Conspiracy theory

Is this hormones or is it paranoia or just sheer... coincidence? Everywhere I go they follow me with their little eyes, they stare at me and sometimes I can feel that they are smiling at me. With smiles that sometimes feel like they´re saying "come on, get going" or "I like you, take me with you" or... "get into our world".

What is now this? Babies and children and toddlers and what have you! They are everywhere, on airplanes sitting behind me and the minute I get up to do something, their eyes are one me. Or in shops. Immediately when I start looking at something, something little and clumsy runs into my legs and start pulling my skirt. When I look down I see a toothless smile and then they realize that I am NOT their mum and run away.

This morning it was all time high though. A little japanese boy of about 3 years of age crossed the street with his dad when I was waiting on the red lights. The little boy was staring at me from when he got on to the zebra crossing until they were out of sight. And when I looked at him he smiled at me and walked backwards with his eyes fixed on to me, and his father had to drag him along. What is it with me? Do I steam out production hormones? Do I have this "mother-appeal" to me?

Maybe he just thought I was of the witches in Sleeping Beauty in my black coat, ugly helmet and skiing mittens.

I don´t know, but there is some sort of conspiracy happening. A super-baby conspiracy.


btw. remember ally mcbeal and her baby-hallucinations? reminder below, complete with Björn Skifs (swedish old-time superstar) singing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m38vTNvbM6g

Image turnaround

Great revelations. Just finished the brilliant real-life modern drama... Bridget Jones Diary. What a blast. Haven't seen it in probably 6 years, and it's a completely different view on it. When I last saw it I was married and stable and serious. And living in cold Stockholm. And now, single and living in the home country of this brilliant little film. The way they portrait the ambiguity of seriousness and skimpyness in this crooked society of modern England is a bloody master piece of work. Amazing.

Back to the revelation then. Tartiness. That's what it is all about. I mean, if you could choose a character in the film, would you rather be blonde, curvy, sexy and hysterically funny Bridget, or the cold, snobby, androgynous Natascha? Needless to say... Chavy is Chic.

I feel always like the Natascha-types. The good wife, elegant, smart and with a good job. How boring. I will now change my whole image. I will skip my sturdy and nerdy seriousness and become giggling, funny, a bit airheady and ... blonde. So much more fun.

Tarts of the world, unite and take over.

Age matters -- again?

So, do you think age really matters? Is it just a figure on a piece of paper, or does it really imply anything? A group of people met up last night to have a meal and a few drinks. Along came also "The talented Mr Ripley" that I met on the flight last week. Which was all very nice and everyone got along really well. And all my friends were really impressed by this cute 24-year-old that is rather similar to Jude Law. Now, Jude Law has never been a bit favorite of mine. but still. Very good looking of course. Both of them.

Anyway. The evening went by really well and my girlies really thought I should flirt with Mr Ripley, and that he was really keen on me. But somehow, I felt just.. no, I have no interest whatsoever. Not even a tiny bit attracted. As much as I try to not think of it, he is the same age as my lovely cousin. And I was rather a big girl when he was born. And I remember him toddling around in his nappies and being a baby. With all that this involves. And it horrifies me to think that Mr Ripley is the same age.

And as much as I like babies, I don´t want to date them.

One year's celebrations!

Getting very close to the one-year celebration of my singlehood. Lovely. What an achievement from an ex-serial monogamist. My last boyfriend was the confused Sweden-living Irish guy with all the kiddies around Europe with whom I went out with for almost three months. It ended up around the 10th of March last year. Not a very easy relationship but since i got introduced for the entire county Wicklow as "my girlfriend", he must be regarded as my last boyfriend. This title declaration took place 2 weeks before I found out he was having an affair with the Indie queen of north Sweden. All very confusing. He clearly was a bipolar multitasker.

Anyway, thanks dearest confused Irish guy, very happy to have been released from your grip. And I got my single-year, finally. It´s been a great year, and I have learned loads about all sorts of things. And been very good at keeping away from impossible relations. Well done.

Happy Birthday Spinster!

Selling or Dating, all the same

High activity levels. That's the trick. Be it sales or dating. And since I put my energy in both parts, I dare say I know what I am talking about. Even if my dear job the last week didn't show very high activity levels, my dating project sure did.

