Tuesday 27 February 2007

How about this?!


I met with Linds at St Pauls this lunchtime for some inspirational peptalking, planning, budgeting and general excitement building.

Of course, there's a lot of toot on the market, and then there's the likes of this....within our budget, in Shoreditch, impossibly cool. I can see Lindsey and I now, sitting on our uber balcony, looking over the city, sipping Sancerre, discussing our busy media days on our comfy outside furniture. Equally I can see us hanging our crazy pants out on the balcony to dry and spewing off the edge of it....9 floors up, we could create quite a mess!

Fingers and toes crossed please. I'm going to have a proper sulk if this one's gone!

The emotional upheaval of change

Don't get me wrong, I'm excited about the prospect of moving to London, especially with such an uber cool chick as Lindsey, but the actual reality of the admin of moving is gradually dawning on me.

Packing my belongings into boxes never fails to generate a whole jumble of emotions and thoughts which on a normal day won't ever cross my mind. I'm not sure if it's just me, but each time I pack my (fairly limited) belongings into boxes I am flooded with a whole load of....

Random memories

My clock which I keep by my bed. Normally I never consider its history, but here is the only physical remaining evidence of a relationship I had with a guy called Dan Porter, when I was 18 years old. His mum bought me the clock. Its pretty naff, but it always gets wrapped and taken and unwrapped and put by my bed.

My picture of Lotte, my dog, who was put to sleep at the beginning of 2006, sleeping on the old sofa at the house where I was bought up in Reading until I was 17.

The fat little buddha which has sat by my bed for 7 years since Clare first gave him to me. I remember rubbing his tummy for luck before sitting various exams. He has lost a little part of his head, but he keeps on smiling.

Guilt

Why have I accumulated so little of any value. My most precious items in my life are as follows:

1) Dog collar and 'Grrrrrr' pendant which my dog wore around her neck for 14 years
2) A gold sovereign coin given to me in a will by a cousin of my grandparents up north....when I say Sovereign, I don't mean a nasty, argos one which might be made into a ring, I mean like a dubloon or something. It's lovely, and has a horse engraved on it.
3) My Charles and Diana sterling silver napkin rings...one day these might be worth something, but for now, they just make me chuckle and that's their value.
4) My passport sized picture of me aged 2, wide eyed, scruffy haired, immeasurably cute and innocent. My mum kept this in her wallet as her most treasured possession until a recent bout of depression when she cleansed herself of the emotional burden of her children (as kids) by returning to us all pictures, school reports, toys, drawings, poems we'd written. At this time, she gave the picture to me. One day I suspect she might want it back, but for now, I love it dearly.
5)A picture of me and my school friends: Clare, Julia, Emma, Liz and me at my oldest friend in the world, Jen's wedding. Jen was there at hospital on the day I was born.

Ok, so they mean the world to me. But if I left any one of them in my will to someone, I can't imagine they'd be thrilled!

What it boils down to is that at least 90% of my belongings are worthless and disposable and as much as I do love them now, this is only temporary. Shoes, clothes, boots, accessories, most of which aren't 'classics' and will be culled and replenished systematically in one of my ruthless tri-monthly binges...binliner upon binliner are filled to the brim with ill thought through purchases and colours which would never have worked on one so fair.

And with the impending move, I have this melancholy process to go through. Anyone want any of last season's French Connection? I think this time I could well break a record of bags of rubbish to throw away... the pictures and clock and the gold coin are staying close by my side.

Tomorrow- I plan to master the art of cockney rhyming slang....anyone have any pointers?

Monday 26 February 2007

Magic FM

In a rage against the corporate law machine, me and my wayward colleague Katherine have decided to have the radio blaring at work....even though it's against all work protocols...ohhhhhhh, what are they going to do? Fire me! We are SUCH rebels.

However, the last laugh is most certainly on me as the only station we can get without a hint of interference is Magic. I've never listened to it before, but it appears to be a 'greatest hits from the movies' compilation. It's truly awful. At the moment, 'I knew you were waiting for me' is on. Before this, the soundtrack from that miserable film 'Beaches'. Michael Bolton is surely only a matter of minutes away....no I was wrong...Snow Patrol. Sorry, dan, Snore Patrol. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

This weekend was a good one, in so much as I basically did nothing, except relax. On Saturday night, Steve and I had his mum and sister over for dinner, and in the absence of alcohol, we amused ourselves by watching the 100 greatest sex symbols of all time, on Channel 4, the results of which were compiled using an internet poll.

