Chocolate is not the only fruit

You will be relieved to hear that I'm aware that my recent posts have been all 'me, me, me,' and frankly even I've had enough of that. So, in reponse to absolutely no public demand here is a welcome break from the pity party.

We were out for a meal at the weekend to celebrate my birthday and after a little while an older couple were seated at the table next to ours. From the conversation it appeared they were on a first date. He had been a pilot, had been married, lost a lot to his ex-wife in the divorce, likes romantic novels and is a fan of Scandi dramas. She is from New Zealand. As you can tell he monopolised the conversation and she listened attentively (as did I evidently). We left before they did, but it appeared to be going well. I can't imagine how difficult it is dating when you've already had a life, a family and a history before you meet.

I went to a work reunion this evening in Putney with colleagues I knew more than 12 years ago. It was a workplace where I genuinely knew other people's business and even though it was a large charity based on two separate sites I knew people in every department by the time I left. Part of this is because of my natural nosiness and part of it is because I was there at a significant time in my life.

Hubbie and I present a radio show together that we joke is the only time we actually talk to each other. While that's not strictly true it has reminded us how much we enjoy each other's company. Today he made me laugh so much I had to turn my mic down and let him carry on introducing my song. It was a ridiculous comment about a horse called Hoof Hearted and it had me in stitches and crying with laughter, silly I know.

We've been married for seven years this year - having both had starter marriages as practice - which in celebrity marriage terms is a lifetime. I always forget the date we got married, but I remember birthdays and other celebration days so I don't feel too bad. In fact we kid around that we have reversed the traditional roles as he irons his own shirts and I refuse to read instructions. It works for us.

In our early dating days we went on holiday to California and took a road trip from San Francisco to Las Vegas (via Los Angeles). We spent 24 hours a day together and a lot of time in a car driving. Well he drove, I mostly handed him sweets and pointed at the ocean. At no point did we argue or fall out and we always managed to agree on where to eat and what to do with a minimum of fuss. I put this down to him being easy going more than any positive qualities on my part.

When we were told it was unlikely that we would be able to have a baby we sat and cried for what felt like hours on chairs in the fertility clinic feeling bereft and empty. Every day after that I would phone him at work with some new plan I'd concocted to enable us to have the family we so desperately wanted. One day I called him while I was sitting under a dryer at the hairdressers to tell him I wanted to adopt one of the 11 million abandoned baby girls from India that I'd just read about. He said "Ok."

I asked him if we could go ahead and adopt in this country and he said "yes." We were assessed and verbally prodded and poked for months until we were approved by a panel of 13 strangers as suitable to be parents. Then we waited, and waited, and waited a bit more. It occurred to me that we had given up trying to get pregnant and it had to be worth a try. I suggested that in addition to all the dietary changes we'd made and the weight loss and the yoga we should also try acupuncture or reflexology. He is terrified of needles, but he said "Yes."

On a plane to India I watched Juno and cried and cried and cried. Then he watched it and he cried too. We watched Gavin & Stacey struggle to have a family and cried and cried and cried. We tried to get used to the idea that we would neither adopt, nor have a baby of our own. We went on holiday and remembered why we were together in the first place. Then on the day that I found out I was pregnant he responded joyfully "My balls work !"

As I type this Hubbie is out watching My Bloody Valentine with a friend. He loves their music, I don't. On Sunday I will be taking a flying lesson that he bought me as a present - I am terrified, but you have to love the thought. The other day he told me I looked hot in my skinny jeans - unprompted !

So for all the times that Hubbie has said, "yes" or "ok" or "if you like" to make me happy I am posting this as I know it will make him happy.

It's Monday morning and I've dropped the boy off at nursery, meditated, practised yoga and planned my radio show for later, so I have time for my "I don't like Mondays" style ponder.

Before I met Hubbie and I was a single girl about town I was less Bridget Jones and more Bellatrix Lestrange - in dress sense and temperament.  I did internet dating at a time when you would rather tell people about your toilet habits than that you met via the internet. It was for about a year and I was pretty honest with my friends about it as I needed them to make my emergency phone calls an hour into the latest foray into the world of meeting strangers who really were the definition of strange.

