Have yourselves a Merry little Christmas!

Hello one and all - feelin' all Christmassy! Yeah baby! Let's get all holly-jolly-baubley-mistletoey-tinselly-presenty-turkey...ey and so on and so forth

Oh yes. I'm back at the old homestead in the wild lands of the north, and, judging from the provisions in the kitchen, my Mum and Dad clearly have my brother and I confused with a small army. Yeah, yeah, we'll eat all the food anyway - It's Christmas! A time for eating brie, gorging on chocolates and drinking from 11am everyday. It can't just be my family, right?

Well, what with all the eating and drinking and present opening, plus my rather hectic relaxtion schedule, including all the TV-watching, I'm not sure how much posting I'll be able to fit in. So, hope you all have a blast, and I'll see you the other side...probably a few pounds heavier, to be honest.

It's Christmas! Tell everyone you know!

And god created visa...

And she saw that it was good. Took the day off on Tuesday for a whole day of Xmas shopping. On Oxford Street. Yes, some may call it madness, but there was method in my madness. First port of call was the cash machine outside the station – after having selected the cash option, it shockingly displayed the words that send a chill down the spine of card carriers everywhere: ‘insufficient funds’. Egads! There I was, all set for a day of shopping, and disaster had stuck before I had even stood in the shadow of the hallowed doors of Libertys or Selfridges. I wandered around dazedly for about five minutes, trying to figure out how this could have happened, how I was going to shop, and slightly more importantly, how I was going to eat until pay day. Started to feel a bit pissed off about it all, and then I felt a change coming over me, and I reacted the way I always do when confronted with a lack of funds. A little voice in my head says ‘Fuck it, it’s only money!’, and I decided to hit my visa card in an act of rebellion and with nothing less than wild abandon.

Mini financial crisis thus temporarily shelved, I mentally regrouped and prepared to put my military-style shopping expedition into action. Entered the first shop at oh-nine hundred and forty-five hours, and immediately happened on a pair of boots so heavenly I shed a tear whilst trying them on - they had been reduced from £60 to £20 and I was overcome with emotion when they had them in my size. Snapped them up, moved on to the next shop and proceeded to find the fabled, lesser-spotted pencil skirt of myth which has eluded me for weeks, then hit the jackpot with a silky-satiny-black-lacy vesty top that will go with EVERYTHING in my wardrobe, which was also reduced, and as I was queuing to buy that spotted a Matthew Williamson cardigan with fluted sleeves out of the corner of my eye - added that to the pile of purchases. Took a break for lunch, gazed appreciatively at my bags whilst waiting for my food to be served and then realised I had not, as yet, bought any Xmas presents for friends and family. Hmm. Military precision clearly somewhat lacking – I lose all focus when I enter a shoe shop. Pulled myself together and spent about 30 mins whizzing round doing the gift buying, agonising over extras and stocking fillers etc, but got it all done…then continued buying things (for myself). Haven't had such a good shopping day in ages. Absolutely exhausting though.

Later on discovered there was a problem not with my cash card, but with the cash machine. I do have sufficient funds and will be able to buy food and survive until payday. As I related this story to Red, about how I had unnecessarily hammered my visa card, she said ‘Oh well, you can just pay off the visa next month.’ Yeah, right. Hasn’t she ever heard of the two words that make all visa card carriers feel warm and happy inside? Minimum payment...

Partay season

I know, I know, I’ve been a bit lax with the posting over the past week. I’ve got a good reason though – although many of you will find this hard to believe, I’ve been having to use the work pc for real, actual, well, ‘work’. That’s right. The office is in a frenzy of ‘getting-everything-done-before-xmas’, and I just got carried away – filing reports, working on the website, writing copy, you name it – I’ve been a whirling dervish of activity, barely even stopping to bid for things I don’t need on eBay, or continue my research to find the cheapest CD & DVD sites (done and done, if you live in the UK: BangCD.co.uk, and dvd.co.uk – both do it with free p&p – I don’t know how they do it, and I don’t want to know). I’m fairly astonishing myself with how much work I can get done when I put my mind to it. I have to be discreet about how fast I’m getting through the work load though – wouldn’t want to give my colleagues unrealistic expectations for the New Year – this is just a one-off, clear my desk before the holidays type of deal.

So to business. Well, I was quite exhausted following the flat pack activities of last weekend – the ASPELUND wardrobe proved more than a challenge, and I think my love affair with Ikea may be coming to an end. My brother helped me put it together, and, although it is standing now, injuries were sustained to both parties and the word ‘harrowing’ wouldn’t be far off the mark. Still, all that assembly (shudder) is behind me now, and in the whirlingly dervishly busy run up to Christmas means lots of parties to attend. Most of them are for work, so drunkenness would be ill-advised, though is probably likely, what with the alcohol being free at these events. It all kicks off tonight with a party for our clients. As the food is usually inedible whenever my company hosts an event, I’ll be sticking to the champers, sorry, that’s M&S Cava (my cheapskate company never splashes out on the real thing). I’ve taken the liberty of taking tomorrow off. I have big plans for Xmas shopping. I also had big plans for a lie in. But – that would just be too easy, wouldn’t it? The week I am attending no less than 5 parties, we are also having the central heating fitted, and thus will be without hot running water for 2 days. Of course. The central heating guys start at 8am tomorrow morning, which nixes the lie-in plans, but that doesn’t bother me as much as the possibility I may have to attend one or more party a little, um, ‘unkempt’, shall we say. Having said all that, we do desperately need the central heating, what with the arctic temperatures London is currently enjoying. So, I’ll just get on with it, hot water or no hot water. Gosh life is hard.

After tonight’s big ‘do’ – which despite the free alcohol, I’m not looking forward to as many of our clients who I would happily cross the road to avoid RSVP’d within hours of receiving their invites (they’re the kind of people who would attend the opening of an envelope, to be frank), then it’s the departmental lunch, which will be very formal, but that’s followed by Lena’s Xmas drinks, which I am looking forward to, but shouldn’t drink too much since I will be meeting my Dad (he’ll be fresh off his flight into Gatwick, well, I say ‘fresh’…) the following morning for breakfast, then it’s the Arty Party in the Crypt (more free alcohol), then it’s Amy’s Xmas party, which, rather handily, is walking distance from my house, so that should be a very good night. And that’s it, until the next week. If my liver is still functioning after all that, I’ll be back with a full report.

Party on. Be excellent to each other.

Flat Pack fun!

The best thing about Ikea, as everyone knows, is the silly names they give to the furniture. Red and I went to Ikea last week, and I bought the MALM 3 drawer chest of drawers, a BENNO CD tower (I flirted briefly with the BILLY CD tower, but it doesn’t come in oak veneer, so BENNO won on points), and a FELICIA throw for the bed. Red bought me an ASPELUND wardrobe. I’ve capitalised the names because a) that’s how they are on the ridiculously large labels, and b) it encourages you to say the names in a silly voice, enunciating each syllable (come on, you know you want to). We also bought a couple of MOTTO cereal bowls, an IRIS oven mitt, looked longingly at a lamp called TRUNNA, and realised we already had a bedside table called HALO.

So to the fun of assembly. I’ve not tackled any flat pack stuff since I first moved to London, when I bought a GLADIAT set of desk drawers. I managed to put it together alright, but I also remember losing several hours of my life to the project. But, you know, keeping my CDs in cardboard boxes is starting to get kind of tired, so, throwing caution to the wind and armed with a hammer and a Philips screwdriver, I gingerly opened the box containing the CD tower – I thought I would build up to the bigger items. It really wasn’t too difficult, I’m pleased to report, and probably would have been easier and quicker had I not been putting it together whilst keeping half an eye on the TV, talking to my Mum on my phone and drinking a glass of wine (what can I say, I just can’t help multi-tasking).

At a crucial point, I realised one of the screws was missing, but I’ve come to realise that a vital missing component is tied in with the whole Ikea culture. That’s right. They do it on purpose. Ikea is not simply a furniture store with oddly named stock. Oh no, it’s a lifestyle and a philosophy and an experiment all in one. How else would you explain the fact that the wardrobe doesn’t come with handles? Of course it doesn’t come with handles – that would be against the whole ethos of Ikea, apparently. They are clearly trying to encourage active thinking, a philosophical enterprise of some sort if you will. To me, and maybe to you too, a wardrobe is not complete without handles, but to Ikea, handles are merely ‘accessories’, to jazz it up post-assembly. Likewise, including the correct screws and fasteners in the box, or even detailed instructions would be wrong. As your heart sinks at the prospect of having to return to Ikea to get the improbably named handles, you find yourself questioning how necessary they really are…and then you’re off, pondering the meaning of life and the sound of one hand clapping.

I did feel a sense of triumph when I finished BENNO, but no spiritual awakening. On balance, I think that MALM and ASPELUND can stay in their cardboard boxes for a bit longer.

Tell me why I don't like...

Oh Monday, how do I love thee? Not at all, actually. I have no love for the Monday. And the (bitter, evil, dawn of a new Ice Age) cold weather is making Mondays even worse. Even though I am all moved in to my lovely new flat, and sharing with a sane person (which is really important, much more than people think), as yet, we do not have heating. Yep, that’s right, and it was minus 8 last night. We’ve got some of those little electric heaters, which you can sort of hover over and warm one body part at a time, but it’s not the same. Mostly it is ok, but getting out of bed when it is still dark and stepping onto a cold floor – that’s not so good. Also, although getting into the shower is ok, it’s hard to get out, because you know that as soon as you turn the taps off, you will be covered in goosebumps. On the plus side, I’ve noticed I get dressed a lot quicker – less of the standing in front of the wardrobe and pondering over the perfect ensemble, and more of the grabbing the nearest jumper and shivering into it.

