Any attempt to pursue things would only lead to frustration. He is never going to get what he wants from me (sex); I'm never going to get what I want from him (love).

Hate to be such a fucking cliche but there you have it, the central dilemma of our pseudo-affair.

Maybe one day. But not now. For now, I need to put Alfie back on the shelf. Preferably a high shelf I need a kick-stool to reach. Maybe, just maybe, I'll forget he's even up there.

Chasing Cars

Okay, this is gonna be a slightly hysterical post because I am writing as a knee jerk reaction to some news I just received from the delightful and always informative 'Muffin. Oh my frickin' Lord, Alfie was in a car accident last Sunday, HE IS 100% FINE, without a scratch on him, but must have been pretty shaken up because from the description of the accident he was crazy lucky to walk away. Okay, now that you know that, here's where I get a little me, me, me. Um, hello, you sent an email to people in work and left me out? WTF? Not everyone in work, but a few people he was friends with. And yeah I'm sure he knew 'Muffin would tell me. But come on. Now what do I do, do I send him a message asking if he was okay, or was it a snub? WTF?

I need someone to tell me what to do please. My brain has been scooped out of my head like the innards of a cantaloupe.

ADVICE, people! ADVICE!

Missing

Okay, as I've mentioned in passing, Boyf is in France right now. He's working on the house my parents bought at the beginning of last year. The one that needed only cosmetic work. He's ripping out the ceiling because all the beams have to be replaced. They're riddled with woodworm and the upper floors of the house could collapse at, uh, basically any moment.

The past few days, I've had the house to myself. Until I had my bad dream last night and reacted like a total fool, I was loving it. (I'm back to loving it now, I just needed a warm body to press myself into to make the real world seem more solid; it's nice to have somebody you can wake up at 5 am.) Apart from that, I really enjoyed coming home last night to an empty house. My sister picked me up from work, because she's amazing. I walked in, got my things ready for work the next morning, made pizza, put on my pyjamas, and watched some Sex and the City repeats. It felt good. I was alone with my thoughts. Nobody was yammering in my ear. I could listen to music until 1 am. I could text my friends late at night without being complained at. If I'd wanted to, I could have cleaned the house from top to bottom or painted my nails without anybody criticising me for starting things at weird times.

I need my space. I like my own company. I enjoy making my own decisions and doing things on a whim.

Boyf called me in work last night. It was great to hear his voice. I got the stomach flip. He asked me if I minded if he stayed longer, and I told him of course not. Even though he's so far away, I know he's still mine. I have no insecurities about us. I can both miss him and appreciate the time apart. It's good. It's a good place we're in.

Who's Afraid of Margaret Atwood?

The title of this post makes sense if you've been writing about Atwood for four days solid. I know you're out there, compatriots. The following all seems very Lady Oracle to me.

About twenty minutes ago, not long before 5 am, I climbed out of a horrible dream and into an empty house. I actually started crying like a big baby. I put on my phone and text my boyfriend - who is in France. I text Mybug on the off chance he was awake (student lifestyle.) I crept out of bed and locked my bedroom door. Then I thought, there's no way I'm getting back to sleep, I may aswell write it down.

The dream is dissipating now but Freud would have a field day with the parts I remember, I'm sure. I was in work. Someone was incredibly rude to me while I was serving them. So I yelled at them. (You're wondering where the scary part comes in aren't you? There are no werewolves or little green men in this one.) For some reason I had to work really late, so I left the building after eleven and switched on my phone. I had a voicemail off the boyfriend, complaining that he was waiting for me to meet him for drinks and had been for hours. Somehow, in the way of dreams, it was still daylight. I was crossing the road listening to the message and drinking from one of those bottles with the sports caps, and nearly bumped into somebody. I looked at his face, and recognised it. For a second I thought it was rude counter man. Then I realised I'd dreamt about him. He leered at me as if he recognised me too and I squeezed the bottle and sprayed my drink at him, then started hurrying back to my work building. He, following me, said something that struck me as incredibly frightening, but I can only remember a fragment of it. The fragment is "...a knife in your bed..." He caught me. I woke up. I cried. It seemed chillingly portentous.

A standard anxiety dream?

I have to get up for work in an hour.

It was nasty waking up so alone.

Lucky bitch...

...I'm just sayin'.

Wouldn't these two be adorable together? Imagine the beautiful babies!

Brad who, now?

Three Times A Lady

'Muffin wanted to play at interviewing but couldn't be bothered updating his blog, so he emailed me some questions instead. MJ also wanted to interrogate me but I don't want to inundate you guys with these things so he agreed he'd just get me drunk and ask me (they were quite private bloody questions anyway, the perv!) Apparently, I am at my most candid in writing and after a few SoCo and lemonades. This is actually quite true; the Too Much Information inhibitors completely shut down and once I'm a little tipsy I'll tell you pretty much anything if you ask me nicely.

