The train of thought or what I thought on the train back from Zurich

I am certainly a city girl. The clicking noise of glasses ona tray, the sound of pulling chairs away form the tables and the whispers of zipping up handbags and purses - this is my world. The warm tone of artificial lighting is making the crystal trapped in my 'work pen' sparkle more than ever as I draft this post. Since living in the middle of nowhere (in fact in between Switzerland, Lichtenstein and Austria but very far from glamour despite working for the most glamourous company ever) I have missed spending money on things that feed me more than food. A cup of passionately crafted coffee served on a little tray with a sweet treat, the lightly perfumed paper that my new dress is wrapped in before landing in a bag, a piece of paper acting as a train ticket between Sevelen and Zurich - these object made my blood pump vigorously in my veins again. I made to to another world today. I do come from a small town. I would even dare to say that my blood comes from a tiny village in the forgotten part of eastern Poland. However, I am truly a creation of a city life even though I never lived directly in a big city. Is it possible? Am I just imagining that part of my personality that often that I actually became a big city girl (watching too much of SATC, clearly...)? As nevernotdreaming maybe I have become what I imagined I will. The world I imagine myself in is different every day. Possibly, this is the result of the fact that I am different every day. I want to change, I want to explore myself every day. I want to enjoy meeting the new me every time. Just like i am enjoying this cup of coffee with a slice of a Swiss chocolate masterpiece. They did not only feed my body but more so my soul. Together with the noise of the most popular cafe in Zurich they made a great meal. The coffee machine makes a familiar noise, the clinking cutlery is resembling a welcoming melody and a Swiss gentleman opposite me is sighing when struggling with his crosswords. I feel contempt now.

Stay Curious

Expectations. One dangerous word. Maybe one of the most dangerous words ever. Everyone has them. Everyone hates them. Everyone ignored them for the sake of avoiding an argument. Maybe the biggest argument we constantly have is the one with ourselves? The relationship between me, myself and I is a rather complicated one. Every disagreement we have in our small world is weighed by expectations. Too high? Too low? None? How can anyone have none?

Expectations are attached to our goals: from walking up to a local shop in search for a salsa dip to getting excited about a job interview. Little crazy happy pumping hearts inside our chests get a bit excited, the brain cannot stop shifting thoughts left, right and centre. Do you know the feeling? I have heard repeatedly recently that I have too high expectations. But hold on a second... Aren't they meant to be higher than the reality should allow us under regular circumstances? Is that not what makes us different from animals and lets us dream constantly? By default 'expectations' are positive. The nature of them makes us anticipate that they will not only be met but also exceeded.

I have met a person in my life that has very little expectations. That strips them of joy, of appreciating little things. I would not settle for mediocracy. It does not make sense. I refuse to live a life with no expectations. I am happy to pay the price in moments of disappointments. It does not make me any poorer. 

I'd rather stay left unsaid

My world orbits around words. Profession: a linguist. Should I not know all the words (Chuck Norris-like ambition)? You would imagine that I have an answer for anything and if you are not sure how to say things I will come up with this brilliant phrase to communicate a rubbish message with a cherry on top. I have spent over 4 years interpreting both glorious and bad news and for the last 2,5 years I have been saying what people do not want to hear with such a manner so that they leave our meeting smiling whilst closing the door behind them. It is all about what we say, right? Is that not how communication works? What we require for a basic act of communication is at least two individuals who have a message to convey, right? My applied linguistics professor would be proud. I have, however, found myself in a world where importance is shifted from what is being said to the exact opposite. Silence has never been so important.

Be it at your workplace or at home, it has become far more important what we decide not to say. In a reality where information is overwhelming us with updates vibrating into our bloodstream via Apple Watches, we have forgotten how peaceful we might be with not knowing. All I have been hearing from my friends lately is 'I must know whether...', 'he cannot live without knowing'. What a load of crap. Yes, it is information and not the lack of it that kills us. It can penetrate our bodies and become the most disturbing part of everyday living. I work in an environment where you can constantly hear people talk. Words pour out faster and faster and their meaning is diluted between each unnecessary syllable produced by our tongues, teeth and lips.

This evening a friend of mine asked me for some photos from an event she was exhibiting at. I went back through my photos 4 years too far by mistake. By performing this longer stroke of a finger of my mouse I have taken myself back to the time where I spoke less. I was constantly and shamelessly being reprimanded by my loved one that I spoke too much. He would say it with a twinkle in his eye every time I thought I was invited to Ted Talks on his sofa. And one night I told him I knew he was getting married. It has changed everything. One little sentence. Of course I'd rather not have overheard a conversation about this in the first place. Then I wished I kept my lips sealed for that very moment. Just for a bit longer. That moment that changed or lives irreversibly.

Someone has recently asked me why did I not tell the other woman? Maybe because that would officially make me the other woman and I enjoyed thinking that I was 'the one'. Being covered in marshmallows of my imagination smelling of baby powder was far more comfortable. I knew if I said too much I would strip myself of good memories. 'I'd rather stay left unsaid.' Like the 'I love you' he told me without words every day.

Fresh out of 2049

I am a bit late to the party, I know. When Blade Runner 2049 was out I was away travelling so my excitement was peaking when I got the last ticket to an extra screening that happened this afternoon in Northampton. Thank you Errol Flynn Filmhouse!

If you asked me what was the last sci-fi film I watched I would probably say 'Sailor Moon' (back in 1992). Yes, that is as much as I know and want to know abut sci-fi. As reluctant as one could have been, I pretended that Blade Runner 2049 did not exist when everyone was counting down the days to the premiere. Yes, I did judge the poster (as bad as it could be mr graphic designer). Why did the poster not consist of exactly the same minimalistic and sharp images that the film did? We would be having a different conversation now...

As dark as this picture is, it is also full of extremely well-thought images that simply became a feast to my eyes. Even though I was sat in the second row. The harmony that poured out of imagery, the colours that penetrated my mind and Ryan (rather pleasant on the eye) became a dessert to my Sunday roast. Possibly even the the whole of 2017! Every single one out of 166 minutes became an adventure that grasped me by the throat and did not let me direct my eyesight anywhere else.

