What’s In and What’s Out for 2022 

Below is the vibe. You’re welcome.

French Fetishization – out (I’m looking at you Netflix)

French Fluency – in

Unaffordable Housing – out

Ineffective Gerrymandering – out

Timely Public Transport – in

Reed Diffusers – out

Candles – in 

Heights Above 6’1 – you’re on thin fucking ice

HRH Collection – in (for meme purposes only)

Influencer PR Sponsorships – out

Jojo Siwa – out

North West – in

Awareness of Rohingya Genocide – in

Paper Straws – out

Metal Straws – out

Silicone Straws – in

r/amitheasshole – in

Being an Asshole – out

Britney Spears – in

Everyone Else in the Spears Family – out

Berlin – out

Munich – in

Soup – in (for gorgeous gorgeous girls only)

Lizzo – out

Doja Cat – in

Owing People Money – out

Owing People Favours – in

Fox Eye Thread Lifts- out

Retinol – in

Being a Mess – in

Blood Relatives – in

School Friends – out

Government Mandated Isolation – out

Individual Isolation – in

Voting Labour – in

Deporting Migrants – out

Working Class Tories – out

Private Members’ Clubs – out

Underground Speakeasies- in

Kim Kardashian West- out

Kim Jong-Un – in

Clapham Gays – out

Offsetting Carbon Emissions – out

Genuine Carbon Emission Reduction – in

Social Movements – out

Calling Mala a ‘Performative Activist’ on Twitter – in

High-Waisted Trousers – in

Baroque Print – in

Bucket Hats – out

Doc Martins – omnipresent

Dolly Parton – in

Jolene – out

Depop – out

TikTok – in

BBC – above reproach

Empathy – out

Sympathy – in

Sex Work – in

Hinge – out

Blogging – in (hint hint)

Cupcakke Remixes – in

Taylor’s Versions – in

Olivia Rodrigo – out

New York – out

London – in

Grudges – in

The Art of Letting Go – out

Manifestation – out

Saying ’It Is What It Is’ – in

Five Day Work Week – out

It’s never really over

I had a feeling tonight, a reminder of a pain once felt so acutely that, although now dulled, will never be truly healed. I was on a central line train, heading back from a two-bottles-of-white-and-a-gossip kind of night with a girlfriend at Leyton Technic, when a song came on shuffle as I stared out the windows. I don’t remember the last time listened to it but it must have been when I was with Mr Fleet Street  as I suddenly found myself wandering the memory of the last time I saw him. It was the end of a long night- dinner, drinks, club, more drinks- and we were sat opposite each other on the ride home. He’d pulled me into a passionate embrace on the platform at Tottenham Court Road, I’m not much for kissing in public but for him I did every time. I can still feel the scratch of his stubble against my cheek, the silk of his puffer jacket as both strong arms wrapped around me, reminding me that no touch has felt right since. Remembering the way his hands clasped my own, feet tapping on my toes, those green eyes boring in to mine,crystal clear despite the late hour. Tears welled up as I let myself acknowledge that he’d never make me that happiness again. It was with calmness that I realised I’d never get over losing him, he’s a fixed point in time that can’t be swayed by time or any of the reckless coping mechanisms I’ve deployed the last eighteen months. There’s a comfort in knowing that a part of me will forever be kissing him goodbye, unbeknownst for the last time, at Chancery Road. I never thought we’d have a last kiss, but what a kiss it was.  

Hot Girl Summer?

Oh what is it about the first rays of summer that brings all manner of exes, ohs, and near misses out of the woodwork? Barely a day has gone by this past month without some long-forgotten love interest rearing their far-too-late head. It was the same last year: Him, First Love and a uni pal I drunkenly snogged once all checked in within 48 hours of each other. So far this month I’ve received word from the following:


Richard: now this one’s hilarious. We matched months back when I was laying low at my parents. He’s tall, thirty-something, strawberry blond and described himself as “running my own little tech business” and “giver of award winning cuddles”. We made vague plans to meet up when I got back to London, though I was already dreading the slog from my leafy north London suburb to his ends in sodding Wimbledon. At one point he sent me a screenshot of a funny email, through which I learned his last name. In a moment of boredom I googled him, due-diligence and all that, and boy did I learn more about him. A few years back he was the subject of a Sunday newspaper expose which branded him the “Passport Profiteer” for conning people out of money in exchange for expedited passport  renewals that either never materialised or took longer than just trekking to the passport office themselves. When punters wised up to the con and refused to pay, he sent in bailiffs to scare the  daylights out of them until they coughed up. In the end he stupidly tried his act on a journalist and ended up with a suspended sentence and a £500,000 reimbursement fine, paparazzi photos splashed across the nationals. Quite the “little tech business” indeed. After months of radio silence, he messaged asking when I fancied visiting him. I didn’t reply.

