Patience is not a virtue

2006-10-03T08:19:00.000+01:00

Well I did it. I had a baby. 4 simple words which kind of fail to really describe the immense pain and pride of giving birth. Alula Grace is 6 weeks old and I doubt any other baby has her name nor is as beautiful. She is gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous and really i'm not biased. Birth was an experience. I wonder what it was like for Lula bean...i mean it can't have been fun for her. The cord was wrapped round her neck and under her arm and every time i pushed she bounced back like she was on a bungee rope. hence the forceps and ventouse delivery...ouch. yes indeedy. ouch. if you want to know what stitches in your minky feel like - ouch about sums it up. walking like john wayne for a fortnight. but worth it everytime i look at her.

anyway i'm stuck at home and bored out of my brain. Not that looking after a baby that sleeps 16 hours a day (10 more than me) and can't yet talk or do anything is anything less than scintillating but i'm struggling to renounce my working life and friends. It's tough this stay at home business. I can't wait to get back to work. I'm just not a stay at home mum type. I can't do the NCT coffee morning stuff anymore - discussing baby weight and labour length and the relative merits of gas and air over an epidural (is there a contest?).

I went to the Hampstead everyman cinema avec bebe...the cinema was awash with bugaboos it was like a bugaboo showroom...you couldn't move for cashmere clad suv driving mummies breastfeeding and talking bout the latest armani junior collections. depressed me something chronic.

2006-07-31T20:02:00.000+01:00

oh how things have changed in a year.

A year ago it was free bike services, now i can't remember what it feels like to be ogled or desired. Being 8 months pregnant is weird.

my legs hurt so much i feel about 100 years old.

today i phoned the will maker man. arranged for double glazing quotes and made a casserole. that too made me feel about 100 years old. i want to be able to squeeze into my skinny jeans, go out, get drunk and dance all night...instead i am a casserole making, lumbering, knackered-after-walking-up-the-stairs suburban mum with a honda civic, arranging my life insurance and thinking ahead about gas bill increases and calculating the cost of double glazing.

8 months ago i was traipsing round Paris, drinking red wine, falling over and trying on couture...and not bothering to calculate anything more than how many beers would suffice to get me happy and how many pairs of shoes i could reasonably fit in my suitcase.

Ahh the joys of pregnancy...

2005-07-30T21:21:00.000+01:00

here is a story with many themes. The title of the story is 'Irony'. Another title for this story could be 'a tale of a man, a woman and a wall'

The day had been long. The commuter train was packed. The conversation was really an argument but because of the packed train was really a strained, hushed conversation of tight syllables and whipped consonants.

Girl: You don't have to go with me to the hospital (subtext: you so have to go with me to the hospital or I'm so dumping you)
Boy: No, really it's um fine, I can borrow my mum's car (subtext as heard by girl:I really cannot be arsed to go with her, I have far more important things to do like alphabetising my records)
Girl: I told you it's fine, it's just a small operation (subtext: it's a huge operation, a huge deal and if you dont come with me you're gonna hugely regret it)
Boy: And I told you, it's fine. I'm taking you. (Subtext as heard by girl: What a pussy, it's just a silly operation, can't someone else take her?)
Girl: My dad can take me (Subtext: If my dad has to take me, it's over your dead body)

And so on until the train arrives at the station and the rest of the carriage can smirk at each other as the boy and girl exit the train.

Now the argument can enter the open air and it escalates until the boy in a stress manages in his frustration to smack a carrier bag against the curb. Two bottles of wine smash over the street. The girl stares in horror at the thought of all that wasted wine ' that's my wine you just smashed. That was expensive wine. You just smashed it. I can't believe you smashed my wine' (subtext as heard by boy: nah nah nah NAH, nah NAH, NAH NAH nah nah it's all your fault')

the boy is doubly frustrated now he has accidentally smashed the girls wine. Nothing is going to go right now. There is only one thing left to do and that is to take it out on the wall.

cut to 1 month later:
Boy: You don't have to take me to the hospital if you dont' want to (subtext: you were right about it being broken, I'm a heroic fool')
Girl: It's fine. I don't mind. I'll borrow my mum's car (subtext: only a man would punch a wall then walk around with a broken hand for a month)
Boy: Ok thanks (subtext: if only girls could take things at surface level and stop analysing the subtexts we wouldn't be having this conversation)

2005-07-30T20:58:00.000+01:00

today I love being a girl.

I love being a girl because I get things for free.

Today I knew I would get things for free and engineered it so.

