00:00

Neither today nor tomorrow. Opened my restless eyes. The four round numbers transported me nowhere. Beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful emptiness. Away from the battlefield. I didn’t move. The field disappeared. And so did the crossroad. The million pointless thoughts. No elation. No desperation. Beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful silence.

And so this is Christmas

A bit of a cliche', don't you think?
The Christmas album, the Christmas Dr Who special, the Christmas tree, Christmas presents, Christmas cards, Christmas puddings.. the Christmas post.
Let's skip it, shall we?

Sangre caliente - Part 2

I now get it why hordes of beautiful tourists fall for some improbable meat loafs on the Italian and Spanish beaches. It has nothing to do with the tan, the muscles (if any), the dark eyes. It is the innate ability of Latin men to make you feel important, their gallantry and chivalry. Sad? Possibly. But also true.

I spent three days with a group of men from a wide array of countries. I don't want to plummet in a bag of clichés, but, after a couple of hours, the Spanish was adjusting my seat at the table, the Italian was pouring my wine, the French was complementing my smile, the English was ordering me drinks, the Danish was cracking odd jokes, the Australian was being coy, the German was blanking me, the Yorkshireman was telling me off. And this was a work meeting, no second intentions involved. Just their normal way to relate to a woman.

There is no need whatsoever to remind me about gender equality, because what I am about to say applies to both sexes. Is it really that difficult to be nice to a fellow human being? Can't we pay some attention to the person next to us, attend to their needs (even if it is just a bread roll), ask them how they are and mean it, get out of our selfishness and self-awareness and be considerate? Why do we always have to expect the worst from people, second-guess, judge, ignore emails, screen calls, criticise? Who do we think we are?

And I am fairly sure that care and attention would get us a long way. I want to try it. Is there a business model explaining how a dumb playboy can get into pretty girls' knickers just by listening to them and offering the illusion of a good time? I would be most certainly interested.

Sangre caliente

Single Friend #1 often jokes about the fact that I abandoned a land of hot Italian men to prefer the fair-skinned Anglo-Saxons. Somehow this may be coincidental. I left home too young to really know what I was missing. (And I won't take any rubbish about Italian men: my dad was one, and I will always be daddy's little girl)
However, here in Madrid I started thinking: what gives a man what we end up being attracted to? What he wears, how he speaks, how he loves. Geography? Genes? Early or late environment? Cultural background? Previous girlfriends?
And what are we attracted to? Familiarity? Differences? The unknown? The same man again and again, or a new one every time?

As I get older I find that certain characteristics are non-negotiable. One and for all: good shirts. Short sleeves, polyester (or any other plastic), hideous patterns (or any patterns, but stripes and teeny tiny checks), too small or too big collars, novelty cuff links.. So many ways one can go wrong. Not to mention, of course, being a bad kisser. If the kissing is just about passable, the sex will be soporific for sure.
It is not just me to be a repeat offender. Single Friend #1 would never date a man with glasses (which is one of the reasons why she is still single). SF#2 has a fixation for broad shoulders and big thighs. By her own admission, Best Friend used to always end up with psychopaths (with some key exceptions). Moving to guys, Male Friend #3 goes out with photocopy-women: all absolutely identical. The Man doesn't fancy tall girls with big hair and big teeth. The Jerk only dates models (even if for some obscure catalogues).

But I digress. Back to geography, does it really matter? Are they mainly generalisations?

BTW, a Spanish man just called me 'chica'. That's it, ditch the shirt-thing. Making you feel young (and preferably beautiful) has got to score a lot of points!

The odd one out‏

I have come to the conclusion that emotional and logistical stability go hand in hand.
Such a revelation hit me this morning while freezing my butt off on a train platform for what felt like an eternity (about 1hr). The average commuter was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase or a shoulder bag. Maybe a gym bag. Then there was me. A huge handbag - content to be described later. My customary second bag - this time for my laptop, as I had some work to do at the weekend. An empty trolley, which, yesterday, full of food, was travelling with me in the opposite direction. Jeans, boots, two sweaters, hat, scarf, gloves and shawl.
My handbag? On top of the normal stuffing (wallet, umbrella, torch, hand sanitizers, make up, a pharmacy worth of medicines, tissues, glasses case, contact lenses, book, iPod, two BlackBerry's, several sets of keys), I was also carrying my passport and travel wallet, a bottle of water, miniature toiletries, sunglasses and some fruit. The refugee look was completed when I realised I hadn't had breakfast and extracted a Ziploc bag with leftover canapés to snack on, in order to avoid biting the arm of a fellow frozen traveller off.

As I floated out of my body and looked down on this gipsy with no chance of conforming, I embraced the messiness of my life and smiled. What else am I to do?

Two - 2

George decided that her unconventional beauty was the reason why he kept revisiting the few seconds he saw her. And yet, there was more. A certain familiarity. The memory of her features was already stored somewhere in his brain. Or maybe her dress. The way she stood in the carriage. Incongruous and yet defiant.

But, mainly, George wanted to know who she was. He wanted to see her again.
He was so intrigued, that the woman who was actually sitting next to him, his woman, had to repeat every sentence twice. Until when, fed up with his monosyllabic replies, she stopped mid-conversation, picked up a magazine and ignored him back.

An expert opinion

Married Friend #3 felt like sharing some of her wisdom with me today: 'Darling, you know when they tell you that what is important in a long-term relationship is friendship, companionship, having a laugh together? That at end the of the day, after many years together, these are the important qualities that count? Don't believe them, darling. On day 1, as on day 3650, nothing matters more than fancying each other's undergarments off. Just think about it, who will really miss the shared little habits, the comfort that comes with having seen each other ill, drunk and without make up, if they aren't cemented by intimacy and wild sex? I am not sure what good marriages look like, but I do know bad ones. And I have never seen a marriage going sour for too much action under the sheets. Maybe too much bad action. Yes, darling, that is true, actually. You really need to make sure you have a great romping partner. Otherwise, can you imagine spending your life tied to wrong bedpost?'

We have been warned.

Fistful of love

When a victim wants to me victimized, who is it to blame?
When one jumps out of fear of being pushed, who is to blame?
When a line is crossed because no line was drawn, who is to blame?
When pain is endured for too long without a complaint, who is to blame?
When silence is the only sound to be heard, who is to blame?
When eyes look away for too long, who is to blame?

More questions, no answers.
But all I can say to you, my friend, is: don't look back. Your corner was empty. And all you could do was to walk out of it. You can't look back. The person you are is not the same who cut the ties. And although you could hold your head high now, you couldn't then. Because you had to go through this hiatus in order to regain your strengths. Stop looking back. Stop. Just stop.

Two - 1

It was on his second day back to normality that it all started.
On the Underground, on his way to work.
A train, running in the opposite direction, offered for a few seconds the view of the interior of its carriage.
George looked up, over his newspaper. And saw her.
It was difficult not to notice her.
Standing in between commuters in suits, workers' uniforms, books, iPods and newspapers. Wearing a red evening gown. Her blond hair long on her shoulders. Her piercing eyes staring at him.
She smiled.
The trains separated, left the interjunction and entered parallel tunnels.
She was gone.

Boys

Last night I found myself thinking: where would I be in life if I hadn't spent so much time worrying about boys, relationships, men?
Better grades at school? No, always been a nerd. More time for sport? Possibly. More ambitious career plans? Definitely.

I have to admit: since developing a crush for a scruffy boy at elementary school, I have wasted a ridiculous amount of time worrying about the matters of the heart. Endless conversations, torturing friends with the $1,000k questions: does he like me? Does he like my best friend instead? Does he only want me to do his homework/iron his shirts/pay his bills? Will he call? Should I call? When can I call? Is he coming to the party? Will he buy a birthday present for me? Should I buy a birthday present for him? Does he think I am a geek? Does he want to dump me? Should I sleep with him?
It is exhausting.

In the meanwhile, I could have, in no particular order, mapped the human genome, started my own multi-million company, found a cure for cancer or the Higgs boson. Nope, instead, I obsessed about relationships.

Is it just me? Is it an evolutionary need? Does it only apply to geeky physicists? Shouldn't we be preoccupied with more worthy causes? Shouldn't I have reached the age when only pressing, life-defining subjects should grab my attention?

No idea.

Anything for her

What would you do for the one you love? Would you put your own life at risk? Break the law? Kill? Walk all over your principles, aspirations and desires?

It is somehow easier to admire the big gestures, to appreciate the remarkable sacrifices the very heroic make. But what about the tiny acts of heroism, the daily ones, we do for love? Like disappearing unnoticed for 15 minutes to buy beers, food and comic books; getting out of bed with the flu to drive to the station; always finding time during a busy day to cheer up the sad ones; stepping aside to let other one shine.

And what about being at the receiving end? Do we want to be saved by a knight in a shiny armour, or would we rather sort things out on our own?

It is quite funny that some men consider it their prerogative to puff up and defend the nest, while others would quite happily let you deal with all the dirty work. In the latter case, control is still retained, and nobody is to be thanked. The first, well, explains why firemen are so popular. Some women want to be saved.
Similarly, some women cannot stop mothering the entire neighbourhood, while others shall not be disturbed during their highly synchronised lives.

