No real point to this. Just rambling and getting things off my chest.
The Mechanic has been surpassing even himself in the sweetness stakes. Sickeningly lovely messages. There is a real sense of naivety with him though. Life just seems so much more simple when he talks about it. You know?
He says “come down to my 21st”. I have to rearrange stuff if I go. He simply says that he wants me to be there and it would be the best birthday present ever. All I read is “I am 20 and have no cares in the world”. Over and over. So, fuelled by a couple of pints of Star, I ask what his crowd is like? I mean, think about it. 120 miles is a long way to go, but especially long if it turns out that the girls all hate me because I swanned up one day with my hair straightened locks and London attitude and stole one of their most eligible bachelors from under their noses (even if I only turn his head for a few weeks). That sort of makes me chuckle a bit. I’ve never really felt glamorous or anything before. Similarly, 120 miles is a long way if there isn’t a crowd of friendly guys who’ll happily chat to a random bird and play drinking games. I reminded him: “you’ll be off doing that birthday boy hobnobbing thing that is expected of you, so I’ll need to entertain myself!”
Quick as a flash (well, by country boy standards): “My friends are alright. You probably won’t be able to get rid of me anyway.”
So, no excuse there. The other night he said something about when would we next see each other? I forget my response but he then said “if my bike was sorted, I’d see you in an hour and a half.” Speeding halfway up the country just doesn’t seem to be an issue, whereas for me it sort of is. There’s the hassle of getting the car (ok, so he has a selection to choose from on his driveway, and he’d pick the motorbike anyway). Then there’s the petrol (so, I dunno how expensive it is to fuel a bike but my VTS drinks gallons of petrol). Then there’s the nightmare that is exiting London and the fun that is the Wandsworth one-way system, not to mention Putney and so on (he’d have the fun of trying to get into London). Then there’s the risk of the M3/A303 being snarled up. Don’t want to even think about the rage that would rise in my body if I met a tractor on one of the roads down his neck of the woods… But he just “shrugs” it all off (a text shrug, if you get me).
Why does nothing seem to really bother him? I was getting all worked up about something, I forget what, and he just blew his hair up from off his forehead and calmly went through it step-by-step and blasted all the stress out of it. That is it!! I have worked it out. There is something very ploddy about him. Not in a nasty way. But he seems to take a situation and just work it out. I analyse everything. EVERYthing. The FM story gives buckets of evidence. The Mechanic just takes what comes and rolls with it. He said that he got cross once because a bloke in the pub was giving off about his Dad and his mates had to take him out of the pub and he then put a load of dents in the bonnet of his car, but he doesn’t seem to get riled about anything. He is just a “thoroughly pleasant chap”.
So, what do I do? I won’t be going down there today. I am still in bed for a start. I might rearrange what I have planned on the weekend of the bash and go down then, but I’m not sure I want to. I kinda like it as it is. I dunno if I want to go down there and turn a little fantasy romance into a reality. The more time we’d spend together, the more the shine would come off it. For now, he’s this big hairy bloke who I don’t really know, but who thinks I am pretty awesome. I don’t really want to lose that perception. A weekend down there would add meat to how unsuitable we are for each other and he’d possibly realise that I am a shallow, manipulative bitch. Now it is just nice.
Ooh, but he does have big arms… *swoon* And I don’t usually go for muscles.
I think tonight will see me drop into a couple of houseparties, one in Cla’am and one in Cesspit. Still undecided about FM tomorrow. JC last night (who remembered him from uni) almost fought FM’s corner. He said that at Cambridge, a little bit of confidence goes a long way. Pressed further, he pointed out that it’s full of very gifted, but rather insecure, people. Everyone there is just as intelligent as the next person. It makes you less special. You have to find other ways to stand out from the crowd. JC said that there is a small group of beautiful people and they keep to themselves, and the rest of them are just average looking like you and me. Where you and me would be able to shine through with our quick wit and brains, they’re all quick witted and brainy so they rely on other attributes, and he thinks that FM probably got ahead by being confident and attracting women that way. I said “cocky, you mean?” He disputed it. He doesn’t think FM is cocky, he thinks there is a difference between the two. I am still undecided. FM isn’t a looker in the classic sense, but he has SOMETHING that I like and it makes me really cross. He is an arse. Even when I am with him, I often want to punch him in the face because of some arrogant remark casually dropped into conversation and I look up and see his “aren’t I so cheeky?” grin and he knows it too – he’s trying for a reaction. But he is still my favourite. Damn. If we were all standing in a neutral place and you lined up FM, The Mechanic and Beardy and said to me: “you can have whichever one you want and be guaranteed that there’s no hidden agenda or lying. Pick!” I would go for FM and his weedy little sparrow chest and fluffy hair and little ears and bug eyes. He doesn’t have the long and complicated history that Beardy and I have, or the He-Man “I will protect you but am a gentle giant in private” thing that The Mechanic has got going on. He just snares me mentally. Hate it. Really hate it. I will not see him.