Agreeing with IMDB's 'X out of ten' seems like a foreign land to me. I tend to stay away from the scoring that 'the public' gives. As we know the quality 'democracy' and 'free speech' nowadays has been slightly compromised. Nothing in this film has been compromised though. 8.4 is a score not high enough, still. Oh mr Roger Deakins... As one of your biggest fans I think you have set the bar extremely high now. Thank you Denis for putting you picture in Roger's hands. He handled it with so much love and care.

High on heels

Can I start another blog post with 'if you know me'? Oh the rebel inside me...

If you know me, you know that I wear heels. Every day. Preferably all day. I simply love the idea of being elevated off the ground by an inch or two. Yet today I wore flats and tracksuit bottoms to a late night showing of 'Manolo. The boy who made shoes for lizards'. I felt like i was disrespecting Manolo a bit. Sorry Manolo, I hope you will not mind.

As a girl who grew up with SATC (Sex and the City for the less enlightened) I remember vividly the scene where Carrie is robbed of her bag as well as her Manolos. Now, if you are less enlightened again, Manolos are shoes. Not just any shoes though. They are truly iconic and have been so for the consequent 45 years so far. From a shop in London to runways, to film, to SATC (yes, that is a separate category) Manolos have travelled together with times but, surprisingly, have stayed consistent and somehow immune to the changes that came with passing decades. A bit like Manolo himself.

Manolo lives in a century that has happened already or not just yet. Everything about him screams sophistication mixed with humility and eccentrism with a pinch of selfishness. Now this selfishness is not a negative thing. It has become a bit of a trade mark. Manolo cannot possibly imagine sharing his house, designs, life with anyone. Quite possibly because his life is filled with colour, extraordinary friends and memories of growing up in Gran Canaria. Manolo settled in the UK in the 70s and became a British icon but is also listed next to Picasso and Almodovar with regards to being a Spanish XX century wonder. Quite rightly so!

They way he looks at women... From Bianca Jagger and Rihanna to a secretary-looking stranger spotted at a London station wearing his pumps. He looks at women as if they were magic. As if he was permanently in love. The way he speaks about the icons that inspired him: Anna Piaggi, Isabella Blow, Tina Chow - with such passion yet respect at the same time. I was lucky enough to see Manolo at Vogue Festival a few years ago. The warmth mixed with wit and high-pitched comments to express the ridiculousness of a situation are simply theatrical.

Manolo's most iconic shoe is undoubtedly a pump (preferably in blue satin with a sparkly buckle). However, the most influential shoe would be the mule. I cannot even begin to describe how much he changed my attitude towards mules. Manolo said that for him it was all about how they sounded when a woman walked in them. Don't you think that its quite extraordinary for a shoe designer to think of how his shoes not only look but also sound?

Manolo (also Carrie Bradshaw) and I have a few things in common. One of them is sacrificing any pocket money to buy fashion magazines (although he did so in Paris, Carrie did so in NYC and I did so in Northampton...). Imagine that Manolo was the first man on the cover of British Vogue! David Bailey supposedly reported the shoot to be a complete disaster due to Manolo's lack of intent to cooperate. However, his style has remained impeccable. The colourful socks peaking out of his shoes, the imperfectly tailored suits made from most surprising of fabrics, the small round glasses. Oh, there is one more thing we have in common - don't you dare crucifying our chips with vinegar! I guess apart from being an icon, Manolo is just a boy inside. A boy who wanted to make shoes for lizards.

Always a fool

Have you ever wondered what I did for a living? 'For a living' - that sounds so proud. As if that was 'the right thing to do' and doing it provided an instant salvation and justification for the 40 hours of meaningless activities that focus around checking your e-mail ( as long as it pays my bills I guess I can sue this excuse). Going back to what I actually do is that I act as a buffer between two (or more) people or them and their problems. Individually or collectively. I am the cartilage in a knee joint or an intervertebral disc in a spine. Any shock must be absorbed at least partially so that the negative effect on the bone is lessened. Damages must be shrunk to the inevitable minimum whenever possible.

I think as a result of what I have been doing for the last 2,5 years, I am unable to be in any form of conflict. My usual instinct is not to allow a conflict to happen and if it does, to resolve it before it makes any permanent damage. What I tend to tell my team is that intentions are irrelevant. All the 'I-didn't-mean-to's as as important as Kim Kardashian's waistline (I know, there are people deeply analysing it. they must be bored to death). What I have learnt over 31,5 years of my life is that it does not matter what people say to you. You will soon forget it. But how they made you feel - that stays forever.

Last Saturday whilst browsing through 6,734 photos on my iPhone I stopped at one particular one. In that little filtered square there are two legs and two arms. The photo feels a but surreal like the endless stairs by M.C. Escher. The arms and legs belong to two different people wrapped around each other in a hotel bed before breakfast. I do not remember what he said to me that morning. Apart from telling me how he loved my denim shorts that I had since we met. I do remember, however, that it was one of the happiest mornings in my life. Maybe even the happiest so far. 

There the opposite moments as well. The moments when people make you feel foolish, embarrassed or perhaps simply stupid. Again, it does not matter what they say. They probably have an 'I-didn't-mean-to' up their sleeves ready to roll it out like a clown pulling endless pieces of fabric that only change in colour. When you last broke a mug, did you mean to do it? Possibly not. I will go further - definitely not! The end result is, however, the same, whether the intention is there or not. The mug is broken. Maybe it was your own mug, maybe your colleague's or it belonged to a loved one. Was it a thoughtful gift? A souvenir from Amalfi coast? A meaningless purchase or a secret Santa drama? Does it matter?

There is this guy that has been trying to date me for about a year with approximately 6-month intervals in between. Let's call him mr Canada (long story). Mr Canada had the ability to look at me as if I was magic (that give you the highest score one on my brownie points list). He also actually listened to what I was saying during each date - that was refreshing. He loved Greta Gerwig's films- yes, these men still exist. Sadly, together with all these wonderful qualities he had a shameless ability to make me feel like a fool. Did he mean to? Possibly not (I would not go for 'definitely' here). If you are stuck for excuses and explanations for cancelling meetings or not getting back to someone mr Canada has them all. And the only thing I am angry about is that I heard them all a year ago. For 2 months. And then I allowed myself to hear them again in April and then again in October this year. 

