(Le) Chunky Duckmunk.

I turned 23 in Paris.

My birthday cake had a number 9 candle in it, and it hadn’t quite defrosted yet.  A cream and sponge base, topped with raspberries and strawberries.  We were too impatient to wait so we ate it anyway.  It wasn’t the first time I’ve eaten a partially frozen cake in my life, and I expect it won’t be the last.

I tried to teach Becca how to use my 35mm SLR camera.  I hadn’t touched since university, so I was about three years rusty in how to use it myself.  And let’s face it – I never really understood it in the first place. 

She took a photo of me in front of the Eiffel Tower.  I’m positioned so that I appear to be wearing one of Paris’ most famous landmarks as a hat.  I look like the unholy love child of a chubby duck and a chipmunk.  I’m a duckmunk.  It’s to be expected with a combination of lips and cheeks like mine.  I’m a little worried that I know for a fact that I was skinnier then, yet I still look pretty chunky. 

A chunky duckmunk.

We took a boat along the Seine, to avoid having to stand in queues and actually look at tourist attractions up close.  It was bitterly cold.  And towards the end, quite wet as well.  We braved it, although the wind made Jen’s eyes water as though she was weeping.  Three hardy Scotswomen, reduced to shivering wrecks by the Parisian winter.  In my poorly exposed photos, the clouds are a lurid purple, threatening us, as we huddle together and try to smile as a fellow tourist snaps us on the deck of the boat.

I found a perfect cream 1940’s dress, with a tiny blue flower pattern, in a vintage shop in Montmartre where Jen’s apartment was.  It fitted as though it had been made for an awkwardly proportioned me (doesn’t anymore... sigh).  And later, in the window of a large fashionable department store, I found a unicorn.  I wanted to say ‘lifesize unicorn’ but...  Well, I shan’t spoil it for those of you who believe.

We lay on the floor, surrounded by shelf upon shelf of books, while the cat played around us, as we feasted on bread, cheese, grapes and Leffe.   Jen was given a bottle of pink gin, a thank you gift for allowing us to impose on her.  She did all the talking for us, because I don’t know any French at all, having never been taught it at school.  Becca knew a little to get by but would get stage fright when it came to trying it out.

We drank too many drinks then climbed all the stairs to the top of the Sacré-Cœur at 3am, and took photographs in the dark that showed very little of Paris.  We met up with Mark and Kate, who happened to be in the city at the same time and drank more drinks and laughed.  We ate pasta by a canal, and were impressed by the band playing loudly inside. 

We saw Sigur Ros play at Le Zenith.  But not before we got horribly lost first in some Parisian suburb, and walked for miles, and eventually had to admit defeat and take a cab out of fear that we’d miss the band altogether.

Becca saved me from falling over lots of times.  My ankles are kinda flimsy.  I must have dropped a knife and fork at least once while I was there, I always do.

I notice little things in the photos that have changed since then.  I rarely wear silver jewellery these days, now I favour a once-shunned gold.  I lost that jacket, handmade by a Japanese boy on the top floor of Affleck’s Palace in Manchester, later that year while drunk.  And that plain white scarf was replaced with a blue and white patterned one, given to me by Cat at Christmas, one month later.

My only regrets – that we did not ride the carousel. 

And that I can’t remember it better.

Because I have been sleeping badly lately...

I’ve always been a dreamer.  I get it from my Mum.  We both have really vivid nightmares, and really ridiculous dreams, on a regular basis.  And we both have terrible bouts of insomnia.

As far as I can tell, my insomnia isn’t triggered by anything especially.  I’ll have a night of interrupted sleep, waking every few hours, and then the next night, instead of being more tired, I’m more alert. 

And there it begins...  It can sometimes last weeks.  People keep telling me I look ‘weary’.  Erm... thanks.

The dreaming is as bad as the insomnia.  In the build up to my first television writing credit in November last year, I had insane anxiety dreams that made me feel more tired than not sleeping. 

I have a recurring theme, that I have to save the world.  Which is suitably narcissistic, and also exhausting.  I frequently dream about teeth falling out and loved ones dying, both of which are extremely distressing.  And then there are the ridiculous ones, like the time I dreamt I met Brian Molko from Placebo in a supermarket and he autographed my calculator.  Or the time I dreamt I was at a Christmas party with Britney Spears, Bill Gates and the cast of Eastenders.

