The backwards man

So I promised yesterday that I would tell you my immigrant story and that it wouldn't be like the Daily Mail headline generator which can be found here: http://www.qwghlm.co.uk/toys/dailymail/

Those of you who know me well will know that I have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am the queen of the disaster, so it came as no surprise last week when I witnessed a nasty accident on the tube.

Minding my own business on the down escalator, I was happily listening to some Dead Mau5 when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something toppling over backwards on the opposite escalator. On closer examination I could see a mans body, out cold, feet first going up towards bank. Very undignified, was my first thought, and thank goodness it wasn't a women in a skirt, was my second. Then I thought- fucks sake, why isn't anyone doing anything! The people behind the collapser were watching in horrified silence as his humilated body hurtled towards the top (well, chuntered).

Realising no-one was reacting in any appropriate way, I shouted out for someone to 'hit the emergency stop button' and 'NOW!'

No joy.

I ran down the escalator, hit the stop button, and pushed my way past the useless gawpers to the collapser- super woman style. It was then I could see why no-one was doing anything- a giant hole in the guys head, which was pissing blood like a hose. Having bitten off much more than I could chew, I started shouting at everyone around me to do something- get an ambulance, help me turn this guy gently around, try and stop the bleeding. After much grunting and pivoting, we managed to get him turned around so his feet were at least pointing downwards- a minor victory. It was then he came too. And he was pissed. Angry AND sozzled. I had wedged myself behind him to stop him slumping forward and in the process got myself covered in blood. He tried a couple of times to stand up, and I shouted at him to stay sitting down and wait for the ambulance. It was about then that I realised that he didn't speak a word of English. Luckily TFL staff appeared and one of them spoke to the chap in Polish. By this time he was properly shouting and waving his arms and she explained to me it was because he did not want to have an ambulance called.

Don't be so silly, I thought- how ridiculous. You have a 4 inch wide, gaping hole in your head. You don't have a choice.

The TFL lady looked at me with a worried expression, "he's not supposed to be here", "he can't go to hospital because they will find out and he might get sent home". Exasperated, I shouted at her, 'we NEED to phone an ambulance, we can't risk not calling one, look at the state of this man's head'. And so they did. I left with a wet wipe, covered in blood (nice handprint on my arm and cheek) and pretty much an entire carriage of the Northern Line to myself. And a horrid feeling of guilt. Had i done the right thing? What if this poor man ended up being seperated from his family? GAH. You can see why some people these days make the swift decision not to get involved. I for one am glad I did, but I'll forever wonder what happened when I left that evening.

Why the hell not

I have let myself down. I have promised and not delivered. I'm sure I'm the only one who really gives a damn, but I do feel somewhat guilty that I haven't been updating my blog. For one thing, it's brilliant to look back at my own antics and tut and laugh at them, for another- status lines just aren't long enough to tell the world everything I need to.

No more Miss Slack Ali.

So, what gives people? Well, the main thing that gives I suppose is that not only am I not split down the middle geographically, I'm not not split emotionally anymore. I'm in London proper like, and I'm happy and settled. CHRIST. When I write it it sounds so horrifically smug and dull. The thing with being happy is that when people ask you how things are going, you can say 'really well thanks, I'm so happy' and it's a conversation killer. You can't dissect exactly how happy you are. It would be painful. No-one really wants to know.

This isn't of course to say that I don't suffer from complete self indulgent middle class gloom from time to time. I do. It's in my genes. The good thing however, is that I now have someone in my life who doesn't react and calm and supportive. I think I might almost be a normal person now.

Of course this remains to be seen, and future blog posts may tell a different story.

I'm going to start back with posthumous posting about an incident I had with an illegal immigrant last week. I promise I won't be Daily Mail but it is an interesting quandary.

Turrah for now though....lunch beckons and my tummy is demanding Itsu chicken noodle soup.

The return of the ali-mal.

My good friend Anita occasionally has far too much to drink and becomes obnoxious, difficult, unhinged and quite frankly....nuts. On those occasions we call her 'Angemal' to embrace her animalistic qualities.

I, of late, have become my own special breed. The Ali-mal. It's fairly similar, but it's a slightly more self involved version because well, it's me.

I think it all stems from lots of changes in live. No. Not the menopause just yet (although I am getting those fecking oestrogen patches on my face after being in the sun which I was horrified to find out are known as 'widowers' something or other-geeez give me a break). The main change is that I decided that it was high time I took a long hard look at myself and work out what I want from life. Turned out I didn't want a boyfriend who wasn't around very much and when he was there wasn't the easiest company. And turned out that I'm really very bad at being with someone- just one person, long term.

