The Monday morning

The Monday morning and I will never be friends. We'll always remain passing acquaintances, with barely concealed hostility bristling beneath the surface whenever we meet. Sometimes this hostility spills over, and the Monday morning acts malevolently. Today, my alarm went off, but I fell asleep again shortly after turning it off. This isn't exclusive to Monday mornings, but I blame the Monday all the same. That hurdle dealt with, there was the all-too-familiar wardrobe crisis, and even though I managed to leave the flat on time, little did I know that I was heading for The Train Journey From HELL...

First, it was late, but that's nothing out of the ordinary, and it was rammed, again, no change there, but once aboard, I was sandwiched between an unfeasibly large woman with an equally unfeasibly large handbag, which she kept rummaging in, elbows akimbo (what she was hoping to find remains a mystery; nothing was actually pulled forth from the bag, but she kept up the rummaging throughout the journey), and a man who kept up an alternating routine of coughing, snorting, sniffing, and general germ spreading. He was also talking loudly on his mobile phone, which I suppose is a given, about the whole Russian ex-spy poisoning at the sushi bar. Quite the conspiracy theorist, this picture of ill-health was of the opinion that the ex-spy had poisoned himself. Just as I was mulling the likelihood of that over, a group of businessmen squashed up against the opposite door chimed in with their own theory: he was selling radioactive poison to his lunch partner, and had it in a glass vial. Which, according to the lead theorist in the group, 'He probably sat on!' They all then burst out laughing at the supposed irony of this. Hmm. Here's the latest from the BBC http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6203464.stm the upshot: nobody knows anything...or they do, but they're not telling.

These musings on the poor man who died horribly continued whilst we were held up at London Bridge for a ridiculous amount of time, the reason given by the driver: 'trains are waiting to get into the station'. Oh, that's what it is. Lordy.

Finally ditched the man with the plague and the handbag lady at Charing Cross, went for the tube, and just caught the end of an announcement about delays on the line due to 'dust on the tracks'. I kid you not.

Anyway, I made it to work, as you can see, and as we've just passed noon, the Monday morning is officially over. I think a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit are in order.

Being...

...hungover at work - not fun in the slightest. Also coming under the 'not fun' category this morning we have the following: realising there is no bread for toast, and indeed no milk to make what would have certainly been a life-saving cup of tea first thing; overland rail travel; underground tube travel; realising you have an early meeting. Gah.

The only thing that is keeping me going is the sweet, sweet knowledge that it is, in fact, the holy payday tomorrow. Counting the seconds, the minutes, the hours...

Absence makes the heart grow fonder...I hope

Oh, I know, it's been an AGE. Work is still quite brutal, and blogging from work has become nigh on impossible following the discovery that I am being watched by my hawk-eyed and thoroughly evil boss. I am now devoting most of my working day to figuring out a sneaky way around this. However, I have just happened on a serendipitous window of time, so I'll fill you in on my most recent misadventures...

The issue of my lack of outer poise has yet again raised its ugly head. If you ever want a fun evening, don’t go to St. Mary’s A&E in Paddington. I am convinced that the triage nurses work part-time as bouncers at some of the roughest clubs in London, or at least, that is where they receive their interpersonal skills training. I had to go there after falling over playing netball. Basically my ankle gave out and I fell really badly, and twisted my ankle, and when it happened, I heard a sickening crunching noise. The pain was so bad I started hyperventilating and shaking. The staff at the gym were very good though and brought a load of ice out, which they taped to my ankle - they also said soothing things like: 'well, if it is broken, it's broken.'
It was all very grim - I was very worried I had broken it and I running ahead in my imagination, envisaging me in a cast for Christmas, etc, etc.

So I had to go to A&E for an X-ray etc. Was there a couple of hours - Had the X-ray and nothing was broken. Though I had to practically bribe the Radiograopher to tell me this - She seemed to think I wouldn't be concerned with the result either way, and would rather be kept in suspense for another hour or so whilst waiting to see the Doctor. I was so relieved, though still in a lot of pain, anyway, after the X-ray, I waited to see the doctor – ‘Hi, my name's Stefan’ - who was absolutley drop-dead gorgeous. Of course, he would be, since I was wearing my sweaty gym kit and no make-up. He checked the X ray and examined my ankle – but all I could think was ‘you’re Dr. McDreamy and my feet smell - excellent’. Anyway, he reckons I have torn some ligaments (the crunching noise I heard – argh), gave me some heavy duty painkillers and a tubigrip bandage thingy, and said I should go to my docs and get some physio.

The tubigrip banadage thingy, I'm sure I don't have to tell you, is uber-glamorous, in fact, it's almost beyond glamour.

Aggh - my boss is on the horizon and the window is closing. Will try to get back here soon and also do some neighbourly visiting...

Hard work never killed anybody, but why take the risk?

Apologies for the radio silence. Work has been hitting me roughly about the head the past couple of weeks. I’ve been down, but not out for the count.

Do not adjust your set, normal service will resume shortly…

Just and the mysterious case of the missing cheap tickets

Times like these, you need Scooby-Doo and the gang to turn up in the Mystery Mobile. I’ve been trying, (that’s trying, I haven’t succeeded in any way shape or form.) to buy some bargain train tickets to go back up north. Virgin trains advertise these cheap tickets all the time. They send promotional emails to me about them and there are posters all over the place proclaiming how great these deals supposedly are. However, when you actually try to buy any of these fabled bargain tickets, they have always mysteriously disappeared…

Tried to buy the tickets earlier today but ended up thoroughly frustrated by the whole booking system and gave up in despair, and with a serious headache. First of all – it took me about 30 minutes to navigate the booking website. I tried 3 times to get the cheaper tickets by doing endless searches for travelling at increasingly ridiculous times of the day, but no joy. So, I finally decided to buy the more expensive ones, only for the site to crash.

I then called Virgin direct. Of course, I then had to go through the mindfuck that is the voice-recognition system. They’ve obviously improved this over the years and the voice no longer sounds like a female version of HAL, but now she’s almost too friendly. Kind of creepy, really. She’s very softly spoken: ‘…you can interrupt me at any time, for example, please say ‘yes’. Pause whilst I say ‘yes’ clearly into the phone. Softly spoken response: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Please press star now to go back to the beginning [evil robotic laughter just faintly heard in the background]’. After a while I managed to communicate my travel requirements to this tape recording of a woman’s voice, and miraculously, it quoted me a really good price, then told me it would put me through to an ‘agent’ who would take the booking. Whilst I waited to be put through to the real, live agent, I merrily pulled my debit card from my wallet, all ready to quote the number and almost seeing a small light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel.

Then I got put through to someone clearly working in a call centre in Delhi to finalise the booking. She quoted me double the original price. So I said, calmly, very calmly, that I had just been quoted a much lower amount. She then tells me that those tickets are no longer available. I then calmly (again), tried to ask why I would have been offered these tickets, only for her to tell me there were none. She told me that there were no bargain tickets for those journeys. I got a little less calm at this point. Apparently, ‘maintenance work’ is being carried out on the track and they don’t issue bargain tickets when maintenance work is being carried out. I simply don’t understand. The whole thing is just one big swizz.

