Offices- Women vs. Men

Last night over dinner, (Dan's special, mince cooked in grease with onions, followed by ultimate brownie desert which Jonathan managed to serve without any of the brownie which was left clinging to the metal- actually they were both yummy!)Dan discussed his frustrations with office life, and in particular, women in offices.

His claim was that women are more suited to the open plan office environment than men, and that women adapt more to administrative type functions, whilst men like to hole themselves away in dingy little offices where they can view soft porn in private, sorry, where they 'strategise' and do high level business things. Far from being a sexist comment (I just haven't described it very well), it actually held some sway with me when I realised that much of what Dan was saying I am infact, very guilty of.

The first 'office' trait was the desire to comment about everyone you have spoken with on the phone. Whether this is 'I really like her, she's such a sweety' or more simplistically, 'w*nker', or 'f**king asshole'. It's a compulsion, and one from which I suffer terribly. Only at work mind.

Secondly is the incredibly inane chat about calories/weight and then ramming baked goods down your face faster than Vanessa Feltz. Yesterday, I am ashamed to admit, I was the ring leader of this behaviour in the office. I was ruminating out loud about my 1/2 stone recent weight gain, and then an email popped into my inbox entitled, 'cakes'.

B*gger it. Who am I to fight the forces of nature, and sugar.

When I arrived at the kitchen 0.002 seconds later, inbetween me and the cakes were a gaggle of women, inspecting the calorie, fat levels, salt and sugar levels etc etc and working out the 'least bad' cake. Despite my earlier 'fat' thoughts, I lunged and grabbed the biggest greasiest one and pegged it to my desk where I scoffed it.

So I can deduce that whilst women might very well be guilty of some fairly inane chit chat in the office and perhaps selling ourselves intellectually short on occasion, the alternative would be that women were 'kept' in small offices where they would build enormous collections of shoes and cardigans and men were forced to open plan it, in vast seas of testosti-pods, in groups of four. I can hardly even bring myself to speculate how dire that might be. Sugar, calories and bitching would be the least of our worries.

Fraternising with the ex-emy

This weekend I have had the absolute pleasure of spending quality time with some of the nicest ladies in the world, my female friends. Name check so that you all know just how much I love you, Jess, Sam, Lindsey, Anita, Elle, Anne-Sophie, Natalia, Katie, Sarah and Jemma. It's very rarely that I get to cram all of these lovelies into one weekend, so I feel it's quite an achievement. I am now oozing with oestrogen, in a non-moody kind of a way.

I just love to spend time with my ladies, as when you have something *important* to ponder (*boys may not consider this as such), you get a brilliant, wide ranging and insightful array of opinions, and thoughts to help you on your way.

The issue in question this weekend: Steve flying to New York in advance of the beginning of his conference to spend time with his ex-girlfriend, Nina, the 6ft amazonian, blonde bird from Essex and the antithesis of Ali-ness.

My feelings surrounding this ranged from mild psychosis, to gorgeous tolerance, to green eyed monster, to ranting nutter- mostly depending on how much I had had to drink.

Of course I felt the need to canvass everyone for their thoughts regarding this erm, delicate matter. Should I chill out and let it be, should I send regular texts to remind him that I exist or should I just get really drunk and forget about it?

These were my favourites:

Lindsey- If I were you Ali, I'd be getting on a plane, donning a long coat, a moustache, glasses and a fake nose, and following Steve on his dinner date with Nina. You can't trust men,ever.

Sam- Stuff and nonsence Ali, you're simply jealous that he's going to NY without you and that someone else gets to be in his company and not you. You're fab and he knows it, and you've got to be confident in that.

Jess- Given the circumstances in which they broke up and that it was a small fling, it's totally cool for Steve to want to remain friends. Also, it's not as if this is going to go anywhere, she's in New York for goodness sake.

AS- I would not be happy about this and would make this very clear (my gut feelings as well!)

Anyway, so I opted for getting very very drunk on Saturday, dancing stupidly in Audio with the Dans, Anita, Natalia and Anne Sophie, which meant I didn't even have to think about it. So when Steve phoned yesterday, I swallowed my pride and was sweetness and light, asked about how it had gone, if he'd had fun. And I quashed all my petty desires to ask if she was looking prettier than me, thinner than me, or what time they had got in. Turns out he'd had an 'ok' evening, and that Nina's current boyfriend, an Essex wideboy idiot, had gone to dinner with them- probably to supervise...tsk tsk, how very untrusting and controlling (hehehe).

I felt so good about it, being cool and chilled out and, dare I say it, temporarily low maintainence...not something I ever achieve with ease.

My god, being understanding and cool is hard work. Having a tantrum is much easier, which is why I must fight against it...onwards and upwards in the pursuit of the permanent destruction of the green eyed monster.

