That's All, Folks

Well, readers, this is to be my last ever DOADR entry. After a good ten minutes consideration, I've decided 'tis time to move on to pastures new. This has nothing to do with the fact that my social life is hectic for the next three weeks and I really couldn't be arsed writing with a constant hangover. Nope, it's time for a fresh start. As the year draws to a close, so should this blog.

The truth is, I am a journalist and I should be writing about things that journalists write about: current affairs, climate change, wanker bankers, Jordan's attacks on Peter's manhood, that sort of thing. The Boyfriend feigned support when I told him of this change in direction and tried not to react when I suggested I start with Darling's windfall tax on bonuses in the City. OK, so I'm no Robert Peston, but I'm confident I can venture an informed opinion on most subjects, albeit formed from my own unique understanding of the subject in question.

There is also a glaringly obvious reason why DOADR has run its course. I am no longer a receptionist, nor am I particularly disgruntled. When I started this diary, six months ago, I was pushing 26 and my career looked about as promising as all 192 countries attending the Climate Conference in Copenhagen this week, reaching a unilateral agreement. See – I do know my stuff. (It is Copenhagen, right?)

I'm pleased to say this is no longer the case. Yes, I am currently working for a magazine about caravans (oops, did I just let my anonymity slip?) but I have to admit, I really enjoy what I do. I love the impassioned readers who compare motorhome prejudice to ethnic cleansing and send me videos of their grandchildren in their caravan, accompanied by wishes for a 'tender Christmas'; I love the bizarre assignments I'm sent on; I love my colleagues and I love the fact that I'm working for one of the largest and most respected magazine publishers in the UK. Most of all, I'm excited by the promise of what's to come.

This blog has been wonderfully indulgent and I have been both surprised and touched that anyone other than my mum finds the minutiae of my life even vaguely interesting. An even bigger surprise, has been the readership itself. I had expected my girlfriends would follow tales of dietary angst and PMS, but not uncles, The Boyfriend's mates and my 17-year-old male cousin. One friend of The Boyfriend's, who I have long believed to be a misogynist, regularly logs on to find out what's been happening in Annie's world. I've also been told he's upset he hasn't been mentioned. Gaz, there's love. But I still think you're a chauvinist pig.

It was difficult for me, unashamed Luddite that I am, to even contemplate getting on board with blogging. I still have a Nokia 3310, send handwritten letters and left Twitter because it was all too complicated (I'm even in a Book Club for Christ's sake) and yet, this whole experience has been great fun. It was a comfort to know that, after a crappy day behind reception, I could come home and vent and someone out there would be reading. Hurrah for technological progress!

So, thanks guys. I really do appreciate the support and am glad you've enjoyed reading this. I'm still writing bar and restaurant reviews for Fluid (www.fluidfoundation.co.uk) and who knows, I may once again, re-enter the blogosphere, but instead of sharing all about my life, I'll write about yer man with the bushy brows. What's his face? You know, the one with the red briefcase who's going to tax those horrid bankers?

It'll come to me.... So, Jordan and Peter, eh?

Happy Christmas and New Year, etc.

Signing off.

Alix. I mean Annie. I mean....

Hook, line and sink, sink, sinking...

I interviewed this guy yesterday for Fluid Foundation – TV chef, Valentine Warner. You may have seen him in a semi-aroused state, praising his own culinary creations on the BBC series 'What to Eat Now'. Beeb bosses have dubbed him the 'Russell Brand of the kitchen' and I must say, I can see the similarities. Look at that unbuttoned shirt, those manly hands, the gleeful smile as he spreads his chosen bird's legs...

I put this comparison to him, one he flatly denied, of course. He wanted a discourse on food and his latest TV series, being a TV chef and all, whereas I wanted to talk hair – how does he keep it so voluminous? I also asked him where he lived and before he had a chance to reply, assured him I wouldn't stalk him. This might seem like an odd thing to say at an interview, though not when you have a history of stalking. But that's a story for another day.

Also this week, I attended the annual luncheon of a well-known motoring institute, on behalf of Tractor magazine. All went relatively well at first. I managed some successful networking, despite having zero knowledge of, nor interest in, cars. It always astounds me how enthusiasts think everyone else shares the same unbridled passion for their hobby. I was spoken at for a full hour about engine sizes. I nodded politely of course, but if the glazed over eyes failed to denote my boredom, you'd think the entire bottle of wine I consumed before our starters arrived, would have said something?

