I'm Always Happy And Free. Oh, Queen Bee, Land By Me.

The common misconception when it comes to a queen bee is that she rules the colony and all the worker bees answer to her whilst pandering to her every need. She doesn't and they don't. A queen bee's primary purpose is to lay eggs so new workers hatch and keep the hive buzzing (boom boom!). As we're aware, the term "Queen Bee" has been adopted for use in social situations to describe the dominant female in a group of people. I am a Queen Bee. Its not an intentional thing, I didn't suddenly decide that I wanted to hold court and be centre of attention, its just something that happened and has been the case ever since I can remember.

Just like in the hymenopteran world, no two Queen Bees can exist in the same social circle. Not in their truest form, anyway. In hives, it leads to death, usually carried out by loyal worker bees when an unwanted new queen bee infiltrates the apiary. In the human world one has to tone down her dominant nature a little. Either that or social suicide is committed. I was in a situation some years ago that required some Queen Bee etiquette. It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. I had a friend who was also a Queen Bee. When as a pair or with our female friends the dynamic worked very well. We both had very different personalities and specific areas of expertise so never clashed. We both had male friends that used to come in and out of our social lives and, depending on who knew the lads better, the other would temporarily relinquish her Queen Bee crown for the evening/weekend and become a lowly princess. A couple of new boys were introduced into a social group that Friend and I were part of. Interesting - fresh blood! At first we all hung out together. The Fresh Blood Boys fitted into our lives perfectly; their humour, outlook and personalities worked with ours. For a while it was really fun. Then it got competitive. Now, I'm not the kind of person that competes with my friends as I don't see the point. There are plenty of other people in the world that its necessary to grapple with through life so I don't go up against my friends (unless its Singstar), its a waste of energy. Not to mention the negativity it brings about. So please bear in mind that it wasn't me that engineered the popularity contest. It started when The Fresh Blood Boys invited me out for a pint but the invite wasn't extended to Friend. This allowed me to, most definitely, wear my shiny crown. Friend got a little narked that I'd been chosen as playmate that night (in a non Hugh Hefner way, I hasten to add!) so she started instigating outings with the boys that excluded me. The boys would invite me out regularly when she was, as well they knew, otherwise engaged. It became a rare occasion that the two Queen Bees and the Fresh Blood Boys were in the same room... until a party a couple of months later. To cut a long story short, Friend decided to display her sting and got off with one of the boys as she thought it would oust me from the throne once and for all. How wrong she was. Instead it had the opposite effect. The Fresh Blood Boys stopped talking to her. I won. Ner-ner-ner-ner-ner. I know this reaction is immature but let that be a lesson to you; do not put yourself up against me. Not because I'm a fierce competitor but because I will quite happily sit back, let you do all the work and allow you to make a fool of yourself, my worker bees protecting my reputation (I work hard on friendships), resulting in your social death. There, I've exposed the sting in my tail - Oops!

My winged kind emit pheromones when in the hive to let the worker bees know she's still around and everything still in place, making them feel safe. I can draw some similarities here too as I have a signature perfume that some boys go crazy for - so much so that it earned me a stalker (the second stalker of my life so far). He smelled me in passing one day. And then followed me around for a year. I didn't enjoy this experience. This was not me in full Queen Bee mode, I was terrified. Well, that's a bit strong as he was never a threat to my life but the constant unwanted attention was unnerving rather than flattering. Along the same vein, one of my ex-boyfriends reckons the first thing that attracted him to me was my smell. I don't find this very complimentary as, in those days, I had many positive attributes that I'd have put above my scent.

Last weekend saw me basking in my typical Queen Bee fashion, surrounded by worker bees. My boys. I was visited by two male friends from Bristol and one from South-West London. Calling them worker bees makes it sound like they're my minions, they're not. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The worker bees in hives are the ones that do the hard graft and keep it all ticking along perfectly. These boys are my support system. They allow me to be me, are accepting of my behaviour (whether good or bad) without judging and are exceptionally loyal. I have a tremendous amount of affection for my boys. I don't always know how to show them though.

