The Life and Times of Sadie X

15th September 2011

2011-11-16T11:29:00.001-08:00

Went to Dublin for a meeting today. It involved getting up early. I don’t *do* early. People should know better than to arrangemeetings for me at 10am, much less meetings at that stupid time in a whole othercountry. Who does that? Who?

Thankfully I was awake early – the painfrom yesterdays debacle acting as a natural alarm clock, so I was able to haulmy backside out of bed and on to Aer Lingus.

In an effort to wake up at this ungodly hour, I mainlined coffee all the way fromPaddington Station in London to Dawson Street in Dublin, but didnt have time togo to the loo before my meeting because my meetee was in the reception when Iarrived. Damn him and his flirting withthe receptionist.

So I sat for the next 90 minutes inexceptional agony waiting for an acceptable moment to put my hand up andrequest permission to go to the toilet. The moment never arrived so my bladder slowly imploded as I tried to winsome business. It’s potentially a decent client and all Icould think of was that if I’m going to play with the big dogs, I can’t peelike a puppy.

Stupid puppy.

14th September 2011

2011-11-16T11:11:00.001-08:00

Worst accident ever. Not in an injurious sense of course, don’t bedaft....it was the worst ever in that I was humiliated beyond belief.

Worse than when I walked the length ofChiswick High Road with my skirt tucked into my knickers (thank God for thickblack opaques). Much worse than when I drunkenlycried at the student disco because the openly gay guy didnt fancy me and wouldn’tsnog me.

The day started out, as most ofthese do, quite innoculously – it was brisk, sunny and there was a cheer in theair as I sauntered through Soho. I wasperambulating at a slow to moderate pace, taking my merry time and enjoyingsome window shopping

As I peered at leather bananahammocks in the Soho Sex Shop, I clocked two fast talking fast walking ladiesand a dog that were rapidly approaching me. I panicked....I had only about 10 seconds to decide what to do.

Do I stay in the centre of the footpath,do I go tight on the corner, hugging the edge or do I speed up and leave themin my wake? I imagine these are therapid fire decisions that Jenson Button and Lewis Hamilton have to considerevery other Sunday. But this was new tome. Pressure. Head wreck, and a proper blight on anotherwise lovely afternoon.

In the end, as they descendeddown upon me, the cocker spaniel looking well fierce as he lollopped closerwith his tongue dribbling excitedly, I decided to hug the wall and let thempass. And thats what I did....I put my back to the wall and pressed against itto give them space to pass. Except itwasn’t a wall. It was a swing door.

What happened next felt likesuper slow motion, I fell UP three steps, backwards...stumbling one at a time,and right through the inside door of an Italian restaurant. On colliding with the second door, mybalance, to which I was precariously hanging on as I reversed up the entranceporch, left me entirely and I fell FLAT ON MY ARSE at the foot of a waiter whowas carrying a plate of pasta to an otherwise unsuspecting patron.

In the next bazillionseconds. Nobody moved. Everybody just stared, wondering why a girlreversed through the door on her buttocks. Then the obligatory “are you okays” started....I wasn't; but there was noway I was staying around longer than absolutely necessary, so I leggedit....noticing as I did that my little finger was at about a 60 degree angle to the restof my hand and swelling up rapidly. Didnt care. I have anotherhand. Wanted to get away.

I pushed my bone back inplace...excruciating for about 3 seconds, but I know from experience that thisis the only way and I went into Starbucks a few doors down to ask for their firstaid kit....they were kind enough to give it to me, but there was little ornothing of use to me, and so it transpired that I took my humiliated, bruised corpseback home with my broken finger held in place with an eye patch.

Apart from that, it’s been aboutten days since a shag...and my vagina is drying up.

13th September 2011

2011-10-20T08:06:00.001-07:00

After yesterday stomach related debacle,I was still quite fragile, and definitely pissed off at nature and the interiorworkings of the human body. That stilldidnt stop me making my way to the corner shop, slowly like an invalid, to buysome bread and butter for toast. I lovetoast.

In fact toast was the highlight of my daytoday. Well second highlight. Judge Judy was first. But I’m in love with her, so that’s a given.

12th September 2011

2011-10-20T07:45:00.001-07:00

Was supposed to go to Jersey for worktoday. Oh my, how that didn’thappen. Whatever prawn based sandwich nonsense I atein Barcelona airport yesterday was regurgitated in London today. Spectacular. At one point I thought I was going to die, and at the end of the day Iwas quite surprised to find that I still had the normal complement ofoesophagases and kidneys and such because there was a definite risk of themdisappearing down the toilet as well.

11th September 2011

2011-10-20T07:02:00.000-07:00

Today was just disco.

Flew home from Barcelona and although I haveno idea how it happened, an old dude next to me ended up reading a Martin Amissex scene to me as we took off. Can Ijust say how awkward it is when the unfamiliar elderly know about things likefornication and blowjobs. Hideous.

At first I erred on the side of politedisinterest, but he wouldn’t stop, so I had to gently reprimand him for hisinappropriateness.

As it turns out, this wasn't the extent of his horny geriatricness. This zimmer-frame botherer had a filthy mind and a roving hand, because I was napping on the flight andwoke up with a tickle near my left knee. Went to scratch it, and it was a veiny putrid hand, patting my leg. And not in an accidental way.

Now its generally accepted I have themoral boundaries of an alleycat, but this was a combination of surprising andunacceptable. I didn’t know what to do,so I huffed, picked up his hand and returned it to his own lap, said "Excuse Me" unnecessarily loudly and madesure I stayed awake for the rest of the trip.

Well handled, I feel.

10th September 2011

2011-10-10T04:49:00.001-07:00

Okay. I learned something new today. When “they” say do not mix valium with alcohol, they’re notkidding. Those anonymous order-giversknow what they’re talking about.

Prior to the presentation I had taken avalium – not necessarily because I was nervous ...surprisingly I wasn’t overlyso, but because I have a tendency to speak too quickly and am known to beexcitable under pressure – neither of which are useful attributes in a publicspeaking scenario when you’ve spent two days eating copious volumes of Serrano hamand desperately trying to shoehorn a year’s worth of rambling knowledge into 25tightly focussed power point slides. Definitely, some pharmaceutical mollification was in order.

The presentation was okay. Admittedly there was no heckling or jeers,but I was not at all satisfied with my round of applause...it was altogether underwhelmingand not at all to my liking. I wasexpecting at a minimum a standing ovation and some curtain calls. Disappointingly they didn’t arrive.

Regardless though, I was in such afabulously medicated mood that I didn’t quite give a damn about anything,except maybe giggling and being first in line for the chorizo at the lunchbuffet. While this wasn’t quite propofol,and I certainly did “self-administer”, when the end-of-conference wine waspoured by the exhibitors just after lunch, I partook in a large glass.

Mistake. Big mistake. Huge.

In the space of five minutes, I went frommellow to fucking demented. I wasrushing about the conference hall, gathering pace as I went, legs movingindependently from my body. I was likeRoad Runner. I couldn’t be stopped. People tried, but they failed. I had neitherreason nor logic to my movements, popping up here and there, chattering at aspeed and pitch that only dogs could hear. Staccato movements from person to person, random witterings. I made no sense whatsoever.

It was brutal.

And of course, what goes up, must come down. And so came the inevitable crash.

There was abig party in Opium del Mar. Allegedlythere was drinking on the beach, bonfires, clubbing downstairs, generalmagnificence associated with a party encompassing a club, a private bar and abeach in Barcelona. I wouldn’t know though– I had taken a nap before going to the party. I lay down at 6.15pm, alarm set for 6.50pm. Make up done, party clothes on, haircurled. I was taking a quick rest afteralong day.

I woke up at 5.40am – almost 12 frickinghours later. Barcelona was over. Time to go home.

9th September 2011

2011-10-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

There was a party tonight. A big party. I didn’t go. I figured that I would work and prepare so that during my presentation tomorrow I would give off the appearance of somebody who knows what they’re doing. I life in fear of “getting caught” but I was damned if that was going to be in front of a group of strangers in a darkened conference hall.

So I didnt go to the party. This was a major decision – being that I always go to the party. All the parties. But I know that there is a bigger party tomorrow. And I fully intend going to that – being that by then I’ll have already convinced the group of strangers who show up to my presentation, that I am not a horses ass, and as such am deserving of a massive night out.

Besides, I like Barcelona. I’ve said that. But part of the reason is that I have never been to Barcelona and not had sex. I haven’t had sex in ages. Not since I made fuck with Guy1....and right at this moment I am beginning to regret being hasty with him. How bad is the Daily Mail anyway?

So I have had no sex in far too long and feel that I am going through a process of revirgination. I am pretty sure that Lady Gaga has a song about it and I’m putting my faith in this warm Spanish city to rectify this god-awful situation of unwelcome chastity.

8th September 2011

2011-10-08T17:39:00.001-07:00

Ordered breakfast today. It turned out to be a bit of a farce. Now I don’t speak Spanish, or any other non-english language as it happens, but I am well travelled and can quite easily get around using the universally accepted combination of SLR English combined with ridiculous gesticulation. Slow, loud and repeat. Wave arms. Slow, loud and repeat. Nod head and point. Slow, loud and repeat ad nauseum.

Anyway this breakfast. I wasn’t overly hungry, so opted for a large coffee and some toast, which I ambitiously ordered from room service. There was, I felt, a surprising amount of confusion given the simplicity of the event, and I ended up having interactions with no less than three people while I placed my order.

To be honest, I didn’t hold out much hope of getting what I had asked for. But even given my doubts, I was still very surprised to understand how it was possible that my order was communicated so badly that I ended up with 6 tomato halves, grilled and topped with two tpes of melted cheese, two poached eggs, a pot of coffee with two cups and a gigantic put of hot milk and a single Diet Coke. All of which arrived, on two trays, carried individually by two hotel people.

Two slices of toast and a large coffee.

7th September 2011

2011-10-08T17:23:00.001-07:00

I went to Barcelona today – allegedly for a work conference where I have to masquerade as somebody important, and even worse – knowledgable. Mainly though I went because I love Barcelona. It’s all Gaudi and pickpockets and serrano ham. What’s not to like?

The hotel star rating on the continent is arbitrary at best and this four-star “establishment” really left a lot to be desired. When the best description you can offer of your hotel room is “clean” you know you’re in for a treat. As it happens, I was in a pure white room. Everything was white. The walls weren’t padded, but by fuck they might as well have been. This room is how I imagine a jailcell to be. Well, all except for a bizarre locked door in the ceiling (I am not kidding – I suspect it leads to Narnia) and the fact that my shower has a has a “champagne” setting.

Of course I twisted the dial, anticipating Veuve Cliquot, but prepared to settle for some non-vintage Mumm....but its only normal water that comes out. Neither is it some sort of sexually deviant shower in a Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton kind of way. A champagne shower is something I wouldn’t be shocked to see on YouPorn or similar. Disappointingly though its only a measure of water pressure that likes somewhere between “Dribble” and “Fuck That Hurts”

That was my first let down in this otherwise fine city.

6th September 2011

2011-10-04T06:58:00.000-07:00

Oh my eyes. MY EYES.

I cannot unsee what I saw today. I wish I could, but the damage is permanent.

There was a batshit crazy lady in a shopdoorway, pulling up her tights. Not alittle tug at the waist, but proper dress-being-held-up-by-elbows while gettingthe nylon show on the road.

You know the way little kids playing hideand seek, will often position themselves behind a kitchen utensil or daffodil or somethingand close their eyes fiercely– working on the solid premise that if they can’t seeyou, you can’t see them. Well thisparticular brand of crazy appeared to have adopted the same premise. So she wasfacing slightly inwards towards the corner of the shop doorway, while she readjustedher knickers and pulled up her tights – all fidgeting and readjusting and oldlady vagina.

Yes, I said Old Lady Vagina – because thatswhat my eyes were assaulted with. Herlegs/buttocks were all wrinkly folds, like her body had shrunk without tellingher skin, but the unwaxed (old) lady garden was an horrific mess of labia anduntethered pubes.

In all honestly, I think I’m a little bit blind now.

I actually had to stop texting my friend andstop dead, because I needed my whole body to appreciate the full disgusting awfulness of thissituation. A veritable assault on my retina.

Henceforth I am damaged goods.

5th September 2011

2011-09-30T05:11:00.000-07:00

I need sexy time. You would assume my mind was my ally, but it’snot. It’s definitely not. It swings between desperately wanting to getlaid and fried egg Haribo with an alarming casualness

I called FWB (Friends with Benefits) on the off chance he was currently single, but he appears to have some sort of relationship on the go right now - although his proposition that I "try again in a few days" suggests that it's not quite heading in the direction of marriage or even matching Halloween costumes.

So no joy there, goddammit. I had to self-administer. Twice.

4th September 2011

2011-09-30T05:00:00.001-07:00

I woke up with an exceptionallust for some carnal action. Unfortunately that was an itch that just didn’t get scratched, because Ibroke up with Guy1 this morning.

What sort of idiot am I? Lie, Shag, Truth – that’s the correct orderof events for break ups. Lesson learned for next time I realise during the world’sworst dinner party that I am with the wrong guy.

I broached the subject in quite acavalier manner, and I can now confirm that apparently “You and your friendsshould be wearing badges saying “I read the Daily Mail and I’m proud of it” isactually not an acceptable reason to break up with somebody – you have to providesomewhat more plausible rationale by way of securing an exit strategy.

So I resorted to “I just thinkthings aren’t working out”, and ended up leaving without getting the seeing toI wanted/needed.

3rd September 2011

2011-09-30T04:08:00.001-07:00

The dinner party was a fuckingdisaster. Guy1 thinks it was an immensesuccess, but what does he know. Hisfriends are tools.

J and I might have, just a smallteeny tiny bit, gotten drunk. And alittle giddy. Unfortunately at the timeof our giddiness, the grownups were having an eminently serious debate about the Arab Spring and in particular Libya

Lets be honest here, I could definitelyidentify Gadaffi in a Sky News line up and I too rejoiced when the rebels tookdown that stupid offensive gold hand statue, but aren’t dinner parties supposedto be fun? Or did I read the wrong memo.

Ultimately I don’t think that itwas appreciated when J and I persistently toasted the rebels – taking it uponourselves to make sure that they knew that democracy is definitely more about shotsof vodka than it is about a fairly elected government or education for all.

Admittedly the rebels weren’tactually at the party, but I’ve seen them on telly, I think they’d be a lot offun, so I’m pretty sure they appreciated our distant support – even if Guy 1and his mates never quite made it to our level.

To be fair there was one girl atthe party who encouraged us, without directly participating in the Lemondropsfor Libya game. If we had her on her ownwe’d have definitely converted her but for now she was maintaining the requiredlevel of decorum as part of her coupledom. There was also an incorrigible guy -there without his girlfriend for some reason we didn’t give a damn about, who clearly had a free pass and was taking fulladvantage of it. Even though we gotreprimanded for it, it was he who started the Where’s Colonel Gadaffi? game basedloosely on Where’s Wally?

You could argue we were beingrude, but then again, you could argue that a dinner party is supposed to beenjoyable and a 3 hour political conversation on a Saturday night is not enjoyable. I don’t think Sam Cam would even toleratethat at No. 10, yet here we were, a collective of chinos trying toout-intellectualise each other.

At no point was I not going toend up drunk in that scenario.

2nd September 2011

2011-09-30T03:48:00.001-07:00

When you reach the canned pears for dessert phase ofyour life, you pretty much retire from giving a fuck. Admittedly I didn’t have old lady slipperson, and I certainly wasn’t sporting a bally argyle cardigan that was badlybuttoned over saggy tits. But I did havea penchant for preserved fruits, which I indulged this evening, and this is thevery point I now believe my life started its downward trajectory.

1st September 2011

2011-09-30T03:23:00.000-07:00

Went shopping today to findsomething to wear to Guy1’s dinner party – the very one that I now havereservations about given the onslaught of BBMs opinion last night.

It was a bit rainy so I jumpedinto a cab outside my flat to take me to Selfridges. The cab had all the appearance of being quitenormal – it was the right shape, it was black, sported four wheels in all the rightplaces and it had some ads on the outside.

Inside though was like analternate taxi universe. A version of GiantHaystacks was driving the cab, crow-barred in behind the wheel. So it was a bitunnerving when he spoke to me in a very gentle lady-voice. The voice and body were a disturbingmis-match.

Now I can’t be arsed talking to taxidrivers at the best of times, but a conversation in this cab was always goingto be a total non-starter. So I feignedsome busy executive-like phonecalls, and ten quiet minutes later, I’m gettingmy money out to pay and then the shit hits the fan.

Giant Haystacks Taximan drops thefollowing conversational turd.

“People like you and me, we’relucky cos when the Martian’s arrive on earth they’re going to eat all theskinny people first”

I wish, to fuck, I werekidding.

Firstly, I’m pretty sure HeidiKlum won’t be lending me her clothes any day soon, but by the same token I amnot entirely enthusiastic about being included by this guy in his fatclub. He was a moving mountain, I eat too manyWispas....there’s a difference.

Secondly. Its Rubenesquegoddammit. Big arse, bouncy boobs. No wrestling. No unitards. No half-nelsons. (exceptingoccasionally the kind that inadvertently happens when changing positions whiletrying to keep genetic connections intact).

And finally – Martians,seriously? Who the fuck gets to driveblack cabs these days?!

31st August 2011

2011-09-30T02:58:00.000-07:00

Met BBM for a coffee after worktoday (his work, not mine – obviously, given that Judge Judy is my mainemployer), and when I earnestly informed him of Guy1’s planned dinner party hehad to be physically restrained from taking the piss. In his world guys “endure” dinner partiesthey don’t plan them. And part of thatendurance is the guarantee of either 1. Good loving within 48 hours of thedinner consumption or 2. A pre-signed Free Pass to be used at any point withinthe upcoming month.

By the end of the evening I hadmy own suspicions about the long term compatibility between myself and somebodywho’s planning a dinner menu days in advance. Only Jamie Oliver does that and quite frankly despite all the schoolfood nonsense, he’s still a cock with a fat tongue.

So once BBM has established hisdisdain for my current beau, he made me draw pictures of my ideal man, andagainst my best intentions, I readily participated in whatever this exercisemight be using paper napkins from the coffee house and expensive black eyeliner.

So I drew:

Rob Lowe – that man gets me alittle bit pregnant just by thinking of him, but unfortunately trying to drawhim was an unmitigated disaster – in my head I see the cover of Vanity Fair. My artistic capabilities translated thatimage into a Isosceles triangle head, on topof a eqilateral triangle body. Maybe Iinadvertenty drew Mr. Pythagoras and this mathematical bent is the newdirection of my loins.
I also drew RAH. Again, this was not artistry at itsfinest. One of the eye-pencilled handscould easily be misconstrued as a potato, and the other was limited to just threefingers, although one of them had the all important wedding ring....which isgoing to happen whether I like it or not, sabotage withstanding

Apart from that I couldn’t thinkof anything.....somewhere between Rob Lowe and RAH lies the dude that is goingto be my regular shag in the form of a proper boyfriend.

While I was doing my pictures,BBM was drawing his ideal woman. He drew tits. Only tits.

