Random Poem 2: Where is your White Knight?
So another inspirer on the quest for a white knight and a fairytale ending – to lose the victim syndrome! The “victim syndrome” can be so unattractive, so desperate, so needy when you’re in a relationship. The baggage of previous relationships enveloping around us – and pushing everyone else away. It’s very easy to be a victim when you put yourself in that role all the time. Therefore understanding if you do this is very, very important.
So how do you spot it? You should probably already have a feeling that you play the victim in a relationship… and you’re probably always looking for greener pastures when things go wrong (check out the poem below that inspired this post!). We try to run away from our own flaws, our own hurt, and yet we still struggle to do so. We hide behind the troubles in our life – and we struggle to accept that we perpetuate them. And just accepting this is the road to change.
Some interesting reads:
Stop Being a Victim & Take Control of Your Life
Read the personal bill of rights bit on this one…
Believe in yourself. Become your own princess. Love yourself for who you are.
CJx
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Where is your White Knight?
Cyclic emotions over again
Feel that feeling of heartache and pain
Twisting and turning around in your head.
Impulsive responses repeating the truth
That love is something I’ll never find again.
Romeos at dawn fight for attention
Sweet ones, strong ones, superficial ones
All different and yet all the same.
All after one thing again and again.
To grasp for attention, filling their egos
With a reassurance they’re the best thing since forever.
They use you, abuse you, hurt you, confuse you.
Put you last in priorities and it’s doormat time again.
Repetition. So boring. You tire of it.
You want your white knight to ride in and rescue you
From a fate worse than death if it never ceases.
To fill you with love, cherish you, need you.
Care, adore and please you.
But where is he?
x
Things you need to ask yourself now and in 7 years
So I found a page in my scribble book today – right back from 2003, and it was quite a crazy time. Written there, were my answers to a number of statements that I’d written – and seeing the answers was incredibly liberating. The things I’d achieved and how I’d grown were right there – and I would totally recommend you do the same now – and store it in a safe place to look at in a good number of years. In the quest for fairytale endings being able to grow and become stronger is definitely a good thing, and this was really uplifting!
1 ) I wish that…
2 ) I respect myself because…
3 ) I love myself because…
4 ) I need to work on…
5 ) I should bite my tongue when…
6 ) My deepest fear is…
7 ) A piece of wisdom I want to remember…
8 ) I’m most happy when…
9 ) It makes me sad when…
10 ) I need to be stronger because…
.
What are your answers?
Cammie x
So here’s a thought – can you be in love with love?
Is it possible to be in love with love? Not a person, a laugh or a smile.
The ideas of cherishing something so precious… something so simple and pure.
The perpetual cycle of constant contact.
Touch, kiss, embrace, again and again.
The longest relationship of your life, but never with the same person?
Cyclic emotions, repetitive routine, giving dreams of perfection when all around is a mess.
Relive the same life over and over.
When the wound spring winds down, the mechanics just slow.
When it stops they’re simply replaced, and the cycle starts again.
Searching for the motion which never ceases. Which doesn’t have to be wound again and again.
That just runs with the smoothness of perpetual motion.
Where perpetual miserey ceases to exist.
And love for someone fills your soul.
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Who do you want it to be?
Cammie x
Memory lane: Everybody’s free (to wear sunscreen)
I must apologise – this is a purely a moment of nostalgia that I really had to share as it really struck me the other day. Was busy working and heard this on the radio … Baz Luhrmann sure had some good advice in this!
Don’t think I’ve really listened since we re-wrote the words to “Everybody’s free (to do coursework)” in year 11 for our leavers assembly. Good times.
Check out the lyrics. And listen to them on the YouTube link below. Good things to remember… think back 12 years… would these have helped you if you’d listened?? How much to you wish they’re sunk in at the time you first heard them??!
Video here: Everybody’s free (to wear sunscreen)
Lyrics courtesy of: lyricscrawler.com
Everybody’s free (to wear sunscreen)
Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ’99
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be
it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by
scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable
than my own meandering
experience…I will dispense this advice now. Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh nevermind; you will not
understand the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded.
