Saturday, 31 January 2015

Falling Cats and One Night Stands

Brigitte Bardot having a blast on her C.S Motorbike
Image from babylonvintage.files.wordpress.com


Well well well.

I seemed pretty fucking miserable in my last few posts. This week I feel like I have peeled away from that self, leaving my sulky shadow behind. It's like snapping off two great hulking dark wings and looking back round at them, thinking 'What the fuck are these?'.

On a completely unrelated topic, I'm now back on the C.S Motorbike and it is full functioning. I am really enjoying zooming around London in it, careering down pleasant cul-de-sacs, revving to the end and back. What I need is a nice, long straight country road I think. I'm very much loving the C.S.Motorbike, but I think the constant maneuvering and wrong turns could get a bit exhausting.

(If you're trying to understand the metaphor, don't bother - I lost myself at 'cul-de-sacs'.)

I have a question for you all - what do you think about sleeping with people on the first date?

I am quite shocked that some girls *coughPoshClarecough* think it is a big fat no-no. Why is it a no-no? If you haven't had sex for a LONG TIME and you meet someone you quite fancy and you are having a nice time together and they suggest going back to their place 'to watch a film' and when you get there neither of you fancies watching a film, why would you not do whatever you want to do?

I think the assumption is that men won't want to see you again if you sleep with them, but who wants to end up a guy who thinks like that anyway?

Imagine if I went on loads and loads of dates with someone and pretending to be something I wasn't, and then what day, over a romantic meal, he made a casual comment about 'slags who shag about' or something equally distasteful and we would get into a heated debate and both end up cursing the day we ever met.

You see, it would never work. Why would you want to spend time with someone with such wrong and stupid opinions?

It takes two to have sex, so if a guy sleeps with a girl and then decides he doesn't want to see her again, he should also avoid looking into reflective surfaces because she didn't have sex with HERSELF.

It's so weird. If you really like someone, can sleeping with them make you then unlike them? Maybe if one of you does something weird or terrifying ('Is your daddy hair like me', anyone?) but if you have a nice time and it doesn't work out, I think that's because it's just not meant to be, not because you committed a heinous crime against your souls and pure bodies.

I feel so zen and calm at the moment. HMRC are even charging me £100 because they are FUCKING STUPID CUNTS and I am just accepting my fate in a very calm way. I am letting the fine wash over me like warm water. I don't care at all, these things happen. HMRC is obviously run by raving LUNATICS with no idea what they are doing, but can I help that?

No. So I have accepted it. Ommmm. Fuck you HMRC. Ommmm.

Over Christmas I wasn't doing yoga or playing netball and I think that really affected my mood. Also my C.S.Motorbike has helped.

We need touch to survive, it's why tiny babies die in orphanages without human contact and affection. It's not like guys and gals who have one night stands or 'friends with benefits' relationships are leaping into bed with each other thinking 'this person will marry me FOR SURE because I am having sex with them' and then waking up regretful and bitterly disappointed. It's just nice to spend time with someone one on one, skin on skin etc.

As I have started out discussing a subject that could be seen by some as being 'crude', I may as well go on to a topic that I know many people will think of as being crude. It makes me laugh, a lot.

My friend Claire (not Posh Clare, obviously) has a theory that she and some of her friends are very camp gay men in women's bodies, because - as she put it - 'we love the cock, we're very funny, we look fabulous in make-up and heels and we've all talked about finding a guy who would let us use a strap on'. Claire and Jen have even trawled the internet to find their 'alter ego willies'. 

I might look for mine now.

Was that too crude?

Don't worry, I have lots of other things to blog about and they are not crude at all.

Last Friday on my way to work, I saw a cat die. It was horrific. I'd just walked out of my street when I noticed a car lying next to the road, underneath a block of flats. I felt really sad and thought it must have been run over, and I wondered if I should check its collar and ring the owner. As I was debating this, I saw that the cat was still breathing.

My mind went blank and I couldn't think who to call for help - I kept thinking there must be an ambulance for cats and wondering how to find the number. I looked for the RSPCA on my Crackedberry but it was being so slow. Then a man came out of his house on the opposite side of the road, so I called to him and asked him if he knew who's cat this was. 

He didn't know, but he helped me look for numbers on his smart(er)phone. 

Then a woman came running out of the block of flats, she was shouting down the phone in Chinese and seemed very upset. 

