Fan Airmail

Today I received the following e-mail from my friend… I include it because firstly it made me chuckle profusely. (‘A’, you should REALLY start your own blog) but mainly because I sometimes worry about writing my silly little stories about dead dogs and such is…well, silly. I respond to ‘A’ advice about topics I should write about in future below his e-mail (probably the funniest plane letter I’ve ever read)

I’m emailing you from my Flybe plane. Doubt even the Wright brothers would have risked getting on something this rickety. Added to which, I’m so glad I let them screw me out of an additional £13 for the luxury of being able to choose and reserve my seat (2B) on this plane jam packed wiith 4 crew and 6 passengers.

None of that matters to me now though. I’ve got my two bottlettes of Cab Sav for £7, so I’m happy, or I would be if my mexican bean and cheese wrap hadn’t just leaked red juice all over my otherwise pristene black shirt. Still, I shouldn’t let it concern me too much. After all, I’m on my way to Germany where they invented the whole ‘black shirt with a dash of red’ colour scheme.

I’m flitting between reading Bates’ Pocket Guide to Physical Examination and History Taking and the latest edition of The Spectator, on my Kindle. The former isn’t on my Kindle, it’s an actual three dimensional book, you know, made out of tree. I took as it’s the only medical textbook I own that alone wouldn’t take my luggage over the limit.

Actually, I paid for 20kg but my checked bag weighed in at only 10kg. As soon as I saw that I instantly wished we’d stopped at a church enroute to the airport so I could have stolen some lead from its roof to line my bag with, to get my monies worth. Technically, I could have taken Nancy Caroline’s Emergency Care on the Streets, but realistically it would never have squeezed it’s 1600 hard backed A4 sized pages into the bag. I ended up despatching xxxx’s belongings to her work in a cab a year ago following our breakdown in relations, in my bigger and better bag, and never got that back. Buh, humbag.

I love The Spectator. It’s like having intelligent friends who actually share my own views, unlike in the real world, where most of my friends are well-meaning idiots who believe in all kinds of bunkum, because they’ve never actually elected to think for themselves. Yes, it’s a magazine for right wing Conservatives, and even though I don’t agree with every viewpoint it pushes, it’s just endlessly intelligent, whereas left wing magazines are always just a little too wet and humourless to make them at all palatable. Realistically, as someone whose embarking on a career working for the NHS, I should probably be championing the Labour party or go all out and become an actual socialist, but really, I’d rather stick chopsticks under my fingernails whilst listening to Michael Bublé’s Christmas album alternating with The Pogues Fairytale of New York, which if nothing else, serves as an annual reminder that life really is God’s joke, when we remember that Kirsty McColl is long dead but Shane MacGowan is still alive and well, in spite of having drunk EVERYTHING.

I only started this email to you because I wanted to tell you this: You write what you write because it’s what interests you and what’s important to you, and you are brilliant at it, but I do wish you wrote about more. When I was growing up I wished that I lived in interesting times. I lived in a time of contemplation, a time of looking back at what had come before us. Nothing really happened in the eighties or nineties. That’s why those decades are remembered more for the clothes and the music than anything of real substance. I was born 33 years after the second world war ended. The world was still recovering from it in 1978, it didn’t really get over it till the wall came down more than a decade later than that. Now, it’s the most turbulent it’s been in 60 years. Read about it Amelia Brightside. Then, write about it.

p.s. As a guy, you know you’re on a budget airline when you wouldn’t do either air hostess, even if they paid you.

A – You’re right, I SHOULD be writing about the Berlin wall, the Iraq war or the problems in Palestine. In fact I remember the first time we ever spoke we got into a row about gas chambers in the war and you called me something horrible which made me very angry! Actually, Palestine/Israel has been the focus of many an argument with people I consider family, and actually some that are family… I found that I don’t know enough about these subjects, it’s depressing to talk about and never amounts to anything.

You however, do know these subject enough to not embarrass yourself when you talk about them (apart from the gas chambers argument, I maintain that was ridiculous). Don’t lazy out by trying to get me to do the work you’re clearly destined to do!

Anyway, in answer to your request, I write what I know, which unfortunately isn’t a lot!