To be honest, I would like to know that in times of trouble I wouldn't be left alone by the one I love. That he would mainly hold my hand, and then, occasionally, when it gets really tough, carry me on his shoulder.

In the meanwhile, I'll try and sort myself out on my own. Almost.

Straw dogs

Finally got around to reading John Gray's 'Straw dogs'. And what a read it is, crystallising incoherent thoughts in my head. In particular, how can relentless optimism cohabit with a nihilistic view of the human condition?
Simple. The loss of hope is hope itself.
Admitting that we are just an accident, that we have no purpose as individuals, because the species does not require us to reproduce anymore, sets us free. It stops us from having to be something, to reach something, to commit to something.
Every day is a success itself. Yesterday's gone, tomorrow may never happen.
Rationality is not going to save us. Same for religion.

If we want to translate the above thinking into the day-to-day EI life, this means that emotional incompetence may just be a non-religious, non-rational surrender to the natural self-regulation of planet Earth, to the failure of humanism, to the impossibility of determining our own fate. Grown up in a strictly empirical environment, with a quasi-mystical belief in the scientific method and a total aberration of Aristotelic metaphysics (which, BTW, was only meant as the 'book after the one about physics'), admitting to the limitations of progress as an unshakeable mean to the truth can be disorientating, to say the least. However, if we look closely, quantum mechanics taught us that there is no objective science, that we modify our environment the moment we attempt to measure it. It was the founders of contemporary technology who also set the limits to our achievements. Having said this, even if I have dropped illuministic dogmas of a better future, the scientific method is still the solution to improving our life as individuals. I would rather take rationally-designed medicines developed through clinical trials than have leeches applied to my skin. I just don't think that the universe will benefit from the internet, GM organisms and the iPad. And the relief is that 'everything will be fine', as I keep repeating to myself. At the end of the day, will it really matter if we miss out on a promotion, the partner of our dreams or our best friend's birthday party? Yes, for us as individuals, no, for us as part of an ever moving flux of life.

It may sound like a cop-out, but when asked about my purpose in life, I could not find an answer. Most people say 'their children'. This is wise and biologically sound. In my case.. Well, I will have to leave you guessing.

Yesterday

We never got to say goodbye properly, did we? At least not in public. Not that we do public. Mind you, you would be horrified at the idea of this blog. Or maybe you have always known that while you buried your feelings out of sight, I covered them up with an unstoppable banter. Whatever way you look at it, it is from you that I learnt to put up, shut up, explode, box up, never look back.
Although, it was only after you went that I learnt what untouchable pain really means.
How can I explain the crater in my soul, that will never be filled again? The fat, voluminous tears that emerge from the innermost depths and just pour out of my eyes when the thought of you grabs me unexpected?
I miss you like nobody before or after. Every day, every night.

At least I know that there was nothing left unsaid between us. It took us 30 years, but finally you got me, I got you. From that point on, it was easy.

I don't know why this year this date feels particularly sorrowful. Maybe there is a deadline to unspoken grief. Maybe once you open the lid, even just an inch, the flood of hidden feelings takes a life of its own and breaks all barriers.

Maybe saying goodbye wasn't all that necessary. Because, to me, you never went away.

Singles, EIs and Nobel laureates

This week the Nobel Prize for economics was awarded to three researchers who elaborated the 'search and matching' theories. Specifically, their work explained how market frictions can hinder the smooth functioning of an economy; how supply and demand are matched, where there are transactions or search costs involved.

Eh? I hear you say (Or maybe those are the little voices in my head.. But that's another story)
Well, interestingly enough, one of the applications of the 'principle of voluntary pairing under competitive conditions' is romantic matching. If you are single and struggling to find the love of your life, blame it on those couples who rushed into each other's arms without hanging around long enough. By getting hitched too early, not only we risk to get it wrong, but we also deplete the pool of available singles for perfect pairings. Unless of course we are prepared to accept that some matches are going to dissolve at some point, as we realise that original the search wasn't complete.

This is good news for everybody out there who is in doubt, who is still seeking for The One (or The Two, The Three, The Four), who thought they always got it wrong. They didn't. They just need to patiently keep looking around in order to close the perfect transaction.

You see, there is hope.

Habla con ella

One good thing about being an EI: people tend to open up. Maybe because I rarely say 'I told you so', or cringe, or pass judgement, or look smug. Au contraire.
How could I? With my incompetence?
Of course, these days I often have to sign a confidentiality agreement before private conversations, but you have heard about this already.

I read somewhere that one of the signs of approaching middle age is the increasing number of divorces in your circle, accompanied by a decreasing number of weddings. This year, with two (possibly three) friends saying 'I do', and only one saying 'I don't anymore, sorry', I am still being kept young.
So, do it for me, carry on falling in love, have babies, embark on impossible love affairs. And if you do split up, find somebody else pronto. Don't stop hoping.

And tell me all about it. Because I don't want to stop either.
PS
To TF (you know who you are): you are amazing and so strong you can shape your own happiness, whatever way you decide to go. I love you and will always be your support group. As you are mine. Crying is good at times.

Confronting the inner prude

Amsterdam, 11 am on a Monday morning. Is it me, or is it kind of early to buy sex? And to be faced with sex toys in all shapes and forms?

As I got kicked out of my room by housekeeping, I found myself wondering around the hotel to kill some time. Not too far in towards the town centre, a giant dildo stared at me from a shop window. Wow.. What can I say? The catholic girl I was brought up as urged me to carry on walking at sustained speed, ignoring the odd sex shops alternating with indie clothes retailers and cafes. Only to end up in sight of a smiling half-naked young lady waving at me from a red-lit window. And the lady shaking her booty next to her. And the topless one around the corner... That's too much bits and bobs before lunch time, as far as I am concerned.

Which got me thinking. This is no place for an analysis of social injustice and objectification of the female body (or the male), but if I'd rather be at home, on my comfy sofa, with a hot chocolate and endless repeats of 30 Rock, rather than preparing an advisory board meeting, how must they be feeling?

And, honey, my dear, a slide preview involves boring middle-age men going through their presentations. Not ladies stripping behind sliding curtains..

Make a wish

When you blow your birthday candles, do you still make a wish, even if unattainable? And can you recall what you wished for on your last birthday? Did it come true? And have you ever regretted what you wished for? Or was your wish formulated incorrectly? Or maybe left open to interpretation, so that the outcome was not what you expected?

The time warp

You think of changing life, a new beginning, a fresh start.
And then, here you are, in the hotel where you have been so many times it is not even funny anymore. Back in a familiar place, seeing different but similar people, doing the same job, saying identical things. Can old life and new life meet without a time/space singularity? What happens if past you meets present you? If the person in your previous role is on your plane, sitting a couple of rows down, going to see your old clients, while you are off to see your new ones?

Letting go. Easy peasy, uh?

The word(s)

There are three words in the Italian language that send shivers down the spine of women from Bolzano to Messina: 'cambio di stagione'. That is to say, the biannual ritual of putting away spring/summer clothes and getting out the autumn/winter ones, or vice versa.
Today, it was my turn.
As I announced my intentions, The Man hid for the morning in one of his sheds, only to return when the swearing was over, and Roger Daltrey, screaming down the speakers, didn't need to cover his ears to avoid my profanities.
There are a number of reasons why the seasonal clothing update is a gigantic pain in the butt, especially if, like me, you are short, allergic to dust and have wimpy arms. There are hangers covered in clothes to move about the house, high shelves to reach on tiny step ladders, plastic bags to neatly fold everything into that reek with mites. Shoes, bags, sweaters, trousers, dresses and coats: all need doing. Then, time to move to the male counterpart. Even when you think you are finished, it doesn't end there. Oh no. Dirty clothes go to the cleaners' or have to be hand washed. Then put back where they belong. Shoes get reheeled, big bags dropped at the charity shop. What a palaver!

You do find out a lot about yourself in the process, though. In my case: I own way too many black dresses that look almost exactly identical; same for trousers; surprisingly my bags are on an all-time low - need more, lots more; my shoes are mainly beautiful and incredibly uncomfortable, as if I had a personal chauffeur driving me around London; I only buy clothes when I look good, so my wardrobe is full of impossibly small size 2 (US that is) items.
But there may be pleasant surprises too. Like my great grandmother's pink silk gloves and fur stole; my mum's jackets; my adored hats; Best Friend's presents; my dad's sweaters; my leather dress and trousers (yes, I have a fetish, live with it).
Hmmm, it seems to me, I have this year's trends sorted out. Leather, lots of it. If only I could indulge in Celine dresses, skirts and tops. And, considering all the hooha around the new series of Mad Men, this winter I am going to attempt the vintage look and use my inherited classic pieces. Just need to stock up on Spanx...

I should know better

And avoid very high blood pressure first thing in the morning..

It may be sound surprising, but I actually do a bit of research for this blog. Which is why this morning I was reading a book about relationships. Well, I had to put it back in my bag, as it was seriously annoying me. What a bunch of clichés!! 'Men want to live near a pub with a dart board; women near a shop where they can buy birthday cards'.. 'Women tend to see sex a bit like housework'.. 'When you are in a long-term relationship you can go out for long walks without looking like a saddo, or stop wearing heels..' You can see my blood starting to boil while I write this, can't you?

