Guys and Dolls

"Call it sad, call it funny. But it's better than even money, that the guy's only doing it for some doll."


It is a well known fact that most men are just on the pink caribou side of crazy - not quite entirely sane but quite amiable and capable of holding down jobs, mortgages/rent and suchlike.

They generally manage to hide their freakish and mad behaviour- which usually manifests itself in forms such as possessing freakish numbers of childish collectables (whether it be comic books, football programmes or pot pigs - believe me I met that guy) or being able to speak fluent Klingon - and can wear a respectable mask of normality.

But throw women into the mix, or rather women they fancy, and you find yourself dealing with a horse of a different colour...

I only mention this because I saw a guy I've known a while this weekend, for the first time since the new hair, at a Christmas party back in the area in which I used to live.

Now Jonny is a strapping 6-plus footer, cute with a slightly wonky smile, who didn't show much interest in me the last few times I met him.

So come last Friday I was surprised - nay stunned - to see him demonstrating line dancing worthy of Nashville to the strains of 1990s horror hit Cotton Eye Joe, mere seconds after revealing the embarrassing fact that his parents forced him into line dancing classes in his teens.

Now it is a well known fact you cannot make a man dance at the best of times, never mind humiliating dosie-dos, unless he is trying to impress or drunk - and dear Jonny was quite coherent...

But the episode got me thinking about all the crazy things men do to get women to like them.

I've heard all sorts of strange reports from female friends of things men have done to impress them - ranging from comedy oversize floral bouquets, to having their name tattooed on an arm in huge gothic lettering, from buying £300 books of the girl's favorite poetry, to starting boozy fights over a lady's honour and dance floor six pack demonstrations - all in the name of impressing the ladies.

My current favourite tale is from Paul who, aged 13 and in his pre-Isabelle days, tried to woo a 12-year-old girl in his class by taking part in a river-borne-raft race, despite his extra-ordinarily bad swimming capabilities (The boy risked death!!)

And as we chatted Paul revealed that in his current "Isabelle days" he also traveled (on public transport) over 150 miles to reach Issy for a surprise rendez-vous, and talked a florist into giving him a lily-of-valley plant so he would always have an out-of-season supply of France's traditional romantic flower for French Valentine's day (not February 14).

It then dawned on me that the reason men do many of the crazy things they do may not be as madly motivated as they might seem, and that - in spite of their enormous potential to say absolutely nothing in a passionate fashion - men have an innate but quirky sense of romance.

In conclusion it is clear - for men actions really do speak louder than words and sometimes you have to trust what a man does, not what he says.

Suze x

Ps I did give Jonny my number - c'mon I'm not an ice queen - the man did a tush push...

The bus theory at Christmas

It is absolutely typical. You spend several hours at the bus stop (without a shelter) in the pouring rain waiting for your number to arrive.

Just when you reach the point where the rain eases off and you're about to walk, three of the buggers show up at once.

Everyone knows that this is the sort of theory when you can apply to other areas of life and indeed it has become common metaphorical parlance vis romance - to the point of being a cliche.
Nowhere has this been more evident than my office Christmas party. I was merry and able to talk to my friend Simon (I can deal with him quite easily now as a good pal, no alarms and no surprises) as well as dancing with my ladies.

Portia and I were both on good form in new stunning dresses and the moves - kind of like the macarena in incredibly beautiful but uncomfortable shoes. We were dancing on our merry way when my chum, foppish Phil, stumbled onto the dancefloor.

"Suzesh," he slurred. "I musht buy you a drink." I agreed on the terms I would buy him one back later and he brought me a dry white wine.

Two minutes later he swayed back towards us.

"Suzesh! I musht buy you a drink!"
"Erm I'm ok Phil," I replied. But again two minutes later he returned with another glass of wine.

This process repeated a total of six times, leaving a small cache of full glasses of white wine - untouched by me and my ladies.

And with the last glass Phil tried a drunken lunge in a clumsy attempt to kiss me. Still having my wits about me I managed to side-step and avoided an embarrassing scene by dashing to the lav.

On the way there another odd thing happened. Lovely Dave, who works in a different department to me, struck up an odd conversation. Now Lovely Dave is universally known as the office tart so I wasn't seriously interested, but his success with women is largely to do with his general cuteness and the fact he smells so damn good.

I wasn't surprised that as per usual he was incredibly fragrant - but was stunned when he started making the moves on me. Usually Lovely Dave clocks up his phenomenally high strike rate with tall blonde stunnas - something I am certainly not - and I have to say I was slightly tempted by the flattery and the wonderful aftershave.

But recalling my dignity I gave him a peck on the cheek, a cheeky wink and carried along my merry way.

Now the third bus arrived as I was chatting to other colleagues. It was strange really because it was a bus I didn't even realise was in service.

