When I was in my mid twenties I lived in Paris for a year and London for a year. Both experiences were somewhat marred by, get this, how much I missed Toronto. I hankered horribly for T.O. back then. I craved streetcar rumble. I cadged Now Magazines from visitors. I played name the intersection games with fellow ex-pats. Quick, Bloor and St. George, clockwise from north-west to south-west ... the nice old Medical Arts building, the squat Victorian private club, the U of T grad residence, the shoe museum ... I think. I don't play name that Toronto corner any more.

Nostalgia is a painful experience; Lord knows it's best avoided. Beyond that, just why aren't I longing for Holts, Terroni and Trinity Bellwoods Park? Why don't I yearn for an annex saunter followed by a Little Italy stroll? It's odd not to succumb to my usual damned if I Toronto do damned if I Toronto don't state of mash-up.

What is it with my location-location-location peace of mind?

Here's a thought. In order to research the novel I'm working on I explored my English schoolgirl history in depth. There I was in late 2008 Charlottetown reading my diaries and correspondence from Chelsea and Dorset 75 - 78. My letters from my old English school pals had me positively writhing in nostalgia. I was desperate to get back to England and experience red buses, prawn crackers and the BBC noon news. Here I am; I did it. I ride the Tube regularly get offered tea everywhere I turn.

Have I decided to screw green grass elsewhere, turn three times, and settle?

Another clue as to why I might be okay long-Ontario-gone this time round has to do with the three years and counting I spent in Prince Edward Island prior to splitting Canada altogether. It's too much for one medium-sized brain to manage to miss Toronto and PEI both. Unable to miss both, I miss neither. (Sorry Vancouver, but after eighteen months of you I never missed you for a second.) I miss my parents of course. But I don't feel all that much further away from Charlottetown in London than I would in Toronto. I'm about $600 farther away and that's it. Okay, toss in a couple of time zones and an extra movie on the flight, but still. I simply went one way instead of the other.

Incidentally, I wasn't missing Toronto while I was out east. It's not very nice to say, but I think I was relieved not to have an immediate social circle comprised almost entirely of the vaunted, touted and celebrated. I was objectively pretty well the least illustrious of my Toronto group of friends and the surreality of that kicked-in sometimes. As in kicked-in my head. You don't want your national newspaper arts section going claustrophobic on you but that's what happens when everyone you blab to on the phone, or deluge with youtube links and invitations to Starbucks, has an opening/launch/write-up/review/column/profile/breakthrough on a regular basis. In PEI, I took a pretension breather. Within reason. Temporarily. Now I've leapfrogged pretension and gone all the way to posh. It's vicarious of me but I love it here at Posh HQ. It's so posh in London it'd be crazy for me to try to be posh at all. I'm off the hook anonymous here for sure. Phew to that. (Famous Canadian should really be a cocktail; I'm thinking rye, maple syrup and muddled berries.)

So, yes, it's strange to acquire dual citizenship at my age. I keep thinking I've had to give up Canada to become European. Nope, I get both. I can go back to Blockbuster rentals, the College Street YMCA, and roti home delivery if I want. Instead I stick to Her Majesty's this and that and pounds sterling. Toronto is great. I know its many charms - hyper convenience, multi-ethnicities, big smallness and small bigness, etc. This is no bash fest. This is sincere puzzlement at work. How on earth have I learned to stay put?

Okay, sometimes Toronto magazines get me. I'll read about the Ossington strip and get forlorn to the point of antsy. Then I'll want to go to a Power Plant show, or a reading at Type, or a gym rife with Lulu Lemon. If I lose any of my London-based Toronto pals I'll probably quake some. It's a losing battle. Some day I'll weep as I watch some of them fly Air Canada back to Pearson. Possibly I'll want to follow them, back to the land of hot summers and butterscotch dipped cones. I hope not.   

I admit it. The other day I was on the phone to K. You know her - my best old Toronto pal of all. No one is as lively as K on the blower. She was telling me what she had on for the weekend. An employee of K's and her girlfriend were coming out with K and her man for dinner. On a lark, just as a gas, they chose...Hooters. Trust me, K checks out chic bistros and happening bars, but this one time irony was on the menu. Well, for some bizarre reason I pictured Hooters, and John Street, then the Indigo, and the multiplex, and the Much Music building at the corner of Queen. A giant nostalgia wave cascaded all over me. The thought of Hooters made me miss Toronto big big big big time, far more than whatever Jamie Kennedy is up to or the AGO has on. For a minute I missed TO and it was real, rockem-sockem missing, the kind I used to have when I inhabited Bastille and desperately wanted a Cosmic burger. I guess it was the suggestion of pure, honest-to-goodness, opposite-of-arch, North American crassness that got me. Europe couldn't carry off a Hooters if its life depended on it. A successful Hooters needs wilderness within a fifty mile radius. The closest wilderness to Islington N7 is probably the Pyrenees. (No, when I go back to Toronto I do not want to go to a Hooters. But I hope K and gang had a blast.)

Sartre got it wrong. Hell isn't other people...hell is choice. I guess I choose London. But I love you, T Dot. Don't worry...I know you're too busy filling up with starchitecture, hybrid autos and starter condos to miss me. If money was no object I'd shower you in occasional attention. I have to stop writing this...I'm starting to miss you the way I used to, T.O. Come over here and see me some time.

The other day my dear pal S spazzed-out on me. She meant well. Here's how it happened. During our last in-person tête-à-tête, I mentioned to S that getting all of January off had been a huge boon to my novel-in-progress but not quite as beneficial to my butt n' pot. (I bike down to Bloomsbury and back when I'm teaching, plus the school is in a Georgian townhouse with four flights of stairs - negotiated with a heavy book bag over my shoulder or in my bike basket uphill.) There is a lot of literal hustling involved with my EFL gig. Bottom line: constant scooting conditions one. Or not when it stops.

I thought I'd smoothed matters with my preliminary remark to S that even slender people have their sweet spots. Their fine fettles and their even finer fettles, when they get to look in the mirror and do their own proud version of a Schwarzenegger flex. Sorry but small as I am, I notice a difference between racing-around Louisa's physique and copiously-sedentary Louisa's physique, Pilates-ball-as-a-desk-chair notwithstanding. (Racing around Louisa does not share her mother, aunt, and older lady cousins' lower abdominal protuberance.)

"Oh my God," squawked S. "Seriously, I'm worried about you. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Sorry to perfectionize."

But it was time for S to lay her concerns on the line. "You spend two hours a day at the gym!" she agonized.

