Seen on the two hour journey back from a meeting this evening in traffic jams:

One woman removing facial hair with tweezers

A couple having a blazing row - two hands off the steering wheel and on head several times

One man reading a newspaper across the steering wheel and talking into a mobile lodged between shoulder and ear

More people using mobiles that weren’t hands free than I could keep up with

A lot of people smoking - which is something I can’t do when driving and am in awe of

One woman eating a banana

Two men in a builders van roaring with laughter - presumably at her nibbling (there was gesticulating)

A couple with the woman driving and him asleep in the passenger seat.  She didn’t look happy

and other assorted nonsense.

I was the woman - with MP3 on random play - singing along very loudly.  In other words, the one you thought was a nutter…

I don’t know who you are.  I don’t know where you are.  I don’t know when you are reading this.

If, however, you are reading this on the evening of the 13th October and you are in the UK (or surrounding areas) just look up at the moon.  It is beautiful….

I think I’m turning into a man.  No, seriously, despite the outward trappings of womanhood - and today a very uncomfortable bra - it’s occurred to me that I might have crossed the line.  Drinking Newcastle Brown whilst watching the football is one thing.  Being completely obsessed by sex - or the lack of it - is another entirely.

I remember being told that men think about sex every 7 seconds.  Now, that statistic may have been debunked as a glossy magazine headline - it being unusual for anyone to really tell a researcher the whole truth in a situation like that - but from discussions with my male friends and female friends, I still believe that they think about sex more - and that I’m becoming more like them. Next time you’re out and about - enjoying a coffee or a beer - look around.  Women may watch the people wandering by - in groups they may even comment about their fitness - but they don’t openly calculate in the same way that men do.  If they’re alone, they may play the people watching game* - but this isn’t overtly sexual, more fantasy lifestyle.  A man, sitting alone, reading a paper, enjoying a pint, on the other hand, will be looking.  Married, attached, single, regardless, they are always looking for who is around and any potential that’s on offer.  This isn’t meant to suggest anything negative, it’s just a difference between the species in my very humble opinion.

Now, 18 months ago, I was more female than male in the way I looked at people - if we take for one minute that what I’ve said in the previous paragraph is correct.  With female friends I would indulge in a spot of idle chatter about that “fit lad” who just walked past.  Even with the boys, I could go - to a certain point - with the “wow - she’s hot” banter, but there was a point after which, even though I could hide it quite well, inwardly I would find it uncomfortable.  Now, my point of reference is wandering so far from where it was that I’m sure I’m growing balls and secretly playing with them every 15 seconds (or, truthfully, pretending to secretly play, but being so overt about it that a sign should be displayed saying “Yes, I’ve got a big one, so big in fact, that I can’t contain it in my shorts..”).

I think about sex on my drive to work (and the drive back home).  There is a particular reason for this, connected to my crush - given I very often drive past him or am on the look out for him, but that’s twice, nonetheless.  In work I’m OK, unless someone new arrives.  Then I’m immediately sizing.  It’s not good.  Luckily, very few people who I even think are superficially attractive - personality-wise - ever enter the office, which is a good thing!  If I do get to go out - and that’s not often - I’m scouting from the get go.  Even in my horrific state at the end of the night the other week, I was still looking.  No-one was looking back, needless to say, but it didn’t stop me.

Whilst I was dancing at the now infamous Smiffs gig, there was the cutest lad bouncing around somewhere close to me.  Close to me, in this sense meaning that, every now and then, we brushed hands as they waved around wildly.  The first time he did the sorry look and shrug - to which I respond with the “don’t be daft” smile.  After that it felt somewhat more comfortable.  But how I moved it on from that to actually dancing with him, I had no idea - and certainly couldn’t work it out whilst drunk and trying to keep up with the wild abandon around me.  He was tall, slim, with just the merest hint of a quiff.  Perfect in my eyes.  By the end of the dancing, he was talking to a woman at the edge of the dance floor.  Possibly his girlfriend, possibly someone with a more advanced ability to hook the man.  I was drunkety-drunk at this point and completely unable to think in any logical terms.  This is probably where my subdued feminine side moved back in - and whilst I had been thinking that to take him home would be quite the plan whilst we danced around, it made me walk away in the end.
So, I’m turning into a boy when sober and an ineffectual woman when drunk.  Marvellous, just what I need.  And, if emphasis was in any way needed, I’ve been talking about renovating a loft and using terminology around spirit levels, plum lines and plasterboard for the last 30 minutes.  Bloody perfect!
* - Am I the only person that remembers Watching - ITV “comedy” with Liza Tarbuck?  God, it was awful, wasn’t it?