1. If you had to describe yourself using 5 adjectives, what would they be?

Loyal. I was born in the Chinese year of the dog. Stop giggling! (I know, despite that I still consider myself loyal, you think I have a personality disorder maybe?)

Analytical. I am far, far, far too introspective for my own good.

Flaky. I could commit myself to one path and make it work if I really wanted to, but I get distracted by the silliest things. I'm using flaky to mean 'unfocused' here, not cursed with dandruff.

Flirtatious. I know I'm a flirt, and not a particularly good or subtle one either. I don't mean it in a sexual way; it's part of my sense of humour. I enjoy flirting, it's funny, and it makes people smile. I flirt with my friends; I flirt with 'Muffin all day long. I flirt with Mybug. My sister is the same. The only friend I don't tend to flirt with is Dedalus.

Open. I think I can be a difficult person to get to know, because I live in my head, but I don't mean to be. Ask me a question and you'll always get a frank answer. I'm not secretive and I like getting to know people. Yet few people know the real me. See also: SoCo and lemonade.

The acronym for my five adjectives would be LAFFO. Tee hee. (Maybe silly should have been one of my adjectives?)

2. Fast-forward 5 years from now. What would you like to be doing?

Omigod I will be thirty. Let me lie down for a moment.

By the time I am thirty, I want to be a published novelist, or a magazine columnist. I would like to be knocking around the Mediterranean in my sail boat, wearing white a la SJP in Failure to Launch, drinking champagne (it will be Thursday) and straddling a tanned, nubile young man. Or a tanned 35 year old man, which is the age Boyf will be! I want the salty sea breeze in my hair, and a big sparkly diamond on my finger.

Hello, sailor!

3. Do you believe in having regrets?

No. I believe in over-analysing the regret until you talk yourself into believing that there was absolutely no alternative course of action available to you. Like so:

Q: Oh my God, why did I tell Alfie I'd leave my boyfriend of eight years for him? Come on too strong much?
A: Ah, but, if I hadn't said that, he'd just think I was a big ol' ho who would willingly cheat on her boyfriend with any bloke she quite fancied the look of.
Q: Couldn't I have just left the chat altogether?
A: Yes, that would have been wise, but at the time I was going completely mad not knowing where I stood and I had to work with the fucker. Besides, this is not where it all started to go wrong, so I may want to choose another factor to obsess about.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

4. Is it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all?

Yes. Although I did consider asking if you had ever seen The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind in answer to the next question.

5. Tomorrow you have the opportunity to change one major thing in your life, what would that be?

If I could change one thing in my life tomorrow, I would wake up cured of my elusive little health problem. It sounds ridiculous because it is (hopefully) nothing major, but I can't express the sense of freedom it would give me for it to just disappear. I would have a whole new lease of life. It would be like a weight lifted off my shoulders - all that stress would just vanish in an instant. It would feel like when you blow a dandelion that has gone to seed, all those bits of white fluff just floating away on the breeze. I would be more confident and happier in myself. I would feel less trapped and more able to do the things I want to do. I've a feeling it's going to be a long process, but hopefully that will be the case one day. I'm working on it, anyway.

It's been a swell ride, but *BNI will now resume normal service!

Left of the Middle

Have you ever found yourself having a conversation with somebody you've known for years, catching up on each others lives, and realising the one question you want to ask isn't, 'How's the missus?' or 'Are you liking the new job?' but 'Are we still friends?' I like you and I want you to do well and everything, but have we just grown apart too much now? I didn't even hear from you on my birthday. And I didn't even say, 'Hey, where was my birthday message asshat?' like I would with a friend who'd forgotten my birthday. (Well, I wouldn't normally say asshat, it's a word I am pinching from Nic because it makes me giggle.)

I suppose you could ask what harm it does to pass the time of day with someone. But I find myself wondering it the whole time we're talking. Is there any genuine warmth here? Do you care? You cared once, a whole lot, or you said you did. Has that all gone away?

If it has, how do I make it go away?

Theroux the Looking Glass

I am loving this recent trend for interviewing in the blogs I frequent at the moment, so when Wondy asked me to give her her third grilling, I just had to know what questions she would ask me. Plus, I'm really liking interviewing others, you hardly ever get the answers you expected. (And I still haven't finished that chapter!)