Friday night was dedicated to an overdue catch up as us Londoners hadn't seen the West Country boys for some months. It was an almost civilised evening made slightly wonky by the amount of alcohol consumed. The boys were boys but soon listened to the only girl when they were instructed not to burp gratuitously or to pass wind, at all, indoors (they were in my palace!). That's what the balcony was to be used for, that and smoking. So the evening was spent relaxing, drinking and shooting the breeze. It was absolutely wonderful. And it was also great to look on and watch the boys totally at ease in my hive. They were relaxed enough to spread out, put their feet on the furniture and treat the place like home. The only disagreements of the evening happened when it came to music. You see, all three boys are very knowledgeable when it comes to this subject. I'd warned them to bring their iPods as I knew my playlists would not satisfy their aural appetites, though I was surprised when I'd text them earlier in the day, jokingly threatening to play Take That during the evening and one of the boys replied, "I love Take That. Except for The Circus, that's shit..." (I still have the message to use for blackmailing purposes at some point in the future, if necessary). This is where I can draw another comparison between the lives of honey bees and mine - the queen bee has a smaller brain than the worker bees. When it comes to the musical mind, mine is, without doubt, humble next to each one of theirs. The boys didn't argue over the quality of what was being played from each others' pods as they have similar music tastes but they battled over who would play the next song, it was pretty amusing to watch. It wasn't a contest of alpha male egos, goodness no, but rather an "I've discovered the next big thing" type affair. It only endeared them to me even more, if that was possible. Then I fed them cakes I'd baked, made sure they had water next to their beds, clean sheets and towels before verbally tucking them all in and singing them lullabies. (Ok, the last bit's a fib.)

Halfway through the evening, one of the boys remembered he had to take a photo for his 365 project so we all worked our way into the shot. I'm so thrilled a moment from the evening was captured. I want this picture framed. Its beautiful. I'll love it forever. We look like we fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw.

The next evening we were invited to a female friend's birthday in a super trendy London club. I happily allowed her to wear the crown that night (well, it was her party) as I wasn't feeling my best (no, not hangover) and as he sensed this, one of the boys didn't leave my side all night. And another kept me in soft drinks for the whole evening and stroked by ego by using lines such as, "Present company included, all the girls in here are really pretty.". See, I told you, loyal 'til the end. The journey home saw us in hysterics as a wannabe male model fell asleep on the night bus and then, when the bus hit a curb, flew out of his seat and landed face down in the aisle, unable to get up and regain composure without the help of a stranger. This was karma at it's finest as he'd been mean to a homeless lady on the bus around twenty minutes before. And he was wearing black jeans and a blue denim shirt. And this shirt had pockets on both breasts. And it fastened with poppers which he'd undone down to his tummy-button. He deserved his fall from grace. We were right to laugh. A lot.

My true Queen Bee behaviour is only on full display when in the company of males. (Please don't confuse it with the actions of a Cougar, the intention is not to get jiggy with them. And they're older than me.) My boys are honest in a different way to my female friends. There's no over-analysing situations or dissecting what "he" may have said on the last date. They tell it how it is. They physically look after me (again, not sexually) as well as emotionally.

Just like a queen bee, my world would not function as it should without these boys. I can't, and don't want to, imagine my life without them in it. I'm as loyal to them as they are to me and I know they'd follow me if I decided to lead a swarm. I just hope they never hug me so tight that it turns into cuddle death! x

Don't Be Mad At Me Because You're Pushing 30/Go, Shorty, It's You're Birthday (remix)

Midnight. Saturday 13th March. I'm sat on the last train from Waterloo to Brentford. This isn't how it was supposed to be but as the train pulls in to Putney the guy sat opposite me strikes up a conversation (prompted by the idiotic comments of a fellow passenger). It turns out this guy grew up in Bristol and supports Arsenal so conversation flows pretty freely for the remainder of my twenty minute journey. As I stand up to make my way off the train, this guy gets up from his seat, kisses me on the cheek and wishes me a very happy birthday. We haven't exchanged names but he is the first to wish me well, in person, on my actual day - it may seem trivial but that gesture will stay with me for a long time.

Friday evening was dedicated to pre-birthday drinks with work folk. It started with birthday cake and wine in the kitchen in the office and then we made our way to a local bar for cocktails. I was supposed to leave at 9pm so I could be home at a reasonable hour and wake fresh-faced on my birthday but the generosity and company of my colleagues made this impossible. One workmate even commented on how the attendance figures for my drinks were higher than some of the previous work socials. After far too many Pineapple Caramel Mojitos, my train journey and a zigzagged walk home from the station, I tucked myself into bed with a smile on my face.

