26 July - Perfect baby gifts?

As my BF seemed to have been gagging for sex whilst away from my ever providing side for a mere 17 days, I make some quick mental jump and write to my most reliable sex hungry friend and ask when’s the baby due? (less than a month to go) and has he managed to keep it in his pants given the girlfriend could not provide full services or reduced ones. He said he has – despite at least two episodes where it was difficult to reign himself in and has amazed himself by this feat of abnegation. He never thought it was possible. He goes on to say he’ll be at the Edinburgh festival for 2 weeks shortly and if resists temptation there – there will be flowing copious alcohol and late nights one presumes - he’ll truly feel holy. I say I’ll award him a special medal and only him and I will know what it’s for. Quick as a flash he replies ‘Can you make it buttplug-shaped?’ Even quicker than a flash I reply ‘Sure, and I’ll post it along with the baby gift!’ You have to laugh. Or at least we do.

25 July - Another problem I don't have

I thought I’d use wisely the time to myself provided by Toph’s absence and so it was out with the wine, out with the sugar, out with the bread, out with the dairy, out with the caffeine. And in with the 3 day detox beverage which somehow has extended to 4 days and could go on for longer as you get sort of addicted to your goody-goodyness. It’s all ok, it just gives you this knot of anxiety in your throat/neck/solar plexus/stomach. Well the stomach is clearly wondering where those nice sugary bits that it usually gets fed are, oh and some of that salt too and that little bit of lovely wine. The stomach has too much time to idle when it’s just digesting fruit, veg and some grilled/raw fish for protein.

I only had a smidgen of a headache on first day, as I don’t have that much to detox from to be honest, but the knot is persistent. If I were into analysis I’d say it’s probably telling me there’s something else apart from food to process and the entry from a couple of days ago is explanatory enough. However, I ring D. to ask how the ‘Save our marriage/let’s hope we can agree to go forward’ holiday with kids and estranged (verging on the autistic) husband in Norway went. I’m greeted with ‘I’m a bit busy right now, with all this stuff to pack’. ‘Where are you going? Back to Poland?’ (where she hails from and has a couple of flats - as mooted before if things didn’t work out). She says yes, on Saturday, it’s final, she’s off, goodbye West Hampstead and the schools for the kids had already been looked at/booked in Krakow.

We make a hasty arrangement to meet tomorow for a goodbye drink with other girlfriends and save the talk for then. I put the phone down and burst into tears. Shall I blame it on the detox? I can’t believe I’m losing her. I love her. And I know it’s only Europe but….. Last night I was out with a mutual male friend who said a propos this husband who’s about to have to plan the next few years round the times he can see his kids ‘He’s a fool to choose work over family’. But is he? There’s a dream he’s been chasing for a while, come very close to and he could almost grab it now. Something of his will either be very successful come September (depends whether you believe a certain Canadian singer who kissed Carrie in SATC is due for a return to #1's) or not. But what a shame to spend it on alimony.

This time there’s the added factor X in the shape of 20 years younger collaborator. He’s smitten with her, because she looks up to him with admiration and veneration (in fact I could cynically say because she needs him for her fledgling career). But he can’t see that, he just sees someone who makes him feel centre of the universe, doesn't laugh at the hair dye (he's 47 and yes, I laughed and his wife cried when she found how much he's now spending at the beauty salon!) and doesn’t ask him for any boring stuff to do with the kids, the house, the bills etc. and just leaves him alone to 'create'. Same old story really.

23 July - Problems I don't have

Problems I don’t have… I run into ex colleague. We usually barely keep in touch but face to face it takes her 4 sentences (oh and me asking ‘How’s the kids?’) to get her to tell me that the 15 year old daughter is giving her sleepless nights. Turns out – and like most parents, S. had no idea about any of this till it crashed down on her – daughter had a boyfriend. She left him, then took him back, then he left her for another girl from same school in Muswell Hill, who told daughter to make herself very scarce and beat her up. Daughter got home with black eye and blood stained face and clothes but managed to convince mother that it was a playful accident.

