Category Archives: Love life

Long Time No Type…

Typing myself happy...

Typing myself happy…

Hello lonely blog,

Well it’s a been a fucking age. I apologise. Life’s got between me and the urge to scribble sardonic lamentations on the state of being. It’s been either too good or too shitty for me to want to put finger to keypad for  – well over a year now – but there was something deliciously non-moving and grey about this particularly rainy october afternoon that made me remember my virtual brain scribblings decorating this particular corner of the hyper web.

So what’s gone down?! I’ll give you the high and low down:

HIGH points:

1) I’ve worked – worked as an actual actor person – the job I’ve put life off for for more years than I should… Had a great theatre job in London at the end of last year and then have spent most of this living out of a suitcase on a national tour.

2) I’ve loved – or at least heavily liked – or loved (I’m in the slightly schizophrenic denier stage of not wanting to examine how deep my feelings might run) – and – CRUCIALLY – I’ve been loved/heavily liked back.

3) I’ve got fit – well fitter – I started running earlier this year shirking off the haunting memories of Mrs Fitzpatrick my facist secondary school PE teacher calling me a fat useless lemon (insulting despite the fact I could never figure out the link between obesity and citrus fruit) – and embracing a new idea of myself as Maggie the super athlete. Super might be going a bit far – but I can run for half an hour without asphyxiating now – no mean feat.

LOW points:

1) Working regularly as a professional actress hasn’t quite been living the long anticipated dream that i expected it to be. The reality of poorly envisioned commercially driven theatre, small parts, bad reviews, and living in crevices of the UK that time and taste have forgotten have rather taken their toll!

2) Said liker/lover has recently decided that as much as he liked/loved me – he loved his ex-girlfriend more. Cue embittered heartbreak… more on that later.

3) Haven’t spoken to Dan in over a year – but recently found out he’d got engaged. Can’t quite believe it and I’m not sure if I’m sadder about the fact he’s marrying someone that’s not me – or that we’re now so decidedly out of each others lives that I wouldn’t hear the news directly from him.

Aaaaah – life giveth then it kicks you in the goolies as it hastily snatcheth it back…

But don’t get me wrong – I’m ok – and generally a lot more on the up than down – which doesn’t mean the big old black dog doesn’t come and trample on my mood every now and again. Today’s not a good day and I’m feeling lonelier than I should which is maybe why I’m blowing the virtual dust of this creaky old blog. It feels good to be typing it out so I’ll be back. I need to have a good old moan about my recently fractured heart if nothing else.

Till then,

Maggie xx

The f*@k buddy debate

"Maybe we could just have a quick shag?"

“Maybe we could just have a quick shag?”

So who’s ever experienced that strangely celebrated standard of 21st Century love – a fuck buddy?

Let me tell you a little something about mine (who for all those interested detective sorts constitutes one of my recent clutch of clandestine liaisons.)

I met the perpetrator around five years ago – believe it or not whilst working on the very same play where I met Dan (like most plays in the english language it was ludricously male heavy which meant there were lots of healthy specimens to choose from)

Mat Oakley. Mat spelt only with one t – that’s terribly important. Apparently.

Mat was (and indeed is) one of the most ludricously vain men I have ever come across. One eye is constantly trained in on his own reflection, and one hand is constantly employed in slicking back a too gelled hairdo. He doesn’t eat carbs after six and his drink of choice is a gin and slimline tonic.

I’m sorry to say he wasn’t much liked within the cast. His vanity often mutated into self obsession and a conversation with Mat required little more of you than an occasional nod and a sporadic assenting murmur. Dan totally despised Mat, and led the cast in rather cruel impersonantions behind his back (horrid school playground bully behaviour not to be sanctioned in any way – remembering such smallnesses about Dan are always useful.) I didn’t mind him – I suppose I felt sorry for him – I prescribed his fractious self obsession to a shitty childhood and his preoccupation with outward appearences to shockingly low self esteem. Rather boringly – because I felt sorry for him – I was often locked into his interminable one way conversations. His saving grace was that he was nice to look at – very in fact, tall muscly with thick brown hair and sinkably blue eyes. It was fascinating how such good looks were totally dwarfed by a terminably dull personality.

The play came and went and Mat seemingly passed out of my life for good. Dan and I had moved in ever decreasing circles towards each other till the famous moment where I universally blew it with the kicking out of bed sequence. I was feeling a little bruised and frustrated. I was in fact furious with myself and wanted to do something fairly self destructive. I wanted to have sex with someone anyone and get the big hulking presence of Dan out of my head.

Cue Mat.

The cast had decided to have a reunion a few months after the last curtain had come down on our messy theatrical outing (aaaah nostalgic out of work actors). Dan was supposed to be there but had pulled a sickie at the last conceivable moment. I was preened and pruned to perfection having come along with the distinct plan to try and rectify all my previous undoing in the romantic possibilities of an Adams Burke union and was crushingly gutted that he wasn’t there. So… dangerously sexually frustrated I got very, VERY drunk.

Towards the end of the night I realised that Mat’s hand was inelegantly plonked on my inner thigh and he was gently doing something which could only be perceived as fondling. I darted a swift sharp look in his direction gathering all my sober wits to try and arch one eyebrow to give a acerbic ‘what the fuck?!?!’ look. This was supposed to have the affect of removing said twitching hand, but oblivious as ever Mat didn’t move a muscle but instead grinned in what I suppose was intended to be a sexy manner. My addled brain quickly did a bit of fact balancing :

1) Mat wants to shag you.

2) Mat’s a twat.

3) Mat’s a very good looking  twat who’s probably got a rippling six pack underneath that overpriced shirt

4) He’s a bit of a dick

5) But he also has a dick that could make you forget about the richter scale demolishing levels of sexual tension coursing through every cell of your sad barren  body

6) People think he’s ridiculous and therefore people would think that you were ridiculous by proxy

7) Nobody need ever know.

And that did it. I grabbed him by the hand and hurtled him into the nearest taxi where there were scenes that would make even the most seasoned of London’s cabbies blush. So we had sex (full sex at home not in said taxi I hasten to add). And it was good.

It was really good.

I’m not a looks girl, not at all really. More than often the objects of my affection have had some decidedly unattractive characteristic: a gargartuan nose, a caterpillar inspiring uni brow, a large and strangely engaging hairy mole….. The biggest turn on for me has always been a sense of humour. Make me laugh and I’m yours on a plate sunny side up.  I would have never thought I could be attracted to, let alone enjoy earth shattering sex with someone so unerringly humourless. But enjoy it I did… and did and did, and then did some more – indeed five years on me and Mat still meet up for the occasional shag – no questions asked.

