I'm not waving, I'm drowning

Perfect

2006-06-30T18:03:00.000+01:00

A friend recently told me that there is no such thing as the perfect relationship. Admittedly I was probably behaving brattishly at the time – disgruntled and peevish and suffering from the kind of impossible idealism that only springs from moments submerged in sadness. But I know that he misunderstood what I was trying to say to him, like he misunderstood so much else about me. I don’t need the kind of relationship that is perfectly flawless, I don’t want a coupling that keeps itself to itself. It doesn’t need to always stick to schedule and it doesn’t have to be perfectly turned out. I never wanted a relationship that minds its Ps and Qs and bends over backwards to please you. All I wanted was a shift from perfectly fine to slightly special – What I have found is something perfectly brilliant.

Confession

2006-02-14T08:58:00.000Z

So there’s this someone. Just thinking about him summons the smoulderings of a smile, what he has to say has me in stitches or makes me melt. When I’m near him I want to move closer and when we’re close to touching the magnets kick in. When we’re together I struggle to stop my words tumbling in torrents, falling with a force that could wash him away… instead I smile and I hold him and I let him know that I like him but the truth is that if I just let him look into my eyes for a lingering second longer he’d see that he has me mesmerised, and I just want him to be mesmerised by me…

Freefalling

2006-01-30T17:34:00.000Z

New place, new space to fill…us is just me but it’s the old me. There’s been a break, a wrench that threatened to rip me apart… a time at the end when fine threads like cobwebs stretched between us, pulling taut and tearing, then freefalling away. That’s what this is – freefalling. You ask me if I miss you. I don’t know what the answer is and I don’t know what the answer should be. There’s something gaping – a space left behind but its space to breathe and room to move. It’s a gap that’s waiting to be filled with something precious and exciting. I lie in my new sheets, in my new place and I wonder if it was lonelier lying beside you than it is being without you. Even when I reach across and feel the cool smoothness where the curve of your shoulder used to be I know that this new space will give me the room I need to grow into myself again.

New Year

2006-01-01T13:12:00.000Z

So how do you know when it’s time to stop trying? When is loving someone just not quite enough? All I needed was to turn you on, to tussle and tumble and scramble amongst the bedsheets, to sleep from exhaustion and not as a means to escape and I wanted to fix everything, like I always have… I don’t fail and I don’t fuck up and you made me unable and you made me incapable. Do you know what made the teeniest, tiniest difference and made me wonder if things could feel better? You kissed me on the wobbly bridge and I remembered what it was like to be wanted. I asked you to show me and you didn’t shift to avoid my eye. My question didn’t stick in my throat, it didn’t tighten like a gag and it didn’t threaten to choke us and drag us further inside ourselves. You took me up on my simple offer and it felt like the lingering promise of something better with you, and something that would help me fix myself and if the new year offers only the briefest hint of that, I’ll be touching happy….

a bit of verbal

2005-11-08T18:07:00.000Z

So I’ve had my first mean comment. PPQ has massaged my bruised confidence and assured me that as a result I’m now a proper blogger so I’ve decided to take it on the chin as the bloke concerned is obviously a bit of a nobber and certainly lacking in imagination. On the positive side, at least he had the courtesy to asterisk out the rude word he used. Nice to know that he’s still polite even when he’s insulting…..

buzz off

2005-11-07T20:00:00.000Z

We’re suffering from an embarrassing problem. The flat, our beautiful flat, our virtually new, pristine, sparklingly clean flat has been invaded by a swarm of flies and I can’t stand it. It started innocently enough, a couple of big fat sleepy bluebottles flapping half heartedly at the sitting room window, one almost immediately dropped dead with the sheer exhaustion of it all, the other I dutifully escorted out using the tried and trusted ‘glass and postcard’ method usually reserved for the slower moving minibeast. After that however, things went downhill fast. Every few seconds there’d be another one buzzing angrily round a light fixture or bashing itself repeatedly off the walls. As soon as we captured one, another appeared until P resorted to arming himself with a tea towel and flicking at them, resulting in a secondary school shower block scenario and a pile of squashed and semi squashed little black bodies. Did I ever mention that my other half doesn’t do things by half? He grabbed his jacket, whirled out of the door and seconds later I could hear the squeal of tyres as he drove away. Thankfully he was not leaving me to fend for myself in the fug of flies (or at least only for a short while) because he returned moments later with a wide selection of insect killing apparel, all sporting labels featuring terrifying names and pictures of freakishly large insects with evil grins. After almost killing both of us with copious quantities of fly spray, he stuck a vast number of sticky flytraps to the windows, and then sprayed another canister of fly killer around just to be sure. After yet another frenzied attack of tea towel swatting, he suddenly raised the thousand dollar question – where the heck are the little buggers coming from? This was followed with a hearty session of cupboard opening, carpet lifting, bed moving and even plughole investigation, activity that ultimately resulted in discovering they were sneaking out from under the skirting boards. Meanwhile, I was on the telephone to my Mum (as always, the first person I turn to in a crisis involving household or garden pests). She could only provide me with the upbeat opinion that there is probably a dead rat under the floorboards that the flies are feasting on – so one minute I’m infested with flies, and the next I’m faced with a plague of rats. At this point I’m close to hyperventilating (partly due to shock and partly due to the carcinogenic chemical fumes wafting around me). P has been on another mission – this time to B & Q where he has equipped himself with a gun – a gun full of super quick-dry sealant, the intention being to block off all escape routes so the flies stay in their sub-skirting dungeon forever. 2 hours later P triumphantly declares he has filled every single crevice, nook and cranny – and he has. In fact the only gaps he hasn’t sealed are between my bottom and the sofa and the around the front door. The infestation has mostly been resolved now but every so often one of the teeny pesky critters will mange to make a break for freedom, only to find himself faced with certain death at the hands of a makeshift fly swat or canister of Raid. Surely they’ll give up soon, they really don’t make very pleasant houseguests.

Bin day

2005-11-06T20:11:00.000Z

Fantastically enough, my new job involves spending vast quantities of the company’s money on beautiful things – perfect. This week I was scouring the high street to find waste paper bins for a project I’m working on and you would not believe the level of pickiness I reached over this seemingly insignificant challenge. Ample height was imperative, style had to be sleek and modern yet robust and sturdy, and above all it had to be cheap… Habitat was therefore out of the question and the only alternative: the twin towers of Ikea, Croydon. 45mins on the train and I got to the Croydon tramway. Possibly the most confusing system I have ever tried to navigate and I had the distinct aura of tourist as I wandered aimlessly back and forwards squinting at the maps (possibly my lack of gold jewellery or Croydon facelift hair doo might also have contributed to the ‘you’re not from round ere’ glances). I got some help from a friendly postie who was a 'regular user' and I only had to talk to him about all the great places in Croydon he could take me to for about 20 mins when Ikea thankfully came into view. Did I mention that gale force winds were blowing and rain was in the air? I battled across the car park, wishing I’d worn sensible shoes and possibly a souwester but once inside the hallowed halls I managed to locate the rubbish bins pretty much straight away without being distracted by snake draught excluders or fairy lights (the fact I had to go back on the tram was a good reason to limit luggage) and selected 12 of the sleekest, sturdiest, cheapest bins I could find. As I headed for the checkouts I even managed not to buy any tealights. Carrying 12 waste paper bins is not easy, they get very heavy, very quickly and when you’re also dragging a laptop, a well stuffed handbag and wearing ridiculous shoes it’s downright dangerous. I couldn’t get my ticket out of my bag without putting everything down, I couldn’t fit through the train barriers, I kept getting evil looks as I bashed my fellow passengers ankles and my arms were getting longer every second. To add insult to injury FOUR people at separate points on my way back to the office chortled ‘Where’s yer bin?’ as I passed by… hilarious.

Missing you

2005-09-25T19:02:00.000+01:00

This bed's too big when you're not in it. The duvet feels heavy and it pins me down, trapping me and making me dream. Sometimes in the night I reach out for you and the cotton is cold, or I wake up and your side is unbearably smooth compared to my scrumpled, crumpled nest of covers. This bed's too big without you and I miss the heat that radiates from every stretch of your skin and every twitch of your tendons. Come back and entangle yourself in this cool cocoon someday soon... this bed's too big without you.

contradiction

2005-09-25T19:01:00.000+01:00

She’s staring out of the window, blonde hair with the kind of whispery highlights which require constant care…a San Tropez tan (not the bottled variety) and a perfectly tailored, precisely co-ordinated, height-of-fashion ensemble. She is flicking through a shiny wedding magazine… absently sifting through pages of fake smiles and the rock of a diamond on her left hand sends shards of light spiralling around the carriage. She shifts her heavy black sunglasses slightly and in doing so reveals the edge of a very dark, angrily swollen black eye and her hand returns to her lap where she twists the ring around and around her finger.

Searching for Mrs Mop

2005-08-15T11:43:00.000+01:00

So I’m venturing into the unknown world of hiring ‘staff’. This is due to the fact that I will be starting a new job shortly which will involve an even longer commute than I do currently and no chance whatsoever of leaving the office at anything like a reasonable time. This combined with the fact that I have a virtual OCD over cleanliness means that a cleaner is the only way I’ll retain a tidy flat and some level of sanity. Since deciding on this course of action I have been plagued by concerns over how we find a suitable candidate, how much we should pay them and how we avoid coming home to find that all our furniture has been stolen. When I was little my mum hired a brilliant cleaning lady (aren’t they always called Mrs Higgs or something similar?) but she came recommended by a stream of neighbourhood mums and was extra special because she was prepared not only to clean, but also to baby-sit me and my horrifically badly behaved siblings. This time around babysitting is not required but I’ve had to scour the internet for possible options and have a lady from ‘Peachy Clean’ popping round tonight. Apparently this is not an opportunity for me to quiz her on her favourite brand of bleach, or whether or not she cleans under the sofa as well as around it, rather for her to find out if we will be suitable customers. Consequently I have been madly scouring, descaling and scrubbing all weekend… if she runs her finger along any surface it will come away squeaky clean. I’m not entirely sure what she is checking for… maybe whether or not we have vicious dogs, dodgy, messy sex habits or a tendency to store pizza down the back of the armchair. Maybe she’s just planning to case the joint and then get a gang of ram-raiders round. Either way, as long as she looks likely to maintain my meticulously high standards she’s in… and of course, she’d better be wearing a tabard.

Tell me a bit about yourself...

2005-08-12T13:03:00.000+01:00

So we’re interviewing at the moment, an amusing way to while away a few hours if nothing else. My boss and I take up the proverbial ‘good cop, bad cop’ roles - he lulls them into a false sense of security and then I swoop in with some really evil mind-benders. It’s true what they say though, you can pretty much make an instant decision at the first handshake, at least I definitely can by the time I’ve accompanied them on the slow ascent to the fifth floor. Yesterday we had the super-slick agency high flyer who used too much lingo and wouldn’t stop asking questions about pensions… the slightly mumsy, middle aged lady who had a menopausal flush and who’s answers went on for hours. There was the South African bombshell (my boss could barely speak when she sashayed in) who thought that working for a holiday company meant that you actually get to travel (-ha!) and the beautiful but extremely French (and extremely petite) Parisienne who we nodded and smiled at for half an hour whilst understanding absolutely nothing that came out of her cupid’s bow of a mouth… Let’s hope today is as amusing and that maybe one of them might even be employable....