What I very often say to my team (yes, they hate hearing that) is that you cannot change other people's behaviour. All you can change is your attitude towards it (cliche!). And it is the sad truth and it sucks and we can stamp our feet all we want here. What I have learnt this month is that I cannot get angry at someone acting the same way over and over again. I just have to come to terms with it. This process can go two ways: I can either accept it and make friends with it or accept it and leave it for someone else to make friends with it. The liberating feeling is that the choice how I respond to this behaviour and the terms are mine. I might as well pray as I preach. 

There is no key to happiness. There is this book though... Happy as a Dane

I have a terrible habit of judging a book by its cover. Literally. Not metaphorically. When I shop for books, forks or toothbrushes, they have to come in beautiful packaging. This time, I went against my nature (or nurture) and went for a book with the ugliest cover every (sorry publishing house WAB). I so did not enjoy this cover, that I even had to post a picture of this book in black and white. That is due to my lack of tolerance for red (apart from lipsticks). But the cover of this book is hardly the subject of this post. As a matter of fact (after this long and probably unnecessary introduction) it is the contents. The reason why I picked it up from a bookshelf in Poland, whilst visiting mum an dad, was the title - Happy as a Dane. 

I have visited Copenhagen just over a year ago. Despite minus million Celsius (who goes away in February to a colder country?!), despite the lack of sunshine, despite not knowing what we were doing and where we were going we happened to subconsciously live an extremely Danish week (miss the alcohol poisoning as it turns out). When I got on the underground (being used to the London tube), I was amazed that nobody was rushing! I live an hour away for London and go there rather often. Even if I am there with no specific plan, not having to be anywhere at any particular time, I find myself rushing through the crowd in pursuit to catch the next train. God forbid I miss it as the next one is in.... ONE MINUTE! Such a difference, right?

The short experience of Copenhagen I had was: beautiful spaces, natural materials, people having time, people not being scared to express their opinions, people enjoying little pleasures. Little did I know at the time that the latter was called hyggeling. There was something in that country that attracted me with its serenity and openness. These are exactly the qualities that are being carefully described by Malene Ryndahl. Malene has a distance towards Danes having the label o being happy as she moved out of Denmark at the age of 18. As an immigrant myself, I realise that once we move abroad we happen to realise what we have left behind. Being emerged it it, we do not realise that what we have is not necessarily a norm. Malene investigates the theory of Danes being endlessly happy at the same time. By no means does she serve it on a silver plater. Malene challenges herself and expresses her opinions fearlessly, just like a Dane. 

Malene grew up in a respectful home that was still far from perfect. There was no happy ending but what her parents taught her, were the core values that both her and her brother live by. It turned out that her brother suffered with allergies and asthma and started treating the symptoms by changing his diet. As a result, he opened 42 RAW - a restaurant I have been craving to eat at for months before I went to Copenhagen and it certainly was the first place to visit on my food map. I was sure that it was just ran by an eager veggie with hate for 'normal food'. To my surprise, it was a result of a business that went down and the need to express oneself, have a place in the community.

This is by all means not a self-help book. This in not a recipe for happiness. Malene takes us on a journey with 10 values she believes enable Danish communities to be happy. However, one does not have to be Danish to live by them. Regardless of nationality, you can be happy. The truth is that happiness lies in ourselves. Not in our partners, belongings, bank accounts. My parents also taught me something 'Danish'. Focus on what you have, not on what you do not have.

The Life- Changing Magic of Not giving a F**k

Do not be mislead by the title. Life is not actually about being careless and inconsiderate. Quite the opposite. The 200 pages that you are possibly going to enjoy are nothing but an eye-opener on how ridiculously careful and considerate we should be with regards to what we choose to spend our resources on. The focus, for a change, is ourselves. Do you remember that wonderful, inspiring, relaxed and content person- YOU? If you are reading this review, you probably have forgotten that person ever existed. Worry not, there is a way to redesign your life by using 'The surprising art of caring less and getting more'.

Being tempted by the minimalistic design of the cover (yes, I just did judge the book by its’ cover) I have treated myself to this book and decided to take it on a plane trip. As an extremely overbooked person trying to please everyone around me, the only reading time I manage to arrange is on the plane, train or any other more or less glamorous means of transport. Sipping on my Benugo flat white whilst munching on a nut bar, I have bravely decided to make the first step to de-clutter my life. After all, it was the last day of April and I was going on my first holiday since the previous October. That itself was a reason good enough to spend £10.99 on this publication with a slightly controversial title.

Having located my gate I went for it. Ready like never before. Page one, here we come! From that moment it was just Sarah and I(sorry aircrew for ignoring you shamelessly). I was catching a 2 hour flight and before my journey finished, I was more than half way through. I was ready to stay on the plane for another journey just to finish it off. I did not care where that plane was heading from my destination. The feeling I got was similar to the one that any runner gets when they cross a finish line beating their PB and the run was so enjoyable they feel they could do it all over again (I know, not a popular feeling!). In order to finish it off, I have actually arranged to cheat on my close ones for a couple of hours during the day so that I could return to Sarah. If it was not for the fact that I was on holiday I would probably call in sick (sorry boss).

Let me be clear - this is not a classic self-help book. Although if you picked it up, you probably need help. Well done for admitting it - that is the first step! Spending time you do not have doing things you do not want to do with people you do not like? Sounds familiar? Add spending money you do not have (hallelujah for interest-free balance transfers) on things you do not need. The common reason why we do it (on condition that we are nice people) is because we care. The issue that causes chronic unhappiness, however, is because we care about everyone around but US. Shifting your focus to your slightly more selfish self without harming others is a challenge to begin with. It is a skill and like any skills it can be learned. And the method Sarah suggests is the NotSorry Method (try to comprehend that dear British people). Imagine a world where you do not need to feel sorry as a result of your poorly-made decisions and all the ‘yeses’ you have thoughtlessly verbalised.

