Dear Kitty...

The Return of Kitty

2010-03-11T13:21:00.001-08:00

Reader, I married him.

Oh, no, hang about. That wasn't me. That was Jane Eyre.

Hmmm. Well, frankly, i don't know what my excuse is. But I'm coming back. Soon.

What? What? I AM. Jeesus. Talk about trust issues. I'll deal with you later.

In the meantime, keep returning for that new post. Coming soon. Like I said.
And, If you are very nice, I might even let you tweet me your problems.

2009-05-21T14:49:00.000-07:00

Hello, are you still there?

Oh good. How are you? Keeping well? Oh. Really? Well, I'm sure it will clear up. Have you tried the cream?

So....still no column. I'm sure you've noticed that. Unless you are a tad goldfish-like and think that the last column is a new one every time you visit. Are you goldfish-like? Because that would make my job a lot easier. Email if you are goldfishlike. But do it now before you forget.

Anyway, as I was saying...still no column. This is beause I have spent the last six months lying supine on my chaise longue eating bon bons with my Russian lover. Not really. In fact, I have been hutched up in a caravan eating cherry lips with the man from the Prontaprint.

Okay, that was a lie, too. I've just been working on something. More of which later. But there will be more columns coming soon. I swear on my fictional Russian lover's life.

In the meantime, there's a Tunnocks Teacake up there for you. Should keep you going.

Kitty

2009-01-08T14:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,

You're right, of course. It's unforgivable.
I said there would be a column. There was no such column.

Can you be appeased by a picture of a courgette?

No? Well, that says good things about you, I suppose. I mean, what kind of person could be appeased by a picture of a courgette? Not even a real courgette which, let's face it, is unsatisfying enough, but a picture of one? Not you. Never.

Oh well. All I can do is assure you that Kitty will be back. Sometime this year (I feel slightly safer saying that, there's being so much of it left to play with.)

In the meantime, why not check out some mildly diverting musings about TV by Kitty's cousin

Or, if that is even less satisfying than staring at a picture of a corguette, then click here for guarranteed good times.

Kitty

But here's that courguette again, just in case.

2008-11-19T02:55:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,

Okay, "soon" might have been overstating it. But definitely sometime this year.

In the meanwhile, why not spend some time with Flight of the Conchords?

Kitty

2008-10-26T17:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,

Kitty's new column will be uploaded soon.

In the meanwhile, why not spend some time with Morrissey?

2008-10-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I met my idol last week. Things did not go well.

I watched him play this amazing gig and then queued up afterwards to get my album signed. All the while I was waiting I was thinking: “just be cool, be casual, don’t go babbling, don’t tell him how brilliant he is, he probably hears that all the time, don’t be another one of those moon-faced sycophants, he must get so bored of that, and hey, he’s just a regular guy. One who writes the most incredible songs and has a God-like mastery of the electric guitar, true, but just another human being all the same. No need to be fazed what-sooo-ever.”

Thing is, I was so determined not to fawn that by the time I got to the front of the queue and he asked my name I just grunted something unintelligible and glared at a spot behind his head.

Now I have an album signed to someone called Barry and terrible flashbacks whenever I play it.

Why did I have to be such an arsehole?

Perry, Brixton

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Dear Perry,

It is never a good idea to meet one’s idols. But if one of you had to be an arsehole, it’s best that it was you.

I mean, at least you know you’re an arsehole. Imagine how much worse it could have been if you’d managed to strike up a conversation with your hero only to find that he was racist or homophobic or pronounced “kettle” “kekkle.” Entire record collections, not to say lives, have been ruined in this manner. Whereas, lo! Everything is still exactly as it should be, with your man shining and unimpeachable on his pedestal and you gazing up at him, only from a slightly greater distance than before due to feeling marginally smaller.

Still, that probably isn’t much consolation since right now your dreams are obviously dashed; not only that dream of talking to your idol without collecting a disappointing pseudonym but also that more ambitious one in which you mention to him the influence of Allen Ginsberg on his early work, he recognises you as a kindred spirit, invites you to the after show, persuades you to sing backing vocals on his next album, gives you the keys to his gite and demands that you marry his sister. You may be surprised to hear that this is a dream held identically by his entire fanbase, with just a slight variation on the location of the gite.

Of course, it would have been different for you. I mean, you actually ARE a kindred spirit. If only you'd managed to make eye contact whilst simultaneously forming a coherent sentence, you'd be swimming in that outdoor pool with Delores right now. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?

No, you wouldn't. But at least you can still clutch to your heart the possibility of such an outcome, which is more than can be said for the rest of the queue, the eloquent dolts.

And don't worry that your idol now thinks you are a fuckwit, since presumably he will have experienced fans at each end of the adoration spectrum, from the ones who paint his portrait, stalk his mother and hold on to his ankle at the end of a show to those so determined to mark themselves out as intelligent and creative souls that they spend the whole gig with their back to the stage pretending to be engrossed in a packet of Mini Cheddars, a tactic which - and this may be worth noting for future reference - bends so far back on itself to avoid crazy fandom that it ends up cosied snugly next to it.

Kitty

2008-10-10T06:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I love you. I thought you were mine alone.
But now I hear something about you being nominated in the Manchester Blog Awards

I’m stunned. Who are these people? What do they know of your witty fonts or your enchanting hypertext links or the way your hair curls over your polo neck just so?

I don’t want to share you. I can’t. I won't. Not after what happened with my last girlfriend.

So I’m afraid it has come to this: give them up or the dog gets it.

Your No 1 Fan

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Dear No 1 Fan,

Call yourself my No 1 Fan? Have I taught you nothing? Don't you know that the tighter you try to hold onto something the more likely you are to lose it?

I understand your annoyance. Upon finding something to love, most people’s immediate reaction is panic that it might be taken away. In all but three cases this is directly linked to an incident in 3rd year juniors involving a rubber shaped like a hamburger and a very deep puddle.

Alas, such early mental scarring leads to all manner of behaviours, not all of them dog-friendly (and let’s leave aside for the moment the fact that I don’t have a dog, being, as I am, a cartoon character. With allergies.)

The problem here is that fearing the loss of something often brings it about.

Take jealous partners. They fall in love. They are jubilant for approximately a nanosecond. But they're fundamentally unable to believe that life can be so good to them. Instead, they become convinced their girlfriend is going to leave them for someone else. Someone better read or with nicer hair or, indeed, hair. They watch her fervently. They call her fifteen times a day on increasingly flimsy pretexts. They start checking her pockets and hacking her emails and cross referencing her receipts with her Filofax and her menstrual calendar. They break down sobbing on a Friday night and scream that they know their partner is seeing someone else and why can't she just put them out of their misery and admit it?

Eventually, their partner leaves them for someone else. (Strangely, the misery continues unabated.)

Of course, the jealous would say that they knew all along that this was going to happen.

Followers of The Secret would suggest that the jealous attracted this eventuality with their pesky negative thought patterns.

I would hazard that they were probably dumped because they were acting like a psychopath, an approach which rarely enamours one to a new beau, no matter how luxurious one's hair.

Since even hypothetical canicide comes under my psycho umbrella, I'm afraid that you are going to have to learn to let go. Particularly since an advice column with one reader is more accurately described as a counselling session and I shall have to start charging you £45 an hour and making you talk about your mother.

So - what to do? As in all times of great uncertainty, let's look to Sting, who once sagely stated: "If you love someone, set them free." If they come back, they are meant for you. If they don't, they were never yours to begin with.

You are not allowed to shoot them down and stuff them, just to make sure.

Kitty

2008-10-01T07:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I am so sick of hair.

We're not just talking a little upper lip fuzz. This stuff is everywhere. Hair is my nemesis! I am on constant tweezer alert. I scour the internet for miracle cures. I have tried to use an epilator but I’m waiting until they come with an epidural.

And now I’m just so tired I don’t know if I can do it anymore. But that is scarier still. I mean, I’m not entirely sure, because I’ve been tweezing and shaving and waxing and depilating for so long, but I reckon, if I let it all grow out, I’d look a little like Captain Caveman. Only with hairier legs.

You know when they say you should be loved exactly as you are? Does that include with a pelt?

Carly the Circus Freak, Cardiff

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Dear Carly,

Put away the juggling balls and quit hosing down that elephant. You are normal. It’s the world that’s freaky.

Here’s what’s happening: you know how like the world of the tabloids is not the actual real world, but one we have communally decided to believe in and follow in the manner of a soap opera? This is precisely like the world of the feminine.

In real life women have hair sprouting every which way but (unfortunately) loose. It's just that men’s magazines, the porn industry and everyone who lives in Los Angeles have dedicated their lives to encouraging the belief that women emerge from the boudoir each day as smooth as a Barbie. And, in the case of the porn industry, extremely amenable to having sex with the gas man.

Whilst I'm certain the latter only happens during a very dry spell or followingly an unexpectedly-high quarterly bill, the former is a fiction that women recreate each time they arrange a date and then exfoliate, dilapidate, pluck, shave and oil themselves down to within an inch of a beach ball. I mean, how is a guy supposed to know that a little hair is the norm if they’ve never actually seen any?

Happily, the solution is easy. All women need to do is break this stalemate is to go au naturel. Put down the razor. Reveal their true bodies to the world!

So…who’s going first? Was that a tumble weed I saw? (Insert own pubic hair joke here)

Hmm, okay. In order to gain some balance on the situation, I conducted a comprehensive survey:

“The sexiest woman I ever met was incredibly hairy. And French” - Anthony.
“Women should be as hairless as possible” - some guy off the internet.

There you go. Different strokes (excuse the phraseology) for different folks. Though I think you’ll agree that Anthony sounds like a smashing, cosmopolitan kind of guy whilst SGOTI sounds like a tacturn tosser.

Anyway, the problem here is not that you have a touch of the Chewbaccas but that you are deeply ashamed of what is (by virtue of it sprouting out of your body) perfectly natural.

So relax. Stop the high maintenance hair removal for a while and you will soon realise that people won't force you to wear a bell round your neck if your bikini line gets a little growly. Then decide what makes you feel comfortable and remove what the hell you like. Because it doesn’t make you a better person if you don't get out of bed for less than a Hollywood wax or are so body-confident that you french-plait your nipple hair. All that matters is that you can accept yourself without a compulsary three hours of bathroom time.

After all, it is a scientific fact that there is nothing in the world sexier than a woman who adores herself, hairy butt and all.

Kitty

2008-09-16T04:04:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the break in transmission. Kitty's next column with be with you very soon.

Meanwhile, why not spend some time with Rufus Wainwright?

2008-09-05T15:32:00.001-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I think people should have to apply for a license before they are allowed to speak.

Either that or be banned from using such disgusting words in my presence.

I'm not talking about swearing here, I'm talking creepy words. Words which, when I hear then, make me break out in a cold sweat.

This is not a new thing. I have never, for instance, been fond of the word moist. Or mucus. I fail to see why anyone should need to use these words in general conversation, but they do. The fiends.