Then there were more spats and new girlfriend asked daughter to meet her and have it out. Daughter turned up with 18 other school friends who apparently went to watch and no doubt film it on their phones. The up and coming fight was broken up before it started by an alert teacher or some other person. Result: all kids involved have been disciplined but daughter is especially persona non grata as her school friends think she grassed on them. Consequently, daughter has already bidden goodbye to everyone with ‘I’m not coming back to this school next year’. Now, there are no other schools S. could get her into at this late stage but she’s considering a private one –same as the son went to – but this would make life on her and husband’s salary impossible due to fees. Though both people have so-called good jobs. I’m speechless as I remember picture of sweet 12 or 13 year old on S. desk. Am making nice noises like ‘At least there were no knives involved, at least she’s not pregnant’ but they’re not very encouraging words… At least I don’t have kids is what I’m saying in my head as I wave her goodbye with some promise of lunch soon.

But I also had totally forgotten how deep your feelings run at 15! Imagine having it out in a fight because of a boy! Would I ever? No, these days all parties would get carefully composed letters and I’d be off to Cannes or something.

21 July - Problems I have

Uhm, an interesting dilemma. I accidentally found out something about the BF that he would be pretty ashamed of… so, he’s in the doghouse. Except that he’s away for another ten days, so I have to wait till he returns to consign him to said doghouse. It’s kind of not fair to have arguments with people over the phone and email when they are in fact away working. It would seriously mess with their concentration, then again men can easily put things in boxes /drawers as all women know and deal with them later. I don’t think my emails get read past paragraph 3 for example and yes I know because I deliberately put red herrings in there towards the last few lines – example: ‘on Saturday will be at casting session to choose my leading man for forthcoming porn video, I hope it’s Rocco Siffredi’ and he doesn’t rise to it.

Right now am favouring replacing what I found with the version I’ve updated all over with acerbic comments - I don’t do angry, or rather as a sign of maturity finally achieved (in part) in my 40’s, I don’t go from nought to 60 in 2 seconds, but wait a little longer to ignite. However, it is something I didn’t think he had in him, and I don’t think he’s had time to act on it as he forgot his precious research behind. Then again, with a few clicks of the internet he can find it all again but still. It’s adorable when they’re away and they tell you they’re so shattered and all they have time to in the evening is sleep…. And you find the escorts website and numbers carefully copied. There’s about a dozen, all current. I rang some to check, as you do. Prices are a bit steep but the dollar is weak so it’s feasible. Am especially pissed off about the choice of girls. All names and some websites are of other creeds and colours and none of course would declare to be above 24 years old. Frankly one could argue he’d only shag a proz of a different kind thereby keeping it well separate from the memory of his beloved’s shape, age and looks but I think the more plausible explanation is the one which first springs to mind: he wants to shag a 6ft tall Naomi Campbell lookalike or… er.. some Japanese girlie. Can’t work out the spread of interest here… What’s wrong with Swedish girls? Admittedly in real life attracting the Naomi is not easy for a person of his description, but the Jap girls should be. You make them giggle, show some interest and it’s there. Apologies of course for offending Japanese readers. Ok, maybe it takes time though…

What was I thinking? With all the accumulated knowledge I have on the male species, which is well supplemented by girlfriends’ stories, did I really think I had found the only one who’s not going to behave like the 90% majority? Uh, ho, well sort of yes as had been watching/actively seeking signs to prove the universal theories I buy into, but so far had not seen any. But a year and a half in is probably the time to stop showing our best side. Mind you, he still is showing the best side, and in fact reacted with indignation ‘I don’t do that!’ when I made a joke about girls to take up to his room, he just doesn’t yet know that I know. Am in two minds… on the one hand the best course of action is to pretend I didn’t stumble on the misdeed – which no doubt he’d deny has taken place but ha ha, for Catholics remember there is the sin of intention and this is pretty proven. On the other hand, a good old argument is always a good way forward. You air one grievance, many more follow and we’re all wiser. Wish I didn’t have ten days to sit on this and wish first day back wasn’t day of great event in the evening which would be spoilt if I decide to confront him. Plus I will not have had sex for 2 and a half weeks and that would be out of the window if I have to slam doors. Darn! What to do? Oh and at least it wasn’t MALE escorts.