30th August 2011

2011-09-01T02:53:00.001-07:00

Why the hell is procrastination so damn expensive? Today instead of producing 150 pages of neatly typed brilliance, I found myself starting my Christmas shopping as the latest avoidance tactic. Within ten minutes of sitting down to work I had bought a lovely cardigan from Anthropologie and my Dad’s present....This is my Dad, who wants nothing in life more than a good book and the occasional hug, and for whom Christmas is just another day except for the fact that his potatoes are roasted not boiled. Why, instead of being efficient and professional, am I scouring Amazon for books about garden perennials and enough warm woolly socks to allow me to retain position as the favoured child. What’s wrong with me?

Eventually when there were no more things for me to buy anywhere on the whole internet, I flipped back to my Word document and got to work, all the while of course, wearing today’s choice of “work” clothes. No suits and boots for me, I tell you. No – I take a more casual approach when I work from home. And even then I play it fast and loose with my definition of casual.

While some days I neglect showering and dressing altogether, today I put some effort in and the sartorial elegance is some sort of MC Hammer pants and a black strappy t-shirt. I even went to the trouble of putting on a bra.

I think the official name of the pants is harem trousers - there are excessive swathes of material around the hips, the crotch is resting comfortably against my patellas. It’s a hideous concept and quite frankly an unbridled use of otherwise perfectly acceptable material, and yet apparently these nightmares were all the rage last season - for which reason that somebody saw fit to give me a pair as a gift.

Obviously I deleted that person from my phonebook and blocked them on Facebook, and we shall never again speak of them....but when nobody is looking and everything else is in the wash basket, I drag them out as a last resort. But they’re bad. They’re very bad. Somebodywith a generously proportioned arse should never ever wear a pair of trousers whose sole existence is for the purpose of making the wearers arse appear even bigger. MC Hammer was wrong – you *can* touch this. Not that you’d want to.

The casual approach to office wear fits well with the set up I have going on while I am working on this project....this is what my living room looks like.

Yes my floor is my filing cabinet, yes, the Ocado bag is office supply cupboard, and yes, my ironing board is my desk. Whatever else you call me, don’t ever say I am not the consummate professional.

29th August 2011

2011-08-31T05:48:00.000-07:00

Another jack-booted Nazi of a day. And it's even a bank holiday.

I am working like a maniac bashing up against the project deadline, like Rainman when that fire alarm went off in the kitchen. Pressure suits me in the same way as clothes suit Playboy centrefold and I cant wait to be done.

When this is finished, I may retire. I'll have to live in poverty, but thats okay - all that's in my fridge right now are cheese strings and jelly, so I'm either four or poor right now anyway.

The only people I spoke to all day were Twitter types, oh, except for Guy1 who called excited about the dinner party. He's very keen to get J hooked up with his mate. It's a bit over-eager for my liking, but not yet enough to stop me from offering my friend up to the Gods of a Horny Single Man, but it's reaching the point where I may have to address the underlying reason behind the matchmaking. For the moment though I'll concentrate on the fact that I am having to co-host an actual proper dinner party.

Where people expect food thats not charred and desserts that arent sweets.

I offered to make a salad for the table, and I think Guy1 had enough wits about him to pick up on the hesitation and fear in my voice, so eventually he just allocated me the role of setting the table and pouring the drinks. That I can do. Making things pretty and getting people pissed - thats my kind of dinner party.

NOW, I'm excited. Relieved of all key responsibilities and only managing low-key activities makes me a fantastic hostess. Roll on Saturday.

28th August 2011

2011-08-29T06:26:00.001-07:00

Today was despicably boring. Desperate. I’m allergic.

The dubious highlight was getting served by an astonishly hirstute barista at Starbucks. He was really really hairy. Hairy in manner of a werewolf. A “wereista” if you will.

27th August 2011

2011-08-29T06:24:00.000-07:00

Dull day today – nothing interesting to report. Am working like a demon at the moment finishing a mobile gambling report I’ve been asked to write. My usual procrastination methods have proved effective, and so I am now flat up against a nightmare deadline and all I can think of is shagging and eating Haribo.

As it turns out Guy1 was out with his mates for a few scoops. I really wanted to booty call him and tell him to come over after the pubs shut and service my ladyneeds...but somehow I don't think he'd be as amenable to that sort of business as FWB always was.

It’s early days with him yet, so I am pretending to be a better version of myself like you do at the start of a relationship.

So I had to make do with a phonecall. Not a sexy call. That would have gone someway to filling the gap, so to speak, but alas it was about how chatting with one of his mates, made him think that said mate would possibly be great match with J. (I had forgotten he had met J that night we first got together)

Anyway he wants to plan a dinner party so as to bring the two of them together. A DINNER PARTY. And he thinks it would be a good idea for me to meet his friends as well.

Crap. This sounds very ominous. Far too formal for my liking, but then he is a proper grown-up and I am somebody who embarassingly and mistakenly hits on girls like the weird dude in the mac when I was growing up.

As an aside, why aren’t there any flashers any more? Like white dog poo, these seem to be remnants of a youth long forgotten.

Anyway I think Guy1 is serious about the dinner party. Suspect there will multiple cutlery and possibly even sorbets. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t think there is anybody in my life, in any capacity, who is not acutely aware that I love food. I love good food. I love a kebab, and every now and then I eschew Cashel Blue and devour an Easy Single cheese slice.

I love eating out. But the reality is I can barely cook. Toast and salads. They are not only my forte, but they are also incorporate the complete range of my culinary capabilities. One time it took me 8 and a half months to realise my oven was broken such was its lack of use. And even then it was only brought out of retirement to reheat a lasagne.

Despite being a shit cook, I am actually a great hostess. I can open packets with aplomb and serve pre-prepared food. My most ambitious dinner party was when several friends had to plough through burnt chicken and warm foccacia. The salad was good though, which went some way to making up for the fact that my food was, in effect, the world’s worst chicken sandwich. The fact that was a giant bowl of M&Ms for dessert didn’t improve matters....

....but it was a superb night. There was copious volumes of wine, enough ancillary food to keep the hunger at bay and it ended up in a ridiculously competitive game of charades which the guys won, because they made us do Serpico. How the fuck do you charade Serpico?

So if Guy1 is expecting me to co-host a dinner party he’s sadly mistaken. Not that I am going to tell him that. I still need to fake the typical facets of womanhood and exude a normality that is conspicuously absent in my life.

26th August 2011

2011-08-29T05:59:00.001-07:00

To quote the great Peter Griffin. “Drunk. I’m not drunk. I’m just very tired after drinking all night”

What I am really though, is so hungover it’s almost certainly fatal.

After waking up with a funeral in my brain, I self-medicated and eased myself into the day. Unsurprisingly, the pharmaceuticals did their job, and I felt marvellous in just a few short minutes, so I decided to go to Starbucks, ambling gently in the untypical sunshine, completely spaced out.

At Starbucks I asked the barista for a Valli-latte. He thought I said vanilla latte. I didn’t. That self-medication I helped myself to might have been valium. It just might.

25th August 2011

2011-08-29T05:54:00.001-07:00

Went for a Lebanese with Pappa Slow. Genuine intentions of just a quite chat and some grilled haloumi.

We did almost have an argument though over said haloumi, because I don’t think you should contaminate such perfect foodstuff with anything like sauce or hummous. And Pappa Slow prefers it with hummous. We nearly fell out over it.

But having learned from the Popcorn War yesterday, I relented and let him dip. Following which we had another heated discussion on the topic of double-dipping.

I double dip. Mainly because when I eat, I am either on my own or with friends. And friends don’t care if friends double-dip. Pappa Slow cares. He cares very much, and so I stubbornly dipped and re-dipped my flatbread wildly. Loading up even when I didnt want to. Mixing hummous with babba ganoush. Tormenting him, and stuffing myself.

During all this time, we were inadvertently drinking more wine than normal, and the end result was unintentional carnage. We drunkenly stumbled outside for some strawberry shisha. I gave up smoking a few years ago, and vowed never to inhale anything more potent than perfume (or semen as it turned out in one unfortunate incident)...but here I was, my sensibilities and inhibitions shot to shit on Edgware Road, nothing more than a drunkbag of regrettable decisions.

Those regrettable decisions included heading over to the Vic where Pappa Slow, true to his name, slowly lost his money on poker, and I lost mine quickly on the blackjack table, while befriending an old dude in an horrific socks/sandals combo and being mesmerised by one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen.

I tried to tell her she was gorgeous, but I legit came across as a weirdo. Even in my inebriated state, I could tell I was digging a hole, but I physically couldn’t stop myself talking. It was verbal diarrhoea. Words just kept coming out, and her face went from polite tolerance, to silently screaming “help me, there’s a fucking freak here”.

Finally I shut the hell up. And thank God, at that point, I saw fit to go home.

24th August 2011

2011-08-29T05:32:00.000-07:00

J and I went to The Inbetweeners movie last night. In all honesty I was very worried about seeing it. There have been too many disasters and disappointments in my life when taking great TV characters to the big screen* – I’m talking about you, Sex and The City II.

We had a glass of wine before going in – which went straight to my head. Very bizarre. So when we were at the concession stand ordering our (salted) popcorn, I saw somebody elses sweet popcorn on the side.

I’ve never had sweet popcorn, so I decided to taste it. The owner didnt seem to be around, so I helped myself to a few pieces. As it turns out the owner was around. Of course he was around. He was in fact directly behind me picking up a pack of Revels.

And of course he saw me. And thats the point at which The Great Popcorn Wars of 2011 began. Without saying a word he reached in between J and I and took a fistful of our popcorn.

Now I only had 3 pieces of his and he took loads of ours, so obviously I revisited his box and evened the score. At which point he dug deep into ours again, and then so did his mate. So J picked up the baton for our team and helped herself to some retaliatory sweet popcorn. And then all snacking hell broke loose. And all four of us just started thundering into each other’s popcorn.

By this time, we had a bit of an audience and the cashier was looking quite annoyed, but neither team could be the first to stop. There was popcorn everywhere, and all of us were laughing so much, which made the challenge of thieving the others food all the more difficult.

Eventually, the cashier yelled at us, and made us stop us because there was a queue of regular people who wanted to buy and eat their own popcorn.

And without a word, the war was over and both teams went on their way. It was a bit awkward though because we were going to the same movie, and J and I had to walk behind them, trying not to be heard sniggering. Quite frankly though, I think they were in front of us, doing the exact same thing.

They sat in their seats, we sat in ours, and so the five minute battle ended. And no soldier involved had spoken a single word. Best War EVER.

Regarding the movie – it was great fun. But my mate @diaryofaledger says it much better than I ever could.

*Yup, I said big screen – that makes me a bit of a wanker doesn’t it. I’m sorry.

23rd August 2011

2011-08-29T03:05:00.000-07:00

This post has every potential to make @maverick99sback quite envious. He may unfollow me on Twitter. (Which by the way – if you’re not following me on Twitter, you’re an moderately foolish, and you need to rectify that immediately - @sadieXport ) Go now. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200.

Right – here’s the story. Counting Crows (along with The Killers) are my favourite bands ever. No one will surpass them. There are no contenders to the Siamese-crown they wear gloriously. Sometimes I even dream they are grateful for my unbridled adoration – in a very non-stalkery way of course. I don’t think this is true, but I like to imagine every now and then that I would become some sort of muse and/or wife. But like winning an Oscar for a book-turned-screenplay, it’s a little bit possible that this is not going to happen.

Anyway a few months ago – February to be precise – Adam Duritz did a musical experiment, where he learned, recorded and uploaded a cover version song every day in the run up to Valentines Day. One song per 24 hour period. Seven in total, and all were available for free download. The mini-album is called All My Bloody Valentines.

But there’s more – Adam (I call him Adam) ran a competition on Twitter for his fans to design the album cover and the winner (his sole choice) would be used. He uploaded these too, and they were available for download.

I downloaded my personal favourite which I was going to use as my cover art. And somehow, I have no idea how, I entered somebody elses artwork in the competition under my name.

Of course, I was blissfully unaware of my actions until I got an email from Adam (suspect it wasnt him at the other end of the email, but once I got an email from Sir Bob Geldof regarding his fireworks company and I thought it wasn’t him either, but when I replied, with abandon for protocol and etiquette by calling him Bob rather than Sir Geldof, he did reply himself and I spent a few minutes basking in my 15 minutes).

Anyway the potentially fake Adam was informing me that “my” cover art had been selected in the final Top 10 shortlist, and I was being invited to create a back-cover and inlay card/sleeves and other such stuff that iTunes and MP3 have abolished the need for.

I totally panicked. Totally. I am a technical and artistic ignoramus. For God’s sake, I didnt even know I had submitted the artwork, let alone have the ability to do all the other stuff. Also, I am incredibly tired of people like Mother Teresa, altruistic rich people and wholesome celebrities getting all the credit and attention for being nice people, so I did the right thing. I emailed Adam, explained the cock-up and told him he should find the right person, as I didn’t want to inadvertently steal somebody elses thunder.

I never heard from him again. There was no thanks, no proposals of marriage, or song dedications. And I thought that was the end of the matter.

Until today, I got an email saying that as a valued contributor I was entitled to a copy of the album on vinyl. I don’t own a record player, but I don’t care. I also am not technically entitled to the album, but again I don’t care...so I gleefully sent off my address, and I am now waiting for the postman to knock on my door with my present from Adam.

I hope he’s signed it. I also hope that his greeting to me includes declarations of love and such. And not a restraining order.

22nd August 2011

2011-08-29T03:00:00.001-07:00

My moral compass doesn’t always point due north, but I had the opportunity to cheat on Guy1 tonight. Old-me would have eschewed decency and taken my chances. New-me, who quite likes Guy1, held sway and said an easy no when the proposition was presented to me.

I believe I have reached a new level of maturity. Its the kind of thing I’d like to tell my mum to offer her a new method to be proud of me, but I think she’d prefer accolades like promotions or academic success or an Oscar statuette in my bathroom.

I held an Oscar once. I worked in a posh hotel on Piccadilly and we had an Oscar winner present. I didnt know who it was – it was probably some crap like music or costume design, nevertheless, when I was delivering a package to his room, and he wasnt there, I took the opportunity to practice my Oscar speech, and can I just say – it suited me. I held it with both hands raised towards my left shoulder, the way they do, and thanked all the appropriate minions who helped me along the way. I practiced the emotion and ended up by thanking a deity.

I tried out a few to see which rolled off the tongue. God, Yaweh, Buddah, the Dalai Lama. In the end I settled on Boutros Boutros Ghali, because, lets face it, that guy sounds like a lot of fun, doesn’t he.

21st August 2011

2011-08-29T02:48:00.001-07:00

Met up with Guy1 for some dinner/drinks tonight....he wanted to go all Michelin Stars and merlot, but there’s a formality about that...it’s proper “dating” and I feel that we’re at the point where we need to move past that. Since men just cry out for manipulation, it was clearly up to me to steer us to the next relationship stage, which is of course, a messy Soho/Bar Italia night.

We’re still at the stage where our dates are weekends only – but I do think we’ve progressed from fucking to “making fuck” – so the next thing is to man-manage him to more boyfriendy rather than datey stuff. This shit is complicated, especially when he doesn’t really stay out late on school-nights. Apparently he takes his work far more seriously than I do mine.
Actually, thats hardly surprising really, since sometimes I conduct my work life from my bed. I know that sounds prostitutey but really it’s me and my laptop with paperwork strewn wildly around the bed and floor.

When I need to put in a long-days work, I power myself by Haribo, and have been known to reach the point where I am just one jelly baby away from Type 2 Diabetes. Somehow I don’t think Guy1 needs such sustenance to get him through the day.

20th August 2011

2011-08-26T07:14:00.000-07:00

BBM had some miscellaneous family stuff going on today – a 70^th birthday party at his house for somebody very old. He reckoned an oldies party would be living hell and was considering stabbing himself so he could spend the day in casualty, so when we spoke yesterday, I intervened and offered to join the “fun” today in order help him get through it with heavily disguised sarcasm or vodka cocktails.

As it turns out we were an unconventional couple messing around in an otherwise tedious party and given the filthy looks from BBMs wife, as we loudly and somewhat inappropriately discussed my lovelife, I can only assume he was getting a proper telling off by the time I was on the train home.

BBM is impressed with my burgeoning relationship with Guy1. Quite frankly he’s surprised that I have thusfar

Not messed it up spectacularly
Moved on from hitting the “Wierdo Please” button on websites to somebody who has a sensible office job, and is not likely to shock my mother if it ever came to that.

Not that BBM wants to meet him; he has a 6-month minimum rule and even that was only after significant negotiation, because originally he didn’t want to meet any of my significant others unless I was married to them, and even if that scenario ever presents itself, it’s very likely that my man will probably have to sign some sort of disclaimer that he won’t rip BBM’s arm off if he

Offends though subtle insults disguised as humour
Is better dressed (although BBMs idea of black tie is wearing something other than his combat trousers, which gives an idea of sartorial splendour)
Scores a penalty against him in garden football.

So since I had surpassed expectations and not found myself a murderer, social or sexual deviant, BBM spent most of the party imbibing cocktails in honour of the occasion. The occasion of course being the fact that I have entered the life phase of grown-up relationships based on more than just shagging. BBM is pleased that I am closer to finding the man to retire with in order to assist me with gardening, bowling and having an afternoon kip. He expressed his pleasure through the means of an extensive pisstake and making me drink shots.

Unfortunately this feeling of shock and awe our behaviour and conversations evoked in the elderly within earshot was too much for BBMs mother in law. I suspect if there was a naughty step for adults, we’d have been sent to it....but eventually it all got too much, and it was suggested that I go home early because putting us in separate rooms to keep us apart wasn’t a viable solution.

19th August 2011

2011-08-26T07:09:00.000-07:00

Had lunch in Texture today. God I love friends with expense accounts.....and a predilection for a tasting menu. It was sick it was so good. Off the charts.

For the rest of the day I indulged my food baby by lying on the sofa and generally being unproductive and idle.

I was sooooo full. So gloriously and perfectly full. So much so that, after such fine food, that it occurs to me that I do need to start combating the magnitude of my ass. When I summoned up the energy to move from the sofa, I called BBM for a boot-camp style incentivisation speech.

BBM has a very direct approach. He’s concerned that I have previously been over-indulged in paid-for sympathy and hug-it-outs, and went for the jugular. Granted “Just don’t eat the fucking pizza” was on the edge of empathetic engagement, but to be fair to him it was towards the end of a much gentler interrogation session which started with “Have you thought about not sleeping with the biscuit tin?”

I have of course thought about not sleeping with the biscuit tin, and I know that I am probably just one Wispa away from diabetes, but goddammit my life is about excesses and largesse and quite frankly I like it that way.

18th August 2011

2011-08-26T07:02:00.000-07:00

Quiet night for the most part, until I got a call from some friends who were down in my local, Wood NW1. Since, I am never one to let events unfold without me, I threw on some slap and headed to join the fun.

My friend Joey was there – he has some sort of work-related digital training next week, and since his exposure to modern technology is limited primarily to internet porn when his girlfriend is asleep, he is living in fear of being the class imbecile. He asked me for an advance briefing so he can tell his LOLs from LMAOs and his portals from his portholes.

I nearly said no, when he told me that previously he thought that all he could ever learn from me was the smutty or barely legal stuff. For a moment or two, I verged on the precipice of being offended, until I remembered the most recent email string between us related primarily to oral sex, and on those grounds he was probably right.

Besides, watching him take faltering steps in to the world of social media is bound to be as funny as when I taught him how to use a space hopper last year.