Then, the other day, the absolute worst happened. My colleague said the phrase "toe cleavage." I had to leave the room.

It's even worse when I listen to the radio. Yesterday, Insomnia by Faithless came on. “Ripping off tights with my teeth” ? Excuse me whilst I lose my lunch. I’m all for freedom of speech, but some people just take it too far. Have they no ear for language? Don’t they understand that words are meant to be beautiful? Why are they doing this to me?

I mean, toe cleavage. How sick is that?

Delicate, Bodleian library

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Dear Delicate,

If you have the remotest love of language then I’m afraid it is your lot to be appalled by others ungainly use of the vernacular. You should probably stop listening to the radio, though, since when it comes to linguistic butchery pop songs are the main offenders, ranging from the tacky (“thong th thong thong thong”) to the tautological (“In this ever changing world in which we live in”) to the just plain tasteless (“I’m as serious as cancer when I say rhythm is a dancer.”) For your own health, I also recommend that you never experience an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.

I am tempted to agree about the license. Personally, I’d like to ban anyone from ever using the phrase “channelling” or saying the word “decade” with the emphasis on the second syllable but, then, where would it end? I know someone who hates with a passion anyone who begins a sentence “To be honest…” I know another who will actually inflict violence upon hearing the phrase “Yada, yada, yada.” And then there are others who literally explode when people use the word “literally” to mean “practically.” Should we shoot the culprits? Well, I suppose we could. But should we? No we shouldn’t. Probably not, anyway. Should we?

No. Because words are just like food. Everyone has different tastes. Most are palatable. Some make us feel violently ill. Others are used in entirely the wrong place, like chocolate in gravy or sprouts in anything. But we can’t just have them banned. Believe me, I tried with sprouts and it just didn’t wash.

True, the unfortunate phrase “toe cleavage” seems to have made its way direct from www.footfetishist.com but it’s in common usage these days (i.e in Grazia) so you’ll have to put up with it. And be thankful your colleague didn’t go on to tell you about toe jam, a delightful phrase denoting the gunk that collects between your digits.

Now that really is disgusting.

Kitty

2008-08-29T10:11:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

My husband and I are having an argument.

Let me set the scene: I am a light sleeper. Other people’s eyelashes wake me up. The husband, on the other hand, is not. Bulldozers. Fire drills. Now That’s What I Call Bouncy Hardcore 5. He can snooze through them all.

So I tend to wake him in the morning when the alarm goes off. I don’t have to get up for another half hour but I still rouse myself and give him a little shove then nag at him until he gets out of bed, such is the extent of my loveliness.

But the other morning, I forgot. I was having this dream involving a tub of marshmallows and the cute guy from Heroes and, when the alarm went off, I may only have muttered: “you need to get up now, darling.” In truth, I may not have muttered anything at all.

The next thing you know, the marshmallows have melted, it’s eight twenty eight and the husband is late for an important meeting. And he’s livid. At me!

Which brings us to the argument. He says that we have established a pattern involving my waking him up every morning and that if I am going to break with protocol I should pre-warn him so he can make alternative arrangements or risk him becoming apoplectic when he’s still in his boxers when he should be in the boardroom.

I say he’s an ungrateful arsehole.

Which one of us is right?

Incensed, Edinburgh

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Dear Incensed,

Your husband is an ungrateful arsehole. But then, you made him that way.

This is a common enough problem. The great thing about marriage is that you have a buddy to help you out – to make you dinner and remind you about the dry cleaning and pick you up from town when you’re drunk on White Russians.

And when you first move in with someone, doing things for the person you love is a veritable joy. Of course I’ll iron you a shirt, you may trill, delighted by the novelty of it all, little realising that in six months time your partner will be flouncing into a sulk because their cuffs are a little creased.

This is because good deeds are governed by the law of diminishing returns. You can plot this on a graph – try it at home. Do something for your partner once, and it’s appreciated. Twice, it’s a happy trend. Four or more times and it will go completely unnoticed until you stop doing it, whereupon your partner will react as though you just sold their kidney.

Of course, you don’t want to stop doing nice things for your husband, if only because you don’t want to stop drinking White Russians, but you do need to stop him taking you for granted. The only way to do this is let him get himself up for a while, the big lump.

This will not be easy. There's a reason why the saying: “Start as you mean to go on” has been popularly adopted whereas: “Change your tactics halfway through” never really caught on. Be aware that, as well as fighting your husband’s inevitable disgruntlement, you will also be battling your inner control freak: lying there listening to the alarm, hearing your husband’s gentle, oblivious snores and knowing that he’s probably going to be late for work, all without giving him a shove, will require titanic resolve and/or prescription medication.

But you can do it. And you must. If in doubt, try to remember his outrageous rudeness. Remind yourself he is a grown man. Ask yourself - how did he get to work on time before he met you?

If the answer is ‘his mother’, then I suggest you buy some industrial earplugs and steel yourself. This may take a while.

Kitty

2008-08-22T09:19:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

Married women, yes or no?

Ginko, Kings Cross

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Dear Ginko,

Are you a hot Italian with very little English? Do you harbour an image of yourself as a naughty boy? Do you always really like the way clothes look on other people? Do you have a fear of bookshops but a fondness for libraries? Are you reluctant to join a club that would have you as a member? Do you have a morbid fear of possessing your own lawnmower? Are you a hot Italian with very little English? Are you unable to manage a whole relationship the way some people can’t manage a whole muffin? Have you ever made a practice of confusing people? Is anybody looking for you? Do your legs ever move on their own? Have you ever made a planet, or nation, radioactive?

Oh hang on, I seem to have slipped into a Scientology questionnaire there.

So affairs. Pretty much everyone is having them but, like perms circa 1981, that doesn’t mean they're a good idea.

There are two possible scenarios here. Well, okay, there are 5623 but I’ve got Tom Cruise on hold, so let’s just deal with these two.

The first is that the woman you've fallen for and want to spend the rest of your life with just happens to be married, which is bad news: not because divorces are a bit of a faff but because this suggests your beaux deals with marital disharmony by outsourcing her sex life. If you marry her she could feasibly do the same to you. And how could you possibly object?

The second is that you are only after the exhilaration induced by furtive texting, urgent fumbling and deliberately orchestrated sexual frustration, which is bad news: not because becoming involved with someone else's partner is dastardly or cad-like or bewitchingly risque but because people who have sex with the married/engaged/otherwise committed generally only do so because they are too wimpy to live up to the demands of a proper relationship. This, need you be reminded, is deeply unsexy.

Muffin?

Kitty

2008-08-14T09:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I am a nice, well balanced, not obsessive individual. My internal matchmaker, however, is another matter.

Take the other day. I was having a latte outside this coffee shop when I got talking to a French Canadian guy.

Ah! my normal self was thinking. How nice it is that two strangers can spark up a conversation like this! He seems like a lovely chap. What a beautiful day. Mmm, fab latte.

All the while, my matchmaker was whispering: “Is he coming on to you? He’s pretty attractive, but kind of old, how old? Hard to tell, I wonder if he’s into art, I wonder if he likes dogs, he seems nice, maybe 35, is 35 too old for me? I wonder if the French Canadian thing would be an issue, I bet he would get on with my brother, we’d have gorgeous kids, maybe he’s 28 but has had a hard life, he seems sort of softly spoken, probably he’s too passive for me but hey, great arms, what’s that tattoo all about," and so on and so on, until we’ve had a torrid affair, got married, moved to Quebec and divorced due to cultural differences, all before the froth on my latte has cooled.

I just want an easy life. Why can’t this voice in my head let me chat to someone about the weather without measuring him up for a tux?

Not Desperate, Edinburgh

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Dear Not Desperate,

That voice in your head; next time you phone home, try to notice if it sounds like anyone you know. It may be your mother, or that married friend who’s obsessed with your love life or perhaps it's the voice of society, piped directly into your lugholes, urging you to couple up immediately or sooner, causing you to size up the suitability of everyone you meet with Terminator-style vision.

You can’t help it. You’re only human. Well, part human, part psyborg.

But you may as well forget it, because as well as being exhausting this kind of analysis is entirely pointless since there is no way of discerning someone’s personality from a quick squiz at their biceps and a chat about biscotti. The Terminator knows this, which is why it asks so many questions yet leaves so few gaps for answers.

Also, beware. Spend too long fantasising about what a guy may be like and analysing your compatibility based on his choice of hot beverage and you may be too pre-occupied to hear him tell you he's gay or married with seven kids or that he just tried to ask you out but eventually gave up because you seemed a soupcon distracted. And because your eyes took on this scary red gleam he saw in a film once.

Kitty

2008-08-03T08:40:00.000-07:00

Kitty is away

2008-07-27T11:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

So, dating is evil. Who knew?! There I was, comfily ensconced in my ho-hum relationship and nobody told me that if I decided to call it quits I would be entering a whole new world of pain and stilted conversations about data mining.

I heard that if someone has the guts to ask you out then you should grant them one date, whoever they are, because you just do not know who is going to turn out to be your perfect man. But it’s horrendous! I go for dinner and there’s zero chemistry and you know that you don’t want to see the guy again and, due to the whole zero chemistry thing, you’re pretty certain he won’t want to either but NO! He calls up the next day and asks when can we do it again!

I have perfected the noise ‘hmmmmmfff’ as the middle ground between 'yes' and 'no.' I have taken to call screening. Is having them killed an extreme solution?

Dating Demon, Bristol

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Dear Dating Demon,

Trying to find a nice way to tell someone that you didn’t enjoy their company enough to repeat the experience is like trying to poke them nicely in the eyeballs. Whichever way you come at it, your date isn’t going to leave the conversation feeling like you are a hot version of Mother Theresa.

Nonetheless, you need to be honest. Yes, this will make you wildly unpopular for a limited time, but there you have it. Do you want to find a decent guy, or do you want to marry a bank manager because you were too polite to tell him you find his moustache repellent and you can’t stick golf?

Since, homicidal tendencies aside, you seem like a caring sort, try thinking like this: you are not the right person for the man in question, and by letting him go you are freeing him up for the woman who is. Yay, you. Also, rein in that ego, missy. Since these men have met you a handful of times at most, the news that you don't want to spend the rest of your life with them is unlikely to send them running for the paracetamol unless you are extraordinarily good at fellatio.

Sadly, there is no way of rejecting someone and having them simultaneously adore you. Well, okay, there is, but this is the scourge of romantic entanglements and involves giving hope, in various cunning and imperceptible ways, that one day your feelings might change. This is despicable behaviour and must be avoided, no matter how fabulous it makes you feel. Instead, grit your teeth and at the end of the date, when your man asks when he can see you again, tell him never. You are not allowed to bat your lashes or bite your lip as you do so.

How you do it is up to you. Tell them they're lovely but you just don’t feel the chemistry. Mention how they remind you of your younger brother. The gay one. Or, if they still don’t get the message, you may want to borrow a phrase from Groucho Marx: “I've had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn't it.”

