Give Me Democracy…

…or give me death. Unless, of course, democracy delivers Boris Johnson*. This will be old news to English readers, since this happened over a week ago but, for every one else: London has a new Mayor.

With a name that sounds like a malfunctioning penis (oh man, he has a boris johnson) and variously described as boorish, racist, buffoonish and (I guess aptly) a bit of a cocksucker, I hold a dim view of how he’s going to do in local politics’ top job. Just how disillusioned has London gotten with Ken that Boris seemed like a better option?**

So now I’m back under conservative rule, in the guise of an overweight, flushed Tory who looks like Augustus Gloop from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

God help me.

Boris’ first order of business? Ban alcohol consumption on public transport. Way to get the public onside. Naturally, every man and his dog has been whining piteously about this; seemingly unaware that in other parts of the world it is seen as absolutely reasonable to have laws in place to protect you from being stuck in the same carriage as the obnoxiously drunk-getting-drunker. Hell, in Australia, not only can you not drink alcohol on public transport, you’re technically not aloud to have any food or water.

Other than that, being in the top job for the better part of a fortnight has seen him try and get the overland onto the Oyster system and getting caught running through red lights on his pushbike.

Assessment? He hasn’t done anything to deeply offend me but I remain unimpressed.

* Thanks Tom

** Of course, this question would be easier to answer if London had actually bothered to show up to vote

Thoughts On Love

…but before I get into that: I will do a non-love, life and all things adolescent post again. God, once upon a time, I was averaging a political post a day and when was the last time I did that? So, I promise, it’s not all gonna be girly-girl talk, in case you were losing hope. I have to do a post about *shudder* Boris Johnson, or, should I say, Boorish Johson. But this blog, as ever, is reflecting what’s preoccupying my mind…

Today, I felt a little adrift. Not in an awful argh way but just a little… adrift. I was temporarily afloat in a sea of uncertainty as, out of the blue, I had this overwhelming feeling of doubt, uncertainty and an incredible sense of pointlessness in what I, or anybody, did. It was as if, just for a second, the complete emptiness of meaning in the universe sort of touched me and I felt quite bleak about what the point was in doing anything - what point in love, what point in work, what point in living?

It wasn’t as depressing as it sounded, mostly because such thoughts can’t possibly last long on a beautiful, sunny morning but it left me with a sense of unease and something I’ve always, always hated: uncertainty.

I can handle duress, pain, insurmountable odds, anything, if I simply have a plan of action. A sense of purpose. Without them, I’m a boat without an anchor.

What perplexed me the most was why I’d have these sort of “what am I doing, what’s the point, what am I doing?” thoughts. After all, it’s not like I’ve been drifting aimlessly lately. My current life in London is the product of a very purposeful choice that I made; the result of a lot of hard work. I am exactly where I have actively chosen to be: the very soul of “point”! But, after some texts exchanged and some questions asked, it crystallised where this doubt and its resulting confusion might be seeping from: my personal life.

Ah, my personal life: my old nemesis.

Hmm, the above attitude - an instinctive one - might account for some of it.

But back on track. We all have our personal challenges and sorting out my personal life seems to be mine. Happily, it’s improved 1000% and I’m mostly happy and comfortable with mine these days. I have a lovely group of irl friends, a lovely group of online friends and plenty of family. Really, it’s just the whole boyfriend thing. Even on that front, I’ve been active on it, going on 3 dates in the last 2 weeks.

As we all now know, Universe Boy didn’t work out. I went on another date with another guy, we’ll call him Mr Americano, but he’s definitely in the Friends pile, too. Which brings me to Door Number 3: the Wildcard.

Mr Wildcard, I suspect, is behind today’s crisis in faith.

But before you can understand why he’s troubling me, let me explain some pertinent and related facts from my past. Most of my dates have been offline meetings of people I’ve met online. Most of these dates haven’t worked out and while thems the breaks, this has caused me much consternation and embarrassment. Why? Not for the reason you think.

You see, in many of these failed dates, I had previously been quite intense and, well, intimate online. No, I didn’t cyber but it was all quite amorous. I was young and foolish and didn’t quite fully appreciate how much intensity can develop from online interaction and how completely removed from reality it was. Of course, cue the real-life date and me realising that they were not only not the men of my dreams but, even worse, I’d just interacted with them online like they were. This causes all sorts of awkwardness when you suddenly want to back way the hell off.

Compound this with the fact that two men on my notched bedpost were long-distance online romances who I met in real life and which initially went well (hence the notched bed post) but then failed spectacularly quite shortly thereafter. Again, it brought home to me how completely removed online interaction is from reality: what works there often does not work irl.