Although nothing will ever beat the time I was watching Pet Rescue with my Mum, and at the end credits she said ‘It’s a crime they didn’t have ‘in memory of Rolf Harris’ on it’.

‘What Mum?’

‘He died yesterday,’ she told me. 

‘Did he?’

‘Yeah, I saw it on the news.  You’d think they’d do something at the end of the programme as a memorial’ she continued.

So the next day I went into school and asked around but no one had heard the terrible news about everyone’s favourite wobble board player. 

‘Mum, I don’t think Rolf Harris is dead.  It wasn’t in the papers and no one else seems to know about it...’

‘Oh.  Must have been a dream then.’

The worst dreams are the everyday ones though.  I remember when we were working on the Who Shot Calvin storyline, I dreamt that I’d edited the story team’s work and wrote notes on it.  And then I woke up.  And realised I had to edit the story team’s work and write notes on it.  I might as well have not gone to bed.

And for the sleepless nights, I have numerous activities to occupy my time.  There’s no point staring at the ceiling.  I don’t need that kind of freedom to think.  I accept that I’m not going to sleep.  Reading always works, although if it’s been a few days of not sleeping, my eyes can’t cope with it and my brain struggles to concentrate.

Watching films that I’ve seen a million times is good.  I don’t have to focus on the plot too much, and if I do manage to drift off, I won’t feel like I’ve missed anything.  Last February, during a really bad stint that lasted about four or five weeks, I was racking up two or three films a night sometimes.  Best double bill of that period?  Practical Magic followed by Donnie Darko.  Practical Magic holds a special place in my heart – it’s mine and Pete’s go-to film.  It’s got everything two teenage (in mind) girls could ever want.

AND LET’S NOT FORGET – SANDRA BULLOCK’S LOVE INTEREST CAN RIDE A PONY BACKWARDS.

I cling feebly to the hope that there’s a man like that in the world for me, while my eyeballs feel like the gritty sleeplessness might force them out of my head...   Oh, the thoughts that occupy you in the hours of the morning that you should only see if you’re running on a tank of whisky or rum.

My other late night occupation when counting sheep fails me is making compilation CD’s.  Or at least, lining up the playlists for people.  When it comes to the actual burning of the CD, I tend to be a bit slack.  I frequently promise a mix to people and they spend their lives waiting for it to actually appear.  Chances are, if you’ve known me for a year or so, there’s a playlist on my Windows Media with your name on it that will never see the light of day.

I have never denied being a commitment-phobe.  I’m almost proud of it.  Or at least I used to be.

But it’s worrying that even something as seemingly menial as committing a playlist to CD stresses me out.

WHAT IF I GET IT WRONG?

I sent my feature script to my writer friend Mark to read, and his response was that he’d been expecting it to be High Fidelity from a female perspective, but it’s actually absolutely nothing like that at all.  Which made me really glad.  ‘Cos the only similarity for me was the fact that a bit of it’s set in a record shop.  The rest couldn’t be further from it.  But I did use it as a reference in the initial days of developing the story. 

I was never particularly into High Fidelity.  I’m really funny about the way people talk about music in television and film.  The majority of the time, it rings hollow to me, untruthful.  Maybe ‘cos I hang around with a lot of people who seem to talk about music all the time.  But John Cusack’s ramblings never quite hit the mark for me.

The only scene in the whole film that really works for me is when he’s making a mixtape.  And he’s got a yellow notepad in front of him, working on the tracklisting, stressing about getting it perfect.

I’ve read lots of hilarious and beyond dorky ‘rules’ about making mixtapes.  Oh, the Internet, you are full of loons and it’s very entertaining.  I don’t have any rules for it, other than I try to put stuff on that I think the person won’t have heard, that I really love, that I hope they’ll love too.  Which is tough.

Two circumstances that make mixtape-ing extremely difficult – 1) the person has more or less the same taste in music as you and 2) it’s a boy you REALLY like.

