tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2009-11-11:/Me and My MusicianMokoFeed2009-11-11T12:56:05+01:00tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2008-01-03:/2008/01/03/matching_mugs~3522983/Matching Mugselizabethagape2008-01-03T13:56:30+01:002008-01-03T13:56:30+01:00 <p>There is nothing quite so claustrophobic as being up a mountain in the middle of winter with your family. I arrived with my brother after a trying journey through Standsted and a two hour drive from Pisa to the house whereby we were met by a delighted mother, champagne cocktails, a large collection of brand new DVD’s and a decadent amount of ‘nibbles.’ It took four films, two bottles of cava and a packet of Palma ham before abject boredom took up residency. </p>
<p>Christmas day was dire, spent swimming about in gin cocktails and champagne trying to shield myself from a Turkey carcass bigger than my own torso. Boxing day was spent in a laughable attempt at dieting before The Musician arrived the next day. Obviously that one day of avoiding the blinis and bilinis made a huge difference to the waistline that had spent a whole month behaving like an aristocrat with Gout. </p>
<p>The day finally arrived, four became six with my brothers girlfriend joining us also. I love her, I can’t recall her opening her mouth once the entirety of the holiday, and on top of this is most curiously beautiful – she became the only suitable ornament in the house that wouldn’t have World of Interiors up in arms. </p>
<p>Mother was overly enthusiastic at the prospect of more mouths to feed, and had convinced herself The Musician shared her Trivial Pursuit fetish – she is convinced anyone with a degree is desperate to test their worth and fiddle about with plastic pie pieces. </p>
<p>The trip passed in the most pleasant manner possible, it was sunny and with guests present we were required to show them around the area and thus eat out more, enabling me to breathe a little and stock up on Marlborough Lights. The Musician was as polite, engaging and delightful as always – managing to entertain the family whilst simultaneously confusing my mother as to why he’d ended up dating her daughter. I couldn’t answer, but told her that her faith in me was as inspiring as ever. </p>
<p>The sex we had knocked me sidewise, and I now understand <em>exactly </em>the real purpose of holidays. Bugger all this “spend time with the family, meet with old friends, relax” ect. It’s quite clearly all geared toward sublime, uninterrupted fucking. </p>
<p>The Musician and I left the mountains. He, convinced that my mother was a borderline alcoholic with colourful psychotic tendencies and I, two stone heavier and accompanied by another chin. </p>
<p>But we are better than ever. We have matching mugs. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2008/01/03/matching_mugs~3522983/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-12-13:/2007/12/13/tis_the_season_to_be_single~3438767/Tis the Season to be Singleelizabethagape2007-12-13T17:42:02+01:002007-12-13T17:42:02+01:00 <p><br>So, Christmas is fast approaching and I have a boyfriend. I’ve been told on good authority (I called an office meeting on the subject, my publisher was distinctly unimpressed, apparently I’m Wasting Company Time) that the present buying for a partner is considered “A Big Thing”. Well. I thought it was like having a sibling or friend that you could joke about it with, deciding on a lame £5 budget or some such – so it was just a jokey sort of imitation celebration. Oh, how wrong I was. </p>
<p>Helen, the business marketing manager – living with boyfriend, claims that it’s all a Power Game whereby you don’t spend much (displaying your femininity and worthlessness without male support or something) but your partner completely spoils you, after which I assume you repay in sexual favours by going to work beneath the dining table before he consumes too much port. I think it’s called ‘Tinsel Prostitution’. </p>
<p>Ana, another woman who works in marketing – married, agrees on a budget with her husband but it’s a complete smoke screen because she’s the only one the “budget” is set for, he always gets her something else on top that’s usually of the expensive and shiny variety. </p>
<p>Julia, the Swedish intern - with loads of boyfriends spread across the continent, has a strict Christmas Cards Only policy (and no wonder) but would never put too much effort into buying something for a man. Fair enough, Camden Town only sells so many nose rings per annum. </p>
<p>Frederic, the sexy advertising executive – living with equally sexy girlfriend, spoils her something rotten and apparently “couldn’t care less what she got me, It’s the thought that counts.” Yeah, right – hardly what you told Santa though, is it? </p>
<p>The others were too unhelpful and pointless to even mention. I’ve now added a truckload of stress to the festive season that I usually solely use to consume Mulled Wine and read Jilly Cooper. Ho Fucking Ho. </p>
<p>On a plus note: my period has gone, so I’m finally getting laid again. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/12/13/tis_the_season_to_be_single~3438767/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-11-30:/2007/11/30/who_wears_the_trousers~3375519/Who Wears the Trousers?elizabethagape2007-11-30T17:09:38+01:002007-11-30T17:09:38+01:00 <p>The Doctors have no idea what is wrong. God bless the NHS.</p>
<p>Tonight is my first date with The Musician. We’re going out for dinner and drinks. I’m incredibly excited and have purchased a new dress for the occasion; a pretty woollen thing that should show off my legs and hide my slightly bloated stomach that is the direct result of too much champagne last night and far too many hobnobs this afternoon. </p>
<p>We have already had an argument about the whole thing, which is promising – I told him he had to choose where we go weeks before hand but he has today decided that I will choose. Which is just not on. I told him to choose so that he could feel a bit more masculine about the event: after all I’m going to be the one paying. And for that matter – is it a date if I’m paying? I’m not sure. </p>
<p>But I do know I’m excited nevertheless. I haven’t seen him since Wednesday morning, which has been a bit too long I feel. But all this No Sex because of my period is excruciatingly frustrating. Time to get out the chess board again. </p>
<p>Have wonderful weekends. <br>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/11/30/who_wears_the_trousers~3375519/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-11-27:/2007/11/27/i_think_it_s_one_of_them~3359617/I Think it's one of 'Them'!elizabethagape2007-11-27T15:01:26+01:002007-11-27T15:01:26+01:00 <p>There has been a huge outcry in the office this morning. It seems one of the male members of staff has been seen at gay club, Heaven. This colleague has a fiancé and denies the allegations, but the gossip mongering girls can’t quite believe it. Shock, horror and it has all quite clearly turned what would otherwise be a rather dismal morning into a Disneyland trip with backstage passes. I can only conclude that these people are either tremendously thick, or have never left their leafy suburbs to take a trip anywhere other than DFS or their local for a sneaky spritzer. Apparently, according to these two females a trip to G.A.Y or whichever neon sweating, jockstrap flouting hotspot is disco destination of the month, renders the visitor homosexual. I’m afraid not. </p>
