Yesterday I found the holy grail: a shop selling boots which fit my legs. Every winter I go through the same thing: trawling the high street, cramming myself into boots that zip up to the ankle and no further… it’s demoralising and depressing. But at Wow Retro (yeah, I know) the shelves are lined with eighties boots, the sort of boot I love and that you can buy nowhere: wide, buckety calf (sadly I think they’re supposed to slouch and bag around the ankle: mine cling like limpets), softly rounded but pointy toe, chunky 1.5”-2” heel. And they’re all under £45. I realise they were most likely bought in charity shops for a fiver, but as a working lady sadly I do not have the time to search every Oxfam in southern England. But the Fatted Calf (TM Steve) on Mercer Street has the perfect boots.

Last night I dreamed Jeff Buckley came over to my house to do a gig. The sleeping mind cares not that Buckley Jr. is dead, only that he is hott. In the dream Jeff wasn’t very impressed that the show I’d booked for him was taking place in my living room and would be watched by under a dozen people.

First day of my new job, and it’s pretty scary! I walked to work though, which took under half an hour, and although I nearly got blown off Waterloo Bridge and arrived looking like Little Richard, at least I get my daily exercise. I entered the building and told the security guards I was starting work today. One asked ‘How long for?’ While his interest in my long-term career plans was touching, the question came as quite a surprise. ‘A year or two?’ I replied. ‘Oh, sorry, I thought you were a temp.’ Great. Note to self: wear power suit tomorrow.

Oh well that's annoying. I just posted the same thing twice. Blogger is being very naughty...

Clothing dilemmas

Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.

Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.

Clothing dilemmas

Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.

Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.

Fab snippets overheard (and donated… thank you, Kyle)

‘Every single one of my friends who’s said that has got pregnant within a year!’ (Said what, for the love of God?! I don’t want to accidentally say ‘it’!)

‘Ever since I started taking the hormones, I’ve been randy as a man!’ (Ageing dowager at the Chelsea Arts Club)

‘The best thing about working with blind people was that you could do this [Rik Mayall-esque v-signs and face-pulling] to their faces and they didn’t know.’ (I’m sure this wasn’t ‘the best thing’, but it would certainly be pretty funny.)

ARGOS YOU FUCKING SUCK. My closest branch of Argos, in their pikey wisdom, have decide that rather than have any catalogues a person can, you know, take away with them, and peruse at their leisure, ideally with a cup of tea, while lounging on a sofa and watching rubbish telly with one eye, it would be far better to laminate every available catalogue and chain it to a podium. Well no thank you, Argos. I did want to buy a dust buster-type thingy, but now I’ll take my business elsewhere. (Robert Dyas, probably. So there.)

In other news, I narrowly avoided giving myself a hernia changing the water cooler bottle. There was no one around to ask for help, so I weighed things up: undoing the work of my osteopath Vs dehydration-induced headache? The need to drink won out.

Great thing of the day: Therese sent me a birthday package! It is full of vintage 70s pillow cases and beautiful vintage Diane von Furstenberg scarves, sun dresses and Carmex, fashion magazines, a milk frother, a beautiful diamante choker/necklace, triple-choc Kit Kats, a polka dot blouse and other delights… Wish I could hibernate for a week!

I am working on a book which contains the words ‘after a final bout of defecation…’. Someone please kill me.

An honest idiot

Today I found £40 in the street. There were two people walking ahead of me, but as the man had crossed the road and was walking away, I followed the woman. At this point I will add that I was not thinking: had I been thinking I would not have offered a total stranger money which was BLATANTLY not hers. I am a fucking idiot. She took the money, and was very pleased to see it (yeah, cos it was like a little gift!), and as soon as the words ‘Did you just drop some money?’ left my mouth I knew I’d got the wrong person, and the money was the man’s, and not hers. She hesitated, and smiled, and said, ‘Yes, I think I may have.’ Right then I should have said ‘Maybe I dropped it’ and run away, but no, I am an idiot so I handed over £40 which I could have used to help the people of Sudan/pay off some of my credit card/buy clothing/get groceries.

Am so mad at myself. And it’s dumb, because I haven’t lost any money. But I feel worse: feel like I’ve found money, and then given it to a total stranger. Like I said, fucking idiot. I’m already kicking myself, but feel free to wait your turn. Ach.