20 July - Rain

So, er, I have avoided festivals. But there's a mini event not far in Victoria Park, the Time Out weekender, so I thought why not? Ok, no ticket has been purchased yet though friend is on the case but have you looked outside? For those of you not in London it is the colour of Seattle, Iceland, Siberia and so on in Winter, with rain to add to the excitement. It's hopeless. Just as well we went to Shoreditch Soho House last Friday and not today. Back then, it wasn't hot but it was sunny, we were raving about the open air top floor pool. Sooooo LA, dahling, and throbbing with guests posing around it well into the evening. We felt the breeze, we scouted for boys (on behalf of my adorable gay macho man from Spain and his man hungry mezzo soprano friend, also from Spain and lamenting how hard it is to find a 'man beyond just having sex' here. I wanted to prove her wrong and help with some introductions but the SSH aficionados were into their little groups and not prepared to extend welcome.

Me, the BF and mezzo soprano shared a taxi home as she lives a few streets away from me. However, he has made it known I should not make any overtures to her for three way sex as he doesn't fancy her. Neither do I as it happens and there was nothing in my behaviour to lead him to such thoughts. Though I suspect it's her stories about men on viagra and their 5/6 times a night that may have make him come over a bit shy. It is a bit much to live up to at our age and he prefers no chemical aids, hence that frequency is simply unattainable.

Back to the weather... am also invited tomorrow to rooftop filming of pop video in Camden, wher else, for band who I predict will be bigger than Coldplay. No, not mentioning names now so if prediction is wrong I won't lose face. Had already planned outfit to stand out in the background in case crowd scene was required, but I'll be lucky to be seen under huge umbrella. Quelle shame.

17 July - Ibiza dream on

Idly looking at airfares to Ibiza in August. I know I keep promising to myself not to travel for a while but uh, the sunshine is beckoning and have been a bit too much of a goody goody recently and feel all night dancing would be a trip in itself, it just never seems to happen. So I find the dates, the price is good. So I email a friend who’s best friend with rich wife of Goldman banker and they have spent 2 years a while back building a fabulous home from scratch with the best view ever. I write so say, ‘hey do they rent it out and is it squillions?’ She replies saying it is squillions in fact but that it wouldn’t be available in August (what was I thinking??) as the lady rich wife is there from 5 July to September, with not a care in the world except for two adorable kids (there is help of course) and eating healthily, working out with personal trainer and waiting for hubby at w/ends wearing red lipstick and nails and ready to f uck you, go out at sunset for a bit of a clubby night (kids stay behind).
My friend says she’s jealous, though her friend is lovely and so you can't be envious in a bad way, she just had the right genes to attract (and keep) the Goldman banker. Which requires some effort, am not denying that she works for the perks. I can’t lament lack of genes (though a couple of inches would have gone down a treat in the leg area), I just was never this bothered about sorting out the financial side of life.

But this little bit of info, coupled with something I read recently about every single mother at school gates at some school in Chelsea sporting a Birkin bag… well today it has the effect of making me think my life sucks big time. And the BF was at dinner in NY last night with a bunch of people, one British woman airily replying to his ‘So what do you do here?’ with a vague ‘Oh, am just spending a month in the Hamptons (notice no further info about what she actually DOES for a living was offered). So I bet he feels his life sucks big time too.
Ah woe is me, since am of the firm opinion that money does buy happiness if you’re not an unlucky depressive to start with and prone to feel you’re never as good as the person who provides your fortune in the first place (parent, spouse etc). I mean, I can’t go buy art (please don’t anyone start saying that you can start by buying art that costs a mere few hundred quid, I believe the stakes in London are too high for entry and have been for years since Saatchi.

