The Story of J's Girlfriend (2005-2010)

A face in the doorway

2010-05-24T00:49:00.001+01:00

A face in the doorway
Originally uploaded by Heaven`s Gate (John)

Missing

2010-03-29T07:14:00.002+01:00

I think it's finally sinking in. You are somewhere else, picking up the pieces, looking for a flat, getting back to work, getting on with what's left of your life. I am here.

I can't remember missing someone this way for a long time. It's an unfamiliar feeling.

It's like there is still a bond between us, being gradually stretched into a thin silver string, and I am just waiting for it to snap.

It is hard to say if this will be more or less painful than the waiting process.

Dear J II

2010-03-22T23:27:00.003Z

I miss you. I miss someone sitting on the sofa next to me, frowning when I laugh at pointless things on the TV. I miss your smell. I started crying this evening because someone got married at the end of a show. A fictional show. I'm not usually like that.

At the same time, I can't decide if I actually want you back or not. Do I really want someone to pour cold water in my blood whenever I have a good idea? Don't I like being able to eat whatever I want and to say whatever I want without actually offending anyone for totally obscure reasons?

Right now, I think I can never fall in love again. I feel broken inside. I can't tell if I think I want you back because I don't think I'll ever fall for someone else, or if it is because it is actually you I want back. I wish I could ask you these things. It hurts not to be able to, although you never once really helped me out in any of my emotional dilemmas anyway.

I miss your body the most, curling up against you and feeling the warmth of my own breath reflected from your smooth back or your upper arm draped across my chest. What does that mean? And who do I ask now I can't ask you? Who was I asking while I was with you, since you never gave any satisfactory answers anyway? Was I really alone this whole time, without noticing..?

It is weird not knowing where you are, where you are sleeping, who you are sleeping with. I don't mind if you meet someone else, as long as I don't have to watch you kiss her, look at her with love in your eyes.

I was always afraid of seeing that look in someone's eyes, of complete devotion, I don't like the feeling of holding someone else's fragile heart in my sometimes clumsy hands. Maybe I was holding yours and just looked away. Maybe I never did.

Minute by minute

2010-03-16T00:47:00.003Z

I am now in my second exiled home since The Breakup. I feel unexpecedly OK. Still numb, but I laughed out loud today and I haven't cried since Saturday (though I almost started sobbing out loud on the treadmill today due to a particularily poignant moment in Scrubs.. so maybe not exactly "over it"...).

It is weird how even after a few days, J is slipping away from me. I still feel pain as I write that. But I know it is only a matter of time before I can no longer remember the exact imprint his body used to make on mine during an early morning spoon, the smell of his chest when he came into the flat in the afternoon, his coat still icy cold, the taste of his upper lip. Soon, all that will remain are flashes of the feeling of his hand on my cheek, a disjointed image of a smile, I won't remember his exact voice anymore. How I fell for that voice. I grieve over all these things.

For a while I had a headache. Now, the pain is duller, situated somewhere between the chest and throat. Maybe my heart really is breaking.

As I was brushing my teeth in my friend's kitchen sink, I briefly had an impulse to call J, because he might be feeling horrible, and past experience shows that he might cave. But I didn't. Partly because I'm too proud, shamefully also partly because the scent of freedom is making its way through the misty stench of cat lady fantasies, and it is attractive, but also partly because I am starting to remember all the things that weren't so good. How I would sometimes crave someone extroverted, someone who loved words as much as I do, someone who would look me in the eye while talking, someone who was truly proud to be my boyfriend because they felt pride in themselves, and faith in me, in us. This is also sad. I don't want to forget all those good moments we have shared despite all those things. Yet over time, it is impossible to hold onto them.

I might cry later when I go to bed. I might not.

One day I will read this blog back to myself, the whole of it. One day, I might print it and give it to J.

Dear J

2010-03-14T02:54:00.004Z

It's official. I am no longer J's Girlfriend. I guess I haven't been for a long time, in a sense, but at the same time, I am finding it difficult to fathom.

J and I recently had our 5th anniversary, which was passed by us both in unusual silence, no presents, no morning cuddle, no breakfast in bed or lingering at the dinner table way too late with a bottle of wine.

So dear J. I miss you already. Tonight, when I am doing the proverbial camping out on my friend's sofa so that you can wrap up your belongings and move back to Britain, my thoughts go to you, to us, although there is no us anymore.

I cried all morning, and I cried after you went out to do a few errands and to leave me in peace to pack up the stuff I needed for the weekend.

You have been kind to me, so, so kind.

I am not denying that being with you has been hard, probably harder than being with most other people.

But I feel that what I have had in return, the chance to see you open up and occasionally daring to dream even, has been amazing.

We have seen the world together, slept at ridiculously luxurious and horrifyingly bad hotels in several continents.

You held my hand through so many horror films, though you hated them all.

I worry for you, that you will retreat into your shell and stay there until life suddenly has passed you by. I worry for you, that you will meet someone else and be happier than you were with me. I want you to be happy, but I still am not at the stage where I am ready to look it in the eyes that there might never be an "us" again.

We talked so much this weekend, more than we have in the last year added up. Frank talk, with all the pressures of having to build a life together lifted, your fingers discovering the curves of my toes for the millionth time, me sniffing the crook of your neck as if you were my baby. You were my baby. And I was yours.

I think I am still numb. I am keeping all the if onlys and what ifs at bay, because I think they would drown me if I don't let the sea of tears subside first.

I sit here gazing across the ocean, lights twinkling on the islands out there. I take one hour, one minute at a time, breathing through, staying alive. I think of you, always. But that too will pass.

Although I feel relieved, relieved that I will no longer have to watch my every step, to be vigilant as to whether you have had a bad day, to bite my tongue as you fail to respond to me in a fashion I don't just think is mechanical, despite all this, all I remember now is all those mornings where the curves of your body fitted mine so perfectly, the smell of your wollen sweathers and white t-shirts, the top of your head and the palm of your hands. The nice conversations, the laughs, the intimacy. Not the long evenings of silence or the pointless, pointless arguments that have always appeared to come out of nowhere.

Soon, you will probably be another one of my exes, that I check out on facebook when I'm bored and never really contact.

I'm just not ready to take in that part yet.

Knitting your life away...

2010-01-22T15:21:00.007Z

There is trouble brewing in the household.

At Christmas, I laid down the law and told J that either he agrees he wants to have kids with me (not necessarily right now, but at least at some point in the foreseeable future) or he can piss off back to the Land of Smog and Overpriced Public Transport.

Closeup Hat number II which I knitted after realising that Hat I was way too small for my bald friend's fat head

J, of course, has risen to the challenge by being ten times as neurotic as usual, which is a strain for him, me and everyone around us, including I am guessing his therapist who is up for a nasty surprise when he returns from his extended Christmas vacation next week sometime.

I am not doing this to be nasty. Well, maybe a little, but mostly because I genuinely want children, and if I end up not having any, I don't want it to be because my socially anxious and obsessive boyfriend dithered until it was too late.

At any rate, what can one do except hope. J's big fear is that he will "fail to bond with his children". This is so neurotic and absurd I don't even know how to form an adequate emotional response. But, being the rigid and security-seeking person that he is, he has decided he would rather spend his life alone, miserable and cuddle-less in the Cesspit of the UK that is home of his job from which he has been granted a 12 month sabbatical (due to expire in two months, thus adding to his stress), than be with me and have children. Better the devil you know, even when it is a really sucky one.

Hat numero II: Looks like a tea cosy, but modeled on J actually works out OK

So I can do nothing except wait, which is what I have done for the past five years (read my backblog and you will know what I mean). But time is almost up. I don't think I can take much more, and although I will be so ashamed to tell my mother that I have screwed up yet one more long-term relationship with a man she has come to know and I think even like quite a lot, that is better than living in this limbo which sucks the energy from me to such an extent that all I can do is reruns of WoW HC dungeons and knitting.

Hat number I. Unfortunately looks like I'll have to keep this one for myself.. All hats done on 8mm needle in Mystery Scandinavian Wool from Stash

Apropos, something good has come of this. Over this week and last week I have knitted two hats (se photos) and also about 7 cm of my "new" sweater which I started over a year ago now. The sweater is done on 3 mm needles, which I now realise was a massive mistake, but since my mother has invested £40 in the wool I feel obliged to finish it (you might see a pattern here with me feeling obligated towards her, but really, she puts no pressure on me and is generally a good mother). Luckily this semester at uni consists of a lot of compulsary classes with no exams at the end of the course, and since emotional upheaval means I don't concentrate well enough to take notes, I figured I might as well knit.

One of my friends whose birthday is coming up is pretty much bald and has almost frozen to death during the late cold snap. I shall grant him one of the hats and at least one life will have been improved by this ridiculousness.

Will be back once I've secretly skewered all the household condoms with a very small needle.

Waving goodbye

2010-01-15T07:24:00.002Z

Child's shirt hanging in the window by HarlanH

In my dream last night, I was waving goodbye to my friend's children. My love lost (who doesn't own a car) was giving me a lift home, and all I could think of was wanting to be on my own with him. However, we were dropping said friend off first, with all her skiing equipment.

She urged me to come out of the car to say goodbye to her children, who were waiting inside the house. I did not take the time to go into the house, I wanted to be with the man who was in the car, because I knew it would be stolen time, that it would be a few minutes at most, and that my friend was already asking questions in her head. I felt immense sadness, loss and longing at the same time.

A Jungian would have a field day. Shame I am leaning more towards the cognitive angle..

New year, new resolutions

2010-01-11T06:16:00.004Z

Occasionally I think about this blog and tack on a "I probably should delete it" at the end of my thinking. Sometimes I get paranoid that ex best friend has found it and that this is why he is refusing to acknowledge my presence in the world. I think of all the fights between J and I that are chronicled here, my high hopes in the beginning and the realization that this is just another relationship, with good and bad sides.

But then I realise that I have now had this blog for about five years. Although I have not been actively blogging that whole time, I have been pouring my heart out more regularly to this blog than to anyone I know in real life. Since then, I have:

Moved house 5 times
Stuck with J even though he drives me nuts most of the time
Held 5 different jobs
Had two dates with my first boyfriend
Moved countries once
Started studying again
Bought a flat
Almost fallen out with my parents like a billion times
Taken almost double ECTS credits for a whole year
Made I'd say three new female friends
Become an auntie
Passed 11 exams with flying colours.. OK, at least with colours trying to take off
Gained personal experience of working with psychos(patients and staff)
Visited Hungary, the Czech Republic and the continent of Asia for the 1st time
Learned ABA tutoring
Knitted my first baby item
Rounded 80 in WoW

And, I just found out, scored a glittering A in last semesters main exam! Wohoo for me! With such a list of triumphs there is obviously no way I could delete this blog. Yet.

Milk

2009-07-19T07:05:00.003+01:00

It is a privilege
To thirst for
That glass of cold milk
Kept in the fridge
Frosted by waiting
Slippery between
My dry summer hands
Marking the whiteness

Language lost

2009-07-08T08:30:00.002+01:00

The word eludes me,
sliding down the bannister surrounded
by phrases grinning
like idioms.

I grasp for it now,
hands encased in rubber gloves, yellow
fingering the black
iron skeleton
left behind.

The Mother

2009-06-22T13:00:00.000+01:00

I have written about J's mother more extensively than I'd like to consider, in previous editions of this blog. However, never before have I had to endure her presence in my own house. This is largely because I have never owned my own home before, but also because we try to avoid her as much as possible.

This time, however, there was no mercy. I had snatched J away to a foreign land (as she would soon let me know), ruined his carreer and cruelly left her behind (as she would soon let him know), so we figured the least we could do was invite her over.

She wanted to come for ten days, but we managed to limit it to a week, and I also arranged to go and see my parents for the weekend, which cut back on the time I had to cope with her actually in my own home.

Of course, it was a disaster. For a closer description of J's mum, read either my previous posts on her, or the DSM-IV R diagnostic criteria for histrionic and OC personality disorders in a merry marriage.

When she landed, she was all smiles, saying how she loved my flat, the view from it, etc. etc. The next morning, however, her self-control had been stretched beyond its limits and the poison started seeping out from the crack of her tightly shut lips. Over the next few days she complained about:

The lack of comfort of our sofa bed
The fact that we didn't have a special piece of furniture for her suitcase to rest on
The price of food
The selection of vegetables in the shop
Quality of the town's museums and exhibitions
The fact that I wasted £13 on a wall decoration
That J and I speak English togehter, which impairs his language learning
Quality of the ice cream in the country (which she of course had not actually tasted)
The quality of the antiques displayed in a nearby shop
The bumpiness of the roads in the mountains
How her sightseeing tour was boring
Quality of the guiding on another tour

Before you think this was cancelled out by words of praise re. other things, this was not the case. She liked nothing. She did not want to eat out with us, she did not want to have coffee, and she actually didn't spend a penny on us the whole time she was here, until J pressed her to pay for a ticket to a sight she insisted we take her to see, so she could complain of how overrated it was. I am not saying that parents are money banks, but yes, actually they are.

My parents, in addition to kindly providing me with the funds to allow me to have a mortgage size compatible with full-time study, have also lovingly helped furnish my flat, and they have enjoyed being part of J and I building our home together, because they want us to be together, and this is one way of expressing that.

She brought some chocolate with her, though she probably knows perfectly well that I don't eat chocolate, but nothing for the house. She bought us not as much as a coaster, nor did she at any point express being happy because we are living together (when she arrived, it was the flat she liked, not how we have decorated it).

On top of this of course, she started several blazing rows with J, and I had to calm her down afterward, amid thinly veiled accusations that I have turned J against her. She called her son "a monster" and her young nieces "selfish and manipulative".

Of course, nothing is wrong with her, because, as she says, she did everything in his best interests. Unfortunately, doing one's best as a parent one can still damage a child beyond repair. I am of course hoping that J is at least partly repairable.

Then we travelled to see my parents. She first threatened not to come at all as J was being such a monster (his cardinal sin was to tell her that she was being very negative towards me), but I pointed out to her that my parents had made preparations and would be very sad not to see her (a total lie, but I wanted them to see what she is really like).

She then repeated her complaints there. My mother was gutted, convinced that they had been horrible hosts, as she doesn't have the expertise in dealing with personality disordered guests as I do. She asked me if she was being awful for not inviting J's mum back, as one normally does when a guest leaves. Naturally, I told her not.

So then it took me two weeks to piece J together after having been told he is a worthless monster who dares to oppose his mother. He is currently looking for a psychologist. I am tempted to write to her and ask that she covers the £70 per session bill. What does it help that he demonstrates being a loving partner, a dutiful and capable employee, a supportive friend, when those words ring in his ears every morning when he wakes.

But at least it is over for now, and we won't have to see her again for the foreseeable future.

The one I'm not

2009-06-20T12:02:00.002+01:00

I live by the rules, she lives by her principles. Quite often they overlap, most of the time they don't.

I have gotten a grip of myself, I think.

And then something happens, something small, and I start dreaming of him again. Though the dreams have changed, too. Last night, we were sitting next to each other at a wooden table, his daughter playing on the floor in front of us, showing me things, looking up countries in a Times atlas. He is proud of her. He put two fingers over my hand, casually, and somehow I was contented, but there is still the longing.

Of course there is longing for pleasure, the kind of pleasure that fries your brain and makes you sit in the bushes outside someone's house for five days just to catch a glimpse of them. But that pleasure, I think I'm too old for it. I don't think my body could take it. Even these emaciated flashes of longing I get when I see him now, they stretch my comfort limits.

Longing for what? I know that the person I am longing for is not really him, it is the person he lets me feel that I am. She is beautiful, creative, she speaks in poetry and moves in mysterious ways, disappearing and reappearing like the hallucination of an oasis in the desert.

I am beautiful, and I write my poetry alone, though I sometimes hear his voice in my ear and turn around to see his shadow disappearing around the corner.

But also, when he speaks to me, of me, at me, I know I can do anything. When I'm on my own, I am not so sure. He makes suggestions I don't always follow, but they are suggested with such undying conviction. When he is there, I have to do that for myself, and it's hard.

My parents, of course, also think I could do anything I put my mind to. But they have no idea what I do all day. He does, and he still thinks I can do it. That really means something to me. Should I be able to do that for myself, is that an impossible demand to place on someone?

I long to be that girl again, because she is a girl, she is 19, and likes to spend her evenings curled up on a salvation army couch, reading long-lost old comics and drinking very milky tea with honey, and he whispers to her and looks up from his book and shares a quote, and he says how he loves it when she is enjoying something, because he thinks she has passion.

And that's it, too. I think I lack passion. My life is passionless. I know that I don't feel this intense desire and appreciation for many things in life, but I do feel them about words, words dancing with each other on the page, him the commentator relaying the highlights from the event.

J does not understand words. He counts their letters and remembers their meanings, but he has no appreciation of the way they move on the page, like loves, like the ocean, like fragments of a memory. And therefore, though he loves me more than he has ever loved another woman, he does not see that part of me, that longs to speak poetry and live an enchanted life.

No woman can go through her life being a princess, unless, of course, she is one. And when I look at her, the one I'm not, I know that the only way I can stay that way, kittenish, unflawed, sensual, is for someone who sees me once a month and doesn't see that I never tidy the living room, though I don't think he would much care.

And here's the rub. I want to be that girl, but I don't want the life I would have to lead being with him. I am not like the other woman. I have principles, yes, but intrinsically, I live by the rules and I like it that way. I want to have a nice house by the sea, where I can open the window and feel the sea air rush in, sit in a quiet place drinking iced tea with my top off, writing my poetry, putting toenail polish on my toes. I am not a rebel.

So I have to work even harder to find that 19-year old within myself, to nurse her, quell her insecurities on my own. Every morning, I must tell myself I am beautiful, and poetry will run from my fingertips.

Since the last time...

2009-05-12T22:40:00.002+01:00

I have done a lot... Amongst other things, it was my birthday. It has been a long year. Since my surprise party last year, lovingly arranged by J, which was especially significant since he hates both parties and surprises, I feel I have come a long way.

At the moment, I am reading "High Fidelity" to J at bedtime, I like the way he snuggles into his duvet with his eyes closed and sniggers at a dose of good old British self-deprecation. And so, I shall sum up my last year as a list.

Since I turned 30, I have...

Cycled 1327 km on my bike - yes really! Ten a day adds up in the end, it seems. This I can tell because a kind friend gave me a speedometer for my previous birthday. I recommend everyone get one, the calorie counter is totally inaccurate, but still motivates me.
Bought my own place.
Partly due to 2, I have almost fallen out with most of my family and probably am acting like a spoilt brat. Do I care. OK, I do care, just not right now.
Become a student again.
Made at least one new female friend, which I find hard, so pats on the back for that.
Made J move countries. Now he is looking for a job, and though we bicker, I think we will pull through.
Visited Normandie for the first time ever.
Knitted. A lot.
Blogged, then stopped, then started again, then...
Subtitled the DVD release of a major US TV show (I am still working on this... eurrgh. If only it was a good one I actually could enjoy watching repeatedly).
Rounded 1.4m neopoints. And counting.
Began doing yoga and pilates at least once per week.

I really think that amounts to a year of major achievements.

The greatest achievement of this year is still to come. J is picking up his mother from the airport. If you don't hear anything from me for a while again, it's cause I'm recovering.

New flat, and fabulous too!

2009-03-27T23:36:00.000Z

It is always nice to return home to blogland! Especially when such pleasant surprises await. The lovely Ribbon over at Mindscene awarded this to me.

Her blog, like her, is thoughtful and always makes me smile, do give her a click! And I am very grateful for the award! Thanks lots!

I would have loved to pass it on straight away, but I just don't have the capacity to make that kind of difficult decision at the moment, I am surrounded by cardboard boxes, unable to locate any food, and I have to build a bed from IKEA before I can get any sleep!

Watch this space, though..

Opening Skinner's box

2009-03-26T21:06:00.005Z

This is probably the book that made me realise I wanted to become a psychologist. I haven't had the heart to get rid of it, despite numerous house moves since then..

I have been slightly on the absent side of things lately. Life has been so busy that not even I have been able to squeeze in any private time for blogging.

Today I packed my last boxes (there are 15 of them, most of them dragged across the North Sea by J, which is a rather admirable amount of manual labour for a man like him) and tomorrow... I move into my new flat.

I will be living on my own until J arrives next week, and we will be together again. I am really looking forward to it, not in a nervous and giddy way, because I know we will argue, but also that we can handle those arguments.

I look forward to it in the sense that I will feel like my life is falling into place.

It will be fantastic to paint the walls any colour I like, but it would not be right unless J was there.

We have now spent the best part of eight months apart. It doesn't seem that long, with all the Skyping and visits every few weeks. But it is not the same as living together, being able to bicker over who reads what part first out of the weekend papers, and coming home to dinner hot on the table after a long day.

Even so, I am also looking forward to the few days I will spend on my own before then. I have never lived on my own before.

Meanwhile, I have also passed all the mini-courses at university for this semester. Only the main exam left, in a couple of months. So I hope to find some more time to write, sing, bake and knit.

Should I worry? Well, I do..

2009-03-10T16:37:00.005Z

I've become content with this life that I lead
Originally uploaded by Dylan_Murphy

I'm slightly worried about an old friend of mine.

No, actually, strike that. I am at least moderately concerned.

Last Saturday, I went to his house along with a bunch of other people. He loves having visitors, partly because he is too lazy to visit anyone. But he is a good host, so people always gather round his place.

When I arrived after dinner, he was already drunk. This in itself is I guess not worrying, as many young men like to spend most of Saturday evening in varying degrees of stupour. His girlfriend, also well into her nth beer, said something about him warning all earlier on that the evening looked like a slippery slope.

Now the thing is, by no means was he the only drunk person there.

What worries me happened as I was leaving, and saying goodbye to him, some time after midnight.

He walked me, or that should be stumbled me, to the door, out of sight from his girlfriend. Then he took my hand and said extremely sincerely, almost soberly: "Take care. You are such a beautiful person."

Which is exactly what his mother used to say when she got really drunk.

Which was like, every evening.

Yes, his mother was an alcoholic. I remember when we first knew each other, and she was in her late 30s, it was not so bad, she drank what I would call too much, but limited it to weekends and when she was off shift.

I couldn't pinpoint an exact point where it tipped into an unsustainable lifestyle, but at some point it did.

She started being very, very drunk. Very, very often.

Sometimes she would stumble into his room in the middle of the night, not realising the time, and start ranting away.

And always, she would grab your hand and tell you how beautiful you were.

This scares me.

As a psychologist, I know that having an alcoholic mother seems to predispose you to alcoholism.

I know my friend's life is pretty stressful. He has her to contend with, as well as a sister who is a drug abuser. And he has a very emotionally demanding job.

I don't know why his girlfriend doesn't intervene. Though she has not known him as long as I have, she most likely knows his mother better than I do at this stage.

I know that I am pretty uptight about drinking habits, but surely something isn't good when you are over 25 and still feel the urge to get very drunk as soon as the work week is over?

He drinks more when his mother drinks more. He worries for his life. It's all a bit absurd.

I am unsure what to do. I feel that it is none of my business, and as far as I can see, the drinking doesn't interfere with his ability to go to work, take care of his kid or socialise with us or his partner.

Yet I feel uncomfortable. I am worried that I will look back, years from now, and wonder why I said nothing.

Broken tracks of music for my dear Guardianista

2009-03-06T06:59:00.007Z

Broken tracks of Music
Originally uploaded by ●๋• Enchantress.●๋•

I thought of you this morning when I was wrapping my lunch in clingfilm before heading over to school.

Your voice came in the kitchen window, from the pissing rain hitting the window.

It said, "Cling film? Have I taught you nothing?" and was accompanied with a very raised eyebrow.

And I thought of you yesterday when I was reading this article on education in the Guardian.

In the very heated comments section, someone used the word "Guardianista" as a term of abuse, in the same way that "socialist" is used as a term of abuse by certain sections of society in the US.

As if wanting equality over the right to prep your kid from age 4 for entry to an Oxbridge education is something really, really bad that only evil people do. But I digress.

I thought of you. A Guardianista. That's what you are.

When you were younger, you lived in a commune, had long hair and played the guitar.

Now, after the mother of your child tragically passed away from cancer, you live on your own with your teenage baby, who is of course no longer a baby, though you still ring her from work every morning to check that she's got up in time.

You are all middle-class with a doctorate, and you hold a respectable job in a respectable company (all Guardianistas must be respectable).

You bake your own bread. You have a pottery wheel in your garage. You recycle as if it were a religion, and hardly ever drive. You make slightly lame but very endearing art for people's wedding presents, though you sniff at the thought of marriage, saying you and your partner lived happily ever after without such a "borgeouis" institution to bind you in its shackles.

You still play the guitar, and you sing. Beautifully*. Of course, you have a radio voice. I love radio voices.

Once, you tried to learn how to knit. I think it failed disatrously, though you still have some of my size 8 knitting needles, if I remember correctly.

You would rather cut off a hand than vote Tory, though if it were on your daughter's life, you'd probably just about manage.

In short, you are a lovely, ex-hippie middle class, middle age, extremely handsome male specimen.

When I started out as a journalist, you were my mentor. I was terrified of you. In fact, everyone was terrified of you. You would snap at everyone, at all times, for no good reason. You had no patience for mediocrity. But you have mellowed over the five years we have known each other. At least a little..

You already had grey hair when we met, although you were not yet 50, and I think this gave you an extra scary air of authority. Not to mention you were just about the only person there with some actual broadcasting experience. You could write, you were uncompromising. I bet you have 50 unfinished novels in your bedroom drawer.

As we learned to know each other, we made the mentor thing into our private little joke. Every time something significant happened in my life, when I told you, you would exclaim: "But how could you not tell me this immediately? I'm your mentor, for God's sake!" Though clearly, being a good former hippie, you don't believe in one.

You thought I was talented. I believed you.

You were my office crush. In the way every schoolgirl has a crush on their father, and later a teacher, I had a crush on you, you were everything my own father wasn't, intelligent, well-read, understanding, fiercely idealist even as you approached 50. And, of course, you read the Guardian. I could tell you everything, and you would always know what to do.

You also mentored J. When J and I first got to know each other, and had hardly anything in common, you were an object of common affection, and you still are.

In fact, if it weren't for you, J and I might not be together. When our relationship was struggling through its breech birth, you sat me down and told me not to give up. "You are so young, you think it will never be too late, that you can make that move again, another time, that you want to wait. But it's not like that. It's now or never." I remember it clearly, and so I jumped, and I haven't regretted it since.

