Isn’t it just the loveliest thing, when people are genuinely pleased to see you, after a long period of time?
Also read, Reasons why I love my job #8
First week back to my regular students. Happy days.
Reasons why I don’t have kids #34 (OR: How to be a Nice Shithead)
If I gave birth to boys, I’m afraid that I would have to attempt to *beat seven shades of shithead out of them, from a very early age. FACT. Because it seems that, irrespective of your background, there is something in the nature, that overrides the nuture, that means they all become arseholes at some point. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule, but they are very, very few and far between. Hot Frenchie, my brother……… yep, seriously struggling for more.
“What have I told you about being a NICE sh*thead?”
If the beatings failed, as evidence would suggest is inevitable, I’d then, in my capacity as a responsible mother (no comments please), have to try and educate them in the ways of how to at least be a nice shithead. The nicest shithead it is possible to be.
How to be a NICE Shithead. © Anne Pank, 2014.
1) If you aren’t looking for a relationship, say so:
Man (m): “I don’t want an exclusive relationship.”
Other party (OP): “Ok. Nor do I. Thanks for being honest!”/ “OK. I do. Thanks for being honest!”
2) If you are married, say so:
M: “I’m married, but I DO find you attractive and would like to have some of the sex with you.”
OP: “um right, OK. (knows it’s nothing more than a bit of fun). I’d like to have some of the sex with you too. Thanks for being honest!”/ “um right. Then I’m going to say no. Thanks for being honest!”
3) If you have a string of hos all over the place, make the ho you are with at any given moment, feel like she is the Queen of the Hos. If a woman has made a judgement call, given all the information, and is happy being one of the hos, she at the very least wants to feel like the man’s Best Ho, while the man is with her. Spoil her a little, with your affection and attention, not just your wallet. You share what, eight or nine days/two months/a weekend here and there, each year? It’s not THAT difficult.
M: “I have ‘friends’ in most places I visit, but don’t worry about that baby. I’m here with you. Now.” Or, simply go about your business with the current ho, as if the other hos don’t exist. For the short time you are together. Repeat as necessary.
OP: “Aaahh. Thanks for being honest!”
4) Even if a ‘thing’ is casual, there is no excuse not to be a perfect gentleman. If you are a perfect gentleman, I can guarantee better results. Every time. Team gentlemanly behaviour with honesty, and you’re onto a winner. Because, even under these (understood and agreed) casual circumstances, if you act like a total pig, it is 99% certain that you will get the back up of the other party. And, if you are extremely unlucky, and have found yourself unknowingly with a total **crank, she may just open up a giant can of whoop ass, the likes of which you have never seen in your whole entire life.
5) If you cease to be interested in a person, tell them straight. It’s the sticking plaster theory. Yes, of course it isn’t nice to hear that someone has bored of you. But the short, sharp, shock, is easier than the protracted, drawn out pain.
M: “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t really have a good reason/I’ve met someone else/I feel you’re getting a bit too serious.”
OP: “Wow, OK. That makes me sad. But thanks for being honest!” (can you see a trend forming here?) There may be some weeping and wailing and beating of breasts, but stick with it. Best for them, best for you.
6) Be nice and kind. This is actually just a simple rule for life in general. There really is NO excuse for bad manners, whatever the situation.
Honesty is the most important point here. Followed closely by impecable manners. Lay all your cards on the table, and give the other party a chance to make an informed decision about their life. If you want to have your cake and eat it, give the other person the option to have their cake and eat it, too. It’s only fair. Right?
* RelAX people, metaphorically speaking, of course………
** I speak from experience. The crank my ex dated before me, made my life Hell for six months. Purely because of his piggy, dishonest and ungentlemanly behaviour with her. I didn’t blame her one bit (but I DID call the police). From my heart to yours, with love. You’re welcome.
And that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #34.
Nothing like a healthy dose of humiliation to……
put paid to your ridiculous fantasy.
In four short months I’ve slipped from feeling like someone of note in someone’s life, to a mild irritation. And there’s nothing quite like seeing the object of your affections, lapping up the somewhat undignified idol worship of two drunken (average looking) women, to fill you with revulsion and turn you on your heels to high tail it to the nearest exit.
I don’t want to see it.
Not being a massive fan of humiliation (well, not in that way), and also trying hard to not make a habit of sticking giant, sharp pins in my eyes, I decided to beat a hasty, dignified retreat this weekend. From the actual events unfolding at that exact moment, and the situation as a whole. As much as I realised on Saturday night, that I actually might be a little bit in love with my big crush (what other explanation for the feelings of deep embarrasment at being within clear view of the events unfolding), I also realised the unhealthy imbalance of the relationship. Whatever that relationship is. And so when I saw him grab one said woman around the waist and say, “Where you going? You’re not going anywhere”, I decided it was time for me to go somewhere. Anywhere. Away. And quickly.
I explained quietly and without fuss, that I was leaving because I felt uncomfortable, and agreed wholeheartedly that yes, it was indeed my problem. As he pointed out to me, while escorting me to a taxi.
