Tinkerbelle

Time flies.

What a difference a day makes.

Time is a great healer.

It’s funny how ridiculous you think those phrases are when you are swirling around in the moment like bubbles down the plug hole but actually? People don’t say them for nothin, kid.

A day can give you a different perspective on a situation, but how about a month, or a year? Two years ago I was living in a house in the country with an “other half” and two cats, and I was actually doing gardening every now and then. But the phrase “other half” is significant – because although I believe they there is more than one other half to a whole, I think that my other halves haven’t made it to me yet, but are out there somewhere, doing the long distance and competing for which one makes it here first. Or perhaps, if daydreams are anything to consider, makes it back first.

So, two years on and a passerby wouldn’t even recognise my two parallel universes as part of the same tapestry. Gone are the days of country living and old before my time, and now my days are spent sharing lemon mousse bars with kindred spirits and immersing myself in city life. Sure, whites are a different shade of grey here and neighbours absolutely don’t stop to chat, let alone make eye contact, but it’s a new sort of home all the same. And I love it. Posts may be sporadic of late but my fingers rarely make it into the same room as my laptop for more than just sleeping, although I am trying to write a bit more regularly.

Right now I’m snatching some time composing this as an email to myself as I take the train home, as I can guarantee this is the calmest half an hour I’ll get this weekend, despite the man whose sleeping head keeps bouncing off my shoulder as he snores and the couple chatting away in a language I don’t recognise. There is such a world out there to discover!! Little bars hidden below the railway arches and cafes that float on the river. Even the lamp posts have fish and lions carved into the bases. The only thing consistent between me now and me then is the weather. It continues to rain.

So what’s ahead? April still has some little gems; I’m super excited to be going to see New Kids on the Block and the Backstreet Boys with my sister, RoCo and Flo among others, and on Wednesday I’ll finish work and board a flight to Barcelona to visit monkey, who I haven’t seen in a really long time. I’m looking forward to catching up with an old friend, eating sushi and wandering round the city. Old friends make me happy; I love the comfort of bring completely yourself. And when I get back its birthdays a go-go, christenings and bank holidays. Exciting times ahead!

So mother dearest, you were right again. Time might not heal it completely, but it fixes a cut to a silvery scar that you can look at and remember you’re strong enough to get through anything.

Hope you are all having a fantastic weekend. What exciting things do you have coming up?

I have this friend, lets call her Sam … because that’s her name. She has an awesomely funny sense of humour and often makes me laugh so much that tea comes out of my nose (not cool, Belle, not cool). I recently posted on her blog, and I asked her to come back and do the same. Kinda like a sleepover, but for words.

So if you are sitting comfortably, find out why Sam worries she might become a mother of 83 kittens….

Belle xxx

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I’m starting to think I’m going to end up alone, possibly like those old women with cats… except I’ve never really been a big cat fan – I’m more of a dog and horse girl – so the thought of ending up alone with cats has weighed heavily on my mind of late. Truth be told it probably has less to do with my not so affectionate attitude towards cats and more to do with all the acquaintances, friends and random misfits I’ve collected over the past few years getting engaged and announcing they’re with leech.

The majority of my school leaving class have plonked rings on their significant others, or accepted the shiny diamond from their male companion. There is also a large majority of people popping small humans out of their nether regions. In less than two months I’m going to be a quarter of a century old and I feel like maybe I missed the settle down and breed memo? Alternatively I should deactivate myself from Facebook. The only reason I happen to know that I’m falling behind in the race to divorce and misery at 40 is because the status updates and photo albums popping up on my timeline tell me so.

In spite of all of this, I’ve decided over the last few months to open myself up more. I tend to blow off date offers and possible “get to know you” outing requests. This is not because I’m a “bar set to high” kind of girl but rather because I’m socially awkward most of the time. I have no interest in most common “topics” and if you get me started on what I do like you might open a door that leads down a passage into the depths of my mind. I assure you very few who have ventured down there have remained rather they tend to run out screaming, never to return.

I digress. I’ve now started agreeing to coffee dates and they make me feel uncomfortable. Am I the only one completely lost with the concept of “meeting for coffee”? For starters, I don’t know you. I’ll feel uncomfortable and possibly you will too. We’ll blush a lot, laugh uncomfortably and will have to handle those awkward silences which are always followed by us both interrupting one another in a desperate attempt to clutch at a sentence which may ferry us away from that silent hell.

