Sod the DIY, it's date night....

So, tonight I’m ditching the paintbrushes, bidding a fond farewell to the varnish, taking a step away from the steamer and spending an evening with my lovely boyfriend. Yes it’s Thursday so that means DATE night. A night spent exchanging sweet nothings, cuddling up on sofas, watching films, eating out somewhere fancy and generally enjoying each other’s company. I really ought to be cracking on with the DIY but a girl has her limits and my brown varnish hands and paint splattered hands and legs have pretty much finished me off.

Given the *limited success of previous date nights, I’m kind of hoping that this one goes smoothly, and I think adding the whole ‘I miss you because I don’t live with you anymore’ element might be a sweetener. We shall see I suppose.

Tomorrow is Epsom ladies day. I’m not going of course as I’m neither a horse lover or a lady, but Steve is. He’s taking a posse of tarted up brokers and will spend the day getting hammered on champagne, talking about insurance (YAWN) and generally being smooth (ish). I’ve come to the conclusion that he used up his charm and smoothness in the line of duty at work which is why most times when he sees me he can barely crack a smile! Or maybe it’s me…..probably the latter. I’m sure this means that by Monday I’ll have a whole host of amusing tales from my weekend.

I think tomorrow night I’m going to campaign that Lindsey and I should go and explore Hampstead and Primrose hill and see which minor celebs we can spot. We’ve already spotted a few in our local…well Lindsey has.

Over and out for now, Ali xx

The house of Obsessives Compulsives

Last night, the ‘House of Obsessive Compulsives’ (possibly a feature length film courtesy of Miller and Shipley in the year to come) was awash with activity of the painting, cleaning, polishing, sorting, unpacking and listening to music variety. Lindsey and I worked as only girls can work (4 hours non-stop of cleaning without so much as a moan or a ‘cuppa) and have achieved miracles in the house. We now have an inhabitable kitchen within which one might cook such simple dishes as pasta and sauce (oven is still a toxic no go area…comparable to the exclusion zone in Chernobyl) a lounge where we can relax and enjoy a whole array of reality TV like the eagerly anticipated launch of Big Brother and a bathroom where I can actually wash and go to the loo….result!

Whilst I gingerly placed things on kitchen shelves, Linds looked on nervously and then secretly rearranged them behind my back- it was brilliant. All shelves are perfectly symmetrical, we have a ‘display’ unit of 3 sets of matching glasses (red wine, white wine, and martini- of course), each distanced perfectly and all sparkly. It looks great. God forbid when we actually have to use any of it. We’re not prepared for that….yet. But we’ll get there.

Next on the agenda is getting the place re-carpeted, apparently the nice man from Carpet Rite comes over and does all the measuring and then a week later, hey presto, it’s done. I’m slightly dubious but happy to be proved wrong in this regard. I have visions of drilling and upheaval and general stress and tears, measuring tapes flying everywhere, a massive scuffle between us and Mr Carpet Rite- lucky man!

Felt very strange to be waking up on my own this morning, no-one to tell about my stupid-as-usual dreams, which this morning I probably wouldn’t have mentioned as they were of the ‘don’t tell your boyfriend THAT variety…but still, it was a little bit lonely. Thank god I had Mr Tiger in bed with me to cuddle.

We're in...

So we’re in. The big move went very smoothly in terms of getting things from a-b, helped out by two lovely chaps who loaded my stuff onto the van and then unloaded it the other end and put it all into my bedroom. Hurrah. On the downside, the house which was supposed to be ‘industrially cleaned’ (and my GOD it needed it) didn’t appear to have been cleaned at all. Hence me covered in dirt-hives all weekend and feeling nauseous about the prospect of having a wee in the toilet….I’ll have to hover…seriously.

So 3 days of pretty much solid unpacking, painting, DIY, bath and oven scrubbing, and tutting, Steve and I have something which resembles a bedroom which a girl might chose to sleep in. With the exception of the filthy, mangy carpet, I’m just about ready to take the plunge and sleep there for a night….although the call of the boyfriend with his king size bed, feather duvets and new pad is very alluring…No Ali. You must move in properly. Tonight I am being lured home with the promise of a spot of furniture polishing and some cupboard wiping. Rock on! We’ll be all settled in no time at all.

On a separate note, I was very happy to find that my freakish OCD with regards to any cleaning was matched and possibly exceeded by Lindsey’s symmetry issues. I caught her with a measuring tape measuring either side of a picture to check that it was equidistant on both sides to the nearest wall….i.e dead centre. This is brilliant as it means I can pick as much dust off the carpet as my little heart desires. She also spent 30 minutes arranging a lamp until it was at EXACTLY the right angle to the TV. It’s the “House of Obsessive Compulsives”, all I need is to encourage Steve to spend more time there…there are plenty of locks and windows to check to keep him entertained for hours. What fun we’re going to have.

Chicken Cottaging.

Ahhh, the climax of the footballing season. Thousands and thousands of eager, nervy men flock to pubs everywhere and drank gratuitously celebrating the pink tickets that only a big final can guarantee.