Because you see, he can do whatever he wants (and he really does) – he’s not my husband or boyfriend. And therefore I have no right to ask him to have even the tiniest little bit of respect for my feelings. Why should he? I’m no-one, right? I’m just a friend after all. But I am most definitely not “one of the boys”, who I’m sure see it often, and don’t really give a f*ck. I do.
And so I return again to my case in point, the Hot Frenchie from February. Our weekend was a casual thing, we both knew it was to be a one-off, probably. But that didn’t stop him making me feel like I was the only woman on the planet for those two days. He didn’t eye up other women while in my company, he didn’t talk about other women to me, he didn’t flirt…… blah, blah, blah. Just as I would never in a million years, out of respect for my (a little more than) friend – or any other companion for the night/date/month/whatever – have been seen drooling or draping myself over other men at the weekend. The unique reason I was there was to spend a little, valuable, precious time with him. It really is just basic good manners and I don’t think there’s any great mystery there. If we are nothing more than platonic friends, all power to your elbow. But if that is the case, then clear lines need to be drawn in other areas.
What (or who) the Hot Frenchie did the day before, or the day after my flying visit, was of absolutely no consequence to me; because while we were sharing time, he was a perfect gentleman and behaved impeccably for that short time. It really isn’t so difficult.
So, if you want to flirt and fool around, that’s fine. Go ahead, I’m just not going to voluntarily hang around to see it. I don’t need to put myself through it. Why would I? Why would anyone?
I need to have respect for myself, if no-one else does.
Reasons why I don’t have kids #33
I don’t think I have ever wanted to bring children into a world, where this is a necessity on British televisión in 2014.
desperately sad times.
Reasons why I don’t have kids #32
Cat burgling action mum
The child-minding bills would be huge, while I was ‘lost in Europe’ for a substanial amount of time, stealing impressive gems. I’d have to rethink everything.
Imagine the scene. I have a sneaking suspicion it’d be terribly difficult to find an Easyjet uniform in size age 8-9 years, thus causing all kinds of problems for the first stage my ‘diamond heist’ plans – getting off the plane in cognito. Suspicions may be raised if the little girl dressed like a flight attendant was also sporting a rather fine beard, just like her older lady colleague; and I really don’t think it’s acceptable behaviour to carry a child off an aeroplane in a suitcase (albeit a 20 kilo beast with breathing holes), to avoid all this unecessary agro.
Children really don’t have great co-ordination. FACT. (Evidence includes smeary faces at meal times/trouble getting dressed/writing their signatures). They also sometimes find it difficult to be quiet. FACT. (Evidence: shouting. All. The. Time). Co-ordination and being quiet are both essential skills for sneaking, creeping and avoiding death by laser, which is always used as defense for important gems in the homes of ambassadors. Who would probably be spoiling guests with giant towers of Ferrero Rocher, while I was simultaneously trying to crack safes and keep the kids under control, upstairs in the west wing.
Not only would they completely cramp my cat burglar style, I’d probably get locked up for ALL the wrong reasons afterwards, and that is my ‘reasons why I don’t have kids’ #32.
Thought for the day
Welcoming new countries every day. Hi Azerbaijan! I wonder who on Earth could be reading from there……….
Kisses from Cambridge.
X
Am I a………
I am terrified of disappointing people. FACT.
I have learnt this very recently, and I don’t like it. I might even go so far as to say, this subconscious fear has led me to, during my lifetime, not stray too far from the path of what’s comfortable and achievable so as not to fall short of the high expectations of others.
When I got home from Marciac, I had a week of reflection (and unexplained sadness), in which I realised what it was exactly, that had upset me so much.
A friend and I had been chatting enthusiastically, since the early part of the year, after little or no contact for the best part of four years. So when it came time to meet face to face, I was filled with the fear that I wouldn’t live up to the job. I even said to him, “Imagine if when we meet, it’s not at all how we imagined or envisaged.” Meaning, in actual fact, “what if I am not what you imagined.” So when there was a suggestion that this was, in fact the case, I was crestfallen.
The notion still wasn’t completely clear until my conversation with the Captain last week, while we were making plans to meet up in Cambridge after seven years. Once we’d made tentative plans to go for dinner, he said he was excited about seeing me after so long. My stomach lurched, my heart sank, and my response? “Don’t get too excited, you might be disappointed.”
Maybe this chronic fear of causing disappointment explains why I treat art and music as a hobby (much to the chagrin of my mother, who has actively encouraged both). I am, as I see it (and have always seen it), an average artist. And best, (when it comes to music) at organising and being behind the scenes.
And maybe this newly discovered aspect of myself, also explains why I enjoy writing here as much as I do, as Anne Pank; if it’s not up to the mark, I can swiftly sidestep all responsibility and steer clear of the uncomfortable emotions connected to letting the people I care about, down.
Things I learned in Britain, August 2014
Privileged to step foot inside the grounds of King’s College
As I leave this green and pleasant land, the same way I arrived, slightly hungover, after two and a half weeks with family and friends (old and new), I take with me the following:
• It’s cold and wet. All year. Usually just when I arrive in Wales.
• North Wales is breathtakingly beautiful, in that wild and tempestuous way, only the UK knows.