Kitty

2008-07-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

People say that time heals all wounds. And we have the recordable DVD now, right? So why can’t someone invent a fast forward button you can press after a break up? A year if you want to think about dating other women. Three months if you want to hear her name without feeling sick. Two weeks if you want to stop obsessively calling her house and hanging up.

Great idea, no? All of this is just dead time anyway since I’m just dragging my body around, not eating, not working, not sleeping, not listening to any conversation if it isn’t about her.

Okay, so maybe a fast forward button is unrealistic. How about cryogenic freezing? Or cloning? Or, I mean, is it too much to ask that my dentist put me into a coma until the urge to park outside her workplace has gone? (Apparently it is, but the Constable was very understanding.)

Maybe I should just stick to the original plan: spend the next six months drunk with a notice round my neck saying ‘sober me up in 2010’? The cryogenic freezing would be better on my liver, that’s all.

Fed Up, Burnley

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Dear Fed Up,

Whoever said breaking up was hard to do was a fuckwit. Step aerobics is hard to do. Grouting is hard to do. Breaking up is like hell, only not quite so jovial. Aside from the fact that your life has lost all meaning and you’ve no-one to send to the chip shop, there’s the brain-melting tedium of being broken-hearted: the helpless rerunning of every nano-second of your relationship trying to work out what went wrong, the unbearable pathos when you hear ‘your song’; the uncontrollable weeping every time you see a scotch egg.

Eventually, sometime after you’ve bored your friends, family and Avon lady into impromptu emigration, you’ll begin to get sick of the sound of yourself thinking. In lieu of an off switch for the brain, this is when being hit by a car starts to seem like an attractive prospect.

Alas, it won’t help. Even when the greatest scientific minds in the world do get round to mastering time travel, you could skip two years into the future and still feel like shit. Just a bit more confused about what’s happening in EastEnders.

This is because, annoyingly, it isn’t time that heals all wounds, but what you go through during that time: the wondering how to get her back, the late night agonies over whether she’ll return your call; the growing feeling that maybe she was a bit of a psycho midget bitch.

Until one day, you open your eyes and she isn’t the first thing you think about. Just the second or fourth. Not fast, admittedly, but definitely a step in the right direction.

Also, do you think that you might be fed up because you live in Burnley?

Just a thought.

Kitty

2008-07-11T12:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I need an image change. Something dramatic. I’m thinking I might shave all my hair off, a' la Sinead O’Connor.

Whaddaya think?

Destiny, London

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Dear Destiny,

Are you drunk? If so, do not enter a hair salon, a tattoo parlour or an army recruitment centre. Also, you probably should have stayed away from that deed poll service.

I’m going to take a flying leap here and guess that you are in a certain stage of a romantic disillusionment. Say you’ve been let down once too often by a long term partner or firmly rebuffed by your hot gynaecologist.

Whilst initially heartbreak will result in nothing more dramatic than a pair of three week old pyjamas, eventually even the morose get bored. Out with the old, a right thinking girl will cry, and in with the new, reaching for her credit card as she does so.

This is a wonderful place to be, but it does have it's niggles. Many a person, still mentally vulnerable, has embraced their new life by buying a slash neck leather catsuit and a pair of fake fur panda bootees. This may be a life, but it will be a lonely one.

So don't try to shave that man right out of your hair. It’s unlikely to be pretty. You know Britney’s meltdown with the clippers? That wasn’t a meltdown. It’s just that, like hundreds of women, she was secretly convinced she had the bone structure to carry off a skin-head. Sadly, once she was halfway through she realised that she actually had a head like a pudding, since it has been clinically proven that the only person who can carry off a Sinead O’Conner is Sinead O’Conner, by virtue of her 25% larger-than-human eyes.

So don’t do anything hasty. The last thing you need is your hypothetical ex to see you with a pudding head/neck tattoo/tank.

Why not just do what everyone else does? Cut your hair, dye it blonde and get down the gym. Or, if you still feel the need for total hair removal, opt for a Hollywood wax. It will still make you feel like a whole new woman and, at least this way, if you don’t like the effect you won’t have to wear a hat.

Unless you really were dating your gynaecologist.

Kitty

2008-07-06T06:06:00.001-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I am a bad person. Well dressed, but bad.

I watched that Panorama documentary the other week about Primark. Coincidentally, I had been in that day and spent a fortune (in Primark pounds = 40) on holiday clothes. But after seeing that nine year old testing individual sequins for 60p a day I said, that’s it, this beautiful faux-leather bag for £6 (£6!) is the last thing I’ll ever buy from Primark. I am a Fair Trade girl from now on.

I ordered a People Tree catalogue online. I resolved to write to Top Shop enquiring about their ethical status. I even considered shopping in M&S.

Then I met my sister for lunch. “I just need to pick something up from Primark,” she said. “Oh, did you not catch that documentary…?” I began, before becoming distracted by a pair of beautiful shoes.

“These are absolutely the last things I’ll ever buy from Primark,” I said, as I handed over £15 for the shoes, a top and a zebra-print bag.

What sort of resolve is that? I’m pathetic.

But then, what are my ethical clothing options here? I do not want to be responsible for contributing to slave labour. But on the other hand, where else am I going to find a pair of culottes for £3?

Torn, Belfast.

*********************************************************

Dear Torn,

It is good that you are developing a conscience as a consumer. It’s bad that you wear culottes.

That aside, you are not precisely evil. Just, like most of us, ethically wibbly, the sort who buys reusable carrier bags but forgets to take them to the supermarket, the sort of person who occasionally throws a jar in the bin, only to fish it out again covered in shame (and pasta sauce).

However, now you’ve decided to take a stand, don’t be put off by your sartorial slip. This is Primark we’re talking about. It’s no coincidence that you were shopping there that day since, as recent reports suggest that £1 in every £4 spent on clothing is spent in Primark, statistically, one is more likely to get hit by a meteor than not know someone who’s just popped in to pick up that gold sequinned shrug.

This is because Primark has a Demon Headmaster effect on the human brain. Remember those old rumours about how McDonalds used to coat their fries with some addictive substance? Primark does the same: the ridiculously low prices create a sort of hypnotic effect. This is why one pair of peep-toe espadrilles should be enough for any girl, but once you are in there, only fifteen will do.

So, to boycott Primark, you need to avoid setting foot through the doors. Or even passing the window. In fact avoid the entire postcode, since even the strongest of political consciences would weaken at the whiff of a £10 party dress.

NB There’s no sense in transferring your business to M&S, not only because their clothes will make you look menopausal, but because many of the high streets who charge far more than Primark use the same sweatshops. They just hide it with a nifty 600% mark up.

Instead, why not make good on your promise to badger your favourite stores for reassurance? The more people who ask for a guarantee that the clothes onsale haven’t been fashioned by a team of nine year old refugees working by candlelight until their fingers bleed, the more a shop will take accountability for its supply chain. Greater transparency is the answer (only not in white tops, please.)

Alas, until that time, the only way to ensure a completely clear conscience is to buy vintage and, in this instance, such virtue really does have its own rewards: fewer, better quality clothes, more wardrobe space, a Sienna Miller-esque boho glow and the assurance that you won’t be the eighth person at the party in that babydoll top.

Kitty

2008-06-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I think I may have fallen out of love with my city.

I used to adore it. And I know that it still has some wonderful attributes. But I just can’t see them. All the things I loved about it just irritate me now. I don’t get those butterflies I used to. Every morning I wake up and it just seems ordinary and boring and annoyingly predictable.

Also, I’ve been seeing somewhere else.

So far it’s just been the odd weekend, but I think I might be developing feelings. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m checking estate agents websites and practicing writing my address and having these elaborate fantasies about how happy we could be together.

I don’t know what to do. Should just call it quits with my home town and move to this new, fabulous place? Or am I crazy to give up something steady and reliable for some flashy city I hardly know?

Searching, location undisclosed

****************************************
Dear Searching,

You can usually tell someone is ready to leave a city when they haven’t had a good thing to say about it for the last 12 months. And they never notice it’s had a haircut.

This might be you. However, before you drag out your suitcase and start dismantling the roller-blinds, you may care to explore the other possibilities, namely that:

a) This is just a blip. Most relationships have them. You know the sort of thing, the magic has gone, you take the other for granted, you’re constantly nagging about the way your city strews kebab papers everywhere and smells unpleasant and won’t do anything exciting on a week night.

But, if you remember what first attracted you both, you may find you’re still right for each other. So, you need to put the spark back. Advice regarding this sort of thing can be found in every glossy women's magazine: spend quality time/try new things/parade up and down in suspenders and a wig. If none of that makes you feel better, consider…

b) Asking your friends. Since our friends routinely see the end of our relationships about eight months before we do, they are best placed to give guidance in this area. Casually enquire of them: “Do you see me and X together in a year’s time?” and if they laugh so hard they squirt coffee out of their nose, this may be a good juncture at which to:

c) Take a break. Admittedly, most breaks are just break ups in instalment form, but some do manage to reunite previously disenchanted lovers. Probably. So - take a month and stay elsewhere. Have no contact with your city. Do not visit. Do not call, Do not get drunk and pop round for a cuddle. If, after 30 days, you’ve a new bounce in your step and you’ve forgotten your postcode, then it’s definitely time to:

d) Break up with your city. Yes, it will be traumatic, but just because things didn’t last between you, doesn’t mean you didn’t have some wonderful times. And you’ll definitely stay in touch, right?

Actually, the delightful thing about dumping your city is that, you could leave in a blaze of hubris and, if things don’t work out with the new place, your city would always take you back. And it won’t even make you grovel.

Alas, I can’t promise the same for your friends.

Kitty

2008-06-27T12:17:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the break in transmission.

Please click here

Normally service will be resumed shortly.

2008-06-20T13:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I’ve just moved into a smart new flat and want to liven up the walls. I found a great print of the “Dodge This” moment in The Matrix but my best friend tells me no. She says if I put that poster up on my wall, no woman will ever strip naked in my living room again.

Can this be true? I thought it was cool. I mean, I know the sequels were pretty abysmal, but I reckon the original film stands up to scrutiny.

Eamon, St Andrews

********************************************

Dear Eamon,

Unless you are inviting Mark Kermode round for a nightcap, I think you may be missing the point here.

Let’s picture the scenario: You meet someone. You ask her back to yours. Straight away, our girl is deciphering the information contained within with forensic, CSI-esque detail. She can’t help herself. “Nice couch,” she’ll think. "Cute rug.” Then, “Hmm, a film poster. And yet he left college in 1992…”

Soon enough she’ll have you pegged as the kind of guy who owns a bong, carries a rucksack decorated with band names and likes to reminisce about children’s TV. Arrested adolescence, she'll think. Fantasy addict. Probably another bigamist. Next thing you know, you’re percolating the coffee, she’s squeezing out the cat flat.

Even if she adored The Matrix and thinks film posters are the epitome of sophistication, she won’t want to get naked under a picture of a PVC-clad Carrie-Anne Moss any more than you would want to share a bed with a cardboard cut out of Colin Firth. Unless you would, of course, in which case that’s a whole other column.

