Something in the way he moves

There's a small space somewhere in between ruthless ambition, comedy and neurosis - just a very small space - where I think about you.
And in those moments, a million forgotten fragments float to the surface and choke me between laughing off an old memory and realising nobody will ever read me in the way you do.

By and large I just want the world to leave me alone,but there are secret pockets in my heart where I'm 'Soccer Mom' and spend every day baking cookies, making packed lunches, doing glitter paint and pasta necklaces with a bunch of unruly kids at a big table in a sunny room.
Every Friday there's a chicken soup dinner on the table at 7.30, and twice a year we take a short let on a gallery and show your work.
There. I've said it now. But the badge on the pocket has only ever had your name on it. I don't feel that way about anyone else.
I'm annoyed at myself because I don't even know where that impetus comes
from, only that I could be stuck with you 'til the end of time and conversation would never run dry. And that we could both happily be too clever by half.

Something in you brings out frankness in me and always has done.
By contrast, you're a closed book that gives up no secrets; a camera-shy voyeur with your face pressed up against a 2 way mirror into the world.
Do we meet somewhere in the middle?

Our most dangerous shared trait is the pursuit of that which we cannot have - maybe I'm here again.
Or maybe, more frighteningly, we're Harry and Sally but neither of us will admit it.

Attention Please, Attention Please

There was a time, in a bygone era, when women were the exclusive guardians of the party limelight.
When it was our prerogative to sashay down a spiral staircase, in an elaborate gown studded with Swarovski crystals, seed pearls and tremendous embonpointe - punctuated only by the sound of our heels on the marble steps, and rhythm of the throng drawing sharp intakes of breath.

But as I spent an evening slipping my feet from one pair of stilettos to another, I realised that women have been robbed.
Robbed wholesale of our right to turn heads and stir heartbeats - by a generation of metrosexual men who envy, not our wardrobes, but the power of feminine magnetism.

The glamourpuss once had a right to exist, to arch her brow and seductively pop an olive between her polished red lips. To whisper dangerous suggestions into the ear of her paramour, all the while charming every guest in the ballroom.
The gentleman thrived as her counterpart, refreshing her martini, allowing her to shine and feeling a secret thrill that this beauty wanted to be his.
He smoked cigars and exuded masculinity, sipped whisky and talked business - tailored and groomed, inwardly satisfied that the lady on his arm was the evening's shining star, that her glossy red nails would trace a path down nobody's spine but his.

It struck me tonight, that here we are in 2009 with fashion trends driving young women to dress like drag queens, caricatures in too-high shoes - running, whilst stumbling, after this cultural phenomenon of attention seeking men.
Men who devote themselves to building up or slimming down, using the semi-anonymity of the cyber world to feel validated, spending hours on the perfect webcam snap to create the illusion of a bigger, better version of who they really are - all the while desperately seeking to claim that 'staircase' moment as their own.

As an individual I'm well aware that I have my flaws, but let me make one thing clear - I am the Diva.
It is my right to wear the metaphorical gown and graciously accept compliments. It is my place to bat my lashes and arch my brow, to charm the crowd whilst my heart beats only for one other.
Essentially, any man who wants to steal my grand entrance and stand in my follow spot, is not a man worth having.

I'm Mary Poppins, me

So, it's January, perfect time for the annual review...

Slimmer and sexier, with the defined jawline I've always dreamed of; I can hand-on-heart say I've come as close to the 'Demi Moore for Versace' campaign as is realistically achievable.
My hair is poker, skin sunkissed by the finest UV tubes, and teeth untainted by the twin ravages of merlot and marlboro.

I've learned how to fire up a nargila and purr smoke-rings hypnotically, attempted to smoke joints - but not roll one - under the watchful eye of an experienced foreigner, before settling on appetite suppressants as my drug of choice.

In terms of romance, it's the same old status quo via a short-lived relationship with a brutally honest commitment phobe. Charming chap, penchant for raw liver.
There are lots of juicy quips I could think of to sum this one up, but they'd be lies, so best saved for a Girls Only Cocktail Evening where I can fabricate whilst mixing mojitos.
Note to self - give the vodka jelly a wide berth.

