In Treatment

While flying south for the hols, I made an amazing discovery via the onboard entertainment service. In Treatment is every bit as compelling as the pundits proclaim. I watched three eps on the way down. It was very nearly the highlight of my holidays! Cannot wait until these are released on DVD, as I am either morally opposed to bootlegs or too inept to download them. It's 60/40.

Le Divorce

While it was neither unexpected or of any relevance to my daily existence, I was nevertheless saddened to hear of the divorce between M & R. I suppose we all have a never-ending parade of tabloid features, insider revelations and thoughtful analysis to look forward to. Plus the coverage of whomever they date next. Sigh.

Tina Fey Book Deal

While listening to CNN, I learnt that Tina Fey has been offered 5 mill for a 'humorous work of non-fiction'. Will this be the oughties' Seinlanguage or something altogether better? Only time will tell, when it is undoubtedly released just in time for the holidays. Apologies for the obvious gam shot stolen from the Bust shoot. But did you know, that body was built by Weight Watchers? Yes, it's true. You can take the girl out the suburbs, but you can't take the suburbs out of the girl.

SATC DVD Release

While chopping veg for din with the tv on, I saw the ad promoting the upcoming release of the SATC dvd and felt a sudden urge to: first, wildly overspend; and second, drink something pink. Quelle Pavlovian response, n'est ce pas?

Sham Marriages

Marriages of convenience abound both on and off the tabloid radar. Many people have their suspicions about the male halves of these unions; however, I wonder if it is only the boys who have something to hide. Wouldn't it be something if Jordan/Katie was the one with something to hide? Lately when I'm watching their reality show, I am keeping half an eye peeled for Ms Price's butch lover.

hot coffee

For reasons I have never fully understood or even explored, I prefer to drink coffee that's been made by someone else. Since I have been at the cabin for three days, I have, of course, been drinking my own brew. This is not to say that I don't know how to make a good cup or lack any of the necessary equipment or ingredients. The way I feel about drinking my own coffee is the way many people feel about self-stimulation: it's okay and it certainly gets the job done, but it's usually much nicer if you can get someone else involved.

Helen Cocaine Mirren

Whoever said wisdom comes with age didn't know Helen Mirren. She has the emotional depth and intellectual gravitas of a geriatric Paris Hilton. She is a complete narcissist. This article reminded me of exactly why I loathe her.

Gay Until Graduation

Although I haven't been following the controversy too closely, it seems that young Miss Perry has stirred up the gays, the chattering classes and even her parents. Since I first heard the song, I've had a love/hate relationship with it. I love the catchy tune, but I hate the incredibly stupid lyrics. It's the same old media stunt, perfected by Madonna and repeated endlessly ever since. Ultimately, as far as trenchant social commentary goes, "I Kissed a Girl" belongs to the same category as "Papa Don't Preach". Having seen the video, it becomes obvious that Perry is simply ticking all the white girl experimenting boxes. It was one tired cliche after another: soft porn, lipstick lesbian fantasies, pillow fights, and a yummy brother waiting in bed at home. This decade is turning out to be so fucking boring. The kind of sexuality that used to represent a sense of danger, of bravery, of difference, has now been assimilated and airbrushed by mainstream media. Crap like this makes celibacy look interesting.

Derek Alexander Must-Have

While shopping with my mom this weekend, I spotted this item from Derek Alexander. It's a double-sided credit card holder with snapping straps to keep everything in place. It's gorgeous in red, less so in the pictured combination. Hugely inventive and practical too.

Desperately Seeking Susan

It's Madonna's birthday, so the music channels are dedicating their programming to her madgesty. I'm watching her first major-release film and remembering all the reasons why I liked Madam M when I was younger. She was funny. The film itself was very good. I love the goofball comedy and girls-on-top conclusion. When I watched Roberta rescue Susan by smashing the bottle on the mob guy's head, I knew there was a different sensibility informing this film than any I had seen previously. Madonna brought me to an awareness of independent film. Not a bad thing, I suppose.

Asking for Flowers

Although it was released a few months ago, I haven't really had a chance to get into Kathleen Edwards new album. It is country-alt perfection, packed with biting lyrics and clever melodies. I especially like the title track. She's certainly matured as an artist but lost none of her wistfulness. Just more proof that Canada is not only the home of brilliant comedians but also talented singer-songwriters. Am hugely into Canadian music now, including the retro stuff. I loaded up a bunch of really earnest early Randy Bachman stuff. It's solid.