Likelihood of success....I'm undecided.

Cornish Capers and Anchovies

Phew. I'm tired, ratty and if I ever see another fish again it will probably be too soon, but my goodness, I have had an awesome few days in Cornwall.

Padstow, for those of you who haven't visited is basically owned and run entirely by Rick Stein. Everywhere you look there's homage to the man, Stein's Patisserie, Stein's Deli, Stein's restaurant, Stein's f**king public loos, and oh look, Stein's massively overinflated local property prices forcing out the Cornish community (£750,000 for a small 3 bedroom place in the village). Hurrah for Stein!

But despite this, there's lots to love about Padstow.

As you know, I went as my friend Dave's plus one on a corporate hospitality jolly, and hence had to be on my best behaviour for 48 straight hours (I think this could explain the tiredness and rattyness). This meant not swearing, and not making fun of northern accents- very tough....Yorkshire accents are crying out to be mimicked.

Tuesday evening we checked into our rooms, in a place called St Edmunds House, Petroc. Funnily enough a luxury 6 bedroomed guest house with views over the bay owned by Rick Stein and his partner, charging £295 per room per night. Absolutely amazing rooms though, with the 'Molton Brown' freebie toiletries sealing the deal for me.

After a quick soak in the cast iron bath (get in!) and a minor dilemma regarding what to wear...not too much breast, not too much leg, not too much slap, flats vs heels, I emerged looking 'respectable' and ready for cookery school action.

We were frogmarched by our events chap (lovely man called Matt) to Stein's Padstow Cookery School, where we donned our white chefs jackets (needn't have worried about the excess cleavage), and the realisation dawned on us all that we weren't watching a cooking demo, and that 'interactive demonstration' meant, you are s*dding well cooking your own dinner and eating it, so if you f**k it up then don't blame us if you get food poisening'. So we were showed the 'filleting' techniques, how to do speed chopping without loosing a finger and how to make useful everyday things, like homemade mayonnaise.

We paired up, and me and Davy boy geared up for the big cook off. Salt and pepper squid with champagne, mackeral escabeche with several glasses of wine and deep fried sea bass with salsa verde with more wine on the side, I was hammered. And I'd acquired a nasty oil burn on my little finger from an over zealous amount of olive oil in my pan. Chefs are not sympathetic to minor cooking injuries you know.....quite upsetting- but my chef said that I had 'nice soft hands'. I think this meant he thought I was a nancy who hadn't done a hard days work in my life.

Thank GOD we were let off cooking our pudding as by that time it was pushing midnight and I was far too drunk to listen to any more 'handy cooking' tips. We sat and drank some 'Chalky's Revenge' beer (Stein's dog who died last week- RIP Chalky), drank more wine and continued small talking. Our lovely chef Mark joined us and one by one the rest of his staff scarpered, and he was kept at work listening to our inane chit chat until almost 2am. Poor man.

Needless to say I stood Dave up for breakfast as I was mentally putting myself through the 'you MUST not' spew paces. But there was no rest for the wicked as off we went to the helecopter, feeling decidedly queasy and incredibly worried about the levels of wind, and liklihood of vomming on Dave's clients. I cleverly opted to go shot-gun in the 'copter, to minimise the risk of public vomming as the rest of the group went in the back. This gave me a great opportunity to ask the pilot what EVERY single button did, even the one which said someting like 'propulsion ejecter lever' which apparently made the doors fall off their hinges. It was red. I should have known.

Up and away we went, zooming up the Cornish coastline on this sunny clear day. It was gorgeous, and so still and calm up in the air. Such an amazing feeling gliding through the sky with your headphones on and in total silence.

Made it through unscathed...thank goodness. The final challenge of the weekend was a 6 course 'taster' menu at (you'd never have guessed it) Stein's restaurant- with a hangover, after a helecopter ride. It was touch and go, but I made it through and when our return flight from Newquay to Bristol landed early evening, I mentally patted myself on the back for not being too humiliating. Except for I did give the chef a kiss when everyone else shook his hand. And a real smacker aswell. But he loved it.

J'aime les poissens. Could have murdered a pasty though.

Happy anniversary to me

Today is mine and Steve's anniversary. It's an anniversary of sorts, as well, we have already been together for well over a year, but in an 'on and off' fashion, much like Jude Law and Sienna Miller I like to think, but hopefully slightly less irritating.

To celebrate the rather miraculous passing of one year, Steve took me to Chez Bruce on Friday night. For the uninitiated in restaurants, this is consistantly voted one of the top restaurants in London, and has the honour of a Michelin star bestowed upon it....my first ever visit to a restaurant this fancy, so very exciting!