Of course this man free-ness is a huge giant enormous and every other word which means ‘big’ excuse for ladies everywhere to flock together and talk about the crucial matters….the things that really keep us awake at night. How often we all get laid. Of course, loudly in a small restaurant. Always! Over a litre of cheap house wine….yes, of course. I excelled myself by eating my own dinner and then most of Sams.

Arrived home, squiffy, tired and happy. A rerun of Eastenders, The Apprentice and then some light hearted documentary about childhood anorexia later I snoozed off. In the early hours I was awoken by my unruly boyfriend phoning me and telling me he was in a cab. Some time later I became aware of some rumbling and commotion in the bedroom and then stillness. I woke up to the potent whiff of greasy chicken and chips wafting around the bedroom and no sign of boyfriend. Brilliant. I felt like the owner of some mangy cat who had proudly caught me a magpie and deposited it in the kitchen, only slightly less proud. Several hours later I discovered Steve passed out on the sofa in his pants, looking very drunk and very erm, well, dishelleved. Men!!!! This morning I discovered the offending ‘Chicken Cottage’ in the bedroom. Tonight is date night….cue arguments, bickering and recrimination. Tra la la. I’ll try not to, honest!

Anti climaxes....I hate em.

In life in general, I’m not very good at coping with anti-climaxes. Evening plans fall through? Bah. No-one comments on my blog posts? Grrr. Eastenders promises us all death and suffering and delivers normality? Hurrumph. Dave’s egg don’t hatch….No fair! None of these things sit comfortably with me. I think I expect certain things to happen in life, and when they don’t well….why the hell not?! My disappointment that Peter hadn’t carked it in Eastenders was palpable…I pounded the pillow for goodness sake. And the empty nest on Dave’s balcony was a harsh reminder to me of how I might feel if I am unable to conceive. Baron-ness. I know the eggs were stolen by a pigeon (possibly) but that’s what it made me think. Strange eh?

I think the key to this is if I don’t expect any ‘good’ to happen, then maybe I won’t be constantly disappointed, infact, if I just didn’t anticipate or pre-empt at all and lived in a contact state of now’ness, (much like the great Eckhart Tolle recommended) I’d have more of a sense of inner peace. Don’t get me wrong, this is by no means a new revelation for me. Infact I’m always trying to teach myself not to think too much, or worry too much, and every 6 or so months, when I have a wobble, I grab my ‘power of now’ book, embrace its contents and then promptly forget them as I’m having far too much fun thinking about the future and looking forward to it.

This morning I logged into my facebook account only to find a friendship invitation from the ex-boyfriend who not so long ago sent the inappropriate text and to whom I responded that it had been hell being with him, and how could he possibly be such an arsehole to his girlfriend. The very same. Of course, not wanting to let him into my inner sanctum I ‘rejected’ his offer on Facebook. I don’t want him looking at my happy holiday shots with my new man, it would taint them. And the very idea of him being able to leave comments on my life? No thanks. I don’t give a shit what you think and I want you out of my life forever. I really hoped that when he next logged in there would be a big banner with the words ‘REJECT’ ‘You were rejected' but unfortunately after having tried it out with a friend, we discovered you get no such notification. You just get silence, as if they never saw it. Doesn’t stop me from feeling outraged that he asked though.

Some people will never get the message. F**king loser.

A hellova weekend!

There’s a pattern developing in my life and it goes something like this…..Ali always feeling shocking on a Monday morning. Ok, so it’s fairly obvious, but I would have thought at the ‘not-so’ tender age of almost 30, I would feel rested and recuperated after my weekends, not like I’ve been dragged through every hedge in Hampton Court maze backwards. This time however, it was worth it, ohhh yes it was.

Friday night started early thanks to some kid on work experience taking out the power supply to the entire of East London, well, Hoxton and Shoreditch at the very least. Workers spilled out on to the streets in what can only be described as a carnival atmosphere and the pub tills were ringing (or not as they weren’t working) but the empty ice cream tubs were filling up with change and the numerically challenged bar maids were working hard at their mental arithmetic. At one stage I got 3 pints, a cider and a Pimms for just over £7. Thank the lord for ditzy barmaids.

Somewhere along the line, I realised that the promise of a heavy Friday evening loomed in the distance and my sensible streak kicked in, so I jumped on a train to Brighton where thankfully Anita’s cleaner let me in and I started my packing with a booze fuelled-vengeance. 3 bin liners of clothes to throw away later I realised I was running late for the pub so hastily got changed into one of the few things which hadn’t been thrown away and headed to the Crescent to meet Dave, Laura, Sam and a fleeting visit from Vic. As you’d expect with me and Sam around, our thoughts soon turned to our stomachs and we headed to the Thai Orchid on Preston Street for some dinner.

After that we headed over to Pinchos People a fairly innocuous looking tapas bar with a lovely secret…..its cocktails. By this stage, we were down to 3 and Dave sat looking somewhat bemused with his rather small and camp looking ‘challenging’ Manhattan cocktail whilst Sam waxed lyrical about flavours, and subtlety, and camomile foam, and I checked out the barmen and wondered, if single, whether I might fancy any of them. In the end, intricate facial hair put me off. It was wonderful and we whiled away several hours talking rubbish and drinking lovely drinks on a comfy leather sofa. Actually, the reality was that Sam and Dave snuggled up on the leather sofa and I sat on the hard trendy looking chair, but believe you me, I was in NO position to interject in the ongoing love-in between these two.