1. Who is your number one style icon (real or celebrity, it doesn't matter?)

I wouldn't say that I have any one style icon from the celeb world, but I often flick through magazines and think: I need that outfit. I think Cat Deeley always looks happy and healthy and effortlessly glamorous. Rachel Bilson nearly always looks cute and stylish. Jennifer Aniston is beautifully immaculate. But I am much more likely to find inspiration in the women around me, particularly my niece, Tink, who should seriously consider a career in fashion in my humble opinion. Nearly everything she buys, I'm like, I need that too! I covet her wardrobe like you wouldn't believe. If only we were the same shoe size, we could join forces and have a collection to rival Imelda Marcos (we often buy the same pair.) She just has a natural eye for what suits her and it helps that she is adorable and spends a fortune on fashion. (But she does shop at Primark, too.) It was her dress I borrowed for my first night out with Alfie in an attempt to knock his socks off. I was complimented on it the whole night.

I don't always - or often, even - get it right and can't always be bothered trying either (taking Bertie to the park in white jeans and wedges like many girls I see? No. Getting dressed up to go to Asda? Nada.) but I do love dabbling in fashion and there are few things that give me as much pleasure as an outfit I feel is well put-together. There is a pair of earrings with my name on them at the moment in Miss Selfridge; I spotted them in a magazine but I haven't been to check out if they are in store yet. They are only £3.50 but I want them oh-so-much (and have the whole outfit planned in my head, despite the fact that I own none of the items.)

UPDATE: I now need the grey dress Rachel Bilson is wearing in that picture.

2. What are your ambitions in life - you've talked about writing, etc - but imagine you can have what you want tomorrow - what would it be?

Does this include suddenly acquiring skills I don't have? Because my all time dream would be to be able to sing. I know this is totally a lame-ass dream - what am I, 15 prancing around making up dance routines with my mates and calling ourselves something trite and vomit-inducing? (I can't remember the actual trite and vomit-inducing name me and my equally talentless mates went by, but I'm pretty sure there was one along the lines of Pussycat Dolls or Girls Aloud.) It just seems so empowering, and I really admire women with voices like Aretha Franklin, Annie Lennox, and Beverley Knight (I bought tickets to see her in October yesterday, woooot!) I would love to perform on stage, even if it was only at a karaoke night at the local bar. Unfortunately I sound like cat being strangled. By Cilla Black.

In terms of ambitions I might actually get off my arse and start working towards, if I could walk into a book shop tomorrow and see rows of novels with my name on the spine on the shelves - or you know, preferably being dragged off the shelves by frenzied shoppers - that would really be an ambition fulfilled. I badly want to travel and have unspecified adventures so that when I am old I can look back and think, I have lived, but I really don't know where to start and there's a voice in my head that whispers a little menacingly you would not survive. There are also several voices outside my head telling me quite frankly, you would not survive.

In short, I don't really have plans or ambitions, I have pipe dreams. I would quite like to end up in a little crooked house by the sea in Cornwall though.

I'd also quite like to go to the Oscars. Me and MJ are fighting over who gets to marry Daniel Craig at the moment, I figure he's my ticket in... Once he's married to Mr. Craig, MJ can sneak me in for sure.

3. Who is your best friend and what makes them your best friend, bar none?

Ahhhh. You've put me in quite a pickle here. I'm going to say two men who read my blog, but that's not why, I swear! (I am also shamelessly sidestepping the 'bar none' clause of your question!)

MJ. Because we share something that nobody else can ever appreciate. He is a fiercely private person and because of this it's sometimes difficult to include him in other parts of my life. He and Boyf hardly know each other, despite the fact that Boyf and I are coming up to our eight year anniversary. You know the saying, no man is an island? MJ is my island. He's bloody Ibiza.

'Muffin. Now, I don't know if this will come as a surprise to some or not, or even to the man himself. Even though in the grand scheme of things, we haven't been mates that long (coming up to a year though!) 'Muffin has been there for me through some very trying times. Specifically, he's been there for me when I know I've been very trying! He takes me seriously, even when I am being daft. He goes above and beyond the call of duty to make me laugh - you know what I'm talking about 'Muffin! And also, although I don't want to encourage this in him too much, he tells me when I need to get a fucking grip. He can be counted on to give an honest opinion - like he'll tell me when I look a state, which means that I can trust him when he tells me I look nice. He values friendship as much as I do, and even though we have our ropey moments or minor disagreements, I think he knows that he's a special person in my life and that my life is better because of him.

('Muffin, extreme statement #2: If you skit me about this in work, I will fucking kill you.)

4. Would you ever go out with a much older man (say 15 years plus) if you were really attracted to him?

Although I cannot imagine at this moment in my life being attracted to someone who was 40+, recent experience has shown me that if I have strong enough feelings for someone, I'll do pretty much anything to be with them. I'm sure overlooking a 15 year age gap wouldn't come without its setbacks but if you were into someone enough it would be worth it.

I've also come to realise that if you love somebody you don't give a toss what anyone else thinks. Because my Boyf is such a hottie, it makes me feel good that out of all the women he could have had, he chose me. When certain of my friends used to try and make herself look better by putting me down, I used to think, pah, well my boyfriend's better looking than yours, love! Very shallow, I know, but worked every time. I used to think I would miss that though, that pride at being seen with him. But nearly everyone I know is anti-Alfie; they can't understand what I see him, and I don't care. So if you managed to find someone who you were crazy about and who actually made you happy too? Easy.