There is an age beyond which, and I am sure this must be the same for everyone and not just me, a person should not bounce up and down whilst listening to music.  Given the state of my right buttock, I take this age to be 37.  As I pointed out to my friend the drummer, his band ought to have insurance for such injuries - and if not, one of the band needs to be prepared to massage me better after gigs.  There was no response.
Saturday, needless to say, was a good night.  The Brummie Sculptor and I had the most wonderful evening, which started with us pretending to be 16 again, dying our hair and drinking wine in my bedroom*.  After spending much time preparing ourselves, we drank more wine before inflicting our hilarious-selves (we were that deluded at this point) on various friends in the local.  At 10.40, The Smiffs came on and I started dancing.  An hour and ten minutes later they finished their set.  I had not danced to 2 of the 16 song set-list (namely “The Queen is Dead” (I was at the bar) and “Asleep” (not really a dancing track))**.  I was knackered and looked like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards during a monsoon.

Downstairs the look wasn’t so bad.  It was dark, dingy and I wasn’t alone.  Upstairs, the look caused much hilarity amongst friends now too sensible (boring) to partake in loud music and dancing.  These are the friends who enjoy a nice meal out and a couple of glasses of wine (for the ladies) whilst discussing the latest burp or fart of their dearest darling child.  I find these nights wonderful (in theory) but inevitably rather boring (unless I’m allowed to talk to the boys about football, the credit crunch, international terrorism or even the price of butter).

I had mentioned the gig to my crush - not in an overly obvious way - but he didn’t show.  I hadn’t asked him to attend, just pointed out that it would be a good night.  Given my attractive look at the end, I’m rather glad he wasn’t there.  At least I don’t have to find somewhere else to take my work!

They’re going to play again in December, The Smiffs.  Given they sold out on Saturday night - and they were turning people away from the door - it’ll be a case of getting tickets early.  I can’t wait.
* Of course, when we were 16 we wouldn’t have been drinking a rather nice Sauvignon Blanc, but rather the cheapest cider/alcoholic substance we could have laid our hands upon.  Earlier in my drinking career, this would have included sherry, but I’m sure I was beyond that period at this point.

** It is entirely possible that the band didn’t even play these songs and I just imagined them both.  However, I’m fairly sure I am correct.

“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”
Rose Kennedy

OK then, time to dish the dirt, I suppose.  After all, that’s what people want really.  They aren’t after the meaningless day to day diatribe.  Oh, well, yes, of course they are - they’re reading the blog of someone who they’ve never met.  What they really want, I suppose, is to feel either superior in the knowledge that their life is better than the one they are reading about or, possibly, that they aren’t as weird as all that for watching crap TV late into the night and then slinking off to bed alone to be comforted by the latest Iain Banks, or similar.

So, the dirt.  Well, it’s not really dirt.  More something I’ve had a hard time admitting to myself.  You see, I’ve got a crush.  Well, being completely honest, I’ve got two - but back to that later.  I know my crushes name and occupation, but very little else - other than he drives a very old convertible BMW and has a fondness for The Jam.  I’ve met him perhaps a dozen times over the last year - always as a client to the business he runs.  And, I’m fascinated.

From bitter experience I know how this goes.  He’ll be gay or in some long-term relationship with a stunning girl who has legs up to her arm-pits and never goes out of the house if her hair isn’t just so.  Not that he’s like that.  No, he’s just on the right side of geeky arty for my taste.  His haircut is somewhere out of a Mod movie and I’ve even seen the odd Fred Perry shirt about his person.  And he wears old shoes - well trainers/Converse-types.  They always look like he’s had them a thousand years, which just makes him even more endearing.

He works in the Gene Puddle but lives somewhere in the City.  If I’m really lucky, I’ll pass him twice a day as we drive back and for - in the opposite directions - to our work. He can smoke when he drives - something I’ve never managed to do - and, like me, he sings along to whatever he’s listening to on the radio.  Either that or he has some hands free mobile thing going on.  Or, possibly, he’s a psychopath who plots his next great crime in his car (although, we’ve all talked to ourselves in our cars, haven’t we?  Just me then?).

We’ve had some great conversations when I’ve gone into pick things up from him.  He’s smart and funny and makes me laugh - although I’m consciously trying not to show any signs in front of him that there is the potential I may just launch myself at his ankles and beg him to take me to bed at any moment.  I’ve tried the leading questions about what he’s doing that night/that weekend, to try and eek out information about him, but without any success.  I know he goes to Metro’s sometimes - but not enough to make it worthwhile going in there and hanging out on the off-chance.  I also know that he’s got lots of friends who don’t live locally - as he’s told me about weekends away - either planned or taken - to visit them.

