Wisdom, courtesy of Ailsa

For any that have missed the chance to meet Ms Ailsa Saltrese, I hope one day you do. She's the kind of girl I want to make a big song and dance over, that's not her thing so mostly I resist.
We're watching the news. still dominated by bombs and coppers.

I ask her, 'you scared?'
She says 'nope'
I says 'Why not?'
She says ' I dunno, Nicki asked me that, I'm just not'.

I thought about it a bit, thought yes, that's the way to be.
I'm not scared anymore.

She just has that effect on me.

Writing cos I need to

I have nothing to say. I'm all worded out. I'm, quite frankly, struggling to even stay awake. My job started, consumed me.
I need however to write something. It can be small, it can say pretty much nothing. It is, you see, all about discipline.
Creative stuff, like hard, big boy, infrastructure stuff, or girlie changing the world stuff, or sport, or being the best at pretty much anything; requires focus, requires determination.
Hence, a small contribution.
Not my best, not my funniest, not really memorable, I think you'll agree, in anything but it's inanity
A gesture to say, today, I did that. I had naught left to give, but found a tiny bit from somewhere.
Bring me a weekend, someone, please.

Drama queen

Loving the work

So there I was getting all mad and sad and stressed about the fact the Julie Burchill blog would get interrupted by a new job....
Then I started. Had pretty low expectations really, a job, good salary, head down do it.
In many ways it's a mare, my predecessor is being a right stroppy cow, won't give me a handover. The most senior guy I manage is competing with me for the role as I have to go through a formal process. I'm being given someone else's most chunky bits of work - on a 'you should bid for that' basis by my manager. It should be horrid. It's not. I love it. The policy is easy, stuff I was doing in Sydney, only with the clout to actually put it into practice. Loads of funding, albeit not for my team, but thousands of fabulous people around to get support from and build alliances with to make stuff happen. My manager whilst being too nice by far to be tough, is as you would expect, lovely. And all bowled over by me turning up and caring and working hard and not saying 'gotta go' at 4pm.
The agenda is fantastic, the exposure ditto, the chance to create a name in double quick time, very very real. All great.
Work life balance? No chance
I do however have the weekend to catch up on the mountain of reading on my desk and get a bit of the Julie Blog built. All much better than great.

xxxxx

I'm scared

Of writing what I think and my blog getting me the sack.I'm writing, then wimping out from sharing it.
Of going on the tube, even though I have been.
Of shoot to kill, and the impact it'll have.

It's not like me to be scared.
I don't like it.

Sam told me

That she thought I was considerate the other day. She probably won't think so now I've shared this.
It knocked me for six. If she told me I'd just beaten Angelina for an oscar / FHM poll of sexiest women, I couldn't have been more shocked.

Wish she'd told me when we were together.
I didn't know she thought that. I don't think she knew she thought that actually.

It made me think.
Realise, when it comes to love, I have tried pretty hard to be.
I can do compromise. I can't settle, but I can work my arse off to make it work with someone I don't believe is a settle.

It made me realise that actually all this talk of 'I want a dating frenzy' is a diversion.

I want what I've always wanted. True love.

The kind of love that sees you trying to make someone happy when the whole 'in love' stuff is out the window. The kind of love that means you'll happily wait for it to come back in the door. Go through the motions of being crazy about someone when in truth you're mad, sad, just plain knackered. You know, if you do that it'll come good again. That, even if it doesn't, you'll have given all you had to give, been the best you could be.

I want love that once in a blue moon means you get to feel like the sexiest thing on the whole planet, get to dirty dance with someone who may secretly think your rthymn is out but would never let you know that.

I want dishonesty. The kind of dishonesty that says 'no darling, your bum doesn't look big in that'. To keep you smiling, because even though it does the person you're with thinks you're a total sexbomb and can't wait to explode you.

I want honesty, the kind of honesty that goes, 'honey i did that cos I wanted to, and I know you didn't want me to but I put myself first. However, tonight's your night and just to show you that's not the way it will always be, I've arranged for us to...'(insert some sexy / crazy / downright geeky and a tad dull thing you always fancied but didn't dare to inflict on your partner.)

Maybe that makes me high maintenance. Maybe that makes me demanding. To show I can be flexible too, I'll settle for the dating frenzy whilst waiting.

Then the questions

I tend to be a think a bit, act, think some more kinda girl. This means I major in spontaneity, risk taking and going for it. It also means I can minor in buying into my own decisions, self-moderating and personal change management. (can you tell my ex is a consultant?, that I've done time in the civil service? Laugh at myself on 'personal change management'!)

I'm a heart over head, in with both feet, leap then look, woman.
I'm working on slowing that down a little, not too much because it's part of my strength as well as problematic. Luckily I think my judgment's pretty good, so usually when I dive in, I'm glad I have, but quite often there's a whoo hoo what am I doing stage post the initial decision making.

That's where I am now.
Questions like

What kind of writer do I want to be?
What kind of person do I want to be?
What's more important, notoriety or integrity? Are they mutually exclusive?
What's the consequences of taking your wit and turning it on others?
When's that Ok and when's that just bullying?
Where is the line between art and life and life and art and how do you protect both simultaneously?
What price is too high a price for making dreams come true?