Monday night on my way to the motherplanet, I get chatted up by a sweet London-Swede. A bit of a talented mr Ripley-moment, since everytime he opened he opened his beautiful mouth, out came things that could be my quotes, without us ever having met before. Amazing. And amazingly young, 10 years my junior, but hey, who knows, what is age anyway? So we're meeting up on Friday for lunch. Looking forward actually. May I am a bit paedophilic after all.

Tuesday, superdate with Mr Big de Stockholm. We talked non-stop for 6 hours, unclear of what, but we touched most shady parts of our lives. Plus we had some really good wine and great nibbles. A superdate simply. Must say that Sweden is doing pretty good for the moment.

Friday, Mr Sketch takes me out. I have tried to keep him short, but he has been really on. So, as the brilliant English gentleman he is, he takes me out for the full English date. This ultra-Englishman with a very classic name, picks me up in his Mini Cooper, dressed in a full Paul Smith outfit with a quirk. Then he takes me to the Everyman Cinema, with comfy leather sofas, in my favorite part of the world, Hampstead, to see a super French film, the Silence of Sleep. And after a great outing on the Heath, i.e. Hampstead Heath, on the Saturday, I explain to him that I can't see him anymore unless he sells the flat that he and his ex-girlie is staying in. And he understands and accepts and says he will arrange this quickly so we can get on with our life together. Which the best reaction really. And then we say good bye.

Then Sunday comes, and I am on a date with Pete Doherty. Together with some 5000 other fans. But still. We had a special moment.

So, nothing to complain about when it comes to activity levels here anyway. And I am even writing visit reports.

I am going underground

This are the words from an ex claustro maniac. A person who haven't been able to even see the logo of London underground without getting serious panic attacks. Can you imagine the relief when this very same person can travel relaxed from north west to south south in less than 2o minutes? When the corners of the greatest city on earth can be reached in what we in Swe call svinblink (glance of a swine, not sure where it comes from, but means a very quick look).

That's when you love the underground, and the underground loves you. In a svinblink.

Who the hell is Kate Moss?

Bah. What a joke. Can't even open a glossy without seeing her crooked look. Bah. And tonight. Going to see my beloved Pete Doherty playing with his not-too-great-but-ok Babyshambles at Brixton Academy. I love Pete. His long and restless figure dressed in a sleek gray suit, a thin tie and his very typical trillby hat, swaying around on the stage. Amazing he even turned up. Must have been because he heard that I was coming. So there we were, having a great night together, love forever, not only fuck forever... (their one and only hit), but suddently there is a cloud shadowing the sun. Like a little fairy, impossible to hear, she turns up in an almost identical outfit as him and sings with him. Bah. Waste of space. Pete is mine.

Get lost baby.

Delightfully Distracted

Not one, not even one little one did we manage to speak to, let alone get a number from! We are such a useless bunch of singletons! Here we are, this supreme gang of gorgeous, ambitious, interesting, smart and very very very funny ladies, all dressed to the sixes in the latest with hair fixed and make-up perfectly laid, nails varnished and shoes polished. We had Ms Super Interior Design, Ms Prada Finland, TomBoy Spain, Coyote Pretty and Chablis. What a line up! We met up at just-great Annex3 in Little Portland Street and got one of those great Philippe Starck plexiglass-tables right in the centre. Like European princesses.

And apart from a quick lipstick fix at the ladies', we did not move our firm and toned asses from this splendid post one second. We sat and talked and talked and giggled and laughed our heads off and talked and drank champagne (and a few other not-so-ladylike-drinks) for FOUR hours. Then this closed, admittedly a bit tipsy, cluster went straight to Ms Design's members' club in Soho and continued in the same spirit for another couple of hours. Not talking to one other person. Apart from waiters, which does not count when it comes to flirt-points. Ok, not this time around anyway, for they were all waitresses.

A few hours later, the sunny lovely Sunday morning we gathered again at Coyote Pretty's beautiful flat for a gourmé breakfast, all steamingly hung-over and still laughing like mad. And in the midst of all mad-mad laughter, we suddenly stopped the chatting and looked at eachother with blank faces, "Hey, wasn't there something we forgot yesterday?".