<p>Perhaps society would be made a lot easier on everyone if every sub-section did have it’s own designated area, and it more or less used to. Hackney was for single mothers on benefit who chain smoked Embassy’s till their latest boyfriend brought home the freshly cut crack, but now the area has been flooded with artists, architects and new-age media companies that smoke Camels and get the Company Director to bring the crack to the office instead. And increasingly frequently the two dwellers have create a hybrid; the asbo chav is less inclined to wear velour and more likely to be wearing skin-tight jeans alla Kate Moss, still gets pregnant when she discovers the wonders of the benefit cheque but will also cut back on the Smirnoff Ice and do a mothers yoga class. The Hoxtonite favours fake gold bling with her brogues and pokadot dress, sips on a half-pint in a pub that used be a warming place for builders bums and drops her t’s when conversing with the taxi driver. </p>
<p>The same goes for nightclubs; if it has a predominantly gay theme the ladies love it and the straight men have been clocked into that fact ever since one of them ‘accidentally’ stumbled into one just as S Club 7 were performing on stage and saw drunken female revellers throwing thongs into the crowd with wild abandon, and without any fear. Quite frankly I’m amazed that my colleagues were that excited about a “Real Live Gay!” in their midst. We work in Covent Garden for pete sake, right down the road from Soho – and everyone I know has at <em>least </em>one gay hairdresser they couldn’t live without. A few weeks ago they were in uproar about a film one of them had seen, documenting the life of a trans-gender undergoing the final stages of surgery. Her exact words were, “I didn’t think they actually existed.”</p>
<p>They have just about calmed down now, and the day will resume as usual I suspect – or until one of them spies a male with long hair, a female with a tattoo or a pair of lesbians holding hands. The suspense is killing me. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/11/27/i_think_it_s_one_of_them~3359617/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-11-26:/2007/11/26/tied_too_tight~3355465/Tied Too Tightelizabethagape2007-11-26T17:46:27+01:002007-11-26T17:46:27+01:00 <p>It’s such a shame that most women have a disposition toward being so bitchy, caterwauling and mentally tearing each others hair out as they try to climb upward to cheerleader supremacy by stamping their stilettos in exposed backs. I’ve spent my weekend in the company of past and present girlfriends who were all gathered together for an assortment of gigs and birthdays. How wonderful it was to see the childhood animosity completely gone as we hugged and shrieked at one another in recognition, and ultimately the whole of the weekend seemed to be a celebration of witnessing how far friends have come on in their prospective careers or relationships. I even managed to receive what I can best describe as a love letter from a dear friend who was unable to be there, and it really made my evening and the next day as well for that matter. </p>
<p>As always, Monday comes as a harsh and unwanted reality, but today I consider being a little worse than most, and not just because the heating in our office is kaput. I got chatting on gmail (odious tool) with a friend of mine who I speak to almost every day. I’ve often had problems with her: some my fault and my inability to say No, but also because of her unbelievable selfishness and quite horrific meanness. And I suppose she’s what you’d consider a toxic friend (a term I believe Cosmopolitan conned a while ago) and absolutely should be avoided. But then there’s a problem, I don’t think she knows her behaviour is wrong – because no one has ever told her. </p>
<p>Today she was very rude about a comment I’d written in a new CV. After I’d spent all morning going through her new marketing plan for a new job, she had in return helped me by behaving like a little brat. I’m confused at her behaviour, she can be very loving and friendly, but on occasion is patronising and ignorant.</p>
<p>My advice to anyone who has a friend like this is to gently dispose of them – lift the lid of the bin slowly and gently slide them in. I wont, I’m a wimp and will ignore her behaviour and continue to be friends until time does its work and hopefully we’ll just drift. But no matter how much they will make you laugh at times, or know your world well, keep these people at a distance, or forever remain on the receiving end of small yet deliberate paper cuts. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/11/26/tied_too_tight~3355465/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-11-21:/2007/11/21/mr_not_so_bad_and_a_bit_of_alright~3330805/Mr. Not So Bad, and a Bit of Alrightelizabethagape2007-11-21T15:21:46+01:002007-11-21T15:21:46+01:00 <p>My mother, like most mothers, is a source of never ending amusement and irritation. Amusement as she drags her size sixteen body off her newly bought bicycle she bought in order to get fit by cycling to work – conveniently forgetting she works two blocks away from the house. And irritation as she is so very dim and difficult, like a petulant child she demands constant attention and gentle handling. </p>
<p>Yesterday she was sitting at the dining room table and waxing lyric on the latest trip to Sainsbury’s where, low and behold, she bumped into someone she knew. What are the chances? I failed to escape her laser-like glare, so she turned to me, smiling brightly and said, “The Musician is so very nice, isn’t he?”<br>Nice? I looked at her in horror. What on earth has <em>nice</em> got to do with the intelligent, witty, slightly selfish, egotistical, gentle, drawling man with the funny, oversized hair that I date? Nice is a horrible word, it describes the uninteresting, the mundane. I’d describe Bolognaise as nice, I’d describe my morning eggnog latte as nice (change that – my eggnog latte is <em>heaven</em>) and it’s also the way I’d describe a Christmas card with a watercolour ice skating scene on the front, right before I threw it in the bin. And I wouldn’t mean it. Nice is a non-word; it’s stuck in the same linguistic bin as ‘average’ ‘pleasing’ ‘R.E.M’ and ‘adequate’. </p>
<p>Then, when I was too tired to watch C.S.I New York, I mulled it over a bit. What word would I use to describe him instead? Amazing? Hell no - he certainly isn’t. And if he were, wouldn’t Amazing get a bit tiresome after a while? – I think that Dinosaurs are pretty amazing, would I want to date one of those? Unlikely. I think that the Winter Palace in Russia is amazing, but I wouldn’t want to live there. So what else? Incredible, impressive, significant? These are all words that I’d associate with a fleeting emotion; they have no permanence because if they did, they’d cease to maintain their greatness – they would instead become, well, nice. </p>
<p>Maybe it’s time to stop with heartbreaking, exciting, troublesome affairs. Maybe now I’m a little tired of seeing the firework displays and have become more of a girl that hankers after a living room fire and a mug of tea. Which would make a nice change. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/11/21/mr_not_so_bad_and_a_bit_of_alright~3330805/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-11-20:/2007/11/20/shake_out_your_iago~3325488/Shake Out Your Iagoelizabethagape2007-11-20T15:30:41+01:002007-11-20T15:30:41+01:00 <p>The ex-obsession is a horrible plague, on both your houses. It can wake you up in the middle of the night, frantic and confused lying in a puddle of your own sweat and the remains of a torrid dream. It can make him defensive, put him in positions where he’s likely to lie to you or make alternate connect-the-dots of the truth to shield your jealousy. It’s messy to say the least. </p>
<p>A friend of mine has just broken up with her boyfriend, leaving him bereft and heartbroken – but they both know it’s for the best, it was a case of right man wrong time. But I’ve started to wonder about the next girl that comes along. How on earth is she going to live in that colossal shadow left by my friend? How will he feel about the next one? Will he be forever comparing, finding one of them comes up trumps? And, oh the horror, will he catch his new girlfriend coming out of the shower, with a gleam of light shining on her upper thigh, and even though he’ll hate himself for thinking it – will he say to himself “God, that’s a weird shape, I miss (fill the blank)’s thighs”. It doesn’t actually bare thinking about. </p>