I woke up expecting a lightning bolt on my 29th birthday. I wanted the excitement that birthdays brought when I was a child. My mobile informed me I had received several birthday text messages and a few family members had already tried calling in the annual competition known as "Who Can Talk To The Birthday Girl First?". I opened my bedroom door to find a pile of cards that had arrived in the morning post - this all raised a huge smile and an internal warmth but no lightning bolt.

As I walked into the living room I was greeted by Mum who stood looking proud on her only child's special day. Unconditional love is a wonderful feeling whenever it's experienced but to be the recipient of my Mother's love on my birthday was even more special - but it didn't bring that lightning bolt.

After opening more cards, most of them containing money for my big adventure, I was presented with two bunches of roses (as it was now a month after Valentine's Day and they weren't red, I was exceptionally grateful!). Then followed more calls and messages from family, friends and other loved ones. At midday, family friends arrived, armed with a bunch of beautiful sunflowers and cards with more money inside for my adventure. We had a boozy, bubbly lunch at a cute restaurant on Kew Green. I was born at 13:13 so when the clock struck that time, with charged glasses, the three other people at the table raised a toast to me. I had been on the Earth for twenty-nine whole years. No lightning bolt.

Late afternoon. My Aunt and Uncle arrived with their two daughters. More roses and money for my adventure (I think everyone wants to get rid of me!) as well as being showered with kisses and cuddles by my two favourite girls. And they presented me with homemade birthday cards, both secretly competing for top spot in a tournament they created amongst themselves called "Favourite Birthday Card This Year". They were joint winners. After way too much champagne and cake, I began getting ready for my nighttime celebration feeling extremely grateful that my family and friends were as good me as they were (and always are, in fact).

Whilst prancing about my bedroom to Regina Spektor and attempting to do my make-up (though drinking several glasses of champagne and then applying black eyeliner will never be a process I wish repeat), my phone beeped to let me know I had another facebook wall post , this time from a dear friend. He'd put a link on my wall and as I clicked on it I was excited to see what it lead to. This friend is doing a 365 photography project and that day's capture was dedicated to me. This touching gesture, as well as the day's events thus far, brought a tear of happiness (encouraged by the champagne!) as I felt an overwhelming sense of specialness. But still no lightning bolt.

The call from my Dad came at 7pm. The call I'd expected all day as a parent should definitely want to be one of the first to wish their child well on their birthday, shouldn't they? Not being a parent myself, I don't know this for sure. The two minute conversation that followed whilst I was sat on the Central Line was strained, Dad pissed off because I'd chosen to spend the day with Mum and her family and been made to feel a princess rather than sit in his living room and listen to him lecture me on whatever aspect of my life was stupidly bothering him that day whilst Brat Child was centre of attention. Before he was able to launch into his monologue about how I'd failed him, I pretended the tube was entering a tunnel so I hung up. I wasn't going to let him get to me on my day. It was quite a liberating feeling, really! There was definitely no lightning bolt after that conversation.

So, at 7.30pm, I found myself tottering out of Notting Hill Gate tube station in my three-and-a-half inch Marc Jacobs heels, determined I must get my money's worth out of them having owned them over a year and only worn them once, despite knowing I'd consumed far too much alcohol already to stay upright in them for much longer. I made my way into the secret garden of a charming pub on Portobello Road and was greeted with a warm embrace and huge smile by my good friend. I was also presented with my first unwrappable (yes, a plastic bag counts as wrapping!) gift of the day. After more alcohol we made our way up Portobello Road to the Electric Cinema. Halfway there, after almost falling over, I decided I needed to swap my footwear and had packed a pair of flats in my handbag especially. If my friend was embarrassed by my shoe antics in the middle of the street, he did a very good job of hiding it. Though I can imagine that the thought of having to scoop me up from the ground might have been a more embarrassing prospect for him if I had have landed on my bottom whilst wearing the coveted shoes so he was probably grateful I'd opted to change into sensible foot attire, returning me to my usual not-quite-five-foot height.

The two tickets for the Electric Cinema's 3D screening of Alice In Wonderland were a birthday present from my Aunt, booked weeks before as she knew about my (almost unhealthy) obsession with all films Burton. Neither my friend nor I had been to that cinema before. What a night to lose my Electric virginity, my 29th birthday! Goodness me, did I feel spoiled. And decadent. As I took my seat in a huge leather armchair where my feet didn't reach the ground, with a large glass of pinot noir in hand, I felt incredibly special. The film was excellent, the venue amazing and the company perfect so despite the magical evening there was still no lightning bolt, dammit!

