Following some recent good advice – and proving the value of posting this blog – I tried to talk to Fella last night about various things. Feelings and that. I wanted to let him know he’s my number one priority but that life being the thing what it is, I had a number of pressures that prevented me being the perfect boyfriend. Not by much of course. Just a wee dram shy.
In truth he still confuses me sometimes. The reverse psychology of his ignoring my pursuit; but challenging me when I ignore him persists still. But we make progress nonetheless. So it somewhat threw/surprised/pleased/???’d me when, after setting out my feelings, and convinced he had ignored me in favour of the TV, he began to talk about us moving in together.
Not very soon; in the next couple of years, say. He made it quite clear that my and him and The Gardener will not a happy home make. So it would have to be very much our place.
It doesn’t seem ridiculously early to be talking about moving in together. It is, after all, rather hypothetical. We surely wouldn’t be buying somewhere together so the risks are not huge [are they?]. It does, however, occur to me that when we talk about moving in together we have to talk about money and career aspirations and personal tastes. And all manner of things that may cause tensions. It assumes we know each other as well as perhaps we don’t. It, in short, stretches Trust.
So many ideas run through my head when I think about moving in with Fella. We certainly would need room. A place where we could be apart from each other from time to time lest things get to a head. Introverted and cerebral as we both are, close quarters would do more harm then good after a while. To be honest, three or fours nights a week is quite enough for me for now. I really do like a bit of quiet time from time to time!!
But also I think about what kind of place we would both like. And where it would be both convenient for work and for his family, to whom he is close, to visit. I really am, secretly, taken with the idea. And if we’re talking a couple of years then… well, gentle reader, why not?
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Under Seige
“Crazazy Times” is a saying I’ve stolen from friend ‘C’ and now Fella and I use it as something of a catchphrase. It comes in handy because the last three days we have had crazazy times indeed in sunny Strumpetville.
It all began at around 8:30 on Tuesday morning when, arriving at work, I couldn’t help notice the foyer of my office building was full of naked people and police officers. It seems a company in my building does PR for Satan, otherwise known as a company that generates electricity from *gasp* coal. The situation progressed until the police barricaded us inside, and the nudists outside, for several hours. It was like some bizarre erotic zombie flick. Now, I rarely let anything – even a naked man – get between me and food so as lunchtime came and went and the hordes of econudists failed to disperse my mild amusement turned into rather grim satisfaction that it was in fact a rather cold and rainy day.
On Wednesday evening we went with some of my colleagues to try and see Mock the Week being filmed at the BBC but after queuing for an hour in continuous rain we failed to get in because there were already too many guests so instead Fella and I headed home and had an early night. All to the good. Except at 5:30 this morning the door was kicked in by armed police who wanted to use my house as a conduit to get to the one whose garden backs onto mine, and which was at that time the centre of yet another siege. So there I was as dawn broke shepherding our boys in blue, armed to the teeth and in full body armour, past The Gardener’s erotic Greek statuary and nudey calendars, and toward the back fence…
In tribute to Fella’s not-morning-person status I must report his steadfast unconsciousness throughout the armed siege; indeed, apart from his somewhat sleepy and querulous demand to know what “all that banging was” earlier. I left him in bed and went to work. Thus requiring me to report his armed-siege related lateness (largely due to me not getting him out of bed) to his work colleagues.
Today’s highlight was the evacuation of my building in the early morning due not to more econudists, but due to a suspicious package. Which turned out to be a croissant.
I note as I write this it is a full moon, gentle reader. I make no further comment.
It all began at around 8:30 on Tuesday morning when, arriving at work, I couldn’t help notice the foyer of my office building was full of naked people and police officers. It seems a company in my building does PR for Satan, otherwise known as a company that generates electricity from *gasp* coal. The situation progressed until the police barricaded us inside, and the nudists outside, for several hours. It was like some bizarre erotic zombie flick. Now, I rarely let anything – even a naked man – get between me and food so as lunchtime came and went and the hordes of econudists failed to disperse my mild amusement turned into rather grim satisfaction that it was in fact a rather cold and rainy day.
