Category Archives: Uncategorized

Message from the Universe

It was the evening of The Date; the social institution whereby two complete strangers sit opposite each other and talk about themselves with the aim of deciding whether or not they are suitable for partnership.  When you think about it, dating is such an odd ritual and for me personally, well, I’ve never had a good ‘date’. Sure I’ve gone out for a drink with the guy I snogged at our work pub quiz (the snog that incidentally began the saga of Golf Boy) I’ve spent all day in the pub playing scrabble with my ‘friend’ (henceforth known as the saga of Number Six) and gone for dinner with Mr. Date- AKA Prince Charming  but as far as full blown never-really-spoken-to-you before dates go, they have all been pretty disastrous.

I did wonder as I groomed, plucked and preened why I was putting myself through it all over again and if I was even ready. But before I get to the crux of this tale let’s rewind two weeks… I need to tell you about The Wish.

It was the eve of my fateful breakup with E and Jess and I found ourselves in the very strange scenario of having both broken up with our boyfriends a the exact same time. I’m not even talking days… I’m talking MINUTES. Moments after E left mine I called up Jess to find her boyfriend of one year was… as we were speaking, gathering his belongings. It was probably a time for Ben & Jerry’s, crying and watching of the Notebook.. but we decided to break out  the champagne instead. Two glasses later and we were philosophising about the ridiculousness of monogamy, lifelong partnerships, everlasting love and how essentially we really only had our friends. We talked about how our parents f*cked us up and how I was eternally doomed to favour unavailable men while she would never settle for anything less than perfect.

Jess was distracting herself with an E-mail she had just received from  a renowned documentary filmmaker

“He has such amazing energy” she cooed. Jess’s celebrity penpal (let’s call him BP) had been courting her since she met him in Ibiza 6 years ago. He had been hinting for her to come back and visit him but had never actually given her an invitation. “And you know what?” she said… “You should totally try doing ‘The Wish'”

The what?

“So,” She began, “just last week I was thinking about how I want BP to properly invite me out there. I put all my positive thoughts into it and blew the wish out into the universe” it’s a bit happy clappy but we’ll let her off… she’s a yoga teacher. “Anyway… now look! He totally invited me to come out there and stay as long as I want! So… that’s what you should do! You should think about what you want and send it out into the universe”

Was it really that easy?

Fastforward two weeks and I’m face to chest with a tall cute Australian called Ryan. He was funny, well funny enough for me not to stay talking to him longer than a second which was pretty rare for a random encounter at a warehouse party where everyone looked about 18 and dressed like (post midlife crisis) Madonna. I gave him my number not expecting him to call after all, surfers who live in Marylebone and are also into classical music and modern ballet are too good to be true right? But then, I did make that wish.

The universe it seems, was listening, because that Wednesday I had a bona-fide date on my hands.

He’d picked an Italian wine bar on the corner of Portabello and Westbourne Grove after just the right amount of texts, so far so good. I should have been over the moon, but instead I found myself knotted in fear and nerves. I ran through the conversation over and over in my head… thought of all the clever things I could say and pictured how I would look when I swagger into the bar

“Heloooo. So this is a nice place.” “Hi again, so how ARE you?” or something more saucy “Well helloo stranger, how’s it hanging?” (how’s it hanging?!) It was no use, I was bound to get as drunk as possible and be at least 80% weird and awkward. I mean just in the last hour I’d missed my stop on the tube, ripped my last pair of tights trying to wash and blowdry them in the sink… cut a massive gash into my leg dry-shaving and was running around trying to tame my hair with a sanitary towel stuck to my calf because I didn’t have any plasters. Who was I kidding? The Ryans of this world didn’t date girls like me! How am I supposed to even handle the social complexity of a date? And where would I even start anyway? What part of myself will I be today? The broken self conscious me that cried in her therapist’s chair? the drunk confident me that picks up 21 year olds in Infernos in Clapham? or the serious academic me?