Three minutes to midnight. Saturday 13th March. As I got to the the Westbound Central Line platform at Notting Hill Gate, I put my earphones in and whacked my iPod on to shuffle mode. Even the pod must have known it was a special occasion as the first song it played was my favourite Jeff Buckley number, "Lover You Should Have Come Over". Still no lightning bolt though. At midnight, as the train came down the platform towards me, the driver smiled as he caught my eye. I sat down in an almost empty carriage and that's when it came... no, not the lightning bolt but the realisation. Just as Jeff sang, "...sometimes a man must awake to find, really, he has no one..." it dawned on me that over the past 24 hours I'd had a continual feeling of warm fuzziness. If the lightning bolt had have come at any time during my birthday, that point would have been the climax and everything that followed it would have been anti-climactic as lightning never strikes twice. For 24 hours I'd had a current of electricity flowing through my body, though instead of the negative electrons that make electricity, I'd had positivity coursing through my veins that had surged at various points during the day. Every text message, every facebook wall post, every call, every card, the money towards my adventure, the flowers, the gifts, the 365 project day dedication and a friend setting his Saturday night aside for me - all causing positive charges within me. Even hanging up on my Dad had resulted in an efficacious internal rush!

At no point during the day had I felt neglected or unloved. My friends and family had, without any shadow of a doubt, made me feel special. I realise I'm fortunate to have such incredible people in my life. The Indians say whatever happens on your birthday happens all year round - the next 364 days will see me beaming like the Cheshire Cat I saw on the big screen that night. And the next year will be my Wonderland. x

Baby, Everything Is Alright. Uptight...

Indian female. Long, dark hair. Big, brown eyes. Short. Honey-coloured skin. GSOH. Killer smile. Good cook. (All sound good so far?) Highly-strung. Ah, not sounding so perfect now, am I? There is absolutely no way that trait can ever be seen as a positive quality. And my darling friend, Matt, used to say, "You're not highly-strung or high maintenance. You have class and standards". I fooled myself in the past in thinking it meant I had a different set of standards to other people. These paradigms are expectations I place on myself but sometimes transfer on to others. I'm not quite sure what has made me like this so it mystifies me as much as it does the next person.

I grew up in a Westernised Hindu family in which young, unmarried females are revered; once on a day when Mothers fast for our future good health and also on a day when we are praised and rewarded for being virginal princesses. Both religious days stop being celebrated when a girl reaches her early-twenties and becomes... marriage material. There's also a day every year when the relationship between brothers and sisters is consecrated - sisters tying decorative string around their brothers' wrists, gaining male protection (and presents) for life. Accompanying these celebrations is that I was born a Brahmin, the top-most caste in an archaic, egregious system. Every Hindu and Sikh that exists knows I'm a Brahmin, my surname screams it at you - it actually means "virginal princess" (cut the sniggering at the back, please). So I am a descendant of royalty. And then there's the fact that I grew up as an only child. I was never spoiled materialistically but was, most definitely, the apple of both my parents' eyes. Well, there was nobody to compete with for prime position, was there? Add to all this that I was special on Mum's side of the family as I was the youngest grandchild (for ten years) and on Dad's side as I was the only girl (for thirteen years) and you have yourself a precious madam. So that was my childhood.

I grew up quite quickly. When my parents divorced, my Mum made sure I never felt neglected so took me along whenever she was seeing friends. I went from being a seven year old to being a teenager in the space of a year. By the age of nine, I'd rather have had a conversation with an adult than another child. On first meeting me when I was eight, one of Mum's closest friends stooped down to my height and asked, "What do you want to do when you grow up?". I replied that I wished not to be patronising like her and then continued combing my dolly's hair. It sounds far more precocious than it actually was.

I was brought up believing the world was my oyster. I was never allowed to think that anything I wanted in life was unachievable - my Mum made my motto "When you play, play hard. When you work, don't play at all" (well, it worked for Teddy Roosevelt) and I still live by that now. I give everything 100% whether it be work, love or fucking up - I do all three very spectacularly. Don't misunderstand me, I've never thought myself remarkable though, quite the opposite in fact!