TLCMoNGF should be on your coffee table by now if you are the annoying (yes, simply annoying!) person who says ‘yes, sure’ when it means ‘absolutely no chance’. Stop using ‘I’ll let you know if I can make it’ as a euphemism for a good old and not so popular anymore NO. It is fine, we are adults that are allowed to make our own decisions, remember? We do it all day for a living in a workplace. It is perfectly OK to say NO. Quite liberating as well. Do you not believe me? Believe Sarah. After all she has also KonMaried her sock drawer as a seating point!

Not-a-love story to fall in love with

Being a helpless romantic (at peak of my helpless romanticism) I could not help but attend the preview of a rather loud production featuring the most desired Canadian blond man (sorry Justin), Ryan Gosling himself. Of course I am talking about La La Land. Quite selfishly, I purchased one ticket. First, I wanted to have this sequence of beautiful scenes peppered with music all to myself. Second, I felt it may be way too intimate to share. Rightly so as I sobbed shamefully for the duration of the last song (to unhidden disguist of the man sat next to me who was in tears as he reached the bottom oh his red wine glass).

If you have not made any resolutions for 2017, I suggest you make an unaccompanied trip to the cinema. Yes, you might receive an odd look from the couple behind you. Resolution number two in such case would be to practice ignoring what other people think. It's deeply inrrelevant. Forget yourself, dream, soak the beautiful colours and sound in! Imagine yourself tap dancing with Ryan Gosling whilst looking at a sunrise over LA. Why? Because you can!

Thank you, Damien Chazelle for picturing this love story stripped of a happy end in such a unique manner. However, your illustration of 'what if' is truly frightening! It is rather disturbing how different your future could be if you made one different choice five years back. If you chose to love yourself a bit more. If you had half of the faith in you that other people had. If you loved jazz enough. And old movies where women were true heroines. Dear Damien, you throw that 'what if' in our open-mouthed faces without a warning. If it wasn't for Emma and Ryan's comforting exchange of smiles at the end, I think I would have given up on the whole idea of trying!

Following my intimate trip to the cinema, I immediately found comfort in the wonder of modern technology or just the reality of everyday life (depends on your age) - Apple Music. With a few taps of my fingers I effortlessly managed to stay in La La Land. On my 15-minute walk home I ended up tap dancing (in a rather poor manner) on every red light. La La Land has welcomed me with open arms. And that's where I am intending to stay for the foreseeable future. DND. 

The art of missing oneself.

Have you ever reached a point in your life when you realised that you actually missed yourself? Not the person that you are now. The person that you used to be a couple of years back. Seemingly, it is the same you but equipped with a machine gun shooting sarcasm, pockets full of scepticism and sprinkling lack of belief on your morning toast. How did I get here? If you have read any other post on this blog the answer is simple - I fell in love. It was mesmerising, exciting, respectful and hear-warming. Just before it turned heart-breaking.

At some point in my life, in September 2013 to be precise, I had it all. I had a decent job, a bank account with savings, a relatively new car, my first house and much more important things. A loving partner in crime, who always listened to what I had to say (even if it took hours to express). He also was not scared to hold me close when sharing his stories. He had black coffee, I had white. He was a night owl, I was an early bird. He was chilled-out, I was constantly on the go. One could say that the only thing we had in common was the passion for red wine and peanut butter. I even called him Peanut. He thought that it was due to the shape of his head. But it was not.

Last weekend I attended a beautiful ceremony filled with family love, warmth, closeness and joy - a wedding of my best friend in Poland. It was a beautiful moment accompanied by many sincere smiles, bride selfies and dancing until 4 am. I was watching people at this wedding. If you are invited to attend these beautiful parties, you know that they can be a source of stomach spasms for single people (so why are you still single? My son has a good job and speaks English. Maybe I will introduce you...). This one was not. However, as I became slightly sadistic in my own head, I couldn't help but wonder: will I ever be the person I used to be? Is it possible to be completely happy and careless again on my own?

Break-ups are hard. You fight over your favourite jumper he once owned. There is the difficult conversations with your mutual friends. The gap that suddenly occurs when you are eating breakfast on your own. But it is not just the external circumstances that change. It is the inside of yourself that suddenly shrinks and fits back into the little shell you just came out of. I watched all these couples at the wedding (as I was one of the two men-less girls at the party) and I could not help being jealous about how free and carelessly people behave when they are connected to another human being by that tiny glittery golden thread sparkling joy called 'love'. People say that relationships limit them. Oh how wrong you are (or you are dating the wrong people). Relationships set us free.

Being in a relationship is just like having a safety net beneath you at all times. If you fall, there is someone there to make sure that you do not hit the ground. Hence the feeling of being scared becoming a distant memory. You march across the world feeling confident, knowing that you do not need to be perfect. Those imperfections make the bond even stronger. And then, suddenly, the safety net is gone. You start watching every step. You introduce routines to not lose control over what you have got left. Probably to an extent that makes your friends diagnose you with OCD (and rightly so).

I want myself back. I miss myself. The naturally careless, awfully imperfect, Noble-worthy clumsy and permanently undecided self.

First world problem: The body suit.

Previously used to show off the bony bits, now used to hide the curvy bits. Either way, a kind of a love of my life, the body suit.

If you do not own one of these right now, I suggest that you purchase yourself a body suit immediately, if not sooner!

Advantages:
-smooths out the imperfections
-makes you boobs look amazing (even if it is a turtle-neck one... please do not ask me why!)
-stays tucked into your jeans/trousers/skirt without the need to perform a weird dance of tucking it back in
-feels... comforting. Is it something we remember from being a baby?
-no need for underwear! bonus!

As magical as this sounds, we all know that things are too good to be true when they truly are to good to be true. As much as I am a fan of body suits, I must admit that the tend to come with a flaw. A major one. I am going to say (write) it out loud - the bathroom situation.

Looking better than ever, you purchase this wonderful piece of clothing and decide to show it off for the first time in its most natural habitat - on a night out. The gals arrive, the conversation is flowing as well as the liquor, you are feeling that you are your most fabulous self! Do you also know that feeling? Yes, I am on top of the world! The cute guy in the corner is checking me out. Naturally, I pretend that I do not notice and play hard to get. My attention being hard to get, of course.