The night continued in an almost inevitable demise into drunken, incoherent rambling on Dave’s sofa, and when the sun came up and was showing no signs of going away, we realised it was high time we called it a night…day….whatever. My fondest memories of that evening…..Dave’s guitar- pure genius, and also, Sam and Dave telling each other how much they admired each other…..seriously cute.

Saturday morning was spent in a fuggy, muggy haze of blurriness and hungoverness. I managed against the odds to get the packing licked in a couple of hours and when I realised that Saturday night was a right-off (Brightonians….no stamina!) I jumped on the fast train to Clapham for a sedate night in The Goat. Ahem. A bottle of wine later I was steaming, and realised I’d overstepped the mark when I had spent over 30mins not with my boyfriend, but being entertained by a group of 5 scally blokes from Newcastle showing me ‘magic’. Being a girl, I love a bit of magic, and some of the tricks, including the old ‘20p in the becks bottle’ were simply awe inspiring. The fog lifted during the ‘mind reading’ trick, when I was tempted away from the pack with a particularly cheeky chappy who told me to whisper the same of a ‘secret famous person’ in his ear- which his friend would magically guess and took the opportunity to have a grope of my arse. Cue, Ali centre stage, exit right. Pronto.

Having returned to the relative ‘safety’ of my pack of drunken footie players (euuch) I once again unwittingly found myself in the middle of a most unsavoury discussion with a drunken centre back who was telling me how awfully untrusting his girlfriend was and how she controlled his life. At one point he told me that Steve was casting us angry glares and I beckoned him over to demonstrate to him how unthreatening this conversation was….at the exact point he arrived, this bloke says to him ‘how much would it cost to take your girlfriend home for the night’. Oh god….potential fight! Thankfully not as it turned out, it was an entirely innocent question, meant purely as the bloke in question wanted me to ‘talk to his girlfriend to sort her out’. I’m sure that would have gone down brilliantly and not been perceived as ATALL arseholish. Steve thankfully reacted in a grownup fashion and turned his back on us, at which point this bloke (no wonder his poor girlfriend has the trust issues) said something along the lines of ‘There are lots of reasons why I’d like to take you home, and if your boyfriend knew about them, he wouldn’t be best pleased’. Yuck. This would NEVER happen in Brighton….would it?

I pulled a face and decided to stick firmly to Steve’s side all night, which is tough when you’re really drunk and the room is spinning.

Yesterday, thank god, a chilled day in the pub followed by a home made thai red curry and watching, ‘Little Miss Sunshine’ which made me laugh and cry and is therefore brilliant.

And so we face another week my friends….roll on next weekend.

La cash machina

Date night last night was a roaring success in many ways and a damp squib in others. The place we went to dinner, El Rincon Latino on Clapham Manor Road was very good…we over ordered tapas, ate far too much garlic and drank too much wine which led to come inevitable bickering, the topic of which was far too disgusting to share on a blog, but Sam and Lindsey (and no doubt whoever I’m out with tonight- sorry lads) will hear about it when we meet up next week and it’ll give them a damn good laugh…..no doubt Gavin will have something to say on the matter as well.

Anyway, the obvious highlight of the evening was the fact that we didn’t actually have to pay for our dinner. Well that’s not strictly true, but we did leave without paying. Basically at the end of dinner when we asked for the bill we were told that the not very trusty Barclays machine was not working and that we’d have to pay by cheque, or we could ‘run to the nearest cash point ten minutes away’. Two problems- it’s not 1994 anymore, and I actually have never ever carried a chequebook with me in my life. Infact, even in 1997 my friend Jo used to pay with a cheque book and guarantee card when we went shopping and we’d practically be spat at everytime. 2nd problem- run to a cashpoint with a belly full of tapas and wine…I think NOT!

Anyway, Steve being Steve, one of these, ‘I know my rights people’ he told them that under no circumstances would we be getting cash out for them and that it was their issue if the machine didn’t work and we shouldn’t be put out as a result of it. They stood firm and said we would ‘Need to go and get money out if we wanted to leave’ and Steve gave them his business card (very ‘professional as the card in question had been doodled on!) and told them to phone him tomorrow and he’d pay over the phone and we left. Quickly. I ran actually, and we leapt into a cab pronto.

I wonder if we caused a revolt as at the time when we made our statement, and dash for freedom they were holding about 40 diners hostage.

The weekend, horray!

The great moving in fever is starting to hit us all, and I’m actually getting excited about re-acquainting myself with my extended wardrobe and having a chance to throw away half of my possessions, which as you know, is one of my favourite things to do. Cull cull cull cull! Any women within a mile radius of Buckingham Place on Saturday, it might be worth texting and popping over to see if there’s anything you like….if I’m feeling really generous, I might give some of Anita’s stuff away as well.