Anyway, we had sat down to lunch when I thought I should do the rounds and introduce myself. After shaking hands with the rest of my table, I was about to reach across to the girl opposite, when I noticed she had a prosthetic arm. I observed it was her left arm and so naturally, I assumed the right would be fit for a handshake. So, over I go, extending the hand of acquaintance when out of nowhere, the right arm is raised from its hiding place under the table, and a hook is produced.

I was immediately thrown. One failed limb I can deal with but this was entirely unexpected. She waved it at me in polite acknowledgment of my attempt to observe etiquette and was, no doubt, letting me off the hook (I couldn't resist).

She was just about to resume her conversation with her lunch partner and that would have put an end to the embarrassment. Naturally, I couldn't let it go for fear of being seen to discriminate, so, I made the call and shook that hook. Rather vigorously I may add, in an attempt to convince everyone at the table that I carry no prejudices whatsoever towards Britain's disabled populace.

The girl smiled, seeming rather bemused by my obvious anxiety, and we carried on with our meal. I had almost wiped the incident from my mind when, on taking leave of my fellow diners, I felt obliged to do yet another round of the table, entirely forgetting about the hook. When I reached my friend once again, I remembered, mid hand-extension, what I was dealing with and terrified she might not be so forgiving this time, I immediately retracted the hand and waved it in the air in an enthusiastic fist pump, muttering something about what a great lunch this had been. I legged it before I could gauge the reaction.

Between my bunny boiling behaviour at the interview and inability to engage with those of limited mobility, it has been a week of unrelenting mortification. I have just about recovered and am off to review the London Christmas Taste Fest today. I have been told by my editor I'll be interviewing a TV chef. As long as he's not hot or disabled, I think I'll be OK. I refuse to even contemplate the outcome if he's both...

Tuesday 1 December: Advent is here!

In a fit of domesticity on Sunday morning, I cleaned the entire apartment from top to bottom, baked 18 blueberry muffins and a nutty apple loaf, and washed The Boyfriend's undergarments. In the afternoon some girlfriends popped over to examine my efforts (the baking, not the boxers). The verdict was a resounding thumbs up.

So yesterday, with seven leftover muffins tempting me in the kitchen, I decided to show off my culinary prowess and bring them into work. There were plenty of approving nods and contented chews as the buns were consumed. I was confident I'd earned some serious employee brownie points and was about to settle down to my work with a whistle when my colleague arrives into the office with a homemade gingerbread house.

Seriously, a gingerbread house? Apparently, she whittled it together last night. Now this was no ordinary gingerbread house. This was the Graceland of confectionary residences. I wouldn't be surprised if I switched on Cribs and saw a gingerbread man stroking the black satin sheets of his waterbed, purring 'This is where the magic happens.'

What are the chances, in a global media organisation that you'll find two people who spontaneously decide to bake for their colleagues on the same day, never mind the likelihood of one of them throwing together something as elaborate as a gingerbread house? (sorry to keep labouring the point but even Waitrose doesn't make them)

But this is a girl who's already made her own jams, chutneys and truffles as Christmas presents, spent last week teaching herself html so she could construct an Advent Calendar for tractor.co.uk and cycles abut four miles to and from work each day. And the truly sickening thing is, she's a top bird. Funny, down to earth, sound as the proverbial pound. I should have known better than to try and compete with this level of perfection. Competitiveness is for insecure losers, anyway. And I, am most definitely not, an insecure loser.

In other news, my work Christmas party is next week. Should be very chilled out. A few drinks, some karaoke – I haven't prepared anything, really. Just Mariah's back catalogue. My voice coach says I've almost nailed 'Hero'. Anyway, like I said, it will be a very relaxed affair.

Pants, is that the time? Don't want to be late for work.

Sunday 29 November

There are many things about living in London that piss me off: commuting, people walking too slowly through the tube station, the fact that I'm bothered by people walking too slowly through the tube station, and so forth. But on Saturdays, after my jog on the common, I potter along the Northcote Road to Gail's for my morning Pain au Chocolat, watching Clapham's latest initiates into parenthood proudly push their double strollers into Cath Kidston, and London life doesn't seem so bad after all.

OK, that's utter nonsense. I hate kids and as my far-from-firm backside demonstrates, I've yet to discover the joys of jogging. I also think I may have developed a touch of the Madonnas in reverse. (Since when are prams 'strollers'?)

Anyway, my fast flailing point is, that despite the commuting and the pollution and the mass anger, London's actually a pretty cool place to live.

