Ring ring

I went to the theatre last night. I'm always amused when the mobile phone announcement goes off at the beginning. Not by the people who go scrabbling for their handsets, but by the ones who sit back and look around them with smug, superior expressions. Pre-switching off of the mobile phone identifies a self-satisfied regular theatre-goer as surely as a bookcase categorised by colour tells you you've got a hipster on your hands.

An important difference

When plugging your destination into an online journey planner, it's important to realise that substituting 'Avenue' for 'Road' is a sub-optimal mistake, and will probably lead to your father having to drive halfway across Romford to collect you. Take note.

Things that make me smile no.88

I've finally finished my Christmas shopping, and I've done it without a single "That'll do". You know, the feeling when you're shopping for someone, and you don't know what to get them, so you just grab something impersonal and pointless and say "That'll do"? I can't stand that feeling. I would rather buy someone a present in July for no reason other than that I saw it and knew they would love it, than know that I absolutely must buy them something in December and end up giving them something they don't want. Naturally there remains the possibility that my friends and family will still hate everything I'm giving them this year, but at least I know that I've tried, even if I've got it wrong.

Also my manager gave me a chocolate selection box today. I haven't had one of these since I was a child, and it has given me my first little twinge of festive feeling this year. Who wouldn't smile at that?

Squelch

I trod on a wobbly pavement slab this morning, and recoiled in horror as the underlying reservoir of icy water was forced up the sides of the stone and over my foot. A passing lady laughed at me and then said "Oh well. At least you've only got one wet foot". Well yes, I thought, this is technically true. Glass half full and all that. But up until thirty seconds ago I had no wet feet, and that was infinitely preferable. Soggy tights and the subsequent toe freeze are not an ideal start to the day.

The lord giveth and he taketh away

I emerged from the lift to find a group of men waiting on the other side of the doors. As I walked away, I was privy to the following as they passed by:

Man 1: Pretty girl!
Man 2: You always like the fat ones.....

Toe twister

I ordered a pair of tights online; big thick woolly ones for that snuggly Winter feeling as you skip through crisp November breezes, laughing at the shivering souls in their flimsy nylons, and for that sticky, sweaty feeling on overcrowded tube trains as you gaze enviously at the sensible souls in breathable nylons. Yesterday the tights arrived, and I excitedly tore open the packet. So woolly! So warm! Oh look, turned heels! Wait a minute........that doesn't look quite right. The heels were turned so that the feet pointed in opposite directions. Were I to contort my legs into the position dictated by the ergonomic structure of these tights, any attempts to walk would result in me turning in sad little circles, like a cat treading out a nest in a duvet.

Life lessons

Today I have learned that if you put into the tumble drier an item of clothing which is covered with little stick-on diamantes, this will no longer be the case upon removal, while everything which accompanied it in there will have achieved a state of spangly adornment.

It's so unfair

I now have both internet and TV in the new flat. It's been several weeks without them, so it's nice to be reconnected.

The very efficient engineer who came to set up to these things kept referring to my new tivo box as a him. "He's just updating now, so don't switch him off for an hour or so". I think it was just a language thing, as he wasn't a native English speaker, but I now find myself thinking of the box as a him. He's quite friendly, suggesting things he thinks I might want to watch.

Update......I just tried to put on a recorded program, and he's asking me for a PIN to watch it because it's before 9pm. He's not friendly at all. It was all an act. He's actually an overbearing parent. I don't have a PIN and I don't need one! I'm 27 years old and I just want to watch Hellboy!

Dulce et Decorum est.....

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori.
                               Wilfred Owen

This is always a contentious issue, and I may struggle to make myself clear here, so bear with me.

On a simple level, I consider myself a pacifist. On a more complicated level I recognise that sometimes it is necessary to fight, and I will do so to protect myself or a friend. Taking that to a global scale, 'protecting one's friends' means (to me at least) fighting for those who are suffering under tyranny or oppression, and whose basic human rights are violated on a daily basis. However, I do not concede that this is the reason for the involvement of this country in all of the wars it is currently or recently engaged in. To my, admittedly limited, understanding, a lot of the fighting our army does seems to be less about 'protecting our friends' and more about 'knocking down the kid with the glasses and nicking his lunch money'. When power and money are stronger factors than freedom and democracy, I cannot bring myself to back the war. Still, I wear my poppy, and I observed the minute's silence today, because I give my support and my respect to those who fight for the right reasons, and to the dwindling number who had no choice but to fight. If that necessitates allowing the bullies and the oil-grubbers to believe that they share in that respect then so be it. It's worth it to pay tribute to those who have lost their lives, their health or their loved ones in pursuit of the greater good.

At long last!

I moved house. These may be some of the nicest words I ever been able to type. After all the hassle leading up to the move, I am so relieved to be there at last. Of course there is still a lot of work to be done. How one person has managed to accumulate the sheer volume of stuff that I have is a mystery, and it's all crammed into the seeming hundreds of cardboard boxes which currently comprise the dominant decorative statement of my new pad. The fact that a goodly number of these boxes are labelled with such concise descriptions as 'clothes stuff', 'stuff' and 'little boxes of stuff' will probably not help the unpacking project. However, I already have a guest booked in for a few nights in the near future, so I have to try and enforce a little order!


Tonight will be my first night alone in the flat, now that my poor exhausted parents have escaped the weekend-long gulag experience that is helping their fretful and incompetent daughter to move house. I'm excited about coming back to what is now my home and starting my new routine. Also to pottering about over the next few weeks and making it feel like mine; all the little things like organising my kitchen cupboards the way I want them, and spreading my ever-present array of pretty but pointless knick-knacks throughout the space.

Of course, I'm fairly exhausted from such joys as the freshly smashed window over the front door, having to remove half of a different door frame to get the sofa in, and the cat catching a baby mouse in the flat on my first morning there, so it's entirely possible that I'll get home, look at the boxes and make an executive decision to just go to bed. No........I can see my mother's headteacher stare......the one that so strongly influenced my finely honed and terrifying librarian stare, and firmly declares that I must have discipline. I hereby promise I will unpack one box before dinner, another before my evening G&T, and a third before I go to bed. This way organisation lies!

To answer your questions

I often quite enjoy the stats page of this blog, which allows me to see the searches that have led people to me. Amongst this week's offerings were two gems:

"Librarians with anger problems"
and
"How to make bathtime fun for cats"

I'm thrilled that their requests for information will have led them to me, as I am clearly an expert on both subjects. For the record, all librarians have anger management problems because the very act of walking into a library transforms precisely 76% of the public into moronic, aggresive neanderthals with an over-inflated view of their own self-importance and a conviction that counter staff rank at approximately the level of the average Victorian scullery maid, and the best way to make bathtime fun for cats is to fill your tub with an array of shiny tropical fish. Now you know.

And for something a little cheerier

As I stood outside work, waiting for the green man so I could cross the road, a teeny tiny elderly lady with a wispy beard peered up at me and asked "Can I cross the road with you?". "Of course you can!" I replied gleefully, proffering my arm in a chivalrous fashion. Helping a little old lady across the road is such a perfect cliche of a good deed that it is an utter joy!

I should be so lucky

I don't like it when people say the world is out to get them. It is blatantly illogical to attribute intent and malice to what is clearly pure chance. However, while statistically a dice thrown repeatedly should land on each side an approximately equal number of times, it is still perfectly feasible that you could score a one twenty times in a row. Thus, while my friend Spike could, as I told her once, fall into a bucket of shit and come up smelling of freesias, I am continually dogged by set-backs and frustration. When your every endeavour, large or small, is thwarted by other peoples' incompetency, idiocy or plain old spite, it does begin to feel like the aforementioned planet has it in for you.

A simple attempt to place an order with a company with a reputation for reliability ends, for many, in the hassle-free delivery of the purchased items. For me, it will hopefully still end in delivery, but it takes a detour via random order cancellation, lying customer services personnel and the replacement of a four hour delivery slot with a seven hour delivery slot. I grit my teeth.