A bit of a boob

2005-08-10T16:10:00.000+01:00

So there I am rushing across the platform at Victoria Station, marching amidst the other rat racers towards the crowded ticket barriers. Everyone has matched their speed to everyone else, only a hairs breadth away from each other but never quite touching. The guy right in front of me picks that precise moment to take a break from his oversized suitcases and stops dead in his tracks. As I skitter into him, uttering what can only be described as a yelp he turns around, his hands held out in front of his chest, poised and ready to fend off the impending attack. I’m still moving forward, propelled by momentum and within a second my breasts are both planted securely in his open hands and I finally grind to a halt. He looks at me, I look at him… we both look down at the offending hands and then back at each other. A flush of crimson floods his neck and he whips his hands away, coughs, awkwardly half smiles and scuttles away into the crowd. I guess that’s what you call a hands-on experience….

sunshine

2005-07-15T10:44:00.000+01:00

So I suddenly found myself swamped with a swoosh of euphoria. Just walking with the sunshine in my eyes and the faintest whispering hint of a salty seaside breeze in my hair… the water was peppered with people swimming or simply splashing. Its not often that everywhere you look there are smiles, and when there are they’re infectious. So there I was walking and smiling behind my sunglasses and I had to loop my fingers through my belt to stop myself reaching out in some kind of crazy salute to the sun because at that moment it made me feel charged with the best kind of brilliance. And I hope that soon it will swamp me all over again.

A note in passing

2005-07-13T09:28:00.000+01:00

I do think of you, every once in a while – even though you pushed me away and made me want somebody else to love me… I think of the way you used to measure how much you loved me by stretching your arms out wide… as wide as you could possibly reach, fingertips pointing like starfish. Sometimes I’d catch you watching me and you’d smile and keep on looking until we both started to laugh. It’s surprising that something so vital slips away so easily but as I passed your street a tiny fraction of that feeling came back, just from thinking about you.

2005-07-12T10:37:00.000+01:00

One of the down sides to my job is that I have to spend a lot of time trawling the country, picking my way around some of the least glamorous places in the UK including a lot of dodgy trading estates. I like the fact that I get to escape from the office, I like the fact that I get to stay in some pretty snazzy hotels, I like the fact that our expenses allocation is fairly large but what I don’t like are some of the men. During the week these hotels are home to a small selection of the most desperate kind of bloke. They’re mid life crisis material with an accompanying middle aged spread. They hang out in hotel bars waiting to pounce on unsuspecting lone women like me. Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t at all sinister… just a bit sad, but I’m always wowed by their ability to be oblivious to the fact that their company is not relished, required or desired in the least. I always arm myself with a book or a paper as flimsy protection but they’ll still shuffle over, asking if it’s okay to sit down as they do exactly that. They’ll start a full synopsis of their life before I have a chance to object and always throw in the odd clumsy flirtatious remark which will lurk awkwardly in the air, along with their cigar smoke. I’ve made numerous excuses and been firm to the point of rude, but short of walking off they just don’t take the hint. As a result of this I’ve taken to steering away from the hotel hang outs and instead select a cheeky local eatery. That way I avoid the businessmen and get the opportunity to look at the cute waiters from behind my book. I bet they say that the worst thing about their jobs is the flirty businesswomen.

Bitch

2005-07-11T09:29:00.000+01:00

I’ve just read a horrible book. Not horrible because it was full of gruesome murders or scary fetishes or even because it was badly written. It didn’t make me want to abandon it and take solace in a Lisa Jewell but rather pushed me to keep turning the pages with the kind of morbid fascination usually reserved for those rubbernecks at the scene of a car crash. The book – Notes on a Scandal… the theme - the terrifying risk that you take by trusting someone and the shocking extent to which a person can be infected, infiltrated and overtaken by nastiness… it’s the kind of book that you can’t put down because of the fact it’s luxuriously mean, but it also slightly sets your teeth on edge because you can’t imagine that anyone could possibly be that much of a Bitch. I have a sneaking suspicion that my last post was heavily influenced by the book in question and it makes me nervous that the bitchiness oozed out through the pages and made me horrible. Henceforth I shall be turning over a new leaf and only speaking sweetness and light, I’ll be kind and caring and forgiving, and will help old ladies over the road at every opportunity (as long as they don’t smell of wee). I will be positive and stop moaning, I’ll be friendly and never smug… Alright, alright… I’m making myself feel sick with all this cheesiness... Maybe I’ll try taking it one step at a time and just try to stop being a Bitch.

Abominable

2005-07-08T10:24:00.000+01:00

If you’re slim, glamorous, fully waxed, beautiful and superbly feminine you can get away with having a name like Yeti. My ex-housemate (note the way I don’t say ‘friend’) was none of these… In fact she was broad shouldered, lumpy, overweight, loping and had a slight hormonal imbalance, which resulted in excessive body hair. Admittedly she was only four foot five and a half, but in all other aspects resembled the Bigfoot of Arctic folklore perfectly. She was a member of the women’s rugby team (of course)… apparently her role as ‘hooker was well suited, and was all in all the least desirable housemate anyone could wish for. She was an incredible contradiction… Posh, well spoken, she’d just done the ‘Season’ and came from a family of socialites, but for one with such a grand upbringing she had the worst manners imaginable and the worst dress sense. It may seem that I am being unfair and harsh… a bit of a bitch in fact, but she irritated me constantly for nearly a year, and that’s a pretty big issue. For a rich girl, she was incredibly tight. The meter always ran out when it was her turn and she was never around when the time came to top it up. She handwashed all her underwear (which consequently was a distinctly unsexy shade of chewing gum grey) and hung it from the bathroom ceiling. The cups of her bra were as big as my head and there’s nothing worse than getting up for a wee in the night, discovering the electricity had run out (Yeti’s turn again) and then being slapped in the face with a ginormous damp bra as you stumble around in the darkness. She had a penchant for unpleasant smelling food too… kippers (which everyone knows are banned from student accommodation), boiled eggs, dishes that involved cabbage and she displayed all the worst clean-ophibic tendencies (a particular issue with a Bree like me). Her love life (yes, amazingly she had one) was one long trauma after another… it mainly involved ‘mature’ students (for ‘mature’ read ‘past it’) who were pompous and pot bellied and two (or three) timed her mercilessly. On one occasion we had to manhandle a puppy dog eyed pre-pubescent Pakistani from her room after he ‘refused to take no for an answer’ (though to this day I have my suspicions that she kidnapped him and dragged him back to her cave by the hair). Her voice was always set at one volume… ‘booming’, not great in an apartment made of paper and when she made snide, bitchy little comments about me and my friends (which I always heard) I couldn’t help but laugh. In those days I never bothered to bitch back, I guess there was always a bit of me that felt sorry for her, but when I saw her hilarious entry and airbrushed photo on the Friends Re-united website recently I cackled heartily, and hoped that she’s now changed for the better and that nightmarish abominable snow-person no longer exists.

Catching up

2005-07-04T10:12:00.000+01:00

So I spent the weekend in London on a girly, gossipy mini-break. Me and my ex-housemate/ partner in crime from Manchester Uni (the highly desirable ex-poly, not the one which required brainpower) braved the hoards of Live 8 ticket holders, the gay pride attendees (I was travelling from Brighton after all) and the sale shoppers, to hit the capital for a couple of days of drinking, dining and general catching up. We checked into our super-glamorous city hotel (there are some benefits to being in the travel industry) and investigated the mini-bar, tried out the CD player and the plasma, fiddled with the air con, sniffed the lotions and potions in the bathroom (since when did 3 ear-buds and a cotton wool pad warrant the title ‘vanity pack’?) and bounced on the bed and then we spruced up and hit the town. Whenever we meet up, it’s like we’ve never been apart. For starters we’re generally wearing extremely similar outfits, in this case, sparkly skirts (you can never have too many sequins) beaded tops, lots of bangles (yes, we have both embraced the gypsy-hippy chic trend wholeheartedly) and matching manicures (always French and on fingers AND toes)…. The first day we met as Freshers in our Manchester student flat we knew there was a special connection and we were discussing crucial issues like hair dye, the scary nature of our other flatmates and our sex lives within seconds…. this weekend was no different. A bit of window-shopping down High Street Ken, a couple of large G&Ts and a plateful of Meze later we were turned away from the Roof Gardens (supposedly a private function but it might have been our killer garlic breath). We regained our cool in a bar round the corner and then I lost mine again by tripping over on my way back from the loo (flipping flip-flops). We found a cosy little trattoria with an extremely over friendly waiter and the best risotto I’ve ever tasted and before we knew it the place had cleared (closing time, not our rowdy behaviour) and it was time to head back. A few drinks in the chic hotel lounge to finish off and then bed beckoned. Obviously we told everyone on our return that we went clubbing ‘till dawn, just like the old times but in reality we got a good six hours beauty sleep (which we need a lot more these days) and we didn’t have sore heads in the morning… Some things do change after all…

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Never date a Foot Fetishist

2005-06-17T15:33:00.000+01:00

So she started to date him because he was beautiful. His angelic face and cherubic baby blues promised something devilish deep down. He was a barman with smooth bronzed hold-me-now forearms that flexed as he pulled pints and pulled her. When they stumbled back to his place he leant in, stared into her eyes, reached down and unzipped…her boots. She had never liked her feet, her toes had been squashed in the womb and years of skyscraper heels, pointy shoes and dancing had knarled them even more. She tried to spruce them up a bit with a layer of polish once in a while and she was well aware that she had better bits but he seemed to love them and lust after them. He stroked them and rubbed them and as she leant forward to kiss him he pushed her back and started to kiss her toes one by one…he slipped them in and out of his mouth and she fought back the urge to giggle. He began to lick the soles making her ticklish toes curl uncontrollably... He smiled up at her and leaned over to unlace his mouldy work trainers, lifting his leg in her direction and wiggling his hairy digits at her. At this point she stood up and backed out of the room, blurting out excuses and aiming for the door. She couldn’t help thinking that for her, the ‘you scratch my back’ rule certainly would never, ever apply to feet…

Romance is dead

2005-06-16T13:31:00.000+01:00

So he comes home, we pour ourselves a glass of wine… I kiss him and he kisses me back. We move closer and the kiss turns into a full-blown snog. My hands start to wander. He mumbles something... I guess something romantic but didn’t quite catch it… ‘Sorry, say that again’ I say, still peppering him with kisses and holding him. He repeats himself, ‘What time is Eastenders on?’ I guess the honeymoon period is over...

Brief Encounters

2005-06-15T14:15:00.000+01:00

I went out of my way to be where you were and then I would have waited forever. I wanted to hold your gaze but I was afraid that you’d see how tightly I’m entangled. I wanted to wow you with my wit and wisdom but I mumbled and jumbled and tripped over talking… when I left you I held onto what you said so tightly and wrapped it in layers of delicate paper and treasured it. Little words that made magic... ‘when I think about you it makes me smile… I’ve been smiling a lot lately’

Happy

2005-06-09T10:54:00.000+01:00

So I was out with my lovely friend last night for a delicious (if unnecessarily fiery) green curry. We sat and drank and put the world to rights and the best thing about it was that she was so happy. There’s something really special about watching someone really special having good things happen to them. Her happiness seeped from every pore and radiated from her face like a halo… it was infectious and irresistible… it was love and confidence and stability and excitement. It was surprise and ambition and eagerness and a new beginning and it couldn’t happen to a better, brighter or more brilliant person.

Brief Encounters

2005-06-08T12:23:00.000+01:00

In that split second I knew something electric was going to happen. There was a fraction of a time warp and the briefest hint of a satellite delay… the world slipped into slow motion and passed like a speeding train. It was the sort of moment when there’s a shout at the back of your throat that never even makes it out as a whisper. We didn’t speak. I don’t think you even noticed me noticing you but I saw you like a snapshot… or an x-ray, like an image from a movie overlaid with the red neon circles of a target. You said I was conceited to be so sure that I’d have you when I told you about it later but I just knew I felt it, felt it absolutely and totally and completely in that instant, that feeling that makes you want so much to never stop feeling that way again.

