Sliding Doors

Ready... Set... Finished?

2006-03-30T23:45:00.000-05:00

The last two weeks have been full of highs and lows - symptomatic of my life in general (and really, everyone else's!). I've been thinking about writing for some time, now - and in this thinking have realized that it may be time to end this blog?

:::30:::

I turned thirty ten days ago and at the very second I became a thirty-something, I had an epiphany. No scary thoughts of being old, or worse, not young - no, I've spent a great deal of my life with people who were thirtysomethings, and have been looking forward to my turn because of it. That was a day when I lost all my anger and petty grievances and just felt the love and the light. I saw what was important and dropped what was not. I realized I am who I've wanted to be (all this time) but also how much more I can be. I felt a tiny bit scared because I am no longer eighteen. I chopped off my hair the day before (to a fetching shoulder-length) as well as turning it the lightest shade of blonde it's ever been. I threw my twenties away because I was finished with them. I let go of my guilts, my embarassments, my disappointments and made a promise to myself to never stop trying in my life.

Such is the soul-awakening of thirty (epiphany no.1).

:::You Can't Go Back:::

My mother always said this to me - you can't go back, so you might as well go forwards.

Even so, there have been times that I've wondered about old friends and lovers, but really couldn't quite bring myself to send that e-mail... So the other night, after reading an article about an ex's mother (in which it divulged the sad news of her father's death), I decided I would write. She had been so good to me, so loving and sweet - while her son was sometimes mean, she always told me I was too good for him.

I didn't really expect to hear back from her, and after nearly a week had gone by, I assumed I would not. I felt a bit funny about that - maybe I should've left well enough alone. Instead, nearly eight years after the last time we spoke, and she remembered my birthday.

I was completely shocked by her message. Not only because of the news it contained, but because of the way it affected me. Throughout my twenties I had been harbouring a hurt and angry fugitive in my heart - I was scared of bumping into him, had successfully avoided going to certain places that reminded me of that somewhat ugly time, and somewhere, somehow, for some obscure reason, I still carried around some of the unpleasant things he used to say to me.

When people make jokes about things like this, it always comes from somewhere. No matter how 'healed' you might feel, sometimes hurt has a way of creeping up on you.

But instead of feeling gleeful or satisfied that his life had taken a bad turn - I felt sorry for him. To read that he'd nearly died in a car crash, had lost his best friend to the same accident, that he was now living with his mother because he was in too much pain to work... I know that it's karma - I didn't feel the need to point it out to anyone because it doesn't matter. I know, and that's what counts.

Which leads me to another thought: if I know that what counts is what I think (and not the rest of the world) then how is it that I am so affected by the thoughts and actions of others?

In any case, his mother and I caught up by e-mail - and while we discussed meeting up for lunch, I realized over the course of a weekend, that I don't want to. I am protective of the things that are mine - and my experiences are just that. I don't 'own' any one person or place, but I do reserve the rights to my experieces. For that reason, I don't want people who haven't been there with me - through it, earning it - to share the details.

(epiphany no.2)

:::'Someday' Will Come:::

Around my birthday, Mr. Right's birthday and his Little Miss Bean's birthday, Mr. Right and I shared our first anniversary.

Much of my thirty years has been preoccupied with the desire for Love. I always knew it would happen 'someday'. I didn't know which day, just that it would be one of them. Did I know it when we met? Did a great bolt of lightning come flashing out of the blue and jolt me with the knowledge?

No.

But I had a sneaking feeling about it - about him. Whenever I wasn't sure (in those early days) there was a part of me that knew for sure. It's easy to walk away when things aren't easy. I never wanted to - even when I was scared and upset and even thought about it. He became my Mr. Right many months ago and since then has been no one but him.

We laugh when we're together and even right before we sleep. I wear a dopey grin when I talk about him because such is the bliss of this love. I've begun to conquer my hormones and I no longer confuse my own brand of biological warfare with the non-issues.

Once in a while, in a sleepy, dazy way, we tell each other why we love each other. It's impossible to express it all at any one time. I love the crinkles around his eyes, while he loves my tooth that sticks out. I love that his mind is always sharp, while he loves to listen to my thoughts. I love and he loves...

I had imagined it, dreamt about it and hoped it would happen to me one day. And when I least expected it, hadn't prepared or planned for it, and at the very-most inconvenient time - I found it. Who knows why and how - and that is immaterial. To believe in something that you've never had is to believe it is possible. To my beautiful circle who are without a warm heart and body to lie with, I tell you: it will happen.

(epiphany no.3)

:::Life Will Never Be the Same:::

My beautiful mother had another two trips to the emergency room, one night after another. Her health has been declining and while my family is doing everything we know (and don't know) how, there isn't a damn thing we can do about her condition.

This damned disease has sent us each into a private (and collective) tailspin.

But I realized that if we can't beat it, we'll have to 'agree to disagree' with it and make the most and best out of what we've got. Life will never be the same as it was when we were kids - nor teenagers, not even the way it was two years ago. And that's how life is and how it should be. I am reconciling myself to the fact that I will lose my mother in body one day. We have already begun grieving for the loss of her old self. It crept up and bopped us over the head. Another thing I wasn't prepared for - losing a parent - something that always happens 'someday'. Just didn't think it would be so soon.

I always thought it took courage to pack up my life and shlep it half way across the earth to find a new place to live. I have experienced several things in my life that required a silent kind of bravery, but none as much as this.

Facing up to my fears means I'm officially 'grown-up'. Nowhere to run, no way to hide from the truths in life - if I could get through some of the painful times I've lived so far, I know we will get through this one. Even the very worst one - losing someone I love so very, very much - is not surmountable.

(epiphany no.4)

The biggest gift of my thirtieth year has been the realization that I have not lived, loved, suffered or hurt in vain. I have learnt the lessons of my youth and can now grasp the possibilities of my future with both hands and a full heart. I've got lots of work to do still, and while I would like to say that I 'can't wait', I won't. I can wait because rushing through it is like skipping school: you miss the lessons.

Pinnacle

2006-02-05T22:51:00.000-05:00

I'm a very lucky girl. I always have been. Sometimes I forget it, which is one of my weaknesses. Sometimes I don't know how to ask for what I want. Sometimes it all comes out wrong.

But tonight, Mr. Right and I talked about us and our plans for the future. Nothing official, no 'big news' to report. At a weak point, the tears fell and I wasn't sure what I was doing. He put his hands on my face and looked at me with his beautiful blue eyes... And I knew no matter what, that everything will be alright. I felt stupid and shy and madly in love all at the same time. I've never had this love before, so I will forgive myself for my clumsiness.

While life may not always go as smoothly as it should, we can only do our best. If we do that, if we try, then nothing is as bad as it seems.

Kitchen Catastroph... Oh, wait a minute -

2006-01-19T00:58:00.000-05:00

Fresh (from frozen) berries, Devonshire custard, plain yogurt and granola should come to a fantastic dessert. I mean, these are all good things. How I managed to balls it up, nobody knows.

My granola turned into mueslix, and had surprise corn flakes in it. A bit 'ghetto' as a my friend-who-I-never-get-to-see would say. A little, umm, 'bargain' as my sister put it. I tried to weed out the flakes, but the damn things multiplied closer to the bottom of the bag. It's Swedish stuff (I was trying to look cool) so at least I'm pretty sure it will taste good, if not healthful.

The whole office is ensconced in losing weight - and while I should probably pay a little more attention to my expanding derriere, I can't really be asked. In fact, I was kicked out of the 'slimming club' today as I am apparently the weight others would like to be. Hmph. So I thought by throwing a few diet-savvy items (like yogurt, mueslix and fruit) it might divert attention from the fact that the whole damn thing is made up of custard - a low-fat variety of which there is not.

But something went awry - frankly, it looked hideous. Not like anything I would dare bring with me to work and present to my friends and colleagues. Certainly not following salmon and who-knows-what-else!

I slunk upstairs to ask my sister, resident gastronome and bakeologist extraordinaire (I came home to some sinful banana-chocolate muffins), what-the-bloody-hell-do-I-do?!?

Fashion a pie crust, said she, and bake it. 'It'll turn out like cheescake.'

The more I thought on the mess that sat on the counter (and in the bowl), the time of night (the lack of sleep), my expanding thighs and shrinking wallet... I worked myself into a froth that involved the f-word a few times. 'I'm not you,' I moaned. 'I can't just bake a pie!'

I slunk back down the stairs to sulk. I deviously stuck a spoon in the great blob that sat in the silver mixing bowl. I saw no point in allowing it to sit there any longer, taunting me with its tasty facade - I knew a debacle lay underneath. In went the spoon - and then something wonderful happened... The berries now fully defrosted and smelling delicious let out beautiful droplets of purple and pink. The corn flakes disappeared. The yogurt tempered the sweetness of the custard.

I turned on the oven, grabbed the last of the Danish sugar cookies and brazenly turned them into a crust. I threw in some brown sugar, a blob of butter, some more of the corn flake mueslix. Patted it down in the baking dish and poured the custardy mixture to fill it. Baked for 40 minutes, checking obsessively to see that it wasn't on fire or exploding.

House now smells of my sister's wonderful banana muffins (I've eaten two) and my fruity custard pie. Which is why I am writing this at 1am, when I really ought to be in bed. Damn thing has to cool.

Like I always say, my sister's my rock - she's always got an idea up her fashionable sleeve. Thanks Beejoo.

Christmas

2005-12-20T23:37:00.000-05:00

Christmas overseas was always quite exciting - mainly because I would roam Oxford Circus and Portobello Road for presents to bring home to my family. In the two years I lived in London, I flew home both times - half excited to see my parents and sister, half certain I would be missing London a little too much to ever really 'be home' in Toronto.

I imagine it must be the same now as it was then - throngs of people crowding any and every available space in the shops and streets. They used to widen the sidewalk down Regent Street to accomodate all the hoopla at Hamley's (for one). Fortnum & Mason's always had a beautiful window display filled with ornate little dolls and sparkly things. I would never ordinarily go there for my groceries, but there was always something extra special about bringing home jam and tea in hand-painted jars with gilt labels.

Shopping there was much like shopping anywhere - the physicalities of it, I mean - bundling up to keep out the damp cold, and sweating like mad on perusing the goods inside. It always seemed like people were walking more slowly then. I had this annoying thought the other day, as I walked into a store on Queen Street to buy my sister's birthday present - all these flaming people were meandering aimlessly and making me late. I was so sure I would find what I needed inside, that by the time I stepped out again - empty-handed - I became one of those people. I was a little dazed and bemused, completely unsure where to go or what to do next. I was running out of options.

Fortunately, I persisted, and a little down the way very happily found just what I was looking for - in spades! But I made a note to myself to try to keep a little perspective and have a bit more patience with humanity.

The second winter away from home, I had spent all kinds of money I didn't really have to bring loads of little goodies for my family. I wrapped everything carefully and managed to fit them all inside one giant shopping bag. I only packed a small suitcase and with my bag of presents, made my way to Heathrow for my flight home.

I never really remember my flights, as I prefer to sleep. I'm not a great flyer, always managing to get some sort of food poisoning from the suspiciously undefinable meat in my meal. I do remember one time, though, watching as the Kosher, Halal and vegetarian meals were served out first. While others dug in hungrily, a Muslim man sat quietly with his tray still covered. He waited until everyone else had been served, said a prayer and began to eat. From that flight on, I vowed to do the same - always requesting a special meal since a very ridiculous incident one flight, that had me almost losing an arm to the high-powered vaccum plane toilet (don't ask - no, really, you do not want to know!). I doubt very much that anyone else noticed, and indeed I couldn't possibly tell you what he looked like. I just remember that he was that thoughtful and considerate a person.

As I rushed from the planebag full of presents, I zipped over to one of the many long elevators to customs at Pearson. I hate waiting at customs. It's usually a very irritating experience - long lines and low patience from the agents. But this time I thought I had it licked - I was well ahead of everyone, save for one tall fellow, who stood in front of me on the escalator.

I could've sworn he swooned.

Just as I shook my head and refocussed, there it was again. A definite swoon. Followed by a very definite faint, knocking both me and my bag of treats to the floor. My long green silk scarf (bought in Portobello on a whim) got stuck in the escalator. My huge paper shopping bag ripped and all my presents spilled out onto the floor around me. I lay on my arse and wondered if it could possibly be more embarassing than this.

Of course you know it would - and it was. My scarf stopped the elevator and as I looked up, I notcied that somewhere in the region of three hundred people must've de-planed and were waiting, very annoyedly, to come down the escalator. Fortunately there was another one beside me. The cute lion-tamer who'd been sitting next to me rushed to help me while the fainter rushed off.

He left me there, legs akimbo, mangled scarf and pride and all.

By the time I'd collected myself and my things and got to the customs area, I saw that he was at the front of one of the lines. Embarassment turned to anger as I marched over to him and scolded him for what he'd done. He insisted he'd never fainted and he didn't know what I was on about. I slunk to the back of the line and cursed under my breath.

The holidays do funny things to people.

But this one will be extra-special to my family - we don't know what is to come in the future, but we are certain that things with my beautiful mother will be much worse. So this year, it isn't about show-off presents and ridiculous overtures, but this wonderful chunk of time we will be able to spend together as a family.

Happy holidays to all my readers - thank you for sticking with me this year!

xo fifi

Bei Mir Bist Du Schon

2005-11-26T20:27:00.000-05:00

I just thought I might point out how odd it is, to be writing this blog while listening to the Andrews Sisters belt out some golden war-time tunes. I guess back in those days (when my parents were kids, growing up on opposite sides of the universe) no one ever had any idea that a regular person like me would be able to flick a switch and have the whole world at my fingertips.

In a difficult year, this week has been pretty brilliant. I was given a (big) raise, Mr. Right asked me about getting 'married', and my beautiful mother called my sister out of the blue, just to have a chat and ask her how she was.

I write these in no particular order, because all of them are good - but in truth, the happiest thing is the last. As the weeks turn into months, memories of how my mother used to be flood through me thick and fast. My sister says that she has a hard time remembering and it scares her. I tell her not to focus on it and then the memories will come.

I've got to admit I'm pretty hacked off about the whole thing. Dementia stinks. Especially when it's happening to my beautiful mother. She isn't really able to have conversations with us anymore and seems to laugh when it seems appropriate (as in, when everyone else is laughing too). My dad says that sometimes, she seems like her old self - and others, she has difficulty remembering his name.

This is devastating. To all of us. And imagine how she must feel, when it's happening to her.

So I've been noticing that I get really angry, really quickly, over things that really aren't that important. And I've finally put the two together - I am stinking mad, no, FURIOUS that this is happening to her and there is absolutely no recourse. I have no one to shout at or complain to, no one to write to, demanding fairer treatment. And I am absolutely steamed over it.