It was all just too confusing. Who came up with the concept of a date anyway? Who decided that sitting two strangers in front of each other and doing the whole “soooo now tell me about you….” was in any way conducive to actually getting to know someone?

A massive glass of rum downed, my leg suitably patched up and a slightly holey pair of tights donned, I was ready for my big ‘date’.

As soon as I walked into the bar confident me came out. Confident me is like one of those Rottweilers, it can smell fear on others and balancing on that barstool, Ryan looked even more nervous and awkward than I felt. It also probably helped that I was so taken aback by the pair of bright blue snakesin pointy shiny shoes that I could barely stop myself from laughing. What was before me, far from the perfect Ryan I’d envisaged was a slightly nervous overly muscular badly dressed guy with hair that was halfway Russell Brand.

Oh boy.

He told me he was a music lawyer spoke French and Italian, played piano and liked drawing. Our hobbies , he said, were like a venn diagram. It was probably at the point of him trying to explain what a venn diagram was that I completely lost interest. When he got all Italian ordering pancetta I wanted to hit him with the menu and when he got his phone out to show me where his Marylebone house was on Google maps I was really quite ready to leave.

For all his faults, he did pick up a pretty hefty tab of champagne and really good food, I gave him a peck on the lips before I jumped into the cab. As soon as the door was closed and the relief of leaving had time to subside, I felt a little annoyed with the world.

Why was the universe doing this to me? I’d wished for a smart, driven, caring, lovely guy and I got a sensitive wet cloth of a man with bad dress sense. Should I have been more specific? ‘Dear universe, can I have a sweet caring lovely man who would never wear shiny pointy snakeskin shoes, is generous but doesn’t show off, cares about such things as music and paining but not to the point where I’d question his sexuality. Also he really needs to  make me laugh and be attractive but I’m not into muscles per say. Goddit?’

I jumped out the cab, paying the £30 fare for an evening I could have happily done without and with my head full of bubbles stumbled up the stairs. My room. My attic. Alone. It actually wasn’t so bad.

Peeling off my makeup in the mirror I looked at myself, like really looked at myself. We were doing OK, me and I. I didn’t need Ryan, in fact, I didn’t need anyone. The me of yesteryear would have shoehorned the idea of the music lawyer into her head out of sheer desperation to be part of a pair. He was better than nothing right? Well, I guess I’ve changed.

Maybe the universe did send me what I needed after all.

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The Case of the Disappearing Dog

Out in the jungle of dating there exists a little known species known as the ‘disappearing dog’. Now you see him, now you don’t!  One day he’s there, hanging with your friends, making plans for holidays, mentioning the parents and then… *poof* gone without so much as an ‘it’s not you it’s me’ text. Where do they go? It’s a mystery, to doggie heaven perhaps!

Ladies beware, side-effects of the sting include all the usual marks of a Dog encounter (insomnia, depression, unusual attachment to Facebook) but this particular mutation can induce side effects ranging from mild hysteria to extreme obsession.

Yesterday I was sent a text conversation that was uploaded onto the internet entitled “this is what crazy looks like via text messaging” . In a nut-shell (no pun intended) a girl called JJ goes gaga after her one night stand blows her out. Now while this is all very amusing and the girl in this case is clearly insane, I’m going to use this extreme case as evidence of the effect of the ‘disappearing dog’ phenomenon. When a guy just vanishes without any explanation, the need for closure, and answer, an explanation… anything! Can drive otherwise sane self- respecting women into fits of feverish text frenzies.

“I just wanted my stuff back!” Said my friend,  as she recounted the story of a guy she’d been seeing for several months.

“He told me he was going for a drink with an ex, texted me from the bar telling me how bored he was and how he can’t wait to see me later, then nothing! I texted once, tried calling and assumed he got back with the ex. He still had a lot of my stuff at his so I called his mobile from my friend’s phone and got as far as ‘oh hey it’s….’ When I heard him gasp and he slammed the phone down!”