So I’m going to read all of The Mechanic’s texts from last night, lamenting how he wishes I lived nearer to cheer me up.
Happy New Year dudes. I sort of hope that 2008 will be less complicated than 2007. I suspect it won’t. Besides, if it was just think how boring the blog would be.
30
Dec
07
boys, boys, boys
The Mechanic has been assaulting my heart over the past two days. It’s melting. I feel like a reborn romantic, enjoying his adoration and feeling more confident about who I am and that someone will find me attractive again.
A selection of messages that just make you go “aww!”
When asked why he was cold and wet (mentioned in an earlier text):
I’m cold ‘cos I’m wet and I’m wet ‘cos I’ve been working in the rain. Some warming up from you would be lovely.
(Mechanic working in the rain. Smell the testosterone. I think I will faint).
When it was suggested that not booking any jobs in one Friday and blazing it up to London on his motorbike might not be sensible for his finances:
But I’d get to see you!
(If only life was so simple).
When asked what he was doing awake at 3.30 this morning when I drunkenly texted him:
Replying to your message gorgeous.
(Further enquiry revealed that he had been asleep, but my text had woken him. If it had been the other way around, I regret to admit I probably would have ignored it, rolled over and nodded back off to sleep).
And, finally, just because:
I’m missing you like mad. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left. I can’t wait to see you again and wake up in the morning and wrap my arms around you and see you smile.
I can’t decide if I want to wrap me up in those massive arms, or wrap him up and look after him forever. Very sweet.
In other Y-shaped news, Beardy is up in Nottingham with his best mate and has been texting me. This hasn’t really registered. I feel light where he is concerned now. The final painful threads seem to have been cut and I don’t find interacting with him particularly difficult anymore.
Fire Man is in Venice. With his family. Well, so he reckons. They flew out early on 28th and are back New Year’s Eve. He sent me a message telling me that he had just got a picture message from me and that I get hotter every day. Hmm. I think he got the message a few days ago when I sent it, but as he hadn’t heard anything out of me, he had used it as a reason to contact me. That or he is having worse luck with his mobile phone than I had earlier in the year. Anyway, I sent something back about how Venice will be lovely, “very romantic”, and then I got a text back cutting that down saying that he’s sure Venice is romantic but doubtful as he’s going with family. Do I buy it? Naaah. Does it sadden me? A little.
He and I “have plans” to catch up on New Year’s Day. I don’t have any intention of this happening. Maybe I would have done, just for the bedroom action, but over Christmas there were a lot of messages going back and forth where he sounded incredibly in to me. Discussing good ways to see in the New Year (cough cough, what do YOU think we were talking about?!) and he said: “Can’t think of too many better ways just make sure I’m your first… I’d be jealous otherwise x x x” (sic) So, he either meant one of the following: “Can’t think of too many ways. Just make sure I’m your first” or “Can’t think of too many better ways to make sure I’m your first”. Either way, it got my back up. Perhaps it was a joke, but I wondered why he said it and immediately started thinking that he’d do exactly what I would do if I was spending NYE with my partner (hmm, chance of having one would be a fine thing!)… After all the fun and games of drinking in the New Year, I’d do what millions of couples will do and that is head home for naughtiness in bed. So, perhaps he wants the thrill of shagging Claire and then get a kick out of trying to do two women in one day.
Or he’s insecure and thinks I have men queuing up.
I like the latter idea, but it’s unlikely.
The last I heard out of him was late on the night before his flight: “Roll on 2008! I so want to fuck you now though… x xx”
That’s nice dear.
Men. I am shit with them.
28
Dec
07
Protected: artillery
28
Dec
07
more stalking
Hands up all who think being stalked by YOUR MOTHER is a step too far?????
JESUS already!
27
Dec
07
mrs robinson
This morning I woke up in the arms of the hunkiest mechanic you EVER saw in your life. Oh. My. God! The boy has guns to rival even the most heavy duty army issue.
Two problems:
1. He’s 20 (”and here’s to you, Mrs Robinson…”)
2. He lives over 120 miles away from London, in a wee village a stone’s throw (and by stone’s throw I mean a country stone’s throw where people think nothing of treking 30 flipping miles to the pub) from where The Olds live.
Oh dear. Another quality choice by Tiffin. But he’s tall, broad, has a hairy chest and stubble, big arms and massive hands. You know, the type of big arms that make you feel really little when he sneaks up on you from behind and envelopes you in them (while you’re outside the pub waving your phone in the air desperately hoping for just one bar of reception to take away the “emergency calls only” text on the screen).