When I left the workplace, you wrote me a song, which can only be described as a love song, and you sang it on stage in front of all the people at my leaving do. It was a rewrite of a Dylan song, I think, and the lyrics said something about the light being taken away from you.

You held a speech too, thanking me for bringing light into the office. And I hope, your life. It was a weird and wonderful feeling, because I felt that you could see me, as I really am, stripped, even as I was sitting in front of that crowd unwrapping my leaving gifts and helplessly listening to your music.

Soon, your child will be out of school, and you will no longer be shackled to that meaningless job which I know grinds you down a little bit each year.

I hope you grow your hair and travel around the world with your guitar, writing songs that make women feel like a bright star shining against a very dark sky.

*If you want to imagine what this singing might sound like, think Giles in Buffy singing at that coffee place. In fact, I might have headlined this post "my dear Watcher".

I feel a bit fat

2009-03-05T19:02:00.005Z

55/365 - Seven weeks without ...Originally uploaded by kg.owl

Oh my god, I am turning into a girl blogger. Right now I just have this massive urge to write a whole blog post about how ashamed I feel about my eating patterns.

As I was leaving school today after a whole fun day of data entry (I will never be able to get the questions from that questionnaire out of my head), my colleague student asked me jokingly where I was having dinner today.

The thing is, you see, I haven't had dinner at home for like, two weeks. It's shameful. I'm a poor student, meant to live off pot noodles. Yet there I am, having my hot meals at GBP10 or so a piece. Shameful. There's no other word for it.

So as I was walking home today, I started planning my dinner in my head.

I would make a curry. Yes, a proper tomato based chicken curry, from scratch. This would simultaneously be relatively healthy, and also help empty cupboards ahead of my pending house move (I allow myself a small self-celebratory "YAY!" here).

And so I did. I have made a lovely chicken thigh thing with peas, which I love, and that luxury garam masala powder I got for Christmas. I defrosted some home made tarka daal from the freezer and microwaved some properly rinsed and soaked Basmati rice.

However.

As we all know, curries have to sit around for a while and simmer and do their thang.

That's when I spotted the large bag of crisps I'd carelessly left on the table earlier.

I was going to have just a few while waiting for dinner and surfing some blogs.

Unfortunately those particular crisps have a lot of MSG on them and are totally un-quittable once one has started.

So now I have a lovely curry on the cooker, and 100g of crisps in my tummy (that is an estimate, but that is like 5 portion bags of crisps..) and I am not at all hungry. Agggh!! How could I be so stupid!! That is like 500 calories, which is the same as cycling to school and back at least 3 times. And now I have to wait for about an hour before I have the curry and my eating patterns will be all messed up.

I wasn't going to give anything up for lent this year, but now it's clear. I am giving up crisps. After I finish the rest of the pack, obviously.

Couldn't just let them go to waste...

Oh, and while you're here, my curry recipe is as follows:

1 tin tomatoes
2 onions, finely sliced
Brown mustard seeds
Garam massala
Turmeric
Bay leaf
Tabasco (ran out of chillies)
Garlic
1 tin dried peas (for some reason I prefer these to fresh, weird, I know)
Black pepper, ground
Salt
Dash of possibly off cream I found in the fridge
Sprinkle of cinnamon
Extra cumin seeds

It seems to have turned out quite well. Should have had some ginger in it, but I think I'm out of that too. At least the cupboard emptying project is working. And I can always take some curry for lunch tomorrow in school.. Sigh again.

Cute cuff!

2009-03-02T11:07:00.009Z

Life before an exam for me is basically eating... knitting... reading... sleeping... repeat. Obviously I try to do most of the eating in company so that I don't completely lose the few social skills I actually have.

Now I can use these to alleviate the pain from the RSI which I acquired knitting them..

This weekend I went to my friend's birthday party, a quiet affair with lots of cake, coffee and later, erm, beer.

At any rate, I felt inspired by the coffee and cake to finally finish my wrist warmers, and so I have knitted my first ever pair with no pattern! Aren't they cute..

I had to redo half of the last one as apparently the exam stress had made me knit it waay more tightly than the first one, which was a bit d'oh, but otherwise I am quite pleased.

The weather here today is grey, and it was yesterday as well. I spent an hour in front of the daylight lamp when I got up, but still feel a bit groggy.

I'm especially pleased with the shaping around the thumb

My plan for the day is to look over my notes a couple of times, as well as flick through the book we're being tested on.

This is not something I usually do, as I always find something I don't know which makes me panic, but for some reason I feel the urge today.

So I will head out of the house after I've showered.

And tidied my room.

And baked some bread.

And maybe started another knitting project... Hmm...

I think being deprived of pink during childhood has had an adverse effect on my taste in wool..

But at any rate: Here is the pattern for the wristwarmers, should anyone want to copy!

Woolly Wrist Warmers

You need:
One ball of Rowan 4-ply soft, or any other similar. Double-ended needles to match, I used 3mm.

Beware that I have really little hands and arms, and even for me, 40s for the cuff is a snug fit.

You might want to add another 4 s to the whole recipe if you aren't as petite as I am :op

Cuff:
Cast on 40 stitches.

K2, p2 around and around until you have a 13 cm long cuff (I did that weird thing where you knit the k stitches through the back loop for extra elasticity, but I don't think you'd have to).

Shape space for hand:

1st row: Make up one at the beginning of the row, and knit to end.

2nd row: Knit to end.

Repeat rows 1 and 2 a further 5 times, until you have a total of 46s.

Shape opening for thumb:

1st row: Cast off 4. Slip one knitwise, knit one, pull slipped stitch over (or k2 together if you're not fussed). Knit to 2 last stitches. Knit 2 together. Total of 40s.

Change to straight needles (I used the same ones, I just stopped knitting in a ring).

2nd row: Purl to end (the point where you cast off 4s).

3rd row: Slip one knitwise, k 1, pull slipped stitch over (or k2 together if you're not fussed). K to 2 last stitches. Knit 2 together. Total of 38s.

4th row: Purl to end

5th row: K to end.

Change to double-ended needles.

6th row: Continue from end of 5th row into 1st stitch of next row to close the thumb opening. Cast on 2 at the beginning of the row. Total of 40s.

Shape top: Rows 1-5: Knit to end.

Rows 6-10: K2, p2.

Cast off.

Weave in tails. The end!

And this can, as I have scientifically tested in a party lab, be done while drinking. Just not too much..

To make up the other one, reverse shapings when you shape the hand and thumb opening.

Hurrah, warm wrists for the rest of the winter.. Although technically speaking it is now spring, they look so cute in their pinkness I think I'll be wearing them anyway.

My boyfriend, my bookchair

2009-02-25T20:59:00.003Z

Earth Hour 2008
Originally uploaded by Baranka

For the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.. A book chair!

OK, so I'm quickly turning into Ciao! here, but I was just doing some studying at the same time as really missing J, and looking at my book chair and thinking how much I appreciate them both.

One of the few things J and I both like doing, is reading out loud to me. J likes reading out loud, and I like listening.

I love the sound of his voice. I have always been seduced by people with good voices, maybe it is a byproduct of working in the media, where you are always judging people as to whether they'd sound good on Radio4.

I also love being read to. I think it comes from distant childhood memories of nesting in the sofa next to my mum, while she read me the works of Astrid Lindgren and Maria Gripe.

My father would also occasionally try to read to me, but he is mildly dyslexic and by the time I was four I could read faster than him, and typically for a child showed no mercy in correcting him whenever he would falter or read anything wrong. It hurts me now to think of. Nobody told me that he had a reading and writing disability. Only as an adult I've realised this was the case, which also explains a lot of his other cognitive oddities. But I digress.

There is something incredibly intimate and seductive about lying naked next to someone, smelling their skin and feeling their voice caressing its way into you. I won't say it's better than sex, but it certainly beats watching TV.

J is an amazing reader. I think they practised that kind of stuff at his posh school when he was little, or something. He does accents and voices, and his own voice has a deep, velvety feeling to it. Oh joy.

Whenever I am tired or depressed, I ask him to read something to me; poetry, novels, articles from the Guardian or the New Statesman, whatever. He could probably read me the phone book and it would still be enthralling. It calms me down within minutes.

When J is depressed, he likes talking about himself. Lots. I guess that comes with years of therapy as well as being a slight ruminator by nature. When I have a lot on my mind, I am like Scarlet O'Hara. I don't want to think. Not until tomorrow.

So when J gave me the book chair, it really meant something to me. It is like he is there, holding up the words for me, even in his absence.

Light and placebo effects

2009-02-24T08:03:00.009Z

It looks sorta glamorous in a plasticky way

Yesterday morning while I was having my breakfast, I switched on Mr Vain's Energylight.

Mr Vain suffers from a lot of imaginary defects etc. For instance, he thinks he has a chronic sinus infection, that he is too skinny and must work out lots and that he needs to take lots of protein supplements and other expensive things like ginseng and various seal oils.

One of his imaginary defects is that he can't sleep at night, which is probably because he goes to bed at like 2130 every day.

Mr Vain himself, however, thinks it is due to the lack of daylight which we suffer here up north.

So he has bought himself a Philips Energylight, which sits on our breakfast table, in front of which he positions himself in a little halo of white light every morning over his espresso.

Yesterday, when I had breakfast, I switched it on because I was too lazy to walk across the floor to the proper lamp. Hurts the eyes a bit, gives a reflection in my laptop, but all in all a functional if not cosy morning light.

And last night, you know what happened?

I felt sleepy. Really sleepy. At 2200 in the evening. So I managed to get to bed by 2300 and slept like a log until this morning. This never happens. My cortisol levels are waaay up there at the moment and usually I'm up till 0100 or so cause I just don't feel that tired.

But, I am now waiting for my eggs to boil again (when only one end floats, that means they're OK, right..?). It is foggy outside today, so foggy that the ocean below seems but some irregular flickering variation in a bucket of gray paint, and the sun is nowhere to be seen although it is already past 0900 in the morning. The lamp is on. Placebo effect or no, I'll take it.

I know of course that light therapy has been clinically proven to help people with SAD and delayed sleep phase disorders, but I have never really thought it had an effecdt on just "regular" people. I take myself as a clinical case study that it apparently does.

And no, Philips are not paying me for this post! Don't knock it till you've tried it..

Arranged marriage? How about some arranged divorce..

2009-02-23T08:49:00.000Z

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

A quickie on a Monday morning before class.. Exams are but a week away and I'm in a slight panic. No more blogging this week from me.. Yeah right.

At any rate. As you probably know, CA voted last November to limit the definition of marriage to heterosexual couples, thereby outlawing gay marriages.

According to the Californian constitution, all these kinds of decisions are implemented immediately, and one can no longer get married there unless one has the right mix of genitals in the couple. There is also danger that the conservative wing will press to have gay marriages annulled which were started while they were still allowed.

I have lived in S. CA and seen how incredibly conservative they are there compared to further north in the states (like, say SF), but I was still negatively surprised by this outcome.

According to Wikipedia, the campaign for and against Proposition 8, the amendment in question, gathered $39.9m and $43.3million respectively, making them the most expensive campaign of the election apart from those of the actual presidential candidates.

I won't go into the arguments of either side, as I'm sure you can imagine for yourself.

Of course, being in the US, people have not just shrugged and allowed themselves to be forcibly divorced. The courts are working on three pleas to have Proposition 8 anulled, though they refused to postpone its implementation. The hearings will take place on 5 March.

Which is after my exam. Eeeek!!!

Meanwhile, cross your fingers for me and the gay couples, watch this video and be touched. And of course, if you are in the US, sign the petition at Courage Campaign.

Sunday people

2009-02-22T16:02:00.002Z

Jenny said the other day that spring has sprung over in the UK, and I was very jealous for a day or two. Especially cause she gets to grow tomatoes.

But now, I think spring has sprung here too! I went to a friend's house this morning for a lovely fry-up (I talked her into eating beans in tomato sauce with it, which she hadn't had since university, it was thus a big day for me culinarily speaking) and afterwards we went for a walk.

It's a really misty day here today. When I look out of the window, I can't even see the mountains on the other side of the fjord.

The ocean can just about be made out below, it is nearing in on dusk and the light is turning blue.

It is beautiful, especially since I can admire it all from the inside and don't have to contend with 4 degrees celsius drizzle penetrating every nook and cranny. A bit like an episode of the X Files, but with no aliens. X Files was much better when there were no aliens.

When we went for our walk earlier to admire houses and plan the interior design of my new flat (it has an original 50s kitchen, which is quite exciting but challenging), my friend suddenly stopped and pointed, it turned out the first snowdrops of the year were blossoming alongside the road. It was a photo op, and I felt so uplifted afterwards.

Every spring it is incredible to me how life just bounces back into nature, and I had almost forgotten how it is even more warmly welcomed up here where it comes so hesitantly and usually so late. But global warming is doing it's thing, and I have to admit that sometimes I enjoy the earlier sight of spring.

We came back to my house, dried off, had lunch and tea and played board games with Mr Vain and another friend who dropped by. What better Sunday could one ask for.

Turning point

2009-02-22T00:35:00.002Z

Write about how you noticably changed after a particular turning point in your life.

I've decided to follow a blog called The One-Minute Writer, which gives a daily writing prompt that you have 60 seconds to answer to. Today's promt was called Turning point.

Good thing I can do 90+ wpm!

****************************************************

My gay ex broke me.

Not in the way you break a vase, and then you put it together again.

More like you smash a window, and after that the house is always a bit drafty.

Sometimes, these days, I doubt myself. I doubt other people's intentions, thoughts.

I used to never doubt.

He broke me, he broke me in, he loved me.

I thank him for that still.

I have a home!!!

2009-02-20T22:56:00.003Z

...and other peoples homes
Originally uploaded by Funny Fish

Of my very own! For the first time ever!

It all happened so fast I haven't quite realised it yet, and in a daze I've now spent the best part of 4 hours (!!!) surfing the internet and redesigning my blog instead of studying. I am really happy with it (the blog) though, so it wasn't a complete waste.

My new flat-to-be is not a dream property, I had visions of period details and high ceilings, but I think it will be very cosy once both J and I are in place. It has one bedroom and a separate kitchen, and even a little balcony which catches the morning sun and boasts a sliver of a sea view. Not bad for a first time buyer!

J spotted an ad for this apartment on an online property site about a week ago when he came to visit me. I was not completely hot on it, but agreed to go along to look at it, despite the fact that it's very near the red light district in town, to the extent that a town this small can have one.

Flat buying is not like in the UK where you get personal treatment by the agent. Oh no. Everyone is invited to a communal viewing at a set time, and the buyers get to eye each other up and aggressively knock on walls and squint at windowstills, usually attempting to expert each other out.

Then you will put in your bid, and if there are several interested people, there is always a bidding war.

So I went to see the flat in question yesterday. It was in the evening and quite dark, but near the building I spotted a viewing sign, of the kind that is put outside for viewers to guide them in.

I ran into another guy who asked me if I was there for the viewing too, and when I said yes we got the lift togehter. There were several other people in the flat we came into, but strangely I could see no agent. Sometimes, however, the seller will do the viewing themselves to save money.

I did think it was a bit strange that the flat looked so different than in the photos, but I've looked at a lot of flats lately and assumed I got two mixed up.

It was only when I realised that the girl who greeted me was actually the tenant, that it dawned on me that I was in the wrong flat! This was a neighbouring viewing for a flat which was for rent, not for sale! D'oh...

By the time I got to the flat which was actually for sale, the viewing was over.

Feeling quite bad about this, especially since J liked the looks of this flat so much, I rang the agent first time this morning. She told me someone had already bid about 90 per cent of the asking price the evening before, but agreed to show me around this evening.

When you put in a bid it is good for 24 hrs. In other words, if I wanted to bid, I had to do it straight away, before the other person's bid expired.

And when I came into the flat, it grew on me. Spacious bedroom with built-in wardrobes, lots of light in the living room, spanking new bathroom... I decided to go for it. A third person joined in the bidding last minute (people have learned from their eBay experience, you can tell), but in the end I prevailed and got the flat below the asking price with fridge and cooker thrown in.

I feel almost deflated. I've really just had so much stress with this house buying thing, from my parents, J and the bank, that I am mostly just relieved that it's over.

I haven't quite started fantasizing about what I can do with the flat, but I can feel a ridiculous IKEA trip coming on... My parents have promised to drive over, bringing my stuff and any old furniture from their house that I might want.

And of course, I can't wait to tell Mr Vain that I'm leaving him behind. Moving in looks to be at the end of March, just when J gets here.

So I am finally growing up. Just hold on a minute while I get a paper bag to hyperventilate in.

150 things to do in life... An update

2009-02-19T23:18:00.000Z

While going through my archive re. the anniversary of J and I, I found the following list from October 2006.

Basically, bold the bits you've done and pass it on.. For the update, I've highlighted the stuff I've done since last time in red. I think I've made fair progress, even though it has only been a couple of years.

Oh, and use the rich text editor to do this.. Took me a while to figure that one. Six years of University education and still. Nice one. So come on, you know you want to.

01. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
08. Said “I love you” and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Bungee jumped
11. Visited Paris
12. Watched a lightning storm at sea
13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise
14. Seen the Northern Lights
15. Gone to a huge sports game - it was even an American Football one!
16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
18. Touched an iceberg
19. Slept under the stars
20. Changed a baby’s diaper
21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
22. Watched a meteor shower
23. Gotten drunk on champagne
24. Given more than you can afford to charity
25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment
27. Had a food fight
28. Bet on a winning horse
29. Asked out a stranger - No, but I've been asked out by one... Does that count?
30. Had a snowball fight
31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
32. Held a lamb
33. Seen a total eclipse
34. Ridden a roller coaster
35. Hit a home run
36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
39. Had two hard drives for your computer
40. Visited all 50 states
41. Taken care of someone who was drunk
42. Had/Have amazing friends
43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
44. Watched whales
45. Stolen a sign
46. Backpacked in Europe
47. Taken a road-trip - in California. It was great!
48. Gone rock climbing
49. Midnight walk on the beach
50. Gone sky diving
51. Visited Ireland
52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love
53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them
54. Visited Japan
55. Milked a cow
56. Alphabetized your cds
57. Pretended to be a superhero
58. Sung karaoke
59. Lounged around in bed all day
60. Played touch football
61. Gone scuba diving
62. Kissed in the rain
63. Played in the mud
64. Played in the rain
65. Gone to a drive-in theater
66. Visited the Great Wall of China
67. Started a business
68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
69. Toured ancient sites
70. Taken a martial arts class
71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight - Well. I played WoW in 2008. A lot.
72. Gotten married
73. Been in a movie
74. Crashed a party
75. Gotten divorced
76. Gone without food for 5 days
77. Made cookies from scratch
78. Won first prize in a costume contest
79. Ridden a gondola in Venice
80. Gotten a tattoo
81. Rafted the snake river
82. Been on television a news programme as an “expert”
83. Gotten flowers for no reason
84. Performed on stage

85. Been to Las Vegas
86. Recorded music
87. Eaten shark
88. Kissed on the first date
89. Gone to Thailand
90. Bought a house
91. Been in a combat zone
92. Buried one/both of your parents
93. Been on a cruise ship
94. Spoken more than one language fluently
95. Performed in a Rocky Horror Picture Show
96. Raised children
97. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
98. Passed out cold
99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
100. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking
103. Had plastic surgery
104. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived - almost bled to death on holiday
105. Wrote articles for a large publication
106. Lost over 100 pounds - Money, not weight.
107. Held someone while they were having a flashback
108. Piloted an airplane
109. Touched a stingray
110. Broken someone’s heart
111. Helped an animal give birth
112. Won money on a TV game show
113. Broken a bone
114. Gone on an African photo safari
115. Had a facial part pierced other than your ears
116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
118. Ridden a horse
119. Had major surgery
120. Had a snake as a pet
121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours
123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
124. Visited all 7 continents
125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
126. Eaten kangaroo meat
127. Eaten sushi
128. Had your picture in the newspaper
129. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
130. Gone back to school - highly recommended!
131. Parasailed
132. Touched a cockroach
133. Eaten fried green tomatoes
134. Read “The Iliad”
135. Selected one “important” author who you missed in school, and read
136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
137. Skipped all your school reunions
138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
139. Been elected to public office
140. Written your own computer language
141. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream
142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
143. Built your own PC from parts
144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you
145. Had a booth at a street fair
146. Dyed your hair
147. Been a DJ
148. Shaved your head
149. Caused a car accident
150. Saved someone’s life

Empty Classroom

2009-02-19T13:51:00.002Z

Empty Classroom
Originally uploaded by Max Klingensmith

I am sitting here with my empty classroom and feeling a bit lonely.

The kids of today, eh? It turns out that they don't actually have to be present for classes. At all. As long as they turn in their assignments and pass their exams, they still, er, pass.

So today the task for them was to make a TV news report. First they complained a little because they've done that "tons of times" already.

I pointed out that this is a little like saying you've already written an essay this year. Each story is something new, each time you're meant to apply what you've learned meanwhile.

Since they went out to do their thang, hauling their tripods and expensive cameras I hope not into the rain I can hear hitting the skylight, I've been in here on my own.

One group chose to go home instead of doing the work, saying they will do it Tuesday morning instead. I feel a bit nervous. I can't hold them here, but I am not looking forward to having to give them a big telling off next week if they haven't done any filming.

And the vain part of me feels rejected (she says dramatically, as the rain on the skylight crescendoes to match) when they leave instead of doing the work I've assigned for them.

I don't think I have the guts to be a teacher.

I guess being a student myself I remember too well what it's like to be 17 and sick of everything to do with school, and to not have the experience to understand that these may well be the best days of your life, when food grows in the fridge and you get a half price bus card and can go almost anywhere.

My ego is too fragile.

Oh, here is the one group which has dutifully and, dare I say it, enthusiastically, carried out most of the task they were meant to. The weather means that they can't really take their camera equipment outside, but at least they did what they could in-house.

Should I take this lack of enthusiasm from the rest of the class as a personal slight, or is that just the youth of today?? All I want is for the class to adore me and enjoy every second they get to spend in my company... But I see how that can be a bit much to ask.

My lecturer was so boring I started another knitting project

2009-02-18T19:32:00.004Z

Yesterday I went to this lecture which was so boring I decided to start a new knitting project especially for the occasion.

The lecture was of the kind where the lecturer is really condescending towards the students at the same time as reeling off direct quotes from his powerpoint slides, which he clearly hasn't updated in years. And the powerpoint slides? Taken directly from the support web site of the main course text. Like we couldn't have read that for ourselves.. He totally discourages debate in class and cuts short any answers he doesn't like with a "that's wrong!". How ironic that he should be lecturing in psychology..

This morning, only about a third of my class showed up. This is really unusual. It is difficult to get into my course, and the people who do get in are really conscientious and usually always attend.

The lecturer actually remarked on it, saying "so, there aren't very many of you. Is anyone expecting anyone else?"

Nobody said anything, but I really wanted to raise my hand and say that actually, people couldn't be arsed going out in the crappy weather because your lectures are shit and you treat the students with complete disrespect.

Of course I said nothing, but instead protested by knitting through most of the class in plain view. It was really satisfying, though I also dutifully took notes so didn't get that much done as you can see.

I am trying this new technique where you knit the knit stitches "backwards" to create an extra loop on them. Apparently this makes the ribbing more elastic? I have no idea, but I like this wool.

The story of the wool is that I spotted a lady knitting it, label-less, on a train to London just before I left England. I had to ask her what she was knitting, and then I made J go on an excursion to buy me some before one of his visits.

J went to his fave store, John Lewis, and picked out three lovely aubergine and pink colors. So I guess I should knit him something for his troubles, but I don't see him wearing pink, so might as well knit something nice for myself!

Tomorrow I am boycotting the lecturer completely and doing some data entry instead. And probably some knitting..

Commentluv

2009-02-17T22:19:00.003Z

Yay!

I have managed to get the Commentluv widget to work on my blog! I think... I saw it on this other Wordpress blog I randomly came across, and discovered there is a hack to use it on poor old Blogger as well.

For those of you new to it, Commentluv is a fancy-schmansy comment gadget, which means comments display the commenter's profile picture, and also a link to their most recent blog post.

I love surfing from other people's blog comments, especially when the linked-to post is on something related. It really gives a feel for the way blogging discourse is constructed (you can tell I'm in the middle of a philosophy of science course, can't you).

For other bloggers who want to try to install this hack from the Commentluv page for Blogger users, the page itself has really detailed and clear instructions on how to do it. Here are some extra tips from me on troubleshooting, based on my own experience trying to do this:

Don't give up if it's difficult to export your comments to JS-Kit. If it crashes, clear your cache and try again, and make sure you fully allow javascript and cookies for the JS-Kit page. It took me aaages before it worked as all my 671 comments had to be exported to Commentluv first, which made something crash tons of times, but in the end it worked.
Make sure you really do what it says on the Commentluv page in your JS-Kit settings.
Don't accidentally delete the widget with the Commentluv identification tag in it while changing your template. This seems to mess up the process.
Make sure javascript is fully allowed for your own page when you are checking if it works!

I love it when it turns out that Blogger's free service can be enhanced with bells and whistles which makes a paid-for blogging service redundant.

Though I am sure it is only a question of time before Google either buys Commentluv or develops their own equivalent code, making Commentluv redundant for Blogger and probably sending them bust in the process. The evilness of large corporations, I know..

Fourth anniversary musings

2009-02-16T23:41:00.001Z

P.S. I Still Love You
Originally uploaded by {peace&love♥}

This blog used to be entitled "J's Girlfriend". Now, four years on, the blog has been redesigned a dozen times, and moved on a few occasions, but I am still J's Girlfriend. Lucky me. The question is, as Ribbon recently asked, who is this J and how did we get together?

It is difficult to write our story in a way which doesn't make both of us come off as complete nutcases, but I tried. It is also difficult to condense into a readable length.. but we managed to do a 20 minute Hamlet in school, so I should be able to manage.

Then I looked in my archive and saw that I have actually written this all before, here, for our first anniversary three years ago. That account is better written, and funnier, and longer, than what I came up with today. I won him over with my blow jobs, I swear.

