Secret Garden

Admittedly, it may be a bit presumptuous of me to draw conclusions, to have views, on running, after what is in fact only days of doing it with any sort of method. But me, I have been doing – not methodically I admit, but with perseverance – for a bit longer and so on that subject I may surely have an opinion?

Knowing myself then, it came as no surprise that after a few mornings of dutiful trudging along the safely populated quay, the securely commuter-thronged streets, I would want to stray off-piste. To tread my run where I oughtn’t, where forbidden. The forbidden, for a girl unless she be kick-ass at kicking-ass, being the leafy green of the parks within reach from my current druggiepad.

Now, any woman knows that to go into parks on her lonesome is just asking for a one way ticket out of Eden. Parks are infested – not only with rats and soggy old beer bottles, but with rapist. They hang around, rather like pheasants, waiting to spring from the foliage and startle, mac flaps flying. They stalk and they prey and anyone with a orifice which may be penetrated does well to stay well out of reach of their rapiers.

But when your feet are pounding the asphalt and your heart is pounding in your chest, and you feel the breeze in your hair, blood coursing and Madness approaching Cairo, the limitations of good judgement loose some of their firmity. Today I veered in among the turning leafs, gaining additional speed from the sheer exulting of breaking the boundaries – and also, truth be told, from a determination to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Which speed was made wind beneath my wings when the unthinkable did happen and I did meet a flasher. I am uncertain of what he was trying to accomplish at seven o’clock in the morning in frankly unflattering light and shrinking temperatures, but there he was, in all his hoary, and with him was a beast of a golden retriever.

In unrelated news:

Those of you who’ve been reading the back-logs of this b-log may remember that I was engaged, and not in so very olden days either. The rest of you may have picked up on the more current matter of me being slightly OTT in like with a man who’s been dubbed – with no smidgen nor shade of hyperbole – The Better Man.

Also, I think I’ve made no secret of the staunchness bordering on the politically incorrectness of my moral conservatism. So I’d forgive you for assuming that Marriage was something I’d consider, somewhere down the line.

You’d been right, previously. Indeed, the idea of me being god-fearing and a confirmed believer in the sanctity of the wedded state has been something I’ve leaned the beanstalk-fragile construction of my values on for ages. It has been my rod of support through all sorts of doubts and wondering.

But lately, this staff of wisdom has turned into just another sticky stick – just the way the subway escalator bannister turns affront when your hand, looking for support, slides onto some unidentified goo. Marriage is, in all honesty, not something I can believe in.

Happy-ever-after, eternal love, star-crossings and serendipitous meetings I do hope for. I believe in the monogamous coupling of two individuals, standing firm against all evils. I can even stretch it to sickness and health. But there are four words I will never swear before neither God nor magistrate: to honour and obey, for better or worse.

The mini-print of which is basically this: bar your judgement and fasten yourself to the mast, for no matter how choppy the waters are gonna get, you’ve taken the devil into the boat and better get a-rowing (difficult, per definition, when bound).

And tying two unrelated topics together:

Park-life-wise, staying on the straight and narrow may be boring, but I most definitely will from now on, seeing that taking the wild side at a jog may cause you to brush shins with some rather unappetizing wildlife.

Hymeneally, staying on the straight and narrow may be boring, but if I can’t do it without relinquishing my judgement, then I prefer the lonesome wolf-cries of the wilderness years.

BTW: posting might be scarce for a bit, am going out of town and have Monday off and off-line.

Always, In My Fashion

Once upon a time a long, long time ago and up until latish last night, I believed in the fairytale of being Myself, and reliant on self only. I believed that morally impeccable disorders such as honesty and self-sufficiency were the stuff that would catch Prince Dreamy’s eye.

I place the blame on Valiant and Strogoff, Crusoe and Cristo. On those firm souls that crowded the pages of my childhood literacy. Sure, they were men of iron. I’m willing to bet their shoulders were broad and their arms ditto; that the muddy boots of seven miles were of the latest fashion. But their physical accoutrements weren’t their claim to fame. Their dominance lay in their steely wills and their – sometimes frankly fanatical – autonomy.

Their attraction lay in the camp of psyche, rather than the physical. And somewhere I, travelling alongside them into the heart of darkness, must have confused matters and pitched alongside theirs. Little knowing, or wanting to admit, that what makes the magnetism of an upright adventurer is perhaps, not, what makes the charms of the bendy willow woman.