Why? How can sex with someone you find fundamentally undesirable (however attractive you might find the sheer bones of him) be enjoyable and keep you coming back for more?  Maybe it’s because you’re allowed to engage fully with the actual act rather than simultaneously tackle the emotional maelstrom that accompanies anything as vulnerable-making as sex with another human being. There’s no running commentary in my head anlaysing my performance and anxiously pondering whether the bloke’s enjoying it or not? Does he still fancy me? Is that slightly tortured look in his eye a grimace of enjoyment or boredom? Will he want this to happen again? Please god make him want to do this again? I’m sad to say these thoughts can often totally engulf me which leaves no space for me to question whether or not I’m actually enjoying the heaving sweaty union.

I can honestly say that I wouldn’t care if any time we and Mat met up proved to be the last. I have no fantasties about a future, no real concern as to whether he likes it or not. What we do, when we do it, is purely about the unadulterated fun and joy you can find in playing with another person’s body.

Of course if we were being terribly introspective and shrink-tastic about any of this then we might talk about how I can only have respect for my own enjoyment (and therefore myself) when I have piss poor little for the other party. This is actually pretty scary  and is pretty exemplary of the lack of self esteem that at times cripples me. But hey I acknowledge it. But as psychologically dubious as I’m sure it may be, Mat’s generally has been a good thing for me and my stunted confidence. I just hope one day I get to be so relaxed with someone I actually give a damn about.

And Mat, this is for you.

M xxxxxxxx

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The Elusive Cherry

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So after being absent from this blog for many a long month – I came across this entry in my drafts pile that I somehow never got round to posting. I’m sure you’re all anxious to read this dimly tawdry account from my sexual past – so in the spirit of honesty (and if you read on you’ll see why honesty is something I’m trying to become more practised in) I thought i’d publish it now: enjoy!

So I’ve made the never had a boyfriend confession. Whoosh. Deep breath.

And you’re still here! You haven’t scrubbed me from your reading list or concluded I’m a hapless freak.

Thank you.

I thought, in the spirit of openness – another confession should follow – one that I’ve never told anyone in full detail – here we go:

The Great Tale of How Magdeline Adams Lost her Much Prized Virginity. (look it’s in bold and everything!)

It’s not pretty.

So having crawled through secondary school without so much of a sniff at a boyfriend, and without being sufficiently whorish back then to initiate my sexual career on the back of a one night stand – I arrived at university in one perfectly pristine, hymenically preserved package. I found this small – and in hindsight – perfectly respectable fact – totally shameful so I hurridly  fabricated a fantasy sexual past that provided me with a passably ‘cool’ image that I very much doubt anyone bought for a minute.

My first year at university came and went and  my virginity clung to me like the stench of smelly sneakers in a warm room. Don’t get me wrong there were snogs and drunken fumblings aplenty but I never found myself able to plunge on in there – as ’twere.  I’m sure part of me still hung on to the ideal that my first time would be with someone I had real (and reciprocal) feelings for; but I had also so entangled myself in my own web of lies that I was terrified that anyone I did sleep with would tell my fragile and newly built social universe that I was a big fat virginal liar. I’d heard enough heinous boy banter about frigid virgins to willingly volunteer myself to their firing squad. Teenagers are fucking cruel.

Come Summer I took myself off to work in America for three months  – offering the perfect anonymity to finally dispose of the cherry that was seemingly growing in weight and horror by the day. I worked on the phones for a moving company – which was stuffed to the rafters with muscly young college boys earning money during their summer break. Excellent. Perfect. My task was set. I wasn’t going to return to the UK without being thoroughly and irritrievably deflowered.

Of course the course of true lust never did run smooth and, instead of throwing my virginity at the first elligble match I met, I set my sights very firmly on a gorgeous boy who I’d fallen head over heels for. Needless to say (and if you’ve read this far in my blog you’ll notice a pattern here) he didn’t feel the same. Instead, after two months of gentle stalking by myself, he decided that he would much rather get down and dirty with my room mate. Which he did, and I spent many a scratchy night camped out on the sofa with my virginity snidely scoffing at me amidst the sounds of sexual pleasure emanating from the next room.

So I found myself with four days left before my return flight in a state of near desperation to get rid of the big V. My room mate had thankfully left (needless to say never to be heard of again) so I had the room, the bed, I just needed a man.

After my final day of work in the office I hot-footed it to the drinking hole that all the movers filled after their long sweaty days.

Oh Shit. All the young muscly clever summer break boys were noticeably absent (most of them had already quit their summer jobs). Leftover were a rather straggly crew of thirty and forty somethings that I barely knew and seemed unbearably ancient to my nineteen year old sensibilities. Nay matter. This was it I stoically reminded myself. I sturdied myself with a shot or three and made my way to a tanned, blonde haired bloke in his mid thirties that I vaguely remembered was a sometime musician and was called Paul. Or was is John…

A few hours and several thousand units of alcohol later we were back in my room awkwardly undressing each other. Despite the fact that I wasn’t particularly attracted to this man – my mind was racing with excitement – this was it – I was going to join that elite club of the sexually experienced. From this point on I would be able to join in that smug knowing chuckle when others shared their sexual experiences, I could sleep merrily with whoever I liked without some terribly shaming truth erupting, I wouldn’t be an over ripe never to be plucked outcast anymore.

‘You got a Jonny?’

Paul (or John) rudely butted into my sweet virginal elegiacal musings.

‘Sorry. What??’

‘A jonny? You got one? I don’t got one.’

‘Oh. Oh no – I don’t sorry.’ (biting my tongue so as not to primly correct his grammar)

‘You alright to go withou…’

‘NO! No. really no – I don’t think that’s a good idea do you?’

‘Yeah – probably not hang on’

And with that he bounded off – stark bollack naked – towards my door.

‘What? Wait? Where you going?’

‘To find one.’

I sank back into bed a little stunned by the swift turn of events , any residual trace of desire quickly distilling into mortified terror as to what this naked stranger was about about to do. To my horror I heard him bound up the staircase to the house’s top storey that was occupied by my landlords – a very tight lipped, very Irish, very catholic couple (who just so happened to know my father quite well). I heard a rather terse albeit muffled conversation through the floorboards before hearing the heavy slip slap of returning naked feet on the stairs.

