Am itching to sew. Want to make bags, cute trapeze-line summer tops, cushion covers, laptop bags, lampshades. Is there a crafty circle in London? If not, can we start one? We could meet every two weeks and plan things, exchange patterns, share tips over tea and cakes. If you are already part of a London crafty circle, can I join? Please please please! Email me at ijasiewicz at Hotmail. I’m cunningly not writing the address out, so that my email doesn’t end up receiving every piece of spam in cyberspace. If you’re thinking of sending me special offers for penis enlargements and missives detailing HOW TO LOSE DEBT NOW!!!!!!! don’t bother, cos all that jizz goes in my junk mail and I never ever even click on it.

My perfect weekday

I would get up at 9am (don’t want to sleep the day away!), have eggs for breakfast, or go to the Buddhist centre on my road for breakfast. Walk to Walworth Road and visit the many charity shops on in search of 60s fabric and vintage scarves. This part of town is, let’s face it, depressing as hell, so after an hour or so I’d hop on a number 12 bus and head to where the grass is green and the houses are white stucco: west London. I’d get off at the park (oh, what’s it called?! The one opposite Lancaster Gate tube.) I’d read my book on a bench and maybe get a snack. (Digression: I once took Steve to this park for a special surprise treat. We got hot dogs at the little wooden stand in the park, but they weren’t called ‘hot dogs’ they were called ‘physical energy’. I swear this was not a trippy dream: we had to order two physical energy (energies?).) Then I would walk around. And if this is a perfect day maybe I can have a special power, like the power of invisibility. I would use this power to go in to Urban Outfitters and help myself to all the cute clothing and housewares I like but £50 for a fucking vest top?! Do I look like a mug?. Then I would take buses (Routemasters only, mind) all the way home. Steve would come over; we’d go for a nice cheap dinner and walk by the river. And, for the second time in my life, I’d play the lottery, only this time I’d win the jackpot.

Real weekday

Oversleep. Shower. Coffee. Bus. Work. Lunch. Work. Email. Work. Work. Work. Leave. Smile. Steve. Drink. Eat. TV. Bed.

Working tax credits

What a fucking con. I saw the full-page ad in the Evening Standard, saying that if you are over 25 and work over 30 hours a week you may be eligible for tax credits. Could it be true? Could the government be offering money for nothing? Cheques for free? And all you have to do is apply! So I filled in the forms on the website, and on the last page read ‘You are eligible for tax credit: £0.00.’ Well thanks for that. So I called the number and spoke to a bored-sounding guy, probably used to a hundred pikeys like me calling and begging for money every day.

‘You can only apply if you earn under £11,000 a year.’
‘What, if you work 30 hours a week and earn eleven grand?’
‘Yes.’

Well I think that if I earned £11,000 a year my first priority would be to find a job that paid me a living wage.

Paranoid

My beloved polka dot mug has vanished. I keep it at work, and try to always remember not to leave it on my desk at the end of the day, as it will go in the dishwasher and subsequently the communal kitchen cupboard, and I will never see it again. This is what happened yesterday. And, sho nuff, this morning when I looked in the cupboard, the mug was not there. So I ran around my floor staring at everyone’s mugs, but I couldn’t see it anywhere. The mug was a Christmas present from my friend Nicola, and is pink with big black polka dots on it. We picked it out together. I am bereft. And now I am thinking that in three weeks’ time, when my pain has subsided, I will come in to work one day and find a Polaroid on my desk. It will be a picture of the mug . . . in front of the Kremlin. A month later, the mug on the Great Wall of China (by a signpost or something, so I can tell it’s China). I will be sent these anonymous snaps of my mug having ‘fun’ all over the globe, and I will wait for it to come home to me.

Crafty

I have moths in my bedroom. There, I admitted it. Often, when I open my wardrobe, a little pale yellow moth will flutter up from some one-of-a-kind vintage gem it’s clearly been chomping on. This makes me very very cross, and rather than spend tons of cash buying smelly, ineffective cedar balls or green plastic hanging things, I am harnessing the power of nature and tackling the problem cheaply. My mum told me that moths hate lavender and cloves, so today I went to Neal’s Yard Remedies and bought a bag of each. All I will do is mix them together and hang in little muslin bags (or, in my case, little netting bags lined with toilet paper – one ply, thank you – as I don’t have any muslin and can’t think where to get some quickly). Then the moths will sling their (nasty, powdery) hook, and my boudoir will smell sweeter than a granny’s knicker drawer.

Also: Rough Trade Covent Garden employ some right wankers, let me tell you. Yes, I’m talking about Muso Boy who chastised me for leaving a year to come and collect money for my fanzines: ‘We might not have sold them. We could have thrown them away. Well, I’ll give you the money this time.’ Oh thank you so much.

Things decorating page-proofs I got back today from a proof-reader

Other than blue pen, red pen, and pencil marks (all acceptable and expected), certain pages were decorated with:

Giant tea ring from a dripping mug
A short, straight hair
Bright red spots. Blood? Hot sauce?
Yellowy-brown smears that are certainly either blood or chocolate

What the hell? Is it too much to ask that if we’re paying you to read something you can refrain from using it as a napkin/coaster?

It was snowing earlier. This worried me, as I was wondering what would happen to the daffodils, bluebells and blossom-covered trees on my street. The warm snap a few weeks ago, which saw me walking to work in a T-shirt and unlined jacket, fooled the plants into thinking it was time to bloom, and now they’ll be confused.

Book publishing clichés I am sick of

1) Novels with the words snow, water or cold in the title. Need more fiction with the words eggs, pointy, bacon and hair in the title.
2) Covers with nothing but a dumb photo of shoes/feet on them. What is this supposed to convey, anyway? Yearning? A shy, fragile innocence? The only effect it has on me is ‘Neeeext!’
3) Covers (chick lit is guilty) with the title in doodly writing, like how you supposedly embellished diary entries when you were thirteen.
4) Naked/scantily clad women on covers. This means you, Michael Houellebecq! Never read one of your books, never wanted to. The Barbie put me off.
5) Any cover with an image of snow/rocks/water/a frozen landscape on it. Stop this dull madness!

I may have posted this weird nugget of happiness before, but it never fails to tickle me to think of it. I like the thought of animals working in an office and signing important documents with an inky paw-print. That’s it; that’s what makes me happy. So if I am sad I need only look at this site to make me chuckle heartily. My faves are the Guinea Pigs’ Cricket Match and the Kittens’ Tea and Croquet Party. Scroll down for the very moving Kittens’ Wedding. Never fails to bring a tear* to my eye.



*of laughter!

Fine blogs I am checking regularly

Kyle’s writing on My Siren Voice

this Diary of a London Call Girlmakes me blush

Less is not morechez Pam Savage

Now I know where it goes

A distressing realisation was made over the weekend. In the past month I seem to have acquired over £200 worth of new clothing. How did this happen?! I never spend more than £50 on any one thing, and the £200+ did buy me 11 items (just call me Stingy McThrifterton), and now I know where all my money goes and why I am usually broke a week before payday. Jesus. Whenever I do that whole ‘write down everything you spend’ it’s something like: mortgage, £300; service charge, £146; travel, roughly £80; clothes, £100, max. Obviously not! So I have asked Steve to monitor my spending and stop me, using force is necessary, from buying more shoes/tops/summer dresses.

Clothing bought in February

Black suede TopShop boots
Navy and white striped TS bag
Brown flat 30s TS shoes
Pale yellow pointy t-bar TS shoes
Grey 80s 2nd hand boots
Red strapless cotton TS sundress
Grey Dorothy Perkins cowl neck sweatshirt
Red sparkly Pringle jumper
White and yellow lemon-print H&M top (‘Lemons are the new cherries.’ – Jodie)
Purple Zara handbag
Cherry blossom print Zara silk skirt

So the plan for March is this.

1) Allocate clothing/shoe/bag money, maximum of £50. There’s no point trying to go cold turkey and buy absolutely nothing, cos I would go mad/die and end up buying a £150 monstrosity which I would never wear.
2) Leave all cards at home, and only carry cash. If I am at work all day and going home after, there’s no way I’d possibly need more that £5 to cover even the most urgent of snack attacks/post-work drinking emergencies.
3) The most radical solution, suggested by a colleague: visit the cashpoint only once a week. Withdraw money needed for week (£100?) and if that runs out, you can’t get any more. I think this is the only thing that’ll work for me, so as of March, I will be trying it.

On Friday morning my houseguests Jodie and Tim left. It was great having them stay: they were the perfect guests, which for me means that they didn’t require round-the-clock babysitting, and they didn’t take offence if some nights I was too tired to go out. However, I went out more while they were here than in the entire previous month!

Saturday I went to see my friend D and her baby son. I’ve known D since we were born – our mothers got talking in the hospital – and I see her childhood self strongly in Maks’s face. He looks just like she and her younger brother looked when they were babies. Very cute, pale skin, dark hair, worried expression. Aaaaaaw! We got coffee and then went to TK Maxx. I never get to shop here, but managed not to go crazy nuts and only bought a red sparkly Pringle sweater, reduced from £105 to £16. D bought her husband some designer odds and ends and must’ve asked me ‘Is this really Ted Baker? Are you sure this is Nicole Farhi?’ twenty times.

Did anyone else read that piece in ES magazine? It made me gag; it made me see red. It was all about the Nouveaux Pauvres, rich people whose ancestors had country piles and titles until they blew it all on gin and pontoon. Or something. So now these NP, in their 30s and with children called Inigo and Araminta, are slumming it by living in London’s poorest boroughs. Oh, they can afford Chelsea, Notting Hill and Clapham, but you get more bedrooms for your buck in Peckham, Brixton and Clapton.

This article made steam come out of my ears for several reasons: firstly, there are millions of people in London who are working class/lower middle class, and therefore can only afford to live in the ‘poorer’ parts of town. (By my definition, poorer parts are where you can buy a one-bedroom flat for under £145,000. There aren’t many.) They live in these areas out of necessity, not as a lifestyle choice. Secondly, if you really want to prove how urban/tough/pioneering you are, by all means live on Murder Mile (as the article’s writer claims to), but for fuck’s sake don’t brag about it like it’s cool and you should be commended on your daring and cutting-edgeness. I find it so insulting to think of all these Notting Hillbillies sitting around at a dinner party, listening to Joss Stone, talking about how ‘brave’ India and Hugh are to live in a slum like Hackney.

