Friday, 21 September 2012

Million Dollar Cry Baby

I'm posting this on the 21st September, because I've been a lazy little toad lately, and just to keep this up to date. But do not fear, I'm back in the game, and I'm going to be a regular little postman once more!

6th September
All bets are off. You know, those bets that you all (probably) had on me and B, and our joint futures and shit? Those ones. Yeah, they’re off.
It’s all over. Not just with him, but with my whole little Parisian life that I’d set up for myself... and not only. France is over, my year abroad is over, and life as we know it is all o v e r.
I’m such a sad little bunny, I just can’t.
Tears have been flowing freely, keeping the olive trees flourishing in Puglia (that’s a little clue to tell you just how much I’ve been sob-ob-ob-ing, and a bigger clue as to where in the world I am right now).
I don’t really want to discuss this. But I mean, I will if you want to comfort me. To be honest, it’s the only thing I can concentrate on at the moment but I don’t think that you necessarily care to hear about me and B’s irreconcilable differences, or about the way he cheated on me with my best friend, or about the way I cheated on him with his mum, or about the way he slapped me around, or about the way I didn’t tell him about my stint in prison, or about the way he told me that he didn’t like my hair, or about the way I told him he had shit taste in clothes and food and people, or about the way he was a liar, or about the way I was always late to meet him... Do you?
Oh you guyzzz. Honestly? None of those dramatic things happened. It was the most civilised and kind break-up that I’ve not only ever been involved in, but that I’ve ever even heard of. 
And you know what? That made it all the harder to deal with.
The conclusion I’ve come to is this: break-ups are only bearable if one of you hates the other one, or even better, if both of you hate each other.
But I digress...
The real point I’m attempting to make here is this: mums and crying daughters. Why is the former always drawn to the latter like a maternal moth to a weepy flame? Answer me that, chicitas! Answer me that.
On two occasions this week my mum has appeared when I least wanted, but most needed her. It’s quite magical really.

Occasion 1: Me and B break up.
I’ll set the scene...
Skype date. The essential form of communication for yearning long-distance couples. Me on my end, grinning from ear to ear. B on his end, looking nervous and edgy and quite frankly, concerned. Well, we talked, we laughed, we decided to break up, I cried, he got upset, we decided it was for the best, we laughed again, we hung up.
It didn’t take place quite as quickly as that, and a lot more was said, and a lot more long, lingering looks were given, but that’s the general idea of what went down. Bear in mind that this conversation took place at 1am. Also bear in mind that my mum had been fast asleep in her bed for well over 2 hours. Fast asleep. Maybe dreaming. Probably snoring.
Alright, so, here’s an update of the scene and all the characters involved, in case you were getting lost in the complex plot... There was me in Nonna’s kitchen, digesting the fact that
me and B were now me. And B. There was B in his little bedroom in Paris, hopefully heartbroken, and preferably crying (the image of that makes me feel so much better). Then there’s my tiny mum, fast asleep upstairs, oblivious to everything.
You might be thinking that I sound as though I handled the break up like a brave little soldier. You’d be wrong. It took me all of 10 seconds to start crying, and as soon as the floodgates opened it was a free for all. A kitchen-flooding, run-for-your-lives, get-your-wellies-on-quick free for all. Now although there may have been a lot of water produced, I do pride myself on the fact that I can cry very quietly and reservedly when I set my mind to it. Obviously I can sob and weep and gulp my little heart out if I feel like a melodramatic soap opera cry, but if I really concentrate I can get all my tears out in a very organised and lady-like fashion.
So I had my five minutes of delirium, and then I got my shit together, and was looking through what me and B had typed to each other on Skype, analysing where it had all gone tits up, when I heard the unmistakeable padding of my mum’s footsteps on the stairs. My tears had all more or less evaporated by this point, so I was relatively calm by the time she wandered into my lair. Now, she knew I’d been speaking to B because I’d already started talking to him before she traipsed upstairs to beddy byes. So I was relatively sure her first question would be something like, "so how’s B?" or... "Is B okay?" or... "what’s new with B?" or "what’s poppin’ in Paris?"
Something like that was bound to be asked; I geared myself up for it. I was ready and waiting to hit her back with something casual like, "yeah, B’s cool," or "Paris is chill," or "all’s bangin’ and slammin’ in France," or something similar; I was so ready.
I’d already decided to potentially wait until morning to tell her we’d broken up, so that I could have one solitary night of private mourning time. This because I knew my mum would take the news as badly, if not worse, than I had. She only met him once, but when she hugged him goodbye she teared up and told him, "thank you for looking after my Silv," and afterwards confided in me that she’d "fallen in love with him." She’s not a love rival; she just automatically likes anyone that takes me off her hands (je rigole!). So my intention was to spare her a sleepless night. Probably.
So, as predicted, mum spotted me at my station, and asked, "so how’s B?" No surprises there.
And, in answer to her question, instead of one of my safe, set phrases, instead of a laidback "yeah, B’s cool," what did I say? Would you like to know? WELL I’M TELLIN’ YA!
I plastered a big ol‘ fake smile on my face, and ‘nonchalantly‘ said, "we broke up." When coming out with this farce, the two key things I forgot were these:
  1. I didn’t really feel like smiling, so the smile that was produced was fake at best, and scary at worst.
  2. I am incapable of being ‘nonchalant’. My face just can’t manage it.
Needless to say, I was less than convincing.
All it took was for my mum to say, "oh sweetie," and to reach out to hug me, and I was doing that soap opera crying I briefly mentioned earlier. I tried to say, "I’m really okay" a few times through my tears, but it was kinda reminiscent of a yawning child insisting they’re not tired. Nobody bought it.
Credit where credit’s due, I kept the denial up for an admirably long time.
"It’s really fine, honestly." Tears.
"It’s for the best." More tears.
"We’ll both be less stressed this way." So many tears.
"I’m not even sad." The most tears ever.
"I’m actually relieved." An unprecedented amount of tears.
"I’m so happy." More tears than have ever been released at any time.
"In fact, I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been." Tears all over the floor.
"Nobody has ever been happier than I am right now." Wading through tears just to get tissues to mop up the new tears.
So, in conclusion, tears had free reign, were poured out by the bucket load, and ensured that the kitchen floor wouldn’t need washing for a couple of weeks.
Why is it that you automatically cry more when your mum tries to make you feel better? I doubt that it’s mums’ intention to cause more distress, and yet, that’s fundamentally exactly what happens. Before my little mum arrived, I was calm and resigned, handling the situation like a trooper, and yet 2 seconds after her arrival we were having a pool party in a piscine made out of my heartbreak.
Why is that? Is it because you automatically feel 5 years old again when you get a proper cuddle from your mum? And why is it that it also feels okay to nod and say, "okay", when she asks, "do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?"
At 21 years old that still felt like the only thing that would enable me to sleep in the sad-little-munchkin state I was in.
I think I could be 45 years old, and that would still feel like the most comforting thing in the world to do.
Ain’t no shame!
La mamma e’ sempre la mamma, no? 