Despite all these odds against it, (the weather, the comfy bed, the weird dream I was having about buying a samurai sword; for what purpose, I don’t know), I did make it into work, and at least I had a good weekend, the memories of which are keeping me warm as I sit here, typing in fingerless gloves, hunched over a cup-a-soup, much like Bob Cratchit (a modern-day, über-glamorous, female Bob Cratchit, but you get my point) . So what happened this weekend? Well. S is back from India! Hurrah! And her boyfriend managed to pull off a surprise ‘welcome back’ party for her on Saturday night. We went to Elk in the Woods bar in Angel, which was very nice, if a bit tricky to find. They serve lovely food and they even have lovely bar staff, which is always a refreshing change. Also saw Sho, and went to the pictures – saw Mrs. Henderson Presents, which is a lovely film, with Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins, about the original Windmill Theatre in Soho, which kept going through WW2, with a nude review and variety show – very popular with the soldiers on leave, less so with the then prime minister. At one point, Judi Dench’s character makes a speech, and she is just so damn good, that she only had to make her voice break on one word and I found myself in tears. She’s just that good. We went to the Crown and Goose in Camden after that – they have a real fire in there! Sat as close as we good without becoming a combustion hazard.

Much of Sunday morning was lost to a quite gentle hangover, which only troubled me with a headache, and requested that I stay in bed ‘til at least 1.30pm. I think I got off lightly. When I did drag myself out of bed, I managed to go to a little arts centre that Amy told me about, which is literally round the corner from my new flat. Some of the art was actually quite good, which I hadn’t been expecting, and there was also music, and a Turkish woman gave a speech all about London as part of some ‘ephemeral cities’ project. It was all rather good. Would be fair to say the day improved when we left there though, and sojourned to the pub across the road, for a couple of brandies and a satisfyingly large stone-baked pepperoni pizza. Almost forgot it was Sunday evening, and that the dreaded Monday was approaching. Came home to find that Red had been to Ikea (on a Sunday! Is she mad?) and my new wardrobe is in boxes waiting to be assembled. I think it will be a while before I am up to attempting that. All in all, a good value weekend, but I still don’t feel any better about it being Monday. Damn you, Monday.

What the cool kids are listening to...

Went to a concert recently, to see Hard-Fi – they were amazing. They rock. They sounded great and there was a really cool atmosphere at the venue, and a good time was had by all. Highly recommended. I brought Sho along as there was a spare ticket. I had no idea at the time how much this was going to cost me in the long run…

The following week, she tells me she has got the tickets to see Jamie Lidell. I’d not really heard of him, but agreed to go – she came to my rock concert, after all. Jamie Lidell himself is pretty cool – he sings and is kind of jazzy and bluesy, BUT he throws in the occasional hard, pounding dance and electro beats into his songs at odd moments, which seemed a bit unnecessary to me, but the rest of the crowd seemed quite happy, so when in Rome, etc. However he didn’t come on stage until around 10ish. Before his appearance, we had to endure 2 support ‘acts’. I kept trying to tell myself to keep an open mind. Okay, this isn’t my usual kind of music, but maybe I could just go with it – try something new, you know? Yeah, right.

The first support act was fairly inoffensive. True, he was just playing monotonous, deafening dance music from a little set of spot-lit decks in the corner, and it was impossible to tell when each song had finished, because they are all mixed together, but I could just about handle him. The rest of the crowd had clearly experienced this kind of thing before, as they seemed to instinctively know when to clap, despite the music sounding exactly the same throughout his seemingly endless set. Anyway, he eventually left the stage, to rapturous applause – mainly from me, I was very keen to applaud him exiting the stage. I remember thinking to myself, well, at least that wasn’t too bad, and now we’ll have the main act, and we’re getting closer to when I can leave the building. Oh, folly, folly, how wrong I was.

This is when the second support act took to the stage. A very short Japanese guy ran onto the stage and screeched ‘Hello London people!’ into the mic a few times. He was joined by another guy, who went and stood by the decks. Predictably, a repetitive, loud techno beat started to issue forth from the massive speakers. I braced myself. Then the little Japanese guy took centre stage and just began to yell, really loudly, not to mention tunelessly, into the microphone. That’s all he did. He just kept yelling. Then he mixed it up by screaming. Then he stopped (but the beats didn’t), and stood on the stage nodding his head in time to the ‘music’, and a recording of him yelling was then played back over the track. Then he put a big, pink, floppy hat on, and repeated the yelling and screaming combo. I thought that my ears were going to start bleeding. And it was relentless; their set seemed to go on forever. I’d gone way past trying to keep an open mind at this point. I surreptitiously rummaged around in my bag for my phone to check the time, and my hand closed around my pen. I briefly thought about stabbing myself in the eye to make it all stop, but then I reconsidered; I’d die, but not quick enough. Then I started running through a string of possibilities in my head, like, could I set off the fire alarm? Could I engineer a power cut? Alas, the crowd was too dense for me to try either of these actions. I was in for the long haul whether I liked it or not.

When they finally left the stage, to some applause, and to my great relief, some booing (I wasn’t alone; other people thought they sucked too, including Sho), I was ready to go home. But, Jamie Lidell was yet to come on! After the support act ordeal, he could have come on and strangled a cat and I would have applauded wildly; anything would sound good after that. As I said, he was ok, but his set was marred by the trauma of what came before, for me anyway. The whole thing was exhausting.

Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer live acts to play instruments and sing. I know, I’m clearly not down with the kids, but I’d rather be the girl at the rock show 'cos I like my music with guitars, goddammit! Rock on.

I'm back!

Yes, you can all rejoice and be merry as I return to the cut and thrust world of blogging once more. I know, I know, I’ve been away for too long, but honestly, moving house, not quite the breeze I was hoping for. So anyway, back to business. I have, as you may have gathered, moved house. I’ll just type that again because it feels so good: I’ve moved house.

Yes, I managed to flee the evil clutches of Tall One and Short One, making my escape in a transit van with all of my worldly possessions crammed into the back. It was a close run thing however; on the morning of my planned escape, I found a hand-written note outside my bedroom door. I will speak plainly with you; it consisted of stern stuff, this note. Not only was it riddled with grammatical mistakes, which are shocking enough before breakfast, it also accused me, in plain language, of stealing 4 drinking glasses from Tall One. There was not a shred of diplomacy in the content of the note – there was no implication that I might have mistakenly taken her glasses, oh no, just a bald accusation of theft.

Well, it so happens that the glasses in question were already packed, nestling amongst several layers of newspaper and sundry kitchen equipment in one of my many cardboard boxes. It also happens that the glasses in question are in fact, mine. MINE. Many responses ran through my mind, as I stood with the note clutched in my hands, just outside my bedroom, hovering in the liminal space between the much-debated and much-maligned pre-ordained shower-rota times. Many of these responses carried variations on a theme i.e. I wouldn’t touch your crap with a barge pole, you insane bitch/you can stick your glasses where the sun don’t shine, you insane bitch/write me another note and I’ll stab you in the eye with your own biro, you insane bitch and so on and so forth. In the end, however, I decided to go with ripping the note to shreds and then not mentioning it, to see if she would have the nerve to confront me on this glass issue face to face as it were. So the subject never came up, naturally, and I left the house with the allegedly contraband glasses.

Strangely, since I left, my headaches and chronic neck pain have almost completely eased off. Curious, no?

Off again on again

Much too busy to post right now. Moving house, stressing about moving house, packing everything in boxes, redirecting post, stressing, etc., etc.

No, really, that's all I have time for. I'll be back when the stressing subsides to normal daily levels.

I will say this: if you're ever bored, why not try moving house? It's more fun than you can poke a stick at. Well, more fun than poking a stick in your eye, but it's a tough call.

London welcomes me back in style...

Well, I’m returned from my little break in the wild lands of the north. Had a lovely time, but now the cold reality of work and London itself is hitting me roughly about the head. I think I had convinced myself that after taking a little break, I might find my work a bit more fascinating on my return. Not so. Not yet anyway. Not whilst there is still more HTML to be painstakingly keyed into the archaic database our time-warped boss refuses to update…but let's not get me started on that.

