Week 2 of HRT and the GI Diet

Its all very disappointing really. I haven't noticed that much of a change.

I was expecting total extremes of behaviour... facial hair, weight gain, mood swings, instead I'm plodding along as usual. I say as usual but interestingly I haven't had as many dizzy spells or sleepless nights, my headaches are not as intense, I've even lost some weight. For all I know, I may have been given a placebo and my mind is incredibly reversing all my menopausal syptoms. The real test is when I change my patch next week to the progesterone pacth... thats where people report all sorts of side effects. I remain positive that it won't affect me or rather I won't let my mind think it'll affect me.

I do think the weight loss is down to the fact I am eating a low GI diet which is pretty much what I do normally except I am eating more protein and less starchy carbs, eating smaller portions and snacking more on seeds and nuts.

Imagine being a caveman and you're pretty much there. Hunting and gathering. Mrs Caveman didn't have biscuits, crisps or any processed food. If Mr Caveman didn't come home with a deer slung over his shoulder, Mrs Caveman would feed the family with fruit, nuts, fish and so on. It makes sense really but blimey, my food shopping bill has shot up by about £20 a week. Everything is fresh and cooked from scratch, no sneaky cans of soup with a bit of bread and cheese. I seem to be eating more though and feeling fuller so its working. I was craving salt and vinegar crisps like you wouldn't believe and on Sunday, with a slight hangover, and by the evening all I could think about was pizza but apart from a couple of wobbles, I remain in control.

My half patch of Henrietta will be with me for another 6 weeks until I see the specialist again. Then we'll find out whats really been happening with more blood test etc. Friends have been keeping an eye out for strange behaviour so I have my HRT spies too. Work is busy, social life is great and apart from a few people who have really let me down recently, I can't complain about a thing!

Day 1 of HRT

Today, I slapped on my first patch of HRT or HenRieTta, as I will refer to it (or her) from now on.

I was prescribed Henrietta when I was told I was going through early menopause at the age of 42. Bit of a bombshell to be honest but not totally unexpected as my mother and sister both went through the same thing in their early 40's. They, however, both had 2 children by the time they went through it and I haven't had any so again, slightly more of an unhappy diagnosis. My mother, always one to look on the bright side said "Oh darling, I AM sorry, its my ruddy genes..." she paused for a second and then brightened "but there's always adoption". She does this sort of thing quite often. When I split up with a boyfriend last year and sat crying in my mothers kitchen saying "oh there just aren't any men left, I'll just get older and be alone" my Mother, quick as a flash said "Oh darling, there are always widowers!" Bless.

So, I have had Henrietta sitting on my kitchen counter for over 6 weeks but was told by my specialist that I couldn't start it until the first day of my period. And because my periods are so erratic these days, it hasn't simply been 28 days to wait until I can take them. Until about 8 months ago, I could predict my period to the minute. It always arrived at full moon around lunchtime. Now I haven't got a clue... I have period pains and PMT almost constantly and yet nothing happens.

When a friend asked me on Friday if I had started Henrietta yet, I sighed deeply and said "Noo, I should have taken Henrietta the last full moon but nothing happened so I suppose I have to wait for the next full moon". My friend said completely straight faced "what a strange way to prescribe a medication, by the lunar cycle". I laughed, imagining if that really was how doctors prescribed things.... when the cloud passes over the half crescent of the moon on the third day, take 2 pills with water. Brilliant!

But hallelujah, its not full moon and I got my period today. I read the instructions for about the millionth time, about the minor side effects: the possible risk of acne, facial hair (hello bearded lady), breast tenderness, nausea, headaches, dizzy spells, weight gain and so on, to the risk of quite major side effects: breast cancer! Great! You have to put the patch between your knee and thigh on the outside of your right leg, away from the heart and breasts. Thats weird to start with isn't it? I was worried about water and things getting under the patch but its a clever little thing and just like its evil sister, the tampon, you can run, swim and bathe with it!!! So on with the patch, or rather half a patch in my case. My specialist is starting me off gently... half a patch and if nothing happens I can go full strength, no questions asked. You must change the patch every 3 days and put it in a different place. I can just see me in a months time at the local swimming pool, little sticky residue patches all over my legs.. people will think I'm giving up a 60 a day fag habit!!

I'm going to keep a little log book of whats happening weight wise, side effects etc and show it to my specialist in a months time. I feel slightly excited about how I might just might start feeling a little better. I've been told by much older ladies (the normal ones that take HRT in their fifties) that I will get a heightened sex drive. One friend said her mum began buying sexy underwear and slapping her dads bottom in public... Jeez!

So that leaves me at the age of 42 horny and single... not good. Might just try internet dating again purely to get a database set up of possible late night sex partners.