Before I forget, I must write down two great events of the past 24 hours.

1: a chocolate machine on the southbound Northern Line platform at Tottenham Court Road is dishing out 2 bars of chocolate for the price of 1. Tell your friends! It happened to me, so Steve tried it and got two as well.

2: as usual, I got the 159 to work. Reader, today it was one of the legendary, rarely seen but often dreamed of (by me) gold 159s. I felt like a queen as tourists snapped our picture and the sea of traffic parted for us to sail through.

People I am recreationally hating today

An editor on my floor, who sneered at me (audibly!) as she walked past my desk and saw me looking in the mirror of my powder compact. Oh the vanity of youth! (relatively speaking – she’s about 74). In actual fact I had just jabbed myself in the eye and was checking for damage. I was so outraged by the eye-rolling, raised-brow sneer that I immediately emailed Steve to let him share the moment. He replied with the following:

Dude, don't mention that harridan's name to me. She was presumably bitter because no amount of make-up could conceal that fact that she looks like a pickled walnut. Or, actually, a Neanderthal woman. Take a good look at her - she looks like she should be on a Channel 4 documentary whacking rocks together.

I love that boy.

Other people I hate: all the trendy fin-haired, anorak-wearing, stilettoed identikit trendy monkeys who work in an Ad agency on the 1st floor of my building, yet take the lift. (This is all of them, by the way.) If you’re taking the lift for one floor, your legs had better be broken, or I’ll break them. The most galling thing is that these people know they drive everyone on the other 13 floors nuts, and they don’t care. Cos they have a right to use the elevator if they want to. Well, newsflash, Tarquin and Tamara: no you fucking well don’t.

I haven’t posted in ages, and I know how much I hate checking people’s blogs and finding there’s nothing new, so I’m just going to fire off some boring filler. Read on!

Wearing: knee socks under jeans. Mmmm, toasty.
Doing: sitting at desk trying to rotate neck so that my headache (now in its third day) will end. Have been seeking relief in co-codamol pills, but I’d rather the problem go away than I just cover it up with drugs. Wow, that sounded really profound. In truth I like to cover all my problems with a layer of booze, and then they do seem to just disappear . . .
Eating: all the time, thanks. White choc chip and ginger cookies I baked last night, and a cheese & prawn cocktail crisp sandwich.

So last night Jodie and Tim, my Denver houseguests, cooked dinner. Tim called me at work asking where the top part of my blender (i.e. the bit that means food doesn’t fly everywhere when you switch it on) was. Unaware that I even owned a blender, I confessed I had no idea, and that I thought the blender came with the flat and was therefore untrustworthy. The dinner was delicious despite the fact that my kitchen utensils amount to a saucepan, a baking tray, a frying pan, a corkscrew and penis cake moulds of varying sizes (looong story). After dinner J, T and my sister went drinking with Ani in Old Street, and me and Steve settled down on the couch for some snuggling and shouting at the rich people on Relocation Relocation. It’s impossible to feel sympathy for a couple selling their flat to buy a cottage in Cornwall and a farmhouse in Italy, even though they’re finding it hard to stay within their budget, and oh that amazing view of mountains and an olive grove is entirely spoilt by a fence-post that was built after 1940 and therefore looks too modern to fit with their fantasy of living in an unspoilt, lazy Italian idyll.

Last night was my company’s big Author Party. All our authors were invited, and editors. As I am only a lowly assistant editor, I didn’t get to hobnob, drink champagne and look at the Cecil Beaton photographs, which filled the venue. I didn’t feel I’d missed out at all, until Chris, who wasn’t even going to attend, emailed me this morning with tales of drunken fun. Bastards.

Evil weekend dream:

Me and my sister sitting chatting in a hospital waiting room. A frail old woman totters over and asks me if my blood type is o-negative. I somehow know what she’s going to ask, so have my answer prepared. I say “no, sorry”, even though it is. My reasoning in the dream is that I don’t like being stuck with needles, and that my blood is mine alone.

This just in: London councils are run by Satan!

Got home Saturday and had a letter from evil, evil Tower Hamlets council (who run tings in Whitechapel, where I used to live), saying that I owe them £950 council tax. The letter didn't say what period this tax was for, only that I owed it and unless I paid up within 21 days they’d sling my ass in jail (or words to that effect). They said they went me a letter in NOVEMBER 2000 (!!!) and as I didn't leave a forwarding address they only NOW tracked me down. Um, I am on the electoral register, have a bank account and credit cards, and there’s only one I. Jetwhiskers in town, so they obviously weren't looking too hard. Plus, I moved in September 2000, so that's why I never saw their letter. PLUS the bastards sent it so I got it on Saturday, and there was nothing I could do about it until today, but I did have the entire weekend to freak out. I called them this morning and they said the tax I owe is for the period December 1999-November 2001. So first I have to find this ancient tenancy agreement proving I moved in September 2000, and then they will reassess the tax. What REALLY sucks is that during that time I lived with a girl called Joyce, and I have long since lost contact with her, so I will have to pay the tax alone. This whole episode has made me so mad. They really treat you like a criminal. The letter they sent is in 18-point type, saying I have to pay the money within 14 days or go to court.

My niece Sabby has a split lip! Now before you go calling Social Services, let me explain. Her parents took her and her twin sister to church for the first time on Sunday, and Sabby fell off the pew. If she’s anything like me, she probably fell asleep five minutes into the mass and slid to the ground. It’s sad that her first experience of Catholicism is one of pain and tears, but at least she knows what she’s letting herself in for. She seemed happy enough as she danced to ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ and threw ham at her mum, but a split lip on a two-year-old is a very sad thing to see. Steve and I were there spending Quality Time: this involved playing tea parties and house and horsy with them. Steve was the sleeping horsy and OH how they laughed when he pretended to wake up and neighed at them! We decided we'd be good parents. Left at about 5.30 and went to Ryo, my favourite Japanese place, on Brewer Street in Soho. Was craving katsu curry, gyoza and miso soup. So I had all three.

In Poland, name days are a big deal, bigger than birthdays. I don’t actually know when my name day is only that once a year, seemingly at random, I get a card and present from my mum. I was trying to explain to Steve how everyone in Poland has a name day, usually corresponding to the saint’s day you were born on. So he said ‘What if your name’s LeShaun or something?’ I assured him that such a thing was highly unlikely. Unless there is now a St LeShaun. And why not?

Speaking of Roman Catholicism, Hot Priest stopped by my mum’s house last night while I was there. He was doing the rounds of Polish parishioners, and stayed for a cup of tea. I needed the loo, but as it says in the Bible (somewhere), you can’t wee with a priest (especially a cute, young one) in the house. I had to will him to leave and then made a mad dash for the bathroom. HP has only been in England for a few months, and I asked him where he was stationed (posted?) when he first arrived. He breathed a word that sounded French, and me and my mum strained to hear. After a few minutes it transpired they’d sent the poor man to Scunthorpe, so I guess he can now tick purgatory off his list of places to visit. I was surprised there are even any Poles in Scunthorpe, but he soon put me straight. There are, apparently, just under 100.

Walked past the Ivy today, as I do if I’ve been to Soho to get lunch. There were photographers outside (nothing new), and a film crew. Their camera seemed to be trained on a car, and I was crossing the street, so look out on the evening news for a small woman in a purple coat mouthing ‘fucking move!’ as a black Daimler nearly runs her over. Also seen: a grown man looking deliriously happy at having got Robson Green’s autograph.

Went to the post room just now, and one of the things in my department’s cubby-hole was a packet of teaspoons. These teaspoons (for our woefully under-cutleried kitchen) had instructions on the back, under the heading CUTLERY CARE. This amounted to one sentence: We recommend that cutlery is washed and dried after use to keep it looking its best.’ Oh yeah? Well I like to lick it clean and store it in my sweater drawer.

A fax came through yesterday, form a German publisher who’s bought the rights to publish one of our biggest authors. The fax contained the request for us to ‘send an authorised photo of the author (with hat)’.

This weekend was spent working. And that’s about it. Really. I left the house exactly twice: for drinks and tapas on Saturday night, and to Tesco on Sunday, as the only edible food I had was instant oatmeal which had to be made with water, as I’d run out of milk. Apart from that, I sat on the couch and proof-read. It was fucking boring as hell, and the money sort of makes up for it, but I really hate working ten days straight, which is pretty much what is happening. But as I am going to use the cash to fly to New York City and raise hell with my best friend I guess it was all worth it.

Friday was Steve’s last day at work, so at 5pm we headed off to the Phoenix Theatre bar. It’s really weird not having him at work. We met at work two years ago and started dating after a year. One of the reasons it took us so long to get it on was because we were worried about the ‘dating work colleagues’ issue. Well, he was: I couldn’t care less. And, as it turns out, working together and dating was great: romantic lunches, ‘emergency’ meetings in the stairwell, and seeing each other every day. I’ve got used to it, and I’ve been spoiled.

Just been cruising the job pages on the Guardian site, and I was tickled to find a vacancy for a summariser. What on earth could this entail, I wonder? Had an image of myself doing this job: standing around a big mess of broken glass on the floor and saying ‘Weeeeeell, to summarise, it’s broken. That’ll be £450, please.’ I think I’ll apply.

The one pleasurable thing I did manage to do on Sunday was bake the best cookies ever. They were so good I actually dribbled as I ate the first one. They’re white chocolate and ginger, and as ginger is a stimulant and good for the spleen, it’s almost like health food. Email me if you want the recipe.

More work stuff: must get my expenses form signed. While part of me lives in fear of my boss saying ‘You? Why do you need expenses? What’s your name, anyway?’, I know that I could claim back a pair of shoes and a lost weekend in Cancun without anyone batting an eyelid. And I might just put that to the test.