A short and sweet reunion with the New York Yankee unfolded over Christmas, and after all the fretting, I can truly say the feelings, like Elvis, have left the building.

So - that does bring me back to where I left off last time, and as my list of criteria grows ever longer, the problem of where to look for single gentlemen has reared it's head once more.
The Experienced Foreigner recommends ploughing the furrows of JDate, which I attempted to do during my lunch hour...I logged on and signed out in the time it took my micro-lunch to warm through.

Watching television, I thought I might find inspiration - and came nose to nose with Adam Venus biting into a McDonalds Sausage Bagel.
I broke out into a cold sweat - I think I once kissed him!
No, that couldn't be right. Or maybe with my track record, it could be right.
I think there was alcohol involved? And a boat?
I texted Nic to ask if it was a figment of my imagination, and after 15 minutes of thinking on it, she remembered I did, as a student, have an episode of drunken kissing, with Adam Venus, on a boat.

I now give you all my written permission, that should I ever, ever, ever even consider so much as holding hands with a boy from that school - hit me round the head with a stick and try to quote as many of the 16 names as you can remember until I see it your way.

Enough Is as Good as a Feast...

'A change will do you good' and all that - yep, I refrained from sucking that lemon for 4 whole weeks.

I apologise for the lack of blog, but you knew what it meant, that I didn't have anything to rant and rave about - don't think I don't know about those wishing ill-fortune on me, just to secure a bit of reading matter!

I know it's a little unusual, out of sorts perhaps, but I'm not going to give you the gory story - suffice it to say that I now have to stand by my word which is NO MORE CARMEL BOYS (BY ORDER OF THE MANAGEMENT).
He's a smashing guy, just one of those things.
It was fun, cuddly and all the other silly things which go hand in hand with the Honeymoon Period, but in the light of the November 04 hoo ha it would be a bit ridiculous if I came over heartbroken, that would call my romantic sincerity into doubt...
As the American contingent would say, 'Honey, he's just not that into you'.

So here's the brain teaser - where do I look now my resources have run dry?

A) Jdate - exhausted it, know half the people on it, the other half are peculiar uglybugs, and I'm none too keen to include myself under that umbrella.

B) Blind Dates - as many will testify, well meaning friends co-ordinating blind dates seem to forget everything they've gleaned about your partner preferences over the past 20 odd years. It sort of ends up as a bunch of social oddments put together in umpteen permutations until 2 of them finally just sort of give in. Again, not keen on being pimped as a fantabulous oddment.

C) The Jew Do - tried it for years, there seemed to be an inbred aversion to guys offering to buy drinks. I don't know whether it's a good or a bad thing, but Jewish boys seem to have their 'Chat Up Line' reflex removed along with their foreskin.
I apologise if anyone feels to the contrary, but I've probably been out with you, and it evidently didn't work on me.
Am still deciding whether or not to get back into this loop, but after scanning the full-colour JC centrefold Chez Waldies, I can't honestly say I've felt any kind of social void.
Additionally, this would involve the appointment of a Wing Woman, and thus far none of my single girlfriends would remotely entertain queuing in the rain and parting with hard-earned cash to party hard with beaky nosed skinnies and chopped-liver haired (if they've got any at all) shmocks.

D) Speed-dating. No.

I do continually think I'm better off on my own, no aggravation, no leg maintenance, no-one to glimpse the wobbly bits, but then that's not the right attitude.

So, now I'm at stalemate. I'll try and be funny next time.

You Knows It Clart!

And so it was written, and I was positively bowled over with feedback - the women loved it, they laughed, they cried; and the men....well some listened and learned while others retched in fear of my impending candidness.

However, my smile of Cat Deeley smugness was wiped from my face when I got to the response of my very own Mr. Big - I'd had elaborate visions of phasing in this short, but try-hard mystery man - apparently I'm a disgusting, revolting pea brain.
In some quarters I'd thought that was called Journalism. Ho Hum.
Let's all just have a moment of quiet contemplative reflection, to commemorate the end of 10 years of 'Will they, won't they', 'Have they done it?' chemistry.

