Split down the Middle

The backwards man

2009-09-18T16:20:00.000Z

So I promised yesterday that I would tell you my immigrant story and that it wouldn't be like the Daily Mail headline generator which can be found here: http://www.qwghlm.co.uk/toys/dailymail/

Those of you who know me well will know that I have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am the queen of the disaster, so it came as no surprise last week when I witnessed a nasty accident on the tube.

Minding my own business on the down escalator, I was happily listening to some Dead Mau5 when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something toppling over backwards on the opposite escalator. On closer examination I could see a mans body, out cold, feet first going up towards bank. Very undignified, was my first thought, and thank goodness it wasn't a women in a skirt, was my second. Then I thought- fucks sake, why isn't anyone doing anything! The people behind the collapser were watching in horrified silence as his humilated body hurtled towards the top (well, chuntered).

Realising no-one was reacting in any appropriate way, I shouted out for someone to 'hit the emergency stop button' and 'NOW!'

No joy.

I ran down the escalator, hit the stop button, and pushed my way past the useless gawpers to the collapser- super woman style. It was then I could see why no-one was doing anything- a giant hole in the guys head, which was pissing blood like a hose. Having bitten off much more than I could chew, I started shouting at everyone around me to do something- get an ambulance, help me turn this guy gently around, try and stop the bleeding. After much grunting and pivoting, we managed to get him turned around so his feet were at least pointing downwards- a minor victory. It was then he came too. And he was pissed. Angry AND sozzled. I had wedged myself behind him to stop him slumping forward and in the process got myself covered in blood. He tried a couple of times to stand up, and I shouted at him to stay sitting down and wait for the ambulance. It was about then that I realised that he didn't speak a word of English. Luckily TFL staff appeared and one of them spoke to the chap in Polish. By this time he was properly shouting and waving his arms and she explained to me it was because he did not want to have an ambulance called.

Don't be so silly, I thought- how ridiculous. You have a 4 inch wide, gaping hole in your head. You don't have a choice.

The TFL lady looked at me with a worried expression, "he's not supposed to be here", "he can't go to hospital because they will find out and he might get sent home". Exasperated, I shouted at her, 'we NEED to phone an ambulance, we can't risk not calling one, look at the state of this man's head'. And so they did. I left with a wet wipe, covered in blood (nice handprint on my arm and cheek) and pretty much an entire carriage of the Northern Line to myself. And a horrid feeling of guilt. Had i done the right thing? What if this poor man ended up being seperated from his family? GAH. You can see why some people these days make the swift decision not to get involved. I for one am glad I did, but I'll forever wonder what happened when I left that evening.

Why the hell not

2009-09-17T12:27:00.002Z

I have let myself down. I have promised and not delivered. I'm sure I'm the only one who really gives a damn, but I do feel somewhat guilty that I haven't been updating my blog. For one thing, it's brilliant to look back at my own antics and tut and laugh at them, for another- status lines just aren't long enough to tell the world everything I need to.

No more Miss Slack Ali.

So, what gives people? Well, the main thing that gives I suppose is that not only am I not split down the middle geographically, I'm not not split emotionally anymore. I'm in London proper like, and I'm happy and settled. CHRIST. When I write it it sounds so horrifically smug and dull. The thing with being happy is that when people ask you how things are going, you can say 'really well thanks, I'm so happy' and it's a conversation killer. You can't dissect exactly how happy you are. It would be painful. No-one really wants to know.

This isn't of course to say that I don't suffer from complete self indulgent middle class gloom from time to time. I do. It's in my genes. The good thing however, is that I now have someone in my life who doesn't react and calm and supportive. I think I might almost be a normal person now.

Of course this remains to be seen, and future blog posts may tell a different story.

I'm going to start back with posthumous posting about an incident I had with an illegal immigrant last week. I promise I won't be Daily Mail but it is an interesting quandary.

Turrah for now though....lunch beckons and my tummy is demanding Itsu chicken noodle soup.

The return of the ali-mal.

2008-06-13T16:19:00.002Z

My good friend Anita occasionally has far too much to drink and becomes obnoxious, difficult, unhinged and quite frankly....nuts. On those occasions we call her 'Angemal' to embrace her animalistic qualities.

I, of late, have become my own special breed. The Ali-mal. It's fairly similar, but it's a slightly more self involved version because well, it's me.

I think it all stems from lots of changes in live. No. Not the menopause just yet (although I am getting those fecking oestrogen patches on my face after being in the sun which I was horrified to find out are known as 'widowers' something or other-geeez give me a break). The main change is that I decided that it was high time I took a long hard look at myself and work out what I want from life. Turned out I didn't want a boyfriend who wasn't around very much and when he was there wasn't the easiest company. And turned out that I'm really very bad at being with someone- just one person, long term.

So off the back of this has emerged a shiny, new (old), frisky, mischevious Ali. Old enough to know better but not overly fussed. Last weekend I actually threw up down my own t-shirt and this morning I spent the morning diagnosing what I must have eaten last night from the contents of the work sink. I'm embracing my fun side. I'm booking up to do things I'd never have done this time last year...like going to Glastonbury. ME! At Glastonbury. No more Maldives for me, I'm a changed lady. Hmmmmmmmm.

My resolution is to update my blog more frequently. So watch this space..

The big sulk

2007-12-07T15:08:00.000Z

Sometimes in life too much happens and this means that keeping a blog becomes increasingly difficult- what do you give your time and love to? Should I cover important issues, or funny ones?

I have to also confess a slightly childish sulk at not being short listed for the Brighton and Hove Poxy Web awards. I mean those two bit hippies wouldn’t know a decent funny blog if it jumped up and bit them on their hemp covered bottoms (Dan and Jonathan’s blog aside of course). Anyway, enough is enough- what exactly has been going on in my life.

I’ll keep it to bullet points so you’re all in the picture without being desperately bored:

1) Holiday to Thailand- Bangkok- Chiang Mai, Samui, Koh Tao. Lovely- ate my own body weight in noodles and coconut milk and rather annoyingly didn’t pick up a severe case of the trots to shed aforementioned weight seamlessly. Am now moderate heifer. Managed fair few dives and took in some decent scenery including several strip joints and temples (and other places of worship). Met a lovely baby Elephant at the Elephant hospital, fell in love. Hairy little devil.

2) Day I left for holiday to Thailand got made redundant (whole company when into administration). Fantastic timing. Not only that but was told that I, along with all of my colleagues, would not be getting paid for the previous months work, or the 2 weeks of holiday I was about to leave for (in 4 hours!) or my notice period. Marvelous. Skint. Not able to undertake usual several hundred pound duty free binge. Ate sweaty 59p burger instead. Sulked.

3) Returned to family crisis- Dad has told Mum about new girlfriend. Mum slammed down phone. Communications meltdown. Torn between the two.

4) Return to Court Summons for unpaid Council Tax- a slight concern given awful financial circumstances. Thankfully all sorted now.

5) Am officially unemployed for 1 week. Make the heinous error of putting my CV on Monster in the ‘searchable’ section. Plagued by irritating swarm of recruitment consultants each more smarmy than the last. Become friend’s bitch dropping off dry cleaning, undertaking odd jobs. Feel lost and bored.

6) Start new job in Fulham. Bitch of a commute and longer working hours- 9-6pm. Due to ‘issues’ with my old employer have to be employed as a contractor = bag of shite as no holiday pay, sickness pay etc. On upside, some ‘financial stability’ over the Christmas period. No pay before x mas though so presents for family are looking grim- home made cookies anyone?

7) As luck would have it without 2 days of starting work pick up horrid bug and feel like have swallowed 10 razors. Have to work as overdraft is straining and bulging and Mr Bank Manager refusing to budge on any more handouts. Miserable fucker. Thank goodness for lovely boyfriend.

8) I think that’s about it. Of course there are lots more funny stories like the fact that Natalie’s boyfriend had to go and collect Dot Cotton from Croydon for a funeral over the weekend and the fact that Lindsey met Daniel Craig at the BAFTAS on Sunday, but they all make my poor, overdrawn existence seem depressing so I won’t dwell.

9) Steve’s talking about taking me to Tahiti in the New Year- must be exemplary girlfriend in meanwhile with minimal whining to stand chance. Without him I’d be holidaying in Skeggers for next decade.

10) I’ve been ill. This takes up lots of time moaning and whinging.

And that's me- bet you're glad you bothered!

Commitment phobes and the gainfully unemployed

2007-11-16T17:20:00.000Z

Oh its all about phobias - 2 whole posts while the rightful blogger has been away and the best I can muster is phobias and making it a bit sam centric.

Ali will be back next week to write up about her holiday and maybe any issues she is having about being one of the unwashed masses :) For now though you will have to make do with yet another from me.

When Ali left I promised faithfully to make sure I kept up some interest in her blog and put something (anything) on here ever day. Did I heck. But then neither did the last guest bloggers so at least I am in a quietly ashamed little gang of meant well friends. Ali is due back and the sum total of blogs is two on her return - utterly shameful - but I can explain. I am also unemployed with a boytoy in the city who just about manages to grin and bare it. However much to everyones surprise I don't actually have a free minute to myself. Ok I do, but I fill it with useful things like sending letters to the solicitors or tending to the gas men fitting the boiler or reading because I promised faithfully (again) that I would have that book review in or going for a lunch time coffee with friends or a boozy lunch. Seriously now I don't know how people manage to have a life and work a 45 hour week. When I do work (which sometimes I have to) my house falls apart. Theres washing up left in the sink for days, theres a build up of dust that would disgust Kim and Aggie, the boytoy gets fed any old crud thats in the cupboard because I haven't managed to shop that week. The the weekend comes and it is taken up with cleaning and food shopping and paying for bills.

Obviously when Ali gets home she will be straight on to finding another job to keep her in shoes and handbags (and incidentals like a roof over her head) but I suspect she will struggle to actually find time. I don't miss slogging my guts out for a minute and I have a sneaking suspicion that neither will Ms Petite.

Back to normal soon, and I am sorry to say that, although giving my opinion is one of my favourite things to do as regular readers will know, I won't miss the commitment that a daily blog brings and I will be glad to get back to being gainfully unemployed

Odd Phobias

2007-11-13T14:36:00.001Z

Anyone have one?
Until last Thursday night I was held high on a pedestal of Nutterdom that my worst phobia was tidal waves. This seemed ridiculous to most of my friends given we live(d) on the South East Coast which happens to be attached to the English Channel, one of the most unassuming bodies of water in the Northern Hemisphere.
Nice – that’s what the English Channel is. Until of course we bugger up the planet so royally that 3m high tidal surges are about to become the norm. The first I heard about the imminent danger my children were in was when son younger called to say he would be home early that Friday as school was closed (during the week they live on the most easterly point of England, somewhere called Lowestoft, which is so dull that Norfolk won't admit to it) due to adverse weather conditions. Well I thought this rather odd given there was no bad weather happening up above us and although they were 100 miles away a bit of rain never hurt anyone and it certainly wasn't about to snow so I checked the schools website for closures which is when the panic set in. My worst fear realised. Day After Tomorrow happening in Norfolk at 7am the following morning. I spent the next 3 hours trying hard not to worry but had to go via the children’s godfather for information which even he had to be pressured into getting for me (oh the trivialities of relationships). I was desperate to tell their father to get them out of their right now - Lowestoft was being advised to evacuate for God’s sake. What was he doing watching TV and sniggering at the hysterical ex wife for her melodrama.
The news just wouldn't give up on it (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/7085394.stm) and of course this fuelled my fears. By bedtime the boytoy had thrown enough gin into me that he could get a decent nights sleep and I passed out with the alarm set for 7am when the wave was due to hit the East Coast.
Boytoy and I woke at 7am Friday morning to watch the surfers of Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft having the time of their lives. A little bit of flooding up the coast but nothing that couldn't be dealt with and certainly not the massive loss of life that was expected the night before. This wasn't really any succor for my soul though. My children are now in danger of being in the English version of some Hollywood type end of the world and my worst fears are justified. Can't help but feel a little smug though that, once again, even though it may have taken a good many years to prove it, I was RIGHT. HA!!!

Ali Update

2007-11-12T20:06:00.000Z

Hello there people. I am the assistant blogger while Ali is away sunning herself in Thailand. And what better place for her to be than on holiday given the day before she left she was "let go". I'm not giving anything away here and she asked that I cover this before her return so she can get on with stories of elephants up cliffs and how long she spent in the jacuzzi.

Clearly life over there in the slow lane is getting to her and she is worrying about just how much gossip she is missing out on. And so we don't forget her some of her bestest friends got a text at 4am this morning letting us know she is alive and well and possibly a bit squiffy. Bless

Now I have finally worked out how to get into the blog I shall be posting at least one more but I don't want anyone getting all excited and thinking I will be in the least bit more interesting than handbags, shoes or my latest star spot (Griff Rhys Jones so you know)

Ttfn

2007-11-01T12:48:00.000Z

Right then people, just a quick post to say that as of today, I'm away on my holidays until 19th November, so you'll have a well deserved break from my ramlings and bullshit.

That said- I have found a guest blogger replacement in the form of my friend Samantha, who many of you will know. She is equally as well qualified as me to ramble, procrastinate and talk utter bollocks (I know she'll agree). Infact, being several years my senior, with two teenage boys, she is no doubt better qualified.

I will bid you farewell. When I get back it seems there's a very very good chance I could be unemployed as the future of my agency is looking very bleak at the moment. Infact I've not been paid for the last month of work I've done and as I type I'm sitting in the office working for free. Despite increasing my overdraft by £2k my finances look dire and I could well be about to depart on a 2 week holiday for which I won't get any holiday cover. Fantastic! That'll learn me working for a cute small company.

At least this will give me lots of humourous stuff to write about, and I'll be beginning my campaign in Thailand on Steve to see if he'll agree to me becoming a kept woman. It could be the ideal time to start up that dog sanctuary I've always dreamed about.....

I'll catch up with you all soon,

Over and out for now xxx

Party- the low down.

2007-10-29T17:28:00.000Z

I'm sure you're all dying to hear about how the party went and I only wish I was able to tell you with any degree of certainty.

Unfortunately my funny story telling abilities are hampered somewhat by just how trashed I got, but I'm pretty sure a good time was had by all (especially me).

These are my top funny party moments (though some are funnier in hindsight and some are more cringe worthy)

1) Steve in silver boots

Having size 6 feet is often problematic for Steve. In most situations it's because shops just don't start their men's ranges from such a tiny size. At parties- it's because women all insist on him wearing their shoes. At one stage I remember Steve staggering into my bedroom wearing brown knee high furry boots and the next thing I know, he's wearing some metallic silver pointy knee highs with silver heels. He always pretends he hates it, but I recall him posing for some dubious pictures. Keep an eye on face book for these.

2) Pseudo lessie behaviour

Do you think perhaps it might have been a boy who suggested it was a good idea for all us girls to compare the colours of our nipples whilst kissing and being photographed? Hmmmmmm, I would have thought so. It's a good job we were sober enough to tut and cast our eyes to heaven and pull our tops up to our chins shaking our heads disapprovingly. Yes, this IS what happened. As Lindsey said, let's hope none of us ever become famous, put it this way, we won't be applying for any reality TV shows too smartish. Although we'd be bloody good in them.

3) Lindsey and the album

I found Lindsey on her bed with a tortured looking little brother by her side. She was thumbing through old albums talking in detail about every last shot and explaining EXACTLY how she felt about them. Her little brother was trying so hard to make appropriate comments and not look ridiculously bored. She then told him she'd seen him with an erection- embarrassing sister, eat your heart out.

4) Fireworks

Despite being a very budding and talented illustrator, our confidence was not 100% invested in Matt Ox's ability to create a seamless and safe fireworks display. In fact, at 11pm, when we all gathered on the pavement and peered up at the roof terrace the rockets which peeked over the top reminded me of sniper's guns and I was all too aware that there was a VERY good chance that we could well be in the line of fire. Thankfully it was all fine, and Matt got to blow up some things which kept him happy. Lots of the fireworks shot over into trees so we couldn't see them from the pavement, but they made very loud bangs, and let's face it, that's all that really matters.

5) The copper

Ok, so inviting a copper to a house party isn’t the first thing that springs to mind, but he's a very good old friend of mine and luckily he was easy to pick out with his short back and sides and stripy shirt. Whilst he tried very hard to be cool about the debauchery others didn't do quite as good a job reciprocating. In fact at any one time I think there was a good 2 metre gap around him and I could sense lots of paranoia and gossiping. Thankfully he left at midnight before it all got very out of hand.

6) The lost voice

Where ever Laura goes, men fall in love with her and my party was, of course, no exception. By the end of the night, she'd done so much chattering, smoking and social butterflying, she came bursting into my room, flung herself on the bed and tried to talk and only high pitched squeals and screeching came out. We promptly administered more booze and fags and she was fine.

7) The Phantom smearer

We've all seen it in public loos, but yes, it was on show in the downstairs bathroom. Someone had taken it upon themselves to smear poo on the wall next to the toilet. When I told Steve he said to me that we should be pleased that there were no white hand towels in the bathroom- needless to say at a recent party he'd attended someone had taken it upon themselves to wipe their bottom on the hand towel and leave behind all kinds of evidence. Apparently we got away lightly. It didn't feel like it yesterday morning with a stinking hangover and a jay cloth trying not to gag.

8) Sam's tights

Sam managed to get dishevelled very rapidly throughout the party and at one point looked very much like her and her tights had had a very nasty encounter with a bramble bush. Perhaps it was just that Gavin couldn't contain himself, but at the end of the evening, she rather flamboyantly declared they were coming off and they did- with legs flailing and a' kimbo. Marvellous.

I'm sure there was much more, but I'll need to see some pictures first to jog my memory.

I lost a £25 Marks and Spencer's voucher, some green beads, some shoes and all of my weed. Very annoying. Thankfully Sam had all but one of these things. Hurrah! Steve managed to misplace £50, which wasn't so helpfully returned. What a wally.

A massive thanks in particular to all the Brighton contingent who made a huge effort to come all the way from the seaside, it meant so much to me....and I can't believe you all went home at 5am....nutters! To Jonathan- I'm so gutted you missed out on the fun, you would have had a blast- next time.

Tube games

2007-10-26T13:54:00.000Z

On the occasional days where Steve and I journey into work together on the Northern Line (like this morning) I like to play one of several little games to amuse myself during the 5 stop ride.

When we get on the tube, we’re normally in a morning fuzzy headed mood, and neither of us are particularly animated. In fact, you’d be hard pushed to even place us as a couple given the lack of communication. Steve will sit and whizz through his blackberry, saving up a back log of messages to send when he hits ground level. I’ll listen to some inappropriate rap music and feel young again for 10 minutes and we happily ignore each other. This is all well and good and none of our commuting compadres have any clue that we’re a couple.

The fun bit comes when it’s time for either Steve or I to get off. What we have honed to a fine art is the practice of the dramatic goodbye kiss. This comes out of the blue, and is delivered without any chat, just a lunge coupled with a full blown smacker on the lips and then…gone.

The look of surprise on people’s faces is priceless as they try and work out whether I’ve just been assaulted and they should be chasing after Steve, or whether they’ve witnessed love at first sight. Responses have ranged from ‘Do you know him?’, to jaws hitting the floor and general disgust at such an overt PDA.

The other extremely childish thing I enjoy doing is the copy game. This only really works when we end up in seats directly opposite each other and involves- you guessed it- me copying everything Steve does. Try it. I guarantee within a couple of minutes you’ll both be in hysterics crying with laughter, either that or one of you will have a black eye (this was the inevitable outcome when I used to play the copy game with my big brother- and on one occasion a nose bleed). It’s brilliant as fellow tube passengers can’t help but cotton on and have a giggle as well.

Lets face it, everyone with a sibling played the copy game at some point in their lives, so why not at 29 years old, during rush hour?

How about we all try doing it with a stranger on our next public transport journey and collate all of the reactions?*

*the author of this blog is not liable in any way shape or form for any grievous bodily harm inflicted as a result of the copy game, play at your own risk.

Whale Shark- Sharm El Sheikh

2007-10-25T11:40:00.000Z

This is the lovely Whale Shark I saw when I went diving in Sharm, Egypt a couple of years ago.

Thankfully someone in my group had a really good underwater video with her and took this footage, and it was as special as it looks. The gorgeous juvenile whale shark swam right towards us and at around 4 metres away, turned and glided past us in the most serene fashion.

Anyone who has ever been scared to dive- see what you're missing out.

I can't wait to be back among the fishies, 8 days and counting. Bring it on.

The guest list.

2007-10-23T16:47:00.000Z

It’s not long now until the party, and last night I lay in bed contemplating the mix of people who might well be attending, I thought of some of the funny/terrifying conversations that could take place.

Naming no names, the guests who have been invited and who should be attending (or can consider themselves struck off every social list in the future unless they have a VERY good excuse) include:

A BAFTA nominated illustrator
An off duty copper
A book reviewer
A cross dresser
A gaggle of Guardian employees
A handful of city boys
An advertising mogul
A scientist
A BAFTA winner
A gay sex expert (that’s me!)
An ecologist
An extremely talented photographer with a penchant for nudes
A publisher
A hippy or two
An oil company trader
4 bloggers
A couple of slightly unhinged people (me included)
A ‘grow your own’ believer (or 2)

This guest list reminded me of the reverse of that game ‘pairs’ that you used to play when you were little. You’d turn over one, (and you might have turned over a hippy or an ecologist) and then you turn over another….Oh NO the oil trader. Fight ensues.

Then you turn over the dope smoker followed promptly by the off duty copper…again, not a great recipe for party success.

OR, the barrister and the copper- jesus. Lethal.

Worst of all perhaps, the city boys and the creatives. Nothing in common at all. Definite chances of tumbleweed stifled murmurings.

Can you guess which of these is made up? It’s only one.

See you there. It’s going to be good, but you don’t need to be told that.

Wine rage

2007-10-22T16:31:00.000Z

I'm keeping this brief as Gavin pointed out on Friday that my lacklustre posts are barely worth reading, so I won't labour this one!

On Saturday night I experienced what being an alcoholic must feel like.

After having had a particularly lonely day mooching around Hampstead Heath on my own like some kind of dog pervert (admiring glances at all the frolicking hounds) I made the decision that I wouldn't bother heading to a pub full of sweaty, loud, shouty, aggravated men watching the rugby, but instead stay in, cook a nice dinner and get quietly sozzled on my own. The perfect plan.

I donned my joggers and my hoody, grabbed my keys and my switch card and off I jogged to Sainsburys (sounds healthy but is in fact 2 mins jog and all downhill).

With my basket full of delights including a rather yummy bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I queued to pay. No sooner had I reached the check out when the insolent man held up the cool, crisp bottle of wine and said to me:

Twat: "I can't sell you this unless you've got some ID with you I'm afraid".

I could feel the rage bubbling up inside me, as I looked at him in disbelief. I'd never normally resort to swearing so quickly, but something inside me took over and I became a very very angry lady.

The conversation went something like this:

Ali: "You must be fucking kidding me right? Do you seriously think I look 17 years old?"

Twat: "I'm afraid I have to ask for ID if I'm not certain of someone's age. It's a legal requirement; do you not have any ID?"

Ali: "Funnily enough at 29 I don't often have to show ID to buy wine, and I've only got my switch card on me, so I can't prove my age"

Twat: "Well then I'm sorry, I can't serve you this" (dramatically removes my wine from the basket in a self congratulatory fashion- BIG mistake).

Ali: "Don't fucking make me go all the way home in order to come back in 15 minutes time with my ID, it's ridiculous" (turns to man at next counter along) "Does this look like the face of a 17 year old?....Ah? NO. I should be flattered but I'm so angry I could scream" (with raised screechy voice).

Manager appears.

Manager: "Is there some problem?"

Ali (red faced and shouting unabashedly): "Yes, this man won't sell me any wine and I'm 29 and this is ridiculous (losing the ability to talk)

Manager (sensing impending 'scene') "On this occasion we'll sell you the wine, but next time please bring ID"

Ali (fuming) "Oh I WILL" (and then a little quieter) "And if it's not too much trouble I'd also like some tobacco or do I need ID for that as well?"

Manager (snidely) "Actually you do need ID for tobacco as you now need to be 18 to buy that as well."

Ali sculks out with her wine and her tobacco and her red face. Glances back to see whole queue of horrified looking people. Humiliated. Only felt better after 3/4 of the bottle was consumed.

Home alone.

2007-10-19T15:46:00.000Z

It’s very unusual for me to face the prospect of a weekend entirely without plans. I guess this is the complacency/luxury of having a boyfriend or girlfriend- you can put very little (or no) thought into what you might do whilst safe in the assumption that you can do nothing with your someone by your side.

This weekend Steve is venturing up to Leeds to spend some quality time with his newly single best friend Rob. I imagine their weekend will consist of plentiful beer drinking, high brow sporting discussions and a handful of ogling thrown in for good measure. I on the other hand got to mid week and suddenly panicked that I had nothing to do, and all my friends seem to be heading off somewhere or other. Eeek.

You may have gathered, being left on my own for more than 2 hours is about as palatable as a 30 day old prawn recovered from a dustbin on a very sticky hot day. I’m the kind of person who if left alone for more than 24 hours would probably end up rocking back and forth and staring blankly at the wall. It’s torturous. Don’t get me wrong, a rare evening on the sofa doing nails or hair is bliss but only if basking in the aftermath of some serious socialising. Two nights of nothing on the trot and I start to feel like a social outcast, any more and I fear I’d lose the power to communicate. I’d become one of those forest people, crawling on all fours, howling and cocking my leg. Shudder.

Thankfully tonight, I’m armed with a hangover so all I’m going to manage is a couple of drinks and then some serious sofa time watching trashy re-runs which normally wouldn’t be tolerated. Perhaps Steve going away isn’t so bad after all.

What’s the betting it all gets extremely out of hand whilst I’m away from his watchful eye and nurturing hand…

Wibble.

2007-10-18T10:59:00.000Z

I have a special word for when things aren’t quite right with the world- I’m sure I’m not the only one to use it, but it’s a special Ali word in my mind.

Sometimes you can’t put your finger on what’s wrong. Sometimes there’s nothing really wrong, you just get this sense of impending doom, or a niggling worry, or a feeling that something just isn’t quite right. You wake up and you have something and, at the very same time, nothing on your mind. If you try and reason with the feeling, you get nowhere. It’s a continuous loop of inexplicable feelings.

I call this: Wibble.

Some days when I wake up and Steve looks at me and he just knows I’m having a wibble. He says, ‘Are you feeling wibbly?’ and invariably I say, ‘Yes.’

Wibbles are easily curable with very simple remedies of attention, cuddles and squeezes. You never really know why a wibble came, and you are never really aware of it leaving. It’s a day release lodger in your mind. When it goes you’re not sad to see it leave, in fact, you’re rather pleased and you hope it won’t come back again at any time soon.

My mum was very familiar when the concept of wibbles when she was suffering with depression. In fact her Community Psychiatric Nurse Stella posted her a plan with what to do on a normal day, and then what to do on a ‘wibbly’ day. The wibbly day meant a massive downscaling of effort- staying in, listening to radio, gentle walks, chats on the phone, you get the idea. The non-wibbly day would mean trips out with friends, shopping, trip to a museum etc.

