I wanted to write something about Andy, whose funeral is this afternoon, but everything I have to say sounds weird and silly. Rachel said it well at Pamzine (see the link in the sidebar). I will say that his death – and the accident that caused it – was a horrible shock. He was a popular person, and I saw him at lots of events we both attended: gigs, clubs, book group, fundraisers. He was a passionate, curious, questioning, funny, principled man. The Pamzine ladies summed up exactly how I felt: that the world needs a lot more people like him. He will be very much missed.

Tormentas!

That’s the weather forecast for Bilbao on Monday. Luckily the tormentas! (illustrated by a large grey cloud, fat raindrops and daggers of yellow lightning) should pass by Tuesday, when all should be scorchio! again.

On Friday night I went to see Salt of the Earth, a 1950s film made by blacklisted actors, writers and crew, at UCL. It’s about a miners’ strike in New Mexico, which the women take over and hold the picket line despite being repeatedly gassed and threatened. It’s based on real events, too. And for anyone who thinks (as I did) that feminism died in the 1920s and wasn’t resuscitated until the late 60s, this film comes as a pleasant surprise. The story behind it is fascinating, too: ultra conservatives such as Howard Hughes did everything they could to stop it being made, including banning labs from processing the film. Hence the final cut jumps around a bit, and the colour and sound varies from scene to scene, because the film was processed and edited in bits before being pieced together.

After the screening we wandered the halls of UCL, and took a peek at Jeremy Bentham. I did not know that Mr Bentham still attends all university meetings, despite the fact that he died in 1832. His cadaver, per his instructions, was dissected, embalmed, dressed, and placed in a chair, and to this day resides in a cabinet in a corridor of the main building of University College (from http://www.iep.utm.edu/b/bentham.htm). Sadly Mr Bentham’s chamber does not have glass doors, so we didn’t get a look at him. But just knowing he’s there is scary enough.

We rounded the evening off with fat chips from Rock & Sole Plaice, and teacups of wine at Irene’s flat.

Dr Rachel L, where are you? Have you moved to New Haven yet?

There’s a guy I work with who has a Dr Hibbert laugh. I mean, really a Dr Hibbert laugh. And he’s an old, big, bearded, upper-class white guy. He looks like Father Christmas, too.

Went to the Imperial War Museum photo archive today, and looked at over 6,000 pictures from WW1. The library assistant wasn’t exactly unhelpful, but she didn’t go out of her way to make my search easier, either. I was looking for something quite specific: a photo of two or three British soldiers, standing, and the pic had to have emotion, dirt, mud. The librarian suggested I start with the ‘civilians’ file, and after flicking through dozens of sepia images of soldiers picking grapes, flirting with local women, and milking cows, I realized I’d be better off looking for blood ‘n’ guts elsewhere – like in the files marked ‘battles’! Still, I came away with about twenty good shots. Hopefully Intense Author (who declared our original – and our revised – cover ‘awful; absolute shit’) will like one of them.

£100 poorer

Yes. Last night I locked myself out, and two hours and £100 later I was back in. After kicking myself, I tried to look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t raining. At least the locksmith didn’t need to put in a new lock. At least I wasn’t in my underwear.

But then I kept thinking of all the stuff I could have spent £100 on. A flight to Poland, or Seville, or a trip to Bruges. A massage and/or a facial for my 30th birthday. Some new shoes and a dress. Solicitor’s fees and estate agents fees for when (if) we move. Fuck. This is really making me sad.

I can’t afford to eat this well.

On Monday: a brown rice, lentil, roast aubergine salad with a garlic and oil dressing, and a new potato, baby asparagus, red onion and parmesan salad with a creamy hollandaise dip (which is so delicious I could drink it from a mug). And a bar of Green & Black’s organic dark chocolate.

Today: Kastner & Ovens stung me again. £4.15 for a small salad and an apricot and almond* slice.

* which I pronounce Al-mond, like in ‘You can call me Al’, rather than All-mond. Cos I don’t know any better.

Stressy co-worker is annoying me. He overreacts to everything. Lots of swearing. Heavy sighs. Animatedly throwing things around. Head in hands. Opening printer and slamming it shut. Happens every day, so I don’t bother asking what’s wrong. In fact, I really want to tell him to chill the fuck out.

As usual, Wednesday night sees me curled up on the couch watching DH. I was curious to see how the storyline of Gabrielle’s unwanted pregnancy would develop. For those of you who (gasp!) don’t watch, Gaby’s husband, the evil Carlos, has been tampering with her birth control pills. She has told him a number of times that she doesn’t want kids, ever, and has no desire to be a mum. They agreed on this when they married, and she’s perfectly happy with things as they are. So Carlos switches her pills to placebos, and voila, she’s up the duff. I wondered whether the writers and producers would use this opportunity for an abortion storyline. In my fantasy world, Gaby would, after she’d calmed down and stopped screaming at Carlos, decide that she really did not want this kid, and go to her doc, and have a termination. She and the other Housewives would sit around at their weekly poker game discussing her choice and why she made it, and even if they didn’t all agree with her decision, they would all respect it as hers to make.

Somehow I don’t think we’ll see this. Without checking out the upcoming episodes, I predict that Gabby will decide that, even though she admits she and Carlos would make lousy parents, she will have the baby (so far, in DH land, there seem to be no other options at all). Cue funny/cute plotlines about Gabby leaving Baby Solis in the Manolo Blahnik shop, or at the beauty salon, or spending a fortune on designer baby outfits.

Bitch. Ph.D.: Abortion Just read this today and it’s great. Bitch says it a million times better than I ever could.

making the day go faster. I am totally hooked on this site . . . there are some real gems!

Very Scary Squaddie Author has emailed me implying that I have lost one of the photos he provided for the picture section of his book. He borrowed it from some tough guy, and, in a roundabout way, said that if the picture was lost there would be trouble for him and therefore for me also. So if I am found enjoying a quiet dip in the Thames wearing concrete boots, it’s not a new fitness regime or a fashion statement. Just so’s you know.