Though I don’t completely agree with Jane Austen’s response to the Prince Regent’s librarian (who suggested topics which may help her make a name for herself among the ‘respected’ literary world) I include it below

P.S I am in no way comparing myself to Austen. Madam would have considered the practice of ‘poking one’s dead dog’ an abominably inappropriate offence of capital magnitude. And straw face? One could not HEAR of such a thing! ;op

December 11th 1815, Jane Austen to J.S Clarke:

“I am quite honoured by your thinking me capable of drawing such a clergyman as you gave the sketch of… But I assure you I am not. The comic part of the character I might be equal to, but not the good, the enthusiastic, the literary. Such a man’s conversation must be on subjects of science and philosophy, of which I know nothing; or must occasionally be abundant in allusions and quotations which a woman who, like me, knows only her mother tongue, and has read very little in that, would be totally without the power of giving. A classical education, or at any rate a very extensive acquaintance with English literature, ancient and modern, appears to me quite indispensable for the person who would do justice to your clergyman; and I think I may boast myself to be, with all possible vanity, the most unlearned and ill-informed female who ever dared to be an authoress.”

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Versetile Blogger Awards

Thank you  for nominating me! I do love reading your blog too and hope Amelia’s fans will check out narcissistsblog for the adventures of this yummy mummy! xx Amelia

A Date with Fate

I like the idea of fate, the notion that things are what they are, and turn out how they should not because of your choices, but because they were meant to happen. Being at the right place at the right time, or a ‘crazy coincidence’ just seems too… simple! There must be something that makes things happen as they do. Perhaps it is the element of relief in thinking there’s a ‘grand plan’ that makes it so appealing. As if fate were a cosmic policeman keeping everything in check; if you go down a wrong path, it throws something at you that knocks you back onto course.  Only the biggest sceptic won’t harbour some hope that there’s something watching over them; god, fate, spirit guide, a fairy godmother (all as ridiculous as each other really).

Anyway, enough hippy talk and back the point. An incident with Lift Boy last week reaffirmed my belief in fate.

Yes there was in incident. With lift boy. But before I go into detail, I need to tell you about another boy. Let’s call him; The one with the Porsche.

I met One With Porsche (I won’t lie it was quite hot) at my old work. Incidentally the same place I met Golf Boy. He had this scraggly long hair and a weird pointy face but there was something about the way he looked and spoke that I found utterly irresistible. He would flirt with anything which meant that half the office fancied him, but that didn’t stop me getting a little exited every time his highness condescended to speak to me. True to form I would respond with a torrent of utter drivel “oh look a kamikaze pigeon” was a classic I will never forget. Nothing ever happened with Porsche, I ended up with his good friend Golf Boy and Porsche…or my craziest work crush ever was forgotten.

Until Lift Boy.

I’ve been enjoying awkward hello’s with lift boy for a good six months now, which never materialised into actual conversation and as my relationship with my Number 6 progressed into something I really never expected, lift boy was forgotten. I turned my head away when he walked down the corridor, no longer interested in his tiresome ‘hello’. But as I walked towards the lift last week for my  3pm cigarette,  I looked up to see him walking directly towards me.  There was no getting away from it.

“Hi” I waved.

“Hi, how are you?” He responded.

“Great. Thanks”

This was as far as it usually ever went. We stood in the lift awkwardly as the numbers counted down.

“Oh cr*p” I said suddenly as I checked my pocket to find no pack of cigarettes and no lighter. “I forgot my ciggies.”

Very cliché, but I HAD actually forgotten them. Lift boy offered to roll me one of his disgusting tobacco things, which I didn’t really want but by now we were speaking, actually speaking and with Number Six pushed to the back of my mind, I was curious what my crush was actually like.

Well he was sweet, funny, and awkward. I love awkward men. He was scrawny in a way that reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite put my finger on and god could he flirt for England.

Having done a formal introduction I ran back to my desk and immediately Sherlock holmed our company Outlook. Only three with his name  in our office. One of which,  I gasped,  had a surname I recognised, then the scrawny look, the cute dimples and the oversize wooly jacket all made sense… but it couldn’t be. It would be too impossible.

It only took a minute on facebook to unearth the truth.

Lift boy and Porsche were BROTHERS!!!!!! I have no qualms over posting the following. Mostly because they have mutated themselves beyond recognition. But there you have it. Porsche…or Lift Boy ‘The Elder’ on the left and Lift Boy The Younger on the right. Brothers, at the Polo (how very laa dee da)

Being a loser that believes in fate and such things, my mind was reeling with the possible ramifications. Was I destined to be with Lift Boy The Elder? Was I destined to be with Lift Boy The Younger? Is there a significance to me being in a relationship when I finally ended up speaking to LBTY? What if I hadn’t forgotten my cigarettes that day? What if I hadn’t been in a relationship? Is it fate that we spoke or fate that we didn’t speak sooner?

