Crush and burn

I'm doing it again. My expectations are getting far ahead of anything there's evidence to support. Somewhere, Hope careered wildly off its leash and ran off into the distance, taking me along for the journey. I can't complain about it too hard now. but what about when the wild ride ends, as it inevitably does, in a crash and burn situation? Well, I reserve the right to bitch and moan then.

But for now, all is sunshine and light. I've been messaging a guy online for about a week. The emails have been flying back and forth, and from the emails I was getting the impression that he was a nice enough guy. But I can usually keep myself in check when it's just emails; I know from bitter experience that a good writer of emails does not necessarily translate into a perfect fit for me. But this guy - let's call him Q - has a good enough writing style, and enough similar interest to me that we haven't struggled with emails.

The bit we have struggled with is finding a time to meet up in person. We're both studying, and both very busy with it right now. So one way or another we're not getting a face to face meeting for a week or two. And for one reason or another, I think he might be thinking along similar lines tome here, because we've exchanged phone numbers - earlier today, no less - and he called me tonight. And, over the phone at least, he seems like a nice normal guy. I know you're not supposed to do this, but he checks boxes. Intelligent enough, bit of a laugh, voice not an irritating whine, likes to read quality books, a bit of a handy-man. The boxes that can be checked without meeting someone have been ticked. And here's the thing. Once again, the anticipation is building. The delay in the face to face bit means that there's more pressure on this than there would otherwise have been. I have more time to create expectations of what he'll be like. And if he doesn't measure up to them, I'll be once again shattered. Or worse. What if I don't measure up to his expectations?

And what happens when my visa is up, if there's no great collapse of one or both of our hopes? Because he's close to his family, has a tight network of friends, from the sound of things. And he's already asked me how I handle being so far from my family. So even if things do go well in the short term, there's longer considerations.

And I'm so far ahead of myself, it's getting ridiculous. I haven't quite booked the church and named the first born, but give me a week or so and I'll be there, I'm sure. I love the buzz it gives you, the complete inability to stop smiling. The sense of crush. But I hate coming down off it and landing back in reality. Here's hoping that this time, there's more crush than crash. The details can sort themselves out.

Eat, drink and be merry

Sitting reading the Guardian online, I came across a story that interested me. Well, there was more than one, actually, but this is the one I was most bemused by. The guy who lives without cash was interesting enough, sure, but the fact that there is an official designation of drinks in the US labelled as "imitation alcohol" was a whole new thing for me. I'd always naively figured that something either was alcoholic, or it wasn't. At less than 0.5%, it's probably got less than a Cherry Ripe, although that too is a contentious subject.

It seems to me that this is a case of over zealous policing, combined with ignorance that old-school bottles used to contain things other than booze. Sometimes they contained laudanum as well. Sometimes, they even held lemonade. The bottle doesn't make it alcoholic. The trace amounts that they mention on the label would come about in almost anything the combines fruit juice and sugar. Hell, leave a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge or in the sun for too long and you could get merrily rolling along fairly quickly. It wouldn't taste too good, but that's why you buy your alcohol from people whose brewing technique is a little more advanced. Actually, if getting alcohol out of schools entirely is what they're after, they may wish to take a look at some of the experiments going on in the science labs. I'm pretty sure I remember doing a more complicated version of the apple juice experiment when I was at school. Of course, they didn't let us drink the stuff, but I'm pretty sure some people would look askance at teaching a room full of 15 year old how to distill liquor. They're probably the same people who would disapprove of Mr P's hilarious exploding milo tin gag as well though, so what do they know?

I'm not going to glorify drinking. There's enough of that goes on elsewhere. I like a drink or five myself, but I'm also the legal age. If I had any alcohol in my system before the legal age, well, that's between me and the idiots who let me into the clubs as a 17 year old without even asking me to produce a fake ID. But seriously, folks. Alcohol is not evil in and of itself. It's been around for centuries. It does have some good properties; think how much more painful and deadly 16th century surgery would have been without alcohol to act as both anaesthetic and antiseptic? Those two people who survived their operations would surely have died. People need to take a little responsibility for their own actions. That kid who went to the principal and reported the problem? Nobody was making him drink it. Personally, the "less than" part would have told me that it was pretty much 0%, which is good enough for me. The people at Fosters, who now feel that their David Boon dolls were a mistake should have been more put off by the amount of beer you needed to buy to get one (from memory it was a slab; 24 cans for those not in Australia) than the fact that he once consumed 52 cans on a flight between Australia and the UK. It wasn't Boonie that was encouraging the drinking, it was Fosters. But who could be surprised? It's the reason for their existence, after all. Much like making non-alcoholic lemonade is the reason for the existence of Fentimans. Call it what it is, people. It's lemonade, made from real lemons, no less, not imitation anything else.

Channelling my mother

Time, they say, waits for no man. No woman, either, if I'm any judge, because it seems I must be getting old. It's been a busy week since my last attack of blogging. Not en eventful week, really, but one that has kept me busy enough that I've barely had a moment to think about what I'd writer here. Bite sized chunks of the day just disappear into nothingness where I have no idea what I've done. I look at the clock and there's half an hour of my life gone, on what I don't know, because I have no memory of anything other than the last time I looked at the clock.