Danced on Saturday night at a highly swanky event. It was the Vintage Fashion Fair in Mayfair, and the sponsor was a classy champagne house, and much sparkly booze was flowing. The venue was done up in retrotastic 1960s style, and the stage we danced on was silver metal, eight foot across, and . . . round. So moving backwards or forwards was risky, and as there were large, low-hanging glass light fittings above the stage, arm movements were restricted. We did OK though. I think they even liked us (although Peaches Geldof, standing by the stage with her equally Nicole Richie-esque teen queen pal, both as blonde, tanned and thin as each other, rolled her eyes at us. I glared at her and she looked shocked. Ha!)

Did you vote?

My mum tried to, but couldn’t. She got to the polling station and didn’t have her card with her, and the guy (before even asking whether she was registered) said ‘Only British citizens are allowed to vote.’ My mum said that she was a British citizen, showed him her passport and a utility bill, and said she’d voted before. He said ‘That was probably in local elections. It’s different with a general election.’ My mum explained that she’d lived in England for 33 years, and she had voted in many a general election. But he wouldn’t budge, and said she could vote in the next one. When my mum told me all of this, I was outraged, but she was totally unfazed. I guess if she got upset every time someone made a snide remark, she’d never get a damn thing done. And after 33 years, she’s sadly probably used to it. I’m just glad she doesn’t let the bastards get her down.

Did anyone else hear the very brief news story about a place in south Wales where all the candidates for the election were female, and this incensed a local guy so much that he stood for election? And won? I cannot believe that, after centuries of undoubtedly all-male candidates, the very thought of no men standing for election was so terrifying. And what, precisely, was his campaign built on? The fact that he has a penis, or the fact that he’s a big fucking misogynist? Who voted for this cock face? It’s men like this who drive me up the wall. Men who are so scared of women having just a little bit of power, that they will do anything – anything, even running for office when their only reason for doing so is to prevent a woman from getting in – to stop it.

Freaky local things yesterday

2.30pm, Kennington Road bus stop: man wearing jeans and T-shirt, riding a carthorse (no saddle), slowly heading towards Central London.

6.35pm, further up Kennington Road: walking back from Tesco, I saw a red estate car festooned with red balloons, pumping out Abba’s ‘I have a dream’, with a very embarrassed Kate Hoey in the front passenger seat. As the Hoeymobile cruised through Kennington and Vauxhall, the expressions on people’s faces ranged from horror to incredulity to pissing themselves laughing. However, of all the MPs standing in my constituency, Ms Hoey was the most visible (OK, her office/shopfront thing was around the corner from where I live, sandwiched between an estate agency and Kitsch & Curio, a secondhand store/florist). I didn't see the Lib Dem guy at all (although Champagne Charlie is regularly spied watering his front lawn or shopping in Tesco), and the Tory was pretty much invisible. Which is how I like 'em.

God I am really crabby today. I hate being at work when there is literally nothing for me to do. People keep coming up behind me while I’m searching eBay for kitchen doors, and I want to bat them away…

Tired.

Last night I had a half-hour standoff with a spider in my bathroom. I was reluctant to kill it (only cos I’m squeamish), so I talked to it for twenty minutes before trapping it under a glass, stared at it for another five minutes, slid a phone bill under the glass and moved the whole shebang across the floor towards the lav (whimpering all the while), picked it up and dropped it, screamed and shook for a further five minutes, trapped the spider again, and finally tossed everything down the loo, flushed frantically, and wished there was a bottle of vodka in the freezer for me to swig from. I must say, the spider was cooperative throughout, standing in the middle of the floor, rubbing his legs together, as if daring me to do something about it.

Finally got to bed at midnight, and had to read for 30 minutes to calm down.

Today, after 121 posts, I finally learned how to add links to my blog. But don’t click on Tim, as I messed that one up. Sorry!

Bank holiday weekends make spring my fave season (after summer and autumn). Sadly I didn’t get as much sleep as I’d have liked. All-night parties? Drunken shenanigans? Nope, just the heating in my block is still on, despite the fact that temperatures hit 25 degrees (what is that, 72 or something?) this weekend. Last night I woke at 2.30 a.m. and thought I was dying. Had to take a puff of my inhaler, drink some water, check the window was open (it was) and lie back down to sweat it out.

Went to a party at a colleague’s house yesterday. Most of my recent posts have been about property envy, and as soon as I sell up and move I promise this will stop. But damn Penny’s place is amazing. She lives in a lovely 3-bed Victorian terraced house in Camden, with a lovely little walled garden filled with plants and creeping ivy.

New recipe I am hooked on:

Heat olive oil in a pan, fry some (OK, lots of) garlic, then add chopped spring onions (mmm), a chopped up chilli, and then add roughly chopped pak choi. Serve on its own, or with noodles. Delicious, healthy, no added salt (and doesn’t need it), and cheeeeeep.

Also, a healthy* veggie side dish, which tastes like fries, is slices of courgettes in seasoned flour, fried in olive oil so the outside of each side disc is golden and crispy… drool!




*by my standards

Got a reply from the Press Complaints Commission, and they addressed it to Iiona J… Esq, and then wrote 'Dear Mr J…' which got me hopping mad, I can tell you… How dare they assume my gender? If I'm in doubt as to whether someone is male or female I use their whole name. I thought that was standard practice. And I refuse to write (Ms) like that, in parentheses, after my name.

Guess who I saw last night? Yes, that’s right. Charles Kennedy, unloading his car in front of his house. He happens to live on a main road, by a bus stop, so had two dozen curious people staring at him.

So bored. So sleepy. Such a nice day and I am stuck at work with nothing – literally nothing – to do.

The inaugural Crafternoon was a big success. Thank you to everyone who attended, bought our cakes, and told us they were having fun.