Space Bags

I've been watching too much cable and am hankering after all kinds of new inventions and time-saving devices. Making pasta on the stove is a lot of work! Yes, I would like to treat my acne in three easy steps. And, of course, I want to stop wasting money on paper towels. But more than anything, I would like to shrink my winter sweaters down into little plastic pancakes, so I have three times the storage space.

Life with My Sister Madonna

Have been looking forward to this book since its release but only managed to pick up a copy this weekend at Costco. Raced through the book at a sickening pace and discovered the following:

1. Sucessfuly couching one's prose exclusively in the present tense is v. difficult and should not be undertaken by amateurs or journo hacks.

2. Mr. Ciccone's journey toward self-actualization has yet to truly begin.

3. Ditto his therapeutic adventures.

4. Bish plz, you brought this on yourself! You know she's no good for you. Just walk away.

Harsh words aside, it was a good read and the author sounded like he was not only good fun but hugely talented as well.

Reviews: Guardian, Times, NY Post

The Fame Formula

Apparently, a statistical formula has been developed to explain the trajectory of fame. Using the career paths of slebs such as Jade Goody and Paris Hilton, researchers have determined that fame is fleeting with an average lifespan of 15 months. After that point, constant reinvention is needed to keep the public engaged. That goes a long way in explaining the staying power of Jordan aka Katie Price.

Source: Guardian

Exes

Remembrance of flings past

What happened when Tanya Gold tried to track down her ex-boyfriends?
Tanya Gold
Saturday July 19, 2008

Guardian
A month ago, I decided to go out and find all my ex-boyfriends, to see what has happened to them, and to conduct a live-action autopsy of our relationships. I was so excited: I would have an excuse to ring them all up and stalk them. I'm back! I'm a journalist! And, contrary to the expectations of everyone who knew me before I stopped drinking six years ago, I am alive!

There are 15 I remember, and 10 I can name. First there is David, whom I knew when I was 13. I used to stand at parties drinking vodka, like a small Judy Garland, drooling at his Aryan blondness. Google gave me his phone number, at a law firm in the City. "It's an interesting idea... can I call you back?" he said. He never did.

Oliver, whom I dated at Oxford, actually screamed at the suggestion. "No! No! No! I don't want to do that. Don't ask me again. Ever." So how about Alan? He blacked my eye at university because I was sleeping with his friend. He whispered down the phone that he never wants to talk about Oxford again. Small twinges of guilt began to seep into my jolly game. Had I hurt these men?

I will have to dive deeper, deeper than I want to. So I look for Adam on the internet, and within a week we are lunching at a cafe. I met Adam when I was 14 and gadding around town with a would-be party girl called Amanda, who was terribly embarrassed about the fact that her father was a taxi driver. I was terribly embarrassed that my father was a dentist. So we got on. One night in a pub in Camden, we bumped into Adam.

He was 19 and tall and gaunt and looked as if he had escaped from a hospice. I thought he was cool because he smoked pot and lived in Muswell Hill, so I mooned around after him. I was from Norbiton - a satellite of Kingston upon Thames, a satellite of a satellite - and I was an outcast at school because I was afflicted by the Four Social Horsemen of the Apocalypse: fat, needy, Jewish and top of the class.

Adam would sit in his squat - all the furniture was made of cardboard boxes, decorated with cans of Tennent's, and strange men with beards wafted in and out - and read philosophy. I used to give him blow jobs while thinking about the plot riffs in Jilly Cooper novels. He appeared to dislike me, yet he was always prepared to stick his hand up the ra-ra skirt I'd stolen from Miss Selfridge. I had the impression that he was too drugged to ask me to leave.

I stand outside the cafe, peering at every passerby, thinking, "Is it him?" I remember very well those sad little journeys to Muswell Hill. It always seemed to be raining. I used to get the bus to Richmond and then the train to that exotic, half-imagined destination, north London. We would, for some reason, get into a bath with no water in it, and touch each other. We didn't have sex, because I was too young. The only thing I remember him saying to me was when I turned up with a bunch of flowers for him: "You are the bringer of dead roses." He started to avoid me, and I got the message.

