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....