"My cat! My cat!" she said when she noticed her cat, and me and the neighbour stood next to it.

I told her the cat was still breathing and she seemed amazing. The neighbour realised instantly that the cat must have fallen from a balcony, it hadn't been run over. The cat had blood coming out of its nose and ears, but it meowed a little bit and moved its legs slightly.

I explained to the woman that we were trying to call the RSPCA or a local vet and she gave me her phone to use. Every vets or RSPCA number the neighbour and I called told us to call somewhere else, and gave us more numbers to try. It was ridiculous. The cat was dying.

The woman's husband turned up - I think he'd been on his way to work and she must have called him to come back - and we told him what we were doing.

"Doctor? Doctor for pet?" he asked.

"Yes, pet doctor!"

"You come with us? I don't speak English." the woman said.

"Yes, yes of course, I'll come." I said.

The neighbour eventually found a vets who told him to bring the cat ASAP. They said it could cost up to £200, so I explained to the Chinese couple (I was worried they thought I was asking them for money!) and they said they had the money and that it was ok.

The woman ran upstairs to get the cat basket - they must have lived on the top floor because she took a long time. While she was upstairs, the cat jolted and its eyes opened wide. It was dead.

It was so horrible, telling the woman her cat had died. The vets told us to bring the cat anyway, as the could make sure nothing else could be done and cremate it.

I asked the couple if they were ok to go alone to the vets - the vets would expect them and know exactly what had happened as I'd told them over the phone, I didn't see how I would help really.

The neighbour and I said goodbye and the couple thanked us. It was so weird. We walked to the tube together and I realised he was French. (He didn't want to speak French with me, I tried.) We got the tube together and when he got off he asked for my number.

I was so surprised - seeing a cat die together does normally result in a number-exchange, or does it? I think he might be gay anyway, maybe he just wants to make friends in London. If we become friends at least we'll have an interesting 'how we became friends' story.

How sad though. Such a horrible start to a Friday.


Saturday, 17 January 2015

Mr. Bombastic Doom

***WARNING:: If you are feeling a bit miserable this post might tip you over the edge, so stop reading here.***

Somebody has put some photos up on Facebook from New Year's Eve and they are so bad that I have just been crying. I look so, so awful. We went to Devon for four days and by the fourth day I literally felt like a toxic cloud of soot, floating next to myself and following myself closely round the cottage.

There are a lot of photographs of me dancing with an inflatable sword, wearing a turban made from zebra-print leggings. I remember we all had one on our heads and we called them Lurbans. We called Katie, who did them all for us, Mother Lurban. We ran round the cottage looking for more leggings to wear on our heads.

I remember all this but I do not remember look so hideously disgusting.

I thought 'Maybe that's what I look like all the time' and then I started crying hysterically, so let's pretend that I don't look like that. Maybe that is only what I look like after four days of heavy Lurban-wearing, toxin-injesting and eating nothing but crisps and sausages.

We originally had a HUGE order of food and drink from Asda, that cost £500. But on the day we were supposed to go to the cottage, I woke up and OJ and TC's house and has just found out that the whole shop had been cancelled, because OJ's credit card company thought it might be a 'fraudulent transaction' and Asda hadn't said anything!

I used to LOVE Asda and now I LOATHE it.

Asda's fuck-up meant TC and I had to trail round the nearest Tesco when we got to Devon, filling THREE TROLLIES with booze, crisps and sausages. The lights in there were so weird that I got really dizzy and could barely read the shopping list on my cracked Crapberry.

Sigh.

I really want to blog but I have nothing to say, really. Living in London, you realise that nobody actually wants to listen to anything you have to say. I think I've started editing what I say so much that now there is nothing left.

When people at work ask me what I did over the weekend I tend to say 'oh just a few things really what about you?'. It might seem as though I am trying to be enigmatic, but I know that is only the response not to make me panic and stop halfway through, thinking 'Am I saying too much?'

Last night I went to an exhibition with Lauren at the V&A - Disobedient Objects. It's about objects that have been created and/or used for protesting.

Shields against the police made to look like giant books, so that riot police fighting back students protesting cuts to their university appeared to be attacking literature and learning - battering books with batons.

An amazing bank note from Burma, with a secret watermark of  Aung San Suu Kyi - woman who won the election but was placed under house arrest by the military. The designer was told to put Aung San Suu Kyi's father on the note instead - General Aung San. But the watermark portrait had softer features and even though the face was wearing the General's hat, it was clearly supposed to be Aung San Suu Kyi. It was two months before the government noticed. Amazing.