Hitting the slopes (quite literally)

2005-06-06T13:22:00.000+01:00

So at the weekend I went snowboarding…Sounds impressive huh? (if slightly unseasonal). Unfortunately it wasn’t Aspen, or Whistler but actually Tamworth Snowdome that was the venue, and a pretty dreary destination it was too. The aim was to sample the sport with a view to possibly partaking in a snowy holiday next year but having had a bash I’m still not entirely sold on the idea. You see I’m distinctly un-sporty and completely uncoordinated which both seem to be vital traits for snowboarding rad-ness. I vaguely looked the part with my proper boardie trousers and groovy gloves but unfortunately forgot to pack a fleece and had to resort to using a dodgy ‘What Car’ branded one that I found in a heap in the back of my boyfriend’s car (it could have been worse, he had to wear a ‘Practical Caravan’ one). My enthusiasm wasn’t really boosted by the sorry excuse for an instructor who took my 2 hour lesson. More interested in chatting up another one of the instructors, he blatantly ignored my desperate pleas for help as I slid and slipped and tripped and tumbled down the slope. His most helpful comment was ‘When you fall over, don’t put your hands out’ …which let me tell you is hard to remember when you’re just about to hit a very thin layer of well packed ice covering a near vertical slope. Admittedly I was probably a student of the ‘difficult’ variety… a bit of a wimp, keen to question EVERYthing and prone to getting frustrated when I hadn’t reached semi professional status after the first half hour (not to mention the fact that my dribbly nose was pretty unattractive) but if he didn’t like teaching people… why was he there? He obviously wanted to have a cool job that involved posing about, wowing the laydees and doing as little as possible… But I was there to learn and he didn’t inspire me one bit. So if you ever end up with Michael as your snowboarding instructor I suggest you swap him, ideally for a guy called Richard who was a better instructor and much better looking.

Service without a smile

2005-05-27T13:12:00.000+01:00

So we popped out for a bite to eat last night(Thursday is the new Friday after all) and despite the pleasant company, good reputation of the chosen establishment and the fact that I was wearing my new very cool, this season wedge sandals, I still came away disappointed. I am currently in a state of disbelief over the extent of how rubbish basic customer service can get. Last night wasn’t the ‘waiter, I have a dead rat in my soup’ kind of experience and neither did I expect Lynn Faulds-Wood to pop up at any moment citing ‘ooh look, another potential deathtrap’ as she slid over a greasy floor onto a pile of knives in a random ‘Final Destination’ style incident, it was just that there was a complete lack of any sort of effort or attention from the waiting staff. How misguided it was for us to expect to actually be acknowledged when we entered… I guess it was also really unfair of us to assume that considering we had booked days before, there might actually be an available table, and I honestly didn’t realise that it was considered such bad form not to get settled and decide on your food and drink selection within 3 seconds of being seated… (And there I was thinking that I am a seasoned diner). The starter was okay once it finally arrived but the way it was slammed down in front of me was not. The main course was yummy but the fact that it arrived before we had finished our starters or had them cleared wasn’t ideal but when the waitress banged me on the head with my plate as she finally did get round to clearing, I was definitely slightly put out. She was sour-faced and unapologetic… and she was a waitress for god’s sake… we’ve all done it and basically it involves carrying food and being smiley so unless you’ve got a serious problem with multitasking, it’s soooo not brain surgery. No wonder they included a service charge on the bill (don’t even start me on that)… there was no way she’d ever get a tip otherwise…

How to avoid a bad boyfriend - Never date a love rat

2005-05-23T19:42:00.000+01:00

So she decides that she should overlook the fact that he has a girlfriend. Apparently they are having some problems and certainly no sex... He is sure that his girlfriend is depressed, if not clinically insane and to split up with her would surely drive her over the edge. So she agrees to go out with him for a few drinks, and then a few more another day and then she spends the night. It is nothing to make the earth move... it's comfortable and easy - they laugh and they touch and she knows she doesn't need to worry about him falling in love with her so they carry on seeing each other, just because they can.
One evening, days later, she waits in the bar for him, nursing a drink and tapping her nails on the chrome. She turns to see a familiar face, a face she is used to seeing smiling from a frame at his bedside which is now glaring down at her. The girlfriend shouts, accusing her of making up lies about a relationship with him because she wants him and can't have him. The rest of the bar goes silent, disapproving eyes fixed on her taking the girlfriends side. She realises it's not worth arguing, the girlfriend is obviously a mug and the fact that she only has one arm is definately getting a sympathy vote from the crowd... Just as she is walking away, she sees him skulking in the shadows... he is loving the fact that he is a player. She vows to get even and stalks away, realising with a wry smile that the bit on the side always plays second fiddle (but having two hands has got to be best when it comes to making beautiful music together)...

Brief Encounters

2005-05-23T13:19:00.000+01:00

Our first kiss was electric, charged up by seduction, the excitement heightened because that’s all it was – a kiss with the promise of something earth shattering to follow. Granted it was a kiss that spread and explored, investigated and tantalised but it was also polite and terrifying and bursting with the acknowledged potential for losing control. Our faces so close, as your lips touched my neck I could feel the heat from your skin… as your fingertips grazed my cheek, I’d swear there was static. I opened my eyes to catch you staring back… pupils dark and huge, and we were the only people who existed in the most crowded place on earth.

Keeping abreast of the situation

2005-05-16T10:47:00.000+01:00

Currently the fashion for super slinky, flimsy sexy wisps of fabric that sensuously float around the torso makes the boob issue even more problematic than usual. These garments were obviously initially designed with the slim and sassy adolescent in mind, those girls who think they’ll keep their slender, toned, lithe bodies and their gravity defying bee-stung breasts forever… The problem is that boobs don’t stay like that for long… oh yes, we celebrate the subtle expansion that takes place throughout our teens, that gradual upgrading of underwear from white cotton vest tops to plunging and padded but then, along with your bosom, issues of practicality arise and you end up wearing some kind of scaffolding that just keeps them from wobbling when you run for the bus. When it comes to slipping into something slightly more sexy than a workshirt, finding suitable support is enough to make your chest heave. On the one hand there’s the nipple issue… although Samantha from Sex in the City positively encourages the sticky out look, most women find too much nipple exposure a little disconcerting, not to say distracting, and when standing in a chilly club queue there is the real danger of poking some poor unsuspecting short bloke’s eye out. Unsupported boobs look fine whilst you’re standing still, but there is something distinctly unattractive about the ‘double wobble’ as you descend the stairs, and the upturned leery faces gawping from below… not to mention the fact that it’s not vastly comfortable. The alternative for the halterneck lover is the complex and almost bondage-esque multiway bra. Once you’ve worked out where the various bits of elastic band hook together (It’s worse than Ikea furniture) and you’re trussed up like a Sunday roast, inevitably something ‘pings‘ and you’re back to square one. In addition these torturous items only seem to come in ‘nude’ a nasty shade of supposedly skin tone beige which if anybody actually matched, they would be partway through a long hospital stay. The other extreme, and the solution I chose for my Saturday night out is the ‘nipple sticker’ a cunning kind of plaster that sticks over your sticky-out bits but is completely invisible under the most diaphanous of designerwear. Admittedly they are a similar Elastoplast shade, but are thoughtfully flower shaped for a touch of femininity. They don’t exactly stop the wobble, but somehow make you feel more secure. The only problem is that like the ‘chicken fillet’ of your adolescent years you have to remember to remove them before undertaking any bedroom activity if you want to avoid horrifying your prospective partner… you know the scene, you seductively remove your top and he double takes, staring aghast ‘ yikes, I’ve never seen a woman with no nipples before’ … It’s difficult to regain the momentum after that… and beware, whisking them off hurts like hell.

Let us eat cake

2005-05-13T10:54:00.000+01:00

This is the first office that I’ve worked in that on your birthday you celebrate by buying everyone else cakes. Being a typical, slightly dull office filled with people who, like me, think that the highlight of the day is lunch, the prospect of an array of tasty snacks to soak up a strong cup of tea is one that is anticipated with slavering. Consequently the pressure on the birthday girl or boy is huge… will they bring in the right amount? (not too stingy, but not so much that you show the previous person up as a tight-arse or set the standard too high for future celebrators) Will their selection be sufficiently superior? (Lidl or Aldi is not a popular choice, and Asda is similarly sniffed at). Will the choosy audience be impressed?…Anything chocolate usually goes down a storm – apart from Wagon Wheels which are deemed a bit pikey and for some reason the trusty flapjack is always a winner. Muffins are a failsafe, unless you opt for the bran ones which require way too much chewing… Cookies are okay but let’s face it, one is never enough and the politics surrounding being caught sneaking more than one snack can result in humiliation and being marked as an outcast. The most highly appreciated however will always be the homemade variety. I think the fact that we love the slightly random items, the squashed and the sunken, the cakes that have been lovingly if badly prepared by hand says something good about our company ethos (though what exactly, I’m not sure)…..
Top workmate managed to get his wife to make his cakes. Beautifully light and fluffy fairy cakes with frosty icing that made us wish he had more birthdays per annum, like the queen - and they disappeared like – er - hot cakes… He told me that they had caused a major dispute at home however because he had awoken that morning to find the cakes prepared to perfection, but nestling in the girliest of baskets, complete with checked gingham, bows and a lacy cover. At this point Top Workmate decided that the potential damage to his ‘rep’ that the basket could cause was a far worse cross to bear than the possible outburst from his wife, but he hoped she would remain upstairs whilst he hurriedly transferred the cakes to an ice cream tub. Predictably enough she appeared just as he was folding the tin foil over the top, but her hurt expression was nothing compared to the humiliation he would have felt crossing the carpark, laden with the frilly basket like red riding hood preparing to face the wolves. Needless to say I think it will be a while before we get to sample her wares again, but at least he’s got a whole year to sweeten her up.
And me? I pop down to the bakery counter at Waitrose where they do a great range of very homemade looking birthday cakes. Transfer them to Tupperware and everyone is convinced you made it yourself and you don’t have to worry about them being all stricken with Salmonella…

Being at the beach

2005-05-12T15:34:00.000+01:00

One of the best things about living where I do is that I’m always just a stumble away from the sea. The most perfect time to be there is when the sun is just dipping and the picnickers have packed up… it’s at its best when the sea has retreated back towards the horizon and the secret stretch of sand has been revealed, ridged and rippled and slick with seawater so it shines like a mirror and reflects the sky. The gangs of seagulls hang out at the waters edge, bickering and shouting and strutting their stuff and the skeleton of the pier darkens and creaks under the shadow of a million starlings.

Hair-raising

2005-05-06T13:35:00.000+01:00

I couldn’t put it off any longer, I have split ends on my split ends and every time I see Claudia S on the telly talking about her ‘hair that’s dry, like straw’ I reach for a headscarf… Yes folks, the hair-salon beckons and the prospect sends hairspray infused chills through my bones. Admittedly, part of the problem is that I’ve been thoroughly spoilt by my brother’s hairdressing skills for the last decade and now he’s no longer round the corner, I have to suffer at the hands of a stranger and my bank balance suffers a lot more too. I’ve tried the T&G experience… terrifyingly trendy, mean and moody and seemingly a range of three possible haircuts only (long and flicky, bob, or skull cap crop) so don’t bother to ask for anything else. Not only did the shampoo girl ask me three times what I was doing at the weekend (maybe she didn’t believe that I wasn’t going clubbing and taking vast quantities of coke as that was obviously what she had been up to the night before.. or maybe she couldn’t be arsed to listen to the answer) but she also told me I was too old for a mullet, that my hair looked very yellow - did I smoke a lot? And that I definitely needed the extra intensive conditioner for my damaged hair…. I barely managed to scrape up enough confidence to approach the cutting chair where I was put through a sequence of headache inducing towel drying, vigorous scalp scraping, some brisk and seemingly uncalculated snipping, and finally a bit of singeing under the dryer after which I was charged forty quid and told to ‘fluff it up a bit’ when I got home…. Hmmmmnn. Consequently I am booked into another salon for tomorrow so I’ll put some sort of hot oil treatment on my hair tonight, will arm myself with a picture of a fabulous hairdo which no-doubt will be ignored and keep my fingers crossed in the hope that I come out looking like ‘I’ve just stepped out of a salon’…..

