Party- the low down.

I'm sure you're all dying to hear about how the party went and I only wish I was able to tell you with any degree of certainty.

Unfortunately my funny story telling abilities are hampered somewhat by just how trashed I got, but I'm pretty sure a good time was had by all (especially me).

These are my top funny party moments (though some are funnier in hindsight and some are more cringe worthy)

1) Steve in silver boots

Having size 6 feet is often problematic for Steve. In most situations it's because shops just don't start their men's ranges from such a tiny size. At parties- it's because women all insist on him wearing their shoes. At one stage I remember Steve staggering into my bedroom wearing brown knee high furry boots and the next thing I know, he's wearing some metallic silver pointy knee highs with silver heels. He always pretends he hates it, but I recall him posing for some dubious pictures. Keep an eye on face book for these.

2) Pseudo lessie behaviour

Do you think perhaps it might have been a boy who suggested it was a good idea for all us girls to compare the colours of our nipples whilst kissing and being photographed? Hmmmmmm, I would have thought so. It's a good job we were sober enough to tut and cast our eyes to heaven and pull our tops up to our chins shaking our heads disapprovingly. Yes, this IS what happened. As Lindsey said, let's hope none of us ever become famous, put it this way, we won't be applying for any reality TV shows too smartish. Although we'd be bloody good in them.

3) Lindsey and the album

I found Lindsey on her bed with a tortured looking little brother by her side. She was thumbing through old albums talking in detail about every last shot and explaining EXACTLY how she felt about them. Her little brother was trying so hard to make appropriate comments and not look ridiculously bored. She then told him she'd seen him with an erection- embarrassing sister, eat your heart out.

4) Fireworks

Despite being a very budding and talented illustrator, our confidence was not 100% invested in Matt Ox's ability to create a seamless and safe fireworks display. In fact, at 11pm, when we all gathered on the pavement and peered up at the roof terrace the rockets which peeked over the top reminded me of sniper's guns and I was all too aware that there was a VERY good chance that we could well be in the line of fire. Thankfully it was all fine, and Matt got to blow up some things which kept him happy. Lots of the fireworks shot over into trees so we couldn't see them from the pavement, but they made very loud bangs, and let's face it, that's all that really matters.

5) The copper

Ok, so inviting a copper to a house party isn’t the first thing that springs to mind, but he's a very good old friend of mine and luckily he was easy to pick out with his short back and sides and stripy shirt. Whilst he tried very hard to be cool about the debauchery others didn't do quite as good a job reciprocating. In fact at any one time I think there was a good 2 metre gap around him and I could sense lots of paranoia and gossiping. Thankfully he left at midnight before it all got very out of hand.

6) The lost voice

Where ever Laura goes, men fall in love with her and my party was, of course, no exception. By the end of the night, she'd done so much chattering, smoking and social butterflying, she came bursting into my room, flung herself on the bed and tried to talk and only high pitched squeals and screeching came out. We promptly administered more booze and fags and she was fine.

7) The Phantom smearer

We've all seen it in public loos, but yes, it was on show in the downstairs bathroom. Someone had taken it upon themselves to smear poo on the wall next to the toilet. When I told Steve he said to me that we should be pleased that there were no white hand towels in the bathroom- needless to say at a recent party he'd attended someone had taken it upon themselves to wipe their bottom on the hand towel and leave behind all kinds of evidence. Apparently we got away lightly. It didn't feel like it yesterday morning with a stinking hangover and a jay cloth trying not to gag.

8) Sam's tights

Sam managed to get dishevelled very rapidly throughout the party and at one point looked very much like her and her tights had had a very nasty encounter with a bramble bush. Perhaps it was just that Gavin couldn't contain himself, but at the end of the evening, she rather flamboyantly declared they were coming off and they did- with legs flailing and a' kimbo. Marvellous.

I'm sure there was much more, but I'll need to see some pictures first to jog my memory.

I lost a £25 Marks and Spencer's voucher, some green beads, some shoes and all of my weed. Very annoying. Thankfully Sam had all but one of these things. Hurrah! Steve managed to misplace £50, which wasn't so helpfully returned. What a wally.

A massive thanks in particular to all the Brighton contingent who made a huge effort to come all the way from the seaside, it meant so much to me....and I can't believe you all went home at 5am....nutters! To Jonathan- I'm so gutted you missed out on the fun, you would have had a blast- next time.

Tube games

On the occasional days where Steve and I journey into work together on the Northern Line (like this morning) I like to play one of several little games to amuse myself during the 5 stop ride.

When we get on the tube, we’re normally in a morning fuzzy headed mood, and neither of us are particularly animated. In fact, you’d be hard pushed to even place us as a couple given the lack of communication. Steve will sit and whizz through his blackberry, saving up a back log of messages to send when he hits ground level. I’ll listen to some inappropriate rap music and feel young again for 10 minutes and we happily ignore each other. This is all well and good and none of our commuting compadres have any clue that we’re a couple.

The fun bit comes when it’s time for either Steve or I to get off. What we have honed to a fine art is the practice of the dramatic goodbye kiss. This comes out of the blue, and is delivered without any chat, just a lunge coupled with a full blown smacker on the lips and then…gone.

The look of surprise on people’s faces is priceless as they try and work out whether I’ve just been assaulted and they should be chasing after Steve, or whether they’ve witnessed love at first sight. Responses have ranged from ‘Do you know him?’, to jaws hitting the floor and general disgust at such an overt PDA.

The other extremely childish thing I enjoy doing is the copy game. This only really works when we end up in seats directly opposite each other and involves- you guessed it- me copying everything Steve does. Try it. I guarantee within a couple of minutes you’ll both be in hysterics crying with laughter, either that or one of you will have a black eye (this was the inevitable outcome when I used to play the copy game with my big brother- and on one occasion a nose bleed). It’s brilliant as fellow tube passengers can’t help but cotton on and have a giggle as well.

Lets face it, everyone with a sibling played the copy game at some point in their lives, so why not at 29 years old, during rush hour?