In order to do this you have to know men's weaknesses;

1) they like to feel clever(er than women)
2) they like to 'rescue' poor damsels in distress
3) they like boobs

Which is why not wearing a bra, asking the nice man to 'pump my tyres up' and looking all confused and wide eyed when asked about chains got me a free bicycle service.

Now I feel ashamed and hussylike. There must be porn films with better plots than that. But then, perhaps that is just how the world works. Plus I think he received adequate payment; he got to look at my boobs, and was made to feel manly and powerful as he pumped my tyres whilst I looked on admiringly. In fact now i think about it, maybe he should have been paying me.

2005-05-09T18:02:00.000+01:00

Started this morning like a crazed loon pulling apart the kitchen cupboards, searching like a demented woman for my risotto. There was a creeping feeling that perhaps I was going mad, that maybe I hadn't cooked it the night before at all, let alone stored it in a container and put it in the fridge. Was it right in front of my face staring back at me between the milk and juice in the fridge door? I had to concentrate fully and stare for a good 5 minutes at every inch of fridge space to reassure myself it wasn't there. I even checked the freezer. Then I thought, perhaps it's in the dishwasher - maybe I was simultaneously loading the dishwasher whilst packing the risotto up and got confused. Not there. The microwave? The Oven? Under the kitchen sink? The windowsill, the cutlery draw and the breadbin yeilded similar results. Having exhausted all risotto hiding places and convinced beyond doubt of my own failing sanity, I wondered frowning into the bedroom. And there. Littered beneath the bed. On its side casually discarded. An empty container…
Ooooh honey … no response…... Oooooh honey….have you seen my risotto the one I was saving for lunch? The risotto I made yesterday and of which you had two large portions already for dinner. The risotto I put in a container after telling you it was my lunch. The container I put in the fridge whilst telling you again it was my lunch. The container now guiltily cast off under the bed. The container that is now EMPTY. Risotto-less?????
I'm so sorry. I was hungry.
But you knew it was my lunch
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I can't believe what a pig you are.
I'll bring you lunch into work.
It's 6pm. I'm still waiting.

2005-03-28T11:45:00.000+01:00

I don't do heels. I'm a fully paid up lifelong peerage holding m ember of the trainer club. I'd happily spend the rest of my waking life in a pair of nikes and nothing else. Shopping for heels is surely like shopping for a gimp suit, both are uncomfortable, restrictive and worn to excite a man's lust - so why would you bother? With heels I enter this weird Fashion northpole where my usual style compass goes all batty and exorcist like, flipping round and round and never settling and pointing true north (to style nirvanaland) Instead I am lost and clueless in a new and unsettling world where I don't belong and don't speak the language, the landscape made up of towering spikes, wooden wedges, round toe patent leather, pointy toes in an array of colours, buckles, straps and laces. I feel like the amazonian tribeswoman brought to the city by her anthropologist husband and let loose on the mall...with no framework or style references to go on and clothes being a relatively new concept to her, she returned decked out in a smorgasbord of cheques, paisley, polkadots, tweed and gold lamme. I am the same with heels. I have no frame of reference, apart from the style a-z that is heat and vogue magazines - but they are both telling me wedges are cool and that's like telling me Tottenham is the new chelsea - I don't believe it and I sure as hell aren't going there to find out. I am a high heeled shoe virgin, and like any virgin desparate to lose her shoe cherry (god i'm 27 I had practically given up on it ever happening), and to lose it painlessly, to a good shoe, one my friends would like but not want to try on themselves or worse, go out and buy, one that I wouldn't look back on in years to come with a tinge of embarassment or regret, I chose a conservative, inoffensive, neutral shoe, one that seemed so nice in the shop, on the surface quite kind to my feet, sensitive, good looking, smart and expensive... and like a virgin, boy did it hurt, and boy did i regret it in the morning.

