Health test- the update

Quick health update:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aunty Who?

Moving from Brighton has been easier than I anticipated all in all. Of course, I miss the people horribly, but the rubbish weather this summer has softened the blow as I haven’t had to endure endless tales of amazing beach parties, BBQ’s, watching the sun rise over the sea after heady nights of fun etc. I still have a little internal tanty when I hear of fun nights out, but as long as I hear about the gossip, via my Corns hotline, mostly I’m appeased.

One of the biggest pangs for me has been realising that I wont be around as much to see one of my bestest friend Sarah’s little boy grow up so this weekend, I visited Brighton for a night out with Katie and Sarah and spent a day with the Williams’ on Saturday reminding Jack who I was.

Friday night I arrived at Katie’s to find that they had already guzzled a bottle of wine. I got offered the leftovers and then got made to play catch up with some vile house white at the local pub ‘The Railway’. By the time we left there, we were sufficiently tanked up and we headed into town and found ourselves a spot in Yo Sushi. I have to say, of all the foods to order when you’re drunk, Japanese isn’t the easiest. As a result we mostly took to grabbing whatever whizzed by that took our fancy. Cold dumplings, prawn tempura. In ten minutes we’d munched on around 6 plates of food, and hadn’t even started getting our hot dishes yet. An hour later things started getting really messy. We decided to start putting our used dishes back on the conveyor complete with origami napkins covered in soy sauce, ginger etc to create the effect of a ‘unique new dish’. This continued until we got into a mess on our table and given the absence of waiters I decided to get rid of our dirty plates on the conveyor belt stacked up high and teetering like a house of cards.

This, it seemed, was the final straw. Like a scene out of ‘Enemy of the State’ the head waiter swooped on our table and informed us that we’d been ‘watched on CCTV all night’ and that he thought we should ‘pay and leave right away’. Of course we realised we’d been naughty and no doubt incredibly irritating, but for goodness sake we were hammered. We had no intention of leaving without paying and could see clearly that the dishes we were placing in the belt were being taken promptly off and put in ‘the noisy rude ladies pile’.

And that’s when it all went wrong. The manager told us that if we’d tried to get away without paying it would have had a direct effect on our waiter’s salary. We said we’d never intended to leave without paying in full. He told us we were ‘a disgrace’ and he would ‘never be seen dead out with such a group of old trollopes’ (I think he also said we were ‘over made up’ but it’s all a blur). In a matter of minutes it had gone from a ticking off to a personal slanging match and for a period of time we were dumbfounded. It wasn’t long until Sarah found her legendary tongue and said, ‘Listen Frankie Dettori, none of us would ever touch you with a bargepole’ (he was quite little) and then Katie picked up the coins in the tip jar and said, putting one between her teeth, ‘Are these chocolate?’. And then we left, never to return again.

The next morning we were lying in bed feeling very worse for wear when there was a little early morning knock at the door and Jack came in to find Aunty Katie and Aunty Ali lying in a very boozy-smelling stale aired room feeling very sorry for themselves. As Katie said, the sight of his two wayward aunties looking so bloodshot, and downright terrifying has probably scarred him for life. Daddy Chris put him on our make shift double bed and I pretended to be Murray the cuddly bear but used a gravelly hungover voice which made Murray sound as if he’d been possessed by the devil and Jack scampered away. I was then sick.

Sarah told him to come back in and talk to Aunty Ali and Aunty Katie, and he said, ‘Aunty Katie and Aunty ‘who?’’ as he had no idea who I was. This stuck and for the rest of the weekend I was ‘Aunty who’, abbreviated to ‘where’s Aunty ooo?’ or just, ‘Where’s ooo?’ By the time I’d put in an hour or so of hard labour in the sand pit with the diggers and played catch the insect, ‘ooo’ was firmly re-instated as one of the fave fake aunties. I’m clearly going to have to put in some serious leg work to get to ‘Aunty Ali’ status. This is one little boy who is not easily fobbed off. He’s also a little boy with immaculate taste in ladies shoes; Katie’s in particular which he wore in the car whilst looking like the cat that got the cream. He then asked if he could put my boots on, and when we got home, he ran upstairs and came down wearing his boots, claiming he loved his ‘little boots’ and weren’t they ‘lovely’. I feel we’ve got enough in common to form a really decent bond. In the meanwhile, I’m content with being ‘Aunty ooo?’

Post op

Well, I guess the fact I'm typing this is proof that I'm ok, live and kicking and apart from being pretty sore and extremely pissed off I can't give my boyfriend the welcome home he deserves, I'm fine.

Here's what I learnt today:

1) The smell of burning flesh is the most disgusting, wretch inducing smell I've ever experienced. I'm not sure if the fact it was my own flesh made it even worse, or a little better. All I know is Steve's crunched up nose said it all.

2) All you need for a calm and drama free 'procedure' is for your Doctor to be kind, gentle and inject a little humour as well as a little local anaesthetic. My doctor told me that I was about to lose all my dignity (something I'm pretty natural at without being in hospital). He then unveiled my stirruped legs and promptly said, 'oh, haven't you got pretty pink nails' to which Steve replied that I'd done them especially. I hadn't. Honestly.

3) Be prepared! It's a bloody good motto, so next time you see a do-gooder scout or cub give them a high five. If you know to expect a burning sensation, a large cold speculum, or a painful needle then you don't feel half as violated when it happens. Doesn't stop it hurting though.

4) Don't be startled when someone sticks a large patch on your arm, you ask what it's for and you get told it's to earth you so you don't get electrocuted. Just feel pleased that someone has thought of this on your behalf.

5) Take someone with a strong stomach who loves you unconditionally. This way no matter what happens they won't really bat an eye lid. This time I was a 'brave soldier' which made me feel proud and 12 years old all at the same time. As a result I also got lovely perfume, some hot pink Havianas and some uber cool boardies for my next diving trip.....knarly dude!

And finally,

6) Be thankful for all the people you love who took the time to send you texts and give you hugs and say all the right things, even if when you tell them it went fine they reply with:

'Damn. I was hoping for a bit more drama'.

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.

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.

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)