But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and
recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before
you and how fabulous you really looked….You’re not as fat as you
imagine. Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as
effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing
bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that
never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm
on some idle Tuesday. Do one thing everyday that scares you Sing Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with
people who are reckless with yours. Floss Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes
you’re behind…the race is long, and in the end, it’s only with
yourself. Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults; if you
succeed in doing this, tell me how. Keep your old love letters, throw away your old bank statements. Stretch Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your
life…the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they
wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year
olds I know still don’t. Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone. Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t, maybe you’ll have children,maybe
you won’t, maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky
chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary…what ever you do, don’t
congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either – your
choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s. Enjoy your body,
use it every way you can…don’t be afraid of it, or what other people
think of it, it’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever
own.. Dance…even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly. Get to know your parents, you never know when they’ll be gone for
good. Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the
people most likely to stick with you in the future. Understand that friends come and go,but for the precious few you
should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and
lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you
knew when you were young. Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard; live
in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel. Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will
philander, you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize
that when you were young prices were reasonable, politicians were
noble and children respected their elders. Respect your elders. Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund,
maybe you have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one
might run out. Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re 40, it will
look 85. Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who
supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of
fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the
ugly parts and recycling it for more than
it’s worth. But trust me on the sunscreen…
Random poem 1: The torment of loving a b@stard
Ok… so going to spend the week going through some old poems that I found during a recent house move… As you can imagine usually about boys!! 
So we shall start with one about someone we shall call Mr B… From way back in the early-ish side of the 00s… Worth mentioning that he did later get his comeuppance! (Not through my doing!!) I promise to post a happier one soon after!!
Cammie x
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The Torment of Loving a Bastard
Fire burning bright
Lit by the feelings that once felt so right
Started to spread, out of control
Fanned by winds that ripped out my soul
Violence. Pain. Hurt,
Confusion caused by the sickness
Tearing at my stomach
Nauseating creep of suspicions and paranoia
But not.
You see it.
They don’t.
It hurts, you want it to stop.
But they won’t
Apparently blind, but selectively so
Lying and cheating
Don’t they understand?
Can’t they see?
Don’t they care?
The churning inside as my blood starts to boil
Twisting my feelings, my thoughts and my cries
Distorting my distress calls
To nothing but silence
Miserable silence
Even if I could make a sound, it wouldn’t matter
Because he just doesn’t care.
The Power of the Kiss
What’s so magic about a kiss?
A good kiss can leave us completely stunned. It wraps around the fabric of our being and tells us so much about the person you’re kissing. From the moment your lips connect, all the building tensions, emotions and gentle touches seem to ebb and flow between you… tingling throughout your every being of existence… making it almost impossible to move. The way they kiss you is so telling too. You can read their emotions and intentions from such simple contact, overwhelmed in a blinding moment of madness.
There are many types of kiss, and in keeping with the princess theme, then let’s look at the most important of all kisses:
The happy every after kiss — (videos! Kisses from Prince Charming Part 1 : Kisses from Prince Charming Part 2)
The happy ever after kiss is magical… it’s the long awaited kiss that seals the beginning of a perfect relationship. The kiss is so magical because it is gentle, tender, loving, and full of unspoken emotional bonds. The kiss lingers just long enough to hold you completely in the moment, and then breaks away leaving you wanting more. The most perfect gentleman, upholding the lady’s honour… so perfectly and happily 
And a few others…
The frog into the prince kiss
So – another kind of fairytale kiss is the transformational one… turning the frog that you would never normally chose into a prince in a matter of seconds – when the connection, identification and attraction overwhelms and pulls you together. This can be quite an incredible experience as what is often an accidental kiss with a relative stranger can become so much more.
The “I want you” kiss
This is the kind of kiss that isn’t about princesses, happy endings, or even about a hint of romance. This is the kind of kiss that a self-respecting princesses tries to avoid… unless its after a happy-ever-after one! Because if a frog (or even a potential prince) only ever kisses you like this then you know he’s not after a long term relationship with anything other than himself… so learn this kind of kiss!! In the same way bad boys are so damn attractive, “I want you” kisses can totally twist your emotions into the wrong side of the tracks… making the givers seem briefly more attractive! Be aware… understand it for what it is… and try to fight it unless you only want to see him once! hehe x
The flipside…
Bad kisses… (so funny!) – Types of Bad Kisses (how much have we all had at least one if not all of those?!!!!)
You want to make sure that you pick the right frog too…! - When kissing your frog goes wrong!
Any thoughts?? Share them!!
Much love,
Cammie xx
4 Random thoughts on why snow is so magical!
So these last few days has been very funny… including staying at a refugee-camp hotel in Portsmouth overnight as snow chaos took it’s grip on the country… But there’s something about snow days that I love… They feel different. They change our routines and in doing that they make us do things differently – and this is very important!