I realized that, this week. And I am now making a concerted effort to think before reacting.

I am also reminding myself to appreciate all things good and happy where they happen - and if they don't seem obvious, to look for them. Those silver linings are everywhere, and for that, I am grateful.

In this week, I was appreciated a little more at work and loved a little more at home. My sister and I sat in our kitchen this morning, while the delicate snowflakes twirled from the clouds, sipping hot chocolate and yapping. I just adore her - she's so cool and she doesn't even know it. In my lowest days in life, my sister has always managed to say something - whether as inconsequential as 'bathroom information' or as important as our family - that gets me laughing. Out loud and practically wetting myself. She's that kind of funny. She's been helping me balance the madness.

So, the title of this wee little blog is for all of you (and you know who you are).

xo fifi

Sacked!

2005-09-22T12:55:00.001-04:00

My sister was just let go from one of her jobs. Talking about it last night, she told me she'd never had this happen before.

Quoi?

Of the thirty-odd jobs she's had in her life (really? Could it be that many? Oh, wait... Approaching 30 years of age... Yep.) not one of them has ever actually asked her to leave.

It's embarassing to say the least. Kind of like being broken up with - when you wanted to do it first. Nobody wants to be the 'bad guy', but nobody wants to be asked to gather their things and remove themselves from someone's life. She'd been lamenting her purpose there. In fact, doubting its existence. Long, quiet days, peppered intermittently with browsers and tumbleweed - nothing much to do but be on guard, in case the spies were out.

That's right - spies. What kind of a person spies on their employees?

I worked for one. I was saving up money for yet another trip to London, and having just quit a job I despised (waitressing - need I say more?), I found myself ringing in bottles of homeopathic remedies at a health food store. There was I, surrounded by bored-looking cosmeticians and overly-enthusiastic teenagers, counting the days till my flight while occupying myself with 'busywork'.

'Busywork' - the stuff you do when you've done everything else, the stuff that makes you look busy. I cleaned my till. I organized the papers under my counter. I moved the chocolates from one side to the other, arranged them by colour, then size, then shape. Then dusted some more and moved them back. I knew this job wasn't for me - it was for my trip. So I tried my best not to let it get to me. I wanted to leave - I so badly wanted to leave - but I wanted the money more. Entranced by boredom, I blinked in response to my co-worker's natterings, only to be interrupted by one of the cosmeticians.

She held up the phone - I wondered who would be calling for me there and as I started to walk over, she shook her head and hung up the phone.

I was a little more than shocked to hear that our manager had been calling to find out why I wasn't busy. Excuse me? I'd been cleverly occupying myself with activities the whole morning and wondered who had seen fit to tell him otherwise.

'Oh no, ' she said. 'He saw you.'
'"Saw" me?' My brow furrowed with confusion and I wondered how I hadn't seen him when he first came in.
'On the camera,' she explained discreetly, pointing to the ceiling and rolling her eyes. 'Anyway, he wants to see you.'

I didn't know what to do with myself. I was incensed. As I marched down the stairs to his office, I prepared myself for what I was going to say. I didn't think I'd need to prepare myself for what I was going to see.

There he sat, in a worn leather swivel chair in a poorly-lit tiny office. Staring at the television monitor, watching what was going on upstairs - watching us.

As we talked, I felt my lungs squeeze for air and my words get shorter and higher. He was clearly on some sort of a power-trip, explaining how he paid us to work, not to socialize. I reminded him that he paid me to work as a cashier, not a cleaning lady. I told him if he wanted one, he should hire one.

That was my last day there.

So my sister's former employer really did her a favour in this case. I don't understand what gets into some people - they bring anal retention to a whole new level. She wasn't given a proper break but was told to lock the store if she had to run out for some food. When she did leave (for three minutes, on the rarest of occasions) it seemed there was always someone to tell her she'd done something wrong. A strange phonecall from a man saying he wanted nothing but to know that the shop was open. Random visits from the No.2 and passive-aggressive e-mails from the Big Cheese herself.

I think she's still smarting a little from yesterday's turn of events. The Piscean in me always needs to find the 'silver lining' and for her, it is as I said before: she went after something she wanted - with no guarantee or way of knowing what it would be like once she got it -and she got it. That her employer turned out to be a slightly neurotic, paranoid crackpot - frankly, who would've known?

So to my little sister, I say that you are better off out of that silly place. I know it's insulting to be escorted to the door (I mean come on) and I understand it might squish you in the financial front - but none of this lasts forever. Know that I will not patronize said shop ever again, nor will any of my peeps. And remember that you are fabulous no matter what and will work again! Find the thing you want and go after it. You'll get it.

Are you getting my period?

2005-08-22T15:15:00.000-04:00

So I have this problem. It seems that when I wasn't looking, I grew another head that likes to flambe people with its tongue during that 'special time' of the month.

I can't even begin to explain.

I imagine doom and gloom. I feel like poop. I have absolutely zero energy - none. I get confused and crusty.

Cripes.

But even when I'm in the midst of it, I know that come that (until-now-dreaded-and-deplorable) fantastic minute, you know, when the 'painters and decorators' come knocking - the very instant that happens, I'm fine. Back to normal. Breathing deeply instead of breathing fire.

I find it hard to put up with - I can only imagine how much Mr. Right hates it. I can't tell if he takes it all in, secretly rolling his eyes with 'do we have to?' or if it hurts him that I get so weird. As La Poire pointed out the other day, it's the time of the month that makes it possible (truly) for our emotions to get the better of us. It's when it all comes out - sometimes completely irrationally, but out nonetheless.

Two days ago, I was stewing in a pot of hormonal sludge. Last night, I went to bed thinking of Mr. Right and how much I love him and The Cutest Kid In The World. I may not be completely rational all of the time (in fact, ever-so-charmingly deranged most of it) and I may be too sensitive (a fact confirmed by a conveniently-placed-by-Fate Pisces book at Chapters late yesterday afternoon) - but I love and love true. I didn't know I didn't know this about myself - that it's okay not to be 'perfect' in the face of love.

Last night, in his family home crowded with people from both sides, a man got down on one knee and asked his girlfriend of three years to marry him. He gave her a beautiful diamond ring that sparkles almost as much as she has been all day. She casually said that I would be 'next' and when I put on my grown-up, practical hat tutting and naying (since it's been such a short time), she asked:

"Would you marry him if he asked you right now?"

It was kind of like when the sunrays poke out from beneath dark, billowy clouds - I'm sure I heard a choir simultaneously - of course I would marry him tomorrow if he asked. I don't need to think about it. I do need to be a little patient and let him come to it on his own.

I also need to train my ovaries to stop giving me grief and busking at the bitchy buffet.

{Naturopaths, homeopaths, masseurs and chemists - unite in the cause that is Fifi's periodical flounderings! Put an end to the misery for one and all - once and for all! Watch this space for developments...}

The Pang of Yin and Yang

2005-07-23T01:57:00.000-04:00

My sister writes like a dream. She says the things I could never find the words for. If I could write like her, I think my problems might be that-much-closer to being solved - there are solutions to her equations and they come from her words.

---

Tonight was not how I'd envisioned it. I had planned to go to a party for a girl I don't know well enough to call a close friend. To drink martinis till my eyes started to cross. To see My Love for a quick (late-night) hello.

I didn't know that when I was invited, maybe three weeks ago, that my best friend and I wouldn't be speaking.

So by the time this evening rolled around, Fifi wasn't sure what to do.

An awkward and stilted conversation earlier, a heartfelt e-mail ensued. That so many things should be going so right in my life - I should be the happiest creature that ever breathed. And yet, I suffer for someone else's suffering.

It creeps up on me - in broad daylight, quiet moments (although I seem to have few of these, these days), in the shower, at work. Sometimes while I sleep, it comes out in my dreams.

My beautiful sister pointed out that not many people (if any) would ever really understand - even when they say they do.

My mother's voice on the answering machine is no longer her voice. The disease had swallowed it, never to return it back to her. Or us. My wonderful, stunningly intelligent and beautiful mother is a prisoner of her mind - some dreadful, guerrila-styled condition that has taken her hostage.

And what of a ransom?

There is no food, no drug, no therapy, no amount of love that will bring her back to how she once was. Just a slow, tormented and frightening demise.

My father struggles to keep things together - while I feel guilty for having escaped. I sit in my new room - painted a lovely shade of cornflower blue - sometimes with the man I love more deeply and differently than any one I've known, sometimes on my own - and sometimes feel the tiniest pang of disquiet interrupt my thoughts.

I've abandoned my father.

I've run away to a happier, young life while he works and worries at the family home.

I just don't know how to make people understand - I haven't disappeared - I am busy. Busy trying to get this apartment painted and organized and the semblance of a safe home for my sister and I. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can spend more time with my family - who needs me.

I chickened out of going to the party tonight because all I could think was that my best friend and I wouldn't be speaking. Or at least, not like we really speak. That sort of fare may be fine for some at parties, but not me. I wouldn't want to affect the group with that sort of private stuff.

Instead, I stayed in and painted over the hideous coffee-meets-dusty-rose paint upstairs (that's the last of it, no trace left in the house) with my sister. Paint catastrophe ensued (always check it when they mix it!) but my sister saved the day with her brilliance. All ended well - and early enough for me to spend an hour and something getting ready to pop out and make an appearance.

Two men stood on the corner and told me how good I looked. The men outside the coffee shop drooled in Portugese. The ones that stood outside the pub - my destination - stopped talking to each other to talk to me.

I was nervous enough as it was. Would my best friend talk to me or not? I didn't even think about the man I love as I walked through the door.

It started off alright.

But my intention was not to glom onto him all evening. I'm not that girl - the one who can't stand to be away from him, who cannot abide anything less than his complete attention. I wanted to see my friend.

I guess it wasn't meant to be tonight, as it ended with me in tears and the man I love holding me and loving me.

I don't know that I could love him more. Four months on and he has captured my heart.

There have been times when I wasn't so sure.

But there is no longer any part of me that questions him or his feelings. I don't know what happened. He just loved me more one day - just as I loved him - and we felt it simultaneously.

'You never know how long these things last,' someone said to me today. A horrible reminder that sometimes, when you love someone, it might not last forever.

I don't know about that, this time, because this time is different than all the other times. He feels different. He fits in all the right ways - even though we are opposites in some. I have never known anyone like him before. And I have certainly never known that kind of love - that someone I love would love me that much and that way...

So as I sat on the front steps of my house, crying like a fool, he loved me and listened to me, wiping my runny nose. That man I adore who loves me a little bit more - all the time.

I was embarassed that I'd taken so long to scrub the paint off myself, fussed with my ever-unruly hair and worried about what to wear - my best friend wasn't 'there'. And standing there, I was 'that' girl. The one attached to her boyfriend with no one else to talk to. I'd missed the party.

How is it that a man who's known four months of me could understand my life?

And how is it that my best friend and I have gotten so lost in not understanding?

Yin and yang. For every bit of good there will be a little bit of bad. C'est la vie, n'est-ce pas?

I'm tired. Just needed to get this out.

I'm Not Down

2005-07-11T21:55:00.000-04:00

My boyfriend - a Londoner himself - said that London's been bombed and under attack many times before, and one thing that always comes comes out of such adverse occurences is the true fighting spirit of the English.

I've been beat up

I've been thrown out

But I'm not down

No, I'm not down

I've been shown up

But I've grown up

And I'm not down

No, I'm not down

I've lived one kind of day

Where none of your sorrows will go away

Go down and down and hit the floor

Down and down and down some more

Depression

But I know

There'll be some way

When I can swing everything

back my way

I'm Not Down, The Clash

From all the way over here, what happened the other day in London seems surreal. That one day we would be able to see what it's like to evacuate a train underground, feeling the way through thick smoke and terror straight from a mobile phone...

When I left London all that time ago, sad and bewildered that my time there had run out, my friend said to me: 'It's just geography - London's been here for thousands of years - it's not going anywhere.'

So to those who think that tormenting the innocent and twisting the lives of people they've never known into shreds will weaken the resolve of a Londoner - or any one people or nation, for that matter - you'd better have a rethink.

I will risk sounding anything other than genuine to send my biggest hopes and best wishes to those who were injured or hurt in the attacks on London. Goodness will triumph over evil.

Big Bruv Love (part 1)

2005-06-13T21:19:00.000-04:00

I don't remember the first time I met Kevin.

It's funny, when you consider just how important a friend he is to me, that I just can't recall it.

We worked in the shop together - that's how we met. Every day, I would come running in, hoping not to be late - I very usually was and further hoped no one would notice. I flicked on the lights, unlocked the door and turned on the stereo. The mornings were quiet for us, all the kids away at school, their parents at work - lunchtime was our first rush.

When I think back to those days - no matter how stressed or upset I ever was about anything - Kevin was a constant fixture of goodness and logic. He was a voice of reason to my insanity, my biggest defender when I'd been wronged - he turned into my 'big bruv'.

I had a letter from him today. I'd been expecting it and when I reached for the mail and saw the familiar handwriting on the long brown envelope, I rushed inside, dumped my things and tore it open. I ate the words that came from my friend who always seems to think of me when I think of him. We can go months without speaking but one of us will e-mail or pick up the phone, and it always seems to be just as the other was going to.

A little while back, after many years of working in the shop, he opted for a change of career - considering the bravery he showed in the time we worked together, I was not only unsurprised but elated that he would choose to work for the London Ambulance Service.

A regular day at work and then a horrible crash and moan from outside. A car had wrapped itself around the lampost on the traffic island just a few yards from the front door. We raced out to see what was happening and it wasn't long before a crowd appeared too - but everyone stood back, jaws dropped. I held the phone in a panic, starting to dial 999 and before I knew what was happening, Kevin had zipped out the door to make sure no one was hurt. He calmly assessed the situation, went over to the car and turned off the ignition. No one was inside and the people in the car behind were only shaken. I don't think it would be an exageration to suggest that had he not done what he did, the car would probably have blown up.

* * *

A lady came into the shop one day just needing to sit down. She hadn't been feeling well, but had made her way up the road to do her shopping as usual. Anyone else might've chalked it up to her age or the weather, but not Kevin. He asked her questions, pressing her to tell him exactly how she felt. I know he'll forgive me if I'm confusing my facts, but I seem to think he called for an ambulance to come and have a look at her. The next day or so, her friend came in and asked to speak to him. She had come to thank him for looking after her friend, who'd heart had briefly stopped in the ambulance. Without him, she said, her friend might not still be there. She brought him a little sapling from her garden by way of saying thank you - a little plant, that five years later, has turned into a beautiful shrub in his garden.

He was always brave but I think he hates it when I bring it up. His first thoughts were of the people in front of him, who needed help - not of receiving accolades for his actions.