"No I don't!" I fast retorted. Lord knows where that came from. Maybe once I complained to S that the gym eats up over two hours of my day but that's if I count getting there and back, the locker room fuss, and heading up to Waitrose on the way home for tomatoes and the Guardian. "I work-out for about an hour," I specified. "Okay, more if my wrist is stiff or I'm reading a good article. But I rarely break a sweat." (It's true. Personally, I treat the gym as a place to engage in recess for grown-ups, not athleticism. I reserve athleticism for boogying up to the staff room when I've forgotten the teacher's book: basement to garret in thirty seconds. At the gym I read.)

"All of my friends have asked me if you're eating disordered," S fretted.

Let's make this clear - we all of us exaggerate. I know I do. S is not alone.

"What do you mean all of your friends?" I said. "I've only met two of your friends!" I met one of said friends very quickly at her busy Christmas house party on a witch's tits cold evening when I was wearing long johns and a very bulky long turtleneck, furthermore I hogged the foccacia and grapes. I knew that friend hadn't noticed anything whatsoever to do with my avoirdupois. "That night at the Indian restaurant with the lesbian lady" I asked?

"Yes!" S exclaimed.

But I scarfed the onion badjis and dips," I said. "I'm hell to picnic with - I hog everything vegeatrian."

S conceded that my skinny arms can throw people off. My legs are bulkier.

I conceded that I had arrived in London strung out and underweight...but had regained the worst of my missing poundage by September. In fact, the times I've (apparently noticeably) begged off going over to S's for dinner have had nothing to do with a) neurosis or b) the quality of S's cooking (fantabulous). Ironically, it's that S and her dear ones each eat about half of what I do and I end up having to make myself a whole other half dinner when I get home, which then throws off my grocerying for the following few days. S should have recalled the time she served up a healthy helping of spaghetti to her daughter who immediately complained, "No, Mum, no -- that's a Louisa sized portion!" At S's they put leftovers in Tupperware containers for their lunches. I eye those leftover hungrily. I don't do leftovers.

"We all have our zones of control," I said to S and she readily gave me that.

I don't own property but I do have a body that I enjoy inhabiting. I treat that body exactly as I want to; I make extremely few dietary or work-out schedule concessions to anyone. Some day I'll have to write more generally about the positives of saying no, but for now let me confine myself to mentioning how easy I find it to decline chocolate cake, any appetizer other than a green salad, or a chance to skip off on the cardio sessions I use to raise my endorphin levels and calm myself down. (Once in 2005, in the spirit of communal gluttony at a festive dinner, I accepted a dollop of whipped cream for my apple cake. I got such a bad stomach ache it threw my back out. Never again.)

As a wife and mother, S lets life get in the way of exercise when she has to. As a foodie she blithely samples oily meats and soft cheeses. But! S's bookshelves are 100%, not-a-spine-out-of-place colour-coordinated. My dust bunnies have dust bunnies while S's floors are a strict no shoes zone (she provides a full range of slippers). S's home is her very carefully monitored, finessed and arrayed castle. Before moving she computerized her floor plan. S's cats match.

We all have our zones of control.

I could go on...I go to Cost Cutters and trim my own bangs, S sees a hair stylist to the catwalks. I moved into a place with walls somewhere between custard and mustard that it wouldn't occur to me to correct, S's walls are pure Nordic white. S's sink doesn't have toothpaste drips. S gets rid of salad tossers she doesn't use. S doesn't wear track pants even on days when no one is going to lay eyes on her anyway. Bod wise, I've got it together. S has a cute little figure but design wise, she's the Zen master. Well, maybe not Zen but you know what I mean.

As we get older we choose to control what counts for us and let the rest ride. It's pretty obvious but that way happiness lays. It would be terrible to control nothing. It would be awful to try to control everything. Painstakingly or intuitively, we learn to pick our battles, not just with each other but with ourselves. Control is at the crux of individual contentment. Know me, know where I'm lax vs. rigorous vs. adamant vs. devil-may-care.

I read a great New Yorker short story a few weeks ago about a very wry mid-forties protagonist who'd bought a small hotel on the west coast of Ireland where the locals were shiteheads and the rain never stopped. Towards the end of the story the village flooded. The narrator's hotel was trashed, nonetheless as he shepherded his patrons up to his safe second floor his spirits rose until they soared. A certain fight had gone out of him and with that, as he so beautifully says, "The gloom of youth had lifted."

My youth had gloom. In my teens, twenties and thirties I had too little control, or haphazard control, or control inexpertly exerted. I've got the discipline thing pretty well down pat now. If I need to gorge I do so on tropical fruit and low fat yogurt. If I need to write I keep away from the pubs and clubs. Conversely, I mop once per season maximum (S gave me the mop). I shrug at the sky and bike in rain. I decorate with post cards. I will never have any idea how to launder with bleach. I disregard all instruction manuals. Control is like anything else: enjoy it without getting greedy. But enjoy control by all means. Some control feels magnificent.

As I've moaned before in unbecoming fashion, right now I'm marooned on Planet First Draft. That's despite the tremendous distraction of having moved to London a quarter way through things. Somehow I'm keeping my schedule bare bones while Hoxton and Notting Hill beckon. There are only half a dozen things in my current timetable really: job; book; gym; phone calls; dinner; reading and crashing. Any more and I risk being blown off my horrendously perilous course. Fiction, at least mine, is so effing mystical in its production. F*ck I hate mysticism.

My problem is that I dream my damn stuff up. My outlines are five sentences long max - if I stretch 'em. With the broadest of strokes and I start up my story, take it from there, and go. And go. And go, for an average of eighteen months until it's time to rewrite. And rewrite. Editing is way less friggin' magical, thank God.
         To groan on, writing a first draft of a novel is like wearing a mining helmet with one of those sadly brave lamps affixed to it, down into a deep, dark cave. The only way I sustain the courage to go back down there is by writing every day I possibly can, thereby gaining lay-of-the-land advantage. Of course, I'm also half way through my first real year of teaching: any teacher will tell you that habit makes a big difference to their comfort level at the white board. Beginner habits = huge amount of prep. THUS, I've done awfully little that's glam, worth repeating or noteworthy in London so far. All this whinging to make up for not being able to boast. However...

I have a pal here who is a fashion designer. He's Canadian but he's based in London and shows here at London Fashion Week (having studied at Central Saint Martin's, the be all and end all institute of higher fashion learning). When I moved here I was dead keen to see the talented lad and catch up. It took us six months but we finally did it. Kindly enough, he let me tag along with him to Shoreditch House, which is the ne plus ultra of London private clubs right now. Men there wear knickerbockers and it looks right. 75% of the women teeter on shoes that look like they belong in a Matthew Barney video. After a shared bottle of vino and one more glass each, my designer friend further snuck me into a birthday party for the boyfriend of a French fashion magazine's editor-in-chief's daughter. While there I met a lovely, stylish lady who worked for Alexander McQueen. I openly marvelled at that; she proudly beamed.