2005-02-09T16:01:00.000Z

I am going to be Tony Blair. The anti-christ. Not that I'm going to be doing some scary voodoo possession on the man… just imagine waking up in the morning and seeing first cherie without makeup and then those jug ears staring at you in the mirror. Tony is cheap. I am borrowing a mask from a friend who wore it to a gods and monsters party. Far cheaper than spending a fortune on a nun's outfit from the nearest fancy dress/sex shop or buying a blue pashmina (the horror), shoving it on my head and calling myself Mary. The theme is Christian but I've never been one for fancy dress… the words 'fancy' and 'dress' coming in the same sentence should only mean 'expensive frock bought for posh occasion' in my mind. There's a picture of me aged 4 holding hands with my 7 year old cowboy brother, large red nose distinctly out of joint, eyes pooling dollops of tears, mouth a downturned grimace, wearing a pair of butchered pyjamas with frilly cuffs. Even then I was aware that my mother's crimes against fashion (like Pinochet, she's yet to be tried for them) were too heinous for words. My face conveys all the angst of a four year old forced to be a clown whilst all her little friends get to be fairies, with wings and wands and everything.
The boyfriend is going as that funny man who marches daily up and down oxford street (he must be doing the purgatory bit now so that he can get into heaven quicker when he gets hit by the no.73) asking anyone who'll listen ' Are you a Sinner? Or are you a winner?'. Telling me to repent or live with the devil (lived with him at University - been there done that) he was on the receiving end of one of my now notorious looks, perfected since the clown incident. Repent? I thought, the only thing I'll be repenting is the fact that the dress I bought before Christmas is now on sale a hundred quid cheaper. Anyway having seen my raised eyebrows and rolling eyeballs, he decided to chastise me through his megaphone. I and the rest of the shoppers on Oxford Street now know that my life is joyless as I haven't let Jesus into my heart.
Before settling on the Tony Blair option, which admittedly is a little weak, I googled 'sexy christians', ' beautiful christians' ' dead famous christians' and 'sexy women in the bible'. The first one alerted me only to the hundreds of online dating sites for christians and an interesting article 'are christian rock stars too sexy for the Lord?' I can just see St. Peter turning away Cliff Richard at the pearly gates ' no sorry cliff, you're just too goddamn sexy'. The latter google turned up a few more interesting leads; Delilah does she count? She's a philistine and I'm not sure that's the same thing as a Christian. Plus she cut off Samson's hair which wasn't a very charitable thing to do. In fact all the sexy, temptress women in the bible are bad. Look at Mary Magdalene's rap. So I'll be a cross-dressing, hot-arsed Tony Blair instead.

2005-01-06T22:58:00.000Z

it's 6pm i'm leaving work to meet a friend. the gestapo like conditions of our office building where the security would give MI5 a run for their money have clearly seeped into the mindsets of some of the wankier members of the floor. (when i say wankier I mean it both literally and figuratively because clearly these people spend a lot of time wanking as who, quite frankly, would shag such anal fuckwits?) I'm stuck between lift and office due to the swipe entry system and the fact that the little black swipe with my name on it is still on my desk. On my hands and knees i'm tearing apart three bags to find the damn thing or my phone to call someone to let me in...

man enters on way to lift, hold the door i yell, as i scrabble to reassemble wreckage and flotsam from bags before he wonders what i'm doing with a leek, a pair of pants and two courgettes on my hands and knees, i fling myself heroicly forward, door slams in face, in desparation i turn to him with pleading expression on face, please can you let me in, i've left my pass on my desk, i'm sorry i' dont' know you, oh come on, i work here, i spoke to you in the kitchen the other day i just need to get my pass, lift doors open, i'm sorry i don't know you (this in sterner tones though camp at the same time, if he'd been straight i'd have had no trouble but jeeeesus the batting eyelash maneouvre holds no sway over your average gay guy. fucker.) the lift doors go to close, blood boiling i spit wanker fuckwit arsewipe through the doors, giving up all my left over christmas cheer (and resolutions to be more zen) in the prayer that the lift cables will chose that second to fray and send him careering 10 flights...but i mean what a FUCKER. seriously...do i look like a thief or terrorist? are most maniacal suicide bombers 5'5, small, blonde, and carrying agent provacateur carrier bags I DON'T THINK SO. What person is gonna steal a PC when they are already carrying enough to weigh down a mule train? and who's gonna blow themselves up when they've just had to remortgage to afford a pair of knickers. clearly the man was no poirot. but i can't just let this go.

oh no. he ain't getting away with it. it's time to get the stink bombs out the drawer and initiate a proper campaign of terror. he want bombing he gonna get bombing.

2004-12-14T16:26:00.000Z

In homage to julie christie I am currently sporting a mink fur 'from russia with love / dr. zhivago' hat. It goes very well with all outfits, but best of all with bra and knickers.

Accessorising it with a few more layers, I stepped onto the streets of London and sashayed over london bridge into the oncoming hoardes of commuter masses feeling like a Bond-girl extra, fully expecting whoops and murmerings of 'wow what a fabulous hat' only to have my dazzling smile wiped from my face after several laser venom looks from sartorially challenged Peta campaigner types wearing hemp beanies.

