My job is clucking pointless

If you want to feel like your life serves some greater purpose, I don’t recommend becoming an advertising copywriter.

If, however, you have a way with words and don’t mind whoring it out to develop three distinct tones of voice for a chicken burger, it could well be your dream job.

Three different voices. For a chicken burger.

A plain chicken burger. No breadcrumbs. No marinade. No salad. No spice. NO FUCKING FLAVOUR.

It is a measure of how lost I am in what I do that I was proud of myself at the end of the project.

There was the voice that was all about friendly flavour. (It’s too late when they’ve bought the burger and realised it’s essentially tasteless. My work here is done.)

There was the one that was all about speed and convenience.

And there was the one that combined flavour, speed and convenience.

OK. I cheated a bit. But come on. Three different personalities for a plain chicken burger? I did good.

In other news, I might not be depressed any more. It’s hard to tell. I’m still pretty miserable, but it feels within the realms of normally miserable. I’m doing work on the garden, looking forward to things again. It might be OK.

I (quite unintentionally but very pointedly) hurt HWSNBM’s feelings, disparaged and diminished his best business efforts and basically emasculated him to the point where I think it’s safe to say I will never hear from him again. This is a very good thing in the round, though if I was going to mortally offend him, I wish I’d done it on purpose. (Or do I? It’s not really in my nature to be deliberately cruel…)

I was just trying to be helpful. You know when someone’s doing something and it’s all wrong and you could do it a million times better, and they ask your opinion and you don’t lie and you forget to use your nice words in the rush to be all helpful?

Yeah. Bad.

In my defence, I was right. But still.





Happy fucking Valentine’s Day

The day has been spent in a cloud of woe. Woe is the wrong word, actually. It’s a bit passive. I have spent the day in a fit of murderous rage. All those hearts. All that red. Seriously.

Obviously nothing from The Pirate. Obviously. Though it’s all a bit playground, as I didn’t send him anything, so quite why I’ve taken umbrage over the fact that I haven’t been overwhelmed with all those hearts and all that red, I don’t know.

I’m a stuck record, but WHY COULDN’T HE LOVE ME?

I know. He’s incapable. A more salient question would be, why can’t I let him go?

There has been contact. Of course there’s been contact. We exchange emails. It’s not helping. Especially when none of those emails have been exchanged today. Fucking Valentine’s Day. It’s hateful.

There is no point to this post, so I will stop.


Sleeping with Mr Greedy

Had one of those lovely conversations with The Boy today, where we’re both talking about entirely different things, but that’s OK. We were discussing our sleeping arrangements. Specifically, how sleeping on our own, in our own beds, is the most amazing, awesome, grown-up thing ever, but sleeping in each other’s beds is bleurgh-for-babies.

“Yes Mummy – because my bed has only one pillow for only one person: me!”

“That’s right…”

“And your bed has… Wait. Your bed has TWO pillows. For two persons!”

His little face lights up. Ohhhhh no. I see where this is going. There shall be no small boy kicking me in the kidneys all night…

“Yes – me and Mr Nobody.”

The Boy is very taken with the concept of Mr Nobody at the moment. He’s a very real presence in our home.

“Yes! Mr Nobody needs somewhere to sleep, doesn’t he?”

And his gorgeous little face lights up again as a new thought occurs to him.

“Mummy – did you ever sleep with Mr Greedy?”

I think about The Pirate, and how much he took from me.

“Yes, yes I did…”

“And did he EAT YOU ALL UP?”

I think about The Pirate’s animal enthusiasm and considerable talent for oral sex. His hands pinning my thighs to the bed as he buried his face between them. Wiping my juices all over his face then smelling his hands, really breathing in, like I’m honey. Me nervously piping up that I’m on my period, and him looking at me like I’m mental and going down on me anyway*.

“Yes, yes he did…”

“Were you scared?”

Pinned to the floor of my living room so I can’t move. Nipples pinched so hard it hurts. Sharp, fox-like teeth in soft, hidden places. Slaps to the backside, playful at first but then not so, administered with a look that says ‘defy me if you dare’ – which was obviously met with defiance. Always, a show of strength – and he’s so, so strong. The thrill of submitting, giving what I know he could take  anyway.