So off the back of this has emerged a shiny, new (old), frisky, mischevious Ali. Old enough to know better but not overly fussed. Last weekend I actually threw up down my own t-shirt and this morning I spent the morning diagnosing what I must have eaten last night from the contents of the work sink. I'm embracing my fun side. I'm booking up to do things I'd never have done this time last year...like going to Glastonbury. ME! At Glastonbury. No more Maldives for me, I'm a changed lady. Hmmmmmmmm.

My resolution is to update my blog more frequently. So watch this space..

The big sulk

Sometimes in life too much happens and this means that keeping a blog becomes increasingly difficult- what do you give your time and love to? Should I cover important issues, or funny ones?

I have to also confess a slightly childish sulk at not being short listed for the Brighton and Hove Poxy Web awards. I mean those two bit hippies wouldn’t know a decent funny blog if it jumped up and bit them on their hemp covered bottoms (Dan and Jonathan’s blog aside of course). Anyway, enough is enough- what exactly has been going on in my life.

I’ll keep it to bullet points so you’re all in the picture without being desperately bored:

1) Holiday to Thailand- Bangkok- Chiang Mai, Samui, Koh Tao. Lovely- ate my own body weight in noodles and coconut milk and rather annoyingly didn’t pick up a severe case of the trots to shed aforementioned weight seamlessly. Am now moderate heifer. Managed fair few dives and took in some decent scenery including several strip joints and temples (and other places of worship). Met a lovely baby Elephant at the Elephant hospital, fell in love. Hairy little devil.

2) Day I left for holiday to Thailand got made redundant (whole company when into administration). Fantastic timing. Not only that but was told that I, along with all of my colleagues, would not be getting paid for the previous months work, or the 2 weeks of holiday I was about to leave for (in 4 hours!) or my notice period. Marvelous. Skint. Not able to undertake usual several hundred pound duty free binge. Ate sweaty 59p burger instead. Sulked.

3) Returned to family crisis- Dad has told Mum about new girlfriend. Mum slammed down phone. Communications meltdown. Torn between the two.

4) Return to Court Summons for unpaid Council Tax- a slight concern given awful financial circumstances. Thankfully all sorted now.

5) Am officially unemployed for 1 week. Make the heinous error of putting my CV on Monster in the ‘searchable’ section. Plagued by irritating swarm of recruitment consultants each more smarmy than the last. Become friend’s bitch dropping off dry cleaning, undertaking odd jobs. Feel lost and bored.

6) Start new job in Fulham. Bitch of a commute and longer working hours- 9-6pm. Due to ‘issues’ with my old employer have to be employed as a contractor = bag of shite as no holiday pay, sickness pay etc. On upside, some ‘financial stability’ over the Christmas period. No pay before x mas though so presents for family are looking grim- home made cookies anyone?

7) As luck would have it without 2 days of starting work pick up horrid bug and feel like have swallowed 10 razors. Have to work as overdraft is straining and bulging and Mr Bank Manager refusing to budge on any more handouts. Miserable fucker. Thank goodness for lovely boyfriend.

8) I think that’s about it. Of course there are lots more funny stories like the fact that Natalie’s boyfriend had to go and collect Dot Cotton from Croydon for a funeral over the weekend and the fact that Lindsey met Daniel Craig at the BAFTAS on Sunday, but they all make my poor, overdrawn existence seem depressing so I won’t dwell.

9) Steve’s talking about taking me to Tahiti in the New Year- must be exemplary girlfriend in meanwhile with minimal whining to stand chance. Without him I’d be holidaying in Skeggers for next decade.

10) I’ve been ill. This takes up lots of time moaning and whinging.

And that's me- bet you're glad you bothered!

Commitment phobes and the gainfully unemployed

Oh its all about phobias - 2 whole posts while the rightful blogger has been away and the best I can muster is phobias and making it a bit sam centric.

Ali will be back next week to write up about her holiday and maybe any issues she is having about being one of the unwashed masses :) For now though you will have to make do with yet another from me.

When Ali left I promised faithfully to make sure I kept up some interest in her blog and put something (anything) on here ever day. Did I heck. But then neither did the last guest bloggers so at least I am in a quietly ashamed little gang of meant well friends. Ali is due back and the sum total of blogs is two on her return - utterly shameful - but I can explain. I am also unemployed with a boytoy in the city who just about manages to grin and bare it. However much to everyones surprise I don't actually have a free minute to myself. Ok I do, but I fill it with useful things like sending letters to the solicitors or tending to the gas men fitting the boiler or reading because I promised faithfully (again) that I would have that book review in or going for a lunch time coffee with friends or a boozy lunch. Seriously now I don't know how people manage to have a life and work a 45 hour week. When I do work (which sometimes I have to) my house falls apart. Theres washing up left in the sink for days, theres a build up of dust that would disgust Kim and Aggie, the boytoy gets fed any old crud thats in the cupboard because I haven't managed to shop that week. The the weekend comes and it is taken up with cleaning and food shopping and paying for bills.

