Oh ladies, ladies....

....Am horrified by telly programme containing interview with 25 year old woman who had been "looking for a husband for nine years".

Actual quote:
"What kind of man are you looking for?"
"One who can speak English".

Makes me sad, and do not understandeth. Wanting to be 'a wife'?

But then again, am not the type of girl one would take home for Sunday dinner to meet the parents, so perhaps I shall never understand.

For no-strings, performance-enhancing sex, please contact Annette at Goodtimepartygirls-R-Us.

I wanted to control it....

Have you ever come across a song that just seems to have been written for you, and you alone? As though someone crawled inside your brain, muddled through the fuzz and disparate nonsense, and translated it all into beautiful lyrics that express exactly how you feel?


I'm going on a date tonight
To try to fall out of love with you
I know, I know this is a crime
But I don't know what else to do

My love, you're in a magazine
My love, you're doing fine, you're on TV
You pull my heart out then you run away
From Chicago to Cleveland you leave me pain
You leave me pain

When you're lucid you're the sweetest thing
I would trade my mother to hear you sing
When you're lucid you're thee sweetest thing
I would trade my mother


The Sweetest Thing
Camera Obscura, My Maudlin Career, 2009


Goodness. Some days I really depress myself. Scrap the above.
This illustrates my mood much more accurately:


Someone left a cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
Because it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again

My Old Man's a Dustman...

Things I have realised this weekend:

1. I am attracted to boys who look good in my flat cap.
2. I am infinitely more skilled at not giving a damn, than caring a little bit.
3. My lust for cheese when hungover will always outweigh my need to communicate with other human beings.

Hush now child....

I wish I had stuck to my guns and never told anyone.

There was a reason I kept it my secret. Thank you for reminding me why.

Are you so strong, or is all the weakness in me....

I just finished a telephonic chatter with the ole dear. She attempted (unsuccesfully) to stealthily slip into conversation that she happened to go on a jolly jaunt to the chiropractor the previous week, and he had discovered, after much japery, that she has next to no pain sensation in her feet, fingers or neck. She told me the story purely because she found it amusing.

She is a daft bloody hippy.

I constantly wonder what I would do without her. When she tells me she's been to the doctors, I always have the same gut reaction. It is as though someone is squeezing my bronchials tight, choking me from the inside out. As though someone has filled my lungs with dust and ash, and try as I might, I just can't breathe. Such is my fear of losing her.

I get scared that the last time I spoke to her will be the last time.

I get scared that I spoke too much about me, and never enough about her.

I get scared that she'll never know how astounded I am by her amazingness.

Often, after hanging up, I will find an excuse to call her back...
Just so I can tell her I love her again.

Cud and other such things....

RuminationRu`mi*na"tion\, n. [L. ruminatio: cf. F. rumination.]

1. The act or process of ruminating, or chewing the cud; the habit of chewing the cud.
2. The state of being disposed to ruminate or ponder; deliberate meditation or reflection.
3. (Physiol.) The regurgitation of food from the stomach after it has been swallowed, -- occasionally observed as a morbid phenomenon in man.

On the odd occasion that I scroll back through my old posts, I am somewhat saddened. I am disturbed by my preoccupation with the shitbag boy who defecated all over my life for four years. I want to give sad, broken one-year-ago-Me a massive hug and make sure she knows it's going to be ok.

I would like to get a big black marker and draw a line on my computer screen, separating pre and post-life-saving-epiphany.

Or, I would like to work out a way of chaptering my posts.
Technology has me beat.

I wish I had Stretch Armstrong limbs so I could reach to Frome just to touch her....

Without a doubt, one of the most astoundingly talented, beautiful and downright coolest ladies I have ever met. Lucky for me, I get to call her my best friend too... She lives in a beautiful little house in Frome (best bathtub in the land) with her delicious hubby Lu and their little terror-puppy Elvis.

She runs the rockin'est boutique, and I thought I would do a spot of pimping as I am desperately in love with everything she sells, and does and says.

http://www.deadlyisthefemale.com/home.php

Enjoy!
x

P.s - Claudina, mon cherie, tu me manque. Cannot wait for June!

Weekending

Favourite moments of my weekend thus far:

1. Finally getting to bed on Friday night. Unrivalled bliss.
2. Fleshing out mine and Trickey's plans for world domination.
3. Spending time with some of the loveliest people I've ever had the good fortune to meet.
4. Laughing so hard at Gem's 'noise' that cider bubbles burned my nostrils.

Once upon a midnight dreary...

I will never admit to anyone, all of the things you did to me.
I'm scared they will think I am stupid.

Tardy. Two months tardy.

