hair today

'please stop doing that,' my art director urged earlier.
'that', he thought, was picking my cold sore. only problem with that is i don't actually have a cold sore (i do, however, suffer from them from time to time. one year, i actually had 21 of them in a row. look closely and you can see the scars!).
no, i wasn't picking my cold sore, but i was 'bothering' my top lip.
it's microhairs, you see. annoying bristles that, when i am stressed, i try and 'tweeze' with my teeth. sounds ugly and it is! i must stop. i will stop! there, a new year's resolution and it's not even xmas. i'm also not going to drink on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday for the month of January. of course i could do the 'not drinking in January' nonsense but frankly, who am i kidding and life is too short.
anyway, the whisker biting incident led my managing editor to tell us the story of her driving instructor who suffered from a medically recognised condition whereby she couldn't stop eating her own hair. i know! and not only from her head! apparently no eyebrow, lash or nasal number was safe. and let's not even think about 'downstairs'.
managing ed didn't think to ask her if she suffered from hairballs!
i would have...

bottoms up

it's party season, in case you haven't noticed (the pools of vomit everywhere and over-aggressive males should be a giveaway).
so i have been reacquainting myself with my inner john travolta. isn't it amazing how one minute you're a shy and retiring wall flower, who would much rather sip delicately on a glass of paintstripper posing as white wine than cause a fuss on the dancefloor and then suddenly, one old Madonna record and there's no holding you back. or holding me back. fortunately i'm more of a shuffler than a hands-up-for-detroit waver (my friend Jeremy turns into one of those multi-armed Hindu goddesses when he hits the floor) but i do find my footwork getting ever fancier as the night wears on and the white wine goes down.
i've also been reminding myself (as if i'd ever forgotten) that when it came to the handing out of off-switches, the Shorts were at the back of the queue, probably too busy quaffing Pomagne to notice. we just don't have them, you see.
when others are raising their hands to cover their glass lest a stranger fill them with glass/plastic cup/mouth...
luckily, i'm as disciplined as i am louche and have yet to let a hangover keep me away from work....

crossblogination

please comment on this:

www.redwoodgroup.net/content2.0

update

my father now has a facebook profile.
what is the world coming to!

well,

am currently
too fast to live
too young to die
too busy to blog.
roll on Chrimbo

pick a card, any card

I've just been looking for Christmas cards for those in my address book who live far far away, so I've had a chance to savour the Across the Miles.... section. And very lovely it is too.
You can get lovely glittery cards with robins on them to send to people who are sweltering in sunnier climes.
You can get lovely non-glittery cards with drawings of a 'cool' Father Christmas in boardies (shorts to you and I) drinking a can of beer with the heartfelt message 'Across the miles to Australia'. I picked it up. Behind it was another version that said 'across the miles to Spain'. I carried on looking but couldn't find one that said 'Across the miles to Birmingham'. Never mind, eh.
I then started looking for a card for my nan. I couldn't find one that said 'have a merry Christmas, it might be your last!' so I got one saying something about mixing all the bestests Christmases ever and making a happy wish for my lovely granny, which I'm sure she'll love – she's one of those people who chooses cards for the words and not the picture, which always meant drawings of vintage cars with a nice ditty inside.
Next to the nan and granddad cards, however, was a selection that made all of the above pale into insignificance.
Yes, next to the cards for the oldies was a selection of cards 'To the cat' and 'To the dog'. I looked and looked but 'To the spider in the bathroom' was nowhere to be found. Nor, bizarrely, was 'to my bed, thanks for a great year'. Now, I know it's better to give than receive but all I can say is that if I don't get a card back from the kitty, it's the first and last time I send her one!
And while we are on the subject of Christmas cards, my twin sister once sent a card to our parents and signed it Wendy Short.
Bless!

fancy!

now, you know how i feel about fancy dress parties.
pretty much the same way i feel about eating someone else's vomit. ie, not very enthusiastic.
i don't usually go to our work xmas parties because they are themed: wild west, jungle, members of Crossroads etc (though there is someone who always just puts a massive ear onto a leotard and adapts it to the theme - western was the western frontier – geddit - and the final frontier for space, which is so bad as to be admirable).
i shall be attending this year's shenanigans though. because the theme is casino, so all i need to do is put on a black suit, shirt and tie, and voila, instant gamer.
i won't get such a lucky escape in March, however.
no, in March the boyfriend and i are off for a weekend in the country to celebrate one of his friend's 40th.
did i mention that it will be with 12 gay men that i don't know?
in a two bedroom cottage - we have to take sleeping bags?
and that the Saturday evening is 'drag night' and that we have been christened 'the fashion girls' and must 'dress up' accordingly.
i'm currently massively in denial about the whole thing.

and... action!

‘oh my god’ that’s me!
That was my reaction the other day as I watched Notes on a Scandal on DVD – you know, the scene where Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett are sitting on Kite Hill on Hampstead Heath with runners jogging by.
When I saw the film in the cinema the same thing happened – a tall, skinnyish runner went past and I got one of those stomach rushes as I thought ‘oh wow! It’s me!’
it took me a few seconds both times to realise that had I been running on the Heath (which I do from time to time) and run past Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett, I might actually remember.
The huge film crew might also have alerted me to the fact that they were there.
Bless me!

mind your language

in a previous existence i was an english teacher (i was also a highly evolved monk and a peasant who starved to death, according to a physco, i mean psychic i once saw).
i moved to spain in 1987 and for the first four of my nine years there taught kids and adults and had great fun (for the first year i only worked for 12 hours a week yet still had money to be out every night. imagine – i sometimes do that in a day now!).
i remember classes doing pronunciation - hours spent trying to get students to hear and reproduce the difference between ship and sheep, which both cease to have any meaning and blend into each other if you repeat them too many times. As do chip and cheap and flabberghast and rubberneck (actually, i made that last pair up).
i also remember one student arguing with me that 'overcoat' was the same as 'above all' because it said so in a dictionary her grandmother had given her. bless.
one thing students found it hard to get their heads around was question tags.
you know:
you're double jointed, aren't you?
he has six fingers on each hand, doesn't he?
it's cold in here, isn't it.
then of course, they got more complicated:
if you won the lottery, you wouldn't throw me out of the house, would you?
plums were cheaper before the war on terror, weren't they?
i've been thinking how much teaching must have changed since those heady days. i expect the lessons of today are much simpler, for there now seem to be just two question tags:
u r fat, innit
its gr8 here, innit
my tailor is rich, innit
and to express interest:
'i'm training to be a brain surgeon' 'is it?'
'excuse me, but i think you are standing on my foot' 'is it?'

prepositions also seem to have gone the way of Spangles, route masters and b*witched.
no more i'm going to the park but i'm going park
can anyone get me Lynne Truss's phone number?

remind me to tell you about my lovely student Nao and how she taunted me for being boring (i actually typed boredom there, which would have made me sound very punk).

you've been sminted...

do you have one of those friends who is always 'having trouble at work'. you know, the kind where people are always horrible to them, the boss is unbearable and the work undoable?
the kind of person who is always having to leave positions because it's not working out and they can't take anymore? it's never their problem, of course, always the fault of their co-workers (hate that term!).
you finally get to the point where you want to sit them down and say, 'look, it can't ALWAYS be other people!'
i've got a couple of friends like that.
i'm actually having a bit of an 'it can't ALWAYS be everyone else' moments myself, alarmingly.
not about my job or my 'co-workers' (i mentally did that irritating waving of fingers thing there), i love my job and my colleagues (that's better).
no, my 'it's YOU!' issue is that everyone has really bad breath!
it seems i can't have an intimate(ish) conversation with anyone without thinking 'have a chewing gum / clean your teeth / go to the dentist / oh my god i'm talking to a cadaver'!
it can't be everyone else, surely. perhaps something has crawled into my nasal cavity and died.
help....

you spin me…

so, day three of not boozing. and can i just say that i feel tired and listless, even though i was in bed before 11pm and didn't actually have to get up to pee. and set the alarm for 6.20. i feel much more tired, in fact, than i do when i go to bed smashed at 1am and get up at 6. weird, huh.
and talking of weird, are you left or right? brained that is.
http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,22556281-661,00.html
find out here. it's all just a question of what way the naked lady spins (ain't it always). she was doing it any which way when i logged on – i'm obviously perfectly tuned into my practical side and my touchy feely bit too. you'll often hear me saying to one of my team 'just get a bloody move on with that f-ing page will you, there's a love, you ok over there?'.
they don't say what it means if she's not turning - you are probably dead.
which is a shame.