Occasion 2: I have a breakdown over a text from B.
A few days later, mum’s tear-radar got a workout again.
I’d been out the night before with C.F., my cousin and soulmate. I’d sent B a text, asking him how he was and telling him that I was going to Rome at the weekend. He text back, and said that he was sad knowing that I wasn’t his ‘little miss’ anymore, and that he was ‘bon a RIEN’ in the state he was in. Upon reading this text, I was happy. I was more than happy- I was comforted. When you’re hurting over someone, one of the only things that makes you feel marginally better is knowing that they’re having as shit a time as you. So we text each other ‘goodnight,’ I got on with my night out with a significantly bigger smile on my face that I’d had before, and all was right in the world.
Until... I got up the next morning, and re-read the texts. Fucksake. Never do myself any favours, do I? No.
I read them once, read them twice, read them 6000 times. Tried to forget about them.
I wandered around the house, ate a load of prosciutto. Tried to put the whole shenanigan out of my mind. Managed this quite well, all things considered. Well, that’s until C.F. came over to chat to me, and asked the simple yet powerful question, "sei triste?" (Forgot to mention that cousins have much the same talent as mums for extracting unwanted tears.) I shook my head, and with the head shake unleashed another waterfall. My tear ducts are SO uncooperative, I swear. So I was in the process of having another cry, when we heard a chirpy little knock on the door that could signal one person, and one person only: my mother. Aaaaah shit.
"Don’t open the door!" I shouted frantically, as C.F. walked towards the knocking.
"Wait a minute!" Dashed the few stray tears away with the back of my hand.
"Coming mum!" Grabbed a tissue for my tell-tale mascara tracks.
"2 secs!" Splashed my face with cold water.
"Alright, open it!" Permission granted to C.F., as I ran round to the other side of the house to give myself a few vital extra seconds to compose myself. All under control. No sign left of any fallen tears, not even a puddle on the kitchen floor. Well done team.
Mum walks into the living room, where I’m positioned ‘nonchalantly’ on the sofa. We chat for a few minutes about our respective mornings; we exchange news (with me clearly avoiding mentioning the B word); we discuss lunch plans. Pericolo scampato. Yahoo! I’ve got away with having a sneaky little cry! I am so sly, nobody need ever know I had this moment of weakness, I am so good at hiding my inner...
"So why have you been crying?"
What. HOW?! How literally the fuck does my mum know?! It is just something that I will never be able to understand.
As soon as she says that, I do the fateful head-shake again, and out come the fateful salty traitors once more.
Once I’ve had another few minutes of amateur dramatics fun, I collect myself, and ask, "how did you know I’d been crying?", and my mum shook her head and said, "ma secondo te? Una mamma non sa quando sua figlia sta male?"
Not really the answer I was looking for, but it’ll do for now.
Maybe I’ll understand these magic tricks when/if I’m ever a mum myself.
But until then, I’ll just have to work on getting a grip of myself. 

Friday, 13 July 2012

Officially off the Market, Fellas!

