Saturday, 16 August 2014

THE NEWS OF THE WORLD SUMMER BUMBER SPECIAL

If my mind is a make believe magazine, then here are the top stories I would have been running this summer:

**TOP STORY**
PRAYING MANTIS LOVES 3D GLASSES 

I have been meaning to share this for a while. I'm not sure if it's because this story is genuinely as funny as I think it is, or whether it's due to a lack of strenuous partner-based physical activity that has rendered me in a near-constant state of hysteria: but I cannot look at the photo without laughing uncontrollably.

I'm actually not ready to look at it yet and I want to delay your gratification, so I'm going to insert the photo at the end. First you can have a description and then finally you will see that the real thing is 100 times better than what you were imagining.

A few months ago, scientists made a teeny tiny pair of 3D glasses and stuck them onto the face of a praying mantis (with beeswax, not superglue), their reason being that praying mantises are the only known insect that can see in 3D. Don't you think their time would have been better spent making 3D glasses for insects whose ability to see the world in 3D has yet to be discovered?

You know praying mantises can see in 3D, why did you need to make him a little pair of glasses?

Claire pointed out that there is absolutely no scientific reason for the glasses to be cut into a shape resembling human glasses either- they could have just stuck one big lens on his face. The two-lens shape was just to take the piss.

I described the experiment to Claire and Jen but they couldn't imagine how ridiculous the actual photo would be, which is why I hope you don't accidentally see it until the end of this post. All I will say is that they showed the praying mantis a 3D film of flies coming at his face and he obviously LOVED it.


PEOPLE WENT CRAZY FOR CRAP AND BORING AND MAGAZINES COULDN'T STAND IT

If you don't know what Normcore is, it's people wearing shit clothes like unflattering 'mom jeans', shit trainers and t-shirts with 'unhip' logos on. It's all about throwing any old crap on and not caring what you look like. Of course this doesn't bode well for the magazine industry, so many of them tried to say that Normcore was a minimal way of dressing- white shirts and tailored trousers rather than leggings and a faded top that has happy cartoon bananas on it, or something.

Normcore isn't really a subculture or a trend or a new way of dressing, it's just a group of cool people who don't care what they look like, or rather, they do care what they look like, but they know they'll look cool in anything and so take advantage of this fact and make a point of wearing really shit, boring clothes.

Before I heard the word Normcore, I saw a girl at a party in Paris (it was the one in the mad little house that had once been a brothel and still had velvet and mirrors everywhere), with no make-up on, wearing a t-shirt that looked kind of like a crop top- but you could tell that really, it was just too small for her- and unflattering jeans. Me and Julia agreed that she looked like she'd found the clothes on the floor and thrown them on, which is what made her look so. achingly. cool. 

You can't copy that old fashioned, arty, sloppy, 'out there' cool. You either have it or you don't. But magazines can't sell that, so they pretended that Normcore was a thing and created everything from Normcore home decor to Normcore weddings and honeymoons to Normcore sandwiches (granted- that was a piss-take, but I can't remember any other examples right now). Even The Daily Mail got on board.

I myself have jumped on the bandwagon and created Normcore Photography. Here's my first collection. It's called 'Pics'. 

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 "IMG_20140816-00589"

I was going to ask if Vice were interested in publishing Pics, but I see Normcore has already evolved into Avant Bland.

 I know what you're thinking- isn't Normcore just how people dressed in the 90s, except back then you were allowed to wear what you wanted without having to create a media buzzword to describe it?

YES.



**AND FINALLY**
THE FREAKY SCI-FI FUTURE IS HERE

I don't know why more people aren't worried about this. Hoverbikes EXIST, there are sneaky robots that can assemble themselves from flat pack and they are planning to build fucking cities that float on the sea, like in the terrifying film (to me as a child anyway) Waterworld.

Also, this week I went to see the Human Harp at the Roundhouse- it's an instrument that musicians attach to a building and to themselves, then play the strange music of whatever giant structure they are attached to. Lauren got free tickets to a preview of Imogen Heaps' Reverb festival and took me for the free food and drink I mean THE CULTURE.