For the past 3 weeks, I’ve been wearing the same 3 pairs of jeans 10 tops, and 3 pairs of shoes (not at the same time), which I know for most men constitutes an entire wardrobe, but for me, has been like eating with my hands tied behind my back….bloody hard work. I’ve resisted the urge to buy an entirely new wardrobe, because I know I’ve got it all and some, sitting in Brighton. It has to be said though, last week I went for dinner with Steve and his mum who looked infinitely more glamourous than me in my worn a million times stuff and it did smart a little.

I don’t think my new ‘little prince’ haircut really helps me in ‘desirable’ stakes either, but I actually think it’s quite funny. Last night, we dug out Sam’s ‘worst haircut EVER’ photo, which was an interesting bowl cut, with a fringe and ‘bangs’ that have to be seen to be believed and it occurred to me, ‘that’s my haircut now!!!’. No one really disagreed, there was just some kind words of encouragement….’it’ll grow back’, that kind of thing.

Anyway, I’m so looking forward to the weekend. My last official one in Brighton. It seems scary but I’m just bang up for heading out on Friday and getting hammered (sorry Dave and Jonathan who might have to pick up the pieces- but will have a damn good laugh in the process). Bring it on! I come in peace, I bring you LOVE.

Eggs from Ebay

I’ve been watching with great anticipation and eagerness the postings going on over at ‘lever pulled’ dreamboat’s, sorry, DAVE’s lovely new blog which has captured some of his inner innocence and softness quite beautifully in recent days. As a friend just pointed out to me, ‘it showed him in a whole new light’- not something the $%&^£ Channel 4 you bunch of F*^%g c%&*ts post captured as effectively.

Basically Dave is covering the plight of the pigeon who has laid her egg, well eggs, on a precarious ledge on the Nth floor of a rather tall purpose built block of flats. So far we’ve had high drama including ‘egg rolls from nest’ amongst others (well, actually that was it.) Last we heard Dave had intervened and placed the wayward egg back in the next alongside its brother or sister, so for the time being, all we can do is wait. I’m heading over to Dave’s on Saturday so I’ll be able to do some first hand reporting for your delight and entertainment.

Anyway, whilst on the topic of eggs and hatching, it amazed me to discover that you can actually buy fertilized eggs from ebay, which arrive the next day. Broody hens (and possibly pigeons) apparently have a spooky sixth sense and detect when an egg is a ‘good egg’ and will then happily sit on it and hatch it. I was wondering whether we might buy an egg for our pigeon and see what happens when she hatched a tiny chick, rather than a mini pigeon. It would be worth it to see the look on her face, and I think it could turn into an amazing scientific experiment as well as something we can all talk about for weeks and months to come. The chick, once hatched could be dispatched to Ant’s small plot of land where he tends to vegetables….allotment, that’s it. And could scratch around happily for the rest of its days. It’s a win win situation, surely?

http://cgi.ebay.com/12-Ringneck-Pheasant-Fertile-Eggs-to-Incubate-Hatch_W0QQitemZ320115001192QQihZ011QQcategoryZ46532QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem

Content...how boring!

As my friend Sam once pointed out, when life is rosy and easy, then it doesn’t make for particularly interesting blogging does it? So I’m suffering from an acute case of blogging block until something amazing and blog-worthy happens.

Until then, I’m keeping a low profile! The only very dull news is that I’m moving this weekend, oh yes I am! It’s back to the basement flat armed with black bin liners and boxes and lots of will power and energy. I’m feeling quite weird about the whole affair. Having been fairly remote from Brighton for the past few months, I feel I have almost ‘got over’ the not being there- although I do miss the people quite sorely.

What’s concerning me is that I’ve now lived (on the whole) fairly happily with Steve, woken up next to him every morning and ate with him and well, he’s kept me company for the past few months and I think I’m really going to miss him. Of course, if things map out, our short term plans are to buy somewhere together, and we’re going to start looking at the beginning of 2008, which isn’t that long. In the meanwhile I have a year of fun and ‘freedom’ with my friends….but I’m wondering, am I mentally ready to settle already? Could I happily skip the friends phase? Well, yes, I suppose I could. But I think that it is going to be a good experience for me, and for us. And I’m hoping that the best part of a year apart will mean that when we do buy, we’re really excited and looking forward to doing it together, and refreshed from a year not being in each other’s pockets. I guess only time can tell….and in the interim, I’m just looking forward to having my entire wardrobe to chose from in the morning rather than the meagre selection of overwashed t-shirts and ill-thought-through sandals which have not accounted for this rainy miserable spell….grrrrr.

Slack...I know.

Oh grrr, I’ve just typed a whole long and particularly funny blog post…honest…and I’ve gone and lost it.

In it I described the last few days and the whole debarked with Steve failing to turn up and meet me on Wednesday evening and then ignoring my calls and then turning up paraletic and unable to talk and THEN, doing a runner and getting lost in Clapham, which led to me having to put some comedy clothes on over my PJs and roam the streets of South Clapham, which, as we know is little better than Clapham North and the recent shootings.

