Sex in the surburbs... not quite the same eh?

I've got my high heels on (a different shoe on each foot) parading around the flat wondering if I will ever wear either inappropriate, appropriately uncomfortable shoe again as nostalgia beats down my door. Yes, I saw SATC last night - the big screen version. I enjoyed it but well... I wasn't exactly overwhelmed. I wish that they had left it as it was - because that last episode was just perfection. Taking a sassy smart series and stretching it out into an overly long movie is a bit like watering down a good cosmopolitan with too much cranberry juice - it still tastes ok - but loses the all important kick.

It should have been called 'A bit of sex and Carrie's wardrobe' - as this was the obvious reason SJP had slung on her Manolos again. She fancied a bit of dressing up and ta da! A movie was born. The other girls have vague stories but nothing of real interest apart from Miranda's woes and one gratuitous shower scene (the kind that you pause your DVDs on) courtesy of Samantha's peeping Tom personae.

Anyway - I digress - and I don't want to give anything away to all of you have yet to be 'Carried Away,'** (makes a retching sound for the most awful tag line in film history). The reason I am really trotting around in a fluffy mule and a spiky pink Miu Miu heel is because I am packing. I remember the days not only when I was a single girl (having sex) in the city, but I had a goddamn reason to wear these beauties. Now I am married, feeling celibate and am moving to the burbs. ** (makes retching sound for other self-pitying reasons).

It is weird to pack up my life in my single gal flat - the one I bought with every penny I owned - and many pennies I have still to pay off - in a lovely villagey part of London. The place I had my first dates with husband in - when he was the boyfriend, in fact when he was just the 'quick fling' that became the boyfriend. The place he moved into. The place he proposed in. The place we left to get married and returned to from honeymoon. The place we conceived sproglet and brought him home to. The place that holds so many memories. In truth, it aint the flat that I will miss - it is the area. The brief walk to the wilds of Hampstead heath, the short jog to 3 different cinemas. My barrista friends at Starbucks...oh my, my love affair with Starbucks. The local wine bar that we grew to know so well, we invited the owners to our wedding. The weird video store guy who sometimes speaks to me, sometimes doesn't. But when he does has a scathing sense of humour - a frustrated film maker clearly. It has been my manor. One old friend once commented that they will have to drag me kicking and screaming from this place - and after 9 years in the area it is true.

I know it is time to go. I fear that I will be lonely out in the picturesque market town - missing the hustle and bustle and edge of such a cosmopolitan buzzy area - as I embrace middle class blandness. I remember my hopes and dreams when I bought my flat - although weirdly it has never felt like home. More like a stop gap. I have always wanted the garden, the green trees around, the stillness in the air - I am an Irish child at heart. I need green. I need space to breathe.

So I pack and ooh and ahh over my shoes of the past. The bargain buys, the ones bought for TV shows I presented, the one pair of Manolos I took a day off work to buy in the sale. I remember wearing them all vividly - to dance at the Xmas party, to drink (any night you care to mention), to flirt in Soho House in and to throw in a taxi when they finally tore my feet to shreds. (26 blisters once - more bloodshed than an 18 horror flick).

And you know what? I wouldn't have missed it all for the world.

Why do all Starbucks toilets stink?

It is a question that haunts me. Yes - I do need to get out more. But why is it no matter which branch you go into, no matter what time of day - they absolutely reek. This is no mere remnants of recent defecation, this is an ingrained acidic stench that permeates the skin and strips one's nostrils of an inner lining. A fetid heavy pungent aroma that lingers in the air no matter what is sprayed to alleviate the odour. Maybe it is because there is no window? Maybe their cleaning products aren't up to scratch? Maybe all the pipes in every coffee shop are blocked? Maybe there is a toilet ghost that lurks in every cistern a la moaning Myrtle in the Harry Potter books - but this ghoul is more akin to Michael Jackson's 'Thriller': 'the foulest stench (is) in the air, the funk of forty thousand years and grizzly ghouls from every tomb are closing in to seal your doom.'

My advice - cross your legs and wait 'til you get home. Or carry a nosepeg with you at all times. You have been warned.

Closet teenager

Christ I am 35 in 2 weeks. What the feck is that all about? thirty.... five. It's a new box for starters. In any questionnaire, job application thingy.25 - 29? 30 - 34? and eek - 35 - 39!!! One day and suddenly - boom! You are a whole year older (wiser?) and well... I just don't feel it. Don't get me wrong, on days Sproglet runs circles round me, I have PMT and husband makes me contemplate 1st degree murder - I feel 156. But most of the time - I am still 17!! I am a sucker for a John Hughes movie, I love Dawson's creek, my music taste is firmly planted circa 1986 and I would have sleepovers if it wasn't illegal at my age - I am still a youth! Make-up excites me, I love boy chats and would spend half my life on the phone if only someone else would chat at length with me... I am a closet teenager at heart. Heck, I still get spots.