 I thought about Alexander McQueen's lovely accessories coordinator repeatedly after the recent news of his sudden death. Imagine having a cultural touchstone as your boss. Imagine how much servicing of your self-identity that would provide - to work for an internationally renowned groundbreaker. Furthermore, in a business where socializing crosses ranks. Then he dies. Your mentor, your guiding professional light, the point you all rally around, your significant employer dies. Big loss upon great big loss.

We all make these homes away from home for ourselves, professionally, and the thing is, unlike our actual homes they're contingent upon the decisions of numerous others. Even the mildest of changes at one's workplace can have dire repercussions for one's life, psyche and one's family's psyche. Let me put it this way: the only thing sadder than hell is a sanctuary defiled. When you like your boss, even kind of love your boss, and your boss transfers elsewhere, oh man...it's grief. I've had friends pine for their most charismatic bosses, quit when they couldn't do without them, and follow their industry captain somewhere new the first chance they got.

Losing a good boss is like a beloved older sibling running away from home. Losing a bad boss is like an ornery older sibling moving away to college - and possibly getting their room.

My Mom told me once when she was half way through a BEd and I was about twelve that I "don't like to take direction." Mom may well have nailed me because I've never worked anywhere particularly hierarchal. I haven't had titanic bosses before whom it's been necessary to quake. I really like my boss right now. This is how you can tell he's good. When something goes wrong on the job for me he's not the last person I want to tell, he's the first. He's a shrewd enough person to see through to my goals which he's judged as ethical. He's on my side.

A couple of times I've dealt with bosses who give me slight PTSD upon reflection. At the time I cope; afterwards I shake my head and wonder how I dealt with that incompetence or those exploitive habits. Call it ex-boss shudder.

The beauty of middle age is that when someone is being a bully you simply nail them on it. You stick up for yourself without fuss or muss past the flummoxment of youth. I once told a boss that I thought he was too intimidating and that his aggression was unfortunate because it made him hard to learn from despite his extensive knowledge. He took it like a man. We moved on productively. I'm proud of that. Lord knows there were numerous folks he'd caused to quiver. Let me add that this was a summer job. Easy for me to stick up for myself - I was out of there five weeks later.

I've been reading lately how Gordon Brown has piss fits. Apparently the British prime minister rages, kicks chair legs, lunges at lapels, seethes, fumes, wields open black felt tips, and bellows on a regular basis. I guess he's worth being near, seat of power and all. A part of me would want to say, "Please let me make it clear that you do not have my permission to talk to me in that rude manner." Another part of me would be glad to further finesse my Gordo B imitation for the purposes of my next water cooler performance. All right, I guess a part of me would come close to tears depending how close to the bull's eye I was positioned. Maybe. I'm honestly not sure. I don't have any F You money...but I also don't have a mortgage.

For those of you enjoying a good boss, take a second to appreciate that fact as one does health and sunny weather. For those of you enduring a Lou Grant (without the multi-karat heart) lower the stakes if you can. Tell yourself, and your boss if possible: "This isn't the brain surgery ward at Sick Kids Hospital. This isn't a task force assigned to bring peace to the Middle East. This isn't triage in Port au Prince."

A head waiter at Joe Allen restaurant once said to me in no uncertain terms, "You need to HURRY up and calm DOWN." That was while I was still training. Soon I was safely on board, however. From then on, the moment a customer was rude to me I was given licence to wax immediately, voraciously, hysterically arrogant with no matter who and I could rely on complete back-up in that regard. Let me assure you that my first instinct was to be attentive, respectful and even affectionate to my tables. But oh how sweet, oh how gladdening, to tell any lout, boor or ridiculously sneering prima donna those five magic words: "Let me get my manager."

Be that manager if that's your privilege. Or risk plotted downfalls.

Like so much else in life - bossing comes and bossing goes. 

Years ago I encountered a quote from the great twentieth century psychoanalyst Carl Jung (who is so much more my cup of tea than Freud - I'll take the collective unconscious over penis envy any day). I paraphrase but I recall Jung saying something to the effect that man's love is sentimental in nature and women's love terrifying in its capacity for self-sacrifice. I'd say Herr Jung hit a home run with that puppy. Guys soooo dig playing the romantic hero. Words speak louder than actions for men; they can't bear a harsh take on a matter of the heart and they all have an inner Pépé le Pew. To wit, males have total fun at the florists. Meanwhile, the more a woman sacrifices to a relationship, the more she understands herself to be in love. And the more a woman thinks she's in love, the more she sacrifices to her relationship. And so on with vicious circularity. Every red-blooded lady loves an abyss.

Well, another Valentine's Day has come and gone and thank the good God I did not tromp out my crimson panty and push-up set again for a fourth mid-February gentleman. Here's my nasty, evil truth: I recycle my romantic gestures. Sure I deliver my loving touches with loving intentions...um, numerous times over. Let me put it this way: if I raided your cutlery drawer to lay out a heart of spoons in your bed, I admit I did so in other beds on other occasions. The x and o trail cut from magazine ad pages leading from your door to your bed is another of my faves. Gray's Anatomy left open at heart on your pillow? Twice at least. Same for that red long john sets I embroidered with L + whatever. Sure Valentine's Day is fun. But it's also complete claptrap.

No, not complete claptrap. Sorry. Enjoy your lipstick kiss boxers and fair trade roses. I merely want to emphasize that at this point in my life I find domesticity a hell of a lot more exciting, alluring and intoxicating than romance. It's all very nice to be presented with some high end chocolate (to pass on to friends because I hate chocolate). But it's a lot sexier in my estimation when a man gives in and goes for whole wheat penne on my behalf as we schlep a grocery cart up and down fluorescent lit aisles together. I like tulips so much more than roses and I like pink and yellow flowers so much more than red flowers and I like giving flowers more than I like getting them.

My beef with relationships in general is that the romantic gestures are the fun part and that the person making the gesture is gratifying him or herself more than their mate.

So yes, it's all very nice to be taken out to a candlelit bistro for a V Day themed prix fixe. But what's truly romantic, heartening and fortifying if you ask me is to have someone to roll around in bed with hung-over out of your mind the following morning, someone with whom to double-check the ridiculousness of your ridiculous behaviour. (I think that might be why I'm such an infrequent drinker, actually; I have no one to get The Fear with morning after morning after the night before.)

Let's not forget, Valentine's Day was the church's attempt to smother Lupercalia, an ancient Roman mid-February festival involving public nudity, wolf costumes and widespread spanking. Now that I could go for.

Perhaps I'm permanently scarred by the red carnation drive that would go on in the Victoria College student residences. You could drop a buck and send someone a red, factory carnation with a saucy or loving or friendly message. There we were, a bunch of big time browners reduced to utter protoplasm when the South House guys failed to deliver a single bloom our way. The horror. Hey, what did I care by third year? My boyfriend lived in a loft on Queen Street and took me to the Bev on Valentine's Day. Punks don't give a rat's ass about Hallmark cards.