6 months!!

I haven't written a blog for 6 months. For some people it means life has been so joyous they have little time to sit and write at a computer, for others it means life's been shit and its too depressing to write about.

Well, even thought the reason for me not writing is the latter, I am not about to try and put down in detail, all the woes of the last half year. I am now trying to be in positive mode and so will update with very short sentences.

In April, I was verbally harassed 3 times by an old neighbour.

It was so abusive and threatening in its demeanour, the police urged me to press charges.

I was so stressed and scared I had to leave my flat for long chunks of time and stay with friends and family.

In May, the same old neighbour beat up 4 separate strangers.

He was arrested for aggravated assault.

The police told me I had got off lightly but suggested I stay away from my flat as much as possible.

He pleaded not guilty to all 5 charges and was free to wander around without a care in the world.

My work suffers. My sleep suffers. I put on a stone in weight from stress eating.

I don't feel right. I see the doctor and I am told it's not just stress. I am also going through early menopause.

I am 42. I will never have children. My body will grow old and dry and I will inevitably grow a beard or something!

I try and stay positive and see as many friends as possible. Some are supportive, others aren't.

I stop talking about it because I think my friends are bored of hearing about it.

I stay in more and more alone and drink too much.

My case goes to court and I give evidence. It is the most terrifying thing I have ever had to do.

Luckily, I have incredible support on the day.

The man is found guilty on all charges. He is given an immediate restraining order.

I decide to sell up. My lovely flat has been tainted by this traumatic episode and I want to move.

The police tell me, even with the restraining order, its still not safe for me.

I decide to put my flat on the market.

The estate agent tells me my flat has gone down in value by £20,000 and I should wait til Spring.

I think about renting it out but am told I need to spend £7,000 on fixing it up to rentable quality.

I am stuck. No bank will lend me the money.

I am put on HRT which will probably send me loopy.

The doctor is still not happy and puts me through days of tests.

I am told I am hypoglycemic and must adjust my diet accordingly. The GI diet. I enjoy it. Its kind of how I eat anyway but just more protein, less starch and NO sugar EVER!

I find out my ex boyfriend is to appear on Gordon Ramsay's Best restaurant with his Thai wife. This is the Thai wife he met 2 weeks after we split up and she got pregnant within the month. I don't want to see how happy they are or how successful. It makes me realise I haven't moved on from him and its been over 10 years.

I feel very sad.

I visit my sister and accidentally take 3 sleeping pills instead of my usual 3 thyroxine tablets. The room was dark and the packets look the same. I throw up, ring NHS direct and they laugh and tell me I will be fine. Apparently my dose is so low its what normal people take. My parents think its hilarious as does the rest of my friends and family. It is ridiculous. I sleep really well, all day, for the first time in months.

Only one friend texts me asking if I have done it on purpose?

I am so sad and angry a close friend could think that... I may be a bit miserable but not bloody suicidal.

And when, in the history of suicide attempts did someone try to do it with 3 sleeping pills?

I am really hurt.

Several texts later I feel even worse. I feel myself growing away. Distancing.

The friends I thought I could talk to have their own problems. Burdening them with mine seems selfish.

Some friends listen but don't hear. Others hear but don't understand.

I feel utterly lost and frustrated at times.. one of those "NO one understands me" moments! I want to escape. But thats always the way I do things and in the end it doesn't really solve anything at all. You come back to the same old crap, just a bit thinner and a bit browner.

I did say at the beginning of this that I was now positive. I am. I am positive about moving and changing and growing and loving. I know the shit stuff is done and behind me. And that all that's really important isn't it?

Girls in Town

Is it possible to get 5 years worth of wrinkles in just 24 hours? My face has aged from laughing, I have alcohol poisoning, smokers lung and an addiction to cheese and onion crisps!

The "Girls" weekend is synonymous with hen parties or celebrating a birthday or something but more and more these days, I'm finding my friends want to come into town purely because they miss their old lives here.

The weekend is madness. It usually involves one or two mums coming into London from out of town, where they had disappeared to years previously to have babies, they then realise they miss London dreadfully, organise a long weekend with their single girl friends still living in London, plan to visit every single one of their favourite restaurants and bars in 2 days, take in some sights, drink more, see a show, drink more... and so it goes on.

There are unwritten rules too:

You...
Do not act your age
Do not care when you are looked at by strangers with a sort of "do they KNOW what they look like?" look
Flirt with men of all ages
Try and get in everywhere for free
Tip everyone extravagantly
Flirt with waiters even when obviously gay
Tell all black cab drivers you know a better route
Take hundreds of photos
Think you look sexy when drunk until you see yourself in the mirror and look a hundred!