<p>But it doesn’t happen. You tell me – have you ever looked at your boyfriend and thought, “I bloody wish he’d be a bit more like (the last fucker I dated)” and then turned away in disgust? I doubt it. It’s more likely you’ve thought a tiny little dark thought, which went a bit like “I want to go out (the other guy…what’s his name?) used to take me out all the time” and then have a little sulk, emerging after a hot tea and a bar of chocolate like a girl re-born, adoring your current boyfriend as he’s on the phone making restaurant reservations. </p>
<p>There is never anything to worry about regarding the ex-girlfriend. They broke up for a reason, and after the break-up no matter how many Romeo and Juliet ‘we’re going to be together forever’ fantasies they had (or, more likely, she had) are going to be dashed on the rocks, and re-designed to fit someone else. </p>
<p>But you wont remember that the next time the fear strikes you. So the best plan is to sensibly, without whining, crying or putting on a green ensemble to further your point - talk to him about it. Just explain. Tell him that it’s something you think about sometimes, and that you’d understand if he got a little jealous of your former boyfriends (that’s right – share the neuroses around – it’s good for balance). Whatever you do, don’t crack out. You’ll look like Ally McBeal, and I’m yet to meet a man who would have considered trying to get into her knickers. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/11/20/shake_out_your_iago~3325488/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-11-20:/2007/11/20/a_twit_and_his_figgy_pudding_are_soon_pa~3324580/A Twit and his Figgy Pudding are soon Partedelizabethagape2007-11-20T12:02:33+01:002007-11-20T12:02:33+01:00 <p>My job is continuing to be a stupendous joke - my latest assignment is writing an article on the Christmas market that will be put up in Covent Garden. This is all fine, except there is one little flaw in the arrangement in that the Market is not actually set up yet. Deadline is on Wednesday, so this should be fun. </p>
<p>I work for a magazine that yesterday almost let this little gem slip through proofing; “We must remember that even though candy, presents and Santa are what comes to mind when we think of Christmas, it’s the death of Jesus Christ on the cross that is the reason for this festive holiday”. No. No, it’s not. Far be it from me to correct my own Editor, but I do believe that actually, <em>actually</em> it’s reported to be the BIRTH of Christ that we are celebrating. I’m glad that the elementary basics of a religion that’s been around since the 1st Century AD have remained thus far a stranger to your laxative-like brain. I’m utterly impressed that you have managed to reach the not so tender age of 37, get a job as an Editor of a magazine whereby you inform others of historical events in an attempt to enlighten them on past and present Covent Garden and you have done all this without ever managing to work out the rudimentary order of the Nation’s most hyped-up, best selling, world changing, religion making tale: The Bible. Well done. No, really – well done. I stupidly believed that last month, when you claimed that Mary Queen of Scots was the daughter of Anne Boleyn, you had reached an all time low – but I have been proved wrong. You clearly were just warming up for your piéce de résistance: the tale of The Boy who was Stillborn in Bethlehem. Nice one. <br>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/11/20/a_twit_and_his_figgy_pudding_are_soon_pa~3324580/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-11-19:/2007/11/19/roll_over_mr_meanour~3321007/Roll Over Mr. Meanour?elizabethagape2007-11-19T18:26:58+01:002007-11-19T18:27:28+01:00 <p>Far be it from me to wax romantic lyric on anything other than a pair of new shoes, but I’ve recently been having renewed faith on this whole relationship business. The Musician has turned out, against all the odds, to be rather fantastic. Yes, obviously I’m still having massive problems getting my head round this whole ‘one guy’ thing, and I still push him away when I’m confused or angry with some misdemeanour he’s unknowingly committed that can be as ridiculous as mentioning his ex- girlfriends name in my presence, or making me eat soup on a Friday night. I don’t know about you, but Friday certainly doesn’t go hand in hand with wholesome foods; it’s the partner of wine, vodka and dressy knickers. </p>
<p>The pointless emails have stopped coming, and so have the songs, so have the postcards with random gifts or objects I left at his house. I no longer feel sick when I’m about to see him, and I don’t shout out another man’s name when he’s trying to make love to me. He can spend hours ignoring me when I’m stuck at his house, and we’re still yet to actually go out on a date. </p>
<p>But. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who made me smile this much. We’re in the middle of a little row at the moment, because I was cold and distant on Sunday, fell asleep and went home. He was also working all day and had failed to pay me the attention I craved. This bit now, when the ardour is dying – is normally when I run. </p>
<p>I’m not going to run today, or tomorrow or the foreseeable future. For a few reasons; One, we have plane tickets booked for Italy in December and Ryanair is as tight as a nuns cunt when it comes to refunds. Two, I’m finding it almost impossible to believe other men are attractive – somewhere down the line (when I clearly wasn’t paying attention) he’s turned into some sort of Adonis sex god type creature. Others would disagree. Three, if I left he’d go out with someone else. This makes me feel physically ill. Four, I’d have to remove the relationship statue on my Facebook, and that’s just <em>embarrassing</em>. </p>
<p>Looks like I’m staying, then.
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/11/19/roll_over_mr_meanour~3321007/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-09-20:/2007/09/20/worlds_apart~3012009/Worlds Apartelizabethagape2007-09-20T15:30:44+02:002007-09-20T15:30:44+02:00 <p>My head hasn’t properly awoken since I downed two capsules of Night Nurse (across the counter pharmaceuticals? You <em>rebel</em>) after being woken by a drunken phone call from The Musician that became extremely irritating ten seconds in. Then my brother came home from a late shift at the pub and god knows what he was doing in the kitchen, but I doubt Delia ever made that much noise. An unsuccessful night indeed, so now- despite it being deadline day for the magazine, and I should be alert and caffeinated, I can hardly keep my eyes open. </p>
<p>I was meant to see The Musician tonight but he is unable too, so instead (gulp) I am going to the FrostFrench opening in Islington with Lover, who is, of course, no longer my lover so I must remember to behave myself. I’m sure I will, as long as I don’t dwell on the utterly irritating phone call received last night. The phone call: in which I said it would be fine not to meet on Thursday, as I’d be seeing him on Friday when his band play a gig, he replies:</p>
<p>“But I’m just warning you, now we’re in a relationship, you may find the gig’s difficult- I have to talk to lots of different people, which you may find hard so just remember it’s work, not a date” </p>
<p>Well. God lord, what a self-aggrandising git you are. Are you <em>really </em>under the deluded impression that I wish to hang off your ill-supported arm all night? That in fact, I’ve been to these things many a time and always have an enjoyable evening with my friends, no matter whether I speak to you or not. How <em>dare </em>you assume that I need your company to enjoy myself? What a fucking pathetic disaster you are. </p>
<p>What have I gotten myself into?