my schooldays were not, as the old adage would have it, the happiest days of my life. i was fat, effeminate, wore beer bottle glasses and, apparently, had a posh accent (in common as muck suburbia) – go figure.
report days were particularly grim. i remember the dread of turning the blue cover to reveal the opening page, which included not only comments from the Head and Head of year but also number of days absent. This figure was always alarmingly high and always needed adjusting. I'm not sure why but my parents never questioned the fact that term after term, whoever was responsible for totting up our days off never got it right first time.
my favourite quote (and believe me, there were many from which to choose) from one of my end of term roundups came courtesy of my games teacher. Not only did he give me an E for effort and an E for attainment, he added 'Steven has made steady progress this year despite his obvious lack of coordination'. Obvious lack of coordination! Now there's a euphemism for you.
Anyway, I was reminded of these comments the other day when I lost a game of bowling. Not only was I beaten by my sister and her boyfriend (he's a footballer and cricketer so more 'sporty' than me) but by my other half, who had never picked up a bowling ball in his life! It seems you can take the boy out of Northolt… I definitely deserved more than an E for effort though

superman i got plans for you

you know how in 'lifestyle' magazines and weekend supplements people are always being asked which superpower they would like to possess, and they always say 'i'd like to be invisible' or 'i'd like to fly'. well, i can see the appeal of both of those but i've decided that if i were granted a super ability i'd like to be able to fire a fetid liquid at will. i take my inspiration from the humble skunk.
how great, next time someone gets on your nerves, to be able to just lower your trousers (half moon, you understand, there need be no genetalia on display) and fire a revolting smelling jet of something in their direction.
regular readers will know how much it irritates me when i hold the door open for someone and they do not acknowledge me. i'm sure they'd be slightly more expressive once i'd done my 'human stink bomb' act on them.

now you're talking durdy!

yesterday there was an old lady pushing a trolley along the street (she was a trolley lady rather than a bag lady) wearing a t-shirt that said SHAG on it. i wonder if she knew what it meant. it reminded me of my friend Veronica who tells a story about her mum who, for a while, took to talking about herself as Mrs Smegma – apparently this was a character from some sketch her mum had seen. Veronica was mortified to have to tell her mum what smegma actually was. but not quite as mortified as the mum who'd been joking about the name with her laydee friends.
this, by the way, was the same woman who said 'i don't believe people do things like that' when Veronica had to explain to her what a blow job was.

starz in their eyez

last night i dreamt that i was helping Kylie Minogue with a dance routine!
i can't believe i had such a gay dream when i pride myself on being so unmainstream.
isn't it terrible when you let yourself down like that....

no, you hang up!

we once did some research for a magazine i used to work on. questionairres were put into an issue and readers completed them and sent them back.
my favourite response came from Darren in Clapham (unfortunately he didn't put his last name or address – he would definitely have won the prize we were offering for his efforts).
Darren had personally scrawled all over the questionairre – which had a photo of me and a letter encouraging people to answer.
As well as calling me a 'dickhead' and saying that as a result of reading the magazine he had contemplated suicide (no, really) he described me as an 'overpaid arsewipe ponce who speaks too loudly on his mobile in restaurants'.
which is, as i am sure you will agree, just priceless.
i was reminded of Dazza this morning as i sat in cafe nero trying to enjoy some me time with my cappuccino. i was unable to concentrate on my Metro because there was a young lady a few tables away droning on and on on her mobile phone in a voice which can only be described as too f-ing loud.
her conversation involved her 1. boss 2. flatmate 3. outfit for Friday night.
if there were a nobel prize for conversation, let's just say she wouldn't make the longlist.
i wasn't the only one on whose nerves she was getting – if looks could kill the woman opposite her would now be on the run!
needless to say no one did anything about it - we just sat there glowering. i'm sure if Darren had been around he would have shouted something suitably witty and cutting and she would have hung up immediately.
but it was most annoying.
and while were on the subject of irritating phone behaviour: how annoying is it when someone cold calls you during your lunchbreak!

wake up and eyes down

my friend Maryanne, who has relocated to Californ-i-a with hilarious results (read all about them on www.alifelessdamp.blogspot.com) has just posted about her five year old son's nocturnal habit of joining her and her husband in bed.
i warned her that she was probably in for the long haul. i regularly joined my folks until the ripe old age of 10 (though Mum would probably say 14 or 15 – you know how family like to exaggerate). for years i was woken up to the sound of a lighter being ignited as Mum lit her first fag.
here are a couple of memorable 'in bed with mother moments'
1. trying and trying to wake her up to no avail. grizzling at being an orphan only for her to wake up and ask what was the matter with me!
2. her waking me up with the news that Marc Bolan had been killed in a car crash!
3. camping in the back garden. i went to bed in the tent but mysteriously woke up in my normal position (ie between mum and dad) fully dressed and wearing my parka and wellies.

and on another note. i had another one of those 'oh my god you were so drunk' evenings on Sunday courtesy of my mate Andy (Ma) Butcher and gay bingo at the achingly fabulous shoreditch house. fortunately i didn't end up staggering around in a cheap n nasty blonde wig this time (imagine), i was however slurring somewhat. i never realised how hard bingo was. particularly speed bingo. i have new found respect for the Gala grannies who can manage multiple bingo cards and rollups at the same time. now can someone tell Ma Butcher that pink pants on anyone who is not 1) genetically female and 2) under four years of age are just plain weird.

doctor, doctor

so. boozy lunch yesterday. come home stuffed and slightly hungover. at 7pm! i felt like i'd been up for about 49 hours doing god only knows what. make the fatal mistake of having a nap. after which neiher me nor boyfriend was in any state to do anything other than watch tv. actually we watched an hour and a half of the last David Lynch film but that's a whole other post. eastenders it wasn't!
today get up and go for breakfast. once again i am feeling shattered.
me: why am i so tired all the time? i feel like someone is poking their fingers in my eyes!
him: you might have a viral infection.
me: is there anything i can take for it?
him: no, you just have to let it run itself.
me: oh.
him: but then again you have been burning the candle at both ends all week. you've also gone to the gym every morning and you are drinking too much and not eating properly.
me: apart from that what do you think it could be?
i came home and had an hour nap with the papers.
feel much better now. waiter...

more that words

there was a man opposite me on the tube this morning who kept clearing his throat. at first it was really annoying - he would start with a mini 'hmmm' before progressing to a full on hoik (i was preparing to be outraged and not say anything as he spat on the floor but sadly he denied me the opportunity, prefering to swallow!). but after a while i found it oddly fascnating - i kept waiting for his next emission.
he reminded me of a woman who is sometimes in front of me in the queue at Cafe Nero who continually clears her throat with a little 'herm' noise.
i started imagining that they were actually speaking some foreign language – imagine if both Cafe Nero woman and Tube man were in the same place at the same time and they realised they could communicate with each other merely by making gutteral noises.
the man on the tube got off at Leicester Square and was wearing the worst snow-washed jeans i've ever seen. thought i'd share that with you.

i just ran a mile in six minutes. that, apparently, makes me 'Men's Health' fit.
and it's only 8.28am.
i think i might have peaked too soon.

oh what a world we live in...

when i first moved to spain (back in 1987) i was horrified to see people begging in the street. the first time i saw an old lady all dressed in black, wailing softly to herself and waving a torn McDonalds cup at anyone who passed i didn't actually know what she was doing.
that never happened in Britain.
then of course, i moved back, and that kind of thing was happening everywhere.
i remember coming out of Brixton tube one evening and seeing a couple asleep on a matress. by this time, the whole homelessness thing was so normal for me it actually took me a couple of seconds to register the fact that there were people asleep in the street! and that surely, that shouldn't be.
this morning the same kind of thing happened. i was walking to the gym and an old man passed me on his hands and knees. he was crawling down the road. and not one of the people he passed, myself included, batted an eyelid.
it wasn't until i got to the gym that it struck me how weird it was to see someone crawling down the strand and how bad it was that none of us did anything about it.

land of confusion

i'm packing my bag ready for monday work (it's sunday morning, i'm nothing if not organised). when boyfriend announces 'oh, that's really romantic!'. now, if you have visions of boyfriend laying forlornly in bed, all soft focus rosy cheeks and dainty lace nightie forget it! he is (and has been for the past 1/2 hour) on the internet looking for flats. 'well, you've been sitting their on the internet for the last 20 minutes!' i counter. which causes him to get stroppy and abruptly try to turn the internet off. so i then go back to bed for a cuddle. two seconds later he announces he has that mother nature is calling. and off he goes.
i start writing this and allow him a peek when he returns. 'i was talking about the music! i said that the music was romantic!' how we laughed.