Thankfully, Steve was bright enough to realise that a serious dose of humble pie was needed and yes, I know, I’ve been eating some recently so I guess we’re all quits. Yesterday we were back to happy normal service. He was late home, I grumbled and cooked and we watched Eastenders and discussed the increasingly brilliant plot line. And that’s that. I wish I could come up with some rock and roll posting, but life this week has been fairly sedate.

I guess today’s most exciting news is that the brilliant and beautiful Lindsey has taken on the marketing director and come up with a fairly excellent series of terms and conditions with regard to us moving in. New carpets, an industrial cleaning team, our own handy man at our beck and call and cut price rent. Whoop whoop, go Lindsey. We move in on the 26th May….

House party date after that TBC….though I won’t be dishing out details on my blog incase we get the MySpace phenomenon. Wouldn’y wan tour nice new carpets trashing now!

Trouble in Hackney.

Last night the true extent of my recent gluttony was exposed….I am nearing double figures of weight, which is pretty impressive going seeing as last year I was a mere slip of a thing at 8 ½ stone. Steve, like a true hero waded in with the shock news that he is close to 12 ½ stone. So between us in just over a year, we’ve managed to put on almost 3 stone. Impressive weight gain which falls squarely into the ‘comfortable couple’ category. Long may it continue!

Meeting with Steve’s mum last night provided us both with a real idea of exactly what’s going on in the house of ‘addiction’ trouble, over in Hackney. It seems the new other half (and husband to be) is having no joy at all in keeping big sis on the straight and narrow, and instead after having met his future mother in law for several minutes, told her how much he’s enjoying the pub culture over in the UK and seemed genuinely shocked that big sis wasn’t able to ‘keep it together’ after a couple of drinks, and expressed concern at ‘how bad she gets, she just seems to want to drink and drink….’ No sh*t. Don't you remember where you met her?! Tsk tsk. And as if this isn't bad enough, he's fessed up to Steve's mum to having a violent streak when he drinks. And, as coincidence would have it, she spent a night in hospital having her head glued after an 'altercation', or rather, a 'nasty fall'. Ahem. It's just too sad to really put into words. And too hopeless and too everything.

Nevertheless, in the few short weeks he has been here, he’s already put plans down to buy a nice car, buy a house boat, buy a des-res in Bromley (!), become a professional chef….shame he’s got no money….oh, no, hang on a minute, he has! Hundreds of thousands of pounds at his disposal in a current account. It’s not his of course, it’s his future wifes. Brilliant. I hate to say it, but my prior assertions that maybe he did love her, and maybe he would take care of her have gone right out of the window. What I now see is someone who is prying on a vulnerable, niave and extremely desperate girl who just wants someone to love her. Unfortunately, given her current condition, the only people she attracts are those like this scumbag, who clearly doesn’t give a shit about her wellbeing, and is only in it for one thing. Let’s hope she can see that before the wedding.

In the meanwhile, despite being an athiest, I just pray that she keeps safe from harm. xxx

La Verre du Vin SVP

Paris seems a million miles away, well, at least 350 or so.

Last night we very almost missed our Eurostar home after Steve insisted on buying another bottle of Champagne from the supermarket. Unfortunately for us, with only 45 minutes to spare and a 20 minute cab drive to Gar de Nord, the old lady in front of us in the queue decided to have a mentalist attack at the checkout, and declared, piece by piece, that ‘someone has smuggled these things into my shopping basket, they are NOT mine’ (in French of course). After off-loading her entire trolley painstakingly, whilst cursing under her breath she then had a moment of clarity and realised that ‘silly me, they are my things after all’. Even though we were very likely to miss our (non-refundable ticket) train, we still found this hilarious.

Right then, Paris.

So, on Saturday night we went to the bar where Sex and the City was filmed, if you’re ever in Paris head to the massive Kenzo store go into the building, hit 5th floor on the lift (it’s not marked, it’s far too cool for that) and enter the world of Uber Parisian posing.

Don’t expect to be smiled at, or to be spoken to in English and expect to be given the once over by everyone in turn, repeatedly. Luckily, I was feeling fairly comfortable with being a chic Londoner in this Parisien haunt, so I held my head high and strutted around as best as I could muster, which as it turned out, was pretty good.

Several Bellinis later I was propped up at the bar, being well, one can only describe oneself as ‘a right f**king twat’. I don’t know what got into me, apart from the Bellinis. At about 10pm we were shown to our dinner table, an amazing glass domed affair at the top of the building and truly a stunning place to eat…if only I hadn’t have been too drunk to appreciate it. I had a yummy lobster and crab ravioli for starters and then king Gambas for my main, and we bickered throughout the entire meal. Hurrah. Totally my fault- I didn’t think the food was very good. Infact my main was downright DULL. When we left I was so drunk I can barely remember sitting in a bar called ‘Jade’, or getting home (or apparently getting lost on the way home and crying).

At some point I smashed a glass in the bedroom and cut my foot as the room and towels were covered in blood in the morning. I called Steve a c**t for no reason and was generally an embarrassment and an idiot! I'm almost 30, it's disgraceful.