I believed that a moral compass was the ethically superior equivalent of a pencil skirt. That aloof disdain of approval would trump raven locks. That stalwart individualism - and hang the consequences – would be a match for the apple hue of an untainted cheek. In short – that skin and skin-tight would not be the determining factors in the love story this poet’s dreamed of.

Or even, that the lack of them would proof its worth. For hidden somewhere deep inside, was the assumption that a love that is love through messy hair and all would be at least, if not supreme, then unconditional. And thus, by proxy, safe.

Safe but for the snag of me being absolutely horrid when naturesque.

When myself my whimsy take me, I act on intuition, and take off on slightest provocation. When myself I am always 5 k over the limit, and probably wrapped in fur and pink sneakers. When myself I change my mind at last minute, spend disproportionate amounts of time with nose in book, sit around the office till 10 at night, and eat most home meals in bed. When myself I unbutton another button and keep the balcony door open all night and always take the train. Unlike the DIY strong bows of the classics, I when myself, do not approach heroic, and land very far from fetching.

Ironically, parallel with my need for personal laissez-faire, I have a very hard time accepting a beau in a state of reveal. Not only do I demand that they live up to quite exacting standards of professional hunger, good tweeds and calloused hands. I also prefer their minds semi-censored, reality lightly salted, tenderized, or to put it plainly: pimped.

I do not want a complete lack of filters – I want the edited version. PG 13. I want them to conduct their reviews of my sadly lacking presence with none of the cutting edge of true valuation.

But The Better Man, he tells it like it is(ish). Forget about pedestals and sweet nothings in my ears. He is a realist, and makes sure I know he is acutely aware of my limitations. Alors, last night things came to a bit of a head. He was doggedly determined not to give in to my walking on the soda-pop side of life – I was terrier-like in my belief that I should be able to hang consequences, without righteous commentary. In short: I wanted to be able to go three days without a brush, but still be told that my tresses were smoothly spun silk in his hands.

But it turns out the terrier is a lesser dog than the archetypal no-brand one: he won. For as The Better Man snored, I pondered.

At first, I felt very much like the wicked stepmother – asking the mirror for a compliment and getting all the wrong truths back. I was pretty certain that I would then be in my full right to throw a rock at the offending piece of furniture. But then, stranger than fiction, I searched my soul on a deeper than fairies level. And realised:

I do not really want someone fetched by that which should make retch. I do not want someone who’ll settle, who’ll overlook, or look the other way, or close his eyes – all in deference to the true me. I am not after love unconditional any longer. I am after the race and the thrill of beating expectation. So maybe someone who demands a modicum of false isn’t such a bad deal.

For oh, if I were to be slightly false… I would think before I speak. I would get up for a run in the mornings. I would try to exercise my sense of humour (it IS in there, I know). I would shrug things off and I would wrinkle up my forehead and listen carefully. I would keep my promises and I would catch my breath and iron my shirts. I would mind my intake and up my hair. Then perhaps I would deserve the happy ending. And after all, if I learnt one thing from those glorious men, it’s that a treasure deserved is twice as shiny.

When the alarm went off and I got into my running shoes and jogged along the docks, in the mist.

Oh yes, and thanking this piece, in Swedish, for inspiration.

Careless Whisper

I love Pretty Woman. I love the montage, and the polo-game. I have no problem with the message: suggesting that a woman’s diamond mine lies between her rocky mountains, nor am I against the hair, or the boots, or the Gere. But there is one scene which I never really got.

It’s the part where the prostitute is trying to learn which piece of cutlery to use for which cut of meat. You know, salad-fork, fish-knife, here’s my handle, here’s my spout.

I have been told that my lack of insight comes from growing up in a certain milieu – a milieu, I suppose, where silverware was more common than whoring. For while my mum was pretty mum on the subject of shellacked thigh-highs, she was very opinionated on the subject of tablemanners.

An elbow on the table would result in a grabbed wrist and the arm being struck downward sharply, bumping the bony bit in question on the surface of the table. Slouching would be discouraged with threats of nails being driven into backs of seats – and from there, supposedly, into spine if too reclining. And for effect, there was always the story of Grandfather, who was only allowed to say one thing while at table when a child: please, pass the salt.

To make a long and – on second reading slightly Gothic – story short: I do not have any major problems with etiquette, and in hindsight, I am grateful for this and will probably bring up whatever offspring may befall me in the same vein. But today, I have been faced with no less than 3 instances where I have literally not had a clue of how to act according to the accordings. And they can all – can you guess it – be traced back to that den of depravity and pirate wars – Facebook.

