The worst thing about being single is…..

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the people who don’t believe you when you say, “Yeah, I’m good thanks!”  Because, that just ain’t (right) possible.

I can’t remember exactly why I was talking about it recently, when I explained that I hadn’t had a date, since ‘Hot Frenchie February’, but my companion’s complete 1) disbelief, and 2) incredulity, then 3) pity, was palpable.  Though, to be fair, he did attempt to mask it.  Bless.  Such a sweet boy.

Steadfast in my spinsterdom/*PANKdom, this year was a conscious decision to uncouple (thanks Gwynnie) from dating, and it’s been pretty wonderful.  Best decision I’ve made since chancing my luck in Barcelona.  I’ve travelled, worked hard, played, been in education, improved myself professionally and am developing my business.  I’ve also enjoyed the company of those friends (old and new) who are men, who I love dearly, some with whom I have also shared a bed; without having to endure the emotional f*ckery that usually goes with it.  And you know what, it’s been pretty damn good.  Only slightly irritated with myself for allowing my feelings to get the better of me in the summer, on the whole, the results have been pretty positive.  I’ve had a lot of fun.  I’ve had freedom to enjoy the fun.  In my 44th year, I’ve finally come around to the idea of compartmentalising different aspects of what you require emotionally, as a human.  And it really works.

Case in point, I felt a bit low on Monday, so I text my **accountant to see if he was available for a bit of huggage.  I popped to his office yesterday for ten minutes, I got my hugs, we had some kisses, my battery was recharged – his most definitely was.  I’ve been having some cheeky chatter with another friend, I might see him in the New Year.  I may not.  I briefly toyed with the idea of spending some time holed up somewhere romantic with my artistic inspiration, and I’ve been reminiscing with my ex, who I have an enormous amount of affection for.  Different people, different roles.  Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, job done.

Please don't pull the 'oh, you poor thing' face.

Please don’t pull the ‘oh, you poor thing’ face.

I was talking to a gorgeous human being on Saturday, at the wedding of a dear friend, who like me, seemed to have reached a similar point in his life.  We were chatting about our respective situations, and he said, tentatively, “Yeah, things are OK, you know.”  We’re almost scared to say it.  I have my stuff, I have my friends and family, I have my social life, I have ‘company’ when I want it, I have my job, I have my dancing, art and home.  There is nothing missing.  Thank you.

At the very same wedding, a little later on, someone pulled the ‘aaaahhhh, poor thing’ face, while I was having my photo taken with a friend (who happened to be someone else’s boyfriend), as if I were borrowing one, because I didn’t have my own.  I know your heart is in the right place, but….. please. stop. it.

* I’m working on a new acronym.  For example: DOH = Drunk Old Happy or SAUCY = Single, ‘Appy, Unapologetic, Capable. YEAH!

**Please note, this is not the way I greet/thank/pay all my service providers.  The gas man and the boy in the Orange phone shop, get a polite, “hello” and “thank you.”

 

*Reasons why I don’t have kids #35

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**Explaining the intricacies of boy parts, and girl parts to little girls and little boys is a veritable MINEFIELD.  Case in point, the explosive response to a few short lines in Lena Dunham’s book, Not That Kind of Girl.

I’ve occasionally wondered how it’s possible to explain to the little people these mysterious, curious things, and how they should behave with them.  e.g. touching them in public, is a no no (touching someone else’s even more so), without turning their little bits into something dirty and sordid and to be kept secret. Because the stock response to any wisdom parents try to impart, is ‘Why?’  And what’s the answer to that?

“Why can’t I look at my best friend’s willy?”  Good question.

I’d maybe have gone down the ‘Mum of Lena’ route, and not batted an eyelid or created a fuss, thus avoiding sensationalising whatever had just transpired.

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But then, maybe I’d have ended up with endless phone calls from school about poking, prodding and boob-n-bum questions. And suffered the withering glances of the other parents at the school gates, as they whispered, “there she is, the liberal mum who doesn’t tell her kids that everything below the waste is not. To.  Be. Mentioned.  And DEFINITELY not touched.”  In later life, maybe because of my lack of hysteria when the kids were little, my wisecracking son/daughter, would be put through the wringer by the press, a la Dunham.  Simply for talking about their innocent, childhood curiosity.

