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.

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…

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 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?

Proof that men can't shop.

If you have a spare ten minutes (and you probably have as you're reading this), read this wonderful account from my friend Peter on his recent travels to Jerusalem. It's like a sketch from a monty python film and it had me in stitches, the bitter determination of the shop keeper vs. my lovely friend who was so keen not to hurt anyone's feelings.... hapless male shoppers beware!

Here goes:

I come across a shop with proper displays and a till rather than some guy with a money belt, and head on in. I have a look at the nicely painted wooden carvings on display and think that they’d be something suitable for my parents. Within 0.5 seconds the obligatory cheery salesman appears out of nowhere.

“Hello my friend” says the broad shouldered, baggy-clothed Mr Salesman, an exaggerated smile poking through his unshaven tanned face.

“Hello” I reply. “I’m just looking, thank you”.

“You see something you like?”

“Well these are quite nice” I say, pointing at the wooden carvings. Big mistake.

I can see the salesman do the mental equivalent of flexing his fingers as he prepares to get stuck into a routine he’s probably done countless times before.

“For these, I can give you a very good price”. Here we go. He trots off and returns with a calculator.

“Actually I’m happy just looki…” I begin to say.

“These were carved and painted by hand by authentic Byzantine monks” he proclaims proudly. ‘As opposed to fake Byzantine monks?’ I think to myself. He picks up one of the carvings and points to a little sticker saying ‘Made in some Byzantine monastery’ (I forget the name). Evidence if ever I saw it. Nonetheless they are very well made, feel nice and solid and I can see my folks liking them, so I decide to see where this goes.

He picks up three of the carvings – one of Jesus, one of Mary and one of the disciples – and lays them out on the counter.

“I’m only really interested in these two” I say, pointing to the carvings of Jesus and Mary.

“For you” he says “I give you 3 for the price of 2”.

For me? Aww shucks. This would normally sound great, but as they’re not labelled up with any price whatsoever he could name any price he wanted and I wouldn’t know any better.

“Now, you are from England?” he asks. I nod. “OK, so I will make this easy and give you price in English pounds”.He taps furiously into his calculator with the accuracy and speed of a touch typist. After pondering the end figure, he looks up proudly and says, “For you, for the 3, I can give you a price of 80 pounds. Not 120 pounds, but 80 pounds”. Even with the amazing ‘3 for 2’ offer, that’s still about £60 more than I was intending to spend. Unsure of what to say I stand there looking gormless as I ponder how best to politely excuse myself. My thoughts are interrupted by his next offer.

“Because you say nothing, I offer these for 70 pounds”.“Oh?”“60 pounds”.

The cheerfulness is gone, and now he’s looking at me with a serious business-face. Still somewhat stunned by my unintentional bargaining skills which has seen the price plummet by 25%, I realise it’s probably my turn to put forward how much I think they’re worth, and barter until we reach a price agreeable to both of us.But I’m not going to do that. As I’ve said, I loathe haggling with a passion, and I’m not going to spend an inordinate amount of time playing psychological games with a man who’ll be considerably more experienced at this than me.“Thanks, but no thanks”. This is what I should have said. Instead, my aversion to offend kicks in.

“Sounds good” I lie. “I…errr…just need to go and draw out some money”.

I am pleased with myself. It gives me a perfect excuse to leave the store and never return. This is – of course – a rather mean thing to do to the guy, but at least I won’t be there to see his disappointment when he realises that this mug won’t be coughing up.

“Ah – no need!” he says, reaching under the counter and pulling out a card reader. “I take visa”. He looks at me expectantly.‘Hmmmm’ I think to myself. Quick thinking time.

“But I prefer to pay cash” I respond. For a little while we debate the merits of paying by cash vs paying by card before he eventually says

“OK, well I prefer cash too”.

A narrow escape! Now I can get myself out of this awkward situation. But the salesman has other ideas.

“Let me take you to the cash machine”.

I insist this isn’t necessary and that he should stay with his store. Surely it’s not a good idea to leave it unattended?Undeterred he marches me to a cash machine only slightly out of his shop. I stand in the narrow alley, facing a cash machine that looks suspiciously like those you’d find at the pub and charges £1.50 for each withdrawal. Numerous sheets hung across the alley walls provide makeshift protection from the sun, but the heaving sweaty crowds barging past still make things unpleasantly warm.

“Here you can get money”.

“Ummm….great!” I exclaim, exasperated.