This has all led to my belief that online is a perfectly great way to meet new people but an IRL meeting should be arranged as soon as possible (once relative safety has been established). This way you can quickly ascertain any real life chemistry or, if none can be found, file them in the “nice but not for me” pile before any attachment is made.

My man profile had ‘has to live in London’ for exactly this reason. I’ve done two long-distance things and I don’t want to go there again. I’ve also flirted online before but left a real-life meeting way too long, which led to all sorts of awkwardness when the Cyber Stud turned out to be a Cyber Dud in the land of real.

Enter the Wildcard. I got home from the failed date on Friday night and was disappointed. I hopped online, checked some blogs, caught up on some email and basically wasted time, not wanting to go to bed. I was tired but, on that night, just really didn’t feel like going to an empty bed again.

I was cruising my favourite dating site (favourite because it’s a] free and b] free… it has some cool tests, too) and got a random message from Wildcard. ‘What the hell, I’m bored,’ I thought. His profile was witty (although notably lacking a photo) and we got chatting. Five hours later at 6am, I finally drag myself to bed.

I was completely cynical and quite prickly in personality that entire night but he proved to be amusing company, in spite of my pugnaciousness.

Spoke to him the next night and the same thing happened. Surprisingly, the lack of profile photo did not equal a short, fat, balding guy. He’s cute and in shape (and, yes, they have been genuine photos). He works for the police, doing desk-bound detective work… it sounds computer-based. He’s very intelligent. He’s also two years younger than I am and lives in Worcester. Worcester, for chrissake!

It was at this point, after some looong chatting and really outrageous flirting, that I finally told myself, “whoa there, girl.” What follows is a fairly accurate transcription of the conversation I had with myself:

Dune, girl, what are you doing? Have we learned nothing? This is too intense, too fast! And where has that gotten you before? You in the middle of a date with what turns out to be the most unsexy, unsuitable man you’ve ever met, cringing with the embarrassing memories of the things you flirtingly told him two days ago when you thought he was a Cyber Stud. And did we not say we’d never do anything long-distance ever again? For good reason! It takes too long to meet them, by which time you’ve formed an attachment and then are VERY disappointed when it doesn’t work out or, it temporarily works out but it all goes to crap, because it’s long-distance. There’s no up-side there. So quit with the flirting.

So you know what I did? I actually listened to myself. I stopped the flirting, said I was tired of just flirting with boys who only wanted one thing (because, surprise surprise, it always ended in one thing, which I found out makes me feel cheap) and was looking for something that develops slowly and respectfully. I figured he’d disappear.  The end result, though? He quit the overt flirting and, according to my wishes, backed off. But didn’t go away. He said he’d like to be friends, like to meet me, reiterated that he was attracted and would like to be considered for “something more” after meeting in person. We’ve continued nice, friendly texting ever since.

So what has this resulted in? Today’s total confusion. Am I actually considering even the thought of meeting someone who I couldn’t really have a relationship with? Why am I doing this to myself? I know this sort of thing doesn’t work!!

Worst case scenario: despite online, there is absolutely no chemistry irl, which means all this promise, fun and potential has been basically wasted (although not completely because maybe I’d get a friend out of it). Cue big disappointment.

Best case scenario: it all goes really well, sparks fly… but he’s still 2 hours away. How can anyone conduct a relationship like that?

So, even in the best case, it’s not ideal. AND he’s two years younger than me. AND I’m basing all this on a couple of really great conversations, which is surely much too soon. I’ve told myself to not think so much about this but I can’t help it - if there’s no point to it, I should quit now… only I don’t want to quit. Is this because he really has special potential or is this just me looking for affection in any place?

As I’ve said, online things have no basis in reality - so, is the another proof in point, or this an exception to the rule? Kill it or pursue it?

Your advice might be just ‘wait and see’. Not to think about it too much and see what happens. Which is exactly what I plan on doing. Just enjoy some nice conversation, not be in any hurry, not doing anything that might embarrass me later and etc, so that’s all good. I guess what I want to know here is, what do you all think of Mr Wildcard?

It’s Her Quirky Sense of Humour

I wasn’t going to blog again for ages. I haven’t really felt like it but it’s almost 2am and, even though I’m tired, I don’t want to go to bed.

I’m thinking of investing in a single bed. That way, there’s no empty cold side. You know where this is going, don’t you.

So, Universe Boy looks like he wasn’t divinely intentioned after all. Call me unreasonable, but I’d like my dates to show some kind of attraction towards me. Being dressed to kill, oozing sex bomb appeal and being so cute that drivers stopped their cars, beeped and waved, I did not take kindly to the fact that he didn’t appear to share the sentiment. I sort of felt like an aunt he was escorting around. Quiet and shy or not, if you can’t muster up even a “you look nice” or show in any way that you have the slightest interest, then don’t bother. Seriously.