And all that jizz about karma isn't making me feel any better, let me tell you.

Some of our readers are incarcerated

Today at work we got a postcard from a guest at the South Bay Correctional Facility. Woo hoo!

Weekend was ok. Spent nearly two days working, which was not fun, and about one day drinking in the afternoon, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and baking bread, which was. Made rosemary and garlic focaccia, and as the main ingredient was a 56p packet of bread mix, I am a convert to home baking. It was cheap and tasty, and full of garlicky goodness! Went to a jumble sale with Tim on Monday, and even though we got there before it opened, there was a queue of about 60 people already waiting to get in! Ruddy vultures. I couldn’t get near the clothing tables. And when I did I regretted it… soiled children’s knickerbockers; old, threadbare trousers and unidentifiable rags seemed to be in the majority.

Seeing as I have a swanky new job and am now a proper career woman, it may be time to start dressing like one. So I went to H&M today and bought a pair of brown cords, a maroon 70s jumper, and a pale blue knitted hat. Hey, it’s a start: today I am wearing jeans, old Converse and a blue T-shirt. Am being mistaken for the work experience kid again.

Anyone seen Ny/Lon, the groovy transatlantic romance Channel 4 has been trailing like mad for the past few weeks? I haven’t: the ads were enough to turn me off. Why do TV execs persist in making programmes where the hero, who presumably all the ladies are supposed to fancy, is so damn ugly? Posh, smug, crickly-eyed and with stupid hair: just because most men who work in TV look like this, doesn’t mean it’s attractive. Miles Davenport is the poster boy for this look, although thankfully he does not appear. The woman in the show (the ‘Ny’ half of the duo) is equally annoying, coming across as one-dimensional and prissy: twice in the trailer we hear her whining about ‘not being a crazy person’ and not doing ‘impulsive things’. Presumably sleeping with Americans is a crazy thing; I won’t comment on that one.

Other stuff: my sister is still being detained in Tel Aviv after flying to Israel two weeks ago. It’s a pretty complex case (her basic argument is that as a journalist she has a right to report the truth as she sees it. Israel’s argument is that she’s a left-wing activist and biased, and now they’re saying that she may ‘accidentally get involved with Palestinian terrorists’. Um, ok. Here’s an article on the case.

So that’s taking up most of my attention span today, and I can’t concentrate on anything else. I called the detention centre where Ewa’s being held, and wasn’t allowed to speak to her.

Yesterday was an odd mix of tearful trauma and free wine. In the morning I paid a visit to the British School of Osteopathy for back-crackin’ thrills. I’d read that a visit to the O requires stripping (at 10am! Really!), but when getting ready that morning I hadn’t taken the time to really think about this. So my legs were hairy, everywhere else was, as usual, hairy, and I was wearing bad mismatched underwear. Also, thank you God, I had my period. I had requested a female med student, as the last time any guy except Steve saw me in my pants was in 2002. But there were TWO students, one male and one female, and there was fluorescent strip lighting and there was me, with sock indentations on my ankles. Not only was I made to strip, I was made to bend and stretch. The only funny part was when I bent over to touch my toes and, as if on cue, a bus on Borough High Street exhaled noisily. Har. Then I had to lie on a couch and a doctor came in and prodded me and felt my neck and then got me in a headlock and my neck made loud cracking noises. Call me strange, but I believe the neck is one of those body parts that should be seen and not heard. Silent neck = good neck. Loud, cracking neck = crying and pain. I am going back next week, but have requested they hold off the wrestling moves and just use massage instead.

But the evening made everything better. Went to the launch/exhibition to accompany this book, and there were nice people (and some silly hipsters) and free booze, and a very wonderful vintage store next door having a huge sale. Gorgeous 40s dresses were marked down from £40 to a tenner, but sadly I am not built for fitted clothing: compared to 40s ladies I am tube-shaped. I always thought I had a waist; apparently I was wrong. Anyway, this didn’t stop me from spending twenty minutes rubbing my sweaty face over the dresses as I tried in vain to pull them over my head.