An internet pole of randy teenagers and equally horny pensioners it seems, what with the featuring of those such as Jenna Jamieson (Steve's mum: 'Who is THAT?' Steve: 'Just about the best, sorry, most popular female porn star', Ali hides amused grin, and glances towards porn stash)

And this was the top ten:

1. Angelina Jolie

2. Elvis Presley

3. Marilyn Monroe

4. Beyonce Knowles

5. Brad Pitt

6. Lara Croft

7. George Clooney

8. Kylie Minogue

9. Johnny Depp

10. Scarlett Johansson

I feel this requires some discussion. I'm not sure this is a good representation at all of the best sex symbols. Sure some of these people are attractive, but this doesn't mean they are sexy. And anyway, how can a games character be number 6, when her living incarnation is number one. Surely this is double counting? Or do the boys who voted for Lara Croft genuinely prefer a women created from some fancy HTML programming? Maybe they know something older men don't.

Jonhny Depp does nothing for me, and Scarlett Johansson with her overpainted lips in those shit maybelline adverts, she has lost it. Granted she looked hot in her pants in Lost in Translation, but she is DULL. Brad, since being with Ange has lost all sex appeal as he is clearly just brow beaten into submission over everything, and that is about as sexy as being made to watch your mum doing a strip tease. And Elvis? I'm sorry Anita, but nothing kills sex appeal like the vision of someone popping their clogs whilst attempting to take a dump.

Lets create our own:

My personal favourite: Jared Leto. Also, Penelope Cruz must SURELY be in the top 5?

Saturday 24 February 2007

Bright orange man.

This afternoon on the northern line, I amused myself by watching a very orange man.

This bloke had clearly felt the need to tango himself for some special occasion and the net result was that he had an orange face, patchy orange fingers and looked very embarrassed. The worst thing was that he had very thinning hair and you could see just how pale he really was beneath the dye....what would possess a man to do such a thing? In the winter as well.

Do you think he was gay? Is this a prejudice? Why would a straight man want to have a tan in the winter....especially a fake one.

Give me and steve 3 weeks, and we'll be laughing in everyone's faces with our tans! hehehehehe.

Infact, speaking of my lovely boyfriend we have had a great night together. spent the first part of the evening in a bar called Exhibit in Balham, and then went on to have big old fillet steaks with fried eggs at La Pampa Grill....anyone visiting Clapham...these steaks are a must. We're now sitting watching re-runs of pop idol and getting hammered! What possible better night could there be? (unless of course I stopped typing and paid Steve the attention he deserved...)

Not sexual favours though. Pop idol is too addictive!

Have happy weekends you lovely people. Dan, I'm only moderatly offended by the slating of Isle of Wight. One of these days, you'll get me to Womad.....in 2067.

Friday 23 February 2007

Laughed out loud!

I love it when something makes you laugh out loud at work. When this happens to me, it tends to actually be more of a 'snort' or a 'shriek'. The picture of the duck playing a piano from my post yesterday achieved a snort of sorts just moments ago. and everyone looks at you as if to say,

"Well you're clearly not doing ANY work"

And you feel slightly smug that you have friends that are soo amazing, they can make you snort from afar...and even smugger that you are clearly flouting all of your work responsibilities.

Yesterday I booked tickets to go to the Isle of Wight festival (8th, 9th, 10th, June). The line up looks pretty good, but then I do love my Snow Patrol. I can practically sense Jonathan and Dan shuddering and breaking out into a cold sweat. BUT, there are rumours of the Stones putting in an appearance this year, so surely that must be worth the £125. Anyone from Brighton fancy coming and slumming it for a few days?

Awww, come on! I'm not hardcore enough to do Glastonbury, and last year washing with baby wipes in 30 degrees was pushing my limits...but it is fun to be earthy for a couple of days and not worry about wearing make-up (apart from the obligatory eye liner, lip gloss, bronzer and eyebrow pencil of course....lets not be too silly!).

Can I just say that today is the official 'Ange-Fest' day, yes, it's Anita's birthday. I'm sure you all know anyway, but of course, texts with messages of love, good wishes, and happy returns wouldn't go a miss. I've done mine so can sleep easy tonight. I also bought her some GREAT soft porn to read in-between working so I'm maxed out on brownie points. Happy 30th Anita!

Thursday 22 February 2007

Ok Jonathan, if we MUST

bye bye posting

I've just posted an uber blog all about work, and Britney's suicide attempt and it's all just disapeered when I hit publish.

I take this as an omen that what I wrote was a load of old tosh and not worth reading, and so will settle for letting you look at this and seeing what you think.

Well, it was either that or a picture of an elephant playing basketball.

Can you tell I'm bored, lethargic, hungover and tender, and just want this day to be over.....

Oh MY GOD. it's underneath this one....look down a bit....there! It didn't fall into the black e-hole of cyber space. Apologies for the multiple Britney links, I'm not obsessed with her, I just admire the girl for cutting off her locks to remove any evidence of drug taking. I wonder if anyone has told her about certain drugs remaining in the blood stream for many many months. Perhaps the next thing will be a liver and kidney bypass complete with a 100% transfusion.