That's not entirely true. This whole time-weariness mood has come out of a few things. Last weekend was a busy Saturday. A date in the afternoon, a leaving party at night, and somewhere in there study, too. The date was unremarkable except for one event, which I'll get to later. the party was fun, in spite of my budgetary constraints, because there were good friends in a nice bar, and everyone was there to have fun. But more about that later too. Back to the date.

I'm not going to dwell on this one. He was nice enough, if a little bland. The place we went to was very nice - must go back there sometime for afternoon tea with the girls. But the main reason I'm even mentioning this comes from something else. I've just passed the three year anniversary of my arrival in London. For that entire time I've lived a fifteen minute walk away from a cousin and never seen her. We don't move in the same circles, we never spoke in Melbourne. We each know the other is there, and that's about the limit of it. Until I saw her coming out of the restaurant as I went in. Three years, not a glimpse, and I see her when I'm on a date and desperately don't want to. The only consolation about this was that it was quite clear she didn't want to see me any more than I wanted to see her. We successfully ignored each other and life resumes its normal course. Ships passing in the night? Not really. She might not have even recognised me - I can't remember the last time we saw each other, but I'm fairly certain I was still a teenager, and a young one at that.

So I moved on, and the party was the perfect antidote to the awkwardness of a mediocre date and a potential glitch with a family member. We had a booth, in the grand tradition of the big party in a central London bar, and were perfectly positioned to watch all the comings and goings of everyone else. Which leads me to another reason why I think I must be getting old. There were plenty of young folk out and about, it being Saturday night. And I found myself turning into my mother. I couldn't believe the outfits the girls were wearing. Were they dresses, or tops that they'd forgotten to put something with? And how could they walk in those shoes, I asked myself. Surely they'd be doing irreparable damage to their feet. I gave a self-satisfied smirk at my knee-high brown biker boots with the sensible block heel, and thought to myself that they'd be sorry later. Then I almost cried at how much like my mother - or worse, my grandmother - that sounded. Yep, I'm getting old.

Which brings me to the other reason why I haven't posted lately. It seems that I can no longer match it with the kiddies in areas other than the ability to wear anything, no matter how uncomfortable or ridiculous, provided it's fashionable. I can't party all night without consequences. Sure, I'm a night owl, always have been. I do my best work by moonlight (which may explain why this post is a little disjointed, and the daytime date was a less than sparkling affair). And I've been burning the midnight oil of late, trying to get my last essay done. And it's hard work. Especially since I keep getting sidetracked by a minor addiction to Spider Solitaire that I seem to have developed. In fact, I've been burning the 3am oil, as well. I remember doing the same thing when I was finishing my architecture degree. Sure, it was tough, but I could cope. One good night of sleep and I was fine again. Now? Even people I work with have noticed that I look exhausted.

Perhaps it's the looming deadline of 30 - not that I'm freaked out about it. It's just that as a milestone, for women it does kind of mark the ending of many things. By the time you're 30, as was pointed out by a friend, you have to concede that you aren't going to suddenly discover a hidden sporting talent. Or almost any hidden talent, really. You're supposed to have reached the end of you carefree irresponsible ways, have settled down with a family; if you haven't, turning 30 starts the clock ticking the countdown to a time when it's no longer an option. 30. It's just a number. But it's a number perilously close to the age at which my mother had me, her third and of course, most perfect child. I look at her life then, settled with two children, on her way owning her home, and I compare it to mine: single, all but homeless, with only a head full of memories to show for all my time. But most of the time, I wouldn't trade it. Sure, there's nothing anyone outside of me can see, but who cares what anyone else thinks? And there lies the real difference between me and those girls in the bar. Because no matter how fashionable it is, I refuse to wear a belt as a skirt and to make myself into a ludicrously tall giant on spike-heeled instruments of torture, simply because some fashion bible tells me to. They'll learn. And by the time I'm in my sixties, where my mother is now? Well, I can already see where I'm heading. It's not a little bit scary, let me tell you. Those orthopedic shoes are just terrible.

A strongly worded blog of complaint

It always amazes me just how many people out there have absolutely no awareness of how they impact on other people's lives and comfort. I think, living in a fairly large western city, there are few things that can drive you insane quicker than someone with their head firmly planted in the clouds and no concept of your tutting behind them. The person who dawdles up the middle of a busy footpath. The one who re-heats the pungent leftovers in the office kitchen. The loud, raucous horde of teenagers anywhere.