I suppose in an economy like this it's important to foster any kind of industry. So here's to the love business. Long may it inflate. Please excuse me therefore, since I spent yesterday doing five hours of lesson planning for Unit 5 Inside Out Intermediate, followed by sixty minutes of cardio and an ab workout. Then I went home and enjoyed iceberg, red cabbage and beetroot salad with yogurt dressing and two-and-a-half tofu dogs slopped with chipotle ketchup. In honour of the occasion I then stirred a couple teaspoons of Bonne Maman raspberry conserve into half a tub of plain yogurt resulting in a delicious reddish cream. I called my mom and dad to see how they were doing (my father's chemo has become progressively more problematic, which is wrenching). Then I slept the sleep of the self-cherished. No romantic gestures. Sensible sacrifices. Bring on February 15^th.

I can't begin to explain how truly glad I am to live in London. There is so very much to appreciate about London, England, the British. (Cor blimey, love these limeys.) I adore the sophistication here - the radio and papers don't shy away in the slightest from complex notions and topics. (Unless we're talking tabloids, mind you, and my how I enjoy my nightly English tabloid.) Self-expression is generally more elegant here, it truly is; British talking heads wax beautifully florid. "Do go on," I tell them as they detail tax policy, historical significance and latest in neo-imperialism, in tones either estuary or Etonian. The politics here fascinate; they're so intricately human. I admire the way British signs say please rather than leaving things at a bare imperative. I deeply respect the free admission policy to all the grandest museums here. As for British tailoring, it's downright marvy: British men aren't afraid of grace notes and they know a good shoe. British gals on the other hand don't shy away from super cute short haircuts. And if they do have hair they can finesse the sexiest topknot in seconds. As for the English high streets: bargains galore. I get cheaper T-shirts, avocados and books here in London than I did in Toronto or Charlottetown. (I was cold the other day and bought a brand new, admittedly gross and bulky, Fruit of the Loom zip mock turtle sweatshirt for a quid even...that's $1.68.) I love the way Brits drink in their parks. I love the Transit for London on-line journey planner. I love how traffic lights in London go amber before they go green. I love coming across streets inhabited by characters in Victorian novels. I love biking over bridges and casting a glance up and down the Thames at landmark after glorious, imperious, history-laden landmark.

So, obviously my annoyance level is way down low here in England. It's true; there's very little the Brits get up to that bugs me. Yes, they say "sorry" when you bump into them but so what? Yes, there are football fans who put the rampant in rabid. But most don't. No, they don't allow artists to tax deduct restaurant expenses, but you can't have everything. Sure, yoghurt comes in smaller tubs, but I've adjusted. I can live without blue corn chips and they just got So You Think You Can Dance here after all. Some day we'll be able to transfer from London subways to London busses free of charge. Meanwhile I'm immune to the class system and/or the low life celebrities who get boob jobs and date footballers etc.

One thing, however, one thing the Brits do drives me utterly bananas...Arg, gak, &%$#...No matter how moderately someone is acquainted with you here, no matter if they've never clapped eyes on you and possibly never will, you are in danger of getting an x at the end of your English email. I mean by that you are in grave danger.  Steve x ... Mary xx ... Martin xxx.

X-rated just about describes my reaction. That or kissy fit.

To specify, back when I was internet dating I'd get queries of interest from gentlemen (or shall I say gentlemen otherwise) who'd sign "Peter x" or "xxgeorge" before knowing if they'd ever in their lives hear back from me. Some goofs signed their profiles with an x. A general kiss to the general world, I suppose, in the most particularly foolish way.

We all know the perils of a misplaced x and o. Once you start, you're stuck x'ing and o'ing forever at the risk of looking frosty if you forgo. True, in Canada I've received x's from editors who barely know me socially. But that's a magazine masthead for you; magazine editors are a far more affectionate species than Ms. Wintour would suggest. True, I don't think my boss in London would ever x me. But he's Irish. No one English seems wry compared to the Irish. In fact the English are barely wry any more. They're too busy being liberal as they formulate another health and safety regulation to add to the whole nanny state package.

Anyhow, my pals back in Canada who I've x'd and o'd for years because if I saw them in person I really would hug and kiss them - which I think is a good x and o guiding principle - have perhaps noticed that I've become a bit recalcitrant of late in my x and o divvying. x's and o's are so darn promiscuous over here in the UK that it's compelled me to become x and o abstemious no matter to whom I'm writing. I'm squelching the figurative hug and kiss flow on my end so that my x's and o's will truly stand for something. I've seen the lecherousness a misplaced x implies. There but for the grace of yrs ever go I.

I suppose all x'ing around here is the modern technological version of "love," as in "There's your change, love" or "Do you want sugar with that, love?" etc. This is an island after all. On islands you make nice or risk short circuiting the social system in ways no one can survive. PEI is all dear this and dear that. Bermuda is one "lovely day!" after another. I guess I've got better things to get irritated by than unctuous displays of over-familiarity. At least British people send notes, texts and emails to this begrudging colonial. So then,
        God save the Queen x. Rule Britannia xx. Never mind the bollocks XXX.

Sorry to hector, sorry to vent, but what else is a gal going to do with her blog (besides detail her sex life, dissect her break-ups and show-off that she goes to the gym)? It's this: I have peeves brewing. I have complaints that have just got to roar their way through the light of day. Certain things have been more than bothering me. Let's bust the anger dam.

PEEVE #1: PROFLIGACY

My best old pal K forgives me for this but I have a certain ingrained asceticism, personally, that makes me hardnosed. I'm obdurate in less than attractive ways. Nevertheless I do understand the value of treats. Absolutely, yes, there is a time and place for self-indulgence. I'm all in favour of impulse purchases and investment pieces...Joe Fresh flats, Prada anoraks, a condo half way up the property ladder or a Georgian Bay hideaway, you name it. But...but...BUT there are children starving! So for the love of God do not, DO NOT I BEG YOU, waste money on something like, for instance, plastic surgery. Or ocean-going yachts. But let's focus for now on the evil of elective surgery for the purposes of enhanced appearance. Yes evil. I do not use that word lightly. I barely believe in evil, except when it comes to money cross-referenced with conceit.

Style! Being attractive is all about style. Ya, ya, inner beauty, radiating intelligence and all that. But if you want to be a looker, and who doesn't, it's so very easy - eat well, exercise regularly, cleanse and moisturize, sleep enough, and cultivate your own striking style. That goes no matter your age. In fact the older you are, the more clarion your fabulous style will ring out. No, not boas. But I'm sure you've got other chic ideas that will cast the beneficent sheen of Diana Vreeland down upon you from style heaven.