I've never listened to Imogen Heap but she did a couple of acoustic songs on the piano and I like her voice. I don't know if the Human Harp is really beautiful or really creepy (it doesn't help that the name reminds me of the Human Centipede)- I couldn't believe the eerie notes were coming from the structure of the building. The notes were deep and cold, like the metal structure of the building I suppose. I wonder what it sounded like when they played the Brooklyn Bridge?

The atmosphere was only ruined slightly when one of the 'moveicians' (as the artist who created the Human Harp called them) became detached from the instrument. He just carried on moving about on his own, as if he had just walked into the space and decided to randomly perform a piece of modern dance.

Anyway. Everything's gone a bit sci-fi. What's next, praying mantises in 3D glasses??









Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Me, myself and Jonathan.

There's a scattering of leaves on the pavements and blackberries in my backyard and I think this is the longest time I haven't blogged for.

It's been almost a month. I've been on holiday for two weeks with my mum and my brother, a proper beach holiday, in Spain. My mum booked it ages ago, luckily before I was offered a job otherwise I wouldn't have been allowed to go (no holidays during the three months probation period, which coincidentally is up this week).

I never even finished blogging about Paris. It's too overwhelming to work backwards and write everything I've been meaning to blog about these past weeks, so I'll start by typing up something I scribbled down while on holiday. I might make notes on it too, as if I am the editor, commenting on my own thoughts as I write them down and read them back to myself at the same time, like a Mental.

Maybe I will develop split-personality disorder and my all-encompassing egotism will segment my identity into the writer, editor and reader of a make-believe magazine, a relatively new title called My Thoughts. I could even write in letters of warm praise and hatemail when moved to. Let's hope I don't.

Anyway.

Talking to mum about her sex life while we stood in the sea (ed/me: I really hope she never reads this), having the careful conversation a teenage daughter and her mum would have, only not exactly in the roles you would expect. I had nothing to contribute to the conversation, only the mysterious smile I have perfected, which I throw at my nana when she says ARE YOU COURTING? YOU WANT SOMEONE WHO'S KIND, A KIND FELLER. I CAN'T TELL YA THE LIFE I HAD WITH HIM. EY? SO ARE YA COURTING? 

How to say I am all dried up? 25 and all dried up and finished? I have let my belly hair grow wild and free (ed: true), why not? My best option now is to work really hard and Concentrate On My Career so that one day I can afford to keep a young gentlemen. 

I won't need him all the time, but when I do he'll bloody well be there. That's what I'll expect from all the holidays, new clothes and headshots I'll be shelling out for. Of course he'll be attracted to me as well (ed: keep telling yourself that sweetheart)- but the financial incentives mean I don't have to worry about him being unreliable. We have an arrangement. At least, that's what I'll yell at him one day from the shadows of my villa in Monaco. 

Not at first. I'll try to be breezy, at first. 

I'll swill my drink around, so the ice cubes clink together like a diamond in a loose setting (ed: nice simile, pal).

"Leaving already?" I'll ask.

It will be intended to sound casual but will come out grudgingly and accusatory. He'll reply, trying to placate me in the beginning and then fuck it, he's had enough now, he's told himself he can't do this any more. He can't quite believe it as he grabs his bag and walks away from-

"The best thing that ever happened to you!" I'll yell.

"Jonathan? JONATHAN????"

But he'll be gone and I'll be alone, with just his name hanging in the air for company, before it fades forever. (ed: my heart bleeds)

Well.

At least I don't have to worry about that for a few years yet. Talking of dating or NOT dating...

Before I left London I met B in Regent's Park after work and we lay in the sunshine, working out how to set me up a Tinder account on her iPhone. Eventually B cracked it and we had hours of fun, swiping yes to the right and no to the left. We started chatting to people we'd matched with and carried on all the way home on the bus. Suddenly it was time for B to get off the bus, taking her iPhone and my Tinder account with her.

"B, you'll stop chatting to boys now as me, won't you?"

"I might have a little play." she said.

And she did!