I am still seething. I did communicate my feelings about this to the agent, but she seemed unmoved. I hung up.

Aaaarrrrggghhh.

The shame...

So, I got paid, woo-hoo, yadda, yadda, big anti-climax as per usual. However, it does mean I can afford things again, such as the odd evening out…

Went out on Saturday night for Sam’s leaving do. We went to Salvador & Amanda, which is one of those bars which has an inflated sense of self. You know, they make a big show of having a tough door policy, but then let you in anyway; all the front of house staff were wandering around with clipboards and walkie-talkies, totally drunk with power. As Naomi and I were headed to the bar, we were stopped by yet another member of staff, waving her clipboard frantically: ‘Just checking you girls know where you’re going…’ Yeah, thanks, we’re TRYING to get to the BAR. Jeez. Anyway, that hurdle over, ordered drinks and then our jaws simultaneously hit the floor when handed the bill. I had planned to stick to vodka all evening, thus reducing my chances of suffering with a hangover the next day. However, to continue buying vodka in this bar, I would have had to re-finance my loan. So we switched to wine. Looking back, I can see now that this was not necessarily a good idea, even though it seemed so at the time.

The evening went well, so well that we didn’t leave until our only option for travel home was the night bus. We had to get 2 night buses in fact. This was ok, as I wasn’t that drunk, I figured, and so we ventured forth and started our epic journey home. Got the first night bus at Westminster – so far, so stuffed with mad drunken people and the fragrant aroma of many a kebab. We got off at London Bridge, to get the next bus. We had to wait here for a VERY long time. We were just about to crack and try to hail a cab (though hailing a cab at this time of night, to go south of the river is a bit like trying to find the holy grail), when the 47 swung into view. Once safely aboard, everything should have been fine. However, we have spoken here, many times, of my lack of, shall we say, outer poise. To be blunt, I am an extremely clumsy person. I average about 1 slapstick comedy moment a day, tripping up over thin air/walking into door frames and so on and so forth.

To cut a long story short, I fell over on the night bus. Oh, the shame of it all. I was going for a seat, tripped up over someone’s feet, I was holding onto the pole, but just ended up sliding down it and then hitting the deck. It was really quite spectacular. I just keep thinking of how everyone must have been able to see my legs, sticking out in the aisle. They must have all thought I was mashed. I did consider standing up and saying ‘I’m not actually that drunk, everyone, just really clumsy’, but thought better of it.

Naomi pretended she didn’t know me.

Am covered in bruises.

Two days

'Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.' - Woody Allen

'I'm tired of Love: I'm still more tired of Rhyme.

But Money gives me pleasure all the time.' - Hilaire Belloc.

The pay day cometh and thank the lord and all his angels that it is so. Being a Tupperware Queen all month has been really quite trying; the novelty wears off quicker than you would think. So, just two more days of being as poor as a church mouse, then back to just being as poor as a girl who can afford the occasional lunch out and buy new shoes.

Which is great, as I have seen the shoes and I simply must have them. I must have them before they go out of stock. It is a matter of supreme urgency.

Counting the minutes, the seconds…

Bring on the weekend. Bring it now.

Oh, this has been such a crappy week. And it’s still only Thursday. It started well, which should have made me suspicious – Monday’s aren’t supposed to be good, are they? Monday was fine though, and this lulled me into a false sense of security for the coming days. Tuesday was an opportunity to experience a new level of horror in the workplace. There was trouble, and I was in it. Everyone always talks about the mistakes they have made via email, and how easy it is to do – a ‘forward’ to the wrong person, an accidental and cringeworthy ‘reply all’ moment etc. Though I live in fear of making such mistakes, I usually steer clear of them. Not so on the Tuesday. Managed to email my boss about some innocent copy checking, forgetting to delete the incriminating stuff under the copy. I’d been messing around with my email signature – you know, trying different fonts and colours and so on…and also, heh, changing my job title on the signature, as if I had already been promoted. Apparently people aren’t allowed to just promote themselves…

So, of course she noticed, and of course it was all absolutely horrific. She returned the email to me, and suggested we ‘take a walk’. (As an aside, I thought that was a bit odd – take a walk? What is this, The Sopranos?). I was running on pure adrenalin at this point, furiously racking my brain to think of an excuse and also, if possible, restore my chances of getting promoted at some point this century. The walk was excruciating, but in the end we negotiated that I could change my job title, but that it would mean NOTHING in monetary terms. So, I suppose it was kind of a positive outcome, though I am still coming down from the adrenalin.

Wednesday was dull and tense and time appeared to have ground to a complete halt at around midday. A colleague in a different department is leaving the company, and Weds was her last day. There was the obligatory ‘stand-around-her-desk-feeling-uncomfortable-whilst-the-MD-embarrasses-her-with-a-weird-speech, then grow old waiting for the slices of cake to be passed around. Whilst it is inspiring that she is leaving – escape is possible! – I also found it a little depressing, because, well, you know, I am still here…

So far, Thursday has not shown me anything good. If we hadn’t got chocolate biscuits, I don’t know what I’d do. I need a holiday. And a lottery win. And…

Aargh

Couldn't get into my site for 3 days! Why, blogger, why? Why must thou forsake me in this manner?

Sheesh. Anyway, I'm back now, and I have stories to tell.

Tune in tomorrow, when I will be blogging for free, on my company's time.

Thanking you.

Attack of the killer mosquito

Can anyone tell me the point of mosquitoes? Anyone?

Why do I ask? Because I got bitten last Monday evening, not whilst I was in the tropics, you understand, but when I was in the less exotic surrounds of my living room. The vicious little bloodsucker attacked my ankle. Whenever I get bitten by any kind of bug, my body likes to react as though I have been injected with a deadly venom, there's usually swelling, a rash, the need for anti-histamines. So, when I get bitten by an evil mosquito, the reaction is that bit more severe. My ankle looks like more like it has been savaged by a rabid dog. And why does NOTHING work to soothe mosquito bites? And before you all start going on about toothpaste/blasting the bite with a hairdryer/witch hazel gel/aloe vera/any other USELESS remedy you care to mention, let me tell you, I've tried 'em ALL. And NOTHING works.

Anyway, the upshot is that the bite has remained swollen for over a week, and also has an odd red line coming out the side of the main swelling. This worried me a bit at first, as I wondered if I had blood poisoning. A hypochondirac can't be too careful. So, I went to the docs yesterday, after a tussle with the receptionist over what consituted an 'emergency', and whether I was eligible for an 'emergency appointment', I showed the doc my ankle. After he visibly recoiled, he precribed anti-biotics and a special hydracortisone cream. So now I can't drink this week and am £12 down after picking up prescriptions at the chemist.

All this for a stupid effing mosquito bite. Oh, and did I mention it itches like a bastard?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggghhhhhh.

