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)