TV dinners

watching 'A Place in The Sun' on TV. a couple are looking round a windmill, which is sweet but absolutely tiny. i wouldn't want to live there but nice as a holiday home. the other properties they are looking for (down Portugal) are nice. AND SO CHEAP! i hate watching these kind of programmes. the ones about houses here give me status anxiety – why haven't i got a home like that? i wonder how much that costs? oh no, i'll never live anywhere that nice!
and the ones about property abroad give me location anxiety - why am i here paying so much for so little? why am i living somewhere so grey when i am such a sun lover. i used to be so free when i lived in Spain and didn't have a mortgage round my neck…
i actually just typed necek – which is quite a nice looking word. it looks a bit exotic. like something you'd bring back from a long-haul holiday. oh no, now i've got necek anxiety. what are they? why haven't i got one? who can get me one!
there's nothing else on worth watching (i'm having a pre-go out coffee and obsessive-compulsive look at my emails) - a kids' show featuring a manky monkey or a soap. and i don't watch soaps.
when i was a teenager we had a family issue around 'Neighbours'.
my nan would watch it at lunchtime and record it for my twin sister - i'd be home from school for lunch.
my twin sister would then watch the video when she got home from work.
we would then watch that very same episode with supper - my mum watching it for the first time, my sister watching it for the second and me for the third. AND THEY WONDER WHY I LEFT HOME SO YOUNG!

there are flies on the windscreen, for a start

was talking to someone at the gym this morning about Palm Springs, which I loved and he hated. I said I went down so well with (went down with, not on!) the ageing population, who could obviously smell new meat in town. I reckon I could have got hitched several times over with gentlemen of a certain age (ie near-death) and probably be living the life of Reilly now. if only.
we then talked about the hotels we stayed in and realised that we had accommodation in common.
he then remembered going to the pool one morning and finding a baby rabbit drowned in the pool. as you do.
this in turn led to me remembering having to put a bunny out of its misery using nothing more than brute force and a rock when I saw it get run over in Wales (and somehow managed to get really stung by nettles in the process).
for some reason I then remembered a story I had heard about them (you know them. THEM!) finding a dead llama on the beach in Barcelona. where did it come from?
and then we discussed the lack of dead birds – how come you never see them apart from the odd squashed pigeon?
I just asked people at work about what happens to dead birds and someone announced, quite earnestly 'they go to heaven'! don't get me started.

i dare say it will hurt a little

I've just googled my boyfriend! Which sounds vaguely illegal, or painful.
He shares a name with a middleweight boxer from Albuquerque (hot dog, jumping frog, i love that word). The boxer in question is nicknamed 'the ultimate fighter' and you can buy t-shirts with that legend and his name on them. I could really freak him out by buying one and wearing it on our next outing.
There is also a painter with the same name who does collagey oil paintings.
I googled myself years ago (as you do) and now have a penpal in San Francisco who is also called Steven Short. I found his website, which had lovely photos of Yosemite Park on it, along with a 'contact me' button. I emailed and said that I liked his photos and complimented him on his name and we've been in touch ever since.
We send each other real olde-fashioned letters and postcards and get together for lunch whenever he's in town.
The first time we met he came to collect at work me for lunch. The receptionist couldn't quite get her head around the fact that Steven Short was in reception saying he'd come to meet Steven Short.
How we laughed.
As I waited for the lift I found myself getting all jittery.
What if Steven Short was the man of my dreams! How weird would that be! What would our parents think?
It was not to be, but we both relish our postal relationship.
And on the subject of Googling: here are the first entries I get when keying in the names of my nearest and dearest:
my mum: Below are the January short interest figures for selected stocks
my dad: born in St. John's, Newfoundland, in 1935, but spent many boyhood summers in the Bay Roberts area
my twin sister: Play the Watt family theme music
my big sister: Stone sculptures of wildlife
my nan: I thought I wanted a purple/violet color but couldn't decide between orchid

and my favourite
the cat: CDs on which Rosie Short (Vocals, Flute, Tin Whistle, Dulcimer, Banjo) plays

alright pet?

apparently there is a new breed of slug in the world. it can be up to two inches long and can sting!
thank goodness it can't fly, is all i can say. what a horrible world it would be if slugs were airborne.
imagine a slug landing on your lunch, or one circling around you menancingly like some wasps do. imagine walking merrily along the road and getting one in your eye! that happened to me recently with a fly - when i took my contact lense out it was splattered on it, much like it would have been on my windowscreen were i a car!
the new story about these new, super resilient slugs led me to think about our relationship with animals and why some of them make good pets – presumably because they are able to take, and sometimes return, our affection – and why some don't.
obviously you wouldn't want a hippo as a pet – too muddy, cumbersome and bad tempered (and can you imagine the breath) – but would you feel more inclined if, next time you went to see one at the zoo, it started wagging its tail and looking at you fondly while whimpering at you?
would you feel more kindly inclined toward a rat if next time you saw one it purred and came and rubbed affectionately round your ankles?
if you could teach a frog to give you a paw (leg?) would you like one as a pet to wheel out at dinner parties?
i could go on....

is it serious?

I either have an earache, a toothache or a brain tumour.
Either that or I am having a stroke.
I keep getting shooting pains in the side of my head, and when I touch my hair it hurts.
My hair is tender! That, surely, can't be right.
Of course I could have just slept badly and squashed my ear or something.
I've not been sleeping very well of late (thanks for asking).
I think the fact that my bed has taken to creaking like it's auditioning for the part of Freddie's house in Nightmare on Elm Street might have something to do with it – every time I turn over it makes a noise that should be followed by some hideous ghoul rising from the dead.
I've also taken to wearing one of those beyond-camp eye masks (in the absense of anyone offering to fund my black-out eyeshadow) as my room is so light, so I wake up not only feeling frazzled but with charming indentations around the top of my head, like I've had an over-enthusiastic lobotomy.
Light a candle for me…

knock me over with a feather

oh my god! i was so drunk last night.
and do you know how i know? not because i've got a hideous hangover – space hopper in stomach, drill in brain and fire in eyes – and not because of that vague sense of shame that often follows a heavy night (or in my case afternoon and evening, which featured a bottle of gin, a bottle of rose and a bottle of fizz between 2).
no, i know i was 'so drunk' last night because each of the three people who I share the house with (yes, i know it should be with whom i share the house, get over yourself) greeted me with the same words: oh my god! you were so drunk last night.
why do people feel the need to tell you what you already know?
it's like telling someone who leaves the house dressed as a clown 'oh my god! you went to a fancy dress party last night!', or if they really are a clown 'oh my god! you went to work in costume!'
i wasn't unfortunately, drunk enough to forget that oh my god! i ate a big mac to try and soak up the alcohol and because i had the foodie equivalent of beer goggles on. and for that i truly am ashamed.
i'm going to go for a hair of the dog lunch now and a walk on the heath.
i wonder if, when i get back, i will be greated with the earth-shaking revelation that 'oh my god! you've been out!'

leaving on a jet plane

to spain, to throw a donkey off a tower. don't you hate people who begin diary entries or blog musings with that old to... nonsense.
anyway, was in Spain last week, where, among other things I spent 1 hour and 20 minutes in the bank trying to set up internet banking so we can monitor from here how much money is bleeding out of the account we have over there (long story). so, 1 hour and 20 minutes of my life (and my one beach holiday!) spent in the bank. during these 80 minutes a great American by the name of Blase helped me with my internet-pains while his colleague – a native female - dealt with one customer face to face, while taking phone calls from another. the customers were not related but by the time he left, the guy who had come into the bank new everything about the guy who kept phoning (so did i, along with everyone else in the branch). 'they keep trying to take money for electricity but he's broke', we were informed after one call. 'him again. now they want money for water. i don't know what he does up there...'
anyway, 1 hour and 20 minutes getting my internet sorted out. now back in Blighty. just tried to get onto the internet and guess what – no funciona! matame con una pluma. don't you just love la technologia?
before going on my hols i'd treated myself to a 'fantasy tan'. this involved standing in a dingy windowless room in a pair of paper pants while a lovely young girl sprayed me with a sticky liquid which i was told would develop into a fantastic glow several hours later. she was right – by the time i got on the plane the next morning i looked like i'd already been away. which was a good job as i have now joined the Joan Collinses of the world and. do. not. suntan. my. face. (i've spent the last 3 years of my life trying to rid my face of the effects of the 20 previous ones i spent ruining it with too much uva).
so, i arrive on holiday all brown, sunkissed and slinky (lots of pre holiday running).
treating myself to a week of no exercise however, along with an endless diet of chips, G&Ts, wine, tortilla, hamburgers and endless bags of crisps mean that as my tan faded my wobblier bits got wobblier than they have been for an age.
so, i go away tall and tan and thin and lovely... and i come back white and flabby! i feel like i've had a makeover in reverse, or a make under!
needless to say, this week will be spent chained to the treadmill......

what a carry on...