Now I know that at any time I could just have said “No thank you” and walked off with him yelling at me. Instead, I continue with this charade and formulate a plan of utter genius.I put my card in the cash machine. I then intentionally type in the wrong pin. My request for money is declined right in front of Mr Salesman.

“Oh no, my bank has frozen my account!” I say, over-acting my disappointment.

He looks at the screen and frowns.

“It says you have entered the wrong pin” he says matter of factly. Damn his eye for detail!

“Mmmm yes, the bank changes the pin when the account gets frozen.” He looks at me with a somewhat unconvinced look.

“I’ll come back later when I’ve sorted it out”.

This isn’t good enough for Mr Salesman, who beckons over a fellow shop-owner. They speak in Hebrew and shrug shoulders while looking at me and at the cash machine. Mr Salesman turns to me and says “Try it again”. Well, if I must. I insert my card as the two Israelis stand either side watching the screen intently. I type in an incorrect pin and re-enact the ‘Oh no!’ routine when I’m declined cash again. There, that’s it. No money for me, no money for you. But they’re having none of it. I barely see my card ejected from the cash machine before Mr Salesman has grabbed it and put it back into the machine.

“Please….try again.”

A look of semi-desperation falls upon his face. He’s not going to let me go that easy. This time I hesitate, and with good reason. Enter a pin incorrectly 3 times and the bank will lock me out of my account. For real. I’m out of ideas beyond hitting ‘Cancel’, grabbing my card and running away as fast as the crowds would allow. But I don’t do this.

You know how in movies when the hero taps a ‘disarm’ code on some nuclear bomb with only seconds to spare, and the whole thing is filmed in super slow motion? Well, that’s what this was like, only instead of being a hero saving the world, I was the idiot intentionally typing in the wrong pin because I didn’t have the balls to say “No”. I tap it in and a message pops up. It didn’t say ‘Nuclear detonation imminent’, but it might as well have done.

The ‘Account Locked’ message meant that my financial lifeline had been cut, leaving me with just a small amount of cash in my wallet. Boom!

Mr Salesman frowns.

“Now it says your account is locked”, “Well I did say” I regale, weeping inside.

Still, at least it’s over now.

“Guess I’ll have to call my bank now”.

He latches onto this statement like a bloodthirsty leech.

“No problem!” he says excitedly, marching me back into his shop.

He walks round the counter, puts a phone on the desk, picks up the handset and stands poised to dial.

“What’s the number? I dial them for you”. I look at him incredulously. Does he never give up? Does he not know how much he is tormenting me? Of course not – as far as he’s concerned I’m a guy willing to pay well over the odds for a set of ‘handmade’ wood carvings. It’s probably no less than I deserve. It’s time to be honest, say I don’t want them, and walk away. But no.“It’s OK, I’ll use my mobile” I say, pulling out my phone from my pocket and waving it in the air.

“That will cost you money” he says. “Please, use mine”.

I convince him that the banks number is an international freephone number. What I’ll do is pretend to call the bank, and when he’s not looking I’ll wander out of the store, never to return. As if reading my mind, he gives me a chair and sits down next to me. I sit down, pretend to phone the bank and hold a fake conversation about my locked account.

Mr Salesman listens intently as I get angry and gesticulate wildly with the imaginary customer service person. I sigh, roll my eyes and point to my phone as if to say; ‘Sorry about this but they’re being rubbish’. Not once does he get out of his seat. I continue the act for a further 10 minutes.

Finally, I see a look of resignation on his face as I hang up and tell him I’ll have to wait 4 hours before my account is unlocked. He makes one last desperate attempt to persuade me to at least try his card machine, before eventually accepting that I’m going to be the fish that got away. He tells me that he’ll set aside the carvings and to come back once I have access to my funds, and puts a business card in my hand.Needless to say, nobody got any gifts.

Jonathan's 30th

Today is my friend Jonathan’s 30th birthday and to mark the occasion, I thought I’d devote a little time on my posting today to him.

This is going to be fairly easy as this morning, in some bizarre turn of events, I found myself to be sitting opposite Jonathan’s body double on the Northern Line (give or take around a foot in terms of height- afraid the ‘doppel pips you Jonathan). I have mentioned this chap to Jonathan before and today thought I ought to try and take a photo of him to send over as a kind of freaky birthday greeting.