So when he told me about studying for and writing the exams as part of his application, all I could think was that it was London's gain to have him on her side. After all the trauma and upsets he and his wife had faced in the couple of years previous, he still remained strong and able to think of others - many of us might've crumbled under such pressure.

That's how I think of him - always there when you need him and always supportive. I don't mind sharing my big bruv with London - I can't think of a better person for the job!

(Good on YOU, Kevin - and thanks for your wonderful letter.)

Some Things Will Never Change...

2005-06-08T23:40:00.000-04:00

I first read this news article the other day, while trying to escape the terrors of my new position at work. Every day, I check the BBC for news of what's going on in my favourite part of the planet, and while I frequently recognize locales, I rarely ever read anything about my old neighbourhood. Today, however, when checking up on the latest developments, I saw a photo - and I knew exactly where it was.

I know the buildings near it, the canal behind it, the Sainsbury's up the road and my very favourite (not in a morbid way!) place to wander about and reflect on life, which lies just up the road.

I love that London will never be unknown to me again. Even though my last trip was stressful and traumatic - 'my' London is still there and always will be. Like my tiny waist that's hiding under a tire of chocolate and mayonnaise (ha) - it's just hidden a little, slightly out of view, underneath the newer, shinier, busier things that swarm and flood it.

The morning after a particularly disheartening evening with Noah, I woke up in a fog. The walls of the Shoebox felt like they were closing in and I wasn't sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. I switched off my mobile - for the call I knew I would later receive - and wandered up Harvist Road to Chamberlayne and then onto the Harrow Road.

It was a grey, moody day - nothing out of the ordinary and welcomed. It was a 'London Day'. I can't remember now if I've written about these before - a London Day is when the air hangs just right, clouds low in the sky with a gentle, balmy wind carrying though the days and dreams gone by. It isn't bright nor is it dark - neither warm nor cold. It's just right. I found my first one fifteen years ago, and over the years they've come and gone wherever I've been - and they always bring me right back to an ethereal hopefulness...

I walked slowly through the grounds, looking for the angels that stood out protectively from a distance. Some missing arms, some with ivy and branches entwined around them - all old and beautiful. I sat on a bench under the cloudy sky and tried to process what had happened the night before.

Noah had stumbled into the club, bumping into someone on his way through the door. I watched him as he made his way over to me. He nodded at me and slid into the sleek black leather chaise. I sat next to him. The room was filling up, more and more glamourous and fashionably edgy 'it' people sauntering through. He had his hand on my knee as he spoke to the girl on his other side. Knowing that my drinks were comp'd, he tapped me on the arm and slurred 'Fetch me a drink, would you?'

I would never have thought him capable of speaking to me like that - not after the few weeks we'd spent together.

Of course I didn't 'fetch' him anything, opting instead to focus on the job at hand (although it didn't feel like it, I was at work). He stayed on that chaise the whole evening.

And when I learned at the end of the night that I wasn't going to be paid for my work, standing there, surrounded by a small group of painfully trendy people, he still sat there, watching. I had no money for a cab. I had no credit card to use, no friends there to ask - and I was all the way in Wardour Street.

Our mutual friend, who'd hired me, walked me to the door and apologized about the money - his boss had been there that night, and I suppose as I hadn't been working as efficiently as I could've been, she decided not to pay me. So he gave me the cash he had, kissed my cheek and promised to sort it out.

Picture me, at 3am, wandering through Soho looking for a cab. Dodgy men standing by their dodgy cars beckoned me over with 'Minicab?'. The late-night revellers had all disappeared, it seemed, and I felt bizarrely alone in this busy part of town.

I was humiliated and horrified at Noah's behaviour - or should I say, lack of action. In love I'll stand up for someone no matter what - no saving face or grace - and I expect the same kind of loyalty in return.

As I wandered past Les Miserables, I saw a limo driver beside his car having a fag and stopped to ask him if he knew how I could get a black cab. He zipped around, chatting with other drivers until he found one for me - a glimmer of warmth in a very cold night. Sitting in the back of that cab, listening to the delicious chug and whir of its engine, I called my dad back home.

Dads always make bad things better.

So as I grabbed my things, the following morning, I remembered to bring my camera. My dad had reminded me to focus on my talents rather than a boy who wouldn't stand by me.

I can't explain how or why the photos turned out the way they did, other than to suggest it was some sort of kismet or karma. I will never forget how I felt that night or the day that followed it - and I will never forget the beauty of this place in the city of my heart. Some things will never change.

2005-06-08T23:34:00.000-04:00

Hiatus

2005-06-06T13:45:00.000-04:00

I've been on a hiatus of sorts - concentrating on living my todays rather than remembering the ones that have long since passed.

It is a beautifully sunny, warm day and I've just returned from my lunchbreak - sitting outside in the sunlight with a crazy breeze flying through Front Street. Everyone looks so happy when it's like this - makes you almost forget the long, bitter days of winter...

Yesterday was spent in High Park with two very special people in my life. We played with the inchworms that dangled from silken threads and spotted chipmunks that played hide-and-seek with us. It's truly amazing how simple life can feel when you look at it through the eyes of a little one. No stress, no worries, no thoughts of dreaded Monday mornings... Just bliss in the sunshine that peeks through the trees.

I am continually surprised at how easily I can fall prey to the pranks of Fate. You just never know what can happen in your life - there's hope and possibility in every tomorrow, even when it feels like all is lost. I would not have believed I could feel all that I did yesterday - had someone told me ahead of time that it would happen.

Thank you to those of you who have reminded me that this little blog of mine has a few readers :)

Ciao for now - feefs

This Time

2005-04-20T23:30:00.000-04:00

Fifi's on the trail of the ever-elusive Love. She's finding it difficult. Her joints are creaking, this time around. Gone are the hapless, carefree days of yesteryear, when she would love with no limits - and an unclear view of the man on whom she was bestowing her affections.

This time, she said to herself as she walked up the road to meet him, this time I'm not going to mess it up. This time I'm going to be fearless. I'm going to tell it like it is and not care if it isn't. But things are never so simple.

The truth is, that this time, the stakes (said Stumblebee) are much higher. No longer eighteen and no longer too young to be thinking of settling down, she is not content with random shags and dalliances with mean and broody men. She wants more than that, this time.

She wonders if she has found it - she wonders if she would really know it if she did. Her life (and sanity!) balances precariously right now - Love aside - uncertainty reigns with little dignity. She wishes she could close her eyes and make some of it go away, but her big, blue, hopeful eyes will not shut. The tears come. Frustration. Madness. Fear.

Too soon to say too much, too important not to say at all.

A man who needs no holes filled, no frayed edges sewn back together and who speaks in her language. Who looks, with his own blue eyes, deep into hers and understands without needing to hear more. A man who believes in Love. Having been in the same 'place' so many times so far, could it be that this time they are again?

Fifi has always found it easier to launch her own brand of pre-emptive strike rather than be caught by surprise. Nobody wants to be the loved-up fool who ignorantly pours themself into something that isn't there. To imagine that no matter how great a Love could be, something could happen to change it, so best be prepared. This time, she doesn't want to. This time, she wants it to always be those ten minutes of bliss. A hand reached delicately over in earnest. A kiss on the forehead before going to sleep. The warmth that comes from knowing that while sometimes things won't work out, this time could very likely be different.

With battle scars and baggage all out in the open, in this grand airport of life, it isn't wrong to spend time in the lobby, watching planes fly in and out - as long as you get on one of them. Fifi's almost ready for another trip, but just might need to pause for re-fuelling before she takes off again.

Kudos

2005-04-06T21:13:00.000-04:00

Recently, somebody fabulous did something outrageous: she thought of herself.

At a time when it would definitely have been easier not to bother going out of her way - she steadied her soul's wobbling knees and promptly pushed through the barriers of her comfort zone to put herself 'out there'.

It takes a lot of courage to do what she did - to go out on a limb and tell someone how you really feel - come what may. Whether it works in your favour or not, honesty is always good - stay true to yourself and being true to others becomes easy.

It's a 'grown-up' thing.

Juxtaposed

2005-03-28T17:53:00.000-05:00

I am struggling to accept the fact that sometimes bad things happen to good people.

If it was up to me bad things would only happen to those who deserve them, while the goodness in people would be rewarded.

The death of Princess Diana was the first time I had reason to question this idea. Say what you will about her personal life, but she contributed her time and energy to bettering the lives of others. The manner of her untimely death was such a shock - being so giving but having her life taken away so violently.

In any minute of any day a life can change, for better or worse.

I sit, thinking about how many times I have wished to be in exactly this position right now - giddy, happy, hopeful - but am also aware that across the world, there must be a girl a lot like me, wishing she could turn the clock back a little, to a time when things were better.

It isn't a reason to stifle my bliss, but I do wonder if the wisdom I feel I've picked up, at 29, is preventing me from walking with blinders on anymore. It doesn't seem right somehow, to celebrate while others weep. It makes me want to do something useful - it reminds me that I need to find a way to 'give back'. Knowing that it won't buy me security in life, happiness, a fair existence - just that it will make me feel unselfishly good to know that my efforts will benefit the world too, even if only in a small way.

I contradict myself here - no life is 'small', so to add to the life of one person really is a huge contribution.

I just don't think I can keep living in the same way - bouncing from strength to weakness, success to failure, love to loss and back again. This world may be functioning on a selfish disease ('Me-itis'), but it wasn't meant to be that way. If being good doesn't give you guarantees, being ignorant won't get you anywhere.

As I make this note to myself, I think of the e-mail I just received, that turned on my glimmer and got the butterflies dancing again.

It's funny that you really don't know when it's going to happen, who with, or for how long - just that it really and truly will. If nothing else, I am choosing to love the happy minutes instead of lamenting the sad ones. Sitting in a room that felt like summer, door open and breeze softly floating through, having an unending supply of stories to tell and ideas to share, and stopping every few minutes to wonder how we got there...

I hope not only to have more of those times, but to help make them too.

...a quick-e...

2005-03-24T01:01:00.000-05:00

Dear Lovely Readers -

I have not foresaken Blog.

Last night, as I should have been getting my ever-growing backside to bedski, I sat, writing, inspired. I wrote and rambled and came up with some damn good lines.

And then the unthinkable...

Not only did my (dark-ages-dialup) connection die, my computer crashed. I lost it - right as I hit the 'Publish Post' button.

I swore, I threw things, I wanted to bash the tar out of my computer and then I realized what a wise friend put into words tonight: maybe there was a reason I lost that post.

So I will chalk it up to one of those moments in life, when you see your choices in front of you: sink or swim, do or die, freak out or turn off the computer.

I will be back with you soon - you know who 'you' are! - maybe after the weekend...

Ciao for now,

Fifi

Maybe...

2005-03-17T16:36:00.000-05:00

'Is it you?' she asked.
'I'm not sure,' he replied.
'How will you know?'
'How will you?'

His stubble tickled as he softly planted the kiss on her cheek - it had been a while. From under the frown that played about his face, he asked. Knowing without knowing why, she nodded.

A Long Time Coming

2005-03-14T21:57:00.000-05:00

Free martinis. It was an offer I couldn't refuse.

I raced out of the office and over to Second Cup at Queen & John to meet my friends. As I walked up John St. from Adelaide, I looked for the number of the place in which the party was being held. A fierce and freezing wind blustered through the near-empty downtown streets, and just as I thought I couldn't get any colder, there it was: a place from my past.

Different paint, a new name, but the same place, where I spent birthdays with my family, getting extra-special treatment by the staff, and running into the kitchen at midnight every New Year's Eve to quickly kiss my boyfriend. That boyfriend - the one who changed Toronto for me.

I haven't been down that road in years. It's been a conscious avoidance, so constant, it stopped even existing to me. Walking past it that day, the building surrounded by new bars and restaurants, I couldn't help but be catapaulted back to that time.

I quickly downed a peppermint tea, and with my friends, made our way to the bar. My heart fluttered a little. I suppose I thought it would be familiar. I might even see the same people working there. That's when it hit me - it's been a long time.

Stepping through the doors, seeing and being seen, a little surprised by the girls dressed as green fairies perched atop the bar. Everyone turned around, to see who we were. A waitress came by with a tray of interesting-looking martinis. The photographer asked us to pose as we sipped at them delicately.

We made our way to a cosy table in the corner, right by the kitchen. We got to sample everything first, as they brought out new trays of appetizers - spring rolls, mini pizzas, belgian frîtes. After one drink, my nerves were settled. I was able to take it all in. Without the artsy-media types, the green fairies, the dj and the staff, this was the place I used to visit - but it was a stranger to my memories. It had a new vibe and I liked it.

Faded memories intermittently flooded my head, between nibbles and words. His mother and I would sit next to each other and speak in mock-conspiratorial tones, his brother and I sat on the patio devouring a meal, after a long drive back from the States one summer night. My parents and sister would come for family dinners, and he would send out bottles of wine, saganaki, delicious desserts - and would always do something special with my father's sirloin steak. I used to walk in there and everyone knew who I was - I was His Girlfriend. They used to ask when we would be getting married...

I laugh now, when I think of it, because we were so young. So young. Marrying each other would have been a terrible mistake. I would never have become the person I am today. It's funny that after we parted ways, we both did what we wanted to do - those big dreams we talked about together, that secretly niggled at me for not fitting in with 'our' plans.

It didn't take long for this to come to me. Sitting there, with friends, good food and drinks, the pulse of upbeat music - I realized this whole thing was a symbol for new beginnings, or more specifically, my new beginning.

In the week of my 29th birthday, I have discovered that no matter how old, how experienced, how loved and lived I've been, I will never tire of these fresh starts, because they are what follow the lessons learned in life.

Although their website isn't up just yet, I am happy to recommend Frisco's Brasserie at 133 John Street. Their signature 'Runway Martini' is truly worth the visit (as are the others we tried... I think we sampled the whole menu!). Enjoy!

Want v. Need

2005-03-08T23:53:00.000-05:00

But, as I said, I have decided to be single now – everything happens for a reason (I'm just waiting for the reason for all this bullshit to become apparent to my seemingly absent mind...) I have decided this, however, at the wrong bloody time of year - it's now officially the Christmas Season. Canoodley couples abound, all wrapped up in each other, looking for presents for their sickeningly thweet families. This is the time of year when you want to curl up in his (whoever he may be) arms, in bed, under a fluffy duvet, having giggles and drunken chats... And childishly arguing over who's going to brave the cold and make the hot chocolate... And falling asleep in each others' arms, and sleeping better than you have in a long, long time... And doing little things that mean a lot, just because...

Oh dear - I seem to be getting worse, not better. But I must say, this writing gig is very therapeutic.

As I sat at my desk today, shifting stacks of manila folders from one place to another in my newly-assigned (albeit temporary) office, I couldn't help but overhear the girls chatting. I was close enough to hear, but separated by a glass wall - as light was made of this fact, I could see invisibly arched eyebrows and hear saccharine twitterings masquerading as cameraderie.