It was bound to happen. Everything was leading to this moment, and yet... it still caught me a little bit unawares...
Guess what? This single lad-ay, is now just a... lad-ay. What I'm subtly trying to get across here, without actually having to type it out (which was a big ol' waste of time, because typing it out is precisely what I'm about to do right now...), is that B.F. is now my actual BF. My boyf, everyone, B.F. is now my boyfriend.
Not sure what this now means for us, but I know what it means for me. It means that now when I introduce him, I have to say something weird and awkward like, 'so, hey everyone, this is my boyfriend...' Gross. OR, even grosser, my friends have free reign to start being the most annoying they can possibly be by taking it upon themselves to say outrageous, unnecessary things when they meet him, like, 'oooooh, so you're B.F., the famous B.F., that B.F. that we talk about all the time, Silv's big ol' famous b o y f r i e n d !!'
Broke out into a cold sweat just writing that. And that's not just me being a dickhead (although I may have used a tiny bit of artistic license on the exact wording... and I may actually just be a dickhead regardless...); one of my friends genuinely did say that to him when she met him for the first time last week. She's not a good friend, granted, but she is a human being, and with that title, I would think that the tiniest bit of tact would be a part of her DNA. Apparently not. As soon as she'd had a few drinks she even 'whispered' (actually just put her hand over my ear, made eye contact with B.F., and shouted in my direction), 'he is SO hot! Well done you! You go girlfriend! Can't believe you snagged such a catch! He is SO French! I am SO jealous! I want a French boyfriend!'(once again, I can't confirm that the words 'you go girlfriend' were actually used, but just go with me on this one) And etc., until everyone involved was as uncomfortable as possible.
Even my mum's jumped on the bandwagon. Completely unsurprising, but annoying nonetheless. She's taken to asking in nearly all of her texts, 'seeing B.F. tonight?'
And I usually am, so I say, 'yes Ma, I'm seeing B.F. tonight...'
And unable to curb any enthusiasm with regards to matters of the heart of anyone, never mind her only daughter, that obviously leads to her needing to know every single detail. A couple of nights ago, I foolishly told her that I was on the Champs de Mars with him, looking at the Eiffel Tower's twinkly little love lights, and she text back, 'can't think of anywhere more romantic!!!' (And, for once, I haven't even exaggerated the amount of exclamation marks used...) So...
'Well how did this all come about?!', I hear you eagerly ask.
'In much the same way as our last conversation about where we stand went actually', I now answer you.
I think the 'areyouseeinganyoneelse' night set the tone for the whole relationship quite honestly. Any conversation that needs to be had now seems to go a little something like this: I bring up something about us as a twosome, that I'm inevitably uncomfortable about discussing ; he looks at me in utter disbelief, and simplifies all my worries into one quick, seemingly obvious solution; he makes me feel a bit stupid for even asking whatever I asked; we end up closer/officially together/married.
This time, he'd invited me to his cousin's birthday party in a bangin' area of the city, and I didn't really want to go, what with it being a family thing and shit. But B.F. convinced me that it was completely casual and that there was fuckloads of champagne, so I really couldn't turn it down. So I headed on over, in a pretty typical get-up of mostly denim, with some weird headwear and a smidgen of leather, but when I saw where the party was, I almost turned around and got back onto the metro. The apartment was one of the flyyyyyest I've ever seen, and that's saying something, being as the families I worked for here all have unreal places. I'm talking chandeliers, fairy lights installed into the ceiling (sounds tacky as fuck, but somehow looked absolutely necessary, and quite frankly, magical), people dressed in ballgowns...
So there's me and B, the youngest guests by a mile, sticking out like twin sore thumbs, and he's as happy as Larry. Happier than Larry even.
He's also extremely drunk.
While I was dithering around, trying to talk myself into going to the stupid party, and then taking a fair few decades to find the apartment, B had gotten a very unfair headstart on the alcohol.
To overcompensate for my discomfort, I tried to be as sociable as possible, and two Chinese guests latched onto me. They liked my headwear, so I liked them. They took me under their wings, and were being nosey little rascals about me and B, asking completely inappropriate and I R R E L E V A N T questions, like, 'so how strong are the feelings between you two?', and, 'what are you both going to do when you leave France?!' I know! So probe-y! So I humoured them where possible, but drinks had been consumed, and all tact had been left at the office, so much more often than was strictly necessary, my new friends would say, 'so where is your boyfriend?', or they'd say to B, 'come and join your girlfriend before we get too attached!' And B didn't even flinch. Not once. All this whilst I was writhing around in utter discomfort of course.
So on our way home from the party, I 'casually' (ha!) thought I'd try and gauge B's opinion on the whole hoo-hah.  
This is a cheeky little transcript (as close to the real chain of events as humanly possible) of the conversation that followed:

Me: 'You know those boys at the party?'
B.F.: 'The ones you were talking to?'
Me: 'Yeah, those ones.'
B.F.: 'Yeah.'
Me: 'They kept calling you my boyfriend hahahahahahaha'. Cue insane, manic, strait-jacket-deserving laughter...
B.F. looks at me in utter disbelief (told ya there was a pattern!)
B.F.: 'So...?'
Cue me toning the laughter down to a nervous giggle.
Me: 'Well... I... erm...'
At this point B.F. literally stops walking, and turns to look at me, disbelief and, yes I'm going to say it, disappointment, glowing in his little brown eyes.
B.F.: 'Well, aren't I?'
Oh shit.
Me: 'Well, we've just... never talked about it and...'
B.F.: 'So who am I to you?'
Ohhhhh shit.
Me: 'Well who am I to you?'
Immature, je sais, but I panicked... Give me a break! 
B.F.: 'You're not changing this around now...'
Watch me!
Me: 'No, but seriously though, we've never actually discussed it, so...'
B.F.: 'Well you're my girlfriend. I didn't think we had to say it out loud. I thought it was obvious.'
Oh bloody hell. Well obviously it seems like the most obvious thing ever now... Cue me feeling ridiculous again for a change...
So anyway, I won't bore you with any more of this word for word account (I'm well aware that it doesn't make for very riveting reading), but I basically backtracked as much as possible, and tried to explain to him that it's just because I'm generally used to stuff being a lot less simple in relationships.
B.F.: 'I don't like complicated.'
Ah man, neither do I, bubs, neither do I.
...and that's how I ended up with B.F. as my B-word.

I have approximately zero false pretensions about what's going to happen when I leave, so I'm just going to enjoy it while it's still fresh and fun. However, pessimism or no pessimism...
Foot. Mouth. I always put the first into the second. Yum. Upon discussion with one of my friends in the foyer (I do have some, you guys!!) about how Long Distance Relationships could possibly work, I was throwing some valid and rational points around, like, 'babe, they NEVER work in ANY case.' This gem was provided by me right before remembering that the Foyer Friend in question is currently enjoying (not sure if that's the right verb- maybe 'suffering' or 'putting up with' are more fitting) an L.D.R.
I quickly saved the situation by saying, 'obviously it's different if you've already been together a long time when you leave...' Gem number 2. It quickly dawned on me that she got together with her L.D.B.F. exactly one day before she came away to Paris. Cool.
Always just speaking out of turn, aren't I?
The weird thing is, I shouldn't even feel like this about L.D.R.s, being as my very own parents worked an L.D.R. And they worked it well.
What's more, my beloved L.T. and her L.D.B.F. were hunky dory the whole time she was away from him in the South of France too. So maybe I'm just wrong as per always, and maybe it really does depend on the couple and... the situation?
Not me.
And with that, my little fairy princesses, I'm off to see my... *ahem*... boyfriend.

Tuesday, 3 July 2012

Dulcet Tones

Also, B.F. thinks it's absolutely the funniest comparison that anyone's ever come up with to say that I sound like Kelly from Misfits when I speak English, and he

For anyone who isn't familiar with Misfits (if so, what the fuck is wrong with you? It's one of the best things on TV!), Kelly's the one at the end who's unfamiliar with the concept of 'bwunch'...
Now... I like Kelly as much as the next girl, but I'd really rather not share her accent.
Really sad.
That said, I'm just not willing to take this one lying down. So here's me, saying the same exact phrase:

Note, the sheer amount of difference, and the similarity in tone and overall sound to other famous females, namely Her Royal Highness The Queen.