Around midnight (unlike Cinderella) you hit the moment when you have to say 'please excuse me' (or more likely (less lady-like) 'I'm off for a wee wee') and head toward the ginormous queue pouring out of the ladies. Minutes turn into hours but you are managing to keep your face and your eyebrows straight. There you are, at the front. Now minutes are centuries. Open pop the door. You are in girl! Right, zip undone, button undone and you are ready to rock and roll. But are you? Body suit! We all know where things click together. Feeling desperate, you just pull and the 'click' sound brings you the feeling of relief. Sadly, it is time to click it back together.

Cave women may have had no difficulties (and no body suits). Modern women, however, tend to fake a lot, including their nails. Have you ever dropped a penny? It must have been a woman who invented the pound coin. Anything else is not worth the struggle of picking it up with fake nails! Popping the two inseparable pieces of the bodysuit together after a few drinks in a narrow loo with 5-inch heels on is something that even Tom Cruise surrounded by lasers in Mission Impossible would not master! First, you should have listened to your yoga teacher and actually do yoga as opposed to loving the idea of it. Second, the fake nails suddenly seem to be your worst enemy. Most importantly, the fear of falling over and touching the loo floor or walls - beyond disgusting. Balancing somewhere between your crotch and humiliation, you suddenly feel the self-esteem going out of the window. Or being flushed down the toilet, due to the lack of windows. You suddenly feel sorry for olympic gymnasts as that is all they ever wear! And the pressure is on! Remaining calm and only breaking a miniscule bit of a sweat, you manage to straighten your crown and return to the party. If only they knew what happened behind the closed door... 'Did you want another  drink?' 'No, thanks', comes out of your mouth before you think twice.

Ding ding. Round two. And nudes.

Imagine this.

Despite being most sceptical about online dating you decide to give it a go number two (round one was mission rebound a few years back). You work with 35 women, 2 men and 1 gay man who is more female than you. All your friends are married and have married friends. The single men you know are single for a reason (so I am, probably). Phone apps that enable you to 'meet people' are thrown in your face like BOGOF offers at Tesco's.

Please mind that I am the most naive person you will ever come across. My family home was a safe place full of trust where tricks and manipulation were absent. There was only room for good intentions and good deeds. Sounds like a fairytale, right? It was. So here I am. Me vs. the online dating world. The monster that is yet to be tamed.

Full of hope that it will actually provide me with dates, here I go. Reporting ready for duty of searching for love. Swiping left, right and centre. It is a job itself, I am not sure whether you are aware of that. As time-consuming as reading meaningless e-mail threads at work when asking myself 'why am I looped in?'. Still. You get what you give, right? I will invest in this. I will treat it as carefully choosing lottery numbers as opposed to going for the lucky dip.

Episode 15. James. Cute. Tall. Wearing glasses accompanied by a crisp shirt gracefully hugging his manly broad shoulders. A cheeky smile. Boom! Match. Small talk, asks me out after 3 messages (I am so not looking for pen pals so a brownie point scored!). Before I know it, my fingers are typing my phone number and I have a date for Saturday night. And then he texts me. 'Hi, It's James x'. To my surprise, my phone does not display his number. My phone is shamelessly reminding me of how pathetic (and consistent) I am. I could almost feel that Siri was silently laughing on the inside when the text came through. My phone has displayed the following: 'Message from James Tinder'.

Just like Samantha in SATC, I have run out of men. I have yet again fancied the same guy (proves that I am consistent in my choices at least), fallen for the same chat up line, and swapped numbers with James. As scary as this was, I could not help but wonder. Why did we never meet? At this point, as much as I did not remember speaking to him, I was sure we never met. And there is very few reasons that would cross someone off immediately. There was something about James though.... I have decided not to tell James that I had his number (he clearly did not have mine) and go with the flow. Only to find out the reason after two text message exchanges.

'Are you in bed? What are you wearing?'. A little lightbulb in my head lit up with surprise. He tried that before. Tricked me into thinking that a date would happen but all he was after was just nudes. After hitting the same wall repeatedly, I came to a sad conclusion: people do not even want to meet any more. Investing time in dating face-to-face became an inconvenient luxury that is going out of style. Just like perm. Men are content with a cheap thrill caused by home-made porn-like pictures of you touching yourself (have you heard of Google btw?). How did we reach this point? It is both frightening and worrying. We live in an instant society where result is expected at the same rate as iPhones read out fingerprints. Did we grow too lazy to even meet for a one-night stand? Not to mention building a closer bond, a relationship. Are nudes really enough?

I refuse to live in such reality. I will stand strong and remain naive and full of hope that apparently endangered species of love, passion and excitement are not extinct. Just like Carrie in SATC, I need to feel a weight of a man on me. Even if he just lies on top of me for a minute of two.

Second time round.

A simple solution to most of our sophisticated problems, right? Do more of what makes you happy. If you like watching films, watch them. If hiking makes you happy, do it. Maybe it's knitting, painting, sculpting or simply skipping that puts a smile on your face - it doesn't really matter. As long as it makes you happy. Of course I am about to question it (like anything in life, I even question questioning sometimes) with these words: but is there a limit?

If you know me you might as well remember that I love running. Running makes me happy. Definitely. It all started when I was unintentionally inspired by the love of my life (before he turned out to be the love of my life) when I saw how happy it made him. Seeing him grabbing his black coffee and a sweet sticky Danish pastry after a morning run just gave me the idea that there's nothing wrong with putting your left foot in front of the right at a steady pace. Moreover, it clearly would give him a glow and make his smile even bigger.

So I kind of secretly started doing so as well. It took me a while (due to the fear of being called a copy-cat) before I admitted it during one of our long-hours text conversations by asking about the time he normally would complete a lap around our local park in. Now I kind of regret it. The reason being (I've always voluntarily admitted to being competitive), ever since I couldn't get the idea of my joy being defined my time out of my head. Obviously, the more you are into something the better you want to become. The hours spent learning a foreign language, the C++ course you paid for, the flowers you planted in your back garden - we all want to see results. And not just to post them on Instagram but to reward ourselves.

