Me and my Nose Clip

I'm in love with The History Boy. You guys know that, right? But there are other things going on in my life. I don't want to turn into one of those smug women who only ever talk about their boyfriends/ husbands and 'we' all the time. This week, I have decided to write about something other than my relationship (which is blissful) sorry.... and fill you in on another remarkable discovery that I have made. Bear with me....


For me, Thursday mornings at Primary School were never good. That was because it was Swimming Day. A day that struck fear into the heart of every primary age child in the North East Wales area. It was an event that I always regarded with the same kind of nervous apprehension that I now reserve for the lesson with bottom set Year 9 – that if I can just get through it then I won't have to do it again for another week....

Actually, I liked swimming. It was, in fact, the only sport that I was passably good at. It wasn't the actual swimming that worried me but the whole unpleasant process, from piling onto the cold, draughty old bus, to being forced to strip off in freezing, dirty changing rooms and then being made to swim five lengths before the rest of the students in the lower classes got into the pool. To make matters worse, one would always get kicked in the face by an over-zealous class mate who wanted to beat you at the end of lesson race. Being a fairly sensitive child who was prone to worrying about things going wrong, I was always slightly scared of drowning because I'd had my head under the water for too long. But the thing I hated most of all was getting water in my eyes and nose. For this reason, I never mastered the front crawl, even though I was perfectly competent at both back stroke and breast stroke.

Living here in Bucharest, I have been lucky enough to join a fairly swanky health club where there is a lovely pool and sauna. When I arrived here, I began swimming regularly and to my surprise found that a) the fear of drowning had almost gone and b) compared to many other people in the pool, I'm actually quite a strong swimmer. One day, I plucked up enough courage to put my head under water, and found that I still can't stand getting water in my eyes and nose. In order to become a serious swimmer, I realised, I was going to have to take some serious steps.

Like buy a pair of goggles. Maybe.


At my primary school, goggles were regarded with suspicion, as if they were some kind of pansy swimming apparatus that only wimpy kids or serious swimmers used. Donning a pair of goggles, I decided, might make people think that I think that I'm a good swimmer. They might think that I'm up myself, or that I have thoughts above my station...

Siani, stop being stupid, I said to myself. It's only a pair of goggles - so what if I look enthusiastic? So what if I look like I care? You're not in Standard Six any more! You're thirty two years old! No one's going to point and laugh at you!

So I bought a pair of goggles (pink, naturally) and slunk back to the pool. In I got and tried, over and over again to do a length of front crawl. Again and again I put my head under and came back up, coughing and spluttering with water up my nose and down my throat. I could feel the fear of drowning coming back. I was regressing into my ten year old self. Clearly the goggles weren't enough. I was going to have to invest in some heavy duty machinery. I was going to have to invest in a ….

nose clip...

Back I went to the shop, bought the offending item (pink) and headed home. I tried it on in the privacy of my own bathroom before taking it to the pool and was slightly disturbed to find that it made me look like some kind of bizarre Kling-on. But at least no one'll be laughing when I'm doing streaking up and down the pool doing front crawl, I told myself, letting competitive primary school Siani take over for one second.

The next day, at the pool, all suited and booted (so to speak) and looking a little like a professional swimmer (so I thought), I got into the pool. Checking that no one was watching, I cautiously put my head under and pushed off, trying a few experimental strokes.

Suddenly, I could do front crawl! It was easy! Well, easier than it had been before. I still kept crashing into the lane dividers and whilst flailing around in the deep end, mistakenly hit an elderly woman on the left buttock. But I persevered and an hour later could swim in a reasonably straight line. I had also cleared the pool and coming up for air, realised that the lifeguard was staring at me, obviously wondering if he should blow his whistle at me and order me out of the pool before I could do any more damage.

Anyway, to cut a long and not very interesting story short, I can now do front crawl. It took me a long time to get there - twenty years, a pair of goggles, and a nose clip - and it has taken me on a journey of self discovery. In order to conquer my fears I had to work out what was making it so hard in the first place. Maybe now that I'm thirty two, I have the ability to work backward more logically. It took me a really long time to realise that the solution to not getting water up your nose is to buy a nose clip. Simple.

I think my nose clip has changed my life.

Now, however, I really want a swimming cap. It would have to be pink though, to match the rest of my gear. Otherwise, I'd look like an amateur.

My Knight in Shining Armour

The other night, I read poetry to The History Boy...

Yes, I know. Yuck, yuck, yuck!

Pass the sick bag, pur-lease!

We also lay in bed this morning staring mushily into each other's eyes. Last night, he even used the L word. So did I. Then we both started laughing at how ridiculously sloppy we were being. But even whilst we were laughing, I felt as if something had shifted. Something momentous had happened.

Part of me is struggling against this new, mushy Siani. How can it be that I've gone from a cynical, independent person who would have been happy with Fuck Buddy status with Hot FB Guy to somebody's girlfriend? Somebody who stares dreamily out of the window at work thinking about him while her bottom set Year 9 boys rampage around the room throwing bits of chewed up paper and hitting each other with rulers?

Recently, I was reading an article in 'Marie Claire' about Dolly Parton. She has been married to the same guy since she was eighteen. That surprised me. Then I started considering why I should find this so strange. After all, what is so unusual about living happily ever after?

We live in a strange duality, an uncomfortable contradiction. As children we're read fairy stories about princesses who are rescued by their prince (dashing, manly and with piercingly rugged good looks) and then ride off into the sunset. We're conditioned to believe in that perfect ending. Then, as we get older, we realise that things aren't that easy. That the knight may have issues, or huge personal problems. That people disappoint us. And more often than not, we disappoint ourselves and make huge mistakes which we are prone to repeating over and over again.