'What country are you FROM?!'

Haven't told you little beauties about Big B for a while, so I'll give you un petit update. You deserve it.
Okay, so I think the last time I told you anything about him I was still being a cold little ice queen.
Oh well haven't I just
Well now that you ask... yes, yes I have actually.
Can't get enough of the little critter now, can I?
So here's hoping he never sees anything I wrote about him before...
Last night I made the mistake of 'sharing' and light-heartedly telling him that he annoyed me the first night we met. I knew I shouldn't have said anything as soon as the words came out of my mouth and his little face dropped all the way down to the floor... That just tells you everything you need to know. We seem to have accidentally gotten pretty serious about each other without even noticing the exact moment when it happened.
He went away this past weekend to visit his sister and niece, and I found it really quite difficult to be away from him (christ, can't even take myself seriously writing that...) I guess infatuation springs up on the best of us. And when I say the best of us, I mean me.
So I saw him yesterday for the first time in the grand total of 4 days, and I was so embarrassingly excited. He's so cute with his little face (somebody stop me...) Anyway, he saw me, and came over, and we had a little (big) cuddle and I asked him how he was, and he looked at me all longingly and said, 'better now.' Didn't even cringe. I'm so disappointed in myself.
I'd told my friend, S.E., that I'd pop into her little gathering last night and bring B along, but as soon as I saw him I just wanted to have him to myself. Cue turning into one of those really annoying girls that picks bros over hoes. But, S.E. isn't exactly a bezzie M, and in my defense, I probably only have 3 or 4 weeks of time left with B.F., possibly ever. So, for once, fuck everything that I usually stand for.
I had a cutie time with him as usual, and then once we were all snuggled up back at his house, I decided that it was the absolute ideal time to lay my metaphorical cards on the table and just go ahead and find out whether we're exclusive, or just what.
I've been toying around with the idea of asking him for a few days now, and what I seemed to come back to more than anything else was- it's destined to be a short and sweet little situation, so why complicate it with rules and shit?
But, on the other, more grabby hand, I thought, why would I risk ruining the memory of it, turning it into more of a short and sour situation, by finding out too late that actually me and B.F. are on two completely different pages (me on page 54, where we're starting to get excited by the plotline; him on page 7, where you don't even really care if you lose the book because you've hardly invested any time on it at all)? I'm a jealous only child; there's no point in trying to convince myself that I can be casual and cool. It's just not something that I'm capable of, as much as I delusionally like to think that it is.
So, the decision was made. Just fucking ask him.
Ha! Easier said than done..
Once I'd got it into my head that I was just going to go right out and be all calm, like, 'yo man, so it's only me, yeah?' I forgot how to speak at all. And then he was being all annoying, chatting about other stuff, making me lose my nerve... And then, once I'd decided the moment was ideal, I realised that he was falling asleep. Wah! Such an ordeal.
I panicked then, and knew I needed to stop being a dickhead, and just use my words. That said, I knew I'd have to give it some kind of introduction before coming out with it out of the blue, so my excellent and original leading line was this: 'Can I ask you something?'
Oh no.
And he's a babe, so of course, he woke right up, and was all ears. Obviously, I changed my mind at that point, and decided that I didn't even want to know, and did the most annoying thing anyone can ever do, and said, 'oh, it doesn't matter actually.' So that, of course, it really mattered to him after that.
I knew then that I'd have to man up and just.ask.
But just.ask I did not.
I'm going to skip the details of the next 5 or 6 minutes, because they were painful to live out, never mind to read about, so I'll do you the favour of condensing them into this: 2 and a half minutes of ridiculous shyness from my part; 2 and a half minutes of insistent coaxing from his part; 2 seconds of me mumbling, 'ijustwantedtoknowifyou'reseeinganybodyelse' at the speed of light; and then a fair few seconds of him asking me to repeat myself and digesting what I'd said.
This is where the language barrier gets a tiny bit tiresome.
His first reaction was, 'you mean, like, dating?' (hate that word...) And as soon as I nodded, he incredulously said, 'no!'
That little exclamation mark doesn't represent him shouting; it represents him being completely and utterly dismayed at the question. He then reiterated this with an 'of COURSE I'm not!', and then punctuated it with a, 'do you think I'm a bastard?', which I found a bit excessive, but I think he was suffering from shock, so can't really be held responsible for his actions. He then looked at me a lot, and tried to u n d e r s t a n d. Disaster. I'd obviously answered his, 'do you think I'm a bastard?' with a 'no', and some other similar encouraging words. However he wanted to know after that whether I'd ever been cheated on, which I have, so I got some free therapy into the deal to boot. He said, 'look, I'm not going to sleep with your best friend', which isn't exactly what I was insinuating, but is also good to know... Then he came out with, 'well we're dating. Aren't we?' Yes, B.F., please stop calling it that, but yes, I guess we are. That seemed to be his answer to why he couldn't possibly be seeing anyone else, so I think there are different rules about these things in France. In all fairness, once B.F. started to grasp what it was that I was asking, he came out with, 'what country are you from?!', which was a bit startling, being as he knows full well that I'm English, but I guess he was just trying to make some kind of point about my question being so ludicrous that it must mean I'm actually from an Asian tribe where polygamy is encouraged, or some shit. I mean, in England I once 'dated' (eurgh) a boy for nearly a year, until the grand finale and closest thing to a love declaration I was presented with was, 'I wanna make you my main squeeze.' Not his only squeeze, just his main one. Let's bear in mind that not only am I not a lemon, but also this priceless offer was sent in a text, and even more shockingly, I felt like it was a real commitment. I'd even go as far as saying I was quite pleased by that turn of events. So, my thoughts on what 'dating' entails are somewhat skewed, to say the least.
So B.F. tried to see it from my point of view, bless his little cœur, and said, 'well, okay, maybe with other girls if I don't really care then it would be alright to date other people, but not when it's like this...'
Obviously, I milked it then (what?!! We were having a moment!!) and said, 'well, what's it like now?'
And he said, 'it's special...'
N'AWWWW! Less than a month ago, I probably would have thrown up all over his face at that comment, and now I'm the one encouraging this behaviour. What's gone on?
Ah well.
So he said some other cutie stuff about him never having been like this with anyone else, and other things, which I'll try and keep to myself (being as I've been oversharing like it's going out of fashion lately...) But basically, his reaction made me realise that I needn't have even asked, because, although we've never had a conversation about where we stand, he's so proper and so lovely with me, that, of course, he's not seeing anybody else. Besides, when? When would he even get the time to? He's with me every minute he can be.
So, I'm going to round off by saying that I'm an overcomplicated lunatic, as per always, and I guess me and B.F. aren't seeing other people.
What dya think about that?