So i've been pondering the ethics of wearing fur and these are my arguments: a) The animal is dead already b) I didn't kill it c) I didn't buy it from a shop (which might encourage fur farmers to skin more of the little creatures) but from a stall at spitalfields and therefore as a second hand item I am even further removed from the original mink murderer. 4) If the supermodels can model for PETA and then a decade later strut down bond street in chincilla capes and furry muffs without a whiff of their own hypocrisy tripping them up then i don't see how my little furscepade can register on the radar 5) I wear leather but no one mourns the little cows or spits at me on the street for it 6) I wear birkenstocks in the summer (my concession to free love for animals)
there we are, conscience beautifully salved.

2004-09-01T15:00:00.000+01:00

some snipppets of conversation from Sweden:

me to boyfriend's brother and hypothetical brother in law: do you like my beautiful new dress that i have just got changed into in preparation for a wedding where there will be 300 guests and I want to look my best?
b's brother: no
me: that is why you will never have a girlfriend.

strolling through sylvan paradise island:
boyfriend: oh dear
me: what?
boyfriend: nothing just keep on walking
me: like hello? what what what?
boyfriend: nothing
me: oh my god, was it a snake? was there a snake? did you see a snake? shit, where where where? is it near me, piggy back piggy back piggy back, oh my god
boyfriend: it's ok, you trod on it, it's gone now.

customs lady: you do know that it is illegal to bring certain substances back to the UK yes?
boyfriend: like what exactly?
customs lady: like class A drugs - can i ask you if you are carrying anything back from Sweden?
boyfriend: Yes you can
customs lady: well are you?
boyfriend: Yes
Customs lady: can I ask what?
boyfriend: Vinyl records
customs lady: Vinyl Records?
boyfriend: Yes, they are on the bottom of my bag I hope they are ok
customs lady: I am going to do an illegal substance swipe of your shoe now (subtext: if you ain't carrying or using then I'll eat my blue cloth customs cap).

I get a socio-political/geographical DIY lesson from a YHA card carrying Israeli biological physicist:
it's not a wall!!!! It's not a WALL! it's a fence!
what, like a picket fence?
no it's chain link, how you say, electrified!
oh, ok then, not a wall.

Boyfriend and Boyfriend's brother: Dare you to jump off this 6 foot high diving board into the minus15 degrees water below.
me: I dont' have my swimsuit and I don't have a wetsuit either.
(15 minutes later 3 mm from edge shivering in a pair of knickers)
me: i can't do it
(15 minutes later 3mm from edge shivering ina pair of knickers)
me: I'm gonna do it, just give me a second
(15 minutes later 3mm from edge shivering in a pair of knickers)
me: ok, 1...2.....3 fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck get me the fuck fuck fuck out of here.....dear jesus god sweet mother in heaven fuck fuck fuck

2004-07-20T16:56:00.000+01:00

rush hour in the city, things I saw on the street; a dozen smashed eggs in an alley, a black cleopatra style wig trampled by a herd of stampeding bankers.

i had a huge argument with the boyfriend the other week.
i said: 'i'm fat'
he said:

What man born of woman doesn't know the answer to that one? Even my brother, never too clever with the ladies, knows the answer to that one. Children barely out of their nappies know the answer to the one question all women across the globe ask. There is only one answer to that question. and silence ain't it.

OK, you could have forgiven him if I was actually obese, or even overweight, or even a bit of a chubster, but I'm a size 10, pert arsed, firm boobed young sex goddess...and taking some techniques from clockwork orange, the boyfriend has been re-programmed to give the correct response in future to this question and all variants (i.e. do you think I've put on weight? Does my bum look big in this? My thighs are enormous aren' t they?)

Unfortunately for him, for the foreseeable future, like the next 80 years of his life or until he is nagged into an early grave by moi, this crime against womankind will be dredged up and rekindled regularly and used to coerce, blackmail and guilt trip him into presents, flowers, compliments and breakfast in bed every day of the week. Bring it on.

2004-06-16T21:21:00.000+01:00

addendum: In no way whatsover absolutely utterly do i ever, ever, cover me in honey and feed me to the ants, fantastise, ever about Angel (or staking fellow delegates at conferences) and the boyfriend is not to miscontrue this fantasy as being, like, true. absolutely, no way, complete falshood, purgery, evil barefaced lying to suggest otherwise. ok?