As a mark of respect, I decided to give JDate a bit of a rest and searched through my little black book in search of a Real Live One.
Brace yourselves, put on your incontinence pants and sit good selves down....because here comes:

5) Fried Green Onions at the BB Cafe

I've never been one for blind dates or blind faith, so when an old friend and contingency snog proffered me his cousin's number my gut reaction was 'stay away'.
But then I weighed up the fact that his cousin had soft lips and a great kissing technique, and that his brother had kept me amused with a reasonable kissing technique - I've started, so I'll finish.
I took the bull by the horns and dropped him a line to say I had tickets to a BB eviction, and would pick him up.
As the intermediate days passed, I was feeling increasingly optimistic, and dressed in my usual inimitable style of a sherbet lemon (just in case I got on the TV). There were rumours of big screens and Jeremy Edwards showering in white pants, so regardless of the actual appeal of my impending liason, I had high hopes for cheap thrills.

So, I get to Mill Hill...and I see this shuffling thing, like Paddington Bear on Valium approaching the car...I swear to you all I'm not really that evil, but had it not been for my personal numberplate all I can say is Bat Out of Hell.
The car door opens, and in he gets, faux sheepskin anorak, mis-shapen knitwear and all. Now I'm never one for a rumour, but from the aroma which filled the air there is no way he works in off-plan property - he's moonlighting as chief taster for Herta's Furters.
Perhaps some kind soul had tipped him off that I'm the founder member of the Clean Plate Club, because he obviously thought that onion-esque whiffs would make me a sure thing.

I navigate us to Elstree Studios, proving right my theory that I can get myself anywhere in London if it's near a food-related landmark - I hadn't been there for 10 years, and yet instinctively knew it was next to a Tesco Superstore.
We stop for snacks, and I fly about like Marjorie Dawes incarnate, in search of the savory snacks aisle - Snack A Jacks, a fad dieter's staple...When I finally collect myself, and a bag of Kit Kat Kubes to serve as nosegay and pick-me-up, I find Paddington in the toothpaste aisle. Call me old fashioned, but an overnight kit is a bit presumptuous on a first date, even by my standards!
He decides he'd like an apple, so we mosey on up towards fruit. He takes one, and puts it on the antique weighing scales.
At this point I feel he's testing my nerve, and I gently suggest that if he twists off the stalk and re-weighs, it may come in slightly lighter, giving a saving of 0.1p.
The things you learn being a Jewish Weightwatcher....

We get to checkpoint charlie, and I hand over the tickets to be told that as this eviction was a surprise, would we all mind standing in silence until the point when the House door opens. All I can say, sorry whisper, is that I clapped my hands together with glee. His poor little face, it looked like Patrick Swayze plugging The Silent Hunter.
I can only imagine how we looked, Paddington Bear and Sherbert Lemon mooching into the enclosure, but it must have been infinitely more amusing when he came over all lothario, and starting massaging my back through my bodywarmer.
I stood there, stock still, thinking there must be some way of asserting the platonic boundaries, but my wisecracking in whispers failed me, and when Davina went to a commercial break he threw himself at me in a ridiculously contrived bear hug, and rested his head on my shoulder.
It felt like an eternity, and like a child being hugged by an aged and bristling great aunt, I just stood there, like a soldier, rigid.

As Lisa came out, we boo-ed and jeered, which almost saved him from being a total reject. But alas, what came next sealed his fate.

We get back to the bear lair, and he asks if I'd like a cup of tea.
I must stop forgetting that tea doesn't mean tea and that it's code.