1) It brings people together
Snow is a great conversation topic. And a great way of pulling people together in a kind of “blitz spirit”… last night at the hotel the people sleeping rough were being offered spare beds in strangers rooms, car shares when the traffic started moving and a general sense of comradery. It’s so British. Only nice to strangers when the weather is bad. But the fact that it brings us so close together is a good thing! We talk, we discuss, and there’s magic in that!
2) It feels magical
Snow is so unusual, in texture, shape, temperature, frequency, that even with 3 snowfalls this year it’s still a magical experience when it happens. I hope everyone else has felt this – that if you’re contemplating happy thoughts, sad thoughts, and maybe even naughty thought, then snow just amplifies those feelings. As it falls around you it makes you think harder and deeper about your emotions in the slightly eeiry silence. As it hits your skin and sends shivers over you, then it also makes you feel more. And that’s just kinda cool.
3) It makes you think about yourself
Snow has this incredible way of shutting people off… making you contemplate leaving the house and perhaps choosing to stay in yourself with your own company… and your own company suddenly isn’t so lonely… it’s a warm, safe place. Most people need to learn to spend more time with themselves and learn to love their own company – as until you love yourself you can never be completely happy. And we’re learning now that happy = attractive, friendly, successful!
4) It stops you worrying about being lonely
Summer holidays, Christmas, new year, valentines… all make you feel a little alone sometimes… but snow is random, not associated with social and relationship pressures, and is fun! Snowmen, toboggans, friendship, curling up under a blanket and pretending it doesn’t exist… are all things snow is good for. And it rocks. It rocks that it’s a happy thing, even though it’s a frustration for conducting your day-to-day life!
Hope you’ve built a snowman, wherever you are and that it made you smile. (mine’s called James… send me your pics on Twitter – @Carmela_j!! xx)
Much love,
Cammie x
Bad boys: Ex#1 The Mr A. Story – Part 2!
So, as promised, the next installment in the Mr A story… I’ll tell you about some of the others sometime soon!
____________________________________________________________________________
While in London, before I’d begun working for a business which focused on the service trade. After a short training period I was sent out on my own, and suddenly the pressure of dealing with rude, ungrateful clients was a little too much. Every day the phones were ringing with obnoxious managers who couldn’t be bothered to sort out simple problems with guidance over the phone and if you came out they would complain bitterly if they were charged because they caused the problems themselves.
I began to dread each day, struggling to get out of bed on time as it meant another day of abuse. Some clients were genuinely lovely, but they rarely had problems so those calls and visits were few and far between. One day in early January, I went home and just started browsing graduate jobs on the internet. Thousands of prospects for physics graduates, all better paid and sounding more exciting. The only problem was they were nearly all out of London. Seemingly the entire engineering community had chosen to set up shop away from the capital, cheaper land and running costs. The thought of leaving my pokey flat and the London grind seemed somewhat appealing as the cramped surroundings seemed to envelop around me.
My room was barely big enough for the double bed, crammed in around it was a wardrobe, desk and chest of drawers, and a tiny window that barely opened, a nightmare in the summer. Clothes were overflowing onto the floor, everywhere was just not quite big enough. Since leaving university the Big Smoke had lost its charm somewhat. A hectic social life had been replaced with dinners for one in front of the television, and suddenly soaps were the highlight of the day. It seemed a shame to waste so much time and effort for the sake of staying in the city when that’s all I was doing. I sat in front of my computer on another lonely night, and suddenly decided that I had to at least try and find a better life than this, so searched around and sent off some CVs. I barely thought about it until one spring day I logged on to check my mails. There was a response. For a job on the South Coast. I was so excited I could barely breathe. And after a successful interview I got a placement on their graduate scheme, starting 6 months later. Freedom!
I’d met Mr A a month later (see part 1!). He’d soon become the highlight in my day, and we had the most incredible time. Exploring London and him showing me the incredible Latin culture, food, music and dancing. The months since accepting the job quickly passed by in a blur of colour, music and laughter. I didn’t mention too much about the job, or the inevitable move out of London to Mr A, not often anyway. We would talk about it sometimes, and both it was a bit too painful to have to accept what was going to happen when things were so good. He just stopped and turned to me one night, with 2 months to go before the big move “I don’t want you to be all the way there, I want you to be here, with me. I don’t want to lose you.” I sighed. His beautiful, sweet eyes intently fixed on mix waiting for my response.