I’d also hoped that when I came back, perhaps the tube would have sorted itself out, and there would not be any problems on the Northern line. I know, I know, it was a foolish notion. On Tuesday evening, after a VERY long day at work, I descended into the depths of Goodge St. station, only to find the platform uncharacteristically rammed and the temperature roughly 105 degrees. It was that old chestnut: signalling problems. Although I am not usually claustrophobic per se, being sandwiched between a vending machine and two tall men wearing bulky rucksacks, who were in turn hemmed in by everyone else, I started to feel a leetle beet tight-chested. The awful thing about these situations is that when you suddenly realise that you have to get out, and you can’t bear to be underground a moment longer, you have to resist the urge to panic since you can’t simply run out of there. Oh no. You have to slowly push past, round and through a sea of people, most of whom aren’t at all keen to give way. So. Twenty minutes later, I get back up onto to Tottenham Court Road, having made no progress in my journey home whatsoever. Hit by a flash of inspiration, I take the bus down to Warren Street and get on the Victoria line. Actually get a seat in the carriage, get my book out and start to feel a little bit smug about my triumph. Oh, folly, folly. Get as far as Victoria and the driver announces there is a ‘signalling problem’ and that everyone has to get off the train. Scream inside. A couple of beleaguered tourists lose their rag and start shouting and swearing about what they have had to endure in their journey so far. I’d sympathise, but you don’t associate with people making a spectacle of themselves at rush hour; you just move on. Decide to try to catch an overland train, controversial, but needs must. Go from Victoria to Clapham Junction. Of course the train is delayed, but at least I’m not underground any more. So. Get to Clapham Junction, or as I like to call it, the sixth circle of hell. Because I don’t use the station regularly, I never know where I am supposed to go to get the connecting train, and am usually forced to walk the entire length and breadth of it until I unwittingly stumble onto the correct platform. Managed that, got the next train and although it was just as rammed as the tube train, elbowed my way off at my destination. Of course, I wasn’t actually home yet. Now I had to catch a bus. Bus arrives, all going well. I sit down and breathe huge sigh of relief – it’s nearly all over. I regret taking a deep breath as it immediately becomes apparent that one of the passengers has not washed for many a year. The smell was completely over-powering and permeated the entire bus. There was a uniform opening of the windows, but it made no difference as the bus was stuck in traffic. All the women, including me, were holding their scarves to their faces and trying not to breathe at all. I can’t describe how bad the smell was. I just can’t. Finally get off the bus and start to walk towards my home, and it starts raining. I do not have my umbrella with me. I left the office at 5.45pm, it’s now 8.30pm. Oh how I love this city, let me count the ways…

There must be some way out of here

Work is killing me today. I'd make a break for the door, but no-one would cover me. I'm working on the company website today - it is so thrilling that I am losing the will to live with every piece of HTML I write. To make matters worse, the phones are down, so there is an eerie silence, and no hope of a distracting interruption. There's an engineer working on the phones right now, but if he's the same guy they called out last week (3 times), and yesterday (twice), then I don't hold out much hope of getting it fixed.

Oh, so bored. On the upside, I seem to have got over my cold - hurrah. But on the downside, time seems to have slowed to the point that it is actually going in reverse. But that could just be all the clocks in this building...

Signs

There are all these little signs that winter is officially here now. Quite apart from the mean drop in the temperature, which makes it that bit harder to get out of your lovely, warm bed in the morning, there's all these other charming little signs that herald the change in the seasons. Like when you go to Sainsbury's, looking for the peanut butter, only to find they've moved it to another aisle, without warning, and leaving no forwarding address, to accommodate 22 varieties of xmas puddings/speciality xmas biscuits/racks of xmas card box sets and tinsel. Who buys their xmas pudding now? Or the sudden increase in adverts on TV for kids toys - which are always all priced £39.99, whatever it is, and ker-azy fun board games, intended to keep the family entertained over the holiday period, but which will almost certainly be the trigger for the mother of all family rows...

And there are other, more subtle signs, that winter, and indeed xmas is on its way. For example, when I got on the tube this morning, all I could hear was people coughing, spluttering, sniffing and sneezing. Yep, we're here again, that most wonderful time of the year when people like to share...their germs. I know catching colds is pretty unavoidable if you use public transport and have day to day contact with, well, people, but some people are just a bit too keen to share, if you know what I mean. What happened to covering your mouth when you cough, you sickos? And if you are sneezing with such force behind me that you cause my hair to part, then you should be in bed at home, NOT breathing on my neck. Take the day off! Yeuch. So I blame these people for what feels like a cold coming on. I've been in denial about having this cold - I've been upping my vitamin C intake, doubling up on the zinc, drinking Lemsip instead of tea, and pretending these are just 'precautions'...I feel like I am fighting it off, but it is probably just 'hovering', waiting until I have plans at the weekend to become a fully-fledged, streaming head cold. Something for me to look forward to, eh?

And I know no-one ever needs a cold, but I really don't need one right now. I'm in the middle of trying to escape the flat from hell and the evil clutches of Tall One and Short One, which involves not only showing prospective tenants round the flat, but continuing to keep the cramp twins on side so they don't scare off said prospective tenants. It's more than a bit stressful, I can tell you - I'm acting my socks off: 'oh yes, they're lovely people, so down to earth and not petty at all...no, no strange ticks, and certainly, neither of them suffer from OCD, and no, I never caught either of them watching me sleep, ha ha, what a suggestion, etc.' Ahem.

Also, feel so goofy when showing people round, like some eccentric tour guide who constantly states the obvious: ‘this is the living room…as you can, er, see/this is the kitchen…in case you were wondering what we call the room where we keep the oven and the fridge/this is the bathroom and shower, obviously’ and so on. Hopefully I'll get some takers soon. Please. God. Soon.

But you know, it's not all doom and gloom here, oh no. I mentioned my trip to Sainsbury's earlier. I went there to replenish my peanut butter supply. I've recently found that if you have a jar of peanut butter in your house, then things can never be that bad. Seriously. In case that sounds odd, let me try to explain. I have come to peanut butter rather late in my life, having only discovered what all the fuss was about in the past month or so. For some random reason, I never ate it as a child, and not at all until 4 weeks ago. I had a mad urge to buy a jar of the crunchy variety and try it on...toast. The results were outstanding. I am now a serious devotee, and am telling everyone, from my closest friends to random strangers, in a similar tone to the way weirdos tell you they have found god, that I have found peanut butter. My life will never be the same again, but in a good way.

It's so good - how did I never know before? Maybe it even boosts your immune system? Think I'll just go get a bit of toast and try that theory out.

Installing Haloscan is a bitch!

Or I am just really slow and do not understand code...yep, that's more likely...

Lordy.

So, the date – how was it? Oh, you know, fine, we had drinks at Bar Soho (we had to sit outside since, being Friday evening, and him wanting to meet me at the ridiculously early time of 7.15, all of Soho was rammed, which would have been ok except for the ‘decorative’ palm trees they have by the doors (why?), the fronds of which kept attacking me every time I leaned forward in my chair), then we went to have dinner at a little Turkish restaurant, which he waxed lyrical about – the food was fine, but the restaurant staff seemed to be trying their level best to win ‘the surliest waiters in all of London’ award. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some pretty stiff competition for that award, but these guys were serious contenders. However, all that was fine, and conversation was flowing fairly well, so we decided to go for drinks after the restaurant….

So, we’re chatting, and covering all manner of topics, as you do, and then he casually throws into the conversation that he was gay for ten years, but ‘thinks’ he is straight now. In case anyone missed that, it was TEN YEARS. 10 years. T-e-n y-e-a-r-s. So that’s that.

Oh, don’t tell me, I know what you’re thinking: I’m so picky, right? Sheesh.

Happy Friday!

Morning campers! It’s Friday – feel the joy. As previously reported, I am moving (another reason for joy, joy, joy), and will soon be free from the evil clutches of my evil housemates, Tall One and Short One. So, all week, I’ve been showing prospective tenants round my room and lying through my teeth about what a lovely, relaxed household it is….The flat itself is actually really nice – very spacious and has a little garden out the back (gardens being like gold dust in London), and it is very close to the tube, but none of that can make up for the fact that Tall One and Short One are in fact, clinically insane and make sane people’s lives a misery as a matter of course.

I have to find a tenant for my room before I can move out, so I’ve been in a frenzy of cleaning, and, using the knowledge I have gleaned from all those annoying yet addictive property shows, have been ‘dressing’ the flat when people come to view it: fresh flowers in the living room, scented candles, no clutter – I’ve even gone as far as to have a fresh pot of coffee on the go, but I draw the line at baking bread. There’s been a fair bit of interest, which is very comforting, and I am beginning to see a light at the end of the tunnel.

So to tonight, and the date. Yes, the very posh guy I met in Gerry’s called last night and offered me three options for the location of tonight’s date. I chose door number 2, which is near where I work. I didn’t really think it through though. This meant I had to get my date outfit together this morning and bring it in a carrier bag. Which made me at least 30 mins late for work, and caused a bit of a wardrobe meltdown. Why are all my good clothes in the wash? Why do I have tons of clothes that don’t seem to suit me? (And why am I only realising this now?) How come I didn’t get my favourite heels fixed 2 weeks ago, when they actually broke? And so on. So, I’ve brought along a black top, a green top, a pair of silver heels and my advanced make up bag (as opposed to my regular make-up bag). However, I’m still planning to nip to the shops at lunchtime ‘just in case’ I spot the outfit… But as all women know, the actual chances of finding an outfit at short notice on Oxford St during your lunch hour are slim to none. I'm going to try anyway - wish me luck.

Do the Hustle!

Last weekend, saw possibly one of the best films I have ever seen. I would say it is definitely going into my all time top 10. The film was the mighty Kung Fu Hustle, directed by the even mightier Stephen Chow (who also directed Shaolin Soccer). I love Kung Fu movies anyway, but this one is something special, and everyone should go see it. It was produced in Hong Kong, so it isn’t some awful ‘hollywoodised’ version. It is set in 1940, in a small town in China. Two local criminals try to pass themselves off as members of the notorious ‘Axe Gang’ (a gang who kill people with…axes), to extort money from the locals. The locals fight back, and then the real Axe gang turns up and all hell breaks loose. It is a total thrill-ride of a movie with amazing fight sequences, looney tunes style humour and action, and a really cool story. The film also pokes gentle fun at American kung fu movies, and also has references to The Shining, and also makes fun of the Matrix. I was more than impressed and am urging everyone to see it. You won’t be disappointed.