Goes without saying that an almighty slice of humble pie was eaten on Sunday morning, and I trailed around feeling very sorry for myself after several encounters with Le head in le throne. What a looser. Steve delighted in the tables being turned, and took the piss constantly for the rest of our time away, which was to be fair, well deserved.

Anyway, we did the Eiffel Tower- waste of bloody time, but the ice creams at the bottom were great. It was much nicer sitting in the sun drenched park at the bottom, watching the world go buy, eating baguettes and strawberries and listening to the little quartet clarinet, violin, flute and miscellaneous instrument who were jamming under the tree for many hours.

We then went to see Mona….felt obliged really. She has her very own wall, and really is quite small, but lovely all the same. A little shopping on the Champs Elysee and then off to dinner on the Left Bank in the Latin Quarter, place called Reminnet. Absolutely fantastic snails and some very very rare Thon (tuna). If you ever go to Paris, you must go…but you also must book as it’s one of the most popular traditional restaurants and it’s very tiny.

We managed to avoid any of the political rumblings as a result of Sarkosy being elected and on the whole had a wonderful time away….the crazy granny was just the icing on a very yummy cake.

And as if I hadn’t put on about 3 stone in the past 3 days with excessive pastry consumption, Steve and I are off to our fave haunt, Chez Bruce again tonight. Not gratuitously I hasten to add, his long suffering mum is over from Spain and it’s a belated 30th bday celebration, I’m just along for the ride. Yum. I think I am becoming a proper bonafide foody

Bonjour. Je suis in Paris

Oui, je suis dans Paris....and do you know what is doing my head in, I want to write lots of funny stories but it isnt a qwerty keyboard; so aint no good at all for a touch typer who doesnt look at her keys......painful. Its taking me ten minutes per line.

Got to Paris fine after an early start. Steve has booked us into the resturant where Sex and the City was filmed called Kong tonight for dinner. Proper posing spot. The Time Out guide says...wear lots of labels and expect to be scrutinised! Hmmmmm, I hope the food is good. At least there will be loads to look at and laugh at....including le grand bill by the sound of it!

My GCSE french is doing me proud......un verre du vin, and prenez le premier rue a guache...hooray! Spelling is shite as ever though.

I gave in and wrote Dan V a text message today to tell him its time he started realising when hes onto a good thing and not to think about our time together with sugar coated glasses as it was the worst year of my life. I think thats fairly clear. Time to sleep off lunchtime Sancerre and then hit le tower eiffel.

Right off to eat an awesome looking tart aux framboise.

Far too much fun!

I just don’t know where to start today I have soooo much information to pass on to you all. I’m practically on the edge of my seat and trying to type so fast, it keeps coming out like the policeman in ‘allo allo’.

I have had the most amazing 24hrs, starting off with a visit last night to Primark in Marble Arch. It was awesome, you have to have nerves of steel to spend more than 5 minutes in that place. Thankfully, it’s open til 9pm all weekday evenings, so I stupidly thought that it might be a little bit quieter and more manageable. Oh no! It was utterly rammed.

I walked in and felt my pupils dilate. My heart started to race. I looked from shelf to shelf, mentally ticking off what I had vs. what I needed.

There were boys in there pinned to the wall in terror, wide eyed and clammy looking.

Girls were marching around, swinging their circular bouncy shopping baskets ruthlessly with occasional side swipes at adjacent shoppers to prevent them getting hold of the last size 10. I fixed my desires on a little white shift dress with some embroidery at the top and started working my way through a 4 metre long rail of them, size 14, size 16, size 14, size 18….where’s the itty bitty sizes? All gone. And then….AH HA! I spotted one stray size 10 at the end of another aisle, misplaced, and I approach it, with stealth and speed, and reach to grab it and then some really molly, dowdy bird places her hand over mine, fixes her stern glare on me and says, “I put that there, don’t even THINK about taking it”…you’d have never believed it.

Realising that it was no more Mrs Nice Ali, I proceeded to barge, push and elbow my way to a basketful of fantastic goodies. It was the only way. I came out triumphant with a bag containing two pairs of shoes, (one ‘must have’ of the season, silver diamonte, leather backed gladiator sandals), two shift dresses, one black, one white, some new undies for weekend away in Paris (slutty, turquoise and black) a belt, a scarf, two t-shirts and lots more. And the total cost, £55. Afterwards I felt as if I was going through a terrible comedown, flat and tired and aching, but I’d had my Primark fix and that was the main thing.

My other AMAZING news is that by some weird coincidence, the ex-boyfriend who I told you about yesterday, yes the very same one who called me a f**king sp*stic, sent me a text today. And it wasn’t just any old text it was a text of pure genius which has kept me entertained the whole afternoon. I’m not going to protect him, he doesn’t deserve it. The text asked, in not a very roundabout way, whether I would like to don a very short skirt and knee hi boots (a la Stacey from ‘Enders) and meet him for ‘drinks and naughtiness’.