Things I am loving today

The film Charade, for Audrey Hepburn’s outfits, the many red herrings, and Paris in the sixties

Watching the above film on Sunday afternoon while eating chocolate tart and raspberries and drinking red wine

The amazing CD Rachel made me, with dozens of tracks that would be perfect for the Actionettes to dance to

My new shoes from Office. Brown, flat, slightly 1930s, and very comfy. Tempted to buy three more pairs

Property websites. Just found a great one for south-east London

Things I am hating today

The bike courier who missed me by a centimetre (yes, I was a foot off the curb, but the bastard swerved towards me) and the white-van driver who called me a ‘stupid cow’ cos I hesitated five seconds before crossing the street. I’m sure all the people lazily watching the event were surprised to hear the words FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!! Coming from the mouth of a demure-looking lady wearing pearls and a 50s skirt. Or maybe they are used to it, in Covent Garden. Sadly I am used to idiot drivers trying to kill me every day.

Star spotting in SE11!

Steve was out in the world over the weekend while I was lolling about at home feeling crook, and he saw loads of celebs! Rachel Stevens in Tesco! Laughing with two girlfriends and wearing lots of makeup! Apparently she is very thin in real life, but Steve neglected to peer into her basket and see what she was buying.

Also! Charles Kennedy, leader of the Lib Dems, watering his front garden, which happens to be attached to one of the vast Georgian houses around the corner from me! Wow.

Wednesday night was a glittering evening of sparkles, diamante-studded velvet booths, and mini-burgers. Heaven! The Actionettes had been asked to dance at a party for this amazing lady. Barbara Ruskin had some success in the 60s, and her early records are apparently now changing hands for $100. She’s just released a new CD, and the party was, I think, a celebration of that. All her friends and family were there, and it was an honour to be invited to dance. We were supposed to be a surprise, but the jig was up when we arrived to rehearse only to find that Ms Ruskin was there too, tuning her guitar and soundchecking! She was very surprised to see us, though, and when her daughter explained who we were and why we were there, she seemed very happy. The high point of the evening was performing a dance to one of her songs, while she sang it. And there was free booze for all (a good thing, as beers cost £4, wine £4.50 and a double spirit and mixer was a whopping £10), and mini-burgers, roasted vegetable wraps, and chips in tiny newspaper cones. I had borrowed a dress from the very chic Miss Roulette, and although it fit when I put it on, after a few hastily scoffed canapés and a couple of glasses of wine I was having trouble breathing. These fifties frocks may look good but they don’t give an inch…

Friday morning I was dozing in bed when I turned my head to the right and heard a crunchy, grinding noise. It was the sound of a muscle in my neck doing something it wasn’t supposed to, and it hurt a lot, and I couldn’t move my head at all. Steve called NHS Direct and gave me paracetamol and coffee and breakfast. I hobbled around the house with my head tilted at a coy angle, because to hold it in any other position was either impossible or agonisingly painful. We both called in sick to work, and Steve went to the doctor with me. I was told to take lots of ibuprofen and not move around too much. Doc said it had probably been on the cards for a while, and now that I’m at work again I can see that the way I sit at my desk may have something to do with it.
Although I had to cancel all Friday plans, I didn’t want to cry off Saturday night dinner and cocktails chez moi with K and A. There was food. There were Kir Royales. There was a liqueur I bought in Bruges called De Klok, and it was drunk. I had a very nice night, despite having a panic attack early in the evening when I realised that K&A thought I was having a cocktail party with lots of guests, instead of a dinner thing with just them.

Some good news

I have a new job, with a swanky managerial-sounding title, more money, and more challenging work. Bad news is that, because my boss helped me get the job, she thinks that I owe her and is making my last month a living hell of menial, non-work-related, tasks. And I can’t complain. I guess we do what we have to in our efforts to claw our way up the career ladder. Now where did I put that vacuum cleaner?

There are about two weeks of the year when my job is so unbelievably dull and slow that it’s all I can do not to call in sick. If I wanted to sleep all day, I’d rather do it in my bed.

Today I have: looked on eBay a lot; read magazines; popped out for fruit yet mysteriously returned with half a Mars ice-cream bar in my hand and caramel smeared on my face. The only stressy part of my day was when a set of page proofs appeared on my desk from out of nowhere* and I had to scrabble around writing letters and filling out bike courier request forms. Now it is slack time again.