16 July - The perils of Pauline are still the same

Youngish blonde maidens don't have it easy. The ogres are still out there or the prince too charming to be believable, so it's an odd swinging movement my darling G has to learn.
tbc

15 July - It's a jazz thing ie boring 8 times out of 10

I do believe you have to go try foods you've never eaten and see shows you hadn't considred, so when ages ago the BF said he had tix for the Medeski trio at the Barbican I did say he should take someone else but then... it was a Sunday and I was bored so I went. He'd told me he'd caught half of one of their shows in US and they're big on the circuit there and it was electrifying etc etc. Thank god I joined him at the end of the support act who were appalling experimental noise, can't recall their name but they don't record anything and that's their USP so you won't come across them and don't kill yourself to get into a gig either. So, Medeski now also has a Scofield who used to play with Miles Davis on hand so this is extra special and gig of the week in TO or some such and oh there's the jazz critic of the Guardian as I get to my seat. But what I didn't know is that Medeski is the keyboard player and so it's his band really, despite the other 3 names. And the keyboard is what I hate the most. Relentless noodling in a retro style. You get a little respite when he graciously lets the other musicians take a solo on their instrument but it's just ... too much and we leave before the end. BF is apologetic for getting it wrong, and he knows his jazz shit. Then we spend 90 mins getting home as I had helpfully suggested not taking the car but forgot that Ken has yet to sort out the f ucking tube on Sundays/weekends, any days of the week really, that's why he's pushing the cycling agenda but that's another story. We eventually get back so tired and dispirited that we have no sex and the next day he's off for nearly three weeks. Medeski, it's your fault, if I ever see you in the street, you're toast.

14 July - Good Housekeeping is not Good Sexing

One of those moral dilemmas, this magazine has started turning up at my house addressed to someone who doesn’t live in it and short of going to ask along the street for neighbours names… (this privacy thing in UK is mad. You go to Europe and every Parisian, Spaniard and Italian has their surname proudly displayed on their entry/doorbells) I kept it. However it is not Vogue or Harpers, it’s my luck that it’s Good Housekeeping and whilst I turn the cookery pages over fast (I always wonder who is it that loves reading recipes and especially who may actually want to make their own scones? Why? Do they live in the middle of nowhere and have nothing to do, not even a book to read at hand but plenty of wholewheat flour??) I find myself reading those tips and tricks, you know, if you want to clean x off y, you mix a tablespoon of z with a few drops of w. I mean, I don’t even have the items that the tips are made for and I’m reading this shit!!!

Frankly I must be not just getting old (though I did conceal the cover of the offending magazine whilst on the tube, god forbid I get caught reading this demographic) but senile in fact. I need to spend a night at Chinawhite probably in order to re-discover the me I prefer.

13 July - Facebook & Facebox

Browsing on Facebook, I’m considering how tedious all this is. It’s a full time job to sign up to these things and keep up with them. These teenagers (and Andrew Neil and Piers Morgan of all people, both friends of G) must have a double life. I certainly can’t be arsed and try these things out just so I know what am talking about at parties. Turns out that a few months back when I signed up to Facebook (and promptly never logged on again after receiving silly ‘wltm’ messages’ from losers) that I had actually signed up for something called FaceboX instead (now part of netlog).

No wonder I spent fruitless time searching for my friend G in order to view some of her friends she mentioned at dinner. She was not on Facebox but on faceboOK. Doh! So I did sign up and nearly, almost, fatally, tragically, in one of those press ‘send’ and send to the entire world of work one of those emails that says ‘Had fantastic sex last night with our Managing Director, took only a year to get him to do x, y, z but boy was he pleased to be f ucked by 3 guys and 6 women’ (er no, not happened yet, don’t worry, that will be the day) I almost emailed my entire hotmail account address book accrued over ten or 15 years with a request to be my friend.

The hair stood out on my head (and It’s very long at the moment) as I managed to say FUCK not too loudly but at least half a dozen times and realised I could untick all names offered. As I stared at 240 names of which possibly 200 are no longer interesting/valuable and half are probably hate mail type of contacts now, my life flashed before my eyes. How sad would it have been to receive a Lisa would like to be your friend or vice versa type email. Only saving grace would have been the fact that conveniently am not Lisa on Facebook or Facebox because life’s too short to not use pseudonyms when you can. And so hopefully addresses would have thought ‘who??’ but a few would have recognised the body part that represents me on my photo.
Disaster averted. Major sigh of relief. But Gosh, a where are they now reverie could start and last the whole afternoon, if it wasn’t that I’m busy at work for once. Er, uhh, yes, admission, I do these things at work. Don’t you?