A bit late, but here’s Le Weekend

Ok, I chickened out of posting pictures of me wearing the specs, but I like them now anyway, even the allegedly ‘fun’ pair.

Saturday was a wash due to the excesses of Friday night – it was all I could do to manage boring household stuff like the laundry. I finally washed my sheets. It was getting to that point where if I didn’t wash them, I would have to reclassify myself as a total skank. I normally keep on top of stuff like that, but you know how it is, right? The effort involved in the whole washing + drying of the sheets, the interminable drying of the sheets when you don’t have a yard to peg out in, the tiresome fight to put the duvet covers back on – it’s enough to put anyone off. Anyway it’s all done and dusted now, plus I washed what appeared to be a years worth of clothes. Laundry is an ongoing battle is it not – you never stop – there’s always something that needs doing. And don’t get me started on the ironing – I’ll only bore us both.

What I did achieve on Sat was a load of cooking – I’m having to think economy with a capital e this month, what with the ridiculous bill for the new glasses. So I’ve turned into a bit of a Tupperware Queen and there are 3 nutritious meals nestling in the freezer, which will see me through the Tues/Weds/Thurs and save me some moola. Let’s see how long I keep this up. I have good intentions to do this every month and usually manage a couple of days – but the (very real) lack of cash may force me to change my habits this time round. Am a bit of a gourmand too, doncher know – today it’s pasta alla norma, and tomorrow it will be wild mushroom risotto, then maybe something sautéed in something. Not sure about what I’ll be having the day after that – but a quick peruse of the Jamie Oliver cook book will surely provide inspiration. God bless Jamie, and all who sail in him.

Sunday, saw Tom’s new flat. Very impressive. In uber-trendy Hoxton, nice and light and spacious, felt way more relaxed than anywhere else he’s lived. Plus, crucially, his flatmate was there and appeared to be not only pleasant (and easy on the eye), but also sane. I’m very relieved. Tom even cooked dinner for me before I dashed back off to Greenwich to see Volver with Naomi. Hmm. That Pedro Almodovar eh? He’s a one, isn’t he?

I did really enjoy Volver, it is a very unusual story, quite an odd film, but beautifully shot and the actors are all brilliant. Also, Penelope Cruz just looks stunningly gorgeous in practically every frame. There’s something almost hypnotic about how lovely she is. I just found myself transfixed by her. (I also thought to myself that I should invest in some false eyelashes and try that look out). So, I would recommend it, but obviously, I don’t want to give anything away. I was a bit wary of going to see an Almodovar film, as I had a bad experience with Hablo con Ella a couple of years ago. (I am going to give the ending of that away because of the trauma seeing it caused, so there, you’ve been warned; read on at your peril)

Everyone I speak to raves about Hablo con Ella as if it was a work of cinematic genius. It may be, but I went to see it on a first date. Big mistake. There we were, in the cinema, quietly impressed with ourselves for going to see a foreign film for our first date, with no idea of what was about to hit us. The story is quite bizarre, follows the lives of two women who end up in comas and the men who love them. One of them is a bull fighter, and her story is quite interesting, and the man who loves her is a complex, engaging character. The other one is a dancer, and the man who loves her is an orderly at the hospital who is obsessed with her. She didn’t know him before the coma, and he falls obsessively for her and basically sexually abuses her whilst she is in the coma and gets arrested etc. So because he obsessed with her, he has these weird fantasies about her body. In one of them, her naked body becomes enormous, and he shrinks and shrinks and climbs over her body. That was cringe-worthy enough, but then, then they show a GIANT vagina (I can't emphasise the GIANT enough here) – it completely filled the cinema screen, and the miniature version of this sick character crawls down it, then pulls open one of the ‘flaps’, as it were, then walks into the vagina like he is just going through a door. The horror.

So, as you can imagine, I was understandably a bit wary of trying another Almodovar, but Volver is worth a watch, honest.

Good Morning!!

Here's a top tip to start the day: if you're feeling sluggish after you've just woken up, still a bit sleepy, unable to get it together, try a good, hard poke in the eye with your mascara wand. Oh, trust me, that will wake you up every time.

The 4-day week rocks

It’s payday. It’s PAYDAY. I am loving the Thursday this week, let me tell ya. Not only is it the payday, but we had Monday off and so this is only a 4 day week. Plus, the weekend was good. Went for a long walk with my flatmate, all the way up to Blackheath, which is lovely, until you find out that it is so called because that’s where they buried all the victims of the Black Death. Isn’t that nice? Spent Monday with Sylvia at her envy-inducing flat in Stoke Newington. It’s a warehouse conversion – all skylights and wooden floors and light, airy spaces, and easily 3 times the size of any of the places I’ve lived in London. I’m not bitter, I’m just saying, that’s all.

But back to this week, and the joy of payday. Today is also special in that I am picking up my new glasses today. I chose them last Saturday. It took about 2 hours – and was not fun. I am very short sighted, and I wear my glasses everyday – so this was a big decision. I was on my own and find it difficult to trust the opinion of the Specsavers sales assistants, because, well, they are sales assistants and they don’t know me. Plus, I had to buy them on Saturday because that’s when their special offer (buy one pair, get the other FREE) ran out. This posed a financial dilemma as, what with today being payday, I ran out of cash about, ooh, 3 weeks ago. Tricky. I’ve picked a gold-framed pair with a quite rectangular shape, very different to what I am currently wearing, and a pair very similar to the ones I already own, but with thin purple frames. When I finally sat down at one of the little tables to wait for an optician to come over and explain that I would have to pay an extra £160 so I could get super-thin lenses, and that no, they don’t have a payment programme, one of the sales assistants ambled past and looked at my selection. Looking at the purple ones, he actually said this: ‘I see you’ve gone for a fun pair.’ Fun? Like, I’m having ‘fun’ with my wacky choice of spectacles? Like I’m a female Timmy Mallet? Excellent. I went for them anyway – they’re fine, and I think I like them. Paying for them was a tad uncomfortable – I had my visa card with me, and although I said to the cashier ‘I’m not sure how much credit I have left on this card, please try it, and if it gets declined I’ll pay by cheque’, when she did try the card, and it did get declined, she looked at me with mix of pity and suspicion, like maybe I am just poor, but maybe I also a common criminal (have you noticed that whenever this happens there is always a queue of people behind you to witness your shame? Always). Then I got the cheque book out, and everything was going better, until they had to call for an authorisation code – this is when I started sweating. More people joined the queue; they called the bank 3 times and got cut off three times, and then finally, they got the code and the sale went through. They were still looking at me like I was a leper though. God – if they weren’t the cheapest optician in town, I swear I’d go elsewhere…

So, I’m picking them up today, no longer convinced that either pair will suit me. They’ll adjust and fit them for me – another peach of a part of the process where they give you a complex about having an unsymmetrical face/wonky ears/one eye bigger than the other. Hmm. Starting to feel less positive about the Thursday…

If I’m feeling brave, I might post some pictures later. Not promising anything though.

