Hey, Baby I Got Your Money...

Why is it that some men think I’m so shallow that I’ll be impressed by the size of their wallet? I recently met a guy at a party whose wooing technique involved telling me how much he earned, how much his suit cost and how much his new car cost, “…and I paid for it all outright, there and then!”. Instead of making me weak at the knees it made me want to shove the whole tray of vol au vents he was holding at the time in his mouth just to shut him up. “Do you know how much you sound like a tosser?” should have been my response, instead I managed to work into conversation the code word a friend and I have for “rescue me, NOW!” five seconds before being ushered away by the obliging pal.

I know having money makes things easier but being skint makes you imaginative. And it makes us girls appreciate it more when guys do spend money on us. Ok, I know being wined and dined makes a girl feel like a princess but it makes her positively glow when she knows the boy has put effort into planning the meal and saved especially for it. Don’t get me wrong, I like spending what little money I do have on pretty things, even blowing a stupid amount on a brooch a few years ago (though that brooch still gets loads of positive attention!) but as I know how hard I work for my wages, I can appreciate my goodies more.

The materialistic side was forced out of me at a young age. When I was eight I asked my mum for an Aqua Barbie having received a Princess Barbie a few months earlier. The next day, as mum and I boarded the Piccadilly line for what I thought was a trip to Hamley’s, Mum started asking me what kind of doll I wanted. An hour later I found myself looking at several shivering and hungry people, one wearing no shoes, as she’d brought me to Cardboard City . After allowing me to take in my surroundings for a good few seconds she asked, “What do you think these people want? Who do they have to ask for things?”.

I’m of the thinking that if a bloke is bragging about money it either means he doesn’t really have that much in the first place or that he feels the abundance of wonga in his pocket is enough to make up for his lack of personality and is compensation for his small package. Give me a guy who can have me in hysterics all evening over a pack of salt and vinegar crisps and a few pints in my local over one who thinks the amount he puts on his Coutts card at the end of the evening does all the talking.

For me, the fact that someone wants to spend time with me is enough. A weekend spent at home watching some classic movies far outweighs a few hours spent in some overpriced establishment as I’ll be certain the guy is investing in me and our (hopefully) blossoming relationship rather than adding up the bill in his head, thinking that £1 = 1 brownie point.

A good friend told me a story that made me experience my first and only ever case of frenvy. When her sister was a poor student she dated a guy who was equally poor. As Christmas approached, they jointly decided to blow the last of their student loans on a night out with mutual friends rather than presents for each other. As they parted for the holidays he handed her a small padded envelope and gave her strict orders not to open it until Jesus’ birthday. Before she went to bed on Christmas Eve curiosity got the better of her and she opened the package. Inside was a cd of his favourite songs that she had yet to discover. Upon closer inspection she noticed the intricate case the cd was sat in – her lovely boyfriend had spent weeks learning the art of origami, all so he could present her with this gift. This gesture spoke more of his love for her than any troll bead bracelet ever could.

Please don’t misunderstand me, a miser is as, if not more, unattractive as a bragger. I cannot abide a guy who allows a girl to pay for the first drink on a date. I’m fully aware it’s the 21st century and have no issues with “going dutch” but a little chivalry goes a long way.

One of the most enjoyable first dates I went on was with a friend of a friend. We were both broke as it was the wrong side of pay day so we decided we’d spend the day walking the streets of Bristol getting to know one another. On that fine summer’s day I discovered parts of the city I had never known existed as well as learning lots about my strolling companion and he about me (perhaps why we didn’t make it past the three month mark!). All that fun and all for free.

Romantic gestures can be grand without costing a grand. Imagine the feeling Pattie Boyd experienced when she found out that George Harrison had written “Something” for and about her. And what did that cost George? Nothing but time and a very public declaration of love. Flowers are lovely once in a while (but not red roses on Valentine’s Day), being taken out to dinner every now and again is a treat and receiving presents is wonderful – I’m not ungrateful for any of those gestures – but I’m one of those girls that doesn’t need those material things to please me, it’s the smaller tokens of affection that make me feel fuzzy and give me the Ready Brek glow. Spend time with me. Bring me a glass of water and painkillers when I have a headache or a hot water bottle when it’s tummy ache. Give me your last Rolo or split your favourite cake with me. If this is all unprompted then you’ll have my heart for a very long time. And I’ll do stuff for you in return too, I promise.

As Tom Jones (sort of) said, “you don’t have to be rich to be my boy”. They say like attracts like and as I’m not minted I don’t suppose any millionaires will be coming my way. But I’m fine with that.

Just in case you were wondering, I did eventually get that Aqua Barbie. I received her on my ninth birthday a good few months after my field trip with Mum. She was my favourite toy throughout my childhood. And I still treasure her now, twenty years later. x

What would my Mama do if she knew about me & you?