Saturday:
Carluccio's in Market Place 1pm. Half the group go to the wrong restaurant in St. Christophers Place... very easily done. Visiting Mum has to wait an extra 20 minutes for us and decides to drink half a bottle of wine on her own.
Carluccio's 5pm. Waiters have changed shifts for evening service. We are on third bill. Eaten little, but have drunk 5 bottles of wine between 5 of us! Oops. Flirt terribly with out third waiter who is a midget... seriously. Try to do some shopping on Oxford Street, swear at all the tourists and duck into another bar for a soothing cocktail.
Match Bar 7pm. 3 cocktails and a gin Martini. Realise we are due at the theatre in 20 minutes and try to hail a black cab... in the rain. Wet and irritable, we insist we know a better route to the theatre and end up gridlocked. I start to panic because hate getting to the theatre late. Girls laugh at me getting worked up and I get more stressed. Visiting Mum suggests we forget the theatre and drink more. We all agree paying £55 per ticket is just a little extravagant to blow off for a drink!! Not so drunk heh? Get to theatre just as doors are closing and lights dimming. People tut as we drag our coats over them and tread on feet to get to our seats in middle of row. Visiting Mum gets hiccups and people in surrounding seats tut more. A woman in the stalls screams loudly and then faints. Actors freeze on stage and curtain drops prematurely to allow ambulance men in to drag her away. Much drama. We love it... it's almost better than the intense play we are watching (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof by the way... first time done with all black cast and headlining is one James Earl Jones of booming voice and Darth Vader credentials). Play continues after another drink at bar. Decide we need more food and go for wine and curry... eeek!
12:30 am In bed... not bad.

Sunday:
A different set of girls this time, 2 Visiting Mums and 3 single London girls. We get boat up river (after both Mums check with different staff there is DEFINITELY a bar on board and there aren't Dickensian rules on Sunday drinking laws!) and we start off with cider. There are hundreds of teenage girls on board staring at us, possibly because we are grown up and are on our way to the O2 arena to see X Factor Live. We manage to have 3 drinks.
2pm Arrive at the dome for show. 3 vodka and tonics later we are in the arena and screaming like mad when all the young male singers come on stage. The parents with kids look at us with disdain. We get another round of drinks during a ballad and spot some empty seats much further forward in the stadium. Visiting Mum takes charge and hauls us to them. Security move us back to our original seats. We watch another couple of acts, screaming throughout (well you just can't hear yourself above the din of thirteen year olds) and attempt the seat maneuver again. This time, ex-model Mum tries to distract security as we go around the back. Imagine five, 40-somethings playing commando and you get the idea. Ex-model Mum gets upset that her flirting no longer works and we are moved back to original seats by a unimpressed security guard. Jedward come on and we all go temporarily deaf. Intermission and more drinks. Security guard approaches us whilst having drinks and we think we are going to be chucked out. Surprisingly, he tells us we can now sit where we want because he can't be bothered to keep moving us back... we all hug him, take photos, cheer and drink to celebrate.
5pm Boat back into Waterloo. Cider and monster photo session. We bribe young teenage girls with cokes and crisps to be our photographers. They know how to use the camera phones better than us so its a good shout.
6pm Visiting Mums decide they want to dance and are infuriated when single girls can't think of anywhere that would have dancing at 6pm on a sunday night!!!!! We end up in an Australian pub and dance even though no music. No one seems to mind. We eat 8 bags of cheese and onion crisps (we forgot to eat earlier) and drink shots of Midori melon liqueur (don't ask... model Mum was reminiscing about a modeling job in the 80's)
9pm Come home and spot half a bottle of red wine in kitchen and a bag of doritos. Well, it would be shame not to.

Just weird

Ok, I know I said I wouldn't say anything more on the Columbian after the tosser didn't call but this is odd. Last night he DID call (after I had mentally trodden his name into the dirt) but I was in the bath and so it went to answering machine.

His message said:

"Hola Julietta, eeeeees Oscarrr. I ring to say hello. Hello. I hope you have a nice weekend."

HAVE a nice weekend, not HAD a nice weekend. Is Oscar on planet Oscar? He has lived in London for 30 years so we can't blame his English on lack of practise! Does his weekend start on a Sunday night unlike everyone else in the world? Is he mentally not quite there? Has he taken too much of what Columbia is famous for and therefore my gay friend is right and he's a drug dealer with 2 mobile phones? Is he, as Little Brown Bird pointed out (before this last update).... just not that into me?? But if he wasn't that into me,he wouldn't call at all would he? But he didn't say call back or lets meet up or anything else either, not even goodbye. Odd.

Saying have a nice weekend on Sunday night at 11pm is just plain wacky. I won't call back (I promise West End Mum). So I wait for the next bizarre exchange and will not hold my breath.