Maybe I am weird, different, but this pile of rubbish does not resonate at all. Maybe that's why I am an EI: I should just conform, bake cakes and be concerned about the colour of my curtains.. Sod it. I'd rather be on my own. Or with a man who loves shopping and drags me out to buy sexy underwear.

Shout (let it all out) - Part 2

Second discovery. Life cannot always be all bells and whistles.
And this is a tough one for a firecracker.

There are times when you need to learn to chill out, accept your environment, keep calm and carry on. Being yourself, while at the same being able to channel your energy, to modulate it in order to avoid the emotional tsunami effect. In life, like in business, going out there shouting 'hey, here I am, and I am wonderful', is no longer enough to have success. You have to listen, to pick up signs, to understand what is required to fill a need. While being your best, fun, unique self. Easy, uh?

Maybe I have ahead of me one or two quiet years. Not bad, not revolutionary, just fine. And instead of fretting, looking for the next Big Bang, I shall stay put, make the most of these calmer times, make space for friends, for myself, for what/whom I love, and take it easy.
To do so, and this is a first, I have actually questioned my behaviour. And didn't go from feeling the most amazing creature on earth to completely worthless. I just set myself some personal goals (aaahhhh, how did that happen???), and now I am trying to live by them.

I do have a favour to ask, though. Can someone please let me know if I start to become boring? That is not a good look.

Shout (let it all out) - Part 1

There are a couple of things I discovered this week that I would like to share with you.

First of all, our evolved brains can be very misleading. Especially when they try and silence our innate ability to process the environment irrationally. Res cogitans versus res extensa. Mind versus body. Head versus heart. Truth is the two are actually in agreement most of the time. What we tend to see is just a projection of each. Even better, two sides of the same polyhedron. And then we march on to squash the defeated party.
Often, it is a matter of background noise. We talk ourselves in and out of decisions, and forget what it was we were questioning in the first place. When all we need is silence. To allow the inner voice to speak on behalf of both brain and guts.

It may be simplistic, but I have discovered that what feels right is usually right. In the short, medium and long term. That nagging feel, that itch at the back of the brain, that is a sign that something is off key. Something is wrong. And the worst thing we can do is to cover up the discomfort with coping mechanisms: food, alcohol, cigarettes, sport, work, whatever.
However, be warned. This is incredibly painful. Being mindful about feelings can result in embarrassing bursts of tears, for no apparent reason. The first step is not to look for solutions to the problems, just acknowledge them. To stare at them in the eyes without running away. Or burying them.

I know, nothing new. But it is very novel when you start acting by it. And I have to say, it makes a lot of sense.

Signs

In Roman times, augurs famously studied the flight pattern of birds to interpret the will of the gods. These days, if, like me, you are a bit daft and pretty bad at making decisions, you may find yourself looking for signs pretty much everywhere. How often and in what way depends on how daft you are. Me, you can guess.

Some, let's face it, are just plain excuses. 'Hmmm, I almost tripped and fell on the way to the underground station, it is a sign, I should get a cab'; 'this bar of chocolate was left on my desk, with the wrapper half open, I have to eat it'. Some are a matter of coincidence. Like when you are thinking about a guy and his name appears in a book or on television, and then he calls you! Others are just stupidity: 'if you read my birthday backwords you get his second cousin's wedding anniversary: we are meant to be together!'
Oh, get this, somebody's phone just went off and the ring tone was 'Paranoid Android', the title of one of my latest posts. While I was writing another post! OMG, this is cosmic harmony!

You get the gist.
It is basically delegation to the nth degree. A complete surrender of responsibility. 'If you look around hard enough you will find the answers to all your questions'. As well as a desperate search for connections, cause and effect relationships, the reassurance of world order.

Of course, this could lead us to a whole new discussion around fate and free will. And the good old question: does everything happen for a reason?

Does it?

The Morning

Run, run, run; work, work, work; talk, talk, talk; read, read, read; type, type, type; drink, drink, drink; catch a train/tube/taxi; listen, listen, listen; cook, cook, cook; nod, nod, nod; load/empty/load dishwasher/washing machine/shopping bags; phone, phone, phone; text, text, text; smile, smile, smile; think, think, think; worry, worry, worry; shout, shout, shout; cry, cry, cry; feed, feed, feed; buy, buy, buy; exercise, exercise, exercise; wish, wish, wish; wonder, wonder, wonder; plan, plan, plan; walk, walk, walk; dream, dream, dream..

Still, why am I permanently exhausted these days?

Are you talking to me?

I have to admit that a few weeks back when reading about Robert Crampton's privacy-protecting, anti-technology firm stance in The Times Magazine, I slightly smirked. I can understand facebook-phobia, but having never shopped on Amazon? Had my favourite columnist committed to a battle to preserve local bookshops, I would have marched by his side. But being scared of leaving a cybertrace of your literary preferences.. Really?

Until.. until this morning. When, shock and horror, I received this email:
Amazon.co.uk recommends: "You: On a Diet: Lose up to 2 inches from your waist in 2 weeks"

What??? Just because I bought books about fitness and health, poetry, business and physics, I need to go on a diet??
You can just imagine some idiotic programme adding up the information, can't you? Poetry: woman (name sounds like it too), business (probably spends too much time sitting on a chair), fitness and health (yep, she definitely does, and instead of moving her butt she prefers to read about how she should be moving her butt), physics (that's it, a deformed fatso). Whatever you do on Amazon, unless you don't mind being called 'fat', never ever order this deadly combination.

As far as I am concerned, on top on concealing my age, my height and my weight, from now on I shall also segregate book purchases by theme. Waterstones for fiction, Borders for music and verses, Foyles for science, my local for fun, Fopp for whatever they stock on that day. And Amazon for.. nothing. That's it, I am highly offended, thankyouverymuch.

Now, if you would excuse me, I need to go for a run, followed by a low-calory salad with no dressing, and a spirulina body wrap. Have a nice weekend, everybody.

Simple things

The last day of summer. An unexpected joy. A sunny evening after a storm. An amazing view on the way back from work: the stretch South of the river from Tower Bridge to London Bridge. One of the most spectacular sights in the world, in a privileged group with the Sydney Harbour, the San Francisco Bay and the Gulf of Naples. An impulse food buy: a pot of chips with plenty of mayo, eaten on my own on a bench by the Thames. A bunch of beautiful flowers at the train station, from myself, to myself. A cigarette at dusk, in the garden, with a grumpy cat, a tiny frog and dozens of noisy ducks.

A little treasure to preserve, as the days get shorter and darker, as the clouds gather again. A sudden sense of happiness at the end of a hard day.

Paranoid android

As you may have guessed from my previous post, I annoyed a friend with my paranoid EI behaviour. How silly of me. I know. One day I will hopefully learn to shut up, or at least to tailor my words to my audience (which is ironic, as targeting audiences with the appropriate copy is actually my job). Two nights of sleeping over it, and 20 cigarettes later, I hope of being slightly wiser. Although I don't play golf, will I learn from my mistakes? As they say, watch this space.

Most importantly, though, something slightly magical happened yesterday. On top of my paranoia-induced scuff, I am also having a couple of long and rubbish weeks at work, and some other sad bits going on. So, while sitting at my desk feeling sorry for myself (self pity being one of my specialities), I thought I could really do with a friend. And, bzzzz, a text arrives from Antipodean Friend #1 asking me to join her for dinner on Friday. Followed by an email from Single Friend #2 for drinks. And a message from English Rose for cocktails. Emails from Twin Friend, Married Friend #1 and Writer Friend to share and understand our worries. I even got hold of Best Friend on the phone, after weeks of chasing each other. While the ever so evasive Male Friend #3 called me from a plane about to take off. And, finally, Male Friend #2 kept me company via messenger while I was up until late to finish some work.

So, for a few minutes, I shall put my paranoia aside and dedicate this little illiterate blog to all my friends. Near and far away. Angry or sad. Happy or disappointed. Thank you for being you. And sorry for being a bit difficult at times. I am trying.

One - 8

George had enough of all this nonsense. What the hell was going on with him? The incessant fever, the nausea, and then the visions? That was way off the limit of acceptability.
George decided that he needed to get a grip. The thing about London is that you can buy whatever service you may need. He was therefore going to get himself a caring stranger to squeeze fruit juices, buy medicines and make his bed.
There. Back to reality. Back to normality.

George also decided that three days of illness were more than enough. He was going to return to work. To her bed. To his mates.
But sometimes our believes, our convictions are not meant to translate into reality. Because our narrow minds are just unable to see the big picture.
George was most certainly in for a surprise.

The ripple effect

Few things are as contagious as a loud laugh.