Yesterday I had a lovely evening out for only £2! True. Went to the secret sushi place (don’t even ask where it is, I am never telling you, ever, it’s my secret!) and got 10 pieces of tuna roll for £2. Sat in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then tried to find the Old Curiosity Shop, but couldn’t. We ended up on Kingsway and as we approached Bush House we heard Indian music (what sort? Couldn’t tell you. A guy hitting bongos fast, some sort of jingly music). There were dancers in the courtyard, dancing in the fountains (which were on), and not very many people had showed up to watch them, but it was very lovely. As I was walking home I happened to notice that every homeless person in Lambeth was out stumbling around, asking for change for a cup of crack tea, or arguing with a fellow homeless person in the street. The hoodlums in my neighbourhood were enjoying the mellow weather, too: I took a different route to avoid two arguing hobos, only to happen upon three adolescent boys (one about 11 years old, riding bike, one wearing basketball vest, foot-high afro, one wearing hood even though it was 85 degrees). As I passed them I overheard the kid on the bike saying ‘Yeah, well, that kid owes me money. I need to get the money back.’ What? Who owes you money, Mr 11-year-old? Your mum’s late with your allowance? I thought it was quite funny that someone whose voice hadn’t yet broken had debtors already.



*from the production dept, who gave me a month’s notice on the proofs’ arrival

Work is pretty slow today. I have things I could do (write rejection letters, do some filing, tidy my desk), but I don’t feel like doing any of them.

Last night we had a rehearsal for the summer club, but at the moment we’re not sure if it’s even going ahead, as the Water Rats double booked us (even though we booked in 2003…). They’re not even acting like they’ve done anything wrong, either.

Nothing really to say, so here are some links:

The symbol of Poland now has it’s own website! Send someone a bison e-card today.

http://www.zubry.com/ has all you need to know about our shaggy pals.

I am looking forward to my trip to Poland, as I want to explore the primeval forest (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) and view the wolves, deer, birds and, yes, bison.

This was actually written on Friday, but Blogger has been playing up...

It’s still hotter than hell. Last night I could not face cooking, so dinner was a salad and water. Then a cold shower, and hiding in my bedroom, the only part of my flat where the temperature was under 30 degrees. There was no breeze, and as my bedroom window only opens four inches, it was pretty grotty. BUT great news is that I got a letter from Tesco and a £10 voucher! The letter acknowledged my trauma at finding a dingleberry in my quiche, and my blood ran cold (which made a nice change that evening) at the sentence ‘We could not identify the item, so we have sent it to our laboratory for testing.’ Eeeeeeerrrk.

Thanks to Therese for this great article. Germaine Greer isn’t my favourite polemicist, but she makes some interesting points about the Catholic church’s refusal to see women as anything other than wives and mothers, or potential wives and mothers.

Tonight I am looking forward to lots of food and various vodka-based cocktails at a Polish colleague’s house. Apparently she is a great cook (every Christmas she invites her department round for a giant traditional Christmas feed), so I am bringing gifts: a bottle of Zubrowka and an empty stomach.

It’s still hotter than hell. Last night I could not face cooking, so dinner was a salad and water. Then a cold shower, and hiding in my bedroom, the only part of my flat where the temperature was under 30 degrees. There was no breeze, and as my bedroom window only opens four inches, it was pretty grotty. BUT great news is that I got a letter from Tesco and a £10 voucher! The letter acknowledged my trauma at finding a dingleberry in my quiche, and my blood ran cold (which made a nice change that evening) at the sentence ‘We could not identify the item, so we have sent it to our laboratory for testing.’ Eeeeeeerrrk.

Thanks to Therese for this great article. Germaine Greer isn’t my favourite polemicist, but she makes some interesting points about the Catholic church’s refusal to see women as anything other than wives and mothers, or potential wives and mothers.

Tonight I am looking forward to lots of food and various vodka-based cocktails at a Polish colleague’s house. Apparently she is a great cook (every Christmas she invites her department round for a giant traditional Christmas feed), so I am bringing gifts: a bottle of Zubrowka and an empty stomach.

I wrote the entry below last week but have been too lazy/busy (pick one) to post it until now. Also, today I am oversalted: just ate loads of taramasalata and now heart is beating a bit funny and feel like I need to run around the block a few times to calm myself.

Reasons I don’t want to stay over at Steve’s (sorry my love)

Shower has only three settings: freezing, icy cold; hot enough to brew coffee; off.