“I can’t stay in London, it’s too far honey. But maybe I could live between the two places. I have friends in Guildford – and it’s less than an hour from here, and less than an hour to work.” My heart skipped a beat when he agreed that it was a good solution.
So it was set. I found a flat, arranged my moving date, wrapped up things in London, and decided to move down a month early, to settle and get used to travelling to see each other. It didn’t seem too bad really. 30 minutes drive late at night and we could visit each other no problem. The problem was that Mr A was becoming a bit more agitated than usually. He seemed funny, and keep banging on about his gym all the time, his friends… including his ex. We were driving one night to meet my cousin in town, and had this strange row over Sophie… as he kept bringing her up. It was so awkward… a seething 20 minutes in the car followed by a fake happy evening in town – the first I hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. The usual chain-restaurant sparkle of Cafe Rouge fell away in a see of unspoken glances and hurt, it was all I could do to not cry.
With 2 weeks to go before my job started, we went camping with some friends. Mr A needed to leave early to get to work, but I’d decided to stay on for an extra few days as the weather was glorious. I tried to have a good time, but missed him, so decided to head back to surprise him. He seemed genuinely happy to see me, and strangely different in the way he greeted me. He was happy, much more positive. His eyes seemed to glow, and the darkness that had been there before was gone, replaced with that incredible spark that had been there before. That evening we had the most romantic night, dinner, dancing and then just sat in the garden watching the few stars twinkling over London’s hazy yellow sky, talking about the future, about love about all the things we made each other feel. It really felt like everything was perfect.
As tiredness crept up we went to bed, curled up closely in his bed, the city lights creeping warmly through the blinds on to the bed. I lay away, listening to our breathing, feeling him holding me so close, and I didn’t want the moment to end. I loved him.
The morning came much to quickly, with a gas repair man popping into the flat in the morning and stirring us from our slumbers. Still tired, after he left we went back to dozing. Half asleep, I heard the door open. Mr A jumped up, and heading to see who it was. The gas man must have left the door ajar. A girl’s voice. She was angry. I was confused and desperately trying to understand what was happening. Footsteps back towards the bedroom, she didn’t seem phased by my presence. I was quite the opposite. There was this amazingly beautiful dark-haired woman in the flat, angrily shouting at him, and his face was one of pure terror. Not anger, terror.
She sat down, her lavish clothes and perfect face making my PJs and bed hair seem all the more obvious. I guessed who she was before she said a word. “Carmela”. She knew my name. “There’s something you need to know.”
Silence from me. Just this terrible, sinking feeling curling itself around my heart.
“Mr A and I have been sleeping together. Behind your back. We’ve been meeting up regularly for the last few weeks” she cooed in this passive-aggressive way.
I felt numb. There was nothing but emptiness inside. I couldn’t breathe, think or speak.
“Tell her it’s true” she barked at him, “he won’t deny it.”
He didn’t deny it. His eyes just were full of guilt and terror. My heart started to choke, aching so much I thought it was going to burst out of my chest. How could this be true?
“Carmela…” Mr A finally spoke. “She’s here because I ended it yesterday. I want to be with you, and she won’t accept that.”
It barely registered. The sparks of hurt in my brain were overwhelming all my other senses. Words didn’t make sense. “I…. I… don’t know what to say” was all I could manage.
She brushed her hand through her amazing long hair, so perfectly turned out… so much more perfect-looking than me. “She’s amazing” she sharply shouted at Mr A. “I’d've killed one of us by now. You needed to know what he’s really like, and if I were you I would get out of this situation as quickly as possible.”
She laughed. And with a few more jibes at Mr A, she was gone.
I couldn’t move. Or breathe. Or think. It hurt.
“Carmela. I’m sorry baby. I love you. I really do want to be with you. Tell me what I can do to keep you.”