17th August 2011

2011-08-21T08:04:00.001-07:00

Went to see Horrible Bosses with J this evening. It is a fab movie, and I recommend it to all. My best Twitter friend @diaryofaledger did a review here, but he did separately tell me I’d love it. He wasn’t wrong.

After the movie we went to Gaucho for some dessert. In the past I have taken a lot of clients to this chain, so I have managed to wangle my way onto some sort of VIP list with them, which is the only reason I can explain behind the fact that we ordered my favourite, baked cheesecake - one dessert with two spoons - and yet when they brought our order there was a further two desserts for us to try – courtesy of the house, or rather courtesy of the waiter.

God I love horny Italian. This one had no shame, coupled with unfettered access to sweet dishes. I must get me one of those on a more permanent basis. Not sure how Guy1 would feel about it, but I am sure I could bring him round with some slices of Dulce de Leche cheesecake and some of my best lovin’.

16th August 2011

2011-08-21T07:33:00.003-07:00

Today was a write off. After the all-nighter, I was so utterly useless and such a waste of human space, I can’t even remember getting through the day. I have nothing to tell you.

15th August 2011

2011-08-21T07:33:00.001-07:00

Flew back to London this evening and had arranged to meet Pappa Slow at the Paddington Hilton. We meet up once a week to do some writing and creative shit, so I figured this was as good a time as any. So I show up with my luggage and we get down to business promptly and pass away a couple of hours being efficient and the like..

When we were done Pappa Slow casually mentioned that we were near the Vic casino – which houses his favourite poker room. Now Pappa Slow is a poker legend and I am a blackjack princess – so in a matter of seconds he had bent my rubber arm, and we pooled our funds and decided to divide and conquer our respective tables.

I found a good table – lots of banter and such, and played my heart out. But after a while an ass arrived and annoyed everybody. He was playing the last position – which is always the one that affects the dealer, so you have to be a strong player. Most people opt out of the last position because you can piss off a table if you play incorrectly and change the fortunes for everybody.

But this awful guy, with his sweaty armpits and unkempt demeanour, was a little bit drunk and started loudly instructing the table how to play and reprimanding people if they didn’t toe the line. It was clear that he had a fight with his missus and put on his big boy underpants and headed out to act the large man with other unsuspecting victims. As soon as he arrived at the table, the atmosphere was completely changed, and I coloured up about five minutes later.

I am actually glad I did, because I had no time for my stack to ebb away, and made a whopping 62% profit. I was delighted until Pappa Slow came back downstairs and disclosed 90% increase in funds so over a cigarette (Pappa Slow, not me) we split our wins and headed to Helens Kebab Shop on Edgware Road. As you well know I am partial to the occasional kebab, but these are apparently legendary – the kebab that puts all other kebabs to shame...all the players in the Vic are acutely aware of Helens, and I suspect given their appearance, that for many it is their main form or nourishment.

It is therefore with significant regret that I tell you they only had chicken left, not doner, so that’s what we partook. Now doner is my usual kebab of choice, and I have never engaged in the glories of chicken, so I have no basis of comparison, and cannot establish its brilliance or otherwise, but I will be back and next time I will try to leave before 4.30am so they haven’t run out of proper kebab meat next time.

Pappa Slow and I parted ways and I made my way back home courtesy of a friendly taxi driver who didn’t mind me making his cab smell of dodgy meat and garlic sauce. And when the lift came to the ground floor, who was coming out but my holier-than-thou neighbour. He had a suitcase so I imagine he was on his way to Heathrow, but clearly he wasn’t in a hurry like I always am, because he found plenty time to show me a look of complete disgust, taking in my suitcase, all-night-at-a-casino dishevelled appearance, and drunken dinner food.

With a very curt and intentionally offensive Good Morning, he moved on, and I took to my bed like Rip Van Winkle.

14th August 2011

2011-08-21T06:37:00.001-07:00

I took a train to visit some friends today and some rancid old dude kept standing up to reach his probably-dubious property above my seat. He was like a fucking yo-yo, and every time he reached up, he moved way too close to me, and his crotch ended up resting conspicuously on my otherwise-innocent table.

The guy was a total space invader and at one ghastly point my book touched his nether area. That was the point at which I objected. I shouldn’t have to say “get your balls off my table” on a Sunday afternoon and yet somehow that’s exactly what I found myself saying.

I wanted to shout at him in CAPS LOCK, so he could see I was unleashing my fury. Some things just don’t bear thinking about.

13th August 2011

2011-08-21T06:31:00.000-07:00

The hen party was tonight and as chief bridesmaid/helper I was in charge of the event, so I spent most of the afternoon stapling paper flowers to walls and buying helium balloons.

I am not one given easily to shite, so with the full permission of the bride, I had organised a private room in a great restaurant, a special menu, a range of cocktails and wine and only one bridal drinking game.

Getting in was like going through airport security. I had a list of prohibited items

Penis straws
L-Plates
Flashing badges of any sort
Sashes, devil horns and pissy little comedy veils
T-shirts with names on them

Despite my schoolmarm approach it was actually a brilliant night, and I made the bride get ridiculously drunk on Fat Frogs* playing a Mr and Mrs game, before we all moved on to a range of clubs in the vicinity.

The countdown has begun to the nuptials in Rome, and I can’t escape the fact that this is my third time being a bridesmaid – which serves as a constant reminder that I am just a unibrow and a show tune away from being Susan Boyle

*FatFrogs – mix 1 bottle of Smirnoff Ice, ¾ bottle Bacardi Breezer orange and ¼ bottle of WKD blue...it turns green and tastes like Refresher sweets and is surprisingly potent.

12th August 2011

2011-08-21T06:14:00.001-07:00

I was left to my own devices today – my friends have actual proper day jobs and my parents were visiting relatives – and I politely declined the horrors of joining them.

But then I was on my own all day – in my parents house – and the highlight of which was eating a Wispa. So lets speak no more of and move on.

11th August 2011

2011-08-21T06:04:00.001-07:00

You know when Pacman eats the cherries just outside the door of the ghost jail for extra points, and for the next few minutes he carries an air of palatable happiness about him. Well that was me today, except instead of cherries I had the most incredible banoffee pie ever. I’m pretty sure if it was Pacman it’d have been sent directly to the next round of ghost and dot eating.

Myself and the bride-to-be and both our mums, who are also friends, went to a gorgeous spa for a treatment and some afternoon tea. It was fabulous....we spent the first part of the day, in the whirly water area.

I’m pretty sure that it has an official name, but you know what I mean. That was all fun and games until somebody (me) walloped my head off the wall while carelessly floating on my back being directed by bubbles. Unfortunately that direction was straight into the wall.

After that I’d had enough of stupid water, which was cool because we were then called for our massages. Yum and lovely. Following which we moved to the lounge for our edible goodness and some Prosecco, and it was there that I tasted banoffee

heaven.

There aren’t enough words to describe it, but rest assured if I ever have to do Desert Island Discs, I’d eschew all music and bring endless supplies of this banana, toffee, chocolate and biscuit perfection. Actually fuck that I’d bring the chef to keep on cooking it for me, and then he could sing to me (thus meeting the criteria of music conversation) and when he was done each day cooking and singing, I’d let him have carnal relations.

Now ladies and gentlemen. Fuck picking Morrissey and all other try-hard, create-my-cool-image selections. That is how you play Desert Island Discs.

10th August 2011

2011-08-21T05:42:00.001-07:00

Flew to Ireland today – my oldest and bestest friend is getting married in a few weeks and there was a hen to be had.

My plane was delayed....totally delayed by about 45 minutes. But we were all on it already, so I was waiting for one of those announcements that freak me out – delays due to “technical difficulties”. I never want to know that the plane I am sitting on might have now or in the past something which could make it fall out of the sky.

I’m not picky. I just think an engine that works is significantly more important than fastening my seat belts and knowing that my lifejacket has a straw I can use to “top up” the air.

Now don’t get me started on topping up the air – if I ever need my lifejacket I want it to have all the damn air it needs without me needing to help it keep me alive. In fact I want my lifejacket to be filled with helium, so I gently float upwards while all others plummet to their certain horrendous death.

Anyway – I was waiting for the plane-is-slightly-broken announcement when doors closed and we were off. Then the captain gives the most unsatisfactory reason ever for our delay.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Picard*. I apologise for the delay, but there was an incident and we had to call the police. A passenger had an altercation with one of our ground staff and we had to involve the police and you will be happy to know he is not flying with us today, we have offloaded his luggage”

Firstly the plane was full, yet the aisle seat on my row was empty, save for a stand-by passenger that arrived onboard 5 minutes before takeoff – you know the type tanned, gorgeous, clearly working his way around the world, and you just know he has a guitar stowed somewhere in the underbelly of the play. Anyway I digress, as I often do. It appears that the criminal-type should have been on my row.

Very little inspires my curiosity more than knowing I could have been near a baddie except not knowing the full story of an interesting event. To that end the captains announcement which hinted as some awesomely juicy event was highly insufficient, and now I’ll never know the interesting bit.

Between this and the rioters I was getting annoyed, and I promised myself that the very next person to piss me off would find out very quickly that my threats are empty.

9th August 2011

2011-08-20T15:14:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, I didn’t demand respect from anybody. Quite frankly I wasn’t allowed.

Besides I was more concerned about whether or not I would get the washing-machine kisser* in Spin the Bottle than I was about whether or not the government was ignoring me.

All this riot stuff is immensely annoying – and what made it so much worse was the idiot people justifying this mayhem based on the Arab Spring uprisings. One be-hooded gobshite said to SkyNews “they did it in Syria, and we’re doing it here in Ealing”.

I thought yelling at the television was only an expression – but I did. I yelled, and I actually yelled so loud it’s not impossible to imagine he heard me scolding him on the basis that they’re risking their lives fighting for freedom and human rights in Egypt and Syria, whereas in London it’s just looting for Xboxes and a Kappa tracksuit.

God I was livid. All the Womble cleaner people were awesome....but I was also thinking we need Doozers....while Wombles cleaned and tidied, Doozers constructed buildings for the Fraggles – okay it was for the Fraggles to eat, and Londoners wanted more to live in and use the building rather than feed off them, but you get the drift.

I love the Doozers, and on that note – here’s a lovely treat.

* washing machine kisser - darting tongue, slobbery kissing covering chin/cheek as well as basic mouth action and of course - most grotesquely, excessive saliva. Everywhere.

8th August 2011

2011-08-20T13:40:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the first Monday Club we had on an actual Monday since the first inaugural Monday Club.

Our “meeting” was held a lovely garden pub in Highgate. We conversed; we gossiped; the guys gave me honest guy advice about my sub-optimum love live; we drank wine and the rest eventually became a blur.

At midnight we were out on our asses in the street, and Macca headed back to his place up the hill, while Pappa Slow decided that it was absolutely necessary for him to cook some sort of aubergine extravaganza in my house.

Ergo in the wee hours of the morning, the two of us, properly propping each other up were walking from one 24hour shop to another in search of fresh parsley, chickpeas and feta cheese. The aubergines were secured in the first place, so that was the main ingredient sorted, but Pappa Slow had a recipe in mind and we were not wavering. Gordon Ramsay has nothing on Pappa Slow – who to his credit has an innate talent for cooking.

Astonishingly, as we walked towards Archway we found all those ingredients in a selection of establishments. I was quite amazed, having been adamant that we’d struggle – mainly because I’d have that struggle to get that combination of ingredients in the likes of Waitrose or Tesco, and here at this hour of the morning, all we had available to us were friendly corner shops whose main business is sandwiches.

Because we were in the bubble of the Monday Club we were immune to the events of the evening as it unfolded, so as we cabbed back to mine, we drove straight into a huge riotfest in Camden. I’ve never seen a cab driver do a u-turn so quickly, but as the menacing looks were flicked in our direction he was off down a side road and away from the horribleness. But even still, in those 10 seconds, you could get a sense of fear – the poor police were trying to block the streets, but hundreds of fuckers were standing, shouting and just waiting to pounce. It was like the most awful episode of Tom and Jerry ever.

By the time we got back to mine, it was closing in on 1am – and in retrospect I can legitimately suggest the following irrefutable rule. Drunk people should not cook aubergine at 1am. I repeat: Drunk people should not cook aubergine at 1am.

Now don’t get me wrong – what Pappa Slow pulled together using the very basic tenets of my so-called-kitchen was outrageously good, but there was debris EVERYWHERE.

It was like a mini-riot in my one bedroomed flat. Chickpeas on the duvet, parsley squishing green juice onto my floor as we obliviously walked all over it, and spilled aubergine and olive oil pretty much everywhere else.

Cleaning up in the morning took forever, mainly because we were also watching the news – Croydon was horrific, but Ealing hit home – I used to live there some years ago, and my flat was one of the ones over the row of shops that was destroyed and set on fire.

That morning everybody I know was getting calls from family and friends – checking to see all was good. Did my family call? Did they fuck? I called them though – I was hoping that I could engage them in some drama, create a world-revolving-around-me moment – alas, nada. They saw through my ruse, and once they’d established I was perfectly okay started telling me about some random dullities involving neighbours, wedding presents and who got dissed. I tuned out....right out.

7th August 2011

2011-08-20T11:14:00.000-07:00

Despite my investment in hair removal, the date last night with Guy1 was a bit of a disaster. It’s almost too pathetic to talk about – but who am I kidding. I am totally going to.

It all started over what flavour of frozen yoghurt to get at Snog.

I only like the natural one, and his preference is green tea – so when I suggested we don’t actually share, but instead get one each, he somehow took this to mean that I don’t want to go out with him.

Okay I could probably have worded it better – “You do your thing, and I’ll do mine” could be misconstrued when I hadn’t actually explained I was talking about dairy products.

His response was to say he was “hurt” and a farcical five minutes of mis-communication ensued. In retrospect, comedy gold. But at the time, in the heart of Soho it was hard to take him seriously when I am thinking we’re talking yoghurt and he’s under the impression he’s salvaging a somehow broken relationship and was saying things like

“I thought it’d be nice to share”

“This is a bit sudden”

“Are you sure, I thought we were having a nice time”

Once we’d cleared up the confusion, the moment was well and truly lost, so we soon called it a day before any further debacle.

But first thing this morning, my doorbell rings and its him, Guy1, holding the Sunday Times, a bag of warm croissants and two lattes. Once he assured me that his gigantic bout of jetlag was the reason behind his mentalness in Soho, I forgave him, and I had to make a decision between a having warm latte in me or a warm cock.

Obviously – you know the answer. I can always reheat the coffee in the microwave, but I’ve never let a good hard-on go cold.

6th August 2011

2011-08-20T10:46:00.000-07:00

Felt much better this morning, but as I woke up it dawned on me slowly that in yesterday’s meetings when asked if I spoke any German I responded by singing a nursery rhyme I learned in school involving Dracula and counting to ten.

I SANG. Actually sang. In an official business meeting with people for whom I want to undertake a work contract I sang a children’s song.

What is wrong with me?

Thankfully it appeared that they didn’t take too much offense or consider me too much of a loose idiotic cannon, as I got an email overnight wanting to progress with the work I pitched. But now I am beginning to question who is more crazy – me or them?

Ah well, lesson learned. Don’t sing at interviews. Actually don’t show up after a lock-in that didn’t end ‘til 5am. That’s probably a much better piece of advice.

Flew back to London in the afternoon – no airport dramas today, which left me with plenty time to get ready for my date with Guy1. It’s been a while since I saw him, so I pulled out all the stops. And by that I mean I got Brazilian-ed to within an inch of my life and dragged my Spanx out of their hiding place in my underwear drawer.

He’s a lucky guy.

5th August 2011

2011-08-20T10:35:00.001-07:00

I’m pretty sure I could have tried to cut my head in half with a spoon this morning and it wouldn’t have hurt any more than it already did.

Lock-ins are truly violent on the brain.

Still I couldn’t dwell too much on the vagaries of hangover-dom, or wallow indulgently in self-pity, as I had to fly to Munich for some work. So I hauled ass to Heathrow, so late I barely made it on time. There was an upside though because I was so spectacularly tardy, they “made” me skip the queue at security or I’d have delayed the plane. But then the flight was itself delayed for half an hour so I had time for a coffee and some carbs after all. Clouds, silver linings and such. There was an upside to the morning.

I slept like the dead on the journey and it did me the world of good, so when I had the 6 hours of meetings with my potential new colleagues I was able to hold my own without breathing fumes and/or embarrassing myself.

After the meetings though, there was the planned team-building session – at a beer garden. I needed that like a hole in the head, especially since I don’t drink beer – so I opted for a litre of sparkling water and a dismal little glass of wine that taunted me, untouched, on the table all evening.

When I got to my hotel, which was booked for convenience rather than luxury, I experienced what I imagine it’s like to be in a prison cell.

The whole room was white – everything painted white, no pictures and in the white bathroom, there was only one bottle to serve as shampoo, conditioner, hand soap, shower gel. Everything.

Now I am no Sloane Ranger, but I am certainly no slouch in the product department. For my shower I use no less than 6 – 7 different products, and the shelves above my sink heave with the magnificence of scented products and lotions.

So to have one measly squeezy little bottle to serve every purpose was an insult to my skin and my sensibilities.

But at this point I was so tired, I didnt even have the energy to get offended, and to bed I went with the television on, shouting German at me all night.

4th August 2011

2011-08-20T09:40:00.000-07:00

Had a meeting in the immediate proximity of SoSo’s office today, so it would have been highly inappropriate not meet up for a gossip and a post-work cleanser.

SoSo and I have been in each other’s social periphery for some time, but started hanging out a lot more recently and when I saw her, at the business end of this evenings social enterprise, stumbling down the stairs to the toilet wearing a plastic tiara she must have picked up along the way, I realised we’ll probably be friends forever.

Now let me tell you about the interim events – how the 6pm sauvignon blanc turned into a late night lock-in and a guy in a dress.

It all started with the fact that I had burnt my neck with my curling tongs and for all intents and purposes the resultant skin damage looked like a hideous teenage love bite. Without the assistance of winter and polo necks I had to expose my inadvertent shame to the public at large. You would think I didn’t have a love bite since my age of teenage stupidity, but shamefully that is not true.

A few years ago I dated an old dude. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. He was 50 and not nearly as cool and “down with it” as he thought he was. To the point where he constantly left his teeth marks all over my body. I suspect he thought it was proprietary and endearing rather than horrific and socially inappropriate, but then again, he didn’t know what a booty call was when I texted him one evening demanding a nocturnal visit. He probably thought it was an announcement of a new footwear purchase, and the pathetic argument that followed was the beginning of our demise.

Anyway – it was on this basis that we moved on to discussing the Agent Provocateur of my past. Actually there is no known correlation between the curling tongs love bite and last season’s conquest, but SoSo and I not best known for keeping on topic. She had recently met this mistake and her 10 word summation of the entire situation was as follows

“I can’t believe you shagged someone with such gay hair”.

And to be quite honest what that observation lacked in compassion, it made up for in accuracy. I have a few dubious conquests in my skeletal closet and I can faithfully rely on my friends to point these out to me.

This conversation segued nicely from the first to the second bottle of wine and after that, there was no going back. Or going home rather. We moved on to another bar somewhere in Clerkenwell whereupon we met two reasonably friendly guys. A is awesome, but B turned out to be a total and utter fuckwit. Every time he got up from his seat he buttoned his jacket and on questioning of this assured me it was because his cock was too big. He then proceeded in a very non ironic way to tell me all the indignities of having a too-large penis – including sitting on it to “tuck it away”.

