Devilishly good by name, devilishly good by nature. Cooties, frankly, rawks.
Archives - July 2000
I don’t have any kids, I’m not even married, and I always thought I’d be married and have kids by the time I was 29. And my books, the books I’d always thought I’d write, not even one is done yet!
The run-up to my birthday was very much one of those times when you look around you and think to yourself – “what have I achieved?”, “why do I bother?”. This is pretty much run of the mill stuff, except that this year I started thinking about questions like – “why am I alone?”
Being on the hen weekend was a bizarre experience, not only because I was the youngest by far, and one of the few singletons, but because here were girls who, though a few years older, weren’t miles away from my own situation, yet they were getting married (or at least in serious coupledom). Though come October, I’ll be back to being a student, this year I’ve been living in my own flat, working a 9-5 job at a large media company, and doing all the usual ‘grown-up’ type things – so in many respects, there was little discernible difference between myself and the girls I was out with. Yet I can’t imagine being 25 and engaged. As in a house, a ring, a husband, a dress and all that jazz. They’re all blissfully happy, and I wish them all the luck in the world, but it’s so not how I can imagine myself at that age. When talking to my friends on the ‘where will we be in 10 years time’ topic, I’ve always envisaged that if I do ever do the marriage and kids thing, it sure as hell isn’t going to be before I’m at least thirty. Frankly, the very idea of being in that kind of situation in just seven years time – the age the bride is now – terrifies me. My friends joke that for all my protestations to the contrary, they reckon I’ll be Mrs Somebody before my thirtieth birthday, if only as a pure twist of fate and an I-told-you-so. Ask me in a few years time who was right…
Mojonation – the next mp3 solution?
Wildly Embarassing Moments experienced on hen weekend: 1 (excruciating)
As per the standard hen night procedure, it’s customary to get lots of goodies for the soon-to-be bride. Usually of a naughty nature. So I tootle off to get the said goods so that my cousin and I have some amusing presents for our soon-to-be Mrs Lindemann. These include a Bondage Starter Kit, some bridal L-Plates, Adam playsoap and a squishable Mr Softee keyring. The very act of choosing these items, and the buying thereof, is an experience in itself, and soon I’m leaving the shop with my wares in my bag. Before meeting a friend, to kill some time, I decide to have a mooch round Borders, which is, as always, a joy, as I could happily spend hours upon hours in book heaven. As I’m exiting the store the security barriers beep, and the guard on duty starts asking me of I’ve bought anything in the shop, and subsequently wants to check my bag. I know that I’ve not pocketed anything, so I’m happy to prove my innocence. However, it suddenly occurs to me that there are some questionable items in said bag – but it’s too late. The guard is whipping out various phallic-shaped objects, the bondage kit, and lots of other dodgy items all purchased for the hen night out of my bag, right on Charing Cross Road (one of the busiest roads in Central London) in the height of shopping fever on a Saturday afternoon, for all to see. The guy collapses in hysterics, ascertaining that it’s one of these items which set off the alarm (not before swiping them all through to check, in front of everyone) – and I show myself to be apparently be the most sexually frustrated woman in all of Southern England.