J has never read this blog, nor do I ever hope that he will. In fact, noone that knows me in person has ever read it. I feel safer in the ability to be honest about everything when I don't have to think what my clients and patients would think if they saw that sometimes I miss the vibrator I chucked out at the last house move. But to the point. Instead of telling the messy story of our beginning, which I actually realised I can barely remember now, I decided to pick out some highlights from our four years together, instead.

Sep 2005: J agrees to live with me (temporarily, of course..)
Jul 2006: J helps save my life on holiday
Aug 2006: We break up (for 5 minutes)
Nov 2006: I think I've had it (again)
Feb 2007: I need therapy
Feb 2007: ...and we go on a romantic city break
Mar 2007: I stop nagging J
Sep 2008: We do long distance

Now that I read this, I almost feel sad because I didn't blog more for the last few years when our relationship has mellowed out, we have lived togehter properly and been on some really fantastic holidays together where I didn't almost bleed to death.

I also feel incredibly grateful for all the bloggers who have counselled me through the rough patches, on a different level from what my friends have. Quite often around my friends I don't want to tell it exactly like it is, because I don't want to expose J in front of people he knows. I don't think they need to know that he didn't wank till he was out of his teens, for instance. But for me and our story that is an important fact. So thank you, bloggers, past and present, for all your support. Most of the people who saw the traumatic birth of what was to become J and me, are no longer around. But if you happen upon this, know that I haven't forgotten you.

And I guess that what J and I have today, is testimony to the fact that it was worth it all in the end. To illustrate, I include our most recent Skype conversation.

[00:27:18] JGF: I am reading the archive of my blog, and I just have to say, we have done really well to still be together. And our relationship really is a lot better than it was in the beginning

[00:28:16] J: Indeed it is - I feel a bit guilty I haven't done any jobsearching today but I have done some language learning and I am looking at property

[00:28:31] JGF: Aaaw. But you should go to bed (and so should I)

[00:29:07] J: I will soon - night night baby

[00:29:13] JGF: Hearts!

[00:29:19] J: Hearts back

[00:29:41] JGF: (inlove) emoticon

[00:29:58] J: (blush) emoticon

[00:30:12] JGF: YOU'RE SO CUTE IT SHOULD BE ILLEGAL!!!!!!!!!!!

[00:30:14] JGF: Ahem

I know, sickening, isn't it. But to the both of us, congrats for sticking it out and coming out on the other side, different but still together. Happy anniversary, my love.

I'm in love!

2009-02-15T22:30:00.004Z

Valentine's Duck
Originally uploaded by EltonHarding

Yes, really!

And the best kind of love to be in is with one's boyfriend. Please do not read this post if you are offended by nauseating displays of long-term affection.

J arrived at 0330 on Thursday evening, at which point I had already been dozing in bed for over an hour because I had to get up early for class the next day.

He was really knackered because he was still quite ill, and because of the three hour delay at Gatwick it had taken him ages to get to my house from the airport.

Poor thing. Hauling his ass all the way from the cesspit that is where we used to live together in England, and up north, where the winds are cold and the streets are like a slush puppie, no fun for a man with two suitcases containing 40kg of mostly my luggage.

Yet he does it. At least every three weeks, if not more often. Just to see me. As his manager so tastefully put it, "that's a long way to travel for a shag."

Of Valentine's day, see separate post. I think the verdict is that it was great. The whole weekend was great. This afternoon we went to have the best pizza in town and read the papers before he had to be off. The pizza was great.

As we came full stride down the slippery street to the bus stop, the airport bus had already pulled out into the road. I started waving both arms and jumping up and down, splattering passing old ladies with sleet and puddle backsplash, and to my amazement the airport bus driver was won over by this display of desperation and pulled over. Gotta love the Scandinavians sometimes.

So J kissed me on the lips, jumped in the front of the bus and then he was off, just like that.

The engineering works on his way home were for once not too bad, he had to change trains but no buses.

Which meant that he had time to call me just now to say that he likes me more than he ever has before and that he was quite glum on the bus because our goodbye was so abrupt and that he already misses me.

Although we have our differences, I realise that I have a boyfriend who tells me he loves me at least three times a day, who has just the right lips, warm, firm but soft, always available, who is intelligent, funny, hard-working and just a little neurotic to keep the fun going.

People get divorced, they cheat, they lie, they are generally arseholes. But on days like today, I think I would rather risk all that than having done the wise thing four years ago and run when I had the chance.

I know I said that I don't think I'll get lucky with that house, but right now I feel like the luckiest girl in the world, so never say never.

And to Ribbon, whom understandably was wondering who the heck this J is; I have decided to tell the story of us in one post, for our 4th anniversary which is coming up, I always forget the date but I shall write it and publish it when J says it's happy anniversary.

Valentine's Day 2009

2009-02-14T22:42:00.001Z

On Friday evening, J and I had one of our usual arguments which went something like the following:

[Couple sitting in sofa in front of laptop between two episodes of The Wire]

J: Should we go to the cinema tomorrow maybe?
J'S GIRLFRIEND: That's a good idea. What do you want to see?
J: Hm... Dunno. Let's see what's on.
JGF [ opens relevant page on Firefox]: Foreign language... no... Desperaux... no... Angelina Jolie... Definitely no... Hm.. Brad Pitt... Hey, how about The Wrestler?
J: How about Frost Nixon?
JGF: Oh no... It's just gonna be men intellectually masturbating in front of each other in between backslapping and walking and talking. In other words, The West Wing on film*. And you know how I feel about the West Wing. And it'll be totally unromantic!
J [raises eyebrow a fraction]: What, like The Wrestler is anything like romantic! It has Mickey Rourke in it for fuck's sake. I don't think I can cope.
JGF: Yeah well.. At least he falls in love with a stripper, or something. That's romantic! Or would you rather go to see the Duchess?
J [raises voice a fraction]: You know I hated Diana. I don't think I could cope. Plus that Knightley girl, she pouts constantly and it's really annoying.
JGF: OK... how about this zombie film?
J: ...
JGF: Right, that's right, you don't like horror films. So I guess that rules out Friday 13th as well. Which I would really like to see.
J: Well, you do get to pick our films at least 60 per cent of the time, and that's me being generous.
JGF: But that's because you're so fucking picky! You don't like horror. Or animations. We can't watch any foreign films cause they're not dubbed. You don't like action unless it's James Bond. You don't like anything with music (though in all fairness you did come to see Mama Mia, which may I point out that you ended up quite liking). The only things you like are political thrillers and love stories!! And Woody Allen. You made me pay to see Match Point. Oh the shame.
J: OK, we'll go to see the Wrestler.
JGF: No, it's fine, let's go and see Frost Nixon. That's like the only film in the whole list you actually want to see!
J [pouts]: Yeah, actually it is. But you get to decide, and you want to see the Wrestler. But next time it's my turn and we will see what I want to see.
JGF [crosses arms and leans towards other end of sofa]: It's really just such a shame that our tastes in film completely don't overlap, since we don't have that many interests in common and at least we both like going to the cinema.
J [sulky voice]: I agree. It's a shame.

[Cue icy atmosphere lasting till bedtime]

But here comes the good thing about being with a man who has had seven years of therapy and has had guilt breastfed to him by his mentalist mother: In the morning, J wakes, gives me a cuddle and says, of course we'll go to see The Wrestler. Kerr-ching! I win.

He also brought me Harrods hot chocolate powder and two mini charms for my mobile phone as a present. I have to admit I didn't give him anything but made up for it by giving him head... which I would have done anyway but at least I am justifying it to myself that way. And maybe I'll get him an anniversary present. No, you're right, I'm a crap girlfriend, a bit.

But the film. I have to say, that my desire to see Micky Rourke do his thang was greater than my sense of shame in having more or less manipulated my loved one into doing what I wanted to do for Valentine's.

So we started the romantic day with an art exhibition, then had lunch with my only married friend couple for inspiration, then two viewings, one of which I'll be bidding on, yay!!!, though I doubt I will get it, it would just be too good to be true.

After the viewings it was pretty much dinner time, but instead we dropped into one of my friends' house. It turned out he was having major relationship drama and J decided to treat all three of us to a Chinese takeout in order to prevent him from slashing his wrists all on his own on this worst day of the year for the ones who have to live without their loved ones for one reason or another.

Hence our romantic dinner was spent mostly listening to our friend pour his heart out about this girl he is "meant to be with" etc. etc. I also fixed the sound card on his laptop and J read half of his foreign-language newspaper he had carried around all day, so it was not all in vain.

Then we went to see the Wrestler. Which is, I must warn you, a very depressing experience, like anything Arnovsky tends to produce. But it was beautiful, and I clung to J for the whole hour and a half. He didn't fall asleep either (which to my annoyance he often does if it's not a political thriller), and agreed after that the film had been "OK".

When we got home, we kicked off Season 2 of The Wire, and then went to bed where we both went into a heavy coma due to all the walking and fresh air we got during the day. Very wholesome. But it was a nice Valentine's.

* My friend the Lit Anal PhD has since told me this was a spookily accurate ad-hoc assessment of this particular film

Phew!

2009-02-13T01:11:00.005Z

Exam session morning
Originally uploaded by Scartist

Exam over for now. I feel almost cheated, it was so easy. I'm not being smug, my classmates largely appeared to feel the same way.

So I celebrated this evening by going to the cinema to see Slumdog Millionaire, which I guess won so many Baftas chances are everyone will have seen it already, but for those of you that haven't, I do recommend it.

The opening scene is all Trainspotting, and Boyle demonstrates his ability to expose the underbelly of a city in transformation. He captures the zeitgeist of a developing India beautifully, and indeed the triangle of the three main characters can be seen as circumscribing this in a metaphorical way.

The film is feelgood and has solid, cheesy Bollywood moments where there might be sex scenes in a Hollywood equivalent.. What's not to like. And I love that guy from Skins who plays the lead. And there is dancing. Yay!

Now I'm in bed waiting for J to arrive. His flight got seriously delayed due to snow and bad weather conditions, and he was meant to have been here over two hours ago, poor thing. On top of all that I think he has like 40 kg of luggage since he is moving here soon, as well as a hefty cold. Aaaw... I've done my bit by warming up the bed for him.

We have three viewing this weekend which hopefully will end the house buying nightmare. I am buying a house, not getting pregnant, ie. it is reversible and I should just get with it. Even got a friendly noise from the bank today so all should be set. Watch this space...

Lessons leaned from Valentines past :: Warning - some adult content..

2009-02-10T23:03:00.012Z

pair
Originally uploaded by C.Mariani

It's almost that time of the year again... Love it or loathe it, Hallmark Cards will be rammed down your throat at the supermarket and Ann Summers will sell way too much black and red and unflattering underwear. Again. So to celebrate Valentine's Day, V-Day or Singles Awareness Day (delete as appropriate), I've started the warm-up today.

What I've done for the past 10 Valentine's Days*

1995: I discovered Valentine's Day by way of starting school surrounded mostly by Texans. Received exactly two greetings. All the other girls got tons.

1996: Might have been the one where I gave Junior High Sweetheart a BJ outside the house of the one that got away, just cause I was pissed off with him.

1997: Received exactly two greetings. All the other girls got tons.

1998: Spent it alone drinking tequila flavoured beer and Irish Coffe in north-eastern France.

1999: Did a student radio show with my gay ex. We played "All by myself" by Celine Dion and "The winner takes it all" by Agnetha Faltskog. My best gag all evening was "My co-DJ just nipped outside with a fag."

2000: Probably something else to do with gay ex. Probably something lovely. I wish I could remember.

2001: Went to se Vagina Monologues. Still nursing broken heart after dumping gay ex. Received tulips from US ex. Had a small panic that he would do something really big but he didn't.

2002: Deleted from memory. Probably involved slightly routine, yet hot sex with US ex.

2003: Also deleted from memory. Might have involved romantic restaurant in London with US ex.

2004: Celebrated having dumped US ex about a month earlier. I think I might have gone to see Team America with Depressive Flatmate. Oh how I miss her when Mr Vain is aiming for me with his air rifle.

2005: Made mix tape (on tape, since J has no mp3 player and only got a CD player in the car after I took him to Halfords) for J hoping to win his affections. It contained "I'm like a bird" by Nelly Furtado, "Lover, you should have come over" by Jeff Buckley and "Murder on the dancefloor" by Sophie Ellis Bextor. It worked a treat.

2006: I worked. It sucked. J gave me a black silk dressing gown from La Senza. I shrunk it in the wash.

2007: I worked. It sucked. Went out for late night Nepalese curry with J and had way too much to eat. It was great.

2008: Went to romantic restaurant in Henley, celebrating how despite being dumped there by J on 31 January 2005, we are still together. That is, I was celebrating, he was just ashamed that it took him so long to realise what a one-off he had on his hands.

2009: J will be visiting me here in The Cold North. I much look forward to it.

What can a girl learn from this?

When you want a man, never give up. If he isn't gay or completely stupid (in which case he would be a poor choice for a long-term partner) he will eventually give in and realise what a catch you are.
Don't ever work on Valentine's. It sucks, especially when other people leave early and you see a flash of their new sexy underwear as they disappear through the door.
Be a serial monogamist. Nothing gets you over the previous one like the next one.
There is no point in not celebrating Valentine's just because you think you should cherish each other every day, and not just when dictated to do so by the market powers that be.
Don't ever drink Tequila flavoured beer. It's really nauseating.
Have a gay boyfriend. They're the best, and you'll forever after be "the girl who gives amazing blow jobs".
Make people mix tapes. It's really therapeutic and we don't do it enough anymore.
Don't waste your time building a relationship with someone you don't truly, truly love.
Don't care that you get no greetings in High School. Unless you are a lesbian, in which case not having the ability to charm other women could turn out to be a bit sucky later in life.

The best love songs ever, in no particular order, are:

"Lover, You Should Have Come Over" - Jeff Buckley
"One" - U2
"Goodbye to Love" - The Carpenters
"Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough" - Don Henley / Patty Smyth
"Patience" - Guns'n'Roses
"I'll Stand by You" - The Pretenders
"Stay" - Lisa Loeb
"It Must Have Been Love" - Roxette
"Without You" - Mariah Carey
"My Favourite Mistake" - Sheryl Crow

Tag. You're it.

* I know I said 10, but I do tend to go on a bit once I get started.

Things look nicer with snow on

2009-02-09T18:25:00.007Z

I went to a Yoga class this afternoon which was a bit of a mistake, as it turned out not at all to be the relaxing kind of Yoga that we know and love, but the hardcore sweat-inducing kind which did nothing to soothe the monster period cramps I've had all day.

Oddly, though, I do feel better after it. Must be the endorfins from the pain of one too many warrior poses, methinks.

While I was toiling away trying to put my knees down next to my ears and such, about 15 more cm of snow fell outside. I really feel like a child at Chrismas, I think I have acquired that British feeling of wonder, as if snow is not something that happens every year, several times a year. I had a huge urge to make an angel on our balcony, but managed to restrain myself, as that would mean cold and more cramps.

So I decided sod the exam later this week, I only need to pass and I think I'll be able to do that already, as the syllabus is quite small and I did A-level maths, so it's not as hard for me as it is for most other people who don't know what an independent variable is.

I've decided to finish off my latest knitting project over some hot chocolate. My new favourite recipe is very much helped by Hotel Chocolat's Aztec Liquid Chocolate, which has a hint of chili to it, perfect for cold evenings. My twist is to add a good spoonful of good-quality honey to it to give it that childish sweetness for which I'm sure Hotel Chocolate meant for their dark flakes to be an antidote.
I make it with soya milk as I'm on a no dairy drive. Nobody told my parents that dairy and Asians don't mix, but I'm doing what I can to patch that slightly unfortunate issue up at the moment.

The hot chocolate still tastes as good with soy as it does with skim milk, but of course the poor bean can't compete with full fat moo moo. That's just too much to expect from a poor plant.

And, I just had to post a snow picture to end this entry.. People constantly stare at me as if I'm some kind of misplaced tourist who got the cruise ship seasons all wrong, as I have been photographing everything from recycling bins to street signs that looked "nicer with snow on".

This photo, I actually really like. A very Bergman-esque street I came across when the snow arrived last week. Isn't it romantic? If only I was guaranteed this kind of weather all winter, I would push J until he agreed to a winter wedding.

So, now for the knitting!

Another month, another man flu

2009-02-09T10:22:00.004Z

Poor J has come down with a cold, again.

We spent most of Christmas tucked up in bed with a fever and cough in various exotic hotels, and it appears he is at it again over in Blighty.

As I might have mentioned at some point, J has asthma and I think that makes him more subsceptible to colds. As soon as one is going around he picks it up like a three year-old spotting a half-eaten sweet on the ground. And they last for ages, usually with a nasty cough in their tail.

I feel quite bad that I'm not there to nurse him, but I have to admit that I also feel quite relieved that he's not here as that means I might not have to be infected for once. Snogging someone with a cold, which I inevitably end up doing, is of course like an intravenous cold virus injection.

Nothing is worse than being ill on your own though, so I have taken some ibuprofen this morning in sympathy with him.. and also to stave off the period pain from hell. I am currently sitting really still with fifty layers of wool on, as I know that if I get up before the ibu kicks in, or if I get at all cold in the midriff area, it will be back to bed for the rest of the afternoon. No fun at all, and I have a revision class in 45 min.

But at least I'm not coughing.

See, I am managing the whole "thinking positively" thing this week!

To be grateful

2009-02-08T00:46:00.002Z

I admit that lately I've been one ungrateful witch. J timed me during our Skype date this evening, and it took 43 minutes before I stopped whingeing about my house buying (though that should be our house buying) and asked him how he was doing.

Shame on me.

But this stuff is really stressing me out. I think one of the reasons I am finding this so tough is that I have always kind of assumed that my parents helped my brother out more simply because I was geographically further away and they couldn't buy me washing machines and the like.

I realise now that actually it was not geography that separated us, but simply the fact that my brother has the same level of education as them and does a job they can understand and has done things they approve of, such as to breed. Their common frame of reference with him is actually existent. Between me and the rest of the family, it is sadly not so.

I am the only one of my family to go into higher education. Although my mother is a very clever woman, she simply has never been educated to think outside the box and to think "scientifically". My brother, although he finished high school, did so on a vocational course. Both my siblings hated school, my sister also had social problems, and my mother spent most of her free time tending to their needs. I was always left to my own devices because I could be and still performed well.

This hurts me. I know they are proud on me on an almost abstract level, because I've always got top grades and been no trouble and earned my keep since I was 15. But on a more concrete level, they have no idea what I do all day. I got a First on my initial BA. They asked me if I was satisfied with that. I got into a really competitive clinical psychology course. They didn't really congratulate me. I got an A on my first essay. My dad nodded and said "oh, OK". It isn't that they don't care, it is that they have no idea that any of these things might mean anything to anyone.

Like a child, I really just want to be seen, appreciated, engaged with. There is still a little girl inside me that wants my parents to see that I love them and to be proud of me.

When I question courses of action that they take as irrational and uneconomical, they, and especially my father, feel as if I am attacking them, personally, although this genuinely is not my intention. Tonight, again, I had a lengthy conversation with my mother which I think will have ended in her crying in front of a rerun Heartbeat afterwards. Of course I feel really bad about it.

J says this situation of experiencing a chasm between me and them is quite common, that I should actually be grateful for the support I am receiving from my family and that lots of people have it worse, which is very true. My self-absorbedness in this issue reaches the dimensions of someone severely clinically depressed, it really does.

Sometimes I wonder if when I left home, I just pushed all these late adolescent issues ahead of me, and I never had to deal with them because I was home so rarely that seeing me in itself was a treat for my parents and differences were forgotten about. But of course, these things, they don't go away.

And meanwhile I've of course lived in other places, done other things that they have no concept of. My father has literally speaking lived in one house his whole life. He has had the same job, with promotions, in the same shop. He inherited that house from his parents, he has never had to fend for himself in any way. And of course, crucially, he lacks the intellectual framework it would take for him to realise that things might be different from other people.

I don't really see a solution to this. I just want this house buying business to be overwith so we can go back to pretending that everything is OK.

Meanwhile, I did some positive thinking on the way home today. I should be, and am, grateful because:

My friend spent years in therapy to come to the conclusion that she simply can't expect her parents to understand or appreciate or be interested in what actually goes on in her life. Now they talk about gardening instead, which she hates but her parents love, and everything is OK. In other words, she learned that as an adult, you have to be the adult and come to them on their terms, like they did when you were a kid. Hopefully I can learn this from her as I can't afford the therapy.
My other friend told me he is very impressed with my knitting. I liked that. He is the kind of person who genuinely can give someone else 100 per cent of his attention even if it is something he is not remotely interested in, and it makes me feel seen and special.
I have made an effort to like a third acquaintance of me that I fell out with when we were 18 (I told you sleeping dogs just stay, er, asleep, while one lives abroad... though it is a bit pathetic, I know), and it appears to be going quite well, even when he is at his most pretentious.
J is being really supportive and didn't even complain about the 43 min thing I mentioned earlier. In fact, in general I have a very loving boyfriend that I care about and whom is coming to see me next week.
It is snowy outside, and though I am loath to admit it, I kinda like it.
I think I know everything I need to pass my exam next week.
My teacher friend helped me put together an efficient but easy to teach class for me to give in the substitute teacher job I will be doing after the exam when I could probably better be put to use as a floor rag than as a teacher. So that's that off the to-do list.
I got on really well with my friend that stayed with me this weekend, that I haven't gelled with very well for the last year or so.
I have almost finished the baby bolero I am knitting.
I got my first comment on my non-anonymous blog today. From another blogger I both like and respect! Yay!

So in other words, lots to be happy for. And tomorrow is Mother's Day. I shall ring my mum, say I love her and mention not a word about housing nor money. Scouts honours.

house in snow

2009-02-05T17:15:00.002Z

house in snow
Originally uploaded by mooncowboy

I sit here waiting for my cortisol to come back down.

Just came back from a viewing, to which there was rather a long-ish walk from downtown, especially since it snowed overnight, which means the streets are one big sludgy mess.

There is something calming about snow. I guess it is partly cause it literally takes the edge off things, both aurally and visually. Everything becomes more round, more quiet and colours and shapes are less in your face. It suits me fine, especially since my brain has also turned to sludge from a 6 hr maths class.

When I studied in Scotland, we used to sit in my friend's corner flat at the local roundabout and watch the cars pile up, it was a hoot, especially when we had a few beers.

It is funny how the UK refuses to come to terms with the harsh facts of actually being quite near the top of the northern hemisphere, and plan for winter accordingly. It was, of course, the same chaos every time it snowed. Cheap entertainment for us poor students, but surely just lucky that we never saw anyone get seriously injured.

J actually sent me an mms of snow in the UK a few days ago, apparently several buses crashed in the town where he lives. I am guessing that weather has now arrived here. It is still snowing, but it's a few degrees on the plus side of zero, so I don't think it'll last.

My feet are all wet, and the flat had very crooked floors. The house is from the early or something, and wooden, so I guess that's to be expected. It was quite a nice flat, several people at the viewing despite the current market conditions.

I don't quite know if I'll end up going for it or not, it depends partly on the bank. Also I would like to see it with someone who knows about houses, just to make sure it is "charming and old" rather than "about to crack down the middle".

Would be a very romantic place to live though, a couple lives there now, but something tells me the girl had most of the say in the refurbishment. Apparently there is a clamp or something missing below the shower drain but otherwise all is in ship shape, according to the prospectus.

At the moment I am waiting for my friend to arrive, she has flown in from out of town at the slightly inconvenient time of four days before my exam next week, but it will be good to see her nonetheless. I feel completely wiped, and this gives me an excuse to spend money I don't really have on a nice meal out.

Agggh!!!

2009-02-04T19:47:00.002Z

You know, I never really understood why house buying and moving is up there with losing your spouse in the list of the 43 "greatest life stressors". But now I think I do.

I think I have decided that I positively hate the financial crisis. Today I went to the bank, and found that I can't get a mortgage unless both (!!!) of my parents cosign for it!

Now the good thing here is that I have actually talked them into supporting me on this, and J is also being a lot more supportive than he was.

But both parents! And I am borrowing less than 40 per cent of the value of a very small property. I have good credit and am en route to getting a pretty solid job as a psychologist. It's just ridiculous, really.

Basically I am being punished for other people being greedy and taking up loans they couldn't possibly have afforded to repay. OK, maybe not just greedy, maybe also undereducated. And the bank as well, trying to cover its own arse by making it more difficult to get loans for everyone, including people like me, who would be paying way less in mortgage repayments than I will be in rent if I can't buy somewhere for J and I to live once he moves here.

I have some sympathy for people in the financial sector who have lost their jobs, they have kids to feed and homes to keep, but on the other hand I kind of also think that if you chose to enter a career where everything revolves around making yourself and other people richer, without much concern for the common good, then in a way you can't complain when the strategies you've been supporting suddenly disastrously fail.

At any rate.

I am waiting for my mum to ring me back so I can get her to scan and mail all the details from herself and my father to the bank's financial adviser (read: sales person).

Or maybe I should just go live in an unheated garage with no windows near the docks. Then I wouldn't need a mortgage at all.

Focus!

2009-01-30T16:38:00.002Z

Day 79 - f o c u s
Originally uploaded by margolove

You know, I love men. I even, most of the time, love J.

However.

At the moment I am just so stressed I could explode.

J is moving here in March. That means that I have to leave Mr Vain behind and find somewhere for J and I to stay. My parents are kindly helping me to buy, but not to such an extent that my budget is very large.

I have two choices.

A) I can buy a very small 1-bed flat, which is what I can comfortably afford on my own. This would, however, mean that if J and I don't work out, I'll be stuck having to work my arse off for the rest of the time I'm studying to earn enough money to get by on my own.

or

B) I could buy a 2-bed flat, which I can't really afford, but I could afford if J put up some money. This would mean I could rent out a room if J and I broke up and would then be in less trouble. Also if I got pregnant it would be crowded.

So, as you can see, I could only afford to insure myself against us breaking up if J is committed enough to put up the money, which he isn't really. Which means that insurance is more necessary. If he was more committed, I wouldn't need the extra money, but he would offer. The world is truly a cruel place.

I realise I am whingeing like a spoilt brat as not everyone can get help from their parents in buying, but this whole situation is really stressing me out. I don't really want to have to rent, as this would be more expensive per month than the mortgage I'm planning if buying, and again I would be stuck in a contract if we were to break up.

I have discussed this situation with two of my friends, both of whom also had to do the whole house buying thing on their own because their menfolk were for different reasons not wanting to chip in.

