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.