Bloody hell, I've gone on a bit. It goes on for pages and pages... mostly talking about how I was ill before I came on holiday. I'll tell you in a couple of sentences what I have somehow managed to stretch into hundreds in my notebook.

The night before I went to Spain, I was supposed to get the train to Manchester. Thirty minutes before I finished work, I felt really dizzy and my balance went funny. My vision was blurred and I got really confused. I tried to walk out into reception and couldn't walk in a straight line, then I fell over a bit. I started to panic because I was worried about getting the tube in rush hour with my big case.

The girl on reception and the office manager saw I was ill, sat me down and called the NHS helpline. Then someone tried to make me eat chocolate (in case I was low on sugar) and I had to scramble to the toilet to be sick.

They called a car to take me to the station but traffic was so bad and we almost didn't make it. The driver was overtaking everyone and getting yelled at by taxi drivers. He shouted back at a couple of them "She needs to be at the station for 6!"

I made my train and fell asleep straight away. When I woke up I felt better for about five minutes until the itching started. I've had it since my birthday and it's a mystery. Sometimes it wakes me up in the night and I can't sleep, it's like a burning sensation all over my body there's no rash, no redness, nothing.

Sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night and spend an hour looking on the internet, searching for 'itch with no rash pins and needles'. So far I've convinced myself I am diabetic or anemic and in the cold light of day, I'll think I'm probably having an allergic reaction to something I've eaten.

As for the dizzy sickness...

The day before I had my episode at work I'd eaten a piece of chocolate cake that was ten days old, so it could have been that.

On the bright side I am very tanned and I had a lovely holiday!

Oh and by the way- I deleted Tinder as soon as I got back from holiday. It is definitely not for me. I don't want to chat to people I don't know through weird messages. When people ask me 'how are you doing' and 'what are you up to' I really have no idea what to say.

These are the fundamentals of conversation and I just cannot be arsed with them. Roll on the villa in Monaco.






Wednesday, 16 July 2014

My Paris

Let's banish all thoughts of fleshy torches and sweaty, sunburnt men getting blow jobs in Magaluf (if you don't know what I'm talking about, see my last post) and cast our minds back to Paris.

The memory of that weekend is shimmering before me, but my eyes are so tired from staring at the screen as I typed my furious rant earlier that I'm not sure I can blog for long.

With no time to loose, let's close our eyes quickly and open them to see-

-me, sitting on a plastic chair in Victoria coach station, feeling a little bit drunk.

I pulled a box of couscous out of my bag triumphantly, only to discover I had lost the plastic fork somehow between leaving Marks and Spencer's and checking in.

Hell is being so hungry that you feel sick, staring at a box of couscous and deciding whether to eat it with a pen or a piece of paper.

No- hell is other people, on a coach, for nine hours.

I only took a small bag with me so I was one of the first people on- that's my top tip for coach travel, because if you have to queue up and put your bag in the luggage compartment, you lower your chances of bagging a window seat and nobody wants to be an Aisle Kyle, or a No-View Hugh.

Ok that's enough of the coach journey, it was bad enough the first time round- I don't want to live it again.

As we got to the coach station it all became familiar, the pale grey industrial buildings and that early morning Paris light. I was first off the coach and marching to the metro before most people had grabbed their bags, but it didn't help me- there was a huge queue for tickets, held up by a man in a cowboy hat struggling to understand how the machine worked.

Two Romany travellers lured away half the queue with the promise of another ticket office, but I ignored them, smug in my non-touristy knowledge that it would be some kind of scam. Just as I was beginning to worry that maybe I should have, erm, told everyone else in the queue not to follow the fake metro workers, I realised the machine only took coins and I didn't have any.

The coach station isn't far from Julia's, so I decided to walk instead, hoping there would be some kind of pedestrian crossing underneath the périphérique - there isn't.

Luckily I didn't get that far to find out, because as I rounded the corner I came to a long tunnel where the two Romany Travellers were loitering. They looked a bit sheepish as I walked past. Bloody hell what have they actually done with those twenty people they led down here ten minutes ago? I wondered. When I reached the end of the tunnel, I saw that there was in fact, another ticket office and it was open.