Kieran: Cute Irishman, who was fairly smitten with me last summer. I unfortunately was only in it for the comfort of hearing an Irish accent again while lamenting my doomed romance with Mr Fleet Street. He changed numbers a few months later and I assumed that was it, until he resurrected our long-dormant tinder convo to ask if I remembered him and would I be up for a drink sometime. “You’re one of the good ‘uns I’ve met in cyberspace and I reckon we’d have loads in common. I’ve more to offer than just randy Snapchat pics!” Sorry babe, it’s been too long and the faint scent of desperation isn’t doing it for me. I didn’t reply.    

Hugo: now this one may have legs. We were first acquainted this time last year, and suffice to say he’s exactly my type: a tall, broad, brunette rugby player with thighs the size of Belgium and a cock that scares and arouses me in equal measure. Despite virtually showing each other every square inch of our bodies and describing in detail what we want to do with them, we’ve never actually met up and done the deed. I keep stressing that he needs to buy me a drink first so I can make sure his city-slicker with a penchant for spanking schtick is the right side of American Psycho, so we’ll see if he finally gets round to booking a table somewhere.

G: after dinner a few months ago he’s been in constant contact yet still managed to miss my birthday, a mutual friend’s dinner party and mini break to the Lake District. He’s currently stranded in Ibiza with his boyfriend, but I became nostalgic walking though Battersea Park (one of our old haunts) this evening so I’m minded to give him the chance to make it up to me when I’m back. 

Dr Dick: doctor, mountain-climber, god amongst mere mortals. We slept together last summer (it was excellent despite him insisting we have Rocketman on in the background while fucking-hey whatever works!) and we’ve remained vaguely in touch since. He messaged recently and I suggested a drink to catch up, I’ll keep you posted.


If it carries on like this I’ll have to change my number. I fear the rather dashing new photo (snapped in the marbled bathroom of a soho hotel last week) on my social media and dating app profiles may have caused some loins to burn. It’s amazing what a slight tan, artfully-plucked brows and the merest hint of a bicep can do for ones desirability.  

Silhouetted In The Doorway

 

Much to my surprise, I’ve seen Mr W.Y.S (what you sayin’) a few times over the last couple of weeks. It’s not serious, we don’t date. He brings over some drinks, we chat, have sex, chat some more and then he leaves. It’s nice. I’ve never thought of myself as being that keen on causal sex but there’s something about answering the door at 1am in just my boxers and an unbuttoned oversized shirt, him silhouetted in the doorway, tall and strong and striding in to kiss me. He slides his hand under my shirt and down into my boxers, cupping arse cheeks as he kisses his way down my neck. I take off his t-shirt and run my hands down his strong, hairy torso, squeezing his hardening bulge until he pushes me onto the bed and climbs on top, pinning me beneath him. The rest of the clothes come off and we switch positions, now he’s underneath while I lift his thighs and kiss my way from the head of his cock to his hole and back up again, sucking every inch of him till he’s moaning above me. He’s passionate, holding my legs in the air as he fucks me because “they feel better up there”. He likes to kiss me when he finishes and snuggles in afterwards, telling me about his day and asking who I’m dating this week. I laugh and say ‘no one special’, truth is the only reason I invited him round was because a date cancelled on me that evening. I ask him the same question, and it turns out he’s seeing the same Daily Mail editor my old uni friend P was pining over last year. It’s strange, me and him look nothing alike but both W.Y.S and P fancy me as well as him. He never stays, he doesn’t want to and I don’t want him to. I walk him to the door, he kisses me and then disappears into the night. I climb back into bed, always expecting some wave of emptiness or disappointment that never comes. I sleep, I wake up, sunlight streaming in, looking in the mirror I see the same man as the night before. Who you sleep with doesn’t define you, you do.

A busy day

 

Please allow me to précis this by saying I don’t normally shag men on the first date. However, I have always been a bit of a tart.