Today's offender was on the tube. She shoved her way into the carriage behind me, in a gross violation of personal space that saw her with her nose pressed against my back for two stops, at which point she made a mad dash for the aisle. Of course, when seating became free, I ended up with her next to me. And on top of me, as it happened, because she was also one of those people who feel it is necessary to not only lean all the way over the armrest (in my opinion, there not for the support of one's arm, but rather to keep one's neighbour at a suitable distance) but also to open their newspaper in a manner which Basil Fawlty would find understated. So, with my book approximately two inches from my nose, and someone else's elbow firmly planted in my side, I was pressed up against the - it has to be noted, out of fairness - rather attractive chap beside me on the other side. So it was that the excess of bodily contact was shared through the entire carriage. Some say the effect of a butterfly flapping its wings can trigger and earthquake. I would ask what the effect of a short round woman ruffling a newspaper would be, in such terms. 

Of course, I have now been here so long, come to act so much like a local, that I don't voice my annoyance with these people. Admittedly, on occasion I have felt it necessary to mutter to whoever was lucky enough to be my companion that day - often days when I have spoken to someone back in Melbourne, when my Australian-ness is at its peak. On a particularly bad day, I might ask the offender if they mind or tell them by all means to take up the entire entryway. But most of the time, I simply act like I did today, when no amount of squirming, wriggling, or exasperated sighing could draw the offenders attention to their transgression. 

I think it's time that something was done. These people must be told, once and for all, that it is unacceptable for them to have a conversation in the doorway of a shop. That one doesn't simply stop and change direction when walking along the street. Action must be taken, for the sake of society at large. Anyone volunteering to do it, then? No? Tut, thought as much.

Insomniac ramblings

Tonight I seem to be dining at the insomnia table. It's a full selection on offer; the eyes are heavy but the merest hint of movement snaps them back open again. The mind won't stop ticking over absolutely useless facts that are of no conceivable interest to anyone - including me, as it happens.

So here I am, stranded far from the land of nod and without any visible sign of transportation to take me there. What else is there for me to do but blog?

I'm sure my sleep exile is self inflicted. The worst insomnia usually is. Stress? Yeah, I've had it. Not this time though. This time, the self-inflicted bout of sleeplessness is caused by an overabundance of the stuff earlier today. I've been off work with a cold, nothing too serious admittedly, but enough that I slept until an unreasonable hour this morning. Slept so deeply that I was already hours late for work when I actually became conscious enough to let them know I wouldn't be in - and that in spite of setting my alarm to wake me around the time the phones start being answered by real people instead of machines.

And now, probably around twelve hours after I first woke up properly today, I'm perched here, desperately wanting to go to sleep, even yawning every so often, but unable to banish my brain from alertness. And as I'm mired here, I can't even retreat to my usual habits. I'm on L's laptop, my own being out of commission for the time being thanks to some incomprehensible technical glitch. Much like the one that won't let me sleep, it won't let any power reach the necessary elements of the computer. So I can't even use the time constructively. And here I am, running circles in the blogosphere, hoping to exhaust myself. Perhaps if I'm boring enough I'll put myself to sleep. I think I've had a fairly good shot at it here. Hoping I haven't cured insomnia in anyone other than myself. 

Bitch and Moan

I should blog. I ought to blog. There should be plenty for me to write about. I am, after all, on leave from work and in a city with so much to offer that I could never tire of it. That's all true, it is. I'm a single girl, with plenty of friends she can call on and no ties to hold her back.

Except that I do have ties. They may not have held me back today, but they're still there. Of course, they're not an excuse I could possibly use for the fact that I'm in the process of following up my busy day of housework with an equally busy day of sitting on my butt. Nor do they excuse the way I've been wondering all day what modern housewives without kids get up to all day - how the hell do they fill their time, given that there's only so much you can give to vacuuming, mopping, washing clothes and dishes, and I've done it all in one day? But they do offer something to explain me using one of my much loved leave days in cleaning the flat (it was my turn, really, given that I hadn't done any housework since before I went home for two weeks. Or even further back, since before I went to Norway).

And it's a much repeated refrain for me. I'm broke. Again. And it's only the middle of the month. My ever shrinking pay packet has shrunk to the point where it doesn't even see me through the first half of the month anymore. In the three years and one day that I've lived in London, I've managed to go backwards. Not just a little backwards; that could be understood, given the amount of travel I do. No, I've raced back to be where I was at before I finished uni. The first time around. In 2001.

But I'm still somehow better off than some. I at least appreciate the opportunities that are out there, and grab them when I can. L announced the other day that she doesn't think she's going to get through her to-do list because she has too much to do at work. I felt like slapping her. Here am I, trying desperately to figure out a way to get to tick off just one more thing on my list but knowing that unless my trend is reversed in a hurry it's not going to happen. There she is, in a secure job that is paid roughly three times better than me - and that's base rate, without allowing for all the extra hours she does - won't get through her want-list because of work? What did she move to the UK for, then? To work? She doesn't understand why it makes me so angry to see her wasting her chances. Clearly, she doesn't empathise with the sense of powerless fury that overtakes me when I hear such a pathetic excuse for putting off your life. If I was in her situation, there's a good chance I'd still be broke. But what a beautiful time I'd be having in the meantime.

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night
But ah my foes and oh my friends
It gives a lovely light.
Edna St Vincent Millay

Geek by numbers

I am a self-confessed geek. Notice, I've even got those link things sorted now. Hell, I write a blog on a scarily regular basis. There's no denying it. But now, I'm a geek obsessed with numbers.