Making my mind hurt.

Most times when the post decision thinking sets in, I'm happy to take on that particularly human characteristic of defending the ones I made cos I made them. Building fences round my choices in my head to make it comfortable to live there.

This time, there's a voice, an assertive, soft voice promising wisdom saying 'hey baby, work this out before you start, course you can deviate, play round the edges, but don't just jump and hope and pray it's OK. This is boundary setting time'.

I hate boundary setting time. I want to play, I want to romp and stomp and learn as I go.
I realise that's fine for kids, messy and unattractive in adults.
I realise this is one of those critical get it sorted, solve the pain upfront, be a bloody grown up, times.
And wish I'd started this at 17


Naturally Ms Burchill brought this all on, or rather, my decision to try and use my power to ensure she is my mentor, brought it on.
It's not new, it's just suddenly pressing.
I can hardly turn up at her pinks and animal print laden palace in Brighton with these questions unanswered. I have to assume that's where all this leading, or else, why bother?

Answers on a postcard screaming decadence, or in the comments section please.

xxxxx

So, at what point.......

Should I email her and say, 'I love you, I know you mentor people, cos I read it in some magazine down under, in an interview you gave with a starry eyed Aussie girl journalist, who got all excited at meeting you and made me jealous, but gave me hope at the same time. Cos she revealed you mentor young female writers, and I'm not so young, but I'm not so old either, and I'm female, and I'm dedicating a blog to getting you to be my mentor - so just have a look occasionally would you and see if you'd consider it?' ?

I have her email address !
Via the Times, but maybe she dials up from her living room and reads the ones the PA hasn't deleted?

spurred on by the notion of Gareth

vocalising 'Go Girlfriend' Rikki Lake stylie, I've set it up. No pressure, but please help - and make sure the comments are well edited and witty cos you're not an extension of my ego - unless I'm talking to Julie in which case you totally are. And Ms' Saltrese, West, Schurrmans and Howard, time to bring those lightning wits out of hiding. Help, I need you! All of you!

To those already regular contributors, I thank you, I bow to you, you are the food that fuels my ramblings.

Stops hyperventilating at what she perceives to be her own bravery - wonders is half past noon is too early for a glass of wine?

!http://dipmeinchocolateandfeedmetomsburchill.blogspot.com/

Oh, and clarifies for those who may be confused, I now have two blogs, one intended to get Julie Burchill to mentor me, the other, this one, for you lot only.

How about this for an idea

How about I create a blog sight called pleasepleaseidon'twantyoutothinkI'mdesperate,butI'm desperateMsBirchill.blogspot.com. and I write stuff, begging letters and the like, and you lot write stuff, like why it's a good idea, and how I'm nice and don't really boil bunnies, even though it may sound like I do, and then we hope maybe someone from the media notices and the person who does 'blogs we've noticed recently' notices, or I actually send it to them in case they don't, and voila, a big media storm around how there's this girl begging julie to be her mentor. Then Julie agrees, gives in cos she's trying to write her next book / column, and all these people keep ringing her about some brat with a blogspot, so she says 'ok, just to shut the brat up' and the cameras go mad, big julie and little julie and I have a mentor, and she says 'give this girl a column and I'll make sure she doesn't write crap, cos she has promised she won't' and the dream is no longer a dream?
whaddya reckon?

Dear Julie

I love you I do.
You're great.
I loved you from ages ago.
Because you make me laugh, and you do girls, and I always hoped maybe you'd make me laugh and do me.
Not that I fancied you. Because you had this really big face, and always looked like you couldn't give a shit what you looked like. Which I don't believe is true. Or maybe it was, maybe whilst I was a fat kid being funny, you were a fat ugly kid being really funny, and that's why you're a great writer and I've morphed in middle class navel gazing and 'I'm not as good as her, and if I'm not as good as her then I don't want to write', feet stamping.
You went off and got all the girls, and the men, with your big funny looking face and wit as sharp as Dorothy Parker. I just went on diets a lot.
Then the realisation dawned that I did fancy you after all, and you wouldn't have had me anyway cos whilst you were off getting big and famous and having words like 'grand dame' written about you, and publishing novels; read by people like me who love you so much we'd read anything you serve us, you'd gone and got a new fella, and been immortalised by websites called stuff like chavsandproud.com, and wedogirlswedo.com, and had shrines made to you and more words written about you that even your own prolific pen could produce, and were so out of my league that I didn't even realise writing for The Times was cool. Until you did it.
So now you won't make me laugh and do me.
But maybe you'd be my mentor?

Julie (how weird is that?)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's all about visualisation apparently

Mum talked about how, following the big piece of paper entry, there's some new book that tells you to visualise your dreams.
This isn't a new theory to me, but is one I totally agree with.

Tempting though it is to visualise myself as the third spoke in Brad and Angelina's wheel of love, I've decided to park that one. In it's normal spot labeled 'late at night'.

Post Harry, in the park yesterday I was visualising a more cherished dream. One that I've been faithfully monogamous to for many years. The dream of being a columnist, preferably for the Guardian. Or the Observer. I'd settle for Vanity Fair or the Times failing that. Let's be honest, the Bognor Regis Evening Advertiser, would probably be the best place to start, but that's not the dream so I'm not visualising it.