Most of all, this.was.all.just too weird for it not to be significant in some way, right?

I pondered this last night as I cuddled up to my Number Six. He has these amazing big arms that make me feel so safe. We were watching show about a dwarf and laughing at a private joke we had. The rain was going crazy on the skylight, but inside the attic there was just the smell of my vanilla scented candle and my boyfriend who…. I love. I looked up at him.

“Don’t you think It’s odd how we got together?” I said.

“Um,” he thought for a moment. “Yeah I guess so.”

“I mean…” I continued. “I wasn’t even going out that night. I was going to stay home. It was a total fluke Claude called me up and convinced me to go out. What If I had stayed in? Would this have even happened?”

There was more to it than that, and it’s probably about time I shared the tale of how me and Six got together. It’s was a web spun by fate and implemented by a need to get totally wrecked.

There was a big part of me that went out that night because Prince Charming would be there (when he sees me he will remember how AMAZING I am! Thought I, timidly)

And had I not seen PC surrounded by a harem of eautiful blondes, had I not been totally slapped in the face with the reality of the guy i’d thought was perfect, I may have never set out to get totally wrecked, and I may have never drunkenly called number Six who I (refused to admit) I kinda had a little thing for to come and join us. Had his plans not fallen through that night, he may have never answered me in the first place and had my friends not gone to bed early leaving me and him alone in the living room and high on half a pill, we might never had ended up kissing.

But it gets weirder. Having decided nothing would happen with him he ended up back at my house (naturally) but I  went to bed alone.

Only by a twist of fate did my alarm for work not go off, only by fluke did my work think I had booked the day off and god only knows why Six was hadn’t himself left for work in the morning. But when I calmed down from my panic of waking up at midday on a Monday still drunk form the night before, I was quite glad I’d woken up only moments before he was about to leave, and that he took the day off too. It was obvious that the only logical thing to do as it was midday and we were on the verge of sobering up, was go to the pub.

The rest was a haze of bloody Marys and drunken scrabble. There were the four random people we befriended and the incident with the guy that tried to gargle his beer and ended up vomiting all over himself (that’s the thing about meeting randoms in a pub, it’s all fun and games until someone vomcanos).

It was a perfect day and in the midst of my rose coloured vodka & tomato coloured glasses, it seemed like the perfect time to invite him up.

Turns out it worked out OK.

Any number of things could have stopped us getting together.

Had lift boy introduced himself two months earlier, Had I stayed in that night, Had prince charming not been surrounded by tarts, had  Six’s plans not fallen through, had my friend not gone to bed early and had my alarm worked, we could still be only just friends.

I gave my Number Six a peck on the cheek. I love how soft his face is and he has this smell…. it’s so weird. How had I never noticed it before, when we were friends? I was happy. It was one of those rare moments when everything is totally perfect.

Maybe it was fate, maybe it was chance. Maybe it was two people finding each other that happen to be perfectly suited. Does it really matter in the end anyway? All that matters is that right now, I’m exactly where I should be.

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Liebster Blog Award!

Thanks you The Boy Trials for nominating me! how exciting!

TBT says-

 “100% adorable posts. I might have only discovered her last night, but already I can tell that this blog is inspirational. Plus, I can get my fill of relationship gossip from right here.”

I’d like to first of all thank all the Dead Dogs without which my trials and tribulations would not have been possible. Google images, for bringing most the traffic to my site and my grand total of thirteen followers for listening to my thoughts. Thirteen people who are not ALL my friends!


Liebster is German & means ‘dearest’ or beloved but it can also mean ‘favorite’ & the idea of the Liebster award is to bring attention to blogs with less than 200 followers.

The Rules are:

1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them
2. Reveal your top 5 picks for the award and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog
3. Post the award on your blog
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the blogsphere-other bloggers
5. And, best of all-have fun and spread the karma.

I’m fairly new to the world of blogs … so afraid I do not even have five nominations, but the ones I have nominated I seriously cannot get enough of.