Sinister Spinster's evil thoughts

Was a sweet ex-wife yesterday and sent a text to the ex-husband, congratulating him on the birth of his son that bumped down on this globe last week. Which I found out through friends. Apparently, too much to ask from my best friend of 10 years that he would inform me himself. Well, bless him, I guess his horse-mouthed new wife has deleted my contact details from all his communication devices .. But I decided to swallow this little irritation and sent a nice text to him. Got an answer very quickly back. Reveling his bad conscious/awkwardness about the situation.

The answer was loooong and detailed and ended with "...so now I am heading for the life as small-child-parent". Which of course is a life we both thought for MANY years that we would have together. Before my painful but necessary derailing. But that's another story.

Keeping on to my little witty and extremely funny self I wrote back: "Honey, I am truly great. And keeping a healthy distance from the small-child-parent-life!".

Not a word back.

And to keep the spirits up, I think I will send them one of those skimpy and tasteless baby t-shirts, saying "My Dad Is a Sex Maniac". A bit waste of time and money though. I would miss the whole point: the reaction of the horse-mouthed IRL.

HEHE

Signed Sealed Delivered

Interesting date coming up next week. Will be seeing my Brand New Friend Mr Big de Stockholm for a drink on Tuesday. We have been set up by my good ol' friend Mr Hornstull (horrible name btw, needs to change, let's rename him,,, Mr Bintje,,, so much better with an old potato sort, hehe), on a so called BLIND date. Now, Mr Big and I are very cool with the whole set-up. But not mr Bintje. He is excited out of his PANTS. He has already started to plan holidays and dinners and is envisioning our kids now. Cool it darling. Mr Big and I have secretly agreed to not tell Mr Bintje about where we will be going. Otherwise we risk having him falling down the chimney like a confused Santa with a camera to make the moment last forever.

And frankly, this will be a very easy date. Mr Bintje, in his fixing and trixing spirit, decided to send over my Blogg-address to my dear future husband. So this poor man (hello darling!) knows all there is to know by now. And, if he has bothered to read it all through, has a pretty good record of all my twist and turns in the single world the past year.

Good or bad? You tell me. Mr Bintje comments enthusiastically "Hey oh ho, that's only good honey! He, if anyone, knows what it's like to sleep around!".

Thanks. Feels so much better now.

Scrambled eggs

"Now Kylie will not be a mother", one of the daily papers splurts out to the innocent British public. The rather prominent paper made the conclusion after the announcement last week of the split between everyone's pet Kylie Minogue and her French stallion Olivier Martinez.

Discussed this yesterday with a girlfriend, Ms Design, single and about my age. Since the paper concludes that Kylie actually has wasted 4 of her best (and last) "go-find-father-to-children-years" on this French casanova (as if any French men were something else...), she mind as well start filling in adoption papers today.

The moral of this song is: Since both my friend and I are the same age as Kylie was when she fell in love with Mr Perfect Martinez, we need to be VERY VERY careful with whom we decide to spend our valueable time with. Because we risk wasting 4 years on someone who will NEVER be right. Horror horror horror!!! BAH. What happened to romance, passion and crazy head-over-heels adventures? Are they now gone and will never come back? Because NOW is serious time. Bah. If this is true, we all mind as well go back to Internet dating. Which is right up the street of logic and boredom.

Ms Design has proudly found a solution to this delicate problem. Egg freezing. This will make it possible to have your own kids at any time. No need to feel stressed whatsoever. Hmm, not convinced darling.
I like my eggs hot and boiled, please.

Eclectic or... stereotypical?

Not sure if you ever experience this, but sometimes when I think I am really different and perhaps a bit original, I soon realize that everyone else thinks exactly the same. Like I was some sort of trend attracter sensitive like a feather, unknowingly following all twist and turns of the modern society while I think that "You see I, I go my own way". Someone once said to me, "You have to realize that everything you do and think will always be a copy of someone else. New thoughts do not exist, they are all already taken".