I am back from the edge. I was nearly vanquished by my lunch, but victory is mine. Went to Chequers, the ace sandwich bar off the Strand, to get a tuna nicoise roll. I got it on olive bread, and when I unwrapped it back at the office and realised it was bigger than my head, my shoulders sagged in defeat. But! I girded my loins (not that they play any role in lunch), and I pluckily dug in. And dug. And dug. It didn’t help that the generous bastards give you free soup with every sandwich, so I had a polystyrene cup of Stilton & broccoli to get through, too.

Today I want to shop. And here’s what I want to buy:

A wrap (ballet) cardigan
Cords in dark red, brown or navy
Metallic ballet flats and satin/metallic tap shoes
Fake flower garlands for my bathroom (does anyone know where I can get these? And not for £20 each)
A laptop (although I never will, as it costs a month’s salary)
A sewing machine (where to put it? I barely have room for a stereo)

Any one of these purchases would improve my life; if I had all of them I would want for nothing and would be happy for ever.

As Steve sagely remarks every so often, “You can’t have everything: where would you put it?” Silly boy. My reply is always “In the biggest house in the world, with a very large storage facility a short distance away.” I have thought this through.

The day has started badly. Am coffee deprived. Sitting at desk opening post, and already I’m angry. The one thing that really gets my goat is people spelling my name wrong. Now, it’s excusable if you’ve never seen it written down, as it’s quite a mouthful. But if I have been SENDING YOU LETTERS every couple of months for the PAST TWO YEARS, TYPED LETTERS, with my surname TYPED, then for fuck’s sake please make an effort not to call me Jacevitz or Jazewizz or Jackanory or Jetwhiskers. I know it’s nine letters, but the books you write contain much longer words and you seem to manage those without much trouble. Grrrrrrr.

The Emap zine awards took place this week: here’s the skinny from the Pamzine.

You can’t have read a paper over the past few months without seeing a mention of this book. Some reviewers have slagged it off for being low brow/militant, and despite a shaky start as the author gets a bit “Hey kidz! Punctuation’s COOL!” it is a right cracking read. A non-boring book about grammar; whatever next?

After yesterday’s awful lunch experience (bitter, glutinous lemon chicken that was neither lemony nor chickeny, cold noodles) nearly ruined Chinese food for me, I decided to have one more try today. From now on I shall eat only at Soho’s Yumi Food Bar, where £3.50 buys you noodles or rice and two toppings: the chicken curry and spicy ginger pork are particularly fine. The food comes in a vast plastic take-away trough, and eating even half of it is an achievement.

Two reasons why January is the cruellest month

1) All I want to do is lie down and sleep. Anywhere. All the time. Even at work (especially at work), on the bus, in the bath. At the moment the floor space under my desk is a jumble of old files, books, bubble wrap and paintings (just don’t ask), but I am thinking of converting it into a cocoon, with padded floor and sides. Have felt like this all month: shaggy dark hair in my eyes and bellowing when disturbed.

2) Despite Dr John Briffa’s hatred of anything that might possibly taste nice, on these short, cold days all I want to eat is stodge. Coffee, pasta, prawns, cinnamon bread and pierogi all get the thumbs-down from the good doctor: to me they combine to make the perfect meal. It’s a sad fact that the things I want to eat are making me tired and sluggish, while the things that would give me verve and pep aren’t appetising.

Another weekend, another two episodes of Joe Millionaire. On Saturday, three lovely ladies remained, vying for Evan’s dough. He had intimate ‘overnight dates’ (hook-ups) with each of the girls, flying them to some exotic locale on his private jet. Michelle, the curly-haired, slightly whiny one, asked Evan what turns him on. ‘Um, legs. I like legs,’ opined our shy hero. The next shot was of ’Chelle poking her scabby hoof, clad in sandals Pat Butcher would balk at, dangerously close to fake-millionaire Evan’s real family jewels. Despite her best efforts to sleep with him, Evan still got rid of Michelle when the time came to give out diamond necklaces.

Horrible Sarah, who did sleep with Evan (‘She knocked on my door. She wanted to look at the moon. [pause] Again.’), is still in the running. How he can find her dark brown monobrow (there is footage of Sarah filling it in a bit with a brow pencil, in case it’s not pronounced enough, I suppose) and blonde hair combo attractive is beyond me. And her conversation seems to be stuck on a loop of ‘How’re you holding up?’ and ‘I feel really comfortable with you. I trust you.’ It’s obvious* he’s going to pick gum-chewing teacher Zora, whose idea of dressing up is to wear a slightly more fitted western-style denim shirt than usual, and who feels bad that ‘the other girls can’t be here to enjoy [our date]’. Zora’s prudishness works to her advantage, too: whereas the other girls can’t wait to don a titty top and cavort in the jacuzzi with Evan, Zora is terrified of being seen in a bikini, despite being a bona-fide stunna. Thus Evan sees Zora as mysterious and ‘a challenge’. And this still works, apparently.



*Well it is to me, cos I’ve seen the last episode

one drink for the price of four

Am crabby today, and why should I suffer in silence when I can share it with you instead? Am surrounded by coughing, sickly people who feel the right thing to do when germ-ridden is to come to work and share the wealth. Stay the fuck at home! I don’t want to hear you hacking like a frigging Alsatian!

Ahem. In other interesting news, yesterday was mine and Steve’s anniversary. A drink was had at the American Bar at the Savoy, which I expected to be far nicer than it actually was. The bar was pretty, but the furnishings were similar to those you’d find on a P&O ferry, and the carpet was a migraineous swirl of navy and bright yellow. Also, turn down the lights! Everything and everyone (including me and my beloved) looks better in dim, sexy, conducive-to-drunken-flirtations lighting. As the drinks cost £11.50 each, we couldn’t afford more than one. Free bar snacks (olives, salted nuts and delicious, meltingly oily crisps) lessened the blow a bit. But really not that much.

It’s a sad fact that I complain about almost everything. Oh, the American Bar wasn’t as nice as the Green Mill, the hotel on NYE was mean and made us stay in their basement, and that rotten Toyota Corolla ad makes me never want to buy a car. Here’s where to complain about it . Unless you like seeing fat women being ridiculed and men being reduced to car-loving, shallow stereotypes.

Some great things

Joe Millionaire. Watched this on Sunday, and now there are only four lovely ladies sharing the French ‘shat-ew’ with hunky Evan. Funniest bit was when Evan asked the curly one what she’d do if she had loads of money. Her reply was ‘Um, I’d like, go to Africa? And work with the orphans. Like, bathe them and stuff. I guess that’s just the mercenary in me.’ The hired killer in you? Maybe she meant to say missionary. This tickled me no end, and when I talked to Steve later that night I said that maybe we could try the mercenary position one night, and go to bed with swords and grenades. Ok, well it made me laugh.

An elderly lady I saw this morning, who was wearing the coolest outfit I’ve seen in weeks: black 30s tap shoes, black patterned tights and a red knee-length coat. She looked like I want to look!

Was talking with a Polish colleague about Wigilia, our traditional meat-free (but fish-filled) Christmas meal. She said that this year she decided to attempt a dish utilising the national fish, carp. The recipe she used was called ‘carp in grey sauce’ (note to the Poles. Could we at least try to make our cuisine sound vaguely appetising? I’d pass on Sachertorte if it were listed on the menu as ‘brown cake’). Unsurprisingly, the carp in grey sauce was foul. Krystyna explained that carp eat all the rubbish at the bottom of the river, and sift mud, stones and used condoms to get to the nutrients. Apparently you’re supposed to soak/pickle/salt the fish to get rid of the taste of trash (mmm…trash…), but she failed to do this, so on Christmas Eve she and her family were eating a fish that tasted like dirt. I say stick to ears and pigeons next year.

My NYE in a four-star bunker in Knightsbridge

The 31st and the 1st were an eventful couple of days. On the last day of the year, Steve and I went to visit my sister and her children, the Mewlies. They’re two years old now, so not really mewling any more, but instead chattering, clambering, jumping, and standing over their Gran to see if she drops any of her meals-on-wheels lunch on the carpet. They are like pets, but with clothing: anything that an adult is eating must be better that what they get fed. (Having seen the meals-on-wheels menu, I think the reverse is true. But how to break this to a toddler?)

After doing the family thing, we went to check in to our swanky hotel, booked the day before on Lastminute.com. Our main reason for choosing it over the dozens of other places touting for business was that the description stated that the hotel had a solarium, gym, sauna and pool on site. Did it buggery! Once we arrived and were led to our room (in the basement, through several fire escape doors), we decided to call reception and see where all these treats were located, as there really didn’t seem to be room for them in a townhouse. Turns out they were a 10 minute walk away, and cost £15 to use. We complained and were given complementary day passes, but once we got to the gym, we discovered it was closed until January 2nd. I was about ready to cry, and I actually did shed a tear when the vodka martini I ordered back at the hotel arrived in a tumbler full of ice, no olive, and containing not a drop of vodka but Martini Rosso vileness instead. (The hotel bar was free – yes, free – and that is probably the only thing that prevented us from storming out in a righteous huff.) Oh, and the only place in our room that had mobile reception was far corner of the wardrobe.

The evening got better, though. Drinking champagne in the bath, going to Maroush for a cheap and tasty dinner, and walking around Knightsbridge looking at toffs’ houses. I’ll tell you one thing, the rich have really, really boring taste in interior design. So much cream! Chintz! Heavy curtains (to stop bitter proles like me peering in? Probably), dull antiques, nothing retro or punk, not even any Chinoiserie. This didn’t stop me from muttering “I hate you, I hate you” while my teeth chattered and I stared at a – blond, Tory – family toasting their wealth and incredibly fabulous life around a Christmas tree. Bastards. I was greatly heartened after seeing a rat darting purposefully towards a basement flat full of more nobbs. Vermin don’t care if you live in a pit or in a palace. Marxist Ilona, over and out.

Upon returning to our hotel, we drank more champers, set up the scrabble board (my drunk ass was whupped by a man who works in marketing, for shame!), and watched on TV the fireworks I could have seen – live! – from outside my front door…

Happy New Year!