• My oldest and dearest friends are amazing, and I’m lucky to have them in my life. Catching up with people you haven’t seen for twenty years, and picking up where you left off, like it was yesterday. And sharing exciting news, priceless.
Just your regular Saturday night out
• I still really rather enjoy a slightly subversive night out….. Think Berlin circa 1920.
• If I don’t go to the gym for a month, the kilo I lose through six months of hard graft, turns into three kilos of arse lard. Not. Happy.
• Weddings make me emotional, even if I don’t know the couple – crashed a wedding party in my gym kit, 29th August – Everyone is so happy and optimistic. (The fools).
• My mega crush, runs a little deeper than I thought.
• I need to find a replacement word for ‘crush’. It isn’t adequate.
• I am so over my past ‘relationships’. This is exceptionally good news. This has been a year of saying, “f*ck you, you were a pig!” A lot. The man sabbatical has served its purpose. Score.
• It doesn’t matter where you are in the World, a smile speaks volumes and laughter is the essence of life. And probably breathing some oxygen.
• I love to be in the classroom. I hugely enjoyed learning new skills in Cambridge and feel privileged to have had the experience to work with some incredible professionals.
• It is possible to meet great people, if you jump in with both feet and find adventure.
• Women are bloody marvellous! Girton College, where I studied, was the result of years of campaigning by Emily Davies, for the rights of women to study at Cambridge. Our classrooms were her apartment. Very cool.
• Fate has a funny way of making worlds collide. A wonderful new friend along the way.
• Dinner and drinks with them is like totally possible, without falling into bed with them. Sometimes…. erhem.
And so, back to the daily slog, I don’t feel rested, and I don’t feel refreshed, but I do feel happy.
***Crush watch***crush watch***
Finally, after many a distraction over the last busy month, and plenty of time between contact, (and the promise of dinner with the Captain), I finally felt that my crush was abating. Replaced slowly with feelings of deep affection, for a new, dear friend for life, I thought that I was starting to regain a little of the composure that a forty-something woman should have in such matters.
Yep. That ought to do it.
Not so! My subconscious impishly skipped through my dreams again last night, poking and prodding and tugging at my heart strings – flinging me to New Orleans, and unceremoniously dumping my crush in my path too. New Orleans looked a lot like Liverpool Docks (a huge disappointment quite frankly) and on the arm of said object of desire, was Marilyn Monroe, sans bouffed hair and makeup, AND a friend from my past life in events. Bumping into my crush and Mazza in the street was shock enough, a brief chat with them awkward, but when they turned to walk away (no doubt to get up to all kinds of saucy shenanigans), I was devastated.
As if the couple’s nonchalance wasn’t bad enough, my friend from my past life in events, who was left behind too, said, “You know that was Marilyn Monroe, don’t you?” Yes………………. Of course I f*$King DO!
So maybe I’m not completely recovered from the adolescent madness, and it’s still on my mind, allbeit, only when I’m sleeping. Maybe that’s progress.
**sigh. All these imaginings of international jewel thiefery and the unobtainable love interests is exhausting. **sigh again.
How to commit the perfect crime (in Europe)
Sitting in the bar chit chatting after our spa day, I was saying to my cousin how strange I found it that you don’t have to provide documents on arrival into EU countries, from other EU countries.
The first time I travelled from Spain to France, I was completely flummoxed when I didn’t have to show my passport on the way out. I simply followed the other exiting passengers in an unknown direction, to suddenly appear through some automatic doors to a waiting crowd, blinking in the glare of a hundred welcome committee smiles; like a totally showbiz lemming. I almost did my best jazz hands.
It made me think, that if you
should so wish, you could disappear within Europe quite easily, once you’d arrived at your initial destination. Then it made me think, this would be really rather useful, should you be in any way, inclined to dabble in some kind of criminal activity. Say, gem theft, for example. Obviously.
So, if this is the case, points to bear in mind are:
1) You must be travelling from your initial destination, on Easyjet, into Europe.
2) You must have been able to lay your hands on an Easyjet uniform.
3) Board plane as ordinary travelling person. (Maybe heading to a stag do/wedding/hen do etc.)
4) Disembark in manner of Easyjet staff after waving off passengers with your best, “Goodbye, thanks, goodbye, thanks.” (No passenger is ever going to say, “wasn’t that the woman sitting next to you?” And no member of staff is ever going to say, “who the Hell are you?”) Trust me.
5) Withdraw all your €207.63 from your account before you leave. You’re going to need that baby for hiring trains/planes/automobiles. And we don’t want to leave a paper trail of credit card bills, now do we?
6) Exit with other staff, people will connect you with the plane.
7) If not completely convinced the uniform is sufficient disguise, don a fake moustache. Foolproof.
8) You must leave by motorcycle, so go straight to the hire desk and get one. With cash. Shoot off a blaze of lurid orange.
9) Now you are free to criminate all over the European shop, with total freedom.
And then my cousin said, “Why are we dressed as Easyjet staff?” And I said, “That is a really good question.”
*back to the master criminal drawing board.
The Secret Diary of Anne Pank 