On Wednesday evening we went with some of my colleagues to try and see Mock the Week being filmed at the BBC but after queuing for an hour in continuous rain we failed to get in because there were already too many guests so instead Fella and I headed home and had an early night. All to the good. Except at 5:30 this morning the door was kicked in by armed police who wanted to use my house as a conduit to get to the one whose garden backs onto mine, and which was at that time the centre of yet another siege. So there I was as dawn broke shepherding our boys in blue, armed to the teeth and in full body armour, past The Gardener’s erotic Greek statuary and nudey calendars, and toward the back fence…
In tribute to Fella’s not-morning-person status I must report his steadfast unconsciousness throughout the armed siege; indeed, apart from his somewhat sleepy and querulous demand to know what “all that banging was” earlier. I left him in bed and went to work. Thus requiring me to report his armed-siege related lateness (largely due to me not getting him out of bed) to his work colleagues.
Today’s highlight was the evacuation of my building in the early morning due not to more econudists, but due to a suspicious package. Which turned out to be a croissant.
I note as I write this it is a full moon, gentle reader. I make no further comment.
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
The 'L' word
I’ve given Fella the night off. It seems only fair that we both take a little rest; we spent Friday night through to Tuesday morning together after all. And as I explained before, Tuesday nights are my night!
Since Saturday I’d been a tad miffed with my Fella because much of the long weekend has been taken up with preparing for, attending, and a follow up visit to his best friend’s birthday. Nothing major; just that for this event we were treated to an exquisitely timed three day operation set out with military precision. Yet I can barely make it to work on time when he stays over because he is not, to put it mildly, a morning person. In fact these days I’ll get up an hour or two before him and get some work under my belt before making him the obligatory mug of tea in bed.
Anyway: one of the biggest learning points about what I increasingly consider my first proper relationship, is that it rarely pans out in the gloriously earth-shatteringly romantic way one might hope. And so it goes with the ‘L’ word.
So, after leaving his friend’s birthday – all his friends are lovely, and I had a great time to be sure – we ended up bickering and he accused me of not enjoying spending time with him; and I responded by saying I adore spending time with him, because I love him. And, to cut a long story short, he said he loves me too.
How typically me! It wasn’t said in a restaurant, or in bed, or with flowers. No; on a street corner in Greenwich in the dead of night…
And there we have it. I resisted saying it for quite some time; and I am not sure how I feel about saying it then and there. Nevertheless, it is done and I gone done it. The learning point for today’s post is, I suppose, reality trumps romantic dreams. And there will be plenty of opportunities, fingers crossed, to show I mean it as well as say it in many much nicer ways.
Not the least of which are the tickets to Paris – I’m going for Thursday morning to Saturday night and I’ve found a nice gay friendly complex of studio apartments. The trip is one of four presents; four because his birthday coincides with our four month ‘anniversary’. But I can post about those another time.
I’m still anxious and inexperienced and unsure and worried but happy and tentatively optimistic and… me. And now we have a new word for our lexicon, gentle reader. And it begins with ‘L’.
Since Saturday I’d been a tad miffed with my Fella because much of the long weekend has been taken up with preparing for, attending, and a follow up visit to his best friend’s birthday. Nothing major; just that for this event we were treated to an exquisitely timed three day operation set out with military precision. Yet I can barely make it to work on time when he stays over because he is not, to put it mildly, a morning person. In fact these days I’ll get up an hour or two before him and get some work under my belt before making him the obligatory mug of tea in bed.
Anyway: one of the biggest learning points about what I increasingly consider my first proper relationship, is that it rarely pans out in the gloriously earth-shatteringly romantic way one might hope. And so it goes with the ‘L’ word.
So, after leaving his friend’s birthday – all his friends are lovely, and I had a great time to be sure – we ended up bickering and he accused me of not enjoying spending time with him; and I responded by saying I adore spending time with him, because I love him. And, to cut a long story short, he said he loves me too.