so, first of all there was the evil plastic bag.
which we all hearted.
every time you went to the super market you'd come back laden with them. you know, a tomato in one, another tomato in another, a diet coke in one, a full-fat coke in another – you get my drift. we'd all wantonly consume them. they were free, what do you expect.
then came the plastic backlash (which, now that i write it, sounds like it should be one of those 80s leaning electropoptechno bands that everyone pretends to like because they've been in this month's dazed and bemused).
and the plastic backlash meant that we all started talking about landfill and biodegradability and the like (and pulled horrible faces if anyone tried to give us non-bottled water and non-organice vegetables). and then we shunned too many free horrid plastic bags, opting instead to stuff as much of our shopping into each one as we humanly could so that somewhere between the supermarket and our front door the handles stretched until they resembled a cheese wire and nearly sliced our fingers off. but AT LEAST THAT MEANT THAT FEWER OF THE THINGS WENT INTO A LANDFILL.
and then some clever person had the idea of making a jute / organic cotton / fairtrade childhair version of the carrying vessel and the plastic bag became 'i am not a plastic bag' (how dada!). the trouble is, of course, that my kitchen is now full of 'i am not a plastic bag's and frankly, it's really getting on my tits. i'm all for avoiding landfill and just say yes to biodegradability but where am i going to put all these bloody monstrosities?
answers on a recycled postcard please

in a tight spot

i'm very happy in my masculinity – Iron John? been there, done that.
and i'm not afraid to shed a tear over Terms of Endearment and Deal or No Deal. but the other day i was on the phone to someone's office and the person i wanted to speak to wasn't there. 'would you like to leave a message,' asked the PA. 'can you ask him to give Steven Short a call please', said i. to which she replied: 'Susan Short?'
then yesterday i picked up someone else's phone and said hello only to be met with 'hi Kate, how are you?'.
Maybe these size 6 support knickers aren't such a good idea…

shall i make that a flambé?

bottle of champagne in posh hotel where we were staying the night.
cocktails on the way to the restaurant (margaritas, my current favourite tipple).
turn up at posh, newly opened W1 eatery.
shown to table. husband and wife at table next to us. he's cheated and is begging forgiveness, she's doing lemon-sucking face. at table on other side a pair of tipsy 20somethings.
start looking at menu. then, eyebrows furrowing (or what passes for furrowing in these wrinkle-therapied times) i say 'someone is smoking in here!' as a plume floats before me (the anti smoking ban came into force on 1 july).
'no,' exclaims boyfriend. 'your menu is on fire!'
tealights on the table!
how we laughed!
boyfriend later ended up laying in the street in Mayfair. i got a bollocking the next day for getting his shirt dirty.
but that's a whole new entry.

wet wet wet

quiet weekend. built an ark. well, with this weather, you never know. apparently it is set to last throughout the summer. last week they were promising a 'phew what a scorcher' July, now apparently we are due to be rained in until at least September.
which i suppose will give me a chance to keep up with facebook. yawn.
my friend Geraldine wants to start a version for us oldies called faceliftbook, which i love.

i once had a dream and it never came true

last night i dreamt that Mark Ronson and i were going to record a version of Up The Junction by Squeeze. i was going to change the lyrics to 'a boy from clapham' etc.
i was sure it was going to be a big hit and was very excited.
needless to say i was vaguely disappointed to wake up and realise it was actually a rainy Friday in London and i had to get up for gym / work.
it was by no means my first oniric encounter with celebrity. i am forever dreaming about Robbie Williams – we're always really good mates (and occaisionally a little more than friends) and hanging out together.
i've also had various 'celebrity' romances. these have included
Michael Stipe (we bonded intellectually before getting down and dirty)
Nick Cave (who i'd never really considered in THAT way before, but was quite smitten with after) and
Morrissey…
what does it all mean?

ere, get off my land!

'oh look,' i thought to myself this morning as i looked out of the kitchen window, 'there's a dingo in the back garden.'
it took me a couple of seconds to register that of course it wasn't a dingo but in fact a bloody large fox.
then i remembered that we have a cat and that foxes and cats don't actually get on (it's hard to be friends with something that wants to eat you) so i banged on the window and the fox ran off. shame, as i'm sure being an urban fox can't be much fun.
as i made my coffee i found myself giggling as i imagined the fox not running away but standing on its hindlegs and giving me the finger.
well, it made me laugh...

do you have a minute?

well, i'm finding this whole blogging malarkey pretty tough i have to say. not thinking of things to moan about (if moaning were an olympic sport i'd get gold every time) but actually getting round to sitting down and doing it. i do actually have a day job to fit in, plus various facial commitments – you know, this serum, that moisturiser, etc – and those vitamins and supplements are hardly going to take themselves now, are they? then there's bloody facebook, which all my friends seem to think is what passes for friendship these days (which reminds me, i haven't updated my wall today), plus of course youtube, bebo, virtualinanity and all the other sites vying for attention.

pay dear, who dear, me dear?

'oh it was lovely. much nicer than the one you made. mine had grated carrots in it. but i think what really made the difference was red pepper. oh, it was lovely and crunchy. no, i don't like green peppers either. well not in salads, anyway. they're ok when they're cooked. oh, i don't know, in a stew or something.'
i overheard that in the supermarket at lunchtime (young girl behind me in the queue). can you believe that people actually spend their hard-earned money on mobile phones so they can whitter away their lunch breaks having conversations like that. progress eh? don't you love it.
and what is it with you girls (and i'm sorry it always is you girls) and shop check outs?
there you stand, unloading your baskets and painstakingly packing all your goodies in bags. and it's not until the very last item is in the bag you that you even begin to think about getting your purse out (from your overly big bag, full of goodness only knows what, so big that you can't find anything in it, especially your purse) and fumble around for your credit card (because you never pay with cash EVER. not even for a 20p apple). so much for being the better multitaskers – can you not get your card out and pack your ryvita mini bites at the same time?
i think the supermarkets should have warning signs above the tills saying 'WARNING: YOU ARE ENTERING A PAYMENT ZONE' so you can prepare for your transaction, to save holding up the rest of the queue.

history repeating

i had that urge again today! to write obscenities on the paper pad next to pens for sale. this time the pens in question were flourescent pink, and seemed to be screaming out for me to do schoolboyesque depictions of genetalia. of course i resisted. just.

here is the first in an ocassional series entitled 'things i wish i'd never learned':
that alcohol is fattening. (i currently have a rather charming roll of flab trying to escape over the top of my trousers. it's more Chardonnay chub than beer belly though.)

that sunbathing is only a good thing while you are tanned. when the tan wears off all you're left with are wrinkles and crepey skin (which you will then spend fortunes on, trying to restore it to it's pre-frazzle state).

that there is no such thing as a free lunch.

that sometimes there are no happy endings.

i'm glad, however, that i've found out that the Olympic logo is meant to be a graphic interpretation of 2012 rather than just some random squiggles (which even i found a bit ropey for nearly half a million nicker! and you know how undiscerning i am.)

well, it's a look

i'm experimenting with texture today. i dressed by 'touch and feel' rather than 'look, style and colour'. i selected my clothes with my eyes shut so as not to be swayed by any nods to fashion or style. and i haven't looked in a mirror.
so: chiffon harem pants (though they may just be tights 'for the larger lady', sateen skin tight shirt, cashmere leg warmers, wooden clogs (possibly lined with astroturf) and some kind of straw hat.
judging by the looks i've been getting my combo is as interesting visually as it is texturally.

speedy gonzales

i came to work today in (or on?) my heelies.
you know – those fantastic trainer/shoe things that have wheels hidden in the heels. you just tilt yourself backwards a bit and the wheels cleverly engage and you begin to whizz along, almost as if you are floating.
so, i got here in super-quick time and was only called a prat once by some miserable fxcker i had to grab hold of when i nearly went 'whizzing' under a number 9 bus that i hadn't seen as i was too busy singing my heart out to 'love will tear us apart' (the Paul Young version, of course).
so then i get to work and go through the post. among which is a catalogue for kid's wear, including a rather fetching dress with a huge strawberry on the front. now, i know what you're thinking and you are wrong - dresses are a bit too grayson perry for me. but i did start to think about scratch and sniff clothes.
how nice to have a floral-print shirt that smells of roses when you scratched it. or an apple print skirt that gives off granny smith-esque odours (rather than granny short).
you could even have a creased up old t-shirt that smells of booze and stale fags when you frotted it - great for those mornings when you've forgotten to get hungover!
and you wonder why i don't write more often!

it's my party

so, yesterday, apparently my life began. yep.
the big 4.0 (as in, oh my god, how did that happen!)
when my mother was my age she had a 20 year old and twin 16 year olds!
all i've got is a major hangover and pre-party nerves. i'm having a 'drinks do'! for about 25 friends tonight and i feel like a panicky teenager. i'm not worried that people will turn up (i know they will). i'm just terrified that my inner party animal – which i spent most of my early 30s taming – will hear about the 'event' and turn what promises to be a lovely, relaxing bank holiday weekend into one spent in the outer limits feeling totally wretched with only a massive dose of self loathing for company.
i'm seriously considering not turning up!

