Love, From the US

I've spent the last week and a bit on the West Coast of America. Home for the holidays and all that. Coming back always invokes an array of emotions and a review of life and inevitably love. If this time of year didn't bring that about all on its own, home is a sure fire catalyst. My life here was different for certain, but I don't know that I would say better or worse. Most of my loves originated in the sun, rain and snow of the West Coast. Food, wine, art, writing,music,sport,friends and men are all the first to spring to mind. Love of food and wine only improves with age and time. Musical infatuation builds on experience, while art and sport are dynamic by nature and therefore always evolving. The missing obsession from the list is travel. "Oh the Places You'll Go" was likely my first travel guide and therefore my preoccupation with new lands and languages was most probably incubated in the 714. Directly or indirectly. Friends and men,of course, being the wild cards have seen the most investment, loss and return. Two of the major men in my life are from here so all the places, faces, smells and noises remind me of my successes and mishaps in love, lust and everything in between. I have forged some of the strongest friendships here and learned one of the most devastating lessons of all. Losing a friend hurts much worse then losing a lover. Every trip back, which now seems to only happen once a year, inevitably brings out a side of me that indulges in all the things I could never entertain on a regular basis in my London life. Microbrew beers, great local wines, many late nights in succession, long talks over martinis and excessive flirting with men that could never break my heart. At least that's what I like to tell myself. There's rarely much reality in my trips, save the occasional runny nose or torn ligament from sports. This trip however has seen a mix of harsh reality and fluffy fantasy.
Harsh: My options (according to my mates mum) are having babies with my mate (who as it happens is a woman) and living happily ever after as a gay couple. Sans the sex of course, given that neither of us are actually lesbians. Not that there's anything wrong with being a lesbian, it's just not my thing.
Fluffy: 22 is hot. Enough said.
Harsh: Unfortunately not only boyfriends come and go, friends do too
Fluffy: Everything is half price! It's great!

So with the life review and a new year ahead, I am proposing that I remind myself (and you can hold me to it) that only certain people are worthy of being in our lives. The criteria are many but in the end the pay off is big.

uninspired

The last couple of weeks have been mad busy, but somehow no good stories have emerged. Sure, there have been planes, trains and taxi cabs. There was Istanbul, Paris and everwhere in between. Boys and men and the occasional recall of an uber embarassing close encounter, but overall nothing noteworthy.
To fabricate would be cruel and to abandon lame, but I tell you there's not a tale to tell. I leave for Christmas holidays tomorrow and unless I am struck by genius, this will be my last post for 2007. Sad.

LF(not actually)L(but somewhere in Europe),
GF

Mecca

I am in Istanbul at the moment and my room with a lovely view faces Mecca. How do I know, you might ask? The arrow on the ceiling coupled with the extra loud dose of prayer I am being issued. As my room faces Mecca, the loudspeakers on all the mosques seem to be broadcasting in full stereo volume as I work. It's as if the man with the sing song praying is right beside me making sure that I don't insert anything into the documents I am drafting or emails I am sending that might corrupt the souls of people more trusting then an old jaded PR girl. I needed a break and the melodic prayer got me thinking about Mecca. Personally, as I am not Islamic, I think that everyone has their own version of Mecca. The place or the time or the person that brings you back to who you are and what you stand for. Life gets out of control more often then not and something has to bring you back to reality. So fine reader (well I think it might be more then one now) where is your Mecca? Mine is my sister Julie. She's not my real sister, but we grew up together and she's like blood. Coupled with my little niece and nephew that she kindly bestowed on this world, nothing grounds me more then her voice. The laughter of the little ones is like coming home and her words always remind of who I am. It's over the phone most of the time, but none the less, they are my Mecca.