Take last night, for example. Mid-week, I had fully intended on committing to a night on the sofa yet again with a bottle of wine and the X Factor, even though the show is thoroughly boring now that the twins have gone. Lately though, I've been trying to be more spontaneous, so when my friend Jenny suggested The Boyfriend and I attend a 'Secret Cinema' outing with her and her other half, I begrudgingly said yes.

Hurrah for enforced spontaneity! It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. We were instructed in an anonymous email, to dress up in gangsters and molls attire and meet in a mysterious location under a bridge in East London, with a flower for 'The Boss'. As we queued along a dark, cobble-paved lane in the pissing rain, we were entertained by a troupe of actors decked out in 1920s and 30s regalia and driving vintage, Chicago gangster-style cars. Once inside, we were ushered up a narrow flight of stairs through a tiny side door, which opened up into a huge Art Deco ballroom. A swing band and tap dancers entertained the crowd while in an old fashioned boxing ring constructed at the back of the room, a couple of 'mobsters' slugged it out. We feasted on popcorn and chilli dogs, had a few relaxing glasses of wine and watched Bugsy Malone.

Just before the final scene, where the gangsters charge Fat Sam's Bar, armed with custard pie-filled machine guns, the film was stopped and Fat Sam's boys ran through the audience administering plastic anoraks, paper plates and squirty cream. The film was put back on and on the compere's signal, a mass custard pie fight ensued before everyone piled on stage for a the big finale.

I had a ridiculous amount of fun and yet was in bed by midnight, sober and correct, and feeling the love for my adopted hometown.

The point of this story: switch off from reality TV (unless Jedward is involved) and say yes to everything. Oh, and avoid the Northcote Road on weekends if images of happy families have you reaching for the nearest gun – custard pie filled, of course.

Tuesday 24th November

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Albert_Pearl_N1.Bar

Sunday 22 November

Having a lazy day. Here's a half-hearted attempt at self-promotion:

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/userprofile.aspx?UserListID=48188

Nothing new to report. Had a lovely potter in Brixton yesterday, followed by a disastrous fudge making session, and this morning, I stole an umbrella from a pensioner at mass (I'm so riddled with Catholic guilt right now, I can't even joke about it. I'm sure this will pass, so stay tuned).

This evening, I'm going to call into the Xtra Factor and complain about the other judges' treatment of Louis Walsh. I reckon this demonstration of loyalty towards a fellow compatriot should atone for my earlier indiscretion. Bless me Father.....

Embracing 'Movember'

I've been living in a state of perpetual ignorance these past few weeks (blame the Kraftmatic Adjustable Bed) and have only recently discovered the bizarre follicular phenomenon that is 'Movember'.

One of my good friends has been cultivating his mo' for several weeks and now sports a full-blown handlebar. He's withheld our jocular abuse (and no doubt sexual rejection) remarkably well but until now, I couldn't understand why anyone would want to do this to themselves.

I have been enlightened. This self-mutilation is all for charity. The fight against Prostate Cancer to be more specific. I'm a big fan of prostates and anything south of that region, so in solidarity with the male species, I have not only grown a mo, but a fro, too.

It took me a good few hours to get some serious growth going but not a bad effort, I must say.

Being serious for a moment (a sentence, i promise you,  you will never read in this blog again), give Movember and my friend Mick your support today, and change the face of men's health:

http://ie.movember.com/mospace/469341

Old at heart

It's been a while folks, but there's a good reason for my neglect of you. I was back in Ireland for a college reunion, had several restaurants to review and two days ago, I moved house. Thankfully, I've the day off work to recover and fill you lovely readers in on my latest endeavours.

I am in love with my new apartment. Most of Sunday was spent opening the mirrored concertina doors of my built-in wardrobe, watching the light inside automatically switch on, jumping into the closet to marvel at the space, then getting out and repeating the process. I also derived immense pleasure from fiddling with the controls on our Craftmatic Adjustable Bed (yes, you read that correctly). Before you judge me, the bed came with the gaff. I am prone to muscle fatigue, but have no mobility issues as of yet.

We also have an old-fashioned writing desk in the living room. I've been meaning to write a strongly worded letter to British Gas, concerning an unpalatable bill they recently sent us, but I haven't had the necessary implements, until now.

The only downside to our new abode (besides the apartment block caretaker who is, rather disturbingly, attempting to channel Jack Nicholson in The Shining) is a seeming lapse in The Boyfriend's sense of propriety. He is so entirely comfortable in his new habitat, he's taken to walking around the apartment in his underwear. While constructing Beth's Ikea furniture the other day, his new get up was accompanied by a beer in hand. Clearly, we'll be having chats.