I decided I needed to do a few things to make this dream come true.
First up, I needed to articulate it. A close relation to the visualise your dream theory is the, be open about your dreams, ask for help if needs be, sister-theory.

Second Up I needed to read both the Guardian and the Observer and get the editorial leads for all the little magazine containing columnists bits.

Manageable chunks. Both ticked.

Third up, well, according to Amy and Si i need to go off and be a journalist, or work my way up from a local paper, or be famous already. Preferably in sports. Presumably, this doesn't include street hockey, in which I have some name, or curling, boules or synchronized swimming, the others in which I may be in with a chance. Post diet, with a bag of hard training.

I'm not having this third up. Partly cos I will be half dead by the time I get there, and kneecapped by my credit card company for taking a trainee / athlete / Youth Training Scheme salary. In not having it I'm not skiving. It's not that I'm afraid of starting at the bottom or working the 60 hour weeks an apprentice does. It's more that I think I've done the hard work. The years of battling the inner voice that yells 'you can't write, you're crap you are'. Now I've silenced that lovely little creature, I believe I can write. I believe I could be a columnist.
If I start at the bottom again, somewhere close but not the dream, I could end up as far away as ever in five years time, being able to taste but not touch, the dream. I'm not sure I won't take to drink if that's the case. So need to just get to the dream, bypass the close to stuff.

I mean if Peaches Geldolf can do it at 11, surely the gypsy could do it at 33?
Ok so I've not got her contacts.
but maybe one of you lot have?
Or maybe there's another way?
I was thinking we could start a campaign. The Gypsy for Guardian columnist. Get post it notes on the editors' PC's. Get helium balloons flying past the board room at the exact moment the board are meeting. Get me, witty articles in hand, standing in the lobby of the Guardian's Farringdon offices, in best gypsy skirt, with best gypsy cleavage, and best gypsy charm, at exactly the moment the Chief pops his coffee cup on the reception bar? Get an online petition in which you email your mates who email their mates and we collectively stuff the editors mail box until the computer systems jams; and he agrees to give me a try out? What do you reckon?

I'm not sure where to start. It's such a big dream that even thinking about starting scares the bejesus out of me. I can't keep procastinating either. I'll go mad, every time I read the Guardian all I'm thinking is 'I wanna write for them and am as far away as ever.' I've been good at making ambitions come true. Except this one.

I am of course working on some sample columns. I'm asking for help, as directed by my 'how to be an artist' book. I'm asking for ideas, for ways you'd make it happen were it to be your dream. Things you've read about that made it happen for others, bar the sixteen years at the Colchester Times route. I'm prepared to mount a long and sustained campaign, I'm prepared to be patient and committed and keep at them until they crack. If only I knew how to ensure I don't blow it right off. To ensure that any 'wacky' ideas get me a 'go getter, just what we need' label rather than 'another blog diarist who thinks she can write and just blew her best shot' response.

I'm visulising it. Me, chatting to Julie Birchill, asking her if she'd be my mentor and blogging bout how she said yes. Me, with the cool pic my sister took in the top left hand corner of the page, writing about reality TV and speed dating and how a trip to Uganda changed my life.

Could you all do the same? I'm sure it would help, mass visualisation. Please also throw ideas around more freely than a beach ball, in comments, I know you're all creative ideas driven folk.

Oh, and by the way, I have a job. It's a good solid housing policy one. I hopefully start next week. I don't see this as incompatible with the columnist dream.

It's bingeing dear, but not as we know it

I'm shattered. Kept meaning to sleep, but the 'one more chapter' fever of previous installments was back. Finally I abandon Harry and friends after the sun's up and the birds have been giving it the cacophony stuff for a bit. (Blog watchers may notice my new favourite word?).

Today's a repeat of yesterday. Different park. Same book.

Then it's over.
I'm gutted.
Partly cos the ending's not a quiddich uplifting one. Mostly because the road to the climax stretches so far into the future I can't believe I did my usual book devouring. I knew I should savour it. I made a deliberate attempt to ensure every last syllable was absorbed. Now it has been. Every one of the 607 pages completed. I don't tell Ben. I read faster than him, leave that for another day, want to string out the chatter.

I battle the childishness, the strange emptiness that comes from finishing a book that's gripped so strongly.

Then yield to it. Thinking 'hey, I did feel like this about Enid Blyton, I did feel like this about the phoenix and the carpet, I did feel like this about little Women and Wind and the Willows and just about everything Roald Dahl ever wrote. I didn't get it with my adult literary loves like the Color Purple and the Kite Runner and Faith Singer and The Bluest Eye and Darkness at Noon, but they made me cry. Harry just makes me sit on the end of my picnic rug giggling and getting gripped. The inner child has had 24 hours of play. Now it's back to the real world. Who wouldn't feel a tad empty at that? It's ok'

Little Julie is regenerated, soothed, inspired. Big Julie is proud of herself.
Gentleness, surely, is the way to go.
If you don't believe me, ask Dumbledore.

Some things are worth waiting for.......

I ring Ben, he's on page 25 and I've not even got a copy in my mitts.