There's very few more amazing things than seeing yourself progress. In anything. But there's absolutely nothing more discouraging than not seeing yourself progress. Not to mention regress. And the problem usually is that the better you become the slower the progress. Be it in exercising, dancing, drawing or playing the guitar. At the beginning things are happening quickly. A week makes a huge difference and you feel that you can move mountains, make plans to shift the extra 2 lbs or play Bach's Cello Suite No 1 in G Major as smoothly as the master himself. It happens. But then, to my surprise, it becomes so much harder (if not impossible) to become... better.

So what happens when you stop becoming better? What happens when you hit the plateau? This morning I was one of the 10 000 women running around Victoria Park in London trying to establish a new personal best. But I didn't. Admitting (just to yourself) that you didn't run faster than last year is so painful and takes the whole joy of the very act of running away. I am the happiest runner when I do not measure anything. When I just go, face the world with no sports watch, no running app. Just me versus the road. Why do we spoil it for ourselves? Is there a point when doing more of the thing that makes us happy starts making us unhappy?

At the point when I'm nearly 30 and should at least be ever so slightly resembling an adult I still find joy in simple things that never stopped making me laugh. For the last 29 years (or maybe 27 since I only learnt to perform them at a certain age) I have been the happiest when eating ice cream, jumping on my bed (despite my mum telling me not to) and blowing bubbles. I think I'll stick to that and put my sports watch away for a while.

Oh how goooood does the good wife look?

Any 'The Good Wife' fans out there? Ok, I am not an expert on exciting series as I still haven't seen 'Breaking Bad', 'House of Cards' or 'Game of Thrones'. Moreover, I am highly unlikely to ever watch it. But I was swept off my feet by Julianna's performance as a power woman. Without going into detail and going on and on about how good this show is, I just couldn't not share this fantastic, classy, sophisticated and mature editorial. After seeing Julianna next to George Clooney (one lucky lady) in pink scrubs in 'ER' for year it's simply mind-blowing! Bring your hand together for team 'The Edit' and Ms Margulies!

Or is she...?

Correct me if I'm wrong but it seems like Mandy Hale is a woman herself. In her humble (yet not so humble as she's being quoted to nearly 5.5 million followers of Word Porn plus gazillions of people they share it with) opinion a woman is more attractive when being vibrant, busy, more than likely fulfilled and independent. I have to admit that I would think so as well, at first glance so here I was about to share it with 350 of my friends on Facebook. But before I clicked the magic blue button I had a second thought: or is she?

Just like Charlotte (SATC), I have been dating since I was 15. Nearly half of my life so far so let's say I've got a bit of experience. That the fact that I have been repeatedly 'rejected' by the opposite sex was  actually very often based on the fact that I was independent, busy, vibrant, self-confident and all things we are pressured to be. Or choose to be as we hate the bleak, ghost-like women who start every sentence with 'my boyfriend says/thinks/does'.

By no means will I go into detail here but there are at least three of my numerous life stories that would support the fact that women like us (strong, independent, etc) are the ones who are not attractive at all. Ok, let me get something straight. We are attractive at the first glance - men gather around admiring our smiles, laugh at stories we choose to tell with a hint of flirtation, offer to spot us at the gym. That's all great. But once they realise that we are perfectly ok on our own they do not see the need to hang around. Unless you're offering a comfortable shag.

Not so long ago I have been told that they (the fabulous men I was involved with) were getting back together/staying with/going to marry yet another girl that was present in their lives (I am not proud to admit that may have been 'the other woman') because, and I quote, 'she needs me', 'she loves me and I can't do this to her', 'she will collapse without me', 'she is not as confident as you', 'I don't want to leave her devastated'. So I was left, collapsed, lost self-confidence but still hopeful that things will be different next time (oh yes, so smart yet so stupid).

Dear Ms Hale. Please spare us this 'quote of the day' which will leave us deluded and thinking that we are right. We aren't. My father once told me that it will be difficult for me to find a good man because I simply don't need one. I got my place on my own, graduated from uni, I can fix cracks, install a dishwasher and check oil level in my car. I wish I couldn't do all that sometimes. I wish someone was there to do it but, as any earthly being, I adapted. So is love a simple relation like the supply - demand one I was lectured about so many times at uni? Is it really that simple? If so, is it my own fault I don't have it because I don't create demand? Or are we facing short supply? Maybe it's a continuous imbalance of both? I'm not really sure how I got my A in economics....

Is timing everything?

24 hours ago I had romance on my menu. A year ago I was crying about the love of my life leaving it permanently. 6 years ago I had the best first date of my life. 7 years ago I was saying my goodbyes to the best people in my life and moving to another country. 12 years ago happened the only event I wish I could take back. 29 years ago (minus 12 days) my mom got her contractions and I decided to take my first breath. But was all that happening at the right time? I am watching the 8th episode of the 3rd season of SATC (remember: when in doubt, SATC) and cannot help but wonder: Is timing everything?

Our lives are determined by the concept of time. We assume what should happen when we are 6-8 weeks old - we should be reacting to loud noises, follow people with our eyes and smile when a random adult is making weird faces at us. When we're 5 we go to school, when we manage to read, write and buy our own lunch we are sent to college and are supposed to figure out who we want to be in life. Then we kind of try to make this happen. We face bumps and dips on this long winding road but it's all still dictated by timing. Getting into the right party at the right time to see him. Leaving the pub a minute earlier to catch the last tram home. Saying 'I miss you' before these words don't mean anything any more.

Yesterday I met my estate agent who happened to be selling another house on the street and he told me that my timing was perfect. Apparently, I already made 20% on my property in the last 24 months. He thought I couldn't be happier but in fact I had other things on my mind. I might've got my first step on the property ladder right but the rest of it was off.

I have met a lot of fantastic people in my life. Some were role models, some were inspiration, some pushed me to learn, others encouraged to move forward, travel and dye my hair blonde. How come that all this stops being appreciated when we meet the right person at the wrong time? I have a feeling that someone is having a great laugh up there. How come fate is so cruel that it makes our paths cross with the best potential partners, fathers of our children and sharers of our mortgages and then, as if by magic, takes them away? It's simply unfair. If it happens once - ok, shit happens. But if it keeps on happening over and over again it changes into plantar fasciitis and makes us unable to walk in any direction for a bit. The inflammation keeps on coming back in the most inappropriate moments and hurts like hell whenever we try to take a step.