On the other side of the scale, and as part of the whole public service posting with regard to films, DO NOT go to see RED EYE. My sincerest apologies to you if this warning comes to late. It is possibly one of the worst films I have ever seen. It was just so silly! The storyline was utterly preposterous for a start, and although it started ok, it rapidly disintegrated. The serious ‘action sequences’ were so badly directed they were unintentionally hilarious, with ‘Thunderbirds’ style sets, and very shoddy explosions. All the main actors were laughable, and on reflection, the actors playing the air-hostesses, only in the film for maybe 5 minutes between them, were the best and most convincing thing in it. Absolutely dreadful.

Bloke joke (or Why women are better).

Big Dipper has a 'blonde' joke on his blog today, so I thought I should even things up with a joke at the expense of men...

Here goes:

Adam and Eve are in the garden of Eden with God. God is handing out favours to them but can't decide who should have what, so he tells them he will say the favour and whoever shouts the loudest gets the favour. God clears his throat and says the first favour,
'To be able to pee standing up'. Adam jumps up and down shouting 'Me! Me!' and is granted the favour. He then does a little victory dance.
'Damn,' says Eve, 'that would have been really useful.'
'I'm sorry Eve,' says God, 'but all I have left is the multiple orgasm.'

Boom-boom!

Troubling oversight

It has been brought to my attention, that in my account of last weekend’s activities, I failed to mention the minor yet crucial role played by my Bro. I met him for coffee with Nev on Saturday afternoon. He brought this oversight to my attention.

Back in the game

It’s all good today – we won the Ashes for a start. I’ve no idea how, since the scoring of cricket will forever be a mystery to me, but I do know that the delicious Freddie Flintoff had a lot to do with it, as did the rest of the team, including Kevin Pieterson, but they’re just not as pretty. So – hurrah to us! We are so kicking Australia’s arse at the moment, and that’s no bad thing as far as I’m concerned.

Quite apart from the excitement over the cricket, I had quite the action-packed weekend. Went out on Friday with Nev after work – we were supposed to be ‘just having a couple’…but you know how that goes. Kicked it all off with some cocktails in mybar – we were celebrating the start of the weekend. We then decided to be sensible and go get something to eat, which we did, and then sense went out the window as we decided to round off the evening with another ‘couple’ of drinks at Gerry’s in Soho. Nev is a member, (I’m just the hanger-on) but we still got harassed by the door staff, who were muttering darkly about non-payment of member subs. We sidestepped them and Nev just blagged us in, though she admitted to me once we were safely over the threshold that she had only ever paid a one-off fee, years ago. I asked her to keep her voice down.

It was dead at first, but then filled up all of a sudden with lots of rather eccentric types. In particular, there was a scarf-wearing, Byron-quoting Keith Richards wannabe who claimed to be a cartoonist by trade, and referred to Nev and I as ‘creatures’, but then bought us drinks, so we tolerated him. Until, that is, that he told us quite earnestly that he only really likes to sleep with seventeen-year-old girls, because they are less ‘complicated’. He was forty. I said I thought that was a shame and quite sad, and so ended the complimentary drinks section of the evening. But by that time there were lots of new people to talk to, including Cary, a man with such a bad stammer that talking to him was exhausting, not least because when you had deciphered what exactly he was trying to say, you realised it was not worth the effort. There was also much to look at, including a woman of, shall we say, advanced years, wearing a sequinned pink and silver catsuit, giving an impromptu T’ai Chi demonstration. Or at least I think it was T’ai Chi. Then we met a very interesting man, who impressed Nev and I by singing not only ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ by Britney Spears…in Yiddish, but also Jumpin’ Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones…in Greek. That’s entertainment, alright. I was very much taken with him, so we talked and drank some more, and I was having such a good time that I didn’t notice how much time had passed. It was time to go, and yes, yes, he did ask for my number, and because he was ever so charming, I gave it to him. Back in the game.

Soon as Nev and I stepped outside, the heavens opened, and we took an executive decision to run to Balans and eat breakfast (well, what else do you call a meal that you eat at 4.30am?), which worked as a very good hangover preventative measure. Saturday was spent in various stages of recovery, mainly watching the Home and Away omnibus on Channel 5 – if you haven’t watched it for a while, I wholeheartedly recommend it – it’s got everything, romance, murders, high-school angst, adultery and dressmaking. Give it a go.

Sunday was a big day, because I went to meet Red to view her new flat, with a view to taking the spare room. Freedom is in sight! The room is great, I’m taking it, and I am so relieved. Finally, I can leave the cramp twins. I told them I was leaving last night. I kept a straight face, played up how much money I would save by moving, rather than the real reason, which is how much sanity I will be saving. So, now all I have to do is organise the move. Yay! May have to buy a new pair of shoes to celebrate. Wait, I already did that.

Oz-ter-ALIEN

It’s all off with Oz. His list of misdemeanours begins with him getting very drunk and ‘overly amorous’ shall we say, on the second date, and suggesting he stayed the night with me – despite the fact that my arm was still in a sling at this point. At the time, I let it go, because I figured, he was drunk, and even with my arm in plaster, I’m still pretty irresistible. But really, it should have set some of those tiny little alarm bells ringing. They started ringing proper when he called to cancel our third date at very short notice because he was, and I quote ‘too hungover’ to see me. How lame is that? Which was followed by him calling me sporadically, never on the day he said he would, and the gist of these calls was generally Oz talking about himself and about how much alcohol he had consumed that particular day. So, eventually I surmised that he had an ego the size of Australia, and that I would never come between him and his beer. I know beer is important to men, but really, I’m looking for someone who feels up to making a bit more of an effort. It all makes me feel a bit weary – are all the good ones really taken already? Right, deep breath, back into the dating game, back to square one, next contestant please!

Katrina Appeal

Donate to the Red Cross here:

http://www.redcross.org.uk/standard.asp?id=49121

We all should, because, you know, Bush doesn't seem too bothered...and he's the president. Could do better, Mr. Bush.

Revelations

Back in the capital. Had a very chilled out week up north, lots of R&R, not to mention a goodly amount of TLC from my Mum. Whilst back home, my cast broke, so we went to A&E, and I was thinking, oh well, it’s annoying that it broke, but at least they’ll take this behemoth cast off and put a new lighter one on. Oh no, nothing like that. First of all, some abuse from the triage nurse, who was wearing so much fake tan that she just appeared to me as a blur of orange and blue. She implied that it was my fault the cast had broken! The nerve. So I said, ‘listen lady, I ain’t been doing no karate, so drop the attitude bee-hatch’. I didn’t really say that. Instead, I stood there meekly whilst she said I shouldn’t have been showering or bathing since steam can weaken the plaster of paris. I’ve been wrapping it in plastic as I was advised when I first broke it, and if anyone thinks I’m not going to wash for 6 weeks, well, they’ve got another think coming, that’s what I say. I communicated this to the triage nurse through my eyes. When I (finally) got to see the real nurse, all she did was put MORE plaster on top. So now the freakin thing is EVEN HEAVIER. Result.

Anyway, tomorrow I have my appointment at the fracture clinic and I am praying that the doc will think it is time for the lighter cast. Since the fall, I’ve been trying to see the bright side, which, until Friday, was eluding me. I mean, sure, I’m off work, but I can’t take full advantage of that with my arm in plaster, so where’s the silver lining, I was asking myself. Then, everything became clear as I realised, with an almost inexpressible joy, that breaking my hand meant that I wouldn’t have to go on the company away day. I’ve been trying to think of a way to get out of it ever since the announcement that we would be travelling en masse to Belgium for a day of hell. You may think I am exaggerating how bad these away days are, but I am not. S didn’t want to go either, so she left the company last month, and is now in India. That’s how bad she didn’t want to go. And now I can’t go, and it’s the perfect excuse. I had to pretend to be very disappointed when I told the Evil One’s PA, and I think I was pretty convincing. I had to keep pretending I was wincing with pain as I tried to keep from grinning from ear to ear. So, huge sighs of relief, I don’t have to go. I’m going to say that again because it feels so good: I don’t have to go. Aahhh.

I had another revelation yesterday when I got back to the flat. I had to change the light bulb in my bedroom - due to a really high ceiling and a maddeningly short flex, I had to move my bed and employ a pair of stepladders. After much precarious swinging to and fro, I had light again. When I started to reposition the bed, I was hit with a blinding flash: if I moved the bed just a foot to the left, I would not only have room to open my wardrobe doors with ease, but also, more crucially, be able to avoid cracking my shins on the corners of the bed frame - which is pretty much a daily occurrence. Why didn’t I think of that when I moved in? I’ve been here since last December, and only now have I discovered the optimum furniture layout for this room. Still, focus on the positive, it’s moved now, plus the light is working, so it’s all good.

Anyone wondering about Oz? Me too, but I've reached my threshold for one-handed typing for the day, so tune in tomorrow.

Oh the irony

So, I meet a new man, buy a new laptop, what naturally follows? Anybody? That's right, I fall up some stairs at work and break my fucking hand. Those of you who guessed correctly win nothing - am not in the best of moods. I can barely describe the pain at the moment of impact. I heard a crunching noise, but instantly went into shock and denial, started hyperventilating and trying to convince myself it was just 'badly bruised'. Alas, it was broken, as an X-Ray at A&E proved shortly afterwards. To get a bit technical, it is a transverse fracture of my metacarpal. Basically, I fell with all my weight onto the side of my hand and broke the bone that connects your little finger to your wrist. I'm wearing a cast - a really fucking heavy cast, and typing this one-handed - the novelty of which has already worn off, let me tell ya.

