I posted recently that I have been promoted. I am very pleased, but it’s sad to be changing to a new role at Christmas. Leaving the old team in the midst of seasonal celebrations is a bit of a shame, but needs must, gentle reader.
Fortunately my promotion is effective immediately, and whilst in my darker moments I wonder if that means I’m leaping from the frying pan into the fire, the good news is I don’t have to wait for the lovely lolly that comes with my new grade (as others have to do) and I see it as quite a vote of confidence. It feels nice to be well liked, in a professional context if nothing else, by people whose intellect and talent impress me.
My organisation is one of 10 regional health authorities (Strumpetville being a region) and the Department of Health (the UK’s health ministry) is reviewing the 100plus statutory functions we are charged with executing, as part of an assurance programme. And I will be helping with that, as well as continuing my lead on the planning of local health organisations for the 2010/11 financial year.
This means in turn that I will no longer have direct responsibility for a specific group of hospitals and community providers (or commissioners of those services).
The plus points to this are (a) I am now only doing project and programme management; (b) I am getting wider exposure to more organisations and building wider professional relationships and (c) I will have greater control of my day to day working life as I shall be planning rather than reacting – and serving only two or three masters rather than the current nine!
On the other hand relative isolation with a revolving door of short-term relationships may not suit me; it takes me time to get to know people and I’m quite introverted. I’m not that good at selling myself; publicising my achievements – sheer sticktoitiveness is a big part of getting me noticed.
Well, as per (and given Rule 5) the solutions rest only within myself. At the risk of contradicting the previous paragraph, I KNOW I’m good at things when I actually bother to get to grips with things. In a blaze of powerful insight I can confess I have enough brains to just coast along in most situations. Well, I’d like to do really well with these projects so that strategy is out!
Though this post disguises it well I think the work will be interesting. And as these projects will be over at the end of the financial year there will be even more new and exciting things to come.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Party Season
So another weekend over! It was fun, actually. Friday I had my work Christmas party, followed by drinks with Fella and his colleagues at the Royal College where he works. On Saturday he went ice-skating with his friends; and then we met and went for dinner in Soho, which became after dinner drinks; and that in turn became dancing the night away at a club. It really was fun.
The down side was I couldn’t make Sunday Fella’s day as I had planned, because we slept in and he needed to go home in the afternoon. Goshdarn.
Still, we have next week and the week after before we stay with his parents for Christmas. Next week I have “Mary Christmas” drinks in Soho with friend ‘A’ and he wide circle of gay friends. That night Fella is working at the Church so he may combine naughty with nice and join me. Then Friday I have another work lunch and my manager’s leaving do. And on Saturday a house party. Presumably on Sunday Fella and I will spend some time together but I do find that when we have a lot of social engagements – even joint ones – our quality time suffers. That will be something to think about in 2010.
I’m lucky I get paid before Christmas or I’d really find myself chronically pooped in a financial sense. After all, Fella’s long (and growing) list of Christmas presents, my own extensive gifts to myself the party season is a bit of a burden. Still, Strumpetville is a paryt town gentle reader so I see no desperate need to hold back.
Dancing the night away… I love doing it. And it had been a short while. Fella and I complement each other well enough in that he knows the best places to go, and I know how to enjoy myself once we are there! Oh yes, a bit more of that next year if you please.
I have begun to think about the New Year and what might be done – achieved rather – in the coming12 months and the truth is I’m looking forward to it in a rather different way than the last two years. And, as you may have gathered from the last few zillion posts or so, Fella is a big part of that. Party season – soon to be over; or just beginning?
The down side was I couldn’t make Sunday Fella’s day as I had planned, because we slept in and he needed to go home in the afternoon. Goshdarn.
Still, we have next week and the week after before we stay with his parents for Christmas. Next week I have “Mary Christmas” drinks in Soho with friend ‘A’ and he wide circle of gay friends. That night Fella is working at the Church so he may combine naughty with nice and join me. Then Friday I have another work lunch and my manager’s leaving do. And on Saturday a house party. Presumably on Sunday Fella and I will spend some time together but I do find that when we have a lot of social engagements – even joint ones – our quality time suffers. That will be something to think about in 2010.