I'm sure there are plenty of concrete points to be made against going out with a much older man, but personally I feel most obstacles are surmountable if you both try hard enough.

5. Would you consider any sort of plastic/cosmetic surgery?

Yes, and no. Personally, I think you should work with what you've got. Surgery for cosmetic reasons seems a little extreme, unless there are mitigating circumstances. Of course, there are plenty of things I would change about myself. Like, I would definitely have a nose job. But I have seen those programmes and what they do and I am not willing to put myself through that. Boyf likes my nose, for some bizarre reason. I think if everyone went around correcting their flaws then faces would be boring. It's often supposed flaws in peoples features that I find attractive.

There you go love, excellent questions, and as thanks I've even stuck a pic of Zach Braff in there for your enjoyment!

Ve Have Vays of Making You Tock

This meme has been making the rounds and I finally decided to jump on the bandwagon. Well, I do have an entire chapter of my dissertation to write by tomorrow, I was begging for such an opportunity to procrastinate! Here are my questions from the lovely Brandy.

1. If you could leave a time capsule the size of a microwave that would be opened in a century, what would you put in it to represent the world now?

Hmmm. I don't know if I would be comfortable with the responsibility of representing the world. I would probably try to represent here.

Ergo, I would put in things like pieces of artwork that depict the city (I have a particular one in mind but can't find it on the whole of the world wide web! Tch.) A miniature Super Lamb Banana. The White Album. But none of these things would really translate. There is a feel about this city, maybe because it's home. My boyfriend tells a story about when he was young, being dragged around town shopping by his parents and complaining that it was boring, when his uncle told him to look up. He did and has been fascinated by the architecture of Liverpool ever since. I know it inspires a mixed reaction, but I love my accent. I love scouse boys. I love the waterfront. There are plenty of things I don't like, too. But this city has a soul, and it's the soul I love. Can you fit a soul into a microwave?

2. What was your favourite childhood toy?

When I was little, I loved books and Barbie in pretty much equal measures. None of my Barbie's were called Barbie; they all had individual names, personalities, and careers. One of my Barbie's had pink and purple streaks in her crimped hair, was called Rachel, dated 'Paul' and was in medical school. I made a stack of medical textbooks out of paper for her to carry around in a bowling bag I think I got with Ken. A denim jacket I got with a different Barbie was always 'hers'. But I think my favourite thing was the house. I got it one Christmas when I was really young, along with a bunch of furniture and a plastic mat painted up to be a garden. One day, I decided I was going to run away for some reason; I packed sandwiches, a Barbie, the Barbie bed and the plastic garden. I think I planned to run away to my grandmothers, who lived about five streets away. I was always very ambitious.

3. Why do you blog? (I'm always curious why people do...)

I started blogging because I love to write, but don't have the discipline or the belief in myself (or the talent) to write anything more solid than witterings from my daily life. I persevered with it because I enjoyed it and because it really helped me to stop writing in such an academic style. Sometimes I become disillusioned with blogging because I start to question the merits of my meagre contributions to the blogosphere. I think, who would want to read this? Is this valid? Posts like "Guess what happened today, oh my God, Alfie walked into a building, and then, then, he walked out! Insert crisis here," really don't help, but I find them cathartic. Writing a post is my way of getting these thoughts organised in my head.

I've also met some wicked people through blogging and sometimes I'll write something and will look forward to someones reaction to it. If I manage to finagle a comment out of a long time lurker, or a reluctant voice like MJ, it's a great feeling. And I actually miss people when they don't comment or don't update their own blogs for a while. I suppose that at its best, blogging makes me feel connected.

4. What's the hardest lesson you ever learned?

I'm struggling to answer this one because I don't want to sound pitiful. But in the spirit of catharsis, here it is. I'm still learning this lesson. And it's this: my voice deserves to be heard. I hate the way that sounds. I don't mean that my voice is more important than anyone elses, or that I have anything phenomenally insightful or rewarding to say. What I mean to say is, I have as much right to voice my opinion as anyone else; I matter, too. This sounds like a very generic answer, so I'll flesh it out some.

It came as a revelation to me at the age of about sixteen that instead of worrying whether someone liked me, I might want to consider whether I liked them. A revelation. When I met my boyfriend at seventeen, I fell for him because he made me feel like I was worth speaking to and spending time with - he was interested in me, what I had to say; he sought out my opinion before the opinion of others, he wanted to get to know me. Plus, he was crazily hot. I couldn't believe my luck.