Have not been able to sleep much since I did it as it is so freakin uncomfortable and I'm supposed to keep it 'strictly elevated', according to the handy leaflet they gave me as I left the hospital. I'm also not allowed to get it wet, which makes washing my hair, let alone the rest of me, something of a challenge. (Not to mention eating/getting dressed/shopping/anything that requires both hands, i.e. everything).

I did it on Thursday evening, and I was supposed to be going on THE date on Saturday. Don't worry, I still went. I just dosed myself up on painkillers, spent about 50 mins in the shower, juggling with shampoo and conditioner bottles, and miraculously managed to make myself look presentable. The date was good - the diamonds were pretty amazing - I think Oz was even more impressed than me - especially when we got to the 'industrial uses of diamonds' part of the exhibition. I saw his eyes go wide as we approached the stands with all the (very boring looking) gadgets that have diamonds you can't see in them, but all perform some gadgety/boys toy function. He was all 'Check this out: diamonds can be conductors AND insulators!'...I was all 'Fascinating, yeah, I'll just be over by the solitaire rings.' So, it was all good, and he wasn't put off by the fact that my arm was in a cast at all. But then he is a guy, so when I thought about it afterwards, it would only have made a difference if I was in a full body cast. After the museum we went for pizza - have eaten nothing but pizza since Thursday - no knives or forks required! We later progressed to a pub, had some more drinks (not too many for me - was already a little high off the painkillers), and whiled away the rest off the day. Good overall, and he'll be calling me in the week.

So, the cast is on for six weeks. SIX WEEKS. I've been signed off work for four weeks and just don't know what to do with myself. When I'm feeling less tired, I might look for another job...
Posts will not be so frequent for a while, since typing one-handed sucks and takes twice as long, but I will be checking in as much as I can. And to think that on Thursday I was thinking I was stuck for something to post about. Good one, powers that be - thanks a bunch.

Cheshire cat

Yep, I'm still grinning. I can't help it. I might have to go to the doctor - I just can't stop smiling to myself. Isn't it sickening? It is, but I'm going to give myself a break because it has been a while since I had a cheshire cat grin plastered across my face for days on end.

In case you were wondering, and god knows I was, Oz called. Again. To confirm our date at the weekend. This will be date number two, people. And get this - he's taking me to the diamond exhibition at the Natural History Museum. I don't know about you, but I don't know many guys who would be secure enough to take a girl to a diamond exhibition on a second date. Not that I'm expecting him to ask me to choose one or anything, but you know...

Ah me - right, I'll get a hold of myself now and bring you up to date on everything else. Big news. I finally got a laptop. Now I can join all of you who post at ungodly hours and encourage the insomnia. I got it from Dixons, in one of those 'Buy now, pay when the moon is in the right house' deals. Due to the constellation configurations on the day, I only had to pay £10 up front and walked out with this very pretty laptop that I'm typing on *right now*, but also a printer, a shiny bag for the laptop, an extra mouse, and some software packages that I will never use. So all in all, a very good deal. A little eyelash batting at the sales advisor got me some ink cartridges at half-price, so all I have to do now is steal some paper from work and I'll be away, finally writing that Oscar winning screenplay that you're all waiting for. And if things don't work out with Oz, I think I'm onto a sure thing with the cutie who served me at the Preston branch of Dixons.

I suppose I could have bought the laptop in London, but everything seems so much more bargainous when I am visiting up North. The weather for my break was lovely by the way, and not, as S erroneously predicted, grim at all. I also got my hair done - got a colour and a cut for less than £60. I had to resist the urge to laugh as I handed my card over. As I said, mucho bargainous. How sad/girly is this though: I actually wondered if Oz would recognise me with my new hair, and if he would like it. Only for a nanosecond, but you know, slippery slope. Gotta keep my edge.

Other cool things that happened up north (where it is not grim): 1) saw The Skeleton Key. Ok, I don't want to ruin it for anybody, but I will say this: it wipes the floor with Dark Water. It is very entertaining, maybe not as scary as a hardened scary movie fan such as myself would like, but certainly worth your ticket money. Buy some popcorn too, have fun.
2)Went to the beach! Not to sunbathe or go swimming - it may be August, but someone seems to have forgotten to let the powers that be know. But, the sun was shining, and the beach was sandy and beautiful and the sea was all shimmery and clean. Listening to the glorious sound of the waves, I (almost) forgot about my psychotic housemates. Oh, it was heavenly.

I came back late last night, so I avoided them. This morning, I stayed in bed until they left the house. This evening, I was lucky again, and they've both been out. I know my luck won't hold forever, but it's 11.30pm, and I'm still wearing that Cheshire cat grin.

Escape from...London

Yep, I’m heading back up North again. Getting the hell out of dodge for a few glorious days – no tubes, no pollution, no terror alerts or any of that crap for at least 4 days. Most importantly of all, no housemates for 4 days. Even though I didn’t think it was possible, over the past week they have become even more annoying. I’ve been gritting my teeth so much to keep from saying what I really think that I have a constant pain in my jaw. They are just the most awful people – why didn’t I see it when I moved in? Shouldn’t there be a law that people like that should have to wear tags that read: ‘freak – stay away’? I’d support that law. They’re also the nosiest people I have ever met – just because we are sharing a living space does NOT mean they should be privy to every aspect of my life. Nor am I interested in theirs. At all. Oh man, the urge to scream FUCK OFF at the top of my lungs was so strong this morning, I almost passed out with the effort to keep it in. I still feel a bit light-headed now.

Right, before this turns into an I-hate-my-roomies blog, I’ll move onto something else. Something far more exciting, actually. Remember the guy-who-didn’t-call-me, but then called me after three weeks, and then we agreed to go out? Yes? No? Do try to keep up, honestly. Well, the date was great, which was a nice surprise, and I smiled to myself all the way home. He’s a very pleasant Aussie, and more attractive and funny than I remembered from our first meeting. I even managed to avoid being cynical for the whole date, and it wasn’t too much of an effort. So, at the end of the date he said he’d call me, and here’s the big news: he actually called me. Can you credit it? A guy saying he will call, and then actually calling? Once I got over the shock, I was thrilled. And we’re going out again. So, psychotic housemates aside, I’m really feeling pretty damn good.

Here’s to the weekend, see you all back here on Tuesday (happy, happy, joy, joy, etc. sorry, keep coming over all girly).

Yummy!

I just had to share this with you all:


Weight Watchers Recipe Cards From the 70s

Absolutley hilarious. Not sure yet whether the aim was to put slimmers off food altogether, or dazzle them with the 'exotic' alternatives they would never have considered in their wildest dreams. Unless they were on acid, perhaps.

Her comments on the cards are the best part, my favourite being the one accomopanying the recipe card for 'celery log' : 'you could eat this log, or stick your hand in a kitchen blender, you know, have fun'.

Check it out!

What gives?

Okay, so, that guy called. I met him at a party three weeks ago, he asked for my number, I gave it to him. He didn’t call, so I deleted the number. Then he calls yesterday at 5pm. Is this a new thing? I was still working on the ‘if a guy doesn’t call within three days he’s not going to call. Ever’ assumption. I left the number on my phone for a whole week to be on the safe side, but nothing. So what's he thinking?
‘Oh, I really would like to go on a date with that girl - I'll leave it three weeks and then call at 5 in the afternoon on a random Thursday’??
Hmm. Does this mean he’s really shy and a slow starter, or all the other girls whose numbers he took blew him out and now he’s finally getting around to me? He is Australian – maybe they do things differently over there…who knows, but what the hell, I’m in.

I was surprised to hear from him, and I have a really busy weekend lined up (thank god – didn’t want to give the impression I had been staring at my phone since the party), so I couldn’t work out when we could meet up, and told him I’d get back to him later. By the time I got in from work, he’d texted me to say he’d changed his plans so he could meet up with me sooner rather than later. I thought: he’s keen. According to S, by seeming unavailable on the phone, I’d instantly made myself more attractive to him, because guys are perverse like that. Obviously I’m not going to overanalyse this too much…and to cut a long story short, I have a date with him on Saturday night.

So, what to wear, what to wear? My initial plan is to go with the pink heels, and plan the rest of the outfit around them. Next up, wrack brain for flirting skills; they’re in there somewhere. I’ll let you know if I find them.

My name is...

…Just and I am addicted to crosswords. At first I was just doing one every other day, you know, or helping my flatmates finish their own crosswords. It was under control. Or at least I thought it was. But then I found I was buying the paper every day, and not for the news. Sure, I read the cartoons on the way to the crossword page, but even though they are often highly topical, it isn’t the same. I buy it at midday and then do the crossword in my lunch hour; if I don’t finish it by the end of lunch, I just carry on doing it, covertly, of course. So, I’m neglecting work, and sometimes, more seriously, even running out of time to blog on my work pc.

I only recently got over my addiction to glossy magazines, and part of my reason for quitting them was how expensive they were. Comparatively speaking, I know crosswords seem like a harmless, victimless addiction, but I figured out yesterday that in buying the paper every day, I am spending more than I was on magazines. That’s money that could be feeding my shoe addiction, people. I don’t think it’s an overstatement to say my crossword obsession is taking over. And I can’t stop…and I don’t want to.

In honour of confessing to my less than thrilling hobby (next time, to even things up, I’ll do a post about my more, er, extreme pastimes; reading and crochet, I mean, um, surfing and bungee, just being the tip of the iceberg), here are some teasers to ponder over/drive you crazy:

What is a ‘ginnel’?
What item of clothing does the term ‘keks’ refer to?
If I said I was potless or peppered, what would I be lacking?