The air-conditioning unit is trying to kill me

Well, ok, perhaps that is a little dramatic. It isn’t actually trying to kill me (as far as I’m aware). Here’s the rub: The air-conditioning unit has been moved. It used to be above Sylvia’s desk, when she worked here, and she constantly complained about how the icy air continually blasted onto her shoulders. But, you know, it gets very hot in the office, and we largely ignored her and enjoyed the cooler temperature as we slaved over our hot PCs. However, she kept complaining, and eventually the deputy MD heard her cries and it was moved.

They moved it in the winter, when you don’t have any call to use it. They moved it to above my desk. It is like a form of torture. I sit here, and someone complains about how hot it is, we have to turn the fucking thing on, and all the muscles in my left shoulder start to seize up. I’m actually in physical pain. It is a remote controlled unit, so you are supposed to be able to angle the blades of the fan so that the cold air would (theoretically) shoot over my desk and not hit my shoulder. Whoever designed this remote control was clearly a frustrated design graduate, stuck in a dead end job at an air-conditioning factory, out to seek revenge in whatever small, petty way they could. Every time you press the button to angle the blades, it beeps. It beeps at a volume that hits a nerve in my brain just so. It beeps and the blades move by less than a millimetre. You have to keep pressing the buttons until it is at just the right angle, then, you misjudge it and the blades start to go in the opposite direction. And you have to start again. I’ve given up doing that now as I have discovered after a lengthy session of pressing all the relevant buttons, that even when the freaking thing is angled just so, it still hits my shoulder like an arctic wind.

Good god.

I raised the issue of moving it elsewhere at the office meeting on Monday. The responses:
‘Just angle the blades.’
‘Did you know you can angle the blades?’
‘If you angle the blades, you can direct the flow of air.’
You. Don’t. Say.

They are refusing to move it because, apparently, there’s nowhere else for it to go. For the love of god.

I see now, and I think you'll all agree, that my only option is industrial sabotage. I’ll report back on my progress.

Where the hell have I been?

What the hell do I think I'm playing at? Eh?

Not a single post since July? I think I'll go with the old 'never explain, never apologise' failsafe, and just get back to business toute suite. How about that?

Oh alright then: if you must know - I went on holiday, came back, had an existential crisis, as you do, stopped blogging, stopped writing, yadda, yadda, yadda, but I'm over it now, and she's back. And apparently talking about herself in the third person. Damn, don't you just hate that?

So to business – the trip up north to visit my parents was a huge success – we spent time on the beach, chilled out had nice meals etc –in short, I had a lovely time, and also managed to come away with a digital camera and an mp3 player. So I am now totally gadgeted up – I have almost everything the modern gal-about-town needs. Apart from a shoe rack. I still desperately need one of those.

With respect, I must now say that I finally get all the fuss about the mp3 players. I’m in love with mine and I now understand that they are essential to life in a similar way to water and oxygen. It’s like having the ultimate mix-tape, on your person, at all times. Genius. My only problem so far is resisting the urge to sing along and/or start dancing whilst on my commute. I’m assuming this would be looked on as a pretty serious faux pas, and have thus far managed to restrict myself to a subtle toe-tapping routine which I am sure bugs the hell out of whoever happens to be sitting next to me on the train. But I don’t care! I’m listening to Honky Tonk Woman! Get me.

In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m in a very good mood today. I had a very good weekend. And that’s all I’m saying.

Just plain weird

Yep, it's still hot, but to distract me from that, there was plenty of weirdness on the commute today. A woman sat directly opposite me, wearing heavily applied electric blue eyeshadow, looking me square in the eyes, before proceeding to close her eyes and commence s-l-o-w-l-y sticking her tongue out and licking round her mouth. She kept repeating this motion, so I dismissed thoughts she was coming on to me and wondered if she actually had an unfortunate facial tick, poor woman. It looked disgusting though - her tongue, quivering round her lips...over and over again - and I couldn't not look...

Then I noticed that a woman 2 seats ahead of me was wearing a yellow and white polka-dot skirt, teamed with a horizontally striped red and white top. Can you imagine? Talk about offensive.

And another thing - any Morrissey fans out there? Wanna see something really weird?
Ok, here you go: http://b3ta.com/links/Kids_Tv_in_a_parallel_universe

And now I'm off to crank up the AC, because it's still too damn hot. Ahh, that's better, mmm, reconditioned stale office air - surprisingly refreshing...

Hot! Hot! Hot!

It's too hot to do anything! Too hot! Aaaaaaaggggghhh! Too damn hot.

According to The Standard, it was 41C on the tube yesterday. I felt like I was quite literally melting.

It's too hot.

That is all.

That's it then

End of England's World Cup dream. They were a bit crap really, weren't they? Never mind, we get to try again in 4 years. Reading the sport pages today (in truth, I was scanning for pictures of Beckham looking moody, possibly shirtless, etc.), I see that Rooney is claiming he did not deserve a red card for stamping on Ricardo Carvalho's groin. It looked pretty intentional from the footage, but maybe everything looks pre-mediated if you show it in slow motion.

In other news - what is going on with this heatwave? You can't sleep, you open the window, there's no breeze, but plenty of dopey flies and bugs. And what is it with stupid flies? They fly in the room through a WIDE OPEN window, then proceed to batter themselves against the only closed window pane/dive bomb your head/freshly prepared salad/buzz annoyingly in circles around the light bulb. Yep, it's summer in the city. The tube feels like a sauna, the trains aren't much better, and to make things worse, everyone seems to think it is ok to strip off, whether they are the owner of a body-beautiful or not. In fact in most cases, it's the 'or not'. I don't need to see an overweight, middle aged man with his gut hanging out and his lobster-red sunburnt skin indicating a line where the shirt he should be wearing could be. Especially not before I have had coffee in the morning.

Another summer eye-sore was pointed out by Lucy Mangan in the Guardian today - had me nodding my head vigorously in agreement : A visit to the shops makes you deeply aware of how very far we still are as a nation from embracing the pedicure as a standard component of personal grooming. How right she is - like anyone needs to see gnarled and yellowed, over-grown and in some cases, ingrowing toenails on the feet of your fellow commuters. Ewwww.

Ok, ok, the hot weather isn't all bad - I'm not complaining, really. Blistering sunshine still beats gloomy, drizzling rain. Plus you don't need an excuse to eat ice cream. So not all bad, but being at work sucks when the weather is like this. Having said that, if I wasn't here, I'd be sweltering at my flat...man, I want a beach holiday soooo bad. I'm off now to enter some internet competitions for holidays - I'll keep you posted with my progress

Eng-er-land!

We're through to the quarter-finals! In the World Cup baby!

...not very convincingly though - watched the game yesterday and the tension was unbearable - as my Dad put it, watching England play is heart attack material. Thank god for Becks and his unbelievable ball-bending abilities and also for little Ashley Cole, who ran like a man possessed to intercept what would have surely been an equalizer from Ecuador. Phew.