I was a wallflower at school. My method of survival was to keep my head down. I still walk past people I know in the street sometimes because of this, or I don't say hello to people I went to school with, because I assume they won't remember me. Once, when I came top in an exam, the teacher didn't recognise my name and had to ask who I was. There are times when I try to be invisible, to go unnoticed. In a group, I am never the loud person. I don't fight to be heard. When I am unsure of myself, I become very softly spoken; my voice drops a few octaves mid-sentence. I can feel myself doing this, but I can't stop it. I am often talked over.

I am not a doormat, I stand up for myself and for others. Sometimes, I take this to extremes, and later, I regret it.

When I was born, the younger of my two sisters was ten years old. She resented me, and still does, because she wasn't the baby anymore. She personifies the term "middle child syndrome." I made her feel like nobody loved her anymore; I've felt like an imposition my whole life. When I talk, or sometimes just by being there, I feel like I'm imposing myself on you.

In almost every relationship or group situation, I feel expendable. Wearing my heart on my sleeve with Alfie, was one of the biggest risks I've ever taken in my life. And yet I ran into it blindly, with eagerness and almost without hesitation.

5. A dinner party for you and six people, who do you invite and why? (famous, not famous, alive or dead... you can invite whoever)

Although I am sure I would enjoy a dinner party for my nearest and dearest a whole lot more, let's plunge straight into fantasy land (I'm thinking of setting up house there permanently) and go with a cast of people I will never get to meet.

Robert Kennedy. I am really interested in the Kennedy's and the Civil Rights movement and count this man as one of my heroes.

Virginia Woolf. Anyone who can sell stream-of-consciousness writing is someone I have to meet.

Homi K. Bhabha. Is it massively geeky that I have a favourite literary theorist? Wait, don't even answer that one.

Amy Winehouse. I have to invite her! You know I'm Amy's bitch.

Oscar Wilde. A blatantly obvious choice which, I feel, requires no explanation. The man went to jail for the sake of a witty riposte. That's commitment.

Kate Winslet. Completely beautiful, down to earth, and articulate.

Voila!

I think I'm a bit slow on the uptake here and everyone has already been interviewed, but if you are interested, here are the rules:

- Leave me a comment including your email address saying, “Interview me!”

- I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick them, and you have to answer them all. I'm real bossy like that.

- You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
- You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

- When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Underneath It All

Another Alfie sighting to report. The bugger came into my work again, just before five. He looked much better than he did last Friday. I'd been working upstairs and came down to report to my supervisor, Nutter, and Alfie was standing there chatting with her. "Hiya, you all right?" I said, and handed Nutter a slip of paper, as she voiced possibly the worst question she could have done at that moment: "So have you got a girl yet, Alfie?"

Any ability I had to muster a conversation piece or simple pleasantry went straight out the window - I kept walking. I heard him laugh and joke "three." I walked towards Lila, who was laughing at me. "Don't say a word, Lila, don't even look at me!" I joked. Then I sort of floundered, not knowing what direction to take or what the blazes I'd been about to do. I took a very strangled route to the staff room whilst deciding, and heard hurried footsteps behind me. I heard my name and turned, and there was the mighty 'Muffin running towards me. "I know, I've seen him." I answered before he said anything. The gorgeous little bunny had been searching the building for me to warn me before I came down! (He rocks.)

I got my coat and went to clock out and heard Alfie saying goodbye to everyone. 'Muffin reports that when he came in he was like: "Look who's here! Alfie's in the house!" and everyone just looked at him. He also had the audacity to criticise what 'Muffin was wearing - like he has any right to talk after Friday's Eldorado effort!

So, on my way out 'Muffin is counselling me and who walks past again but Alfie. I had to walk out of the building behind him. I've got to give it to him, his arse looks great in jeans. And from the back you can't see the forehead, ha! Outside the doors, he stopped to say hello to someone and noticed me. I didn't make eye contact and headed for the crossing. He crossed in the middle of the road, but was parked right behind Boyf, who'd come to pick me up from work.

I got in the car and Boyf said: "Is that (Alfie's real name)? He looks like a tosser. He looked at me so I just stared at him." Then he ranted about what an idiot he was for about twenty minutes, suggesting we go out with 'Muffin and 'bump' into Alfie so that he could take him down a peg or two. Lord.

Anyways, my sister's diagnosis is this: what a plonker, he sounds very lonely to me. And when I think about it, Alfie is always surrounded by people, but they're acquaintances, not good friends. He puts on such a front that nobody really knows him. Everything about him is overstated and flash - there's no substance, nothing real. When you start getting close to him, you can practically see the force field coming up, the bullshit becomes more obvious, the standard lines he uses to deflect questions that might delve deeper than the surface image he projects. And that's really sad, for him.

He confounds me. Afterwards, I started thinking about all the things I should have said again, but then I thought: no, this is my workplace now, not his. Why is it up to me to make things less awkward? It was him that messed me about, I put all my cards on the table. So if anyone has amends to make, it's him.