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/09/20/worlds_apart~3012009/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-09-19:/2007/09/19/the_gamble~3006991/The Gambleelizabethagape2007-09-19T17:20:53+02:002007-09-19T17:20:53+02:00 <p>I was half an hour late for the meal at The Musicians house. As I ran through the streets of Fulham in a highly strung state, weighed down by three bottles of pinot (two for the price of one, so why not?) and the next day’s clothes I couldn’t help but think this was all a little more trouble than it’s worth. <br>I arrived at the house in a sweat, and was met by the heat emanating from the kitchen as well as all the guests sitting patiently waiting to eat. Oh the shame. The evening progressed very well though, and even though I got a bit drunk and probably began to get a bit loud, nobody complained. The food was edible and we ended the evening with a gram, which now seems to be the espresso of choice. </p>
<p>The rest of the weekend passed in a bit of a haze, eating, drinking, having sex ect. That was until I got an irate call from Mother asking The Musician and I over for a BBQ on Sunday to which I politely refused. She was having none of it, “Why? Why? What’s so wrong with him that you can’t let your father and I meet him? Or (sob, crocodile tears you conniving wench) is it that you’re embarrassed for him to meet us?” Complete emotional blackmail. This, in any parenting manual is the ultimate sin, and I can see why. I said yes to shut her up, thinking that I would just fail to turn up on Sunday, or tell her The Musician was ill and go solo. Plans went slightly awry when I got a text from my brother begging me to attend with guest, as he was bringing his girlfriend. Emotional blackmail from my mother I can stand, but have a soft spot for my brother and regularly iron his shirts. <br>So I did what any girl who’d had half a bottle of red and a sex marathon would have done, and decided the hell be done with it, and placed all my chips on one renegade card. He accepted. I wish he hadn’t. </p>
<p>Sunday came. We awoke and The Musician spent a good hour entertaining himself by trying on various horrific outfits (and when I say horrific, I mean it- this boy has a wardrobe that begs belief. <em>Oxfam </em>wouldn’t accept the majority of it) and enjoying watching me squirm. On the tube ride over to Hackney my body was suffering intense hot and cold flushes, I could feel my head reaching for the stars and couldn’t wait to get in the fresh air. When we arrived my mother said I looked ill. <br> In the end I got drunk to block it all out and sat chain smoking and being monosyllabic in a corner whilst The Musician was charming, polite and engaging. It’s the last time he meets them, I just can’t handle the pressure.
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/09/19/the_gamble~3006991/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-09-14:/2007/09/14/a_fools_lament~2978410/A Fools Lamentelizabethagape2007-09-14T11:07:52+02:002007-09-14T11:07:52+02:00 <p>I’ve estimated that I humiliate myself on average three times a week. Once quite seriously and the other two are just cannon fodder humiliations, that are only really recounted on the bus when I’m having a little think and end up beetroot red. </p>
<p>Last night I met The Musician for a drink, where he accused me of being a ‘psycho girl’ which I suppose is fair enough, and I do so love the way he categorizes me together with all the other women on the Universe (met them all, have you dear?) which does make me wonder- if we’re all the same, why don’t you just settle down with an unproblematic version of me who’s nice and easy going, without all the anger issues? More fool you. </p>
<p>Drinking in Notting Hill we found a nice pub and settled down for the evening, and we had a lovely time- it became one of those nights were he really makes me laugh without mortally offending me. Laugh so much in fact, that I quite forgot myself and mid-laugh told him I loved him. It was one of those moments when you close your eyes for a brief second and pray that he didn’t hear, or might ignore it- out of pity. He froze. “What did you say?”<br>“Nothing, I said nothing” <br>“No, it <em>certainly </em>wasn’t nothing” <br>And then he started laughing, a deep belly ‘this is absolutely hilarious’ laugh that went on and on. I sat there going red, yelling in earnest that I meant it platonically and I’d said the same thing to my boss that very morning when he’d made me a cup of coffee and any other thing I could say to dirty and undermine the thing I’d just said. <br>“I knew you’d break first” he said with a self-satisfied grin. I wanted to bottle him. </p>
<p>I should have laughed it off, played it cool and then made my excuses and left. What I actually did was go home with him and have sex until my legs wouldn’t work properly and now am sitting at my desk in yesterday’s clothes. More fool <em>me.</em> <br>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/09/14/a_fools_lament~2978410/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-09-13:/2007/09/13/if_i_tell_you~2972314/If I Tell You...elizabethagape2007-09-13T10:24:45+02:002007-09-13T10:24:45+02:00 <p>There’s an email sitting in my inbox. It’s terrifying. I think of it like I would a mousetrap, if I were a mouse; Parts of it undeniably tempting, parts are ready to sever my head. I’ve been invited by The Musicians’ friend to a dinner with him and his wife and another couple. I’ve never met any of them before and I have the social graces of a Tom Cat in heat faced with a randy bitch and fresh salmon fillets. The situation is dire- not to mention we haven’t even got through the first ‘couple’ dinner yet, that’s still happening on Friday. I never replied to that email either, but it’s assumed I’m coming. The latest email came yesterday before I left work, and I suppose I should reply now but I appear to have frozen under the hypnotic spell of impending tragedy that glows from the reply button. </p>
<p>I also have a gin martini hangover. This is not helping. I need a massive reassuring hug from The Musician, this is unlikely to be forthcoming as I have pissed him off as of late, what with me turning into a complete and utter nutcase. I did try telling him I had actual certifiable mental problems, but he was all “yeah, yeah, but I like people who are different.” But I didn’t say <em>different</em>, did I? He really should have read between the lines and found the ABSOLUTLY PISSING MENTAL tagline that I’d tried to tip-ex out. </p>
<p>Lover text me, saying he needs to see me as soon as possible, as he has “lots of stuff to tell you.” Worrying. I hope it has nothing to do with those pesky genital warts…
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/09/13/if_i_tell_you~2972314/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-09-11:/2007/09/11/look_what_i_got~2961480/Look What I got!elizabethagape2007-09-11T12:00:36+02:002007-09-11T12:00:36+02:00 <p>I’ve now started getting panic attacks, along with my anger blackouts. As you can imagine this is a barrel of laughs, and I just <em>love</em> it every time the slow trickle of sweat and fear runs down my back. I feel like I’m slowly being hemmed in by something, and am suffocating slowly with abject terror that kept me awake till one o’clock last night. I hope The Musician doesn’t notice I’m slowly going insane. </p>
<p>I know I moaned endlessly about it at the time, but I miss the days of my Lover and short flings and hilarious behaviour. All this ‘relationship’ stuff is bloody exhausting and I’m buckling under all the pressure I’ve invented that doesn’t actually exist. Clever. </p>
<p>On the bright side, I’ve got appointment with the doctor this afternoon for more freezing of my genital warts I got given as a commitment present.