I think I ought to apply this same concept on myself. Wibbly days should be met with introverted behaviour, reading, listening to my ipod and not being overly chatty. Keeping your head down and trying to go unnoticed is the easiest way to cope with a wibble in the absence of cuddle therapy.

In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m having a wibbley wobble today, but it’s ok. I have notified the powers that be and cuddles are on hand to be despatched this evening, along with some hard core snuggling.

Good bye my unwelcome friend, I bid you farewell.

The girly get-together

2007-10-17T10:22:00.000Z

Last night we had a little dinner party where we had the following:

X 1 very drunk guest who passed out promptly after dinner and proceeded to sleep for 12 hours
X2 very opinionated guests who shouted at the drunken guest and talked over each other
X1 very poorly wheezing asthmatic but diplomatic guest with rosy cheeks
X1 slightly perplexed but very sleek and skinny guest

‘Guest’ is somewhat of a misnomer as 3 of the guests were in fact inmates. And the drunk guest was in fact drunk from the second she staggered in the front door with a man in tow (girly dinner party no-no). The man was soon despatched and we got down to the serious business of gobbling chinese and slurping wine.

I have to say that if any man had been a fly on the wall last night, or worst still had the misfortune to be a guest they would have been shocked to their very core. 5 normally fairly well behaved ladies when thrown together to discuss a contentious topic quickly became a shrieking, voice raised, me-me-me-ish cacophony each trying to get their VERY important point heard first. And of course there were no shortage of extremely well thought through opinions, it’s just that they were delivered somewhat haphazardly.

At one point Lindsey pleaded with us:

“Please can we all try and speak one at a time?”

Tricky. We did try, but of course it wasn’t possible and within seconds we were all screeching again with Lindsey resting her head in her hands.

And even when the victim of our well rounded advice finally passed out (or at least feigned passing out to escape) we turned our attentions to other important topics such as a health concern of one of the boyfriends- we helpfully diagnosed a likely inner eat infection and suggested treatment of a simple course of anti-biotics, a ‘how to’ guide for some of the most gruesome bedroom antics helpfully provided by Samantha which almost provoked a scene from ‘In bed with Madonna’ and also an in-depth examination of the nations sexual habits (based purely upon ours so extremely well rounded).

We were like a pack of Tasmanian devils, whizzing and whirling at dizzying speed between topics polishing them off and then swiftly onwards towards our next prey. When I went to bed I was utterly exhausted. We all need at least a fortnight to recover before another similar event, if nothing else but to hone the skills Sam taught us.

Gavin- you deviant.

The handbag guide.

2007-10-16T15:59:00.000Z

When a girl receives a new handbag she is faced with a whole host of difficult decisions about where to place things. Many men wouldn’t recognise that this is a matter of real importance but it’s something which must be given proper consideration. No smirking please.

Below is the guide to placement of key handbag items, in order of importance:

1) Wallet

The wallet is your most precious material possession. It must be kept secure and safe, but be able to be whipped out faster than a cowboy shouts ‘draw’. Instant access to your wallet prevents silly pointless time consuming contemplations such as:

‘Can I really afford to buy this new pairs of boots?’

Equally however, thought must be given to those occasions when you really would rather not be paying. At these times, the wallet must be deep enough within the inner sanctum of the bag so as to allow for genuine fumbling and a look of sorrow and confusion as you dramatically ‘give up’. Most times in the company of boys this will get you off the hook. If you’re with your boyfriend then yes, the occasion extra favour may have to be granted- you don’t have to actually deliver all the time. It’s a numbers game.

2) Mobile

Speed is of the essence, you need to be able to answer your calls with break neck efficiency. You also need to be able to grab your phone for texting in any moments of boredom or where you risk looking like a loser, i.e when you’re being kept waiting in a pub, or on a street corner (try to avoid this at all costs). My phone is currently nestled with my wallet within the bosom of the bag, but I think it needs some re-assessment. My lunchtime experience in Marks and Spencers proved unequivocally that this coupling simply won’t work- trying to grab my phone and my wallet stubbornly blocking my path simply won’t do. I think that my pocket is going to have to do for now.

3) Ipod

The essential accompaniment for the modern day strut. If you want to maintain your bounce down the street it’s very important you have the correct tunes to help you on your way. Equally if you’re being a miserable, self absorbed harridan you must be able to put on some misery inducing crap in one fell swoop (Tracy Chapman is rather good for this). The ipod is much further down on your list of treasured possessions- you have your laptop for back up and let’s face it; long before it gets nicked its battery life will dwindle into nothingness. This means you can afford to have this somewhere without any real security. In my case I have a lovely side pocket with no zip for easy lunge and play access.

4) Keys

This is a tough one- you need them to be tucked away somewhere safe, but on the occasions where you are arrive at your front door with someone else who also has a set, you need to be able to do enough scrabbling so that by the time you find your keys, the door is already open and in you go, voila! If you’re drunk then you’ll rely on shaking your bag to locate your keys so make sure they are in a place where some shaking won’t allow them to fall out. If you’re really drunk, you might not notice and then you face a night on the cold front door steps.

5) Grooming items

This includes the following: hair straighteners, hair brush, mirror, lip gloss, back up make-up bag, a pair of flip flops in summer or flats in winter. Why? High heels are a girl’s best friend as we all know, especially for those of us who are vertically challenged and tend towards podgy leggedness. However no-one looks good with a scrunched up ‘ouch’ face, so do try and carry some spares just in case of blisters, broken heels, or impromptu distance walking. Ideally, bags should have a hidden rather large compartment to house all of these grooming items. To the outside world you appear to seamlessly maintain a highly manicured appearance whilst only carrying a wallet, keys and your ipod. Marvellous! No-one needs to know that you’d look like Aunt Sally within an hour if you were to lose the bag.

So boys, if you ever ask your girlfriend to carry for wallet, passport, sunglasses, camera and you’re met with a frosty reception then you know why. The handbag is a finely honed female assisting device- without it we’re just skin, teeth, bones and hair. I think you’ll agree, not a pretty prospect.

Well well well.

2007-10-15T12:00:00.000Z

Another year older.

Clinging on to my twenties with as much grace and charm as a mouldy banana.

My birthday weekend has left me feeling slightly unwell, very overweight, but in possession of the following:

1) Heroes boxset- (thanks Natalie)
2) Wetsuit (thanks Liz, Emma and Clare)
3) Finns and boots (thanks mum and dad)
4) Mask (thanks Brother)
5) Handbag, chocs, rough guide to thailand (thanks steve)
6) Cadburys chocolate buttons (thanks Jess)
7) Sexy stripy oversized PJs, trainer socks and insect repellent (again, from mum)
8) One large, sore spot on my lip (thanks to not washing off my makeup when pissed)
9) Giant bouquet of red and yellow flowers (thanks dave!)
10) One fluffy, mohair, sleeveless roll neck (thanks Steve's mum- not sure whether it is a complete fluke, but she's managed to nail one of the winter seasons' key trends of touchy, feely clothes, amazing)

This posting means I am now immune to having to write thank you cards....but thanks to everyone who sent a text, face booked me, sent a card, pressie or whatever. I felt very loved.

Of course I had one minor temper tantrum on Saturday as is my god given right on a birthday, but I won't go into details as I was in the wrong and therefore it doesn't need to be paid any attention and can be overlooked and forgotten (I will say it did involve me telling Steve to 'GET OUT' of my house and then having to chase him down the road like a wobbly old jelly to apologise, damn those hormones).

More later on I feel....just revving up!

Chez Bruce- What's in my tummy

2007-10-12T10:03:00.000Z

So then- birthday dinner at Chez Bruce last night was great. We sat right next to the cheese board and were treated to pungent cheesy whiffs every time a waiter wafted past....yummy.

This is what I consumed-

Aperitifs

X1 bottle of house champagne (shared of course)

To start

Rare roast beef, and some kind of mushroomy sauce with rocket and parmesan- extremely yummy and tender

For main

Sea bream with scallops, shrimp and teeny tiny gnocchi- very fishy indeedy

Accompanied by ½ bottle of extremely yummy Sancerre

For pudding

Warm chocolate fondant pudding with milk and honeycomb icecream- GOD DAMN!

Night cap

½ bottle of vintage port *feeling queesy now*

Morning

Horrendous hangover. Moderate humiliation as remembered I got home last night very drunk, had to get some fresh air, proceeded to sit in the garden on the funky plastic sofa chair (which must have suffered from torturous weathering and become very brittle) which promptly shattered into thousands of little pieces under the weight of my ginormous bottom. Was left on wet floor in glam silk dress with muddy bottom and dented pride surrounded by shards of white plastic. Thankfully not impaled.

Arrived in work to find massive, huge, wonderful bunch of flowers from amazing friend Dave complete with wildly inappropriate card about flossing my privates. Cheered me right up.

Have to leave work at 1pm to go to 24 club for an afternoon of champagne quaffing with new company for 'bonding' purposes.

May vomit if faced with prospect of more drinking.

Rock and roll.

The Birthday brat

2007-10-11T10:35:00.000Z

Tonight is the beginning of the birthday festivities, or 'ali-day' as I call it.

There's a special song I sing to Steve on my birthday

'It's Ali, Ali-day
Do what I want
And do what I say
On Ali Ali-day
I always get my way'

You get the picture, basically, I'm a brat. It only really works on this one day of the year, the rest I'd be told very squarely to fuck right off by everyone, most of all Steve.

This year I have excelled myself in the birthday stakes. Tonight I'm being taken to my favourite restaurant Chez Bruce which you'll all have heard me bang on about a fair amount before. Tomorrow night I'm out with my housemates for a couple of drinks around Belsize and then off to see my mum for dinner out on Saturday night (much to S's disgust as he's missing football AND rugby- but, I reminded him of the poem above so he knows he's got no choice).

Then we've got the joint birthday party coming up, followed by 2 1/2 weeks in Thailand diving. And in hindsight somewhat cheekily I also asked for a present- this lovely handbag.

Sometimes when I get told I'm demanding and high maintenance I get genuinely offended. At those times I must remember to look back and re-read this post.

I am extremely lucky. And I know that what matters more than all of this is being loved, having wonderful friends, being happy and being made to laugh and in those respects I'm blessed.

I wonder if I could get away with asking for a matching wallet?

The bravery award goes to...

2007-10-10T10:40:00.000Z

Yesterday amongst my list of gripes with the world, I mentioned men masquerading as employees of BT and trying to burgle my granny.

And yes, this was one of the ones which did apply directly to me, and I feel it’s an awesome story to tell which may go some way to explaining how I’ve become the women I am today.

Yesterday morning my gran who lives up North (well, Skegby) let in two men who claimed to be working for some local branch of BT to check her telephone lines. They claimed there might have been some ‘issues’ with the line following some work they were undertaking in the area.

Whilst one of them kept her talking in the kitchen the other dashed through the lounge and into her bedroom to have a damn good rummage. My gran is pretty sharp and spotted the chap dashing out of site. She hot footed it after him and found him in her bedroom red-handed. I asked her what she said to him and she said ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing in my bedroom, get out now!’. Wicked!

In a stroke of pure and utter genius she ran and got her panic button (something we all ought to have whether we live in warden assisted accommodation or not) and she said to the guy, ‘If you and your friend don’t leave my flat in 3 seconds, I’m going to press this button and someone will be over in a flash’. A very brave step considering she was on her own, in her flat with 2 strange men with very bad intentions and she didn’t really know for sure whether the panic button would get her the kind of help she needed right away.

Thankfully, it seems the men in question were young and inexperienced and they decided to do a runner. Even more thankfully they didn’t lay a finger on her, and she was left shaken, but absolutely fine. She phoned the police who came fairly quickly and told her there had been a spate of these burglaries in elderly people’s homes over the past few weeks.

I spoke to her last night and she was in fine fettle, and I felt so damn proud. There she was at over 80 faced with a situation which would have reduced most people to gibbering wrecks and she had confronted the burglars head on, all 4ft 10 of her. I realised then that this was a side of my grandma I’d never before experienced. To hear her saying the word ‘bloody’ was shock enough, but to imagine her standing her ground in her little home made me well up. If I’m feisty and difficult this is in part testament to my grandma.

My other grandma was neurotic and prone to massive amounts of over exaggeration, pathological lying, dramatisation and hypochondria so I’ve clearly inherited nothing from her.

Oh god.

Things that piss me right off.

2007-10-09T16:06:00.000Z

Some things in life make you very angry and at the moment, there appear to be quite a few of them rumbling around.

In no particular order these are some of the things which have annoyed me the most recently:

(NB: these are in no particular order and not necessarily related to me personally, for example no. 1, I can say a lot of things about Steve, but this one would be unacceptable)

1) Men who have inexcusably small penises

2) People masquerading as BT men and trying to burgle my granny

3) Unrequited love (heartbreaking and a waste of time in one fell swoop- CLOSURE people!)

4) Beer and sausages and gratuitous cleavage and Lederhosen (in a themed environment for our work Christmas party)

5) Men who think it’s appropriate to rub up against someone at a bar with a big erection

6) Men who refuse to book time off work for much needed rests (this is aimed at 2 people)

7) Bus replacement services

8) The pretty bows falling off my new shoes after 1 wear in the rain

9) Garages – particularly ‘Dagenham Motors’ who can’t tell you when your car is ready as the parts required are on ‘factory back order’ and won’t give you a much needed courtesy car for your birthday weekend. It’s not as if Mini Coopers are rare for GODS sake

10) The postal strike- I’m going to reach new levels of perceived unpopularity with no birthday cards being delivered

11) Ex boyfriends who you made it quite clear made you f**king miserable insisting on texting and phoning you and wanting to meet you (this applies to many of us I’m sure)

12) The fact that I don’t know what I want for my dinner

I’ll stop before 13 because that might tempt some bad luck and heaven only knows I can’t deal with any of that!

Ok, ok I have PMT, I admit it. And with Steve in Germany how on earth can I vent it all, if not on you, the general public. Feel free to add to my list of gripes…

Health test- the update

2007-10-08T16:02:00.000Z

Quick health update:

I was made to sit through an hour of post-health-test-analysis in the pub on Friday night with Steve.

Frickin’ BUPA had thankfully printed out a 30 page report detailing precise statistics for lung capacity, cholesterol, white blood cell count, diabetes, weight, BMI blah blah blah, each page more painstaking than the last.

Working in insurance seems to have increased Steve’s boredom threshold so he took great delight in talking me through every page. Thank goodness, because if we hadn’t had the report to pore over, we would have had nothing to discuss. Ahem.

Turns out Steve’s been given the all clear and is spot on in terms of his health (ok, ok, his fitness is above average, but you’d expect that from a marathon runner) which is really lovely, BUT I could barely hide my disappointment at the lack of prostate examination. The doctor told Steve that this wasn’t checked in men until they are over 45 so I have to wait almost 16 years til he gets the probing.

As a result of the health report examination (and the resultant need to down wine) I ended up being slaughtered by the time we sat down for dinner at the new overpriced Gaucho Grill in Butlers Wharf. I had a £31 piece of fillet steak which I promptly puked up the second we walked in the door at Clapham. What a bloody waste….when will I ever learn? In the morning it crossed my mind that if I’d have made it to the back garden the small family of urban foxes would have had quite a treat.

The following day after just 2 hours of sleep I traipsed my sorry hungover arse down to Brighton for a dinner out at Murasaki and general frolics for Jonathan’s birthday. As ever, the food was perfect, and just kept coming and coming. Thankfully I managed to keep a lid on my behaviour and apart from the usual potty mouth I didn’t disgrace myself at all (I don’t recollect….well, apart from some hideous photos).

I met Anne So’s lovely other half Richard who was very impressive with his two-pea-chopstick-challenge, and the lovely Siobhan who I fell in love with the second she finished a glass of champagne and proceeded to smash her glass on the floor nonchalantly and with more than a hint of ‘russian’ness. Hurrah.

All in all the weekend was a booze fuelled social extravaganza (hence my addled brain and sub standard posting today…..I’ll be back on form tomorrow, honest).

The great health test.

2007-10-05T11:40:00.000Z

This morning is a morning of hospitals, but thankfully not for me.

Various friends and family are trotting off to different pongy corridored venues around the country to be poked, prodded, lubed up, anaesthetised, shaved and generally humiliated. I’m not going to go into details as certain friends wouldn’t appreciate their inner workings being discussed with the wider world, but I’ll let you in on one of them which I think is quite amusing.

As part of his ‘I’m a very important vice president’ act, Steve qualifies for some top notch insurance cover. Presumably because someone who works so hard is more likely to suffer from stress, high blood pressure, be at higher risk from heart problems, depression, anxiety etc. Joy!

Getting this cover involves going for a 3 hour, top to bottom, thorough health check where he’ll have his chest shaved for an ECG, have to jog on a treadmill for a mile to monitor heart rate and vital organs, have cholesterol levels taken, blood pressure, heart rate, the list goes on.

This of course is a great opportunity to be given a clean bill of health- as I’m always someone who worries about the possibility of things which could be wrong, but go unknown, lingering away.

To add to the list of 50 tests which Steve is being subjected to, I’ve asked him whether they can do a couple more, just for good measure:

1) Test his hearing

I’m convinced his ears are blocked, or somehow damaged. His stock response to every single thing I say is ‘Ey?’. If the test comes back clear I’ll know that it’s merely a case of him attempting to block out some of the white noise that is my incessant jibber jabber and I’ll then have a god given right to get really fed up when he’s not listening

2) Test him for adult onset diabetes

One of the symptoms of which is a continuous urge to go for a wee. CONTINUOUSLY. Until now I’d tried to put this down to OCD behaviour, but whilst they are testing, they might as well tick this one off the list. It might make for a better nights kip if they uncover anything.

3) Test his horrendous short term memory recall.

It’s atrocious. He’ll ask how my day went, listen to the answer, and then ask me again 3 minutes later. But maybe this is related to number 1) in that either he’s not listening, or he suffers from a terrible ear affliction, OR, he simply isn't interested. Not possible.

I’m secretly hoping one of the tests he has to have involves him having a finger poked up his bottom to check out his prostate gland- does that make me a sicko, or merely someone who is a great believer in the phrase, ‘what goes around, comes around’.

Chocolate porn

2007-10-04T15:17:00.000Z

As a women, when you receive a giant bar of chocolate it stirs up a whole raft of emotions. Excitement, anticipation, greed with a little fear and distrust thrown in for good measure.

Last night upon return from Geneva, Steve pulled the biggest Toblerone I've ever seen out of his duty free bag like a rabbit from a hat- only much better. He then gave it to me as a gift.

She twinkled and shone at us from her mantelpiece vantage point, surveying the lessor mortals in the room, pondering her wonder and the likely destruction her mere presence could create.

At some point in the evening I caught Steve looking wistfully at her, as if she were a curvaceous lady in revealing bright red lace underwear and he casually asked me whether I was going to put her in the freezer.

"Why would I do that? I hate cold chocolate" I responded.

"No reason, I just thought you might" He answered.

"I was thinking about taking the chocolate to work, and then home to share with the girls" I countered, feeling more than a little put out that he clearly had made designs on my bar.

"It wasn't meant for you and your work colleagues" he snapped.

"Oh, so it wasn't meant for me?" I asked and waited for the reply.

"I didn't mean that, I meant I hadn't bought it for your work colleagues."

"Well it's a gift for me, so surely I can do what I want with it, and I choose to take it to work and then home."

"Fine."

"Fine."

In hindsight of course I realise this was very greedy and I ought to have agreed to put a small amount of the bar in the freezer for Steve and I would take the rest. But this is what happens when you're in the presence of 'my precious'.

This morning I gently took her from the mantelpiece and placed her in my bag. She peeked out in a provocative fashion, just enough to glimmer and catch the eye of passers turning a few heads as I strolled towards the underground.

In the tube I worried incessantly about whether she was comfortable or whether we were pushing the boundaries of her ideal conditions, 'cool and dark'. She made it though, and barely broke a sweat on her gleaming golden wrappers.

Once in the safety of the office I unveiled her. Riddled with a maternal protectiveness when people saw her and wanted to touch her, I had to suppress an urge to shout 'Stand BACK'.

Before I knew it, we had hit 11am and with a cup of steaming tea on my desk I caught her looking at me and she seemed to say, 'I'm ready." I peeled back the wrapping and exposed her mountainous nougatey peaks. She didn't succumb easily to my gentle pressure and demanded more force so I placed my clammy hands on her soft surface and snapped away a giant piece.

Cramming her into my mouth, I felt her soften and succumb to me, melting into a chocolaty oblivion with only the tough nutty bits remaining as proof of her existence.

I'll never forget you little piece of heaven from Geneva.

However, If I have to eat another piece of you I might be sick, so I'll let Natalie devour the rest.

Proof that men can't shop.

2007-10-03T15:55:00.000Z

If you have a spare ten minutes (and you probably have as you're reading this), read this wonderful account from my friend Peter on his recent travels to Jerusalem. It's like a sketch from a monty python film and it had me in stitches, the bitter determination of the shop keeper vs. my lovely friend who was so keen not to hurt anyone's feelings.... hapless male shoppers beware!

Here goes:

I come across a shop with proper displays and a till rather than some guy with a money belt, and head on in. I have a look at the nicely painted wooden carvings on display and think that they’d be something suitable for my parents. Within 0.5 seconds the obligatory cheery salesman appears out of nowhere.

“Hello my friend” says the broad shouldered, baggy-clothed Mr Salesman, an exaggerated smile poking through his unshaven tanned face.

“Hello” I reply. “I’m just looking, thank you”.

“You see something you like?”

“Well these are quite nice” I say, pointing at the wooden carvings. Big mistake.

I can see the salesman do the mental equivalent of flexing his fingers as he prepares to get stuck into a routine he’s probably done countless times before.

“For these, I can give you a very good price”. Here we go. He trots off and returns with a calculator.

“Actually I’m happy just looki…” I begin to say.

“These were carved and painted by hand by authentic Byzantine monks” he proclaims proudly. ‘As opposed to fake Byzantine monks?’ I think to myself. He picks up one of the carvings and points to a little sticker saying ‘Made in some Byzantine monastery’ (I forget the name). Evidence if ever I saw it. Nonetheless they are very well made, feel nice and solid and I can see my folks liking them, so I decide to see where this goes.

He picks up three of the carvings – one of Jesus, one of Mary and one of the disciples – and lays them out on the counter.

“I’m only really interested in these two” I say, pointing to the carvings of Jesus and Mary.

“For you” he says “I give you 3 for the price of 2”.

For me? Aww shucks. This would normally sound great, but as they’re not labelled up with any price whatsoever he could name any price he wanted and I wouldn’t know any better.

“Now, you are from England?” he asks. I nod. “OK, so I will make this easy and give you price in English pounds”.He taps furiously into his calculator with the accuracy and speed of a touch typist. After pondering the end figure, he looks up proudly and says, “For you, for the 3, I can give you a price of 80 pounds. Not 120 pounds, but 80 pounds”. Even with the amazing ‘3 for 2’ offer, that’s still about £60 more than I was intending to spend. Unsure of what to say I stand there looking gormless as I ponder how best to politely excuse myself. My thoughts are interrupted by his next offer.

“Because you say nothing, I offer these for 70 pounds”.“Oh?”“60 pounds”.

The cheerfulness is gone, and now he’s looking at me with a serious business-face. Still somewhat stunned by my unintentional bargaining skills which has seen the price plummet by 25%, I realise it’s probably my turn to put forward how much I think they’re worth, and barter until we reach a price agreeable to both of us.But I’m not going to do that. As I’ve said, I loathe haggling with a passion, and I’m not going to spend an inordinate amount of time playing psychological games with a man who’ll be considerably more experienced at this than me.“Thanks, but no thanks”. This is what I should have said. Instead, my aversion to offend kicks in.

“Sounds good” I lie. “I…errr…just need to go and draw out some money”.

I am pleased with myself. It gives me a perfect excuse to leave the store and never return. This is – of course – a rather mean thing to do to the guy, but at least I won’t be there to see his disappointment when he realises that this mug won’t be coughing up.

“Ah – no need!” he says, reaching under the counter and pulling out a card reader. “I take visa”. He looks at me expectantly.‘Hmmmm’ I think to myself. Quick thinking time.

“But I prefer to pay cash” I respond. For a little while we debate the merits of paying by cash vs paying by card before he eventually says

“OK, well I prefer cash too”.

A narrow escape! Now I can get myself out of this awkward situation. But the salesman has other ideas.

“Let me take you to the cash machine”.

I insist this isn’t necessary and that he should stay with his store. Surely it’s not a good idea to leave it unattended?Undeterred he marches me to a cash machine only slightly out of his shop. I stand in the narrow alley, facing a cash machine that looks suspiciously like those you’d find at the pub and charges £1.50 for each withdrawal. Numerous sheets hung across the alley walls provide makeshift protection from the sun, but the heaving sweaty crowds barging past still make things unpleasantly warm.

“Here you can get money”.

“Ummm….great!” I exclaim, exasperated.

Now I know that at any time I could just have said “No thank you” and walked off with him yelling at me. Instead, I continue with this charade and formulate a plan of utter genius.I put my card in the cash machine. I then intentionally type in the wrong pin. My request for money is declined right in front of Mr Salesman.

“Oh no, my bank has frozen my account!” I say, over-acting my disappointment.

He looks at the screen and frowns.

“It says you have entered the wrong pin” he says matter of factly. Damn his eye for detail!

“Mmmm yes, the bank changes the pin when the account gets frozen.” He looks at me with a somewhat unconvinced look.

“I’ll come back later when I’ve sorted it out”.

This isn’t good enough for Mr Salesman, who beckons over a fellow shop-owner. They speak in Hebrew and shrug shoulders while looking at me and at the cash machine. Mr Salesman turns to me and says “Try it again”. Well, if I must. I insert my card as the two Israelis stand either side watching the screen intently. I type in an incorrect pin and re-enact the ‘Oh no!’ routine when I’m declined cash again. There, that’s it. No money for me, no money for you. But they’re having none of it. I barely see my card ejected from the cash machine before Mr Salesman has grabbed it and put it back into the machine.

“Please….try again.”

A look of semi-desperation falls upon his face. He’s not going to let me go that easy. This time I hesitate, and with good reason. Enter a pin incorrectly 3 times and the bank will lock me out of my account. For real. I’m out of ideas beyond hitting ‘Cancel’, grabbing my card and running away as fast as the crowds would allow. But I don’t do this.

You know how in movies when the hero taps a ‘disarm’ code on some nuclear bomb with only seconds to spare, and the whole thing is filmed in super slow motion? Well, that’s what this was like, only instead of being a hero saving the world, I was the idiot intentionally typing in the wrong pin because I didn’t have the balls to say “No”. I tap it in and a message pops up. It didn’t say ‘Nuclear detonation imminent’, but it might as well have done.

The ‘Account Locked’ message meant that my financial lifeline had been cut, leaving me with just a small amount of cash in my wallet. Boom!

Mr Salesman frowns.