I bought a Ticket Jeune (3,80 euros for all day travel, amazing compared to London), asked for a pen and wished the ticket seller a good day. I realised that although my transformation into fully-fledged Parisien never happened (and was never going to) like I hoped, at least I have become a person who is Dead Good at visiting Paris.

(By the way, Julia told me that the Romany Travellers do actually have metro tickets to sell that the government gives them- I always thought it was a scam.)

On the metro I couldn't stop looking at the door handle- I felt like I'd been looking at it forever and had never stopped looking at it. I'll probably say this word a lot as I write about Paris- but it was so surreal.

I was there sitting on the metro, visiting Paris after a year away and at the same time I was sitting on the metro a couple years ago, struggling to imagine life beyond Paris and at the same time I was sitting here now, imagining it.

Maybe that dirty door handle was a bridge across space and time, or maybe it was the valium I'd taken three hours before (my friend gave me one so I could sleep through the night, but I couldn't take it until we got off the ferry in case I fell asleep and the coach left without me). Whatever the case, it was like I'd never left and like I wasn't there at the same time.

Coming up from the metro...

If I was a character in a film I'd hate myself, but I was almost overcome with the city as I reached the top of the metro stairs and saw it before me as a picture I was stepping into. It was raining softly and the streets were empty, just like the streets I used to walk through on my way home sometimes just after the sun had come up. I walked in the warm silence (and only had to look at my map once) feeling so happy and calm.

Julia's flatmate opened the door in his underpants and told me to make myself at home before going back to bed. I love Julia's apartment- I think I talked about it just before I left, but it's built around a courtyard, the hallway made of windows that let light into every room.

I had a shower and then ran out again to go and meet my old au pair family. I'd contacted them at the last minute and the mum had halted their going on holiday the night before so the kids could see me for a quick breakfast. (They were only driving to their country house, but still I thought it was nice.)

I'm so so tired, but it's been nice thinking about Paris again. I'm going to sit in the dark crying my eyes out to the Amelie soundtrack and then go to bed:



Silky Sordid Slags

DISCLAIMER: I've just been thinking about how I get a lot of comments from teenage au pairs and I don't want any young girls to read this and think I am advocating performing sexual acts in public with strangers for free drinks- I personally think that is a VERY BAD IDEA. My point is that if what this girl did is so 'disgusting' and 'dirty' why are the men not being judged in the same way?

To the person who found my blog by searching 'fucking in taffeta tube'- I sincerely hope you found what you were looking for, but I doubt it very much.

Unless (I have just been for a wee and had a thought)- you were searching for 'fucking in a taffeta tube' because you actually had sex with someone in a taffeta tube over the weekend and now you are worried the whole sordid/silky episode might have found its way on to the internet??

In that case I sincerely hope you don't find what you were looking for.

That reminds me- Today at lunch I got a bit worked up discussing a recent incident that has been in the British media...  A video is circulating the internet of a girl on holiday in Magaluf giving blow jobs to 24 men in a bar, in exchange for a cheap bottle of cava during one of those seedy sex games so prevalent on the sick-strewn strips of tacky Brit-invaded beach resorts.

There was an article in The Evening Standard this week discussing 'British identity' and the journalist compared the girl in the video to young British Muslims going to the Middle East for terrorist training. He said the girl was wrong for 'trying to please 24 men' just as the jihadists were for trying to find their own identity in terrorism.

Now- personally, I wouldn't dole out 24 blow jobs because it just ain't my style kiddo, but if I think about it logically- is putting 24 willies in your mouth isn't as bad as wanting to blow people up?

Also, the way The Evening Standard used the phrase 'please men' made it sound like she was stumbling around on her knees with cartoon love hearts flashing in her eyes, convinced one of the men was going to be so impressed with his blow job that he'd ask her to marry him.

I don't think she was trying to 'please' anyone- I reckon she really wanted the free drink and also was just really drunk. Yes, maybe after the event she was devastated because a bar full of people (and then the whole internet) saw her do something stupid and maybe she felt really sad and degraded-

In that case she's a victim and we need to make sure this kind of thing stops happening. Also, if she's a victim, then surely the men in the video should be called out as disgusting bastards and the organisers of the event should be punished?