There was also a video of protesters in California in the seventies, with their arms locked into those tube things and the police were grabbing their faces and rubbing pepper spray into their eyes. It really scared me.

There were a lot of objects in the exhibition from recent political protest movements - against the Spanish mortgage crisis, the trouble in Syria, pans turned into drums from Buenos Aires.

Lauren said the whole thing depressed her and it was really depressing. All these protests, increasing over the years and things get worse and worse.

We had to go into the gift shop to calm down - only consumerism can cheer me up, now that is depressing.

Fucking hell, sorry. I bet tomorrow I will be in a TIP TOP mood, bouncing off the walls and smiling. But for now I am just sitting on my bed, on a Saturday night, in a foul mood. My housemate has got people round and I know I'm being rude and, in a way, cutting my nose off to spite my face because she asked me if I wanted to go out with them and I said no even though I would probably cheer up if I just got dressed up and went out, but I don't want to speak to anyone.

Good grief.

What will cheer me up??

Lauren told me there is a nice series on iPlayer about old ladies who bitch about each other, I think. I might try and look for that. 

Normally when I am feeling sad I listen to Mr Bombastic, but if I put it on now Mon and all her friends will hear it I think I am spending Saturday night in my bedroom, dancing to Shaggy in my bedroom.




Sunday, 21 December 2014

Disco Celt

It's the Winter Solstice y'all. I like how so many of us have a thin vein of paganism flowing inside, passed down from an ancient past -  if my aunty is stood in the garden at night and she can see the moon, she has to salute it and turn round three times.

When you dig your hands in the sand, or brush your hand along a hedge as you walk past, or close your eyes and feel the wind trying to push and pull you - is that what happens when your inbuilt pagan tendancies flicker to life and begin to worship, or is that just what happens when you drink too much? Discuss.

I'm in Any Nothern Mill Town. It's cold. I got off the coach on Friday and felt like I'd been thrown into an icy puddle. It was so windy and the rain was vicious. I've not been back to my mum's for six months and all this time I've been fondly reminiscing about heavy rainfall, filling the streets with curtains of mist and water, pitter-pattering on my head in a light and refreshing way.

That rain is bullshit rain, existing only in romcoms and London summers.

The rain here doesn't fall straight down, it blows in at you from every angle and it's so cold it stings. You can't see and you can't walk straight because of the wind and it's bitterly cold. I tried to cover my hair in what I usually imagine to be my chic and casual, is-she-or-isn't-she-vaguely-Middle-Eastern-or-Eastern-European manner, but the scarf got tangled up at the neck and stuck flat to my forehead. I struggled through town like an insane turtle; my pale, blinking face like a hideous wet square, surrounding by dripping blue scarf.

Also, my vest top kept pulling down at the front and showing my bra and I couldn't fasten my coat. When I finally got to Any Northern Town, my brother had cooked us a roast dinner. I had no idea he could cook. He cooked beef! I don't know how to roast beef.

That night my mum took me and my brother to stay with her boyfriend. I don't know if I mentioned she has a boyfriend now, but she does - and it's someone she knew years ago, who me and my brother used to know quite well.

We went to a funny social club to watch a folk band and a local performance poet. He did a poem about having Monster Munch and a Fudge shoved up his bum -  what wonderfully refreshing poetry, darling. Really different.

I drank a lot of Guinness and got a bit inwardly sulky when my mum made me swap seats so she could sit with her boyfriend. SOUND FAMILIAR? I think I am a bit touchy about this because my mum has done it to me before at my grandad's funeral years ago and my dad did it to me this year at my aunty's funeral.

A funeral is not an ideal place to be reminded that everyone in the world would prefer to be with someone else rather than you, even your mum and dad are just killing time until their boyfriend/girlfriend shows up.

Maybe I am overeacting a tiny bit. I did drink a lot of Guinness.

Anyway. I am glad my mum has got a boyfriend and funnily enough it's someone who, when I was little, I would have liked her to go out with.

Talking of my mum and boyfriends... do you want to hear a creepy story?

Two weeks ago my mum's ex-husband called her and said he was moving back into the house. Can you imagine? After all this time, for him to try moving back? I think he thought he could get his old life back by barging in on my mum's life, but she told him he could not move in under any circumstances.