If my nerves can take it, we're against Portugal next Saturday...come on lads!

We've got a sweepstake in the office, but I didn't get England as one of my teams - I got Germany (host nation, they might pull it out of the bag and secure me the prize fund - a whopping £15, I'd have to be careful not to spend it all at once), Togo - there wasn't ever much hope there, USA - sorry, but likewise, Switzerland - they're playing today - though even if they win, I can't see them going all the way, and Czech Republic, who didn't get through. So I'm officially rooting for England (obviously), but secretly hopeful for Germany's chances. I have £15 riding on it after all.

p.s. Could David Beckham get any more attractive? I don't think so.

Hidden dangers of healthy eating

My hands smell of tuna. I've washed them several times, but the aroma of tuna lingers on. Before you all get smutty (oh don't deny it, I know what you guys are like), I decided to be all healthy this morning and fix myself a tuna salad to take to work for lunch. I prepared it at 8am, washed my hands, and then left the house. On the train, I realised with horror that my hands reeked of fish.

Comforted myself with the knowledge that I would be able to wash them (with what? Acid?) once I got to work. Of course, as soon as I walked into reception, of course I was introduced to a new member of staff, and of course we shook hands. Way to make a great impression - I'm the girl who smells like tuna. Excellent.

Over the course of the day, I've washed my hands a number of times in the manner of an OCD sufferer, and even now, even now I swear I can still smell a hint of tuna. See what happens when you make an effort and go all healthy? Had I bought myself a ridiculously over-priced hermetically sealed sandwich from M&S, none of this would have happened.

Scratch that

Turns out he has a girlfriend. Albeit one that lives in Sweden, and has been out of the counry for 6 months, but a girlfriend all the same. He didn't volunteer this information freely, oh no.
It was only revealed that he had a girlfriend following a chance question from me on an entirely unrelated topic. I had been invited up to the flat again, and we were chatting away, then we got on to the topic of football, what with the Wolrd Cup being on, and he said something about how he was disappointed with Sweden's performance. So I jokingly said, 'Why, do you have some connection to Sweden?' and then he said 'Yeah, my girlfriend's from Sweden.' Imagine the difficulty I had in maintaining a neutral facial expression as I heard this news. He then told me that she has been in Sweden for the past 6 months, I said that was a long time (for want of anything else to say) and then he looked straight at me and said that sometimes 'it gets lonely'. Sheesh.

Next stop: internet dating?

Man ahoy!

Yes, that's right, there is a man on the horizon. Just as I was about to resort to internet dating, I bumped into a guy who lives in the same building as me. I met him on the train home from seeing The Kooks a couple of weeks ago - what are the odds?

Anyway, despite the fact that he knocked on my door - twice - and I lost all power of speech and realised my inner flirt had gone on some sort of sabbatical without telling me, and neglected to invite him in - twice (the second time, it was raining outside - and I still couldn't engage my brain enough to invite him over the threshold - what was I thinking?), progress has been made. After I realised that he may not knock a third time without a modicum of encouragement, I suddenly galvanised myself into action and...wrote him a note. Lame, I know. LAME. Still, it had my name and number on it, and a subtle attempt at humour. It took me 8 drafts, and it was only two lines long. I put it through his door, and then tried to forget about it as I didn’t hear from him all week.

Then - you can all stop holding your breath - he knocked again on Saturday last, I finally managed to focus, and invited him in for drinks. Phew. So we had a nice evening, chatting away, and later on, we went up to his flat and I met his flatmate, and we all had more to drink and listened to some music and it was all very pleasant. At the end of the night, he walked me to the door and gave me a hug, and kissed me on the cheek.

So, I’m feeling quite hopeful. BUT - what to do, what to do? Should I be doing anything? Do I wait for him to call? I can hardly be casually passing by his flat as it is on the top floor, and I don’t have his number to send the traditional non-committal-friendly-non-threatening text message. See? I’m totally out of practice at this sort of thing. I know where he works, but does stopping by seem stalkerish, or friendly?

Feel like I need to go on some sort of refresher course....argh.

Not ready for my close up

We're having video conferencing equippment installed at the office. I know that VCing has been around for ages, but we've never had to do it here, and I've avoided it in all my previous jobs so far. I came into the office to the headache-inducing sounds of intermittent heavy drilling, and then, just as I was about to nip out for lunch, was summoned for a 'tutorial'.

As soon as I sat down in the meeting room, I could see myself on the widescreen tv mounted on the wall opposite. The two engineers ran through all the functions and it all seemed quite straightforward, but seeing yourself on screen is so disconcerting. I was trying to focus on what was being said, but all I could think about was how weird my nostrils looked. I've never before had a problem with my nose - of all my imperfections that I obsess over on a daily basis, my nose has never really bothered me. Now it does, and most specifically, my nostrils. Which looked weirdly uneven, and noticably large on the screen.

It could just have been the camera angle, right?

But that wasn't all I noticed. I now have a complex about the fact that I seem to naturally tilt my head to the right. It seems to be my default head position. I look oddly lop-sided and as though I am permanently considering a serious issue. Not the case, obviously. To counteract this, I kept adjusting my head throughout the tutorial, but got confused by the left-right reverse camera angle, and kept tilting even further to the right, then jerking my head back to the left. Like a nutcase. I think the engineers thought I had a twitch.

Also, when trying not to laugh at my colleagues' techno-phobic questions, i.e. after the engineers showed us 3 different ways to press the mute button, 'so how do we turn the sound off?', I quite obviously press my lips together, which totally gives the game away. Later caught myself rolling my eyes at further idiotic questions; not subtle.

I also blink. A lot.

I'm really looking forward to our first conference...

They're kooky

Very cool news - after having a spectacularly shitty day - everything that could drag about work was dragging, I felt generally crappy and didn't get enough sleep last night, and spent most of the day dealing with he company website - no walk in the park, let me tell ya. Anyway, after that, was just packing up for the day and had a sense that I should check my mobile - and there it was - a text message from Rachael, saying she had a spare ticket to see The Kooks on Thurs, and would I like to go? Hell yes, in two words.

So - seeing The Kooks on Thursday eve - how fabulous is that single Naive? Mmmm, am in love with that track, though I have started cheating on it lately with Valerie, by The Zutons, which is also just make-your-heart-sing-and-jump-around sublime.

...and I miss your ginger hair and the way you like to dress
Oh, why won't you come on home, Valerie?

You can't beat lyrics like that.