‘The O’Connors don’t have any – gonna have to go to the gas station’

Frozen with mortification I watched John/Paul throw his clothes on before dashing out of the door.

Not quite sure what to do, I gathered the bed sheets around me and waited. And waited. And waited.

‘MAGGIE’

The strangulated Americanised throw of my name woke me up with a start. Quite how I’d managed to fall asleep I’m not sure – but somehow I had and now a drunk man who I didn’t really fancy and who was a good 16 years my senior was stood in my landlords prize begonias shouting out my name in New England suburbia at 3am whilst victoriously waving a packet of trojan extended pleasure.

In my sheer fucking haste to get to the front door to get him to shut the fuck up, I fell over the sheet that had become intimately entwined with my feet crashing to the floor with a thump ensuring (if they weren’t already) that the whole house was awake to acknowledge the wonderfully catastrophic Adams fall from grace.

Somehow I smuggled him back into the room and there dutifully – and with barely a shred of passion – we shagged.

It was underwhelming. To say the least.

And it really bloody hurt.

The next morning I pretended to be half asleep whilst he fumbled his goodbyes. He was nearly out of the door, before changing his mind and coming and sitting back on the bed next to me.

‘Hey – you did some bleeding. That wasn’t your first time was it?’

Bless him, the Peter/John creature for showing an ounce of compassion in the one night stand that marked my loss of virginity, but as far as I was concerned it was the singular point where I didn’t want him to show any rumblings of tact.

‘Fuck no. Of  course not’ I said – feigning a sleep raddled voice of artful casualness, ‘sorry – i must be coming on early’

‘Oh. right. Well. Thanks. it was. Great. You know.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well have a good journey back to Ireland’

‘I’m English’

‘Fuck, Are you? Well have a good one’

And he was gone.

I hid out in my room until I was sure everyone had vacated the premises and led an admirably stealth existence over the next few days in order to avoid explaining the whole debacle to any of my fellow housemates (let alone the holy landlords on high).

But I’d done it. I was a virgin no more. The conflict of emotions that that singular small fact conjured up in me was entirely unexpected. I imagined that i’d just  feel relief, I was rid of the dirty secret that had haunted the idea of me that I wanted others to think was real.  I didn’t expect the sadness; the lonliness as I sat in the launderette waiting for the detergent to wash away the evidence from my borrowed bedsheets; the shame that I’d lied to Peter/John – shame at myself for not being honest enough with myself to tell him the truth. I mean why the hell not?

But I also felt a certain kind of dull joy as I walked through the Boston streets on those last few solitary days of my 19 year old summer. The sensation of being that intimate with another human being was magnetic; there was a delicious  secrecy and complicitness that took place that made me smile when I re-remembered (editing out the moments of messy mortification) – however tawdry it might seem through another lens. I felt grown up, and in some small way, I felt seen.

Do I wish that my first experience had been different – of course I bloody do – but it was what it was – and it served.

It’s interesting though – writing this – realising how much the idea of who I want to be gets in the way of me being who I am. For as long as I can remember it hasn’t been good enough to be me; I’ve hidden behind half truths and dishonesties. Why the hell did I lie about my virginity at 18/19 – the boys that would have taunted me for my prudishness wouldn’t be worth knowing let alone shagging and, lets face it, had probably gained most of their sexual experience with a cramping right hand and a box of tissues. Why is what and who I am not good enough for me to shout about and be proud of?

Maybe that’s what I’m learning about here. A bit.

Over and out.

M xxx

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Confession

could this be the future...

could this be the future…

So I have an confession to make. I’ve hinted at it here and there but I’ve never said the words totally bald and clear.

I have never had a boyfriend.

Just seeing those words as harsh black marks against white makes me feel physically sick – makes me want to shove them down and hide behind a less blunt half truth.

I am twenty eight years old and I have never had a boyfriend.

There are very few people who know this about me – my mum thinks I’m coy and hiding a whole barrage of exes behind a barrel, my recent friends think there must have been a before, and my ancient friends think there must have been an after. Even some of my closest current friends are only allowed to know half truths – I talk of old exes when it would be more accurate to describe them as fleeting acquaintances – all be that of a sexual nature.

Only two very old, very good friends that I’ve clung tightly to through the years know the full truth.

Why am I so scared of the truth?

Because I find it overwhelmingly humiliating.

Because it squats inside of me like a festering toad that I’m scared of letting people see.

Because in many people’s eyes it would paint a picture of me that I am not prepared to be – that I don’t think I am.

Would it make people see me as uglier than I am, would it bring in to focus some terrible psychological ineptness that would explain such a righteous departure from the societal norm?

You can be sure as hell it would put men off – who wants to road test the twenty eight year old relationship virgin? There must be some reason that other men have steered clear before after all.

Just writing these words makes me feel hugely and inexpressibly sad. And they make me feel like a freak.

I’m the girl that men are prepared to sleep with but never date.

How has that happened to me?

over and out.

m x

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The Plan

self help

Greetings Fellow Bloggers

Now the ash has settled on the explosive disappointment of the non-weekend in Edinburgh, I’ve had time to formulate some killer moves in my road to a better, healthier Dan love-free future.

The genius plan is as follows:

1 – Cut off all contact with the ubiquitous Dan Burke (see below footnote)

2 – Invest in some stellar self help books that will help me get to know and understand the squalling mess that is Magdeline Adams a little better. I’ve always poo poo-ed self books as silly didactic rubbish – but they have to be up on the best seller lists for some reason haven’t they? I’m starting with ‘Power of Now’ – look’s interesting and Oprah liked it – how wrong could it be?!

3 – Treat myself a little more. The struggle to earn and eat and pretend that I’ve still got an acting career buried under a rock somewhere leaves very little time for me to actually do stuff I want to do. This comes the ambition to take myself out for a date every week. Who needs men anyway.

4 – Who needs men indeed – but maybe the pursuit of a new one would help me forget the old? Hence comes plan sub section 5 – open myself out to prospect that one day, somehow, I might actually allow myself to love someone who is not Dan Burke. The first step of this is to try out internet dating. I’ve always balked at it in the past – but new me, new rules.

