Officially Completely Insane

I've done some stupid things in my time.

I once walked the entire length of a massive open plan office with my skirt tucked into my pantyhose. Not to mention the time I got caught in my pyjamas in the... Ok, better not tell you that one.

So, maybe some weren't surprised when I came up with my latest stunt.

One Saturday afternoon, over too many bottles of Pinot Grigio, a plan was formulated. Summer makes people do crazy things, especially after two winters in a row.

Perhaps this is why I decided that I should set about the journey of trying to line up 20 dates in 20 days.

This was the pitch:

Is Romance Dead? Or is it Just Me?

I'm going to try and find out.

I'm researching for what may become a literary piece but this time I'm really rolling up my sleeves and getting my hands dirty. Figuratively.

July is going to see me carry out what I believe to be the ultimate dating challenge. See, I'm the first to admit, I'm sceptical about this whole romance rubbish. But perhaps before I completely wash my hands of it, I should really give it a good go. Just so when I am 75 and surrounded by cats and newspapers, I can sit on my couch which is covered in plastic and think 'well, at least I gave it a shot'.

So this July, I am going to attempt 20 dates in 20 days. Now anyone can jump online and set that up. But time and time again I hear people say 'the way to meet him is through your friends'. Well, I'm putting that to the test. I'm asking my friends to help me line up a date for every day, from the 1st of July to the 20th.

The challenge details:

The chosen male shall be tasked to choose the date. This is where I ask for a large helping of creativity. Not only do I want to find out if there are actually 20 single men in London, but I want to find 20 great things to do in London on a date.

The financials:

We split everything, and here is the catch: the date must cost only a maximum of 20 pounds.

And there is even a blog. Of course.

http://greatdatechallenge.blogspot.com/

So there we have it. Crazy? I know.

A New Addition

In an attempt to curb my incessant selfishness, I have recently taken responsibility for another life.

Well, it was forced on me of sorts, but when the lease-a-plant guy told me to keep the unwanted plant in the rubbish bag or to throw it away, there was only one option. Throwing a plant in the bin would be awful karma. Even if it is only one of those nondescript green office plants that sits in the corner of the room in an attempt to fool employees into thinking they are not sitting in a large polystyrene box.

So on Monday, Plant (as I affectionately call him) took his first tube ride. He was fine at Elephant & Castle where we got on, but by the time we got off at Clapham North he had taken on a very harassed look. A quick stop at The Clapham General Store to pick up a pot and some potting mix, and then we were home, for some time on the balcony and a few big glasses of London tap water.

He perked up quickly and seems to be fitting into life at 11 Langham House just fine. And I haven't accidently tipped battery acid into his pot or done anything equally as mindless to him. Yet.

'Glamping'

I last went to a music festival eight years ago, where we cooked instant mashed potato and bird's eye peas on a little primus stove somewhere out the back of Golden Bay, NZ; bathed in the river, and slept on those incredibly useless pseudo-foam bed rolls. It was right up there with the greatest four days of my life.

Last weekend I festivaled again - on a small-ish island off the south of England, with 64,999 others. The Isle of Wight festival was rather famous back in the day. 1968-1970 to be precise. In 1970 The Doors and The Who headlined on Saturday, with Jimi Hendrix having a go on Sunday, along with Joan Baez.

Well, things have changed since 1970, and also since 2000. A lot of the above are dead. I don't eat instant mashed potato anymore, and am very reluctant to sleep on another one of those stupid bedrolls.

So last weekend, while others camped, we 'glamped'.

An ingenious company will go in and set up a tent for you, in your own area very near the main arena; give you inflatable airbeds, and nice new sleeping bags. You rarely have to queue for the (hot) showers; whereas your average camper will be waiting for sometimes over an hour and a half for a cold rinse. Oh how lovely it was when this morning at 5.30am, I packed my very civilised weekend bag and just walked away from the tent. No peg counting, or fly folding needed.

