And onto Sydney to seek a gentlemen of worth and value...

Dearest Elinor,

It has been many months since my last correspondence with you and I must immediately apologise for my tardiness and the long and overdue period of silence that has left you bereft of information regarding my new situation here in Sydney.

Ever since my ship has set sail to the Colonies in the Pacific, my journey has been one of ardor and enlightenment. Certainly, the degree of which I have embraced my new life has been dictated by the necessary arrangements to feel at home in my new surroundings, but I am pleased to inform you I feel very settled indeed in my new home.

Now, I hear you inquire, about these men of the New World? I believe you must be quite eager to hear my stories of social and coital engagements with the surly gentlemen of this fine coutry, whom may I add, know no nothing of high tea or of grand balls in Meryton. Be patient no more dearest Elinor and I shall reveal all.

The search for love and a suitable single man in command of good fortune continues still, I am afraid to report. There have been two or three significant encounters during my travels of the 'Wilderness' they call Sydney. Traversing through the lanes of the Eastern Suburbs I have met a number of significant gentlemen who were fair of face and of good breeding. I use the word 'significant' to emphasise the fact there were others who caught my eye. But alas, unfortunately this is all they did. For certainty, I might as well have caught a head cold and experienced greater joy and pleasure from the experience of meeting them.

The men of this country are a predictable breed I have deduced. Many of the maturer gentlemen pride themselves in their appearance and groom themselves quite intensely and 'work out' a great deal. This gives many the illusion of youth and vigor but does nothing to improve their seemingly apparent lack of personality and individualism. The more younger of the men who parade down Sydney's Oxford St are also bereft of any individuality, due to the fact they are hypnotised by the latest fashions from the city and seem to have the desire to leave their hair unkempt, as if dragged through a thoroughfare. They also have no skills in punctuation, spelling or grammar when it comes to correspondence through telephonic or 'on the line' devices. The ghastly over use of 'LOL', 'dat', 'wud' and 'kewl' are abundant and quite frankly leaves conversation incomprehensible.

Everything is not at a complete lost however, for I have also encountered some genuine and rather chivalrous men indeed in my travels. One who has redeemed a fair amount of faith I had previously lost in the process of courtship by behaving as an utmost gentlemen towards me, even though our own courtship together tragically was not to last. Others have been spontaneous and dare I say it wild and would cause any fine lady to blush if spoken openly even in a letter. I am wicked woman for allowing my petticoat to slip even an inch below the knee, let alone shoot past the ankle and onto the parlor floor. I do hope you do not judge me so dear Elinor, for you should know I am not a woman who sits comfortably with the label of 'easy virtue'. Truly I am. But in confidence my dear friend, I have to admit, it has been quite pleasurable indeed.

All experiences for the soul to grow my friend, I have decided. I find myself happily embracing the 'single life', a phrase much more preferential than the term 'spinster' I can tell you. I move on, clutching the hem of my dress and marching towards the Australian sunset and the rest of my future in a new world full of potential.

Until pen meets parchment once more, my love as always.

Yours, Emily.

Familiar Territory...

Once again, I find myself heading off into the sunset alone. Another layer of hope within has curled up and died after another 'interested' man decides he's not that interested after all. Yet the signals were there and I'm made to feel a bit of an idiot believing that they were somehow genuine. More than just a knock back, it is a sad repetitive pattern of how my dating process seems to never get past 'first base'. I'm not sure how much of my confidence, that I have spent the last few years building up, can take now. I realise I mustn't give up hope and I'm very proud of myself that I've come along way from the nervous, inept and totally inexperienced person I was several years ago, I do worry all that self-esteem building seems to be crumbling away, back to its original insecure form. I have to be careful, be strong and keep focused. It's been a while since I mentioned the guy I met at the party, and for good reasons too, I was keeping it to myself, trying to enjoy the moment without analysing every minute of it, like I always do. Close friends were obviously kept in the loop, those poor people had to listen to every cautionary tale of communication, every moment of self doubt and every whirl of excitement every time I heard from him. I was determined to 'play it cool' and be casual about it, as one is supposed to be in these situations. Fat lot of good that did me.