wake up and smell the coffee

yesterday it was people not thanking me for holding the door open. today it's those hideous wooden 'spatula' like things you get in coffee shops to stir your drinks with. what is the point of them apart from using up yet more trees. they. just. do. not. do. the. job. so, next time i go out for a coffee i am going to slam the door in the face of the person behind me and stab the 'hot beverage executive' (or whatever we are supposed to call them) in the eye with one of those sticks!
wanna come? i'll let you buy me a latte.
another thing that irritates the hell out of me are men (and it always is men) who ponce along the pavement when it's raining with stupid golfing umbrella. they seem to think that just because they've got some ridiculously massive brolly (and i'm thinking the bigger the umbrella the smaller the member!) that they own the pavement. why don't they just carry a smaller brolly and a handy bit of wire for poking in people's faces. it would be so much more comfortable for them and the result would be exactly the same.

make mine a double

i am getting SO bored of holding the door open for people and them not bothering to say thanks that i am going to start slamming them in people's faces instead.
but i digress.
ask me what i did yesterday.
i had coffee with steven short!
ask me what i'm talking about.
i have a penpal called steven short. he lives in san francisco. he comes over once a year and we hook up for coffee or lunch. it's an oddly fulfilling relationship.
ask me how we met.
i googled myself (don't give me that, you've googled yourself too!) and found some of his pictures. i did harbour a bit of a fantasy that he would be the man of my dreams. how great would it be to date someone with the same name!
tell me it wouldn't be.
oh!
well, i like it!

express yourself

so - just back from NYC with the BOYF. very nice (more of it later).
now sitting in the office, listening to duran duran and replying to various emails (if anyone fancies a spam off, i'm definitely up for it) and experimenting with new forms of enthusiasm. my favourite so far is:
beyond perfect.
try it, it really works.
'how are you?' 'beyond perfect'
'shall we meet at 7 in camden?' 'that would be beyond perfect'
i can already see a time when kids on the street will be saying 'BP' (dsnt evthg end up abbrvtd?) in the way that they currently use 'cool' (which, thanks for asking, i really loathe).

i'm free!

isn't it crazy how far you have to book your friends these days? i've just been chatting to a mate about going round to his house for supper in six and a half weeks' time. it was the earliest we could coordinate work / personal diaries and the diaries of our nearest and dearests. honestly, anyone would think we were trying to plan an interview with madonna.
speaknig of celebrities. at this point i'd like to tell you a story about a friend who used to be an events organiser, but i've recently been on a libel case so i'm a bit nervous. here's an abbreviated version. one of my mate's jobs was to book 'names' to open conferences, fairs etc and to give speeches. for one of his events he was in touch with the agent of a well known tv star who was a bit on her uppers. each day, as the event drew nearer, the actress's agent would call my mate saying 'XXXXXX is still free that day'. my friend eventually told the agent that they'd decided to go with someone else. but the agent wouldn't take no for an answer and kept calling saying 'if your person falls through XXXXXX is still available'. the last time the agent called he said 'XXXXXX will do your event for £50 and doesn't mind how she travels.'!
obviously, that story would be hilarious if i could tell you who it was – she's on tv all the time now.

wakey wakey

i've just had an email from a company that manufactures a 'take anywhere shower holder-upper'. whatever that may be!
it reminded me of a brainwave i had in bed on saturday morning.
now, i love my bedroom. it's a pared-down vision of manly interior loveliness. white floorboards (which i've wanted since i was 12 and got my first LP by The Tourists, which featured and all white room with stripped boards), a masculine looking bed (stripy bedding always), minimal clutter and gorgeous built in wardrobes (of course they are bespoke!).
but my white roller blind is terribly ineffective.
i have to have a blind down at all times as i am at street level and don't relish the prospect of being looked at by the local urchins/oiks/dogs on string but don't want black out blinds as the filtered light effect is quite nice, and i don't want to feel like i live in a bunker.
that 'flitered' light effect can be a little grating, however, at 6am on a saturday morning when i'd really like an extra hour sleep. but of course i can't, as once i wake up and it's light, i'm awake.
so, saturday morning i'm laying in bed cursing the fact that it's bright and i'm awake and if i had one of those horrid eye masks i'd probably put it on even though they are really uncomfortable, when my brainwave struck.
BLACK OUT EYESHADOW
i'm applying to Dragon's Den as you read this!

oh for goodness sake EXCLAMATION MARK

once again the blog police are telling me
that i can't use exclamation marks EXCLAMATION MARK

mr angry

i often go running on the Heath at the weekend (aren't i virtuous).
on a Sunday morning, without fail, i see the same wino guy sitting on the bench outside the church near Parliament Hill.
i see him so often that we now say hello to each other.
last Sunday, when i saw him, mid can of white lightening, it occured to me that the only difference between me and him was a job and a fancy glass.
it was a sobering thought. at least for one of us.
i cannot tell you how stroppy i was when i woke up this morning.
actually i was stroppy at 4am when i had to get up and go to the loo (as i do without fail every night now. don't get me started.) i knew, when i went back to bed that all was not well on planet Short - i was feeling angsty and my hangover was kicking already in (see above).
i then had a weird dream about a baby leopard eating my sister's cat (with whom i share a home). i had to prise the big cat's mouth open and retrieve the kitty.
then my mum and i were looking at a pond filled with frogs and snakes. i don't know what it all means but i do know that when i woke up i felt like someone had screwed my face on too tightly and completely irritated at the world.
the feeling has got worse as the day, with its inevitable trials and tribulations, has worn on.
i'm so stroppy/furious (lovely combo) that i can't help but think that the only difference between me and a homicidal maniac is a sawn off shotgun and a samurai sword...

weird but true

there's been another massacre at a US college. 33 gunned down by some bitter and angry geezer. on TV today there was a huge bowtie with a man behind it. the man was part of the pro-firearms lobby.
without a trace of irony, the man stood up for everyone's right to own fire arms in the name of self defence. if, he reasoned, one of the students at the college had had a gun they could have shot the guy doing all the killing, thus saving numerous lives!
is it just me or is that slightly twisted logic?
on a more positive note, the sun is shining, i am in love. little fluffy birds are flying overhead trilling, and lambs are gambolling in the fields.
did i tell you about how i was in the gym the other day, watching a kids programme about sheep and i suddenly thought how funny it would be to have a disco full of sheep? well, yesterday i was at the zoo (don't ask) and this hideous little brat threw a sweet paper into the otter enclosure. the otters all went bonkers, trying to grab the wrapper off each other. i thought it would be hilarious if they all came running over and flung the wrapper back in the brat's face.
if only...

calorie counting

i feel like i'm in a film called 'supersize me, i'm brigit jones'!
my diary today (since lunch) would read:
bottles of chardonnay: 1 and a half
lardy starter (fried whitebait, since you ask): 1
full on burger and chips: 1 (and i ate all the chips)
gorgonzola and pear crumble: 1
slice of birthday cake i didn't even want: 1
glasses of wine with birthday cake that i also didn't want: 2
hours of belly ache: 3
hours of belly hanging over jeans a la muffin top: 12 (since i woke up)
it's got to stop.
well, at least i haven't got hobbit feet

here comes the sun

day 3 of decent weather (ie no rain, trains not skidding off their rails due to someone mentioning the word snow, and temperatures in double figures) and the hobbits are already out in force.
what is it about men (especially those of the gay variety), sunshine and flipflops?
the sun shines for a couple of nano seconds and they are out in force, like they've suddenly been transported to an Ibizan paradise.
they flipflop their way around town like pedicures had never been invented.
now, my feet aren't the prettiest of appendages but at least i cut my toenails regularly and buff what hard bits i can and i never wear sandals.
the hobbits, on the other hand, wear their corns, dirty toe nails and wannabe bunyons with apparent pride.
the trotter/hoof look has so got to stop!

i don't believe it...

i am no longer allowed exclamation marks in my blog!

be bap alula

i'm having one of those 'don't open that email' days: you know, when every email you read requires you to add about three things to your already ridiculously long to do list. rather worryingly I've started doing my lists in contrasting colours. as if that's going to make the dozens of things i must remember not to forget to do any easier. there's no colour code to it, you'll be delighted to know (red - do it now or your eyes will fall out, blue - delegate it to someone once it's been on your list for too long, green - I'm fucked if I'm going to do that, even if it is in my job description) just one blue, one red to separate the different chores.
i went and picked up a sarnie for lunch. actually it was a bap (one of my favourite words). tuna with onion and parsley and 'PICKLE?' as the guy shouted at me when i asked him to bring out the Branston. while i was in the cafe (where they are always so brusque i ask myself why i give them my custom every time i go, see PICKLE) the bloke in front of me did something that i find intensely irritating. he pronounced every letter in the word ciabatta. and he pronounced the c like an s!
it's things like that that trigger high-school masacres and people throwing photocopiers out of the window!