Realistically SoSo and I would be very happy to engage in a facetious discussion of this sort – but it soon became clear that this was B’s earnest attempt to pull me. Apparently I look like the kind of girl for whom this chat up topic would work. It didn’t, and unfortunately for him, I was in no mood to have a stranger break into my vagina. Especially not a fucking idiot.

So I told him that he was a fucking idiot and that he needed to sharpen up his pitiable approach. And while he got his coat, I headed to the bathroom.

SoSo joined me for a gossip and mascara session and next thing we know A is in the ladies with us and he and SoSo are swapping clothes. For the life of me, I can’t figure out how it happened. I mean I was there and all, but I have no idea how it all plummeted out of all control and ended up in cross-dressing.

By the time the three of us left the bathroom, the pub was all shut up and we had a vacant bar and some very loud music to keep us amused for the rest of the night.

Rock and roll.

3rd August 2011

2011-08-18T08:07:00.001-07:00

I tried exercising today, but somehow I ended up watching Judge Judy again. I am going to have a fat arse forever.

Still Guy1 phoned from Dubai to ask me for a date on Saturday and somehow that turned into a dirty story and some fidgeting in our underwear. I gotta stop this. At some point I need to reprogramme my vagina to say no.

2nd August 2011

2011-08-17T12:18:00.001-07:00

An old friend got in touch today – she’s primarily a Facebook Friend these days, so by virtue of her telephone call, I just knew that all her regular friends were bored with whatever tirade she was about to unleash me, and she was in need of a fresh pair of ears.

I anticipated horrifyingly dullness, and to that end I thank God, I have mastered the handy trick of saying uh-huh a lot while thinking about other stuff. Surprisingly it was a little more fascinating than originally anticipated – she just got dumped by an overtly-Chelsea type with a trust fund and lego hair.

I’ve met him a few times and never quite warmed to him – he’s the type that rolls the marbles around in his mouth, to the point where he’s in need of subtitles to enable complete understanding by the innocent bystanders.

Anyway I can’t believe she’s surprised by the turn of events...she’s an ordinary, fun-loving girl and his type is renowned for having fun with the wrong’uns before abruptly hitting thirty-five and settling down with some 26 year old Jemima that appeases his mother.

It’s a classic manoeuvre – and my friend should have expected it. She was not happy by my lack of subjectivity and after gratefully receiving some “more fish in the sea” and “you deserve someone better” and other useless platitudes she took her telephonic leave and I was left to my own pleasurable devices for the rest of the evening.

1st August 2011

2011-08-17T11:12:00.001-07:00

I’m not saying I am a hero but I was in the corner shop buying vaguely out-of-date cheese when I saw a shoplifter help himself to a can of spaghetti hoops with his sticky little fingers.

Now this is my corner shop and occasionally when I forget my purse they give me credit for my stale groceries instead of making me walk all the way back home 50 metres away. So I like them....its a community shop, they know my name and keep their Wispa stock up to a level that meets my ongoing requirements.

So on discovery of this petty theft I walked to the door, blocked it, and then said loudly to Amir “that boy has spaghetti in his pocket”. There was a little verbal confrontation, the return of the tinned produce, and a permanent barring of the offender.

It was all very exciting and Amir gave me a box of Celebrations as a thank you. Personally I thought that defeated all purpose, as the chocolates cost far more than the spaghetti, but he insisted – and therefore I had some mini snickers and bountys with my cheese on toast for dinner and the universe was righted.

31st July 2011

2011-08-13T02:52:00.001-07:00

Things I woke up to this morning: A half-eaten kebab, one shoe still on my foot, an unfamiliar bedroom (which I was occupying alone) and on making my way to the kitchen to search for some water and coffee, a very pleasant German man, whose flat it was.

Late night frivolities in the Empire were clearly a brilliant idea, dammit.

With a coffee in hand, myself and the Henrik wandered into the living room to engage in more comfortable surroundings, and we happened up on SoSo asleep on the floor – beside an unoccupied sofa. One of Henrik’s flatmates was curled up in an armchair and after a short while, Paul, the final lodger, arrived down wearing boxer shorts and the pallor of the undead.

After a drawn out game of Rock/Paper/Scissors it was beholden on Paul to go to the corner shop for bacon, sausages, bread and some orange juice. And over a fine repast of toast and fried meat the vague memories of last night slowly came back to us.

The three guys, SoSo’s friends, were in Covent Garden, and when we received this pertinent knowledge, we invited them to join us at the casino and that was the point at which the wheels fell off. There was some blackjack, a little bit of roulette and a lot of unnecessary cocktails. And when the guys suggested some final drinks in their apartment in Baker Street – it seemed like a marvellous idea.

In retrospect “marvellous” was probably overstepping the mark, but there was some Wii Tennis and a very competitive game of charades. SoSo slowly passed out on the ground, but I eventually summoned up the stairs to claim a bed. Pauls, as it turned out, which explained why he had a crick in his neck from his armchair bed. But he was gallant and properly assured me he was fine, even though he ate his breakfast with his head slightly tilted to the left side.

After what turned out to be a very fun breakfast, SoSo and I took our leave and headed into the sunlight. It was not a walk of shame, it was a bus ride of shame, but we were not officially ashamed, so technically it was an early morning commute home. Wearing yesterdays clothes. But thankfully, not sperm. Not this time.

30th July 2011

2011-08-13T02:14:00.000-07:00

Had my hair done today.

Hair days are big events in my life, I take it all very seriously. So I am immensely lucky to found the best studio in the entire world: Kennaland. I get “done” by Kenna – the man himself.

Now I say I am lucky....but the reality is that I have known him for years. He first did my hair when I showed up at Toni and Guy on Marylebone High Street about 10 years ago, having just been fired from my gainful employment. I was chock full of teary snot and humiliation, and inbetween dramatic sobs and gulps, I encouraged Kenna, this unknown entity, to make me look somehow employed and employable despite the current circumstances.

I am pretty sure this was an unusual request and a far cry from people clasping pictures of Jennifer Aniston, clinging to outrageous hopes of transformation, but he stepped up to the challenge, and I left there feeling significantly bouncier. And since then nobody has ever cut my hair. The man is that good. Admittedly I occasionally let other lesser mortals wash it and blow-dry it if I have a big date or event, but nobody dares wield scissors in its general direction without getting a special death-stare I keep in my “pissed-off repertoire” specifically for that purpose.

I didn’t have plans for the evening...originally I was counting on a low-key evening, hanging solo in my flat and maybe taking Henry the Hoover for a productive walk around the living room. Plans go awry though, and as soon as I saw my now-pretty hair my mindset changed, and next thing I know I am out at Platform drinking a vast array of alcoholic beverages and generally being messy.

Even now I am quite unsure how the evening escalated to the Empire Casino, but by midnight I had met up with SoSo on the terrace bar overlooking Leicester Square and we were somehow in the midst of a stag do and discussing the Kama Sutra.

Some evenings just make no sense. Thankfully.

29th July 2011

2011-08-07T04:15:00.000-07:00

Hanging around a bus stop, legitimately waiting for your transport home, bears all the hallmarks of my university years, when singletons would engage in pulling their last resort shags at the chip shop when the disco is over, having had no luck whilst on the prowl during the slow set.

I don’t think students this day enjoy this particular cultural phenomenon any more, but to my mind they are missing out. There might be a level of maturity and sophistication in fee-protesting and prideful high grades these days, but scraping through a degree, powered only by Diamond White and pregnancy tests still holds a lot of sway in my life.

Anyway, taking you down memory lane was not the intention of this post...I was talking about the bus stop and how it is a kerbside mantrap in a very non-prostitute way.

BB and I had gone out for dinner. Our initial port of call was Vapiano, our usual restaurant of choice, but their pizza oven was broken. Repeat: their pizza oven was broken! This is nothing short of a disaster and we promptly eschewed the idea of some pasta and headed into Soho in search of alternative nourishment and 10 minutes later, settled into the community style seating of Yalla Yalla.

I LOVE Lebanese food. The haloumi, fresh hummus and chicken on sticks. It’s all good. On the way back, with our tummies adequately replenished, we were standing at the bus stop on Regent Street when two very friendly drunk dudes started chatting to us. At first we didn't even recognise what they were saying as being in English, but after a few minutes, we realised they were Australian and they were asking our opinion on their abilities as Formula One drivers, while simultaneously touching our asses.

Eventually they cottoned on to our genuinely bemused expressions as BB and I tried valiantly to take stock of this comedy situation. Admittedly it took a while longer than usual because of the level of inebriation, but they discussed amongst themselves and decided to go away, get their stories straight and come back to us presently. Well they didnt say those words exactly – it was more like

We sssshould make more shense so we’ll be back in five minutes. You’re lovely. Proper lovely. Five minutes okay. Just five. Okay, maybe ten, but stay here.

With that they propped each other up as they walked up the street, and the next time we saw them, indeed five minutes later, was then they came flying around the corner, ahead of all the cars stalled at the traffic lights, in the back of a rickshaw. The driver pedalling like billio, while they rode like Romans on a chariot, whooping and punching the air in unbridled alcohol-fuelled fun.

I can’t help but think their F1 driver story gained momentum and they convinced a pedicab driver to become involved in their fantasy. Money was surely involved, but we’ll never know though, because just behind the gladiators came the number 189 bus, and BB and I got on it and went home.

28th July 2011

2011-08-07T04:14:00.000-07:00

Mum had asked me to place a bet for her last night. I totally did, and it totally lost, but I forgot to text her, so she used this excuse to call me very very early in the morning. Well 11am, but still it’d been a late night.

Even though she couldn’t see me, as unlike my brother and sister, I have never told her that I have video-chat abilities on several pieces of my technology so I don’t have to succumb to her telling me I “look tired”, I put on my game face so she wouldn’t hear the hangover in my voice.

I am pretty sure she can always guess when I am out partying, which is why she is forever asking me if I slept okay. I find this interesting. Interesting in that I haven’t engaged in matricide before. But it never usually stops her. She’s happy to run the gauntlet of life and death quite frequently.

As she did this particular morning. So, following her interrogation, I told her I was going to spend a significant portion of today in bed, playing on twitter and Google+ and avoiding anything productive. At which point she told me to cop myself on and live each day like it’s my last.

That’s terrible advice Mum. Terrible. Do you really want me to eat my weight in Wispas?

27th July 2011

2011-08-07T03:27:00.001-07:00

Went to evening racing at Sandown with Jezebel. There was Pimms, some horses moving quite quickly, money I transferred willingly into the eager hands of the Tote and when all that was over Tom Jones played a gig.

Instead of killing a spider earlier today, I had captured him with the aid of a business card and a shot glass, and gently placed him out the window. Okay, I fucked him violently out the window, possibly to a certain death four floors down, but I didn’t kill him with a book and dump his squashed spider carcass down the toilet. Which is quite unusual for me as that is my typical MO when faced with a vicious Daddy Longlegs or pathetic arachnid. So consequently, I was full certain that karma would work in my favour when it came to punting in the evening.

I am not sure how this karma shit works, but I should have just limited myself to successfully folding a fitted sheet rather than attempting to win big on the gee-gees. Spider baiting is not the charm bringer you’d think it was. Ergo, it turned out to be a disasterous evening on the betslip front.

I had two early wins, which we spent on a Pimms, and I was “feeling it” with my luck – unfortunately, Jezebel and I kicked it very early on, and the rest of the evening was an unmitigated financial disaster. Didn’t much care though, as I was nicely mellow and sitting outside in the warm evening, and fun was being had by all involved.

We moved from our premier seating into the peasant-crowd for the gig. In my head I had somehow imagined Tom Jones singing You Can Leave Your Hat On amid horses and jockeys running amok. So it was quite disappointing when he came out on an actual proper stage nowhere near anything equestrian.

Even more disappointing was that he started with all his hymn type stuff and left the big crowd pleasers (well Sadie pleasers) til the end. So I was too drunk to dance to Delilah and Mama Told Me (Not To Come). That didn’t stop me from some loud braying from the back of the crowd, hopelessly masquerading as singing. I think I also wiggled my hips in what I perceived to be a funky, if not a little provocative, way, but the reality was pointed out by Jezebel when he said “You look like you desperately need to pee”

And speaking of pee – yes, I’m going here. There was a massive queue for the toilets, so I sloped off surreptitiously to the handicapped one. And guess what. A proper handicapped lady came up behind me. This was novel. Unfortunate, but novel. Who knew the disabled need to urinate too. And so even though I was there first, I reluctantly let her go first. Somehow despite my urgent need to relieve myself, I realised that no good would even come of my life if I left a crippled lady propped up using a wall and a walking stick while I claimed my position. The karmic silent war, and inevitable plagues of locusts, just wouldn’t be worth it.

Sometimes I am nice like that.

26th July 2011

2011-08-02T02:17:00.000-07:00

Guy1 is off to Dubai for a week or so from tomorrow, so he asked to catch up over lunch – clearly my plan worked. Morning Head > Morning Face.

I wonder what it is with me and guys who work in Dubai – I seem to fulfil a “type” for them....not that I am complaining. I was at the point of settling for a well-dressed hobo being that my boyfriend plan had gone seriously awry, so it’s nice to achieve something higher up the food-chain than I was hoping for.

Clearly I am punching above my weight category – and that’s saying something given my generous arse. Stone for Pound I’m pretty sure I could take Nicole Ritchie in a fight.

While pondering this, I tucked into a great lunch at Roka. I thundered into the edamame, the ubiquitous miso black cod, and the best desert in the whole entire world – peanut and chocolate tsubo. I am not even sure what a tsubo is, but it doesn’t fucking matter. I'm just glad Guy1 seems oblivious to any part of me that lies south of my tits.

After lunch, I have to admit, we retreated to his place for some farewell afternoon-based shagging. I’m pretty sure it was the equivalent of a dog laying claim to his territory, because for sure Guy1 shagged me senseless and broke my va-jay-jay. I’m certainly not going to be having sex again until he gets back...is this the modern form of exclusivity?

Who cares, it’s working.

25th July 2011

2011-08-02T01:41:00.001-07:00

A despicable disaster of a day.

Received RAH’s wedding invitation in the post this morning. Cue falling apart, jaeger-bombing my broken heart and a shambolic display of human destruction.

I tell you most things on here. But no good will come of sharing detail of today. It is best left unremembered.

Thank you and good day to you.

24th July 2011

2011-08-02T01:38:00.001-07:00

Mostly I sleep like the dead, but something made me wake up early today – and thank God I did.

While Guy1 was still I asleep, I went into the bathroom to pee (or “urinate” if I am in the mood to be a laydee). I was delighted that Guy1 was out for the count, because in the early stages of any relationship it is very important for men to think that women don’t need to use the toilet. Ever.

Post bladder-action, as I was washing my hands, I glanced into the mirror and was horrified by what was presented back to me. It was a veritable assault on my retinas.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all.
Certainly not you – you fugly freak

Sex is deceptively evil. My hair was standing in every direction – operating independently of my head. Think Medusa and you’re nearly there. And, while I am not afraid of being make-up less, I am terrified of the post-sweaty-shaggery look involving splotches, mascara clumps on the side of my nose and a pronounced stubble rash.

I typically have trouble with any part of the day that exists before 11am, on this particular occasion I was running the gauntlet between “not a morning person” and “serial killer”.

I thank God for metrosexualism because Guy1 had some cleanser and moisturiser – admittedly man-scented stuff which made me smell vaguely of boy, but it was better than nothing. And so in two minutes flat I made the best of an awful situation and planned a flawless exit strategy.

Creeping back to bed, I flicked my hair over my eyes, in a demure fashion and woke him up with the type of blowjob that blinded him to my appearance. And with that, I faked a breakfast meeting and took my leave quickly before he was alerted to the horrors of morning-face.

I believe that’s called a win-win situation.

23rd July 2011

2011-07-30T05:21:00.000-07:00

Had a particularly important date night with Guy1. Important, in that I was running out of opportunities to fuck up without there being dumping repercussions.

Making the sweet love on the first night was, on its own, a no-no, but given the amount of valium in my system when he called a few days later, I can't say with 100% certainty that I didn't come across with all the capabilities of a downs syndrome foreigner with only a limited grasp on english. Or common sense for that matter.

Thankfully though, when needs be, I can be relied upon to bring my A-Game and that is exactly what was necessary this evening so he would see me as girlfriend potential and not solely as a receptacle for his penis. I have had many relationships take that latter route...to varying degrees of success and satisfaction but I wasn’t going to let this one go there willingly.

So, tonight was all about upping the stakes in both demurity and lucidity. No mean feat being that he had a bottle of champagne at the ready when I arrived.

I graciously accepted a glass. Not to indulge would be poor etiquette. And I am a lady first, and a party-girl firster. And so it was, that I got fizzy and lovely and quite engaging. As did Guy1. The sparks were flying, there was flirting and some French food. And, if truth be told, I cannot fully deny that there wasn’t a hint of robotics around the time we were sharing a sticky toffee pudding.

I was trying to regale him with an anecdote about underage clubbing, and I slipped into “here’s one I made earlier” mode which somehow involved a little bit of body popping. As a side note, I sometimes wonder, if in the future, robots will do The Human – big fish, little fish, loaf-of-bread.

Anyway – by the end of the evening, it truly was as if there was a little cocker spaniel controlling me from within in, I was that giddy and frivolous. But it worked a charm – Guy1 is hooked. For the moment anyway – I’m pretty sure that given enough time and space I’ll drive him away with my madness, and have to seek consolation, once again, in the bed of FWB but for the moment, it’s oh so on.

Sharing is caring - tell your friends...lots of choice buttons below or just get on the case the manual way. Do it. Love Sadie..x

22nd July 2011

2011-07-29T05:33:00.000-07:00

SoSo and I went to the Zoo Lates event this evening...Zoo Lates is basically the London zoo, but instead of children, it’s hoards of drunk grownups that are harassing the animals.

I had packed a picnic having had my credit card explode over Carluccios deli section and SoSo produced the first jug of Pimms. We hadn’t been out together in a long while so we had a lot to catch up on. So much to catch up on that we hardly noticed ourselves wading earnestly through our first, or second, entire jug of Pimms.

A well deserved toilet break ensued, and while waiting for SoSo, I bought us each a glass of wine. Given my predilection for fine wine, I think I ought to have known better than to buy white wine in a plastic glass with a peel-off lid that’s calling itself The Italian Job. I should have known better. But I didn’t.

To say it was satanic isn’t quite appropriate as I am sure even the Devil has some good points if you dig deep enough. And although I have no concept of what petrol tastes like, I am pretty sure that there are cars somewhere in the world being propelled forward by The Italian Job.

It was a scary drink. And so we did what any normal Friday nighters do. You might think that this would be to abandon such a beverage and run away, far away. No. We necked it. Entire glass of wine. Down in one. Clearly we had left classy behind when we discovered a slug in our picnic.

We had started our evening near the penguins....but we ultimately got kicked out of that enclosure, the Penguin Beach. Surely a first?

Apparently, it’s okay to taunt the penguins with glasses of champagne and jugs of Pimms, but it’s not acceptable to eat some Spanish chorizo and olives with a nice sourdough bread within their eyeshot. Who knew?

So counting the monkeys on the way in, and the brief sojourn near the penguins, we saw exactly two species of animals in our 4 hours at the zoo. The irony wasn’t lost on us that the only animal photographed was that massive slug who invaded our picnic.

