Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Monday, 22 November 2010
Hello beloved readers, the other day I thought about boys. AGAIN. And I thought about what I like about them. Because sometimes I forget. I came to the conclusion that it’s the little things that count. And here’s a list with the biggest of the small things that make me fall for a guy.
When he wears a little plastic watch instead of a flashy Rolex.
When he waits at red traffic lights whilst everyone is just walking on regardless.
When he looks lost whilst waiting at the red traffic light.
When he’s so into his books at the library, he doesn’t notice anything around him.
When he blushes when you talk to him.
When he quotes poetry, and quotes it well and not in a sleazy way and not as a means to an end.
When he doesn’t mind admitting that he doesn’t have a clue how girls tick.
When he doesn’t notice that his shirt is buttoned up the wrong way and that half his belly is showing.
When he is really proud of his new shiny white trainers. And when he is really upset when they get muddy.
When he is showing up five minutes early rather than five minutes late.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Monday, 15 November 2010
Some people like to wander into friendship with a red carpet rolled out in front of them. Real friends ride into friendship on donkeys. You get me?
Don’t let people down. It’s not a good look.
Be cocky. Don’t be a cock.
A good guy is like a good song. It never gets boring and you need to keep it close to your heart.
If a guy can build a good log-fire, he’s a good guy.
I have made up my mind about the best dating locations as described in this post, ice skating at Somerset House is right up there with fairgrounds and the zoo. Someone take me please.
If you are building walls around you, find someone to smash them.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Juliette was a pretty girl. Her big eyes looked at the world in excitement and fear. Her red lips could hardly ever stop blabbering. Constantly gushing about the wonders of the world in big vibrant words, Juliette had the tendency to project her soul onto the world.
Her hands were always fiddling with things. Her brain churned over thoughts. Endlessly. Her heart never got fixed.
Maybe that’s why she chose Adam. Or that’s why Adam chose her. Adam was a reliable guy, he was down-to-earth and he was certainly what people would call marriage material. Juliette hated marriage material. With his massive bear-like stature he was the ideal protector. A man who takes care of things. A man who protects women. A man who protects Juliette.
They had been living together for 4 years. In a bright, yet relatively crowded maisonette flat in South London. Juliette’s record collection was all over the flat, Adam’s newspapers were neatly stacked in one corner. Juliette’s shoes were scattered all over their bedroom, Adam’s socks were colour-coordinated and packed away in the first drawer by their bed. Sometimes Juliette felt like she was living with her brother and she despised that. At other times she felt strangely close to Adam. Loving but not in love.
She wanted him to take her to the Natural History Museum. She wanted him to take her to the seaside. She wanted him to talk about the Grateful Dead, about Pavement, about some obscure music genre or at least about something that would show a spark, passion, emotion, humanity. That would prove that there is a light behind the curtain of thick brown hair, but he didn’t . He never did. All he said was “Do you want to watch TV?”
Juliette reclined. She didn’t want to watch TV, she wanted to watch Adam. She didn’t want to watch life projected on a dark screen, she wanted to watch it first hand.
Juliette didn’t tell Adam that she was six weeks pregnant. She hated him. She wanted adventure; he wanted babies and a good wife. While staring at the TV screen sitting next to Adam with blank eyes, Juliette spent hours pondering. Then her mind flickered. She told Adam that she was going for a walk. She never returned. Juliette lived happily ever after.
Monday, 8 November 2010
If you have to drink to make a party better, it’s time to leave.
Sharing is caring.
If you have the choice between sending an email and actually talking to the person directly, talk to the person. Come on!
Trust your instincts.
If you don’t ask, you’ll never know.
The only predictability in life should be its unpredictability.
Just look over your shoulder and smile at him. You’ll see….
Fuck your fears.
Correct spelling is sexy.
I don’t care what your passion is. I only care about that you have one.
Sometimes going the distance will bridge the gap. Try it.
Friday, 5 November 2010
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Hello, I know I know it’s hard to figure out what’s what in this confusing world. The eternal does-he-like-me-doesn’t-he-like-me is getting a bit old, so I thought it’d be a good idea to shed some light on if the guy likes you or if he doesn’t. And readers, if he doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world. Believe.
If he doesn’t have any clever chat-up lines, he fancies you.
If you really fancy him, you know. If you have to make a checklist about why you fancy him, you don’t fancy him. Fact.
If he never looks at you, he doesn’t fancy you.
If he secretly peeks at you from the corner of the room, he fancies you.
If he blatantly ignores you, he fancies you.
If he blatantly ignores you, he’s way too wrapped up in his own little world for you to fancy him. You can do better than that girl.
If he is boastful about his ex-girlfriends and feels the need to reassure his manliness all the time, he fancies you. He’s also majorly insecure.
If he’s fumbling his words like JLS, then he fancies you.
If he makes no effort to be friendly or to hang out, he doesn’t fancy you.
And here’s a good one. If you have to think about him all the time, you fancy him, get your game on girl!
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
This little ditty is about boys in bands and it's about who you would snog, marry and avoid. Ohhh the possibilities. Let's get started then and if you'd like to listen to some accompanying 'topical' tunes, click here.
Marry: Ira Wolf Tuton
I mean I have talked extensively about my unabated passion for Ira Wolf Tuton on the Book of Linda before. Maybe too much. But there is no doubt that good old Ira is marriage material. There is no doubt either that he's the only boy in a band, who I would ever go near.
Not only would you be able to say your husband is called Ira Wolf (imagine introducing this one to your parents), but he’s also a carpenter in his band-free days, so he can fix everything around the house. Total winner. He would make for an ideal husband because he’s just weird enough, but not too weird. You could party with his band, but you could also go fishing and stay in a log cabin with him for days. He's a funny guy, who can also talk about poetry when he feels like it. What can I say - best of both worlds.
Snog: Hugo White (The Maccabees)
Avoid: Tom Meighan from Kasabian.
I mean this bloke might look agreeable from the outside with all his rough bloke charm (shudder - some girls might like that), but he’s rotten on the inside. He’s the epitome of a proper Britpop geezer, who would choose a pint, a fag and another bird over you any time. Instead of spending time with you, he’d rather go play footie with his mates. Instead of having dinner with you, he’d rather go down the local. Instead of hanging out with his mother-in-law, he'd rather s**g her. Grim. On top of that his accent is indecipherable. His style sucks. His band sucks. He’s a bit thick. He or any guy from Kings of Leon, nothing good can come of that shit.
Ira - marry me. Hugo - call me. Tom - vom.