Coasting through life

It’s interesting when you get a glimpse of how other people subconsciously see you. My boss gave me coasters for Christmas: very pretty blue ones, with 50s pin-up girls on them. In the past year or so, I’ve received three sets of coasters. When I told Steve last night that Jean sent me coasters, he got all cross. Turns out he got me some this year, too. I can read many things into this coaster-buying: that I am the kind of person who does not tolerate rings on her 1960s coffee table or kidney-shaped dressing table, that I am a hip, urban, swingin’ chick who drinks a lot and entertains every night. The negative spin on these is that a) I am anal and b) I am a lush.

But who the hell cares, cuz I just got promoted! Aw yeah. A nice pay rise, too, which I will celebrate by taking my boy for baby back ribs and beer, and buying a new pair of shoes. (Probably black cons – it’s not that big a rise.) My friend Jon has a theory about pay rises, which is that it takes exactly two months to adjust your standard of living to your new income before you start to feel poor again. For the first two months you feel like Rockerfeller: there you are in the pub, buying your third round of the night. A glimpse of you through the window of Poste Mistress, paying for a pair of designer shoes you can’t afford and will wear twice. Then your ‘needs’ grow to meet your increased salary, and there’s no way you can survive on the money…

I realised today that I’ve been lying to you all these months. The bit at the top of my blog says that it’s about “diary, books, recipes, crafting on the cheap”. Have I given you any recipes? (One. Back in June or something.) Have I provided a single useful piece of crafting advice? Have I fuck. Thing is, there are plenty of excellent crafting sites, and I could never compete with them for quantity and quality of information. So, like a true defeatist, I am not even going to try.

Winter is really here and my hibernation instincts are kicking in. Feel run-down and coldy and am convinced that the only cure is three days spent in bed reading and watching TV. Tried to do this over the weekend, but kept getting restless and going out. Plus have had hideous nightmares for the past two nights: last night I dreamed that I witnessed a giant lorry mounting the pavement and crashing through the wall of a church, interrupting a christening. The baby being christened was killed: I walked past the church and there was blood on the ground. The night before, I dreamed I was kissing a man I know, and it was really weird because I felt like I was cheating on Steve. Also, to convey that this man had a weird attitude to the ladies, my subconscious showed me a present his mum gave him on his 21st birthday: a beautifully cross-stitched sampler, spelling out “to my eunuch”. Huh?

Also, as if dreaming of babies being murdered were not bad enough, today I am a walking, talking fashion “don’t”. I should have a black bar over my eyes to protect my identity, like the real-life “don’t”s in fashion magazines each month. Wearing purple sort-of fishnet tights, winter coat with summer bag, hat that makes me look dead, and my mum’s 80s boots. I feel like I have taken fashion advice from Steve. (If I have a job interview and am stressing, I’ll ask Steve what I should wear. Invariably the reply I get is along the lines of “Antlers – your good ones – and a sou’wester. Also, galoshes and a thong.”)

What a weekend. I am fast learning that the world of publishing is not a very nice one, and underhand tactics haven’t been put to rest. In the bad old days, it was customary for editors to steal each others’ ideas and pass them off, and short of cursing and plotting revenge, there was nothing that could be done about it. On Friday night I was out drinking with the lovely Mr Saha, he of Finlay fame, when he happened to mention that a web diary we’re both hooked on is to be published as a book. When I heard this, my blood ran cold, as I’d proposed this idea to four editors at my company in January. None of them expressed an interest. Shortly after, one of the editors, head of the media list and 2002 Editor of the Year, left to take up a post with one of our Big Rivals. Now the book is being published by them in the new year. After speaking to several people at work, I’ve pieced together what happened. A woman who works here, who used to work at The Big Rival, remembers the (my?) book being brought up in acquisition meetings. Her friend is editing it, and she believes that the man I showed it to immediately passed it to The Big Rival. I didn’t think there was any legal recourse, but apparently a ‘no competition’ agreement was signed, and has now been broken. So that’s my news. I’m alternating between happy, sad and furious. Happy cos the author of the web diary is a wonderful, hilarious writer who ought to be read, and happy because my idea clearly wasn’t a bad one. Furious at Trevor Dolby (oops. slipped out) for stealing my idea and passing it off as his own. And sad because it would have been my dream book to work on, and I really believed it could be a success.

Ok, other than that, I drank a lot. Friday with the Open Democracy crew, Saturday with my sister and her boyfriend at his 30th birthday, then with Tim and Kyle, who is just ridiculously gorgeous and I don’t even want to be in the same room as her. This was at Mentasm, an irregular club help in someone’s flat in Stoke Newington. Going to Mentasm feels like entering an Austin Powers film, or, I imagine, Andy Warhol’s Factory. The kitchen is a bar (drinks tokens are bought from the coat check girl), the bathrooms are, um, the bathrooms, and the sleeping areas are cordoned off. Just a big, sparsely furnished space, then, with lots of drunk dancing folks. I had a beer, leered at Gruff from the Super Furry Animals (Jodie will be jealous… but he was there with his girlfriend), and laughed at skater boys wetting themselves cos Tony Alva was there… I wouldn’t know him if he bit me: I just saw a guy who looked like Craig Charles, and had an entourage.

Band names and bands they suit

Bolus – crappy heavy metal/rock band like Primus, and all those inexplicably popular bands like Good Charlotte and Blink-182.

Behemoth of Love – sorry kids, this one’s taken. Mine and Therese’s girly rock band, with jingle-jangle sounds and handclaps (like Heavenly meets the Posies). Formed (I think) in a bar one drunken morning, the band hasn’t progressed past naming. The obvious next step is designing T-shirts, bags and badges, and then drawing album covers. What instruments can we play? Don’t be so ridiculous.

Lord Huggington – this would be a faux-pompous Guided by Voices/Buff Medways affair, with all band members wearing red jackets with epaulets and brass buttons. Despite looking faintly silly, they would blow your socks off with the power and skill of their Rock.

Tasty Veil – three Japanese women dressed in very expensive, understated skate labels, singing about chocolate cake and hating their jobs.

Today I am sitting around eating carbohydrates, and that’s about all. Tesco almond fingers (currently buy one get one free!) are bloody delicious, and highly addictive. Plus I woke up at 4am cos Steve has flu and was having an attack of the shivers, so I got him some water and paracetamol and covered him in layers of clothing. Poor lamb.

For some reason the thought of updating my blog this week is like eating liver: I know I should do it, but I just really don’t want to, and keep putting it off. (Ok, not really like eating liver. I don’t put that off, I just don’t ever do it.) Here are some little odds and ends I wrote this week, very outdated, so what.

Last night I put away all my summer clothing and sorted my closet out according to these rules. I tell you, it felt so good.

Wore a beret to work, cos my hair was wet. Think I looked like a Chelsea Pensioner rather than Amelie, though.

He didn’t make us feel like dancing . . .
Steve and I saw Leo Sayer today. He had the trademark halo of curls, but light brown and not black as I remembered. Speaking of hair, today I am sporting a Jesus Christ ’do.

Wow, did you see that? So good I posted it twice... duh.

I’ve eaten at this place twice in the last two days. But it’s so damn good, as cheap as McDonald’s, and a lot nicer. Last night Tim bought me dinner there: we had a salad, two giant plates of pasta and a bottle of highly drinkable house red for £18. As Jodie once said, you can’t beat that with a big stick. Today I had lunch there with Steve, cos he is a sad puppy at the moment, and I wanted to cheer him up. We had pudding, too: how can you turn down the dessert menu when one of the options is called Funky Pie? Steve had the pie, which was, sadly, not as funky as I’d hoped, but tasty nonetheless. And I could sing ‘Funky Town’ while he ate it, too, as if I needed a reason. I had a fudge bombe (stop sniggering at the back!), and it was most fine.

Oh and Steve and I have decided that Mark Ruffalo and Janeane Garofalo have to get it together, just so they can have a baby called Griff Ruffalo Garofalo. Say it five times really fast.

Also, here’s the best thing in the world. Adam Ant has apparently recorded a charity version of Stand and Deliver. All proceeds will go to the Diane Fossey Fund. The song title? Save a Gorilla…

Oh and Steve and I have decided that Mark Ruffalo and Janeane Garofalo have to get it together, just so they can have a baby called Griff Ruffalo Garofalo. Say it five times really fast.

Also, here’s the best thing in the world. Adam Ant has apparently re-recorded a charity version of Stand and Deliver. All proceeds will go to the Diane Fossey Fund. The song title? Save a Gorilla…

Last night Steve and I were forced to shop at the Sainsbury’s of Despair: it's laid out all weird, so you spend 10 minutes looking for the milk, and everyone is wandering about in a similarly aimless, desperate manner, looking like they’re about to cry. It’s the one on Clapham High Street, and I was getting very bad vibes from it. Bought ingredients for fajitas and got the hell out. Made dinner, drank a Miller Lite (the Champagne of Beers! Or is that High Life?), which Steve had brought all the way from Chicago!

Now I am at work eating a crayfish salad (one of the saucy buggers has a bit of crayfish poo on it. I took it off, but what if I missed some? Will I live? Check back tomorrow if you care) from atop a pile of page proofs (I like to live dangerously) and looking at my Hotmail to see if I’ve somehow missed an email from a major publishing house saying ‘Yes, we’d love to employ you.’ Where could it be?

Have also had my hopes dashed (again). Was hoping to win the Green Card Lottery, move to Chicago, and live happily ever after. Steve was gonna hitch a ride on my coat-tails, too, so he’s bummed. We had a whole marriage deal worked out! Damn you, Immigration Services and your unreasonably strict guidelines! See, although UK nationals aren’t eligible for the lottery, if either of your parents were not born in the UK you can apply. As soon as I read this the tape loop of me sucking down beers at Ten Cat, hi-fiveing jazz musicians at Green Mill*, buying coffee and cheap organic ready meals at Trader Joe’s, all accompanied by Therese, started to play. Then when I read it again a few weeks later, it became apparent that what the clause actually says is that if one of your parents were not resident in the UK at the time of your birth, and if the country they resided in was eligible, then you could apply.

Back to the drawing board.


* This has never happened. It just suddenly sounded good to me.