We'd planned to spend the first night in with Beth's boyfriend, who was over from Paris to help with the move. He brought some champers and chocolates with him and the four of us settled down on the sofa to watch X Factor, Beth and I clad in fluffy dressing gowns, our men in their slippers. On re-entering the room after an ad break, I surveyed this horrifying display of middle age and, not quite ready for pureed food and incontinence pads just yet, I persuaded everyone to get up and dressed, slapped on that Black Eyed Peas song that seems to get today's 'yoof' excited and we hit two parties, one of which was in a squat.

Human art installations, psychedelic light shows, sinks overflowing with moudly dishes and abstract conversation on abstractism – is this how one parties these days? I tried my best to embrace it, even attempted a spot of shape throwing, but I must admit, I longed to get back to my geriatric bed.

We grabbed a kebab on the way home, another stab at forcing nostalgia for our wilder days but the smoked salmon in the fridge was calling me.

I crawled into bed to finish my novel for tonight's Book Club. Yes, I am a sad old fart (in a hot young body) but look at it this way- I'll probably have my mid life crisis behind me before I get married. So, while your kids are cringing at your cliched attempts to stay young at heart, I'll genuinely be the coolest parent on the block.

Thursday 5th November

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Greens_Restaurant_and_Oyster_Bar_EC3V.Bar_Restaurant

Mother knows... a lot more than you'd think

During my weekly phone conversation with mum earlier, in which everything from her flailing gym efforts to my younger sister's licentiousness is discussed, she revealed something deeply disturbing. One minute, we're deriding the in-laws for their collective lapse in sartorial judgement at a recent family gathering, the next, she's telling me that an 18 year-old boy had an erection in front of her.

Did you just vomit a little bit in your mouth? Good. You have some idea of my initial reaction.

Naturally, I told her I needed more information (though I dreaded receiving it). Apparently, she had volunteered to cook the weekly fry up for my sister's rowing club teammates the previous day. As she was browning her bangers, she noticed one of the members of the boys team, staring intently at her while he worked out on the rowing machine. He had an erection.

I asked her if she was certain and she frankly told me that it's been that long since she'd seen what one looks like, she checked it out three times to be sure. It was indeed, a 'boner'. I feel emotionally conflicted, here. Should I be alarmed that my mother has just said boner to me? Sickened that she's down with the modern slang for genitalia? Or relieved that my dad is no longer asserting his conjugal rites? (I'm assuming female sexuality didn't really figure in the Prehistoric era of masculine hegemony, somewhere round about they time they got hitched)

Perhaps the most unpalatable part of the conversation was the candidness of her narration. The words 'crotch' and 'tackle' were administered freely, in the same tones of motherly disappointment that are normally reserved for when you've failed to do your homework, not caught in flagrante.

Far from being ashamed at his evident arousal in front of a middle aged woman, worse, his friend's mother, I'm told the brazen youth continued to row, smirk on face, proud of his prowess. What's more, the rest of the lycra-clad team freely rearranged their manhood in her presence.

I was going to ask her if my sister will be allowed to continue her tenure at the club, but I wouldn't want to rock the boat.

Saturday 31st October- HALLOWEEEEEEEEEEN!!

This week, I plummeted new depths of professional misery when I was sent to review an eco pod in a Milton Keynes field. The pod had supposedly been insulated in sheep's wool to keep it cosy. Clearly, this sheep's diet was lacking a good dose of Vitamin E. I was bloody freezing all night and as there was no electricity- it being an eco pod and all- I had no choice but to go to bed at 8pm.

I suppose it might have helped matters if I'd brought a sleeping bag or torch but it's been a while since my childhood days of camping en familie and I'm a bit out of practice. A colleague expressed incredulity at my ill-preparedness. 'How can you not have a head torch?' she sneered.

Oh, I'm sorry. When moving to the media capital of the world last year to pursue a career as a hard-nosed journalist, a head torch didn't immediately spring to mind as one of the essential tools of the trade.

I returned to the office the next day, sans shower, and grumpy from my night of insomnia, then it was straight to my evening job as a restaurant critic. Thankfully, my latest review was a champagne and oyster bar, the latter, conveniently disguising the scent of unwashed flesh. I polished off a bottle and a half of wine, which cured me of my chronic fatigue and now I sit here perky, clean and ready for an evening of Halloween gaiety.

