Tag Archives: memories

Epic kissing

18 Jul

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I’m on a train to Edinburgh to go and visit my friends for the weekend. Which is lovely. But it’s the hottest day of the year in London, and as the train heads north the sky gets darker and the temperature drops. Brrrrr.

Anyway, I had a mad dash around today trying to sort out my life before getting on the train. All week I have wanted to get to a certain shop on Oxford Street to buy a certain something in the sale. All week I have been desk-bound. Oh. God. It. Has. Been. Such. A. Week.

So today at lunchtime I ran to the tube to jump on the Central Line at Chancery Lane and head along to Soho as quickly as possible.

Chancery Lane tube station always blasts my head with memories. Because every single time I go there I’m reminded of a guy I dated five years ago.

We worked together. I had liked him for ages. He was with someone else for ages. He became single. He found out I liked him. He asked me out. It was all terribly exciting.

Now, at the time I was living in east East London. More east than I do now. He was in West London. And the office we worked at was smack bang in the middle of the two. So we were constantly hopping on and off the Central Line to go and visit each other. Or kissing goodbye at Chancery Lane station, and going our separate ways.

And, oh my, the kissing was fabulous.

I’m 5ft 1. He’s 6ft 3. So we would kiss on the escalators. Then he would kiss me goodbye on the East-bound platform before he headed on to the West-bound one.

It was such a bubbly, tingly, exciting time.

Of course it all ended just three months later. I got back from a holiday and he seemed changed. He didn’t really want to hang out anymore. He ignored me even though we worked in the same office. I was uninvited to meet his parents. That was awkward.

In the end I had to make him go for a drink with me one night and tell him that I thought he was breaking up with me. He agreed (eventually, after making me walk around in the cold for about 45 minutes) and I cried and said humiliating things like, “But you like me! I can be even better! Please!”.

I then stopped eating for the best part of three months and made myself miserable pining over him before realising he was kind of an asshole and his clothes were not nice. He also stank of cigarettes. Always.

So things didn’t end that well. But I only need to set foot in Chancery Lane station to be swept back to those crispy autumn evenings, sitting in pubs drinking beer, getting to know each other, travelling endlessly back and forth on the Central Line, and the epic kissing sessions on those escalators. Mmmm.

The memories are lovely. They make me smile and feel hopeful that I’ll feel that way again about someone.

My memories of my recent ex only make me sad. Of course, we had our own epic kissing sessions, but to remember them, well, it just makes my eyes well with the tears of what might have beens.

But maybe one day I’ll pass that music shop in Hoxton, or the bus stop in Shoreditch, or that cocktail bar, that park, that coffee shop, and smile.

Maybe one day the memories of those epic kisses will stop being epic regrets.

Breaking the connections

29 Apr

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My keys arrived this morning. Sent from the ex in a package addressed to a friend at work (as requested). Wrapped in tissue. No note. He had already told my friend who was good enough to email and organise the whole thing that he wasn’t putting in a note as he assumed I didn’t want any communication. I wouldn’t have minded a note. I’d have liked an apology.

But the main thing is, I have my keys back.

Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief, I logged onto LinkedIn and saw an update of him connecting with some blonde lawyer girl. My stomach lurched. Clearly this was his new girlfriend. There could be no other explanation, right?

Craziness set in as I came over all Nev from Catfish googling the poor girl on every social network. Turns out she’s married to someone else, so not his girlfriend.

I took this as a sign. It’s time to step back from being mental. I deleted him as a contact on LinkedIn.

There is nothing left connecting us. Nothing at all.

Except the memory of the happiest time in my life. And the pictures in my head of him, our walks in the park, his family, his friends, drinking negronis, kissing (lots), waking up together, blurry Sunday mornings in bed, and that safe, warm feeling of being totally besotted with my life.

And the horrible realisation that is was all fake.

Remember why

16 Dec

What was your best Christmas ever?

While you scratch your head trying to work out which year it was exactly, let me make things a little easier and hazard a guess that it was when you were a kid.

For me, it’s hard to differentiate. There’s a whole mishmash of glittery memories. A bike, a Barbie house, a hot water bottle in the shape of a mole (a surprising hit – well done, Mum), an art kit, ballet shoes, a riding hat, a lego train.