A woman got on my bus this morning, at the Cabinet War Rooms, wanting to go to Trafalgar Square. Now, if you live in London you probably know that this is, literally, two stops, or a five-minute stroll. But she was all agitated and asking the driver “I have a ten pound note which the ticket machine won’t take, and thirty pence, how am I supposed to get to Trafalgar Square?” Um, walk? Using the perfectly serviceable pair of legs God gave you? I sneaked a look at her, to see if maybe she was afflicted with a peg leg or something, but she looked capable of walking as well as anyone. In the end she threw a strop at the driver (who, in a feat of patience and restraint, never stated the obvious and told her that if she got going now she’s see him pulling up at the lights as she got to the National Gallery) and got off the bus.

Seeing as today is turning into a right old bitch-fest for me, other things I am annoyed about include:

Lack of sleep. I got up at 6.30, and I’m really not happy about it.

Flickering light above my desk. Like Chinese Water Torture, but with lights. Sort of.

Too many children! Everywhere! When did half-term start to occur every six weeks?!

The fact that there was a musty smell on the train this morning, and I realised it was me. I was wearing the tweed Pendleton jacket I got in a Chicago thrift store (which, as Steve so kindly pointed out, is “a dead woman’s coat”), and today I found out that when it rains the jacket smells of wet dog and wee. May need to splash out on some dry cleaning.

Now I’m done. And happy belated birthday to Marcus Oakley for last Monday. I think he turned 18 or something, but still doesn’t look old enough to buy a drink.

I do not want to eat my soup with a teaspoon

I am sure there is a diet which centres around the eating of meals using child-sized cutlery and/or dishes, and I think Liz Hurley was banging on about it once (but then I think she did the “eat naked in front of a mirror” diet too, and is therefore a poor judge of healthy eating practices/body image/sanity), but I don’t wish to be on it. The premise is probably that you’ll get so flippin’ bored putting a tiny forkful of food to your mouth that by the time you’ve eaten half your meal you give up the monumental task of finishing it. Anyway, at my office there are no proper soup spoons, so I just polished off a lake of leek & potato with a teaspoon. Didn’t make me eat any slower, though.

Am bored today. It's raining, all the coffee pots in the kitchen are in use so I am drinking yuk Nescafe which always makes my stomach hurt.

Check back in a couple of hours, I'll probably have found some new things to complain about by then.

This jetlag thing is getting ridiculous. Last night I was feeling drowsy at 9pm, so decided to take a couple of Kalms so that I’d fall asleep as soon as I got in bed. But no, the ‘all-natural’ (sadly this usually means ‘utterly useless) sleep aid acted like speed on me, and 12am found me sitting up in bed making long lists of everything I had to do the next day. So I thought, ‘what is the best thing to send a person to sleep?’. That’s right: vodka. Got up, poured myself a couple of fingers, added some undiluted lemon squash (surprisingly tasty: a poor woman’s Lemon Drop), and downed it. Half an hour later I was calling Steve and having a long chat, and then – finally – I fell asleep.

DAMN YOU, RUBBER SOLED SHOES!

Everything I touch is giving me an electric shock. The drawers on the filing cabinet, my computer (!!!), even the foil around my sandwich.

Got back to work yesterday after a two-week absence, to find 250 emails, plus stacks of covers, page proofs and contracts littering my desk in no recognisable order. But why dwell in horrible crap like work, when I could be telling you all about my trip to the Big Windy? First off, we were blessed with the most amazing weather. The leaves were turning, and the colours were beautiful, but it was over 20 degrees every day, so you could wear a T-shirt. Therese’s wedding was lovely (she’d tell you different, tho): she looked beautiful, and the church was an amazing cathedral-like behemoth in Old Town. We stayed in a swanky hotel the night before and in the morning drove to church in a limo with a free, fully stocked bar. Is it sad/worrying that this stands out for me as one of the best parts of the day? After the wedding, more limo action to the reception, which took place at a restaurant called La Luce. The open bar turned some guests into obnoxious, drunken pains-in-the-ass within an hour, but for the most part it was fab. Other highlights of the trip were:

Therese’s hen night, where we took her to a posh South American restaurant, a café which serves only desserts, the Martini Ranch, and finally to Simon’s for pitchers of beer. Despite wearing furry kitten ears and a BRIDE TO BE sash, she didn’t get bought a single drink. Bastards!

Going to Target and finding red patent Isaac Mizrahi pointy flats for $27.

Trip to Bloomington, IN, to see Rachel and Jason. We went hiking in the State Park, ate at great, cheap ethnic restaurants, found the best and cheapest antique store in the state, and listened to R & J’s bird whistling the Muppets theme.

General girl-time with Therese, doing stuff like going for sushi, driving around, thrifting, shopping at Filene’s etc.

I miss it.

It’s my last day at work before I go away for two weeks, but I really don’t feel like doing anything. Want to look on Amazon, search for denim jackets on eBay, go for a walk. Have checked all the new clothes on Bluefly, looked at some hideous prairie-print shirts on Target.com, drunk a giant glass of wine, eaten some noodles, and the only thing that will make me happy now is a long nap.

Weekend was lots of bending down. Went to Wimbledon and packed up more of the house. Over twenty bags full of Polish books were designated for the skip or the Polish Parish hall. Another twenty bags of English books were set aside for some unsuspecting charity shop. On Sunday my sister, her husband and their twin daughters drove over. The girls are the cutest little monkeys alive. They are two this week, and their vocabulary now extends to ‘ello!’ ‘dada!’, ‘mammy’, and ‘fleeuughhghrrrr’, which means flower. Sabby, the more even-tempered and impish of the two, spent a good five minutes trying to tear off Steve’s beard, which she is convinced is false. Well how was she to know? Every man she has any contact with is clean-shaven! She must’ve thought he had a little something on his chin.

I realised a few months ago that I haven’t had a holiday this year, and this could explain my urges to send a global email to my company saying FUCK THE LOT OF YOU, blow a giant raspberry and wave two fingers at the board of directors, and skip out onto St Martin’s Lane with the wind in my hair and a weight off my shoulders. This scenario is becoming a regular fantasy of mine; hopefully this weekend’s trip to Chicago for two whole SF-free weeks will cure me – for a little while, at least.

Things I can’t wait to do when I get to Chicago

Ok, so at first glance none of these beat standing above the clouds in Africa, but for me they’re as good as that…

Pancake breakfast at the Lakefront Diner

Wake up for five mornings in a row without having to rush anywhere

Drink cocktails at Simon’s

Walk to the lake from the Belmont El stop. Past fine vintage clothing shops, a playground, Belmont Harbour and the boats

Record shop (I think that can be a verb) in Wicker Park, then go to Earwax or Aion for tea

See a film at the Music Box

Last night I was supposed to go to Sydenham and check on my big sister’s house, as she’s away for a week. But did I? Did I nuts! Me and Steve got wine and a mushroom garlic pizza, and lay on the couch. Is this a sign that I am getting old? That all I want to do after a long day at the office (sitting on my ass) is go home and sit on my couch? I know that fatigue breeds fatigue and that if you exercise you have more energy, but I just don’t have the energy to start… and thus the circle of sloth is complete.

This morning the alarm went off at the ungodly hours of 6am, cos someone (okay, me) had accidentally set it an hour early. I went back to sleep and dreamed of Gwyneth Paltrow having a psycho killer boyfriend who was trying to kill her. Also dreamed about taking something to be dry cleaned, and getting it back and being convinced they’d just put it in the washing machine on a very hot cycle. Got up, showered, and woke Steve with some fruity cursing. The reason for my potty mouth? My clean underwear for the day ahead were warming on the towel rail (well, who doesn’t like warm knickers?) and dared to slide off, onto the damp and, I admit, none-too-clean floor. Calling them ‘motherfucker’ and telling them in no uncertain terms to ‘stay on the fucking towel rail’ awoke my beloved. Alas, he is used to this sort of thing.

Went to Tim’s house on Sunday night for dinner and talk, and to pick up the painting of Richard Hell that Marcus Oakley did for me, as a wedding present to the fragrant and soon-to-be-wed Therese. It’s not traditional portraiture, let’s say, but that’s what you get when you ask a creative type to stick to a brief. And besides, it’s growing on me.

Oh I have been bad at updating. And Emerald has given me details of Wordpad, a new blog thing with pictures etc, so your blog can look more like a web page. But I haven't signed up for it yet. Instead have obsessively been checking Friendster and www.propertybroker.com about 15 times a day.

Weekend was spent filling a giant skip with the contents of the attic and shed, which have lain largely undisturbed for the past 45 years. No Picassos, first editions or fabulous diamond-encrusted brooches were discovered. I guess I’ll have to continue to work for a living. Saturday night there was an Actionettes show, at the Water Rats again. Bring back Upstairs at the Garage! Water Rats is a bus ride from my house (good) but no matter what the outside temperature, it’s always 90 degrees at the bar (very bad). Also, as I knew Kyle was going to be there, and as I have talked up my vintage Dior jacket to mythical proportions, I decided to give it an outing. I had conveniently forgotten that we were having an Indian summer and that there really was no need for anything other than a sleeveless T-shirt at the freakishly hot Water Rats, especially not a fully-lined tweed jacket. So ended up standing at the front, clutching the jacket in my sweaty mitts, and glaring at anyone waving a cigarette or raising their pint glass within 20 feet of me…

Sunday the boy cooked a lavish roast dinner, while I went clothes shopping. I don’t know why, but H&M and Topshop are just not thrilling me these days. All the stuff in there makes me thing ‘yeah, it’s nice, but…’. There’s nothing that I can’t live without. After trying on about 15 semi-okay items, I got a pair of trousers suitable for work, job interviews etc, which I’ll probably wear three times a year.

After scoffing the roast, we were settling down to a pleasant evening with a bottle of Merlot and ‘Practical Magic’ on the telly. (Well I was: Stephen was not much interested in Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman’s love curse, which mean that any man who fell in love with either of them would die!) The sound of a door being smashed and a voice yelling ‘armed police!’ alerted us to the fact that the neighbours were having a far more eventful night. Crouching on the floor and peeking over the windowsill, we saw police officers with dogs storming the building, with one officer crouched behind a car aiming a gun at the door to the house. After a quiet few minutes, two people were brought out and led to the van blocking the street. From the next-door garden emerged several black-clad Special Branch and yet another hungry Alsatian. After the rozzers had driven off, the other inhabitants of the house were allowed back in.