Where: the London underground.
When: a boring afternoon on the way home from work.
Who: some strangers and I. And a very funny book.
What: a ripple of laughter propagates from my shaking shoulders and watering eyes to the neighbouring seats, edging towards the carriage door.
How: I read a passage that is at the same time witty and silly, and cannot stop myself from laughing out loud in public. The more I read, the more I laugh. I try to hide behind the book. The lady sitting in front of me starts laughing too. So does the couple on my right. And the one opposite. And the girl on my left. I look up and two rows of seats are now in stitches.

Awesome. It makes me smile every time I think about it.

Brown sugar

I knew it!
Do you remember when I hypothesised that Emotional Incompetence might be linked to discipline and therefore I was going to try (and fail) to tackle my addictions to demonstrate it? Well, there you go, I have just been proven right by a group at Stony Brook University who demonstrated in an MRI study that 'intense romantic love seems to function much like an addiction'. These researchers looked at subjects who had a recent break-up and found that the pain and anguish they were experiencing appeared to be linked to activation of parts of the brain associated with motivation, reward and addiction cravings. In their own words, 'what is unique to romantic rejection includes elements that are very much like craving for cocaine'.

To the point, I recently shared some knowledge I acquired in the field of heroin addiction with friends who were going through some complicated emotional times. They thought my insight was about love, not opiates. They recognised in the typical behaviours depicting a heroin addict their irrational and irresponsible need for the object of their desire.

So, if 'the passion of romantic love is a goal-oriented motivation state rather than a specific emotion', and you are rubbish at goals, what are you left with? I bet you know the answer already: Emotional Incompetence!

I am therefore wondering: doctor, doctor, where is my medicine?

Strike

No comments, no blog

Danger, danger (high voltage)

Yes, it is true, the majority of accidents happen within a few hundred yards of our homes.
And I can demonstrate it.
In my life I have broken several bones, including: an arm, skating in my parents' garden; a toe, in my own bedroom; a hand, in my parents' flat; a foot, running near my house. I also got hit by a cricket ball walking past the village green.
My latest adventure. I tripped and smashed my arm against the fireplace. Now, I have a forearm the size of a watermelon. So sore, it keeps me awake at night..

I can guess what English Rose and Male Friend #2 may be thinking. It is not the environment, it is me. Fortunately, as we say in the business, 'what happens on site stays on site', as I have been known for falling face forward in restaurants, conference centres and hotels (notice, plurals). And all this when stone-cold sober.
Which probably explained why, when, as a certified First-Aider, I ran to rescue a colleague, a booming laugh arose from the office floor.

My dad used to blame my university education, my scientist upbringing, for a perennial 'head in the clouds' state. I blame a certain disconnect between my vision of the world and the harsh, cold reality.
Yes, dreaming can hurt, but boy does it feel good most of the time.

Ode to burger

It is time, my friend, to write about our long-lasting, life-time relationship.
From cheap meat on drunken dawns, to Kobe beef on crunchy buns. From New Zealand to Germany, you keep me company in lonely hotels, in an endless repeating of late-night room services.
Not an easy life, when chefs refuse to cook you rare, when you can be let down by soggy chips and stale bread. When bad beer can spoil an evening, when too much onion or tasteless lettuce can put you off.
And yet, I have to admit, even I, your great admirer, even I have, once or twice, betrayed you. A baseball game, a mini selection, I know, it is no excuse. But I too have surrendered to your poor cousin. Yes, I have to confess, every now and again, I have preferred a hot dog.
That's it. No more lies. Please forgive me.
Because you, burger, will be my favourite. Only pizza can compete. But that's another story.

Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Can it be that all it takes to get rid of Mr Hyde is an 11-hour sleep? Yep, 11.. What a dormouse!
Today life is smiling at me again. Or, to be precise, I am not biting anybody's head off. Even in the super crowded Regent St shops on a Saturday afternoon.
Or.. Maybe.. Maybe somebody secretly added valium to my drinks.. Whatever. I am not complaining.
You know, it is really scary to be possessed by some angry, impatient, loud, aggressive, mad woman taking over your body and mind. Lack of sleep and rushes of adrenaline strip all my inhibitions and I could happily yell at strangers on the underground, in pubs, in queues.. With happily being the operative word.

...And relax...

Karma is a funny thing - Part 2

There you go, victim of my own misdemeanours.
This morning, in huff, a puff and a grump, I skipped my usual morning good deed. Result: a rubbish day. Worse, I turned into a horrible shouting monster and annoyed everybody around me. And now I am sitting at the hairdresser's, terrified at the idea that if it all goes wrong here too I am condemned to months of really bad hair..
Yes, with work, stress and lack of sleep, the crazy chick is back. I hate myself for being this side of me. And soon everybody else will too.
A long weekend walk is urgently needed..

In the meanwhile, where's everybody gone?? This holiday thing is 'like totally unacceptable'! Someone needs to tell me juicy stories.. Actually, I am starting to think that fear of ending up on this blog is stopping my friends from sharing their adventures.. Hmmm, detective EI will investigate and report back.
PS
In the end, my hair is OK, not as good as usual, but something I can live with. Too tired to bother with picking dinner venues, I had a massive bust-up with The Man in the middle of Chinatown. Then had to apologies to all the people I pissed off during the day. So glad it is almost midnight and today will soon be over.

Baaad blogger

Back to the eternal dilemma. How to fit work within a normal person's life? I am too busy for these 10-12 hour days! I have a life, friends, interests! This is just unacceptable!
So there you go, that's all I am posting today.
I am tired, nothing interesting is happening (or if it is, nobody is telling me), and I just want to sleep (should carry pj's to get changed into on the train, so when I get home I can just go to bed).
Puah!

One - 7

George tried to open his eyes. He wanted to test the light before committing to a full-on stare. His head was slightly less sore. The nausea still there, but bearable.
It was probably around midday. And he could not get out of bed, despite trying a couple of times.
George had the distinct feeling that there was somebody in the room. Maybe he was still asleep. Yet. Yet, wasn't that the silhouette of a woman at the end of the bed? Why wasn't she making any noises? And why wasn't he scared?
As George blinked, she disappeared. Was she ever there in the first place, George wondered.

Freedom

Back on the Heath running. The first time since my spring of leisure. And despite the summer rain (jee, it was bucketing!), the aching knee (why feeling young inside doesn't seem to translate to the outside?), the slight hangover and the exploding lungs (that's why it doesn't), it was brilliant!
I also realised why I don't like exercising with other people. It is an issue of mental space. Do you remember the Nike pitch in 'What women want'? When Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt come up with the running woman for whom it is just about ‘her and the road, where she doesn’t need to worry about being sexy or funny, about how to behave around men or colleagues, about how much money she makes. Nothing, nothing but the road'? (Don't quote me on this, my memory is not that good) Well, they did the cheesy work for me, and I don't need to come up with something similar. But that is it, really. My brain is connected to my feet. I need to walk or run to clear my mental clouds, to sever all ties, to feel free (nope, no getting away from cheesy today). Because, you see, as Male Friend #1 reminded me recently, quoting yet another film, breaking free is easy (even if painful and exhausting), the difficult part is to stay free. And if total freedom is impossible to achieve (although being an EI is a pretty good start), reliving the escape, reminding yourself of your uniqueness and independence, of who you are, of what you stand for as a person, not a girlfriend, a professional, a wife, a daughter, or a friend, is key to staying true to yourself. Hence the running, the walks, the lonely afternoons. Solitude can be a friend if you are not scared of it. Freedom can be a goal, a purpose, a choice, a cause to fight for. It is what you make of it. And can be found in the most unexpected places, even in the most unexpected company. Sometimes, your own.

Karma is a funny thing

While boredom is not funny at all.

Everybody is either on holiday or busy working. Nobody is answering my emails..
Sad, abandoned EI alert..

One - 6

George admitted that being ill was one of the few occasions when he missed living with someone. His stomach was curled up for maximum compacteness, his temples drenched with sweat, his legs weak and unsteady. At least his medicine cabinet was well stocked all the time. George avoided going to the doctor's as much as possible, and preferred self-medicating. Having medics in the family helped with the prescriptions.
George thought that he could have called her. She would have most certainly gone to see him and looked after him. But George did not want to be seen like that. Being unwell is personal. It takes a lot of sharing to get to that level of intimacy. And he could hear himself whining in his head.. A winging man is never a good look. Not very sexy, no. George buried is head back under the pillow and pretended the phone wasn't ringing.
George tried to float away towards pleasant memories to ignore the pain in his abdomen. The pebbles thrown in the sea when he was a kid at his parents' summer home. He could see his hand rummaging through the shore, selecting the flattest, most elastic ones, weighting them through his fingers. Stepping back, aiming, his right arm describing a horizontal emi-circumference. The pebble bouncing once, twice, three times, four times! His mate Ryan admiring his technique - never able to repeat it. His father slapping him on the back of his head for almost hitting a German tourist.. No, that wasn't a memory, that was a throbbing headache grabbing him back to present days.