As for girls, well, you’re just a pleasure.  I post Pete a few compilations a year.  She always says I’m the only person she knows who still buys physical incarnations of music (which isn’t true, I’m pretty sure Miah does too, although she’s probably way more download savvy than me).  The only phobia that outweighs me being a commitment-phobe is probably me being a technophobe. 

I find making playlists satisfying though.  I like picking out favourite tracks, listening to them a few times, matching them up with others. 

I’ve been working on a playlist for someone since before Christmas but it keeps getting redone.  I can’t agree with myself about some of the tracks.  You know you’re in trouble when you’re arguing with the order of your own selections at 4am, even though you know you’ve got to get up in a few hours, and even though you know you’re probably STILL not going to burn a CD at the end of it. 

By the time I finish it, all the bands will have split up or gotten popular.

Oh and while I’m on playlists that never make it to CD -  Hannah, if you’re reading this, I do have two playlists stored with your name on it.  But then I get new music, and hear something I think you’ll like, and then it requires a re-order.  And something has to get ditched to make room for the new thing and well...  That cycle’s been going on for over a year now.  At this rate, you’ll get the PERFECT mix sometime around... oh...  2055.

And by that time, I’ll be the only person still listening to CD’s.  Right?

One of the biggest trip up’s is coming up with a name.  I don’t have mix rules, but I do like to have a title for them when they do make it onto a CD.  The best one I ever came up with was ‘There Ain’t No Cowboy Code’, which I think was a quote from a Western,  or a song maybe.  It was a country-tinged compilation, naturally.  I think it might have been for Bernard but I can’t really remember.  It could very well have been for Pete, as it’s certainly one she would have liked.

I have of course made a compilation called ‘Time For Twee’ and it was of course full of Indietracks-esque bands.  There was a follow up called ‘Twee for Two’, which I think Ellen might have come up with, ‘cos she’s dead good with the puns. 

But the only thing better than making a mix (regardless of whether it ever breaks into the real world and into someone else’s hands), is receiving one.

It’s dead exciting.

Two of my top mixes were from Murray – one entitled ‘One For Joy’ and the other ‘Good Ol’ Country Comforts’.  I listen to them both on a regular basis, and often put individual tracks on compilations for other people now.    Pete’s made me a few over the years, two most notable titles would be ‘I Like To Show You Off Sweetheart’ and ‘Dot Dot Dot Open Bracket Nervous Laughter Close Bracket’ which I can vaguely remember is some sort of joke from our uni days...  But I can’t remember why it is funny (if it ever was...). 

Also vying for excellent title award – Mikey’s ‘Niki is Scottish’, which he made for me at a time when I was really down.  The hand-drawn cover featuring a gigantic sunshine and a leafy green tree, done in crayons, would bring a smile to anyone’s face.  Even a grumpypants like me.  Equally rating highly in the cover-stakes is Ed Bear’s compilation entitled ‘A Dungeons & Dragons Marathon At Mine’ – a promise I will still hold him to.

Sometimes the simple titles work best.  I received a compilation (VIA EMAIL – OH YES, APPARENTLY SUCH MAGICAL HAPPENINGS CAN OCCUR!) this week called 19 Songs, from a Twitter buddy who is also a big Hollyoaks fan.  I was totally psyched, as he’d mixed it all properly and everything.  And intimidated.  Like...  seriously.  MIXING THE MIX?  AS IF I CAN DO THAT!  But I did my twee-est best and sent a CD in return.  Knowing my luck, it won’t actually play...

A mix can also help ease the difficulty of making new friends.  Because I have the social skills of a plant and panic about how to make ‘proper friends’ with people when I first meet them, I find giving them a mix CD will often help ease the friendship in. 

When I first met Christopher, I made him a mix as a thank you for making the new girl feel welcome.  He returned it with a sweet little compilation featuring galloping horses on the cover.   When Christopher first saw me, I was in the Hollyoaks canteen wearing a Scandinavian style jumper.  So he naturally assumed I was Norweigian, and that my name was Greta.  Meanwhile I saw him carting his bass guitar around work and decided that we should be friends, but it wasn’t until we were both a bit drunk at a Christmas party that we finally talked.  I say talked, we actually threw impressive shapes on the dancefloor.   I can only imagine he was bitterly disappointed to discover that I was Scottish but he covered it up well with a brilliant CD that again, I still listen to and pilfer from a lot.