5 – Find some way to be creative. Call me crazy but I think that in part my obsession with Dan, and consequently with my love life or lack of it  – is due in part to the fact that most days what I do is pretty mundane. I’m an actress for feck’s sake – I love drama – and if I don’t get it I create it. Not an attractive attribute i know – but at least I admit it. Whenever I’ve done something that truly engages me – mostly when I’m in a play, my need to be loved and desired by someone else rapidly disintegrates and I feel much more content with being just purely, simply, wholly me. I respect myself more so it doesn’t matter as much that I don’t have someone standing next to me stroking my ego for me. So – a simple solution – get that creative verve back and suck up that self respect. This blog helps – but isn’t quite enough… I’m thinking of doing a course – maybe painting or writing… plus I’ve got a great idea for a play…

So there we have it – a fabulous five step plan.

No excuse me whilst I go and read up on a bit of pseudo buddhism and buy a new notebook (is there anything more exciting than a new notebook?)

Wish me luck!

M xx

* Footnote to Step 1

I’m aware that cutting Dan out of my life isn’t the friendliest move. I’m one of his closest friends and I plan to remove myself without explanation. It’s not his fault I feel the way he doesn’t after all.

So here – where he will never read it – is an apology. Who knows – maybe one day I’ll tell him about this blog and he’ll sift through all the pseudonyms and read the story I was always too scared to tell him.

I’m sorry Dan – I’m sorry for needing to be selfish and sacrificing our friendship to move me past this point in my life. I’ve got stuck here – and that in no way is your fault – apart from you having the audacity to be as gorgeous as you are of course. I wish things were different – I wish you loved me like I love you, or I wish I could look into your eyes and see only the fantastic friend you are instead of all the things you are not. I hope one day I’ll become unstuck and we can be friends again. I’m doing this now, because I need to but also because you’re happy and I’m hoping you won’t need me for a while. If you do ever need me I hope I’ll be strong enough to offer what you need, and if I’m not and I have to pull away then too – well then I’m sorry for that as well.

I hope we have more and more years of friendship together, I hope this isn’t the end, I hope I’ll be back before you’ve even noticed I’d gone away – a better securer wholer person who’s ready to accept you for what you are

My best friend.

Till then compadre,

Mags x

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the end of the story

oh yes - she's back.

oh yes – she’s back.

‘So how did it go?’ I hear you all cry! Did you tell him? what did he say?!

In the words of Maria Von Trapp and all those frighteningly shrill lederhosed children- the beginning is a very good place to start…

We clambered on to the 9.30am Kings Cross to Waverley and settled in for the long haul. I needn’t have worried about being lacking in wit or charm as Dan was suffering from an horrific hangover and wouldn’t have noticed if id have had a labotomy or my head and been replaced with a pumpkin. This meant he spent much of the five hour train journey as a snoring unconcious lump. I pushed down the disappointment already bubbling inside me that my imagined cider sharing, picnic eating, landscape coo-ing idyll of a train journey had been instantly made such short sharp shrift of. Instead I buried my  head in my book (The Book Thief – it’s very good if you haven’t read it!) for the solitary hours.

Thankfully by the time we reached Edinburgh Dan had managed to sleep off the worst of his hangover and was immediately possessed with an insatiable hunger for greasy food to replenish his damaged gut. A fried breakfast and a chirpier Dan later we headed to our hotel.

My god I love hotels – everything about them – the perky politeness of reception, the thin peculiarly patterned carpets (which is Scotland seem to be standard issue thistles) and that fresh pine smell of relaxation and decadence. Hotels are all the more alluring as I can ill afford to ever stay in one, so it always marks a truly special occasion. Dan had insisted on picking up the whole tab for this one – as it was booked before he’d been dumped and I was doing him a favour flanking him at a wedding where he knew very few people. I didn’t protest for too long – the train fare, and the very important new dress that I was going to stun Dan with, had emptied my bank account – plus an advert that he’d done a few years ago had just been re-released thus sprinkling him with, effectively, free money. Lucky bastard.

Two nights in a four star hotel that the man I was in love with was treating me to. If there wasn’t so much going on between the spaces of that lovely collection of words – how truly blissfully they would patter on to the page.

I sat with our bags in an impossibly plush chaise longue sipping a glass of complimentary freshly squeezed orange juice whilst Dan went and checked us in. He bounded over a couple of minutes later,

‘Hey – excellent news – I managed to trade our King size room into a twin – so you won’t have to have me drunkenly snoring and drooling on you for two nights’

My heart drooped a little further as disappointment number two hit the deck

‘Great’ I said, a smile frozen on to my face

Any (admittedly thought police dictated illegal) fantasy that we might have rolled on to each other drunkenly in the night and ‘accidentally’ fallen into some delicious passion burst with a flaccid belch. To be honest, that was less disappointing than the fact I suddenly realised I had been really looking forward to just simply waking up next to Dan. I could forgo all that messy passion just be able to steal some looks at him before he woke up, our limbs nestling beside each other for warmth. This is all much harder to do when we’re on opposite sides of the room.

The wedding was at 1pm the next day so for the rest of Friday we’d planned a boozy crawl of the burg’s best public houses. Three pubs down and I couldn’t help but notice that Dan seemed somewhat distracted, he was glued to his phone and every conversation I tried to start was punctuated by vibrations form his phone followed by minutes of frantic thumb tapping from him.

“Dan you rude bastard, put your phone away and talk to me – I’m rapidly building a fucking complex”

“You’ve already got more complexes than Freud’s back catalogue Maggie dearest.”

“Well be careful because I’m quickly developing another one. What could be possibly more important than beer or me?” I said with a hopefully cheeky and engaging smile.

A sheepish guilty look suddenly gathered in Dan’s face, and I swear to god he went a little pink.

“Daaaan…. what is it?”

“No, you’ll be angry with me.”

I raised my eyebrows and gave him a stern teachery ‘don’t you give me any shit Dan Burke’ look…

“It’s Zara”

Oh great. 

“It’s who?” (with a heavily laid on tone of disbelief)

“Zara – she’s been texting all evening”

“Zara – whore bitch from hell who dumped you for a himbo Zara?”

“Hey… Easy Mags – don’t call her that, she’s alright you know”

“Dan -actually I was quoting you. We spent a full drunken evening discussing the finer points of her utter whorishness and general elligibility for bitch of the century – or has your memory finally been addled by all the booze?”

“Yeah well I was angry – I needed to vent, you know.”

I sighed, already knowing the answer to the question I was just about to ask

“So what’s going on?”

He darted his eyes down and started concentrating very hard at turning a beer mat on the table,

“Well, we’re kind of, sort of… seeing each other again.”

“Since when?”

“Since a couple of weeks”

“Well why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d react like this”

I couldn’t help it – I sighed again – hating myself for sounding so bloody didactic.

