The sea of roses

It's valentines day, incase you hadn't noticed.

And for anyone with a flower allergy in my office, today is not going to be much fun.

I've just been down to our reception to attend a meeting and behind the desk were no less than 12 bouquets of roses, sent by dutiful boyfriends, husbands, f**k buddies, and ready to be collected by women who pretend to be touched, but actually felt it was their god given right to receive a bunch of over priced half dead roses.

I stalked upstairs houghtily, feeling slightly peturbed but not letting on...and then, the phone rang.

"There's something in reception for you Ali"

So of course I ran down the stairs beaming and was thrilled to see my very own bunch of roses, much more gorgeous than the rest and from my very own valentine. When I phoned to say thank you he told me, he thought it was the done thing. And I guess that sums up this silly day, we all think it's a load of crap, but equally are all touched when we get something, no matter how big or small from someone we love. I'm plumping for small though as my home made card now looks a little bit pathetic.

What a funny old day!

Today has been a random assortment of bizarre occurances. Didn't I say yesterday that strange and possibly bad things might happen?

Firstly, we received an email at work telling us that outside the front door of our office there was a 'suspicious package', but just to move to the back of the building where presumably, we'd be much safer. We then received an e-mail an hour later to tell us it was all ok. Of course we'd stayed at our desks the whole time and no doubt would have been asked to make up the overtime if we'd actually moved away for our safety. Electronic tagging is par for the course in most firms.

Secondly, we were sent an email reassuring us that a low-flying aircraft...and I mean seriously low, top of building skimming, was not a terrorist threat (silly us!), but infact a non-registered diplomatic flight, presumably carrying some Japanese Government representatives on a 'white knuckle' flight around the City.

Thirdly, I went for lunch with a small doormouse. I was sitting happily eating my lunch chatting about high level business strategy and valentines day and he ran along the side of my table and sat and looked at me with his small whiskery whiffely whiskers and cute little eyes. My initial reaction was 'ahhhhh' look at the itty bitty, teeny weeny mouse. Then I realised, the little blighter had probably curled one out in my burger. We left. And there was no screaming or standing on tables.

And that's my day so far and it's only 4pm. The rest of the day could well hold many more special fun times. I'm going to a sleepover girly style tonight, complete with muchos wine and thai curry. I'm sleeping in the top bunk bed. Baggsied it earlier! Nothing like a sleepover to regress to childhood.

And no, Jonathan. There will be no pictures....especially after the notorious Sophie Ellis blog of late.

There may be trouble ahead

Is it just me or can I sense turbulant and difficult times ahead over the next few months? I feel like the rather earthy Gabriel Oak in 'Far From The Madding Crowd', sniffing the air, or examining the slugs, snails and birds and somehow deducing trouble ahead.

There seems to be some wizardly-jiggery-pokery in the air at the moment, and things are taking unexpected shape in my life and the lives of my friends. Things which have been so good, have turned out bad, and vice versa.

One of my closest girl friends has just experienced possibly the most gutless breakup from her boyfriend known to mankind and it has made me want to break out the sage sticks and exorcise her of ever having had anything to do with the useless fuckwit. On the flipside, trouble herself landed from South Africa, bright eyed and bushy tailed and fresh from 4 months in rehabilitation. And what a transformation. Yesterday we spent the day together and she smiled, and she sang and she laughed and she bought us presents (that's a whole other blog....are snake skin wallets pc? aren't they made from the dead dropped off skin, or is that the transparent stuff? am I going to be mobbed by animal rights activists every time I pay for a round in Brighton?) ...and there was no vodka, not within even sniffing distance.

I felt guilty for having felt like there was no hope, and now things seem to be looking up for her. Long may it last.

And then I have friends moving house left, right and centre, moving jobs, moving relationships, moving and changing, and at the moment I just want to shout to everyone please STOP. I can't keep up!

