Its quiet - almost too quiet

Nothing much going on round here.

D gave me his old digital camera & I took it to work for the students to play with. We took lots of great photos but since most contain young'uns can't post them here. I tried to sneak one of Ade so I could unethically post it and we could all admire his buff 53-year old body. But he seemed to sense my evil intent and pulled a kid into every shot. Did get a shockingly bad one of Louise though.

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Sweet Words

Bit shell-shocked by a shit weekend being blamed by J for the complete dysfunction of our relationship. Added to the blame I apportion to myself, this is a bumper helping of blame which is crushing me so badly that I am too weak to smile.

But he's gone now, the start of another week of harum-scarum single-parenting, and so I'm cheering myself up with yet more red wine, a visit to my blog and the prospect of a dirty French film on the telly.

Going to lose myself in memories, but being insanely fixed in the present my memories only go back to last Thursday, which is when D said a sweet thing to me.

He has morphed into a dream boyfriend in the last few months. He took me to the pub and was super-attentive, buying all my drinks, taking my beer back to the bar and getting a chunk of lime inserted because a faint look of disappointment flitted across my face, telling me it was weird but I just got better and better looking as I got older, buying a pack of fags because I was running out. Naturally this made me happy, and he remarked what a sweet happy relaxed mood I was in.
"Ah yes", I replied, "but you know me, I may turn psycho at any moment"
"I know" he said, "that's why I like you, there's so many of you"

I thought that was beautifully said. From a guy who was illiterate into his twenties!

How To Flirt (With Me, Anyway)

I've given this way too much thought and am ready to pontificate. After reviewing all the creeps, losers, darlings and nutters I've encountered in my efforts to get a spark going, I tried to be a bit scholarly about it and looked on the web to check that behavioural experts agreed with me on what makes a good flirt. But they don't. So all I can say is, this stuff has worked ON me and its worked FOR me. I'm going to say it like its fact, because that's how it is on the www, you can publish any old rubbish, you don't have to darn well prove it.

Make Your Subject Feel Gooooooood
The one unifying characteristic of all good flirts is the sincere desire to make their victim feel good. This does not imply that flirts are necessarily nice people. Au contraire, see What is a psychopath?

There are those who attempt to charm by demonstrating that they are great. (There's loads of those! There's millions! And that's just in Reading) But that's just boring and unconvincing. Demonstrating that the other person is great: now that's interesting and well-argued.

To make someone feel good, all you've got to do is appreciate them.This works so much better if you genuinely do appreciate them. Appreciate the obvious stuff first and then look for the stuff they keep hidden under a facade of uselessness and hostility. Act happy around them, consider their outlandish views, be interested in the stuff they do, be concerned about their problems, notice that their feet are exquisitely shaped, be pleasantly surprised by their weirdness. Find what is unique about them and then tell them in words that have the ring of truth.

Let them influence you in some way, surrender some of your power to them. Not all of it, mind. Its just a morsel of bait, you don't want them wiping their feet on you.

The payback is that they'll love you for it and then that makes you feel good. See? Its a benign circle.

Listen Hard
What do we all crave, from the delivery suite to the death-bed scene? Well, it isn't sex, which would be inappropriate in either venue. Its attention!

Part of the flirting genius of Tara Brown (who features elsewhere in this blog) was his ability to recall the smallest thing you said to him in stunning detail. Sometimes I wondered if he did it with a toe-activated shoe-computer like those guys on the telly who cheat in casinos. He could suddenly note that eg "Oh, but you don't like custard creams do you?". No wonder he cut a swathe through the hearts of everyone he met, especially those of us with boyfriends who couldn't remember our surnames, much less our biscuit preferences.

Impossible to believe that you are not fascinating and special when every mundane word you say is kept and treasured like a jewel. And once you get to be fascinating and special, you want to be around the person that made you so.

Would-be flirts that do not have Tara's strange and powerful gift should at least attempt to memorise the names of their subject's children. Or at least the quantity. Shouldn't they Ade?

When you are listening, eye contact is always good but don't scare them for Pete's sake. Facial expressions work well too, but try to steer away from the angry/bitter end of the spectrum.

Really advanced flirts can work wonders with this technique:

1. Bathe a person in the warm glow of your positive attention till they are purring
2. Suddenly go missing, leaving the person bereft and a bit worried about who you are actually with while you are awol
3. Re-appear and be nice, but not as nice as you were in step 1

There you go, what's that in my pocket? Oh, hello, its you, the person I manipulated with my advanced flirting techniques.