“Now it says your account is locked”, “Well I did say” I regale, weeping inside.

Still, at least it’s over now.

“Guess I’ll have to call my bank now”.

He latches onto this statement like a bloodthirsty leech.

“No problem!” he says excitedly, marching me back into his shop.

He walks round the counter, puts a phone on the desk, picks up the handset and stands poised to dial.

“What’s the number? I dial them for you”. I look at him incredulously. Does he never give up? Does he not know how much he is tormenting me? Of course not – as far as he’s concerned I’m a guy willing to pay well over the odds for a set of ‘handmade’ wood carvings. It’s probably no less than I deserve. It’s time to be honest, say I don’t want them, and walk away. But no.“It’s OK, I’ll use my mobile” I say, pulling out my phone from my pocket and waving it in the air.

“That will cost you money” he says. “Please, use mine”.

I convince him that the banks number is an international freephone number. What I’ll do is pretend to call the bank, and when he’s not looking I’ll wander out of the store, never to return. As if reading my mind, he gives me a chair and sits down next to me. I sit down, pretend to phone the bank and hold a fake conversation about my locked account.

Mr Salesman listens intently as I get angry and gesticulate wildly with the imaginary customer service person. I sigh, roll my eyes and point to my phone as if to say; ‘Sorry about this but they’re being rubbish’. Not once does he get out of his seat. I continue the act for a further 10 minutes.

Finally, I see a look of resignation on his face as I hang up and tell him I’ll have to wait 4 hours before my account is unlocked. He makes one last desperate attempt to persuade me to at least try his card machine, before eventually accepting that I’m going to be the fish that got away. He tells me that he’ll set aside the carvings and to come back once I have access to my funds, and puts a business card in my hand.Needless to say, nobody got any gifts.

Jonathan's 30th

2007-10-03T11:05:00.000Z

Today is my friend Jonathan’s 30th birthday and to mark the occasion, I thought I’d devote a little time on my posting today to him.

This is going to be fairly easy as this morning, in some bizarre turn of events, I found myself to be sitting opposite Jonathan’s body double on the Northern Line (give or take around a foot in terms of height- afraid the ‘doppel pips you Jonathan). I have mentioned this chap to Jonathan before and today thought I ought to try and take a photo of him to send over as a kind of freaky birthday greeting.

I carefully took my phone from my bag and switched on the camera, and pointed it in the doppel’s direction. I marvelled at the quirky combination of mismatching jacket and trousers, the dark combed forward and over hair and the heavy framed glasses. I took in what appeared to be a very worthy book title and it all fitted perfectly. It was a sign. I raised my phone pretending cunningly to text and the Jon-alike turned his head downwards so he was barely visible on my screen. He then looked up and no sooner had he done so, but a trendy tosser wearing a navy blue fitted jacket with the collar turned up stood in-between us.

As I left the train at Old Street I was sorely tempted to lunge at him for a final chance at the money shot, but decided that it might have appeared a little offensive and very difficult to explain in 0.2 seconds before the train pulled out of the station and rumbled towards Moorgate. I would have come across like some pervert up-skirter of the female variety- an upjacketer maybe.

The point is that the world could very well have imploded if I’d have sent Jonathan to Jonathan on Jonathan’s 30th, so it’s better that I didn’t.

And that, as they say, is all. Happy birthday Jonathan, you’re the best. xxx

Party OCD.

2007-10-02T12:13:00.000Z

It’s just over 4 months since we moved into our new house in North London and it seems like we are long overdue a party. So we’ve decided to have one- a joint my birthday, Lindsey’s birthday and fireworks night party as a very loose excuse for one. Now as those of you who know me at all will know- I’m not exactly relaxed when it comes to parties, in fact when they are my own I tend to be a real worry wart. This is a real bind as I’d love to be one of those people who just invites the whole world, doesn’t worry about anything to do with their house and allows any number of people to stay over and sleep anywhere. But no, this doesn’t come naturally to me. In the slightest. In fact I’m a party host anal retentive.

My thought processes go- oh god, where will everyone sleep, how will they get home, will our lovely new carpet get trashed, will we f**k off our neighbours, will we have to spend the whole weekend cleaning up other people’s mess, will people respect the house and behave, will I have time to pack for holiday the next day and will I have to politely entertain people on Sunday when I’m going to want to leave and never come back (well, at least until people have gone and the mess is minimised).

In Compton Avenue whenever there was a party, I’d get a couple of hours kip in, leave first thing, go back to whoever’s house was nearest and avoid all of the early morning noise and mingingness only to return when the coast was clear and I could crack on with some serious cleaning. Hoovering around bodies is a time consuming bore.

I’ll never forget when Dan offered to host a party for Natalia for some reason (birthday I think) and some bright spark bought half a ton of confetti which was scattered all over the floor to release it’s hot pink, green, blue colours into the lovely cream carpet. I was apoplectic. She didn’t even live with us and I remember on said occasion I was so distraught I had to wake up early to start cleaning up.

So you can see, hosting parties is a distressing affair for me. Thank god I have two level headed, relaxed co-hosts to ease the pain and share the love.

Don’t worry though it’s going to be a blast, and it’ll be even more fun for all if you all keep to the following simple rules:

1) Shoes off at the front door
2) No red wine to be brought into the house at any costs
3) No excessively loud music
4) No laughing
5) No mingling
6) No-one up past 3am
7) No-one passing out in the toilet and making it a no-go-zone
8) Strictly no flirting or copping off.

Enjoy!

(The truth of the matter is that I’ll get hammered and won’t give a toss re: any of the above, but as a worrier, I have to think about all of this and the promptly forget it all and no doubt I’ll be the one sloshing red wine up the walls and knocking on Mrs Miggin’s door to see if she wants to join in)

All the gear, no idea.

2007-10-01T17:17:00.000Z

Winter sun beckons, and this year, we’re going to nail another one of those ‘really ought to visit’ places as a diver, Ko Tao.

When this holiday was first dreamt up, we fancied ourselves as fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants youngsters, visiting Trailfinders (in the City, perhaps first giveaway that we were clearly not cut out for such shenanigans) and booking flights only. Steve told me about the wonders of the cheap beach huts, charming in a locust infested way, and only a hop, skip and a jump away from the sea front. Here we would mingle seamlessly with the locals, save money, and be at one with the spirit of the island. We’d arrive, we’d book. Lovely.

You might say therefore that I was a little surprised when a somewhat overworked and overstressed Steve announced that he’d been thinking about it and he quite fancied pre-booking somewhere, and not just any-old-where, but that he would rather like a swimming pool.

Not an over the top demand, but this soon became, ‘it must have a pool bar’ then ‘it must have several pool bars and a restaurant’ and eventually we found ourselves booking the deluxe suite at a tiny little luxury resort built by local architects into the edge of a cliff with an eternity pool designed quite brilliantly to give a seamless expanse of water. Pool then sea…..and you can’t see where one ends and the other begins. Have a look.

A far cry from the ‘locust infested local spur of the moment book when we arrive hut’, but I guess as you get older it gets tougher to take these kind of gambles with your hard earned holiday time- and of course, I’m more than happy to go along for the ride.

Anyway, this has spurred on my excitement about how long it is until I get to be at one with the fishies again….only 4 weeks away. I’ve opted for all my presents to be diving related so I’ll be the classic, ‘all the gear, no idea’ diver. But I’ll look good. Earlier today I placed an order for a black wetsuit and matching fins and when the person in the shop said, ‘we’ve only got those fins in turquoise and white, will that be ok?’ I shuddered at the thought of the clashing and said I’d rather wait until the sleek black ones were delivered. I might be 30 metres under water, but it’s no excuse to look a mess.

The flip side....

2007-09-27T13:51:00.001Z

Ok, so there’s a flipside to yesterday’s posting. It may well be a trauma for a female of not 100% body confidence to leave a jacuzzi full of ogling men whilst wearing something which is riding further up her bottom as she climbs the stairs. It turns out (after additional market research today) that men suffer from a similar disorder.

I’ll call it the humili-clingy-effect.

It happens when men opt to wear baggy shorts or anything other than Speedos. Maybe to maintain their dignity, maybe to leave something to the imagination or maybe to not look like an utter twat. Whichever. It matters not. What matters is that these materials are most certainly not kind upon exit of the pool. They surge towards any protruding (or in very unfortunate cases, not very protruding) ‘item’s’ and create a ‘vacuum packing’ effect around the entire area. What tends to ensue: much panicky tugging and releasing the vacuum in a desperate bid not to give away any secrets (or lies might be more apt).

I imagine that if a man with a giant willy was exiting the pool, they probably wouldn’t rush to re-adjust their vacuum packaged knobs. Instead, they would strut, thrust and be quite sure that every lady eyes in the vicinity would be inexplicably drawn south of the shorts hemline to have a damn good ogle.

So I guess all’s fair in love, war, and swimming pools.

To oggle or not to oggle.

2007-09-26T16:01:00.000Z

I’m not in love with my body, which is a sentiment shared by probably 99.99% of females everywhere. That said, I’m not stupid enough to make any real complaints as I know it’s got some redeeming features and if offered free plastic surgery I’m only likely to say yes on a bad day.

On a good day, I’ve been known to strut, but only if I’m wearing something I’m pretty sure I look good in. Otherwise I’ll shuffle like a weeble. Today I was faced with a real dilemma. After my aqua class I decided I needed to warm up by sitting in the Jacuzzi. As always, the Jacuzzi is full of sweaty post work out men, pink chopped and clammy skinned. I position myself as far away from all of them as physically possible and try and relax.

After 5 minutes I’m faced with the prospect of climbing out. Big deal. The issue here is that climbing out involves climbing up about 4-5 stairs facing away from the entire rest of the pool. I’ve done my research. I realise that without exception, ANY female bottom leaving the safety and sanctity of the warm waters receives nothing less than a darn good botty ogling. I know this isn’t a mark of approval/disapproval or even indicative of anything rather than a base male instinct, but still, today I’m not in the mood for bottom violation.

I contemplate reversing up the stairs scowling fiercely at all of the men. I contemplate sitting in the pool until I’m so shrivelled up I become invisible to the naked eye and then I can make my escape. In the end I realise my lunch hour is up, and try as I might I can’t put off my exit any longer. I suck in my tummy, give my bottom a firm talking to and march up the stairs. I don’t know for sure that I was violated, but I’m fairly convinced I was. As I reach the top I cant’ resist turning around to see if I can catch any of them in the act. As it happens, these men were well trained in evasive manoeuvres. I don’t catch any eyes, but I glare nevertheless.

I don’t suppose it’s possible that they just all didn’t fancy looking at my bottom, and if not, why not god dammit, it’s not THAT bad….and so the image issues continue on and on and on.

Aunty Who?

2007-09-24T15:39:00.000Z

Moving from Brighton has been easier than I anticipated all in all. Of course, I miss the people horribly, but the rubbish weather this summer has softened the blow as I haven’t had to endure endless tales of amazing beach parties, BBQ’s, watching the sun rise over the sea after heady nights of fun etc. I still have a little internal tanty when I hear of fun nights out, but as long as I hear about the gossip, via my Corns hotline, mostly I’m appeased.

One of the biggest pangs for me has been realising that I wont be around as much to see one of my bestest friend Sarah’s little boy grow up so this weekend, I visited Brighton for a night out with Katie and Sarah and spent a day with the Williams’ on Saturday reminding Jack who I was.

Friday night I arrived at Katie’s to find that they had already guzzled a bottle of wine. I got offered the leftovers and then got made to play catch up with some vile house white at the local pub ‘The Railway’. By the time we left there, we were sufficiently tanked up and we headed into town and found ourselves a spot in Yo Sushi. I have to say, of all the foods to order when you’re drunk, Japanese isn’t the easiest. As a result we mostly took to grabbing whatever whizzed by that took our fancy. Cold dumplings, prawn tempura. In ten minutes we’d munched on around 6 plates of food, and hadn’t even started getting our hot dishes yet. An hour later things started getting really messy. We decided to start putting our used dishes back on the conveyor complete with origami napkins covered in soy sauce, ginger etc to create the effect of a ‘unique new dish’. This continued until we got into a mess on our table and given the absence of waiters I decided to get rid of our dirty plates on the conveyor belt stacked up high and teetering like a house of cards.

This, it seemed, was the final straw. Like a scene out of ‘Enemy of the State’ the head waiter swooped on our table and informed us that we’d been ‘watched on CCTV all night’ and that he thought we should ‘pay and leave right away’. Of course we realised we’d been naughty and no doubt incredibly irritating, but for goodness sake we were hammered. We had no intention of leaving without paying and could see clearly that the dishes we were placing in the belt were being taken promptly off and put in ‘the noisy rude ladies pile’.

And that’s when it all went wrong. The manager told us that if we’d tried to get away without paying it would have had a direct effect on our waiter’s salary. We said we’d never intended to leave without paying in full. He told us we were ‘a disgrace’ and he would ‘never be seen dead out with such a group of old trollopes’ (I think he also said we were ‘over made up’ but it’s all a blur). In a matter of minutes it had gone from a ticking off to a personal slanging match and for a period of time we were dumbfounded. It wasn’t long until Sarah found her legendary tongue and said, ‘Listen Frankie Dettori, none of us would ever touch you with a bargepole’ (he was quite little) and then Katie picked up the coins in the tip jar and said, putting one between her teeth, ‘Are these chocolate?’. And then we left, never to return again.

The next morning we were lying in bed feeling very worse for wear when there was a little early morning knock at the door and Jack came in to find Aunty Katie and Aunty Ali lying in a very boozy-smelling stale aired room feeling very sorry for themselves. As Katie said, the sight of his two wayward aunties looking so bloodshot, and downright terrifying has probably scarred him for life. Daddy Chris put him on our make shift double bed and I pretended to be Murray the cuddly bear but used a gravelly hungover voice which made Murray sound as if he’d been possessed by the devil and Jack scampered away. I was then sick.

Sarah told him to come back in and talk to Aunty Ali and Aunty Katie, and he said, ‘Aunty Katie and Aunty ‘who?’’ as he had no idea who I was. This stuck and for the rest of the weekend I was ‘Aunty who’, abbreviated to ‘where’s Aunty ooo?’ or just, ‘Where’s ooo?’ By the time I’d put in an hour or so of hard labour in the sand pit with the diggers and played catch the insect, ‘ooo’ was firmly re-instated as one of the fave fake aunties. I’m clearly going to have to put in some serious leg work to get to ‘Aunty Ali’ status. This is one little boy who is not easily fobbed off. He’s also a little boy with immaculate taste in ladies shoes; Katie’s in particular which he wore in the car whilst looking like the cat that got the cream. He then asked if he could put my boots on, and when we got home, he ran upstairs and came down wearing his boots, claiming he loved his ‘little boots’ and weren’t they ‘lovely’. I feel we’ve got enough in common to form a really decent bond. In the meanwhile, I’m content with being ‘Aunty ooo?’

Need I say more?

2007-09-21T11:14:00.000Z

Proof is most certainly in the pudding.

Chinny reckon.

2007-09-21T10:18:00.000Z

Last night I missed one of my favourite programmes, ‘Ten years younger’, but I understand from my friend Dan that the subject of Nicky Hambleton-Smith’s (I may have made that surname up) attentions was men. Clueless, bumbling middle aged men, one of which was still in love with a rather harsh red-head ex-girlfriend circa 1984 who had left him with the winning line: ‘You’re dumped because you are dull, fat and boring’.

Needless to say he felt a little under par in terms of self confidence and has been single ever since. The best bit about this was that somehow his fashion sense had frozen in time from the moment he became single so his wardrobe consisted of Miami Vice style patterned shirts, and suit jackets in various shades of pastille.

The other candidate was a bearded chap and judging by what Dan told me, the only thing they had to do to make his appearance acceptable and ‘of the moment’ was cut off his beard. Obviously this concerned Dan who is currently mid-way through his beard growth, entering the difficult itchy, ginger phase who wrote to me this morning, pondering whether it might be high time he got rid of said beard and go for the fresh faced look.

I’m pretty mixed about beards in general. If I’m honest, I do have fond memories of my dad’s beard in the early 80’s which, when I was being really well behaved was used to give me a ‘whisker pie’. Not a disgusting hairy puff pastry dish, but a bonding thing whereby my dad would tickle my face with his whiskery beard and send me into shrieks of laughter. In the 1990’s the beard went and what was left was a rather military looking moustache. I didn’t like it, but when it went it left my dad looking like an egg. All shiny and hairless. Of course I got used to it and the idea of him having a beard now would be quite ludicrous.

Turning my thoughts to the present day, I have to say I find long beards, and any excess facial hair for that matter- quite unacceptable. So much so that the attached blog ‘usabeard’ made me want to regurgitate my early morning Krispy Kreme doughnut. The idea of all that dirty, wiry hair, so often ginger when there are hitherto no indications of gingerness…..yuck. It reminds me of the twits. And the worst thing, this comment:

“I would love to brush this cruncher of a beard!”

Some kind of crazy beard perversion.

As a woman I’m only too aware that beard growth will become more of a pressing issue for me when I reach my 50’s and 60’s and beyond. We’ve all seen the grannies happily pottering around the shops seemingly totally unaware of the 3 foot beards they are trailing behind them. I’ll be keeping a regular check on my chin for any untoward activity.

So, in conclusion, I am all for clean shaved-ness.

For men and women, for one and all.

Friends- take your razors to your chops and rid yourself of the excess weight: be you traveller (Sam), reluctant worker (Dan), publishing hippy (Jonathan) or lazy office boy (Steve/Gavin) don your hair removal tools with pride and say YES to a smooth future.

The 6 week drought

2007-09-20T16:38:00.001Z

It’s quite possible that I’m overstepping the boundaries of appropriateness on the blog I’m about to write, but sometimes things need to be told to the world and I for one am not shy about telling them.

Lindsey said to me last weekend that sometimes she felt guilty about reading my blog as she felt like it was some weird inner workings of my mind, and somehow things which I might not necessarily tell her in person. I of course, rubbished her. I’m pretty much like Sam when it comes to telling all of my business to everyone (it’s nice and inclusive that way and everyone feels loved and only mildly awkward at times).

So here goes….as my close female friends will already know I have just endured 6 weeks of celibacy. Not by choice, I’m not stupid you know. A combination of very badly timed business trips and operations have conspired against Steve and I and we’ve endured 6 hellish weeks of cobweb forming. I took this challenge on the nose and saw it as a character building exercise, but to be honest it’s dragged. I read an article in Cosmopolitan Magazine recently which said that sex in a relationship physiologically improves the bond between the two of you as the chemicals released boost the feelings of love and attachment. I knew this anyway, but made me consider how Steve and I had got on together during our drought. Yes, we’ve bickered- but that’s the norm. We probably haven’t been as affectionate towards each other as there’s always the ‘well I’m not going to get a shag so what’s the point’ issue burning away at the back of our minds. We’ve become more matey with each other I guess. Play fighting, pushing each other out of bed, Steve doing his usual array of wonderful animal impressions to make me laugh. It’s been good that we’ve coped and I think we’ve coped admirably.

I don’t want to be a part of one of those couples where it’s just raise the roof, ‘swing from the chandeliers’ amazing sex all day every day. That would be well, just a little bit shallow.

Gulp.

My first wedding proposal.

2007-09-19T14:45:00.000Z

Yesterday I was wondering up the road to my house when a random man crossed over stopped me and said to me, quite dramatically:

“Will you marry me?”

It struck me that in my 28 and ¾ years this is the first time any man has ever uttered these words to me, and, rather typically given my luck, it was some seedy chap from the dodgy estate.

I must have inadvertently styled myself in such a way as to be irresistible to such a person. Mental note- wrap around black dress and brown red or dead boots- not a good combination unless I’m really desperate.

My response, I laughed. Not in a ‘not on your life sunshine’ way, but more of a ‘ahhh how sweet, you’ve brightened up my day you loveable little street urchin’ way. I told Steve and his response,

“You always get the drunken imbeciles approaching you, what is it with you?”

Charming.

And I could have sworn he was sober.

Dinner party...

2007-09-17T13:55:00.001Z

This weekend is the first weekend as a household we’ve embraced our togetherness and we celebrated by having a little dinner party, or DP as I like to call them (because I’m a twat).

Given the obvious limitations (the size of the kitchen table, the fact that Gavin had fecked off to France, the fact that Sam couldn’t come as she had Ben, the fact our oven could barely cook a ready made Yorkshire pudding in 3 hours) we embarked on planning an evening of over indulgence, opulence and sheer fabulousness.

Of course in part we remained true to our goals, but there were a couple of amusing hiccups along the way.

My top three:

1) Ali devises the perfect starter- easy, quick and the only thing she needs to do to ensure it won’t kill Stav (who suffers from extreme cheese allergies) is remove the buffalo mozzarella. In a stroke of genius Ali garnishes all of the starters with a delicate, finely grated, layer of well….parmesan. Brilliant work. Impossible to remove, and impossible to disguise the taste. Thought I’d better fess up as it’s not good form to kill your dinner guests (especially on the first course, at least let them enjoy their last supper).

2) Natalie’s wine shocker. Picking white Bordeaux might, some would think, be a safe addition to any wine list for an evening. The colour of the wine when Matt poured it should have provided a clue. Dark yellow, like the colour of a wee after a very heavy night on the tiles. Matt tasted it and commented that ‘it was a little bit sweet’. Steve tasted it and stayed very quiet. I smelt it, tasted it, and was almost violently sick. Never before had a more putrid, sickly sweet, syrupy monstrosity crossed my lips (not since the days of MD 20/20). Natalie knowing full well she was responsible for the presence of this the ‘dark side’ of wines, stayed very quiet until she was outed. Matt was dispatched to the shop to acquire a less sickly wine and came back with Riesling. Thank god it wasn’t German.

3) Steve’s tanty. Having a temper tantrum in the middle of a dinner party is simply not on. He hadn’t been poisoned, or been forced to drink vile wine (see above) so he really had very little to complain about. Perhaps me accusing him in front of everyone of being ‘in an eggy’ didn’t help to ease matters, but honestly, storming out and sulking in my bedroom was beyond the pale. Funnily enough the mood subsided soon after Match of the Day finished and he was back upstairs scouting for desert and looking shifty. It takes a twat to know a twat, and I can safely say, he was one- albeit briefly. I suppose that’s why we’re so well matched. Knobs together.

Looking at the above you’d be well within your rights to think the evening was a disaster, but that would be far from the truth. In fact, Lindsey’s chicken pie was nothing short of genius, as was Natalie’s gravy and rosemary and garlic potatoes and ham. The Gower’s chocolate based Banoffee creation (made by mother and son combo Sam and Ben) was sublime and was probably appreciated more in the morning when we weren’t all steamingly p*ssed. We sat and discussed matters of pressing importance such as goats face curry and what an utter f*ckwit Lindsey’s ex-boyfriend is (and believe me we could have spent the entire evening on this one). Stav and Natalie sat and did proper shoulder wobbly giggles together. Lindsey spun some old skool classics on her vinyl, sorry, compact disc player whilst we teased her for being an old timer. We went to bed hammered and happy.

DP’s rule.

Going to the dogs.

2007-09-14T15:29:00.000Z

This week has been far too plain sailing for me. I’ve had 3 nights out of fun seeing friends, I’ve had decent nights of sleep, I’ve not spent too much time bickering with Steve or worrying, so I guess it was high time for a series of amusing and embarrassing things to happen. This morning I arrived in work to find a large box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts sitting in the kitchen, a present for our breakfast from one of our newest recruits, a developer called Kevin. I tucked in to a doughnut or two straight away, smacking my lips and licking away the delicious sugariness. I sat at my desk and gathered my thoughts before the first meeting of the day.

During the meeting I was harping on as ever when I felt a little ‘pinging’ sensation somewhere around my tummy and something fell neatly into my lap. A button from my shirt. It seems the button had been overstrained around my middle and had given up the fight against the doughnut army. I scooped it up and held it in my hand so that no-one would notice and gave silent thanks that said button, had not popped off my chest. Realising I couldn’t spend the whole day exposing my pudgy midriff I sent a plea to the office for cotton and a threads and the sniggers were audible. I cursed my doughnut munching. Within minutes I'd located some thread in reception and was waiting for the lift to arrive, and pulling up my shirt to try and bite off the loose thread (and exposing all my white tummy and some of my bra) when the lift door opened and out walked a besuited chap who went bright red at all this over exposure so early in the morning.

Later on, my friend and I went to lunch, within seconds I had managed to slop bright yellow chicken curry down my trousers. This outfit had been carefully selected for its seamless day-to-night transition ability and there I was with a wonky button, manky trousers and quite frankly looking a wreck.

Ah well, the consolation for me has to be that tonight’s entertainment, greyhound racing at Wimbledon, is hardly likely to be a glamorous affair. In fact with some popped off buttons and curry stains I might actually fit in more seamlessly. I just need a wedge of well fingered grubby notes, a flat cap and a pint of ale and I’m away. By this time next week, I’ll be a millionaire.

Addendum...shoe blog

2007-09-13T16:27:00.000Z

I totally forgot to tell you, when I paid for my shoes and left I got a goody bag. Almost as if things couldn't get any better inside it was a free mini rabbit vibrator- irony being of course that I won't need it to heighten my excitement. I'll just put my shoes on and walk around the house.

Fabulous!

Jenne ooooooooooooooooooooo shoes.

2007-09-13T16:05:00.000Z

Sometimes in life, you get thrown a bone or two, today I got thrown a big juicy meaty one and I can’t wait to devour it.

The juicy bone in question was not of the male variety. 4 week ban on s*x don’t forget! It was much better. It was in the form of a designer sale at the Old Truman Breweries on Brick Lane, but a hop, skip and a jump away from the office.

At 12.15pm my outlook calendar helpfully pinged a reminder message in the middle of my screen. Whilst I normally ‘dismiss all’ without as much as a passing thought, this one was special.

I had a lunch date with some discount designer clothes and there was no way in this world I wasn’t making time (or money) for this.

So, clutching my google map, I wended my way through back streets of East London and eventually found my way to my sale. Signs of ‘you may have to queue to gain entrance’ and ‘no flash photography permitted inside' merely whetting my appetite I hastily paid my £2 entrance and £1 to keep your bag ‘safe’ (i.e prevent you from attempting to steal £100’s of pounds of teeny accessories) and I was off.

Like a blood hound I began my scrupulous search through the rails which were helpfully ordered by designer. Starting at BIBA, I worked my way quickly through FrostFrench, Armani, Vivienne Westwood until I came across the accessories table. Scanning over the selection my eyes settled on the most glamorous pair of gold and dark pink stilettos I have ever seen, they sparkled and glittered and said, ‘Try me on right now’ and so of course I did. Sometimes, when you put on an amazing pair of heels they transform you from humdrum existence to slim legged, glamour puss. Ok so my fat toes aren’t strictly designed for such slim shoes and my feet will never thank me for those 4 inch stilettos, but on those occasions where my night consists of ‘cab-perching on a stool somewhere sipping cocktails-cab’ with not much walking in-between, they are perfect.

