Adventures with Prince Charming

Last night, or rather this morning, I woke up with a bit of a start. One of the things sleeping on my own regularly has meant, is I am a light sleeper. I generally sleep well. If I don't, I become Bitch Queen from Hell. I need my sleep. I think part of my sleeping light also was set when I became a mum and that's never properly re-set, even after Boy slept well through the night. Even when I was married, or had a lover who stayed regularly, I was the one who woke up and went to investigate.

So I was awake wondering why I was awake and then I heard a noise. It was a bit like the noise you hear when you move a bit of furniture about and it has a squeaky castor. I heard it again. I checked the bottom of the bed. No Cat. I poked my head through Boy's door and he was pretty much dead to the world. There it was again. An unhappy sound.

I trooped downstairs, stark bollock naked and there was the Cat.

She'd brought me a present. Bless her. Prince Charming.

He sat looking very displeased at being in my hall.

I squatted down next to him, while he pretended to be a leaf. He was about the size of my palm and I didn't particularly fancy picking him up. I unlocked and opened the front door. He then changed tack and pretended to be a stone when I gave him a nudge. I tried picking him up and he made that squeaky castor noise. I nudged his cute behind, and out he hopped squeaking, into the night.

The Cat was most put out. Here she was trying to sort out my love-life; all I had to do was give him a kiss and hey presto, Prince Charming. And what did I do, shove him out the door. Talk about ungrateful. What she failed to realise is I value my sleep more than I do my love-life.

Appropriate Subjects for the Lunch Table

I've been thinking about censure and blogging. Although my job is not at all in the public interest, or even interesting, occasionally I will admit to censoring chunks of my life. Thanks to a link in facebook, sometimes my work colleagues will pop by to see what's going on. My relationship with my Viking, which was sparked by our blogging habit, is difficult topic to blog about. Obviously, he reads my blog and vice versa. Boy reads my blog and vice versa.

Sometimes when I haven't blogged for a while, it's simply that I'm hideously busy trying to cope with day to day life, or I've got stuff going on I'm not prepared to share in the blogsphere.

I don't however, edit my day-to-day conversations and I will over-share whatever's happening in my life. I have become increasingly worried that the Editor-in-my-Head has taken an improptu holiday, or has nipped out for a lunch-time tipple without telling me. There are times when I genuinely ask 'did I just say that out loud?' I forget that people have subjects that they don't want to talk about over the lunch table, subjects that they might find uncomfortable. I'll talk about anything, me. I'm not proud.

Alix and her husband looked a bit perplexed when discussing Quorn: I said it doesn't come through my front door, my Viking projectile vomits if he eats it. Apparently, Alix can't discuss projectile vomiting and went a lovely shade of green as the subject was explored in more depth. A younger colleague suggested it might be psychosomatic. I argued that projectile vomiting isn't a neurotic symptom. Alix asked me to change the subject. We did. The subject turned to a date one of the perfumery ladies had been on. A rather unsuccessful date; the 'gentleman' announced he no longer had a prostate over dinner. Naturally, I enquired whether he had erectile dysfunction. I thought that was a completely reasonable question, otherwise, why else would he mention the lack of prostate? Perhaps he was giving a gentle warning, should their relationship progress? I was thoroughly told off. It's not the done thing. Apparently.

A fellow blogger has been having lady problems, not at all uncommon lady problems actually. And has been suffering from the service she's been receiving, or not, as the case may be.

If you're a long-time reader you'll know, this is not a sex blog. Fortunately, or unfortunately for you, there are things that I do keep to myself and will continue to do so for the forseeable future. However, my fellow blogger's problems has led me to take the opportunity to have a little bit of a rant about sexual health.

Boy has heard me give this lecture several times so I know he'll disappear back to Spore, which is the next best thing to Halo 3.

There is so much talked about sex, sex blogs etc, etc and with the joys of the internet, there's loads of information about sexual health out there. But while blow jobs and anal sex are freely discussed, no one is prepared to talk about sexual health. It's a bit of a no-no. If you're lucky condoms might get mentioned.

