days like these
Firstly, I ought to apologise for my elusiveness. I have little excuse really, but I'll blame it on my boyfriend, although I should point out that he is clearly the more diplomatic one in the relationship - a few days ago he was urging me to post, for fear of my friends blaming him for the lack of blogging. So here I am, and I hope you can accept my apologies, although you really ought to be thanking
him for this post!
It scares me somewhat to realise that it has been less than a week since term ended but that so much has happened since then. We had our first date on 18 March, having a lovely dinner and catching a showing of Hitch, and spent the wee hours of the morning exploring the depths of London - all the way from Southwark across to St Paul's, into the City, pausing underneath the silently imposing Lloyd's tower and Gherkin, getting lost in Barbican, and finally weaving our way back into Fitzrovia.
It was a momentary respite from the last bits of coursework that were due in on the last day of term. Most nights were spent in the cluster room on campus with our friends, joking about, enjoying each other's company, and occasionally working. Wednesday rolled around, the coursework was handed in, and that was that - the last set of lectures of our undergraduate careers, the implications of which have not hit me yet. It feels so very odd to be finished. I seem to have completely lost track of time.
JT's birthday party/end of term celebration was held that night in Angel. It was a lovely evening, and I'm happy to say that there were individuals there who were vastly more drunk than I (the bus ride into Angel was rather embarrassing to say the least, and included some highly shameful acrobatic stunts courtesy of N and V). But what I remember most about that evening was the moment much later on at night, when time seemed to stop, the rest of the world ceased to exist, and D had my hands in his. As I leaned forward, lost in a hazel sea, he told me that he loved me, and in those seconds, he had managed to encompass all of the emotions I'd been feeling in the past few weeks in just three little words.
What did we do in the days thereafter? Quite a lot, actually. A non-exhaustive list would include a trip into Canary Wharf; watching the ducks during dusk on a bench in St James' Park; catching an IMAX film at the Science Museum; people-watching whilst curled up in each other's arms in dark corners of underground bars; shivering outside in Leicester Square and having Belgian chocolate and tiramisu-flavoured ice creams; and last but not least, falling asleep next to each other, sharing heartbeats and dream space, and waking up in the tangled closeness of arms and limbs, in the breath of the still morning air.
It's official :-)
Not that you didn't see this coming, of course.
More soon.
denial
This is going to be a rather difficult post for me to write; I'm almost squirming in my seat. Which is surprising - considering I usually have something to say about everything (except politics and football) - indeed, if you were to accuse me of being an opinionated little brat, I would hardly argue with you, although I'd probably have an opinion about that too.
Saturday seems like ages ago, when really only three days have passed since then. I rarely find myself at a loss for words, but due to circumstance, that was exactly how I felt on Saturday night when it was decided (not by me) that WTD and I ought to have a little chit chat 'to see where this is going'. If that wasn't unexpected enough (yes, ok,
denial), it was the comment that followed - something to the effect of 'we've been seeing rather a lot of each other recently, and I do enjoy your company'.
Fuck, I thought. What on earth was that supposed to mean? Can a man get any more cryptic? I did not know what to say. In fact, I started pacing the length of my flat, and I never pace. I wrote four draft text messages and sent none of them. Like a bumbling idiot, I finally did reply (just to be courteous), at which point WTD said (like any intelligent human being would) that these things ought to be discussed in person and that he would be coming over in five minutes. The first thing that went through my mind at that point: God, I could really do with some alcohol right now. When he rang up, I didn't buzz him in. I waited two minutes, swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried not to look him in the eye when I finally did open the door.
Fast forward: things were discussed. The air was cleared. Matters were sorted. (Well, sort of.) I admittedly liked him more after we had that conversation because it was as if our friendship/relationship (I clearly cannot seem to differentiate between the two) had been taken to another level - we decided to be sensible/rational about things and not start anything due to intervening factors - it was almost like an inside joke; our little secret. Nothing really changed in the following days; besides, the way things were going, there was not much that differentiated us as friends, from us as being a couple. What does it mean to be 'going out', anyways? I don't want to be quick about categorising a relationship. That might spell disaster. I don't know.