I know I'm supposed to say that I wouldn't opt for plastic surgery but that other people are allowed to do whatever they want with their hard-earned time and money, right? No, no, no, no, NO!!!! Plastic surgery without a justification based in health is pathetic I tell you. A veritable Symphony Pathétique. No one should do it. A substantial donation to a charity of your choice will provide you with that sparkle you crave. Volunteering when and where your community needs you will give you that magic glow. A quick call to a neglected loved one will boost your mood and stance. Ply your art, play your sport, fund your cause, and heads will turn your way as you wish. You'll have je ne sais quoi clogging your sinks. But a nip and a tuck are a f*cked way to make yourself look better and feel better. There's enough crying shame in this world without adding to it so worthlessly and expensively. Say a sane no to unnecessary needles and scalpels!

If you're a Hollywood hotshot whose face is your paycheque then maybe I get it, maybe you need some synthetic rejuvenation. No, wait, NO, screw that! Close-ups or not, one generation should give way to the next with grace, tolerance, Pilates and Vitamin E. Not with foreheads stretched tight as hospital sheets, ersatz lips and suctioned midsections.

[Subsidiary But Actually Enormous Peeve: The Celebrity Industrial Complex

Celebs are not heroes, we all know that. If it's heroes we want the real ones are to be had in our shelters, drop-in centres, palliative wards and army. That's where bona fide charisma resides. I've said it before and I'll say it again, fame is a warping agent. Most celebrities give me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe some are mostly normal but at this point they're all part freak. They asked for it. Fame is an empty wish.]

Oh my God, can you believe this, I'm going on. But how's about this...Let's impose a 100% vanity tax on all private clinic plastic procedures. Make that a 200% vanity tax with half going towards our domestic health needs and half going to conflagration zones worldwide. What about people who really want to fix something physical for the sake of their emotional health but can barely afford it? I'm asked. Oh. My. God. First, let me swallow my fury and count to ten until I can speak without screaming. Then let me say that self-esteem should never be rooted in something as incidental as the lines of one's face, that the YMCA is a much better bet than lipo, and that a person who can barely afford plastic surgery is the worst candidate of all for undergoing some white-jacketed-blowhard-with-a-magic marker's knife. Blast through a wad of cash at an upmarket cosmetics counter if you must. Be a bit of a label whore. (But you'd be far better off buying your mom a hyacinth, scoring yourself some cute yoga pants, and double-checking with your hairdresser that your cut is all it should be.) Let's send the plastic surgeons back to public hospitals where they belong. Or to Haiti.

To conclude...some people really do need operations. They should be the ones to get anaesthetized. Everyone else pondering pain voluntarily...SNAP OUT OF IT.

PEEVE #2: QUIT WITH THE ZEN CRAP AND LET ME WALK ON YOUR FLOOR IN WHATEVER SHOES I WORE ALL THE WAY OVER TO SEE YOU, POSSIBLY SHOES I PICKED OUT CAREFULLY SO I'D MAKE A NICE SPLASH, WHEREAS MY SOCKS HAVE LIKELY NOT BEEN AS CAREFULLY CURATED, NOR SHOULD THEY HAVE BEEN, BECAUSE SOCKS DO NOT A BALANCED LOOK MAKE

Floors, and I include by that carpets, are meant to be walked on. With shoes. With shoes with heels possibly. If you don't like people treading on your floors and rugs then don't have guests. Or floors and rugs. By all means expect shoe removal if there's rampant slush or your home is a mosque. Otherwise, please accept and respect the fact that people's footwear is an integral part of their outfit. Yes, some damage to your damage deposit may well result from your home being penetrated by shod pals and relations. Probably not and worse things have happened. As to sustaining a sterile domestic condition - too few germs spark auto-immune disorders. Your guests' feelings are more important than your parquet. Your guests' pride is more significant than your deep pile plush. Give me back my dignity: give me back my shoes. The seemliness of your hospitality will be simultaneously restored. Oh, and by the way, all those friends who you don't allow to wear shoes in your home? They're bitching about you behind your back, Mr. and Mrs. Pristine Floor Wax. Unscratched hardwood goeth before a fall.

Oh my gosh, how bellicose. It was fun though. Don't forget, you can leave a comment to tell me I've got it all wrong. Next week, I promise to tweak my outlook well away from crimson. At least red makes a change from blue. Wonder what'll happen if I see yellow...?

Sorry gents, but I'd way rather get osteoporosis than go bald. I'd rather require expensive moisturizer than grow hair in my ears. I'd rather night sweat than get dangly of ball. Since your wondering, there's one other big benefit to being female I can think of that kicks in later in life. I do believe it's worth mentioning here at noble Chick Life ...We women get a much more elegant older leg over. Think about it. If a young man sleeps around he's sewing wild oats, the young gun, the scamp! And if an older man opts for promiscuity he's branded as an emotionally ill loser - silly commitment-phobe, who can respect him? BUT! If a younger woman sleeps around she's a flooze whereas if a mature woman engages in significant sexual activity then she is simply exercising her feminism-given right to explore her erotic sensibilities - who gave you the right to judge, Prim Face?

GOTCHA, dudes. Ladies, it's payback time. Whooooo-hoooooo!!!!!!

Okay, enough roistering. I have another point to make. It has to do with the elusive nature of the following statement ... I haven't had sex in a long time. What interests me is - what does that even mean? When it comes to not having It in a long time, exactly how long is long? I'd say that depends on not just who but when.

Personally, perhaps predictably, a long time was a lot longer when I was in my twenties. Get this: I lived in Paris for the better part of 1987 and did not have sex once. Then I moved to London for nine months after that, and the southern Spanish mountains for three months after that, and I did not have sex once in either of those places furthermore. Isn't that insane in the brain? It definitely strikes me as barmy. I did not have sex for over a year-and-a-half at the age of 26. To be honest my figure has improved since then. I ate a lot of Petit Ecolier biscuits when I lived in the onzième, and I hadn't yet heard of core training before I hit Kensal Rise. I was still a bit of a big baby in numerous less-than-enticing ways, come to think of it. But how hysterically abstemious of me. I'm not scarred for life by any means. But I'm puzzled. (I mean, French guys ironed their jeans and British guys were all gay and the Spaniards smelled of goat, but still!)

Because a half a year is now a long time. We've discussed my zesty thirties. Three months was a long time between '91 and '99. That's when I was boyfriend central, as keen as could be on getting knocked-up by a reliable other. Currently, without a BF to my name, three months would feel like a trampy whirlwind. At six months I just start to notice, oh, right, no one's going to see this underwear anyway. I cast my mind back over one season, maybe two, and think, hey, I've been getting a lot of writing done and nest-egging a fair bit of coin (something about a man sends my earnings draining through my fingers, I spare few costs when I'm encrushed). Six months is long enough for me to have taken as many millions of deep breaths as I need to look on, look up and look ahead. To forge forth accompanied by a certain tingle.