Work work work and Britney attempted suicide

My life over the last few days seems to have been dominated by the wasted hours which occur between 9-5.30. If I'm not knee deep in some god-awful pitch, I'm listening to my borderline schizophrenic boss slag off every living being, or being told off for being 4 minutes late

"am I the only mug around here that works a full day"

or meeting my ex-boss for some drinks which was a thinly veiled opportunity for her to grill me about just how awful things have got at work.

Anyway, today, just when I thought things might settle and I might be able to just sail through my notice, my long suffering and lovely colleague Katherine decided that after 7 years of tolerating jibes, mind games and back stabbing she had had just about enough. And you know what? This normally meek and quiet and extremely non-confrontational person marched into the our boss's office and told her in no uncertain terms, just how miserable she is, how she hates being here, and that if things don't improve, she's off. Which would mean our boss would have succeeded in loosing her entire team in just 3 short months. Quite an achievement I'm sure you'll agree, and one which I should think would prompt a little introspection.

Anyway, in other news, it seems Britney has had quite enough of being plagued by the media, so has found an understated and private way to end her suffering...read this

The poor girl has probably just got out of a parked car and was merely walking around it into oncoming traffic, which is of course a suicide attempt, and no doubt the 'Zanax' she is alleged to have threatened to take, was infact a packet of fags.

I'm off to meet my friend Lindsey tonight in Farringdon to discuss our plans for moving, including where we're going to look, what our budgets are going to be, and basically assess our priorities. Mine are that I want to be able to walk or cycle to work, I want to be surrounded by little cake shops, funky bars, and some boutique clothes shops and a park for me to jog in. That's it. I'm an easy girl to please.

Wednesday 21 February 2007

Animal prints and white leather boots

I think I have officially entered into the world of wind-down. Although my work is unrelenting, I am gradually, well, rapidly pushing back the boundaries of appropriate work attire for 'one' based in a city law practise. This morning I woke up feeling very perky and this must have played a part in my outfit.

As I walked over london bridge in my white knee high stiletto heeled leather boots, black mini skirt and leopard print fluffy jumper, I gradually realised quite how inappropriate. I reassured myself that I didn't have any meetings, so the true extent of the outfit could be hidden under the desk for the day. And then a little fresh faced, 1 year PQE tax lawyer appeared at my desk for his marketing induction....shit shit shit! He looked frightened. I have gone too far.

Tuesday 20 February 2007

Leaving do ethics

Ok, so I have a new job. Does this mean work is relenting? No. It's much worse...the pressure is being piled on. Infact, I've been told that I can't put in any claims for overtime during my notice period, so they actually expect me to work late for free when I'm leaving? They can poke it where the sun don't shine (well maybe occasionally in Richard Gere's case).

I have a massive pitch hitting tomorrow morning, and my priorities tonight are as follows:

13.00pm - Visit City branch Tesco to buy dinner ingrediants
17.30pm - Leave on the nose with screaming partners hot on my heels. My problem? I think not. Pay me double time and I might consider it. Actually fuck it, no I wouldn't.
20.30pm- Serve delicious dinner to Corns, Stev and Mehta and listen to appreciative noises, and sarcastic comments regarding lack of cooking
21.00pm- Talk shit, and drink.
22.30pm- Sleep (and hope to not be woken by porn star shagging of upstairs neighbour)
3.00am- Get woken up by Steve who's forgotten 5 hour time difference


So there you have it. I am a strictly 9.30-5.30 girl. No added extras.

In these times of anger and resentment, my mind turns to my leaving drinks, where there's a good chance I will get to vent some of this on my unsuspecting colleagues. Of course I won't, but it's a nice thought isn't it!

So, I wrote a mildly recriminating, tongue in cheek e-mail this morning to a choice few colleagues, who I'd actually enjoy sharing a drink with to celebrate me leaving....this equated to about 12 out of 100 odd, most of which are out of the Country at the time (so clearly they don't feel the same!). I have categorically asked my team to not give me a leaving card, or a present. I don't want to be humiliated or have to make a speech. I just want to get really pissed on my leaving do and leave on a high note. That's the only way to go. And I'll never look back.

Monday 19 February 2007

Escape from London....for a bit.

I haven't been home for 10 nights, and neither have I been away. I have simply had reason after reason to stay in London....seeing friends, late nights, being too drunk to travel, being too sober to travel, and not being arsed.

I'm actually quite scared to go 'home' as since I last went back so much has happened. For one, I have a new job, and for two I've decided to move to London...oh yes I have.