Bathroom is home to all manner of weird, tropical creatures: centimetre-long flying ants and large black moths.

More moths have set up housekeeping in the kitchen (we think that’s their real home, and they venture to the bathroom every night for a wash, and that’s where we find them and KILL THEM! Ahahahahaha.)

It’s just too damn far away, compared to my place.

OK now here’s the really old post…

More surreality:

Walking down Shelton Street past a building site and hearing a builder singing ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina’.

Going to Cybercandy, the shop which boasts of stocking sweets from all over the world, and seeing Twinkies on sale for £1.46. FOR ONE.

Toda I am so tired I feel like crying. Feel dizzy, haggard, and cannot form a coherent sentence. Last night I was out late again, working on the door of a friend’s club night. It was pretty busy, but it reminded me too much of the crappy jobs I took when I was 21, and not in a good way. I am glad that I don’t have to work with the public any more, and I am glad I have a job where I can use my brain. And I am especially glad my day job doesn’t involve being harassed by evil homeless guys who yell at me, and as there is no bouncer and the club is downstairs behind a closed door no one can come to my aid, and I can’t go anywhere cos I can’t leave the door unattended, so I just have to sit there and pray they leave. I finished at about 11.30 and went to Tesco for a few groceries. Got in at 12 and ate, set up my new Britta water filter (set to become a family heirloom. I love it), and then lay in bed reading this, the best book in the world. Well, truly, anything by Cynthia Heimel is the best book in the world, as she is a goddess. If President Kerry (fingers crossed) is looking for an advisor on women, he should look no further than Ms Heimel.

IT'S THE 100TH POST! HANG OUT THE BUNTING!

Not sure how to commemorate this momentus occasion, if at all... Um, I am at my desk, and it smells like old bananas. Because there is an old banana skin in the bin. It's been annoying me all day, but not enough to actually do something about it.

So once more I am flirting with the idea of going freelance. In weighing up the pros and cons I have discovered some things about my character: namely that I like routine. I like having plans for the day, and having nothing to do fills me with dread. I wonder if working from home would just be an opportunity to go slowly mad… My main worries are actually to do with things like tax, claiming expenses (i.e. phone calls to clients, water rates (for some reason when I am at home I need to wee about every half hour), electricity etc.), and late payment. I know from working with freelancers that it doesn’t matter if I take their invoice to accounts as soon as I get it; they may still get paid over a month later. And as someone who has no savings but does have huge debts, the thought of not being able to pay my mortgage fills me with horror. And keeps me working for The Man! If anyone can offer me advice about the realities of freelancing, I would be most grateful.

Speaking of going slowly mad, I really thought I had entered an alternate universe on Saturday afternoon, in the Kennington branch of my beloved Tesco. I was searching for meringues with which to make strawberry and meringue ice-cream, but where to look for them? They’re not a cake, and not a biscuit or snack: after a brief search I asked a member of staff. He looked at me blankly ‘What? What’s that? [describe basic structure and appearance of a meringue] Nah, never heard of it. Wait, I’ll ask him.’ [Goes to ask other member of staff, who looks at me like I am a pervert, and similarly has never heard of a meringue, and has no concept of what it might be.] I try explaining what a meringue is to a third member of staff, thinking it may jog his memory. ‘You know, it’s a dessert made of sugar and egg whites.’ ‘A cake?’ ‘No, not a cake. A… thing.’ He goes to ask his manager (who probably has a red button with a direct line to the police station under her desk for precisely these sorts of queries) and comes back saying that they might possibly be past the jams. We go to look. Past the jams are sugar and baking ingredients. I give up, and I make the ice-cream with just strawberries, and it’s still delicious.

On Emerald’s recommendation, I just went to see this at the National Portrait Gallery, and it was fab. One of the highlights was a short film of Penelope Chatwode floating across a river in the Himalayas on an inflated buffalo (I think) skin. Wow.

Great songs I am listening to at work!

Eggs – The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players
I’m On Nights – Richard Hawley
The District Sleeps Alone – The Postal Service
And many other fine songs from the Rough Trade best of 2003 compilation (CD1; haven’t listened to CD2 yet).

Dear Sir or Madam,

I have been a Tesco customer for many years, and now shop almost exclusively with you, as Tesco is my nearest supermarket. But yesterday I was horrified to find the enclosed item in my salmon and broccoli quiche. I’m not sure what it is, but am fairly certain that it wasn’t supposed to be in food. I also enclose the receipt. I would, at the very least, like a refund on this item.