For example the man who looked like a young Elton John and told me how he attacked his neighbour and practised tai chi on the tube. I popped to the loo, asked my housemate to ring me as a get out - which he did - and then I proceeded to do the best acting of my life to get out of the date. How I ended up giving him a lift to Victoria station is not recorded in history, but suffice it to say if he was weird to have a drink with in a bar then how much worse was it to have him in the much smaller space of my car ?

Then there was the chap I dated who bragged about the value of his sports car, his Breitling watch, etc. etc. and then wondered why he only ever attracted women who were interested in money. He would regularly list the nationalities of all the women he had dated as though he was working through a list or ticking them off on a map of the world. He now lives abroad and posts pictures of himself flying planes and hanging out with what look suspiciously like ladyboys.

Not all the failed relationships started online though, I also met an ex-school mate - many years after we left school - at a friend's 30th. It was a few years later that we actually dated and I had memories of how gorgeous he'd been the last time I saw him so what I failed to see was that he was not at his best at that point. He'd had a massive breakdown and was living with his parents, drinking a lot and was generally not in a good way. He would arrange to meet me and turn up over two hours late and not entirely sober.

Now I know that trashing your exes is the preserve of crazy ladies who admit to knitting jumpers for their room full of cats. It's not classy, but to be honest I've got enough tragic material here for a book that would make less of a misery memoir and more of a desperate dating diatribe. I only really mention these case studies as an example of my credentials in offering advice to friends with relationship woes.

One beautiful yoga teacher friend who I met through her husband was in a toxic situation that I summarised for her was clearly about their physical attraction as they were so different in character. Another lovely friend was drowning in debt, but very much in love. I suggested she might decide whether she could be with him and not hold it against him that she paid for everything. I'm pleased to say they are very happy together.

I often wonder if I could be any cop as a counsellor. I did the training a few years back and having had a failed marriage and a chaotic dating history I think I've put in the ground work in person too. If knowledge is best achieved from personal experience then I'm pretty much qualified to be the new Claire Rayner as no one seems to have taken over from her kindly manner and no nonsense advice. I would say that against these pros there is one pretty big con and that is that I have a skin to few for the job. I take things far too personally - it's really a pain - and it's only getting worse as I get older. I'd like to be more like Tony Soprano's shrink. She is the ultimate listener who knows what he does for a living and yet keeps focused on the task at hand and appears not to judge him.

I feature a guest on my radio show every week and they talk about the work they do with passion and enthusiasm. It is inspiring, but also makes me wonder where my true calling or passion in working life lies. When I was younger I was experimental with my hair, clothing and career choices. As the title of this post suggests I had aspirations to become Siouxie Sioux (who shares my birthday by the way) or another colourful strong female. Now I'm pondering what I do in this next phase of my career having had a child, so you may get a few more of these rambling posts as I think aloud about what I should do.

Bear with me please. Unless you're a career counsellor in which case let me know what you think.

I was out powerwalking the other evening and I'd taken a short cut across the golf course near our house. As it was evening I guessed it wouldn't be too busy and was pondering the previous time I'd wandered too far along the path and been met with a chain across the dead end that warned 'no public right of way.' As I started to walk back uphill I became slightly anxious as I had low battery on my phone and my feet were getting tired. In my head I saw myself twisting my ankle, being stranded and not being able to call home or for help. As I quickened my pace it became more and more of a worry until as I got back to the top and found a path that I could get back home from. It was this path I was on when the following occasion I saw a golfer waving at me to tell me off for walking through the course. The irony made me laugh. I'd been so concerned about the catastrophe that could happen that I hadn't considered the issue that would catch me out - the tartan legged 'sportsman' showing his son how to use a 5 iron.

A 'cat'astrophe ?