Two days later, my brother noticed some of my ex-stepdad'd stuff back in the garage. Then the next day, my mum woke up around 6am. She went into the bathroom and saw her ex-husband's toiletries lined up in the bathroom.

He had moved back in while she and my brother were asleep!!

So creepy and nightmarish.

He stayed for ten days and eventually left. I was dreading coming back and seeing him - so glad he left before I got here. My mum said she thinks he was a bit scared of seeing me, which is funny. He is like a big spider - more scared of you than you are of it, even though it makes your skin crawl.

Thank god he's gone again. He's such a weirdo. I don't want to say too much on here in case he reads it. You never know what he is scheming.

I wasn't feeling very Christmassy, but yesterday I went into town and met up with Kayt. We had a couple of glasses of prosecco and then she had  a dinner to go to and I went to do some Christmas shopping. Walking around Selfridges while drunk is great, but is not the way to successfully complete your Christmas shopping. I bought some toner for myself and three jars of Nutella with personalised labels for the three French kids I used to look after (they LOVE Nutella). I spelt one of their names wrong and so have to go back today to see if they will change it.

I don't even have their address anymore.

I've not been shopping for months and months. While I was waiting for the Nutella labels to be printed, I browsed the Topshop concessionary. Forget my inner pagan, my (not so) inner consumer was FLIPPING OUT.

My hands weres stroking everything - feathery jumpers, mirrored crop tops with black beaded fringes, purple velvet kimonos, a white shimmery dress with white feather trim, silky trousers, cashmere, soft leather, black lace, thin silky straps on camisoles and slips, lurex, satin, sequins...

If it had all been in a charity shop or a bin bag on the street, I would have loved it just as much. I'm not an evil consumer. I just like nice things. Maybe it is my inner Celt, who would have liked turquoise and jade and bronze jewellery. Imagine an army of Celts wearing mirrored crop tops and velvet hotpants, with cloaks and spears...

Disco Celt - the new mood for AW18 perhaps?








Saturday, 6 December 2014

Fickle




There is an article in this week's Grazia about the 'single gene'. Apparently it is a real thing and lots of women have it. (No mention of whether men can have the 'single gene' too.)

I have definitely got it - I know it.

But then again, Susan Boyle has apparently got herself a boyfriend, so maybe there is hope for everyone? Not that I am saying Susan Boyle should struggle to get a man more than me - just that she has never had a boyfriend and she is fifty years old... so it is quite unsual that she has found a feller after all this time.

This is the problem with reading shitty magazines - they fill my head with crap. That's why I like Vogue. People complain that it encourages people to go out and buy £2,000 silky zigzag trousers, but surely that is better than persuading people they have the single gene?

I wish MORE people would go out and buy £2,000 silky zigzag trousers. They could pay for them on finance instead of that massive fuck-off telly.

I don't have a fantastic singing voice or a record deal, plus I have the single gene - Grazia basically reached out from their poor-quality paper pages, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and TOLD me I have it.

I really think I should get a move on and get a cat.

A fluffy black cat has been coming into our house for saucers of milk and cuddling. The first time I saw it, I was opening the front door to go inside and it leapt down from the wall, meowing at me manically as if to say "Wheere have you been where have you beeeeen???"

And I thought 'Oh my god, here is my cat. My cat has finally found me."

It definitely belongs to someone though, because it has a sparkly collar. I feel as if we are stealing it a little bit, but we don't feed it or anything. Well, apart from the saucer of milk. But maybe as it always comes to us in the morning or afternoon, its owners have a burglar alarm and have to kick it of the house all day. It's really cold in London now - and me and Mon let it sit on our warm laps and give it lots of strokes,

I've started talking about cats now and I can't stop. Last weekend I cat-sat for Beth and her fiance's (!!!) two Burmese kittens. They are so cuddly - they slept in the crook of my knees and fought for my attention all weekend. They both tried to sit on my knee at the same time, but it took them a long time to do so without one of them falling off and then clawing at the other one in annoyance. Eventually though they both managed to squeeze on, as you can see below:


I was trying to do some freelance work at the time. I'm back to writing content 'articles' with titles like 'World's Best Poker Players' and 'How to Find the Best Cosmetic Surgeons'.

I still really love my copywriting job, but I wish I didn't have to subsidise myself with other work. We had our Christmas party this week and if they are giving out bonuses to employees who can do the best knee dancing then don't worry - I'm definitely getting one.