Two years of anticipation ended at 12.13 in Sainsburys. Naturally I'd rung ahead, got HP6 as it's known to the fanatics, (Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince for those who've missed out on the mania), on hold.

I skip to the park, I'm reading a bit en route, but it slows me down, so I'm forced to abstain until I find myself a sun drenched patch of grass close to the water. Far enough away from the kids to risk being mugged or disturbed.

Five hours later, I remember food. Unprecedented, to forget for so long.

It's orgasmic. It reminds me why I want to write. She's not a fancy pants author, there's no mamoreal and cacophony in her text, just beautiful sentences that take you to the heart of the characters, midst of the plot, that make me laugh out loud.

A sample of my favourites so far

'And now Harry, let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure'.

'Well that can't be right' she said, annoyed, and Harry heard her shuffling vigorously as she set off again, leaving nothing but a whiff of cooking sherry behind her.

Ms Rowling, I salute you. You've brightened my life on six separate occasions.

The knowledge that this is the sixth of seven weights heavy. I savour it, re-read bits, take my time, aware that there's only one further set of HP phone calls to exchange with Ben post the half blood dissections.

Then can't hold back, take it with me to dinner, to read on the tube en route and en route home. I'm glad when Hannah's late as I'm in the middle of a thrilling bit. I remember the five previous occasions I've been similarly gripped, compare notes. It's by far the best, rivals the first time, and we all know, the first time of anything super, is hard to recreate.

A big piece of paper

I read this fabulous magazine in Western Australia.
It was a yoga / health / knit your own tampons / get spiritual magazine.

I was en route to swimming with dolphins.
I was lonely. I was looking for answers.
It said to get a big piece of paper.
To divide the page into sections, your life in a pie chart.
Love / work / Health etc
And list all the things that you want in your life.
I kept the piece of paper, it's in storage in my sister's attic.
From memory, here's some of the stuff that was on it, and some more I'm adding now.

I want a big house in the country, with loads of kids, a home for kids from childrens home to holiday in, a place that kids can adventure in, with a big kitchen, that I cook in a lot.
I want to foster children.
I want to write.
I want to do treasure hunts in the grounds (an idea inspired by my mother).
I want a big dressing up chest.
For the kids. And me.
I want a horse.
(This is not new. I wished for one on every wishbone from the age of five to, well, 33.)

I want kites, flown on cliffs and in fields.
I want to grow my own vegtables. And herbs. And roses. And jasmine.
I want to scatter the jasmine through my house so it smells scintilating when the flower's in season.
I want to tell stories round an open fire, have singing round a bonfire.
I want to fill my space with creative people and throw fabulous dinner parties with inspiring guests. A mixture of my friends, family and a plethora of arty folk and political folk who bounce ideas of each other, get a tad squiffy and hatch joint projects. That they follow through.
Then say in later years, 'well, i was in this big country house, and me and x were just chatting.... and the idea was born'.
I want to walk by the ocean on a regular basis.
See bluebell carpeted woods each spring.

I want my kids to be more aware than me. I want them to know, next time there's a charismatic leader, even if they admire what he has done to a political party they have always supported, that some wars should never be started.
I want the East End of London to feel comfortable again, not to seethe with tension and hostility. I want my country to stop repeating it's own tragic history. The history of a bullying nation.

I want the world to see that the way to fight evil is with kindness, and nurturing. I want people to remember the story of the man riding through the woods in a cloak, and the wind and the sun competing to get his cloak off. I want my kids to recall that it was the warmth of the sun, not the battling of the wind, that got the man to remove that jacket. And to learn from that story. Not just at school, for a moment, but for life.
I want them to remember the story of the Good Samaritian. I want to always remember it myself. Not to think sometimes ' well, if I cross the road, I'll avoid that trouble'.

I want everyone in the world to read the Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, preferably at the same time, on a world holiday say. Because it tells those stories in a new way. Because it teaches empathy and reminds me what friendship and courage and kindness are, and why they are the way to go.

I want the wait for the next Harry Potter to be over now.
And also not to be.
Because if it was over I wouldn't get to spend the next two days comparing notes with my nephew about who's going to get it first / read it first / who's the most excited / whether Ron and Hermoine will kiss. The anticpation would be prematurely ended.
But I'd have the book.
So I'll park that under 'not sure what I want there'.

Managing the Aftermath

Relationships, romantic relationships are very tough.

I've realised lately how much the desire to 'make it work' can distort you. I always thought with Sam and I that if one of us, both of us, just tried harder, it'd be ok.

I tried so hard. I gave so much of myself, bits I never even knew I had, bits I certainly didn't like, bits I could have done with in reserve. I believe she did too.

At times I tried far too hard, focused on it far too much. Forgot who I was, what I wanted, why I was even there in the first place.

I lost myself. That's horrible. I was so busy trying to shape myself in directions I don't easily go, that I forgot what I looked like, what I was meant to look like. I was so determined that every failure was my failure, and therefore mine to correct, that I didn't see the biggest mistakes I was making was to stop being the person she fell in love with. The person who loved herself going in.
Falling out of love with someone else is easy, falling out of love with yourself is the hard bit.

