Saw a billboard this morning for a film I thought was called ‘Jaws of Attraction’ – well, it was starring Pierce Brosnan, so I assumed some savvy casting director had realised that rather than being a hunk of burnin’ love, Pierce is the most terrifying man alive.

Petty acts of rebellion I have performed today

When the bus conductor wouldn’t let people on the bus cos – quelle surprise – it was too busy, and she said “No, it’s full up.” I screeched back “Full of SHIT!” No, I’m not sure what I mean either.

When, for the second day in a row, the photocopier was jammed and needed fixing before it could be used again, I taped a notice to it saying “Dear all, if the copier breaks while you are using it, please fix it instead of leaving this for the next person to do. This is not nice.”

At work, drew a smiley face in biro on the wall near the lifts.

OK, Officer, I’ll come quietly.

On Tuesday night I attended my first Actionettes rehearsal, at Drill Hall. It was tipping it down outside: the streets were deserted as everyone huddled in doorways and rain and hail bounced a foot off the pavement. I took a cab to the venue, as I had no umbrella, and it was pretty scary: the noise was deafening as the hail pounded the roof.

The rehearsal was fun, and although I was clearly by far the worst, most un-co-ordinated ‘dancer’ they had ever had the misfortune to share a floor with, the Actionettes were very polite and didn’t ask me to leave. Think I need to put in a lot of practice if I’m to dance on stage (on stage!!) in a month or two…

Now all I need is an -ette name.

I was puzzled and very disappointed to find news of the pro-choice march on Washington relegated, the day after the event, to a single column on p16 of the Guardian. Over 1 million people marched in support of women’s right to control their bodies, and yet this isn’t deemed newsworthy. Every other broadsheet reported the march in the same way (if they reported it at all - the Times chose not to): in a single column, with reports of numbers ranging from ‘hundreds of thousands’ (the Guardian) to ‘500,000’ (the Telegraph). Today the Guardian published a photo of the Mall in Washington and an op-ed admitted that ‘up to, and maybe more than, a million…’ marched. This is a bigger turn out than the Million Man March in 1995, which didn’t quite reach the titular number. When 1m people march against war in Iraq, it is news. When 1m people march against curtailing the right to control if, when and how you choose to have children, it isn’t.

All the papers, however, saw fit to devote at least twice as many column inches to the death of Estee Lauder, a woman who made her fortune from other women’s insecurities.

Some great reports on the march can be found at the comprehensive site Feminist.com, and on the Ms. website.

Today I am mostly:

Listening to a girl I work with flirt with the work experience boy (whom I took an instant dislike to when, in the lift, I asked him if he was doing work exp. here. He said ‘Yes, are you?’ I glared at him and said ‘No. I work here.’ it’s my own damn fault for wearing jeans and trainers to work). And I just realised I used the word 'work' about 15 times in that one anecdote.

Stealing my work-neighbour’s nuts/wheat-free chocolate cake/jelly babies

Wondering if the nuked pizza I had at lunch is the reason I’m feeling delicate in the stomach region


This weekend was the first truly hot weekend of the year. Picnics are the order of the season, and I’ve already had two in the space of three days. Friday night Steve and I got a ton of food – quiche, pork pies, bread, cheese, pate, and a Greek salad I brought to work – and went to St. James’s park. In spite of the aggressive drunk making the rounds of picnickers, it was perfect. We sat under a giant, pale pink blossoming tree and drank a tiny bottle of M&S red wine, and then we walked across the giant gravely square (what is it called?) that opens onto Whitehall.

I spent Saturday returning a very late library book, picking up my dry-cleaned winter coat so that I could put it in storage and (hopefully) it won’t get eaten by moths, and lying on a towel outside the Imperial War Museum reading the paper. After a couple of hours, when I was cooked to a crisp, it was ice-cream time. The Mr Softee van outside the Imp does the best, creamy, light-as-air 99s in the land. Plus the guy running it that day was doling out foot-high cornets, which was fine by me. In the evening I saw the boy, and we had a pint of London Pride at my local, the Ship, before attempting to get a fupper* at the Windmill Fish Bar. However, as they don’t seem to want drunken Saturday nite custom from hungry lushes with money to burn and a craving for cod, the Windmill Fish Bar closes at 9pm. Hmph. Went to the Thai place over the road instead (it was that or Pizza Express, and I can get that any day of the week), which was nice but did nearly make me cry with the spiciness of its curry.