Then I try to book a removals company. I make an online request for Saturday 5th November. They call me.
Man: Did you want Saturday 3rd or Monday 5th?
Me: No, Saturday 5th.
Man: Saturday's the 3rd.
Me: Oh. (check calender) Wait, no it's not, it's the 5th.
Man: (patronisingly) I promise you it's the 3rd. I'm looking at a calendar.
Me: So am I. Are you looking at November?
Man: (angrily) Yes, of course!
Me: 2011?
Man: ................Oh.
I book a different removal company and start grinding my teeth.

Next I wangle getting off work an hour early in exchange for working through my lunchbreak, so that I can go and collect the keys to my new flat. I hike up the high street, looking for the estate agent's. After a while I spot a rare street number over a shop door and realise I've gone too far. How did I manage to miss the office? I backtrack, and eventually spot it; with the signs removed, whitewashed windows and no furniture. What?! I call them. They've moved offices and not bothered to tell me, or to update the contact information in their email signatures for that matter. I now haven't got time to to get all the way across the borough before they close, and have wasted hours of my evening travelling around London to no purpose. I bang my head against a brick wall and inadvertently knock loose several teeth.

Can anyone blame me for feeling a little like the world is setting challenges for me at times?

Things that make me smile no.87

We always used to take a turn stirring the Christmas pudding mixture, and make a wish as we did so. I have no idea where this tradition comes from, but it's all part of the run-up to Christmas for me. Now that I don't live with my mum anymore, she sends us texts, telling us that she's stirring the pudding on our behalf, and to make a wish. I got mine today, and committed the unthinkable by smiling on a packed commuter train. I then sat there for a moment with my eyes closed and made my wish. No, of course I won't tell you what it was! If I did that, it wouldn't come true!

"Sure, I'll help you out. Send me the details and I'll pick it up on Monday."

Storage units are creepy in the same way that empty locker rooms or night-time parks with one eerily creaking swing are creepy. If Buffy, for example, walks into a vast warehouse full of locked rooms, you can pretty much guarantee she'll be attacked by monsters before she's halfway across the room. The franchise I keep my own belongings in isn't actually too bad. The one where D, evil creature of the night that she is, keeps hers is horrible, and that's where I had to go last night. I walked uneasily past countless rows of lockers, humming defiantly, and failing to convince even myself that I wasn't weirded out. Typically, when I finally reached the right aisle, all but one flourescent light had blown, and the remaining tube at the far end was flickering on and off in a desultory fashion. I may have mentioned before that I really do not like the dark, so standing in a dark corridor, fumbling with the lock for a container which will definitely also be dark, and could contain anything, is not exactly my favourite activity. As far as I'm concerned, that container could still contain anything. With the reception desk closed there was no chance of acquiring a replacement lightbulb, or even a torch. I had to locate the suitcase I needed to extract by touch, using vast quantities of willpower to force my hands into unknown blackness, while my skin crawled and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. In comparison, the near two-hour trek home dragging the case was positively enjoyable.

Lessons learned: Do not do favours for people unless they guarantee adequate lighting.

Sqeeeeeeeek!

Today I shrieked down the phone at a customer. Possibly not the finest move, professionally speaking. Luckily, he was a nice customer, and laughed when I apologised and explained to him that a mouse had just run past, mere inches from my foot. To clarify, I'm not frightened of mice, but unexpected, fast-moving animals, in close proximity to my person, can be a little startling. And I certainly do not expect to see such things at work given that I'm employed in accounts, not forestry.

Things that make me smile no.86

Sitting with friends in a DJ booth built from the back of a bus, playing a marvellous rendition of Amazing Grace on our new kazoos.

Where there's smoke there's fire

I picked up smoking sort of by accident during the course of one too many drunken evenings bumming the occasional ciggie. I was twenty, I think. Maybe twenty-one. Well past the age of peer pressure, and had only ever smoked a couple of cigarettes during my teens, to try it, and didn't like it! One of my school friends, who had smoked for many years, and whose lingering cigarette whiff was the reason my mother regularly accused me of doing so, couldn't quite believe the stupidity of my taking it up after so resolutely abstaining during my most impressionable years. As time passed, buying the odd pack here and there turned into a regular, if minimal, habit, which increased beyond all sense about a year ago, when I began working in an office where half of us smoke, and regular smoking breaks are tolerated.

Then two things happened in quick succession. Firstly, I burned my eyeball. A gust of wind picked up, snatched a burning chunk from the end of my cigarette and deposited it squarely in my left eye. I know. It's horrific. If that didn't make you slam your eyelid shut and say 'gah!', then I'm telling it wrong. Then, that evening, I went for a drink with some friends, one of whom recently lost his father to a smoking induced illness, and got into a conversation on the topic. It turns out there is nothing you can say in that situation to justify your decision to keep smoking. The little bleats of "But I enjoy smoking", "But it relaxes me", "But it's not like I'm planning on smoking for ever" sound indescribably pathetic when placed against the enormity of a friend's raw grief. He was pretty hard on me for a while. For instance......
S: It was all very well for my dad; at least he had someone to look after him at the end......
M: Whereas I'm going to die alone?
S: Not if you stop smoking!
Harsh, no? But when he looked at me all sadly and said "I'm sorry. I don't really think you're going to die alone. But you're my friend, and I want to protect you", I just thought.......Oh crap......I don't really have a choice here, do I? His concern (and skilful grasp of emotional blackmail) had already convinced his girlfriend, also one of my best friends, to quit, and now another victory was his.

That was two weeks ago. I'm doing well so far although, granted, I've been far too ill to want to smoke for about four days of that. Still....not bad going I think!

Do you want to cheer me up?

I've contracted some sort of dire and dreadful lurgy, which leaves me lying on the sofa in a snivelly state, with occasional forays bathroom-wards so my body can attempt to expel orally the non-existant contents of my stomach. You wanted to know that, didn't you? I apologise if you're reading this while eating your lunch.

The point is, I'm pretty miserable right now. Also bored. So I'm trying to amuse and cheer myself by getting people to vote for a friend of mine to get his dream job. I am, as you know, one of the universe's biggest cynics and pessimists, and this guy is my polar opposite. He takes genuine pleasure from helping other people out with their projects, always has a smile on his face and never has a bad word to say about anyone. Despite all this, I actually think very highly of him, and he really would be extraordinarily good at this job. So.....if you feel the slightest inclination to make me happy (and you wouldn't want to make me sad now, would you?), please click on this link, scroll down and press the 'like' button. Go on......prove to a grumpy girl that sometimes good things do happen to good people!

O M G

Now, don't get me wrong, I am under no illusions that it is easy to raise a child. I am also well aware that I would be quite impressively bad at it myself; selflessness, patience and consistency not being my strong points. Besides, the only children I actually like are my nieces, and even they (preternaturally bright, funny and cute as they are) become less amusing after an extended period of time (actually maybe this is where the problem lies - I expect the children to amuse me, rather than the other way around).

Anyway, I digress. Yesterday I was forced to avert my eyes from one of the most stunning parenting car-crashes I've ever seen. A little girl of about five years old was sulking on a bench at the station and, to try and entertain her, her father pretended to trip and fall off the platform. Her response? "Oh for f**k's sake!". At this point I was already gaping in horror, trying not to stare, but it got worse. He then stuck his tongue out at her and said "You smell". Fair enough. I've heard my brother say as much to the girls. But they don't generally react by saying "Yeah well, you take it up the a**e, c**ksucker!". I managed to drag my eyes away from them to the mother, only to see her laughing away and filming it on her mobile phone. I'm now opening the book on bets on how long it takes this child to a) be taken into care and b) go to prison.

Things that make me smile (guiltily) no.85

I'm pretty dozy in the mornings, but today I watched in mingled pity and amusement as a woman tried repeatedly to open the ticket barriers at the station with a Boots advantage card.