I carefully took my phone from my bag and switched on the camera, and pointed it in the doppel’s direction. I marvelled at the quirky combination of mismatching jacket and trousers, the dark combed forward and over hair and the heavy framed glasses. I took in what appeared to be a very worthy book title and it all fitted perfectly. It was a sign. I raised my phone pretending cunningly to text and the Jon-alike turned his head downwards so he was barely visible on my screen. He then looked up and no sooner had he done so, but a trendy tosser wearing a navy blue fitted jacket with the collar turned up stood in-between us.

As I left the train at Old Street I was sorely tempted to lunge at him for a final chance at the money shot, but decided that it might have appeared a little offensive and very difficult to explain in 0.2 seconds before the train pulled out of the station and rumbled towards Moorgate. I would have come across like some pervert up-skirter of the female variety- an upjacketer maybe.

The point is that the world could very well have imploded if I’d have sent Jonathan to Jonathan on Jonathan’s 30th, so it’s better that I didn’t.

And that, as they say, is all. Happy birthday Jonathan, you’re the best. xxx

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?’

IoW

Pack-o-rama! Last night I excelled myself in the packing stakes by filling my 85 litre ruc sac with mostly shite which I won’t wear, won’t use, but makes me feel much better about the whole camping experience….like what? Well…this:

x2 pairs knee hi-boots
x1 pair green wellies
x2 pairs flip flops- one gold, one silver
x1 pair- trainers

x3 sun dresses
x3 scarves
x2 hats (one woolly, one summery)

X1 double air bed and foot pump
X1 giant tent with two sections

Plus all my clothes, which I can’t list as, well frankly, I’m too ashamed.

The weather forecast is looking, on the whole, pretty good and I’m hoping that my wellies will be redundant, apart from some flinging.

So then, time to mastermind the logistical nightmare that is transferring all this crap from Belsize Park to Clapham South. I’ll be back on Tuesday with some amusing stories from the weekend no doubt. I’m most looking forward to seeing La Winehouse (and seeing if her face really is that hairy), of course the old Rollies, and very unpopularly with Dan and Jonathan….Snow Patrol.
(Soft) Rock on!

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.

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.

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

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.

My family.

It has to be said, family visits for me aren’t like what I imagine other people’s family visits to be. Mine are sedate and tense and often a little bit forced. As much as I love to see and spend time with my family, when I leave, I always feel a slight sense of relief and the funny thing is, I suspect they do also. Does anyone else have this? My friend Anita always has a blast with her parents when they go away…well, always might be a tad of an exaggeration, but they often sit up drinking together, exchanging stories and having a chuckle (as long as pre-marital sex isn’t mentioned, or politics).

With my lot, I suppose most of this boils down to the fact that my parents and my family in general simply aren’t that chilled out. In fact, my mum looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps most of the time, with little flushed cheeks and a terrified glint in her eye. This means that when we talk I often avoid looking her in the eye not because I’m feeling guilty, but because with mum, I can see behind the little tight forced smiles and pursed lips and clammy hands and see someone struggling terribly with mental illness. And if I look her in the eye, well, I might just burst into tears.

So, the net result of time with my parents is a mixture of sadness…it’s quite tough to get your head around parents who yo-yo between togetherness and separation every few months, and worry, that things just aren’t as they should be. On the upside, mum and dad are at the moment, travelling to the Isles of Scilly together for mum’s 60th bday treat, and so I suppose that’s a massive positive. I just hope things can continue on an even keel for a while.

The family visit pretty much dominated the entire weekend, but Steve and I had a nice evening together last night…me watching Thelma and Louise in bed and him in an entirely separate room watching the football highlights. I think I have finally grasped the concept of cohabitation…space. This is going to be a steep learning curve for us as for the next month, I have officially moved in- yes my season ticket has expired, I’m skint and I hate going on the trains. I’m allergic to them now. This means I have an Ali drawer in the cupboard, plus about 6 inches of space inside the wardrobe and room in the shoe rack for a couple of pairs of shoes (into which I have fitted 7 pairs). It also means I have to be a good and dutiful girlfriend as I’m staying rent free, which opens me up for all kinds of violations and unfair demands….I’ll keep you posted.

I was highly amused to see over on Jonathan’s blog, news of the evening we all spent at the snapper. He claims to have some photos of me and Anita (well, claims isn’t really true, he has got them I’ve seen them) looking like ‘Harridans’ which to be fair is probably a little too kind. We look like hags. Go on J, publish them, lets have a damn good laugh at my expense…if you can’t do that, then what’s the point! I know I’m gorgeous, sometimes, not in the morning, or in photos, or during/after exercise, or in my summer clothes, or most of the time.