“A little bit. But sometimes it’s fun to be scared…”

“Do you prefer sleeping with Mr Greedy or Mr Nobody?”

Ah, the million dollar question.

“Mr. Nobody,” I reply. But I’m not fooling anyone.

*It is impossible to orgasm when you’re worried that the string of your tampon is going to catch in his teeth. Fact.

New Year’s resolutions

Got to be done. Got to be committed to paper – or t’interweb – in order to be able to properly beat myself up with them when I fail. Ah, that’s the spirit…

Notes to D for 2012

1. Stop sleeping with inappropriate men. It makes you feel worse. And you might catch something. Ugh.

2. Go to bed before 11pm more nights than not.

3. Try and exercise for half an hour every day. This will involve walking round and round the field near work at lunch time. Even in the rain. Are you listening? Even in the rain.

4. Take multivitamins every day. EVERY DAY. EVERY FUCKING DAY, D. Why do you find this so ridiculously hard to remember to do?

5. Write more. Your blog, the novel (as if!), at work (it’s kinda what they pay you to do…). More words. They do good things to poor broken souls.

6. Wear make-up more days than not, so when the man who comes to service your boiler is unexpectedly the most handsome creature you’ve seen in a while, and is also single and quickly becomes besotted with your boy, you aren’t standing there looking like shit on a shovel with unbrushed teeth and hair and the dowdiest grey dress on you own, because it didn’t need ironing. Make more of an effort. Not for anyone else. But for you.

7. Burn that fucking grey dress.

8. Find ways to fund your L’Occitane Immortelle Divine habit that don’t involve breaking resolution number 1. Good skin makes everything much, much better.

9. If (when, I fear when) The Pirate reappears, be strong. BE STRONG. His last email may well have ended in 2 kisses. Please for the love of all things holy, stop fucking analysing them. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. There. 20 kisses in 2 seconds. It’s that fucking easy. His finger probably slipped, or he had a terrible cold and he was dying and far too weak to even lift his finger off the ‘x’ key. BE STRONG.

10. Play with your son more. Even brumming, which has a whole circle of hell dedicated to its unique brand of random, soul-destroying tedium. And even though he makes the ‘rules’ up as he goes along and never lets you be the car/fire engine/ambulance you want to be. It won’t be long before he’d sooner spit on you than brum with you.

That’ll do. There are 4 minutes to go before I break number 2 and about 20 minutes of chores to do before bed. Oh well. I’ll start tomorrow.

Let’s go shopping

A (not exhaustive) list of desirable qualities in my next partner:

He has to like me
You wouldn’t think this would be the number one requisite. A bit Janet & John, right? But most of you have never met me. You have no idea how pig-headed, stupid and arrogant I can be. A boy is showing little or no interest in me? Fuck you – I will MAKE you love me.

I will pour all of my love and energy into making your world a beautiful, warm, loving place. Cartoon bluebirds will follow you around, festooning you with blossom and singing songs of sweet, sweet love. Chubby little cherubs will flirt merrily around your ears, shooting their love-stuffed arrows right into your heart.

You will run as fast as you possibly can from the crazy, overbearing, smothering-you-with-fucking-Mills-and-Boon-nonsense, idiot girl that I am. No more.

Next time, he will like me as much as I like him. Not more. Not less. Exactly equal amounts of like. (I will ruin next time by trying to quantify exactly how much he likes me and comparing it unfavourably with my pile of like, like I used to do with mine and my sister’s Easter eggs. Still, it’s all content for the blog, right?)

He must smell good
My ex-husband always smelled good. The Pirate… Ah, The Pirate. Bottle him. I can’t tell you how important smell is. Both my ex and The Pirate smelled good in their raw state, but then they enhanced. Deodorant. Aftershave. The Pirate’s conditioner (oh! The Pirate’s hair! It’s OK that I’m still mourning his glorious, glorious hair, right?).