How about we all try doing it with a stranger on our next public transport journey and collate all of the reactions?*

*the author of this blog is not liable in any way shape or form for any grievous bodily harm inflicted as a result of the copy game, play at your own risk.

Whale Shark- Sharm El Sheikh

This is the lovely Whale Shark I saw when I went diving in Sharm, Egypt a couple of years ago.

Thankfully someone in my group had a really good underwater video with her and took this footage, and it was as special as it looks. The gorgeous juvenile whale shark swam right towards us and at around 4 metres away, turned and glided past us in the most serene fashion.

Anyone who has ever been scared to dive- see what you're missing out.

I can't wait to be back among the fishies, 8 days and counting. Bring it on.

The guest list.

It’s not long now until the party, and last night I lay in bed contemplating the mix of people who might well be attending, I thought of some of the funny/terrifying conversations that could take place.

Naming no names, the guests who have been invited and who should be attending (or can consider themselves struck off every social list in the future unless they have a VERY good excuse) include:

A BAFTA nominated illustrator
An off duty copper
A book reviewer
A cross dresser
A gaggle of Guardian employees
A handful of city boys
An advertising mogul
A scientist
A BAFTA winner
A gay sex expert (that’s me!)
An ecologist
An extremely talented photographer with a penchant for nudes
A publisher
A hippy or two
An oil company trader
4 bloggers
A couple of slightly unhinged people (me included)
A ‘grow your own’ believer (or 2)

This guest list reminded me of the reverse of that game ‘pairs’ that you used to play when you were little. You’d turn over one, (and you might have turned over a hippy or an ecologist) and then you turn over another….Oh NO the oil trader. Fight ensues.

Then you turn over the dope smoker followed promptly by the off duty copper…again, not a great recipe for party success.

OR, the barrister and the copper- jesus. Lethal.

Worst of all perhaps, the city boys and the creatives. Nothing in common at all. Definite chances of tumbleweed stifled murmurings.

Can you guess which of these is made up? It’s only one.

See you there. It’s going to be good, but you don’t need to be told that.

Wine rage

I'm keeping this brief as Gavin pointed out on Friday that my lacklustre posts are barely worth reading, so I won't labour this one!

On Saturday night I experienced what being an alcoholic must feel like.

After having had a particularly lonely day mooching around Hampstead Heath on my own like some kind of dog pervert (admiring glances at all the frolicking hounds) I made the decision that I wouldn't bother heading to a pub full of sweaty, loud, shouty, aggravated men watching the rugby, but instead stay in, cook a nice dinner and get quietly sozzled on my own. The perfect plan.

I donned my joggers and my hoody, grabbed my keys and my switch card and off I jogged to Sainsburys (sounds healthy but is in fact 2 mins jog and all downhill).

With my basket full of delights including a rather yummy bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I queued to pay. No sooner had I reached the check out when the insolent man held up the cool, crisp bottle of wine and said to me:

Twat: "I can't sell you this unless you've got some ID with you I'm afraid".

I could feel the rage bubbling up inside me, as I looked at him in disbelief. I'd never normally resort to swearing so quickly, but something inside me took over and I became a very very angry lady.

The conversation went something like this:

Ali: "You must be fucking kidding me right? Do you seriously think I look 17 years old?"

Twat: "I'm afraid I have to ask for ID if I'm not certain of someone's age. It's a legal requirement; do you not have any ID?"

Ali: "Funnily enough at 29 I don't often have to show ID to buy wine, and I've only got my switch card on me, so I can't prove my age"

Twat: "Well then I'm sorry, I can't serve you this" (dramatically removes my wine from the basket in a self congratulatory fashion- BIG mistake).

Ali: "Don't fucking make me go all the way home in order to come back in 15 minutes time with my ID, it's ridiculous" (turns to man at next counter along) "Does this look like the face of a 17 year old?....Ah? NO. I should be flattered but I'm so angry I could scream" (with raised screechy voice).

Manager appears.

Manager: "Is there some problem?"

Ali (red faced and shouting unabashedly): "Yes, this man won't sell me any wine and I'm 29 and this is ridiculous (losing the ability to talk)

Manager (sensing impending 'scene') "On this occasion we'll sell you the wine, but next time please bring ID"

Ali (fuming) "Oh I WILL" (and then a little quieter) "And if it's not too much trouble I'd also like some tobacco or do I need ID for that as well?"

Manager (snidely) "Actually you do need ID for tobacco as you now need to be 18 to buy that as well."

Ali sculks out with her wine and her tobacco and her red face. Glances back to see whole queue of horrified looking people. Humiliated. Only felt better after 3/4 of the bottle was consumed.

Home alone.

It’s very unusual for me to face the prospect of a weekend entirely without plans. I guess this is the complacency/luxury of having a boyfriend or girlfriend- you can put very little (or no) thought into what you might do whilst safe in the assumption that you can do nothing with your someone by your side.

This weekend Steve is venturing up to Leeds to spend some quality time with his newly single best friend Rob. I imagine their weekend will consist of plentiful beer drinking, high brow sporting discussions and a handful of ogling thrown in for good measure. I on the other hand got to mid week and suddenly panicked that I had nothing to do, and all my friends seem to be heading off somewhere or other. Eeek.

You may have gathered, being left on my own for more than 2 hours is about as palatable as a 30 day old prawn recovered from a dustbin on a very sticky hot day. I’m the kind of person who if left alone for more than 24 hours would probably end up rocking back and forth and staring blankly at the wall. It’s torturous. Don’t get me wrong, a rare evening on the sofa doing nails or hair is bliss but only if basking in the aftermath of some serious socialising. Two nights of nothing on the trot and I start to feel like a social outcast, any more and I fear I’d lose the power to communicate. I’d become one of those forest people, crawling on all fours, howling and cocking my leg. Shudder.

Thankfully tonight, I’m armed with a hangover so all I’m going to manage is a couple of drinks and then some serious sofa time watching trashy re-runs which normally wouldn’t be tolerated. Perhaps Steve going away isn’t so bad after all.