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Never date an Actor

2005-05-05T14:59:00.000+01:00

So she decides it’s time she stopped dating students. She needs a real man… with a job, a man who’s idea of a romantic night isn’t ‘drink the bar dry’ till he’s sick followed by a 2 for 1 pizza and an un-coordinated attempt at a snog (er yes…. you know who you are). When she spots him she knows that he fits the bill… well dressed in a slightly bohemian way (but obviously not wearing anything purchased with a student discount card in Burtons), his hair curls over his collar (and definitely isn’t styled by Supercuts). He has the air of a man in control and a twinkly, infectious smile that assures her that meanness isn’t a trait so she makes it her business to seduce him. It doesn’t prove to be difficult, she struts over, compliments him on his twinkly smile and raises the subject of his employment… he’s an actor (how glamorous) and the lead in a play… she must try and see it. Of course he’s done all the usual… The Bill and Casualty (and he assures her that in both he’d had actual speaking parts). Agents are clamouring to put him on their books and he’s always being called down to London for auditions. He gives her his card (complete with black and white soft focus photo) and she scribbles her number on his arm with her lipstick. They arrange to meet again and he promises to call her. He does… two weeks later… but he’s been busy and he’s sorry and he can’t wait to see her so she agrees. He postpones their first date… an audition has cropped up, and the he’s twenty minutes late for the reschedule. She is calmed only by the fact that he’s obviously working hard, will be able to keep her in the manner to which she has become accustomed and is still devastatingly handsome and twinkly. She gives him one more chance and he blows it by cancelling again at the last minute… 3 strikes and he’s out. The next week she sees him sharing an intimate drink with a glamorous must-be model (from the look of it they’ve been dating for months) and she’s glad she got rid of him. Time passes and years later she flicks on the TV. The adverts run and the most irritating ad known to man…the ‘Yes, Car Credit’ ad flicks up. She starts to laugh, can it really be that he is there on screen, wearing the lemon yellow golf sweater and earnestly saying ‘Yes’ to a host of dull car related queries? Who said there was no justice in this world?. Ohhh YES, there is…

I'm a Barbie girl...

2005-05-03T09:22:00.000+01:00

There’s nothing quite like the first BBQ of the season… Lifting the lid and discovering a near fossilized burger still sitting on the grill from last year, having to spend hours scraping out the old soggy charcoal (and then realising that the soot you’ve cleaned off was all that was actually holding the barbeque together) Racing down to B&Q to buy a brand new version and having to wrestle for the last remaining model that doesn’t run on gas… As always, forgetting to oil up the wire tray so that all the food gets gummed to it and has to be served up in small bitesized indistinguishable chunks. Ahhh, the essential ‘burnt to a crisp’ inner items and virtually raw bits lurking on the sidelines. The incredible plummet in temperature around 7pm that has everyone running for cover and best of all the vast quantities of left over food which you gather up carefully, convinced you can transform into delicious flavour combos throughout the week... In reality, left over Barbie grub always stays in its Tupperware box quietly growing fur for at least a fortnight, unless of course It’s lucky enough to get snaffled mid week as a post pub snackette…mmmmm burger and potato salad toastie anyone?

And in the South it will be mostly...

2005-04-29T09:27:00.000+01:00

There seems to be some confusion about the expected weather for Brighton this Bank Holiday weekend. So far it’s definitely going to be hot, warm, sunny, cloudy, misty, murky, hazy, humid, rainy, showery, thundery and anything from 12 degrees to 25. Going by the fact that it is a Bank Holiday one would assume that it will rain heavily and be extremely windy so that any outside plans are a washout, any sort of ‘going out’ hair-do will be ruined and all vaguely spring-suited outfits will be banished to the back of the wardrobe, but I’ve decided to go along with the good old BBC and believe with all my might that it’s gonna be a scorcher… maybe if I keep my fingers and toes crossed all day we’ll be boosting up the Barbie come Sunday…

Her

2005-04-28T09:19:00.000+01:00

How great it is to have a friend who makes you smile and likes sushi, who notices you’ve got a fabulous skirt on and is wearing one too. Someone who makes you laugh and surprises you with words that are so kind they make you want to cry. A friend who doesn’t judge you and agrees with you on all the important things, who understands why you do the stuff you do and knows not to ask until you’re ready to answer. It’s great to have a friend who wants to see you again soon, and you can’t wait…and who’s woken up this morning with red-wine fuzziness and fond memories.

How to avoid a bad boyfriend - Remember nice boys can be nasty

2005-04-27T11:31:00.000+01:00

So she goes as a guest to the wedding with him. She tells him that she likes him but that is all… he says he’s fine with that and they’ll have fun. She picks a beautiful hat with sweeping feathers, selects special lacy tights, a dress that floats between demure and devilish and she even finds that there is more left on the wedding list than the usual corkscrew or cups. They drive there never stopping talking and she wishes he were good looking. The wedding is fabulous and the after-party even better…the booze flows and the band wows, the company is wild and the booze flows some more. Too late she realises she is horribly drunk and she holds her head to stop it spinning. He says he’ll help her to her room and she lets him lead her. The bed is huge, the linen cool and she flops onto it. Moments later his bulk lands besides her. As he tries to kiss her, her brain struggles to make sense of it. As he fumbles with her skirt she tries to push him back. As she feels her tights being ripped away she struggles to free her face from the pillow… Next morning champagne has turned to acid. She sinks down in the shower, the rivulets pour and the hot water runs out before the tears. She adjusts her face before she walks away, but she can still smell him.

Ghandi's flip-flop is lurking in my mouth

2005-04-26T09:08:00.000+01:00

Hmmnnn, a big curry and a couple of beers is a fabulous idea at 8pm on a Monday night. It’s less fabulous at 6.30am when you wake with a garlic infused bath towel where your tongue should be. It’s even less fabulous when you get into the kitchen and the debris is still there and everything pongs of curry, and when you head into the meeting room, start to warm up and realise you are infusing the room with eau-de-biryani… you know the whole thing was a big mistake.

Keeping schtum

2005-04-25T13:34:00.000+01:00

So my friend hates her friend’s boyfriend and thinks she is mad to be marrying him…isn’t that just the worst lose-lose amongst situations? I think she has good reason to disapprove – he is moody and shouts at her, runs frighteningly hot and cold, can’t decide if he actually wants to get married (it’s planned for a months time) and worst of all, makes horrible personal comments about her to his rowdy, leery mates when she’s not around. My friend has dropped hints of course and tried to reason with her but she has refrained from the hard line, sit down and listen, home truths route. The lose-lose is that she causes upset, falls out forever and ends up without a friend… or she spends years feeling guilty and traumatised, knowing that she had the teeniest chance of preventing unhappiness…however, getting involved is never straightforward. A year or so ago, another friend was dating a reasonably nice bloke, who I thought was good for her and I said so. A few months later he got cold feet and finished the relationship, at which point she plotted revenge, screamed and sobbed about what an evil bugger he was and probably got involved in some kind of voodoo. As a top friend I supported her ranting and disapproval, agreed when she raged about what a w**ker he was and generally waged war on his memory. Of course they got back together, and of course she still thinks I hate him. She remembers all the mean things I said about him but forgets that they were spoken in support of her in her hour of need (I still haven’t got my wedding invite). As I said, you can’t win… you just have to hope they realise you’ve got their best interests at heart and that whatever happens you’ll be there to celebrate… or to pick up the pieces. And of course, you also hope that no one is harbouring feelings of intense disapproval about your choice of boyfriend….

Evolution

2005-04-22T13:45:00.000+01:00

So we’re in the car, he’s driving and we’re heading to somewhere that admittedly I have been to quite a few times before and the conversation goes like this.

Him: ‘So you’ll let me know when to turn off then, will you?’

Me: ‘Erm, yes, absolutely…it’s either the next one, or the one we’ve just gone past…’

Him: (totally keeping his cool) ‘Don’t feel bad about having a rubbish sense of direction’.. (that was the understatement of the century). ‘ It’s pre-historic man’s fault cos he never let the women out to hunt… they just stayed in the caves all day cooking and having babies so they didn’t need a sense of direction… it’s just a flaw in the evolutionary process. (pause) I’ll turn round here then, shall I?’

Yes, that’s why I love him...

Feedback

2005-04-20T08:59:00.000+01:00

So I finally had the important meeting with my ever-so-senior boss. I think I was cool, calm and argued my case for more pay admirably. I was confident, oozed clarity, was firm but not desperate and didn’t allow my voice to rise to a shriek more than once. He finally confirmed that yes, he would see what he could do and he couldn’t foresee any problems. Then he asked if he could give me some ‘feedback’. Hesitantly I agreed (though I generally find feedback sessions to be an excuse for someone more incompetent than you to totally slag you off without the threat of you fighting back). So he said that he thinks I should try not to fiddle with my hair when I’m in a negotiating situation because it makes me look nervous. I froze at this point and was totally stumped for something to say (a very rare situation for me) and the reason? Because everyone knows that you only fiddle with your hair when you are flirting. I may not have mentioned that this guy is mature but not old, slim and fit, tanned, smiley AND an extremely nice and funny person and I’m sure he has read all the ‘How to read body language’ books too. Consequently he probably now thinks that I tried to seduce a pay-rise out of him, especially when I remember that I was wearing a reasonably low cut top at the time. Still, I guess my next pay packet will reveal the truth… and then we’ll see who has the best negotiating technique…

Goalposts

2005-04-19T09:32:00.000+01:00

My friend has always been a bit messy, in fact I would go so far as to say that her last flat was positively unhygienic. She had never got around to buying a hoover for starters and her carpets were encrusted with a thick layer of her hair mingled with her dogs’ hair. She had a lot of trinkets spread around all of which sat on their own mat of dust and if you walked barefoot in her kitchen your feet would be encrusted with old toastcrumbs and alien food items within seconds. If you filled the sink to wash your face, the water would be cloudy from all the built-up toothpaste and soap scum slowly dissolving and there was only enough space in the kettle for one cup of tea because of the thick furry coating of limescale inside. Recently this friend has started dating someone who is even more messy and cleanophobic than she is. It’s incredible how she has now started to grumble about his overflowing wash basket, stocked up sink and mildewed fridge… and it’s made her start cleaning her place. It’s like the scales have lifted from her eyes and in order for her to complain about his mess she feels she has to stop the black pot/kettle thing- literally. I’m glad to say that at the weekend, when I saw a clip of Monica from Friends being even more obsessive about her cleaning schedule than usual, I neither upped my game to compete, or slipped into slummyness as a reaction. If you’re comfortable with how you are (even if you’re a bit weird) then moving the goalposts shouldn’t make you change.