Halfway through the night I looked down at my knees as I tried a new dance move out - knocking them together continuously - and saw, to my ecstatic delight, that they were moving in time to the music. I've tried the 'knees-knocking-together' dance many times before but never managed to get the rhythm right.

Last Tuesday however - they were bending out and smacking back into each other like two smooth groovy knee hipsters - like I had hired them for the evening and left my normal, uncoordinated knees at home to practice dancing in unison (I bet they just sat in front of the telly eating crisps. They are inexplicably chubbier than the other components of my legs).

I was so chuffed with my knee-knocking dance that I did it solidly for about three hours. I'm not exaggerating. My legs were KILLING me the next day and they were still aching a bit yesterday. I wore my super high shoes that I fell down the stairs in at Olivia's birthday last year - it's lucky I didn't snap my neck.

At least I didn't fall over at the work Christmas party. I did a lot of extravagant dancing in them though and - as it was a free bar - my wine glass was always full. A lot of my wine went on the floor, to the point where a man from another office took my glass off me. This other girl was twirling me round like we were at a school disco and I was literally showering everyone within a five metre radius with cheap white wine.

The next day another girl was telling everyone that she fell over five times during the party and was really embarrassed.

"It's because the floor was so wet," I said wisely, "Remember how the floor was inexplicably wet?"

Someone pointed out that the floor was only wet around me, because it was me spilling the wine and as I was twirling around so much and disco-dancing here there and everywhere, I managed to cover the entire huge dance floor in wine throughout the night.

Oops.

I've not done a crap Paint picture in a while, hold on...



The man is wearing a white suit because I can't be arsed colouring him in. I didn't wear a white dress either. Ooh do you want to see the dress I wore?


It's from Joy and it was 30% off in Black Friday Weekend. I HATED Black Friday before - it's such an Americanism, we don't even have Thanksgiving in this country, what's the bloody point - but when I took the dress to the till and realised I was getting 30% off I changed my dress.

I am so fickle.

I also feel bad about what I said about Russel Brand (about he was a dick for telling the masses how to live their lives, not being one of 'the masses' himself) after reading an article about how he is sticking up for some East London residents facing eviction. The articled questioned why we are all hating him when all he is doing is trying to help people.

Sorry, this post is all over the place. Now I have started blogging again don't know why I stopped. I do have a couple of specific stories I want to share, but I'm a bit worried people at work can find my blog...

This is one of my favourite songs ever and I'd forgotten all about it until this week:







Thursday, 13 November 2014

Balkan Dreams

I'm back and my key isn't orking, so e could be here for a hile. 

I could copy and paste w to the front of all those words, like I'm doing now, but I think for (the admittedly small) comedy value I will leave them as they are.


There are a lot of bloody w's in the English language, aren't there? Maybe it would be quicker to type double-u instead of copying and pasting each time... It is! But double-uould that be extremely hard to read?


Yes.


Oh my god. I am such an idiot. why don't I just write the whole blog post (how many ws??) first, then go back when I've finished and add the ws? Don't expect any capital ws though...


Sigh.

Yes, I'm stalling for time.

I don't even know where to begin catching up (in my head I sounded like Audrey Hepburn then), so I will start with some notes I jotted dowwith the intention of blogging about them.

new TV- distration directly into brain

taking away everybody's fingerprints to stop identity theft

Hmm, I don't think they where things to blog about, I think they were actually just my ideas for sci-fi short stories set fifty years from now/predictions for the future that will come true. Maybe I should write them all down here so that when they come true I can wave them about and bathe in my glorious correctness. After all, I predicted the see-through toaster and the rising popularity of cloaks - I clearly have a gift for knowing which way the wind is blowing... 

Here are some other forecasts that will probably come to pass tomorrow or if not maybe next Sunday:


1) More and more western girls will sell their virginity on ebay, until a neweb site comes out called Vbay. It will become a right of passage and girls who don't save their virginity will be unable to pay their way through university. (I think we're all glad I never sat down and tried to stretch these two sentences into a short story.)


2) There will be bouncy castles with goldfish swimming in them, or maybe tropical sea creatures. (I told this to Lauren when we were about 19 and to be honest, I'm not sure I still wholeheartedly believe it will come true.)


3) There will be a Twitter for thoughts, where you publish ThoughtStreamz and people can listen to them in their heads.