The girls were highly interested in learning that a well-known, international company (one of our clients) was staffed mostly by men - the majority of whom were single. They were trying to come up with a way of getting all these single men ('Did you hear about Susan - the one from Accounting - well, she met a guy there last year and now they're buying a house together!' The office coos in unison. Give me strength...) in the same place as the single women in our company. Without letting on that a plan was afoot.

The games people play... A couple of years ago, I decided I was out of The Game. I no longer wanted to camouflage my personality - or my quirks, habits, obsessions (I talk in my sleep, I'm in love with ideas, I eat blue cheese) - in order to keep a man. It's a thing organic - I've written about it before. How can it be planned? Why would you trade romanticism for security - when it's possible to find both? Why give up what you want to settle for less?

This particular entry is a little over 5 years old. As I near another birthday, getting ever-closer to a Big One, I am struck by how little I have changed in some respects. I want now what I wanted then - it isn't a 'need' - it's a desire. In the two days since I have started working again, I have been absolutely horrified by the lack of emotion outside. Deep in the downtown core, the heart of the financial district, traders, brokers, investors pound the streets with shiny black square-toed shoes, brightly-coloured ties flapping in the wind. They're moving too fast to see anything else, always looking ahead to where they're going - not how they've chosen to get there. I look up at the skyscrapers, feeling dwarfed by them, made dizzy in noticing how quickly the clouds pass over them. There is no place for me there. For all the money that makes this world run like the well-oiled machine that it is, it would be impossible to buy what it is I want.

At least I've been able to confirm it. I do know what I want. I always have. Wants are like answers - always there if you look.

2005-03-07T23:57:00.000-05:00

...truism...

2005-03-07T00:17:00.000-05:00

University Avenue, Toronto

In the Cold Light of Day

2005-03-04T21:38:00.000-05:00

I should've known something was up when he insisted on taking me home.

I started to feel very unwell. I'd had two glasses of wine, which usually made me pretty tipsy. The room started to spin - I felt like I was sitting on a merry-go-round - the weird thing was that my brain was working perfectly. My head felt heavy, and as I got up from the table, I stumbled, kind of floating. I remember laughing about it because it wasn't like me to behave like this. I was embarassed. I just wanted to get out of the pub as fast as possible.

When I think back to all the times I walked home, late at night - I cringe. I just didn't see the point in spending a fiver on a taxi that I'd be sitting in for two minutes. So I usually tried to avoid the smoky, smelly little minicab office where the men leered if I had to wait for a car.

He asked me if I was alright - I told him my wine had been 'off' and wasn't sitting well - I needed to go home. He offered me a lift in his van and I was tempted because I felt very strange. I almost didn't want to be alone, but something made me refuse. He persisted, I insisted - I was fine to get home on my own.

I remember walking and swaying sideways, feeling a little paranoid. I kept looking behind me to make sure I was alone. I felt safer in the late-night solitude. The Shoebox wasn't far. 17 houses to go... 16, 15... I tripped on an uneven stone in the pavement, but managed not to fall. I turned the key and quickly closed the front door behind me. I just wanted to lie down.

What happened next felt like waking up from a nightmare only to find that you're living it. I could barely sit up as my head hurt, but when I lay down, everything spun around. I couldn't close my eyes. I was exhausted. I tried to drink water, but it wouldn't go down. I felt weak. I felt scared. I turned on the telly for comfort, then turned it off when the glare became too much. On and off, sitting up, lying down. Over again.

I endured a fair amount of teasing for the rough shape I was in the next morning at work. I'd managed to catch two hours of sleep. It wasn't long before Kevin noticed how ill I was. I told him about the bad wine and described how I'd felt, but he shook his head.

'Bad wine wouldn't do that to you,' he said, folding his arms. 'He put something in your drink, Fifi - the bastard put something in your drink!' He was furious. Even in my quasi-conscious state, I could see the steam coming out of his ears. I couldn't quite fathom anyone wanting to poison me. But the more Kevin explained, the more it made sense. When our boss, James, asked why I was in such a bad state, Kevin told him what had happened.

James said the same thing - my drink had been spiked. As it turned out, this guy was something of a drug connoisseur. He had a bit of a reputation, actually - not that anyone had bothered to tell me, or that I had thought to ask. Then again, why would I think of it? He was merely an acquaintance to me. There was no forecasted romance, not even hints of flirtation. No real reason for my friends to warn me away from him.

To be sure, I wandered over to the pub at lunch and spoke to one of the owners. He hadn't had any complaints of 'bad wine'. He even found the bottle I'd been served from. There wasn't a thing wrong with it. A chill came over me.

What still scares me about that experience is that at the time, I hadn't felt even the remotest inkling that there was anything sinister going on. I just thought I'd had some bad wine. It was the furthest thing from my mind, to imagine that he could have slipped something into my glass. He'd known my friends for years, he was known in the neighbourhood - I knew him. He had children for Christ's sake. But I'd left the table a few times. The pub was dimly-lit. Lots of people, noise, commotion...

Be wiser.

...new blog alert...

2005-03-04T15:12:00.000-05:00

We of the Clan McFeef

are thrilled to announce the arrival

of Stumblebee

into the Land of Blog.

You will find her here: Stay gold, Ponyboy

sdsdsd

Canary Wharf

2005-03-02T23:50:00.000-05:00

He'd been too nervous to eat. A bead of sweat trickled down his shiny forehead. He gulped at his wine, and seemed to keep his eyes from resting on mine for longer than a second. Gone was the brashness, the over-confidence he'd displayed in the time leading up to this. I wondered if he was having second thoughts, but he assured me he wasn't. All those weeks of dancing around me, trying to woo me - and there we were, just the two of us, in a Chinese restaurant (somewhat like the one you'd find here) on the Isle of Dogs, surrounded by tropical fish and plastic flowers.

I, on the other hand, wasn't nervous at all. I liked him. I liked the idea of him and I together - but in my heart, I knew it would never really be. So I let it be just what it was - the way it was.

We stumbled back to the hotel in the dark, all of a sudden not having very much to say. He held my frozen hand in the cold night air. It was all very intense...

If you imagine this part of Canary Wharf as a square, all along its perimeter were high-rise office buildings and hotels. In the very centre of this square, was something between a pond and a lake, man-made of course, but pretty nonetheless. It's another part of London forever under construction, more buildings, bigger, taller, shinier, going up all the time. Our tinted windows shielded us from the harsh glare of the lights on the cranes that stood silent in the dark.

I couldn't sleep. I looked over at his watch on the nightstand - 3:00am. I lay there, awake, looking at the shadows cast on the wall and listening to the sounds from the night. In contrast, by day, this area was bustling, thousands of people making the commute from various parts of London to these otherwise cold environs.

Having been awoken by the daylight, I stood, wrapped in the white cotton sheet, staring out the window. The cranes were moving again, people were just arriving to work, the whole world seemed to be spinning except in our little room. I noticed someone in an office, in a building across the way. I was relieved I didn't have a job to rush to too, and that I could stay in and enjoy the morning. It's always seemed very cruel, to me, the shock of de-nestling from the duvet, rolling yourself out of your warm and comfortable bed - all to spend the best part of the day inside a dreary office. Just then, I felt pretty lucky, maybe even a tiny bit smug.

He came up behind me and put his arms around me, kissing me on the neck. We didn't speak, only observing what was going on outside. The tinted, picture windows let in just enough sunlight to make me believe that maybe it wasn't damp and cold, maybe this day would be different to the others, like summer in February. We watched more and more people turn up for work, but my attention was fixed on the first man I'd seen. As he sat at his computer, I wondered what kind of person he was, what kind of company he worked for. We joked that maybe he had seen us too and wondered the same things.

As we stood there and watched, more people flooded into the office. They were watching the cranes too. Within minutes, the office was crowded, everyone facing the window. I wondered if we were missing something, but a scan around the building site revealed nothing. It wasn't until I saw another man, 5-deep in the crowd, raise his arm over his head and wave, that I knew something was very wrong. Immediately - involuntarily - I waved back.

He waved again - this time with the rest of the office. My arm stopped mid-wave, suspended by disbelief.

We laughed ourselves silly - as did our new friends across the way - and collapsed onto the bed. It was too comedic to be humiliating.

And that's how I remember Canary Wharf.

...interlude...

2005-02-25T15:05:00.000-05:00

I've kind of wandered off track with this blog - I didn't actually intend on writing about the way I am now. It was supposed to be all about the two-and-something years I spent in London! So with that in mind, I'm working on a couple of stories which I'll post 'as soon as'...

When I started putting all these stories together, I secretly hoped somebody might read them and maybe even feel the way I do when I read something that hits home. I definitely didn't expect so many people - from all over the world - to be interested enough to keep coming back. Getting your opinions is über-fantastich - they are always welcome, even if they're in disagreement with something I've written!

Thank you for reading!

Une règle d'amitié

2005-02-23T22:30:00.000-05:00

The root of the problem lay in the way she chose to handle a situation, months earlier. She had taken on a project, was working through the night to see it through successfully, battling against every possible argument paper and ink could give her - only to find herself deprived of sleep and sporting a somewhat-less optimistic outlook on the fate of this task.

Like the trooper she is, she dragged herself to work the next morning, eyes still glued together from the hour's sleep she'd managed to sneak in through the night. They sent her home shortly after she arrived.

The next morning, after another similarly draining night, she knew she would be unable to go to work. I was reminded of my college days, smoking through the wee hours, sewing machine humming and clacking, drinking as much water and coffee as I could fit into myself, making foolish mistakes and setting myself back... I suggested she call in sick.

'But I'm not sick,' she replied. 'I should just tell them the truth.' I disagreed and proceeded to list off a couple of reasons why this was a bad idea, citing my own work experiences as 'proof'. Your boss doesn't want to hear that you have a better life outside of your job - they don't want to know that their career is 'just a job' to you. She didn't see it that way, because the people she worked with were her friends. She socialized with them, chatting and laughing - lying wasn't really an option for her.

The irony here is that she has now been called on her lack of 'loyalty' to her job.

The manager she'd been dealing with - an extremely good friend - had seen fit to complain to senior management about her non-appearance those two days.

This friend, a young, vibrant and hopeful man, struggling to make a life for himself in our city, has come to rely on her as a confidant. He has had more than his share of upsets and injustices in his life - but they've only seemed to make him a stronger, better person.

Or so I thought.

Instead of telling her it wasn't 'okay' that she missed work two days in a row, he huffed and puffed over it - and told their senior manager.

I don't think he has any idea of what he's done. By bypassing the friendship 'step' and confusing personal and work relationships, he has dropped her into a pot of boiling oil. I have worked for and with friends many times before - I prefer not to do it, purely due to complications like these. I know how difficult it can be to remove the friend hat, and put the boss one on instead. I like to think that it's part of maturing a bit, learning how to handle potentially awkward situations like this.

No matter what the situation, however, respecting one's friendships is key. He should have told her how he felt at the time. He should have told her to get some sleep and be ready for work the next day. He should've told her he understood that she was trying to get her own business together, but that it couldn't come at the cost of her other responsibilities. He should've told her that management had been asking questions and he was forced to mention her absence from work.

She's the kind of person who will give her name to vouch for yours, stand up for you when you've been knocked down. She's always been a terrific listener - many's the time that I've wondered what I would do without her! You can tell her anything - she won't judge you - ever. She's not always feeling perky and positive - who among us is? - but even in her darkest, lowest times, she has always managed to bring light into my despair. She has the finest sense of humour I've ever seen in a living soul - often I have found myself laughing so hard, I completely understood how I could 'split my sides'. In short, she's pretty fabulous - those who know her are very lucky indeed.

To hear that this man, who's been going under the pseudonym of 'friend', forgot about all those things and essentially 'ratted' on her, has thrown us both for a loop. I keep hoping I've misunderstood something about the situation - but there it is in glaring, obvious, unignorable form: some people are willing to step over you to get what they want.

She won't be getting the raise she'd been hoping for now - she feels that she's being penalized for being honest. I have to admit that I agree. There's a lot going on personally, and she was open and upfront about it - but, I hasten to add, not looking for any sympathy or heads turned at her mistakes. I admire the fact that she's been able to trudge through it all, getting to work, smiling at the customers - leaving her hardships at the door, even when it all seemed too much to handle.

I don't know the best way to handle her (non) friend. I myself get so worked up about things like this, sometimes it's hard to see sense, and by the time I've stopped fuming and frothing over it, the time to act has come and gone.

So, poupée (not to be confused with la perruque), I want to tell you you did good. Really good. Vraiement. Eh bien, cette année, la magnificence va transpirer. Vous verrez!

(PS. All that you are may not matter to them but it still makes you a VIP.)

Work in Progress

2005-02-21T23:43:00.000-05:00

"Impressions are important but they are so fleeting and impossible to control."
- ChapFu

I've spent the best part of the earlier portion of my life wanting to live up to the expectations of others - to 'fit in'. It's taken many years for me to grow comfortable in my own skin. I've toughened up a little, over time - but it really doesn't take a lot to knock me down.

She had been walking down the street to get to work, the day having started off very badly. In fact, the whole week had been unpleasant for her - the greyness, the unrelenting return of winter, everyone that walked in seemed to be in a bad mood, hurried, harsh. And then, from out of nowhere and for no reason, as she walked, some asshole called out to her and told her she was ugly.

When she told me about it, I was enraged. I could absolutely not believe someone had spoken to her like this.

I wandered back a few years, remembering that something like this had happened to me once. I can't remember the circumstances, but I remember the day, the street, the cold spring air - and the guy that walked towards me, barking out 'Smile!' and making a horrible face at me.

I hadn't been smiling. He could see that. I don't know what got into him - for someone to be so cruel to a stranger. The fact was that I was upset about something - it weighed heavily on my mind - and his words sat there in front of me, stinging the whole day.

I didn't care about him. Until that minute, I wouldn't have been able to vouch for his existence. And yet his meanness stuck with me. It made my upset worse. It made me wonder if everyone I walked past thought the same of me - that I looked sullen and miserable, or worse, that I was sullen and miserable.

It's amazing what impressions can do. The briefest of first impressions can make you believe you've fallen in love - but can also make you fall. It shouldn't matter what others think and yet it does. As much as we are taught as children to become individuals - it seems we grow into people who need to be liked, respected, looked up to, who fit into a group and attain the hallmarks of a 'good life'...

It makes me wonder where society went wrong - when owning a fancy car and a mansion crammed onto a tiny lot makes a person 'something', and a man who lives on a bench for thirty years, wearing all he owns, is 'nothing'.