“I'm not going to bump into your Dad, am I?”. “Not unless you're going 3 miles down the road.”. There was his first mistake; this poor soul had assumed that the force to be reckoned with in my life is my Father. In fact, it's my Mum. Those in my life that know her know, on the whole, she's pretty cool about most things I do. She encourages me to stay out until all hours (“just be safe”) and has no problem with me drinking – actually it was mum who gave me my first tequila slammer a few years before the age of consent. There's one area where the Indian Mother does kick in though – boys.

A few months ago, at the age of twenty-eight, I moved back home after nine years of living out. This was a decision I made quite easily. I knew I was going to be somewhere safe and well looked after so I could prepare for a little adventure I have planned. Home comforts without the hassles of being in my adolescence – no need to seek permission to do stuff, no longer being grounded and not having to ask for pocket money. On the whole our relationship has relaxed, allowing us to become closer (if that was even possible) as Mother and Daughter through a new found mutual respect. My admiration for her had grown immensely after realising that Mum had supported me through everything - my visions of being a hot-shot tv editor included - through all that is frowned upon in our culture. A divorced Mother bringing up her daughter without anybody's help – how absurd?! This was a realisation that came after I left home, allowing myself to become a little removed from the situation. Mum's respect for me had been discovered once I'd flown the nest and proved I was able to stand on my own two feet – a daughter she is proud of.

The most difficult part of moving back in with Mum for me is trying to conduct a healthy relationship with a boy. You see, Mum and I have a mutual understanding – never, and I mean NEVER, do we discuss my dating adventures. Of course she knows I am likely to be dating but she doesn't want to know the ins and outs (pardon the pun) until it's a good few months into the relationship and I can see it going “somewhere”. This puts me in a quandary – for the first six to eight months of any relationship I'm in, my partner has to accept that he won't exist in my home life. That's a big ask, right?

The not-so-fun-“no-you-can't-get-drunk-to-deal-with-it” first meeting with the parents doesn't usually happen for some months so that's no massive issue. What is a big deal is that any time we may wish to spend together will need to be done miles from my place. And sleepovers at mine won't happen for a long while and when they do start to happen it'll be separate rooms for a few months (though there are no creaking floorboards between my bedroom and the spare room, I've tested it out!).

The first few months of dating are supposed to be fun and frivolous and I cherish that time – butterflies in the tummy when ever he calls or texts (or facebooks) and needing to plan, right down to my toe-varnish, what I'll be wearing the next time I meet up with him – priceless. However, instead of just thinking about him and “us” I have to take my Mum into account. Great! I have to expect the person I'm dating, a grown man, to act like a teenager and sneak about with me like he's fourteen again – what an amazing prospect for him! “Darling, instead of acting like the adults we are, please can we pretend nothing is going on between us and that you are totally unaware of my funny shaped, oddly placed birthmark that changes colour when you touch it? Thank you.” How utterly ridiculous?! I would be absolutely horrified if a guy did that to me. I'd start stinky-thinking the only “logical” solution being that he's ashamed of me. And I'm expecting my partner, who I eventually hope I will care deeply about, to accept my t & c's. Now, we all have quirks but this is a major flaw!

I know honesty is the best policy but should I address this in the first few weeks, the “delicate” stage of courting, knowing that his response is most likely to be the thing I fear the most – rejection – for something that is out of my control? We all have baggage but an Indian Mother requires more understanding than most skeletons in the closet. This kind of thing was far easier to deal with when I was 120 miles from home – why do you think I stayed away for so long?! And I didn't even have to lie, I could just be economical with the truth.

Once the boy has my Mum's approval, providing we make it that long together, she will love him as much as I do (but in a very different way, I hope!). Those of my male friends she has met she thinks are fab, perhaps because they turned on the charm when they met her but it worked.

I guess what is evident is that my Mum only has my best interests at heart. She wants me to fulfill my potential and not compromise myself or my ambitions because I've been distracted by a member of the opposite sex. She's never had to rely on a man, or been able to depend on one so has ensured she's kitted me out mentally to be confident and capable on my own. For this I thank her. It makes it easier to sort the men from the boys when it comes to the opposite sex and their intentions. Any boyfriend that has or will meet Mum in his true role as my partner should realise just how privileged he is – not just because we've made it to the “serious” stage but also as he's been properly let into my life and met my driving force.

I guess if it all does get too much and I can't cope with the secrecy I could give in to my Dad's wishes and go down the arranged marriage route... but that's a whole different story! x

I liked it so I should have put a ring on it?