4) Hipsters will start making their own chocolate in some kind of warehouse, from cocoa beans grown in the Forest of Dean.


Ok. The other things I've jotted do
wn are:


Darlington, don't want to go to Darlington - I think this is pretty self-explanatory.


Russell Brand, rich irrelevant, rich people no problems but shouldn't mess in other's affairs - I think I wrote this after reading an interviewith Russell Brand I read where he told people not to pay their mortgage or their council tax... NICE ONE DICKHEAD. 


what did he say that for?? People who don't pay their mortgage or their council tax end up in a lot of debt and a lot of trouble and on the streets. I know Russell Brand used to be a heroin addict and probably lived in scummy housing, but he doesn't anymore. It's like telling people to jump off a cliff into the sea and abseiling along next to them, safely locked in. 


I have nothing against the Super Rich, but it's not appropriate for them to become involved in the lives of the Very Poor, anymore than it is appropriate for a man from Blackpool called Mad Snookerball Gazza to receive the Iranian ambassador at Buckingham Palace - he just wouldn't know what to do, his skill set lies elsewhere.


Blog: Balkan Beats - wanted to write about this because it was the funnest night ever, but almost too fun. we actually had to leave too early as we were exhausted from throwing ourselves around like wild things. (Claire actually told me to stop dancing at one point, because she said my hair as all over the place and my eyeliner was all over my face and I was dancing like an insane person.) It as seriously the best music night I've been to for ages. They played the balkan beats verson of Hava Nagila and me Claire and Jen crossed our arms like a chair for B to sit on and then we threw her up and down like she as a Jewish bride.


I'll leave you with it now but I must warn you - it's an acquired taste. I put it on in the office last week and absolutely everyone hated it apart from one French, who asked me who the DJ was because he said it's his favourite genre of music.


Before I go, let me remind myself of what's left to talk about:

My nana is on the mend (she's allowed to eat and drink now, almost two months earlier than they originally said)...

Kate Bush...


BERLIN...


and The Best Dream I Ever Had In My Life.

They say other people's dreams are boring (not for me, I'd like to add) but this blog is, after all, just a personal record of my self-absorbed life and I need to remember that dream - all day I was mooning about it - so I might as well sum it up here, while I remember.


It was the kind of dream I would write if they invented a technology for us to program our own dream: a cross between a chase dream;  the recurring dream I have here every country in the world is in one small place along one coastline; Blade Runner; Memories of Matsuko; and a romantic costume drama. There was so much detail - the pretty futuristic city by the sea, 


I remember looking at myself dreaming from somewhere deep inside my mind and telling myself not to forget all the detail when I woke up. There were different areas of the city,with different architecture and a different atmosphere - from the crumbling old town to the slick black business district. There were flying cars and pastel buildings and towers in the sea not far from the coast, huge open windows, leading into spacious studios with conveyor belts and giant mattresses inside, everything pink and yellow... It's sounding a bit like Mr Blobby meets the Terminator but it was nothing like that...




Sorry, I know other people's dreams are boring. You can have a dance now.




PS. Guess who's shares are down by 38%? American Apparel. Their sales of offensively-advertised shit have gone down and they've "recorded the biggest loss in 4 years". Amy will be pleased to hear that, all the way in Australia! I can't remember the site I got these figures from, but that's the internet for you - untrustworthy as ever (Google it if want to see for yourself).


Friday, 17 October 2014

Foxy

Spot the difference:

Blade Runner (image from here)

La Defense


Bloody hell. This morning my eyes snapped open at 7am. I threw back the covers to discover I was fully-dressed, still wearing my jumper, jeans and socks- the lot. I'd also gone to sleep with my bedroom light on.

I was only supposed to meet Jen for a one drink after wor, then her French friend from work showed up and it turned into a few drinks. When we got out of the pub it was raining really hard and all the buildings around us were black. It really reminded me of Paris- I KNOW I KEEP TALKING ABOUT IT BUT LISTEN- that dark heavy sci-fi rain that would fall on La Defense as I looked out Georgie's window, or sat in Julia's car as she drove round the périphérique.

Jen looked at my face, "Are you crying??" she asked and I was- proper bawling my eyes out and I hadn't even noticed. It was that ridiculous drunk crying that has no rhyme or reason and I stopped as soon as I realised what I was doing. Me and Jen both got the tube to Bank and after saying goodbye to Jen and getting on my next tube, I was calm and content. I even tried to drunkenly read my book.
(I love it when you are really, really drunk and can still manage to read a book- your confused brain makes everything in the book seem crazily real.)