How typically me! It wasn’t said in a restaurant, or in bed, or with flowers. No; on a street corner in Greenwich in the dead of night…
And there we have it. I resisted saying it for quite some time; and I am not sure how I feel about saying it then and there. Nevertheless, it is done and I gone done it. The learning point for today’s post is, I suppose, reality trumps romantic dreams. And there will be plenty of opportunities, fingers crossed, to show I mean it as well as say it in many much nicer ways.
Not the least of which are the tickets to Paris – I’m going for Thursday morning to Saturday night and I’ve found a nice gay friendly complex of studio apartments. The trip is one of four presents; four because his birthday coincides with our four month ‘anniversary’. But I can post about those another time.
I’m still anxious and inexperienced and unsure and worried but happy and tentatively optimistic and… me. And now we have a new word for our lexicon, gentle reader. And it begins with ‘L’.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Time
Where does all the time go? I work performance managing commissioners and providers of healthcare and today I spent all day focussing on winter planning (the aporkalypse is a-comin’ gentle reader) and reviewing maternity services at a local hospital – a process that overran by a whopping three hours and resulted in a long 14 hour day.
I like working hard; the demands of my job plus background research and personal development are… fine. I really like it. I’ve spent 8 years in healthcare slowly climbing up the greasy pole so I suppose that’s my career! And I want to progress further.
I also have a small micro-business which ticks over. The credit crunch has hurt and it’s very much a loss leader at the moment but things are getting better. Building that has been on the back burner and I haven’t really been able to meet the needs of my clients recently. Yet I prefer to think of it not as a hobby but something with real potential.
Managing all this and being in a relationship is, nevertheless, hugely challenging. I like a challenge. But it does occur to me that I have no time any more. I really don’t know how mums do it. Really.
Fella spends three or four nights at mine per week and I love that. Weekends are all his, and we’ll often go out Wednesday night too. Wednesdays or Thursdays tend to be my ‘business’ day but whether working for my boss or just for me, I like to be up between 5:00 and 6:00am and I won’t get home before 7:00pm. I like to go swimming twice a week (Mondays and Thursdays) and I want to expand my fitness regime around that. Plus I take work home in the evenings too, and I need to do a lot of ongoing learning and research. That pretty much leaves Tuesday nights as my quiet/catchup time. All of this varies with an active social life sans Fella of course...
Time management is not one of my problems. Though I dare but whisper it I suspect being a plain old ordinary human type being might be… Or maybe it’s just massive sleep deprivation primarily caused not by early starts but an inability to say ‘no’ to the offer of another drink.
In darker moments of introspection I wonder if I have really achieved so far. I’ve friends who’ve moved to China, Australia, America; got married and had kids; worked abroad. But I’ve always believed that hard work and sheer sticktoitiveness will pay dividends (like a good protestant should). All part of the process of becoming *shudder* a proper grown up Frumpella, methinks. I need to sit down and really, really plan ahead. My five year plan. Like Stalin. Except I’m not growing the moustache. Unless evil communist bastard chic becomes the next big thing.
In the meantime I shall keep the pink flag flying here, and be a tired but cheerful - and surprisingly happy - fairy.
I like working hard; the demands of my job plus background research and personal development are… fine. I really like it. I’ve spent 8 years in healthcare slowly climbing up the greasy pole so I suppose that’s my career! And I want to progress further.
I also have a small micro-business which ticks over. The credit crunch has hurt and it’s very much a loss leader at the moment but things are getting better. Building that has been on the back burner and I haven’t really been able to meet the needs of my clients recently. Yet I prefer to think of it not as a hobby but something with real potential.
Managing all this and being in a relationship is, nevertheless, hugely challenging. I like a challenge. But it does occur to me that I have no time any more. I really don’t know how mums do it. Really.
