lastnightidreamtofelephants

2006-03-18T14:19:00.000Z

Due to the almighty shock of being in full-time work and the fact that there is nothing much going on in my life (that you'd want to read about, anyway)

this blog is temporarily on hold

In the meantime, please feel free to browse the archives and post comments

Sara xxx

Yeah, I know I'm a schmuck

2006-01-26T16:42:00.000Z

Apologies for not posting since before New Year. I know my postings are getting more and more infrequent but there is a good reason - mainly that I've licking my wounds. Plus I've been working full time (yes, I know, shock horror, talk about a major lifestyle adjustment), so I don't have the time I used to have to devote to the blog.

Anyway...

New Year was a major fuck up. I know that fuck ups have been a particular speciality of mine since, like, forever, but I really thought I was on the up. I guess it lulled me into a false sense of security because New Year ended up being a cataclysmic disaster.

OK. My idea of extreme fun isn't ever going to be trying to stay sober in the company of a pack of sharp-edged Fulham fools, but I was all into the 'New Year, New Me' thing. Like, 2006 will be the year that Sara gets it together and this is the first rung of the ladder. I was convinced that if I could get past this then the rest of my life would be an effortless climb to the top, scaling the heights without breaking much of a sweat. Let's face it, I'd just gone through a couple of months of painful cold turkey so how hard could one night be? What a Grade A idiot I proved to be.

Anyway, James and I get to this house in Hampshire where the party is taking place. The usual suspects are already in residence, including Kate (the bitch), a spectre in sky-blue skintight satin. God knows what's on her mind but she's being scarily friendly which kind of freaks me out. In fact, the whole lot of them are being friendly, which makes me think that James has said something in advance. Either that or they've all undergone personality transplants. Who knows?

Not drinking on New Year's Eve turns out to be harder than I anticipated. I cave in and tell myself I'll just have the one... I'll sip it... this one glass will last me all night... oh hell, I've finished it... oh OK then, one more...

By the time pudding arrives I realise that my body isn't the temple to depravity it used to be and that my legendary tolerance is kaput.

You know that moment when it suddenly hits you that you are totally pissed? That you haven't been conversing in a witty fashion and entrancing the other guests with your elegance and style. Instead, you have been laughing too heartily and for a beat too long at comments that were not even intended to be funny, your elbow inexplicably keeps slipping off the edge of the table, and your dress is not only rumpled but soup-stained as well.

I slope off to the loo to try and get my head together. I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is a 'before' advert for Frizz-Ease, I have red-rimmed panda eyes, a strand of spinach stuck between my front teeth and my nose is flaking. So much for a healthy lifestyle. I looked much better before I got clean - cocaine, my number one top beauty aid.

I'm not quite ready to go back to the table so I head to the kitchen for a glass of water, then go into the sitting room for a bit of quiet time. I'm lounging in what is possibly the most comfortable armchair in the world, smoking a much-needed cigarette, when I hear James' voice in the hallway. I'm about to call out his name when I hear Kate's dulcet tones. I keep quiet - the last thing I want right now is to be in her company. They stop practically outside the sitting room door, Kate goes, James, are you all right sweetie? James is like, shouldn't I be? Kate says, well, I thought maybe you'd be feeling a bit strange, being here without Karen. I mean, Sara's not exactly Karen, is she? No, she's not, James replies. He's about to say something else but Kate interrupts, Look James, I might be out of turn here but I really don't know what you're doing. Why are you wasting your time with someone who you have nothing in common with? James sort of clears his throat and mutters something I don't catch, and Kate continues, look, I realise that you probably need a bit of fun right now, what with the divorce and everything, but you shouldn't lead that poor girl on. A shag's a shag, James, you don't have to make it out to be anything more than it is.

It's at this point that the night turns from being boring but bearable to utterly shit.

I probably should have gone back into the dining room and acted like I hadn't heard a thing. Or maybe I should have stormed into the dining room, thrown a drink over James' head and a punch at Kate's smug nasty fat face, then walked off into the night. Instead, I take the coward's way out and go upstairs to bed without a word to anyone. When James comes in, presumably to find me, I pretend to be asleep. I lie in bed, crying, listening to the cheering downstairs as the clock strikes midnight. I pretend to be asleep when James staggers in and falls into bed beside me hours later. When dawn breaks, I creep downstairs, the rest of the house still sleeping, and call a taxi to pick me up around the corner. Then I have to persuade the reluctant cabbie to drive me all the way to London (which costs me big time, making me even more pissed off).

I spend the entire journey cursing James, cursing myself, and cursing anyone and everyone else I can think of.

Unsurprisingly, I haven't spoken to him since.

Happy 2006, everyone.

Christmas Cheer

2005-12-28T16:04:00.000Z

It's all going on chez Sara.

Here I am. It's Christmas, and I'm clean and sober for the first time in years. This is not to say that I've given up the booze as well as everything else, it's just, like, everything in moderation, you know? Kind of a scary thing for me.

Most of the Christmasses I've experienced over the past ten years have been spent in a haze of alcohol, starting with champagne for breakfast, moving on to wine at lunch and a naughty vodka or six before dinner. Last year, if I recall correctly (and my powers of recall are certainly not that reliable) was the year that Helen and I shrugged off our families and had Christmas together; we started with a line of coke each for breakfast and the day deteriorated from there.

So this year has been a bit of a shocker. Just Mum and I in our echoey old house, all glammed up and nowhere to go - my mother being a bit of a stickler for formal dress (her idea of casual is a heel lower than three inches). Turkey for two is a difficult act to pull off at the best of times and resulted in a fist-clenching, gritted teeth show of forced cheer. But we got through the day without killing each other, something I never would have thought possible.

No word from my father and the Ice Queen. I guess they wouldn't want to interrupt their month-long holiday in the Far East to lick a stamp and slap it on an envelope. Oh well, whatever. Merry Christmas, you old bastard.

I spent today being elbowed viciously by the hordes of desperate bargain hunters rooting around the sales racks in Selfridges, in the vain hope of finding something drop-dead sassy for New Year's Eve. Forget it. It's the same thing every year, and every year I neglect to remember all these garments are cut-price for a reason - that nobody else considered them hot enough to pay the full price before Christmas.

I'm seeing in the New Year with James. I'm a bit nervous about it considering that his friends are, on the whole, a bunch of gormless twats. However, it's either that or spend New Year in an orgy of narcotic excess with my friends - not a good idea considering the pain I went through last month to detox myself after years of enthusiastic abuse. So James and I will be swanking around some crumbling country pile for a sit down dinner and God knows what else. And I have to survive the whole thing without the comforting fog of being utterly shit-faced. This promises to be a true test of my resolve.

Wish me luck!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

2005-12-23T09:04:00.000Z

I did promise that I would post soon, and it hasn't happened as I still don't have my broadband connection and it looks as if I won't be getting it until the New Year. I won't bore you with the details; let's just say it's been a major cock-up and leave it at that. So, this is yet another quick blog post using someone else's computer...

I've moved into the new flat, which despite being the size of a postage stamp and next door to a guy who enjoys top-volume Dire Straits first thing in the morning, it's kind of great. I miss Helen though. You get used to someone being around all the time, and although we see each other and talk on the phone a lot, it's not the same. Plus I can't scrounge a ciggie from her when I'm too lazy to go to the corner shop to top up my supplies.

And as for James... it was a little awkward at first but we sorted stuff out, up to a point anyway, and I think he's turned into my boyfriend. It's weird and scary to be in what could be termed as a relationship - I keep getting freak-outs that he's going to start suggesting Sunday afternoon trips to B&Q to look at paint charts - but I've resolved to take it as it comes. We'll see what happens.

I'm spending Christmas with my mother, oh joy, followed by major New Year's Eve party action.
I'll try to post again soon, in much more detail.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and looking forward to a new and shiny 2006.

Another pause

2005-12-12T08:33:00.000Z

Hello everyone - just in case you're wondering, I haven't disappeared again. I've been moving house, so I've been occupied with shifting boxes and trying to figure out how I've managed to accumulate so much junk over the past few years.

I will be around over the next couple of weeks but unfortunately my broadband isn't due to be connected until 21st December so posts will be sporadic until then.

And as for James? Let's just say that it's looking brighter. A full update will be forthcoming, I promise.

a new chapter (hopefully)

2005-12-03T17:02:00.000Z

I'm back. Finally.

I was away for a bit longer than I originally intended but it's taken me a bit longer than I thought it would to sort myself out to the point that I feel human again. I think I'm almost there.

It's been an emotional whirly-gig of (almost) a month. So much has been going on in my head that I couldn't describe it here, not without sending you all to sleep. So here's the abbreviated version: a month of hurdles and facing up to some unpleasant facts about myself; a month of re-evaluating this skewed blueprint for life that I seem to have developed over the years; a month to realise that I have wasted a lot of time, hiding from everything and anything and anyone likely to cause me pain, or likely to force me to do anything but coast. I've come to the conclusion that my lifestyle is not big, nor is it clever, and there have been some changes.

First of all, I've stopped taking drugs. Not an easy process and it's left me feeling quite ill - which is partly why I've stayed away for so long. The withdrawal process, even for someone who couldn't really be classified as a serious addict, has been unsettling - emotionally and physically. I won't go into the gory details but let's just say it hasn't been pretty. Since I hoovered up my hopefully last-ever line, I've been suffering from a permanent cold and extreme fatigue, which tells me my immune system is totally up shit creek. Funny, isn't it, how an unhealthy lifestyle only really hits home once you've given the stuff up? I'm popping multi-vits like crazy and keeping my fingers crossed.

Secondly, Helen and I are moving out of our semi-squat on Wednesday. Our landlord finally gave in to a lucrative offer from a property developer and we're out. So Helen is moving in with Karen and I've found a studio in Earl's Court. I'm really sad about it because I'm going to miss Helen badly - we've lived together for years -but she is a major stoner and my partner in all kind of crimes and misdemeanors, so it's probably for the best. My self-control only goes so far.

And James... well, that's a whole other story. I'm seeing him tomorrow for the first time in a long time, so you (and I) will just have to wait and see...

Thank you for all your comments while I've been away - it's meant a lot that you guys have been out there wishing me well...

One thousand years of solitude

2005-11-13T19:45:00.000Z

It's been a strange weekend, a very introspective one, and some stuff has happened to make me think that I need to take a couple of weeks out to reassess my life and myself and pretty much everything.

My life is a fucking mess, and I'm a fucking mess, and something has to change.

I've been coasting on empty for so long I think I've forgotten what it's like to live, to really truly live, to grab every moment as it comes and to experience, to really experience, to open my arms out wide, to open my heart, rather than hiding behind that oh-so-effective protective layer of mine that keeps me safe but doesn't let much through. I need to pull myself off my hamster wheel, dissolve my comfort zone and let myself feel, properly feel, probably for the first time since Sam broke me.

I need to let myself heal. I need to really look at myself, to meet my eyes in the mirror and not be afraid to look into the depths. I need to learn to like what I see.

And I know I need to stop the drugs and all the other excesses I indulge in to keep myself emotionally numb.

I'll be back when I've managed to make a dent in that Teflon hide of mine.

In the meantime, I found a poem today which I wrote after Sam left all those years ago. I'm not sure it's particularly good but it probably says quite a lot about me, so I thought I'd share it. What does make me laugh a bit is that when I wrote it I obviously imagined myself to have achieved some kind of high-powered business-type job by the year 2005. I guess my life hasn't quite turned out like I imagined all those years ago...

Alternative Vistas: 2005
It is your eyes I see when I close mine
and pull you out of the dark recesses
of my mind at the end of each long day.
Finally relaxed, shards of light slanting
through the blinds on to the bed, I lie back,
shedding suit, briefcase, reams of paper,
smart shoes; my uniform, my armour,
guarding raw flesh, smothering me,
saving me from harsh real world life, forty-five
to fifty hours of every working week.

When I smell you on strange passing skin, you
leap out of the cubby hole constructed
for sometimes longed-for long-gone lovers.
The soundtrack of my life swells with
bitter-sweet thoughts of could-have-been.
I walk to work, city smells surrounding
my fragile frame; my mind filled
with alternative vistas and the look
in your eyes when you realise that you
could, possibly, might well have, loved me.

The Big Chill

2005-11-11T21:36:00.000Z

Ok. So maybe, just maybe I've been a little stubborn. Maybe I am a bit pig-headed. Maybe I am somewhat unforgiving.

As some of you have pointed out, maybe I need to look at recent events from James' point of view.

But you know, I hate the fact that James was so bloody mean about my friends. Life has taught me that men come and go but your friends are always there for you, to help pick you up, dust you off and set you back on your feet - whenever you lose your balance. I love my friends, and they love me, and I do not like anyone, even a sexy washboard-stomached naughty-eyed sex-god, saying that they are a bunch of losers.

Yes, I realise that maybe James hasn't had the best of times in my company over the past couple of weekends. Yes, I realise that being punched by the idiot boyfriend of one of my best friends is likely to have put a downer on his evening, but... still...

So I sat down for a bit and stared at the infamous shag-pile, and came up with a list of pros and cons.

The Case For James:
- he's indecently sexy
- he's scarily intelligent
- he makes me laugh, a lot
- there's an incredible physical connection between us
- I'm (usually) comfortable in his presence; being with him feels very natural
- there's something about him that I find fascinating
- he's a great kisser... and the rest...
- did I mention that he's indecently sexy?

The Case Against James:
- I'm starting to think that maybe he's a bit of a snob and overly concerned with appearances
- he is capable of sulking, big time, which is not terribly attractive in a man
- in many ways, we couldn't be more different, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing
- his friends suck (but then again, it seems that he thinks my friends suck too)
- I have a feeling that there may be more negatives yet to emerge

Don't want to call him, but also not sure if I'm ready for it to be over yet...

Why does it always have to get complicated? I really should just stick to one-night-stands; all the physical fun and none of the emotional bullshit. Much more manageable.

Happy HNT!

2005-11-09T18:59:00.000Z

Hrmphhh

2005-11-09T18:51:00.000Z

Text from James this afternoon: HEY HOW R U?

So far I'm ignoring it. If he wants to communicate with me then he can pick up the phone and call me, properly.

I'm an old-fashioned girl at heart.

The Aftermath

2005-11-07T21:25:00.000Z

So, we're in the minicab on the way back to my house. James is grumbling away, clutching at his jaw. I suppose he has to be forgiven for the complaining; Dave is fairly puny but he still managed to pack one hell of a punch. So I'm being hugely apologetic and agreeing with him that, yes, Dave is a bit of an idiot, and yes, he was out of order, and yes, I am so sorry it happened, poor baby, I'll make it up to you as soon as I get you alone.

Then James goes, Sara, what are you doing hanging around with those people? I'm like, what do you mean by that? And he goes, well, you know, they're kind of, well, a bunch of losers. I say, hang on a minute, James, that's incredibly rude. And anyway, it's not like your friends are so fucking great, is it?

We sort of glare at each other and I'm sure more unpleasant words would have been exchanged if the cab hadn't chosen that moment to pull up outside my front door. I flounce out of the cab, chuck some money at the driver and start the usual long search for my house keys.

I live in quite a nice area; green and leafy, and like most of London, it's being overrun by property developers with pound signs in their eyes. However, our house is the black sheep of the street. Like a once glamorous movie star past her prime, our house stands firm in its resistance to the 21st Century home-improvement madness. The weed-festooned front garden alone signals a heartfelt fuck-you defiance to the Farrow & Ball colour palette and Zen gravel arrangement of next door. And it's not much better inside. Helen and I could hardly be described as house proud.

I open the door and usher James in. It's like I'm seeing the place for the first time. The green shag pile carpet looks even shabbier than usual, set off nicely by the drift of junk mail Helen and I always talk about clearing away but never get any further than kicking into the corner. The bare lightbulb (the lampshade went missing after one of our wilder parties, we meant to replace it, but...) highlights the peeling anaglypta on the walls. The sitting room sofa is one of those nasty Dralon affairs. There is a patch of damp on the wall next to the bay window. The curtains sag.

Yeah. It's a dump.

I can tell that James is less than impressed, although I'm not sure that the pained expression on his face is down to my lack of des res or his rapidly swelling jaw. I sit him down and decide that the only option is to anaethetise him with vodka. Even if it doesn't numb the pain, at the very least it might cheer him up.

