Archive | March, 2014

Crying over you

25 Mar


I still cry every day.

Last night I sobbed. A lot. Over nothing in particular.

But things are getting easier, because it’s all relative, I guess. A few months ago I was still breaking down in the most random of places – supermarkets, the bus, the gym, Starbucks. I use to sit in the cinema after movies ended and just cry while everyone else left. Then shuffle off home to cry in my bed.

It felt like I was suffocating. It was hot, impulsive, explosive crying. It overtook me. Sometimes I couldn’t stand. I usually couldn’t speak. It left me exhausted.

I remember sitting on Siesta Key in Florida (officially the Number One Beach in the US) on a glorious sunny day with heavy, blobby tears running down my face.

Clearly, wearing mascara was just not an option.

These days when I cry, it’s pointed. It’s acute. Things jab at me and bring very sudden, very sharp pain. Things like seeing another friend announce the arrival of a baby on Facebook. Or seeing someone act like an asshole on Millionaire Matchmaker. Or asking myself whether I can really see me ever meeting anyone (and deciding that no, I just can’t).

Things that would never have made me cry eight months ago.

Because eight months ago I had him.

The past two mornings I’ve woken up feeling deeply, deeply sad, and it’s taken me a minute or two to realise it’s from dreaming about him.

I talk myself around in circles of logic. And tell myself off for thinking about him at all.

I hate myself for it.

But I miss him so much.

Irish Three, Part Two

24 Mar

Text message received the day after the date:

“Hey. Just slept on this…I’m probably being naïve about inter-web dating but I guess I wanted a little more chemistry. It kinda felt like we were good mates rather than on a date. Sorry for being crap. I did really enjoy meeting you. X”

No problem at all, Irish Three.

I’m inclined to agree.

And thank you for the drinks and dinner.

Irish Three

23 Mar


Last night I went out with Irish Three.

I wasn’t over-excited. But I did have a suspicion that he’s my future husband (mainly based on the fact that a fortune teller told me I would marry someone tall, and he’s tall).

He picked a cocktail bar not too far from where I live. Which was great because I love this cocktail bar, and he lives wayyyy on the other side of London. I was flattered that he made the effort to come in my direction.

And we had a really nice night. We talked non-stop. We laughed a lot. He’s a really good-looking guy. Nice manners. We went on to dinner. He was super polite and insisted on paying for everything – a far cry from the wiley ways of dear old Irish Two.

Then, I suggested that we grab one last drink. It was 11.45 by this point. We got into the bar, and he suddenly decided he had to run to get the last tube home. Fair enough. I didn’t take it as a great sign. Walked him over to the tube, said an awkward but friendly goodbye. No kissing. He asked me to text and let him know that I got home OK. (Again, not the kind of thing Irish Two would have worried about.)

So there I was, on the 56 bus at midnight, slightly drunk, listening to Taylor Swift, and thinking over the evening. I definitely like Irish Three. I definitely wanted to see him again. But I also wasn’t sure I felt that crazy spark. You know the one. Ahhh, The one I felt with my ex (Irish One). Irish Three called me beautiful and cute while we were out, so I at least didn’t think he considered me hideous.

Irish Three had talked a lot about how he’d never done online dating before and I was his first online date. So I figured I would take the lead. When I got home, I texted and said, “That’s me home safe and sound. Thanks for such a lovely evening, I had a lot of fun. Since you’re new to online dating, I’ll take the lead and say that I’d love to buy YOU dinner if you’d like to do it again. X”.

Hours later I got a response.

“I had a really nice night too. X”

WTF is that supposed to mean?

I won’t be replying to Irish Three.

He now strikes me as someone who would take his sweet time buying a ring.

Home again alone again

21 Mar




I just got home from Paris.

To my lovely, warm, tidy flat. My empty flat.

I’m exhausted. The start of the week was busy. Yesterday I was on the go from 7am. When we got to Paris it was a quick turnaround then on to our Paris office to do pitch run throughs. We ate out with our French colleague. Ohhhh the French eat late. And up early today to practice. The pitch ran two hours late. It went well. We drank wine. We ate cheese. Train home. (With no wifi – sort it out, Eurostar.) Phew.

I decided to be lazy and get a taxi from the station rather than face the tube, overland train and ten-minute walk back to my flat. And in the taxi, as I was wiping away sleep from my eyes and trying to find my wallet in my bag and remember where I live, I couldn’t help but feel it would be nice to come home to someone.

How perfect it would be to walk through the door to a cuddle. And someone to tell about my trip. And maybe some peanutbutter and jam on toast. Mmm peanutbutter.

You know what? This is the whole deal with my life right now: it’s good. I have a great career. I have my own flat. My friends are fabulous cats. Family are nuts but I love them. And I am grateful, believe me.  I know how incredibly lucky I am. But I feel so sad that I have nobody to share this life with.

Equally, when I’m away and all my colleagues grab ten minutes to Skype their other halves, I feel like I’m missing something.

I guess I just need to hope that some lucky hot piece of ass out there is missing me.

Even though he hasn’t met me yet.

Je suis en France

20 Mar

Working hard and making time for a casual night out with colleagues. Just every now and again I catch myself mid pitch or making a really valid point, impressing a client or just entertaining my work buddies over an amazing bottle of wine, and I think, “You’re doing OK.”