The warm light through the slats seemed to taunt at my pale face, making the world around seem like a terrible dream. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real. I didn’t believe it. But she was so convincing. And the arguments when he’d mentioned her so much. And she worked at his gym. Oh god it’s true. Oh god it hurts. “Why?” I squeaked, just before my eyes caved under the emotions and started pouring out the tears. It hurt. Oh god it hurt. Tears began streaming down my face. Aching inside. I couldn’t move. Mr A was desperately trying to speak, to calm me down, to talk, it was broken, we were broken. I’d loved him. He said he loved me! Lies, hurt, pain, it was all too much. I couldn’t stop crying. I cried there on the bed, he tried to talk but the words were washing over me. I was in London, and in no state to move my car, so I was stuck there. I couldn’t go home. I sat in the garden shaking. He kept trying to talk but it wouldn’t work. I tried to go to the car but he wouldn’t let me drive in that state.
That night I was still a state. I curled up on the bed as far away from him as possible, sobbing to myself. He sat there until I had calmed down enough to drift off, and finally let himself rest. I woke up an hour or two later, aching inside and the tears started again. He was asleep and the air seemed to have sucked out of the room, so I silently slipped out of bed, got dressed and slipped out of the flat to get some air and try and clear my head. The door closing work him up and I saw the lights come on as I walked quickly up the street.
“Carmela.” He was stood at the door in sandals and shorts. It was freezing. “Carmela, come back.”
I just kept walking. I needed to be as far away from him as possible.
I sped up when I heard him following me. I didn’t want him near me.
“Carmela stop.”
Silence. There were no more words.
“Please.”
I turned into the park, and walked to a bench in a dark corner. I just collapsed on it and started crying. “Leave me alone. Please god leave me alone.”
I wanted to be alone, in the dark, with my heart in tatters. The coldness wrapped around me. But he wouldn’t leave.
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Mr A was the first time I’d felt pain like that. And the start of a successive spiral into dating the wrong type of guy. My relationship confidence in tatters, I had stopped loving myself and seemed to lose my way completely. And so there you have it… number one of, well a number of stories. The thing is that each one, while negative, was also hugely influential on shaping me and who I am.
And each one was part of a long list of reasons why I need to write this blog…!
But back to the advice-giving for a while feel free to share your stories too!
Much love,
Cammie x
Why bad boys are so damn attractive
(don’t worry, I’ll continue the Mr A story soon, promise…)
But first, let’s talk bad boys. And let’s be specific here -
Bad boy: A dashingly handsome, charismatic character who is in it for number 1, and will act first and lie to cover it up later.
The reason i’m bringing these gems up is because my life seems to have become over the last few years a bit of a emo-punk song, as in I’m always the girl all the bad guys want. The sweet, darling potential princes with their bouquets of flowers and romantic gestures seem to stay well away… I think I intimidate them a little… But because of this it’s been very easy to fall in the bad boy trap. The trap being that you assume there must me nice guys amongst your potential suitors… The trouble being that if you’re a GATBGW, your ratio of good to bad pluments to somewhere like 1:20!
So the puzzle I had to contend with is how on Earth do I stop attracting these bad boys? And what is it that I do which means that they zero in on me from the other side of the room??
For the solution I conducted a bit of a social experiment. Watching the way I interact and people interact with me in social situations. Now, I don’t deny that I’m a flirt, as this is just part of me, but I really studied body language for this one – and still didn’t hit the nail on the head with my actions until I was trying to give a friend sone dating pointers. The words just fell out of my mouth…
“There are many levels on which to communicate with the opposite sex, as friends, emotional connection, body language, and then this kind of higher level of body language that’s associated with sex…”
Bingo. A second layer of body language. The stuff that when you look at a boy you can almost read his thoughts if he wants you… And the problem is that they can see you know, and respond accordingly. Now tbh most people I’m sure already communicate on this level as it’s the general factor in random hook-ups… The thing that I needed to understand was how to stop myself falling for these all these unsavory-types
So what’s the deal with this kind of interaction? Lots of eye contact, an acknowledgement of what they’re thinking, understanding their actions without them needing to say anything. The worst part is noticing when a taken man is doing it, and some girlfriends are completely unaware that they speak fluent dog, even while stood next to them. It’s sometimes like “hey… ignore her, I’m really thinking we should find somewhere quiet”… All said through their body language. But why does just understanding it make them seem more desirable than perhaps the less blatent ones… The nice guys who will just watch in dismay as a bad boy swoops in for the kill?
Three reasons:
1) They move faster, more passionately.
2) They shower you with attention when you’re at you most vunerable.
3) You know from the word go that they’re attracted to you.
The attraction is superficial, a primitive one, built it to our genes to ensure species survival. But they force you to begin communicating with the bad boy, and once they have a route in they can get you to listen much more to them, they gain the power. And strangely, that’s attractive. It’s nice to have a man who knows what he wants desire you.