The problem is: I like him, and he likes me. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this tends to make things a wee bit more difficult. Actually, I was just re-reading the title of this point. Funny how it looks extremely similar to WTD's real name. How very appropriate. (Or perhaps I'm becoming dyslexic.)
antics, part two
God. I've just spent the past half hour exchanging six bizarre text messages with JDM, who was, for whatever reason, under the (very incorrect) impression that L, one of our friends, 'hated' him. Then, deciding that my text messages weren't of enough reassurance, he rang me instead.
'Hey, you ok?' he asked. It was noisy (or windy?) wherever he was.
'Yeah, I'm ok, you? Where are you, by the way?'
'I'm on Charlotte Street', was what I reckon he said, 'and completely and utterly shit-faced'.
Before I could open my mouth to ask why - although the answer was really rather obvious at this point - he began babbling incomprehensibly, and started to giggle. A few seconds thereafter, he promptly hung up on me. Erm...right.
Edited to add:
12.03.05 03:37 From: JDMSorry about earlier. I was being attacked by a drunken Welsh friend. S himself told me that L hates me. I'm not lying or making this up or whatever you think.Are men just as insecure as women? A drunken Welshman. Truly frightening.
antics
Wednesday night was when I encountered a low point that I'd not hit in a long while, and strangely, I could not cope very well with it on my own. Which was slightly embarrassing, to say the least.
09.03.05 23:23 From: White Teeth DSounds like you need my calming influence. I am coming over... A problem shared is a problem halved.I had a multitude of problems accumulating and causing undue stress, but I rather obstinately refused WTD's offer as it was late, he was unpacking after having just got back from Bermuda (lucky bastard), my hair was a mess etc.
09.03.05 23:43 From: WTDAs you wish despite your poor excuses. See you at Forecasting. Good luck with the ICA. What time is it?I happened to be rather lucky, as the in-course assessment went well, except for one dodgy odds ratio which I effectively pulled out of thin air (unsurprisingly this is not the first time I've done things like that out of total desperation on exams). In light of me so rudely turning down WTD's offer the previous evening, it was decided that we ought to have dinner on Thursday night instead. To have my very own therapist! Excellent indeed.
10.03.05 15:18 From: WTDShall we shoot for around 8? I feel like going somewhere a little nicer than usual...have somewhere in mind so will see if there is space. Is that ok with you?(No, of course it's not ok, I'd prefer somewhere dodgy and grotty instead, but if you insist.)
We never did obtain a reservation at this mysterious venue as it was fully booked, and I still do not know where he had wanted to take me. WTD is being ridiculously obtuse and refusing to shed some light on where it might be, although I will be able to find out this Friday, when he plans to make another booking. We instead had drinks at Shochu, before taking the tube to South Kensington where we went to a lovely authentic French restaurant called Racine. Its simple decor consisted of deep chocolate brown leather banquettes in an intimate dining room, which was illuminated by kind, creamy lighting. The food was delicious - no trace of fusion cooking - it was traditional French cuisine, and it was a restaurant that simply is very good at what it does.
The problem was (as it usually is): the alcohol. And the way WTD kept refilling my glass, even ordering me my first glass of port after we had dessert. (I actually really enjoyed the port, as well as the white wine, although he refuses to believe me - and all because of an unfortunate grammatical error I made whilst in a totally inebriated state. His bloody fault entirely.) When we finally left the restaurant (00:30? 01:00? No idea), we were faced with our next problem - getting home. I drunkenly declared that the tubes ran till at least 1 am, and for a good ten minutes we argued about this until we reached Knightsbridge station and I discovered that it was...closed. And more embarrassingly, that he was actually right. There is, obviously, a first time for everything.
The long walk home - which we later discovered took over an hour - was quite amusing. We walked on Park Lane and ogled the cars (I am not fussy about cars, as long as one can get me from Point A to Point B, but I have to say that the Aston Martins were...oooooooooooh); ogled dodgy adverts in the phone boxes; ogled dodgier lingerie in a shop window; and spent a fair bit of time ogling the zebras, elephants and sunglasses in the window display at Selfridges. I think I was home at 02:00, at which point I got roughly two hours of sleep and rolled out of bed just in time to greet WTD at the door at 10:23, who had come armed with strawberry jam, bacon and sausages. We had a nice fry up, albeit a rather quick one. The subsequent Actuarial Science lecture that we attended was a complete disaster - I can safely (and proudly) say that I had absolutely not a
clue what the lecturer was rattling on about. (The maths was also making me somewhat dizzy.) Again - I blame it on WTD (who, if you can believe, nearly managed to convince me to have yet another drink at another bar on the way home. I am glad that at least one of us is sensible/clever - delete as appropriate).