What’s the betting it all gets extremely out of hand whilst I’m away from his watchful eye and nurturing hand…

Wibble.

I have a special word for when things aren’t quite right with the world- I’m sure I’m not the only one to use it, but it’s a special Ali word in my mind.

Sometimes you can’t put your finger on what’s wrong. Sometimes there’s nothing really wrong, you just get this sense of impending doom, or a niggling worry, or a feeling that something just isn’t quite right. You wake up and you have something and, at the very same time, nothing on your mind. If you try and reason with the feeling, you get nowhere. It’s a continuous loop of inexplicable feelings.

I call this: Wibble.

Some days when I wake up and Steve looks at me and he just knows I’m having a wibble. He says, ‘Are you feeling wibbly?’ and invariably I say, ‘Yes.’

Wibbles are easily curable with very simple remedies of attention, cuddles and squeezes. You never really know why a wibble came, and you are never really aware of it leaving. It’s a day release lodger in your mind. When it goes you’re not sad to see it leave, in fact, you’re rather pleased and you hope it won’t come back again at any time soon.

My mum was very familiar when the concept of wibbles when she was suffering with depression. In fact her Community Psychiatric Nurse Stella posted her a plan with what to do on a normal day, and then what to do on a ‘wibbly’ day. The wibbly day meant a massive downscaling of effort- staying in, listening to radio, gentle walks, chats on the phone, you get the idea. The non-wibbly day would mean trips out with friends, shopping, trip to a museum etc.

I think I ought to apply this same concept on myself. Wibbly days should be met with introverted behaviour, reading, listening to my ipod and not being overly chatty. Keeping your head down and trying to go unnoticed is the easiest way to cope with a wibble in the absence of cuddle therapy.

In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m having a wibbley wobble today, but it’s ok. I have notified the powers that be and cuddles are on hand to be despatched this evening, along with some hard core snuggling.

Good bye my unwelcome friend, I bid you farewell.

The girly get-together

Last night we had a little dinner party where we had the following:

X 1 very drunk guest who passed out promptly after dinner and proceeded to sleep for 12 hours
X2 very opinionated guests who shouted at the drunken guest and talked over each other
X1 very poorly wheezing asthmatic but diplomatic guest with rosy cheeks
X1 slightly perplexed but very sleek and skinny guest

‘Guest’ is somewhat of a misnomer as 3 of the guests were in fact inmates. And the drunk guest was in fact drunk from the second she staggered in the front door with a man in tow (girly dinner party no-no). The man was soon despatched and we got down to the serious business of gobbling chinese and slurping wine.

I have to say that if any man had been a fly on the wall last night, or worst still had the misfortune to be a guest they would have been shocked to their very core. 5 normally fairly well behaved ladies when thrown together to discuss a contentious topic quickly became a shrieking, voice raised, me-me-me-ish cacophony each trying to get their VERY important point heard first. And of course there were no shortage of extremely well thought through opinions, it’s just that they were delivered somewhat haphazardly.

At one point Lindsey pleaded with us:

“Please can we all try and speak one at a time?”

Tricky. We did try, but of course it wasn’t possible and within seconds we were all screeching again with Lindsey resting her head in her hands.

And even when the victim of our well rounded advice finally passed out (or at least feigned passing out to escape) we turned our attentions to other important topics such as a health concern of one of the boyfriends- we helpfully diagnosed a likely inner eat infection and suggested treatment of a simple course of anti-biotics, a ‘how to’ guide for some of the most gruesome bedroom antics helpfully provided by Samantha which almost provoked a scene from ‘In bed with Madonna’ and also an in-depth examination of the nations sexual habits (based purely upon ours so extremely well rounded).

We were like a pack of Tasmanian devils, whizzing and whirling at dizzying speed between topics polishing them off and then swiftly onwards towards our next prey. When I went to bed I was utterly exhausted. We all need at least a fortnight to recover before another similar event, if nothing else but to hone the skills Sam taught us.

Gavin- you deviant.

The handbag guide.

When a girl receives a new handbag she is faced with a whole host of difficult decisions about where to place things. Many men wouldn’t recognise that this is a matter of real importance but it’s something which must be given proper consideration. No smirking please.

Below is the guide to placement of key handbag items, in order of importance:

1) Wallet

The wallet is your most precious material possession. It must be kept secure and safe, but be able to be whipped out faster than a cowboy shouts ‘draw’. Instant access to your wallet prevents silly pointless time consuming contemplations such as:

‘Can I really afford to buy this new pairs of boots?’

Equally however, thought must be given to those occasions when you really would rather not be paying. At these times, the wallet must be deep enough within the inner sanctum of the bag so as to allow for genuine fumbling and a look of sorrow and confusion as you dramatically ‘give up’. Most times in the company of boys this will get you off the hook. If you’re with your boyfriend then yes, the occasion extra favour may have to be granted- you don’t have to actually deliver all the time. It’s a numbers game.

2) Mobile

Speed is of the essence, you need to be able to answer your calls with break neck efficiency. You also need to be able to grab your phone for texting in any moments of boredom or where you risk looking like a loser, i.e when you’re being kept waiting in a pub, or on a street corner (try to avoid this at all costs). My phone is currently nestled with my wallet within the bosom of the bag, but I think it needs some re-assessment. My lunchtime experience in Marks and Spencers proved unequivocally that this coupling simply won’t work- trying to grab my phone and my wallet stubbornly blocking my path simply won’t do. I think that my pocket is going to have to do for now.


3) Ipod

The essential accompaniment for the modern day strut. If you want to maintain your bounce down the street it’s very important you have the correct tunes to help you on your way. Equally if you’re being a miserable, self absorbed harridan you must be able to put on some misery inducing crap in one fell swoop (Tracy Chapman is rather good for this). The ipod is much further down on your list of treasured possessions- you have your laptop for back up and let’s face it; long before it gets nicked its battery life will dwindle into nothingness. This means you can afford to have this somewhere without any real security. In my case I have a lovely side pocket with no zip for easy lunge and play access.

