Anita is on a mission.

- This one, no. Next.

- Why not?

- Not good looking enough for you. Next!

- But.. if he's ugly then I won't feel inadequate!

- Aha, this one there...

She reads out the poor unsuspecting man's profile, commenting on punctuation, use of vocabulary,  alleged relationship history and looks.

- Write to him. This one.

So I did.

Four days later; there was a Date.

A five hour date, the type of date where, unfortunately for a blogger, there was nothing to poke fun at, no-one to ridicule, nothing to sigh about and swear I'll never do that again. A seriously fun date of conversation, food, laughter and obvious mutual attraction.

I am so boring sometimes! I'm sorry, blogfolks.

Let's see how it goes - it is bound to go seriously wrong next time, when I find out about his diaper fetish. In the meantime, I'll be over here for Christmas, trying to not get too excited.

Be well!

Anita sits me down and faces me, almost sternly:

-Girl, you need to go out and get yourself a couple of dates.
-You don't mean the fruit, do you?
-No, man.
-But.. but.......This House Believes that it's perfectly fine to pine for a lover who's already involved, too far away, and to hope that he's going to figure it out, leave everything and ask me to marry him!
-Well, This House Believes that the other House is full of shit. That man doesn't know what he wants, girl.

Anita says 'girl' and 'man' a lot; that's because she's from the Carribean.

-Go get yourself signed up on that dating site thing. I'll help you check them out and pick a decent man.

Perhaps Anita is my Carribean fairy godmother.

Blogfolks, it never ceases to amaze me the large percentage of the public who are idiotic enough to make athletes their role-models.

And quite frankly, I would question if Tiger Woods is an athlete in the true sense of the word - the man hits little balls with a stick.

That's all.

Unless he does prefer to eat the rude

8PM. The posh car* has to stop at the light to let us cross. We take our time.
The windows are rolled down, symphonic music, perhaps a tiny bit too loud.
There's a silky haired blonde in the passenger seat.

-Smooth guy.
-Yep, says J. Do you think he's an Hannibal Lecter type? Expensive life style, caviar, the best music?

The light's gone green, foot on the accelerator, too much, just too much, the posh car speeds away, trying to impress the blonde maybe?

- Nah; no sophisticated, cultured serial killer here; he's just a rich wanker.
- Yes; also he probably listens to Classic FM anyway. The radio for people who don't actually like classical music.
- No redemption possible there. Shame. I shake my head in regret.
- Well at least he won't eat her brain for dinner.


*I don't know what make it is, I know fuck all about cars, nor do I care.

This bar of shampoo will last longer than most relationships, II

This week, and since history tends to repeat itself, even after 6 years of therapy, I have been shaking my hair, because it smells so nice!
I've also been thinking I was much funnier in 2006
On the other hand, I'm also much happier and a much more interesting person in 2009. Let's go and ask my many friends, my long-term, committed partner and my two children.

Ah.

Let's file this post under 'self-delusion', then.
Hopefully, the next one will be in 'the wonderful world of dating'. Be well!

Til I find my own (they're in there somewhere, being shy, probably), a few words by Ibsen:

To live is to battle with trolls
in the vaults of heart and brain.
To write : that is to sit
in judgment over one's self.


Be well, and if you live where I live, I hope you own a pair of wellies.

Triumphant return

1. And I quote fishboy:

So.

Seems like I will be resuming my usual modus craperandi of irregular and erratic updates with little content or interest.

Start as you intend to continue I say!

My thoughts exactly.

2. The yoga addiction has developed; it's a good thing. I won't elaborate today because people will call me a hippie, say that I smell and throw rotten vegetables at me. That's what J was saying until I got him hooked too, so, ha! Six packs in the House of Y!

3. Since September.. since September things have happened, plane tickets to California were purchased, and much fun and sex was had by yours truly.

Then reality kicked in, can you see the bruise?

I have exactly 156 pages of fun, sex and reality, but they are real, paper pages, covered in blue ink and honestly.. it's all drama. Pff.
Better offer a summary. So: fun, sex, reality, that's all I'm saying for now.

4. Might well be back to this blogging lark, seriously.

1. Quick! before my daily life plunges back into autumn, work and all things grim, I am trying to develop an addiction to yoga. More precisely Bikram - the kind where they cook you for 90 minutes. Logically, I should come out of there looking and feeling like a limp leek, but no!

2. J, the Scot who can't function above 22°C, now joins me in this communal sweating, muscle-stretching venture.

3. Today our teacher is Francesca.
'I think she explains stuff really well' J declares, 'but my judgement may be biased since she is a total dream.'
How so? I ask, still in a daze myself.
'As soon as she walks into the studio, I hear the last movement of Tchaikovksy's Symphony No. 6.'

4. Fine; for the time being, this, with or without Tchaikovksy, will have to make up for our respective lack of a sex life, then.

September jigsaw.

1. Bloglanders, let's quote a TV character, why the hell not : Sexuality is fluid, whether you're gay or you're straight or you're bisexual, you just go with the flow. How do you like that my cultural references are US TV series about lesbians?*

2. ' Actually', I said, (defiantly?) pouring tempranillo into my glass: 'I haven't had sex with a man in over ten years and didn't think I would ever again'.
'Ok', he replied, smiling only a little. Then we finished the wine.

3. I thought : as much as I like this person, what if.. he turns out to be, I don't know.. a man? What I just don't feel anything, don't know what to do, get bored? What if?

4. Blogfolks, I was wrong, and that worried voice should have just shut the hell up, and gone with that flow..

5. A holiday lover, hurrah! Can't get him out of my head, boo!

6. When a friend recommends a work of fiction of a pornographic nature, said work of fiction should not be read on long, solitary train journeys, especially when your hornymeter is cranked up to the max and said holiday lover on a plane to California.

I missed you, bloglanders! Next time I'll tell you about why everyone should do Bikram yoga, if only because it's full of seriously hot people. Be well!

* Personally, I'm being extremely impressed.

Eliza

1. For six years, War raged on between us.

2. I would never live up to her gardening standards, she knew it and despised me for it.
In spring, in summer, I would try to hide from her, cower, sneak back in at the mere flicker of net curtains - in order to avoid her heavily accented monologues about her garden and its roses, about my pile of mud and its weeds. She made me feel like a horticultural deliquent.

3. She liked her giant old lady knickers to dry out in the West London breeze; sometimes, in-between washing loads, we would get to see the sun setting on the horizon.

4. And now, people of Blogland! it is with some sadness that I must report the following: Eliza is no more. A professionally grim faced policeman knocked on our door, late at night, that week it was so cold in London, you remember? and no we didn't have any contact details for her family.

5. Eliza's giant knickers will not grace our living room view ever again. Elvis and Sid, her vicious cat, will never kick our very own Pancho's ass ever again. There will be no more heavily accented monologues about my incompetence.

6. I'm sad, because I'm projecting. Perhaps, like Eliza, one day I won't die alone in a country that isn't mine, and the police won't find any contact details.

7. Read Tieg Larsson's 'The girl with the dragon tattoo'. Really.