Anyway, I inadvertently digressed....after downing the spawn of satan, we attempted to “do stuff”. The event had loads to offer from facepainting to a silent disco, and we had spent the week in advance, making grandiose plans of all the activities we’d enjoy. In actual fact we did none. Not a one. The face painters had gone home, we weren’t arsed with the animals, the silent disco was full and we forgot all about the gift shop.

Basically we could have been anywhere. Zoo Lates was totally wasted on us. And we were totally wasted on it.

Having found the champagne tent, which also sold jaegerbombs, we engorged ourselves on both and by the time it was all over we were definitely sufficiently demented so opted for “more drink” rather than the eminently sensible option of calling it a night and going hom.

After that however, the blurred focus sets in, and it wasnt until the next morning that I was fully able to put together the remainder of the night using a combination of texts, pictures, receipts and the stolen roll of toilet paper in my handbag.

So in chronological order here’s how it breaks down

Taxi to Aqua. There’s a queue. We don’t queue. Leave Aqua.
Decide on Shampers as suitable Plan B location.
Can’t find Shampers
Stop off in a cupcake store for sustenance while we continue to find Shampers.
Photograph ALL the cupcakes. Offer cupcakes to strangers. Eat cupcakes.
Still cant find Shampers
Gatecrash an oyster and champagne restaurant to pee. Chat to people having dinner. Annoy people having dinner (probably)
Find Shampers.
Order bottle of wine...and make friends with a fantastic gay couple ON A DATE. They are drinking champagne. It’s possible we asked for some.
Gatecrash their date. Totally. We are now the most ridiculous foursome you have ever come across in your life.
Much in/out-ness for smoking purposes. Me and my gay get locked out of bar. Bang on door repeatedly. SoSo and her gay are hiding. Laughing hysterically cos we can’t get in.
Appear at this point to have each claimed ownership to one of the guys. Concentrate on getting their life story – with SoSo and I whispering periodically and making notes – to see if their stories computed. We were like Cupid. If Cupid was pissed and soaked and smelling vaguely of penguin.
Shampers closes – go to bar next door. Sit outside watching hookers acquire men and take them into a club.
That bar closes.
All 4 of us go to Freedom Bar in Soho. More drinks. Topless guys offering shots. Drink shots.
Freedom closes....our gay friends leave. We stay and have to be kicked out.
Decided we need to go to Bar Italia for coffee and paninis. Hail cycle rickshaw thing.
Take half an hour to go from Frith Street to Wardour Street – VIA ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE ELSE IN LONDON.
Going so slow we chat to some random dudes walking alongside of us. Agree to meet everybody in Bar Italia
Pay the man £20 for a 2 minute walk.
Meet strangers in Bar Italia. Eat amazing paninis. No-one is talking because we're all eating paninis. Steal toilet paper (I think). Reason unknown.
Finally get the bus home at 5.30am – via Piccadilly Circus.

And that people is why SoSo and I shouldn’t be allowed out unsupervised.

Sharing is sexy....tell your friends. Do it. You know you want to. Kisses...xxx

21st July 2011

2011-07-27T04:59:00.001-07:00

My internet broke today – somehow a bunch of spam broke through, and I realised just how many people try to scam me Nigerously. I am lucky that for the most part its hidden from me behind lovely protective software, because my history with con-artists is less than impressive, and with my gullible nature it’s very possible that I’d have all sorts of gadgets to increase the size of my penis and the occasional African princely penpal telling me all about his rich dead uncle.

Speaking of penpals, I recently remembered the Canadian letter writer of my youth. Life is nuts when you think about it....writing letters in loopy handwriting to a stranger and occasionally sending a pen or a Wham! badge to seal your strange friendship. I tried to facebook her, but not knowing what she looked like that proved somewhat futile and abortive. So I gave up and headed out to meet the Monday Club which was convening in Bonds bar in town.

One founding member, Macca, had to abstain from the frivolities due to work commitments. Pappa Slow and I had no such qualms, or to be fair, deadlines. So we met for a lovely evening. Compared to some of our nights it was very tame....just some nice wine and a chat. Life is grand.

20th July 2011

2011-07-27T04:58:00.001-07:00

I woke up in a ferocious mood today – the kind that makes me lose friends and be mean to the disabled.

Having consulted with the Twitterati it was unanimously agreed that I should break into my emergency stash of valium, and get myself some pharmaceutical happy going on.

So I helped myself to two little tablets of sunshine and took off to bed for a nap. And, oh my god.....when I had my second wake-up of the day, how the world was different.

I wandered aimlessly around my flat, happily forgetting what I was doing and generally being spaced out. I had work to do, but my concentration was that of a kitten, and quite frankly I would have been totally finished by the afternoon, if I had been 30% less off my tits and 100% less lazy

When hunger set in I decided to organise a mushroom omelette to stave away the Ethiopian in me. Now I am not the best cook in the world, beyond salads and throwing some yoghurt on a bit of chopped fruit, but I now know that attempting to use heat and eggs when under the profound influence of To say it was a disaster is like saying Hitler was a little bit naughty.

Omlette everywhere. Egg on walls and floor. Kitchen fucked.

I was in no fit state to clean so I made myself some (ungrilled) cheese on toast and walked away. I was meeting a friend in town, but let me tell you, the tube should have a warning on the escalator for girls in heels who are demented on prescription medication. I tripped as I was getting off. Of course I did. Two year olds can manage to safely get off an escalator, but for me it was like one step forward, two steps into the fucking wall.

The only upside was I didn’t give a damn. I smiled, picked myself up and carried on as if nothing had happened, smiling away in my own world.

In the evening Guy 1 called me. And I realised that this burgeoning relationship could go horribly wrong. Firstly, I put out on the first date and when he did the follow up call (within an appropriate timeframe) I was off my tits on valium and surrounded by an omlette fiasco in the worlds tiniest kitchen.

Ah well, it is what it is. Some days, the only goal that seems attainable is messing up my life in such a spectacular fashion, that when I die they’ll name a new piece of protective legislation after me. Sadie’s Law.

19th July 2011

2011-07-21T05:35:00.001-07:00

Spent most of today agonising over a biography I have to create for a presentation that I have been duped into doing at a conference next month.

To start with, I gave myself a double-barrelled surname to make me sound very clever. I thought that was quite sensible. I don’t have a double-barelled surname ordinarily, and I feel my life is altogether the lesser for it.

To figure out what to write, I checked the other presenter’s bios on the conference website. One guy has literally written about how he saves children in Africa and builds schools and stuff. I do none of that shit. My bio looks stupid compared to that. I wanted to go wild on listing achievements – but really I have none, well none that count anyway, and I had been strongly advised that it is probably prudent to stay away from obvious lies.

Another dude banged on about his love of wine tasting. How pretentious. And in a very competitive manner I wanted to put in my love of wine guzzling – a human 4x4 but instead of using copious volumes of petrol around town, its malbec and sauvignon blanc.

On any given day Archimedes could probably do his displacement test in my liver rather than a bath or petri dish or whatever he used...for that brief moment, I wondered if this was an accomplishment I could incorporate, but I figure it will detract rather than add to my credentials.

I did include however, that I love puppies, but unfortunately I suspect that the organisers will take that out. I don’t think it’s relevant to mobile gambling.

On the notion of puppies – I really would love one, but since I can barely keep myself alive sometimes, it’s probably for the best that this particular hobby is denied to me. A puppy is a hobby, right?

Besides the reality is that I’d get bored and love him less when he grew up being that I am definitely somebody who would prefer if there was a “save as” function for animals when they are babies – in particular puppies, ducklings and penguins.

(Love letter from me...if you like my blog, please be kind and share. Forward, tweet, facebook, do what you want....but do the right thing. You know you want to)

18th July 2011

2011-07-20T08:24:00.000-07:00

Got totally and utterly scammed yesterday. Voluntarily robbed if you will.

I was on my way to meet BB for brunch and a massive Guy1 gossip session at Automat, when some random caught up with me as I was crossing Piccadilly and said “I’ve just read your forehead and you’re very lucky but you have sinned”

Now I am a reasonably intelligent person, so when somebody tells me they’ve “read my forehead” I should really have walked on and ignored him...but it was the telling me I’ve sinned that caught my attention. Yes, I have sinned. Most of my life is a damn sin....so I wanted to know what he knew.

Stupid stupid Sadie.

The next 15 minutes of my life, probably count as the most idiotic ever. He started talking telling me I had 3 pieces of luck coming my way, and I had sinned twice and he could tell me all of these facts because he was a super-clarivoyant. And I, in a moment of total fucking lunacy, believed him.

And thus he slowly drew me into the scam, with details of success in love (August or September) and promotions in work (September). Now the latter should have caused the alarm signals to violently ring as “work” for me is getting out of bed before 11am....nevertheless I stayed exactly where I was mesmerised by his “reading” of my palm and forehead.

Then came the jiggery-pokery. He handed me a piece of torn paper to hold with some facts on it...then asked me to confirm those very facts while I was holding the paper in my hand. He wrote the answers down on another piece of paper (visible to me) and subsequently showed me how to “bless” the paper in my hand by blowing on it, and touching it to my chest, forehead, and the back of my head.

Then lo and behold when I opened up the paper, it had my age, the number of siblings I have and one of my sins – all of which I had told him.. Of course I was overwhelmed and intrigued, so when he then started asking me for money for the poor people of his hometown in India, I gave him a fiver (it was the only cash I had in my purse).

Even as I am giving him the money I am aware that it wasn't ever going to reach the "poor people", but still I feel compelled. After all, he knew this stuff about me..... So then when he repeated process - this time re: my boyfriend* I was once again drawn in. So much so that before he started, he had me agreeing to give him more money if he was right – which I did.

Then when he was (of course) right I actually went to an ATM nearby, which he conveniently pointed out to me, to take out more money to give him because I had no cash left. I really can’t quite believe how stupid I was. I freely went to a cashpoint to take out more money to give to the guy who was robbing me, because I hadn't given him enough.

All the time this was happening I was convinced that he had an accomplice who was going to steal my wallet out of my bag – and so I was holding on tightly to that under my arm and surreptitiously looking around. It was only in retrospect, as I walked off, I realised – he didn’t need to rob me – I GAVE HIM MY MONEY WILLINGLY.

It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t have had to tell him the facts prior to seeing them on the paper.
While I thought I was holding the paper with answers on it all the time, I should have realised that there was a brief moment where he held the paper to show me how to blow and bless it – giving him the opportunity to switch by sleight of hand to a piece subsequent to me telling him the bloody answers.
He told me nothing I didn’t tell him except that I’d be lucky in August and September (who doesn’t want to hear that?) and I had sinned (who hasn’t?)

I should know better than to write a story out of which I emerge looking like a complete arse and publicly humiliate myself but in the grand scheme of things, we’re all friends here, I ‘ve kept nothing from you people so far this year, so why start now and besides, you all know how dense I can be, so I can tell it like it was, without changing your opinion of me.

I, Sadie X Port, am an idiot. A total fucking idiot. Welcome to my world.

*Rather than be embarrassed at the lack of a boyfriend I represented Guy1 to be a permanent fixture in my life....which I do hope is true, but is no way currently accurate.

(Love letter from me...if you like my blog, please be kind and share. Forward, tweet, facebook, do what you want....but do the right thing. You know you want to)

17th July 2011

2011-07-20T07:48:00.001-07:00

Happiness tastes like semen.

Walking like Pinocchio today - draw your own filthy conclusions

16th July 2011

2011-07-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

Funded solely by yesterday’s win on Top Trumps, I called J and told her to get her cocktail drinking shoes on. Richard Branson was inadvertently sponsoring us to imbibe copious martinis alongside the glitterati in the May Fair Bar.

And what a night it turned out to be....I totally pulled. Or was pulled. Hard to decipher which, but in any case, I met a new man. A non-FWB man. A non-idiot, non-muppet real-life dude.

J and I were sitting at the bar, drinking espresso martinis and discussing which Take That boy was our favourite (for the record: me = Howard, J = Mark), when the bartender brings over two glasses of champagne, courtesy of “the gentlemen at the end of the bar”

Clearly “the gentlemen” didn’t know about the life-changing* £167 win (*night-out enabling) and were contributing to our liver cirrhosis with further alcohol. And in such a ridiculously, cheesily smooth way. Sending drinks via the bartender. How very James Bond! I only thought this shit existed in films.

Prior to accepting the champagnes, we had a brief glance over. They appeared respectable, and not at all murdery, so suddenly we’re chasing our martinis with bubbles. We “cheersed” the guys from across the bar, and it was only a matter of time before they joined us.

From then on, the whole night was a blur. Such a fantastic, mind-blowing blur. I remember laughing A LOT. And flirting in the hair fiddling, arm brushing way. While J and Guy2 got on brilliantly, there was clearly no chemistry in either direction, but me and Guy1 were incomprehensibly drawn to each other. The spark was instant, and ladies and gentlemen, and with special gratitude to Richard Branson, I am in lust and a lot in like.

Guy1 does something important in Dubai and Saudi real estate, which he tried to impress me with, but I’d have been smitten if he was moderately clean hobo. That surprised him somewhat – I guess he’s more used to Chelsea set than somebody for whom not tripping over is considered a successful day.

Who knew this could happen to me? I feel so Sarah-Jessica Parker.

15th July 2011

2011-07-20T07:15:00.000-07:00

Today was officially an awesome day....

Firstly the cases on Judge Judy were compelling. People are brilliant. And by brilliant I mean sufficiently fucked up for my incessant amusement. It was fabulous, and Judy (I can call her that because I dedicate a fair portion of my weekday morning to her televisual company) was in fine fettle.

Mostly though I was excited because I won £167 on Virgin Games. I was flitting about on the internet looking for distraction when I happened across an ad saying they’d give me double my deposit on Virgin Games.....now even I can see the irony of the likes of me getting a “double deposit” on a site with the word Virgin in the title so I headed over in my quest for ongoing procrastinatory opportunities, and a short hour later I logged off significantly richer than when I started!

Now there are some key things of note here:

Firstly is that my preferred game is typically blackjack, but something unknown, possibly supernatural, made me go to the slots area of the website...and there, tantalisingly, I found a Top Trumps game. Now anybody that knows me will know the importance of Top Trumps in my life. It is both my calling and my nemesis.

When we were kids, my (older) brother had several Top Trumps games, his favourite being the Supercars version. He used to make me play with him all the time before bedtime, and whether by virtue of cheating or simply the fact that I couldn’t yet read or understand numbers, he ALWAYS fucking beat me.

I experienced a lot of frustration over Top Trumps, and a lot of crying – most especially the time I lost and my brother added insult to injury by making me, as the loser, kiss a huge spider on our stairs. I can’t remember how this came about OR why the hell I agreed, but I do recall him brutally, in your standard big-brother way, holding my head down on the spider, and the immediate development of acute arachnaphobia.

So that was my Top Trumps experience as a kid.

Now I play it, as an adult, with the neighbours kids, albeit the “Baby Animals” and “Spongebob” versions rather than racing cars, and because I am the grown up I have to let those feckers win....so once again, I am the loser, and ultimately every time I have ever played, the game has destroyed a little bit of my soul. Until today that is.

Today, the universe righted itself. Top Trumps finally delivered.

14th July 2011

2011-07-20T06:51:00.000-07:00

Work was mental busy today. As in I did some.

I had a fairly lengthy meeting that involved more intelligent thinking that I am typically comfortable with, and I ended up with what are known in business circles as “action points”. I am somewhat unfamiliar with this concept, but quite excited that I have official things to do -and I’m convinced that this makes me important in manner of the top executive I aspire to be (when I’m not lazing around pretending to be a writer, but mainly watching Judge Judy)

After work I had been invited to a booze cruise, but with all these action points looming over me, I freaked out with the intensity of it all, and ultimately declined to participate in boat-based drinkage. And thank God I did.

The Agent Provocateur of my past was also invited, and I have no desire to ever again, be in his company any longer than is strictly necessary. He called me recently – allegedly to see how I was, but he’s a general deviant so there was possibly an ulterior motive.

It was after my NYC trip, so I was a lovely combination of jetlagged and insolent and saw no reason to make life easy for him. So in a world where I see no reason to use one word when five will do, I responded to his questions with monosyllabic answers and lengthy silences.

One word: Fuckingawkward

13th July 2011

2011-07-20T06:34:00.001-07:00

Phone sex really rocks. I had forgotten the art of a filthy story full of words like “massive”, “rock hard” and “nipple tassles”.

FWB is away on a work trip. Quite frankly I don’t know what he does, and even he wonders from time to time why they pay him, and more so, why they send him places to take the piss abroad as well as domestically....nevertheless he was in Belgium somewhere and in a hotel where they didnt have porn.

He was so incensed with the lack of televisual stimulation, that he called me to complain and then asked me to “kindly help out”.

I am generally an obliging person so I concocted a story, on the fly, involving a limited amount of underwear, a public place and wandering hands. The job was done even before I got to the good stuff and I was able to head off to bed early.

12th July 2011

2011-07-15T08:18:00.001-07:00

FWB and I went to the movies last night. We bitched and argued all the way about what to see. So in the end I went to Bad Teacher by myself and he went to some boy shit by himself. Probably Transformers.

We met up in the foyer afterwards and went back to mine for a shag

And I wonder why I can't find a boyfriend!

11th July 2011

2011-07-15T05:25:00.001-07:00

Mum called to give me shit about the TechnoDad posts.

How is it possible that she doesn't have an opinion when I write about having to climb out my fuckbuddy's window after a night of shenanigans, but when I take the piss out of Dad in a very loving manner, I come home to fury invading my answerphone?

(Hello Mum: that was a rhetoric question..no need to answer! Also pls don't ask what a fuckbuddy it...it would be uncouth for you to have this knowledge. Its bad enough u know what giving head means)

10th July 2011

2011-07-12T04:36:00.000-07:00

Once the mobile was conquered, TechnoDad realised the full potential of modern life, and emerged properly, phoenix like, from the ashes of the artist formerly known as regular Dad.

His first post-mobile acquisition was a massive flatscreen widescreen plasma screen HD3D telly for the living room. Its most-of-the-wall sized (an official Dixons catalogue measurement I think you’ll find), and me and my sister loved it because if you didnt optimise the screen format properly all the girls on Friends looked really fat and that was comforting as we watched mindless television while eating nutella with a spoon.

Now you would think that buying a big telly is a normal “guy thing” and you’d be absolutely right, but what makes it TechnoDaddish is that he has included on his Favourite Channel list the unlikely candidates of Al Jazeera (“because it tells you the weather in more countries”) and a German news channel (in German, which my Dad doesn’t speak) because he once went to Munich, and now he likes to “keep an eye on things there”

Also despite paying for a pretty hefty Sky package, he mainly watches Who Wants To Be A Millionaire except when they have the celebrities on because they are “awful eejits”.

The other technologies that have crept into my parent’s house, courtesy of Dads top secret missions to The Sound Superstore are

A DAB radio. Now this replaced my old Sony Ghettoblaster, which sat proudly beside the kitchen sink for nearly 20 years, its tape deck glittering with lack of use. A perfectly functioning piece of history, given that its only responsibility was to break the news to my parents over breakfast. One hour of radio per day. One channel. Never changes. And yet the fallout over the DAB radio was monumental. Mum can’t figure it out and there was much tutting and agitation. Neither can Dad, but I don’t think he lets on, and they had to have a third party (me) locate the single channel they like and undertake the now-permanent tuning in of said channel.

