Shopping for items of interior decoration is an excellent process through which to deduce one’s long-term compatibility with another human being. It’s no good thinking you’ll be able to cope with each other on a foreseeable-future basis if one trip to Habitat sees your compatriot picking up items that makes you want to hit them over the head with the nearest available copy of Ideal Homes.
Thankfully, following a recent jaunt to variety of Oxford Street’s large department stores, there’d been a few debates, but no magazine-induced injury, and The Writer and I were still on speaking terms. We do – usefully, considering our situation – have pretty similar tastes in the important things in life: on wine, high-quality American television drama and balsamic vinegar, we essentially think as one.
But on matters of aesthetics, things are a little more divergent: a few modern art prints that were thoroughly at home in Blonde Towers didn’t survive the transition to Chez Nous, and TW definitely has ideas about which homewares that he’s happy to live with.
“NO!” he said vehemently as we wandered round John Lewis on Saturday afternoon, my poking and prodding and picking up things that I quite fancied. “You are allowed ONE piece of jingoistic furnishing per room. No more.”
Apparently our similar tastes don’t stretch to numerous items displaying a Union Flag print, and a second such cushion in the sitting room is apparently too much for the man to take. (I happen to think that furnishings with a Union Flag on them aren’t jingoistic – they’re patriotic (if a little twee). Critical difference. And anyway, I like it as a piece of design and it might not be round for too much longer so I want to make the most of it whilst I can.)
And it was just as well that we’d had lengthy discussions over several weeks about just what it was we wanted out of a toaster before we set foot in Selfridges’ kitchenwares department. Because even though we thought we knew precisely what it was we wanted, we stood – for at least 25 minutes – in front of a large display of Dualit toasters, pondering, debating – and, in the case of TW, eye-rolling.
For what is essentially a machine that heats bread, it’s baffling that it can have so many permutations, and that making the decision of which to buy merely to heat bread could be fraught with so much difficulty.
Could we get the orange one? Or would it clash with all the teal stuff already in the kitchen? And does the two-slice come in black, because the black one is the nicest in terms of colour, but the mini one isn’t as nicely made and the four-slice is just too big (and, frankly, expensive). But if the two-slice doesn’t come in black here, should we go to John Lewis where it does come in black, even though that would defeat the object of buying the thing in Selfridges with the gift card? And well, the chrome one is quite nice, but wouldn’t we spend our entire lives wiping it free of sticky fingerprints? And the cream one is quite homey, but maybe not quite right given that the coffee machine is black? And if we just grab that chrome one and put it here next to the cream one then it’ll give us a better idea, won’t it? And…
Upshot: TW can take precisely 23 minutes of debating kitchenware appliances before getting cross. We bought the cream one. It looks pretty.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Monday, 20 February 2012
In which moving house is stressful
Moving house is widely acknowledged to be a stressful, stressful thing. Which is fair enough, because it is a stressful, stressful thing.
It’s stressful when your lettings agent takes the bit between his teeth and has had tenants sign to move into your property before you’ve even told people your plans.
It’s stressful when estate agents don’t seem to understand that Price Bracket A and Area B aren’t whimsical notions you’ve plucked out of the air, there to be ignored as they fancy.
…When you look at two flats in quick succession that veer so far from specifications you’re tempted to give the whole project up as a bad job from the word ‘go’.
…When you do find one you like and there are two other couples looking round at precisely the same time and it’s a bit over budget but hell, you sign for it on the spot and decide to think about the ramifications later.
…When the new landlady doesn’t know when she’s moving out, leaving you in limbo for a fortnight before finally letting you know that, yes, you and all your stuff will have to move into your parents’ house for a week in between moving out of your place and into the new one.
…When you’re constantly haranguing the estate agent for little details like how much they’ll want to be paid, and when, and whether she’ll be leaving furniture, and if so, what.
…When you’ve told your lettings agent you’re exceptionally busy at work and only wish to be contacted via email only to have four calls a day come through the main work switchboard.
…When you box up your house, get up at 7am on a Sunday only to find the heavens have dumped a foot of snow and your removal van can’t get to you, the final weekend before your tenants move in.
…When you work full-time and can’t be there to oversee the removals process when it does happen, in the middle of the week, on the very final day it possibly can.