I'm naturally a slightly wary person, and do not tend to put my trust in people very easily. I have been told that I am a very good judge of people, however. I can sit on the sidelines for a long while, observing, contemplating, thinking, and then forming friendships on a very instinctual basis. I've said it very recently, but I'll say it again. People are fascinating. But the process of getting to know someone - which is a very organic sort of process - I find to be of equal fascination. It usually takes years for me to feel completely comfortable in the presence of people I'm getting to know. I find it rather surprising how quickly I've been able to feel this understood and comfortable in WTD's presence, and in such a comparatively short period of time. Part of the fascination that lies herein is that there is always more to be learnt about a person; it is a never-ending, yet constantly fulfilling, process. It's also a connection and a mutual respect, I think, and I can count on one hand the number of people in my life with whom I share this sort of bond. It is wholly unexpected and really a rather strange feeling. But also, dare I say, a really rather lovely one too.
on my mind
I had a conversation with my mum last night that did not go very well. Actually, to be more accurate, I really ought not to call it a 'conversation', for it was not a conversation at all. I listened as she directed an hour and a half of criticism at me, delivered at varying volumes, but all on the upper end of the decibel range. I said very, very little in return. I do not know which is worse - to keep things bottled up, or to try to convince someone who absolutely refuses to be convinced. I chose the former, but it hurt. It would be naive of me to think that just because I'm an ocean away, these things won't happen. Very unfortunately, they do.
What was said brought to light some of the very issues I'm dealing with now and distorted them beyond all reason or recognition. Relationships - platonic, parental, romantic, what have you - are extremely difficult to navigate, and this is precisely where our views on what approaches should be taken are so fundamentally different. Love or friendship cannot always be equated with trust or understanding. Yes, in ideal situations, equating these factors is natural. However, as well as you might think you know someone, it is often very difficult to be sure of whether you truly
know them. I've said it before, but I'll say it again: it might take years to build up trust, but it takes only seconds to break it.
This brings me onto another topic, which is wholly and completely unrelated to the row between my mum and I. For a long time I've kept this website unknown to all but those currently reading its pages. Unless I voluntarily gave someone its address, or the site was stumbled upon inadvertently in other ways, it was highly unlikely that one would have known of its existence. Some people undoubtedly wonder why it has been kept as such a private affair. The answer is this - a glimpse into my little world, as small and insignificant as it might be, is, to me, actually rather sacred.
It would be nice if things like that didn't matter. But they inevitably do.
desperately seeking sunshine
Sometimes I question whether time passes more quickly when I've got loads of work to do, because I always seem to run out of time when this happens. Having said that, this weekend was surprisingly productive. Saturday afternoon was spent in the library, and then giving the flat a good once-over; Sunday was devoted to the thesis for a good part of the day, revision for Computing before dinner, and then a quick read through of Forecasting afterwards.
I am the epitome of 'stress' at the moment, although I hesitate momentarily at using that word. A friend recently commented that stress is used too liberally these days, that pressures of work and schooling are simply a part of life, and I do have to agree with him. It is not an extra pressure and it is something we all must deal with. Undoubtedly it is a skill in itself to be able to 'switch on' when it is required, and more importantly, to 'switch off' when mind and body need a rest. That is, admittedly, a skill I have not yet been able to master.
It has always been difficult for me to 'switch off' - I tend to feel somewhat guilty for taking a break when I know I could be working, but often, the mind simply cannot keep up. I did manage to switch off for a few hours at the very least, on Friday afternoon. White Teeth D and I went on a cross-London trek in rather abominable weather that seemed to replicate all four seasons of the year. We went to Paperchase. We walked the length of Oxford St. During our quick foray into Selfridges, I was given a mere 20 minutes to purchase a lipstick
and potentially some items of clothing. (I miraculously did manage this. 20 minutes! I don't think I have ever tried on, and subsequently purchased, a pair of jeans in seven minutes flat. I tried on two pairs, the first of which refused to make it past my hips and bum. Oh, the effect that this has on a woman's self-esteem.)