Michael is a very sweet boy- I say boy because he's just out of his teens and five years my junior. He's very sporty and in his own field he is a future world champion hope (and as a result has a 6ft toned body many women would kill to get with).

Despite his youth he's very popular with the ladies in the office - but he's never shown any interest in any of them - and I always thought of him as the boy Michael - just a baby.

I can't even remember how the conversation started, but it became a one hour, one man "how great is Suze" party. Little Michael wouldn't stop with the compliments. It seems he has been watching from afar - something I'd never imagined, never mind realised.

Now it's nice to see yourself reflected in someone else's eyes in that way, but I think everyone, especially Narcissus, realises the danger of looking too long into their own reflection for too long. You can quite easily get sucked under.

So without risking my dignity I thanked Little Michael for his sweet comments and went home. Alone, but with much boosted self esteem.

Suze x

Becoming Modesty Blaise

Have you ever wondered how much a haircut can do for a woman?

Well I tell you. It can turn her into an international secret service agent

Yesterday, after a particularly nasty incident with some hair straighteners, styling spray and time, I had to abandon the fullness of the do and scrape back my remaining hair into a high ponytail and carry on and get into work, before my boss had time to realise I was unforgivably late.

Going about my merry, but every day business, way I bumped into Adam, my chum who despite having the chaos of three young boys and a fabulous but frenetic woman, Annie, at home is about one of the calmest and most "zen" people who floats into my orbit on occasion.

"My," he said. "You look very Modesty Blaise."

"Who?" I replied, clearly ignorant of the name.

Now I'm not really old enough or comic strip fan enough to really know who Modesty is/was. But Adam, with the aid of Wikipedia, enlightened me that Modesty is/was a retired head of a criminal cartel turned superspy, known for hair colour changes, skimpy outfits and a peek-a-boo fringe not unlike mine - hence the comparison (fringe not skimpiness).

But, physicalities aside, Modesty is tough, smart and sassy - basically one kick ass chick.

Being imaginative creatures Portia and I set to work seeing how we both could become similar kick ass chicks in the vein of Ms Blaise (it was either that or just sit having a coffee and talking about boys - I know which one is more interesting!).

Of course the first thing two fabulous girl spies needs is a mission. An ours, because we chose to accept it is to half inch a gnome and spray paint it gold.

Now we have our own reasons for doing this (we are talking about a secret mission here! But the reasons mostly relate to a project by Annie involving gnomes - however the less said the better) - so I hope you will not question us and wait to hear how the mission goes.

And we have a plan - it involves smoke bombs, suction pads, Elton John style glittery sunglasses and golden leg warmers. Fabulous.

Of course this leaves me with no option other than to invest in all manner of catsuits, miniskirts and a utility belt which houses all manner of spying equipment, a pistol, cyanide tablets and of course, that bit of kit no spy could live without...lipstick.

PS on that girl power note I'd like to warn one and all that in coming days (following the Scarlett moment) there may be some changes afoot on the old blog front.... You have been warned,

Suze x

Fiddle-de-de (realisation)

Today the dreaded hair appointment came.

I sat in the salon with clenched fists, rocking gently to the hum of hairdryers, chattering and piped music. Absolutely petrified.

Three(three!) hours later I emerged with a fringe, coloured and shorter hair and £60 lighter, but feeling good - like a new woman really.

I met up with my friend and mentor Lisa for a drink to show off my new do.

As we sat there chatting Simon came in. He had been to have his hair cut too. As his jaw dropped I looked at him, with his bad crop, and realised - I am cuter, younger and really shouldn't bother with someone who doesn't want me.

That was when I had my Scarlett moment. Just without the civil war, death, Clark Gable etc. A bit of a shock really...

I'm totally over my Ashley. I'm gobsmacked.

Days off - aka eating cake and sorting holiday snaps...

Big plans...
Tomorrow I shall be mostly easting scrummy cake and sorting out my holiday snaps. That is after the dreaded hair appointment. I'm thinking as long as I have happy thoughts in my mind as I enter the salon (ie upcoming bun sesh).

I will also try to enter a new phase as regards the Ops list. I have managed to purchase a complete works of Shakespeare, must to the amusement of my colleagues who chortled in an unsympathetic fashion as I struggled under the massive weight of a library Shakespeare (a Publishers Work's special full of the knowledge of ages, purchased for the princely sum of £19.99). One or two were very eager to point out that I'll probably struggle to read it sitting in bed, as it spreads over a foot an a half when opened. Barstewards.

Ah well, it will all be worth it when I'm done and I can tick the item of my list, safe in the knowledge I am more cultured as a result.