4) Keys

This is a tough one- you need them to be tucked away somewhere safe, but on the occasions where you are arrive at your front door with someone else who also has a set, you need to be able to do enough scrabbling so that by the time you find your keys, the door is already open and in you go, voila! If you’re drunk then you’ll rely on shaking your bag to locate your keys so make sure they are in a place where some shaking won’t allow them to fall out. If you’re really drunk, you might not notice and then you face a night on the cold front door steps.

5) Grooming items

This includes the following: hair straighteners, hair brush, mirror, lip gloss, back up make-up bag, a pair of flip flops in summer or flats in winter. Why? High heels are a girl’s best friend as we all know, especially for those of us who are vertically challenged and tend towards podgy leggedness. However no-one looks good with a scrunched up ‘ouch’ face, so do try and carry some spares just in case of blisters, broken heels, or impromptu distance walking. Ideally, bags should have a hidden rather large compartment to house all of these grooming items. To the outside world you appear to seamlessly maintain a highly manicured appearance whilst only carrying a wallet, keys and your ipod. Marvellous! No-one needs to know that you’d look like Aunt Sally within an hour if you were to lose the bag.


So boys, if you ever ask your girlfriend to carry for wallet, passport, sunglasses, camera and you’re met with a frosty reception then you know why. The handbag is a finely honed female assisting device- without it we’re just skin, teeth, bones and hair. I think you’ll agree, not a pretty prospect.

Well well well.

Another year older.

Clinging on to my twenties with as much grace and charm as a mouldy banana.

My birthday weekend has left me feeling slightly unwell, very overweight, but in possession of the following:

1) Heroes boxset- (thanks Natalie)
2) Wetsuit (thanks Liz, Emma and Clare)
3) Finns and boots (thanks mum and dad)
4) Mask (thanks Brother)
5) Handbag, chocs, rough guide to thailand (thanks steve)
6) Cadburys chocolate buttons (thanks Jess)
7) Sexy stripy oversized PJs, trainer socks and insect repellent (again, from mum)
8) One large, sore spot on my lip (thanks to not washing off my makeup when pissed)
9) Giant bouquet of red and yellow flowers (thanks dave!)
10) One fluffy, mohair, sleeveless roll neck (thanks Steve's mum- not sure whether it is a complete fluke, but she's managed to nail one of the winter seasons' key trends of touchy, feely clothes, amazing)

This posting means I am now immune to having to write thank you cards....but thanks to everyone who sent a text, face booked me, sent a card, pressie or whatever. I felt very loved.

Of course I had one minor temper tantrum on Saturday as is my god given right on a birthday, but I won't go into details as I was in the wrong and therefore it doesn't need to be paid any attention and can be overlooked and forgotten (I will say it did involve me telling Steve to 'GET OUT' of my house and then having to chase him down the road like a wobbly old jelly to apologise, damn those hormones).

More later on I feel....just revving up!

Chez Bruce- What's in my tummy

So then- birthday dinner at Chez Bruce last night was great. We sat right next to the cheese board and were treated to pungent cheesy whiffs every time a waiter wafted past....yummy.

This is what I consumed-

Aperitifs

X1 bottle of house champagne (shared of course)

To start

Rare roast beef, and some kind of mushroomy sauce with rocket and parmesan- extremely yummy and tender

For main

Sea bream with scallops, shrimp and teeny tiny gnocchi- very fishy indeedy

Accompanied by ½ bottle of extremely yummy Sancerre

For pudding

Warm chocolate fondant pudding with milk and honeycomb icecream- GOD DAMN!

Night cap

½ bottle of vintage port *feeling queesy now*

Morning

Horrendous hangover. Moderate humiliation as remembered I got home last night very drunk, had to get some fresh air, proceeded to sit in the garden on the funky plastic sofa chair (which must have suffered from torturous weathering and become very brittle) which promptly shattered into thousands of little pieces under the weight of my ginormous bottom. Was left on wet floor in glam silk dress with muddy bottom and dented pride surrounded by shards of white plastic. Thankfully not impaled.

Arrived in work to find massive, huge, wonderful bunch of flowers from amazing friend Dave complete with wildly inappropriate card about flossing my privates. Cheered me right up.

Have to leave work at 1pm to go to 24 club for an afternoon of champagne quaffing with new company for 'bonding' purposes.

May vomit if faced with prospect of more drinking.

Rock and roll.

The Birthday brat

Tonight is the beginning of the birthday festivities, or 'ali-day' as I call it.

There's a special song I sing to Steve on my birthday

'It's Ali, Ali-day
Do what I want
And do what I say
On Ali Ali-day
I always get my way'

You get the picture, basically, I'm a brat. It only really works on this one day of the year, the rest I'd be told very squarely to fuck right off by everyone, most of all Steve.

This year I have excelled myself in the birthday stakes. Tonight I'm being taken to my favourite restaurant Chez Bruce which you'll all have heard me bang on about a fair amount before. Tomorrow night I'm out with my housemates for a couple of drinks around Belsize and then off to see my mum for dinner out on Saturday night (much to S's disgust as he's missing football AND rugby- but, I reminded him of the poem above so he knows he's got no choice).

Then we've got the joint birthday party coming up, followed by 2 1/2 weeks in Thailand diving. And in hindsight somewhat cheekily I also asked for a present- this lovely handbag.

Sometimes when I get told I'm demanding and high maintenance I get genuinely offended. At those times I must remember to look back and re-read this post.

I am extremely lucky. And I know that what matters more than all of this is being loved, having wonderful friends, being happy and being made to laugh and in those respects I'm blessed.

I wonder if I could get away with asking for a matching wallet?

The bravery award goes to...

Yesterday amongst my list of gripes with the world, I mentioned men masquerading as employees of BT and trying to burgle my granny.

And yes, this was one of the ones which did apply directly to me, and I feel it’s an awesome story to tell which may go some way to explaining how I’ve become the women I am today.

Yesterday morning my gran who lives up North (well, Skegby) let in two men who claimed to be working for some local branch of BT to check her telephone lines. They claimed there might have been some ‘issues’ with the line following some work they were undertaking in the area.

