You know you’re a true Hollywood Spinster when…

…an informal bbq around the pool involves a push-up bra, kitten heels and a last-minute dash to Whole Foods for that quinoa thing and a bottle of rose.


Is everyone’s ideal woman Stephen Fry?

Stephen Merchant, actor and one of the creator/writers of The Office and Extras, has said that his ideal woman would have the “body of Kelly Brook and the mind of Stephen Fry”.

Good luck to him, I say. If he can find, he can have it.

But with one devastating sentence he gets to the heart of why so many woman are single after a certain age. And why so many men date young girls, while remaining mentally and emotionally unfulfilled.

I have no idea how to resolve this conundrum because I’m as guilty as the next person.

If I could put Stephen Fry’s intellect into the body of Tim Riggins from Friday Night Lights, and give him the singing voice of Hugh Jackman, I’d be a very happy bunny indeed.

Which begs the question, on some level, does everyone want to sleep with Stephen Fry?

He’s the bachelor’s wet dream, and the spinster’s Christmas all wrapped up in one stimulating package.

I saw him recently at Chateau Marmont, sitting on the patio, tapping away at his laptop. I really, REALLY wanted to walk over and say something. But what the hell do you say to Stephen Fry that’s not going to make you sound like a blithering idiot?

One of my long-held fantasies, and this is absolutely true, is to have Stephen Fry teach me to play chess.

Yes, that’s right people, chess.

I imagine us sequestered in a cosy library somewhere, coffee and brandy to hand, a spot of Al Bowlly on the iPod, while we pore over a chess board.

The picture here is of Stephen, and his good friend Hugh Laurie, playing chess at Cambridge University in 1980.

I think I’ve just melted.

Sitting in that room feels comfortable and challenging, rather than sexual. Although the best sex is also both of those things.

Over the years I have managed to pass on my chess fantasy to Mr Fry precisely once. A friend of mine interviewed him ten years ago, and by all accounts he was flattered and amused by the request.

Stephen, now I’m on the shelf, I’m happy to eschew the singing voice, and the athletic physique, for a couple of hours with you in that library. You know where to find me.

Oh, and to the other Stephen (Merchant), I know many women who, although don’t have the body of Kelly Brook, have so much to offer it would be egregious of me to even think about listing their many attributes.

We’re the New Spinsters.

And, you know what, we’re alright.

Spinny out.


“I’m too old for him now” Denise Richards gets it right!

Spinster of the Week has got to be Denise Richards.

Her remarks about ex car-crash Charlie Sheen, that she’s now ‘too old for him’ make me chuckle over my morning coffee.

I love a woman with a sense of humour, and by the sound of it, she bloody needed it!

Read the article here.

 

 

 

 

 


Jennifer Aniston’s got a BOYFRIEND.

It’s with a heavy heart that I’m forced to announce that Jennifer Aniston may have to lose her position as “Spinster Gold”, now that she’s dating old wosshisface Theroux.

Beard or no beard, I have a feeling that this one’s a keeper, and that there may be a baby on the way soon.

I’m not privy to any information but my spindar is on full alert, and I fancy that all this nesting is leading in one direction.

Good for her. I hope she’s very happy because you know how much I love Jen.

But here’s the thing…who’s going to take her place as “Celebrity Spinster Number One?”

Jane Austen is dead.

I’m not famous.

Condaleeza Rice wasn’t funny enough on 30 Rock (that’s a euphemism for ‘she was part of that lot who started the war’.)

Taylor Swift is too young.

Madonna is too botoxed.

And Stephen Fry is a man.

Maybe it’s Kim Cattrall’s turn to step up to the plate? She was, after all, a former “Spinster of the Week”.

I read that the Sex & The City ladies have been shoved aside to make room for the prequel girls. Kim’s Samantha will be played by Blake Lively, who is currently dating Leonardo di Caprio. Maybe being promoted to “Celebrity Spinster Number One” will cheer her up?

Or not.

Thoughts please.

Spinny out.


