The inbetween bit

Hello fellow blogees.

I'm back in the wonderful e-world, and not the surreal one the Shamen sung about. It's so nice to be back in potential contact with everyone, and to be out and about with real people. I spent such a long time being ill and disgusting in my basement pit I had forgotten how to socialise or feel normal. I'm not quite there yet, but I think I've made some progress!

So then, xmas has been and gone. To be fair, it was peaceful and uneventful, which is as much as I could ever ask for. I got the best presents yet, including a fancy new ipod (dan/jonathan- need help buying a laptop and doing the whole ipod thing)a wicked 'vanity' bag, which now holds the biggest collection of makeup known to mankind, loads of new matching underwear (although never got the hang of that, some great books from my dad and a DKNY scarf (rock on dad!) and the new Take That CD....sorry everyone (have a little patience).

Saw my gran who continue to amaze me with her ability to shrink year on year...she is now 4ft 7. Amazing. So all in all, the usual Christmas stuff.

I've arrived back at work to find I'm boss-less, which makes for an easy transition back into things...ahem!

Right then.

I suppose I'd better take a quick lok at the 247 e-mails I have to deal with.

As of tomorrow we'll be back to tackling issues that are dear to my heart, this time, why my gorgeous friend in Leamington can't find a girl worthy for him and what I intend to do about it.

So long, farewell...and a very happy xmas!

So I guess for the workers amongst us, today must be the last morning in the office. I hope that all my chums have kindly employers who find it within their hearts to let you all go by 1pm at the very latest...it's only fair. If not simply down tools at 1.30pm, make it patently obvious that you have no intention of working, disrupt everyone around you and sing a few carols, they'll soon change their minds.

I am starting to feel better, the miracles of anti-biotics...whoever said they are overused and ineffective? Codswallop. This is perfect timing as this afternoon I'm meeting my bestest friend in the world who is flying in from Oompa lumper where she teaches English and plays rugger! :) All 5 of my closest school friends are dragging their other halves over for a night of fun and frolics in Angel (very apt for this time of year!).

And so the real xmas fun begins....after all this being cooped up I fear that I might go bonkers with all the company...werhey!

I hope you all have an incredibly merry and happy christmas, that our families all give us a break and don't do anything ridiculous for a change and that we can all drink at least one full bottle of Champagne whilst opening our pressies. It makes them sooo much better.

A very fond farewell xxx

Issues anyone?

Ok, so I might as well just get used to it. I'm going to be sitting here in the Basement Flat in Brighton until Steve comes to my rescue in the little mini cooper and whisks me away to Clapham South manors.

So whilst I'm here, I might as well do something worthwhile with my time. But what? Cleaning? No, I've exhausted that. Reading? I am well and truly frobscottled and goldenfizwizard'ed out after reading the BFG last night. Listening to the radio? Terry Wogan only makes me depressed.

So.. Vic and I were talking on the e-mail the other day and we decided that it would be a good idea if we all attempted to tackle each other's problems via the medium of blog, an 'ask ali' page if you like.

Whilst I'm not and will never promise to deliver accurate and sound advice, I can certainly tell you exactly how I feel about things. Plus I have the excellent sounding board of Anita at my disposal, who is always my first port of call for all my relationship issues. Steve calls her either 'public enemy number one' or 'what is she the f**king oracle?' closely followed by, 'do you listen to everything she tells you'. And the answer is yes. She is my chosen one when it comes to matters of the heart and everyone should have a someone like Anita. For pragmatic, no nonsense advice which often you don't want to hear.

Now I happen to know for a fact that as a group of friends, we are most definately a permanent supply of issues, worries and pickles. So how about it? Come on, someone volunteer a pickle, anonymously if you wish, and we'll see what we can do!

By the way, is it true that Dustin has a Girls Aloud CD in his collection? Shocking.

Yawn

The illness is reaching fully fledged tedium now.

After a visit to the Doctor this morning it appears I have a chronic chest infection and have been given drugs and so am doomed to even more time sitting in my dressing gown, coughing and feeling like I have a tennis ball lodged in my throat.

And I'm missing my third xmas bash on the trot tonight as a result, AND it was one I really fancied going to.

For any of you who are addicted to Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares, last night he re-visited moma cheries 'soul food' restaurant/shack. Since the first visit and the rapid rise to fame, moma cherie appeared to have lost sight of the all important fresh cooking and soul food and had instead favoured mass production of part-cooked chicken drummers, limp salad and rotten looking frozen deserts.