AL and I spent much of Saturday baking. After a trip to Waitrose (where I wept bitter tears, as my local Tesco is a pound shop in comparison), we went back to her flat and got cracking. Five hours and half a dozen Bellinis later, we were surrounded by cookies, muffins, pink-iced cupcakes and a sticky grapefruit and poppy seed cake. Oh, and a giant plate of brownies. I’m happy to report that all the cakes sold, as did the pineapple upside-down cake, and Naz’s chocolate cake. It was really nice to look out over a sea of chatting knitters scoffing cake and know that our hard work has paid off.

Incidentally, I am so envious of AL’s lifestyle. She lives in a gorgeous 1930s block in south west London, with blossoming trees outside her window and a pink writing desk in her bedroom, and she teaches college and has just had her first book published. And she drives a dove-grey fake 1960s Japanese car. Whereas I live in a slightly less gorgeous 1960s block, have a view of terrifying estates from most windows, and ride the bus. Sigh.

Foxy and Crafty

Crafternoon makes its debut this Sunday at the Pleasure Unit on Bethnal Green Road. 2-6, and it's free, but bring money for cake! Here's a tentative cake list... now I'm not promising all of these babies (especially as me and A.L. are having a drinkin 'n' bakin day tomorrow, with an emphasis on the cocktails), but some or all of these goods may be on sale:

ginger and choc-chip cookies
brownies
blueberry muffins
carrot cake
pineapple upside down cake (Please Rachel, please!)

Fine DJs to include Sonik, Pam Savage (AKA pineapple upside down cake baker), DJ Slipstitch and the DJ With No Name (AKA Kyle)

Now that it's not OK to hate Black and Asian Londoners, I guess the Evening Standard needs another target... Step forward the Eastern Europeans. Their right-wing reporting made me so mad I wrote a letter... (But complaining is one of my favorite things to do.)

Press Complaints Commission
1 Salisbury Square
London
EC4Y 8JB

21 April 2005


Dear sir or madam,

Breach of 12i and 12ii of the Code of Practice

I am writing to complain about a front-page article in the April 20 edition of the Evening Standard. The paper published a story with the headline Au Pair shook Baby to Death. The subheading is 10-month-old dies while in care of Polish teenager. This is discriminatory and racist: the relevant detail is that a child died in the care of an au pair, not that the au pair was Polish. I believe this is designed to incite racial hatred and animosity. As part of London's long established and growing Polish community, I found this headline highly offensive. Would the paper be allowed to print a subhead stating '10-month-old dies while in care of Asian teenager'? No, and with reason.

This case seems ironic given that the Evening Standard was so recently embroiled in a dispute with the Mayor of London over his alleged anti-Semitic remarks to an Evening Standard journalist. I await a reply.

Went to a meeting after work yesterday, and on my way home I bought a bottle of wine. I was a bit overwhelmed by the choice in Thresher’s, so when the woman behind the counter asked if I needed any help I said I did. Told her I wanted a light, fruity red wine (Mad Dog 20/20?) for under a fiver. As I’m sure her corporate training dictates, she suggested one for £5.99: ‘A very refreshing Beaujolais, good lightly chilled, and it’s even got a screw-cap.’ (this last part said rather pointedly). I narrowed my eyes at her. Was she implying I was going to drink it on the way home? How dare she etc. etc. I only live a five-minute walk away and can wait that long.

Saturday night the Actionettes danced at the Albany. Me and Miss Nymphette were the first to arrive (and she was there for over half an hour before I showed up) so we got stuck in to a bottle of Prosecco. Yum. I think I was drunker than I realised at the time… the show went well and I didn’t spot too many bemused faces in the crowd. Afterwards we all bopped around a bit, and I dipped my pony tail into someone’s pint. Thankfully he didn’t notice.

http://bitchphd.blogspot.com/ Been reading this today. Scroll down to ‘do you trust women?’ I spent a good hour or more reading all 141 of the comments… a fascinating discussion, and one as relevant to British women as to American women.

I just received a letter about my company pension. I am due for retirement in 2038 (which I’m sure will come around in the blink of an eye), and, should I die in service (paper-cut to a major artery? OD’ing on printer fumes? Buried beneath an avalanche of hardbacks?), I get £95,000. Not that I’ll be around to use it. Steve could pay off our mortgage, and still have plenty left over for a hot young mail-order bride. Or to give me a kick-ass funeral. Margaritas and quesadillas all round.

OK discussing my own funeral is depressing me. Enough! Plans for this weekend: viewing flats tomorrow, then having someone round to see my place. Going to old friend’s wedding in Blackheath. I was going to wear a strapless satin dress and sheer lace jackety-thing (I don’t want to say bolero, cos that sounds so eighties… but it is cropped…), but as the forecast says 10 degrees C, this needs to be revised.

It’s tasty, expensive, and the portions are small – but God I love Kastner & Ovens… I had a thick slice of chewy treacle tart on Monday, and a wedge of sticky ginger cake today: I’m trying to limit myself to two slices a week for the sake of my bank balance and my wardrobe. Plus, you know what they say – a cake a day keeps the boys away.

Last night I went to see Emerald’s work in a group show at Cide on Lower Marsh… Poor Miss Kitschenette was feeling under the weather but managed to work the crowd a little bit and keep upright. Her felt bird pictures were a highlight of the show, and I want to save up to get 3, 4, or 5 of them hanging in a row. After my mini bottle of Chardonnay (purchased in M&S, as I knew the private view would have warm beer), I hopped on a 159 for a free lift home. I will mourn the loss of the Routemaster for many reasons, not just the joy of jumping on and jumping off before the conductor has asked to see your ticket.

I know they’re fresh

Just got a delicious hummus salad from Pret a Manger. What a great deal, I though: you get, like, a bag of mixed salad, a giant ice-cream scoop of hummus (OK, only one tiny pita bread), feta cheese, tiny plum tomatoes… and one spider. OH MY GOD. My fork was headed for a choice bundle of beetroot leaves, rocket and red onion, when I noticed the little fella sat right there. The fork clattered* on to my desk and after much screeching I looked again – and he’d gone. After poking through the foliage for a while he reappeared. Shaken, I put on my coat and marched across the street to the guilty branch of Pret and spoke to the manager, who offered me a sandwich or soup or coffee, but sadly my appetite was well and truly lost. Did get a voucher for a free sandwich and coffee. Oh, and my money back.