“Oh Dan”

A fat smelly silence fell between the two of us.

“Well look, no actually, I don’t think its great news – I think she treated you incredibly badly – and I don’t trust her for a second not to do it again. And – and I…”

and I love you and I would do anything for you and the thought of you with someone else makes me feel sick to the very base of my stomach…

“and I … well its bloody embarrassing – I spent an evening bitching about her and telling you about how much I never liked her and now she’s, she’s what  – your girlfriend?”

“Yes”

“And she’s not seeing that, that – what was his name?”

“Jeremy.”

“She’s not seeing Jeremy anymore?”

“No”

“Right. Well – good.”

A longer pause.

“And you’re happy?”

He suddenly grinned like an overexcited school boy.

“Yeah – god yeah Mags – I don’t want to jinx it after last time but I’m, I’m so happy. You know how long I’ve liked her. She’s such a fucking force of nature, she’s so sparky and alive and confident and beautiful – I mean GOD she’s beautiful – isn’t she beautiful?”

A leaden tone of acceptance now settled itself into my voice.

“Yep – she’s beautiful”

“And I know you probably hate her right now, but she’s such a gorgeous girl and when you get to know her properly I just know you’ll love her too – I know you will. You and me are too alike – we feel the same about everything”

Oh dear Dan if only you realised how far that was from being the truth. 

I forced a smile.

“If you’re happy then I’m happy. I mean it, I’m really happy for you”

A realisation dawned.

“But if you’re back together then why am I here and not her – surely you’d rather have a weekend long shagathon with her?”

“Maggie – I’m not a complete wanker – I’d already asked you and well – I didn’t want to mess you around”

Thanks Dan – thanks for nothing

“Plus you’d already bought your train ticket…”

So that conversation pretty much tells you all you need to know about my much hyped weekend away. Even my palest tamest hopes were blown out of the water. Dan spent pretty much the entire time surgically attached to his phone and I just let him get on with it, too flattened to exhibit any kind of indignation at the fact he’d dragged me up to Scotland at my own expense to twiddle my thumbs whilst he was making sweet love to an iphone. The wedding was fine (it was one of Dan’s old school friends) but to be honest watching two people tie the knot was the last thing I felt like doing with my heart as heavy as it was.

God I’m such a fool.

There was I bankrupting myself on a pretty dress to impress Dan and whiling a week away fantasising about all the quasi romantic moments we were set to have together whilst he was loved up with another girl, irritated that he had to bring someone else on his romantic weekend away out of a misplaced sense of duty.

Needless to say – any plans to tell him how I felt catapulted themselves out of the nearest window. I couldn’t handle feeling any more stupid than I already did.

This weekend did make something clear however. I can’t go on feeling like this. Loving Dan has broken my heart over and over again. Very obviously it’s not his fault – a combination of my fear and my lack of confidence has kept me trapped in this unloved symbiosis for far too long. So I’m going to do something about it.

I’m just not altogether sure what that is yet…

Any words of wisdom would be great.

M xx

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Scotlands calling

Edinburgh

Oh dear god I’m excited. I can bearly write I’m so distracted by deep coursing wonderful fantasties of what this weekend could bring.

In less than twenty four hours I will be on a train with my favourite person in the whole universe ready to tear up the country to beautiful beautiful Edinburgh where we spend two whole nights cohabiting a four star double bed.

A Scottish wedding weekend with Dan – what could be more perfect?

The anticipation is so great that I actually feel a little nervous about meeting him tomorrow. I’m scared that I’ll get some weird version of first date nerves – that I’ll get all tounge tied and stupid mouthed and lose all the scathing wit he loves me for…

But that is silly, really silly, because this is not a first date – not by any stretch of the imagination. This weekend is a platonic expedition where, yes fun and japes may be had, but any kind of hope of romance is to be expelled at all costs.

I have been on severe damage limitation thought police duty all week. Unless I’m strict my wandering mind takes full license to wander in to delicious fantasies of Dan telling me he wanted me to come to Scotland with him to get a chance to tell me how he feels, of a cool moonlit walk down the burg’s winding streets, hand in hand followed by meaningful look and a fall into each other arms in a passionate embrace. A long sunday climb up to Arthurs seat where Dan would sit me down where Arties arse was once at, kneel before me and …..

Whoooaaaah. See I’m a bloody liability.

None of this is going to happen. I know this only with the certainty that five years of being embroiled in the ups and downs of this unrequited love affair can bring.

However I am flirting with another dangerous possibility. The possibility of being honest with my best friend. There’s a revolutionary thought. My love for Dan is bittersweet – a warm blanket to wrap myself up in, and a tormentor that continually scratches away at my warmest and gooiest insides. The tormentor wreaks much more havoc than the blanket could ever soothe so all in all the balance needs to be addressed. I’m terrified with admitting the truth of my feelings to Dan in case I lose his friendship – but his friendship is also the very thing that’s pulling me apart.

So I should tell him. I know that’s the sensible option – the good, mature option. But up till now I’ve been too scared.

But I’ve decided that I will do it. This weekend. If it feels right.

Oh god.

Wish me luck.

M xxx

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Eau de Toilet

the love shack...

the love shack…

So today highlights another day of mortification for the roadcrash existence of Maggie Adams.

So – a few days ago this scaly ridiculous singleton managed to pull at a gloriously debauched house party. My friends have a band – they’re woefully mediocre – guitar based grungy stuff that sounds like a shit nineties support band on a bad day. Despite a lack of musical prowess they’re totally lovely boys who possess an enviable self belief that has them totally convinced that they will be one day’s next big thing. And maybe they will be – I hope so.

A decade of playing small bars and pubs hasn’t got them a record deal but it has got them a throng of groupies. Alas, these girls haven’t exactly come from the top drawer of amorous groupy selection and most of them are, to put it bluntly, nerds – and the rest are ludricously (by which I mean certainly not-legal) young.

So their parties are always stuffed to the rafters with these girls – who when you can get a word out of them are really rather nice. The nicest thing is I always end up feeling almost glamorous and sophisticated at these events. Result.

As well as the girls they always have a reasonable selection of men  – none of them are particularly worth a write home about, but you can often while an evening away with them and grab back at some self esteem while you’re at it.