2004-06-16T20:07:00.000+01:00

ok so what is this about royal ascot? wonder through waterloo this week and it's like a fancy dress party, someone needs to tell these people (and who is it who actually goes to royal ascot? sure as hell seems like they should rename it pikey ascot) that sherbert pink suits and accessorize hats and black wedge heels does not a royal make...
that's how i am getting my kicks this week. that and listening to chaka khan at ear busting levels on the tube enough to make betwatted suited city wankers (the only kind who ride the waterloo and city line)move a respectful distance...I had to venture into suitland today for a conference at a very posh lawyers firm...i kept having flashes of the evil lawyers firm in Angel and to distract myself during the 3 hours of speeches before my own i drawled amidst fantasies of angel bursting in, staking all the delegates and whisking me off for a holiday in the bahamas...being in such swish, utterly coated in wealth lets shove it in everyone's faces and make a real show of how much we rip our clients offness was kind of amazing to a small time charity worker like me...they even had frosted water bottles with their name inscribed on them and mini bottles of coca cola and sprite, bonsai raspberry tartlets, sandwiches measuring 1 inch by 1 inch, thoughtfully constructed by people who are obviously cogniscent of the difficulties of making small talk while simultaneously trying to cram a canape into your gob, amazing. especially when i consider that yesterday my own catering attempts stretched to £20 spent at sainsbury's express, 3 chargrilled pizzas and a packet of bourbons on cracked plates slammed down in front of unsuspecting trainee fodder with a glare warning them to just dare complaining.

but was i turned? was i heck? it's a bit like darth vadar and luke skywalker...(me being luke like obviously there) join the dark side? 'NEVER.. you're not my father' they can take their mini coke bottles and marble paved toilets, and little worker aussies pouring coffee in silly uniforms and 1 inch sandwiches, and air con, and shiny gleamy reception staff and shove em. who wants to wear a suit anyway?

2004-06-11T13:42:00.000+01:00

ahhh la france, du vin, du pain, du naked belgians...
In ten days in France I have learnt:
How to erect a tent.
To always pee downhill.
How to cycle with 10Kg of panniers, a sleeping bag, bottles of cote du rhone and a saucisson on the back of my bike.
That it's really hard to know where to look when confronted by a naked man with a small willy in hiking boots.
That a naked man with a small willy in hiking boots following you up a wooded path is more effective at quickening your pace than a cox in your boat.
That beautiful people do not do naturism.
That chocolate cake is a dish best served with cherries

2004-05-29T21:15:00.000+01:00

I have stood naked on the same spot where Gordon Ramsey has stood naked. Thankfully not at the same time as him. I've read (on popbitch) that he has a purple bell end. Nice. The spot in question was in the golden glow tanning shop near Bond street. I am now golden and glowing and ready to face 10 days living in a tent in the south of france (dear god, what have I got myself into?). I have never camped before, if you discount the one night I spent in a tent on top of a cliff in mid January in Cornwall which was distinctly not fun, so am rather ambivalent about this upcoming experience. I have romantic notions of the boyfriend and me camping in an idyllic haven by a river, moonlight, crickets cheeping, a bottle of burgundy ... more likely it will be thunderstorms, me stropping big style and questioning why the goddamn tent doesn't have a minibar...or en suite. damn, I knew there was a flaw in this plan.

2004-05-25T14:20:00.000+01:00

If I do something really bad in this life, say commit genocide on the Welsh, God will punish me by killing me and sending me back to be born in Southampton.

There is a uniform to be worn here which they should advise you of before you buy your (return) ticket.
Females under the age of 75: pink mini T-shirt, rolled up jeans, flip flops (stiletto and bejewelled)
Optionally accessorised with a tattoo or two
Compulsory accessory for under 15s: a screaming brat
Men of all ages: a southampton football shirt.
accessory: gob of spit flying from mouth

After 30 minutes in a meeting my turn came round to speak, at which point the mantra which had been playing in a loop through my befuddled brain - get me out of this provincial hellmouth - threatened to fall from my lips. I distracted myself by concentrating on the quite extraordinary bouffant hair of the man opposite. Clearly this mighty helmet of hair was held in place simply by the shocking static of his blue nylon suit... needless to say the sanctuary of southampton train station and the redemption of the fast to waterloo made me sigh with relief ...ahh london, may you ever reign supreme as the coolest place on earth...

2004-05-24T08:40:00.000+01:00

yesterday i ate a whole goat. My stomach was as distended as an African famine baby's. The Afghans know how to put on a feast - no wonder Osama chose to hide out there, especially in the mountatins, there must be goats a plenty.