Even though I knew I looked gorgeous, I never felt less so. Oh and some guy tried to molest me on my way home, again. This is the second time. Only, rather than waiting for the Tube, I was waiting for a bus. And, instead of being Indian, this guy was Portugese. He still tried to cop a feel and manhandled me and forced a kiss on. Un-fucking-believeable. I’m going to have to start carrying pepper spray or something.

Early in the night, before I gave up on him, I asked him if he wanted to hang out again that weekend. He followed up this afternoon and suggested a late movie. I declined. He might be happy to go through the motions but I didn’t want to spend another date with a cold fish. He seems to feel the same way. I think his exact words were, “no magic spark.” Touche.

So, that’s that. Dressed like a 40’s bombshell and I still couldn’t get any play (except from the slutty Portugese guy, ugh). I deserve someone who actually likes me and thinks I’m beautiful. Can’t seem to find it though.

So, I’ve had a Magnum, some Doritos and some Fry’s Peppermint Creams. Band-aids for the soul. I’ll patch myself up, soldier on and hope for the day when cynicism and bitterness consume me to the point where I don’t bother going on dates, thereby sparing me disappointment, misery and sharpened loneliness.

What a blessed relief that will be.

Still Alive

I’m sorry!!!!

Having the hardest time writing a competent post, let alone a good one. Methinks bullet points are in order:

• Job going really well - it’s getting busier, I’m arranging itineraries, taking minutes and archiving my ass off
• Have a second date with Universe Boy tomorrow

Okay, that’s about it.  I promise to write a much better post this weekend. Bank holiday, yay!!!

Holy Shit… I Think The Universe Delivered

So I’ve just had my date.  My, I think, highly successful date. Holy crap, I think my request just worked.

We met at the fountain at Piccadilly Circus and he took me to a cocktail bar near the Soho area.  It was this lovely underground bar, filled with candles, dark intimate corner booths and, most importantly, not many people. A quiet bar! Hallelujah.

We had a couple of drinks, which he insisted on paying for and we talked politics and gun control and our siblings who are nothing like us.

He’s a quiet, shy sort of person but friendly. Cute.

We then decided to get something to eat and he took me to Taro, this Japanese place. Again, he insisted on paying for everything. Then, over, plates of gyoza, teriyaki and yakisoba, we talked travel, the Stolen Generation and why Anzac Day is important to Australians*.

I like him. I like him indeed. He has definite potential. Let’s consult my man profile and see how he compares:

• Lives in London, England. YES. West London.
• Is currently single. YES.
• Finds me attractive. Not sure but I think so. He articulated the words in a recent email: “I AM interested”
• Is gainfully employed and self-sufficient. YES. Works in the entertainment industry writing computer script for cgi.
• Is 5′9″ or taller. YES. 5′10″.
• Aged between 26-31. YES. 26
• Attractive, healthy and in shape. YES, YES & SEEMS TO BE. He’s definitely cute. His photos didn’t do him justice. He’s healthy and doesn’t smoke. I’m not sure he’s a gym person, but the point of my “in shape” requirement was avoidance of someone really overweight. He’s not overweight. In fact, he’s skinny.
• Intelligent. YES.
• Assertive but kind. YES. He’s kind and assertive enough to be happy to choose the bar and restaurant without hesitation when given the opportunity.
• High sex drive, open-minded and likes a bit of kink. NOT SURE. But I hope so.
• Can make me laugh. YES. He has a nice, wry outlook. I laughed at least twice tonight.
• Openly affectionate. UNKNOWN.
• Likes science-fiction, is a reader and enjoys music. YES, YES & YES. Likes Predator, Aliens and Terminator.
• Can dance. UNKNOWN.
• Is not a commitment-phobe. YES. He’s definitely on a girlfriend hunt, rather than a booty call. Or, so I think anyway (and this is based on his vibe tonight and previous emails).
• Knows that it’s important to remember birthdays, Valentines Day and other dates of social and personal import. UNKNOWN.
• Is curious about the world and likes travel. YES! He enjoys travel and has been to quite a few places.
• Interested in talking politics, or has an opinion on politics or topical news. YES! We’ve been talking American politics.

So, at a glance, he’s sitting on about 80-90%. Pretty damn excellent.