Because smell isn’t just hormonal. Cleanliness and a certain amount of preening go a long, long way. My Mum has a very attractive neighbour. He has the most beautiful green eyes, washed out surfy blonde hair and a soft yet very defined, very kissable mouth. Lovely. And he smokes roll ups, doesn’t seem overly concerned with showering in what seems to be a consistently French way, and absolutely reeks. The waste! Enough to make a girl weep.

He will be an enlightened despot
A controversial one, this, and difficult to explain. Did  you learn about the enlightened despots at school? 18th century European monarchs who ruled absolutely with no pesky government or court telling them what to do – but who did so tolerantly and with an appreciation for the arts. I need me one of those. An indulgent master.

I know, I know… Horribly old-fashioned, unforgivably anti-feminist. How to explain… OK. I want a man strong enough to keep me in line. A man with the strength of personality to command my respect, a man I recognise as my equal, if not my superior. But, crucially, a man who doesn’t abuse the power he holds over me. A man who could crush me with a word, but chooses not to, every time. An alpha male that recognises and respects the alpha female in me, and makes her want to bow down and lick his boots.

I can’t be in any kind of relationship with someone I don’t respect. I worked my way up the ladder at work not out of any real sense of ambition, but because I couldn’t bear working for people I had no respect for. If I thought I could do their job better, I worked up and over them. Told you I was arrogant.

The Boy-Child was a self-confessed beta male and it just didn’t work for me. He was timid and passive-aggressive, which was bad enough, but also put me on a pedestal, which was worse. It was really hard not being a bitch, not abusing the position of power he put me in.

You can see this is going to cause all kinds of problems. I can’t see that it will be any easier for a man not to do the same to me. I fear I’m going to get stung by a lot of arrogant bullies before I find a good, kind, strong man. But I don’t think my lust for alpha males is going anywhere fast. I blame Rhett Butler, Heathcliff and Petruchio.

He’ll teach me things
It’s more than the hair and the smell that’s making it so hard for me to get over The Pirate. He used to be a groundsman and gamekeeper. He knew stuff. We’d be driving through the Cumbrian hills and he’d tell me about moor management, and how strips of the heather are burned away to… (Fuck knows. I can’t remember. I didn’t say I’d remember the things that he taught me, just that he’d teach me them and I’d see the passion in his eyes and imagine him fucking me senseless in the blackened gulleys of razed heather stubble, whispering words of ecology in my ear with every thrust.)

Like when we were on the beach with an awesome storm rolling in over the sea, and he described what was happening in each of the types of clouds, what the winds were doing and from what direction, when and where the rain would fall. Or when we were driving across the Pennines and he suddenly pulled over, leaped out of his jeep in the rain and ran clapping into the gorse, so I could hear the wonderfully peculiar sound a particular game bird makes when it takes off. Or when he was standing behind me, arms around me, teaching me how to fly fish for salmon in the grounds of an ancient castle.

I like learning things. I was good at school, not because I am especially intelligent – again, I refer you to the content of this blog for evidence of my spectacular stupidity. No, I was good because I am good at learning. I enjoy it. My next man will teach me things. Could be about heather. Could be about particle physics. I’m not really bothered, as long as it’s delivered with the kind of passion that makes me want to do bad things.

He will want children
Because I want more. Soon. Which could be an issue… And he will want MY children, all of them, including the gorgeous boy I already have. I crave family.

He will love me for who I am
Yes. Let’s aim a little higher than ‘he will like me’. He will love me. He will find the things about me that are loveable, the things that I can’t see right now. He will make me feel loved, and he will let me love him. Every day won’t be hearts and flowers. I imagine there’ll be tough times. But we’ll work through them, together.

Too much to ask for, do you think?





Way, way too much information

I would like some sex, please.

I’m probably ovulating, or something. But I would really like sex. Dirty, energetic, bitey, sweaty, laughy, earthy, un-self-conscious sex. I miss the penises I have known and loved in the last 18 months. It’s sad that the men attached to them were total dicks, but they did have nice penises.