Bad idea. James gets even moodier.

Eventually I reach the point where I've had enough - I am in no way a glutton for punishment - and offer to call him a minicab. He accepts without any hesitation, and the silence while we wait for it to show up is acute. James practically leaps up when we hear the toot of a car horn outside - showing an insulting level of haste in my opinion - plants a passionless kiss on my lips and throws an, I'll call you, over his shoulder as he races out of the door.

In my experience, that can mean only one thing: Game Over.

The Party

2005-11-06T17:37:00.000Z

I am SO hungover. So please excuse any typos. In fact, it's a miracle I'm able to type at all. My brain is like an arid desert today.

Anyway...

I took James along to Nadia's party last night. I was feeling a bit nervous about the prospect of introducing him to my friends; James is so different to my usual type that I had no idea how they would react. My usual type is creative, unconventional, radical, with a definite edge - the total opposite to James. So I was working on the assumption that he might come as a bit of a surprise.

By the time we get to Nadia's flat - she lives in this really cool factory conversion in Wandsworth - the party's been in full swing for a couple of hours. All the usual suspects are there and they're all very well lubricated. It's like the Fall of the Roman Empire with Ikea furniture. I find Nadia, give her a kiss hello and introduce James. She looks him up and down, gives me a wink and goes, very nice. Where did you find this one then? I'm like, oh you know, just another conquest from The Club. You know I like to keep the punters happy. James gives me a look. I look back, smile and say, James, I'm joking. Sometimes I don't think he quite gets my sense of humour.

By this point, the rest of the posse figure out that we're here and within minutes we're surrounded. All my friends have heard about James, with varying degrees of detail, so naturally they all want to take a look at him. It all starts off well. My friends behave themselves, refrain from dropping any major clangers and the piss-taking is mild. The girls are drooling over him, James is loving the attention and on a total charm offensive, and even Joe and Paul are more friendly than they usually are to any of my men (they're kind of over-protective and extremely suspicious of any new testosterone invading their patch). So I'm happy, relaxed and knocking the wine back like it's going out of fashion.

Then Dave, Evie's other half, rocks up. I like Dave but when he's drunk he's unbearable; a fully paid-up member of the Angry Pisshead Club. And Dave is totally hammered tonight. As usual, he launches straight into his favorite subject, football, directing a slurred, Who do you support, mate? at James. James goes, Chelsea. Who else? Dave, a lifelong Arsenal fan, goes ballistic. I won't go into the details, suffice it to say that James gets all pinched around the mouth and starts frowning, there's a fair bit of swearing, aspersions are cast as to Frank Lampard's sexuality, to which James' rejoinder is that Thierry Henri couldn't kick his way out of a paper bag. Dave loses it and throws a punch that lands right on James' jaw.

I mean, for fuck's sake! What is it with men and football?

As you can imagine, being physically assaulted totally kills James' party spirit, and since Evie has dragged Dave home for a major bollocking he can't even get his revenge. So I call a minicab and take James back to my place.

And that's when it all started to really go wrong.

I'm too knackered right now to write any more so I'm off to veg in front of the telly. More tomorrow.

Status report

2005-11-05T08:30:00.000Z

It's been a weird week. First there was the incident at the weekend, which took me until Thursday to completely recover from, and the major surprise of James being so nice about it all. I mean, I really thought that I'd blown it. In fact, I've been thinking about it a lot all week and my only conclusion is that the guy is either some kind of freak or he has a saviour complex, and I'm not sure which is worse.

Oh yes, and I took all your advice and played hardball with the texting thing - I simply refused to respond. It took two days for James to crack but now he seems to have the hang of this calling and talking thing. Much nicer. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.

I also seem to found myself another job. In addition to working behind the bar at night, I've been talked into helping out in The Club promotional office during the day - yes, it makes my soul rebel to even say the word 'office' but now and then the promise of a fistful of filthy lucre is a great persuader - so I'm finally feeling reasonably solvent, an unusual state of affairs for me.

There's a party happening tonight and I'm taking James along. I have a slightly unsettled feeling about James meeting my friends but what the hell... let's see what happens.

Quiz

2005-11-05T07:39:00.000Z

Found this on WDKY's blog, so thought I'd join in the fun.

You fit in with:
Humanism

Your ideals mostly resemble that of a Humanist. Although you do not have a lot of faith, you are devoted to making this world better, in the short time that you have to live. Humanists do not generally believe in an afterlife, and therefore, are committed to making the world a better place for themselves and future generations.

20% spiritual.
80% reason-oriented.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Happy HNT!

2005-11-03T06:00:00.000Z

OK, I confess. This pic was not taken specifically for HNT so it is kind of cheating. But my digital camera is on the blink so it's either this or nothing...

I like this picture because it reminds me of how much I love Thailand. It was taken on Ao Nang beach (near Krabi) early one morning after watching the sun rise. Good times.

I don't think that beach exists any more - the whole of the Krabi coastline was badly hit by the Tsunami.

Things I found under my bed today

2005-11-02T19:00:00.000Z

For some inexplicable reason I decided to tidy my room this morning. Actually, it's not that inexplicable. The flash point came when I couldn't locate one matching pair of shoes - and I have lots of shoes. Even I can't cope with that level of utter chaos.

Here is a list of things I found under my bed:

One pair of Calvin Klein boxers (scarily last century - and I have no recollection of their owner, even more scary)
One pack of Rizla
Two (empty) boxes of Durex Fetherlight
Four ripped up tube tickets
One set of furry pink handcuffs
One concert ticket - The Pixies, 1st September at Ally Pally, London (it was GREAT)
One g-string, pink, with ribbon ties
One slightly grey sports bra
One (empty) bottle of Bollinger
One (empty) bottle of Jack Daniels
One (empty) bottle of Absolut
One (almost empty) bottle of Vittel
One copy of Scarlet magazine
One copy of Vogue
One copy of Penthouse (I swear, I have NEVER seen it before)
One half-eaten Walnut Whip
My favorite pair of Earl jeans
One black stocking, slightly laddered
One dog-eared copy of Mil Millington's 'A Certain Chemistry'
One bottle of massage oil
One blonde wig

I'm not sure what this says about my life, except that I'm a lazy cow who never does any housework.

A sure-fire cure for any ailment

2005-11-01T11:11:00.000Z

Black eyes, grey skin. Below the neck it's holding itself together but otherwise, I'm on a one-way street to Botox. My mother will be delighted when we finally have something in common. I wonder if my father will forgive me for long enough to give me a consultation?

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror for half an hour this morning. Trying to find myself. Trying to meet my own eyes.

I'm not sure I like what I see.

Text from James this morning: THNKNG OF U. J XOXOXO

You'd think James would have realised I'm a bad investment by now. Remind me not to put any share portfolio I might have in the future in his hands. He's obviously not very good at his job.

Helen is taking me shopping. The purchase of new shoes is the only effective cure for the comedown blues.

Singing the blues

2005-10-31T12:30:00.000Z

I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself. But I suppose that's to be expected considering the punishment I put my my seratonin nodes through on Saturday. My brain feels like deep-fried Camembert and my body looks like it's aged forty-eight years in as many hours. Oh, poor me...

I also feel like a bit of an idiot.

James was lovely on Sunday morning, especially considering that he was probably expecting a night of torrid sex and all he got was a frozen physical wreck who wasn't up for anything more than a cuddle. I mean, let's face it, you treat a girl to a swanky hotel in the hope of a supremely dirty weekend, she talks you into dropping your first e and then she freaks out. Not the best scenario, is it? If I were him, I would probably never talk to me again.

But James was Mr Super Considerate. I really can't figure him out. Took me home early on Sunday morning as requested, helped me into the house (yes, I was that fragile), looked me deep in the eyes, and told me that if I needed him to just call and he'd be over like a shot. Then he kissed me gently and took off.

All this perfection - it's almost too much for me.

God, I'm a cow, aren't I?

A Certain Chemistry

2005-10-30T11:59:00.000Z

Just got back. Desperately want to sleep, I feel terrible, but I can't so thought I'd post about what happened yesterday...

James picked me up yesterday in his ancient rustbucket (apparently it's a classic - an Alpha Romeo GT something - all I know is that it smells of damp dog, the heating doesn't work, and there's an annoying leak located directly above the passenger seat) and whisked me off, as promised, to a secret location in Sussex.

I was expecting a Bed & Breakfast in the finest British tradition - the kind of place done out exclusively in man-made fibres and melamine, presided over by a grim-faced blowsy bottle-blonde with American-tan clad cankles. I was wrong. We turn off the main road down a long gravel driveway and park up in front of a beautiful manor house, its old stone walls covered with creepers. James grins at me, what do you think? I'm like, well, yeah, I guess it'll have to do.

A gaggle of liveried flunkies compete to wrestle the tatty overnight bag from my hand and we're whisked off to a room the size of your average London flat. I love hotels and I doubt that I've ever stayed anywhere quite as nice as this; as soon as we're left alone I race around like an over-excited puppy while James sits on the edge of the four-poster bed, watching me with what can only be described as amusement. A tin full of home-baked biscuits! Chocolates! Two sofas! A desk! A decanter of port! A hand-written note from the manager! Flowers! A basket of fruit! Big squishy towels! A balcony! I'm in hotel heaven. I turn to James and smile, OK. I'll admit it, I'm impressed. He smiles back, that was the intention.

We order drinks from room service and sit out on the balcony. The hotel garden is massive, stretching out as far as the eye can see. I sigh happily and decide that if Helen and I ever get evicted from our almost-squat we'll be relocating to the South Lodge Hotel.

So, James goes, what's this surprise you mentioned? I can tell from the anticipation in his eyes that he's hoping it'll be some sort of sexual kick. I'll go get it, I say, don't go anywhere. I head back into the room, quickly find what I'm looking for and go back outside. Close your eyes, I say, and give me your hand. James does as he's told - I do like an obedient man - and I place the surprise on his outstretched palm. OK, I say, you can look now. James opens his eyes, sees the two white pills and goes, Sara, what the fuck are these? I go, isn't it obvious? James goes, yes and that's what's freaking me out.

Last time James and I went out the conversation turned to drugs. It seems that James is a bit of an innocent - beyond experimenting with mushrooms at boarding school and a few lines of coke here and there, he's barely done anything. However, I got the distinct sense that he's more than a bit curious.

I'm like, oh come on James, don't get all coy with me. You seemed very interested in the whole e thing the other night. And what could be a better setting than this? I gesture around the room. I'll take care of you. Plus, I have a cast-iron guarantee that these are top-quality pills. He looks uncertain until I say, and anyway, shagging on e has to be experienced to be believed. I wink, trust me, it'll be a positive experience. I obviously choose the right tactic because five seconds later James has swallowed his pill. I do the same, order more drinks, and sit back and wait. I haven't taken a pill for a while so I'm quite looking forward to it.

Coming up while drinking vodka and ginger ale and enjoying the rolling green of the South Downs is a surprisingly calming experience. I savour the usual pinpricks, the tingling that starts at the base of my skull, spreading warm and tender, then warmer still. I turn to James, can you feel that? He looks uncertain, I think so...he rubs his neck, maybe. It's taking a long time, longer than usual. I'm starting to think that maybe I'll be having words with Marty The Dealer when I get back to London, no way is he getting away with selling me substandard goodies, when it hits me like a truck.

My ears register a long-drawn-out moan. It comes from me from deep inside me the moan of a child in pain cold air squeezing my skin... unbearablepressure... waveafterwaveafterwave crashing crashing... hits a spot in the deepest centre of my brain...won'tstopwon'tstopwon'tstop... sick... sick...sick to the core...got to lie down... too much green too much sky too much space it hurts to look at all that space i have got to get inside lie down wrap myself in duvet hide... feetlegsarmsbodywon'tmove .. stucktomychairgottomovecan'tbeartostayhere.. toomuchspacetoomuchairtoocold.. ithurtsithurtsithurtsohgodithurts .. ihavetoliedownwhywontmyfuckingbodylistentome? I have to fucking well lie down...nownownownownow

a lull in the pressure, in the fucking awful thing pressing down on me freezing me numbing me with painpainpaintoomuchtoomuchpain.... and I drop from the chair on all fours across the carpet sinking into the carpet my hands are dissapearing into this fucking shag-pile luxurious blood-red hotel carpet have to keep going across this widewidewide pool of blood swimming wading keepgoingkeepgoing pull hands out keepgoingtheefforttheeffort arms so heavy legs so big so heavy and i get to the bed pull myself up one big surge of effort never knew i had it in me god this is sososososososo hard and im on the bed the softest bed ever to cradle my body under the duvet so warm im shaking juddering a fucking power drill in my spine splintering driving fleshandbone and dark warm dark warm...safe safe safe its ok im safe icanbreathe i can breathe

What could be an hour or five minutes later - I don't know, time has gone to a place unrelated to any part of me - my brain slowly starts to settle back into my skull and I register the feeling of foreign skin pressed up against my back, strong arms holding me tight, warm breath steady on my neck. I stir, feeling my way. James' voice whispers in my ear, Sara, are you alright? I whisper back, yes. He says, I was really worried about you, you freaked. Are you sure you're alright? Yes, I say. I'm fine now. Didn't you feel it? That was the strongest pill I've ever taken. He says, I felt it. It was fine, nice. But I kind of put a downer on your high? I ask. You could say that, he replies. And then he squeezes me gently and it feels like the best thing in the world. Safer than I've ever felt. James and I are so close it feels as if we're sharing the same skin. He kisses me gently but I'm washed up, wrung out, exhausted. All I'm good for is lying curled up in that soft, soft bed, James against me, contact from head to foot, just feeling, sensing, listening, a sponge, absorbing, no energy to respond.

I think that might be the last pill I'm ever going to take.

What a waste of a four-poster bed.

Countdown...

2005-10-28T19:30:00.000+01:00

Just a quick one before I rush out to work.

James is picking me up tomorrow morning and whisking me off for the promised Sussex shag-fest so I probably won't post again until Sunday... watch this space!

(...the anticipation is practically killing me.)

HAPPY HNT!

2005-10-27T20:15:00.000+01:00

Happy (late) HNT!

Do you know how hard it is to photograph your own legs without falling over?

After Hours : Part Two

2005-10-26T22:30:00.000+01:00

Like I said in yesterday's post, I rarely frequent our after-hours drinking club anymore as I just don't have the energy for all-nighters - I guess that's what happens when you hit the wrong side of twenty-five. But one night last week I found myself still buzzing after the club closed - all that freedom and nowhere much to go. It didn't take too much persuasion from Suze and Danny to get me to revisit old haunts.

We walk down the Tottenham Court Road before we turn into Soho. The streets are filthy, littered with boxes and cans from the kebab shops up the road. Every other shop doorway serves as a shelter for the homeless, buried in makeshift nests of cardboard and tattered blankets. Hollow eyes peer out of the dark as we pass the discount bookshop, an expressionless voice asks for some change. As always, I try to meet the eyes with mine before I say, no sorry, before I walk on. Being ignored, steps quickening, faces averting, being refused any kind of acknowledgement because you lack the security of bricks and mortar, that must be the most painful cut. I might not be able to give everyone money - I try to limit it to a daily delivery of sandwiches for Billy who lives in the doorway of the Empire, and buying the Big Issue from my local seller - but at least I can give acknowledgement. And sometimes I think that feeds the soul more than a pound coin ever could.

Our drinking club is not exactly legit; the fact that it doesn't announce its presence to passers-by can make it hard to find. All the doorways in this (seedier) part of Soho look the same; dented and rusty metal, smelling of piss, neglected, unmemorable, anonymous, without name or number. As usual, we ring the bell and a hatch slides open to reveal a pair of suspicious eyes. Our faces pass muster and the door swings open. We squeeze past the bouncer, a granite-faced boulder of a man, into a narrow corridor and head up the stairs.

Except for the blacked-out windows, it looks like the worst kind of student sitting room. Tatty old sofas, vinyl armchairs and chipped formica tables jostle for space. A makeshift bar, built by someone with only a passing acquaintance with D.I.Y. runs the length of the room, topped with bottles of rum and whisky and a couple of plastic cool boxes filled with beer. It’s not the sort of drinking establishment that has Apple Martinis on the cocktail menu, but as usual, the place is packed.