I heard myself tonight, in a good friend. She was saying how her relationship just needed to be worked at. She was saying how she was nuts and paranoid and had lost all sense of perspective. She was saying how there had to be something wrong with her, how she was obviously unable to commit, to see things through.

It reminds me of Nicki. With her beautiful translucent skin believing that if she just tries harder, just uses the right cream and gets the right amount of sun in the right places, she'll go the same colour as Ailsa, who just happens to have a Mediterranean complexion.

I don't think my friend is nuts, I just think she's unhappy. I think she's trying to make herself happy in a set of circumstances that essentially go against what she needs to get there. I think, like Nicki and her suntanning efforts, she'll realise that sometimes hard work is not actually enough.

Maybe our grandparents had it right. They didn't expect so much. The secret to a successful marriage perhaps? Maybe we're so used to being constantly entertained, constantly spoiled for choice, that settling for something seems incomprehensible. Our grandparents had snippets of news delivered via the radio. We have vats of the stuff pouring from orifices that never even existed. Our grandparents had very little knowledge or expectation around sex. If it was crap, that's just how it was. Our grandparents had one job, for life, then retired, and sat in chairs till they died. My grandparents went on holiday in a caravan, or maybe to a British sea-side resort, a couple of times a year. Now we can flick channels, jump on low cost airlines, date through the net, achieve multiple, duel spot orgasms, have a plethora of careers then plan fancy pants projects for retirement. Has it made us any happier?

If our expectations get raised so high, can anything ever seriously live up to them?
If we are constantly faced with choices, is it any wonder so many of us seem so indecisive?

Then I read something. Like the fact that 90% of the world's population have never made a phone call.

And wonder, does managing the aftermath even matter?

Being Discerning

I've thought a lot about this one.

Everyone can agree that being judgmental is a bad thing.
Where's the line though?

When it is judgmental to say, 'sorry, not for me' and when is it just unjust?

The violinist isn't. For me. She's a Tory. With awful Tory parents who think she should meet someone 'because darling it makes you less poor' apparently. If the last five years taught me anything there, it's run.

I can't do it again. I'm strong, but not that strong. I want to be a nice person. I want to believe I'm kind and considerate and am learning to be gentle. Maybe that's self-delusional.

It'd be more self-delusional though to believe I could sit down round a pro foxhunting dinner table and come out with the carefully constructed persona I'm working on, in tact. I can't.

Something about full blue blooded Tories makes me feel not very kind. Maybe it's the smugness the 'we're a set and you lot are beneath us / wrong / dishonest / poor' stuff. Maybe it's the 'please use the correct cheese knife' 'manners is everything' , but god knows we know how to be rude stuff. Maybe it's just the fact their hearts were cut out at an early age . Something about full blue blooded Tories make me feel not very nurturing. Not very anything bar 'can I shout first, then could someone / anyone stuff me in the boot of the car and roll me down the hill please'.

It feels silly you know. Ministers, MP's have friendships across political boundaries. People make inter-political marriages all the time. I even have a few nice Tory friends, who have nice Tory parents, who I don't have to argue with every time I see them. Just sometimes.

And maybe everyone else is right. Maybe the knack to having a relationship in your 30's is to compromise on things you'd have rejected in your 20's. But I can't do it. It makes me want to choke, it makes me want to cry, it makes me want to scream 'what about being true to yourself? That matters, I know that matters'

So I haven't resolved whether it's judgmental or not. My friend says not, it's discerning - and I'm happy to go with that!

I suspect what we mean when we say we want people not to be judgmental is, they can, as long as they don't say anything too far away from where we are.
I mean bigots are in my world widely condemned. No bigot basher ever got told 'don't be so judgmental, racists can be very bright you know'. At least not in my hearing.

I've decided . No more Tory dates. From here on in the political questionnaire comes before parting with my limited resources over a bar.
So the comedian's struck off
The musician's struck off
And in theory it's just the human rights lawyer / journalist to go.

Only I'm deciding this whole selection by profession thing is a tad naff . The original thinking was I wanted someone to make me laugh, someone to creatively inspire me and someone to chat about big lefty political issues with. I should clarify when I said human rights lawyer / journalist I wasn't thinking news of the world / daily mail, or the guy prosecuting The Sun for showing Saddam in his underwear. But I've realised I don't need a journalist or a human rights lawyer, just someone who on the whole, agrees with my view of the world. Preferably with parents who do likewise.

p.s. I know I said I wouldn't chat about dates....

But I decided that's no fun, so decided instead not to give out the blog address to dates so i can gossip to you lot and they can just wonder...

The dating game and a reminder of Thursday

I make a date through my favourite internet site in the world. Entrepreneurs take note. There's a site called the pink sofa, run by women for women who date women. It's fabulous, avoids being seedy, creates a playful space through which to vet potential dates. You write a profile, tick lots of boxes, can add a photo if you like, can chat through rooms or msn messenger one to one, and can get to know other singles in your area in an arena that allows for nutter screening and a pace as slow as you wanna take it. I'm sure there's scope for a straight version.

I decide after a week or so of chatting to the classical violinist that a bottle of wine is in order. Arrange to meet her in London Sunday night at a fabulous bar hidden inside the left hand pillar that provides a fancy entrance to Euston station.

