Look after the pounds...

Yesterday’s dog post has been met with mixed reviews, some fellow softies and some hard (and not particularly wet) nosed bitches (in the female dog sense) so today I’ll opt for something of a less touchy feely nature.

In my life, here’s what’s happening today…me and Lindsey are off to view a couple more properties in Islington at lunchtime and I am suffering with a throaty chesty type lurgy, which I put down to working in a new office environment and the air conditioning etc etc. Very dull indeed. Even duller are my lack of weekend plans, so we’ll brush over real life and start pondering some issues of importance.

Recently, my thoughts have turned to money, or more specifically my recent lack of it.

I’m not someone who could ever be accused of allowing money to fester unnecessarily in my account, preferring to set it free as often as possible and to spend it frivolously on as many people as I can. So finding myself not being paid for 2 months, having impending deposit plus 6 weeks rent on new place, AND having my boyfriend’s 30th, mum’s 60th, brothers, dad’s and grandma’s birthdays all in April…quite frankly it’s terrifying. Not to mention ridiculously selfish of everyone to gang up on me and have April birthdays.

I’m also not someone who’s used to worrying about money. That’s not to say that I’m some minted uber princess, but more that the normal amount that comes in regularly keeps me sweet, so it’s all these ‘unplanned’ things (ok, so I knew about the birthdays) which have got me. I usually have an idea of how much I do or don’t have to the nearest couple of hundred quid (usually within an overdraft I hasten to add).

But why are British people so cagey about money? It seems most people spent lots of time worrying about not having it, or worrying about people finding out when they do have it for fear of being labelled as spoilt, or silver spooned, or even worse, being repeatedly numbered for rounds at the pub.

We all have friends who we classify as ‘skint’ cos they harp on about it the time, but perhaps there are others who loyally dip their hands into their threadbare pockets to dutifully buy their rounds without a murmur who are worse off. My suspicion is that those who wax lyrical about their hard-up-dom aren’t actually as hard up as they’d like to make out. The very fact that they worry, means they are probably careful with their money, whilst the rest of us think we’re fine, so continue splashing.

And what’s with the whole privacy about your salary thing? I understand it within work, as there are undeniable discrepancies between similarly qualified people, but within friends….should it matter? I don’t give a toss who earns what, but I find it interesting that some people guard it so tightly. Again, I suspect those people who earn more don’t disclose as they don’t want to be milked like the proverbial cash cow, rather than those who want to keep schtum as they are embarrassed of their meagre salary.

Right, flats to view…money to spend that I don’t have, and cookies to bake and poems to write for all April bdays. Purse strings an all.

Dog chat

I always knew that dogs were somehow superior to us, but this morning’s kitsch trivia has just firmed up my belief, the Metro (which I know doesn’t compensate for some real news, but you have Jonathan’s blog for cutting edge hi-brow current affairs) was chocca this morning with heart warming tales of super dogs.

One of them told the tale of a Labrador who had apparently performed the Heimlich manoeuvre on his owner when she got a piece of apple wedged in her throat. This raises the important question, did her mother not tell her not to gobble her food and to chew properly? Or perhaps more importantly, did the dog know what it was doing? Now, even as a obsessive dog lover, I’m not sure I could put my hand on my heart and state, doing a scouts honour signal that ‘The dog must have mentally run through all of the possible diagnosis of the problem and selected the Heimlich as the most suitable form of immediate medical treatment, and then endeavoured to place pressure on the chest in order to dislodge the offending chunk of gala’.

More likely I imagine is the fact that the dog saw the women falling to the floor gasping, hacking and clutching her chest as a brilliant new game and one which he delighted in engaging by jumping up and down on her.

When Lotte was around, if I ever found myself on the floor (tripping, drunk, in the middle of a hissy fit) she was always quick to make the most of this unusual turn of events by standing on me. I don’t know why, I guess it probably boils down to the novelty of the situation.

So there’s no doubt, this dog may well have saved his owner’s life, but purely by accident.

On the other hand, the other dog featured was an extremely talented canine who could sense when his severely epileptic owner was about to have a seizure AND tell her about it. How? God knows. Presumably the same way cats and dogs seem to be able to sense when there’s going to be a storm.

Or it’s maybe some kind of subtle physiological shift detectable only in the canine world. And how did he tell her….he counted out the minutes til her next seizures with a series of barks? He ate a corresponding number of bones? No, he stared intently at her. Great.

Apart from the fact that dogs stare at you quite a lot, about 4 hours out of every day on average. So every time walkies is due, meat or anything tasty is being eaten or balls/toys are around, she would be in high alarm, lying down, reaching for her medication and pressing the panic button, and the dog will be thinking, ‘here we go again, every time I want something she freaks out, it’s just her her her, all the sodding time’.

So there we have it, despite my love of dogs, and the fact that I do cry almost every time I read a story like the ones I read this morning, if we examine the facts, these doggy tales of superdom are often flawed. On the other hand, you do find there are true dog heroes, called ‘Canine Partners’ a ‘helping paw’ if you will. These are the true champions. The dogs who open doors, empty washing machines, get cash out of machines, collect post, press panic alarms and who make it possible for thousands of people with a disability to live an independent life…these amazing, gentle, patient dogs are the very eyes, ears, hands and more. And that’s the key to making me REALLY cry.

The other day I was sitting on the tube and someone was whining about the ‘incessant announcements about which stop you were at, and which connecting lines left from that stop etc etc’ and I had to try very hard not to glare at the person in question. Why? Because only weeks before I had stood with tears trickling down my cheeks watching a brave old retriever who was a ‘guide dog’ during rush hour on the Northern line, having his poor tail trodden on and being shunted around by angry commuters whilst he sat loyally by his completely blind owner….who I imagine, found the announcements of which stop he was at invaluable.

Try if you like, but I absolutely defy anyone not to be moved by a dog at some point in their lives, even if it’s just that they get run into at full speed an shunted a couple of foot. I love them and I am holding out (very impatiently) for my first. In the meanwhile there’s ‘The Underdog’ on BBC2, ‘Dog Borstal’, ‘It’s me or the Dog’, ‘DoggySnaps’ and plenty more dog media to keep us sad-dog-owner-wannabes smiling.

Relationships with my ex-tended family

As those of you who know me will know, I had a childhood sweetheart by the name of Andy, who I was with for the entire duration of university and two years afterwards...he was, well, he was lovely and generous and gentle and I have nothing but the fondest of memories of our time together.