While we’re on the subject, other things you should avoid putting on your walls if you ever want to have sex again include (but are not limited to): wood chip; a dart board; blown up photographs of your naked ex-girlfriend; a Samurai sword; blown up photographs of your naked self; a map of the world with pins in it; pictures of wizards; a black and white image of a tennis player scratching her bum. Dogs playing snooker (unless your apartment simply bleeds ironic kitsch in which case we’re probably back on that other column); a Nuts calendar; Floor-to-ceiling mirrors; anything stuffed.

If in doubt, invest in a fabulous piece of art and try to convey your preferences through your scintillating conversation. A wall hanging, lest we forget, is not a substitute for a personality.

Kitty

2008-06-12T18:18:00.000-07:00

Kitty is still away

2008-06-05T17:36:00.000-07:00

Kitty is away

2008-05-31T12:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

Since my ex left me at the altar, I’ve become addicted to horoscopes. I have a few trusted suppliers: Shelley Von Strunckel; Jonathan Cainer; Russell Grant…ah Russell, I have warmed to your cuddly charms.

Is it wrong to wait up until 12.01am to get my horoscope for the next day? Wait, don’t answer that.

Okay, do.

Because I’m afraid it’s getting out of hand. I refer to the Mercury retrograde in polite conversation. I’m tempted to ring a premium rate phone line for my annual report. And last week I called up my ex because Jonathan Cainer told me to. Well, he said: “You are due to make a breakthrough in your personal life” which amounts to the same thing, right?

Wait, don’t answer that.

Okay, do.

Starstruck, Brighton

********************************************

Dear Starstruck,

When one is rudely dumped, it is only natural to wonder what the hell happened. This is swiftly followed by wondering what the hell might happen next and, hot on the heels of this comes a scrabble to predict the future, so as to avoid any more unpleasant surprises involving a hundred assorted relatives and a ten-tier cake.

Hence the reliance on horoscopes. Ditto Tarot readings, Angel Cards, numerology, the I Ching and, in cases of extreme personal distress, tea-leaf readings from the woman down the pound shop.

This is fine. Heartbreak is evil, so, you know, whatever gets you through the night (so long as it’s not crack/Mystic Meg).

Of course, if you are starting to compose your life around the alignment of Neptune, you’re bound to feel a trifle self-conscious, since it's a commonly held belief that a more-than-passing interest in astrology is often followed by the wearing of a tie-dye blouson and/or indoctrination into a suicidal cult. This is why most people, when checking their horoscope at work, will minimise the screen as soon as anyone walks past and, when asked, pretend they were browsing porn.

But. Horoscopes. Hmmm. Here’s the thing: they can't tell you the future. The future doesn’t actually exist yet, so trying to figure out what’s going to happen in it is a bit like trying to guess the plot of a non-existent soap opera. Anything could happen. All you can do is cross your fingers and hope it doesn’t turn out like Albion Market.

Amusingly, horoscopes can help create the future, being, as they are, inkblots for one’s subconscious.

For instance, a person may tell themselves that they really want their nice steady job and their loving, stable partner but if their horoscope persistently tells them that change, adventure and excitement beckon, then what they really want is to cross the Pacific with a twenty year old boogie-boarder. Meanwhile, another Scorpio might read the exact same horoscopes and decide to go wild and decorate the downstairs loo.

That's why, if you really want to call your ex, you’ll be able to rearrange the words “on” “no” “account” “call” “your” “ex” into a suggestion that making contact with your erstwhile fiancé is your actual destiny.

The useful thing here is that our subconscious works out what’s good for us approximately six months before we do, so eventually you’ll find that your horoscopes begin to talk of new horizons, fresh perspectives and a change for the better, which, generally speaking, means you are about to get laid.

Until then, don’t feel you need to stop checking your horoscope.

But do stop checking his.

Kitty

2008-05-30T14:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers

This week's column will be posted on Sunday.

Meanwhile, why not spend some time with Leonard Cohen and Christian Slater?

Kitty

2008-05-23T15:50:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

Are people really, truly, meant to manage their own lives?
Because, frankly, I don’t see how. Mine feels like a job share where the other employee’s gone AWOL with the keys to the filing cabinet.

As time goes on, the list of things I don’t know how to do just gets longer, while the can-do list grows ever-more irrelevant since, aged 26, no-one’s particularly interested that I can do a one-handed cartwheel.

I don’t get it. How does everyone else know how to do life? Did I miss a memo?

Baffled, Bolton

******************************************

Dear Baffled,

Most of us imagined that one day we would be greeted by a knock on the door, awarded a badge in the manner of Jim’ll Fix It, and thereby pronounced an adult, bestowing us with sexual confidence, financial acumen and the ability to complain in restaurants.

Then, around the mid-twenties, the horrible truth dawns: there will be no such knock. Absurdly, it seems you have to go through life the same childish dolt you always were, except that instead of trying to work out the angle of a ladder or collecting novelty rubbers you’re negotiating your mortgage rate and getting a divorce. No wonder your Dad stole your train set and your maths teacher was always drunk.

Naturally, this news comes as quite a shock, since a proper adult life is a demanding beast. That’s why many of them do involve a job share. It’s called a relationship.

Take a look around you. Opposites are attracting all over the place, and with very good reason. Your married friends may assure you they were drawn to their husband's twinkly eyes and amusing shirts but it was his ability to de-scale a kettle which finally swung it. Similarly, he fell desperately in love with her the moment she navigated them round Spaghetti Junction. Lo! They joined forces and became a complete person. This is very similar to Plato’s theory of soulmates as expounded in the Symposium, except with more emphasis on D.I.Y.

This also explains why break ups are so traumatic. Not only do you lose their love, their company and about two stone in weight, but you’ve got no-one to tell the Jehovas Witnesses to piss off.

So. You have two options. You can pinpoint your weak areas, work on them, and turn into the sort of fully-rounded human being the like of which the world has rarely seen. Or you can find someone to fill in the gaps.

But be warned: If you choose the latter you may need to develop a few more life skills since gymnastics, whilst pleasing in some quarters, will not a life run. And no job sharer wants to feel they are doing all of the work that doesn't involve a crash mat

So. Can you cook? Are you sociable? Do you love more than anything to re-grout the bathroom? Fine. Then find someone who delights in accounting, adores to drive and is never happier than when banging in a trellis and there you have it, a successful life, all of your own!

Only halved.

Kitty

2008-05-22T07:28:00.000-07:00

Dear readers,

Kitty thinks that this might just be the funniest thing she has ever seen. Ever.

So damn twisted.

Kitty

2008-05-16T09:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I’m seeing this new man who adores me. He takes me on expensive holidays. He strokes my hair. Sometimes, when we’re sitting there on the sofa, he’ll look at me as though I’m the most wonderful thing in the world. It’s fantastic!

Okay, it’s kind of annoying.

Worse: last week I got a call from the ex. The one who wouldn’t hold my hand in public. The one who told people we were just friends even when we were having mind-blowing sex. The one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. He says that he misses me and that we should get married because he thinks I’ll be good for him.

Six months ago I dreamed about this every night. Now I don’t know what to do. My stomach is all topsy-turvey. I’ve broken out in a rash. I can’t look my new man in the eye.

Why now?

Sarah, Kent

************************************************************
Dear Sarah,

Why now, you ask? When else? I retort, since your ex is clearly The One Who Wants What They Can’t Have (TOWWWTCH), a creature bestowed with a sixth sense which allows them to discern the exact moment a previous partner is moving on with their lives, whereupon which they return with a flourish having been struck like a thunderbolt, only harder, by the strength of their true feelings.

Difficult though it might be to resist his romantic phone proposal, accept it at your peril. Your ex’s feeling will appear completely genuine only until you make yourself available again, at which point he’ll remember a seven year conference in Dubai he can’t get out of.

But what to do about your new man? This is a tough call. He may seem like a superkeen desperado but your judgement might be off. After dating TOWWWTCH it can come as quite a shock for a girl to realise that, in certain circles, returning calls, making eye contact and not thrusting one's partner behind a Yukka plant when one's friends go by is considered normal relationship behaviour.

Or he may be a superkeen desperado. If so, don’t hate him, since you were one yourself not so long ago. Did you not spend excessive amounts of money on your ex? Did you not feel the need to touch him constantly? Did you not gaze at him with eyes which were decidedly cow-like? Of course you did. If you were pondering why this approach didn't work, notice how it makes you want to stove your man’s head in with a crock pot.

Of course, no right thinking person wants to end up with either TOWWWTCH or a superkeen desperado, since closets and pedestals and both decidedly uncomfortable places to be. Best get rid of them both and go out and find someone who knows you’re not God’s gift to humankind but wants to hang out with you anyway.

But maybe take care of that rash first.

Kitty

2008-05-09T15:09:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I tried to finish with my girlfriend yesterday but somehow It didn't work out. I told her all the reasons that we weren’t right for each other but she just countered every argument, promised that things would improve, and now we’re engaged.

How did this happen?

Graham, Manchester

******************************************

Dear Graham,

In these testing times, where good men are hard to find, a certain breed of women have begun adopting their relationship tactics from telecommunications companies. Trying to leave these women is like trying to leave a particularly aggressive Internet provider. Many a man has called on such a partner with the full intention of ending the relationship only to find, upon leaving, that he has locked himself in for another 18 months.

But all is not lost, since you are well within your seven day cooling off period. If you are truly dissatisfied, and want the chance to start a new, more rewarding relationship with somebody else, then you need to finish with your girlfriend again. And properly this time.

But you must be prepared. Now your girlfriend is aware that you intend to leave her, she will, in the best Internet service provider tradition, become extremely difficult to contact. You will call. You will email. You may spent several hours on hold to her mother. This is all designed to be so tedious and exhausting that you eventually feel it's easier just to leave things as they are.

Do not give up. Eventually you will make contact and when you do, you must retain focus. It is over. You want out. No means no. Do not be beguiled by talk of free gifts, service upgrades or lump sums of cashback. Refuse to be alarmed when your girlfriend threatens that, while you might be unhappy with your current circumstances, you will only end up being screwed even worse by the competition. Once you have managed to terminate your relationship, it may be prudent to get something in writing.

Of course, if your partner has learnt her tactics from a particularly sneaky organisation, there is no guarantee that she won’t just keep on coming around to your house as though nothing has happened, even if you already have a new girlfriend installed. At this stage it would be helpful to get the relationship Watchdog, Offrom, involved, except this is where the analogy breaks down since sadly there is no such thing as a relationship Watchdog.

In fact, as many a broadband customer will testify, it is probably easier all round just to move house. And promise yourself that, next time, you'll only go with someone recommended by a friend.

Kitty

2008-05-03T16:01:00.001-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I’ve been off sick with this evil bug. A whole week spent sweating and retching and watching Judge Judy. Actually, that might explain some of the retching.

Regardless. On about day five of lying on my sofa eyeballing women in scrunchies it hit me, clear as anything. My life sucks!

My job is totally soulless. My flat is the size of a biscuit tin. And my social life is Do Not Resuscitate.