I realise people have their own agendas. I am dismayed how many people use email and and text to avoid face to face communication. Call me old fashioned but that is kind of cowardly and I appreciate even a phone call if meeting someone to discuss issues is too confrontational for some.

Bitch over. Back to single life and being a bit more selfish. Men. If they want me, they can come and claim me.

Junctions...

I have a huge desire to write something tonight but for the life of me have no idea as what to talk about. If I was to be brutally honest, life is in a bit of a stalemate at the moment and has been for quite some time now. Urges to change parts of my life since returning from Australia, setting new goals in motion have been met with irritating and unnecessary hurdles. I might as well be made of rubber and relentlessly throw myself against a big brick wall. I am terribly impatient, not one of my more redeeming qualities, I admit. If I looked back over the past seven months, there are things I should be proud of like taking part in Anything Goes, other things have more than niggled though, like securing a higher paid job in order to save towards Australia. This has been like forcing an elephant up a staircase. With just your index finger. I've been beaten down at every available moment by the industry I 'love', I find myself having advanced forward the length of a gnat's cock which is pitifully frustrating and a little draining to say the least. I know I'm not alone in thinking this about my job and it's far from being a original insight in this day and age, I'm just not convinced it should be this hard that's all. I wish I was more gutsy (and richer) to just go 'Fuck it. Why not.' and just go and face whatever consequences are out there. Alas, I am far too responsible and I'm sure my bank would have something to say about it too (although they would probably ask me for my postcode and third and last digits of my password before giving me their opinion).

On a change of subject, you may have remembered me talking about a party I went to in Clapham two weeks ago. I met a man. As you do. He was a very charming man. A very sexy man. I took a shine to him. I tried my hardest to remain cool and in control. I managed to escape, unscathed, with number of said man inside phone. A small victory for a small man with big confidence issues. You maybe wondering what's happened since then. Well, that was two weeks ago and very little has happened since. Okay, we have conversed on email and text briefly, (my two most loathed forms of communications when it comes to getting know someone new) things are progressing very slowly and time has cast its shadow of doubt over how 'into' me he really is. I must march forward with a smile though, be determined not to freak out and say something inappropriate or off-putting in his presence as I might as well start reaching through prison bars of my padded 'single' cell, gurning the words 'Please Love Me!' at anyone who happens to walk past. It's wonderfully attractive image and becoming of a young man my age, I know, although I sometimes think we should embrace these images of honesty that flash inside our heads. They make me laugh and tend to slap a bit of sense into my overly romanticised head.

I trundle on.

Suppressing my Woody...

I don't blame this man personally. It's just the collection of analytical neuroses he represents. I have many Woody Allen instances, a characteristic that has almost become less of a trait of mine and more an hourly buzzing inside my head. So much so, my friends describe it as having one of my 'Woody Allen Moments'. This is me, to those who know me well. The apprehension of success in anything - whether it be work, love or whatever, comes under the gaze of this Jewish auteur sitting inside my head. As if he's mentally typing out another one of his 'not so good as Annie Hall but better than Match Point' scripts on a miniature typewriter inside my cranium. He comes into his own when it comes to men though, especially men who give me any form of attention which has the possibility of it going somewhere. This is when I analyse the communication between myself and the guy so much, it sucks all the joy and fun out of meeting them and it becomes a slowly collapsing souffle of a date or potential relationship. Sometimes, it doesn't even get that far. It goes almost like this:

"Hello, I'm Richard."
"Hi there, nice to meet you."

Cut to internal Allen voice:

"What does he mean by that? He must hate me, I'm fool, why couldn't I have been nonchalant and aloof like everybody else and just say 'Hi'! Whats the point of carrying on? It'll end in tears!"