I had one of my freaky deja vu moments on Friday night, although it may have been questionable as I had drunk a bottle of Champagne. Steve and I were sitting in some restaurant in Clapham common and all of a sudden I knew exactly what was going to happen next, and I watched it happen and I heard myself say the things I had said, and Steve reply word-for-word. Or perhaps I was just really drunk. I was sick later on- after a 'flat liner' shot....never try one. Tabasco was not meant as a recreational aid.

Very rambly today, but it's Monday and I'm warming up!

Mode, median, mean

Last night Channel 4 televised the first in a series of documentaries, following Britains most gifted children. For anyone who watched this, I'm sure you'll agree it was deeply disturbing for a whole host of reasons, most of which I won't be able to scratch the surface of.

These children were seriously bright, the youngest was 3 and already a member of Mensa. 4 of the 10 children had IQ's of 170, AKA the highest IQ possible in the test they sat. They are already in the top 0.01% of the population. Despite their obvious and often jaw dropping abilities, these children were little pseudo adults with little or no ability to interact with children of their own age at all. They were all painfully aware of the burden of their 'gift' citing the continous pressure to 'amaze' 'shine' come first and stand out from the crowd. And in doing so, they had all lost friends and become social outcasts from their peers. One of the children was seriously exhibiting signs of terrible depression. But the most terrifying element of this programme? The parents.

In most of the parents, one pushy, dominant figure dictated long hours of study, practice, home schooling, recital of equations, poems, you name it. And they did this without trace of emotion, one mother saying it was her duty to ensure her children became nuclear scientists, surgeons, because that was their destiny and nothing else would do. Her children spoke like cyborgs, with no expressions on their faces. The youngest, 4, sat and drew maps of the British Isles, laboriously labelling coastal towns...why? To alleviate boredom.

Anita and I of course, discussed. I think it was fair to say that what we want from our kids when they eventually come along, is that they are 'average'. And perhaps that's a terrible admission, but is it? I want my 3 year old to be putting paint pots on his/her head and head butting the walls, I want crayola all over the walls, and I want to be in a position to teach my child, not vice versa. I don't want to parent a child who when they reach their teens, want to discuss history/politics/gastronomy. I want a teen who hides in their room, grunts and doesn't want to communicate for a few years.

And as I lay in bed last night thinking about all of this, it occured to me that extremes of any kind tend to have a negative impact, even the good ones. Think of any. Too generous (taken for granted), too kind (ditto), too clever (make people feel thick), too beautiful (must be stupid or a bitch), too short (get trodden on), too tall (freak show), too common (thick), too posh (stuck up), too sensitive (wet), too emotional (pathetic), too successful (makes us jealous). So should we all just aim for the middle ground, and if so, isn't that a sad thing?

How not to run a restaurant.

Forget Egon Ronay, this is the essential 'ali p' guide of how not to run a restaurant, inspired by a trip to 'The Little Buddha' the poor, unloved, second cousin of the prosperous and always packed to the rafters 'Red Snapper' at the 7dials.

I always looked in on the Little Buddha with pity when I ambled by, wondering why it was that they always appeared to be scantily populated whilst just 5 doors down, the concept of 'bring-your-own-booze-and-thai-food' was sustaining a roaring trade.

Don't get me wrong. The Snapper is hardly michelin star material, and often you have cold plates, the wrong food served at random times so that one of you might be on dessert whilst the others are waiting for starters....but it's cosy, welcoming, friendly, the food is good and great value, and it's a home from home.

The Buddha on the other hand is like a dysfunctional family member who everyone pretends they don't know.

We arrived and sat at any old table (there were plenty free) and it was at least ten-fifteen minutes before the sole member of staff noticed someone had walked in the restaurant. When he did see us, he looked shocked and rather fed up at the prospect of any waitering.

The 'waiter' (who was probably the cook aswell) took our orders then proceeded to stand looking miserable with his arms crossed the whole evening, probably because it was so cold in there. We ate, it was ok, and then we asked to see the dessert menu and for some coffees etc. There was a 10 minute gap and we were given the bill. After asking again for the menu, we were met with, 'No, we're closing'. No polite, 'I'm afraid we can't offer you dessert'. Just the bill.