So I’ve had it with nature and trying to be healthy. After the salad fiasco, lunch today was a white chocolate Magnum ice-cream bar, two slices of Saren malt loaf and an orange. A perfectly balanced meal: fat, carbs, and fresh fruit!

I wrote the above about two weeks ago, but have not had the time/inclination to post it… very lame. On Sunday night we danced at Le Beat Bespoke. It was fun and went really well: a crowd of five- or six hundred, and very few of them looked bored. Always a good sign. We were on right before Love, which was quite a coup, and I got to watch the gig from backstage. Gutted that my camera battery conked out before I was able to take a photo of Arthur Lee, especially as he was about ten feet away from me for most of the show.

Mods are a funny bunch, though. I was getting major hostile vibes from some dumb-haired gonk in the dressing room when we came off stage. I think certain men just hate the thought of a group of women having a great time and prancing about feeling like goddesses. It’s not ‘art’, but boy is it fun.



*silently. It was plastic

She did it!

Rachel got in to Yale! They only have one internship per year for a doctoral candidate in child autism, and she got it!

I’m really proud of her. Ever since I’ve known Rachel (ten years) she has worked so hard for this. I can’t think of a more deserving person, or one more brilliant in her field. Congrats!

Plus, now I can dust down my varsity jacket and topsiders and visit her in Connecticut (less than 90 miles from NYC! Yay!). I expect it to look like ‘The Ice Storm’, but less 70s.

Walked to work, as most of Kennington Road was closed off. There was a crash involving a cab and a police car at the junction by the Imperial War Museum, so the road was quiet and no traffic was allowed. Walked past Perdoni’s, the 60s café run by the most attractive family on earth. The two boys who work behind the counter are ridiculously good-looking*: one has the short, black, curly emo-hair, black-rimmed glasses, pale skin and white shirt with sleeves rolled up thing going on, and his brother looks like Adrien Brody. A bit of eye-candy on the way to work never hurt anyone…

I’ve discovered the perfect soundtrack to the grey, drizzly weather that is forever London. When the city looks like the set of Se7en, Television’s Marquee Moon fits perfectly. Don’t ask me why, it just does.

Fucking Thames Water

Got a water bill a few days ago. It was abnormally high – nearly £100 more than last year’s bill. When I called Thames Water they said that everyone’s bill had gone up this year, by between 20% and 40%. I am one of the lucky few (or lucky many) whose bill has leapt by over 40%. The reason?
Thames Water lady: ‘It’s to repair pipes damaged by floods’
Me: ‘But I live in central London: we don’t have floods’
TWL: ‘Hmm, but the Victorian pipes do need maintenance and servicing…’


*But not anywhere near as dishy as my boy, of course!

Just been reading the Pam Savage blog (http://www.livejournal.com/users/pamsavage/) and it cheered me no end. When the world around you seems to make no sense (Belle de Jour’s The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl appearing in a WH Smith Valentine’s Day promotion? Huh?), they are the voice at the back of the room saying ‘What the fuck?’ Or something. Whatever, I love the blog.

It’s been snowing in London for the best part of a week, but you wouldn’t know it. The stuff doesn’t settle in urban areas, and I find the grit all over the streets far more of a nuisance than the snow it claims to protect us from. Gritty shoes are no fun.

Was going to see a film tonight, but I am lame so instead am getting wine and tasty food and cooking dinner with my boy. It’s been an odd day and I feel quite fragile, and the couch is looking mighty inviting.

Paris is calling…
We’re going to Paris for the weekend. We decided to do this for several reasons.
a) We can’t afford it AT ALL
b) We should be flat-hunting
c) I wanted to eat really good cheese and pastries, and found nothing in London of a high enough standard
d) We love the Eurostar and one of the best parts of any European jaunt is riding it while drinking smuggled-on Buck’s Fizz, eating croissants and reading the paper
e) Paris in February’s gotta be (slightly) nicer than London in February

A bientot!

Books still not here! Suck!

Right now I'm at my desk eating the yummiest veggie food I've had in a loooong time... it's herby rice with spinach and chick peas, and spicy tomato-y potatoes. All mine for £2.99 from one of the fast food stalls in Jubilee Market.

The end of last week was a blur of dancing, booze and aching feet. Thursday night the Actionettes performed at Offline in Brixton, which was fun and I got to wear a sparkly new dress and drink cava for free. Balconette created, decorated and staffed her legendary Human Fruit Machine, and people were queuing up to play... particularly as they were guaranteed to win!

Friday we danced for maybe our biggest audience yet (definitely our most diverse - we don't normally get eight-year-olds at our shows), at the V&A masked ball. There was a rider, too, which was a novelty: chocolate, fruit, crisps and beer. Hurrah! Only two things annoyed me: the fact that there was no booze allowed in the main room (and there was a half-hour wait to get to the bar for those buying), and that the backstage manager (dunno if she was, but she spent all her time sitting backstage looking stern) was eyeballing me all night in a 'you're dodgy and you're going to try and hide an African mask up your dress' way, and was snotty when I tried to take Steve backstage. All the other ladies had been entertaining their fellas there, so this pissed me off... other than that, a great night. Made even better by eating potato pancakes at Daquise!