Why? Well, the truth is, if you live in Brighton I feel you ought to embrace it. Visit galleries, view the open houses, see bands in their embryonic beauty, go to the Duke of York because well, it's the Duke of York, visit comedy clubs, walk by the sea, basically make the most of it. Last time I did this? Bloody ages ago. It's now a fly-by-night place that I arrive in, unpack my bags, throw some washing on, go for dinner, try and catch up with Anita, re-pack and leave. I haven't loved Brighton in the way it deserves to be loved for quite some time, and although I'll miss the people horribly, I'll not miss the feeling of not doing the place justice.

So I wonder how this move will impact on the friends I have made in Brighton. After a year of commuting, I am comfortable with the fact that an hours journey each way, even within a day is not too bad....but some of my Brighton friends are very much Brighton based, and I'm worried that luring them to the big smoke is going to be difficult....but I guess friendships that are meant to last will do so, and ultimately, what's an hour on the train.

Anyway, I have a few nights in Brighton coming up to get back up to date with things. Steve has flown off to Boston for a few days, and given what's happened this weekend with his sister (recently returned from rehab so no prizes for guessing) his timing could not be better.

We had an awesome night out on Saturday. We went to a dinner party which descended into utter carnage. I got so wrecked that I decided I had a great singing voice (I was encouraged I hasten to add) and I insisted on singing acapella to a whole room of people....cringe cringe. Worse than that was what I was singing....crowded f**king house people. Not good. Even worse, I was sick, and then carried on drinking....twice!

During my singing, Nick one of the attendees at said dinner party bit his own tongue so hard that it had a big chunk out of it, and he sat there dribbling blood for ages, into a little pool around him. No-one batted an eyelid....too pissed. Poor fella. Bet that hurt on Sunday.

Will we ever grow up? Nope.

Thursday 15 February 2007

the tree in the restaurant

Last night I excelled myself in the stupidity stakes, perhaps it's the blonde hair. I don't know.

We went to our restaurant in Clapham, and there was a temporary extension towards the back of the building in the form of a marquee- there to cram in more romancing couples for their 2 hour dining 'slot'. It was one of those fancy ones which people use if they are having an outside wedding in the winter months. It had heaters and windows and was fairly snug, complete with pianist, saxophonist and some kind of keyboard player.

Anyway, we got taken to our table and I said to Steve;

"Do you think this bit where we're sitting is part of the actual building or part of the marquee"

(in fairness it was quite tricky to tell)

And Steve looked at me aghast and pointed to the large tree which was growing just to my right.

Idiot!

Wednesday 14 February 2007

Moment of Terror

Blimey. Handing in your notice when you really have no clue how your boss is going to react is a very very very scary thing to do. It actually made my palms sweat even thinking about it. I wrote some load of cack about working with a 'very special team' and wanting to move to have 'a whole new set of challenges' and in I strode, clutching my letter, with a face like the back end of a bulldog's arse.

It went ok though, I think. She kept reading and re-reading the letter as I garbled on, and I think she was probably trying to calculate whether I was trying to 'do her' out of any of my notice period, rather than coming to terms with the grief of not having me around anymore.

So that's it then. Goodbye solicitors! (well 3 1/2 weeks to go, but then I'm home and dry!).

New job, Hurrah!

It might be tempting fate, but sod it. I'm so happy I'm bubbling over the top like a hastily poured glass of cheap champagne. Yesterday I got an offer for a new job, working for a new meejah web design agency. I'm going to be an account exec. I'm so excited it has suddenly dawned on me how much I hate my current job and how relieved I am at the prospect of NEVER having to work with another lawyer ever again, hurrah!

Tra la la la la. So, I get to go the Maldives, and when I return (complete with my 'don't I look fab with my orange tan' tan), I can have a week off and then start my new job. Out with the old and dull in with the new (meejah). I must now make some serious investments on my casual wardrobe. I must also start looking for somewhere to live.

Vic. You must do it. I can't even begin to tell you how good it feels.

The sea of roses

It's valentines day, incase you hadn't noticed.

And for anyone with a flower allergy in my office, today is not going to be much fun.

I've just been down to our reception to attend a meeting and behind the desk were no less than 12 bouquets of roses, sent by dutiful boyfriends, husbands, f**k buddies, and ready to be collected by women who pretend to be touched, but actually felt it was their god given right to receive a bunch of over priced half dead roses.

I stalked upstairs houghtily, feeling slightly peturbed but not letting on...and then, the phone rang.

"There's something in reception for you Ali"


So of course I ran down the stairs beaming and was thrilled to see my very own bunch of roses, much more gorgeous than the rest and from my very own valentine. When I phoned to say thank you he told me, he thought it was the done thing. And I guess that sums up this silly day, we all think it's a load of crap, but equally are all touched when we get something, no matter how big or small from someone we love. I'm plumping for small though as my home made card now looks a little bit pathetic.