The first time I came here I was scared shitless. A lot of the punters wouldn't look out of place in a police line up and there is a distinct odour of menace in the air. Ready rolled spliffs are sold from a box behind the bar, useful for those nights when you’re so mashed you can’t speak let alone skin up anything thinner than a retro-sized tampon. And if you fancy a line nobody bats an eyelid if you chop it out and snort it up straight from the table. The only thing they don’t like is the really hard stuff. Not a problem for me. I have some limits.

We grab a table and send Danny over to get the drinks in. Suze is like, I so need a drink. Five auditions this week and nothing to show for it except a bruised ego. And to make it even worse, Ty dumped me. Suze has been going out with Ty for as long as I’ve known her so this is big news. I go, what happened this time? Hoping that my pleasure won’t show on my face - Ty is one of the biggest arseholes I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. Suze goes, he’s been fucking some tart who, he says, makes me look like an amateur. She sneers, although frankly, I find that hard to believe - it's not like I've ever heard him complaining when he's got his cock in my mouth. Suze's words are hard but her eyes are wet. It hurts me to see her like this. It hurts me to see anyone like this. I put my hand on her arm, are you alright Suze? She's like, what do you think? Of course I'm not fucking all right. She shrugs me off, oh fuck it, he'll be back. He always comes back. He always comes back when the thrill of fresh pussy wears off. She smiles but it's hollow, shrugs, like, you know, whatever.

It really pisses me off, the way Ty treats Suze. And I’m even more pissed off at her that she lets him get away with it. Every time he comes back, tail between his legs, full of self-pity, excuses, protestations, and there’s Suze - welcoming arms wide open, so fucking grateful to have him back that she’ll forgive him anything, wipe the slate clean, present herself to him like a gift when what he really needs is a push in the direction of the door. It’s way past pathetic. All that love stuff, it sucks out your brain and leaves a vacuum instead. Whatever happened to self-respect?

I'm so glad I'm out of that game. I am so, so glad.

I don't stay at the club for long that night. I guess I've kind of lost my appetite for it.

Update on James

2005-10-25T15:29:00.000+01:00

It seems like forever since I last went out with James, although it was only Friday night. What's that? Four days. Not much, but it seems like a long, long time. Weird.

He's been texting me every day, which is kind of nice, but also a bit of a cop-out as you don't have to say much, you can't say much, via SMS. But today James sent me a text saying that he wants to take me away this weekend - to a hotel in Sussex. I guess I'll be swapping some shifts with Suze because that's an offer a girl just can't refuse.

But I'm also planning a little surprise for him...

Wait and see.

After Hours

2005-10-25T14:52:00.000+01:00

I've posted about the Club before but to save you the trouble of having to go digging through my archives for details, I work behind the bar at a West End nightclub in London. It's kind of shit but it has some advantages for a work-shy office-phobe like me. But the worst thing about working in the Club is the manager, aka The Fat Bastard (the description says it all).

Suze, Danny and I are the regular barstaff and ancient in terms of the usual job longevity - I've worked here for almost two years, Suze for coming up to three years, and Danny for ten months. The rest of the bar staff come and go so quickly it's barely worth the effort of remembering their names. Suze, Danny and I get on pretty well. I wouldn’t say that we’re best mates or anything but we’re united by our wish to witness the total humiliation and downfall of The Fat Bastard. So far, it's proven to be a superglue bond.

Suze is a wannabe actress who'd shag her granny on live telly if she thought it would get her name up in lights. So far, fame has proven elusive; Suze spends her daylight hours at castings, lining up with everyone else like a herd of cattle on their way to the branding shed. She’s resigned to having world-weary eyes flicking over her for a split-second followed by a clipboard-brandishing casting agent telling her that she’s too old, too young, too short, too tall, too ugly, too attractive, too big-titted, too small-titted, or just plain not right for the part. It’s not quite the stuff dreams are made of but she’s working hard at it.

Danny is, well, he's just Danny. He's just another no-hoper without a dream to call his own, waiting, hoping, for the call to something, anything, better than this.

We're usually out of the club by 3.30am, unless Don, the owner of the joint, is having a lock-in. On the lock-in nights one of us stays behind to tend bar and keep the Don posse happy - it's not too bad, there's usually a couple of notes in it for us and a taxi home. But on the nights when Don is nowhere to be seen, and when we feel up to it, or need to chill in likeminded company, we head for a private member's club hidden in the back streets of Soho. Don't get me wrong, it's not along the lines of the Groucho. Our after hours drinking club is the kind that you don’t need an exclusive membership for; you just need to look like you’re not a copper. We don't go there that often, or at least, I don't anymore - my energy levels are running on empty more often than not these days. But Suze and Danny did manage to drag me there last week. I'll post about it later.

Childhood Memories

2005-10-24T08:31:00.000+01:00

My earliest childhood memory is being in a room made up of shadows. Figures are moving about around me and I am up high, possibly in a highchair, with something squishy in front of me. There is no emotion associated with this memory.

Another memory. I am small and sitting on a child sized chair. I have an orange in my hand and I am peeling it. My mother tells me not to swallow the pips or a tree will grow in my tummy. I wait until she leaves the room, swallow three pips in quick succession and wait in terrified anticipation for a tree to burst out of the top of my head. Nothing happens, so I eat the rest of the orange.

I am at school. I must be around five years old. My nose starts to bleed and I am sent to the sanitorium. The nurse sits me on a chair and gives me a tissue to hold to my nose. She tells me not to move. Then she leaves the room to go to the nurses' office. I can hear her talking loudly to the sanitorium sister. Time passes. I need a wee. I really need a wee, but I can't move, the nurse told me not to. I call out but she doesn't come. I wee myself. I sit there, crying, nose bleeding, watching as the wee pools under the chair and trickles out in thin lines across the linoleum. I listen to the loud conversation from the next room and wait for her to come back.

I am seven. There is something nasty under my bed. I have to jump from the far edge of the rug stretched by the side of my bed onto my duvet. It's a long way. If I trip or miss the edge of the bed it will grab my ankles and pull me underneath. My heart pounds, my cheeks burn, my head buzzes. I back up until I am level with the wardrobe, steel myself for the olympian effort I am about to undertake, then run, faster, faster, faster... edge of the rug, leap, feet leave the floor, I am flying, flying through the air, and land, thump, safely slap-bang on the centre of the duvet. The relief is immense. Then, careful that no part of my body even peeps over the edge of the bed, I squirm under the duvet and tuck it around every part of me. Then I stare at the curtains and tap my feet until I fall asleep.

I am ten. My parents have stopped speaking to each other. They talk through me instead. Breakfast is the worst time. My father asks me to pass the milk, which is next to my mother's elbow. My mother asks me to pass the sugar, which is in front of my father. My mother's eyes look blank. My father's eye twitches. I pass the things they ask me to pass and eat my breakfast quickly. Then I go upstairs to my room and wait until I hear the front door slam and my father's car spraying gravel in the driveway.

Piss-Poor, Set Up and Stony Broke; the story of the recision of my allowance

2005-10-23T08:10:00.000+01:00

I've posted before about my parents, but for those of you who haven't read about them before and are too damned lazy to go through my archives, here are the highlights:

My mother is a suburban socialite, a vision in Jaegar, addicted to the application of Mr Sheen to her rosewood furniture, and a WI paragon. I am the source of her lifelong shame.
My father is a cosmetic surgeon, the type who advertises in the back of glossy magazines; heroically dedicated to making female dreams of thinner thighs and bouncier breasts come true.
Neither of them know this blog exists. I hope to hell that they never will.
My parents got divorced when I was quite young.
I got a pony to soften the blow of Daddy disappearing into a shag-happy sunset with a younger, blonder version of my mother, who, thanks to my father, sported bouncy tits and thinner thighs. It seemed like a good deal at the time.
My father is the classic story of a middle-aged man growing old disgracefully. It's kind of shamful to be seen in public with him at times.
And yes, I am embarrassed at being given an allowance by my daddy at the grand old age of twenty-seven, but sometimes a girl's moral high ground disintegrates at the prospect of a life without blow or new shoes.

Anyway, Lighterate recently asked why I've been cut off from the paternal purse strings, so here's the story.

My suddenly reduced cash-flow poses a big, big problem considering that the rent is due next week, Helen has about as many pennies to rub together as I have (so, not a lot), and there's this great big credit card bill sitting on my desk getting redder by the second. Whatever, I'll figure something out, but this is all the fault of my stepmother, aka The Bitch.

Since my parents got divorced my father has gone through women like I get through packs of Marlboro. The initial affair, the one that struck the hammer blow for my parents divorce, lasted all of five minutes and then he was on to the next. He has a particular type, my father, which he adheres to it like a religion. All the women kind of merge into one; blonde, botoxed, silicon from lips to tits and preferably very, very tall. For this reason he is particularly keen on Russian women, and since my father is kind of wealthy and enjoys flashing his cash about, Russian women are particularly keen on him.

Unsurprisingly, The Bitch is Russian. She has the flinty eyed gaze that comes from generations of her people freezing their asses off on the Steppes and the kind of haughty high-boned face that always looks bored. In my more twisted moments I imagine her eyes looking out from over my father's shoulder, him in the throes of passion, her dispassionately examining her manicure and fantasising - Gucci, Chanel, Tiffany, Bulgari, Cartier....mmmm. I don't know what he sees in her, apart from the fact that she is very, very beautiful. Actually, that is what he sees in her. I shouldn't make the mistake of assuming that my father is any less shallow than he initially appears to be; he's not.

So I go to meet my father for lunch at Daphne's, a long-standing tradition, partly introduced by the fact that The Bitch can't stand having me in their apartment for more than five minutes. The moment I catch sight of his face I know I'm in trouble. He's usually pretty jovial-looking but this time he has an unmistakeable set to his jaw. I pretend not to notice, smile brightly and drop a kiss on his slowly thinning head (he's about two seconds away from hair transplants). He's like, sit down Sara. Uh oh. I'm like, is something wrong? I desperately rack my brain for what he might have found out about; nothing comes up. As far as I'm aware he thinks I'm squeaky clean.

He pours me a glass of wine, then says, Iryna is very worried about you. I'm like, what? I mean, let's get real here - The Bitch would like nothing better than for me to dissappear into thin air, preferably extremely painfully and with no hope of return for a number of lifetimes. I'm way too much of a threat to her anticipated retirement fund. Yes, he says, Iryna is worried because a friend of hers saw you at Embassy last weekend and you were, how can I put this... inebriated on something other than alcohol.

I'm speechless. I haven't graced that place with my presence for ages, and anyway, how the hell did The Bitch find out about my little weakness? It must have been a stab in the dark that hit home; she may be borderline evil but, as demonstrated by her latest little stunt, she's certainly not stupid. She knows what will push my father's buttons. He may be engaged in the ridiculous and futile activity of chasing after his lost youth, but he is, and always has been, fervently anti-drugs. I guess it comes from repairing too many celebrity septums over the years.

Daddy, I say, trying to smile through gritted teeth, I don't know what you're talking about. Iryna is mistaken. I don't think so, Sara, he replies, Iryna says her friend saw you stagger out of the bathroom with - he delicately traces a moustache on his upper lip - a trace of white powder just here. She was quite specific about the details.

By this point I've lost my appetite, a shame since the food at Daphne's is usually something I look forward to. I knock back my glass of wine and make a last ditch attempt to regain parental favour. Daddy, I go, I haven't set foot in that particular club for a long time so I really don't think the accusation is grounded in reality.

My father narrows his eyes at me, are you trying to say that Iryna is lying? Why would she lie to me, Sara? I shrug, I'm sure she has her reasons. Big mistake. I forget that my father takes any slurs about The Bitch very, very personally; I don't know what kind of hold she has on him but I suspect a tight vice around the balls is involved. Sure enough, he throws his napkin down and hisses, look me in the eye and tell me that you have never taken cocaine.

There is a brief moment when I think that maybe I can pull it off. I look him straight in the eye, open my mouth to protest my innocence, and then my eyes fall away, I blush, and all that comes out is a stammer.

My father's face is pure thunder. His lips are tight as he shoots me a filthy look and says, I thought so. He stands up, pushes his chair back, gets his wallet out from his jacket pocket and throws a handful of notes onto the table. This, Sara, is the last you'll get from me until you've straightened yourself out. I've reached the end of the line with you. Then he walks out.

Fuck. Talk about hitting me where it hurts.

It upsets me so much that I cry a bit on the bus home. And jeez, I hate crying in public.

Sweet Sweet Music

2005-10-22T19:46:00.000+01:00

Heading through Portobello Market this morning, feeling rather chirpy and more than a bit shag happy, I walked past a music stall. The track blaring out of the stall's oversized speakers made me feel like dancing, so I bought the CD.

Helen and I have been shaking our booties to it all afternoon. It's seriously good although CD1 is more mellow than CD2 if you're not heavily into dance music. I thought I'd share it with you... click here for a preview.

The Date

2005-10-22T08:07:00.000+01:00

So first of all, big thanks to Surviving Online Dating - the dress and FMBs went down a treat. (Sorry, Positronic and Tony, but I decided to go with the female vote).

We meet up at the Portobello Gold (yes, Notting Hill again, but hell, I was expecting a sleepover and there's no way I'm running the risk of taking him back to my place - to say it's a dive would be an understatement). The Gold is this laid-back pub/restaurant right on the Portobello Road - looks like a pub when you first walk in but there's a restaurant in the back with a glass roof and so much foliage it feels as if you're in a jungle. I'm liking it, and I'm liking being with James because damn, he is so hot. You know how sometimes you forget the finer details when there's been a few days of absence? Well, that's how it is for me and as soon as I lay eyes on James last night it hit me like a punch in the face; he is seriously good looking and there's something else about him as well, maybe in the way he stands, or his mannerisms, but just looking at him makes me feel a bit funny. Which is kind of odd as I'm pretty laid back when it comes to guys.

So we're standing around for a bit while the waitress pretends that she's really really busy, and James goes, oh fuck it, I know where our table is, let's go sit down otherwise we'll be here all night. I'm like, sure, lead the way. James smiles at me and points upwards. My eyes follow the direction of his finger, up a ladder, and there's a bloody treehouse up on stilts in the corner of the room. Yep, it turns out that there's a table in there, really low, with cushions for seats. They call it the 'hippie table'. How cool is that?

I love being surprised and I really love it when a guy makes an effort - not in the flowers and chocolates kind of way, too boring, but when a guy shows he's put some thought in, when he does something with the express intention of making me smile. And it worked; that smile stayed on my face right through two courses, pudding, and two bottles of Rioja.

Then James gets close to spoiling it all by saying, so Sara, tell me why you work in a club? I don't want to be rude or anything but it's not exactly a career is it? I'm like, no, I don't think you could describe it as that. And he says, so what's the big deal? Why don't you get a proper job?

I have had this conversation many times over the years and I still find it as unappealing as the first time. But since I'm hoping to get laid tonight I decide I have to play nice.

James, I go, the very thought of being confined in an office for the rest of forever makes me itch. I tried it once and I didn't like it. I did not like being a tiny cog in a huge wheel. I did not like being told, not asked- told - to make coffee for my lardy-arse boss and then criticised on my coffee making skills, like it really makes a fucking difference in the great scheme of things if I brewed the bloody stuff for one minute too long. I didn't like getting the wild eye from the office bitch if I turned up late. And I really didn't like the general attitude that I should be grateful for the 'opportunity' - as if shuffling paper and trying to type crappy letters about nothing much was some kind of vocation rather than a fast track to Hell on Earth.

James is like, oh. OK. I guess that pretty much explains it then. I go, I guess it does.

But he doesn't give up. Halfway through pudding, he goes, are you planning to still be working behind the bar when you're fifty? Or do you have a fallback plan? I'm like, what are you, my mother? Let's talk about you James, because I have to be honest with you, this line of conversation is starting to seriously bore me. And there's nothing I dislike more than being bored.

I guess I'm coming off as a bit of a bitch, but the job thing really bugs me, and other people's reaction to it really bugs me, like I'm some kind of loser because I'm not willing to trade my freedom and my brain function for the prospect of a gold watch and a kiss on the arse in thirty years time... anyway, whatever... it's a sore point, let's leave it at that.

Fortunately it doesn't seem that James is easily offended so we get back into flirting and subtle innuendo mode - much more enjoyable - and as I'd planned, we end up at his place.

