Mrs BC

Last night I get a phone call from my friend S.

S: So, about the wedding. What time shall I come round and help you with your dress?

ME: I don't think I need any help with my dress. I was just planning to put it on over my head and stuff. Put my arms through the armholes and so on. I can probably do it on my own.

S: What about a bouquet?

ME: I haven't got a bouquet.

S: Do you want one?

ME: I don't think I do, thank you though.

S: What are we doing after the ceremony?

ME: We're going to have pasties on the beach.

S: Is that all?

ME: Yes. It's quite low-key.

S: What about the evening thing?

ME: There isn't an evening thing. It's just the ceremony, then pasties on the beach. That's essentially it.

S: I don't understand. What are you actually getting married for, then?

ME: Because we love each other. You know, we want to be married, we just aren't fussed about having an actual wedding.

A brief pause ensues.

S: Hmm, you know, all these years I think I've been getting it the wrong way round.

Westward Ho, Then

You know that thing where you meet someone on a chat forum, but they've got a made-up name, and so you don't realise straightaway that it's the same person whose blog you've been reading (until you start to notice some lexical similarities in their writing and begin to suspect it), and then someone* proposes a real-life forum meet-up, and you go along, and it turns out that the person whose blog you've been reading and who you've been conversing with on the chat forum is actually really very nice and likes Neal Stephenson too and everything, but you're married so you don't think anything of it, and anyway you aren't actually sure he isn't gay, and then later your marriage ends for unrelated reasons and you start hanging out with this person a bit more and you seem to get on quite well and everything and then about nine months later you ask them out on a date and they decline, and you aren't really surprised because you didn't think they were going to go for it anyway, and then three months after that you're both sitting on your sofa discussing how pleasant it is being single when the other person quite unexpectedly leans over to kiss you and says that they would like to see more of you after all, and you're very happy, but at the same time it's all quite complicated because you have to leave the country the next week, and then eight months later you come back to the UK and it's all still going very well with this other person and so you decide to leave your swish London job, your fancy London office and your nastily-carpeted London bachelorette flat and move to Cornwall (which is nicer than London, and a one-bedroom flat there doesn't cost three million pounds) to live with them?

Eeek.

And hurrah!


* That 'someone' being, of course, the lovely cello, to whom I am indebted, probably along with Neal Stephenson, for my current state of happy Cornwallwardsmovingness.

Bloggers Are Lonely Outcasts, Says Canadian Bloke

I know, I know - what better way to celebrate Valentine's Day than by idly trawling through my ex-husband's ex-lover's blog? Ah, the romance of it.

Still, I'm glad I did, because she posted a link to this article from the Windsor Star, in Canadialand, in which local author Michael Keren declares that blogging is 'melancholic and illusionary', and that 'the majority of [bloggers] remain in the dark, remain in the loneliness'.

Worth a read, not only for Professor Keren's Hardyesque cast of mind and whimsical use of pop cultural references to explain the fundamental sadness and alienation that lie at the heart of blogging, but also because if you screw up your eyes and peer through your fingers, it's a bit like reading an article from the Onion.

Happy Valentine's day, my fellow lonely, deluded outcasts. And remember: I am not real, and neither are you.

Blighty

After six long weeks in exile, I'm just about to make good my escape back to the land of Marmite and Twinings Earl Grey, to stock up on...er...Marmite and Twinings Earl Grey. And to check that the lovely Mr BC and I still like each other*. And to meet some people in Hungerford. And to pitch some dreadfully fashionable Web 2.0 malarky to some people in Reading. And to go to the work Christmas party. And to see Tunng and Viva Voce play in Brick Lane, if anyone fancies coming along on Monday evening.

My reward for all this frivolity is a 3.30am taxi back to Stansted on Wednesday morning, and the exile commences once more...


* Which apparently we do. Awww.

Ahem

Yes, well, er, that went well, I feel.

Um, nothing to see here.

*whistles nonchalantly*

Social Etiquette 2.0

UPDATE: Ahh, massive waves of blog-related paranoia, it's quite like old times. So, let's put this one back...

Spent a goodly portion of the train journey back from Cornwall pondering the most appropriate way to casually inform the assembled crowd of blog-readers (if indeed there's anyone left following the frankly pathetic frequency of posting recently) that I seem to have become - ahem - romantically involved with another blogger.

In the end I gave up pondering and listened to some loud, inappropriate punk songs instead.

Far the best approach all round, I think.