…When, amidst all this, you’re part of an international pitch team getting into the office at 7am and leaving at 11pm, only to be told you’ll be travelling to a European capital for a 24 hour visit two days before you move.
…When, the day before you’re due to move, you and your parents and your boyfriend and the three cats can barely move for boxes and sofas and lamps and more boxes, only to be told by the new removals man that he can’t come at 8am as agreed.
…When you have to unload the contents of said (renegotiated) van onto the pavement outside the new flat because the lettings agent is 40 minutes late in turning up with the keys.
…When you get inside to find that the bed, dining table and two sofas you were expecting to see have been accompanied by, amongst other things, cutlery, crockery, a washing machine full of linen, antique chandelier, two ugly brass lamps, a television, painter’s easel, kitchen bin (full), a tagine, a fridge full of food, a hat, several decorative mantelpiece items, a duvet and a book on ancient Egyptian art.
…When the boiler seems to have a mind of its own; the fridge refuses to get cold but has been so cleverly installed that you can’t get to the plug to switch it off and defrost it; and the shelves in the sitting room – vital to two people with myriad books – are “for decorative purposes” only.
And yet, when the trundle round the M25 is done, and the boxes are unpacked, and the chandelier has left the building, and there’s a cup of tea brought to the bedside table in the morning, it’s the best decision you’ve ever made.
It’s stressful when your lettings agent takes the bit between his teeth and has had tenants sign to move into your property before you’ve even told people your plans.
It’s stressful when estate agents don’t seem to understand that Price Bracket A and Area B aren’t whimsical notions you’ve plucked out of the air, there to be ignored as they fancy.
…When you look at two flats in quick succession that veer so far from specifications you’re tempted to give the whole project up as a bad job from the word ‘go’.
…When you do find one you like and there are two other couples looking round at precisely the same time and it’s a bit over budget but hell, you sign for it on the spot and decide to think about the ramifications later.
…When the new landlady doesn’t know when she’s moving out, leaving you in limbo for a fortnight before finally letting you know that, yes, you and all your stuff will have to move into your parents’ house for a week in between moving out of your place and into the new one.
…When you’re constantly haranguing the estate agent for little details like how much they’ll want to be paid, and when, and whether she’ll be leaving furniture, and if so, what.
…When you’ve told your lettings agent you’re exceptionally busy at work and only wish to be contacted via email only to have four calls a day come through the main work switchboard.
…When you box up your house, get up at 7am on a Sunday only to find the heavens have dumped a foot of snow and your removal van can’t get to you, the final weekend before your tenants move in.
…When you work full-time and can’t be there to oversee the removals process when it does happen, in the middle of the week, on the very final day it possibly can.
…When, amidst all this, you’re part of an international pitch team getting into the office at 7am and leaving at 11pm, only to be told you’ll be travelling to a European capital for a 24 hour visit two days before you move.
…When, the day before you’re due to move, you and your parents and your boyfriend and the three cats can barely move for boxes and sofas and lamps and more boxes, only to be told by the new removals man that he can’t come at 8am as agreed.
…When you have to unload the contents of said (renegotiated) van onto the pavement outside the new flat because the lettings agent is 40 minutes late in turning up with the keys.
…When you get inside to find that the bed, dining table and two sofas you were expecting to see have been accompanied by, amongst other things, cutlery, crockery, a washing machine full of linen, antique chandelier, two ugly brass lamps, a television, painter’s easel, kitchen bin (full), a tagine, a fridge full of food, a hat, several decorative mantelpiece items, a duvet and a book on ancient Egyptian art.
…When the boiler seems to have a mind of its own; the fridge refuses to get cold but has been so cleverly installed that you can’t get to the plug to switch it off and defrost it; and the shelves in the sitting room – vital to two people with myriad books – are “for decorative purposes” only.
And yet, when the trundle round the M25 is done, and the boxes are unpacked, and the chandelier has left the building, and there’s a cup of tea brought to the bedside table in the morning, it’s the best decision you’ve ever made.
Friday, 3 February 2012
In which kitchen scales trump art
I like to think I’m not one of life’s over-consumerist types (says she, who had a 20-minute discussion with various people on Twitter last night about collections of Le Creuset, and colours thereof), but there is plenty of stuff in my house that I have quite an attachment to.