James goes, want to come back for a coffee? And yes, there is a twinkle in his eye. I'm like, no thanks, I don't drink coffee. He looks a little downcast. I feel a brief stab of pity so I decide to stop screwing with him and add; but I'd love to come back to your place for sex - if that's also on offer.

It was. And afterwards (no, I'm not giving you the details you bunch of pervs; I'm sure you can figure it out for yourselves) we had a bath together, with red wine and a spliff, and he washed my hair. Excuse me for getting excited but this is, in my experience, a rare and beautiful thing. Having your hair washed by a naked man, properly, with your head slowly, oh so slowly massaged, along with the occasional nibble on your earlobe, is an amazing feeling. Sensual, gentle, and incredibly, incredibly sexy.

As I type this I can still smell James' shampoo in my hair.

I think I kind of like him.

Questions, questions...

2005-10-21T13:24:00.000+01:00

OK. So, this for my fellow bloggers who kindly answered my call for inspiration (see previous post comments).

Positronic asked - What are you wearing tonight?
That is a very good question, Pos, even if it makes you sound a bit metrosexual, and it's very topical since I have just been through my entire wardrobe trying to solve that dilemma. I'm suffering a bad case of choice paralysis (to steal a phrase from my one true intellectual love, Douglas Coupland).
So Pos, you decide. Here's the 'hot date' shortlist (bear in mind that I don't want to look as if I'm trying to hard):
- dark blue jeans, a sheer cap-sleeved top with a kind of ruching thing going on (sounds dodgy, looks great) and a kick-ass pair of heels
- a black wrap dress, kind of slinky, and a kick-ass pair of heels
- a denim skirt, top as above or a polo neck with a cut-out thing in the back, and a kick-ass pair of FMBs
But do guys really pay attention to clothes? Beyond checking out if a girl has a great butt? And you've got to remember that we're talking about the UK here... most guys don't have any interest in women's clothes (unless of course that's their own private peccadillo) beyond quite liking a woman in uniform (usually, and boringly, school girls and nurses, yawn).

Lighterate asked - Why did your father take away your allowance?
Because I am a very naughty girl. Well, no actually. It's more to do with my new stepmother. I'll expand on this over the weekend as I don't have time right now.

and WDKY asked - Would you consider a long weekend in Florence?
That would be lovely, thanks WDKY. Can James come too?

Writer's Block

2005-10-21T08:38:00.000+01:00

I'm feeling kind of bummed out this morning and I'm suffering from a severe lack of blog inspiration.

So, help me out here. Tell me, what do you want to know? Any ideas for my post topic today? Leave a comment...

HAPPY HNT!

2005-10-20T20:47:00.000+01:00

Just Say NO

2005-10-20T15:30:00.000+01:00

I've been accused of glamourising drug use, so just in case I'm corrupting any of you out there, here's a picture of me taken the morning after a lost weekend.

There, that'll make you think twice before you hot-foot it off to your friendly neighbourhood dealer, now won't it?

FEEDBACK

2005-10-20T11:48:00.000+01:00

James called me last night.

He called me just as I was about to start work, not a good thing since I was already running late. Nothing would please The Fat Bastard more than an excuse to fire me, and since my dad has cut my allowance recently (that’s a whole other story) I really need that job at the moment.

So I’m standing on the Tottenham Court Road, trying to think of a way to hurry up this phone conversation because the minutes are ticking away, when James goes, my friends think you’re lovely, by the way. I’m like, huh? Say what?

I mean, get real. There is no way on this earth that his friends are seriously singing my praises. I don’t need a degree in psychotherapy to know that we didn’t exactly hit it off. But tactful is the way to go if I ever want to get laid again, and boy, I so want to be laid again by James; this guy has really got it going on. So I’m like, Oh, that’s nice.

But then I can’t help myself, I fucking hate hypocrisy. I blurt out, and what did Kate say, James? Because I don’t want to be funny here but I got the distinct impression that Kate didn’t find me lovely at all.

I can hear his brain whirring away at the other end of the line. Then he goes, hmmm, well, Kate is kind of possessive of me. It’s just how she is.

I’m like, so what did she say, James? Go on, I can take it.

There’s another silence. Then he goes, well… Oh OK. Kate said that I can’t go out with you because you’re too skinny and too quiet. So I suppose you’re right. Kate doesn’t think you’re lovely.

I laugh so hard I nearly choke. Then I say, I thought so.

Bitch.

Anyway, we’re going out again on Friday night. On one condition - none of his friends will be there.

What is the world coming to?

2005-10-19T10:13:00.000+01:00

My day is ruined.

I just went to the corner shop to get my usual supply of smokes and the shopkeeper tried to palm me off with this dodgy silver packet instead of my usual Marlboro lights. I'm like, Benny, you know I smoke Marlboro Lights, what's with you today? Late night, was it? Benny goes, these are Marlboro Lights.

And sure enough, those sneaky buggers at Philip Morris have only gone and done a major rebrand without giving me adequate warning.

Doesn't customer loyalty mean anything these days?

A life-affirming experience of inutterable genius

2005-10-18T14:45:00.000+01:00

There's nothing more boring than listening to other people's drug experiences but since I find mine fascinating and since this is my blog, I'm going to write about it anyway.

My first e.

Becca, my best friend at the time, was also my drug buddy. We started with cigarettes and cider at thirteen, graduated to spliff at fourteen, acid at fifteen, and then we were like, what next? We couldn't afford cocaine and heroin scared us, so it had to ecstasy.

So Becca and I go to the local nightclub (along with practically everyone from our year at school - there wasn't a huge amount of entertainment in the area where we grew up) buy a bottle of water each (a bow to the drug awareness posters of the time) and smiling slyly at each other, neck our pills.

Standing on the edge of the dancefloor, we wait to come up. Becca goes, do you feel anything yet? I shake my head, no.

Then we start to feel it. An almost imperceptible fraction of warmth running through my neck. A shiver up my spine. A prickle swirling around my scalp. A looseness to my limbs. A trickle in the stomach. And then... intensifying, gathering strength, knees buckle, golden syrup pours through my veins, jack-knife of molten something rips through my head, spine spasms, neck melts, eyes refracting, tiny bubbles of joy zipping up from my toes to my groin to my face to my... FUCKINGfuckfuckohmygodfuckingHELL ... and the tide recedes, leaving me gasping, trembling, warm to the core, amazed.

Becca and I stare at each other, mouths open with pleasurable shock, then we laugh, jump up and down, scream, and tumble onto the dancefloor. The rest of the night passes in a blur of colour and bliss and love and pure fucking delight at being alive in this very moment and living and feeling and touching and the astounding delicious delightful sensation of experiencing everything as if for the first time.

I've had many e's since, some good, some bad. I've seen fur growing from the walls, sunsets at midnight, rainbows in the bath, heard a dog say hello, had blackouts, hallucinations, out of body experiences and seen the devil in the eyes of a friend.

But none have ever got close to that first time.

My 1000th visitor

2005-10-17T19:47:00.000+01:00

Here is the lovely Velma, my 1000th visitor, proudly displaying her rather classy lastnightidreamtofelephants award certificate.

Enjoy, Velma, enjoy...

The Dinner Party

2005-10-17T12:39:00.000+01:00

I met James' friends last night. I can confidently say that we won't be setting up a mutual-appreciation society any time soon.

I got seriously sidetracked by the pub yesterday afternoon so by by the time I get to the King's Road and manage to find the flat where this bloody dinner party is taking place, I'm unfashionably late, mildly hammered and feeling more than a bit harrassed. And I'm also unsettled from thinking about Sam. Not a great start to the evening.

I ring the doorbell and James answers, looking very pleased to see me which makes me feel better for all of two seconds before I'm led into the kitchen for the Big Introduction. James goes, everyone, I'd like you to meet Sara. A sea of curious faces look up and there's a murmer of, hi. Then James thrusts a glass into my hand and disappears, leaving me next to this enormous rugger-bugger type with a neck like a bull and a face like a beacon.

Ollie-the-rugger-bugger spends the first five minutes laughing heartily at his own jokes - which, by the way, are about as amusing as a Brazillian wax - and gives me a blow by blow account of his latest rugby team triumph. Yawn. Then he asks me what I do for a living. I'm a barmaid, I say, in a West-End club. He's silent for a moment, a blessed relief, and then goes, har har har! He turns to Sophie (who, it transpires, has the misfortune of being married to this buffoon) and bellows, hey Soph, did you hear that? Sara says she works in a nightclub! Har har har. I'm like, yes so what? He goes, what? really? You're not joking? I go, no I'm not joking. And he goes, oh.

By the time dinner is served I'm already ready to go home. James pulls me into the chair next to his, thank God. On the other side of me is Kate. I sense immediately that Kate does not like me. She makes a point of speaking over my head to James, cutting me off when I try to get involved in the conversation. I notice that when she speaks to James, she smiles. She doesn't smile at me. Fuck her, I think, and leave her to her issues. I'm not getting into this. So I sit, drink, try to eat, and occasionaly tune in to the rest of the conversation.

At one point, noticing that I'm playing with my food rather than wolfing it down, Kate goes, no wonder you're so skinny. Don't you ever eat? Then she looks down at her chest, squishes her tits together and adds, James likes a woman with curves. Bats her eyelids, coos, don't you James? I just smile politely, while imagining how much fun it would be to feed her, bit by tiny bit, into the waste disposal unit.

I try to engage Penny, who's sat opposite me, in conversation about a book I'm reading, A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. She looks at me blankly and goes, oh I haven't heard of that one. Then she shrugs, anyway, I only read books on holiday.

When Kate finally relinquishes her monopoly on James, he turns to me and says, quietly, are you OK, Sara? You seem kind of quiet. Huh, no kidding.

These people all know each other very, very well. It's a bit of a closed shop, a happy clique, and it's obvious that I am very much the outsider. I am different. And that makes them nervous. They don't quite know what to say to me and I don't quite know what to say to them. Their conversation, which seems to revolve around children, their work, holidays and other people they know, punctated by in-jokes, is incomprehensible to me.

What the fuck is James doing with this lot? Is there something that I'm missing here? Is it me? He's the same person that I've got to know over the past couple of weeks, saying the same things, behaving in the same way, but he - it- looks all wrong in this setting.

I leave after pudding and before coffee. Alone.

Once upon a time I believed in love

2005-10-16T09:27:00.000+01:00

Ten years ago I fell in love for the first, and the last, time.

I used to walk our dog every morning before school. At this point I was going to a crammer in South Kensington since I'd been kicked out of the local high school the year before; I used to get up really early to make sure that Jack got a good run in before I had to leave to catch the train in to Central London. So Jack and I would head up to Richmond Park shortly after sunrise, the best time to be there - so few people around that that the fields belonged to us. It was something I looked forward to, even when it was raining, even when it was freezing cold.

Most mornings I would see the same guy jogging, following a similar route to Jack and I. A few weeks passed, by which time this guy and I had moved on from pretending not to notice each other, to nodding hello, to saying hello. One morning he stopped to catch his breath by the duck pond and Jack bounded over to him and stuck his muzzle in the guy's crotch. It was the perfect introduction.

Sam and I met up for a drink that night. I guess we connected in all the right ways because that night I ended up at his place - we stayed in bed for the next three days and by the time I left his flat I was totally in love with him. Madly in love. Crazy in love. The sort of infatuated headfuck all-encompassing love that it's only possible to feel at the age of seventeen, when tomorrow seems a long time in coming and a year fast forwarded might as well be another lifetime.

Sam and I stayed in our bubble for the next three years.

Sam graduated when I was nineteen, the year after I'd failed my A'Levels for the first time. He got a job and we moved in together, into a flat on the Holloway Road. All I wanted at that point was Sam. He was all I cared about, all I thought about, all I dreamed of. Nothing else mattered. That tiny flat made me feel safer than anything else ever had.

In hindsight, I was blind to anything that didn't fit the blueprint I'd etched out in my mind.

Three years after we met, something clicked out of place. He became distant, angry, irritated, tense, short in words, long in angry glances. He stopped meeting my eyes. He stopped holding my face when he kissed me. He stopped holding me at night in his sleep. Nothing I did made it better. Nothing I did brought Sam back.

I started to feel the cold.

The night everything dissolved, I should have been in Brighton. I was due to go down to visit a friend for the weekend but I cancelled at the last minute. Sam was acting weird and I wanted to be with him, decided that we needed to talk, thought maybe if I could just get him to talk then it would be OK, we could get back to where I wanted to be.

He didn't come home after work and I couldn't raise him on his mobile, but I just figured he was out drinking. So I waited, on the sofa, TV on, bottle of wine. Waited for him to come home. Waited for him to come home in the hope that I would see something in his eyes that I could cling onto, that I could pull that something out of, reignite, make things whole again.

Lying in bed still waiting for Sam to come home. Hear the key in the lock, the sound of stumbling, banging, something being knocked over in the hallway. I smile to myself; Sam's drunk. I get out of bed, stand in the open doorway, wait for Sam to come into the sitting room. He doesn't. I can still hear sounds in the hallway. I am about to step forward, to go see if he's alright. A girl tumbles through the door, laughing, her face turned towards Sam who's right behind her, pressing up against her, he's laughing too, looking at her. And then he puts his hands to her face, holds her face like he used to hold mine, and he kisses her, deeply, like he used to kiss me.

I start to shiver.

I start to feel more sick than I have ever felt.

They must have heard me, must have heard my fucking heart cracking, shattering, falling to the floor in a thousand million tiny pieces, because they turn, look straight at me. Sam's face goes white, mouth slack, still holding on to the girl. Hot red tears spilling up falling splashing down my face and as he meets my gaze all I can see is shock, anger, annoyance, and maybe possibly a hint of shame. All I can see is a black gaping hole where the love used to be.

I won't go into the long and tedious details of the fallout, recriminations, harsh words, spitting out blame like bullets, me moving out, the days weeks months I spent crying under my duvet, walking through the world out of step, a monochrome, joyless, numb fucking existence. I won't go through the details of how I found myself again, reclaimed myself, built myself up again brick by tiny brick, filled out my skin as Sara; Sara-separate-from-Sam. All I will say is that it took me a long time to feel normal again, and once I got back to that state I promised myself that would never never never never happen to me again. I would never allow myself to lose sight of who I am and who I want to be. I would never allow myself to be consumed by someone else, to the point that life wouldn't seem worth living when they decided to walk away.

But I still see his face when I close my eyes. I still sometimes smell him on strange passing skin. And it still makes my heart skip, despite myself, if I see an element of him, a walk, a word, a gesture, a look, in someone else.

That was really hard to write. I'm feeling kind of bummed out. But life goes on.

Fun With Memes

2005-10-15T09:27:00.000+01:00

This is my first meme...tagged by NYCpaganchick.

7 Things I Plan To Do:
1. Eat sushi in Japan
2. Crowd surf at a Pixies concert
3. Learn to fly a helicopter
4. Snowboard without bruising my arse
5. Find a job I enjoy that doesn't involve sitting in an office all day kissing butt
6. Find my groove
7. Grow up

7 Things I Can Do:
1. Dance
2. Roll the perfect spliff
3. Laugh wholeheartedly
4. Enjoy life
5. Ice skate
6. Play backgammon
7. Speak French

7 Things I Can't Do:
1. Play tennis
2. Tell people what they want to hear
3. Tell jokes
4. Keep a plant alive
5. Cry in public
6. Lie convincingly
7. Relationships

7 Things That Scare Me:
1. Getting married
2. Children
3. George Bush Jr
4. Global warming
5. Pain - emotional and physical
6. My mother
7. My monthly bank statement

7 Random Facts About Me:
1. I have double jointed fingers
2. I have never kissed a woman
3. The palms of my hands have so many lines on them that I once freaked a palm reader out (my hands have always been like that, since I was born)
4. Sometimes I eat cereal for dinner
5. I never wear the colour yellow
6. I have three scars
7. I hate mushy peas

7 Things I Say The Most:
1. Fuck!
2. Helen, can I borrow a fiver?
3. Thank you
4. I'm sorry, but...
5. 20 Marlboro Lights, please
6. Oh yeah, and a pack of red Rizla
7. Sorry I'm late

Apparently I now have to tag 7 people. I don't want to tag but I would be especially keen to read the answers of amourosity, Chav Mum, wdky, TJ, NewYorkMoments, Dr Marcus Khan and Network Chic to this meme.