I just filled in a questionnaire to take part in a focus group about feminism. This is my idea of a good time: what’s not to like about focus groups? You sit in a room with a bunch of fairly like-minded people, eating sarnies, drinking wine, and chatting. Then, after two hours, you leave, collecting an envelope filled with money on your way out. My sister hooked me up with focus groups about five years ago, when we were both students and sharing a flat in Whitechapel. As participants in a focus group aren’t supposed to know each other, we’d show up five minutes apart and try not to crack each other up during proceedings. However, I blew things for both of us. The jig was up when, signing for my envelope of cash (my mind was probably elsewhere, dizzy with the thought of all the frivolities I would spend my easy money on – groceries, gas bill, travelcard), I put down my real name instead of the agreed pseudonym of I. Malkmus (shut up). We were both given as good a telling-off as two grown women can be given, and after that there were no more focus groups for either of us. We had been struck off the focus group register. UNTIL NOW!

An American publisher sent me a few books last Monday. I’d assume these would reach me via the usual channels, but now I am beginning to think they strapped them to a donkey, turned it towards California and gave it a slap on the ass. No books yet, and I want something to read!

Rules for selling your home

Paint everything beige. Walls, furniture, pictures, pets.
Get rid of anything you like which could be considered vaguely kitsch, quirky, or cool. If your mother would hate it, pack it away.
Clean everything. Then clean it again, just to be sure.
Make your home look like no one lives there.

I am hating this, and we’ve barely started. Think I am the only person in my block who over the past two years has managed to lose money on their property. OK, so my kitchen is possibly as old as I am, and the bathroom could do with freshening*, but if the maxim ‘location, location, location’ is true, then I should be living in a goldmine. I can see Big Ben from my front door, and hear it chiming when I’m lying in bed. I am within walking distance of two underground and two mainline stations (Kennington, Lambeth North, Vauxhall and Waterloo), and a ten-minute stroll from the Thames. Plus, I like my flat, and I think it looks cute, but estate agents seem to think otherwise.

I definitely need to develop a really thick skin when it comes to this property lark.

What’s schadenfreude in English?

I read the reviews for this book with some glee, as they were mostly stinkers. The blog was (is? Haven’t looked at it in a year) OK, but I never thought there was enough in there to make a decent book. And seeing as the company I work for turned down a blogger’s book I proposed two years ago, which was subsequently bought by HarperCollins (yes, I am still harping on about that; no I’ll never let it lie), I am keen to see what sort of reception the bandwagon-jumpers receive. Bitter, moi?

*ripping out and replacing

This morning I was late for work. This happens about twice a week, usually because I hear my alarm, pretend it’s my mobile phone ringing, and sleep through it. Same happened today, but in addition I got lost. How long have I lived in this city? A total of 28 years. But today I got on a bendy bus (or a ‘free bus’ as they’re known to everyone, including the goons at City Hall who bought them), thinking it would take me across Waterloo Bridge and drop me off outside my building. I gasped audibly as instead it veered across two lanes of traffic and ducked into the Strand Underpass, emerging a minute later by Holborn station. Crap. Well, at least it was a lovely sunny morning.

I’m reading Do Not Pass Go at the moment. It’s a history of London masquerading as a history of Monopoly, and it’s bloody fantastic. There are lots of bizarre facts in there, few more bizarre than the information that a London wine bar, El Vino, refused to serve women until legally forced to do so in 1982. (And until more recently, they couldn’t be wearing trousers.) I really can’t get my head around that. Would any establishment get away with refusing to serve black people, or Asians, for so long? They’d be shut down, and rightly so. I have always viewed all-male institutions with suspicion: what reason can men have for wanting to ‘get away’ from half the population? Doesn’t it just smack of misogyny? I think the men who want to have a private, all-male enclave to retreat to are the same guys who kick up a stink when a report shows that women now make up 3% of company directors, claiming this proves women are now ‘running the world’. Get a grip, lads. We all have to rub along together. When women have all-female places to meet, it’s usually for a good reason: after attending the Capitalwoman conference earlier this year, where a lone nutter disrupted a talk, I think there should be more.

Today is one of those rare, lovely London days when the sky is cornflower blue and the sun is shining. So at lunchtime I went for a long walk around the Inns of Court. Took a left off the Strand down Bell Court, and suddenly I was in an Elizabethan/Georgian (I really need to research different periods in architecture…) maze of streets, and squares with odd names like Old Square, New Buildings etc… I was dazzled. The area looks like someone has picked up Cambridge University and dropped it behind one of London’s busiest streets. There was even a chapel, empty but for a peevish keeper, who looked pained when I spoke to him. If you’re in central London and fancy a trip back in time, I highly recommend it.

Back at work after the long and computer-free Christmas break, and it’s so busy I’m about to pass out. Barely have time to email anyone, and haven’t even had a chance to glance at eBay!

A heart-warming tale

Yesterday I locked myself out of my flat. My keys were lying just inside the front door, on a cabinet. I realized this the moment the door slammed shut. My spare keys were in a drawer in my bedroom. I went to work, not wanting to be late on the first day back. When I got home it was dark and drizzly and I didn’t rate my chances of getting in without the help of a very expensive locksmith. I faffed about with a bit of string and a wire coathanger (it’s better if you don’t know the embarrassing details) before asking my neighbours for help. They came to my aid and spent half an hour balancing on chairs and fiddling with the coat hanger, and managed to hook the keys from the cabinet on to the hanger, and veeerrry slooowly drag them through the tiny open top window… I was so grateful I nearly cried. Going to buy them a nice thank-you gift. It’s not often strangers go out of their way to be helpful to you in this city, so I was really touched.

Things lost this week

Money: Spent Monday at home despairing and drinking. A plumber had come over to fix the cistern of my loo, and I'd anticipated the cost would be around £100. Steep, but worth it for a loo that flushes properly, I'm sure you'll agree. He estimated the job would take two hours. OK, so that's £150, expensive but I can afford it (just). When, after two hours, he announced that he had to go and drive to Shepherd's Bush to get a part, I cracked open the vodka. He was gone another two hours (traffic accident in Holland Park, don't you know), then took another hour to install the part. Total bill? £478.10. Happy Christmas! Thinking of having a party and making everyone drink loads of beer, then charging 50p to wee in the most expensive toilet in South London.