Goodness gracious me.

Yesterday I briefly outlined a small issue I had with a radio I’d ordered from Tesco’s online. Today, I realise that online shopping has not been my friend on several occasions in the last week.

As I’ve mentioned it’s my mum’s 60th this weekend, and being typically mum-like, she has been trickling through a steady list of birthday requests since about mid February. She doesn’t do it like a normal person; instead, she assigns gifts to people, based on the perceived value of the present she thinks they ought to buy.

So for example, the initial list was something like this:

Steve: Can Steve please buy me Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits (this was sent by text to me…..at the time he hadn’t even considered buying her a present!)
Alison and Stephen- I would like a light box for my SAD. Here’s a link on Amazon to a model I’m interested in (we subsequently got one from ebay for £20, as good as new, but she’s not to know that it didn’t cost £200 like the rip-off ones on Amazon)
Pete (my dad)- I would like a gold bracelet.

Then, following this list, I received additional requests such as a portable FM radio (the monster which arrived yesterday….not portable and no friend of mine- thankfully Steve can pick one up on his way back from Zurich this morning), and some ‘girly things’ like make up, clothes, etc etc. So do you see where I get it from now?

Wanting to maintain some dignity, Steve refused to go into a shop and buy Dolly Parton, so I pottered to HMV to find that it was £12.95. Seriously. Dolly Parton- premium rate. I tsk tsk’ed at this and promptly ordered it from CD-wow for £6.95. Saving me a fiver and my pride simultaneously- genius. Unfortunately, I fell at the first hurdle. I entered the wrong house number. I created a hybrid of all of my Brighton addresses and asked for it to be delivered to my old house number but my new street. Realising my error, I told the ‘help’ email, who said to me that my order had been dispatched and I’d have to knock at number 36 to ask for it. Which I’ve done, several times. I think it’s an empty flat, or they’ve seen me coming and are terrified after receiving the ‘hatemail’ (in the form of Dolly Parton) and have gone on high alert.

So now it’s going to be too late to give mum the CD and I think I’m going to have to write an excruciatingly embarrassing letter to no 36, telling them that they have received a delivery by mistake, and could they find it in their hearts to post it at no. 43.

I’m taking a break from online shopping, with the exception of ASOS which does lovely cheap shoes.

Last night I had an emotional evening at the Red Snapper. Emotional for many reasons. I was with my lovely friends (and Dave was being a chatterbox, which was awesome), I was in my spiritual home, and I was sitting back to back with a married man and his wife, with whom I happened to have a night of erm ‘passion’, well fumbling (and I know, I know, it’s despicable and disgusting and against everything I stand for and if I said he was, at the time, separated from his wife, you’d just raise your eyebrows). The worst of it was that he only bloody told his wife after it happened. So there we were, having a fab meal, and in the back of my mind I could visualise her marching over, picking me up by my ears and kneeing me in the groin. At one point I went to the toilet and once inside, heard the door open to the toilets and when I emerged, there he was. Very subtle, I’m sure his wife wasn’t paying attention and didn’t even notice him hot footing it after me. He grabbed me and gave me a hug, said I looked fabulous (in his best and most camp voice), I squirmed and blushed and excused myself. But that wasn’t the worst of it. When they left, he made a point of kissing me goodbye AND saying that my hair looked exactly like Kate (his wife who was hovering nearby)…..let the ground open up and swallow me whole.

That’s the downside of the local restaurants. The locals. Roll on the weekend. Dave can we please have more touching tales…how about one about Tina? Jonathan…I’m looking forward to seeing that gorgeous shot of me and Anita on your blog. That’ll get em’ flocking.

Smile, and the world smiles with you

I’m feeling exceedingly jolly today. Perhaps this is down to the fact that I watched my favourite programme on TV last night and it was as splendidly backstabbing as ever. Or maybe it’s because we’ve found somewhere to live and apart from a couple of minor things…like not having seen it, it’s practically a done deal. It could be down to the fact that I’m excited because tonight I’m having dinner with a whole load of my favourite Brighton folk, Jonathan, Dan, Dave, Anita and Stev…but you know what’s really sad? The reason why I’m the happiest is work.