My ex-husband’s cock was beautiful. I know there is comfort and joy in the familiar, but I suspect a stranger would be delighted with it, too. Circumcised, always beautifully clean and manicured, and a lovely size. Not too big, not too small. Ah. Just right. Smooth against your lips. He had lovely bollocks too. Weighty and pendulous. Nice and slappy. A fine set of tackle.

The Boy-Child’s cock was… hmmm. Not that pleasant, now I think. But it was incredibly eager, and rose to the occasion again and again and again. Which is, you know, flattering. Oh, and his cum was like water. Absolutely no viscosity, a little oily. Not for me.

The Pirate’s cock… Jaunty. A little periscope foreskin, befitting the nautical vibe. I’d say it was cute – a bit meerkatty, nosy somehow – but men don’t  like words like ‘cute’ being used in association with their bits, right? Not the biggest of cocks which, judging by the many self-deprecating comments he made, bothered him. Can’t say as it bothered me. It was a thing of beauty (and it was big enough to make me bleed. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do…).

Two good things – it smelled amazing. (Naturally. It was attached to him…) Even after a day in fishing waders. Sigh. And it tasted even better. His cum always, always tasted delicious. Actively delicious. Not just tolerable. Lipsmackingly moreish, no matter what he’d eaten.

I really like giving blow jobs. I take pride in my work. I miss giving blow jobs. *I want sex.*

I really wish I could do casual sex. The world would be a fine place if I could. I’d probably still be sleeping with The Pirate. He might be here tonight, fucking me from behind under the fairy lights, doing bad, bad things with the candy canes from the tree, biting my nipples, drinking Baileys from my belly button..

But I’m a stupid rubbish girl, with stupid rubbish emotions that get in the stupid bastard way. (Though with The Pirate, I suspect it was pheromonal as much as emotional. I’m pretty sure no-one’s cum tastes that good without some serious chemical shit going on.) I wish I was a boy. I want sex.

And alongside this physical itch that so very needs scratching, there’s the need to be touched. No-one touches me any more. It makes me jump when people do. My boss touched my arm today, a supportive squeeze, and it freaked me out. It felt like an invasion, because no-one touches me any more. And I am *such* a tactile person. I want to be stroked and hugged and – oh god – kissed.

Yeah. I want sex.

I think I preferred the nothing

So when you send an email to a man baring your soul, explaining how his thoughtless behaviour makes you feel and telling him you won’t be contacting him again and don’t want to hear from him either unless he’s ready to be a grown-up and quit fucking around, what kind of response would you expect?

There was the week of nothing. And then there was an email asking for more help with his business, not acknowledging the above at all.

It caught my by surprise, I have to say. He emailed me as if nothing had happened; I replied as if nothing had happened, giving the advice he asked for.

And then my brain caught up. How dare he just ignore my email and ask for more STUFF from me?! Did he even READ my break-up message?! So I sent him a text message. See below for the full exchange:

Wednesday, 11.00pm
Hi… A question that has only just occurred to me – did you ever actually read my ‘Please read me – thank you x’ email?

Thursday, 10.30am
I did read your email. I did what I always do bury my head in the sand berate myself for upsetting and hurting somebody, feel more miserable than I did and then scoot back under the stone whence I came. Sorry its taken a while to get back to you but I have a minging cold and can barely type I am that ill x

Thursday, 6pm
And apologies for the delay in this response – have been in London pitching. Sorry you’re feeling so ill. I’ve been rottenly poorly the last week or so – voice lost for one day, a blessing for all concerned other than me – so I feel your pain and hope you feel better soon. As for the rest… I don’t know. I don’t know what to say to you any more. There may well be nothing. It’s all been said – or written. x

Friday, 9.30am
Hello. Sorry I missed your text I had the phone on silent so I could sleep my to recovery. How come the world and his wife call when you want silence !!! Have a good day x

So there. That clears it all up, doesn’t it? A nice tidy end for all concerned. ‘Have a good day x’?! Seriously?!

I don’t know what to say. I thought I’d come and try and blog it out, but I genuinely don’t know what to say. The man has rendered me speechless.