Not telling

Another of my New Years Resolutions (which I've already stupidly broken), was not to tell anyone anything exciting that was happening with my life until something had ACTUALLY happened.

I have always told my family and friends when I was interested in a man or of a job prospect or of holiday plans. I would only tell them if I thought there may be something worthy of reporting and that it might go somewhere but this year I have decided that telling them nothing is better. It saves disappointment on their part when things don't work out. It save my embarrassment when they ask "oh darling, how's it going with so-and-so" when it has never actually got off the ground. My friends get exasperated when I tell them, breathlessly of a new infatuation or a first date and then the next time I see them, there is nothing to report.

So my last but one posting, proves my point. I talked of Oscar, the Columbian restaurant owner, keen and excitable at the prospect of meeting up with him again. Since my phone-call on Tuesday I have heard nothing. We had tentatively made plans for this weekend but he said to call him when I knew my schedule. I told him I would call on Thursday. He said "what time weeeeel you call me darling?" I said "Thursday morning", he said "I look forward to hearing you again". I did as I said and called on Thursday. Confusion began when I realised I had 2 phone numbers for him (a drug dealer, according to my gay friend!). I left messages on both numbers, casually, with a light-hearted and flirty tone. I asked him to call back and let me know when was good for him but suggested Saturday lunch or dinner. NOTHING. It's now Friday night and I have heard nothing back. Blood bloody hell!! What does that mean? This was all supposed to be ridiculously casual and yet now I'm annoyed that I haven't heard back!!

I'm already making excuses for him... was I not very clear in my message, did he even get the message, was my message too enthusiastic and put him off? Fuck, fuck fuck!!! No matter how hard I try to not care or think about it, I've already told you all and now I feel like an idiot because I thought, for once, someone is keener on me than I am on him, so I don't really care. I do care and he hasn't called and now I look like a muppet. My resolution is now re-instated, I say nothing until something has happened and I don't look a fool.

Annoying people at the Tate

I don't call people genius's lightly but after seeing the Chris Ofili exhibition at Tate Britain I can say in my opinion, he is. Yes, most people know him for his bad boy, young British Artist work, 'porn and dung', but until you see them up close, please don't judge. The detail in his work, the patterns, the layering, the colours, the humour in his paintings are simply brilliant. The only thing that spoiled it is the same thing that spoils most things these days... inconsiderate people.

One of the rooms of paintings is called 'The Upper Room', a sort of inner sanctum within the gallery space. Designed by his architect friend, it is a beautiful smelling, luxurious, intimate room made of walnut and housing 13 paintings. Dramatic spotlit canvases of monkeys in every hue with a stunning gold monkey at the end of the room. Jesus and his twelve disciples perhaps. Every person was given the same pamphlet as they went into the exhibition and Chris Ofili himself is quoted in the leaflet as saying: "It was important for the space to feel akin to a space of worship and to experience the kind of feelings you get when you walk into a place like that. I wondered if that was possible, whether paintings could enhance that feeling."


Well Chris, I hate to be the one to tell you this but no one treated the space with that sort of respect. The attendants in the room have the power to tell you not to touch, so why can't they tell people to "shut the fuck up". There were groups of students coming in to sit down for a rest and a gossip, ignoring the work completely. One girl even came in the room and said, in that sort of posh but street accent "Oh God, its like another fucking room of shit!!" I actually giggled at that because the pun she had made, inadvertently referred to the the elephant shit balls on most of his work. Older groups were having VERY loud conversations, others were chatting on their mobile phones whilst standing with their backs to the work. I sat there for over half an hour hoping there would be a point where the room would clear out and a hush might descend. No such luck. The attendants DID notice but simply rolled their eyes at people and looked at the ceiling. I couldn't even say, in my "old before my time" way... "what's happened to the youth of today, they have no manners and are so rude and selfish!!" because it wasn't just the teenagers, these were people of every age, every gender, every race. Fucking buggers ruined my lovely quiet inner sanctum experience!!! So I might have to go back at 5 minutes before opening time and sprint to that room and sit until other people come and ruin it for me.

If pushed on this subject I could actually tell you of inconsiderate behavior everywhere... maybe it's just me, am I becoming intolerant (please leave a message if I'm not alone)? I tut at people on the tube as they sneeze or cough over me, I sigh loudly and turn away when a gaping yawn from a business man tells me what he had for lunch, I give people terrible dirty looks when they don't offer their seats to older, pregnant or disabled people. I've been told off by my sister for telling off her two boys. Ok, here, I know should keep my mouth shut for the sake of family harmony but when I am sitting opposite my nephews at the lunch table and they talk over my mother and father or burp or put their elbows on the table or eat with their mouths open, and my sister says NOTHING, I feel it is my duty to tell them off. No?? (Again I would love to hear your opinion). My parents reaction to my horror at modern manners, is to laugh and say "its because you live in London". Their solution to every one of my angsts, from mini cab drivers who don't know their way, to overcrowding on public transport to girls fighting in Primark, is to say "Darling, just move to the country".