Things that make me smile no.84

Approaching the front door as I leave the house for work and spotting a carrier bag with my name on it hanging from the door handle. More specifically, opening said carrier bag to find it contains slices of homemade cake for me to take to work. Even more specifically than that, sitting here now with blueberry and lemon bread in my hand (and my mouth). Good start to the day.

Where do you draw the line?

A lot of women do their make-up on the tube or train. I don't, if I can avoid it, since my manual dexterity is not up to much at the best of times, and adding unpredictably lurching vehicles to the equation is inevitably going to result in a glamorous streak of lipstick up my cheek, or a mascara wand to the eyeball. It doesn't bother me when I see other women making such use of their commute though. If they can successfully beautify themselves whilst being rattled around like beans in a maraca, then more power to them. There is a line though, and that line was well and truly crossed by the woman I saw this morning, who was thoroughly and matter of factly drying her hair with a towel on the train. Drying her hair! On the train! With a towel! That's odd, right? Nobody else even seemed to bat an eyelid.

Things that make me ever so slightly baffled

The charity collector this morning who was imploring me to support children's cancer. I know I'm not the world's nicest person, but that seems a bit evil even for me. Still, she was very emphatic that it was an important cause so, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and blow cigarette smoke at small children.

You're the one. You make bathtime lots of fun!

The cat has reached new levels of embarrassment in the new home. Last night it emerged that one of my landlady's many dinky rubber ducks has gone awol from the bathroom. She hasn't moved it. I haven't moved it. The only feasible explanation is that Molly has embraced kleptomania and spirited it away. To be fair, I can see why she would think that a selection of cat-mouth-sized rubber trinkets were laid out for her personal entertainment, but goodness only knows where she's hidden the blasted thing. Fortunately, the Chameleon thinks it's funny, but I would quite like to retrieve and return it. Then I apparently need to put a label on every one advising Molly that 'This is (despite appearances) not a cat toy!'. Sigh.

On the move

There's been a bit of a break in the blog writing, hasn't there? There are two reasons for this: Burning Man and moving house.Of the two, Burning Man is infinitely more interesting but, simultaneously, infinitely harder to write about. I have this problem every year. It's like trying to explain a purple dinosaur to a colour-blind herpetophobe who's never seen an episode of Barney. As is rapidly becoming traditional, I shall resort to a list of a few 'top bits', in an effort to encapsulate the joy:

• The Carport of Doom. Instead of tents, this year two of my friends and I decked out a huge carport with airbeds (with real pillows!), carpets, a canvas wardrobe and chest of drawers, bedside tables (well, storage boxes) with individual lamps (LED candles) atop! The luxury of being able to, not only stand up, but actually wander around one's abode is not to be sneezed at.
• Wandering through an imminent dust storm looking at art, then being drawn away by calls of "grilled cheese!", and finding ourselves being presented with delicious croque monsieurs and lethally strong vodka cocktails.
• The support and congratulations of my campmates on my first attempts at MCing the cabaret show. I had big shoes to fill, as the person I was standing in for has done this fabulously for years, so I was hugely relieved not to have ruined her pet project.
• Scrawling down some things I needed to let go of onto the walls of the temple, and then watching it burn. I've never attended the temple burn before, as I suspected myself of not having the emotional strength for it. Indeed, it is intense, as thousands sit there in absolute silence and watch their woes, celebrations and dedications to lost loved ones go up in smoke. I cried, of course, but the catharsis and beauty of it is extraordinary. Ooops. I seem to have turned into a hippy..........and I'm back! Sorry about that!
• Discovering my 'power animal' with the aid of a campmate in a traditional shamanic polar bear beanie, with a faux-American accent and a soup pan in lieu of a native drum.
• Standing on the prow of a ship art car in a princess outfit, leaning out into the wind in true figurehead style, then watching the man burn from the deck as my friend yelled touching song lyrics in my ear.
• Lying in a huge, cuddly pile of people on a trampoline, playing leg jenga while trying to explain the 'furry' fetish phenomenon to a campmate who was unwittingly clad in a fuzzy, full-body tiger costume.
• Being able to be there for others in their low moments, and having others be there for me in turn. Sorry, the hippy is back. I can't help it! You realise a lot about yourself and others out that thar desert.
• So many fun days and nights in camp and out and about on the playa. New friendships made and old ones cemented.

Once I came back I had just a week before I moved house. This was not ideal, as it can take longer than that to acclimatise to the real world again even without all the stress of packing and arranging. However, it needed to be done, and so it was. I'm in temporary accommodation now, as there are problems with the lease on the new flat. Fortunately for me, the Chameleon was looking for a lodger, and has kindly installed myself and Molly in her home. I am now, for the first time, living South of the river. I haven't been mugged or stabbed yet, which is excellent progress, and no doubt the practise in avoiding these things will come in handy on my eventual move to Tottenham.

 

On Thursday, with the kind help of my family, my belongings were split between storage and new lodgings in an epic undertaking which only took, oooh, about six hours longer than I expected it to. I also had to go back the following evening for the cat, who had not deigned to be captured the preceding day. This became more of a worry as Friday went on, and she still hadn't been trapped but, at the point when it was looking like I'd have to give up, leave the pub and head to the new home, I got a text instructing me to 'Go go go!', and hopped on a train to fetch her. The journey home, stinking drunk, with cat in basket, was interesting to say the least. I sat and shared a ham and cheese baguette with her, to the evident disgust of the prissy old lady opposite me, and prevented some young lads who were even drunker than me from poking their fingers at her through the bars of the carry case. Luckily the threat of being bitten was enough to scare them off, so I was not forced to resort to the threat of a clip round the ear.

 

The cat is unfortunately proving to be something of an embarrassment in the new home. This morning, as I put on my make up, I was called from my room to look at something, and emerged to find my landlady standing at the bathroom door, gazing in bemusement at the sink, which was inexplicably full of defiant feline. Despite this, I'm settling in well there, and very much enjoy getting to sit down to dinner and a chat with my friend of an evening. I'm also loving my new journey to work, which offers me glorious views of the Thames from the train, along with the sight of an old brick building, into the wall of which are placed lighter coloured bricks spelling out the phrase "Take Courage". It bolsters me nicely for the day ahead!

 

Why I'm so bad at packing

My internal monologue......

Where's my bag? Not that one, the one with the things on it. Wait, was that mine? Yes, it was, or if it wasn't I've stolen it because I just found it under my bed. Ooooh, it has stuff in it! A blinky ring. Wonder if it still works? It does! Maybe I'll try it on. Ow, needs adjusting. Maybe some pliers.......No! Concentrate! Oh look, my utility belt! I thought I lost that! I can fix my fox tail to it. Tail has no fastener. Where were those carabiners? (half an hour later) Ha! There they are! Now I need some scissors or a knife or something to cut a hole for the carabiner to go through. Wait. Do they let you take real fox tails through US customs? Better look that up. (half an hour later) Can't see anything to suggest otherwise. Ok, attach that to belt. Ooo, I should find all those badges and pin them on. Where's my Zooty badge? I need that one. Where did I put it? (half an hour later) Ha! There it is! Right, get that on there......

.......Hey! Where did all the time go? Better get back to packing........god I'm bad at packing.......maybe I should write a blog post telling everyone how bad I am at packing.......

.......Hey! Where did all the time go?

This is cause for debate?

Youth on tube 1: Batman's my boy, man. He's like, proper gangsta.
Youth on tube 2: Nah, Superman's the man!
Youth 1: Nah, cos Batman's like, human, but he's gettin all up in it.
Youth 2: Can he fly though?
Youth 1: Nah, but......
Youth 2: He can't though can he?
Youth 1: Nah, but.......
Youth 2: So whatever.
Youth 1: But he'd've been out there on the streets last week, messin it up.
Youth 2: Batman would not've been lootin man. He's rich.
Youth 1: Maybe we should loot him. Loot the bat cave.
Youth 2: I fort he was your boy?
Youth 1: Yeah.......whatever.

