Snow, bungled travel plans, and a random kiss

I've had one of those weeks that you want to write home about, but of course I can't. I am not sure the letter would get there (bloody snow!), and God forbid it did, my mother would teleport to where I was and destroy me. Neither works for me.

So I was supposed to be in my tropical paradise but a minor issue of 2 inches of snow, and Heathrow being the most backward airport in Europe, I am most certainly not. I've had 48 hours (and freaking counting) to think about my escapade of a few days ago. Which is probably enough time for me to justify writing about it.

Thursday night. A lot of snow. And the Christmas dinner. It wasn't quite the work Christmas do, but it ended in the same way. The day was horrific, long, with snow, and I was wearing what were meant to be cute librarian-esque heels, but of course were simply a slip-risk, and threatened the integrity of my ankle joints. I made it home in one piece, via M&S for some Prosseco, pre-drinks before the ball and all that. I was so bloody organised I booked the cab two hours before we were due to depart, in case the rush hour and snow meant a paucity of said vehicles. But of course, as fate would have it, the taxi was late, my housemate was late, and the bottle of Prosseco and I were a little too well acquainted. I also had on THE DRESS. I hate to sound cocky, but I really did look fit AS. It was a long black number from FCUK, with a Danny Minogue type boat collar, and backless, with a chiffon mini train arising from the knot at the small of my back. It was a FMD (F- me dress), without looking even remotely slutty. The pink heels achieved the 'questionable morals' look. In hindsight, it probably spelt the start of my life worries.

An hour late to dinner, I rushed in (er staggered) with a gaggle of females in tow, and our token male friend as an escort. The wine was flowing freely: first the white with the fish, then the red with the main, then the crappy dessert that was not consumed. Midway through dinner, a couple of consultants joined our table. A little apprehensive at having to make conversation with them, my friend and I chose to make best of  crappy situation, necked a bottle of red wine in a matter of minutes, added a bottle of rose a little later, and made polite conversation about our future career plans, and the fact that children were not an immediate consideration.

At some point during the conversation, the alcohol severely blunted my capacity to reason, and I dragged, not so much kicking and screaming, my friend to the dance floor where the night became a hazy blur of fun, tears and vodka lemonades. The boys arrived (usually just friends), and plied us with excess amounts of vodka, and then off it was to the club. In between all this, I managed to have a monumental fight with one of the gang, cried, told him how much he had taken our friendship for granted, and then skidded around town in my heels, before heading to the after party.

I had just enough time to disrobe (just the coat) and put my bag and stuff down, before I was summarily pinned to a railing by J. I know he was being affectionate, and the dress may have overpowered his good sense, but bloody hell. It was a proper movie moment. The unexpected kiss. I don't fancy this boy. I didn't consciously seek him out to flirt with him, or get kissed. But it happened. And thank heavens he backed himself to do that, cause it turns out, he is a pretty awesome kisser. One wouldn't expect that to be the case, but it was a fireworks lift-your-left-leg and all, affair. So much so, that despite acknowledging the error of our ways, I just could not not kiss him. The evening ended with us dancing, making out like 16 year olds, with the rest of the boys acting just that age and taking photos on camera phones (a whole other blog). I giggled my way home in a taxi, on my own, kissed, flushed, and having received the ultimate compliment. I felt just a little bit HOT!

Merry Christmas followers, more stories after the holidays, especially if I make it to my tropical paradise! Fingers crossed that travel plans transpire x

Gallery Boy: Who's cocky now?!

About 2 years ago, I decided it was time for a cultural awakening. I got into the habit of waking up early every Saturday and Sunday, and found galleries, concerts or plays to attend. I fell into a nice routine, spending most Sunday mornings at my local museum, and then heading out for brunch with the paper, and time to myself. On the third Sunday of my fledgling routine, a little hangover but rather happy with sunshine in May, I bundled out of bed a little after 2pm, threw sunglasses on (and not quite sure, but hopefully changed out of last night’s ensemble) and wondered into town. I patiently queued for an exhibition of Japanese etchings and prints, which I thought fitted nicely into the repertoire of things to see, and headed into the gallery. Room 1: loads of pictures of people in boats, with rice paper umbrellas, and cherry blossoms every which way.

Anon: Hey

I was jolted out of my reverie by the deep voice and the feeling of a human standing a bit too far into my personal space.

Me: Ah...hello.