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/09/11/look_what_i_got~2961480/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-09-10:/2007/09/10/tools_for_drowning~2956414/Tools for Drowningelizabethagape2007-09-10T15:27:46+02:002007-09-10T15:27:46+02:00 <p>Facebook has been a wonderful invention; enabling you to add on ‘friends’ you’d never otherwise bother to have anything to do with again just to update the friend quota and reassure yourself that if you did die people may notice that you hadn’t updated your mood status from ‘sick’ in a while and therefore something might seriously be wrong. It’s a way to reconvene without meeting anyone face to face- and If you’ve recently lost your Secondary School puppy fat it’s the perfect opportunity to flaunt photos of yourself all over the web without looking like a vacuous vain waste of space. It gives the opportunity to get a good look at your boyfriends ex-girlfriend, a good thing most of the time unless of course you’ve built her up mentally as an oversized troll that resembles Britney in the later years and then discover she’s actually sort of cute, fairly intelligent looking and doesn’t <em>appear</em> to resemble someone who eats Heinz spaghetti in front of the TV of a Friday night. This is unfortunate. </p>
<p>We’ve all been bought up to believe that the green-eyed monster that is jealousy is perhaps the worst trait that someone can posses. We hear stories of it destroying friendships previously as solid as rock, relationships that were going somewhere until you were caught earnestly searching his hotmail account and “just playing tetras” on his mobile. It turns lovers into enemies and always leaves at least one of you bloated, bitter and feeling like a complete failure as you watch the others ascent to happiness and success whilst you get addicted to Jeremy Kyle. </p>
<p>I however am as proud as punch, and carry my jealousy as I would a Blue Peter badge. I have a feeling that if I was still seeing my psychotherapist she’d say this is the healthiest emotion I’ve ever had. I’m utterly torn apart by the idea that The Musician dated someone else before me, and their long, six year, healthy and respectful relationship laughs in my face every morning when he makes me tea, and I almost have a heart attack at the normality and perfection of it all. Apart from the fact that I fucking hate tea.</p>
<p>I can honestly say, despite often being surrounded by the beautiful and talented (most of my friends are stupidly good looking, clever and impressive in some way or another) jealousy has often eluded me. It’s not because I’m a warm and loving person who is happy for those who succeed or anything like that, it’s just that my ego is fairly masculine in size and weighs heavy on my vortex. I’ve also cheated on every single person I’ve ever dated- and so it never really occurs to the cheater that they too are being cheated on. Thus I have lived a happy 21 years without those types of issues and paraded around with my over large head floating in the clouds of ignorance. But how the mighty fall! It seems I may have to resort to wearing a muzzle; if her name is mentioned again in my presence, it may save souls. </p>
<p>Leaving aside anger blackouts and extreme violence, I’ve discovered there’s a few ways to deal with this. The best by far is my friend Mancini’s example- she and Mr Recruitment both check phone messages, texts and emails. Not every day, but every so often they just both decide to have a little check-up, like going to the STD clinic of relationships and weeding out any prospective diseases. It’s genius, but of course you need a boyfriend just as irrational as you to make that one work, which can be tricky. <br>Another friend of mine just confronts it head on, by actually asking her boyfriend if he’s currently playing in a different field- and whether it’s worth carrying the relationship on if he is. For this you have to be fairly brave, especially if you’re pretty sure the answers not going to be the one you want. You should also think up some ‘women time’ activities just in case you find yourself stuck for company for a while. <br>I have chosen neither of these things, both involving a certain degree of honesty and strength of character- I’m sure they’re not for me. I instead will seethe with resentment, provide compost for misery and just generally work myself into a complete and utter state until I explode with highly strung emotions that stab at him, cause him to run back into the safe and un-sliced arms (the Stanley knife may well have made an appearance for me by this point) of my predecessor. Only then will I be truly content- after all, I was right all along. </p>
<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/09/10/tools_for_drowning~2956414/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-09-06:/2007/09/06/warts_and_all~2934669/Warts and Allelizabethagape2007-09-06T14:19:24+02:002007-09-06T14:19:24+02:00 <p>It seems I’m unable to stop sleeping with The Musician. This means I now have to be in a relationship. Not only do I have to be in a relationship, I’m trying my hardest to be in an honest relationship-which I’m finding tricky. <br>As far as I can make out, being in an ‘honest relationship’ means that you have to remember you have a boyfriend at every occasion- apparently you’re not just in the relationship when, physically, you’re with them. Tricky. <br>You also have to tell the truth, which is another abnormality for two-faced, lying little moi. Couples (unless both blessed with alcohol problems) tend to drink less together as well, because it’s assumed that you both fancy one another enough not to be completely plastered when you have sex. Again, tricky. <br>Another little relationship enigma is the bit where you talk to him or her more than anyone else, sometimes even more than your girlfriends. Mostly you just listen to the man talk, so it can hardly be constituted as an actual conversation- but the concepts the same. <br>The experience is certainly taking me down some previously un explored paths, and as exciting as I find it- some of it interminably fills me with a slight sense of impending doom and dread. For example, yesterday there was an email in my inbox from The Musician entitled, Dinner. It went a little something like this: </p>
<p>“Do you guys want to come round for dinner next Friday? Then go out for drinks South-side or whatever?</p>
<p>Let me know if you’re keen”</p>
<p>Well. The email was addressed to Mancini and her (long term) boyfriend, Mr Recruitment. Which is fine, I adore them both and love spending evenings with them- but this was BC (before copulation) when I was by myself and we all had a fun old time imagining a future where I’d be “slutty auntie Lizzy” to their children, and bring my own hip flask full of gin to Christmas dinner. So how the dynamics are going to work now is anyone’s guess. <br>This was not all. The email was primarily addressed to the two of them, whereas I was CC’d into it. This has shaken me to my very core. For many reasons: One, are we now such a couple that it goes without saying that I’ll be with him, at his house, on Friday night and therefore do not need a proper invite? Can I email and say I can’t make it, or is that just not possible as we’re entertaining (shudder) together? Did we actually discuss this at some point and I’ve completely forgotten all about it and am therefore going senile incredibly early? But worst of all, as I’m of CC standing, does this mean I have to help cook? </p>
<p>I have not replied to the email (am I even allowed to reply as a CC? Who knows) and am just going to ignore it and hope it goes away, though this is doubtful as Mr Recruitment has already said he’s “up for it”. I might have to sneakily pop some Valium in the toilet and hope the subject of my newly acquired genital warts doesn’t come up before we open the wine.