This is the letter I sent to Tesco after finding what looked like a small dread of sweater fluff in my dinner last night… it was so nasty I couldn’t eat the rest of the quiche, so dinner consisted of a tomato, some strawberries and a handful of crisps.

Plans for the weekend: Sunday is Routemaster 50, a celebration of the king of buses, in Finsbury Park. RMs are a dying breed, and by 2007 they will have disappeared entirely from London’s streets, with the exception of a ‘heritage route’, presumably for tourists/saddoes like me.

Wednesday night Steve, Tim, Andy, Xaun and I went to see the Schla La Las and Holly Golightly at the Windmill, an initially somewhat terrifying estate pub in Brixton. It was ok, but I felt the best thing about the Schla La Las was their matching dresses and red handbags… I liked what they were doing, but I just didn’t think they were doing it very well… After about three of Holly’s songs we left, for a variety of reasons: 1) to escape Holly’s caterwauling 2) the fashion victims next to us (very thin, wearing lots of layers of chiffon/lace/sequins/oilskin/bacofoil, standing pigeon-toed in 80s shoes) were beginning to piss me off and 3) thought I was going to brain the guy who had parked his six-foot frame in front of me to take pictures of Holly. As I am 5 "4 on a good day, I am sure my head wouldn’t have found it’s way into the viewfinder if he had stood behind me. But I guess you and I know that chivalry, etiquette and plain good manners are long dead on the gig circuit.

This weather makes me want to sit in a beer garden. Sadly my local boozers (the Dog & Handgun, the Knife & Throat and the Ferret & Crackpipe) don’t really have any nice outside space. One has a sort-of beer garden (few wooden picnic tables on Kennington Road) where at least I can watch the 159s sail past in all their curvaceous majesty.

What I did on my sabbatical

By Ilona Jasiewicz, aged 29

Paddled in the sea at Broadstairs and visited Bleak House
Had a champagne, cherries and salade nicoise birthday picnic in Green Park
Went to the Science museum to see a great exhibition about domestic machines: if 1950s TV ads for refrigerators and washing machines are your thing, you ought to check it out
Went to the Museum of London to see the 1920s exhibition: predictions for the future were particularly funny and inaccurate
Ate gin and tonic jellies which had frozen bubbles in them and made me very drunk very quickly
Visited Bruges where I took a boat ride and ate fondue
Explored the extraordinary shell grotto in a scuzzy part of Margate
Went to Dreamland to ride the only roller coaster to be grade II listed, but it was closed
Went to Ladyfest Birmingham with the Actionettes on my birthday!

Yesterday was an odd day. Three good things and three bad things. Good: free bus ride to work (sat on the top deck and pretended to be asleep. Works every time.); very nice falafel for lunch; discovered fab frozen yoghurt place near work. Bad: caught the heel of my shoe in a hole in middle of a street I was crossing: stepped out of my shoe and realised I’d left it behind, and had to retrieve it. If there had been any cars I would have been hit. Also bad: a pigeon in Covent Garden Piazza swooped low over my head and brushed my hair with its foul claws and wings. I shrieked. Worst of all: while making dinner I dropped an 8" kitchen knife point-first on my bare toe. Lots of blood and faintness ensued, until cold water and a plaster were administered, and I lay on the couch all night while Steve made dinner, washed up, brought me drinks etc. etc.

Lordy, it's been ages. I am on sabattical from work (basically I have a month off, paid), and as I don't have a computer at home I am stranded. Can't access any good sites from the shared pcs at the library: Blogger, eBay, and all property websites are blocked. This is why Sunday night sees me at the office, surreptitiously checking job listings, drooling over nice flats, and updating this thing.

I have been having a fine old time of late. Just got back from Ladyfest Birmingham, where the Actionettes (pics of recent shows are on the site now!) did a workshop and then a performance in the evening. Apparently the band on after us (who were headlining) were worried we stole the show. Yay! Yesterday was my birthday, and two of the ladies baked (or, in Maddy's case, steamed), cakes. The train journey to Birmingham was enlivened by cava drunk from 'Top of the Pops' paper cups and amazing cake. Steve served as chief cava-opener, and carried my bags. All very good.