A look at the price told me two things- 1) I would never be able to afford these shoes in real life and then 2) Thank god this isn’t real life, it’s heaven- £400+ reduced to only £60. Grasping the box in my sweaty hands, I took them to the dressing room to try them on with a dress. Whilst trying on the dress, I kept peeking down to check they were still there and at the same time nervously eyed up my fellow changing room inhabitants to see if any of them look like thieves. Waiting in the queue to pay I kept thinking of things which might conspire against me to prevent me from having the shoes. What if they don’t accept credit cards and by the time I get back with the cash they are gone? What if I’m dreaming and I wake up just as I’ve paid and I’m looking in my crisp, be-stickered, designer bag, what if for some reason they won’t sell me them. Yes, I’m almost delusional.

I’m pleased to say (that against all odds) I made it back to the office with my shoes. They are now sitting under my desk and to make sure they don’t go anywhere, I’m touching my leg against the bag, just in case. My shoes aren’t perfect, they have a little scratch on the back, and they’ve been worn in a catwalk show, but they are impossibly gorgeous and they make me very happy. Transforming a normal, slightly pudgy leg, into a shapely slender one, even for one hour each year is worth every penny.

Lee who? My new love is my Jenne O shoes.

Joseph- wowzers

2007-09-12T16:28:00.000Z

I’m in love. Really, totally and 100% head over heels in love. And it’s not with Steve, it’s with another man. He goes by the name of Lee Mead, otherwise known as the leading man in the latest production of Joseph at the Adelphi Theatre.

Of course I realise this is unutterably pathetic, childish and ridiculous, but when he appeared behind the transparent screen in a cloud of dreamy fog my heart skipped a beat. I don’t think I was the only one either judging by the roar of the crowd when he appeared. Who says theatre can’t appeal to the masses, with lyrics like:

‘all those things you saw in your pyjamas, were a long range forecast for your farmers’

and

‘his astounding clothing took the biscuit, quite the smoothest person in the district’

It's no wonder Rice and Lloyd-Webber are now and have been for many years milking this little winner. So, it goes without saying that the show was amazing. Of course it wouldn’t be an Ali and Steve night out if something awful hadn’t happened, so don’t worry, I’m pleased to report it did.

With 15 minutes to go until curtains up I was waiting outside Oxford Circus and Steve was wending his way on the tube. The Adelphi theatre is only 2 minutes around the corner, so not to worry. We’ve got plenty of time. Except for that the Adelphi Theatre isn’t. The Palladium theatre is however, and if we were going to see ‘The Sound of Music’ we’d have been fine. So with 10 minutes til curtains up we start trying to hail a cab to take us over to the Strand. Unsurprisingly, there aren’t any. It’s rush hour. The traffic is bumper to bumper and the lights in the cabs are well and truly unlit. I start to lose my temper and say to Steve that he really ought to have checked where the theatre was, given that he’d booked the tickets and arranged the evening. He said (amidst what I felt to be a gratuitous use of the word f**k off ‘off’) that given he’d done everything else, it wouldn’t have been too much to ask for me to have checked where the theatre was. I fumed. He fumed. I told him ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t get let in now, you know theatres aren’t usually very accommodating with people coming in late and disturbing everyone.’

We arrived at 7.10pm. Got ushered to our seats at break neck speed, got tutted at by a few old biddies behind us, one of whom muttered venomously, ‘great now I can’t see a thing’- yes, because now you have a HUGE, viewing blocking 5ft 4inch fairly dinky person in your way. Someone give the poor lady a f**king refund. OR, give her a filthy, ground shuddering look to stop her in her tracks, which is what I did.

Thank goodness Lee came on stage at that precise moment to ease the tension, and in a Quentin Tarantino style loop that’s where I started. Swoon. I for one feel that if loin clothes were all the rage again women everywhere would find selecting a perfect partner a whole lot easier.

Joseph...

2007-09-11T15:21:00.000Z

When I was little I fancied myself as somewhat of a budding thespian and one of my first roles on stage, was as the brother ‘dan’ in Joseph and his Technicolor Dreamcoat. My friend Marigold stole the limelight as Joseph and to this day, there remains some residual bitterness (and it’s not just me- one of my friends from primary school contacted me and the first thing she said was ‘do you remember when Marigold got picked to play Joseph?) It was not a happy childhood memory. However, I soon got over the gross injustice and decided to throw myself wholeheartedly into the role of Dan- learn my 3 lines perfectly and deliver them with passion, vigour and pride.

On the big night I nervously prepared myself alongside Marigold in the junior’s classroom. To be fair she had a lot more to worry about than me, but I was seriously bricking it. I shouldn’t have worried, Marigold carried the performance and it was a massive success. At the time (I was 9), there weren’t really camcorders, but the flash bulbs were dazzling the cast and I remember feeling giddy with happiness.

Tonight I am going to re-live some of those memories by going to see Joseph at the Adelphi Theatre, starring none other than Lee Mead of ‘BBC’s Joseph’ fame. Tickets have been near impossible to come by, and so I’m particularly tickled pink to be going. Unfortunately, my mum isn’t so happy. She made me promise when I was 9 years old if I ever went to see Joseph at the theatre that we would go together. Unfortunately, Steve wasn’t to know about this solemn pact, and I was met with a frosty silence when I announced my impending theatre trip last night. Fair enough, as my mum was my staunch supporter in learning all of the Joseph lyrics for my big performance. We had the tape on loop in every family journey we went on and it drove dad and Stephen absolutely crackers.

The shocking thing is that the lyrics were not only embedded into my 9 year old grey matter, they have also carried with me into my near 30’s, and are as clear to this day as they ever were. Last night I threatened Steve that I intended to sing along loudly to every song and he laughed nervously. I feel that tonight, some inner diva might once more be discovered. I feel like I’m back in that classroom next to Marigold, waiting nervously for our cue to get on that stage and sing our hearts out.

England vs. Israel- my take.

2007-09-10T16:01:00.000Z

On Saturday I embraced my inner man, and went to see England take on Israel at Wembley.

I’m not going to pretend I know anything about football, but this seemed to me like a game which was so one sided at times I almost nodded off- sacrilege I know when the attendance was 90,000 odd very enthusiastic people and then me.

We arrived at Wembley entrance P, through the turnstiles, up two flights of rather sparkly escalators (no stairs in sight) where there was no pushing, shoving or even a hint of antsyness and into the carpeted area where we proceeded to take our seats in block 533. Shortly afterwards, the boys decided to go and find some beers and came back ashen faced proclaiming: ‘they aren’t selling any beer, at all, in the entire stadium’. Surely a foot balling travesty? I don’t know much, but I know a dry game is a dull game.

On a positive note, the stadium was awesome and probably captivated me more than the footballers. I spent most of time marvelling at the architecture and trying to work out how the roof shuts and asking Steve how HE thought the roof shuts, only to be met with eyes cast to heaven followed closely by stern glares. I unfortunately missed Michael Owens’ (apparently rather good) goal as at the time I was rummaging through my bag looking for my phone (or trying to find my lip gloss one or the other). There were no helpful replays, or large indexes to show me what number meant who, and I only worked out that Michael Owen was number 10 by the 88th minute.

The highlight of the game for me was when one of the Israeli players went down in a rather harsh tackle, and the physio came running onto the pitch with some kit of one kind or another- presumably a sponge and some cold water. The physio in question wasn’t as you’d expect, buff, toned and ‘body-is-a-temple-ish’ but rather very porky with larger breasts than mine. Much larger. Simply by running across the pitch he managed to rouse the crowd into a heartfelt rendition of ‘who ate all the pies’ and ‘you fat bastard, you fat bastard’. I laughed, and then I inwardly ticked myself off as I thought that having 40,000 odd people laughing in your face might not be very pleasant.

Shortly after this half time was upon us, and so was the rush to get ‘refreshments’. For me, this meant gazing in horror at the obscenely overpriced selection of crap on offer. Pie and a tea- £8, Sausage roll and a coke £6, sweaty pizza slice, £5. Even I could see this was not a good deal and so back to our seats for the 2nd half.

I don’t think I’ll ever truly get football. By the 80th minute, England were 3-0 up. A good thing you would think. But rather than bask in reflective glory at the surprisingly decent efforts of the team (given how infrequent this appears to be), or wait til the final whistle to give them a cheer, half the crowd were pegging it out of the stadium, like ants from a nest which has had boiling water poured into it.

Again, I asked Steve why they were doing this. He said to avoid getting caught up in the madness of trying to leave. All very well and good, but the 15 minutes you stand to miss including injury time, probably equates to something like £8 per person based on ticket price. What a waste of money. Why rave about ‘supporting your country’ when you can’t even stomach some moderate inconvenience and a minor queue. Pathetic I thought as we sat until the final whistle was blown

What a stupid mistake.

Turns out the ‘premature leavers’ had a very good point and after 45 minutes of queuing for a train, I rather wished we’d abandoned ship around the 80th minute. Rather strangely (and no doubt due to time elapsed since last alcoholic intake) the crowd were sedate and quiet, shuffling along, talking quietly, not so much as a cheer. Is this what has become of the football fans? At one point the queue passed by a road-digger and I even said to Steve ‘I wish someone would drunkenly try and climb on that and drive it’….did they? No.

Apparently my ticket stub could be flogged on eBay for a tenner… presumably for some geek’s scrapbook.

Next time I get offered tickets to go and see England play, I think I’ll be passing. I’d rather go to Wembley for something worthwhile, like a guided tour of how the roof closes. Now that’s something I’d like to know about.

Christmas by the seaside

2007-09-06T14:29:00.000Z

It’s September and so the most obvious thing to turn our thoughts to is Christmas. Well, isn’t it? No, of course not. But if we were retailers or working on Christmas related campaigns we’d already be obsessing about the intricacies of trees and decorations and the number of cards to stock. Thank god we’re not.

So why have I got Christmas on the brain? Is it the yearly e-mail which pings around the office telling you the opening days over the festive season, combined with a light but very heartfelt threat that some people must be around to man the phones, prompting the crazy rush to print and complete holiday forms? No. Is it the text message from my dad telling me that the Christmas Derbyshire cottage has been booked ‘If we happen to be around?’ (which would of course mean spending half our festive season sitting in a car on the motorway when we could be in Spain). No.

The reason I’m thinking about Christmas today is because I was reminiscing with my housemate about her time spent in Brighton organising a (not to be named but I’m sure you can guess) local Brighton paper’s Christmas grotto in Churchill Square shopping centre.

The process went something like this:

September- Begin recruitment of elves (x 18 approximately) and Father Christmases (x8) – Elves should ideally be attractive, young and fit into the pre-ordered elves outfits (although must be careful not to breach any discrimination laws- too ugly? Get out of town. Too fat? Lose some weight lard arse) Santa’s should ideally have white beards, be plump and jolly and have a nice demeanour with children.

The reality of the staffing situation was slightly different however with the following recruitees:

Megalomaniac Santa

A Santa for 5 years or so years on the trot who believed it was his god given right to be Churchill Square Grotto’s one and only Santa and have a say in all matters ‘grotto’. Such was his commitment to the Santa-ing cause that he begun uninterrupted facial hair growth in February in order to have a genuine, fluffy unruly beard. I’m not entirely sure, but I imagine he was quite an angry character.

Sullied Santa

Who had a rather unfortunate aroma of stale wee and was a suspected alcoholic. This led to complaints due to him upsetting the more delicate children (whilst making the edgier kids feel right at home.)

Pervert Santa

Who had a tendency of propositioning the elves in a highly inappropriate manner, including asking them whether they would like to find sex toys in their Christmas stockings.

All in all, my friend had created a fun, happy, safe place for children where they could live out a special cherished moment in the bosom of the grotto. It was very unfortunate therefore that one such little angel found himself a little bored in the long queue to meet one of the depraved Santa’s and to bide the time decided to pick at a live wire running along the ground. It was even more unfortunate when the little darling electrocuted himself and my friend had to close down the grotto, complete with 2 hour back to back queues and hundreds of angry parents and snotty kids who were due to meet Santa, because of ‘health and safety’ reasons.

I could never begin to tell you the amount of joy Christmas in Brighton bought to me, you just can’t beat a daily influx of emails entitled ‘Trouble with the elves’ or ‘Complaint about incontinent Santa’….ahhh, those were the days.

London Grottos are no doubt a much slicker affair- you don’t find depraved Santa’s in Harrods window display, slumped against the window, taking a slash against a pine tree or handing out dildos. Mr Al Fayed would not stand for it.

Like one pea and one carrot in a pod

2007-09-04T16:26:00.001Z

Moving in together should be one of those exciting rites of passage in a relationship which both halves of a couple embrace wholeheartedly.

After being together for a total of almost 3 years, Steve and I have started to realise (with everyone getting married around us) that it might be time that we start to consider doing something grown up with our relationship, something like moving in together. So why does the very thought of sharing with a boy (or more accurately Steve make my tummy flip in a heady combination of fear and excitement? Is it the lack of female company that I’ve grown to love and rely on? Is it the prospect of having to hang up a never ending supply of formulaic black socks and boxer shorts? Or argue over toilet seats and ‘mystery pubes.’ Or is it the inevitability of nights spent on my own whilst Steve is mincing around some exotic destination with work, or just stuck behind his desk until midnight?

Moving in with Andy in Brighton never felt this way, but then I was ten years younger and had nothing to lose. We upped from our different parent’s houses and stayed in a B&B until we found somewhere to rent. And then we worried about jobs and bills and all the other stuff once we’d got settled. Now I look back at this as absolute bloody madness!

When you’re 19 you have the arrogance and naivety to believe that things will work out and a complete lack of fear regarding the consequences if they don’t. I guess this time round I’m almost 30 and feel like if it all goes tits up, life could really become quite a bind. And then there’s the practicalities of buying. I like period conversions with the pre-requisite drafts and wonky ceilings, nooks and crannies and Steve likes tasteful new builds with 30 degree static temperature all year round. I would like to live as far away from Clapham as possible, Steve would like to live in Clapham. I would like a big garden for a dog and for me to wear wellies in from time to time and Steve would prefer a decked patio where he never had to do any gardening. We’re both stubborn as hell and rubbish at compromising.

All this lack of unity sometimes makes me wonder whether we’re doing the right thing attempting to live together. Rather like making two opposing magnets sit next to each other, or cooking a vegetarian sausage on a meatie’s BBQ. I know that being with someone is all about loving each other’s differences, and I do try, but it doesn’t come that naturally to me. I have an inner innate bitch when it comes to the men in my life. I want things my way and I’m not scared to admit it. There. Isn’t that terrible. At least I have honesty on my side.

The only issue is I’ve chosen to fall in love with someone who is exactly the same. The net result is this:

Forecast: Stormy weather, excessive rainfall but with intermittent periods of bright, warm sunshine.

It’s not all bad, it’s just a little challenging at times.

Beep beep, beep beep, Yeah!

2007-09-03T10:31:00.001Z

This morning on the BBC news there was a feature on learning to drive, and more specifically, the fact that they have now increased the number of theory questions on the Highway Code from 35 to 50 and the pass rate to 85%. They made one of their roving reporters sit the test and he scored 78%, with no revision and no preparation, but with 20 years of driving experience. Not bad I thought.

Driving for me came about as naturally as the desire to pull out my teeth without anaesthetic. Like many other 17 year olds I clamoured for driving lessons for my birthday and promptly caned through a pre-booked series of 20 or so with little to no progression or skill. By the time they ran out and I questioned my instructor on whether he felt I ready for a test to be booked he told me without so much of a glimmer of humour that I probably needed to practice in-between lessons as I didn’t seem to be improving at all.

Reluctantly, my parents dug deep and we booked me up for another 20 lessons by which point I was almost 18 and was humiliated to find all my peers sailing through this little rite of passage whilst I stalled, and revved and tended to go backwards on most hill starts. To this day I’m convinced my instructor only put me forward for my test as he was sick of the sight of me and couldn’t face any more time spent with me behind the wheel. Unsurprisingly I failed. Spectacularly.

At the end of the test I overtook a parked lorry on the left hand side of the road and came head on with another car. The worst thing happened. The examiner used his breaks and I swear there was sweat on his upper lip when he scribed a big fat ‘D’ for ‘dangerous driving’ on my script. Turned out that wasn’t the only D I’d acquired, quite a few in fact. Enough for a very big breasted women.

I cried and wailed and my parents cast their eyes to heaven at the thought of even more expense. We re-booked my test and I increased the frequency of my lessons to twice weekly, and hence, twice as expensive. This time round things were going swimmingly until a cyclist swerved off the pavement in front of me and proceeded to wobble precariously. After the last test ended in Dukes of Hazard style, I was insistent that I should err on the side of caution so proceeded to chug along at 3 miles per hour for what seemed like the whole test. Terrified that if I’d tried to take him on the outside, I would have ended up with a death on my hands. I failed for being over cautious (and for creating a huge traffic jam in East Reading).

By this time my pride had taken quite enough of a bashing and so had my parents finances and we agreed that I was not a natural and should probably accept the fact that I was destined to be chauffeur driven by friends, taxis and the like and for the next 5 years, that’s exactly what happened.

I always thought that a move to somewhere a little quieter than Reading would help me out, so when Andy and I moved to our little flat on Bloomsbury Place in Brighton I decided the time was right.

Patient boyfriend with car- check.
Less lairy driving conditions- check.
Solvent- check.
Big lesbian driving instructor called ‘Di’- check.

I was ready to rock and roll and I bloody did (eventually). I’m not sure whether Di terrified me into learning FAST, or whether driving around Brighton was in general, a much more pleasant experience (even taking into account the hills) or whether it was my lovely boyfriend at the time patiently allowing me to drive us to Asda in the Marina or up to the racecourse, but I passed with only 2 minor faults.

To celebrate Andy let me drive on the motorway to Reading to show off my new found skills. We pulled into my parent’s driveway and I swung the car around to park it in the (extremely narrow) parking bay with my parents standing proudly at the window watching my every move.

Andy said ‘Slow down’ and we crashed into the side of the wooden fences either side. Well, ‘I’ crashed might be more accurate.

Me and cars are no good together. Me and taxis on the other hand…

People and their pets

2007-08-30T14:57:00.000Z

A scene from the animated version of 101 Dalmations which makes me laugh without fail is the one at the beginning where people are likened to their pet dogs. A fussy lady with pretentious hair struts by with an equally ludicrous poodle and an afgan hound strides past with a glamourous looking lady with long shaggy hair.

On a recent visit to see Anita's new horse Rudi, I couldn't help but be reminded of this scene and chuckle inwardly. Rudi is a rather lovely 12 year old horse, and to me he seemed slightly aloof, a little bit stand off-ish and to be honest, a little bit difficult. Anita told us he could be stubborn, didn't always behave in the way she wanted him to and at times could be a pain. At one point he dropped a half consumed pear he was quite clearly enjoying and it rolled under his next door neighbour Barney's nose who scoffed the lot, delighted with this stroke of luck. Rudi scuffed his front hoof like a raging bull looking at me indignantly trying to place blame. Less than a day later I changed some plans for dinner and Anita did the human version of hoof scuffing with me.

At one point on Sunday when she was moisturing his hoofs and lovingly rubbing suncream into his nose claiming it was prone to burning, I thought, this is one seriously high maintenance horse, and then closely afterwards.....how apt that it belongs to my friend Anita. To give Rudi his dues, he let me ride him, a total novice, and he was very calm and well behaved. Truth be told he was more interested in the picnic Dan was eating close by.

Anita isn't the only recent example of pet-a-like. Jonathan, who has been cat sitting his parents cat has been posting about how damned elusive the cat is. Funnily enough, I couldn't get hold of him for love nor money over the weekend, but maybe that's because he's busy being relationshippy. That's pretty tenuous to be fair.

So then, if my plan goes smoothly, Steve and I will, within a couple of years, have a gorgeous golden retriever puppy. Presumably this means I'll become a little bit dappier, have a tendancy to wet myself when I get excited, become a little bit more loyal and sleep and eat a whole lot more.....roll on pet time!

ps- Anita- if you read this, it takes one to know one (someone extremly high maintenance that is!)

Post op

2007-08-29T15:30:00.000Z

Well, I guess the fact I'm typing this is proof that I'm ok, live and kicking and apart from being pretty sore and extremely pissed off I can't give my boyfriend the welcome home he deserves, I'm fine.

Here's what I learnt today:

1) The smell of burning flesh is the most disgusting, wretch inducing smell I've ever experienced. I'm not sure if the fact it was my own flesh made it even worse, or a little better. All I know is Steve's crunched up nose said it all.

2) All you need for a calm and drama free 'procedure' is for your Doctor to be kind, gentle and inject a little humour as well as a little local anaesthetic. My doctor told me that I was about to lose all my dignity (something I'm pretty natural at without being in hospital). He then unveiled my stirruped legs and promptly said, 'oh, haven't you got pretty pink nails' to which Steve replied that I'd done them especially. I hadn't. Honestly.

3) Be prepared! It's a bloody good motto, so next time you see a do-gooder scout or cub give them a high five. If you know to expect a burning sensation, a large cold speculum, or a painful needle then you don't feel half as violated when it happens. Doesn't stop it hurting though.

4) Don't be startled when someone sticks a large patch on your arm, you ask what it's for and you get told it's to earth you so you don't get electrocuted. Just feel pleased that someone has thought of this on your behalf.

5) Take someone with a strong stomach who loves you unconditionally. This way no matter what happens they won't really bat an eye lid. This time I was a 'brave soldier' which made me feel proud and 12 years old all at the same time. As a result I also got lovely perfume, some hot pink Havianas and some uber cool boardies for my next diving trip.....knarly dude!

And finally,

6) Be thankful for all the people you love who took the time to send you texts and give you hugs and say all the right things, even if when you tell them it went fine they reply with:

'Damn. I was hoping for a bit more drama'.

Pre op.

2007-08-29T08:00:00.000Z

Okay, so we all know (because I've been so bloody self indulgent about it) that I'm going into hospital this morning for my operation. I say operation, when minor procedure might be more apt, but it sounds far too American for my liking. So operation it is.

Think drama, think men in masks rushing around shouting 'clear', think techy looking machines making ominous bleeps and whirring noises. And then forget all that, because the only think you really need to know about my operation when it comes to quite how degrading it is, is.....stirrups.
Men will be picturing a porn film with some kind of riding theme set in a hospital together with tightly fitting jodpers and black boots and nurses with pert breasts, tight dresses and sparkly white teeth.

Girls will be shaking their heads in recognition of the humilation and vulnerability that goes hand in hand with this monstrous creation which much surely have been devised by some sadistic man by the name of Clause Von Torturestein.

In essence this really isn't a very pleasant experience. Of course us women know our damage limitation off by heart so to avoid making a bad situation really bloody awful, we wear a dress or skirt (which- for the boys- means you can at least cover your cellulite and stretch marks whilst your lady garden is on display and on a wide screen TV close up to boot). Marvellous.

So onto how I'm feeling about this morning. The only way I can describe it is that I feel as nervous as I did the morning I sat my maths GCSE. My hands are shaking, my heart is beating so fast it feels like it might dislodge and pop out of my mouth and I can't type for toffee, or spell (but you knew that anyway). So all in the all, the mental preparation for calm and measured reasoning in order to banish anxiety.....no hope.

Liklihood of massive drama queen attack- 'fair to good' (who am I trying to kid, if I were racing in a the grand national I'd be odds on favourite), so best make that 'certain to absolutely inevitable'.

The good thing is that Steve has landed and is on a train on his way to face up to his boyfriendly duties, the bad thing is that I'm so nervous I'm not going to be able to show him how pleased I am to see him without the use of tears.

I know it'll be fine. A million people face much worse things all the time. The thing is, when it's you facing something, no matter how small, and no matter how often you put it into perspective, it's still yours to face.

God I wish I had a stunt body double.

Monster munch

2007-08-23T15:44:00.001Z

Yesterday I let my inner green eyed monster out for a damn good walk around the office. In fact he helped himself to some toast, tea and played on the Wii.

This all took place during a stilted 10 minute conversation with my half cut boyfriend who let it slip that he’d spent the evening with a female friend. One who I don’t know very well (with the one thing I do know being that she has an almighty soft spot for him).

Whilst my monster cavorted around, I sat with an almighty sulk on feeling very hard done by. Why wasn’t I the one having fun with Steve and then, he came out with this cracker (which has once again had me convinced that men and women are simply not compatible).

Not being a thicky, Steve put two and two together and realised my sulk was because of this girl. He then proceeded to offer to put her on the phone so I could have a little chat with her to put my mind at ease. Yes, he really did ask me that. I scoffed and said I hardly thought that would help matters, promptly hung up and stewed whilst my monster jumped around doing cartwheels and refusing to go away.

Now, the logic from his end was, I presume, something along the lines of:

‘if I let Ali talk to Kat she’ll be able to reassure her and make her realise that there’s nothing to be worried about’.

What Kat would be thinking would be this:

‘I’ll speak to this silly, insecure girl in an entirely condescending manner then I’ll say something pitying to Steve about how on earth he puts up with her and I’ll come out smelling of roses having the upper hand’.

Unsurprisingly this stewing lead to lots of silly emailing to my girlfriends who fuelled my monster until Sam came along and wrung its neck by telling me to stop being so damn silly and start realising that I’m very lucky to have someone who always bends over backwards for me, and generally to shut up and give him a break.

Fair enough.

God I hate being in the wrong. Think that’s the last I’ll see of the monster for a while though, especially with angry Sam around to keep me in check.

Australia.....get back in line with the right time.

2007-08-22T15:51:00.001Z

Having a long distance relationship is something I would ever knowingly enter into. Having a man who flits around the world on business, into time zones which are hardly conducive to any kind of communication (least of all clear, supportive and positive) is therefore a little testing for my patience.

Here’s the thing with Australia- it’s far too clever for it’s own good being (rather selfishly in my opinion) a whole day ahead of us. ‘Look at me with my fabulous beaches, coral reefs and thousands of miles of burnt middle bits containing nothing but nasty creepy crawlies- aren’t I clever, I’m a while day ahead of you and there’s nothing you can do about it’.

This means my communication with Steve has consisted of a jilted, awkward conversation with me at my desk around 2-3pm, and Steve hammered after a night on the tiles. Or, alternatively, a conversation at around midnight when he’s sleepy, grumpy and just woken up and I’m sleepy, grumpy, probably half cut and about to hit the sack.

It makes me think maybe it’s just better if we don’t attempt to communicate at all whilst he’s away, which would be a great idea if I didn’t miss him quite so much. Then maybe I thought texts only, but they are so immeasurably hopeless at actually saying anything. I’m getting a little bit fed up with the whole thing truth be told.

So there I was feeling really sorry for myself about my 2 weeks without my man, and I saw in my facebook feed that Laura had dedicated a love song about ‘dying to be near someone’ to her boyfriend Sam, who’s away for 6-8 months, maybe longer. And I know she’s gritting her teeth and getting on with things as best as she can.

I had a little tear in my eye when I realised that lots of people aren’t as lucky as I normally am and are forced to spend time without their loved ones. And they deal with it in a much more grown up and dignified way than I’ve managed for the last 6 days. I’m not sure if this is testament to the amount I love Steve, or how generally shit I am at being on my own.