To reiterate, I'm comfortable with six sexually null and void months, even seven, eight or nine. A year, however, and dreary admonishments to use it or lose it would probably kick in. I don't know for sure. It's been a long time since it was a long time. I'm fairly fit, as the Brits say. I've still got pep and moxy and sassy old sass. Despite my new lifetime high standards in most categories of manliness (kitchen suss, starch of shirts, gentility) I can't imagine it'll be an overly long long time for another decade or two. I'm too damn friendly for that. I definitely never want to revisit that befuddled nun state of my youth. That just say no to nude hugs lapse in judgement. Obviously, I didn't understand how easy It is back then. Back then It wasn't. Six years of girls school had raised the stakes waaaaay too high, that's my only stab in the dark here. Back then I was still chasing pretty boys, mind you. Pretty boys probably have some testosterone deficit that's working against them, too. Nowadays I'm happy being the somewhat pretty one.

When my girlfriends have just got Some and are feeling in any way trepidatious about that, I like to put things this way. "Congratulations," I say. "You have just put some sex in the sex bank. You'll draw interest off that for months." People wonder how it is I can write about sex so freely in my books. I'd be embarrassed not to write about sex, frankly. Sex reveals so much about character. A novelist would be crazy not to put in a bonk every few chapters if you ask me. I know what I'll say if I'm ever nominated for that Bad Literary Sex prize. "At least I have sex!" I'll retort. Take that. And take that again in six, seven or eight months, but preferably no more than eleven.

You know that contemporary adage about women coming into their sexual prime at thirty? Whoa, is that true in my case.  By the time I ended my 29th year, I had racked-up, oh...a baker's dozen conquests. That seemed like plenty at the time but things, um, multiplied from there. Paradoxically, I think it was my comfort level with condoms by the mid-eighties that got me rocking the house and rolling in the hay. You get dextrous at applying prophylactic devices, well, you relax as to who you're applying one on. So condom savvy certainly calmed me down and revved me up. Ultimately, probably, my sexual bravado had to do with getting used to the fact that men are bigger and stronger and can overpower one when poorly chosen. It also finally dawned on me that my libido operated at about the same pitch as my IQ. I'd always serviced my egghead tendencies without a qualm. Now it was time for my neglected little inner femme fatale to get her equal time in the sun. It takes a lady until she's thirty to own all her appetites comfortably - carbohydrate, intellectual and libidinous. Restraint became a matter for pansies for thirtysomething Loulou. Within reason.
          It's the sanity of one's attitude that counts, right? Not the actual numbers.

Think about it. I'm forty-eight. Like pretty well everyone else in my cohort, barring the intrepid or prudish, I lost that cumbersome thing virginity at seventeen-and-a-half. Since then I've had two relationships that lasted 1.5 years and three that lasted almost a year. I've also had ten or so relationships that stretched from three to six months. Otherwise I've been single. So let's add up...I've been sexually active for thirty-one years...Let's say I've been intimate with on average two men a year...See what I mean?

I had the most brilliant copy editor known to human for my first book. We were meant to be concentrating on my grammatical faux pas but we'd get to yapping. She was a couple of years older than me. I knew what that meant. That meant my dear copy editor had lived through the final throws of peace, grooviness and free love. I tasted of its tricklings but in my time punk and AIDS soon set in. I grant boomers this - they've out heyday'ed everyone.

Let me put it this way: my good friend F at Margaret Addison Hall, the women's residence at Victoria College, University of Toronto, had followed her older sister K to Vic. K graduated a year before F and I got there. What a sea change. In K's time, 1974-8, guys didn't just stay over now and then here and there. Men blooming well lived at Marg Add. They moved right in, showered, laundered and dallied at their will. By 1979, however, some new broom had swept in and cleared away the total onslaught cohabitation. And the total fornication that went with it.

Let me also put it this way: my boyfriend at the time, eight years my senior, had done an MA and three quarters of a PhD at the Sorbonne in Paris, in Hegelian dialectics. He lived with a sculptress on the left bank for a while before setting her aside for more of a buffet approach to the City of Light. (Of course, on his first trip to Paris ever he and some pals had jumped in a cab and said, "Cherchons les femmes!" The memory always brought a, ahem, broad smile to his face.) Anyhow, once, after about a year together, I asked J how many ladies he'd tallied up in his love career. How many tail feathers in his headdress so to speak. He put a sincerely quizzical look on his face. We were both artsies so arithmetic was never easy. He was calculating his best, however, I could tell. "I've probably slept with a hundred and fifty women," he said. "Oh, okay," I said. He was my second so I was a little jarred but not really. That's modern life. I knew that even then.

Back to my genius copy editor. I think we were both single at the time of our collaboration. Both feeling somewhat at a remove from romantic intentions. It's all about Mr. 99 she told me. Who's he? Mr. 99 was the man she thought she'd finally get to before she cracked three figures, the gentleman who'd make sense of all the others and never need a follow-up. I mean, God forbid Mr. 99 would not be a, ghastly term this, keeper. I have a ways to go before I have to fret about Mr. 99 excelling all others but I can definitely relate. One can go from Mr. 25 to Mr. 50 in a whirlwind.

How's this for strange information...It's estimated that Casanova did it with 125 partners. The eponymous Casanova. Doesn't that seem low? I mean, I'm half a Casanova, lord love me. Insert existentialist shrug here (but add sheepish expression).

I've mentioned before how the pagans revere sex as a cleansing agent. As the pagans have it, the scruffier you're feeling around the edges, morally, the better you'll feel after a good reverent bonk cleans you up. I have to admire the pagans for that largely matriarchal notion. It took stupid old patriarchal monotheism to install a mind-body divide in our beleaguered psyches from which we're still recovering, in all our tormented, disordered glory. Erotically, the pagans let it rip, bless them, and I'm convinced they were much less neurotic for that, the odd sacraficial goat notwithstanding. I have a real infidel's attitude to sluts, obviously. Which is that there's no such thing. If we all just let up and believe that sluts simply don't exist I suspect there will be a lot less sexual violence, and inter-faith friction, in fact war. Without a semantic or phenomenological basis for sluts, this would be a much better world.

I guess I regret a couple of my, yeesh, episodes. That's about a 5% regret rate and 95% satisfaction. For the most part I'm proud of my accumulated experience. I owe much of my native wiggle to my tally. And some of my capacity for empathy. And a lot of my self-acceptance. On a basic fondness level, I like men so much more now that I know how approachable they are. To be honest I go so far as to construe erections as a form of generosity.

Thanks, guys, for the memories.

Stay tuned. Next we ponder how long is a long time to go without IT...