1

First, I discovered, that while one mans death has always been another mans bread – now the fed must proclaim his satisfaction in the face of the provider: a good friend leaves town forever – and leaves me blue. The colour is complemented though, by a faint flush of hope. She has led me to believe that she might well leave me her lease for an affordable two-room flat, centrally located and heated and most central to my piece of mind - free from my current infestation of druggies.

My instinctive reaction was to publish my joy in a sort of “whoop-e-do: the end is near” commentary. But I saw reason, and quickly changed any exultant tones to the more appropriate official mourning for a friend gone south. The whole episode makes me ponder though:

If all my exclamations must be proofed for readability by all my acquaintance – how true can I stay to the core feeling. A censorship of sorts has been imposed, the censorship of readership. When we are taught to say it loud and proud online – are we also taught to keep all our emotions bland enough for office viewing?

2

Next: If you’re looking for an insult - cherchez la femme. A she-male with whom I have no close relation but at least a budding we-can-stand-each-other-ation has actually de-friended me. I do not know why, or when, or if I care so very much. But you must agree that there is something spookily passive-aggressive about cutting someone while not even on the street?

And so – what do I do. Do I accept it quietly, and when bumping in to her (bumping in this case being inevitable) pretend not to know to have been dumped? Do I face her down, virtually, and ask her where the love was lost? Or do I – and here is where I start feeling slightly devious – blithely reapply for her friendship – putting her in an awkward position and me on the moral high-ground? 

Both issues will take some consideration. But, while the firsts question is almost philosophical and the second is a matter that may be chewed over and best re-served cold, my third brush in with facebook punctilio needs promt attention. Let me recap.

3

I have always been dead against publishing relationship-status-type things on that damn page. Partly because it is none of your business who I am shagging, partly because editing it seems a whole mess of crap and potentially hurt feelings. But last night The Better Man informed me that all types of females are propositioning him and that we’d better make it official, or he’d have trouble keeping on the straight and narrow.

And so - against all better judgement – I accepted a “relationship request”, causing a small pink heart very unlike the bloody fist in my chest to pop up on screen, proclaiming very much like the branding of a cow that this one is being milked by a specific maid.

Trying to ignore feelings of claustrophobia, out-freaking and balls on chains I instead concentrated on the soft glowy feeling of doing something for someone I well, yes, I guess, by now l.o.v.e. Well, give me a ha, ha, ha, for soft and glowy feelings: The Better Man, in turn, has kept his page spick and span and free of all manifestations of frailty and human credulity.

His page is still unpolluted by the public proclamation of belonging, his page is still a carte blanchefor all sorts of predatory females – the one that sub-added me probably leading the pack ( I could finish this paragraph with all sorts of irate fonts and punctuation marks but will try to keep some dignity and keep it to a fairly minimalist, under the circumstances) !!???!))”)((!”())99!!!! 

Ahem. Where were we? Ah yes, we were at the point where I by no fault of my own was left stranded alone at the rocky shores of public intimacy. Which is rather embarrasing, like being caught snogging yourself on the bus, or holding your own bloody hand at the supermarket.

My solution? Sending a very short and succinct e-mail to The Better Man, suggesting that he better make some changes sharpish, the tone of which communique may result in me having to take down that little pink throbbing sign even tomorrow.

But then, even though lone, broken-hearted and possibly humiliated in public fora – at least, at least I will have my politesse. Which is more than I can say for the Tall Hooker.

Languid

Friday being Friday, the day between too-much-red-Thursday and the just-enough-red-Saturday, I am feeling lazy, indolent, in the mood for chocolate covered berries and soft grey throws, crisp old Penguin pages and Bruni.

100 brushstrokes and leaning cheek on fist and closing eyes, husky smokey tea and mebbe painting nails a soft forgotten slightly jagged edge east coast shell pink, like crossing legs, running finger down the slick page of Vanity Fair.

Taking the candle in the brass holder with me and setting it next to the plant, so that the light can show through the green and make the walls flicker.

In short – I don’t feel like writing, but rather like being written, so will leave you with the entertainment of two good links, instead, while I read, and nod off, and in my mind, take a long hot bath. See ya monday!

http://timescolumns.typepad.com/stothard/

http://www.nybooks.com/articles/21870

Love and the Dancing Queen

Last night my big (and currently rather large) sister and I went to see Mama Mia and then on to our fave Italian hangout for fricadelli and a chat.