Tuesday 13 February 2007

What a funny old day!

Today has been a random assortment of bizarre occurances. Didn't I say yesterday that strange and possibly bad things might happen?

Firstly, we received an email at work telling us that outside the front door of our office there was a 'suspicious package', but just to move to the back of the building where presumably, we'd be much safer. We then received an e-mail an hour later to tell us it was all ok. Of course we'd stayed at our desks the whole time and no doubt would have been asked to make up the overtime if we'd actually moved away for our safety. Electronic tagging is par for the course in most firms.

Secondly, we were sent an email reassuring us that a low-flying aircraft...and I mean seriously low, top of building skimming, was not a terrorist threat (silly us!), but infact a non-registered diplomatic flight, presumably carrying some Japanese Government representatives on a 'white knuckle' flight around the City.

Thirdly, I went for lunch with a small doormouse. I was sitting happily eating my lunch chatting about high level business strategy and valentines day and he ran along the side of my table and sat and looked at me with his small whiskery whiffely whiskers and cute little eyes. My initial reaction was 'ahhhhh' look at the itty bitty, teeny weeny mouse. Then I realised, the little blighter had probably curled one out in my burger. We left. And there was no screaming or standing on tables.

And that's my day so far and it's only 4pm. The rest of the day could well hold many more special fun times. I'm going to a sleepover girly style tonight, complete with muchos wine and thai curry. I'm sleeping in the top bunk bed. Baggsied it earlier! Nothing like a sleepover to regress to childhood.

And no, Jonathan. There will be no pictures....especially after the notorious Sophie Ellis blog of late.

Monday 12 February 2007

There may be trouble ahead

Is it just me or can I sense turbulant and difficult times ahead over the next few months? I feel like the rather earthy Gabriel Oak in 'Far From The Madding Crowd', sniffing the air, or examining the slugs, snails and birds and somehow deducing trouble ahead.

There seems to be some wizardly-jiggery-pokery in the air at the moment, and things are taking unexpected shape in my life and the lives of my friends. Things which have been so good, have turned out bad, and vice versa.

One of my closest girl friends has just experienced possibly the most gutless breakup from her boyfriend known to mankind and it has made me want to break out the sage sticks and exorcise her of ever having had anything to do with the useless fuckwit. On the flipside, trouble herself landed from South Africa, bright eyed and bushy tailed and fresh from 4 months in rehabilitation. And what a transformation. Yesterday we spent the day together and she smiled, and she sang and she laughed and she bought us presents (that's a whole other blog....are snake skin wallets pc? aren't they made from the dead dropped off skin, or is that the transparent stuff? am I going to be mobbed by animal rights activists every time I pay for a round in Brighton?) ...and there was no vodka, not within even sniffing distance.

I felt guilty for having felt like there was no hope, and now things seem to be looking up for her. Long may it last.

And then I have friends moving house left, right and centre, moving jobs, moving relationships, moving and changing, and at the moment I just want to shout to everyone please STOP. I can't keep up!

I had one of my freaky deja vu moments on Friday night, although it may have been questionable as I had drunk a bottle of Champagne. Steve and I were sitting in some restaurant in Clapham common and all of a sudden I knew exactly what was going to happen next, and I watched it happen and I heard myself say the things I had said, and Steve reply word-for-word. Or perhaps I was just really drunk. I was sick later on- after a 'flat liner' shot....never try one. Tabasco was not meant as a recreational aid.

Very rambly today, but it's Monday and I'm warming up!

Friday 9 February 2007

Mode, median, mean

Last night Channel 4 televised the first in a series of documentaries, following Britains most gifted children. For anyone who watched this, I'm sure you'll agree it was deeply disturbing for a whole host of reasons, most of which I won't be able to scratch the surface of.

These children were seriously bright, the youngest was 3 and already a member of Mensa. 4 of the 10 children had IQ's of 170, AKA the highest IQ possible in the test they sat. They are already in the top 0.01% of the population. Despite their obvious and often jaw dropping abilities, these children were little pseudo adults with little or no ability to interact with children of their own age at all. They were all painfully aware of the burden of their 'gift' citing the continous pressure to 'amaze' 'shine' come first and stand out from the crowd. And in doing so, they had all lost friends and become social outcasts from their peers. One of the children was seriously exhibiting signs of terrible depression. But the most terrifying element of this programme? The parents.

In most of the parents, one pushy, dominant figure dictated long hours of study, practice, home schooling, recital of equations, poems, you name it. And they did this without trace of emotion, one mother saying it was her duty to ensure her children became nuclear scientists, surgeons, because that was their destiny and nothing else would do. Her children spoke like cyborgs, with no expressions on their faces. The youngest, 4, sat and drew maps of the British Isles, laboriously labelling coastal towns...why? To alleviate boredom.