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/09/06/warts_and_all~2934669/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-20:/2007/06/20/lambs_to_slaughter~2485469/Lambs to Slaughterelizabethagape2007-06-20T09:44:45+02:002007-06-20T09:46:32+02:00 <p>I’m an early bird at work this morning, arriving an hour before anyone else due to the fact that I’m so behind with work I think I might faint, and deadline is tomorrow. Oh the fear. Yesterday was a nightmare in my hangover-induced state, and for most of the day I was unable to focus on my computer screen let alone type anything moderately interesting. When I was jumping on the 242 at six, I was in heaven and so excited this would be the one day since I can remember that I’d be going home- and staying there. </p>
<p>After a few hours of TV and some peaceful dozing I got a call from The Musician, who was so drunk I could barely make out what an obnoxious prat he was being, which probably worked in his favour. The conversation was a disaster, he was being so arrogant- he’d been to an exhibition in Grosvenor House and telling me about how there was so much free drink he’d got completely smashed, and how I’d missed out. Obviously I’ve failed to explain my job to him: As a journalist I go to those events about twice a week- they are for the most part insanely boring and not remotely glamorous. I ended the conversation as quickly as possible, and then had a little giggle. It reminded me of a conversation I’d had with Lover, (back in the good days when he couldn’t go a day without seeing me) when he’d been drinking. </p>
<p>I’d been at the gym for about two hours and when I got outside I found I had seven missed calls, all from him. I rang him back quickly, my heart plummeting- and when he answered the phone I got a roar of abuse, that went something like this: </p>
<p>“Wheresh have you been? Where? I’ve been ringingsh, are you ignoring me? Huh? Whatsh wrong with you? I lovesh you! Don’t you love me?”<br>“No, no I’ve just been at the Gym, I’m sorry I had no reception”<br>“Gym? Gym! Whosh the fucks GYM? Huh? Who ish Gym?”<br>“No. The. Gym. Where you work out, the Gym”<br>“The GYM! I didn’t knowsh you went to the gym! (Chortling to himself) I didn’t know yoush went to the Gym!”<br>Yes, occasionally- how are you?”<br>“I lovesh you! (Still chuckling to himself) The gym! I just didn’t knowsh that!” <br>“Um, yes. I love you too- shall I let you go now?” (Tangible tone of desperation) <br>“No! Where yoush been?! Baby can’t you be exessshistential about this…It’sh not real, not real life”<br>“Hon, go to sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning”<br>“No, no, no, you’re going to dump me. You are, but I’m not your boyfriendsh so you CAN’T” </p>
<p>This whole conversation was repeated about five times; by the time it was over I was crying with laughter. He repeatedly text me till two in the morning and I’ve never forgotten it- the indignant accusations, raging anger and bizarre topics can still reduce me to hysterics. <br>Unfortunately the brash behaviour of The Musician is not so amusing, merely irritating. Twit. Not even Bob Dylan can get him out of this one. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/20/lambs_to_slaughter~2485469/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-19:/2007/06/19/dinner_and_a_song~2479845/Dinner and a Songelizabethagape2007-06-19T11:43:59+02:002007-06-19T11:43:59+02:00 <p>There is little that beats a night out with close friends. Yesterday I travelled home from Covent Garden to return a few hours later in St. Christopher’s Place for dinner at Carluccio's with Chuckle and Mancini, where we sat huddled around a table set for six- considering I had a meat platter for two it almost made sense. We then continued our drinking in a Moroccan-esque bar (i.e. a place filled with ‘authentic’ tat I could have bought down Dalston for a fiver) where Mancini almost spilt the entire table and contents over her lap and we discussed the raging power of Karma and it’s ability to bite you hard in the bottom when you least expect it. <br>We then wondered about a bit, rambling with both mouths and legs until we came to the Pigalle Club (Piccadilly) where we escaped paying an astronomical cover charge by Mancini recognising the male host through a previous modelling job, and I think the clincher was, “ I remember you running around a Narnia replica set without your clothes on.” He hurried us inside to escape the bouncer’s sniggering. <br>The Pigalle Club is an incredibly surreal place, especially if you arrive half way through a performance by a sixty-year-old Scottish solo artist with Dolly Parton breasts singing My Heart Will Go On and then braking into ABBA intro’s whilst you order a bottle of wine in silence by excessive gesticulating. <br>We were the last to leave, our conversation had run on the subject of bad sex and worse bedfellows, naming and shaming horrible exes and unfortunate one night stands. Chuckle had recently ended her relationship as they’ve both finished university and ought to go their separate ways, but it was clear for most of the night he had situated himself at the back of her mind and gotten cosy. I firmly believe she’s better off without him, if your ever unsure they say the best path is the solo one. I’m also very interested to see what she comes up with next- being a complete nympho she’s a great catch. <br>I behaved shockingly toward the end of the evening, upsetting Mancini and Chuckle by actually (and I can’t believe I’m going to use this word) <em>gushing</em> about The Musician. I’m going to have to write them both a long letter of apology…or send a sincere text telling them never to repeat what I said. I blame it on the wine, and all those subliminal messages that I’m convinced are carried with the music he sends. Today I have Fleetwood Mac – Second Hand News. <br>I’m furious, I knew this would happen if we had sex, and now I’m all chemically attached. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/19/dinner_and_a_song~2479845/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-18:/2007/06/18/because_you_make_me_smile~2473414/Because You Make me Smileelizabethagape2007-06-18T11:12:56+02:002007-06-18T11:12:56+02:00 <p>By Friday afternoon I was completely exhausted, having gone at got my teeth cleaned and spat in the hygienists face-a mistake I assure you, and then gone home to attempt to look impressive as I possibly could: I finally got to Liverpool Street Station to witness my Lover chomping down a McDonalds burger before he met me. Charming. No romantic candlelit dinner for me, then. But at least he’d turned up. <br>It was wonderful to see him, which meant for the first hour I was completely tongue-tied: obviously in great awe of his expanding Buddha stomach, balding head and his annoying habit of excessive name-dropping. The evening got off to a slow start but after a few Caipirinhas conversation became easier and we slipped back into our usual banter. I remember sitting on a bar stool in a crowded pub feeling distinctly tingly and overwhelmed with the need to wrap my whole body around him and just stay there until last orders. It was a lovely evening, but for the most part felt like a first date, so long had we gone without seeing each other. His family are away for the summer and he wants to see me as much as he possibly can during the end of July and August, which is lovely but then what happens in September? I don’t know how long I can do this- nothing will ever change and <em>never</em> will there be a beneficial outcome. It’s pretty much just me impatiently pushing my self-destruct button. </p>
<p>The next day was spent snuggling in my armchair and demolishing a whole chicken carcass (when you don’t eat carbs the binges are epic) and watching Spaced. In short, my afternoon was heaven. That was until The Musician rang and demanded that I see him that night, because “You really want to” which was news to me. After ten minutes of refusing I was heartily sick of the whole situation and said maybe, I was seeing Mancini Girl and Chuckle and if I wasn’t too late out I would consider returning to his. I then hung up and buried my phone so far down the couch that when I went to retrieve it an hour later I had a manicure accident. </p>
<p>The night with Mancini and Chuckle was utterly lovely as always. A trip to annex3 (interesting décor, fabulous cocktails- Little Portland Street) early in the evening caused a mishap with Mancini’s brand new white dress and a strawberry bilini but which happily resulted in all our drinks free of charge and Mancini’s dress being resuscitated by a brilliant barman and some Arial. We then headed onto Freedom (tacky, fun- Wardour Street) for wine and a discussion on the futility of negative body issues. <br>After that I don’t really know what happened- I wasn’t drunk or feeling whimsical or lonely, but at 11.40 I went over to The Musicians. It must surely have been a deep, subconscious need for a shag more than anything else but I realised halfway in the cab that there was nowhere I’d rather be at that moment other than shacked up in his bed, not necessarily doing anything other than watching Curb Your Enthusiasm, but just being with him. Scary. </p>
<p>Incidentally, the sex was great. God damn it.