Whilst one of them kept her talking in the kitchen the other dashed through the lounge and into her bedroom to have a damn good rummage. My gran is pretty sharp and spotted the chap dashing out of site. She hot footed it after him and found him in her bedroom red-handed. I asked her what she said to him and she said ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing in my bedroom, get out now!’. Wicked!

In a stroke of pure and utter genius she ran and got her panic button (something we all ought to have whether we live in warden assisted accommodation or not) and she said to the guy, ‘If you and your friend don’t leave my flat in 3 seconds, I’m going to press this button and someone will be over in a flash’. A very brave step considering she was on her own, in her flat with 2 strange men with very bad intentions and she didn’t really know for sure whether the panic button would get her the kind of help she needed right away.

Thankfully, it seems the men in question were young and inexperienced and they decided to do a runner. Even more thankfully they didn’t lay a finger on her, and she was left shaken, but absolutely fine. She phoned the police who came fairly quickly and told her there had been a spate of these burglaries in elderly people’s homes over the past few weeks.

I spoke to her last night and she was in fine fettle, and I felt so damn proud. There she was at over 80 faced with a situation which would have reduced most people to gibbering wrecks and she had confronted the burglars head on, all 4ft 10 of her. I realised then that this was a side of my grandma I’d never before experienced. To hear her saying the word ‘bloody’ was shock enough, but to imagine her standing her ground in her little home made me well up. If I’m feisty and difficult this is in part testament to my grandma.

My other grandma was neurotic and prone to massive amounts of over exaggeration, pathological lying, dramatisation and hypochondria so I’ve clearly inherited nothing from her.

Oh god.

Things that piss me right off.

Some things in life make you very angry and at the moment, there appear to be quite a few of them rumbling around.

In no particular order these are some of the things which have annoyed me the most recently:

(NB: these are in no particular order and not necessarily related to me personally, for example no. 1, I can say a lot of things about Steve, but this one would be unacceptable)

1) Men who have inexcusably small penises

2) People masquerading as BT men and trying to burgle my granny

3) Unrequited love (heartbreaking and a waste of time in one fell swoop- CLOSURE people!)

4) Beer and sausages and gratuitous cleavage and Lederhosen (in a themed environment for our work Christmas party)

5) Men who think it’s appropriate to rub up against someone at a bar with a big erection

6) Men who refuse to book time off work for much needed rests (this is aimed at 2 people)

7) Bus replacement services

8) The pretty bows falling off my new shoes after 1 wear in the rain

9) Garages – particularly ‘Dagenham Motors’ who can’t tell you when your car is ready as the parts required are on ‘factory back order’ and won’t give you a much needed courtesy car for your birthday weekend. It’s not as if Mini Coopers are rare for GODS sake

10) The postal strike- I’m going to reach new levels of perceived unpopularity with no birthday cards being delivered

11) Ex boyfriends who you made it quite clear made you f**king miserable insisting on texting and phoning you and wanting to meet you (this applies to many of us I’m sure)

12) The fact that I don’t know what I want for my dinner

I’ll stop before 13 because that might tempt some bad luck and heaven only knows I can’t deal with any of that!

Ok, ok I have PMT, I admit it. And with Steve in Germany how on earth can I vent it all, if not on you, the general public. Feel free to add to my list of gripes…

Health test- the update

Quick health update:

I was made to sit through an hour of post-health-test-analysis in the pub on Friday night with Steve.

Frickin’ BUPA had thankfully printed out a 30 page report detailing precise statistics for lung capacity, cholesterol, white blood cell count, diabetes, weight, BMI blah blah blah, each page more painstaking than the last.

Working in insurance seems to have increased Steve’s boredom threshold so he took great delight in talking me through every page. Thank goodness, because if we hadn’t had the report to pore over, we would have had nothing to discuss. Ahem.

Turns out Steve’s been given the all clear and is spot on in terms of his health (ok, ok, his fitness is above average, but you’d expect that from a marathon runner) which is really lovely, BUT I could barely hide my disappointment at the lack of prostate examination. The doctor told Steve that this wasn’t checked in men until they are over 45 so I have to wait almost 16 years til he gets the probing.

As a result of the health report examination (and the resultant need to down wine) I ended up being slaughtered by the time we sat down for dinner at the new overpriced Gaucho Grill in Butlers Wharf. I had a £31 piece of fillet steak which I promptly puked up the second we walked in the door at Clapham. What a bloody waste….when will I ever learn? In the morning it crossed my mind that if I’d have made it to the back garden the small family of urban foxes would have had quite a treat.

The following day after just 2 hours of sleep I traipsed my sorry hungover arse down to Brighton for a dinner out at Murasaki and general frolics for Jonathan’s birthday. As ever, the food was perfect, and just kept coming and coming. Thankfully I managed to keep a lid on my behaviour and apart from the usual potty mouth I didn’t disgrace myself at all (I don’t recollect….well, apart from some hideous photos).

I met Anne So’s lovely other half Richard who was very impressive with his two-pea-chopstick-challenge, and the lovely Siobhan who I fell in love with the second she finished a glass of champagne and proceeded to smash her glass on the floor nonchalantly and with more than a hint of ‘russian’ness. Hurrah.

All in all the weekend was a booze fuelled social extravaganza (hence my addled brain and sub standard posting today…..I’ll be back on form tomorrow, honest).

The great health test.

This morning is a morning of hospitals, but thankfully not for me.

Various friends and family are trotting off to different pongy corridored venues around the country to be poked, prodded, lubed up, anaesthetised, shaved and generally humiliated. I’m not going to go into details as certain friends wouldn’t appreciate their inner workings being discussed with the wider world, but I’ll let you in on one of them which I think is quite amusing.

As part of his ‘I’m a very important vice president’ act, Steve qualifies for some top notch insurance cover. Presumably because someone who works so hard is more likely to suffer from stress, high blood pressure, be at higher risk from heart problems, depression, anxiety etc. Joy!