Anyway, the day started bizarrely enough, when I matched with the ex-boyfriend of a former best friend. The friend and I were close from the ages of 5 to 18, and when the friendship ended over the heady teenage mix of backstabbing, poor communication and cries of ‘you’ve changed’ I was scarred for several years. She was sexually active long before I was and had a steady stream of older boyfriends throughout our teenage years. All I could recall about this one was that he was studying languages at the local university and- according to her- had an impressively large member. Back then she’d never mentioned his interest in men (or perhaps was unaware of it) so it was with a mixture of surprise and intrigue that I recognised him instantly when his profile popped up. He’s thirty now, works with horses and has moved back in with his parents as a result of the pandemic. My suddenly-resurfacing desire to get even with the ex-best mate and determination to find out if her boasts about his dick has been true meant the conversation was steered towards sex pretty quickly. Within an hour of chatting, we were trading pictures and discussing what we liked in bed. For the record, she hadn’t been lying; his cock is a good eight inches and very nicely shaped. He suggested we video call so I put my emails on hold and unbuckled my belt… His big dick and deep home-counties voice, coupled with my unrivalled dirty talking abilities and willingness to perform all manner of poses in a full-length mirror meant neither of us lasted long. The clothes went back on and I got on with my work.

Six hours later and I was strolling down the street to a pub in Stoke Newington, and when I arrived my date was already inside, bartering with the bar staff for an outside table beneath a heater. We hugged and sat down. To be honest he’s not my usual type: north face jacket, chunky silver jewellery, and propensity for the phrase “what you sayin’?”. Still, he lives ten minutes from me, is fit as fuck and unlike my exes is at least open about being an arsehole. As we sat down he said “I think this is the first time I’ve been on a date with someone where I genuinely don’t know anything about them”. Yes, I replied, the phrase ‘closed book’ has been bandied around a few times where I’m concerned. Small talk didn’t last long as we downed pint after pint and once we’d got past university towns, siblings and jobs, he began discussing his former girlfriends and boyfriends. I drew in a breath and said “you’re breaking a cardinal rule there mate, no exes chat on a first date”. “Nah, you’ve got to. You learn a lot about people that way”. Forget it, I thought, the chaos of my last years’ dating history is not being discussed here. We talked about his instead, an ex-girlfriend he was with for six years, and a winter boyfriend from back home who he first experimented with last Christmas. He was disarmingly candid and got progressively camper in an adorable way as the evening went on. After we’d sank pint number six I asked if he wanted another. “Sure, if it’s back at yours”.

We sat in the taxi, sipped whiskey in my kitchen, and ended up in my room within half an hour. He looks good naked and is a great kisser, I’ll give him that. Everything else: meh. Average at eating ass, very much entry-level at going down on a dick and he still hasn’t grasped that sex with men takes a bit more ‘prep work’ than with women. Afterwards was nice though, we laid in bed scrolling through each other’s phones, critiquing apps, pictures and to do lists. He left at midnight- he’s back in the office and I didn’t fancy being woken up at 6am. “I’d go on another date with you” he said as I showed him out. I smiled and closed the door, I won’t hear from him again.

An old flame

I met an old flame for dinner this evening, not something I make a habit of but we were good friends once upon a time at university and for a while in my early twenties it seemed inevitable that the two of us would make a go of things eventually. A few failed dates, some chaotic nights out in clubs and an ill-fated weekend away ended up being the sum of it and we’ve not spoken for a few years. At least, we’ve not seen each other for a few years. He’s reached out a few times since then, me always giving him the cold shoulder, still resentful of the last time we met and he paraded his new boyfriend in front of me at a friend’s birthday drinks a mere 48 hours after we’d slept together. I’d vowed a hundred times since then never to meet with him again while he was still with that man, furious at the memory of having to make small talk with someone who’d entered his bed when it was still warm from our night together. 

Sometime late last year, that simplistic version of our history began to blur and bend, as I realised that in all my to-ing and fro-ing over whether it was the right time to give ‘us’ a go, I’d never really allowed myself to believe that he truly cared about me, that my inability to acknowledge feelings one way or another had hurt him. His heart was glass and I dropped it, could I really blame him for finding someone willing to handle his love with care?  

We met for dinner, he was late as the tight bastard refuses to pay for parking so sat in his car until the post 7pm free time zone started. He looked simultaneously exactly as I remembered and completely different. His is the kind of face that holds so much character when he talks that he never looks quite right in photographs, as if half of him is missing without the animation of his eyes, his mouth, his hands. He was driving, so we only had a glass of wine each and the conversation never strayed too closely to ‘us’. I was grateful for the relative sobriety, one more drink and I’d have said “can we talk about the way we were?”

Him and the boyfriend are still together, living between south London and the Welsh countryside and have a business selling sex toys. They seem a good fit, and if I’m honest them being together alleviated a lot of the potential tension. This felt like an evening between two friends, no worrying about if or who would make the first  move towards a kiss, just conversation, history, familiarity. I hadn’t realised just how much I missed being around him, missed how I felt around him: happy, confident, fearless. He’s the kind of person who could suggest doing anything and I’d believe that I could do it.

it was icy cold in the wind as I walked the few streets between the station and my house. I couldn’t help but think the tube journey hadn’t been long enough to process all the thoughts swirling in my head. I hoped this wasn’t a one-off catch up, having just been reminded of how I enjoyed his company, I don’t want to let go again.

