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!

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!

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.

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.

"I like honesty. It's sexier than hipbones."

I've been in touch with Mybug a lot recently after he added me to his Facebook. He really comes out with some surprisingly insightful stuff sometimes and it's hard to believe he's only nineteen. I discovered that he wants to be a writer, but struggles to get his ideas on paper because of his ADHD. He told me about some of the stuff he likes to write about though and the dude has seriously genius ideas.

Then there's the other side to him. I'll let this exchange illustrate the other side of Mr. M.

Chica: My deadline is May 1st! I'm cacking it.
Mybug: Don't worry, pass or fail, I'll still go down on you.

As for his more sagacious incarnation, he summed up my crush on Alfie in the following terms (an edited version of preamble included for the sake of context):

Mybug: What do you want to be?
Chica: When I grow up??
Mybug: I know practically nothing about you apart from the fact you have a nice arse. So what do you think about when you wake up?
Chica: Sorry to say I currently think about someone I shouldn't
Mybug: Who is this Zorro of your dreams?
Chica: Some dickhead I should know better than to like
Mybug: What's this guy like? Do you even know why you like him?
Chica: I find him exciting, but he's a nob. He's a player, he loves himself
Mybug: Maybe that's why you like him
Chica: I don't normally go for bastards
Mybug: A mixed combination of wanting to stand out in the crowd in front of him and subconsciously prove to yourself that you're special and trying to maybe be a bit more daring yourself. You did say before you always used to want to take the hardest route

Isn't that quite wise coming from a nineteen year old boy?*

Apparently we are going to sit and drink rum all night and exchange stories. This may not happen though; we're also going to get a flat in Mississippi and keep chickens.

*Oh my God. I've just realised that when this all began, he hadn't even turned nineteen yet. Wrong.

Alloway Grove

It's a beautiful day outside and I had plans to meet up with Dedalus that I've had to cancel. We were going to do lunch at Tabac. I'm full of cold, again, and feel like my head is in a vice (yet I'm still blasting music from my laptop speakers.) I blame my erratic sleeping schedule since Bertie came to live with us. He's really very good, but he's just exhausting! At the moment, I'm allowing him to eat a pair of Boyf's pyjama bottoms because it's keeping him quiet.

Yesterday, my swanky new phone arrived. It's a Samsung D900 and I've just about got to grips with it. It's not even pink ya'll - I went for performance over girlieness! I guess I really am growing up. I purged my contacts list and it's quite shocking how many people I've fallen out of touch with. I have to say there are only about twelve people on there that I actually bother texting. And that's including Alfie who I never text anymore for obvious reasons but to whom I forwarded my new number in a big group message that began with a casual "Hi all." (I think I can record video on it and put it on here, but that's a bit advanced for someone who just figured out how to store her sent messages.) But looking at my meagre contacts makes me wonder just how I'm going to use up all this credit I've paid for. In the old days, I used to blow about fifty quid on my phone over the weekend.

Yes, I'm still mourning the old days for the foreseeable future. Girl can't help it. But at least I'm not carrying those 200 messages from him around with me anymore, you'll be glad to know MJ! They're safely stored on my old phone and will be put away to gather dust.

Anyhoo, the studying is not going very well. I need to write something a bit more meaty on alternative readings of Dorcas in Toni Morrison's Jazz, and then I need to bell hooks a bit of my chapter on the burden of representation. My chapter on The Edible Woman and Kafka's "A Hunger Artist" is looking a bit like a wasteland. Did I mention my deadline is May first? Meh, at least I have an idea of what actually needs to be done. That's progress for me, right?

Blame It on the Boogie

Apologies for the regression. It's my indulgence in sad songs what does it. With a dose of Lily Allen to temper things on my more kick ass days.

In heavy rotation on the mp3 player:

Paolo Nutini - Last Request. Can't actually get through the whole thing.
Amy Winehouse - Back to Black. The song, and the album!
Aretha Franklin - Walk On By. The most beautifully sung lyrics ever?
Etta James -I'd Rather Go Blind. This is particularly to blame I think.
Lily Allen - Shame For You. This is on a good day.
George Michael - I Can't Make You Love Me. This is not.

It'd be okay if it was just sad songs; I'd avoid them. But so many songs we danced to remind me of him, that even a bloody soulless dance track can get to me. Anyone else cried over the lyrics I found a place / Where we can boogie?

*allows pause for tumbleweed*

No? For me it conjures up sneaking off with him at the Christmas party, being led away by the hand, the blue of his eyes, and his truly awful singing voice in my ear.

Beyonce moves me. Beyonce.

Did I mention it's been three months?