After a quick bit of ramseyification, all was looking rosy again, and the loveable chef, Brian, appeared to be taking the reins effectively. And this, was my dinner date for this evening.

My mouth was watering at the prospect of jambalayas, salt fish fritters and chicken wings but instead I'm going to be eating chicken broth. Basically Im' f**king miserable and everyone around me seems to be suffering with similar miseries...

With only 5 days to go til Christmas can things turn full circle and become joyous? One things for sure, there ain't no way on god's earth I'm abiding by the 'no alcohol' rule on xmas eve, xmas day or boxing day for that matter. One glass of champers and I'll be so battered I'll forget all my woes!

Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to my good friend, Amoxycillin.

Middle Class Guilt

Okay, so the she-flu has not yet subsided and so I'm holed up in Steve's cosy flat in Clapham South. It's not that torturous as I've got freeview, and all the films I could possibly want, plus a 15 tog feather duvet...so why am I sitting in a pikey internet cafe opposite Clapham South tube station?

It's simple.

She's 24, she's Polish, she wears 3/4 length leggings and flip flops, and she's terrifying.

She is Steve's cleaner. She has an uncanny knack of short circuiting the electrics everytime she comes over and so can never use the hoover, or the iron, or anything which might aide cleaning. Steve and I often joke that she just gets all her mates over, and they sit and smoke and curse us both...but she still comes nevertheless!

So there I am quite happy languishing in my sea of snotty tissues and surrounded by various sinus-related products and I hear the jingle jangle of keys. Given that Steve isn't normally back from work til about 9ish, I was slightly alarmed. And then in she walked and I was even more alarmed.

Being a girl I am then faced with an entire truck load of guilt and issues. First and foremost I feel she is looking at me thinking, "this is the squallor of your sodding boyfriend, you lazy b*tch, why can't you get up off your sorry ar*e and do his cleaning".

So I leapt off the sofa and into action. It was ludicrous, we were pitching our cleaning skills one on one in a fight to the bitter end (and those of you who know me know that when I want to, I can CLEAN).

There was dust flying everywhere, 'Cif' being squirted quite unnecessarily, sweeping, wiping, and general hubub. Frankly I feel she got the upper hand, and I attribute that to her ability to lunge neatly because of all that lycra in those leggings.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I gave up after an hour- I felt I was treading on her toes. I wrote a very short list of things I knew needed doing and asked her sweetly in my best ill voice. She's a feisty so and so is Alena, and she fixed me with her cold blue eyes when I began reading, and tutted and 'tsk'ed more loudly with every job.

My parting shot in a pathetic attempt to make myself feel better as I snuck out was asking her if she wanted anything from the supermarket? Turns out she did. Toilet cleaner. Bathroom cleaner and Kitchen cleaner.

The 12 steps (less 8)

I am ill.

Well, to be slightly more to the point, I have she-flu (like bitch tits but not as funny).

It all started with an ominous sore throat and has gone downhill from there. As a result I've missed out on many an Xmas frollic and party and am feeling quite like a leper. It's all this time on my own you understand.

I have gone through the classic stages:

Denial

'No, this can't be happening to me, I've got so much to do, perhaps a small crisp has been lodged in my throat and I am in fact 100% fighting fit and healthy'

Anger

'It's this poxy f**king commuting that's done it. Being surrounded by stupid, greying middle aged men with substandard immune systems, sneezling, sniffling and coughing in my direction....w**kers, the lot of them.

Grief

This happened on Friday when I accused my boyfriend of not caring that I was practically on my death bed (hence the she-flu) and proceeded to cry unabashedly for 30 minutes (and I threw in some whinging and whining for good measure). 3 hours later flowers appeared proving that said boyfriend did care. Or that he had indeed put my crying on hold, speed dialled interflora and asked for 'the usual' (i jest, flowers were gorgeous).

Boredom.

This is happening today. I am sooooo bored it's untrue. I could embark on some present wrapping but it's too much like hard work. I could write some Christmas cards, but I have lost the ability to write. I could go and meet Dan for lunch? OR I could lie on the sofa and watch 'allo 'allo re-runs.