1) The Boy Trials – Had to be first pick, writing a blog about dating is tricky, but TBT manages to give us a nice dose of goss for nosey eyes without it sounding like a depressing rant about men. also satisfies my curiosity about university dating across the pond. can’t wait to check out latest installment

2) Single and Spunky – funny, hearfelt and totally moreish. Love reaidng about blue walrus, return of blue walrus… and all the other adventures. Need to resist urge to comment on absolutely everything!

3) City Chick Chasing the Beat – new to blog-land CCCTB only has a few pieces so far but each the author’s unique satirical humour. Most enjoyable!


Amelia Unedited

I was writing in my diary today – I need to do this before I set about ACTUALLY writing, to clear the layer of mental grime that collects routinely and needs to be scooped out. I sometimes feel a touch of…guilt? That my diary is such a collection of superficial ridiculous thoughts, when so many great thinkers use their journals to document all things profound and witty. I’m sure the content of my diary aged 8 is the same as aged 28, my mother doesn’t annoy me as much but that’s about it.

Anyway, I was just documenting last night’s adventures at some warehouse in Dalston, when I decided to flick back to the part of the diary I never look at, the Golf-Boy section.  I’ve thought of him a lot over the last week, even writing to a friend yesterday that I miss him like crazy and would do anything to go back to this time last year.  Well, thanks to my diary, I could. It really wasn’t what I was expecting.

Sunday 28th 2010

On Wednesday had an argument with him because he invited me to his friend’s birthday but insinuated I’d be going home alone. It worked out fine in the end, but ended up at THE most boring party with his BORING friends, was literally falling asleep and then there was Monday night when I was so bored I went downstairs to write on my own. What is this saying to me? Am I holding onto something that really doesn’t mean that much to me? I’m going to note down every time I leave him feeling happy and every time I leave him feeling sad starting with this morning


Why? Because he rushed off to his friend’s house instead of wanting to spend the day with me

Because he made a joke about Claude being dead when I was genuinely worried about her not calling all weekend – he’s immature and insensitive!

He left me to walk home on my own

He’s so damned prissy!!!!

Because he has no interest in the homeless shelter, and won’t donate a PENNY!!!! (less to spend on what? Golfclubs? His stupid cooking spices? That god-damned Le Creuset frying pan?!  He’s STINGY!)

Because he doesn’t know me at all. And now I think I don’t want him to.

He doesn’t think about anything

He questions NOTHING

He exists in this little world, this little blinkered world




Sport!!!!!!!!! Nothing matters!

What it comes down to, in 10 years, will I look back and see him as the love of my life?


It’s funny, the things you remember, and the things you forget. Last night Claude told me about a random memory she had of being six years old and naming each newt in her friend’s pond. There were eighty five newts in total that she remembers fishing out of the pond and putting into a bucket before proceeding to ‘christen’ each one with a name and plopping it back in the pond. The memory forms part of her story of childhood, I’m sure she can’t remember what she had for dinner that day, but the newt naming ceremony will remain with her always.

Perhaps we all write a kind of mental autobiography of our life, where we pick the best bits, how we want to remember things.

When I was thinking of this time last year, I wasn’t thinking of Nov 28th 2010, because I’d already forgotten it. The memory I had was actually November 14th 2010, a day I remember clearly… not so much the details but just the way I’d felt. I’m glad, that of all the memories, I chose to keep this one.

So…it was all in my head, and I need to remember this moment and make sure I NEVER act like such a tit again.

Had a really nice time with him over dinner tonight , we shared a pizza and I had a glass of rose, we talked about all kinds of random things…

What would it be like if we woke up tomorrow and men wore women’s clothes while women wore men’s…what if women used urinals?

He walked me home pointing out a dog with a really fluffy bum. We laughed.

Outside my front door, we hid under cover from the rain and he bent down and kissed me. I could hear the sound of the rain on the road

It was magical

Whenever he kisses me it’s magical

I want to always remember that I once felt this way about him no matter what happens

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Darwinian Dating

My friend told me the other day that he approaches relationships with pessimism, when I asked him what he meant, his reply was: ‘How many relationships have you seen succeed? The odds are stacked for failure’. He didn’t put this half as clearly when he sat on my bed, topless and twiddling my hair… when I say my friend, I mean the guy I’m currently dating. It went from friend to boyfriend so quickly that I was spinning, and my usual ‘is this guy good boyfriend material’ stop-check never really happened. Let’s for a moment ignore the fact that this isn’t what a girl wants to hear from her boyfriend, and examine the point… because there is one. Do we learn and grow from each failed relationship? or learn and shrink?