Alternatively, maybe she actually doesn't care about the fact that she had 24 willies in her mouth and is more bothered about the fact that now, thanks to the internet, her mum might see exactly what she got up to on her drink-fulled holiday to Shagaluf?

Why do people do people find that second possibility so hard to believe? As if there's NO WAY a girl could do ANYTHING SEXUAL and not feel like a dirty evil disgusting skanky slutty slag.

You can't have it both fucking ways- either the girl is a victim and the men taking advantage are the villains in the story, or the girl is not a victim and there are no villains in the story.

She can't be both a victim and a villain, ashamed and the nation's shame, taken advantage of and deserving, punishable.

Punishable by stoning.

I'm so pissed off. Sick of girls talking about slags and sluts and 'disrespect'. Apparently if you have sex with a man you don't respect yourself... and if a man has sex with you he doesn't respect you.

At least in the sixties when women had sex outside of marriage they would get accused of being a promiscuous harlot and everyone was secretly jealous of their daring, fun social lives- now girls are labelled as mad sad drunks trying to shag their way through their terrible heartache until they drop dead alone in their tiny, damp flat full of cats and Sex and the City DVDs.

I'm glad I've taken myself out of the whole shebang, to be honest.

I have now smashed my Casual Sex Motorbike into smithereens and littered the pieces in the Thames. Some say I might have cut my nose off to spite my face and that perhaps I have been wading into the river each night, looking in vain for the broken shards so I can piece it back together again and go for a spin in the moonlight, but they can mind their own business.

Anyway.

At work I have been doing a lot of research into our new client- a very upmarket sex toy for very fashionable ladies. Unfortunately in my research I have come across some very downmarket toys for very unfashionable gentlemen and what I have found has made me rethink the whole of mankind.

I won't show photos because I actually can't bring myself to look at them again but I will give you a vague visual so you can share in my horror.

From the outside it looks like a torch, but when you take off the cap you find, not a beaming flash of light, but a hole of creepy, silicone-cushioned darkness. Yes. What you're picturing is just about right. Now I will give you the name so that the image being formed by your suffering imagination can be completed- it's not a flashlight, it's a Fleshlight.

I'm going to have a cup of tea and then I might blog about Paris.

Saturday, 12 July 2014

Word Vomit

Putain de fucking merde.

Sitting on the sofa feeling like a shriveled little nut full of badness. The Fear is all around me, inside me, gathering in my head and stinging in my stomach.

ARGH.

Yesterday was the office summer party- we started out in a lovely restaurant where we were plied with alcohol and then we went to the park to play rounders, limbo and, erm, arm wrestling. There was lots more alcohol in the park- so much alcohol. I was fine in the park- being very loud and singing a tune for everyone to limbo to- but in no way one of the drunkest people there.

There's a new Italian lady who is amazing- in her first week she wore tiny pink dresses to work and see-through blouses and at the restaurant she got up to make a speech, even though nobody really knows who she is. She just said 'Thank you'.

So I was certainly not the most outrageous person there, ok?

We all went to the pub afterwards and one girl was so drunk she had to be put in a taxi and sent home. Then a new Northern guy in the office got quite aggressive and wanted to start on this lad from Essex who doesn't work for the company, but does filming for them or something... Apparently the Essex guy was being a bit of a dick and insulting everyone, but you can't go squaring up to people at an office party.

In the end I did a good job of sidestepping around said Northern guy making light of the situation. You know when someone wants to start a fight and for every step they take forward you take one towards them? You kind of get into a square dance until they realise they don't actually want to start a fight at all and actually the other person has snuck away from the party anyway.

I should have been absolutely fine and have had nothing to worry about today, but-

Loose lips sink ships, innit.

Oh god, just remembered I kept saying 'innit'...

I'm really trying to rationalise the situation and convince myself that I'll be ok, but I really don't know how bad it is/was.

I messaged Clare earlier and told her that I was feeling a bit paranoid and that I might have made a bit of a dick of myself. She said, "You're not paranoid darling, I'm sure you were a dick."