But that’s okay. Because I’m not going back to my life. I’m handing my notice in and getting a new one. I just need to decide: should I join the Mormons or dig wells in Africa?

Life changer, Sunderland

**************************************
Dear Life Changer,

Good on you. Go for it. Make a difference. Those heathens/wells aren't going to bore themselves.

But you might just want to hang fire until your temperature drops below 40.

Because enforced solitude can do funny things to a person. Stripped of the routines and demands of daily office servitude, deprived of those little cups of coffee and relieved of the need to apply extra-volume mascara, a person will, if they are not extremely careful, begin to develop a malicious ennui. Add to this a high fever and the festival of wretchedness that is daytime TV and two paracetamol every four hours just doesn’t seem enough.

This is a perilous time. Many an individual has woken up from a severe bout of flu to find they have emigrated, bought a cow or had their uvula pierced. If you find you’ve done all three, you’ve probably joined a Kibbutz.

And there’s really no need, since you are almost certainly just depressed. Instead of moving to Africa, try switching off the TV, opening a window or burning those sweatpants.

Of course it might well be that your life actually is pitiful and a week of watching polyester-clad polygamists just helped clarify the matter, in which case go ahead and resign from being you. Just don’t forget to steal some stationery from yourself on your way out.

Kitty

2008-05-02T02:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

This week's column will be uploaded on Sunday. In the meantime, why not spend some time with Woody Allen?

Kitty

2008-04-25T01:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I’ve been flirting with an old college acquaintance who found me on Facebook. At least I think that’s what I’ve been doing.

Because, there I am, putting out my best lines and waiting for him to ask me out and…nothing! His replies, whilst frequent and perfectly chatty, completely ignore my advances.

What to do?

There is the slender possibility that my flirting skills are not what they were. And I don’t want to miss out on a date with this guy, who I remember as being quite the catch, because he didn’t realise I was interested.

But I have a horrible feeling this is how stalking starts. You know, you tell yourself they just don’t know how you feel and, soon enough, you’re pinning them to the floor with a power drill and screaming if you can’t have them, no-one can.

Uncertain, Whitchurch

******************************

Dear Uncertain,

Communication, whilst always tricksy, has become impossible with the arrival of Facebook. Once upon a time we were obsessed with body language, which could be roughly summed up as:

Playing with hair = “I find you very attractive”
Folded arms = “I find you wholly repellent”
Dilated pupils = “I will be drunk enough to sleep with you in one sambucas time”

Nowadays, in the absence of actual bodies, we are forced to become masters of syntactic analysis to rival Noam Chomsky, attempting to determine a person’s intentions from two semi colons and a question mark.

Sadly, such linguistic endeavours are entirely pointless since we all mean different things by what we say and do. You, for instance, may be the standoffish type for whom chatting to a fellow online is tantamount to popping round his flat in a pair of nipple tassels, whereas for the man in question to register this level of interest, you may actually have to pop round his flat in nipple tassels.

So. While I cannot guarantee that you will never end up the subject of a court injunction, there is a possibility that what you consider heavy duty flirting is passing under this guy’s radar as simple conversation. He may think you are just pals. He may be working up to asking you out. He may find you wholly repellent. Without his arms/hair/pupils to interpret, frankly it’s anyone’s guess.

Which is why you need to ask him on a date. Yes, you. And make it as unambiguous as possible. None of this “I have a meeting which just so happens to be occurring on your street, I’ll have time to kill, I’ll probably be extremely parched, I’ll need directions to a café, hey, while we’re both there, why don’t we hook up for coffee?” since such forced nonchalance will only add to the incumbent haze.

Instead, opt instead for a simple: “Would you like to go for a drink?” If he says yes, fabulous. If he doesn’t reply, or sends back a cheery message concerning evil Jenny from The Apprentice or the tuna sandwich he had for lunch, then you know where you stand.

Unless you start convincing yourself that tuna has some kind of hidden romantic significance, in which case delete yourself off Facebook and padlock the toolshed.

Kitty

2008-04-18T03:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty

How long does it take to get over a broken heart? It’s been six months but honestly, I still feel very much like crap. I keep remembering the rule, you know, that it takes half the time you were with someone to get over them, but that’s five years which is way too depressing to contemplate.

I’m giving it eighteen months and if I haven’t pulled it together by then I’m thinking of having him killed. But then I found this on the internet which is insane, but at least not criminal:

Broken Heart Calculator – Long term relationships

A. Estimate how happy you were (day to day) on a scale of 1 to 3
B. Estimate how physically attractive you found your mate on a scale of 1 to 3
C. Add up A and B - and then divide this number by 2 - this will give you a number in years
D. Subtract one year from the total

Example: John was happily married to Mary (he ranked his happiness as 2 out of 3.) He found Mary very attractive, a 3 out of 3. Mary leaves. John's heart will take 1 ½ years to recover.

I calculated it would take my heart a year to recover, which sounds like a good deal to me. Only six months to go!

Right?

Desperate ex-housewife, Cheshire
******************************************************
Dear Desperate,

What can I say in the face of such rigorous scientific assessment except, if you change your mind about that other thing, I have a number you can call.

I’m joking, of course. No need whatsoever to alert the police.

So. Reluctant as I am to side with a piece of aloof arithmetic (‘Mary leaves’ – What, no warning? No note? What is she, a machine?) a year does sound like a good approximation.

This is because the first year of a break up is a grinding succession of firsts: the first time you sleep alone; first birthday without them, first Christmas, first spring. Which would be harrowing enough except that, post break up, the brain embarks on a post-traumatic editing process, recasting every occasion in a soft-focused, romantic haze.

You should be very suspicious if, facing the first bank holiday without your husband, you are tortured by memories of playing frisbee in the park. If you concentrate very hard, you will recall that neither of you owned a frisbee.

Similarly, it may help to establish that he abhored supermarket shopping, bought you terrible Christmas presents and the Sundays you remember eating croissants and indulging in leisurely sex were actually spent sulking in front of Columbo while he played World of Warcraft.

If you can't convince yourself that your relationship wasn't one long made-for-TV movie, don't worry. All you need to do is hold on. In six months time you'll reach the first anniversary of the day you split up, giving you one year’s accumulated ex-free memories and marking a whole new phase in which, while you might not be over him, you should be able to hear his name without wanting to set fire to your head.

Now, excuse me while I condense that into a pithy equation.

Kitty

2008-04-11T06:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty

Why does my penis hate me?

I met this wonderful girl and things were going really well and then, in the middle of having sex, I couldn’t keep it up. I’m not talking about my witty repartee.

We tried again the next day. Nothing. She’s being all, “honey, it’s not a problem”, but I’ve seen that look in her eye. The one that says ‘fuck me now or it’s goodnight Vienna.’

But I can’t! My penis won’t let me. Now when we get in the bedroom it practically crawls back in on itself. Conversely, my blood pressure is through the roof.

What am I going to do?

Peter, Southport

*********************************************************

Dear Peter,

I sympathise. It must be tough having a piece of equipment subject to whims even head office doesn’t know about. But assuming you have run through the external forces checklist (alcohol/illness/screaming gayness) you are probably trapped in a cycle of anxiety.

But enough about you. Let’s look at this from your girlfriend’s perspective. There you both are, merrily getting down to it, when suddenly you can’t get it up. This is not the worst thing that has ever happened to her. It's not even the worst thing to happen to her that afternoon, since her boss passed her over for promotion again and she can feel a coldsore coming on. There are, after all, other ways a girl can enjoy herself.

But do you launch into to any one of these aforementioned ways? If so, congratulations. You’ll both be fine. You can stop reading now and go and watch TV or something.

Still here? Okay, listen up. Your girlfriend, having seen this sort of thing before, is not judging your limp penis. She’s judging how you deal with it. Some men act as though losing an erection is like someone taking the ball away: everyone might as well just go home. This is vaguely insulting to a woman. Similarly, fellows frequently waste a perfectly good evening, for which a girl has invested in expensive underwear and considerable depilation, by embarking upon some kind of nervous collapse; gibbering and huffing and repeating, “I’m sorry!” and “This never happens to me!” and “This never happens to me, I’m sorry!”, until she is waving her mojo goodbye and wondering if its possible to hang herself with a luminous condom.

That look your girlfriend's giving you? That’s not “fuck me now.” That’s “please shut the fuck up.”

Happily I have a solution. No, it does not involve a vacuum constriction device or a tiger penis necklace.

Instead of trying to fight the situation, turn it into a positive. Next time it happens, say to your girlfriend: “I like you so much, I’ve got stage fright,” since the truth is always a massive aphrodisiac. Then follow this with, “So, darling, it looks like this is your lucky night.” Then set about giving her tremendous head/cheescake.

That way she won’t get that sinking feeling every time you get that sinking feeling and, once you’ve stopped urging your penis to perform, it may feel
confident enough to resume the position. After all, your penis wants to like you and so does your girlfriend. Don't go making it hard for them.

Kitty

2008-04-04T03:31:00.001-07:00

Dear Kitty,

Is it too late to divorce my parents?

Last month I was in the middle of a story about my successful presentation to a board of important clients when my mum said: “Oh, that reminds me! Did your Dad tell you we found your Hungry Hippos in the garage?”

I have a flourishing career in the civil service. I own my own home. I once shook the hand of Nelson Mandela. But my Mum still speaks to shop assistants on my behalf. My Dad frets about my overdraft. They regularly remind me about the time I stuck a Milk Chew up my nose.

Plus, every time I see them, I leave with bag of groceries. I live on my own twenty miles away. What do they think I do between visits? Sit in the hallway rolling a marble around, waiting for someone to push food through the letterbox?

All of this is murder to my self esteem. I think I’m getting my acne back. But I've finally had enough. From now on I'm going to demand that they treat me like a responsible human being.

Then again, I’m turning thirty in six months. Surely things will be different when I’m thirty?

Arrested Development, Manchester

***********************************

Dear Arrested,

Try not to freak out when I tell you the following: Your parents will never acknowledge you as an adult. Not now. Not in six months time. Not, I’m afraid to confirm, ever. You could become Prime Minister, invade a neighbouring continent and set in motion a nuclear holocaust and your mum will still ask if you’ve been going out with wet hair.

She can’t help it. It’s down to biology, since parenting is like a heat-seeking missile which, once activated, can never be checked. Many have tried. Many have failed. Some have emigrated, which does help but only slightly.

Still, this doesn’t mean your life must remain a festival of ego-crushing, overfeeding and 'hilarious' anecdotes about your T.J Hooker underpants.

Well, OK, it does, but you don’t have to hate it quite so much. To escape the mental torture that is your parents you need to understand that their failure to recognise you as a successful and responsible adult in no way negates that you are one. Unless you think it does.

So relax. Forget about trying to earn their respect. Eventually you’ll begin to view their demented over-parenting as just another amusing symptom of the ageing process, like their inability to email in anything other than block capitals or their enthusiasm for shredding. You’ll know you’ve finally grown up when your mum asks you whether you need the toilet and you guffaw loudly, rather than wanting to beat her round the head with a plank.