The Reason Why

2005-10-15T09:12:00.000+01:00

For those of you out there who posted comments on my commitment-phobia, and made me think about why I decided that relationships suck - here's the reason why (in the lyrics of the Throwing Muses, who put it so much better than I ever could):

She colourblind tired eyes
Her hallway aching
She’ll never move him - likes it that way
He’s just a walker and he’ll never stop walking away
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said -, I know her
She said - why do you stare so hard
Wrapped up like a doll in bad dreams and broken arms
Make these old bones shiver
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said - I know her
The last time I saw you, you were standing in the dark
And with a freezing face, I watched you fall apart
It’s not too soon he said, it’s not too soon at all
You might as well be dead he said
If you’re afraid to fall, I said,
Done your time, been in your place
I couldn’t look you in the face
And tell you that it turns me on
It makes my stomach turn
I know her

More later.

The Big Talk

2005-10-14T09:30:00.000+01:00

Since I crossed the finishing line in a state of mind-blowing triumph the other night James has been burning up my phone line. Yes, I was that good.

Due to various distractions, I haven't been able to get in my usual 'this is what I think of relationships' talk. Which is kind of dumb of me because I know from experience that if this conversation doesn't take place right at the start of something then I am in for a whole heap of trouble.

So when James called me last night I decided I had to dive right in there and tell him how it is and how it's got to be if he wants to hang out with me.

So I go, James, I’ve got to tell you. I don’t do relationships. Not in the conventional sense. He's like, what does that mean? I go, well, committment doesn't exactly figure big in my life. It's a no-go area for me. He's silent for a beat, then says, well, I'm not in the market for anything heavy but maybe you want to spell it out for me. Does this mean the other night was a one-off?Because I have to tell you, Sara, I hope that's not the case. I go, James, I would love to do that again. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that I don't stray into serious territory. My way of looking at it is that we have a good time, we enjoy what we each have to offer, and then when the fun fades we move on. No recriminations, no bullshit, and no emotional fallout. OK? James goes, do you have some specific timeframe in mind? I'm like, no, I'm not that organised. Then I say, I just can’t see the point of keeping something after the sell-by date expires. He laughs and says, who would?

But that's the thing. Lots of people do. Lots of people just keep on in there, thinking that anything is better than being alone, anything is better than having to go out there and find someone else who might turn out to be worse than what they have right now. My way of thinking is that it’s better to enjoy something while the spark lasts and then let it go, move on. At least this way you leave with good memories and good experiences.

I go, you're kidding me, right? Look around you. I can name at least five people in relationships who are doing exactly that. Personally, I don’t have the patience to wait for things to go sour.
He's like, pissy-voiced, so you don’t think that it’s worth hanging on and trying to sort it out? You judge it to be terminal, so you press the ejector seat button and bail out? I go, that's right. Maybe one day I’ll find someone so amazing that I’ll allow myself to wallow in vats overflowing with emotional angst but I’m not holding my breath. I don’t believe in fairytales. There's a long pause and then he says, no, nor do I.

Anyway, I'm not convinced that he entirely got it but it's been said, so at least he knows where he stands and won't start pestering me to go meet his mother or anything similarily hideously vile.

But he did talk me into going to some dinner party a friend of his is throwing on Sunday night. I'm not looking forward to it much as 1) I can't stand dinner parties and 2) James' mates sound like a bunch of twats. Oh well. The stuff you go through to get a shag, hey?

my 1,000th visitor!

2005-10-13T17:13:00.000+01:00

Congratulations! Whoever just visited this blog from the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency - yes, that's right, you, the one who's surfing on company time, tut tut - you are my 1,000th visitor!

:-)

Do I have a prize for your landmark visit? Well, no... sorry. But you do have my undying gratitude and that's got to mean something, right?

A storm in a B-cup

2005-10-13T14:45:00.000+01:00

Lingerie. Underwear. Whatever you want to call it.

It's a subject overripe for a heated debate.

Helen told me this morning that her new guy (from the party, remember? He's practically living at our house at the moment, much to my disgust) has a thing about pervy underwear. And I mean pervy underwear. If he has his way Helen will be spanking her student grant in Ann Summers and trussing herself up in the sort of outfit a bargain basement hooker would kill for. But then again, Helen's new guy is ex-public school so it's to be expected. As I told her, it's only a matter of time before he starts squeezing himself into his own peekaboo bra and crotchless thong.

Personally, I favour comfort; after all, there's nothing worse than being on the tube wearing knickers that threaten to cut off your circulation. Is there a polite way to tussle with your underwear in public? I don't think so.

I just called Karen to ask her opinion on the subject. Apparently, her last boyfriend liked her to keep her bra on during sex. I told her that she should take that as a personal insult.

What's the general consensus? Ladies AND gentlemen please... (and guys, do note that I said "gentlemen"...)

HAPPY HNT!

2005-10-13T13:41:00.000+01:00

Fun with archives

2005-10-12T21:15:00.000+01:00

This has been around for a while, but I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon. Cheers Osbasso!

Fun with Archives
The Rules:
1. Go into your archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same.

My result: Why? I'm not entirely sure.

I guess that says it all.

I'm not going to tag anyone, so help yourself if you'd like to use this.

Touchdown!

2005-10-12T11:31:00.000+01:00

OK. So here I am, tired as hell but I have to admit I'm pretty psyched.

I had a good night. A very good night. And I am pleased to announce that James is definitely NOT gay.

We met up at the Walmer Castle in Notting Hill - the best place for Thai food in West London. It felt as if I hadn't seen him for ages but in reality it's only been a week. But then I guess a week is a long time when you're buzzing with sexual frustration.

Last night felt different from the moment James kissed me hello. The other times we've been out he's been a little distant; charming, funny and attentive, but definitely physically remote. Last night he was making contact from the outset, doing all those little things that really make an impact when you're wondering if someone is truly attracted to you; stuff like touching my hand, lighting my cigarette, feeding me from his plate, brushing a stray strand of hair out of my eyes, touching me in the small of the back when we go upstairs. I'm not sure what's happened the past week but I have the feeling that he suddenly decided that it's OK to be into me. For whatever reason, he's stopped holding back.

Hey, I'm not complaining.

We settle the bill and he tells me that he's got a great bottle of wine back at his place and would I like to share it? I go, well... Like I have to think about it, like it's a tricky decision to make, but since he's made me wait for longer than is truly necessary I'm thinking that the least I can do is play hard to get for all of, oh, three seconds.

So we head over to his place (which fortunately is close by since I took TJ's advice and pulled the out the va-va-voom stops, which for me always means the highest and most impractical shoes I own). His flat is gorgeous, in fact it's so gorgeous that I start wondering about his sexuality again as soon as I see it. It's about a million light years away from the hovel I live in. We settle down on his sofa, he puts the stereo on on (Transglobal Underground, not a bad choice) and we demolish a kick-ass bottle of red wine (can't remember what it was apart from Margeux, Chateau de something, French), and the flirt factor starts revving up more than a few notches.

One spliff, most of the wine and lots of conversation later, and James gives me this really intense look. I'm like, OK, what's happening here? He reaches over, takes the glass from my hand, his eyes still fixed on mine, and places it on the floor. Then he pulls me to him.

I thought that the last kiss was pretty good but this... this is incredible. It’s a showstopper. A truly Technicolour vaseline-lensed Hollywood moment. I smell his shampoo and something else, deliciously peppery-sweet. I melt.

Yep, we did it right there, on the sofa.

Maybe because it's been a while, maybe because I'd almost forgotten what sex is like, but this was truly amazing.

Throughout, I felt shrink-wrapped, insulated, my mind numb, all energy diverted to the senses, knife-sharp, crystal-refracted, like the moment before the parachute opens, before bare feet leave the warm edge of the highest diving board, when pure impulse and adrenaline kicks in and everything else shuts down.

Yeah, it was that good.

And afterwards, he holds me close and says, promise me you'll want to do that again.

I promise.

And as you'll know if you're a regular to my blog, I very rarely break my promises.

BUT, I like this guy and that really freaks me out. Whatever, I've got to keep a grip on this; I've just been shagged stupid by a hot piece of ass which means I'm hormonal soup right now.

It’ll end up being just another experience for me to notch in my memory, on my bedpost, another story for my friends to laugh over, another layer on my history, another chapter, another verse, another stanza in The Saga of Sara.

I have not undergone some strange seismic shift in the past couple of hours.

And the important thing to remember is that I never, ever, allow myself to believe the hype.

GO SARA! GO SARA! GO SARA!

2005-10-12T08:00:00.000+01:00

Just some of the people who are delighted to hear that I am no longer a(n almost) technical virgin.

More later... after I get some sleep...

Confessions of a band-aid

2005-10-11T14:30:00.000+01:00

To get myself into the mood for tonight - my date with James (three chances, how lucky is he? I'm surprising myself with my levels of tolerance here. Belive me, I'm not usually so forgiving) - I'm going to blog about my rock star. Possibly my favorite liaison so far.

I met him on a train. I had no idea who he was and to be honest even if I had it wouldn't have made all that much of a difference; one thing I am not is a groupie. I was idly checking out the other people in the carriage when I see this guy. He was kind of plain but endearingly scruffy and he was reading Jay MacInerney's Story of My Life, one of my favorite books of all time. He must have sensed me staring because he looked up and smiled. It was the smile that got me. I've never seen such a great smile - it totally transformed his face. So I went over and we got talking. He was a bit shy and almost too polite. But that smile... so we swapped numbers, he said he'd call me, and that was that.

One month later, I'm at a festival with this other guy I had something going with at the time, coming up on e, and my mobile goes. I'm trying to balance a beer in one hand, cope with insane shivers going up my spine, my head's about to explode into a rainbow, the other guy is licking my neck, and at the same time I'm on the phone to the rock star, who I'd pretty much forgotten about by this point, attempting to hold it together enough to have a conversation. The reception is really bad, so I'm like, where are you? It sounds like there's a squirrel chewing the line. He's like, oh I'm in New York, it's the last night of our US tour. So of course I go, what do you mean, US tour? And he goes, all casual, oh didn't I tell you? I'm the drummer with (insert famous band name here). By this point my vision is refracting and the other guy is starting to do a silent winge, plus I'm thinking that having to act straight is seriously interfering with my high, so I go, great, that's cool, look I really have to go, when are you back? And he says, next week, let's hook up.

We went out when he got back to London, got on fine, had amazing sex; it must have been because he played drums for like twenty hours a day but whatever the cause, he really knew what to do with his hands. He understood the fine line between soft and hard, he knew when to be wild and when to be gentle, and he understood sensuality. We had a great time.

He kind of turned into my boyfriend for a while. It worked well because he was on tour for most of the time which meant we spent a few days a month together, either where he was playing or he'd come back to London. There was no hassle, no grief, no time to get bored. And he had so many other diversions, if you know what I mean, there was no way he was going to get possessive.

That was the perfect non-relationship. If only the band hadn't split up, leaving him in London full-time...

The Last 10 Albums I Listened To

2005-10-11T13:36:00.000+01:00

While Helen is hard at work giving me the perfect pedicure (in the hope that I'll be getting laid tonight) I thought I'd spread some musical joy...

The last 10 albums that have graced my CD player (yeah, I'm still kind of old school when it comes to music):

The Pixies - Bossanova
Primal Scream - give out but don't give up
Alanis Morissette - Jagged Little Pill
Salmonella Dub - killervision
Journeys By DJ, Nicolas Matar - Latitude 40degrees
The Cure - Disintigration
Death in Vegas - The Contino Sessions
The Pixies - Doolittle
David Bowie - Christiane F.
Buddha Lounge, Volume 4

However, my latest musical enthusiasm is for the Arctic Monkeys. They're going to be huge. First single is out on 17th October. Check it out.

I'd love to offer sound as well as words but I haven't figured out how to do that yet. Can anyone advise?

The Great Withholder - will he submit?

2005-10-10T14:32:00.000+01:00

James just called me.

At least this time I wasn't stoned out of my brain so I think that maybe I came across as a reasonably normal person. Hah, sucker.

Anyway, we're going out tomorrow night. Let's hope he gets some sense into his head by then and decides to give it up.

Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask him if he's gay. Do gay men enjoy snogging women? Because he sure wasn't faking it when we last locked lips...

Mind you, he did admire my shoes when we went out last week, so it's a strong possibility...

Pudding? No thanks

2005-10-10T11:10:00.000+01:00

Oh man. Lars is on my case again.

Lars is this second-rate DJ who gets pulled in to play at the club whenever any other DJ pulls out. It's like, oh shit, it's one hour before we open and DJ BigDick has pulled a whitey. OK, what do we go for, Lars or silence?

Personally, I'd prefer silence, but then that's just me.

Lars is pretty hot in the physical sense; he passes for a tall blonde Norwegian Love God under the club lights and I guess the fantasy holds for as long as he keeps his mouth shut. Most people mistake Lars for a sexy silent type but I know better; the lights might be on but his brain cells are definitely on an extended holiday. The things that come out of his mouth are intensely dumb; I mean, this is the guy that once told me that he doesn't read books because they give him a headache.

Anyway, Lars walks into the club on Saturday night and makes a beeline for my bar. I'm feeling all kinds of crappy so I'm not on for a slime-fest, but it doesn't seem that I have much choice in the matter. Lars is full-on, all smooth charm and wolfish smile, both a sure sign that his girlfriend is out of town and he’s looking to fill the temporary vacancy. He’s out of luck. I might be partial to meaningless emotionless sexual encounters but I’m not a complete idiot - I’ve had intimate knowledge of Lars before and he wasn’t much of a main course so I’m certainly not in the mood to go back for dessert. From my first and last foray on his Ikea futon, I can confirm that Lars is definitely a legend in his own underpants.

Lars goes, babe, how's it going, eyes checking out my t&a. I'm like, yeah, it's going great, at least it was until you walked in. You'd think he'd get the hint but Lars just keeps on talking at me, or rather, at my tits, yada yada yada, on and on until I start feeling violent. I mean, there is only so much a girl can take, right? So I go, Lars, look, you're doing my head in. Can you just stop talking? Just stand there and look pretty, otherwise I really can't be held responsible for my actions. I might have to kill you or something.

I'm expecting him to be a little offended. I mean, wouldn't you be? I fucking well would be. But no, Lars just laughs, pokes his finger down my cleavage and replies, so, fancy coming back to my place tonight?

I actually think that Lars gets some kind of sexual kick out of me being mean to him. Maybe I should change tactics and be really sweet. Maybe if I beg him for sex he'll run a mile? Then again, I'm not sure it's a risk I'm willing to take.

What do women want?

2005-10-09T21:46:00.000+01:00

WDKY did a post on this the other day and all the comments discussing the subject got me thinking. In fact, it got me thinking so much that I ended up spending most of this afternoon in the pub forcing my friends to talk about it.

If you're a regular to my blog, you'll know that what I want from a guy is quite simple. I want to have a laugh and I want great sex, not necessarily in that order. I'm not the type to leaf through wedding magazines or get a dreamy look in my eye when a baby throws up all over my brand new Karen Millen silk dress (yes, this really happened; I'm still tempted to send the parents the dry cleaning bill). I'm not a commitment kind of girl. Variety is the spice of life, you know?

Anyway, Helen and I are in the pub as we usually are on a Sunday, flicking through the papers and talking shit. Today we had Karen, this girl who's at Uni with Helen, and an old mate of mine, Evie, with us. So I bring the subject up and the girls are all like, oh God, what do women want in a guy? Well, isn't that just the million dollar question?

Helen goes, babe, the first thing is that you have to differentiate between is guys you just want to fuck and guys you really like. She says, I'm happy kissing a whole load of frogs until I want to get more serious, maybe in like five years or something, then I'll start thinking about all that steady commitment shit. And I wouldn't want to end up with most of the guys I've been fucking since way back when.

Karen is like, yeah, totally. The guy you end up with, you have to really like, you know? 'Cos this is the person who, in an ideal world, you'd be buying denture-grip for thirty years down the line. It's got to go beyond the sex thing.