Sunday was all hot and muggy, too. A stroll around Cannizaro Park was the only thing I wanted. This park was such a part of my childhood: I’ve been going there with my family since I was about two, and I’m always amazed that most people have never heard of it. It’s beautiful, with little walkways and steep brick steps and narrow paths overhung with branches. There are flowers and an aviary and many sorts of trees and a duck pond. After our walk we were hungry, and Wimbledon Village isn’t really Safeway territory, so we spent a tenner on bread, cheese, ham, olives and a single pork pie (organic but overrated! Dry as dust and needed to be swallowed with swigs of wine). Watched the dogs and children on Wimbledon Common and tried not to think about Monday morning . . .


* fish supper. Do keep up.

Last night we had our annual imprint party, and today I am feeling a touch delicate. Wisely decided to line my stomach (with a Subway meatball and hot pepper sub, mmm!) before the hard drinking commenced, and was very glad I did*. Decided to stick to beer, too, as wine makes me melancholy and tired and, oh yes, very drunk very quickly. Had five beers and felt fine (and at about 11pm tons of food magically arrived for the hardcore drinkers still there), but this morning I do not feel fine . . . Feel like I need quiet, darkness, and a big fry-up.


* Even though, as science fiction folks are suckers for a free drink, people started arriving before the party started, to be greeted with the sight of me glaring at them and wolfing down a sandwich.

Where have all the craft sites gone?

Getcrafty.com, one of my faves, is no longer. Not Martha doesn’t have what I need. Sew Wrong is the saviour, I guess, as here you can find free patterns to make simple bags and clothing (even bras! Yes, really) and fun message boards.

Have decided to rename my niece Tiny, as she is a scrappy little thing. Steve claims this will ensure she is a boxer when she grows up, and that ‘Boxing will give her a route out of the urban jungle that is Grove Park.’ Maybe I will arrange a video afternoon with Tiny and Right-Eye (her sister) and screen Girlfight. (PS read the comments about this film on the link . . . Svabbi, I’m coming to Iceland to kick your blond asssss). It'll be good for them to have a role model so they won't feel like they are pioneers in the sport. Yes.

Also, someone at work just gave me a praline duck. It was very very tasty.

Super nervous . . .

Any minute now I’m going to receive a phone call, asking me to come to the boardroom and try to convince 15 people who I don’t know to let me pay an author £15,000 to write a book. This is why I am sitting at my desk glugging Rescue Remedy and trying to make my hands stop shaking.

And, on this very important day (career wise: my real highlight is that I got a free can of Lipovitan from a man wearing a leotard and cape outside Charing Cross station), my flat had no hot water. I boiled a few kettles’ worth, had a bath in four inches of lukewarm water, and washed my hair by leaning over the bath. Made sure I perfumed myself to cover any lingering whiff. Oh dear.

Last night was lovely: had a meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Bee at the Chandos pub. The meeting entailed some brief looking at a 1960s book about pattern cutting, talking about clothes, eating Mini Cheddars and drinking a lot.

“Nice big flaps”

What does it say about me that this snippet of conversation I heard in a meeting today nearly made me burst out laughing, and that I had to hide behind a sheaf of paper and think of malnourished kittens to keep a straight face? The fact that the subject being discussed was a fancy book with printed end papers and generous jacket flaps (pffft! there it is again!) didn’t make a bean of difference.

At the moment I am too busy to live. Leave desk for 1 hour and when I come back I can barely find my chair, obscured as it is by piles and piles of crap*.



* And when I say ‘crap’ I do, sadly, mean ‘work’.

Am applying for a job at the company I work for. Yes, you read that right. I hate that they’re making me jump through hoops to get it; I feel like saying ‘Hire me already! You know I can do this!’ but I have to play the game. As part of my assessment I was asked to read a manuscript and write a report, so I did, and tried to find something positive to say about a derivative, badly written, formulaic piece of poo. Well okay, it wasn’t completely awful. Some parts were funny. But I am worried, as my report contained the word ‘masturbated’, and I feel this may go against me.