We had gone out with the intention of making it to the Armenian Embassy on High St Kensington before 16:00 - it was, by this point, a quarter after three. Instead of sensibly taking the tube, we decided to walk through Hyde Park, which, in case you've never been, is rather massive. Nevertheless, it was a picturesque little stroll. The park is lovely, with its acres of green lawns, trees, daffodils, benches, and ubiquitous and omnipresent bird shit.
We did make it to the Embassy in one piece and on time, one automobile mishap later, and wrapped up the afternoon by having a quick snack at Caffe Nero where White Teeth D began writing his Mother's Day cards. I find it rather amusing watching a man fill out a card - after four minutes, he came up with a date, followed by a somewhat nondescript 'Happy Mother's Day! Lots of love, D'. (I did suggest something vaguely more creative, but men are not typically known for being very verbal creatures, and this is made more evident when placed in front of a card (Christmas, Birthday, Mother's Day, Valentine's Day etc). Words seem to completely escape them by this point, and it would only arouse suspicion on the part of the female recipient if the message contained inside were too, well, multisyllabic.)
Anyways. I ramble. It is late - or more accurately, early. Speaking of White Teeth D he has flown back to Bermuda for the weekend (without inviting me...!), and has undoubtedly spent the day soaking up the sun. (I won't try to hide my envy.) Wouldn't it be lovely being on a beach right now?
I have spent three out of the past four nights with White Teeth D. Two nights ago I had thought that our Actuarial Science in course assessment was sorted - that is, until someone cleverly pointed out that we had forgot to use survival probabilities when calculating the required premiums - a gross oversight on both our parts. The assessment is due today, and at 4 pm yesterday, we essentially had to start over. He left my flat only an hour ago.
White Teeth D was one of the first people I recall meeting in first year. I thought he was American, and much older than the rest of us (he is older, by a wee bit. But don't tell him I said that. I prefer making him feel ancient - it's much more amusing). We really only briefly exchanged quick hellos in the corridors, or had piddly conversations about the weather, and that was about all. In second year, we didn't see much of each other. This year, however, we have become close again, doing a fair portion of our homework together. It certainly helps that he lives only a minute's walk away from me. But what I've found really quite surprising (and rather pleasant) is that out of all of my friends, he is the most similar to me. We've had similar upbringings and types of schooling, and we both appreciate art and culture, not to mention that we have very similar approaches/views on things. Most importantly however, our morals, values, and sense of right or wrong are intrinsically the same. The saying, 'you are who your friends are', could not be more appropriate here.
Our interests are actually quite different, however. He loves golf; it bores me to tears. I love (and am very opinionated about) certain genres of music; he's not heard much of it, and probably wouldn't enjoy it (although I'd be the first to tell him that he doesn't know what he's missing). He likes tomatoes and hates soymilk, and you guessed it - I love soymilk, and God, do I ever hate tomatoes. Yet, somehow, we get along.
I find it rather amazing that two people can appear to be quite different on the surface, and yet, differences aside, can also be extraordinarily similar in very many ways. It's strange. And yet it is also very comforting, to have connections to people who can catch your eye at little moments and say in their own silent way, 'Yes, I understand you'. It makes you feel just a bit more human, I think.
presidents, prime ministers, and...
Tue Mar 1, 10:03 AM ET
LONDON (Reuters) - In its 183-year history, the august Oxford Union debating society has heard the wisdom of Winston Churchill, Ronald Reagan and Mother Teresa.
Now its members are to hear from Ron Jeremy, star of 1,700 adult films, including "Bang Along With Ron."
"Ron is the biggest and apparently the best in the business, so I'm sure he'll have some fascinating stories to tell," said Oxford Union librarian Vladimir Bermant, who organized the event.
Jeremy, who claims to have slept with more than 4,000 women, will address the union on Wednesday, joining many British prime ministers, three U.S. presidents and prominent figures from the Dalai Lama to Malcolm X in its archival guest list.