I spend the day with family, rush home to get ready. Time's tight so I opt for my 'do my make up on the tube' routine in order to play with outfit planning. I decide on a new frock. Very Courtney Love, red silk swathed in black netting, it's the perfect shape for my shape and a manages to make me feel like a rock chick cum ballerina. Amy screams 'no, beautiful dress, but goes against the first date etiquette'. The code that dictates you don't look like you've tried too hard. I ponder this, then decide, no, bugger it. I love this dress, I feel fabulous in this dress, I'm confident enough right now to overcome any 'mad mad mad' first impressions it may create. I'm in a, I want to dress up, I want to stand out, I want to be me and this is so me, mood. If she doesn't want to see me again because I've worn a flouncy fabulous frock to a lesbian bar on a first date, so be it, she ain't my girl.

I leave with enough time to be five minutes early. I get to Moorgate where I'm due to change tubes, ping. Suddenly I'm more Courtney Love than intended, standing on the platform in a frock that has no space for a bra, with the right strap snapped and my boob out.

Holding the snapped strap in a feeble attempt to preserve modesty I ask a couple of French tourists if they have a safety pin. A tough one to translate in any language, and beyond even my grade A GCSE. I'm aware of the time, decide wasting more is not an option. Leg it across the platform, run across the main road when the train pulls in to the stop I started from, tear up the stairs, pick a couple of items from the pile on the floor, pull them on and after a quick 'looks lovely' from the previous sceptical housemates, repeat the previous journey, minus dress disaster, with a lot more running than I'd have liked. Arrive for first date with make up sliding in a tide a sweat off my chin. Half an hour late, to discover the chosen venue is closed. She's waited though, bless her.

I keep thinking 'I thought dating was supposed to be fun'. Two dates, first one I can't get out of the flat, second one, well, you know the story now.

She's lovely. Pretty in a way that is so Nigella Lawson I kept expecting her to run her tongue round her lips or give the wine bottle a blow job. Luckily, she does neither. She's very posh which unnerves me a little. Not out to her family which unnerves me more. But sweet, and funny, and very keen despite the fact all of the 'I'm me and that's fabulous' aura, of the dress trying on era, has firmly dissipated in the nightmare of getting there.

We share a bottle of wine (although I share less than her as she's driving home), have a few nice hours before I walk her to her car and she let's me know she wants to do it again. When I get home she's messaged to say thanks for a great time.

The night bus takes me past all 4 bomb sites, there are posters everywhere with the faces of the missing. The pavement outside Kings Cross has become an impromptu memorial, cluttered with lilies. The rescue workers in orange tabards carry a stretcher to a van. It's obvious if it contains a body, it's not one in one piece. I say a prayer on the bus. Ask for evidence of life for those still searching. Give thanks, realise again how very lucky I am.

Eerie Capital

It's the weirdest sight. The streets normally filled with cars empty. The pavements crammed with walkers.
I go to the co-op. The queues for the tills are huge, baskets filled with comfort food. Wine, chocolate, pizzas, the fruit and veg sections full whilst the junk shelves get emptied.

The silence is deafening. I chat to the Muslim woman behind the till. It's like we're both relieved to hear another voice.

The Evening Standard holder has piles of the earlier editions, which would normally be empty by now, headline 'London's triumph'.

I'm on the route for the Royal London's hospital chopper. It's been ferrying doctors out to the bomb sites. Seven in total. 4 with major casualties. So far around 35 fatalities. One more bomb safely detonated, the search for others underway in order that the underground can be re-opened. It seems a miracle the numbers are so low. The that attack so long anticipated, and by the looks of things so carefully planned, has claimed so few lives so far. You would think at least 8 bombs, 1 on a bus, 7 in deep underground tunnels, would have done much worse.

Small relief to those affected regardless. A reprieve for those of us lucky enough to not be.

One Minute

I'm making jokes about being in training for synchronized swimming via my bathtub. Playing 'fantasy 2012 Gold medal / design your own iceskating costume'
The next London is in mourning.

Amy and Hannah, two of my close friends get caught up in the horror. Amy stumbles past Algate tube as the first casualties are emerging.
Nicki, in Dublin panics when she can't reach any of her East End girls.
Ailsa fights to stay calm within a skyscraper at Canary Wharf.

The Mile End road is weird. The Royal London, the hospital taking the largest number of casualties is just down the road. The sirens fill the air. The traffic on what's normally one of London's busiest roads is light.

The pavements are crowded with more foot passengers than I've ever seen. People walk as if asleep. There's little conversation. I think I see fear in the faces of the plethora of Muslims in traditional dress who inhabit the area. I wonder what the reaction from those who already judge on race and religion will be. Fear for an area where the atmosphere has become palapably more nervous post 9/11.

The phone rings relentlessly, I repeat the same mantra over and over' I'm fine, Amy's fine, far as we know everyone is ok'

The Prime Minister appears on telly, Shaken, stirred.

The timing on day when the west was finally getting to grips with the need to make significant policy changes on Africa and climate change, adds to the anger. I look at my 'make poverty history' wristband, the vomit rises in my throat.