There's the stat counter that I run on this blog. I got very excited today, thinking that I'd had a load more visitors than normal. Turns out it was just 2 people discovering me for the first time - thanks for looking, folks. My handy little counter tells me where people have gone on my blog. It also tells me about something called page loads. It was the page load figure that had me excited. Whilst I love that there are people out there who've now read more than the most recent post - and yeah, I adore the idea of having an audience - I wasn't as excited when it turned out to only be two people.

And I'm still paying attention to the world of internet dating. I've hit a point where quantity far outstrips quality. I feel a thrill when I see how many people have read my profile. They haven't necessarily contacted me after they've looked, but the initial hook is enough.

The number of emails I get a day, the number of twitter followers I have...It's all about validation through numbers. And the internet, handy as it is, can tell me just how many people do - or don't, if you take a negative view - pay attention to little old me. I'm not exactly an extrovert in the real world (hell, I was voted person most likely to become a spy by my high school teachers, and that wasn't because of my athleticism or my skill with gadgets). But on the internet? Sure, I crave the attention in what could become a very unhealthy way. Notice, I'm even referencing myself here. 

I could blame the number of accountants I have in my life for the sudden fixation on numbers, but I know it's a lie. So instead, I'm just going to have to hope that the attention keeps up, or I don't know what I'll do. I might even have to make an effort in reality. And we all know that could end badly indeed.

He who tires of London

I've spent the last couple of days as a London tourist and it's brought home a few things to me. One is the obvious one; I love London, but I hate tourists. I know, I am technically a tourist myself, especially as I stroll around town with L and her guidebook. But I like to think I'm not the sort of tourist who stops in the middle of a crowded footpath to study their map, who stands aimlessly in the best viewing angle of any major attraction, helpfully blocking everyone else's photo opportunity. I like to think that I'm considerate and don't make a mess of the place for other people. That's what I tell myself, anyway, even as I do the kind of stop-and-spin maneuver outside the Tate that drives me insane on Oxford St. 

But I do love London in all its gobsmackingly beautiful corners, its stories, the fact that so many people have lived here and left their mark on the world. We found the street my ancestors lived in in Shoreditch today, on our way to a museum. It's a quaint old street full of warehouses, underneath an overhead train line. I'm pretty sure the train line was put through after my ancestors had made the mad dash for the Victorian goldfields, however, so it wasn't entirely the same. Other addresses I have for other ancestors were helpfully obliterated by the Luftwaffe, like so much of London.

Which brings me to something else I began to appreciate more today; London is old. Luftwaffe, yeah, not that long ago, in the grand scheme of things. The Victorian era building I live in? Also, not terribly old, but getting closer. The oldest shop in London, still trading, built in the sixteenth century, during the reign of Elizabeth I? Yeah, now we're talking. Hidden gems are everywhere in London. And most of the time, you'd never know they were there. I love taking the time to either wander for myself, or do a walking tour and be shown these tidbits, the remnants of a different city. There's something to be said for the first time you turn a corner and find a building that was old before your ancestors were shipped out of their homeland to a new social experiment on the other side of the world. The shock of the distance they travelled and the space they found when they got there must have almost killed them. 

Because for all its grandeur, London is not big. My feet are telling me otherwise at the moment, but I have essentially walked the length of London today, in a not very direct line, then headed back to the centre. From London Bridge to Shoreditch, then back into the centre for Covent Garden and Holborn. That's just today. Yesterday was the circuitous rambles around Hampstead Heath and Highgate cemetery. I've found corners of London that I never saw before. For all that it isn't big geographically, the denseness of the place means that you can never see it all. I doubt anyone ever does get to know every inch it, except perhaps the cabbies who have 'the knowledge'.

I almost envy them the years they spend exploring and memorising the nooks and crannies of the city. It must be an amazing experience to know so much. No wonder there are some who double as tour guides. One day, I'll test them out for myself. Until then, though, I've got to get back to plotting where I'll walk my legs off (hopefully literally, if I keep this up) on tomorrow's outing. Samuel Johnson was right, afterall: When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.

Dateline

In the spirit of helpfulness, I've decided to take my, ahem, valuable experience in the world of internet dating and compile a list of handy hints for the beginner. So, here goes. And don't hold it against me if I've left any out. The list is neither endless nor accurate for everyone.

1. Never meet without a photo. Crucial. Also, find out height if possible, because photos can be misleading. I'm fairly tall, so the idea of turning up find a man who's 5'2, far from ideal. He might be the most lovely man on the face of the earth, but if he's eye level with my boobs, we're both going to be distracted - him for obvious reasons and me wanting to slap him, for the obvious reasons.

2. Always have an escape clause handy. Even if this is just a friend who can call with an "emergency". And double check that your friend understands the emergency smoke signal. You don't want to end up in a situation where you're trapped, and your emergency "Help, I''m about to pass out from sheer boredom, whilst bleeding from the ears because he hasn't stopped talking" message is misunderstood and you're left holding the phone a willing it to ring. If the wires are crossed, it won't.