The downsides?
1) He probably does this with every attractive girl he meets… hedges his bets and collects all his winnings.
2) He’s probably not very good at commitment, as temptation is always around the corner.
3) He’s pretty likely to trade you in for a younger/prettier model at the first opportunity.
4) He’s even more likely to only be in it for one thing.
So… To stop falling for them… I had to stop interacting with them like that. I had to read their signals… Then act differently… Duck our from the situation that would lead to the enivitable kiss… Try to avoid getting blinded by lust as they showered on the right kind of attention. Oh an most importantly of all… Give a “just not interested” signal back!
And it’s actually begining to work. Much less awkward moments, and strangely guys making much more of an effort to get to know me and win my attention. Sounds really small, but a good indicator that I’m becoming much less GATBGW and more princess-like at last.
By jove old bean, I think she’s getting the hang of this princess-lark… One step at a time!
Big love…
Cammie x
Frog forever… Ex Number 1… Mr A
I’m going to use aliases for these, but I feel that maybe it’s time to start sharing a little as to why I’m on this quest in the first place… but to do so for the first (of many!) stories I’m going to have to transport you all back four whole years… and perhaps get a little carried away in flouncy language… but hey I hope it adds to the explanation!
The story begins… frog ex number 1 – Mr A.
Mr A. was one of the most exciting guys I had ever met. We had met on a beautifully warm June day, helping with the track timings at a youth sports day. I had fifth place and he had sixth, so we were sat with our stopwatches trying to pay enough attention to the fresh-faced athletes to grab them at the right times. Our distracted smiles at each other made this a very difficult task.
The track was your typical London 400m, slightly run down, Portacabin toilets, high fences around and a chronic parking problem. The springy red running surface was littered with different colours of faded lines and the bright sunshine did wonders for making the drought-ridden grass appear greener and strangely healthier. The nearby streets were awash in a sea of England flags, hanging across the houses in this beautiful, patriotic display of national sporting pride. It was quite an breath-taking sight the first time I saw it. We stopped and just took a moment absorbing the phenomenal size and amount of flags there were hanging across the wide, sweeping streets.
Everywhere were shouting, rude teenagers boisterously jumping on one another, shouting, cheering and jeering at one another. They in the large part looked like carbon copies. Row upon row of chavtastic teenagers trying to prove their street cred by wearing their clothes the right way, music blaring from their phones and girls had their hair in weird, wonderful and totally unbelievable hairstyles. As far as the eye could see were low-slung joggers with brightly coloured zipped hoodies, pink trainers and crazy knee-high socks. Everything was loud and proud, like the feathered plume of a cock fighting for its mate. And there were a few fights, mostly stemming from the dark looks rival groups were shooting at each other. Everywhere supervising adults were just stepping in and controlling the situations as they kicked off, with a growing weariness in all of their faces as the day dragged on.
Pride is a very strange thing in London’s youth culture. It seems to drive otherwise sweet and normal teenagers to become overly passionate about winning and out-doing the competition, which brings about this strange boiling pot atmosphere of blood, sweat and tears. Occasionally you could see the ones who had enough control over their fighting spirit to be gracious losers, but that was probably because they were not likely to win anything.
Mr A. was a heavy instigator of this competitive culture amongst the group that he looked after. He was originally from Latin America, and moved straight to some very rough South London areas upon his arrival in this country, which had given him a very strong, if sometimes misguided determination to succeed and prove himself. When my eyes had first laid sight on him I was instantly drawn to this. He was also incredibly good looking, his coffee coloured skin beautifully sun-kissed to a rich brown and his deep, dark eyes were so unbelievably sexy. When I laid eyes on him as his came over to help with the track I couldn’t believe my reaction. I had a wave of warmth and attraction flow across every inch of my body, starting in my stomach and flowing all the way out. We caught each other’s gaze and my heart skipped a beat. I smiled instinctively, and he shot me a cheeky wink back. He had the cutest little goatee, a tiny triangle just below his bottom lip which kept drawing my lustful gaze at his kissable smile.