Proper full on belly laughter after initial horror and deep shock. Is he joking? He can’t be serious. Someone must have stolen his phone? Surely. So I do what any normal girl would do. I investigate. It turns out he’s living with his girlfriend, they are still together but they are going through a rocky patch, lots of arguing and it wasn’t too tough to discover that they haven’t apparently had any s*x now for 6 weeks, hence the text presumably.

I am so offended that he thinks that I am the kind of girl who would ever even consider going within a mile of him after the way he treated me. Add to that the fact that his poor girlfriend is no doubt enduring the kind of behaviour I suffered and rather than end it, he’s texting his ex’s in the vague hope one of them might turn out to be stupid enough to say yes. I’m so excited at the prospect of wiping the floor with him, but I need a little inspiration. My friends are saying arrange to meet him in a very expensive pre-booked hotel room and then of course don’t turn up and send a message through reception saying “enjoy your £250 wank you looser”. I’m not sure he’s worth the effort. Ah, my life is so much fun at times.

Of course I sent the text straight to Steve so he can have a damn good chuckle at my ex’s expense and I know he’ll just LOVE it. Perhaps I could write back and say, ‘oh, that’s such a shame, I’m just off to Paris for a dirty weekend with my boyfriend who actually does want to sh*g me, and I’ve brought some lovely new underwear and short skirts especially for the occasion’.

And finally…as if this posting hasn’t been action packed enough, I stumbled across the ANNUAL ALL SAINTS SAMPLE SALE…in caps as this is just so fucking exciting you won’t believe it. I’m not going to tell you where it was as I think that would make it less cool, although I will say it was in an unmarked, underground location at the Vibe Bar end of Brick Lane. Oh my god, one offs of the most beautiful things and torture as I only had 10 mins to look around when it really needed several hours if not more.

Suffice to say I picked up a one off prototype black top for £10, which no-one else will be wearing and it’s proper gorgeous.

Off to Paris tomorrow morning, out for Cocktails in a bar on Clapham Junction tonight. It’s all go go go. Love it.

Let's bowl, Let's bowl!

Last night, we bowled. And it was really fun, and I enjoyed myself. I took on my random ‘right handed bowling despite being a left hander’ and managed to get 3 strikes….yes 3! The rest ended up in the gutter, but who cares; let’s focus on the glory moments.

It has to be said, I have been slightly apprehensive about bowling in recent years and this is probably, well, certainly, down to a little incident I had with my ex boyfriend, affectionately known as Danny V.

One lovely weekend during our tumultuous relationship we visited Coventry to see some of his old university friends. In total 3 couples. The Sunday was rainy and overcast so we decided to go bowling to pass the time. Bowling, in our couples in a little competition seemed a light hearted and fun thing to do, so off we went. Me and Danny V against the world.

From then, my memories are a little fuzzy and clouded due to my extreme anger. Being a left hander, and a confused one at that, I was bowling with a different hand each time, just to mix it up a little. My first few bowls were pretty good, I knocked down a few pins and at one point even picked up a spare. Then it came to Dan’s turn. He whizzed up the erm ‘path’, and powered the ball down the alley with an expect flick of the wrist, completed by a gay and rather jaunty little flicked up leg, kind of crossed over the other one at the back. You’ve watched King Pin, you know what I’m on about.

Strike one! We’re in the lead. Jubilation, hi-fives and happy beaming smiles. It’s then that Danny V drops into conversation that he was in fact ‘Under Fifteens County Bowling Champion’ for East Sussex. No wonder he was keen to go bowling, bloody show off. I felt quite proud in a way, and it was nice to be on the winning team. The only slight problem being that the ‘winning’ part, depended partly on me, keeping our end up.

Unfortunately, it turned out my bowling was sporadic at best and the more under pressure I felt, the worse I became, until eventually I was sidling up the alley, red faced, slumped shoulders and dejectedly dumping my ball on the lane and watching it gradually mooch along to it’s inevitable conclusion, the gutter. I really wasn’t having any fun at all. And then, something happened. I turned around and saw Dan’s cheeks, flushed with anger, and all of a sudden he lost it. Big time.

He shouted at the top of his voice, in the megabowl, at around 2.35pm, surrounded by 11years old….

’"Ali, you’re a f**king sp*stic!!!!"

I don’t think I need to continue this posting, or comment, but all I need to say is that the relationship ground to a swift halt soon after. And I wasn’t the one in tears. Loser.

Wedding...shocker.

***NEWSFLASH***

More for my personal ‘release’ than because anyone’s at all interested, but I’ve just spoken to Steve and it seems there’s been a ‘dramatic’ change of events.

Well, drama might be overselling it somewhat, but basically, Steve spoke to his mum, who’s spoken to Lara and it seems that the concept of staying clean for a year before getting married has gone right out of the window….in that they are getting married….in August, this year.

Steve’s mum, as you’d expect, has booked a flight to come over and try and dissuade her from going through with it. Considering they’ve been hammered pretty much since the minute they landed, they aren’t in the best frame of mind to be making such a decision, and equally, clearly aren’t going to help each other with their addictions. He’s obviously only with her for her money and was hankering to get a ring on her finger the second he got wind of how much she’s worth. And unfortunately, she’s too naïve and silly to see through it and question that he doesn’t appear to have her best interests at heart.