I have plenty of things – some small, some not so – that I absolutely love. My late Granny’s art nouveau bookcase with the silver panelling is one of them. My coffee table is another. As is the slightly shoddily-made but pretty mirror that I haggled down to a bargain basement price from the dodgy Tunisian salesman.
And there are some things that I don’t really feel strongly about one way or the other. Bedside tables bought from Ikea because they’re functional and match the chest of drawers. The little cabinet in the sitting room, transformed from a gramophone player by my late Grandpa, which is now home to a variety of stuff that doesn’t really have another home (letter paper, the camera, nail varnish). A goatskin drum that I brought back from my Gap Yah.
But not everyone is as blasé about the same things as I am.
Helping me pack up at the weekend, and making himself generally useful by shifting heavy things up into the attic, The Writer fell upon the drum as I hoofed it out from under the desk in the spare room where it’s resided since I moved in. I’d earmarked it for the pile resigned to the loft, until it was rescued by TW.
“This is amazing!” he said, grabbing it with both hands before doing that thing boys do with any sort of instrument, and beating out a quick rhythm. “Where’s it from? Can we bring it with us?!”
I don’t tend to give it any thought these days, but to a pair of fresh eyes, I suppose it’s a rather nice little artifact. Given to me when I left by the staff and pupils of the school I’d been teaching in, it’s about a foot in size, and made of a bay and white goatskin stretched across a wooden frame. Looking at it again, I suppose it’s quite a pretty thing. And it has gen-u-wine Tanzanian heritage, rather than being a quaint “faux-ethnic” piece picked up in John Lewis (doesn’t it just. Getting it back on the plane in hand luggage was a pain in the rump).
The same went for a set of pleasingly retro kitchen scales (which also used to belong to Granny Blonde. The woman had taste), aforementioned gramophone cabinet, and a mug with an in-built cafètiere, although not for the Barnet Newman print which I brought back from my last trip to MOMA. There were, in fact, long and strident discussions about whether or not it constituted ‘art’ (I say, good enough for MOMA, good enough for me) and ended in a bout of violent tickling and the compromise that I could bring the Twombly if I left the Newman behind.
Just as well he’s enthusiastic about the Le Creuset, really.
I have plenty of things – some small, some not so – that I absolutely love. My late Granny’s art nouveau bookcase with the silver panelling is one of them. My coffee table is another. As is the slightly shoddily-made but pretty mirror that I haggled down to a bargain basement price from the dodgy Tunisian salesman.
And there are some things that I don’t really feel strongly about one way or the other. Bedside tables bought from Ikea because they’re functional and match the chest of drawers. The little cabinet in the sitting room, transformed from a gramophone player by my late Grandpa, which is now home to a variety of stuff that doesn’t really have another home (letter paper, the camera, nail varnish). A goatskin drum that I brought back from my Gap Yah.
But not everyone is as blasé about the same things as I am.
Helping me pack up at the weekend, and making himself generally useful by shifting heavy things up into the attic, The Writer fell upon the drum as I hoofed it out from under the desk in the spare room where it’s resided since I moved in. I’d earmarked it for the pile resigned to the loft, until it was rescued by TW.
“This is amazing!” he said, grabbing it with both hands before doing that thing boys do with any sort of instrument, and beating out a quick rhythm. “Where’s it from? Can we bring it with us?!”
I don’t tend to give it any thought these days, but to a pair of fresh eyes, I suppose it’s a rather nice little artifact. Given to me when I left by the staff and pupils of the school I’d been teaching in, it’s about a foot in size, and made of a bay and white goatskin stretched across a wooden frame. Looking at it again, I suppose it’s quite a pretty thing. And it has gen-u-wine Tanzanian heritage, rather than being a quaint “faux-ethnic” piece picked up in John Lewis (doesn’t it just. Getting it back on the plane in hand luggage was a pain in the rump).
The same went for a set of pleasingly retro kitchen scales (which also used to belong to Granny Blonde. The woman had taste), aforementioned gramophone cabinet, and a mug with an in-built cafètiere, although not for the Barnet Newman print which I brought back from my last trip to MOMA. There were, in fact, long and strident discussions about whether or not it constituted ‘art’ (I say, good enough for MOMA, good enough for me) and ended in a bout of violent tickling and the compromise that I could bring the Twombly if I left the Newman behind.