Thinking of dressing up as a camper. Ah, but you'd need a head torch for that, wouldn't you? Dammit. I knew it was a useful piece of equipment.

PS

Bit controversial but as I'm a financial reject, I've nothing to lose.

John and Edward to win X Factor.

Wednesday 21st October

After years of avoidance and denial, I finally decided to bite the bullet and apply for a credit card. I must say, I derived a strange thrill from filling in my online form. This was a step towards financial independence. No longer would I have to tap the parentals for cash. A shiny new piece of environmentally unsound material was to be my passport to adulthood.

Alas, it was not to be. I have been rejected THREE times in thirty minutes. My bank doesn't want me, I'm not one of Sainsburys' Finest, even Tesco have pissed on my independence day parade. Every Little Helps, eh? Like hell it does. Why won't you help me, Tesco, huh?

I feel thoroughly despondent. Rejected. Alone. Am watching some woeful BBC3 documentary on chav weddings and eating a Sainsburys' Be Good to Yourself hot cross bun. I wish I could say it's a bitter irony to swallow but it actually tastes rather good. And less than 3% fat, too.

Sunday 18th October

Met with Oliver earlier this week (floppy-haired uni mate with bizarre predilection for First World War clothing. Used to be in love with his cousin). He wanted to fill me in on his activities since being made redundant last May.

Knowing Olly's natural predisposition to melancholia, I was surprised to find him upbeat, appropriately attired and no longer in the throes of unrequited passion for a family member. He seemed relieved to have been given the boot from his position in ad sales and saw his newly acquired freedom as an opportunity to take some time out to 'discover his place in the universe'.

I'm fond of Olly. Truly, I am. But ever since I've known him, he's been trying to discover his place in the universe. At 22, he suffered a pre mid-life crisis and bought himself a vintage Jag; a beautiful set of wheels that never made it past the driveway of his parents' charming country pile.

This time however, it would seem he's determined to figure out where his destiny lies. Over the past five months he's been studying the Alexander Technique, taking his girlfriend's whippet to puppy class and consulting a psycho analyst four times a week. I'm sure prospective employers will be thrilled with his new skillset: good posture, self-reflection and dog dressing.

Still, it must be said the journey of self-discovery holds a certain appeal. Had I the time and means, I'd happily attempt to find myself. First on the list would be to hire a personal trainer to come to my flat at 5 am each morning with a loudspeaker and an egg white omelette. Everyone knows enlightenment starts with a firm set of buttocks.

As for therapy, I'm at a loss to comprehend how parting with 50 quid an hour to talk about yourself, aids the self-understanding process. FIFTY pounds! To babble incessantly to a stranger with no constructive feedback on your neuroses? I talk about myself to myself all the time. For free.

Olly says therapy is therapeutic, funnily enough. Helps him to work through some of his issues. I can tell you right now what his issues are. An excessive trust fund and too much time to think about how to spend it. Lose the therapist. Get a job. Ever considered ad sales?

Ooh, I'm good at this. That'll be 50 quid please.

Thursday 15th October 2009

Have nothing interesting to say, so here's something I wrote earlier:

http://www.fluidfoundation.com/Bangalore_Express_EC3V.Bar_Restaurant

Tuesday 13th October

I know I said I'm on strike but I'm thoroughly upset and need to offload: 

I FORGOT my packed lunch this morning! 

Big deal, you cry, but lunch is the highlight of my day and this lunch in particular was pure sex in a tuppaware box- organic shredded chicken, lightly toasted blanched almonds, french beans and a honey and mustard dressing. I got the recipe off Hugh-Fernley-Whats-his-face in The Guardian.

I am DEVASTATED. Had to make do with a ready made sandwich and cold soup from Tescos. My day has been ruined. Clearly, God doesn't want me to be thin and healthy and eat organic food so I'm now polishing off work's supply of custard creams. I could weep.

That is all.

Sunday 11th October

It's becoming increasingly clear that my nearest and dearest are using DOADR to keep up to date with what's happening in my life. Yes, it's sweet they take a vague interest, but dipping into an online diary on occasion does not exempt you from picking up the phone or dropping an email every once in a while. You know, keeping in touch- that thing that mates do. (David H, I'm talking to you).