As if bad manners are exclusive to London!!! I would love to remind my Father of the time he was waiting patiently for a parking space in M&S car park, and watched in horror as an awful "oik" (his term) came from nowhere and stole it. He actually got out of the car and said "excuse me (in his poshest and most authoritative tone), I was waiting for that space for some time, do you think that's fair?" and was met with such a tirade of foul language he was left speechless. He came home minus shopping because he was so "hopping mad". He often talks of queue jumping in Barclays, the bin men leaving trails of rubbish, strangers on walks having the audacity of not saying "Good morning" as they pass. Admittedly, country annoyances seem slightly less offensive than city ones but I think I am just my Fathers daughter. I just hope I don't become one of those angry old women who have "age turrets" because I'm nearly there at the ripe old age of 41!!

Oh and if you do go to the Tate to see the Ofili and are prone to 'annoyed behaviour of others, put on some headphones and remember to look up when you leave the museum... there is a Union Black flying high!

Inner slut

One of my New Years resolutions was to let out my inner slut and I think I definitely managed it on Friday.

A friend and I always meet for steak and red wine when we get together and we have sampled quite a few around London but for the last couple of times we have been to la Pampa Grill in Northcote Road, a loud, bustling, chaotic place with south American waiters and quite mouth-watering Argentinian steaks. Until Friday we hadn't met the infamous owner Oscar, a devilishly charming Columbian who has made London his home for the last 30 years, dabbling in restaurants and shops around Chelsea.

On Friday, just as Jo and I were thinking of leaving, Oscar blew through the door, kissed half the locals and looked around. He spotted Jo and I and came over to introduce himself. It took approximately two minutes for Oscar to charm the pants off us and we sat there giggling and playing with our hair whilst this smokey 50-something latin lothario flirted outrageously. At midnight, Oscar ushered everyone out and then locked the doors. Jo and I looked at each other and grinned. The waiters and Oscar sat around telling stories to us, Jo and I laughed and drank and had one of the best evening we've ever had. I was so fascinated with this man. He is craggy and cheeky and utterly enjoyable. I was completely smitten and in front of everyone I sat on the table and took his face in my hands and kissed him as passionately as I could. Oscar said something in spanish, the waiters all laughed and then we danced. We danced and kissed with abandon and it was just lovely. I didn't care what I looked like, I didn't care what Jo and the waiters thought, I was just enjoying the moment.

We finally left at about 1 as Oscar pirouetted me out of the door and winked. So... that was that. A night of fun and frollicks. But no. I had forgotten I had given him my phone number. Last night he rang: "Julietta, thees ees Oscarrrrr!" Oh my god... I melted. His voice really is something else!! He told me stories on the phone for about an hour and then asked me when he could see me "Julietta, thees is just the beginning... you must kiss me again the way you did before" Oh shit. Think I may be in trouble here. I haven't looked forward to seeing someone this much in years. He's been married twice and is a naughty naughty old man but I think I can cope... it will be quite something. It may just be one date but I think it'll be one to remember.

Poo

I know everyone sometimes gets caught short, but there is getting caught short and peeing down an alleyway, and then there is getting caught short and doing it on a public footpath on a busy thoroughfare!

Last week, I was walking to the tube from my house and I spotted, about 20 yards away, a gigantic poo. I said aloud "Oh for fucks sake", who lets their dog poo in the middle of the pavement and not clear it up? It was huge, 2 gigantic logs! As I got closer, it was obvious this was no dog poo, this was a giant human poo. I deduced it wasn't animal because I know of no dog, even a Great Dane that can lay something that large. I'm not near a zoo and have not read of any escaped exotic animals, so I gaped in horror at what I was looking at. I let out a piercing squeal of disgust and carried on walking, thinking of the poor street cleaners that were going to have to clean up this deposit.

The next morning, it was still there. I had to look because I was convinced it would be gone but even the street cleaners must have lines they don't cross. Oh for God's sake! I swore loudly and just hoped for a heavy rainfall. All will be well I assured myself.

The following day, I promised myself that I wouldn't look but as I rounded the corner, eyes to the sky, muttering "Don't look, don't look" I couldn't help it. Everyone knows, once you know something is there and just 'horror film' disgusting, you can't help but look. I caught it out of the corner of my eye and there it was, giant and proud: "Hello" it was saying "Yes, I'm still here and by the looks of things I'm going to still be here tomorrow, and probably all year, no one can touch me, I'm INVINCIBLE!!!" I swore loudly.