11 July - Blondes & Blondie

A catch up with a friend who takes me to see Blondie at Apollo. Whilst we wait for main act and chat to an agent, we find ourselves backstage in search of a space where my friend can have a fag. This eventually involves walking all the way to ‘outside’. But I cannot help noticing that Clem Burke has his own dressing room. I thought the feud was only with Frank Infante and the other one (hey don’t expect me to remember pop trivia quiz to the extent of naming exacts line ups). On the way we meet the manager, who looks like obligatory NY record biz oldie with cigar, dodgy shirt (though he may well have paid top dollar for it) and obligatory Jewish complexion. He’s sacked previous agent recently and current one only got the call a few days ago and they’ve not met yet. I guess this is a case of where having a good reputation works in your favour. Agent is the agent for one of the biggest bands of last few years. Personally I’ve never understood how he does it but he’s nuts or plays at being nuts and we all have learnt over the years that artists like to have at least one clownish looking and acting person in the entourage. Plus he usually is not as hated as ‘the record company’ so they can have a laugh with him. Anyway I digress. (these will be words on tombstone by the way). On the way out of backstage I cross a lovely looking and sharply dressed man coming out of the loo. He checks my ass but we’re moving too fast to make any connection. He could be in the band? Except that no, the band does have 3 more spring chicken-like members but he’s not of them. He’s an audience member therefore but I can’t be doing these things shortly after returning from top holiday with beloved. So I watch the gig.
They all look healthy. We’re impressed. We notice they've spent zero money on a backdrop or impressive lighting. A Motley Crue show this isn't. More cash for them to store away. After all old punks must have signed crap record deals at the time and probably get very low royalties.
Debbie is a glamorous pensioner. Great face. How much work??? Hard to believe she only spent a few grand. Halfway to Demi Moore' s amount more likely. I strain to see what footwear she’s sporting and am surprised by the Superga style flat pumps. Am disappointed (did I mention we saw Supergas for €800 on sale in Capri? Serpent. They were more expensive than the crocodile model which looked like fake leather to me. Truly horrid). Back to the show. It’s slick, the crowd love it, some arrangements have been pleasantly updated and it’s not as tinny as on the old records. I like Rapture, They spoil it by covering the Beatles Please Please straight after Denis Denis (ok what was the title?) and we have to wait till the last song to hear Heart of Glass. But we’re happy. However, nothing anyone will ever say of these oldies returning to the boards will ever convince me that it’s done for anything but the moolah. I do also wonder why there are so many young people in the audience which is a bit chivvy but altogether not a bad/unattractive audience. I text the clever BF who replies saying that ‘it would be like us in 1978 going to see the Velvet Underground. The young want to learn’. Ahhh he’s smart. I reply saying I go out with him cause he’s a professor and I’ll give him some special rapture later on. And remember I can’t sing.

The only other revelation of the evening is that an old contact has been managing Amy Wino! Wow. That’s a good, if stressful gig. He was always the big, silent type and wonder how he’s coping, she must be a motormouth. Then again think he’s married to another Jewish girl so must be used to it.

10 July - Carrie & Samantha

A lovely night out with my SATC double act G. (she Samantha, me Carrie, though am the oldest of the two and the less prudish come to think of it, and she’s a good writer too). She’s not been to the City for years. There are squeals of delight when I point out we’re drinking on the ground floor of the Old Royal Exchange and that was the old trading floor and she says ‘Daddy took me here when I was 9 years old!). I ask why neither she nor her brother tried to have a city career (father is one of the authorities/writer on the stock market) and she says it’s because they were old enough to experience the absolute devastation heaped on the family when father lost everything in the 1987 crash. Ahhh, that would explain why her money is in all on property not stocks. I dare not mention I’ve seen an invite someone I know is sending out for October with ‘Come to a party to celebrate 20 years of the stock market crash’.
We move on to the Coq D’Argent which is throbbing with people and I’d forgotten how great the views are and the sun comes out at 7 o clock to blind us) but there’s no one of interest to her man-wise or me (am always up for talking to new people, not necessarily as potential new partners but because I’m sick of just talking to women) and so head for dinner at Cipriani which we knew would be overpriced for what we eat – pretty standard Italian fare and I’ve had plenty on recent Italian holiday – but it’s buzzing and bright and waiters appear all around us to cater for our every whim and they wear my beloved classic ocean liner waiter whites.