This particular Saturday night was different – if only for the presence of the raven haired, deliciously brown eyed Alexander. I first spotted him talking to a gaggle of loud voiced teenagers in the galley kitchen. He had a painfully thin smile adorning his ridiculously square jawed face, and he looked like he was going to drop through the floor if he had to survive one of more minute of discussing the finer qualities of Justin Bieber and One Direction. Suddenly I caught his eye, and smiled a complicit smile of sympathy. His own smile brightened and he raised his eyebrows and ever so slightly rolled his eyeballs.

My god he was gorgeous. I’d first seen him earlier that evening – at the gig that necessarily preceded the party – and couldn’t take my eyes off him then. He was tall – probably about 6’3, with thick dark hair that fell in irresistible short curls around his face. Okay – yes – maybe he had a slightly affected head toss, and maybe he enjoyed the luscious bounce of his curls a little too much – but I forgave him that. Looking like he did I’d forgive him a lot of things.

He had a lean, muscly body which was decorated with with dark blue jeans, a crisp white shirt that showed off his winter tan (again a slightly suspicious clue in the vanity stakes – but never mind…) and a close fitting brown leather jacket.

He was a thing of great beauty – and someone I knew full well that I normally probably wouldn’t stand a chance with. But if he had a prejudice against girls who liked Justin Bieber then my chances in this particular room had just shot up.

About ten minutes later whilst I was trying to engage one of the sweet nerdy girls in conversation over and above a few monosyllables I felt a smooth hand touch my elbow and heard a low velvety voice

‘Hi – you’re Maggie aren’t you?’

Dear god, he was standing there, inches away, and he was holding my bony elbow – a strange move – but still one that sent a shiver straight through me.

‘Hi – yes – that was a good guess.’

He chuckled deliciously

‘John told me. I wanted to know who the tall beautiful one was’

Oh god. Oh god. I felt all the blood rush to my face and felt it heat up till I knew it had reached crimson.

“I… I erm – er – well… thank you?’

Oh God Maggie – where’s your sparkling wit? Of all times for words to elude you.

‘I’m Alexander’

I liked that. Alexander. A full throttled four syllable name – no 21st century shortening to Alex or Al. Alexander – in all its drawn out loveliness. There’s a reason why Alexander was great.

We spent the next hour or so chatting squashed up to each other on a sofa and speedily getting more and more drunken. I’m not going to lie – he was no great conversationalist. We talked about him. A lot. But I was happy as long as his beautiful lips were moving and his deep brown eyes were looking into my blue ones – probably made black by the severity of the dilating of my pupils.

Then came the moment of truth. He edged in closer so his nose was millimetres away from mine, and his hand came up to my face to brush a stray stand of hair out of his firing path.

‘You know you’re really pretty Maggie’

His words were only slightly slurring

‘You have, you have lovely…. eyes’, he continued, his hand now stroking my cheek.

‘So have… you’ – I replied, again competing for the crown of  the Queen of Wit.

And then his lips were on mine – gently caressing them open before sliding his tongue over my teeth and into my mouth.

I could barely breathe I was so excited. Things got heated quickly and soon the rest of the party were throwing cushions at us and telling us to get a room.

‘Come with me’ he whispered and tugged me upstairs. We fell into the first door we found, still madly kissing. A moment later I realised we were in the noticably grubby, lynx saturated bathroom of an all male household. Fuck it I didn’t care – just as long as Alexander didn’t stop.

Then he was pulling my dress over my head and unclasping my bra and I was groping around trying to unbuckle his belt and undo his flies.

You’ve never really lived until you’ve had fumbled sex on the dirty linoleum of a bathroom  floor to the soundtrack of hefty doorknocking and jeering from the angry queue rapidly forming outside.

After the heat of passion cooled I did indeed feel a little silly – and walking out through the leg crossed mass of party goers leaving the tell tale smell of sex behind us was more than a little embarrassing.

Still it was also bloody fun. And he was the most gorgeous man I’ve ever been with – or probably will ever be with.

This has all been a slightly delicious memory for the last few days. Delicious that is – until the fall out of today.

I was merrily distracting myself with facebook at work when a status from Alexander popped up in my news feed. That’s odd – I thought – I hadn’t befriended him as I was fully aware that the other night was just the other night, and I didn’t want to look like some desperate stalking cow.

It turned out he’d popped up through one of the perversities of the ‘book: he’d tagged one of my friends (John – band member and party thrower) in his post which had led to him featuring on my own exclusive wall.

Very funny *John Cooper*, don’t remind me please –  there’s one night I regret. Beer goggles or what?!

My heart sank with a leaden thump as I, against my better judgement, went to John’s page to read on. The conversation went something like this:

John: Yo ‘Xander the man – what was that with you and my friend the other night?! You dirty whore!

Alexander: Very funny *John Cooper*, don’t remind me please –  there’s one night I regret. Beer goggles or what?!

John: Awwwh what? That’s not fair, she’s a great girl. Anyway you looked like you were going for it.

Alexander: Yeah well you know – desperate times. Next time you invite me to one of your gigs I expect some better specimens! LOL!

LOL. LOL. I’ll give you fucking LOL.

First off – do not publicly slag off someone that you had sex with just a few nights ago. Second – do not, DO NOT do it on bloody Facebook where she can read it and any other number of people can read it FOR ALL TIME. Third – get a personality and some sense of class you total egotistical self loving wanker.

I had a little cry and have spent the rest of the day trying to scrub the memory from my big soapy brain.

I also sent John a private message asking him to take the posts down – just for my own sense of ill gotten pride. He replied instantly saying how sorry he was and that Alexander was a ridiculous tosser and he wasn’t going to be invited to anything ever again and he thought I was lovely and gorgeous and not to listen to nasty minded toads. Thanks John.

Horrid boys. Maybe it’s time to give them up all together. Or at least go easy on romantic trysts in toilets.

M xx

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Date-a-rama: Part Two

Yeah right… no one’s got nothing on a woman scorned…

So I guess I thought the horror and disappointment of the night would only be bearable if I totally obliterated myself. I proceeded to drink the night away on the generosity of my best plastic friend – anxiously waiting each time I spent an unaffordable sum of money to see if the bank was silly enough to accept my IOU. Unfortunately for me – it did.

I listened to Dick churn the evening away with endless anecdotes of just how wonderful he was. The terrible evil of alcohol is evidenced, in no uncertain terms, by the fact that by 10pm I started to agree with him.