So whatever is a mum to do? Where do you even begin to tip toe through that?

And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #35

*Who knew there’d be so many reasons why I don’t have kids.

**(and sometimes having to explain it to adults too.)

If I was Lena Dunham’s aunt

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I’d place my arm around her shoulder, guide her gently to one side and have a quiet word.  Gobby woman to gobby woman.

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Coming from your Aunty Anne, a prolific chatterer, to say, “think before you speak”, is quite something. In fact, I’d go so far as to say, it’s (earth-shattering) pertinent and important to heed.

There have been times, when I thought that the company I was with, was ready to hear about my sexual escapades and my London shenanigans and all manner of other things we won’t go into here.  But there’s nothing quite like a puzzled/stoney/uncomfortable silence, to convince you that in fact, completely the opposite is true.

So I’ll be damned if the world is even close to being ready to hear about kids touching each others peepees, even if it was borne simply out of a natural, childish inquisitiveness.  Because, let’s face it, that’s all it is.  If they’re going to stick their fingers in poo, eat worms, and shove random small objects up their noses (Lego bricks and teddy stuffing), then they’re going to poke a boob or touch a bum.  Or a foufou.  I mean, come on, how many times have you seen mums in the street, pulling their child’s hand away from their bits?  Millions. Kids just do it, without thought.

Bear in mind, we’re only just coming to terms with women (speaking) having opinions at all, and this itself is still making a large proportion of the population’s ears bleed. Let’s try not to overstep any more boundaries quite so soon, and talk about a natural part of growing up, and the innocent exploration that is a vital part of that.

Lena darling, it is true, you maybe could have chosen your words more wisely, and maybe your editors could have given you some better guidance.  In fact, I place a lot of the responsibility with them.  But the fact is, in this case, the World just ain’t ready for that kind of crazy talk any time soon, and there really is such a thing as over sharing.

Even if you are a wonderful, young, outspoken ground breaker.

If I was Russell Brand’s aunt

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I’d play a game of ‘Let’s see who can stay quiet, the longest’. Russell, sweetheart, it’s time to stop talking. One must know how to recognise that moment when it comes, and accept it. And more than that, one must know one’s limits. And you have well and truly reached yours.

Fingers on lips, while Aunty Anne explains. Sssshhhhhh…….

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Now, I love you very much, and I agree it was like totally a complete riot in the beginning, to proclaim one’s self a revolutionary. Haha! What a jolly jape. Even the pictures of you, transformed into a modern day embodiment of Che Guevara/Jesus, were like totes hilarious. LOL.

But I fear sweet, darling heart of mine, that you were not at all prepared for the response to your, initially frivolous and mischievious comments. And that you most certainly did not for one solitary instance, expect to be invited onto serious, intelligent news programmes to justify your musings on contemporary politics.

You’re a smart boy, so you understand the merits of ‘quitting while you’re ahead’, and bowing out with a little bit of remaining dignity.

That moment has arrived darling. And it happened when you were met by Evan Davis on Newsnight. THIS is an arena where your Dickensian verbosity doesn’t wash, and you will be challenged to substantiate your views and opinions. And you couldn’t.

So, take a step back, say, “I’m happy I made you think about things”. But don’t humiliate yourself any more. Good job lovely boy, you rode the wave long and far, be happy with that. Unless you can up your game.

Lots of love
AP
xx

If I was Jude Law’s aunt (or So Jude Law is going to be a Dad. Again…)

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I’d say;  “Dear heart of mine, dear, dear, sweet, handsome boy.  Sweet heart, darling Jude:

Boys, take note, YOU can't afford five babies like Jude, wear condoms.

Boys, take note, YOU can’t afford five babies like Jude, wear condoms.