You know you’re a true Hollywood Spinster when…

…a pedicure leads to a shoulder and head massage, leads to a walk around Zara, leads to a burrito and finally a frappacino, no whip (not after that burrito).


Loss. And Amy.

It’s been quite a week for loss.

Processing the abomination in Norway has been near impossible. The grimly pixelated photos of those young bodies on the rocky shoreline will remain etched in my mind forever.

It was hard to imagine that there was more to come but just hours later, Amy died.

Amazing Amy; a bee-hived poet, a musical genius, and an addict.

Stripped to its bare bones, she was a woman of just 27-years-old.

But please, let’s not romanticise the number. She was young, she died. It’s tragic. Shut up about the stupid club.

I remember being at a friend’s house in North London when I heard the album, Frank, for the first time. It was like someone had broken open my soul and poured vinegar and honey in the cracks. Back to Black came next. Has there ever been a more visceral collection of songs? I think I’ve listened to part of that album, if not all, every week since its release.

Her death – a woman I’d never met personally – has upset me beyond measure.

Because she was so talented? Or because it seemed inevitable?

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because 27 is no age to die.

The year I turned 27, my dad died…and a few months later I sold my first film script. I was just getting started.

I don’t know what addiction is. I’ve never been around it and I’ve never felt compelled to lose myself in drink or drugs.

I’m 43 now. And I feel utterly mortal in a way that I never did in my twenties. These days I have a keen sense that time is running out. I’m just glad my clock is ticking slower than hers.

Amy’s death holds up a mirror to us all. We owe it to ourselves – and to those who die pointless, needless deaths like those poor Norwegian schoolkids – to make the most of our lives.

In my absolute darkest days, I have asked myself, ‘What am I doing here?’

Sometimes, I feel so lonely and scared, I have to scrape myself off the floor. It’s only the cat mewling for food that gets me out of bed.

But even in those moments, I cannot imagine giving up on life.

Did Amy? Did she give up? Is that how it works with addiction?

I honestly don’t know.

I just know that losing Amy hurts.

Proper hurts.

I drove along PCH this afternoon, looking at the ocean, the beach and the sky. Taking it in, like I was seeing it all again for the first time.

There are moments in your life when you know you are really living.

This afternoon, I felt that more than ever.

RIP Amy.


Boundaries.

How close do you let people get to you?

How much of your time do you give to others?

How long do you spend listening to the same stories?

Why don’t we protect our boundaries more?

I think people see single women as easy targets.

“She’s got time to listen.”

“She’s got nothing better to do.”

The irony is that single women, in my opinion, should make themselves less available to others.

We have no-one to care for us, therefore we must care about ourselves more.

I’m not saying be more selfish but more wary of those emotional vampire friends. The ones who seem to think it’s okay to bore your ear off about the boyfriend or husband (because it’s usually the boyfriend or husband), call you up at any hour expecting you drop what you’re doing, or be sympathetic even when you have your own issues going on.

To survive as a single woman, you must be able to say no to these people.

Just because you’re single, doesn’t mean you’re available.

My mother used to tell me that I would make myself too available to my friends. That I would listen too long. Take on too much heartache.

I thought she was being harsh but with hindsight she was right.

Because while I was listening to their relationship woes, their concerns about child-care or career dilemmas, I wasn’t looking after myself.

Not having boundaries hurt me.

The fall-out of having your girlfriends whine, sob or rant for hours is that you end up in a soggy heap on the floor.

While they’ve off-loaded their anxiety, and are skipping out the door to give Blokey once last chance, you are left to clear up the mess.

Many the evening I’ve left the bar or put the phone down utterly depressed.

I think sub-consciously I left the UK to as a way of putting a physical distance between me and the women who were draining me of my precious positive energy. Since I arrived in the States, I’ve got really good at saying no to people.

I have found my boundaries.

I will not always be on the end of the phone to you.

(It doesn’t mean I love you less, it just means I care about myself a little more.)

I don’t have the answers. I’m still looking for my own.

I don’t always care about you. But I do love you.

And I love me too.

And that’s why I have my boundaries.

Spinny out.