I’m lucky I get paid before Christmas or I’d really find myself chronically pooped in a financial sense. After all, Fella’s long (and growing) list of Christmas presents, my own extensive gifts to myself the party season is a bit of a burden. Still, Strumpetville is a paryt town gentle reader so I see no desperate need to hold back.
Dancing the night away… I love doing it. And it had been a short while. Fella and I complement each other well enough in that he knows the best places to go, and I know how to enjoy myself once we are there! Oh yes, a bit more of that next year if you please.
I have begun to think about the New Year and what might be done – achieved rather – in the coming12 months and the truth is I’m looking forward to it in a rather different way than the last two years. And, as you may have gathered from the last few zillion posts or so, Fella is a big part of that. Party season – soon to be over; or just beginning?
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Fast Fashion
Fella has gone out ice skating this evening, leaving me with a couple of hours to write a new post before I join him and his friends for dinner in Soho tonight. Most of these friends were there, the other night, when Fella had his… episode.
Since then he’s been trying to make it up to me in the nicest possible way, which in turn has begun to get a bit tiresome… I’m just glad he’s alright.
So what happened? Well, it seems that on occasion (I’ve never seen it before) a minor hormonal imbalance combined with sufficient alcohol flips the off switch in Fella’s brain – and when it resets hew goes into full-on panic mode. Now, that is understandable and to be sure none of his friends or colleagues judge him wanting in any way because of it. Perhaps, then, Fella shouldn’t drink so much. Well, that’s up to him. He can certainly drink. He doesn’t drink every day, or all the time – and he doesn’t like (any more) those late nights painting the town red that neither Frumpella nor Strumpetville have quite forsaken… Still, he does on occasion get very very drunk and getting him home in circumstances like that have put the greatest, and indeed very dangerous, strain on our relationship.
So, not a Problem Drinker but drinking can be a problem. Maybe I’m dancing in distinction-without-a-difference land. Or maybe I’m being too grown up a fairy. But he’ll have mo on tenterhooks from now on when we go out and there’s alcohol involved and an Emergency Taxi Fare will never be far away from now on.
Goodness, those are a lot of words to describe not very much. Time for succinctness:
What does this mean for my relationship then? For all my concern there is absolutely no prospect whatever of us finishing over this. I was somewhat surprised by how resolute I am about that. I am totally certain; we’re solid as a rock. Perhaps he is surprised too: this last couple of days whole new words have begun to be heard in Strumpetville. Marriage (maybe). Cohabitation (even more maybe). Children (NO). This is all a bit ‘heat of the moment’ to truly excite me. Though I do now know what kind of engagement ring he would like; diamond set into the band; which will be silver, if you don’t mind gentle reader.
So there we are, then. Dinner, drinks*, and a steady hand on the tiller of our relationship, steering between the rocks… whatever they’re made of ;-)
Since then he’s been trying to make it up to me in the nicest possible way, which in turn has begun to get a bit tiresome… I’m just glad he’s alright.
So what happened? Well, it seems that on occasion (I’ve never seen it before) a minor hormonal imbalance combined with sufficient alcohol flips the off switch in Fella’s brain – and when it resets hew goes into full-on panic mode. Now, that is understandable and to be sure none of his friends or colleagues judge him wanting in any way because of it. Perhaps, then, Fella shouldn’t drink so much. Well, that’s up to him. He can certainly drink. He doesn’t drink every day, or all the time – and he doesn’t like (any more) those late nights painting the town red that neither Frumpella nor Strumpetville have quite forsaken… Still, he does on occasion get very very drunk and getting him home in circumstances like that have put the greatest, and indeed very dangerous, strain on our relationship.