Saturday, 30 June 2012

Long Hair, Don't Care

Girls (and possibly boys- I'm never one to discriminate!), I’m about to share with you my biggest beauty secret...
Once I reveal it you’ll be thanking me for the rest of your little lives.
It’s something that I hear so many of my friends moaning about: wanting, needing, not-seeing-the-point-in-continuing-life-without MERMAID HAIR.

And you see, I am in a position to give you advice on this matter. I have hair. And it’s very long.
It’s belly button length, and it's the funnest thing I own. So much joy comes from shaking it around, flicking it backwards and forwards, and dangling it over the sides of buildings Rapunzel-style. I really, truly, honestly, believe that there's a direct correlation between the amount of laffs you can have in life and the amount of hair on your head.
So mes petites choux, are you ready to hear how I’ve achieved it?
Seriously though, because you can't un-read this information once you've seen it.

Here it is: Just Don’t Cut It. Ever.

It seems so simple, because it is. If you don't want short hair, then don't cut bits of it off...
People who feed you that bullshit about having regular trims to encourage it to grow are LYING. My hair’s long as fuck, so I’m the one you should be listening to!
True, if you look closely my ends are as frayed as an old carpet, but you gotta take the highs with the lows, guys. Length over health.
One of my bezzie M’s comes from a family of hairdressers, and when she reads this she’s probably going to kill you for listening to me, but that's just because she wants you to go and spend money at her establishment.

I'm always slightly jealous when I see all these smug French girls with their healthy blunt ends, but what it comes down to is this: can they wear their hair as a bra?
Didn't think so. 
Just follow my example, and you too could look like this!
All natural. I know it's hard to believe. Also modelling my most beautiful Gypsy Boy Fringe to date...
Just like spun gold.

So girls, the moral of the story is: wear your split ends with pride! Aint no shame!

Thursday, 21 June 2012

Horrifying (Toilet) Chain of Events

When I signed up to this babysitting business, I didn't realise how many life lessons (all grim) would surface. And yet, 2 months on (waaaaah, it's going waaay too fast!), I know more about myself, about children, and about general coping mechanisms, than I ever thought possible. I'm being a drama queen (quelle surprise!) as usual, but it has been a rocky road at times.
Let me share with you a few of my favourite (and when I say 'favourite', I actually mean 'most upsetting') moments thus far:

Toilet Trauma
A few days ago I had to wipe a bum that was not my own for the first time in my sheltered life.
So upsetting.
I was with the twins, and we were playing chase. They were in their socks; I was in my brogues; the immaculate wooden floor was getting scuffed to within an inch of its life; there were 6 year old boys slipping and sliding dangerously all over the shop... A laugh all round.
Suddenly a twin cried out 'PAUSE', and ran to the toilet for a much-advertised poo. Not a problem. Even if, at the ripe old age of 6 years old, I feel as though he could have shown me the respect of closing the door (it's not much fun to accidentally make eye contact with a child who's pulling concentrated faces, whilst dangling their little legs off the toilet...) So I continued to spin around the front room like a Beyblade (I'm becoming an expert in these!), while Twin 2 grew gradually more and more violent with his catching methods.
After a few minutes I shout out a tentative, 'Are you okay in there?' to Twin 1. Wish I hadn't.
'Peux-tu m'essuyer?!', he calls back. No need to tell you what that means... Well, I will if you really want. Homeboy was asking me to be designated wiper. Yup. My job just changed from something light and cheery to... my worst nightmare.
Let me explain... I'm kinda squeamish when it comes to bodily functions. I've only recently learnt how to say the word 'poo' out loud (and even then only with my closest friends.) I once stopped seeing a boy because we walked past some spilt chocolate on a floor, and he said, 'Siiiiilv, have you shit yourself again?!' He thought it was hilarious; I thought it was a dealbreaker.
Obviously I couldn't leave Twin 1 stranded on the toilet (and believe me, I contemplated it), so I mustered up all the courage I had in me and proceeded into No Man's Land. Once there, I gathered approximately 16 sheets of toilet paper, and then struggled to find a way of wiping without actually seeing, or getting too near to, anything. Luckily, Twin 1 was completely o b l i v i o u s to my discomfort, humming away, happy as Larry, while I performed professional gymnastic moves to try and get the job done without actually using any of my own limbs. It was a proud moment in my career when I'd disposed of the pile of paper and stepped back to breathe a sigh of relief, until... a little voice shouted, 'Encore!!'

I swear to god.
So the whole charade had to start again, and by this time I'd lost the will to live, and was genuinely considering leaving my post (always one to take things calmly...) How did my cutie little babysitting job turn into this horror story?! How.
Once His Majesty was satisfied with the result, he clambered down from his throne to continue playing as if nothing was wrong with the world, while I frantically washed my hands 20 times.
And then the game of chase continued.