Yesterday, I walked passed again, trying to ignore it but this time my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of pink. Someone had stuck a cocktail umbrella in it! I burst out laughing and thought "Soooo, I am not alone, this poo has been noted and someone else is keeping track of the turd and is giving it some character." What next?

This morning I approached giant log with interest. Absolutely brilliant... secret turd dresser had given it a sweatband. Yes folks, there it was with a neon green, toweling wrist band around it. Whoever was doing this was brave, number one. I'm not sure how many people would get that close to a foreign object, let alone a strangers toilet starbar, yet this anonymous stylist had bent down and given the cocktail drinking turd, some headgear. I was impressed. It had now become the talking point at work too.... should I accessorise the turd?? Should this become a community project?? I'm not there yet but I'm worried this poo is invading my thoughts too often. It's London fashion week next week, should I do it justice and create a spectacular outfit?? British designer, of course!

Ten things you don't know about me?

A friend recently asked me to do this… Ten things you don't know about me.

Ok here goes:

1. 70% of time, I have an itch in my inner ear. It seems to be half way down my ear and halfway up my throat so I can't reach it. It is absolutely infuriating and when no one is looking, I end up either doing a "cat with a hairball impression" or wiggling a pencil/little finger/cotton bud down it.

2. I much prefer one of my parents to the other.

3. I think my sister could has made some odd choices.

4. I still think one day, I may be discovered (whether that's as a writer, actress, presenter... whatever)

5. I dream I may one day win the lottery and start a traveling theatre company, run out of a gypsy caravan.

6. I want to ride round India on the back of an Enfield motorbike, with a long haired youth at the helm.

7. I would like to try more positions out of the karma sutra, on a regular basis.

8. I wish I had better willpower... eating, drinking, smoking!!!

9. I sometimes get incredibly lonely and think about selling up everything I own and traveling the world until I meet the love of my life.

10. I think I have good, boobs, eyes and bum for a 41 year old. The rest is not so good but in the flirting stakes, the eyes are pretty good.

Disaster

Gosh, how things change. Have been waiting for my date on Saturday with Fred, the half Egyptian, half Indian chap, with some excitement until yesterday when it all went disastrously wrong!

After spending at least half an hour on the phone setting up where we were meeting for lunch in Chiswick (West London), yesterday morning at 7am, he texted me saying "I can't make saturday". No apology, no explanation. I bit my lip and suggested we meet tonight instead. A long exhausting, exchange of emails ensued... he lives in Ealing (west west west London), I live In Balham (south London) so a central meeting point we agreed, would have been where our tube lines crossed... central London.

He sent an email back, obviously totally ignoring the meeting in central London part and suggested meeting in a shopping mall in WEST London (5 tube stops from his house.. 19 from mine and two train changes!) because it was "good neutral terrotory" and had the appeal of "its great because it has free parking!". Oh dear... was this a date or a business meeting??? I started to doubt this man and I may be compatable. A mall is not the first thing that springs to mind when I think first date and the allure of free parking doesn't really swing it for me!!! Oh My God, I almost forgot to mention.. his real name is Fiesal Butt, I kid you not. No wonder he calls himsef Freddy, bless.

Finally, after a whole day (it seemed) of to-ing and fro-ing about times and locations, we agreed to meet at 7pm in central London... phew!

Then, this morning at 8am I get a text "I can't make tonight". No apology, no explanation. Sound familiar?? This time I didn't bite my lip and phoned him. Calmly I asked what had happened and why the change of plan again?? He sort of verbally shrugged and so I said, "Look, you're obviously a bit busy right now and the timings' not so good so why don't we leave it for a week or so and try again?" I thought that was incredibly reasonable considering inside I was screaming "What the fuck, you miserable cretin, you DARE to cancel on Jules AGAIN???" I might as well have screamed that out loud because all I heard was a "Hurrumph" and he hung up. He hung up on me for being nice. Bloody hell, what a fucking weirdo. I was sitting there with my mouth open for several minutes until my phone beeped and it was a text message. "Sorry for messing you about and hanging up. Do you still fancy meeting for lunch tomorrow?"

My mouth is metaphorically still open. I didn't reply.

What is it about Egyptian men??