And it was pretty special. For a romantic occasion this place really hits the spot. There's no pretence, no dress code, and from the outside, this really is one of the most unassuming places. Once inside, the place is modern but not offensively trendy, the pong of cheese from the exceptionally cheesy board is the first thing which assaults your senses, but very quickly it becomes part of the olfactory scenary.

The sommelier was helpful without being intrusive, and we were soon guzzling some champagne and some scrummy merlot.

For dinner I chose the lobster and crab raviolo (yes, with an o) to start and then the beef, which was scrumdiddlyumptious....and then, to top it off, a hot chocolate pudding, which was quite literally to die for. Of course Steve and I finished our evening of high-browed dining with a couple of Eastenders re-runs as soon as we got home...class!

For anyone who ever happens to be in the Wandsworth area and wants to treat themselves or someone else...this has got to be up there. At about £50 for 3 course each, plus wine of course, it's pricey, but amazing value for money when you consider quite how sublime the food is...go on...do it.

Of course, I feel quite a foody this week, being that I'm off to Padstow tomorrow to eat in Rock Stein's restaurant (after a cooking lesson, god help me!). I'll be blogging with my own recipe for Lobster Thermidore in no time at all.

I'll be the size of a house by the time we go on our hols....thank god the Maldives is full of obese Americans, so in comparison I'll be sleek, toned and lovely. [Please let this still be the case]

So, slight hiatus now but I'll be back on Thursday when I get back from Cornwall, no doubt with many funny stories about lobsters, blunders and hangovers.

Adieu for now.

The aftermath

Last night was quite a journey home from work...one of those which again makes me question what on earth I'm doing commuting.

Managed to get out of work at 4pm, after warnings of closed stations and cancellations hit the national rail enquiries website, and battled over the bridge only to find that the roof of London Bridge station had collapsed so it had closed.

There was a real sense of panic and frenzy as the entire city left work early and attempted to get home in whatever way possible. Every time I walked past a notice board, they were making amends to increase the misery 'Northern Line- suspended, District and Centre- No clockwise service...London Bridge...CLOSED.

I asked a member of the very helpful British Transport Police what my best option was to try and get home, he said, "where's home?", I said, "Brighton" and he laughed and said, 'good luck'. Brilliant.

So three and a half hours later, and a very angry and overcrowded train journey home from Victoria I got in...ate a massive big dinner and relaxed to watch the usual assortment of crap TV, including Big Brother, where Jade excelled herself by calling Shilpa, 'Shilpa Poddodum'....Davina might as well bring along a shot gun tonight to put her out of her misery.

On a MUCH happier note, my holiday has been booked...hurrah for city bonuses and wonderful boyfriend. My gut feeling is that after some of my recent behaviour I don't deserve this treat, but I'm going to make sure that from here on in I am a model girlfriend, supportive, loving, fun, low maintainence, good arm candy and always on hand for sexual favours.

If anyone feels like it, we're off to an island called Meedhupparu for 10 nights of nothing except diving, eating, sleeping and drinking...

http://www.destmaldives.com/meedhupparu_island_maldives.html

Do you hate me?

The winds of change

It's bl**dy windy in the City.

You know when you were small your mum would say to you, "don't pull that expression or the winds will change and you'll be stuck like that forever". (well mine did)

Today this really happened. I was ground to a halt by the wind on Fenchurch Street and almost took off. The whole struggle to walk made me laugh and I could not physically stop my face from being in a smile, because the wind was forcing my cheeks back and my facial muscles weren't strong enough to combat the "wind power".

So I walked the entire way to M&S with a goofy smile on my face.

There'll be trees on the line to Brighton tonight no doubt...tsk tsk. Blimmin Mother Nature, hasn't she got better things to be getting on with. Speaking of which, better do some work :)

Sore head, shaky hands

This morning I am hungover. And it's not like I had a night out last night. Infact, I worked until 8, went home to Clapham, bought myself a gorgeous bottle of Loire Valley white wine, sunk a few vodka tonics waiting for Steve to get home and then cracked open the wine and drank away. By the time we ate dinner at 10.30, I was too drunk to be able to taste it. I swore at the tv and then passed out. It was a fun evening.

But there is a reason for all this gratuitous mid-week drinking, I'm trying to build up my alcohol tolerance for next weeks trip to Padstow. Why? Because my friend Dave has trusted me to go away for a drinking fuelled corporate hospitality trip with some of his biggest clients, namely the top management of a well known Northern supermarket, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let him down by calling any one of them a 'f**ker' or a 'ruddy faced c**t' which I have been known to do, and then puke in the helecopter the following morning. This is serious stuff though, one of bestest friend's reputation in his career depends on me not getting my slammers out too much, or swearing or saying anything inappropriate, and I'm going to be drunk. It's a recipe for disaster (as Steve tells me every 5 minutes).