Recently, I've realised that I consider divorce and unhappy, broken relationships to be the norm. In the media, and in real life, we are surrounded with images of stress and angst and stories of couple who are going through awful break ups. Much of my time with my girlfriends is spent discussing how unhappy we are and how hard it is to find a bloke who doesn't have issues, some kind of fatal flaw, or is in love with someone else. At every turn, I'm expecting something to go horribly, disastrously wrong with The History Boy. I know it's only been three weeks and there is still plenty of time for that. I also know that I'm projecting all my anxieties from past relationships onto him, especially the trauma that I went through with my ex-husband who disappointed me so badly that I find it hard to trust anyone any more.

But I have this feeling that I'm done with all that. I have this feeling that I've finished with one part of my life and I can never go back to how I was before. Granted, The History Boy doesn't have a white charger. I don't have long golden hair (It's kind of ginger at the moment after a traumatic visit to a hairdressers where they didn't speak English, but that's another story). And there are no evil dwarves or dragons to slay. But sitting in bed with someone on a Saturday morning wearing one of his T-shirts, drinking a cup of tea and just being quiet is more romantic to me than all that. It's more romantic than a Hollywood kiss under a waterfall. It's more romantic than a man in chain mail rescuing me from a tower where I've been held captive by the Black Knight.....

Actually, come to think of it, it's almost as if The History Boy has rescued me. He's done this by being honest, and kind, and straightforward about his feelings. It's as if he's held that castle door open and allowed me to step outside, shaking off all the restricting anxieties and issues that I had, and the persistent belief that I was totally unlovable and destined to die alone. I feel like I've just woken up from a hundred year sleep caused by pricking my finger on a large spindle of disappointment, confusion and unhappiness.

We've discussed what we're going to do in the future. We've discussed our feelings on babies, marriage and the kind of life we want to have. All hypothetical, of course. I'm still undecided on the baby front. I don't even know how I would cope with sacrificing my life as it is now to squeezing out a couple of kids and devoting the rest of my life to raising them. But it does look like I might not end my days in a grotty flat, surrounded by gin bottles and old copies of 'The Lady'. My future looks a bit different now.

Come to think of it, I think The History Boy would look hot in a suit of armour. I wonder if Ann Summers stocks chain mail?

Who Knew?

I'm happy.

What? Surely not....

Something pretty amazing has happened, something that I really didn't anticipate. Last week, I had an epiphany of the kind that doesn't really happen very often. Well, they don't happen to me much anyway. Not in my hectic, muddled, confused existence where, as you know, I pretty much seem to lurch from one disaster to another, stumbling in heels that are uncomfortable and more suited to someone who possesses natural grace and self-assurance.

My epiphany was like being whacked in the face with a sledge hammer. Like someone shaking me really hard and telling me to wake up and get a grip. It was like a voice beaming down from the sky and telling me that actually, I'm crazy about The History Boy and have been for quite some time.

Last Friday, I was over spending the weekend at the Nice Romanian's house. Things were OK. He really tried every seduction technique known to man – wine, dinner, candles and all that. The History Boy had been away for the whole week travelling and I had been missing him in a way that surprised even me. I woke up on the Sunday morning and suddenly knew that I had to see him, then, that instant. Like it was a matter of life or death. I wanted to see him, hold him and.... kiss him? No, I thought, this can't be right. A perfectly nice man has just made you a Sunday morning omelette and coffee and all you can do is think about a boy who you're just friends with. A boy who, last week, you definitely did not even fancy.

One taxi ride later, and I was in his arms. We were cuddling on the sofa and as I raised my head to look at him, he kissed me, shyly, as if he thought I would pull away. It was like everything suddenly fell into place. I could almost hear myself sighing with contentment.

Hours later, as he held me in bed, we started laughing, unable to believe that something so momentous had been going on for so long and that we hadn't realised.

The History Boy has now been at my house for a week. No change there then. He's always at my house. But now his stuff is in my bathroom and his school shirt is hanging in my wardrobe. We did say that we would take it slow and give each other space. But I think I've had enough space to last me a lifetime. I feel like up until now all I've had is space, a lifetime of emptiness and confusion, mixed messages and misunderstanding. Now everything is crystal clear. A mere fortnight ago, I wrote that I didn't fancy The History Boy. Turns out that fancying someone doesn't have to be the same thing as being tortured by them. I've learnt that lesson this week.

But now I'm worried. I can't lose him. I'm really afraid that, in typical Siani style, I'm going to fuck everything up and then it will get ruined. That I will repeat the same behaviour that has ruined every relationship I've ever had. That I will be bossy, demanding, and demand impossibly high standards that no human being can possibly achieve. But at least I've now gained some self awareness as to how I've messed things up in the past. At least I know what I need to look out for now.

I want to say thank you to one of my followers 'You Mean There's More?' She very articulately suggested that I should give The History Boy a go. She was absolutely right.

Life's Too Short

Recently I've been reflecting on the things that really make me happy. I've been consciously attempting to make my life as pleasurable as possible and the phrase 'Life's Too Short' comes up again and again.

1. Life is too short to spend all day at work
2. Life is too short to run after unavailable men
3. Life is too short to set ourselves unrealistic, unattainable targets.

No, I haven't suddenly turned into the Dalai Lama. It's just that this week I've been on half term holiday and had time to think, which is always dangerous. I also had two friends staying and one of them (who works at my old school) has had the same realisation that I had six months ago. School is making her, and many of her colleagues, miserable. The pressure is just too much and she is feeling anxious all the time. This anxiety is manifesting itself in many different ways, but the upshot of it is that she doesn't feel that she can enjoy anything. She commented on how happy I seemed and I think it was perhaps a bit of a wake up call for her – that she could also change her situation if she chooses. But seeing her unhappiness suddenly brought everything into sharp focus and made me realise that actually, I am so much happier here and that moving here to Bucharest was the right decision for me. It was as if she was the reflection of the way I used to be – exhausted and burnt out. Of course, it's been hard adjusting and things still aren't perfect. But at the end of the day, I wasn't enjoying the stresses of the job I was in and so I changed it. Life is too short to be miserable. It's common sense really, isn't it?