no smoke without fire

we just had a fire drill at work.
as usual there was a lot of tutting, sighing and eye rolling. oh, and plenty of 'i'll just be a minute. just got to send this email/make this phone call/die of smoke inhallation/frazzle to a crisp' posturing. fortunately i am no longer fire officer so it is not my responsibility to chivvy people out of the office, wear a ridiculous yellow armband or wave a huge number 3 around while making sure all members of staff were accounted for (even the ones i'd happily see charred to a crisp).
it was actually quite nice to get out of the office for an afternoon breather. it reminded me of my years as a (heavy) smoker when my days would be nicely punctuated by a need for nicotine, meaning i'd get to leave my desk from time to time.
it's amazing how much 'stuff' you pick up when you're a smoker. and i'm not just talking TB and lung cancer (or smelly clothes and yellow fingers). all that 'water cooler' stuff about who's doing what or who and why so and so isn't here anymore.
and on the subject of smoking - i used to make a point of getting on the smokers' carriage on the tube. i find it hard to believe i used to actively choose to sit in a confined space with dozens of other puffers and smoke my way through the 31 minute journey from Northolt (or Northflop as someone hilariously named it) and Oxford Circus. how times have changed....

ligthen up

can anyone tell me why we put the clocks forward on Saturday night?
was it for the farmers so they could work later?
or for the lovely little small children, so they don't have to risk the after-dark child catcher on the way home from school?
or just so we could invent silly sayings like 'spring forward to spring, sink into a deep depression, slash your wrists and put the clocks back for winter'?
i have to say i find it slightly irritating - not only is it dark again when i get up but my body clock is confused (yes, after just an hour - i'm sensitive!). i was wide awake at midnight last night and dead to the world this morning.
i must admit though that it is rather nice to be leaving work in 10 minuts and not have to put on a miner's helmet.

she might have!

I've just received a press release about a cocktail dress that might once have been worn by a famous actress, not in a film you understand, but for personal appearances. possibly to a drinks party some time in the 50s. And would i like to run a feature about it. how i considered laughing!
it was bizarre enough to rouse me from the stupor i have been in all day. almost.
i'm having one of those days where how tired i am bears no relation to how much i've slept. i didn't actually get up until 6.30am today – a whole extra half an hour in bed – but feel like i've been up all night and am about to crash and burn.
thankfully my evening plans have fallen through (i once had a dream and it never came true – name that cultural reference if you can), so i shall go home and just 'be' around the house.
by which, i of course mean get home, lay on the sofa watching crap tv before nodding off around 8.30pm and dragging myself downstairs to bed about 9pm. ready to wake up tomorrow at 5.30am and start all over again…

what you looking at?

what would you look like if you'd never taken any interest in skincare?
what would your body be like if you'd never done any exercise?
what would you be like if you'd never had any therapy?
i'm beginning to worry that i'd look exactly the same as i do now and i still seem to have the same hangups/demons/baggage as before, they just surprise me less.
discuss....

whose liver is it anyway?

So, I'm nearly 40 and learnt an important lesson on Saturday night. Sambuka, vodka and campari DO NOT make a nice drink. not even downed in one. (Especially downed in one).
I also learnt something on Sunday morning. Either other people are total lightweights and simply cannot take their alcohol or I have a cast iron bucket where my liver should be. I felt rough but not 'I can't move my head is spinning so much, please bring me a bucket' rough.
OK, so I wasn't going to go for a jog round the Heath (though it has been known - to paraphrase Nietzche 'you don't beat the mountain, you beat your hangover') but I still managed to get to the breakfast I had arranged.
Not entirely sure I had the last laugh though, as this morning I had mislaid something rather precious to me: my eyes. I was so tired I felt like someone was swinging on my eyelids while at the same time forcing my eyeballs back into my head with jousting sticks. While my fellow party-goers were giving thanks to god that they were back on planet healthy.
It's now 5.40pm and I am only just coming round. And also coming round to the idea of a drink. Which is rather fortunate as I have a dinner with PRs that I couldn't rearrange (imagine trying to cancel a dinner with a PR or a journalist because you're hungover!).
How we would all laugh...

share and share alike

now, you wouldn't guess it to look at me, but as well as a fat person, inside me there is a do-gooder desperate to get out. i indulge my 'helping the greater good' fantasies by visiting a local primary school and helping with their literacy programme.
this morning, during register, cute little Arnan put up his hand and, apropro of nothing, announced: 'last night, i went to my cousin's house and had porkballs. they were really hot and i burned my mouth. i had to ask my aunt for a glass of water. and it still burned.'
'thank you, Arnan,' said the teacher without batting an eyelid. 'we save things like that until sharing time, don't we?
'and what time is sharing time?'
sharing time, it turns out, is just after numeracy and is 15 minutes long. during sharing time, the kids sit in a circle and tell each other their news. i imagine it runs along the line of:
'still haven't found the thierry henry football card yet'
'i've got a pink hoodie for my birthday'
'my mum, yeah, she was late for work yesterday'
'i was involved in a porkball incident last night'
but what a great idea.
i think we should start having 'sharing time' at work. 15 minutes where you just tell each other what you've been up to/eating/doing etc. what would you bring to the table?

the sun always shines

isn't it incredible the difference a bit of sun makes to how we feel about the world and how the world feels about us? i left the house this morning at 6.40am and it was light. for the first time this year i didn't feel like i'd had to get up in the middle of the night.
on the train people smiled at me, little fluffy baa lambs gambolled around my feet as i walked to the gym where angels helped me lift those heavy weights. and all because the sun has started shining.
i then got to work where i have been so bloody busy that i haven't had a chance to get out and even look at the sky.
and now it's 6pm and it's STILL light.
i'm going to make a mercy dash for the last of the daylight

sights for sore eyes

just back from Paris, where i was reviewing a (lovely) hotel for work.
while there, i saw:
a woman who had accessorised her car to her outfit (maroon suit and matching blusher, maroon hat and maroon-framed glasses, maroon fiat)
clare danes in miu miu
a babapapa moneybox (which i bought)
endless black tights/killer heels combinations (on a sunday morning)
a blind man playing accordian in the gutter (yes, really)
a dog in earrings. i kid you not. earrings and a pink dress!
how we laughed

scratchie billie

'I say, do you blog?' I'm definitely going to start using that as a chat up line/ice breaker at parties.
It's actually a tough old do this blogging business – should you be funny (ha ha or peculiar), and if you usually are, can you get away with being deep and meaningful every now and again? Is it ok to whitter and rant or do you actually have to SAY something?
I'm obviously in a more sombre frame of mind today as I am using capital letters, which, as I'm sure you've already noted, do not figure much on this site.
So, a sensible, stiff-upper-case kind of day.
It's raining in London and we (the office we, rather than the royal one) are listening to Billie Holiday while trying to sort out our April issue.
Tonight I'm going for a curry and a pie. Which is a nice, waistbelt stretching combination. Actually I'm hoping to resist the curry nibbles (opening of a new posh curry house) and to eat the nimblest, if not humblest, pie possible.
Just realised that the Billie Holiday stuff I've downloaded is live and crackly.
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

make mine a double

it's a long story but a stranger once sent 2 glasses of champagne to my table because he'd overheard my date saying she'd got lost on the way and apparently last time he'd been lost someone had given him a glass of fizz. all very 'pay it forward'.
i bumped into the guy again a while back in some swanky hotel bar (which, as all Londoners will know is pretty amazing given that you never bump into anyone anywhere in this town) then i thought of him today because i saw a homeless guy who was his absolute spitting image.
then i started thinking about the whole doppelganger thing – that we all have a double somewhere in the world. and i found myself thinking how weird it would be if we all have a homeless double somewhere and how complicated it could all get if you, or someone you know, bumped into yours.
just a thought.

is there a doctor in the house?