3. Don't assume that because a guy is great with words in an email that he will be the best conversationalist. Chances are pretty good that he won't, in my experience. Think about it. When writing an email, you can edit, you can take your time, you can have someone else read over it. Hell, you can do what one non-English-speaking girl I've heard about did, and get someone else to WRITE it for you (the translator turning up for the date as well was the giveaway). But in person? There's nowhere to hide when he starts rambling about how great his ex was, or mutters incoherently. Or, worst crime of all, is just plain boring.

4. Arrange to meet somewhere public. Several reasons, here. The most obvious is the safety issue, of course. As much as it might have been nice to get picked up from your parents' house by your date when you were younger - and your parents wanted to check out the reprobate you were spending your time with - it's much safer to meet publicly for most people in the age of stalking. You don't want to let them know where you live until you've had a chance to vet them. But always make sure someone knows where you are. Sometimes, you can even combine this with point 2; a friend coming by to pose as your current boyfriend/girlfriend and dragging you away is a surefire way of making sure the hideous horror across the table from you in the cafe knows never to contact you again. The other advantage of meeting publicly, if your date is either a slow starter or, in case of failure at point 2, never-ending, at least in areas with lots of people you've got something else to do. Eavesdropping, people watching, all valid entertainments. And if your date doesn't notice that they don't have your whole attention? You know they weren't worth the effort anyway.

5. Always have an escape route planned. And I'm not talking about your phone-a-friend or a phantom getaway - although that's another possible option in case point 2 fails and you really can't stand another minute in his or her company. Know your way home, or have the money for a cab to get you there. The last thing you want at the end of a bad date is to be forced into sharing a cab. Not only does that let the other person know where you live (see point 3), but it also means you're trapped in their company for that bit longer. Sure, if it's a good date, sharing a cab is fine - perfect, in fact - but at least prepare for any eventualities.

So there you have it. My 5 rules for internet dating when it comes time to meet up. There are other points out there, I'm sure. Tips and tricks during the email phase, phrasing for the profile, suggestions for venues, for outfits, hell, any step of the process can be analysed. But this is what I've got to offer. The other stuff? Well, I'm sure you can figure it out. I just wish I hadn't needed experience to put together this list. Because for all the good dates - and there have been some - there's been some shockers too. Hard won information above, people. Use it wisely!

Not noteworthy, but needy

I'm still supposed to be doing study so, of course, I'm back cruising the internet. I wandered into the 'blogs of note' section of the blogger site. And it prompted me to ask something. I've been blogging, on and off (more on than off for the past six months or so) since 2006. Three years worth of my thoughts, observations and avoidance issues. And somehow, in all that time, I've never once been even considered, as far as I know, as being a blog of note. Sure, I have readers. there's three of you out there somewhere who come along and read my posts. Well, I know where two of you are but I'm assuming there's a third because there are more visits than can be accounted for by you two (you know who you are). So I get the odd visitor who reads my musings. I've even had a comment or two. Not many, sure, but comments. And I go out there and read other people's things. And what gets me is that those blogs of note? I'm certain some of them aren't as interesting as my collection of angry rants and random neuroses. 

Once, in a similar fit of boredom to what I'm having today, I read some blog advice pages. They suggested that you should have a theme to get people along to your site. I do have a theme. It's me, and all the crap that I think. I know it's crap, it's random, it's often poorly put together (this IS a blog people, it's more like a diary than a newspaper column after all), but it IS about me. All of it. Well, no, not all of it, obviously, there are are some parts which are about people I know. But I'm in there somewhere. That's my theme. 

So how do you do it? How do you get to become a blog of note? I want to be there, on that list of ordinary blogs. Surely 3 and a bit years ought to be enough time? I want my recognition and I want it now.

And if you were picturing a three year old face down on the floor banging fists and feet, you had a fairly close approximation to my state of mind. Apologies for the rant. I've been getting by on four hours of sleep for a week now and I'm not as young as I was when I used to keep this up for a month during my architecture studies. And even then I went slightly batty as a result. Or maybe it's the sugar coursing through my veins to keep me awake. Whatever it is, I'm sure all will be fixed once I finish this essay I'm writing and get back to regular sleeping and diet patterns. That and not feeling guilty every time I leave my desk.

Regular programming will resume shortly.

Must love dogs

As I procrastinate my way to another all-night essay writing session, I've been looking at anything and everything that comes to mind on the internet. At least part of this has involved looking at Match.com. One of the things I have discovered in my forays into the world of internet dating, people are endlessly fascinating, and at the same time infinitely stupid about what will be appealing to the opposite sex. 

On what planet could it possibly be a good thing to put a passport photo of yourself as your profile photo? Especially if, as a passport photo, it's still attached to your passport. And has a stamp across the corner of it so everyone knows it's still attached to your passport. I don't know about you, but I've yet to see a good passport photo of someone. I still marvel that the people at passport control can actually tell that the person standing in front of them is the one looking like they've just been arrested for trafficking in child sex slaves on the passport they hand over. Sure, the passport is a notch above the driver's licence (at least you get to choose which shot of you on a slab at the morgue gets pasted into your passport), but it's still not going to impress anyone. 

