“Everyone” is an artist..”

ok kids smoke’m if you got’m

This was basically a not terribly funny joke from the director, as i was the only one amongst cast and crew that did actually smoke. Relieved from the confines of the studio i sprang out through the doorway, ciggarette ready in hand. There was a shiny new copy of Grazia outside in reception.

Grazia is the only magazine with tabloid content I will sometimes buy. i grabbed it from the table and took it out the door. Shivering as i smoked outside (why do i never take my coat with me? ) I greedily flipped through cover to cover, enjoying the guilty pleasure of the fashion and celeb spreads when i knew i should be reading a decent broadsheet or at least one of the trades.

I stumbled across a glossy airbrushed image of a fairly ordinary looking blonde girl, blue eyes steeled to camera, smile knowing.

This woman had apparently had thirty one night stands and had now written a book about her experiences. The journalist sought her insight from these encounters. There were lots of boldfaced sections detailing how to have a "successfull" (their word not mine)  hook up.

But the thing that really struck me was the number.  Thirty didn’t seem nearly sensational enough.

Thirty one night stands had to be all in a days work for a rock star…(or even a roadie) or anyone who spent enough of their life having mad weekends under the influence of some drug or another (including alcohol). Was thirty one night stands really enough to write a book? How many is too many? What is the socially acceptable number? Do men round up and women round down? I was mystified. I decided to bring in the article and put it to the female voice artists in the session. (i didn’t feel like contending with any the false machismo of the men)

We were still on break. I’m not sure how i brought up the conversation. I think i may have just dropped the issue of grazia on the table, turning my attention to my script notes, while  waiting for one of them to take the bait, (which one of them promptly did). Luckily she hovered just long enough over the article. I had been paying attention out of the corner of my eye and now casually made note of the fact she had taken my magazine.

sorry this is yours isn’t it? i was just looking

That’s cool. what are you reading?

The other girl was paying attention now. They were both looking at the quotes next to the airbrushed image of the blonde authoress.

is that the woman who’s written a book on her one night stands?

They seemed very interested in the article. One of them finished her quick scan of the content and we all started to talk about it. Neither were shocked by the number, but they definitely were impressed.  It turned out that one of the women had only had a couple one night stands, and with former partners (does that count?) while the other had had one…that she could remember anyway (this was followed by a giggle). It was inevitable that they would turn the tables and ask me my own count. I rounded my number down to be closer to theirs. This was met with thoughtful nods

And then the three of us went a bit quiet until our eyes met in state of rememberance. we laughed. Boldly one uttered

And then there are some that you suddenly remember like..OH yeah! and that one!… like a surprise to yourself.

mmmm and those that you think…mmmm (shuddering) and that one

I had lost myself in just such a moment. The others recognized this and laughed again. And as the break finished (never truly five minutes) a quiet shared gaze broke us from our past, but left enough residual to keep us that little bit distant.

hmmmmmmm and that one.

i’m no fashionista. but my obsession with clothes stretches as far back as i can remember…well actually longer. my first word was not "mom" or even "dad"it was..  

"shoes". 

this doesn’t shock me really, its just a bit dissapointing that i couldn’t have been more specific…i day dream about my little girl’s first word being "blahnik"  but perhaps "prada" is more realistic. its much easier for a two year old to say.

there may have been a girl next door, but if so i wasn’t too interested in meeting her. ( oh how things change…) i was too busy causing chaos with the boys next door. destroying the  white tights and patent shoes my mom made me wear, by running down grassy hills, kicking around footballs and jumping off swings. there were some ill fated attempts at skateboarding too. i still have the scars…(i was never any good) 

i was at a friend’s stag party on the weekend. (translation for the yanks: bachelor party).

it was an odd occasion. i had originally been slated to organize it, but my friends brother put and end to that, as he was so shocked and hurt that

a: his brother would rather have a friend organize it

b: that friend was female

c: that friend was lesbian.

I loved the idea of organizing a stag night. what a great excuse to have a party involving an obscene ammount of alcohol and strippers? . followed by the embarrasment of the groom to be, as girls were pushed on him on his last day of freedom. fantastic! bring it on!!

but i think my friend was a little frightened by what i might organize and thus was grateful that his brother stepped in. it was still important to him that i and a few other female friends attended. and this was not received terribly well by the brother. he found a way to get back. the women could attend but only if they came in "gentleman’s attire"

this left me flustered. what did he mean? and how far did he expect us to go? how far would the other women go? would it be a bunch of lads and their laddette drag king entourage? i didn’t want to turn up girled up with everyone in suits. i also didn’t want to be fresh faced in a trilby and 3 piece suit, with the other girls conceding only to toning down their make up.

it suprised me how much i agonized over the dress code. i do as a rule love suits, but there was something about my suit and a tie, and my hair back and flat shoes that made me feel a bit freakish, a bit vulnerable, a bit dykier than i’m used to. (which i like in other women, but don’t quite like on me) 

i waited for the bus at my nearby stop and immediately noticed that not one guy made so much as a glance at me. the ride from my house to the venue seemed an endless stream of stylish hipster chicks piling on the bus to go somewhere fabulous. i wanted to dissapear. i got a strange onceover from the bouncer of the bar of the party. i mumbled something about private party and he pointed upstairs.

but upstairs wasn’t so private. there were 4 other parties happening on the same floor. the crowd was very center of town (new yorkers read: bridge and tunnel) and super straight, and there were one too many groups of guys dancing in a circle leering hopefully at groups of girls dancing in a circle. it’s mid february and freezing but the girls were in their "club-wear", pale white skin displayed proudly in mid driff tops and short skirts. i saw my friend, i struggled through the crowd.

he gave me a big hug. as i looked over his shoulder i saw what must be his crowd. there were about 20 or 30 guys and maybe 8 or 9 women… not one of the girls was wearing "gentleman’s attire". i broke away from the hug.

"uh..mate..none of the other ladies decided to do this dress code thing ?"

" yeah yeah. they all just said F+ck it…"

riiiiiiiiiiii-ght. i excused myself. i ran down the stairs to the ladies room, passing at least one girl who looked like she wasn’t quite sure i should be going to the ladies room.  i frantically took out all my hair pins, letting down my hair. i undid my tie, i unbuttoned the shirst so the camisole underneath showed. i even managed to borrow some lipstick from a girl stood next to me. i looked in the mirror…  i was still very much in a man;s suit but suddenly it  was in a sexy dietrich-esque way. the guys in the party noticed me when i re-entered the room. the bouncer did a double take. was it that easy to make a quick change?

i spent the majority of the night talking to a boy who was mischievously laddish. we were trying to work out which girls he should chat up. there was a level of boyishness in our chatter that would make my feminist friends faint outright. somewhere between butch and femme i’d found something better. kind of a power femme in a way. i felt far more confident walking to the nightbus stop. none of the nervous clicking of my high heels or the anxious glances walking in tight skirt might provoke. just all the girl and all the attitude.