Despite my near death experience over the weekend, you'll all be pleased to know that I managed with the help of my dear friend ibuprofen, to take in the arsenal vs portsmouth game on saturday, at the Emirates (platinum hospitality though so no mingling with the 'turnstyle' people) and also spend a small fortune in Selfridges
on Sunday,completing my shopping for the festive season.

The highlight though, amidst all of the snot, and tissues and hacking, was the premiere of Jonathan Shipley and Dave Miller's new film, 'Flash Gordon'. A bittersweet portrayal of our bumbling and very loveable friend Sam. And what did Sam do to ensure his street cred was in tact?

Pick up a small, plastic replica guitar, and 'rock out' to a game aimed at 5-9 year olds.

Sam. We salute you.

Gulliver's place

For the first time in my fairly hefty life, I feel like a lilliputian.

Although I am at best described as 'average' at worst described as 'short', at the moment myself and my wonderful landlady/buddy are feeling bijou, teeny weeny and diddy, all at once.

Why? Said landlady's gulliverish boyfriend has moved in, and brought with him lots of giant sized man-things. These include a plate which is the size of a small planet and a towel which could wrap up an entire class of small children after a swimming lesson. All of our feminine ways have been thrown into disarray. Last night for example, we attempted our first meal as a threesome. It was a lovely meal of mamma's special sauce and brown rice. Very worthy, very yummy, and very vegetarian.

The boyfriend, who we will refer to as SW, could not hide his disgust at us tucking into this meal which was sadly lacking in animal flesh. In addition, he was not amused by our love of programmes such as 'ten years younger' and presumably will not be too chuffed when he realises the extent of our reality TV addiction.

Disgruntled, SW made his way into his bedroom where he proceeded to set up his miscellaneous games console and played a game which had gratuitous shooting, swearing, pimps, hookers and crime.

Are men and women designed to live together? Perhaps having flats above one another joined by a firemans pole for rare occasions when interaction is strictly necessary is the way forward?

By the way, did I mention how wonderful my friend Anita is? She's the master of random dinners and clean glass shelves. Long may she prosper.

Where's the Christmas magic gone?

Forgive me for obsessing somewhat about Christmas, but my fairy-sparkly-tinselly perspective has been partially dented in light of yesterday evening's antics.

Last night, in an attempt to re-capture some childhood Christmas memories, me, my mum and some old family friends, went to watch the skating in Somerset House, followed by a carol service in Trafalgar Square and then a slap up dinner in China town.

Now don't get me wrong, the skating was hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons. I have never seen a more pathetic bunch of wide-eyed wibbly wobblers. It was hardly Rockerfella New York standard where you get real show offs doing triple salkos. But it entertained me, and we proceeded from there to see the tree and the sing some carols.

When I was tiny, we used to do just this, and Trafalgar Square used to be full of life (people and pigeons- before tyrant Ken got the birds of prey and shot guns in) but then back in the day, there were only 3 services in December. Now, typical of the over kill, instant gratification times that we live in, there are 5 hours of carols EVERY day.

As a result there's a piffling crowd, lacklustre singing (only my mum in her shrill mum's singing voice)and the choir were well, pretty substandard (sorry Derwent Valley).

So there we sat, on the cold steps of Trafalgar Square, getting cold, risking piles, and trying to feel festive. It has to be said, I really struggled. And then, in a split second I found my magic. A teeny tiny little blonde girl, muffled up from head to toe in baby pink snuggly clothes and brandishing some kind of wand, and she was spinning round and round and round and laughing her socks off. And so there you have it. Christmas really is for the kid in us.

And I'm a sentimental t*t. But I knew that anyway.

Lovely lovely boys & bonuses

Boys are great aren't they? And not just for the functional reasons.

Last night I spent the evening with three of my faves in Brighton, when I say 'the night' you'll understand I merely mean a couple of hours in the pub, and a drink or three (which explains my 10am arrival at my desk in the City- ah well).

I was busy wrapping presents in my trackie bottoms and watching some awful film about abstinence and I got the text 'come to the pub' to which I made my excuses and received the response 'shut up'. I later found out that the words 'you slut' were only omitted at very last minute. Charming.

Being invited into the bosom of a male drinking trio after several hours is a fascinating and terrifying place to be, in equal measures. I was regailed with many a story about heinous errors with girls, and was privileged to gain an insight or two into the workings of a male mind.