He never will of course, his ego will just gloss over all that and put my sudden nonchalance down to bitterness. I may be gutted that things didn't work out, but I'm not bitter about it. Last week, I told 'Muffin and my sister that despite how things turned out, I would do it all again. Yes, I have my regrets. Lying in the arms of the man of my dreams, stroking his hair and listening to him telling me my body is amazing while I fall asleep? Worth it. Sorry, but worth it.

If you were crazy about someone, and a Fairy Godmother came and said, you can only have one night, one night to be close to them, in the morning they will forget, but you will always have the memory... what would you do? And I'm not talking one-night stands, and I'm not necessarily talking sex, because that's not what happened.

I posed that question to Mybug and his answer was this: I wouldn't choose the girl I love. I wouldn't ask for that bridge to throw myself off. Memories are the bricks of personality. Know what I'm saying?

Take the Box

Attention: this post contains excessive swearing and maudlin but slightly frantic observations which some readers may find offensive.

As we all know by now I am an obsessive freak, and yes, the Friday 13th encounter with Shit Brick... I mean Alfie, has been playing over in my head at regular intervals throughout the weekend (although I do have to admit, I got quite heavily embroiled in correcting the footnotes for my dissertation and his existence seemed a little less important than going through each fucking footnote checking comma placement between about 1 am and 4 am this morning.)

But the possibility that I may miss the deadline for my dissertation submission has not stopped me from thinking about the things I should have said or done differently when we bumped into each other. I'm not really sure why, as the harder I try with this stuff the more I seem to lose. Still, I find myself questioning the way I handled the situation. Surely, there were better things I could have said or done. So far, I've come up with the following:

a) "You have custody of Victoria Street, this corner's mine, it has all the shoe shops, damn it!"

b) "What the fuck are you wearing?" (Admittedly, not big or clever but HELLO this was the one thing that was begging to be uttered, or perhaps bellowed from the other side of the street)

c) "Who's your friend? He's hot!" (Not big or clever but, I'm assured, effective)

d) Said nothing, just turned to my sister, then both started laughing and pointing (I'm really not very big or very clever...)

e) Ran over to him, slapped him on the head and shouted "FOD-NEY!" (Casual violence coupled with devastating insult = satisfying in the extreme)

Or finally f) All of the above.

Any other suggestions? I take requests.

Apart from that, I have had Amy Winehouse's Take the Box on repeat, and her voice at the end of the song is so beautiful and drenched in sincerity; it makes me want to cry.

May I also just admit that when I got home on Friday I dug out my old phone and switched it on just in case (it's my old number and it has all kinds of messages off him saved on it. He has my new number but I figure he probably just deleted it.) I confessed this to my sister earlier and she laughed at me and asked me if I'd also checked my emails, I was like, "Of course, I check my work email from home every day!"

Just in case.

I spend so much time fantasising about running into him and then when I actually do I can't handle it and can't get away from the man quickly enough.

I'm not normal. I don't care that he looked crap. I don't care that he's a twat. I just want the fucker to want me. And he doesn't.

It kind of sucks.

Falling at the First Hurdle

This weekend is Grand National weekend, and a pretty big deal. The Aintree races attract a huge number of visitors to the city. Yesterday was Ladies Day, and after an afternoon enjoying the races, people generally flock into the city centre to enjoy the bars. But aswell as those who have been betting on the horses, there is another group roaming the streets of Liverpool hoping their gamble pays off. That group is largely male; their prey the herds of Ladies Day women easy to spot in their large hats and formal clothing. I would just like you to bear this demographic in mind when I ask you a question in a paragraphs time.

I too was in town, having spent a lovely afternoon shopping with my sister and meeting up with Studmuffin in The Living Room at five for after-work drinks. I bought a sixties style shift dress thing, and my sister bought this really glamorous red dress in my size, which I will totally be borrowing at the first available opportunity (this means I will have to encourage her to wear it fairly soon, because borrowing something that's brand new isn't really cricket. Once it's had its first dry clean it's up for grabs.)

Now let me direct you to a sentence from a recent post of mine entitled 'Oh no, I'm that girl.'

I imagine myself shopping on a warm sunny day in town with MJ or somebody and spotting him in a bar at the same moment he notices me and exchanging a smile and not even talking to each other but just that little thing causes a spark and something picks back up again.

So, here's the question: guess who I bumped into?

It wasn't a bar, it was the slightly less romantic location of outside-Burger-King. And there was no spark (or I don't know, was there a spark, despite the awkardness?) and no picking back up of anything. I had been happily walking along between my sister and 'Muffin, minding my own business and probably talking about some totty 'Muffin had just spotted on our walk from bar to bar, when I looked up and saw Alfie. He was standing with his legs wide apart, pelvis forward, hands in pockets, grinning and waiting for me to notice him. The first thing I noticed, even from a distance, was that the receeding hairline had gone into major retreat. Not to be bitchy, because I still totally would, but he looked terrible.