Pride: At the Actionettes Christmas club, I
a) approached a guy I thought I knew, only to have him back away with a look of fear in his eyes.
b) Played music for 45 minutes, and on my way out of the DJ booth accidentally jogged a turntable and made the record skip and then stop... It was the DJs first track and she glared at me with hatred. I hid backstage for ten minutes, and drank more.

From these experiences I can deduce two things: 1) It'd be easy for me to be an alcoholic and 2) I'd probably enjoy it a lot.

Feeling impish. Am entering corrections on-screen, and some of the sentences I have in mind would be better than what the author came up with… ‘Recent signs of affluence’ could, with a slip on the keys, become ‘recent signs of flatulence’ and a colleague suggested that a soldier ‘toasting the Queen with a tot of port’ might be more interesting if he were ‘toasting the Queen over the fire with a fork’.

Work is demoralizing and boring, even if in the fortnight before Christmas it is practically compulsory to drink every day while at my desk. Certain people are pissing me off and making me feel sad. BUT tonight the Kennington Chameleon is DJing, and on Saturday the Actionettes (weatherbeaten old hags, if you believe the Guardian Guide) are having a Christmas shindig.

Today I am very crabby, and it’s not helped by the fact that the phones are down, and the central heating is on the blink. I went for a late lunch today, at about 2.15, as I was suddenly hungry and all I wanted was soup. So I donned my coat, scarf and beret. The hat covers my ears, and I only realized my muttering was quite loud when I expressed annoyance at the chicken soup being sold out at EAT. ‘Flippin’ bollocks,’ I sighed – and the guy in front of me turned around and gave me a funny look. As EAT had nothing I wanted to EAT (£3.75 for a pie? Who do they think they are kidding?), I moseyed on over to Kastner & Ovens. I have a love-hate relationship with K&O. I love the food but I hate the bastard place. What sort of evil people take your order, spoon lots of hot cottage pie into a container, and then go ‘Oh wait, you’re having the small, aren’t you?’ and then, when you admit that yes you are having the small*, they TAKE LOADS OF THE COTTAGE PIE OUT and put it back in the serving dish. Bastards. And they never give you cutlery, napkins, or anything. As I walked out I mumbled ‘Fucking rip-off’, and they may have heard. Oopsie.

The boy is at home resting. He looks very forlorn and very cute with his paw all bound up in a cast. Aawww.



*Cos the large costs £1.45 more and it’s ten days til you get paid

Big news of the weekend is this: Steve’s broken his arm. He did this by running down the street, tripping, sailing gracefully through the air (so I am told) and landing on his elbow. Crunch. Ouch. But he then got the bus home, called NHS Direct, waited for them to call back, then went to bed when they didn’t. Sunday morning his arm still hurt, so he called them again. They deigned to ring back this time, and advised him to visit A&E just to get it checked out. Somehow the boy had managed to dress himself, eat, play golf on his Xbox/playstation/whatever, walk for 45 minutes to the hospital, ALL WITH A BROKEN ARM. If I get pregnant, he’s having the baby for me, as he appears to have a freakishly high tolerance for pain.

I think it’s the rubber ankles what did it. Steve has ankles that occasionally give while he’s walking, and I’ll see him fall over and straighten up really quickly out of the corner of my eye. So tonight I am at the hospital (St. George’s, my most hated hospital. Really, I hate it. I have a lot of memories of St. George’s, all of them bad). He had surgery this afternoon and gets out tomorrow, at which point we’ll have to come up with a plan for assisted living. Cross your fingers.

Today I am crabby. Co-worker is annoying me with much throat-clearing and harrumphing. Also I am sneezing and no one is saying ‘Bless you’, which for some reason is making me want to go home and sulk.

Other annoying things (today)
People who give their newborn sons old-man names. Alfred, Archibald, Wilfred. It’s probably done with the intention – conscious or not – of doing everything to prevent the kid growing up to be one of those hood-up, tracksuit bottoms, urban thugs who kick people to death and film the whole thing on their mobile phone.

I cry very easily. At songs, films, TV advertising jingles, newspaper stories about premature babies pulling through against all odds. But why in God’s name does any version of ‘Winter Wonderland’ make my eyes leak?

Speaking of leeks (sorry), I am scoffing a leek tart from my fave bakery in the world, Paul. Still crabby, though.

Star spotting: Bianca Jagger looking anxious/bored in the back of a parked Mercedes.

Weird: Last night I got off the bus and headed for Sparrows to pick up my regular fix of property porn, the Evening Standard Wednesday supplement. A woman was leaving and she stopped me with the words: ‘I recognize that face’. She looked familiar too. We exchanged a few words and established we were both from Wimbledon. Only as I was walking back to my flat did her name come to me, and I remembered that we’d gone to school together… until we were 11. Now, you’d think that a person would change a little in eighteen years, but obviously I look the same. Even wearing a hat, aged 29, in a winter coat, high heels, in the dark, I look the same. Admittedly I am now sporting the exact hairdo I had when I was 11, but whatever. Part of me is pleasantly amazed that she recognized me: it gives me an odd feeling of safety: here I am living in a city of 8 million people, and I bump into a woman I went to primary school with, in the cornershop. But it also really annoys me: like most people, I spent much of my teenage years trying to become the person I wanted to be, trying to shed my adolescent nerdiness. And nearly two decades later, an ex-schoolfriend glimpses me and knows straight away that I’m that 11-year-old she shared a tent with on a trip to the Isle of Wight.

Friday I slept through my alarm, as I tend to do every couple of weeks. My subconscious is a sneaky bugger, and likes to incorporate the alarm into my dreams, with an elaborate back story, so that by the time the screamingly loud pips go at 7.40, in my dream I am in a bath ignoring the phone, or riding the bus and someone just rang the bell. So anyway, I got up rather swiftly at 9.20, hopped about for a few minutes cursing, and after a quick shower and make-up, faced my wardrobe. Some days it’s hard to pick out what to wear: when you’ve had no coffee and have about thirty seconds to find an outfit, you don’t stand a chance. Perhaps this is why I rolled up to the Savoy for a meeting with an author at 10.30 wearing a denim skirt and green fishnets… Luckily I arrived before he did, and was seated throughout the conversation, so I don’t think he mistook me for a hooker at Halloween.