Needless to say both these menfolk now live happily and cheaply in lovely apartments refurbished by their women.

What is it with men?? Why is it so difficult to make a commitment? It's not as if I, also, love being single and all that goes with it, but I have chosen not to be single, and I feel I should act accordingly (read: as a responsible adult).

So anyway, this is driving me nuts. I have attempted to calm myself by reading about cell biology and planning next week's lecture for the high school kids I'm teaching on the side but it didn't really help. Writing this kind of helped, but I can feel that my cortisol is way above what it should be at this time in the afternoon. Thank fuck it's Friday.

Will now try alternative method, which involves spending money I don't really have on pizza and than a classical music concert at the city concert hall.

Flatmates from hell ch. 2

2009-01-27T21:24:00.002Z

Kitchen Demolition!
Originally uploaded by yoderism2

Flippin heck! I certainly know how to pick them. Or not, as it were.

After a recent incident of almost being shot by my flatmate Mr Vain with his recently acquired airgun, I came home this evening to find that he had taken a sick day off work (he keeps getting man flu) to... DEMOLISH THE FUCKING KITCHEN!!!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, to no warning at all I came home to find that in order to install his new fridge and freezer (which I am guessing he failed to measure before buying), he has stashed all my food helter-skelter in boxes and deported it to the corridor by the front door, and removed about half of the kitchen units, blocking access to the old fridge where more of my food still lives, and the cooker.

I'm sorry, but I think this is totally outrageous! Am I being a cranky bint or is this a bit OTT? Fortunately I hadn't invited anyone over for dinner today! He even talked to me on the phone to borrow some DVDs from me earlier and mentioned nothing about the building site style kitchen awaiting me. Needless to say I couldn't cook any dinner (even the microwave has been boxed away for the occasion) so I am presently becoming more irritable by the second.

I have already asked Flatmate From Hell for some money off my rent this month, as I will need the extra cash to spend on meals out. Of course he raised his eyebrows (he is notoriously stingy) and wondered if I couldn't just squeeze in between the demolished kitchen units to cook some food at home. Riiight.

Oh, and don't even get me started on the living room... He has also removed all the books from the bookshelves and is rearranging, so one cannot comfortably sit there either really. I pay a lot of money to live in this place, and responded promptly by starting the hunt for somewhere else to live. Before I grab that airgun and shoot his arrogant ass.

More flatmate stories>>

House of flying daggers
Flatmates from hell Ch 1
Js flatmate attempts to kill us

Update: 2249 pm. Mr Vain has made progress in the kitchen and has pushed all the dismembered kitchen units to one end of the kitchen. He looks sheepish, and I can get to the cooker. But now it's late and I have to go to bed. Dr Karg crispbread for dinner. Yum...

Walk on by

2009-01-23T20:53:00.000Z

Padre e Figlio
Originally uploaded by docfuz

It has been a long week. So tonight I thought I'd treat myself to dinner out and a couple of drinks before heading home and to bed early. I was well into my second Moscow Mule by the time He walked past outside the window.

The man who broke my heart, whose heart I broke, and every time I see him, my body remembers that. I shall call him A. I guess there have been others after him, doing the same thing, to whom I've also acted cruelly, but never with such desperation as when I aimed for him, when I was 17, 19, 21. You can read the story of our past here.

It belongs to the story that after all these years living far from home, I've chosen to return to the city where this man lives now. We haven't kept in touch that actively, I guess for obvious reasons of not wanting to be reminded of how stupid we once were, and on my part, how cruel I once was. But of course we have friends in common, and he happens to own a lot of books I need for my course. Because he did it a few years ago.

When I see A, my heart skips a beat still, especiallly if I am not expecting it. And he looks at me, he sees me, I know he does. His girlfriend is lovely, and I actually wouldn't dream of breaking up that union. But I am still me, and in some hidden corner of my heart, I guess there is still an "us", even if I would never let on to J about this.

So anyway, there I was, innocently sipping my drink, though I know he lives nearby that particular bar, which I had gone to at the suggestion of my friend. He walked by with his preschool age son in tow. In tow being the best description, the boy was hanging back slightly, while A was hauling the kid's weekend bag and another backpack, probably heavy so he was in a rush to get home. I knew that it was kiddie weekend this weekend.

I didn't run outside to say hi, I just knocked on the bar's window. A didn't hear it, but his kid did. His kid, though, obviously, didn't recognise me, as we last met about 4 years ago. Pre J. But anyway, this stupidly cute, blonde kid turns around, hanging from his dad's hand, and I wave at him. And I am amazed at how grown up he looks, because he is the living counter of the time that has passed since I drew a line below the thing that was A and I, and although he is no longer a baby, he has opinions, he will go home and ask his dad who that funny woman in the bar might have been, despite this, I know that I haven't really managed to draw the line at all.

I guess now that I feel that J and I are much more of an item, my mind drifts off more easily, it shouldn't be that way but it is. When I meet A, I always write afterwards. He tells me I speak in poetry, and I know that in his eyes, I will always be a genius with words, published or not. I am not the person he thinks I am, but I am in love with her as much as I am with him. So I have chosen not to pursue the literary path, I have shut that writer off inside me, because I think she is the one who so deeply connects with this man who is not her keeper's boyfriend, that she has to be silenced, possibly forever. She dreams off, she creates fantasies, there is always divorce. On one hand I know I'll never act on this. I respect A, and even more so I respect his partner who's been lovely to me since I moved here. I need to stop this. I just don't quite know how to fall out of love with that part of myself.

Rolly knitting

2009-01-20T23:25:00.006Z

What I enjoy about knitting is the sense of achieving something. Therefore I find it absolutely infuriating how stockingnette stitch tends to roll up on itself while you are knitting it. This piece of knitting, for instance, looks as if it is about 2 cm long when really it is 20!! Aggh! Where is my sense of gratification?!

My friend, who has knitted countless sweaters since the age of about 12, refuses to knit anything in stockingnette unless on round needles, as she finds it too frustrating to have to contend with doing every second row purl, as well as the roly poly phenomenon.

At any rate, what I am planning is this lovely bolero from Debbie Bliss. I bought the Baby Cashmerino 2 book a few years ago when my friends started breeding, and now there is such an avalanche of babies that I think I've knitted pretty much everything in the book. I think I need a new collection of patterns. I really like these ones, they are simple but well designed with nice shaping. Will receive tips with thanks.

Spring is just around the corner..

2009-01-20T15:29:00.002Z

Meltdown
Originally uploaded by Elida :)

I know it's a bit premature to be saying this, but I can really smell it in the air that Winter is already growing old and Spring will soon battle him into submission.

For the last few days when I've woken, it hasn't been completely dark when I got out of the shower, and when I have been cycling down the hills to school, you can hear it everywhere, ice melting in the ground, trees slowly waking up from hibernation to produce the first pollen allergy of the spring in just a month or two.

In the very north of Norway these days, they celebrate the return of the sun, which really is the first time they see proper daylight since perhaps November. I can't imagine what that must feel like. In some places they bake sun buns to celebrate, which are sweet yeast dough buns with a yellow eye of custard cream in the middle. It's easy to see how people remained heathen for ages in such places, fearing that a lack of sacrifice and worship might mean the sun would never return at all.

Despite it still really being winter, I can feel energy returning to my body like sap to the tree branches, due to just having a little daylight every day to tell my brain what time it is mean to be for it. I have just baked a lovely chocolate cake for my friend's birthday party which is coming up (at least it should be lovely given the ingredients, you can't go wrong with eggs, butter and good quality chocolate) and will eat it also by way of celebrating the days getting a little longer every day.

Obama Day dawns

2009-01-20T07:48:00.003Z

What a grand day. Obama is to be inaugurated, and the BBC's link from their front page to the top story is giving a 404. Ooops... I almost want to call them to tell them, but I'm restraining myself. The Guardian, however, are doing their thing rather more successfully.

Meanwhile, the light is just appearing outside, which means the sun's ideas of morning are creeping closer to the university's ideas of morning, which cannot be a bad thing.

Imagine, eight years of Bush just over! Over! I remember when he got re-elected, I felt depressed for like, a whole day. I didn't stay awake for the whole night to watch the results, it just became too depressing to think of wasting all that energy if he were to win and there was nothing to celebrate. Turns out my instincts, sadly, were right.

But let's not dwell on such sad things, today is a day of joy and new beginnings. Have to run to catch my bus, but just wanted to say well done, Americans, and good luck, Mr President.

Connected

2009-01-19T22:37:00.002Z

Walking on Water
Originally uploaded by Angelrays

So we're having the usual beginning of semester partying season, as everyone still has more money left from the government's kind grants (or salaries as I like to think of it) and I was sitting outside the student cafe with a couple of my classmates.

And they all started just saying lots of nice things to me, like they think I will really succeed in my career and life, that they really appreciate having me in the class, that they think I am really clever etc. etc. It was all done in a really sweet way where one of them started and the other ones just warmly agreed.

One of the boys said that he likes the fact that when we argue over theoreticall issues (a weekly occurrence as he is the positivist son of a surgeon), I laugh at him and pinch his cheeks as if he were a baby. It makes him respect my opinions, apparently. Now of course this all looks completely absurd in writing, but they were really as earnest as only a young, slightly drunken Scandinavian could be.

It really warmed my heart. I've spent so much time in my life being an outsider, being abroad, being different, and also feeling different, which probably made me act as if I was different, exacerbating the whole process. Of course it would be oversimplifying things to say that I've come home, but I really feel very comfortable with my classmates.

I decided when I started the course that I would say, wear, be whatever and not care what other people said, just live out the girl I think I am at the core, that I have always been. It seems to have worked out pretty well. It is a great feeling to be connected to other people, and not through trying to be what you think they want you to be. I feel lucky.

Another week over..

2009-01-19T01:14:00.001Z

Survey Of All The World
Originally uploaded by Ċĺαss¡öĝЯαρhÿ~fil'6b3ya

I swear time passes faster as I get older. It is really bizarre. I think the circadian section of the brain works by comparing each passing segment of time to the unit it knows as "life so far".

In other words, if you are a one year old baby, a week is a pretty long time as it is the equivalent of quite a high percentage of the time you've spent alive thus far. However, for an 80-year old, a week will pass as if it is hardly anything, because it's forms such a tiny fragment of that person's lifetime.

However, these are only my musings, and I am no philosopher, and don't I know it after reading all these papers on social constructionism and dualism and Cartesian thinking and Wittgenstein and post-structuralism for my courses. I feel desperately undereducated in this department. Should have gone to Oxford and done the classics, I guess. Though that probably wouldn't have helped much with the psychology.

But it really is bizarre how our perception of time depends on so many factors, such as the level of attention we pay to our surroundings, the delicate dance of neurotransmitters in our brains and, I am convinced as I said above, on how much time we've already spent alive.

My friend's grandfather died last week, at 97. He had Alzheimer's and apparently stopped eating before Christmas. Since his wife, who is also very frail, was no longer able to care for him at home in his increasing confusedness, he was placed in a home, which he strongly resented.

So this old man, he decided that he simply didn't want to live anymore, that he had seen all the days he wanted to see. I can't imagine ever feeling like that, that there is nothing more to be done. I can't imagine being 97, he has lived over three times longer than I have. I wish the day had more hours so I could cram in more of life in each one. But maybe by chasing life in this way, always wanting more, differently, I am setting myself up for disaster, I will never learn to stand still.

But after hearing the story of this old man, I think I would rather live a hundred years with this inner restlessness, than to have to endure two years of just wanting it all to be over because there is nothing more to see.

Is drinking around your kids OK?

2009-01-18T02:39:00.003Z

154/365 "Fun" with paper..
Originally uploaded by IvaYaneva

Ah, it's as you can see ridiculous-o-clock in the morning, and I should really be asleep to give myself energy for studying tomorrow. But alas, no.

I came back a couple of hours ago from a lovely trip into town with a group of friends, one of them just turned 31 and I gave him a flask for him to bring his coffee in to work, he really appreciated it. How old we are growing, no, really! We had some pizza and burgers and lovely chat, and I am very grateful that I have these people where I can be totally myself and say what I please, and just completely relax. I feel incredibly lucky.

After the dinner and a few drinks we moved on to another birthday party, another loosely related group of people. The couple hosting the party have two kids, but had obviousy shifted them onto someone else for the evening, and were busy getting tipsy and rolling joints under the table.

OK, so call me uptight, but I don't actually think kids should be exposed to really drunk people. I mean, of course, as long as the party is quiet (which this one was) and the kids don't wake up and come downstairs (which they didn't), I guess it doesn't matter that much. One of the couple in question grew up with an alcoholic parent, so I guess to her that's normal.

I don't know why it riles me. It isn't like they're drinking excessively in the way of falling over or becoming aggressive. And they don't have a car so if they suddenly had to rush to the doctor with one of the kids they'd need a cab anyway.

Maybe I'm just prudish? I like to think that I just object because I think it deprives parents of energy they should be spending on their kids in the morning (say what you want but nobody can be up drinking until 3 in the morning without feeling some amount of pain when getting up at 0700 the next day), and because seeing parents drunk could make some kids feel insecure. But I have to admit I think a large part of it is just this vaguely and I feel largely unfounded moral objection I have to drinking around kids.

I didn't see my parents in any way affected by alcohol until I was an adult, although they undoubtedly had a drink or two if they were away for a few days for meetings and such. So that's how I was raised. Am I uptight, or is this a reasonable opinion to have?

I guess studying psychology points out to you all the things that could potentially go wrong with raising children, so you become extra wary. But I still feel a bit judgmental and uptight. Eurgh. If you have kids of your own, or a drinking problem, or you're an ACOA, I'd really appreciate it if you left your 2p worth on this.

But now. I am taking inspiration from that photo and pissing my prejudiced self off to bed.

My friend's mum is dying

2009-01-16T18:56:00.002Z

Pay attention, girls!
Originally uploaded by
classic perfection

I was just told today that my friend's mum is dying.

We were talking about something trivial, house prices. He knows I am looking to buy a flat and he has also been thinking of doing so, though I have always known it would depend on house prices as well as his mum's condition stabilising.

She is not very old, only in her mid 40s. She was diagnosed with breast cancer about two years ago, and then found that it had spread even after she had a masectomy.

So today we were in a cafe having lunch, and he had just been lamenting chosing a salad when I had a burger (and to my defense that meant no proper dinner, just some ceral.. which I hope evens out the day's calorie intake). He then told me his dad had instructed him to keep an eye on the property market, to see if prices would keep plummeting or not. His idea of doing this is to ask me about three times a week what the prices are doing, as he
a) knows I am obsessively checking the property pages
and
b) is just on the shy side of lazy.
I told him it could really go either way, as I don't want to end up being blamed for him being stuck with negative equity and God knows what else.

"Well," he said. "I don't think I'll be buying until next year anyway."

"Prices or your mother?" I said.

"Both," he said. "We were just told she has a year left, at most."

We went silent. I really didn't know what to say, and I told him so. I mean, what can you say? It's horrible, and unfair, and it makes no sense. He is still in his early 20s, and his mum will never see him get married, have grandchildren, and probably make a very good specimen of his chosen profession. It's just grim.

And I guess grief, even grief that has not yet happened, has a pre-emptive repelling effect on people. We draw away, because we don't know what to say, and maybe on some level, we don't want this evil, meaningless situation to rub off on us, as if it could.

"Yeah, well, we can talk about something else less sad," he said. So we did. I guess he is coming to terms with the pending loss in his own mind, in his own time. I think how I would feel if it were my mother, and it feels horrible, just thinking the thought scares me shitless. She has done so much for me, and yet she hasn't seen me married, have children or becoming a very good specimen of my chosen profession. Hopefully she will, even though she smokes upwards of 15 a day and refuses to quit.

I feel for my friend, I really do, in that way that reminds me that I have managed to preserve some scraps of empathy, even when I think it's all gone and I'm just sick and tired of people being useless. I hope he realises that if he ever wants to not change the subject.

Panicking over?

2009-01-15T21:27:00.002Z

enterichfuss
Originally uploaded by southgeist

I made a really silly, and very basic, mistake today.

While in class, my computer screen still displayed for the whole class to see, I went to Technorati. Where I was logged in under my blogging user name. I realised immediately and pressed log out, but I am convinced some of them will have noticed, they are smart kids.

I don't know why this panicks me slightly, but it does. I think it is the fact that I just really like having this little corner of the world to myself, where I don't have to watch my mouth and I don't have to answer to anyone unless I want to. I really need this space.

Out of all groups of people I actually care less about those school kids than I would of anyone who actually knew me. But they know people who actually know me. Eek. So now I've moved my blog, changed my name and taken all the precautions I could think of. Hopefully that should do. And if not, I will definitely keep an eye on Statcounter just in case.

Maybe I will move the blog again, change the layout, become completely invisible again. I don't have any readers to lose, I just want to be left alone. But fingers crossed, I won't have to.

Approaching my teaching debut

2009-01-14T18:39:00.002Z

Sexy Teacher
Originally uploaded by eros.reigns

So, tomorrow is the big day. I have done the decent thing and exploited every contact I have in town in order to get a job. I will now be teaching at a high school about once a week. They work in three hour blocks, and in fact the thought of standing on front of a whole bunch of teenagers with only my mind as a weapon (or maybe it would help with a short skirt, at least with the boys.. though that would probably be a bit unprofessional) is a bit daunting.

But at least, as my university lecturer said, when you are talking about theories and philosophy to high school kids, at least chances are you probably know more than them. When you teach in uni, there is always the off-chance that someone has a doctorate in comparative politics and is just taking your subject by way of rather perverted diversion.

I have prepared a beautiful power point presentation, and learnt how to embed YouTube video in PowerPoint, so yay! This is despite my preparation time being supposedly included in my teaching hours.. Yeah right. I will make up for it by showing a film next week, though, so that I don't have to plan as much. And who knows, maybe I will be able to use the same presentation again next semester. Not exactly easy money, but I will take this over night shifts at the mentalist hospital any time.

I haven't actually done any reading today and I am a bit behind.. But I just can't be arsed. I've read quite a lot already this week and I think I deserve to slack off with crisps and a good book in bed. And a shower, before that.

Call him "miss the radar"..?

2009-01-11T11:57:00.003Z

when no ones home
Originally uploaded by _Neverletmego_

Sometimes I really just long to be home alone, in that way I guess you never are when you live in a high-rise like I do at the moment. And yes, I also have a new Flatmate. Let's call him Mr Vain (30 years of age). Mr Vain's main characteristics, in addition to being vain, is that he is:

Incredibly stingy: Despite his vanity he hardly ever buys anything to wear, and he always buys food in bulk and sponges off me whenever he can, despite me being a student and him having a full-time job.
A dishonest womenizer: I honestly have absolutely no problem with people who chose for their sex life to be made up of one night stands. I do have issues with people who aren't upfront to their partners about "not being interested in a relationship right now" from very early on. Cue: 21 year old foreign students following him around the flat like little puppy dogs, a different one at least once per week. And I have to be all polite to them and not let on that I'm completely unable to distinguish them from each other.
Pretentious: He refuses to have a TV in the living room because it is "distracting" and he has "better things to do", but spends ages downloading and watching stuff on his computer. He also says he likes fast boats because they are "more sophisticated than fast cars". Right.
Annoying: "Better things to do" includes, as he is doing at the moment, firing an air gun from the corridor, past my bedroom door, aiming for a target he has arranged in the far end of the kitchen. While I am purportedly trying to study. And he knows I hate loud noise. Notice that I have to wear headphones if I watch DVDs on my laptop "because it's really noisy".
Lacking in knowledge of the flatmate code: Since I moved in here, he has both eaten my Godiva advent calendar (which he replaced with a box of not as nice chocolate when I pulled him up on it) and installed a girl visitor in my room while I was away for a week, without notifying or asking me.

So OK, he has good sides, he is I think at heart a very caring, loving man, but he really needs to grow up and get his act together. He is incredibly cantankerous and very absolutist in his ways of thinking, which I think contributes to him having exactly four friends that I know of. The only party I have known him to be invited to, was his manager's 40th birthday, which I don't really think counts as an actual instance of social contact, as they never normally socialise. I'm sure he would be great as a friend if only I didn't have to live with him. Roll on my parental upfront inheritance so I can get a place of my own.

Seeing my own shadow

2009-01-11T01:28:00.003Z

in vino veritas (in bed)
Originally uploaded by tamelyn

So sometimes I see her. Who I could have been, could still be, if I were to be with you. I see her when I look up, and suddenly catch your eyes, you look at me, and then I am lead to feel that she is somewhere within me, caged.

I know what she looks like. She wears her hair down, messy, or short, a wispy fringe swept to the side and tucked behind her ear. She smiles a lot, laughs, she is sexier than I am, though only sometimes. She gets the giggles sitting in an old leather sofa, she flings her legs nonchalantly across its soft armrests in a way which seems careless to you, but is in fact carefully planned to show off her calves. She drinks milky tea with honey late at night, taking care not to spill it on your blankets while she talks. She talks, or sits still with her knees drawn up to her chest for hours, reading your old comics. And when she talks, she makes poetry. You tell her, and if you could see past her olive skin, you would see her blush.

So it makes me wonder sometimes, why I am not that girl. And maybe by becoming a psychologist, I will become what she had become had she been allowed to grow past 21 and have a profession of her own. I guess I am not her because her heart is so soft, so open, you could stab it with your words, your criticisms, your dignified pleading for mercy when I stab you back, or sometimes in a bout of pre-emptive striking.

I would never allow myself to get crushed in the way you could crush me. J could never pierce my heart in that way. My pride, my trust, my relentless desire to build a successful relationship, he could demolish all that with a flick of a finger, but you could grind my heart to sand in a moment, just by looking at me that way you do. I can't allow it. You look for her in me, and maybe she is in there somewhere. Maybe she is not.

I talked to your girlfriend tonight, she is lovely, really lovely, though I recognise in myself that slight extra effort I always put in with women whose position I like to imagine myself in from time to time. I sometimes sense you see it in me too, that you see the 19 year old who was really that nice to all your girlfriends that came and went, behind whose backs you passionately kissed me behind corners, underneath staircases, on cold winter evenings.

I examine your bookshelf as it covers the wall behind you (you like to sit in the same chair every evening) and I spot traces of myself; writers I introduced you to, copies of records I also own, and art you loved when I loved you. I search for you in it, where have you been for these ten long years we have spent apart, am I still there somewhere? Do you ever wonder who you would have been if we had ended up together?

Even if I was free (note how I never consider you not being free an issue), I don't think I could go there. There is the drinking, a bottle of wine in the evening every weekend, it could spill onto weekdays, could I really trust you to stop smoking if I got pregnant, would you still take me to the cinema on Tuesday afternoons to watch random European films just because I asked you to, would you kiss me when your football team scored, or would you just get drunk, would your car crash of mother take you away from me when I needed you the most, would you still make my tea just the way I like it, could I handle your heart without breaking it?

And that is the crux of the matter. I see that shadow of the girl I would have been, and I don't trust her to cope, to handle you in the way you deserve, to always be there for you, to allow you to be who you would be, to not stab you in the chest at a weak moment. I am not that strong, and neither is she. If you hurt me, I would lash out, immediately, because it would be too painful to bear without retaliation. I would be conniving, always looking to get back at you for the slightest unfairness. Maybe I'm not with you because I don't trust myself, because I couldn't bear the thought of messing it up, of not ever being able to be with you, for ever.

I am losing my English, because I am not using it enough. It is slipping out from the sections of my brain I'm so carefully naming these days, and I am stuck between two languages, on a partially toothless rope bridge, grappling for words and they crumble at the tip of my tongue before I can spit them out onto the paper. It pains me sometimes, I have to remind myself that I am not drunk, I am merely split between words, between worlds.

Room with a view

2009-01-10T10:54:00.004Z

Gone Sailin'
Originally uploaded by Bеn

It is only the first proper week in January, but already the year is maturing from a near-blind newborn into a capable infant, recognising the routines of life. I really love the new year, the feeling of new beginnings, new student loan payment, of taking stock and leaving the old behind. Of course I could really do that at the end of every week if I wanted to, but you know, there is nothing quite like a new year to give you the incentive.

It is really windy today, and there are so many little sailing boats out on the fjord that there might very well be some kind of regatta going on. Quite a few of them were passing out towards the open sea a little while ago, sails blazing, and now they are coming back the other way, using their engines, most of them, as I guess it would just be too much hassle to go straight up against the wind.

Last night I went out with fellow students and I actually had a really nice time, probably the best party time I've had since I moved here. Everyone seems more relaxed, I think, and we had also invited a group of foreign students who are visiting for one of our courses, which gave me both a good conscience and some interesting conversations throughout the evening.

Having me, having you

2008-09-29T23:21:00.004+01:00

J has left again. It is a strange existence, this whole to and froing. But J has decided. He will be moving here shortly, to live with me in the flat I will hopefully have.

Last time he was here to visit me, in my girl room which has a 120 bed (the student size from IKEA which can hold exactly one very in love couple or two very drunk people for a one night stand, but not a regular girlfriend and boyfriend over a longer period of time), a desk, a bookshelf, a MALM dresser and a NOT lamp, he was very ill. It was not a very good weekend. I was just about to come on my period and incredibly irritable, and he was cranky.

This weekend was different. I was nervous before he got here, in that way that one is before a first date. It is funny. My body remembers him, but my heart doesn't. The longer that passes between us when he is but a small face in a Skype window, the less I remember why I love him. I am a simple girl. For me, a relationship is very much about the physical. I am definitely one of those women who will cheat, not in the flesh, but by giving my mind to someone else. In fact I do that every day.

When he got here, it was just lovely, straight off. He smells different, is using another clothes detergent now that we are not living together, a perfumed one. He came dragging along two suitcases full of my stuff, a small helping of what is still left behind in Britain, and of course only about 5 per cent of it stuff I actually wanted, as is his habit he had packed in a massive rush.

But when I close my eyes, he feels familiar. He tastes familiar. And he was so happy to see me. In the shower today, I constructed my relationship narrative.

My first boyfriend was lovely to look at, very much the quiet and shy type, and very bizarre in conduct.

So the crush I had after was much more communicative, loved words, the way I loved words. But I didn't jump when I should have, so I lost out.

So I jumped off the cliff with both feet for boyfriend III, although he was gay, and of course nobody jumped after. I loved the most and had my heart thoroughly crushed by the situation.