We all stare at Evie, who's practically the only grown-up we hang out with on a regular basis (all the others have disowned us), and has been with the same guy forever. We're like, so Evie, what's the real deal? How come you can still stand the sight of Dave when you've been fucking him for most of your life?

Evie goes, sometimes I can't stand the sight of him. Which is when I seek out the company of you lot. We're like, thanks bitch; but seriously, how come you're still with Dave? What's so great about him over all the other millions of men in the world?

Evie goes, I don't know. I just love the guy. It's that complicated and it's that simple. Oh yeah, and he's got a huge cock. Which is kind of up there on my essentials list.

So we keep on talking, and we're all doing our ideal man lists (and in my case, my ideal man means a different thing to theirs, like I said, I'm no great believer in forever), and the only thing that we can agree on is that we have to have a guy who's great in the sack.

So the message to you guys out there trying to figure this shit out? All the lame stuff you focus on to try and pull women, you know, the car, the clothes, the gym-fit physique, the jokes, the job - it's nothing more than window-dressing. You just concentrate on honing your sexual technique and it'll turn out fine.

Euwww, I don't feel so good

2005-10-08T13:08:00.000+01:00

Helen and I went to this party last night. For her, it was a shag raid. For me, it was favour payback time. I owe Helen big time since she managed to hook Jimmy The Stalker up with this girl she knows, who, rumour has it, is the proud owner of a trick pelvis. I haven't heard from him for two weeks so I guess the rumours are true.

I wasn't really in full-on party mode. I've been burning the candle at both ends for so long that a night in was all I really wanted, one of those gorgeous nights of telly sloth with a pile of additive-rich snacks piled in front of me. Plus I was half pissed by the time we went out, thanks to my blog having been deleted yesterday afternoon, so my eyes were bugging out from sitting in front of my laptop trying to get to grips with techie-geek jargon for too many hours to be healthy. But Helen insisted and dragged me out of the door as soon as I'd managed to get it together enough to throw some mascara at my face and put my heels on.

The party was at this amazing house in South Kensington, one of those places that looks like a wedding cake; all white pillars and stucco frosting. The crowd was kind of lame, full of crimson-cheeked rubgy boys and girls with hockey legs, you know the type. I got lots of bitchy looks from vowel-rich Veronicas with flicky hair. I guess a girl who isn't towing an arse the size of Daddy's estate is a bit of a rarity in that postcode. It was like I was some kind of tourist attraction.

So Helen hooks up with the guy she's after - a full five years older than her usual victims, I was kind of amazed - and I'm left to my own devices. I'm pretty good at amusing myself and within half an hour I'd found the real party, upstairs in a bedroom the size of Buckingham Palace populated by a bunch of slightly edgier hoorah's hoovering up the party dust. That kept me busy for a while but if someone is boring to start with then a nose full of marching powder only serves to enhance it. If you're going to do drugs it really should be with the aim of having fun; for this lot, it was an excuse to drone on about the usual shit they drone on about on a daily basis, just with added attitude and less silences between sentences. Like, zzzzz. I held out until four a.m. and then I got the fuck out of there.

I guess that scene doesn't really do it for me. But Helen texted me a smiley face this morning, so it was all for a good cause.

My face looks like it's on a fast train to Botox and since I'm working at the club tonight so I'd better go back to bed to try and repair some of the damage.

More tomorrow.

I rock!

2005-10-07T23:14:00.000+01:00

Yay! My blog is back up and looks pretty much like it did before disaster struck. So I'll be back in business as usual tomorrow.

And I've decided I need a new pic of myself on the blog, so I'll be roping Helen in for a spot of photography this weekend. Come back and check me out.

Right now I'm off to some dodgy party with Helen so she can get her hooks into this guy she has the hots for. God, the stuff we do to help our mates to get laid.

Nightmare

2005-10-07T17:56:00.000+01:00

For those of you who come here often, yes, it looks different, and yes, my blog has been unavailable for most of the afternoon.

Why? Because my old blog was accidentaly deleted in the pursuit of design perfection.

Ah well.

So bear with me while I rebuild it.

And in the meantime, please feel free to leave comments sending big love to help me through the hours ahead as I sit hunched over a hot keyboard, cursing and chain-smoking Marlboro Lights. I have a feeling the vodka will be coming out very, very soon...

My first Half-Nekkid Thursday Post!

2005-10-06T17:41:00.000+01:00

Why is it that almost every picture I take with my crappy digital camera looks totally gross?Anyway, here is my (lame) tribute to Half-Nekkid Thursday.

Yeah, I know I'm a wuss.

The Withholder... continued

2005-10-05T20:46:00.000+01:00

If you're a regular to this blog, then you'll know that I was hoping to end my self-imposed sex drought last night. If you've read my post from this morning then you'll also know that the drought continues. Big bloody disappointment.

I have to admit that I was kind of excited prior to the event. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I'm usually pretty cool about guys, take 'em and leave 'em is how I tend to operate.

I mean, it's not like my aim in life is to get married and settle in the 'burbs with a lifetime of B&Q Sundays stretched out before me. I don't believe in 'the one', nor am I obsessed with the search for a soul mate, quite simply because I don't believe in all that shit. And from seeing my friends go through the relationship mill and get sucked into all the inevitable heartbreak, I know it's not for me. I'm a realist, and I'm lazy, so my view is why bother to put yourself through all that emotional excess when it's a cast-iron guarantee that it'll get nasty at some point -which is the point that it becomes too much of a fuck up for me to want to have to deal with.

Mind you, it is possible that I'm an emotional coward. Whatever. Who cares? I'm having a whole load of fun so I'm not about to change things.

Anyway, I meet James in Notting Hill - it turns out that's where he lives, the swanky bastard - and he takes me to the Electric on Portobello Road. Nice meal, lots of lovely wine, great conversation, lots of flirting. I'm sitting there enjoying the view and the aural foreplay, thinking that he's obviously planning to get into my pants or why else would he have booked a table at a restaurant around the corner from his place? Seems fairly obvious, right?

Wrong.

We finish our meal, he pays the bill (I did offer to pay my half but he refused, please note that I am not some kind of pathetic gold-digger) and, while I was hoping to have James for dessert, it turns out he's got other ideas.

We're walking along Portobello, talking shit, laughing about stuff, and suddenly he has his arms around me and we're kissing. Oh my God, he's a master kisser. None of that tongue-rammed-down-the-throat horror, just teasing and sensual and extremely sexy; I could have had him then and there, without a care in the world. Then he takes a step back, far too soon for me, looks me straight in the eye and goes, God, you're fucking gorgeous.

And then he hails me a taxi, bundles me into it, gives the driver enough cash to cover my fare home, and tells me he'll call me soon.

?????

What the fuck is going on with him?

I mean, here's the usual (heterosexual) story: boy meets girl, boy and girl like each other, boy and girl have sex, then maybe boy and girl have more sex, and so on, and so on, until one or the other gets bored and walks off into the sunset on their own.

So, why is James withholding? Beats the fuck out of me.

Anyway, I found out all kinds of stuff, most of it interesting (to me at least), some of it not. Here are the highlights:

He's an older man. Not by that much though, only by five years, so no prospect of playing at Sugar Daddies (damn)
He works in the City. Argghhh. A proper, respectable job. In that respect, so not my type. I bet he jerks off over the Financial Times.
He was a model in his early twenties. Hmmm. Not sure what I think about that.
He's separated, soon to be divorced. Not sure what I think about that, either.
He likes a lot of my favorite authors, artists and musicians. Which is weird because otherwise we are so different.
He's into weird shit such as going to the gym. Euwww.
He has a pension and a stock portfolio. And he's proud of the fact. Double euwww.
His friends sound like a bunch of total arseholes.
He's extremely good looking.
He's so fucking clever it hurts.
He's funny. Wry funny. I like wry funny.
Did I mention that he's extremely good looking? Oh yes, so I did. Yeah, I'm shallow.

That's it for now. Anyone who wants to play agony aunt, please feel free. I just can't figure this one out.

The Saga Of The Great Withholder Continues...

2005-10-05T07:45:00.000+01:00

I'm kind of hungover so I'm going to keep this short.

NO. I DID NOT GET LAID.

But, oddly enough, I still had a good time.

Is he gay? Impotent? Asexual? Am I repulsive? Why am I so bothered?

More later when my brain cells have untangled themselves. In the meantime, I'm diving into a sea of chemical intervention and going back to bed.

Gnghhh?

2005-10-04T21:06:00.000+01:00

The Alpha Male - aka Mr Brains On Toast - called me last night. It turns out his name is James.

I wasn't prepared for a phone call from anyone and I really wasn't in the right state of mind to handle a phone call from the guy who left me in a state of severe sexual deprivation a few nights ago. I have to admit that it dented my ego, despite the rejection having being padded out with nice-guy reasoning. I mean, I wouldn't say I'm up there with the supermodels but this kind of thing isn't exactly what I'm used to. It's a little confusing.

So there I was, sprawled on the sofa, seriously stoned and trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to drag myself to the SPAR to satisy my carb cravings when the phone goes. I pick up the phone, like, Gnghhh? and a male voice goes, Sara, is that you? I go, I think so.

Talk about bad timing. There's James calling me with the intention of having a conversation when the only verbal reasoning I was capable of at that moment was with a packet of Hula Hoops.

Anyway, my lack of verbosity didn't seem to put him off and he's taking me out for dinner tonight.

I'm in two minds about the whole thing, to be honest. James is pretty hot and has the bonus of being in possession of a very appealing brain, but do I really want to spend time with someone so sexually serious? I'm not entirely sure that he's my type. In my experience, the nice guys just can't be trusted to stick to my (non)relationship rules.

Then again, it's about time I got laid.

Watch this space.

10 Things You Need To Know About Me

2005-10-03T08:58:00.000+01:00

I will never tell you that I love you.
I never make promises I know I can't keep (unless I'm drunk, fucked-up or desperate to get laid).
I'm allergic to relationships.
I work in a club. Behind the bar. Yes, I know that's not much of a career, nor do I care.
My father is a cosmetic surgeon. Think about that next time you get the fat hoovered from your arse.
My mother is a psycho borderline-obsessive. But she looks great (see above - they're divorced but she still gets substantial discounts, I think it was part of the settlement).
No, I haven't had anything done. By my dad? Are you kidding?
I have great shoes. And a major footwear fetish.
I got kicked out of school when I was 16 for turning up to the end of year dance off my face on mushrooms and claiming to be the Virgin Mary (that's a Catholic education for you).
I don't want to remember how many guys I've slept with. In truth, most of them were pretty forgettable. Which I guess is kind of sad.

Check This Out

2005-10-02T12:01:00.000+01:00

The NY Naked Truth put me onto this wickedly funny site, Black People Love Us.

But be warned - if you're the sort of person who suffers a serious sense of humour failure when anything strays beyond the blinkered boundaries of political correctness, then I can promise you that you will not like it one little bit.

Make sure you look at the letters page; check out the outraged rantings from those who just don't get it and laugh, laugh, laugh.My personal favorite is the guy sounding off about the site being 'racist' (it's not, by the way, or rather it's not if you possess half an ounce of brain) and then calls the site creators 'faggots'!!! Anyone else get the irony?

By the way, if you are one of those tedious politically correct types then what the hell are you doing reading this blog? Piss off.

What The Hell Is Going On With You Guys?

2005-10-01T21:20:00.000+01:00

I think I mentioned in one of my earlier posts that I don’t do relationships. I tried it, the relationship thing, back in the Dark Ages when I still believed in all that crap. I tried it for long enough to know that it sucks. Big Time.

But that isn't to say I've taken a vow of chastity. A girl needs a little r&r, you know? What it does mean is that any guy who wants the full Sara experience has to wise up to my rules; no getting heavy, no mushy stuff, definitely no meeting the parents, and when it's over, it's over. And that's that. No looking back, no emotional mayhem, no pissing about. Since I haven't got the longest attention span, over can happen anywhere between a few hours to a month or so. It really depends on the quality of the material I've got to work with.

In the last couple of months I've come the closest ever to becoming a born-again virgin. I kind of totally went off the idea of men, thanks to Johnny (read my earlier posts if you want the skinny on that one), so I've been keeping myself to myself. I just haven't had the patience for it.

Last night I'm doing my usual shift at the club when the most beautiful guy walks up to the bar and orders a vodka. I was like, hello. It turns out that not only is he hot he's also bloody brains on toast - and there's nothing more likely to get me interested than that. A guy who can quote Pixie's lyrics and Camus? Coupland and e.e.cummings? In one conversation? I mean, fuck, there was no way he was going home alone.

So I make him wait until the club closes and invite myself back to his place. If I'm going to get back into the saddle, I want to do it in style, you know? We get back to his flat, it's nice, we smoke a spliff, drink some wine, listen to some music, chill out a bit, all the usual stuff. Then we snog. I'm thinking, yeah, OK, here we go.

Until, that is, we get to a critical point in the proceedings and he pushes me away. I'm like, is there something wrong? Thinking, oh great, just my luck, here's where he announces he's got crabs or something equally unappetising. But he goes, Sara, I really like you. I'm like, cool, that's great, let's get on with it. And then he says, Sara, I like you too much to have sex with you right now. I only just met you. Let's take this slow.

I mean, WHAT?

When was it that guys turned into girls? How did this happen without me noticing? Just when I thought I had men all figured out, you only go and move the fucking goalposts.

Answers on a postcard, please.

A Promise Of Cheap Titillation

2005-09-30T21:24:00.000+01:00

I was checking out a the new blogs section on BritBlog and came across What Doesn't Kill You which put me on to a new blogosphere enthusiasm - Half Nekkid Thursday.

Basically, Half Nekkid Thursday is an excuse to get your kit off and your camera out. Lovely for exhibitionists and voyeurs alike.

Read all about it here:

And check back here next Thursday...

God Is A Blogger

2005-09-28T21:03:00.000+01:00

Just when I thought life couldn't get more weird, it turns out that God is blogger. Yep, you heard me. So if you're in need of divine intervention direct your prayers here.

It is Sunday, after all.

However, if fire and brimstone is more your thing then He Of The Rosy Hue is also kicking around the blogosphere (it figures). Click here for eternal damnation.

I'm about to spend some quality leisure time at the pub so I won't have time to put in my request today. So do me a favour, will you? When you speak with the Man Upstairs ask him to send me a pair of those sexy new season Marc Jacobs boots before the fashionista bitches hog them all. Size 5, any colour. Thanks.

Don't ask Lucifer. His fashion sense sucks.

Why Is It That Some Guys Just Don't Get It?

2005-09-27T04:30:00.000+01:00

Some men don't understand women. And they really don't understand what women want when it comes to sex. Let's face it, we can put up with a lot if a guy knows what he's doing in the sex department so you'd think they'd be putting some serious study into the subject. Yeah, I hear you, most guys do put a lot of effort into honing their technique, but just because they're practicing a lot doesn't mean that they're paying attention.

I spent a lazy afternoon in the pub yesterday with my friend Joe. I've known Joe for years. He's nice looking in a geek-chic kind of way, funny, clever and permanently single. I'm like, so Joe, what's happening on the getting laid front? And he's like, oh God, Sara, it's terrible. I go, what? You're not getting any? He looks all mournful and says, no, that's not it, I'm getting laid left right and centre, it's just that they're not coming back for more.

It turns out that the last batch of girls Joe managed to persuade back to his place for fun and games all left his place the next morning and that was that, he never saw them again. He's like, Sara, what's going on with women these days? Are they just after a quick fuck or is it that I'm doing something horribly wrong?

I go, you're not doing a Neanderthal wham bam thank you mamma, are you? You're not being shy about the warming-up phase, are you? He goes, I'm not dumb, I've read Cosmo, I'm putting a whole load of foreplay effort in. I'm like, OK, well that's good. So are you into any of the wierder shit? He goes, puzzled, like what? I go, like gimp masks or nipple clamps or dogging? Because some girls like that kind of stuff but it's a specialist area. He's like, not unless they beg me. Then I say, sorry Joe, but I have to ask - are you hung like a hamster? He looks a bit nervous and goes, no, I mean, I'm not going to break the world record but it's respectable, at least I think it is. Do you want to see? I'm like, not thanks Joe, I believe you. You just keep it zippered.