Okay, that was an extreme - but you get my point. Back to the situation in hand. I should be enjoying the fact I have actually heard back from the guy I met on Saturday night - a reply to a text I promised to send him on Monday. It was a brief response, I admit and not as long as I would have liked, especially after the witty prose I put together in order to say, "Hi it's me. Remember me." Unfortunately, this has woken Mr Allen from the depths of my thoughts and I really don't want his input on this one. Despite Woody's presence, I have reminded myself that on the whole - it is good news. I should allow myself to relish this for a moment and bask in the glory of the minor achievement of 'first contact'. Woody is tapping my shoulder though. Woody is asking me to reread the text a hundred times and my initial text to him and ask "Why hasn't he agreed to seeing you again yet, why was it so short and vague?" I hate Woody at the moment as you can imagine, as I vowed to play it cool with this one. A guy I've met through coincidence, in person and without having to type a username and password first. Woody is the number one reason I am probably single and why men tend to run away from me, like children being invited into Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch. So I have filed a mental restraining order on him. Not Michael Jackson. Woody. This is really hard, as Woody keeps pressing his haggard old face and thick spectacles against the glass wall of my conscience, mouthing words of defence and giving me sad, apologetic looks that the real Woody Allen probably makes for writing Melinda & Melinda. I keep wanting to take pity on him and let him back into my mind, I know full well if I do, he will damage this one chance of fun and adventure I'm having with a guy who made me laugh on Saturday night in a room full of drunk strangers. A man, who believe it or not, was funnier than me, who made me truly laugh and made me want to spend time getting to know him a bit more.

Woody must not win. Gut feelings must prevail.

"You're a 'Glass Half Full Man' aren't you?"

You find yourself in the most uncomfortable of circumstances sometimes, in which there is no one to blame but yourself for being in that situation; as you have put these factors into motion, you have made the decision, you have forced yourself to go through with it. No one to berate and no one to curse. You verses a potential armada of affliction to wade through. I found myself on Saturday night, reliving this predicament as I walked to Colonel Henge's House Warming Party. I knew no one there, I didn't even really know him, having spoken only on the phone and online. It was to be our first introduction after a series of cancelled meetings. No longer a date, just friends, who happened to help each other out. I was keen to go, just to say thank you for putting me in touch with the Amateur Dramatics company I've just joined and to meet his friend, Dan whose also a member of Centre Stage. I walked down the street towards his house in trepidation, clutching my bottle of M&S Rose like a stress relieving device and tried to supress the anxious thoughts whirring round in my head. After arriving at the door and finding myself giving silent nods of recognition at two girls who had also rocked up for the party, I took deep stifled breaths and wondered if it was wasn't too late to just run down the stairs and escape into the ether of Clapham High St and head back home. I think Henge was surprised to see me, he was charming, funny, polite as he seemed on the phone and online but also far better looking than I imagined. A tad annoying, knowing it would probably make things even more strained for me. He welcomed me warmly and I may have been paranoid, swore he threw a shocked glance at his fellow housemate, as if they had assumed I wouldn't turn up at all. Still, I smiled and continued to put on the charm offensive and made my usual introductory jokes. A few sank faster than a tanker full of lead elephants, I continued however not to let this get to me. I then met his new boyfriend, Richard and wondered again, what the hell I was doing here with a bunch of happy, intimate strangers. These new forays are either a great choice to make or just 'hell on earth on a Saturday night' and I was beginning to think I had make a mistake coming but a few more people rocked up and and the flurry of 'hellos' eased the situation. Then I started chatting to a guy who like me, knew nobody except one of the hosts. I don't want to write too much more now, as what happened next was unexpected and essentially made my night, but to cut a potentially long and over analytical story short, (in case the fates are watching and want to continue their cruel torture) I met an incredibly, lovely guy. Really lovely. A naff description perhaps, but apart from not being willing to divulge anymore in case it doesn't go any further, he was simply lovely. We talked to each other all night and 'got on'. Was it anything more than just friendly banter? Who knows. I'm hoping it might be. We did swap numbers. So, we shall see if any comes of it or not.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, as cliched as it sounds, is that you just never know. I hope Buddha is smiling affectionately now. I feel as though I deserve it.