Remember, there are thousands of people in the world eager to pile responsibility on your shoulders but only two who don't want you to bother yourself with managing your own bladder. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Kitty

2008-03-28T01:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

I have this line from a Philip Larkin poem running through my head: “Choice of you shuts up that peacock fan the future was.”

Let me explain. Every time I meet someone new I think they’re the cat’s pyjamas, but then the longer I spend with them the more I worry about what I might be missing.

Take my current beau, Fred. Sure, he’s lovely and great looking and we laugh at the same things and he’s handy with a cordless drill, but then I’ll see an intense looking guy on the train wearing fascinating glasses and a ochre cravat and I’ll realise: If I stay with Fred, I’ll never have anyone write a song for me or call me their “principessa”, Fred being an absolute delight in the sack but not exactly e.e. cummings when it comes to eloquence.

But here’s the kicker: if I got together with cravat man he’d probably write me a sonnet or two and take me to remarkable art installations and pretty soon I’d know all there is to know about Palestinian freeform jazz but then I’ll find out that he never learnt to drive and he can’t stand sports and hot weather brings him out in a rash and I’ll start to wonder: do I want to go through the rest of my life never taking a minibreak?

I ran this past my mother and she said, “You just haven’t met the right man yet.” I don’t know. I’ve met an awful lot of men. Is it likely that I just haven’t met the only laid back, intense, literature loving, spectacles wearing sports fan out there?

Fickle, Derbyshire

*********************************************************

Dear Fickle,

The first thing to remember is that you should never take relationship advice from Philip Larkin or your mother.

One possibility here is that you, being fabulous, are a well rounded, multi-faceted type of gal who can therefore appreciate a good jog round the park and a decent literary novel, although perhaps not simultaneously.

Consequently, you are ticking rather a lot of those infamous boxes. And why not? Although it is worth bearing in mind, if waiting for another full complement of ticks to cruise by, that you may be hanging on a while since the majority of people prefer to focus their energies on fewer areas. This is why one so often meets individuals who are the world’s expert on Klingon marriage ceremonies but complete strangers to cosmetic dentistry.

Of course, there’s always the chance that you are a social chameleon who morphs into the people she spends time with, a theory which would certainly explain your dual penchant for wind-surfing and existential pottery.

Don’t worry if so: some of the most charming people alive are social chameleons. This does mean, however, that you have learned to give equal importance the oeuvre of Victoria Beckham and Virginia Woolf without pausing to work out which one you actually prefer.

So – time to make a list. If swept up on a desert island who would you choose to join you and what would you like to do? And don’t start thinking about what Fred would like to do right now otherwise you’ll end up having dinner with the Australian rugby team just so you can tell Fred all about it and this is not the point of the exercise.

Made your list? Good. What you have there is the very essence of you. Frightening, isn’t it? Now you just have to look for someone who matches one or more of those interests.

They need not, of course, match every point: Some of the best partnerships can flourish on only a mutual admiration of the Marx brothers, so long as it is a genuine love. Conversely, those old, bitter couples you see consumed by vituperous loathing for each other only end up that way because, back in their courting days, one of them pretended to enjoy Inspector Morse.

You have been warned.

Kitty

2008-03-22T12:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty

In my normal life I’m pretty strong-minded. And, even when I meet a guy, I’m still sparky and smart and argumentative and funny. But then I date him for a while, decide I really like him and BAM!, suddenly I’m queen of saps. I start mooning around the place when I know he’s going to call. I find myself saying, “Well, I don’t really mind,” when he asks which film I want to see. I speak in this special sugary voice I’ve never even heard before.

If I met myself like this, I would shoot me.

But then he goes away for a week and I buy some CDs and catch up with my friends and then suddenly, in the middle of emulsioning the kitchen, I have this huge epiphany: I know exactly what I want from life and how I’m going to get it.

Then he comes back and things get a little foggy and before you know it, it’s hello baby-voice.

Is this is for me? Do I have to choose between a single me who I like and respect and a relationship me who makes me want to puke?

Fading Fast, Falkirk

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Dear Fading,

For reasons not yet fully explored by medical science, some people can be in love and know they don’t want to see the Spielberg film.

The rest are victims of the relationship mist, a cunning substance much like the purple gas that used to drift through the air vents in Batman except that it is less detectable, more debilitating and rarely triggered by a man in a green catsuit.

The relationship mist is a powerful behaviour modifier, emerging the moment a person realises they are in love and turning brilliant individuals into hideous pleasers in such a subtle way that they don’t even realise it's happening until their partner goes away, the effects wear off and they wonder why they’ve developed a lisp and started fetching his slippers.

Thankfully, the solution is easy. Simply open a window. Mist dissipated - job done!

Only joking. This is a metaphorical mist and, as such, annoyingly impervious to ventilation. Here’s what’s really going on: you've fallen in love, you’re terrified it might end, some primordial instinct in fluffy mules suggests that maybe the best way to hang on to the relationship is to act passive. So you smooth your personality, you lose your opinions, you hear yourself uttering such sentences as: “Yes, I’d really like to listen to some prog rock.” It’s a bit like playing dead, except instead of hoping your partner won’t maul you, you’re hoping he’ll marry you.

Unfortunately fluffy is an imbecile, since no-one attracted to sparky and smart wants to find themselves dating the girlfriend equivalent of a pet rock.

So. You need to reinstate your great 'single' self into this relationship pronto.

For a quick reality check, try bringing a pal to dinner - there’s nothing like the horrified expression on a friend’s face to make clear what a nauseating monstrosity you become within three feet of your beloved. Alas, this isn’t a permanent solution unless you live in Utah.

Long term, you need to resist the mist. Concentrate every time you see your man. Take long walks between conversations. Notice when you’re saying, “Is it right at these lights?” even though you’ve driven the route a thousand times before. Don’t rest until you can say, “Screw Steven Spielberg,” without the hint of a lisp.

If all that fails, check the air vents.

Kitty

2008-03-14T10:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

Next week's column will be uploaded on Saturday. In the meantime, why not spend some time with the cast of Anchorman ?

Kitty

2008-03-14T01:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Kitty,

What is your opinion on the fix up?

I have this single friend. She’s great. I have this other single friend. He’s great, too. Now one of them has mentioned they quite like the other.

But should I get them together? Because I’ve had bad experiences with this sort of thing before. What if I fix them up and they hate each other? What if I fix them up, they hit it off, date for six months and then they hate each other? What if I don’t fix them up and they were made for each other and I ruin their one chance of happiness in life?

You can see why this is a problem.

Deborah, Nuneaton

*******************************************************

Dear Deborah,

Compatibility is a tricksy affair. We all know a great couple when we see them, but that’s because we can watch their complicity in action, whereas if said friend had pointed out her soul mate in a queue we’d likely have told her his ears were too small or he looked too breezy or we always imagined her married to someone hairier.

Even if you’ve known both friends for twenty years there’s no predicting whether they’ll hit it off. This is because the person going on the date won’t be the exact person you’ve just eaten brunch with but their relationship alter-ego, someone similar to your friend in everything but cleavage and neurosis. This explains how our pals can think us the sweetest, most laid-back individuals imaginable whilst our exes recollect us as busty, anally-retentive loons.

So, think of your mates as two hitherto undiscovered chemicals: you can’t predict how they’ll react until you place them in close proximity to each other and add a liquid catalyst, at which point you may want to stand well back (or pop on some safety goggles, pull up a stool and, for added authenticity, find a man with nasal hair to hover behind you in sandals). Then just watch. You should be able to discern whether she finds his politics repellent or if he regards her habit of licking gravy off her knife as utterly enchanting by the resultant frothing.

Of course there may always be disaster. But, alas, avoiding the fix up is not an option. If there’s a spark between these two they’ll gravitate towards one another without any help from you. He’ll suddenly remember that button he dropped in your kitchen two years ago, she’ll happen by the pub-quiz on a Sunday afternoon, and one fine day you’ll look up to find him proposing to her across your breakfast pastry.

Or they’ll end up loathing each other with every fibre of their being.

So fix them up and buy a speculative hat. But book two venues for your birthday party.

Kitty

2008-03-07T00:05:00.001-08:00

Dear Kitty

What is the deal with my colleagues? I've just been dumped by the love of my life but let's not even go into that right now. Anyway, yesterday as usual I dragged myself into work looking like Methuselah and feeling a soupcon martyrlike when I bumped into Sandra from accounts who has been divorced twice and so knows my pain.

How's it going? She asked. Fine, I said, getting ready to continue in just a little more detail about the sleepless nights and the endless crying and the urge to keep driving past his house and did I mention the stomach cram….when she said fantastic! and sashayed off to the coffee machine.

Is that all I get? I mean, really?

Because it’s been less than three weeks and I’m only just back on solid food. Surely I don't have to pretend I'm okay already?

Robbed, Berkshire.

********************************************************

Dear Robbed,

At first, when you break up with someone you get a rush of kindness in the workplace, perhaps because your colleagues are genuinely concerned about your emotional wellbeing but more likely because your hollow eyes, toxic aura and habit of weeping behind the photocopier are difficult to ignore. Whatever: They listen to your inchoate ramblings, they fetch you little cups of tea, they shake their heads in united disbelief at the desperate fuckwittery of the modern male. It’s nice!

Then one day BANG! your boss is expecting his annual report without the tequila stains and everyone’s wondering why you can't seem to find any clothes that fit.

The fact is, you have reached the limit of your workplace sympathy allocation. To the heartbroken, three weeks seems awfully soon but just think; if this were a soap opera you’d be married, pregnant and/or killed in a freak bell ringing accident by now. Of course, in real life things take disappointingly longer but as we all know offices are much more like soap operas than real life.

Right now you probably want to corner Sandra and give her a detailed account of your bowel movements but try to resist. She’s not breezing by because she thinks you really are fine (Ha! With those eyes?). She just knows that if she lingers for even a nanosecond you'll be snotting all over her new pink blouse, and as a twice divorced accountant who sashays she's got enough problems of her own.

Sadly, no-one is obliged to listen to how abysmal your life is unless you are paying them by the hour (which is why, in these circumstances, it helps to be the boss). Here’s a tip: when your colleagues ask you how you are, don’t say fine, say devastated. It won't make them linger any longer, but at least it will help explain the mismatching shoes.

Kitty

2008-03-01T10:46:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

That’s it. I give up.

I don’t mean in that pretend way people ‘give up’, hoping love will find them whilst they’re absorbed in a bit of cross stitch or something.

Well, okay, maybe a bit.

Arg, actually, no! I really have given up! An attractive postman just delivered my mail and I didn’t feel a thing. He looked a bit like Jude Law. Not a flicker! He might as well have been Christopher Biggins.

So. Relationships just aren’t for me. I’ve had pain (lots of) and joy (sparing amounts) and madness (predominantly) but I’ve seen scant proof that its possible to be in love without spending a large portion of your time trying to develop mind-reading skills and the rest sponging mascara off your pillow with a damp flannel.