Get Over It

It's been almost three months. It was a blip on the radar, a drop in the ocean, an abortive, clumsy, hopeless, going-nowhere, hardly happened, flirtation. Rhetorical question: when will I stop thinking about him?

Seriously. When I saw him last month, it was like he wasn't even the same guy I fell for. I didn't even want him around. That's probably because of the giant slap in the face that was the I-don't-want-a-girlfriend-except-for-the-girl-I-met-about-five-minutes-after-our-first-date-which-you-will-find-out-about-from-'Muffin-in-about-a-month-and-a-half's-time debacle. And yet he's still here, in my head, in my dreams, the subject of every song I hear, the body I long for every time I see a couple in love. Why, why, why, when he makes me feel like I could never be good enough, that it was preposterous for me to even think I could possibly have him?

Why do I still want him so much?

She's Gotta Have It

News item: I think I may be developing an addictive personality. In that, I'm seemingly becoming addicted to stuff, not that people just can't get enough of my anecdotes. A plethora of evidence is mounting up to support this hypothesis. Shrugging off the obvious temptations of alcohol and powdery substances (unless blusher), I have a different devil at my back entirely. I make my case forthwith:

Exhibit A) Alfie. Enough said.

Exhibit B) I cannot stop shopping. Shopping makes everything better. It is the joy in my life, the marrow in my bones, the giant gaping weakness in my budget. It's starting to get repugnant. I'm throwing money away that could go towards much more valuable ends. I talk of moving out, buying cars, earning enough to support both myself and a poor defenceless animal, and then blow hundreds of pounds on tops. Hundreds of pounds. It starts off innocently enough, with a couple of t shirts for maybe a tenner each or so, which I tell myself I need for work, and then, before I know it, I'm lusting after a dress on Asos for £54 that Peaches Geldof has. But I don't just want the dress, I throw things in my basket until it's over two hundred pounds worth, then I guiltily delete things I can live without so it's around a more respectable looking £100. Then I don't buy it, until encouraged to do so by my very irresponsible friends, sister, niece, boyfriend, and mum. Then I can blame it on peer pressure. Not satisfied with frittering away cash on clothes for myself, I have now firmly resolved that the minute - the very minute - I get a dog, I am buying it this.

Today, I theoretically spent £33.00 at Pucci (I didn't click on check out.) Before the guilt made me remove items from my basket, it was £103.50.

My name is Chica, and I'm an Alfashopaholic.

Much Ado About Nothing

Okay, quick update: he came, he saw, he conquered.

Meh, not really.

Last night, I got kinda nervous about the possibility of seeing him today. What would I do, what would I say? Would the smug and blatantly delighted look on my face give the game away that I knew he had been unceremoniously DUMPED? (There could have been a ceremony, involving bonfires and photographs and possibly pubic hair... I was about to say there should be a ceremony but the pubic hair thing put me off.)

But I digress.

I channeled all my nervous energy into deciding what to wear. Despite the fact that I had already ironed a perfectly cute outfit, including a little belted pleated skirt, before I even knew Alfie could be hitting up my workplace. But everything about Alfie makes me doubt myself and makes me feel not good enough, so naturally this informs my decision making skills re: fashion. This is how I found myself hand washing three garments in the bathroom sink at 11 o'clock last night. I left them to drip dry in the shower, and funnily enough they were still soaking wet less than 12 hours later. So I turned the heating up real high and draped them artistically over the radiators. I decided on the blue dress (again, it's my dress of the moment) and my new boots, and went to work feeling physically ill at the prospect of an encounter.

He came in about half three. I was answering the telephone as he walked past, and he mimicked my greeting. Then he went into the staff room, and I went up to the second floor.

The End.

So not worth the effort. But you know it had to be done!

The Spy Who Loved Me

What do I do with this succinct yet horror inspiring text message?

'Muffin: Alfie been in. Single now. Might be in tomoz.

So much to fret about...

I'm cool. Really. Swear to God.

*gulp*

I'm working on the assumption that he won't come in, or that he'll come in before my shift starts. That way, I'll actually be able to make it in to work.

Any advice? Any one??

UPDATE: Hahahahahahahaha, he got dumped, hahahahahahahaha.

Wooooh, head rush.

It Takes Two

Last night I had a date with Dedalus. We hit the tapas bar for sangria, then took in Jim Carrey's new movie, The Number 23. As an aside, Dedalus was born on the fifteenth of August. 15 + 8 = 23. There are 23 letters in his name. You think I should be worried?

It was so strange meeting him. It was like a rerun of the Alfie date, without the nudity or the part where I allowed myself to sleep in a bed underneath a fake fur throw. (Dude, you'll be installing mirrored ceilings next, wanna stop being such a kissable cliche?) I got a lift into town and was dropped off in the same place. I walked the same walk. And I waited in the same spot where Alfie stood waiting for me. Then I drank two sangrias and felt tipsy: nothing new there. (Staff in that bar must be like, heyyy, there's that whore again!)