Anita and I of course, discussed. I think it was fair to say that what we want from our kids when they eventually come along, is that they are 'average'. And perhaps that's a terrible admission, but is it? I want my 3 year old to be putting paint pots on his/her head and head butting the walls, I want crayola all over the walls, and I want to be in a position to teach my child, not vice versa. I don't want to parent a child who when they reach their teens, want to discuss history/politics/gastronomy. I want a teen who hides in their room, grunts and doesn't want to communicate for a few years.

And as I lay in bed last night thinking about all of this, it occured to me that extremes of any kind tend to have a negative impact, even the good ones. Think of any. Too generous (taken for granted), too kind (ditto), too clever (make people feel thick), too beautiful (must be stupid or a bitch), too short (get trodden on), too tall (freak show), too common (thick), too posh (stuck up), too sensitive (wet), too emotional (pathetic), too successful (makes us jealous). So should we all just aim for the middle ground, and if so, isn't that a sad thing?

Thursday 8 February 2007

How not to run a restaurant.

Forget Egon Ronay, this is the essential 'ali p' guide of how not to run a restaurant, inspired by a trip to 'The Little Buddha' the poor, unloved, second cousin of the prosperous and always packed to the rafters 'Red Snapper' at the 7dials.

I always looked in on the Little Buddha with pity when I ambled by, wondering why it was that they always appeared to be scantily populated whilst just 5 doors down, the concept of 'bring-your-own-booze-and-thai-food' was sustaining a roaring trade.

Don't get me wrong. The Snapper is hardly michelin star material, and often you have cold plates, the wrong food served at random times so that one of you might be on dessert whilst the others are waiting for starters....but it's cosy, welcoming, friendly, the food is good and great value, and it's a home from home.

The Buddha on the other hand is like a dysfunctional family member who everyone pretends they don't know.

We arrived and sat at any old table (there were plenty free) and it was at least ten-fifteen minutes before the sole member of staff noticed someone had walked in the restaurant. When he did see us, he looked shocked and rather fed up at the prospect of any waitering.

The 'waiter' (who was probably the cook aswell) took our orders then proceeded to stand looking miserable with his arms crossed the whole evening, probably because it was so cold in there. We ate, it was ok, and then we asked to see the dessert menu and for some coffees etc. There was a 10 minute gap and we were given the bill. After asking again for the menu, we were met with, 'No, we're closing'. No polite, 'I'm afraid we can't offer you dessert'. Just the bill.

To add insult to injury, the place doesn't take credit cards or infact plastic of any kind. I haven't carried cash since March 1992, so this was rather shocking to say the least. I had to peg it to the nearest cash-point. We were then practically evicted from the premises when the clock struck 11.30pm.

No wonder the place is always empty. I have no pity, they should take their lead from their neighbours, the fat cat Red Snapper. Cheap and cheerful, should be just that.

(I've got PMT)

Wednesday 7 February 2007

Let it snow!

So tomorrow they say it's going to snow. Lots. And in the Downs, that means there'll be a lovely big thick blanket of it, and probably no trains between London and Brighton in the morning. So a double reason to celebrate...

I'm feeling springy and bouncy today, despite being woken up in the early hours by Steve who had a car collecting him to take him to Frankfurt, "the most dull city in the world" (not an excerpt from the tourist board, although it might as well have been). He was being flown there to go for lunch and then dinner. That's it. No meetings. Just food and drink. Tsk tsk.

This morning my hotmail was adorned by a lovely e-mail from Anita called 'classes' where she has outlined a whole host of classes which we might do in an attempt to be less sedentary/lazy. These include kick boxing (terrifying), circuits (shudder), aquarobics (now we're talking), Jazz Stage Dance (I beg your pardon?) etc etc. Of course we have both decided that the 'drop-in' option is the only way to go, as we don't have to commit money to a series of classes when we both know we'll make a brilliant excuse every week without fail.

Bearing this in mind, I feel I can be quite positive about all these suggestions...circuits...bring it on!

In other news, I'm frequenting my favourite drop-in-low-cost-bring-your-own Thai tonight with Dan and Morgan to speak about boys things, and no doubt, girls bits. I think the kick boxing was on a Wednesday, but I'm in no position to attend that, what with my erm, blisters.

Much safer eating fish cakes.

Tuesday 6 February 2007

Tescosterone

I forget to tell you all yesterday about Tesco-gate which occured on Sunday afternoon, during a very dull, humdrum, and uneventful shopping trip.