Just a little warning though. D subjected me to this one-two-three thing for over a year to marvellous (for him) and devastating (for me) effect. But in the end I got expert at seeming unconcerned during step 2, and in the end I actually was unconcerned and wasn't available for step 3. Nearly a year later, and he's still trying to recover, in fact just then I got a text from him, asking "are u ok? thinking of you like i always am xxxx"

So - bloody brilliant idea in the short term, personally for the long haul unconditional adoration and worship works better for me.

Position Yourself Real Close
So far the things I mentioned could be practised with anyone - male, female, young, old, blood relatives, dogs. To flirt with someone you fancy, though, you may find you want to use your body and theirs. Often, it is unacceptable to walk up to a stranger and try to remove their clothes straightaway. That's not really flirting, its just being silly. What you have to aim for instead, is contact or almost-contact in such a way that everyone can pretend nothing has happened.

I know quite a few blokes that are experts in this branch of flirting and I'm not too bad myself, so I'll explain with some lovely real life examples. Ah, memories!

First up is DB, my good friend's husband with whom I shared an unfulfilled devastatingly strong attraction for years (must blog that out my system one day). His corny but effective ploy was to go in the garden for a fag with me and point out obscure constellations. But because it is hard to tell which bit of the sky a person is pointing at, he would have to position me exactly so one arm was round me and the pointing arm right next to my ear. Then he could tell me the myth that went with that constellation, while I went weak at the knees.

Finding a spurious reason to whisper can bring you very close. In the pub with NewDad, another fella was on his knees by the cigarette machine trying to get it to accept his pound coins. NewDad put his arm round my shoulders so that he could get his mouth close enough to whisper in my ear. "What happened to him?"
"I dunno, I was just standing there by the cigarette machine and suddenly he was at my feet"
"Aw darling, I bet that happens a lot to you, doesn't it?"

A keen interest in medicine is another passport to sanctioned fondling of your object of desire. A few guys I have met are so fascinated by keyhole surgery that they have spent a long time searching my tummy for the four tiny scars from when my gall-bladder was removed. Slightly more bizarrely, Ade once ran his fingers up every scratch on my arm and asked if it was evidence of self-harm. If someone you fancy starts to choke to death, it is a gift from god, you can perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre, which is very like a short sharp hug, I believe.

With a bit of imagination, any situation can be turned into a close encounter. DIY is ripe with opportunity. Recently I was standing in my back door frame examining it for irregularities. Then the Guy Who Was Supposed to be Sorting It Out came and stood behind me, right behind me, touching in fact, and measured it across the top with his tape measure. "Hmmm 35 inches" he goes. Brilliant. You know who you are.

I could go on all night like this, but that way lies madness. Must just mention, though, my own personal favourite technique, Pretending To Be More Drunk Than You Actually Are. Because you are drunk, nothing is really your fault, and you can lurch into people, absent-mindedly sit on their knee, wrestle and even (at a push) lick them.

Here's something I don't like though. It is not nice to try and cop a feel by offering someone a hug because something bad happened, like they lost their job. Its OK to hug them of course as long as your motives are pure. Otherwise its naff naff naff.

Part of being a good flirt is judging exactly how far you can go. Once a complete stranger slapped my arse on the dance floor. I squealed and he did it again with the sweet words "Like your arse". I was charmed by this, but it should be noted that this approach is too robust for normal tastes.

Be a Bit Cheeky
It's a fine line between making affectionate fun of someone and tearing them to pieces with your biting sarcasm. I'm always falling off that fine line.

The thing about men is: most of them are just a little bit pompous, except for those who are ridiculously pompous.

The thing about women is: I'm not saying what the thing about women is, for I am one myself and don't really know what the thing is. This para included only for completeness.

So anyway, it can be fun for all concerned to just gently puncture that pomposity. Should be OK as long as you don't attack a man's physical stature, intelligence, ability to drive, courage, advanced age, prowess in bed, success at work, mother, ex-girlfriend, place of birth, creativity or ability to handle a power tool. Acceptable targets are therefore sock colour and overuse of puns.

Nicknames are great to enhance that feeling of intimacy that is the Holy Grail of a successful flirting experience. Ideally, you need to make one up that refers either to a shared experience or some obscure fact that they told you about themselves. Having said that, both Ade & D often call me "Miss" (because I'm a teacher) and I love that a lot, simple and obvious though it is.

