The inbetween bit

Hello fellow blogees.

I'm back in the wonderful e-world, and not the surreal one the Shamen sung about. It's so nice to be back in potential contact with everyone, and to be out and about with real people. I spent such a long time being ill and disgusting in my basement pit I had forgotten how to socialise or feel normal. I'm not quite there yet, but I think I've made some progress!

So then, xmas has been and gone. To be fair, it was peaceful and uneventful, which is as much as I could ever ask for. I got the best presents yet, including a fancy new ipod (dan/jonathan- need help buying a laptop and doing the whole ipod thing)a wicked 'vanity' bag, which now holds the biggest collection of makeup known to mankind, loads of new matching underwear (although never got the hang of that, some great books from my dad and a DKNY scarf (rock on dad!) and the new Take That CD....sorry everyone (have a little patience).

Saw my gran who continue to amaze me with her ability to shrink year on year...she is now 4ft 7. Amazing. So all in all, the usual Christmas stuff.

I've arrived back at work to find I'm boss-less, which makes for an easy transition back into things...ahem!

Right then.

I suppose I'd better take a quick lok at the 247 e-mails I have to deal with.

As of tomorrow we'll be back to tackling issues that are dear to my heart, this time, why my gorgeous friend in Leamington can't find a girl worthy for him and what I intend to do about it.

So long, farewell...and a very happy xmas!

So I guess for the workers amongst us, today must be the last morning in the office. I hope that all my chums have kindly employers who find it within their hearts to let you all go by 1pm at the very latest...it's only fair. If not simply down tools at 1.30pm, make it patently obvious that you have no intention of working, disrupt everyone around you and sing a few carols, they'll soon change their minds.

I am starting to feel better, the miracles of anti-biotics...whoever said they are overused and ineffective? Codswallop. This is perfect timing as this afternoon I'm meeting my bestest friend in the world who is flying in from Oompa lumper where she teaches English and plays rugger! :) All 5 of my closest school friends are dragging their other halves over for a night of fun and frolics in Angel (very apt for this time of year!).

And so the real xmas fun begins....after all this being cooped up I fear that I might go bonkers with all the company...werhey!

I hope you all have an incredibly merry and happy christmas, that our families all give us a break and don't do anything ridiculous for a change and that we can all drink at least one full bottle of Champagne whilst opening our pressies. It makes them sooo much better.

A very fond farewell xxx

Issues anyone?

Ok, so I might as well just get used to it. I'm going to be sitting here in the Basement Flat in Brighton until Steve comes to my rescue in the little mini cooper and whisks me away to Clapham South manors.

So whilst I'm here, I might as well do something worthwhile with my time. But what? Cleaning? No, I've exhausted that. Reading? I am well and truly frobscottled and goldenfizwizard'ed out after reading the BFG last night. Listening to the radio? Terry Wogan only makes me depressed.

So.. Vic and I were talking on the e-mail the other day and we decided that it would be a good idea if we all attempted to tackle each other's problems via the medium of blog, an 'ask ali' page if you like.

Whilst I'm not and will never promise to deliver accurate and sound advice, I can certainly tell you exactly how I feel about things. Plus I have the excellent sounding board of Anita at my disposal, who is always my first port of call for all my relationship issues. Steve calls her either 'public enemy number one' or 'what is she the f**king oracle?' closely followed by, 'do you listen to everything she tells you'. And the answer is yes. She is my chosen one when it comes to matters of the heart and everyone should have a someone like Anita. For pragmatic, no nonsense advice which often you don't want to hear.

Now I happen to know for a fact that as a group of friends, we are most definately a permanent supply of issues, worries and pickles. So how about it? Come on, someone volunteer a pickle, anonymously if you wish, and we'll see what we can do!

By the way, is it true that Dustin has a Girls Aloud CD in his collection? Shocking.

Yawn

The illness is reaching fully fledged tedium now.

After a visit to the Doctor this morning it appears I have a chronic chest infection and have been given drugs and so am doomed to even more time sitting in my dressing gown, coughing and feeling like I have a tennis ball lodged in my throat.

And I'm missing my third xmas bash on the trot tonight as a result, AND it was one I really fancied going to.

For any of you who are addicted to Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares, last night he re-visited moma cheries 'soul food' restaurant/shack. Since the first visit and the rapid rise to fame, moma cherie appeared to have lost sight of the all important fresh cooking and soul food and had instead favoured mass production of part-cooked chicken drummers, limp salad and rotten looking frozen deserts.

After a quick bit of ramseyification, all was looking rosy again, and the loveable chef, Brian, appeared to be taking the reins effectively. And this, was my dinner date for this evening.

My mouth was watering at the prospect of jambalayas, salt fish fritters and chicken wings but instead I'm going to be eating chicken broth. Basically Im' f**king miserable and everyone around me seems to be suffering with similar miseries...

With only 5 days to go til Christmas can things turn full circle and become joyous? One things for sure, there ain't no way on god's earth I'm abiding by the 'no alcohol' rule on xmas eve, xmas day or boxing day for that matter. One glass of champers and I'll be so battered I'll forget all my woes!

Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to my good friend, Amoxycillin.

Middle Class Guilt

Okay, so the she-flu has not yet subsided and so I'm holed up in Steve's cosy flat in Clapham South. It's not that torturous as I've got freeview, and all the films I could possibly want, plus a 15 tog feather duvet...so why am I sitting in a pikey internet cafe opposite Clapham South tube station?