Grudge

2005-04-18T09:54:00.000+01:00

As a general rule of thumb I try not to hold a grudge. If someone has done something mean or selfish, I try and dismiss it and forget about it so that it doesn’t gnaw away at me and make me feel mean and selfish back at them. It’s not so much the bad things that people do which tend to stick in my mind and make my jaw clench and my toes curl, but the bad things they say, and more often than not it’s the times that they trample over my feelings obliviously. I’ve decided however that I need to stop obsessing about such insignificant exchanges and put them in perspective so I’ve decided to put a couple of my most memorable and possibly most pernickity grudges to rest so they will lurk no longer.
Grudge 1. After leaving Uni (yes, we’re going back a while with this one) I started up my own business which involved hour upon hour of heavy duty concentration, eyestrain, worry about too much work, worry about too little work, guilt about not spending every waking hour at work etc etc. Three years of this torture later I decided I had to change direction for a while if only to save my sanity. After my first couple of days in a really dull but nightmarish temp job, my friend called me up to moan about how stressed she was at having to go back to teach after her six week holiday and how her part-time job teaching cute little kids was sooooo hard and complex and blah blah blah. In passing I happened to mention that I was a bit worn out to which she sighed piously and replied ‘Welcome to the world of work’… I was really glad to know that she felt my period of self-employment was just a holiday…
Grudge 2. When a historically workshy ex- workmate was demanding sympathy following a vastly extended spell of compassionate leave after her grandmothers death, I took her for coffee and made all the right noises until she said ‘I know you only took one day off when your gran died… (my extremely beloved gran has passed away after a horrible year of illness a month or so previously) …. But I was really close to my gran’…. That didn’t make me feel guilty about not loving my grandma enough to skip work, it just made me want to smack her in the face, grief stricken or not.
Neither of these seem like a particularly big deal in the whole scheme of things, but the simple fact that I remember the words and the smug tones are confirmation enough that they got to me. No more! That’s why I breathed deeply and smiled inwardly when a friends posh sloaney girlfriend said ‘ So you don’t have a gardener then?’ as she saw us slogging in the weeds and the mud at the weekend… I’ve forgotten it already.

Sleepwalking

2005-04-08T08:40:00.000+01:00

So he slept in the spare room last night.... No it was nothing like that - we didn't have a fight, he just sleep-walked his way out of the cosy disarray of our bed into the cool alien covers of the spare one. I woke up and worried that he had collapsed in the bathroom in a pool of blood or had been knocked out as he challenged a burgular and then when I spotted him in the spare bed I panicked evn more, thinking that maybe I'd proclaimed undying love for someone who wasn't him in my sleep. When I woke him he had no idea why he was there and he followed me meekly back and went straight to sleep... What was that all about then? I hope he's not going to start wee-ing in my wardrobe next.

Oscar winning performance

2005-04-07T13:47:00.000+01:00

So the question was…. ‘If someone were to play you in a film about your life, who would you want it to be?’… Obviously I would hope that my life would be a lot more gripping if this were ever to happen, but I’m finding it a tricky question. I can think of lots of people who I wouldn’t want to be the star… definitely not Meryl Streep (..way too serious and never manages to look even vaguely sexy), not Rene Zellwigger (Hamster cheeks and terribly type-cast) not Catherine Zita (I’ll never be able to take her seriously after that Dawn French impression) and most certainly not Jennifer Anniston as her films are always flops. Ideally Joan Collins from her ‘Alexis’ days would do… feisty, pouty, able to walk on skyscraper heels…fabulous. Unfortunately, judging by some of the recent pictures of her I think she might be past it (have you seen those wrinkly knees?).... Hmmmnn, has anyone got Barbara Windsor’s’ number?….

Please find my attached CV...

2005-04-06T13:59:00.000+01:00

Why oh why do people feel it necessary when applying for jobs, to attach a photograph? Admittedly I can see the benefit if you are applying for a modelling job, or a role as ‘Micheal Jackson look-a-like’ or as ‘3rd oompa loompa from the right’ in a musical, but otherwise what are these people thinking? If you’re extremely good looking and think that your prospective employers could be swayed by the eye candy value, think again… you just look vain and full of yourself. If you think the comedy snap of you with your head stuck through a hole in a busty mermaid on Brighton Pier will make you look fun, then I’m sorry you just look like the kind of pratt every office could do without. If it’s a horribly unflattering photo it will make you look like you have terrible judgement, low self esteem, poor eyesight and the potential to revolt other staff members. If it is blurry and poor quality, or your hair is messy you look unprofessional. If you look serious then psychopathic tendencies are assumed, if you’re smiling you’re ditzy. If you’re wearing a suit in the photo you must have delusions of grandeur, if you’re dressed casually you are prone to slovenliness, if you’re wearing a golfing sweater (Matt Piper from Crawley) you are a saddo and you will not impress the handicap-free Director. If you have an ‘Olan Mills’ style professional shot you are a mug, if it’s a passport photo you’re a cheapskate, and the list goes on…Your safest bet is to leave the photo out, unless of course you want to distract attention from the spelling mistakes or the fact that you’ve listed your favourite pastime as Morris Dancing….

phrase-ology

2005-04-05T14:50:00.000+01:00

I love you is a teeny phrase with earth shattering impact. If it is allowed to escape the results can be life saving and life changing. It should always be handled with care, and not thrown recklessly into the air unless an extra specially perfect person is ready to return it or at least catch it, take care of it and get used to it until maybe they’re ready to share it with you. It’s a fantastical phrase as it can rescue relationships that are on the verge of toppling and can stop shouting and yelling and tantrums in their tracks… How can such a teeny phrase mean that I need you and that I want you and that I want to spend my life with you. How can it sum up so simply that you make my knees wobble and make me smile inside and that I can’t imagine life without you… It’s such a teeny phrase but it’s scary to say sometimes. I hope I can keep on saying it to you.

H&M? - Hit and Miss?...

2005-04-04T11:54:00.000+01:00

Shopping at the Brighton branch of Hennes is a completely unique retail therapy experience… after a visit through it’s hallowed gates it is highly likely that you will actually require therapy but it can also potentially result in the reaping of great rewards… There are a few simple rules…Firstly you have to be correctly dressed: as few layers as possible for ease of undress and so that you don’t pass out from the heat and excitement… no handbag so you have both hands free for the most effective rummaging and a good set of underwear as the lighting in the fitting rooms is horrifically unflattering and whilst you shiver in front of the mirror, half naked at least the terrible image is not marred further by the presence of greying, saggy mis-matched granny style thermals. (phew) Secondly, you must be in the right frame of mind … not strapped for time, or even slightly irritable otherwise you can bet there will be a tug-of-war incident or two. You must be up-beat and keen to experiment and definitely not feeling picky or pernicikity as the quality standard issues you are bound to encounter could push you over the edge. Once you’ve made it in there, think of it as an upmarket jumble sale… scan each rail quickly in a ‘Terminator’ style, clocking anything sparkly, glittery or beaded. Then investigate said items speedily, discarding anything too scratchy, too ruffled or too eighties. Take the resulting armfuls of stuff to the changing room. Here you are destined to find that a couple of items are on the wrong hangers and are actually a size 6 and a size 20, a couple of items have snags, rips, holes lost buttons, only one sleeve or a sewn up head hole. A couple of items will look completely fabulous on the hanger, but once put on will be sooo tight around the boobs that you look like Marie Antoinette’s more busty sister, and sooo baggy and shapeless around the waist that you look eight and a half months pregnant. Alternatively the shoulder straps will be three times as long as they should be so you look like a pornographic wrestler. One top will look great but on closer inspection the washing instructions will be ‘ do not use water, do not dry clean, do not sponge clean, do not iron, wash only in fairies tears during a full moon whilst swinging a dead cat around your head’ so will be an absolute no-no. One garment will nearly make it over your head, until you notice that judging by the orange tide-marks and deodorant smears it has already been over 30 other people’s heads. Finally you will be left with the perfect item… it’s all worth it when that insignificant wisp of a vest top slides over your body, clings delicately to the right bits and skims over the bits that are just a bit wrong… It’s sooo worth it when you see the nine-pound price tag… it’s even worth queuing for two and a half hours to pay the smug sales girl. H &M? Hurrah and Mmmmm, Hip and Marvellous, Hhhhow long till I can go again? and Mmmmay I have an account card please?

Return of the Ex

2005-04-01T14:02:00.000+01:00

Why don’t people realise that being repeatedly asked if you’re fine with something is the quickest way to make you feel completely and utterly not-fine with it? Take for example the moment when ‘him indoors’ happened to mention that a long lost ex-girlfriend had called him up out of the blue and as she was passing through Brighton, wanted to meet up with him for a drink. I cheerily replied ‘okay!’ completely unflustered and only bothered by the fact that I would have to organise a late-notice alternative drinking partner for that evening. He looked at me, almost aghast… ‘So that’s ok with you then is it?’
‘Yeah, of course’ I replied airily… ‘It’s not like you’re still in love with her and are planning to rekindle the old passion is it?’…(chuckling to myself)
‘Oh no, nothing like that… I think she just wants to catch up’ he says …slightly hysterically.
‘Er …doh, I was only joking’ (though I’m starting to feel a niggling concern now.)
‘But you wouldn’t mind if I went to see her for a bit then?’
‘Noooo…that’s what I just said, it’s absolutely fine’
‘Cos I can tell her no if you like….’
‘Do you actually want to see her?’
‘Er…I suppose I should’
‘So go, it’s fine’
‘But I don’t want you to get mad’
(getting mad) ‘It’s fine’ (through gritted teeth)
‘See, I’m worried it’s bothering you’
‘What I’m bothered about is the fact that you seem to think I should be bothered… is there something that is going to happen, which could be potentially bothersome?’
‘Er no, absolutely not’
‘Right then, off you go then’
So I spend the next couple of hours wondering about this conversation and imagining a horrible scenario of their lust, elopement, and my spinsterhood… and then he returns…The sheepish look is no longer on his face, and he swoops in for a big hug.
‘Good time?’ I ask
‘Crikey… she has ballooned…’ he says, and I realise that now the look on his face is relief so I hug him right back and smile…

Brief Encounters

2005-03-31T10:11:00.000+01:00

I tried not to cry because when I did I couldn't stop. I was an expert at fighting off that surge of emotion and bringing the shutter down… but sometimes when it was dark and the house was silent and when your breathing was even and calm and the shadow crept over, my stomach turned and silent sobs exploded until sleep saved me. Couldn't you hear me through your dreams?...

Tan-trum

2005-03-30T09:26:00.000+01:00

So I got back from Egypt just over a week ago which means that my glamorous golden suntan is most definitely on its last legs. I’m not a hard core sun-worshipper, but I’m a lover of lounging and the feeling of toasting lightly in the sunshine for me is up there with Ben & Jerry’s. I do think it’s funny that when you return from your travels with a golden glow people comment on how healthy you look…In reality of course, you have been blasted all over with evil aging radiation and the bronze you’re so proud of is a singed crust, but it’s true, you do look and feel better. Some people take it way too far… the leathery look is not a good idea, particularly when teamed with bright yellow hair and pink lipstick (as demonstrated throughout the duration of our Egyptian getaway) nor is the ‘I got burnt on the first day, but so what?’ look when certain sunbathers positively spit-roast their bright red bodies. Any areas that have 3rd degree burns will be covered with thick layers of pasty factor 50 or random items of clothing but the rest of the tender pinkish skin is destined to be continuously nuked.
I have been spending the last few days slathering myself regularly with lotions and potions to maintain my Egyptian tan and to stop the top layer shedding. I think however it’s finally beaten me because there’s a distinct sign of flakeage, and once that starts happening, there’s no stopping it. The only way forward for me now is to fake and risk yellow palms, orange knees, a streaky face and the potential for being mistaken for a jaundice sufferer for the sake of that healthy glow (though it’s definitely worth it because doesn’t Cellulite look so much less offensive when it’s brown?) The key question remains –‘ Why-oh-why can no one make a fake tan that doesn’t stink?’ It’s all very well being a bronzed goddess, but if you’re surrounded by a lingering aroma of something that most closely resembles frying celery, it’s difficult to conceal the fact that you either have very interesting taste in Eau de Toilette, or you’re a faker….