Getting this cover involves going for a 3 hour, top to bottom, thorough health check where he’ll have his chest shaved for an ECG, have to jog on a treadmill for a mile to monitor heart rate and vital organs, have cholesterol levels taken, blood pressure, heart rate, the list goes on.

This of course is a great opportunity to be given a clean bill of health- as I’m always someone who worries about the possibility of things which could be wrong, but go unknown, lingering away.

To add to the list of 50 tests which Steve is being subjected to, I’ve asked him whether they can do a couple more, just for good measure:

1) Test his hearing

I’m convinced his ears are blocked, or somehow damaged. His stock response to every single thing I say is ‘Ey?’. If the test comes back clear I’ll know that it’s merely a case of him attempting to block out some of the white noise that is my incessant jibber jabber and I’ll then have a god given right to get really fed up when he’s not listening

2) Test him for adult onset diabetes

One of the symptoms of which is a continuous urge to go for a wee. CONTINUOUSLY. Until now I’d tried to put this down to OCD behaviour, but whilst they are testing, they might as well tick this one off the list. It might make for a better nights kip if they uncover anything.

3) Test his horrendous short term memory recall.

It’s atrocious. He’ll ask how my day went, listen to the answer, and then ask me again 3 minutes later. But maybe this is related to number 1) in that either he’s not listening, or he suffers from a terrible ear affliction, OR, he simply isn't interested. Not possible.

I’m secretly hoping one of the tests he has to have involves him having a finger poked up his bottom to check out his prostate gland- does that make me a sicko, or merely someone who is a great believer in the phrase, ‘what goes around, comes around’.

Chocolate porn

As a women, when you receive a giant bar of chocolate it stirs up a whole raft of emotions. Excitement, anticipation, greed with a little fear and distrust thrown in for good measure.

Last night upon return from Geneva, Steve pulled the biggest Toblerone I've ever seen out of his duty free bag like a rabbit from a hat- only much better. He then gave it to me as a gift.

She twinkled and shone at us from her mantelpiece vantage point, surveying the lessor mortals in the room, pondering her wonder and the likely destruction her mere presence could create.

At some point in the evening I caught Steve looking wistfully at her, as if she were a curvaceous lady in revealing bright red lace underwear and he casually asked me whether I was going to put her in the freezer.

"Why would I do that? I hate cold chocolate" I responded.

"No reason, I just thought you might" He answered.

"I was thinking about taking the chocolate to work, and then home to share with the girls" I countered, feeling more than a little put out that he clearly had made designs on my bar.

"It wasn't meant for you and your work colleagues" he snapped.

"Oh, so it wasn't meant for me?" I asked and waited for the reply.

"I didn't mean that, I meant I hadn't bought it for your work colleagues."

"Well it's a gift for me, so surely I can do what I want with it, and I choose to take it to work and then home."

"Fine."

"Fine."

In hindsight of course I realise this was very greedy and I ought to have agreed to put a small amount of the bar in the freezer for Steve and I would take the rest. But this is what happens when you're in the presence of 'my precious'.

This morning I gently took her from the mantelpiece and placed her in my bag. She peeked out in a provocative fashion, just enough to glimmer and catch the eye of passers turning a few heads as I strolled towards the underground.

In the tube I worried incessantly about whether she was comfortable or whether we were pushing the boundaries of her ideal conditions, 'cool and dark'. She made it though, and barely broke a sweat on her gleaming golden wrappers.

Once in the safety of the office I unveiled her. Riddled with a maternal protectiveness when people saw her and wanted to touch her, I had to suppress an urge to shout 'Stand BACK'.

Before I knew it, we had hit 11am and with a cup of steaming tea on my desk I caught her looking at me and she seemed to say, 'I'm ready." I peeled back the wrapping and exposed her mountainous nougatey peaks. She didn't succumb easily to my gentle pressure and demanded more force so I placed my clammy hands on her soft surface and snapped away a giant piece.

Cramming her into my mouth, I felt her soften and succumb to me, melting into a chocolaty oblivion with only the tough nutty bits remaining as proof of her existence.

I'll never forget you little piece of heaven from Geneva.

However, If I have to eat another piece of you I might be sick, so I'll let Natalie devour the rest.

Proof that men can't shop.

If you have a spare ten minutes (and you probably have as you're reading this), read this wonderful account from my friend Peter on his recent travels to Jerusalem. It's like a sketch from a monty python film and it had me in stitches, the bitter determination of the shop keeper vs. my lovely friend who was so keen not to hurt anyone's feelings.... hapless male shoppers beware!

Here goes:

I come across a shop with proper displays and a till rather than some guy with a money belt, and head on in. I have a look at the nicely painted wooden carvings on display and think that they’d be something suitable for my parents. Within 0.5 seconds the obligatory cheery salesman appears out of nowhere.

“Hello my friend” says the broad shouldered, baggy-clothed Mr Salesman, an exaggerated smile poking through his unshaven tanned face.

“Hello” I reply. “I’m just looking, thank you”.

“You see something you like?”

“Well these are quite nice” I say, pointing at the wooden carvings. Big mistake.

I can see the salesman do the mental equivalent of flexing his fingers as he prepares to get stuck into a routine he’s probably done countless times before.

“For these, I can give you a very good price”. Here we go. He trots off and returns with a calculator.

“Actually I’m happy just looki…” I begin to say.

“These were carved and painted by hand by authentic Byzantine monks” he proclaims proudly. ‘As opposed to fake Byzantine monks?’ I think to myself. He picks up one of the carvings and points to a little sticker saying ‘Made in some Byzantine monastery’ (I forget the name). Evidence if ever I saw it. Nonetheless they are very well made, feel nice and solid and I can see my folks liking them, so I decide to see where this goes.

He picks up three of the carvings – one of Jesus, one of Mary and one of the disciples – and lays them out on the counter.

“I’m only really interested in these two” I say, pointing to the carvings of Jesus and Mary.

“For you” he says “I give you 3 for the price of 2”.

For me? Aww shucks. This would normally sound great, but as they’re not labelled up with any price whatsoever he could name any price he wanted and I wouldn’t know any better.

