Ttfn

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

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

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

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

I'll catch up with you all soon,

Over and out for now xxx

Chez Bruce- What's in my tummy

So then- birthday dinner at Chez Bruce last night was great. We sat right next to the cheese board and were treated to pungent cheesy whiffs every time a waiter wafted past....yummy.

This is what I consumed-

Aperitifs

X1 bottle of house champagne (shared of course)

To start

Rare roast beef, and some kind of mushroomy sauce with rocket and parmesan- extremely yummy and tender

For main

Sea bream with scallops, shrimp and teeny tiny gnocchi- very fishy indeedy

Accompanied by ½ bottle of extremely yummy Sancerre

For pudding

Warm chocolate fondant pudding with milk and honeycomb icecream- GOD DAMN!

Night cap

½ bottle of vintage port *feeling queesy now*

Morning

Horrendous hangover. Moderate humiliation as remembered I got home last night very drunk, had to get some fresh air, proceeded to sit in the garden on the funky plastic sofa chair (which must have suffered from torturous weathering and become very brittle) which promptly shattered into thousands of little pieces under the weight of my ginormous bottom. Was left on wet floor in glam silk dress with muddy bottom and dented pride surrounded by shards of white plastic. Thankfully not impaled.

Arrived in work to find massive, huge, wonderful bunch of flowers from amazing friend Dave complete with wildly inappropriate card about flossing my privates. Cheered me right up.

Have to leave work at 1pm to go to 24 club for an afternoon of champagne quaffing with new company for 'bonding' purposes.

May vomit if faced with prospect of more drinking.

Rock and roll.

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

Sir Sugar's Apprentice

I am a self confessed 'naff' TV addict, and despite Sir Alan vehemently denying the Apprentice could ever be classified as 'Reality TV' I would beg to differ. How else would the last series have created it's very own class of 'e' list celebrities, the 'badger' (that matronly scary one) who now has her own TV show, that gobby asian guy who frequents the likes of Nobu and other London celeb haunts and most famously got the winner, Michelle Dewberry, up the duff within a month of her being awarded the holy grail...a 6 figure (yep, count em) salaried job in one of Sir Alan's many business ventures.

Anyway with some fairly serious PR, I'm sure you can't have failed to notice that Sir Alan is back on the prowl in his helecopter circling and swooping and trying to nail an Apprentice for 2007. Why he couldn't just employ a high brow head hunter we'll never know, but I guess then we'd miss out on all that FUN!

Last year, Sir Alan was none too impressed with the calibre of his wannabes, and so this year, he endeavoured to really get his teeth into the selection of the 'finest young business brains in Britain'. And didn't they do well?

I'm sure if you saw the first show last Wednesday you would have delighted alongside me watching the two teams, led by Andy the car salesmen and Jadine the erm, annoying women with a big chip on her shoulder, setting up coffee companies and trying to flog cheap nasty coffee and kelloggs cereal bars to discerning punters in Islington, and other spots around town. It was brilliant TV. I'm no bright spark so watching a quantum physicist fumble her way through basic common sense calculations whilst the rest of the team stood around and nodded was great. They based their ordering calculations not on forecasted demand for coffee, but on the capacity of the machine. So, they calculated the machine that could make 1,000 cups a day would require 200 litres of milk to do so. 200 litres! How very very embarrasing. I haven't even mentioned the fact that they purchased the wrong coffee, that one of team leaders called back their mobile unit from it's most lucrative position only to stand dormant and unused, it was heinous business error after error. Not complicated ones either.

But what's really amazing about this show are the boardroom appearances where Sugar interviews the startled candidates to select someone to fire. This is an unadulterated forum for blame, backstabbing and humiliation to try and save your skin. In life you'll rarely bear witness to people stooping so very low for their own personal gain. In some ways, I admire their absolute dogged perseverance, but in others it's truly terrifying. I'm such a softy when it comes to work, 'ambition' and general 'go gettery'. I have no qualms when people younger than me overtake me at work and it makes me feel queasy just thinking about putting myself in a situation where I'm pitting myself against someone so self-assured.