To all those long distance relationships out there that have stood the test of time....fair play. I’m too much of an instant gratification girl.

Camping!

2007-08-20T11:03:00.001Z

Oh god, I’ve just read my entry from Friday and it was incredibly morbid. So sorry to anyone else who I reduced to tears or prompted a mild depression to begin just before the weekend. How incredibly selfish of me.

So after offloading all my morose thoughts, I set off to Whitstable with my oldest friends in the world for a spot of camping. I had of course packed totally inappropriate things and I was told during the weekend that any heels were not allowed and that hair removal of any shape or form was banned.

We arrived in Whitstable and set up our camp, which I assumed would consist of two tents, but no. My super friend Emma has done us proud with a massive wind break for privacy, a table and four chairs, a stove, saucepans, frying pans, condiments, bottle opener, can opener, washing up liquid, bowl, basically all the stuff your mum and dad would have thought about and you would take for granted.

During Friday night I took the up the challenging position of ‘the cold moaner of the group’, and ended up looking like Mrs Miggins with a pashmina wrapped around my head, nose and mouth and a towel draped over my knees. Emma took pity and offered to make me a cup of tea, “Earl Grey, or PG tips’ -something I never expected to hear during camping. And then ‘milk chocolate digestives?’ Now we’re talking!

Saturday bought with it some slightly decent weather and Emma suggested we all go crab fishing. After buying some £1 fishing lines, we sat with our ‘crab bucket’ at the end of a tiny promontory (a word I thought Emma had made up, but it seems not) and lowered down our stinky fishy bait. Thinking we were in for the long haul we got comfy and started nattering. Within seconds I could feel a little crabby tug on my line and whipped it up only to find 3 crabs doing battle for the mouldy fish. Into the bucket they went, after lots of screaming and me having to manhandle the crabs much to the girls’ disgust. In the space of ten minutes, we’d caught about 15 crabs and had to empty our bucket and let them free. To be honest, rather than encouraging our fishing we were all slightly disappointed at just how easy it had been.
Saturday night we continued the fishery theme and threw ourselves into the local spirit getting stuck into the local fruits de la mer. Delicious rock oysters with lemon, chilli and a little tabasco, local lobster, cockles, sardines, moules and cod. Between us we devoured a couple of hundred quid’s worth of the stuff and it was awesome. Oysters in particular. One chew and down the hatch.

One minor hissy fit due to the rain, one downpour as we were taking the camp down yesterday morning and one minor incident of comedy road rage on the return journey. Apart from that a lovely, laughy weekend. Just what I needed. Now I just want my boyfriend home- Laura, I salute you my angel. You’re so much braver than me.

Taking a LEEP of faith

2007-08-17T14:37:00.000Z

Things have been a little slack around these parts of late, but maybe it’s just the case that I’ve been saving all my energy for my best ever yet blog posting (and of course waiting for the grand unveiling of my sparkly new design).

I guess I’ll have to let you be the judge of that.

So then, quick re-cap. Steve flies to Australia for just over 2 weeks this afternoon. Last night I headed over to his for a fancy night out at our favourite restaurant, Chez Bruce, but the day’s events had taken their toll.

Yesterday morning I was busily typing away at my desk when my mobile phone started singing to me. It was not, for a change, one of the many repeated mistake calls from Dan, but an intriguing ‘unknown’ number. A posh voice asked me to confirm my name and then he introduced himself as my consultant, Dr Disney (this name has not been changed for comedic effect, it really is his name). We spoke about my results and he told me that he wanted me to come in for some treatment and that this treatment would be LEEP- currently the most common for cervical changes of the sort I have, CIN 3, or cervical cancer stage 0 if you will (so barely even begun).

LEEP involves passing an electrically charged loop over the lesion and effectively cutting it clean from inside you. It takes place under a local anaesthetic. This piece of skin is then used diagnostically to check to see if the cells have got any worse or whether they are happy they got all the nastiness. LEEP is 85-90% effective and can be repeated once if it’s not. After that you’ll be pretty much void of any cervix, so if you fell pregnant you’d need to have a C section. And if that doesn’t work then its hysterectomy time, partial or total, depending on your situation. But on the bright side, that’s a 90% chance I’m going to be absolutely fine.

Being Ali and being hyper neurotic, I of course had to research every dubious and ill-formed article and US chatroom and I sat and read whilst my heart sank and I felt gradually more nauseous. Talk of miscarriages, infertility, horror stories about the agony of the treatment etc etc. At this point I started to think that perhaps I ought to have insisted on having a general anaesthetic.

I left work feeling wobbly and probably even a little bit wibbly and headed to Steve’s pondering on my way whether this treatment would provoke a similar response as the last, i.e fainting and seizure. I literally turned the corner of the street saw out of the corner of my eye a red flash and realised that there was a girl lying on the floor, frothing at the mouth and have an epileptic seizure. Irony of ironies. If there is a god, I don’t know if this was a warning, or a ‘stop being so f*king self indulgent you pathetic cow!’.

Being first at the scene I went into my now fairly finely honed ER routine (don’t want to make myself sound like a freak but this is the 3rd time this year I’ve been the first at the scene of an accident and had to call 999, I swear they are a friends and family number). I phoned the ambulance, I checked her pulse, I held her head as still as I could but didn’t restrict her fitting, I checked her heart beat and I did other very important things like stroking her hair and her hands softly in case somehow she could feel reassured by my presence. I knew from the research that I had done after my recent fit that people aren’t at risk from tongue swallowing, so I didn’t force her into the recovery position. I even checked her wallet for her name and kept saying her name over and over, ‘Philippa’ ‘Philippa’ as she lapsed in and out of consciousness, glassy eyed and fixed pupils.

Ambulance arrived in no more than 5 minutes time, by which point Philippa had quite a little crowd and had come too enough to tell me she suffered from epilepsy and had frequent seizures. In a verging no out of body experience, I told the ambulance driver, ‘This is Philippa, she suffers from epilepsy. She has had a seizure lasting 2-3 minutes with full body shaking and foaming at the mouth. She had fixed unresponsive pupils for at least 2 minutes after the seizure ended’. It was at that point I realised that I watch far too much bad hospital drama.

I saw her into the ambulance, wished her luck and went on my way, feeling more than slightly freaked out.

3 hours at home, pondering over the day and waiting for Steve to get back from work so we could go out for dinner. Waiting, waiting, worrying, pacing, waiting. Worrying, waiting. Steve gets home and I’ve managed to work myself up into such a pickle that he gives me a big hug and tells me everything will be fine and I can feel myself go all stiff inside. I’m angry, but I’m not sure why. I suppose I’m angry that this is all still dragging on and I can’t see an end in sight. I’m angry that he’s leaving for Australia tomorrow and I’m going to be left pondering this horrible treatment on my own. I’m angry that our lovely evening has been spoilt because I’m feeling too upset and wobbly to enjoy a fancy dinner, and I’m refusing point blank to just say those simple words. I’m terrified.

After several attempts at cuddles, reassuring words and eye contact Steve picks up the phone, calls the restaurant and cancels the booking whilst squeezing my hand firmly. My resolve crumbles and I start to have a damn good cry and it all floods out. I feel like if someone put a little camera inside me what they would see if something black, rotten and mouldy and worst of all, dead. I am scared that if things don’t go to plan, we might never get to have children together. I ask him how he’d feel if I couldn’t have his children. He tells me that we’d just get lots of dogs instead and I cry harder. He tells me I’m being silly (of course!) and not to assume the worst. This treatment will work and in 6 months I’ll be fine. I fall asleep in a snotty mess and when I wake up, Steve’s just coming home from Tescos with a big bunch of lovely flowers and all the ingredients for spaghetti bolognaise. He pours me a glass of white wine, gets me one of his cosy hoodies and sits me down whilst he cooks, yawning quietly all the while.

We eat and sit in silence and then we hold hands tightly.

And all the fanciest things in the world could never match the calm feeling I get sitting with my Steve in quiet contemplation.

It’ll be ok.

Ohhhh, look at my fancy new get-up!

2007-08-13T16:29:00.001Z

Ohhh, look at my sparkly new home- cast your eyes to the fabulous wallpaper with dogs and aeroplanes, and shoes and handbags and lipstick. And look above this to see the lovely skylines of Brighton and London and the fancy new logo.

I have the gorgeous Mr Dave Miller to thank for this, (and the lovely Dan Corns for letting the cat out of the bag and resulting in me periodically pestering Dave for the past 2 months during his busiest time at work ever- his infrequently updated blog can testify to this). Dave, I can’t thank you enough, I love it and it’s renewed my lust for blogging. What have you done?

I have very little to say today which is mostly down to my addled brain as a result of a stupidly heavy weekend…serves me right. To give you an idea- I scored 100% on the first half of the wine tasting- the whites. I then scored 0% on the second half of the evening (the reds), I was then sick. About twenty times. Result!!!

Planet of the 'japes

2007-08-10T15:15:00.001Z

Tonight’s visit to the amusingly named ‘Planet of the Grapes’ promises to be an evening of fun, frivolity and much quaffing of wine (although I’ll be spitting the red I imagine). It’s a novel idea for a 30th birthday party event and one which I suspect will raise the bar from the usual gratuitous drinking to an evening where we might actually learn something.

The only downside I can see so far is that the evening ends in a wine tasting competition with the boys versus the girls. This means I am going to have the spend the best part of 3 hours with girls who are not technically ‘my’ friends….they are, but they are more Steve’s friends.

Also it has to be said that they are prone to temper tantrums, bickering and more than the occasional bout of bitchiness whereas I pride my girlfriends on being down to earth, grounded, stoical and not in the least bit ‘silly’. Birds of a feather an’ all.

Wine tasting fast approaching I turned my thoughts to the only other time in my life where I spent my evenings slurping wine from unmarked carafes in an attempt to label the contents 100% accurately. University.

Yes, mine was one of the only courses in the Country to include a ‘Gastronomy’ module. This meant dining on fine cheeses, and having an extensive course on New World wines from none other than The Brown Brothers.

The finale of this module was the blind tasting session, where we had to identify 10 different white wines by region, age, grape, price and probably lots more. My team did remarkably well, passed and were awarded with a lovely gold edged certificate which I keep in my ‘National Records of Achievement’ folder (the only place where something utterly pointless might live comfortably). After being awarded the certificate and being more than just a little squiffy I decided it would be a good idea to half inch some booze to take back to my housemates who were rather stupidly studying things like English, Music and History….no booze there!

I made a quick exit with what turned out to be a vintage bottle of port shoved up my top and then promptly took a tumble down the hill, smashing the bottle as I fell, and ending up looking, and stinking like a two-bit alcy.

I’m hoping to not make the same mistake again, but you never know.

Dad on the town.

2007-08-09T16:13:00.001Z

When your (recently separated from your mum) dad tells you he misses intimacy with females of his age it’s time to do something drastic.

Run under a bus, vomit into the nearest bin, take a shower and scrub yourself with bleach or….grow up and face some hard facts.

Last night, in a fairly rare exchange of telephone communication I have to admit that it took a lot of guts for my dad to tell me that he’s considering getting back ‘in the game’, and he’d like to have a relationship with another woman.

Wooah there, I thought selfishly whilst I tentatively bandied the idea that maybe, just maybe it was a little bit too soon?

“Not really” dad told me bluntly. “It has been a fair while since me and Lynn exchanged anything more than an affectionate cuddle.”

Now I’m not a selfish person, and given the circumstances surrounding my parent’s separation (i.e the fact that it was driven entirely by my mum) I think my dad is well within his rights to find himself a lovely new lady friend to spend time with. I guess the burning issue here is, when is the ‘right’ time. For dad it’s now, and in many respects that should be the end of it.

I can’t help feeling for my mum though. In many ways I still believe that her decisions to force her husband away have been driven to an extent by mental illness. I can’t help thinking that when the time comes for Dad to find a lady at the local bridge club it’s going to hit mum like a steamroller in the stomach and she’s going to realise that the man she was married to for 37 years is beyond her reach. I hope this doesn’t happen of course, but I can’t help feeling like it’s one of those things you can never prepare yourself for.

We’ve all had it, a boyfriend who you were totally over who you suddenly discover through a friend has got married, or engaged, or worse, he’s got a younger or prettier girlfriend than you. You try and pretend you don’t care. Really hard as all of a sudden something which at times, you might have quite fancied having back is gone forever. Gulp.

One of my friends has recently broken up with a girlfriend of 34 only to bag a 22 year old blonde, giggly, hair flicking girlfriend. I just know if she knew she’d be sick as a dog.

Why is it that we always want what we can’t have? The eternal question.

Abacus

2007-08-03T16:20:00.001Z

In life, things with a bad reputation are sometimes alluring. That bloke who you know is going to give you the run around and do the dirty on you, that slightly slutty looking girl who you just know forgot to put her knickers on, that piece of oozy brie creeping gradually off the plate after dinner when you’re already horribly full and…Abacus.

Never has somewhere so eternally and steadfastly awful been quite so appealing.

I’m not sure if it’s the seedy dingyness of the dance floor, the sickly sweet cocktails, the many eager investment bankers standing in small groups playing it cool when they might as well lay their cards on the table and let their tongues hang out at the procession of scantily clad, early twenty something’s strutting past like they were debuting the Parisian catwalks.

I guess it’s something of a spectator sport, and one where you know you’re always going to come out feeling so much better about yourself.

Last night I was in the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen waiting to see Zoot Woman and two men, clearly lost, wearing double breasted suits and shiny Jeffrey Wests came sauntering over to me at the bar. The uglier one asked me if I knew where Abacus was. I replied (far too quickly) ‘Cornhill, exit 5 or 7, Bank tube’ and then felt very embarrassed and slightly violated by this exposure. They looked at one another and asked if it was the kind of place they might like, and I said ‘Yes, very much so, it’s full of suits and totty and investment bankers’ to which they glanced smugly at each other and the less ugly one said ‘well, being investment bankers we’d fit right it’. And then it hit me, this is why I love going there…all the clichés and ‘labels’ are so 100% accurate all of the time.

The last time I went I was unfortunate enough to be chatted up by some dreadfully dull posh man who worked for an American tobacco company. He soon realised that I was far from the usual girl he might chat to in this venue. I think it was when I scoffed at a couple of his lines which insinuated how very well off he was, and then he said something about a hele-pad I laughed out loud. Enough is enough!

Tonight we’ll be gathering plenty of funny stories and shocking encounters…I for one, can’t wait.

Learning to be helpless

2007-08-01T16:48:00.001Z

Learned helplessness is something which I’ve always been very scathing about. Most frequently, this is terminology I associate with over pampered men, who don’t need to learn anything domestic so lose the ability to do so. It’s hardly something I’d associate with myself. And then, maybe…lets investigate.

Last night I decided it was high time I flexed my muscles and proved my (limited) prowess in the kitchen. I chose a dish, I invited some special friends and I cooked. It was easy peesy (that’s what I’m supposed to say) and yet it wasn’t at all. I missed out on half the exciting gossip and important topics as I couldn’t ear wig over that peskily noisy frying mince. I peered around the wall at any mention of key phrases (involving the use of the word ‘knob’) like some kind of kitchen based meer cat. When we’d eaten starters I had to jump up and wash up cutlery, after dinner I had to collect the plates. There were no waiters, there was no hired help. Just me. Quite frankly by the end of the evening (well 9pm) I was so knackered I could happily have fallen asleep on the sofa. The point? In just 2 short months, my housemate and general godsend has whipped up so many dinners with such ease and grace from meagre looking ingredients (abit like the A team) that I’ve forgotten that cooking and entertaining is actually hard work. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazingly rewarding when the people you love eat your food and don’t gag, but it’s Effort with a capital E. I have learned helplessness of the kitchen. I am redundant.

It struck me whilst pondering my rapid descent into needy individual, that this is not the first time this has happened. When I lived in Compton Avenue I avoided it as I was probably the most bossy and headstrong, but placed in a situation where I’m out-organised, out-bossed and generally out classed, I’m meeker than a fecking dormouse. During my 5 year relationship with the lovely Andy, I had a proper case of ‘little miss dependant’ to the point whereby when we broke up, I had no idea how to pay a credit card bill- yes, MY credit card bill. I also had no idea of my outgoings, of the cost of anything (and still don’t know the cost of anything foody to this day). Thank god Andy was a nice caring guy who just wanted to look after me and not an evil confidence trickster or I’d have been nailed, hard, to the wall.

I’ve decided it’s not an admirable personality trait. Just because someone can look after you with ease it doesn’t mean you should let them. Care taking (not the janitorial kind) should be split, and in every friendship there should be evidence of giving and taking….you shouldn’t be able to exist without each other, but not for negative reasons, for positive ones.

The long and the short of it is, I’m prepared to do battle against learned helplessness, but might just allow it to develop a little in the kitchen whilst Natalie’s around.

Back from hols....with a bump

2007-07-25T14:37:00.000Z

Being back from holiday is awful, it’s doubly awful when you have to change your gloating facebook profile from ‘ha de ha, in your faces, I’m going on holiday to, ‘I’m back and I’m peeling and miserable’.

We had a really lovely time and I have come back happy, but sporting a rather embarrassing holiday injury- a large bruise which spans the entire right cheek of my bottom. This was acquired at Benidorm water park, a collection of terrifying water slides, most of which I would have thought were stupidly tame in my youth, but now they scare the living daylights out of me.

One of them, ‘la cresta’ (yes, I should have known) was a near vertical lunge in a two seater double ‘ring’. The incline was so steep you almost felt like you were going to flip over forwards, then you went hurtling down the slide out on to an upwards sloping ski slope type affair and then backwards at high speed over various bumps until being spewed into the water pool at the bottom (minus bikini top every time).

I went on this godforsaken thing 3 times, each time the heart palpitations got worse and the final time I could barely breath I was so scared. Spurred on by Steve to ‘have fun’, off we went. Unfortunatly for me, I was badly prepared for the ride and my bottom was not elevated on the double ring, but resting on the slide. It proceeded to be hammered, torn, bashed and ripped (some people might find that erotic but I can assure you, it wasn’t) until the bottom where I limped away clutching my right cheek close to tears. It wasn’t until we got home when Steve pointed out I look like I’ve been spanked from here to timbucktoo…ouch.

What else to tell…well, the alcoholic sister and crack head didn’t make it over to Spain whilst we were there, which was a great shame. Of course it meant we were able to drink to our heart’s content….hooray.

Steve and I took the jeep out for a couple of days to explore the local area, and despite the use of a tom tom, we managed to get horribly lost and of course have a barny (this I feel is excusable as all couples have barneys when in cars, even Sam and Gavin). The argument came to a head with me getting out of the car which Steve had screeched to the side of the road and storming off down some dust track in 38 degrees heat.

Thankfully I found a nice friendly tree to have a damn good sulk under and ignored Steve’s shouts that he was going to drive off and leave me. Which of course, he did! It wasn’t til he’d driven off that I realised I had no phone, no money, no idea where I was, and appeared to be sitting on a rather large red ants nest. Brilliant. Luckily for me, 15 minutes later a lovely air conditioned Mercedes containing Steve’s mum’s boyfriend pulled up by the side of the road and the window went down to reveal ‘Jingle Jangle’ John, who simply said ‘get in the car Ali’ so I did (with my best petulant teenagers scowl on my face) and we drove home in silence. When we got there Steve called me an idiot, John told me off for wandering off in that kind of heat without any water and I had to go and ‘have a lie down’. I secretly quite enjoyed behaving like such a big old kid, but I mustn’t make a habit of it.

Back down to earth with a big old bump, reality check of my hugely increased weight- 1 stone over the last year- and I’m now a fully paid up member of my gym and a weekly regular at the aqua conditioning class where I do gentle bouncing around and leg wobbles in a pool full of pregnant people- (got to build up slowly- last time I went bonkers with 60 lengths I did my neck in!).

Whilst away I got the results of my tests, or so I thought. The lovely Lindsey texted me to say that I had a normal result, which was strange as on the day of my examination they said that I was certain to need treatment. I phoned the clinic today and it turned out that the result they sent through was a load a old tosh and not related to my biopsy at all (they took a smear without me knowing basically, the results of which were fine). This doesn’t necessarily mean the other results will be fine though, so the consultant is writing to me about that today…fingers crossed that’s all clear as well.

Enough about lady gardens…and enough rambling. Over and out! (Dan, Dave- how’s the big re-design going?)

viva espagne

2007-07-18T15:27:00.001Z

The time has come for another mini holiday. I have to say, there’s rarely been a time when I’ve been so f**king excited about going away and it’s no reflection of anything bad in life….simply the lack of sunshine in the UK.

The gods are smiling upon us for a change as neither Lara or crack head Grant are going to be in Spain when we’re there, which means both Steve and I can drink til our little hearts content and not listen to Lara’s incessant whinging and whining and self absorbedness. That’s not to say we won’t be spared a blow by blow account from ‘Jingle Jangle’ (Steve’s mum’s boyfriend so named as is ultimate chav and wears a lot of gold which makes this noise- kind of) about just how awful it’s been trying to look after her (yes, we know funnily enough we did it for 2 years when you went into hiding in Southern Spain!).

Anyway, on the upside is the fact that there’s a nice big cold pool, air conditioning, a mum who’s always so delighted to see her one fully functioning prodigal child that she has to wait on him (us) hand and foot, and a lovely sandy sun kissed beach. I’m going to get a tan if it’s the last thing I do, and I’m not going to let my Maldivian loss of skin pigment fiasco stop me.

We fly out tonight and rather than the usual ‘Ali waits getting increasingly agitated about where Steve is and why he’s running late, again!’ I’m going to make my own way to the airport, check in, go through to departures, do some gratuitous duty free shopping, get myself a McDonalds (it’s a ritual at Gatwick) and a good novel and a lovely cold white wine spritzer and put my feet up and he arrives when he arrives. Bliss. And if we don’t get to sit together on the flight as I get preferential boarding….ah well. I’ll wave at him sitting next to the screaming babies and hugely obese women from my extra leg room (and only 30 inch legs) seat.

I love going on holiday.

Moth-o-rama

2007-07-16T14:02:00.001Z

Sometimes it’s hard to take life seriously, and this weekend has been one of those times when I’ve really struggled.

Cast your minds back about 3 months or so when I had a period of obsessing over clothes moths (speaking of which- Lindsey and Natalie- I think we have them aswell). I blogged about it, I researched it, I nagged and nagged and nagged Steve about it, and what happened? I was dismissed. Over the proceeding months, the moths appeared to become more prolific and I did try to mention them as much as possible, but not too much for fear of being brandished a massive nag- which of course, I am.

So it wasn’t entirely without a hint of smugness when we discovered a veritable nest, a feeding frenzy if you will, of clothes moths on Steve’s wool trousers, circa 1997 (vintage!) from Joseph. And it wasn’t a real shock to me to find that all of Steve’s cashmere, wool and other hugely expensive natural fibre winter woollies and fine cardigans had also been feasted upon and were festooned with pupae cocoons and big gaping holes. I’m not saying I’m happy this has happened, I’m really not, but I did warn him many months ago that if he didn’t do something- this would happen, and he just didn’t listen which makes sympathy a little harder to come by.

The icing on the cake surely has to be the 2 days solid we spent this weekend trying to get rid of the little f*ckers. We washed, we sprayed insecticide (well I did, in my knickers only until I saw the label saying something about ‘hazardous substances’ and ‘full protective clothing’ at which point I realised having it dripping down my arms wasn’t ideal), we smoked the blighters with smoke devices full of killer poisons, we laid x 4 traps and we laid strips everywhere. Not to mention the good old moth balls- totally f*cking useless I hasten to add.

We lay in bed last night, pretending to relax and watch TV, but at the slightest hint of a flutter of wings, the lights were on, and we were SAS assassins leaping around the room swiping with towels and leaving no stone unturned.

I’ll keep you posted- all I can say is that we really did try to get rid of them, and if they come back- well, Steve’s going to have to move.

Aside from that we had a lovely weekend in the evenings- I had my hair done and treated myself to a couple of new dresses one of which I premiered on Saturday night for an evening with my mate Dave and a couple of Steve’s best friends. Within an hour of putting it on, it was covered in red wine- knocked over by Steve’s friend directly into my lap. I was as good humoured as I could be, but declined a trip to a bar after dinner as I resembled an axe murdered.

Steve and I are heading off to Spain on Wednesday for 5 days….a dose of sunshine and hopefully some relaxation. This of course is pending the big sister not managing to get a flight out there- she was due on one last night, but pulled her unique trick of getting hammered after checking in and being refused to board. Lets hope she doesn’t decide to travel out there with us…please god no!

The F Factor

2007-07-12T15:39:00.000Z

Today’s topic for discussion is that of ‘filth’. I know you’re probably thinking, oh god, Ali, please NO. Not more chuntering on about cleaning and Kim and Aggie and top tips for getting pesky ‘Masters of the Universe’ stickers off your cupboards which at one point belonged to your big brother.

This is filth of a very different nature. A much grittier version.

My very lovely housemates and I took to this discussion last night after it occurred to us that one key thing all men strive to discover when their mates have slept with someone is not, ‘do you like her’ or ‘are you going to see her again’ or even, ‘was it good’ but instead….‘how filthy was she?’

The high-brow ones amongst you won’t necessarily admit that this is the case, but let’s be honest, that’s what you want to know. Why? So you can gage just how jealous you ought to be about the night of passion your mate has had and exactly what you might be missing out on in your seemingly mundane sex life.

So this prompted Lindsey to ponder the question of whether she would be classed as ‘filthy’ and on a sliding filthometer, what one might have to do to be considered in this category (not that it’s a desirable category of course). We then pondered over whether a bloke might want his girlfriend to be filthy, or whether this might be only desirable on a short term basis, and become redundant when you want to start viewing the lady in your life as the potential mother of your children- then you don’t want her popping up in crotchless knickers brandishing a heinous sex toy.

So lets ‘get down’ to the nitty gritty. I want a man pole (hehe). What, men, might you class as behaviour of the ‘filth’ variety. Personally, I reassured Lindsey that all ‘filth’ is as a classification is simply a girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand it, someone who isn’t demure and coy, someone who makes some noise, who’s happy to experiment, but who also knows when to say…’well now you’re just pushing your luck, put that Swede AWAY’

Something we all excel at in all areas of life.

Men? This posting needs some thought please. If we’re to provide a ‘scale’ we need some input.

Like I give a damn

2007-07-11T10:44:00.001Z

A rarely acknowledged but absolute benefit of growing old is the ability to just not give a shit about what you look like….sometimes. Of course there are times when this theory doesn’t hold much sway such as during a chance meeting of your boyfriend’s ex, or when you know you’re going somewhere full of gorgeous, toned young 20 some-things or worse….both. Shudder.

Last night was one such occasion where I caught myself and my friends in true, ‘two fingers to the world mode’. The occasion was a sleepover at my friend Liz’s house. I walked bare feet with my trousers rolled up like a bad tourist from Skeggy from the tube as I had hot feet. I got some looks, there’s no denying it. I smiled back. Emma topped me by arriving in her pyjamas, freshly showered, soaking wet curls, makeup removed and basically ready for bed. At 7am.