So, not a Problem Drinker but drinking can be a problem. Maybe I’m dancing in distinction-without-a-difference land. Or maybe I’m being too grown up a fairy. But he’ll have mo on tenterhooks from now on when we go out and there’s alcohol involved and an Emergency Taxi Fare will never be far away from now on.
Goodness, those are a lot of words to describe not very much. Time for succinctness:
What does this mean for my relationship then? For all my concern there is absolutely no prospect whatever of us finishing over this. I was somewhat surprised by how resolute I am about that. I am totally certain; we’re solid as a rock. Perhaps he is surprised too: this last couple of days whole new words have begun to be heard in Strumpetville. Marriage (maybe). Cohabitation (even more maybe). Children (NO). This is all a bit ‘heat of the moment’ to truly excite me. Though I do now know what kind of engagement ring he would like; diamond set into the band; which will be silver, if you don’t mind gentle reader.
So there we are, then. Dinner, drinks*, and a steady hand on the tiller of our relationship, steering between the rocks… whatever they’re made of ;-)
Friday, 11 December 2009
A cup of good cheer
I’m here at about midnight. Fella is asleep. All is quiet. Nevertheless, it has been, to say the least, a rough night.
He likes a drink; we both do. But when he’s had too much Fella becomes uncontrollable. It’s so simple to write it but…
Tonight he really got drunk and then, in the blink of an eye, he collapsed, right there. On the floor of the bar. Unrousable, his lack of consciousness led me to call an ambulance; his friends were in tears, the other customers in the bar half-indifferent, half-concerned. The paramedics came and them the ambulance. Before they had arrived a local doctor turned up; had all manner or equipment down Fella’s throat and just about managed to rouse him by digging into his hands with his car keys.
After Fella was brought onto the ambulance he recovered; but it wasn’t him. He attacked all three members of the ambulance crew; I wouldn’t have believed it had I not been there to see it. I was lucky to get him off the ambulance before they called the police. He then marches without further ado, off into the city, I have no clue where he’s going except that it is in exactly the wrong direction… this of course is when I get stressed and a stressed Frumpella is nobody’s friend! So we really rowed, right there on Fleet Street. And at the train station I got him to. And on the train. And in the taxi at the other end.
Sometimes I really dread going out with Fella, when I know he’s going to drink. I know he’s got problems, but I don’t quite know what to do. Am I a total bastard to think I should not be a slave to this? That perhaps there are limits? I'm frightening myself with such thoughts. We exist in the zeitgeist, my Fella and I, with booze... and possibly something else, according to the professionals whose night we ruined.
The thing that really hurt me most – and I’ll be honest, we both said things, is that Fella doesn’t believe me when I say I love him. But I do, I do, so much.
He’s asleep now. He won’t remember any of this when he wakes up. He never does. I might regret writing this down for all to see but I can trust you, gentle reader. The thing is, the strange thing; for all of this, I would far rather this evening with him than, well, anything else. And he doesn’t believe that I love him!!! So how do I prove my love and improve my love? Goshdarn - it's time to sleep.
He likes a drink; we both do. But when he’s had too much Fella becomes uncontrollable. It’s so simple to write it but…
Tonight he really got drunk and then, in the blink of an eye, he collapsed, right there. On the floor of the bar. Unrousable, his lack of consciousness led me to call an ambulance; his friends were in tears, the other customers in the bar half-indifferent, half-concerned. The paramedics came and them the ambulance. Before they had arrived a local doctor turned up; had all manner or equipment down Fella’s throat and just about managed to rouse him by digging into his hands with his car keys.
After Fella was brought onto the ambulance he recovered; but it wasn’t him. He attacked all three members of the ambulance crew; I wouldn’t have believed it had I not been there to see it. I was lucky to get him off the ambulance before they called the police. He then marches without further ado, off into the city, I have no clue where he’s going except that it is in exactly the wrong direction… this of course is when I get stressed and a stressed Frumpella is nobody’s friend! So we really rowed, right there on Fleet Street. And at the train station I got him to. And on the train. And in the taxi at the other end.