Talking of misery, I also realised this week that I had to let Hot FB Guy go. At last minute, he started back-peddling on his offer to come over and visit this week and asked if he could come at Christmas instead. Something inside me just snapped. I realised that the Skype sessions and all contact with him had to stop. Torturing myself over a man who doesn't feel the same way about me as I do about him was just making me feel wretched. He was the last tie I had to cut with the UK, the last thing holding me back. He was actually making me enjoy my time here less. So, last night, I wrote him an email in which I said that he couldn't come and see me because I am seeing someone else. And it wasn't a lie. I am seeing someone else, a very nice Romanian man with a wicked sense of humour who really makes me laugh. This guy likes me. He calls and texts all the time. He brings me flowers and tells me I'm beautiful. Hot FB Guy being in my head is not an option right now – he would only mess things up for me. It's definitely time to move on. Life is too short to run after unavailable men. It's common sense really, isn't it?

Unattainable goals are the last thing that I needed to get rid of in my life. The main manifestation of my new positive attitude is the fact that I've given up my diet and I'm back on the bread. Yes, I was skinnier last year. But I was also really unhappy. And when I first moved here, after a summer of eating big dinners with friends and having little time to exercise there were a few moments where, desperately trying to squeeze into my clothes from last year, I would vow to cut back on what I was eating and swear off bread, desserts, wine and pasta. In essence, all the things that make me happy. I stuck to this regime for a couple of weeks but I still felt rubbish about myself. The turning point, however was on a weekend up in Transylvania. Our mountain guide, saying that we would get us lunch, took us to a bakery and returned from the counter with a large piece of what can only be described as a savoury doughnut topped with sour cream, garlic and cheese. The old, on-a-diet Siani hesitated. But only for a second. Unsurprisingly, considering the ingredients, it was one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten.

From that moment on, my viewpoint on food changed. Unfortunately, or fortunately, however you look at it, I'm living in a country where the local dishes consist of polenta, doughnuts, stew and sausages. I figure if I try to slim down to a size six, I'm fighting a losing battle. So I packed the diet in and relegated my old clothes to the back of the wardrobe. I'm swimming three times a week (something I now have time to do and which I really enjoy) and walking to the Metro every day so the weight should come off soon. But if it doesn't, so what? Being a bit curvier is no bad thing. People on FB have even complimented me on my new figure (including the size of my boobs, bizarrely) and said that I look nicer now I look like I've eaten a few pies. Off course, I'm not advocating binge eating, merely not starving yourself as I was doing last year. Yes, I was thin. But I also had really bad skin, caused, I'm sure by the no dairy, no wheat diet I was on. And probably the stress of my job. The way I see it, there is too much delicious food in the world to deny yourself. Living on no-cheese omelettes and steamed vegetables was no fun at all. Now that's definitely something I should have realised before.

I'm sorry if all this sounds trite and happy-clappy. It's just that this week I've had time to think, get some sleep and figure stuff out. I'm sure my next post will be less upbeat. My new found serenity, I'm sure, will soon disappear. It might all go tits-up with the Romanian after all, and I'll be back to square one. I'm sure I'll soon be binge eating doughnuts with jam and sour cream and crying into my glass of local wine.

But maybe, just maybe, I'm finally learning to walk in heels...

The History Boy

I've met an amazing man. We spend pretty much all day every day together, and we laugh and laugh. He takes me out for dinner and we have long conversations about the meaning of life. I adore him. He adores me. The other night he stayed over. But he's just a friend. For the purposes of this blog I will call him The History Boy.

The History Boy is my perfect match. He's a history teacher (hence the name) at my school and we share a passion for historical literature. We have mutual nerd-gasms poking around the old city together, exclaiming at the architecture and discussing what it must have been like in it's belle-epoque hey day. He's smart, funny and considerate and makes me laugh. We have the exact sense of humour. Unfortunately, I just don't fancy him. Well, sometimes after a few glasses of wine I have the overwhelming urge to cuddle him, but I often feel this same emotion with my girlfriends.

There's a really big problem, however, with this chaste, quasi-marriage style relationship. We are inadvertently blocking each other when it comes to meeting members of the opposite sex. Take last Saturday. At the gym, I had gone for a swim and he had gone running. He met me at the Jacuzzi and as we got in, I noticed there was a very cute guy in there already. Tanned and dark with a gorgeous muscular body. Well, nice shoulders anyway. It would have been the perfect time to strike up a conversation – we were sitting exactly opposite each other – but the The History Boy's presence effectively made it impossible. To an outsider, we must have appeared, to all intents and purposes, like boyfriend and girlfriend. After a couple of non too gentle kicks from me, THB departed sheepishly, leaving me in the tub with the handsome dark stranger, who it turned out, was called Lucian, worked as a trainer at one of the local banks and was Romanian. We chatted for a good twenty minutes, but unfortunately I couldn't work out how to drop the information that THB was not my boyfriend into the conversation without seeming desperate. I doubt, however, that anything would have happened. I know this because I was wearing my black BHS swimsuit with the saggy arse where the elastic has gone and had trails of mascara smeared down my cheeks. I didn't realise about the mascara until afterwards.

The History Boy went to London for a couple of days last week. I missed him acutely, almost as one might miss a boyfriend or girlfriend. As we stood on the escalator in the Metro on the night he returned, he spontaneously put his arms around me and laid his cheek on top of my head.

“You and me,” he said contemplatively, “Could never go out with each other. We get on too well.”