S and I were at the checkout, loading our 'wares' onto the little conveyor belt, when I heard an almighty slamming noise and looked behind me to see Steve had slammed down the 'shopping divider thingy' (technical term) between our shopping and the shopper behind and was giving the shopper behind some seriously filthy looks.

Apparently what had happened was that very rude shopper 'b' had demanded that S put the divider inbetween our shopping in an aggressive manner, so S had just reacted in exactly the same way....aggressively. So then they started squaring up to each other, saying things like (in a South London accent, if you will) 'if you're gonna maff off, then do it to my face you f**king stupid w**ker' blah blah. I felt like an audience member of Springer/Lake, or even 'Vanessa'.

Having not heard shopper b being rude to S, I thought S's behaviour was bizarre, terrible, and was humiliated infront of this big Q of shoppers (c,d,e and others). They were tutting at us like we were pikeys and I was casting my eyes to heaven in Steve's direction as if to disown myself.

Later on after we'd left Tesco's without any black eyes, I was accused of humiliating S by 'not being on his side'. And he said 'surely if I reacted like that, you must have realised something had been done to warrant such a reaction?'. Well, erm, I'm not sure. Does aggression need to be met with more aggression? Can I say the word aggression any more in one blog?

Could the situation have been diffused and less awful for all if S had just 'risen above it'. But maybe he was right I ought to have taken a default stance of being on his side and assuming he must have been 'wronged' to react...I would have expected this from him if the situation was reversed

Testosterone ladies and gentlemen. Please raise your glasses.

On a happier note, last night I made cards with Laura and Jacqui, the gorgeous Compton Ave ladies and it was pure bliss. Really good therapy. And so I'm discovering the best type of therapy for me is writing and making. Cards in particular. With glitter. It's good for the soul.

brilliant.

Catching the train feels like sailing into darkness but it is not dark here; no, there is some light from the window and the clatter of keys hits my ears and the girl at the next desk peels labels from a strip and slaps them on envelopes before thumping them down with a fat fist. The clatter of filing cabinet drawers punctuates the hum of twenty computers and five printers in one enclosed space, but mostly it is fingers clicking away making unseen words on our private computer screens that one notices, the fact that we work away from each other, facing into our own individual electronic voids. Doors open and shut, slamming and beeping in the distance, and the kitchen is full of milk and coffee as people creak along, with their cheery morning greetings and showing off today’s colourful visit to the wardrobe door; an ethnic brooch here, a bright red shirt there, and yes, those jeans are too tight for you but how proud you were to get them on after six weeks at Weightwatchers.

Monday 5 February 2007

Next up

Insides feel all tight and twitchy and my hands and arms feel restless. It’s like there aren’t enough minutes in any given hour, and although there’s not an unmanageable task ahead, it feels like there is. Even making social plans is making me feel nervous, keep fit, see everyone, try and not worry about what’s happening with parents, try and focus on positive thoughts and what might be around the corner. But god only knows where I’ll be living, working or anything. It’s all so up in the air and it’s terrifying, but exciting, one day when life is settled and dull and routine I’ll look back to these times and wish that I had embraced them and not allowed them to make me jittery.

Deadened by caffeine… Directionless yet somewhat frantic. I’ve just posed in multicoloured fluorescent flares, frilled pink polyester shirt and silver platform shoes for a friend who has lots to do today. I have lots to do too but don’t relish any of it. So I will do lots, but nothing that will help me do any of the following things… get work / earn money in any other way / maintain or re-establish old friendships… others are making lunch.. should I? Am I hungry? What’s on TV? Will an interesting Documentary about World War 2 be starting just about the time I have cooked my soup and toasted my bread roll so that I can conceivably use a whole hour up for lunch to coincide with said documentary?... Ermmm… maybe.. should email Ali now

Here we go.

The first of I hope, many 'free-writes'

"two minutes thinking about having a fever; it's been a while since i've had one - previous cases of illness have been hyperbolic and exaggerated to elicit sympathy - now I am the boy who cried wolf, sitting spaced or lying down churning about on my sweat soaked bedsheets. i have half dreams which are a little like hallucinations or waking dreams, things I can't shake, things that feel real and pressing 'til I wake and realise that four hours of hot-browed worry that my hands are too big or that I will have to compensate for moments experienced by re-living them more concisely are moments wasted and moments of temporary madness"

hair-um scarum

Forgive me for this more-than-usually-self-involved blog.

This weekend I treated myself to a hair cut. I say 'treated' because as a girl, it's not an in-and-out job, it consists of 4 hours of consultation, wine, hair treatment, head massage, leisurely reading of magazines, hair colouring, wine, more consultations and then hair cut, blow dry, straighten and then......ta dah! The big (slightly squiffy) unveil, extreme makeover style, but without the appreciative audience in my case.