Just as well he’s enthusiastic about the Le Creuset, really.
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
In which I am depressed by the notion that rape is a subject for 'banter'
There are plenty of awful things on the internet, but yesterday I was made aware of the UniLad site. It’s vile.
Ostensibly written for young men at university, it championed ‘lad culture’ – the sort of thing Maxim used to write about in the early 90s – and seemed to focus solely on getting drunk and getting laid.
I use the past tense because, following a Twitterstorm, as of yesterday the site was taken down, citing regret for offence caused by one of its posts.
In a very short version of the story, a piece (I’m loathe to call it an ‘article’ for fear of lending credence) ran on the site apparently condoning non-consensual sex. When called on it by a young woman, the response of the site owner was to call her “a dyke” – and, presumably, to think nothing more of it.
Twitter did what it does best, rallied round and outraged ensued. The site is now down, with at least one university taking disciplinary action*.
I wasn’t initially going to post about the whole thing, because it’s just so depressing.
Normally I’ll take Twittermobs with a pinch of mob rule-salt, but this one was different. This brought to light not just a vile site run and read, I would argue, by boys who have no place at university, judging by the levels of intelligence on show. Instead it casts a focus on yet another deeply saddening example of the misogyny that seems to be increasingly pervasive in society.
(Can I just make it clear at this point that I don’t for a moment think that the disgusting content on UniLad would have any support from the right-thinking majority of the world’s population, male or female. Its portrayal of women is ghastly, but just as nausea-inducing is its portrayal of men. I don’t know any men, at university or otherwise, who’d identify with the vulgarity, crassness and downright abhorrence displayed. No one I know would dream of demeaning themselves – and women in general – by saying, believing, or thinking such vile sentiments.)
I’m not what people refer to as “militant” about my brand of feminism – I don’t think holding doors open for women is an act of “benevolent sexism”. I also like to think that I have a sense of humour, and am quite happy to take a joke directed at women, or myself – if it’s genuinely funny.
But rape isn’t funny. It isn’t a subject for ‘banter’. It’s something that destroys people’s (let’s not forget – it’s not only women who are victims) sense of self-worth, confidence, lives.
UniLad’s defence is one of ‘free speech’. But this isn’t an issue of free speech. It’s an issue of pervasive misogyny, of misunderstanding that rape isn’t a question of desire – rape is about power and violence.
And I do wonder whether, at its logical conclusion, the material written by UniLad could even been seen as incitement. If someone clever and legally inclined would be able to argue that case in a court of law, I’d be thrilled. Then the ghastly individuals behind UniLad – creators and readers alike – might think twice about just how funny their ‘banter’ really is.
* Update: this was the case when I read a piece on the Huffington Post yesterday (31st Jan). The article has since been changed, and I can find no reference to it.
Ostensibly written for young men at university, it championed ‘lad culture’ – the sort of thing Maxim used to write about in the early 90s – and seemed to focus solely on getting drunk and getting laid.
I use the past tense because, following a Twitterstorm, as of yesterday the site was taken down, citing regret for offence caused by one of its posts.
In a very short version of the story, a piece (I’m loathe to call it an ‘article’ for fear of lending credence) ran on the site apparently condoning non-consensual sex. When called on it by a young woman, the response of the site owner was to call her “a dyke” – and, presumably, to think nothing more of it.
Twitter did what it does best, rallied round and outraged ensued. The site is now down, with at least one university taking disciplinary action*.
I wasn’t initially going to post about the whole thing, because it’s just so depressing.
Normally I’ll take Twittermobs with a pinch of mob rule-salt, but this one was different. This brought to light not just a vile site run and read, I would argue, by boys who have no place at university, judging by the levels of intelligence on show. Instead it casts a focus on yet another deeply saddening example of the misogyny that seems to be increasingly pervasive in society.