As well as salivating over Afghan Goat kebabs I have also been salivating over the succulent Mexican Gael Bernal. Of course the boyf is not to know this (except he will now)as he has already started calling him GAYel to annoy me. The boyfriend however is a million times more gorgeous (and taller) than this mexican and the boyf had the added bonus of not being butt-fucked a plenty on the silver screen.

I was dragged to the most god-awful geek-night at the Play bar the other day. addidas-anoraked, glasses-wearing nerd boys headbanging to the beach boys...it should be made illegal. All of it... the addidas tracksuit tops (so three years ago), the headbanging (so early 90s Indie), the beach boys (so so-so, so a hundred years ago).

so, goat, gael and geeks, that's my weekend for you.

2004-05-21T11:41:00.000+01:00

The boyf and I went to a great restaurant last night - Shish - really good food and great bar. ace place to take a date...especially the toilets - room for 2 and mirrored walls make for a uniquely pornographic experience....shish kebab indeed.

2004-05-17T10:08:00.000+01:00

Never cycle in apple green berkies. Despite this being the colour du jour, it clashes quite badly with crimson red. Also never break one-handed.

This morning I decided it would be a good idea to cycle to work in my brand spanking new apple green berkies, got out door, onto bike, stood on pedals (whilst moving) to adjust knickers so bottom not on view, pedestrian walks in front at this precarious moment, break one-handed (other hand stuffed down my backside), back wheel goes flying in air, I go flying after it. berkie's suffer minor abrasions, I suffer enormous denting to ego and lacerated, bloody toe.

stagger back to flat intercom: 'honey, pleesse can you bring me down my trainers?'

2004-05-14T08:21:00.000+01:00

There's surely something strange about wanting to be an actor. To think that there's a skill in dissembling, pretending to be what you are not - after all isn't that what people do every second of every day in life? Don't get me wrong, I admire some actors, my friend L ranks highly in my estimation list (his alternative career path is as a teacher so I can see how a lifetime of auditions, rejections and poverty holds a certain sway over him).

The last time I acted was about 5 years ago. The horrors of uni am dram drove me to early retirement. All those enormous egos about ready to burst with one prick of critique, battling it out in ludicrous renditions of wuthering heights and waiting for godot on mdf wobbly sets, the battle lines drawn between the thespy wannabes and the black clad techie geeks who would strike on the day of the tech as they weren't being regarded with sufficient respect for hanging a few lights and pressing the play button on a sound cue.

so yesterday evening I found myself ensconced in Wapping in a room with 3 'actors' (including my great friend L) and someone like me who just likes to show off now and again by getting on stage and hearing some applause. My five year break over.

I knew it wasn't going to be a good evening when I was introduced to S who just stared at me for a good 15 seconds unabashedly giving me the once over. (actors insecure? who'd have thought it)
The play S had chosen, conveniently had only one good girl part.
Suddenly I felt 8 years old again, knowing that I wasn't going to make the netball A team. The injury was added to this insult when the part she'd allocated me was introduced in the story as 'a rather large girl'. I gave her one of my stares. If I was being offered a cool million I might consider scoffing my way through the doughnut truck so as to fit this discription. But really it's about as ridiculous a notion as me not being found sexually attractive (that came later in the script). I know the audience has to suspend disbelief, but they can't be asked to suspend it that high.

Perhaps someone should pay S the million to get fat for the role, she could sure use the money to pay for a few more years at drama school. See you see what a bitch I have become after just a few hours in this actory environment. I must retire again before it's too late.

2004-05-12T19:39:00.000+01:00

The boyfriend is away building fences. He better not find any greener grass while erecting those posts or he will find himself impaled on his very own erection. (fence posts nothing naughty).

Today has been a mildly crappy day, made only better by gorging on 3 doughnuts (2 jam, 1 custard)and being told I'm fantastic by a near stranger. Which always helps. And he didn't even want anything, not even sex, or a bite of my doughnut.

So there are men who will tell you you are fantastic without it being
a) followed by 'but I'm just not into you' (the boyf tried this once, before realising the error of his ways and declaring his unbridled love and undying passion)
b) after you've done the washing up which you have been trying to get them to do for a fortnight
c)a prelude to 'now do you want to try it with this strap-on and gimp suit?'

Ace.

2004-05-06T15:15:00.001+01:00

apparently my definition of freaks and weirdos is fairly broad.

I think it is fairly narrow; i can use it to describe roughly 99% of all I come across in the course of my work (colleagues excepted).