Fella spends three or four nights at mine per week and I love that. Weekends are all his, and we’ll often go out Wednesday night too. Wednesdays or Thursdays tend to be my ‘business’ day but whether working for my boss or just for me, I like to be up between 5:00 and 6:00am and I won’t get home before 7:00pm. I like to go swimming twice a week (Mondays and Thursdays) and I want to expand my fitness regime around that. Plus I take work home in the evenings too, and I need to do a lot of ongoing learning and research. That pretty much leaves Tuesday nights as my quiet/catchup time. All of this varies with an active social life sans Fella of course...
Time management is not one of my problems. Though I dare but whisper it I suspect being a plain old ordinary human type being might be… Or maybe it’s just massive sleep deprivation primarily caused not by early starts but an inability to say ‘no’ to the offer of another drink.
In darker moments of introspection I wonder if I have really achieved so far. I’ve friends who’ve moved to China, Australia, America; got married and had kids; worked abroad. But I’ve always believed that hard work and sheer sticktoitiveness will pay dividends (like a good protestant should). All part of the process of becoming *shudder* a proper grown up Frumpella, methinks. I need to sit down and really, really plan ahead. My five year plan. Like Stalin. Except I’m not growing the moustache. Unless evil communist bastard chic becomes the next big thing.
In the meantime I shall keep the pink flag flying here, and be a tired but cheerful - and surprisingly happy - fairy.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Planning
I’m very proud of Fella right now because he has got an interview on Thursday for a permanent job at the Royal College where he works. I’d helped him with the application form so I am a little bit pleased my efforts helped rather than hindered!
He’s at home preparing for the interview, and in touch by email. I’m here thinking about the possibilities of a rather nice bottle of wine given to me for my birthday. And I’m really rather happy.
The piece of music in the YouTube video at the bottom of this post is a new one to me, though the composer is one I rather like. As soon as I heard it, it made me think of having Fella wrapped up in my arms. I’d love to listen to it whilst just holding him…
We talked at the weekend about Fella’s birthday. He made a huge effort with mine and I want to reciprocate if not surpass his efforts. His birthday falls on a Saturday. The plan so far is: work drinks on Friday night; birthday lunch with his family (cross fingers me too) on the Saturday followed by partying the night away in Soho with his friends; and I’ll take him to dinner on the Sunday :-)
But I have hit upon, for his birthday present, a jolly wheeze that I’m rather proud of. I’ve decided to take him to Paris in October on the Eurostar for a long weekend. All my treat.
The plans for this weekend are drinks on Friday, then Saturday as a quiet day together. Sunday a friend is having as birthday party and then the Monday is a bank holiday so who know what whims may take us, and where?
Weekends and birthdays and holidays oh my.
It’s nice to plan ahead. It’s nice to be able to plan ahead. If he does get the job then we may plan ahead indeed, double-plus oh my!
I shouldn’t count chickens till they’ve hatched but the theme that emerges, gentle reader, is that I plan for us. Fear not, however: loved up though I am I have not entirely lost my head! It really is difficult to recognise sometimes we are barely past three months; and we are, at most, planning ahead to month five. But a cheerful fairy can dream, can’t he?
He’s at home preparing for the interview, and in touch by email. I’m here thinking about the possibilities of a rather nice bottle of wine given to me for my birthday. And I’m really rather happy.
The piece of music in the YouTube video at the bottom of this post is a new one to me, though the composer is one I rather like. As soon as I heard it, it made me think of having Fella wrapped up in my arms. I’d love to listen to it whilst just holding him…
We talked at the weekend about Fella’s birthday. He made a huge effort with mine and I want to reciprocate if not surpass his efforts. His birthday falls on a Saturday. The plan so far is: work drinks on Friday night; birthday lunch with his family (cross fingers me too) on the Saturday followed by partying the night away in Soho with his friends; and I’ll take him to dinner on the Sunday :-)
But I have hit upon, for his birthday present, a jolly wheeze that I’m rather proud of. I’ve decided to take him to Paris in October on the Eurostar for a long weekend. All my treat.
The plans for this weekend are drinks on Friday, then Saturday as a quiet day together. Sunday a friend is having as birthday party and then the Monday is a bank holiday so who know what whims may take us, and where?