There has been a Cadbury’s Mini Eggs Easter egg sitting on my desk all week. When I bought eggs in Tesco, using the very generous 3-for-2 offer, I had a spare: Steve got a Crunchie egg, Therese got a Kit-Kat egg, and I was going to do the decent thing and give the third egg to my mum or one of my sisters. But this afternoon, halfway through composing a sheepish email to a girl who sits near me asking if she had any chocolate, I caved. I would eat the damn spare egg! In a moment of clarity, I realised that I need to buy at least another three eggs, anyway! One for my mum, and one each for my sisters! So there will always be a spare! (Plus, to be honest, I bought the Mini Eggs egg with my gob, and mine alone, in mind.)

Happy Easter!

Last night was of the most fun evenings I’ve had in a long long time. And best of all, it was free! (Apart from the kebab at the end of the night. Which Therese put in the microwave to heat up and Steve nearly rugby-tackled her to make her stop nuking it, as he has heard ‘statistics’ saying that one in four kebabs, when microwaved, produce maggots.) Therese and I went to Liberty for the cardholder shopping evening, and there was free booze. Two glasses of wine and two giant gin cocktails each later, we plonked ourselves down in a £2,000 leather armchair and contemplated our next move. Miss T was craving a kebab so I had to go along with her. My kebab was tasty enough, but later I had two eyelashes in my mouth. I think (and hope) they were mine.

Purchases

Ilona: fig perfume by Dyptique, an off-cut of amazing brown, orange and white cotton, to be used to make nice headscarves

Therese: two pink London A-Z tea towels, Neal’s Yard box set for friend

The weekend seems a long time ago, but the high point was definitely seeing the Actionettes at Bush Hall. It’s about the loveliest venue in London, and I bumped into my friend Jim, who I hadn’t seen in over two years.

Bugging me today: that BBC2 programme ‘If…’. I really wanted to see it last night, cos it was called ‘If…women ruled the world’. (But I am a video retard so managed not to tape it.) Apparently, in twenty years time women will be ‘running tings’, and this is a terrible scenario and must be nipped in the bud before all those power bitches start castrating nice, non-aggressive males. Ok, I am exaggerating, but is it not true that all the other ‘If’ programmes have presented Doomsday scenarios showing how the western world is spiralling out of control? Previous ‘If’s have predicted what could happen if the divide between rich and poor people (a bad thing) continues to grow; if there is a giant scary power cut (a bad thing); if we don’t stop pieing it on a daily basis (a bad thing). So the obvious continuation of these catastrophes where our children are fat, we use too much electricity and the rich live in gated communities which the poor attack with pitchforks, is a world where women have power. Oh hell, I just give up. Read the dumb BBC website for more info: they have the requisite ‘The death of feminism?’ piece, and an article, illustrated with a picture of Superman, titled ‘Why we will always need men’ (which almost brought a tear to my eye. Men, do you really feel you are on the way out? Cos everywhere I go you seem fairly prevalent, going about your business, being mine and other peoples’ friends and lovers and relatives. The defiant stance of the piece – here is an argument that we’re not totally redundant! – is really quite sad. Rest assured, menfolk: I love you and I don’t want to see you sent to the glue factory!).

In other news: my company runs a graduate recruitment scheme. Each year one person does what is basically glorified work experience for a few months. I just saw the CV of this latest new grad: white, Oxford educated, won awards, lives in Surrey.

Glad that the ‘Diversity in Publishing’ campaign is going well, then.

Notes to self

Replenish supplies of work snacks. Situation is now critical. Have resorted to scrounging puffed rice bars off wheat-intolerant colleague.

Try not to kill author who has disregarded all my pleas to mark up a manuscript using red or blue ink, and instead used black. The exact same colour the copy-editor uses, so that now I have no way of knowing whose marks are whose.

Sew nice clothing. Kara is always sewing amazing things that look like they cost $100 from Built By Wendy, and I want to sew too. Sew there (ahahaha).