Boyfriend IV. He loved me, I didn't love him. Very safe, very boring. Dump.

Boyfriend V is J.

I have figured why I will never feel the same for J as I do for the crush who followed boyfriend I. It is because I have learned that I have to have the relationship, and be in it.

I can never again let it happen that I find myself in a relationship that is having me. I just couldn't take it. I would break.

Trouble is, when you have the relationship, and you are in it, rather than it having you and being inside you as it were, then it will never feel as intense.

J will never look into me in that way that kills a small part of me, creating new growth by burning off dead grass from a small patch with a magnifying glass catching the sun.

It just isn't the way it is. I love him, and I want him, but this is not the big love.

I am not sure if I should be glad that I have known what the big love is at all, or if I should be sorry that I have not chosen to let it be what I live my life alongside.

But I am living my own life, it is not living me. And that is how I want it, for the foreseeable future.

The one who got away... that I've caught up with

2008-08-11T22:07:00.000+01:00

Originally uploaded by Simple Dolphin

So we meet again.

When I left the country, over a decade ago, I was madly, and I think truly, in love with one of my best friends.

Now I am here again, and I know that he lives a 20 min cycle ride from my house, with his "new" girlfriend of course. She is not at all new, they have been living together for at least three years now, I think.

We met today, at the pub, where I went to see another mutual friend of ours, with whom I've done a better job of keeping in touch.

It is odd. I used to dream about him, imagining colourful soft-focus scenarios where he would ring my doorbell in the pouring rain, in the middle of the night, to see me, to tell me something, to validate me.

Of course he never did. Even if he did want me, he was never the doorbell ringing type.

When I walked into the pub today, he looked at me. That really is all it takes. We barely exchanged a word while we were there, before I went home with my friend to see her flat, and he went home with his girlfriend.

Maybe I am finally over him. I don't want the life he has, I don't want to have a boyfriend who spends most weekends sitting inside smoking cigarettes, talking about life and having the not so occasional beer. I don't think he's the father of my future children.

But part of me will always remember that he was the first person that I loved, and made love to, and how my head was bursting with pleasure with every touch, that feeling which can never be replicated once the novelty of sex has worn off.

I wonder if he is sitting somewhere across town now and thinking about me, in his flat where he doesn't have the internet because he objects to computers, holding on to his girlfriend who never quite knows what to say to me, I think I unnerve her, though I don't know why, I knew him when we were kids, I don't know him as an adult, he chose her, he could have chosen me, begged me to come home, to be with him, to be.

I used to say to him that I wouldn't come home until he wanted to marry me. But a girl can only wait so long. And I was too homesick to postpone it till we're 56 and both divorced. Though I think he remembers as well as I do.

And there are dangerous opportunities. He recently completed the course I'm about to embark on, he probably has all the books I will ever need and naturally he knows the ins and outs of the department better than any of my other friends here. It would not be odd of me to meet up with him for a supportive chat.

Yet I don't know if it would be so clever, because he offers precisely the one thing that J doesn't, that unconditional attention, that way of looking at me without saying anything, which just makes me feel like the most interesting person in the world. He does that to everyone, not just to me. Though he is not by far the best looking friend I have, he has more broken hearts in his wake than any of the really handsome ones. I was one of them. But of course, the way he looks at me makes me think I also left a mark.

Softly, softly.

I am waiting for the phone to ring, a decade later. I know it will, and that it will be J, and that when he rings, I'll be happy. I miss him, I really do, and I count down the hours to our daily chats.

But part of my brain will play that alternative tune, Sliding Doors style, of what would happen if it turned out not to be J at the other end. I am back, and my number is the same as it was over ten years ago.

Northern rain

2008-08-10T21:57:00.002+01:00

Northern rain
Originally uploaded by kjetil_vatne

I am sitting here in my new flat, my new flatmate and landlord, a very odd-seeming guy (though he claims to have no mental health problems) just left on a late night errand.

It is pissing it down, the way it only can when you are a certain number of metres above sea level, yet completely exposed to said sea.

The flat has an amazing view of the fjord in this place which is now my new home town and place of study. However, due to the wall of water relentlessly hitting the south-facing window in the living room, the lit-up bridge which usually echoes the Victoria and Albert equivalent in London from across the fjord, is completely obscured. Outside there is blackness, and nothing but.

It has been a turbulent day. I have spent most of it painting the above-mentioned room. The Landlord, as I shall hencefort be referring to him, is slightly behind on his refurbishment schedule which he seems to think must mean I want to spend these first days here making up for his procrastination, brush in hand.

I have painted the walls a warm white with a tinge of yellow in it, hopefully it should keep me warm on dark winter evenings to come. The plus of the room not being finished was that I got to pick my own colour. I didn't feel yesterday, after several hours in the car with my father, that I had the mental capacity to consider creative colour choices, so I just went for the simplest and most obvious.

And maybe it was good to spend this first full day here, brush in hand, rather than just sitting around ruminating about what will happen to J and I, now that he's there and I'm here. When I woke this morning I didn't know where I was at first, I just keenly felt his absence next to me in the narrow bed.

But maybe I'll like it here. And if I do, and J does too, the flat next door is for sale. And hey, I already know what colours suit the light up here.

To my best friend on her wedding day

2008-08-02T21:48:00.000+01:00

i have this obsession with feet pictures...
Originally uploaded by .amy-g.

You told me yesterday that I have ten minutes. And I said, that is too much. How would anyone want to hear me talk for ten minutes straight? I think a good speech is a short speech.

But of course, the opposite is actually the case. How can I span the depth and width and duration of our friendship, our love for each other, in ten minutes? It really is, in the words of Crowded House, like trying to catch the deluge in a paper cup.

A teacher once told me, back in high school, that when you're young you meet these people with whom you have an incredible connection. And then it stops.

We have lived apart for over ten years now, and for each year that passes in my transient life, I treasure our friendship that little bit more. Its uniqueness shines a little brighter, like a diamond among dull gemstones I've never really found the time to polish.

When we first met, we were about four. You moved to my home town with your doctor parents, you had a posh accent and long, blonde hair which your mum plaited very tidily every morning.

Our mutual friend brought you to my house. I still had the apple green carpet, and the white wallpaper with red hearts on it, and I had a box of treasures. I let you have a lion button. It was from London, my dad bought it for me on one of his travels. And what a coincidence, or Morissette-esque irony, that it was London which would keep us apart for so many years.

As I stand here and come to terms with just having moved home, I would like you to know that you are a large part of my homecoming. We were joking on the phone that we will be only a five hour drive apart. But it is closer, a lot closer, than we have been. And closeness is important.

Closeness should be treasured, because we are growing up, growing older, and hopefully wiser. The past few years have not been easy for either of us, and some people who should be with us here are not. I am sure we are all sending our thoughts to your husband's mother, who died so tragically and in so much pain at Christmas, before she reached 50 and before she saw her grandchildren take her first steps. How she would have cried had she seen you today, so radiant and beautiful, the best woman any mother could ever hope to find for her son. And you yourself, I almost lost you in child birth, and it was a wake-up call for me. We should not put our friendship on the back burner while we wait for the right time to come. The right time might never happen, the right time is now.

We need to treasure each moment we get with each other on this earth, and that is what the two of you are saying that you want to do here today. And as for the two of us, well, five hours is a lot shorter than a slog to Heathrow, a lengthy flight and then another train ride.

So back when we were four, and you still had a posh accent, you were a very well-behaved and well-raised little child, who told other children that they would go to hell because they were not baptised. The staunchness with which you profess that particular belief might have faded somewhat, but you are still a firm believer in your values and wild horses could not get you to do something you are not one hundred per cent behind. And maybe that is why we have worked so well together, despite being different. We realised early on the importance of agreeing to disagree, and we have happily done so for over twenty years.

When you were eight, you were spotted silently crying in class, and when the teacher asked you why, you sobbed that you had left your pencil case at home. You were a sensitive little girl. But somewhere on the way your skin thickened, you joined the scouts (for which I would like to take credit but I'm not sure I can) and learned to handle both yourself and nature. And boys.

You are such a very special person, which I think is illustrated by the variety and number of friends who have made the journey here to witness your wedding day. You have moved around so many locations, from tiny villages to large cities, and in each one of those places you have put down roots, spread your sunshine. I have been asked innumerous times by boys and men how they can win your heart. And I have always told them I did not know. It cannot be denied, you have broken a fair few hearts along your path across the country. I

And a chair. You and your somewhat overweight boyfriend broke an antique chair at our friend's house by sitting on it, do you remember? Back in primary school you were forced into a date with this guy and he was so revolting that you left him in the cinema in the middle of Moonwalker. And then there was the guy in the eigth grade who gave you a lovely present for your birthday: A photo T-shirt with himself on it, railway style braces and all. And there was the guy in Bergen who just could not bring himself to believe you did not want him. There was the guy who came to visit you in Stavanger, just to be told by one of our friends that he looked like a Lego cube. There were skiers, kiters, it's a wonder you didn't end up a footballer's wife, you've always attracted a lot of boys, but sporty ones in particular. And maybe there were a few who were the ones who got away. If they could see you today, I know they would eat their hearts out.

So, to your husband, I do not need to tell him how lucky he is. OK, so he has to put up with your bad mood every morning (which you say you have gotten over but I don't really believe you) and you do fart rather a lot, especially if you've eaten dairy, but you have already allowed him to become the father of two beautiful children and your daft sense of humour is unquenchable, even at the toughest of times.

You have made an impeccable choice. When you started going out together, I knew immediately that something was different about this one. It was not just the fact that he was so bowled over by your first kiss that he started leaving your flat without putting his shoes on. He really had a unique quality, a calmness and maturity I had never seen in any of the other boys chasing you (cause it was mostly them doing the chasing).

And it took time for you to decide where you were headed, you went slowly, when you moved in together you had separate rooms for the first few months at his behest as far as I can remember. Very courteous, but I am sure some IKEA bed was left feeling pretty lonely during that period. But, I remember, I was visiting you while you were studying together, and you were fretting about your first proper argument, which had concerned garlic. You liked it, he didn't. You were really quite distraught after the quarrel. And I guess that is when I first thought he would really be the one. You don't quarrel about those things and last, unless you are bound for marriage.

The two of you have lasted though as tough of times this last year than many other couples endure across a lifetime, but together you have pulled through, and you so thoroughly deserve this day as a celebration in front of each other, family, friends, and the manager who sits upstairs and probably enjoys this as much as we do. I cannot, as a maid of honour is meant to, give you advice as to how to make your marriage last. However, as a budding psychologist I can say that what separates the happy couples from the ones who don't last, is not the number of quarrels in itself. It is the proportion of bad times to happy times. If there are significantly more smiles and cuddles and intimate exchanges of glances where you think your kids really are the cutest (usually while they are asleep) than there are fights and swearwords, then you are likely to last. So, your husband will really just have to do his best to laugh at your jokes. Because, they are funny, really. I have heard them for much longer than him, and you can still make me double over just by giving me a look.

I have no doubt that you are as supportive of a partner as you are a friend. You have always had time to listen, even when you've had three hours sleep for the last week because the twins have been coughing, and your car has broken down and your electric heating is not working. Heck, you'd probably take an emergency call if your house was on fire, provided you'd made your husband jump out the window with the twins first, onto a trampoline you built yourself (scouts, very handy with bits of wood and rope).

When I have been feeling down, you have told me, it's only a phase, each difficult day is a step in the right direction. And you were correct. Things eventually fall into place, it can be a painful process but it is always worth holding out for. That is your outlook on life, and it has held you together through periods of stress under which many a weaker person would buckle, or curl into a little ball and cry for mummy.

So in place of that aforementioned advice, I could wish you the best of luck, but you don't need it, you make your own luck, because you seem to know that this is the only way to achieve true equilibrium, true happiness. The way you work on your patients to coax them to perform things they might not at first think they are capable of, that is the way you coax your friends to be better people, and I am pretty certain that is how you treat yourself.

You are relentlessly positive, incredibly hard-working, you hate losing and you are always chasing the next peak, but never without taking time to smell the flowers along the way. I am so honoured to be chosen as a witness to this greatest event of your life so far, and I am hoping that your wedding will become a beautiful gate to the road ahead for you both, that you will be able to smell the roses and hear the cheers when you turn your heads back for decades to come.

What I miss the most...

2008-07-31T09:40:00.001+01:00

The Guardian - Final broadsheet - Main section back page
Originally uploaded by Phil Gyford

OK, I will in no way try to pretend that I miss nothing about Britain. In no particular order, I miss the following:

The Guardian. This country has shit papers, and nobody cares.
The food on Edgware road. No more Shwarma kebabs from J on his way home from therapy.
Cultured people. Brits can't ski, OK, but at least the dreaded middle classes are good at intelligent dinner table conversation.
The Beeb. Especially Paxo. Though I can of course watch him on the iPlayer.
Corner stores. This country lacks enterprising immigrants.
The shopping... Kew, Fat Face and House of Fraser are my favourite shops. Sigh...

But at the moment, that really is about it. I do not miss the following...

The constant noise.
Way too many people on way too small an island.
The materialism, coupled with low wages, leading to ridiculous work hours.
The unemployed. I know I'm really snobby, but I quite like knowing that the state takes care of those people and that unemployment in this town I now live in is 1.5 per cent. Meaning that anyone with arms and legs and most people without are actually working.
The housing. Yay for space.
People being uptight. That is mostly a southern thing so apologies to the Scots, Welsh etc. etc.
The disparity in society. Which obviously is a bit gratuitous since I said the thing about the unemployed, but there you go. I like everyone to earn the same and have a good time. And I don't care if I pay 45 per cent tax.

Day swimming

2008-07-29T23:46:00.005+01:00

underwater miyana
Originally uploaded by Technical Tina

So I've officially relocated.

It's weird. I think I'm still in denial. I landed here on Saturday and my time since has mostly been taken up with cooing over my brother's new daughter, seeing my friends and a translation job I stupidly took on as I'm now a student and should not turn my nose up at the chance of earning some money.

J is coming on Thursday. We've talked on the phone every day and chatted online when he's been at work (I have acquired our shared laptop for the time being), and I can't quite fathom that for the foreseable future I'll be missing him this much, all the time.

It is weird the way I miss him, it's nothing in particular, I just miss his company, his excited exclamations as he watches 24 whilst I work towards my first million neopoints.

And it's not that dreadful, heartburn-like kind of missing, I don't feel agitated, I just feel kind of lethargic. Like nothing's really that fun when he's not around.

But I know already that I have made the right decision. Even if it is years away, I can look forward to having an actual profession, where I can easily get an interesting job and possibly work from home in time.

And it is beautiful here. I am staying with my parents, and they are on holiday in Stockholm for the week with my youngest sister. The house is empty, except for me and the dog.

There were heat records all over the country this week. I wake up every morning in the sveltering heat, and on the large patio outside I have a view of the ocean, a ten minute walk and I am there, among screaming blonde children with impossibly golden tans, and teenagers who are slim and careless and do not, as a rule, carry knives.

Today, taking a break from the work, my friend dropped me off at the beach (I was too lazy and too hot to walk), and I spent over half an hour snorkelling and looking at the seaweed and tiny fish brought to life by the currents and the sunlight. It is almost as if the previous decade never happened, as if I have never been away. It is such a relief.

Then I walked back up the hill and spent some more time on the patio working, the temperature in the mid-twenties by then, completely perfect. I watched the sun go down across the rooftops just before midnight, and then migrated upstairs where I am now, the breeze reaching in through the skylight to dance with the strings hanging from the blinds in the bathroom across from me.

I cannot hear a single car. The air smells vaguely of barbecues and sea salt and pollen. It is where I belong. If J was with me, home would truly be where the heart is.

Aussie Tin Roof

2008-07-09T13:20:00.003+01:00

Aussie Tin Roof
Originally uploaded by sinoperture

Now I was going to go for a jog this morning in line with my recent healthy eating and weight loss scheme, but honestly.

It is absolutely pissing it down outside. And I am quite enjoying sitting here, listening to the rain hittingthe corrugated plastic roof on the outhouse.

So I am number 2 on the wait list to get a space at the university I want to go to, to become an Actual Psychologist.

It is not in the UK.

If I get in, and I should know whether I do by next week, I am leaving the country.

I have spent my whole adult life in the UK, and for better or worse, I do quite like some things, like the Guardian, the BBC and BOGOF offers in supermarkets.

If I do go home, it won't be easy. You can't just return somewhere after a decade and expect it to be the same.

My friends back home are ridiculously excited that I might be moving home. And so am I. I have been miserable for so long, missing them and my family.

The foremost worry thought in my mind now is that I don't in fact miss them, and I am therefore miserable; I am just miserable because I am.

And, of course, if I go, I will miss J. All the time. I know this. Anything more than 48 hours apart is a bit of a struggle. He will not come with me. He isn't ready to go. Maybe I am not ready for him to come either, maybe I need to settle in by myself while hoping he will eventually follow.

I don't know what percentage likelyhood I give to me still being J's Girlfriend a year from now, but I am hoping. He is the best boyfriend I will ever have, and I really want to be with him, build a life, have children, grow old together, feed him ice cream in bed over the Saturday paper (which sadly is unlikely to be the Guardian, but maybe we can have someone post it?).

Maybe it will be good for him to be on his own for a while, to help him learn to fend for himself and listen to what he really wants, to learn to ignore the voice of his mother in his head, and of me too.

He says that although he does not wish for me to go, he would feel better about us knowing that I am working towards achieving what I want, that I am surrounded by people who love me, that he is not holding me back.

But I have taken ownership of my actions. He is not holding me back. I am, if anything, using him as an excuse not to go home, because I feel I have nothing to show for the last decade of my life. No qualifications, maybe not even a life partner.

However my homing instinct is becoming overwhelming. It is like Tinnitus, it cannot be ignored except for by drowning it out with something louder, a sharper pain, and even then I know that it is still there.

It is still raining outside, the droplets have gotten larger, the whisper on the roof has crescendoed into a roar. I will not go for a jog. I will upload photos of J with his friends and Godchild from last weekend and ask myself, honestly, if I can justify wanting to remove him from them.

Grown men crying

2008-07-06T21:47:00.003+01:00

Rafa Nadal is the CHAMPION of Wimbledon 2008
Originally uploaded by BLOGARJONA

I don't mean Nadal himself, who is obviously not quite yet a man (he was crying like a baby, and combined with Federer looking noble but of course deeply tragic, the whole scene almost brought a tear to my eyes).

J, however, was really in tatters as Federer is is hero, and in the summer, the one man he "would sleep with if given the chance". In the winter this spot of honor is taken up by Mr S Gerrard, who is obviously not really available in the season of long, light evenings during which tennis thrillers hold the nation's attention to ransom.

Meanwhile, I've examined my life and decided I have to take ownership of my own situation. In other words, admit stuff to myself.

First and foremost, the reason I am not moving home to be closer to family and friends is that I really wanted to achieve something here in Britain. I don't feel I have done this, not really. I wanted to come home like the hero returning on a white horse in shining armor.. like Jeanne d'Arc, maybe. Not limping on a donkey (like JC, so come to think of it, riding in on a donkey might not be all bad). It has to do with status, I want to prove myself. It has nothing to do with J holding me here, it has to do with me feeling I am letting some unspecified entity (myself, mostly) down by coming home and not having "achieved".

Secondly, I choose to be with J, who does not want to get married, or have children, or buy a house (though in the current house market, neither do I). In other words, something deep inside me does not really want to do those things just yet either. If those were the most important things for me, I would leave him and find someone who can help me live up to those aspirations.

So, in short, I am living in the UK and being miserable because I am too proud to turn home without having anything to show for my ten years in the UK apart from a BA from a slightly dodgy ex-polytechnic, and I am unmarried and childless because I am too much of a coward to be attracted to someone who wants to change my status in these regards.

There you have it. I have some tough choices to make. Should I give up my extremely generous, Oxbridge-educated, crazily attractive though dysfunctional boyfriend and travel home with my head lifted, or should I grit my teeth and think of how much my life has changed over the last ten years, and how I still have time to achieve?

J is folding up his clothes and putting them away for the evening, and afterwards I know he will take out what he is wearing tomorrow from his overfilled chest of drawers, and put it on the dining table downstairs in order not to wake me as he gets up at 0720 to go to work. Then he will brush his teeth and crawl into bed and rub his recently-shaven cheek on my arm as I type and ask if I want a cuddle. And then, although Roger didn't get any, I might get some Rogering. Cheap joke, couldn't resist.

So maybe there is a third reason I am staying put. Maybe I really have something here which is too good to give up, prospective babies and engagements or none.

Happy

2008-07-04T17:25:00.000+01:00

I was writing up the resume of one of our patients today. In between him complaining of staff treating him badly, nothing being good enough etc. etc., his therapist had challenged him and asked him what he wanted staff to do for him, and how he wanted to be treated. He couldn't answer it.

one with the sea
Originally uploaded by Luis Montemayor

Now completely apart from the fact that I actually feel sorry for this guy despite him having done some completely horrible (and I mean horrible) things in his past, this got me thinking.

Maybe the reason I so often feel down is that I haven't really figured out what it is that makes me happy in life. Last night, I had a lengthy (therapy style) conversation with J about his mother and how she has shaped two of his most important core beliefs: That he is inadequate in personal relationships and that he is a bad person if he does not love his mother. I could write a whole separate post about that conversation, but in essence I asked him whom he wants to decide how he feels about himself, his mother or, well, he himself.

And in the car home today, as I was driving Westwards into the beautiful sunset after the end of my shift, Celine Dion in my lungs (yay Magic) and a cool draft from the Micra's window on my right arm, I thought that maybe the same is true for me.

I went into journalism because I was told from an early age that this would be a good profession for me to go into, because I am extroverted, good with language and fairly creative. But it didn't fulfil me. Then I went into psychology, because I guess I am interested in people's stories. And I am. I was chatting to another patient for quite a period of time this evening, and his life story interests me (sadly, I have to say, more than his outcome in this particular case). But my job does not fulfil me, and sometimes I fear that even if I manage to qualify as a psychologist at some point in the distant future, I will still feel the familiar restlessness.

I have come to the conclusion that for all my left-winged, Guardian-reading, bleeding-hearted socialist leanings, I don't want to work for a large public organisation. Been there, done that, and it simply doesn't suit me.

Partly the attraction of becoming a psychologist is that at some point I will be able to run my own practise, out of my own home, where I get to choose my clients and my hours and how I spend my day. I can schedule time to do morning pages when I feel like it, and although of course I will have a duty of care towards the people I deliver therapy to, this will not involve carrying a ridiculously large bunch of keys, hauling belongings in and out of store, or watching cockroaches scurry across the kitchen floors of entirely inappropriate for their use Victorian buildings.

Maybe I wouldn't be happier, but this is I think the life I would choose for myself.

J is twitching slightly as he does. I have given him a cellular blanket to sleep under, he keeps waking at like 0530 in the morning, and I was thinking it might be because he is too hot. My best friend tells me this really affects her baby boy twins. In case the cellular blanket is slightly cold, I have covered it with a red polkadotted fleece blanket I got for my birthday from his now-former not-quite-sister-in-law. He is so cute it's not even funny, his ear plugs protruding slightly from his ears below the Boots in-flight eye mask he wears cause our landlady is too stingy to put up curtain rails.

He is a manager now, though only acting. If only his team could see him as I see him. But I wouldn't want them to. J when he's asleep is mine and mine alone, I guess it is a sign of our intimacy that he falls asleep every night looking completely ridiculous but not caring. And without fail, about five minutes after settling down, me still playing Neopet games, his hand fumbles across the duvet to find mine, to stroke it quietly goodnight one last time. And this, I am certain, is one thing that definitely does make me just a little happier.

Disappearing From View

2008-07-03T18:54:00.000+01:00

Disappearing from View
Originally uploaded by Steve Stone

Because I have not been blogging for so long, I just had a look around and saw that most of the people whose blogs I used to read, with the notable exception of Daisy, have done a semi-disappearing act.

And maybe that's what's so attractive about blogging. You can bare your soul and then disappear, and it's as if everything you said disappears with you, as opposed to if you told your real-life friends, and they would still know.

Except of course, paradoxically, what you have said is all the more permanent because it is stored right there for you to see, online. People don't tend to delete their old blogs. I guess it would feel too much like burning a diary.

But even in real life, people don't just disappear. Last night I had a very weird dream about an ex-friend of mine (I am not sure why we are ex-friends, but he rejected me on Facebook so I guess we are), which involved a drowning car and his fiancee (very soon to be wife) wearing a hijab.

So I messaged him on Facebook this morning, and he replied almost instantly. We have not been in touch for about two years. And there he was, at my fingertips, almost close enough to touch. I guess things never really disappear. I find it strangely reassuring.

Last year, J and I went on holiday near where my gay ex lives, and I met up with him (again, arranged on Facebook, where we are friends). It was extremely reassuring. He used to be a nervous wreck, but he has really grown up, he has bought a flat and has a great job (much better than mine) and seemed so... happy. I think I don't ever want to see him again, just so I can hold that idea in my head that this is how he exists now.

Sometimes I think I have an unhealthy obsession with the past, that I should just let stuff go. But my brain has never been much for forgetting. Stuff sticks, from useless trivia to ridiculous relationships. And I kind of like it that way.

May appear closer

2008-07-02T10:10:00.001+01:00

Rain Washed カミラ-ちゃん ! (some months later...)
Originally uploaded by bananocrate

I once had a teacher to whom I told the story of how I was madly in love with one of my friends, but didn't know if I should tell him.

He told me: "When you are young, you don't appreciate this kind of closeness. You think, this is nice, but it'll keep happening. But it doesn't."

Of course, I didn't tell my friend until it was too late, and we never ended up together.

And now I realise that my teacher was completely right. I have met three people in my life that I would count as soul mates. And I don't think that's cause I use the term flippantly, I think I have just been lucky. J is not one of them. But I know that he is close enough.

With J it is different. I don't love him because he reads my mind. I love him because he is his own person, he is not me, he is not inside my head. And I feel really strongly about him. Almost four years in, I still love his smell, love burying my head in his chest in the morning when we are still half asleep and my eye mask protects my soft skin from his stubbly chin. This is something that should be cared for.

I let those three people above go, quite flippantly in some cases. I don't regret it, it just wasn't meant to be with either of them. But I have learnt my lesson. You will never meet someone who is the same, who fills the gap, who makes you into the person you want to be, that you used to be when you were with that other person, who completed you.