Hmmmmmnnn

2005-03-29T10:21:00.000+01:00

Objects appearing out of context make me feel uncomfortable…It may just be that these visual non-sequiturs grate against my Bree-like desire for tidiness and order but they can also make my toes curl and my mind run on overtime as I obsessively try to construct a scenario that makes sense… Take the shoe by the railway track at the station this morning as an example. Shoes admittedly seem to pop up in all kinds of peculiar places,(not just on people's feet) but the escapees always make me wonder… This was a smart black high-heeled court shoe… probably belonging to a super efficient, superbly glamorous London exec. My guess is that it slipped from her foot as she was pushed onto the train by a bundle of rude rush hour business commuters (I hope it was nothing more sinister)… Maybe she’d accidentally bought a shoe size too large (had she recently recovered from Elephantiasis?) or she had mistakenly selected the extra shiny, slippery tights from M&S which everyone knows are a recipe for daylong slidey-footed disaster. My next question is ‘Then what did she do?’ Did she lean down and risk electrocution to try and rescue it? Did a heroic hunky guy offer to grab it for her in exchange for a date, Cinderella style? Did she scuttle to her seat, hide behind the FT and try to pretend it didn’t happen? Maybe she had her gym trainers in her bag and she popped them on and ran into the office like that red-haired 80s icon from ‘Working Girl’?… Did she hobble into the office in one shoe, lolloping from high heel to bare sole…scowling and trying not to attract attention? Did she pop into the shop that she bought said shoes from initially and try to negotiate a deal on a left foot? What if her bank balance was running low and she could only afford a pair of orange flip-flops?… Maybe she then spent the day trying to convince her colleagues that they are the ‘this season, must have’ look for office divas? Perhaps she spends all day behind a desk as a matter of course, sliding into her slippers as soon as she sits down so being shoeless really doesn’t matter? Yikes… I even checked my own feet, just to make sure it wasn’t MY shoe… Sheesh.. I need a lie-down after all that thinking...

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Don't date a Mystery man

2005-03-24T10:23:00.000Z

She spots him at the bar… his very own bar in fact, and there is something about the way he surveys his domain (and her body) that makes her spine tingle. She is feeling supremely confident (the combined effect of a new hair-do and two thirds of the vodka shots on the menu – the chilli flavoured version being her only mistake) and she wobbles over to him. From somewhere he produces a glass of champagne and the bubbles go up her nose. He is not put off by her snorting and passes her a napkin. He is the tall, dark and handsome type… a brooding Heathcliffe of a man with wild hair and well manicured nails. He tells her his name is M.. and she replies ‘Elmo’ and eventually they kiss whilst her friends rub their hands together at the prospect of a lifetime of free drinks and lock-ins…
He picks her up in his soft-top the following night and they speed out of the city, away from the neon with the wind in their hair. Out of the darkness comes a flashing blue light, a siren screams and a police car appears in the rear view mirror. He pulls over, ‘Shit..What do they want now?’’ and goes with the policeman to sit in his car. She sits in the darkness feeling exposed in her short, short skirt and high, high heels and then the policeman approaches. When he asks her to confirm the name of the driver, she can only reply ‘M..’ and when he presses for a surname she squirms. He asks her where her Mystery man lives and she hasn’t got a clue, he asks how she knows him and she admits she barely does. He looks at her like she is a girl in a short skirt with a stranger in the middle of no-where… and she realises that that’s exactly what she is. When he gets into the car looking shifty and heads back towards the neon she just can’t wait to get home.

It's not a nudist camp, you know

2005-03-23T15:23:00.000Z

When you are in the changing room at the gym, why oh why is there ALWAYS a person who HAS to walk around naked, admire themselves naked in the mirrors from all angles, clean their teeth naked, blow dry their hair naked, BEND OVER way too many times naked, be using the locker next to you naked and have no sense of personal space? It’s just not necessary. Grrrrr.

Walking like an Egyptian (part three)

2005-03-22T09:11:00.000Z

I find that often in foreign resorts, due to the language barrier there are always a couple of ‘in jokes’ which get used by absolutely every single member of staff, and which you have to laugh heartily at every time, as though it’s the first time you’ve heard it (and let’s face it, often it wasn’t even funny the first time.) The good workers of Egypt are no exception and the buffet breakfast was by far the most wearing. Part of their super service was that your plate was whisked away from you the very second that you raised your last mouthful to your lips (I think the challenge was to have cleared the table, washed and ironed the tablecloth, reprinted the menus and re-parqueted the floor before you’d finished chewing… I think one guy almost managed it too.)

The accompanying banter every morning was as follows:

Smiley waiter (grinning) : ‘Gud munning surrr, madem’
Elmo & P (trying to smile back at him through last mouthful of breakfast) : ‘Good morning’
Smiley waiter (picking up E & P’s empty plates) : ‘Finished with these?’
Elmo & P (swallowing furiously) : ‘Yes, thankyou’
Smiley waiter (picking up E and P’s empty cups) : ‘Finished with these?’
Elmo & P (brushing away crumbs) ‘Yes, thank you’
Smiley waiter (grinning mischievously and picking up Elmo’s sunglasses from the table) : ‘Finished with these?’
Elmo and P (laughing politely) ‘Ha ha, no, we’ll keep those thanks…’
Smiley Waiter ‘HA HA HA’ (walks off with shaking shoulders chuckling to himself)…

Walking like an Egyptian (part two)

2005-03-21T09:27:00.000Z

Plunging into turquoise and into a world where real life is muffled. Everything is moving and twitching, rocked by the water… fingers of coral and anemone beckon. The colour is startling… oranges fluorescent and purples like velvet…It’s a space that’s forever shifting and changing and the bubbles rise through it like droplets of chandelier crystal. You reach out your warm hand and I take it and squeeze it so tightly... I can see your eyes through the glass, and they’re smiling back at me.

Walking like an Egyptian (part one)

2005-03-18T14:11:00.000Z

So I’ve just got back from a week in the sun where the red sea lapped against the terracotta sands and the palm trees swayed in the balmy breeze… Okay, okay, maybe it wasn’t completely idyllic but it was pretty relaxing, involved a lot of food and a lot more lazing around and despite the likelihood of my skin eventually turning into a chamois leather I am a toasty shade of digestive biscuit which with the aid of copious slatherings of body lotion will undoubtedly last until at least the middle of next week…

The hotel was a huge, marble and mock gold affair… smiley Egyptian men popping out of every corner eager to carry your flip-flops, bring you crazy coloured cocktails or to just bob up and down and say ‘Well-cumb, well-cumb’ a lot. The main sticking point was that it was a hotel with more than its’ fair share of Russian holidaymakers. I’m not prone to prejudice and I’m sure that there are loads of lovely Russian people out there… it just seemed to be a particular type of Russian and one that made for a terrible holiday companion. Picture short men with thick necks and bulging bellies… think big muscles (of the steroid-induced variety) and pale pasty skin with patches of sunburn and skin-peel… Think close set eyes, no chin and a shell suit… think thong swimpants (okay, enough already). The fact that the hotel was all-inclusive seemed to be a serious novelty to these guys… manners were not at all apparent. Plates were piled high with every sort of tasty morsel (as long as it was meat) and I’m sure I heard grunting. The girlfriends were even more startling… smug and sexy with tiny frames and tight behinds in their teeny bikinis. They tottered along the beach in their pointy stilettos and layers of make up, surviving only on chain-smoked cigarettes…(having seen the boys up against the girls I couldn’t help thinking I was glad not to be a single girl in St Petersburg)… Needless to say, you wouldn’t want to mess with the Russians… there were the muscles for starters not to mention the whispers of Mafioso connections, so we just moaned and sniggered to ourselves… there’s nothing like a good dose of people watching to make the afternoon by the pool just that little bit more interesting…

chilled

2005-03-09T09:58:00.000Z

The cold really gets to me… icy fingers poke and prod and dig until the chill is pushed deep inside and the marrow of my bones begins to ache. When I am frozen I know the only thing that could possibly warm me is moving closer to you… the only thing that will ever help thaw me is you wrapping your blanket of heat around and around me until we both burst into flames…

Easy like Sunday market

2005-03-08T09:26:00.000Z

Ahhhh, the first Sunday of every month… no, no, I’m not talking about Holy Communion, it is the day for giving thanks for the wonder that is the local Farmers Market. It’s the day when all the locals shun Tesco (did you know that 1 in every 8 retail pounds are spent there?!) and instead pretend to be All-Organic Wholesome Vegetarians for the day… they don their green wellies (even though it’s held in a hall) and their wax jackets (even though the hall is centrally heated) and queue up for aaages in the hope of becoming the proud owner of the strangest shaped vegetable. Some will make a purchase which they think is a large pumpkin, and when they get home and brush the layers of mud off, realise it’s a small radish. Some will buy a vegetable without actually asking what it is, and then it will lurk ominously in their kitchen whilst the scour recipe books until they finally find out how to cook it and it’s gone mouldy and wrinkly. As I wander around I am constantly amazed by how enthusiastically the vendors can sing the praises of their chilli chocolate, or lychee chutney for hour upon hour… how fabulous to actually enjoy (and believe in) your job like that. One of the greatest benefits is that there’s lots to sample… yummy pastries, Indian snacks, sheep cheese with gherkins...(on reflection, probably one to avoid) in fact, so much food that you don’t need to bother with breakfast. I just love to leave with my little box of olives and some stinky cheese and then munch on a rustic lunch safe in the knowledge that I’ve supported my local industry (and not my local multi-national) … a charitable thought for a Sunday, if not an officially Religious one…

Booth boundaries

2005-03-07T09:17:00.000Z

So Saturday night was a bit of a celebration… After making my usual dramatic entrance to the bar (yes, sliding down the steps and ending up on my arse), much fun and revelry ensued. It struck me at one point that you can develop an intense dislike of somebody in a second… all they have to do is open their mouth and they suddenly slide down in your opinion from ‘indifferent’ to ‘loathe’. The guy in question was hanging out in ‘the booth’, trying to impress a couple of sloaney types…

Elmo (politely, if somewhat drunkenly)‘ Scuse me, please can you stop lounging all over my coat and my birthday presents... they’re going to get all squashed’

Guy (smugly, snottily and obnoxiously… standing up) ‘Er, Er, yah…. Erm… To be fair, there is a perfectly adequate cloakroom system here where you should be storing your coats… then they wouldn’t be in my way…’

Elmo (irritably, but even more smugly… drawing herself up to full height by standing on tip-toes) ‘To be fair, you are sitting in our reserved area, which we can do what the heck we like with… and I’d like you to move…’

Guy (deflated)… ‘Oh’

Elmo (to herself) ‘ha, ha, ha… you nobber…’

Quiz nite

2005-03-04T09:19:00.000Z

So last night was the office quiz night… sounds sad but actually a great evening of friendly banter and stimulating intellectual conversation (and also LOTS of free-flowing booze) all for a fiver – can’t be bad. Our secret weapon was ‘Uncle Steve’ who wiped the floor with everyone else in the room in the music rounds. Admittedly he does have the slight advantage of being a Deejay (of the fiftyish, kids party variety- not the twentyish Ibiza nightclub variety) but his speed at recognising the intros of ancient rock tunes was quite phenomenal (even better than Bill Bailey on ‘Never mind the Buzzcocks’). Our falling down point was history (isn’t it always?) of which none of us new a darn thing…from wives outliving Henry 8th to various bloody and ancient battles (Apparently the one with the roses was not between the Tudors and Stewarts) …though we did eventually work out that a lot of people were killed in the middle ages by the plague. I had a brief moment of glory when I scored a last minute extra point in the music round on a question that foxed the rest of the team…(it was like the last few minutes of the Karate Kid when everything goes slow motion and the rank outsider sneaks in a winning move). It didn’t push us up to first place, but the answer?…‘Hounds of Love’ by the ‘Futureheads’… I may be nearly thirty, but am I down with the kids or what?