At 11.30pm we fell out of the bar and started kissing clumsily. I’ve never kissed anyone with such a gargantuan nose before – and it exerted a peculiar bony pressure against my face. I kept shifting my face around to try and avoid its most nobbly bits. The realisation that I was involved in this peculiar nasal dance suddenly struck me as brilliantly, intensely funny and I had to try very hard to stifle a giggle that was irresistibly tickling my insides. Dick in the meantime was making the most off putting kinds of groans and his huge hands were inexpertly fondling any part of me they could.

Dick: Hey Maggs…

I HATE being called Maggs

Dick: Why don’t we jump in a cab back to yours

Me: I don’t have any cash

This, of course, was the truth but also served as a pretty good excuse as he wasn’t exactly prompting any tidal wave of desire on my part.

Dick: Hey don’t sweat it. My treat.

Now, I’m not a massive advocate of sleeping with someone in order for a free ride home. I realise that some of the more morally upstanding of you might view this act as a little sluttish. I myself would never necessarily label myself as an out and out slut – sadly I don’t get  sex regularly enough for this to be  in any way an accurate moniker. But I do like sex. I love sex in fact. And I don’t see anything wrong with two consenting adults indulging themselves. If you happen to consent because you’re too drunk to contemplate the night bus and too poor to afford a solo taxi – well then that’s a reason as valid as drink induced passion. Actually liking someone is overrated. In fact liking someone is often foolhardy – that way lies potential heartbreak my friend.

So we went home and drunkenly fumbled and scrabbled around for a condom and had brilliantly underwhelming sex. I’ll admit I don’t remember a vast amount. I do remember lying pinned underneath him, whilst he was busily involved in the throes and all that, being morbidly fascinated by the contorted and remarkably ugly grunting expression on his face. In order to distract myself from this expression, which was rapidly depleting any small chance of me actually getting to the desired destination on this ill thought out trip, I focussed on his nose instead. This was not a good idea. Unfortunately the combination of the narrowness of his face and hawkiness of his bill meant there was no where else really to look. I could have closed my eyes of course, but my addled brain wasn’t quite clever enough to take me that far. So I lay there, being grunted on, vaguely hypnotised by his HUGE bobbing nose and, frankly, waiting it out.

The next morning I woke with a ridiculous hangover and very strong feeling of self disgust. The memories of the earlier part of the evening and the blatant abhorrence of the man lying next to me came flooding back and I felt more than a little nauseous about bumping uglies with him.

I also felt like a bitch. Maybe this bloke really liked me. Maybe I was being a total fucking player sleeping with him. Maybe he wasn’t all that bad. He must have endeared himself to me enough for us to get here. Maybe we should go for another date. I eased myself out of bed – trying very hard to keep my head as steady as possible to try and stem the almighty and discordant brass band that were wilfully thrashing whole worlds of pain inside my tender skull, and slipped out to the kitchen to make coffee. I returned with two steaming mugs and full of good intentions to find Dick hurriedly dressing with a sly guilty look in his eye.

Dick: Oh Maggs – hi – oh you brought coffee. Lovely. Got to dash though. Late for something. Yah know….

Ummmmm. No I didn’t know. In his drunkeness last night he’d repeatedly said how he had nothing to do tomorrow except hang out with his phone waiting for confirmation of his new starring role.

He was dodging me.  Dumping me – if what we did was possible to dump. He was dumping me.

He must have seen a look of  obvious horror flash across my face. I hate this – because he must have thought the horror stemmed from the fact I’d fallen for him rather than the fact that the sheer disbelief that someone so ridiculous and repulsive had the audacity to walk out me rather than vice versa.

He bit his lip and sighed in a moment of excruciating exaggerated sympathy.

Dickless: Hey listen Mags – this was fun, yah know. Really. You’re a great girl, yah know. You’re going to make some chap really happy. It’s just – it’s not quite there for me – yah know.

I forced a smile – desperate to exhibit nonchalance and not leave this twat thinking that he’d scarred my heart in anyway

Me: Sure

I could hear the tightness in my voice. He casually kissed me on the cheek as he brushed past and then he was gone leaving me standing there, still holding two hot cups of coffee. Totally speechless.

It’s weird how upset this whole debacle has left me. I didn’t care about him – I didn’t even like him. He did me a favour opting out.

I think it’s because in my sad, unsuccessful loveless self I cling to the idea that the fact I’m alone is a peculiar quirk of fate. That I’m really an attractive, funny, clever woman who most men would love to be with given half the chance. Therefore to be tossed aside by an ignoramus with a monstrosity of a nose and self obsession that equates to terminal dulness is a proper kick to my invisible girl goolies. In a supremely arrogant way – I expected him to be grateful at getting the opportunity to be with me. Instead he’s scarred me with that painful expression of sympathy that has indelibly burnt itself on to my retinas.

But really, how obnoxious of me.

We didn’t get on – that’s the one truth in this scenario. If anything it was just that he was more honest than me – one good character attribute to add to his cascading list of bad ones.

Relationships are subject to – by their magic – acquired tastes, and not in the same way as olives or anchovies – no way more choosy and selective than that. I’m just buggered if I know where the person is who orders their pizza with lashings of Maggie on top.

Wow – now I’m analogising my love life to a pizza. New depths.

M x

Date-a-rama: Part One

You know what they say about men with big noses…

Okay. I’m ready. Prepare yourself for the gruesome details.

Deep breath.

The bloke to be discussed should probably have a name – but for reasons of necessary anonymity I’m loathe to reveal his real one. I’d like to give him the alias Asshole Dick Who Deserves to Die  – though better judgement tells me that that’s a little harsh – so for the purposes of this dear blog let’s just call him Dick.

So the date was moreorless a blind one. Dick’s recently been in a play with one of my housemates – so I’d seen him on stage – but we’d never met in the flesh. I wasn’t entirely sold on the prospect of dating him. Physically he’s not at all my type. He’s tall – which is a good thing (so am I) but has a suspiciously aquiline face that makes him look perpetually haughty, and slick wavy long brown hair that falls to his shoulders. As a girl beset with fine hair that regularly bouffants to an almighty frizz – I’m always suspicious of men who have a prettier mane than I do. When I saw him on stage the one resounding impression he left me with was an incredible irritation with the nasality of his booming voice. Nasty and small sounding, yet inescapably loud. The thin resonating tones winded their way to the back of my skull and scratched and tickled and annoyed till I had to play a musical soundtrack in my head every time he opened his mouth in order to remain seated like a good audience member instead of standing with hands clasped over ears screaming PLEASE MAKE IT STOP.