It was a great night for girldom; I snuck into a shoe-shop on my way to the cinema and tried on some rather hookerish boots which I plan to wear with marginallyless hookerish tweed, the film was great and warm and afterwards we waddled over to the restaurant for gossip, you know, the right kind, about ourselfs, and some very darling antipasto.

Then, as sis made it back to her baby girl and hubby, I went off to a dive-bar to listen to some jazz with The Better Man, and later, in bed, rested my head on his shoulder and fell into blissful slumber as he made manly noises about stuff in the paper.

All in all – after a night of perfection and lullabies - you’d think I’d wake feeling all gooey and safe and warm, yes? But I did not. Instead, upon opening the dazed grey, there was a bee in my bonnet the size of a downtown SUV. And all day now its been humming and hawing, bumping my brain and stinging it, to the point where I have to open a window.

The reason? Meryl Streep. Watch out now, for here comes a spoiler.

Meryl is a woman who, though she’s not getting any, lives a semi-happy life on a Greek island somewhere, surrounded mostly by nubile young bodies and bougainvillea. True, her heart was broken by the one that got away and true, her mansion is crumbling. True, her slightly daft but rather pretty daughter is about to saunter of into the sunset with a man names Sky and true, she has no brush.

But through all of this – she has one thing. Authority. When she starts to sing – everyone listens. She hits the high notes and the rumbling altos with gumption. She sings from the pit of her stomach and straight out. She is stentorian- loud, louder, laddish.

Then the one that got away gets back and asks her to marry him and she says yes and the doves all start cooing. And this would be fine: save for one thing. From the very second she says she does – her vocals are reduced, disarmed, muted. She does her last few moments of film, not in a glorious shout out to love triumphant, but mincing, soft, almost at a whisper. In actual fact – from directing the pipes of the whole bloody island, she falls straight into a do-wop chorus: all power, prerogative and sway handed over to the husband. 

And as I woke this morning, as I straightened the pencil skirt and brushed and flossed and sipped the juice and got on the bus, as I got into work and sat down and started something productive or other, I thought to myself: it is possible that I am the last of the gang to get this – but we have a problem. And it is not solely that I am not currently bathing in aquamarine seas.

Will love make ditties of us all? And in that case, do re mi fa?

Pied Piper

Blame it on my star-sign or blame it on my genes, blame it on society or blame it on the coffee: I am a restless soul. I like to hop from one thing to the next, like to be always starting up, changing tracks. Nothing pleases me more than a pure white notebook still unwritten, nothing is sweeter than the idea of a grandiose project – rather than the day by day dull lull of execution.

Ever looking for the thrill of the new door, I end relationships at six months, have an inordinate number of unfinished scarfs waiting to be knit to the end in a drawer somewhere and several semi-painted walls to my conscience. I read five books at a time, abandon shoes, diets and savings accounts with an almost Casanovan frequency. It is not something I am proud of, though it gives me a wealth of experience – rather like the civilized drunk, I suppose, is not so much pleased with his addiction as with his vast collection of cocktail shakers.

And so, last night – and no, don’t ask me what kind of a moon was a-shining – I felt the old twitching and twinging. I could feel the heat in the pit of my stomach and the itching in my teeth, just longing to take the bite and break into sheer speed; not minding much about who’d be thrown of my back in the process.

Normally, this is when I’d break up with the guy, leave the job, change apartments and start checking rates for tickets to Africa. But as I was walking at a clickety-click speed through town on my way to meet The Better Man, something dawned on me. Feeling peripatetic two weeks into a new and exciting job, a month into a new and exciting man, and a week into a new (and well, fairly horrible) apartment is really pathetic. Also, it is counter productive. Bear with me:

Always longing for the thrill of starting fresh, I have been doing nothing but for 27 years. And it is starting to get old. Same old first looks, same old new colleagues, same old finding the right spot for the tea-urn. Same old packing and same old clumsy fiddling and same old slight feeling of maybe, possibly, running scared. What would really be new, instead, would be to stick. Like bloody glue.

And now, then, for the application of said sticky substance.

Having been brought up to believe that the worst thing you can do to a man is to ask him to change, I try to hold back on criticism and even commentary. I don’t know how many boys have been boring me to tears, without a word of warning passing my lips, so that finally, when I cannot take another minute of the same as yesterday, I snap and wave my adieus.