The most complex mix I ever received was from Andy, entitled ‘DRAMA – The Tale Of Arthur and Daisy’.  The best way I can describe it is...  It’s a concept compilation.  It features 5 movements and tells the love story of Arthur and Daisy, who meet (to Elle S’appelle I think) but are torn apart (as Ed Harcourt plays over) but thankfully, in the end, get it together (to Hot Club De Paris as far as I can tell).  I have to admit that this is a particular favourite because many of the songs feature lyrics about horses or ponies.  We listened to it on the way to the Hillary and the Democrats gig supporting ballboy in Nottingham, when I surprised Gordon and Sam drove us in Married to the Sea’s now deceased red post van, Ludwig (RIP).  Everyone agreed it was a particularly spectacular compilation.

You see I’m really a simple little creature with simple needs.  Music, ponies, a bunch of daisies, Diet Coke and late night movies.  Throw in a cute boy and a spot of afternoon tea with the girls.  And that feature script getting made...

Gosh, that’s me happy.

Now, I’m certain that more or less as soon as I hit publish with this, it’s going to invite lots of people commenting that ‘it’s not a real mix unless it’s on a cassette’ and other pedantic things.  Don’t kill my buzz guys.  Can we go back to my rule of – there are no rules?  This is how I like to do it.  And a little commentary on what I like about compilations that have been made for me.  

It’s all to the same end, right?  Share the stuff you like.  It’s a principle that should be applied more rigorously to life in general.

And on that note...

If anyone is looking for a ponyshare in the area, I am totally your girl.  Please apply within.

Just grab your hat, come travel light – that’s hobo style.

‘So are you an actress then?’

Oh Liverpool taxi drivers, you know how to get a generous tip out of me!

‘No, I’m a writer’ I fawn, beaming at him in the rear view mirror.  Keep it up, mate.  My ego is more than happy for you to ply it with falsity.

He looks suitably surprised, and goes on to add that I look far too young for that, and I respond with my usual simpering ‘Older than I look, but thank you’.

‘Where you from?’ he asks.

‘Glasgow, originally.’

I don’t know why I add ‘originally’ to that statement.  I always do it.  It’s stupid.  You’re from where you’re from and you can’t be from anywhere else after that, right?  Still I say it...

‘Really?  You don’t sound it’

Again, I give my usual response ‘People always say that.  I used to... ’

‘You sound more American’

I get that a lot too.

‘I’ve lived away from home for a long time,’ I tell him.

Is ten years a long time?  It feels like it.  I was still seventeen when I cantered off to university.  Liverpool is the longest I’ve stayed in one place out of choice (you have no choice between the ages of 0-17).  I never thought I’d find anywhere that feels more like home than Edinburgh, but Liverpool has certainly filled those shoes more than adequately.

It’s all about people, isn’t it? That’s what makes a place home.  You can easily replace places, like for like...

Edinburgh has Bonsai, Liverpool has Wokit (I love you Wokit, I’m your biggest fan).  Edinburgh has Victoria Street, Liverpool has Bold Street.  Edinburgh has Armstrongs, Liverpool has Raiders Vintage. 

Obviously these places have their own special charm, they are in no way the same, but they can provide the same function.

You can’t say that about people.

But even in Edinburgh, my history is cut short.  It’s a slice of me – a four year window into a mostly happy time.  There’s no sense of... personal heritage?

I’m still very close to my high school gang but we became friends around the age of fifteen.  I don’t have that childhood bestie, y’know, the one you grew up with since nursery school.  Everyone seems to have one but me!

When I got back to Liverpool after Christmas, I went out with Sara, my children’s book writing buddy (she draws, I do words and you can check out Sara’s other lovely work here)to meet her childhood best friend.  Both are beautiful, talented and charming, and joke about how they’ve always lived parallel lives to each other.  Things just happen to them around the same time.  I’m envious of that sense of shared history.  All those memories that will likely end up spanning a lifetime of friendship.