It's simple.

She's 24, she's Polish, she wears 3/4 length leggings and flip flops, and she's terrifying.

She is Steve's cleaner. She has an uncanny knack of short circuiting the electrics everytime she comes over and so can never use the hoover, or the iron, or anything which might aide cleaning. Steve and I often joke that she just gets all her mates over, and they sit and smoke and curse us both...but she still comes nevertheless!

So there I am quite happy languishing in my sea of snotty tissues and surrounded by various sinus-related products and I hear the jingle jangle of keys. Given that Steve isn't normally back from work til about 9ish, I was slightly alarmed. And then in she walked and I was even more alarmed.

Being a girl I am then faced with an entire truck load of guilt and issues. First and foremost I feel she is looking at me thinking, "this is the squallor of your sodding boyfriend, you lazy b*tch, why can't you get up off your sorry ar*e and do his cleaning".

So I leapt off the sofa and into action. It was ludicrous, we were pitching our cleaning skills one on one in a fight to the bitter end (and those of you who know me know that when I want to, I can CLEAN).

There was dust flying everywhere, 'Cif' being squirted quite unnecessarily, sweeping, wiping, and general hubub. Frankly I feel she got the upper hand, and I attribute that to her ability to lunge neatly because of all that lycra in those leggings.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I gave up after an hour- I felt I was treading on her toes. I wrote a very short list of things I knew needed doing and asked her sweetly in my best ill voice. She's a feisty so and so is Alena, and she fixed me with her cold blue eyes when I began reading, and tutted and 'tsk'ed more loudly with every job.

My parting shot in a pathetic attempt to make myself feel better as I snuck out was asking her if she wanted anything from the supermarket? Turns out she did. Toilet cleaner. Bathroom cleaner and Kitchen cleaner.

The 12 steps (less 8)

I am ill.

Well, to be slightly more to the point, I have she-flu (like bitch tits but not as funny).

It all started with an ominous sore throat and has gone downhill from there. As a result I've missed out on many an Xmas frollic and party and am feeling quite like a leper. It's all this time on my own you understand.

I have gone through the classic stages:

Denial

'No, this can't be happening to me, I've got so much to do, perhaps a small crisp has been lodged in my throat and I am in fact 100% fighting fit and healthy'

Anger

'It's this poxy f**king commuting that's done it. Being surrounded by stupid, greying middle aged men with substandard immune systems, sneezling, sniffling and coughing in my direction....w**kers, the lot of them.

Grief

This happened on Friday when I accused my boyfriend of not caring that I was practically on my death bed (hence the she-flu) and proceeded to cry unabashedly for 30 minutes (and I threw in some whinging and whining for good measure). 3 hours later flowers appeared proving that said boyfriend did care. Or that he had indeed put my crying on hold, speed dialled interflora and asked for 'the usual' (i jest, flowers were gorgeous).

Boredom.

This is happening today. I am sooooo bored it's untrue. I could embark on some present wrapping but it's too much like hard work. I could write some Christmas cards, but I have lost the ability to write. I could go and meet Dan for lunch? OR I could lie on the sofa and watch 'allo 'allo re-runs.

Despite my near death experience over the weekend, you'll all be pleased to know that I managed with the help of my dear friend ibuprofen, to take in the arsenal vs portsmouth game on saturday, at the Emirates (platinum hospitality though so no mingling with the 'turnstyle' people) and also spend a small fortune in Selfridges
on Sunday,completing my shopping for the festive season.

The highlight though, amidst all of the snot, and tissues and hacking, was the premiere of Jonathan Shipley and Dave Miller's new film, 'Flash Gordon'. A bittersweet portrayal of our bumbling and very loveable friend Sam. And what did Sam do to ensure his street cred was in tact?

Pick up a small, plastic replica guitar, and 'rock out' to a game aimed at 5-9 year olds.

Sam. We salute you.

Gulliver's place

For the first time in my fairly hefty life, I feel like a lilliputian.

Although I am at best described as 'average' at worst described as 'short', at the moment myself and my wonderful landlady/buddy are feeling bijou, teeny weeny and diddy, all at once.

Why? Said landlady's gulliverish boyfriend has moved in, and brought with him lots of giant sized man-things. These include a plate which is the size of a small planet and a towel which could wrap up an entire class of small children after a swimming lesson. All of our feminine ways have been thrown into disarray. Last night for example, we attempted our first meal as a threesome. It was a lovely meal of mamma's special sauce and brown rice. Very worthy, very yummy, and very vegetarian.

The boyfriend, who we will refer to as SW, could not hide his disgust at us tucking into this meal which was sadly lacking in animal flesh. In addition, he was not amused by our love of programmes such as 'ten years younger' and presumably will not be too chuffed when he realises the extent of our reality TV addiction.

Disgruntled, SW made his way into his bedroom where he proceeded to set up his miscellaneous games console and played a game which had gratuitous shooting, swearing, pimps, hookers and crime.

Are men and women designed to live together? Perhaps having flats above one another joined by a firemans pole for rare occasions when interaction is strictly necessary is the way forward?

By the way, did I mention how wonderful my friend Anita is? She's the master of random dinners and clean glass shelves. Long may she prosper.