Forever

So the name of the man I'm stalking (and I am joking about the stalking part...sort of) is Ralph.

Such a satisfying name for a start, and although this isn't why I'm stalking him, it is part of the appeal. Only a very small part obviously, otherwise that would be weird.

I've never met a Ralph before, although there are quite a few famous ones I could name, but won't.

However the one thing the name reminds me of most is the book 'Forever' by Judy Blume. I think most girls of my age (and probably some lads too!), will remember this coming-of-age-teenage-porn book. It must only have had two dog-eared pages of filth in the entire thing, of which most of us remembered the page number off by heart. Or was that just me?

Back to the point. Katherine, the main character in the book named her first boyfriend's penis Ralph. The references we giggled over and passed the book round over, mostly involved Ralph growing bigger and feeling Ralph inside her.

And all this forgotten until now.

I might even have to re-read the book.

Stalker

And then I went and Googled him, with a surprisingly informative outcome.

Leering

Out for a few drinks last night with my oirish friend, making the most of the fact her fee-on-saaay is away.

She is a very bad influence and I have incredibly little willpower. Thankfully I declined her night cap offer of a bottle of champagne. It not only gives me a terrible hangover, but I had clearly drunk quite enough already.

I did some barman crush leering. It started with some friendly chat and then playing it cool, followed by some unnecessarily long eye contact behaviour as the night wore on.

What started with a sparkly smile, ended in a window-licking sunshine bus inane grin.

I think I'm in.

A new crush

A new week, a new crush. It perhaps doesn't happen on a weekly basis, but it does happen quite often.
I suspect it is just a phase I am going through.

The thing with a crush is that it can come on quite unexpectedly and often quite rapidly. For me it means my days are filled with silly fantasies and random thoughts. Crushes are fun and usually disappear as quickly as they came.

My latest one was spotted some weeks ago and admired at a distance, over a bar. Over the weekend, I met him properly for the first time and we chatted, quite a bit.

In my mind I was witty and informative. Unfortunately in reality, I have a feeling I was bellowy and show-offy. Due to drunkenness of course.

Oh dear.

A temporary thaw

There is this bloke.

He is obnoxious, arrogant and inconsistent in his friendliness.
He is the kind of man I would go out of my way to avoid, he would have no place in my social circle.
However, sometimes you are forced to deal with this sort, usually through work or a mutual friend. The one in question is both.

He rarely says hi, has been known to completely blank me on occasion and is generally quite rude and miserable. On the odd occasion we have socialised, he has been a condescending know-it-all with the ability to make me feel small. Perhaps he just intimidates me, I don't know, but I hate the fact that he can.
All in all, I am not a fan.

Then he turns up at a social event last weekend. Unexpectedly. After an initial out pour showing off about his weekend, he settles....and chats.

By the end of the day, I am starting to warm to him. Only starting, I might add - there is still plenty to dislike. Amongst all his rubbish characteristics are glimpses of self-deprecation and humour. He is in fact quite funny.

Not only am I starting to like him, I might even have a crush.

Fast forward to Monday at work. Back to being ignored. Standard.

However, the crush remains. Only slightly. How very dare he make me like him...

Pink evil

Yesterday I had the usual Monday rosé effect. Woke up at 3.30am, twitchy and anxious and couldn't get back to bastard sleep.
When will I learn that the pink stuff is the drink of Beelzebub? Lordy.
Yesterday involved some beach action and some inflatable fun behind a boat. Also rosé.
Then sundowners in full sandy beach attire and then some more rosé. Did I mention we had some rosé?

I love Sundays, and this kind of behaviour always seems a good idea at the time, but it truly is a terrible way to start a working week.

I should come good by Wednesday.

The off button

Why don't I have this and if I do, why don't I push it? Or does it just not work?

My usual Friday feeling never kicked in on Friday. Partly because the office was quiet and it had been a long day, and partly because I had Thursday off, so the need to go wild was not as great.

I went to the pub anyway. I was neither in the mood for socialising, nor in the mood for drinking. Unusual I know.

I sat there till 11.00pm, not really wanting to be there but pushing on through. Just for the sake of it. Why?

If I had listening to my instincts, I would have had a much more pleasurable night at home in front of the box. But no, I persisted with the evening, not really enjoying anything about it.

I didn't get drunk, I didn't hemorrhage too much cash but I didn't have any fun either.

Why didn't I push to the off button, say no? I still haven't learnt this skill dammit. I wonder how many more non-nights I will have before I do?

Premature smugness

Over the last couple of years, I have watched many a friend turn thirty, or twenty-ten, whichever they prefer.
(A made-up statistic of) 80% of them seemed to experience some kind of birthday related trauma/stress/depression.

Many of those who were in a long-term relationship pondered the make-or-break decision, and broke.
Those that were single were fed up of being so and had imagined themselves married or the like, at such an age.

As well as relationship issues, there were the 'I haven't achieved enough' issues, the 'I hate my job' issues, the 'stuck in a rut' and the 'haven't seen enough of the world' issues, to name but a few.
The general feeling was that time was moving fast, running out if you like, and that 30 marked the milestone to worry and then do something about it.

As for me, at the age of nine and twenty, I dismissed these concerns and was convinced I would be part of the (made-up statistic of) 20% who didn't care. It's only a birthday after all....isn't it?

Hell no. I am one month before the aforementioned date and I have spent the last week worrying. Worrying about all the things that I mentioned above. A lot.

This launch into the next decade is suddenly terrifying and more importantly, I am poised ready to plunge into it alone.