And that's it. There's no tension, no sexual tension, come to think of it. The History Boy has seen me running around my house in a skirt and strapless bra, trying to work out what top to wear before a night out. He's seen me in my glasses and pyjamas with morning breath and a deathly grey pallor caused by one too many drinks the night before. He's heard me utter the most un-sexy sentence in the history of man: “ I'd leave it a couple of minutes before going in there if I were you,” as I emerge sheepishly from the bathroom. And he still wants to hang out with me.

Yesterday we had a long, lazy lunch at the Italian down the road and then browsed the English language bookshop, recommending books for each other. He came away with 'Captain Corelli's Mandolin', I came away with 'Disgrace' by JJ Coetzee. In the evening, we went to see 'One Day' and I stole all his nachos before laying my head on his shoulder and weeping throughout the last third of the film. Textbook girlfriend behaviour with a boy friend who is definitely not my boyfriend.

Sometimes I do feel a bit like I'm using him for cuddles when I'm lonely. Or when am feeling rubbish about Hot FB Guy who is, as ever, elusive, unreliable and still on my mind pretty much every minute of every day. But spending time with THB makes me happy. It means that so far, I haven't had the dreaded moment that I was worried about before coming here. You know, the moment when you're on your own and you feel that nobody loves you and that you made a HUGE mistake by moving overseas. When we do have those, THB and I are always together and one of us will manage to diffuse the melancholy with a well-timed fanny fart joke or something equally as high-brow. At these times of melancholy (usually when we're both tired and hungover) we remember the promise we made to each other walking home after a night out a few weeks ago. The promise is: if we get to fifty and still there's no sniff of a spouse for either of us, we will get married.

I could see myself growing old with The History Boy. In fact, I'm thinking that this might turn into one of the most enduring and rewarding relationships I've ever had...

It's just a pity that I don't fancy him.

Some Things Stay the Same

So I've finally found the time to sit and write a post. Sorry that I didn't do it before. Time goes by so quickly here – yesterday I realised that I've been here a month.

So far, living here in Bucharest is as awesome as I thought. I've finally got the life I wanted, the life I dreamed about when I was back in ....shire, lying on the sofa reading Star magazine. I'm out pretty much every night, having drinks or dinner or swimming at the posh gym my work pays for. My quality of life is immeasurably better than it was in England. The city is huge, bustling and cosmopolitan and I live right in the centre. It makes a huge change to the sleepy market town where I was living before. It makes my life before look totally boring and routine.

Everything is all shiny and new - new friends, new job, new house. A new language, a new culture, and so many possibilities. One thing that isn't new, however is my relationship with Hot FB Guy. Yes. Unfortunately it's still going strong. I use the term 'relationship' loosely though. I know that Skyping does not a relationship make. I know that I'm heading for disaster.

You know all that stuff I wrote back in July about safe-guarding myself against him and not being open to getting hurt because I was moving to a different country? Not true. I've found that you can still be in love with someone even when they're a couple of thousand miles away. Oh God, I'm pathetic. I sound like something out of an old film, the kind they play on TCM (which I have been watching avidly since moving here, by the way, but with Romanian subtitles). I feel like there should be violin music in the background as I stand on my balcony and look down over central Bucharest and think about him. Godammit.

Last week I had a kind of mini crisis which involved me sitting in bed alone at half past ten on a Wednesday night staring dementedly and determinedly at the wall and giving myself a right talking-to. Out loud. The lecture went like this:

Now come on Siani. This is ridiculous. You're in Bucharest. You're having the time of your life (I am). So why are you still thinking about him? He's just a boy and a very unpredictable, emotional one at that. He's in another country and you like him way more that he likes you. Sort it out. Get him out of your mind. Find a nice Romanian man called Vlad or Gheorghe orAlexandru etc etc.

I had a bit of a nervous breakdown and called J crying. She told me to man up (in a nice way) that he wasn't right for me and that I needed to get over him. Oh, and that he's still in love with his ex, apparently. I know that. Of course I do.

Last night, he Skyped me.  For three hours. Now, I know what you're thinking but it wasn't that kind of Skype session. We were talking. About everything. I spent most of the three hours laughing but there were some moments when we were quiet and contemplative - just looking at each other. It was weird. You could almost hear the chemistry between us whooshing down the wires. The mood was broken, however, when he asked to see my boobs. Who said romance was dead?

He wants to come out for a visit. In my head I know that it's not a good idea. But I can't say no. We talked about some dates and it's probable that he will come here in about a month's time. I'm already playing out the fantasy in my head...us walking round the city, kicking autumn leaves, sightseeing, having romantic dinners. By that time I will obviously be fluent in Romanian and a stone lighter and everything will occur in black and white with the aforementioned violin music in the background. And then he'll miraculously fall in love with me. Yep. Right.

So what am I going to do about the situation? Well, what can I do? I'm probably going to carry on as before, sporadically having contact with him and obsessing about him in between. I just can't believe that I've changed my life so drastically but that he's still there. He's always there, hovering, making it impossible for me to forget him. Somehow he has the knack of keeping me hooked, for opening me up and making me tell him things that I haven't told anyone, ever. It's like he looks straight at me and when he does it cuts through everything else.

Blah blah blah....If you've made it to the end of this post, well done! To be honest, I'm even boring myself now. I'm sorry if you were expecting a gossip-filled missive about all the dates I've been on since moving here. Tell you what, next time I'm going to write about the hot Romanian man I've met. And I'll include some juicy details. I promise.

RSPCW

No word from the Moroccan. Obviously. Yes, I know, I should have seen that one coming. I really can't believe that he came on so strong but then just abruptly stopped calling. I would never do that. I phoned him over a week ago and since then... nothing. Well, I'm not chasing him. Next!

I spoke to J about it and we chatted about how stupid men are. I mean, why bother with all the chat about how much he liked me if he didn't mean it? Now, I've previously refrained from saying what I'm about to say so bluntly because I'm aware that there's nothing more boring than women whining about how rubbish men are. BUT THEY ARE, AREN'T THEY?

