Sex & the single bed

When I moved into my house, there was one small problem. ‘Small’, being the key word. My criminally tiny bedroom, which has since been affectionately renamed ‘the cupboard over the stairs’ (can I reference Harry Potter in a chick lit blog?) was furnished with a single bed.

Yes, I am single. But does my bedroom really need to rub it in? And what are my chances of meeting (and wooing) Mr Right with just 90cm of bed width?

Before I go on, a disclosure. I know it can be done. My ex-boyfriend was the proud, 28-year old owner of a king-single bed. We made it work. But that boy-sized bed should have set my alarm bells ringing. Any guy who is happy sleeping in a single bed, in his Mum’s house, with a ninja turtles poster on the wall and a lego castle on display is not going to ask you to marry him. I know that now. Let’s move on.

So, this week I’ve been looking to the books for guidance on how to live my chick lit life. I bought Milly Johnson’s ‘An Autumn Crush‘ – a great little read about new flatmates, living in England and finding love in the fall. Perfect! Well, without giving too much away, two of the characters only realise they’re in love after falling into her bed in a state of drunken passion.

It got me thinking. Would that have worked with the single bed scenario? With two people that drunk (and her on the curvy side), would they even have both landed on the bed in their drunken state? Let alone enjoyed the bonk-fest to follow?

With literary evidence to back me up, my decision was made. A double bed was ordered. And yesterday it arrived! I now have about a metre square of floor space left and I can’t open my door all the way. But it’s wonderful! Last night I slept spread out like a starfish, luxuriating in all that wonderful, delicious space. I’m even blogging from my bed right now!

So the man for that scene of drunken love isn’t here just yet. But at least now, the furniture is in place!


Making a connection

It’s been too long since I last wrote… but that’s what happens when you don’t have an internet connection.

But I have an excuse – I moved house! Yes, this chick lit novel now has a setting. A brown brick semi-detached house on the top of a hill in north-west London. It’s too small and too far out of town but it’s got big windows and a big backyard and I already love it.

I’ve got flatmates, too. One of my best friends from Australia has already been here four years – she’s the wise Londoner guiding me through this crazy adventure. She organised the place – I’m living with her, her rock star English boyfriend, and HIS single best friend. I KNOW. THIS CHICK LIT NOVEL IS WRITING ITSELF.

So obviously, I’m going to end up with this guy, right? I mean, it’s so predictable. Even more predictable, because I really don’t think I will. You know how in the chick lit novel, the girl doesn’t really like the obvious guy, because she’s infatuated with Mr Wrong? And Mr Obvious is clearly pining for her throughout the novel, but the Chick doesn’t really notice how fabulous he is, until Mr Wrong breaks her heart and Mr Obvious is there for her?

Well, I haven’t found Mr Wrong yet. And I’m pretty sure my poor housemate isn’t pining for me. But if this really WAS a chick lit book, I’m pretty sure that’s how it would end. I’ll keep you posted.

But back to the internet thing. You will never know just how reliant you are on the internet, until you don’t have it. And when you’re living in a new house, in a new suburb, in a new city, in a new country, you need the internet more than ever. Especially when your phone is busted.

Since I arrived in England, my phone has been on the blitz. Things came to a head last week when my Mum texted me to ask if I could Skype. Homesick, and newly depressed about my lack of internet, I sent her a long, detailed message about how crap everything was. AND THEN IT DIDN’T SEND.

It’s funny, when you’re on edge, what little things set you off. Six days of internet cold turkey, and the fact that that simple text wouldn’t go through sent me over the edge. The iPhone was thrown. There was shouting. There were tears. In the midst of my hysterics, as I listed every little thing that was wrong with my life, including my uncomfortable pillow, the fact that I didn’t know what to have for lunch, and that my hair will never do what I want it to, I added, “AND I’ve been here a month and no one’s fallen in love with me!”

After the drama had passed, a list of priorities was made. Number one on the list was getting my phone sorted. Love, I thought, could wait at least one more day. So imagine my surprise one man offered both services later that very day.

Yes, I was cracked on to by the phone repair man.

Ring a ding ding!

Dateless, jobless

I don’t have a job. I need one.

The funny thing is, unemployment is pretty fab. I worked bloody hard at home, and never thought I’d last this long (three weeks and counting) in the land of unemployment without going insane. But it’s great! I suddenly have time for all the little things that used to fall by the wayside. Teeth flossing – check! And not just a guilty once-a-month rush job, either. I’ve been doing it every day! Leisurely strolls – check! I am slowly but surely figuring out the confusion that is the streets of London, and getting a little bit less lost every day. Lunchtime wine-drinking – check, check check! I’m blogging under the influence right now – just one mind you – but enough to get the creative juices flowing!

But that’s the rub, isn’t it? The wine fund will eventually run out. And that’s where the need for a job comes back in.

Job hunting is a pretty miserable task. Everything that looks good, you don’t meet the selection criteria. Seriously, some of these agencies want you to speak three languages, have ten years’ experience in origami and be able to whip up a croquembouche in half an hour – all to work as a PA for some shitty company at five bucks an hour.

As I write more and more applications, squeezing in as many buzz-words as I can, the urge is growing to be completely, devastatingly honest. To sell what I can REALLY do as opposed to what they want me to say. What do you reckon they’d make of this?

To whom it may concern,

Just throw those other applications away. I am the girl for the job!

My skills are set out as follows:

I have an excellent memory. I can tell you the name of every celebrity baby born between 1996 and today, including the obscure ones like Louis Bardo and Carys Zeta.

I have a great attention to detail. I can tell you EVERYTHING that annoyed me about the girl I used to work with, including how many times she wore that jacket that I bitched about, but secretly wanted.

I always complete the task at hand. I also always complete the bag of lollies IN my hand, even when it tries to scare me off by claiming it’s ‘family sized’. I am committed!

I am a hard worker. Unless you tell me to run. I really hate running.

I promise to turn up to work, on time, every day, and limit my Facebooking to just once an hour – that’s good right? I will probably bitch about my job to my friends, but let’s be honest  – everyone does.

Just give me an interview. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.