My friends were all right and justified. Turning twenty-ten is positively horrifying.

Blues...

Following the stress and frustration of luggage-gate, followed by one night sleep-free thanks to an all night burglar alarm, I started to feel decidedly run down and fed-up.

Of course, two very boozy four day weekends didn't help. I don't think. I could be wrong.

Now after a record two days off the piss, I am not feeling much better. However I am going to push on through and visit the pub after work.
Despite feeling queasy, headachy and grumpy - it is a must. For it is a bank holiday tomorrow and as we all know, it is essential to drink the night before and even on, a bank holiday.

So in about an hour, I will be making a beeline for the boozer and forcing a couple of swift drinks down. Just a couple mind for fear of getting drunkety drunk. No-one would want that.....

I will let you know how I get on....

Mounting costs

After three days of missing bag, keys and ghd's, coupled with mounting parking costs and a distinct lack of transport, it was time to get proactive about the cause.

The VW garage got a visit with a request for a new car key. The initial quote of €500 to change the locks was soon replaced by €60 for a new key. Great, but it would take 10 days.

10 more days of parking charges. Oh well, I was beginning to accept the expensive outcome. Bloody baggage handlers.
They would call me when the key was ready. Smashing.

Almost as a parting comment they informed me, ''Oh, but the key won't actually start the car...''.

Fucking marvelous.

''It will open the door though...".

Joy. Not exactly what I had in mind.

I was then told that the key is programmed with an anti-theft device, so I would need to get the new key reprogrammed for a small fortune. It can't be done on site either, so I would need a tow truck to go and fetch the car, tow it 20 kilometres and reprogramme the key. All for a cost equivalent to the debt of a small African country. Crikey!

I did the only thing appropriate at the time and in a girly can't-help-it kind of way. I was very embarrassed but the eyes would not stop leaking. The shame of the girly-ness.

I trudged back to the office, trying to accept that my bank holiday weekend was going to turn out to be incredibly expensive. It's only money, I thought. Not even a brief sighting of the fit physio man who had been treating me could cheer me up as I sniffed and waved weakly.

On arrival at the office, wallowing, I got a call to say the bag had just turned up.

Things turned out OK in the end, but I am still traumatised by the whole experience.

Outstandingly dim...not to mention vain....

....I am.

I am slightly cross and annoyed. Mostly cross. With myself.

Gatwick/Easyjet/new baggage handling company have lost my luggage. Boo.

Whilst I could blame them (and of course I very much do), or I could blame the Greenpeace tree-huggers for putting some environmental curse thingy on me (not likely), I mostly and very much blame myself.

I rarely put anything in the hold you see. Particularly not for a long weekend.

The reason I did this time involves a hair product. One unavailable where I live and one over 100ml (the hand luggage liquid limit). It only cost me 2 pounds but I covet it, plus it was brand new.

Mrs Orange Easyjet woman threatened to take it off me. On account of not being in a rush I checked it in, so I could relish in the use of my luxury 2 pound item at the other end.

Now everything is lost and I am cross.

My car keys are also in there - an incredibly stupid move on my part. This would be OK if I had access to the spare set.
Unbelievably stupidly - they are in there too....

In my defense, I drove straight from having my car serviced on Friday to the airport. They had replaced my spare set of keys which hadn't been working. I thought it was safer to keep the spare set with me rather than leave them in the car all weekend. I was smug regarding my sensibleness at the time.

So my car is stuck in the expensive airport garage 20kms away and I am waiting. Expensively. Not to mention crossly.

I can't tell you how upset I am with myself.....and also the fact that my beloved ghd's without-which-I-cannot-live are also in my bag, but don't get me started on that.

So here I sit expensively waiting, with unruly wavy hair, no car or 2 pound evil trouble causing hair product, cross.

Did I mention I was cross?

Never.

Two incidences last night about five minutes apart.

I have always been told that I look younger than my age. It is not something I am particularly bothered about, nor would I mind if I actually looked my age.

However.....a friend last night couldn't remember whether I was older or younger than him.

He is 8 years older. 8 years. I mean...I ask you.

Discussion followed.

On revealing my actual age a short while later, another friend exclaimed 'Never!'.

'Never what? Never that old or never that young?', I replied.

'Just.......never!' he said.

Which can only mean one thing...

Cheeky fuckers.

Bad footprint behaviour...

4am at a funky party - the likes of which I don't get to attend nearly often enough.

Several vats of wine had been drunk, along with 27 shots...or thereabouts.
Lots of dancing, chatting and most of all drinking had been taking place for many hours up until that point.

To say that I was sweaty, boss-eyed and lumbering around like a fool if you will, would be a understatement.

Was happily chatting away to a previously-not-met-before reveller about the excellent-ness of the party and why I had flown to be on the south coast that weekend. I might have mentioned that I was also flying back again the following weekend for a similar event.

Might, I said.

Was rabbiting on inanely, praising low-cost airlines and their ability to stave off homesickness on my part, and generally (I thought) boring the poor blighter to death. That is until my new found friend piped up...

'Can I stop you there? Perhaps I should mention I work for Greenpeace'.

Now, I have nothing against such types, of which there are an abundance of in that part of the world, and I do in fact, worry about such issues.

However, there is a time and a place for such a rigid disapproving comment (well that is how I think I remember it), and 4am is perhaps not it.

I wibbled off shortly afterwards, concerned.

Not for the environment I might add, but for the amount of water and sleep I might have to have, in order to feel semi-human the following day.

A lot more than I had accounted for it turned out.