Then at the weekend just gone, it was the first 10 Bands 10 Minutes of 2012.  Hosted by Married to the Sea, this one was dedicated to Neil Young and was at the Kazimier this time.

‘It’s like a cross between a 60’s French Jazz Club and the circus’ I say, of the venue.

Ellen and James frown and look at each other questioningly.

‘Who’s got syphilis?!’  asks James.

‘No... CIRCUS’ I repeat, and laugh my head off. 

James and I have a history of mishearing each other at gigs, so this is a classic exchange between us.  My current bout of insomnia combined with being loaded up on sugary whisky and ginger has me giddy, so I find everything hilarious all night.  Anyone watching on would think I was friends with the funniest gang of people in the world (I am, incidentally, but that’s beside the point).

Ed Bear has surprised us with his presence, jibbing off London’s fictional East End to hang out with the faux-Chester gang.  It’s also Mikey’s birthday and this is his band Novice Mathematic’s first go at playing 10 Bands.  They are as ever dead noisy, but a ten minute set means Mikey can’t give me his usual sweaty hug afters.  He almost seems disappointed to have kept his perspiration under control.

Simon abandons his post on the merch stall to watch his old school friend David Broad play an acoustic set.  David’s got a sharp-looking quiff and is well received by the crowd.  Simon keeps giggling and shaking his head, taking great joy in seeing his friend perform, and I’m envious of that shared history – years of friendship.  Then later again, I’m introduced to my studio buddy Alice’s glamorous childhood friend Betty.  They both somehow get caught up in a misguided attempt to relive Mikey’s birthday fun of last year by returning to CaVa for stupid amounts of stupidly cheap tequila.  But half our party are turned away at the door and I’m almost trampled by a 19 year old giant blonde girl, dead set on flattening me in her determination to get to the bar.

We bin off this failed nostalgia-fest for Le Bateau (it’s basically Evol at The Liquid Rooms, Edinburgh/Liverpool... like for like...) which I’ve never been crazy about, but it’s worth it to laugh at some of the dance moves being pulled.  If you’ve ever wondered what Mark Morris looks like on the dancefloor, I can tell you...  Like any other self-conscious indie boy out to let loose.

As we’re leaving, Simon tells me that he’d seen some lads trying to put a blow up doll in the cloakroom, convinced it was the funniest thing anyone had ever done.  He wasn’t impressed.  As I go to retrieve my coat upstairs, I walk past the lads and their reclaimed doll.  They all look a tad glum.

‘It’s a sad day when a blow up doll isn’t funny’ says one of them, dolefully.  According to Simon, it’s a sad day when it is funny, and I must agree with him.

At the top of the stairs, there’s a very drunk girl who’s cornered three of the indie-est-looking indie boys I’ve ever seen, and is attempting to impress them with her musical knowledge.

‘Elvis is dead famous in Birkenhead, isn’t he?’ she says.

‘Erm..  I think he’s pretty famous everywhere in the world,’ one of them replies. 

‘Yeah but in Birkenhead.  That’s where he’s known.’ she informs him confidently.

I leave them to it, wincing at this painful pulling technique and get my coat back, relieved that the extremely unfriendly cloakroom attendant from earlier has been replaced by a girl who manages a weary smile at me as I hand her my raffle ticket.

After late night chips, we pile into taxis and I crawl into my freezing cold bed around 5.30am.  I notice that I seem to have ended up with someone’s fingerprints bruised on my wrist.  I have no idea who’s responsible – I bruise like Gregory, and I usually perceive it to be the sign of a dead good night out.  And even though it’s been laced with envy of other people’s pals, I know I’m lucky to have come across these kids in my life now.

I don’t really know how I came out of my childhood without retaining any friendships.  I’m a nostalgic person, so it’s surprising.  It doesn’t help that I live my life like The Littlest Hobo, with a general reluctance to commit or settle.

I've gained so much since I left Glasgow in new friendship, that it seems silly to wonder what would have happened if I'd stayed.  I guess I would have kept my accent...

But then I’d have nothing to say to taxi drivers, right?

Keep away from him.

‘Keep away from him Niki, he’s a muppet,’ Ross sternly warns me. 