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/18/because_you_make_me_smile~2473414/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-15:/2007/06/15/subliminal_sleep~2457075/Subliminal Sleepelizabethagape2007-06-15T11:30:57+02:002007-06-15T11:30:57+02:00 <p>I’m exhausted. I haven’t spent one night at home this week, and I’m slowly loosing the will to keep my eyes open. Luckily due to my dentist I’m finishing work at one to go and have my teeth cleaned, hurrah. And Its Friday which means tomorrow I won’t be getting out of bed for love nor money. But maybe for some choice TV. </p>
<p>Last night was brilliant- I was taken to Soho Theatre to watch Sue Perkins do stand up comedy (remember Sue Perkins? Part of Mel and Sue’s Light Lunch?) which was absolutely fabulous I recommend it to anyone- but it’s only on till the 16th in Soho which is a shame as I desperately want to take my mom. I’m very glad all I had to do was sit and laugh, nothing scary about the evening after all, apart from perhaps my date’s intensity. He was lovely though and had bought me a belated birthday present, the whole series of Spaced, which I’ve never seen- but hopefully it’s my kind of humour. I was also reminded of how gorgeous he is, and how wonderfully tall. </p>
<p>But. Unfortunately, and I have no idea why, he doesn’t excite me the way the Musician does, he’s just not as challenging which is great as a breath of fresh air but I’m not sure his mediocrity has permanence in my world. He’s just too nice to me and I find that utterly boring (and yes, I’m aware how unhealthy that sounds). </p>
<p>I think the reason I’m so currently infatuated with The Musician is the whole sending me music thing. He sends me on average two songs a day: todays have been Beast of Burden by the Rolling Stones and Ode to Billy Joe. I love these songs, all of them are brilliant and well picked- I also associate them with him, and so every time I listen to one of the tracks it sublimely sends out signals like “The Musician, The Musician, love The Musician”. He’s a marketing genius. </p>
<p>Date with Lover tonight if he actually manages to turn up this time, I’ve not heard much from him this week and am doubtful of a good outcome tonight. Fuck. </p>
<p>Enjoy your weekends everybody xx
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/15/subliminal_sleep~2457075/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-14:/2007/06/14/play_it_again_sam~2451386/Play it again, Samelizabethagape2007-06-14T13:17:38+02:002007-06-14T13:17:38+02:00 <p>Sigh. Nothing ever goes to plan which is why I’m sitting at my desk slightly hung-over and famished. Last night my work event was a bit of a nightmare, a few CEO’s groped my arse and I was leered at by a little man I’ll call “Squatty” for most of the night. I was desperate for decent conversation so rang The Musician, who was a few blocks away and joined me for a drink in Soho. He’s cut his beautiful hair, which I’m so disappointed about- it used to cascade down his neck in thick dark waves and now resembles a brilo pad. I actually ended up having a lovely night; he was rude and entertaining- how I like him best. To avoid actually becoming a couple in the future I proclaimed I was desperate for children, and ready to settle down. Unfortunatly The Musician always sees through my bull, and just smirks at me in a superior omnipotent way. It’s incredibly frustrating, for both of us. I behave like a child in his presence hoping to get a rise out of him: he in turn becomes phenomenally arrogant. I always break first and he laughs quietly at my explosions of anger. Pathetic. </p>
<p>This morning I was at a press view for Storm, where I met two men from Gay Times who were fantastic (snappy shoes too) and received a limited edition watch. It’s beautiful but I’ve never worn a watch before- preferring to wade through time at my own pace. It could change my life, wearing a watch. Add a whole new dimension to my personality. Or it could just be a pretty accessory that I’m getting overly hysterical about. </p>
<p>Tonight is date with The Other and I’m terrified about for two reasons. One, I’m almost positive I prefer The Musician now, which is unfortunate because The Other is taller than he is and better looking. Secondly, he’s meeting me in Soho to “do something you won’t have done before, but don’t worry it wont involve physical exertion.” What the hell does that mean? I’m worried I’m not dressed correctly. I’m worried it will be something I hate- and for that matter how the hell does he know what I’ve done and what I haven’t? I’m preparing for a long night. </p>
<p>Wish me luck. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/14/play_it_again_sam~2451386/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-13:/2007/06/13/my_jazz_angel~2445087/My Jazz Angelelizabethagape2007-06-13T13:07:18+02:002007-06-13T13:07:18+02:00 <p>I’ve finally sorted out my week plans, after some excessive prioritising and a few gambles. I’ve said to The Musician that I’ll see him tonight after a network event I have to attend- knowing that it will be nearly impossible to get away, and I’m wearing the same clothes he saw me in last time: so that meeting certainly won’t be happening. I’ve text Lover to arrange another Friday meeting (we’ll see if he actually turns up this time) as he couldn’t make tomorrow, which means I’m free to see The Other on Thursday. I’m doing some catering work on Sunday, so I’ve gambled on Saturday being the best opportunity to take a sanity break with Mancini. I’m exhausted just thinking about it. </p>
<p>I met up with Sparkle and her latest shag yesterday and we went for a lovely Greek meal that ended in disaster when the bike she was using (owned by a possessive and scary cousin) was stolen from outside the restaurant. Police were typically unhelpful, though at least took statements, which is more than most do. <br>The whole thing reminded me of a night I had about a year ago when my lovely Diesel bag was stolen from a pub in Islington, The Snooty Fox. The bag had everything in it; my work diary, work keys, ipod, Mac make-up collection (that hurt the most- knowing some crazy crack head was wondering round with my beautiful collection on her haggard and bloated face) house keys, wallet and a favourite jumper. I went ballistic. My friend (and I use that term in the loosest possible way) went straight home to bed and left me to deal with reporting it to the police and asking strangers if they’d seen anything. I spent the night wondering round the streets for a lady fitting the description I’d gotten from the bar staff. <br>At about one o’clock in the morning I was still tearing round council estates and empty streets searching. I think I would have ended up in a spot of trouble had it not been for a peace-loving Jazz journalist who accompanied me in my futile search until he was able to calm me down completely and then escorted me home. I’ll never forget the story he told me (which put mine in harsh perspective). </p>