Photos aren't supposed to be the be-all-to-end-all, though - personality and interests are supposed to play a part. So it's crucial that you can can write about yourself in a way that is going to set you apart from the crowd a little. I've read a whole load of profiles written by guys who are interested in movies and going to the pub - not clubs - with their friends, who are willing to try new things, who don't take themselves too seriously and are looking for a girl who is the same. Believe me, most girls would describe themselves in similar words. But there are so many who don't even run their text through a spell checker. Come on people, it's not rocket science. Although looking at the photo attached to the man who can neither spell, nor find the key that turns off caps lock (not to mention any of the punctuation), it must seem that way to some people.

I know, I'm harsh, judgemental and sometimes downright nasty. And at the end of the day, I can't look down my nose at these people too much because, just like them, I'm still on the shelf. But dear God, if this is what's left in the singles barrel, sometimes I think I'm better off just staying single.

Bedknobs and Broomsticks

It's amazing how combinations of factors can bring out the silliness. I've just spent a couple of hours on the couch with L watching some quality girlie DVDs. Well, one B-Grade chick flick starring Mandy Moore, at any rate, so we could ogle Matthew Goode. 

L and I have very different styles when we're forced to share a couch (too much washing drying in the living room means limited TV viewing positions). I'm quite happy with the whole each having half a couch in which to do as we please. But that doesn't seem to work for L. She slowly spreads until she occupies every inch of space that isn't taken up by my butt. Sometimes, like tonight, she will angle for this to include my hip, my shoulder, any part of me that is still long enough for her to prop part of her on. Sometimes I'm willing to put up with it, for the sake of peace so I can watch the movie. But tonight, I'd seen the movie before and it was chosen more for its man-candy than it's genius plot line, so I wasn't surrendering without a fight.

Clearly, neither of us has been getting enough sleep, because the silliness was in full flight. At one point I was described as a snuggle point. I'm not sure what that means; I'm not sure I want to, to be honest. But apparently, I'm comfortable as a pillow, as well. Inevitably, I started poking her. It didn't degenerate into some fantasy image for teenage boys, but pillows were thrown at each other. Neither of us was wearing skimpy pyjamas, though, so it's OK. 

It did - strangely - remind me of our last trip together, in Norway. That trip is the reason I was making certain that we were having separate beds when we head to New York. We ended up having to share a double. I know I'm no picnic to share a bed with. I apparently have a habit of rolling over with a dead arm and nearly braining whoever is next to me. Quite a few people have told me this. I've only connected with one person - sorry Lou - but the fear of god has been put into a few others at different times. But I've never done what L did to me. The bed was in an alcove, climbed into from one side and up against walls on the other three. I was soundly sleeping on the wall side, pushed as far against it as I could go thanks to L having similar bed tactics to the ones she employs on the couch. I woke up to find a pair of hands in the small of my back attempting to push me out of bed. Of course, there was nowhere for me to go except into the wall, in spite of my protests and attempts to wake her. It was uncomfortable enough that I'm determined to never be in the same position again - in every sense of that expression.

But I got my own back tonight. L ended up off the couch. So all's fair.

God we need to get a life.

The Other Shoe

I'm back in angry camper mode today. Some might doubt that I ever left that mode, as it seems to have become a default setting, but I can assure you that I did. For a whole 48 hours, I'm fairly certain I was something other than a miserable, moaning, temper tantrum waiting to happen. But that's over, and I'm back to my sunny cheerful self. 

And the cause? Well, apart from a toothache that was apparently not caused by anything needing a filling (having a dentist get the giggles when he saw my back-to-front tooth made it almost worth the consultation fee, if not the pain that is still afflicting one of my teeth every time a toothbrush so much as passes my lips), my laptop, my toy, my baby, is without power. Last night at an ungodly hour, the adaptor stopped working and now I'm left with the task of chasing down a new one. Except that I'm supposed to be writing an essay at the same time. Which would be now, actually, while I'm blogging about the other delays. So I'm on L's old laptop, my own older model currently being used by my Dad as his new plaything. My four month old laptop has already broken. And looking at the tech support on the Toshiba website, it's far from an uncommon problem. That's what has me angry. 

I mean, how hard is it to give a decent plug? It's a fairly basic assumption. I can see how batteries would change over time, and how there might be a bad batch of them. But adaptors don't seem to have changed all that much since the early days of laptops. What is it that's even breakable in there? And why the hell wasn't it fixed at the point where they were reconditioning it at the factory? I love my laptop, I really do. I just hate the fact that it ran out of power late last night and can't be re-charged until Toshiba pull their finger out.

And now, all things coming in threes, I'm certain that there's something else looming. I'm madly trying to finish my essay - the second last that I will write in the UK - and then looking at dealing, once again, with my horrible addiction to all things cola-related. One stumbling block at a time.