One - 5

It was 03:05 in the morning when George woke up. He immediately reached out to the night stand. To then realise he didn't know what he was looking for.
As he turned the light on, George found himself covered in sweat. Small drops running down his hair at the base of the neck, curving towards the collarbone, plunging down his chest.
George could not remember what kind of dream (nightmare?) elicited such a reaction in him. The room wasn't hot either. On the other hand, he suddenly felt cold. George got up, put a tee-shirt on and went in the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked uncharacteristically pale. A sense of nausea grabbed him. He had to sit on the edge of the bath.
George went rapidly through all the options. Food poisoning (nope, no dinner), drunk (after one beer? Give me a break), flu (I am not running a fever), a new fashionable disease (?). There was only one option left, George concluded, he had to be pregnant.
As he started to feel better, George climbed back in bed. His eyes heavy. A new desperate sense of need. To sleep. To let go. To stop being annoyed by that shadow at the edge of his field of vision.

Before he knew it, the alarm clock was shouting away. Nausea, again. George decided to call in sick.

Sign o' the times

We all tend to believe that in the good old days, when friends were in an address book, not on Facebook, when computers were large plastic boxes on a desk, not cute little gizmos in our pockets, things were easier. We went to school, maybe university, got a job, got married, had kids, a house, a car, a holiday once a year. We were friendly with our neighbours, children played on the street, people aged gracefully and dressed accordingly. Ah, the good old days. No time for ennui. No time for navel gazing. No time for organic lacto-free cheese.
Whether you believe this pile of clichés is entirely your business. But one thing is fairly easy to agree upon. Not much is easy these days. Oh no. It is pretty damn complicated. Should I? Do I? Want I? The sheer amount of choice is paralysing.
Look around. How many options are available? Job-wise, love-wise, friendship-wise. And are these getting in the way of commitment? Of the ability to decide where we stand? Sometimes I cannot even pick the selection of fruit and nut for my weekly delivery of snacks! Actually, the little boxes that bring joy to the office on Monday mornings have just given me an idea. Because, you see, inside the cardboard box there are four sealed plastic trays, with four different mixes of healthy crunches. Boxes within the box. So, can we separate all the different compartments of our lives, box them up in a tiny container and open them only when appropriate? Can we split our day in four equal parts and move from one section to the other every six hours? Is life a stationary department or a minestrone? And what if your brain works in parallel and not in series? What if logical progression defies you every single time? What if romantic thoughts get hold of you while you are supposed to be a cold business person? What if you need to write a work email while cooking dinner?

One thing is worrying me these days. What if the relentless optimism is abandoning me? What if my feet are glued to the asphalt? What if the tiny boxes stay sealed all day long and I just stare at them from a distance? Would it be a very sad day, or a very healthy one?... Naaaaa, it will never happen. I am still the same EI, just a bit less dramatic about it.
PS
Beer does not go in the fridge if it is real ale

One - 4

George realised, as he walked inside his flat, that resistance was futile. He was not going to go to the gym. Third day in a row. Almost automatically George looked down. Stomach: still flat. At least another week worth of laziness before it would show. George also realised that he had left all the lights on in the kitchen for at least two days. George liked to think of himself as a positive person, so decided to carry on forgiving his own weaknesses. It was only when he realised that his fridge was empty, that George had a moment, albeit just a moment, of disappointment. For he didn't want to go out again. In a way, George thought, the two actions cancelled themselves out. No gym, no food, no fat. He opened a beer, undid his tie, lit a cigarette and sat on his sofa for a couple of hours of mindless television entertainment.
And yet, there was something nagging him. Like an itch at the back of his brain. George could not figure out when and how it started. Never mind, George thought, if nicotine doesn't bring back the memory, nothing will.

One - 3

'So, how are you doing?'
'Good, good. I am good'
'Still working your ass off?'
'Hmmm, kind of'
'And, what's her name, how is she?'
'She is fine'
'Are you sure you are OK? You sound pissed'
'...I am not! I only had a glass of wine.. Ah, you mean pissed off. No no no no. Of course not. Why should I be?'
'Dunno. You sound strange'
'Just bored. And busy. Busily bored. Or boringly busy. Take your pick'
'You could always come and work with us. You would be great'
'Thanks, but, no thanks. I know you guys. I am too old for your immense working hours and late nights out'
What an ass hole! Of all the people I know, did I really need to have lunch with him? "What's her name"!? What an ass hole.
George wasn't very pleased. He also didn't like to drink at lunch time. It did make him sound grumpy and frustrated. He blocked off the sound of the guy's voice and looked around. The restaurant was packed, as per usual at that time of the day. City boys. A few well-cut suits. A lot of cheap tat. George liked clothes. To be a straight man and to like clothes this much it was considered either an asset or ridiculous. But it didn't bother him. A stylist, or a fashion designer. Those were job offers he would have considered. Not to move to a firm of obscenely paid wankers. Although the money was most certainly appealing.
'So, what do you think?'
Crap, no idea what he was talking about.
'What do you think? I am very interested in your own opinion'
Easy. The man just loves the sound of his voice.
George wished he was still in school and someone could come and take him back to the classroom urging him to finish his lunch. But school doesn't happen in your 30's. He had to find an escape route by himself.

Who is George?

Some have asked.
Does it matter?
George is a normal guy, an extraordinary guy, an intriguing guy, a simple guy, a flowed guy, a perfect guy, a real man, an imaginary character.
Come and meet George. See what happens. Tell me if you like it, or if you hate it.

BTW, while I am here, there is something I need to bring up.
As if it wasn't hard enough for all the single gals out there, the hot married ladies are breaking hearts left, right and centre. Toy boys, grown up professionals, military men.. I won't name names, I don't need to. But these gorgeous mamas are just too sexy for their own good! Well, I think it is cool.

One - 2

Tic tic tic 'Dear Dr Spiro, Thank you for your email. We would be delighted to support your initiative. We look forward to meeting you in person to initiate the engagement process. Kind regards, George' SEND

Tic tic tic 'Hi Helen, Walking in the office this morning I noticed that once again the meeting rooms were left in a state of disarray. Would you mind following up with all the teams to make sure they all clean after themselves? Thanks a lot, G' SEND

Tic tic tic 'Morning, beautiful! Did you sleep well? How is your day? Can't wait to see you again. Feel you.. I'd better stop. Later, gorgeous, xxx' SEND

George stretched his arms, stared aimlessly at the computer screen and then realised that his stomach was giving clear signals of hunger. Time to eat. Such a beautiful day, he found it almost a duty to leave his desk for lunch.
'Will be back shortly, Ella. Can you please take my calls if my line rings.' Ella smiled at him and carried on talking on the phone. Nice shoes, he thought. Silence. She didn't think much. As usual.

Hmmm, sandwich or sushi? 'Hey buddy, are you grabbing a bite? Shall we go to the Italian in the market?' Problem solved.

One

George was trying to concentrate on his cuff links. Putting his shirt on was taking an unnaturally long time. The room was only half lit by the early sun. She was still sleeping. George didn't want to wake her up. And yet he couldn't help but staring at the back of her neck. Her black-haired head on the pillow facing away from him. Her elbows bent, almost pushing the sheets down. The straps of her brown nightdress.
In the right light her hair looked almost blue. He stopped himself from reaching out and touching it. George really didn't want to wake her up. He had to leave. He was late.
Found his jacket, his wallet, his sunglasses, grabbed a bagel from the bread bin.
Good morning, London

Modern life is rubbish

Oh oh, grumpy alert...

Sorry, I don't mean to be negative. I am just shattered. Trying to do too many things, seeing too many people, writing too many emails, while, well, working again. I have always been criticised for my rubbish work/life balance. So my new solution to the problem is to just cram everything into each day. And today my head was spinning so fast I could hardly get out of bed.

Married Friend #1 didn't seem very surprised. She doesn't like my 'all or nothing' approach, and desperately tries to keep me on a healthy route. Com'on, since when do EI's do moderation??

And yet, I dream of retiring in a little house by the sea, with books, chocolate and friends to visit. And the web, of course. And music. No fancy clothes, no designer handbags (yep, promise, would give them up), no power struggles, no commuting, no decorating, no antiques, no fancy furniture. Just sea, sun and, well, yes, lots of sex. Which makes me wonder: what's the point of retiring when you are old?

Yes, you are right, hardly a revelation. I will go back to my desk now..

A sigh

Sorting out my study, I have recently rediscovered a letter my grandmother used to keep in her dressing table. I found it when emptying her house after she died, and to this day it remains a family mystery. The letter is dated 1944, two years before my grandparents met. I ignore the identity of the young man in question, and unfortunately there is nobody left in the family to ask. Maybe he never made it back from the war of resistance. Maybe he met somebody else. Maybe by the time my grandmother married my grandfather she had given up on waiting. Interestingly, she never sent the letter, as it is the original I keep.

I thought of copying it here for two reasons. One, Emotional Incompetence may be hereditary. Two, life is a bitch.
Apologies for the unfortunate translation.

Amore mio,
Today I saw you walk away for the last time.
You kissed me. A moment that lasted far too long. 'Just go', I was thinking.
Then, you turned back and waved goodbye.
I stood there. While you disappeared in the crowd.