Again I am having a week where I just can’t write. Am trying to do lots of semi-work-related stuff, and helping my sister write a book proposal, and sending begging letters to presses I really want to work for.

There’s a thin line between Maggie Gyllenhaal and Mrs Thatcher

While looking like the minxy Ms Maggie is desirable, resembling the Iron Lady is not. So it is with great trepidation that I don the pussy-bow blouse (they’re back! With puffed, bell sleeves) and the A-line skirt. I am walking a very fine line, my friends, very fine. As I type this, I am wearing: grey, high-waist A-line skirt, black chiffony blouse with puffed sleeves and sparkly black buttons, black 80s boots. The blouse and the boots are my mums, and the boots are the only high heeled footwear I can walk in. The blouse is a little on the sheer side for the office, so I have a pink wool tank top (jerkin?) over it.

I know I haven’t written in weeks. If you missed me I am sorry, and please do not give up on me. But I have the next two days off (for shopping) so will not be writing again until at LEAST Thursday.

I went to see Mona Lisa Smile last night, and it was an exasperating experience at best. I’d sum it up as a film about feminism for anti-feminists. It could have been a great film, but I can see Hollywood studio execs (never the most progressive of men) being downright scared about making an honest film about the white, middle/upper-class female experience in a 1950s all-girls college. The entire film stopped short of making any real statements. The scene where a frustrated Katherine Watson (Roberts) shows her art class slides of 50s adverts teaching them to be good little housewives and nothing else, she gets furious and shouts “What are these telling us? WHAT?!” [Pause] “I don’t know.” [Walks out]. Well, it’d really have helped if she had known. And that sums the film up, really: every time it comes close to saying something real, it backs down. Julia Stiles’ character, Joan, is a brilliant, rich, beautiful young woman. She applies to Yale Law School, and is accepted. But her boyfriend (who is kind of a dick) is offered a place at Penn State, so obviously Joan can’t go to Yale. She is nonplussed. Shortly after, they elope one weekend and marry. Katherine is (not surprisingly) shocked and a little disappointed. So Stiles’ character launches into a defence of the married woman which manages to make Katherine look like the narrow-minded snob who thinks that being a housewife is unfulfilling and boring (um, it is if your other options included Yale Law, darlin’). I find it bizarre that a film about, let’s face it, feminism, does not once mention the f-word, or the word “oppression” or the word “patriarchy”. Feminism was a word first used at the turn of the century, so it’s not like no one would have heard of it. There were only two moments in this film that seemed real and not sanitised: the first, where Betty (Kirsten Dunst) is screaming at Giselle (Maggie Gyllenhaal) for sleeping around, and Giselle comes towards Betty. You think she’s going to punch her (cat fights are good for ratings!) but instead she envelopes her in a hug (Betty’s husband is a slag and she is projecting her anger/hurt onto Giselle). The second is when Katherine and the teacher she’s seeing are at Betty’s wedding and notice other teachers discussing them. Katherine’s boyf whispers “Are your ears burning?” and Roberts wryly replies “When you’re on a stake the flames start at your feet” (or something), a reference to which-burning. And that, folks, is as subversive as it gets.

Basically the message of the film can be summed up as: In the 1950s it was widely assumed that women went to college to meet a husband. How awful! But some of them did and they were happy and so let’s not be mean to them.

Nice dresses and make-up, tho.

PS Ginnifer Goodwin is hottt. And she’s supposed to be the ugly one!