So grab your cushion...because you will need it for the cringy moments. Even Steve, Steve, Steve of the (corporate) jungle had to hide behind one when porky car salesman met his fate in a most unbecoming manner. Grab some decent wine, tune in on Wednesday and enjoy a damn good heckle.

We all love to pretend we could have done better than all of them, but only from the comfort of our nice, cosy sofas.

Fun- you make me sick.

My boss, soon to be ex-boss, seems to have a crippling disease, an extreme aversion to any type of fun. She is the kind of person who would sit through a seminar all day and then leave at the prospect of mingling and drinking at the bar afterwards. And this isn't down to shyness as the women is a ball breaking uber bitch, basically.

She just can't stand to be in a situation where she might let her guard down, or have to make small talk, or actually laugh, smile and relax.

Today is my leaving 'do' at work. 'Do' as it's just at Abacus, the meatmarket bar in the city, full of smarmy city boys in suits with bags of money, but no souls, and with regular shipments of Essex girls who get dolled up after their shifts in New Look and come into the City to try and snare one of the aforementioned rich-but-lacking-in-soul men. Usually I leave them to it, they are welcome to each other, but today, we're venturing into their world for 'happy hour'.

Perhaps it was the word 'happy' that struck fear into my bosses heart, but she has suddenly been struck down with a terrible case of 'food poisening' which is funny considering

a) She's stick thin, because she doesn't eat after 6pm. That means no dinner, ever.
b) She's a vegan. Tell me, which variety of undercooked vegetable causes such a condition? An undercooked turnip perhaps.

So basically, her aversion to fun has meant she's faking an illness. She said she was 'thinking' of giving us her credit card so we could go out and buy champagne. 'Thinking' not doing. We won't see the credit card, or her.

Now, don't get me wrong. The evening would be terrible if she were to turn up. Why? Because she doesn't get on with anyone and my ex-boss, who was fired before Christmas is turning up. I can only hint at how bad this situation got, but lets just say, the police are involved, as are some mild erm , threats to personal safety. I think it would have been quite funny to see them both scratching each other's hair out and screaming at each other, but i'll settle for necking cocktails, and dancing badly.

I hope I never get to an age where I can't see the point of having fun, laughing and letting my hair down. Last week in Leeds one of the bars we went to (the Living Rooms)was full of people all over 40. We weren't sure if we'd walked into a birthday party by mistake, or whether this was just a gathering of older people who wanted to get out and have fun. Either way, we left feeling uncomfortable, just as we would have done if we'd have walked into a bar full of 16 year olds. Funny that 'comfort' in being out relies not only on your venue, the music, lighting, company of your friends, but also so much on whether or not you class your fellow revellers as 'like' you. But isn't that dull. Does that mean I'm only relaxed when I'm in a bar with lots of outgoing bubbly,middle class late 20's professionals, with a penchant for cheesy music, and expensive tastes. And when I describe that, I conjour up images of really awful people. Strange.

Last night I had the most revolting dream ever. I dreamt that Steve and I were eating raw chicken breasts coated in some kind of hallucinogenic drug...he munched his down and said it was tasty but I remember chewing on the rubbery flesh and woke up feeling quite sick.

In other news, I've packed my bags with the following essential items for holiday:

1) Bikinis- x6
2) fins, mask, logbook and diving computer x 1 each
3) Flipflops- x2 one gold, one silver.
4) Summery dress- x3
5) Linen trousers- x 1
6) Vest tops- x 6
7) T-shirts x 1
8) Long sleeve top- x1
9) Bras and knickers x10 (don't know why as never wear either on sunny hols)
10)Books, sunglasses, cosmetics, sun cream and other products.

Pretty good capsule packing that ey?! Steve on the other hand packed the following:

1) Socks. SOCKS. x 5 pairs.
2) Long sleeved t-shirts- x3
3) Jumpers- x 2
4) T-shirts by Diesel- x 15
5) Shorts/boardies- x10
6) Pants x 10.
7) Flip flops.

31 degrees and sunny every day and the boy packs socks. He's not taking trainers so I'm scared he might wear them with the flip flops. Thank goodness the yanks are there, and are bound to be dressed much more distastefully than us.