My friend never did get her stuff back, and to this day she wonders what really happened that night.

When a dog just disappears, he leaves a great big question-mark that wouldn’t otherwise be there. With a question mark that big, the need to figure out why can become all-consuming; sending you spiraling off to Sherlock Holmes his Facebook for evidence of something (you’ll know what it is when you find it) or e-mailing his work account (just in case he lost his phone). One friend was so confused by a sudden disappearance that she texted the guy’s friend to see if he was still alive and OK. He was.

More-so than just closure, the reason why a disappearing dog has such an effect, is the utter non response to contact. It’s the digital equivalent of someone sticking their fingers in their ears and going “I CANT HEAR YOU!” Take JJ-loco above, the lack of reply from her Kevin was the catalyst to crazy-town. Could that really be any of us?

In the Ye Olde dating times you communicated on the phone or in person, but now it’s so easy to delete from Facebook, so simple to ignore a message that the need to actually step up and be honest is diminishing.

The recent launch of a website helping dumpees communicate with their dumpers has unsurprisingly been a success. Only two weeks after it launched, received over 28,000 hits. That’s 28,000 people who would happily pay to have a site message their ex and have them fill out a questionnaire on why they ended the relationship. The figures smell suspiciously like disappearing dog. When a relationship ends, there is always ‘the chat’…right? Or is the phenomenon of the D-dog more widespread than any of us feared? Has the rise of digital communication created a monster?

I’m going to stray from the point a little and recount the events of last night, when my very own disappearing dog, non- other than Prince Charming (remember him?) wagged back into my life. I knew he would be at the club so it wasn’t a shock to see him there, all dazzling and chatting to some girl he’d no doubt just met. My phone vibrated and I had a moment of utter confusion when the name flashed up, because how he could be calling and standing in front of me at the same time? Then came the realisation that the guy busy charming every poor girl in the club was his identical twin.

Yes there are two of them. Two sets of chiseled cheekbones, two sets of piercing blue eyes, two heartless bastards. Could this be any more Dynasty? Apart from the whole warehouse in north west London, overflowing toilets and lack of toilet paper… so maybe more Dysentery than Dynasty but anyway, awkward encounter with Prince Charming’s equally evil twin averted, I turned my attention back to my phone where a message just appeared. PC wanted to know if I fancied coming round to his to ‘hook up’.

The reason for the story is this, first of all to exemplify the fact that if a dog disappears he’s probably not the kind of dog you’d have wanted around anyway, secondly that if there was no explanation given, perhaps instead of resorting to sending a questionnaire out ( you can come to terms with the fact that finding out why, will not make the disappearance any easier. Had Prince Charming sat me down over a drink and explained that he didn’t actually want to go out with me because he only picks up girls for sport, maybe even elaborated that he has mother issues or a complex about being just a little bit fatter and shorter than his twin, would that have made any difference at all?

Back to the text, I was surprised at how keen he was to meet up especially considering the fact that every time I’d seen him previously he’d been quite happy to parade his gaggle of blondes right under my nose. Had things really got that bad? Or had he just slept with and not called every girl in Essex?

Even more curious was my realisation that not replying to him was actually getting a reaction! We’re not talking JJ-Loco but it was something!

“I give up!” he texted despondently. Then shortly after, “Kind of thought we were more grown up than this.”

I could have done one of two things. The first was to give him a taste of his own medicine, the guy stood me up twice, embarrassed me and hurt me he deserved to be ignored, but then would that be any better than a disappearing dog? It’s so easy to ignore a text message, to leave the words and the question dangling in space, forever echoing and never answered. I’m sure that it didn’t matter to him anyway whether I replied or didn’t, but in a world where common courtesy can so easily be forgotten, I decided to reply.