A GP is exactly that. A general practitioner. They can't know about everything. Why should sexual health be any different? I'm really lucky, my GP is the first to throw his hands up and go 'I dunno, let's get you refered'. He refered me to my local GU clinic, which now also has the family planning clinic housed there, a perfectly sensible decision in my opinion. I regularly go to my clinic for what I call my MOT.

I know the clinician, she's absolutely lovely, we have known each other for over 9 years now. She doesn't care what my pecadillos are, her concern remains my continuing good sexual health. As I prefer hetrosexual, non-drug using, faithful men (and are faithful), and I tend to have long-term relationships, I'm not really in a high risk category. We have a chat, discuss any issues I may have (they helped sort out a thrush problem, quite painlessly), I get poked and prodded. I get tested for everything under the sun. My last results I got via text - how cool is that? And off I toddle, safe and smug in the knowledge that I'm good to go.

If you have had sex or are thinking about having sex, go along to your local GU clinic and Family Planning Clinic. Have a chat with the doctors and nurses there. They have been there, done that, seen it all. You could never tell them anything that would shock them. Family Planning give out free condoms and talk about the most appropriate form of contraception. I've found them to be very approachable, gentle and understanding, they are also good for a laugh. Again, they've got the t-shirt.

Poor Boy. He's had this lecture several times. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that he'll continue to roll his eyes, but follow my advice when it's necessary. This isn't a subject I'm prepared to leave to chance. One day last year he came home thoroughly disturbed by a conversation that a boy and girl were having in front of him - the merits and drawbacks of anal sex. He was 13 at the time. I keep repeating 'if it comes out of your trousers, slap a condom on it'. No exceptions, no excuses.

Job Hunting

Tomorrow I start job hunting seriously. I am getting seriously freaked about not having some regular paid employment. I think it's the thought of not being able to finish my degree that's doing it. I'm back working at St Stephen's Practice for a few days, which is great, but it is only a casual thing and there are no hours going in September. I got a lead on another job, but it's only 8 hours a week, which on minimum wage is no good to man nor beast.

Thursdays is jobs day in the paper and there are some vacancies up at UEA to go for, plus there are the agencies to start badgering. I'm just hoping I can find something interesting enough, that pays enough with flexible hours. I suspect I'm asking way too much. So I'm willing to ammend the interesting.

In between clients, I've been spending sometime chewing over the concept of relationships. After I split up with my Significant Other I had an interesting chat with someone. In the same conversation she said we'd get back together after some time had passed, we were just angry with each other; the next part of the conversation she said I needed to be in a relationship, because I didn't know who I was, or could spend time on my own.

Now, I will freely own up to my neuroses, but I was a bit taken aback by this. I read some self-help books, thought a bit more about it. Being on your own is the 'way forward', you learn to love yourself that way. Apparently. Actually, being on your own requires a whole different skill set than making a relationship work on a day to day basis. Compromise, patience, understanding, good humour, acceptance...these are skills which can only be gained through a relationship. They need to be excercised and tested. By yourself it's easy to say 'I'm patient', especially if there isn't anyone there to say 'yeah right'. Intimate relationships bring vulnerabilities to the forefront, they involve an element of risk. An openess to another human being with the potential to reject you. A life without risk, how dull would that be? True no pain, but no real joy either. Nothing can flourish in a sterile environment.

I realise now a few months have passed, that I really like my own company. I like being able to sit for long periods of time and stare at nothing. I love my home. It's my hidey-hole. I've discovered that I need a lot of space in my relationships. I recognise I can be clingy and needy, but that comes from insecurity, it's not my base position.

I am hopeful for the future in a way that I've never been before. I am learning to accept today for what it is, the beginning of tomorrow. Of course there are some days that just plain suck, days I don't move off my futon, but they hold less power over me.

I think, all being said and done, I'm doing okay.