Similarities end there. Dedalus and I actually converse and everything, without me doing all the work, it's totally refreshing. I wore my blue dress and the Faith boots. He looked pretty cute.

We'd got to talking about tricky subjects again the night before on MSN, but luckily no mention was made while we were out. He kept saying stuff like that he wished I was his girlfriend and he wants me to know he never stopped liking me and did I ever like him back then? I was firm but fair, and asked him if he was sure it was a good idea to see each other if that was how he felt. But he reckoned he was fine with it and he knew nothing was going to happen, it just mattered to him how I felt about things in the past. I think we should maybe cut out the 2 am chats though.

The movie itself was interesting but a little convoluted towards the end. It introduced certain characters too late for you to care and they drive towards wrapping up the plot a little too overtly, if that makes sense. It's like the ending of a Scooby Doo episode where they explain everything and pull off the scary mask to reveal it's actually been the janitor all along. Worth seeing though, if only to freak Dedalus "23" out.

Awkward moment of the night: "What was the name of the bar we always went to? Studio 50-something? Maybe it works out to three times 23... oh no, that's..." - Dedalus

Don't Label Me

I'm liking my new blog layout. I know it's not very original but it's neat-looking and the colours are pretty. A change is as good as a holiday, they say! Cannot get labels to function no matter what I try though. All the right boxes are checked. I don't even particularly feel my blog needs labels, but because it's not working and I don't know why, it's eating away at me like... like, some sort of flesh eating ant and I am the picnic!

An Alfie label would be pretty redundant anyways, huh?

Bizarrely, I seem to be getting some of my interests back. This may sound weird, but I stopped enjoying a lot of the things I traditionally enjoyed while I was consumed by the Alfie stuff with the burning fire of a thousand suns. I'm even able to converse with people about a multitude of subjects again! Much to the relief of everyone I know. I'm currently viewing my time with Alfie with a mixture of great amusement and incredulity. (Ya'll don't have to congratulate me, I'm patting myself of the back... with my good arm.)

Stella got her groove back, and she likes it.

And you are...?

I was running late for work this morning, but for some reason I took the time to change my clothes about three times and fiddle with my hair for fifteen minutes. I decided that I wanted to make an effort and try and feel good about myself. I faffed about with my outfit and my hair until I looked half decent, and even put on gorgeous tan-coloured knee length boots I got for Christmas with a matching belt. The heels on them are really high so this is not normal work wear. They are killing me as we speak.

The first job I was on was a really boring one, so I smuggled my phone with me. Now, whether to text Alfie or not has been an idea I've been toying with recently, often culminating in red flashing lights, warning signs and all my friends collectively yelling nooooo in my ear with a megaphone. But I didn't want to text him as part of a route to anything: this is not Operation Bridget Jones revisited. I just don't like when things are left on a bad note and I wanted him to know that there aren't any hard feelings, whether he cares or not.

Anyways. I got lots of compliments in work on my outfit. While I was on the boring job Shelverboy came and chatted to me for a bit; he asked me if I'd changed my hair because I looked really different and he hardly recognised me. I told him I'd clipped my fringe back but didn't think that alone could render me unrecognisable. He said it looked nice, then started moaning about his girlfriend. Spontaneously, I took my phone out of my pocket and forwarded a willy joke on to Alfie, thinking (almost) nothing of it. Don't look at me like who are you kidding, I said almost.

After the job was over, about twenty five minutes later, I went downstairs to the office and told my supervisor of my progress. On the job, not Alfie. I'm not that bad. He didn't hear me properly at first, so I had to repeat the class number a couple of times, and someone kept asking him for the number to my right. I didn't register it because I was thinking about my next task, but then the voice moved closer and when I turned he was looking at me. Alfie. He'd been waiting for me to notice him.

My first instinct was to throw up a little bit, but I repressed it. I don't think I looked that pleased to see him. I said 'hi' and laughed and ran walked away. My skin immediately went hot and I was instantly nervous. When I went on the counter my hands were shaking while I was serving people. Lila and 'Muffin were looking at me and giggling together at reception, so I went over to see what was so funny. Lila had the idea in her head that I knew Alfie would be dropping in and that we had enjoyed some sort of secret rendezvous because I was dressed up and smiley! 'Muffin was like: "No, she'd never betray me so!"

Although I am happy to provide amusement for my work mates, oh my God it was so excruciating. I didn't really see him that much, he just asked how I was and stuff. He was here to pick up some books. I tried to be relatively cool and kept my distance, but I did lose all ability to operate the cash register.