In total we had a 5 1/2 year relationship which was spent on the whole living and breathing each other to the point of practical inseperability. We were in essence bestest mates and not a great deal more as time went by, but we were bloody good mates. We adored each other in a way I felt could never be surpassed...I hadn't taken into account our mums. The love my mum felt for Andy and Andy's mum felt for me in hindsight was more intense and has lived on well after the demise of our relationship.

Andy and I split amicably around 4 years ago, and to this day, even as recently as 2 days ago, our mums still communicate by email, telling each other how very sad they are that things couldn't have worked out and how great we were for each other. They had, it turned out, pinned their very 'grandparental' hopes on us. And these are hopes that don't fade over night, or even over 1200 nights, and counting. My mum cried as much as me, if not more when it happened and those kind of emotional scars run deep you know!

I am convinced his mum (and quite possibly mine at some level) still harbours real desires for us to get back together, and I sometimes wonder whether she she realises what a 'no-go' it is to even mention my name, or whether she waxes lyrical about what 'could have been' not realising that I have been intentionally wiped from Andy's memory of ever having existing.

So, our mums continue to exchange texts, Christmas cards and e-mails, swapping family news and having fond, sentimental thoughts of the past. And no-one can stop them, and do you know what? I wouldn't want to.

But this isn't the most extreme case of maternal-post-seperation-boyfriend-family-trauma experienced by a member of my family. My aunt befriended my cousins boyfriend's mum to the extent that they became actual best friends. They went on 'girly' holidays together, the two sets of parents, they went shopping, had coffee afternoons and were all as happy as larry. Until my cousin broke up with Richard and then disaster struck. My cousin was understandably distressed at the prospect of her ex-boyfriend's mum being on the scene to witness any future relationships and be able to 'report back'. So the friendship came to a natural end.

Like f**k it did. Infact, the ex's parents attended my cousin's wedding as guests of my aunt and uncle. Oh yes they did.

Is mine the only family that suffers from this kind of affliction? I think perhaps it's merely a symptom of having a very big heart, so perhaps for me, it's inevitable.

A whole new world....

A wondrous place tra la la la. I'll wander near and far, tra la la la, let me share my whole new world with you.

Yes, today I have experienced the merest of glimpes at my new London lifestyle and I LOVE it.

And it's not necessarily to do with an inspirational day at work, but more to do with the fact that I am working in the coolest area. In terms of its location that is, as well as the office itself. In my lunch break I discovered I am a hop skip and a jump away from Brick Lane, it's legendary curry and awesome bars, and also 5 minutes walk to uber trendy Shoreditch, 10 minutes from Liverpool Street and Steve and best of all, 2 mins from Finsbury Square where I sat today, blissed out and eating my Pret Tuna sarnies watching two kitsch terriers dressed in pink coats and shoes, yes shoes. Ah, the glamour of it.

Don't get me wrong, I hate being the new girl, and spent the majority of today feeling painfully self conscious that no-one knows me from Adam, and probably have no interest in finding out. The new workplace is small, and as such, like a family, which makes it that little bit tougher as the bonds there are tight, and not necessarily easy to penetrate. In my limited experience at work however, I always find the workplaces that are overwhelmingly friendly straightoff, tend to be those who are hiding something and who turn out to be very unfriendly after you chip away lgihtly at the surface.

My most treasured friends who I've made at work haven't come easily. On the contrary, it's taken lots of time to foster and develop and put love and smiles and effort into these friendships. I have kept these friends from my ex-jobs and I hold them very dear, (and believe me, I take little else in terms of usefulness).

My point is that you need to have confidence in the fact that given time, you'll be a useful, integral and well liked member of any team, you just have to allow people to get to know that you're worth getting to know. So I'm pinning my hopes on that, and trying to learn the techy terms as fast as I possibly can...

Eeek.

Observer Food Awards 2007

Oh deary deary me. It turns out that the Observer Food Awards were somewhat of a misnomer given that there was infact no food of any real substance, but only those rubbish canapes that you'd have to ingest 1,354 of to actually feel anywhere near full up and ready to begin a serious drinking session.

The net result of this catastrophic turn of events is that poor old Lindsey was forced to drink copious amounts of martinis and cosmos on an empty stomach because as everyone knows, you can't actually be seen to be eating too much at this kind of affair as they only tend to cater for 4 canapes per person. Infact, this is why I hate them so much as I always end up stalking the tray service people like a crazy person, dribbling ever so slightly.

Anyway an A grade hangover has somewhat thwarted this morning's attempt at flat hunting. In fact given the severity of the hangover in question, I'm very surprised that Linds managed to get herself into the top bunk and not tread on my head in the process. I woke up this morning to find her fully clothed, tights, jewellery all in tact, the mark of a true battering.

I only hope that the nausea passes quickly enough for us it make our afternoon appointments with the evil letting-lords Foxtons.

Heading back to Brighton this evening for some wistful drinking and a spot of sentimentality....shout me if you're out and about people.

Guardian Lindsey

I'm sitting here ploughing through Sam's back catalogue of funny pictures of us all in the past and thought I'd let you see some of them. First and foremost, my new flatmate, Linds. Isn't she lovely, and the fact that she works for the Guardian is almost just too much to bear. Jonathan? Are you still alive?

Paddington bear

I feel like slinging my possessions into a little gingham red and white blanket, tying them onto a stick and heading over to Paddington with a sign saying,

"Please find me somewhere to live. Preferably a split level, period conversion with a two equally sized bedrooms and a garden or roof terrace, oh and I don't mind marmalade from time to time either"

Today myself and Lindsey have spent the day traipsing around North London trying to find somewhere to live. As is turns out we were right in thinking our budget does not stretch to any of the nice areas we were hoping to live and so we're going to live in the Victoria Park area, which although very nice, is tubeless and also perilously close to the sister-in-law, AKA, the alchofrolic.

We did come across some amusing instances of sensationalist tales from rival estate agents. After leaving Foxtons, the Nike of the Lettings world, we stumbled into a small family owned letting agent who told us cautionary stories about Foxtons 'liking to place their clients in crack dens', being unscrupulous and immoral. I imagine there's a lot of truth in this, well the immoral bit at least, but that said, we're also being driven around for a whole day tomorrow by a Foxtons bird who's showing us everything on her books for our price range. If we don't like them she gets nothing, so we don't lose out. If she finds us something we have to hand over the £360 fee plus VAT....extortionate.

Anyway, all this flat hunting is exhausting business, and whilst I'm on Maldivian time, I'm seriously struggling to even consider any kind of socialising at all. Last night Dan came over for dinner and I was snoozing in the bath at 9pm whilst everyone else was eating their puddings. It's rubbish. And to rub it in, my glam friend Linds is off to the Observer Food Awards with Gordon Ramsey this evening and is as I type, getting glammed up and ready for the free bar.