Hairy Moments

One of my biggest phobias has to be my absolute dread of hairdressers. The main basis of this is that I truly hate people I don't know getting right in my face and talking to me. I don't know what it is about that behaviour but I just can't stand it. All I know is I'd rather have my teeth drilled - at least dentists wear masks.

Being a person who hates to be bound by fear I have tried a number of times to overcome this problem. But after several "incidents" involving near or actual injury I decided to give the whole hair cut thing a rest.

But I had decided last month I was ready to bite the bullet and attempt, against my internal fears, to have my slightly unruly hair tamed into a proper style.

I was all ready to engage the services of a reputable stylist, who had been recommended to me by a good and trusted chum.

However before I had chance to place a call to the salon, one (aforementioned) Simon stuck his ore in. Spotting the money off coupon for the salon on my desk he picked it up and handed it to me saying "You need this".

Charming. He did later apologise for his, I quote, "unprofessional comments." But for the last month I have refused to see a hairdresser. My hair isn't quite in the league of Tom Hanks in Castaway, its long, shiny and clean, rarely styled bar the daily plait or pony tail to allow me to go about my day without significant hair crises.

The worst thing that any man can think, be he friend, relative, co-worker or other, is that you will change how you are to fit his opinion. It is a real sign of weakness and something that can totally alter social standing. Hence my resistance to overcoming the salonophobia.

But I feel it is now getting ridiculous, I'm not happy with it and I really want a change. So I'm off to a salon tomorrow to try and bring an end to the Barnet saga.

I just hope Simon, and other colleagues, has no memory for mean things he has said in the past...

Operation under fire

As part of ongoing Distraction Ops I yomped out into the wilds with girly pals on Sunday for a spot of sharp shooting fun in the form of a day of paintballing.

We arrived in our little runabouts at 9am, not many hours after arriving home from the previous nights drink and dance activities, and found the place in a muddy quagmire.

As the realisation dawned on us that our team of 14 were all togged up in wildly inappropriate footwear, consisting of white trainers and silver glittery ballet pumps, and clothing, ie small pink t-shirts and boot-cut jeans, we realised that a completely different kind of team were assembling close by.

We watched in shock and awe as a group of about 15 men extricated themselves from a variety of heavy duty Dadmobiles - Volvos, Mondeos and the like - dressed in various degrees of military clothing.

I kid you not, these guys were serious. Not only were they pulling on British Army issue webbing (the new stuff that not all Our Boys (tm The Sun) have received yet) and attaching paint grenades to their hips, but it was also revealed that they had a cache of customised paint guns they had brought from home. They were clearly prepared for war.

Now I am not one to sneer disapprovingly at other people's pursuits (I mean you can go to paperclip racing events for all I care - as long as it makes you happy) but these guys had come along on the Sunday at the start of half term - so it what did they expect as opponents - the hard core of the SAS?

True to our expectations two gaggles of tiny boy scouts - possibly cubs - had also arrived for some shoot 'em up fun. About 50 per cent of the kids were clearly hyper whilst the others were trying to find ways of pulling up their oversize overalls so that they didn't trip up on the legs - not the most taxing of opponents.

As we checked for the arrival of the Dadmobile team's air support unit, the paintball marshalls looked on nervously and puzzled over which team to match up with the Gung-ho Volvo boys, with their paintball AK47s and their tactical assault vests.

In the end, evidently seeing the mixture or terror and smirking disdain on our faces, they decided to pit kids against grown ups.

We watched as a troop of small cubs traipsed off, all but swamped by overalls and goggles, followed by the gun-toting Mondeo Men who hi-fived each other to whoops of "See you on the other side", as if they were trying to breach the beach head on Omaha.

A few minutes later we heard distant gun-shots and explosions, in the manner of the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan.

We were later told, after a day of discovering the joys of localised bruising, that the cubs escaped without serious harm...

Women who wear white

There are two definitive types of women in the world, those who can wear white (Women In White - WIWs) and those who can't (WithOut White WOWs).

Simon's lovely girlfriend Sarah, I understand, is undoubtedly a WIW, while I fall firmly into the second category.

WIWs are the sort of women who can wear white accoutrements without stains, accessorize to within an inch of their lives, have perfect hair with no fluffy bits, can command the attention of any male, straight or gay, and generally show no signs of fraying.

WOWs on the other hand are unable to find the source of permanent marks on their heavily crumpled white linen trousers, lose earrings from their earlobes (my adorable French amie Isabelle has no matching pairs of earrings because of this) and command the attention of any male, straight or gay, by falling off of ridiculously high heels into muddy puddles whilst mid-fray. WIWs are in control, shrewd women, like Condoleeza Rice or Kirsty Gallagher, whereas WOWs are scatty, occasionally in freefall and wearing the wrong shoes, we all know plenty of examples of these.