The last year I have been waking up on a Monday morning feeling bleak and hopeless and with very little will to get out of bed or to smile. For a period of many weeks, Steve and I used to argue terribly on a Monday morning, and it never really clicked until now why. Because I dreaded getting up and going to work, and there can be no worse feeling in the world. This made me short tempered and tense and ratty and basically a massive bitch. Now I’m sleeping through the night (I sound like a small child) and waking up with a spring in my step. I might be skint as I’ve not been paid for about 7 weeks, but I’m the happiest I’ve been for probably about 3 years.

Lots of happy things seem to happen around you when you’re happy…just like when you’re miserable, you seem to be surrounded by misery. If you get dumped, ‘nothing compares to you’ gets put on loop by every radio station, if you’re feeling guilty, every song is about lying, or being found out, and every story you read is about ‘a tangled web of lies and deceit’ and ‘getting your comeuppance’. The same applies to me. I’m hearing songs like ‘Lovely day’ and ‘Love is in the air’ and ‘Celebrate good times….come on!’ and reading stories about love, and happiness against all odds. My inbox has been flooded with invites to weddings, and receptions and 30th birthday celebrations, and 60th birthday celebrations (my mum). Funny how life follows these patterns much like the seasons…come to think of it…perhaps all this is nothing to do with my work, or my friends, or my boyfriend, or finding a new place. Maybe things are good simply because the sun is shining.

Sorry to be such a nudger….actually, sod it. No I’m not sorry for being happy. I’m happy and proud of it.

The uber pad....almost

It seems the long, and at times, horrendously depressing wait to find somewhere to live might soon be over. Yes, Lindsey sent an email at 12.47pm (not that I was clock watching) to let me and Nat (and Sam) know that the place has real potential.

It’s not a show house, gleaming and gorgeous and perfect, but it is a big, spacious, light and airy Victorian conversion, set over 3 floors, has a roof terrace, has views from said roof terrace of Hampstead Heath, is ten minutes walk from both Hampstead Heath and Camden Lock, a 20 minute bike ride into work for both Lindsey and I, 8 minutes walk from the nearest Northern line stop and if Foxtons had it on their books, it would cost in the region of £500-600 a week (although the landlord would only see £1.97 of that). The beauty of it is, as we’re going to be privately renting it directly from the landlord, we can afford it. Infact, we can afford it and still have pocket money for frequent shopping, partying and eating out. Thank the lord, hallelujah, etc etc.

Of course there’s the minor point that neither Nat nor I have seen it yet, but we’ll both be doing that on Friday and from then on, it should be a done deal. The place is free from mid-late May, so I’ll be doing some of my finest sweet talking and grovelling to the poor people in my life who ensure my presence, or the presence of my possessions.

Soon after we move in we’ll be planning our first house party, and we’ll expect a lovely big Brighton contingent to show up and make the most of the roof terrace and the ignoramus (spell check put that in and it made me laugh….I was trying to say gi-normous) lounge, from which Gavin can pump out tunes whilst we all mingle appreciatively. I’m moving to London. I hope I like it.

To Pa or not to PA?

Last week, Sam, Lindsey and I were sitting on the uber sofa discussing when we might get to see our friend Jess, who is very elusive, and, being in the early loved up stage of her relationship, is spending all her time ‘dating’ aka shagging.

At one point Lindsey asked me whether I could ‘do’ Tuesday night and I looked blankly at her….

The reason behind my blank expression is that all of my social commitments and plans are stored solely on my outlook calendar, which rather pointlessly is on my work PC. This is great when I get emailed at work and asked out, as I can answer conclusively. Outside work I am thrown into social disarray and double and even triple book my time haphazardly. Even worse is when I’m convinced I’ve committed to loads of fun social events so turn people down, only to find my diary is empty. Hurrumph.

At this point I suggested that the solution to all of our problems might be that we club together and hire ourselves a PA (although not a really desirable young one who Steve and Gavin might ogle and fancy and who might reduce Lindsey’s pulling powers which to date have been immense), so basically, we need Ugly Betty. Complete with braces, glasses and pot belly.

This lucky sole could be solely responsible for the allocation of our time, in proportionate measures, to spend with our friends and loved ones. They could deal with all occurrences of re-scheduling due to ill-ness, lateness at work, laziness, dinner table booking and also things such as searching for fab new venues, and generally making sure our social lives went nicely to plan. Never again would I guiltily ponder my forthcoming plans and think, I really must get up North to see my Grandma as it would be scheduled quarterly. Brilliant.

