Monday, January 31, 2005

Brief Encounters

Californian, pure bred San Franciscan with a superb smile…dark hair always just where it liked to be and something irresistibly kissable about the taut caramel curve stretching from earlobe to collar bone. Drove me to the ocean snuggled up in a blanket in his open top car to drink warm beer and watch the emerald glow lurking in the breakwater. Away from the city it’s hard to believe how many stars there are.

Friday, January 28, 2005

Baby Talk

Top Workmate's baby is due in 8 days and he's squeamish. Should he stay in the waiting room and just pop his head around the door cheerfully every few minutes giving her the thumbs up and coaching her with positive up-beat feedback? Should he cradle her head and mop away the sweat whilst whispering sweet nothings and keeping his gaze above neck level? Should he don his surfer style swim shorts and underwater camera and join her in the birth pool, hoping the water will blur the view? Should he just go for it...grab an ER style green tunic and headscarf and prepare to cut the cord and pickle it in a jar? Should he just focus hard on the searing pain in his hand as her nails dig into his sensitive flesh and ignore all other thoughts? Or should he just take advantage of the fact that he can barely see a thing without his glasses, remove them when it gets a bit messy and stay happily unaware of all the goo, but totally there for his lovely lady.

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Discovering you're a Samantha

My Sex and the City persona was Samantha. When groups of girlfriends gathered for lunch and a latte and the question came up it was always the same.. Samantha was the confident one (admittedly a bit slutty) with a heart of gold. She got the best outfits (apart from that turquoise boiler suit) had the hunkiest boyfriends and was totally together. I'm not saying that I'd be seen dead in tangerine lycra, that I've suffered the after effects of a corrosive chemical peel, or that I've been caught taking part in extra curricular hose handling practice at my local fire station but my brand was more Samantha than sensible. Now there's a whole new set of gateposts and the inhabitants of Wisteria Lane have got me thinking.. When I saw that button hanging from the Marriage Counsellor's jacket it made me tense...I find that I can't sit with papers spread around the place, can't rest till the scatter cushions are scattered precisely and think of vacuming as a satisfying and life affirming activity. In short, I am now a Bree (is that how you spell it or is she named after a cheese?) and I don't like it. Surely even a Charlotte would be preferable?

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Never date a Model

So she spots him across a crowded room… a jampacked sweat pit of a pub in fact, and he’s heart-stoppingly handsome. She thinks there’s no way she’s in with a chance, her mascara has definitely snuck down her cheeks - more Alice Cooper than Angelina Jolie-and the tee shirt which started out as sexy is now just a bit sweaty, but whenever she glances over, his eyes are on her… a magnetic and vice like grip of a gaze that makes her catch her breath and curl her toes. She moves over to a point at the bar just by him and resolutely aligns her slightly wobbly vision towards the barmaid. His hand brushes her arm and he flashes her a perfectly practiced sexed up smile. He buys her a drink and by the end of the night he’s told her he’s a model, they’ve arranged a date and unknown girls have thrown her looks of sheer and total jealous incredulity. A day later they head out together. He arranges himself carefully on the bar stool, knees wide, sleeves pushed up precisely to show a tantalising stretch of tanned skin. He doesn’t mention her carefully coiffed hair or her brand new top.. he mentions he’s a model – again-and talks about the trials of life in an industry where everyone keeps telling you how beautiful you are, and beautiful women throw themselves at you… he’s exhausted, poor thing. He breaks off to get more drinks and beckons her over to the bar smiling inanely. She glances up to see that he’s standing by a life size poster which features him clutching a tacky alcopop, grinning cheesily and modelling an interesting example of eighties style fluorescent beachwear (yes, pink tanga briefs). She looks back at him as he waits for an awe-inspired compliment. She decides that it’s time to make a quick getaway.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005


Yesterday I was desperately seeking inspiration...
Me: Help! I need a snappy, catchy, killer strapline to really push this top promotion..
Top Workmate: How about a picture of a cow, with a speech bubble saying, 'These offers are Amooooosing?'

What more could you possibly ask for? This Marketing Team is definitely on track for international acclaim...

Monday, January 24, 2005


So Forest Gump was wrong with his 'Box of Chocolates' thing...Life is actually more like the conveyor belt in a Sushi Bar. Everyone's travelling through at the same pace, every once in a while being picked up and thrown into a new place - or being thrown out... now and again being joined by an exciting new addition. Some bowls look pretty unasuming and dull, but in fact contain morsels of delicately flavoured deliciousness, the soya beans of this world. Others like the Sushi rolls are irresistable and flamboyant but the bits of avacado wrapped up in the middle are hard and tasteless. The slabs of salmon are straightforward. You know where you are with them and they're always available when you need them. The Tuna is a bit more scary... slightly unnaproachable but surprisingly delicate when you get into it. Anything coated with fish eggs looks pretty tasty, but you're left with bits stuck in your teeth and a lingering sour taste that hangs around for hours... Obviously in all cases the way you treat them can make all the difference. Adding a bit of soy and a touch of ginger can bring out their best, but watch out for that Wasabi...