'what the hell is that banging,' thought i, at 4am this morning, as i surfaced from a dream about the date giving a friend of mine a masonic handshake. the banging turned out to be the cat, which had somehow got herself shut in the living room. by the time i had let her out and returned to bed i was wide awake, natch (which, by the way, is a word i have banned from my magazine!).
so, spent the next couple of hours
seething at my sister for locking HER cat in the living room
fretting about how much i have to do today and how tired i'm going to be
wondering about what to wear
worrying about the date and the weekend (we aren't spending it together)
trying to be calm, and at one with the universe and all the great things in it
i finally got up at 6am and had coffee. went to the gym to do my legs but was pressganged into a boxing class as demonstration model for someone i used to train with. which i didn't mind at all UNTIL HE GAVE ME PINK BOXING GLOVES!
i ended up doing bare knuckle boxing - you should see my fists, they are very manly!
got to work full of the joys of spring at 9am.
by 9.20am the joys of spring had been ripped from me, chewed up and spat out, replaced by an acute bout of misanthropy and irritation.
this was caused mainly by trying to book a doctor's appointment for 2 weeks' time, when i have a day off.
the earliest appointment i could get was five weeks away. so i now have to 'just turn up' at 8.30am one morning and they'll give me an appt for that day.
which is patently ridiculous, as i pointed out to the stepford wife receptionist.
thank god it's the weekend.

fluffy pink clouds

apparently it takes 4,976 muscles to frown and only 2 to smile! whoever made that up had obviously never heard of botox.
anyway, have an acute attack of FBS (fluffy bunny syndrome) today - the sun is out, the sky is blue, i had a good night's sleep, nice date to look forward to this evening and all is well in the world.
so, to counter the list of annoying things i compiled a while ago, today is about the nicer things in life:
- beetroot, avacado and sesame seed salad
- laying in bed on a sat morning with a coffee and a magazine
- waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of rain outside, knowing i don't have to get up for work
- the feeling i get when i'm running and i think 'i can't carry on' and a song comes on my ipod and suddenly i feel like i can't stop!
- a perfectly chilled glass of chablis after a tough day at work
- laying on the beach listening to the sea and the martini that comes after a day frazzling
- a new jumper
- box-fresh pants
- walking home in the rain, splashing in all the puddles, getting totally soaked (for some reason, this doesn't have the same effect if you do it on the way to work!)
- being recognised by kids
i would go on, but i feel myself slipping into trite hallmark territory so shall stop here.

do do do

an ex boss once told me 'remember - people never aspire younger or downwards'. to that end i've always kept my eye on what 'the youth of today' (aka da youf) is up to, especially in music and art. so today's posting comes courtesy of Arcade Fire, a band much favoured by the kind of person who walks inside their jeans (you know, overlong legs, fraying at the back) and likes to show off the waistband of their pants.
their website (www.arcadefire.com) not only has some really great graphics, it also has nice entries from each of the collective's core members. some of the pages apologise for a lack of a mailing list (they are far too cool for that kind of pop-picker-palaver), others just include random photos taken on tour. the ones i liked most though are lists of touchy-feely imperatives like 'send postcards to your loved ones' or 'eat more fruit'.
here, then, Arcade Fire stylee, are my imperatives for the day:
'smile, even though you feel like shit. it works!'
'try and spend an hour at work looking like you are really busy while actually doing completely non-work related things - it's quite tough' (top tip: start a blog)
'remember we are all playing the same game, making up the rules as we go along'. as my sister Tracy says 'we are just beings trying to get on', which is a really nice thought, particularly when you're nervous about encounters with other people.
'before you bemoan the weather remember that no rain would mean no trees or flowers'
'press the wait button when you get to a crossing. not only will the traffic lights change more speedily, you'll avoid someone like me having an acute tack of pedestrian rage next to you'

who loves ya!

so, for the first time in years i find myself besotted by someone. which is all very nice. except it isn't all very nice at all. bits of it are great - you know, silly texts, sweet phone calls, secret smiles, sex etc.
but bits of it are frankly torturous.
'does he really like me?' 'are we exclusive' and if we aren't 'where is he, what's he doing and who's he doing it to?' 'is he only interested in me for my inheritance?' (actually that's one thing i don't have to fret about) etc etc etc.
so, it's lovely on the one hand, little cherubs are floating around the office, playing violins and smiling at me but they also keep giving me funny sideways looks, sniggering and saying things like 'yeah right!' and 'so, can't see you on Saturday, eh? i'm sure it's nothing but i'd be a bit worried'.
they don't tell you about that in Mills & bloody Boon.
elsewhere in my world i'm busy busy busy and in a bad bad bad mood.

something wriggly this way comes...

my sore throat is threatening to make a comeback. it is niggling. i am obviously low-level anxious about a return bout of ill health (as i believe it is referred to in middle age). i dreamt yesterday that i had gone back to my GP as i was feeling poorly again and was duly admitted to hospital. i remember feeling terribly weak and feeble in the dream, concerned that i had developed meningitis. when the doctor came to see me he informed me that i was suffering from an 'extremely severe case… of worms'! i was mortified.
mind you, i reckon worms would win hands-down in an ill-off (see earlier entry about how whenever one complains of illness, the person one is talking too has to have equally bad, or worse symptoms/ailments). i can't imagine anyone offering 'oh, i know, i've just vomited a 19 inch tapeworm, and i'm sure there's another one in there trying to get out', in response to my bemoaning my condition.
and on the subject tapeworms, i once read that in the Victorian times, when ladies would swallow a tapeworm in order to maintain their 'elegantly waisted' demeanour, that in order to get them out again they would hold a piece of rotting meat over their open mouths and the worm would smell it and come out. that is obviously utter rubbish!
i then dreamt that an old granny was admiring my glasses.
what does it all mean?
in the real world, all is lovely. the sun came out momentarily. i spoke to the date, who told me he was missing me A LOT this week, and i think i've recruited a new art bod for the magazine.
and i'm going away tomorrow so have a long weekend ahead.
must watch out for undercooked pork!

I heart Valentine's day

my Valentine's booty: a text message from the date saying 'happy Valentine's Day. I didn't send you a card'. bless.
as per usual lots of smug marrieds came into work clutching bouquets to their breasts like they'd just given birth to them. and someone at a nearby desk got a card that they 'honestly don't have a clue who it's from'. aren't mums great? heroes, in fact, just like Iceland says on the ad.
i bought myself a bunch of dafodils and am now going home to have supper with two single friends, who i always hook up with on feb 14!
at least we won't fight over the wet patch.

give me an o, give me an h, give me an m.......

OK, so the breath breaks are back – you know, those moments when you have to take yourself off to the loo and inhale deeply a few times in order to calm down, because you are so eye-bleedingly busy you can't ever imagine feeling anything but totally frantic ever again?
I've also been reading 'The Quiet' by that smug multimillionaire, I mean author, who wrote The Little Book of Calm. It's basically about meditation for the time-impoverished. Fast track Nirvana. He recommends making a moment in your day to just sit and be. I've set myself a reminder on my phone every afternoon at 3pm, which I'm sure isn't what he had in mind, but I figure that so long as I do actually step off the treadmill that is 21st century living at least once a day the end more than justifies the means.
I'm constantly amazed at how 'chatterbox' my mind is when I do actually just stop and turn inward. And so 'critical'. Honestly, with a friend like me, I really don't need enemies!

from the mouths of innocents, and Veronica...

to Brighton to check out a lovely hotel for work - well someoneone has to do it. Veronica managed to come out with not one but three - count em - classics in the space of 24 hours.
1. she tries on a cardigan in one of Brighton's seemlessly endless collection of bijou boutiques. said cardigan is fawn. the assistant who is serving her is wearing the same thing in brown. 'it's lovely, isn't it?' says the assistant to Veronica. 'i'm wearing the other colourway.' 'Oh,' exclaims Veronica. 'What colour is it?" cue much eyebrow furrowing by assistant. how i laughed!
2. next we pop into whistles because Veronica likes a dress in the window. running through a rail of clothes, label expert V turns to me and exclaims (in the same authoritative manner I imagine Louis Paster used when announcing the discovery of penicillin) 'so, basically, this might as well be a Whistles store!'. Bless. she claims that she hadn't noticed the (huge, neon) signage outside, nor that on the back wall. how i laughed!
At this point i feel it only fair to point out that VERONICA IS NOT VISUALLY OR MENTALLY IMPAIRED.
3. Veronica's hattrick came on the train on the way home. we were talking about the ethics and semantics of email when Veronica admitted she had recently made a discovery. no, not that the world is actually flat or a cure for cancer, but that those punctuation emoticons that people use as a sign-off are actually meant to be faces!!!! 'I thought it was bad punctuation…'
how i laughed!

microwave hell

'My goodness,' said my GP as he looked down my throat on Tuesday. 'You've been walking around like that for a month and no one's given you anything. That's dreadful!' I honestly could have hugged her and wept. Having been told twice already by our company doctor to go home and take Aspirin for a sore throat that felt like swallowing glass, that someone was finally going to give me a brown bottle of pills with my name on it was almost more than I could bear.
So, antibiotics are kicking in nicely (and making me feel thoroughly sick) and I'm awaiting results of blood tests and throat swabs. Who wants an ill-off now then? No takers, eh?
All of this meant that last night I actually got a proper night's sleep. Isn't it amazing the difference a few uninterrupted hours of shuteye can make to your mood.
A few observations and conundrums:
Aren't Mika's songs fantastically catchy?
Can a 10 year age gap really ever work? Will he just trade me in for a younger model at the earliest opportunity, in which case should I just say goodbye now while it's still lovely?
What do you pack when in London winter seems to be an outdated concept (12 degrees today) and you're going to Prague, which could give Narnia a run for its money in the weather stakes (-2 degrees today, apparently)? I've asked that on behalf of my itinerant sister.
Has my nan got her cooker working yet? The poor dear is restricted to microwave dinners with nothing but Trisha and Emmerdale for company!

oh, i know....