Most importantly, he smells like no-one else I’ve ever met - but like everyone who I’ve ever known.  He smells of cigarettes and wood.  Wood is very important in the business he’s in.  I come from a family who run a building firm.  I was brought up around wood shavings and cigarette smoke as the carpenters went about their business.  Perhaps this is about the comfort of childhood, but the way he smells makes me feel completely safe and at ease.  No pretence.  No poncy aftershave/deoderant chemical smells.  Just hard work, wood and tobacco.
So, what to do next about the Crush.  That’s the thing.  Where do you go next?  I’ve never been very good at this bit - and to say I’m rusty is probably the understatement of the year.  I took a colleague to pick some stuff up one day - just so that she could use her GayDar on him.  She thought he was straight - probably.  So, no fucking use at all.  And, why would he be the slightest bit interested.  He’s at least my age and if he hasn’t got a significant other, there’s probably a reason that he’s quite happy with right now.  And, before you ask, I don’t think he’d be a one-night stand.  After all, this image I have of him in my head has taken a year to build up.  One night is hardly likely to shatter it significantly enough for me to write him off as a bad deal.

So, the Crush will go on.  If nothing else, it keeps me awake when I’m driving.  His name is Chris by the way.

Oh, and the other one.  That’s even harder to admit and even less likely to be resolved.  It’s been going on way too long.  I pull away every now and again.  Then I see him.  My head spins and my stomach lurches.  It’s been like that for over twenty-years.  It’s going nowhere and one day I’ll admit that to myself.  Just not today….

This is my truth, tell me yours…

1.  Grounds for Divorce - You bet.  There were six - but I could have gone on.  Regardless, it’s filed.

2.  Different Class - William started in Reception.  There were more mother’s crying than children.  I was not one of them.

3.  Sleep Alone - Most nights (unless a small child appears, as if by magic, and I spend the rest of the time clinging onto the edge of a double bed).  However, this would be better news if I had balls.

3.  2+2=5 - I’ve started a short course with the Open University to “aid my continuing professional development..” in order that work paid the registration.  All bollocks, of course, but it makes my CV look better, just in case the credit crunch comes to Cardiff.

4.  Don’t Look Back in Anger - It’s unseemly.  Smile sweetly, pretend everything will be just fine.  People like it better that way.

5.  Perfect - It rarely is, even if that’s how it is projected.

6.  Crushed By The Wheels of Industry - Work. Is. Still. Manic.  Even in August, which used to be - whether in the office or out - a month to catch up, have long lunches and plan the campaign for the Autumn.  This year, no let up.

7.  30 Something - Yes, another birthday came and went.  Less alcohol than in previous years - but I’ve made up for that in the last week, which has been ugly, ugly…

8.  House of Cards - I have a Freecell addiction.

9.  Just The Way I’m Feeling - Up and Down.

10. Wow - Usain Bolt, Michael Phelps, Rebecca Adlington, Tim Brabants, I could go on.  Not forgetting, of course, the local heroes - Nicole Cooke and David Davies.

11. Born A Girl - Which doesn’t in any way mean I can’t like football.  Go on Liverpool!

12. Get A Life - Yes, I will when I get five minutes.  Until then, same shit, different day..

13. Mothers Talk - And so do women in general.  When will men understand that?  We don’t go to the toilet in pairs for nothing, you know.

14. Young at Heart - So I’m going to watch The Smiffs (did you get what they did there?) a week Saturday at a local pub.  Same night as The Other Smiths, but less entrance and taxi fare.  They best be as good as he reckons they are!

15. Weather With You - Because it was shit here.

Oh, and I’ve been cataloguing a whole bunch of tracks that have been donated.  Seems to have gone to my brain, somewhat…

“What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us. What we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.”

– Albert Pine

Something to remember when thinking about what comes next, probably spurred by the fact I attended a funeral today that, whilst immensly sad, was the most complete celebration of a life.  Immortality is not about the transferance of genetic code, but rather the way in which our time is spent and the impact we have on those around us.

I believe we all make an impact, leave a foot-print and thus become immortal.  I see this as a comfort, particularly as an atheist with no belief in any life after this.  The importance of how we lead our lives, how we touch others and the way this is remembered is who we are and all that we can ever become.

There truly is a light that never goes out.

As I cwtched a sobbing little boy at the end of Doctor Who this evening, he looked up, tears streaming down his face (mingling with the type of snot only small children can produce) and said:

“But its so sad, Mummy.  The Doctor is always going to be on his own..”

All I remember from watching Doctor Who in the seventies is dodgy scenery and hiding behind the sofa when the Daleks came on.  Nothing as profound as seeing the real plot on which each story is based after only watching one series.

My child.  The genius.

Or, more likely.

My child.  The geek…

I’ve just written the following, most of a bottle of white wine down and having watched The Verve piss all over Jay-Z…

“Wherever you are on the site, whatever or whomever you are doing, stop and breath the air. I am so jealous… J x”

Glastonbury 2008, I salute you…