Friday, January 21, 2005

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Never be taken in by a Tux

You know the routine, girl has coming-of-age evening of music, dancing and romance in mind… she spends a week planning her outfit with her friends, right down to the last sequin, she tans and plucks, wishes for spot free skin, lays out her ensemble on the bed… She steps into the skimpiest knickers, hoiks the dress over her hips and teeters out in the skyscraper heels. He’s there at the bar lit by thousands of tiny twirling lights thrown from the silver disco ball. His Tux is pure Bond (his smile is pure smarm) and she wants him. They flirt, talk a while until he pulls her onto the dance floor and holds her close. His kiss, rather moist but she can work on that…. The drinks flow, the time flies and he takes her number. She doesn’t have to wait long for his call and she goes to meet him at the movies. As she approaches she can’t see him… she can’t see her exotic Adonis with the film star looks. There’s just a guy in a yellow and blue oversized shell suit waving and walking towards her…

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Naked models

Life Drawing is a minefield of potential faux-pas. Firstly you've got to get over the fact that there's a naked lady lounged legs akimbo two feet away from you, then you have to resolutely refrain from comparing lumpiness of cellulite, pertness of bosom and tidyness of 'front garden' against what faced you in the reflection on the shower door that morning. Once you actually get around to picking up your pencil, the questions start... should you trim that tummy down a bit, slice off a millimetre or two from the nose (you know the model will sneak a peek later and you don't want to upset her). Even worse, what do you do with the male model's 'twig and berries' (I'm sticking to a horticultural theme here) don't want to give him a complex resulting in life-long performance problems. When it comes to discussing your work of art with your teacher can you say 'boob' or does it have to be 'brrreast'? and when you see your muse later on picking out some appropriately shaped melons in the Supermarket do you tell her you hardly recognise her with her clothes on?

Wednesday, January 19, 2005


There's an important thing you should know about Yoga. It doesn't go with baked beans. Bikram doesn't go with Brussels Sprouts either.. and Power Yoga certainly doesn't go with prunes. New starters to the 'Yoga way' (and more often than not a diet of dried fruit) are often ambushed most embarassingly by a fanfare of farts as they enthusiastically clench their buttocks and crouch in 'Eagle'(or what should for most of us be called 'Sick Budgie') and last night was no exception. The lady in question ('Yoga Novice') was off to a bad start when she swanned in wearing her sporty leotard (flourescent flashes and all) and unrolled her designer stylee yoga mat. My Dad always says 'If you have no skill at something, at least look the part' which was clearly 'Yoga Novice's' mantra. As the willowy 'Yoga Angel' next to me in the paint encrusted combats and greying vest effortlessly bent over backwards 'Yoga Novice' in her shiny catsuit struggled to reach down and remove her socks.
Things went from bad to worse when she embraced the breathing technique all too keenly and nearly hyperventilated, and this to be followed by the terrible trump... I think she may never cross the tie-dyed fabric threshold of the Yoga studio again. You would have thought that a leggings smothered 'let-off' would be barely audible in a room full of enthusiastic excercisers but a strange 'other wordly' silence accompanies all Yoga studios which magnifies the volume of every grunt, groan or trump to magnificent proportions. Consequently the room was then split into people who were trying to pretend that they're too grown-up and serious to laugh at a person's misfortune, and me and my 'Yogapal' who got that 'just stepped into a library' style desperate urge to laugh. Obviously this was not appropriate so we just sniggered and went red, which was also the shade of 'Yoga Novice's' face... not a good look when combined with fuschia lycra.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005


So there's this man that I keep seeing. I think we must have precisely the same 'person profile' because over the last few weeks our lives have run partly in parallel. Firstly he takes the same train as me (no particular surprise there as I'm part of a rat race of commuters who spend hours snuggled up against each other but never make eye contact) we both pick the same carriage (I wonder if he waits where he does like me to avoid the pigeon's early morning target practice) and pick the same seats. The last two books we've read have been the same (da Vinci Code - admittedly read by one hundred other people in the carriage and Birdsong - slightly less 'now') we get off at the same place and then he disappears... but he's everywhere else I go, tucked into the corner of the bar, browsing around the loo cleaner section of the Supermarket (let's face it, no-one else but me does that). He was in the cafe on Saturday... Earl Gray and Carrot cake all round and sat 2 rows behind me in front of 'Closer' at the flicks. I know that there's no 'angle'... he has a girlfriend who, like my boyfriend, sits with him on the train some days and I can see him smile as he texts her when she's not with him. I'm just wondering if this makes him my doppleganger, my soulmate or my stalker and even more worrying... does he think I'm the one stalking him?..

Monday, January 17, 2005


...So this is what I should be doing to clear my Monday Morning head-fuzz, erase my deepest inner fears, achieve Nirvana, find God, make sense of why I'm here, improve my social life, inject excitement into my sex life and make me a wholly better person... What I want to know is, 'Will Blogging clear up the spot on my forehead?'

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