I’ve often wondered whether the notion of growth is a comfort blanket with which we soothe ourselves into thinking that next time we will know to avoid Mr. Unavailable, Monsieur Immature or the little lost boy that never quite found himself.  But what if it is in fact the opposite? What if every time we say ‘next time he won’t have X’ or ‘next time he will be more Y’, we create a formula that’s impossible to crack? Perhaps Freud is right in his claim that the ‘archaic reaction has, so to speak, exhausted itself in the first object’. Ergo, ‘The One’ is synonymous with our ‘Number One’. If so, what does that mean for me and my ‘Number Six’?

The odds of this relationship succeeding were never great; he lives with my ex (Number Four incidentally) I live with his ex. Sometimes things just happen, and when they do, you go for it. But five weeks in, the doubts are already buzzing at the peripheries like those annoying barflies that zip about aimlessly and achieve absolutely nothing.

But when do you know if enough is enough? And are we giving up too fast?

An online survey of top reasons to dump a guy revealed some expected and some… not so much.

  • Cheating (like having an affair with her friend, or sleeping with her sister, or fooling around with every girl he meets)

 (Fair enough)

  • He doesn’t talk to her

(Silence, not always golden)

  • They eat all the food

(Could get annoying… especially in restaurants)

  • They think the TV is more important

(No one wants their relationship flatlined by their flatscreen!)

  • Porn


All very valid reasons, but sometimes it isn’t quite so black and white. The problem with my No.6, is that it isn’t really that obvious! In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter that he cracks stupid jokes when I’m in the middle of telling a story? Should I be worried that he seems to have very little ambition and his literary diversions extend as far as The Sun?

None of this mattered when we were just ‘mates’. Then, I loved how he’d use every opportunity to Face-hack our friends, that he’s a massive gossip and that he has a scatty way of bumbling about, getting distracted halfway through a sentence and laughing at something odd in a magazine. But my expectations suddenly morphed with the new title ‘girlfriend’. Now, everything he is, everything he does, is a reflection on me. After all, no one wants to be the ‘why on earth is she with him’ girl!

It was time for the checklist to make an appearance, compiled over a decade of dating and promising an impossible man-topia. It was everything I wanted in ‘The One’ and almost everything ‘The Sixth’ was lacking.

With an aching brain, I leant outside the skylight in my attic room and smoked a cigarette. The train to Waterloo rumbled on the tracks opposite and as the sky turned dark, I remembered the first night he came up to my room, we’d hung out of the skylight smoking at four in the morning. I’d leant so far out that there was just him in front of me, and the outside air behind. It had felt like that scene in Titanic, the really cheesy one… ‘I’m flying Jack’ sounds silly now, but at the time I guess I was, at the time there was just me and him in the world. There was no checklist, or pressure, just the excitement of something new. It was an innocent excitement, and one that seems to fade faster and faster the further you grow from those teenage years. I realised then, that perhaps I wasn’t ready to let it go away just yet.

Back went the checklist to the place from whence it came, tucked into the mental drawer labelled ‘mum’. I might be 28, but does that mean I can’t date like a sixteen year old for just a little bit longer?


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Night of the Living Dead Dogs

It was a cold night, the last days of summer marked by a distinctive bite to the air.  The shelves of my local supermarket were stocked with pumpkins, and orange and black sweets twinkled from the till. Halloween was near. Outside my window the leaves on the trees had turned orange, as if they too were preparing to celebrate old hallows eve, the night that the world of the past and the present collide.

But this year, that day came early.

It was a series of accidents that led to the resurrection of my past,  and dead dogs long laid to rest came back to haunt me.

The first dead dog came to me in a dream. It was the night before my big conference at work. Perhaps it was the stress of the event, or the detailed account Claude had given me of Paranormal Activity 2 (when I’d purposely sat out of watching it) but I woke up at 4am to a scratching noise behind my headboard. Springing from my bed, I flicked on the light and listened intently. No scratching.

I got back into bed and finally got back to sleep when I was woken again by a scratch scratch scuttle. I jumped up, now truly terrified. Not because of the mouse that was likely just frolicking in the wall but because I’d dreamt about Chris (AKA golf boy).