transport tips for London

I know my recent posts have all consisted of lists (which let's face it, are a cop out) and for that I apologise. As soon as my world stops spinning out of control I will return to witty stories and cheeky observations, but for another day. This day I give you my jaded, 3 years in the Big Smoke, everyone but me is an idiot, top tips for surviving London transport. I can't,however,guarantee your sanity will remain in tact as a result of these tips. Better the devil you know, I say.
-most of the time (there are very few exceptions) there is no reason to sprint for the tube, hurdle your body-and your massive bag which you insist on rolling behind you for the 8 hours you will be at work-into the others calmly waiting on the tube. Everyone is already smashed like sardines and your lack of hand eye coordination creates a chain reaction of unwanted bodily contact
-please don't breathe on your fellow passangers. None of us wants to be there but your breath (especially if you smoke) makes the journey even less tolerable. Ditto for air that comes from places other then your mouth. Honestly, are you even remotely civilised?
-don't stare at people. In America we teach our children that this is rude. I think that rule should be international. And no being drunk is not an excuse
-if you are too cheap to take a cab to the airport and you have luggage bigger then some African countries, could you kindly plan ahead and not travel on Monday at 8am, or 6pm for that matter
-your bag/handbag/lunch/newspaper shouldn't have its own seat unless it also has its own ticket
-there is such a thing as travel karma. For every time you shove someone out of the way, you miss a train or tube

what I learned this weekend

-I am bad at PR for the people I date
-Therefore I am actually concerned my mates may revoke my right to choose (my own dates that is)
-One day of doing nothing but lie on the sofa will not cure the virus of 2007
-With copious amounts of mulled wine, watching your friends ice skate can be almost as fun as doing it yourself
-30 is a fun birthday no matter how many times you celebrate it
-Thanksgiving is about gratefulness (yes I made that word up) not a country or a day or specific food
-When the temperature drops to -6 people react in strange ways
-Some people are afraid of cats, I understand not liking them, but afraid is a whole new level of crazy
-I know more then the average girl about George Michael. I still don't see anything wrong with this
-Jonathan Rhys Meyers has a 2" penis (flag at full mast)

This was brought to you by the letter D for disease which I believe has plotted my demise.

You know it's almost Christmas when

• Out of charity you agree to go for Sugar Daddy speed dating as a wing woman
• The lights on Oxford Street make you tear up (OK, maybe I had too much champers)
• It's so cold that wearing your glasses is the only way to prevent your eyes from involuntarily weeping when you dash to the train in the morning
• Love Actually makes you tear up (hmm, again, wine this time, maybe there is a theme here)
• You justify purchases for yourself in relation to the amount of money you have spent on others
• You get so excited about the special holiday lattes that you miss your morning train
• Planning a night on the town for 5 weeks away doesn't seem unreasonable
• People start practising random acts of kindness**
• You detox once a week rather then once a month in anticipation of the gluttony to come

Happy Christmas Season!

**OK, maybe not in London, but in a lot of other cities

34 to 1 and pocket pool

When I boarded the plane from Johannesburg it was 34C (that's about 93 for the F peeps) and when I stepped off the plane in London it was 1C (about 33F). My body has refused to re-acclimate and my mind isn't far behind. I have been triple rolled in my duvet the last couple of nights in a vain attempt to ward off the cold cold air surrounding my bed. Lucky for me a friend met me at one of my favourite pubs last night. Twas a great reminder why I love London, even if I did nearly freeze. I also, as luck would have it, was the recipient of what seemed to be a quick game of pocket pool.
**Warning: I can laugh at myself and my partner in crime last night can laugh at me even more. The following story is not for the prude, faint of heart or otherwise humourously challenged.**

Let me explain. Upon leaving the first pub last night we wandered to a second for a top off to end the evening. When we entered, the smell was so offensive that we decided without even speaking to take our drinks outside (yes, into the 1 or possibly 0 by this time freezing cold air). Whilst discussing the meaning of life erm ok maybe it was more like the meaning of Chelsy and Harry splitting up, the bar man interuppeted us to ask if we smoked. He was collecting the ash trays, so the question seemed relevant.

No, we both answered.
How long have you been here, he continued.
Um, 10 minutes, we said.
No in this country, he stammerd.
He Scottish, I confused, looked at him and repeated 10 minutes.