Toilet Trauma Take Two
This story involves a different 6 year old, a completely different situation (i.e. it was me on the toilet, not a child), but the same level of upset and unease.
I was with J.L., the little bubba who lived in Boston for a year, therefore understands every word I say to him in English (even when I say, 'cannot be arsedddd with this today'- whoops!) I excused myself for 30 seconds, telling him I was going for a quick wee, and was surprised to notice that while I was in the toilet he was beautifully quiet.
Until... he charges the bathroom door open (I'm still sitting on the toilet at this point, but clearly J.L. doesn't see the point in shyness among friends...), and comes stomping in in my 5 inch wedges. He looks so pleased with himself, and keeps looking down at his feet, as if to say, 'LOOK SILV! NOTICE! LOOK AT MY TINY BABY FEET IN YOUR ENORMOUS SHOES! DON'T I LOOK PRETTY?! TELL ME I LOOK PRETTY!!!!'
So I humoured him, and said, 'awww, that looks funny!', before dealing with the more pressing matter in hand, and saying, 'but you shouldn't really walk in on people when they're in the toilet...'
He completely ignored my ludicrous suggestion, and continued to parade up and down the landing in his new shoes (actually handling the heel height very professionally- props where props are due).
So that was nice. 

Piddle Party
Okay, so, I probably shouldn't say this (but then again, I probably shouldn't say most things that I do say), but I have a favourite child that I look after, and that's E.V. He gives me every single possible reason to dislike him, and yet I just think he's a dude. He's the youngest, at only 4 years old, and he's an only child like me, but the kind of only child that gives only children a bad name. He is the manager of the tantrum team, and the director of the strop association. When he's in a good mood he is the most fun, cutest little cherub anyone's ever laid eyes on. When he's in a bad mood it's the end of life as anyone knows it.
So last week I found him in one of his most impressively horrible moods. That's okay. We all have off days.
But ooooh shit, this one took the crown.
I dealt with him relatively nicely until bath time, and then all. hell. broke. loose. All hell broke so loose. He did his usual trick of making me think he's going to comply, by taking off all his clothes and standing near the bathroom. But then once he looks as though he's all ready to jump into the bath, what he actually does is jump... away. And then runs all around the house. Really fast.
Or else, he'll put one foot in the bath, SCREAM that it's too hot (it's never too hot; in fact, a lot of the time, it's almost too cold), and then jump out and run all around the house. Really fast.

Or, on special occasions, he'll put two feet in the bath, lulling me into a false sense of security, and then SCREAM that he needs a wee, and then jump out and run all around the house. Really fast.
A personal favourite, and alternative method of distraction, that he uses, is the Snail Watering-can Trick. He has a watering-can, and it's in the shape of a snail. This is the Snail Watering-can. The Snail Watering-can Trick goes a little something like this...
He'll put his two little feet in the bath, SCREAM that he needs a wee, and then when I offer to run him quickly to the toilet, he'll shake his little angelic head, and point to the Snail Watering-can. Yep, you've guessed it. What this 4-year-old joker is suggesting is that I hand him the Snail Watering-can, so that he can urinate inside it, saving the unnecessary job of getting out and going to the toilet, so that I can have the unsavoury job of emptying and washing out said Snail Watering-can. Lovely.
The first time he suggested this I was absolutely horrified, and point-blank refused to hand him the Snail Watering-can. However, he was incredibly insistent, and his voice got higher and more distressed, until his live-in nanny (yep, he has two ladies looking after him at a time. He's royalty, my friends, he is royalty), came in to see what all the commotion was about. As he SCREAMED about his predicament, I turned to Live-In Nanny to find some solidarity, and to share the hilarious joke about him wanting to use Snail Watering-can as a personal potty, only to find her conspiratorially handing him Snail Watering-can and putting her finger to her lips to indicate a secret shared.
As E.V. happily urinated into the poor unsuspecting snail, I put my head in my hands, and considered changing my methods of persuasion. I mean, if a child really wants to piss on his toys, should I let them?
You'll be glad to know that I decided that it was a definite 'no'. I may come off as the bad guy occasionally, but I do think the line needs to be drawn when piss starts being thrown around. One day it's the Snail Watering-can, the next day it's you. 
You need to nip it in the bud, you guys, you really do.

Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Backie with a Babe

What a fucking night.

So... B.F. tries to make me sleep over again (sneakily), even though I have zero intention of doing that tonight (haven't had any kind of wax for nearly a month, wearing gay pants... all the usual precautions). Once I say I have to leave, he keeps coyly grabbing me, and cheekily wrestling with me to try and get me to stay, and then I lose it and literally roll myself off his bed, saying, 'NO, SERIOUSLY NOW.'
So he huffs and puffs all the way to the metro stop with me (don't particularly need him to do that), and then keeps me lingering by kissing me a lot and as usual, I have to physically run down the steps to get him to stop.
I know I'm risking missing my curfew, so I'm tense until I get to my metro change, and then the fucking screen says '7 minutes' until the next train. Christ almighty. Waiting for the metro for any longer than 3 minutes feels like a life.time. So I get to my stop at literally 10 minutes to 1 (and we all know that my foyer closes its prison gates to the whole world at 1...)
I run all the way through the metro station to my exit, with fucking smart dicks laughing at me, and when I get to the exit the fucking DOORS ARE CLOSED. My God. If I wasn't panicking before then I'm panicking at this point. So I run back through the station, having to hop over various ticket booths, run past same smart dicks as before, who by this time can't believe their luck at getting the opportunity to laugh at me a second time... Then emerge on the other side of the world, and I am not the most natural with directions, so being on this opposite side is disorienting to say the least...
So I run blindly, until I see another human being (an unsuspecting waiter). By this point I'm panting, and a sweaty, stringy, Gypsy Boy Fringe is in full swing, so when I squeak, 'excusez-moi, mais c'est ou l'hopital?!' (nearest landmark to the foyer), he's probably thinking I want to go and check myself in. Barely stop to properly listen to his directions. Carry on running. So lost.
See another girl, zooming past on her push bike. By this point it's about 4 minutes to 1, and I'm envisaging having to crawl back into the metro station to snuggle up to a tramp/the men who'd been taking the piss out of me and my less-than-Olympic running. When I shout, 'Excusez-moi, je cherche Rue .......', I think I may look slightly/enormously desperate. But alas, she tells me the way, and then as she turns away I make a sort of animalistic wail. Luckily, she's a nice girl, because she basically says, 'just get on the back of my bike you outrageous creature.' So another 1.5 minutes are lost with me struggling to get a grip of her waist/slipping off the back/almost having a self-pitying crying session. So this angel struggles her way round a few corners with me clinging to her, and also feels it necessary to say a significant amount of tines, 'I really don't think you'll make your curfew you know.' Yeah, cheers. She then drops me off SO. FUCKING. FAR. AWAY. FROM. MY. FOYER. (I mean, I'm grateful for the help, but if you REALLY want to help, can't you just pedal to my door?? Help a sister out!) 