<p>He had been a struggling writer for years, specifically writing on music-especially Jazz. He was offered an opportunity to travel around Africa to follow some sort of Jazz awards (I’m not sure what), with all the most infamous players available to talk and share their experiences. He pooled all his money into this endeavour and left for the airport prepared to come back with an amazing collection of work. After months of constant interviewing he had enjoyed not only an amazing experience- but also written enough notes to fill about six journals. These were stolen from him on the second to last day of his travels. When he returned to the UK, the publication pulled out when he had nothing solid to produce. He was left with nothing, and now is barely able to pay his rent- when I met him he was about to be evicted. <br>Never in my life have I met anyone so calm and serene, and so accepting of his troubles. It was hugely inspiring, and I often wonder what happened to my jazz angel- and whether he’s still hanging around Islington or Hackney helping out others more fortunate than himself. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/13/my_jazz_angel~2445087/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-12:/2007/06/12/sexing_yourself~2438178/Sexing Yourselfelizabethagape2007-06-12T11:10:28+02:002007-06-12T11:10:28+02:00 <p>Dinner with friends last night, Chuckle made a brilliant Mexican and was her usual bubbly self, which resulted in me leaving far later than I should, drunk and most likely being incredibly obnoxious. It was in Maida Vale as well, and I live in Hackney- the other side of London as Mancini (my other Maidavalian friend) is so fond of reminding me. So this morning I’m tired and hung over, also over-heated due to my muggy hellhole of an office. Today is the first day I’ve exposed my back since the unfortunate sunburn incident: I’m wearing a t-shirt with a dipping back and so far no-one has fainted or screamed at witnessing my skin. It’s actually going quite nicely brown now…but I definitely learnt my lesson. Factor 50 is my best friend. </p>
<p>I’m just hanging in there until lunch when I can fill my stomach with something other than day old white wine and rosé. Lover told me on Saturday that he’d see me early this week; early this week is fast depleting and I’m worried he’s going to suggest Wednesday- the only day I have booked up this week, for a dismal work event. I’m meant to be going on a date with The Other on Thursday, and I can’t cancel this one as I cancelled last week and he’ll start to become paranoid and mope again, which renders him completely unattractive. </p>
<p>I haven’t had sex since forever, last time was about a month ago with The Musician and it was very brief, but nice. I just hate that bond that women develop with a sexual partner (or “sexing” partner, as Sparkle calls it) that means they find them far more appealing than they might usually after only one night of average sex- which in turn can ruin their lives for at least three weeks. Unfortunately, due to my position I often have to find enjoyment elsewhere: I’d be having sex once every five months if it were up to Lover. Thankfully its not, but every time I’m with another man I wish afterward that it was him I spent the evening with, or watched a film, ate a meal with. I constantly compare other men to him, and they always fall by the wayside. It’s exhausting. <br> </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/12/sexing_yourself~2438178/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-11:/2007/06/11/thwarted_again~2431522/Thwarted Againelizabethagape2007-06-11T10:22:52+02:002007-06-11T10:23:47+02:00 <p>My trip to All Saints was a complete success, I managed to purchase one of those tops that you know you’ll wear for a long time coming and love it till it hangs in tatters and people think you’re a hobo. Deliriously happy after work on the bus home, sun shinning, Friday evening and good things planned. <br>It took me an hour to get ready, my hair was having it&rsquos own issues and not complying with mine. As I was getting on the bus to Shoreditch to meet friends the Lover text me, cancelling our arrangements. He had to look after the children; his wife had stormed out of the house after a row and left him there. I shan’t tell you the amount of times this has happened. Needless to say I was furious, especially as I actually looked good for once- the last time he’d seen me I was wearing tracksuit bottoms and exiting my gym. </p>
<p>As it turns out I had a lovely night anyway in Lounge Lovers, admiring the weird and wonderful furniture whilst I gorged on white wine, as the cocktails were ridiculously expensive. Damn. One cosmopolitan and I would have been fine. On Saturday I was at Proud Galleries in Camden, sweltering in the heat as I had to cover both my sunburnt back (finished peeling, though looking horrendous still) and my red spotted legs after an accident with my epilator. Bloody thing. Lover called me to say we’re going away to Madrid for a break in the summer. Ha, believe that when I’m at the airport, and if we’re going to argue as much as we did this New Year in Berlin then I’m not to sure I want to go. (That’s a big fat lie- I’m desperate to be whisked away by him). </p>
<p>My mother is becoming increasingly menopausal. She knocked a bud off her rose bush on Sunday and spent half an hour crying over the roasted vegetables. It’s getting ridiculous, I don’t understand why she can’t pop some Valium and be done with it. She’s desperate for me to get on anti-depressant medication, but at this rate she’ll need it more than me; family members sneaking each others med drugs is just too OC for me. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/11/thwarted_again~2431522/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>tag:sighingagain.blog.co.uk,2007-06-08:/2007/06/08/country_retreat~2416618/Country Retreatelizabethagape2007-06-08T13:25:01+02:002007-06-08T13:25:01+02:00 <p>My Lover has been in North Italy attempting to buy a country retreat for his company. Why they need this I have no idea, as most of them repeatedly fly off to hot destinations at the drop of a hat. Him included. He has been using my parents house in Tuscany as a base, and taken the wife and children with him. This means I’ve been far too paranoid to text him in case the person who picks up the phone is female or a young boy. So I have been suffering in silence, especially since I lost my phone last week and have only just received the new one, but of course have no numbers. I’m having to rely heavily on email, a pointless endeavour over a bank holiday weekend. <br> <br>Tonight I’m seeing him for drinks, and hopefully he will feed me so I don’t get as atrociously drunk as I usually do. Unfortunately I’m suffering from a severe case of sunburn which is now peeling grotesquely from my back, which incidentally looks like someone else’s back altogether. I have learnt a valuable lesson, one that perhaps I should have learnt a while ago: in that I will never again leave the house without sunscreen. Especially if I’m going to a hippy festival where the only thing I’ll be lucky enough to smear over my skin will be deep fried tofu and bean sauce; Which I actually had to ingest at Sunrise in Somerset over the weekend. I’m still crying at the devastation witnessed inside the port-a-loos. </p>
<p>Due to my unattractive appearance I know that halfway through the day I’m going to have to make an emergency dash to All Saints and spend too much money on something I don’t need, as the chances are I’ll have three replicas already hanging in my wardrobe. However, despite all of the above I’m incredibly excited about seeing an actual male, and not one of the cookie cutter dribbling wimps that have been circling my dating pond as of late. </p>
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<p> <small> <a href="http://sighingagain.blog.co.uk/2007/06/08/country_retreat~2416618/#comments">Comments</a> </small> </p>