Twenties: Women have the upper hand because pretty much everyone wants to shag them so they have a lot of power. And twenty-something men are super-horny but haven’t made it in their careers yet.
Thirties: Men definitely have the upper hand. Thirties is the worst possible time for a woman to be dating: whole thing increasingly loaded by biologically unfair ticking clock: a clock which will hopefully soon be transformed, by the perfection of Jude-style egg-freezing, into silent digital clock with no need for an alarm. Meanwhile, men sense it like sharks scenting blood and are also simultaneously perfecting their careers, so the balance tips more and more in their favour until . . .
Forties: Not sure about this because I was with Mark most of the time. Maybe about equal? If you take babies out of the equation. Or maybe men think they’re on top because they think they want younger women and think age-equivalent women want them. But actually secretly the women equally want younger men. And the younger men like the older women because they’re refreshingly not looking to them to be breadwinners and not thinking about babies any more.
Fifties: It used to be the age of Germaine Greer’s ‘Invisible Woman’, branded as non-viable, post-menopausal sitcom fodder. But now with the Talitha school of branding combined with Kim Cattrall, Julianne and Demi Moore, etc. is all starting to change!
Sixties: Balance completely shifting, as men realize they’ve got as far as they’re going to get in their careers and that they’ve never really made friends in the way women do, but just talked about golf and stuff. And women take better care of themselves – look at Helen Mirren and Joanna Lumley!
Seventies: Definitely women have the upper hand, and still do themselves out nicely, and make a nice home and cook and—
‘Bridget, are you still there?’
Upshot of it is, have agreed to take the children to Hard-Hats-Offing for the new Gatehouse Lodges and the Cruise Slideshow Event followed by Family Tea at Chats. And have still not even made a start on screenplay.
Tuesday 15 January 2013
11.55 p.m. Have spent all of last night and all of today writing writing writing and just emailed The Leaves in His Hair to Talitha.
Wednesday 16 January 2013
134lb (bad: too much time sitting on arse), agents, though, 1!
11 a.m. Just had phone call from agent! Unfortunately had mouth full of grated cheese but did not matter as did not seem imperative to talk.
‘I have Brian Katzenberg for you,’ said the assistant.
‘So,’ Brian Katzenberg crashed straight in. ‘We have Sergei in common, and I know Sergei wants to get this spec out.’
‘Have you read it?’ I said excitedly. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I think it’s fascinating and I’m going to get it out to appropriate people immediately. So you can let Sergei know that straight away and it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Thank you,’ I stammered.
‘So you’ll tell Sergei I did it?’
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Will do!’
11.05 a.m. Just called Talitha to thank her.
‘You will tell Sergei?’ I said. ‘He seemed very anxious that I tell him straight away.’
‘Oh God. Yes, I’ll tell Sergei. Fuck knows what’s going on there. But, darling, I’m very proud of you for finishing.’
LET IT SNOW!
Thursday 17 January 2013
Texts about snow 12, tweets about snow 13, snowflakes 0.
8 p.m. Text from school.
8.15 p.m. Plain excitement. We can all bunk off and go sledging! Clearly no one can go to sleep. We keep opening the curtains to check if you can see it in the street lamps.
8.30 p.m. Still no snow.
8.45 p.m. Still no snow. Look, is really time the children went to sleep now.
9 p.m. Eventually got them to sleep by saying, ‘Go to sleep, go to sleep, if you don’t go to sleep you won’t be allowed to ENJOY the lovely snow!’ repeatedly like parrot. Obvious lie, as who else am I going to go in the snow with?
9.45 p.m. Still no snow. Maybe will check Twitter.
9.46 p.m. @_Roxster is tweeting about the snow!
9.50 p.m.
10 p.m. Tweet from @_Roxster!
10.15 p.m. Carried on flirting with @_Roxster.
Talitha joined in.
10.30 p.m. Mmmm. Love Twitter. Love feeling that there is someone else out there who cares about all the little exciting things you yourself get excited about.
11 p.m. Still no snow.
Friday 18 January 2013
Number of times checked for snow 12, snowflakes 0, tweets from @_Roxster 7, tweets pretending to be to all followers but actually to @_Roxster 6 (slightly less than him, v.g.)
7 a.m. Woke up and all rushed excitedly to the window. No snow.
7.15 a.m. Tempting to all stay in PJs for Snow Day, even if no snow, but forced self to force everyone, including self, to get dressed just in case School Snow Day text did not happen.
7.45 a.m. No text. Maybe tweet, though, from @_Roxster?
7.59 a.m. Still no school text. Still no tweet from @_Roxster. Trying to deal with own as well as everyone else’s disappointment, shoved three bacon-wrapped chipolatas in mouth, adding as an afterthought, ‘Anyone else want one?’