Obviously when Ali gets home she will be straight on to finding another job to keep her in shoes and handbags (and incidentals like a roof over her head) but I suspect she will struggle to actually find time. I don't miss slogging my guts out for a minute and I have a sneaking suspicion that neither will Ms Petite.

Back to normal soon, and I am sorry to say that, although giving my opinion is one of my favourite things to do as regular readers will know, I won't miss the commitment that a daily blog brings and I will be glad to get back to being gainfully unemployed

Odd Phobias

Anyone have one?
Until last Thursday night I was held high on a pedestal of Nutterdom that my worst phobia was tidal waves. This seemed ridiculous to most of my friends given we live(d) on the South East Coast which happens to be attached to the English Channel, one of the most unassuming bodies of water in the Northern Hemisphere.
Nice – that’s what the English Channel is. Until of course we bugger up the planet so royally that 3m high tidal surges are about to become the norm. The first I heard about the imminent danger my children were in was when son younger called to say he would be home early that Friday as school was closed (during the week they live on the most easterly point of England, somewhere called Lowestoft, which is so dull that Norfolk won't admit to it) due to adverse weather conditions. Well I thought this rather odd given there was no bad weather happening up above us and although they were 100 miles away a bit of rain never hurt anyone and it certainly wasn't about to snow so I checked the schools website for closures which is when the panic set in. My worst fear realised. Day After Tomorrow happening in Norfolk at 7am the following morning. I spent the next 3 hours trying hard not to worry but had to go via the children’s godfather for information which even he had to be pressured into getting for me (oh the trivialities of relationships). I was desperate to tell their father to get them out of their right now - Lowestoft was being advised to evacuate for God’s sake. What was he doing watching TV and sniggering at the hysterical ex wife for her melodrama.
The news just wouldn't give up on it (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/7085394.stm) and of course this fuelled my fears. By bedtime the boytoy had thrown enough gin into me that he could get a decent nights sleep and I passed out with the alarm set for 7am when the wave was due to hit the East Coast.
Boytoy and I woke at 7am Friday morning to watch the surfers of Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft having the time of their lives. A little bit of flooding up the coast but nothing that couldn't be dealt with and certainly not the massive loss of life that was expected the night before. This wasn't really any succor for my soul though. My children are now in danger of being in the English version of some Hollywood type end of the world and my worst fears are justified. Can't help but feel a little smug though that, once again, even though it may have taken a good many years to prove it, I was RIGHT. HA!!!

Ali Update

Hello there people. I am the assistant blogger while Ali is away sunning herself in Thailand. And what better place for her to be than on holiday given the day before she left she was "let go". I'm not giving anything away here and she asked that I cover this before her return so she can get on with stories of elephants up cliffs and how long she spent in the jacuzzi.

Clearly life over there in the slow lane is getting to her and she is worrying about just how much gossip she is missing out on. And so we don't forget her some of her bestest friends got a text at 4am this morning letting us know she is alive and well and possibly a bit squiffy. Bless

Now I have finally worked out how to get into the blog I shall be posting at least one more but I don't want anyone getting all excited and thinking I will be in the least bit more interesting than handbags, shoes or my latest star spot (Griff Rhys Jones so you know)

Ttfn

Right then people, just a quick post to say that as of today, I'm away on my holidays until 19th November, so you'll have a well deserved break from my ramlings and bullshit.

That said- I have found a guest blogger replacement in the form of my friend Samantha, who many of you will know. She is equally as well qualified as me to ramble, procrastinate and talk utter bollocks (I know she'll agree). Infact, being several years my senior, with two teenage boys, she is no doubt better qualified.

I will bid you farewell. When I get back it seems there's a very very good chance I could be unemployed as the future of my agency is looking very bleak at the moment. Infact I've not been paid for the last month of work I've done and as I type I'm sitting in the office working for free. Despite increasing my overdraft by £2k my finances look dire and I could well be about to depart on a 2 week holiday for which I won't get any holiday cover. Fantastic! That'll learn me working for a cute small company.

At least this will give me lots of humourous stuff to write about, and I'll be beginning my campaign in Thailand on Steve to see if he'll agree to me becoming a kept woman. It could be the ideal time to start up that dog sanctuary I've always dreamed about.....

I'll catch up with you all soon,

Over and out for now xxx

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?