So there's nothing else for it, but to continue the heavy drinking regime, in a committed and positive fashion and try and overcome the bad behaviour, puking and hangovers. We leave next Tuesday, so I have some decent drinking hours to put in before then.

My dress code for the weekend is as follows: smart/casual. Hate that. What does it mean? For men 'slacks' and a polo neck, or an open necked shirt, but for women? Apparently jeans and trainers are out, so essentially I'm going to be dressed in what I wear to work, and given that I'm going to be leaping in an out of a 'copter, mingling with the local baby lobsters in the hatchery and cooking them for dinner, is this really practical? My wardrobe doesn't stretch to such things as 'a nice blouse' or 'smart trousers' really. Hurrumph. This calls for some clothes shopping I fear. Littlewoods here I come.

Bond....Jennie Bond

I forgot to mention yesterday that over the weekend, I was in a restaurant in Wandsworth happily eating Pizza, when a 40ish year old, big fat Italian bloke came up to me and asked me whether I was 'Jennie Bond'. Apparently, 'his old school friend'....

I said no. Steve laughed. Dave practically spat out his Pizza.

Right.

Well.

I must assume, for my own sanity, that his friend 'Jennie Bond' was not THE Jennie Bond, the doyenne of BBC royal correspondents and 55ish, but infact a sleek, young gorgeous namesake around her mid-late twenties, AKA me.

I was shocked however to discover on the Guardian website, that Bond, has a darker side, indeed a 'free-er' side.

"Famed for her deferential reporting style and occasionally queenly manner - not to mention her admission that her failure to wear knickers caused her periodic embarrassment when climbing to vantage points".

Heavens above. There's hope for me yet if I chose to become a Royals reporter. Presumably if they condone knickerlessness, then swearing like a trooper, the occasional burp, and some fairly serious un-pc'ness, is going to go down as sweet as calpol.

HRH, may I present myself for duty.

Flat pack fatty

Useful source of news, the Yorkshire Post, today examined research that "Britons are starting 2007 more than 200 million pounds heavier because of festive excesses and a lack of exercise over the Christmas period".

200 million pounds? That's a big turkey. And after last night, I think I might be single handedly responsible for at least 5 million of them. Why?

Well, after a hearty meal of chilli and tacos, I made myself a cup of tea and went to sit on the bed to watch ER and 'relax' and then, distaster struck. Well, not really disaster, but moderate embarassment at the very least. The bloody bed broke, practically snapped in half, made the loudest crunching smashing noise and there I was on the floor, feeling fat and humiliated. Then Steve barged in and proceeded to call me 'flabber jabber' 'lardarse' 'fatty' 'jabba the hut' and do impressions of me larding around and breaking the bed. For my delicate female 'weight self esteem' this was not a very positive turn of events. Ah well, I had to see the funny side, which was more than Steve could do when he realised that this would mean he had to do DIY at midnight rather than going to bed! hehehe. Never fear though, the bed was mended and we spent a night lying rather gingerly and trying to move as little as possible.

The Northern Line this morning was unadulterated misery..sweaty and more angry than usual. An old Indian lady took it upon herself to singlehandedly block the entrance to the tube because she had taken umbridge to the overcrowding...fair play to her! Of course this went down like a sack of sh*t for all the commuters desperately trying to get into the city.

Right then, another day in the office. Today I have got a 4 things to look forward to, meeting Dan tonight for a drink, going to Padstow next Tues/Weds with Dave, dinner at Chez Bruce on Friday night with Steve for our anniversary and then, booking the holiday, hopefully this is happening today or tomorrow...thank GOD.

Clapham common shocker

After having spent a lovely problem free weekend with Steve and my friend Dave (despite a minor puking incident in the pub on Friday night which was a tad embarrasing) I found myself needing a moment out of the flat on Sunday evening. Probably something to do with the fact that the resting temperature is somewhere in the region of 54 degrees, and sometimes it becomes a little bit stifling.

So, I took myself off to Clapham Common, to clear my head, think through some things and to be honest, wallow a little bit. I think it was the fact that I ended up at the bandstand in the middle of the common, which was the the last place I saw my parents together as a couple before they decided to go their seperate ways. So I sat on a bench and was enjoying some seriously self-indulgent tears when...

Screeeeech, and CRASH.

Behind me, all of the swans and duck and coots in the lake started squawking and took off and I looked to the road in the distance where there was a car with no windscreen left, lots of screaming and shouting and a man lying on the floor. F**k. Dry your eyes, stop being so caught up in your own cr*p.