Anon: Sorry to trouble you, but do you fancy some company?

Oh for goodness sake! Why do people come to galleries?! To be alone, I thought to myself. Here I am, lost in my own little world, enjoying the voices in my head, and looking at pictures I didn’t understand. Why would someone want to rock this boat?! Hmmm? Why?!

Anon: Oh I’m sorry, I’m guessing you wanted to be alone? I get that. I’ll let you be. If you fancy a coffee and a chat about, erm, Kamakura’s collection (he was obviously peering over my shoulder at the artist’s name by this point), I’ll be across the street at 4.

Cocky little... I turned around and peered into the most handsome sheepish face I had ever seen (in the last two weeks, but whatever)!! Oh dear. This boy/man thing was seriously hot and I had just been exceptionally rude. Quick recovery needed.

Me: Sorry, just need a little time to myself. Coffee at 4 you said? Where?

He told me the name of the shop and wandered off. I powered my way through 6 galleries, tripping over old people, brushing young children aside, faux-staring at etchings, trying to spot my prey while admonishing myself for being a little cocky. Oh, how the tables had turned.

3.30pm. Yeeha! (That was in my head, just in case you were wondering). My brain began to shut down on me. How bad is it to be 30 minutes early for a coffee plan (use of the term date is too suggestive), that might not happen? We were about to find out. I headed out into the street, ignoring cars, majority of pedestrians, and the stupid English rain. I was a woman possessed. I entered the coffee shop, picked a table by the door so he wouldn’t miss me (I wasn’t sure how good his eye sight was, so just in case), and ordered a bottle of sparkling water (in case he was, I don’t know, weird) and two menus. I then moved tables because I didn’t want to seem too eager, which was a bit of an effort, water, glasses, forks and knives in hand. The waiters watched my three trips back and forth, rather bemused. I collapsed into the chair, Time magazine in hand, dignity at the front door, and ‘sophisticated’ adequately implied.

Please turn up! Please turn up! Please turn up!

Anon: Hey again, you’re early.

Crap. He did it again. Plus he was early, but I was just even earlier than he was, and he had also chosen this day to be observant. You’re early. Thanks, as if I didn’t feel like enough of an idiot. This was fast becoming a lesson in how not to bag a beautiful man.

Me: Yeah, the prints kind of wore me down. (Poor attempt at a joke? I wouldn’t like to say).

He settled into the seat opposite me with a ‘Hope you don’t mind. My name is GB (not his real name), by the way’.

Me: A.

I could feel the staring, judging eyes in the restaurant. Darn.

GB: Cool. Sorry about earlier, I’m new to the city and galleries confuse me.

I felt like an idiot before, and now, like a bitch. Lovely.

Me: That’s alright. 3 rules: don’t look too hard at the prints or read too much into the descriptions, most people frown upon speaking too loudly in galleries, and if it’s not immediately aesthetically appealing, 20 minutes staring at it will make little difference.

GB: Ah, thanks for that. I will keep those in mind. So what do you do?

We fell into a nice easy conversation, supplemented by tea and messy scones with cream and jam. I redeemed myself from the earlier faux-pas, and made a friend. A friend looking for a girlfriend. A rather handsome available man. How often did that happen?! I’ll tell you...never. We were, sadly, incompatible. I discovered that he was 35, looking to settle down, and was in the market for a house, a wife, 3 kids and a volvo. I on the other hand, was still at university, hangover at 2 pm most Sundays, and going to galleries to find myself. It was clearly going nowhere, but we enjoyed each other’s company, and have stayed friends, 2 years’ on. Every so often, he calls me up, we meet for breakfast and he tells me about his endeavours and his budding relationship, and I assure him that I am no longer hangover every Sunday afternoon, just 1 in 4. We’ve both made significant  progress. I have even met the soon-to-be wife, though I am not sure she entirely believes the story of how we met. All she asked me was ‘are you serious?!’

I did learn a valuable lesson from gallery boy though. I have never again turned down an unwelcome advance without giving the person a good once over. You never know, frogs princes...blah blah. Plus, I am really bad at nonchalant chic. Hey presto. There’s a skill I never had.

Letters...

