On a night like this...

Sometimes it takes a night like this to remind yourself what would the world really be like without men?

And I am not talking on a sexual sense – I am referring more to the way women and men think. Men think black/ white – women think grey. And would we want it any other way?

After all grey is created from the careful combination of black and white. The decision to mix the two and see what comes of it.

But in this murky water women live in, sometimes over-analysis is over-kill and what we need is a definite reference point. Call a spade a spade. What is black is black. What is white is white. No what if’s. What could have been’s. What maybe’s…

Being around men is liberating and frustrating. And it is this dichotomy that a woman thrives on. Because we can do both. We can think in black/white, but also in grey. But men struggle to do both.

And really we shouldn’t be asking them to mix the palate.

One thing, despite all the tables being turned thanks to the feminist wave, is women still crave certainty. And men deliver the goods. Certainty is the ability to think in these solid areas of black and white – they will not budge.

And for women in the face of change, no matter how strong we are, we are even more uncertain than our mothers – because we have far more to choose from. Grabbing hold of a man’s instincts to see the world in black and white is something we should willingly embrace.

It gives us the anchor to explore the world in grey. And when we love them for that, they get to see a more complex picture that is truly beautiful and diverse in every way.

VIP = Very Important Prat

When I was younger and the university student surviving on endless variations of packet pasta I really did think that one of the measurements of my success would be the endless VIP invitations I would acquire.

I have arrived to this crucial pinnacle of success. Sadly, it is nowhere close to the fantasy realms of my VIP leather lounge and buff, bronzed cocktail waiter I imagined.

Think plastic cups, over-priced drinks and young, infantile things running around with one hand on their jeans unnecessarily yanking up the denim – despite the fact that their boxers lived uncomfortably under their armpits. This was no haven for fantasy or illusion – rather a cesspool of shredded dreams and faded hopes.

Yet those around me looked so smug while I twisted and turned on the definitely fatigued leather lounge chain-smoking like the jaded jewel I am. And boy, did I ham it up. I called upon every cliché Jewish hand gesture I know from those over-hyped American sitcoms I could draw upon. I used every single lip muscle to pout harder than Keira Knightly on coke.

And at the end of the day, the best I could muster was a mediocre diva exit stage-left. Did anyone notice? No – apart from me. I wonder if the Very Important Prats I considered swanning around my aurora of faux-cool came anywhere close to being a bigger prat than I was.

Did I live for the moment? Did I take it all in and let it go? Most definitely not. I judged it all, like the cynical, professional, non-eating packet pasta fool I am.

Bring on not caring! And please let success reconsider the person I am now.