Funny how in those situations, you think you'd be useless when in actual fact some strange instinct kicks in and you become super human. I'm not the best person with blood and gore, but I didn't even flinch to find this poor man had lost what appeared to be half of his face in the accident, almost certainly his eye. In fact I knelt by him and cradled his head from the pavement.

He'd cycled across the road with no lights, no helmet and and ipod blaring, not seen the car, who hadn't seen him and that was that.

Thankfully the ambulance turns up quickly, and the man goes to hospital. The most distressing thing for me was listening to him asking 'what happened' over and over and over. And the poor man and his wife in their car, who were so shocked and distressed, and the state of their car was shocking.

I went home to a large vodka and tonic, and watched that awful film 'Final Destination 2' about cheating death, and wondered whether I'd been destined for that car, and if so, whether I'd be chased by 'death'. And then I realised it was all a load of hollywood sh*te and it was merely fate that I'd been at the scene of this horrific incident. And perhaps someone else might not have reacted so calmly, so for that a pat on the back for Ali P.

Fingers and toes crossed that my cyclist pulled through. I guess I'll never know.

Maldivian mare...

This is going to sound like a terribly middle class blog, but I'm going to do it anyway, because well, I am shamelessly middle class some times, and this is definately one of those times. I'm so sorry to all my hay-man, eco-friendly pals, who would have heart attacks if they knew the fuel emissions generated from a flight over there.

Anyway, here i go, feel free to virtually b*tch slap me from here to the Indian ocean and back.

Lovely boyfriend has offered to take me to the Maldives as part of a valentines/'I've just been promoted and got a big bonus' treat. Of course, this is amazingly generous and wonderful. I LOVE the maldives with it's amazing diving, sea as warm as a hot bath, basking white tip sharks at your toes, cliche cocktails from scooped out pineapples etc etc.

BUT, as with everything, in amongst paradise there are some erm, pitfalls.

There's no swimming pool. Ok. So when you're on an island which you can circumnavigate in 15 minutes and you are surrounded by warm water it hardly seems an issue to not have a pool, but, if you're like me, when you've had a hard day of chilling on the beach, it's nice to mooch up to the pool, get the sand and salt off your skin and sit at the pool bar. Without one, where do you go to drink?!

Also, where do you do handstands and pretend you used to have synchronised swimming lessons and try and do fancy things with your legs? Where do you practice your diving/belly flops? Where do you do your best to not look like a beached whale whilst trying to get out? All these things are vitally important, aren't they?

On this occasion, I fear my priorities are misplaced.

Anyway, I've left the booking in Steve's hands, so by the time I leave work, I could be leaving to go on holiday in 3 weeks.

GET IN!!!!!!!

Swizz!

I have found a classic online swizz.

Whilst looking at a potential island, I found this as part of the list of all-inclusive perks:

"Full board (American breakfast, lunch and dinner), additionally snacks between 4 pm and 6 pm. Until midnight tea, coffee, fruit juices, mineral waters, beer, house wine, whiskey, brandy, rum and vodka will be served free of charge. Also included in the "All Inclusive" per guest is o­ne hour daily snorkeling (without equipment)"

Can someone please tell me exactly what snorkelling without equipment is? Yep, swimming. And that is considered as a part of the package...limited to one hour daily though.

I am sold!

poorly paw.

Today is one of those days, you know. When things start badly, and just keep on and on and on.

The highlight so far was falling over, properly, in reception. I was striding through on a proper mission, late for a meeting, and WHAM! I was on my arse...there was slow-mo and everything.

Damn my stupid knee high boots with metal heels. They may be more durable and last longer, but they ought to be designated 'extremly dangerous' at the re-heelers.

I sat through my meeting with my hand swelling up and wanting to cry but being very brave as the meeting in question was with my colleague who keeps asking me out, and I didn't want to display any signs of weakness....worse case scenario, I cried and ended up in compromising and difficult cuddle situation. eek.

So here I am, with an ever swelling lump on my hand turning blue and my little finger is sticking out at an alarming right angle. I'm going to get anita to phone her sister tonight to do some of her speciality long distance telephone diagnoses.

On the plus side, there's some great Maldivian holidays on the market at the moment, and in just over 4 weeks, I'm going to be sitting on an island a long day away from all this sh*t.

Hooray for holidays!

Da yoof of 2day

Last night I had a pyjama party with three of my lovely girlfriends in Mile End, we ate sausages, and we talked about sausages. Standard stuff really.

I won't name names, but I'll refer to my friends as S, J & L.

S has two lovely teenage boys (it can happen) who live with their Dad and step-mother in Norwich. She has a very close relationship with the boys and she really is a shining example of a mother whose kids tell her everything....no really, everything. It's quite amazing.

