I asked Husband if he could mind the kids last night, but he had “modest plans”. What the hell are “modest plans” other than wanky? I presume it’s code for something, so I asked no further questions and hired my dear friend Mel to babysit the girls instead.
Then I dashed off to a dodgy pub for Newcastle Herald reunion drinks. I spent three shy, terrified years as a cadet journalist at the Newcastle Herald before heading to the big smoke. Despite having to report on cock fights and king-hit deaths, I quite loved my time at the Newcastle Herald. So I was excited to catch up with old friends (and my sis, who is also a Newcastle Herald alumni. Husband is an alumni too, but I was spared his presence by his “modest plans”).
We met in the rooftop bar of The Strawberry Hills Hotel, which is quite a fun little venue. It would be way more fun if people weren’t allowed to smoke there. Great wafts of smoke kept drifting over us as we dipped potato wedges in sour cream and chilli sauce and reminisced about the Newcastle earthquake and the time Kirky vomitted in his bin mid-interview phone interview (“Did that really happen??? I thought it was an urban myth!!!”). I started to get quite croaky towards the end. Smoking seems terribly old-fashioned to me these days, but these were pretty young things puffing away.
At one point someone announced that Scott Bevan was on his way. Scott Bevan and Mark Riley were regarded as the resident spunks in the office during my cadet days. (Oh how the girls swooned when Mark Riley strode through the office like a young god.) So it’s hardly surprising they’ve ended up on the tellie. Oooooh, I said to my sis, Scott Bevan’s on his way! So my sis kindly said she’d hang around with me for an ogle when she really needed to get home to her stressed bloke. But a quick squiz at my phone confirmed I was about to roll over into my fourth babysitting hour.
So I chose financial commonsense over former spunk ogling. I didn’t even check if he was single before making my decision. That’s old age for you, sadly.
It’s a pity, as I’d quite fancy another journalist boyfriend, despite my sister saying she’ll disown me. She wants me to go for someone with a more solid, less wanky profession next time around. But journalists are my tribe. I bloody love them.
I’ve been pondering how to explain my “type” to someone who isn’t my type and I keep coming back to “journalist”, which isn’t a very helpful answer.
It’s also a bit narrow-minded of me: just because it’s all I know doesn’t mean it’s all there is … although it is quite exciting to be working in a building filled with floors and floors of them.
Not that I’ve spotted anyone who takes my fancy yet.
But I’m not very good at that either, because for 23 years I wasn’t in the business of spotting. I wasn’t looking at men in that way.
A guy started chatting me up at a function the other night and my friend whispered “ooooh, he’s cute” in my ear and I was like “really?” I honestly couldn’t tell.
Another product of old age – less sadly – is that looks don’t really matter so much anymore.
A cute brain is way more attractive.