i had about an hour's sleep last night. which is neither bragging nor an exagerration. the sore throat, which i have now seen the company doctor about twice, has got worse and is now playing 'what am i?' with me.
am i a sore throat?
am i a toothache?
am i an earache?
am i some kind of glanular thing?
quite frankly i'm too tired and miserable to play so am plumping for a tantalisingly grim mix of the four.
i am finally seeing my own doctor at 4pm TOMORROW afternoon. death not being imminent that was the earliest they could squeeze me in!
so, i'm feeling fairly wretched, as you may have sensed.
what is not helping is the 'illness oneupmanship tournament' i seem to have started by actually admitting i feel rough. (my sister will tell you i am rarely ill and give into being poorly with even less frequency.)
here is a random selection of responses to my saying i'm not well when asked about the state of my health:
'oh, i feel awful too. i've got a really bad headache.'
'i was like that all last week, i'm still not ok, really hot and tired.'
'i know, i've got such a sore throat i can hardly swallow.'
i just want to weep, or bite someone's head off.
don't tell me… you feel suicidal and have never had such bad PMT

I'll be brief

It snowed yesterday. In London. In winter! Can you imagine. My friend Veronica was so amazed at the site when she woke up and saw her balcony covered in white that she apparently exclaimed 'shit on a stick', which is a whole new blog, but sweet. For my part I muttered 'oh wow'. Surprisingly the Northern Line was unaffected. It was a treat crunching through virgin snow to get to the Tube. Of course by hometime it had turned into brown sludge but, while it lasted, it was magical.

fag break

When I was really young (5 or 6) I remember being most impressed at my mother's ability to speak and smile at the same time. I thought the difference between kids and adults were that adults could multitask (though of course the concept was still a twinkle in someone's future blue sky thinking) while children could not. I decided that one day, I too would be able to hold a conversation while smiling simultaneously. Of course I realise now that chances are Mum was actually grimacing, or at the very least putting on a brave face and talking through it. Which of course, we're all very good at now that we're all very grown up.
I also used to think that if you cut off your arm, or finger or other appendage, rather than blood and gore, you'd spout tobacco - that we were in fact made up pretty much like cigarettes. Obviously the result of growing up in a hard-core smoker's house. My earliest memories are of being woken up to the sound of a lighter being flicked and the flint-lit shadow of my mum being thrown onto her bedroom wall (until the age of 10 I went and got into my mum and dad's bed – slap bang between them). I also remember always having to sit at the back of the cinema so mum could smoke.
My lovely mum also tabbed her way through both of her pregnancies. And it never did us any harm.

breakfast of champions

Newsflash. I didn't go to the gym this morning.
I did, however, get up at my normal time – 6am – and so had the chance to catch up on breakfast TV. my inner child loved it – so nice to be talked to about grown-up things like gambling addiction and diets but in words that any pre-teen can understand, and in a tone fit for reading fairy stories (and now for a piece about animal abuse, which really is terrible). is that what they mean by the nanny state? no wonder we are so depressed as a nation if that is what we get by way of morning intellectual stimulation.
i then got the tube. what a difference a couple of hours makes to the class and quantity of traveller. it was heaving with people who'd left their manners/consideration for others/common sense at home. if you've ever wondered what an elephant would look like trying to squeeze itself into a phone box (some joke, surely), take a look at the people on the northern line trying to fit onto already packed train carriages. weird.
then of course there's the hair and beauty sessions you get treated to once you've managed to crush all your internal organs together so you can fit in the 3sq inches allowed to you by your fellow travellers. while i think it's admirable that people can actually apply eyeshadow, mascara and (most impressive of all) eyeliner while they are basically sitting in a metallic canister on wheels being dragged along thin rails by someone who may or may not be awake/alive/qualified to drive, surely there's a time and a place for putting your face on and the Charing X branch may not be it?
I wonder what would happen if I got out an electric shaver and started giving myself a quick once-over. Maybe tomorrow I'll try and give myself a pedicure while travelling from Kentish Town to Charing X – well, you've got to use your downtime wisely.

the difference between us and them

I have just been reading the blog of a Scottish friend who has decamped to the States. in her latest post, my mate praises the US service culture and US doctors. having had her car broken into and her car radio stolen she was delighted to discover that not only did the local deputy sheriff himself turn up to file a report but the autoglass person came out within 4 hours to fix the window. the radio manufacturer then informed her that she was entitled to a replacement because her radio was new.
after that she went to the doctor, who sympathetically listened to her talking about her woes (lump in the nose) and then prescribed antibiotics for her condition.
i couldn't help but compare Maryanne's experience over there with mine over here this week. to cut a long and extremely boring story short – ordered dollars on monday to be delivered to my local bank on tuesday. went to bank wednesday morning to collect. the branch closed for refurbishment. call bank and tell them. am informed that the delivery is on its way to that branch today. so, a day late and going to a closed bank. ask them to redeliver to a different branch. they call me and tell me the dollars are at new bank for me to collect. go there at lunchtime today and guess what? no dollar! ring currency company who assure me they've been delivered to the original bank. the one that i assure them (again) is closed for refurbishment. 'YES, VERY SURE, I JUST WALKED PAST ON MY WAY TO THE OTHER BANK' . am promised they will be there on Monday. we will see.
sore throat. glands up. neck really stiff etc. went to doctor. 'it's probably viral. take paracetamol. if you're coughing up green stuff in a week come back.' says doctor. he didn't even look down my throat! am now up to my eyeballs in soluble aspirin and cold and flu hot drinks.
remind me to tell you about how I'm worried that I'm going to turn into one of those old people who feels compelled to say outloud everything they think in their head.

see, i told you i was ill!

today's entry was inspired by a friend in the States (www.alifelessdamp.blogspot.com, who, I might add, only started her blog because of me) who is suffering from LNS (aka Lump in Nose Syndrome).
so, quite a heavy weekend (see new year's resolutions). get to work yesterday (pissing down on a boring Monday as Paul Weller would have it, see yesterday's post), and then around 4pm start to develop a weird pain in my neck. but only on the left side. not constant, only when i move. but really tender to touch. then my throat gets really sore and i start feeling a bit giddy/dizzy. it gets worse - to the point where i cancel my evening plans and go home to bed. still bad this morning. so. is it glandular or is it muscular? can only one gland come up on your neck? thankfully alifelessdamp informs me that cancerous lumps don't come up that quickly and i also did my own research which bore this out. though it is amazing how many self-diagnosers, hypochondriacs, Munchausen sydrome sufferers you can find in cyberspace. and even closer to home. i was relieved to discover that don't have glandular fever - a friend who self-diagnosed similar over xmas assures me that my symptoms aren't severe enough. his sore throat/dizziness was put down to 'just a virus' which he is now all but recovered from.
if i make it through the night i'll be back for more soon.

smell the coffee

standing in the queue at the coffee shop this morning it occured to me that i can no longer say 'i'm not the marrying kind' when someone confuses me for a heterosexual (it has been known to happen, honestly). because of course, us gays can now tie the knot. then i found myself wondering whether i'd get married if someone asked me (someone, of course, being a totally hypothetical/imaginary thing). these thoughts were sparked by the guy in front of me, who was wearing the most hideous wedding ring i've ever seen. it was on his wedding finger, so i'm assuming it was something lovingly shoved on there by a blushing bride. it was shiny gold, really FAT with swirly engraving. anyway, i'm sure he loves it and i'm sure somewhere, someone loves him. which is nice.
then i found myself sipping my coffee thinking about Paula Walford, who i used to go to school with. i remember going round to her house and going into her bedroom and being amazed that it was absolutely enormous. then she showed me her parents' bedroom. they were in the BOX ROOM! basically she'd insisted that she needed personal space much more than they ever would and they'd agreed to let her have their bedroom. CRAZY! you can now buy shoes that have satellite tracking in them so that you can keep an eye on your child's whereabouts should he or she have lost his/her bearings/mobile phone/marbles. which is nice, if you have children.
then i came into work.
it's Monday. and boring to boot.

this year

i'm going to find a cure for cancer and do my utmost to facilitate world peace. i also intend to do a mile in under 3 and a half minutes and learn to juggle 34 balls at the same time. i'm a bit over plate spinning now i can keep 56 of them revolving at once so i will focus my abilities with poles on trying to beat the world javelin record. or perhaps learning that crazy poledancing move where the 'lady' hangs upside down from the top of the pole, gripping on with her ankles (normally while wearing killer heels - i'll probably keep my slippers on)
if i don't do all the above, i will at least try:
to have more lay ins - i'm getting quite bored of 6am on a sunday hangover or no hangover?
to be less critical of myself - why does our inner moaner never get a sore throat or lose their voice like the rest of us?
have more sex (at least this year i can include the word more in that sentence, unlike in other years)
drink less (that old chestnut)
eat more fruit and veg (can't believe my life has come to this)
spend more time in the here and now, just being, not obsessively doing.
i will let you know how i get on.
my first contact with another human being this year was with a friend's 4 year old who came down waving a fairy wand over my bed. bless!