The only problem with this weekends treat, was that I booked late, and the Witches Hut only had a 'stylist'. The men amongst you will be thinking...and? But there are some key words missing here. [ ] stylist. The gap should be filled with a word such as 'senior', 'principle, ' even 'director'. AKA I'm not letting some newly qualified rookey edward scissorhands anywhere near my barnet. Why? Because it's not a normal barnet, it's unruly, it's wild and thick and well, it mostly looks horrendous.

So there I sat, with 'Michael' and his wild bleached blonde crop, feeling tense and sweaty palmed. Not even the 2nd glass of chardonnay (yeuch)calmed my nerves and this was before the hi-lites had even begun.

Girls, we all know, having hi-lites can be hit and miss. And when your hair was practically black last year and has a tonne of left over dye in it, this makes for even greater potential for disaster. So I sat, and I smiled politely and I died inside.

The worst bit was when Michael took out the foils to examine the hi-lites. I looked deep in his Eastern European eyes for signs of a reaction. ANYTHING. At this point a more qualified stylist (with a better 'bedside manner') would utter some words of reassurance, 'oh, yes this has taken very well' or 'this is exactly what I'd have hoped' but....nothing. And his eyes were devoid of life or emotion. I took this to be very very bad news and freaked out.

Turned out I had nothing to worry about, he'd nailed my hair colour, and he cut my hair into a funky little graduated bob with a fringe- for only £95. Can you believe it?

Ok it's very blonde, ash blonde and I know this will not be met by approval by any of my friends in Brighton (results of a drunk straw poll in Compton conclusively preferred brunette ali), but I know it's a winner. So never again will I live in fear of having my hair cut by a junior, but only this once. Lets face it, they need to get practice somewhere, I'd just rather it wasn't on me. I'm sticking to directors.

I finally emerged like a freakishly overgrown and hairy butterfly from her salon cocoon and floated dreamily into the pub, tossing my new mane. Steve met me with a big hug and a smile and said I looked gorgeous. Then I realised he was p*ssed. Really p*ssed.

Right then, onwards and upwards. Bloggers, please submit your e-free-writes to me to my hotmail throughout the course of the day, and I'll sort them and get them posted.

Friday 2 February 2007

e-free-writing

It's been a hellova day so far (training, eating Belgium chocs, doing lunch) so apologies for the late blog, to anyone who normally expects a mid-morning ali update.

Main and most exciting news of the day...Steve's home! He arrived at 8am this morning, and headed straight into work, poor little bunny. He's been featured in lots of dull insurance trade publications for his recent promotion and has spent the day e-mailing me telling me 'I'm famous'.

Last night after popping in to some work drinks in a terrible, awful meatmarket of a bar called 'prohibition' on Bishopsgate, I headed home to my spiritual home, Brighton and to the 7dials bar de jour, Zuma.

It was there me, Dan, Jonathan, Anne Sophie, Natalia and Vic masterminded the next BIG thing to hit the blogging world, 'e-free-writing'.

Everyone knows that writing stuff down is a sure fire way of getting it out of your mind, and often out of your system. It's good therapy and unlike most, it's free. So if you take it to the next level, beyond well thought through letters, poems, diary entries, blogs even, you get 'free writing'.

So you find yourself a nice quiet time and place, and you put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard take a deep breath and then essentually vomit the entire inner workings of your mind onto a piece of paper or screen for a set period of time. No punctuation, no stopping, no time to think about what someone might think. Just get it all out there. Liberating stuff!

So come and join us for our first group e-free-write. It's short and snappy, just 2 minutes, so there are no excuses for 'not having time'. As if we need any excuses for work avoidance anyway!

We're going to be doing it on Monday 5th February, and then I'll be posting the results to my blog on the Tuesday, anonymously, to protect us all incase we write things we'd rather not be responsible for. If you want to join in, you can simply post your e-free-write into a comment on the blog.

We're all hoping it will be a thought provoking exercise which will generate lots of interesting conversations.

Hopefully it won't be used as evidence in a future police investigation.

The more the merrier, lets e-free-and-be-merry!

Thursday 1 February 2007

A couple of pics


Growing old disgracefully

There's a poem by Jenny Joseph which makes me laugh, and I think we can all learn something from it.

I for one, already hoard stuff in boxes, but then I have crazy genes.

So here it is:

*****

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.


******

I think the reason this poem really makes me smile is that it really reminds me of my mum, who is increasingly behaving in this way. It's the sign of the beginning of the role reversal of parenting. When it's my time, I fully intend to do the most bonkers of things, and I'm putting in some decent practise already.

I'm feeling a little bit tired and sentimental today, I think I'm missing Steve more than I'd care to admit. I know this as I had a big blobby tear trickling down my cheek when my train went through Penge West, his childhood stomping ground.

I'm such a loser!