They say confession is good for the soul. Who's they? Because I highly doubt that. Confession is a narcissistic act if you ask me, a real attention grab. Surely things that are good for the soul are not limelight oriented. If you've got something whoppingly big to confess, do it to the cops. Otherwise, process solo or risk self-indulgence. To be sure, churches are in the confession business. Confession is good for the holy bank balance, that's what. It's no wonder religions are withering nowadays what with all the alternative outlets for guilt-fuelled self-involvement - shrinks, memoirs, tweets etc. Wherever there is ego cross referenced with doubt, confessions will out. You've guessed what's coming next. I have a number of things to own up to.

Mea effing culpa, gang. Click elsewhere or buckle up.

Firstly, you know that profound New Years resolution of mine to make the most of now without pining for a better later? Well, very early in the new year (okay, the morning of Jan 1^st to be exact) I flew back into Heathrow, jumped on the Picadilly Line and wended my way home to a cold, cramped lonely little flat where I utterly failed to make the most of things. No life-is-so-great-in-the-now crapola. I felt so shit I burst into tears and then whimpered for hours. What was I doing at the age of forty-eight living in such a teensy rented space so far away from ailing parents who I had pretty well failed to relax around for the entire Yuletide? Sob, gnash, sob. [Incidentally, my actual (functional) resolution turns out to be a lot more modest: I will moisturize my hands with sun block every morning before I leave the house. I'm also considering exercising less. That way I'll write more and spend far less on groceries. As things stand I have the appetite of a growing fifteen-year-old boy. A near vegan fifteen-year-old boy that is.]

A little about my flight. On the leg from Charlottetown to Halifax an enormous young gentleman came to sit down beside me. I was window he was aisle. I took one look at his mass and slammed down our armrest lickety split. Polite as he was, no way I wanted any more of his poundage than necessary hemming me in for an hour. It ain't pretty but that's how I think. I see someone having trouble squeezing into a plane seat and I say to myself, "WHY, WHY WHY? Why risk heart disease, cancer, dementia and diabetes? Why circumscribe your self-esteem and comfort on a minute-by-minute basis? Why add to the cost of my plane fare with your difficult bulk? Does fried chicken taste that good?" I've just visited Prince Edward Island after all, aka Obesity HQ. Even drop dead gorgeous people are often head-scratchingly massive on Spud Island. I ADMIT IT, obesity seems like a sad abdication of responsibility to me. Almost no one's metabolism is magically bad or good. I make about twenty decisions a day to be my weight. I truly cherish the company of seriously overweight people at my gym. "You go," I think. "You are welcome here. Jog tall." 
      
      There was a sylph-like young woman beside me from Halifax to London,. This time she was window and I was aisle. But a British teenage girl (i.e. she will never in a million light years come anywhere near zoomermag.com) across the aisle from us was having some kind of conniption. She was wailing and shuddering and clutching a barf bag that, as far as I'm aware, she moaned into rather than actually filling with vomit, much as she noisily threatened to upchuck for, oh, about eight hundred miles before completely calming down. No, it was very unlikely she was learning disabled. She was just making a fuss, that's all. Here's the evil way my mind works. I kept sneaking sideways glances at this girl because she was so magnificently...homely. No kidding, she made Olive Oyl look like Megan Fox. I thought, "Wow, hysterical temperament plus a polar-opposite-to-pretty mug combined with premature dowdiness. That's gotta be rough." (Her unflaggingly attentive mom probably thinks she's perfect.) Anyhow, between droopy, spotty, shnozzamatazz Miss Barf, and my unwillingness to recline my seat because in my mind that's just not done, and my disconcertion at being such a misanthrope, I didn't sleep a wink. Incidentally, I'm all about ordering a fruit plate. Air Canada never fails to remember I want grapes somewhere over Greenland. I ADMIT IT: anything else seems trough-like.

Okay, you remember how I said my pal D and I watched Across the Universe on Christmas Day? Such was the plan but, well, the DVD cacked-out on us one minute in. We actually watched Munich. Of all the cockamamily intense things to watch on a day of joy, honestly. Incidentally, usually for my Christmas dinner, which I have in company with the dog while my parents are buffeting at the Delta, I have a toasted baguette sandwich made with not one but two ripened avocados, yum yum. This year I celebrated my new consumption of fish death and had a couple of tuna salad bagels instead. (The Christmas spirit was in the mayo.) What can I say? I ADMIT IT, my vice is asceticism. By Western standards, I find it reprehensibly easy to do without. Go ahead: hate me. Staunch as I am, I'm incapable of hating myself.

There's so much more. Remember that post I filed this summer on The Rebound, and my pride in having fallen for someone new while 100% rebound free? I call bullshit. I was sooooooo on the rebound as I gambolled around Richmond from June until September. Luckily for my moral health, buddy was, too. What did we twerps know? I ADMIT IT, nothing.

I ADMIT IT, I could never blow my rent on shoes, I'm far too financially uptight for that. Sure I've spent four bills on shoes in my life, but never when those four bills were rent.

I ADMIT IT, I pretend to be lactose intolerant so I don't have to choke on cream.

I ADMIT IT, I'm too chickenshit to break most rules. I've never shoplifted so much as a bobby pin. Sneaking on to busses causes me agony. I serially cheated on that self-study program Miss Elton had going in Grade Four. Over and over I told her I'd ranked a perfect twenty out of twenty. I see that 1971 deceit as a blot on my life. Miss Elton so knew, too. She congratulated me right into the ground. Lord, I rue those days.

I ADMIT IT, I have something against short cuts. I ADMIT IT, I have never checked a single lottery ticket bestowed on me by any of my aunts. I ADMIT IT, I believe in struggle not luck.

I ADMIT IT, I think East Indian people are more physically attractive than other races.

I ADMIT IT, I wear frigging play clothes to work day in day out, much as I'm pining to be tailored. I could trade wardrobes with an eighteen-year-old and make her happy. How pathetic. Someone please toss out my tees and hiphuggers forevermore. But don't touch my yoga pants.

I ADMIT IT, I eat pretty well everything I drop on the floor. I lick knives.

I ADMIT IT, I forgot to buy toilet paper this afternoon and am, ouch, on the hole making do with paper towel.

I ADMIT IT, I jump into beds. I ADMIT IT, I have a huge appetite for extremely ordinary sex. In my mind kinky equals yucky, I ADMIT IT, and I thank my lucky stars I'm not in possession of a single fetish. I ADMIT IT, I never get "a headache, honey." A crush is one of the most self-involved of all human exercises but I ADMIT IT, I still get them: boys have the power to make me feel soooooo good. One basket, one egg, that's the way I like it: I ADMIT IT. Stronger women than me can play the field.

I ADMIT IT, I run red lights on my bike.

I ADMIT IT, I can't make pie crust, roux or Thai curry. That's unsexy of me.

I ADMIT IT, my misery loves company. Large or small, no matter my problem, nothing reassures me as much as knowing my friends have had it as bad or better yet worse.