So, this week, I am going on strike. No more blog until a little bit of lovin' comes my way. You have to make the effort, folks. I don't however, want to penalise those readers who do take their friendship duties seriously (greatly appreciate the hourly updates, Lils). For you lovely lot, here's a recap of my week:

• Began the Clapham flat hunt in earnest. Met agent with freakishly high barnet and pointy shoes, who promised us the world. We got a bedsit above a massage parlour. The search continues.
• Reviewed a cool restaurant in the City for my job on the side- Fluid Foundation
• Considered voting for the Tories in the next election.
• Made a royal tit out of myself, strutting through Croydon to Rod Stewart's version of "The way you look tonight" (made me think of my dad someday walking me down the ailsle. I started weeping outside Greggs, attracting concerned glances from passersby. Told them I'd a dodgy sausage roll for lunch).
• Dragged The Boyfriend to see 'Sister Act', the musical. He pretended not to like it as I'd booked us the cheap seats, forcing him to spend two hours with inebriated social deviants and the clinically obese. Caught him tapping his Burberry umbrella in appreciation of the soul, though.
• Changed my mind about voting for the Tories.

Eh, that's it really. Gripping stuff there. I am now officially on strike. Might go off on holidays with London's Royal Mail workers. I hear they've got a bit of time to kill.

Baci,

Annie x

2:02pm

WHY AM I SO OBESE?!

Two minutes. Not bad.

Monday 5th October

It's Monday, which equals misery. Couple that with last night's sudden realisation that if I eat five double chocolate cookies in one sitting, I will put on weight (I curse old age)- we’re talking despair on an epic scale.

Yet for some strange reason, wobbly bits and Monday blues have failed to dampen my spirits. I am- dare I say it- happy.

I think it’s down to a thoroughly enjoyable weekend spent poncing about stately homes in the countryside (The Boyfriend and I have, tragically, become National Trust Nigels), and hanging out with old friends in Clapham. Who cares about something as trivial as weight when there's fun to be had?

I’ve also finally managed to talk The Boyfriend (and myself) around to the pleasures of London’s south side. We’ve settled on Clapham for our next London adventure and are moving there next month. It’s true, Clapham is the easy option; London for Beginners, some might say. Every Paddy bold enough to tear himself away from Barry's tea and mammy's soda bread, invariably ends up there.

But isn’t there comfort in familiarity? London ain’t the easiest place to set up shop. It’s full of the career obsessed and the clinically angry. I can say this without offense, for I am one of them. That's not to say I’m not fond of the place. I’ve done my time in ‘real’ London- eating fried chicken in New Cross, squaring up to rude boys in Brixton, etc- and it's all very hip and exciting, but for now, I’m quite happy to play it safe in the cosy confines of Clapham. Everyone we love lives there or in the vicinity. It’s the logical choice.

First on the agenda when we move: sign up to the nearest gym. I'm giving this happiness thing another hour before it wears off then it's back to self-loathing and despair.

 

Saturday 26th September

I got up at 8 this morning to watch a week-old rerun of Jonathan Ross' interview with Peter Andre. Was dying to see how Pete would deal with Ross' probes for the low down on his divorce from Jordan. Thankfully, he handled himself with class and decorum, unlike that floosie he was married to. This pleases me. (By the way, I'm painfully aware that if 'sad arse' were added to the Oxford English dictionary, my name would be right beside it).

So, I was gonna fill you in on Rome and further Ibiza antics but today, I'd like to discuss boyfriends, specifically why they suck. I'm usually opposed to dividing the sexes along enemy lines but today, I'm throwing in the towel. Why doesn't my man understand me?!

It's been ages since he's done anything romantic for me. In the early days of our courtship I was wooed with love letters, massages and meat. I'm not speaking euphemistically here- he actually brought a fillet steak along to one of my uni lectures. I think he'd intended on using it as a prop to proclaim his love for me. "Man needs meat, meat is passion, you are meat, I eat meat..." (I subsequently discovered the "best butcher in Dublin" from which he acquired the steak, was next door to his favourite watering hole).

Anyway, now that we live together, it's the occasional bunch of flowers and a pat on the backside when I've made the effort to wear matching underwear. On the way home from breakfast this morning, I decided to stop speaking to him until he rectifies the situation. He claimed to be completely ignorant of what was bothering me and didn't really seem to care whether I was talking to him or not. So I chucked a cup of green tea over a nearby bush (I have a girl's aim) and ran off, cursing his existence. I didn't realise there was a gardener trimming said bush from the other side who, whilst mopping his tea-stained brow, told the boyfriend I was high-maintenance.

So here I am, all alone on a Saturday afternoon, insulted by a gardener and likely to be charged with GBH. All because my boyfriend is a moron who is unable to anticipate my needs. High maintenance indeed. Humph.