There was a time, in my younger years, when the list of requirements in a guy, upon first meeting, was purely aesthetic. The eyes were always the initial feature on the checklist. Never mind them being the windows to the soul, it was more the "come to bed" aspect that appealed to me.

Next it was the smile. Soft lips and great, white teeth working in partnership to form a perfect and kissable mouth. Then it was the hands. Big, manly (but moisturised) hands. If his hands were dirty then, sure as hell, other parts of him would be filthy, and not in a good way.

And lastly in this five second scanning process, I'd consider the shoes. The footwear a guy chooses says a lot about his tastes and personality; Converse Allstars- cool, in an understated way; trendy trainers- "I'll love my shoe collection more than I could ever love you, especially if just for tonight"; brogues- traditional and a bit geeky; spatz- unless it's fancy dress, run a mile!

These days, in my late-twenties, the requirements have most definitely changed order. Some of the early-twenties essentials even being eliminated entirely from the list. When a girl reaches her late-twenties, society's expectations of what she should be looking for in life drastically change. No longer is she allowed to seek a "quick fix" or permitted to "take things slowly and see how it goes". No. When we are approaching thirty, us girls are expected to search for husband material as phrases such as "the one" are thrown at us from all angles. Angles such as our parents, their friends, our friends who have settled down and worst of all, my seven year old cousin.

So the order had to change not necessarily because I wanted or needed it to but because I was pressured to enforce it. I now scan my potential victim like a lioness stalks her prey, though I want the result to lead to a date rather than ripping the creature apart and feeding him to my cubs. I take into account the change in priorities on my tick list, subconsciously comparing them to the needs of my younger, carefree self.

Still the eyes matter first. These could be the eyes that I stare at for the next forty years or more, so I have to feel a "connection" of sorts when I look into them, right? Next it's the hands - yes, they've gone up in the league table. However, it's not the cleanliness that first grabs my attention about this part of his anatomy, though it still matters a lot. Or these potentially being the hands that will cradle our children, wipe the tears from their eyes and ruffle their hair when they've been cheeky. Now the focus is the left hand. Specifically, the third finger on the left hand. If there's nothing on it then I can continue with my random and seemingly superficial checklist, reading into the smallest detail and drawing my own, perhaps very wrong, conclusions.

You see, the appearance of a shiny (or dull) ring on the third finger of the left hand pierces into the heart like the dagger of a cheating lover - for this subject of study, the specimen that gave me butterflies in my tummy and goosebumps all over the instant we made eye-contact is so perfect that he's been snapped up already. The permission to speedily scan his lips, his arms, his derrière and his shoes (in that order these days) has been denied by a silent but powerful force - his wife.

Seeing the ring, the ultimate declaration of commitment, gets me thinking - perhaps this was a guy that I let go of ten years ago. I don't mean literally as I'd like to think, even thirteen years on, I can remember all the names and faces of the boys I've "encountered". What I mean is maybe I had been intimate with someone like him in my younger years but as I wasn't a victim of society's expectations in those days, I didn't even consider him as future marriage material. For all one knows, if I had have, I wouldn't be in the position I'm in now, disappointing friends and parents with my prolonged periods of singledom. Had I have been made aware that I would be seen, by some, as a lesser individual for being an unmarried, independent, late-twenties woman when I was younger, would I have been more likely to have "snapped up" a boy I snared when I was in my prime? Have these boys I see now, with the shiny (or dull) wedding bands, always been perfect as future husbands but I ignored them as such because I was expected to five years ago?
I get angry with myself for allowing society to make me feel inadequate for various reasons, not fulfilling expectations that strangers put on me. The one area I've continually refused to bow down to the pressure is when it comes down to relationships. Questions fired at me about my marital status are often met with sarcastic responses:
Attached friend, "So, you're still single then?" (this comes with the obligatory, sympathetic head tilt). My response, "Yes, I ate my last boyfriend for dinner last night".
Newly married friend, "Don't you want to get married then?". Me, "Yes, actually my in-built alarm clock plays the wedding march in my head every morning".
Friend who has recently discovered parenthood, "Don't you think you should start having children soon?". My answer, "Sorry, I couldn't hear your question over the ticking of my body clock and my uterus wailing. Would you mind repeating yourself, please?".
The bottom line is yes, I do want to be in a committed relationship and yes, I do want children but this all needs to be when it's right for me. Not when, en masse, everybody I know thinks the time is right for me. I'll know the right time, surely?

To my next partner - don't worry, darling, I won't be putting bridal magazines and House and Home on the coffee table every time you come over. Nor will I be dropping hints about which baby names sound great with your surname. But I feel I should let you know that I love platinum. And, thinking about it, I have always dreamed of walking out of St. Paul's Cathedral followed by seven bridesmaids. You understand, I'm not telling you all this because I want to, rather that I must! x