We’re below the bunting and pompoms and balloons of the top floor at Studio 24’s Hogmanay party, hosted by The Go Go.  I’m being circled by the singer of an indie-twee band.  One I used to like before they released a truly appalling second album.

‘I’m not interested’ I assure him, and it’s true.

New Year’s Eve kisses have never interested me.  I don’t really understand the pressure to be snogging at the bells.  A peck on the cheek from Pete was enough to make me content this year. 

We make cocktails at Pete’s in the evening, a recipe for disaster if ever there was one.  Her first attempt at lavender martini is too bitter, and her second attempt too sweet.  I’m fairly certain I’ll be on the floor before midnight if the taste-testing continues, so I leave it to Miah to assess the concoctions for the most part.  Anyway, there’s beautifying to do.

‘Okay ladies, I’ll be using the mirror in the bathroom at 8pm’ Pete informs us at the dinner table.

You have to have an itinerary, you see, to organise three girls and one bathroom on Hogmanay.  This has to factor in my inevitable fake eyelash disaster and Pete’s inevitable blow drying dilemma.  Followed by the passing round of eyeliner, the last-minute outfit change, the clouds of perfume and hairspray... 

While Miah and Lees hum and haw over whether they’re coming to The Go Go or staying home (they come with us in the end, of course!) I settle on a grey playsuit with a gold cinch waist belt and a gold and cream feather in my hair.  It’s not too flash, but there’s no point trying to compete at The Go Go.  There are always a crowd of young vintage beauties, in tiny dresses and Victory Rolls, whose red lipstick remains mysteriously perfect all night.  I know by the time I leave at 5am, my curls will have dropped, my feet will be crippled and my mascara smudged.  Looking perfect on New Year’s Eve doesn’t interest me either – I’m out to dance.

I see David for the first time since his mega travels across America in the summer, and meet his enchanting girlfriend Kate at last.  She looks gorgeous in a long flowing polka dot dress and brown belt, which Stephen later (incorrectly) informs her looks like a wrestler’s belt.  He also queries the feather in my hair - ‘Niki, would you say that was a fascinator?’  I must look mildly offended as I reply ‘I think it’s more of a clip...’ because he quickly follows with ‘Sorry, is ‘fascinator’ a bit Ascot?’ 

‘I’m more worried it’s a bit Aintree to be honest,’ I tell him ruefully, before being distracted by the arrival of my old college pal, Catherine. She hasn’t changed a bit – a beauty queen from Shetland, with long hair so blonde and shiny it’s almost white, tall and slender in a polka dot playsuit that compliments Kate’s dress rather well.  As I take in the ladies all dressed up and the chaps in sharp suits or plaid shirts, I think...

Aren’t we a fine looking bunch?

Catherine and I quickly catch up over some Mango Mojito, prepared by Pete, who’s fiercely pounding mint plants with a pestle and mortar.  Catherine tells me she’s recently seen my old boss Angus, who told her the story of how I became employed by him in the first place (‘Niki just walked in one day and told me I was going to give her a job’).  We realise it’s been an insanely long time we saw each other last, as we fill in ‘the details’ of the last few years, and promise that it won’t be so long before we see each other next.

At the bells, we all gather in the living room and drink champagne from teacups, hugging and kissing cheeks, posing in the first photographs of 2012 for my Diana camera.

Who’s twee as fuck now, eh?

At half 12, the taxi nonsense begins, as we head over to The Go Go.  I end up with David, Kate, Stephen and his girlfriend Stef.  Stephen informs the taxi driver that his dad was also a taxi driver, and commends him for staying at home with his family for the clock striking midnight before coming out to work.  ‘Daddy never stayed with us! I’m still not over it’ he mock-bawls.  The taxi driver is good sport, and laughs along with the rest of us.

At The Go Go, Ross and Colin play a blinding set with Les BOF! – they’re the perfect band for tonight, looking sharp in their matching suits.  Me and Catherine, who’s oblivious to the admiring glances of every man in the land, don’t stop dancing throughout.  We soon migrate upstairs once the band are finished, where there’s a more distinct party atmosphere given the decorations and the tighter crowd due to the smaller dancefloor.  Catherine and I make a space for ourselves by a pillar and I try my best to protect her from the unwanted attentions of a chap with a ‘tash in a blue shirt who thinks it’s acceptable to put his hand on her bottom without so much as a ‘Happy New Year’ first. 