It is not down to me whether I will see you again. And my brain cannot comprehend the paradox. Of life deciding for us. Of what two people may or may not be meant to be. I cannot accept that we need to submit to a destiny I would rather fight. But there is another fight awaiting you, and this must sound as the selfish mutter of a silly woman. Who should instead support your bravery, your commitment, your dedication.
Who am I to try and interpret the routes of fate? To look for reasons where there aren't any. You need to leave and defend our freedom. I need to stay and resist here. Resist to invasion, deprivation and cruelty. Changes of hearts of foolish leaders. Friends disappearing.
Your loss, the loss of all the young men and women. It will change the society we live in forever. And what am I doing? Instead of crying for our battered land, hurt and violated, I cry for the image of you, cigarette in hand, your last stare. Can I possibly be jealous of this land you chose above me, you pledged to defend, you will sacrifice your life for? No, I am not even allowed to. How pathetic would that be.

There are no days to your return to be counted.This is an open-ended road. You cannot stop until your mission is over. Until all is left is my waiting. Until the bright red of your present bleeds into the warm gold of your future. Will there be anything left for me to remember?

Goodbye, my love. Farewell. Forgive my weak words, my pointless grief. I always knew. But I find no consolation in the awareness of the ineluctably, the fragility of your embrace.

Of all the words we shared, nothing is left to say. Just a taste, a sound, your sensory footprint. Like the warm impression in the bed you will be leaving.

Mine, until you will remember. Yours, until this letter fades and disappears.

Firecracker

This must be a first. Have you ever been turned down by potential employers for being too good? Well, apparently that happened to me recently, as I just found out. And the word used to describe me was 'firecracker'. Which made me laugh for two reasons. First, I thought I really impressed them with my enthusiasm, doer attitude and strength. Second, Male Friend #1 and I often use 'firecracker' when talking about my approach to life, so their assessment was quite accurate.
However,it also made me think, as it brought up a dilemma that is bothering me these days: how much of our real selves should we allow people to see? Is there an upper limit to passion? When does enthusiasm start becoming irritating? Do we need to censor our behaviour? Should we hide our feelings or live by them?
I may have touched on this in the past days, but I feel that I have not been 100% sincere. Because, although I firmly believe in honesty, I also want to fit in, just like I did when I was 14. And sometimes it is just easier to give people what they want from you. So I just switch off, stuff my face with chocolate and wait for the storm to pass. But, no more. The people who love me, love the firecracker. The ones who don't, well I wouldn't want to be their friend or work with them either. And I am not saying it out of spite. I am saying it out of conviction. No more wasting time where I am not wanted, or wanted for something different.
I had enough.

Ghost song

I have always believed this to be a strictly female problem. But I may be wrong.
I am talking about the cloak of invisibility most of us end up wearing one day or the other.

Do tell me if this scenario is at all familiar. Hot guy/girl met at a party reappears in other social circumstances. The first encounter was all chatting, giggling, flirting. You know it is in the bag. So, slight tinkle in your eye as you direct your steps towards the attractive being. But, as you smile with a sense of acknowledgement, they give you a vacuous look and blank you out. Or, even worse, as you extend your arm to shake hands/kiss cheek/whatever, they give you a polite smile and say 'nice meeting you'. Instant death seems the only way out.

How can it be that the same person who gets beeped and shouted compliments in the street, or smiled at by cute guys looking at her sitting in a cab, would turn overnight into the ghost of women past? (I am talking about Single Friend #1, in case you are wondering) What makes people of the opposite sex press 'delete' when seeing our number in their address book? Why are we supposed to play the 'I am not interested' game in order to bring some interest about our way?

A wise Italian lady reminded me of the old saying, 'in amore vince chi fugge'. Hmmm, in theory it is kind of obvious, but I am not quite sure. Because, you see, running away is my speciality, so why am I not the Olympic champion of love affairs, rather than an EI? And isn't there a fine line between confidence and being a twit?

Hey, excuse me, where are you going? What are you clicking? I am talking to you. Hey, I am talking, I am not done ye...

What goes around comes around

A few times in the past I have touched on the subject of feedback. How honest one can be in giving it, how prepared for the worse one needs to be in asking for it. As you may have noticed, I am pretty direct in expressing my opinions. I don't do sugar-coating. So it is only fair for me to accept harsh criticism. Easier said than done.

Today I made the fatal mistake of showing yesterday's blog post to Male Friend #3. Instead of giving me even a little smile, he looked up and enquired how much time I waste writing this 'crap'. Ouch.. Ouch.. OUCH!
First reaction: nonchalant smile. Second reaction: well, he doesn't like 30 Rock and SATC, he is not my target demographics (do I have one?). Third reaction: hmmm, that wasn't one of my finest moments, maybe he is right. Final reaction: how would you feel if I called crap what you do in your spare time!

So, there you go. First bad review and I crumble. Thoughts such as 'can do better', 'don't settle for bad writing', 'strive for the best' crowd my mind. In addition to 'I should probably stop here', 'maybe I am wasting my time'. But then, hang on, this isn't War and Peace. This is a blog! I have fun writing it, and some lovely friends have fun reading it.
Let's put it all back into prospective. If it is too low-brow for some, then fine. I doubt it will affect my chances of being nominated for next year's Pulitzer. And twenty minutes on the train to work is hardly a lot of time to be wasted! That's it, I am toughening up and will carry on writing. Until the few of you out there enjoy it.

By the way, in case you are wondering, I am still not speaking to him.

Hanging on the telephone

Driin, drriiinn, drrrrriiiiiinnnnn
EI: hello?
Friend with Boyfriend: hi honey, where are you?
EI: ehm, at home, where you called me. In the kitchen with a cup of coffee to be precise
FB: oh, that's not your mobile, then.. Anyway, you are back, finally!
EI: I am indeed, and working again too
FB: oh no, so you won't be available for lunch and drinks like before?
EI: unlikely, but I can try..
FB: so what about, let me check my diary, hang on, one second, here it is, hold on.. Hmmm, this week is a bit of a nightmare, next week.. I've got Tuesday evening. Would it work?
EI: I am afraid not. How's Thursday instead?
FB: ugly, ugly, ugly. Has to be the week after. Shall we say Monday?
EI: Monday it is. Will call you to arrange, OK?
FB: wonderful! Bye bye, my darling
Click

Beeep
BBerry messenger text from FB: hey, honey, did we say Monday?
EI: yep
FB: sorry sorry sorry, don't hate me, can't do
EI: OK, when then?
FB: Thu?
EI: cool, Thu it is
FB: :* u r great

Vibration
Email from FB: hello, how are you? How's the new job going? Are we still OK for Thursday? Where would you like to go? Where shall we meet? I am not eating carbs these days and wouldn't really want to drink. Maybe we should go to the cinema. Do you know what is on near your place? Let me know xxx
Email back from me (with a certain sense of exhaustion): hi there, I am fine, thank you. The new job is still new, so very good. I have checked the cinema and unless you want to see SATC2 again (which would imply me committing suicide by jumping from the cinema gallery and being impailed on a cocktail stick) there isn't much really. Theatre? Let me know xxx

Beep
FB: what if we go for a walk on the Heath?
EI: shall we do a weekend then?
FB: yes, awesome, Sat?
EI: yes, Sat morning is free, 10?
FB: oh no :(( 12?
EI: 12 it is
FB: love u xxxx

Driiin
FB: this is your mobile, right?
The Man: sorry, who is this?
FB: oh dear, so sorry, is she in?
(The Man, covering the speaker: one of your slightly deranged friends..)
EI: hello?
FB: you should really give me your mobile number again..
EI: there, just sent you a text
FB: got it! Perfect! So, where shall we meet on Sunday?
EI: you mean Saturday?
FB: no, I mean Sunday. I am flying back from Madrid on Saturday
EI: aaahhhh, you said Saturday, I am busy on Sunday!!
FB: I knew it! You just started working and you are already forgetting about me. I had so much to tell you..
Click

Whatever news she had, I guess that's a story you will have to wait to hear..

Don't make me laugh

Last night, with the now compulsory post-football match gloom, I started flicking through the plethora of Sky channels, when I came across the horrid Bridge Jones second film. I think I watched it several years ago when strapped in an airplane seat, during those unfortunate days when personalised displays were not available, and we were all obliged to follow the same revolting film, like lemmings. Therefore, my permanence on the above channel lasted about.. 3 seconds. Just enough to remind me of the ridiculous scam we women are victims of. The cute, rich, successful guy, with the fabulous career, the perfect family and the superb manners is NEVER going to fall in love with an idiotic, chubby, badly dressed, neurotic bore! It just doesn't happen.
A similarly misleading message is conveyed by an advert I have recently seen in Italy, where a clever, funny, not very good looking girl repairs a cute guy's car and drives him away, while his beautiful blond girlfriend is left behind.

Now, now, now. I am not being negative here. Oh no. I am just being honest. And frankly my theory can be very easily confirmed by any sincere man. Indeed The Man himself, when asked if the Italian advert had any remote chances of being plausible, admitted that it was just a load of bollocks. He managed to save his shins by adding immediately that some girls are lucky enough to be clever, funny and beautiful.. But that's like a confession under torture: pointless, and therefore not counting as evidence.