Yesterday I had to put up with one man staring at my boobs for a full five minutes while trying to hold a conversation with me. I did contemplate staring at his crotch in reply but hey, if you saw him, you'd realise why that wasn't an option.

I also had to deal with another 'man' with a facial tic, 5 seconds in conversation with him and you have to reach for a teatowel to wipe yourself down (not that you dirty minded reader). He wonders why he cannot bond with people, hmmm that's a tricky one, go figure.

Perhaps I should have realised when I got fired from one of the big five for 'lack of customer relations skills' that having to deal with (stupid) people wasn't my forte.

I am wearing the same knickers as Abby 'saint in the courtroom, whore in the bedroom' Titmus on the front page of the Sun today. Well, that's just dandy.

2004-05-02T11:03:00.000+01:00

Dilemna of the week:
Berkies or Havanieros
(solution: both)

Question of the week
have you ever worked in the sex industry?

High point of the week:
Pay Day

Low point of the week:
Birmingham, Peterborough or Woolwich, take your pick

Argument of the week:
The sending of thank you cards

Discussion of the week:
Is it possible to have a loving, stable relationship and then to go out and have sex with strangers without either party minding?
(If the boyf had any thoughts on the matter he was wise enough not to voice them, this is because I have trained him to repeat the following phrase if ever we 'debate' an issue: 'You're right, I'm wrong, I'm sorry, I love you'. Men, forget staying up late to study 'men are from mars, women are from venus', this one line is all a woman ever wants to hear. trust me.)

Worst/Best/Only chat up line of the week:
Shall we go and have sex in front of your boyfriend?

Closest brush with death of the week:
Lost at night on a Woolwich council estate, tottering on heels, carrying an m&s shopping bag. The bag and the fact I had failed to accessorize my outfit with a pittbull terrier immediately marked me out as a target for the 30 or so gangs of 14 year old boys smoking in front of burnt out cars.

Guiltiest moment of the week:
"he's utterly crap, please can he not be involved in any way ever again, like EVER, with my project" (me to Head of Media at work about new boy)
1 week later (email sent to all staff)
" we regret to inform you all that new boy will not be working at any longer"

Nicest thing to pass my lips all week:
white chocolate, apricot and hazelnut torte. mmmmmmmm.

2004-04-26T22:17:00.000+01:00

Today i was in Birmingham
enough said already.

Tomorrow I am in Peterborough

Next week Moss side.

The glamour of my job astounds me.

My brother's girlfriend gets to go to Disneyworld Florida for a 'conference'. What kind of a conference is that, i mean seriously? How serious can a conference be when you get to have breakfast with micky and minnie?

Which led us to a conversation (naturally) on which disney character it would be coolest to shag. Sarah (the brother's girlfriend actually worked once in Disneyland Paris so was able to contribute some actual rather than theoretical experience to this). We agreed that winnie the pooh would not be cool. Tigger cooler. but still not up there with Tigra or Brave Star.

It's 10.25pm. I've cooked up a vat of bolognese sauce and a whole bottle of red wine has gone into it and me in the process. waiting for the boyfriend....that overtime pay had better be going straight on six dozen red roses.

last night I had a dream set in the arctic. I was pushing an eskimo into a hole in the ice repeatedly.

2004-04-19T13:06:00.000+01:00

Today I am in a strop. I have been usurped in my boyfriend's affections by a cannondale badboy ('it's hand welded' - do i look like I care?).

If this unnatural obsession with a bicycle continues he will be usurped in my affections by chocolate and a rampant rabbit (not hand welded - hand wielded).

We have had a very amusing weekend though before the strop set in. ie. before he got his bike.

We saw Matrix Revolutions - the best film ever. I can't understand why it got such bad reviews. They should have sold every cinema ticket with a liberal helping of popcorn, a supersize coke and a tub of magic mushrooms. Truly an eye opening, mind expanding film.

My non-mushrooming housemate delivered a startling polemic on the symbolism within the film. According to him, the machine world is infact based on Saudi Arabia (the centre of terrorism according to that upstanding nation of democracy America) and Zion is well, Zion (aka Israel aka the home of God's 'chosen'). But then the Wachowski brothers went and ruined their deeply significant ramblings by casting Keanu Reeves as the messiah and instantly rendering their efforts null and void.

Anyway all this reminds me of how utterly stupid America is, and since Canondale bikes are manufactured in America I am going to take my frustration out on my boyfriend.