I went out to buy letter writing paper the other day and was thwarted by iphone covers and such like crap, and absolutely no writing paper anywhere. Then it happened: A light bulb moment. I had an epiphany. No one writes letters any more. What’s up with that?! My friends went to boarding school, and I remember writing thousands of letters to them. My first boyfriend went away and I remember penning my thoughts on paper with a pink flower-filled border, and signing off with a heart broken in two by Cupid’s arrow. I was thirteen. Still, I felt fulfilled by the whole experience of total abandon on a page. When did it all change?! Why did it all change?!

We’re all a bit paranoid about writing things down on paper, because recent history has shown that this is the stuff that comes back to bite you in the ass. People have a record of what you’ve written. It’s not hugely different with the technology that’s replaced paper, however; emails and texts are just as traceable, though I suppose there is an element of plausible deniability i.e. someone stole my phone or broke into my email. My solution to this argument is we probably shouldn’t write down things that we will regret. Don’t get me wrong, I know that life is a learning process and we change our opinions, which is nothing to be embarrassed about. What I mean is there are things that we shouldn’t say, things that need a little bit more thought before we write them down. An occasional slip up is good as it keeps us real, but if it’s a frequent habit, it suggests that someone needs to keep their impulsiveness in check. Anyway, massive side track. Back to letters.

In order to recapture the essence of letters and restore my battered faith in humanity, I started to re-read ‘Love Letters of Great Men’, the only good thing to come out of Sex and The City, The Movie, I (the bit where Carrie reads a letter to Bigg). This is a book that anyone with any romantic sensibility should invest in. It’s brutal, it’s funny, it’s obscure, and it captures real life in ways that we want to, but don’t know how. Here are a few excerpts that I think we can all relate to.

The first is by Richard Steele, a journalist, writer and politician, who was married to Mary, though their marriage was secret for a while. This is a letter he wrote on 7/10/1707, and has one of the best post-scripts ever:

You may assure yourself I value you according to your merit which is saying that you have my heart by all the ties of beauty, virtue, good nature and friendship.... Write me word you are in good humour which will be the highest pleasure to your obliged husband,

Rich. Steele

I shall want some linen from your house tomorrow.

It reminded me of sending a text to a boyfriend or girlfriend, and adding a cheeky little ‘put the dishes away tonight’. It’s so honest, so not romantic, and yet so very sentimental.

Alexander Pope was a miserable bastard, in as much as he was an amazing poet, critic, satirist and artist. He fell in love with two sisters, Teresa and Martha, and made the effort to tell them both how he felt! I suppose Teresa was the meaner of the two, and in one letter he told her exactly what he thought:

“All I mean by this is, that either you or I cannot be in love with the other: I leave you to guess which of the two is that stupid and insensible creature, so blind to the other’s excellence and charms.’ 

He was clearly a modest person, as we all often are.

Napoleon Bonaparte was afflicted with a hefty dose of ‘crazy’. He married Josephine, and wrote her many letters in their early marriage. The authors argue that he was clearly in love with her, but as a member of the fairer sex, I think I would be a little confused if I received such missives.

Excerpts from one letter sent on 13/11/1796 from Verona:

‘I do not love thee any more; on the contrary, I detest thee. Thou art horrid, very awkward, very stupid, a very Cinderella.

...What do you do then all day, Madame? What matter of such importance is it that takes up your time from writing to your very good lover?

...I hope before long to press you in my arms and shall shower on you a million burning kisses as under the Equator.

A letter sent also in 1796 to Josephine, though the context is unclear:

‘If I rise to work in the middle of the night, it is because this may hasten by a matter of days the arrival of my sweet love. Yet in your letter of the 23^rd and 26^th Ventose, you call me vous. Vous yourself! ... Ah, my love, that vous, those four days make me long for my former indifference.’

I particularly love this letter because it shows that no matter how many wars or battles you fight, sometimes one feels helpless...and ‘you’re stupider’ seems like the only appropriate retort. Vous yourself! What a genius comeback.

John Keats was in love with Fanny Browne, so much so Hollywood made a film (Bright Star). He adorably ends one of his letters with:

‘Remembrances to your mother- Your affectionate, J. Keats’

Every time I read this, I think it takes a wise man to remember a girl’s mother. It reminds her that he is worth fighting for.

Mozart says to his wife in one love letter that ‘whoever gorges a lot, must also shit a lot’. I never thought shit and love would go together quite so well, but he wasn’t called a great composer for no reason. Letters are fun, it’s a time when we can be ridiculous, and he acknowledges this as he signs off the very same letter:

‘Listen, I want to whisper something in your ear – and you in mine- and now we open and close our mouths – again – at last we say: It is all about Plumpi – Strumpi – Well you can think what you like, that is just why it’s so convenient. Adieu. A thousand tender kisses’

I am pretty sure he just called his wife fat, and even he regrets writing Plumpi Strumpi. In the age of email deletion, we would have been denied the pleasure. I’m just saying...