Of course this idea is ridiculous and self indulgent, but on a more serious note why is it that we can organise ourselves seamlessly in the workplace, getting to meetings on time, wearing nice things, booking trips away, opening our mail and sorting our filing and generally keeping on top of things whilst our private lives fall into disarray. Steve is a classic example. He effortlessly manages a reasonably large team, but he can’t manage to open his post every evening.

This gets to the point where a small post mountain forms on the breakfast bar and when feeling particularly callous (during the Portsmouth game yesterday) I dump it in front of him and ‘suggest’ he opens it. If not, I undertake the ‘shall we bin it or keep it’ routine where anything resembling spam gets binned without opening- coloured envelopes, printed addresses, no stamps, pictures on envelopes, mis-spelt names.

A risky business as I’ve binned mortgage statements and final reminder credit card bills in the past. But that’s the risk he takes. Sulk ensues.

Last week I realised how he manages to keep things in check at work…and I should have guessed it. I emailed him asking about which hotel in Paris we are staying in over the bank holiday weekend, and what Eurostar he was travelling on and I received an email from him, copying his PA, asking her to let me know. So for the rest of the day, instead of exchanging emails with my boyfriend, I exchanged them with
his PA who was miles more efficient, friendlier, and had a nicer email manner. Within minutes I had details of the hotel, the Eurostar, maps, phone numbers, helplines and everything I could ever possibly have wanted.

Perhaps I should arrange for a long term substitution….or just switch my ‘new shoes’ piggybank to a ‘PA’ one.

Baking- the rundown.

The cakes are made. Yes two. A variety of cakes, suitable for multiple tastes and taking into account any 'difficult' people with banana intolerances...you know who you are!

Baking with Sam was much like being in a year 7 home economics lesson. I had the same sense of fear and respect being in a situation where I was in effect, totally out of control and hung off her every word...kind of (it was very distracting...music, other traumas going on, fingers to lick).

Lindsey at one point took a break from her 'mixing' and came into the kitchen to comment that I looked like a 5 year old. At the time I had my jeans rolled up, (I'm not sure why). My sleeves rolled up and my hands in a big mixing bowl full of gooey chocolatey mess with Sam standing over me saying things like "Didn't they teach you how to knead at school?", and quoting cookery facts such as "Whilst whipping you are effectively making butter" as if I would be au fait with them. Of course I nodded and smiled and licked my fingers as much as possible when as she wasn't looking.

After much mixing, needing, seiving and cracking, the 3 cake bases were in the oven rising like a dream. Lindsey was licking the choc mix happily from the bowl and I was prodding the cakes with a knife every 30 seconds.

This pattern continued nicely until I got abit bored and engrossed in Graham Norton, and then went for a shower forgetting them totally. Thank god I had Sam there keeping a watchful eye on proceedings.

So out they came, with that nice brown, homemade 'tinge' and sat on some 'cooling' racks. The cooling phase came as a bit of a shock to me as I like to get a job done, wham bam, so hanging around, waiting for them to cool was quite frankly a bit of a bore. Something to do with melting and instability.

Then the icing. Sam demonstrated with an expert flick of the wrist and coated a side of the cake with a thick creamy evenly spread icing and then handed the 'spatula' to me to complete the task under her watchful eye. Unfortunately, being a cack hander, I prodded the cake, dislodged lots of cream which mixed with the dark brown icing and made it look mouldy and messy. That was the end of my icing attempts. THAT never happened in home economics classes, you were left to struggle and then chastised at the end for your pathetic and frankly inedible attempts .

By the end of the evening, and after a few glasses of wine, I felt quite inspired and it's fair to say, got a bit out of my depth, making observations like ' I think the icing should be applied in a swirling motion' and 'Perhaps the spatula ought to be angled as such...'. Lindsey made the point that I ought to shut up when I then asked whether or not the cream cake had to be kept in the fridge. Ok. I get the point. Don't run before you can walk, or criticise before you can bake.

So we all went to bed happy. All except poor Gavin who had come in from work starving to find he'd got no dinner as we'd all been too busy feeding our own faces with pizza, AND, to add insult to injury, the gorgeous scrummy cake smells wafting down the stairs and tantilising his olfactory senses were only that as he wasn't allowed to sample our delights. Ouch.

So, heartfelt thanks to the Gowers and 'the China' for their efforts in 'assisting' me with my cakes. I couldn't have done it without you all. I'll send you a link to the blog posting on my work website when it appears and you can feel all warm and glowy. If they say something awful, I really didn't have that much to do with it. If they say something great, you were very much the sous chefs....ok?! Deal.

Love you guysxx