However, back to The Kooks and Thursday eve, which, only after I had gratefully accepted the spare ticket, presents me with something of a dilemma. A double-booking situation. I have to go to the Romantic Novelists' Association Summer party on Thursday eve with work. Now, whilst it will no doubt be a rather wild and debauched affair, as per usual, it doesn't usually go on all night, so escape after a decent interval is quite feasible. So, wherein lies the rub? I hear you ask. Dress codes. Doesn't it always come down to the dress codes? For the RNA, I will, of course, be donning a two-hoop skirt, acres of organza and tulle, a splash of taffetta, an elaborate tiara festooned with the highest quality cubic zircona and feathers, and a tasteful, yet subtle corsage. Just to blend in, you understand. Now, how am I to escape at 7.45, clad thus, and get across town to the Astoria for The Kooks gig, at 8pm and manage a costume change along the way? I can't very well enter a mosh pit in such an ensemble, as I'm sure you'll agree. Something decidely more 'rock' will be in order for this particular social engagement. I'll have to bring a change of clothes, which will in turn create a further dilemma, of the 'big bag' variety. You can't dance, or look cool, for that matter, when toting a huge bag. It just isn't done.

Since the Astoria is a music venue, it will be scuzzy, as all rock venues are - as an aside - why so grimy, rock venues the world over? Why the same stick-to-your-shoes flooring, the frankly disturbing and usually flooded toilets areas, why? I see no reason why they couldn't glam up a bit, but I'm getting off track. Since it will be scuzzy, I won't be able to stow the bag anywhere for fear of beer soaking and god knows what else.

Tricky.

I'm going to call the Astoria tomorrow and enquire as to their cloak room facilities, and report back.

How it's done

Winning 19 goals to 4. That's how it's done. I'll just say it again in case anyone missed it: 19 goals to 4. First win of the netball season, and it feels pretty good. Plus the weather is good enough to play outside now, so perhaps Summer really is here and everything is going to get better generally.

I'm 'working' from home today, on my unofficial lunch break, enjoying the sunshine: it's all good. With amazing foresight, which is most unlike me, I had arranged to work from home this Friday since I knew we had book group booked for Thursday night. Since I still shudder at the memory of the morning after the inaugural book group meeting, I didn't want to be caught hungover on the tube again, feeling like death at work and having to sneak sausage and egg sandwiches into the office so I don't keel over. As it is, we were all much more restrained last night, and spent more time discussing the book than drinking. (Don't get me wrong - wine drinking did constitute a major part of the evening, but we stayed focused this time, this is book group, not wine group). It was Abi's choice : Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. It's a very strange book in that all the characters are mental/oddball/sociopathic to some degree, but it is very funny, and without giving anything away, has one of the most satisfying endings I've ever read. Despite choosing the book, Abi couldn't make it, which is a shame, because everybody got quite animated, and although we were occasionally sidetracked (found myself arguing for the necessity of the love story in Gladiator, the movie, and for the importance of love interests in general in action movies - oddly, the men disagreed...), it was a great book group night.

Next selection is Arthur and George by Julian Barnes (which I think Mikey chose just because he owns it, but I'm looking forward to it anyway).

Right, suppose I should get on an do some work, since my lunch 'hour' is about to overrun somewhat spectacularly. But then again, no one's watching me...perhaps I'll mix myself a refreshing Sea Breeze first, as a motivational aid.

I love working from home.

Here comes Summer, or not

I don't think it could get any rainier, or more grey, or more miserable than it is this morning in London. But I could be wrong. It probably could.

Ugh. Monday has not started well. I woke up late following a bizarre dream in which I kept keying in a series of codes in order to stop an annoying beeping sound. Of course, it then transpired that I had turned off my alarm in a half-awake half-sleep state. My brain was trying to keep me in bed. This happens to me a lot. Sometimes I dream that I have got up, got dressed and gone to work, only to wake up in a panic at 8.59am, with no hope of getting to work on time.

So, quite apart from the alarm debacle, it is raining, and with the rain came the discovery that my shoes leak, which was lovely. Nothing nicer than tramping into work with squelchy toes.

On the up side, my boss is still away, so trundling in at 10.28 - not a problem.

Well,

Nothing really happened to restore my faith in human nature, but I'm feeling better anyway.

Good things: Watched the new episode of Green Wing and laughed so hard I almost fell off the sofa, watched ER and swooned over Luca - he and Abi are my chosen representatives in the field of shagging, plus I have discovered a low fat ice cream that doesn't taste like low-fat ice cream! It's Carte D'Or 5% Vanilla Bean, and it is amazing. Tell everyone you know.

No wonder I'm feeling better.

Hell is other people

I’m having one of those phases where I really need something to happen to restore my faith in the human race.

First of all there was all the fuss in the media about the ‘white working classes’ feeling ‘neglected’ by Labour and so, naturally, they’re all going to vote BNP. On first hearing a blanket generalisation like that, you want to just dismiss it as rubbish, but you can’t, and that is frightening to me. I used to be really shocked if someone said something racist in front of me, in the sense that I couldn’t believe that the other person would assume that I would be of a like mind. How could they think that their racist opinion was the majority view? I remember being at the hairdressers a couple of years ago, and my stylist starting making some racist remarks. Bearing in mind that she was armed with scissors, I just told her I disagreed and changed the subject. She seemed offended by my stance. Of course, I then voted with my feet and have never been back. But recently, I am starting to worry that I am in the wrong for assuming everyone will share my view (i.e. that racism is wrong), and it makes me feel ashamed for the UK.

Last week, I caught a plane back from Blackpool to London. The flight was delayed for an hour and a half because the incoming flight had to divert back to Stansted after a passenger started a fight onboard. Apparently 4 police officers were needed to remove him from the aircraft. Everyone just tutted and rolled their eyes, but why is this sort of thing becoming more and more common? Maybe it’s always been this bad, but it feels like things are getting worse, that society is degenerating into a zero-respect, yob culture, with people too afraid to speak out or act out for fear of getting their head kicked in. On the actual flight, when we were waiting to get off in London, a couple of men behind me started talking loudly about the BNP news story and how they thought it was a good idea, and they would certainly be voting that way. I think they were trying to be provocative, so I ignored them. But there was an Asian family sat in the row in front, minding their own business, and the men behind me started being audibly offensive. I think my face must have registered some shock, despite my efforts to ignore them because they noticed and started trying to get my attention by sneering at me and calling me a ‘do-gooder’. I just kept ignoring them, and no-one else said anything, and I would hope that everyone else felt like me – just ignore these bullies, but I can’t be sure – perhaps some people agreed with them. I just felt embarrassed and ashamed.

When I finally got home, via an incredibly unfriendly cab driver – what is it with cab drivers? I actually expect them to be rude to me now – just expect it as standard, which is a sad state of affairs. So, I got home, and I’ve been trying to convince myself that things aren’t so bad, and then I heard about the guy who got attacked with a meat cleaver for asking two men to control their dogs. Who carries a meat cleaver? And you just don’t know what to think.

Is it ok...

To cut mould off food and then eat it? I know this is pretty much par for the course with cheese of all kinds – you simply slice it off and then consume. However, is the same true of bread?