The whole thing started with me trying to be nice - the graphic design intern who was offered a permanent role at the same time as me was suddenly really upset. Let's call her Steph. She's my 'work friend' and so I took her round the corner (we were all stood outside the pub) to ask her what was wrong.

Steph said one of the freelancer designers had had 'a word' with her and told her that she's gone really quiet in the office since getting the role and that there have been meetings about it and that there were concerns she wasn't really 'into the role'.

(By the way- the other day when I said it should have been 'in to', it definitely should have been 'into'. It's always into, unless you walk in to see your mum getting it on with the milkman, or you creep in to avoid being seen, right?)

First of all, I'm dubious that 'they', whoever 'they' are, have had meetings about Steph not being a Chatty Cathy and also I don't think they would have involved the freelancer anyway.

Secondly, I'm surprised because we all sit next to each other and me and Steph always chat to the freelancer. Steph can be a bit quiet but not in a shy way, she's just not an 'in your face' person.

She was really, really crying and she's a few years younger than everyone else, I really don't know why the freelancer would say something to make her worry like that at the summer party. The freelancer always seems so nice as well.

To make Steph feel better I was talking to her for ages and ages but she was really, really upset. She said that the freelancer and 'another woman' we work with obviously didn't like her and I pointed out that I'm not sure if this other woman likes me either,she's quite hard to read. I told Steph not to care as she's not the sort of person she'd want to be friends with anyway... I was being a bit of a bitch to be honest.

We were talking to two other people as well and I don't know WHY I CAN'T KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT but I just kept talking and talking and I don't know why.

I'm really trying to be a better person and not judge other people or think badly of them and now I will seem like a massive two-faced arsehole.

I really don't want to get involved in 'office politics'.

Argh, This is exactly why I told myself I wouldn't get drunk at all during the party, because I have NO CONTROL over the words that come tumbling and stumbling blindly out of my mouth.

I have to go now, Ruth from Paris is in London for the weekend and she has free tickets to an exhibition.

Tell me it's going to be ok??

Oh yeah and of course my next blog post will be all about Paris.

I just wanted to put down what happened in words and see if it reads any better than it feels.

The silver lining is...

I beat someone in arm wrestle.




Friday, 4 July 2014

Back to Paris

I can't say much because I'm typing this at work- I'm hanging around until my coach at 9.30pm. My coach to Paris!! I'm going back for the weekend, I booked it kind of last minute and I'm still not sure how I feel… At the moment I feel like I'm going to get there and just be hysterical all weekend, walking around the streets I used to know, touching walls and crying.

ARGH.

I'm getting the coach back Sunday night, will arrive Monday morning on my 25th birthday.

Not sure how I feel.

A Lundi!

Saturday, 28 June 2014

Copywriting

Don't worry- if you've been losing sleep over the fact that I wrote 'into manageable chunks' in my last post instead of 'in to manageable chunks'- I've corrected it now. (Although one person has unfollowed me since my last post, I don't want to sound needy, but why? Why did you have to leave me and make me look less popular?)

Sometimes at work people ask me grammar questions- because I'm the copywriter and so should obviously know- and I have to really think about it or look online. Obviously not things like 'do we need to start this sentence with a capital letter?' but things that I never have to think about like 'Is eveningwear one word or two?'

(It sound obvious but can an advert say eveningwear as one word? Would a magazine say evening wear? Some shops say eveningwear, while others use two words...  Etc.)

Every tiny detail is important- I like that. Sometimes me and the senior copywriter (obviously if this were going in an advertorial it would be 'the senior copywriter and I' but this is my blog and it's vernacular, yeah?) are asked to produce or correct a sentence quickly and people don't understand why play around with it for ages and ages, asking important questions like 'Who will be reading it? Where will it be going? What will the other copy say?'

The other day a new account manager created two creative briefs, but didn't ask me or the senior copywriter (there's only two of us and I was going to write 'me and the other copywriter', but I won't in case she somehow finds my blog and thinks 'What a cheeky bitch, she didn't mention my superiority over her!') to get involved, as if we could just throw any old words on the design like alphabet-shaped confetti.