(Can I just make it clear at this point that I don’t for a moment think that the disgusting content on UniLad would have any support from the right-thinking majority of the world’s population, male or female. Its portrayal of women is ghastly, but just as nausea-inducing is its portrayal of men. I don’t know any men, at university or otherwise, who’d identify with the vulgarity, crassness and downright abhorrence displayed. No one I know would dream of demeaning themselves – and women in general – by saying, believing, or thinking such vile sentiments.)
I’m not what people refer to as “militant” about my brand of feminism – I don’t think holding doors open for women is an act of “benevolent sexism”. I also like to think that I have a sense of humour, and am quite happy to take a joke directed at women, or myself – if it’s genuinely funny.
But rape isn’t funny. It isn’t a subject for ‘banter’. It’s something that destroys people’s (let’s not forget – it’s not only women who are victims) sense of self-worth, confidence, lives.
UniLad’s defence is one of ‘free speech’. But this isn’t an issue of free speech. It’s an issue of pervasive misogyny, of misunderstanding that rape isn’t a question of desire – rape is about power and violence.
And I do wonder whether, at its logical conclusion, the material written by UniLad could even been seen as incitement. If someone clever and legally inclined would be able to argue that case in a court of law, I’d be thrilled. Then the ghastly individuals behind UniLad – creators and readers alike – might think twice about just how funny their ‘banter’ really is.
* Update: this was the case when I read a piece on the Huffington Post yesterday (31st Jan). The article has since been changed, and I can find no reference to it.
Friday, 20 January 2012
In which I write an open letter to estate agents
Dear estate agents,
I’m sure I don’t understand the ins, outs and particulars of your jobs. I’m sure I couldn’t begin to comprehend how taxing it is to have to deal with people looking for a house AND those looking to get rid of one. There must be much, much more to the thing than meets the eye, because that’s the only reason I can think that explains the shoddy level of service that you universally seem to provide.
So let me iron a few things out for you.
Whilst catchy (well, it’s not, but let’s not quibble the point), location, location, location is a phrase used for emphasis. It doesn’t mean you can hear one location from your client before showing them properties in two others. If I ask for flats in Brixton, I’m expecting the properties you suggest to be in Brixton. Not Kennington, not Peckham and certainly not Orpington. If I’d wanted to live in those places, I’d have asked for those places. I didn’t, and whilst I’m sure they’re lovely, I don’t.
I have a finite income. Whilst I’m not on the breadline, it’s not as large as I’d like, so when I give you a budget, that’s what I can afford to pay in rent. I know you’d like me to pay more, because you take your commission. I understand that, I do. But if I tell you my budget is x, and you only show me properties that are one and a half times x, I’m going to ignore your calls; think you’re an idiot; and use one of your competitors instead, leaving you with y% of 0, instead of y% of x. And then who loses out?
I have specifications. If I want a one-bedroomed flat, I want a one-bedroomed flat. That is not the same as a studio flat. And a one-bedroomed flat in Brixton is not a studio flat in East Dulwich. Just sayin’.
I have a job. It’s a full-time job. It’s how I’m able to pay the rent (that’s the rent of x, let’s be clear. Not one and a half times x. See above). You have to let me do my job, or I’ll be fired and then not be able to pay the rent, and then you’re out of your job too. Factors that comprise “letting me do my job” include arranging viewings after 6.30pm and making use of my answerphone facility when I don’t answer the phone instead of further relentless calls every four minutes.
I have a job. It means I have to do the things I’m paid to do, not chase you endlessly because you haven’t been in touch. If I see a property on your site, only to be told, when I call you that you’ve had it on the books for several days and it’s already been let, I’m going to get cross. And the crossness will be directed at you. And that makes for an unpleasant day for the both of us.
So to recap: please tell me (once is enough) about properties that meet my specifications, in the area I want to live in, for the price I want to pay, that I can see after work.
Not too hard, surely?
Much obliged.
B
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
In which I say goodbye to a stalwart friend
Whilst I am, obviously, beyond thrilled that The Writer and I are soon going to be moving in together, there’s a tinge of sadness underlying the project: I’m going to have to give up Colin.
I love the fact he makes a little chirruping noise when he sees me; that he waits for me outside the front door in the evenings; and that he pulls a deeply amusing expression when you brush the patch just underneath his shoulder with the dog brush. I love that he’ll snuggle into bed on a weekend morning and curl up against me, wrapping his front paws round my arm; that he loves nothing more than hiding behind shrubs in the garden, waiting to launch himself at my unsuspecting leg; and that he has just two, tiny white hairs growing out of the bottom of his chin, making him look every inch the pantomime Chinaman.