So by tomorrow evening maybe things will be different, we might have found a flat, I might be feeling less jetlegged and spaced/weird. I hope so. I can barely string two words together. Soon I'll be back to my sparkling self. Promise. For now I'm going to eat dinner, drag my heavy arse back to Clapham and into the arms of my man, because its times like these, only a big warm squeezy cuddle is going to work.

The snaps...I kept my word!

Ok, so before I embark on the stories I outlined in my earlier blog of today, I'll amuse/bore you with some holiday snaps. I really really tried to not be in all of them, but it's hard when you're only on holiday with one other person. That said, I've attached below some of the ones which made me laugh. I have also attached some of our brushes with nature, as you'll see.

R.I.P Angela. My gorgeous fish, who I caught and was eaten. We will not forget you.



The snorkelling jetty



The sunset. Gorgeous.



Me and Steve P



My handstand...impressive ah?



The view from the seaplane



Steve- Floating in the waters off Kuredu



Harry the Hermit crab- my only friend on our deserted island



Oh, and this dude was there too.



Happy feet



The corporate world is far reaching as ever. f**king Becks.



Happy Ali



Me and Pretzel



Ali 'Bond' (Jenny)



Pina Colada from a coconut, yummy!



Yes dumbarse, that's a baby metre long white tipped reef shark, by our beach bungalow



Spalding the Spider, who liked our outside bathroom. Lots. Wanker.



Sunset from inside the diving boat



Another lovely sunset....gets a little monotonous this ah?



Me on our deserted island



More vanilla sky

I'm leathery and I'm back

Awww, just had the most sentimental of times reading the hubub of activity that's taken place over the past 10 days whilst I've been away, thanks to both Dan and my other lovely friend who has been posting some gorgeous food for thought. I too jogged obsessively for a period of about 6 months last year and at best managed about 16 minutes without stopping, so when Steve asked me if I wanted to help him train for the marathon, I scoffed. I oould barely make it to the perimeter of Clapham Common with him...

So we arrived back at about 9pm last night after a 22 hour journey, one sea plane, one flight from Male to Colombo, 4 hours in Sri-Lanka and then the 11 hour schlep back to Heathrow, oh and then a bonkers cab driver who, in the most amazing feat, almost managed to enduce sickness after 15 minutes of driving after having survived 16 hours in the air. Tsk tsk. He then wanted £47, of which £10 was for 'parking charges'....he clearly forgot we'd met him outside the carpark.

Anyway, I digress, of course, I ought to be telling you about our wonderful holiday which I will do, in good time,over the next few posts. I'm going to try some technical genius and put my photos online a la Natalia, but this might take a little time and love. I am infact sitting in bed surrounded by cables and software discs....eeek, Dan might need help with this tonight!

However, what's hit me with the biggest bump since last night is....WHAT AM I DOING? In the next 5 days I have to find somewhere to live in London and maybe even move (not that I'm overly concerned I'm going to be homeless as I'm lucky enough to have a best mate as a landlord and have bought her lots of vodka to soften the blow incase it takes a couple more weeks) and start a new job, which, in all honesty, I don't really know a great deal about. Arrrgggghhh, am i having a 'Third way through life' crisis? What was I thinking taking on all this change immediately after an idylic relaxing break.

OK, so with the work thing, it's going to be a change from the incipid world of law and the boring cyclical nature of my work as a legal marketing executive, which of course, is a massive bonus, but what is it going to be like? I feel a mixture of excitement and terror, which I have to say is better than the numb, dull, laborious dread of the previous year. I have to teach myself to embrace the change and see the whole thing as a massive and extremly steep learning curve, which, of course there is every chance of me slipping backwards down, like one of the hapless kid competitors on 'We are the Champions'.

I guess its a case of waiting and seeing. I'll let you know!

In the meanwhile, I am going to try and get my pics uploaded and then start regailing my stories of holidays including my favourites:

1) 'Floater in the pool' A classic 'who-dunnit' with a twist.

2) 'Deserted island day' An eery day spent a deux on our very own island in a 'Lost' like fashion.

3) 'Shark attack' well, small fish which accompanies shark and 'attack' more like vague interest in Ali

4) Christmas anthems including 'Last Christmas I gave you my heart' soundtrack accompanying day on boat. Bizarre.

5) Reliving the 80's- including not only Wham as above, but also, Pina Coladas in carved out coconut shells, kareoke Brit style, prawn cocktails and even the citing of black forest gateux on the all inclusive buffet.

6) 'Fisherman Ali' Ali excels in her fishing prowess during a night fishing excursion in which she catches the biggest and (to her shame and extreme guilt) most gorgeous giant angel fish from the reef. At asking whether she could now throw 'Angela' back, she was told by Maldivian fisherman that 'no' because Angela was 'yum yum'. Then had to endure sounds of gasping and flapping by Angela and her big eyes piercing my sole, sorry soul. Cried. Serves me right for going. Steve did impressions of her in her dying moments the rest of the holidays. I have pictures of her, I will upload, if we could all take a moment. I would like to point out at this juncture that the Russians on our fishing trip, grabbed Angela from me just after I'd hauled her on deck and took lots of glory photos, claiming her as their own. I spat on them (mentally only, although they might have thought it was a form of fish catching celebration).

7) 3rd degree burns- Ali suceeds in burning patches of her chest, 3 times over, leaving oozing blisters and patchy redness. Bang goes the wearing of tan-showing-off outfits over the next week. I look like I have serious psoriasis.

Me and Steve only had one day of arguing which I felt, was fairly impressive, and I did have PMT. Thankfully it wasn't the day we were stranded on the desert island and then collected 10 hours later or I might have fashioned a dagger from some coral and done some serious damage.

Details and pics to follow.....

On running

‘I hate this’, I tell myself, when my run gets hard and the park seems hilly. ‘This is a waste of time’, I reason, as I run past a patch of delicate white snowdrops, and alongside a fence upon which two squirrels are shadow-boxing. But I keep going. It isn’t masochism that motivates me, although of course there’s some sense in which all exercise is taken for that reason: to put the body through its paces, to test the machine to its limit, to see what she can do. I don’t run to lose weight, and I’m already happy with my body nine days out of ten. I run because I want to be stronger, less tired, fitter. I run to forget my worries, and to feel better. And in the moments when it isn’t awful, it’s absolutely brilliant.