Look at me! Discussing my job and not having to mention drunk women threatening to 'die with me in a ditch' or scarecrow-men telling me they see the future and crying! I'm such a Young Professional!

How is it that I still don't have any money?

This month I was supposed to be going to Lovebox Festival- I really wanted to see Bonobo and Soul II Soul and Joy Orbison and Hannah Wants and Tom Trago and Norman Jay and Mount Kimbie and MIA and Nas and ASAP Rocky and Soul Clap BUT I can't, so stop going on about it.

This month I have to pay my deposit on my new house, so I'll just be skint for this month, hopefully and then at least I'll have a deposit in London for next time I move.

I love my new house. I won't give away my top secret location but I can walk to Brick Lane and it's also close to that pub I went to that turned out to be connected to the Kray Twins- it's proper East London, I've definitely found the area of London I like the most. I love coming off the tube and walking through the market and all the shops selling saris and shalwar kameez. It's like the area I grew up in...

Looks mistily into the distance as she reminisces... 

One day my friend Sabrina gave me one of her shalwar kameez, a pale blue one, and I wore it to the shops. She lived in Longsight which has a massive Muslim community- I really thought they'd have seen more white girls in a shalwar kameez, but everyone was staring at me. I kept forgetting what it was called so I made up a song that went:

Shalwar kamee-eez, shalwar kameez, I-went-to-the-shop-in-one-of-these, wearing a shalwar kameez.'

I can still remember the tune...

She shakes her head, waking from her reverie..

My foot's gone numb!

It's weird because my new housemate Mon (I met her through Sharris, who I met through TC and OJ- how weird is it that I have the life I have in London now because TC decided to comment on my blog?) has only ever lived with boys and she's friends with loads of boys and I have never really had any lad mates, unless you count Jen and Claire. In Paris it was quite rare for us to go out with a boy in the group and it would normally be someone's boyfriend or on occasion, someone's boyfriend's mate who was just there for the weekend and they would normally end up being my 'friend' than my friend...

But since I've moved in with Mon there have been loads and loads of boys coming round to the house, in an almost constant stream. One night when people came round to watch the football and Mon wasn't home in time to let them in, I had to buzz boys in and I felt like I was in some kind of game show.

What kind of boy will buzz in next?

I think it's good, I think it make me a better writer. I like writing about women but if I have to drop in a male character he is normally a 2D characterure who either thinks, acts and talks suspiciously like a woman, or he upsets all the female characters for No Reason, or he's evil, or all three.

Anyway, I guess I've filled you in on my new house and new job. It seems as though a lot of people don't know what a copywriter is, I was trying to explain it to my dad and my nana over the phone and they kept passing the phone between one another, asking me loads of questions and sounding confused until finally my nana yelled IS IT IN AN OFFICE??? and I said yes and then she calmed down and said she was pleased for me.

Do you know what a copywriter is?

This is a copywriter.
I write copy- copy is the name of the words you read or hear in an advert. I really like it. The other day TC said "I said it would all work out and you didn't believe me, do you believe me now?" and I guess it has all worked out... I really like my job, but I didn't come to London to be a copywriter, I just kind of fell into it. It's a really nice office. We're starting a company blog, which obviously I enjoy (a lot)- and we have loads of occasions where there's free booze and nibbles, which I also enjoy (a lot).

As for my drama dream... Remember when I came to London to do my auditions? And I stood outside The Globe with Lauren and wondered if I would one day get to act on its stage?

Well I've given up on that. It was hard enough trying to earn enough money to afford fucking ridiculous London rent, never mind finding time to think about acting.

But.

I have started writing with Sharris- she's an actor and we have an idea that I'm quite excited about. It's good because like Mon, she has a lot of boy mates so when it comes to writing the male characters they might sound like actual men and they won't behave like Disney villains.

The reminds me- I saw Titus Andronicus at The Globe and I nearly fainted. This post has gone on for a very long time so I'll carry on in another post later. Me and Mon are going to the market to get fruit and veg. I'll leave you with a song to liven things up.