P.S. This is where we had dinner.


Third time lucky?

19 Mar

I’m off to Paris in the morning. It’s been a crazy busy week.

But just thought I’d let you guys know that I’m going on a date this Saturday.

With Irish Three.


18 Mar


There’s something wonderful about springtime. I’m a springtime baby, so maybe when the end of March rolls around and we are very nearly in my very own month I just feel more special. But the brightness in the mornings. The lightness in the air. And the evenings that start to stretch and make room for so much more possibility than heading straight home to put on pyjamas and watch MTV. It all puts me in a good mood.

It also makes me ponder how very different springtime is this year from how I imagined it.

You see, my ex and I had a grand plan. We were going to take a month off work between March and April, and travel around Japan. I am desperate to go to Japan, but never wanted to go alone. So, we decided to take this extended break and follow the cherry blossoms as they bloomed. My birthday would be while we were there. And I think we both had the same thing in mind. It starts with a “diamond” and ends with a “ring”.

Instead, I’m working like a mad woman. I’ve just ended things with a red-haired Irish man. I’m going on a date on Saturday. I’m going to Paris for work, shortly followed by New York. And on my birthday I’m having a night of drinks and ping pong with all my favourite cats.

Not what I planned. Not what I imagined. But not a bad way to spend the springtime either.

And maybe this is a sign that the gaping, painful void he left behind is closing. It will leave scars. Scars that hurt to talk about. Scars that are visible to others through my behaviour at times. But I can just about get my head above the darkness and say, “F*** you for what you did to me. F*** you for not appreciating me. I’ll find someone worth going to Japan with.”

He’s ruined enough already. I’ve been planning my dream trip to Japan for years.

It would have sucked to have him in all the photos.

I have proof that eHarmony is a nonsense

14 Mar


eHarmony continues to fail me.

First, it matches me with Irish One, who led me to believe we would get married and live happily ever after. He made me the happiest that I’ve been in my life. He made me a part of his family. And then he ate half a pizza and told me he had never been in love with me. Thanks, Irish One. Thanks, eHarmony.

Then, it matched me with Irish Two. Irish Two and I are destined to be friends. He made me laugh, he was good in bed, but – alas – we are not a “match” by any stretch of the imagination. I’m a sensitive soul who loves to be close to people. He’s a hardened, unaffectionate cat who can’t get close to people. Thanks again, eHarmony.

Last night eHarmony matched me with one of my best friends. I have known Tristan for eight years. He is one of my favourite cats. We have worked together. We have been drunken together. We have put together a business plan together. In fact, I wrote the best part of his eHarmony profile and I am cut out of two of the photos he uses in it. If we were destined to be together, we would be. I know Tristan extremely well and I can say with confidence that we would make a terrible couple. Simply awful. Thanks for making me have weird thoughts about one of my best mates, eHarmony.

This all leads me to believe that eHarmony is, basically, bullsh**.

I feel overwhelmed with anxiety for all the couples out there – all the millions and millions of happily married people (if we are to believe the advertising) who eHarmony has “matched” through science and algorithms and stuff. I fear their relationships are all built on lies and silicone valley start-up dreams.

I think it’s time to trust my guts. Not a website with extremely poor architecture and user experience.

eHarmony, I am so angry at you right now.

That is all.

Bonjour, Paris

13 Mar


Well, I’m working late again. Dealing with some kind of video edit catastrophe. I’ve had to cancel dinner with two lovely friends. I feel pretty sorry for myself right now.

But I did get some happier news earlier. Work-related, of course. There is little else in my life right now.

I’m going to Paris for two days next week to pitch for a new account.

Ahhh, Paris in springtime.

Where honeymooners kiss on the banks of the Seine. And wander through the streets hand-in-hand. And gaze upon each other over coq-au-vin and bottles of vin. And declare their love unbreakable by locking padlocks to the Pont des Arts.

Only I could be going there with colleagues. To pitch for a marketing account. For an engineering firm.


Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited. Travelling with work is one of my favourite things about work. A trip abroad makes all those days in London in an office with no windows (true story) worthwhile.

I’m just moaning because I’m bitter. It’s what I do these days.

Going to Paris sans petit ami means unlimited time to myself in Sephora on the Champs-Elysées.

I win.

Scrambled eggs

12 Mar


I worked late last night. When I was in my twenties, working late never bothered me. It was so much more sociable, hanging out with your team eating pizza and drinking beer while finishing up concepts or writing copy. There was always music. There was occasionally dancing. Really. These days, working late seems to mean sitting alone at my desk, watching my life pass me by.

I got home hungry, and whipped up some scrambled eggs with a little bit of hot sauce. And it’s only when I sat down to watch ‘Are You The One?’ (my new MTV favourite) that I started to cry.

I have never worked late and come home to a meal someone has made me. When I was a kid, my Mum cooked for us every night. I’m part Italian, remember. I guess, to me, when someone cares about you, they feed you.

I enjoyed my scrambled eggs. The hot sauce was a nice touch.

But just once it would be nice to have someone else make me dinner.

And rub my shoulders.

And stroke my feet.

And care that I’ve had a crappy day.