But last night, in the spirit of trying something new, I told The Better Man that we’d better do something soon, or I’d get restless. (Yes, all the while realizing that this might be a bit heavy after only a few weeks of snogging, but still). I told him about my deadline for next steps, I told him about my need for a forest walk, I told him about the way I never can wait to turn the page.

All the while I could feel my heart in my throat, fully expecting him to turn on his heel – or wheel, as in specific case – and bugger off. All the while I could feel the deap-seated dread of opening up and being vulnerable and all that mumbo jumbo. But strangely, also, all the while I could feel the abhorrence of neediness and honesty paling in the downright glory of speaking my mind.

Oh, and do you want to know what he said? He said fine, let’s take that walk then, slaying in one fell swoop my assumption that to ask is to be denied and therefor it is better to pack than to ask.

Which is of course opening a whole fresh can of worms – but since the consumption of new and strange fodder was the whole point of the exercise, I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining.

Gimme Shelter

We are interrupting normal service for a bit of existential angst.

The skies are grey and threatening and the headlines spell financial doom. I guess we should be digging in for a long haul of boiling old bones and finding alternative uses for cardboard. Which suits me just fine: there aint nothing like a stint of living of a bag of onions and walking to work gainst a harsh wind to make me feel live and kicking.

It might be a bit odd, but hardship really gets me going. When a student, I used to make do on a 2 Euro a day diet of smiles and potatoes while spending the rest of the disposable on shoes and fags. And that was even before I discovered the joys of the hard-times kitchen. Now, I feel like impending depression will finally give currency and relevance to my passion for all things intestine and reused.

In times of high-flying and productivity, mending socks and salting down the poor-mans-parts of a hog seem slightly ridiculous, taking the bike instead of the train faintly foolish, not to mention the way discussing any of the above can seem rather… elevated in its equestrian tendencies. But now, oh, now, thanks to Frank and Frida or whatever their names are I can run the true course set by my stingy moralistic gather-and-perserve genetics.

Only, I suppose, my vision of the coming GD is perhaps slightly naivë. I have always envisioned that great vats of jellied turnips, stiff sides of salted cod and the determined munching on filling servings of chucked peas would be the result of economical turmoil. And I have see them as though set to the music of Glenn Miller. When I dream of rationing my eggs, I dream of doing it with stripes painted up my calves. And when I think cinched belts – I automatically assume a stringency of morals and values will be forthcoming also.

But then, today, as I read a rather alarmistic piece of the Moscow market, I realised that it was still next to an add for some fucking piece of shit online dating site, digital camera or slimming course. And that is when it dawned on me: in case of emergency – the quality of society which we have to work with will not automatically elevate itself.

The decline and fall of the Nasdaq (or whatever it is that is tumbling down the stairs of equity this time) will be set on a stage of functional materials and popular radio. The politicians, civil servants, journalists, artists and philosophers will still be of todays calibre. They will not suddenly spring great minds. They will not suddenly grow spines. But they will be hungry – never ideal for constructive thinking.

The baptism by fire, the gauging of character, the separating of wheats and chafts, the stuff that legend is made of — it will apply to us – pimples and all-no soft backlight. Just because we have a “sudden” collapse of World Finance it wont mean we’ll have any “sudden” appearances of the RAF heroes or poor-paper quality genius Hogarth publications that have made previous dips enjoyable. Neither Gable nor Flynn will suddenly appear on deck or in the smokey ruins to take the rains/rudder.

So, summing up. We are all going to be toast. And toast in ugly sweaters, too.

Love and The Edge of Reason

This weekend has had its ups, and its downs. Amongst the ups I’d like to mention an excellent fishy dish served by excellent friends on Saturday, a hot-damn Sunday chorizo, and also, the sheer pleasure of an multiple cups of tea in the morning.

Amongst it’s downs, I would like to mention my Mother.

Saturday afternoon, due to a frightening lack of planning and foresight on my part, The Man and I slammed into not only my father (to be expected, since we were at his exhibition) but also Mother. And though 15 years of relationships broken on the rocky shores of maternal dissaproval should have taught me to steer clearer, we agreed to go with them for a drink. 

So, me feeling slightly wobbly and just waiting to flounder, we wandered off, the four of us, hunting for some social lubricant. Only The Mother decided to take the plunge without the same, and dove straight into probing for political-views-and-professional-ambitions, without hardly so much as a smile and an introduction by way of easing in.