I ADMIT IT, I have absolutely no idea how many of you are reading this. I'm not sure what qualifies me to write this. I'd be devastated not to go on with this. Come close. I need you. I'll do pretty well anything to keep you. You want to be pacified or provoked? I'll do both and either. 

I ADMIT, I'm a constantly evolving equilibrium between shame and not shame. At heart, that's probably what I most want to write about, that tense junction between pride and disgrace. God, I hope I make the personal general.

I ADMIT IT, I have zip to put on my tombstone as yet.

Incidentally, there is a big difference between a confession and an apology. An apology is a confession elevated to substance and usefulness. An apology doesn't just say you've done something wrong, it says how and why and comes complete with assurances that you'll knock it off, damn you. Confessions come from a place of weakness; apologies, however, originate in strength. I'm sorry I did not take this opportunity to apologize for anything. It seemed like too much of a division of focus. And for the most part apologies would have been insincere. There's a belligerence to confession which I suppose I wanted to highlight. I just wish honesty wasn't so retrospective. I'll try harder to be truthful in good time from now on. Confessions are bad enough let alone confessions on a delay.

I ADMIT IT, some of the confessions above have completely contradicted each other. I ADMIT IT, the most interesting thing about me is that you're smarter about a lot of these things than I am. I ADMIT IT, I went back and lightened my language when it comes to weight; I want to be real not cruel. I have nothing more to say now. I ADMIT IT.

Hip hip hooray, it's resolution season! I loooooove the way we hold dear to the notion that we are improvable at this time of year. That our flaws are expendable. That are frailties will soon rest in peace, interred along with our bad habits, bugbears and pet self-peeves. From early December on, I contemplate potential resolutions the way I used to paw through the Eaton's catalogue toy section. Oooh, yes, I want that one! And that one! And that one! But of course it's no longer about dolls that talk, Play-doh accessories  and kiddy appliances. Now I have resolution mania. I crave resolutions. To resolutions I say: Bring. Them. On.

For sure there's resolution gluttony, when you stop short of narrowing yourself down to just one big improvement and shoot for a whole bunch. And then there's the stringently targeted resolution - one great big one will do it. Either strategy is fine with me, just as long as I can assume there's change for the better in the air. My air. The air I've been polluting with my crap behaviour. Bad behaviour no longer.

Yippee, it's resolution time!

An uncomfortable thought intrudes. My last couple of resolutions haven't fared too well. They failed to gain traction early on. By late spring they were abject versions of themselves. By autumn they were the brunt of wry, sad jokes. Sure I hold resolutions to heart but I'm fricking lousy at them. (Me and the rest of civilization.)

Last year, for the second time, I vowed to drink more. I was getting too lazy to drink. I was coming up with every excuse I could think of not to drink. On those rare occasions when I agreed with myself and others to drink I'd often dilute. Or I'd let the bottom half of my chardonnay go warm and rank before I set it behind the cactus and hugged my knees the rest of the night. I'm so sick of the sight of my hand in a traffic cop no-go position, calling a halt top ups. Possibly I drank a tiny bit more in 09 than 08. But I doubt I drank more in 08 than 07. A resolution gets one second chance and that's it.

I mean, look what happened to what I resolved once more in 07. Ha. Silly me, I actually thought I was going to stop interrupting people. Not a chance. Either I have an important question to ask or I get waaaaaay too overexcited by a stray conversational correspondence to keep genteelly mum. If I'm reminded of something by something, or completely familiar with what's just been mentioned, or can utterly relate to whatever is being discussed, I just have to butt in and say so. To whoever, whenever, however. I swear to God, I'd interrupt Prince Charles while he was introducing Camilla. I'd interrupt Moses between commandments. I'd interrupt Albert Einstein when he was just about to take relativity that one step further. What do I care?! I have my two bits to add! So, yes, not interrupting was Resolution # 1 for 07 and 06. Nice wish.

Obviously, for 2010 I need to choose better than drinking more and interrupting less. I could promote to trump status my lesser resolution from last year to read novels. But I'm almost kind of swinging that now that I forgo TV (in the land where you need a licence to watch it that is). So no, reading novels is a waste of good resolution. I need something more necessary than that.

How about this chestnut...stop me if you've heard this one before...the ole I have to stop stuffing myself silly number. An ex boyfriend taught me the term EPD: short for Eat to the Point of Discomfort. He and I would work hard gourmeting-up a good meal (he head chef, me sous) say curry pizza with chevre, or squash penne, or asparagus risotto. Then we'd chow down Caligula style until the only energy we had left was of the beached whale variety. (Stumble to separate couches, pop open top pants button, moan through The National.) Without a partner in crime I'm not quite that bad any more. But sometimes, after I've made my way through two heaping plates of pasta primavera, I'll devour my entire fruit bowl. I'll go well beyond satiation point until each apple, pear and mandarin is gnawed to pips and stem. I could resolve to bring a merciful end to that action. It would keep me from my third pee of the night. But, um, I really like fruit. And I always leave an orange for breakfast.

I could be less snippy with my father.

I could write more often to my mother.

Jesus, at my age I should be able to conduct myself as a good daughter without resolving to do so. Forget that.

For a while there, early to mid nineties, vegetarian resolutions crept up on me without any real volition on my part. New Years would strike and I'd realize, "Oops, no more chicken." Next year "Whoops, no more fish." Year after that, "Whoa, no more seafood." Successive ironclad agreements were struck between my subconscious and my reality with very little say-so on my conscious part. I've since regained a prawn and salmon habit but there the land in the sand has been drawn, cast, enshrined. God forbid I resolve to eat chocolate (take dirt, add water, stir in sugar, harden, blech).

I resolve to stop shopping at Primark.

NOOOOooooooOOOOOO!!!! Primark makes Joe Fresh look pricey.

I resolve to blow my nose instead of sniffing.

Whatever!

I resolve to go easier on the salt.

As if.

I think I've got it. It's boring and hideously self-helpy, so sorry. But I hereby resolve to stop time serving. To desist in being the kind of person who thinks things will be better when. I wished my way all the way to hollow cheeks, marionette lines and back of the hand freckles waiting for things to be better when. There might never be a when. Or when will suck some as yet undetermined bone. Now, however, is a guarantee. Now can be debased, or now can be heralded and luxuriated in and made the most of - depending on one's degree of intelligence, spiritual valour and digestion among other factors. Not too many other factors. Not as many factors as I'd like to think. The time for a better now is now. I'm on the hook. This is the year I prove to myself I have a knack for being pleased, contented, and for the most part satisfied.

Call me The Lady from Glad.

Gosh, thanks. Thank you for helping me ponder through this junction. This may well be the best present anyone will ever give me. I'll go sharesies if I may.

Everybody...Happy Now Year!