After three pints worth of questioning, Joe confides that he's passionate about porn. Put it this way, it sounds like his right arm is pretty well developed, and his favorite kind of porn isn't the classy kind. He's into the old school stuff where the women have Zeppelins for breasts, the guys have lovely big mustaches and there's a whole lot of sperm flying around.

A couple more pints and it turns out Joe has been treating his conquests to the pearl necklace experience. I'm like, euww, Joe! What? he goes, looking confused. I go, that's disgusting! He's like, but I thought women loved it. I'm like, there's your answer, Joe, that's why the girls aren't coming back for seconds. Right now, women all over London are telling their friends about this guy they went home with once who gave them an unexpected sperm facepack. Joe, you're a sexual legend.

He goes, so I've been doing something for the past ten years that sexually repulses women? I go, ten years? Uh-uh, he nods. I'm like, jeez, I thought you were an urban myth.

So I guess the lesson is that if a guy does something completely off the mark, you've got to speak up. You owe it to the rest of us.

Getting Dumped: It's A Click Away

2005-09-26T17:19:00.000+01:00

Be warned. Technology can ruin your life.

This guy I know, Rob, called me today with a fantastic story; fantastic in the sense that it made me laugh and cringe and feel sick, all at the same time. Pretty good, huh?

Rob works with another guy, let's call him George, who is notorious for being a Grade A slag. If prostitutes didn't exist then George would probably invent them. He likes to put it about, doesn't care where, and thinks that variety is the spice of life. You might think, well, whatever, so long as he isn't hurting anyone, so long as it's all between consenting adults. Whatever. The problem is that George has a long-term girlfriend who's he's supposed to be marrying after Christmas.

George is the guy who whisked his girlfriend off to Thailand for a romantic holiday, announced shortly after checking into their hotel that he was off for a jog, jogged round the corner, picked up a whore and proceeded to engage in a very different kind of exercise to the one that his poor unsuspecting missus believed he was pursuing. Yep, George was puffing and panting and going red in the face but it sure wasn't from pounding the pavements.

You kind have to admire the guy for sheer front and creativity, but Jeez... what a sleazebag.

Anyway, George has a female fuck-buddy who he's been seeing for years, alongside the girlfriend, the whores and the countless one-nighters. So when George and the girlfriend go off to Cyprus to introduce him to her extended family prior to the wedding, George is delighted to find out that the fuck-buddy is going to be taking a holiday in the same Cyprus beach resort at the same time. After all, you can't expect a seasoned pro like George to restrict himself to sex with just the one woman for a full ten days, can you?

So George goes off to Cyprus with the girlfriend, does lots of hand-shaking and back-slapping with the Cyprus relatives, then sneaks off to an internet cafe to arrange a rendezvous with the fuck-buddy.

Unfortunately for George, when he sends his love-missive, instead of just sending it to the fuck-buddy he mistakenly sends the email to his entire address book - including the girlfriend, the girlfriend's mum, dad and two brothers, his own parents, all his colleagues and practically everyone else he has ever met in his life.

The content of this email message? Something along the lines of: Hello sexy. Been thinking about you all week. Can't wait to fuck you. I'll come to your hotel tomorrow at 3pm. Get ready for the shag of your life.

Guess what? The wedding's off.

I Love Doug

2005-09-23T21:30:00.000+01:00

I just finished re-reading Douglas Coupland's Girlfriend In A Coma for like, the millionth time. Anyone out there who hasn't yet dipped into Doug, well, you haven't lived. Get yourself down to Waterstone's pronto.

The best sex scene ever, from Girlfriend In A Coma (reproduced without permission, sorry Doug, I'm assuming you won't mind):

"That night - December 15, 1979 - Karen had been so ravenous, demanding that we connect full-tilt. She said to me, "So, Richard, are we ever gonna do it or what?" She unzipped her bib overalls on a steep, breast-shaped mogul, then hauled me into the woods, where she yanked me down into the scraping snow, a snow too icy for snow angels. I felt so young, and she looked so mature. She pulled me with unfamiliar urgency, as though an invasion were about to occur that would send us off to war. So there we lay, pumping like lions, the insides of our heads hot slot machines clanging out silver dollars, rubies, and sugar candies."

If I could just figure out a way to curl up inside Douglas Coupland's brain then I would die a happy woman.

Oh. My. God. - I'm A Guy!!!

2005-09-22T21:51:00.000+01:00

Never before have I questioned my gender identity. But here I am, shock coursing through my veins. The reason for my gender confusion? The Gender Genie.

Here's the blurb: Inspired by an article in The New York Times Magazine, the Gender Genie uses a simplified version of an algorithm developed by Moshe Koppel, Bar-Ilan University in Israel, and Shlomo Argamon, Illinois Institute of Technology, to predict the gender of an author.

So I follow the instructions and paste in one of my posts. The result?
Female Score: 669
Male Score: 1148

The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

So, am I a man trapped in the body of woman or is The Gender Genie totally, utterly crap?

You decide.

Mind Your Manners

2005-09-20T21:31:00.000+01:00

We're in the pub one night and my friend Paul says, Girls, tell me something, why is it that women think that men get off on having a finger stuck up their bum?

We stare at him. Let's face it, it isn't a topic that usually comes up in conversation. Especially not in the middle of a heated debate on skinny jeans versus bootlegs (verdict, inconclusive).

He continues, It's enough to put a guy off his stride. This woman I ended up in bed with last night stuck her finger up my bum, just as I was really getting into it. He winces, and she had very long fingernails. So what's the big deal? Is it some kind of a hint? Like, secret code for get off me you're crap?

Helen goes, isn't that what you do to a Pit Bull to unlock its jaws? Paul's like, fuck off Helen. I'm serious. Helen laughs and goes, one of my past shags loved it, couldn't get enough of it, used to beg me to do it. She laughs again and says, but I made sure I kept my fingernails short.

I'm like, it's a biological fact that you've got a gland up there, it's a shortcut to orgasm heaven. You're supposed to love it. It's supposed to make you come like crazy.

Paul's like, all it made me do was scream and fall off the bed. I mean, think about it, there you are, having a great time and all of a sudden you're in uncharted waters. Being probed without prior warning is plain bad manners.

So the question is, what constitutes bad sexual manners?

When it comes to the sexual arena, isn't being polite something we should shrug off along with our clothes? Do we really need to submit a detailed business plan to ensure our partner is fully prepared before we get down to it?

Isn't sex supposed to be rude? I'll leave it to you to decide.

Are we settling for second best?

2005-09-19T22:13:00.000+01:00

Or is it that we're just too unrealistic about romance to start out with?

I was out with a friend a couple of nights ago, and I tell you, she's a mess.

It surprised me. I've known Vic for five years or so. She's always been one of those people that you look at and just sigh. She has it all; the body, the boyfriend, the job, the wardrobe, the flat, the car, the holidays, the social life... everything. She even has great hair. She's like a living aspirational magazine spread.

Anyway, we're out sharing a pizza and a so-so bottle of wine. Just like most nights when we go out. Then Vic looks at me and she says, Sara, where did it all go wrong? I go, yeah, well, I wouldn't quite put it like that. My life might not be all that great but maybe wrong is not quite the right word to use. Especially if you want to stay my friend. She gives me a blank look and goes, huh? I'm talking about me here. So I return the blank look and say, what the hell are you talking about? What could possibly be wrong with your perfect life?

So it all comes out. How her relationship with Jake sucks. Like she says, she expects to be stressed at work. That's what she's paid for. But she does not expect to be stressed at home. Home should be her haven, her refuge, where she recovers in time for the next working day. And it just isn't happening because every time she looks at her boyfriend Jake, she's like, why? What am I doing with you? Why am I cutting my losses and settling for second best? And the very thought is, like, Stress City.

You'd think Jake is top boyfriend material. He's a nice guy. He's a good-looking guy, but not so much that he's all vain and cocky about it. He's never, as far as I know, screwed around on Vic. He buys her great birthday presents. They go on sun-drenched holidays a few times a year. Own a flat together. Party together. Laugh together. I mean, that sounds pretty good, right?

But Vic says it's not enough. That she needs to be with someone who makes her short of breath. Someone who makes her want to jump his bones. Someone who holds her hand like he means it. Someone who makes her feel passion, every waking moment of the day.

I'm like, Vic, how long have you been with Jake? She's like, too long. Ten years. I'm rolling my eyes at her, going, Vic, life is not like a Mills and Boon novel. Jeez, doesn't it tell you something that the last chapter ends with the couple getting it together? The excitement is all at the start, you can't sustain that for years and years. You can't have that first flush of romance forever. And she goes, yes, you can. You've just got to keep looking for it. You've got to be prepared not to settle for second best.

Personally I'm of the opinion that love doesn't exist. Romance is just so much bullshit, designed to rob females of common sense and self-respect. Who wants to spend their life weeping into a pillow and sitting by the phone? But Vic is buying into the whole true love thing big time, to the point that she's willing to toss everything she has to go off and chase rainbows. However, this is her life, not mine, so I have to try and bite back my judgement of it.

So I'm like, whatever, if it's causing you this much grief then maybe you should just dump Jake and get out there. Maybe you've outgrown each other. Maybe you're just bored.

But what's causing Vic the major stress is that she wants to start having kids. She's several years older than me so she's of the opinion that if she wants kids at all then she needs to get serious about it, and soon.

She goes, if I dump Jake to find someone else then I run the risk that the kids won't happen. I mean, I'll have to find someone who I can get crazy in love with, who'll also be crazy in love with me, plus who's ready to do the family thing. And I have to do all this before my eggs run out.

I'm like, I don't think I'd bet money on it.

Or, she says, do I just stay with Jake and have kids, because that's a cast-iron guarantee? But then I'm doomed to a life of boring sex and the thought that the right guy for me is out there somewhere and I'll never find him because I lost my nerve and settled for second best.

I go, that's the risk. You have to figure out what's most important - the hope of having kids or the hope of finding everlasting romance.

And Vic says, well, I could always forget about having kids and just get a cat instead.

And I say, I guess that's your answer, then.

And she says, I guess it is. And then she smiles, properly - with her eyes and her soul - for the first time that night.

Is Commercial The New Cool?

2005-09-18T22:04:00.000+01:00

This new barmaid started work at the club last night. She's young, really young, and a dead-ringer for Debbie Harry rewound twenty-plus years.

She started out on my bar - I guess I was supposed to train her up or something, although let's face it it's not rocket science -and in between serving liquids to the desperate hoards, she turns to me and goes, how old are you, Sara? I'm like, I'm twenty-seven. She gets all twisty around the mouth, regards me with pity and goes, Oh. I'm like, oh? Oh what? She's like, nothing, just that's kind of old, isn't it? I'm like, you reckon? She goes, well, yeah. So I go, and what does that mean? She makes a face and says, I just can't imagine being that old, I can't imagine being that old and still being me, y'know? I'm like, well I don't know because I'm still me at my advanced age, so I guess you've got some serious thinking to do on how you're going to manage to survive past the age of twenty. And then I make her empty ashtrays and sweep up spills for the rest of the night.

I'm kind of pissed off for a while. And then I start thinking that maybe I am on the way to Past It. I mean, I remember when I was nineteen that anything past twenty-five was like, Life Over, past thirty was Practically Dead, and forty-plus didn't even register on the radar. But here I am, three years away from Practically Dead, and I'm still thinking that I'm pretty fucking cool. Am I kidding myself? Am I involved in some serious self-deception? Does the younger generation look at me and think, no way granny. Not that I really give a shit what a load of spotty hoodies with their trousers hanging halfway to their knees think of me, not like that gives any meaning to my life, but it's kind of weird.

Why is it that teens think they own being cool, and that by definition, if you're one second past twenty-five then you can't be cool?First off, being a teenager has changed. I run the risk of sounding nostagic here, just like an old wrinkly, but when I was sixteen or so being cool was all about being alternative. Yeah, it was also about getting pissed and laid and doing whatever drugs we could get our hands on, and I doubt that's changed at all - especially as it's not like any new drugs have been invented in the past ten years -but it wasn't about buying into the brands. For the 'instant gratification' generation being cool is about owning the right stuff - the ipod, the latest mobile, listening to chart hits, wearing the right labels. Being cool is about obeying the marketing men and coming up with the cash to buy what you're told is hot. I mean, how uncool is that?

Or maybe this kind of commerical cool is truly radical in that it's a total rejection of being alternative?

Fuck, I don't know, but it all seems kind of lame to me.

Maybe I should just accept that I'm getting old and that it's time to trade in my dancing shoes for a pair of comfy old slippers. Yeah, right....

You Can't Choose Your Parents...

2005-09-17T21:28:00.000+01:00

I was summoned to lunch today by my mother. It happens once a month, usually scheduled to coincide with one of her shopping marathons. It's never a pleasant experience.

I'm sitting at a table in Harvey Nichols' top floor restaurant, idly picking at my fingernails because she's late, as ever, when I hear a voice trill, Sara! There you are!, like she's the one who's been waiting for me for the past half hour.

I look up from my scrutiny of my ragged cuticles and there she is, my mother, a vision in Jaegar, trotting over to me with the usual half-crazed look of elation in her eye following a morning of heavy Amex abuse. She puts down her shopping bags with the sort of care other people reserve for new-born babies, and goes, oh Sara! I can't tell you how exhausted I am! I have had such a hectic day! Then she air kisses me - keeping her make-up immaculate is one of my mother's primary concerns - and treats me to her infamous once-over. I'm obviously looking as disreputable as I normally do, because she purses her lips and goes, oh Sara, you could be such a pretty girl if only you tried a bit harder. Look at you! Shakes her immaculate highlighted bob, sighs, what kind of outfit do you call that?

I go, hi Mum.

My mother shakes her head with regret. Oh Sara, she says, a wealth of misery sounded with each syllable, as I've told you before, you are travelling on a one-way ticket to Nowhere Fast.

I'm like, oh God, here we go.

The great tragedy in my mother's life isn't my father leaving her for a younger, blonder and more malleable version (after all, my mother got the house and a whacking great divorce settlement, plus she doesn't have to put up with a man around making the house untidy anymore, kind of a win-win situation for her), the great tragedy is having me as her daughter. I am the complete opposite of what she had hoped for. The kind of daughter my mother dreams of is sweet, presentable, conventional, has tidy hair, and can make polite chit-chat at parties without getting drunk, offending anyone or being discovered half-naked in the downstairs loo with the vicar's nephew. To say that I am a major disapointment to her is an understatement.

So Sara, my mother ventures, toying with her (undressed) salad, what have you been up to? I'm like, oh you know, nothing much, same as usual. Are you still working at that ...club? she asks, the last word spoken as if she's just discovered something unhygenic on the sole of her shoe. I'm like, uhuh. Oh Sara, she says, you know I'd be more than happy to pay for you to do some kind of course, secretarial, maybe? Or maybe a nice cookery course? Prue Leith is very good. I make a non-commital grunt and she looks at me sharply. Surely you don't like working in that place? I mean, really Sara, it's hardly the kind of job with prospects, is it? Or the kind of place where you could meet a suitable man?

I groan. My mother is desperate to marry me off. I suspect that she thinks that I'm going through a special stage, a little rebellion that maybe has gone on a bit longer than is usual but that it will end as soon as she can wish me down the aisle. Obviously, marriage to a suitable man (definition of suitable: rich and halfwitted) will turn me into a shiny-haired, grinning fool with a censored vocabulary and sterilised mind. Ha! Fat chance, mommy dearest.

Considering my gene pool, it is possible that I am a complete and utter miracle.

Why Is It That When Shit Happens... Part Two

2005-09-16T17:17:00.000+01:00

Thursday nights at the club are pretty dull. It’s hardcore night and the punters love it, which means they’re dancing not drinking. I usually spend a lot of time examining my fingernails and re-arranging the spirits bottles lined up along the back shelf of the bar. And since Don had found and appropriated my stash, I didn't even have the occasional trip to the loo to look forward to. Talk about being in dire need of a diversion.

I was so bored I almost felt grateful when Don and his posse turned up. Don is the owner of the joint and the only person alive who doesn’t get the full-on nasty treatment from the Fat Bastard. F.B. Mike knows which side his loaf of bread is buttered; you can guarantee that as soon as Don walks through the door Mike’s nose will be rammed so far up his arse as to necessitate surgical removal.