8am. I am sat on a freezing cold bus opposite the sourest, most miserable, pucker-mouthed hag I have ever laid eyes on. We are stuck in traffic. My ipod has just died. Phone rings. Landlord.

"Morning! Ummm... We're selling the house and you have to move out tomorrow, and sleep on the street with nothing more to wear than bathing suit bottoms and a fedora for warmth".

I have the worst luck when it comes to houses. In the past three years, I have moved house (a vomit-inducingly stressful) five times. I have lived in seven different houses. SEVEN. 'Crikey Moses' I hear you cry! 'How can that be so?' I'll tell you how:

1. Archway
For four blissful, alcohol and chip laden years, here I lived with my beautiful Claudia. My room had floor to ceiling windows which overlooked my garden. Perfect vantage point from which to watch the neighbourhood fox slide and shuffle it's bottom down a shed roof each night (worms?) I wrote my dissertation here, I got my tortoises here, I met the boy whilst living here (we concluded our first 'date' by eating crispy duck and drinking champagne sitting on my bedroom floor *sigh*)

2. Watford #1
I am still incredulous that I ever left London for Watford. To live with a boy. But being broke and enamoured and jobless, it seemed like a sensible thing to do. Yet within a month we had to move out because the place was being sold. Which in reality was a darned good thing as Euston Avenue was the PITS. It should have been destroyed. Am pretty sure it was a genuine health hazard.

3. Watford #2
We were meant to move into a wonky old house in Bushey with a claw-foot, roll-top bath and a cellar but of course that fell through. Instead we moved into a big shiny new house. Difficult to look back on this with fond memories as this is where 'break-up mark 1' took place. Still, it was fun. And big. And my room had an en-suite. But I guess eventually it dawned on me that sans garcon, I had very little reason to remain in Watford. I missed the Big Smoke achingly so. Andy and I decided to quit our boring jobs, get new exciting ones in London and move house. And then the boy decided he wanted to come too.

4. Highgate
We were meant to move to a three bedroom flat in Bethnal Green, but of course that fell through. So instead the boy and I moved to a beautiful two bedroom art deco appartment in Highgate village, with gargantuan gardens and a wrought-iron spiral staircase. When the boy began his round-the-world tour (impending doom), my sister and her kitten moved in to help with pennies. And then... The epic heartbreak happened. So I had to move out. Philandering fucker.

5. Watford #3
So, rather than live with potential random loons and pay muchos dollar and have to move swiftly, I decided to stay with my Claudina at her and hubby's new house in Watford for a month. They looked after me good and proper and helped to mend my broken heart. I was a terrible house guest - I never made dinner, or did any cleaning. I was always too hungover to tend to their hangovers. I left my telly on all night. But people do daft things when they are in chronic amounts of pain (also during this time I canoodled someone I DEFINITELY should not have, started some very unhealthy ritual internet stalking, and developed a bit of a drinking habit. Thankfully, my best friend is the best best friend anyone can have and she made it all better. By snuggling me up on the sofa, watching America's Next Top Model and feeding me crisps. She rules).

6. Brick Lane
This was meant to be the ramshackle house with the crazy Eldorado furniture, BUT OF COURSE THAT FELL THROUGH so instead, Mr Hall, Danni & I moved into the beautiful house I just vacated. And it was the bawmb. So much fun; reunion with the boy, getting trapped in the bathroom and needing to be rescued by Alex at 4am before I drunkenly smashed the glass partition above the door to get out, finally getting promoted....

Ok, so it hasn't all been roses. Since March 2008, we had 12 people come and go. Not because we are bitches and no one wants to live with us, but because we really do have the worst luck when it comes to houses. The stories I could tell you - debt, drugs, saxophones, Kylie tour and Jean-Paul Gaultier sailor suits, contrary frenchies and so on...

7. Archway # 2
So here I am, back where I started, in the cutest little flat in the world. And it's mine all mine. Sort of. I've only been there a month, and there's been a fair amount of drama and heartache already, but luckily, I am the mostest toughest cookie who ever lived so it's all fine and dandy. I just hope this one lasts a bit longer than the others.

HOLY JESUS SHIT. Were I not so lazy, I am sure I should have scheduled a breakdown.

Chaos is a friend of mine.....

... no more.

I did it. It's finished. All done and dusted.
No more boy.

I mean, I didn't kill him or anything. I'm just finally done.
The weirdest thing? I feel fine. I feel.... happy. Genuinely relieved and content, which I just wasn't expecting. Of course there have been some hairy moments over the weekend (a small screaming match over a fucking television for christs sake) but when it comes down to it, this really is for the best. I really mean it.