I’ll get back to you with the answers later…when I’ve finished the crossword.

Don't go to see Dark Water

You will be disappointed. I promise you that. It starts well, has an engaging middle, builds lots of tension, and then the end descends into melodrama and the surreal. Also, I was waiting throughout the whole film for Pete Postlethwaite/Dougray Scott/Tim Roth to actually be put to some use. As it is all three of these actors were utterly wasted – with all of their storylines going nowhere and their motivation a mystery. Jennifer Connelly wasn’t bad in the lead, but really all she had to do was look thin, pale and upset for nearly 2 hours. The child actors were incredibly cute, and, in all honesty, acted everyone else off the screen, but I’m not saying it was a challenge for them.

Oh, and does it rain on Roosevelt Island all the time? And is it really as grim as the film made out? It looked like a place where people would go once they had lost all hope. The view from Jennifer Connelly’s apartment in the film was the scariest part as far as I was concerned.

Maybe the original Japanese version is just as bizarre at the end, but I’m guessing it is a hell of a lot scarier, which is what I was hoping for. I was in the mood for a REALLY SCARY film, dammit, and Dark Water did not deliver. Has anyone seen The Skeleton Key yet? Don’t ruin it for me, but is it scary? And I mean having-to-sleep-with-the-lights on scary? It’s had good reviews, but so did wishy-washy Dark Water (did you see what I did there?).

A low-down dirty shame

Just imagine how embarrassed those would-be suicide bombers must be feeling today? Sheesh. Not only do they fail to kill themselves in the name of fuck only knows who, thereby forgoing their seven virgins in paradise (one for every day of the week?), they also fail to kill anyone else. Oh, they must be kicking themselves. One of them was even chased by a bunch of commuters who tried to rugby-tackle him to the ground (how brave were they?). Bunch of amateurs – you can just imagine the other terrorists sneering at them – they blew up the detonators instead of the bombs – rookie mistake or what? Then they left loads of forensic evidence behind – the fools.

I’m so sick of all this shit.

An apple a day

Isn't it dreamy? It's my I-deserve-a-treat new necklace. Other ways I have chosen to justify this purchase come under the following reasons:
I've not had a foreign holiday this year (so far); I've been wearing the same old necklace for years (kinda); I had to do something to mark the fact that the bank sorted the loan out; It's so pretty; It'll go with everything (really); it's kind of a late-birthday-present-to-myself (from myself); you can never have too much jewellery; and last but not least, it's all ebay's fault.

Damn you, ebay.

I love the bank

You won’t hear me say that very often, so make the most of it. Normally, like everyone else, I hate the bank. Hate it with a vengeance. But today, I love the bank, because they have *finally*, after a record-breaking amount of red tape, managed to sort out my loan and refinance it so I could pay off the (biggest) credit card, and my overdraft and still have enough money left over to fritter away on luxuries, like food and travelcards. I’d got to the point where I had been hacking away at the ice in the freezer, trying to extract a pack of frozen sausages, only to find they were out of date. It was a bitter moment, as my hands were pretty much numb by that stage, and the ice seemed to simply close in again once the pack had been removed, and I hadn't the energy to try to retrieve the mini pizza I had glimpsed in the right-hand corner. I briefly considered risking cooking them, but then came to my senses; why add food poisoning to my woes? So I’ve been surviving on Jacobs Thai bites and Baby-bel lites – they’re a meal in themselves, honest. I’m thrilled the money is in today, since all I have left is a loaf of stale bread, a calorie-free pot of Greek yoghurt, which I must have bought in a moment of madness, and some olives marinated in cumin and orange oil...Obviously, I wouldn’t have starved, but it wouldn’t have been pleasant.

I checked the balance on the internet this morning, and I was overjoyed, but also surprised, because I only returned the forms on Tuesday, and I had visions of the forms sitting quietly in someone’s in-tray for who knows how long/being used to balance a wonky desk/accidentally shredded/etc. So today I love the bank, and I’m going shopping after work. The sales are on. I may or may not buy food…

Aaargh

Mini rant time. Okay. This is going to be short and not so sweet. Not to generalise wildly, but men, really – what’s wrong with them? I mean, really? It’s a rhetorical question – there aren’t enough hours in the day for the answer to that one.

If you aren’t going to call a girl, then don’t ask for her number. Got that? DON’T. ASK. FOR. HER. NUMBER. It actually makes sense when you think about it, and will save memory space on your phone for, say, take-away restaurants, or your mum.

Aaargh. When he asked for my number, I wasn’t even that bothered – I was flattered, and thought, ‘ooh, he’s actually quite hot, okay then’. So, even though my life does not depend on me getting that call, the knowledge that he has my number and the possibility of him calling has me glancing at my phone at increasingly regular intervals, ‘just in case’. Sheesh.

But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not bothered, as I said…and I have plenty of places to go and people to see. So, you know, whatever.

What's scarier?

One big, fat spider in the corner of the room, about the size of a fair-sized frog, but who appears to be minding its own business, OR roughly 20-30 teensy, tiny spiders that appear to be marching in some strange formation up your curtains?

The correct answer is B. I came in quite late the other night, and was just getting ready to go to bed. I went over to draw my curtains, and saw what looked like a straw-coloured ant determinedly making its way up the curtain. I then recoiled in horror as I noticed that it was not alone. There was loads of them, baby spiders - I couldn’t see where they’d come from, nor could I fathom where exactly they were going or what their purpose was. I was also wondering, if these are babies, where’s the ‘mama’? I was trying to stay calm about this – I don’t have a spider phobia per se, but when you are being invaded, it’s a different matter. I tried to rationalise it – perhaps they would make their way to the top of the curtain and then crawl out of the window? Maybe they would find a hole in the skirting board and be out of sight, out of mind? As I was pondering this, one of them swung from the curtain onto the wall, and with others following its example, it proceeded to make its way to my lampshade and abseiled from there onto my bed.

That’s when I started to hyperventilate. Visions of them advancing between the sheets, into the sacristy of my wardrobe and into my shoe-boxes galvanised me into action. Like the true, independent woman that I am, I called my Mum. The lateness of the hour made her instantly think that something was seriously wrong.
‘I’ve got…um, spiders’ I told her, in a tremulous voice. She understood. She told me to go the shop, buy some bug killing spray and then nuke the little buggers. Filled with (shaky) resolve, I ran to the corner shop. The only bug killer they had was for ants, but I figured it was worth a try. I came back and used pretty much half a can. I’m not sure if they actually found the spray poisonous or that I was spraying so heavily that they merely drowned in it. Nevertheless, I got ‘em all. By this time I was having trouble breathing again, not to mention feeling somewhat light-headed, having inhaled the bug spray. I then realised I’d probably covered my bedspread and the clothes on my chair, and well, everything with bug spray. One of my flatmates was away that night so she told me to sleep in her room. Feeling twitchy and scratchy despite the major killing spree with the Raid, I decided to take a shower and wash my hair. It was probably about 2.30am in the morning when I sank gratefully onto her bed, having first inspected it thoroughly for bugs, and fell asleep.

My ordeal was not over though. I awoke the next day to find that my damp hair had somehow managed to make the colour run on my flatmate’s (obviously very cheap and non-colourfast) pillow case. It is a pale pink cover set, and my damp hair had caused the pigmentation to go a strange, deep purple colour. Who has non-colourfast sheets?? For the love of god. So not only does my room still reek of Raid, despite me washing everything several times over, it also looks like I’m going to have to shell out for a new cover set. Aaargh.

Still, the spiders are dead, and they’ve not come back. Yet.

'............'

I want to say something, but at the same time, I'm not at all sure what to say. The words do not come easily to express how I feel about what happened here on Thursday. I feel lucky that no-one I know was directly affected, lucky that when I left the house to go to work they had already closed the tube, so I got on a bus that got stopped at Sloane Square, and lucky that the worse thing that happened to me that day was having to walk a long way in the wrong shoes. I got home fine, but there are so many who didn't. They slowed the city down for a few hours, killed at least 50 people, injured at least 700. Senseless. Depressing. Frustrating. Incomprehensible. It feels weird and surreal. I never expected it to feel so surreal. Stood outside a Hi-Fi shop window on the Kings Road, watching the raw news footage over and over without sound, the strapline on the screen reading 'London bombings'. It didn't feel real - it just wasn't sinking in, because it was so hard for everyone to get their heads round. And now, a couple of days later, the more it sinks in, the worse it feels.

But.

Less than 24 hours later, the tube was back up, the buses were back on and Londoners were doing what we do best: getting on with it.

They're back

Oh no. My flatmates were away last week, so I had the place to myself. Yes, 7 glorious days of uninterrupted bliss. Regular readers will know that I consider my flatmates to be both clinically insane and highly irritating, not to mention freakish in the extreme. So their return does not fill me with joy, especially as I was anticipating the ‘hil-ar-ious’ tales of their holiday in Spain. Basically, they’re the kind of people who relish the fact that they ate the ‘full English’ breakfast, replete with the ubiquitous baked beans, EVERY DAY.

The Tall One was back first. She launched into a story about the Elvis impersonator they had seen at the hotel, which seemed to go on for days, and then told me she had done some sketching whilst on the beach. It’s all my own fault – I feign interest you see, for a quiet life. She showed me her sketches. Of topless women. On the beach. Deep, deep denial there.