I rely on my impressions of others - sometimes it's difficult for me to change how I think about someone. It comes from a place of 'hurt', I suppose. I've put myself out there so many times, unrelentingly, that when I get a whiff of being taken for less than I am, I back away to re-group.

I have worked very hard - loved deeply and lost painfully - in my life so far, to become the person I am. I make no apologies for this. If I sometimes seem more harsh than I need to be, it's because I am still finding my voice. I don't always have the right words or ways to say what I mean - but I make a point of remaining true to myself.

I am a 'work in progress' - we all are - and always will be.

What Makes the Difference...

2005-02-15T01:26:00.000-05:00

...between a friend and a stranger?

A friend is a stranger whose story you've heard.

Walking down the road to meet friends for a drink, I saw well before I got there that they were standing outside waiting for me. They were waiting for me, for my birthday - if we'd never met, they might still have been standing outside, but I'd have walked by and probably never even noticed them. Being a foreigner anywhere, you can't help but stand out to some degree. You're more of a stranger because of it. So the fact that I made such good friends while I was in London never ceased to amaze me.

I remembered sitting in the front room of a beautiful Yorkshire cottage and wondering how I came to be there in the first place. Or standing behind the bar in Southwark, chatting with the regulars as if I'd been there my whole life. Bracing myself at the speed on the top of a double decker, speaking to Canada from my mobile phone, on my way home from work, to the little Shoebox someone had seen fit to let to me. So many people took a chance on this stranger - it sent me wondering why.

How could I find myself in all these situations, welcomed into the front rooms and living spaces of strangers as though I'd been known forever? Sitting with them, talking, learning the bittersweet and beautiful truths that made each of them who they were, wondering what made them tell (trust) me? And what it was about me that made me always (to this day) want to know?

It came to me on the bus to South Kensington, one day. I'd seen this driver before, several times, in fact. He'd stopped for the same frail woman crossing the road a couple of times before. Each day I got on the 8 am bus, taking the same route to work, hearing the same loud teenagers hurling vitriol left and right, counting the turns in the road till they got off... This was a tiny part in my 'story' - we all shared in that. For all the things that were happening in my life then, I still took part in this communal exercise for the same period of time every morning. The others who rode along with me, I realized in a flash of enlightenment, were all doing the same.

Surely if we were all experiencing this same piece of a day, all of us as equals - weren't the stories of the rest of them as important as mine? The people around me all had lives coloured with experience, loves and loathings, bliss and bewilderment. The woman sitting next to me seemed at first to be haughty, but started to tell me she was visiting her daughter in hospital. She wasn't snooty, she was sad. I overheard some kids raising their voices on the upper deck, instantly tuning them out in thinking they were like the others. The I listened as I was made to realize this wasn't the case - someone had spilled a drink all over their uniform and was going to have to wear Ribena on his shirt all day. That kind of thing - the tiniest slivers of life that remind us that we're all living it.

I believe in paying attention to the slivers. I pay a certain price for having big eyes and an open heart. In my family, we tend to attract The Weirdo On the Train. If there is one, chances are, he'll come over to me. I've had someone play with my hair, grope me, rub himself against my knee... Not pleasant. But as freaked out or uncomfortable as I might get, I can't quite bring myself to send a disdainful, pitying glare their way.

On my way home, the other night, I had my discman plugged in and my 'street face' on, when I noticed a boy - maybe eighteen? Twenty-one? He was asking each person if they could give him some money. By the time he neared my end of the car, I had already decided I would give him what I had.

It was a shock - but not an unexpected one - to hand him $3.50, hear his thanks, and see him quickly dart onto the car beside us, at the next stop.

The couple to my left had watched him too - he said he'd needed money for the GO bus, and with what I gave him, he should've had enough. It was something in his eyes, though, that told me before anything, that whatever it was he needed money for, he had to have been pretty desperate to beg each of us on the train. When the couple asked me about it, I said as much - and stuck my earphones back in. My cheeks flushed, as I felt everyone looking at me - pitying me for having been fooled. I didn't feel like a fool, just sad that I'd taken a chance on a person who would probably piss it away.

Things like this happen in life - becoming bitter over them means we stop caring about our fellow beings. I just won't do that, because everyone has their story. Developing a blind eye to the people that live on the ground, means missing an opportunity to maybe be that one person in someone's story who actually made a difference. If I'm ever in doubt about any of this, I remind myself of my good fortune - I don't have a job right now, but I will never go without. I will always have family and friends around me - through good times and shit ones and everything in between. My face will never be weathered by hopelessness.

And if this still doesn't snap me out of my 'box', I remind myself that when I packed up my life and took it to England, people took a chance on me. I have never been dirty or shifty looking - nothing to be suspicious of here - but I was still a stranger, and they gave to me. I was never without any of the things I needed to live well, because of it. It's karma - what goes around comes around, and when it comes knocking, shouldn't you open the door?

Valentino's Day

2005-02-14T15:36:00.000-05:00

If you're all loved up, have a gorgeous one!

If you're not and feeling slightly bitter about it, have a lookie here www.meish.org/vd (found via this really sweet Parisian blog) - very cute.

Hmmm... V-Day. Reminds me of the last one I spent with a boyfriend - it was weird. Valentine's Day turned up in the middle of a rough patch - so to have to stop and be lovey-dovey didn't feel right. It made it feel worse to realize we didn't actually feel lovey-dovey. Poor man ate a suspicious piece of sushi and spent the rest of the night more ill than I have ever seen a human. And so our half-hearted attempt at rekindling our romance was scuppered by salmonella.

I've wondered, since then, if I should have read that as some kind of 'sign'...

Diamonds in the Rough

2005-02-12T16:21:00.000-05:00

Going through my past means looking at old photos.

I have a large, heavy book that I put together after I left London - I'd saved birthday cards, notes, photos, things, and stuck them all together. I look at it every once in a while - it reminds of me of all the people I knew.

Looking at a photo of myself and an Aussie boyfriend, sitting in the park (I had a mullet at the time), I can now see how ridiculous it was that we dated. We really had nothing in common - we both knew that, laughed about it even - but we still went out. Then there's a photo from the night I met Noah - unbeknownst to me, Kevin had been snapping away - he's leaning into me, with his hand on the small of my back, my hand behind his ear. I remember exactly what that felt like. Looking at it now, you'd be forgiven for thinking 'that's a happy couple' - that's what we looked like, and we'd only just met. Of the boyfriends I had then, there was one in particular who changed my life. It's still painful to look at the photos - I'm sitting on a bench on top of a hill in Yorkshire, the wind blowing my hair all over the place. I remember showing it to my mum a long time ago - she said it looked nothing like me.

I looked so different in every picture - different hair, clothes, expressions - I guess they matched my feelings at the time. It amazes me how well a photo can catch a moment - I will never lose my fascination with this. I am a sensory person - my mind, although perfectly able, seems to repel scientific fact. I think in smells and colours and feelings. I have a bad time remembering names, but I'll remember that you wore glasses or brown shoes, or that you gave off a good vibe, for example. Looking through pictures from my past, I remember all these things and more - as if the film's been on pause, all I have to do is press the right button to watch it again.

It is somewhat ironic, coming from the family I do, that I am not photogenic. I don't think I am, anyway (I can already hear everyone screaming at me). I just come out looking kind of, well, weird. My nose always seems to take over and I do this odd thing with my mouth... I don't know. But as much as I dislike seeing myself in photos taken on my 'bad side' or ones that don't make me look the way I feel, I still keep them.

The thing with photographs is that they catch a split-second, a zillionth of a person's character. I may not like that I look like a loon in one photo, but in reality, I have moments where I am that loon. Hiding bad pictures doesn't change that - we are multi-faceted, and have to learn to embrace the things about ourselves that in a perfect world, we could change.

I have a friend who said that she would never speak to me again if I had a nose job. I thought that was a bit harsh. I was speaking in hypotheticals - my nose could very definitely be worse. She felt very strongly - I share the opinion, for myself - that changing your features takes away some of the things that make you uniquely who you are. In my case, I was blessed with beautiful eyes and given a challenging nose to put between them. I can see myself in my parents, in my grandparents even. My sister and I used to be identical - mistaken for twins all the time - but not anymore. We stare in the mirror sometimes, making funny faces, trying to find our similarities. The older we get, the trickier it is.

I guess what I've been thinking is that if there are so many 'faces' to one person - how can you ever really know someone? I like to think that I write the way I think - and that if someone really knows me, they know this. Half the time, though, I feel like I'm speaking in another tongue - most people don't seem to take the time to get deep and real. I hate fakery. So my circle is all over the place, but small - the people around me are truly my friends. I've been accused of being 'flaky' when nothing could be further from the truth. I've been out with men who were disappointed to discover that I wasn't 'just' blue eyes - I know how to have a good time, but there's more to life than the party.

So I am always drawn to people who seem different than the rest, the ones who shine in some unusual way. While I drink martinis on College like half the city's population, I can't help but feel removed from most of it. I don't seem to 'fit' anywhere - in high school that's a bad thing, in real life that's a treasure. It's taken a fair bit of reckoning to come to this conclusion. My interest is sparked by the sparkle of others, people who seem to want more, to do more, to be more than ordinary. I suffer in hibernation during the bitterly cold and dreary winter months, feeling as though I myself am being 'ordinary' - which frustrates me to no end. It makes me long for the downpours of spring, the smell of hopefullness, the time when I can release myself from my bulky parka and salt-stained winter boots, and dance in the things from my colourful closet.

When others have asked why I've dated some of the men I have (okay, let's face it - most of them) I've always said the same thing: that there was 'something' about him. He may not have been a Colin Firth, he may have been shorter than me, or had 'interesting' teeth - but there was an indescribeable, unusual 'thing' about him that made me want to know more. Many times, nobody else saw it, hence the questions. It takes a long a time to get to know who a person really is - whatever the end result, it always seems worth scratching the surface.

A Different Point of View

2005-02-10T15:24:00.000-05:00

I read something today that touched a nerve.

A man who refuses to commit to anyone - but insists he believes in the idea of love. I read the words, and Jimmy Stewart came to mind - the scene in 'It's A Wonderful Life' when he grabs Donna Reed, and shakes her, angrily telling her all the things he doesn't want. She looks up at him, crying, his voice buckles from keeping back his own sobs... She drops the phone, and he kisses her cheek, neck, lips - he can't help it, because he wants her. He spent too many years giving up his own dreams so that those around him could pursue theirs. He was tired of coming in last. He'd promised himself that he would never, ever again miss out on living his freedom. But he couldn't miss out on living his life with her.

It's one of my favourite films because it illustrates how the life and love of one person can affect all those around him. That no life is for naught. That through love, good things will come.

Reading what I did earlier has made me quickly go through my core beliefs. I needed to question myself before I sat down to write this. I came to the same conclusion over and over - that I can't see how a person can expect to find love, if he is not willing to give it.

I must clarify my definition of love. Amongst a multitude of other things, it is an intangible string of goodness between two people. Along that string travels respect, honesty, trust - back and forth. It's all in the communication, back and forth. I don't believe it's possible to have love - or understand it - without these basic elements.

I'm struggling to organize my thoughts so they come out clearly here. I have dated men who owned statements like this. I have had my heart broken by men who owned statements like this. To each his own - as long as you're honest. But I don't know many girls who would be receptive to being told, for example: 'I'm interested in you. I'd like to see where this goes. But it's not going to go where you'd like it to. I don't believe in marriage, and I'm not sure I want children. But I'm really into you.' So what's the alternative? To misrepresent the truth?

The man I refer to seems to be a highly-intelligent individual, sounds rational, a deep thinker - a fascinating writer, much more adept at manoeuvering through emotionally-charged thoughts than I am. But I don't know him. I wouldn't know him to see him. I feel pretty sure that he's a reasonable, honest person. Which is why I am unable to get my head around the idea of limited love - yes, that's what's got me all riled up. That he's put a limit on the amount of love he is willing to give.

I can't pretend to know the reasons he came up with this set of beliefs for himself. I would assume it's the same as the rest of us - based on experience and knowledge. Perhaps he has had his heart broken in such a way that he doesn't believe it can ever be healed? Or maybe he just enjoys the heady, blissful daze that comes at the start of every new love? Does he leave when he starts to feel comfortable - or when she does?

I don't wish to be judgemental - I'm trying to understand. It's an interesting look at a different point of view, that most people wouldn't have the strength to admit to. It goes against the status quo, and for that, I have respect for those who can be so open - even if I don't agree.

*update: please go here to read more...

Bonfire Night

2005-02-09T15:20:00.000-05:00

A friend was holding a Guy Fawkes party a short walk from my flat. I'd stopped in the pub for a couple of drinks after work before setting off home to cook dinner and change. I stumbled around my flat trying to get myself together, while searching for a bottle of wine. I was mildly annoyed not to find one, as it meant going up to the off-license - and I was already running a little late.

It was dark, chucking down with rain and bitterly cold. I grabbed a bottle from the dusty shelf, paid, and hurried out. As I waited for the lights to change, I was approached by a homeless American boy, who launched into the story of his life. After soaking in the rain for ten minutes, I finally managed to extricate myself from the conversation by giving him a cigarette and some spare change.

I rushed down the road and turned, realizing I couldn't remember which street my friend lived in. Not being able to see any of the street signs didn't help. I stopped in the dark road to ask a couple getting out of their car if I was going the right way. Being a single girl about town, I always made a point of looking like I knew where I was going, especially when I was wandering around in the dark on my own. Maybe it was a little paranoid of me, but I'd heard so many horror stories... As I crossed the street, I noticed someone walking behind me. He was tall, wearing an ill-fitting baseball cap and an open jacket. It was truly freezing in the wind and the rain - I could not figure out, for the life of me, why he hadn't done up hiz zip.

The fireworks were still going, as we all piled into the minicab home. As we got to the end of the road, we were forced to stop. There were flashing blue lights all over the place, police tape cordoning off the roads. No one would tell us what had happened.

The next night was spent in Primrose Hill, which was absolutely heaving with people. After (another) magnificent display of fireworks, we made our way the throngs chatting about the night before. We were all shocked to hear that there had been a shooting in the area, and stunned that none of us had heard a thing. Until someone conjectured that that was the reason it had happened when it did - over fireworks, who would hear a gun?

After recovering from the weekend, I found myself back at work, speaking with a detective on the phone. She was from the murder squad, canvassing the area for information on the shooting. We each took our turn in detailing everything we'd seen. I told her about the American boy, the couple getting out of their car - it was only after hanging up the phone that I remembered the man with the open jacket. My friends convinced me it could be important, so I rang her back, leving a message with the desk seargant.

Three days later, a policeman rang me. He said he needed to ask me a few more questions, adding that he would 'pop round' my flat.

'I'd really rather you didn't,' I said, thinking how unpleasant it would be to have flashing lights and sirens at my door.