Sometimes I really dread going out with Fella, when I know he’s going to drink. I know he’s got problems, but I don’t quite know what to do. Am I a total bastard to think I should not be a slave to this? That perhaps there are limits? I'm frightening myself with such thoughts. We exist in the zeitgeist, my Fella and I, with booze... and possibly something else, according to the professionals whose night we ruined.
The thing that really hurt me most – and I’ll be honest, we both said things, is that Fella doesn’t believe me when I say I love him. But I do, I do, so much.
He’s asleep now. He won’t remember any of this when he wakes up. He never does. I might regret writing this down for all to see but I can trust you, gentle reader. The thing is, the strange thing; for all of this, I would far rather this evening with him than, well, anything else. And he doesn’t believe that I love him!!! So how do I prove my love and improve my love? Goshdarn - it's time to sleep.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
74
74 is the number of kilograms I now weigh. This in many ways is a good thing; Strumpetville loves a thin gayer right enough. In fact, since I started this blog I have lost some 18 kilos; almost exactly 40lbs.
If that seems a lot, gentle reader, well – it is. Actually, the ideal weight I aimed for not long after Darren dumped me was 75kg and as such I can consider this yet another string to my big pink bow.
But. This is not a boast about my rippling gorgeousness, oh no. Because after creeping back up to the 80kg mark I became ill and whilst I may not be entirely sure from where the weight was lost, I do have an idea how!
Fear not! A disgustingly detailed discussion of my symptoms is not for here. For now! But my ongoing health issues are, well, ongoing and as such my efforts to resolve them are ongoing.
I saw a doctor recently who was a bit more interested than my previous sawbones so we got a bit further than the narrow range of tests I was given before. I also have medicine which is not only controlling my symptoms a bit better but also has made my appetite come back with a vengeance. I am having some blood tests done shortly,, and then after that off to the hospital for even more tests. And eventually a doctor will one day tell me exactly what is wrong. Crohn’s disease? MS? The leading contenders – but we shall see.
What does worry me a lot is Fella. His mother is chronically sick and it impacts our relationship because as his father travels for business he dutifully looks after her when she is on her own. It causes him some difficulty, and although he does this with all good humour he hardly needs me falling apart on him. It isn’t… fair on him. He’s ignored the issue when I’ve raised it – sensibly, really, as it was only a bout of self pity that made me do that. Yet I worry still.
Damn, damn, damn. I’m 32. The life expectancy of a 32 year old man in Strumetville is a staggering 91 years. How, or more importantly why, I cannot say... I was hoping for a little more mileage before I really began falling apart though. Good job I came out when I did. Still, the next 58 years might be a bit more fun if I could have a drink – it’s currently a major major trigger for biological unpleasantness, which is a bugger. Fortunately that isn’t a trigger at all so all is not lost.
If that seems a lot, gentle reader, well – it is. Actually, the ideal weight I aimed for not long after Darren dumped me was 75kg and as such I can consider this yet another string to my big pink bow.
But. This is not a boast about my rippling gorgeousness, oh no. Because after creeping back up to the 80kg mark I became ill and whilst I may not be entirely sure from where the weight was lost, I do have an idea how!
Fear not! A disgustingly detailed discussion of my symptoms is not for here. For now! But my ongoing health issues are, well, ongoing and as such my efforts to resolve them are ongoing.
I saw a doctor recently who was a bit more interested than my previous sawbones so we got a bit further than the narrow range of tests I was given before. I also have medicine which is not only controlling my symptoms a bit better but also has made my appetite come back with a vengeance. I am having some blood tests done shortly,, and then after that off to the hospital for even more tests. And eventually a doctor will one day tell me exactly what is wrong. Crohn’s disease? MS? The leading contenders – but we shall see.
What does worry me a lot is Fella. His mother is chronically sick and it impacts our relationship because as his father travels for business he dutifully looks after her when she is on her own. It causes him some difficulty, and although he does this with all good humour he hardly needs me falling apart on him. It isn’t… fair on him. He’s ignored the issue when I’ve raised it – sensibly, really, as it was only a bout of self pity that made me do that. Yet I worry still.