It's this catastrophic thinking that makes my life a constant worry. I can't stop myself - in idle moments - from taking a mental walk to the least desirable outcome. It takes time to realise that I have worked myself up about absolutely nothing, but I know I'm not alone in thinking every siren is a bad news one for me when Hubbie isn't home yet. During a recent spate of burglaries in our area I actually spent every minute I was out of the house worrying about it. While it would take a lot of pages to list all of my insanity I've decided to share the most irrational ones for your amusement.

1.  Hubbie and I had only been dating for a few months and I was going away with friends on a skiing holiday. We were going to Whistler for two weeks and I was thinking of asking Hubbie-to-be to flat sit for me. I kind of knew he could be trusted, but there was still a nagging thought maybe I didn't know him that well. I mean those people he'd introduced to me as his parents could have been actors he'd hired and maybe it was all an elaborate con trick ? Of course it was all fine (as evidenced by that fact we're married now) and the actual problem that occured was one I hadn't even considered. It was when we were in Heathrow waiting to check in our bags that one of our party decided to tell me that I needed to have at least 6 months on my passport to visit Canada and I only had around 4 months on mine. I spent the entire flight expecting to be immediately deported while Harriet kept saying she'd just show them her police warrant card (I'm not sure what that would actually do). As I was preoccupied with this drama I didn't even have time to realistically consider that I wouldn't have been allowed on the flight in the first place if it was an issue. The plus side was that with this nonsense to occupy my mind I forgot about my fear of planes.

2. I used to work in a job that took me all over the UK and at one point I visited Cornwall for the first time and while there I picked up a leaflet about surfing. Convinced that I should try it I booked myself onto a surfing course in Cornwall and paid a deposit to secure my place. I was going alone, but the accommodation was in a shared hostel so I was bound to make friends. About a week before I bottled it and cancelled. I'd gone from "it'll be great, just like Blue Juice and everyone knows it's always sunny in Cornwall" to "I'll break something or drown, they will all be fit and blonde and I'll be small, dumpy and clumsy." I still haven't gone back. Of course now I'm obsessed with Hawaii 5-O and Alex O'Loughlin so I may have to revisit this plan.

3. It was for similar reasons that I didn't get too far with my fledgling stand up career. I did a course in the early '90's when it was all the rage. Some of my fellow students actually went on to become something on the circuit. I, however, struggled to write material, talked over the laughs (if I got any) and just felt terribly embarrassed. The entire premise of failing at comedy is that you 'die' on stage and that has to be the ultimate in catastrophe thinking surely ? I mean, who wants to die in front of a room full of strangers ? At least with impro you have a group of people to share the laughs and the silences with and I'm still friends with some of my impro pals.

By far the worst of my catastrophe thinking involves my beloved son. Every new scenario is fraught with potential fears, but the example I've chosen is particularly bonkers:

3. I've taken my boy to a playgroup called Little lions since he was 4 months old and it's a lovely group of Mums and babies with the occasional special day with pampering for Mums. On one of these days I had booked to have a treatment for which I had to go downstairs to the beauty room. My boy was about 6 months and would sometimes cry if he lost sight of me so the other Mums reassured me he'd be fine and they would keep an eye on him and bring him down if he got too upset. While I settled onto the beauty couch I tried to relax, but the thoughts whirring round my head included, 'I don't really know these people, What if they are baby snatchers ? What if they steal my baby ? I don't know where any of them live. I don't know anyone's last name.' etc. etc. Needless to say he was fine and I had spent my pampering time winding myself up into a frenzy of fear for nothing.

All this self-induced trauma does is give me sleepless nights. I know that's part and parcel of parenting, but what was my excuse before I had my son ? The positive in all of this is that I am so very grateful that the things I worry about are just a figment of my fevered imagination. If it stays in that realm I am a very lucky woman indeed.

I've always been fascinated by the idea that a man becomes more distinguished with age while a woman just gets castigated for trying too hard to hold onto her youth. Similarly wearing glasses is not considered a passion killer for men, but the old phrase 'men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses' was so deeply ingrained in my psyche that I refused to be seen in public in my glasses for the first ten years of my glasses wearing life. Even now I am convinced that I'm treated differently when I wear them, although it's probably the rest of my 'can't be bothered to make an effort' outfit of jogging bottoms and ragged old uni sweatshirt that give offence rather than my eyewear.