After the excitement of that, and the thrilling running commentary on which clothes she had worn, which she would have to handwash etc., – here’s a heads up: if I walk away from you whilst you are talking, you can stop. If I say, loudly, that I am actually watching the tennis on tv, then turn the sound up, you can stop. As I was saying, after that, she returned to her usual routine of talking constantly about herself, and making a lot of noise wherever she happens to be in the flat. I usually try to tune her out, but sometimes, it’s just impossible. Like last night. We were watching tv, and she was drinking her duty-free quadruple X strength vodka, I was focusing on the tv program, but then there was an ad break, and I could hear a clicking sound. I looked round and she was biting her nails and chewing them and then spitting them out, into the ashtray. Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad to you. Maybe I'm just being picky. But I couldn’t not notice it then – it was there, the movement, in the corner of my eye, just on the edge of my field of vision. And it didn’t stop. Well, not until she fell asleep/passed out and started snoring. Loudly. She snores like a man. An overweight man aged about 65, I’d say. I’ve been in this predicament before, so knowing she wouldn’t wake up, I adjusted her head to stop the snoring, and left her where she was. I’ve got to get out of there. The Short One is due back today…

You can just tell

Today is going to be one of those l-o-n-g days. I can feel it.

Still, at least I had a good weekend. Dancing on Friday night, followed by a Saturday cocktail of lounging around, tennis and a little bit of Live 8...though I had to turn it off when Madonna came on and jumped on the glory wagon by holding onto that African girl's hand. I'd been practically crying when Bob Geldof told the story of how she survived and then brought her on stage - it was an amazing moment. Then her Madge comes on stage, starts hugging the girl, who probably didn't know her from Adam, and didn't speak any English, so god knows what she made of the freaky blonde lady with the vice-like grip. I was thinking, 'any moment now, they'll escort the lovely African girl off the stage, and maintain the dignity of the event', but Madonna held onto her and started singing 'Like a Prayer' - I was embarrassed for them both. At least she was only on for 3 songs. I thought Razorlight ripped it up all right though - they rocked!

Luckily, the cringe-fest that was Madonna's appearance didn't ruin my appetite completely, as I was going out to dinner with the Supremely Healthy One. We went to Tas, a fabulous Turkish restaurant in Waterloo, and the food was just beyond compare - really, try it out. Plus, I got to eat ALL the bread without feeling guilty, since Sho doesn't eat wheat anymore. Result. However, the food was not the only memorable thing about our visit to Tas. There was a hen party in there, and at about the time they were tucking into their desserts, a stripper turned up. Our first clue was that the gentle tinkling background music was replaced by a booming Ricky Martin track and lots of shreiking. We turned to see a guy dressed like an officer, Richard Gere stylee, and he picked up the bride to be and her friends went nuts, taking photos on their phones and whooping hysterically. It was diverting, but you know, seen one stripper, seen 'em all (fyi though, this guy was hot, despite the fact that he was wearing a thong). We turned our attention back to the food, but then Sho told me a horrifying story that I just have to share with you. I'm still horrified by it. Even now.

Back in the eighties, you may remember there was a male stripping troupe, a sensation, if you will, called The Chippendales. I never saw them personally, but apparently, a major feature of their act was the finale, when they ripped off their velcroed jockstraps and hurled them at the hordes of screaming women in the audience. Call me crazy, but you wouldn't catch me screaming over a guy's knickers - but different strokes. Anyway, this story goes that a friend of a friend of Sho's (this is NOT an urban myth, honest), was in the crowd and one of the jockstraps hit her square in the eye. That's bad enough, right? A few days later, she notices some irritation round her eye area. Little raised bumps. She's thinking, maybe it's an allergic reaction to the squinned latex. She goes to the Docs, and he tells her she has CRABS in her EYE. They were like, nesting in her EYEBROW. It doesn't get much more horrifying than that, does it?

The horror...

Why I don't 'do' Glastonbury...

The wrong trousers?

It’s hot as hell again today, and since I am not an organised person and only did all my laundry yesterday, I had a bit of a dilemma this morning, deciding what to wear. I eventually selected a pair of floaty black trousers which I found in a separate section of my wardrobe. They looked fine, though I did wonder why I had removed them from the hangers and shoved them in with the t-shirts. I’m wondering, was there some reason I relegated them from the hanging section to the ‘rarely-worn-items’ shelf? I wonder because I have done this before. If an item of clothing suddenly becomes a disappointment to me, or I see a photo of myself wearing it, and the terrible truth that say, orange doesn’t suit me is revealed, instead of throwing it away, I shove it elsewhere in the wardrobe, on the off chance that if I need to decorate at some point in the future, I’ll have something to sling on. Eventually, these things do get thrown away, but fashion mistakes can occur in the interim period.

I’ve been wearing the trousers for a couple of hours now. So far, my only cause for complaint would be that they do seem to be attracting a fair bit of static…I’ll keep you posted as the day wears on.

Speaking of the weather, is anyone managing to get a good night’s sleep at the moment? I ask because I think that due to the heat, I am only sleeping very lightly, and am having the weirdest of dreams. Anyone else? Last night I dreamt that my ex-boyfriend from several years ago was in bed with me, which was pretty freaky. He looked just the same, when I am sure, in reality, that after we broke up, he lost all of his hair and developed a paunch – that’s what happens to all your exes, right? Then I dreamt that I was trialling a new product called ‘toast in a bag’ – (if this hasn’t yet been invented, then I think I will be making a trip to the patents office later), a nifty invention whereby you made your toast just as you were leaving the house, and then slipped it into a handy zip-lock bag that you wore much like a handbag, which would keep the toast fresh and warm, so you could eat it on your commute. As always, I am amazed by the level of detail in my freaky dreams, the bag was light blue, with the company logo in a darker blue stitching on the front panel…finally, I dreamt I was trying to return a broken vase to Heals. I had no receipt, and I had left the vase at home, but I was determined to get my money back, and was haranguing a salesperson when I woke up.

Naturally, I am a little confused as to what exactly my subconscious is trying to tell me. Any suggestions? However, ‘Toast in a bag’, people, you heard it here first.

She's back

Yeah baby, I'm back! I do feel all refreshed after my mini-break, even if I was so tired this morning that I put the butter in the sink and the knife in the fridge as I was leaving the kitchen. It was only when I couldn't get the knife to balance next to the bio-yogurts that I realised something was amiss. It isn't so surprising when you consider the fact that our fridge is kind of like an adult version of Ker-plunk, that kids game where you have to remove the pieces slowly without disturbing the other components, and putting the groceries away after a big shop is kind of like food Tetris. Some would say get a bigger fridge, and some would say tight landlord never provides. The freezer is even worse...

So, I'm back, and from the state of my intray and the number of emails awaiting me, it will be some time before I resurface. Honestly, go away for three *working* days and people think they can just dump stuff on your desk. And I am soooo tired - I even dreamt about sleeping this morning. But it's all ok since I am still on a high from my successful shopping missions whilst on break - 2 new pairs of shoes, 3 new 'going out' tops, 1 bag, 2 perfumes, sundry make-up and bathing products. Impressive or what? I get a warm feeling just thinking about the pink shoes. (They're pink. They're high-heeled. They have pink sparkly jewels on them, in a style reminiscent of Christian Louboutin. Mmmmm.)

Right, suppose I should do a bit of work really. But perhaps a cup of tea first, wouldn't want to rush into anything.

A very merry un-birthday

I did it. I got through Tuesday and today and now I’m just ticking off the seconds until it is time to leave work, pack suitcase and fly (note to self: tickets, money, passport). There was a spot of bother first thing this morning, before I had even left the house, with the shower rota. Yes, you read that right. My picky, picky, picky, petty (you get the picture) housemates have a ‘shower rota’ for the mornings, which they insisted upon when I moved in. I wasn’t paying much attention when they originally designated the official ‘shower times’, and somehow ended up with the worst timeslot – basically, they get to use the shower first, and I have to wait ‘til past 8.15…since it takes approx 45 mins to get to work (on a good day), it isn’t exactly ideal, but you know, when you first move in, you don’t want to cause ructions, you don’t realise that your housemates are really clinically insane, yaddayaddayadda.

In order to beat the ‘rota’, I have to get up ridiculously early, which is not in my nature, but needs must. So there I was this morning, merrily applying shampoo to my hair, when someone began banging loudly on the bathroom door. As you’ll all know, once you’ve applied the shampoo, you have to rinse fairly soon afterwards, and then conditioner must be applied immediately. The housemate banging on the door then yelled that they had to take a shower, right now. Seething inwardly at the lack of respect I am afforded in my own home, I yelled back that I had already applied shampoo and there was no turning back. When I exited the bathroom, all of 5 minutes later, they were both stood by the door, holding their towels. They know better than to eyeball me, thank god, but the atmosphere was decidedly tense. In view of these events, could you all please keep a careful watch on the night skies later, as since I didn’t use my designated shower timeslot this morning, there is a risk that the earth may not turn on its axis. You’ve been warned, and, I’m sorry, I guess.

Things could only get better after that, and since I didn’t want to kill anyone on the tube today, I must be in my holiday mood already. Today has been a good day so far. My birthday is tomorrow, but as I won’t be here, my colleagues thought we should go to the pub at lunch time, to wish me a very merry un-birthday. That went well, and it was followed by cups of tea back at the office and C had even bought a little chocolate cake in my honour.

So, I really am off now, and hope that I will return from the break all refreshed, revitalised, rejuvenated and all manner of other things beginning with ‘re’.