I have a predilection to run when no-one else is around. But so far I haven’t managed to get out of the house before 7am, by which time Hove’s older residents have already donned their quilted anoraks and summoned their little white dogs from slumber to walk in the park too. So far I haven’t made friends with any of my fellow joggers; I act furtive, avoiding eye contact, and concentrate on just trying to continue running.

It occurred to me the other day that when I leave the house to go running, it’s one of the only times in my life when I go out into the world without caring what I look like. Wearing my bog-standard running outfit of old t-shirt, sweatshirt, and jogging trousers which I paid £3 for, I don’t care, and I love it. Returning home with a blotchy red face, messy hair and a runny nose which I have taken to wiping on my sleeve (no pockets for tissues!), it reminds me of doing sport at school, and actually enjoying it. I dimly remember a time when self-consciousness hadn’t yet arrived, when I wanted to run around and ride my bike all day, when I was proud to get onto the netball team and wasn’t yet ashamed of how I looked in the pleated skirt. I think it’s sad that exercise has been hijacked to the cause of vanity and the search for the ‘perfect’ body, when what it can actually give you back is the confidence to be active purely for the fun of it.

Sometimes I overdo it, and sometimes I get it about right. If I get home and take less than ten minutes to recover, I think I probably did as much as I could handle. On the occasions when I stumble through the front door and lie on the floor for so long that the cat comes to take a disinterested sniff at the new object that appears to have arrived in the living room, I wish I’d taken it a bit easier. All of which makes me sound like the Liz McColgan of Seven Dials, which I’m certainly not. I couldn’t be further from it. I am just an ordinary girl with a simple dream: to be able to run for ten minutes without stopping.

On what to wear

When I was at primary school, I had to wear a grey bowler hat with a gold and sky-blue ribbon as part of my uniform. Then when I was about ten, I moved to a school where everyone had to wear a straw boater with green ribbon on fine days, and a beret emblazoned with the school crest when it was wet. On days which started fine, but ended wet, the smell of wet boaters would permeate the classrooms as the straw turned a sickly yellow colour, and the glue began to loosen. This form of headwear was prone to every kind of abuse. Without fail, we would all spend idle moments picking the edges of our boaters and creating small heaps of sawdust under our desks, not to mention hurling them around like frisbees, punching the crowns out of very knackered and soon-to-be replaced boaters, or twanging the elastic under each other’s chins for laughs. The headmistress had very strict beliefs about the correct position of the boater on the head, and once declared in assembly that the hats must never be worn on the back of the head for fear of looking ‘as if you were in a musical’. As well-off, fussy schools went, it wasn’t the most caring of places. It was the kind of school where, if you forgot your PE kit, you had to wear the water-stained white T-shirt that had been kicking around behind the radiator in the changing rooms, and a pair of big gym knickers that someone had left behind years ago, still bearing the name ‘Camilla Bateman’ on the italicised name tape.

I can see some sense in school uniform, especially when it levels the financial playing field for all kids, and removes distraction. But the extensive, prissy uniforms I used to wear were deliberately showy, not to mention divisive. The kind of uniform I had to wear meant that the girls who lived at the bottom of my road refused to play with me, and other local kids stuck their noses in the air and ignored me when I walked past. To this day, I cannot wear a hat without feeling silly and slightly humiliated. Sometimes I buy a hat, thinking that it suits me, or that I want it, or that this hat will be ok. But it is always a mistake. I cannot wear them. Hats have been ruined for me forever.

As all mothers know, the biggest battles they have with their children concern what is eaten and what is worn, and that’s because the power to define yourself physically is no small matter. So whenever I hear one of those ‘and finally’ news stories about a toddler who insists on wearing a Spiderman costume day and night, or will only wear the colour red, I cheer inwardly. Whatever makes you feel good, and more importantly, whatever doesn’t make you feel stupid, is what you should wear.

On Eastbourne

Whilst Ali is in the Maldives, it is my solemn task to bring things back down to earth with tales from our tattered British isles, and more particularly, with my thoughts on Eastbourne’s relative merits. Why Eastbourne you might ask? Because it’s the only place I ever get to visit through work. And living in Brighton has given me an affinity with all other seaside resorts, however gaudy, run-down or plain unfashionable.

First thing to say is that Eastbourne is lovely. It’s full of handsome buildings; it’s spacious; it boasts its own *micro-climate*, and it has some good shops and some decent bars and restaurants. Contrary to what you might think, there are some young people there, and it also has a large student population. But certain aspects of its reputation are all too true. Wandering through the town centre to the seafront after a meeting last Monday, I was struck not just by how old everyone was, but by how many coffee shops of the formica-table variety there were. Also, there has evidently been some kind of revolution in walking supports for the older Eastbourne citizen. Zimmer frames with integral seats seemed to be all the rage - I saw at least ten of them. One day, some Flash Harry pensioner must have sashayed forth down the boulevards of Eastbourne’s central shopping precinct with his shiny new Zimmer Sitter, and all grey heads must have slowly turned. They all went home and phoned their now middle-aged sons and daughters, and in their best martyred voices, told them how their legs weren’t what they’d used to be, and that they’d stopped eating or putting the heating on because it wasn’t worth it, but they had seen these new seat thingies that might just give them back the will to live. So now all the pensioners have them. They sit on them neatly outside shops and at bus stops, watching the world go by and waiting for their pals. Those bastions of senior citizen life, benches, are now dominated by Emo kids, whilst the elderly can now have a nice sit down wherever they happen to last be standing up.

It’s heartening to think that when I am old, and long only to sit in tea rooms, rustling packets of demerara sugar for my milky tea and eating big Chelsea buns with glace cherries on top, I will still be interested in new technology, even if it’s only in aid of finding new ways to take the weight off my feet. I think it’s a collective throwback to childhood, and to the moment when the great game of musical chairs is finally played. When the music suddenly stops and the scramble to sit down is underway, the old folk will be home and dry.

Jumble Sailing

What an unexpected pleasure going to a Car Boot Sale can be! It may require getting up at 6am on a Sunday (thats running late by the way) but if you want to go as a stall holder, the rewards can be great. Not only do you get a fun day with your friends (helped by Sunday's lovely weather) but you also get to shift a load of stuff you no longer need and make some pocket money in process!

Every Sunday there is a Car Boot sale on the new-ish car park at the side of Brighton Station. Like all such events it is dependent on the weather for both people turning up to sell things and people wondering through willing to buy. Last Sunday however was unseasonally warm and therefore in Car Boot terms was a great success.