Note for 2012, boys.  It’s not acceptable to do that.

As the hours wear on... me, Catherine and Ross are the last dancers from our gang standing.  Which is when we’re approached by the lanky-legged, high-cheekboned, floppy-haired, beige-trouser-wearing indie boy.  Ross comes to my rescue and whirls me off round the dancefloor to ensure my safety.

‘I wouldn’t know what to say anyway,’ I laugh, but Ross isn’t taking any risks.  Dancefloor social skills do not take priority on my CV.  I should never be left unattended in these scenarios, because I inevitably become a magnet for every oddball in a room.  Pete has a similar quality actually.  Over the weekend, we’d been talking about all the weirdoes we’ve attracted over the years.

My favourite will always be the boy in the green or blue cardigan on the dancefloor at The Egg, who kept trying to dance with Pete.  Eventually, Barker’s protective mode kicked in and he told the guy to back off, that she wasn’t interested.  ‘You don’t understand’ said Cardigan Boy indignantly.  And then more sinisterly... ‘I know her.  And I know what she wants.’

With this impressive statement out there, we quickly swept Pete off the dancefloor and into a taxi, fairly certain that this was exactly what she wanted.

Another highlight in the long list of crazy was the boy who approached me after a talk by Deborah Moggach and told me he’d got my name off the Internet (with no further explanation than that...) then asked if I wanted to go out in Manchester with him.

Completely thrown, I laughed and pointed out he hadn’t even introduced himself.

‘Oh sorry, you know what it’s like when you’re ill...’ he muttered.

Erm, no.  No, I do not.

When the Hogmanay indie-boy does manage to make his pursuit clear, it's more painfully awkward than weird.  I'm not sure which of us has the poorest social skills but I'm here to have fun with my pals.  He practically runs away to the other side of the dancefloor for the rest of the night.  I escape any further awkward encounters until 5am.  Catherine and I are more than ready to go home and call a taxi.  The dead nice wee wifey on the other end of the phone apologetically informs me it’s an hour’s wait.

‘I’d rather that than wander around Edinburgh in the rain, blindly hoping one will magically appear’ I tell Catherine.  She agrees, so we step outside, where Ross tries to convince us that a delayed taxi is a sign we should party on.  Given I lost all feeling in my feet at least an hour previously, it’s unlikely.

And then the miracle happens.

A taxi pulls up across the road.  Even though we’ve been waiting less than ten minutes, Ross goes to check if it’s ours, ‘just in case.’

He returns looking grumpy.

‘It is.’

Stunned, Catherine and I kiss Ross goodbye, clamber in and are whisked off home.

As I settle down in my nest on Pete’s living room floor at 5.30am, I decide that this unexpectedly early taxi is a sign that promises 2012 will be a better year than last.

And I’ll happily take that over a midnight snog with a stranger on a sweaty dancefloor any day.

I'm here to bang the hot guy who hit on me at the bar.

Pete:  Niki, is there any particular kind of movie you want to watch?

Niki:  Noooo.

Miah:  The Inbetweeners?

Niki:  No...

Pete:  Erm...  Brighton Rock?

Miah:   Nooooo!

Pete:  (defensive)  Have you seen it?

Niki:  Brighton Rock’s amazing!

Miah:   Niki’s seen it.  Something else.

Pete:  Conan the Barbarian.

I decide not to merit this suggestion with an answer.  She is clearly joking.  And Miah retorts ‘What?  No!’  But is then ensnared by Pete muttering ‘I like Gods, okay?’  As Miah wonders about the plot and Pete starts to explain, I zone out a little.  If we end up watching it, I’ll be able to dip in and out.

Pete:  Sleeping Beauty?

Niki:  Is that the one with her from Mamma Mia in it?

Pete:  No.  But she kinda looks like her...

Niki:  Well, that’s not selling it to me.

Pete:  I didn’t tell you anything about it!

Finally we settle on Crazy Stupid Love, which was the film we originally wanted to watch, but you know how you have to go round the houses on these ones.