Romantic

Unfashionably late to the fray once more, but here goes...

So, Valentine's Day, eh? I've been amusing no one but myself over the past few days by saying hilarious things like: "So, Valentine's Day, eh? Any other day of the year, sending anonymous messages of infatuation would count as stalking."

I'm not a big fan of romance, unless the romantic gestures in question are a) subtle and b) unorthodox. Oh, but I'm a big fan of subtle, unorthodox romantic gestures. Preferably so subtle and unorthodox that you can barely tell they exist. This gives me licence to interpret almost anything I like as a subtle, unorthodox romantic gesture, which is great for relieving the tedium of everyday life.

But I'm straying from the point.

Which is that Valentine's Day has traditionally been a bit of a mixed bag for me. Let's review some previous instances of the occasion:

Feb 14th, 1991, circa 7am: Unaware that it is in fact Valentine's Day, I get it together with D, after having spent the entire night talking about conspiracy theories and the Sisters of Mercy. I reckon he's The One. He reckons I'm The One. We fall desperately in love. A couple of years later, we're walking across a car park, he's carrying some camouflage netting, I tell him I'm the happiest I've ever been...no, wait, I've done that one.

Feb 14th, 1995: D and I agree that we've come to the end of the road, which we have, both metaphorically and literally, as we're standing at the top of Peascod Street in Windsor. He's alright about it. I'm alright about it. As a farewell gift he presents me with a black fake-fur jacket, which I love. Almost three years later I leave the jacket behind in someone's warehouse flat in Brick Lane after a particularly debauched New Year's party, and never see it again.

Feb 14th, 2005: I'm happily married to ex-Mr P. For Valentine's Day he takes me for lunch at the Oxo Tower, where we talk about Microsoft. Afterwards, he takes me to the Tate Modern, where we laugh at couples embracing in front of a video of slowly rotting fruit, and ex-Mr P gets told off for interfering with the exhibits. Later, we walk hand-in-hand over the wobbly bridge and go to the Apple Store, where I buy my trusty iPod Shuffle. (Happy Birthday, Shuffle. You've been a great friend). I couldn't be happier.

Feb 14th, 2006: Unaware of the ironic timing, I email a firm of solicitors based in the same office building as me, asking them for advice about my impending divorce.

Romance, happy endings, The One - it's all bollocks, isn't it?

Isn't it?

It's All Gone A Bit Geoff Dyer...

...or it will do if I don't make this very short.

Anyway, it's 1993. I'm walking across the car park of Royal Holloway and Bedford New College in Egham, Surrey, with my boyfriend of the time. It's early evening, autumn time. He's carrying something, probably white camouflage netting. None of this is particularly interesting. The important thing is that as we're walking across the car park, I tell him that I'm happier than I've ever been.

The odd thing is that I don't have any memories of ever saying this at any other point in my life, even though I *must* have, surely. It's such an unremarkable occasion on which to have come out with it, walking across a car park. And if you asked me to look back on my life* and point out a time when I was truly happy, my first choice probably wouldn't be the autumn of 1993. But I remember saying it, so I know that I was.

Which is why I want to say now very quickly, because I tend to avoid sentimental stuff if at all possible, that right now, January 2006, I'm probably happier than I've ever been. There isn't anyone around to tell this to, so I'll just note it down here, and then in thirteen years' time, I'll remember (or - hey - read it in my archive), and know that I was.

Ahem. As you were.


* My life to date, I mean. Christ, I make it sound like I'm on my deathbed. I'm not. Why, quite a lot of my hair is still its natural colour. Not that I can actually really remember now what that was. I'll stop now, I'm not making it any better.

Engaged

What a day for news - a suspect has been named in the Camden "body parts" murder, the US has sent 11,000 troops to the Gulf, and H. and I are engaged to be married!

Yes, readers, he proposed to me last night in someone's back garden in N16, amid fireworks being set off by youths outside a kebab shop in Stoke Newington High Street. Both families duly informed and we are utterly exhausted with the whole rigmarole already. Going to buy the ring on Saturday. Wedding not until next year - possibly on an island in the beautiful river Orb in the Languedoc. Now facing the hideous prospect of having to read Brides and Setting Up Home magazine (shudder).

Don't be concerned though; this isn't going to turn into one of those wedding blogs. Normal claptrap will be resumed forthwith. And lest I forget in all the excitement - a very Happy New Year to all my readers and may 2003 bring you happiness, plenty and fulfilment.