I woke up to a text from him this morning: “Lovely to see you boo. Same again soon?”

I’d thought for such a long time that all those years of friendship had been cancelled out by eighteen months of confused, ill-fated romance. But they’re still there, leave the hurt behind and we’re still good mates. 

He’s back in my life and I’m so glad to say he’s my friend again.  

Guess Who’s Back?

 

Hello reader, bet you never thought you’d hear from me again…

So what’s changed in the last five months? Well, after six weeks locked down in London with friends, sunlight and Zara knitwear virtually unobtainable, I hotfooted it back to my hometown with nothing but my wits, a 25-30 railcard and thirteen days of accrued leave about my person. I felt the instant relief at putting some much needed distance between myself and the career, love life and furniture-buying stresses of the last year. Sometimes it’s just nice to be told what you’re having for dinner and when you need to be sat at the kitchen table to eat. No one takes care of you like mum and dad, do they?

I must confess I wasn’t planning on being locked down in the countryside for another fourteen weeks- I certainly had packed for such a long stay- but it proved a much needed detox. Nonetheless, as soon as the pubs were open it was back to London for me. There have been no significant love interests since last autumn and I expect things will stay that way for the foreseeable: my dating apps are drier than the Sahara. Besides, men get me in trouble. Mr Fleet Street? Tory Boy? A year without a mess of those magnitudes would be just fine with me.

That doesn’t mean I’m not planning on having fun now I’m back in the city, I’ve never said no to a drink, a dance or a party in my life and I don’t intend to start now. My diary has been filling up quicker than Peugeot’s petrol tank at a garage, so I’m bound to be regaling you with stories in no time.

First Date…

I went on a date last weekend. Too soon, I hear you say? Damn right dear reader, but I’m a twenty-something with a blog to run and I’m not sure how many articles about me tiptoeing around my house sipping whiskey at 5am in a heartbreak stupor I can stomach posting. 
Anyway, the date was organised by S, who knows nothing about my situation with Tory Boy but knows a man who has apparently fancied me since he saw a photo on S’s Facebook profile (how very millennial). Thinking this might be some sign from above that it was time to get back out there, or at the very least out of the flat, I agreed and the date was set. We’d meet early afternoon in Soho to ensure plenty of time before the 10pm curfew, and S would be present as chaperone because apparently First Date is painfully shy around new people. Cheers mate, you’ve really pulled out all the stops with this one. 
The day rolled around and after a few cups of espresso (I don’t sleep remember) I started to get ready. I always lose my appetite and start running after a breakup so I was looking particularly toned and decided on a navy merino wool shirt which draped over all the right places, pairing it with some tapered cream chinos and brown suede boots. 
We met, ordered a substantive round of drinks and started talking. The conversation flowed easily between the three of us. S has form for setting up her friends and has perfected the art of establishing a topic, leading with an anecdote and then drawing back so the two love interests can take the lead. This tactic worked well for the most part, except that no matter what the subject of discussion, First Date invariably managed to segue into an anecdote about him and his ex husband. Which is surely a red flag. Not that he was married, I knew about that (thank you Facebook), but if you can’t fill a few hours of conversation without bringing up the man you divorced two years ago, it suggests you’ve not quite worked through the situation and I’ve no desire to be anyone’s therapist. 
I still hooked up with him, mind you. What? I’ve always been a bit of a tart. After several hours downing cocktails in soho, the bars inevitably closed and we all decided to schlep to my flat in the suburbs. Picking up several bottles of wine en route, I gave them a quick tour of the place before we settled ourselves down on the cream sofas. As the chatting continued, First Date and I got increasing touchy feely and as I gently stroked his lower abdomen he nudged my arm until my hand was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Maintaining focused eye contact with S so she wouldn’t look down I stroked his ever hardening member until his trousers were so full I could barely move my hand. S went to the kitchen to grab another bottle and First Date spun over to get my fly open and my own member in his mouth. After a minute or so, I heard the telltale ‘pop’ of a cork leaving a bottle and pushed his head up so could get my fly up before S walked back in the room. We talked for an hour or so longer, getting increasingly merry and eventually- once First Date started audibly snoring on my lap- S called a cab. 
As soon as they were out of the door I sighed, knowing I had no interest in seeing him again. It was nice to be distracted for a day but S made it clear at various points that First Date is looking for something serious and that really isn’t something I can give anyone right now. He’s also a certified Nice Guy TM, so I can’t even have a bit of fun enjoying the attention without feeling like an arse. We chatted scantly over the next few days but no plans were made. I’m not ruling out dating altogether but I think next time I need to look a little further away from home. 