My mate and I both expected a one person rant on the evils of America, Bush and everyone who happened to be born in the vast country also known as a world oppressor. Instead we got a very disconnected lecture on how we would soon start smoking in this freezing depressed desolate city otherwise known as London. Now is probably a good time to mention that the lower half of this very eloquent man was hidden behind a short fence and under the table. We finished our pints and left, probably a little faster then normal given the special friend we had clearly attracted. We got to the tube station and I noticed white splashes up the side of my knee high black boot, but only the left one. Splashes that looked suspiciously like the remnants of a one handed shuffle. It was quite possibly one of the most disturbing looking things to have been bestowed on me in over 3 years living in London (and trust me, this is saying a lot). Laugh and the world laughs with you, get a sticky white substance splashed on your boot and the world laughs at you.

Why?

Didn't I meet him when I got here instead of when I am leaving?
Did it have to be someone who is a 12 hour flight away?
Did he have to be so incredibly different then anyone I have met in ages?
Isn't he over his ex?
Do I like the ones I can't have?
Am I a sucker for a big heart and soulful eyes?
Can't I sleep on planes?

Nervous

I met a boy last night when I was least expecting it (of course). Product whore that I am, I quickly found the coolest little apothecary here in Jo'Burg. They do custom body lotions, bath melts, lip balms and other fun stuff. Needless to say I have spent more of my fair share (and money) there over the last 2 weeks. Last night I went in to pick up some of the things that quickly became favourites for xmas gifts, only this time the owner was there. Instant connection doesn't even describe the interaction that ensued. We talked and drank wine until I had to go to a business dinner and made plans to meet up tonight. He and his friend invited me to see a local band with them and they are due here to pick me up any minute. I am nervous. I rarely get nervous. I am unflappable usually. But I am sitting in my hotel room, palms sweating, 12 outfits later waiting to go meet them, not wanting to be early. Ok here goes.

Good at Something

I was struggling to iron my suit this morning. The suit is silk and the iron kept spewing water everywhere. Silk and water don't mix. Now for anyone who hasn't been to countries where hired help is the norm, let me explain. It keeps people employed who otherwise wouldn't have jobs, they are treated very very well and in some cases become part of the family. In no way since I have been in Africa have I seen any of the helpers treated poorly, nor do they ever seem unhappy. They sing whilst they work and seem more then pleased to help with things. So I called housekeeping in a panic and asked if they could press it for me. Of course they replied, of course. I laughed and said "I'm rubbish, I tried and I can't do it, I'm sorry." She belly laughed along with me and replied, "That's already darling, you are very good at something else and that's what matters." Everytime I am down on myself for not being able to do EVERYTHING perfectly, I am going to remember this.

Does it make me a horrible person?

I stumbled on an ex boyfriends "wedding site" a bit ago and had a less then favourable reaction to the story, photos, wedding plans, very large picture of the ring and oh did I mention the photos? Sorry I need to go throw up.

Recycled Air

I can't really sleep on planes. I mean it's usually not the best sensory experience and the recyled air, well it's just wrong. I can, but the means by which I get there is not worth the end. Suffice to say with the distances I tend to travel, one has a lot of time to think. Well think and watch bad movies, but sometimes the bad movies make you think even more. Anyway, I am far far from any of the places I call home at the moment and the flight here was 12 hours. I had a lot of time to think and funny enough, it was all very superficial. Brace yourself reader ( I am pretty sure there is only one) becuase I am about to get blonde on you with DEEP thoughts.

So I did that whole signing up to a dating site thing for one very specific reason, I firmly believe it takes a date to get a date. It must be pheromones or something, but as soon as you line up a date (you don't even have to go on it) you will inevitably get another. So I made a few dates for when I return to the UK within a couple of days of being on the dating site. Like clockwork, 2 days later I got a text from Cricket Boy asking if I wanted to have a drink. Being away bought me some space to decide. Perfect timing as I'm not sure I want to open that chapter again. Quite sure he's not ready for a new chapter and there is only so much recycling one girl with so many dates can do.

sex lies and videotape

Ok, that's a bit misleading, especially given I've not seen an actual videotape this century.Actually, that's a lie too as one of my best mates still "tapes" her favourite shows and watches them when she's bored. I digress.