But when I got off the tube I started again- I got off the main road and onto an empty stretch of road and just started crying hysterically as the rain soaked me through, like I was in playing a crying girl in a cheesy comedy. 

I got home and just lay on the floor sobbing, then apparently went to bed in all my clothes. I don't remember going upstairs.

Jen gave me one of her tablets for vertigo, because I told her I've had a couple of incidents where I've been really dizzy for no reason and she said it sounds vertigo. Maybe it was the tablet that turned me into a hysterical mess. I was crying, but at least I wasn't dizzy.

I feel a bit crackers to be honest. I want to be calm and full of peace, warm and light with no room for anything else.

I have started doing yoga with my cousin Sophie- so far I have only been to two classes. The first week we went we got chased by a fox- at first we were pleasantly surprised to see a fox strutting about at half six in the evening, then it started running so we panicked and started running and it kept chasing us.

Maybe it was just running in the same direction as us, because it dove off into an alleyway before it got to us, or maybe it wanted to savage our legs and ankles and drag us back to its fox cave- you decide.

I've always wanted to do yoga. Some of the poses make me shake like an old man and some of them just make me laugh- keep holding your legs in the air and now lower them very slowly so your knees are by your ears and your feet are on the floor behind you K THEN.

The class is in a strange dance studio/workshop/flat in a warehouse. People live and work there, building their homes around them from scaffolding and recycled wood. I would quite like to live somewhere like that but I don't think they would want to live with someone who works in advertising. 

THIS REMINDS ME. My trip to Paris that I keep dragging out... I will just finish it off now, quickly. Me and Julia were walking down the street wondering what to do when she noticed boxes of vegetables in the street. We were debating whether they were there to take or not, when a man came of what we thought was an empty shop and told us to take them. He also asked us if we wanted free coffee, so we went inside and he told us they were a squat cafe community project thing.

We spent an afternoon there talking to the two guys about writing and art- Julia told them she was an artist and I told them I was a writer, but then I mentioned how I work in advertising and the two guys mockingly hissed and made signs of the cross against me.

Anyway. That was that. I got the coach back to London later that day and had just enough time to have a shower and get dressed before going straight to work. I wasn't sad to leave Paris at all, because it was my birthday that day and it was lovely.

That was AGES ago now. I can't believe it was over three months ago.

Enough with the past- here's something exciting. On Saturday I am going to Balkan Beats and I AM SO EXCITED and then in a few weeks I am going to Berlin.

Kimono Kaity who I have mentioned a couple of times is my secret friend, who nobody else has ever met. We were saying the other day it's quite nice to have a friend like that, almost like we are each other's imaginary friend. (I know what you're thinking and I'm pretty sure she's not my imaginary friend, I'm not that crackers.)

She left London to move to New York and now she's back and moving to Berlin, which is very exciting for her but also exciting for me because I'm going to go and stay with her at the end of this month.

In the meantime, if are dubious about the chasing fox read this article- they really do hurt people! They're not scared of humans anymore, it is literally a waiting game to see how long before they really start acting batshit crazy and tearing the city up, just because they can.

The fox that I saw with my cousin had a strangely human face as well, there was something uncanny about it.

By the way my cousin Sophie is leaving London- her and her boyfriend are moving up North. I guess most people leave eventually but I don't think I will ever leave, unless I move back to Paris. That is the last time I will mention Paris I promise (let me clarify that I absolutely do not promise). From now on it's all about Berlin, ja?









Thursday, 9 October 2014

Leaping About

Listen- in my last post, I didn't mean that if I put on weight I wouldn't be able to take my clothes off in the bedroom and leap about in front of other people*. I was just thinking about it then and realised I might sound like one of those girls who goes OH GOD I'M SO FAAAAAT when they're just a normal size.

I just meant, you know... everybody has a size they feel comfortable at and you know when you've been eating a bit too much and have gone past it and you don't particularly feel like leaping about, with or without your clothes on.

Anyway.

Last Friday I did some leaping about with my clothes on- and when I say leaping I mean disco-dancing- to Pychemagik, they're really, really fun.



*Maybe that's why nobody will come into my boudoir, because word has gotten out about all the leaping. 