He was so thin when I knew him, and now - as he walks towards me - he's stocky. He has a beautiful face, except he still has no lips. I feel a glow of covetousness; I still want him to want me. (Did he ever really want me?) I half get up to kiss him, but I can't get up further because the table is jammed between us. We sit down. "You look beautiful," he tells me.

"I remember our relationship very well. Lots of oral sex," he says. And I think, "Yuck. Sleazy." He starts to tell me that he runs a software business and he made £3,000 last week. He says he is married to a woman he describes as "unique".

When did we last see each other? He tells me a story I had forgotten. Years later, I had rung him up, and we'd gone to the pub, eaten Thai food and got pissed. At that time, I was a drinking alcoholic. Then we went back to his house to have sex for the first time. Afterwards, as we lay in bed, he said, in the flat drawl of a genuine sadist, "I'm marrying my girlfriend."

I talk to him, listen to him, and I realise that I never knew anything about him. I had no idea who he was. I just took this man and threw all my fantasies on to him; me paint, he wall.

"At that time, I was doing loads of cocaine," he says. "That's why I was so thin. At one point I was down to eight stone." He looks at me, half-closes his eyes and, as if he is seriously wondering, asks why we never got together. Because you showed no interest in me? "Well, I was on a lot of drugs..." And he opens his eyes. "Your party trick was pissing me off, so I would tell you to fuck off," he murmurs. "That's all you were interested in."

Then he says, "I'm not going to tell my wife I'm here." He gives me a shifty, conniving look. Is he...?

I am surprised, but I am always surprised when somebody wants to have sex with me; I usually assume men take off my clothes because they are looking for my wallet. I smirk. You're not coming back to my flat, Adam. "Yes, I am. Let's go."

We walk in the park, then go to a gallery. We are behaving like teenagers, trying to impress each other, and we are almost angry at each other for being so excited. We are on a date, and it is much more fun than it used to be, because we are not in a damp squat infested by cardboard furniture and strange bearded men.

He walks me to the tube and I clutch his shoulders and hug him. He bends his head and gives me a slightly slimy kiss on the mouth. "When can I call you without being a stalker?" he asks. I feel triumphant. My 14-year-old has beaten his 19-year-old to a pulp; somewhere, my Miss Selfridge skirt is cheering.

Another day, another ghost. I met Matthew at school when I was eight and he was 10. I thought he was wonderful because he was the only one of the older boys who talked to me. Then we lost touch until I bumped into him at a station when I was 16. He had become beautiful: half-Irish, half-black, perfectly symmetrical features. "Come to my house tomorrow night," he said.

He lived in a house on Richmond Hill. All I really remember now was that I was desperate to lose my virginity. I must have told him that before adding, coquettishly, that I would never, never have sex with him. "Let's watch TV instead," he said.

We smoked dope, listened to music and drank hot chocolate with cream. Within a few weeks, the virginity was dead. I was the most terrible faker. I went, "Ah, ooh, ah, ooh, ooh." Then he told me, in passing, that he was in love with a boy called Henry. We split up not long after because he was sleeping with half the street: man, woman or postbox.

One night, at a party, I met the boy he loved - Henry. He looked like the hero of High School Musical. I sat and whined about how badly Matthew had treated me. This was only foreplay: I was wooing him. The fact it would hurt Matthew made me want him more.

When I called Matthew to brag that I had shagged Henry, he fell for me. It was a sign of respect. For a year, we spent all our time together. He was very affectionate and he swept me up into a narcissistic fantasy of himself. I was his girlfriend, but he still liked sleeping with other people. We began to have threesomes. I came from the most boring background in the world and this seemed thrilling.

And now he is walking towards me in Euston station. He is 36, but still looks 12. In an Indian restaurant, he tells me he worked as a fundraiser for a major political party and is now a consultant. He is married to a man. So you're gay, I say, chewing a piece of naan bread. "Bisexual," he says. "I kissed a girl 10 years ago."

How did it end between Matthew and me? One night his friend Ian came round for a threesome, and Ian and I sloped off together. The next day, Matthew got his older brother to scream down the phone: "Fuck off, you're so boring!"