Last night I discovered that there is a site called bebo.com, similar to myspace I suppose, which basically allows people (mostly kids it seems) to host their own web page, including a profile, link to their friends, an area to chat in, etc etc.

S showed us her boy's sites, and it was the beginning of a wonderful, if slightly scary insight into the minds of the teenagers of today. Until last night, I didn't think I was that uncool, infact, I would have prided myself on being pretty 'down with' what was going on. I am horrendously out of touch.

Here is an excerpt:

'fuk all jst skool rele skived last lesson bt gt fookin cort dwn shopz lol wen a woz ment 2 b in art u??'

For those of you with trouble deciphering this, it is a response to the question, 'what are you up to?'

And means this:

'Not much, just school really. I skived my last lesson but I caught at the shops when I was supposed to be in an Art lesson, you?'

The entire site is conducted in language like this and is barely decipherable.

I am getting old.

The small dog-like horse.

Is there anyone else out there who was (un)fortunate enough to watch GMTV with Lorraine Kelly this morning?

There was a classic 'feel-good', 'put a smile on your face' piece about a teeny Shetland pony who had been rejected by its mother some days after birth and adopted by a couple of boisterous black labradors who lived in the farmhouse.

The little pony was reared like a pet dog indoors and no doubt slept by a roaring log fire.

At 4 months old, the horse has begun to demonstrate 'worrying' and 'confused' dog like behavioural characteristics. It will only eat from a dog bowl, and it has developed a penchant for playing ball with the labs. It hasn't yet perfected the art of barking and whining or cocking it's leg, but presumably this is only a matter of time.

Of course the bl**dy horse is behaving like a dog. It was bought up by dogs. So what this 'news' piece boiled down to was an attempt on live TV to show the horse playing football with the dogs. The best part was when the presenter admitted that the 'horse/dog' had spent the morning biting her. Good. Dogs are great judges of character and this is clearly another characteristic the horse has acquired. For seeking out stupid, useless, moronic TV presenters and giving them a damn good chomp.

In more upmarket TV (ahem) celebrity big brother is brilliant. It's essentially an expose of Jade's family, warts, prosthetic limbs, missing teeth an' all. 3 generations of Goody and poor old Jack (Jade's bloke) who looks terrified. And you would be if there was any chance at some point in the future you would dipping into that gene pool.

In Jade's defence, she has brief moments of clarity and decent articulation, and as unpopular as this might be, I really like the girl. She has some real compassion, and despite the stupid comments 'how high is the sky' and to Jackson's brother, 'are you black?' she really is pretty endearing.

Go on the goody! Lets just hope there's no 'kebab' this time round. That we could all do without.

Blast from the past

I can barely keep my eyes open today. I put this down to several things. Firstly a rather heavy weekend on the booze, and secondly a very late night last night as I got captivated by 'Girl Interupted' starring Winona Ryder before she decided to embark on a career in petty crime.

I love this film for several very shallow reasons and one slightly deeper one. Firstly, Jared Leto. The most stunning man. Those eyes....even with questionable facial hair he is truly gorgeous. And lets face it, you couldn't say the same for Pitt in Seven Years in Tibet. Anyway, the other more important reason is that Angelina Jolie, worlds most lusted over women, looks f**king awful, truly terrible. She is playing a schizophrenic, heartless, institutionalised nutter, so you wouldn't expect her to look on top form, but I found this very reassuring.

Also, I like the notion explored in this film that people can embrace temporary periods of madness in their lives, and then return to normality having learnt something and somehow feeling able to appreciate things all the more, and in a slightly different way...a nice thing to believe in, for worriers like me in particular. I had my mad phase though in mid-late 2005, so surely it must be plain sailing from here-on in? Therapy, tick! Anti-depressants, tick! Sound mind, tick! (for now at least). Having said that 'sound mind' might be pushing it seeing as I checked myself out of my therapy sessions with one weeks notice and my counsellors face was quite a picture. hehehe.

Anyway, on a lighter note, the double dating extravaganza went marvellously well. Of course Steve and Anita couldn't manage the entire weekend without a little argument (the argument in question was about whether the P on parking guidelines stood for 'Permit' or 'Parking'...you may think this is no matter to argue, but I assure you it is, and also the subject of a £10 bet which Steve lost, much To Anita's delight), but no limbs were torn, and no eyes were blacked and this I class as a massive success. Hurrah!

Ahh, the trials and tribulations of life ey?!

Good cop, Bad shop assistant

You all know that our burglar was apprehended yesterday whilst on another 'job' and when taken to the station he sang like a canary, fessing up to every burglary committed in the South East over the past year it seems.

Well, this morning I have a call from the local friendly Hove CID office, asking me to describe my diamond bracelet, and you'll never guess what, they've got it!