I’ll remain rather silent because I’m shy. You’ll tell me about your car, your job and possibly try to impress me. While you’re doing that I’ll likely note that you have a receding hairline which can only mean you’ll eventually go bald or that you are driving a car that doesn’t really fit into the income bracket you must clearly be earning. I attempt to calculate it from what you do, your qualifications, how long you’ve done it etc. That could possibly mean you’re in debt. Of course with the current global economic crisis that debt is going to wallop you on the back of your head pretty soon. You’ll possibly begin to struggle or have to sell the car. Hell, you may even lose your job? For people who like the pretty things (which you clearly do judging by that rather blingy wristwatch) that can be a bit of a blow, send you into a depression possibly, you might consider ending it all. That was a big thing during the Great Depression, people jumping out of buildings and moving to the great beyond. I don’t know if I could handle a depressive boyfriend, I’m terribly moody myself. Best I find out how moody you are.

“Have you ever thought about committing suicide?”

Him: “Sorry what?”

“Never mind.”

Insert a very long uncomfortable silence here.

Him: “I’ll get the bill then”.

My mind wanders. It’s a very strong muscle that can go off on a tangent far quicker than Hussein Bolt can sprint 100 metres. This can be problematic if you do not keep me engaged. I wait in hope for a man who, instead of bringing up the dreaded “let’s do coffee” line rather suggests something different: “Let’s go hang out at the planetarium” or “Hey Sam, air hockey tournament, you in?” Make me think, help me use my brain as opposed to let it wonder and I’ll likely love you forever… Or at least be a bit more comfortable in your presence and not ask you ridiculous questions. Surely there are more original dates than “coffee”?

Of course, my mates will tell you I am doomed to be alone because I am being deceitful agreeing to go to coffee in the first place.

You see, I don’t drink coffee, never have. I hate the taste.

For centuries, animals have adopted mating rituals to ensure that the species survives, and little baby whatevers populate across the land. Male peacocks have a vibrant plume of feathers to wow the female of the species (who I have heard in some species is more deadly than the male) and some spiders eat their partners after mating, because they are hungry (I don’t think this is actually the reason, but I am not at liberty to give you facts, as I don’t know them).

So anyway, through the centuries, human mating rituals have moved from the male clubbing the female over the head and dragging her back to the cave, to chastity belts and no sex before marriage, asking for her ‘hand’ and courting, to now.

I think its a sliding scale, and today I found myself at the bottom of it.

No.... I didn't get humped by a teeny dog, but when Googling for an image I was returned a pic of Hugh Grant... hahah!

There were two incidents, one on the way to work, and one on the way home. On my walk to the tube station, a man walked past me. He sucked his teeth (eew) make some puckery noise and said “hi babygirl, you want?” apparently I “eeeew”-ed so loudly that the man walking behind me laughed. Then on the way home another guy walked up to me, pointed at him then pointed at me, and when I carried on walking looked disappointed.

What is wrong with people? It reminded me of the days when boys in the town i used to live in would do loops round the one way system in what could only have been their mother’s car, playing their music really loudly and hollering at girls. It always used to make my mind boggle. What did they think they would achieve from this? Did they expect the girl that the had yelled at to be waiting on their next lap, overcome with emotion at such a display? I think not.

I’m not sure how we got to the stage of bum pinching and teeth sucking, but bum pinchers should take heed of this, commit your bum pinchery in Singapore and you risk being flayed. Which, in my opinion, should be a worldwide thing.

Whats the silliest chat up line you have ever heard?

The majority of my life is spent acting somewhat maturely, pretending to be a grown up and hoping that at some point, as I get closer and closer to thirty, I will work out what the hell I am supposed to be doing.

But there is a tiny percent of the time that my inner teenager fancies getting out and wreaking havoc. We all have one, don’t we? A child who often scurries away and hides, allowing us to go about our daily business without too much bother, but sometimes pops up when you’re least expecting it and pings a metaphorical elastic band in the face of a stranger.

Last week was one of those weeks. On Friday I had a massive teenage strop when my computer at work decided to start writing in Russian. I couldn’t for the life of me work out how to change it, and after spending half an hour on the phone to IT, I accidentally flung a pint glass of water over my desk, soaking everything including the carefully handwritten to do list that I had been writing to take up some time while IT fiddled about.

Then, at the weekend, I was met with someone who I wouldn’t normally come across. A feminist (I can almost hear the panto hiss). Dont get me wrong, I believe in the vote and equality and all that business. but there sometimes strikes me as some feminist points of view that are just there to be in the way of life. I don’t strive to be a little lady that cooks dinner and does the washing up all the time, but at the same time I like cooking and I’m firmly in the ‘shaving armpits is a must’ camp. I like nail varnish and lip stick and sequins and this doesn’t make me a terrible person.

So anyway, back to the story. I was sitting round the table enjoying the first BBQ of the year with a group of people and watching The Voice. The conversation transcended to winners, losers and people from the X Factor, and suddenly there was a heated argument between the boys about who was more horrendous; Alexandra Burke or Leona Lewis. I listened, and then two of us piped up. “Leona Lewis looks like a sex change horse” I said. I’d had a few glasses of wine. My friend argued for why Alexandra Burke was worse, just as eloquently, until we were shushed by la feminist.