"I know I hurt you," he says, "but I was just a kid. If I wasn't gay, I think I would have liked to have made a life with you." I goggle at him, and ask what he didn't like about me. "Your vicious desire to be miserable was very annoying," he says laconically. "And the way you seduced men I wanted to sleep with - that was very, very annoying." He laughs. He has to go to work. We part with a hug. It feels uncomplicated, and warm. I was not to hit real misery until I returned to the heterosexuals - and to the men I knew when I was drinking.

And so on to Jon. I met him in the college bar in Oxford during freshers' week in 1994. He was sitting on his own with a bright red bassoon in his lap, looking angry. So I went back to his room and slept with him. We had sex intermittently for two years. He was very distant. We would lie in bed smoking a post-shag fag and he would say, "I'm going for a run now." And then run away.

Memories come to me in patches of fog. My drinking became alcoholic the week I met Jon, and the story of our relationship is the story of the growing sickness.

I stand outside the station in Cornwall waiting for him. He runs a sheet music shop called Kershaw Music, he told me on the phone. He is married and has a three-year-old daughter called Emily. I feel nervous: he remembers things about me that I do not. He arrives in a big, battered Mercedes and greets me jovially. We go and sit on the beach and stare out to sea.

Jon always said he nearly failed his finals because of me. What did you see in me, Jon? Do you remember I had my first blackout outside your door when you wouldn't let me in? You had to call the porter to remove me. Looking at the ocean, he says, "I thought I would be able to have sex with you. You were available." He doesn't say it callously, just matter-of-factly.

Why did he keep sleeping with me? He sighs. "I thought things would be different. I would think, 'This time Tanya is not going to behave in a crazed manner.' And you always did. After a while, you seemed very calm again, so I would sleep with you again. You were so persistent. You just knocked on the door until I opened it. I think the record was about an hour and a half. You were a bit like the Terminator."

He says it ended because he "finally realised that every time I slept with you, it unleashed a torrent of emotion that couldn't really be stopped by anyone, least of all me." He turns to me, and says, blinking through his glasses, "I am trying to make this sound nonjudgmental, but I think it is tragic that you would quite like to be married but you spend an awful lot of your time going in the other direction. But" - is this a shrug of guilt? - "we had fun, didn't we?"

I am sitting and looking at him, and thinking that I still want him. I want to kiss him. While we are being photographed, I roll on top of him. He takes it well, smiles, and pushes me off. "You'd have to work jolly hard to get me into bed now," he says.

He takes me to the shop to meet Jacqueline, his wife. She is small and slim, with short, brown hair. She seems unfazed about the article, very relaxed, and friendly. He has married the opposite of me. I find I feel no jealousy towards her, although I do feel a little towards his daughter, Emily, who sits in a cardboard box playing with a roll of toilet paper. He is wonderfully tender towards her. He drives me to the station, and waits on the platform to wave goodbye.

The sadness is growing, but I keep going. When I was 23 and drinking a bottle of vodka a day, I started having an affair with Nat, an enormously fat trust-fund boy. He was a kindly Jewish prince, who would purr, "You think you want to go around drinking, but really you want to marry me." I used to get drunk in his kitchen and try to make his lunch, drunkenly stabbing vegetables until he took away the knife. But I was looking for an abuser. I drank more and more and got angrier and angrier. One night I remember driving with him. It was raining over Cricklewood. I said, "Do you love me?" Nat stared at the road and said, "No." I ran out of the car on Mill Lane and never spoke to him again.

Last week, I emailed him and he rang me later that day. I was surprised by what he said. "I think about you all the time. I wanted to ring your mother and ask her how you were so many times, but I was so worried she would have to say, 'Tanya is dead.' "

Would you see me again? "I am desperately nervous about seeing you because I am worried I will fall in love with you again," he says. Nat always was a specialist in yearning. He is not interested in going out with women; he prefers to sit and yearn, and be despised. I don't like this; he is too like me.

He says he won't see me, but he starts ringing two or three times a day, and very late at night, as if the past 10 years never happened. This annoys me - I work now! Why don't you? He whispers into the phone in a way that feels very pornographic. He whispers, "I still masturbate over you. Do you remember the sex?" I try to whisper filth back but my fanny isn't in it.