Went to Bruges with my sister last week, too. Three days of walking in circles (her sense of direction and map-reading skills are nearly as bad as mine, which generally consist of 'we need to find that road that had a nice dog standing on the corner and a house with a blue door' etc); drinking 9% beer and consequently going a bit funny; and eating chocolate every few hours. Stayed in a fab converted townhouse, and got upgraded to a family room/suite thingy, as our room hadn't been cleaned when we checked in.

Back at work next week, so check back for tales of me plotting to commit hari-kiri on my boss's desk, vodka shots at 11am (to make the pain go away!), and further frantic attempts at finding a new job.

The kitchen at work has moved. It used to occupy a corner room, with a view of theatres and The Ivy, and of, well, sky. Most of the people on my floor see no sunlight from their desks, and as the kitchen was clearly taking up a slice of desirable, prime space, it’s now being converted into an office, so that the view of theatres, The Ivy, and sky can be enjoyed by not thirty people, but one.

New office kitchen is still a hellish mess. The builders put in one socket, so the kettle lives on the floor, there is no fridge or microwave, and no hot water. Contents of new, hobo-themed kitchen: gummy jar or Marmite, tin of tuna, can of Castlemaine XXXX, giant bouquet of flowers. Some bitch at my work is always getting giant bouquets of flowers, and it has never, in two and a half years, been me.

Do dreams really come true?

Very Big Author is most unhappy with some proofs of his new book I sent him. Very Big Author has gone as far as to call the managing director of the company, and tell him how unhappy he is with them (well, why on earth would he talk to me? I am only the person who’s been working on the book and sending him proofs, after all). My fantasy has two parts: one, I talk to VBA and, sighing sadly, admit to him that, actually, I really don’t give a hoot about his stupid book, and if he’s not happy with how it looks maybe he should have delivered several months ago, as his contract stated, rather than so late that we all have to rush to get it set in time. Part two: VBA is outraged, and calls for my head on a plate or, health and safety laws being what they are, that I be fired. After much deliberation, the company reluctantly fires me to appease him, and I of course get a giant settlement because they feel so guilty.

Let’s place bets. Do you think I can goad him into it?

The smelliest street in London

No, it’s not Leicester Square at 4am on a Saturday. It’s not Brixton Market on a hot day, after all the stalls have closed and the bin men haven’t been round yet. It’s not even a mile within the radius of Camden Town tube! The smelliest street in London is St. Martin’s Lane. It always smells bad, but it smells worst in the morning, when it is either hot or raining. It’s that smell I associate with the third day of a festival, when everyone smells beyond sweaty, like melted ice-creams and stale beer.

Friday night Kara and Anamik were celebrating their lovely new house, by inviting all their friends over to trash it. They live in Hackney, and generally I’m scared of Hackney, but their place is very nice and I wish I lived there. It has dark wood shutters and floors and amazing 60s/70s furniture they got cheap. I plan to steal all their decorating tips for my next home.

Work is bums this week, and there is too much to do, so much that I haven’t had time to read Mimi, or look for vintage fabric on eBay, or barely check my Hotmail, or find a new flat. These are all things I like to do every day, at least once a day, and as I am on leave for the next month I have no idea how I’ll do them, as I have no computer at home. Maybe will buy a computer with my next paycheque and live off Supernoodles and toast until August.

Did drag Amy Lou to H&M today, though. I got a lovely bag for Therese (details are scant as she reads this blog), a woven gold belt (100% pure, all-natural polyurethane!), and a white headband for my debut on Saturday.

Went to Baltic a couple of weeks ago for my sister’s birthday drinks. The list of cocktails is truly awe-inspiring, and I was briefly tempted by a Cracow 75, before settling on a Billie Jean. ’75 is the year I was born, but in Tooting rather than the World Heritage site that is Krakow (to give it its proper name). After discussion, Steve and I decided a Tooting 75 would probably comprise: 1 part Mad Dog 20/20, 1 part Tennant’s Extra, topped with Lambrusco and garnished with chicken bones and a wad of gum on the side of the glass.