Needless to say, by now I am a train wreck, and I feel like I'm going to pee my pants; can't even bring myself to check my watch anymore, and just it feels like it's all over. But the worst is yet to come, as I run across roads without even looking left, right, and left again, hurtle my way around corners, and speed (let's use that word extremely loosely) down my road. Which feels like the longest road anyone's ever come across. THE LONGEST. I swear to god, it's never ending. It never ends. I can't even see the end of it. And yet in the daylight, it feels like a very reasonable and manageable length. I make the fatal mistake of looking at my watch, and it definitely says 1am. 1am. 1 a fucking m. Christ. I don't want to sleep on the street. I don't even like camping.
As I approach the gate (which I do, eventually), I literally know I'm too late. I know it's not going to open. And yet I don't know what to do about it. In the last 5 seconds of my relay, I decide that I'm going to call B.F. to ask him for a taxi number, which I'll use to take myself to his house, where I'll charge the taxi to him, and then refuse to ever leave or some shit, just to get him back for this fucking ordeal I've had to go through just because he wanted to stroke my hair for an extra 10 minutes.
Guys, you may not believe this next bit, but as I swipe my key fob on the gate, the little light goes green, and the gate O P E N S. IT ACTUALLY OPENS!
And not only! The main door opens too!!
Just all the doors open that I need to open, and I'm inside, and I can't even believe my luck, and I look at my watch, and it's 1:01, and I must have JUST made it, and shit, I haven't run this far or this fast since school/ever, and shit I can't breathe now, and I think I'm maybe definitely going to collapse, and where's the nearest chair?, and oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.
I sit very very very still for a good 10 minutes, and then I start to regain my senses, and I take myself veeeeeery slowly up to my floor, where I collapse on my bed, and send B.F. the bitterest text I can muster. I use my angry French, and let him know that next time (not that he deserves a next time after this), when I say I have to go, I have to fucking go. No messing around anymore.
He replies, and corrects my French. I. SWEAR. TO. GOD.
Never fucking speaking to him again. He says his pillow smells like my perfume, and now he can't sleep. GOOD!! BECAUSE I NEARLY FUCKING HAD TO SLEEP ON THE STREET!
In future, if it's not Ryan or Gerard then I am NOT risking anything like this ever again.

Now that I've had an hour or so to recover and vent, you may be interested to know that I've really rather warmed to B.F. in the last week, regardless of all the piss that I take out of him, and all of the scoffing that takes place regarding his affectionate ways.
Don't you dare fucking tell anyone this... but sometimes I even kinda like him kissing my head.
Oh God...

Wednesday, 30 May 2012


Just so many adoring texts I can't even deal with.
The icing on the cake was last night's one: 'what are you doing? i'm in my beloved bed, even though i have to admit someone is missing :('


Seriously, christ.
Am I the only one who realises we met less than a week ago?
I think I prefer not really being sure whether the boy in question even likes me.

Wow, this is what girls are always accused of: sacking off the nice boys. But, in my defence, there's nice, and then there's... this.
I usually go for boys who say things like, 'look babe, my cat ate my phone, and then got lost, so I had to find my cat before I could even look for my phone, and then on my way to find the cat I fell down a well, and hit my head on the way down, so passed out for a couple of weeks, and then by the time I came back around the clocks had changed, so I missed my train home, so I had to walk, and then the heel feel off my shoes, so I had to walk on my hands, and then I got a splinter, so had to pop to the hospital, and you know what A&E's like... So yeah, that's why it's been 3 months since I called you, otherwise you know we'd have been hanging out. You gotta understand.'
I do not usually go for boys that say, 'I thought about you all this morning in your bed while I was at work.'
Oh godddd.
Maybe this is what real people do? Maybe I just need to calm down and go with it?
It's not normal that when I see his name flash up on my screen I sigh (not in ecstasy, more in disbelief because it's only been 5 minutes since his last text...)

And then to top it all off, I'm such a fucking schizophrenic, because as much as I hate him being all over me, I hate it almost as much when he's not.
So he won't have text me all afternoon, and I'll check my phone and feel actually kinda betrayed... And then I'll start rolling my eyes and saying outrageous things like, 'oooooh, so it's like that now, is it? Just not gonna text me? Just forgotten about me already, have we?? So replaceable, am I?!! Now you're at work, you're just so obsessed with working, ARE YOU?! WELL FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT, I DON'T EVEN CARE!!! WHO EVEN ARE YOU?????!!!!!'

And then, inevitably, he does text me, because he always does, and straightaway I flip to, 'OH MY GOD, STOP TEXTING ME; JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! I FEEL SO FUCKING SUFFOCATED!!!'
So nobody can win, I need to see a therapist, and this has gotten out of control. Poor ol' B.F.