This morning, I went to the loaf of (very expensive) rye bread (why so expensive? It’s like I’m being penalised for having wheat intolerance), and found to my horror that it had about 8 patches of mould growing on it. Why does this happen so fast? It was fine yesterday. No bread means no toast with peanut butter, and that means no breakfast, and that could, in turn mean that if someone pushes me, or is rude (highly likely, I live in London) on my commute, that instead of shrugging it off with a smile, I murder them, in cold blood, with a smile. So, in case anyone’s not clear, it would be very bad for me to miss breakfast. So, yes, I cut the mould off and then cut two very ragged slices and popped them in the toaster. Smothered in peanut butter, they tasted fine, and I enjoyed a peaceful journey to work. (Someone stepped heavily on my toe, and another person knocked my suitcase over and just left it there, no apology, but I took it all in my stride.)

But now, I’m at work, and I’m wondering – did I just remove the visible mould? Were there tiny little spores of mould hiding deep within the loaf? Have I given myself food poisoning?

Should I eat a chocolate biscuit and have a cup of tea? At least I know the answer to that question.

Can't get no sleep

Normally, I would balk at the use of a double negative, but at this stage, I’m so sleep deprived it seems utterly appropriate.

Yes, insomnia. I’ve got it bad, and it is driving me crazy. What is really driving me nuts is the fact that I only really had insomnia proper, as it were, on Sunday night – the kind of deal where you’re lying there, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, unable to get comfortable in whatever position you try – under/over covers, 1 pillow, 2 pillows, no pillow, on your back, your front, aaaggh, and you’ve got roughly 489 random thoughts racing round your brain like an anxiety version of the Wheel of Fortune – but with no possibility of cash prizes - spend 4 seconds fretting about work, the wheel spins again and you’ve got 20 minutes of wondering what to have for lunch the next day, then you feel hungry, but are too tired to drag yourself out of bed to make anything to eat, then you’re off again and before you know it, you’re questioning all of your major life choices and wondering about alternative careers in the yak farming industry and so on and so forth.

Think I eventually drifted off around 4am, after trying all the tricks in the book – read for a bit, drink milk, have a light snack, inhale lavender oil, yadda yadda yadda. Felt like the undead on Monday morning. But the annoying thing now is that on Monday night, I wasn’t particularly anxious about anything, but my body clock now appears to be set to switch off only at 4 am, which was the pattern on Tuesday night and last night. So now I have ‘sleep debt’. Probably about 18 hour’s worth. When am I going to pay that off?

What if I can’t sleep again tonight? That’s more sleep debt – and trust me, I don’t need any more debt, of any kind. Sheesh. Anyway, as I was ransacking my bookshelves for something to read at 2.30am last night, I found this poem, by Fleur Adcock, which made me smile, at least:

Things

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse
and worse.
________

Hmm. I wonder if I put my head down on the desk now, and took a little siesta, if anyone would notice?

Busy doing nothing

Ah the joy of the 4 day week. I’ve had the whole day off today, and it’s been non-stop, let me tell you. First off, there was a serious lie-in, man, I pretty much had to stay in bed until 11am. Then I had to take a call, well receive a text message, then I had to reply to that, so after making some toast and then eating it, well, that was the morning taken care of. The afternoon continued at the same furious pace; there was some lounging around in sweat pants, some bathing, which was naturally followed by some dancing around in underwear to some Motown classics. I did eventually get dressed, and then, because I had nowhere to go, and no-one in particular to see, I got all glammed up and headed to Lewisham to wander aimlessly around the shops, looking fabulous just because I could. Disaster loomed when I couldn’t find the Primark shop - but then I got sidetracked by the orchids on display at M&S. Spent about half an hour staring at various orchid plants, toying with the idea of treating myself to one of them for my bedroom. It was a big decision, because if I went for it and bought an exquisitely beautiful and elegant orchid, I’d be forced to tidy my room. You can’t have a lovely orchid surrounded by piles of crap - there’d be no point.

I decided to go for it, and the orchid is lovely, and I did tidy up my room, and now it is lovely too. Why can’t I be tidy all the time? Why? What stops me putting things away? I just don’t understand. Took me over an hour - and it was mostly just clothes, scattered over every surface. So, as I said, big day. And it’s going to get better, because I am away for the weekend up in the wild lands of the north, and apart from a 4am start tomorrow to catch the plane, it’s all good.

In case any of you forgot, consider this your official reminder IT’S MOTHER’S DAY on Sunday. It is in the UK anyway. Me and Tom got it all sewn up remarkably early this year - we sorted the pressies last weekend, and I’m delivering them in person tomorrow. Are we good children or what? ’Course, we’re good because she’s so good.

Love ya, Mum.

What a swizz!

God, I know, I feel terrible. I say there'll be no stopping me, and then...zip, nada, niente, rien. In the somewhat paraphrased words of the Terminator, this time, I really will be back. Soon. Honest.

There'll be no stopping me now

Couple of things today: 1. I am so bored I can barely summon the energy to type, but that's easily explained away by the fact that I am currently in the office, there's no radio, and the silence is making my ears melt.

2. Much more exciting, and I'd even go so far as to say a source of joy, is the news that we have had a land line installed at the flat. Hallelujah! Rejoice! Etc.! This means I can now get online whenever the fancy takes me, and all from the comfort of my own home. Apart from the sheer convenience of being able to blog in my pyjamas (or in the nude, what the hell), at 3 in the morning, I also see many, many ebay purchases in my near future. It also means I will be able to post more regularly, which I know will also be a source of joy for all of you.

Be back very soon, probably later on tonight - get me.

The rich are different from you and me...

...they've got more fucking money. Ahem.

Have been plagued with financial woes since my last post, and have been doing lots of juggling with my money (or lack thereof). It has been both harrowing and time consuming, so I been a bit lax on the posting front. Since I'm feeling a bit drained from all that, and what with the flashbacks to the airless, windowless room I spent two hours in last Thursday in a nail-biting attempt to refinance my bank loan, I'm going to post a poem, buy a bit of time and gather my thoughts.

Here's Invictus by W.E. Henley - it's a bit like getting a shot of instant moral fibre:

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Aaah. Deep breath, that's better.

Back soon...

Decisions, decisions

I choose debt. I choose to live in London, I choose to scrape by, be unable to afford a holiday and to think twice before treating myself to a glossy magazine. I choose an interesting and challenging job with very low pay. I choose to worry myself crazy over my poor financial situation on a regular basis. I choose to feel sick to my stomach when I call the bank; I choose to get tight-chested and short of breath whenever I check my balance. I choose to count amongst the paltry possessions I have amassed in my lifetime one chest of drawers from Ikea; one bookshelf from Argos; one CD tower from Ikea, and a laptop which does not belong to me yet, but is still owned in part by Dixons. I choose debt. Apparently.

*Sigh.

That money talks
I’ll not deny.
I heard it once.
It said ‘Goodbye.’
Richard Armour


I choose good health, lovely family, good friends and fabulous shoes too. But why is there always so much month left at the end of the money?

Aye Carumba!

Big news this week. Big news. I’ve actually done something that is on my New Year’s resolution list. And no, it isn’t the one about eating more pizza. I’ve actually stepped completely outside of my comfort zone and joined a netball team. Yes, you read that right. How did this happen? Well, as with most things, alcohol was involved.