Thursday, 26 June 2014

Back to Blogging

I've been away for such a long time, I don't know how to begin catching up.

Hmm... How to get back into a blog?

I feel bewildered by the time-consuming task that lies ahead of me: writing up every thought I've had in the last twenty days (that's almost three weeks- so unbelievably sluttish* of me).

Like most daunting tasks, it's best to break up this blogging in to small, manageable chunks, so for now I'll go back to where I left off, even though that weekend in our Swanky Kensington Hotel was so, so long ago...

By the way. Look what Google did to my photographs without me even asking:


Apparently it's called an Auto Awesome photo. (It took two of my photos from my last post and stuck them together to create one photo of the same view, if you can't work it out.)

What's not so awesome though, is that my blog isn't connected to my Google + anymore, so how the hell did it get those two photos from my last post?

Anyway. When my mum was here for the weekend we went to Portobello Road Market. I went there years ago with a friend from uni, but I've not been since I moved to London. It feels like something out of a film (well, one film in particular).

It's the side of London I used to daydream about, but weirdly haven't thought about once since I moved here. It's not like Paris where the city of your imaginings swells around you soon as you step off the Eurostar, billowing around you every day and every night; in London reality just sits there like a puddle, or a patch of grey sky... even if you're drunk and star-spangled, London seems so sober.

Portobello Road Market feels a bit more cinematic, at least. I bought an old Levis denim jacket- the brainwashing effects of all that denim research I had to do for work still haven't worn off- and now I constantly ask myself what jacket I wore in the days before I owned a denim jacket.

(It's no replacement for my kimono, but- gee wizz- is my denim badboy**versatile.)

Later on we drank a huge amount of wine with my cousin Sophie and my mum's cousin- I know, it's like a riddle... If there are four cousins who are each related to the other three people in the group, but each of them is only the cousin of one person in the group and no two people in the group are cousins with the same cousin... then what the fuck is going on?

We started out at/in/on (I don't know which... we were just there, you know what I mean) the South Bank, then we went to a little pub at the back of Waterloo and all of a sudden a funny look came over my mum and I knew she was suddenly completely and ridiculously drunk.

It was so sudden- one minute we were having a very loud, heated debate about Israel and Palestine (which mainly involved me yelling NOT TO THE DETRIMENT OF OTHERS THOUGH, MUM! after the word 'detriment' came to me in a flash of inspiration) and the next minute I had to take her home, supporting her as we walked and standing behind her on the escalator so she didn't topple backwards.

We said goodbye to my cousin and her cousin, then my mum said she needed a wee. You have to pay 30p to use the loos in Waterloo (I feel like I should attempt a loo pun, but I'm tired and anyway, I should know better) and we had 60p. Mum wasted her 30p by being incapable of getting through the barriers effectively, so I helped her through with our last 30p and waited for her outside.

I waited and waited.

And waited.

I gave a confused Texan lady 10p I found in my pocket so she could get through...

And then I waited.

Eventually I climbed over the barriers and marched into the toilets, ready to kick down some doors in case mum had passed out or choked on her own sick. She was just stood by the sinks, smiling into the distance and clutching her handbag at chest-height like a little girl pretending to be a Grown Up Lady in a play.

Somehow I manged to get us both back to the hotel and ordered room service, because I've never had it and may never have it again! The next day we had breakfast in our rooms, perched on the ends of our bed like that scene in Sex and the City where that guy leaves Carrie some money after they have sex.

Right. That's pretty much the end of my post now, I'm tired but I have a lot more to blog about and to prove it I will write down some notes for myself here, so I don't forget:

- Terry Richardson
- American Apparel owner being sacked
- Paris
- Spain
- Titus Adronicus
- Online dating
- My new house

And inevitably:

- Eyebrows
- Cats
- Myself

*as in the old fashioned use of the word, like "She knew all the latest jazz tunes and looked swell in a beaded flapper dress, but she was a sluttish housekeeper". I don't mean I've been too busy slagging about to blog.

**Can't decide if My Denim Badboy is the title of a millionaire-making raunchy novel series, or the headline of a Take A Break story.