I have got a date... a lunch date set up with a guy called Fred on Saturday in Chiswick. He's off the internet dating site and I spoke to him for the first time last night. He's well spoken (tick for Mother), charming (tick for Mother), reads The Telegraph (big tick for Mother), went to public School and then Cambridge (huge cheer and a double tick for Mother), is 35 years old (weeeheeee, tick for me) and is half Egyptian and half Indian (very curious tick for me... probably a big X for Mother). Now, don't get me wrong, my Mother is far from racist, she just doesn't want one (that could be any country, any colour, apart from white British) as a husband for her daughter "Darling, think of the children" she once told me when I was seeing a black guy called Orville!! That's another story.... a wealthy, champagne quaffing, coke snorting, city boy turned born again Christian. I'm not sure why Mother was so worried... his new happy clappy life meant no sex before marriage and I sure wasn't going to get hitched to a man with the name of a ventiloquists' dummy (sorry UK reference) just so I could do bad things to him!

So I will keep you informed of how it goes...

Other than the date as a new pasttime, I've started dancing again. Dancing in a proper dance class not just willy nilly around the place. Last night I did a contemporary Jazz class with lots of jazz hands and step ball changes and grinned throughout the whole hour in pure delight. Dancing really does make you happy and until I have regualr sex, the other thing that makes me very happy, I'm going to stick to shaking my bootie!

So far, so good

Well, life seems to be all ok for now which is good. I've started internet dating again, well only 3 days in but had some lovely responses and a couple of nice chaps have asked to meet so that's nice. This time I am ruling out no one and am replying to messages even if I know they aren't right. A polite reply is much better than just ignoring people and the couple of guys I have replied to, explaining that I'm not sure we're compatible, have been very surprised but happy to be written to with a short but sweet, thanks but no thanks. Manners count, I say.

Apart from the internet, my mother still has very high hopes that "one day, you'll just bump into Mr Right". I now nod (sigh inwardly), and say "Yes, Mother, I'm sure I will". She also still has high hopes for me and my neighbour James, based on the fact he was privately educated, shook her hand when they first met, is called James and reads the Telegraph!! High hopes for him until last weekend, that is.

I had planned a weekend with Mother, with her coming up to London on the Friday afternoon, dinner at a new local Vietnamese restaurant, having a private tour around the Turner exhibition at Tate Britain on Saturday morning, followed by a champagne brunch in their restaurant, then a surprise theatre trip in the afternoon to see "6 Degrees of Separation" at the Old Vic, dinner in on Saturday night, an early start on Sunday morning with a boat trip down to Greenwich and a leisurely walk back along the river to have a late lunch at the Blue Print Cafe and a wander round the Design Museum. Phewww, so it was a full packed few days.

Friday went off as planned, the meal was delicious and the restaurant was packed so I'm hoping my new local does well. We came back to my flat and Mum and I went to bed around 10pm, knowing we had a very early start the next day. I reminded Mum that I would have my ear plugs in (my downstairs neighbours have a tendency to crash around in their kitchen at 3 am) and off we drifted. I woke up needing the loo at about 5am and while I was sitting on the loo in the dark, Mum came crashing in, mouthing something at me and gesticulating wildly. I still had my ear plugs in and so when I saw her, I jumped about a foot off the seat and shouted "Oh my God, what.. I'm on the loo!!" She carried on mouthing at me so I took the ear plugs out and she whispered "James is here". I said "Whattttt?" and she said "Shhhhhh, James is here. I heard him knocking on his front door about half an hour ago and then about 10 minutes ago he started banging on your front door (God, my ear plugs are good!). So I looked through the letterbox and there was James standing in the dark, wet through and shivering so I let him in". She shrugged and laughed. I had massive sense of humour loss at this point and said "Whatttt?". "Shhhhhh darling, he's asleep", she said.

Now because I was still in sleep mode and not really understanding what on earth she was telling me, I went into terrets mode, and I NEVER EVER swear in front of my parents...

"What the fuck, Mummy... you let James into my flat, he's probably totally fucked and been out all night and like a total fuck, has locked himself out. No, no, no, he is not staying. Oh my god.. where is he, he's not in your fucking bed is he?"

Mother then got the giggles, probably shocked at my language and of course, at my reaction. "Sshhhhhhh darling, he's asleep now so I'll just get in with you ok" and she left the bathroom. Oh my God. I followed her into my bedroom and got the full story from my near hysterical Mother. The more angry I got, she more she laughed, which of course, just made me even crosser... I was now very awake.

"Darling, calm down. I could hardly leave him outside could I? He was shivering and only in a shirt and he said he'd locked himself out and couldn't get in. He was very polite but very talkative and quite merry actually. So I gave him a hot drink and put him in my bed. By the time I came out of the kitchen he was under the covers snoring." She giggled. "Oh I'll dine out on this". Grrrrrrrrrrr. Bless her really, she loves the drama of things like this and will definitely be telling all her friends about what happened up in London. Mum got into my bed laughing and then pulled the covers up and closed her eyes. "Night night then darling". Oh, thats just great.