My all time favourite thing about letters though, is when you get something in the post that blows you away. Opening up a letter is an experience; I often get horrible paper cuts, and shake especially when I think it’s my phone bill. But then you get moments of brilliance: pain and joy so beautifully expressed, the sentiment of which can only be adequately described by this letter from Beethoven (cliché but it is brilliant, and you can see why they used it in SATC):

Even in bed my ideas yearn towards you, my Immortal Beloved, here and there joyfully, then again sadly, awaiting from Fate, whether it will listen to us. I can only live, either altogether with you or not at all. Yes, I have determined to wander about for so long far away, until I can fly into your arms and call myself quite at home with you, can send my soul enveloped by yours into the realms of spirits- yes I regret, it must be.

You will get over it all the more as you know my faithfulness to you; never another one can own my heart, never- never! O God, why must one go away from what one loves so, and yet my life in W as it is now is a miserable life. Your love made me the happiest and unhappiest at the same time. At my actual age I should need some continuity, sameness of life- can that exist under our circumstances?

Angel, I just hear that the post goes out every day- and must close therefore, so that you get the L at once. Be calm- love me- today- yesterday.

What longing in tears for you- You- My life- my All- farewell. Oh, go on loving me- never doubt the faithfullest heart

Of your Beloved

L

Ever thine.

Ever mine.

Ever ours.

My first pair of matching underwear

There are some moments in any girl or woman’s life that can be considered momentous, though not necessarily as society sees it. The first kiss for example, is a conventionally memorable occasion. I know many people, male and female, remember the first kiss. It’s often a mixture of ‘eeeuuuw’ and ‘how the hell did she learn how to do that?’ shock. There are few things that can rival that moment. I remember mine so clearly. I was 13 and really liked this boy, so much so, he was often allowed to stand at the front door and hide from my brothers and parents. It was true puppy love. The first time he kissed me was awkward. I had never realised that I had a large, rather imposing nose or that teeth could bash quite so violently into each other. The wet feeling stays with you forever, because of course we had never learnt to swallow our own spit before the kiss, so it was a bit of a slippery mess. But the moment had been achieved- my first kiss. I ran home and picked up the phone (no mobile phones then), and called as many girlfriends as I could to rehash the details, embellishing the story of course (one had to look really slick and make it seem really grown-up, a little taboo, and oh so much fun). I am pretty sure my mother was wise to my escapades, because I had the constant shakes and she reminded more than once that there were plenty of toilets in the house, if I was so inclined. Losing one’s virginity is probably just as harrowing an experience, and always more awkward than any book or TV show (even Mills and Boon), could ever describe. It always makes me laugh that people hang onto the experience of losing something- the irony in that. These are just some of the things one should never forget, along with wedding anniversaries, memorials of loved ones lost, the birth of their children (and subsequent birthdays...I might send this to my parents as a hint), their first proper heart break, and such like things.

The moments that are most interesting however, are the more controversial ones, and the ones we never jot down in ye old mental diary. I am pretty sure most girls remember the first time their period was late. Many things go through your mind. Most of the virgins wonder if the story they heard about ‘getting pregnant by sitting on sperm on the bus seat’ could be true. The more adventurous amongst us struggle to find bank statements to check if they paid £20 for the morning after pill at any point during the last month. Then the wait begins. It’s torture. You are desperate for your period to announce itself, but you’re also paranoid that you’ll be caught unawares and so you set alarms at 3 am just to make sure that you don’t destroy your sheets, or boyfriend’s sheets. Obviously when it does arrive, it’s possibly the most painful one you’ve ever had, with torturous cramps, but for the first time in your life, you smile through the pain, and even go out dancing to celebrate!

A girl’s first ‘red anything’ changes her. She develops an inexplicable sense of ‘joie de vivre’ because she feels incredibly sexy, people look at her, and she is suddenly very adult, changing her wardrobe so that there is something to go with her red accessory. I got my first pair of red shoes for my 18^th birthday. I had never thought of wearing red before, but these heels changed all that. Suede peep toes with a bow over the top would do that to anyone to be honest. I wanted to wear them to lectures, to church, and to the gym. I wanted to look sophisticated, but the need to wear them constantly probably had the opposite effect: I wore them with clothes that were far too short or revealing, and it was ‘Pretty Woman/ circa 1991’ all over again. I regretted my poor fashion choices, but I will always cherish those red shoes, they’ve shaped who I am today. Literally. My calves have included them in their living will and testament.