I stop taking his calls.

I turn instead to the final man on my list. I met Tony at the conference of a minor and quite mad political party in 2004. I went outside and I saw this desiccated thing lying on the pavement, smoking.

Tony looked like no one I have ever seen. He was Rice Krispie-coloured; he had wide-spaced, green eyes, a large mouth and the most awful teeth rotting inside it. He was wearing an opera cloak and a monocle. I sat down next to him. He had a ridiculously posh, drawling voice, like a Disney villain.

He explained he was a writer - thrillers, non-fiction. Before I knew it, I was going to find a cheap hotel with this older man, his outfit flapping in the wind, as if he was a big, needy bat. The next morning we went out for breakfast, then sat in the gallery at the conference and held hands.

He began to ring me every day, sent long, romantic emails, and eventually lured me to his house in the country, a wonky old place that stank of tobacco.

We began to see each other all the time. I bought nice bedding and roast chickens and flowers every Friday night. We watched French movies and read novels. He got up in the morning and wrote poetry, ash from his roll-ups falling on to the carpet in a little pile. All he seemed to eat was meat, like a snake.

At the beginning of our relationship, he told me he went to orgies, and hinted that he wanted me to join him. I knew I couldn't do it: it would send me crashing into bottles of vodka. So I didn't. But he spoke to the depraved part of me.

Now, suddenly, he is standing at the door to my flat, as charming and sweet as ever. "Hello, Mary Poppins," he says. "I am here for a spot of deja spew." He sits down and I immediately just want to touch him. Why? I feel that if you cut him open, you would find maggots. But I still want him. My maggots want to mate with his maggots. My maggots are lonely. So I lay my head in his lap; he pulls my hair, and sighs. "Unfinished business."

He says, "You've put on weight." And within minutes, the black chemistry is back, and I find myself saying, "Move in with me, Tony. Stay." I think I am insane as I say it. He might be the love of my life. I just don't have much of a life.

And then he starts telling me an anecdote and I remember why it ended. "I was at a party last year where I saw a young girl dressed as Miss Muffet get fucked by 16 people."

On Christmas Eve, I arrived after a long train journey and was unpacking when I found a Polaroid of a naked woman on the dresser. She was lying on bedding that I had bought for him. I walked out and never came back.

We hold hands. Then I stroke his face, which still feels very soft, kiss his neck, and chuck him out.

And I weep. I have been meeting younger versions of myself. And I can see a pattern with a clarity that I never did before. It's out of my memory and on a page now: I am drawn to men who can't - or won't - reciprocate my feelings. I am a loser-cruiser. I am Carrie Bradshaw with an axe in her head.

So I call the man I have been referring to as "my boyfriend" for six months. He isn't really my boyfriend, of course; he is like the rest. He is living in Fulham with somebody else, the mother of his infant son. I say, I cannot see you any more. One day you are going to ring me up and tell me your girlfriend is pregnant again, and you will come round and tell me how much money you are spending on nappies. Then you will shag me, and I will hold your head and want to pull it off.

I do not want this, I say. Can I go and at least try to find Mr-Let's-Go-To-Ikea-And-Have-A-Child? Shall I try the Jewish guy in IT with the giant jaw? My mother's friend's cousin who is a solicitor? Perhaps with some more therapy...? He sighs down the phone. "I wish you'd go out with someone normal," he says. "Do you think you can?"

Pomegranates

For the past few weeks, I have been wallowing in the comforts of girl-tv. The channel in question is called Cosmo, and it features amongst other things movies starring Julia Roberts, Colin Firth, Sandra Bullock and repeats of such uber-feminist gems such as Sex and the City, Charmed and Veronica Mars. It's completely addictive. And advertisements are awesome. It's clear who they're targeting. Women in need of the most technologically advanced pregnancy tests, wholewheat pasta and pomegranates. Pomegranates in everything: not just bevvies but hair dye and chewing gum. C'est fou!

Do you know if you misspell the name of the fruit, as I just did, your google query will bring up links explaining how to eat one? It may be have ascended to power food status, but the pomegranate still manages to leave people in the midwest slightly baffled. And that is awesome too.