I took a deep breath. I knew I couldn't do anything but I was so cross that my poor Mother had been ousted from her sleep and her bed by my fucking idiot drunk, probably fucked on coke, neighbour. I got into bed because I knew if I even looked at James in the next door room, I probably would have strangled him in his sleep. "Fine... fine, but I swear to God, Mummy, if he pukes or wets the bed, this is no longer funny ok??" Mum smiled and turned over. I got into bed and had just started to calm down when I realised James had got into bed fully clothed. I sat bolt upright and said "Mum, did you see him take his shoes off?" Mum opened one eye and said "oh dear."

I rushed into the next room, flung off the covers and there was James, wet on my lovely Egyptian cotton, 300 count "special" guest sheets, fully dressed with his big shoes covered in leaves and mud. "You piece of fuck!" I shouted at the comatose James, snoring happily. I roughly pulled his shoes off, swearing like a mad lady and dropped them on the floor with an almighty thump. God, his shoes were heavy. Weirdly heavy. I picked up one of the shoes and saw he had a 2 inch lift inside the shoe and they had about a 2 inch heel. What the fuck??? James isn't short, he's about 5' 9" and he had a pair of cuban heels with a built in lift. I actually started laughing hysterically and ran into the bedroom to show Mum. She too, looked and then we both had giggling fits for about 10 minutes, culminating with Mum almost peeing her pyjamas and sprinting to the loo. When we finally calmed down, we had about an hour until we had to wake up. Not a great start to the weekend! We woke up though in the merriest of moods, giggling to ourselves about our discovery. I wrote a note to James telling him to sort himself out, shut the door behind him etc etc and I rolled it up and put it in his shoe. So he would then know that I knew his little secret. Is that too too mean?? Brilliant!!!

Whilst we were having our delicious brunch after a fabulous private tour, James called and sheepishly apologised and said to thank my Mum for saving his life. A little dramatic, even on my scale but appreciated. He didn't mention the shoes.. who would?

The rest of the weekend was wonderful and we laughed continuously about the drama the night before. It actually MADE our weekend even better. So even though James is now off my Mothers' list of eligible bachelors for me, we thank him for giving us such a memorable and fun time together.

Is it a sign??

Well, bizarre things have happened already for 2010... firstly I got back from Harrogate where I spent New year and my car blew up. I mean, not literally, like a car bomb, just nothing would work at all (and it wasn't a flat battery). As I don't have "homestart" on my insurance, my poor car is just sitting there, cold and broken. Next, I decide to check my emails after a 3 week absence, turned on the computer and that too is dead… and, apparently, can't be fixed. It has just decided (admittedly, it's 10 years old) to hibernate for good. Then last night I turned on the TV, heard a slight "pop" and then nothing. It too is no more. I ring my Mother for sympathy (why do I never learn) and she says "well, that's three things so you'll be ok now". Thanks Mum.

So does it indicate a fresh start do you think??

Also my council have just sent me a letter saying that in my block of 12 flats, we all have to share expenses for some new windows and doors to be fitted. The estimate for me alone is £5400. I nearly passed out. You can't say no to new doors and windows because it is in the lease that they have to improve things after a certain amount of time. I'm totally screwed. If they go ahead with it, I simply cannot afford that and I will have to sell my flat!!! So not great!!

BUT, BUT, BUT... I am still smiling (I know it's only the 10th January) and this year I am not doing self pity, I'm not doing pessimistic, I'm now (after yet another Mum stoic statement) not doing sympathy. I'm for karma, positivity, things happening for a reason, signs and jumping, hoping the net will appear before I hit the ground. I am not going to give a damn what others think (this'll be hard) and I will go out with whomever I want (even if I hear my father pronouncing "Oik" from the background!) as long as they make me happy. I'm going to have lots of sex too and am letting out my inner slut. In fact, this year is all about being happy and a tart.

Happy New Year indeed

God... it seems an eon since i last wrote. I think I write more when I'm miserable too so I suppose it's a good sign if I don't write too often because it means I'm happier. Things could not have got much worse last year so just as I was thinking of throwing myself in front of the tube in an act of desperation, I then had my last weeks work of the year canceled and I thought... "fuck it, this is the last straw" and booked myself on a weeks all inclusive package holiday to Egypt. Good it was. I cannot over emphasise actually how amazing it was. I'm not talking sun, sand and sleep either, I'm talking lack of sleep. Ooooh missus!! Yes, I am the cliché single 40-something woman abroad and I ended up having the most ridiculously romantic and silly and wonderful holiday romance with the scuba dive master. Yes, I've heard all the jokes! It was heart palpitations and butterflies, nerves and euphoria, all tumbled together in a deliciously memorable seven days. Sigh.