Double Dare

As I changed out of my rain-sodden work clothes (yes I had an umbrella, but this is London; the rain never falls in a way that lets an umbrella have a hop of protecting anything except the hand that's holding it. And sometimes not even that), I scooped myself a teaspoon full of Nutella. I bought a massive jar to "help" me with my essay writing binge. I could justify it at the time - something about low-GI - but really I know it was an impulse buy because it tastes good and the geniuses at Tescos had put it on the end of the aisle. It's like they knew I was coming, or something. As I licked the spoon clear of any trace of spread, almost as if I'm suspecting the cast of CSI to burst into my room later looking for the evidence, I read on the label that roughly a third of the jar is fat. I nonchalantly scooped another spoonful into my mouth. Today, I just don't care.

Because today has been a bitch of a day. I've had a toothache since Monday. Well, I wasn't sure it was a toothache. It seemed like more a jaw ache at first, the sort of thing that happens when you've been clenching muscles in your sleep. I wasn't too worried about it. But then this morning I couldn't stand having the toothbrush hitting certain teeth. That's when I knew; not only was I going to be chewing gum later that day to avoid bad breath, given that I have the pain threshold of either that princess who complained about the pea or a soccer player at a vital moment, but that I needed to find myself a dentist.

I hate the dentist. I have my horror story reasons, partly involving a broken tooth, partly involving serious and unexplained bruising. And that was with reputable dentists in a country where taking care of your mouth is considered mandatory (for all except me, whose only two visits to a dentist since the end of primary school have had the results above). But I was in England. Land of bad dental work. So legend has it, anyway. So I'm a little worried about the outcome of tomorrow afternoon's visit.

And that bit of Nutella? Least of my worries. I dare it to land on my hips, thighs, stomach, and see if care. If things go their usual way at the dentist tomorrow, tonight will be the last supper for a few nights anyway. Might as well eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, we visit the tooth doctor.

Dark days ahead

Today was the first of the grey days for the season - or the first that I've seen, anyway. It really brought home that winter is just around the corner. And, even knowing that it will be my last northern hemisphere winter, I'm not sure how I'll handle it. Because the thought of darkness before 4 in the afternoon is perhaps one of the more miserable thoughts that today brought into my head.

Of course, there are benefits to winter. There is no other season so friendly to the chubby girl, as everyone else bundles up in layers of clothing that go some way to evening out the imbalances in stature. There are the boots, coats, scarves and hats, at least one item of which I never felt the necessity for wearing until I got over here. In fact, I remember a few years where I didn't even own a winter coat. I went an entire winter at school without even owning a jumper to wear with my uniform (you think Melbourne doesn't get cold? Try getting through a Melbourne winter wearing only the thinnest of see-through lemon yellow shirts, a white t-shirt, a school blazer and skirt. It was even worse because that was the year it was cool to wear knee-hi socks instead of the official baby-poo brown tights). I could never manage that here. It's hard enough to make it through summer without a jumper.

But whatever else living here has done for me, I now have a profound appreciation for Melbourne's weather. Often maligned by other Australians because of the supposed grey and rain, I never had as much of a problem with it as interstaters did. Like many Melburnians, I secretly enjoyed the changing of the seasons; perhaps it wasn't necessary to go through quite so many changes in a single day, but the definition of the seasons and the separate activities and wardrobes that went with them always had an appeal. Here in London, there is less definition. What there is can be found in the different light levels rather than in the weather. Yes, it gets colder in winter, but it's such a gradual drift from the "warmth" of summer that it's hard to tell where one season ends and another begins. It's only the shortening of the days that brings home just how late in the year it is.

Next week sees the end of daylight savings, bringing with it darkness before 6. It won't be long before I'm leaving work in the dark. On Fridays. When I finish at 4:30. How people survive in places with almost continual darkness around Christmas I can't even begin to fathom. I'm sure I'm still recovering from depression after spending a week in the semi-darkness of Finland last Christmas. So roll on winter, do you worst. Then surrender to the sun and bring on the summer. Please.

Playing nicely

It seems to be my lot to share more than I'm prepared to at the moment. I have nothing against the concept of sharing. In fact, I generally think it's a wonderful idea that helps society hang together nicely. Semi-socialist that I am, I even think there are some people out there who could stand to share a little more. But it should all be even, and it should be done with permission. Instead, I've had sharing foisted upon me, with a decidedly uneven distribution of the goodies.

Flatmate C has a new boy. Man, actually. And he's lovely, really he is. There is very little about him for me to complain about. Apart from one small, niggling detail. When he stays over, he shares my toothpaste instead of C's. I know, it's only toothpaste, it's not like it's either expensive or life threatening if I run out. That's not the bit that really gets to me - although it is part of it, since I came back from my 2 weeks at home to find half the tube gone. The bit that really drives me crazy, though, is that he squeezes from the middle of the tube. I'm not anal about many things, but they're all in the bathroom. The toilet roll has to be put in the holder so the loose end flops over the front; if you splash water on the floor tiles, you wipe them up; you squeeze toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. If he'd done that, I probably wouldn't even have noticed that he was stealing it in the first place, to be honest. And now I'm stuck. Because to mention anything about it would seem petty, but it genuinely does drive me up the wall.