But my housemate had been full of ‘he’s a really great bloke’, and ‘you guys have loads in common’ and ‘he’s seen your picture and he thinks you’re really pretty’ and similar tempting statements. It’s been a small ice age since I’ve actually dated (as apposed to blearily falling into bed with after a night out) anyone so the idea didn’t seem like an altogether nightmarish one. That, coupled with the fact that my Best Friend Love has recently started dating someone new, convinced me that I should be being more proactive in the pursuit of love. And, anyway, maybe the gratingly nasal voice was a character choice.

I did all the obligatory pre-date ablutions, put on my ‘I feel as pretty in this’ dress and left Tooting full of good thoughts and intentions as to where the night would lead. I’d never actually gone on a blind date before – and I was surprised I just how bloody nervous I was. We’d organised to meet at a bar in Southwark, and I had to call my flatmate when around the corner from the agreed meeting place just to gee me up enough to get the confidence to step over the ominous threshold of the date’s beginning.

Me: Are you sure he said I was pretty?

Flatmate: He said you were REALLY pretty.

Me: Are you sure it was a picture of me you showed him? Maybe you meant to show him a picture of me, but your phone flashed on to a picture of someone else when you handed it to him. My phone did that once. Phone’s are shit. This could be a shit-phone induced disaster just waiting to happen

Flatmate (patiently): Maggie. You’re being a bit of a maniac. It was a picture of you.

Me: Yeah – okay – good. You’re sure sure?

Flatmate: Positive.

Me: Oh bugger – but hang on – was it that picture of me from my last birthday in that red dress where – yeah I look great – but also NOTHING like I actually do in real life? Like I was doing something spontaneously amazing with my face and the camera angle was perfect and the light was just dim enough….

Flatmate: (patient sigh) What?!

Me: You know the one – I had it as my facebook profile picture for a whole day before having to take it down after zillions of comments about did I have a secret twin blah blah blah, when what they really meant was did I have a prettier twin, and what they really really meant was ‘that looks nothing like you but I bet you wish it did you LOSER’. Bloody hell – it was that one wasn’t it.  When he’s confronted with the 3-D unflattering reality of me he’s not going to recognise me – its going to be really bloody embarrassing – he’s going to  run screaming…

Flatmate: (slightly less patient)Maggie. It wasn’t that picture – it was your spotlight* picture. He’s not going to be disappointed. You’re gorgeous. Now go away – I’m supposed to be on stage…

(he’s acting again at the moment – bastard)

Brilliant. Fine. Okay. I told myself that I was a witty attractive woman with an approved physical appearance. There was no need to be nervous. None at all. He should be nervous – faced with the prospect of the overwhelming femininity that is Maggie Adams. He should be quaking in his poncy actors’ pointy boots. Oh yes. And with a deep breath I launched myself thorough the door of the bar.

I stood there in the bar’s threshold – squinting unattractively (I’m short sighted and too poor at the moment to order new contacts so my only avenue to full vision is my unflattering NHS pair of free glasses that I can only bring myself to wear in dark places).

Almost dizzy and wretching with nerves I realised he wasn’t in the bar.

I checked my phone – I’d been a fashionable five minutes late – he was obviously much more of a fashionista than I. I tottered to the bar in my too tight for me high heels (I have preternaturally large feet) and scoured the drinks menu for the cheapest red wine. Bugger me it was expensive. The bar had been Dick’s recommendation and was obviously not sympathetic to those with a poverty enforced diet of bovril and porridge. I begrudgingly handed over a tenner for a small glass of house red and then positioned myself in a red leather booth, sucking in my cheeks and crossing my legs and doing my best to look simultaneously alluring and enigmatic. I suspect the result looked slightly more like a bad case of constipation.

So the five minutes turned into ten, turned into fifteen, turned into twenty. Still no Dick. Just before 8pm, and after nearly half an hour of surreptitious door watching, all precious droplets of wine long since vanquished,  in walked his slick haired big nosed self. He saw me and gave a casual nod in my vague direction. He sauntered over.

Dickless: Hey – Maggie yah? so soz about being a bit late. Had a big casting this afternoon and it threw me a bit out of whack – you know how it is…

REASONS WHY THIS INCENSED ME:

1 – No. I do not know how it is. I spent my unemployed, un-audition filled afternoon painfully and intricately preparing for a date that it is now abundantly clear you didn’t give a moment’s anxious thought about.

2 – So you had an audition this afternoon. Well done you. A big one at that – my, aren’t you important. But please – pray explain why a brief meeting in the middle of the day is an excuse for being half an hour late for a first date that was supposed to start at 7.30pm. i.e in the evening. Some would go so far as to call it the night.

3 – You’re a show off

4 – You used the word ‘soz’

5 –  Your nasal voice was NOT a character choice. I don’t know if I have an internal musical mix-tape long enough to sustain me through a whole night with you

Of course I didn’t say any of those things, but instead wore a smile, and dutifully asked (as he expected me to) what the audition was for…

Dick: Oh well – it’s pretty amazing really – a new thing scheduled at the Nash. Pretty amazing part. I mean they love me there – and I’ve worked with the **director a whole bunch of times and, I mean – i guess she only made me read as a bit of a formality you know –

I didn’t know.

Dick: Hey so listen – just gonna go grab a drink – back in a mo…

And with that – after a blustering first display of the most odious kind of actor self involvement he was gone again. Off to the overpriced bar, with his no doubt overstuffed wallet. Overstuffed I knew – if not from the seemingly and self publicised illustrious acting career  – then from daddy’s allowance. You could hear evidence of the sweet green and blue papered paternal sponsorship dripping off every nasally pinched vowel. He was practically choking on a silver spoon. He was off to the overpriced bar, with an overstuffed wallet to buy himself a drink and leave the penniless bovril starved girl that he’d kept waiting for HALF AN HOUR staring into the bottom of an empty wine glass.

Fucker.

So in light of these terrible beginnings, and the severe loathing I felt in every pore within the first five minutes of our meeting, you may well be surprised as to where our night ended up. Which was back at my place. In bed. Naked.

Yes. I know.

Sorry – got to tear myself away from the computer right now – the rest tomorrow…

M xx

* what’s a ‘spotlight picture’ I hear you ask – Spotlight is the UK directory of actors. You spend a ridiculous amount of money on a mediocre photographer who will take a black and white moody picture of you for said directory which casting directors will then pour over and decide whether you look like someone who could play Lady Macbeth, or sell bleach, or whatever.

**who will remain anonymous for obvious reasons