Damn, damn, damn. I’m 32. The life expectancy of a 32 year old man in Strumetville is a staggering 91 years. How, or more importantly why, I cannot say... I was hoping for a little more mileage before I really began falling apart though. Good job I came out when I did. Still, the next 58 years might be a bit more fun if I could have a drink – it’s currently a major major trigger for biological unpleasantness, which is a bugger. Fortunately that isn’t a trigger at all so all is not lost.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
The Wanderer Returns
So we’re back. From outer space…
No, from Germany actually. And do you know, we had a good time.
I shall, if you will permit me gentle reader, start with a rant. And it is this: at the airport, going through security, I am forced to question the wisdom of having me remove my shoes and belt to be x-rayed but at no time whatever checking my passport and boarding card. I find it difficult to imagine how the security of the western world is assured by having people waddling around barefoot with their trousers round their ankles. It is pointless and silly, as is so much of this sceptred isle. Even Fella was rather annoyed. Though I think the root of his mood lay more in the lack of sleep, whereas for me of course it is due to nothing so much as that I am rapidly becoming a grumpy old woman.
But, after all of this we met the sun in the sky and 1004 kilometres later were in the centrally heated bosom of my mother’s abode. Fella, mother; mother, Fella.
Actually they hit it off rather well. Annoyingly well, in fact. I hardly needed to be there it seemed on occasion. Of course Fella achieved this by slavishly agreeing with everything he said, a strategy of sycophancy that earned him no small ribbing from me. I gave that up when I was about seven years old. Nevertheless, on that score the trip was a success. We did some shopping at the Weinachtsmarkt in Ulm, and wandered through the pretty village where said mother lives. We ate out in a traditional German restaurant; I had goose, he had wild boar (yum, and double-plus yum).
And then we came back, with plans to visit again next summer. My dislike of flying enhanced neither by my experience, above, or the violent turbulence on the way back I am now firm in my foot-downedness that we will drive next time. And Fella rather brilliantly suggested we make something of a road trip of it and go on to Berlin after.
So, there we have it. I must say it is only looking back whilst blogging this that I dimly perceive the milestone that has been passed. I have not only introduced my partner to my mother – but I have done so as an acknowledged gayer! Actually, it went well enough that it was a good relaxing break, which was also timely. And I was able to shine a bit with news of my promotion too.
Success!
No, from Germany actually. And do you know, we had a good time.
I shall, if you will permit me gentle reader, start with a rant. And it is this: at the airport, going through security, I am forced to question the wisdom of having me remove my shoes and belt to be x-rayed but at no time whatever checking my passport and boarding card. I find it difficult to imagine how the security of the western world is assured by having people waddling around barefoot with their trousers round their ankles. It is pointless and silly, as is so much of this sceptred isle. Even Fella was rather annoyed. Though I think the root of his mood lay more in the lack of sleep, whereas for me of course it is due to nothing so much as that I am rapidly becoming a grumpy old woman.
But, after all of this we met the sun in the sky and 1004 kilometres later were in the centrally heated bosom of my mother’s abode. Fella, mother; mother, Fella.
Actually they hit it off rather well. Annoyingly well, in fact. I hardly needed to be there it seemed on occasion. Of course Fella achieved this by slavishly agreeing with everything he said, a strategy of sycophancy that earned him no small ribbing from me. I gave that up when I was about seven years old. Nevertheless, on that score the trip was a success. We did some shopping at the Weinachtsmarkt in Ulm, and wandered through the pretty village where said mother lives. We ate out in a traditional German restaurant; I had goose, he had wild boar (yum, and double-plus yum).
And then we came back, with plans to visit again next summer. My dislike of flying enhanced neither by my experience, above, or the violent turbulence on the way back I am now firm in my foot-downedness that we will drive next time. And Fella rather brilliantly suggested we make something of a road trip of it and go on to Berlin after.