I couldn’t get back to sleep that night, and the next morning was filled with a dread that like that poor girl in Paranormal Activity, Chris was my very own poltergeist and would be haunting me forever

The second dead dog  came to me through a case of mistaken identity when outlook decided to auto-enter Prince Charming’s e mail into a forward I was sending to a client with the same first name. I bantered politely, a little excited every time my e-mail inbox pinged and a message from him popped up. He re-added me on facebook and of course I had to have a snoop. As I looked at his wall, a mixture of stupid status updates, passé anachronyms and cheesy grinning pictures with various thin blonde girls, I wondered what I ever saw in him anyway?

The third dead dog came to me by chance at a night out in Brixton Academy. Dressed in a white lace dress and pushing my way through the zombielike sweaty faces in the crowd, I bumped into the Swedish One. The same dead dog that asked me out for drinks twice and didn’t bother to follow up on it, the same dead dog that was positively cruel to me last summer. I must have been very drunk because somehow I found myself spending most the night with him. And last night, me and the Swedish one had our first actual date. It did take a lot of help from my friends vodka lime and soda, but we were actually having a good time. I mean, he did laugh a lot at everything I said, even things that weren’t really funny and he was a rather simple sort of guy,  but we did bond on a mutual love of Metalicca and 90’s power metal bands. He was really very pretty to look at, probably the prettiest man I’ve sat across from that I had no interest in whatsoever. The chemistry was non-existent and I ordered more and more drinks out of boredom. I had no interest in his memory stick that was worth near £3,000 or his laptop that cost £2,000 and as sweet as it was to see a slideshow of Sweden covered in snow, and various dishes his mother had cooked, there was a point where I wanted to suggest going back to mine to watch Entourage.

Two of my three dead dogs had walked in my present and were laid to rest in my past, there was no room for them in my world. Perhaps had they not acted so badly in the first place, the anacronyms or the pictures of Swedish fish would not have bothered me. But the thing about a dead dog, is that once dead, it cannot be resurrected. Your respect dies along with said dog and while the ghost dog might bark and run around like an ordinary dog, it will never really be one

Though two were gone back to their world behind the facebook screen, one remained.


The original dead dog. The king of dead dogs and the one whose memory won’t let go of me.

But maybe Chris was never meant to be a dead dog. I didn’t want to be with him, and as a boyfriend he was terrible but then, it wasn’t the memory of being with him that haunted me, it was just that I missed HIM. One thought kept returning to me; I didn’t want to lose him from my life, as a person, a friend.

I had to try and resurrect the friendship if nothing else.

Friday 14th Oct

Sad that we’re not friends after all the fun times.

Had to delete you from FB, it wouldn’t have been nice for either of us to see pictures… etc.

Know this is inappropriate for work e-mail but don’t even think have your phone number anymore….

Would be nice to go for a drink sometime, or just keep in touch.

Really hope you’re doing well 🙂  x

Like a spirit floating round in limbo, my e-mail remains unreturned and possibly unread. This should have brought some kind of rest to the last of my remaining haunts, but it hasn’t. Instead, it has made the ghost of Chris very much present and real.

Xx Amelia

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The Masochism Mambo – Part 2

Just like the addiction of the first date rush, it’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of doing something wrong.

I’ve known Alex for about seven years, on the surface, he’s everything a girl wants – good looking, smart, caring, funny with a dry sense home humour and ‘look after me eyes’. I had a crush on him for years, but a mild flirtation (which only ever went as far as a drunken kiss) turned into friendship and eventually, he dropped the pretence and let me into the world of Alex – a place where serial dating and masochistic binges are taken to a whole new level.

“I’m about to try and get off with a girl in front of her boyfriend! Help! ” he texted me last Friday night. I was out with my flatmate at the Dragonbar in Shoreditch. The drinks are cheap there and the bartenders uniformly HOT.

“You’re f*cking twisted.” I replied.

A second later my phone beeped “I’ve left. Your text did the trick. Where are you?”

Alex came to meet us at the bar, and shuffled in on the sofa with me stuck as a wedge between him and my flatmate.

“So… you left,” I said, gulping my drink. I don’t know what it is about Alex that makes him so magnetic to be around, I didn’t fancy him, I’d stopped liking him years ago but he still made me giddy. “What’s your deal anyway? Who was she?”

“Just a friend. Her boyfriend’s a real dick.” He has this slow way of speaking that’s really hypnotic. “So I just wanted to see if I could kiss her with him standing right there.”

“How, exactly?”

“Well, first I took her arm like this,” he demonstrated, “and then I pulled her closer like this.”