Sainburys call, 'sorry your internet shopping won't be delivered this evening'. The lift engineers are parked in Simon's parking space, the lift is fixed but presumably driving through the major road route to the most overwhelmed hospital has been ruled out by a senior exec at Crown Lifts Europe Ltd.
everything seems trivia, 'uh huh, course' I say to sainsburys. Find myself disgusted at the fact I'd even noticed the van and contemplated how Si would get his car in.

Given that 24 hours ago the mobile networks were jammed with ecstatic Olympic euphoria, it seems so cruel to deflate the mood so totally, in a city where climate, size and smog make reveling a rarity.

It seems doubly ironic to target the transport network, so notoriously neglected, the day after there's a smidgen of hope of improvement.

The panic, the fear, of being stuck underground, with an inkling that you're in the midst of a terror threat and smoke obscuring the route to the surface plays directly into the worst nightmare scenario. The sob sodden frames of victims and ashen faced reporters bring the horror home in waves.

Gradually the information trickles out. The memories of other attacks cause certainty that the worst news is yet to come.

as meatloaf once said 2 outta 3 ain't bad

I devised a new dating stratgy on the way back from Italy

It went
journalist / human rights lawyer
musician
comedian

with a caveat that 1/3 had to be drop dead gorgeous
It was mostly a joke
So the girls thought

it's progressing nicely

i've found a journalist - very sexy
and a musician - ditto sexy. I was thinking sexy singer / guitarist - soulful / coldplay-esque cool / not too rock

But will happliy settle for the classical violinist from a symphony orchestra who I'm currently chatting to

Dates so far arranged 0
possibilities, infinite
expectation, at least one date booked by Sunday

The comedian is back to square 1.
Mr Lee Hurst, whom I'm happy to publicly out, having gone off, made an offer via sms

'fun sex or fun friend'
I questioned
'how fun is fun sex?'
he responded
'I can guarantee 100% I'll enjoy it'

I opted for fun friend 'as a starting point'

seems that's not enough. Haven't heard back since.

How much fun is fun sex likely to be with a self-gratificationist with a bad back I wondered?
How much can I actually do fun sex? Generally in bed, in love is my pattern. Have decided he's too dark, and falling far short of the 'treat me like a princess' requirement to be counted.

So, any other comedian intros would be gratefully appreciated so I can get 100% on date target. Seems a bit rude to ask him for the intros, call me sensitive.

Job front's looking up. My old department have at least one in mind for me, and searching for my dream social policy role.

I've had a fabulous week with my family, mum's birthday Monday, with sis and the neices, dad Tuesday, and sis and Nephew come to the big smoke for tapas and the South Bank tommorrow night. Makes the idea of a job seem depressing, but all good career breaks must come to an end.

J x

Pass me the Kleenex and do me a favour

Those of you who know me well will remember that I am not generally the greatest telly fan. Indeed when Sam and I moved down under I ran a one woman campaign for a telly free existence, which, needless to say, was fruitless. Sam is shall we say, of a different mindset to me on that one.
Telly to me is a tad like ginger nuts, if it's the house, denial is much tougher. But take in too much and invariably my brian and body turn to sludge and I get filled with self-loathing about the plethora of more nourishing things I should be feasting on.

For those of you thinking 'she wrote about Celebrity Love Island non stop for weeks, she is clearly self-delusional'. I say, you are probably right, but bear in mind I had moved to a new city with a tough job and at first, a very scarce supply of mates. I will concede I've mellowed a little from my 'no telly in the house campaign' era.

My reasons aside from the general slothlessness of telly, for working at not getting too gripped by box, are that my eyes can't take it. See, I have this terrible propensity to cry at just about everything. That program where parents having kid trouble go and see a behaviourist who usually finds it's the other way rounds, kids having trouble with their parents, for example. That program where some mate of Jamie Oliver sets up a free range sausage farm. That program where kids chose a date for their single mums. All these alone saw me reaching for the Kleenex during my Scotland tenure, and they're not even that sad. It used to just be Idol. Idol crying can be justified. It was won by an overweight aboriginal teenage girl with the voice of an oaked angel (Australian), a funky black woman (American) and a nancy pants (UK). This is Ok crying I reckon. Crying about the fact we've come so far that even in places where the right still rule politics, equality is starting to get mainstreamed.

Much better than being moved to tears by a posh sausage farmer. Although he was lovely, and had enviable vision and focus. Then there was his very green welllied girlie who put aside glamour to muck in and get her elbow up a pigs backside.

Today saw the last of my telly for a while. I had put aside a whole weekend day for watching, something I never do, on the basis I really fancied the wimbledon women's final and Live 8. Naturally I now can't see through the small slits that once resembled eyes, I mean if 30% vision weren't enough, an ariel view of my lids is all I am currently afforded. Honestly, without my voice activated computer I wouldn't be telling you this.

Venus Williams, resplendent, gorgeous, battling the voice in her head so obviously, then beating it to join the elite group of Martina, Chris Evert, Billy Jean and Steffi to be one of the few to get 3 or more.
Then those images, the ones that made me weep 20 years ago, accompanied then as now by Drive by the cars. Then they brought that girl out, the one so emacipated at the end of the video, now a beautiful strong woman. I mean, move over Idol, move over pig farmer, the living room was flooded and as Sir Bob intended I was not only sobbing but bloody furious.