In the last couple of weeks, I've had a short fling with a guy who went from almost declaring love to me to just not calling, tried to console F as her boyfriend behaves like the biggest prick in the universe, and spent a good couple of hours counselling J about her break-up with a guy who, to be honest, led her a merry dance for over three months.

Whilst watching the recent rioting on TV, I started thinking about how angry I am. Yes I'm angry about social inequality. And by that I mean the way that my friends and I have been treated unjustly....by men. In fact, I'd like to form my own vigilante squad, an all female SWAT team of sorts. We could be called 'The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Women'. We'd wear pink masks and carry huge baseball bats and garden shears. And we'd drive around in a hot pink transit van dispensing justice to all those stupid men who aren't treating their wives and girlfriends properly. This treatment would involve a non-stop forty eight hour session of 'Sex and the City', an interrogation involving thumbscrews where they would be forced to confess to all their wrongdoing, and a series of interviews with every single one of their ex-girlfriends so they could see the error of their ways. Ha. Only once they'd made a full confession and signed a contract saying they promised to behave better in future, would we release them back into society. We'd dump them, confused and with the 'Sex and the City' theme tune ringing in their ears, branded across the arse with our logo and wearing a pick tutu on the doorstep of … their local! This public shaming would act as a deterrent to all their friends. Breaking the aforementioned behaviour contract once it was signed would result in instant death. Public hanging in fact. By the balls.

Seriously though, where are all the good ones?

There is that not-so-hilarious joke that goes:

Q:What do men and parking spaces have in common?

A: The good ones are all taken and the rest are disabled.

(Or gay)

(or confused/scared of commitment/ lacking in balls)

So many of my friends are afraid that they're going to wake up one day and realise that it's too late for them to have children. That their time has been wasted by a procession of stupid men. I'm pleased to say that so far I've not felt that panic. I'm sure that day will come though when I start thinking that I need to freeze my eggs or find any random man on the street to impregnate me or something. But for now, I'm just watching in disbelief at the stupid things that men get up to.

Is it my fault that I keep having such crappy experiences with men? And that just I'm choosing the wrong ones? Hmm....Come to think of it I have picked some idiots recently. Looking back over the men I've had dealings with this year there is:

The Turkish Jewellery Shop Owner,

Hot FB Guy,

Used to be Toxic Ex,

The Nineteen Year Old,

Hot FB Guy (again)

The Hot Islander,

Hot FB Guy (yet again)

The Moroccan Surfer.

It's not the best list in the world, is it? To be honest, it reads more like the 'Who's Who' of  'Unsuitable Men to Go Out With'. The overseas edition.

Well, as I'm moving to Bucharest next week and hoping to make a fresh start, maybe my New (Academic) Year's Resolution should be 'Hold out for Mr Right without getting distracted'. And buy a really big baseball bat.

The Forbidden Experience

I've only gone and done a Shirley Valentine. Except that the man in question does not have a large moustache and he doesn't say 'I want to make fuck with you'. Not quite, anyway.

To be honest, the beginning of our much anticipated Moroccan holiday could not have gone much worse. After spending a small fortune on new summer clothes and every lotion and potion in Boots to get us 'beach ready', F and I arrived at the resort. Unfortunately, on first impressions, it reminded me of places I dimly remember seeing in news reports about Eastern Europe in the early 80s – all grey concrete and pot holed roads. Could this really be the popular beach resort described by our travel agent, we asked ourselves. It was. 

As I wrote in my last post, we were imagining sophisticated cocktails by the pool, blue skies and long afternoons spent reading glossy magazines on the beach. What we actually got was grey skies, and a beach that looked a bit like Blackpool (but not as clean) that could only be reached by walking through a large car park full of overflowing rubbish skips. To make matters worse, we soon discovered that the hotel had an over-active entertainments programme which meant that the pumping music by the pool didn't stop for even a minute between ten in the morning and ten at night. No lie-ins for us then! But hey, who needs a lie-in when there's always some kind of fun activity being pushed on you by the hyperactive 'animation' team? We never did find out what the intrigingly named 'spoon game' entailed.

By the second day, we each had a serious and buttock-clenchingly awful case of diarrhoea (which we christened 'The Forbidden Experience') courtesy, we think, of the salad bar. Even Immodium couldn't fix it. Sitting on the toilet sweating and shaking whilst being forced to endure Blue's 'Breathe Easy' from the poolside PA system for the fiftieth time was not the experience I had in mind when I paid the travel agent five hundred hard earned notes for an idyllic holiday. To make it even worse, the hotel staff were generally unhelpful and unpleasant and the bank refused to change our money, saying it was 'too dirty'. It did not look good.

Things picked up on the second day when we met some boys who owned a surf camp near the resort. They took us clubbing a few times, bought us loads of drinks and let us hang out with them back at their place. One of them (who I'll just call S) seemed to quite like me and said that he would like to see me again. This will be somewhat difficult as he lives in the UK and I will be moving to Bucharest in a couple of weeks time. I am very cynical, as I can't believe that anyone as gorgeous as him would fancy little old me but also because Holiday Siani is very different to Normal Everyday Real Siani. I really don't believe that he would still like me if we did manage to meet again.

Holiday Siani is brown and relaxed and likes dancing to hard house music whilst swigging vodka. She likes to stay out until 5 am and has an array of brightly coloured dresses, and nicely matching jewellery. Holiday Siani is full of confidence and doesn't give a shit ('scuse the pun) about what people think of her. Holiday Siani is a carefree, fun person. In contrast, Real Siani has grey hair and is moody. She is in bed by nine and hates hard house music and clubbing. She's pasty white, has cellulite and lacks self-confidence.