We then proceeded to drive to the Thai restaurant to collect dinner where Emma marched in her PJ’s without so much as a backward glance and I inwardly chuckled at the site of her parading around in her bedclothes with no compunction. We then sat on the sofa, ate like gluttons, scoured facebook for funny pictures of old school friends. Made rude comments about said ex school mates and their sterile new builds in Reading with their generic tiles, cheap wooden flooring and MFI fitted kitchens and generally were horrible, wine quaffing, loud lairy girls. I love my bestest friends in the world. And I love getting older, and starting to not care- (although I will admit to the recent gym membership to battle the bulge- but only after I discovered I am in fact 10 stone- I would like to add that this is for ME and not for anyone else- kind of)

2007-07-10T10:46:00.001Z

The weekend. A trip to see Dad in Huddersfield. 13 hours in total side by side in the hire car. A real chance to address the burning issues of our relationship, to get to trips with the inner workings of our minds, to tackle some sticking points to, well, to play 'Yellow Car Punch'.

When I'm stuck in a car, my brain becomes devoid of any real activity apart from inane thoughts about other drivers, and the occasional spurt of dodgy song lyrics. I'm not someone who likes to natter away in a car. I'm happy to sit and watch the world go by, peer into cars we overtake and make rude comments about the drivers and ponder over what car I'd like, if I could afford to buy one.

The only other integral part of a long journey is of course the great, 'Yellow car punch' game. For those who are unfamiliar, the basic concept is that each yellow car on the road equates to one punch. Whoever spots said yellow car first is allowed to administer a punch to the other person, as hard and wherever they fancy- thighs are the best (especially during a long journey).

This is a game my brother and I used to play in the 80's when yellow cars were quite fancy and so few and far between. Nowadays, there are millions of them.

The game always starts fairly. We're both short sighted so we peer onto the horizon to try and spot an impending 'yellow'. I have the upper hand as I'm not driving so can afford to be a little more vigilant. Unfortunately, as with most games, cheating can play a part and rear its ugly little head. This weekend, cheating came in the form of some tenuous 'calls'. During some road works, I received a knuckle bashing after a JCB was spotted sitting on the side of the road, this then descended into yellow road signs and the final straw, number plates. Even I couldn't keep up with the punching. The net result of this game is: DANGER. At one point I knew it was time to call it a day when Steve was swerving around the fast lane, doing 90, trying to land one on my arm with me screaming and laughing and trying to retaliate.

Being grown up is massively overrated.

Call me!

2007-07-06T11:13:00.000Z

In life we’re rewarded for our loyalty. If it’s to our friends, we’re rewarded with love and support and fun. If it’s to a supermarket we’re rewarded with 10p off vouchers or ‘loyalty cards’ whereby we accumulate points which can be redeemed against ‘great stuff we really want’ (AKA- stuff the supermarkets have over-ordered and can’t get rid of). If we’re loyal to a particular service, such as a doctor or a hairdresser, we’re rewarded with a comforting sense of familiarity- ‘I trust this person because they know how difficult my hair can be’ (GP- it fell out when I was on antidepressants) or ‘I’ve been here since I was 10 and he knows my patient history inside out’ (hairdressers often get given the low down on all things unrelated to hair. Hi-lights take a LONG time).

This however was not the case with my mobile phone provider. Over the years I have been loyal and faithful to Vodafone. My first mobile phone was an Ericsson in 1998 and since then, every year I’ve had an upgrade, re-visited my tariffs and stuck by Vodafone’s side.

Recently however, I’ve sensed that perhaps I’m being strung along, like a desperate girlfriend whose man has started to stray. My bills have been on the up (my calculations are that over the years, I’ve earnt Vodafone around £11K) and my head has been turned by sparkly adverts from other providers promising the moon and the stars AND unlimited text messaging, all for less than half of what I’m paying now.

The icing on the cake is that my yearly upgrades have now been reduced to every 18 months, and my phone was close to knackers yard territory. Feeling unloved and taken for granted I wrote a rather emotional letter claiming that as a loyal customer I was disappointed I was being fleeced and would be taking my lovely business elsewhere. Stick that in your network.

A day later I was called by Ahmed of the client retention team. I was a little sulky and he soothed my moodiness with talk of sending me my PAC code and cancelling my contract straight away. He then gently enquired into my reasons for vodabandonment. Rather haughtily, I said that I didn’t feel very appreciated and was being taken for granted. Ahmed smoothed my ruffled feathers with talk of fancy upgrades, next day delivery, ‘top of the range’ Samsungs and various other perks. I weakened. I crumbled. I was actually grateful and excited at the prospect of nothing more than fair treatment. I now feel like someone who has taken back a cheating partner after being given a cheap bracelet from Elizabeth Duke. But for about a week, I have the best phone of all my friends and what’s more important?

A little bit of this and that...

2007-07-04T11:47:00.001Z

It’s been a while since I’ve bored you all with details of the house in Primrose Hill (not quite, but it sounds lovely doesn’t it), ok ok, Chalk Farm/Belsize Park.

Our kindly landlord Marc has employed a decorator to paint the entire place in ‘magnolia’- not great, but a damn site better than dark blue gloss. Yes, you heard right. We also have our very own handy man who pops over and takes care of bits and pieces like, oh you know- the leaky roof and dodgy electrics and other minor things like putting a lock on the toilet door. Essential of course.

The net result of this doozering is that every time we step foot inside the house, something has changed. Last night, we were almost rapturous at the lovely new bright stairs and hallway and I can’t tell you how relieved we were to have a toilet door which didn’t jam shut every time you went to the loo. Simple pleasures. This means we’re getting ever closer to the point when we can invite friends over and proudly open the front door, rather than doing so with an apologetic mumble about ‘maintenance needing to be done’. The hi-lite last night, apart from Lindsey’s red thai curry, was me, Lindsey and a rather drunk Natalie doing some undercover dumping of a variety of unwanted bits in the neighbours skip….I think this is officially know as ‘fly tipping’ but hey, it was only a few small things and the tip was full up and ready for collection anyway. We tip toed out in a little line, giggling nervously and doing lots of ‘sshshhhh’ing and looking guilty as sin. Somehow me and Nat were the first back and Lindsey was faffing around with the TV stand and then did the best mum run I have ever seen. Lots of arm flapping, not much forward propulsion. We got away with it though, and the fact that every square inch of London is covered by CCTV- not an issue, we were dressed in dark colours. It was like an episode of Spooks.

So back to me and my hormones. I think the trauma of last week has made my skin regress by ten years and I am as spotty as a pubescent teenager. Combined with massive puffy bags from broken sleep (bloody sun coming up at 4am, I ask you!) things aren’t so rosy on the appearance front. I’ll take it on the chin though, and have quite literally, several times over. No news re: results of biopsies yet but the really exciting news is that as a gesture of love, Dave and Dan have offered to revamp my blog and make it a little cooler. So watch this space. (lead in times for Dave’s normal projects tend to be around the 6 month mark, so no breath holding please).

Ali in ER shocker.

2007-07-03T13:42:00.000Z

Things have been a little slack around these parts, and I for one, am the first to admit it. Take it on the chin as it were, well, it's only me who's to blame. I do, however have a fairly good excuse which at least covers me for the weekend, if not a little longer.

What? My hospital drama! Which you all know about anyway as of course, I took the opportunity to over dramatise and milk it for all it was worth (not that I wasn't VERY close to death as I can assure you, I was- about 5 more minutes of not breathing I'd have been a gonner.

Anyway, so it goes a little something like this...(why do I now feel like singing Run DMC).

9.40am

Friday morning Steve and I head to the Sussex County in good spirits. I'm not really nervous and am feeling very together about the impending procedure.

9.50am

Am sitting with a doctor who is drawing little pictures of the procedure and talking about cancer and the number of people who would develop it if left untreated. 1 in 5 over 10 years apparently (with the 'mild' changes they think I have- so next to nothing. I start to feel a little bit anxious and my tummy starts jingling and dancing with butterflies.

10.00am.

Flat on my back, legs a kimbo in stirrups. This position is rarely so distressing (minus the stirrups of course) Steve is strongly advised to sit by my head. Apparently, it's prettier. I guess that's debatable.

10.05am

Steve gets the giggles at the close up on the TV screen. I ask the nurse to turn it off NOW. NO I don't want to see thanks very much.

10.10am.

Excruciating pain, mutters of 'hi-grade' and 'mosaic' and other words which make me realise that perhaps this is a little more serious than they had anticipated. But still not that bad. Start to feel seriously queasy, start to cry and start to squeeze Steve's hand hard and look at him with pathetic big tearful eyes. This isn't in the park and why had I not realised- I HAD been told afterall.

10.15am

End of treatment. Topped off nicely by me screaming in a warbling manner. Nurse tells me perhaps I ought to not consider having children as I'm clearly not cut out for all this. The pain is getting worse and it's all finished..

10.20

La la land. I am having a lovely dream about my friends, they are all out at a party and they are shouting me to come over and have a drink. All of a sudden I'm sucked back to reality where I'm hooked up to oxygen and my legs are in the air and a team of 5 Doctors are peering at me, asking questions like 'do you suffer from epilepsy?' 'have you ever had a fit before?' I had passed out...5 minutes.

Tearful and shaken I look at Steve who looks pretty much the same....tearful and shaken. I realise that I've created the biggest scene ever and am humiliated.

10.50

I am wheeled out through reception and many aghast faces see me looking green and horrendous and very shifty. Bet they are all REALLY looking forward to their appointments now. I pray my room was soundproofed. I am taken to the recovery room and given a lecture about how I hadn't mentally prepared and force fed ginger nuts (for a change) and sweet tea. Told I will need more treatment but because I'm a total nancy I'll be given general anaesthetic next time so as not to create such a fuss.

11.45

Allowed to leave and do so gingerly.

13.00

Arse hits sofa and doesn't leave until I go to work on Monday am...

So there we have it. High drama and proof that I'd never be cut out to be a doctor, or a surrogate mother, or a parent of any kind.

Work experience

2007-06-27T16:55:00.001Z

I remember a long time ago, more than 10 years in fact, I went to the holiday inn in Reading (the one near Caversham) to complete my week of 'work experience'. The placements were chosen at random, and despite wanting experience in a 'busy office' I found myself in the wonderful world of hoteliering- perhaps this is where my love was born (of staying in hotels and cleaning, not the two together of course).

Each day I reported in via the back entrance to my supervisor, a rough'n'ready Reading lass, probably about mid-late 20's but who might as well have been 50 to me at the time. I donned my green and white checked jumpsuit and yes, I had to clean bedrooms. I even had to do that little poncy thing with the toilet roll where it forms a neat little 'point' at the end for easy grabbing.

I learnt how to do proper nurses corners on the bedsheets, how to change a duvet cover in a time efficient manner, how to plump cushions (which Sam has since re-taught me) how to steel the chocolates that were meant for the guest's pillows and how to take longer lunchbreaks than I was supposed to. All in all, many valuable life lessons were learnt that week.

The reason I cast my mind back to these happy carefree days (ahem) is that at present we have two 'lads' in the office on work experience. I say 'lads' as everyone in the office is desperately trying to call them something PC- young people, young men, lads etc rather than children, or even worse as I did earlier....kids! Oh dear god.

Trying desperately to make them feel an integral part of the business, I felt it would be good to involve them in a mini focus group to ask their opinions some on preliminary designs done on a site we're developing aimed at kids their age (see I'm at it again, old mother Hubbard!)...rather unfortunately about sexual health. Funny, but 15 year old boys don't appear to want to talk freely about sexual health problems to a 20 something erm, woman. When I asked if they recognised a picture showing a pile of contraceptive pills one of them piped up and said, 'yeah, it's a load of e'....yes! Well, not quite- e-strogen maybe. Thank you and goodnight.

Facebook....the end of many happy relationships

2007-06-25T15:27:00.001Z

Don’t get me wrong, I love Facebook as we all do, but already in the few short months since I’ve been on it, I (and one of my best friends) have experienced the very thing which could end up bringing it to it’s knees….yes, something we all hold dear to our hearts (those of us with skeletons in our closets, dearer than others)….our privacy.

One of my bestest friends in the world, who will remain unnamed, recently battled against the potentially unfortunate end of her 14 year relationship, the culprit: Facebook. Well, that’s not 100% accurate, but the reason she got caught out for doing something a little bit silly- Facebook. It goes something like this- her and her boyfriend are on a break, they spent some time apart to mull things over (plenty to mull after 14 years) and in that mulling time, my friend decides she needs a holiday, and being temporarily single, needs a travel buddy. She asks around and her coupled up friends have already committed their meagre 20 days holiday for the next decade on various weddings, 90th birthday parties and christenings (sign of the times people). She floats the idea at work and finds a willing companion, male, aged 29, single and they get on well. Job done.

Not relishing the idea of fessing up to her pseudo-boyfriend that she has a holiday impending with another man, and knowing in her heart that it was entirely innocent, she decides to skip the truth and tell, what is in essence, a ‘white’ lie- she’s going with a girly mate from work- ok? There is no deliberate malice, merely the desire to avoid a potentially difficult and hurtful conversation when there was no need…all good. Hurrah.

Whilst holidaying, a certain ‘on a break ‘ boyfriend pops into the flat to get some bits and pieces and logs on to her PC. As ‘luck’ would have it, he looks at Facebook, and thank goodness the cookies had remembered her user name and password, so he thought he’d have a quick squizz. Well, you just would wouldn’t you! Once on there he sees the recently added friend ‘Mr X’, and the range of holiday pics featuring my friend at various tourist spots looking happy. Nothing incriminating, apart from the fact that my friend is clearly on holiday with a bloke, not the ‘girlfriend from work’ who she was supposed to be away with. He freaks, he leaves a message on the guy’s wall, telling him in NO uncertain terms what a f**king w**nker he is, and my friend is left shamefaced and well, caught red handed!

Things are fine now, and after a fair amount of humble pie and some serious smoothing over, they are back together as they should be. My friend is left feeling silly for thinking she had to lie, when in fact, the truth would have saved so much upset and we’re all cursing facebook for being so fecking transparent.

Meanwhile, I have been rated as an 8 out of 10 by some tosser I met in the pub ages ago, a friend of a friend. 8 out of 10. How DARE he.

Both of these stories I think prove, beyond reasonable doubt that Facebook ought to be treated with great care and caution.

Ouch....get that thing away from me

2007-06-19T13:55:00.000Z

One day you’re contemplating what outfit to wear to the races and the next day you’re thinking about whether or not those dodgy cells in your cervix might turn out to be something nasty. Funny how life throws a googly almost to punish you for being stupidly shallow and avoiding facing the real issues in life. I guess that’s what you call, erm, ‘getting real’.

I’m not being dramatic about my little impending hospital appointment (much) but it’s hard not to be a little bit scared when you don’t really know what to expect, apart from some poking and prodding, possible lasering, freezing, cutting and biopsying, depending on what’s erm, ‘up there’. My friend Sam, I’m sure won’t mind me saying, has gone through many a similar procedure in her time. Having had kids, I guess this is somewhat of an inevitability. I knew asking her about this would result in on thing- brutal honesty. There was talk of ‘hot lasers’ ‘hand squeezing’, ‘some bleeding’ and also I’ve heard speculation about ‘nappies’. None of these things fill me with much delight it has to be said.

The classic moment came last night when Steve and I were discussing said hospital appointment and I told him that after a biopsy or lasering or freezing, I was to become a sex free zone for a month whilst my insides sorted themselves out. He repeated the words ‘ a month’ as if it were a truly alien concept- I think he thought being the ‘hand squeezing recepticle’ was as bad as it was going to get…

I’ll keep you posted….29th June is D day if you’re interested so all positive vibes for ‘not too much abnormality’ are happily received. Sam- I know I’m being a massive girl, but godammit it’s my bits, I’m entitled!

A day at the races

2007-06-18T11:50:00.001Z

A day at the races. You’d think a classy affair, complete with glamorous outfits, pockets wedged full of crisp banknotes, champagne bottles in ice coolers by your feet, lots of polite chit chat about odds and form and the lie of the land…god to fair, damp to erm, stiff. You get the picture.

So we arrived at Sandown in our i-wags car (i-wags- insurance wives and girlfriends- AKA Steve’s work colleagues plus their girlfriends). It’s a little bit rainy, so my choice of white linen smock dress not necessarily the best, especially given the hour long journey which has left me creased beyond belief- where’s the gas powered travel iron when you need one? Being sensible and well seasoned drinkers, we decide to fill our tummies with some stodge in order to combat the early afternoon boozy wooziness, all well and good, except for my lunch consisted of several white wine spritzers….large, and some moderately picked at salad.

In we go- premier lounge, which means covered from the rain and not within spitting distance of anyone wearing jeans. It also meant the best selection of ridiculous oversized sunglasses and fake tans I have ever clapped eyes on. Not only that but I was also ‘lucky’ enough to be standing behind the ‘legend’ that is John Mccririck complete with giant cigar, purple troosers, his silly ear flaps hat and a serious case of the shakes. Of course at first I thought it was some joker in fancy dress with a spitting image rubber ‘John Mccririck’ head on until Steve pointed out demand for such a thing would be limited at best.

And so we gambled. Second race, we had a tip off on a dead cert. We should have known. A proper nag who pottered in 6th out of a line up of 7. So from then on I bet on the outsiders without a win of course and got gradually drunker and more annoyed. Steve on the other hand proceeded to bet on the favourites, winning paltry sums but at least breaking even by the end of the day. Ho hum. Through out the course of the day, Steve’s colleagues let slip about a whole host of travelling which he’d not quite got around to telling me about yet, no big deals, just a long trip to Russia and then Australia, oh, and New York early July. Having a super ambitious boyfriend is sometimes a little sad you know...I’m counting down the days till self actualisation and the opening of the dog sanctuary.A day at the races. You’d think a classy affair, complete with glamorous outfits, pockets wedged full of crisp banknotes, champagne bottles in ice coolers by your feet, lots of polite chit chat about odds and form and the lie of the land…god to fair, damp to erm, stiff. You get the picture.

So we arrived at Sandown in our i-wags car (i-wags- insurance wives and girlfriends- AKA Steve’s work colleagues plus their girlfriends). It’s a little bit rainy, so my choice of white linen smock dress not necessarily the best, especially given the hour long journey which has left me creased beyond belief- where’s the gas powered travel iron when you need one? Being sensible and well seasoned drinkers, we decide to fill our tummies with some stodge in order to combat the early afternoon boozy wooziness, all well and good, except for my lunch consisted of several white wine spritzers….large, and some moderately picked at salad.

In we go- premier lounge, which means covered from the rain and not within spitting distance of anyone wearing jeans. It also meant the best selection of ridiculous oversized sunglasses and fake tans I have ever clapped eyes on. Not only that but I was also ‘lucky’ enough to be standing behind the ‘legend’ that is John Mccririck complete with giant cigar, purple troosers, his silly ear flaps hat and a serious case of the shakes. Of course at first I thought it was some joker in fancy dress with a spitting image rubber ‘John Mccririck’ head on until Steve pointed out demand for such a thing would be limited at best.

And so we gambled. Second race, we had a tip off on a dead cert. We should have known. A proper nag who pottered in 6th out of a line up of 7. So from then on I bet on the outsiders without a win of course and got gradually drunker and more annoyed. Steve on the other hand proceeded to bet on the favourites, winning paltry sums but at least breaking even by the end of the day. Ho hum. Through out the course of the day, Steve’s colleagues let slip about a whole host of travelling which he’d not quite got around to telling me about yet, no big deals, just a long trip to Russia and then Australia, oh, and New York early July. Having a super ambitious boyfriend is sometimes a little sad you know...I’m counting down the days till self actualisation and the opening of the dog sanctuary.

Isle of Wight

2007-06-12T16:55:00.001Z

I think my lack of postings goes someway to explaining just how good the festival was. And if you could see me, my comedy tan lines would certainly demonstrate how warm and sunny it was for the entire weekend (except for the morning we left which was strangely overcast and cloudy- when does that ever happen I ask you?!).

My bags would tell you a story about my lack of sleep, and my big grin would go some way to hinting at the happy memories I now have in my memory bank.

A quick rundown as I’m so tired I can barely type (almost 30, 2 hours sleep per night in a damp tent on a rubbish air bed which was all lumpy, right next to a massive group of ‘youths’ who stayed up all night every night strumming on their guitars, and somehow managed to sustain sleep past 6.30am in a tent which, after sunrise, promptly soared to horribly uncomfortable temperatures!)

Rolling Stones- excellent. Jagger has got amazing sex appeal for a man of his age, and those hips sure can wiggle. Also, he seems devoid of the usual 40-50 something paunch which effects many men (and some much younger!). My favourite song….I can’t get no (satisfaction), a brilliant live rendition, perfectly sung and complemented by some fairly naff staging technology which propelled the whole band forward on a 100 foot extendable section of the stage so that all the audience, from front to practically the middle, were able to get at spitting distance from the great legends. Steve was so drunk he created a 10 metre square area around him because he kept falling over and treading on people’s toes. Infact, most of the time, I was secretly giving him a little push as he was teetering on the edge and went down very easily like a sack of proverbial shite and it kept me amused. Also, he made the heinous error of attempting to enter the 3 day old urinals area wearing flip flops and I don’t even need to begin to describe what happened, suffice to say that there were much oozing of raw sewage involved.

In fact, Steve provided a whole array of entertainment throughout the weekend- getting some brilliant panda eye burn marks from his Pradas- serves him right for wearing such big poser shades, and last but most certainly not least his response to our friend Rob’s question ‘What’s the funniest outfit you’ve ever worn’ where he proceeded to describe an outfit which consisted of faux leather trousers and high heels….(his REAL words) cue many many hours of howling, and crying so much I ended up with stomach cramps and an upset tummy. Just when we thought he couldn’t possibly get any more entertaining, he told us he had saved up for 6 months when he was 11 to buy a bespoke, Michael Jackson ‘Thriller’ red leather jacket, complete with the shoulder pads. We made him do a moonwalk in the tent which consisted of him walking backwards pulling a stupid face. What an absolute wally….god love him. That is what happens when you don’t have a male role model in your life and are surrounded by women for most of your life. I guess….

We had a couple of minor run-ins with the police when one of our group was taken away for questioning when the sniffer dog sat squarely by his side and looked up at him (what I thought was lovingly…it turned out it was dog-accusingly). He was out 30 minutes later, light of some pot, and having had to pull his pants down and kneel over so that the police could see if he had anything up his bottom. Lovely! He didn’t by the way….well, nothing untoward anyway.

All in all, lovely time. I did feel a little bit old, not helped by the aforementioned youths in the plot next door describing our group as ‘really cool, but VERY old’….little did they know I was attempting sleep some 2 foot away and cursing them with every swearword in the book. Cheeky sods! They were about to go to ‘uni’ (tossers) so I suppose we were a decade older, but whats a year or ten between revellers?

Oh, and the other amazing thing…Morrisey cancelled, (no great shame, horrible miserable man, with awful hair) and was replaced in the line up by…..the RED ARROWS! They were so fabulous, and I felt like I was about 10 years old, all teary eyed and full of pride (don’t ask why I have no idea!). They did some amazing stunts, some coloured smoke type things, and some low level fly-bys where it looked like they were inches away from each other….the whole festival craned their necks for 30 minutes and did the statutory ohhing and ahhing. We were even given a live link radio link up to ‘Red One’ the top flying guy, who gave us a countdown to when they were going to appear in the sky. It was one of those moments when you looked at all the boys and realised they were all re-living some child-like want to become an ‘arrow’.

Happy days! I didn’t really manage to properly embrace the ming, and did have a proper wash down every day, plus hair wash and make-up and lovely smocky type dresses….look low maintenance hippy chick even if you’re quite clearly not- that’s the key!

Photos to follow when I can locate them from other people…promise xx

IoW

2007-06-07T16:26:00.001Z

Pack-o-rama! Last night I excelled myself in the packing stakes by filling my 85 litre ruc sac with mostly shite which I won’t wear, won’t use, but makes me feel much better about the whole camping experience….like what? Well…this:

x2 pairs knee hi-boots
x1 pair green wellies
x2 pairs flip flops- one gold, one silver
x1 pair- trainers

x3 sun dresses
x3 scarves
x2 hats (one woolly, one summery)

X1 double air bed and foot pump
X1 giant tent with two sections

Plus all my clothes, which I can’t list as, well frankly, I’m too ashamed.

The weather forecast is looking, on the whole, pretty good and I’m hoping that my wellies will be redundant, apart from some flinging.

So then, time to mastermind the logistical nightmare that is transferring all this crap from Belsize Park to Clapham South. I’ll be back on Tuesday with some amusing stories from the weekend no doubt. I’m most looking forward to seeing La Winehouse (and seeing if her face really is that hairy), of course the old Rollies, and very unpopularly with Dan and Jonathan….Snow Patrol.
(Soft) Rock on!

Camping.....and some

2007-06-06T16:55:00.000Z

I have made a small number of moderately brattish demands for the camping.

1) That the sun shines for the whole weekend
2) That I have a double air bed mattress with built in pillow
3) That I have a 2 part tent with one part specifically for 'getting ready'

Not unreasonable?

I think not! More tomorrow.....bit frantic today. xxx

House of OCD....trip to Ikea.

2007-06-04T13:27:00.000Z

As I predicted, Friday night, otherwise known as ‘return from Epsom’ became a travesty of the highest order.

Throughout the day I was lucky enough to receive little gems of updates about the gambling progress and various wins along the way.

I even received a moderately coherent phone call at around 7.30pm when I was told that Steve was at Epsom train station and should be home by 8.30pm, handy given that I was due to meet him at 8pm at his and was there twiddling my thumbs.

An hour or so later I was getting bored (ish- although Big Brother was keeping me entertained!) so gave him a call, only to find he’d become dramatically more pissed (darn those booze trolleys on the trains) and was not at Clapham Junction as expected, but at Waterloo. Back in 45 mins he slurred. I grumpily accepted. Another hour passes….’Where are you? I thought you were getting on the tube an hour ago’…..and where is he? The West End, in some fancy restaurant bar having champers. Brilliant. Home in 45mins. You get the picture. An hour later. ‘Where are you’….in a cab. Another lie! In total a series of 5 drunken, heinously bad lies and a total of almost 4 hours late to meet me. And when he did, my god, I’ve rarely seen him drunker.

Result- Ali gets a lovely sparkling new black ipod docking station with amazing speakers and treated to several nice dinners out over the weekend. Bought from guilt. To be fair though my Friday night was RUINED (it matters not that I would have sat there anyway watching big brother and ugly betty….the fact remains, I was stood up!).

Tonight- the house of obsessive compulsives, plus Sam, who qualifies very nicely as she’s as OCD about cleaning as me are going on an outing to Ikea. Lindsey will be in heaven as they provide little tape measures so she can inspect the display stands are up to scratch. I will be in heaven as I can buy new sparkly things to make the place more girly and less boyish and minging and Sam will be in heaven as she is on her own as G has buggered off to New York, so needs lots of love and TLC. Hotdogs for dinner then.

Sod the DIY, it's date night....