Hiatus

London is bugging me, and I have a birthday coming up, so I’m taking a break. I’m nearly over the cold, caused, as you’ll know from the post below, by tube travel with inconsiderate individuals who can’t be trusted to keep their germs to themselves. This morning’s journey did not inspire any warm feelings in me towards my fellow men and women, and I am beginning to suspect that I may be a woman on the edge.
As I was on my way in, I got eyeballed by a man after I had the temerity to say “Excuse me” as I almost imperceptibly brushed passed him. He looked at me as if I had just tried to hump his leg or something. Honestly, what I wouldn’t give for a hand-held cattle prod at times like these. That drama over, (having simply stared him down – the force is stronger with my stare, and he was soon rueing the day), I was sandwiched between a man who had forgotten his deodorant, and a women who had been rather too liberal with a desperately cloying fragrance, which I can still smell now, as I sit at my desk typing this.

Things looked up once I entered the building, what with the free tea-making facilities and all, but, I know in my heart I’d be happier in my bed, lazily flicking through a magazine, drinking tea and snacking on chocolate chip and hazelnut cookies (chocolate chip alone does not suffice), as the sun filters through my window. I’ve already been to one meeting this morning, (hiked four flights of stairs to get to it, sat down and was then told it had to be postponed, and could I just ‘pop’ back downstairs, and ‘pop’ up again later? I think you’ll all agree that it is not physically possible to ‘pop’ up and down four flights of stairs, but at least it saves me on gym membership, so, onwards and upwards) and there’s another in five minutes. Why do people schedule meetings at lunchtime? It’s wrong. But then, meetings in general are wrong, but they do pass the time, I suppose.

So, I’m taking a break. Which means this will be a three-day week, which is always nice, and I’m away on Thursday, ’til the following Tuesday, leaving the pollution and grime of the city behind as I head for the wild lands of the North (well, Lancashire actually). I’ve a hectic schedule of relaxation planned, with lie-ins, long, leisurely breakfasts, a little mooching on the couch, some television watching, the odd foray to the local shop to replenish food supplies, and some long, long, bubble baths. If there’s time, I’ll shoehorn some long walks in the sunshine in, and maybe a (shoe) shopping excursion, but that is all.

Okay. Just got to keep it together today, tomorrow and Weds. Deep breaths.

Germ warfare

Of all the joys of living in London, perhaps my favourite has to be enforced tube travel. And the best thing about this is the people who cough/sneeze/splutter/etc without covering their mouths.

You know who you are you disgusting freaks and miscreants. What’s wrong with you all? Why must we all share in your suffering?

Due to their negligence, or rather, their propensity for sharing, I am now, just as the weather is taking a turn for the better, struck down with a hideous head cold. I am also suffering from eye strain as a result of my constant vigilance for people committing this most heinous of crimes, followed by my giving them my patented ‘evil stare’. I can keep up ‘the stare’ for the whole journey.

Got hardly any sleep last night as I had to do that breathing-through-one-nostril thing for what seemed like hours, and so it turned out to be as I was still awake at 3am. And another thing, why is there still no medication you can take for this that clears up your symptoms? Despite what must be an obscenely wealthy cold remedy industry, none of the products actually work, do they? I know, for I have tried them all over the past 24 hours, and I am still blowing my nose every five minutes. Plus I’m all achy, tired, congested, whinge, whinge, whinge.

Perhaps the only sensible solution would be to try to buy shares in Kleenex, so the next time this happens, I won’t feel quite so hard done by. Sheesh.

Ouch

Yeah, I just got paid. So all this money came into my bank account, and then it all went straight back out again.

I just read this:



Which I wholeheartedly recommend, and although it made me glad that I'm not working as a plongeur in some revolting hotel in 1920s Paris, and nor am I surviving on a diet of 'tea and two slice', but still. We're a long way off the end of this month, and I already feel like I am borasic lint.

Honky Tonk Woman

A happy post! The sun is shining! I’m at work…BUT, it is Friday, and then it’s Bank Holiday weekend! And even though the odds are against it, what with me being in London, the weather forecast is good for the whole weekend. It’s all good.

The real reason I am so thrilled though, is that I discovered this morning (after I had managed to claw my way out of the duvet – a daily battle of epic proportions due to the fact that my bed is only at its most supreme level of comfort from 6.30am onwards), that both my housemates will be away…ALL weekend. I can barely express the joy I felt on gleaning this information. When I casually asked one of them this morning about their plans, it was all I could do to keep the feverish sense of excitement out of my voice. I managed a neutral-sounding ‘Have a lovely time, then. What time exactly will you be leaving?’

Oh, just imagine. The bliss of having the place all to myself for three days and nights. I won’t have to listen to anyone extolling the virtues of the Weight Watchers’ points system EVERY time I go to the kitchen (for the last time, bread is not evil, stop the madness); nor will I have to listen to the other one pontificating on her most favourite and sacred of subjects, her almighty self.

I know exactly how I’ll be taking advantage of this short burst of freedom. There’ll be a little Rolling Stones, a lot of wandering around naked, prossibly a little naked dancing. Don’t worry – I have net curtains.

Just clumsy

Oh my god, can I not get through a single day without injuring myself in some shape or form?

This weekend alone, I trapped my hand in a door, so painfully I actually started to hyperventilate, then because I am right-handed, instinctively put that same hand out to break my fall when I somehow managed to trip up some stairs that very evening. Aaaarghhh. Some women like to carry a small compact and some lipstick in their bag, in addition, I like to carry a family-sized tube of arnica and a bumper pack of Solpadine Max strength.

What’s wrong with me? Why must I insist on walking into door frames? Do I not see them? Is female spatial awareness really that bad, or is it just me? My own theory is that my mind must be on more important things at the times of these incidents, in the style of a bumbling professor if you will, too busy considering the meaning of the universe to notice the proximity of a table corner to my thigh, for example.

My brother, on the other hand, who was recently witness to me walking straight into a chest-level bollard (how did I miss it?), so hard I winded myself, and also to an incident where I cracked my knee against a steel door in a café (my question here though is this: why a steel door?), has another theory: He just thinks I am ‘a right dozy cow’.

Hmm. I like my theory better, but the evidence supporting his is unquestionably stronger. You'll have to excuse me now, I'm off to invest in some knee pads.

I'll see you and I'll raise you

Went to a poker night on Weds. I had never played poker before, and although I didn't assume I'd pick it up as quickly as I'd got the hang of, say, Go Fish, I didn't think it would be that hard. Afterall, whenever you see people playing on TV, or in a Bond movie, they don't seem to be putting in much of an effort, and they're usually drinking beer, or cocktails (shaken, not stirred).

Fortunately for me, it was a 'how to' kind of an evening, with no real money involved, and friendly croupiers who let us play several practice hands first, after which there was a mini-tournament, with an ipod up for grabs. I'm not saying I fancied my chances from a skills point of view, but I was hopeful that maybe blind luck might bag me a seat on the winners' table.

This was not to be the case. Poker is hard! I don't know how anybody manages to drink and play at the same time. There is so much to remember - I can handle the fact that an Ace is higher than a King, blah-di-blah, but it's all the Three-of-a-Kind this, Straight-Flush that, etc, that I just could not get my head round. And, apparently, shaking your head when you look at your cards, unless you are pulling a rather elaborate bluff, is a big no-no. I had a better poker face towards the end of the evening, when I was concentrating so hard that I just looked permanently serious.

I did win a couple of hands, ahem, but only when we were on the losers' table later on. Then I lost all my chips, and then, in a very Bond stylee, a guy to my left gave me 500 chips, because I had lost to him, and so I must be a 'lucky lady' to play against. Twisted logic, I think you'll agree - do you reckon he was flirtin? A nice gesture, despite the fact that the chips were worthless...It was a very fun evening, and I am definitely going again (no, I don't have an addictive personality, honest).

Ah, the big smoke - check it out! How come I always take a better picture when I am not trying? When I took this I was just trying to use up an old film. But it is fitting that my first successfully downloaded picture should be of the place where this blog is set (still just getting the hand of this techno malarkey). On a sunny day, London is quite pretty, as you can see.

Correction:

S would like me to make it clear she just likes some musicals, ok? Not all musicals.

Just to be clear.

But even liking some is just wrong, isn't it?

Mondays...

They're quite crap really, aren't they? It's Monday, it's raining, it's not even 3.30pm, there've already been two mind-numbing meetings about nothing in particular, and the rest of the day stretches interminably ahead.

I just went out to the shop to mix things up a bit, and bought one of those Ritter Sport chocolate thingies. I've eaten nearly all of it now, and as a boredom alleviating device, I would say it has failed parlously. There's nothing else for it, I will have to get up again, and this time, make a cup of tea.

...that only killed 3.5mins, but at least I've made a good cuppa. On this point, I think it is worth mentioning that I am astounded, on a daily basis, by how badly some people make tea. I make great tea - I'm not boasting here, just stating a plain fact; ask anyone who knows me, they wouldn't dispute it.

What astounds me about this, is that I wonder how hard can it be to get it so wrong? All you have to do is add the hot water to the tea bag, bash it about for a bit with the teaspoon, add milk, sweeten if necessary, stir away and bob is most certainly your uncle. It's a mystery to me, but when it's bad, it is just undrinkable - tastes watery, weird, ungodly, causes facial grimacing, etc. And I have no idea where these people are going wrong. It's always such a crying shame of a waste of a tea bag.

I suppose some people just underestimate the importance of tea. And, consequently, aren't quite as fussy as me about it...