Now, after a first few feeble attempts to divert her, very much like trying to calm Ike by telling him to go sit in the corner, I tried to be zen about the brainrape, and just let her get on with it. Now, throwing boyfriend to the elements in this way might seem a bit callous. But I swear, once she starts huffing and puffing like that, there is nothing I can do but wait for the wind to die out of her sails.

Which went a lot quicker than normal. For, for the first time since I began to put my fellow men through this excruciating process of mummy wear and tear, I was pleasantly surprised. The Man took it like a man, meeting everything from blatant insult to questioning brow with a smile and composed calm. Impressed, I watched him stand steady as a breaker against the tide of impertinence, belittling and downright frankness. And I think this very steadyness and unwillingness to flay and splash saved him. For miraculously, the seas calmed.

I don’t know if forces of nature usually get worn out with their own blowing, but for the first time, this force of nurture did. A sunny smile broke through, there was even a bit of a reluctant laugh… calm on the waves, or at least, chardonnay.

Alas, when I woke the next morning (though it was from the insistent shrill ringing of my phone) I wasn’t prepared for a world of hurt. In fact, I rather thought, that the storms of maternal disparagement having been tempered, life might offer some plain sailing for a bit. But it wasn’t long till any such innocence was lost, when down the line came the fluttering fluting voices of my mother, fluttering and fluting like a foghorn on an misty day.

For the woman who has never approved of a single boyfriend of mine, the woman who has at best reluctantly countenanced, at worst downright lobbied against, any and all males to blacken my door, finally agrees with me and says that, yes, this one is rather an ok one. If only it wasn’t for one thing. She doesn’t really think I’m the one for him. “He doesn’t seem as keen” she boomed, “don’t get in to deep” she brayed.

Yes, you heard right. After a lifetime of being told to do better, I am now instructed to do worse. After a lifetime of being nagged to stretch taller, I am being advised not to over-reach. Or, not to put to fine a point on it – after a life time of not pleasing my mum, I am still not pleasing my mum. The stormy clouds are still threatening rain, only it’s on my head this time, instead of aimed specifically at my umbrella (I know that metaphor was a bit far fetched, but I think will let it pass just to show am not judgemental crone like others I might mention).

Well, I thought, I would just shrug that one off. I mean, my boots are already deep in the water and there is no real point in backing out now – once knee-deep in pondscum it is hard to get much wetter. She may be right and she may be wrong – but for the time being, I am happy splashing my feet and disregarding any potental major waves on the horizon. Actively not listening, actively not rocking the boat with maternal advice, I decided to think of something else.

A decision fine in theory, but which I just barely managed to stick too through a walk, coffee, movie and dinner of wanting to shout “my mum is always right – and of course I will be drowning”. And which resolve was finally thrown out the window when, at home, started watching a bad bad romcom in the arms of what is now dubbed, I suppose, The Better Man.

Normally, there is nothing I like better than a bad romcom. But last night, I guess the very escapist idea of it was overthrown by the fact that the dialouge mirrored so closely reality, that it felt almost French in its bleak realism. It was Bridget Jones 2, and her mother was in fine shape. And no longer 20 it is dawning on me – all the sad older women that you laughed heartily at through mouths of chocolate in your teens aren’t as funny when the crows are nesting.

Alas, a word of thruth from my mother finally accomplished what a few years of studying literature at Uni could not. I decided to give up on the simpering idiocy and the wimpy forlornness, not to mention the sad haircuts, of chiclit and its screenings. Grabbing the remote, I switched swiftly to a documentary of Rwanda instead – proving that a healthy dosis of the worst suffering possible on earth, full frontal colour pics of the most unspeakable cruelty and inhumanity, is all that can save me from the haunting of female expectation.

Which goes to show that yes, Mothers ARE detrimental to the enjoyment of life. But might inadvertently be just the ticket for feminist awakening.

Son Oncle

Michael Jackson, goldfish, and I: we do have a little something in common. Or have had, for I have been in a bubble of my own for a bit – in the lala-land of newly relational bliss. It has been burst though, and now am out and breathing big heavy gulps of fresh air.

Which feels rather nice. Yes, those first few weeks of hooking up are great, all consuming and obsessive, but also rather unhealthy in their way – pink glasses impairing vision. Anyhow, they are over for this time and I am slowly getting back to my old own self – going for a run in the morning, out with friends at night, and generally letting the world in.