But, despite all that, and the fact that I now can’t imagine Blonde Towers without Colin’s panther-like shape (and, to be brutally honest, size) slinking over the back of the sofa, up the stairs, or across the laptop keyboard, I’m going to have to bid him goodbye. Not only is TW allergic and it would be deeply unfair to put him on Benadryl for the rest of his life, Colin is most definitely a country cat – he’d take one look at the big city and get himself hit by a car.
So rather than put either of the males I love through fates they’d rather not endure, Colin is off to the home of Parentals Blonde. He’ll have plenty of space to run around; Pa Blonde to swear blind that Colin won’t be spoilt and then put the leftover Sunday roast in the cat dish; and beds and sofas aplenty to leave covered in long black fur.
So, whilst I’ll miss him, I know he’s going somewhere he’ll be happy, and where I can visit – with hummus – for hugs.
 |
| Colin back in the day in his foster home, atop the scratching post. These days, the top of that would barely take a paw. |
I’ve refrained from posting incessantly about him here for fear of seeming quite the mad cat lady (although I think that’s rather undermined by the frequency of the photos that get posted to Twitter), but the truth is that the cat has been an essential part of my home.
Family Blonde has always had cats – it’s just the number that’s varied. From the stray kitten we took in, having found him starving under the chest freezer in the garage to those we’ve bought, or rescued from Wood Green via those we’ve been given when family friends have developed allergies, there’s always been at least one, usually two, often three prowling round the house.
 |
| In the bottom of the laundry basket. I didn't have time to take one when he fell into the bottom of the loo |
So when I moved back to Home County and in by myself, getting a cat was one of the first things I was going to do. Before I’d even moved in, I called the local branch of Cats Protection to find out whether they would have any kittens available at any point in the next few months.
“Oh, yes, actually,” said the extraordinarily nice lady on the phone. “We’ve got a cat with one of our volunteers at the moment – the cat’s just given birth, so the kittens will be ready to go to new homes in about 12 weeks. Shall I reserve one for you?”
 |
| If he can climb onto it, he'll lie on it. Yes, that is the cooker hood. |
We had a short discussion in which I said yes, I was fine with a black cat, and no, I wasn’t going to reject it if its eyes were the wrong colour and didn’t go with my décor (seriously: what is wrong with some people?), and I found myself as a prospective kitten parent.
Colin has now been with me for two and a half years. The kitten that used to fit easily inside the palm of my hand is now a large (very large) cat who takes up more room on the bed than The Writer, and eats at least as much hummus.
I love the fact he makes a little chirruping noise when he sees me; that he waits for me outside the front door in the evenings; and that he pulls a deeply amusing expression when you brush the patch just underneath his shoulder with the dog brush. I love that he’ll snuggle into bed on a weekend morning and curl up against me, wrapping his front paws round my arm; that he loves nothing more than hiding behind shrubs in the garden, waiting to launch himself at my unsuspecting leg; and that he has just two, tiny white hairs growing out of the bottom of his chin, making him look every inch the pantomime Chinaman.
But, despite all that, and the fact that I now can’t imagine Blonde Towers without Colin’s panther-like shape (and, to be brutally honest, size) slinking over the back of the sofa, up the stairs, or across the laptop keyboard, I’m going to have to bid him goodbye. Not only is TW allergic and it would be deeply unfair to put him on Benadryl for the rest of his life, Colin is most definitely a country cat – he’d take one look at the big city and get himself hit by a car.
So rather than put either of the males I love through fates they’d rather not endure, Colin is off to the home of Parentals Blonde. He’ll have plenty of space to run around; Pa Blonde to swear blind that Colin won’t be spoilt and then put the leftover Sunday roast in the cat dish; and beds and sofas aplenty to leave covered in long black fur.