Meeting your soulmate and losing them means you will always be a little less of yourself, that a part will be missing.

But of course, like a brain, you grow, you develop, you adapt, until that missing part is still missing, but no longer of any consequence to yourself. This hurts. I would not recommend it to anyone.

And I am tired of this adaptation, having to scramble around for ways to build a bridge across to bits of yourself that are suddenly isolated on some kind of island in your personality, having to start afresh, looking for an uninjured part of yourself to offer to the next person, because everyone deserves to meet the part of someone who has not yet been mauled by someone else.

J has not had this. Sometimes I feel sorry for him because he hasn't had this, because he hasn't ever had a soulmate, because he hasn't lost anyone this way. Because if you haven't, it's difficult to know the level of regret and loss that can be felt in retrospect, even if you know it was the right thing, the only thing, to do at the time.

He says he sometimes thinks we are soulmates. What he means, I think, is that sometimes we have real intimacy, that we laugh at the same things, or with each other, that there are moments when we don't have to speak and we just melt into each other.

These things are all true. But I don't think he's my soulmate. Nothing would make me happier than if I give him that experience that other people have given me before, of being completely understood, completely accepted.

But the first time around, it is difficult to appreciate this. You think, in my teacher's words, that it'll keep happening. But it doesn't. However, J doesn't know this. Which is why I fear for our relationship.

Running for life

2008-06-30T00:50:00.001+01:00

racists
Originally uploaded by t. magnum

I did my first 5k run today. J was doing 10k, but I know my limitations and didn't go for that one. I have to say I felt it was a very wise decision as I waved at him doing the second lap of the course, having already finished. I took about 30 min and overtook at least four kids while running. An expensive jog, some might say, but it went to a very worthwhile charity so I felt good both on the inside and the outside afterwards.

I like doing things with J. We so rarely get the chance to do something together (although I realise that due to my lack of fitness we didn't actually run together..). After the race we went home, had some lunch and then went out to take photos. J is quite mystified by the settings on my camera, I have thought about it and might start him off on fully automatic settings next time.

He is asleep next to me at the moment, having given and received a back and legs massage to help recovery after the exertions earlier on. He really is the cutest, especially when, as now, he turns over on his back and splays his fingers out in front of him for no apparent reason. Maybe my typing actually disturbs him slightly.

I have been fighting today to stay positive. But I really do feel a lot more at peace, I have a feeling that things will turn out OK in the end. We went to see Prince Caspian in the cinema yesterday, and cheesy though it was, it served as a helpful reminder that maybe I fail to find peace because I have turned my back on God, or spirituality, or what you like to call it. It is difficult to live without faith. If only one believes, things usually fall into place, one way or another. So I shall go to sleep tonight and try to be at peace with myself, but not until I've said my prayers for something to happen to make it all OK.

Something to look forward to

2008-06-26T23:52:00.001+01:00

Messy Bed B&W
Originally uploaded by fostere3

I get to have a lie-in tomorrow. Even better, I get to have a lie-in with J! We are both going to give blood sort of mid-morning, he has taken the morning off and will work through the evening instead, as I will be at work then at any rate.

It will be my first time. I'm a bit apprehensive. Historically I have never been afraid of needles or injections, but I've had some bad experiences over the past few years; Hep B immunisations which really stung, the cancer scare and subsequent hospitalisation two years ago, and I had bloods taken at work for screening a few days ago, I still have a bruise and it really hurt. Call me a wimp, I am not looking forward to it.

Still, I really do feel I should give blood. Everyone should. It costs nothing and it could save a life. I don't know what my blood type is, if it is rare or common, but I will do my bit if I can, though I guess I am secretly hoping they'll say I'm aenemic or something so I can't do it.

I look forward to it at the same time. J will be there, and I know he will support me and be proud of me. I really like the idea of him being proud of me, probably psychologically to do with how I felt like my father has never been proud of me for any of my achievements. Coincidentally I think my father will also feel proud when I tell him, though he might not express it very well. And afterwards we can have a sugary drink together (which will probably totally ruin the healthy eating drive I am on) and maybe even a quick cuddle before I head off to work. It is lovely to have a boyfriend, sometimes.

Waiting for the train to come...

2008-06-26T01:02:00.001+01:00

Seagull waiting for a train at Cardiff Central
Originally uploaded by Rain Rabbit

People do strange things when waiting for the train. Some take the opportunity to do work, but most people appear to see it as some kind of little pocket of time in which they're entitled to stare into space, take account of their life and do absolutely nothing. In today's busy society I guess that is quite rare.

And because they have this little private break available, they do private things, like adjust their "very special but very private" (quote Technorati) parts, pick their ears, examine their iPods for ridiculously long periods of time, pick at invisible scabs on arms or hands, draw abstract art in the dust with their feet and so on. I love watching that, imagining what might be going on in their heads. If anything.

I was waiting for the train tonight after work, straddling my bike, helmet balancing on one handle and fiddling with my iPod in my pocket on the opposite side. The sun was just setting and the light was turning blue. A car pulled up on the car park behind me, casting my shadow across the empty tracks, throwing my life into relief; a woman behind a barbed wire fence, waiting for her train to come, waiting for something to happen.

A young black man pulled up on his bike behind me, I could tell there would be that tacit jostling for who would get to put their bike in the one bike space there always is on that particular train. I got there first and should in theory have first dips, or so the unwritten cyclist code states, I think. However some people will still try it on. He looked tired, was wearing a blue jacket and quite formal trousers, I was thinking maybe he too was coming from work.

A lot of the Africans I work with cannot for their lives understand why I want to cycle when I have a car available to drive (I hasten to add that this is not my car but J's which I am free to drive whenever I want; thus I can still virtuously say "I have never owned a car"). For some reason they just don't see the point. For them cycling and trains are modes of transport you use until you can afford to get a license and buy a BMW (most of them drive very flash cars considering their salaries). It's a matter of status, I think.

But I guess I feel the same about commuting as I do about life in general. It is so much nicer to get to work knowing you have spared the environment, toned your thighs, produced the vitamin D you need for the day and had time to relax and read the paper. Who wants to be stuck on the motorway if they don't have to?! The cycle to work if I don't get the train is just over an hour and I only do it for special occasions, but the train / bike combo is perfect.

And after a stressful shift nothing is better than freewheeling down the hill with the wind in my hair. Or at least the few tufts that stick out behind my helmet.

When I fulfill my dream of having a baby with J, I shall probably be driving more, at least for a few years. But until then, I see no reason to stop waiting for the train and start waiting for red lights to change.

Dance me to the end of love

2008-06-24T23:43:00.001+01:00

Table Dancers Project
Originally uploaded by Jameel K

J was away all of last weekend on a stag do which was essentially a lap dancing club crawl through Prague, only punctuated by some heavy drinking and bruise inducing paintballing.

It was J's virgin time at any kind of nude sex worker venue, and quite intriguing for him I think. He said he found it arousing to begin with, but that it grew a bit old after a while. Or in the words of one of my colleagues, "I'm sorry, but the sex workers in Prague just aren't that attractive." Do I believe him?

The bride to be of course knows nothing about this. I find it quite satisfying that I always end up knowing these things about stag dos etc. that the other girls don't. I don't know why they find it so upsetting. If a man is gonna stray, he will, and there's not much you can do about it. OK and there's the feminist argument but I can't do with entering into that at the moment.

It's not that late but it is a little. J is already asleep next to me, eyemask on and earplugs in. It's a necessity when one a) lives near a heavily trafficked road (where the hell are all these people going who drive around really fast at, like, 0330 in the morning on a Sunday) and b) one is flat sharing with people who decidedly don't have party bladders. Also, when we cuddle in the morning, I put my eye mask on my forehead to protect me from his stubbly chin. Very useful, I tell you. He is very cute right now, and his feet are occasionally twitching in that adorable way which occasionally keeps me awake and probably means he's dreaming about football.

For me, the lap dancing extravaganza (to the tune of about GBP500 I believe; all the other participants are bankers in the city) worked to remind me that first of all, J can find other people attractive. He's both very unobservant and also very polite so never looks at other women when we are in public. I'm telling you he's the one. Secondly, I was reminded that other people could find him attractive.. He was telling me about this dancer being all over him, and although it is her job, it was a useful hint that, you know, he is a lot more attractive than the average British male, not to mention than the average sleaze bar customer. OK so they're not all hideous but from my personal visits to such venues I have been less than impressed.

Which, all in all, made me quite jealous, actually. Of course this lead to me being ridiculously horny for days on end, but poor thing, I forced him to intercourse when he returned having slept about four hours all weekend, and this evening he just begged to be let off the hook.

He is fast asleep now, his leg periodically twitching and his thumb stroking the duvet cover (it's my white sateen one, which he particularly likes), probably thinking it's either slinky underwear on a stripper or my tummy, which he often gives a very similar treatment. It's nice to be jealous sometimes, it reminds me that I should never take him for granted.

Oh, and of course he claims he didn't have any private dances.. Yeah, what ever.

Swimming

2008-06-23T12:22:00.000+01:00

Life always seems better after a good swim. Today I am going back to work for the first time in about three weeks, I have been off on holiday with J and also went home to see my parents for a very rushed long weekend.

I really don't feel like going to work. I sense that I'll have a nervous breakdown if I don't succeed in finding a new job soon. I went as far as to turn to religion, while we were on holiday I went into one of the many magnificent cathedrals we visited and prayed sincerely for some direction. I put my fate in the hands of God, and said that I trusted that the path I am on is leading somewhere with meaning, that I am walking down this road full of clinically irritating psychopaths and megalomaniac managers for a reason. And I do kind of trust that life doesn't throw something at you that you can't handle. I felt better afterwards. Not like I saw the light or anything, but God or no God, I guess it is a way of cognitively rationalising life to oneself.

And I know that once I'm at work it will probably be so busy that I won't have time to think of how I'm wasting my talents walking around with a bunch of keys letting what is essentially spoilt brats into the laundry room and the patients property store every five minutes.

It is a lovely day today, nice and cool, a bit of sun, the water was very warm at one end of the pool, so I'm guessing the morning sun came in that way through one of the large windows. There are kids everywhere, I guess universities and colleges must have closed up shop for the summer, though the elementary school nearby is still going strong, I can hear kids playing through an open back door, and if I close my eyes I can almost imagine that they are on a beach, that the distant hum of traffic is the ocean.

So will God show me the meaning of all this? I am not sure. But I am waiting.

So if I felt more sorry for myself I'd get published...

2008-06-22T10:45:00.000+01:00

Juno. See, good. Not miserable.

J and I were discussing last week the merit of suffering in art.

We were watching the football (always fertile ground for discussions, especially since J, wishing to pay attention to the screen, tries to be as brief as possible in his debate, rather than going by his usual mantra "why use one word when ten will do"). Russia were winning which of course forced me to go on at length about what it is about the Russian people that makes them put up with God knows what amount of human rights abuses, corruption and an extremely badly dressed former KGB president.

Not to mention why they are intent on having their own facebook, their own blog platforms etc. etc.

Having exhausted these usual areas of exasperation, I went on to say that they seem to have some kind of suffering fetish as well. According to J's mum, Russians are so used to pain that it has become a way of life for them. OK, so the Soviet Union was quite harsh with Gulags, the aforementioned KGB etc. etc., but now they supposedly have a democracy and they are all just squandering it away by allowing the Duma's powers to be ever reduced and allowing the country's considerable natural resources line the pockets of the ridiculously rich whilst many still struggle to feed themselves and put a roof over their heads. The solution? Pander to racist nationalism and take it out on the "foreigners" whom were up until recently not foreign at all, but fellow Soviets, voluntarily or otherwise. Why do people put up with it? Are they scared, or do they simply not care?

Anyway, the discussion, punctured by Sweden's abysmal performance on the pitch, wound onto J arguing that at least Russia has punched above its weight in terms of science (yes, they did go to space..) and the arts (the Bolshoi are very good, I have to admit, they brought a tear to my eye several times and I don't even know anything about ballet whatsoever), maybe partly because of the pain.

"But would you argue that you can describe the complete spectrum of the human condition if you haven't ever been completely miserable," J asked.

I'm sorry. Oh purrlease. Suffering makes good art, you say? That's completely ridiculous.

Firstly, the "greatest", by which I mean most publicly reveered high art and literature, rarely comes from those whom I assume suffer the most, ie. those living under extremely deprived conditions, the underprivileged and undereducated.

No, it comes mostly from well educated self-indulgent people who sit around on their arse and have time to feel extremely sorry for themselves. It is so easy to create "art" from suffering.

Pain is an easy feeling to describe and to evoke in the recipient of the art piece. Just look around the internet, every second blog is written by someone who is a self-professed and most likely self-diagnosed depressive, or someone very angry, or just downright world hating. You hardly ever see any happy blogs.

Writing on the subject of happiness is seen as the domain of the self-help manual and dodgy self-improvement literature. But it's not. These books don't describe happines, they make a stab (usually in the dark) at describing how to attain it. And why? Because happiness is "boring". But how can we argue that happiness is boring? If it is, why do we all crave it?

I love nothing more than watching a good film which leaves me feeling uplifted and have faith in life. So why don't people create happy art more often? Because it's fucking hard, that's why. It is easy to depress your readers, it is nigh on impossible to lift their spirits (partly because they're miserable old buggers but that's a different matter).

So suffering makes great art? What-evvah. People write based on suffering because it's so hard to make happines materialise on the page or on canvas. And because it is so easy to make one self miserable, but so difficult to attain happiness. If it was easy, wouldn't we all just put art theory into practise and make ourselves happy?

What a night can change

2008-06-21T10:37:00.000+01:00

Photo by Losiek

It is raining outside today. Water droplets are lined up along the clothes wire outside like a pearl necklace on the blue nylon string. I was up until 0330 last night, doing nothing in particular, just enjoying being home alone and downloading sentimental crap from Limewire. At the very same time, unbenknownst to myself, my brother's girlfriend's waters broke.

He sent me a picture from his phone and called me at around 530 this morning. Everything went well, apparently. She started having strong contractions around 1900 last night, and they put some towels on the bed underneath her at home around 0230 in the morning, and then her waters broke a little later. They dashed off to hospital, only about a 10 minute drive from our house, in his brand new second hand estate car which he has bought for the occasion.

He said he had stayed with her almost the whole time, but that during the last pushing phase he had to step outside for a moment to gather himself. "There is just absolutely nothing you can do," he said on the phone, almost at a loss still. "And of course, to know that it is partly your fault that she is in so much pain." But needless to say, it was all worth it in the end. She was very brave and their baby girl and mother alike are both doing well and healthy. I will be calling my parents shortly. For the first time in weeks I felt very happy as I drifted back into sleep this morning, I felt strongly that I love my brother and as an extension of wanting to protect him, I also want to care for and protect his baby girl. It is a lovely feeling.

2008-06-20T20:17:00.001+01:00

I was lying in the bath today, the bath curtains rustling out of the open window like a lover turning over in bed, still asleep, next to me. J is away on a stag do, which originally was meant to involve paintballing and lap dancing, but now has been cut down to only the paintballing, as apparently some of the guests complained about the costs.. Nothing to do with their partners complaining about the lap dancing, I'm sure.

I am alone in the house for once. Neurotic Flatmate II is off on holiday with her beloved mother, whilst her boyfriend (unofficial fourth flatmate of the house) is in the city of the university where he is purporting to be finishing off his PhD. He actually rang me today. A lovely chap he is, though unfortunately completely unattractive. So we are the four of us, J and Neurotic Flatmate II who are both linguists, and PhD and I who are both slaving away in very low paid jobs. The difference being, of course, that he has a bright future ahead of him in the oil industry, whilst I have a bright future ahead of me somewhere, though people fail to specify when I put them on the spot about it.

But back to the juicy lap dancers. Personally I wouldn't have minded J going. OK, so the thought of J fondling or kissing someone else drives me mad with jealousy, but to be honest, what I don't know can't hurt me. I would be hypocritical if I said that the thought of kissing someone else than him has never crossed my mind. I did tell him strictly no sex with Eastern European prostitutes, though. He said that was OK, and somehow I believe him. We are talking here of a man who has never been to a strip club. Even the one other time when he was offered a visit (another stag do, you will not be surprised to hear), he opted not to go and went to watch the rugby in a nearby bar instead. I am not making this up. Sometimes I really think my boyfriend might be gay. But of course he is not, or I would have known. I think.

It is hard to define exactly how I feel at the moment. I have been trying to listen to myself more, maybe the reason I find myself miserable so much of the time is that I never really stop to pay attention to what is actually going on in the present. I have always lived half with an eye on the horizon. But every time I stop to take stock, I find that I don't really know what I feel, except for anxious and this seething kind of impatience. I can't explain it, it feels like being hungry, though the feeling is not dampened by eating, which I've tried in the past but am now no longer trying, as I have decided I need to stop the excessive cheese eating which started during a recent holiday to France, and start eating... well, something else.

I have not blogged for a long time. I have not had the time nor energy. But maybe I should take the time to do so. I think it's good for me. Now where were those chocolate bisquits again...

Nine months passes fast

2007-11-03T00:16:00.000Z

I just realised how long it has been since I posted anything here. Ridiculously long. My best friend had a baby. She had, in fact, two. They were very premature and she almost died, there was a lot of drama, which I probably didn't appreciate the severity of since I was over here and she was over there. I've been to see the babies, they are both beautiful and she's coping admirably alongside her fiance. Her tits were out for most of our visit there, but hey, who doesn't like tits.

We've moved house too, now sharing with another couple, both of whom I suspect are teetering on the brink of clinical depression. They're both lovely though. I think he might have Aspergers, as he interprets all jokes and comments literally, but that's just endearing.

The only non-depressed person in the house, actually, is J. Yes, it's true. He's thriving in the job that almost gave him a nervous breakdown when he first started it, he's doing really well with his therapy, and I'll be damned if he's not making little baby steps towards actual commitment.

Oh, and I've changed careers too, which has been harder, more demoralising and more like real work than anything I've ever done before. I guess I'm going through a small late-twenties life crisis; I lack direction for the first time in my life and it's not easy. What do I want? A fabulous career and lovely holidays (J and I just went away for a very long time to someplace very romantic) or settling down with oversized mortgage and children?

I think I do want kids. But sometimes I start questioning whether I just think I want them cause everyone else has them and it looks fun. In fact, what are the valid reasons for having kids? Something missing in my life? Wanting to give something back to someone; paying it forwards at the same time? Wanting something to anchor me? Or, shock horror, wanting someone to pursue the dreams I myself left by the wayside? In fact, the world being as it is today, are there really any valid reasons for wanting to bring kids into it at all??

Oh, I know. As my newly maternal friend says; it's a phase, it'll pass. Tell yourself that, take one day at a time, force yourself out of the house. And what am I whingeing about... J has even agreed to shave regularly cause I like soft skin. If that's not a reason to be pleased about life, I don't know what is.

Bonus Technorati tag: [tagname]
>

My best friend is pregnant

2007-03-12T20:08:00.000Z

...and I'm so pleased for her! She called me for something that I just thought was one of our regular chats. ]

Who are you by bie

Fortunately I didn't start unburdening the latest "Me & J" antics when she asked how I was (like I did when she called to say she got engaged), but it wasn't until I said "so how is your trying out for a baby going" that she told me.

It's weird, it's almost like I have to get used to being pregnant myself, and probably it is as close as I'll get for a few years yet.

I feel a little sad that I'm not in the same situation. Out of my friends, she is probably the luckiest in terms of men; she's managed to turn her taste around completely and find someone who's both stable and supporting.

Although we were never the kinds of girls who dreamed of getting married and having babies as we grew up, I guess in our minds we always imagined we would be doing those things together.

As we don't even live in the same country at the moment, there would I guess be no real together about it even if we were moving at the same pace in our personal lives, but at the same time I wish we could share the excitement, the stories, the morning sickness on a more intimate level than just her tellin me over the phone while I'm meant to be working.

I'm not saying that she is the reason I want to settle down, it's just that I feel acutely that being in completely different life stages from your friends is quite lonely in a way.

I'm seeing my friend in a few weeks, at Easter, and I can't wait to hug her and tell her in person how pleased I am for her. Her timing has been impeccable; this way she'll have time to have the baby and lose the baby fat, all in time for the last dress fitting before her wedding!

Meanwhile I'll call our other friend who has a depressive husband and discuss the potential effect of paternal post-natal depression on babies to hammer home to myself that dipping my finger in a used condom would be a very bad idea.

Bonus Technorati tag: pregnancy

Learn to be still

2007-03-06T17:58:00.000Z

I've talked a lot lately about being still.

physalis by Wild*Dreams

As I've said, I've never been very good at it.

I've always preferred rivers and oceans to lakes. Even though the ocean is not "going anywhere" as such, it's always doing something, its waves are relentless, it eats fishermen and will grind away at beach rocks until they're shiny pebbles and fine sand. I like that. Lakes; they just sort of sit there. And they're not as nice to swim in.

Since I stopped nagging J about getting a house, I've been feeling uneasy. He has kept asking me if anything is wrong, but, unusually for me, I've been unable to articulate what's been bothering me. We've settled for cuddles, as they seem to comfort us both for the time being.

Today when I woke, I really didn't want to get out of bed. I felt bloated, my legs were heavy and my mind syrupy.

Fortunately, the PlayStation was beckoning in the front room, I wouldn't allow myself to play without doing something "useful" first. I got up, did some grooming.

As I was operating out an ingrown hair on my bikini line, I realised that the reason I feel so uneasy is that I feel that by stopping my work towards settling down (with or without J), I've simply stopped going places. I feel uneasy because I'm still.

And there's really nothing wrong with my life. I have people I miss, yes, but I am also surrounded by a group of rather agreeable friends. I have J, and I love him. It even looks as if the work situation has sorted itself out (through a lot of hard effort from my place, I hasten to add). It is spring.

Yes, it annoys me that I can't paint our walls in a colour I like, but in the big scheme of things, I shouldn't let it matter so much that I'm not in what I imagine would be an ideal place.

And when I got used to that idea, I really felt a lot better. I had a lovely breakfast with myself outside in the sun.

Last night I had a longish chat to my ex-boyfriend's dad (yes, odd, I know; but I'm like the daughter he never had) about this job interview I have coming up that I'm extremely nervous about.

"If you're meant to get that job, you'll get it," he said. "Remember, a bit of nerves is what you need for maximum performance." It made me feel better.

I'll try to hold onto this feeling, that really my life isn't so bad, even when it's standing still.

Bonus Technorati tag: still

Win some, lose some

2007-03-04T18:15:00.000Z

A side effect of SSRIs, as we all know, is delayed ejaculation. So quite often these days, I get a shag that goes on for as long as I please, as he has no problem getting hard, I cum like nothing else -but he doesn't.

geest banana by edwardolive

I mentioned in the previous post that I'm getting laid more often. It's weird, you'd think that if J can't cum, he'd be less interested in sex, but in fact the opposite seems to be the case.

After experimenting a couple of times, we have figured out that it's simply harder for him to orgasm, no matter how horny he is. He can be rock hard and throbbing, with me administering a blowjob (his favourite way of cumming - surprise, surprise), but he can't actually cum. He can usually tell if it's on or not.

I guess what has happened is that since he only gets actual relief once or maybe twice a week, he stands to attention for nothing at all.

We've been kissing a lot lately, he seems to be all over me and rubbing his constant hard-on against my bum as soon as I turn my back. I have to say I relish the attention.

Yesterday morning, we'd snuggled in bed for ages, and decided to finally get up. I rolled over him in bed to grab something from the floor on his side, and he grabbed me and kissed me, and then we were at it.

He was groaning as he thrust his tongue hungrily into my mouth, and I felt his half-hearted morning wood grow to a decidedly full-hearted one against my stomach, his slippery pre-cum like glue between our bellies.

"Let me lick you," he begged between snogs. And who was I to say no, despite the Playstation beckoning in the front room... I sat on his face, him grabbing my ass to push his tongue deep into me.

I leaned back and grabbed his cock; he bucked against my hand and I was quite amazed at how hard he was. As I rubbed him harder and faster, his licking got more intense as my juices wet his face.

I turned around and slipped a condom on him, and he fucked me hard, first with me on top, then from behind. He was so huge he had to hold back not to hurt me. But he couldn't cum. "Tell me when it's enough," he whispered in my ear.

As I rolled onto my back, exhausted, he peeled the condom off his still-throbbing manhood.

So it was hardly a surprise this morning when he grabbed me for round two, just as I was leaving to jump on the bus to work, of course... I ended up having to drive, and still being a little late. But as I sucked every drop of cum out of his cock, him grabbing my head and thrusting into me, I decided it was a lot better than getting soaked outside by the rain.

It's strange to see how the dynamic of our relationship has changed just because of the antidepressants -and he's still quite depressed! Watch this space for further adventures when they actually start affecting his mood...

PS! I apologise for the fact that all of my headlines are Robbie Williams inspired at the moment; best not to ask.

Bonus Technorati tag: SSRI

Overdose at Christmas, give it up for lent..

2007-03-04T17:51:00.000Z

Are you a good Christian? I'm certainly not, but I do like giving something up for lent. Who knows, maybe God is up there somewhere and will help my personal growth especially during this period as I hope and pray.

Lemon and Sugar by The Department

At Christmas, I vowed that it would be the last year I celebrated the holidays in a rented apartment.

Since then, I've obviously been busy convincing J that buying a house is a good idea. Doing a quick blogsearch on "house", you'll see that I've been quite obsessed with the idea.

It's for a lot of reasons, mainly

I want my own house

and

I want commitment

Obviously there's the economic aspect as well, but you know, J's Girlfriend has never been to good about the whole money thing. She leaves that to J, which seems to work well, as she's hardly ever broke anymore.

Anyway. To make a long and tragic story short, the nagging hasn't gotten me anywhere. After the big bust-up last week, I decided that for lent this year, I'm going to stop nagging J.

I've stopped asking if he loves me, stopped asking if/when we can buy somewhere to live together.

And it's worked wonders. We're much happier, we haven't argued since, and we've had sex two days in a row, initiated by him.

This could of course also be partly due to his antidepressants kicking in; both the happier him, less irritable, and the "raised" libido.

This is a bit worrying, I realise, as he's clearly happier in a relationship which is all about the blowjobs and romance, and less about the practicalities.

But, of course, lent is only on until Easter. So we shall see then.