STOP GETTING WOMEN PREGNANT ALL OVER THE BLOODY PLACE. *siiiiiiigggghhhhhhhh

Did your mother never give you ‘the chat’, when you were a  wee small boy?  For Heaven’s sakes above!   It is not true that if you wish hard enough little, tiny love fairies, take care of this stuff, it really isn’t.  They don’t come  a-fluttering, undetected, to form a protective barrier with their gossamer wings, in the fou fou of your paramour.  You have the reproductive potency of an Exocet Missile; fairy wings are not going to cut it.  Trust me.

CON. DOMS.  *hefty sigh

Now, of course I perfectly understand that there is a desperate need to propagate those absolutely, let’s not beat about the bush (er heerrrm) here, ‘sent from the skies above, breathtakingly beautiful‘ genes, but COME ON…… *arms folded, sigh. Again.  Darling, Darling, Darling, you now have four and a half children, with three different mothers in England, America and now Ireland.  Good Lord, if you weren’t Jude Law, the Daily Mail would be on you like a tonne of bricks, you’re exactly the type person they love to tear apart.  They’d be calling you for everything. (Who knows, maybe they still will.)

I’m proud that you say you are ‘wholeheartedly committed to raising‘ the new baby, but with your career, your thousands of other children, and your general, Man about Town commitments, how will that be physically possible, without the use of a handy Tardis?

So, with a lot of love in my heart, I say this, “Please get the snip”, or at the very least, wear sixteen condoms, absolutely EVERY SINGLE TIME you climb into bed with a new woman (or an old one).

Do it for your Aunty Anne.

Love xxx”

 

 

Thought for the day

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Be kind. Always.

Be kind. Always.

*There are some good people in the  World.

The lovely waitress in the café just got a substantial tip from a tourist, simply because she picked up his wallet, after he dropped it on his way into the bathroom. Then handed it back to him when he came out again.

She didn’t want to accept it, but he was insistent, saying, “For your honesty”.

She’s lovely, he’s lovely, and I have moist eyes.

 

*Consider this heart, well and truly warmed…….

Thought for the day

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Soooo then, I might have exaggerated my love of routine just a touch, in yesterday’s post.

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Work is good, of course, and I’m lucky to have regular hours and lovely people to teach, and be building my little business, but I LOVE TRAVELLING, LATE NIGHTS, MUSIC, WHISKEY AND LOOSE WOMEN!!

(Maybe not that last one), but you get the gist.

** sigh, roll on the pay cheques and holiday planning for the next year.

Back to reality, of sorts

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After a holiday that seemed to go on for ever, and yet somehow seems non-existent now, I started back to work-full schedule-this week.  It was surprisingly lovely to get back into the office, see some familiar faces, and meet some new folk too.  But, I’ve also discovered, much to my chagrin, that I worship at the altar of routine.

Old school agenda. Remember those????

Old school agenda. Remember those????

I never thought I’d ever say that, out loud.  But there, you have it, it is true.  Without the contraints of regular hours and some kind of direction, i.e. towards the office, and my private classes; I can get a little out of control, very easily swept along, experience extreme highs and crashing blues.  And as my little sister once said a few years ago, she was very glad that I was possessing of no particular talent, because she thought it very likely I’d be dead.  I had to agree with her.

So two months of total freedom is quite enough.  Thank you very much.  For my health and my sanity.

So, when I say back to reality, I don’t mean abject mundanity and boredom.  That’s not what I mean at all.  My weekend involved fancy doughnuts with munchkins, at Travel and Cake, Barcelona.  Followed by drinks with the girls and boys at Super Super, involving a rather heated debate about the *4Chan naked celebrity scandal.  A ‘bit’ of a hangover and a whole day in the alternate universe that was the International Barcelona Tattoo expo, at which we drank beer, watched people get inked, shared lunch space with a tattooed giant in a thong, sang along with a Spanish Elvis tribute; and saw my friend (her of penis gallery legendary status), get her first tattoo.  So all told my reality is pretty cool.  I’m lucky and I love it.

*I am not of the mind that you should expect bad things to happen when you are simply using a file storing facility.  Or that you should accept that ar*seholes will steal your personal information simply because you are famous.  Famous doesn’t mean you are public property, and it does not mean that you should never feel secure enough to take and keep sexy pictures of yourself.