I also remember when I got my first pair of matching underwear. This was a moment of firsts. My then boyfriend got me a pair of matching lace underwear, in rose pink. I don’t know if he was trying to suggest that I was not feminine enough for him, but he certainly changed that if that was the case. Boys, lesson to you: if you want to change the girl, use presents (in pretty boxes with bows and scented beads, preferably lavender, or rose, cliché but still works). Anyway, I will never forget how lovely it was to wear soft underwear that looked the same, and was not patterned with Tiger from Winnie the Pooh (incidentally, do you think Winnie was gay?! Wasn’t it a male bear, but called Winnie?! Random thought). It was also the first intimate gift I had ever received and the only time a boy has bought me underwear. Let’s just say the character involved was well thanked. I am hooked on the good knickers' high; I have developed the taste by amassing many many  colours and loads of black ones (!!!), in different cuts and styles. Good underwear, the world would be worse off if it wasn’t for you. Look how you’ve changed lady’s bossoms and bottoms. The men of this earth salute you, and I have a man to thank for the discovery (he’s been upgraded from boy).

I weirdly keep a record of all the fights I’ve had with my closest friends. I know, it sounds strange, but there is logic to my obsession. I have always maintained that occasional fights are good for any relationship or friendship, because it reaffirms that it isn’t based on niceties, or saying what the other person wants to hear. I go one step further, because I often recognise flaws in myself when I fight with my friends. That’s why I hang on to these- it helps reinforce the things I need to improve, and makes me critical of my own character, even though it happens infrequently. My most exciting fight perhaps was a silent affair, conducted through emails and letters with a boy a few thousand miles away. We were both so honest it hurt, and even though it took me months to recover, the world is definitely a better place because of it. My friend quietened the bitch in me and made me realise how unattractive it was. His criticism made me stronger, more honest, and more willing to accept when I was wrong. So basically, remember all your fights, but only the good bits. Make up sex counts here.

A girl's first proper orgasm, not the little tingly 'I think I'll wee myself' ones, but the 'soul-shaking, mind-blowing, earth-moving' experiences, is definitely a MOMENTOUS OCCASION. A dodgy statistic suggests that women do not truly experience an orgasm until well into their thirties. Apparently this is is the age of sexual awakening, when one is more aware of what it is they want out of physical interaction, rather than worrying about what their belly looks like. My limited cross-sectional survey suggests every woman remembers this (only 6 people responded), because it is surprising that it can be quite so good and yet, it doesn't captivate you, and the boy/man doesn't have any power over you (this one is for the feminists out there, though I don't think they'll see this as 'female liberation'. I apologise).

My first shared bath with a non-partner was another memorable moment, for all the wrong reasons. I refer you to the earlier entry, ‘bathroom banter’. It was memorable because it was the first time I had done something completely out of character, and let my hair down in about 5 years. I am usually pretty uptight, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. The bath was at par with my first hangover. I remember the two occasions because I made a total idiot of myself, was laughed at, and swore that I would never be caught in the same situation ever again. These two events were separated by a few years, so I clearly hadn’t learnt my lesson. It did remind me that I am young, it’s good to laugh at oneself as often as possible, and necessary to gather some interesting anecdotes for the children (should they be unfortunate enough to have me as their mother). Serious never changed the world. Crazy did.

Welcome to the world of guilt and self-loathing.

I have been riddled with a sense of impending doom and guilt, which has steadily built to a crescendo over the last few days, and now I’m walking around with an orchestra playing the theme tune to Hannibal in my brain. Something’s going to happen, and I am desperately trying to figure out what.