Made me think about the funny man, he said he feels like he's done what he set out to do. Good on him. I don't. I feel like there's so much to do, I just need to turn off the telly and get on with it.

So please, if I ever get hooked on some vacuous reality TV show again, will you call me up and remind me of this post?

Many Thanks

Julie x

speak to the Balinese beauty

He's not been in contact for a while. I wasn't sure why. Ring him and discover he's been in a motorbike accident. sounds horriffic. He was hospitalised and had what sounds like head injuries, says it's taken him a few weeks to get back 'normal thinking, without forget'. He says he didn't want to tell me, for fear of worrying me.

His English has improved dramatically. I am very impressed. It's a lovely conversation, the best we've had since I left Bali. We understand each other, free of phone reception and language barriers.

We talk openly about the fact that actually the hurdles between us are pretty insurmountable, he thinks his family will come round in time, I tell him I can't see myself living his life, he says he can't see himself living mine. We agree that we will be friends, keep in contact, get to know each other better without the pressure for resolution of all that. He says he wants me to go back to Bali, I tell him I will get there once I have secured a job. We're both pretty pragmatic, there's a lot of affection and respect. I am sure he will be in my life for a long time.

The problem with fairy stories

First there's the handsome prince riding in to save the day stuff. I would expect any of the urban princesses I know to turn him and Shadow right round with a 'I do need rescuing. I paged the sisters already. Feel free to gallop into the sunset, solo, Sunshine'. More out of date still is the notion of a perfect partner.

We all know on an intellectual level that nobody's perfect, but do we know that there's not another fellow being whose flaws are perfectly suited to ours? I am suprised how many intelligent sopisticated folk I hear talking about 'the one'. Like it's a real theory.

Do people actually believe that there's one, just one, perfect person waiting in the wings somewhere for them? Chances are on a planet with a population that runs into the billions, even if there was a one, we'd miss 'em initially. The one gets to that thirty something 'what if all the good ones go?' point and end up married to the frock round the corner who ticked five out of ten boxes.

The one would have four kids and an insecure wife by the time we met 'em. Wife would be all gutted that her once taut torso is criss-crossed with stretch marks, and that maybe he never thought she was anything better than a settle.

In we walk, bang, one-ness, this is it, this is right. You've met your one, only they're someone else's. Say they leave. At the back of the head is a voice going 'so, walked out on her when she got a bit fat, abandoned his kids like a loser, means I can never eat a ginger nut again, never dream of twins'. Suddenly, he's not your one at all. He's just some slimy married bastard looking for a leg over who needs to be dispatched with a withering 'sorry darling, no staying power, hardly a turn on'

The biggest problem with 'the one' theory however is that it creates a tick box mentality. If there is one, or maybe even more than one, maybe some, perfect matches somewhere then they would be (insert list, which usually makes said perfect partner seem in the midst of a gender identity crisis). Take me. I want my one liberated, open minded, capable of throwing me on the bed and being rude, yet at the same time excited if I stride Mrs Robinson style discarding clothes in 'hang on baby I'm coming to get you' fashion.

My one would weep with me at Pop Idol and Eastenders, yet able to build a roof with bare hands. I want an animal lover, who appreciates beauty, writes poetry, sings like an angel and can scoop me up like a butterfly even after I've had a week of Gelato feasting. I want someone who knows when listening is all that's required. I want to be looked after, not patronised, nurtured not babied, respected not nodded at, indulged, not too much. Unless I change my minds, in which case the indulging can be full time.

It's a pretty tough job description I reckon.

Problem is , if there's a perfect match somewhere then all these beautiful flawed matches I made en route, were entrees. After a certain number of entrees, the appetitite for something meaty fades.

Take my latest dating dating escapades. There's the Balinese beauty, warm, tender, peaceful, strong, drop dead gorgeous, believes in people and knows how to trust, courage of a door mouse.
Then there's the funny man, hilarious, speaks perfect English, strong, gregarious, friendly, genuine, courageous as a lion, cynical as a coppper.

See, under the perfect match scenario, Julie's script goes, courage, essential, believes in people, essential. Two beautiful men, off, out, over. Flaws go, 'can be a bit cocky, that's ok, can be a bit lazy, or a bit trashy, or a bit oops, silly me, should have thought first'. i.e. They can be flawed, as long as their flaws match mine.

Not only that but instead of working out what's lovable the focus is on what's not. Cos naturally, the one, wouldn't be lacking on essential criteria would they?

Finally, in an attempt to nail the one theory, I should point out that what it does is encourage oddly matched, but perfectly compatible, with a trough of hard work, couples, to go round exclaiming 'I just knew' or other such bollocks. What this generally means is either 'I just knew if I didn't jump now the other good ones would be gone', 'I just knew I fancied a long steamy session and don't want people to think I'm a slap who puts out on the first date' or,' I just knew if I told that voice at the back of my head to shut up I could convince myself and everyone else this one's 'THE ONE''.

With all this in mind, I've decided to develop a new theory to replace 'the one'.
It's called the three.
Maybe I'll whittle it down at a later stage, and sure I need to whittle it up at this point, but I think it'll be more fun than believing in fairy stories.