We gently flirted all day, sat chatting on the old freestanding stair set and occasionally getting so wrapped up in our conversation that we missed the lap bells, or worse still the times for the track races we were supervising. It didn’t matter though; the whole world seemed to fade into his utterly intense smile. As the day drew to a close I realised I just couldn’t let that moment end. He smiled cheekily and offered to walk me out, which I gladly accepted, gathering up the girls I had to accompany back on the tube and joining the mass exodus towards the car parks. We kept smiling, lost in each other’s gaze the whole way there. The sun was beating down on my face, and the creeping feeling of sunburn was beginning in my shoulders, but I could bear it for a little longer.
The car park was absolute chaos, its dirt tracks clustered with young people, cars, parents, supervisors, and lots of noise. In the distance the tranquil green playing fields seemed to offer a stark contrast as the sun appeared to glisten hotly off every blade of the lush, green grass. I walked with him to his car, chatting about nights out and where we liked to go in London, and I was so pleased to discover he frequented similar haunts to me that I had to hide a slight blushing in my cheeks.
He looked up from searching frantically in his glove box, “I need to take your number, but my phone is out of battery, and I don’t know mine…”. I sighed, seemed like he was trying to give me the brush-off. However, the longer I looked over I saw the genuine concern in his eyes. He was frantically looking for a pen and paper, and then finally, after a few awkward seconds he triumphantly presented me with the old receipt and what looked like a bingo pencil that he had found. I carefully wrote my name and number on it, making sure I used the most beautiful handwriting I possibly could. Inwardly I was laughing at how “old-school” it seemed, in an age of mobile phones and computers it had been an ages since I had given my number that way.
He clutched the small, crumpled piece of paper that I gave him and carefully squirreled it away in his glove compartment. He turned to me and smiled that heart-melting smile again. My heart skipped another beat as his hand brushed against mine.
“Speak to you soon.” I smiled at him, desperately wishing I could appear a lot calmer than I felt at that second. He smiled again as he was mobbed by the youths he had to organise getting home. I walked over to my group of girls who were excitedly chatting about the events of the day, and started herding them towards the tube station. We were nearly out of earshot when I heard my name being called.
“Carmela!” I turned slowly, to see Mr A. stood in the middle of the car park. He motioned for me to come over. I could barely breathe but was using every ounce of concentration on trying to not trip as I walked back towards him.
“I just needed to say… that… I will call you.” He said it with such conviction it was any wonder I didn’t kiss him there and then. At that second, he looked even more beautiful as my whole body washed over with warmth from his words.
Fighting a losing battle against my breathlessness I was surprised when a very cool sounding “I look forward to it…” fell effortlessly from my lips. Relieved, I smiled coyly and then walked back to my waiting group and we headed off, back to the monotonous grind of the underground.
He texted later that night, inviting me for a drink, I was so excited it took me hours to get ready, including an emergency trip to Oxford Street with Liza to find the “perfect” first date outfit. We were meeting at a beautiful bar in the city on a gloriously hot evening, and as I sat on Blackfriars Bridge waiting for him the world seemed to enter slow motion. Every passing face took forever to dissolve back into the sea of unknowns all around. At the bus stop across the road, four tired-looking students were standing in their RAG T-shirts, jangling buckets, desperately trying to collect a little bit more before they headed home for the day. In contrast, suited and booted city types were sat in the open-air seating of the ludicrously expensive champagne bar on the other side of the road. They didn’t even bat an eyelid as the waitresses brought out bottle after bottle of Veuve. They were intriguing to watch, as their culture was so far from anything I had experienced in my time in London. Arriving for university, and with that many weeks of pesto-on-toast as a staple diet when money reserves ran out, their ability to spend what was a weekly spending budget on one bottle seemed like the height of luxury. Not that actually being a banker appealed much, most friends who had tried it were exhausted and unhappy within weeks of starting, and barely had a chance to spend all the money that they were earning. Many of them had developed drink and drugs problems because of this, with a very “what else am I going to spend my money on?” attitude.
Mr A. caught my eye as he started crossing the bridge, looking so utterly sexy in a white linen shirt that was hanging off his sculpted, coffee coloured chest effortlessly.
“Carmela… I…” He panted, he had obviously been running as it was a little after 8. “Sorry my sweet, I got caught up at work… wow… you look… beautiful.”
Glowing inside, I paused for a few seconds to allow the grin to cross my face “You don’t look so bad yourself, and don’t worry, I haven’t been here long.” I lied a little, it had been about half an hour, but it didn’t seem to matter so much now that he was here. We walked to the bar I had chosen, Angelicus, hidden away in one of the mews nearby. A friend had taken me there once and I was absolutely blow away by the décor, it was out of this world.