Things that make me smile no.83

It's strange how different shoes affect the way you feel and walk. Normally I wear little slippy ballet pumps, and drift around in a diffident manner. Today I've noticed that wearing Doc Martens gives me a secure, grounded feeling, and causes me to walk with a confident lope. It's pleasing.

Amsterdam

My trip to Amsterdam didn't begin hugely well, what with nearly missing the plane due to the Gatwick Express being delayed and my bag being searched at security, the man on the plane who insisted on putting said bag in the overhead locker for me because he thought I was pregnant, me being too embarassed to correct him and therefore ordering a juice instead of a G&T from the trolley, then bumping into him at the bus stop as I was smoking a cigarette and being looked at like I was scum (It's no wonder I don't like travelling). Once I arrived it was just wonderful though. I got to spend time with friends I don't see nearly enough of, sleep spooning the world's soppiest rottweiler, and view the canal-borne pride parade from prime position perched atop the battlements of their roof terrace.

The carnival atmosphere was incredibly special, but one of the high points for me was the opportunity to see how thoroughly gay pride was being embraced. Lots of the floats were sponsored by large, prominent corporations - capitalist whoring of course, but how wonderful that supporting varied sexuality is seen as a positive advertising opportunity, rather than as a box to be reluctantly ticked to be seen to be toeing the equal opportunities line. No "Yes, we have a policy on diversity......in a box somewhere......let us know if you need it and we'll try and dig it out......in a few months time". Just "Hi everyone! We love gays! Buy our product!". And I've never been to a pride parade before, so I may be wrong, but I can't imagine the UK emergency services (And certainly not the US') allowing their employees to take part in such a thing. Amsterdam's police, fire brigade, paramedics and armed forces were on a float, in their uniforms, with a banner proclaiming that they are 'Proud to Serve'. It was so touching it gave me goosebumps.

So, for future reference, the perfect weekend includes - Celebratory camp, ornamental water feature paddling, burners, chilli, canine cuddles, a rain-soaked walk to the red light district, a playground, beer, singing Doris Day at full volume, coffee with Baileys, and the purchase of a tacky Delft-style lighter.

Well that's new

Apparently I can add packing to the list of things which make me hyperventilate. It happened a few weeks ago when I was preparing for my exciting 'business trip', but I put it down to some sort of unknown work-based scenario induced panic. But no. I packed for a weekend in Amsterdam last night (which, for the record, I was and am looking forward to immensely), and found my throat trying to close up and my head swimming as I filled my case. This is not good. Frankly, I could do without adding any more mundane tasks to my panic list*.

 

Why can my body not understand that these things are not actually scary? I am not stranded a mile out to sea. I am not being chased by an irate bear. I do not need all this adrenaline to flood my system and trigger a panic attack. It is not productive.

 

 

*List includes but is not limited to such terrifying things as:
Filling in forms
Making a journey by a previously un-tested route
Opening my post

Things that make me smile no.82

Drunk tramp lady: You're beautiful, you are........like a photo.......no, I mean it......really.......cos most girls look a bit.....all like.....in a dress and stuff........but not good. But you don't.......I mean you do.......look good I mean..............................................got any change?

The only way is up

It's been a hard couple of weeks. In fact, to be more accurate, it's been a hard 2011 culminating in a near-impossible couple of weeks. However, things now seem to be on the up. Sometimes hitting rock bottom is what it takes for you to gather up the pieces and start soldiering again, and I finally reached this point on Friday, while crying on the phone when a friend called to check up on me (My friends are saints.......saints in very heavy disguise, but saints nonetheless). He, rather bluntly, told me I was being self-indulgent and melodramatic, and, despite being a little hurt, I just had to laugh at myself. It's perfectly true but, at that point, I hadn't the strength to be anything else.

I'm feeling more bolstered now though. I have a lovely weekend behind me, and some marvellous things to look forward to in the next month. With all this good stuff going on, I've found the will to stop wallowing like a luxuriating, mud-bound hippo and inject a little positivity into my outlook. No doubt you will all be immensely relieved to hear this, if only because it means there'll probably be a lot less self-indulgent, melodramatic whining going on here. I'm making no promises of course. I may still be reduced to a snivelling wreck yet again, but at least there is the potential for cheeriness to return to these pages.

I don't think it's me you can hear

An old man on the bus just asked me to turn down my ipod, asking "Why can't people realise that nobody else wants to listen to all that thumping bass?". Now I hate this too, so I obligingly turned it down, but I couldn't help feeling a bit confused as I looked down at the screen. I didn't think Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Suite was known for its thumping bass.

And breathe.....

So.....a facebook status bemoaning my awful day yesterday prompted a surprisingly large number of people to invite me out. One of the offers was taken up, and I was taken out for drinks and pizza. More importantly I had the opportunity to splurge the whole exasperating incident at a sympathetic ear, take a deep breath and let it go. All gone. Well.......perhaps there's still a bit of niggling rancour remaining, but it no longer dominates my thought processes as it did yesterday.

As a little treat today, I got to sneak out of the office briefly to watch a few moments of the Egypt vs Serbia Olympic volleyball test match. This was surprisingly entertaining, although my disinterest in sport is such that my personal highlight was the rows of boys who lined up and engaged in surprisingly intricately choreographed synchronised sweeping routines over the pitch - presumably in order to prevent the players from slipping on the own sweat. Nice thought, huh?

Kaboom!

Who was betting on explosion? You win. Last night I thought it was going to go the other way, when I burst into tears because a fat, cold drop of rain fell on my cheek at the bus stop. Today, however, an incident cropped up (I won't go into details), which pushed me straight into flaming temper mode. I have spent most of today struggling to keep my cool, and did at least manage to only rant about the object of my anger, not at him. Despite my reasonable success in this matter, I am still so angry that I am dizzy and physically shaking. I assume this is due to the few gallons of rage-induced adrenaline that are currently racing around my body. It's unfortunate that I'm not actually at liberty to give vent to my fury, as I'm sure getting it all out of my system would be enormously cathartic. Still, at least I now have concrete proof that, even in my current state, I can control myself despite provocation.

Grrrrrrrrr

I'm feeling a little highly strung at the moment. Those who know me well have probably recognised the signs, and are currently placing bets on whether I will explode or implode. Honestly? It could go either way. Last night I saw that a particularly emotionally-manipulative Hollywood tearjerker was on iplayer, and cried just considering watching it. On the other hand, a man accidentally put his hand over mine on the handrail on the tube this morning, and I snatched it away with an expression worryingly akin to a snarl. Perhaps it would be safest to enforce a standard ten second delay between anyone saying anything to me and me being allowed to respond in any fashion. On the one hand, my blank, mute stare during the waiting period may lead people to believe I've donated a few dozen IQ points to the needy, but, on the other, it may save them from exposure to irrational temper and/or tears. Of course I may reach the conclusion, at the end of the ten seconds, that they genuinely do deserve the sharp edge of my tongue, but then that's nobody's fault but their own.

With any luck the house sale/flat purchase process which is causing all this will be completed soon, I can dispose of this permanent conviction that something will go wrong, and return to my usual state of near-sanity. Fingers crossed!

Working out

I'm going away this weekend for work. Even though I'll be working over the weekend, and I'm only going to Yorkshire, I'm actually somewhat excited. This is mostly because I get to say I'm going away on business. "Yah....yah......no, I can't this weekend. I'm going away on business". Doesn't that make me sound important? I'm not, but it's fun to pretend sometimes.

Super absorbent

One of my friends called me self-absorbed yesterday. She was joking, but she is actually right. It's a flaw I've been trying to correct for many years now but, ironically, the more effort I put into reducing it, the more self-absorbed I feel I'm being. It's probably something to do with all the additional time spent analysing my own thought processes and behaviours rather than thinking of other people and things.