The radio doesn’t have a CD player, which pisses Mum off, because she’s got nearly five CDs now. But Dad has owned no music since Val Doonican so I don’t think that particular shortcoming impacted him much.

iPod Docking Station: For my room, because I like music and am forever forgetting my iPod charger, I recently coerced Dad into getting me a docking station. So he and I took off to his own personal Techno Narnia, incognito, while Mum was chatting to the neighbours.
Because it’s in the guest room, Mum doesn’t have a strong opinion on the actual product, although there are ramifications still being felt because although it came in lots of colours, the shade of blue Dad chose (unsurprisingly) clashes with the new green curtains and allegedly ruins the tone of the room. Dad pretends he cares, but really I get the sense that he’s glad Mum doesn’t go into the room very often because in-between those times she forgets to berate him about this particular offense

Sometimes though when I am visiting and he enquires after the docking station – always the same “How’s that yoke working?” – and I get the sense that he wishes he had an iPod just so he could dock it and get maximum use of this gadget. Until, though, he learns to like any music at all that is available on anything more modern than a 45rpm record, it’s probably not going to happen for him.

Arrival of the Apple

The Apple Mac was a present to my parents from my brother and introduced them to the world of iChat. I use the term “them” loosely – while Mum gets the concept of video conversation, the most we ever see of Dad are his legs, as he walks past and shouts hello, probably while looking at the photos of us above the computer rather than the real us waving madly on his computer screen.

He does though read The Times online every day – after about 6 months he learned how to zoom, but he always loved the way the pages turn. Sometimes I think that’s what he mostly does. I don’t blame him though, I get quite excited myself when I get an online “magazine” that has those flicky bits in the corners.

Apple TV

Another opportunist sale by some teenager on commission has to have been the time TechnoDad showed up with an Apple TV thing that hooks your computer up to your telly. It sat in the box for some time, until a suitably qualified boy (my sister’s husband) rocked up and knew how to hook it all up. So now despite struggling to use a digital camera, TechnoDad can show people pictures on the television (which he gets Mum to set up before handing him the remote control for flicking purposes), listen to Music (which I’ve already clarified, he just doesn’t do) and watch movies.

He’s always showing me the list of Top Movies that Apple has available for download. He’s very proud of this list, and blatantly ignores the dual facts that 1. He hasn’t had the patience to sit through a single movie since Out of Africa and 2. He’s unlikely to be interested in Rango or The Hangover II or Black Swan.

Sat Nav

The final major technology purchase that my Dad has made recently has been his new car. Initially he was thinking about an electric car, but he has an ambivalent attitude to kerbs, and sometimes the only way pedestrians know he is coming up behind them is the noise of the engine, so the silence of an electric car would cause untold deaths, so we talked him out of that and into some other type of hatchback he had his eye on. He changes his car ever few years, so we’re used to the commotion, but this time, the excitement was more palatable, there was, wait for it.....drumroll please...a Sat Nav.

I had to sit in the passenger seat for half an hour while TechnoDad talked me through the features of the navigation system. He could barely contain himself with the drama of it all. But, and this is a big but considering the purpose of a sat nav system, my Dad (both the Regular or Techno version of himself) never goes anyplace he doesn’t know. And in the unlikely event he ever did, he’d be consulting maps and atlases for days in advance and would know every potential pothole in the road before he ever started the car engine.

So instead, he listens to the comforting assurance of the lovely lady telling him to turn left and right and all other appropriate directions as he tootles along gently between the bottle bank and home

The Kindle

TechnoDad carries his burden with an air of nonchalance and indifference. He’s the superhero with “plugged in things” as his power. That was all until I gave him my old Kindle. The simple Kindle has knocked TechnoDad for six...I think because he actually uses it, rather than just owns it.

He got the Kindle by accident really – on the day he discovered my tattoo. We had a conversation that went like this

RegularDad: Whats that on your foot

Sadie: A tattoo. Do you like it?

RegularDad: No

Freaking-out Sister: *shouts panickedly* Its temporary

Sadie: No it isn’t...here Dad, have a Kindle

TechnoDad: *nom nom technology nom*

...and so the tattoo was forgiven and forgotten, but now I do suffer through more than my fair share of calls and texts telling me just what percentage of his book my Dad has read at any given time. This, you see, is the tremendous benefit of electronic reading over regular reading. You don’t have to self-guage how much you’re read. It tells you. It tells you exactly. And then you tell others exactly. All the time. If the joy is in the number, let everybody share the number. And therein lies the future of my TechnoDad....a percentage on a Kindle put all other technologies to else to shame. The future has finally arrived.

9th July 2011

2011-07-12T01:33:00.000-07:00

I had a pretty quiet weekend because I was working most of it. But I did call my parents to say hello – remember I am on a tight leash now since the police incident, so I have to be seen to be putting in some regular dedicated time to the homestead.

Mum was away and Dad was in a rare chatting mood. But instead of my regular Dad, I got TechnoDad. I don’t know if you have one of those, but my personal version of TechnoDad is one who owns much age inappropriate technology that serves little or no purpose for the owner beyond actual ownership.

It all started when we got him a mobile for Christmas a few years ago. At first he wouldn’t take it out of the box, such was the fear of modernity and life-on-the-very-edge. Before New Year though, we had convinced him to charge it up, which he did – but for a while he sat there eyeing it up suspiciously and if he had to leave the room for any reason, he’d wander back every now and then, to check up on the phone, as if trying to catch it unawares and up to no good.

It was at the point he realised that the mobile was not actually a transformer out to kill him, that the Mobile Training of 2005 began in earnest.

STAGE ONE

The first step was simply to get him to remember to take it with him when he went out – such being the nature of mobile phones. This was harder than you might imagine.

Day One: Dad took his mobile out when he left the house. In his jacket pocket. He did not answer it when it rang.
Day Two: Dad took the DVD remote control out. The mobile was left in kitchen next to the tissues.
Day Three: Dad didn’t leave the house – it was raining all day and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire was showing on Challenge TV.
Days Four - Five: Dad took the landline portable phone out with him when he left the house – discovered only by mum when her sister rang two days later, and she (Mum) happened to be walking through the hall where my Dad’s jacket was hanging in the closet. Mum had spent close to 48 hours looking for it and a further 48 returning all the missed calls. Dad was given no dessert for a week.

After the landline debacle, there was a short period where no phone went anywhere for fear of another fuckup, but then one day, we woke up and the first stage had passed. It was sunny that day. Our work here was done and the mobile was duly carted around in an appropriate fashion.

STAGE TWO

Answering calls and Hanging Up. Despite the Green for Go, Red for Stop logic on the mobile, for a while it was hit and miss as to whether or not you’d get to the point of actually saying anything. You’d hear the mobile being taken out, answered, more often than not either a swear word, or a question “Wifey*, how do I answer this yoke”. Invariably at this point, he’d inadvertently hang up and the caller would have to start the game of roulette all over again.

Once we’d navigated the rapids of answering the phone, it was a fairly quick process through to hanging up and ending the call. For a while however we’d have to end each call with the phrase “Press the red button Dad”. It was the alternative to “Love you, goodbye” for a few weeks in the Spring of 2005. But we made satisfactory forward progress.

STAGE THREE

By April, we were pretty sure Dad was up for the next stage of mobile communication. Texting. So my sister took an afternoon off work, showed up at the parental residence and armed with nothing more than a cup of tea and a couple of Hob Nobs set to this monumental task.

I was fortunate enough to be the recipient of the inaugural text – so for about two hours, my phone intermittently rang as my father kept hitting the wrong buttons, and while I was at the end of the line, shouting at him to hang up, he was phone-in-hand learning about phone keyboards and pressing buttons randomly, getting absolutely nowhere.

Nowhere that is, until in a moment of glory, when suddenly texting was mastered. Victory. I received the following text (verbatim) “Hello. sure a DOg with a malleT up its ass cOuld do this”. Actually no Dad, a dog with a mallet up its ass probably couldn’t text and I’m thinking, even if it could, it probably has other things on its mind – like how to remove the mallet from its ass.

After this momentousl incident Dad took to texting like the proverbial duck to water, and became what is affectionately known as a Textmonster. Everything got texted.....Had toast, send a text. Went for a walk – another text. Making tea, thats definitely worth a written announcement. Everything. Absolutely everything

The only thing that slowed him down for a little bit was the arrival of predictive text, but that was mastered in a few short months, and he was back up and running.

I’m watching the match
Hello. Myself and The Mistake** are going to the shop to get milk
Good morning pet

STAGE FOUR

This stage remains, after all these years, a work in progress. Making calls. He just won’t do it. If he’s at home, he uses the landline, and if he’s out and about, he’ll answer calls if he feels like it, but mostly he just uses the mobile for text based communication. Well that and as a pocket watch. Since he got the mobile, Dad has stopped wearing a watch. He doesn’t see the point in both, and since we’re making him carry the mobile, then the watch is redundant so he refuses categorically to wear it. Go figure.

Anyway – so that was the story of how TechnoDad started, and since then he has embraced all sorts of modernity...which I will tell you about later.

*Wifey is not my mums real name, but she’d kill me if I exposed her to direct sunlight.

** “The Mistake” is my fully functioning adult sister.

8th July 2011

2011-07-09T02:26:00.000-07:00

Today I am feeling a bit like I am the world’s red-haired step child.

After a poor night of sleep, where I never quite reached the right temperature despite continuously adjusting life’s natural thermostat (the one based primarily on the volume of leg a person has poking out from under the covers at any given time), I woke up to a work drama involving new deadlines and emergency conference calls.

This pretty much ruined my day, so I decided there could be no further demise to my sensibilities by torturing myself through the means of exercise – and wasn’t that an idea of epicly stupid proportions.

I couldn’t find my sports bra, so I took decided to take my chances with a piece of flimsy from La Senza. Therein lay the fatal flaw. Boobs everywhere. Not only did I come close to knocking myself out with jiggling mammaries, but other pedestrians were not safe and wore expressions of unbridled fear as I loped past with my lady lumps moving independently of my body. My ass had a life of its own as well, but I am not even going to go there.

As is my usual MO, I had tucked a tenner into my bra for a latte and a wispa on the way home – and by God I had earned them through the combination of absolute humiliation and commitment to the greater good of well being.

7th July 2011

2011-07-09T01:07:00.001-07:00

Today turned out to be a dog and pony show. Very much a fun and enviably amusing day, but nevertheless it was the kind which, for the good of my future employability and my general wellbeing, cannot be repeated on any sort of a frequent basis.

It all started, as most things in my life do these days, with Pappa Slow. I showed up for our working lunch with a pen, some paper and a fresh liver that was open to destruction. We dined well..the food in El Vino always somehow surprises me by being better than you would expect for the venue. And in honour of the occasion, shared a cheeky bottle of wine. Afterwards while he had to go back to his office, I had just enough drink on board to want to write off the workday afternoon in favour of the much more appealing concept of drinky fun.

And so it was timely when I saw a tweet from an heretofore anonymous “friend” referring to hanging out in a bar. I did not notice that this particular 140 character announcement was 24 hours old, but one way or another managed to convince a stranger to come for drinks.

I will not tell a lie – based on nothing more than a random internet-name and a cartoon avatar I was expecting a dwarf or midget type to join me and was mentally preparing not to show shock. So you can imagine my pleasant surprise when a regular sized person showed up. And while I was expecting him to be vertically challenged, he was expecting me to be totally wasted (being that I'd told him I had wine for lunch). So that pretty much took care of the ice-breakers.

Over the course of the evening athough, although he didn't grow shorter, I did grow increasingly more drunk until the point was reached that I negotiated us a plate of nibbles from a private event in a roped off section, lost a round of drinks by betting on the outcome of an arm wrestle match at a neighbouring table and eventually reached a disgraceful state of affairs where I had stopped speaking in sentences and was no longer using vowels.

This morning my liver feels somewhat liquidised and I woke up and decided on detoxification as my new regime for the rest of the summer. My whole life is built around the concept of All or Nothing. So having done "All" for the last few months I will now revert to "Nothing" in a misguided and somewhat messed-up attempt at long-term moderation.

This has been my approach to healthy living for most of my adult life, and you'll never convince me that this isn't a far superior way to live than actually being text-book-definition of wholesome.

6th July 2011

2011-07-07T03:30:00.000-07:00

Finally after enviously enduring a million triumphant stories via the medium of Facebook and Twitter, it was my turn to see Take That at Wembley. And oh how I revelled in my moment in the gloating sun. To be honest, I spent most of the day on any and all of the social media sites making sure that

People were in no doubt whatsoever that I was going to TAKE THAT IN WEMBLEY
Howard makes my panties growl.

J and I dined on the fine cuisine of chips and burgers from a dubious looking caravan and then treated ourselves to some Pimms in honour of the occasion. By the time The Boys ™ arrived on stage, we were looking quite special needs in our pink neon flashing Take That visors, which were elegantly framing our alcohol-addled anticipatory grins.

The opening set was fabulous – explosions of gold and fire, lots of the new stuff and most importantly for me, no Robbie. I am aware this might be controversial but I think Robbie is a dick. A desperate attention-needy dick.

I have sort of forgiven him for abandoning the band. I finally accept it wasn’t a personal slight at my emotions, and besides if The Boys™ can forgive him – then so can I. And it must be forgiveness because they had nothing to gain by letting that fecker back in the mix. They were doing just fine, thank you very much.

But what I cant forgive is the air of smug self-satisfaction that emanates from his very being. Which is why when he got his own 45 minute solo set, I was very annoyed. To be fair, he did play his big hits and all, but I didn’t come to a Robbie gig, I came to a Take That gig, and for that reason I felt short-changed.

While the other four come across as genuinely nice (infidelities and alcoholism aside), humble and, most importantly, grateful for their second shot at glory, Robbie hasn’t changed one iota. He’s still a psychotic arse who believes his own hype. And based on his performance you’ll never convince me that he wasn’t coked off his tits.

While The Boys™ have grown up and matured in a fucking handsome manner. Robbie’s persona hasn’t changed a bit – he’s still Robbie1.0 if you will, and his set reeked of inappropriately trying to segue the excessive attitude of 1996 into the new Take That of 2011.

And when the main concert resumed after indulging the manchild, there was a palatable change in atmosphere for the better. It moved from intentionally sweary psychosis back to the band we came to see.

The highlight of Robbie’s set was the memory it brought back of the V-Festival that I went to with my friend Minnie years ago. Having been terrorised into submission by the portaloos early in the day, we decided to hold off as long as we could before we returned to the scene of many less than fragrant crimes.

That meant that by the time Robbie came on in the early evening, we were both powering through a dire urinary state. Which was ultimately the cause of the havoc wreaked when he opened his set with Let Me Entertain you. The random dude, on whose shoulders Minnie was reluctantly sitting, began to participate in the obligatory jumping up and down and up and down and up and down and and oh my god she pee’d on him.

There was no way her bladder was going to withstand incessant bouncing, and when she simultaneously shouted “Run Sadie, Run” and launched herself off his person, I took off and like Moses split the crowd in two to enable our escape, while the dude and his friend slowly figured out through a combination of dampness and scent what had just occurred.

By that time, like Macavity the Mystery Cat, we were long gone.

Anyway, I digress, last nights gig. As much as I hated the 45 Robbie-minutes that preceeded it, the performance of The Flood, when they resumed as a fivesome, might be the single most impressive rendition of a single I have ever seen, in any gig. It was theatre – there were climbing ninjas, waterfalls, cages and general brilliance.

They followed this with SOS and further excellence including a human chess game with an intentionally (?) comedic breakdance “battle” between Jason and Howard. Genius. And of course being that they are my two faves, fucking gorgeous.

They moved on to play lots of their old stuff. A Million Love Songs, Mark sang Babe, Robbie did Everything Changes But You (highly appropriate, I thought) and then they moved into the crowd for an astonishing rendition of Never Forget (which I love even more cos its Howards song). At one point they during this section, they were doing the pretend-to-play guitar bit. Two of the fools were at the back of the stage channelling ZZ Tops.

I couldn’t help but think, much as I love Take That, there is no way on earth they will ever be misconstrued as Rock. They are POP at its finest and quite frankly thats good enough for me. So all in all the concert was outstanding, but it didnt come near to the dizzying heights of The Circus Tour. I love them and all, but the truth is the truth.

Sadie loves Howard. Sadie Donald.....Mrs Sadie Donald – yup, that fits well.

5th July 2011

2011-07-07T01:52:00.001-07:00

I'd get a lot more sleep if I didn't insist on reading the entire internet every night. I’d planned on getting a decent night’s rest before my Exceedingly Important Meeting but once I discovered free WiFi in the hotel I was doomed, and Twitter came a-calling.

It used to be that the only things that distracted me from my goals and ambitions were shiny things and chocolate, but social media has brought interruption and commotion to a whole new level.

4th July 2011

2011-07-07T01:19:00.000-07:00

Nothing interesting happened today. I wasn’t robbed at knifepoint. I wasn’t sold into slavery and domestic servitude. And I certainly wasn’t tampered with in the good (or the bad for that matter) way.

I was very grown up and responsible and behaved like a highly functioning executive in that I did some work-type stuff and flew to Jersey for a meeting that I have tomorrow with the people who are kind enough to pay for my internet access and my monthly fix of Wispas.

The only thing that was remotely interesting was a non-verbal argument with the dude sitting next to me on the plane. He insisted on huffing and fidgeting and (my lifelong pet peeve) whistling during the entire flight. Imagine the annoyance of a car alarm within a one metre radius for 80 minutes – and that is the level of irritation I was experiencing.

I had to summon out my top level Vulcan Death Stare, but he must have activated his Couldnt Give a Damn shield, because he appeared to be immune to that look - which normally cripples ordinary people.

In the end I had to rely on a well timed "Have a good day!" as we disembarked. On rare occasions, as and when needed following the failure of all other tactics, I do find that that particular phrase, when well executed, can be an effective substitute for "Fuck you!”

3rd July 2011

2011-07-04T04:56:00.001-07:00

My bed sheets were covered in spermatozoa from Friday night’s FWB dalliance, and therefore were languishing in the laundry waiting for the desperate day when I have nothing else to do except housework. This meant I had to use my top tier, “New Boyfriend Linen” for The Blonde’s visit.

This was a perfectly acceptable situation until I spilled a whole cup of coffee all over them this morning, and now they are legitimately ruined. Until I buy new ones it’s probably for the best if I don’t have any immediate success with the Man Plan 2011.

Actually, realistically the Man Plan 2011 is in a state of disarray. I spent time yesterday telling The Blonde all about RAH and the surprise fiancé. She was around the first time we were together, so bore witness to the love and the ultimately the tears when he moved to Asia. So I was reasonably expecting a modicum of sympathy all I got was the following deadpan declaration “Fuck. That’s a mess”.

I think I have noted previously the absolute shortage of compassion from my circle of friends – but this took the biscuit. To compound matters, upon discussion of the Man Plan, she decreed that I am a complete waste of space when it comes to holding down long term relationships and I need to get laid less and get emotional more (RAH excepting – I need to “cop the fuck on and forget about him”).

So the Man Plan 2011, which to date has really just consisted of occasionally hot-bedding it with FWB and planning to otherwise find a regular shag in the form of a boyfriend, apparently needs some fine tuning.