On holiday, I was happy to party until five every morning and existed on very little sleep, vodka and spaghetti sandwiches (bread and pasta being the only safe things we could eat from the 'Buffet of Death' as F named it). But Real Siani is very different. Real Siani is more restricted, more stressed, more demanding. Real Siani has issues.

I had an emotional goodbye with S at the airport and we talked regularly on the phone in the first few days after I got back.  Initially he seemed very keen. But now I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach because it's been a good forty eight hours and there's been no contact. Even though I'm a cynical hard-bitten woman of almost thirty two who knows that it was just a fling and not going anywhere, I'd still like to hear his voice. I know it's crazy to feel such an attachment to someone I only knew for a week. I know that I should forget about him and move on. Where could it possibly go?

At home in North Wales, sitting in my tracksuit bottoms watching 'The Antiques Roadshow' with my Mum, I wonder, was that really me? Who sat chatting on the beach until five in the morning and who wasn't tired at all despite having only about four hours sleep every night? Was it really me who danced like a mad thing for three hours straight, stopping only when it was time to go home? Was it me who wore a floral play suit and heels out in public? (Btw it was, the evidence is on Facebook...)

And was it me who said good-bye to him so carelessly at the airport, confident that I would see him again? It seems like a different person. It seems like a different world.

 

Mind you, Real Siani's not all bad. For a start, she doesn't have chronic diarrhoea.

Siani's Guide to the Perfect Getaway...

Still no news from Hot FB Guy, but I don't care because F and I are going on holiday to Morocco tomorrow. We both have this vision of us floating around the souk wearing 'Sex and the City 2' inspired outfits, swimming in a turquoise pool and sipping cocktails at a trendy club. I suspect the reality will be very different. My holidays with F are always brilliant but consist of at least one totally unexpected episode, for example, the food poisoning incident in Cuba, the crazy night with two Italian men we met in a club in Abruzzo, and large mosquito bites that turn bad.

That's the thing about holidays – the expectation is almost as good as the real thing. Just pick up any glossy women's magazine and the front cover at this time of year will consist of tips on How To Get Ready For Your Summer Holiday. Some of the suggestions inside are more expensive than the holiday itself, ridiculous and downright dangerous (some of the more extreme diets to get you 'bikini ready' for example).

Going on holiday has become a ritual in itself, involving many hours of angst (bikini shopping) pain (bikini waxing) and expense (all of it). This year, I have resisted the urge to spend hundreds of pounds on holiday gear -I have a perfectly good summer wardrobe already! Who am I kidding? I already know I'm going to spend about half of last month's salary on cute sparkly things in 'Accessorize' at the airport but never mind....

Holiday mania grips us, making us descend into a sort of frenzy, forcing us to go out and buy a myriad of mini toiletries, every glossy magazine in the newsagent and three new lip glosses (to go with the new outfits we've just bought). And then there's the anxiety caused by the fact that one will have to show one's pasty white British body off in the company of people who are tanned,slim and chic. People who don't buy Primark.

One year, desperation at the thought of wearing a bikini on holiday drove me to embark on the Slimfast Plan. I lasted two hours before I caved in – I was just too hungry and the shake that I was supposed to have eaten for lunch just hadn't cut the mustard. I went from being determined to lose two stone in a week to gulping down a sausage baguette in literally three seconds. Diets don't work for me. Especially when I know that I've got two days to get rid of that pot belly I've been cultivating all year.

I'm sure that the anxiety I'm feeling is caused wholly by the aforementioned glossies that I read. The articles on how to look nice on holiday are usually bordering on the ridiculous. For example, every summer there is a huge article about what make up to wear on the beach. Coral lipstick and gold eye shadow usually feature heavily. Now this is just downright ridiculous – who wears heavy make up in 35 degree heat? No one I know, that's for sure. There's always a double page spread of a very thin model, oiled up, wearing on of those cut away swim suits and lots of gold jewellery. To me that spells problems. Who wants a sun tan that looks like they fell asleep under a pair of Granny's net curtains? Not me.

Instead of this fantasy, I wish someone would publish a no-nonsense guide to real life holidays. Something entitled 'How to lose half a stone by next week on the biscuit diet 'or 'How to look glamorous on your staycation in Torquay when its fucking freezing and your legs have turned purple.' If I was to publish a ten point holiday guide for every girl in the UK which gave honest advice it would go like this; not that I think I'm an authority or anything...

1) Invest in beachwear that fits you properly. 32Es, a string bikini you've borrowed from your sister and water jets in the pool is a disaster waiting to happen. Believe me.

2) Wear sun cream – religiously. Apart from the threat of skin cancer which is nasty enough, sun burn screams 'I'm British and I got too excited and momentarily lost my brain this afternoon when I tried to fry myself by the pool using only olive oil as an spf.' Really sad. Foundation doesn't cover sun burn by the way. It just makes you look like a badly made-up drag queen.

3)Avoid fabrics like viscose, polyester and the like. Scratchy, common and give you baaad sweat marks. You might also end up looking like you fallen into the reject basket at Primark. Not a good look. However, come to think of it, these fabrics are probably easier to wipe the sick off when you've had one too many cocktails.

4) When packing consider if you're really really going to wear everything in your case. That ball gown may not be right for Ayia Napa.

5)If something looks or smells dodgy, trust your instincts and don't eat it. Having a non solid poo situation can ruin a romantic moment when you meet that hot local guy. I had a situation last year in Turkey that involved being in a dinghy with the hot man from the hotel jewellery shop and really bad diarrhoea. He was looking into my eyes, I was wondering if I could manage to not poo on his leg. Not fun.

6) And speaking of local men, have fun. But don't be stupid. You know what I mean. Bear in mind that they may do this kind of thing with British tourists all the time. (I've done it btw, many times!) Going off on a tangent a little bit here, it scares and shocks me that many of my friends admit to having unprotected sex with men they've met on holiday. You might as well put your hand up and make a request for chlamydia, a warty fanny or worse.