To add insult to injury, the place doesn't take credit cards or infact plastic of any kind. I haven't carried cash since March 1992, so this was rather shocking to say the least. I had to peg it to the nearest cash-point. We were then practically evicted from the premises when the clock struck 11.30pm.

No wonder the place is always empty. I have no pity, they should take their lead from their neighbours, the fat cat Red Snapper. Cheap and cheerful, should be just that.

(I've got PMT)

Let it snow!

So tomorrow they say it's going to snow. Lots. And in the Downs, that means there'll be a lovely big thick blanket of it, and probably no trains between London and Brighton in the morning. So a double reason to celebrate...

I'm feeling springy and bouncy today, despite being woken up in the early hours by Steve who had a car collecting him to take him to Frankfurt, "the most dull city in the world" (not an excerpt from the tourist board, although it might as well have been). He was being flown there to go for lunch and then dinner. That's it. No meetings. Just food and drink. Tsk tsk.

This morning my hotmail was adorned by a lovely e-mail from Anita called 'classes' where she has outlined a whole host of classes which we might do in an attempt to be less sedentary/lazy. These include kick boxing (terrifying), circuits (shudder), aquarobics (now we're talking), Jazz Stage Dance (I beg your pardon?) etc etc. Of course we have both decided that the 'drop-in' option is the only way to go, as we don't have to commit money to a series of classes when we both know we'll make a brilliant excuse every week without fail.

Bearing this in mind, I feel I can be quite positive about all these suggestions...circuits...bring it on!

In other news, I'm frequenting my favourite drop-in-low-cost-bring-your-own Thai tonight with Dan and Morgan to speak about boys things, and no doubt, girls bits. I think the kick boxing was on a Wednesday, but I'm in no position to attend that, what with my erm, blisters.

Much safer eating fish cakes.

Tescosterone

I forget to tell you all yesterday about Tesco-gate which occured on Sunday afternoon, during a very dull, humdrum, and uneventful shopping trip.

S and I were at the checkout, loading our 'wares' onto the little conveyor belt, when I heard an almighty slamming noise and looked behind me to see Steve had slammed down the 'shopping divider thingy' (technical term) between our shopping and the shopper behind and was giving the shopper behind some seriously filthy looks.

Apparently what had happened was that very rude shopper 'b' had demanded that S put the divider inbetween our shopping in an aggressive manner, so S had just reacted in exactly the same way....aggressively. So then they started squaring up to each other, saying things like (in a South London accent, if you will) 'if you're gonna maff off, then do it to my face you f**king stupid w**ker' blah blah. I felt like an audience member of Springer/Lake, or even 'Vanessa'.

Having not heard shopper b being rude to S, I thought S's behaviour was bizarre, terrible, and was humiliated infront of this big Q of shoppers (c,d,e and others). They were tutting at us like we were pikeys and I was casting my eyes to heaven in Steve's direction as if to disown myself.

Later on after we'd left Tesco's without any black eyes, I was accused of humiliating S by 'not being on his side'. And he said 'surely if I reacted like that, you must have realised something had been done to warrant such a reaction?'. Well, erm, I'm not sure. Does aggression need to be met with more aggression? Can I say the word aggression any more in one blog?

Could the situation have been diffused and less awful for all if S had just 'risen above it'. But maybe he was right I ought to have taken a default stance of being on his side and assuming he must have been 'wronged' to react...I would have expected this from him if the situation was reversed

Testosterone ladies and gentlemen. Please raise your glasses.

On a happier note, last night I made cards with Laura and Jacqui, the gorgeous Compton Ave ladies and it was pure bliss. Really good therapy. And so I'm discovering the best type of therapy for me is writing and making. Cards in particular. With glitter. It's good for the soul.