Image: slashfoods.com

Cityfile

Cityfile is the most compulsively readable encyclopedia site I have come across in a long time. Brash and highly personal, this site chronicles New York's most notable citizens, while making a few pointed exceptions. Julia Allison, anyone?

Will London earn its own file anytime in the future? Let's hope.

Tangerine Dream

This evening I caught the promo for Mama Mia!, and my first thought was, 'Why is the girl from Big Love orange?' Upon closer inspection, I noticed the tangerine plague seemed to have spread to the rest of the cast. Meryl Streep, Colin Firth and Pierce Brosnan all looked like they'd been hit by the orange stick. In a rather uneven manner. Although I've always subscribed to the school of 'pale and interesting', I must confess that all this Mystic Tanning has me nostalgic for a good old-fashioned biscuity tan. The kind one would get, oh, I don't know, say in Greece.

Seriously, why isn't Lindsay Lohan starring in this?

Update: Saw the film and thought it was a giggle. A bit tough going at times but ultimately uplifting. Since AbFab went off the air, there's been a real dearth of perimenopausal women cavorting in sequins.

Summer Fruit

Summer, I adore. Not only for the warm weather and sunshine, but also the longer days and shorter nights. The best part, however, has to be the fresh produce. I have been simply living on tomato sandwiches the past few days. Is there anything better than a vine-ripened tomato between two slices of bread? A bowl of dark cherries, perhaps. Yum.

Good Vibrations

There is a new development in mascara. Two top end lines, Lancome and Estee Lauder, are introducing vibrating mascara applicators. Yes, for those of us who are too lazy to wriggle the applicator back and forth, technology finally provides an answer to our prayers. There is some science behind it, i.e. the movement puts more product on the lash, but it seems like yet another marketing scheme. I'm surprised no one has tried putting a clock on the tube . . . Forgive my cynicism. Finding the perfect mascara has been a lifelong endeavour. And I am not convinced that battery power is the answer.

This photo was ripped from an amazing tutorial I found on the Team Sugar blog, which explains how to recreate Marilyn Monroe's iconic look.

Update: At the moment, Voluminous Naturale is rocking my lash world. It goes on like a dream and comes off easily. No smudges. Perfection.

hello vélo

Rising fuel prices have made me reconsider my preferred form of transportation. While I am lucky enough to own an extremely efficient vehicle, the bicycle is becoming a lot more attractive. Especially since speculation is rife that the oil market is being manipulated. I hate ugly greed, especially when perpetrated by corporations at the expense of the working classes. This seemingly leftist comment may seem out of character for a self-confessed consumer; however, I would argue that rising fuel costs mean that the average person's disposable income will continue to dwindle. Forget about buying cute shoes, one might be making serious compromises at the grocery store. Viva le marché libre. Or some such thing.

Porn for Women

This is a great book that always makes me giggle. There is something hugely seductive about the sight of handsome men being helpful around the house. These women are genius!

Be Reckless

At some point, I stopped feeling reassured by the valediction 'take care' and started feeling annoyed. It seems so sanctimonious, as if one is in need of being cautious. It seems to me a better way to sign off is: 'be reckless'. It definitely sounds like more fun.

SATC

It's difficult to pick just one, but I think my favourite SATC episode of all time has to be from Season 3 when the girls go to LA and Carrie hooks up with Vince Vaugn's character. Not only does it feature Mr Sunshine but also a cameo from the incomparable Carrie Fisher. And it makes an interesting statement about the consumer culture of the late 1990s, in particular the status accessory, which in this instance is a faux Fendi bag.

Ice Ice, Baby

Sometimes it seems like I'm the only one in the house who knows the recipe for ice. If it weren't for me refilling the trays, there would be no chilled goodness when it comes time to mix cocktails. Mmmm . . . cocktails

Matt

I miss you so much.

The Drugs Don't Work

Research conducted at Harvard has found that fresh flowers can reduce anxiety and depression. According to the study, the presence of flowers in the home had a positive effect on the subjects' feelings and attitudes, leading to greater compassion, increased energy and fewer feelings of anxiety and depression. Which is good news, since a new report published today asserts that Prozac and other SSRIs don't work. Speaking of Prozac, I wonder what Elizabeth Wurtzel thought when she read the report? I guess it doesn't make her look like a total chump. The research did concede that Prozac et al could still help the seriously depressed. The report recommends that drugs should be prescribed only if all other avenues, such as counselling, have failed.