2004-04-17T10:41:00.000+01:00

Two people this week have told me that I look like Keira Knightly and one person has told me that I look like Natasha Richardson (actually the latter didn't tell me this to my face - unsurpirsingly).
Reasons why I don't look like either:
I don't resemble a pouting toothpick
I actually have boobs - ok not big ones, but nonetheless I could swell a corset better than Ms. Knightly
Natasha Richardson is old.

Nonetheless is better than being told I look like Christina Aguillera.

I've also been to see my great friend L in a play in Camden. A czech absurdist (?not sure what that means exactly except it sounds intellectual and is indeed an appropriate word to describe this) play. These one act plays were very clearly about the difficulty of maintaining a clear conscience in a repressive Czechoslovakia.... so Time Out tells me. Which is good to know, because after sitting through it for an hour and a half I still hadn't the faintest clue what it was about. L of course was fantastic. His next role, premiering on ITV soon, is as the Palace servant allegedly done up the bum by Prince Charles' Valet. Hurrah for the royals and their sordid debauched secrets! Is he a method actor though? - that's the question.

2004-04-11T14:54:00.000+01:00

Ah it's just coming up to 3pm and we have all awoken with hangovers the size of elephants. There is an exercise bike in the bath, a pile of salt on the rug, an upside down table at the end of the bed, a plaster cast of the boyfriend's bum (a work of creative genius) holding a generous portion of stale pringles in the living room and dribbles of an unidentified substance on the floor. Given the state of the couple who spent all night running through the moves of their home porn film on the dance floor, it could be anything so I'll leave that to someone else to clean up. ahh as I write this, the brother-in-law is crawling on his hands and knees beside me doing just that. Excellent. I won't expound my theories on what it might be until he's done.

Party at ours last night to celebrate the death of Jesus (resurrection party is on monday) and co-incidentally the boyfriend's birthday.

L spent all evening chatting to his ideal woman. She's a karate black belt 4th dan. Not the kind of lady you want to go messing with. Which is why sleeping with her and then not calling might not be the way to go if you value not having your testicles removed with one chop. Tell that to the brother in law. (sorry L - your ideal lady was someone else's ideal lay). What is it about the quest for the ideal? There ain't no such thing guys. Apart from me obviously.

2004-04-08T16:12:00.000+01:00

The week has been astounding. Not only have i grabbed my 90 seconds of tv fame but i've also been given a payrise.

'you what?' said my friend H

Listen, I'm worth every single penny of what i'm paid.

Take today for example: I have so far:

read belle du jour
surfed the bbc for recipes
emailed housemates about who is buying cucumber tonight (not related to anything I might have read on B du J)
researched into where to buy magic mushrooms
gone out for a sandwich (chicken baguette with avo and mayo)
eaten a fruit pastille
thrown a snickers at my boss
argued with my boss about the crunchiness of said snickers
thrown some paper in the recycling bin
got our admin assistant to call some people for me
put on some lip balm (3 times)
filled my water glass twice
debated the merits of * a short man who looks like prince (same height, build and hair) over a lady with one leg (very sweet).
and added a card to my rolodex.

so don't talk to me about stress.

*Despite appearances (and the allusion to the afkap) this isn't a sexual reference that has been ommited. Only if i plugged the gap, it might reveal the nature of my work which in turn might lead to someone figuring out where I work, which in turn might lead to me losing my payrise.

which would be disastrous.
and impact on the shareholder value of shoe shops across the capital.

2004-04-05T15:46:00.000+01:00

I read belle de jour for an hour yesterday. She inspired me. Not to become a call girl (tempted by the oodles of money and the occasional boot licking but really the high heels, and the taking it up the arse by balding, fat city bankers puts me off) but to become a blogger.

i was in brighton earlier. ahh the memories...go something like this:
18 year old nubile blonde thing falls head over heels in lust with photographer old enough to be father and is whisked off to Brighton for dirty weekends while real father wears the carpet and his hair thin and grey with worry. I never ever want a teenage daughter like me. To be fair my babbo rocks. His words of wisdom to me as I embarked on my doomed love affair were 'you're on a rollercoaster and you can't get off till the ride stops'.
Indeed. He was right about the rollercoaster. but wrong about not getting off till it stopped. I was flung out at highspeed while it went on turbo spin loop the loop. but start as you mean to go on i reckon.

but now like my ageing photographer lover (think petrovsky from sitc) I just don't get the appeal. It's got shops like peacocks and Budgens and lots of hemp cafes and too cool for skool skater shops...and everyone drinks soyalattes. It's just not san fran...
i blame zoe and fat boy.