'It won't be anything obvious,' he explained. 'We'll be in plain clothes - no one will see anything.' I tried to imagine this policeman in my flat, and further imagined he might find something questionable in my ashtray.

'Look, I only wanted to tell you about the other person I saw - it's nothing that's going to "solve the case",' I twittered. 'Is there any way I can come to you?'

There wasn't, and I found him waiting on my doorstep when I came home from work.

Five days after that, a third policeman called. He told me he'd been reviewing his colleague's notes and wanted to take a statement. Apparently, the man I'd seen was a suspect. He was a little late, very apologetic - and extremely handsome. I led him up to my tidied flat and made him a cup of tea. I'd never had a statement taken before, so I had no idea what to expect. If Morse or Frost were anything to go by, I imagined I'd be pelted with questions and looked at suspiciously. It turned out to be quite the oppsite, rather like a casual conversation between friends. We even got off the horrible topic, more interested in discussing other things. By the end of it, my fifteen-minute walk had taken more than two hours to describe.

A teenaged boy had been shot in the head, while sitting in the driver's side of an old Mercedes-Benz. The shooting had happened between 8:00-10:oopm. He sketched out a rough map of the area, and asked me to show him where I'd been. He sat up as he realized I'd walked right past the murder scene. I knew then that it couldn't have happened before 9:15.

'And you're sure you didn't see anything?' he asked.

'It's hardly the sort of thing I could miss...'

'But you said you'd been drinking earlier.' He stared at me, all of a sudden looking sceptical.

'I'd had two drinks,' I snapped, not used to being spoken to like that. 'I wasn't drunk - and even if I was, there's absolutely no way I could've missed something like that! A bright red car with a dead person slumped out the side of it?' I felt my cheeks flush - indignant, I looked away. He didn't seem so cute anymore. I reminded myself that he was only doing his job.

He left after giving me his mobile number, as he'd asked me to get some more information from my friends. I saw him to the door, then returned to my flat to mull over the evening. It was chilling to think that if I'd only been walking by just a little bit later... I never found out if they'd caught the killer or not, but frankly, I was relieved not to be needed for their investigation anymore.

Which is why I was surprised to get a phone call from the attractive policeman, a few weeks later. He said he'd enjoyed our conversation, and wondered if he might be able to take me out for dinner some time...

*a very rough edit of something I wrote a long time ago - all true

Olivier - partie deux

2005-02-06T18:02:00.000-05:00

Olivier had brought all his things to the pristine Shoebox. We sat in the room (sitting room by day, bedroom by night) and talked for a while. I gave him the rundown on the 'rules' - my landlady wasn't to know about our little arrangement and officially, there was no smoking inside the flat. I opened the heavy window and stepped outside, onto my 'terrace'. In actuality, it was the roof of my downstairs neighbours' kitchen, definitely not intended to be suntanned/stood/smoked on, but... He rolled a spliff and stepped outside with me.

We talked for a bit - he showed me a picture of Coralie - she's not at all what I though she'd be like - she looks, at first glance, like a mean person... ('[she's] not like yoo,' Olivier said, 'but I love err.'). But he told me how insecure she's always been about herself...

Of course I understood that - insecurity, self-consciousness - knowing this made her photo make sense. He warned me that she would be jealous once she'd seen me, that she'd suspect there was something going on... I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her - and I made sure that when I met her, I would give her no reason to be suspicious of me or my intentions.

And then the conversation turned. He told me about his childhood in a coastal French town, and his teenage years filled with rebellion. He moved to Paris and got involved in a bad scene... This gorgeous French boy all the local women had their eyes on used to be a heroin junkie, living on the streets.

'Does eet change ze way yoo see me?' he asked me.

'No,' I said. 'Everyone has a story...'

The week Olivier and Coralie stayed at the Shoebox was not without drama. Not only did I find myself unable to get hold of him and needing to get into the flat, but I broke the door down in desperation. I had a client waiting for me, I'd completely forgotten, and her things were inside. I started by gently leaning into the bathroom door which adjoined the first floor hallway, and finished by backing up and throwing myself at it, knocking it right off its hinges. I made a mental note to speak to my landlady about the obvious lack of security in the house.

It seemed I wouldn't have to wait long to see her, as she called a few days later, to let me know she's be coming by and could collect my rent in person. I didn't want her to see that Olivier and Coralie were living there, so I raced over to the house, trying to beat her arrival. My Norwegian neighbours let me in and we sat in their front room, giggling while making up a dialogue. I'd tried knocking, but neither Olivier or Coralie heard me. I was frantically trying to get their attention before the landlady turned up - I eventually found myself leaning out of Gitte's kitchen window, calling out to Olivier who I could see was in the bathroom. I threw things at the window, I called his name, I almost plummeted to an early death... But Fate had other things in store for me that day, and everything worked out in my favour.

It had only been a few weeks when Olivier told me he was going back to France. On his last day, he walked into the shop to see me. I smiled the kind of smile that tries to cover up the tears. He thanked me again for having lent him my flat, saying that Coralie wasn't easily pleased but had enjoyed the time she had in London. I gave him a card and a little present, and he reached into his bag searching for something. He pulled out a CD wrapped in its liner notes and told me that as it was his favourite one, he wanted me to have it.

'Merci, Bisou,' he said before putting his arms around me and kissing my cheeks. I stifled my tears and wished him a safe trip home...

None of us ever heard from him again - but he's stayed in my memory as someone I'm glad I knew.

J’espère que tout va bien dans ta vie, cher Olivier.

Olivier - partie une

2005-02-06T09:38:00.000-05:00

Across the road from me was a little café which I frequented. They always had delicious traditional English food - Bubble & Squeak, Toad In the Hole - their Bread & Butter pudding was divine, fattening of course, but worth it. I became friendly with many of the people who worked there - it was part of the community 'thing'.

The staff was always coming and going from the place - many who worked there were just like me - foreign, living in London for only a short time, needing a bit of extra money. I got used to seeing different faces every few weeks.

And then there was Olivier. The most beautiful man I had ever, ever seen. He had enormous, sparkling blue eyes, his dark hair cut very short, and a mischievous smile. If given the opportunity, I will practise my french with anyone - Olivier indulged me, encouraged me, even. It became a sort of flirtatious little game we would play, every time I went in. It didn't take long before the entire neighbourhood was descending on this little café, hoping to be served by the gorgeous Frenchman. It was amusing to watch other women, far less subtle than me, do anything to get his attention. He must've known. It must've made him laugh.

Decided to go to the café and stare at lovely Olivier - I'm sure he doesn't fancy me or anything - he's very nice to everybody. But, in any case, we did chat and I did make him laugh hysterically. He asked if we had any change (in our till), I said 'yes', he said he'd follow me over, and me (stupide!) said 'no, no - I'll get it!' Perfect opportunity to have two seconds alone with him!
My brain was obviously not functioning...

He used to make silly faces and wave to me from across the street - all the girls stared over too, to see who he paying attention to. He seemed so free and lovely, of course it was a great disappointment (for all of us!) to learn about his petite ami, Coralie, back home in France.

He was renting a room in the home of one of his co-workers, also a new friend of mine. He got up very early in the mornings to work in a market in Soho, then rushed across town to get to his café job. He didn't know too many people, other than his sister, who lived nearby. Both of us being foreign, having much in common, we talked a lot, met for the odd drink in our local. Even now, as I think of him, he was so bright he lit up rooms. Of course I had a terrific crush on him, girlfriend or not. Maybe I was more transparent than I'd thought - I went in at least once a day.

In addition to keeping a comfortable distance, I'm trying not to spend money, so the less I go there, the better. That being said, of course I went there after work - he must think (if anything) that I'm barking mad! I bought peanut butter. For god's sake - PEANUT butter. And a brownie (because that'll make me look like less of a dork)...

I'd bumped into him at the pub one night, and he invited me over. It was darker than usual inside, and packed full of people. Since the pub had been taken from a grungy, 'working man's' hangout and turned into a gastro-pub place-to-be-seen, there was never any shortage of customers. It attracted the groovy media types, artists, musicians, and a few disgruntled old-timers who bemoaned the inflated price of a pint.

Olivier sat at a table by the window which was lined with old bottles, makeshift candleholders. We chatted for a while, then he told me that Coralie would be coming to visit for a week. He was a little embarassed to have her stay with him. The room he rented was decorated for a little boy, possessed a single bed and a lot of toys. Not exactly a romantic place to be.

I don't know if it was the three glasses of merlot talking, but I blurted out an offer of my own - I told him he could have the Shoebox while Coralie was there. They'd have privacy, a place to be together, and it was close to the both of us, so if Coralie needed anything, neither of us would be far away. His sparkling eyes widened - he looked like a kid at Christmas.

...he thought I was pissed and didn't mean it - but what's it to me? Give love a chance, and be happy that it exists, even if I don't have it... Long live love!

He was thrilled. He kept kissing my cheek and grabbing my hand and kissing it too - 'Now I reeelly love yoo,' he announced. I just kept talking about love and what I thought about it - he stopped me and with a very serious look said 'I sink yoo arr French inside...'

I knew I'd have a lot of cleaning to do. I'd somehow managed to convince this person that I was some kind of worldly, experienced girl who had her shit together. I just needed the flat to match - at that time, there was absolutely no organization in my kitchen whatsoever and a peculiar odour coming from my bathroom sink. I went home that night, drunk and elated. Doing something nice for someone just because you can is a standard I live by - the thought that Olivier would go back to his place, excited about bringing Coralie to London, and probably dreaming about the things they could do together... I smiled all the way home.

A Scottish Connection

2005-02-03T19:58:00.000-05:00

Just got home from picking up my best friend at the airport - she's been away for quite a while.

I think she may have had this particular revelation by being away - that the friends you are left with after you've left are your real, true, honest-to-goodness friends. I discovered that myself some time ago. It's just a theory until somebody else proves it. Well Best Friend, we've missed you! The chockietinis are the only thing we need to go back to. All the rest will be new. Expanding our horizons, stepping outside of our comfort zones, doing things we might not ordinarily do - my mandate for 2005, which I've shared with everyone in my circle. I've had enough new years to know that resolutions don't stick - they're just a symbol. This year it's time to get (and keep it) real.

As we got off the subway and stepped into the elevator, a man with a yellow bin came to the doors. He saw that we had lots of stuff, and said that he could wait for the next lift. Best Friend moved her heavy suitcases and told him there was plenty of room. He smiled and wheeled his bin on, making sure to tell us it didn't smell.

And then something neat happened. As he asked Best Friend where she'd come from, we discovered that he was Scottish as well. If I hadn't heard him speak as much, I wouldn't have been able to figure it out. He was very friendly, a sweet-looking man who may have a sad story to tell. Such was my impression.

We asked him when he'd last visited 'home' - 'Not for 15 years,' he answered. 'I've always wanted to go back,' he continued. 'But I don't think I have any family left anymore.' I know that Best Friend and I looked at him and thought the same thing at the same time: that he'd never had the money to go.

'There are loads of cheap flights,' she told him. He said he knew. We shared with him The Mandate for 2005.

There are times when people listen and times when people hear. I told him that I thought everything would be different to the last time he was there, so he could go and see it again with fresh eyes. His eyes lit up as we talked to him. He believed he could 'make it happen', as I said. We said goodbye, and as we walked a few steps more, he called out again. Standing a little taller with a sweet beam across his face, he said 'I'm going to do it!'

I do believe he will.

The Morning After the Night Before

2005-02-03T02:11:00.000-05:00

By the time the bell rang at the Shoebox, I had changed outfits several times over, my unruly hair still hadn't co-operated with me and I had been stumbling around with a bit of a hangover. I ran downstairs and nervously opened the door.

It's one thing to meet someone in a dimly-lit, smoky nightclub - something I've never been that into. It's quite another to meet again in broad daylight, sporting dark circles and all the evidence of a queasy stomach. The butterflies flapped and fluttered inside, the way they do at every 'first' time. He was more handsome than I'd thought - his dark hair, the tiniest flecks of grey at the sides, his sparkling brown eyes, his olive skin... He wore a faded denim jacket and Wallabees. His collar was turned up ever so slightly on one side and I wanted to straighten it. I wanted to touch him - I wanted him to touch me the way he had the night before.

We'd discovered that we lived only a few houses apart, so when he said he'd be 'right over' it didn't give me much time to organize myself. My flat was a complete mess, a pile of all the clothes I'd auditioned and failed lying in a heap. I asked him to wait as I ran back upstairs to get my sweater. I wondered what we'd have to talk about. I felt exposed by the daylight. I worried that he'd see the little lines in my forehead or the way my nose isn't perfectly symmetrical. I feared that my personality and ability to speak would slip away from me as soon as I got back down the stairs.

We walked the few minutes it took to get to the park down the road, chattering away. He looked right at me as I spoke and thinking he was staring, he looked down and smiled.

"I can still smell your perfume on my jacket - I've been smelling it all day,' he said. 'I've been thinking of you.' I giggled shyly. My knees wobbled. This beautiful man was quickly exceeding the description of the one I'd had in my head. The truth was, I'd been thinking of nothing but him all day. I'd been stunned by him. He was so perfect, too perfect, a little voice went off in my head.

We sat under a tree and talked about our lives. We never stopped talking. And then he kissed me again - more sweet a kiss I had never had. He put his thumb on my chin - I held his head with my hands and looked into his chocolate-coloured eyes. I suddenly stopped feeling like unruly hair and an asymmetrical nose with a hangover. I felt like a princess, such was the healing constitution of that afternoon.

He went to the high street to pick up some food and we arranged to meet later, at his flat. It gave me a chance to change clothes again, to 're-group' my thoughts. Walking down that street - or any street in London - the houses all looked more or less the same. Where mine had four plain but cosy flats, his had only two, more airy and spacious. As he led me upstairs, I heard voices. I had forgotten to ask if he lived on his own.

We were lucky in that the time we spent at his flat was relatively uninterrupted by his flatmates. But that first day, he led me into the kitchen to meet them, and as he made the introductions I saw the knowing smiles. I'd been talked about already. He grabbed a couple of plates for our dinner, some glasses for the wine, and led me to his room.

The light from the large picture window was soft and pretty. I looked around the room - the exposed brick wall, a moon-shaped lamp on the floor next to a disco-ball positioned just so as to send fragments of light around the room like stars. An over-sized canvas was centered on the wall. Cameras and equipment lay on his dresser.

He set the food down and opened the bottle of wine. As he handed me a glass, he enthused about his work. Being a photographer, travelling around the world, he had some very interesting stories to tell. He proudly shared his portfolio with me. I was stunned again by the absolute beauty of his work. The richness of the colours, the sentiment...

I believe that a person's character should never be equated to his job in life. Yet I also believe that a person's work both mirrors and expresses his character. Creating is a profoundly personal pursuit. Photography, music, writing, food - all creative endeavours that in order to result in any degree of success, must come from the heart.