“Now, you are from England?” he asks. I nod. “OK, so I will make this easy and give you price in English pounds”.He taps furiously into his calculator with the accuracy and speed of a touch typist. After pondering the end figure, he looks up proudly and says, “For you, for the 3, I can give you a price of 80 pounds. Not 120 pounds, but 80 pounds”. Even with the amazing ‘3 for 2’ offer, that’s still about £60 more than I was intending to spend. Unsure of what to say I stand there looking gormless as I ponder how best to politely excuse myself. My thoughts are interrupted by his next offer.

“Because you say nothing, I offer these for 70 pounds”.“Oh?”“60 pounds”.

The cheerfulness is gone, and now he’s looking at me with a serious business-face. Still somewhat stunned by my unintentional bargaining skills which has seen the price plummet by 25%, I realise it’s probably my turn to put forward how much I think they’re worth, and barter until we reach a price agreeable to both of us.But I’m not going to do that. As I’ve said, I loathe haggling with a passion, and I’m not going to spend an inordinate amount of time playing psychological games with a man who’ll be considerably more experienced at this than me.“Thanks, but no thanks”. This is what I should have said. Instead, my aversion to offend kicks in.

“Sounds good” I lie. “I…errr…just need to go and draw out some money”.

I am pleased with myself. It gives me a perfect excuse to leave the store and never return. This is – of course – a rather mean thing to do to the guy, but at least I won’t be there to see his disappointment when he realises that this mug won’t be coughing up.

“Ah – no need!” he says, reaching under the counter and pulling out a card reader. “I take visa”. He looks at me expectantly.‘Hmmmm’ I think to myself. Quick thinking time.

“But I prefer to pay cash” I respond. For a little while we debate the merits of paying by cash vs paying by card before he eventually says

“OK, well I prefer cash too”.

A narrow escape! Now I can get myself out of this awkward situation. But the salesman has other ideas.

“Let me take you to the cash machine”.

I insist this isn’t necessary and that he should stay with his store. Surely it’s not a good idea to leave it unattended?Undeterred he marches me to a cash machine only slightly out of his shop. I stand in the narrow alley, facing a cash machine that looks suspiciously like those you’d find at the pub and charges £1.50 for each withdrawal. Numerous sheets hung across the alley walls provide makeshift protection from the sun, but the heaving sweaty crowds barging past still make things unpleasantly warm.

“Here you can get money”.

“Ummm….great!” I exclaim, exasperated.

Now I know that at any time I could just have said “No thank you” and walked off with him yelling at me. Instead, I continue with this charade and formulate a plan of utter genius.I put my card in the cash machine. I then intentionally type in the wrong pin. My request for money is declined right in front of Mr Salesman.

“Oh no, my bank has frozen my account!” I say, over-acting my disappointment.

He looks at the screen and frowns.

“It says you have entered the wrong pin” he says matter of factly. Damn his eye for detail!

“Mmmm yes, the bank changes the pin when the account gets frozen.” He looks at me with a somewhat unconvinced look.

“I’ll come back later when I’ve sorted it out”.

This isn’t good enough for Mr Salesman, who beckons over a fellow shop-owner. They speak in Hebrew and shrug shoulders while looking at me and at the cash machine. Mr Salesman turns to me and says “Try it again”. Well, if I must. I insert my card as the two Israelis stand either side watching the screen intently. I type in an incorrect pin and re-enact the ‘Oh no!’ routine when I’m declined cash again. There, that’s it. No money for me, no money for you. But they’re having none of it. I barely see my card ejected from the cash machine before Mr Salesman has grabbed it and put it back into the machine.

“Please….try again.”

A look of semi-desperation falls upon his face. He’s not going to let me go that easy. This time I hesitate, and with good reason. Enter a pin incorrectly 3 times and the bank will lock me out of my account. For real. I’m out of ideas beyond hitting ‘Cancel’, grabbing my card and running away as fast as the crowds would allow. But I don’t do this.

You know how in movies when the hero taps a ‘disarm’ code on some nuclear bomb with only seconds to spare, and the whole thing is filmed in super slow motion? Well, that’s what this was like, only instead of being a hero saving the world, I was the idiot intentionally typing in the wrong pin because I didn’t have the balls to say “No”. I tap it in and a message pops up. It didn’t say ‘Nuclear detonation imminent’, but it might as well have done.

The ‘Account Locked’ message meant that my financial lifeline had been cut, leaving me with just a small amount of cash in my wallet. Boom!

Mr Salesman frowns.

“Now it says your account is locked”, “Well I did say” I regale, weeping inside.

Still, at least it’s over now.

“Guess I’ll have to call my bank now”.

He latches onto this statement like a bloodthirsty leech.

“No problem!” he says excitedly, marching me back into his shop.

He walks round the counter, puts a phone on the desk, picks up the handset and stands poised to dial.

“What’s the number? I dial them for you”. I look at him incredulously. Does he never give up? Does he not know how much he is tormenting me? Of course not – as far as he’s concerned I’m a guy willing to pay well over the odds for a set of ‘handmade’ wood carvings. It’s probably no less than I deserve. It’s time to be honest, say I don’t want them, and walk away. But no.“It’s OK, I’ll use my mobile” I say, pulling out my phone from my pocket and waving it in the air.

“That will cost you money” he says. “Please, use mine”.

I convince him that the banks number is an international freephone number. What I’ll do is pretend to call the bank, and when he’s not looking I’ll wander out of the store, never to return. As if reading my mind, he gives me a chair and sits down next to me. I sit down, pretend to phone the bank and hold a fake conversation about my locked account.

Mr Salesman listens intently as I get angry and gesticulate wildly with the imaginary customer service person. I sigh, roll my eyes and point to my phone as if to say; ‘Sorry about this but they’re being rubbish’. Not once does he get out of his seat. I continue the act for a further 10 minutes.