Innovative?

2005-03-03T09:57:00.000Z

If you saw me curled up behind a copy of the Guardian on the sofa on a Sunday afternoon, my total absorption would lead you to assume that I am a politically-aware, serious minded, current affairs obsessed academic type who could confidently and coherently discuss Iraq…or the state of the NHS…or the Foxhunting debate whenever required. How wrong you’d be… In fact I use the Guardian as a shield behind which I leaf through the current edition of the ‘Innovations’ catalogue and chuckle heartily to myself at the hilarious ‘must-have’ items, which you’re supposed to wonder how you’ve ever managed to survive without. I did once see a lady walking steadfastly across her lawn wearing the plastic shoes with the spikes on them that are meant to aerate your lawn. She had a dreamy distracted look on her face; presumably she was imagining her scraggy, dandelion infested backyard becoming a bowling-green overnight. My guess is that ‘Innovations’ customers are too embarrassed that they believed the marketing bollocks to ever send anything back….

Independence

2005-03-02T12:02:00.000Z

I became fiercely independent after you left. I went to the cinema alone…ducked in while it was dark and loved having both arm-rests to myself. I wandered around the supermarket and bought gin and chocolate ice cream and asparagus and all the things I’d forgotten I loved to eat. I soaked in the bath for hours, using up all the hot water and then I snuggled up in three towels at a time. I loved spending lots more evenings with my friends, the catching up combined with the crying. The only thing was, I loved you more than ever and I hated being fiercely independent on my own.

Dancing Queen

2005-03-01T09:19:00.000Z

So on Friday night I went dancing… a slightly sweaty cellar club was the venue, and a Top Workmate’s leaving doo the occasion. Within minutes of stepping onto the dance floor I was surrounded by a crazy, Japenese midget in full combat gear, (as my sister says ‘Anything goes in Brighton’) a six foot-five Pamela-Anderson-esque bloke with the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen, (I tried not to stare, but you just can’t help it can you?) and a guy who looked like H from Steps’ twin brother who’d learnt all the dance routines, but was dropped from the band at the last minute due to lack of rhythm. The two blondes from my office staggered back and forth from time to time gradually deteriorating due to extended chardonnay exposure and the new boy just concentrated on smiling and trying really hard to stay standing up. Now that I’m just teetering on the sunny side of the big three-oh (9 days to go and counting) I’m not sure what happens with the whole ‘going dancing’ thing. I know that you’re more inclined to go to ‘lounge bars’ that sport small cheesy flashing dance floors and a bias towards men fighting middle aged spread and wearing slip-ons, the thought of which doesn’t make me wanna grab my dancing shoes… I don’t think I’m ready for tea-dances just yet, but perhaps some grown-up sultry salsa would fill the void (though at the first sniff of a bolero jacket, I’m out of there)… The last time I went to a real-live ‘nite-club’ I was chatted up (very badly) by a little boy with a very dodgy pubescent moustache (his aim in growing it I think was to try and look a little less like a minion from the Blazin’ Squad. After being asked if I’d like to ‘get to know him a bit better’ I did mention the fact that a ten-year age gap was a bit much for me (that and the fact he looked like a minion from the Blazin’ squad). He responded deflatedly with a wink (yikes) one of those hand-flicking boo-yakka-sha’s in the style of Ali-G (ha ha ha) and said ‘Stay young laydee, stay young’ (double yikes). He ended by clicking his fingers, pointing in my direction and walking away backwards … I think he was trying to look mysterious…It was a most top night but I don’t really love being made to feel like a grandma when I head out… Age was no issue on Friday night because copious sunbed use had aged most of the clientele to looking way past 30. I did however loose my cool a bit when I managed to get my very ‘this season’ butterfly brooch caught up in the Japanese midget’s hair as he sashayed around me. We freed it eventually and the music was load enough to drown out his screams… so a groovesome night was had by all.. (Note to self: get ID that says I’m 21 so I can keep on going dancing in real ‘nite-clubs’… )

I know it's only skin deep...

2005-02-28T09:59:00.000Z

NB. I am currently fast approaching an official ‘age hurdle’ so there is likely to be a flurry of age related posts over the next few days. Please be assured that I will resort to my usual youthful self in due course…

When I was fifteen I scrubbed and exfoliated, cleansed and toned, applied Clearasil, toothpaste, TCP, witch hazel and every other beauty-editor advised remedy to reduce my teenage spots to a cover-upable level. Concealer-stick was by best friend, as was a floppy fringe and subtle lighting (particularly darkness) and though my problem was probably not as severe as many of my peers, my opinion of my spots was that every molehill was a mountain. However extreme the eruption however, I could always seek solace in the fact that I been told by said beauty editors that I would grow out of them… Beauty editors I know realise are evil liars. I also always assumed that eventually I’d get the odd wrinkle… but not till I was nearly ready to retire. I looked forward to waving goodbye to my last spot at 20 and revelling in my smooth, dewy, glowing skin until at least the age of 40 when a couple of character lines would sneak in and make me look wise. There was no moment when I considered having spots and wrinkles at the same time… that just seems unfair. There are no products available for young-stroke-old-spotty-stroke-wrinkly skin… the ones for wrinkles create an oil-slick (shiny is not the same as dewy) and the ones for spots turn your skin into crepe paper (ok as long as you don’t smile and rip it). On this subject I moaned to my Mum, (genetically she is responsible)… her reply was unsatisfactory to say the least… 'I always like getting the odd spot because it makes me feel young'… Unsatisfactory because I do feel young; my problem is that my skin can’t decide if I’m a granny or a girl.

Issues with stationery

2005-02-25T08:59:00.000Z

…So I happened to mention yesterday that I find our high-security stationery system a bit anal. The stationery cupboard is guarded by a keyholding pitbull of a PA who demands to know how you could have possibly run out of said stationery item so quickly, tries to persuade you to have the really cheapo biros/pads/pritt stiks (even though you know that there’s some posh stuff that actually works stashed away) and then she allocates a small supply… often splitting blocks of post-its, allowing only 1 pen of each colour and refusing requests for A4 pads if an A5 jotter will do… it’s exhausting (but I expect she’s added a fortune to the company’s bottom line). After hearing my grumbling a Top Workmate replied ‘ You didn’t work here when Freda was in charge… that was even more scary’. (I like the fact that she was called Freda… it conjures up a great image of a ‘Trunchbull’ style matron with a tight bun and a sharp German accent) Top Workmate went on to say that she had emerged from a toilet cubicle one morning to be greeted by Freda and interrogated about the number of sheets of toilet paper she had used. Apparently Freda had heard Top Workmate unrolling at least a metres worth from the dispenser, and did she know how much the bill for loo roll came to each month??! Needless to say Top Workmate scuttled out feeling like a naughty schoolgirl, but also completely astonished by Freda’s dedication to the money-saving cause. The next time she went for a wee though, she checked the other cubicles first to make sure Freda wasn’t lurking behind the cistern, and then checked her own cubicle for hidden CCTV…

Stopping speaking

2005-02-24T09:01:00.000Z

Sometimes I get worried that we’re going to run out of things to say to each other… that we’ll become two stony faces avoiding each other’s eyes in a restaurant, or staring at a flickering screen without speaking. I worry that I won’t be able to make you laugh anymore, that you’ll get bored with my stories about those insignificant events that amuse me, or the drawn out tales of troubles that I have to get out of my system. I worry that you’re going to wake up one morning and wonder what you’re doing with someone so silly who won’t ponder about politics but excels at the most useless kind of small talk, and that you’ll feel the need to escape…That’s when I try to remember that you’re you and I’m me and we’ve got so many questions that we’ll always have things to say. I hope you stay being there to talk back to me.

How to avoid a bad boyfriend. Stay standing

2005-02-23T08:54:00.000Z

She’s in a bar and she’s feeling woozy. She’s been dancing and drinking and laughing all night but suddenly the spark has faded like a light clicking off and she just wants to crawl home. She checks the buttons on her sparkly top. Earlier in the evening she had been pleased to see a good range of approving eyes settling on her… pleased that is until the so-cheery-he’s-cheesy barman pointed out that her top was completely undone in a very Judy Finnegan way. (She is at least thankful to be sporting a pink leopard-print linger-ree number that perks up her assets and not a white nylon boulder holder like the daytime diva) … As she pushes through the throng of waving bodies she trips in her high fashion, low practicality spike heels and plunges forward. Time stops and she finds herself gazing into his eyes, sinking and swimming and falling into them until the world starts moving again and he’s holding onto her so tightly she just wants to crawl further into him. He pulls her in to sit besides him and she refuses his offer of drink – alcoholic or otherwise. They smile at each other both with a touch of something like bashfulness… the feeling that always takes over when two people who don’t know each other know that they want to fuck…The bar is clearing out and her head is clearing too so she asks if he’s ready to leave and he smiles back at her. She checks her shirt again and straightens up carefully on the spike heels. She waits for him to stand up and then realises he is standing up. He is a munchkin. She says she has to grab her coat then she grabs a taxi.

Cover Version

2005-02-22T08:49:00.000Z

If you were in a band and wanted to perform the craziest, trickiest cover version ever, what would you pick? I think ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Kate Bush wins hands down, closely followed by most other Kate Bush tracks… so imagine my surprise when flicking on the telly I was greeted by the Futureheads version of ‘Hounds of Love’… What a genius snippet of pop-tastic nonsense… as you can imagine, there’s mock barking at the beginning, lots of wailing and a group of hard-core ‘musos’ all looking super-serious and wearing thick black specs. I like to think that secretly they’re giggling inside thinking ‘Yeeeesss… today a successful Kate Bush cover, tomorrow the world!’…Genius.

Brief Encounters

2005-02-21T09:02:00.000Z

I realised I loved you when I kissed him…and then it was too late. He was taller than you, a bit too much of a stretch and his mouth didn’t mould to mine like yours did. He didn’t hold me to him and envelope me against his heart like you did and he didn’t close his eyes and seem completely absorbed by the moment like you were. When I pulled away and looked at him I couldn’t tell what he was thinking like I could with you and when I left him I didn’t want to look back and run to him for just a snatched second more. That was when I realised I loved you… and it was too late.

I have a hosiery issue...

2005-02-18T12:09:00.000Z

I can’t wait till fishnets go out of fashion… I’ve spent a small fortune over the last few years on black and brown, burgundy and beige, big holed and meshy, lacy and luxury and every pair has suffered some untimely end. I’ve snagged them, snarled them, caught them on my zips, my fingernails, the heels of my shoes… I had an extremely tricky incident when I entangled a heavily sequinned bag in a pair of particularly delicate tights and had to hobble through rush-hour Gatwick airport departures with the bag stuck firmly to both of my knees. (not really the glamorous look I was going for) When I finally disentangled myself you would have been forgiven for thinking that my legs had been gnawed by a family of hungry mice… Then there was the night out when my toes had been stuck through the holes in a pair for so long that all blood supply had been cut off and a good case of gangrene was only moments away. Sure they’re sexy (especially the stockings) but when you peel them off, your legs are criss-crossed like one of those German smoked salamis… Roll on a stocking-free summer and next year I’ll be strictly sticking to 40 denier…

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Never date a man with Pyromaniac tendencies

2005-02-17T13:15:00.000Z

So they snuggled together in the warm embrace of the squishy leather sofa and kissed. He reached up the front of her sweater, she reached down the front of his pants and they both shivered with excitement (and also because it was flippin’ freezing in his draughty front room). He suggested a cosy open fire that they could cuddle in front of and which could possibly even persuade them to remove a few garments… she nodded enthusiastically and gritted her teeth to stop them chattering. Within seconds he appeared, laden with logs, kindling and seven large firelighters… not to mention the box of long matches and a can of lighter fluid. She looked uncomfortable but he assured her he was an expert and had been awarded the highest fire-lighting accolades when he was in the Cubs….she continued to look uncomfortable. He enthusiastically piled up all the ingredients in the grate, doused them with a healthy dose of lighter fluid and touched them with a lighted match… When the flames began to lick the ceiling he abandoned the cup of water and dragged in the hosepipe. Several gallons of water later, the crisis was over… the fire was out in the grate and the fires of passion were definitely out too.