I tend to blame my high anxiety levels for my apparent preoccupation with my own affairs. My brain constantly seethes with worry about things I've done wrong, things I'm currently doing wrong, things that may go wrong in the future, and the desire to logicise this permanent tangle of stress and confusion leads me to blurt it all out at any given opportunity; not because I think that the person I'm talking to is interested, but because I just need to get it out of my head before it drives me mad. That, and my lack of skill in the fine art of small talk, means that I either end up talking about myself or asking endless questions of people in a clumsy attempt to make conversation. Neither of which is particularly socially agreeable.

And, of course, while I'm so busy upsetting myself about all this, all those little considerate things that make one easier to be around just never occur to me. I'm quite capable of walking past a smiling acquaintance without seeing them, or of putting something in the bin and not even noticing that it's full. I'm sure I must be an absolute nightmare to be around most of the time, and I keep hoping that one day my self-absorbtion will metamorphose into self-awareness and, by extension, other-awareness. It's probably too late now to hope that this transformation will magically occur when I grow up. Maybe there's a course I could take?

Flat as a pancake

I had an offer accepted on a flat yesterday. It's a lovely, bright space in an area with only a mild to moderate risk of stabbage. I can't wait to move into it and put my stamp on it. I'm very excited, although I'm trying not to let myself fall head over heels for it, as nothing is certain until the contracts are signed, and I won't feel secure in it until I have the keys in my sweaty little palm. I can't say I'm looking forward to an extended period of anxiety over all the things that could go wrong between now and then. Weeks? Months? How long do these things take? Does anyone have a piece of string?

I'm also stressing about the teeming hordes of things to arrange. How do you sort out energy providers? Remember all the people and companies to call to advise of the address change? Ensure that your belongings are transferred safely to the new flat, rather than ending up in pieces being picked over by scavenging penguins in the Antarctic? Purchase all the multitudes of silly little things a home needs, the price of which add up horrendously when your entire wage disappears on bills and suchlike before you've had it two days? Prevent your Grandma from going so mad at the car boot that your home ends up furnished entirely with the cast-offs of an ninety year old, pigeon-fancying Yorkshireman?

No, I don't know either. I keep having to remind myself that this is a process that everybody finds stressful. It's not just me and my spectacular inability to function on any sort of practical level. This is hard for everyone. Of course, my incompetence is probably the reason that I'm resorting to whimpering and curling into the foetal position rather than actually dealing with any of these questions, so maybe it's time to get organised. First step......write a list.

1) Calm down
2) No really, calm the f**k down
3) Oh for God's sake.......pull yourself together........

Pay attention

Last night I went out with some old schoolfriends and, at one point in the evening, I managed to miss a crucial scrap of conversation and was astonished to hear that, in one of the girls' home town of Ware, it's illegal to kiss in public. Apparently bouncers will kick you out of clubs if you kiss someone on the dance floor. I was stunned by this restrictive attitude, and bemused as to why Ware has different public decency laws to the rest of the country. Then I twigged. She wasn't talking about her current place of residence, but her imminent relocation to Dubai. Aaaaaaah, I get it now! That makes much more sense!

Somebody needs a biology lesson

As I walked the girls back from the common today, a man walking his dog fell in behind us, and I couldn't help overhearing him:

"Wasn't she meant to be having it today?............But if the doctor said today then it's probably the right day.................why does she have to wait for labour? Can't she just do it now and get it over with?.....................That's ridiculous. Tell her to just push it out. Like a big crap."

Babysitting duty

Baby: Bye bye Mummy, bye bye Daddy! Be good! We gon look after Aunt Megs!

That pesky magnet again

Cravat-wearing man in bar: I am an artiste, you know. Eet ees my job to make people teengle! And if they do not want to teengle, I am making them teengle anyway.
Me: .............

Faintly embarassing

Yesterday I had a bit of an incident at work, and managed to faint in the corridor on my way to the office. Despite my assurances that I was perfectly able to work (which I wasn't), and would no doubt feel much better soon (which I didn't), my line manager insisted on putting me in a cab home. I dozed on and off during the journey, picking up odd snippets of opinionated peoples' commentary on the Greek economic crisis from the radio, and experiencing strange moments of not-quite-lucidity. At one point the cab pulled up at a set of traffic lights and, out of the window, I glimpsed a huge shiny sign for an 'agnostic centre'. My addled brain was churning with the idea of a centre hosting endless debates on any and all subjects, none of which could ever be permitted to reach a conclusion, when the car moved on a fraction, and the sign was further revealed to read 'DIagnostic centre'. How disappointing. But by then I had nodded off again, wakening a little later to be struck with intense pity for the headless mannequin in a nearby shop window, which was reaching out its hand, with a peculiar gesture of yearning, towards another mannequin which, despite also being headless, was quite clearly turning dismissively away.

Needless to say, I was hugely relieved to get home and safely tucked up in bed, where I spent the remainder of the day wavering between sleeping and waking, periods of feeling fine, and others of room-spinning vertigo. So far this morning, the bad phases seem to be much fewer and farther between, but I still feel decidedly wobbly. I don't know what to blame for it. Labyrinthitis has been suggested, but I don't really think it's bad enough to be that. Besides, wouldn't I have an earache? All I have is a headache. Oh well. If I don't feel better by Monday, I'll go to the doctor. Until then I shall just self-prescribe a quiet day, and hope that I'm well enough to help L with her van loading tomorrow as promised.

Pavlova

I used to watch episodes of QI on Youtube late at night when I was supposed to be writing essays which were due in the following day. The theme tune still fills me with an overwhelming "I have something far more important to be getting on with" feeling. I get a similar sensation of guilt whenever I consider opening the cellophane on the first series of Battlestar Gallactica, which was purchased around the same time. Evolved I may be, but I'm still no better than a dog responding to a bell.

April showers. Except it's June.

I've been shopping for a flat online today. Don't worry, I wouldn't actually buy one online. When it finally arrives it's never the same colour as in the photo, and if it doesn't fit the postage to return it is outrageous. Anyway, I found one that looked really rather nice, and was flicking through the photos when I was distracted by the picture of the bathroom. Lovely bathroom. Looked brand new, shiny, clean and possessed of all necessary furniture. Everything one could possibly desire from the room in which one keeps one's bath. But still, my first thought on seeing it was "I'd have to buy a shower screen". And why? Because it had a shower curtain, and I effing hate shower curtains. Seriously. They are the work of the devil. For me, showers serve two main purposes. Either I'm in a hurry and looking for maximum cleaning efficiency and speed, in which case the last thing I want is to spend half my potential washing time peeling off the chilly, clammy sheet of plastic which is drawn by some kind of magnetic force to repeatedly adhere itself to my skin, or I wish to relax and luxuriate under the hot water, in which case the last thing I want is to spend half my potential washing time peeling off the chilly, clammy sheet of plastic which is drawn by some kind of magnetic force to repeatedly adhere itself to my skin. As tactile sensations go, damp and clingy like a cuddle from a horny turbot is not one of my favourites. Give me a nice piece of frosted glass any day.

Seal of approval

I was in a bit of a hurry this morning, rushing to get myself out of the house smartly dressed to meet exhibitors. In my fluster I turned to one of the babies and asked her "Do these shoes look ok with this outfit?". She tilted her head to one side and slowly looked me up and down before nodding her approval. Now nobody can diss my shoe/outfit combo. It is officially sanctioned by a two year old.

Night terrors

I've just had a really horrific nightmare, and now I can't get back to sleep. I dreamed that I was trapped in a coffin, fighting to get out. I'd pounded my hands and knees into a bloody, splintered mess before I finally managed to rock the coffin from the table with my struggles, smashing it into pieces. When I emerged from the debris, I found that I was at my own funeral. There was only one person there, and he was asleep.