On Tuesday I spent four (utterly fruitless) hours at the British Library Newspaper Archive, a huge Deco block opposite Colindale station. I was looking at bestseller lists from the 1970s, and as these are not online or on CD-ROM, this entailed scanning through reels of film on a microfiche reader and getting nauseous. Seeing as I was supposed to check five years’ worth of lists, and each reel of film held two months of papers (the Sunday Times was huge even back then), this would mean reading 30 reels of film. And as you are only allowed to borrow four reels at a time, and have to wait ½ an hour for them to be delivered to your little microfiche booth, and it takes an hour to scroll very fast through four reels, it would take me approximately, what, 10? 11? hours to do this. Pointless thought this exercise was, I did get to read very old newspapers, which is always fun. Did you know that in 1977 you could buy a three-bedroomed apartment in Knightsbridge for £50,000? Oh yes. And the Times boasted that on Thursday top jobs, paying only over £4,000 PA, were advertised. Har! I looked at the job ads, and while I’m not sure exactly when it became illegal to specify gender, quite a few of the ones from 1977 said things like ‘Sales manager required. He will be responsible for . . .’. Reading the 1977 Times really made me see that even though things aren’t perfect now, they were pretty awful back then. The Review section was written almost entirely by men (even when slamming – sorry, reviewing – books about women or feminism), and one article about David Irving’s controversial claims that Hitler was misunderstood and didn’t actually kill anyone begins with the words: ‘Like him or not, Hitler . . .’ Like him or not?! Was there really a time after the Second World War when people argued about whether Hitler was nice or not nice? My flabber was truly ghasted.

I had some time to kill (and money for work ‘expenses’) before I met Kara to discuss our Sewing Bee, so decided to get food at Tokyo Diner. I ordered what I thought was a modest meal: a side salad, small portion of sushi (three pieces) and miso soup. But it seems I accidentally ordered a giant trough of food (oh well, what can you do?). All eyes were on me as the third dish was brought to my table, and I dug in. Anyway, the Sewing Bee is going to be held every three weeks, on a Monday or Tuesday (Wednesday is good telly night); let me know if you want to join.

For the love of Kirstie

I think if I met Kirstie Allsopp we would be friends. She is a bit odd for a telly presenter: have you heard her answers to those Channel 4 ads? She lost her virginity when she was 21 and would like to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. She seems quite giggly and girlie but also very smart. Relocation Relocation is compulsory viewing, if only to check whether Kirstie is looking all 50s and cute, or wearing her atrocious pearls-and-padded-Alice-band combo and coming across like your Sloaney aunt.

Joey, we hardly knew you

Shock, horror! Joey Ramone has come out as a supporter of Bush. Joey has apparently repented for his life of rock & roll excess, and is now anti-abortion, anti-welfare, anti-choice.

‘These aren’t issues, they’re life’ – Nandita Das, Capitalwoman 2004

Saturday saw the fourth annual Capitalwoman conference in London. The first event attracted some 400 women: 4000 registered this year. I was surprised and pleased to see a huge variety of women: a lot of over 50s, many black and Asian women, but few young women (hey, if we’re going to argue that feminism isn’t dead and that the third wave is alive in England, we need to show our faces). The atmosphere was upbeat, electric, one of excitement and anticipation. In the morning we were addressed by a variety of speakers including journalist Polly Toynbee, Diane Abbott MP, Solicitor General Harriet Harman, Deputy Mayor Jenny Jones, Nandita Das and Red Ken himself. They spoke on topics ranging from the pay gap (yep, it’s still there, and it’s not going away by itself), to Britain’s appalling childcare policy, domestic violence and safety on the streets and in the parks. I was moved by Diane Abbott’s statement that ‘this country was built on the labour of economic migrants’, as this is something close to my heart. My parents came to Britain for freedom and a better life: how could I begrudge anyone else that right?