Jesus, this shit is hard. Who knew?

2nd July 2011

2011-07-04T04:34:00.000-07:00

One of my oldest friends - The Blonde - arrived this morning for a Wedding Weekend. I am the bridesmaid for her nuptial extravaganza in September and while her man is away at a friend’s stag, we decided to use the opportunity for a serious retail offensive.

Quite frankly I think girls only get married to buy expensive shoes, and to this end, we commenced our assault at The Shoe Galleries in Selfridges. As it turns out, I am a shoe buying ninja and within the hour we were drinking celebratory prosecco with an impressive Jimmy Choo bag snuggled by The Blonde’s feet.

Check’em out and weep. They’re not mine so I know I am unashamedly and jealously teary.

Once the footwear was organised, we lost all control. And over the course of the day subsequent purchases included

Wedding underwear (admittedly necessary)
Wedding perfume (not at all necessary)
Wedding nail varnish (who are we kidding here?)
Wedding jeans (we’d given up pretending at this stage)

After dinner at Hix (ridiculously amazing burgers people, proceed there asap), we headed to the cinema and then back home, exhausted. On the night bus there were the usual array of reprobates elbowing womens boobs and leering drunkenly. But the highlight of the journey were two schoolgirls who were clearly off their tits. One appeared to be coke’d up to max, and the other gave off a stoned vibe so convincingly it was almost contagious. The former spoke incessantly and at speed for more than 99% of the time and the conversation was utterly brilliant

Some snippets and gems

Coke: I really want to be a superhero of helping people, ya know. Just helping people, but not in a normal way, but the next day i’ll be all battered and bruised from helping people. Cos I want to save lives and all adn to do that you have to fight, like all the time. But I want to do it, to be a superhero of helping people, you know.

Coke: Thats awesome

Coke: I haven’t held a kitten in a while, I love kittens, I hope I hold a kitten soon. I really love kittens. Sometimes I’d like be be a kitten and stuff. I want to hold a kitten.

Dope: I want an iguana called Jimmy

Coke: I am anaemic. And I have to eat sponges to help it cos my mum said, but then I get full and don’t eat, so then i am even more anaemic.

Dope: I heard that eating cement and concrete and things helps cure anaemia

Coke: Yeah, I tried that, I picked up some bricks outside and I ate them and sniffed them with my nose and stuff. They taste horrible and things. But I have to do it, yeah. But mainly I eat sponges. They’re hard to eat though, but not as hard as concrete.

I absolutely promise this was true dialogue. The Blonde and I started off being discrete, but in the end, were openly laughing. Was impossible not to be.

1st July 2011

2011-07-04T01:53:00.001-07:00

Little of note today. I had actual meetings and did actual work all day. Quite like a normal person really. And it made me so tired, I was home and in bed by 10pm (after a post work cleanser with Pappa Slow of course).

I was sound asleep by 11pm, and it took me a while to realise (after midnight) that my doorbell was chiming like billio. FWB was outside, leaning against the frame for support, all pissed and horny. He had Call of Duty in his hand so clearly he’d been at a mates, playing all evening, but given that he was done already I suspect he had been dying more than remaining alive.

I let him in, and even before I got to the bedroom he was nipping at my nightie. Afterwards, I realised that technically speaking – a night with the lads drinking beer, eating pizza and playing computer games, followed by a no strings attached shag is probably the definition of a perfect day. I must remind him of this in the morning when I send him out to Starbucks for a latte.

The only other thing is that I realised that I was being followed on Twitter by TheCommunistManifesto. What the fuck? I am a commercial product-whore with right wing tendancies and a solid argument for Darwinism. What in Gods name does this dude think he’s going to get from me.

Its all a bit bewildering though – I have previously tweeted NASA asking them for a lift home in a passing spaceship on a rainy night when there were no taxis (obviously I had drink on board). Regardless though, they didn’t know this, and yet I got absolutely no response whatsoever. But yesterday I sarcastically mention overhearing a commie student interviewing badly and suddenly TheCommunistManifesto things we've got something in common

What gives? This is a poor state of affairs

30th June 2011

2011-07-01T06:46:00.000-07:00

A manic day if every I have had one

I had a top executive meeting this morning – those are the rarities that allow me, for 60 minutes or so, to feel like my life has purpose, being that typically my main daily responsibilities extend no further than waking up and having a shower.

After my meeting, I was feeling graciously superior to other non-meeting types on the street and I treated myself to a latte in London Bridge Station. An innocuous event, you would think. But this coffee triggered a comedy of errors that got me into so much trouble with the police, my friend Pappa Slow and my mum.

Having enjoyed my beverage, I took my leave from Starbucks – inadvertently without my Blackberry. It was only by the time I was at Waterloo that I realised my loss and impatiently returned to whence I had started from.

A kindly stranger had handed my phone into the barista, who instead of keeping it behind the counter for a while like a normal fucking person, had immediately handed it to passing policeman. She told me this and sent me to the Information office on the 1^st floor. They sent me to Platform 15 where the Lost Property office is. The lost property office is for things lost on trains only, not stations so I subsequently got sent to the network rail office, who sent me back to the tube people who were endlessly amused that I had lost a white Blackberry and I had to beg them to do the intercom dance with their colleagues.

In the end, about an hour later, I was on my way back to Starbucks to yell at the barista for being the least-helpful helpful person I had ever come across, when I happened upon a policeman. He didnt have my phone, but figured out who did and 5 minutes later my property is back with me, its rightful owner.

But thats not all..the police man proceed to tell me his version of events which goes as follows

He called my Mum. Told her to get in touch with me and tell her where my phone was. He then proceeded to witness her leaving a long message ON THE LOST MOBILE in a very careful and concerned voice, repeating herself no less than three times about the location and status of my phone.
He listened to the maternal message and realised that he was dealing with lunacy here as being that it was on my lost mobile, there was a 100% probability I wouldn’t get the message.
He then called my mate Pappa Slow (who was the most recent person in my call list) and told Pappa Slow to get the message to me.
Pappa Slow immediately sent me the following email. “The pigs called...they have your phone”
The very “pig” was still holding my phone in his hand – saw the message come in, read it and re-called Pappa Slow to reprimand him for calling the police pigs. So Pappa Slow is now in trouble.
And thats why when I collected my phone I then got a further telling off for Pappa Slow’s pig message.

I immediately called Pappa Slow once I was out of sight from PC Pig and oh, how we laughed. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being blamed for his tribulations and suspect this will cost me a beer or two.

Now you would think this is where it ends, but when I got home there was a message from my Mum, taking advantage of the situation and sarcastically asking “why do the police call me more than you?” So now I am going to have to a strict rota of parental telephone calls for the foreseeable future.

Later on that evening I still hadn’t called Mum, so while I am at Glee in the O2 arena, I get a harried and excited message from my hormonally pregnant sister as follows

Please call Mum. She is worried as follows (in this listed order)

That the police man was a fake – a con artist that was trying to lure you to point number 2 below.
That you have been raped, murdered or otherwise tampered with

So I interrupted Kurt singing Single Ladies to assure my mother that the police man was real, that I had my phone and I was very much un-tampered with.

Jesus – I should have just written off the phone and enjoyed a peaceful life.

29th June 2011

2011-07-01T06:38:00.000-07:00

Taking advice from somebody dressed as Batman in the toilets of a Wimbledon bar is a bad thing. I know this to be true.

I wish I could tell you more about the day, but quite honestly I can’t remember the detail, and I feel this is for the best for all involved. It started meeting Jez for lunch in town and ended up in Wimbledon bar celebrating tennis with randoms.

The Batman connection was somewhat unexpected and based primarily on the Wombles performance at Glastonbury this batshit crazy fancy-dressed human has apparently taken it on himself to promote the use of Wimbledon Common for sexual proclivities.

I cant remember the logic, but as well as the Wombles, it included some detail about the grunting tennis women, and in the end I was only a condom away from having public sex.

28th June 2011

2011-07-01T06:13:00.000-07:00

At stupid o’clock in the morning I had a knock on my door and once I had wearily hauled my ass to the door, the neighbours kids aimlessly wandered in. Apparently they were bored in their own house and came to see what damage they could inflict on mine.

I put them in front of the TV with a tub of Green and Black’s Vanilla ice cream (for breakfast, but I am not their mum so I don’t have to deal in consequences) and a Peppa Pig DVD. They were to call me if they were mortally wounded but not under any other circumstances.

That lasted about 20 minutes before they were back in my bedroom, wanting to do make up and pursue their incessant line of questioning re: why I don’t have a husband. It’s a husband they're constantly seeing for me, being that they don’t yet know the dating process involving non-exclusive, exclusive, boyfriend, fiancé and then, only then, finally a lovingly betrothed significant other.

While I was fending off all sorts of accusations of shortcomings, I took the icecream out of their grubby little hands and finished it with the vigour of one who was searching for a potential spouse at the bottom of the tub, and carefully considered how much detail I can provide a two and four year old re: fuck buddies and ex-loves showing up with fiancés.

I opted for none, and in an effort to distract them from their interest, I pulled out the toaster and started in on the bread loaf. I sat them up on the draining board and had them spill their crumbs into the sink. In fact I joined them – if there is a way to eat toast, that doesn’t involve hunching over the sink like a criminal I don’t know about it.

Eventually once their mum realised they were not in their own place she came to the next obvious venue (ie. My flat) to find us all toasted up and plaiting our hair. And on their departure I got back into bed with a pen and paper for the rest of the day, alternating between my Man Plan 2011 and some work that needed doing by a deadline that was descending down on me like the sky in Chicken Litten.

27th June 2011

2011-07-01T05:48:00.000-07:00

The sun was out, the barbeque was fired up and I had one of those lazy Sundays that Magners made adverts about.

After taking my leave from FWBs house – full of sausage sandwich, I headed home to freshen up and then was out to another friends for a late lunch. You know sometimes you get a group together, mix it with some prosecco and top notch rose wine, an amazing 5 course barbeque meal that runs from 2pm to sunset...well that was my day.

The crowd for the day were the stuff jokes are made of – one each of Irish, English, Welsh, French, American and Indian. You couldn’t make it up....

On the way home I was seen by a sight that can never be unseen. A massively sized couple (literally massive, both of them) fighting on the train. Something to do with whatever happened when he was (recently) in jail. It might easily have been to do with the HATE tattoos he had on his fingers, but then again it mightn’t. Either way...the fight, while amusing enough to the intrigued eavesdropper, was not nearly as compulsive as what happened next. It was an assault on my retinas, but I couldnt stop looking.

They finished arguing and started snogging to make up....which turned quickly into touching (up her shirt, in his pants) and then finally dry-humping. On a train. In public. In the afternoon.

No given the physical magnitude of the couple this was a bit like watching elephants manoeuvring in a very restricted space. The worst porn ever.

Horrendous and yet all this live action was taking place in the first class of Southwest Trains – where I had sat to get some peace, from the masses coming from Legoland with bears and badges and all sorts, on the offchance that on a Sunday the guard would not be alert to my illegally upgraded presence.

Man, did I ever regret that decision. My flabber was well and truly gasted.

26th June 2011

2011-06-30T01:22:00.000-07:00

Well it happened. I reached a new low.

Following yesterdays episode involving an onslaught from the Eastern Europeans in short-shorts, I took myself and my reluctant chastity out for a night with friends. We went to Wood NW1 – our most favourite haunt for some Pad Thai and a bottle of wine.

What followed that evening was inexcusable really. I committed the ultimate sin of “Revisit”. It’s the eleventh commandment, the one that nobody speaks aloud – Thou shalt not revisit the bed of a previous shag for further shaggery purposes.

Admittedly though my booty call was to my life-long go-to guy: FWB. So that’s sort of okay. Sort of okay, excepting only the fact that we only recently broke up as official boyfriend-girlfriend and had been awkwardly limiting our correspondence to email since then, while we worked on finding our new groove.

While it was neither agreed nor disagreed that we would ever revert to our former fuck-buddy status, it was also not a decision best taken on a Saturday night at 11pm having accidentally spilled a bottle of Malbec into my tummy.

FWB was out with his work colleagues and was surprisingly amenable and open to the concept of some fidgeting of the nether regions. So with that, I made my boobies sparkly using my friends exceptionally-helpful powder puff and I launched myself into a passing taxi and headed to Soho House where FWB was being held hostage by people talking about the credit crunch (yes, still!) and Greece (in a dull bankrupty and non-holiday way).

I sat on the periphery of the conversation until FWB whispered to me “when I want sex, talking is a fucking waste of time”. Nothing could be truer, and we headed back to his for what is officially known as shenanigans.

While the nocturnal events were suitably messy, nothing could have pre-empted the chaos of the morning. Well actually, everything could, but we just didn’t think it through. FWBs two flatmates are both of our mates; the very mates who loved us as a couple and were horrified when we broke up. So when Jez shouted up that breakfast was ready – being that it was his turn to fulfil their longstanding homely tradition of a Sunday morning fry-up – we jointly freaked out.

Letting them know I’d stayed over and provided a socket for FWBs hard-on would only cause confusion and, even worse, expectations for an official reunification of FWB and I. And in that instant it was clear that neither of us wanted that. So rather than dragging the others into a quagmire of our own making, we mututally agreed that I should climb out the window.

So yes, I climbed out the fucking window. As Jez was knocking on the door announcing that the bacon was ready, I was hurling myself out an open window in West Hampstead.

I am way too old for this. And quite frankly way too classy as well - I wear heels to go shopping for Christsake. I never thought I'd be the kind of person to use windows and doors interchangeably, and yet here I was adopting just such an emergency exit strategy.

An old couple out for their morning perambluation saw me as I heaved myself up and over the sill, with FWB gallantly pushing my arse all the way through and throwing my shoes out after me. FWB lives in a nice part of town, so this is clearly not the norm, and yet, I found myself fixing my clothes and smiling good morning to the OAPs as if this was perfectly normal and in fact, my preferred exit from a house. To give them their credit, they just stopped short, said nothing and just openly stared in bewilderment as I began my walk of shame.

The main problem though, was that I had been lured by the smell of cooking sausages and bacon, and after the displacement of energy the night before I quickly convinced myself of a need to imbibe some food-based liveliness so as to make the long* journey home. It was Archimede’s Principle for the real world, if you will.

So immediately after climbing out the window at the side of the house, with the four geriatric eyes boring a hole into my back, I brazenly walk around to the front and when Jez answered the door, I demanded breakfast saying I had no food in my own house, and it had been a long night.

To be fair – I wasn’t lying. Both of those things were true. And in the end it made quite a sweet reunion with FWB, with both of us smiling privately into our toast at our dirty little secret. We’re back on track. Natural order and friends with benefits are fully restored.

*very short, 3 streets only

25th June 2011

2011-06-27T04:50:00.000-07:00

If there are worse things than being shagless in the fine heat of the summer – I can’t think of any of them right now. So I am damn well going to dust myself off and find me some cock. There’s been far too much whimpering and it’s been far too long since I had some nether action.

I am nothing if not proactive in my constant search for decent sex, so firstly I took myself off to my (recently dormant) match.com account. Immediately I was given a harsh reminder that there was a reason I stopped using Match – and it’s not just that pathetic Godfather 3 ad that makes me want to pull my eyes out and Van Gough my ears off. But its horrors like this 52 year old Czech dude speaking to me in sexual innuendo that make me adore my current chastity

I don't even have words for this.

24th June 2011

2011-06-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

I had a meeting today during which I was an important executive, who said things like “efficiencies” and “low hanging fruit” and I think at one point I even suggested we “take it offline”. I couldn’t stop myself; my entire being turned into one massive cliché, and as I left our Starbucks venue, I hated myself a little for my 60 minute power struggle a la David Brent.

I was distracted from my self-loathing though, by a sight that I don’t think I will ever be able to burn away from the inside of my retinas.

A jogger, of the male persuasion. Wearing too-tight bicycle shorts. You could see everything. EVERYTHING. I could distinctly make out each individual element of his downstairs area, and believe me when I tell you it was a violent assault to my delicate senses.

While I am one of the few women that actually finds the male genitalia aesthetically pleasing, I do not need to bear witness to jiggling gonads as I am casually shopping, nor do I want to see the horrors of man camel-toe while I am sitting on the tube, desperately listening to Leonard Cohen, trying to avert my eyes away from the too-tight Chinos standing boldly at my eye level.

On the distaff side, I have long been an advocate of the “leggings are not pants” brigade, but now I am finding myself having to argue the point that wellies are not shoes, even if they are a bright pink colour. In fact, if anything ladies, neons and pastels make them worse and infinitely more juvenile. I don’t care if you’re wearing short shorts with them or Laura Ashley skirt, wellies have no place on Regent Street on a sunny day. Are we clear?

God, what is wrong with you people? It’s tiring championing proper dress code at all times. Tiring, I tell you.

Aside from this sartorial hell that I have unintentionally found myself in, I have spent the remainder of the day molly-coddling my jetlag and letting my tiredness run roughshod through my brain. In my sub-optimal state I am realising that my life is fast becoming a minefield of relationship disasters and casual sex.

It’s already June and I am staring into a bleak future on the man-front.

FWB – done and dusted.
Mr X – abandoned.
RAH – in somebody elses bed. Bitch.
Countless dates – disasters
Several shags – fun, but temporary, and if the truth be told, one incident of lady garden bruising resulting from an energetic nocturnal performance.

This needs addressing. And tomorrow when my laudable health-kick begins in the pronounced and valiant effort to turn myself into the gay male dancer from Priscilla, I will also make a plan – the Man Plan 2011. It’s very possible that this will not end well. But I will heroically push forward, with you as my witnesses.

23rd June 2011

2011-06-24T11:48:00.000-07:00

I think I need to sue America. Does anybody know the URL for Personal Injury Lawyers 4U?

As I am now safely, if somewhat unenthusiastically, ensconsed back in the bosom of London I took the time to assess my holiday injuries. This is not unusual. There are ALWAYS holiday injuries.

This time however, I realised that most of them are attributable to my being in America, rather than my being me.

Here goes:

Large burn on left arm, sustained while testing my hair straighteners to “see if they get as hot on American voltage”. They do.
Cankles courtesy of a flight during which I slept entire way and did not move once, thereby allowing every molecule of liquid in my body to gather, and coagulate in my ankles.
A few minor bruises on my legs from hitting the sticky-out corner bit of the hotel bed a couple of times. American hotel bed, natch.
Some UDIs (Unidentifiable Drinking Injuries) from drinking in American bars, not London bars.
Cut, skinned and swollen bruise on finger – somehow when running for the lift, I banged my hand off a wall. I don’t have a lift in my house, or a venomous wall for that matter, so it has to be attributable to America
Small lump on my forehead – too humiliating to explain but it involved accidentally banging the corner of a square plate on my head.
Sore, bruisey bits on my toes, from breaking in new flip flops as I walked the streets of Manhattan. Okay, as I got in and out of taxis, but it’s still a NYC injury.

See – it’s all Americas fault. Definitely.

22nd June 2011

2011-06-22T16:36:00.000-07:00

Where are the supermarkets in Manhattan. Where do people buy their jam and their toothpaste. I saw 2 celebrities, a jogging albino, some astonishingly precocious adolescents and a grown-up man wearing a knee-length onsie but I didn't see a single Sainsburys. Does not compute. Does not compute.