And the clumsiness continues

Last night, we were walking down my road, when I spied a cat across the road, which I thought might be Bob, the traitorous ex-kitty of mine who went to live with a neighbour. It wasn't him, as it turned out, but I was so busy squinting through the dark at this cat that I managed to walk, with a resounding clang, forehead first into a lamppost. It was so like something out of a bad film, that I couldn't help laughing, even as the tears filled my eyes, while J managed an impressive display of sympathy and concern, which only occasionally dissolved into disbelieving giggles. After careful examination this morning, it appears that I have managed to avoid adding still more bruises to the plethora which already adorn my body, but I should probably start taking a little more care when on the move, before I do myself a serious mischief.

Nice trip?

I attempted to run for a train this morning. There are many reasons why I should never be allowed to run anywhere, including 'Because I run with the grace of a lolloping, obese giraffe' and 'Because I risk giving myself two black eyes with my flailing bosoms'. The most crucial of reasons, though, is 'Because I am stunningly clumsy and will almost certainly fall over'. You can tell where this is going, can't you? I landed flat on my back on the concrete stairs with my decorative but surprisingly sharp hair bow driven into the back of my skull, the zip of my dress biting into my spine and one lonely shoe tumbling down to the platform. My fellow commuters stopped and stared concernedly at me for a moment, before I loudly declared "Well that was rather inevitable, wasn't it!", at which point they all started laughing. I choose to believe that this is because, even lying prone on a staircase, I am still quite extraordinarily witty, rather than because of my uncanny resemblance to a horizontal version of the afore-mentioned obese giraffe. A motherly-looking woman returned my shoe to me and gave me a little hug as she picked me up. I strongly suspected her of being either a nurse or a primary school teacher, and was momentarily tempted to bury my head in her shoulder and have a little cry. I managed to restrain myself from this regression however, and sheepishly slunk off down the platform to lick my wounds. Metaphorically speaking of course. If I were literally capable of licking my back, elbow or the rear of my own head, the necessity of commuting to work would be removed by my incarceration in a freak show.

R.I.P. Thumper

The play I was involved in ended tonight. I neglected during the course of said play to mention a certain 'extra', who made quite an impression on us all. We were required in the script to be in attendance at the dissection of a rabbit, and it was deemed most appropriate to cast a real, furry, formaldehyde-soaked bunny in the role.  Said rabbit became steadily riper and more rotten-looking as the play progressed, but we continued to wheel him out long past the time when he should have been put to rest. Come the after show party (and admittedly after a few wines), I decided that it was important that Thumper be given a proper Christian burial. So I dug him a grave (while two blokes looked on, glorying at the advances in feminism which allowed them to stand on and watch as a girl with a chronically broken back wielded a spade), and made a cross to mark his resting place, with the assistance of Father Mullarkey. This done, I demanded that everyone join me outside so that a few words could be said over our departed cast-mate, who made the ultimate sacrifice for the show.

Despite taking care to choose a spot in a corner, where the turf wasn't growing properly anyway, I remain vaguely concerned that I may get in trouble for putting our lapine friend to rest in the grounds of the theatre. Still, I maintain that even though we were unable to state in the program that no animals were harmed in the making of this production, we can at least declare that the creature in question was given a good send off. Unless someone gets uppity enough to dig him up or desecrate his grave by pulling up his cross, he will live on in theatre history, providing a charming anecdote to be related to anyone who spots his resting place. Rest in peace, Thumper. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost, amen.

A nice madman for once

Man across the street: Excuse me. Excuse me! Good face. God bless you.

Is it possible to grow old without growing up?

My body is falling apart. I must have slept funny last night, and the agonising pain in my back and neck on waking today is surely a sign of oncoming decrepitude. There are other signs too, which lead me to believe I'm getting old:

• My hangovers are getting steadily worse.
• I carry a huge handbag, which contains dozens of potentially useful items (and many more which will probably never prove useful).
• I look forward to a quiet evening in.
• I'm becoming a hypochondriac. Last week I kept smelling burning and had a series of notable memory lapses, so I actually started looking up the symptoms of strokes and brain tumours on Google.
• I've started complaining about poor customer service. I've even been known to ask to speak to a person's manager when on the phone to companies.
• I like comfy shoes.
• My coat pockets are full of pieces of paper covered in to-do lists and hand-drawn maps.
• I want to tell the girls at the bus stop to roll down their school skirts.
• I actually used the phrase "I want never gets", and I wasn't even talking to a child.
• I have a button box.

Things that do not make me smile

Stepping out of my front door directly onto a baby hedgehog is highly distressing, even when the infant erinaceous in question turns out to be a large nugget of moss thrown from the gutter by a bird.

Phrases I never thought I'd say......

"There's lots of incestuous mole sex"
"Will everyone please stop touching Jesus' penis!"

Perhaps there's a reason why I wasn't assumed up to heaven today, as scheduled.

Weirdo magnet on max

Man: Do you have a knife or a saw or something?
Me: Er......no. Why?
Man: (waving umbrella around vaguely) I can't get this apart.
Me: Why do you want to take it apart?
Man: To see what's inside.

What is it about me and crazy people?

In a bit of a stew

The play is nearly upon us and, as we get closer and closer, the details start to be introduced to rehearsals. Details such as the 'practical' stew in scene three. Our lovely stage manager duly went and purchased a tin of stewing steak, to be served cold with instant mashed potato. Naturally I wasn't looking forward to a stellar gastronomic experience, but even my grade of pessimism couldn't have anticipated just how bad it would be. The thick film of jelly and congealed, white fat on the top of the tin was the first clue to what I was in for, swiftly followed by the reek of cat food that rose from within. As I sat at the table in the 'canteen' and delivered my lines, I pushed it dolefully round my plate. Granted, the sudden engagement with the character was fairly useful, but at some point I was going to have to start shovelling the nauseous mess into my mouth at great speed. I did so, wishing more than anything that I was able to turn off my tastebuds, and the sight of me sitting there with tears streaming down my face as I struggled not to boak must have been too pitiful to bear, as one of my castmates promptly offered to whip up a stew and bring it in to be doled out to me each night. I don't know when I was last so grateful for anything!

Things that make me smile no. 81

Starting an email with the words 'Dear John' never fails to make me feel like a wartime sweetheart sending a break-up letter to her chap at the front.

Home comforts

I'm still decorating my imaginary flat. I aspire to the sort of home that looks like a cross between a junk shop and a cliched British pub. You know, the kind with 'Ye Olde' in its name. The sort of place where people wander around just looking at all the odd bits and pieces hung on the walls or tucked into nooks and crannies. "A dust trap", my grandma would say, but I'll either be hiring a cleaner, in which case it won't be my problem, or just cultivating the dust. Dust is good for you anyway. It prevents asthma. Admittedly only as you're growing up. If you've already got it, dust will pretty much be the bane of your life, making my imaginary flat a death trap full of wheezing asthmatics groping blindly for inhalers.

Accidental elimination of the airway-challenged aside, I am genuinely in favour of the kind of home where an empty surface is an anathema. Impressed as I am sometimes by houses which look like show homes, they never really feel truly homey to me. I don't want to feel obliged to take off my shoes when I enter, even if I usually do so by choice anyway. Coffee tables are calling out to be a repository for stray magazines and junk, the little gaps in front of books on shelves are surely designed to be filled with trinkets and oddities, and the correct place to put the paraphenalia of bits and pieces one sheds from one's person on getting home is wherever one happens to pause first. For me, a clutter of decoration and belongings is what elevates a space from merely being the place where I live, to being my home. It's comforting to me to be surrounded by that imprint of myself and my fellow residents, rather than perching awkwardly in an over-sanitised room, terrified of putting something down in the wrong place or spilling a drink. I want my home to say something about who I am, even if what it says is "My owner is a slattern, an overgrown child and a hater of asthmatics".