“I think that’s totally subjective. We should support her, she is after all, female” she said.

The teenager in me stood up and told her that was ridiculous, and that of course it was subjective as it was my opinion thankyouverymuch and that it didn’t matter that she was female, she was still very irritating and no one could understand a word she said.

But of course I didn’t do that. I smiled, nodded and changed the subject.

What makes your inner child want to throw a tantrum?

If you are missing me then please head over to read my interview with the Byronic Man , where I only mention Ryan Reynolds once.

I know, I know, I’ve been gone for over a week and you wish I would have called if I was going to be absent, you were worried. But I didn’t. And absence makes the heart grow fonder I hear.

To tell you the truth I’m having a bit of a dry spell (WRITING WISE!) and I’ve been trying to write something witty and fresh all week, but all I have been able to come up with is nothing. I’ve written and deleted what seems like hundreds of posts, but nothing has got me inspired enough to actually finish a post.

But today I read an article that made me laugh, and I thought I would share it with you. Entitled “8 Little White Lies Women Tell Men” I was intrigued as to what wise words whoever wrote this article was imparting, and I wasnt disappointed. It gave me the inspiration to get my little cocktail sausage-esque fingers moving again… I love those sort of self-help things and I always wonder about who thinks that they have the authority to dish out this sort of information. I often think things are wrong but I don’t think I would go as far as to tell on centuries of women who have relied on these slightly ridiculous fibs, whether true or not!

“I’m fine”. I read the advice to men and laughed at this. it tells that when a woman says “I’m fine” they most certainly are not. Right. You know what, sometimes this is the case. But sometimes (and I say this with a wealth of experience) there is nothing wrong. But the person you are talking to believes there to be something wrong (probably after reading one of these articles) and therefore keeps asking. You keep reiterating till you are blue in the face, and then all of a sudden you actually aren’t fine, would happily punch him in the face yet can’t say anything as then you prove that you weren’t fine all along. The mind boggles.

“It was in the sale”. I agree with this one. It very rarely was in the sale. I remember on one occasion trying to convince my ex boyfriend that it wasnt a waste of money me buying a new handbag with the food shopping money, because in actual fact, when you think about it, I had practically convinced myself to buy a Mulberry handbag which was £800. By talking myself out of this and opting for a £45 option, I was actually saving us a great deal of money, and if he asked me nicely he could even put his wallet and phone in it when we were out and about. See?! I’m nothing but altruistic.

“I don’t know”. Apparently, I don’t know doesn’t mean I don’t know, because girls always know. I would like to disagree. If you have seen me in Tesco you will too, as I never know. I never know where I put my bank card, what I want for dinner., or which pin code goes with which card. I never know what my ‘type’ is, or what I should wear to work tomorrow, or what film I want to see. And I’m not the only one.

Girls, what is your favourite fib? And men, which ones do you always fall for?

I hate saying goodbye.

When I left my previous job my manager called me aside and said thank you for the work I had done and we chatted for a bit before I went back to my desk. When it was time to leave I put on my bravest face and  half shouted “see ya!!” in the best and brightest voice I could put on. Before there was even a chance of seeing my face I was off up the hill to my car, with tears running down my cheeks. They say a change is as good as a holiday, but I hate the thought of life going by without people who you were close to, and how quickly a month and then a year can pass without you even realising.

So leaving California is hard for me. It works best when I can say goodbye in the morning before the kids go off to school and then having the chance to mope round the house by myself in a total funk before shedding a few tears at the airport as I get on my plane. This is the best disaster aversion plan. It’s not to be this year. this time, my thirteen year old ‘littlest sister’ is skipping horse riding so she can come to the airport and say goodbye. And this will be the hardest thing for me. She, like me, wears her heart on her sleeve and her emotions at the surface, and watching her crumble as we walk away will just ruin me. People on the flight will think that the rest of the world has been wiped out in some apocalyptic style reckoning, but there is nothing I can do when the tears start.

On the train at the beginning of the year I sobbed my heart out. I didn’t care that there was mascara all over my face and people were giving me strange looks on the tube. The gates had opened, and I was crying. On the train back to my Dads a businessman looked embarrassed and offered me a tissue, looking shocked when I snorted a thank you and blew my nose like Hurricane Katrina. The thing is, I don’t get sad often, but when the tears start I figure that I might as well embrace them.

California holds onto my heart pretty tightly. I love my life in England; adore my family and cherish my friends. I love the freedom that living in the city gives me, but there is always part of me that is counting down the days to get back to a different life. One where I have two obnoxious little brothers (one who insisted on dragging me around the house by my leg yesterday, and resulted in me getting jumped on my three enormous dogs and being totally unable to move) and a bonus little sister to the one I have already.

The clouds make it easier to say goodbye today though. I hope its warm in England… I need to keep my tan!

Where in the world do you feel at home?