Not nearly as far up the wall as last night's instance of inflicted sharing, though. Last night - I may have mentioned this before - was date night with the archaeologist. It's far to say I was excited and nervous as I waited outside the British Museum for Indiana Jones to swing in on his leather whip. It's equally fair to say that I was disappointed with the anorak-and-hiking-boots-wearing reality. But I was still willing to be convinced. He'd seemed nice enough in the emails and whatever, and he gave me a present, seeming to feel some need to give something on a first date (side note: would have been a more impressive gesture if he'd taken the £2 price sticker off the book before giving it to me, but hey, he is a student and male, so I was cutting him slack. Plus, it was a present). So I soldiered bravely on. Mostly without saying a word, because he chatted at me constantly. The impressive factor dropped even further when it became clear that whilst he was very knowledgeable on all things historical, as you'd expect, he was less aware about the rest of the world; I had to explain what architects and interior designers do to him, at a fairly basic level. But whatever, so it was a bad date for me, whatever he seemed to feel about it to the contrary. It got worse when I spinelessly agreed to head to dinner, having not been quick enough to come up with an excuse, or to say I needed a loo so I could call on emergency help from my friends.

Dinner was in a Greek restaurant. Not the flashest, but the New Yorker I was dining with had turned his nose up at the Italian restaurants, telling me that he was too picky (implying that nowhere outside New York does decent Italian food; I would point him in the direction of Italy). He was on a budget, I was indecisive, we ended up with a meze platter. Which he proceeded to devour, at speed, with a noticeable lack of anything that could be called table manners. There was a basket of four pieces of pita bread; he ate three and a half pieces in the time it took me to get through the half that I ripped off. The same thing happened with the next two baskets. Call me nuts, but you shouldn't go home from a dinner date still ravenous. I did.

But he was willing to share other things. The fact that I reminded him of his little sister, for one thing. The exact contents of his mouth was another, as he chewed with his mouth open and regaled me with stories about his soccer prowess, back when he was 9. It was not a good date. But I couldn't bring myself to share that with him. And he couldn't seem to get the message as I repeatedly ducked out of his attempts to put an arm around me, to hold my hand, to do anything that would imply I was enjoying the date.

So he may have ended the night with the impression that the date might be repeated sometime in the future, in spite of my evasions. Sometimes, it's just better to share.

Supersize me

I have been attempting to put together a reasonable outfit for a date tonight. In the process, I discovered an almost total lack of suitable clothes - the downside of the casual office/no life combo is a distinct absence of variety in the clothing choices made on a daily basis. So I went shopping last night. It was a successful trip, I'll say that at the outset. I have an outfit which I am proudly sporting at my desk today, ready for the make up to be applied and the saunter to the meeting place. But along the way, I made some discoveries.

I have moaned about my size and shape for as long as I can remember. I've always been at the upper reaches of the ranges sold in ordinary stores, by which I mean shops that aren't catering for a specific segment of society, whether it be, to borrow Flatmate L's unflattering descriptions, the short shop or fat fashion. For as long as I can remember I've been borderline. Sure, there was a period way back in the early 90s when I could easily trot along to Sportsgirl and load up on t-shirts with multi-coloured lettering, short brightly coloured shorts and all the trendy items of the moment, most of which I cringe to remember now. But the problem with that memory is that while I was getting about in small sized adult clothing, my friends were still shopping in the kiddy section. And that's before we even get started on my feet, which have barely been contained by the ladies shoe department since I was about 13. And hats? Forget it.

And even though shops are now carrying the next size up, it seems that I've grown right along with their sizes and am still forced to concede defeat on a regular basis when I realise that not only am I holding the biggest size they make (notice, not carry, stock, have on the rack...it's make. They don't come any bigger), but that it is made for someone who is decidedly not me.

Which leads me to my discovery. It has now become clear to me that, like a McDonalds meal deal, I have been supersized. It's not that I'm totally disproportionate, whatever the BMI police would have you think. I have a waist, I have some muscle definition in my arms and legs, parts of my are quite toned (not all, but hey, how many people ARE toned all over?). It's just that I was seemingly built on a bigger scale. How it's taken me this long to realise, I don't know. Maybe it was the wallowing in misery about body image for so long. But here it is. I am tall, I have an hour glass figure of sorts (hippy, busty, with a waist in between...figure that's close enough), I have big feet, big hair. I'm a scaled up version of the average 5'4 woman. OK, so the scaling isn't precise, but there it is.

Now all I have to do is get them to accurately scale up the clothes. They've started making boots for people with hockey-player legs. One day, they'll start selling clothes in mainstream shops for scaled up people too. One day, I will be able to walk into any shop and only my lack of cash will stop me from buying one of everything in the shop, in my size. Well, a girl's gotta dream, right?