At one of the many Xmas parties I attended, I got a little drunk, and apparently agreed to join the team. Naturally, I had only the vaguest recollection of this, and was filled with horror when reminded of it in the sober days of January. After wrestling with the notion for a while, I decided to go for it, bearing in mind my resolution to get fit.

This is not like me. I am not usually a sporty person - the competitive side of things frightens me off, as it reminds me of evil sports teachers and bitchy girls in high school. I have never had a gym membership and I doubt I ever will. I do the occasional bit of yoga – so occasionally that when I went to pack my yoga mat for when I moved house recently – I found a spider’s nest in the folds. Yep, that’s how often I do yoga. I did go swimming regularly a couple of years ago at the local pool – but then I got a verucca on my foot, which had to be frozen off with a nitrogen spray, and thus decided that the pool was a germ-infested whole. Plus, shortly after that, I got my hair highlighted – and, well, chlorine wreaks havoc on coloured hair, as we all know. So, me – not the sporty type.

However, as with most things in life, it turned out to be an opportunity to buy new clothes. I don’t own any sportswear, and tend avoid sportswear shops as I find them oddly intimidating. Of course, I do own a pair of trainers, but they are essentially a fashion item, and not even waterproof. So, I arrived at the hallowed doors of Footlocker the Saturday before last, and was confronted with row upon row of trainers, deafening music and the requisite 16-year-old sales assistants. I asked one of teh spotty, long-haired boys if the shoe I had picked up would be suitable for playing netball. I think he misheard me, as he began a long explanation of teh shoe's merits and told me it was good for ‘dribbling with’...I assume this is a football reference and not something more sinister. However, they were in the sale and they fit, so, dear reader, I bought them.

I was on a high after this successful mission and headed straight to Debenhams, where, serendipitously, a whole window was devoted to a new product line called Shock Absorbers – a range of sports bras. I got to the underwear department and was immediately pounced on by one of the ‘bra specialists’. She was wearing a tape measure round her neck, so she was well-qualified. She asked me what size I was, I told her, and then she gave me a long, appraising look, and told me she doubted my measurement was correct. I was stunned – I told her I’d been measured at Marks & Spencer – as all Brits know, Marks & Spencer may have made many mistakes over the past few years – the entire frill-me-to-death ‘per una’ range, for a start, but no-one, and I mean, NO-ONE knows underwear like they do. However, the bra specialist was very bossy and authoritative and followed me into the dressing room, wielding the tape measure…she measured me, and lo and behold, told me I was BIGGER! Apparently, I’m a double D cup! All those ‘I must, I must’ exercises must have paid off – either that or taking the pill. So a sports bra was definitely a necessity now – couldn’t have them bouncing up and down on the pitch – might have someone’s eye out...

Another successful purchase complete, I decided to brave Nike Town - which is like a small village on four dizzying floors - very confusing layout, plus one of the escalators wasn’t working, and I was told I had to exit the store via the ‘Sports Culture Zone’ – eh? – but there was another sale on, so I got 2 sports tops, I set of sports bottoms and a sports zip up thingy to wear on top. I didn’t get quite the same rush as when I buy designer shoes, but it was a positive shopping experience overall.

The league starts proper in Feb. O lord. What have I let myself in for?

Word up

Very frustrated as I don't have any time to do proper posts at the moment - work is ker-azy with a 'k', and we still don't have internet access at the new flat (hint, hint, Red). So, to keep things moving along, I'm going to post one of my favourite poems. I'm a big fan of poetry, and I can't think why I haven't posted any before. Anyway, without much further ado, here's I may, I might, I must, by Marianne Moore(1887-1972) :


If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try.

Back soon!

Back in the grind

Aaaaaagh. Back at work. Finally back at work. I did take quite a long break, so I guess I should have anticipated the colossal shock to my system returning to the daily grind would be. First off, there was the whole ‘getting-up-early’ thing, which is not really my thing, even at the best of times. I just feel like getting up early is like a secret no-one has let me in on, you know? I’ve been trying it my whole life, and it’s never taken. Anyway, managed it somehow, and got here vaguely on time, as is my custom, despite the best efforts of London Underground who chose to strike the day I go back to work - thanks you guys! (Note to self: today may not have been the best day to break in my new shoes – try to think ahead in future).

So, the whole ‘getting-to-work’ hurdle over with, I get to my desk. Next obstacle: over the Christmas break, my office got redecorated (just to be clear, when I say ‘my office’, I don’t mean it’s my office, just to be clear). So that the decorator could get to the walls, we had to pull the fire-hazard manuscripts off all the shelves that fence my desk in (- sometimes it’s like working in a small paper fort, but, more often, it‘s like working in an office with lots of manuscripts - eh, tom-ah-to, tom-ay-to). So, naturally, since I chose to go back to work after everyone else, my desk has been transformed into a general dumping ground. Next time I go away, I’m investing in one of those ‘No Fly Tipping’ signs.

However, I’m not sure how much good it would do since the ‘Out-of-Office-Assistant’ feature on Outlook seems to be no deterrent WHATSOEVER to people consistently emailing me a variety of junk, spam, essential documents I won’t have time to read and utterly irrelevant crap. Have had to spend all morning just going through the email inbox, going through over 200 emails. Honestly, you’d think I was being paid to be here or something. Chuh.

So, taking refuge in the sacred space that is the holy and sacred Lunch Hour, I’m taking a moment for a little reflection, and, a little late, here are my New Year’s Resolutions (I never make them on 1st January - I‘m always too hungover, what would be the point?).

1. Okay, first up, get up on time EVERY DAY.

No, I’m just messing with you, that was a joke. Ok, ok,

1. Learn to drive (don’t laugh, I‘m really going to do it this year, I promise)

2. Write Oscar-winning screenplay (how hard can it be?)

3. Win lottery (it could be me - though, to be in with a chance, I really ought to make the effort and buy a ticket once in a while)

4. Quit smoking (this should be a whiz, since I don’t actually smoke - you have to include achievable goals, isn’t that what all the self-help gurus say?)

5. Buy more fabulous shoes (I owe it to myself)

6. Go on the London Eye ( I say this every year, I want to do it, but I don’t want to do it with a bunch of dumb tourists. Though wanting to do it kind of makes me one of them. Hmm, tricky, very tricky.)

7. Get fit. Do yoga at least 3 times a week, become super-toned and incredibly bendy. (Oooh, also buy that new ‘Chillates’ DVD they keep advertising - that looks really good, plus, also buy some really cool keep-fit clothes...)

8. Eat pizza at LEAST once a week (back on the whole ‘achievable goals’ thing).

9. Meet and date mentally stable and incredibly attractive man. (I know, I know, I live in a dream world. What the hell, I put it at 9).

10. And finally, uh, well, I can’t think of a tenth resolution - so, suggestions welcome...

Wish me luck...