Seriously, kids. It was the stuff that Mills and Boons books are made of. A little bit of proper country romance. What a lovely way to end off 2007. So, I suppose you want the story?
Yesterday I ended up at The Olds’ house in the sticks. We did the only thing that there is to do in’t'country and thart is go dowwwn t’ut pub. The local was full of the usual suspects – I swear that it’s always the same faces whenever I go there – and a handful of kids hogging the pool table. There was a spread laid on (being a village, everyone had taken down a plate of something earlier) and it was as I hunted for a knife to put me butter on me bread roll that a tall, stacked young fella sidled up to me and took my hand. He raised it to his lips and planted a kiss on it, asking who I was. The name on the back of my jumper was a bit of a giveaway, but I can overlook that because it must have taken a bit of courage (or several pints of ye olde pubbe beer) to hit on a girl under the watchful eyes of the entire village including your mother and two teenage sisters (oh, the gossip).
The rest of the night involved getting hideously pissed on my stepdad’s tab, and drinking lots of red wine outside in the pub garden, where everyone knew we were, but where they couldn’t sit gawping.
Fast forward a few hours, and there’s the pair of us hiding down the side of a muddy Landrover and snogging like a pair of teenagers, although I have to admit it wasn’t that long ago for him. Then out come my parents and The Mother is crossly muttering along the lines of “well, I don’t bloody know where she is, she will have to get herself home!” Cue much laughing into hands and crouching down. They got into the car and turned it around and then busted us in the headlights – now that wasn’t embarrassing.
I don’t think the rest of the story is really all that important (hmmm, but part of it involved a church garden – classy), but Mechanic Boy drove me home this afternoon, where I faced the Spanish Inquisition and The Mother asking if I had found myself a nice young man.
Truth is, yes. He’s lovely. It was bliss waking up next to a giant of a boy who snuggled up behind me with his giant arms around me and his giant hand holding mine. So unbelievably cute! Warm, soppy… and far too young 
He wants me to go down for New Year and when I said that I wouldn’t, he said that he would come up and see me. Bless. I will try not to break his heart too cruelly.
WHY ARE THERE NO LOVELY HUNKY YOUNG MEN WHO WANT TO BE LOVELY TO ME IN LONDON?!?!?!?!?!
23
Dec
07
Protected: party: in pictures
I realise that I often plan things and fail to remain on target. FM is just one example. Last night’s party is another.
With the Magic Window allowing a little tipple between drugs doses, I had a glass (hmm, ok a plastic cup) of mulled wine. Doctor Phil told me that if I felt alright, I could have a second.
Of course, after my second, as I wasn’t vomiting my guts up, I took this to mean that I was fine to drink all night and got hideously pissed.
The photos are hilarious. There are over 150. I will select a few and put them up here in a bit, just to give you a flavour of how the night went…
22
Dec
07
frenemies
I’m in a bit of a sour mood, and it is our stupid Christmas party tonight.
I am not drinking. I will have a wee slurp of mulled wine (carefully timed between doses of antibiotics), but other than that, I’m not risking it. I have treated myself to a bottle of Appletizer instead. Go. Me. I have also applied EXTRA eyeshadow as a sort of compensation. Where alcohol fails me, eyeshadow will not. It’s lush. Green. The lady in MAC helped me choose colours to suit my skin tone. When I say there is a lot, I mean a LOT. It’s all very pretty and I took ages over it.
So, all tarted up, I sat down at my computer to check emails (and Facebook of course) and in my inbox were two from a friend of mine who I never really get to see much, Melon,. The first email had the subject line “thanks”. It reads like this:
hey
thanks for kind invite to your party tonight….
sadly I can’t make it.
hope you enjoyed both of mine recently.
merry xmas
your ‘friend’
Melon
The second email, sent ten minutes after the first reads like this:
so maybe that was a nasty email, so i apologise. i’m sure there’s a good reason.
i’m an idiot.
Now, maybe I ought to have been a little more forgiving given his second email, but it was like a red rag to a bull. I didn’t even want this sodding party anyway – it was one of the many things that my housemates discussed and then did the usual “we think that [insert thing, in this case, having a little Christmas gathering] would be nice and have chosen [x] weekend to do it, are you free?” And as they asked several months ago, my diary was indeed empty. On top of that, today they decided that we were doing a house outing to the supermarket to buy a load of wine to make mulled wine… and I forked out 1/3 of the bill at the checkout because we are paying evenly… except I am not drinking. So… Well, as usual, it feels like they’re taking me for a ride somewhat and reminds me of how I felt when the digibox episode happened.