Do you remember Jackie magazine? I started reading it when I was 9 to collect (swoon)'Adam and the Ants' posters. It was meant for girls who had periods and wanted to know about french kissing and whether or not pedal pushers worked with tuck-a-boots or not but I aspired to all the problems on the 'Cathy and Claire' page and read it to feel older and and more mature - even though I had no idea what 'discharge' meant amongst other things. I moved on to Just 17, then mags in my Mum's hairdressing shop that had tantalising problem pages and excerpts of Jilly Cooper's 'Riders' to pour over. It was great to get an 'in' on subjects that were far removed from my suburban dull teenage existence in Belfast. I couldn't wait to escape my mundane life. The same boring pub every weekend. The same tedious rugby boys to have crushes on (or not as the case may be - I loved a boy called Gareth who never washed his hair and wore pink baseball boots - I called him, 'the artist' when actually he should have been called 'the wanker').

Point is - I wanted to get the hell outta there so bad. And now as I approach this number - a number that doesn't feel remotely like ME or anything to do with me - I crave the simplicity and ok, drama of a teenage life. Better than stewing about a job at Eastenders or a fucking mortgage offer eh? If only all my worries were getting a politics essay in on time, whether or not my teenage love was going to call me that evening or 'to take or not take' the pill... I kept diaries all my life - they are truly sad. And amazing. And sadly not so far removed from who I am now. My good friend Eleanor went to school with me. She had about as much interest in french as I had - so all we did was pass or throw notes to each other - and I got a sore neck from trying to oggle 'the artist' in the classroom behind. Eleanor secretly kept all these notes and recently gave them to me. And weirdly, I had some of her scribblings too. They made me laugh and cry. Laugh at how ridiculous and (shock horror) overly dramatic I was. Cry - because I was so full of potential and inspiration and niave ambitions. It would be years before I became the bitter old lemon that I am. Eleanor got pregnant at school. I was shocked - I didn't even know she was having sex - in fact she was the kind of girl I wasn't even sure knew how to have sex. Anyway she had a baby and did her A levels 2 days later. Passed with flying colours, went on to Uni, did a PHD etc. - is one of the most brilliant people I have ever met. She sweetly kept a letter I wrote to her(aged 17) when I learned she was expecting - I read it again - age 34, and oddly I would write the very same letter today.

Inwardly I am still that 17 year old - desperate to get amongst it and be challenged, succeed against all costs and make something of myself. I still am a sad old romantic at heart and would watch 'The Breakfast Club' until the cows came home. My favourite times are still with folk I knew when I was 17. I still get a thrill out of an illict cigarette (being a preachy non-smoker for 7 years). So as I approach such a ridiculous age - if anyone fancies a sleep-over, smoking their first joint and talking about which base to go to with the captain of the rugby team - give me nudge, I'm there in a heartbeat. And can I bring Madonna's 'True Blue album?'

Rebirth

Don't panic - I'm not about to talk about birth. Christ no! If you recall I don't do birth. Not because it isn't amazing: my friend Eleanor gave birth - drug/air/gas free - last Fri night in 20 mins, with her partner in her lounge, and the midwife hadn't even had time to get there!!! But because in Biology in 4th year we had to watch a video where 'Mary' went through the joys of pregnancy and then splayed her legs and showed us just how precious birth could be. Now Mary needed a good waxer frankly and this alone was enough to put me off - but what followed made all horror movies up to that point seem like an episode of The Magic Roundabout. Mary wailed and howled and pushed and went very red and there was lots of blood and gunk... and then I don't know - I'd hit the floor by that stage. I then faked an asthma attack and disappeared for some fresh air. What I needed was 20 years of cognitive therapy to recover - but anyway, it left such an impression that my birth phobia was perfectly formed and was subsequently enhanced along the way with various other friend's horrific birth stories; full of phrases like '3rd degree tears' 'in surgery for 3 hours' 'stitches that hurt for 6 weeks' '24 hours of pain' etc. I can't even say the word 'dilate' without raising my blood pressure. Truly I was so scared I went to the Docs before I even got up the duff to ask how I could ever get through having a baby without actually having to have the baby. Not that is Irish! Enough of this digression - we are not here to talk birth after all.