So what are the things that most set me on edge? Firstly, bad timekeeping. I cannot stand when people are late (and it's their fault. I'm forgiving of public transport issues etc). And I find it totally pointless for them to text ten minutes after the meeting time informing me they're running late. I know! I was on time and have been stood in the cold and/or wet waiting for you for those ten minutes! Surely you knew ten minutes before we were supposed to meet that you were running late, why couldn't you let me know then? However, this is a prime example of me transferring my standards on to others. You see, I hate being late. It completely knocks me off kilter and makes me feel like I have to play catch up all day and make up for lost time. So, foolishly, I believe others would feel the same. Apparently they don't. Of which I am envious.

Equally as irritating to me is when people bail on plans with me because something better has come along or when they don't commit 'til the last minute in case something (or someone) better comes along. Though the reason this upsets me is because I'm really looking forward to seeing them and I'd hate to do that to someone else - let them down.

And, I think, here's the real reason I'm highly-strung... I don't want to let anyone down. My friends mean the world to me. The people I choose to spend time with make me feel privileged that they have time to spend with me. I think this comes from being an only child - as the saying goes, "your friends are the family you choose for yourself". As far as friends go, if someone texts me I will reply as soon as I've read it. I always reply - not to have the last word as some may think! - because I'm grateful that someone has taken the time to get in touch as they've thought of me. It's not meant to be an intense gesture although I'm aware it comes across like that sometimes. Also, I get so caught up in things that if I don't respond as soon as I see it then I'll forget. I expect the same back from people. Not necessarily an immediate reply but a response of sorts. Getting in touch with my friends is how I let them know I've thought of them and how I can say I care. It makes me smile inside when I hear from somebody I care about as it means they've thought of me and let me know. Ok, I admit that might be slightly princess behaviour!

According to Mum, I was most definitely more prickly in my late-teens and early-twenties. The pressures of studies and letting my family down resulted in sarcasm and humour becoming my defense mechanisms - classic only-child-from-broken-home symptoms, no?

Over the past few years I've learned some lessons in life, the biggest one being that my strive for perfection - by this, I mean for me to be perfect - is fruitless. There will always be something about myself or my life that displeases me. But I've learned that that's ok. There's a difference between the strive for perfection and ambition.

I've also been taught (the hard way) that some things are out of my control and no matter how much I try, I won't get full control of them. Recently I was in a situation where the other person was more laid back than me. Far more. No matter how hard I pushed for contact or answers, I'd only get them when the other person was ready to give them. And instead of getting het-up by it all, as I once would have, I started to relax a little. I let go. And what I realised was, with letting go comes less anxiety and, sometimes, even composure!

I'm still learning. I still get wound up by silly little things (which infuriates me even more) but that is me and it will most likely always be present in me. A little. And that's ok too.

I'd like to think that most people that know me are accepting of my flaws and love me for my imperfections. I hope the good in me far outweighs my uptight-ness (I really bloody hope it does!). For those reading this who haven't noticed I'm slightly highly-strung (you can't have known me that long!), I hope this is because I'm close to losing that trait. I hope my efforts to be more laid back are paying off and, dare I say it, I'm closer than ever, not to perfection but to contentment. x

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

Over the weekend I had a baffling yet insightful conversation with two male friends that involved the workings of the boy brain. I'm not quite sure how the topic came up (at this point I was more concerned with keeping a promise to myself that involved drowning in gin) but I think it was when a scantily-clad female walked past our table in the bar. Mr X turned to Mr Y and said, "She probably wouldn't, y'know?". After establishing that Mr X didn't mean that she probably wouldn't get "it" (even after eight pints), they both elaborated on his observation. For the next fifty or so minutes, I was sat their dumbstruck (whilst drinking gin), making me realise that men are as complicated as women, despite their protestations.

Both Mr X and Mr Y have more or less the same theory on the fairer sex, albeit one puts it a lot kinder than the other.

Mr Y, the gentler soul, says there are two types of women in the world; those boys wish to marry and those they wish to sleep with (he may be a gentle soul but that wasn't the term he used). Apparently, if a boy meets one of the marrying types in his teens, she ends up being his friend - one of his best friends, in fact. She's the one he'll allow to see him (secretly) cry when he's been shat on from great heights by a girl, the one whose opinion he seeks when he goes shopping and the one he can, for the rest of time, share a bed with in a purely platonic sense. This is the girl he will never marry but wants the future Mrs Y to be like. What he doesn't realise is that the future Mrs Y will be incredibly jealous of this friend and either make her disdain known to all but her fella or try so hard to be best friends with the friend that she'll look desperate and neurotic to all but Mr Y.