What sort of a pirate are you? Here's me:

You are The Cap'n!

Some men are born great, some achieve greatness and some slit the throats of any man that stands between them and the mantle of power. You never met a man you couldn't eviscerate. Not that mindless violence is the only avenue open to you - but why take an avenue when you have complete freeway access? You are the definitive Man of Action. You are James Bond in a blousy shirt and drawstring-fly pants. Your swash was buckled long ago and you have never been so sure of anything in your life as in your ability to bend everyone to your will. You will call anyone out and cut off their head if they show any sign of taking you on or backing down. You cannot be saddled with tedious underlings, but if one of your lieutenants shows an overly developed sense of ambition he may find more suitable accommodations in Davy Jones' locker. That is, of course, IF you notice him. You tend to be self absorbed - a weakness that may keep you from seeing enemies where they are and imagining them where they are not.

What's Yer Inner Pirate?
brought to you by The Official Talk Like A Pirate Web Site. Arrrrr!

Help! Help me, I’m trapped behind this giant baked potato! Yes, Shelton’s, the sandwich shop across from where I work, officially has the Biggest Fucking Potatoes Anywhere in London. I saw the lady behind the counter making mine, and she poured an entire bowl of chilli on to it. And let’s not forget the cheese. So how I am expected to work all afternoon with this giant bolus (have you any idea how long I’ve been waiting to use that word?) of carbs and grease in my stomach I do not know. Maybe if I just slither under my desk for a few min…

Almost a week old post

Last night me and Stephen went to see a film. We haven’t done this in about a month, mainly because all the cinemas near work charge at least £8. But we decided to treat ourselves, and see this. It was fantastic, and I recommend it unreservedly. Plus, we went to Fopp, and even though I have a backlog of nearly a shelf of books to read, I bought a Diane di Prima memoir, Everything is Illuminated, and a Taschen book on 1950s advertising. Total was £11, and you can’t beat that.

The film was short, so we were home in time to watch Jump London, which promised more than it delivered. A bunch of blokes in tracky bottoms and scuffed trainers leaping on railings and buildings? I can look out my window and see that! The programme was basically one long advert for Groovy 2003 London: they got permission to ‘jump’ such landmarks as the Royal Albert Hall, Shakespeare’s Globe and HMS Belfast. I suspect permission was granted on the condition that these places got to plug their events (the spokesman for the Globe actually said 'We don’t usually endorse anything that isn’t Shakespeare, but…'), and there were numerous shots of treetops and sunny streetlife. Made me want to visit this fabulous city, until I remembered I live here. Best bit was when they ‘jumped’ the Millennium bridge and the Tate Modern: this entailed running across or past the structure, very fast. Blustery cries of ‘well I can chuffin’ do that!’ were heard all over town.

This morning I got dressed in a state of fear, cos scary author is coming in, and I have to take her for lunch. I have no idea how this happened, but I look uncannily like Mick Fleetwood today. Shirt and knitted tank top? Check. Hair in ponytail? Check. Tight pants? Check.

There’s a guy at work who I am locked in a power struggle with. He fawns all over my bosses, and anything they ask for is done within the hour. But if I make a request for say, a piece of artwork or an author pic, there’s a whole lot of heel-dragging going on… This attitude was best summed up by Therese as “Oh I could help you but I really can’t be bothered”.

Having a hating-my-job day. They are increasingly frequent.

Am checking page proofs. There are nose hairs (proof reader's, not mine) on them. Got an irate email from an author this morning, berating me for sending him (at the behest of Sales) book plates to be signed. Shoot the messenger, why don’t you. This day is shitty.

Plus my clothing is all wrong. All wrong I say! Have a sort-of interview at lunch, so could not be a scruffbag today. Started with a pair of smart trousers, and a plain top. Realised I had run out of pop sox, and did not own a single pair of black socks, so could not wear proper shoes. So am wearing ballet shoes, which while being very comfy and chic, don’t really go with suit trousers. Finished this with a red trench coat, and was walking to work feeling like I was in my pyjamas and dressing gown. Unbeknownst to me, I also had my fly undone all the way to the office.

This from Therese: ‘Went home and didn’t exercise again. Bad bad. Made chicken with onions and bacon. Can you say YUM. Have decided that EVERY LIVING THING tastes better with bacon and then fried in bacon grease. Yes, everything. Might even try Marmite if it had bacon in it.’

Got me thinking… want to open a restaurant called BACON. Every dish will contain bacon, and there will be pictures of Kevin Bacon on the walls.

This is my hair today. I look like the guy at the front, but without a hat. I am sporting the Always Ultra of hairstyles: with wings. GROW, DAMN YOU!!!

The weekend was nice, and three days long. Friday my couch arrived in all it’s squishy magnificence. I christened it with a two-hour nap, and we are now inseparable. Saturday I went to see the Gossip and the Battys, and drank four beers and danced like a loon. The bands were amazing, and the gig sold out quickly and after about 10.30pm the venue was running a ‘one out one in’ policy. It was the first Homocrime gig night/club night, and it was a roaring success.

[Three days later, sorry]
Well now it’s piggin’ Thursday and I have not had a chance to write all week. My trip to Chicago is sneaking up on me, and I still have things to get for the hen night and wedding. I am planning a traditional British hen night for Therese, but will not write any details here as she reads my blog…

Last night I met with Rachel to discuss the Independent article about Ladyfest Bristol. Everyone I know who’s read it has been taken aback by the writer’s snotty tone and her comments about shoes, hairy legs, and dungaree-wearing lesbians. Oh, and her assertion that it’s socially more acceptable to admit to being an alcoholic than a feminist… Ladyfest London 2002 organisers are planning a strongly-worded rebuttal. Rachel gave me a copy of the Unskinny Bop zine, written by Tamsin and Ruth, the best DJs in London (they played at Homocrime on Saturday night: Beth Ditto is a fan). These ladies need a blog/website NOW!

Overslept this morning and woke at 9am. Didn’t leave the house until 9.45am, and I am supposed to start work at 9.30am… oops. Nearly got hit by a car as I skipped across four lanes of traffic to reach the 159 bus. Normally I wouldn’t risk my life that way, but as it was travelling in a pack of three, I knew it’d be about half an hour before the next one rolled up. A van driver braked to let me across, but made his displeasure abundantly and fruitily clear. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I didn’t have to know how to lip-read to tell that there were a lot of F sounds.

Ohmygod… am eating the best sandwich ever. Pastrami on rye, with mustard, gherkins, lettuce and tomato… dripping everywhere and I don’t care.

Other news: was browsing Friendster this morning (yeah, while I was at work. So?), as a friend had sent me a link from Brice out of The Gossip, about this (quick plug). Friendster just made me depressed. All these very hip people showing how many mates they have and who they know. That makes me sound like I don’t want to join ’cos I’m afraid no one would be my friendster, and that’s kind of true! It’s fun being nosy, tho… even saw an ex of mine on there, and no, was not tempted to rekindle the flame.

Stephen is wearing a fine
t-shirt today. I thought it was a hummingbird on the front, but what do I know about our hollow-boned pals? Apparently it’s a tit. S used to be a bird-watcher when he was about 10 (aaaww! Cute!) and it’s never worn off.

Last night I dreamed that I was getting down with Richard Hell. We were on a beach, and the tide was coming in quite fast. There was an old bathtub full of dirty rainwater, leaves, etc. etc. (yeah, my fave place to do it, too…) and I pushed him in to the bath and leaped on top of him in what was, I thought, a pretty smooth move. Just as we were about to, I noticed that he had a disapproving, serious look on his face. I asked him if he wanted to have sex, and he said no. So we stopped, and in the dream I was all like thinking “Eh. He probably has paternity suits and kiss & tell stories to worry about. He can’t go around knocking boots with every willing girl.”

This entry looks super long, but the main bit is a feature I wrote for Mille Feuille, the webzine of The Bakery collective. As the site isn't up yet, you get to see it first...

Thought for the day: What's the most unnattractive thing a person can carry? Small dog-in-a-bag? Burger bought from a street vendor*? Nope, I'll tell you what really kills it for me: the latest Harry Potter. I saw a really cute girl walking in front of me yesterday: cream swishy skirt, white tank top, looking all summery and individual, but what was that tucked under her arm? A book? Ever nosy, I speeded up so I could take a peek. Yep, Harry five. Don't even get me started.

*(I know in America street food is an institution, and you see eating it in films all the time as a cool, young and carefree thing to do, but in London: JUST SAY NO)

Crafting in the workplace

Have you been on any of the fab craft sites which have sprung up in recent years? Get Crafty, She Made This, Thrift Deluxe? I am addicted to them. I print off interesting projects, I have a ring binder I keep them in, and I never make any of the stuff. Why? Oh, don’t get me wrong: I want to, it’s just that the outlay seems so huge, and even the simplest of projects seem to require basic carpentry/DIY skills which I do not possess. And how much of a steal is something if I had to buy a glue gun, rubber cement and an industrial stapler before I even begin? Then I hit upon something I could do, and, I am slightly ashamed to say, enjoyed doing: pinching stationary and discarded stuff (doesn’t count as theft, I suppose) from my workplace. The things people throw away! Perfectly good netting, bubble wrap, postcard-sized pieces of cardboard, look-books (I’m sure that’s not the proper name for ‘em: like a giant book filled with nothing but photos, which our Art dept get and can buy images from to use for book jackets), magazines. So I have decided to craft using office supplies. Here are some things you may be able to pillage from your place of employment:

Double sided tape (my new favourite thing)
Cardboard
Envelopes – brown, white, padded, small, large
Notebooks
Stapler and staples
Regular sellotape
The use of a b&w photocopier, and maybe even a colour copier (how the last two issues of my zine came to have full colour covers…)
Use of a printer
A4 and A3 paper
Coloured paper and card
Hole punch
Paperclips
Scissors
Elastic bands
Ring binders
Cardboard boxes
Marker pens

As you can see, I could go on and on…and on. Anything that isn’t nailed down and can fit into my bag is fair game as far as I’m concerned. That doesn’t mean you can leg it with the boss’s laptop, but you get the picture. Cheap office supplies which non-crafters take for granted can be used to decorate your pad and to make pretty gifts for your pals. Anyway, enough of this speculative jibba-jabba: bring on the projects!