Making Love Work

The secret to keeping two lovers: divide up the duties

Linda Blair
Wednesday February 13, 2008

Guardian

Just imagine it. A younger lover to fulfil all your physical desires and another, more mature and settled partner to share your domestic bliss, even take delight in running the home and in raising your offspring. Doesn't that sound ideal?

Tilda Swinton, 47, who appeared at the Baftas on Sunday with artist Sandro Kopp, 29, recently said of her partner, 68-year-old director and artist John Byrne, "We ostensibly live in the same house, but I travel the world with another delightful painter. The arrangement is just so sane."

A moment's sober reflection brings you to the conclusion that "ideal" is exactly what this is. Surely, no one can be truly content to stay at home while their partner enjoys lust and leisure elsewhere? Surely, a stay-at-home partner must feel jealous?

Not according to Byrne, who has told reporters: "We're amicably living together in the same house, under the same roof. It's extraordinary. We love each other too, in an extraordinary way."

Human beings are remarkable for their diversity, and that includes the vast range of relationships we can create and maintain. And the most important ingredient in any relationship is a good matching of needs. That is, the sum total of everyone's needs must be met within the relationship. This is a rarity within any relationship - almost never does one person meet all the needs of their partner. Most of us either simply accept that some of our needs will go unmet, or we fulfil them - usually, the less controversial ones - outside our primary relationship.

But another way to resolve this mismatch is to fulfil some of your desires with one person, and the rest with someone else, ensuring that all parties are aware of, and happy with, this arrangement.

An important factor in a successful tripartite setup - as indeed in any more conventional relationship - is open and honest communication. Any secrets in this often delicate arrangement have the potential to create a sense of betrayal that can damage the relationship at least as much as the pain of jealousy. And speaking of jealousy, it has no place in a happy tripartite relationship. Jealousy is about possession, and not wanting to share.

In summary, then, for anyone thinking of entering into and maintaining a happy relationship with not just one but two others, I suggest that you begin by finding two individuals whose needs meet yours, and who don't feel jealous of one another. Once you have managed this feat, you'll need vast amounts of time and energy to keep things running smoothly. I leave it to you to decide whether it's worth the effort.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2008

Simple Solution

For reasons known only to herself, my greyhound occasionally pees on the carpet. Not ever day, not every week, but every now and again. It doesn't matter if she's been out for a walk or cooped up in the house. She pees on a patch of carpet near the front window then slinks off. I have yet to catch her doing this. Until then, I am left to clean up the mess. I searched the web and found recommendations for Simple Solution. I tried it yesterday, and although the patch isn't quite dry yet, it did seem to help. It picked up the old stains and took care of the odour. Fingers crossed it will lift the stain completely.

Shuttle Launch

Today marked the successful launch of the latest NASA shuttle. It's a bittersweet moment, because I saw the shuttle on the launchpad a few months ago in better times. Much has changed since then.

Roasted Vegetables

Stripped of my usual comforts, I have had a difficult few days adjusting to life on the South Beach diet. Yes, I feel more energetic. Yes, I am fizzing with vitamins, fibre and leafy goodness. But I miss the soft calm feeling that only carbs can bring.


Image: www.epicurious.com

Did She Have Some Work Done?

Is it just me, or does Kathy Bates look a little fresher? No one seems to have commented, but then it has been a busy week for gossip. And to be honest, we don't seem to care much as a culture about women who fail to conform to current beauty norms, i.e. young, can-tanned and filled with plastic. Loved her to death in Dolores Clairborne.

Photo: Wire Image

Late-Night Tequila Shots

While the bf dozes, I am still awake. Had a major anxiety attack for no apparent reason--other than the million things stressing me out right now. Why is it that when my head hits the pillow all my worries seem to float up to the surface? I'm sipping tequila out of a bar shot glass, hoping I can numb myself and get some sleep. We have an early morning flight tomorrow for Espana. To be honest, I would rather stay home and get some work done. It's supposed to be a b-day treat for my other; however, as he has made known in word and deed, it is not exactly what he'd hoped for. Tell me about it. I thought I would be married by now, and I'm still waiting for a fucking confirmation of that proposal received three years ago. Sigh . . .