I unhooked myself and reached to grab my drink form the table. “So how’s your new girlfriend?”

“she’s good.”

I’d actually been joking. Alex had been seeing a girl for a while but he was a non- committal kind of guy. “Wow so you guys are serious!”

“Yeah.” He replied. “I love her.”

I snorted into my drink.  This was so typical Alex,  for him, it was wholly possible to exist in two realities, one where you are in love, and another where you try and kiss some guys girlfriend in a bar. The latter had nothing to do with love. It was about Ego.

As I stood outside the bar having a cigarette, I watched him swoop in on my flatmate, his arm sprawled across the back of the sofa, leaning in to fill the gap I’d left. I rolled my eyes, it’s not like I was worried, I’d already warned her about him, but there was still a small pang of irritation that made me smoke my cigarette faster and wedge my butt back on the sofa between them.

Alex left shortly after, whispering in my ear that he was about to ‘pull’ my flatmate and needed to take himself home.

I don’t think he even wanted to pull my flatmate, that’s not the way he operated, he did things to make himself feel powerful, and he’d obviously accomplished what he’d come for.

“It all stems from my innate need for attention.” I slurred at my friend last night, New Radicals were playing on the stereo and we shared a cigarette out the window. “My dad was never there so I’m, like constantly looking for a attention from guys to replace what I , like, missed out on…as a child”

“My issue is that I just can’t handle rejection.” She replied and looked painfully at her phone.

Perhaps the Massochism Mambo is less about the rush of doing something wrong and more about validation, an emotional poly-filler for parts of you that are missing.

………Jade texted me later that night to let me know she didn’t call her dead dog after all.

XX Amelia

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the Masochism Mambo

As my twitter-oos will know, my plan of a boy free three months resulted in a bout of binge texting.

The swede and GB were texted last night, the latter thankfully only resulting in minimal polite text banter which seemed to quench my need for attention and dulling the impact of the former who didn’t reply at all.

Not only did I binge text two people I care very little about and have only a very small interest in seeing but I decided to randomly message a guy I worked with almost five years ago in TV. Why ? who knows?

I know I’m not alone in this madness

I invited my friend Jade over tonight for dinner to cheer her up after her dog died.

(aside… the term dead dog originated when my friend Jessica, frustrated with the constant banter but no date invite from a guy she met, threw her phone down on the table and exclaimed- “I feel like I’m poking a dead dog with a stick” since, ‘dead dog’ had been coined for a boy that has, for some reason or another, turned out to be a loser. The activity of poking dead dogs is universally acknowledged to be pointless but at the time, a harmless bit of fun)

Jade’s dog hadn’t actually died of corse, she was merely grieving the loss of a something she thought had potential.

An entire bottle of vodka turned into a Karaoke session of singing into remote controls and jumping on the sofa to Flashdance soundtrack. I made the mistake of putting on Celine Dion when Jade slumped onto the sofa and declared that she wanted to poke her dead dog.

I knew how she felt.

If I still had Chris’s number in my phone I would have texted him in a second. If I still had PC on my Facebook I would have easily slipped into checking his profile.

You know it’s bad for you, you know no good can come of it but yet you just can’t help doing it!

But then, as I checked my facebook for the hundredth time (maybe the guy I messaged will message back after all….) I realised, there is a euphoria that’s so intertwined with doing something you KNOW is bad, that you just can’t help doing it.

Like maxing out your credit card on a last minute trip to Ibiza, or partying late on a Sunday. Have you noticed that watching Jeremy Kyle is really only ever fun if you’ve pulled a sickie?

“How have you been?” golden Boy texted me “it’s been a while.”

“Blah Blah Blah…. “ I responded, or something to that effect

“I’ve just moved to Clapham…..” he replied.

I’d stopped caring whether he replied or not. It wasn’t’ even fun anymore.

Thinking back over past relationships, not only have I always wanted what I couldn’t have, but I’ve always wanted things that were bad for me.

Is it fundamentally impossible to stop dancing the masochism mambo?

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Kicking the Habit

Hi everyone, my name is Amelia and I’m a Dataholic.

It’s been about three weeks since my last post and I’ve come to the conclusion that something isn’t quite right.

I can probably pinpoint my second of realisation to the moment I stood under the florescent lights of my work bathroom mirror.  A girl in the mirror opposite looked up  as I was frantically applying blusher and mascara. “Hot date?” she said.