Mounted art for free

Why pay through the nose for mount board and professional enlargements (heh heh) when you can use stiff (heh) cardboard and the copier for free? I spent an hour or so at home a few days ago, making A5-ish pictures for my kitchen. Here’s how:
1) Get some nice photos: I used old family photos from the 70s and 80s, cos my parents look really cool in them. As I didn’t want to fuck about with the precious originals, I blew the photos up by about 20% on a colour copier, and used bits of discarded 5.5” x 4.5” cardboard (probably packaging) I found in the paper bin on my floor at work.
2) Trim the pictures to the size of the cardboard. Or, and this looks really good, trim them so that about ½ an inch of the pic overlaps the card. Using double-sided tape (again, courtesy of my employer) stick the pics on the cardboard. If you’re doing the trendy overlap thing, stick the tape right to the very edges of the picture (not the card) and then wrap the picture over the card, making sure the edges are taut and the back is smooth. You can prop these ‘mounted photos’ on the mantle, on a ledge or shelf, or stick them to the wall in a row (use more for a bigger impact) using blu tac (again, don’t bother paying for it).

Labels, gift tags and anything texty

Well, this is fairly obvious. A printer of one’s own is a joy to behold. The possibilities are endless: make some old-school THIS INSULTS WOMEN stickers and plaster them all over the sexist advertising in your town (my personal bugbear is those postcards of breasts made up to look like cats. What the fuck?); make cool flyers for your zine, gig, etc. etc.; make a sheet of To: From: gift tags which you can stick on a piece of coloured card or piece of cut-up photo (there are a few in every roll of pictures which aren’t nice enough to keep, but who can bear to throw away a photo? When cut up they’re strangely beautiful). Thread through on a length of ribbon or embroidery thread and they look right purty. Hmmm. What else?

Spent the weekend in Southwold, on the coast. There’s no train station there, so it’s pretty inaccessible, except for the hordes of Gap-clone rich families who drive down in their Mercs. Still, it was lovely. Our two days and nights went something like this:

Arrive, eat lunch. Check in to B&B with sea view and giant window. Walk on beach. Drink local beer, which is very fine. Big stodgy dinner. Sleep (waking frequently to pee, as the sound of crashing waves, lovely though it is, has permeated my subconscious and my bladder needs to be emptied every few hours). Eat giant fry-up. Swim (ok, stand chest-high in the water and jump and scream every time a wave hits me) in the North Sea. Drink more local beer. Eat giant ploughman’s lunch. Sleep (even though it is daytime! Oh the joy of holidays!). Eat fish & chips. Drink increasingly lovely beer. Hire a rowboat and have giant fight in the middle of the lake over which of you is the worst rower and is causing the boat to run aground, when it’s not spinning in lazy circles, that is. Make up.

I caught the sun a little on my pasty London face, which sees daylight for about one hour out of every 24, and my forehead and nose are a bit red. My hair is a bit lighter, too; basically, I look like Boris Becker.

Back at work and it’s hell. Got a set of page proofs from an author who has decided, at this late stage, to rewrite great chunks of her book. Complete paragraphs have been crossed out and inserts attached. Got so frustrated that I wanted to either scream, cry, or walk out. Instead took a page of the proofs in my teeth and had Steve tear it out, leaving a jagged, wet, crescent-shaped space. It actually made me feel a lot better.

You can’t live on shoes

Want to bet? In the last week I’ve bought two pairs, both absolutely necessary. First pair is pale pink suede, high heel, round toe, for Therese’s wedding. Second pair are black patent leather with pink trim, the most blatant (and therefore best) Marc Jacobs’ knock-off I’ve seen. Wanted to go to a photo booth today and take a picture of my feet in them, but have you seen the size of those things? Don’t think I could get my leg level with my face in a space that size (not that I can ever get my leg level with my face, but whatever).

Last night was the Sleater-Kinney gig, and we put on an after show party for them. Carrie announced it from the stage, we flyered like crazy, but despite all our best efforts we just about broke even. The venue for the party was just off Oxford Street, and sadly I think that on non-event nights, it’s a major pikey watering hole. By midnight I was very glad there were bouncers on the door: a trio of trouble-seeking folk paid their money and despite being told that it was a party for a band, took their chances. It seemed easier to let them in than turn them away, I guess, even though they asked one of our door staff if there were any ‘gays in there’. Within ten minutes Mr Homophobe was being escorted from the premises, wife and friend in tow. He claimed a young girl with a quiff had tried to kick/glass him. So the bouncers had to go find her, and she was brought, tearful and confused, upstairs. I think they let her go when they realised that the guy was just looking for a scapegoat, but he still stood and argued with the bouncer for a good ten minutes. A choice snippet I overheard was ‘you’d take the word of a bunch of lesbians over mine, a man, with a wife!’.

After a further kerfuffle with a quartet of trendy, coked up fashion PRs, who spent two minutes at the party and then demanded their money back, shaking their Vuitton bags at Margarita with rage, I left. Well, I guess we learned what not to do.

It has come to my attention (ok, Tim told me) that lots of people think this is a very angry blog. Where does this accusation spring from? Why, just last week I wrote a cheery entry on sandwiches! If I sound angry it’s cos I always write from work, and it’s pretty much guaranteed that if I’m at work, I’m pissed off.

Enough about that sad stuff. The weekend was H.O.T.T and it was really too horrible to do just about anything except draw a deep, cold bath and lie in it reading this and nodding in bitter recognition. The book is actually not very well written: the boyfriend character is like a textbook definition of ‘nice boyfriend’: brings you a picnic to your house after a hard day at work; is understanding of your many needy needs blah blah blah. I read a proof copy, but lordy, at that stage a book has seen a copy-editor. Yet this was riddled with missing words, main characters’ names spelled wrong, timing that didn’t add up (um, how do we get from Thanksgiving to March in three months?) and a hot designer called Mark Jacobs… please.

So that was a nice part of the weekend: despite the eye-snagging errors, it’s a great book if you’ve ever suffered under the boss from hell. More time was spent eating outdoors (you know how hot it was outside? Well my flat was about ten degrees hotter than that), sitting outdoors in the shade and wandering around the Imperial War Museum, cos it is air-conditioned. The ICA, however, despite being a top arts venue and epicentre of London cool, does not have air conditioning.

Things on my mind today

Finding a way to prove to the Student Loans Company that my little sister really is in Iraq with the ISM, and is not working as a copywriter, snorting fields of cocaine and earning over £1,750 a month. If you ever met my sister you’d know that she’d sooner eat her own underwear than work for The Man.

Calling my local hospital, where I am scheduled to have an operation on my eye, to either cancel this or beg/demand it be performed under general anaesthetic and not piddly I-can-see-someone-cutting-open-my-lower-eyelid-and-attacking-it-with-a-sundae-spoon-OH-MY-GOD local anaesthetic.

Something bugging me today

People who have no concept of personal space. Along with drivers who don’t indicate before they turn, this is one of my major bugbears. You know the type: a short person walking down Oxford Street with a golf umbrella (admittedly, this has been me in the past), someone waving their cigarette around at a crowded gig, doofy businessmen striding around Covent Garden this lunchtime swinging their arms to prove how powerful and manly they are, and hitting me as I walk past them.

Also, the boy and I took it in turns to ignore the alarm this morning, so we overslept by about an hour. So I am wearing no make up, have dirty hair, and now know what I will look like on a bad day in 20 years’ time.

Things I am looking forward to today

Corporate whore that I am, this afternoon is being planned around a stealthy trip to McDonald’s* where I will purchase a cold, creamy McFlurry. Against the strongly-worded advice of the boy.

Going home, drinking cold wine, reading magazines in bed.

Taking a lukewarm, verging on chilly, shower when I get home.

This list has a running theme, that theme being ‘cold’. It’s nearly 100 degrees here, and the UK falls to pieces when confronted with extreme weather. Best thing about my 9-5 office job is that I spend at least seven hours a day in air conditioning.



*Guess I’m not entirely brainwashed. Can’t remember if it’s spelled Macdonald’s, Mcdonald’s or what.

One of the best things about England is her sandwiches. You’d think that America, land of convenience, would have seen the market for ready-made, gourmet sarnies, and tapped it, but no. Getting a sandwich in the USA still generally entails standing in line and having it made in front of you. And it usually costs at least $4. The reason I am musing over the Sandwich Question is cos I am sitting at my desk scoffing a Pret A Manger chicken and avocado, handmade this morning, £2.50 giant sandwich. It could be improved with the addition of bacon, but that’s true of most things. (Is there a Bacon Council? If so, listen up, here’s your new slogan: “It’s better with bacon”. What’s better with bacon? Well, off the top of my head: eggs, pancakes, sausages, coffee, life. You’re welcome.)

Realise I have been a very, very bad blogger of late. When do people find the time to do it? I guess they have computers at home. Since I gave my pc to my boyfriend a few months ago (there's no room for it at my flat), I have been dependent on my work machine. So, anyway, sorry. It won't happen again.

Why do authors always think they know best? Just cos you’re published doesn’t mean you’re any good. Some absolutely atrocious books make it to print; some of them reach the bestseller lists. Being published is, sadly, no mark of quality.

This is on my mind right now because I am going through the book of an asinine author (every time he comes to the office he flirts with me in a sleazy way, and always seems high), and he’s marked all these words to be italicised. The effect this has is that he appears to be talking to the reader reeeaaalllyy sloooowwwlllyyy, cos they’re, you know, a bit thick, and need things spelled out for them. Um, ok. I’ll put in the italics, and you can reap the scathing reviews, dude.

Why don’t I lie down, so you can walk all over me more easily?