Cheeky isn't always the same thing as funny. On my very first date with D, way back in '95 before I even knew how to text, he asked me, did I want to see him again? While I was trying to think of a clever reply, he said "Oh yes, you do, I can tell by how you're looking at me"
"You cheeky fucker!" I gasped, but inside I had a big smile for his nerve.

Then again, in '03 when I could text blindfold, I texted him when staggering home drunk from town, asking could I come over even though I said I never wanted to see him again. He phoned to say No I couldn't. Cut to the quick, I texted "fuck you". He texted back "Yes I know that's what you wanted".

I've gone off topic now, because that's not flirting, its just mean. Time to put this mammoth posting to bed. Its all over, apart from

Flirting - A Bloke Speaks
These insights on flirting come from a male pal who is a (self) proclaimed expert on flirting. While his main thrust (ooer) is the same as mine, I was slightly freaked when I read it. "How heartless! How manipulative! How ultimately pointless it all is!" I shrieked to myself. But then again, I wonder if all that stuff I wrote isn't just as heartless, manipulative, pointless. Now when I think about flirting I think of one of those charts that shows you where to put your feet when dancing the mambo. Only more complicated. Maybe I should hang up my flirting shoes forever. But I won't. I'll just leave with a girly plea that all you flirts out there temper your technical flirting perfection with just a little bit of proper warmth.

Here's what The UberFlirt said:

"You've got it pretty much covered there. Some of your noted techniques -
arse-slapping for instance - are much more direct than I would consider
flirting. But the general technique is there - make the person the sole
centre of attention. Make it seem as tho the spotlight shines solely on
them. Talk to them in a way that makes them seem as though whatever they
say is important to you. But not *very* important, as you may then
appear to be a burglar trying to remember when they go on holiday so you
can burgle them, or a stalker trying to work out when you can follow
them from pub to pub. Try to draw out personal stuff that creates a
bond. Be funny together. Remember stuff over weeks. So, if your primary
mode *is* to be funny, ensure that you remember stuff that can
constitute running jokes. Touch, but only lightly. A quick squeeze of
the arm, a hand on the back that lingers just that little bit longer
than it should (may not work for you, sex-addict, but for most people
that's all they require, otherwise you appear to be invading their space
too much). Try to move into their personal space, but see previous
caveat. Use the name, because it has power, but don't overuse it.
Eye-contact. But not so much as to appear pyschopathic.

Essentially, it's directed empathy."

Mustn't Grumble

Well I shouldn't grumble. Although I spend tracts of time seeing reasons to be morose, I do have more fun-filled nights that a woman of my age, situation and faults is really entitled to. Take last night for example....

Pal and husband have had such huge success improving their relationship by hanging out in bars together, that they have made the Saturday night outing a regular thing. Great news for me, as I get

• witty and life-affirming conversation with Pal
• excellent flirting opportunities with Husband's mates
• an alibi to cover the late-night dash to D's house

all in one yummy package.

Gorgeous Wild-Haired 26 year old man was there last night and I foolishly attempted to talk to him properly in the Cafe Ig. His conversation was so intense yet vacuous, earnest yet self-absorbed, pretentious yet ignorant that he quickly became virtually unshaggable. (But, bless him he's only 26. ) Phew! Glad I didn't leave the chat till after the shag! Though he wasn't up for the shag anyway. So no harm done.

As the saying goes, as one bloke who might flirt with you slams shut, another one opens. And right away, there he was, NewDad, another mate of husband's.

I met him before, last summer at a barbecue at Pal's house. (The memory of that day haunts me, D sent me a text so lewd that I nearly choked to death on a mushroom). NewDad was then pre-dad and kinda overbearingly extrovert and not as funny as he thought he was. But the hell of new father-hood had taken the edge of him, made him look a bit tired and given him enough insecurity to make him funnier than he thought he was. A big improvement.

He is an excellent flirt and uses his natural gift of being a cheeky Liverpool scally to great effect. He had learned my name before I even got there, and used it in nearly every sentence, as he got my opinion on everything, tried to impress with his stand-up comedy, laughed appreciatively at my jokes however feeble, and gazed in a sort of rueful and smitten way that would melt the hardest heart, let alone a heart of mushy-pea consistency, like mine.

I had to leave at 11 so I could fit in D, so to speak. NewDad kissed me on the cheek which reminded me of something that happened last week, when I accidentally kissed Nix on the mouth in the middle of a very crowded H&M. I was just being absent-minded, not deliberately provocative or Lezzie. So I told this anecdote, complete with actions, planting the accidental mouth kiss on NewDad to show how it went. He gave me a look like "Wow! Liked that a lot!" and Pal said "I can't believe you just kissed him!". Pal then gave me a hug and, brilliantly I thought, kissed me on the mouth. Everyone went "Wo", I shook hands medium firmly with the other men, and left.