Bonus Technorati tag: lent

Love saves the day

2007-02-25T14:31:00.000Z

Mantjiesfontein hotel bedroom by Wildebeast1

It's been a rough few weeks chez J's girlfriend & reluctant boyfriend.

At first there was the almost-breakup, then I was sick all of last week (the week *before* the release of Final Fantasy XII, oh cruel world!!!).

And because I was feeling tired and vulnerable, I couldn't help but fall into a second run-in with my loved one, who admitted to my relentless nagging that no, he doesn't feel ready to get a joint mortgage after all (before Christmas there were encouraging noises).

There was more crying and me saying I was fed up with everything, which of course led to the standard J clinging to me and saying everything is going to be fine. Have your cake and eat it...

At any rate, I decided post-tears that what we needed was some romance, to relax and spend my precious day off together, alone somewhere.

We settled on London, and I booked a hotel the next day (very nice, posh hotel as J of course woudn't hear of bill sharing) and on Friday evening we were on our way.

On the way, we had some lovely food on Edgware Road in little Beirut; my God how I miss living in central London sometimes.

We bought some magazines and a paper, and spent the rest of the evening naked in bed, reading to each other and him giving me foot rubs etc.

Due to his antidepressants there wasn't much in the way of sex, but it was an absolutely lovely evening. The hotel was really nice, homely and luxurious at the same time.

We spent the Saturday walking in Kensington Gardens between showers, nipping in and out of shops (buying nothing) and went out to eat and to the cinema, like a real couple.

I know that when I say "real" I mean "new". It's so easy for romance to slip between your fingers when you have no time, or energy, to just be, when everything has to be tied up to career, money, plans.

But both J and I really love this kind of thing, to take time out. He told me that although he might feel worse again back at work, I'd made him feel so much better by going away with him.

And these things, the fact that it's so good when it's good, is what makes me hang on in there. I've always been a better mistress than girlfriend; when things are special occasion and romantic I'm at my best. I like to wear dresses, to walk around swanky hotel rooms in the buff. When I have to nag to get my way or make actual plans, I easily get impatient when things don't work out to time.

So yes, things haven't been resolved overnight. But we're still together.

Now if you'll excuse me while I ignore my boyfriend and turn to the PlayStation for the next 180+ hours...

Bonus Technorati tag: hotel ::
London

The bi-monthly near-breakup

2007-02-18T02:08:00.000Z

It's the best TV show. No ifs and buts about it... And ASH is hot. Don't give me that British Nescafe crap

I Love Buffy. No, really. You wouldn't think it... well, yes, you probably would since I'm pretty much a self-confessed geek.

This song describes spot on exactly how I feel about J. No, not the "wish I could play the father" part, as I don't in any way want to play J's parent (it would be especially sick considering how badly I get on with his mum).

No, I mean the part where you so desperately wish you could help someone feel better, but really you know deep inside that you're just in their way; you have a sneaking suspicion they might be better off without you.

The bust-up came on 15 Feb, after a range of minor hiccups on 14 and the fact that we've barely seen each other since Christmas due to our work hours. Ironic, I know, given that we actually both work in the same building and live in the same house.

The bust-up was the same as always:

I say "I don't feel our relationship is going very well." He agrees
I ask for how much longer I have to put my life on hold (house, kids etc.). He says he doesn't know.
I ask if I should just leave, and he says he thought we agreed that we wouldn't decide until after X event (differs as the deadline obviously keeps shifting).
I ask why, when he evidently doesn't find me attractive anymore (he says he's not very interested in sex at the moment; this often preceeds the bust-up) and he seems distant and not interested in talking to me. He says he's trying, and that it's all his fault.
I say that it can't be all his fault and that there must be something I can do. He says I don't mean that and we both know I'm a perfectly nice girlfriend to have.
I push him on explaining how he feels. He shuts down (sometimes cries).
I start crying. He immediately feels awful and tells me how much he wants us to stay together.
We make a plan to improve things; usually to spend more quality time together, have more sex, go to bed earlier and do more stuff.
Row over.

It's strenuous. And possibly pointless, since we keep doing it (we only properly broke up once, for about five minutes). But maybe it serves a function.

Today I woke with a horribly sore throat; J brought me a warm drink in bed and offered to go into work in my place (which I graciously declined). He came to bed to give me a cuddle, sporting a raging hard-on (which my throat was too sore to take advantage of; I know, the PAIN!! The WASTE!!).

And he kept talking about how nice it was outside today (which obviously I didn't see since I was in bed the whole time), so maybe the anti-depressants are kicking in.

Maybe there is hope.

If not, there's always the next row in a couple of months time.

Bonus Technorati tag: Buffy

Lifesaver

2007-02-12T02:32:00.000Z

By jimmytofu

What I need, is a lifesaver. Although according to my counsellor, I should be my own lifesaver.

I mean, am I really meant to stand on my own? I checked at the age of 19 that I was capable of that (by moving abroad, learning a new language from scratch and generally spending all my time alone for the best part of six months) and since then I haven't bothered trying.

We are sociable animals, and I don't see why I should have to stand on my own.

Except I kind of do. I realise fully that the reason I'm always so restless is that I have no peace within myself. And, of course, that I haven't had a day off for over two weeks, which would probably make a Buddhist monk lose their inner calm. But anyway.

I have thought and thought about this over the last week; I have tried to take moments out to be aware of myself, and to listen to myself. It's been hard to stop my mind from racing. Often when I'm overworked I go into a sort of hypomania, miraculously surviving on 5 hrs sleep per night.

Metal Babble asked about passion. I discussed this too with my counsellor.

I've never felt passionate in life, apart from about men (and boy, have I loved some wonderful/awful people with every fibre in my body).

Why this is I don't know. I've always been envious of people like J, who can spend all day in front of the TV watching rugby¹, or people who can tell you the name of every obscure Iranian politician because they care, or simply people who *really* love knitting (I like knitting but I prefer to watch TV at the same time).

Maybe it's a lack of confidence; better to have not loved and not lost? But if that was the case surely I'd also apply that to my love life, and I most certainly have not.

I have always dreamed about becoming a writer, but I've never actually felt passionate enough about something to sustain my interest to write about it for long. I write excellent sketches but I would struggle to write a well-formed short-story.

Or maybe what I could have been passionate about was stamped out in early life. I could have been a typical girly girl I think; I loved horses and ballet, or rather the idea of it. I wasn't able to pursue either as my parents didn't have any money. I'm not bitter about it. But sometimes I wonder.

And I think that Metal Babble is right; it's passion that keeps us going, passion is a life saver and a compass all in one. I feel passionate about my boyfriend, and about my friends. And about writing. So maybe I should do a dance class, or a creative writing course with the Open University.

When I have a day off, that is.

But then, of course, I'd be violating my counsellor's advice to "do nothing".

It's all very tricky at the moment.

Bonus Technorati tag: lifesaver

¹Although he did take time out to shag me between the two games on Saturday; and I have to say I've not experienced him that horny since the early days of our relationship. Despite his football team losing! I'm a bit worried that it was all the watching of men apparently trying to dry hump each other on a pitch that had turned him on..?! But never mind, the sex was great so I'm not gonna complain, am I!

Music and lyrics

2007-02-10T03:44:00.000Z

I really seem to be in the philosophical corner these days; what's with that??! At any rate, Metal Babble suggested the follwing exercise when I was complaining about being ordered to find myself:

Maybe I just need some music to go with my lyrics

"Try to picture your life without everything that you consider relevant at this point in your life - What do you see...? what can you live with our without?"

Right. So, at the moment what seems relevant for me is to find a new full-time job for when I leave my present one (which keeps getting put off because I'm apparently just that invaluable, but that's a whole different story).

And then there's J. I really need to sort stuff out with him. But there is no incentive to do so since everything is going along just nicely, OK so he doesn't love me, but he took me to see Music and Lyrics today, which surely must be a sign that he's willing to sacrifice his sanity for my pleasure for 90 min.

If I wasn't looking for a job, and it wasn't for J... I'd be the same person. But I'd move home to be closer to my family and other friends, no doubt about it.

I don't know what keeps me from moving home.. I see, through a glass, darkly, that I want to become a psychologist for a few reasons I don't like thinking about.

I keep telling myself it's because I want to make sure I have an interesting job when I get home. Which is part of it. But I also like the thought of adding "Dr" to my name (I'd be the first in my family ever to do so), and the money, the prestige, the security.

I've always pretended not to be interested in any of those things, and on a personal level I do truly think that recognition and attention is more important to me than money. But money and status is no bad thing either, I guess.

Part of me wants to be able to show "people", whoever they are, that I arrived, that I could make it. I realise that many people around the country would be more than happy to step into the job that I have now, but for some reason it's not good enough for me. I am also well and truly bored, as I keep saying to people, but that's only a part of it.

None of this explains, though, why I don't ever spend any time "doing nothing" by myself, as suggested by my counsellor (sitting in the park looking at nature apparently counts as "doing something", MB! I know, odd). I guess I feel slightly ashamed of the reasons for pursuing the stuff I pursue, and therefore it's better to pursue it actively and at all times so I don't have to examine the reasons why.

Now how profound is that for a Friday night blog post. I'll discuss it with my counsellor and report right back to you...

Bonus Technorati tag: life

Now you see me... :: Part one

2007-02-09T04:45:00.000Z

I was visiting my friend A in London. It was one of those ridiculously hot days, where nobody knows what to do with themselves in the city, far away from beaches and cooler countryside; where people pass out on the tube and the dogs of the homeless pant on the street corners.

See view by johnyblaze

Two weeks ago, I had dumped my long-term boyfriend. I hadn't really loved him anyway, but breaking up always means upheaval. A was sympathetic. "Nothing gets you over the previous one like the next one," she said, and talked me into staying with her for a week. She also knew that I wasn't very good at going without my daily shag, and that I might end up falling into my ex's bed if we were too close to each other as I hit sex withdrawal.

It turned out to have been a good move. My tiny flat would have been a killer in the heat, but A, who had made some financially sound career moves in her life, now lived in a top floor mansion flat overlooking Hyde Park.

The morning after I had struggled with my suitcase to her doorstep (where it was immediately taken over by a rather snotty doorman who clearly thought I was out of place in the establishment), I woke with a blasting headache. My room was already suffocatingly hot. I opened the window, leaving the curtains closed, and still half asleep, I grabbed for my little black bikini top and a mini skirt in my suitcase, dying to get outside.

Part of losing a boyfriend also means losing other stuff. I'd lost at least five pounds in just two weeks, and had also lost all my body hair save for a tiny landing strip. I'm sure the beautician must have known I was a newly single person, as I had asked for just about every treatment in her book. The weight loss had paid off as well, as the roundness of my bum looked fantastically bouncy and my stomach looked toned and tanned.

I threw the french doors open in the lounge, and to my relief, I could feel a cool breeze from the park stroking my body. I grabbed a glass of ice water (A of course has an American-style fridge with an ice cube maker) and positioned myself on one of the chairs on the tiny balcony outside.

Above me, the sun was almost directly overhead, and despite a little parasol in the corner, the wood was shockingly hot as I sat down on it. I leaned back and felt the warm seat press against my bum. I could hear the cars down on the street, but not see them, the treetops looking almost like an ocean in front of me.

As I rubbed suntan lotion on my smooth legs, I tried to ignore how much I was longing for someone to do it for me. I hadn't been touched by a guy for over two weeks, which was pretty much a personal record in the last decade. How was it that all my fuckfriends had gotten married all of a sudden? I thought about my last encounter with one of them, M, five years ago; his delicious, smooth cock and washboard midriff. I didn't even know where he was anymore; what a shame.

I looked across to all the other balconies; there was nobody there. The sad thing about having a fat flat in London is that more likely than not you'll be working so much to afford it that you will hardly ever spend any time in it. But good for me.

As I worked the suntan lotion up my thighs, I felt myself moisten at the touch. I love wearing no underwear. I managed to avoid touching myself, and worked across my belly instead. As I felt my hand brush against my bikini'ed breasts, however, I couldn't resist slipping a hand inside the tiny black piece of fabric covering the left one. My nipple, despite the heat, was already hardening, a process speeded up by my slippery fingers.

I closed my eyes and thought of M again, and almost without noticing, my other hand was moving towards my swelling crotch. I slipped it inside my bikini bottoms, and let out a little moan as I touched the lips. I couldn't believe how wet I was already.

Bringing the second hand down to stroke my clit, hard like an uncooked pea between the soft folds of flesh, I also put a finger in my mouth, remembering how M's cock used to taste when I sucked him after he had been inside me.

I wanted more than just my hand; my pussy was screaming to be filled. It was hard to stop stroking myself, but I halted and got up from the chair to get my vibrator from the suitcase.

Continued...

Bonus Technorati tags: voyeur :: exhibitionist

Now you see me... :: Part two

2007-02-09T02:33:00.000Z

Back to Part one

I kept rubbing my wet crack as I went inside to get the vibrator, another recent purchase. It was a gift from my girlfriends to keep me company since splitting up with my boyfriend, as the old one reminded me too much of him and had to be binned.

Despite the colour, it was shaped like a sizeable cock, smooth and veiny, and from being in my hot room it was almost as warm as the real thing. I hurried back outside and repositioned me on the chair, one leg resting on the table.

It was then I saw him. Two balconies further over, a guy had appeared since I went inside to get my "friend". He was wearing speedos, and was leaning back on his chair on top of a towel, sunglasses on and reading the paper, a cold pint sitting on the table next to him. Damn. I was so horny my pussy was about to explode, and here was someone ruining my plan. It was way too hot to go inside again, too. What to do?

I positioned myself sideways on the chair, and put my hand inconspicuously in my lap, my middle finger frantically pressing on my clit through my now soaking wet panties. Dropping the vibrator to the floor behind me as discreetly as i could, I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. Even with so little stimulation, I could feel a climax building, and desperately wanted to push the lovely hot vibrator to my longing cunt. I bit my lip to avoid moaning, rubbing my clit hard and fast.

Suddenly, there was a rustle. I jumped, and immediately stopped rubbing. Had he seen what I was doing? I looked over. No. He had fallen asleep! His head was leaning back towards the wall, his arm hanging limp by his side. What I'd heard was the paper falling, it was now fluttering in pieces to the street below. I noticed now that the paper was gone that he was not at all bad-looking. He was so tanned he couldn't possibly be British, and toned too, a towel draped over the second balcony chair indicated that he may have been swimming somewhere.

What luck! With lighting speed, I grabbed the vibrator and turned it on. My pussy juices covered it as I pulled my panties to the side and rubbed it on my longing clit, closing my eyes again. I realised that having the man over there, even though he was asleep, was turning me on even more. Part of me wanted him to se me, legs spread with the huge cock toy rubbing on my swollen, shaven pussy. I wanted to make him hard, to rub his own cock watching me.

I closed my eyes again, the vibrations made my pussy tight and hot, I could feel sweat trickle down between my breasts, as I felt the orgasm building again.

Pushing the vibrator hard to my clit, the spasms began building in my crotch, washing across my body in waves. Unable to hold back a moan, I thrust the vibrating cock inside my incredibly tight hole, bucking against it with each wave. It felt incredible. I spread my legs wide open, pussy juice gushing out of me as I fucked it frantically, its hardness filling me up all the way.

As the orgasm waned, I pulled the vibrator out, resting it on my spasming clit a little longer, before almost instantly falling asleep.

Continued...

Bonus Technorati tag: [tagname]

Now you see me... :: Part three

2007-02-09T01:00:00.000Z

Part one
Part two
When I woke, my body still limp from the orgasm and my headache from the morning no better, I didn't at first know where I was. As I opened my eyes and felt sunglasses on my face, I remembered the guy from across the way. I remembered him because there he was, standing up on his balcony. It took me a little longer to realise that he was about to give me a show in return.

He was facing me now, his shapely, strong legs quite far apart. Thanks to the glass walls on the balconies I could see his hand working the front of his speedos, slowly but firmly. To my amazement I felt myself moisten again despite the earthshattering turn I'd just had with my vibrator.

I realised that I had to pretend I was still asleep. But yet I wanted to turn him on and tease him some more. I shifted slightly on the chair, and my theory proved true. He immediately stopped rubbing what I could now see was a sizeable bulge. He looked disappointed as he pretended for a moment to check something out on the street below.

I moved again, pulling my legs apart so that my skirt slid up. He could see straight into the pussy I'd just worked so hard. I wondered if he could see the renewed wetness glistening in the sunlight. He waited for a minute, then turned his head to see that I was still "asleep". I could see his hand gripping the bannister harder as he saw my wanton wetness.

Immediately he started rubbing himself again, harder now. I was quietly begging for him to pull his pants down to give me a full view of his hardness. I could tell from his rhythm that he wasn't far off from being unable to resist anymore.

And my prayers were heard. He pulled the front of his speedos down to reveal an impressive specimen, dark with blood and the head soaked with precum as he pulled the foreskin all the way back, caressing the tip with his other hand. I could see him staring straight at my pussy as he wanked faster, faster, his chest heaving.

He bit his lip, mirroring my move I'd done earlier to keep myself quiet. He was about to shoot his lovely hot load right in my direction. It was such a turn-on. I couldn't help myself, I had to do something. I was just hoping he was too far gone to be able to stop once I joined in.

I brought a hand to my chest and pulled the bikini top to the side. He didn't even flinch. He wanted to see more. I pushed my nipple to my mouth, and just the feeling of my tongue on the areola almost made me cum again. I flicked my tongue around the rock hard nipple, and leaned down to pick up the vibrator again.

This time, I imagined that it was his hot cock that I could see being worked so expertly in his hand. As I spread my legs wider, I started fucking it again, rubbing my clit with the other hand.

He was gripping onto the balcony now, wanking as fast as he could, his mouth open. I could hear him groan. He was cumming, and I wanted to join him. I stared at his cock as thick, white threads of cum shot out towards me. I wanted to feel it on me, to taste it, and the torture of not being able to turned me on even more. As the vibrator hit my g-spot, I made no attempt to hold back, moaning loudly as another orgasm engulfed every nerve ending. I closed my eyes and pretended it was his beautiful cock in me.

When I opened my eyes again, he was still staring at me, cock in hand. But he was smiling now. I smiled back. I could tell A it really had been worth my while making the trip down to London.

***THE END***

Finding myself

2007-02-08T22:52:00.000Z

Singing in the rain by Mindfulness

Apparently I need to find myself. Or so at least my counsellor told me today.

And in a way I agree. I've never been a very still person. I've always liked to be chasing the rainbow, and when I get there, although I appreciate the achievement, I always spot something else, more elusive that I want instead.

This is probably partly why I've managed to stay for such a long time with J; the fact that he's completely emotionally unavailable (me: "I love you." J: "..."). In other words, he's always just out of reach, and I guess a part of me likes it that way.

"You seem to be searching a lot for external stimuli," my counsellor said. "What happens when you are just with you, doing nothing?"

At that very moment, I realised that I have no idea whatsoever about what she means by doing nothing.

I struggled with the concept of "being alone and doing nothing" for a while. It turned out that going for a jog or to the cinema or reading a book or meditating or staring out the window over a cup of tea does not count as "doing nothing".

I think what she meant, in the end, was something along the lines of mindfulness, ie. being mindful of yourself and your perception of the surroundings.

Which is weird. Because although I'm not completely mindful as often as I should be, I mean, who is, sometimes I have to concentrate on driving, dammit; I am certainly more mindful than many other people I know.

I always know if I'm happy or sad, hungry or full, warm or cold; I notice beautiful sunsets and caterpillars trying to cross the road.

Would being more mindful make me feel more at peace with the world? Or is it something else?

I openly admit that I really need recognition, I need to be needed. Not because I don't have faith in myself, but just... because.

I'll mull this over until I see her again next week. But I really think I have to ask what "doing nothing by yourself" really means.

Bonus Technorati tag: mindfulness

Familiarity breeds... familiarity

2007-02-07T23:45:00.000Z

Lately, to my horror, I've noticed that my sex drive is going down. I don't know how this can be. Or rather, it's not that I'm not horny, it's more that I'd be contented with fantasies and my vibrator rather than J.

Love by Digitain3k0

I still find him attractive. But I guess I've just been conditioned into thinking that asking for sex means I won't get it, so my libido is steering me away from the disappointment.

And I know I'm attractive. I've the kind of boobs other women have breast implants to achieve (not crazy oversized US ones, I mean cute natural perky ones). I shave and wax... And he claims he finds me attractive. But it's plain to see I fail to turn him on. How can I fix this? How do I become alluring while we're still living together and seeing each other's toothbrushes and dirty laundry every morning?

J and I are nearing our second anniversary. Personally I can never remember what day it is, but I know it's near Valentine's day. Fortunately J is the kind of guy who never forgets an important date (yes, girls, there was a reason I chose to put up with no sex for three months...).

I've always had a high sex drive, ever since I discovered masturbating at 11, and probably even before then. In my previous relationships I've always had sex at least every second day, and mostly once a day.

With J, I'm lucky to get once a week.

OK, so maybe we're getting old. I won't be in my 20s for that much longer. However, that shouldn't be an excuse. J claims he just "has a lower sex drive", which of course I think is bullshit as I've never encountered a man with a low sex drive before, ever.

I know it's partly linked to his depression, but I actually think sex is good for him. It makes him relax, it makes me relax, and we always argue less when we shag more (see my old post about no sex making you cranky).

And we're very good together in bed, I think sometimes better than we are out of bed. Our bodies just fit together really well, I've no other way of explaining it. He's got the size of cock you want; fulfilling but not painfully so, and not too large to play with. His stomach fits into the curve of my spine when we spoon. His hand is just shy of the size of my boobs. And so on.

So what to do? Wait and see? I've never been very patient, you know... Tips received with thanks!

Bonus Technorati tag: familiarity

Tired now

2007-02-06T21:10:00.000Z

I haven't seen J properly since yesterday. It feels weird.

Work has been crazy lately. They're even more understaffed than usual, and because I'm so nice (yes, dear readers, I really am), I can't say no when they ask me to do extra shifts.

I am clearly working way too much at the moment, all I want to do is go home, go to bed with J and snuggle for a whole day without sparing a thought for all the stuff I "should" be doing.

Last night I made him sleep in the guest bedroom. He's basically slept very poorly lately, and kept me awake all weekend. I *really* cannot function without my beauty sleep, and we agreed it was for the best as we keep waking each other.

It will be very odd when I change jobs and we're not in the same building anymore. Because I'm on an evening shift today, we only had a very short overlap, but usually we're in touch several times during the work day.

In the morning, when I wake and he's not there, I call to say good morning. In the evening, when I'm not there, he calls to say goodnight. And throughout the day we'll come by each other's desks bringing chocolates from the vending machine or to go for lunch together.

I realise this doesn't happen in the average relationship, but now, when I haven't really seen him properly for over 24 hours, I really miss him! Pathetic, really, isn't it... I'm clearly not cut out for long-distance relationships.

Freedom Is Just Another Word For Nothing Left To Lose

2007-01-28T22:42:00.000Z

When I was surfing on Flickr today looking for a pic for my next piece of erotic fiction, I came across the phrase above.

Originally by Roddh

I had never heard it before, but how true it really is.

It reminds me of when I went to church after my grandmother died. I'm not a very "good" Christian, and usually limit visits to funeral and Christmas.

My grandmother had a tough life; her husband and son both died from an uncureable disease, and she also cared for her grandparents and parents until they passed away.

The priest told the small group of people who were there to pay her the last respect that we should be grateful for the burden laid upon us by God. "Without a burden, we feel there is no use for us," he said.

Of course that becomes completely absurd if you think about the kind of strain that's laid on people's shoulder the world over; Palestinians having their children shot by Israeli soldiers, Iraqi suicide bombers targeting poor day labourers and African Aids orphans starving to death. Needless to say these people would much rather be unburdened.

But in an emotional sense, what the priest said is true. Without anyone depending on us, without any responsibility weighing on our shoulders, we're just blowing in the wind, pointlessly.

A mother doesn't wish to be freed from the burden of caring for her children, not truly. As a lover you don't really want to be freed from your partner, even when they long to be single. And if you break free, leaving their formerly loved one behind, it usually means that you had nothing to lose in the first place.

Maybe that's why I stay with J, even though it's hard. Whenever I've been in easier relationships, I've not weighed down enough to want to stay. Yes, of course sometimes the burden of supporting him through daily life it's almost unbearable, but I love him.

And the Christian part of me thanks God that I've been allowed to meet someone for whom I'll gladly give up my freedom.

That's it, I give up

2007-01-28T21:04:00.000Z

I hope you're happy now, Blogger. I've reverted to my classic template because the broken-ness of my "new" one is giving me an ulcer. Yes, that's right, an ulcer.

It's horrible. The blog displays properly, but when you look at the code, the sections are all scrambled, which means I can't implement any of the things I'd like, such as peekaboo comments. And before you ask, I've tried

Resetting the widgets

Choosing another (original) template

Uploading an older template

Changing the code by hand

And nothing works! No matter what I do, the changes don't stick. Someone has suggested to me that it might be a server problem on the Blogger end of things, and of course, although I've repeatedly contacted them, there has been no reply. Arrrrgh!

I realise Blogger is a free service, but clearly Google is making money off us poor bloggers, or it wouldn't provide it.

Call it a symptom of OCD, but I really can't bring myself to blog anything until it's fixed. It gives me writer's block. I hope you're happy now, Blogger.

Losing a life

2007-01-26T17:43:00.000Z

And when I got to work this afternoon, I was chatting to my colleague who had been away for a few weeks, ill. I asked her if she was better, and she made a "so-so" facial expression. I asked her what was wrong. She said she'd lost her baby.

By Thtstudios

What do you say to that? Is there any appropriate response? I told her I was incredibly sorry, and asked her what had happened.

She didn't go into detail, just said it had been incredibly physically painful and that psychologically speaking she was of course still recovering.

She hadn't been very far gone, so hadn't told anyone at work. Which I guess takes off a bit of the pressure of people coming over and asking you if you've painted the baby's room yet etc.

Still, I can't imagine what that must be like. It's the way she said "my baby", so clearly showing that this to her was already a fully formed individual with a place in her heart.

I never think about how this happens. I sometimes (quite often) worry that I won't be able to become pregnant as my periods are incredibly irregular, but I rarely worry about miscarriage. About 1/3 of all pregnancies end that way, but usually it's too early to notice, within the first couple of weeks.

I feel incredibly sorry for my colleague, but as I stated earlier, I don't really know what to say. Maybe there is nothing to say..

