Sheds, Beds and Running Reds

Should some higher being grant me the finance and freedom to impart my mundane wonderings on a wider audience, the above would be it's title. This I concluded whilst on one of my many rainy rides home from university. Our university years are sold to us with the premise of a life-affirming time, a pivotal point in our development from youth to adult. If i'm being honest, I wouldn't conclude that my behaviour has become any more mature/socially acceptable. Though the numerous failures of shop assistants to ask me for ID as of late would suggest otherwise - perhaps it's true that a gruelling BA in architecture really does age you about a decade. If you are lucky, whilst at university you may have the revelation of "finding yourself". Well, i found out a hell of a lot about myself. Notably that i'm a cunt. Yes, a cunt. It's like Seal sings isn't it? "We're never gonna survive, unless, we get a little cunty." Or something along those lines. But it's that somewhat profane term that i attribute to my survival tactics over the last three years. Life has thrown a supposed shit load of lemons my way. I never did get around to making lemonade, but i did run those lemons through an unholy trinity of computer software, workshop machinery and traumatic presentations, until finally i scraped my citrussy ass over the finish line and handed my portfolio in, and be done with it. This lemon-cultivating proved a valuable break from some of the more stressful notes of my career thus far, notably my eternal frustration at my ineptitude with men, and my somewhat undecided position between wanting to be a 10k-a-day girl and [in actual fact] being a 10-a-day girl. All we can hope for is that amongst the melee, there are more rights than wrongs to be found.

Instant boyfriend - just add water and stir...

Clouds have lifted after a dark couple of days - and that's not to even touch on the state I was in after a week's celebrations! Bookended by summer ball and Parklife festival, emotions have been running wild and leaving on a high seems only right after an intense year. I thought I would start by tackling a fairly taboo subject in some respects - the preserve of singletons everywhere. That's right, the one night stand. In theory, it works....as a means to an end. Problems arise, I find, not in the sobering morning light and the impending reality that you have degraded yourself by sharing an intimacy with a relative stranger, but when, for one party, there is a compulsion to ignore the labelling. It's ONE night, for a reason. You may have hit it off exponentially. Yes, it's enchanting to find another who speaks your language, yes they might tick all the boxes in physical respects, yes - they might even reciprocate your passion. But protocol and self-preservation must ensue. A midday welcome is not to be outstayed. Offer coffee or remedial measures by all means. A gentleman will escort you home, and might even appropriate you a pair of flip flops, but remember, no-one made you wear those skyscraper heels and body-con lurex minidress. If you are anything like me, on parting, I would highly recommend you delete his number. Attempting to re-enact the rendezvous with, say, someone who is due to depart the country in a week is dangerous territory. It is a well known fact that the in house translators of the texting world like to employ a little technique that makes the most carefree, "carpe diem"-esque message go from "let's live in the moment" to "i'll be watching you from the bushes." So It is to my dismay that I find I am still no more worldly-wise in the male domain, and my tendency towards impatience with the opposite sex shows no signs of abating. I long for the day my head and heart will make the connection that a relationship requires solid foundations, masonry and structure, rather than some insta pre-fab effort. Until then, let's keep my outgoings purely platonic!