OK, before I sound like the most spoilt brat ever (and, no, I never did get the pony to go with that riding hat), I need to make the point that although I remember these things, it isn’t the things themselves that make the memories special.

It’s that fluttery, flappity, festive feeling.

Leaving school on the last day before the holidays, laden down with art and craft projects from the previous two weeks and cards from every person in your class. Watching ‘A Very Brady Christmas’ and ‘The Garfield Christmas Special’ with my sister. Going to bed on Christmas Eve, unable to stop wriggling from sheer excitement. Knowing that if you eat just two brussel sprouts you’ll get extra trifle for dessert. Curling up with your Nonna to play board games – and not even realising when she falls asleep. And snores.

It’s not about the things at all: it’s about the feeling.

Which is maybe why this year felt like such a grinchtastrophe. I just couldn’t shake feeling blue. But, I tried. I put up my tree. I made a playlist. I watched Christmas movies. And finally, something has kicked in.

I feel happy.

I feel lucky.

I remember why.

Rediscover Christmas, my buddies. Here’s a little bit of magic to help you out.

First day back in the office

25 Nov

It is hard being back in London. I feel like I’ve gone back in time and everything is reminding me of him with renewed ferociousness. My bus journey, my walk to the office, everything just sucks. I hate it all. Why can’t I go back to last year and be the happiest cat alive that I had met him? Why can’t he pop up on MSN and tell me I’m beautiful?

Because he dumped me. That’s why.

Oh, yeah, and he was never in love with me anyway.

I walked straight into the most confusing briefing ever at work. I have loads to do, over 200 emails to sort through, half my team appears to be off sick/on holiday/out of the office.

I just don’t like my life any more. I feel overwhelmed with sadness. And I don’t know how to change it.

What if you could travel back in time?

22 Sep

I took my broken heart to the movies this afternoon. I think the immersive feel of the cinema helps take my mind off things. On Wedding Boy’s recommendation, I went to see ‘About Time’. I fully expected it to be a saccharine rom com that half bored me and half annoyed me. Quite the contrary. It’s a gorgeous movie, and I cried through the whole thing. Don’t let that put you off. It isn’t sad until the end, it’s just that I cry at the happy bits too these days.

Now, if you don’t know the basic plot, a guy discovers he has the ability to go back in time to ‘redo’ stuff. I know. Sounds horrific. Trust me, it’s done tastefully.

Anyway, it got me thinking about my ex (surprise surprise), and our relationship.

If I could go back in time like the dude in the movie, what would I redo?

I wouldn’t redo anything.

I wouldn’t change our first date, being 15 minutes late because I got stuck at work, or toasting the birth of my littlest nephew with champagne to start the evening. I wouldn’t change saying, “YES!” when he asked me to be his girlfriend. Or how nervous I was the first time I met his friends. Or how very, very nervous I was when I first went to spend the weekend in Ireland with his family. I would still write him a short story for Valentine’s Day. And take the day off work before his birthday to learn how to make arancini – and then make arancini (his favourite food that disappeared from Broadway Market last winter). I’d still have him to stay in my flat for a month when his house was being renovated. I wouldn’t change any of the “I love yous”, or the lazy afternoons on the sofa, or runs in the park, or drunken nights in our favourite cocktail bar.

And when he went to New York and things got weird? Well, it’s a fine line between a regret and a memory. But I wouldn’t be any less supportive than I was. Yes, though in the end it was humiliating, I’d still send him my stupid, cheerful emails. I’d still make him cupcakes when he came home for a week and complained that I was “too excited”. I’d still count the days ‘til I got to see his face.

Because, whatever happened – and I don’t think I’ll ever really know – one thing I have is the knowledge that I was the best girlfriend I could be. I loved as much as I could. He said himself that he was the happiest he’s ever been in his life when he was with me. I know I was the happiest that I’ve ever been.

In fact, the only thing I might change, if I had the chance, would be to have never met him in the first place. At least that way the haunting blissfulness would never flicker through my mind, and I’d have nobody to miss.