What I am trying to say is that rather than sitting on a sofa with a tub of icecream, watching the above-mentioned Bridget Bore, we should be loving ourselves and striving to be what we aim to be. No man can substitute self respect and a general feeling of well-being. Why should they? And if at least the Italian advert portrayed a clever lady with ideas and a sense of adventure, something to aspire to, Bridget Idiot has no redeeming features. She should not be celebrated, she should be abhorred. Hugh Grant and Colin Firth fighting for her? Give me a break. Have you seen Colin's beautiful and smart Italian wife?

There you go, something that gets me all fired up. The Bridgets, Forrest Gumps, George Ws and Jades of this world. The consumer-tailored raw models that celebrate global idiocy. That invite you to linger in your ignorance because everything 'will sort itself out in the end'. It won't. Being positive means creating opportunities, actively chasing dreams, cultivating interests, helping people, being a 360-degree human being. And if fate gives you a hand, then it is like tail-wind accelerating your flight. Fortuna audaces juvat. Icecream and bad television don't.

The chicken dance

Sunny London morning. Walking by the river on my way to work. Bizarre scene. A young lady in her 30's (yes, that's young) exercising her teeny tiny dog.. with a rubber chicken! Yep, the little lad clearly wasn't into tennis balls. He loved to fetch the plastic bird instead.
Then, on my way back from work, same scene. There they were. Again? Still? Did he spend the whole day chasing a chicken? Wasn't she bored to tears?

It kind of reminded me of the EI love life. Chasing the same man-made dream for days and days, running up and down along a river that keeps on flowing, while everybody stares in disbelief. But I tell you what. The tiny dog looked ever so happy. So who cares about what everybody else says, as long as it works for you.
In a way, after trying to change, to improve, to gain some useful insights, isn't it better to have the courage of honesty, and just be who you are? To admit weaknesses, failures and impossibilities, and embrace them? Is it possible to turn all the crazy energy into something positive? To stop giving into frustration and just concentrate on the silver lining?

And you really really never know. Against all odds.

Stop making sense

Not sure why I picked this title. It just kept twirling in my mind..
So..
What else is going on.
I made lots of new friends. So expect lots of new stories.
Single Friend #1 seems to be on her steady way to get over Sexy Guy. She still prefers sex to running, but can you blame her?
Male Friend #3 is living his obsession fully, and enjoying even more sex with his girlfriend.
Male Friend #2 has disappeared in a work mist, as has Male Friend #1. Not for long. I will soon demand attention as the crazy Italian that I am.
Twin Friend is injured and on her way to a family holiday.
Married Friend #1 has already taken off. Same for Friend with Children #1. Soon, Single Friend #2 will also abandon me.. Hang on a second. Good job I did make new friends, the old ones are all defecting!!

And your truthful? In London, all summer. New job, no holidays.
Trying to pretend to be all big and grown up.. Yes, I know, very funny.

But one good thing I have decided. From now on I will be positive all the time. Yep, no more complaining.. Shall we try?

Alive

Since so many things have happened in the last couple of weeks, I feel compelled to write again.

First of all, Best Friend got married. For those who know her (including the lady herself) quite a shock. But a very good one. The real bride was Young W. So happy, so excited, so in the zone.

BTW, honey, yes, ten years is usually the case. Not always, but usually the underlying idea.

Aaahh, love.. So contagious, uplifting, touching and just, let's face it, painful! A return to basics, away from the 'do', 'see', 'visit', 'buy'. Just love.. Not too shabby, uh?

If some have a new husband, I have a new job. End of the leisure time, I am back in business. Literally. So far, so good. Although I am a scardy cat really, as I moved only the other side of the Bridge from my old office. One of these days I will end up knocking at the wrong door, I am sure.

What else? The World Cup is providing enough painful entertainment. Like an uncorresponded crush. Full on EI territory. Hence, I am glued to the screen.
Single Friend #2 is ever so sweet. We went to see Pearl Jam (and Gomez) in Hyde Park. Yep, felt like 18 years had not passed.. (I wish) Eddie, oh Eddie. I am in my 30's, you are in your 40's, but, boy, you are hot!

Talking about heat, it is all going bonkers here. Italy was cold and rainy. England is hot and sunny.

You see, that's why I am in such a good mood. Life is full of surprises. Never, ever, ever stop believing that something is going turn out to be just.. amazing.

Hey, that's no way to say goodbye

I will just let Mr Leonard Cohen complain about my bad manners, as I take a little blog break.

Not sure whether anyone will notice, but I am going to keep quiet for some time. How long, I don't know. I just need to retreat into my own shell. In silence.

So, goodbye.
Hopefully, it will not be too long a separation.
Your friendly neighbourhood EI xx

Let's get physical - Part 2

I can hardly move.
I am sitting here at my desk with every inch of my body aching.
My back.. don't even get me started..
From EI to Physically Incapable. That's what happens when trying to fit into three days about two weeks worth of house works and DIY. I am beat.

Anyway, while I was swearing at Mr Dyson for having invented a vacuum cleaner with the handle in the wrong bloody place, therefore obliging me to move the bed (and pull my back) to reach hidden corners, I started thinking about life paths. Specifically, why on earth some of us always end up picking the most complicated ones (I suppose that was Mr Dyson's rationale for the bloody handle).
In fact, only a few days ago I was strolling in a park with Friend With Children #1 and her offspring. As she was talking, her words sounded like a lullaby to me. That wonderful straight road she has followed, her life unravelling in front of her along predetermined milestones, like checkpoints through the cell cycle. She is by no means having it easy. She is up all night, has multiple family engagements, responsibilities, worries, etc. But at least she feels she has done what supposed to. She fits in the mould. She is still the straight-A student of our childhood.

But, to stay with the cell cycle analogy, what if instead of going from G1 to S one wants to jump to G2, think about it and then decide to get stuck in a G0 arrest? What if unchartered waters seem way more exciting? What if twisted corners light up our internal magnet and pull us towards the unknown?

One or two years ago, FWC#1 and I had a major fallout about this. I probably overreacted when she honestly admitted not to share my life choices. Yes, scrap the probably, I went ballistic. Because I wanted her approval, even though I was clearly rejecting her way of life. And this search for approval is a sign of weakness. If you want to roam free, get used to the loneliness. And to the fact that most people have no idea about how much works it takes to carve your own path, to cut through the vegetation, to find a way when lost in the outback.

The temptation to sit down, relax and let the flow drag me is strong. But I promised to Married Friend #1 to be always true to myself. So, despite the achy back and limbs, I don't think I will sit about for long.
At least until when sitting about is what I really want to do. Until then, back to the Trollveggen.

La cura

Last evening in Italy spent with Twin Friend discussing and reminiscing over pizza and beer. The Amarcord component was partly my fault, as I dug out some old photos going back to... oh dear, 15 years ago!!! After the classical 'we looked so young!!', 'how could you possibly go out with him??', 'wasn't he the one with the twin brother..', 'what were we wearing??', we realised that not so much has changed. We are still the same determined dreamers, who have actually achieved most of what they set out to. With a molten soft core behind the professional crust. Two idiots, basically. But in the best possible sense. Looking after each other. And thank goodness for the unaltered capacity to laugh it all off, to find something funny in any situation.

An Emotionally Incompetent and an Emotionally Incontinent.. Still the same. Skunks rule!

Il gatto e la volpe

To my two new boyfriends, Andrea and Davide, who have stolen my heart on a warm spring Italian evening.

May the force be with you.

Fuochi nella notte

Tu quietami i pensieri e le mani
In questa veglia pacificami il cuore

Cosi' vanno le cose cosi' devono andare

Parklife - part 2

Hmmm, so there may be some kind of weird divine justice out there..

Remember the octogenarian hitting on me in the park? Well, today I had a bit of a better parklife experience. Maybe because of my new training gear? Maybe my currently relaxed outlook?

Anyway, I was running on the Heath when materialising in front of me is Dr Who! (wowowo - TARDIS noise in the background) Yep, Christopher Eccleston running, huffing and puffing, towards me.
Being a sad geek, I immediately emailed/texted/Facebooked far too many people. And it wasn't an issue of seeing a celebrity (Hampstead offers plenty), it was.. the Doctor! Ah, and BTW, for all those who asked, I did not run after him.

As my teenagery excitement wore off and my attention was once again concentrated on the blisters caused by new trainers, there he was again. We clearly went around opposite paths and ended up in the same place on the way back. And this time.. He smiled at me. Yep, the Doctor winked and smiled.
Move away Rose/Martha/Amy, here comes the new assistant. Ready to travel in time and space. To be whisked off to worlds far far away, to known pasts or futures yet to become. To live suspended between reality and imagination.
Sure at 900 he is kind of old, but he never ages and there is always the chance he regenerates in David Tennant. OK, that's just greedy.

So now you know. If I disappear for a while, I will be on the TARDIS, or running away from some crazy aliens who want to blow up planet Earth.

Byeeeeeeeeee

Changes - part 2

Ehm, forget about the slides, forget about the sleepless nights, forget about the fear of the unknown..

I could carry on exercising, running, lunching and having drinks for the rest of my life!!!

I know, I know, I can't really.. But I can most certainly enjoy it until it lasts..