Sam, Laura and Jackie a little chilly after a sucessful days Car Booting

Our stall (pictured above) which was in a prime location (thanks oddly enough to our late arrival) soon gathered interest. In fact the vultures began to descend as our stuff was being unpacked and before it could be set up. Unaccustomed as we were to Car Boot etiquette we were at one point quite overwhelmed by the early haggling. We soon hit our stride however, except me who was so desperate to rid myself of collections of old coats and jeans that I often haggled down the price. Anyone who has seen Monty Python's 'Life of Brian' will know what I mean;


Harry: No, no. Do it properly.
Brian: What?
Harry: Haggle properly. This isn't worth nineteen.
Brian: You just said it was worth twenty.
Harry: Burt!!
Brian: I'll give you ten.
Harry: That's more like it. (outraged) Ten!? Are you trying to insult me? Me? With a poor dying grandmother...Ten!?!


Well, we got the hang of haggling and managed to clear most of the junk we had arrived with and in the process made between us £350! At the end of the day and with the cold setting in we packed up and took our winnings to the pub for a much needed sunday roast. Clearly not everyone had fun as this fellow Brighton Blogger points out but I think Car Boot sales given the right day and the right people are a joy. It's also a bit of a bug, we all want to go again and are digging around for things to sell.

Given the event and perhaps the deep blue sky on Sunday I had the song 'Jumble Sailing' by Brighton's very own Clearlake constantly running through my mind. I think the words are very fitting, here are some of them...

"we'll go jumble sailing out when the weather is fine
we'll go jumble sailing, you never know what we'll find
we'll be just like two millionaires going out on a spree
we'll know that it won't break the bank 'cause it's only 10p

we'll go jumble sailing out when the weather is fine
we'll go jumble sailing, you never know what we'll find
who knows all the odd little things that will sail into view?
I may find an odd little thing that reminds me of you

I see so many people turn their noses up at all the treasure we find
it's sad they don't know what they're missing
but well, we'll just have to leave them behind

we'll go jumble sailing out when the weather is fine
we'll go jumble sailing, you never know what we'll find
maybe find a small souvenir or a thing we can use
maybe a hat or a scarf or some second-hand shoes
maybe, either way this is one lucky dip we can't lose

when we go jumble sailing off into the blue"

Mission Accomplished!

Blogging by Dan

How to overcome ‘Maldives Jealousy’…

As all regular readers of this Blog will no doubt know by now, its founder and Editor-in-Chief Ali is currently sunning herself on an all expenses paid trip to the Maldives. I’m not one who easy allows envy to overpower me but I’m sure that I am not alone in feeling more than a little twinge of jealousy when thinking about the copious amounts of luxury that Ali is at this moment surrounded by.

I therefore thought it would be good for all of those left behind if I were to do a bit of research on the Maldives and come up with a few facts that might make us feel better about ourselves.

The Maldives, it turns out is perhaps not the Garden of Eden the holiday brochures would have us believe. In fact I would suggest that Ali, merely by going there is complicit in the following;

Supporting a Non-Democratic regime. According to the ‘CIA World Fact book’ the current President has been in power since 1978 and is now on his sixth term in office. Only riots in 2004 in the Capital Male have forced him to review his tenure and instigate any kinds of reform.

The eventual submergence of the entire country! With the highest point in the Maldives standing at a mere 2.4 Metres above sea level on the island of Wilingili and with global sea levels expected to rise by nearly 2 metres over the coming 100 years it seems the Maldives days are numbered. What an irony therefore that Tourism, the country’s main source of foreign currency is one of the biggest contributing factors to the rise in sea levels!?

According to this online Carbon calculator Ali's carbon emission from flying Heathrow to Male, Maldives is... 2.2 Tonnes!

Destruction of delicate Marine habitats. There is growing concern amongst International Marine conservation groups of the effects increased tourism in The Maldives is having on the marine habitat. Conservation of the Coral surrounding many of the islands is one of the more serious challenges, along with the rising sea levels facing the country.

Ok, so I could only really come up with three bad points about the Maldives and two of those apply to many countries around the world.

I am clearly just jealous. I wonder to what extent the recent growing criticism of those who fly regularly is borne out of a hidden jealousy from those who are unable to do so?

Whatever, I bet Ali is having an amazing time in an amazing place. A bit to little to do for my liking (that’s not the jealously this time) but whatever floats your boat.

Blogging by Dan

La last day

Ok, so after all that time, it's finally here. My last day at the dreaded US law firm. And of course, this evening, we're flying out to the Indian Ocean...thank goodness I am so pasty and pale I looked at my arms the other day and they were tinged with blue!

Last night was very funny. Awful turn out for my leaving do, but basically everyone I actually gave a sh*t about was there, which amounted to 6 of my colleagues. A couple of my favourite friends Sam and Lindsey also turned up bless them, and we all marvelled at the sozzled suits with their Vuitton briefcases and wadges of £50's they were all too quick to flash at us in an attempt to impress. Wankers, How wrong they were.

I left at around midnight and went to collect Steve from work....yes work, where he was sitting looking frazzled, typing manically, surrounded by a mountain of paperwork. I sat grinning sozzledly at him and then pottered into his bosses office, where I proceeded to draw smiley faces on important looking insurance documents before Steve clocked me and evicted me. We com-cabbeed it home for around 1pm and I passed out on the bed in Steve's dressing gown...apparently he had to practically tear it off me in an attempt to get me under the duvet. No recollection.

Today I am meeting my dad and his two gay friends for lunch. I have booked a french restaurant as my dad is obsessed with learning french at the moment, and I think it's a suitably posey place for two older gay academic types. I always feel so dim and humbled in their company due to the obscene amount of qualifications they all hold.

I'm hoping the staff in La Cave aren't parisiens or they will peer contemptously down their noses at Dad whilst he speaks French in his cute little Huddersfield/French accent!

Then back to the office for some farewells and a car comes to collect us to take us to Heathrow at 4pm. V&T 'o' clock estimated at 6pm, and then I'll sleep like a baby during the 11 hour flight. I have the snuggley snoozer...thank god.

So then, I will leave you in the capable hands of my anonymous blogunteer. I'm sure you'll love her work. I might try and find a PC on Meeru, but if it's a toss up between that and the pool, I might not. Any posts would be a dull mix of sun, swimming being burnt and eating too much, so you won't miss anything.

Until the 22nd March, or maybe 26th when I start my new job....ttfn!

x

Fun- you make me sick.