Nice...

It's official. I am too nice. I join the ranks of Mother Theresa, Jesus and Dame Joan Plowright. Not normally seen as fault a few hundred years ago, it was probably even seen as a quality to be sought after, but now in this cynical, hard-edged, reality TV sludge of an age, it's not so cool. It's wrong. People don't want 'nice' anymore. Perhaps I am just slow on the mark. It's not sexy, or cute and apparently it won't help you get what you want. Over the last few years people have been telling me to not be so 'nice'. I ignored them. Actually, I find it incapable of being 'not nice'. Now people who hardly know me are telling me to not be so nice. Not their fault, they pick up on it. Alarm bells kick in, my conscience huddles into the air raid shelter of my thoughts. I find myself being nice to arseholes who let me down. Yes, what is that all about, indeed? Much like a hamster in a wheel, I can't seem to stop myself from being courteous and understanding, I just keep doing it instinctively. I have to get angry. Annoyed. Vexed. Pissed off a lot more. (And yes, I've been using my new Thesaurus.) If I can achieve the status of being called a 'Right C*nt', perhaps only then will things start going my way. Shame really, as nice is pretty well, 'nice' most of the time.

MyInjuredDate.com

I had a date last night, with lovely young guy through MySingleFriend.com. It almost never happened, as five minutes before he was meant to leave to meet me, he accidently stabbed himself with a kitchen knife. I started wondering if there's a distinct possibility I'm meant to be worshipping some Polynesian Tikki God of 'Dating' somewhere or perhaps I'd wronged a someone, somewhere, at some point in a former life maybe. Would a guy resort to stabbing themselves in order to get out of a date with me? Guys have made weaker excuses before, I thought.

Luckily, he turned up; bandaged and apologetic. We joked about it and told him my last date had slit his throat. I forgave him, mostly as he was really cute and incredibly funny in a northern 'Wai Yup' sort of way. Turned out, I was his first ever date with a guy, having only come out three months ago. Poor guy found it all a bit overwhelming I think. Told him, I'd been in his shoes before and not to be so hard on himself and he semed to enjoy our night out. He has a friend in me if he wants it at least.

In Olden Days...

Well, I auditioned for an Amateur Dramatics Society production of Anything Goes on Tuesday. Not sure if they felt sorry for me or if they just desperately need more boys, but they've offered me a part in the Chorus. Based on the audition, I am amazed by this. I believe 'rusty' was the word that sprang to mind as I tried to mimmick the dance routine and mumble my way through a score I was as vaguely familiar with. I got frowns from individuals who obviously thought I wasn't taking it very seriously. Remarks like "I've been doing this for 13 years now, a marvellous way to pass time" and "I've only done the Grosvenor Light Operatic Society, this sounded like something easier and less demanding" were probably designed to put me in my place. But hey, like that was going to discourage me in making a complete tit out of myself. I am truly grateful of 'Colonel Henge' for letting me know about this last minute and I'm making it up to him later this week by getting him a place running for Whizz-Kidz for next year's London Marathon, who are a client of mine.

First dance rehearsal is apparently next Weds. "How spiffing!" as Lord Evelyn would say.

What would Jane say...

I was wondering if Blogs had been around years ago, what great writers like Jane Austen would say on their Blogs. Their efforts would have been far more spectacular and full of wonderful prose than ours. I decided to write my current situation, as if Austen herself was sitting at my laptop, namely wondering where her quill went first, but composing my own life entanglements using her inevitable style. Enjoy!


Dearest Marie-Anne,

Alas, to find oneself without a prospective advancement in earnings and career, is a vexation indeed. Fear not, if the fates allow, a position will no doubt arise at my final moment of disparagement. We can only live in hope as ladies, we have little knowledge of the complexities that take up a working gentleman's day and must be content with hours of reading, needle work and practicing piano forté. I remain enthused, though trying I know, remain confident in my faith that my decisions are made in good sted.