It makes you wonder how we manage to compete really. By rights WIWs should rule the world, breed like rabbits and pushing WOWs - the sartorial equivalent of Homo neanderthalensis - into extinction.

However, I suspect this is due to one more important classification which separates women into another two groups, into which all women fall into - those with a sassy sense of humour and those without.

Both WIWs and WOWs can fall into each category.

I hope that, despite this weekend trying to chat up a cute guy at a bar (in the Elton sunglasses) with a line about having sticky fingers from a lollipop and a bad joke about Mongol hordes in reference to his travel exploits (behaviour that marks me out as a WOW), I can call myself one of the lucky ones with a sense of fun.

Of course the most disgustingly perfect and fabulously infallible of all groups is the WIW who can make you laugh.

My sister is one - perfectly turned out for any occasion, but with a perfect sense of timing and humour which can leave anyone in stitches. These are certainly not women to mess with and should be loved and cherished - for they are truly special.

Lets face it though, if you lose the humour a WIW is just an efficient dress rack and a WOW without a giggle is just grim.

The ability to laugh and make others laugh is a real blessing and can overcome any fault - but nothing can compensate for lacking a sense of humour.

PS I don't know if Sarah has a sense of humour, but knowing Simon, she must have.

Operational details

After extensive consultation (with two of my chums - one being Portia, the other my good pal and fellow Elton sunglasses wearer Paul) I have started a list of challenges in a bid to achieve maximum distraction.

So far:
1. Do a parachute jump
2. Read the works of Shakespeare
3. Sing on stage - alone....
4. Learn to ride a motorbike
5. To drink and dance until dawn
6. Visit Florence
7. Learn to surf
8. Be an extra on TV
9. Get drunk on cider at a scrumpy farm
10. Buy a bicycle and cycle 100 miles in a day
11. To compete in an equestrian event
12. To take part in a mobility scooter race
13. Meet Bill Oddie
14. Keep a regular blog


As you can see number 14 is well under way, I have big plans on number 5 and number 2 just require perseverance but the others require some organising. I would welcome any further suggestions, especially for stuff you can just wake up one morning and decide to do...

Paul also suggested that I try dating a man from every country in the world. This has been discounted because it is far too labour intensive, but we are currently discussing the sensibilities of dating a man from each EU country...

What is the plan?

Just to be clear, Operation Distraction, despite its slightly misleading title, isn't about me ignoring my feelings. It is about developing my life in other areas so that I can move on.

I like to think of it as a healthy approach to something which is causing me difficulty.

This guy, lets call him Simon for the sake of ease and convenience, is a great guy (I feel a bit bad having called him a waistrel - but it's done - I refuse to change the blog if I do it once I'll keep doing it) but there is going to be no way that anything can happen between us, so obsessing about such matters is really not good for the soul.

The plan, known as The Master Plan, simply consists of taking the cliche Carpe Diem and actually doing it.

So with that in mind I'm looking at ways of expanding my horizons every day - whether it be taking the time to learn more about my valued friends, learning a new skill or doing completely ridiculous such as going to a Fatty Arbuckles and winning a certificate for eating a ludicrously oversized steak and icecream. Suggestions would be gratefully received.

Some elements of the plan have already been rolled into action. My good friend Portia, a single mum with a smiley and quiet baby called Bob who discovers the world through his mouth, has been dragging me out to some of the more ludicrous nitespots in town (sans Bob, naturellement).

We're not sharking, we're just out laughing mostly and dancing. Men are really just secondary to the whole thing and we're enjoying just having fun.

Also we have coming with a clearly life changing, albeit drunken, scheme to go to Somerset, get absolutely of our faces on cider at a scrumpy farm before cycling home on a tandem bicycle. Fabulous, I'll keep you posted...

But really we're just going out, having fun and meeting people before stumbling home with a takeaway and sleeping the whole thing off. Now that is good for the soul.

And until you have stood in the doorway of a trendy wine bar, wearing outrageous Elton John/Dame Edna Everage sunglasses and asked directions to Club Tropicana, because you know the drinks are free, you really haven't lived.

Why I write....

I woke up one morning to the horrible realisation that, despite my better judgement and principles forbidding such romantic and trite impulses, I had fallen for a male friend.

This horrible fact is aggravated by several factors:-
1. He is a workmate
2. He has a long term girlfriend ( a slim blonde stunnah)
3. He is a waistrel

The most highly irritating thing about this whole thing is the fact I have inexplicably morphed from driven career woman into soppy, starry eyed freak who is unable to concentrate. Not big, clever, or condusive to sanity.

As a result I am determined to take my life back, by force if necessary, using Operation Distraction (also known as Operation Having Fun In Spite Of Unhealthy Preoccupations).
This blog officially starts Operation Distraction in a bid to open the operation to scrutiny and ridicule and, therefore, motivation...