This female best friend is also the girl that Mr Y's Mum wants him to marry - she has since the day she first met her. Mummy Y used to strategically question her son - "How's uni? Are you eating properly? Have you got a girlfriend yet? How's (insert my name)?". Had he have met this friend ten or so years later they would be married and live happily ever after but now that attraction ship has well and truly sailed and they've both seen each other in such states that no romance could ever be imagined.

Then, according to Mr Y, there are the girls that are only good to sleep with. "You never want your mum to meet her and only intend for her to fulfill your physical needs. Never your emotional ones". These girls come in and out of their lives (pardon the pun) until they meet a marrying type. That's the long and short of it. The gospel according to Mr Y.

Mr X, the more blunt of the two, says that there are the frigids and the sluts. Now, I don't think I need to explain what those terms mean but these are the sub-divisions in each type of girl Mr Y mentioned. Both types of girl act exactly the same in each category but how the boys react to their "outlook" differs hugely. Let's start with the sluts - always a good place, I think. A slut in the "only good to sleep with" classification gives the boy a good time for a night. One night only. She will never hear from the boy after that night. A frigid in the same division means the boy gets ridiculed by his mates when they ask how his night went - "Yeah, she stayed over but wouldn't put out". Cue much mocking from his mates and such ego-denting comments as, "Lost your touch have you, Romeo?!". Mr X proceeded to tell me how he has no respect for either type of girl. The slut put out too soon and the frigid ruined his street-cred. Even more confusing for me was when Mr X said that although he may do everything he can to persuade a girl to put out on night one, he loses all respect for her when she does. (My response was, "Because boys are the only ones that get carried away and have needs?" That's not justification enough, apparently.) Seemingly, there's no middle ground either. If we fall into this category and put out on the first night, we're sluts. If we don't, we're frigid.

By this point of the conversation my head hurt, a lot, and it wasn't anything to do with the gin. Mr X continued that the marrying type of slut doesn't necessarily put out on the first night, although she wants to, she holds back because she "kinda likes" the guy. The marrying type of frigid holds back because she's a good girl and "kinda likes" the guy. In both cases, the guy is accepting of her bedroom behaviour because he "kinda likes" the girl and plans to see her again. She will get the 'phone call in the next few days (three days if the boy "rules" are adhered to).

This part made a little sense to me. I have another male friend who is one big walking man-slut. The boy emanates testosterone at ridiculous volumes, so much so that women flock to him from miles whether either party is attached or not. (Before you wonder, it wasn't his testosterone that brought us to be friends, more the introduction to each other by several mutual friends. We've only ever been friends and that's fine with us both!) Anyway, Mr Walking Man-Slut recently met a girl on a night out. After two weeks I asked him how his latest adventure was shaping up for him. The reply, "I can categorically state that we have not slept together yet" had me floored! After picking myself up from the ground in shock and me enquiring after his health, he told me it was because he "kinda likes" her. I'm not passing judgement on whether she's a frigid or a slut at all, I haven't met the girl and it would be unfair to retrospectively apply someone else's theory. I think he's finally grown up but he didn't respond too well to this suggestion.

So all this made me wonder whether boys have us labelled from the off. The girl that started the conversation, Mr X informed me, was a sleeping with frigid type. He could just tell. The way she carried herself, the way she dressed etc, all these gave her away. It's this first impression that governs whether the boy will be in touch with the girl after the initial night together. And do us girls have no choice about whether we should or shouldn't put out on that first night, according to which box we tick in the boys' minds? What if, actually, you're a marrying frigid type but you decide it feels right that night so go all the way... If he has you down in the wrong sub-division you'll never hear from him again? Aren't we able to just do as we feel without being compartmentalised and judged and have it shape our future? Do we ever change category or are we born into it like the Hindu caste system? You can see why this conversation had me bemused - it just didn't, still doesn't, make sense! I know plenty of boys that have been with the sleeping with sluts and frigids types for years - some have even married them. And I have female friends that I have down as marrying types that haven't heard from certain guys ever again because they did or didn't put out.

So what are we supposed to do... to put out or not to put out? That is the question. Either way, we risk never hearing from the boy ever again.

See, I told you it was all confusing. And it wasn't just the booze making it baffling. The boys then tried to tell me what category I fitted in to in Mr X's grand theory of the fairer sex. This is where things got hazy and I started listening to Monsieurs G and T as they made more sense. x