Plus Transport Planners mates are all downstairs making loads of noise and they are all geeky boys (remember the loser group from school and uni? Yeah, it’s them).
So, he got this reply:
The entire thing was organised by my housemate Desk Editor through Facebook.
She then added me and Transport Planner as admins.
All I did was send a mass Facebook invite to people I know in London who happen to be on facebook. It wasn’t one of those “oh, I’ll invite this person and that person” or “I won’t invite this person” things.
I get the impression you think you were deliberately left out? That certainly wasn’t the case.
As with any social event that I am involved in, it’s always open invite. Everyone talks. That is the thing about the people I am friends with from Cesspit – I didn’t realise that anyone would think they were not invited on purpose. To be frank, Melon, I have had a little too much on my mind recently what with being diagnosed with and treated for cancer, so I wasn’t up for the party in the firat place but Desk Editor organised it and as I live here, I sort of have to go along with it. I haven’t sent any texts to coral people into coming, I haven’t sent a load of mass emails. I didn’t give this “do” much thought at all. I am on a concoction of drugs and can’t drink and all I really want to do is sit in bed and watch shit telly.You are more than welcome to attend. It’s going to be crap. My housemates aren’t exactly party animals, and the entire thing revolves around minced pies and mulled wine, hardly a happening affair. Of course, that is no excuse for failing to invite you. I hope you appreciate that it wasn’t a nasty thing on my part.I am sorry that you have decided to think how you have about this. I think it says just as much about how you regard me, as how you THINK I regard you.
I’ll sort it out tomorrow. But right now I am struggling not to go out and buy a machine gun and blast Transport Planner away. I haven’t the energy or inclination to go into it, but he is just a dickwad. Everything about him fucks me to God off.
21
Dec
07
calm and calamity
Right, I am now on TWO sets of antibiotics. Meh meh meh. BUT, I am much calmer in my head. This will probably not last (you know me and my loony moments) but rationality has been restored for now. Oh, and I also found out a littttttttle secret. The drugs that I can’t drink on… Well, that is bollocks. You CAN drink on them. There I was, all “woe is me, it’ll be a miserable Christmas without a little glass of vino” and Mr Doctor Man says, “you can drink, but it must be one hour after your tablet, and at least one hour before your next dose, and don’t overdo it.” This means I have a 4 hour “window” in the 6 hours between each tablet so I can have a wee tipple tomorrow at the party, and maybe one on Xmas Eve (well, I will still be driving so just one little one). Not wee, of course, that would be gross, just wine.
So, calm.
On the other side of the coin, lots of madness. I haven’t stopped all day, what with being at the hospital from 10am. Then, while I was waiting for the pharmacy to sort out my prescription, I wandered along the Kings Road and into MAC, one of my all time favourite shops. It was fairly quiet and there was a lovely saleswoman in there so I asked her about what eye make up I ought to be doing now that I have lighter hair. She told me that I looked fine, but we decided to do a make over on me there and then and all for freeeeeeeeee too. (Ok, and then maybe I came away with £108 of stuff, but hey ho…)
After all the fun in Fulham, it was off to Wimbledon to purchase the rest of the Christmas presents that I hadn’t got yet. Several hundred pounds down, I went home and chucked everything in a heap on the floor, weakened by the stress of shopping (made worse by the fact that it’s nearly bloody Christmas, like you need me to tell you that!!!) There was a whole load of post waiting for me as well. The usual, cards and bank statement, a letter from the hospital about my next colposcopy (meh, 2 May) and another from Wandsworth health service calling me in for a smear. WHY DON’T DIFFERENT PARTS OF THE NHS COMMUNICATE WITH EACH OTHER?!?!?!?!?!?!? The last thing I need at this bloody moment is a smear!!! I need to let poor Lady Donut rest! And then bypass the smear and go straight into Colp. Sheesh.
As well as all the above, there was a letter from a DEBT COLLECTING AGENCY informing me that I have to pay up £100 for a gas bill from over 18 months ago or they will:
1. take all my stuff
2. take me to court
Geez! First I ever knew of this!! I moved out of the property in question over 18 months ago, and as far as I knew, had paid all the bills off. So, on the phone to the lettings agent (read = Spawn of Satan) from way back when… They deny all knowledge and say that they closed my account with British Gas when I left. Hmmm. On the phone to British Gas, another story emerges entirely. The lettings agent didn’t even open the account with British Gas until THE MONTH I MOVED OUT and closed it 4 days after I left the property. Seems the lettings agent is telling porkies. Anyway, the debt has been frozen for 60 days while British Gas gets to the bottom of it. Lord knows what is going on, but if you decide to let in Little City, contact me first and I will tell you which agent you should avoid like the plague!!!
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