Who would have thought eh? If you'd told me a year ago, that not only would I once again find myself in this position, but moreover would be happy about it, I'd have told you to shit right off.

Tonight is the night...

I should be good and hardworking and virtuous and committed but....

Am exhausted. Brain has stopped working. Might just go home, have wee glass of vin, lovely supper and early night. Might even accompany this with QI. Or Mock the Week. Or Cops with Cameras. Switch off faculties and merrily vegetate. Perhaps tomorrow, I might not resemble walking dead.

Things that have struck me as irksome today:
1. Every seam on my vintage dress has ripped.
2. When I reinforced every seam on this dress, I appear to have missed two areas.
3. These areas are in my armpits.
4. Even when making a concerted effort to look smart, I still manage to look like a homeless.

The heart is forever inexperienced....

Do you ever get the feeling that you are being tested? That there's no possible way you could have gone through the hell of the last few years purely 'because'? That there simply must be a purpose to all this?

Just before Christmas, I genuinely believed that I might be having a breakdown. Not one of those dramatic, tragic breakdown's that involve families, interventions and overpaid specialists. Rather a quiet, measured and comfortingly straightforward breakdown. Uncomplicated.

I was tired. I was stressed. I was very very very not happy.
Mostly I think I just needed a break, but being as wrapped up in the day-to-day as I was, this simple solution to my troubles was mighty tough to see. I just had a bit too much on my plate and for some reason, my usual 'work best under pressure' attitude just didn't quite kick in.

So, come January, I had hoped for some respite. I looked forward to living a simple life, filled only with nice things and nice people and easy days reading the paper, drinking gluten-free beer. Wowzers, how naive Annette was. Of course I wouldn't have an easy start to the year. Of course I wouldn't be able to just, y'know, live. No no. Of course, my days would once again be rife with trouble and strife:

I have to move house. Again.
My landlords have decided to sell our beautiful slum, what with these being troublesome financial times n'all and clearly the best time to be hocking such small fry as 4 bedroomed London-based houses. For not one bean less than the asking price. Got the smarts, them. Now, one housemate is sans work and has very sensibly decided to go home and reap the monetary benefits. The other housemate is currently in Peru or similar, and shan't be coming back to the house of much-rent. The temps are off on their own respective jollies and I have decided to move back to North London where I belong. Hoorah! Except, now I have to go through the whole freakin' rigmarole of finding, securing and paying for another pad. Sheesh.

Work is confusing. Again.
I have (finally) been offered the opportunity to apply to do something my heart literally aches to do: write and create for a living. But suddenly I find myself in a position (albeit through my own actions) where I risk jeapordising where I currently stand. Not only that, but I am forced to acknowledge that factors other than my suitability and aptitude for the potential new job may indeed be the driving force behind the decision to hire/fire. Not for a second would I presume that I am just soooo super and talented that the only possible reason for my not getting the job would be because of nonsense politics (lordy no), I just mean that perhaps for the first time in my life I am aware of the ruthless machinations of... well, The Machine.

I am confused. Still.
I started seeing the boy again six months ago. Which made me happy. But confused. But happy. But wary. But happy. But scared. How do you embark on a romance with the person who broke your heart with a clean slate in hand? How do you not carry all that hurt along with you? How long do you stick around for, hoping that things will change when you are pretty sure that they just won't? Don't get me wrong, things are far from terrible. In fact, they're better than they've ever been but.... He broke my heart. I'm not sure it is fixed.

I feel sick.
After many a fat-riddled and pain-addled year, I have made the brave (ahem) choice to start taking medication for PCOS. What with my mother being a bit of a hippy, I have long avoided committing to long-term treatment, choosing instead lovely (gag) holistic therapies and eating sensibly. If 'sensibly' actually means 'whatever the dickens I want, damn the consequences'. Yet, over the past year, my symptoms have worsened an awful lot and I just cannot deal with being broken anymore. But these goshdarnit pills make me want to vomit all the livelong day. Every morsel I put in my mouth wants to make its way swiftly back out again. It hurts my tummy.
I miss steak.

Writing this down makes it sound a tad trivial. Very trivial in fact.

Things are actually ok.
Some perspective Annette....

Oops.

Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't've fallen in love with?

You feel sick every time they call or don't call. You feel sick each time they cross your mind (practically every second of every waking, and dreaming, hour). You feel sick when you think about what happened and how easily it could happen all over again, and you feel sick when you realise how much of a fool you've been...

Holy jesus shit, if I genuinely had the desire to constantly feel nauseous I would just eat chicken liver all day.

Involving another human being in the process seems a tad excessive.

When I see you baby, I wanna take off your clothes....