So, the dilemma we face is that if she goes through with it, do we go? Do we attend this (I hate to say it, but) mockery of a wedding, between two people who have known each other 5 months and spent most of that inebriated or threatening to kill one another, or running away with each others credit cards, or getting arrested. I don’t want to stand and hear them repeat vows which are meaningless, and try as I might I can’t see this as anything other than an additional complication in the grand scheme of Lara’s life. She’s always been desperate for a man in her life, and she wants children, but she needs to face facts that until she’s a little bit better, she’s simply not in the position to be a part of a positive, constructive relationship. Clinging to this in the vain hope that it will work out is deluded. Am I being mean? I just feel angry that once more, through her lack of thought and reason, she’s causing more worry and heartache to her long suffering family.

Grrrrrr.

It's a cute infestation...honest!

Last night I went out and it's fair to say I got a leeeeeetle bit drunk.

I arrived home to find Steve in his suit in the kitchen, clasping a burger, (so I knew he was similarly tanked) and Andrew, his lodger, in his bed gear. They were both staring at the kitchen floor in silence. At first I thought maybe they were in the midst of an arguement but it turns out, the reason they were stood there is because Andrew had spotted a mouse.

To be honest, I'm not an overly squeamish girl, and mice don't upset me in the slightest. Unless they are eating my food, which is never a good thing for anyone to do, man or beast. I told them that all we had to do was move all of the food in the bottom cupboards up to the top ones, give them a decent bleach/clean, and then get some little mice traps to catch the cute little blighters. Steve looked at me with big drunk sad eyes and asked what we'd do with them when we caught them, and, noting his distress, I told him we'd release them in small nuclear family groups (how do you sex mice? ) onto the common where they could frolic and play and mate and eat cheese to their hearts content.

So we discussed the options of catching them. Andrew said that these days, traps don’t necessarily contain poison but instead entice them into a little box with some cheese like in the cartoons (a ‘mouse house’ if you will). Alternatively you can get ones with super sticky sheets of paper which they literally stick to. I’m not a fan of this idea as for me it’s like making a mice live out a nightmare. You know the ones when something awful is happening and you try and run, and can’t. I’m not putting them through that. At least with ‘the little box’ you can put something cosy in there so that after they eat the cheese they can have a little snooze before their release.

I can tell what’s going to happen. We’re going to end up with Milly, Molly, Martin, Melvin, Morris, Mini and Morticia the mice, with their own room in the flat. It’ll be mouse friendly, with a bed made of cheese and lots of tiny brushes for whisker grooming, and tiny wheels to spin around for exercise and, well, you get the picture.

And then we can just open the flat up as a nature reserve and people can come and marvel at the moths and the mice and all of nature’s wonderful creatures. Ah-men.

Over dinner talk

Last night us ladies went out and did what ladies do best, eat loads of curry (it’s amazing how we can scoff when there’s no men around and we don’t have to pretend to be demure- Gavin has seen this dark side on more than one occasion I suspect).

During our curry munch-athon we caught up at great gusto, trying to cover off as many topics as possible in between bites of chicken and mouthfuls of rice. The most striking conversation for me was a dilemma one of our mates is going through at the moment, namely, she has picked up an STI from someone and really doesn’t know who. As Lindsey pointed out, ‘it could be anyone’ which prompted me to spit out a piece of my poppadum (it wasn’t meant THAT way) but she had a point. The thing with the STI in question is that you really wouldn’t know you had it, until you were tested. Just so happened one of her ex’s notified her that he had this affliction and accused her of being the infector. Outrageous. The thing is, he had the symptoms so was likely to have had it for longer, hence, HE was the infector (this may well be tenuous, but us girls stick together you know).

Anyway, what got me pondering was if I was in this position, how would I feel about the prospect of phoning around my ex’s and telling them about this rather delicate situation. How on earth is it best coped with?

The ‘You f**king f**ker approach’

‘I thought you ought to know you are diseased and have in turn poisoned me with your germs, you are the scum of the earth”

The ‘hands-up- approach

‘It turns out I seem to have Chlamydia and therefore, I’m afraid there’s a fairly strong chance that you have as well. Sorry old chap.

The ‘sitting on the fence approach’

‘I’m just phoning to tell you that I have this STI, I’m not sure how I got it, or who gave it to who, but it seems reasonable enough to suspect that you might have it also, so you’d better get checked just in case.’

The gutless approach (best administered by a text- even better if the text is sent anon)

‘I Think you’ve got Chlamydia, why? Because I have. Get checked.’

My favourite is the top one, but I know, faced with this situation (because this REALLY is a friend, and not me, honest….I’d tell you) I’d take the easy, softy, namby pamby route and hope that it wasn’t me. I guess the moral of the story here is, you never know what people have been up to and with whom, so the best bet, whatever kind of relationship or otherwise, is get checked regularly…you’re probably saving yourself a whole load of admin in the long run. I know we hate to think it, but people do cheat on each other….and men, are. Well. Men.