Turned it down flat

I went to view a flat on Saturday. I could see from the photos that it wasn't finished and needed a bit of work but, as it was big and looked like a nice space, I thought it was worth taking a peek at. I was worried I was going to fall head over heels in love with it, but there was no danger of that! I could handle the fact that it had been used as a party pad. I wouldn't have minded painting over graffiti and suspicious stains, or living with the ghost of the overdosed druggie who died there (yes, really). The widespread damp problem was another matter entirely though, as was the nasal evidence of previous cat tenants. When all the furniture and carpets have been removed and you still need to stick a perfume bottle up your nose on leaving to remove the lingering stink of ammonia, it's tough to persuade yourself that you might want to go back.

Oh well, I satisifed my curiosity and have at least eliminated one flat from my hunt. Hopefully something more eligible will crop up soon. I'm hoping the latest offer we've accepted on the house will actually come to pass, and the sooner I'm able to move in somewhere new, the better.

Incompatibility

D: We look weird standing next to each other.
M: Yeah, it's that 'we don't look like we should be friends thing again'.
D: Well it's hardly surprising when you aspire to look like you fell out of a fancy dress box, and I aspire to look like I fell out of a post-apocalyptic horror movie.

Things that make me smile no.80

My friend Jackie is documenting her travels around the world via the twin media of blogging and lego. I recommend reading this if you share my love of delightful lunacy. She takes with her nothing but a carry-on sized piece of luggage half full of the afore mentioned lego, with which she will be crafting miniature versions of world heritage sites. Knowing Jackie, the other half of the bag contains tea, bacon and several pairs of the kind of knickers which can be used as impromptu parachutes should unforeseen parachute emergencies crop up. I can't wait to see what happens.

If you can't say anything nice....

What is it about me that makes people so determined to knock me down a peg or two? I'm actually quite happy with the peg I'm on, thank you very much. If anything I could probably stand to do a bit of peg climbing. Despite this, complete strangers seem to be clamouring to put me down on a regular basis. For example, on Saturday a man at a party asked me how old I was and, when I told him, replied "And you're still dressing like that?". Why shouldn't I wear a Mr Men print skirt if I want to? It's not hurting anybody, and my tongue is firmly in my cheek, so why feel the need to tell me that at 26 years old I'm already mutton dressed as lamb? Worse than this mildly vexatious encounter was the man on the bus yesterday who, when I ignored his rude and drunken attempts to engage in conversation with me, leaned in to about two inches from my face and told me that I was "F***ing stuck up for an ugly bird.". Charming. Why does an ugly bird have less right to be stuck up than a pretty one, anyway? That's just uglyist. For all he knew I could be stuck up due to my vast fortune, aristocratic standing or masterful understanding of the history of Mah-Jong. Or maybe I behaved as if I was better than him because I was, in fact, better than him. Not being the one falling over drunk with my flies undone does tend to give me a feeling of superiority. Anyway, I'm choosing to ignore the drunken losers and focus instead on the old man yesterday who looked me up and down in my 1940s-esque outfit, chuckled and told me "Ooh you take me back a few years!". Happy to oblige, sir!

Minicab driver WLTM BBW with GSOH

At about 7:00pm on Saturday night, while on Hackney Marshes, I was hit with the realisation that I was supposed to be attending a friend's play that night. A quick phone call established that I had until 7:45 to get to Old Street. Fortunately this is reasonably close, and achievable with the assistance of a taxi, so I aimed for the nearest main road and crossed my fingers for a minicab office. Having found such a thing and made my needs known to the woman at the counter, she started trying to contact a driver. As he failed and failed to pick up his phone, I started to get more fretful about my ability to make it to the theatre on time. After a while, the lady turned to me and said "Darlin', he's not picking up, but I know where he is. Can you just pop into the pub across the road and shout 'Sidney'. Tell him he's to take you to Old Street, and when he gets back Cynthia's gonna kill 'im". This struck me as embarrassing beyond all reason, but I did it because I had committed to attending this play, and I'm that good a friend (although apparently not a good enough friend to remember where I was supposed to be and leave enough time to get there. It's a very specific degree of friendship, precisely midway between those two points). Having found Sidney and set off, I was forced to politely fend off his very sweet and strangely old fashioned attempts to court me en route; efforts which apparently impaired his sense of direction, since he managed to get lost mere metres from our destination and start heading back the way we'd come. Still, I made it to the theatre with mere seconds to spare, and I should probably be grateful. So if any girls out there would like to meet a sweet taxi driver with a poor internal compass, who just wants to meet a nice cuddly lady, get married and settle down, then all you need to do is pop into the pub across the road from Station Cars and shout for Sidney.

The obligatory wedding post

The wedding was not as traumatic as I thought it might be. It was, as anticipated, an excellent excuse to start drinking at 9:00am and consume vast quantities of barbecued goodness, all in the name of patriotism. Most of our viewing involved bitching about the outfits of some of the guests, and having a bit of a perve on some of the others, which, to be fair, is what we do most of the time anyway. I even got excited enough to have to run downstairs from the bathroom to see the Queen arrive (looking resplendently like an ageing sherbet lemon), and to purchase a commemorative novelty condom, emblazoned with the toothy faces of our royal couple. This will remain on display forever, not because I treasure it, but because I will never use such an example of a product in which effectiveness should definitely be more worthy of consideration than novelty.

Baby guilt

I'm still feeling horribly guilty about breaking a baby at the weekend. I honestly don't see how I can possibly take them anywhere ever again (assuming their parents would ever permit me to, which I wouldn't if I were them). My guilt is such that I have to hope E doesn't ask me for anything she shouldn't have before I have time to get over it. You want to watch telly even though I'm in the middle of Hell's Kitchen? Of course you may! You want to wear my very fragile owl necklace? Yes, go ahead, break it! You want my first born child? Take it! It'd probably be safer with you anyway. In fact, have anything your little heart desires, just please stop looking at me with your pretty chin all scratched up and that reproachful 'you were supposed to take care of me' look in your eyes.

A royal flush

I've been putting a fair amount of effort into ignoring the whole royal wedding extravaganza, but it's becoming more difficult. I emerged from my house this morning to find that three of the houses in my row have sprouted plastic bunting emblazoned with pictures of a certain couple; a sight which caused me to stop dead in my tracks and let loose a 'Gah!' of horror. I just don't understand what all the fuss is about. I love a wedding as much as the next hopeless romantic, but surely all the enjoyment comes from witnessing and basking in the joy of somebody you care about as they hitch themselves to somebody they care about. Anybody deciding to declare their love for another human being, and their intention of sticking by that person for life, is lovely, but I wouldn't dream of popping along to the local church this weekend, taking a picture of a random couple, getting it printed onto a plate and slapping it up on my wall for posterity. I like to cultivate eccentricities, but that's a step too far even for me, and I see no difference between this and the purchase of any of the abundant Kate and Wills merchandise that's out there.

Having said this, I will be attending a royal wedding party, and with Americans no less (I anticipate shrillness and over-excitement). I've had my arm viciously twisted with offers of food, drink and good company, so I've given in. I have every intention of watching the wedding in my pyjamas and a plastic tiara, and of heckling. I would throw crisps at the tv screen if I weren't going to be in somebody else's house. This is patriotism the Meg way. As with many things done 'The Meg way', it will involve a glass of something alcoholic stationed firmly in my hand, and a spectacular display of cynical indignation. I can already feel my hostess releasing her hold on the arm behind my back......

Fishy feet

I got a fish pedicure on Friday. In case this fad has thus far passed you by, this involves dunking one's feet into a tank full of small fish (and water, obviously) and sitting there for fifteen minutes while they munch away at your dead skin. For the record, it is an odd experience. Once you get used to the tickling it is by no means an unpleasant tactile sensation, but it's hard to relax when you have that suspicion in the back of your mind that at any minute your little piscine friends are going to rise up against their oppressors and devour you from the toes up. There seems to be one fish in each tank that is at least twice the size of the next largest fish in there, and it is this fellow who seems to bite harder and more enthusiastically than all the others. It will be him who eventually draws his metaphorical sword and leads the other fishies in glorious revolution against the foot overlords. Of course, having done so, their source of food will be obliterated, and their community will wither and die, but this is the price one pays for social freedom. I'm sure Marx would approve.