While relaying the events of another thrilling "night in the life of a London girl" to my colleagues one morning last week, it hit me. P.A.T.H.E.T.I.C! Honestly, I'm in my prime (or at least all the Uni boys I date think I am) and look at me I am dissapointing couples who want to live vicariously! Wednesday night consisted of a bad relationship programme on BBC2, a skipped stop at the gym, a massive bowl of popcorn and sign up to a new trendy dating website. I was quite happy when chatting about my very enjoyable evening until I realised I was being met with looks of horror from my two very coupled work mates. It appears they depend on me for tales of drinking until the wee hours or a date gone awry; clearly I had let them down. Never one to dissapoint I awoke the next day with a renewed vigor toward my rather lagging dating roster these days. Unfortunately, on a Friday morning I had no where but the office to take all this new found motivation to pull. I therefore spent most of the day flirting with the camera man who was shooting a video for me. I am strict "no company pens in my ink" kinda gal, but

1. he does not work for the same company I do

2. I cannot watch any more of those pathetic shows

3. He was fit



So there you have it, that was Girl Friday's Family version of sex, lies and videotape. Oh and Lpeg.....London is fab. As long as you can party like a rockstar, like me.

Standards

I read a statistic in the Metro on the way to the gym last night which made my long time strategy of remaining single seem extremely sane: 8 out of 10 18-35 year olds polled in London said they had or would cheat if given the chance. That's special. So special that I now feel very justified in my current no dates status.

Bitter is as Bitter does

It's not usual for me, I rarely go there, but from time to time I hit a patch of bitter along the slick roads of life. I refuse to blame it on being single, because I reckon you can be resentful and angry regardless of wether or not there is a warm body next to you each night. Saturday I was having brunch with 2 girlfriends and with very little prompting heard myself launch into a tirade on men in general and a few in particular. I could hear my own insanity and realised that people at the surrounding tables were likely warning their children to stay clear of crazy in the black top with the eggs benedict. I don't even know where all that hostility came from. I would like to think it's me taking on the plight of every single (ok all 3) girl in my life, but in reality it sounded more like I had a personal vendeta against anyone packing their own travel size frank and beans. So disarming was my one person speakers corner monolouge that I turned to my friends once I ran out of breath and asked the all important question, "Am I bitter? I think I might be bitter! Or am I just realistic." They did as any good women in their (very cute) shoes would do. In unison they replied NO! of course you aren't. Well, yes, I think I am, but I also think a good evening of flirting will knock it right out of my system.

Wanted: Mojo

Mine's gone missing. Positively, definitely, no doubt about it....gone. I do geeky PR, the kind where the men outnumber the women in most situations 3:1. Given the region that I cover, sometimes it more like 8:1. Last night at the T3 awards I couldn't pull for love or money and I think I looked pretty cute plus I brought the girls. The fit bloke seated next to me at dinner ended up getting lured by a lass who mysteriously switched her engagement ring to the other hand by the entree and started referring to her "boyfriend" as loudly as possible by dessert. There were men everywhere, straight men everywhere and not a one for me. The only semblence of male attention I got all night was when I was gratuitously groped by the very gay emcee when I went to accept our award. This leads to me to only one conclusion, my mojo has gone missing. It's happened before, about 2 years ago, and I can't remember how I found it again but I better sort it out quickly. Resigned to no attention and too much to drink I also made the mistake of digging into my goodie bag and eating cheese and onion Hula Hoops in the cab on the way back to mine securing my spot in loner ville for at least another 24 hours.