So, that’s it. I’ve given up. I sincerely, most definitely have.

Don’t even try and change my mind.

Singlegirl, Scotland

Dear Singlegirl

You give up. I get it. And who could possibly blame you?

Relationships don’t make much sense. If aliens landed, how would we explain them? “Well, Boghzurtha , let’s see: we start by choosing a partner based on some crucial biological imperative like, say, how they smoke a cigarette. Then we mash our genitals together. Then we spend 10% of our time in lunatic euphoria and 90% sick to our stomachs dialling 1471. We repeat this for, oh, a decade or two until we become adept at abject disillusionment and ad-hoc hair removal. Eventually we might propagate the species, really just for something else to do.”

I mean. They’d zoom back to Saturn in their courgette-shaped spaceships laughing their seventeen heads off. And rightly so. If humans could make a logical decision about dating, we’d be extinct by now. But at least we could relax about our underwear.

However, we don’t have a choice. We’re just daft lumps of meat yanked round by our hormones in a relentless zombie-like courtship ritual like something out of They Shoot Horses Don’t They?

So by all means, give up. Knock yourself out. At some point, out of nowhere, you’ll be gripped by the urge to say hello to the window cleaner. Until then, you enjoy a nice clean pillow.

Because that thing about people finding love when they least expect it? Those people wanted to give up too! They were happily enjoying a trauma-free existence, scoffing mini Battenburg in front of QVC until Mr Right turned up, flashing his attributes.

Which just goes to prove, you can’t fight nature. Or, as D H Lawrence appositely put it: you and me baby, we ain’t nothing but mammals.

Kitty

2008-02-23T03:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers

Next week's column will be uploaded on Saturday. In the meantime why not spend some time with George Costanza?
Kitty

2008-02-22T00:48:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

I bumped into an old college friend on a flight last month.
“What have you been up to?” I asked, adjusting my seat to the reclining position in preparation for a good ol’ gossip. Then she dropped the bombshell: she’s the producer of a well known sit com, Jane is dating a premiership footballer and Lou’s just sold a painting to Charles Saatchi.

Did I mention I used to keep these girls in roll ups and revision notes?

Of course I smiled and hoop-la-ed accordingly and then, when she asked what I’d been doing, I pretended to find something fascinating happening in my complimentary peanuts. What could I say? That I’m a bra fitter at Marks and Sparks? That I’m pathologically single? That the closest brush I’ve had with fame was being ogled in a lift by Noddy Holder? Actually, I did say that and then we spent the rest of the flight in uncomfortable silence.

Now I feel like a big fat failure. But then, she did say she’d had a boob job so I’m thinking - maybe she’s not so happy after all?

Sasha, Mosely

**************************************************************

Dear Sasha

Where have you been? Most of us have been playing the comparison game incessantly since our mid-twenties, checking age/career/ relationship/years on Prozac like participants in a colossal game of Top Trumps.

I’m guessing you’ve been playing the game with strangers, admiring their accomplishments whilst believing them to be the inevitable result of an Oxbridge education, a vast inheritance or a close personal friendship with Dame Judi Dench.

Alas, when faced with people once equal to you in intelligence, class, postcode and acne, such excuses rather swiftly disappear. On the down side this puts your life into tedious perspective. On the up side, your shared background suggests there’s no reason why you too can’t be air kissing the BBC, beating off footballers with cocktail sticks or living out any number of parallel existences which don’t entail the word “demicup.”

Of course, fulfilling one’s potential is a laborious task which is why most of us prefer to rip success apart instead. Hence; “She’s successful but bulimic”, “He’s married but gay”, “She’s terribly gifted but hooked on Glade plug ins”, a dextrous tweaking of the Top Trumps system which, with a little more work, will eventually award a winning hand for “I’m not married, mortgaged, successful or happy, but I do have a beautiful spice rack.”

It’s an approach: On the down side, you’ll never admit, far less achieve, your potential. On the up side, you won’t have to stop eating dinner in front of Ground Force before going to bed early for a job you hate.

On no, wait. That’s a downside, too.

Kitty

2008-02-15T00:56:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

I haven’t got a problem. I’m totally happy! I just wanted you to know that.

Because you hear from such a lot of self-indulgent stress-heads. It’s all “I can’t believe she sold my dog” or “Why can’t women learn to love my third nipple?” and I mean, pur-lease? That guy who thought he’d never get over his wife running off with the carpet salesman? What’s with that negativity, man? I’ve recently been singled and I’m liking it just fine! There are plenty of hot babes wanting my number!

I just say they ought to get a grip. In fact, you could make your job a whole lot easier by sending out a single-line response which says: “You are thinking way too much.” That would take care of most of those losers, except perhaps that Magistrate who thought he was a horse.

Anyways, I just thought it might be nice for you to hear from someone who is absolutely dandy for a change!

I mean life! What’s not to like?!

Gary, Ilford

***************************************************

Dear Gary – or may I call you Giddy?

What do you mean, what’s not to like? Don’t you have a TV set? Quite apart from the fact that the earth is being scorched and blasted and drained and screwed and we’re all going to wind up cowering in sand-caves living off squirrel meat, the world is cracking up! People are being blown up in a war half of us have forgotten is happening declared over evidence someone cut and pasted from the internet! Nobody cares about anything anymore unless they can phone up and vote it off! And have you even seen Deal or No Deal?

Also, Giddy, I’m curious. For someone who thinks people think too much you are expending an awful lot of energy thinking about what people are thinking. Why aren’t you out flying a kite if you’re so damn ecstatic?

I’m not saying it’s wrong to be happy with your lot. I’m just saying that a guy who can’t understand why another guy is upset when his carpet fitter lays more than just his textured loop might possibly be the teensiest bit in denial, that’s all.

I mean, okay, right now you might be enjoying lots of hot babes although I sincerely doubt it but what about in a few years when you’ve failed to hold down a meaningful relationship, developed a fondness for Fray Bentos pies and become one of those men on his own at a party, sat in a corner stroking a gonk?

Think about it.
Oh no, that’s right, you don’t.

Kitty

2008-02-08T00:53:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

How, precisely, does one flirt? It’s been a while and I’m back out there and I seem to have forgotten what to do. I remember there’s some gaze-holding, right? And a soupcon of hair-tossing? And isn’t there meant to be some licking-of-lips?

Say I see a good looking guy in the supermarket – it could happen, it’s a Waitrose – should I try to catch his eye? And if so, what then? Do I smile or pout or just stare at him meaningfully? Isn’t it weird to smile at a stranger? Isn’t staring at someone a bit rude? Should I be flipping my hair, or biting my lip, or batting my lashes or what?

Glassy eyed, Glasgow

******************************

Dear Glassy eyed,

The first thing you should do is remove all the copies of Cosmopolitan from your house. Such a mind as yours, which is in an uncertain and impressionable state, will all-too readily absorb those features entitled “101 Ways To Please Your Man” and the next thing you know you’ll be spending your days filling in multiple choice quizzes and licking squirty cream off a banana.

Next, forget the rule book. Flirting, since McDonalds have not yet introduced an A Level, is something we develop intuitively and a good thing, too, since if you tried to follow a three-step plan you’d likely come over like some grimacing marionette, a look attractive to only a small percentage of the population, all of them convicted felons.

We may now look to what is going on among your average homosapien:

“I lock eyes and smile at every person I pass,” says Kate.
“I hold their gaze for a second then raise my eyebrows a fraction,” says Dan.
“When I see someone I like, I look down and scuttle away,” says Jen.

So there you have it. One person’s throwaway grin is another’s libidinous proposal. Rules, schmules.

Well, okay, there may be some guidelines.

Like, don’t worry too much about the staring. Most men will be flattered by a lingering glance from any woman unless she's clutching 132 carrier bags and a bottle of White Lightning and happens to look like Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.

Also, context is key. If a guy is choosing courgettes at your local grocers the chances are you’ll bump into him again so you may want to go easy on the lascivious lip-licking. Conversely, if you’re in Paris and your plane leaves in three hours a fleeting glance at a hot homme probably isn’t enough to convince him you’re not just angling for a better look at the Louvre.

Lastly, locations. When it comes to giving the glad eye a general rule of thumb is thus: bars, offices and places of higher education = practically compulsory. Appraisals and medical emergencies = best avoided. In court and at funerals = fine, as long as not directed at anyone in a box.

So. Ready to get out there and make with the hairy eyeball? To find out, complete the following:

You’re in a health food store and you spot a great-looking man. Do you:

A – Hold his gaze and smile
B – Blush and look away
C – Attempt a suggestive manoeuvre with a bottle of Glucosamine Sulphate

If you answered Yes to A, B or C you are still a suggestible fool. Wear dark glasses for a fortnight and steer well clear of bananas.

Kitty

2008-02-01T01:16:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

I’m going out with my ex-boyfriend. I mean, he’s not the exact same person, but he might as well be.

I can’t understand what happened because I distinctly remember saying I was not on the lookout for another emotionally-stunted Capricorn with a Superwoman fixation

Then along came this guy who was funny and solvent and absolutely ready for a meaningful relationship. But get this: seven months in it turns out he’s scared of commitment, lousy with money and stops picking up if I so much as catch a cold! He’s exactly like the last guy!

It’s just this time he hid it better.

Back to the drawing board?

Bamboozled, London

*************************************************************

Dear Bamboozled,

It’s an easy mistake to make. On a conscious level you’re looking for someone who’s bright, honest and comes with his own backbone. Unfortunately, no-one rewired your behaviour so your subconscious took this as code for ‘find me another indifferent twerp.’

Have you wondered why, when a woman walks into a bar, her eyes are drawn to the brooding hulk in the corner? Is it chemistry? Is it fate? Or is it the way he looks like he couldn’t give a shit? (Right next to him is an equally cute guy with no pregnant ex-girlfriend or bankruptcy record but she won’t have detected him because he’s "not her type.")

When it comes to relationships (and, also, eyeshadow) we’re destined to repeat our mistakes until we solve them. This is why boyfriend #2 is often boyfriend #1 with different hair. You could go back to the drawing board but that on its own is not enough because boyfriend #3, even if he’s sporting a dog collar, will still be the kind of man to sleep with your sister when you break your leg.

A great philosopher once said: “If you do what you’ve always done, you get what you’ve always got.” Okay, I heard that on Will & Grace. But still. You want a different partner, you have to behave like a different woman. I don’t know how. Show your vulnerable side. Change your earrings. Start dating men who don’t make your insides go liquid on first meeting. See what happens.

Kitty

2008-01-25T01:01:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

Since my friend got dumped last month she just sits there drinking cup-a-soup and staring at the phone. I’ve told her she needs to get back in the game but she’d rather stay in playing “their CD” and waiting for him to ask her back.

The thing is he wasn’t such a wonderful guy! He had a lame sense of humour, a job rinsing ash trays and a face like a dishcloth hanging off a stick, whereas she’s witty, clever and, from certain angles, the spitting image of Martine McCutcheon.