It's always something like 'there is that girl I used to date and we're getting back together' or 'I just broke up with someone'. 'I'm moving back to South Africa'. 'I am in no position to give you what you want right now'. 'I need to focus on my career now'. 'I meant to tell you that I just started seeing someone'. I believed every single one of them. But then tonight I couldn't help but wonder: were they real reasons or simply poor excuses? How come it felt so right to get into something that turned out to be so wrong?

Suddenly my life was all about timing. And I was getting it wrong.

And so it is.

Just like you said it would be. No love, no glory. Just another day of getting up early, putting a brave face on and rolling into everydayness. After doing that for 364 days nothing changes. No big bang at the end, no fireworks (yet) and no miracles. Sometimes I imagine that the love of my life turns up on my doorstep with a bouquet of white roses after realising how much he loves me and asks me to run away together. Oh Disney, what have you done to us... And moreover, poor men... As if they would meet your expectations...

But let's have a look at 2014. What kind of year was it? Good and bad. How cliche. I've had my heart broken, phone calls that were never returned and the ones that I forgot to return accidentally on purpose. I broke someone's heart too, made someone dislike me and temporarily became a person even I didn't like at all. I have made my best friend doubt our friendship. I have realised that, despite our differences, there is a person on this planet that will support me no matter what and not judge me too early. I've managed to pay the first out of thirty years of my mortgage, payed all my council tax instalments in time (and that is a huge success for me). I listened to a lot of men moaning about their wives/girlfriends and still not doing anything to change things. I've watched my family argue, my friends get hurt, my bestie giving birth to a baby boy (not literally) and becoming a mummy. I was proud of my brother who was awarded a PhD.  I have visited Portugal, Croatia, Spain and Poland twice. I ran my first women's 10k with Nike and my first half marathon in just over 2h. I hit 60kg on squats. I became a passionate salsa dancer (and many doubted my grace and balance skills over the years). Got a new tattoo. It's been a rather busy one.

New Year's Resolutions? Not for me. I rarely drink, don't smoke, I work out 6 days a week already. I'm still managing to keep the one from 2 years ago of sorting things out as soon as I think that they need sorting out. I recycle, moisturise after every shower and floss my teeth. no need for change really. Room for improvement? Always. Need to stop checking out my ex on social media but that's not going to happen. Ever. So I guess my NY Resolution could be to not fool myself. Ever again. Look at things as they are and stop starting my sentences with but maybe he... What the last year brought me was a massively important lesson. Not about life and how things click. About myself. I've realised that I am capable of pushing someone to the point where they no longer care. I also realised what I will and will not tolerate. What I want and what I don't want. How much I can take before it makes me lose my mind. I've been constantly pushing myself throughout this year and I pledge to carry on doing so.

I'm not a great fan of saying my thank yous on the forum but there is two fantastic people in my life. People that have always been there for me and supported me in every decision, regardless. People that dare to challenge my beliefs to make me see the other end of the stick and people that taught me how to love (although sometimes I wished they hadn't). My Parents. Thank you guys. You're the best! 

I knew you were trouble.

What do these photos have in common? Clearly me. But apart from that they all mean trouble. Serious drama. The inevitable cramp just below the shoulder blade and the wish you were more flexible. The potential embarrassing and slightly humiliating necessity for saying could you help me with that, please? You know what I'm talking about. You know it very well if your ever bought one. The mighty JUMPSUIT. The one that makes you feel and look oh-so-fabulous and regret the decision to wear it every time you need to... powder one's nose.

All these photos were taken about a year ago and actually show you my black-to-blonde transition but that was also the time when I became obsessed with jumpsuits. I've never been what you (so politically incorrectly) call fat but I have not been on the petite side either since becoming a teenager. I never felt comfortable enough to wear a jumpsuit as it would be definitely highlighting my weak points, e.g. mahoosive thighs. You cannot blame me for getting as many jumpsuits as I could when I finally started looking after my body from the inside and outside by eating well and moving a bit more. I would sleep in one if I could. But that would be technically called a onesie. And I swore to myself that I would never own neither a onesie nor a fluffy bathrobe.

Going back to the matter. Jumpsuits are super elegant. As Solange Knowles was quicker to get married then me (as I am nowhere close) I super envy her wedding jumpsuit! It was actually my idea but who's going to believe me now? Jumpsuits are feminine. They make you stand up straight and require heels - yet another excuse to wear them despite my over-pronating tendencies. I feel like a cross between Kate Middleton and Tilda Swinton when I put one on. But when it comes to jumpsuits there is a major down side. It is also worsened by the fact that alcohol makes you dehydrated. Ladies, you know this, gentlemen, you probably don't but going for a wee in a jumpsuit is a nightmare.

That awkward moment when your housemate/lover/mum/bf isn't around and you cannot possibly reach the zip. I wanted to congratulate Topshop for coming up with the idea of having a long piece of string attached to the zip in one of my dresses but why not transfer this fabulous invention onto your jumpsuits? The problems that arise are numerous: first, you wish you stretched during the PE at school. Second, you wish human beings were actually equipped with a go-go-Gadget-arm. Third, you are more than likely in a desperate position (nobody goes when they just start feeling that the might need to go; there's always a story you need to listen to/tell first for fear of missing out). Also, don't forget how things work in life. And I do have a feeling that designers forget about it. What happens when you put your arms up to reach for the zip? Exactly. The camel toe situation is taken to a completely new level! And a rather uncomfortable one!

I haven't actually told you why I'm raising this issue. The big night of the year is coming: NYE. And like every lady on this planet I'm asking myself the inevitable question: what on Earth am I going to wear? Some of us have already taken advantage of Boxing Day sales. Others wait for the UPS man to deliver the goodies. But remember - time is ticking. It will be 8pm on a Wednesday night before you know it. And the level of drama happening in the ladies is not just up to the women discussing how X shagged Z despite dating Y. It's up to you. Feel good, look stunning and wee happy.

Magic over.