Let's take a moment to discuss the outfit. As someone who prides himself on labels and fashionable ensembles, and who had the front to appoint himself as a style guru to 'Muffin, he ought to be ashamed of himself. It was even worse than the woolly scarf teamed with short sleeved white shirt in a hot club fiasco, a look that will for ever be associated with Quentin Crisp in my mind (thanks to Wondy.) There were wide linen trousers. White ones. With a visible ghetto-gold coloured zipper. There were tan coloured deck shoe things which defy description. And a black Russell Brand-ish shirt, which had only one button fastened and bared a hairy chest and silver dog tags. If I'd had my wits about me, there would have been serious piss taking going down.

As it was I said hello, introduced my sister, endured a kiss on the cheek fairly well, and then thanked God that 'Muffin was there to carry on a sensible conversation as I edged closer to my sister for security and shook like a leaf, heart pounding like a frantic bird trying to escape from my chest. While I was talking to him, I noticed his mates over his shoulder grinning away at me knowingly. Alfie looked me up and down, looked my sister up and down, looked me up and down again and said: "You do know you look nothing alike?" We laughed and I told him I was the milkman's. I can't remember what else was said, I recall him referring to 'Muffin as his 'Padawan learner', and me joking that 'Muffin could teach him a thing or two and my voice being a little too clipped. Then the mate who gave me a lecture about self-respect on the Christmas night out (whom I regret listening to) came over and I made our excuses and left.

Here is 'Muffin's take on the encounter:

Chica: I can't remember his face, just his fod (forehead)! And what was the outfit like! My sis will be seriously questioning my taste in men!

'Muffin: He wears that quite often

Chica: He looked a show in it, like a reject off Eldorado
'Muffin: Like your sister said... the way he stood said it all... HAHAHAHAHAHA HE DID!!!
Chica: And yet, my heart was still hammering in my chest and I was shaking like a fucking leaf!
'Muffin: Yeah but you didn't show it, you were uber cool. Especially when you said we'd better get going. It was like "Yeah... whatever.... I'm with my mates and I ain't got time to be dazzled by your fod!"

Love that guy.

For the record, I was wearing my Peaches Geldof dress, and looked so much better than he did, even if I do say so myself!

And yes, still completely besotted, obviously.

Blonde for a Day

Last Thursday, I innocently asked my hairdresser for some blonde highlights to give my hair a little pick me up for summer. I'd been considering it for a while, because when people describe my hair colour, the word 'mousey' tends to crop up, and there's not much sexy about that. I decided that I'd quite like to be Mischa Barton, or at least have her hair, and so I showed this picture to said hairdresser, whom we shall christen Maggie.

See? Quite tastefully blonde I thought, and not so drastically different from my natural hair colour that it would make me freak out, since I have never coloured my hair before. Maggie agreed on the choice, but warned me that my hair probably wouldn't be as light as this the first time she coloured it.

Cut to a while later, when I am washing the peroxide out of my hair, and I notice that my hair is feeling like straw, and looking like... well, straw. I went back downstairs to where Maggie and my sister and niece are waiting, and laughed nervously: it will look different when it's dry, right? They laughed and assured me it would, then sat and praised the colour as Maggie cut and blow dried my hair. It mustn't be so bad, I thought, reassured by the approving smiles of both sis and niece as Maggie dished out back handed compliments such as: it's so much better than your natural colour!

Oh my frickin' Lord. I will be posting pictures on Flickr shortly of the colour she gave me. Suffice to say, it was a shade of yellow that I like to call "Penelope Pitstop." It's not that I don't like blonde hair. When I was little, I was almost white blonde. But this wasn't even a nice colour, it was a brassy blonde, and nothing like what I asked for. Somebody had to die.

Well okay, maybe not. It's only hair after all. At worst, I would simply pull a Britney, but skip out the whole bearing children to K.Fed chapter and also probably drop the crotch flashing as well. When I say never again, I mean it.

Boyf was not pleased with the result either. When he saw it the next morning, he masked his displeasure with his usual mixture of tact and grace by uttering the following question: What have you done, you stupid cow?!

Technically, I was blonde for a long weekend, since I waited until Monday to buy a dark blonde dye to cover it. My hair is now looking pretty much exactly the same as it did before I let Maggie touch it, except it's kind of shinier.

As Alanis said: you live, you learn.

P.S. This post was written by a twenty-five year old woman. I turned a quarter of a century old on Easter Sunday. Bah. Birthday highlights to follow. No pun intended.

