When I heard the expression “Update already! (so and so) is about to give up on you and defect to Christopher’s blog”, I knew I had to take action…
I’ve been back in London for two and a half weeks. New Zealand might have begun to seem phantasmic, if not for the trickle of emails from Ma telling me about another pair of underwear or a random sock I forgot to pack.
My friends are all still here. They all seem a lot prettier. We’re not talking “Extreme Makeover” territory, but I think someone’s been shopping at Zara…Oh, they’re still fun and funny and everything too, but I’m kind of shallow. There has been actual jostling for my attention. People have been throwing free tickets at me in the attempt to woo my affections. So far I’ve seen the Kylie concert, and gone to the opening night of Billy Elliot (I was unaware it was so new – I was unshaven, scruffy and a little belligerent to a fat, grand old lady who was clogging up the hallway. I quickly realised, as I elbowed her out of the way, she was, infact, Elton John).
I went to DTPM where I danced with my top off and groped boys, although - as the Excel Spreadsheet I emailed you yesterday proves - there has been statistically less boy groping than projected by some analysts. This may have to do with what Elizabeth calls my “growing of a soul”. During my sabbatical, I decided I wanted some romance in my life. Call me a sissy all you want, I wanted to actually date people, get to know them a bit before I rammed my tongue down their throats. So I’ve been dating. Dating, I’ve discovered, basically means not putting out straight away. Usually you have to wait until at least after dessert. I’ve roller bladed around Hyde Park with one beau, sat in a Soho park at night looking at the stars with another, and I’m just about to go on a coffee date in Clapham with a cute barman I met on Monday. Viva la revolution!
Of course, I’m sure there are some downsides to all this romance but when you consider my usual plan boasts a greater chance of contracting an STD and forgetting a shoe at some stranger’s house, I’ll stick to the one where I get bought a lot of dessert for the time being.
It hasn’t all been cheesecake and Kylie concerts, however. I’m talking about my big Freak-out circa Wednesday/Thursday last week. Questions, which arose under the duvet cover as I clutched an empty box of “snackers”, included: How the hell am I going to make some actual money? Am I doomed to get a job I hate and lose sight of my hopes and dreams? Does anyone really believe I’ve written a book, or are they just being polite? And: Are those snackers’ crumbs or a jigsaw piece digging into my thigh?
A new discovery of mine has been to talk out my fears with the people I love. I tend to bottle things up and “deal” with them later. No longer, friend – I splurge. Better for my mental health than a whole omnibus of Oprah.
I have a job interview on Monday for a corporate writer. A student film audition on Sunday. I wrote a short film script for an Arts Centre, which has a good chance of getting produced in June. I have fingers in pies. I’m Andrew-pie-hands.
And the book? I haven’t even glanced at it. My sister’s boyfriend is going to doctor my PC tonight and then it’s all go, with fresh eyes and nimble fingers. Or nimble eyes and fresh fingers.
613… Take that Christopher’s blog…