We proceed to put the world to right by writing a treatment for a TV mock-umentary on women’s lives in 2027. A female based update of 1984 if you like. Won’t divulge, it’s too funny if I say so myself. But she casts Greta Scacchi as me (uhmmm no, don’t llike her as me, she’s too hard edged and I never fancied her) and Kirsten Dunst for herself – now this is totally perfect choice. She wants Judy Dench in there – and for sure she can play G’s mum - and as for men, we need loads in the programme of all ages and colours. Maybe we can even have David Tennant being that we er.. have to travel to the future. Our entry point is the ladies’ loo at Cipriani of course. Our return crashing point is our current table by the door which we’re not sure if it’s good or not but for our rubbernecking it is. Anyway, no stars to report of, though who knows, some of the guys may have been footballers for all I know or Bollywood royalty.

G, is being pursued by a married lord in the Tory party (he says he and the wife lead separate lives but that’s not what it says on his official page) and she shows me his texts inviting her to his country lair any weekend she wishes. When I google him on her BB, it puts me off my food. He’s sooo UGLY and nearly 50! I can’t believe he’d even try it on with a stunning, leggy 35 year old blonde. It may work for him if she was stupid and 25 but surely not now. We laugh for a while at the possibility of doing an Antonia Sancha but those days are gone and this guy is not in power for the time being.
Then again in the past an equally ugly and shorter old man who used to manage a huge artist and still manages others did attempt the same and failed. And then again one of these ugly men (a footballer’s manager) once managed to secure her as his girlfriend for a few months. But that’s only because she was weak as post-end of relationship with her Mr Big and the trips to Harrods footie manager arranged were hard to resist as every weeping and abandoned by Mr Big girl likes it when a man calls her his princess even if he ends up imprisoning her in Essex. She escaped because you can only have sex with people you fancy for real or you’re a prozzie and she had to let that one go. To go out with revolting men – however clever - just for the sake of being pursued would be a huge mistake. You can tell that me no Maria and no Jackie in the face of Mr Onassis. It would have been a firm ‘No’ and you can keep the yacht. I tell her so. You have to be cruel to your friends or what use is your love if not to keep them safe from harm? Then I have to stop her from texting a couple of exes and going there as we leave the restaurant. It works until I leave her taxi to continue my journey by bus. Not sure if she then texted them again, but her Blackberry was dying out, so hope not. I know a girl has needs but Carrie would have done the same for Samantha.

9 July - Work & Anxiety

Work anxiety! If you’ve never experienced it you don’t know how insidious and horrible it is. Here I am returning to work and my work is by all accounts easy and manageable. I made sure of it a few years ago when I, in keeping with most of the people I know/have known, decided that the game (status/cash) was not worth it/my health. I am gripped by mild anxiety knowing what expects me is little – must just be facing a prison again after ten days off - and so imagine how the BF must feel as he has to pull something together in a week with not enough time and not enough resources for it to be done well and on top of that he has to motivate other people who are also aware of the no time/not enough cash, and the basic premise of it all is crap situation and so uh ho, they won’t be bullshitted that easily. I practically would have hardly slept last night if I’d had this to face today. But sleep the BF did. It helped that he got the usual devoted GF treatment, ie. super services which placed no demands on him, in other words a fantastic BJ. And with that, peaceful sleep was in order and hopefully a degree of master of the universe self-deception will cloak him and allow him to tackle his mountain.