Duck Fatty

It is suddenly so cold outside, blustery and dark. I just want to watch TV dramas (Glue on E4 is surprisingly good) and read my book in bed, with the rain hammering on the window (I'm reading Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel and it's soooo good- I wish Europe was as small as it was in Henry VIII's time, so I could skip to Paris, Antwerp and Venice whenever I felt like it, selling silks and sweetmeats and maybe meeting rough and ready pirates* on my travels).

I feel so autumnal, like a baked potato made of golden leaves, with a pumpkin-flavoured sausage nestled inside.

Or maybe just the sausage, to be honest.

It seems that the collective menfolk of London have voted in secret and the unanimous decision is thanks, but they would rather not see what's underneath my clothes. So I may as well fatten up for Christmas.

I bought a new bra for the first time in years the other day and I had to buy it in a bigger size means either:
a) I have been wearing the wrong bra size all this time
b) the consequence of my decision to roast vegetables in duck fat rather than olive oil has manifested itself in both (thankfully not just one of) my boobs
c) I am carrying a secret Jesus baby and my breasts are full of magic milk.

The thought of magic milk has just made me feel SICK so let's hope the answer is a) or b). If I'm honest I hope the answer is a) but who cares really. It is the time of year for eating and expanding.

All I want to eat is roast chicken and vegetables. Perhaps this is because I'm eating for two- not me and magic secret Jesus baby, but me and my nana. She can't eat anything for three months.

I went to see her last weekend- Olivia happened to be driving back to her parents' for the weekend and it seemed like a lucky coincidence, so I decided to go up and visit my nana.

I stayed with Olivia and her mum and dad, because my dad has left Liverpool now. I kind of knew he'd left, but because I've not spoken to him for so long it didn't really seem real until I got to the hospital. My nana was surpised to see me- I hadn't told her I was coming- and there was a little Irish nun sat with her when I arrived.

The nun left when I got there- not because I am the devil but because she had other friends to visit- and then my aunty showed up, who is really nice. She said if she'd have thought before, she would have offered me a bed at her house, so that was alright.

They asked me if I was 'courting' and I said no. Then they asked me if I had my own room at Olivia's mum and dad's and I said no and I realised they probably thought I was a lesbian, so then I started telling them about Olivia's boyfriend and how they lived together at his parents' house in a really posh part of London.

("Look at you with yer Big Friends!" my nana said, but that was more to do with the fact that Olivia's mum and dad live in a posh part of Liverpool- they have a real pizza oven in their garden. You don't get bigger than that.)

I wouldn't mind my nana and my aunty thinking I was a lesbian if I was one (I refuse to say 'if I were one', so don't even ask), but I'm not. I feel that sexuality is a part of who you are and so if people don't know your sexuality- whether it's hetero or homosexual- they don't know the real you.

Anyway.

My nana seemed ok, apart from the fact she has tubes in her and can't eat for three months. Mentally she was great, but I think the boredom will set in soon. She can't cook or eat- her two favourite things to do- and there's no telly. She doesn't read fiction and she doesn't want to use the mini DVD player my aunty bought her.

She was looking forward to the Mayor of Liverpool coming in, to visit his sick sister who is in the bed opposite.

"He doesn't know me, but he knows of me." she said smugly.

Apparently she has been terrorising the Liverpool Labour party for years- she cancelled her membership and she likes to show up to public meetings to tell them why. I feel proud of my nana, but slightly sorry for the Mayor.

(If you Google him though, he doesn't look like a man that needs people to feel sorry for him.)

That was two weeks ago now, I need to stop getting so far behind in my blogging. I finally got back on my C.S Motorbike (do you remember what that is?) and the episode was not without incident... but I'm not sure I can tell you the story.

When you type my real name into Google it now links back to this blog, thanks to my brief dalliance in Google+. I'm worried people from work will Google me (because everyone- and I mean absolutely everyone on the planet- is obsessed with me and every minute they're not reading my blog is spent frantically searching the internet for more information about me) and read my blog and know that I like to eat duck fat and cry about foster cats from my past.

I HATE Google+.

But I like this:



*with secret sensitive sides, though.
**I think that nowadays, if God was real and God made somebody pregnant with his magic baby, then he probably wouldn't pick a virgin, because it would be very traumatic and alarming for the poor girl. Maybe he would choose a hardy, matronly woman, who would deliver the baby herself, still wearing her apron from the chippy she runs with her husband Nige. The miracle would be that Nige has had impotency issues for the last few years.