Only I wish the glass would not shatter so badly. For it seems that the world and his uncle are getting handsy and all up in my bizniz. It seems, through no fault of my own, the twain that should never meet are mingling freely. Let me explain:

In my new job, it turns out that not only is the boyfriend of my closest colleague friends with my new interest – also: my boss is good friends with his recent, jagged, jarring ex.

Now normally, I think an integral part of the working day is talking relationships at the shop. I mean, the very reason for keeping work and play separate is that you can say whatever you like about your BF to your colleagues, in a way that would make your friends blush at meeting him. But the thrill of letting it all out over bad coffee and a fag round the corner is rather dimmed when you know every word is being reported verbatim to the lair of the enemy (and her cast-off).

Wherever shall I turn?  Oh, yes, that’s right. Blogwise.

Prepare for some juicy morsels.

Might Makes Right

My body seems always to be conspiring to make me look the fool. It dangles my feet above ground, when sitting down, always snuffing candles out when laughing, through my nose, stuttering when excited and blushing scarlet at first taste of wine. These physical manifestations serve as daily reminders of weakness – and, adding a few hard to reach cupboards and jammed jar-lids – femininity, I suppose. Because what can be more womanly than to inhabit a body that can be pinned down, shoved aside, poked and prodded – and which, when trying to shove, pin prod and poke back will only be endearing faint and laughably lacking in authority.

I remember vividly the first time my lesser physique was brought to my attention. I grew up ruling by despotic fist over a younger brother. In true democratic fashion, I’d solve any of our differences of opinion by sitting on his back and knuckling his neck till he’d give in.

You will imagine my surprise when one day, our teens hit. The insubordination was sudden, as he turned, as though overnight, into a stronger bigger boy, a boy who would without any trouble overthrow my rule by way of dead arms, thousand needles and an occasional frogmarch.

But though this marked the end of my physical dominance, it did not turn me off power. Instead, in an attempt to come to terms with being that which QE the 1 named “weak and feeble woman”, I took her up on her subsequent and lesser known words and became “your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field”.

That is – I decided that though I may never again wear the physical pants in relation to a man, I could still rule by stronger mind. Let the strong backs fetch and carry - in whichever general direction it may please my sharper greys to point them.

Naturally, achieving dominance when lacking the fists wasn’t a cakewalk. A first few attempts by way of screaming, shouting and yelling only proved that my dear brother did not only have longer arms and stronger fists, but also a deeper and more rumbling voice, used to effect for shouting back at me to shut the fuck up.

And so, I turned to the old faithful of the weaker nation: diplomacy and its quirky companion, psychological warfare. Though I am not holding my brother personally responsible, the fact remains that the minute I was thrown from physical alpha-sibling grace to runt-hood I learnt to lean on tricks and connivance.

And on these traits, also known as feminine wiles, I have been relying heavily ever since. The injured silence, the wet lashes, the haughty look have been my strongest weapons in the battle of the sexes. Until recently.

Now, as the perceptive reader may have noticed, I have met a new man, though, for sure he ain’t no New Man. In fact, he is rather Ye Olde Man in the way he rests assured in his own opinions. He is certain, confident, undoubting, secure. Or if you will; bullheaded, mulish, obstinate, persistent, perverse, stubborn, ungovernable.

Given that I have a rather pronounced streak of the same, spiced up with a raging case of autorityphobia, and that we do not see eye to eye on even the simplest of questions, such as how to engineer an open society, god or the historical importance of trade, we have rather a charged situation.

And here is the humdinger: he’s so goddam intractable that even the pursed lips won’t make him see the light regarding the plight of the Palestine. For weeks now, I have been trying to reform him with winning smiles reproachful glances and emotional blackmail. But he won’t give an inch on taxation, not to mention NATO.

Now, there are three wits-end resorts to which I may fall. Behind door number one, we have the surefire option of crossing ones knees and keeping them crossed till he gets down on his and recants on inner city schooling. But, for reasons of my own, I’d rather not. And then there is door number two, never opened in 27 years of wying for power. The better, more researched and though through argument. Since my patience with leafing through old reports on arts council funding is limitid I think that’ll also be given a miss.

And so remains the third option: raising a white flag and buying a one way ticket to St. Helena. I give. (But I will still mutter though, and retain my own opinion on affirmative action).