Heartbreak Insomnia

Ok, so it’s 5am and I still can’t sleep, took some medicine but it’s not working. Heartbreak insomnia is the worst part of a breakup. It’s been so long since it happened, I’d forgotten how unrelenting it can be: hours of restlessness, heart-pounding and chest tightening every time I lie down and close my eyes. I force myself to keep them shut for minutes at a time as images flash across my brain: memories, fantasies, worst-case scenarios, like a Salvador Dalí landscape crossed with the boat scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. “There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going, there’s no knowing where we’re rowing or which way the river’s flowing… Yes, the danger must be growing for the rowers keep on rowing, and they’re certainly not showing any signs that they are slowing”. Eventually I sigh, open my eyes and sit up, as wide awake as I was when I lay down. I read for minutes and minutes until my heartrate slows back to normal and my chest loosens enough for me to take a breath without feeling like I’m underwater. Then I lie back down and the cycle repeats.

Eventually, I slip out of bed and tiptoe down the hall to the living room, stopping off at the kitchen to grab a bottle opener because lord knows I need a glass or two of something. I turn on the tv and see a girl on some reality show going through a heartache, tears streaming down her face- I can’t help but relate. Half an hour passes and the bottle is nearly empty, I’m still wide awake, though yawning constantly as if my jaw is part of some different body to my own. I turn the volume down on the tv, suddenly it’s deafening. That girl took her boyfriend back; I can’t believe that’s happening. 

I start to feel queasy and want my bed, but it’s not that simple. If I close my eyes it’s his face I’m seeing, and I can’t feel that chest-tightening, suffocating anxiety again. It’s so quiet. I live opposite a tube station and the sound and sight of the jubilee line service rattling past throughout the night has always been comforting. There’s nothing now though. I sigh, knowing that there’s no quick fix to this restless, relenting wakefulness, tonight or tomorrow or next week. Night after night, when the world is quiet, I’ll be pacing the halls sipping wine and whisky, all because some prick decided that cowardice was easier than rejection. I see the appeal looking back on reflection. 

This reaction seems so disproportionate, he wasn’t the real deal and I’ve had far worse breakups. Yet here I remain in all-consuming twilight, praying that soon my anxieties will subside.

It’s 5am, and I’m still up spiralling. I’ve got to get me some sleep.

Edit: My body finally overpowered my brain at about 6:30am and I slipped into a mercifully-empty dreamland. I got up for work at 8am.

Words are hard…

Words are hard. Really hard sometimes. Here are someone else’s:

“You’ll see me in hindsight, tangled up with you all night, burning it down. Someday when you leave me, I’ll bet these memories follow you around. Say you’ll remember me, standing where we first met, staring at the sunset. Red lips and rosey cheeks, say you’ll see me again, even if it’s just pretend”

I’m officially in the Taylor Swift stage of a breakup. Meaning I’ve gone full High Fidelity and am lamenting lost loves past and present, in attempt to stumble upon some grand epiphany that makes this latest setback worthwhile. 

It’s not going well. 

What upsets me most, looking back over all the relationships, situationships, crushes, and almost-but-not-quiets is that they always just slip away, so so quietly. It doesn’t matter how long they last, how much is said or done, how much they care or how much I care. There’s never any big fight, no argument or screaming match. No one ever says why. 

So I never learn the right lessons. All I do is tell myself that next time I need to be stronger, tougher, warier, more cautious. Don’t fall too fast, don’t care too quick. I never learn how to be better. And I do want to be better. 

I’m just so tired of adding men to this long list of things that went wrong, adventures that didn’t work. 

I deleted all Tory Boy’s picture from my camera roll today. All the gym selfies, the restaurant meals, the memes and the screenshots. No more chubby ten-year-old him in a kippah, no more pad Thais from his new favourite place, no more arm-flexing gym selfies. In a couple of months time I’ll bring myself to delete our WhatsApp chat, 7000 messages over six months, I’ll unmatch him on tinder. I’ll have moved house by then, a new part of London where he won’t know where to find me. 

I’m very easy to leave, I know that. It’s mainly choice if I’m honest: I make it very clear that you can walk away if you want, I won’t make you feel bad, I won’t call you up or chase you. I won’t badmouth you to friends. If anyone asks I’ll tell them we both just moved on. The only rule is once you go, you can’t ever come back. 

I’m very easy to leave, by choice. But just once in my life, just once, I’d like to be hard to walk away from.