Weekends and birthdays and holidays oh my.
It’s nice to plan ahead. It’s nice to be able to plan ahead. If he does get the job then we may plan ahead indeed, double-plus oh my!
I shouldn’t count chickens till they’ve hatched but the theme that emerges, gentle reader, is that I plan for us. Fear not, however: loved up though I am I have not entirely lost my head! It really is difficult to recognise sometimes we are barely past three months; and we are, at most, planning ahead to month five. But a cheerful fairy can dream, can’t he?
Monday, 24 August 2009
Night and Day
This weekend I suffered from a combination of a bad cold and conjunctivitis. Fortunately Fella was there to look after me and nurse me with nourishing soup and keep me warm. But I’m not 100 per cent better today so it’s a tired and grumpy Frumpella posting for you now.
I took it easy at work today, given how rotten I feel, and came home early. I wanted to avoid the Gardener; he has some character traits that veer (at least for me) from amusing the tiresome when one is under the weather. Besides, I had some messages to reply to and some food shopping to do. Friends on the phone, by text, and by email to keep me entertained… and a quiet (and early) night in has its appeal sometimes.
Of course there was nothing on the tele and the DVDs didn’t grab me. No more gaydar, not for me gentle reader, oh no. So it was Top Gear on the good old iPlayer and some more nourishing soup for dinner.
It occurred to me that this is how it is for that half the week my Fella isn’t here. I’m surprised at myself really. I’m a terrible introvert so I would have supposed that ‘quiet time’ would re-energise me and refresh me for the next time I see him. But no. I’m sad and down; and it’s cheap plonk; a sore throat; missing his arms around me and mine around him, for me tonight. And every night when he’s not here *sigh* (except the sore throat!).
We already have plans for next weekend and it will come around soon enough. I do need the down-time to concentrate on work and business and friends and laundry and shouting at the bank and all the humdrum things that never seem to impinge on romance as seen on TV. But still, I’d really like it if he were here. Doesn’t have to be any naughty fun or anything… though it would be nice :-)
It’s peculiar an otherwise full and busy life is tinged with a hint of sadness purely because Fella isn’t around - and risks being entirely abandoned when he is. I did wonder as things developed whether I’d be caught in the trap of wanting him when he’s not here, and wishing he were gone when he is. So far so good, though.
Well, I suppose that’s enough of that before I drift off into the analysis that he really doesn't like. So let us pass through the darkness, gentle reader, and head toward the light.
I took it easy at work today, given how rotten I feel, and came home early. I wanted to avoid the Gardener; he has some character traits that veer (at least for me) from amusing the tiresome when one is under the weather. Besides, I had some messages to reply to and some food shopping to do. Friends on the phone, by text, and by email to keep me entertained… and a quiet (and early) night in has its appeal sometimes.
Of course there was nothing on the tele and the DVDs didn’t grab me. No more gaydar, not for me gentle reader, oh no. So it was Top Gear on the good old iPlayer and some more nourishing soup for dinner.
It occurred to me that this is how it is for that half the week my Fella isn’t here. I’m surprised at myself really. I’m a terrible introvert so I would have supposed that ‘quiet time’ would re-energise me and refresh me for the next time I see him. But no. I’m sad and down; and it’s cheap plonk; a sore throat; missing his arms around me and mine around him, for me tonight. And every night when he’s not here *sigh* (except the sore throat!).
We already have plans for next weekend and it will come around soon enough. I do need the down-time to concentrate on work and business and friends and laundry and shouting at the bank and all the humdrum things that never seem to impinge on romance as seen on TV. But still, I’d really like it if he were here. Doesn’t have to be any naughty fun or anything… though it would be nice :-)
It’s peculiar an otherwise full and busy life is tinged with a hint of sadness purely because Fella isn’t around - and risks being entirely abandoned when he is. I did wonder as things developed whether I’d be caught in the trap of wanting him when he’s not here, and wishing he were gone when he is. So far so good, though.