His soul had been poured into his images - they leapt from the pages. I was inspired by his work - he was inspired by me. When the light is good, you can feel it, so I knew what he was seeing through his lense. I have never thought myself to be overly-photogenic, so I would usually protest and make silly faces. But I felt safe in his space, not worried how I would look when he printed the pictures. He put down the camera, and walked over to me again...

Our food went uneaten and our clothes lay on the floor. He slept with his head in the nook between my neck and shoulder, my arm around him - everything just 'fit'. It was the first time in my life that I had experienced this. I lay there, listening to the night's sounds, the trains that whipped past almost assaulting the serenity of the evening. A tear slipped down my cheek and I knew that if it was possible to fall in love so quickly, this was surely how it must feel...

I'm not supposed to know this, but...

2005-02-02T15:39:00.000-05:00

Yay! Yahoo! Yippeeeeeeeeeee!

(It worked! I got it!)

2005-02-01T23:01:00.000-05:00

photo: Stairwell at Liberty's

2005-02-01T23:00:00.000-05:00

photo: Trafalgar Square

2005-02-01T22:57:00.000-05:00

photo: Flowers at Liberty's

...entertainment alert...

2005-02-01T19:15:00.000-05:00

If you're local, there's a fab band on at the Horseshoe on February 18. If you're not, take a look at the Sunriser website :)

'Loving is Giving, F---ing is Taking'

2005-02-01T18:20:00.000-05:00

I've imagined a life more extraordinary for myself. I've envisioned great adventures and sweeping romances. I dream of another time and speak in a different language. Without meaning to sound odd - very few people 'get' me. I don't think I'm such an enigma - my mysteriousness disappears when I speak. I am too honest with my feelings and I wear my heart on my sleeve. For all the trouble my heart and its whims have caused, I wouldn't change a single moment of my history.

If every love is more true than the one that came before it, I have a lot to look forward to. In my life, it seems that within each new relationship has transpired one different, shiny, beautiful facet of the love I want to have. One man listened while another one talked, and one man gave while the other did not. It's like I've been toying with the formula of the 'perfect one', tweaking it just a little to see what I get. But I loathe the idea of love as a science. Whatever formula, if it exists, there could possibly be to predict and guarantee love - I'm not interested. My love will be more than that.

I have believed for many years that if I should be so lucky to find true love with a man I want, who not only wants me, but wants to hear me, I will do my best to do my part in keeping the love alive. I have had some near misses and lucky escapes. Certain men have stayed in my memory for different reasons - these are the men that I will write about here. But not today - I am working my mind into a place where I can revisit - not relive - old loves.

I don't know what inspired me today - I was going to take a break from my computer, having been sucked into it, endlessly fascinated by the things I've read of late. I've been very bad in allowing my work to take a backseat for the last few days - I suppose it's because I put all my energy into a special project recently. I am now trying to occupy myself with things that will take me away from awaiting the outcome. Funny that it always comes down to love, for me. I guess it's been milling around in my head today, the legalization of same-sex marriages bringing it to the fore. I have heard a few opinions on the matter but can only come to one conclusion. When you take away the law, the naysayers, the hoopla - at the end of the day, you've got two people who love each other and want to have their commitment recognized.

In my book, that's gotta count for something - fighting a good fight and fighting for love.

Experiencing the loves I have, has taught me a lot. I have recognized the folly of my loves before today: to inject 'fresh air' into someone's life, to be a 'tonic', is to be a cure. I don't want to be a cure anymore. One day I will meet my equal, not someone deficient in the qualities I have an abundance of. I never stop giving of myself because that's how I was built - in true love, that will work in my favour. I have not been jaded or embittered by the loss of love, I have been refined by it.

I have lots to write about!

A Noble Man, cont'd...

2005-02-01T11:08:00.000-05:00

We were all the richer for reading his thoughts.

A Drive In the Country

2005-01-31T17:24:00.000-05:00

I'd been invited to a wedding at a stately manor in south-west England. It was the first wedding I'd been to since I was very young, so I was really looking forward to witnessing one as an adult. In truth, it gave me a very good reason to go to my favourite silk merchant, the Silk Society in Berwick Street. Walking into that shop made me giddy. There were rows upon rows of brightly-coloured, luxurious bolts of fabric piled against the walls. The shelves were full too, so there was an abundance of choice.

When you don't have a lot of money, you learn to appreciate what you spend it on. I took my time in deciding on a colour and texture. I felt like a little Victorian girl - you know, back in the days when one had dresses made - surrounded by swatches and reams from faraway lands. I took my inspiration from the fabric, a hand-embroidered piece with delicate flowers and beaded accents. I found the most delicious, iridescent silk organza - in one light it was purple, in another, green. It was French and it really was divine.

I was so busy at that point, with work at the shop and my own work to do, that I hardly had enough time to get the dress together. I stayed up through the night before I was to leave and while my visiting sister fell asleep to the whirr of my sewing machine, I put together a lovely frock fit for any manor home. I was still hand-stitching the hem when I boarded the bus, my eyes heavy and stomach churning from lack of sleep.

The journey was horrible. I wasn't just a little queasy - I felt the semblance of a migraine coming on. I felt every little bump and pebble in the road all the way through the six-hour drive. By the time I de-bussed, I was ready for my bed. Only a few of my fellow passengers got off there, and within a minute or two I was walking down a cobblestone road on my own. I found an informal taxi stand after a short wander and got in, telling the driver I needed to sit up front, with the window down, so I wouldn't get sick. He looked non-plussed.

The first part of the drive was quiet. I was trying to calm my stomach as we drove through the curvy, winding country lanes. The air blasted through my window and felt absolutely gorgeous and refreshing. I inhaled deeply - it reminded me of home. I looked over at the driver and said, reassuringly 'You don't have to worry - I'm fine now, your car's in no danger.' I smiled and he struck up a conversation.

He asked me the standard getting-to-know-you questions - where did I live, was I American, did I have a boyfriend...

Me: [What?!?] Umm, no, no I don't, not at the moment.
Him: Oh well, yes, that's a surprise, a nice-looking lass like you.
Me: Oh you know how it is, ha ha... (I've always hated this line of questioning)
Him: Well... [he paused] I could offer you a nice home - nothing fancy, mind, nothing like you're used to with your fancy city boys. But it's a fair place with a little land -

(No, I'm really not making this up.)

He continued his offer, as I bit my lip and stared straight ahead. My friends had told me the drive would only be about ten minutes, so surely I didn't have much longer to put up with this. And then he took me quite by surprise by placing his hand on my arm, ever so gently.

Being stuck in a car with no mobile (I'd left it in London) and a complete stranger who's making The Move, driving through 3m high hedges in remote country lanes - I didn't want to annoy or embarass him. I mumbled at him awkwardly.

Me: Please, please don't...
Him: Oh right, yes, yes, apologies [he removed his hand].

We drove in silence for another few minutes, until he did it again. This time, I was having none of it. I very assertively demanded he remove his person from mine and take me directly to my destination.

'I'm not really a taxi driver, you know' he said. Oh farrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk, I thought. So nobody knows I'm here, I'm getting kidnapped.

I tried to look politely interested. He explained that he was just minding the cab for his mate who'd been struck down with an illness. He confessed he wasn't entirely sure where he was going, just as we stopped in a dead end lane. Out came the maps, and we found the route to the manor.

By the time I found myself on terra firma again, my worried friends relieved to see me, my rejected suitor decided he'd have one last go - with the cab fare. I suppose he thought since he couldn't get a wife, the next best thing was a little more money (!). I dropped my bags and headed straight for a glass of champagne...

to be continued...

Getting the Chop

2005-01-31T13:20:00.000-05:00

Standing on Oxford Street, just outside the legendary stretch of department stores, are usually a couple of people handing out flyers. On any given day, you're likely to find worn-out and bored-looking guys keeping giant placards aloft, advertising 'cheap internet' and such. You may also find a man preaching 'the word of the Lord', calling out to 'blasphemers', beseeching them to heed his advice. And then you have the late teen, early 20-something kids, dressed in varying degrees of fashion, calling out to the women who walk by.

'Miss, can I interest you in having your hair done?' I was asked on more than one occasion. The thing was, I'd just had it done - that was the problem.

The length of my hair has always fallen somewhere between my chin and my waist. It's been several different colours - greenish, when I dyed it brown and orange when I dyed it blonde. Enough years of experimenting with disaster left me pretty convinced the only way to have it look good was to have it done by someone else.

Zed breezed into the shop one day, brimming with attitude.

'Darling,' he said. 'I must have you hair!' I was taken aback by his intrusion into my personal space - he started running his fingers through my hair, as stylists are wont to do. He was a high-up in a very well-known chain of salons, with a list of fashionable clients as long as my arm. He was a stylish, shmoozey sort of person - and he wanted me to be his 'model'! Well, I was tickled. Of course I agreed to it - he wanted to tame my tresses a la London chic and it wasn't going to cost me a thing!

We met at the tube station (kiss kiss) and made our way to the salon together. I was pretty excited, imagining how glamourous I would be when he was done. He even said he might be able to do some colour, if we had enough time...

I hadn't realized there would be so many other people there. It took me a little while to get settled into my chair and not even five minutes had passed before I started to feel very self-conscious. I've never done 'edgy' very well - looking around the room, I felt like an ostrich in a sea of peacocks. I looked down at my skirt and felt the synthetic fibres of my top taunting me. I was very uncomfortable indeed.

Made worse by the fact that the other girls in the room were sporting freshly-styled heads... I could get used to the half-shaved-on-one-side look as an emotional ode to the 80s. It was the giant hot pink and turquoise polka dots I was having trouble with. My wardrobe worries were immediately reduced and a fit of dread washed over me. I think I may have even broken into a sweat.

Any normal person would jump out of their chair, make their excuses and go. Not me. I was too polite - I didn't want to hurt Zed's feelings, or anything. It felt like forever till he turned up at my chair again. I felt an immediate need to go over his plans for my head.

He started cutting, stopping just to tell me 'not to worry' and that I wouldn't lose much of the length. Sitting there under an unflattering, crinkled black smock, I couldn't bear to watch him work. Like a mantra, I chanted over and over in my head that everything would be fine. I saw an awful lot of my hair on the floor, but each time I looked up, my hair seemed to be the same length. It wasn't till I got back to my friend Karen's place, in the comfort of a familiar mirror, that I realized what he'd 'done'.

Fifi got a mullet.

My fringe started crawling upwards, halfway across my forehead. There was a chunk missing from the back of my head, a little bit on the side that had been completely cut away, and for some unfathomable reason, the ends looked a lot like shredded paper. If I thought there was any hope of disguising it in a ponytail, I would soon be proven wrong. I would just have to live with it. There's nothing quite like the honesty of my friend Karen but even she was stunned into silence. There were no words to describe the calamity on my head. I wandered off to the pub for a much-needed drink, not thinking I'd bump into anyone I knew.

Of course I did, they noticed, I drank quickly and left.

It took a little more than a year to grow it all out. For the first few months, I walked around looking more Raggedy Ann than even remotely ravishing. You would think I had learned my lesson but this wasn't to be the last trauma my 'barnet fair' would endure... From then on, I developed a bit of a fear when it came to salons - and I learned to issue a firm 'NO' whenever I was stopped in the street with a 'Miss, can I interest you...?'

Trust Your Gut

2005-01-30T23:44:00.000-05:00

There was usually only about an hour or so that I was alone at work. Everyone else had gone for lunch and I was left 'holding the fort'.

Over the time I worked there, we noticed that shoplifting was on the rise. We'd had an incident with a strange couple, one of whom had surreptitiously pilfered some of our merchandise. Even though we had notices advertising the 'CCTV on premises', we didn't actually have the damn thing switched on.

Of course this was never a problem until somebody stole something. The regular culprits were usually under the age of twelve - lippy, yes - but pretty easy to handle. This couple, however, refused to admit any wrong-doing. The male accomplice became irate, enraged at the suggestion that his wife had slipped something into her pocket. He became beligerent when we told him we'd actually seen her do it.

There was a police station nearby, which, oddly enough didn't do much in the way of deterring petty thieves and the like. Threatening to make a call didn't do much either, as criminals and victims alike knew perfectly well the police had more important things on their agendas.

We were never able to prove what we'd seen, and after much arguing, this couple from Hades finally went on their way, but not without vowwing they would 'come and get' us.

It was our primary reason for our next staff meeting. We went over the situation and agreed that it would be the responsibility of the first person in each day, to switch the tape in the machine.

It worked brilliantly for the first week.

I was always running late for work and by the time I flew through the doors and switched on the lights, I usually had a customer or a phone call to deal with. So I started to slip in my tape-switching duties - later and later each day, until finally not at all.

On any regular day, you would find me sitting near the computer in the back during lunch-hour. It was a bright, gorgeous one when Kevin told me he was taking his bike up the high road to run some errands, and that he'd be gone a little longer than usual. I waved him off as I always did and got back to my work.

It was quiet and the place was empty. Although I was supposed to use times like those to tidy and merchandise the shelves, more often than not I would stay at the back doodling, reading or fiddling around with the computer.

The old-fashioned bell on the door chimed and I instantly looked up to say hello. No reply, instead the man just looked at me, walking towards me slowly. I can't explain what it was that unsettled me so much. He just seemed to keep inching towards me and every time I looked up, our eyes met.

'Can I help you find something?' I asked. No answer. I repeated, in case he was hard of hearing. Again, he didn't respond.

I sneakily tried to keep my eye on him - his intensity was freaking me out. I knew at that moment - my gut screamed out to me - that this person had walked in with a mind to doing away with me. I had the most horrendous visions. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would leap out of my mouth. He crept closer and closer, with an evil gleam in his eye. I was frozen in fear, and while the adrenaline surged through me, I lost the feeling of sense in my mind. I tried to remember the phone number of the pub over the road - it was engaged. I frantically dialled my friend in the shop next door and tried to explain (in code) that I needed him to come over immediately, but he had a full shop and asked to ring me later. I couldn't get a soul on the phone. I tried to plot my escape - I couldn't go through the front door without passing him, and there was nowhere to go from the back. I think he saw me squirm and still, he drew nearer.

I have never really prayed for anything in my life, but I did then. I prayed to whomever and whatever was 'up there' with everything in me, to send someone through the front door. And they did. The door chimed again and as quickly as the woman came in, the man scurried out.

I have never been so glad to see someone in my entire life.

The blood rushed to my head as I stood up to ring in her purchase. I thanked her for coming in when she did. Kevin returned at the same time. As I recounted the story, he paced around furiously while I grabbed a fresh tape, and with shaking hands I put it into the machine.

Do You Believe?