Oh and, in other news, on my way home some guy tried to pick me up. He tried for a kiss AND asked me back to his place. Ew. Oh and, even ew-er (and weirder) is seeing some 70 year old man with a thick east European accent and bloodied hands paw, kiss and lick at some much younger Asian woman. He was acting so sleazy; like some businessman in a brothel (only, I don’t think she was a prostitute).

* Anzac Day is 25 April, hence the relevance.

Ska = Happiness

Did you know that? You can be walking through London, cold and grey, and then those reggae-blues sounds come floating through the earphones and you feel like you’re on holiday in the Caribbean.

I don’t think I mentioned this in my last email, but it’s currently taking me an hour to get into work.

First it’s the ten minute walk to the train station, and then the ten minute ride on the overland into the city (which really takes fifteen minutes in the mornings, while we wait for the horde to squish themselves into the tincan of a carriage). From there, I was then going through the underground and making a line change.

Today, I came to my senses and just decided to walk to work from the overland city station, rather than bothering with the tube. It ended up being about 5 minutes quicker overall and has the distinct advantage of not requiring me to nuzzle into the armpit of another. A BO-free journey is always a good one.

Another advantage? The twenty minute walk from the overland to work, in addition to the ten minute walk from the station, means I’d be doing an hour of solid walking a day. Hello cute bum and goodbye gym fees.

All this exercise is absolutely mandatory since having an on-site cafeteria cooking me yummy stuff is proving to be more than my self-will can resist. I’ve been mostly going with vegetarian (usually less fatty than a meat dish, so long as there’s not much cheese) and trying to be healthy but I’ve been very naughty today and had a stuffed jacket potato with three kinds of cheese (including some kind of cream cheese) with onion mayo.

Drool with me, if you please: *droooooooooool*

Soooooo good.

As it would seem that I can’t avoid the cafeteria and I’m already getting up at the crack of dawn to get to work, making it even less likely that I’ll get up earlier to make lunch (since, despite all best intentions, I never do it the night before), I’ve decided to have my main meal at lunch and just have something light for dinner. This should mean my weekly food bill will be much smaller, which will cover my lunch. Huzzzah!!

Random interlude: in the afternoons, the ambient light around my desk goes all weird. I sit right next to a window and I think the scaffolding of the building next door is responsible for the odd greenish cast in the light.

Where was I? Oh yes, food and exercise and stuff. On the related topic of loving your body/being happy with yourself, I’ve been getting a lot out of the ‘How to Look Good Naked’ program. Since I’m a girl, I naturally hate my body. I don’t like my skin, I have tuckshop lady arms*, I swear I have a Jabba the Hut double-chin and my stomach gives me an endless source of angst. I’m much better about it than I used to be (hell, I like myself) but there are certain parts of my body that I don’t like.

But, watching the Naked program, I realise that my body is better than 70% of women out there. More importantly, no one sees my body the way I see my body. Everyone else in the world sees me with much kinder eyes. I’m finally starting to trust in that.

Watching the program fills me with such positive energy – which is an entirely wanky sentence, I realise, but there’s no other way to describe it. I feel good about myself after I watch that program; unlike a fashion magazine where I finish wanting to start a course of bulimia.

So huzzah for Gok and his program, which works on one brilliant principle: have a gay man lavish attention, affection and lovely, supportive words upon the barren ears of a woman used to mental self-flagellation and the derision of the fashion industry until she finally, finally realises that she is a beautiful woman. Oh, and buy her some cute new shoes and a dress. It always works wonders.

* hmm, how to translate this to a non-Australian audience. Ok, a tuckshop is a school cafeteria. The ladies who always man a tuckshop sort of look like lady truckers… they have a husky physique, shall we say.

(Monetarily) Contributing To Society Again

Finally, I’m back to work! A sentence I never thought I’d say with such enthusiasm.

A month after they originally offered me the job, I finally started. Today was also the first time in 8 weeks I got up before 10am. What a shock to the system that was.

Bleary-eyed and blinded by the sunlight pouring into my bedroom, I got myself ready and made my way to the train station. Cue my first shock: the overland and the underground during peak hour.

I have to say, there’s a certain comfort in standing in a carriage, knowing you can’t fall over because you’re buffeted on every side by the fragrant presence of humanity. Or, put another way, you’re stuffed in like sardines. I was warned it would be like this but that still doesn’t quite prepare you for the sight of some desperate schmuck ramming his way into an overstuffed carriage, attempting to burrow a cavity in a wall of sweaty flesh.