I cross the threshold, sniffling while my nose defrosts, and as I get into the kitchen-living area, out of the corner of my eye I spy plump flesh, clad only in boxer shorts.
I was ready to bolt for the door, when a head pops up, it was an equally gloomphy flatmate cooking dinner.
As a calming measure I phoned Riva, while said flatmate scarpered for some threads, and my fragrant Romeo made a brew.
I hadn't taken off my beanie hat nor my bodywarmer, as a preventative measure - if it had been the cinema I'm sure there would have been a bit of a popcorn trick going on...
He asks me for a massage, and I tried my best to be gracious in decline.
He plops his arm on my lap, I try shuffling politely to the edge of the chair and drink my hot tea very very quickly.
He leans back and flips up a footrest in the Joey Tribbiani style, reaches over and takes my hand.
At that, I jump up, mumble something about blocked drains in the road, raw sewage outside the streetdoor, must get home in case there's torrents of it, environmental health, so sorry, must go. Now.
He leans in for a kiss, so I crane my head to hit his left cheek. He bearhugs me again in his signature style, and I can feel every lump and bump pressing as he squeezes me - any harder and he'd have squeezed my lunch out of me one way or the other - he puckers up and goes in for the kill...I crane again and hit the right cheek, backing out of the door, grabbing the banisters ready for a pole vault.
He takes my hand and says how lovely it was to meet me - I shake his hand like a bank clerk and shoot down the stairs.

All together now...Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone, gone, gone.

So now I'm back to the drawing board, cooking up a new masterplan, just you wait....

Dating aside, I've had a very special week, as I have procured a pair of rare Hi-Tec sneakers, pair no.2 out of 100. The GLC have hijacked my and taken over my life for the moment -I sent the old Greenie out on a lunchtime misson to Old Compton St., convincing her that if she walked briskly, there'd be a Bonus Point (TM) in it for her.
So I am now tiptoing around indoors, on clean surfaces only, in the finest pair of Silver Shadows known to man. Hurrah!!
Big up to my fellow Goldie Lookers...they know who they are!

And to the rest of you, you've got another week of peace and quiet until the next installment...

A Porno, A Pizza Chef and a Model

So, as I've explained to my dearest who may or may not be my nearest, this is the year in which it will happen - the goalposts have moved from big 'n' bouncy JLo, to Britney, and now to slim as a reed Jessica Alba - I will get to 8 and a half stone if it's the last thing I do.

And as popular demand dictates that I record my witticisms for posterity, so The Exercise-bike Diaries have begun...and you thought Lemony Snickett was a pessimist...

I've weighed in with Marjorie Dawes, folks let's just say it wasn't pretty - I wore a short skirt, fine denier tights and stood on tippy-toe. A rather rotund teenage boy asked me why I was there, I don't know who he was but it had the Milk Tray Man effect, it made my day but he has to understand that Milk Tray are off my menu.

To kick start this period of high-octane lifestyle enthusiasm I've been to the gym 5 times and snacked on WW Bakewell Tarts, so far so good. Leanne and I have stocked up on moisture-wicking gym kit, aerodynamic water bottles, wrist weights and olympic swimsuits with matching caps and although we look like a pair of over-keen new year's converts I'm determined to drill the pair of us.
I'll let you know when we run on the roadside with a haversack filled with bricks...

There's not been any real reason for this turning point, to be honest I'm in a very similar position to where I was last year:
Spring 04 - nursing broken heart apres split with budding narcissist after slumming it in South Woodford, hot sex in Tenerife for treats.
Spring 05 - nursing broken heart apres hot sex (I have to say that, he could be reading) with the king of narcissists in New York, shopping spree for treats.

So for starters, the only puffing and panting I'll be doing for the foreseeable future is of the treadmill kind, it works up equally as much sweat, but doesn't cause nearly as much trouble!

To kill time in between counting Points (TM) and pumping iron, I've taken to perusing that internet service known as Dial-A-Freak, sorry, JDate.
I feel a little target practice would do me good, except there is a disticnt lack of suitable targets.