So, there we have it. I must say it is only looking back whilst blogging this that I dimly perceive the milestone that has been passed. I have not only introduced my partner to my mother – but I have done so as an acknowledged gayer! Actually, it went well enough that it was a good relaxing break, which was also timely. And I was able to shine a bit with news of my promotion too.
Success!
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Update
December already! It will be 2010 before you know it… the third year of Strumpetville. I’m writing this after packing for the flight to Germany tomorrow; I’m waiting for Fella to come home.
I spent more money than is strictly safe making sure I look as good as possible, and capitalising on my recent, admittedly involuntary, weight loss. I am vexed by the fact the rain has quite ruined my new coat, Grrrr. But I have new everything to show off when I see my family tomorrow, not the least of which his my man!
My illness continues unabated. I am being sent for yet more tests, and am under strict instructions to get the results at an appointment with a doctor, rather than over the ‘phone. The options are looking increasingly rough, but I’ll keep you informed gentle reader…. I am well below my ideal weight, though this does attract some favourable comments so I’m determined to keep the weight off and turn it into yet more rippling gorgeousness.
On the plus plus plus side I applied for a promotion recently and, to my continuing shock, I got the job. Yay me. I said YAY!
What will my new role be? Ah, well, this is the British public sector. So, let me try to explain…
How it works is, I have demonstrated the skills and experience to be promoted to a certain grade. Now my employer must cast about for a particular role commensurate with the elevated heights reached by your cheerful fairy correspondent. In practice this means on Monday or Tuesday I shall be whisked away to a new desk, team, role and… be left to get on with it. Frying pan meet fire? Let us hope not.
Fella bought me a takeaway Pizza and some fizzy wine to celebrate on Monday night which was rather nice. In truth I was kinda looking forward to a quiet night in, given the rest of the week will be so hectic. But why look a gift boyfriend in the mouth? I love him really… so can’t complain :-)
Last night I was well and truly on the lash with friends ‘A’ and ‘F’ and as such I am massively sleep deprived and hung over – a good night indeed. I think we may have to avoid the Boat for a while… but I also think I deserved to celebrate.
So there we are, Christmas a coming and here I am. Tired, promoted, in love, ill, happy.
I spent more money than is strictly safe making sure I look as good as possible, and capitalising on my recent, admittedly involuntary, weight loss. I am vexed by the fact the rain has quite ruined my new coat, Grrrr. But I have new everything to show off when I see my family tomorrow, not the least of which his my man!
My illness continues unabated. I am being sent for yet more tests, and am under strict instructions to get the results at an appointment with a doctor, rather than over the ‘phone. The options are looking increasingly rough, but I’ll keep you informed gentle reader…. I am well below my ideal weight, though this does attract some favourable comments so I’m determined to keep the weight off and turn it into yet more rippling gorgeousness.
On the plus plus plus side I applied for a promotion recently and, to my continuing shock, I got the job. Yay me. I said YAY!
What will my new role be? Ah, well, this is the British public sector. So, let me try to explain…
How it works is, I have demonstrated the skills and experience to be promoted to a certain grade. Now my employer must cast about for a particular role commensurate with the elevated heights reached by your cheerful fairy correspondent. In practice this means on Monday or Tuesday I shall be whisked away to a new desk, team, role and… be left to get on with it. Frying pan meet fire? Let us hope not.
Fella bought me a takeaway Pizza and some fizzy wine to celebrate on Monday night which was rather nice. In truth I was kinda looking forward to a quiet night in, given the rest of the week will be so hectic. But why look a gift boyfriend in the mouth? I love him really… so can’t complain :-)
Last night I was well and truly on the lash with friends ‘A’ and ‘F’ and as such I am massively sleep deprived and hung over – a good night indeed. I think we may have to avoid the Boat for a while… but I also think I deserved to celebrate.
So there we are, Christmas a coming and here I am. Tired, promoted, in love, ill, happy.
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