After lunch there were a variety of seminars. I attended the one on domestic violence. It was packed out, women crowding the aisles, sitting or standing wherever there was space. I got there early and took a seat near the back; a few minutes later a man sat down next to me. He was scruffy and smelled, and he took out a notebook. Ok, I thought, probably a journalist (can’t have all those women in one place for a whole day without a man monitoring it, now can we? Heaven knows what they’d get up to!). As the speakers introduced themselves and began to outline the work they were doing, Mr Smelly began to twitch. He was rolling his eyes, muttering, snorting and tutting. I gave him what I hoped was a fierce ‘shut the fuck up’ stare, and he was quiet for a little while. As one of the speakers addressed domestic violence in relation to disabled women, she stated that in 1994 she was commissioned to write a booklet on this subject. To her knowledge, none had been written before, or since. ‘What about disabled men?’ yelled Mr Smelly. Ok, what about them? This is a conference on women. If he is an advocate of disabled men’s rights, great. What is he doing about their experience of domestic violence? (This moment brought to mind an excellent article on the f-word website. If you read one thing on the web this week, please read this.) He was ignored. The talk continued. I very rarely feel physically sick in a non-drunk situation, but at this seminar I did. I realised I was in the presence of a noxious misogynist, someone whose only reason for attending a positive, proactive conference was to disrupt it. It’s not like the talk was titled ‘Bulldozing the Patriarchy: Men Out Now!!!’ (that was at 3.30. Kidding!). It was about stopping women being beaten and killed by their partners. How can you possibly take exception to that? During the Q&A session I thought Mr Smelly was going to combust: his hand was in the air, he had a question to ask. So did twenty other people, and only about five of them got to speak. But he was clearly being discriminated against. ‘What about a question from a man – but I guess you wouldn’t understand that!’ he yelled. Huh? Seeing as the panellists were highly educated, articulate women, I think they could grasp the concept of both ‘man’ and ‘question from’ pretty well, and put them together to form a thought. He got a few funny looks, but was, again, ignored. After the seminar was over, I went home. I felt confused and angry. If there are men out there who object to measures to stop domestic violence, what hope in hell do women have of being given anything easily? If there are men out there who still feel that a man has a right to hit his wife (after all, she must have provoked him), what hope do we have of equal rights in the workplace and abortion on demand?

On Friday an alarming statistic came to light. 1 in 4 women will be victims of domestic violence during their lifetime. Also, two women a week are murdered by their partners. You’d think this would be front-page news, right? I mean, this is news, isn’t it? Wrong. It was tucked away on page 25 of the Evening Standard, presumably so as not to upset people. I am baffled by this. If new research had shown that 1 in 4 schoolchildren experienced violence at school, or 1 in 4 pets was beaten, there would be a national outcry. So why isn’t there? Part of me believes that people just find the whole subject of domestic violence uncomfortable, and would prefer to ignore it: if it’s not happening to me, or if I’m not battering my partner, then there’s nothing more I can do. Domestic violence is still seen as ‘one of those things’, a ‘fact of life’.

Amnesty International has launched a new campaign to stop domestic violence. One of the spokespeople is Star Trek actor Patrick Stewart, whose father beat his mother. He said ‘I saw the self-loathing of my father, due to his inability to control his violent outbursts. I saw society, police, doctors and neighbours conspire to hide the abuse with comments like “She must have provoked him” and “It takes two to make an argument”. Violence must be controlled. If you fail to raise your hand in protest, you are part of the problem.’

Today is international Women’s Day.

Booky

For a long time I wanted to read Das Boot cos I really thought it was about footwear. When I discovered it was some rotten old wartime drama I crossed it off my list, quicksmart.

I reserved a book at my local library and went to pick it up last night. I think if the librarian had owned a pair of giant tweezers, she’d have used them to pass me the copy of Backlash: The Undeclared War Against Women. She eyed me sniffily, obviously having pegged me as a man-hater and probable lesbian. I just smiled sweetly.

Went to the London Transport museum at lunch, to look at postcards. Got some lovely 1930s ones (have you seen the new ads on London buses? They are all Deco and angular and have taglines like ‘Faster Through the Mighty Metropolis’ and ‘Safe Beneath the Watchful Eyes’), and will put them by my desk to cheer me every time I see them.

Stopped in at H&M on the way to the LT museum. Was not planning to, but the fake vintage dresses in the window lured me in… God, but I could have spent £200 in there. And that would have bought me a new wardrobe. But as I was being good I strolled around pretending to be unimpressed, telling myself ‘Oh, I can live without that’ while my subconscious screamed ‘No you can’t! If you owned that canary yellow short jacket with the round collar and ruched pockets, your life would be complete, you fool! Buy it! And the black woven cloche hat for £5!’ Well thank Christ my subconscious doesn’t control the purse strings. I escaped, poorer in style but richer in money. Yeah, great. As Steve is quick to remind me, ‘You can’t eat a pair of shoes.’ True, but you can’t wear a ham sandwich.

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.