New Things

After my last post oh-so-long ago, I have two quite stunning new developments to report. The first, chronologically and probably in importance too, is the appearance of The Boyfriend.  Almost exactly a year after the previous one jumped ship in fact, which has a pleasing narrative symmetry. He is, of course, wonderful in every conceivable way, and given that we’re seven months in and I still honestly believe this it may very well be true. Any man who’ll mop your brow when you’re awake all night hallucinating about trees because you’ve wiped up a winter fever must be pretty decent, especially if he cleans your kitchen the next day when it’s a mess but you can’t stand up long enough to do something about it without fainting and falling over and potentially concussing yourself on the fridge.

The second stunning development is The Flat. Two weeks ago, after two months of mind-boggling stress in which everything managed to go horribly wrong all at once, I moved all by myself (to live with just myself I mean – moving itself took two parents, one boyfriend, and two burly Polish removal men) into a lovely flat in Crouch End. It is effectively two rooms with two outsize cupboards, one of which has a kitchen squished in, and the other is the smallest shower room anywhere that isn’t a sleeper on the 23.55 from Paddington to Penzance, but I like it. (In fairness, I realise that I am very lucky not to be living in a lean-to against nothing  with the bed in the kitchen, and having to choose between mutually exclusive options like ‘Laundry or sleep?’ and ‘Cook salmon or avoid smelling like a fishmonger?’, but it would have been nice to have a bathroom where the sink was actually in the room and not in a cupboard with the boiler.)

Living alone is an interesting experience. I have previously rhapsodised about the joys of alone time, but having so much of it is incredibly unnerving. So, with impeccable logic, I decided to use all of this time to actually get some hobbies besides ‘reading’, ‘telly’, and ‘knitting while watching telly’. Today, I had actually allotted some time in my evening to go for a run (momentous in and of itself – I generally run only for the bus) but as it was raining I decided to stay in and do yoga. In my hunt for a suitable YouTube video, I came across one for a guided meditation. OK, I thought, I’ll try that. I put a blanket down on the floor, pressed play, listened to the soothing voice and the calming music emanating from my laptop...and fell asleep right there in my living room. It would appear that my new hobby is ‘sleeping’, but at least no one came home and saw me lying prone on the fake-wood laminate flooring, snoring gently.

You kiss your grandmother with that mouth?

Last week I was walking home in the evening sunshine, minding my own business, when a random man says to me 'Hey baby, you're just the right height for me! We were made for each other baby, come back to my place...' I carried on walking, suddenly less sure about my lovely red wedges that push me up to about six foot two. Why did this man think he had the right to intrude on my life to proposition me? Why did he think he had the right to comment on me at all?

To be fair, I got off lightly this time. One night last year, I was on my way out for a date. I was dressed up to the nines, and was walking past a pub by myself. A group of three big, burly men outside smoking started to shout at me. 'Hey sweetheart, where are you going?' 'Look at that dress! I bet she's a right little slut'. 'I'd love to have some of that - come sit on my knee, babe'. As I carried on past them, pretending I didn't hear, I got: 'Fucking snooty bitch' 'Little whore' 'Just needs a good fuck, that one'. How would they feel if someone said those things to their wife, their mother, or their daughter?

Not so long ago, my friend R was waiting at the tube for her boyfriend to pick her up and take her to a party. He was late, so she decided to head to the party by herself. On the way she was stopped by a group of men outside a bar, who physically blocked her way until she screamed at them. 'Alright love,' one of them said 'we were just 'avin' fun.' Fun? Is harassing a woman and not letting her get away from you fun?

I'd love to ask these questions, but I seriously doubt I'll have the guts to speak to the next man who hollers at me in the street. Because, you see, the big question on a woman's mind when she gets harassed is: 'Is he going to hurt me?'

Once Upon a Time

About nine months after I got my publishing job and moved to London, I went to a party where I met a man who I thought was perfect. I tore my lovely new life to bits in order to be with him, as there were some quite severe obstacles in the way. I was deleriously happy (with him - the rest of my life was going haywire) for oooh...six months (I know, I know, not long). Then, out of the blue, he tells me I'm too difficult and grumpy and stressed for him to be with, and that it's over.

It's now five months after that and I'm living in a new flat with an old friend. It's Saturday morning, and I'm signing onto Facebook, and there it is. My ex (who we will be calling The Capitalist, given his penchant for accumulating things - stocks, shares, and very expensive bottles of wine) is going out with a girl who he claimed was 'just a colleague' when we were together. This would suggest that all the things he said about how difficult I'd become were just so much rubbish; really, I was being left for an easier option.

This morning, I felt like I could let out a breath I'd been holding for months. A weight had been lifted off my chest. Perhaps the greatest heartbreak I'd ever had (and I've had a fair few) had come and gone, and I'd survived. More than that, it wasn't my fault it happened. If I can get through that, then I can do anything. I'm kind of excited to find out what that's going to look like.