On to Meryton, where I have news of an abundant nature concerning certain members of the cavalry (online men of a homosexual nature) that have past into town and have caught my eye. After meeting a Mr Bartholemew last week at the Society of Friends drinking establishment, in the depths of Soho. He is of three and twenty years, a musician at the Royal Albert Hall none the less and comes from a wealthy family. He is probably worth at least ten thousand pounds a year, as he has a residence in South Kensington and Clapham. At first his demeanor and enthusiastic nature was charming and elicited many ruminations of how my beauty was 'cute' and that I was a 'sexy fella'. But after several conversations of a mobile variety, the situation has since changed dramatically and I am led to believe he is quite keen or 'really into me' as they say in the modern quarters. His communications have been frequent and the attention much cherished after my long spell of singledom, although the messages with this 'Xxxxxx' signed along each message is rather worrying. An overuse of consonants to the extreme. As you can imagine, I have been all of a bother regarding this situation, especially as he is quite handsome, a spectacular kisser and has also implied via the means of a visual text, the girth of his groin. This is quite spectacular to behold and some I believe have complimented on its beauty and size. Encouragement to seek a mere carnal nature from our next meeting is a temptation to say the least and 'hard' to resist. He is a true fellow and I am enjoying his company for now.

On to Mr Masonry, a resident of East Dulwich and a lawyer at that. A short, well built man of two and thirty years. He is of a fine face, although a little reserved in his speech and keeps conversation to the essential matters in hand. This has not greatly inspired me and over the past weeks he has postponed our engagement no less than three times. On one occasion, canceling our meeting to accept a delivery of chairs from John Lewis, Purveyors of Fine Furniture. We have meet upon two occasions and they have been perfectly charming, enjoying my wit and flirtations, yet has remained obscure in his decisions about me I feel. His enthusiasm to watch the moving picture 'Brokeback Mountain' every week, in order to reminisce his previous partner, leads me to believe, he may not be over his last love.

As always my dearest Marie-Anne, I have saved the best story till last. For over a month, I had been conversing most eloquently with a young gentlemen called Colonel Henge, he works in Housing. He is such a fine figure of a man and is of six and twenty years of age and resides in Clapham after just purchasing a small maisonette. He stands five feet and ten inches tall and carries full head of blonde hair. His pictures are very becoming and he had responded well to mine. When I first laid eyes on his profile, I mused that he was far too handsome to even consider responding to a message from my mere self. But he expressed much humour, a passion for penguins, a love of literature and film including 'The Muppets Christmas Carol' and 'Sense & Sensibility' (which I believe is based on a family situation near here). He had received a dictionary and thesaurus for his birthday, uncanny as I have received such birthday gifts. Our familiar passions and items in common have made me believe he is quite the genuine sort indeed. We spent much correspondence over the last few weeks and this has elicited a most charming rapport, he is both polite and full of questions about myself as well as answering my own queries about his credentials. This natural conversation had been most unexpected and was most assuring pertaining it's future possibilities. So much so, I suggested an official dinner engagement on the Friday, to which he responded with much enthusiasm and vigor. Yet alas, the ease of this situation was brought to an abrupt halt, after Colonel Henge had in fact met another gentleman since the agreement of dinner arrangement and had decided to pursue this assignation and not mine. I was bought this news of his decision by carriageless letter only two days prior to the soiree and as you can imagine, was most disappointed by the news. So much so, I may have over reacted somewhat and burned all his correspondence in a fit of melancholy. I was taken aback by receiving further correspondence from Colonel Henge, informing me despite the change in situation, he found me a fine fellow indeed, impressed by my love of musicals and honest nature and worthy of friendship at least. For this I am glad.

My daily chores have become tiresome and I have decided to seek fortunes in another place, namely the country of Australia by this time next year after much deliberation about my future and goals. I have been making long, hard decisions about what is important in my life and what I would like to achieve. See, my dear Marie-Anne, I too have face much drama these last few months. Alas, I must remain positive and thankful of the achievements I do possess and the love of friends like you around me.

To when we dine at Pemberly again. I must go forth and find my Darcy.

Yours

x Emily x