This is what I deduced. Boys believe what they want to believe, regardless of the facts, or the measured opinion of friends, or the niggling doubts, or anything. If they want to convince themselves that something is acceptible to do, they will do it. This of course is BRILLIANT for outsiders looking in and chortling about the latest f**k up. And then it hit me. I'm going out with one of these people. These 'men'. I am on very thin ice. The lesbians are laughing all the way to the egg bank.

On a slightly more boring note, yesterday I got my bonus. It has to be said, there were a few zeros missing off the end of the figure. However, the said amount is enough to purchase a new lap top for my blogging exploits.Hip hip hooray! So it turns out working in the City does have a couple of very minor perks. You put up with bitching, back stabbing, two-faced-ness and general skullduggery, but you get a token sum of money to keep you sweet at the end.

Where's that CV of mine?

Homebase-gate

Phew. The first Christmas bonanza weekend out of the way.

Am tired, have big bags, lots of spots and feel particularly special and xmassy.

Ok, so from Friday. Met very very drunk boyfriend at the tube and realised that I was going to have to put some serious effort into sobering him up before we could attend the dinner party we were supposed to be going to....a couple of slaps and pints of water later, we arrived, slightly dishevelled- lovely evening.

Saturday, we went on our inaugural visit to Homebase. A traumatic experience for any couple in their late 20's, particularly when both of us haven't the first idea when it comes to DIY. On the plus side, we weren't trying to negotiate some heinous DIY task, we were infact, choosing an xmas tree (our first xmas together alone- so it had to be done- or else where would the presents live?)

We ventured out into the cold 'garden centre' where all the lovely piney smelling nordic firs were standing, wrapped up and ready to be dispatched into cosy living rooms around the Wandsworth area. We picked up a wrapped tree and a portly man dressed in green offered to open her up, so we could see her 'shape'. She was gorgeous, and pricey and mine. After a minor tantrum we put her in our trolley and proceeded inside to pick some 'tasteful decorations'. In there, we had a minor incident with a deaf child involving a loud and very high pitched train which played 'jingle bells' on loop whilst zooming around a track. After the third rendition, I ripped the train off the display, tore out the batteries and slammed it back down in a christmassy rage.

No sooner than I had done this, a small deaf child ran up to the display, and started to cry 'mummy, someone's broken the train'. At this point, we paid for our tree and decorations and did one. Thank god for a small mini cooper and fast getaways italian job style.

Tree is now up and is fully blinged with silver decorations, and I have named her Chrissy, because, well, why not. She is being fed and watered everyday and in return twinkles and shimmers with her festive load and drops minimal needles.

Saturday night, we glammed up and hit St James Park for one of S's colleague's wedding receptions for a quick pre-dinner drink. We were kept entertained brilliantly by the drunken family members, some of whom were passed out at various tables, some were gurning and staggering around on the dance floor, and some who were just lurching around the place. All women, all in their 60's and 70's. I hope I can behave this terribly when I'm a wrinkly.

Dinner at Ramsey's Boxwood Cafe at the Berkeley hotel was awesome, totally recommend this great litle restaurant. It's hidden away, dark, romantic with discrete and impeccible service and of course food to die for. Yum yum yum. Shame we were sitting next to an office party where the obligatory singing and tying of napkins onto heads occured at about midnight....ah well. It's Christmas. Didn't you know?

xmas party....the aftermath

Here's a thinker.

Last night it was my inaugural Christmas party at my new job so of course, I was on my best behaviour. I only drank 3 glasses of champagne at the reception, one glass of wine over dinner, several vodka and tonics and on the whole, I maintained my dignity (although I did dance to 'pass the duchy on the left hand side' which was wholly inappropriate given it was a law firm bash).

Over the course of the evening, I made polite and random chit chat with lots of people, some better than others. This morning I received an e-mail from one of the said 'chit chatees'asking me out for a drink.

This poses many issues for me in that:

a)I have a boyfriend who is a bit of a legend
b)No matter what I said or how I phrased it, I am now faced with the inevitable difficult moments in the lift or by the water cooler
c)Quite frankly, the morning after an office Christmas party, could anyone stomach going for a drink with ANYONE? The odds are stacked against any man brave enough to try this tactic.

So after some painful e-mail exchanges, eventually Mr S got the message, and instead of being hurt or cross or nasty, he said that he thought I was fabulous, and if I ever changed my mind, he was super keen. And, despite the slightly cringeworthy nature of the whole thing, I felt warm and glowy.

Afterall, we all like to feel appreciated.