Well, today has, officially, sucked ass. Not nice ass, but sweaty, hairy, acned ass. The folks who are buying my family home (a six bedroom house where my mum lives, alone, at the moment) are trying to screw us out of a quarter of a million pounds. They’ve offered 20% below the asking price, and everyone is urging us to accept this. I feel defeated. My dad bought this house 50 years ago when he moved to England from Poland after the war, and it is our inheritance, it is to provide for mum and his five daughters. Have never met this buyer, but I hate them more than anyone I’ve ever known.

What else? Work is for shit: boss has screwed up, and I am left to pick up the pieces and try to salvage two books. I know I seem to bitch about work an awful lot, and in truth I really like both my bosses, and respect them, and we have a laugh and get on very well. But as bosses, they’re just not very good. How do people reach a senior position like this? Is it based on whom you know? Was so tired of this by 1pm, and had had a panic attack (where I hyperventilated and thought I was going to die in a toilet cubicle) over the house thing, that at lunch all I wanted was a large drink. Steve took me to the touristy but beautiful mirror pub, and I had a double whiskey. Felt a lot better. Aaaah, my good friend alcohol.

Other: lovely red couch was delivered, but lovely red couch has hole in it. Boooo! I want her life: www.absolutely-vile.com

My boss has left for the day, so I’m trying to proof-read at my desk. But I keep getting distracted by nagging thoughts of what I should be doing. Like: perfecting my CV, replying to friends’ emails, looking for pictures of Richard Hell for Marcus to paint from, and making a five-point plan for world domination. Today has been shitty, here in the world of office work. I have had an author asking to make sweeping changes to a book of his we’re reprinting, and my boss has authorised this and then passed it for me to organise. Only this will take ages and cost a ton of money, and the changes are not even corrections, just things he felt like altering. Boss and author are, as my colleague Jane put it, making me “jump through twenty hoops and run round the block five times”.

Last night I got home from work, went grocery shopping, cleaned, did laundry, and made a simple, tasty dinner which I saw Mags
cook last week. Spaghetti, courgettes, garlic, olive oil, parmesan. That’s it. So good. Tonight I go for dinner at Amy’s house, and I will try very hard to be in a better mood than I was last time I saw her, when all I wanted to do was cry, and crawl into bed, and there continue crying. We will drink wine and discuss exciting projects and I will leave her house feeling energised, optimistic and happy. Or just drunk.

Summer, and a young woman’s thoughts turn to McFlurrys, finding a vest top that doesn’t make me look like I have a monoboob, and tracking the vintage Diane von Furstenberg dress I bought on eBay two weeks ago which has not yet arrived.

Songs stuck in my head

$1000 wedding – Mekons (think this was Gram Parsons first, but I like their version. Plus, it’s the only one I’ve heard.)

Why can’t I touch it? – Buzzcocks. Love this song. Why? Am I full of yearning?

Alone again or – Love. Calexico did a great cover of this last night. They have the horns and stuff to do it justice.

Vague snippets of Lambchop songs. All that slidey guitar is perfect for hot nights like these.

Picnic obsessed

That describes me. In the last week I have been on two picnics, and plan many more before the summer is over. Last night was an impromptu meal, as Steve and I had a couple of hours to kill before going to Somerset House to see Yo La Tengo and Calexico. A Greek meze, pita breads, mini bottles of screw top wine and scotch eggs (piggyness won out) were purchased at M&S and scoffed in the churchyard near Covent Garden Tesco. I’m sure that Burgundy is not supposed to be sipped through a straw, straight from the bottle, but it worked for us.

YLT were on first, which I think was just plain wrong. They have more years on the clock than Calexico, more albums, and, I’d say, more fans. Calexico may be in vogue (and, ok, really good), but seniority should win out. Whatever, I think it was more a double bill than headliner & support, as they both played for about an hour. Ira thanked us “for coming out on such a shitty night” (blue skies, seagulls, warm flagstones to sit and drink beer on), and Steve and I got a good spot and stayed there. And oh, the joy of schadenfreude. A quartet of people arrived and stood in front of us at about 9.45, half an hour after YLT finished their set. As the many-membered-and-not-easily-mistaken-for-YLT-at-all Calexico took to the stage, one of the foursome said “oh fuck.” A few minutes later, when the projected visual (CALEXICO) and the stage banter (“Hi, we’re Calexico”) made all hope that the band picking up their instruments were YLT difficult to cling to, the same guy turned to his friends. “Guys, we may have fucked up.” Ahahaha. How we laughed. How we loudly reminded each other that this had been the BEST EVER YO LA TENGO GIG EVER and THEY REALLY ROCKED and that we were SURE GLAD WE HADN’T MISSED THEM. Their missing the show made me strangely, wickedly happy. So I drank more, ate a scotch egg, and skipped home.

The weekend was spent sitting with open arms, and having people pile presents into them. It was my birthday on Thursday, and this was cause for a 4-day weekend: long lunch on Thursday, a work party in the evening, sitting in a basement bar on Friday night for five hours, and a champagne picnic on Saturday. Lovely gifts included:
candy floss machine
50s wall clock for my kitchen
clock with a bendy stand
Superman mug
book of retro food graphics
bedsheet (by request)
flip flops
soaps
picture frame
a great notebook made from an old novel
pencils that double as bubble blowers
Phew! Gifts I bought for myself included a couch (I don’t have one yet. Cannot live any longer without a couch. Will surely die etc. etc. You get the idea: it’s really important to me), cute pink slip-on trainers (£12.99! Probably bought in China for about 50p a pair, but still! £12.99!), and a nice bottle of rose.
But now it is post-birthday, and I am no longer special. Plus I feel old… but I felt really young when I watched this! These people are the class of 1992, which was when I left high school (in the UK we don’t ‘graduate’ high school, we just leave), so they too are 28, but either I look freakishly young, or they are prematurely middle-aged. Yay! Sensible shoes? Check! Unisex linebacker haircuts? Check! Identikit Gap wardrobe? Check, check, check!

In other news, I am on the lookout for a tooth guard. Apparently I am grinding my stupid teeth (probably while I sleep. Stress? Could also explain the habit I have of waking up with claw hands, sometimes hovering dangerously close to sleeping Steve’s throat), and the only way to cure this is to get a plastic thingy to wear while I sleep. Went to Superdrug after work, but unsurprisingly they do not stock them. Tim made dinner for me last night, and very nice it was too. There was wine, there was asparagus, there was good conversation and the smell of the downstairs neighbours’ chronic pot habit. This all made for a most pleasant evening.

Hmmm… nothing to do in August, you say? Bored, are you? Well, this is gonna be great, and worth going to for the Arts Barge alone, I reckon, although the other bands, workshops, films and exhibitions they have lined up mean you’ll be kept busy. Click on the great illustration of the dreamy ladies for more details. I love this new grassroots, non-corporate, non-profit festival culture that girls are creating, and the more the merrier. There’s also a Ladyfest in Manchester this year, and many others all over Europe and the US.

Some good sites (don’t think I have a links thingy on this blog, so you’re just going to have to cut and paste, my friend. You’ve been spoilt long enough!)

www.thefword.org.uk – great features, links, archived writing, and most of all, a relief to discover that thirdwave feminism isn’t the exclusive domain of US ladies.

www.goldtop.org – a sweet blog, beautifully designed, also serves as a portfolio of Emerald’s work.

www.absolutely-vile.com – another blog written by a web designer (no fair!), updated regularly and with a community feel, as people comment on each of Anna’s entries.

That’s all for now. There are plenty of others, but I’m hungry and want to go get some lunch. You can amuse yourself for a little while, ok?

Yes I am still pissed off at my job, but I also realise that most people do jobs they get no thanks for, and at least (praise Jesus) I do not have to work with the public.

Today I am sporting the World’s Shortest Ponytail, and I am filled with glee, for it’s about six months since I’ve been able to wear any kind of ponytail at all. It’s held in place by greasy hair, gel and about 17 bobby pins.

Strange! Just googled the phrase “Croydon claw”, and there was nothing! Has no one outside my circle of friends heard of this tuff-girl hairstyle? It was first brought to my attention by Victoria, a sometime wearer of the Claw, and a Croydon girl through and through. Despite being more like the Milton Keynes of the South West, rather than the Manhattan as it claims, Croydon has nevertheless spawned underground talent. Some of Huggy Bear and, I think, Blur (I can’t be bothered to fact check. You can, if you really care) are from there. This entry was going to be full of links, but I don’t have the time or the research skills for that, but I would urge you to find a pic of the Claw, it really is worth it.

Well, it’s been a weird week. Am feeling very down about work, and this was not helped by the events of Thursday night, when I went to a book launch and got all sad. Keep reminding myself that it’s a very bad idea to let my job define my sense of self, and to get all bitter and “everyone is out to get me” about work, when clearly no one is out to get me. Anyway. So I went to the launch and the authors did their thank-you speeches, and everyone got thanked except me. I was actually crying in the toilets for a long time, and looked all blotchy when I came out, despite splashing water on my face and practising a cheery smile in the mirror. I do the gruntwork on my imprint, make sure things happen on time, chase contracts, artwork, page proofs etc, but as this work isn’t visible, unlike, say, publicity, I don’t get any credit. Do I sound bitter? Well, that would be because I am. The Boy knew exactly why I was upset, and as neither of us was now in the mood for free booze, we left.
The weekend was better, as it involved babysitting my twin nieces. They’re 21 months old, and one calls everyone “mummy”, and is a scrappy little thing, and the other is bigger and on Saturday morning managed to steal six Farley’s Rusks and hide them in the conservatory, before being dobbed in by her sister. While I disapprove of the theft, I gotta salute her stealth and enterprising nature. A chip off the old block.
Sunday the Boy and I went to Greenwich market, which is full of lovely antiques and edgy 20th century furniture, but a tad overpriced. £250 for two chairs that look like they came from MFI in 1987? Let me think about that for a moment… However, I did buy a lovely 1960s telephone table for £3, and my living room now contains not one, not two, but three items of furniture with those characteristic splayed screw-on legs.

God. Am having one of those days when every word I write looks wrong, and I am not sure I spelled it correctly. ‘Won’t’? An apostrophe in the middle of a word, are you sure? ‘Beside’? That looks French etc.