8 a.m. No text from school. We had better go.
9 a.m. Dropped off Mabel and got to Junior Branch to find infectious excitement, and Mr Wallaker organizing lines of boys crouching behind imaginary snow-walls and hurling imaginary snowballs at each other. Resisted temptation to tweet about scene to @_Roxster lest it put him off me that I have kids.
‘Snow today, Mrs Darcy!’ said Mr Wallaker, suddenly looming up beside us. ‘Going to be climbing trees?’
‘I know! I’ve been waiting for it all night,’ I said, smoothly ignoring the tree reference. ‘But where is it?’
‘On its way from the west! It’s snowing in Somerset. Do you enjoy snow?’
‘Punctual snow,’ I said darkly.
‘Maybe it’s been held up on the M4,’ he said. ‘It’s closed by snow at Junction 13.’
‘Oh!’ I said, brightening.
‘Wait,’ said Billy suspiciously. ‘How could snow be held up by snow?’
There was a slight twitch of amusement in Mr Wallaker’s eyes, then Billy’s face broke into a grin. It was really annoying, as if they were somehow sharing a joke at my expense.
‘Have a nice day!’ I said confusedly – we weren’t exactly in California – and slithered off through the ice to get on with my Twitter, I mean writing. Why did I put on high-heeled boots?
9.30 a.m. Back home. Right! The Leaves in His Hair.
9.35 a.m. Quickly tweeted @_Roxster, I mean my followers, Mr Wallaker’s joke.
9.45 a.m.
10 a.m. Five people have retweeted my tweet! Twelve more followers have come.
10.15 a.m. Keeps saying, ‘WARNING! SNOW!’ on the telly.
10.30 a.m. The snow has started!
11 a.m. Is just getting thicker and thicker. Can’t stop going up to window to look out at it.
11.45 a.m. Just keep staring at the miracle of the snow. Is like someone has beautifully drawn white shading on all the trees. Is an inch and a half thick on the table outside – like icing on a cake. Or cream . . . Maybe not an inch and a half. Consider going out with r
uler to measure, then realize ridiculous. Must get on with myriad tasks.
Noon. OMG is tweet from @_Roxster.
Blink at tweet in shock. Is @_Roxster actually asking me out? Does he mean it? But I’m looking completely crazed with hair standing up on end and . . . But I could wash my hair! And put on sledging things and you only live once and it’s snowing! Tweeted:
Just as I had tweeted there was a text:
12.15 p.m. What am I going to do? Cannot expect twenty-nine-year-old dream god to suddenly want to come sledging with two children and older woman with mad hair. Whole point of older woman is you are supposed to be soignée in black silk stockings like in French-style parenting and Catherine Deneuve and Charlotte Rampling. Must go get children but how can I stand @_Roxster up, and the Dating Rules say it’s like dancing and you’re just meant to follow but . . .
Another text:
Is genuine emergency!!
12.30 p.m. Rushed downstairs to get sledges out of cupboard, quickly wiping off spiders, etc.
12.50 p.m. Opened door to see road was completely covered in snow. It is a major blizzard, clearly a very serious and dangerous situation! Wildly excited. But what about @_Roxster? Must put children first.
1 p.m. OK, have got full ski gear on now, not sure if helmet is required but goggles certainly. Have thrown snow boots, salopettes, jackets, gloves, survival kit, shovel, torch, water, chocolate and sledges in back of car.
5 p.m. Eventually got to school after thrilling slithery journey. Was necessary, even so, to take goggles off and put glasses on to check for @_Roxster tweets.
Crushed. Am stood up for snow date.
Waddled up hill into school, in manner of Lance Armstrong when landing on moon – I mean, Neil Armstrong – owing to ski pants on top of my jeans and jacket and everything, thinking, ‘OK, do not need to reply to @_Roxster now as he has, technically speaking, stood me up for sledging. And I responded not reacted so have perfectly followed dating rules and—’
Burst through door into school hall, where the Infants and Juniors were gathered, to see Perfect Nicorette dressed as a sort of Snow Queen in white snow boots, perfectly blow-dried hair, enormous black patent handbag covered in bling, and long white coat with white fur thing draped around it, laughing flirtatiously with Mr Wallaker. Huh. Man-Tart. Married and flirting with Nicorette. Mr Wallaker turned as I walked in, and patently burst out laughing.
He wouldn’t laugh if he knew I had a possible sledging date with a toy boy, would he? Am Catherine Deneuve and Charlotte Rampling.
‘Mummeee!’ Billy and Mabel ran over, eyes shining. ‘Can we go sledging?’
‘Yes! I’ve got the sledges in the car!’ I said and, giving Mr Wallaker an imperious look, I pulled my goggles back over my eyes and swept mysteriously – as best I could given outfit – out of the hall.