Everything else he nicked has been shifted already, but my precious bracelet had been earmarked as a gift for some horrendous crimi-girlfriend. Not that it would have been worn I imagine, as in my experience, most people like this tend to opt for lots of gold and a small subtle bracelet would have been met with comtempt for insufficient blingability.

So there you have it, I have perverse sort of romance to thank for the return of my bracelet.

In other news, on my way to dinner last night with Jonathan, Vic and Anne So, I nipped into the local co-op to buy some wine, where the blighter behind the counter asked me if I was a model for Storm agency. I blushed and tittered politely, and started making some awful gibberish comment about 'not being a model' and he interupted and said, 'so you're not a hand model then?'. Cheeky little f**ker. I'd been done up like a kipper. Hurrumph. In hindsight of course he was taking the p*ss, I'm 30 next year, and no model by anyone's standards. Can't believe I was suckered in.

Tonight it's Steve and my first dinner 'date' with Anita and Stev- Stev is cooking.

The last time I went on a double date with A&S, it was with my ex- Danny V the BMW driving toy maker, and it was distasterous. This was mainly because I was horrendously drunk when I arrived at dinner and called Danny V a c**t as soon as he walked in the door which set a rather inappropriate tone for the evening. Anita, in an attempt to be supportive, helped me along with my saying some equally questionable things. I remember looking across the table with very misty blurry vision and seeing two miserable boys and thinking, 'this is not going well', then thinking, 'drink more immediately'. Roll on this evening!!

The price is (not) right

Ok, so it seems the average cost per month of on-line dating is actually £14.99 and not the £6.99 I originally mooted. Well corrected my friend.

Still though, I think this is good value for money. The only downside of being a serial male dater which I can see is the fact that 99.9% of women think you're an absolute tosser if you don't pay in full for the first date.

They might offer. They don't mean it, infact if you demanded to inspect their wallets or ask them to pay half and call their bluff (I don't recommend this) the wallets would be totally empty with the exception of recently purchased shoe receipts, final credit card payment reminder notices and perhaps some 'Superdrug' vouchers from last Christmas for a token sum which just aren't worth spending.

D'ya get me?

The mate-ing game

This morning was my first commute for some time, and my god, was it a toughie getting out of bed. I put this down to the fact that my bedroom has zero natural light as a result of the 2 inch thick plywood that's covering my window in the interim between spanking new double glazing....(with bars...so I can feel like a prisoner).

*NEWSFLASH*

They have caught our burglar. Apparently they caught the bumbling baffoon on another job and when they took him in to interrogate him he fessed up to our crime aswell. So all that time spent collecting brilliant forensic evidence....wasted! Apparently we get to find out his name and previous convictions in due course, so perhaps I ought to start a one women hate campaign and out the f*ker on my blog. Or not, best to let sleeping villains lie. What really annoys me is that there's some pikey female Brightonian chav out there wearing my diamond bracelet as a gift from her n'er do well boyfriend.

Right then.

On to more erm, pressing matters than petty crime.

As some of you will know I have a wonderful friend who lives in Leamington Spa. I won't name names, but we will refer to him as 'lovely'. Said friend has not been overly successful in the dating game and I have to ask the question, why why why?! I have other male erm associates with much lesser credentials who seem to wing it.

He's handsome, got a fantastic job, his own pad, swanky car, gorgeous sense of humour, good dress sense, he can cook, he can clean, he's a DIY god and generally speaking he's a bl**dy good catch.

I fear his self esteem has not been boosted by such helpful comments from his mum that perhaps he could find himself a nice girlfriend at the local branch of 'guide dogs for the blind'. Cue hysterical laughter.

Anyway, for the last few years I've been on and on at him to register and try out some on-line dating. Typically reserved and reluctant, he has made excuse after excuse and only put up a 'hidden profile' which allowed him to view potential datees, without them seeing him. Turns out most of them were mingers, but that's not the point.

Since some more promising action over the New Year, my lovely friend has suddenly realised that perhaps this is the way forward and is now all over it, and for anyone out there who has similar misgivings, well....get rid of them. If I were single I'd be internet and speed dating faster than a greyhound off the proverbial tracks. You might not meet the love of your life, but you'll certainly have some laughs, some stories to tell, and maybe make some a decent mate or two. And if you get some action out of it, surely it's worth the £6.99 per month.

On the positive side of said friend's current singledom, I am being taken as his 'plus one' on a two-day 'rick stein' trip to Padstow as part of some corporate jolly, including fancy cooking lessons, helecopter rides, etc etc. Brilliant....can't wait, and I'm sure there will be some blogging funnies from that one. He must love me as he's trusting me to behave around senior management.

Lobster for two please.

One up, two down.