I told her all that but she burst into tears and now she’s refusing to take my calls. How can I convince her you haven’t lost your soul mate if “your CD” was ‘Swing When You’re Winning’?

A Friend, Southport

************************************************************

Dear A,

It’s a rare heartbreak that can be mitigated by the news that the ex told a terrible Knock-Knock joke. As that great sage Morrissey once observed, “Rejection is one thing but rejection from a fool is cruel.” Rather than tell your friend she’s been spurned by a moron, why not stick pins in her eyes? Or kick her in the chest? Or stick pins in her chest and kick her in the eyes? Or pin sticks in her eyes and …okay, you get the drift.

Here’s what you need to understand: all the things you feel compelled to impart, your friend would lop off her ears with a rusty wire not to hear. This is because you are viewing their split with the brutal eye of slightly bored logic, whereas she is seeing it through a haze of love, anguish and phlegm.

In the unlikely event that she picks up the phone, here’s what else not to say:

“Why aren’t you angry?”
Your friend can’t summon up an omelette let alone her ire though, oddly, she’ll still manage to be narked by this question which roughly translated means: “Get to the good bit, you chump.” A little patience, please. As that great sage Phil Collins once observed, “You Can’t Hurry Love”, and , as he went on to explain in a little-heard follow up single, “You can’t rush the point at which one casts off one’s jim jams, taps into apoplectic rage and takes a blowtorch to his moped, either.”

“It was just like that with Stanley/Sarah/that waiter from La Tasca…”
Just as one person yawning sets off a whole room, so one person’s romantic misfortune elicits a deluge of break-up reminiscence, 96% of which comprises the word “fuckface.” Unfortunately, such verbal bumper stickers are Krypton to the newly-dumped who only want to hear those tales which validate their fervent hopes. So, that’s yes to, “We got back together/She never found happiness/It turns out that Stanley was clinically insane” and no to, “He lost twenty kilos, looked up his ex and now they’re expecting quads.”

“Plenty more fish in the sea.”
To the broken-hearted this is a bit like saying, “You know your nan just died? Well there’s a woman down the road who wears the same rain hood, has a better range of biscuits and this one doesn’t whiff of Stork margarine.”

“Do you think he’s seeing someone else?”
She didn’t, she does now - hence she'll be spending the next month outside his flat in some night vision goggles and a Forever Friends bathrobe. Still, least it gets her out of the house.

Kitty

2008-01-18T00:36:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

Am I the only one without a five year plan?

I spoke to my sister the other day and she said that maybe the reason I’m so apathetic is I float through life like a mangy piece of driftwood. She actually said the word ‘mangy'. I couldn't even muster up the oomph to be offended.

But she got me thinking and I started asking round and it turns out everyone’s been living their lives to some sort of meticulous agenda! Meanwhile, I find it hard to predict what I’m having for lunch.

So, I thought I’d have a go. I tried to summon my deepest desires but that just felt ridiculous so I thought about more sensible goals but each one seemed dependent on the last. Eventually, I said to myself: what do I want that doesn’t require a doting spouse, a winning scratch card or a hitherto undetected talent for ballroom dancing and what I came up with is I’d like to wear a hat.

Should I just kill myself now?

Janie, Nantwich

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Dear Janie,

You can always tell the people who plan. They’re the ones who go into meltdown when the vending machine runs out of Chocachino. You, meanwhile, are the picture of serenity, given that it’s hard to freak out when your plans go awry if you haven’t actually got any plans.

Nonetheless, questions must be asked if the last time you felt a sense of purpose you were handing out the Berol pens in fourth year juniors. To continue your sister’s delightful analogy, perhaps your bit of driftwood is trapped in a tyre or gummed up in a slick of industrial sewage?

You’ve made a good start with the hat. Those conversant with the five year plan are happy to kick off with, “Buy a jaunty new head-scarf”, safe in the knowledge that it will lead to enhanced self-belief, a wider social network, exciting travel opportunities and, eventually, a position as Secretary of the United Nations. Try to remember, though, that the five year plan does require an inventory of goals for the next half-decade, not things you could do right now, else it would be called the ‘one day plan’, otherwise known as the ‘to do list'.

Lastly, a word of warning. Like other concepts adopted by Stalin (the cult of personality, the bushy moustache) the five year plan is a ticklish thing. Stick too fast to your early agenda and by the time you’ve fulfilled your bid to be a size eight orthodontist with an open-plan semi you’ll probably find you want to buy a windmill, direct a musical or go motorbiking with a plumber named Moe.

Man plans, God laughs. Nobody remembers to refill the hot chocolate.

Kitty

2008-01-11T00:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty

I can read my boyfriend’s mind and frankly I don’t like it. It all started a month ago when we visited a country park. I suggested we find the deer and he started humming 'Cavatina'.

Since then I’ve noticed a definite link between what he’s singing and what he’s thinking. We’ve had 'Maximum Consumption' in the queue for Tesco Metro, 'I want to Break Free' after a row about commitment and last night, whilst getting undressed, I swear I caught the first three bars of 'Hey Fatty Bum Bum'.

Now he’s wondering why I’m giving him the evil eye. Meanwhile, I’m thinking - can I castrate him for something he hasn’t actually said?

Tormented, Dublin.

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Dear Tormented,

We can all read minds if we want to. It’s just a case of noticing the links between the words. So, for instance, when your friend tells you she likes your hair and then says she should pick up some Winalot Chunky she really doesn’t like your hair. The reason we don’t practice this skill more often is that every conversation would become loaded with meaning until you find yourself in the deli shrieking “I’m perfectly happy with the size of my breasts!” when asked if you want that on a bap or a bloomer.

So, being party to your guy’s internal soundtrack can’t be fun - we might have to accept that our partner has the odd negative thought about us but we don’t want tickets to the musical. But before you lambast him for kicking off foreplay to the Mission Impossible theme tune, be warned: since he isn’t aware that he’s sharing his thoughts you would, in effect, be berating his subconscious, a mere page away in the Control Freaks’ Handbook from castigating his chromosomes and bitch-slapping his aura.

Plus, once he knows that you’re monitoring him he’s likely to catch himself singing mid-flow. Cue you making like Lionel Blair (“Was that ‘Isn’t she Lovely’ or ‘Dude looks like a Lady’?”) before eventually concluding he’s having an affair from the first three notes of him clearing some catarrh.

Still, you do need to find a solution to the problem before he comes out with anything by The Wedding Present. Here are some options: ignore it (good luck); wear industrial earmuffs (bad look); or my personal favourite, tell him he’s tone deaf. Hopefully he’ll be too mortified to sing out loud again and you need never mention you know he thinks of Meatloaf whenever you mention your mother.

Kitty

2008-01-04T01:40:00.001-08:00

Dear Kitty

This morning I received a mass email from a colleague in which, as well as detailing what she got up to with Simon from Subs at the works Christmas do, she utterly ridiculed a project I’m heading. I was still reading the email with my mouth wide open when the following popped into my inbox:

Maria Hawthorn would like to recall the message, "A tiny treat for Santa’s Reindeer.” Recall? Recall? I bet she bloody would! Personally I’d like to recall the second half of 1996, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?

I’ll probably see her in a meeting tomorrow. Am I supposed to act like she never said my venture was a “dead duck walking” just because she recalled it? I mean, she can’t exactly recall it from my head, can she?

Seething, Lincoln

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Dear Seething,

There is no equivalent agony to the accidental email, unless it is the text about the new fling sent in an instance of thumb-mutiny to the new fling or the discussion of your friend’s moustache briskly followed by her emergence from a toilet cubicle.

So, while the sending of a recall message might seem a brazen act of effrontery, rest assured Maria is presently in the grip of a sick and clammy dread, cringing into her polo neck, cursing the advent of modern technology and wondering if it’s possible to construct a time machine using two bits of tinsel and a leaflet from the Bradford and Bingley.

In fact, I’m sure she’d swing by your office and apologise in person if she didn’t have to spend the rest of the day cowering behind her printer before exiting the building by way of the ventilation shaft.

Meanwhile, poor you: you’ve had your project slandered before an audience of your peers and been party to someone else’s sexual peccadilloes, all before elevensies.

Firstly, you must banish all thoughts of bashing Maria’s head in with a brick, even though right now she’d probably fetch the brick for you. In fact, your best response would be a humorous reply-to-all referencing her apparent predilection for a very public cock up but given that you sound about as close to levity as the Krankies are to a functional family unit you should probably stick to a terse memo calling for some constructive criticism, a reply-to-all renouncement and free Tunnocks Teacakes for a week.

But do let’s get this in perspective. In a few days time no-one will remember that your project is a stinker. None of us shall ever forget that Simon is hung like a baby carrot.

Kitty

2007-12-29T11:06:00.000-08:00

Dear Kitty,

My best friend told me to quit obsessing. She says she’s sick of watching me get dumped on. She says that relationships are based on mutual respect and that I spend all my time jumping through hoops trying to make my boyfriends happy when I should be thinking about taking that sketching class I’ve always talked about.

She’s happily married. I love her. She’s usually right. But well… I just don’t know. It feels natural to me to wonder what a guy’s thinking and worry about his dental appointment and make him taglietele from scratch and maybe sew him a button or two and to be totally content just to have him there, next to me, on the sofa, watching The Top 100 Greatest War Films of All Time. Or Extras. But mostly it does tend to be the war films.

I mean, can I help it if I’m too loving?

Confused, Cheshire

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Dear Confused,

I saw a programme on dog training recently in which an expert explained that if the owners wanted their dogs to stop chewing their handbags and humping their mother they needed to stop being such nauseating, indulgent dolts. They’d hand-feed their dog chicken livers, blow dry its ears, and then wonder why it was running around acting like the king of the world!

What they needed to do, the trainer said, was regain their pooch's respect. So no more cuddles in bed, no more illicit treats, no more dressing the bulldog as Yoda and taking it trick or treating. You could tell the owners were secretly thinking, “Well, if that’s how it is, I might as well just go out and buy a nice lamp.”

We humans love to dote. Unfortunately nothing will fuck a thing up like a good spell of doting. It’s an actual law of physics that the more energy you devote to a person, the less respect you receive in return until one day you’re asking if they’d like an extra pillow and they’re looking at you like something they scraped off the swing bin.

Of course, your friend is right, (Find out where she got so clever, I’ll bet there’s a badly behaved dog/ex/dad in her past). To stop your boyfriends crapping in your shoes - metaphorically speaking in all but the worst of cases - you need to train yourself out of that mantra of ‘where’s he going, what’s he doing, how’s he feeling, what’s he thinking?’

This is not easy, given that an entire generation of women believe a constant feeling of queasiness is a signifier of true love. But if you do it, two things will happen:

Firstly, the previously insouciant - sniffing independence - will turn suddenly worshipful, whereupon you notice they have rather unattractive shoes. (This is a whole other column.)

Secondly, you will regain a large amount of time and energy which you can dedicate to the much weightier task of making yourself happy.

Or you might want to get a dog.

Kitty