For my own part I've always been partial to a bookish looking chap (Exhibit A: Hubbie) and think that it's quite sexy to look a bit nerdy. I prefer to know that a man can speak another language as it just isn't appealing to me to be able to bench press a London bus. Of course if the man in question is also stacked that's a bonus, but I'm guilty of assuming that if he's pretty or fit he's probably a bit thick. In my dating days I was set up with a chap who I was assured was just right for me. As were they all, but proved in reality the legend 'no plan can withstand contact with the enemy' to be true. This truism was etched onto the wall of my friend's downstairs loo for many years (and probably still is).

I digress, of course, but the point is that once I met this man he was as far from right for me as humanly possible. It started off ok with his impressive collection of vinyl and a lovely flat with skylight in the leafy environs of Southfields. He showed me his car - which he loved and which was made of plastic and was an Alpha Romeo and was red. That's all I recall of the car - sorry Top Gear fanatics. We were supposed to have lunch, but for some reason we ended up eating cheese on toast in his flat - oh don't worry it gets worse.  For a start he didn't appear to have any books. I asked if he read and he told me of course he did and pointed out the motoring magazines on the coffee table. Sharp intake of breath as I realised I was in the company of someone who owned no books, not a one. Now I may have mentioned this before, but I will say it again for emphasis. If you say to me that you don't read you may as well say that you kill small animals for fun or you eat children for a snack.

It's almost as bad as when I was set up with a man who "is just right for you - he likes films." Now there's my "likes films" which is the Blues Brothers, Some Like it Hot and Blade Runner and there was his which was pretty much Star Wars and that's it. The only saving grace was that we could blend in and avoid each other as we were at a fancy dress party where I went as Minnie Mouse (with ears I'd fashioned from a cereal packet) and he was some unidentified african leader. I shudder to imagine who exactly it was in those pre-freed Nelson Mandela days.

I guess my point is that you can't really decide who someone else is going to be attracted to based on what you know about them. Some people genuinely do like the opposite of themselves and some prefer a person who likes all the same things as them. I even know one couple who look so alike that they used to be mistaken for siblings rather than husband and wife - now that is just icky !!

Which brings me back to men who look a bit clever (whether or not they wear glasses) and as always to George Clooney who is both hunky and clever, John Cusack who is super clever and more than a little handsome and Alex O'Loughlin who… well he's just delicious so who cares if he's bright ?

I turned my back for a few months and something happened to London. I mean I knew that the streets were being ripped up and crossings shifted and stuff, but let's just take Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square.

When did the Trocadero become Ripley's Believe it or not ?
Why did the Swiss Centre turn into M&Ms world ?
What is happening behind the hoardings surrounding Leicester Square ?
Who is the multicoloured chap hanging around outside the enormous "London" shop on Piccadilly Circus and why is he waving an umbrella ?
Finally…
Where on earth did all the bloody moving statues come from and why can I not walk along the pavement without seeing a dozen of them ? It's like walking through Edinburgh during the festival.

Also it seems all the theatres have been renamed so when I went to see The Ladykillers I had to find the Gielgud theatre. Once I found it I realised I'd been there before with my sister who was chatted up by some freshies before we went in. She was very polite, but dismissive in response which I remember being impressed by at the time.

Of course in a few months time the city will be heaving with visitors who are here for the Olympics and they won't have any idea what I'm moaning on about. It reminds me of the time I went to Edinburgh outside of the festival and didn't recognise the Grassmarket as it wasn't heaving with street acts and tourists.

When people criticise London for being busy, dirty, crowded, unfriendly, etc. I get really cross. It's mostly the ungrateful gits from out of town who've moved to London for the work who complain it's not more like 'back home' where they can leave the doors unlocked and the local shopkeeper knows what colour your underwear is. To which my stock response is,  "Oh is that the same place you left because there was no work for you then ?" If you pick on my beloved home town expect short shrift from me.