Some great shops I pass on the way to work

Noah’s Art. The Fishcoteque chippie. And Awe Wines, which I can’t quite work out: maybe it sounds really good slurred?

The Wild Weekend was wild. I am suffering from major holiday come-down now, and real life seems dull and bland. Probably cos – when compared to dancing at a casino for three nights, in sequined/fringed/netball costumes; staying up til four or five in the morning; having dance rehearsals on a 10th floor balcony and hearing people in the next block applaud – it is. It’s a strangely nostalgic feeling for me, and one I haven’t experienced in over a decade: I used to go to Poland every year between the ages of 13 and 16, on a summer camp for Polish kids from Poland, England and the US, and in the three weeks we were stationed in a boarding school in some no-man’s land, we created our own world. We had our own slang, in-jokes, crushes, nemeses. Gossip flew around the rooms, and a hierarchy of popular kids and nerds was established by the end of the third day. It was like high school condensed, but with midnight feasts, dawn raids, illicit drinking, and bi-lingual swearing.

If I am making it sound like loads of fun, please note this was before the fall of communism, and the food was awful.

But Benidorm was great. The town itself is ugly – like LA but with none of the cool 1930s architecture and good shops – just full of strip malls, tower blocks, and bars with names like ‘Bob and Joan’s English Pub’. There was not a hell of a lot to do during the day, which was fine by me as I wanted to sleep through most of it. The main thing in the town’s favour is that when you buy a mixed drink in Benidorm boy do you get a drink… about three/four shots in one glass, with a splash of mixer.

Am having my flat valued today. Before I bought it, the survey noted that the kitchen was dated (which is putting it politely) and that the décor could do with freshening. I can imagine how this evening’s meeting will go:

Estate agent: you bought it for how much?

Me: [mumble mumble]

Estate Agent: OK. Well, in ripping up the carpets – but not having the paint-splattered parquet flooring cleaned – and steaming the wood-chip wallpaper off – but not re-plastering the walls – you’ve done the unthinkable and knocked twenty grand off the value!

Someone just emailed round a book proposal about some dead person who did stuff ages ago and nobody’s heard of them. I guess it was unsupportive of me to skim it, sigh, and loudly say ‘bo-ring!’ to the entire office…

So I lied. There were 1 million petals, not three, and they were poppies, not roses. I got my info from the Evening Standard, so I blame them. Anyway, it wasn’t much of a spectacle, so I am sorry if you showed up and were utterly underwhelmed – I was too. The planes were pretty high up, and it was dark, and they dropped their cargo over Westminster/ the Hungerford footbridges, so everyone on Waterloo Bridge was looking downriver enviously before turning their collars up and heading home. The high point was lots of searchlights lighting up the sky, and every so often one of them would hit a red cloud of poppy petals and everyone would ooh and aah.

Boss just asked me to lunch. I can’t do today, so we’re going next week. This means I have a whole week of panicked thinking: am I getting a raise (doubtful: only been here two months), is he going to drastically change my job description (‘You know we hired you to work on books? We’d like you to clean the toilets now.’), or am I being politely fired?

Today I raised an ISBN. This gives me an incredible sense of power: see that little code on the back of a book? And on the copyright page? I chose that! I looked at my big list of ISBNs, and I wrote the title of the book next to one, and IT WAS DONE.

A woman from a literary agency just called me. This is the conversation as I remember it, 45 seconds later. ‘Hello, this is blah blah, blah blah’s assistant from Shiel Land. In October we sent Ian a manuscript by blah blah blah, called blah. We’re very keen to hear his thoughts. Can you look into it?’ Me: ‘Of course!’ Hang up. Don’t remember a freakin word except those I have transcribed above.

A woman I work with suspects I am planning to steal her dog. He’s a black, scruffy schnauzer, and the cutest thing in the world. He comes to the office with her and snuffles about the place, and every time I see his hind legs stretching from behind a filing cabinet, or hear him rolling about on the carpet trying to scratch his head, I am compelled to go over there and pat him and talk to him in a gruff doggy voice. And then she walks past, sees me muttering at her dog, and I have to make up some lame excuse.

I had a haircut four days ago, and already it’s grown! I trimmed my fringe this morning in the bathroom mirror, and then discovered the secret of good fringe: after washing hair, put on a knitted hat, or a hairband (hippie-style), to keep the fringe flat. Try to remember to remove it before leaving the house…

Last night after work, Steve, Agi and I made the trip to see the twins. Sabby has developed a bizarre accent, a cross between Brummie and West Country. She filled me in on the plot of Meg (‘a cat who thinks she can floooooay, but only buuuurds can floooooay’) and made me dance with her (to Hokey Cokey. She knows all the words). When Steve arrived, he sat down to read the Gruffalo to both girls: Sabby rechristened him ‘Stevealo’, before clambering onto his knees, standing on his crotch (eeeow!), hauling herself up his chest and onto his shoulders – and then farting on his head. Oh how we laughed. His expression was truly a joy to behold: a mixture of disbelief, amusement and sheer terror.

Tonight I’m heading down to the river to see the Armistice Day celebrations. Two planes (bombers? Dakotas, whatever they look like) are going to fly along the river at 6pm, starting around Tower Bridge, scattering three million rose petals, one for every serviceman and servicewoman who died during the two world wars. If you can’t make it but you’re online, try to find a London webcam and have a look.

The office is too damn cold. I am wearing a T-shirt and a thin jumper, and I am freezing. Sometimes I go to the loo just to stand under the dryer and feel warm for a bit. No wonder I’m in a permanent state of snifflyness.