Haha, we're clever

Oh no, I'm that girl

Dude. I am truly concerned for my sanity. For one, I just began a post with the word 'dude', and for two, Alfonse is doing my head in. I just want to stop thinking about him. Even now, if I heard from him, you do not know the level of joy it would bring me. Why is that, when he's horrid? I can still feel the high I got from him. I think it's that and not him that I'm addicted to. But when will I ever feel that again?

Part of the problem I think is that the build up to our non-fling was so big and I went to such efforts that for it to be basically all over in the space of a week or two just feels like... what? already? and then we kind of just stopped talking until the next thing I hear is he's happily coupled up. Maybe it's anti-climax. I'm just scared because when it was good - admittedly for about five minutes - I was so happy. I got the love rush. I walked down the street grinning. I was extra cheerful and extra nice to people, the world was a brighter place. And now that's all gone I just cannot come to terms with the fact that I won't get it back.

I'll let you in on the depths of how pathetic I am. (Can there be more? I hear you cry.) Sometimes I try and trick myself into not thinking about him anymore by imagining that one day, something will happen, because I can't feel this strongly about someone for nothing. Therefore I can stop thinking about it now and relax because it will just take care of itself and fate will work its magic. I imagine myself shopping on a warm sunny day in town with MJ or somebody and spotting him in a bar at the same moment he notices me and exchanging a smile and not even talking to each other but just that little thing causes a spark and something picks back up again. I daydream about stuff like this all the time, usually whilst staring at pages of my dissertation or rows of books.

And then there are the times when I go in completely the opposite direction and just think screw it, I want to just run headlong into things like leaving my job or moving in with my boyfriend because I have this theory that the momentum might stop me thinking about him and being somewhere different will make me feel like I've moved on.

Do they make pills for this? Is there some sort of Glenn Close Rehabilitation Circle for Obsessive Rejects I can join?

This is not the me I want to be.

I wish I was Amy Winehouse. I could just write a kick ass song about it and then get drunk for three years.

Veruca Salt, much?

Wondering how the preparations for Saturday are going? I'll spare you the ins and outs and summarise the whole ordeal in three succinct sentences, thusly:

1) Booooo, I hate Easter.

2) Stupid Jesus overshadowing my birthday.

3) You can stick your chocolate eggs!

Carry on.

Can't Get You Out Of My Head

Okay, so, it's my birthday on Sunday and I'm planning to go out and celebrate my final hours as a 24 year old on Saturday night. Now, I know this might sound a little uptight, but organising anything like this when it's for your benefit - a birthday or celebration with you supposedly at the centre - stresses me out. I don't mind arranging celebrations for other people, or throwing together a night out just because, but I hate it when people have to show up for me. I figure if I feel awkward though, I'll just get drunk. Then I'll have someone confiscate my phone so I don't drunk dial anyone.

I do love deciding what to wear though. I'm even thinking I might break out the Kylie dress. I've had this dress for years but I've only wore it the once. I so need to rock the Mosquito in that dress... Whaddaya say 'Muffin?

...'Muffin?

Je Reviens

Saturday, I went to see this.

I was pretty much expecting it to blow and went for nostalgic purposes, but it was decent enough and me and Dedalus had a laugh over it. Splinter's voice is just wrong. His accent is slurred: sensei had been at the sake. Not a patch on the old school films though, there weren't as many one-liners as I remember, and April had turned into some sort of Indiana Jones type figure. They left room for a sequel.

After the film, we went for milkshakes and Dedalus sprung that old chestnut: did I say anything stupid when we went out? on me about five times. Then he walked me to meet Boyf at La Tasca. Not weird in the least!

When I walked into the bar and saw Boyf waiting for me, I actually got this warm fuzzy feeling inside. I thought, damn, you're gorgeous. My boyfriend is seriously hot. I don't know how the fuck I scored him. We went for Mexican food and got drunk on a bottle of wine. Checked out the Everyman bar but weren't very impressed. Seem to remember him annoying me in the taxi on the way home by involving me in an argument about racism with the driver as if I was some sort of representative of all things politically correct. He thinks I'm naive because I disagree with him whenever he makes a generalisation.

Swings and roundabouts, eh?

Sunday we went for a bike ride in the park, which was lovely. Today, I am totally meant to be studying, but have spent the day looking for something to wear when I go out for my birthday next week. That's a whole 'nother can of worms.

I'm not thrilled about turning 25, but I much prefer it to the alternative of not turning 25.

Oh, also, I saw The Return, a movie which should be avoided at all costs. It was soooo slow, without any genuine shocks or surprises, and left me completely unmoved and uninterested. Okay, so I wasn't really expecting anything wonderful when I sat down to watch it, but even I enjoyed House of Wax. I will say one thing though; I really love Sarah Michelle Gellar's hair colour in it.

Although, judging from this picture it looks like blondes do have more fun.