I can take things changing and I appreciate that being dynamic is what makes cities so vibrant and exciting. When I was a single woman dating in London was fabulous as there are so many places to meet and so much to see. I have a dating memory (variously good, bad or ugly) of most sights in London and some of them are so indelibly imprinted on my brain that any change to the landscape is like rewriting history.

Now I'm working on new memories to share with my son. I can't wait to show him the Transport Museum, take him to play softball in one of the many parks or to walk along the South Bank taking in the sights and sounds. I just hope he loves it as much as me Hubbie do.

So I was watching Ocean's Eleven the other evening and while I drooled watching Brad and George it occurred to me that I have very pedestrian taste in the men I lust after from afar. It isn't like I'm the only one to have noticed that William Bradley Pitt is a good looking chap so I console myself with the knowledge that I noticed him first.

It was while watching Thelma and Louise at university (as an example of feminism in film) that my least feminist thoughts came to me about the character of JD. It's mainly that thing he does when he licks his lips - which any girl who has read romantic fiction will tell you is what the hero does right before he kisses you passionately.

Similarly I remember George - before he was considered gorgeous - as Booker in Roseanne, a wholly unlikeable character who dated Roseanne's sister Jackie and was written out fairly early on. I recall thinking he was yummy, but feeling bad about it as he was such a git. So imagine my feeling of joy when years later he reappeared as a doctor in ER and it was ok to fancy him again ! Of course the real appeal of George isn't his twinkly look, it is his complete refusal to settle down. Remember how Warren Beattie was the sexiest man alive and considered untameable, so when he finally did marry Annette Bening his sex appeal vanished. George is far too savvy to risk it, so it gives all of us hope that we might get a go. Well, if Mariella Frostrup and Lisa Snowdon can go out with him then I'm pretty sure we're all in with a chance.

In reality neither of them would be quite considerate enough for me which is why I'm with my hubbie. Ok, it's not the only reason, it's not like I weighed up the odds of ending up with either George or Brad and decided that hubbie was a better bet. He did the leg work and continues to put up with the insanity that is my approach to life. Whether it's the ever changing house rules, "I never use the stripey glass for water." "Can I have some water in the stripey glass please ? Of course it's ok, it's a glass isn't it ?" or my inability to read instructions that come with anything, he is the most patient of human beings.

At the time I met my hubbie I'd been online dating for a while and had met the usual array of weirdos, loonies and men who suddenly realise they are alone and all their friends are paired off so they had better meet someone pretty soon. (Don't worry they say equally lovely things about the women they met). My expectations were low and I was just grateful to meet an intelligent man who didn't mind being beaten by a woman in a debate. When we actually started to go out with each other (I can't say dating, it sounds too american and formal for the carnival of drinking and eating our way round London that was our early courtship) I realised that maybe I didn't have unattainable standards, I'd just been going out with completely the wrong people. We went to an italian restaurant one evening and I fancied gnocchi which I was told they didn't have, so I changed my order. A week later when we were having dinner at his place he cooked me gnocchi and I told him that it was my favourite pasta. Later he confessed that he made it because I'd been disappointed at the restaurant and he wanted to make me happy. Seriously, how often does someone tell you they want to make you happy ?

Now, having been married for five years he has gone from hanging on my every utterance to selective deafness (which happens in all marriages I'm told) and as we live together the element of surprise is pretty non-existent. So you can imagine my delight when I received an unexpected early Christmas present on Saturday. I'd just been on Radio London telling Robert Elms that my dream would be to learn to fly and hubbie and baby were in the other room cheering me along. When the item finished hubbie went upstairs to get something and came back and presented me with the gift of a flying lesson. Apparently when we were out exploring a few weeks back and managed to end up at Biggin Hill I mentioned that I'd love to have a go at flying and he had remembered.

So you see Brad and George, while you are wealthy and famous and good looking and have a special place in my heart, it will always be just below the place reserved for hubbie.