2007-05-31T12:14:00.001Z

So, tonight I’m ditching the paintbrushes, bidding a fond farewell to the varnish, taking a step away from the steamer and spending an evening with my lovely boyfriend. Yes it’s Thursday so that means DATE night. A night spent exchanging sweet nothings, cuddling up on sofas, watching films, eating out somewhere fancy and generally enjoying each other’s company. I really ought to be cracking on with the DIY but a girl has her limits and my brown varnish hands and paint splattered hands and legs have pretty much finished me off.

Given the *limited success of previous date nights, I’m kind of hoping that this one goes smoothly, and I think adding the whole ‘I miss you because I don’t live with you anymore’ element might be a sweetener. We shall see I suppose.

Tomorrow is Epsom ladies day. I’m not going of course as I’m neither a horse lover or a lady, but Steve is. He’s taking a posse of tarted up brokers and will spend the day getting hammered on champagne, talking about insurance (YAWN) and generally being smooth (ish). I’ve come to the conclusion that he used up his charm and smoothness in the line of duty at work which is why most times when he sees me he can barely crack a smile! Or maybe it’s me…..probably the latter. I’m sure this means that by Monday I’ll have a whole host of amusing tales from my weekend.

I think tomorrow night I’m going to campaign that Lindsey and I should go and explore Hampstead and Primrose hill and see which minor celebs we can spot. We’ve already spotted a few in our local…well Lindsey has.

Over and out for now, Ali xx

The house of Obsessives Compulsives

2007-05-30T12:11:00.000Z

Last night, the ‘House of Obsessive Compulsives’ (possibly a feature length film courtesy of Miller and Shipley in the year to come) was awash with activity of the painting, cleaning, polishing, sorting, unpacking and listening to music variety. Lindsey and I worked as only girls can work (4 hours non-stop of cleaning without so much as a moan or a ‘cuppa) and have achieved miracles in the house. We now have an inhabitable kitchen within which one might cook such simple dishes as pasta and sauce (oven is still a toxic no go area…comparable to the exclusion zone in Chernobyl) a lounge where we can relax and enjoy a whole array of reality TV like the eagerly anticipated launch of Big Brother and a bathroom where I can actually wash and go to the loo….result!

Whilst I gingerly placed things on kitchen shelves, Linds looked on nervously and then secretly rearranged them behind my back- it was brilliant. All shelves are perfectly symmetrical, we have a ‘display’ unit of 3 sets of matching glasses (red wine, white wine, and martini- of course), each distanced perfectly and all sparkly. It looks great. God forbid when we actually have to use any of it. We’re not prepared for that….yet. But we’ll get there.

Next on the agenda is getting the place re-carpeted, apparently the nice man from Carpet Rite comes over and does all the measuring and then a week later, hey presto, it’s done. I’m slightly dubious but happy to be proved wrong in this regard. I have visions of drilling and upheaval and general stress and tears, measuring tapes flying everywhere, a massive scuffle between us and Mr Carpet Rite- lucky man!

Felt very strange to be waking up on my own this morning, no-one to tell about my stupid-as-usual dreams, which this morning I probably wouldn’t have mentioned as they were of the ‘don’t tell your boyfriend THAT variety…but still, it was a little bit lonely. Thank god I had Mr Tiger in bed with me to cuddle.

We're in...

2007-05-29T14:31:00.001Z

So we’re in. The big move went very smoothly in terms of getting things from a-b, helped out by two lovely chaps who loaded my stuff onto the van and then unloaded it the other end and put it all into my bedroom. Hurrah. On the downside, the house which was supposed to be ‘industrially cleaned’ (and my GOD it needed it) didn’t appear to have been cleaned at all. Hence me covered in dirt-hives all weekend and feeling nauseous about the prospect of having a wee in the toilet….I’ll have to hover…seriously.

So 3 days of pretty much solid unpacking, painting, DIY, bath and oven scrubbing, and tutting, Steve and I have something which resembles a bedroom which a girl might chose to sleep in. With the exception of the filthy, mangy carpet, I’m just about ready to take the plunge and sleep there for a night….although the call of the boyfriend with his king size bed, feather duvets and new pad is very alluring…No Ali. You must move in properly. Tonight I am being lured home with the promise of a spot of furniture polishing and some cupboard wiping. Rock on! We’ll be all settled in no time at all.

On a separate note, I was very happy to find that my freakish OCD with regards to any cleaning was matched and possibly exceeded by Lindsey’s symmetry issues. I caught her with a measuring tape measuring either side of a picture to check that it was equidistant on both sides to the nearest wall….i.e dead centre. This is brilliant as it means I can pick as much dust off the carpet as my little heart desires. She also spent 30 minutes arranging a lamp until it was at EXACTLY the right angle to the TV. It’s the “House of Obsessive Compulsives”, all I need is to encourage Steve to spend more time there…there are plenty of locks and windows to check to keep him entertained for hours. What fun we’re going to have.

Chicken Cottaging.

2007-05-24T10:39:00.001Z

Ahhh, the climax of the footballing season. Thousands and thousands of eager, nervy men flock to pubs everywhere and drank gratuitously celebrating the pink tickets that only a big final can guarantee.

Of course this man free-ness is a huge giant enormous and every other word which means ‘big’ excuse for ladies everywhere to flock together and talk about the crucial matters….the things that really keep us awake at night. How often we all get laid. Of course, loudly in a small restaurant. Always! Over a litre of cheap house wine….yes, of course. I excelled myself by eating my own dinner and then most of Sams.

Arrived home, squiffy, tired and happy. A rerun of Eastenders, The Apprentice and then some light hearted documentary about childhood anorexia later I snoozed off. In the early hours I was awoken by my unruly boyfriend phoning me and telling me he was in a cab. Some time later I became aware of some rumbling and commotion in the bedroom and then stillness. I woke up to the potent whiff of greasy chicken and chips wafting around the bedroom and no sign of boyfriend. Brilliant. I felt like the owner of some mangy cat who had proudly caught me a magpie and deposited it in the kitchen, only slightly less proud. Several hours later I discovered Steve passed out on the sofa in his pants, looking very drunk and very erm, well, dishelleved. Men!!!! This morning I discovered the offending ‘Chicken Cottage’ in the bedroom. Tonight is date night….cue arguments, bickering and recrimination. Tra la la. I’ll try not to, honest!

Anti climaxes....I hate em.

2007-05-22T11:24:00.001Z

In life in general, I’m not very good at coping with anti-climaxes. Evening plans fall through? Bah. No-one comments on my blog posts? Grrr. Eastenders promises us all death and suffering and delivers normality? Hurrumph. Dave’s egg don’t hatch….No fair! None of these things sit comfortably with me. I think I expect certain things to happen in life, and when they don’t well….why the hell not?! My disappointment that Peter hadn’t carked it in Eastenders was palpable…I pounded the pillow for goodness sake. And the empty nest on Dave’s balcony was a harsh reminder to me of how I might feel if I am unable to conceive. Baron-ness. I know the eggs were stolen by a pigeon (possibly) but that’s what it made me think. Strange eh?

I think the key to this is if I don’t expect any ‘good’ to happen, then maybe I won’t be constantly disappointed, infact, if I just didn’t anticipate or pre-empt at all and lived in a contact state of now’ness, (much like the great Eckhart Tolle recommended) I’d have more of a sense of inner peace. Don’t get me wrong, this is by no means a new revelation for me. Infact I’m always trying to teach myself not to think too much, or worry too much, and every 6 or so months, when I have a wobble, I grab my ‘power of now’ book, embrace its contents and then promptly forget them as I’m having far too much fun thinking about the future and looking forward to it.

This morning I logged into my facebook account only to find a friendship invitation from the ex-boyfriend who not so long ago sent the inappropriate text and to whom I responded that it had been hell being with him, and how could he possibly be such an arsehole to his girlfriend. The very same. Of course, not wanting to let him into my inner sanctum I ‘rejected’ his offer on Facebook. I don’t want him looking at my happy holiday shots with my new man, it would taint them. And the very idea of him being able to leave comments on my life? No thanks. I don’t give a shit what you think and I want you out of my life forever. I really hoped that when he next logged in there would be a big banner with the words ‘REJECT’ ‘You were rejected' but unfortunately after having tried it out with a friend, we discovered you get no such notification. You just get silence, as if they never saw it. Doesn’t stop me from feeling outraged that he asked though.

Some people will never get the message. F**king loser.

A hellova weekend!

2007-05-21T11:55:00.001Z

There’s a pattern developing in my life and it goes something like this…..Ali always feeling shocking on a Monday morning. Ok, so it’s fairly obvious, but I would have thought at the ‘not-so’ tender age of almost 30, I would feel rested and recuperated after my weekends, not like I’ve been dragged through every hedge in Hampton Court maze backwards. This time however, it was worth it, ohhh yes it was.

Friday night started early thanks to some kid on work experience taking out the power supply to the entire of East London, well, Hoxton and Shoreditch at the very least. Workers spilled out on to the streets in what can only be described as a carnival atmosphere and the pub tills were ringing (or not as they weren’t working) but the empty ice cream tubs were filling up with change and the numerically challenged bar maids were working hard at their mental arithmetic. At one stage I got 3 pints, a cider and a Pimms for just over £7. Thank the lord for ditzy barmaids.

Somewhere along the line, I realised that the promise of a heavy Friday evening loomed in the distance and my sensible streak kicked in, so I jumped on a train to Brighton where thankfully Anita’s cleaner let me in and I started my packing with a booze fuelled-vengeance. 3 bin liners of clothes to throw away later I realised I was running late for the pub so hastily got changed into one of the few things which hadn’t been thrown away and headed to the Crescent to meet Dave, Laura, Sam and a fleeting visit from Vic. As you’d expect with me and Sam around, our thoughts soon turned to our stomachs and we headed to the Thai Orchid on Preston Street for some dinner.

After that we headed over to Pinchos People a fairly innocuous looking tapas bar with a lovely secret…..its cocktails. By this stage, we were down to 3 and Dave sat looking somewhat bemused with his rather small and camp looking ‘challenging’ Manhattan cocktail whilst Sam waxed lyrical about flavours, and subtlety, and camomile foam, and I checked out the barmen and wondered, if single, whether I might fancy any of them. In the end, intricate facial hair put me off. It was wonderful and we whiled away several hours talking rubbish and drinking lovely drinks on a comfy leather sofa. Actually, the reality was that Sam and Dave snuggled up on the leather sofa and I sat on the hard trendy looking chair, but believe you me, I was in NO position to interject in the ongoing love-in between these two.

The night continued in an almost inevitable demise into drunken, incoherent rambling on Dave’s sofa, and when the sun came up and was showing no signs of going away, we realised it was high time we called it a night…day….whatever. My fondest memories of that evening…..Dave’s guitar- pure genius, and also, Sam and Dave telling each other how much they admired each other…..seriously cute.

Saturday morning was spent in a fuggy, muggy haze of blurriness and hungoverness. I managed against the odds to get the packing licked in a couple of hours and when I realised that Saturday night was a right-off (Brightonians….no stamina!) I jumped on the fast train to Clapham for a sedate night in The Goat. Ahem. A bottle of wine later I was steaming, and realised I’d overstepped the mark when I had spent over 30mins not with my boyfriend, but being entertained by a group of 5 scally blokes from Newcastle showing me ‘magic’. Being a girl, I love a bit of magic, and some of the tricks, including the old ‘20p in the becks bottle’ were simply awe inspiring. The fog lifted during the ‘mind reading’ trick, when I was tempted away from the pack with a particularly cheeky chappy who told me to whisper the same of a ‘secret famous person’ in his ear- which his friend would magically guess and took the opportunity to have a grope of my arse. Cue, Ali centre stage, exit right. Pronto.

Having returned to the relative ‘safety’ of my pack of drunken footie players (euuch) I once again unwittingly found myself in the middle of a most unsavoury discussion with a drunken centre back who was telling me how awfully untrusting his girlfriend was and how she controlled his life. At one point he told me that Steve was casting us angry glares and I beckoned him over to demonstrate to him how unthreatening this conversation was….at the exact point he arrived, this bloke says to him ‘how much would it cost to take your girlfriend home for the night’. Oh god….potential fight! Thankfully not as it turned out, it was an entirely innocent question, meant purely as the bloke in question wanted me to ‘talk to his girlfriend to sort her out’. I’m sure that would have gone down brilliantly and not been perceived as ATALL arseholish. Steve thankfully reacted in a grownup fashion and turned his back on us, at which point this bloke (no wonder his poor girlfriend has the trust issues) said something along the lines of ‘There are lots of reasons why I’d like to take you home, and if your boyfriend knew about them, he wouldn’t be best pleased’. Yuck. This would NEVER happen in Brighton….would it?

I pulled a face and decided to stick firmly to Steve’s side all night, which is tough when you’re really drunk and the room is spinning.

Yesterday, thank god, a chilled day in the pub followed by a home made thai red curry and watching, ‘Little Miss Sunshine’ which made me laugh and cry and is therefore brilliant.

And so we face another week my friends….roll on next weekend.

La cash machina

2007-05-18T09:33:00.000Z

Date night last night was a roaring success in many ways and a damp squib in others. The place we went to dinner, El Rincon Latino on Clapham Manor Road was very good…we over ordered tapas, ate far too much garlic and drank too much wine which led to come inevitable bickering, the topic of which was far too disgusting to share on a blog, but Sam and Lindsey (and no doubt whoever I’m out with tonight- sorry lads) will hear about it when we meet up next week and it’ll give them a damn good laugh…..no doubt Gavin will have something to say on the matter as well.

Anyway, the obvious highlight of the evening was the fact that we didn’t actually have to pay for our dinner. Well that’s not strictly true, but we did leave without paying. Basically at the end of dinner when we asked for the bill we were told that the not very trusty Barclays machine was not working and that we’d have to pay by cheque, or we could ‘run to the nearest cash point ten minutes away’. Two problems- it’s not 1994 anymore, and I actually have never ever carried a chequebook with me in my life. Infact, even in 1997 my friend Jo used to pay with a cheque book and guarantee card when we went shopping and we’d practically be spat at everytime. 2nd problem- run to a cashpoint with a belly full of tapas and wine…I think NOT!

Anyway, Steve being Steve, one of these, ‘I know my rights people’ he told them that under no circumstances would we be getting cash out for them and that it was their issue if the machine didn’t work and we shouldn’t be put out as a result of it. They stood firm and said we would ‘Need to go and get money out if we wanted to leave’ and Steve gave them his business card (very ‘professional as the card in question had been doodled on!) and told them to phone him tomorrow and he’d pay over the phone and we left. Quickly. I ran actually, and we leapt into a cab pronto.

I wonder if we caused a revolt as at the time when we made our statement, and dash for freedom they were holding about 40 diners hostage.

The weekend, horray!

2007-05-17T14:59:00.001Z

The great moving in fever is starting to hit us all, and I’m actually getting excited about re-acquainting myself with my extended wardrobe and having a chance to throw away half of my possessions, which as you know, is one of my favourite things to do. Cull cull cull cull! Any women within a mile radius of Buckingham Place on Saturday, it might be worth texting and popping over to see if there’s anything you like….if I’m feeling really generous, I might give some of Anita’s stuff away as well.

For the past 3 weeks, I’ve been wearing the same 3 pairs of jeans 10 tops, and 3 pairs of shoes (not at the same time), which I know for most men constitutes an entire wardrobe, but for me, has been like eating with my hands tied behind my back….bloody hard work. I’ve resisted the urge to buy an entirely new wardrobe, because I know I’ve got it all and some, sitting in Brighton. It has to be said though, last week I went for dinner with Steve and his mum who looked infinitely more glamourous than me in my worn a million times stuff and it did smart a little.

I don’t think my new ‘little prince’ haircut really helps me in ‘desirable’ stakes either, but I actually think it’s quite funny. Last night, we dug out Sam’s ‘worst haircut EVER’ photo, which was an interesting bowl cut, with a fringe and ‘bangs’ that have to be seen to be believed and it occurred to me, ‘that’s my haircut now!!!’. No one really disagreed, there was just some kind words of encouragement….’it’ll grow back’, that kind of thing.

Anyway, I’m so looking forward to the weekend. My last official one in Brighton. It seems scary but I’m just bang up for heading out on Friday and getting hammered (sorry Dave and Jonathan who might have to pick up the pieces- but will have a damn good laugh in the process). Bring it on! I come in peace, I bring you LOVE.

Eggs from Ebay

2007-05-16T14:59:00.000Z

I’ve been watching with great anticipation and eagerness the postings going on over at ‘lever pulled’ dreamboat’s, sorry, DAVE’s lovely new blog which has captured some of his inner innocence and softness quite beautifully in recent days. As a friend just pointed out to me, ‘it showed him in a whole new light’- not something the $%&^£ Channel 4 you bunch of F*^%g c%&*ts post captured as effectively.

Basically Dave is covering the plight of the pigeon who has laid her egg, well eggs, on a precarious ledge on the Nth floor of a rather tall purpose built block of flats. So far we’ve had high drama including ‘egg rolls from nest’ amongst others (well, actually that was it.) Last we heard Dave had intervened and placed the wayward egg back in the next alongside its brother or sister, so for the time being, all we can do is wait. I’m heading over to Dave’s on Saturday so I’ll be able to do some first hand reporting for your delight and entertainment.

Anyway, whilst on the topic of eggs and hatching, it amazed me to discover that you can actually buy fertilized eggs from ebay, which arrive the next day. Broody hens (and possibly pigeons) apparently have a spooky sixth sense and detect when an egg is a ‘good egg’ and will then happily sit on it and hatch it. I was wondering whether we might buy an egg for our pigeon and see what happens when she hatched a tiny chick, rather than a mini pigeon. It would be worth it to see the look on her face, and I think it could turn into an amazing scientific experiment as well as something we can all talk about for weeks and months to come. The chick, once hatched could be dispatched to Ant’s small plot of land where he tends to vegetables….allotment, that’s it. And could scratch around happily for the rest of its days. It’s a win win situation, surely?

http://cgi.ebay.com/12-Ringneck-Pheasant-Fertile-Eggs-to-Incubate-Hatch_W0QQitemZ320115001192QQihZ011QQcategoryZ46532QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem

Content...how boring!

2007-05-15T12:03:00.001Z

As my friend Sam once pointed out, when life is rosy and easy, then it doesn’t make for particularly interesting blogging does it? So I’m suffering from an acute case of blogging block until something amazing and blog-worthy happens.

Until then, I’m keeping a low profile! The only very dull news is that I’m moving this weekend, oh yes I am! It’s back to the basement flat armed with black bin liners and boxes and lots of will power and energy. I’m feeling quite weird about the whole affair. Having been fairly remote from Brighton for the past few months, I feel I have almost ‘got over’ the not being there- although I do miss the people quite sorely.

What’s concerning me is that I’ve now lived (on the whole) fairly happily with Steve, woken up next to him every morning and ate with him and well, he’s kept me company for the past few months and I think I’m really going to miss him. Of course, if things map out, our short term plans are to buy somewhere together, and we’re going to start looking at the beginning of 2008, which isn’t that long. In the meanwhile I have a year of fun and ‘freedom’ with my friends….but I’m wondering, am I mentally ready to settle already? Could I happily skip the friends phase? Well, yes, I suppose I could. But I think that it is going to be a good experience for me, and for us. And I’m hoping that the best part of a year apart will mean that when we do buy, we’re really excited and looking forward to doing it together, and refreshed from a year not being in each other’s pockets. I guess only time can tell….and in the interim, I’m just looking forward to having my entire wardrobe to chose from in the morning rather than the meagre selection of overwashed t-shirts and ill-thought-through sandals which have not accounted for this rainy miserable spell….grrrrr.

Slack...I know.

2007-05-11T14:58:00.001Z

Oh grrr, I’ve just typed a whole long and particularly funny blog post…honest…and I’ve gone and lost it.

In it I described the last few days and the whole debarked with Steve failing to turn up and meet me on Wednesday evening and then ignoring my calls and then turning up paraletic and unable to talk and THEN, doing a runner and getting lost in Clapham, which led to me having to put some comedy clothes on over my PJs and roam the streets of South Clapham, which, as we know is little better than Clapham North and the recent shootings.

Thankfully, Steve was bright enough to realise that a serious dose of humble pie was needed and yes, I know, I’ve been eating some recently so I guess we’re all quits. Yesterday we were back to happy normal service. He was late home, I grumbled and cooked and we watched Eastenders and discussed the increasingly brilliant plot line. And that’s that. I wish I could come up with some rock and roll posting, but life this week has been fairly sedate.

I guess today’s most exciting news is that the brilliant and beautiful Lindsey has taken on the marketing director and come up with a fairly excellent series of terms and conditions with regard to us moving in. New carpets, an industrial cleaning team, our own handy man at our beck and call and cut price rent. Whoop whoop, go Lindsey. We move in on the 26th May….

House party date after that TBC….though I won’t be dishing out details on my blog incase we get the MySpace phenomenon. Wouldn’y wan tour nice new carpets trashing now!

Trouble in Hackney.

2007-05-09T12:25:00.000Z

Last night the true extent of my recent gluttony was exposed….I am nearing double figures of weight, which is pretty impressive going seeing as last year I was a mere slip of a thing at 8 ½ stone. Steve, like a true hero waded in with the shock news that he is close to 12 ½ stone. So between us in just over a year, we’ve managed to put on almost 3 stone. Impressive weight gain which falls squarely into the ‘comfortable couple’ category. Long may it continue!

Meeting with Steve’s mum last night provided us both with a real idea of exactly what’s going on in the house of ‘addiction’ trouble, over in Hackney. It seems the new other half (and husband to be) is having no joy at all in keeping big sis on the straight and narrow, and instead after having met his future mother in law for several minutes, told her how much he’s enjoying the pub culture over in the UK and seemed genuinely shocked that big sis wasn’t able to ‘keep it together’ after a couple of drinks, and expressed concern at ‘how bad she gets, she just seems to want to drink and drink….’ No sh*t. Don't you remember where you met her?! Tsk tsk. And as if this isn't bad enough, he's fessed up to Steve's mum to having a violent streak when he drinks. And, as coincidence would have it, she spent a night in hospital having her head glued after an 'altercation', or rather, a 'nasty fall'. Ahem. It's just too sad to really put into words. And too hopeless and too everything.

Nevertheless, in the few short weeks he has been here, he’s already put plans down to buy a nice car, buy a house boat, buy a des-res in Bromley (!), become a professional chef….shame he’s got no money….oh, no, hang on a minute, he has! Hundreds of thousands of pounds at his disposal in a current account. It’s not his of course, it’s his future wifes. Brilliant. I hate to say it, but my prior assertions that maybe he did love her, and maybe he would take care of her have gone right out of the window. What I now see is someone who is prying on a vulnerable, niave and extremely desperate girl who just wants someone to love her. Unfortunately, given her current condition, the only people she attracts are those like this scumbag, who clearly doesn’t give a shit about her wellbeing, and is only in it for one thing. Let’s hope she can see that before the wedding.

In the meanwhile, despite being an athiest, I just pray that she keeps safe from harm. xxx

La Verre du Vin SVP

2007-05-08T16:34:00.000Z

Paris seems a million miles away, well, at least 350 or so.

Last night we very almost missed our Eurostar home after Steve insisted on buying another bottle of Champagne from the supermarket. Unfortunately for us, with only 45 minutes to spare and a 20 minute cab drive to Gar de Nord, the old lady in front of us in the queue decided to have a mentalist attack at the checkout, and declared, piece by piece, that ‘someone has smuggled these things into my shopping basket, they are NOT mine’ (in French of course). After off-loading her entire trolley painstakingly, whilst cursing under her breath she then had a moment of clarity and realised that ‘silly me, they are my things after all’. Even though we were very likely to miss our (non-refundable ticket) train, we still found this hilarious.

Right then, Paris.

So, on Saturday night we went to the bar where Sex and the City was filmed, if you’re ever in Paris head to the massive Kenzo store go into the building, hit 5th floor on the lift (it’s not marked, it’s far too cool for that) and enter the world of Uber Parisian posing.

Don’t expect to be smiled at, or to be spoken to in English and expect to be given the once over by everyone in turn, repeatedly. Luckily, I was feeling fairly comfortable with being a chic Londoner in this Parisien haunt, so I held my head high and strutted around as best as I could muster, which as it turned out, was pretty good.

Several Bellinis later I was propped up at the bar, being well, one can only describe oneself as ‘a right f**king twat’. I don’t know what got into me, apart from the Bellinis. At about 10pm we were shown to our dinner table, an amazing glass domed affair at the top of the building and truly a stunning place to eat…if only I hadn’t have been too drunk to appreciate it. I had a yummy lobster and crab ravioli for starters and then king Gambas for my main, and we bickered throughout the entire meal. Hurrah. Totally my fault- I didn’t think the food was very good. Infact my main was downright DULL. When we left I was so drunk I can barely remember sitting in a bar called ‘Jade’, or getting home (or apparently getting lost on the way home and crying).

At some point I smashed a glass in the bedroom and cut my foot as the room and towels were covered in blood in the morning. I called Steve a c**t for no reason and was generally an embarrassment and an idiot! I'm almost 30, it's disgraceful.

Goes without saying that an almighty slice of humble pie was eaten on Sunday morning, and I trailed around feeling very sorry for myself after several encounters with Le head in le throne. What a looser. Steve delighted in the tables being turned, and took the piss constantly for the rest of our time away, which was to be fair, well deserved.

Anyway, we did the Eiffel Tower- waste of bloody time, but the ice creams at the bottom were great. It was much nicer sitting in the sun drenched park at the bottom, watching the world go buy, eating baguettes and strawberries and listening to the little quartet clarinet, violin, flute and miscellaneous instrument who were jamming under the tree for many hours.

We then went to see Mona….felt obliged really. She has her very own wall, and really is quite small, but lovely all the same. A little shopping on the Champs Elysee and then off to dinner on the Left Bank in the Latin Quarter, place called Reminnet. Absolutely fantastic snails and some very very rare Thon (tuna). If you ever go to Paris, you must go…but you also must book as it’s one of the most popular traditional restaurants and it’s very tiny.

We managed to avoid any of the political rumblings as a result of Sarkosy being elected and on the whole had a wonderful time away….the crazy granny was just the icing on a very yummy cake.

And as if I hadn’t put on about 3 stone in the past 3 days with excessive pastry consumption, Steve and I are off to our fave haunt, Chez Bruce again tonight. Not gratuitously I hasten to add, his long suffering mum is over from Spain and it’s a belated 30th bday celebration, I’m just along for the ride. Yum. I think I am becoming a proper bonafide foody

Bonjour. Je suis in Paris

2007-05-05T13:51:00.000Z

Oui, je suis dans Paris....and do you know what is doing my head in, I want to write lots of funny stories but it isnt a qwerty keyboard; so aint no good at all for a touch typer who doesnt look at her keys......painful. Its taking me ten minutes per line.

Got to Paris fine after an early start. Steve has booked us into the resturant where Sex and the City was filmed called Kong tonight for dinner. Proper posing spot. The Time Out guide says...wear lots of labels and expect to be scrutinised! Hmmmmm, I hope the food is good. At least there will be loads to look at and laugh at....including le grand bill by the sound of it!