Went to Emerald’s birthday drinks on Sunday, in Brockwell Park. It was lovely: I’ve never been to that park and it was like being on a village green or something. If you looked in a certain direction all you could see over the crest of the hill was a church spire . . . who’d have thought Brixton was mere steps away? After some wine I toddled off home, stopping for an ice-cream in my local shop. A young woman was there, wearing a small, pale Siamese cat draped over her shoulder. Trying very hard to sound sober, I said ‘That’s just the prettiest cat!’ She looked at me funny and I think in my slightly intoxicated state (damn Emerald and her violet liqueur!) my words actually came out as ‘I want to eat your cat. Mmmm, tasty. Where do you live?’

A horrible thing happened on Saturday morning. I was eating my cornflakes when I became aware of terrified screams coming from one of the tower blocks I live in the shadow of. After about a minute, the screaming hadn’t stopped. It was punctuated by very angry shouting. Now, to give you some idea of how loud this was: I was sitting in my living room, and the tower blocks are about 100 metres away. So I grabbed my phone and keys and ran to the estate, trying to decipher which building the screams were (still) coming from. Once I thought I knew, I called 999 and a police car was on the scene within a few minutes (unlike in Mike’s case . . . ). The police seemed very eager to talk to a young couple looking very upset and standing outside the doorway of the block. I do not think they were the people I heard, as from the sounds I heard I did not think the woman doing the screaming would be able to walk, much less look composed and talk to the police. I stood outside the block for a few minutes, shaking and trying not to cry, and then I went home.

At home, I listened for another siren, assuming an ambulance would follow, but there was nothing. So I thought the screaming woman was dead. I mean, do you know what five minutes of screaming sounds like? And anyone can tell the difference between ‘stop tickling me’ screaming or ‘what a scary film’ screaming and ‘I think he’s going to kill me’ screaming. And what I heard was definitely the last one. After a few hours of trying to read and crying and not think about it, I called my local police station to find out what had happened, figuring that, as I made the 999 call, I had a right to know. The man I was put through to scrolled through his incident log. ‘When the police got there the situation was over. The woman didn’t want to press charges, so they left.’ he sounded satisfied, even smug. So I guess what I learned on Saturday morning was:
1) You can’t help someone unless they want to help themselves and
2) To mind my own fucking business
3) That the police really don't seem too bothered to tackle the domestive violence epidemic in England (with two women a week killed by their partners, I think I can call it an epidemic without being alarmist)

Walked to work today, and feel like I’m going to pass out. Am I really so unfit? Probably. But after last night’s Actionettes rehearsal, I was still hepped up and full of swingin’ dance energy, so I put my Actionettes CD on and bopped across the river. When I got to Westminster I noticed that there were people sitting in parks listening to headphones. Walking along listening to headphones. Glancing around, while listening to headphones. I came to the logical conclusion that they were all spies, and not listening to music at all, but being fed information about dodgy-looking folk loitering near the Houses of Parliament. I considered pausing at the entrance to Downing Street, surveying the skies in a frowny manner, and muttering into my watch, but I didn’t much fancy the thought of spending all day at the police station. Although at least I wouldn’t have had to come to work, where it is busy and I am bugged all day by fools.

Gross

My arms felt all greasy, so I scrubbed at them with some toilet paper. The paper came away grey with dirt. As my walk to work is almost entirely along traffic-clogged main roads, this shouldn’t surprise me, but it’s still pretty foul to realise that your skin is covered in exhaust from idling cars.

A few weeks ago me and Steve went to Brussels for a long weekend. It was one of the nicest holidays I’ve ever had, as it was cheap, swanky, and we travelled by train. OK, so it wasn’t the Orient Express or the trippy and fantastic Budapest Children’s Railway (I think the drivers are out of their teens, but the conductors and station staff are all under 16), but now that flying has become so time-consuming and crap, the train is for me.

Also, we stayed at the Hilton, and it was sexy in that way only large, business-y hotels are. Sort of impersonal, and lots of gold and glass and ornate lifts. We were amazed they actually let us in, and every time we passed the doorman and entered the lobby, we’d whisper ‘keep walking… they didn’t see us yet’ to each other, and scurry to our room, where we would breathe a sigh of relief and laugh gleefully at having been allowed to stay in a place we obviously could not afford.

Saw the twins last week. At two and a half, they are chatty and smiley, and I was pleased to see that they are upholding the Jasiewicz tradition of taking off their trousers in the evening, the more comfortably to watch TV and let their dinner digest.

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.