“I’m sorry… it’s just that that ship has sailed… and I’m not really the booty call type… Friends? Xx”

It was hardly a drink flung in his face, but to me it felt like closure, and that was antidote enough.

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Noughts and Crossroads

Airports are weird things, there is an actual condition I read about… an airport psychosis loosely termed ‘airport wandering’ where people just walk round airports endlessly. Definitely something about airports; all those different paths, different lives, reunions and partings, endings and beginnings. I think by nature, humans like order and stability, maybe a crossroad of such magnitude will inevitably send us a little coo coo.

I found myself sitting on a plane next to an orthodox Jewish girl. At 17, she told me most of her friends were engaged already and was surprised to hear that at 28, I wasn’t married. I was curious to find out more about her world, what she wants from life and in the very near future, her husband. Sitting cross legged in my seat like a kid at a slumber party, I asked about the matchmaker; “So what will you ask her for?”

The girl looked back with doe eyed innocence “Someone who wants the same things as me.” And after a moment she thought again, “It’s also important that he looks good.”

“And smart too obviously?”

“Yes. Of course, smart too. And successful.”

Ah, if only it were that simple. I settled back in my chair, all this talk of matchmakers and marriage at barely pubescent ages was making my head spin. As fun as single life is, it’s difficult to get away from that voice in your head, (which always sounds like my mother) telling you that you should be out there looking for something worthwhile.

After the abysmal first date with Golden Boy where I ended up listing the Persian Kings  we settled into a handy routine of booty calls. Every Friday around 2am I receive a charming heartfelt message that goes something like “you still up?!” and I will respond the following week with an equally romantic gesture of “I want you in my bed!!”

After getting to know him a bit better, I discovered that the aloofness I took for silent confidence is actually an utter absence of character, and the cheeky ever present smile is just there to make up for the fact he has no idea what I’m saying. One night sprawled out on my bed, twiddling his Californian beach boy hair, he picked up a copy of William Blake poems I have by my bed (fabulous procrastination tool.)

“Do you like William Blake?” I asked. Maybe there was a little hidden philosopher lurking behind those dull green eyes.

“Do you, like, read this stuff?”

“Sometimes,” I shrugged. “Want me to read you some?”

“Wow. You’re educating me.”

I smiled sympathetically and opened the book to my favourite poem. “This series is called Psalms of Hell.”

“OOOOh. Does that mean I’ll go to hell if I hear it?”

I closed the book. He didn’t deserve William Blake. Jumping back on the bed I admired just how perfect he was, the square jaw and cheekily pointed nose, big green eyes and just the right amount of muscle. He was Just So Pretty and right then, it didn’t matter that he had the intellectual scope of a plank of two by four.  Golden Boy was like human junk food, good as long as you don’t stop to think about what’s inside.

As I waved him off at the door, fighting off the usual tinge of guilt at my own weakens, I wondered, is it so wrong to like someone for their looks? Sure, it’s shallow but is it any shallower than say liking someone for their charisma, charm, money or intelligence?  And if any of those alone is shallow, how can all of them combined somehow make the stuff of fairytales?

I’d met ‘the artist’ last summer on holiday, waiting for a vodka cranberry at some artisan bar in a shabby area of Tel-Aviv. We had one of those incredible conversations that could go on all night, but only lasted until my cousin dragged me away at 4am. I was looking forward to meeting him again, wondered if away from the vodka cranberries I actually liked him and if the conversation was a one off. Perhaps, as a friend of mine said;

“When we meet someone new, we give them all our intelligence upfront, at the start.  Then we just hold on to the hope that they’ll still love us once they realise that was our lot.”

I hoped not. I’d been surviving on cerebral junk food for months.

When I met him, I was pleasantly surprised that he had the same mischievous look in his eye he did a year ago, and though not what I would usually go for looks wise, I was definitely attracted.