My boss, soon to be ex-boss, seems to have a crippling disease, an extreme aversion to any type of fun. She is the kind of person who would sit through a seminar all day and then leave at the prospect of mingling and drinking at the bar afterwards. And this isn't down to shyness as the women is a ball breaking uber bitch, basically.

She just can't stand to be in a situation where she might let her guard down, or have to make small talk, or actually laugh, smile and relax.

Today is my leaving 'do' at work. 'Do' as it's just at Abacus, the meatmarket bar in the city, full of smarmy city boys in suits with bags of money, but no souls, and with regular shipments of Essex girls who get dolled up after their shifts in New Look and come into the City to try and snare one of the aforementioned rich-but-lacking-in-soul men. Usually I leave them to it, they are welcome to each other, but today, we're venturing into their world for 'happy hour'.

Perhaps it was the word 'happy' that struck fear into my bosses heart, but she has suddenly been struck down with a terrible case of 'food poisening' which is funny considering

a) She's stick thin, because she doesn't eat after 6pm. That means no dinner, ever.
b) She's a vegan. Tell me, which variety of undercooked vegetable causes such a condition? An undercooked turnip perhaps.

So basically, her aversion to fun has meant she's faking an illness. She said she was 'thinking' of giving us her credit card so we could go out and buy champagne. 'Thinking' not doing. We won't see the credit card, or her.

Now, don't get me wrong. The evening would be terrible if she were to turn up. Why? Because she doesn't get on with anyone and my ex-boss, who was fired before Christmas is turning up. I can only hint at how bad this situation got, but lets just say, the police are involved, as are some mild erm , threats to personal safety. I think it would have been quite funny to see them both scratching each other's hair out and screaming at each other, but i'll settle for necking cocktails, and dancing badly.

I hope I never get to an age where I can't see the point of having fun, laughing and letting my hair down. Last week in Leeds one of the bars we went to (the Living Rooms)was full of people all over 40. We weren't sure if we'd walked into a birthday party by mistake, or whether this was just a gathering of older people who wanted to get out and have fun. Either way, we left feeling uncomfortable, just as we would have done if we'd have walked into a bar full of 16 year olds. Funny that 'comfort' in being out relies not only on your venue, the music, lighting, company of your friends, but also so much on whether or not you class your fellow revellers as 'like' you. But isn't that dull. Does that mean I'm only relaxed when I'm in a bar with lots of outgoing bubbly,middle class late 20's professionals, with a penchant for cheesy music, and expensive tastes. And when I describe that, I conjour up images of really awful people. Strange.

Last night I had the most revolting dream ever. I dreamt that Steve and I were eating raw chicken breasts coated in some kind of hallucinogenic drug...he munched his down and said it was tasty but I remember chewing on the rubbery flesh and woke up feeling quite sick.

In other news, I've packed my bags with the following essential items for holiday:

1) Bikinis- x6
2) fins, mask, logbook and diving computer x 1 each
3) Flipflops- x2 one gold, one silver.
4) Summery dress- x3
5) Linen trousers- x 1
6) Vest tops- x 6
7) T-shirts x 1
8) Long sleeve top- x1
9) Bras and knickers x10 (don't know why as never wear either on sunny hols)
10)Books, sunglasses, cosmetics, sun cream and other products.

Pretty good capsule packing that ey?! Steve on the other hand packed the following:

1) Socks. SOCKS. x 5 pairs.
2) Long sleeved t-shirts- x3
3) Jumpers- x 2
4) T-shirts by Diesel- x 15
5) Shorts/boardies- x10
6) Pants x 10.
7) Flip flops.

31 degrees and sunny every day and the boy packs socks. He's not taking trainers so I'm scared he might wear them with the flip flops. Thank goodness the yanks are there, and are bound to be dressed much more distastefully than us.

The Size Zero debate- yawn

Steve's always saying to me that "he's never known a girl to enjoy her food like me" which I take as a massive compliment, rather than a thinly veiled 'fat comment'. And he's right. I love food, I often think about my next meal within 10 minutes of my previous one. When I picture myself at my happiest, it's usually when I have a large plate of yummyness infront of me, and contrary to some people who hate the 'full' feeling, there's nothing I like more than flopping on the sofa after gorging my face and rubbing my rotund tum, like a proud mother to be. Sometimes when I'm hungry, I have dreams about eating which actually wake me up, and I become a terrible grump when I haven't eaten for a short while.

So I'm intrigued by tonight's ITV programme examining what it takes to become Size Zero. The very gorgeous Louise Redknapp (FHM's Sexiest Woman of the Decade) is the guinea pig, spending a month eating pulses and sucking on lettuce leafs, exercising like a fiend army style, and attempting to fit into a UK size 4 by the end. Louise as we all know, is a tiny little thing anyway. Her resting weight a UK size 8, 7 stone 10 pounds. To put it into perspective, the last time I saw 7 stone on the scales was in my early teens, before the 'growing pains' and thigh chaffing began.

What happens is no surprise. Her health is dramatically affected, when she stands, she has to fight against fainting, she looks gaunt, basically her body takes a massive battering. It's a hellova task to take on for a month, and I'd be scared about any potential long term health risks, especially on such things as fertility. But I would hope that, as a fairly high profile footballers wife, her 'case study' will have a fairly strong impact on any kids out there, wanting to emulate such figures.

Granted, there are those amongst us who are naturally and effortlessly thin and can eat what they want. Of course we all hate these people, but to starve yourself to the point of illness, for the sake of achieving this look? It's perverse because it's obviously an addiction or disorder. Surely. La Beckham can't now 'balloon' to an average size 10 because she'd appear to be overweight, such is the extreme of her current size. The press would embrace the curves one second and then call her a fatty, abit like Charlotte Church has faced.

I for one, have 72 hours before I am going to be in a bikini for 10 days solid. I have been on an anti-diet, eating twirls, curly wurlys, pies (savoury and sweet), pizza, curries, chips and I'm off out for pizza for lunch. We all know that we pile on the pounds on holiday, so we might as well give ourselves a head start. I'm looking forward to squeezing my curves into my size 12 bikini. :)

The Holy Grail: Trust.

Perhaps I've implied it in the past, perhaps I haven't, but I'm sure for those of you who know me really well, it won't come as a surprise when I say that I have difficulties trusting the men I love in my life. And there aren't that many of them, but there are a few key offenders.