How delighted am I that I wore the boots and made an effort though? Someone was watching over me while I was getting dressed this morning! Um, I mean that in a totally non-pervy way...

Even though I freaked out momentarily and was admittedly in a total state, I think I'm kind of okay. It didn't seem like he was the same guy I've been stressing over so much and writing about. And there wasn't as much of an oh my God I've been underneath you feeling as I expected.

Ladies and gentlemen: Alfie has left the building.

Just Friends

I've been wallowing in my diva's recently, warbling along to Aretha and Etta and, um, Lily Allen, shamelessly. I am becoming more and more convinced that Amy Winehouse has had a fling with Alfie at some point in her life. Practically every song on Back to Black reminds me of him. Except that one about weed. Maybe I should fashion my hair into a beehive and drink lots and lots of Stella Artois. It seems to have worked for her.

The whole experience left me with the resolution that I would never ever ask a boy out ever again (we're assuming that I am single at some point in my future,) and that I would never advise a girlfriend to make the first move. Until about ten minutes ago, when I asked Mybug to the movies.

In my defence, he asked me first. And I really wanna see Pan's Labyrinth before it disappears from the cinema.

This is platonic, I assure you, in both our cases. But he does have rather a cheering effect on me :) Bring on the fun.

Hurting All Over

Well, today I woke up to my first hangover of the year! It took me about ten minutes to get drunk on a bottle of Pinot Grigio last night. The Boyf and I finally hit the town, I wore my green silk dress, and there was dancing. I had a little bit of a freak out in the bar Alfie and I kicked off our date two months ago in, cos that was the last time I was there. But I figure the more I go there with other people, the more stuff I'll accumulate in the way of that memory, if you get what I mean. Luckily, I got away with it under the 'oh no Chica's drunk again' licence to ramble meaninglessly. Moving on, I swear, just with a few minor hiccups thrown in every now and then. It takes me for ever to get over loss. I hate losing touch with friends too, even if it's clear the friendship is sort of floundering. I will always give people another chance because if I don't a big annoying WHAT IF? follows me around. But sometimes I think it would be better if I could just draw a line and cut people off; I have friends that can do this, they've fallen out with other friends for one reason or another and they don't even consider forgiveness. Black and white living must be much simpler than this greyness.

Anyhoo. We blew £100, but we haven't been out for a long time so I guess that's okay, even though I'm spending a lot lately and he's meant to be watching the pennies. I ordered some music the other day, Ella Fitzgerald, Dinah Washington, and Billie Holiday Best Ofs. And we all know I'm going to buy those shoes. They would have looked great with my outfit last night. Plus I keep buying things for my new and improved bedroom. I feel a trip to Ikea coming on.

I had a blood test on Friday. Now, I don't know if you are familiar with my history with needles, but it ain't a happy one. Yay for me, I didn't pass out. I'm kind of antsy to know the results already though and it's going to take at least a week to ten days before I'll know anything. Fingers crossed, although I'm not sure what outcome to hope for. If they don't find anything, I don't know what to do next, and with my doctor, you have to know what to do next because they're not big on the diagnosing of stuff. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Toxic

Did I mention that Julie is an air hostess? This is what Alfie calls her; I'd say flight attendant. A couple of my friends have this theory that he's attracted to the glamourous image they have. He's a total status freak: the places he goes, the clothes he wears, and he schmoozes with all the right people at work. I do think he'd get a little kick out of it. If he had a secretary, he'd be shagging her. Even 'Muffin said he needs to be careful before he becomes a caricature of himself.

The email really hurt my feelings but his callousness also killed off any desire I had to be with him. I would never go there now even if I could because I've seen how he is capable of treating me. So maybe he did me the biggest favour of my life, in hindsight. I still have some feelings for him obviously, I can't turn them off like a light switch. But I'm getting to grips with the idea that he really is bad news and nothing I do can change that.

I also have a little theory about the way I felt about him which I am going to investigate further. Don't worry, it's nothing to do with him, it's about me and without wanting to sound overly dramatic, it's something I'm going to see my doctor about. The intensity of my feelings for a complete and obvious bastard isn't the only out-of-character thing I've been noticing lately. I've developed a couple more symptoms over the past month especially that I am worried about. I don't think it's anything serious and I think it is treatable. I suspected something like this a while go but I thought I was being silly or clutching at straws to explain away what I was feeling. I don't want to say too much because I don't want to sound like a hypochondriac. In a way it would be good if I got a diagnosis but it would also be a bit scary. I'd rather be an idiot when it comes to men than have a bona fide medical predisposition for catastrophic affairs! I'm joking about that last part! All will become clear.