Date 1) The Porn Baron
So the opening drinks had gone well, I wasn't sold, but then again didn't want to write him off on first impressions, so on date 2 we went for dinner and it became disturbingly apparent that he is worryingly short, shorter than Tenenbaum, possibly about the same height as me.
From my last experience I have taken away the knowledge that tall men are er, better equipped for certain life skills, so I resolved never to date anyone under at least 5' 9 and El Porno was coming in way under radar.
He basically knew nothing about anything, had no interests other than shopping - let me point out that while that was initially great, a boy who's so slight of frame that he has to have his blazers made bespoke ain't good. He was neither educated nor sophisticated, not travelled or well read, I don't think I even laughed once the whole evening. So when he dropped me home, Iwas not feeling remotely inclined to put out - and let me make it clear it wasn't through tactical play, there was just not one sexually charged proton in the house.
Readers you must understand, for me to blow out a man whose car trunk is filled with porn and silent vibrators, he really really had all the charm of a cardboard cutout.

Date 2)Mr. Greeting Cards
This chap started talking to me on jdate, aged 31 which is about 4 years outside my desired bracket, but I thought, be nice, and chatted back.
We spoke for quite a while, and he told me he worked with family, they run a greeting card company. Very nice, i thought, and provisionally arranged a drink for sunday night.
So the conversation carried on, and on day 2 he told me his name was Kishon.
Yes, that's Kishon.
I don't know the origins for such a word, or what would posses a person to hold a baby in their arms and think 'I now name this child Kishon'. Or as Toby so nicely named him, kishon the tuchus.
He then tells me he just bought a new car from a lease company, to fit stock in - and that he got it for a discounted price.
I'm thinking, sexy, a thrifty jew - mental note to self: on date, order tap water, don't ask for dessert and don't have anything with avocado, liver, veal, swordfish or anything else that costs over a fiver.
He then asks me what other jobs I've had, besides import - I explain I worked in casting, but went pretty much straight into this. I foolishly ask the same question, and after a bit of tiptoing around the subject, Kishon tells me that to raise extra cashflow, he's a manager at Pizza Hut, and works there twice a week.
I don't need to tell you the rest...

Date 2 and a half) The Best Man
Well, it wasn't technically a date, but at the start of the evening I'd have considered putting out. We went to see The Aviator which had its moments of high-brow.
So during the bits when I wasn't giggling, I played with my hair a la Mike Skinner, and moved about to show off my now-pneumatic chest.
Nothing.
I know we're friends and all that claptrap but I thought I'd give it a try - however during the evening several awful things happened:
He burped in the movie
He coughed continually as he's giving up smoking, and then spat phlegm out of the car window on the way home
He didn't know what a dermatologist was.

So, we then move on to project 4 - The Liar
Found in his natural habitat this young fellow attracted me with this fantabulous head shot, and claimed to be a Lawyer who models part-time. The fact that he's working on a £300 million corporate buyout didn't come into question.
Of course, I didn't buy one word of it. For the first hour I must have been incredibly rude, I was utterly convinced it was someone having me on - you just don't get Jews called Dylan.
We chat, and I demand a photo with no soft focus or wind machine enhancement.
What I get is a shot of 4 Jews in wedding attire, looking as generic as everyone else - a plump boiled baby.
To redeem himself from this hot water situation, he says all the right things on cue - that we'll go for dinner in The Ivy when he's in London in a few weeks, and that he owns 30 pairs of trainers.
Well, at that, this worm turned. The man knows his stuff, I'm sure there are more than a few coloured pairs of Pumas in there.
Just when it took an upturn, just the right sprinkling of innuendo, the offer of a snapshot up his kilt that sort of thing, he gives me his work email.
Dylan my arse - his name's Paul.
So now we have on our hands, a well dressed man, who's a terrible liar - I express interest in the movie, The Double Life of Paul Ockrim.
Now I've been down this double life, compulsive liar road before, and wasted valuable jogging time mooning over geographically unsuitable troublemakers, so readers help me out, what do I do?
I mean, all indications point to the fact that I could order Cristal, a punnet of avocados and whatever the hell else I fancy...
On the bright side, he's Glaswegian, so I'd get all the freedom of long-distance, every time we meet would be an absolute dirty weekend experience, and I wouldn't have to come home from work and cook for him!
Yes, I think I will continue to Date 4, but delay it for a fortnight so I've given a 7lb weight loss my best shot. Just in case.