Last night after a terrible phone call with Steve at 3am, when he was so drunk he couldn't tell me where he was, where he'd been or where he was going, I lay in bed for hours, wide awake, stomach churning and wondering why I couldn't just grasp and find comfort in the feeling that 'it would just be ok'. Don't get me wrong. Drinking to that extent on a Monday night for no apparent reason, apart from the usual insurance industry sh*t of 'I have to as everyone else is' isn't good form. Infact, it's gratuitous, self indulgent and downright selfish. Especially when the net result is that you phone someone who loves you more than anyone at 3am, plague them with fear, distrust,and huge all consuming worry and leave them lying awake for hours facing another 6am start to get into London.

Steve doesn't help me to help myself sometimes. And he knows it. He's got the drinking gene unfortunately and he never knows when to stop when he starts, but that's him and it's all about unconditional love, warts and all. He puts up with my worrying and neurosis.

So lying there in my bed, my brain jumbling between thoughts like a washing machine on spin, I think about the issue of men and trust in my life.

"You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough." Frank Crane

"To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved." George MacDonald

"It is better to suffer wrong than to do it, and happier to be sometimes cheated than not to trust." Samuel Johnson

Basically we're all f**ked...that's how I translate those. We trust someone we love, they are likely to break our hearts, but equally if we can't teach ourselves to trust, we spend our lifes wondering when the next person is going to wrong us. It's just a matter of time. Call me a pessamist, but you see it everywhere all around you, all the time. People cheat on each other, people tell lies, people disregard the feelings of those they profess to love.

Even with my very close friends I could relay many many stories of deceit, lies and betrayal. One of my best friends from university yesterday told me that her boyfriend, who she was to marry, has hidden a gambling addiction from her for 2 years and is now so severely crippled by his debt, they can't get a mortgage. She can't trust him and probably never will. A close friend whose boyfriend cheated on her several times, appears to have some kind of sex addiction. These good people have stood by their men and have paid a bitter price.

Closer to home. Why is it that I can't trust men? That 80% of my CBT therapy focussed on my inate ability to mistrust men in particular. Lets see...

Perhaps it's the fact my dad had repeated affairs with his students when he was a lecturer, the worst of which came at a time shortly after I was born and I was in the temporary care of my aunt because my mum was in phychiatric hospital with severe post natal depression. The cruelest of betrayals surely. I only discovered this during one of mum's more recent psychotic episodes and it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, despite how much I love them both, of course.

Or my brother, who taunted me by finding my diaries with my innermost teenage thoughts, read them, showed his friends and not thinking this enough, wrote all over them in black marker pen, calling me a looser and an idiot. That day I stopped writing.

Or a boyfriend, who chose to take too many drugs and forget he had me and broke my heart.

We've all, I'm sure, been at the receiving end of some fairly shitty breaks in life. Today I'm just feeling in one of those moods to write it all down and get it all out. Perhaps it's the lack of sleep. Perhaps it's the knock from last night. Perhaps I'm just never going to be one of those people who can simply 'trust' as a default.

It's always going to be one of my achilles heels. Men and trust. Shame I love men so much ah?!

Leeds- wow!

I'm sitting at my desk grinning thinking about my weekend away in Leeds. It's just an awesome city, and I love to be pleasantly surprised by somewhere, which is exactly what I was.

Steve and I drove up with our friend Mac first thing Saturday morning and managed to get there in just 3 1/2 hours, which flew by...we stopped at a proper retro M1 services en route, where the KFC and Burger King were actually built in one of those tunnels over the top of the motorway. Reminded me of holidays as a child. Everyone in there was chain smoking, but then I guess service stations are pretty depressing places.

Anyway, we got to Leeds and checked into our hotel. (Just so you know, I'm going to scatter this blog with links of the places we went and stayed etc, so if anyone ever decides to visit for a weekend, they have some tried and tested places to visit).

The hotel (only £85 for a kingsize double, £49 for a single)was better than expected, right slap bang in the centre of the city at the end of Brigatte Street, the main shopping road, which is complete with every gorgeous boutique you could ever wish for...(and a Harvey Nics thrown in for good measure)

We headed to the Elbow Rooms a fairly run-down, but really homely feeling pool bar and sports club...where we watched the essential footy of the day. We then moved to a great old school pub called the Aldephi, right on the bank of the canal, where we ate homemade cottage pie and consumed cider like there was no tomorrow.

Back to the hotel for a quick turnaround and we were out on the town in our 'glad rags'. Leeds does not appear to do dressed down, EVER, and Saturday night is the pinnacle of glamness. We hit the uber trendy cocktail bar, Boutique, where I had quite possibly the best champagne cocktails I have ever had. The 'Fresh prince of Belvedere'...champagne, some kind of vanilla liquor, strawberries, and finely crushed ice. They also had a great selection of porn star martinis, a big cool black dude on the decks spinning funk and soul and was generally somewhere I would happily have spent the rest of my life.

Shame we had a 9pm table booking at Sous Le Nez En Ville, Leed's bestest French restaurant. Awesome. Based at the top end of the High Street and hidden in the basement of a hotel, this restaurant excelled itself in 'Frenchness'. You almost felt the waiters and waitresses had been told to be as French as possible. You asked for the wine list, they sneered. You ordered your starters...lips curled. You wanted more water, they tutted. It was priceless. But the wine list was 49 pages long, and the food was out of this world. I had scallops, followed by Gressingham Duck, following by gorgeous pongy cheese and port. Plus 2 bottles of Sancerre. It was bliss, and of course, being Leeds, it was awesomely priced. Less than £50 a head.

From there we staggered from bar to bar, some great, some bad, some memorable, most not (hence me not naming them) and then when we reached the height of our drunkness we ended up in some 'Rock' bar. I'm not sure if I'd had far too much to drink, or if it was the surroundings and the sweaty rockers, but suddenly I felt very sick and we had to leave. Funnily enough, when we hit the hotel bar at 3.30am, I found my second wind! :)

It was there Steve and I excelled ourselves with some legendary childish behaviour. We were heading to the 3rd floor in the lift being drunk and stupid and Steve confessed to playing 'knock down ginger' on business trips. I laughed and thought that he must clearly have meant at the beginning of his city career, but no. We left the lift, glanced quickly at each other and proceeded to run the length of the corridor, taking a side each, banging on each door, loudly. What a pair of knobs! Luckily our corridor was full of spritely youngsters, hen and stag parties and fun-time people, who burst from their hotel rooms and chased us down the corridor.

Pelting it down the corridor to room 321, we managed to get the key in the lock and burst into the room, slamming the door behind us, falling about laughing. But we had made a massive error. Well, I had. I'd left our hotel keys in the door.