The most unbelievable thought of this evening is the fact that the world will go back to normal tomorrow. I beg to disagree. That cannot just happen. It's not about going back to work. Not at all. I am one of the few lucky people that actually likes her job. It's just that from tomorrow morning the magic will disappear. For another year. The days will start getting longer (not that I'm moaning or anything) and the clothes will be getting thinner (hopefully, so will my body). We will all go back to eating breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Women will wear bras for 16h a day and men will go back to drinking standard whisky on a night out.

How lovely was it to have lunch for breakfast? A slice of cold turkey with cranberry sauce never tasted better between two slices of spelt bread. Having salted caramel cheesecake for lunch was even more magical indeed. This year I have also taken on a challenge of cooking Christmas dinner for 10 of my super hungry friends whose families are far away from where we live and I have succeeded (to be honest I watched Mary Berry do it - how much more British can I possibly become?). A little moment of happiness accompanied by laughter, gossip, almond brussels and sticky carrots glazed in maple syrup (yes, Mary, I added my own twist).

The night before I celebrated Christmas Eve in traditional Polish style - all 12 courses of pescetarian dinner. It took us good 2,5h to march trough it snacking on anything consisting of sauerkraut, mushrooms, fish and wash it down with beetroot soup. You can only imagine the relief when it's over and there's only cake left that you struggle to get in but still refuse to opt for a doggy bag. The best thing about being Polish over Christmas is the fact that we get to open our meticulously wrapped gifts approximately 12h before the rest of the world - on Christmas Eve after dinner. How awesome is that? For some reason it felt like cheating to unwrap pressies form my British friends so this year I saved it for the Christmas morning just to keep the excitement in my veins for a bit longer.

But the best thing about the festive period is the fact that you can feel like you're on top of the world. Not like I need a reason to dress up... but it's so much more special on these few days. And it's perfectly acceptable to wear heels indoors. That is just like another gift itself! It's also ok to be merry. For no reason. With no hidden agenda. And nobody judges you for posting a few selfies a day on Instagram! Well, they probably still do but at least forgive you for doing so. For the last four days (minus first few hours of slight hungover this morning) I did not stop smiling. I'm clearly going to hit the point when Santa brings me collagen-based face creams rather soon! But I do not care.

Over the last few days the outer world didn't exist. There was no reality, no chores, no complaints and no grocery shopping. It was magic. Catching up with a few friends when the bird was in the oven, running on Christmas morning, warm rays of midday sun on my face today, the films I watched and the ones I got away from (it's still Christmas without Home Alone). It's been a bliss. I wish I could stay in this moment for a bit longer. Just linger in between the smell of mulled wine and freshly ground allspice. I don't even feel guilty about a few drunken texts. I've had the best explanation for it on this planet - Hey, it's Chritmas!

Are you ready?

Getting ready for Christmas means different things to all of us. To my mom and dad it normally means baking a poppyseed cake. For my friend's husband it's all about making sure that the traditional fish has been ordered in time. For my friend's daughter it means getting a new iPhone. For me, just in case you ever doubted it, it's all about THE DRESS.

One may think it's completely insignificant or even vain. You couldn't be more wrong. We put so much pressure on ourselves during the festive period. The gifts must be thoughtful (and with a receipt attached just in case it doesn't work out). The cards must be personal (or just signed as the mind-reading message is already inside). The bird must be succulent and juicy, be it goose or turkey (with clear juices coming out, just like when Mary Berry elucidates the word prefect and simultaneously produces a perfect smile on her face). The brussels must be tender and sweet (not like the usual overcooked bitter type that everyone remembers from Christmas before).

But what about ourselves? It we were lucky enough and remembered to make a hairdressers appointment back in August we have the roots sorted. If we focused enough by the end of October we managed to grow our nails by hiring a gorgeous looking teenager from the bottom of the road to do the gardening and adopting the yellow gloves into our family (of course one of them breaks a week before and we need to cut them all off with tears in our eyes and seek for a set of fake ones with loads of glitter). If all that, including loosing a few pounds just to have an excuse to put them back on, is in place and the fridge could not possibly stretch any more here comes the BIG QUESTION: what am I going to wear?

As much as Christmas jumpers are a great excuse to avoid this potentially stressful situation, certain ladies, like myself, like glamming up. Especially for Christmas, as well as for no reason at all. In life you can never be overdressed or overeducated. Since I have two MA degrees I must dress up to the standard, right? Or is this a poor excuse? The hunt for the perfect outfit started back in October. For some reason Topshop and all went all crazy with sequins this year. Maybe it's just me growing up, but I don't fancy looking like a disco ball and make all my guests at the table blink every time I move. I've decided to look for something classy.

As nowadays class is a rare quality to find, it appeared to be even harder to find it on the clothes racks. Dear high street, some of us are neither 4ft tall nor 14 and would like to wear a dress that covers a bit more than the bottom of our knickers. Also, not everyone looks like a boy. Hips. Remember hips? That sexy, curvy part of the female body than men are meant to adore? Yes, some of us still have them and would like to put on a dress that doesn't look like it's about to burst open when we sit down (or not go for 3 sizes up and ruin our self-esteem). Despite the lack of light in the tunnel, I am a woman full of faith and even in the beginning of December I still believed that I was going to find THE ONE.

And so I did. Found it. Right in front of me in the cyber digital world of online shopping. Perfect! I would not even have to leave my desk to get it. I couldn't be more wrong. The dreaded: Out of stock appeared in front of my eyes as they filled with tears. The world stopped for a second. My heartbeat went back to normal when I realised that I'm down in London in a few days for a work thing so I can nip out to this shop and pick it up myself. Ok, no need to panic. It turned out that I could be more wrong. They didn't have it. I had to go to another location to check. Still nothing.

But I finally tried one more shop more locally and, to my surprise, they had the last 2 in stock. I had to wait an hour for them to get it from the stock room, The longest lunch of my life! But finally, we found each other embracing in the changing room. I've found THE ONE and did not let go of it. Literally. All eyes in the queue at the checkout were on me. They were all screaming where did you find this? As proud as I was, the purchase has brought me comfort and piece of mind. I was ready. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the perfect little black dress. I hope you are ready too!