The artist was one of those people that need to know everything, “I want all the answers” he told me, having only just asked in a surprised and shocked tone how I could possibly have never read Proust (mostly because the name alone is so f*cking pretentious). We lay on his bed chatting, he showed me some of his art; he was all about controversy; he told me of his plan to make a sculpture of foreskins (a comment on the practice of circumcision… or just a cry for attention, who knows.)

In the dim light of the minimally decorated room, with just the whir of the air conditioning to cushion the words, I read him my last blog post.  He said it was ‘very sweet’ in the same sympathetic tone I reserved for Golden Boy when he said something especially stupid.  I had never read any of the books by his bedside, most had been on my to- read list for years. I only know Levi Strauss from a boring essay I had to write at uni and couldn’t for the life of me hold a decent conversation on him or any other political thinker for that matter.

I went back again the next night, a part of me wanted to claw all the information right out of his head. But it was more than that, I wanted to know how he thought, I wanted to figure out how his mind worked. Sometimes I would turn away when he kissed me, my head full of more questions.

“Leevre Da le cuisaine” I read badly off the spine of a book.

He corrected me in a prefect French accent and I jumped on him.

I liked him as much when he was talking as I liked Golden Boy when he wasn’t.

Was that wrong?

Back on a plane and heading back to London I sat next to a young family with a screaming baby. The woman is about 23 with a modest head covering and a fed up look on her face. Perhaps life is something like an airport, with planes taking off in every direction, some people plan their journeys, they are linear unwavering and clear. Perhaps it would be ideal to find good looks, intelligence etc etc in one neat little bundle dropped off by a great big Jewish stork of a matchmaker. But until then, why not take many different planes going in different directions  simultaneously?

A pretty face to look at, an interesting person to talk to and of course for everything else a bunch of amazing supportive friends.

Who says you can’t have it all?

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My Island in the Sun…

I hate visiting my grandmother’s house. Even as I climb the old lino stairs of the 1930’s build block of flats, you can smell the lost memories and dreams, deserted hopes and ambitions. they smells like boiled cabbage.

My Grandmother’s second marriage ended when her handsome Italian husband; 10 years her junior left her for another woman. That was the last time she loved a man and in all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never seen her laugh or smile. Not really. There is the sarcastic high pitched caw she emits when she finds something I say ridiculous and a forced baring of teeth at the camera, but not the wide eye clinching smile of the black and white pictures which decorate the old papered walls of her living room.

‘I hope I don’t end up alone’, I think, as I leave taking the stairs two at a time; glad to be outside again and free of the small claustrophobic flat.

But why is there such a stigma attached to being alone?

“We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude….every human group is a society of island universes.” (Aldous Huxley)

                There’s a sadness associated with being alone; old people in cafe’s holding mugs of tea with shaking hands as the world passes them by in twos and threes. A child playing outside her house with a stick and some dirt, looking up every now and then to the boys playing football on the other side. A scruffy dog wondering around the park.

It was Saturday night and I ended up at some club on the kings road feeling decidedly old (and middle class) amongst the swishey haired Arrabella’s and Annabella Bingley-Glocestershire’s dancing to Brittney and trying my very best to get as drunk as possible. There were fresh faced boys called Dominic and Harry with shirts tucked into their straight leg jeans and point shoes; a party full of young rich things without a care in the world. After a significant amount to vodka, I found myself in a cab with my flatmate and three boys. Rob, Fred and … some other. Atoms that had bumped against each other in the club and ended up somehow sticking and coming back excited about a ‘party’. I had a feeling that the boy stroking my leg was barely over 20. I was too drunk to care. Maybe atoms sometimes need to bump against each other just to know they aren’t alone in the world.

Back at our flat, the first vodka lemonade I poured was the last as I felt the night’s entertainment rise up in my throat and I ran upstairs to the toilet. With my bathroom swirling around me like a merry-go-round of toilet paper and tiles I crawled up the stairs to my bedroom. This atom had had enough. I closed the door behind me and collapsed on the bed waiting for the room to stop spinning.