“No.” I replied, “meeting a friend.”

She smiled back but I’d wished I DID have an actual date to tell her about.

There is a whole ritual attached to meeting guys that is so much more than the actual event itself.

First it’s will he call? Won’t he call? The endless dissecting of kisses in a text message the routine browse through his facebook pictures trying to guess who the ex is (don’t even try to deny you do it!)

The rush of excitement from meeting, dating, the first time he says he loves you, the time you meet his friends and his mother… all amount to a string of highs that will eventually come to an end, but if you’re single, present  endless  little fixes. They are a constant supply of adventures to tell your friends about (or blog as it happens), outfits to plan and futures to fantasise over.

It’s easy to develop a habit.

More worrying than this, is that it took a guy I knew for 48 hours to make me forget about Chris, something that all my holidays, work, fabulous friends, and writing couldn’t do.

So, I’ve decided to give it all up for three months.

No more eye contact over the bar (or as my friends like to call it ‘strawface’). No more snogging in clubs, contacting golden boy (or the Swede, or the French one) no more obsessing over lift guy at work (we’ve been saying hi to each other in the lift for six months and I don’t even know his name)


So, how will I get on? And what on earth will I have to write about?

Well, I’ve been four days sober and it’s not been easy.

Temptation is everywhere and I pretty much broke on the third day (yesterday). It really wasn’t my fault. Lift guy jumped into the lift just as the doors were closing and said “Hi.”

“Hey,” I replied as the doors closed and the lift was plunged into silence. He shoved his hands in his pockets, I looked at my phone, the doors opened and a girl got out. They closed and he shuffled a little closer making room for someone else. We made eye contact, he smiled, I smiled and cringed and looked at my phone again before the doors opened and I all but ran out of the lift.

Now this would have all been fine had I then not attempted a Sherlock Holmes campaign to find out who he was finding his exact seat and counting how many rows it was form the back of the room. It took several failed attempts of peering over abnormally high telesales desks like some kind of lost Meer cat before I gave up.

I’d cracked, slightly, but I was determined to get back on track.

That evening I was meeting my friend in Shoreditch. It only took one mojito for me to get halfway to drunk and start reminiscing over our time at my old work, Chris, and how funny last summer was. She was having boy problems and we dissected a text, sent another and analysed the entire situation between bouts of laughter and faces full of prawn crackers.

We moved onto another bar in Brick Lane, a homely little cove of tatty velvet furniture that looked like it had previously belonged to an eccentric granny, red lighting and movie posters form the 80’s.

It had been several vodka limes and I was trying really hard not to pull ‘strawface’ at two guys that had sat opposite us.

“He’s disgusting” My friend said.

He probably was, but I was drunk and there was something about his American smugness and Michael J Fox hair that was making me want to give up on the whole no men thing.

Thankfully, they left and after several more drinks and cheese bagels really could have done without, I was on my way home in a cab and trying my very best not to contact Golden Boy (now in my phone as booty-call Nick.)

That night I couldn’t sleep, and in my half drunken delirium couldn’t stop thinking about Chris.

Was it impossible to have a world without men or is it just me? Do I have an actual problem?

After a long day at work, I decided to take myself shopping and replace one vice with another. It’s amazing how much walking round a department store can cheer you up, (It’s amazing how shallow I feel even saying that)

Browsing from Ted Baker to Karen Millen, it occurred to me that picking up guys in bars, and shopping really aren’t so very different.  You see something you like, you have a closer look, pick it up and feel the fabric, maybe try it on for size then either discard it or buy it. Sometimes you find something amazing that fits perfectly and you have the exact same rush of excitement as when you’re in a cab home with someone you can’t wait to get into bed.

Suddenly I wasn’t even in the mood for shopping anymore.

I took the escalator to the lingerie department…. Just to say goodbye to the pretty things I really won’t be needing anymore. Among the frill and lace, in the corner of the department I saw a row of plain bras I’d never even looked at before. I decided If I was going to go without men, or sex then I was going to damn well get some comfy underwear.

I walked out of the store with two plain bras that were totally gross but fitted better than anything I had and couldn’t stop smiling all the way to the tube.

No more worrying about guys texting, no more itchy lace, no more disappointing nights in bars in Balham surrounded by idiots. Three whole months about me, and my writing and friends.

It could be worse!

So I guess this may be good bye for a little while! Wish me luck!

Xx Amelia

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