Well, I suppose that’s enough of that before I drift off into the analysis that he really doesn't like. So let us pass through the darkness, gentle reader, and head toward the light.
Saturday, 22 August 2009
Names and Places
It’s another glorious weekend in Strumpetville; the sun is shining and all is well.
Fella and I met on Friday after work and headed back to my place for the usual snatched weekend together. He’s attending a colleague’s child’s naming ceremony today so this afternoon I have a little time to myself to post on this blog.
This morning I found Fella to be insanely beautiful. Watching him prepare for the ceremony I was enraptured. I found myself wondering why he’s with me. Not in a “I’m not good enough for him” sort of a way… far from it. He can be quite complimentary when he wants to be! And he’s really very giving. Apart from a recent hiccup I marvel about how close we are becoming.
In many ways the way our relationship has developed is much better than the expected love-at-first-sight perfection from the word ‘go’ that is too often expected in the dating game. I am satisfied in more ways than one; and in more ways than one we still have a lot of growing to do.
I find myself thinking about my role in this relationship. He’s the pretty one, the creative and outgoing one. He isn’t career focussed or competitive but he is talented and good. And he deserves so much. It’s funny, but I perceive a more traditional masculine/feminine relationship between me and him that, on first principles, I would argue is entirely unnecessary within gay couples – no need to stick to clichés etc. Yet for the two of us my part in the relationship seems to be the provider; the one to whom the physical labour falls – building things and fixing things and growing things. He’s te cook, the nurse, the communicator. Of course it only goes so far – we’re both men after all (and how – hubba hubba!).
Rather than making me uncomfortable I think it’s a source of inspiration. I always want to be better than what I am and for him – to keep him if you will – I need to be fitter, healthier and more productive. I have to work on my career much more, really going for the next rung on the ladder.
In any other guise it might be called building a life together and in many ways it’s so much more comforting than being TOLD sweet nothings… actions speak louder than words. Well, I’ve been hurt before by the difference between what’s been said and what’s been done; it’s all to the good.
Working for me and working for us isn’t two different things any more. That’s pretty good. It seems to fit… of course we have issues; and I mean we, not me… but it really is glorious sunshine gentle reader.
Fella and I met on Friday after work and headed back to my place for the usual snatched weekend together. He’s attending a colleague’s child’s naming ceremony today so this afternoon I have a little time to myself to post on this blog.
This morning I found Fella to be insanely beautiful. Watching him prepare for the ceremony I was enraptured. I found myself wondering why he’s with me. Not in a “I’m not good enough for him” sort of a way… far from it. He can be quite complimentary when he wants to be! And he’s really very giving. Apart from a recent hiccup I marvel about how close we are becoming.
In many ways the way our relationship has developed is much better than the expected love-at-first-sight perfection from the word ‘go’ that is too often expected in the dating game. I am satisfied in more ways than one; and in more ways than one we still have a lot of growing to do.
I find myself thinking about my role in this relationship. He’s the pretty one, the creative and outgoing one. He isn’t career focussed or competitive but he is talented and good. And he deserves so much. It’s funny, but I perceive a more traditional masculine/feminine relationship between me and him that, on first principles, I would argue is entirely unnecessary within gay couples – no need to stick to clichés etc. Yet for the two of us my part in the relationship seems to be the provider; the one to whom the physical labour falls – building things and fixing things and growing things. He’s te cook, the nurse, the communicator. Of course it only goes so far – we’re both men after all (and how – hubba hubba!).
Rather than making me uncomfortable I think it’s a source of inspiration. I always want to be better than what I am and for him – to keep him if you will – I need to be fitter, healthier and more productive. I have to work on my career much more, really going for the next rung on the ladder.
In any other guise it might be called building a life together and in many ways it’s so much more comforting than being TOLD sweet nothings… actions speak louder than words. Well, I’ve been hurt before by the difference between what’s been said and what’s been done; it’s all to the good.
Working for me and working for us isn’t two different things any more. That’s pretty good. It seems to fit… of course we have issues; and I mean we, not me… but it really is glorious sunshine gentle reader.
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