7) Only go on holiday with someone that you get on with really well. At some point during the holiday you're both probably going to be tired, hungover and grouchy. Tempers will become frayed and you'll both need to deal with it. I once spent a weekend with some casual acquaintances on the Isle of Wight who were, I realised after a day in their company, addicted to playing on their I-Phones. Annoying. To be honest though, it was the Isle of Wight in February. It wasn't like there was that much else to do. After three days there I would have been happy to play on an an I-Phone all day and I'm a technophobe...

8) Take a nap at around 4 pm every day. You will need to be fresh for all that crazy partying that you're going to do. Don't forget to have as much fun as possible - on holiday it is permissible to do things you wouldn't at home. Can you see yourself dancing on the table, holding an extra large Martini and lemonade back in All Bar One? Thought not.

9) Be a classy traveller – learn about the culture and a few phrases and if it's a Muslim country cover up a bit when you go out. Be polite and courteous to everyone you meet. Also, ending up in jail because you fancied some al fresco frolics on the beach with a man from Birmingham is a stupid situation that can easily be avoided.

10) Lastly, try to go somewhere where there are no other British people. Or at least not the kind who wear hankies on the heads and expect a full fried breakfast every morning. I've found that being able to speak Welsh comes in very handy in situations when you want to differentiate yourself from other Brits on holiday. It's also a good deterrent against being harassed by the kind of person who starts a sentence with 'Hey pretty ladies...' So if you know any obscure languages, use them!

Anyway, after imparting those (questionable) words of wisdom, I need to go. F and I are going for a Brazilian and then bikini shopping. I suspect I'm going to need to have some drinks to get over the trauma of seeing myself nearly naked in a full length shop mirror, cellulite and all. Wish me luck ladies.....

Drawing the Line

Sorry I've been away for so long. Packing up one's life into a series of cardboard boxes is very time consuming. So is cancelling direct debits and saying good bye to all those people who have been part of your life for the last few years. Not to say emotionally draining, tedious and unbelievably exhausting.

On Friday, the last day of school, I attempted to draw a neat line under the past three years. I cleaned out the drama studio and said my goodbyes. After having lunch with workmates at the local pub, I walked back to school to get my car, only to be found sobbing hysterically by Roger the caretaker in the car park. I was crying because I had just had an emotional goodbye with my friends, but also because I knew that I'd never see Hot FB Guy again. I had just made the decision to leave the pub without saying goodbye to him, feeling that there was no good way to do it. I was afraid that if I wasn't careful, I would shatter the cool calm exterior that I've been so carefully cultivating for the past few months, start to blub hysterically and tell him the truth, which is that actually, I'm in love with him and have been since last October.

Turns out that it isn't that easy to draw a line. Turns out that cutting someone that important out of your life just doesn't work. I should have realised that when I deleted him from FB, only to spend a huge amount of time obsessing over him. A couple of hours later, whilst I was trying to work out how to get the entire contents of my house into my car boot, he texted saying that he hoped I was going out that night so he could say goodbye to me.

Of course I was.

Well, to cut a long story short, I didn't stay at J's as planned that night. We left the club together and sat in the taxi back to his, me in a fever of anticipation and almost not believing that finally, finally, something was going to happen. Back at his, we did stuff and said stuff that should have been done and said months ago. Not wanting to over share, I'll just say that I returned back to J's at ten the next morning with a huge smile on my face and last night's make up on. All I can say is we fitted. Perfectly. Waking up in the morning and realising that I was naked in bed with Hot FB Guy was a pretty awesome experience. Even better when he put his arms around me and held me really tightly like he didn't want to let me go.

Now I know what you cynical people are thinking. That because I'm leaving, he saw me as a sure thing. I'm not deluding myself and I'm sure that's part of it. But in a way, because I'm leaving, I've safe guarded myself against getting really hurt. It can't go anywhere for purely geographical reasons. And we're obviously not going to have a long distance relationship. To be honest, it was a brilliant way to end things. It would have been an even better way to start something, but hey, shit happens. I'm leaving in less than a month and I had one of the best nights of my life on Friday. I'm pretty sure that I'll remember it for … ever.

The only thing is, that he's ruined my plan to sever all ties with him. Before Friday, my feelings were manageable. I was going to leave without saying good bye and walk away without a backward glance (almost). But when you've spent the night with someone, they've seen you naked from pretty much every angle and stared into your eyes and stroked your hair and kissed you everywhere, well, that's a different story. And it was like that, by the way.

As he drove me back to J's, we talked about endings. When I commented on it being the end of an era, he told me not to put labels on things. He also asked me when I was actually going going. I know that I can't hope that I will see him again. Our goodbye (casual and brief) made me think that he didn't feel that it was properly over. But I can't let myself hope. I have to be tough, even though never seeing him again makes me want to cry and bash my head against the wall. I'm going to be really philosophical about this – I'm leaving and I'm sure that they will plenty of hot men in Bucharest. Men who aren't afraid to face their feelings and men who don't have an addiction to Facebook.

So, here's the line

It really is the end of an era.

Persona Non Grata

I have a friend who is perfect. Really, really, perfect. She has a beautiful baby and a gorgeous husband. Her house is artfully arranged in shabby chic style and she is deliriously happy. We used to work together, and when the baby was born, I sent her a couple of cute babygros and a card. Recently, I have spent a few afternoons round at hers, drinking cups of tea and gossiping. I thought we were close. Maybe not kindred spirits but certainly good friends.