Finally, I see a look of resignation on his face as I hang up and tell him I’ll have to wait 4 hours before my account is unlocked. He makes one last desperate attempt to persuade me to at least try his card machine, before eventually accepting that I’m going to be the fish that got away. He tells me that he’ll set aside the carvings and to come back once I have access to my funds, and puts a business card in my hand.Needless to say, nobody got any gifts.

Jonathan's 30th

Today is my friend Jonathan’s 30th birthday and to mark the occasion, I thought I’d devote a little time on my posting today to him.

This is going to be fairly easy as this morning, in some bizarre turn of events, I found myself to be sitting opposite Jonathan’s body double on the Northern Line (give or take around a foot in terms of height- afraid the ‘doppel pips you Jonathan). I have mentioned this chap to Jonathan before and today thought I ought to try and take a photo of him to send over as a kind of freaky birthday greeting.

I carefully took my phone from my bag and switched on the camera, and pointed it in the doppel’s direction. I marvelled at the quirky combination of mismatching jacket and trousers, the dark combed forward and over hair and the heavy framed glasses. I took in what appeared to be a very worthy book title and it all fitted perfectly. It was a sign. I raised my phone pretending cunningly to text and the Jon-alike turned his head downwards so he was barely visible on my screen. He then looked up and no sooner had he done so, but a trendy tosser wearing a navy blue fitted jacket with the collar turned up stood in-between us.

As I left the train at Old Street I was sorely tempted to lunge at him for a final chance at the money shot, but decided that it might have appeared a little offensive and very difficult to explain in 0.2 seconds before the train pulled out of the station and rumbled towards Moorgate. I would have come across like some pervert up-skirter of the female variety- an upjacketer maybe.

The point is that the world could very well have imploded if I’d have sent Jonathan to Jonathan on Jonathan’s 30th, so it’s better that I didn’t.

And that, as they say, is all. Happy birthday Jonathan, you’re the best. xxx

Party OCD.

It’s just over 4 months since we moved into our new house in North London and it seems like we are long overdue a party. So we’ve decided to have one- a joint my birthday, Lindsey’s birthday and fireworks night party as a very loose excuse for one. Now as those of you who know me at all will know- I’m not exactly relaxed when it comes to parties, in fact when they are my own I tend to be a real worry wart. This is a real bind as I’d love to be one of those people who just invites the whole world, doesn’t worry about anything to do with their house and allows any number of people to stay over and sleep anywhere. But no, this doesn’t come naturally to me. In the slightest. In fact I’m a party host anal retentive.

My thought processes go- oh god, where will everyone sleep, how will they get home, will our lovely new carpet get trashed, will we f**k off our neighbours, will we have to spend the whole weekend cleaning up other people’s mess, will people respect the house and behave, will I have time to pack for holiday the next day and will I have to politely entertain people on Sunday when I’m going to want to leave and never come back (well, at least until people have gone and the mess is minimised).

In Compton Avenue whenever there was a party, I’d get a couple of hours kip in, leave first thing, go back to whoever’s house was nearest and avoid all of the early morning noise and mingingness only to return when the coast was clear and I could crack on with some serious cleaning. Hoovering around bodies is a time consuming bore.

I’ll never forget when Dan offered to host a party for Natalia for some reason (birthday I think) and some bright spark bought half a ton of confetti which was scattered all over the floor to release it’s hot pink, green, blue colours into the lovely cream carpet. I was apoplectic. She didn’t even live with us and I remember on said occasion I was so distraught I had to wake up early to start cleaning up.

So you can see, hosting parties is a distressing affair for me. Thank god I have two level headed, relaxed co-hosts to ease the pain and share the love.

Don’t worry though it’s going to be a blast, and it’ll be even more fun for all if you all keep to the following simple rules:

1) Shoes off at the front door
2) No red wine to be brought into the house at any costs
3) No excessively loud music
4) No laughing
5) No mingling
6) No-one up past 3am
7) No-one passing out in the toilet and making it a no-go-zone
8) Strictly no flirting or copping off.

Enjoy!

(The truth of the matter is that I’ll get hammered and won’t give a toss re: any of the above, but as a worrier, I have to think about all of this and the promptly forget it all and no doubt I’ll be the one sloshing red wine up the walls and knocking on Mrs Miggin’s door to see if she wants to join in)

All the gear, no idea.

Winter sun beckons, and this year, we’re going to nail another one of those ‘really ought to visit’ places as a diver, Ko Tao.

When this holiday was first dreamt up, we fancied ourselves as fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants youngsters, visiting Trailfinders (in the City, perhaps first giveaway that we were clearly not cut out for such shenanigans) and booking flights only. Steve told me about the wonders of the cheap beach huts, charming in a locust infested way, and only a hop, skip and a jump away from the sea front. Here we would mingle seamlessly with the locals, save money, and be at one with the spirit of the island. We’d arrive, we’d book. Lovely.

You might say therefore that I was a little surprised when a somewhat overworked and overstressed Steve announced that he’d been thinking about it and he quite fancied pre-booking somewhere, and not just any-old-where, but that he would rather like a swimming pool.

Not an over the top demand, but this soon became, ‘it must have a pool bar’ then ‘it must have several pool bars and a restaurant’ and eventually we found ourselves booking the deluxe suite at a tiny little luxury resort built by local architects into the edge of a cliff with an eternity pool designed quite brilliantly to give a seamless expanse of water. Pool then sea…..and you can’t see where one ends and the other begins. Have a look.

A far cry from the ‘locust infested local spur of the moment book when we arrive hut’, but I guess as you get older it gets tougher to take these kind of gambles with your hard earned holiday time- and of course, I’m more than happy to go along for the ride.

Anyway, this has spurred on my excitement about how long it is until I get to be at one with the fishies again….only 4 weeks away. I’ve opted for all my presents to be diving related so I’ll be the classic, ‘all the gear, no idea’ diver. But I’ll look good. Earlier today I placed an order for a black wetsuit and matching fins and when the person in the shop said, ‘we’ve only got those fins in turquoise and white, will that be ok?’ I shuddered at the thought of the clashing and said I’d rather wait until the sleek black ones were delivered. I might be 30 metres under water, but it’s no excuse to look a mess.