The impending doom is probably easiest to explain. I’ve had loads of badness in my life recently, and the badness is about to end. It may culminate in total destruction of my life as it is, or it may be completely resolved. All facts and figures point to the latter, but there’s a little devil in my head that won’t let me believe in God. I hate that little devil, and everyday I remind myself that the awesome dude up high has made up his mind and whatever it is, his decision will be good. But the little devil…

The guilt issue is far more complex. I feel guilty because I am wrong. And like every human, particularly those in possession of uteri, I hate being wrong. It riddles me with emotions that range anywhere from ‘defeated’ to ‘intense anger’, and usually, there is no clear way to fix it. It’s not as simple as apologising. No. What is required is a total overhaul of my thinking, which is more than a little frustrating. Think about it: I hate the way I am feeling, but the only way to fix it is to change everything about the way I think. WTF?! Perhaps a little context is necessary.

I like a boy. A boy likes me. We will call this boy River Jordan (RJ). He has been amazing, as in, ‘miraculously’ amazing (hence the name). He still is. We fight and he still says ‘I love you’. He understands and respects my loathing of commitment, which has had exactly the desired effect: I am committed and I love it. I know I love the boy, and he knows I love him, even though I struggle to say it. Our relationship remains blissfully undefined because we are both aware that any definition will highlight the obvious: we are massively incompatible. Our lives are taking drastically distant paths and there is no common ground (we live 8000km apart) for at least the next five years. I chose this situation because it suited my fear of commitment. One of my closest and dearest friends pointed out that I am attracted to people on different continents or in committed relationships, because I know I can’t have them. It’s not a particularly insightful observation, but hearing someone else say it every so often drives the point home.

‘What’s my problem?’ I hear you say. RJ has opened up himself to a ‘thing’ because I feel the same way. It’s been hard, and I like to believe that he has been genuine and honest. Recently however, I realised that I can’t possibly feel the same way as he does because I don’t want to change anything in my life to try and make our situation easier, or give us any future hope of being together. So I’m being a bit of a b**** by maintaining the status quo. That makes me feel terrible. I have also realised that I am wrong, and have been for the last 5 years. I swore that I hated commitment, and that I loved things as they were then. I also convinced myself that I would never change my mind. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! I have now changed my mind. I want to be in a relationship with someone that I can see more frequently than once every 6 months. I want to grow emotionally and physically with someone by my side. I still don’t see marriage or children in my immediate future, but I also realise that I am likely to change my mind! I realised all of this about 6 months’ ago, but I still let RJ happen. Not only was I lying to myself, but probably to RJ. And there is no easy way out of this. I am dreading the conversation that is about to happen (RJ knows it’s coming given his recent paranoia about us), and I worry that he’ll hate me, rightfully so. I hate me a lot right now, and realise I am probably a little crazy too. FML.

*Apologies for the capital letters used somewhat inappropriately. I didn’t want to curse openly in my blog. Such things live with you (according to the computer geeks in the most pointless film ever: the social network).

Bathroom banter.

Have you ever walked in on someone while they were on the toilet or naked, and then taken a bit too long to walk out so that it remains awkward forever? It was clearly unintentional but ‘the linger’ suggests otherwise, and so the next time you see the person, you talk far too fast and reveal more than you should, often commenting on some aspect of their anatomy e.g.

‘My assignment was so hung...I mean, hard’ (apologies for the amount of innuendo!)

‘The chicken breasts were really pert. Pardon me, tender’

Now that I have adequately painted a picture, imagine how much worse it gets when you have a bath with someone. This has happened to me before. It was beyond my control. A few friends have suggested that had I gone to church that day, my resolve would have been stronger. I disagree. I think the stars were in a lathery alignment; there was no escaping ‘the bath’, as it shall now be referred to.

I remember the day oh so clearly. It was boxing day, and I should have stayed at home and looked for presents to unwrap. Unfortunately, I let my fling (let’s call him Lake Alfred, Alfie for short) convince me that an afternoon coffee was a pleasant alternative. Given that Alfie and I had never been really intimate, other than teenage ‘making out’, I was rather relaxed about the whole affair. In my mind, we would actually have coffee, a kiss and a cuddle, and I would return home. I arrived at our rendez-vous, which happened to be Alfie’s apartment. Error number 1. Alfie let me in, his delightful naked self wrapped in the smallest towel ever. Clearly I had driven to his abode far too fast. Error number 2. I gingerly entered the apartment, warning bells going off everywhere, even in my toes.

Alfie: Sorry darling, I’ve only just got back from training and haven’t had a shower. I was just about to have a bath.

Me: Oh lovely. I’ll wait. Take your time. (Being too available: error number 3).

Alfie: Excellent. Actually, rather than rush, why don’t you join me?

Oh so many bells were ringing, my mind sounded like an English cathedral at high noon!