It is rebirth I want to dwell on - it is Easter after all. I read over a few posts and my god I sound so moany! This weekend is one for salivating over shiny bulbous eggs ripe for cracking open and guzzling down the sweets inside before devouring the chocolate egg itself. It is also the time that - if we all remember our new testament, and apparently 80% of school kids today have no idea about the Easter story - Christ was crucified and then was reborn. Today was a bit of a rebirth for me - albeit in a small way. A lovely man called Simon came to view my flat. His mate has viewed it already and wanted him to see it as they are thinking of buying it to rent it out. I sold it better than any estate agent has ever done. Simon and said mate are coming back on Friday - if they put in an offer I may just buy them Easter eggs. Plus the job I am after may still be up for grabs... not sure if it is external or internal though - but hey while I don't know - there is hope! Plus my good mate Gerry came round as she is a computer whizz and I am as good at technical stuff as I am at driving... She helped me save stuff on a stick thing and also sort out my blog. She knows stuff, Gerry does. She speaks in a language that is foreign to me with words such as 'codes' 'cookies' 'saver drive' and 'off line editing.' So all in all, a good day. Plus sproglet only watched Monsters Inc on and off 3 times. Husband gave me a loving kiss goodbye as he went to work. I had a good hair day. So much to be thankful for. As my mate Pocket says 'stop worrying about the things that haven't happened yet.' I'm going to make that my mantra and sickeningly try to be ultra positive - at least until after Easter. Until then it's all about rejoicing and rebirth for me... and chocolate.

Home sweet? Home

Did I mention we were moving house? Picture the scene if you will - we live in a small two bedroomed split level flat. The kind that is perfect for a single girl with a flatmate or a couple with no kids or well - anyone but a family of 3. Sproglet's toys take up half the living room. His new game is to hide things - my Origins lotion to secure a good nights slumber has been missing now for 3 weeks and my huge bags tell the story - and somehow everything is on a low level, just perfect for his grubby wee hands to reach. My biggest bug bear - the kitchen. Oh sweet jesus the kitchen sends me into a rage that would rival Daniel's Oscar winning turn in 'there will be Blood.' There very nearly is blood every time I enter that domain. It is small, cramped, with one cupboard to hold everything under the sun utensil wise and one other food storage cupboard that doesn't open well as the door hits the boiler. In said food cupboard is a balancing display that would put a circus troop to shame - but every time I reach for a spice or some raisins for sproglet the threat of an avalanche of tins and rice showering me from every which way engulfs me. To say it is precarious to take out a mere tin of beans is a gross understatement. I am almost taking my life in my hands.

The floor is old black slate tiles now stained and old and shabby. Cracks abound around the badly put-in sink where rivers of water have begun to flow beneath, creating more cracks in the fake granite surface. Oh I could whinge about this room until next year. You get the drift - I hate it. To compound everything - my view is one of a gorgeous London train track and a newly built council building that is a huge yellow monstrosity packed into a space barely big enough to contain it. The kind council began the excavations for it the very day I brought sprog home from the hospital - so I languished in 37 degree heat, in a small top floor flat, with concrete mixers and drills playing a merry tune all day. It was the closest I have ever come to a Michael Jackson kid out a window moment when I er...hung out a window screaming 'wanker!' to a poor truck driver who beep-beeped his way up and down our tiny cul-de-sac 24/7. No wonder Bob the Builder brings me out in hives...

I have wanted out of the greyness of London and the confinement of my flat for so so long. So finally this year - I took the bull by the horns or the estate agent by the balls - and found a beautiful house in a gorgeous little market town half an hour on the train from London. I fell hook line and sinker for this blissful oasis - the rolling views, the big basement to stuff husband and sproglet and all their junk in, the heated floor tiles in the bathroom - I could go on. And the kitchen!! It has drawers!! A dish washer!! The drawers glide as they close and then silently shut. Honestly it is the closest I have come to an orgasm in a while. So we put in an offer - they put the price up - we haggled - I pretended I didn't want it at all - lied, played the game, danced around and lo and behold - it was ours! We are now steeped in mortgage hell and on tenterhooks that it will all come together.

Hopefully we will exchange in 2 weeks and then move in 4. It cannot come soon enough for me. Except.... There is of course a but. I have no money. I have been living of my flat equity for about oh, 8 months now? Maybe more. So I need to get a job pronto. Or else we cannot pay the mortgage on our dream house. So I have less than 6 weeks to - get a job, pack up the flat,sort mortgages, move house, unpack, get a car, furnish new house,clean both properties, get flat ready to rent out, find tenants for the flat and start new job! Phew. How does this make me feel? Stressed to within an inch of my life I tell you. If I didn't dye my hair blonde I am sure it would be grey. After my meeting with Mr BBC drama big wig the other week I thought at last my plant would bear fruit - but it remains a dried up old shell. I thought an opening - MY opening - the one I have waited a year for, would be coming up this very week -but it appears to have been filled INTERNALLY!!! Arrrrgggggggghhhhhhh.

