Hiding in my father's wardrobe

I'm pretty good at leaving people behind with my years of practice changing schools, moving countries and travelling for work. But I'm not so good when it comes to being  the one who gets left behind. Even temporarily. I'll admit it: at the mere thought of being left on my own for even just a few days, the confident woman, the independent introvert reverts to wailing infant. Boo hoo! I'm not proud of it, but there it is.

He is going away. To a conference. In another country. On another continent. On the far side of that continent. For a short week. And to make things worse, it means that he is going to miss my birthday. (Before you judge him, he did ask, it being my birthday and all, if I wanted to come along on this trip. And I said no, I'll be fine, let's not be profligate. And then just in case temptation proved - well, too tempting I guess - I scheduled to take an exam whilst he was away.)

The blubbering started last week in anticipation of his absence. It's coloured my waking thoughts with a dull wash of grey and made me slightly clingy (-er than usual). Like a bad case of emotional static. I entertain this fantasy that I could buy a plane ticket and join him (in my fantasy, there's no financial regulation exam). He is going away to one of my favourite cities in the world, a place I called home. Why can't I go? I want to see my old friends and eat proper Mexican food and go to Fisherman's Wharf to see the seals, and you know, just hang out and get my California girl accent back!

Right.

The truth is, being on my own in not so bad, mostly. I'm fine in the day time. What I dread is locking up the flat at night and going to bed on my own. The darkness and the silence spook me so I stay up late, way past my bedtime, and usually end up sleeping on the couch, with the BBC 24 hour news station turned on low.

And there are certain advantages to being left on my own: the thrill of eating dishes that I love but he doesn't (welks anyone? roquefort?), the satisfaction of watching what I want on telly (hard hitting documentaries with lots of blood or human misery, dark thrillers, Gok Wan, the antics of Jordan the ex-glamour model and entrepreneur, and the top 40 of music videos!) without having to compromise.

But these are overshadowed by a disproportionate sense of abandonment. I'm not using that word lightly. I feel abandonned. Like a child or a pet or an old toy, discarded by the side of the road. Pretty strong stuff.
Now, courtesy of some rebirthing exercises at drama school, I know that I was placed in an isolation ward immediately after I was born (a little premature) and that my mother would come down to bottle feed me wearing a special robe, mask and gloves for the first few days of my life and that's left some anxiety in the - don't-leave-me! department.  There's also the fact that whent I was a little girl, my father would often leave on one of his frequent business trips - on Sundays right after lunchtime. I found it very unsettling and it made me incredibly sad. So after he'd gone, I would hide in his wardrobe and press my nose against his suits and pretend he was still there.

To me, that wardrobe was the most comforting thing in the whole wide world. I wish I could bottle it so that I wouldn't have to bottle up my occasional feelings of sadness and fear. Prozac in pin stripes.

But I also have to remind myself that as painful and real as these temporary separations may feel to me they are only that: temporary. I spare a thought for all those friends who have lost someone, permanently, at least in this existence, whose grief and pain I cannot begin to fathom, and who are all in my thoughts. My father's wardrobe has plenty of room left in it.

The Dita Von Teese principle

"On n'attrape pas les mouches avec du vinaigre..." as the French saying goes, "You won't catch flies with vinegar..." so why is it that some shopping assistants (and the managers who hire them) think they can?

Look, I'm the first to admit that I don't shop much outside groceries and essentials and the occasional and uncharacteristic splurge on clothing and accessories.  However, I do have an extensive background in branding and advertising so shopping, or rather the art of selling,  remains a bit of a hidden and guilty pleasure, to be savoured, like a cup of hot chocolat at Cafe Gerbeaud. (That's in Budapest. I know, it's harder to get to than your local Starbucks but the cup is small, the brew strong as coffee, and you could stand your spoon in it. In a word, it's DIVINE. And don't get me started on the pastries.)

Where was I? Oh yes. So, if I walk into a chocolate shop... I expect the shop assistant to be warm, generous and of a sunny disposition, and to look like she (preferably she - chosing chocolates is a bit like trying on lingerie: I don't want to have to pretend I'm a size smaller than I am) actually eats chocolate and enjoys it and that she has indeed sampled every chocolate on display. I want her to make me think that chocolate is sexy, that eating chocolate is sexy, and that I will feel like Dita Von Teese if I eat some. I want to bathe in the myth of chocolate and make it froth.

Are you still with me? The last thing I want is to experience anything that might yank me back down to earth to remind me that under the pretty ribbons and the ruched pastel boxes, lies a confection of lard and sugar which is fattening and may give me spots. (For the record, if I just want an anonymous quicky of a chocolate hit, then I go to my corner shop and and buy a tablet of Lindt 70% cocoa, (100g)  with chilli and scoff it when I get home, square by square.) So no surly, uninterested, rude or unknowledgeable individuals need apply! If I don't like the vibe, I'm outta there and back home in less time than it takes to say "you have yourself a nice day". (Which by the way, is only used in a passive-aggressive or post-ironic way here in the UK... unless you are dealing with non British staff who have latched on to Americanisms, in which case it can safely be taken at face value.)

Same goes with sales assistants at the beauty counter, expensive luggage stores or one of those oooh la la shops that sell expensive naughtiness. (Not the cheap and nasty ones, 'cos that would just be smutty.) The one exception is when I buy a new bra. There, I want a cross between my 2nd grade teacher and a matron on a hospital ward. Someone tough on the outside but with a heart of gold, a bit intimidating, in their 50's or 60's, with the presence of a steamliner coming into port, and who knows her bra cups from her chest measurements. So apart from Bra Godmother, they have to wear and display their wears with style and confidence and make me feel like I belong.

Is this what this is all about? Fitting in? Being part of a tribe? It's only chocolate, or lipstick afterall... or is it? And what about Dita? What does she have to do with it? Dita is the epitome of glam. Dita is a live Vargas girl. Dita looks good enough to eat. In my little girl mind, does this somehow equates with universal acceptance and everlasting happiness? Or is that the chocolate talking?

All I know is that if I'm going to overcome my natural aversion to the long term commitment of the act of purchase I have to be lulled into a sense of well being, transported into a world of fantasy and made to feel like a cross between a goddess and a princess. Let me catch a glimpse of Dita land and I will be putty in your hands.

When it comes to shopping, I'm still a five year old. If you're gonna sell me some magic, make it sparkle!