Peter Cardwell, spokesman for one of the English-speaking world's most respected debating societies, said U.S. porn star Jenna Jameson also addressed the union a few years ago.Shame on those who might think going to Oxford would spell boredom.
and the oscar goes to...
I don't usually watch the Oscars for the award-giving - I watch them more to drool at stunning dresses, or snigger and giggle at those who have fallen victim to vengeful stylists. The dresses this year - and much like the ceremony itself, from what I've read - were rather...bleh. No outfits stood out as being exceptionally snigger-worthy, although many came close:
The BadHilary Swank's severe, deep blue Guy Laroche looked lovely from the back and the side, but from the front...whoa. Too much fabric, too high of a neckline, and too little tit tape. Was it chilly that evening, Hilary?
The pale yellow Valentino that
Cate Blanchett wore could have been alright - on someone else. 1) It matched her hair. Perfectly. 2) Yellow and burgundy do not match. 3) Yellow, burgundy and orange lipstick
really do not match. I don't care if you're Cate Blanchett or not, but orange lipstick seldom looks flattering on a sizeable proportion of the population.
As for
Gisele Bundchen's empire waisted billowy white dress - I'm astounded. How did she manage to nick my bedsheets and turn them into a dress? Even I don't have that sort of talent.
Renee Zellweger is starting to remind me of a geisha, or Santa's helper gone terribly wrong. A meal or two wouldn't hurt either - shoulder bones like that could cut glass.
Speaking of meals, Renee ought to share a burger or two with
Emmy Rossum, whose dress epitomised 'meh'. A coat of lipstick might have livened up her face, but that might be asking too much.
Laura Linney, whom I've always thought to be rather dowdy, did nothing to prove me wrong. It looked like she'd nicked her dress from Bjork, and put it together herself. This is not a good thing.
I look forward to
Gwyneth Paltrow's Oscar fashion disasters year after year, and, needless to say, she did not disappoint. The dress is clearly meant for a woman of more, ahem, sizeable assets, which Gwyneth is not known for. Emphasising the concavity of one's chest is not usually a flattering look.
What on earth happened,
Charlize Theron? Didn't anyone inform you that it is not attractive to resemble a wedding cake? Too much tulle, too many layers, too sickly sweet. Ick.
And pssst - someone do tell
Drew Barrymore that the Morticia Adams look is hardly a flattering one.
The BetterKate Winslet's blue Bagdley Mischka stood out in a sea of greys, beiges, and nudes. However, I do have a complaint - the hair (too high school prom).
A young lady who almost never disappoints is
Natalie Portman. Her Grecian-inspired dress was delicate, and its colour was unusual and flattering. A lovely choice for a lovely woman. But the headband/tiara was utterly unnecessary.
Salma Hayek's navy blue Prada was suitably sexy, as was the hair and makeup. However, I've seen just about as much of Salma's breasts as I've seen of my own. (Then again, if you had a body like hers, you'd probably want to show it off too.)
I do not find blondes attractive. But
Scarlett Johansson is one of the prettiest young women in Hollywood today, and if I were a lesbian, I'd have a crush on her. (Actually, I do have a crush on her, but that's another story altogether.) I'm not sure what she was thinking on Oscar night, however. The dress was classy (an adjective not normally associated with young women in Hollywood), but the frizzy poodle hair? No.
The BestI'm not so sure about the hair extensions, but
Halle Berry once again looked stunning in her Atelier Versace one-shouldered dress. Its colour - a medium mocha - was stunning, as was the contrast and fluidity of satin against chiffon, embellished by subtle shimmery beading.
Kirsten Dunst's black Chanel with its sheer lace neckline was to die for, and she had the best hair at the Oscars. Simple, young, classy and chic. An unbeatable combination, really.
But if there's a dress I'd love to own, it would have to be queen of indie-chic
Maggie Gyllenhaal's stunning nude Prada with its gold sequinned waistband. She looked regal, tailored, and very classy. Loved the look.
And the Oscar goes to...Right, then. End of bitch-fest.
Worst dress: Charlize Theron
Best dress: Maggie Gyllenhaal/Kirsten Dunst