So, whilst I’ll miss him, I know he’s going somewhere he’ll be happy, and where I can visit – with hummus – for hugs.
 |
| The view from my pillow. I've tried getting him to sleep in his own bed. It doesn't work. |
Monday, 16 January 2012
In which search terms are terrifying things
When I started this blog’s predecessor over (erk) six years ago in another corner of the internet, I didn’t for a second think that anyone else would ever want to read it. I wrote for myself to catalogue the things that were happening to me whilst I was at university, from the male-shaped disasters to the shoe-shaped ones.
But gradually, readers started to trickle in, and now it seems there are a few of you (to whom I would like to say a whopping great thank you) who come back repeatedly. But there are others who apparently stumble on these pages by accident having gone to Google over the past 12 months for a little advice. And, being the generous-spirited gal that I am, I’d like to provide them with such…
Black suit to Sandhurst ball
Gods above I hope you don’t mean you’re planning to wear a lounge suit. Strictly black tie or mess dress only.
Why am I not married with children by now?
I don’t know. But it’s okay that you’re not, you know. It doesn’t make you a lesser human being.
Christina Hendrick’s bum
You and all mankind, my love.
Well-mannered educated charming Englishmen
They’re sadly not as prevalent as you’d like. If you find one, hang on to ‘em. I snared mine through shared opinions on genocide-related literature and gin. True story.
Sex at61 overse xed older gentl emen
I’m not sure what to say to that, other than that you seem to need to have a quick word with your spacebar.
Rupert Penry Jones
You and all womankind, my love.
No one get married in a castle unless they own it
Ah, you’re after that email, are you? Full text here.
Pictures of middle age friends having group sex after dinner
I know people make assumptions that everyone in the Home Counties is at the swinging thing like the Queen is at gin, but a) I’m not middle-aged and b) I’d hardly post those sorts of pictures on the internet, would I?
How can I carry my things to and from the office?
Controversial as it is, I favour a bag.
Hot blooded heterosexual woman
Why, yes I am. Not sure searching for one on the internet with such specificity is going to work, though.
Fall flat on my face because of high heels
We’ve all been there. Practise, practise, practise. And a little prayer.
First date one-sided conversation
Don’t let him have a second.
Is holding a door for someone sexist?
No, no, no – dear gods. No.
How to play it cool with her
Don’t. If you like her, why bother playing it cool? Grow a pair and be a bit more upfront. Real men don’t play games.
There’s something about a man holding open a door
There’s also something about Mary. Probably not the same thing, though.
But gradually, readers started to trickle in, and now it seems there are a few of you (to whom I would like to say a whopping great thank you) who come back repeatedly. But there are others who apparently stumble on these pages by accident having gone to Google over the past 12 months for a little advice. And, being the generous-spirited gal that I am, I’d like to provide them with such…
Black suit to Sandhurst ball
Gods above I hope you don’t mean you’re planning to wear a lounge suit. Strictly black tie or mess dress only.
Why am I not married with children by now?
I don’t know. But it’s okay that you’re not, you know. It doesn’t make you a lesser human being.
Christina Hendrick’s bum
You and all mankind, my love.
Well-mannered educated charming Englishmen
They’re sadly not as prevalent as you’d like. If you find one, hang on to ‘em. I snared mine through shared opinions on genocide-related literature and gin. True story.
Sex at61 overse xed older gentl emen
I’m not sure what to say to that, other than that you seem to need to have a quick word with your spacebar.
Rupert Penry Jones
You and all womankind, my love.
No one get married in a castle unless they own it
Ah, you’re after that email, are you? Full text here.
Pictures of middle age friends having group sex after dinner
I know people make assumptions that everyone in the Home Counties is at the swinging thing like the Queen is at gin, but a) I’m not middle-aged and b) I’d hardly post those sorts of pictures on the internet, would I?
How can I carry my things to and from the office?
Controversial as it is, I favour a bag.
Hot blooded heterosexual woman
Why, yes I am. Not sure searching for one on the internet with such specificity is going to work, though.
Fall flat on my face because of high heels
We’ve all been there. Practise, practise, practise. And a little prayer.
First date one-sided conversation
Don’t let him have a second.
Is holding a door for someone sexist?
No, no, no – dear gods. No.
How to play it cool with her
Don’t. If you like her, why bother playing it cool? Grow a pair and be a bit more upfront. Real men don’t play games.
There’s something about a man holding open a door
There’s also something about Mary. Probably not the same thing, though.
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