Bonus Technorati tag: Miscarriage

What shall I do for my man on Valentine's day?

2007-01-22T18:40:00.000Z

Please readers, suggestions are welcome... I realise that Valentine's day is still almost a month away, but I came across this photo on Flickr and really felt it described just what our love is like.

By iz'sourceon Flickr

Or love in general.

I mean not crazy, I'm 17 and will die without you kind of love, but real, lasting love that you get in relationships like the one I have with J, where it's sometimes a struggle, but you're hoping to build a life together.

It's the kind of love you get when your lives are tangled up together for more than just Sunday breakfasts. When romance isn't like a red rose, singularly attractive all the time, but like this; an accidentally formed surprise of red string in a tangled, blue surround.

Or maybe I'm just being pessimistic.

But it's gone well with J and me lately (maybe that's why I've blogged about it less?). And for me, this is fine.

I love of course grand gestures and candlelit evenings, but I like even more to stick one ice cold foot under his hot duvet when he's already asleep and I creep in after a late shift.

There are maybe no surprise trips to New York, but he wants to take me to the seaside in March, just because he says I've been working too hard and he knows I like the seaside.

"You're not interested in the flowers," he says. "You just want me to put out." How true.

And I think he's pre-ordering Final Fantasy XII for me as a present, even though that means I'll hog the TV for at least the next three months. Is it any wonder I love him?

Bonus Technorati tags: Valentine's day
Love

My blog is broken! Emergency!!

2007-01-18T23:40:00.000Z

Boo-hoo.. Now can you cope with seeing a woman cry? I thought not! So help me, goddammit! Yes, people, that's right, my blog (not my heart for once) is broken!

It's really, really annoying.. More annoying than spending two hours looking for a dropped stitch in a lace shawl (which I did earlier on today, so I know what I'm talking about, people!)

Basically Blogger will not allow me to reset my template completely to remove erroneous code.

Somehow some of the sections got screwed up when I was editing it, and I've tried everything; resetting the widgets, choosing a new template, manually fixing the code...

But whatever I do, the changes won't save and the wrong bits of code get re-inserted. I am at the end of my tether.

It's keeping me awake at night. It's making me lose my libido. Yes, dear readers, it's that serious.

If anyone has any insights which lead to fixing, Yours Truly will... well, something you'll want. A lot.

The original mistake seemed to be that my drop-down comments weren't working anymore. As you see I've managed to reset them to their original "linking to an ugly page" state. But I want them back.
Bonus Technorati tag: Blogging

Don't leave without a word! That's an order!

2007-01-14T01:59:00.000Z

Apparently it's national delurker week, according to this sassy lady.

Delurking week; started by Papernapkin

And if fact, I am wondering if that's not such a bad idea. It's funny; whenever I post erotic fiction, I get masses of hits (people searching for a lot of odd things. Some good ones from yesterday:

"stockings and suspenders"
"her arsehole"
"spanking surprise"
"hymen regrowth" (HELLO??!)
"pumping rock hard"

And, my favourite, "gspot". Mate, if you feel you have to look online, you're extremely unlikely to find it. And anyway, the gspot is on the inside, so I doubt you'll even find very good photos of it.

So, you boys (I'm assuming it's mostly boys, but maybe I'm being sexist here), all of you who spend two seconds on my site, dissapointed that I'm not posting live footage of my pussy, pls take a moment to leave a cum stain / comment.

Not to mention those of you who trawl through the whole Erotic Fiction backlog; I mean, do you like it? Do you want improvements? I think it's somewhat thankless to read that much without letting me know what you think. What say you?

And lastly, I want to know, why are you looking for "her arsehole" online? Is it because your real life lady wont let you? Or maybe you don't have one...

My ex boyfriend was a huge consumer of online porn, and his excuse when I confronted him (I was disappointed he wouldn't do it with me; I loved it when he filmed me sucking him, but watching seemed to be a sole pleasure for him) was that "it helped him wank faster". That's when I realised he was too old for me. And, his second excuse was that "I hadn't been giving it up lately" (I'd had a busy week at work). Needless to say he was dumped as soon as I could muster up the courage to break his heart.

I mean, even after three years together we were shagging at least every second day, but mostly every day. So, he had to go three days without. Tough luck. When going through his downloaded porn I discovered he had a penchant for degradation of women (he liked videos of people cumming in women's faces then telling the girl to fuck off). Nice.

So, all you boys, get your girlfriend down and enjoy it with her. Make her masturbate to porn with you. It'll guaranteed be more fun than lurking on my blog.

Bonus Technorati tag: de-lurking

Robbing the cradle

2007-01-12T04:47:00.000Z

When we first met, I didn't know what he looked like. Or what his voice sounded like. I only knew that he was a fast typist and that he couldn't spell "definitely".

Crotch and Boot
by Mo

He contacted me on IRC, which I had stopped using years ago, for a chat. "Are you horny," he said, no questionmark.

I wasn't, but for some reason I went against my usual instinct to reject all random requests and said "yes".

After thinking for a moment, I added, "are you?"

"Yes" he said. "ASL?"

I told him I was in my late 20s, in Britain.

He said, "17, M, US".

And indeed he was. But I didn't find out til later. All set for Scene 1, me in bed, randomly surfing, him in the basement game room on the computer, his older brother watching TV in the background.

JGF: "Tell me about yourself."

M17: "I've only had sex twice,"

JGF: "Did you like it?"

M17: "Yes"

JGF: "Are you any good?"

M17: "I love to eat pussy"

JGF: "Is that so.. How about having your cock sucked?"

M17: "I've never tried"

JGF: "Really? I bet you'd like it.. I give awesome blowjobs"

M17: "I think my cock is too big"

JGF: "No such thing"

And so on. "I have a huge hard-on," he said after a while. I could feel myself moisten, thinking about him sitting there, his supposedly large cock oozing pre-cum in his boxers underneath the desk.

I told him to jerk off. "My brother is here," he said. "Are you horny or not," I challenged. "Only if you do to," he said.

Without getting out of bed, I leaned over to get my "jessica rabbit" from the bedside drawer. "I'll pretend it's you," I said.

As I rubbed the cool vibrator on my swollen, slippery pussy, I imagined him, tanned, toned and horny, trying not to moan as his brother watched CSI at the other end of the room.

"I'm licking the head of your cock," I said. "Sliding my mouth slowly, slowly down your shaft, all the way to the base... Oh, I'm sucking you so hard, you taste soooo goood... Mmmmm..."

He didn't reply. After about a minute of non-replying, I closed my eyes and imagined him, rubbing his moist, throbbing cock, cumming all over his hand, imagined licking the salty stickiness off him. As I came, I thrust the vibrator into my hungry vagina, letting out a load groan and fucking it, making myself come a second time.

Then, five minutes later as I was about to pay my gas bill, he was back. "Sorry," he said. "Had to go to bathroom to cum Came twice!! You're the hottest girl Ive ever met"

"Or not met," I helpfully pointed out.

"I'm coming to London with my parents in a month," he said. "Can we meet?"

To be continued...

Bonus Technorati tag: Erotic fiction

Robbing the cradle part II :: Hotel encounter

2007-01-12T04:13:00.000Z

***Back to part I***

I don't know why I arranged to meet him. Maybe because he contacted me a month later, again on IRC, saying "Im in easy internet cafe Bond Street Are you free?"

Maybe because the photos he sent were so average snapshot looking, yet he was... well, a hot 17 year old. Apparently he was on the "varsity" football team, and although I have never been into sporty types, I could tell even from the pictures of him wearing T-shirts that he was quite the hottie.

Maybe because I had a day off.

Maybe because I was dying to see that cock I had fantasized about since the last time we chatted.

"I'll meet you at Trafalgar Square in an hour," I said. "Stand at the base of Nelson's column; look American."

I figured that if we met there, I'd be able to get away if he turned out to be a 45 year old pig or the like.

I quickly showered, and put on my one night stand pulling pants; a pair of black silk French knickers. I considered not going all the way with suspenders and seamed stockings, but then I thought, hey, this kid's come all the way from America; I better give him a good one... I put on a lacy bra to match, and wrapped up in my long camel winter coat and a pashmina to keep my neck warm. I grabbed a holdall and filled with the necessary props, so excited I almost forgot to lock the flat on the way outside.

On the tube, I felt the silky lining of my coat against my skin; I could feel myself moisten just thinking about the things I could do to him and the thought of his tongue on my hot crotch...

The ten stops to Charing Cross seemed to take forever. I couldn't wait. I put my large holdall on my lap, and managed to sneak my hand inside my coat behind it. Closing my eyes, I let the rocking of the tube tease my fingers against my slippery clit, it was hard like a smooth hazelnut already and I had to bite my lip not to moan.

And then, as I exited to Trafalgar square, unbelievably, he stood there. Trying not to look nervous, wearing a long-sleeved blue tee underneath a short-sleeved white one, oversized baggy jeans and holding a Jan-Sport bag in his right hand, a camera around his neck, looking every inch the tourist.

I walked up to him. "Matt?" I said. He jumped about five foot in the air. "JGF?" "That's me," I replied. "Want to show me your hotel room?" He nodded, listlessly.

I hailed a cab and we both got in the back. "So, how are you enjoying London so far?" I asked. He said he liked it, trying to sound as blase as a 17-year old could, made harder obviously by the fact that he felt compelled to throw in comments about his annoying parents who wanted to do cultural stuff.

I asked if he'd been introduced to English girls yet, and he looked me straight in the eyes for the first time. "I'm so goddamn horny, JGF, I've been thinking about you since I got here. I want to lick your pussy so bad. I've been jerking off twice a day thinking of you. And you're even hotter than you looked in the pictures." His rather posh yet unmistakably East Coast American accent ran like melted honey down my back. And I remembered how, when you're 17 and away from home, you can say anything. Do anything.

As we pulled up outside his hotel, which lived up to his accent more than I'd hoped, we were chatting like old friends, although I was unable to retain any of what he said. He was just telling me that his parents had taken him to see Chicago the night before, and that he found the display of suspenders ridiculous. "Noone actually wears those, do they," he said as he paid for the cab and walked towards the door was held open for us.

Well, almost noone.

To be continued

Bonus Technorati tag: erotic fiction

Robbing the cradle part III :: Coming to get ya

2007-01-12T04:12:00.000Z

***back to part I***
***back to part II***

As we entered his spacious double room, Matt immediately went over to the TV and turned it on to one of the music channels. He then made a beeline for the mini-bar. "Drink?" he said, his nervousness more tangible now.

"Please," I said, more to make him feel comfortable than because I wanted one. He quickly knocked back a large whiskey composed of two mini-bottles, while mixing me me a rum and coke.

As he handed me the drink, I could tell he already had a hard-on, he tried awkwardly to hide it, but the front of his jeans were bulging in a give-away tent-like fashion. Even in my high heels I was a good head shorter than him. Tall men. They'r nice sometimes.

"Your cock does indeed look a good size," I said. He jumped, spilling a little coke down his hand. I grabbed it, putting his finger in my mouth. It was salty, slightly rough as I swirled my tongue around it and sucked hard. "Oh God," he said, blushing.

"We don't have to do this," I said, suddenly awkwardly aware of his young age. "I can leave. Or we can just chat and have a drink."

"No!" he exclaimed. "Please stay... I just... I just don't know what to do. I've... I've never..."

Oh. My. God. Mr Hot Young Football Player was a virgin. Sex twice my arse. It made me want him even more. His pink, soft upper lip, protruding slightly further than his lower one in that "please kiss me now" fashion, quivered slightly. It was clearly a sore point. And despite the red haze that was gradually covering my eyes when I imagined his firm buttocks and flat stomach inside his clothes, I wanted to make this good. I wanted to make it last for him.

"Don't worry," I said. "You're so hot, just show me how horny you are. I'll do the rest."

I sat down in one of the cream coloured huge chairs in the hotel room with my drink, and simply said, "Now strip".

I can't remember what music was playing, but he rose to the challenge in more ways than one. Fortunately he remembered shoes and socks first. As he pulled his T-shirts over his head, I held back a gasp. He was even better than I had imagined, every muscle in his chiseled torso defined, but not in a pumped up way, simply the way you look when you're 17 and like playing football a lot. His chest was smooth and tanned in a way that indicated he'd recently been somewhere sunnier than London.

"You're so hot," I said. "Want me to take something off too?"

He nodded as he dropped his clothes to the floor.

I stood up, and walked over to him, leaning in to his neck, grabbing it with my right hand.

"Take my coat off, gorgeous" I whispered, licking his earlobe. I could feel every hair on his crew-cut neck stand up. I stepped back slightly, and as he unbuttoned the top three buttons of my coat to reveal my breasts straining to escape from their nothingness of lace, I could see his hands starting to shake. "You're not for real," he said. "You're gonna rob me or something."

Yes, of your virginity, I thought, but didn't say it. Without a word, I turned around and walked back to the chair, slipping the coat down my shoulders to reveal what little else there was of my outfit. I could hear him gasp behind me. "Now get rid of the rest of your stuff," I said as I sat down in the chair to enjoy the show.

As he unbuttoned his jeans, he had to lift them over his erection to get them off, I could tell it was so sensitive it hurt him to do it. His white cotton boxers could do nothing to conceal it, I could see a damp patch of precum on his crotch, and as soon as his jeans fell, the glistening head of his cock protruded from the front opening.

His cock was amazing. It really was large. Not porn sized huge, but way above average and most definitely in the top five I've ever seen. Not only that, but it was beautiful too, unlike most Americans he wasn't circumcised, although the hardness of his erection as it reached across a mass of damp dark blonde curls towards his bellybutton had stretched his foreskin out smooth already. The shaft, dark with blood, was smooth and straight, and I could practically see it throbbing.

"Are you ready to cum?" I said. "What do you think," he answered.

I decided that I wanted to see if I could make him cum without actually touching him. I'd only managed that a couple of times before in my life, but I could tell Matt would be up to the job. There's nothing that turns me on more than seeing a cock pumping out its hot juice all on its own. "So let's see how you like pussy eating," I said. I leaned back in the chair and slowly moved one leg over the armrest to reveal my by now almost painfully wet slit.

By now Matt was clearly so horny he had forgotten to be shy. He was over in the blink of an eye, kneeling down in front of me and putting his soft lips to my wetness, shaven for the occasion.

He started french kissing my pussy like a pro. Clearly his tongue was doing its best to catch up with his cock, it was long, firm, supple, as he immediately started circling it around my clit, letting out little moans of impatience as he dug his hands into my buttocks. He hadn't been making this part up. He loved eating pussy. Unbelievably, I realised I might beat a 17-year old boy to cumming. Suddenly, he thrust his tongue deep into me, lapping at my juices.

It was only with an enormous amount of self-control that I managed to push him off me and drag him to the bed. "Please, sit on my face," he panted as he sat down on the edge. "I want you to..." I pushed him back, but instead of giving him the pleasure of my pussy face to face, I swirled around and positioned one leg on each side of his head, my lips poised right above his tempting erection.

As he resumed licking and sucking my clit, I begged him to use his hands too. He thrust three of his fingers inside me, and I started wriggling on them till he hit my G-spot. It was too much. The sight of his deep red cock head bobbing in front of my face, already smelling of sweet cum, tipped me over the edge.

I screamed out loud as I felt pussy juice gush out of me. I pumped rythmically on his fingers, and felt him withdraw them to replace them with his tongue. "So good... you taste... so... GNNNHHHHHH!!!" He grabbed my head, and I resisted the almost overwhelming urge to take him in my mouth and suck him dry. I wanted to feel his cum squirting out all over my lips.

I reached my tongue out and touched the tip of his shiny head, and he bucked against me uncontrollably, moaning and panting obscenities, sticky strings of thick cum covering my tongue as I lapped it up and he kept licking me and I could feel myself cumming a second time, and unable to hold back I took him in my mouth and sucked hard, his rock hard manhood stifling my moans.

To be continued...

Robbing the cradle part IV :: It ain't over till it's over

2007-01-12T04:11:00.000Z

***back to part I***
***back to part III***

Matt licked hungrily at my pussy as he continued cumming for what seemed to be like a lifetime. The feeling of his mouth attempting to devour me at the same time as his cum filling my mouth was delicious. And for him, at his young age, it must have seemed to go on forever. Ten seconds is a lot when you're 17.

As his magnificent cock spasmed against my throat for the last time, he stopped, I could feel his head drop heavily against my leg on the pillow. I continued to suck him more gently until his cock started shrinking slightly, then rolled off him, licking his precious drops off my lips.

His cum tasted sweet and salty, some of the best I'd ever experienced I thought at the moment. In the afterglow of an amazing orgasm I felt tender towards him, and moved up to the head of the bed, stroking his dark blonde wisps of hair from his forehead. "Glass of water?" I offered. He nodded barely, his eyes still closed.

I got out of the bed, grabbed my bag and headed for the bathroom. "Water's in here," I called. All was going to plan, but I wasn't entirely sure Matt was ripe to lose his virginity yet.

As filled a glass of water and turned on the monsoon-style shower, trying to ignore environmental warnings about London's water shortage, I heard him shuffle across the floor. His cock, completely unerect now, hung still impressive between his legs. He looked shyly at me. "I hope I did OK," he said. "I thought I was gonna pass out there. That was, that was..."

"No need to talk," I said. "Let's rinse off." We got in the huge shower together, and I felt a sudden urge to kiss him. As our lips met, I could taste my cum juice on them still. He was as good a kisser as he was a pussy eater.

I'd been right to doubt his readiness to fuck. Almost immediately as my hands started exploring his young body, I felt something hot thrust against my clit. His cock was getting ready for some more action. "I'm sorry," he mumbled between kisses. "I think I'll be another five before I'm ready to..." I decided not to tell him how that interval would most likely dramatically increase over the next decade.

His mouth worked its way down my neck, rapidly progressing towards my breasts. My nipples were rock hard despite the hot shower, and I wasn't sure if it was water or pussy juice trickling down the inside of my legs. I couldn't wait to feel him in me, but if he was already hard again after five minutes, I'd better find another way to make him cum first.

He pressed my boobs together as if to make them merge, taking both nipples in his mouth and licking them frantically. I slid a hand down his wet, hard belly, and was not surprised to find him so hard my hand almost acted like a wedge between his belly button and cockhead.

He moaned almost as from pain I pulled my tits from his lips and shifted behind him, pressing him to face the wall. With a bit of soap on, I pushed up behind him and slid my tits up his back, grabbing his wrists and forcing them to the wall. He was like putty in my hands, moaning again, louder this time. I turned his head towards me and we kissed again as I pulled him down on the floor, switching the shower off to avoid drowning.

The shower room was like a sauna now, all steamed up and hot. His body, sweating and flushed, was like a statue of youth as he lay on the floor underneath me. I could feel him grabbing for his own cock, unbearably horny still to shy to overcome the barrier to beg me to touch him. There would be none of that. I wanted to treat that hot, throbbing hardness all by myself.

Gently but firmly pushing his hands above his head, I rubbed my tits on his face for him to lick some more. He immediately started bucking against my thigh, as hard as when he first undressed for me. I couldn't believe he'd cum less than ten minutes ago.

I would give him a ride no American high school girl was ever likely to replicate. Licking my way down his ripped torso as he writhed in pleasure, almost giving in to the temptation to suck him for some more of his sweet cum, I gently spread his legs.

His arse was clean and dark pink, as virginal as the rest of him I was guessing. Prodding it with my tongue, it was firm and tight, and incredibly arousing. He grunted in surprise, but was too turned on to stop me as I penetrated it with my tongue. The sensation of my gentle tongue thrusting was too much for him. "Please, jerk me off, suck me, do something, I can't take it, you're too much," he panted.

I leaned over him, and not even needing to lube my tits due to all his pre-cum and our sweat, I took his lovely cock in my cleavage, incrasing the pace to match his frantic thrusting. His eyes, dark and wide open, stared at his shaft as it rubbed against my firm babies, squeezed together for maximum friction.

I decided he was ready for the full treatment. With my free hand I reached into my bag and pulled out my vibrator. The temptation to use it on myself was huge, but I wanted to take him all the way first. I squeezed some lube on it before switching it on. I pushed it gently to his moist arsehole, and it slid in.

With a slow movement I started fucking his arse with the tip of the vibrator while continuing to work him with my tits. His moans and grunts became gutteral, almost animal-like. To my amazement he pulled his legs up a little, pushing against the vibrator, wanting more.

"I'm gonna cum," he groaned, "I'm gonna cum so fucking hard all over those tits, do you want some cum, I need to cum..." I wasn't convinced he was even talking to me and not himself, but I didn't want to miss the money shot. And that sweet cum would not be wasted on my tits.

I bent my head down and devoured as much of his cock as I could take, even pushing it to the back of my throat I couldn't take all of him. "Yeah, yeah, yeaaaahhh..." he urged. I could feel from the throbbing that he was about to shoot his load any second. I pushed the vibrator all the way into his arse, and he came, even harder than last time, into my mouth.

I fucked his arse vigorously, he pulled his arse wide open with both hands on the bathroom floor as I sucked him. As he uttered a last, gutteral "Yeaaaahhhh", I felt his cum pump up through his long shaft, landing on my tongue and shooting hard into the back of my throat again. I couldn't help myself, I pulled the vibrator out of his no-longer-virgin arse and put a hand to my pussy, rubbing my marble-like clit to orgasm, collapsing on top of him with his softening cock in my other hand.

We lay there to catch our breath for a while until it started getting cold. Without a word, we both got up from the floor and went to bed. I think I passed out for a little while, sweet, post-coital rest where you dream nothing and smell the earthy scent of sex even as you sleep.

TO BE CONTINUED

Bonus Technorati tag: Erotic fiction

Robbing the cradle part V :: Take it home

2007-01-12T04:05:00.000Z

***Back to part I***
***Back to part IV***

I woke not knowing where I was, my head heavy, the humming of the air conditioning the only sound in the room. As I started coming to properly, I sensed Matt's hard stomach pushed against my back, his hands caressing my tits.

I felt a rush of blood to my crotch as I realised that what had woken me was his scrumptious boy erection jutting against my already moist pussy. Was he ready to fuck me properly? As he rubbed the smooth yet veiny shaft against my clit, I realised I didn't care. I wanted him to fill me up, to feel his throbbing in my tight cunt.

"Make me cum," I whispered, my voice still sleep drunken. "You feel so good," he sighed. I realised he might have been doing this for a while before I woke up. Reaching between my legs, I felt the moist stickiness of our sex juices as his cock head bobbed against my palm. He moaned a little again from the added impact as I pushed it against my swelling pussy. He increased his thrust, and I closed my eyes, riding his cock quickly to sex heaven.

As his fingers continued to fiddle my breasts, I begged him to squeeze them harder. "Come on, big boy," I moaned, rubbing my palm on his cock head, so hot and wet. He grabbed onto my waist and thrusted harder from behind me. I felt the orgasm built in me, my breasts swelling in his hands as he licked at my neck.

He was lasting longer this time, just as I'd planned. Even with the friction from my thighs he wasn't at the verge of cumming. Feeling his hardness, not just his cock, but his whole body, drove me crazy. "I'm gonna cum, baby," I grunted through gritted teeth. He moved a hand down to my crotch.

"You feel so good down there, so smooth," he muttered. The touch of his hand on my clit along with his cock was what was needed. I came again, and as I felt my cunt spasming, I steered his hot cock inside me. He didn't stop rubbing me, his hand moving in time with his thrusting.

"Oh god," he moaned, loudly all of a sudden. "Your pussy feels... so hot... You're so tight baby, yeah baby, please baby..." He filled me up all the way, having to push hard inside me with each thrust as I shot towards oblivion, my cunt exploding around him, pumping and sucking.

I turned around to starfish him, pulling his smooth thigh to my clit. It was still sensitive, and I knew I could cum again in a sec. His hands grabbed for my tits, for my waist, my belly, frantically. His eyes were open and his pupils huge. "You're so tight, you've got such a tight pussy," he groaned. "That's how hot you make me with your huge cock," I panted as I felt a second orgasm follow hot on the heels of the first.

Pushing him onto his back, I straddled him, and looking down saw my slim body being pierced by his huge rod, I rode him like a birthday pony. "Let me taste you," he begged. And as I was cumming, I moved up and straddled his face, his tongue lapping up my pussy juices again.

I felt his arms moving frantically, and turned around to see him jerking off while licking me, slurping and groaning as he went. I wished we had more time together, watching him jerk off was almost as much of a turn on as sucking or fucking him, his pale hands working his dark cock at speed. I couldn't hold back and came so powerfully I thought I'd pass out. My gushing saltiness made him want more. "Let me fuck you some more, I can't hold back any longer," he begged.

I wanted to be fucked more by him so badly, to be fucked too deep to think about anything else. I turned around on all four. "Come take me with your hot cock, baby," I said hoarsely. He mounted me and pushed his cock into my still tight pussy. I let out a loud scream as he filled me up all the way and then some.

My body seemed to accommodate him perfectly. He grabbed onto my waist and fucked me with such resolve you'd think he'd be told he'd never be able to do it again ever. His cock was so thick it almost rubbed on my clit, his balls smashing against the sensitive part of my oyster with every thrust.

As I felt him grow inside me to the point of no return, I thought I might burst from being so filled up. "I'm cumming in your tight pussy," he said in a surprisingly clear voice, and as the word "pussy" passed his lips, I felt his cock explode inside me, his body arching towards me as he thrust the end of his cock to the very depths of my cunt, he continued fucking me deeply as he came, and what could a girl do but join him. For his first fuck, I felt I hadn't done so badly.

Of course, Matt never did get to see a lot of museums and sights that holiday, although his parents certainly thought he did as he excused himself every day to see "the Tate Modern" or "take a bus tour" while I slinked away from the office for "lunchtime meetings".

As he returned to the US, I could see in his eyes that in his sweet 17-year old way, he was coming to see me as a kind of sex goddess. I, of course, could entertain no such fantasy.

Although I felt warmly towards his sweet ways, not to mention the single diamond necklace he gave me on his last day there to adorn the cleavage that had given him so much pleasure, my heart could not be won away from my boyfriend, even by his hard body and lovely cock. And what would a girl like me do with a 17-year old high school boy?

So when he left, I changed my ICQ ID and never checked the old one again. He left only knowing my first name and my bra size.

But I've saved his phone number in a special place in case I ever have to go to New York on business. I've never been there, so who knows, I might need a local guide.

*** THE END ***