Great expectations

I went to see Male Friend #3 for dinner tonight. Well, I showed up and he had completely forgotten about our arrangements. So he cobbled together something to eat at the last minute, and it was bloody awful. He was so distracted, he overcooked the pasta, burnt the sauce and broke a glass. All in the same evening.
As this is highly out of character (the guy is normally a great cook), I couldn't help but investigate.
Turns out he is obsessed with a woman. Worse, with the idea of a woman.
The famous first date with the younger lady went so well that they have seen each other for a while. And, faithful to his idea of taking it slow, nothing more than a kiss has been exchanged. Except, that now all he can think about is having sex with her. And the anticipation is killing him.
Because, you see, what happens if reality does not live up to imagination? What if, after this fantasy-thon he has been through, it all ends up being a bit.. bland?
At the same time, what if he is taking it too far? If lost in a sensual fantasy he forgets why he liked the lady in the first place?
Basically, is there such a thing as too much passion? At least in your head?

What could I say?
Rationality is well out of the equation (be prepared for the worse, hope for the best). No way I would attempt any prep talk either (I love my friends, but there is something called 'too much information').

Maybe, all he should do is just to.. get on with it. To stop imagining and start living.
Sometime reality finds interesting ways to surprise us..

Your pretty face is going to hell

It is quite fitting that the evening before my birthday I went to see Iggy Pop and The Stooges. The man is 63 (today I turn 36), and boy is he an emblem of eternal mental youth! If he can still rock pretty much naked and command a stage just like in the late 60's/early 70's, well, I should just shut up and get on with it. Seeing these guys now, you get unadulterated energy of raw proto-punk with matured skills of great musicians. Shame for the sweaty 60-year old next to me losing his day-time composure and dancing way too close for comfort. Sure, Raw Power was an odd album, and the Bowie mix was pretty awful, but The Stooges and Fun House stand the test of time perfectly well. Yep, a great gig.. and no sign of the puppet from the car insurance advert.

So, birthday considerations? I am not going to bore anyone with all the good things I discovered in my 30's, and why life looks pretty good from where I stand. These days, also because of a sudden professional twist of fate (more of which later), I seem to have it all. In all honesty, I am blessed. I am incredibly lucky and have no reason to complain.

But, there is always a but.
And I think I'd rather go to hell than get bored to tears in heaven.

Changes

And here we are. First day of unemployment. Sleeping pattern already messed up.
Standing in the kitchen at 4:30 am eating yesterday's dinner.
First time in my life with no immediate plans.

Last day at work was very.. emotional. Far too many tears, all day long. If somebody thought I resigned because I lost my mind, I am pretty sure they found confirmation in my girly behaviour, completely out of character.

Will have to get used to no seeing The Homonymous, English Rose, Male Friend #1, SF#2 and The Venerable every day. Weird. Not to mention everybody else. Four years.. Long time.

Leaving drinks carried on until 2am, with Gorgeous Girl creating a stir in the bar. Flocks of men.. And she doesn't notice half of them.. Not only she is beautiful, she is incredibly sweet too.

Is it going to be cake baking galore? Or exercising craze? Internet dependence? Or rereading Proust all over again? Meditation retreat? Or pampering spa?

Difficult decisions, uh? Better get used to life in the slow lane. Except.. I am already hyper ventilating! Give me some slides, quick!!

E tu

In order to maintain that tiny shred of credibility I have left, I will not specify the music happening I attended last night. All I will say is that I was thrown back in time to when I was 10-12, playing old vinyls in my bedroom, some (Leonard Cohen, The Beatles, Dylan, The Doors, De Andre') more credible than others (the gentleman in question). Before I met punk, metal, garage, underground and trip hop. Yes, a looong time ago.

One thing I may have figured out, though. Being an EI may be a case of arrested development. How can I still be the same simple soul in my 30s? Writing a blog about being an EI.. Fat chance of being an adjusted grown up..
Wise people tell me that you can only love for the sake of loving when you are 18, then other 'needs' come into the equation. You know, nesting, stability, life plans. Aaarrrggghhh!!! I refuse to believe this. And I tell you more. These wise people have forgotten what it is like to fall in love. Or are too scared to try again. Mind you, it is pretty damn' scary. Just look at SF#1..

Yes, I know eff'all, but let me suggest one thing. If you are in a relationship, if there is someone in your life, if you are in love, don't waste time. Just go and kiss them. Drag them in bed, if you can/want to. Wisdom can wait.

The sound of silence

Nice.

The ballad of.. EI

Typical of nearing birthdays, I find myself looking back, looking in and looking forward.

You may not believe this, but there is a song out there composed in my name. Actually, there may even still be a tape with the recording in one of my old bedroom drawers. It was a long time ago. I was 20, a young and promising physics student, with too many ideas and not much common sense. Afternoons spent watching French films in dingy indie cinemas, endless cigarettes and cheap red wine, music to make your ears bleed... Not much has changed. Except the price of the wine. And the quality of cinema seats. But the sturm und drang are still here. On the other hand, the guy who wrote the song is now a well-adjusted father of two, who has packed away the guitar for good.

As Lawrence Durrell said, 'There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.' I have loved, I have suffered, I have written. Now it may be time to shut up.

Whatever happened to my rock 'n roll

Cool creds: went to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

Uncool creds: was sitting upstairs (but, hey, the sound is way better)

Cool creds: wasn't the oldest person in the room by far

Uncool creds: was one of the few not wearing black

Cool creds: knew all the songs

Uncool creds: when they came on, I clapped my hands and said 'Exciting!' (Why? Why?)

Cool creds: unlike the guy in front of me, I resisted the urge to air guitar

Uncool creds: wanted to hit the skinny bitch dancing and blocking the view of the stage

You get the gist.. I am not exactly cool. Never will be.

Never mind. 90 minutes of tight R 'n R, oscillating between The Velvet Underground and The Stooges. These Baudelaire and Rimbaud wannabes can play their guitars. And since their latest album Beat the Devil's Tattoo hints strongly to their first, B.R.M.C., with The Jesus & Mary Chain-inspired walls of feedback over gospel blues, the tracks jelled perfectly in a continuum of highly enjoyable moody rock. Shame for the old guitar-breaking cliché at the end (Really? Really).

And all of a sudden, it was all forgotten. A distorted basic guitar/base/drums sound can do that to you. It floods your ears and brain, wiping out unwanted memories, The Man's car crash (wish I didn't see the car), my coping mechanisms (anger.. not good.. sorry), inextricable complications, lack of reasons..
And become a teenager again: I fell in love with a sweet sensation, I gave my heart to a simple chord, I gave my soul to a new religion, whatever happened to my R 'n R.

Hurricane drunk

So, back to Single Friend #1.

As expected the evening with a large bottle of vodka, and several other alcoholic items, resulted in a legendary headache. At least, one thing we have achieved: narcosis. I can't even remember my name, therefore she must have temporarily forgotten about Sexy Guy.

I heard once of a mathematical formula linking the amount of time it takes to get over someone to the time actually spent with this person. I wonder if it is also a function of other variables, such as the intensity of the relationship, the imaginary relationship time (ie, making plans for non existing events), the frequency of communication, the quality of sex, the ability to compartmentalise, to rationalise emotions.

Right now, at least once she sobers up, SF#1 is still in the grip of the hurricane. And is just spinning around aimlessly.

The frustration is to try and figure out what to do to help her out. Especially because I am a sucker for a happy ending, and, somehow, I am secretly hoping that the idiot realises what a mistake he's making. Of course, I would never say that to SF#1. I have rubbished the man flat out for over a week now. And I could hit him in the face if he comes anywhere close to her. What a despicable behaviour, blah blah.

And it is kind of hitting me while a write. This is typical EI, isn't it? To hope against hope, to believe in some magical relationship karma, to be so open and naïve to ignore the harsh reality. To snub straight, fast lines, for the surprises awaiting around the corners of a winding road. To fail to learn from own mistakes. To be emotionally unequipped.

I am starting to fear that I am going to need support in this rescue mission. SF#2's cynicism and Married Friend #1's warmth and wise words will set the path straight again. How can anybody live without friends?

(Ho visto un'alba) Blu

Up at 3 am again. Thinking of crossroads, possibilities and opportunities. Of errors past and errors future. Of choices, decisions, indecisions. Of the ones we lost, and the ones we should hold on to. Of love given, of love taken, of love never to be returned. Of too many cigarettes. Of thoughts spoken and unspoken. Of hearts broken, mended and broken again. Of fear and bravery. Of friends to miss and long for. Of responsibility and duty. Of time rushing by. Of answers looking for a question. Of beautiful numbers that build order from chaos. Of neuroses. Of desire. Of impossible dreams. Of pain and hurt. Of new ends and old beginnings. Of words, words, words, words. Of life having this bad habit of adding another year to your age. Of happy loneliness. Of one way streets. Of blue socks in a white washing. Of a desk still to be cleared. Of goodbyes. Of things not quite going according to plan. Of wanting to jump. Of knowing when you are losing. Of change. Of boxes yet to be unpacked.

Of wishing I didn't suffer from insomnia.

Then, I saw a blue dawn over the city.