Monday, 28 May 2012

Accidental Boyfriend

So I saw B.F. again tonight. He met me by Bastille and we sat by the water, while I repeatedly moaned, 'I want a boaaaat', and he repeatedly touched me and kissed me.
Still, it's kinda fun to have a French boy to meet up with when I have nothing else to do.
Today he was stroking my hair (of course he was), and he suddenly looked really confused and said, 'you are nearly blonde!' And I explained that my hair's multicoloured on purpose, because I have an intentional ombre. At that, he looked even more confused and said, 'so... you have shadow hair?'
So misunderstood.
That said, we have some really fun conversations, mostly based on the fact that half of what we say to each other is lost in translation/taken the wrong way.
I was just telling my mum about him on Skype, and obviously she was just so excited. Her biggest joy in life is hearing me talk about boys (not because she's weird in any way, just because with my first ever boyfriend I didn't tell her about him for months, so now she wants to know as much as possible as soon as possible). She asked me if he was attractive, and I said yeah, because he is, but I told her that I don't love the way he dresses. She laughed her little head off when she heard that, and said, 'SILV! You can't judge anything on that!! When I met your dad all he ever wore was vests!'
Fair point.
Then I told her B.F. was 6"3 and the deal was made. I think she's expecting big things. Weddings and shit. Few Parisian kids (called Lou, Raphael and Marie-Claire). A house with a balcony overlooking the Seine. A boat. A pug.
Big things.

Ah shit.

I think I met somebody. Well, I definitely did.
Of course this was in the Paris plan, but it snuck up on me and kinda caught me unawares. Always the way!
This would obviously not be a big deal if I was a normal person, but I'm not, so it's an enormous deal.
What I usually do is... not get involved with... well, anybody really. I guess it's a pas mal idea to put myself out of my comfort zone, but we shall SEE.
I met him a couple of nights ago at Showcase when I was out with S.E., and he basically set his sights on me and got his own way. I was drunk as all get out, and my Groove Army-ada jacket fell off my bag, and I became h y s t e r i c a l trying to find it. He tried to help me, but I was being cray, and no sense could be talked into me. I was so upset because L.T. had helped me pick it out and it just made me miss her a really fucking lot. So... just had a cry in the corner. Yeah, I'm a dickhead, don't even care.
Anyway, I was ready to write him off straightaway, just because I didn't like his shoes (that's what I always do), but I had a really fun sleepover with this boy regardless, and he said 'on s'appelle' when I left, but will he though?
AND THERE WE ARE. Already just sounding like such a fucking girl. This is not me.

So he just text me, YAY! 2 month French instructor, let's do this!

Day after
So I just got back from a 'date' with him. He jokingly called it an 'appointment' because last time I saw him I taught him that you can't call meetings with your friends 'appointments'. Good sign when they're capable of funnies even in their second language.
So... I had fun actually. I was kinda nervous, especially because my only other dating experience with a French boy was intense as fuck. That was when I was still in the south, and the man in question took me up a mountain to the most over the top romantic destination possible, and then when I told him I was just looking for a friend he refused to talk to me for the entire journey home. So I went out tonight with zero expectations (best way- then anything better than complete shit is always a pleasant surprise), and I took the wrong exit out of the metro, so was sorta late. He was waiting for me at the exit, and as soon as he saw me he came right on over, declared 'ahhh c'est ma miss', and kissed me square on the mouth. Well hey.
I'm not used to these overt signs of affection at the best of times, never mind when I've known you for approximately one day... But I just went with it. Plus, he's 6"3, so that makes up for most things (everything).
I unfortunately couldn't deal with the canoodling in big doses, and 5 out of 10 times that he reached for my hand or leaned his little face close to mine I pulled away. I'M ENGLISH, come on now. Plus I have clammy palms. Get off.
So he took me to some cute-as-fuck places, told me stuff about Paris, and corrected my French whenever I made mistakes. Everything I wanted from him basically. But more than that, he's just interesting. Way more affectionate than I'm necessarily used to, yes, but actually with decent shit to say. Not just talk for talk's sake. That's the worst to me- when people talk purely to fill the silence. I'd rather suffer the awkwardness than fill it with bullshit.
So he showed me the Pavillion, and when I said I'd never been inside, he said, 'You want to come back here with me, yes? I show you inside?' And then kissed me again. So I guess we're making future plans together.
During the evening R.D. was texting me constantly, and she asked me if he was funny, and the truth is I couldn't really say. I mean... me and him disagreed on absolutely everything; he held my hand in the street (like in front of people, in the area where he lives...); he picked me up, literally right up off my feet at one point; and quite frankly, he was one cheek pinch away from a marriage proposal... But the thing is... He's so French, and the French don't tend to do things by halves as a general rule. Coffee lasts 2 hours, lunch lasts 3, and relationships start overnight.
Me? I'm only used to very very VERY English boys. Tu sais?
At the end of the night, I kinda hustled him along, telling him I had to make my foyer curfew, and he wasn't too excited about me leaving. In fact, he told me I should stay at his, but I stuck to my guns.
As we were kissing goodbye he whispered, seductively I guess (christ), 'I think I will miss you though...' Then as I ran down the steps, he shouted after me, 'Hey miss! Text me when you get home!' And 2 minutes later, he text me saying, 'Miss you already :( Text me when youre home!'
So... Wow. Keenness makes me s u s p i c i o u s. I don't trust nice boys. I don't trust any boys really.
I do trust tall boys though.
To be fair to the kid, the French boys I have met have been more or less the same way- very much, 'here I am; I like you; I'm not going to pretend to not like you.' Et je suis pas habituée à ça. Pas du tout. Of my last 2 fancy men, one I'm sure prefers boys to most other things in life, and the other used to make plans to see me and then just... stay at home (without me obviously). So I'm going to give B.F. (that's not me being a psycho and calling him my boyf already; it's just his unfortunate initials) the benefit of the doubt. We shall see.

P.S. Jesus. He just text me saying, 'call you tomorrow.' Is this normal??
P.P.S. Did I mention that he's 6"3?
P.P.P.S. He's not completely faultless. He said that when I speak English I have the same accent as Kelly from Misfits. Cheers. Only hurts because it's not the first time that's been said to me...

So this is what I wore to meet him:
This is the route I went down in the end. My little 'stripper dress', as P.R. called it when I bought it with her; little sheer black blouse; and my black cage sandals. Casual.
This was option 2, but it was just too hot for leather tonight.
I've also accessorised with a beautiful grimace, which was removed as soon as I left the house.