Thence to D's house by minicab, ducking down as I passed my own house. As usual, no details are available about the 3 hours I spent here, build your own scenario using the following keywords: boots, stockings, zip, snazzy new rechargeable shaver, tongue, tireless, spunk, oh my god, love, throb, again, more.

I have spent a long time today thinking about the nature of flirting, including a review of Great Flirts I Have Known. But I guess that's another post altogether.

Sorry, no hard porn again Gillian

I fully intended to describe the hot sex of Saturday night and Wednesday morning in graphic detail but got distracted by vanity and technology. I do seem to have issues with actually blogging about sex on a "He put his ***** in my ***, sending me into ***** of ******" level, and wonder if it is because , deep down, I am a Laydee.

But something very exciting happened. My friend Nix sent me some photoes in which I looked nice! They have a massive rarity value. My mirror tells me I'm gorgeous but photos usually tell me I look like my grandad on his 80th birthday. They were taken at Womad, the very day that I saw David Byrne singing and D dumped me with the words "I've given you EVERYTHING, and you won't buy me more beer!" before falling into a deep sleep on Caversham Bridge while I went home tired but happy. I digress, as usual.

Something weird happened to the photos when I scraped them off the web, chopped them up and put them through several bits of brightly coloured software that I had to download but they turned up on the page in the end. They look well-thumbed now and have lost some resolution somewhere along the line. But that is fitting because I myself am always losing some resolution.

I'm also a bit sad that I had to crop my daughter out of the picture. Not that she isn't beautiful: she's beautiful plus plus. Just that I didn't want her hanging out in this seedy backstreet blog.

Now I'm going to drink some beer and attempt to generate enough sauciness to get back to my original remit.

Womad 3 

Womad 2 

I'm Back

Hello again to my tiny but steadfast readership, I've missed you. I've taken an extended holiday from blogging while I tried to forge a relationship based on mutual understanding and having a laugh, rather than mutual nudity and having a shag. I realised some days ago though that this was all bullshit and have reverted to type. This weekend, I celebrated my freedom by experiencing the meaningless frissons and aching emptiness that characterise the lifestyle of the sex addict on the town.

Friday Night
On Friday I went to The Griffin (a pub that my hairdresser describes as "a bit too poncey") with good friends WeeH and Jax. Excuse the teenage tags introduced only to preserve their anonymity. A guy came in as I waited to buy drinks at the bar. He was six foot tall and broad with the threat of chubbiness just pounds away. He had long hair, a little beard, slightly arty clothes and a look of arrogant superiority in his eyes. He was so fiercely the embodiment of my type that instantly I longed to take his arty clothes off and/or remove the look of arrogant superiority with some perceptive sarcasm. I double-taked him 3 times, a total of a six-take, which he returned. I was startled to discover that I had developed "a type" so obvious that my friends could spot it too. They were nudging me and mouthing "HAVE YOU SEEN?". Unfortunately this freaked me out so badly that when he came and unnecessarily stood 2 inches behind me I was unable to breathe, much less be witty. I stared intently at the money in my hand and that was the end of that.

Saturday Night
On my way to the Purple Turtle, I looked through the window of the P&P and saw Ian in his normal spot. Feeling all gorgeous in my Primark jeans (£12, not the £10 rubbish) I went to say hello. He saw me the second I entered the bar: our eyes locked and the look in his was not pleasure or confusion but terror. I was aiming for a persona that suggested Princess Diana meeting a leper but still managing to be charming and I think I caught it quite well. I asked how he was and he burbled a long description involving psychiatrists, a new job and his head still not being quite where it should be. I reciprocated by saying I was good, thanks, with a big smile. Then I put my hand graciously on his arm and said I had just wanted to say hello, then left with him calling "Its kind of you" behind me. Its not often I acheive coolness but I think I did it then.

Thence to the Purple Turtle to celebrate Pal & Husband reconciling by going to the PT together. That was good, Husband had amazing beautiful and charming 26 year old friend who had that curly and wild hair suggestive of a soppy but passionate poet. I behaved like a sad old lech and got him to take his hair out its ponytail and shake it about a bit. He did, and looked at me smiling with his gorgeous eyes. "You are lovely" I murmured, as though transfixed, which I was. Fortunately time was marching on and I had to leave and fry some other fish.