Yesterday, this friend sent me a text reminding me about next Sunday, which was interesting because as far as I knew, next Sun I'm probably doing my usual mundane Sunday routine of Tescos and cleaning the bathroom. I asked J who told me that it is the baby's naming ceremony on Sunday and hadn't I already been invited? She had had her invite weeks ago. It was probably just a mistake, she said, and she texted my perfect friend to ask. The answer came back – a definite no. The text was a group one which she had sent me by accident. Apparently they wanted to keep the event 'small'. Maybe I'm such a large person that the ceremony would be jeopardized by my presence? Actually I'm not that bothered about not being invited, but more that my friend would send me that text and then just point blank say that I absolutely, definitely wasn't invited. It's so different to the way I operate – if I did that I would have to back track and say that of course the social pariah who I had mistakenly invited as well was meant to be coming! And I had just forgotten to send them an invite! Silly Me!

This has shown me that this person isn't perfect after all. In fact, it has shown me that she's socially unaware and doesn't care about the feelings of others. It's quite refreshing to realise this. And to be honest, a baby naming ceremony isn't really my idea of a fun thing to do on a Sunday. Spending the day lying on the sofa reading the BBC Good Food Magazine with a nice cup of tea is in fact preferable. Or colour coding my underwear drawer. Or de-scaling the kettle.

However part of me is, I admit, a little bit put-out. The feeling I have is similar to the one you get when you realise that someone you quite like has de-friended you on Facebook. Or like the one I used to get when no one wanted to play Famous Five with me in primary school (I was always George, obviously.) Logically though, I know I should act my age and not take it personally. I keep saying to myself that it doesn't matter and it's not a reflection on me. It's just because they didn't have space to invite hundreds of people.

But hang on a minute, perhaps they actively don't want me to be there? Me in particular? I can just imagine the line being crossed through my name on the list - if it was ever on there in the first place. What a nasty thought. Maybe the presence of a single 31 year old girl with shrivelled ovaries and a raucous laugh would ruin the happy (but serene) vibe of the occasion. And perhaps my friend is afraid that I might crack onto all the single men there. Maybe she thinks I'd be like the drunk great aunt at the wedding who has one too many gin and tonics and falls into the flower bed at the reception? Maybe I'm actually a really horrible, socially inept person? No, that can't be it...All my friend say I'm a Good Laugh! Maybe that's the problem? Maybe I'm too much fun? Maybe I have to face the fact I'm just not the kind of person who makes a good guest at a baby naming ceremony. Oh dear.

This situation and the fact that I don't even want to go to the ceremony has made me face a couple of things: 1. That this friend isn't that good a friend at all and 2. How different our lives have become. It has also made me consider the kind of person I am and how I operate socially. Sadly, I know that I'm not going to be in contact with this person any more. She has essentially made it impossible for us to be friends or even acquaintances because the next time she sees me she's going to have to mention it. I have a feeling she will try to avoid that kind of situation.

In re-evaluating myself and how I would have behaved had it been the other way around, I have also considered whether I'm feeling bitter because I'm jealous of my perfect friend with the perfect baby, the gorgeous house and her perfect existence. I can honestly say that I'm not. Her life is mapped out forever whereas I feel as if I'm about to start a new adventure, one of my own making. And what could be more perfect than that?

Excuse Me, Please Can You Help Me Search For My Lost Pen Pal?

A friend of mine vividly remembers this phrase from his GCSE French. How many of you remember the days of Tricolore when you thought that every conversation in France started with strangely Greek sounding country music and always involved a gruff sounding man called Jean-Pierre who lived in La Rochelle?

Well, I'm revisiting those happy memories, because as I mentioned in my last post, I'm trying to learn Romanian. I have figured that the key to being happy in Bucharest will be knowing the language and therefore being able to get to grips with the local men.... sorry I mean culture....

I suppose the process is marginally less painful than those days in Secondary School. At least the the boys in my form are no longer flicking dried snot at the back of my head or passing notes behind my back that say 'Siani smells!' And I don't have to mindlessly repeat 'I want a ham sandwich' over and over as the card is held up in the air by a teacher who is seriously lacking in enthusiasm. Our teacher, whose name I can't even remember, made it plainly obvious that he would much rather be sitting in the staff room eating a baguette au camembert or whatever than teaching us. It also seemed that the French Department only had five cards- a ham sandwich, a cheese sandwich, vegetables, chips and steak. For some reason, family holidays in France never helped me in my language acquisition skills either, maybe because we spent most of our time looking round cathedrals (sorry, Mum) or in the pool, not conversing with the locals.

But being an adult with no GCSE or A-Level exam looming, I can learn a little bit at a time, usually in the car on the way to work. The only thing about that is that mouthing Romanian phrases to yourself makes you look a bit mad. Last week, on the way to work, as I was repeating the phrases in 'Unit 3 - Useful Vocabulary', I had to stop at some traffic lights. Engrossed in my studies, I happened to turn my head and saw a group of my Year 10s standing by the side of the road staring at me. I gave them a little wave and sped off, secure in the knowledge that their suspicion that “Miss is actually bonkers” were now confirmed. Actually, I think they realised this after I got on the floor and pretended to be a banana when they were in Year 8.

Anyway, moving swiftly on, I am determined that I am going to use this move as a chance to learn a new skill ie a language. Something to engage my brain in a new and different way. I'm very proud that I now know how to answer should I ever be asked how many sons and how many daughters I have. I can also find my way to the bus station and ask a shopkeeper for a kilo of green olives and a litre of milk. And the verb structures are starting to make sense in my head, although so far I'm still only on the present tense.

But it's not quite as simple as that. Learning Romanian is about me embracing a new life and starting to mentally detach myself from everything here. Strangely enough, yesterday a colleague at work remarked on how different I look. I have recently dyed my hair a shade later and got new glasses, but I'm also walking and carrying myself differently. I feel lighter, happier, as if I can't wait for what's going to happen next, like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

If my life was a book, this would be a new chapter. It would be entitled 'Siani Gets a Life'. If it was a chapter in a Tricolore textbook it would be entitled 'Siani Leaves La Rochelle – The Future Tense'.