My GCSE french is doing me proud......un verre du vin, and prenez le premier rue a guache...hooray! Spelling is shite as ever though.

I gave in and wrote Dan V a text message today to tell him its time he started realising when hes onto a good thing and not to think about our time together with sugar coated glasses as it was the worst year of my life. I think thats fairly clear. Time to sleep off lunchtime Sancerre and then hit le tower eiffel.

Right off to eat an awesome looking tart aux framboise.

Far too much fun!

2007-05-04T14:50:00.001Z

I just don’t know where to start today I have soooo much information to pass on to you all. I’m practically on the edge of my seat and trying to type so fast, it keeps coming out like the policeman in ‘allo allo’.

I have had the most amazing 24hrs, starting off with a visit last night to Primark in Marble Arch. It was awesome, you have to have nerves of steel to spend more than 5 minutes in that place. Thankfully, it’s open til 9pm all weekday evenings, so I stupidly thought that it might be a little bit quieter and more manageable. Oh no! It was utterly rammed.

I walked in and felt my pupils dilate. My heart started to race. I looked from shelf to shelf, mentally ticking off what I had vs. what I needed.

There were boys in there pinned to the wall in terror, wide eyed and clammy looking.

Girls were marching around, swinging their circular bouncy shopping baskets ruthlessly with occasional side swipes at adjacent shoppers to prevent them getting hold of the last size 10. I fixed my desires on a little white shift dress with some embroidery at the top and started working my way through a 4 metre long rail of them, size 14, size 16, size 14, size 18….where’s the itty bitty sizes? All gone. And then….AH HA! I spotted one stray size 10 at the end of another aisle, misplaced, and I approach it, with stealth and speed, and reach to grab it and then some really molly, dowdy bird places her hand over mine, fixes her stern glare on me and says, “I put that there, don’t even THINK about taking it”…you’d have never believed it.

Realising that it was no more Mrs Nice Ali, I proceeded to barge, push and elbow my way to a basketful of fantastic goodies. It was the only way. I came out triumphant with a bag containing two pairs of shoes, (one ‘must have’ of the season, silver diamonte, leather backed gladiator sandals), two shift dresses, one black, one white, some new undies for weekend away in Paris (slutty, turquoise and black) a belt, a scarf, two t-shirts and lots more. And the total cost, £55. Afterwards I felt as if I was going through a terrible comedown, flat and tired and aching, but I’d had my Primark fix and that was the main thing.

My other AMAZING news is that by some weird coincidence, the ex-boyfriend who I told you about yesterday, yes the very same one who called me a f**king sp*stic, sent me a text today. And it wasn’t just any old text it was a text of pure genius which has kept me entertained the whole afternoon. I’m not going to protect him, he doesn’t deserve it. The text asked, in not a very roundabout way, whether I would like to don a very short skirt and knee hi boots (a la Stacey from ‘Enders) and meet him for ‘drinks and naughtiness’.

Proper full on belly laughter after initial horror and deep shock. Is he joking? He can’t be serious. Someone must have stolen his phone? Surely. So I do what any normal girl would do. I investigate. It turns out he’s living with his girlfriend, they are still together but they are going through a rocky patch, lots of arguing and it wasn’t too tough to discover that they haven’t apparently had any s*x now for 6 weeks, hence the text presumably.

I am so offended that he thinks that I am the kind of girl who would ever even consider going within a mile of him after the way he treated me. Add to that the fact that his poor girlfriend is no doubt enduring the kind of behaviour I suffered and rather than end it, he’s texting his ex’s in the vague hope one of them might turn out to be stupid enough to say yes. I’m so excited at the prospect of wiping the floor with him, but I need a little inspiration. My friends are saying arrange to meet him in a very expensive pre-booked hotel room and then of course don’t turn up and send a message through reception saying “enjoy your £250 wank you looser”. I’m not sure he’s worth the effort. Ah, my life is so much fun at times.

Of course I sent the text straight to Steve so he can have a damn good chuckle at my ex’s expense and I know he’ll just LOVE it. Perhaps I could write back and say, ‘oh, that’s such a shame, I’m just off to Paris for a dirty weekend with my boyfriend who actually does want to sh*g me, and I’ve brought some lovely new underwear and short skirts especially for the occasion’.

And finally…as if this posting hasn’t been action packed enough, I stumbled across the ANNUAL ALL SAINTS SAMPLE SALE…in caps as this is just so fucking exciting you won’t believe it. I’m not going to tell you where it was as I think that would make it less cool, although I will say it was in an unmarked, underground location at the Vibe Bar end of Brick Lane. Oh my god, one offs of the most beautiful things and torture as I only had 10 mins to look around when it really needed several hours if not more.

Suffice to say I picked up a one off prototype black top for £10, which no-one else will be wearing and it’s proper gorgeous.

Off to Paris tomorrow morning, out for Cocktails in a bar on Clapham Junction tonight. It’s all go go go. Love it.

Let's bowl, Let's bowl!

2007-05-03T14:42:00.000Z

Last night, we bowled. And it was really fun, and I enjoyed myself. I took on my random ‘right handed bowling despite being a left hander’ and managed to get 3 strikes….yes 3! The rest ended up in the gutter, but who cares; let’s focus on the glory moments.

It has to be said, I have been slightly apprehensive about bowling in recent years and this is probably, well, certainly, down to a little incident I had with my ex boyfriend, affectionately known as Danny V.

One lovely weekend during our tumultuous relationship we visited Coventry to see some of his old university friends. In total 3 couples. The Sunday was rainy and overcast so we decided to go bowling to pass the time. Bowling, in our couples in a little competition seemed a light hearted and fun thing to do, so off we went. Me and Danny V against the world.

From then, my memories are a little fuzzy and clouded due to my extreme anger. Being a left hander, and a confused one at that, I was bowling with a different hand each time, just to mix it up a little. My first few bowls were pretty good, I knocked down a few pins and at one point even picked up a spare. Then it came to Dan’s turn. He whizzed up the erm ‘path’, and powered the ball down the alley with an expect flick of the wrist, completed by a gay and rather jaunty little flicked up leg, kind of crossed over the other one at the back. You’ve watched King Pin, you know what I’m on about.

Strike one! We’re in the lead. Jubilation, hi-fives and happy beaming smiles. It’s then that Danny V drops into conversation that he was in fact ‘Under Fifteens County Bowling Champion’ for East Sussex. No wonder he was keen to go bowling, bloody show off. I felt quite proud in a way, and it was nice to be on the winning team. The only slight problem being that the ‘winning’ part, depended partly on me, keeping our end up.

Unfortunately, it turned out my bowling was sporadic at best and the more under pressure I felt, the worse I became, until eventually I was sidling up the alley, red faced, slumped shoulders and dejectedly dumping my ball on the lane and watching it gradually mooch along to it’s inevitable conclusion, the gutter. I really wasn’t having any fun at all. And then, something happened. I turned around and saw Dan’s cheeks, flushed with anger, and all of a sudden he lost it. Big time.

He shouted at the top of his voice, in the megabowl, at around 2.35pm, surrounded by 11years old….

’"Ali, you’re a f**king sp*stic!!!!"

I don’t think I need to continue this posting, or comment, but all I need to say is that the relationship ground to a swift halt soon after. And I wasn’t the one in tears. Loser.

Wedding...shocker.

2007-05-02T13:36:00.001Z

***NEWSFLASH***

More for my personal ‘release’ than because anyone’s at all interested, but I’ve just spoken to Steve and it seems there’s been a ‘dramatic’ change of events.

Well, drama might be overselling it somewhat, but basically, Steve spoke to his mum, who’s spoken to Lara and it seems that the concept of staying clean for a year before getting married has gone right out of the window….in that they are getting married….in August, this year.

Steve’s mum, as you’d expect, has booked a flight to come over and try and dissuade her from going through with it. Considering they’ve been hammered pretty much since the minute they landed, they aren’t in the best frame of mind to be making such a decision, and equally, clearly aren’t going to help each other with their addictions. He’s obviously only with her for her money and was hankering to get a ring on her finger the second he got wind of how much she’s worth. And unfortunately, she’s too naïve and silly to see through it and question that he doesn’t appear to have her best interests at heart.

So, the dilemma we face is that if she goes through with it, do we go? Do we attend this (I hate to say it, but) mockery of a wedding, between two people who have known each other 5 months and spent most of that inebriated or threatening to kill one another, or running away with each others credit cards, or getting arrested. I don’t want to stand and hear them repeat vows which are meaningless, and try as I might I can’t see this as anything other than an additional complication in the grand scheme of Lara’s life. She’s always been desperate for a man in her life, and she wants children, but she needs to face facts that until she’s a little bit better, she’s simply not in the position to be a part of a positive, constructive relationship. Clinging to this in the vain hope that it will work out is deluded. Am I being mean? I just feel angry that once more, through her lack of thought and reason, she’s causing more worry and heartache to her long suffering family.

Grrrrrr.

It's a cute infestation...honest!

2007-05-02T09:54:00.000Z

Last night I went out and it's fair to say I got a leeeeeetle bit drunk.

I arrived home to find Steve in his suit in the kitchen, clasping a burger, (so I knew he was similarly tanked) and Andrew, his lodger, in his bed gear. They were both staring at the kitchen floor in silence. At first I thought maybe they were in the midst of an arguement but it turns out, the reason they were stood there is because Andrew had spotted a mouse.

To be honest, I'm not an overly squeamish girl, and mice don't upset me in the slightest. Unless they are eating my food, which is never a good thing for anyone to do, man or beast. I told them that all we had to do was move all of the food in the bottom cupboards up to the top ones, give them a decent bleach/clean, and then get some little mice traps to catch the cute little blighters. Steve looked at me with big drunk sad eyes and asked what we'd do with them when we caught them, and, noting his distress, I told him we'd release them in small nuclear family groups (how do you sex mice? ) onto the common where they could frolic and play and mate and eat cheese to their hearts content.

So we discussed the options of catching them. Andrew said that these days, traps don’t necessarily contain poison but instead entice them into a little box with some cheese like in the cartoons (a ‘mouse house’ if you will). Alternatively you can get ones with super sticky sheets of paper which they literally stick to. I’m not a fan of this idea as for me it’s like making a mice live out a nightmare. You know the ones when something awful is happening and you try and run, and can’t. I’m not putting them through that. At least with ‘the little box’ you can put something cosy in there so that after they eat the cheese they can have a little snooze before their release.

I can tell what’s going to happen. We’re going to end up with Milly, Molly, Martin, Melvin, Morris, Mini and Morticia the mice, with their own room in the flat. It’ll be mouse friendly, with a bed made of cheese and lots of tiny brushes for whisker grooming, and tiny wheels to spin around for exercise and, well, you get the picture.

And then we can just open the flat up as a nature reserve and people can come and marvel at the moths and the mice and all of nature’s wonderful creatures. Ah-men.

Over dinner talk

2007-05-01T15:14:00.001Z

Last night us ladies went out and did what ladies do best, eat loads of curry (it’s amazing how we can scoff when there’s no men around and we don’t have to pretend to be demure- Gavin has seen this dark side on more than one occasion I suspect).

During our curry munch-athon we caught up at great gusto, trying to cover off as many topics as possible in between bites of chicken and mouthfuls of rice. The most striking conversation for me was a dilemma one of our mates is going through at the moment, namely, she has picked up an STI from someone and really doesn’t know who. As Lindsey pointed out, ‘it could be anyone’ which prompted me to spit out a piece of my poppadum (it wasn’t meant THAT way) but she had a point. The thing with the STI in question is that you really wouldn’t know you had it, until you were tested. Just so happened one of her ex’s notified her that he had this affliction and accused her of being the infector. Outrageous. The thing is, he had the symptoms so was likely to have had it for longer, hence, HE was the infector (this may well be tenuous, but us girls stick together you know).

Anyway, what got me pondering was if I was in this position, how would I feel about the prospect of phoning around my ex’s and telling them about this rather delicate situation. How on earth is it best coped with?

The ‘You f**king f**ker approach’

‘I thought you ought to know you are diseased and have in turn poisoned me with your germs, you are the scum of the earth”

The ‘hands-up- approach

‘It turns out I seem to have Chlamydia and therefore, I’m afraid there’s a fairly strong chance that you have as well. Sorry old chap.

The ‘sitting on the fence approach’

‘I’m just phoning to tell you that I have this STI, I’m not sure how I got it, or who gave it to who, but it seems reasonable enough to suspect that you might have it also, so you’d better get checked just in case.’

The gutless approach (best administered by a text- even better if the text is sent anon)

‘I Think you’ve got Chlamydia, why? Because I have. Get checked.’

My favourite is the top one, but I know, faced with this situation (because this REALLY is a friend, and not me, honest….I’d tell you) I’d take the easy, softy, namby pamby route and hope that it wasn’t me. I guess the moral of the story here is, you never know what people have been up to and with whom, so the best bet, whatever kind of relationship or otherwise, is get checked regularly…you’re probably saving yourself a whole load of admin in the long run. I know we hate to think it, but people do cheat on each other….and men, are. Well. Men.

My family.

2007-04-30T13:25:00.000Z

It has to be said, family visits for me aren’t like what I imagine other people’s family visits to be. Mine are sedate and tense and often a little bit forced. As much as I love to see and spend time with my family, when I leave, I always feel a slight sense of relief and the funny thing is, I suspect they do also. Does anyone else have this? My friend Anita always has a blast with her parents when they go away…well, always might be a tad of an exaggeration, but they often sit up drinking together, exchanging stories and having a chuckle (as long as pre-marital sex isn’t mentioned, or politics).

With my lot, I suppose most of this boils down to the fact that my parents and my family in general simply aren’t that chilled out. In fact, my mum looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps most of the time, with little flushed cheeks and a terrified glint in her eye. This means that when we talk I often avoid looking her in the eye not because I’m feeling guilty, but because with mum, I can see behind the little tight forced smiles and pursed lips and clammy hands and see someone struggling terribly with mental illness. And if I look her in the eye, well, I might just burst into tears.

So, the net result of time with my parents is a mixture of sadness…it’s quite tough to get your head around parents who yo-yo between togetherness and separation every few months, and worry, that things just aren’t as they should be. On the upside, mum and dad are at the moment, travelling to the Isles of Scilly together for mum’s 60th bday treat, and so I suppose that’s a massive positive. I just hope things can continue on an even keel for a while.

The family visit pretty much dominated the entire weekend, but Steve and I had a nice evening together last night…me watching Thelma and Louise in bed and him in an entirely separate room watching the football highlights. I think I have finally grasped the concept of cohabitation…space. This is going to be a steep learning curve for us as for the next month, I have officially moved in- yes my season ticket has expired, I’m skint and I hate going on the trains. I’m allergic to them now. This means I have an Ali drawer in the cupboard, plus about 6 inches of space inside the wardrobe and room in the shoe rack for a couple of pairs of shoes (into which I have fitted 7 pairs). It also means I have to be a good and dutiful girlfriend as I’m staying rent free, which opens me up for all kinds of violations and unfair demands….I’ll keep you posted.

I was highly amused to see over on Jonathan’s blog, news of the evening we all spent at the snapper. He claims to have some photos of me and Anita (well, claims isn’t really true, he has got them I’ve seen them) looking like ‘Harridans’ which to be fair is probably a little too kind. We look like hags. Go on J, publish them, lets have a damn good laugh at my expense…if you can’t do that, then what’s the point! I know I’m gorgeous, sometimes, not in the morning, or in photos, or during/after exercise, or in my summer clothes, or most of the time.

Goodness gracious me.

2007-04-27T09:26:00.000Z

Yesterday I briefly outlined a small issue I had with a radio I’d ordered from Tesco’s online. Today, I realise that online shopping has not been my friend on several occasions in the last week.

As I’ve mentioned it’s my mum’s 60th this weekend, and being typically mum-like, she has been trickling through a steady list of birthday requests since about mid February. She doesn’t do it like a normal person; instead, she assigns gifts to people, based on the perceived value of the present she thinks they ought to buy.

So for example, the initial list was something like this:

Steve: Can Steve please buy me Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits (this was sent by text to me…..at the time he hadn’t even considered buying her a present!)
Alison and Stephen- I would like a light box for my SAD. Here’s a link on Amazon to a model I’m interested in (we subsequently got one from ebay for £20, as good as new, but she’s not to know that it didn’t cost £200 like the rip-off ones on Amazon)
Pete (my dad)- I would like a gold bracelet.

Then, following this list, I received additional requests such as a portable FM radio (the monster which arrived yesterday….not portable and no friend of mine- thankfully Steve can pick one up on his way back from Zurich this morning), and some ‘girly things’ like make up, clothes, etc etc. So do you see where I get it from now?

Wanting to maintain some dignity, Steve refused to go into a shop and buy Dolly Parton, so I pottered to HMV to find that it was £12.95. Seriously. Dolly Parton- premium rate. I tsk tsk’ed at this and promptly ordered it from CD-wow for £6.95. Saving me a fiver and my pride simultaneously- genius. Unfortunately, I fell at the first hurdle. I entered the wrong house number. I created a hybrid of all of my Brighton addresses and asked for it to be delivered to my old house number but my new street. Realising my error, I told the ‘help’ email, who said to me that my order had been dispatched and I’d have to knock at number 36 to ask for it. Which I’ve done, several times. I think it’s an empty flat, or they’ve seen me coming and are terrified after receiving the ‘hatemail’ (in the form of Dolly Parton) and have gone on high alert.

So now it’s going to be too late to give mum the CD and I think I’m going to have to write an excruciatingly embarrassing letter to no 36, telling them that they have received a delivery by mistake, and could they find it in their hearts to post it at no. 43.

I’m taking a break from online shopping, with the exception of ASOS which does lovely cheap shoes.

Last night I had an emotional evening at the Red Snapper. Emotional for many reasons. I was with my lovely friends (and Dave was being a chatterbox, which was awesome), I was in my spiritual home, and I was sitting back to back with a married man and his wife, with whom I happened to have a night of erm ‘passion’, well fumbling (and I know, I know, it’s despicable and disgusting and against everything I stand for and if I said he was, at the time, separated from his wife, you’d just raise your eyebrows). The worst of it was that he only bloody told his wife after it happened. So there we were, having a fab meal, and in the back of my mind I could visualise her marching over, picking me up by my ears and kneeing me in the groin. At one point I went to the toilet and once inside, heard the door open to the toilets and when I emerged, there he was. Very subtle, I’m sure his wife wasn’t paying attention and didn’t even notice him hot footing it after me. He grabbed me and gave me a hug, said I looked fabulous (in his best and most camp voice), I squirmed and blushed and excused myself. But that wasn’t the worst of it. When they left, he made a point of kissing me goodbye AND saying that my hair looked exactly like Kate (his wife who was hovering nearby)…..let the ground open up and swallow me whole.

That’s the downside of the local restaurants. The locals. Roll on the weekend. Dave can we please have more touching tales…how about one about Tina? Jonathan…I’m looking forward to seeing that gorgeous shot of me and Anita on your blog. That’ll get em’ flocking.

A couple of minor annoyances

2007-04-26T16:19:00.000Z

Two small things which have amused and annoyed me today in equal measure (but had it not have been for the happy mood, they would both have really grated).

1)

Natwest Bank have introduced a gift card. What? I hear you ask? A gift card? What possible use would anyone have for such a thing? What gifts can you buy at Natwest? And the answer is simple. None. There’s no use for this card at all, they are an absolute fucking joke and yet another way for banks like Natwest to fleece people of their hard earned cash. The leaflet says, ‘Give them the perfect present… every time’. If I got given one of these I would be horrified. It’s only marginally better than a Boots gift card. At least with that I can buy functional things like Tampax, or razors to shave my legs.

So let’s examine the card a little. The card can be charged with cash and used as a Visa card in the UK or anywhere abroad where they accept credit cards….so, some might say, the card bears some resemblance to money. The card can be charged with anything from £10 to £250. Halle-fuckin-lujah. The card has many benefits, such as these.

Available in a choice of 4 different colours. And there you were beginning to question the point of the card….shame on you.

The card is ‘an attractive alternative to giving cash’…because we all love more plastic in our wallets, and not wads of notes.

That’s it. I know you must be clamouring to get one, but I must point out, there is a catch. Yes, there is a ‘nominal’ charge of £3 to charge the card.

To surmise. If you’re so f**king lazy that you can’t be arsed to choose a thoughtful present this card might come in helpful, or you could just give them a £10 to buy a CD and save yourself £3 whilst at the same time, sticking two fingers up to Natwest. There, rant over.

2)

Online shopping. I thought the best way to get my mum her wish list for her 60th birthday was some online shopping at Tesco’s who as you know are trying to takeover the world. Mum, being mum, wanted a portable FM radio, so she could lie in bed when she wakes up early and listen to the radio, rather than waking dad up when they are on holiday. And this does make sense. So I found a portable FM radio, paid up (including an extortionate delivery fee of £4.95!) and waited for the hard work to be done on my behalf.

The radio arrived today, and despite being Sony, I fear it was made in 1982. It would only be portable if you fashioned some kind of pulley/winch system and it certainly ain’t handbag friendly. I laughed when I saw it, it’s the least cool thing ever, and even my mum would scoff at it if she saw it. You expect to get newfangled, top-of-the-range stuff from your kids, not old shite like that.

Ok, so I should have looked at the dimensions 22” by 48” might have been a giveaway, but I didn’t, I looked at the picture only. So now I have this stupid retro FM radio with no home. If I choose to return it I’ll have to pay the £4.95 again, which pretty much equates to the value of the feckin thing.

Not one to sulk, I’m going to make the most of a bad situation and keep the retro radio. You never know, when we go sunbathing in Hampstead Heath or are sitting on our roof terrace some tinny tunes with bad crackly reception might be just the ticket. I’m still smiling despite these big companies trying their hardest to make me wince…

Smile, and the world smiles with you

2007-04-26T10:29:00.001Z

I’m feeling exceedingly jolly today. Perhaps this is down to the fact that I watched my favourite programme on TV last night and it was as splendidly backstabbing as ever. Or maybe it’s because we’ve found somewhere to live and apart from a couple of minor things…like not having seen it, it’s practically a done deal. It could be down to the fact that I’m excited because tonight I’m having dinner with a whole load of my favourite Brighton folk, Jonathan, Dan, Dave, Anita and Stev…but you know what’s really sad? The reason why I’m the happiest is work.

The last year I have been waking up on a Monday morning feeling bleak and hopeless and with very little will to get out of bed or to smile. For a period of many weeks, Steve and I used to argue terribly on a Monday morning, and it never really clicked until now why. Because I dreaded getting up and going to work, and there can be no worse feeling in the world. This made me short tempered and tense and ratty and basically a massive bitch. Now I’m sleeping through the night (I sound like a small child) and waking up with a spring in my step. I might be skint as I’ve not been paid for about 7 weeks, but I’m the happiest I’ve been for probably about 3 years.

Lots of happy things seem to happen around you when you’re happy…just like when you’re miserable, you seem to be surrounded by misery. If you get dumped, ‘nothing compares to you’ gets put on loop by every radio station, if you’re feeling guilty, every song is about lying, or being found out, and every story you read is about ‘a tangled web of lies and deceit’ and ‘getting your comeuppance’. The same applies to me. I’m hearing songs like ‘Lovely day’ and ‘Love is in the air’ and ‘Celebrate good times….come on!’ and reading stories about love, and happiness against all odds. My inbox has been flooded with invites to weddings, and receptions and 30th birthday celebrations, and 60th birthday celebrations (my mum). Funny how life follows these patterns much like the seasons…come to think of it…perhaps all this is nothing to do with my work, or my friends, or my boyfriend, or finding a new place. Maybe things are good simply because the sun is shining.

Sorry to be such a nudger….actually, sod it. No I’m not sorry for being happy. I’m happy and proud of it.

The uber pad....almost

2007-04-25T13:51:00.000Z

It seems the long, and at times, horrendously depressing wait to find somewhere to live might soon be over. Yes, Lindsey sent an email at 12.47pm (not that I was clock watching) to let me and Nat (and Sam) know that the place has real potential.

It’s not a show house, gleaming and gorgeous and perfect, but it is a big, spacious, light and airy Victorian conversion, set over 3 floors, has a roof terrace, has views from said roof terrace of Hampstead Heath, is ten minutes walk from both Hampstead Heath and Camden Lock, a 20 minute bike ride into work for both Lindsey and I, 8 minutes walk from the nearest Northern line stop and if Foxtons had it on their books, it would cost in the region of £500-600 a week (although the landlord would only see £1.97 of that). The beauty of it is, as we’re going to be privately renting it directly from the landlord, we can afford it. Infact, we can afford it and still have pocket money for frequent shopping, partying and eating out. Thank the lord, hallelujah, etc etc.

Of course there’s the minor point that neither Nat nor I have seen it yet, but we’ll both be doing that on Friday and from then on, it should be a done deal. The place is free from mid-late May, so I’ll be doing some of my finest sweet talking and grovelling to the poor people in my life who ensure my presence, or the presence of my possessions.

Soon after we move in we’ll be planning our first house party, and we’ll expect a lovely big Brighton contingent to show up and make the most of the roof terrace and the ignoramus (spell check put that in and it made me laugh….I was trying to say gi-normous) lounge, from which Gavin can pump out tunes whilst we all mingle appreciatively. I’m moving to London. I hope I like it.

To be or not to be...

2007-04-25T11:10:00.001Z

I’m trying so hard not to get over excited today. Why? Because it’s quite possible, maybe even a little more than quite possible, that Lindsey may be visiting our new flat today. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

She’s managed to get her appointment moved forward and at 11am, she’s heading over to Belsize Park to take a look at the potential uber pad. We know very little about the pad, apart from the fact that it’s 3 double bedrooms, a roof terrace, it’s in a very nice area of town and, most importantly, we can afford it. On the other hand, we also know that it’s been lived in by 3 smelly boys for a considerable amount of time, and that leads us to think that it could well be a little tatty around the edges…..or maybe even rotten to the core.

Basically though, at the moment, it’s our only hope. We have been hounding agents for almost 3 solid months to absolutely no avail. There are no two beds in our budget, and having increased our hunt to 3 bedrooms to incorporate the lovely Natalie, Foxtons has come back saying….’no can do on your budget….we just don’t have any 3 bedrooms that cheap’. But that is Foxtons. So now the mind games commence…me and Nat have left negotiations to the hard hitting Lindsey. We know that an offer of re-decoration is on the cards, and possibly a thorough professional clean, but will it be enough to compensate for many years of boys? We have to wait and see. The really awful thing is that Lindsey is not only taking the hard line with the potential owner…she’s taking an even harder line with us. She’s threatened that if we pester her to try and find out what it’s like, she won’t pick up her phone, or respond to texts. It’s going to be torture.

In the meanwhile, my train pass expires on Thursday, so travel ‘home’ to Brighton can only happen when it’s a strict necessity…i.e. to pack and bring more clothes to Steves. Otherwise it’s just too expensive and seeing as I’ve not been paid since I left my last job….I’m skint! What a pickle.

So, in the next hour I should know. Hopefully……she’s not that cruel.