Don was checking me out from the moment he swaggered in; why I’m not sure as that night I looked like something the cat threw up. I went over to deliver yet another bottle of cut-price bubbly and before I knew it I was on his knee with his hands clamped firmly around my waist. Fortunately Don has the attention span of a two-year-old so I knew that as soon as a girl with a more flesh on show than me walked past I’ll be free, so I just resigned myself to the unpleasant experience and tried to avoid smelling Don's breath.

Don's like, looking even more gorgeous than usual, Sara. Why don’t you sit down and join us? I'm like, do I have a choice here? Don goes, no, what Don wants Don gets. I'm like, uhuh, is that right? He's like, sure is. Arse, I thought, but I drank up, my smile getting weaker by the second as Don attempted to look soulfully into my eyes. Seconds later a shiny blonde goddess in a tiny gold mini-dress wiggled her way past the table and I found myself on the floor. Lucky for me he's such a slag.

Don and his table were still in full-on party mode by the time the club closed. I was totally looking forward to getting home; no after-hours partying for me, I've been pushing it a bit lately and needed some r&r. I closed down my bar fast and headed over to the cloakroom to collect my stuff, stopping for a quick chat with Tara the cloakroom girl, a candidate for Prozac if I’ve ever seen one. Then I made for the loo.

The first thing I saw when I opened the door was Don’s hairy buttocks pumping into the shiny blonde goddess. I made a mental note to tell the cleaner to do an especially thorough job tomorrow and turned to go but I wasn’t fast enough. Don caught sight of me in the mirror. Sara! he goes, get your kit off and get stuck in! - the goddess giving me evils from her perch on the sink, Don looking more eager than I've ever seen him. I'm like, euwww, trying to tear my eyes away from the purple erection pointing at me, thinking, oh my God, this is the stuff of nightmares.

Don starts bellowing, don't be shy Sara, rumour has it you're no stranger to cock! I'm like, yeah, sorry Don, no can do, I've got a serious case of crabs. Doctor says I'm off fun and games for at least a month. Don's face falls and he starts to wilt. Anyway, I go, sorry to disturb you, I'd better be off. Then I got the hell out of there.

Working in a club really sucks sometimes.

Maybe it’s time I got a new job.

Why is it that when shit happens, it never arrives alone?: Part One

2005-09-16T04:16:00.000+01:00

I've had a really shit night.

A really shit night. It was one of those nights destined to be shit. And the shit just kept on coming.

First of all, Helen and I got totally stoned yesterday afternoon. Not giggly stoned -zombie stoned. The kind of stoned where you just sit, because any more effort than sitting is impossible. So we just sat and stared at each other, and the walls, and the carpet, and occasionally, when we could summon up a spark of energy, we sat and stared at the telly.

At some point I managed to drag my eyes to my watch, and I'm like, oh fuck, I've got to be at work in twenty minutes and I'm still wearing my pyjamas.

By the time I'd managed to leave the house looking half-decent I was hideously late and I knew that Fat Bastard Mike was going to take huge amounts of pleasure in giving me a mega-bollocking. I was in for a real Mike Special. Imagine - banging headache, numbed brain, bad hair, raging PMS and the Fear Of Mike in me. I was not a happy unit.

The bus took as long as possible - old ladies paying for their bus tickets with two pence coins, the bus stopping to eject a pissed-up hoodie, and all the other crap that only happens when you're late for something important. I raced to the club, praying for Mike to have come down with a bad case of anything serious enough to prevent him from dragging his lardy arse into work tonight. As usual, my prayers went unanswered. I ran slap bang into Mike as soon as I got through the door. I swear he must have been lurking there, just waiting for me to arrive.

I got the hairy eyeball and a growled, where the fuck have you been? I'm like, sorry Mike, bus took ages, really sorry, won't happen again, I promise. And he's like, smirking, oh yeah? You're always fucking late so don't fucking start throwing bullshit at me. I'm like, sorry Mike, really sorry. I was about to turn to go down the stairs when Mike digs in his pocket and pulls out a baggie. As soon as I saw it my stomach started churning.

And another thing, he goes, this wouldn't happen to be yours would it? No Mike, I go, of course not, never seen it before. He's like, oh yeah? Then what the fuck was it doing hidden behind the Moet on your bar then? I'm like, face all innocent, I don't know Mike, I've never seen it before, I don't do that shit. He laughs his head off, oh yeah? I wasn't fucking born yesterday. Don't fuck with me, Sara, he goes, there's plenty of others ready to take your job, so don't fuck with me. You mess with me one more time and you're out on your arse, alright? I go, yeah Mike, as meek as I can, sorry Mike. And he goes, so what are you fucking waiting for? Fuck off downstairs and get to fucking work! So I fucked off downstairs to get to fucking work. And that's when it all really started going wrong.

That's part one. Part two comes later.

Beauty And The Beast

2005-09-15T22:00:00.000+01:00

Nadia is an old friend of mine in the grip of a dangerous addiction. No, not drugs, alcohol, shopping, gambling, or any of the usual stuff that most of the people I know suffer from; Nadia only ever dates ugly men.

Now, before you all start posting in a frenzy, going God, Sara, you're so shallow and it's what's on the inside that counts, yada yada - just wait a minute and hear me out. This is not a cheap pop at people who have had the misfortune to have been hit with the ugly stick, so bear with me. There is a point.

Nadia is drop-dead gorgeous, kick-ass funny, scarily intelligent and inexplicably solvent. In fact, is she wasn't my friend, I'd probably hate her. She's perfect, such a shining example of womanhood that she's practically a goddess. She could take her pick. So why is it that Nadia can always be relied upon to leave a party with the worst-looking guy in the room?

One night Nadia turns up at one of our usual haunts with her latest conquest in tow. I'm like, wow, Nadia, you've really outdone yourself this time. She smiles and goes, yeah, I'm so happy. Isn't he just the cutest? I take another look to make sure I didn't miss anything on my first double-take, and I'm like, um, no. I mean, I don't want to offend you, but he's not exactly a looker, is he? Nadia looks over at her latest squeeze, purses her lips, and goes, I guess not. I go, so tell me, what's so great about him? Is he fantastic in bed? Nadia looks a bit coy and says, he's not bad. OK, I go, so has he got an amazing personality? She's like, well, I suppose he's quite funny. I go, so he's a millionaire or something, right? She shakes her head, not at all, I earn more than he does.

I've just about exhausted all the possibilities when Nadia turns to me and says, don't you get it, Sara? Ugly guys try so much harder. Think about it, she says, your average good-looking guy has to shoulder the weight of a huge ego. They're more concerned about themselves than about making you happy. And most good looking guys have so many girls throwing themselves at them it's more temptation than they can cope with. And who can be bothered with that?

She gets all dreamy and goes, ugly guys make me feel great.

I'm stunned.I mean, think about it. If Nadia needs a guy to make her feel good about herself, what hope is there for the rest of us mere mortals in the self-esteem stakes?

The Definition Of A Backhanded Compliment

2005-09-14T22:02:00.000+01:00

Helen and I were lounging about watching Trisha this morning when she turns to me and goes, Sara, you know what your problem is? You're a feminist trapped in the body of Jessica Rabbit, but you're harbouring the sad delusion that we live in a post-feminist world.

I'm like, huh?

I think that maybe Helen is taking her Cultural Studies degree a bit too seriously.

Why are men psychotic?

2005-09-05T22:19:00.000+01:00

Here's the background: I don't do relationships. All that cozy couple shit makes me feel queasy. B&Q Sundays and his ‘n’ hers bathrobes? It just isn't for me. I mean, I can just about cope with breakfast in bed the morning after the night before.

Yeah, the first part of a relationship, the falling in love, in lust, when you just can’t wait to lay eyes on the object of your desire, rip their clothes off, suck the sweat from their face and call it nectar, beg them to take you every which way right now wherever you are because you just have to have them inside you, that rocks. That’s great. An impeccable instant high. For as long as it lasts.

Anyway, I might not subscribe to the myth that a girl’s life is incomplete without a man to call your own but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’ve sealed up the tunnel of love and declared my body a cock free zone; I love sex, every single sweaty inch of it. This is as good as it gets; sex minus the emotional harrassment. You’d think guys would dig this. You’d think it would be the fodder of a thousand fantasies; a girl who wants a guy for his cock and isn’t bothered about all the other stuff. But men are nothing more than me, me, me, self-obsessed, oversized, contrary toddlers.

Jimmy. The perfect example. The definitive case study.

I’d seen Jimmy around, propping up the Clerkenwell bars, a tall dark silent streak with trouble in his eyes. Sexy as Hell. I couldn't resist, so one night, feeling an itch I couldn't scratch on my own, I invited myself back to his place. The next morning I left Jimmy snoring gently, sleeping like a baby under his musty duvet. I didn’t think too much about the whole interlude. It was just another night indulging in my favorite exercise alternative, much more satisfying than getting sweaty at the gym.

The next time I go out, there’s Jimmy, eyeballing me like he’s just stumbled across an oasis after an unplanned thirty-mile desert stroll. He’s all over me like a rash, putting his arm around me, nuzzling my neck, introducing me to his friends who slip casual comments in that Jimmy must have it bad, he’s been talking about me all week. Alarm bells start clanging in my head so I make my excuses and get the fuck out. The next day Jimmy’s on the phone in a pout, grumbling about me doing a wham, bam, thank you my man, saying he’s heard about my reputation, telling me I’m a slag. Like he’s as pure as the driven snow. Christ on a bike. Talk about role reversal.

That was over a month ago and Jimmy’s still hanging round like a bad smell. I just can’t figure it out. I mean, I'm enthusiastic but I’m no screaming porn star. I’m foxy but I’m no supermodel. I wouldn’t exactly put myself in the Angelina Jolie category, but Jimmy’s not the first to lay this crap on me. What’s the big deal?

My only explanation is that men are psychotic. If they can’t have it then they just want it all the more. But if you’re into them, if you show them some honey, they’re like, yeah well, so she’s crazy about me. That means I’m a stud, I’m the bollocks, I am King Dong, so I need to get out there amongst the desperate hordes and spread my own personal brand of joy.

But show them that you don’t give a toss, like, yeah whatever, and you're elevated to godess status. It’s easier to persuade a shark with his teeth sunk in your midriff that vegetarianism is the way to go than to get a cunt-struck testosterone-zoned male to leave you alone.

So in the love/lust zone, instant throw-away gratification is the route I choose. It's the only answer.

Life's too short not to fuck around.

Why be a corporate whore when the perks are so much better elsewhere?

2005-09-04T22:18:00.000+01:00

Ugh. Sunday morning. Possibly the most horrible hours of the week.

Unless of course you spend most of your waking hours stuck in an open-plan office pod, in which case the whole of Monday is a major disaster zone, without question.

I've never been able to do the office thing. I have tried, I mean, I'm not dissing it without some prior knowledge of the situation. Admittedly, my knowledge of office-bound wage-slavery isn't based on years of the torture - I managed two days and three hours before I packed up my stuff and ran out of there with a smile on my face and relief in my heart. But that was enough for me to be able to say, without any hesitation whatsoever, that the mere thought of being confined to an office during daylight hours for the rest of forever makes me itch.

The corporate world doesn’t fool me. I can’t toe the sort of line that puts money in the bank and sucks away your freedom, giving it back to you in little taster parcels they call ‘holiday’ as if that’s supposed to keep you afloat and relatively sane from here to retirement. I might never be able to boast at parties about what a big swinging dick I am in the field of corporate banking, or chicken-feed wholesale, or Tupperware parties, or whatever, but at least my mind is free, free from flipping through hoops of advancement, promotion, promises, free from being assaulted with the lies that it means any more than jack-shit at the end of it all. At least I have my integrity. Nobody is going to suck me into the career brainwashing maelstrom. I'd rather sign up with the Hari Krishnas. Or the Moonies. Or even the Scientologists. Yeah, my feelings about it are that intense.

I guess you could argue that I'm still a wage-slave working at the club. But it's different. There are no promises. All I'm expected to do is turn up, serve the punters, smile a bit, refrain from insulting any of the DJs or members of their entourage and then, when all the punters have been booted out and I've handed over the takings on my till to Fat Bastard (more on him some other time), I'm free to go home or, as is more often the case, to party. Nice and simple.

And this kind of job has some attractive perks. I don't mean that I get a pension and a season ticket loan (get real, like that kind of shit makes me salivate). I get a much better deal; I haven't queued or paid entry at a London club for the past two years, I get major discounts on my supplies of good-time candy, and I have a ready stock of Alpha males in lust with the barmaid vibe. Plus, I get to sleep all day if I want to and I never have to button myself into a suit. Not too bad, huh?

I kind of like my life.

What's Up, Doc?

2005-09-04T21:58:00.000+01:00

I was sixteen when my Mother watched a documentary about teenage tearaways, freaked out big time with The Mommy Fear, and threw me into a year of couch sessions. I guess it must be kind of scary to envisage your only child being destined for a life as a trick-turning crack-whore. But then, my mother always has been a bit of a drama queen.

So, my mother leafs through the Yellow Pages and next thing I know, I'm signed up from here to infinity for weekly sessions of psychological torture. And it was torture. I had to sit in a stuffy, smelly little room every week for fifty endless minutes with a fuzzy-haired stranger regarding me impassively from behind her wire-rimmed glasses and occasionally muttering, well Sara, how do you feel about that?

I just didn't know what to say. I had nothing to say. Not a sausage. I mean, this therapist was an expert in teenage trauma and I was about as far from traumatised as you can get. So after a few weeks of painful silence - weeks of nothing but the clock ticking, feet tapping and the occasional heavy sigh from me - I got bored of trying to stare my therapist out and started to make stuff up. I had to entertain myself somehow and it sure wasn't going to happen unless I was the one to make the effort. So I borrowed a copy of Freud from the library and started conjuring up elaborate dreams packed full to bursting with phallic symbols. My dreams featured an alarming array of pillars, posts, mountains, fighter jets, rockets, swords, guns, baguettes, postboxes, pens, and even, to spice things up a bit one day when I sensed that my therapist's attentions were starting to wane, a giant florescent pink dildo with wings trying to attack my mother.

My therapist's verdict? I have penis envy.

I mean, duh! Thanks for nothing. I could have told myself that for free. What woman wouldn't love to have a cock all of their very own for a day? I mean, think about it - the possibilities are fascinating.

But maybe that's a topic for another time.

lastnightidreamtofelephants

Yeah, I know I'm a schmuck

Christmas Cheer

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Another pause

a new chapter (hopefully)

One thousand years of solitude

The Big Chill

Happy HNT!

Hrmphhh

The Aftermath

The Party

Status report

Quiz

Happy HNT!

Things I found under my bed today

A sure-fire cure for any ailment

Singing the blues

A Certain Chemistry

Countdown...

HAPPY HNT!

After Hours : Part Two

Update on James

After Hours

Childhood Memories

Piss-Poor, Set Up and Stony Broke; the story of the recision of my allowance

Sweet Sweet Music

The Date

More questions, questions...

Questions, questions...

Writer's Block

HAPPY HNT!

Just Say NO

FEEDBACK

What is the world coming to?

A life-affirming experience of inutterable genius

My 1000th visitor

The Dinner Party

Once upon a time I believed in love

Fun With Memes

The Reason Why

The Big Talk

my 1,000th visitor!

A storm in a B-cup

HAPPY HNT!

Fun with archives

Touchdown!

GO SARA! GO SARA! GO SARA!

Confessions of a band-aid

The Last 10 Albums I Listened To

The Great Withholder - will he submit?

Pudding? No thanks

What do women want?

Euwww, I don't feel so good

I rock!

Nightmare

My first Half-Nekkid Thursday Post!

The Withholder... continued

The Saga Of The Great Withholder Continues...

Gnghhh?

10 Things You Need To Know About Me

Check This Out

What The Hell Is Going On With You Guys?

A Promise Of Cheap Titillation

God Is A Blogger

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I Love Doug

Oh. My. God. - I'm A Guy!!!

Mind Your Manners

Are we settling for second best?

Is Commercial The New Cool?

You Can't Choose Your Parents...

Why Is It That When Shit Happens... Part Two

Why is it that when shit happens, it never arrives alone?: Part One

Beauty And The Beast

The Definition Of A Backhanded Compliment

Why are men psychotic?

Why be a corporate whore when the perks are so much better elsewhere?

What's Up, Doc?