The bar had huge, comfortable black leather sofas and glass doors all around so there was a wonderful breeze in the stifling heat. From the ceiling hung some of the most stunning chandeliers, a mix of sparkling gems and jet black stones. It was almost possible to spend the whole evening just staring at them glitter and glow. The walls were covered in luxurious fabric panels, tying the details of the whole place together. From the open kitchens there was a warm smell of sweet desserts as the pastry chef blow-torched another of his creations.
The waiter was quite obviously amused whenever he came over to offer us more drinks, as we were so wrapped up in our conversation. Mr A. apologised a little feebly when he tried the third time to get our attention, “I’m sorry, it’s our first date, and she is so beautiful, we’ll have another bottle of white wine please.”
He drew me into his rich, vibrant culture of salsa, dancing, festivals and parties, and I loved every second. His intensely passionate personality enveloped my every thought. That night we kissed for hours in a little alleyway, unable to leave each other’s company.
And so began our romance. We would spend wonderful, exciting evenings together. We would have whole weekends where we wouldn’t even leave our beds as we were enjoying each other’s company so much. My rather dull life had been transformed overnight and for the first time in so many years I was utterly happy with myself. We had intense declarations of love, each one with more feeling than the last. It was a blissful existence.
There were days when I almost had to pinch myself to make sure it was real. Then Mr A. would arrive at my bedside with breakfast in bed, reminding me that this was really happening. We spent a lot of time in his flat, a beautiful riverside apartment in Vauxhall, overlooking the beautifully landscaped gardens and deceptively stunning Thames. There were rich furnishings everywhere, even though it was only a small place. The rich leather sofas, real wood floors and luxurious fabrics on the walls. Every detail was perfect, and compared to my cluttered shoebox that I shared with a friend in Earls Court it was definitely the preferential place to stay.
Some mornings I would just wake up and sit by the window watching the world go by, while Mr A. slept peacefully on his huge double bed. The way the light hit his face as he slept through the big wooden shutters was flattering against his beautiful skin. We talked for hours, we laughed until we cried, and discussed our problems openly and gently.
Each of us was far from free of baggage, but we made a point of being very open about things to one another. The scars ran deep from his last relationship and occasionally when I raised my arm to quickly he would rush to block it in a very instinctive way. He had a cheeky soul, and it took a little while to get him to relax about his jokes, or if he wanted to do something with his friends. I tried not to pry too much, but he often volunteered details about his ex, never complimentary.
“You are such a welcome change from Sophie, my sweet”, he would often muse out loud. “I love that I can enjoy time with my friends when you are there; everyone loves you because you are so sweet.”
They had had an incredibly volatile relationship. It seemed to the point where even his friends were scared of her violence. But I always let him speak freely, and had no reason to be jealous, I had had a pretty bad run of guys myself and it was nice that we could work together to build an even stronger relationship.
The summer was unusually eventful, my swing dance class did a few exhibitions at festivals by the Thames, and afterwards Mr A. and I made an effort to attend all the riverside parties we could as the weather was glorious. We watched fireworks for every occasion, visited cultural displays, explored ever nook and cranny of London that we could think of. He took me for dinner in Canary Wharf; to the top of Primrose hill at midnight where we stumbled across an impromptu acoustic concert, and we went to see every live music event we liked the look of.
One night we stumbled across an incredible multinational street procession, with rich colours, samba drums and beautiful girls dancing in incredibly high heels. Utterly swept up in the music was just danced along for hours, kissing sensuously under street lamps and laughing as we stumbled on the uneven surface.
He spun me close, so I could feel his body close to mine, and moved in that incredibly sexy way that true Latins could. Around us the world seemed to blur into a sea of colour and waves of sound, but all we saw was each other. In the early hours of the morning we walked along the starlit Thames Path, hand in hand, discussing his culture, and reminiscing about the time we first met on that beautifully warm day by the sports track.
As we stood watching the water go by he turned around to me and just simply said, “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever met, you’re so perfect inside as well as out. I love you.”
And all I could do was sigh in contentment.
From that moment on I was full on, head-over-heels in love. However… Mr A. was far from perfect. In fact, he was anything but. He was carrying much more baggage than I could have ever anticipated from my comfort bubble of contentment that he had helped me to weave.
So what happened…? Keep reading… I’ll post the rest sometime soon…
Cammie x