The door creek open and I could hear one of the boys hovering in my doorway having a discussion with his friend about how they were going to get rid of the ‘other one’ (I later found out they tossed their friend out on the street. Nice)

“I’m so drunk.” I murmered as Fred sat down on the bed

“Shhhhhhh.” He said and tried to kiss me.

“Mate.” I sat up “I’ve just been sick!” that seemed to do the trick and Fred backed off, sighing and resigning himself to staring at the wall.

By the time I’d sobered up sufficiently it was already 4am. I squinted at the man in my bed, a scrawny but pretty faced thing with a cookie monster jumper and a small bump under his chin that told me he was probably fat once. Feeling fragile and tired I let him hug me.

With the night passing into Morning, Fred told me about how he used to be a rock climber and we talked about life, and rocks and how we were both shy and quiet at school. I was just starting to think maybe he wasn’t such a creep after all when he stroked my hair had said “I really want to see you again after this.” Then paused for a long moment and said “I love you.”

“Seriously? Does that really work?” I chortled and turned round.

Fred was very persistent. “I just can’t sleep… I have nightmares. I have cronic insomnia.” He said and I noticed he’s taken his trousers off.

Rolling my eyes I reached for the box of Valium by my bed. “Here.” I said. “Now go to sleep.”

The world is full of Freds. Islands wondering around on a Saturday night waiting to bump into something…anything! In their own creepy way, they don’t want to be alone either. Still, I’d had fun talking to him, and I remembered what the lost boy from last summer had told me about how he didn’t believe in relationships, just moments. Maybe some moments last years, others just seven months and some only a few minutes. Perhaps we are all islands, destined to be born and ultimately die alone but we can take these moments with us. Even if I do end up in a small claustrophobic flat in Hendon, I will remember these moments, and smile.

(special thanks to Adam who provided the Huxley quote and inspiration for this blog  x )

Hitting Delete

Apologies if there is a MASSIVE lack of continuity from the last post… between the two, 7 months had passed and suffice to say I’d rather forget most of them! but, I rather like this post… it has a nice air of optimism and I am only taking my fave posts with me to my new home.. kind of like a spring clean! (how relevant to the following! xx Amelia)

I’ve often wondered whether, if you could, you would hit DELETE on entire chunks of your life; just like spring cleaning your wardrobe – throwing out the flares and pile of T- shirts you only ever wear to bed.

If I could, theoretically erase pieces of the past, would I delete the useless bits? like the hours spent watching TV or waiting for the tube? These memories have to still be in there somewhere, clogging up your hard-drive like a lifetime’s worth of nondescript fluff. Or, would I be more tactical, deleting childhood memories – the time I saw my grandad in an open casket, or when I got lost in the shopping centre. Maybe go further and delete memories from the Gulf War in Israel, the smell of my rubber gas mask and the plastic on the windows shivering as the buildings shook, the siren whirring eerily from the TV.

Some would say these memories contribute to making a person who they are, but how much better could I be without them?

I’ve often also wondered if I would be better off deleting all the bad relationships in my life.

How happy is the blameless Vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.

The day after I finally ended things with the ex (last Sunday to be exact) I watched Eternal Sunshine with the obligatory box of tissues. As Joel and Clem were running through all their memories, trying to hold onto the good times and the bad, I wondered if I could not entirely erase, but just file down the last seven months, whether I would?

“Blessed are the forgetful: for they shall have done with their stupidities too.” (Neitsche; Beyond Good and Evil)

I’d erase the breakup, definitely. Maybe the last few months completely. The distance, the wall, the way I looked at him and saw only my own anger reflected in a shadow of a person I once cared for. The dreams that told me what I already knew, that he didn’t care anymore. Maybe never did.