Me: Eeeeeeer... (My sheepish self is more attractive than it sounds).

He disappeared into the bathroom. I stood there for about 10 seconds, and then asked for a chair. Error number 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8. I sat on the chair that materialised from thin air, chatting incessantly before being rudely interrupted by Alfie laughing.

Alfie: Babe, you really are the cutest thing when you’re nervous. Do you mind giving me a back rub?

Me: I guess not. Error 9...what is wrong with me?!

I dried the edge of the bath with a towel, sat down and swang my legs into the bath – error 10. I was obviously wearing a dress (error 0...1 has already been taken up).

Alfie: Your dress will get wet. Come on, join me.

Countless errors happened at this point, and next thing I knew, I was stripping, he was watching me. Then as if it had a mind of it's own, my big old butt approximated the seat and my legs swung themselves into the water. I was now seated in the bath, taking advice from Carrie (SATC) in my head, and trying to be ‘cool with it’. Let’s round up the error count to 50.

So Alfie and I chatted, and not much else, for about an hour. I got dressed, burnt myself with an espresso, and drove back home, laughing and shaking my head the whole way. We are no longer seeing each other, for which I blame the bath and myself entirely, given the rather impressive error count notched up. The worst part is because we never slept together and a bath is fairly uncharted fling category, things are incredibly awkward. Every time we meet, it feels as though we both turned up to an Adam and Eve themed party in our birthday suits, and no one else did. It has also taken me about 2 years to enjoy a bath again, alone of course.

My advice to all strugglers out there: make sure you have a shower at home, and if you ever find yourself thinking about a bath, you better damn well run really fast in the opposite direction, or perhaps sleep with the boy. There are 1001 rules on how to behave after such an event. With the bath, however, it’s just you, me and Carrie; mine was a disaster and Sex and the City shows that it never works: Carrie and Aidan most definitely ended.

Hey, but that's just me! Maybe you'll have better luck. May the body scrub be with you.

All the stupid things that wine makes me do.

I tend to say exactly what I am thinking, which often happens to be an outrageous diatribe against whatever happens to be in my line of vision, be it a human being or a wall. My friends are pretty used to it, but I think it does put off new acquaintances. Oops.

I like to hold my phone, put it in my pocket, take it out, look at it, check if I have any messages, check my voicemail, and then the unthinkable happens: I call people. I text them if they don’t pick up. And one guess as to what I say? Yes, that’s it: exactly what I am thinking. I very often never recover from these situations.

I clean when wine is involved. This may include doing the dishes, making beds, arranging all my sweaters in order of thread thickness and colour, shirts in stripes and plains, boxing shoes...but my all time favourite cleaning wine move yet is the 2 am Hoover. No explanations necessary.

I rarely have run-ins with 4 slices of toast in a single sitting, but a little bit of wine in the system makes me feel as though I am in it for the record of the most bread consumed at once.

I sing. Loudly (and very very badly).

The ‘touch-up’ is another classic, one that we’ve all spotted at some point. A girl rummages through her purse and out comes the lip gloss. She attempts to put this on but realises that her hand doesn’t quite know where the lips are and she needs an assistant...the bathroom mirror in the club. She teeters on her heels to the toilet (on the other side of the dance floor of course), takes out her mascara and spends about half an hour touching up her make-up, which is ironic given the club is dark, she has the camera in her bag and is the only one taking photos, so absolutely no one will see her or remember that imperfect smidge of eye shadow. Ah wine, thanks again for that night out spent mostly in the toilet.

The Winebook message, or ‘like’ or comment. I leave you to decipher.

I don’t often cry, but a nice bottle of Shiraz often makes the blue door resemble ‘the sky on the day I got my very first bike and the boy that I was infatuated with taught me how to ride along the garden paths and held my hand and it was all so sweet...’ somebody pass the tissues please. Thanks. It is unfair to solely blame wine for this: gin and vodka are guilty parties.

The worst thing about wine though, is the fact that it makes you think MORE is good. Not only that, but it’s a sneaky little bugger: it doesn’t annihilate one’s ability to pour. Vodka and gin are good at this, you’re co-ordination and ability to open or pour any more drinks diminishes at a rate that is proportional to how much you drink. Wine does the opposite: it enhances techniques of intricate tasks, such as using a cork screw, sending texts, and typing emails. Evil little... Pkeaseee psas me thd xinf...