Friends....erm kind of

Where does the line between 'I love you' and 'I am in love with you' begin and end? If a relationshio begins as platonic is it forever destined to be only that or can it evolve from love to LOVE? One of my best(and hardest to walk away from) relationships began in a true friendship. The kind where you tell each other everything, hang out when you can't be asked to go on a date, give one another advice on the opposite sex and don't care if they stop by unannounced first thing in the morning for coffee. The thing is, if you take that to another level, will you ever get what you had back if the romance doesn't work? And if you do, will it forever be tainted? Once you cross a certain line with a friend, there's no dipping your toes in the water to test the temperature before a dive. It's all or nothing, you know each other too well to ask about sybllings and Uni studies over a pint. It then becomes futures. Kids or no kids, dog or cat, home or abroad. But is the risk worth the reward? I guess that depends on your nature. Are you a risk taker who lives life on the edge and puts it all on red 23? Or are you prone to take the comfortable route and play it safe? To those in my life who are asking themselves these questions at the moment, I wouldn't change my decision for anything and neither should you.

I shop...I am

Hello, my name is Girl Friday and I am addicted to pretty things. They say the first step to recovery is recognising that you have a problem. I'm not sure I'm ready for recovery, but I am pretty sure my love of pretty things is becoming a problem. Today while strolling on Kings Road I stopped dead in my tracks, taken completely by surprise, I gazed lovingly through the window of Furla...at a pair of shoes. So intense was my focus, so amorous my gaze, I didn't realise the hot guy talking to me. Apparently he didn't realise I was checking out £350 of happiness vs 178lbs of hunkiness. It wasn't until he mumbled under his breath and walked away in a huff that I snapped out of my stilleto haze and realised what had happened. Is it hopeless? Am I hopeless? I fear recovery is no where in sight.

Exit stage right

My anticipated entree back into the dating scene was a non starter, yet somehow still left me feeling just a tad bit rejected. After much planning (too much for my likeing) and the decison of where and when ending up with me, he didn't show up. I got a very apologetic text the minute I walked into the pub, but I couldn't help wondering if he saw me and bolted. Most probably he really did have "a friend with an emergency" but it does make one wonder.
Now it's on him, but I am guessing Sgt Pepper and I fizzled before we sparkled.

Big Pimpin

One of my good mates in London is Dutch. If you don't already have a Nederlander in your portfolio of friends might I suggest adding one or two at minimum.They are good fun, will always tell you the truth no matter how much it stings and rarely say no to impromtu drinks. They also,as it happens, may over drink and then proceed to meet a man on a train who they pimp you out to. Pimping is illegal in Amsterdam (there are signs everywhere which say so) but not apparently in the big smoke. So as my dating pause comes to a close, my re-entry is marked by blind date with a handsome stranger. Watch this space for a play by play later this week.

Cease and Desist Nearing Expiry

Following one of the worst dates I have experienced in recent history paired with a lapse in judgement with Cricket Boy I declared a self imposed moratorium on dating. For at least a couple of months I needed a break from the scene. Time with me, that's what I needed. 1 Oct marks my re-entry into the world of the unexpected and I am welcoming it with open arms (no pun intended) and excitement. For all I know things may have changed while I was away, not likely, but you never know. I most certainly have picked up the bad side effects of not actively dating, about 5 kilos worth. So here's to an autumn full of turning leaves, dropping temperatures and exciting dates that involve firesides and mulled wine. Except, erm...now I am out of prospects.

Fashion Week

Fashion Week in London is always an interesting time if you run in the circles of press, celebs, champagne or night clubs. Or simply if you fail to meet to height to weight criteria that gets subconsciously imposed on every female within a 10K radius. Everywhere you look there are 6ft tall amazon women who look like they forget to eat their lunch and dinner for about a year. They saunter about fag in one hand martini in the other looking impossibly cool and pulled together. In reality they are coming home from last night's bender whilst I am on my way to work. And of course they are like 12 pretending to be 18. Never mind, I can hold a conversation. I'll rest on that.

New beginings

It's a big move, but I am making the leap to Blogger after 3 years with MSN Spaces. I have started a new job and thought the time had come to evolve the experience for my blog audience as well. Mobile blogging is more important to me now, so blogger it is.

For old antics, stories, mis-steps and generally cringe worthy moments check out my old blog. Bear with me as I get the design of LFL up and running, but expect the same adventures as before.

I'm closing in on 3 years in London and it's amazing to me how different my experiences are now compared to 1 or 2 years ago. Looking forward to entering year four with more sass and less sleep.