I have never heard noises like the sounds that came out of our mouths when Ryan Gosling appeared onscreen.  The thing about Gosling is – boys like him too.  Children like him.  Pets like him.  Everyone likes him.  He’s not human.  He’s a gift.  And we should worship him appropriately.

‘I’m actually in love with him,’ I declare. ‘This isn’t like with Zac Efron.  I mean, I’m actually in love with him.  I’ve never felt like this about any man before.’

As I go on Twitter to search to see if he’s got a page, Miah and Pete exchange worried looks.

‘You’re not proposing are you?’ asks Pete.

‘No!’ I exclaim.  Then add ruefully...  ‘He’s not on Twitter. ’

I’m not actually insane (although I am actually in love with Ryan Gosling).  I’d never say... write him a  letter...  But if I did write him a letter...  it might go something like this...

No, really, I’d never do that.

...

It’s been a day of movie talk.  It started out with meeting Gordon, the first time we’ve seen each other in ages.  I’ve been rubbish this year in coming up to Edinburgh and he’s been rubbish ALWAYS in coming to Liverpool (apart from the time he drove me home from Indietracks, but he can’t keep playing that card forever...).  After we’d caught up on all the personal news, we moved on to the best films we’d seen this year.

And that’s when Gordon dropped the bombshell.

He’s never seen The Goonies.

‘WHAT?’

‘I’ve never seen it.  See this is a generational thing...’ he begins.

‘WHAT?’

‘I’ve never seen Back to the Future either’ he says, offhandedly, as though somehow this makes it better.

‘WHAT?’

I’m eventually stunned into silence.  I cover my face with my hands and take a moment to recover before muttering ‘I don’t even know who you are...’

‘Those are just two in the long lines of films that I haven’t seen’ Gordon tells me, apologetically.

I don’t want to know anymore, I can’t afford to lose my mind. 

Pete made me watch Thor the previous night (which is another reason why I zoned out when she told Miah she loved Gods).  ‘I like the chemistry between Thor and Natalie Portman’ she insists, her tone entirely sincere.  I’m doubtful but she’s keen, so we stick it on.

About ten minutes in, I have some questions.  Since Pete admits that she’s already seen Thor twice previously, I direct them towards her.

‘So...  they’re in space, yeah?  But they’re also Greek myths?’

‘Yes, kinda.’

‘So who’s the Norwegian guy and why’s he there?  And who’s the chick?  And this guy that’s meant to be his brother, is he Greek too?’

For someone that’s seen it twice already, Pete’s a little short on answers.

By the time Thor and Natalie Portman are constantly smiling at each other while the other one isn’t looking (BECAUSE WE NEED TO UNDERSTAND THAT THEY FANCY THE PANTS OFF EACH OTHER AND THIS IS AN EPIC LOVE STORY AND WE SHOULD WANT THEM TO BE TOGETHER SO THAT THE ENDING FEELS TRAGIC), I’m completely lost as to why the grey guys with blue eyes who look like melted candlewax are so fussed about what Thor’s brother’s up to.

Again I look to Pete for help, and again, we don’t get any closer to understanding the plot.

‘I feel like I am my Mum asking my Mum what’s happening in a film, it’s a strange feeling’ I tell Pete.  She agrees with this, and is then distracted again by Thor demonstrating sacrifice and valour for the sake of true love or something.  Which results in him getting his pet hammer back.  He’s very pleased about this, and then leaves earth for his home planet of Crete, where he gets into a fight with his brother about playing with his toys while he was on holiday and then he accidentally smashes a bridge, allowing Natalie Portman to gurn inanely into the camera with her boyish sexual charm for the final shot of the film.

‘You totally loved it, right?’ says Pete as the credits roll.  Oh, yeah.

It was my movie highlight of 2011. 

Not really.  But it rates pretty well, simply ‘cos I watched it with Pete.

I’ve just realised though – if you haven’t seen it yet, I’ve probably ruined the ending.

Oh well, with a bit of luck Thor 2 will be out in 2012.  And I can promise you it’s unlikely I’ll be seeing that before you...

I’ll be too busy with my new husband Ryan to go to the cinema.