As I get into work there’s an email by a former colleague or actually a more senior one I should say, who’s gone to work for a gung ho company who’s determined to obtain the best country results in the family of their world branches. and thus brainwashes them into its ethos. M. has had 3 weeks of 12 to 14 hour days where she feels like she’s property of the SAS and tells me of high turnover of people who get out of that company. She took the job recently as in her previous one, she’d had a last year of purely working to the benefit of a CEO who did not reward her underpinning of his business enough, plus she’d been there 5/6 years and a change is always good. She was also coming up to 40 and had separated from the historical BF of 7 years and generally sounded in the last year like her skin couldn’t contain her any more… so she went for better title, more money but what for???? She wouldn’t even have the time to meet someone new at this rate. And writes wistfully of the boats out at the weekend on the lake close to where she lives, but of only having no time to go sailing or riding (her other passion). I on the other hand have the time to go riding (sailing is not my thing) but no money for this expensive sport. So there you have it. I still think am better off though. After all, I could go riding somewhere cheap like Romania.

8 July - Shoes, Scarpe, Chaussures

Ok, so I took 13 pairs for 10 days. Is that a crime? I'm almost tempted not to count flip flops and ballerinas, they're not really shoes. I actually went easy on them as I thought I may purchase another pair or two locally but I never saw any that truly blew me away and also thought ‘the sales are on when I get back’, so I practice some self-denial. But as I got to Hotel #4 I couldn’t find a pair and mourned them for a day and night. It simply wasn’t worth finding out where I left them and organise to have them sent on. But the following day I eventually found them – the case is not that large but they had mimetically hidden in their black shoe bag and I didn’t see them though had rooted around several times, I think I mentioned elsewhere that it’s a habit of mine not to take out much from my case and hang it, even if am staying somewhere for a week. I just prefer to be ready to bolt.

I was so happy – even declaring the cheap little wooden hi-heels purchased a few years back in Rio ‘my favourite beach shoes’ on account of the fact that they are comfortable and I can walk in them all day if I can bear to hear the sound they make on the pavement. Brazil made high heels I find, are always comfortable, something to do with braz girls wearing them 24/7 so they better be right. So I wore them the whole day in my short shorts and vest. Diplomatically the BF had answered the ‘Be honest, can I wear these shorts or does the cellulite really show?’ with ‘You can get away with them’ (these days the subtext is always ‘you look good …. for your age darling’. He even helpfully pointed out that the dimples are only at the top of my thighs, close to my ass, thus appearing to not notice at all the knees I hate and the fat around the knees I specifically hate. Fair enough. I’ll wait till I see the photographs to feel bad again and console myself with the ‘at least there’s no paparazzi to splash my body shortcomings on those ‘look at her, isn’t she awful like the rest of us’ articles. I mean, it happens regularly to Meg Matthews non?
The lesson here is that if you ever feel deprived of new items of clothing, you simply hide /pretend to have lost some for a day or two and when you are re-united with them, it’s like they’re new and therefore extra valuable to you and you’ll love them so much. You can sort of achieve the same effect if you never move in with your BF and so half your wardrobe is always elsewhere (though this is mostly cause of angst) and sometimes you forget bunches of clothes altogether

5 July - Amalfi vs Capri

tbc

3 July - tbc

tbc

1 July - We reach the Beach

A body fascist post. Beware and don't read if my fattism offends you. More to be posted on this but the first shocking revelation is that Italians are as fat as the Brits. The kids are all little buddhas complete with man boobs. And that's the 9 to 13 age boys! What happened. Did some foreign stick like Audrey Hepburn invent Capri pants in the 50's/60's and not some bonafide size 6 Capri natives? I know they eat pasta and pizza lunch and dinner, but in Milan they don't look like this. Is Milan like NYC or LA ie an island that attracts the fit and healthy and the rest of the country is slob city? I should not have worried, am positively slinky here, the mothers are a cellulite nightmare and the fathers are browner than the Brits but that's all they have going.

I know it's early July and this is the time for families to go on holiday but this is clearly a huge disappointment. Man totty practically zero, no footballer-like washboards stomachs, though i see longish hair on blokes all aroudn me. Toph and J have no desire to leave their deckchairs to go prowling on the beach. The only girls they could fancy here are 13 year olds (the boobs are huge but the waists have not expanded yet) and they're not keen to reveal a leery side of themselves and just commiserate with me. However, all this does is allow me to go for icecream without guilt, as it would take me a month to expand to the dimensions on show here. I think my friend who owns top fashion company in the land, clearly can't be doing roaring business in the South. And she'd already complained they couldn't sell any clothes in Canada as their sizes are too large for their items.