A few weeks ago I wrote that I was at the end of my tether. I lied. I hadn't even gone half way. NOW I am there. On vacation hopefully. But it feels like I am bedded in. Don't get me started on our little visit to a furniture store yesterday when I tried to pick sofa materials, sproglet ran around changing the price tags on everything (I noticed one couple delighted to see a dining table at a mere £125) and then waddled towards me with his hands covered in bright red paint. Turns out they were painting a wall in store and sproglet had discovered the paint tray and decided kindly to help. Thank god his dunked mitts didn't make contact with any fancy sofa or I would have disowned him there and then. Husband went for every leather option and began a battle over which room he had 'the power of veto' over. By the time we left I didn't know whether I wanted a gin or a divorce.

So buckle up - these next few weeks are going to be an interesting ride. I have no idea where it will all lead - but I wish we could swop places. Now where did I put that tonne of camomile tea?

Feel the fear and take the anti-depressants anyway

There is this girl I like. I've never met her. I stumbled upon her one drunken evening when I was digging around (actually her husband's website led me to her - I like his band - having been to 2 of their gigs, including one when I was 7 months pregnant). Since then, I've popped my head round her blog door quite often - she writes the way I think. She's a kindred spirit even if she doesn't know me. The other day she mentioned that she had started taking medication for depression/anxiety. It's a brave move to announce on a blog, no matter how open one is. So I thought I'd show Monica - for that's her name, some moral support and admit that I too have been along a similar path.

Last November I ran home to Ireland. Escaping myself and my grey London existence. My lack of work, the drudgery of motherhood household tasks and long dark days when the husband would go to work and come home at 3am had conspired to rob me of any optimism, any joy. Everything my Mother did made me want to tear out my hair. The poor woman couldn't even make me a cup of tea without me raging at her. She had just split up with her husband and instead of comforting her - all I could think was - another man you have brought into my life as a father figure only to snatch out again. Anyway, one morning I dashed out - storming away from my toddler son, determined to relaim ME - and walked to the sea across from my Mother's house. It was the coldest greyest day (even by Northern Ireland standards) with huge storm clouds brewing over restless water. I sat on a rock and wept. I had no idea how to dig myself out of the hole I was in. Every which way I turned it seemed impossible to break into Tv drama for work. The presenting work had dried up and well... I was washed up. Husband worked such crazy hours that I ate most meals alone; TV and books my only companions. Friends were well meaning, but busy. People have their own lives to lead. Some days the only people I spoke to were the women at the gym creche or a supermarket checkout girl in Sainsburies. Loneliness is cruel. It creeps up on you. What had once been a choc full diary of a single girl hot-footing it around London, lay empty. Other mothers terrified me - they were confident, over powering and seemed to love the happy clappy groups that I loathed. I felt like I didn't fit in anywhere. Husband tried to be sympathetic, but he wasn't around long enough daily to really be there for me. I hated him and his ability to walk out the door and have a life, while I was left holding the (beautiful) baby. Adjusting to motherhood had taken it's toll. I loved my son with all my heart, but I mourned my life and what it had been - the freedom I had had.

When I realised I wanted to curl into a ball and not wake up (the irony being I was a Samaritan this whole time, every other week helping suicidal and unhappy people and yet I was unable to help myself) I knew I had to do something. Going home seemed to be the only answer. My poor Mother, plagued with worry, watched me stumble through days and collapse into bed, tired and weepy; she dragged me to the Dr and made me get help. The Dr calmly offered me tablets - I could hardly see her I was weeping so much. I cried to my friend Nikki on the phone, worried that this was just further evidence of my failings. She told me she was surprised I hadn't crumbled earlier. Other friends echoed these sentiments. I succumbed and took the tablets - Citalopram. But by god, they worked. I've still had the odd weep. I've still worried about work - and how the hell I will pay the mortgage when we move in 6 weeks or so. But by the third day of taking them I didn't feel rage pulsate through every nerve threatening to engulf me. I didn't feel so low I dreamt of climbing out of skin and becoming someone else - anyone, just to not be me. I stopped hating the one man who loves me above all. I stopped despairing and started believing in myself again. It's still a rocky road. I'm not there yet. Maybe I will never be 'there.' But I know I did the right thing. I know my Mum was right to try and help me - because my glass was so damn empty it was dry. Citalopram made me breathe again. The blackness faded and life became bearable and brighter. I coped with Motherhood rather than feeling trapped and caged. It didn't solve my problems but it made me able to deal with them, to be rational, to cope. (And yes, I can still have a drink,in fact on occasion more than a few!)

So good luck Monica - you took the right step. Whatever works for you can never be wrong. I no longer feel like I failed. I defy anyone to go through the year I had and not turn to something to get them through. I'm glad I had - or my Mother had - the serenity to know the things she couldn't change, the courage to change the things she could for me and the wisdom to know the difference.