2005-01-30T22:19:00.000-05:00

If this isn't a most beautiful story about love, then I don't know what is.

Johnny - part two

2005-01-28T22:57:00.000-05:00

We'd all had a lot to drink and the coolness of the night made it increasingly necessary to get to a loo. I'd run out of ciggies, so Johnny stopped into an offie (off-license) to get some. It was only then, as the light of the shop hit his previously-covered-in-baseball-cap head that I noticed something odd.

He had a St. George's cross bleached into it.

I didn't know what it was then, but it definitely made me wonder a little more about the guy I was bringing home. He'd known CF's husband since they were kids, so I didn't feel I had too much to worry about on the safety front. I wasn't so sure I felt like being seen with a hoodlum, though.

Then we finally found the cab office and went home. And then, we got down to it - I tell you, if I hadn't been so drunk, I wouldn't have had the balls. But I wanted to - I don't regret it...

In fact, Johnny turned out to be a bittersweet character who would reappear occasionally over the years I spent in London. He had enormous blue eyes, the most exquisite hands and feet I've ever seen, and an unfortunate (and inaccurate) reputation.

This was one of the first times I remember being struck by someone's soul. There are occasions when I can see into a person and their spirit overwhelms me - so much so, sometimes, that I am unable to discount or ignore them. Johnny was a beautiful man who spent too many years being laughed at by his friends and being sucked into the work-a-little-drink-a-lot cycle. He'd passed out at the pub one night, and his friends thought it would be funny to bleach the cross into his hair. He never stirred while they did it, and endured ridicule for it the next day.

It would be easy to recommend finding new friends, but he'd grown up with them. Getting away wasn't so easy, as had been proven repeatedly by the ones who'd tried. For someone with limited education and nobody around to believe in him, it was practically impossible to even think of leaving the life that had become familiar.

He worked as a bricklayer, collected the dole, and lived with his grandmother in a tiny, cluttered flat. He didn't have a lot of direction, nor did he have anyone to show him the way. He always said that I could teach him 'some culture' - I guess he saw me as a means for improving his life. I remember sitting on his bed, looking around the room at the mess, feeling strangely optimistic about being there. I suppose part of me was shocked at the poor way he lived, but then I've always believed I could live in a cardboard box if only I had true love. So figuring out if I was on the path to love, meant that the surroundings were never what mattered.

He told me he used to write poetry and play guitar, but that there was no room for these things in his life anymore. He had no idea where his father was and hadn't seen his mother in a very long time (she lived abroad). But he was sensitive - a dreamer like me - and more intelligent than people gave him credit. I wondered that I could see this within hours of meeting him - but his life-long friends did not. He had a little bit of hope left in his heart that life would turn out better. So my days with him were filled with giggles, frustration and in ways, sadness. I thought he'd been given a raw deal in life, and told him I believed he could do something great with his hands. He looked up at me and said 'That's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.'

It made my heart swell to hear those words because I believe he really meant them.

It wasn't to be for Johnny and me, and we parted ways amicably. We stood in the doorway, my bare feet freezing on the black and white Victorian tiles, and looked into each others' eyes. I knew then that there was nothing I could say that would show him the way to believe in himself - I hoped that maybe I'd opened his mind to the possibility. We wished each other well, our eyes a little teary, a kiss goodbye and he was gone.

I closed the door behind him and stood there for a while.

--------------------

Of all the updates I've heard of the people I knew then, Johnny's was the most poignant. He finally found happiness with a woman slightly older than him and with her, moved away from London - away from the ghosts of his past and the absence of a good future. He finally managed to do something wonderful - like I always knew he could - he became a dad. I just know his little one will have the happy childhood he never did.

Good luck, Johnny.

Johnny - part one

2005-01-28T21:45:00.000-05:00

Every time I went [to the washroom], squeezing past the zillions of dishy young men - I got quite a few compliments, I must say. At the end of the game, I went to the loo and some footie fanatic asked me for a victory kiss - I kept walking. When I went back, he asked me again and I obliged - I mean, why not?

It was a few days into my first visit, when I found myself struggling with the elements. London wasn't as rainy as people say it is, but if you've left the house for a day of sight-seeing, without a proper jacket and 'brollie', unrelenting drizzle can get you down.

I'd been ripped off at the bureau de change, gotten lost, left my souvenirs behind in a cafe, and taken the wrong bus. I discovered that I was 'directionally-challenged' - my inner compass didn't work. I quickly learned to bring my A-Z with me everywhere, and if I couldn't make sense from that, to go the opposite way I felt I ought to. I nipped into a pub to have some fish and chips, to warm myself up and to figure out where to go next.

I sat down in a cosy table, and peeled off my damp layers. I pulled out a magazine, while I waited for the waiter. He seemed to be taking an awfully long time, and I started feeling uncomfortable because everyone in the place was giving me the eye. I pulled my sweater back on, and looked around impatiently. The barman called out to me from his perch and said that if I wanted something, I'd have to come up and get it. By the time my food arrived, I'd made a mental note never to return there again, having been so embarassed. I slunk home, soggy and defeated.

My college friend ('CF' from now on) had news to cheer me up - England was playing a World Cup game that night, and we were all going to the pub to watch. I've never been a very sporty kind of girl, but the English make it very difficult not to get sucked into football (soccer in North America). All the cheering and laughing (and drinking!) made for a fantastic atmosphere. Not being familiar yet with the way things were done over there, I dressed in a cute top and high heels. It was probably a little OTT for the pub, but when I got there and saw the sea of men...

Being a saucy young thing of 22, I was never short of attention from men. But being slightly perverse, it was never the ones who paid me attention that interested me. Of all the comments and chat-ups I received that night, there was one guy who paid me no mind at all.

I set my sights on him.

Now, I don't want to shock you - or leave you thinking I was some kind of tart, as previous to this in my life I'd been with two men. My conversation with CF went something like this:

CF: Do you like him?
Me: Yes!
CF: Well bring him home!

So that's what I did. But not before having a giant snog-fest with him in the pub. Of course, everything had to wait until after the game, so when it finished (England won 2-0) we started our journey home...

Ports and Planes

2005-01-28T13:16:00.000-05:00

My boyfriend of four years had left me.

I guess it doesn't really matter who left who, as our relationship had died some time before he actually went. At that age, to find myself single, I felt like I'd missed out on so much, that I was middle-aged and divorced. I know it sounds silly, but when you're with someone for an extended period of time, you get into a way of thinking and living. For the first few years, we talked about getting married, but in the last few months it became patently obvious that we would not.

Sitting in the driveway with my mum, with all my worldly possessions in the trunk, eyes puffy from crying so much, she told me about her plan.

'Your father and I want you to go to London sooner and for a longer time,' she said. I had previously been wondering where I would find the money for this trip, so these words were all the more soothing. It was my parents' way of helping me move on - they'd stopped liking that boyfriend a long time before.

I spent the next few weeks planning my trip and trying to avoid any and everything that reminded me of him. When I'd told him about my love of London, he'd said 'Why would you want to go there? It's just another big, dirty city...' It should have been clear then that we weren't compatible - when you love someone you share their dreams.

Finally, the day had come, and we all made our way to Pearson. I was so ready to go by that point, my eyes didn't well up with sadness, but with bliss. We said our goodbyes quickly, and I skipped off to the lounge, the smell of airplane fuel making me dizzy. I could barely contain myself. All these years spent imagining my return, wondering how I could make it happen...

I got to Heathrow and as my college friend and I sped away in a chugging black cab, I tried to adjust my eyes to the city at night. I realized then, that anytime I would ever go back, this place in the world would be familiar.

A Noble Man

2005-01-28T00:11:00.000-05:00

What an inspiring person.

Sometimes life just doesn't make sense.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people, but there always has to be a lesson. Out of any bad must come something good or positive or hopeful. So I am hopeful for him.

London Calling

2005-01-27T22:14:00.000-05:00

People always ask me why I have such a fascination with England. The truth is, I have no real explanation. I remember lazy Sunday afternoons, suffering through (yet more) PBS membership drives, watching ‘Fawlty Towers’ with my family. Looking back, I sort of think I liked it so much because it made my father laugh. It will forever hold happy memories for me, as being the thing that would bring the four of us together on the sofa, feeling safe and full of warmth and good humour. It certainly gave me a great first impression of this faraway place.

Dreaming of England, or more specifically London, has been life-long. Discovering this dream as a child, it was the very first time I remember wanting something desperately. My London was a romantic, glamourous metropolis full of opportunity. I can’t even be sure what it was that gave me these ideas about it – I was fourteen before I ever saw the place in person.

Whatever opinions I’d had of London before I went, they were matched and magnified by being there. The air felt different than it did back home. I didn’t know anything about its history, but I could feel the city’s age. Steeped in history and tradition, forever building, developing, creating – this was a city that held fast to its past, and leapt into its future.

It was eight years of ‘firsts’ before I returned to London – my first kiss, heartbreak, foray into high school, sexual experience (it’s not what you think, it still embarrasses me – believe me), living with a boyfriend at 18, breaking up at 22, going to college in the middle… I did a lot of growing and crying in those eight years, but I also continued my dreaming. One of the biggest lessons I learned in that time was that everything happens for a reason.

Now I know there will be those who say that this is a complete load of rubbish, and I respectfully have to disagree. When I look back at my life so far, the reason that I am sitting here typing this out right now is because of a choice I made some time ago. To be more specific: I discovered the way to move to London because I'd been at college with a girl who'd just come back from there. I think we started talking because she had the coolest pair of purple velour Docs (not that I've ever worn Docs in my life, but they looked so cool), and when I asked her where they were from, she said 'London'.

She told me her story - on a break from English boyfriend, came back to Canada to get a fresh perspective, to figure out what she wanted from him, to give him a chance to clean himself up and figure out what he wanted from her... Suffice it to say, I would never have moved to London when I did, the way I did, had I not met her. I wouldn't have met her had I not gone to college when I did, and I wouldn't have gone to college when I did had I not had the boyfriend I did back then... I can go on, but that would be lame. Figuring this out added some sense and logic to my life, at a time when I was just confused. It made me feel more confident in the decisions and choices I made (and would continue having to make in life) - because I knew that whichever road I chose, there would be adventure somewhere along it.

So, by the time I got back to the city in my heart, my expectations were extremely high. But London opened its arms and rushed me through its gates. My excitement was palpable and my adventure had begun...

The Shoebox

2005-01-26T23:38:00.000-05:00

Something I learned pretty early on in London was that it was very helpful to network.

In a city with so many people, being a foreigner doesn't get you noticed. Unless you have something noticeably different or unique about you, stories of people being 'discovered' in airports and taxi queues are pretty much urban myths. I was lucky in that it was very easy for me to make friends with people I met along the way - everyone loves a Canadian.

It happens every time I go back - I get asked where I'm from. There are those who 'get it' and those who don't. The ones who do, ask 'Are you Canadian or American?' Not to disparage my neighbours to the south, or indeed part of my own family, but assuming a Canadian is American is like telling an Irishman he looks English - 'tisn't done, you know. The English seem rather suspicious of you if they think you're American, and an interesting (and odd) wash of relief comes over the ones who discover you're not.

Looking back, it was difficult to 'pin' me, so much so, I doubt if other Canadians would've spotted it. I remember walking to Kensington Palace, and being asked by some American tourists for directions. Each time this happened, it was like my 'Englishness' was being confirmed. I had come to this place to live out a dream, with no intention of drawing attention to my nationality. I wanted to live like the English live, wanted to observe them quietly, without a baseball cap and camera around my neck. I wanted to see if there was truth to my dream, and the only way I knew how to do that was to 'blend in'. So each time someone asked me for directions, I felt a bit of a thrill.

When I arrived in London, a hundred years ago, I knew two people - both Canadian. The enormity of the fact that over the years I found myself sitting in the front rooms of various people I'd met, was never lost on me. It was a huge realization for me - that I was just a Canadian girl, who packed my life into two suitcases, and got on a plane in search of something better. That people invited me into their homes - that was wonderful. Not that I looked suspicious or anything, but I was from so far away, the other side of the world, and yet they thought nothing of opening their homes to me.

I spent the first few months getting organized and finding my footing. I lived with a friend and her husband for the first while. They gave me a job and slowly I found my independence. It wasn't long before I felt it was time to get my own space. It was the first time I would ever live on my own and it frightened me just a little. Since moving from my parents' house, I'd grown accustomed to having someone else around me, so I knew it would be a challenge. I was ready for it.

I was shown a bedsit (a 'bachelor') not far from work. I remember looking at the grey carpet, pale peach walls, and Santa Fe-looking throw rug - it depressed me. Not only that, but it overlooked the train tracks. It was a tiny little place, not a lot of room for anything and didn't have much personality. It was the third place I'd seen and by far the best. It was cheap, so I took it.

I don't remember much about moving out of my friend's place, just that it was pretty easy. I had amassed a collection of little knick-knacks since arriving in London, so my suitcases no longer fit everything. I had taken a minicab, all the way feeling my traveller's cheques burning a hole in my pocket. I had my plan. The Shoebox needed some love. I needed some Ikea. I asked the driver to wait, I dumped my things in the door, and ran out again.

About &250 ['&' in lieu of pound symbol] and three hours later, I arrived back at The Shoebox. Down came the white and grey pinstriped curtains, up went some gauzy blue tab-tops with a teal organza underneath. I rolled up the Santa Fe monstrosity and pushed it under the bed, laying a green chenille throw in its place. I threw brightly-coloured little cushions all over the furniture, decorated the place with tealights and vases, put some pictures on the wall. I turned that little place into my little haven.

And then came a train.

I thought we were having an earthquake. I could not believe the amount of noise one train made. The whole house shook. Frankly, I'm surprised it didn't collapse. Those Victorians sure could build houses, I thought. I was impressed. Like anything new, it only takes a little time to get used to things, and soon enough the trains didn't bother me. When I finally moved from that flat, it took me a while to fall asleep, missing the comforting sound of trains rattling through the night.

In the weeks that followed, I got myself into a routine. I shopped at my local grocer's and schlepped my huge bag of washing up an unforgiving hill once a week. The walk to work took about ten minutes, and being so close, it was a wonder that I was always late. Sometimes I walked through the local park, sometimes just down the road, tripping over the uneven paving stones on my way. I quickly found myself falling in love with the park. It was foggy in the mornings, vivid green, an oasis of calm. It was a nice way to start my days, walking through there. Or running, rather.

I loved my little flat, even though I was a very slack housekeeper. There were very usually clothes crumpled in a heap on the floor, not much food on the shelves, and absolutely not enough storage, resulting in lots of little piles of books and papers all over the place. When I think of the people that walked through that door, I can close my eyes and hear the thud as it shut, the turn of the handle that squeaked just a bit... The laughter, the love and the tears that if those walls could talk...