Last week I went to Liberty and finally spent the gift coin Therese got me. I had to plan my outfit for Liberty, as it depresses me to shop in such a beautiful building looking like a scruff. So I donned a vintage 70s dress, black with a purple pattern, my new boots from the Fatted Calf, denim jacket, long grey crochet scarf, and a green tweedy bag with gold handles I got for a fiver in Eastbourne. Then Steve and I promenaded around the shop for a good hour. Should I blow all the money on one fabulously decadent but horribly impractical pair of dry-clean-only silk knickers? A Marc Jacobs jumper TopShop have knocked off for a fraction of the price? A new bottle of Dypthique perfume, as my current one’s running out? In the end I admitted that if I spent £25 on one item I could not live with myself. Yeah, I know. But I can’t face spending £16 on body lotion, or £8 on a tea towel, so I bought the following items:

Jasmine and Grapefruit soap: Oh. My. God. Smells amazing. Makes the bathroom smell amazing. Foams up like the richest, creamiest shower gel. After watching Fight Club, I am convinced it can only be made of human fat.

Christmas cards: it’s a fact that animals doing human things (gambling! Getting married! Throwing snowballs at each other while wearing knitted waistcoats and bobble hats!) is the funniest thing in the world, EVER. Steve expressed delighted surprise when I agreed that a framed painting of the classic of this genre, Dogs Playing Poker, would look good on the living room wall in our new flat.

Chocolate pocket-watch tree decoration: it was pretty and we scoffed it on the bus on the way home.

Candle shaped like a milk bottle: smelled like childhood, but we couldn’t quite decide how. Has a cow on it. Smells biscuity and creamy and mmmmm.

Slab of cinnamon and vanilla Mexican chocolate: has a weird crumbly, gritty texture, but once it starts to melt it’s addictive. Also very good grated into pancake or muffin batter.

Jar of £6 honey: I feel like a queen eating this. Six quid? On honey? Well you’ve got to live a little sometimes.

Dusted with powdered sugar

Me, that is. Just scoffed two dounts in the space of a few minutes. The second one had an oniony aftertaste… think it may have been near the bagels in Sainsbury’s too long.

Saturday night was the third Actionette gig in eight days. We danced at the People’s Republic of Disco, a hot and sweaty affair at the Windmill pub in Brixton. The venue is totally unsuitable for pretty much any kind of performance, as the space has a weird dog-leg shape, with the stage at one end, hidden from everyone but the first few rows of people. As there is no doorperson at the venue, cos it’s a free night, it just gets more and more packed. So on Saturday night, a sparkle of Actionettes (the collective noun) stood swigging cava and shouting at each other over the music, the stage packed with blissfully dancing people. Who were then all asked to get off so we could perform. Equally inauspicious was the fact that we took our places to the dying notes of Metallica’s ‘Enter Sandman’. Now, I have never seen the Actionettes get a hostile reception, even when we shimmied on after a vitriolic political poet at the Dogstar, but the crowd on Saturday seemed faintly bemused as to why we were there.

Friday afternoon, and what else is there to do but eat Twirls, surreptitiously read blogs, and count the minutes until 5.30?

Some great café sites are making me sad. Sad, cos the glorious cafes they depict are slowly being wiped out at the rate of several a year. Even the stalwart New Piccadilly will next year be no more… the Classic Café’s lost cafespage made me mad I never knew about these gems before!

is another great one. Mostly has Glasgow cafes, and really makes me want to take a trip north of the border.

Walked to work today, as I do most days. Again very windy: my long scarf, hair, and the wires of my discman conspired to form a thick cable and attempt to strangle me. Got to work sweating like a Scouser in Dixons, and, as I do every day, said ‘Good morning’ to the security guards on the front desk. As usual, they responded with silence and ‘Who the fuck are you?’ faces.

Had a fab dream last night. Me, Steve, and a nameless friend of Steve’s formed a band. I think we were called Nails (look, it was a dream ok? I don’t make decisions for my subconscious), and we sounded a bit like the Cowboy Junkies, and me and Steve were both singers. Anyways, we had a gig, and before the gig loads of people were already in the venue (I think there was a buzz about us), so I had to go ask them all for £5 entry money. There was one cheeky guy who refused to pay until after the show, in case he didn’t like us. Uncharacteristically, I let him get away with this. So. We took to the stage, and we only had three songs, two of which were covers. I think it went well. After the gig I caught Steve lining up the red lace bras of all his groupies in order of preference. Like I say, it was a great dream.

I don’t know if the dream was related at all to the event we danced at last night. The Actionettes had a slot at the Stonewall Housing benefit at Heaven. But at the benefit we also only got to do three songs… Rubbernecking, Magic touch, and Love Power. It was lovely to dance on a huge stage, but it did make me feel very exposed, as did the fact that the audience were all seated at tables and not drunkenly falling over as they are at most of our shows.

A true phone conversation overheard at work.

‘He’s on his way to the Ritz. Yes, about ten minutes. He’s stuck in a cab at Trafalgar Square. Yah, do go ahead and open the champagne.’

I am pleased (relieved?) to say I wasn’t the only person with raised eyebrows…

Got back from Mallorca on Monday night… seven days of swimming, cakes, free shots after dinner (everywhere we ate in Palma gave us free shots, and sometimes free amuse-bouches, with our meal), and vintage trains. None of the places we stayed in (two nice hostels and a very swanky guest house) had TVs or phones in the room, we didn’t buy any newspapers, we called no one. And yet we still liked each other at the end of the holiday! Only sad note was when our flip-flops fulfilled their suicide pact when left to dry on a windy balcony… both right flip-flops, my Old Navy ones which have served me well for years, and Steve’s green H&M ones, leapt over the edge and we could see them, four stories below, on a roof… We mourned them with shots of Tunel, the local herb liqueur, and some nice Lindt chocolate.

Saturday night is party night. Oh yeah. Never mind that the dresses don’t quite cover our bums… The pictures will be interesting. Or, if you can make it, come along and see Real Live (nearly) Nude Girls!

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)