Took it handy for my last day...after a burrito in Chipotle as highly recommended by @mullies who has a blog entirely devoted to burritos and their ilk. Without going into too much detail, I am glad its my tendency to follow instruction as that burrito met all standards that could ever be required of some flatbread and a handful of pinto beans.

In the afternoon, I took in a cheeky matinee of Bridesmaids. Ladies...go to see this movie. Do not pass go, do not collect £200. Gentlemen...give it a skip and go to the pub with your mates.

After that I met R for a quick drink at Tribeca Grill and sadly my holiday came to an abrupt end.

I am now in a queue to check in my luggage and hoping against all logic for an upgrade that is sure never to materialise.

Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange

21st June 2011

2011-06-22T10:08:00.000-07:00

Red wine is vitamins, right?

Good, then we can safely assume that for yet another day on my holiday, I have consumed the correct levels of nutrition as recommended by the World Health Organisation.

There was a lot of indulgence today – from a sublime massage at Bliss Spa that turned my brain to mulch, all the way through to some pretty decadent shopping in Victoria Secret, which was depressing only momentarily when I realised I have nobody to demonstrate my new lingerie to. Goddamit.

From there I went popped into Duane Reed. I love foreign pharmacies...I am of the belief that it is important to take advantage and stock up on as wide a variety of over the counter medications as is humanly possible. And God Bless The USA for having enough continent wide foibles to accommodate my non-prescription mediation habit.

There were a LOT of ugly people in Duane Reed. I didn’t think it was statistically possible for that many facial and limb-related deformities to be in one place at one time. Yes, here was was being confronted by the horrors of humankind. I did have a laugh however when I saw a sale on economy packs of ridiculous condom with a smiley devil on them. Can't help but think they are a baby waiting to happen for whomever believes frugality extends to such protection

In the evening I met with R and a bunch of her friends....we had an awesome meal in Pastis and a lot of laughing. The food was amazing. I had steak-frites. There was Bernaise sauce.....oh my god, there was a lot of Bernaise sauce. The best sauce I have ever tasted, so we went to town on it. All of us. Pretty much everything we put in our mouths, was simply a vehicle to get that sauce aligning with our tastebuds.

The Bernaise spectacle was relegated into insignificance though when the desserts arrived. We ordered three between the seven of us and good lord it was a feeding frenzy. Desserts officially taste better when you have to fight for them. There were cutlery swordfights and at one point we were behaving in an animalistic manner that typically behoves filming by the Discovery channel. Carnage. And the sugar rush that followed the annihilation of the toffee pudding, strawberry shortcake and warm chocolate pie was epic.

So when I met @redearedrabbit for a drink at the bar after dinner, he was the unfortunate recipient of a sucrose and alcohol nervousness I hold especially for meeting new people when I've been drinking for a few hours. He was wearing a very flowery shirt – that’s how I recognised him. He also texted me in advance saying “I am at the bar wearing a very flowery shirt”. So it was a bit of a giveaway really.

A couple of drinks and a chat about the profound effects of Twitter on modern socialisation and then he had to leave. He is a very important executive you see. There was a worky type bag present, that I am pretty sure had a laptop in it. Like I said...important executiveness. Quite impressive to the bone idle really.

20th June 2011

2011-06-21T12:12:00.000-07:00

This morning C and I were immensely surprised that we both felt much better than we deserved, given the potentially lethal volume of wine we had imbibed at Spice Market. Some Solpadine and a long lie in proved to be 80% of the recovery solution and, I can’t lie to you, the other 20% was to be found in another Shake Shack burger.

Best Bloke Mate (BBM) got in touch to provide his unique brand of condolences having heard of RAH’s production of an affianced lady a few days ago. BBM had been around to pick up the pieces when RAH moved to Asia, so he had an inkling about how devastating this news would have been to me.

Which is why he sent this thoughtful and considerate message

If its any consolation, its only taken you approx 20 years to find and lose RAH in the first place. Let's assume another 20 years to find the next one. But you will need to keep your foot on the search pedal and keep sifting the man-wheat from the chaff like a predatory combine harvester.

After R finished work, C and I met her in SoHo on Sullivan Street....incidentally the title of one of my most favourite Counting Crows songs. We had what is apparently legendary pizza according to Vanity Fair, and to be honest it was exceptionally tasty but mainly cos I covered it in chilli oil and couldn’t talk for 20 minutes for having set fire to my mouth, which ironically I think is a good thing.

I used that quiet time to oogle our waiter. He wasn’t conventionally good looking, but between the charm and the x-factor he was undeniably attractive. An actor of course (this was SoHo, natch) and we collectively agreed he was “doable” on the Likert Scale that runs from “Yeuch...thats an assault on my eyes” to “You should have already banged him” I am pretty sure on a normal scale, that’s about an 8.

People watching in lower Manhattan is an outstanding hobby....everything feels bohemian, in the way that Hoxton in London tries to be, but just falls short . The only problem is that everybody – men and women alike – are so damn skinny here. There is thin and then there is New York thin.

New York thin is emaciated to the point of angular bodies and bones so sharp they could be misconstrued as WMDs. Admittedly this is the city look, and all in all, it is the epitome of cool but when passing women had waists smaller than either one of my thighs, I kept having to give off an “I don’t have AIDS, I’m just big boned” vibe.

Not sure it worked though, as when a dude wearing an denim knee-length onesie (and I totally wish I were kidding about this) passed by, I am pretty sure he averted his eyes just in case he caught “average”.

19th June 2011

2011-06-20T10:51:00.000-07:00

C and I had treated ourselves to some sleeping tablets last night (it is a holiday, after all!) so we woke up way later than originally anticipated, and headed straight down to Shake Shack to meet R and eat some allegedly amazing burgers. We queued up for 1 hour and 12 minutes and by the time we got to the top, by God we were thinking this food had better be damn good.

And oh my good lord....they were incredible. Actually beyond incredible. We practically made sex noises when we were eating, and to clarify for @maverick99sback – they were the moans of three satisfied women rather than some pig like grunting, but thank you for chivalrously suggesting the latter. It’s nice to have to make these clarifications.

As well as the burger and cheese fries, I had a chocolate peanut butter milkshake. And let me tell you that milkshake tasted better than anything I have ever had in my mouth. Make of that what you will, and know that I have my priorities very much in order.

Having subsequently entered into the coma that would be expected after a lot of deliciousness in the heat of the sun, we decided to walk off our food babies on The Highline which is a funky (yes, I said funky) elevated park that runs the length of Manhattan on a disused elevated railtrack.

There was a total change of plan when we passed a cinema that had The Hangover II just starting, so we decided to get out of the sun, see the movie now, and do the long walk when it was cooler....good idea. The Hangover II is not as bad as the reviews suggest. Yes its only a fraction as good as the original, but suggestions that its hateable are unjustified.

Post movies, R had to go home to do some work and C and I were heading towards the funky (there it is again) park....whose entrance is in the Meatpacking District. Now I challenge anybody to pass through this area without stopping for a cocktail. It’s impossible, and the magnetic force of the Spice Market proved irresistible to C and I.

That was the point at which the wheels fell off the day. Our one-glass-of-wine turned into 4 bottles and some incredible chicken samosas, consumed over the course of 6 hours, during which we had pens and papers out and proceed to make increasingly ludicrous life plans. By the time we mutually agreed that The Highline can “proper fuck off” we knew we were in trouble.

Sitting on barstools for hours, vacating them only for bathroom breaks and to find my shoes, one of which inexplicably disappeared temporarily, might not be big, and it’s definitely not clever. But it was straight up fun. I will not lie. It was definitely worth writing off 10,000 braincells and a month of lifespan.

So although I am a little more stupid today than I was yesterday, a night that includes a challenge to eat wasabi peas with a spoon, and only accidentally didn’t end up with the bartender as an additional bedfellow in a random threeway is always going to be a memorable occasion.

18th June 2011

2011-06-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

Having met R the previously night, the third of our triumvirate arrived while I was sleeping. C was considerate enough not to wake me when she got in...yet I saw no reason whatsoever to repay the favour when I woke up (at 10am London-time) at 5am New York-time.

She’d better have been happy to see me, because I proceeded to poke her forehead and chant her name repeatedly until she had no choice but to accept defeat. C....C....C....C....wake up...C....C....wake up...C...C...wake up....C....C....C!!!!!!!! I needed her to be alert for gossiping purposes.

Later on we met up with R for lunch at Felix – a ridiculously cool place in SoHo, and after a decidedly healthy platter of gazpacho and salad and sparkling water, we circumnavigated the topics of wine and dessert, until the waiter swooped in on our indecision and suddenly we were drinking prosecco and eating chocolate profiteroles instead of having main courses.

After our long lunch, the wine served its secondary purpose of greasing the credit card wheels as we went shopping. Within meters of Felix we discovered a handmade jewellery boutique, and 20 minutes later all three of us walked out dripping in beautiful but eminently unnecessary silver and Swarovski crystals.

We spent the rest of the afternoon ambling around and trying on pretty things, and over margaritas at Dos Caminos, we reached the conclusion that world peace should never be our responsibility – but when it’s done, we’ll be good for the decoration.

In the evening C had organised tickets to Priscilla. To say it was camp is like saying Hitler was a bit naughty. It was not so much a theatre show as it was a glitter-fest on a stage so pink it was like a flamingo exploded in the orchestra pit. Utterly brilliant - the costumes, the songs, even the fact the wine at the interval was served in pink bejazzled take-home sippy cups – everything just bloody brilliant.

One of the lead actors had the body of Adonis. Not in an “I lust you” kind of way – but I am guessing he singlehandedly motivated most of the audience, male and female alike, to hit the gym when they get back home. Certainly did for me! I might even start taking a purposeful advantage of my Esporta membership which would equate to more than the occasional aqua aerobics and coffee with the girls.

I think I have already established that I err on the Reubenesque side of slender, but I like to think I dress appropriately, excepting of course my chesticles. I have a questionably relaxed attitude to cleavage, resulting in others constantly trying to fix my clothing so modesty is preserved in all its boring glory. I think they feel a little embarrassed for me, in what they mistakenly believe are wardrobe malfunctions, but they totally underestimate my both my appreciation for my personal lady lumps and my willingness to display purposefully bought lingerie.

But I digress. My point is now that I am not going to rely on my milkshake driving approximately 70% of the boys to my yard. I am on a furious health kick...I will have the toned zero-fat body of a gay male Broadway singer/dancer by the end of the summer. It will definitely be so. This is my new ambition. Which will not start until I get back from New York. Of course. Whoever starts fad on the today? Nobody – and I’m not going to buck the trend.

Afterwards on a post-show high, we ended up getting all musical with a squabble of middle aged homosexual humans, drinking wine from their Priscilla sippy cups and walking down Broadway bellowing a cacophony of All By Myself into the night air.

It was all down to C. She is a beacon for the homosocial. Without exception all the gays love her, in manner of Judy or Cher. And with our new friends still singing away to their hearts content, we had one final cocktail somewhere on 9^th Ave before heading home to our hotel and sleeping our excesses away.

17th June 2011

2011-06-19T07:45:00.000-07:00

After such a ridiculous late night playing poker, packing for my New York trip was a necessarily brief affair.

Passport: Check
Money: Check
Everything Else: Open suitcase, sweeping fling of random things and hope for the best.

Very boring plane ride – which is kind of what you hope for, right? Don’t get me wrong. I fucking love a decent drama. But not on a plane. I want no kids crying, no wings falling off and only a negligible amount of turbulence. So while this makes for a mundane blog update, I don’t think I am ever happier than when I see my grey suitcase with its luminous green strap trundling towards me on the conveyor belt of my jetlag.

The subsequent journey from JFK to Manhattan however, was an unmitigated multi-hour disaster incorporating thunder and lightning storms, shut roads and mahoosive roadworks. But them’s the breaks and I managed the entire process through the medium of snoozing. When I finally got to the hotel R was waiting in the lobby, and we engaged in a loud, embarrassing sorority girl style squealy-jumpy hug.

People tried to avert their eyes at the mortifying spectacle, but it was compulsive viewing, and we had no shame. We yelped with joy and reunion until we reached a point where only dogs could hear us.

Once I’d dumped my bags, we headed to Blue Fin in the W Hotel for some sushi and people watching. There was a surprising amount of confusion about edamame beans. More confusion than you would think possible about so straightforward a topic, but once we’d resolved it with the waitress, it was all systems go, and sushi, sashimi and yummness all found their way into our mouths, washed, nay gargled, down with generous amounts of “its great to see you again” sauvignon blanc.

Our other friend, C, was flying in from San Francisco, but her plane was late because of the weather. I desperately tried to stay awake, but by the time she arrived at midnight she found all the lights, television, mobile and laptop flashing and switched on, and me, in the melee, fast asleep while sitting in an upright position

Welcome to my New York.

16th June 2011

2011-06-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I realised that normally when I have man-issues, I'd call FWB for some "support" in the form of copulation...but this no longer seems appropriate, so instead when Pappa Slow texted and asked me to play some poker the Fox Poker Club I was right up for it.

It was quite a chilled out evening for a while, but turned in a different direction immediately following a Jaeger shot imbibed as a consolation prize when Pappa Slow suffered vastly at the hands of a sick beat. Somebody, who shouldnt have even been in the pot to begin with, got lucky on the river, so he was feeling very hard done by.

Somehow this manifested itself into some creative "biro" art - using my legs as a canvas. There were several menfolk drawn ranging from Morrissey to somebody who appeared to be a Che Guevara smoking a Monte Cristo,

The artwork was amazing, until Pappa Slow started circling the scars on my knees and flagging them as needing medical attention. These are scars from tripping when I was a kid mainly....until he happened across the damage caused by a recent inebriated tumble while trying to recreate the OK Go treadmill video while holding a bottle of wine.

For reasons unknown, he circled this scar and addressed it to NASA. For the life of me, I dont know what mindset suggested NASA as a solution to my red skin - but I think it was to do with sending my patellas to space for regeneration into regular person knees. Nice.

After leaving the club we went for a kebab, and as i was ordering our fake lamb cordon bleu we were accosted by a homeless dude. So I bought him a kebab too. He thanked me and then immediately asked me for chips too. I acquiesced and was subsequently treated to some very unnecessary and overwhelmingly less than fragrant huggery. Jesus, he smelled bad...so here was I drenched in homeless and having to endure some overreaching compliments about my character. Reader, I have been officially declared the nicest person in the world.

The smell though, the smell. An olfactory assault that I may never be able to forget. Horrified....it put me right off being charitable.

15th June 2011

2011-06-15T22:01:00.000-07:00

I am terribly despondent today. When I woke up this morning it hit me, like a ton of bricks, that RAH might very well have been the love of my life, and he is now with the love of his life, who most certainly isn’t me.

And, while technically being surrounded by more penii than a girl could possibly need, a little piece of my world has just collapsed because the only one I want doesn’t want me back. So I decided to permit myself one entire day of wallow-type behaviour before I get a grip, accept that my reality is not my ideal, and move on.

The pink permission slip I self-signed for this very purpose had no boundaries whatsoever, excepting the time limitation of 24 hours, and what followed was a level of self pity previously unbeknownst to mankind. There were teary calls to friends, potentially lethal amounts of carbohydrates consumed, and in an apparent effort to really bottom out, I actually downloaded some key songs from Whitney Houston’s back catalogue and created a “Pissed-Off" playlist” for my iPod.

All day I have been channelling power ballads - “Run to You” and “Didn’t We Almost Have It All” in all La Houston’s pre-crackhead glory, alongside the popular heartbreak favourites of Why Does It Always Rain on Me?, Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters and the dulcet tones Katie Meula singing Closest Thing To Crazy. These and so many more vomit-inducing songs playing on repeat, the entire live long day.

Yeah Whitney, you’re right, for a few moments there I did nearly have it all. And yet here I am whinging my way through a support call from my sister in which we wholeheartedly agreed there are certain significant parts of my story that are less than ideal (primarily the fact that RAH is with somebody who isn’t me) and our collective conclusion is that I need to stop being an eejit and sit it out....but that I don’t necessarily to sit it out by myself. With my sister’s encouragement and blessing I am to throw myself about in pursuit of anything resembling how I felt about RAH.

A girl does need to have herself some fun. Which is perfect timing given I am going to New York for a week and then have a whole bunch of cool social things planned when I get back. Maybe I will get past this devastation after all.

By early afternoon, the Pissed Off playlist had peaked and its effectiveness was in sharp decline so I downloaded Mansun’s album Attack of the Grey Lantern, because RAH had previously said reminded him of me and would always be “my” album.

My first impression was one of total and utter bewilderment – can I just say guys, be very fucking careful when you tell a girl that an album reminds you of her – especially when it contains songs whose titles include

Who do you hate?
Stripper Vicar
Disgusting
She makes my nose bleed.

On the other hand there is also a song called Naked Twister – which, in all honesty, I have never played, but can’t imagine myself being averse to. Sound like an awful lot of fun really.

And then I found IT.

Standing in grey lantern light
Mavis looking sexy through her dress it shines
Hiding in the vestry she recites her lines, she says
I can't see you, I love you, I miss you
I can't see you, I love you, I do

I presume I am the Mavis being referred to, and such reference is not in a horribly inappropriate Mavis and Derek from Coronation Street type of way. This may or may not have been the song that RAH was referring to, but I was grasping at straws here people.

In a disgustingly harmonious way, on this, The Day of Woe (TM) I happened to have a dental appointment for some cleaning and general scraping with a miniature electric pick axe. This is just perfect – a shining example of pathetic fallacy, except less about nature’s sympathetic emotional state and more about existential incisors.

The dentist was running late so I had the privilege of reading about Ryan Giggs in the latest gossip magazines and watching an old lady repeatedly hitting a young guy beside her. I was 50/50 sure that he was either her carer or a kidnapper, and after some consideration I eventually settled on the former, because really, who kidnaps crazy old ladies. Nobody, thats who.

While I was figuring out the complexities of this scenario, I must have been staring at her absentmindedly...because she turned to me and declared, quite precisely, that she had diarrhoea.

And that was the very point at which I decided to dust myself off from my latest tragic episode. If my misery manifests itself in some sort of a “tell me if you have diarrhoea” facial expression that even crazy ladies can read, then I am done with this shit.

Although it practically killed me, I deleted his number so I wouldn’t be tempted to contact him and gave myself a pep talk. Time heals wounds. Life’s too short. Fish in the sea. Carpe Diem. And many other useless platitudes.

I’ll do it tomorrow though. I am going to bed early today for a little bit of a cry. I’ll carpe diem from tomorrow. I promise.

14th June 2011

2011-06-15T21:54:00.000-07:00

I have actual real live work today, but nothing says fuck you to a deadline like logging on to twitter at 9.30am

Once I’d completed a sufficient amount to get past the trolls at the bridge, I wanted to go out and meet people and such so as to redress the natural balance of my life....so I met with one other Monday Clubber. One of the founding members was missing so this was not an official episode to go on record. Nevertheless we ate pub food including the most amazing zucchini and pine nut bruschetta and sliders. (Note they did say zucchini and not courgette – thats how posh this pub was!)

We also made a Jesus in Robes using a cocktail stick a napkin. For some reason we insisted that he had half a cherry tomato which was originally his head, but later changed to be a bicycle helmet.

This is not the first sarcastic religious effigy the Monday Club has made out of foodstuffs and pub paraphanelia and its is probably not the last. Regardless, we were outraged when the waitress threw our Jesus in Robes in the bin. I don’t think she appreciated its holy status.