Working for my new company is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I’ve only ever worked for small businesses and it didn’t prepare me to work for a gigantic company like this one. For a start, they have a dedicated HR department (yes, the businesses I’ve worked for were so small they didn’t even have that). It was one of the HR employees who did the induction with me, presenting me with a huge leather binder/portfolio, that had everything from a notepad, to the forms they’d be using for my probationary appraisal (and the annual ones after that) as well an emergency card, with a number to call in the event that a major incident occurs in London and I need to check if I’m supposed to come to work (or not) and another number for the private employee service that the company pays for that offer everything from financial advice to counselling.

Following that was a trip through the warren’s nest that are the offices (the building is so expansive that the office space is divided into wings) to the WH&S offices, where we had the obligatory cheesy video about how dangerous an office can be. You can trip over joins in the carpet! Lifting computers can be heavy and you could injure yourself! Don’t drop things! Be careful! Fear! Eternal vigilance! One wonders if it was London’s over-protective WH&S officers who informed London’s plan-of-action in the ‘war against terror’.

Regular readers will remember how I mused if I had somehow found myself signed up to Mi5 because of all the background checks they wanted to run. Today confirmed those suspicions. As well as the photo ID, they scanned my fingerprints for their high-tech system where you log into your computer using a fingerprint scanner. Most doors also require a fingerprint scan to open, as well. While it’s handy in that you don’t have to remember passwords or codekeys it all seems a little OTT (if incredibly space-age cool).

By the time this was all done, it was mid-morning. I was shown to my wing and reintroduced to all the staff I’d be working with, and my boss, who I met in the interviews. Everyone was incredibly welcoming and they had a desk set up and ready to go. Thirty minutes later, any first-day nerves about whether I’d be able to do the job were erased: the job’s dead easy. Thank god it’s a busy role because the work itself is very straightforward: manage a calendar, answer phones, take minutes, do typing and secretarial work as required, file.

While all the staff were lovely and I was pleased to see that I should have no problems settling in, the highlight of my day was the subsidised canteen. And when I say subsidised, I mean subsidised. Most things cost less than a pound: sandwiches, hot soups, etc. They also do hot meals (today was beef stew with dumplings and your choice of steamed veggies, and the vegetarian option was a vegetable frittata), which cost two pounds. I got mine free today, since it was my first day *grins*. It’s the small things that bring me joy. We also have our own Starbucks counter in the canteen, a novelty that’s mostly wasted on me since I don’t drink coffee but I appreciate the convenience for other people.

So that’s that. Job? Success!

In other news, I have a date on Thursday. It’s a non-tosspot from OkCupid and we’re meeting for drinks Thursday night at Piccadilly Circus. I’ll note that this meeting will fall within the 2-week limit for my request to the universe, but I’m trying not to make a big deal out of it. Who knows how it will go; I’ll just set my expectations to Level: Modest. Some drinks and some (hopefully) good company.

Will keep you posted.

Girls’ Room Graffiti

Something that Jiminy mentioned got me thinking about how girl toilets graffiti differs from boy toilets graffiti. Now, before you get started, no, I don’t have firsthand experience of boy toilets graffiti. But second-hand accounts and tv tells me that many tend to be either:

1. Dirty jokes, dirty suggestions, dirty words OR
2. A number, with an invitation to get dirty (or the suggestion that so-and-so IS someone who likes to get dirty)

Girl toilets graffiti is a little different. It falls into one of two categories:

1. Lesbian graffiti
2. Girlpower/emotional support graffiti

Incidences of type 1 graffiti increases markedly in university toilet blocks.

Type 1 girl graffiti usually consists of:

“blah blah is a stupid dyke”

“hey what have you got against dykes?”

“it’s QUEER, thank you”

“shut up, dyke”

Whole conversations, which are a short-hand dissertation on queer culture and lesbo-fear.

Type 2 girl graffiti looks something like this:

“you are all beautiful - love your curves!”

“real women unite!”

“that’s just what fat chicks say”

“guess who’s insecure”

“shut up, you dyke”

“ok, can’t we all just be friends! We’re all beautiful on the inside”

Again, we have the full conversation; a microcosm of female insecurity, latter-day girl power and it’s heady vocabulary of armchair psychology cliches.

Someone should seriously do a dissertation on girl bathroom graffiti. I think it should be entitled: “Shut up, you dyke: queer culture and womanhood in the 21st century.”

Sounds like something I did in my Anthropology class.

C’mon Sucker, Lick My Battery

No, not that battery. Dirty buggers.

Behold! The humans are dead:

Back At The TV….

…tonight I watched a penis being operated on, to solve erectile dysfunction.  Basically, they inserted a long rubber pipe that inflated.  After the operation, all his wife had to do was locate the pump, beneath his testicles, squeeze three times and voila!  We have lift off.

There is some weird shit on tv today.

Sadly, this is the closest I’ve come to a penis in many moons.