Missing her

2005-02-15T12:20:00.000Z

Yesterday I thought I saw my Grandma… I glanced up and she was smiling into the distance, a soft pastel person, tiny and tender. I knew that if I got up close I would be able to smell fairy cakes and talcum powder and the teeniest hint of lavender bags… if I touched her hand it would be cool and the skin would move across the tendons like satin. I walked away happy because that’s how I want to remember her, not shrunken and terrifying or mute and translucent… Sometimes you only realise how much you miss somebody when you see them again, and then it swamps you…

Girly weekend

2005-02-14T09:04:00.000Z

The Isle of Wight, my five longest-running friends and I, vast quantities of booze and baby talk combined made for a top weekend away… When we get together I’m always amazed that such a completely varied and complex group of people can still remain so close and caring. You know how it is, even if we haven’t spoken for months, when we do speak it’s like we’ve never been apart… When you look at our people profiles, we couldn’t be more different… there’s the tomboy with the history of lesbian dalliances and an obsession with football…she’s seriously intelligent and knows everything about everything but has a laid back super confidence that means she never feels she has to prove it. There’s the politically aware Camden-towner who reads high-brow biographies and has the biggest smile and the most opinions. There’s the slightly more sensible one, who’s following a predictable road of teaching, homemaking and babies and who every now and again cracks her mask of perfection to reveal something really beautiful. There’s the sweetest nomad who looks great in hats and loves her cat. There’s the hilarious one who hides the most sadness… she’s a fabulous contradiction of show off and sensitivity, a spoilt she-devil with a laugh that spreads like wildfire. Then there’s me, who fits in somewhere and I’m really lucky to be part of such a multicoloured, treasure trove, rag-bag, of a collection of enchantresses.

Trouser incident

2005-02-11T14:27:00.000Z

So yesterday I split my trousers…ironically at the time I was deep in a conversation about the problems associated with being fat and travelling on planes and was meanly laughing uproariously about a top workmates mother in law who had crash dieted away a large proportion of her bodyfat after an incident on a plane which went something like this:

Frosty faced superbitch stewardess (loudly): ‘Madam, please observe the fasten seatbelt signs’
Top workmates cuddly mother in law: struggles with seatbelt and reddens
Poker faced superbitch stewardess (bellowing): ‘Put your seatbelt on please. You’re holding us up’
Mother in law (visibly withering, whispers) ‘I can’t do it up’
Evil superbitch stewardess (raising one eyebrow, shrieks ‘Lara can we have the belt extension over here’ then loudly stage whispers as hush falls over the plane ‘the lady’s too fat to do up a regular one’

Admittedly a horribly toe-curling incident, but you’ve gotta see the funny side.. and I did, in fact I literally laughed till I split my sides (or my seams at least). When I stood up and felt a draught around my derriere I knew things were bad… my super-sophisticated caramel slacks had sprung a leak. Even worse was that it was right down the middle at the back and my pants were extremely teeny (imagine cheesewire and 2 edams – unfortunately not the babybel variety). It possibly wouldn’t have been so bad if there hadn’t been so many people around staring at my bottom and if my tablemates were a bit more subtle but within 10 minutes everyone in the building knew that the brand manager was mooning. Luckily the lovely lady who works in the canteen had one of those handy waiters’ pinnies, which I slid around my waist and tied at a jaunty angle before strutting off to my desk with as much dignity as I could muster. I wore the pinny all afternoon… (who knows, maybe it’ll catch on as a new officewear trend… the pocket is certainly handy for calculator storage)… but I was very glad to slink off home under the cover of my floor length overcoat I can tell you, and I will laugh less heartily at fat jokes in future…

Burano

2005-02-10T13:22:00.000Z

You once told me about an island near Venice where all the houses along the beach are painted a different fabulous colour... When the fisherman are out at sea they can look ashore and their homes will stand out brightly and they can see them for miles and miles… From where you stand on the pedestal that I’ve put you on, and you survey your sea of conquests, do I stand out brightly amongst them and make you want to come home?

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Don't date a man who lives with his mum

2005-02-09T09:01:00.005Z

So she’d been out with him a couple of times since they found each other in the club… she spent most of her days constructing wild passion filled fantasies about how they’d be together perfectly forever, how they’d smile all the time through the misty soft focus of their wonderful lives, how he would have a huge willy and an undying lust for her and she’d have lost at least six pounds and have gained much perkier breasts…She’d picked the cinema for their first date, that way she could check she still fancied him on the way in, make brief conversation throughout the trailers to make sure they hit it off (if not, pretend to be totally absorbed in the film, if so…spend most of it snogging ) and enough time remaining afterwards to go on somewhere yet still late enough to cry off home with heavy accompanying yawns if he’s as dull as dishwater – perfect. Needless to say there was no trace of lippie left on her mouth as she left the cinema, just the warm rosy glow of a healthy dose of stubble burn…. Their second date was out for a drink or two at the cosy fire-lit pub round the corner where she sipped a fruity merlot and her teeth went purple. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact they stared into each other’s eyes and discovered everything and anything about each other late into the night… A lot of her time that week had been spent checking that her phone was working (she struck up quite a rapport with the Indian guy from the call centre) and even more time panicking when it rang…but now she really felt that this was the beginning of something special and as he led her up to his bedroom, both woozy from wine and light-headed with longing she knew he was perfect and the time was right… Next morning she wakes to see his fabulous face and to feel his arms enveloping her… and then there’s a knock on the door. Straight away it opens and in walks a middle-aged woman armed with a tray of tea and biscuits who he introduces stiffly as his mother. The mother settles on the bed making smalltalk and smiling brightly as she brushes a wayward coarse curly hair from the duvet. She then points out the light scratch running across his shoulder, removes the balled up tissue from the bedside table and cheerily says she’ll see them both downstairs shortly for breakfast… He looks at her cringing beside him, smiles weakly and agrees that she should make a quick exit out of the window…

Being boring

2005-02-08T08:46:00.000Z

So have you ever been surrounded by people who seem to be perpetually exciting and continually thrilled…. They’re unendingly entangled amidst an explosion of emotions… feelings that prove to them so completely that their existence is important and total. Their presence is absolutely iridescent so you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking of or referring to them with a smile even if they were miles away and not thinking of you. Just the fact that they exist so brilliantly makes you want to exist brilliantly around them… but it’s difficult. You rack your brain for an anecdote that will thrill them… fables to fuel their excitement and just one moment that made you fly but the only thing you can think of is the unmentionable dark viscous weight in the pit of your stomach seeping heavily until letting it pull you under seems easy … so you just smile tightly and try in vain to be iridescent whilst their eyes flick around the room seeking distraction and escape. You’re hovering between existence and invisibility, an ethereal form in an ill-fitting frock and you want to shine but you don’t know how. You search for a solution and you meet his gaze. In that split second you realise that you thrill him and excite him by just being you and wanting to exist brilliantly isn’t as important as existing with someone who is always brilliant.

Sacrifices

2005-02-07T09:11:00.000Z

So...what sacrifices should you be prepared to make for your partner? The hero from the book that I’m currently gripped by is feverishly besotted by his lovely yet well matured lady. She is the unfortunate owner of a glass eye and the opinion that her lover should share the burden that she has to bear. Consequently she obtains an additional glass eye for him, arms herself with a teaspoon and gouges out one of his eyes with very little resistance from him… Needless to say the romance soon sours, but it made me consider what I’ve given up for my partner… I’ve tried to reduce the flirting (which is a pretty big step)… I grit my teeth and stay cool when he leaves his trainers all over the flat (I’ve already admitted I’m a Bree about that sort of stuff) and I never wear my jeans turned up when I go out with him because he has a serious aversion to cropped trousers (although he never seems to mind them on Cheryl from ‘Girls Aloud’)…All in all I think I’m pretty giving- if I had a spare eye I’d definitely give it to him.

Tired out

2005-02-03T08:49:00.000Z

How is it that I need so much sleep now? In the past I've been able to burn the candle at both ends for days and nights... snatching dream packed bursts of sleep between bouts of endless conversation about everything and anything, eager frenzies of love-making that entangle limbs and bedclothes and drowsy sessions of just holding on and fitting closer and closer together until the point where you end and he begins becomes blurred. Now it seems that I spend the majority of my day in a hazy place somewhere between clarity and coma desperately trying to drag my consciousness back to where it should be.. the figures that are swimming in front of my eyes or the person who's voice is nothing but a monotone series of sounds. When it comes to bed time I have already shut down... stumble to the cool embrace of the cotton and a brief touch from him and then into oblivion until the irate and invasive scream of the alarm starts it all off again... Bring back the days when energy levels were sky high and I couldn't wait to wake up just so that I wouldn't miss anything.

Swimming

2005-02-01T08:39:00.000Z

So off I go to the local pool as part of my cellulite-busting, pre holiday plan (which has so far consisted of 1 yoga session and a couple of squats in front of 'Fat Club'). The building is one of those late sixties concrete monstrosities which is about as welcoming as a funeral parlour and as it's down at the seafront, a near-gale has whipped up which makes walking difficult (how will I swim if I can't even walk?) and throws bits of rubbish at my face. I struggle with the first door I come to and open it to see a roomful of musclebound wannabe hunks flexing various bits of orange tanned body. Mostly they are wearing those vests with the arms that have been cut away so much as to reveal both nipples (and a hair free shiny chest) combined with ridiculously short shorts sporting attractive splits up the side of each leg (just to give you a better look at their buttocks and that white satsuma bag that holds their crown jewels). After everyone has turned around to stare, the music has cut out and I've started to feel like a Cowboy who has accidentally stepped into the wrong Saloon, I finally get a grunt and a vague wave which translates as 'Pool, over there' (or possibly 'No testosterone, no entry') by a Neanderthal who despite having an extremeley well defined upper torso has neglected to build up his lower body to match... the result being He-Man with a couple of cocktail sticks hanging off his waistband and a pingpong ball for a head.
So I escape from the gym and realise that yes, there is a huge sign next door for the pool... (obviously I had been temporarily blinded by the stray rubbish) and I am swept up on a tidal wave of small, squeaking children who are banging each other over the heads (and me around the legs) with their swimming bags. This doesn't bode well.

Brief Encounters

2005-01-31T08:55:00.000Z

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.

Baby Talk

2005-01-28T08:54:00.000Z

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.

Discovering you're a Samantha

2005-01-27T08:46:00.001Z

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?

How to avoid a Bad Boyfriend - Never date a Model

2005-01-26T08:35:00.000Z

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.

Inspired

2005-01-25T08:48:00.000Z

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...

Sushi

2005-01-24T08:45:00.000Z

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...

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

2005-01-21T08:41:00.000Z

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…

Naked models

2005-01-20T08:35:00.000Z

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) ...you 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?

Yogafartys

2005-01-19T08:57:00.000Z

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.

Stalker

2005-01-18T13:58:00.000Z

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?..

Blog-therapy

2005-01-17T13:31:00.000Z

...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?'