But for every bad memory there was an equally good one. A kiss good bye in my doorway with the rain pelting down around, stopping on the walk home on Blackfriars’s bridge to look at the water, when he told me he hadn’t ever felt this way and the night we burnt the pizza. The first time he told me he loved me on New Year’s Eve but then the very next day made me feel so horrible.

I couldn’t keep just some of them. If I could delete them all, would I?

Thinking you can learn something from a relationship is kind of like a security blanket you use to make up for the burning realisation that you’ve wasted your time, and your energy on something pointless. Maybe it’s best to; in the words of the cardigans – Erase and Rewind?


For now, I’ll be hanging on to his stripy T-shirt, and the little tin box of keepsakes. Maybe one day I’ll look at them and smile

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Living the Dream

When I was thirteen I had my first boyfriend. He was imaginary. Well, not as in …. in my head, just that I hadn’t actually met him. We’d met on an online chat forum, his name was Vahkan and he lived in Hampstead. After the first few e-mails I was convinced he was the one. I’d still not met him. After weeks of hour-long phone conversations I was convinced he was my soul-mate. Still not met the guy. Even when he told me he was ‘kinda pudgey’ I convinced myself that wouldn’t bother me. After all.. we were destined to be together.

Eventually, I met him at the Golders Green Macdonald’s. I remember choosing a table in the corner so no-one would see I was with him. I couldn’t look at him, I couldn’t look at the big round donut on the table that bore a striking resemblance to his face and I definitely couldn’t look at the horrible sweaty burger.
Years later, I recognise the early symptoms of an ‘imaginary relationship’. In your head, the guy can be whatever you want him to be, and it’s scary how easy it is to find an unsuspecting man to project a childhood of Disney brainwashing onto. Problem is, that one day you wake up and find that your prince charming is actually the donkey from Shrek.

So how do you know you’re having imaginary relationship?

• Have you had more conversations with him in your head than real life?
• Have you thought up the entire script of your first date before he has even asked you out?
• When you think about him, is his face kind of blurry?
• You have already imagined him proposing right???
You are not alone. There is something about the fantasy that is so much more tempting than the real thing. After all, we all want an Edward Cullen not a Joe Bloggs who works in sales. We will settle for Joe Bloggs, but god do we wish he was Edward Cullen.

One Friday afternoon, I went to visit my friend in Farrington, a fabulous diamond broker who has made the rounds through pretty much every dating website and prided herself on always having several guys on the go.
“It’s the way to do it!” she said chewing a chicken wing and flinging it on a workbench littered with small bags of glittering stones. “Stops you getting obsessed”

Currently, there was ‘ugly art guy’ (who peed sitting down while she was taking a bath). ‘Orthodox guy’ (who wouldn’t have sex before marriage but had no qualms about pleasuring himself at sporadic intervals throughout the date. When she’d had enough of his crazy and stood up to leave, he was a perfect gentleman and showed her to the door…. fully masturbating. Still, at least he had one hand free to wave goodbye!)

Maybe that was the way to combat the imaginary relationship? Desensitising yourself with lots of meaningless ones?

My friend lit a fag and leaned back in her chair. Behind her I could see some dating website open on her computer. “The thing is,” she said, sucking on the fag. “You spend so much time with these guys in your head that you are actually having a relationship with them. So when they don’t call, or don’t turn out how you want them to, it hurts. Just like a real breakup would.”

She could be so wise sometimes.

Confession time. I’ve been thinking about the guy from last summer. OK, I’ve been completely having a fantasy relationship. I’ve tried to desensitise myself with lots of pointless ones but it’s just not working. I kissed two guys in one night (not bad after a drought of about six months) have a date lined up for next Thursday (which I’m totally not bothered about) and even met the cutest guy who looked like a mini Robert Pattinson (only about half his size….shame). Still, I stumbled in after quite a floozy weekend with just one thought in my mind…

I’m going to send him a drunken message.

And I did.

I guess, the best way to combat a fantasy relationship, is to make it real