Women I admire/am jealous of/wish I were as cool as:

Simone De Beauvoir
Anais Nin
Kathleen Hanna
Sadie Benning
Chantal Claret
Chrissy Hynde
Patti Smith
Kim Gordon
Siouxsie Sioux
Caithlin De Marrais
The rest of my band

Dagnammit. Ain't never gunna happen, eh?

Disappointments are to the soul what the thunder-storm is to the air

"Society cares for the individual only so far as he is profitable"

Simone De Beauvoir

I hate feeling let down. I hate being pigeon-holed. I loathe being held-back. Especially when any of these things are born out of financial considerations. As hard as I try not to take things to heart, or to look upon misfortune as something personal, I still really struggle with feelings of disappointment. It's as though a vital part of my emotional make-up is MIA. Where other people bounce back, or even worse, appear unaffected in the first place, I torture myself with questions that cannot be answered. I rake over a million 'what if's'. I reprimand myself for permitting la me to be placed in such a vulnerable position. I get drunk and eat too many Doritos.

The trouble is, it seems to be happening far too frequently these days (not the Doritos part - I am a picture of virtue). I doubt that it is a result of my insanely high expectations of people. I reluctantly surrendered these after the billionth time someone I love decided to drop trow and number two on me from a great height. I doubt it is just a run of bad luck (too many things have happened for it ALL to be coincidental). Instead I wonder if, in fact, it is just down to.... well, me.

Previously I have wondered if I am just a bit crap at processing information that affects me directly. If, as Edward de Bono tells us, I predominantly use my Red thinking hat instead of my Black and White hats? I am ruled by my heart, not my head. Thus, I regularly feel screwed over because (as I mentioned before), I am definitely missing fundamental tenets of a 'normal', logical brain.

So maybe I need to strap on a pair, man-up (so to speak) and start telling people what I actually think.

Fine. Knackers in hand, here goes:

You should have given me the chance. In not doing so, all you have managed to achieve is royally fucking me off.

Douches, the lot of them.

Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?

It is taking every ounce of strength I possess not to drink this ruby temptress before me.

Things that have annoyed me today:

1. Not being able to drink Coca Cola.

2. Not immediately losing 10 stone from resisting Coca Cola.

When cleaning house, one must always remember to wear protective gloves....

I know, I know...

It's the New Year and practically everyone in the Western world is making declarations of good intent for the forthcoming 12 months. It's such a cliche to join the masses and profess to improve oneself with gusto (if I couldn't quite manage it over the course of the preceding 12 months, why do I think it'll be any different now?), and yet here I am doing just that.

I have officially had enough of being miserable and worse, being so painfully introspective. I am doing away with all surplus baggage, binning everything in my life that isn't good for me: blue doritos (oh you golden, cuneate morsels from heaven, how I shall miss thee), Kopparberg and fries at lunchtime (*sob*), my compulsion to be sedentary at every available opportunity, my crippling lack of self-confidence and every emotionally detrimental relationship I have. In the bin you go.

I shall replace you with things that are full of health and vigour. I shall do Pilates once again every morning. I will resume walking home from work each night. I will eat homemade sushi (nom nom) and cassoulet, and drink nothing but water and (gag) cammomile tea. Mung beans shall be my best friend, and we will rejoice in our combined virtue.

I will watch films of note once more and perfect my gee-tar playing skills. I will see all my friends who I have so heinously neglected over the past few years (I am sorry - will you ever forgive me?) I will leave work on time at least four days a week and will no longer let it dominate my life. Never again will I stay in the office until 1am. Non non non.

To be fair, I doubt very much that I will desist drinking or smoking. However, I shall endeavour (ooh, am a rhymer) to drink and smoke less. Or perhaps less frequently. Yes, instead of being a habitual tippler, I shall become a reckless bingeing booze-hound. Much healthier.

I will partake in vague-sounding pastimes such as 'weekending'.

I will not learn to love gardening.

Most importantly I will pursue my heart's desires, in every sense. No more lamenting times past and loves lost. If I want something, I will do my darnedest to go out and get it, whatever 'it' may be.

Oh, barring my unbridled lust for a certain (nameless) married man. I shall not do any pursuing there.

Gosh....

"Then I had realised what had happened - he had come, filled the gap and, when he left, he took more than he had arrived with. He had charmed his way into my heart, made me trust him and, then when I wasn't looking, had stolen my emotional fixtures and fittings, leaving my interior sitting-room stripped bare. He had probably gone to a pub in Camden and sold the lot for way under their market value."

Marian Keyes, 1997.

Sometimes you find you find the most profoundly resonating things in the most unexpected of places.


p.s - Please do not tell anyone about my reading the Keyes woman. It is my dirty little secret.