Recently various people have called me eclectic. The way I want to design my new flat is eclectic, my taste in the opposite sex is eclectic (ehh.. yes..), my taste in music, clothes, view points, lifestyle, my whatever is eclectic. And I sort of like my little word, it's very tasty and feels good in the mouth, and very.. intriguing. Eclectic, eclectic, eclectic.

And needless to say, the moment I started feeling that this was a spot on word for me, my own little word-friend, I realize that this is THE word for the moment. Everything is described as eclectic in magazines, design styles, books, you name it. And clearly, it becomes a bit of an oxymoron in the end. The word ECLECTIC implies that something is not following a certain pattern, but takes in influences of different kinds. And when you think of it, if this is now the IN thing, then it becomes a pattern and a style, and hence no longer ... eclectic?

Bah. Lingo-thinkings to late at night makes my brain spongy. Better go to bed and read another chapter in my favourite book "Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English". Letter E.

Your devoted nerd.

Marriage stress?

No worries dear friends. Should you feel a sudden panic over time flying and you and your partner are flying nowhere, there is help. Just nip down to the Register office and get it fixed. But get the opening times right and avoid Saturdays. And you're all set.

Imaginative Sunday

Anything for a good story, right? Can't remember who said that and if it at all is a well known quote, but in any case, I agree with it. And since my own life sometimes lack a bit of shall we say yummy details, imagination comes in very handy. And I lack none of it. In fact, I have too much of it that it sometimes overflows into some sort of bizarre paranoia and I need to sit down with an ice bucket over my head and clear out what has actually happened and what is just made up in my somewhat disturbed brain.

Last week, in one of my famous instant impulses, I texted an old flirt. And he texted back with his email address and asked me to get in touch that way. And since I haven't seen him for four years, I have no idea of what to expect. I remember him as looking like the handsome boys in The Thrills, Celtic with curly black hair. And I remember falling for him like a thunderstorm. And since, I must admit, there haven't been many weeks that I haven't thought of him. An affair that was never cleared out. Clearly.

Imagine if we just fall head over heels for each other and within one month we will be living together in a bohemian flat filled with Irish music and love? And on the 4-day anniversary of when we first met he proposes to me? That would be an amazing story to write about. About how True love conquers all. Can you hear the violins? When we grow old we will tell our enormous gang of children and grand-children about how timing can impede love, but love will always win. And we will hold hands until his black curly mane turns completely white.

Most likely we will just have a coffee and a laugh and say good bye as friends. But the good thing about story telling is that you make up your own endings. So who knows?

Birds of the world - Initiate and take over

Just a bit of an admiring for all wonderful women of the world who take initiative! I love you all. Girls who take what they want from life instead of sit and wait for mister mister to get his act together and do something. I admire you loads. Girls of the world, read my lips: Confidence is SEXY.

For instance, Beautiful Candy stepped up to her today very serious boyfriend at the Westbourne Studios with the words "Hi, I am Candy". And what could he say, dearest Mr Hipo? Candy is not only very good looking but smart, ambitious, funny and successful. Mr Hipo probably couldn't believe his luck. Well done.

And cool Ms Hornstull managed to bag the ever so flippant Mr Hornstull by being very clear and forward on her intentions. Not only did she take charge over the reproduction process, but she also proposed to him. And my dear old friend, bless him, just couldn't have been happier then and now and without doubt forever. High points dahhhling.

Go get them. Nothing to loose.

Puss

Think tank blubb blubb

Friday dear friends. Friday friday friiiiiiiiiiday. Thank God. This week has been a bit of a turmoil. And a roller coaster on the same time. Let's put it this way, being in a "friendship-relationship" with a former date, is not really working out. But what can a girl do? Luckily, for all involved, we are not going to be in town at the same time for about two weeks now. Phewww. So, we have think time. Think of what? Well think. Think of where we are and where we're going I suppose. What if I wont think at all? What if I just wake up in two weeks and haven't thought one single thought?

Anyroads, I just feel a very comfortable relief that we cannot meet up. Phewww again. Dating someone who is still sharing flats with his ex is like being a mistress in a way. Not that i can boost with any extensive experience of being a mistress but I can just image...Bunny boilers and all of that cream. Not sure if I want to go any further with this. I guess like rabbits too much, kicking and alive.