10 p.m. Fantastic day. Sledging was completely brilliant. Rebecca and everyone from over the road came up to Primrose Hill too and it was completely magical, really like a Christmas card. The snow was deep and fluffy and hardly anyone was up there at first and you could really get the sledge to go quite fast on the paths. And @_Roxster tweeted in the middle.
Was too difficult to reply as fingers were frozen, had to put glasses on to read tweets and simultaneously run after sledges to stop collisions, etc., so just left it for a while, savouring the feeling of being the last one to receive a message and @_Roxster wanting to have a date with me!
As it got later, more and more people were on the Hill, and it started getting icy so we all came back to our place, had hot chocolate and supper together and it was really very jolly, and while Rebecca was watching the kids I snuck off to my Twitter for five minutes, glancing briefly in the mirror and realizing tonight really would not be a good night for a date with a toy boy.
In the midst of all the incoherent stream of tweets about snow and the M4 there was another one from @_Roxster.
You see, straightforward, authentic communication! That’s the way. Tweeted back.
OMG. Was Roxster reading my tweets back in the days of Leatherjacketman?
Headed back down to the kitchen beaming. Everything is marvellous! Have date with gorgeous, funny, hunky twenty-nine-year-old toy boy and house full of rosy-cheeked children, sweet-smelling food, sledges and willies (I mean wellies – where did that come from?).
DO NOT TWEET ABOUT DATE DURING DATE
Sunday 20 January 2013
Twitter followers 873, tweets from @_Roxster 7.
11 a.m. Tweeting is going sensationally. More and more followers have come since the whole #twunkbirds thread thing. Cannot help noticing that Roxster has gone rather silent since the agreement about the date. But maybe, being a man, he feels that a level has been accomplished, as with Xbox, and there is no need to keep on at it.
11.02 a.m. Actually had better just send a tweet to let everyone know what’s going on.
11.05 a.m. OMG, have lost two followers. Why? Why? Was there something in the tone? Had better send another one.
11.15 a.m. Great, have lost three more followers. Must remember not to overtweet in the morning. Or maybe at all since seem to get more followers when do not tweet than when do tweet.
Roxster has tweeted! You see, this is my reward for epic self-control.
Then another:
9.45 p.m. Immediately went into meltdown. Leicester Sq. tube?? Leicester Sq. tube?? But it’s freezing. Then remembered the key dating rules.
JUST GO ALONG WITH WHATEVER HE SUGGESTS
You see? You see? So much better than trying to manipulate the situation.
9.50 p.m. Suddenly in panic re meeting stranger off Twitter at Leicester Square tube when am single mother.
9.51 p.m. Just called Tom, who is going to pop round.
10.50 p.m Unfortunately, had to wai
t for opinion as Tom was having meltdown of his own about a Hungarian architect called Arkis. He insisted on showing all the texts and pictures and Arkis’s messages on the Scruff app on his iPhone. ‘Scruff is so much better than Grindr. It used to be Beardy but now it’s got more Fashion Beardy, small clothes and big glasses, but not in a George Michael sense.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ I said, in a crisp professional manner, as if I were the psychotherapist and not Tom.
‘I think Arkis might be all text and no trousers. He just keeps sending really flirty, sexual texts late at night but nothing else.’
‘I see. Have you suggested meeting?’ I enquired.
‘I said I’d like to get to know him better but I sent it at 1 a.m. because I was looking for validation and I just got the opposite of validation because Arkis didn’t reply for two days, then didn’t mention it and just started talking about my Scruff pictures again, and now I’m wandering around with this horrible pain below my ribcage because I think he thinks—’
‘I know, I know,’ I said eagerly. ‘It was exactly like that with Leatherjacketman. It’s like the love interest assumes this huge power – like a giant standing over you in judgement, possessed of all the rules of dating competence, and about to mark you down as a desperate stalker.’
‘I know,’ he said sadly. ‘But he did say he wanted to see Zero Dark Thirty.’
‘So? Suggest you go! Durr!’ I said loftily. ‘Otherwise it’s like a staring competition of who’ll blink first.’
Once Tom appeared satisfied with the psychological underpinnings of the plan, I moved smoothly onto my own worry, at which he said crisply:
‘Of course you must meet @_Roxster, as long as it’s in a public space. Talitha says he’s fine. We’ll all be on the end of the phone. And it’s perfectly normal and healthy to meet in cyberspace.’
Love the way Tom and I swap positions at being the expert on dating mores as if on a seesaw – even though clearly neither of us has any idea what we are talking about in the first place. Sometimes it seems like just a sea of humanity out there with millions of seesaws all going on at the same time like nodding-donkeys. And everyone’s on one end or other of the seesaw at different times.