Tragic but the tequila is easing the pain. Isn't that the first sign of alcoholism? Or is the seventh? I can't remember.

The Man I Love

I've been crushing on this man for years. He haunts my dreams. Or at least the characters he portrays on tv do. I'm not going to stalk the man. Yeesh.

Tropical Beauty

This Christmas, I spent my holidays in Florida. It was my first experience in a tropical setting and I must say it was a beautiful one. Having grown up facing harsh weather, I cannot believe the difference a little sun and sand make to one's appearance. I felt relaxed and confident. So far the bloom has lasted despite the rainy weather we've been having in the UK. Now that I've had a taste of the tropics, there's no stopping me.

Master Cleanse Cocktail

Post-holidays, I decided it was time to take action and go on a cleansing fast. I picked the lemonade diet, aka the master cleanse, since it was easiest. In order to help the cause, I cleaned out my fridge and cupboards. Long story short, I broke the fast with a pizza. My pantry being bare didn't leave too many options for aperitifs. Necessity being the mother of invention, I created the master cleanse cocktail. Here is the recipe. It's fucking kick-ass.

Juice from one freshly squeezed lemon
Equal parts maple syrup and plain vodka
Mix well and pour over ice

Photo: www.jupiterimages.com

Practical Princess

From The Times
January 5, 2008

The woman who remade Tamara Mellon's closets
Coolhunter mets the woman whom the Jimmy Choo creator says "changed my life". But can an organised closet mean a better life?
Organised knicker drawer

Tina Gaudoin

Practical Princess comes highly recommended. “She changed my life,” enthuses the elegant accessories tsar Tamara Mellon over pre-lunch drinks, But then if you had a wardrobe the size of Winchester, you might be glad of the help. “Oooh,” says the good-natured Mellon, “it’s not that large.” The girl beside her chokes on her champagne cocktail. “It’s not,” she shrieks. “It’s even bigger.”

Elika Gibbs, aka “the Practical Princess”, says she saw the future while toiling in the Mellon closets. “I thought, it actually doesn’t matter how big or how small your wardrobes are – we’re all busy, we all need organising.” How right she is. Lest you think this is another one of those fascist fashion columns (I’m guilty – I wrote one once) about how to chuck out all your clobber, it’s not. Gibbs doesn’t believe in diktats. “If you like it, then you keep it,” she says. “It’s how and where you keep it that counts.” She insists on seeing my wardrobes, which I gamely resist for about five minutes. “You must,” urges Mellon. “You have to experience the difference.”

Gibbs arrives early one Monday morning like a leggy blonde lurcher in a parka. She is all action. A deputy Practical Princess wades in behind her bearing boxes of Gibbs’s own coat hangers, shoe boxes, etc. My biggest issue with PP, other than the fact that I’ve had to chuck out a few really revolting things from my closet before she arrives, is that the majority of us cannot afford a wardrobe makeover – Gibbs charges £450 per day for her services. “Aha,” says Gibbs. “That’s where you are wrong.” Her website offers tips and insights into how to effect a sea change in your closet. “And you can buy the hangers, boxes and scented drawer liners – they are not expensive.” And with that PP goes to work.

A few hours later I return to a transformed wardrobe. Gibbs waves a massive bag of metal coat hangers at me. “These are the heroin of storage,” she exclaims. “They ruin everything.” Knickers line up like Coldstream Guards at the Palace; shoes are boxed. Later, she sends me pictures of the shoes via e-mail to print out and stick on (you can buy the software on her website). “It’s a matter of common sense,” says PP, who has organised my wardrobe into colours – all the black, navy, grey and brown dresses, cardigans and coats hang together. Gosh. Do I really not have any colour in there? “Well,” says Gibbs pragmatically, “I always say that once a wardrobe is organised, you can see what’s missing.”

The joy of PP is that not only can you see your clothes, but you can appreciate them. My honeymoon (now vintage) Louis Vuitton luggage peeks proudly from the top of the shelf. I hate to admit it, but Gibbs has changed my life, too. You could do a lot worse than going to www.practicalprincess.com and taking her advice… We all need a Practical Princess in our lives. I feel a TV series coming on.

coolhunter@thetimes.co.uk