The rest of the evening was spent receiving amusing prank calls from the room who had held our key hostage. At one point when we'd half passed out, a group of young blokes burst into our hotel room, did a little dance, did some obligatory 'wer-hey-ing' and 'in your face-ing' and then left. At the time, Steve was fuming and stood in his pants in the corridor, waving his fist and swearing like Mr McGregor guarding his carrots. I was too drunk to do anything and just found it all quite funny. We deserved every bit and more.

In the morning when we checked out, we did a great job of pretending to be disgusting by our unruly 'floormates' who 'stole' the key from the door and then harassed us all night. Of course we don't really look like the kind of losers who'd play knock down ginger. Why? Well because for a start we're 28 and 30, fairly smart, I spoke in my best posh home counties accent, and we were off the hook, getting away without any charge for key replacement. So the scallys won. Which proves we are too old, and slow, and easily outsmarted and should leave such antics to the youths!

After checking out we headed to the HiFi club for 'The Sunday Joint' an all day club event with amazing live jazz bands and awesome roast dinners. I had steak pie with chips and gravy and sat listening to some great trumpeting and a sublime alto saxophonist for a couple of hours, nursing my thumping head.

And then we headed home, in the rain, feeling tired, but with that warm fuzzy happy feeling you get when you know you've achieved so much in so little time. Watched Eastender re-runs, ate pizza and had happy dreams of Leeds. I would love to live there. Shame I'd stick out like a sore thumb.

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....Leeds....

4 days til the Maldives. Last week at work....propensity to do any work? Zero!

Blog-unteer

As a fairly new blogger, I hadn't realised that for reasons of consistency, one must seek the input of a 'locum-blog' whilst one is holidaying for any length of time. This my first lesson in blog-etiquette.

So, between 9-22 March, I have enlisted the help of my friend, whose name I won't mention as she might well fancy some crazed anonyblogging, to help fill the desperately unhappy void whilst I'm away. Ok I'm kidding myself, no-one reads this or gives a toss, but it's a lovely thought that someone might actually be pleased to find a well written, thoughtful, tasteful blog rather than my usual self indulgent crap.

So enjoy! And don't be too disapointed when I get back!

Troubled times

I've come into work today and within about the first 15 minutes have ended up in floods of tears. I hate crying at work, especially as a girl, it's one of those things you do and you kick yourself as you feel it puts you under par in terms of 'serious business person'. Men don't cry at work, or if they do, they do it in the cubicles so no-one ever knows.

That's not dramatic enough for me, so of course, I had to have a blazing row with Steve on the phone and then promptly burst into tears.

I hate arguing, it's frustrating ,it's upsetting and it rarely gets you anywhere, apart from on occasions, clearing the air. The topic we're arguing about at the moment, the, if you like 'arguement de jour' is.....you've guessed it. The sister.

Both of our tolerance of what's been going on with her has been tested to the maximum and if it wasn't for the fact that I love Steve so dearly, I'd have happily washed my hands of it many months ago. But that's not what being in a relationship is about is it? It's part of the package. He accepts my mum being depressed, I accept the fact his sister is an chronic alcholic. You stick by, you support as best you can, and you co-shoulder the burden. You also are the one who gets it in the neck when things get desperate as lets face it, who else is going to take that kind of crap?

Sometimes in life, it's very very hard to be positive and see light at the end of the tunnel. And with alcholism this is never more true. Just when you think the situation has reached its most destructive and desperate, you cross new frontiers of deceit, betrayal and let down. Pathological lying is second nature for addicts. As is selfishness and self-absorbedness. Your problems are so much worse than everyone elses. In fact no-one else has any.....do they?

Alcholism is a disease. We're all told it. We all know it. So why does it feel like such a pathetic let down when after 4 months of rehab and brainwashing, someone gives in to the cravings immediately. Without any fight. But what must it be like to spend every waking moment thinking 'vodka vodka vodka vodka'. Wondering when you get to escape prying eyes, dart to the off license, neck some booze and get back before you're noticed. Wondering what lies you can tell to create an effective smoke screen. Lies, lies, lies and deceit. vodka vodka vodka vodka vodka vodka.

F**k everyone else. All the hurt, and recrimination and blame and sense of responsibility. F*ck everyone else.

Time after time we're all forced to question our roles, to reconsider whether we're doing the best thing. We're backed into desperate corners where communication breaks down and we bicker and we doubt and we're troubled. And for what? If we didn't care at all, it would barely make a difference.

What makes someone want to get better? If you are so terminally unhappy with life, is it wrong to think that someone might actually be genuinely better off dead. Is this the ultimate goal, a deliberate drive towards death, or is she just an alcoholic making lots of noise as she's terrified of being ignored and lonely. As one of my great friends said, at least when she drinks, she gets attention.

Duvet day

Yesterday I succumbed to a sofa duvet day with Anita, it was bliss.

We ventured out to Tescos and bought essential chilling fodder such as: cadburys fingers, minestrone soup and french bread, tortillas and dips and pork pies and then snuggled under the duvet together to watch 8 Mile. Granted, not the chick flick we had originally anticipated, but pretty good nevertheless and I have discovered I have a latent crush on Eminem which I fear is far from cool.

At one point during the snuggling-eat-fest, I looked over at Anita and realised AGAIN quite how different us females are to you men. We were happily snuggled, feet touching under the duvet, watching the TV without a second thought. I interupted the film with "Anita, can you imagine bursting into the lounge to find our boyfriends snuggled under the duvet, eating cadbury's fingers and watching Star Wars" and we laughed. Not only because it was a ridiculous mental image, but because it would be undeniably intimate. So you men will never know the true beauty of the shared duvet day, and perhaps would never to desire to know.

Of course being the hyper active person I am, the duvet day ended abruptly when I had to hot foot it to the City to look at some more pads. We spent the evening driving around the East End and familiarising ourselves with the more desirable places to live.

We've narrowed it down to several, one of which is the Victoria Park end of Bethnal Green....granted it's Hackney, but it's not really murder mile territory. The major downside to this is the fact that I will then be locating myself within the 'catchment' of Steve's big sister. I will then be risking being the main port of call for all drinking related disasters. Yee gads.

This weekend we're off to Leeds to officially 'ave it.

In typical Ali style, I've not managed to fully embrace the Northern-ness. We're staying in some grotty hotel in the city centre, but I've plumped for the master "superior" suite with king size bed, as a) it might be slightly better b) it only cost £85 c) it means if Steve is twitching all night, I can have a peaceful nights sleep far far away from him. I've been told we have to get up on Saturday morning at 6am, so we can drive up to Leeds in time for the football. BRILLIANT. Thank god there's a Harvey Nichols.