There is one downside to all this being grown up though. Where eight years ago I recovered from the festival by lying on a beach in the Abel Tasman for five days; this morning, four hours after hovercrafting my way off the island, I found myself back behind a desk replying to four days' worth of e mails.

Academia Holds Brain Hostage

My brain is awash with long and tiresome phrases such as 'cultural discontinuities', 'symptomatology across ethnic groups' and 'systematic endeavour'.

'Creative Emma' is slowly being smothered to death underneath a pile of photocopied journal articles heavy with black text and weighty concepts.

'Academic Emma' sits at her desk, staring blankly at the laptop screen in front of her. Every now and then the oppressive silence is smashed when she erratically bats out another regurgitated phrase.

All the while 'Creative Emma's life flashes before her eyes.. From the time she won 3rd prize for her cardboard construction at Pet Day; through to the headband and brooch she crafted from a silk neck tie last weekend.

'Nothing can save me now' she thinks, as she chokes on yet another 'APA referencing style' citation.

Goodbye Winter

I bought this get up in Toronto, November of last year. At the time I was romanticising about wearing a mountain of ice blue fluff in the depths of an English winter. But it never really got cold enough here in London for me to dig out my matching scarf, hat and mitten set.

So now I find myself pulling them out of my top drawer and stashing them away in a dusty cupboard, along with thermal underwear and possum fur socks, in the hope that I might wear them next winter.

#10 - Save on carbon farts...

Feel uber-urban as you step onto the Eurostar at the brand spanking new St Pancras Station, London. Until you find yourself surrounded by 75 year old couples all called Mavis and Bert as they prepare for their annual bus trip around Europe.

But in just over two hours, leave all the Mavis and Berts behind as Paris welcomes you with three kisses. Quickly finding yourself installed in a sidewalk cafe; for days of endless sunshine, cheap wine and a whole lot of laughs. In particular, laugh at the excellent sociological displays in the Louvre as riots just about break out in front of Venus.

Soon realise you need to leave the museum when you begin to fantasise about impaling all the annoying tourists on ancient Roman statues.

All Those In Favour Say.....

Number 9 on the list of things to do in London before you die of chronic lung disease is......Vote.

On Thursday I exercised my democratic right as a citizen of London and voted in the mayoral election.

Unfortunately 100,000 more people liked bumbling, funny-haired 'Tory Boris', than 'Red Ken', so overnight London swung to the right.

There was definitely an element of 'the lesser of two evils' in choosing who to vote for. But I enjoyed the experience all the same.

Thanks London for letting me have my say.

Hello Stranger

Clapham Common - April 6th

And less than three weeks later, on the 26th....

Summer. It was lovely to see you today, after such a long time apart from one another.

Let the good times roll.

The Deserter - Epilogue

Phone turned up this morning with an exceptionally coy look on his face. But otherwise in good health. Wallet, Keys, Jacket and I were all very happy to see him back.

And so, me and my vital possessions were reunited.

The Deserter

I've always been amazed at the way my belongings manage to stick with me. Particularly after a long night. If you could see footage of me returning home, you would see me climb out of a taxi and hold the door open as my wallet, jacket, keys and mobile phone jump out, thank the driver (my belongings are very polite) and head for my front door like one big, happy family.

When I wake the next morning, I will always find them lying next to me, tittering away to each other about what a great night they had.

Unfortunately last night there was a deserter.

When I awoke this morning, Wallet was flat out on the floor, still sleeping; Keys were in bed next to me, one arm shielding their eyes from the morning light; Jacket was curled up at the end of the bed like a dutiful puppy. Phone, however, was nowhere in sight. In fact, it seems that Phone didn't come home at all last night.

To say I am disappointed in Phone is an understatement. But as the phrase goes: 'If you love something set it free. If it comes back to you, then it is yours. If not, then it is now some other lucky person's'.

In a way I hope Phone left on its own accord. For new and exciting adventures.

Thanks for the good times Phone. We'll all miss you.