Following on from yesterday's turbulent moods, I can't put my hand on my heart and pretend that my head is straight.

Today my dilemma is wondering whether I should hand my notice in at work without having a new job to go to. Of course, I think I'd be able to land a job fairly easily once I set my mind to it, but the question is, is one in the hand worth, erm, two in the bush. Should I hold on to it because it's money and it's a known quantity (albiet a despised one)or should I plough onwards in 2007 with great big balls of steel, jack it in and have faith in myself.

Do employers look at people who have handed in their notice without the promise of a new job and think 'reckless, stupid fecker' or do they admire your conviction that you simply could not stand to be at that company a minute longer and took the positive decision to move on.

Also, if I do hand in my notice, do I resign myself to working in or near Brighton, taking a massive hit on money, but being happier and having more time to myself, but seeing less of my 'living and working' in London man? Or do I look again to jobs in London, continue the commute and hope that not all London based jobs are the same?

So there's the 'two down' miserable bit of the blog.

On a happier note, did anyone see Jim Branning (my nickname for Steve) on 'Just the Two of Us' last night on BBC1? He was an absolute legend. I can't remember what he sang as I was laughing so much, but I know the wonderful British public voted to keep him in, and I hope he can see the distance. On a seedier note, Waterman's breast's were awesome, and seeing Tess Daly struggle to keep those mammoth puppies at bay was priceless television.

For those of you as addicted to reality TV as me, Celebrity BB starts tonight- how could you have missed it? Did I say I was free for dinner and drinks tonight? I must be sadly mistaken!

New year turmoil.

I woke up this morning in the lowest of moods to be told by Steve whilst we were lying in bed that statistically this is the most depressing day of the year.

Of course, this cheery little thought did very little to lift my spirits, but at least I felt like I could justify my doom and gloom attitude, which of course I took out on Steve by telling him (about 5 minutes after I got out of bed) that our relationship was doomed.

In hindsight, this may have been slightly dramatic, as we have just spent the loveliest of Christmas' and New Year's together, but sometimes I do have a habit of saying the most terribly ill-thought through things when I'm feeling depressed, and I can't quite believe I'm saying them. This morning was a classic case in point. I felt all of a sudden that nothing was right. My job is rubbish, I don't want to be commuting, I don't want to spend half my life living out of my f**king wheely bag and wondering where x pair of jeans is, at Anita's or Steves? Blah blah blah...you get the picture.

I am putting all this crazy behaviour down to far too much partying and not enough sleep over the weekend. Poor Steve he really doesn't deserve me.

Ok, so what news from the wonderful, if slightly unpredictable world of Ali? So, I come home from my Xmas in London on Saturday night, all excited about the prospect of spending a pre- new years evening night with my gorgeous Brighton friends, am dragging my wheeler up the hill thinking, 'it must be terrible for anyone to arrive home after the festive period to find they had been burgled' and as I descended the steps to Chez Pettit, at glance to my right, what did I see?

Yep. A f**king smashed window. My bedroom window. b**tards.

Very luckily, it wasn't as bad as it could have been, and thankfully for me, my lovely friends rallied round and came straight over as I freaked out that someone still might be in the flat. Much phoning of police, glaziers (or Glazers as Jonathan insisted) and eating of green thai curry from the Red Snapper (much to Dan's disgust)ensued. The campest policemen on the beat in Brighton arrived with Helmet in hand, and took my statement. He wanted to know my height. Does anyone understand why?

Next, the forensic 'SOC' officer arrived (scene of crime officer, or occifer as I kept saying). And the man could talk. He was a total chatterbox. He told us it had taken him 2 hours at the previous 'scene of crime', and presumably 2 minutes of that was spent collecting valuable evidence and the rest speculating as to the profession
of the burglees (me and Anita were supposed to be Doctors- why? because there's a Hospital nearby us.

Dear god. The arrest of our burgler is in the hands of these people.

Anyway, the total sum of my possessions stolen turned out to be one diamond bracelet, bought for me by an ex boyfriend which I wasn't particularly fond of anyway, and it turned out that the person who had broken in had cut themselves and bled all over said bracelet case, providing some (lets hope)vital evidence to nail the f**ker. Anita on the other hand had her gorgeous CD collection looted (mine was untouched, cue sniggering from my 'friends').

Thankfully, it was all wrapped up by midnight ( a mere 7 hours after I discovered the house), so I was able to do one over to Chez Compton to get battered and forget it all....and hence the terrible moods, and there we come full circle, like a bad tarantino film....

Here's to a happy and mood-swing free 2007. It has to be said 2006 had been the worst year of my life so I was not sad to say goodbye to it. Good riddance, you stinking, filthy, rotten year, never darken my doorstep again.