Bad Auntie Megs

I took the babies to the park today; the first time I've taken them out anywhere unsupervised. This was supposed to have the dual benefits of allowing me to spend some quality bonding time with my nieces, and giving their mummy a break. Hah! It wasn't long before I realised the difficulty of taking twins anywhere. How do you watch them both?! E has a habit of grabbing the monkey bars and just swinging herself out into space. Of course when I went to hold on to her she wanted to do it "all by herself", so I held my hands a fraction of an inch from her sides and poised myself to grab. Then N called me from the other side of the climbing frame and, at the instant I turned my head, the dangling baby dropped. I caught her before she hit the ground, but she sort of flopped over my hand and went face first into the floor. I calmed down somewhat once I'd ascertained she was still in possession of all her teeth, but my hands were still shaking as I mopped up copious amounts of blood, deposited kisses on her and assured her that she was a very brave girl. As I was bundling them both into their buggy and starting to panic again, this time about the fact that I'd have to tell their mummy that I broke her baby, the uninjured infant declared "My want hurt myself too". I strapped her in double-quick. It's bad enough that I got one of them hurt, without the other one going all lemming on me. I think it may be some time before the waves of guilt subside, and even longer before I'm brave enough to take them to the park again. Oh, the baby's fine by the way. She has a scraped chin and a bitten lip, but she'll be ok. Or she will so long as evil Auntie Megs isn't entrusted with her care again anyway.

Mine

I went with L to have a tattoo put on the back of her neck today. She's a Virgo (I try not to hold her belief in astrology against her, in the hope that she will be equally forgiving of my multitudinous insanities), so she had decided to have the appropriate symbol inked on. The thing about the Virgo sign is that it does look rather like a letter. As she emerged from the back room calling "Meg, Meg! Look!", and turned to show the letter 'M' just below her hairline, the teenage boys sitting next to me made an instantaneous and obvious assessment of our relationship. Part of me is indignant that anyone, even a complete stranger, would think I'd allow my lesbian lover to mark herself with my initial, but the other part is tempted to start treating her as my bitch on the basis that she has just officially branded herself my property.

Disappointment and design

As my dad is given to saying; if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. The process of selling my house appeared, for a moment there, to be going remarkable smoothly. However, we found out this week that the buyers have decided to pull out because the brickwork was such that they wouldn't be able to build on the extension they wanted. This isn't such a blow for me, as I hadn't actually found somewhere to move to, but it must be annoying beyond all sense for my brother and his girlfriend, who have an offer accepted on a place they really like, which may now fall through in consequence. Given that the buyer was the woman who irked me by being late that time, I suppose I ought not really to be surprised that she has proved unreliable, but I allowed myself to hope that the process might actually be straightforward. Foolish girl. The house selling/buying process is absurdly complex at the best of times, and the involvement of myself, the queen of un-looked for and improbable inconvenience (see evacuated graduation ceremonies and getting punched by strangers on public transport), just makes it even less likely that a hitch-free transaction will occur.

Despite not yet having a new home, I've been mentally decorating my as yet unidentified future residence for some time now. Unfortunately, I seem to be suffering from some sort of Seasonal Affective Decorative Disorder. While it was still winter and the sky was grim and steely, I wanted to paint my living room concrete grey. It seemed dramatic and different, and would match my cat. Now that the sun has come out, though, I'm favouring a nice buttery yellow with old-gold velvet curtains (Gold velvet curtains? Never mind the SADD, I should be more concerned about the fact that I appear to have travelled back in time to the 1970's!). Into this I would insert my nice brown leather sofas and my growing collection of fur (It's just occurred to me to wonder if the poor defenceless vegetarian who's planning on living with me is aware of my penchant for strewing the house with bits of flayed animal. Or of the fact that I name each one, which may make it better or even more creepy, depending on your view point. Of course this is probably a moot point given that she may well be comfortably ensconced in a retirement home by the time I actually manage to move.). I've also decided to put up a trellis against one wall so I can staple fake ivy and climbing flowers all over it, and strew it with surprising features for the curious viewer to happen across. Like a bird nest. And caterpillars. And an ocelot. Well, maybe an ocelot would be a little hard to acquire, but I would definitely get one if I knew of an ocelot supplier. I would call him Gerald.

10,000! Where are the fireworks when you need them?

I'm feeling still more celebratory now. Not only have I hit the 10,000 mark, but the lucky viewer was the Chameleon, who has been my most loyal reader since the birth of this blog. She was utterly determined to be the one and, since I told her it was cheating to just click refresh repeatedly, clicked on and read random articles until the count hit 10k. Fatefully, the ultimate post she clicked on was one in which she is actually mentioned. Clearly it was meant to be!

What do you think her reward should be?

Milestone

I'm nearing a milestone. If just 14 more people look at this blog, I will hit a stunning 10,000 page views! That probably doesn't seem like a lot to most. It certainly wouldn't to any of the online world's blog big hitters, but it seems like a huge number to me. The most I was hoping for when I put this out in the public eye was that people might occasionally take a peek, and that nobody would be too mean about it, so I'm pretty thrilled that it's been viewed as much as it has.

Please tell me if you're my 10,000th viewer!

Skullduggery

I took my dressing gown off this morning, and realised that I still had skull and crossbone transfer tattoos on my chest from Saturday night's pirate outing. How I failed to notice this while I was showering is a mystery. It turns out that soap and water doesn't remove them. Neither does exfoliating body scrub. 'Nail varnish remover', I thought. Do I possess such a thing? Nope. So it was that at half past seven, when I ought to have been at the bus stop, I was scrubbing my boobs with a cotton bud soaked in vodka. Of course I then put my dress on and discovered that it completely covered said area anyway, so I missed my train for no reason and had to turn up at work late and smelling like an alcoholic. What a tramp.

Anyone analyse dreams?

I only got about two hours sleep last night, but in that time I managed to have an astonishingly disturbing dream where I bought a pony called Philip for a friend's birthday party. Philip was placed behind the shed in a large wooden box, as he was to be a surprise. I then proceeded to get horribly drunk. Several weeks later I asked the friend how Philip was getting on, only to find that she had no idea what I was talking about. In my drunken haze, I had completely forgotten to alert her to his existence. We went to her house, ventured behind the shed and prised open the box, to find the decomposing body of that lovely little pony. I woke up crying.

R.I.P. Philip.

Have you missed me?

I'm back! A lovely, lovely friend has very generously loaned me his spare laptop for a while, so I now have a fighting chance of getting some writing done. I'm not going to promise any degree of regularity in my posting, since that would require the additional loan of vast amounts of extra time, most of which I would probably just fritter away on luxuries like sleep. I will hopefully be able to snatch some odd moments here and there though, to keep you updated on the trivialities of my life.

Most of said life is currently occupied with rehearsing for my latest foray into amateur dramatics (that's community theatre to the yanks out there). This time I will be playing a Catholic schoolgirl, and am becoming more and more doubtful of my ability to portray a sixteen year old. I didn't even look sixteen when I was sixteen, and that was a decade ago! Hopefully the audience will be kind enough to suspend their disbelief, or at least to refrain from throwing anything.

Would you like a 'Thing that makes me smile' before I head off? Tough, you're getting one anyway. There's a tap-dancing evangelist on the Piccadilly Line in the mornings. I've seen him three times now, and the dancing is so wonderfully joyous that you can easily ignore the fact that it's far too early in the morning to talk about Jesus.

Things my mother was right about

I scheduled this to appear on Mothers Day, but for some reason it didn't, and I've only just noticed. Better late than never......

• Ironed sheets are really nice. I still can't be bothered to actually iron my sheets, but I do enjoy getting into a bed whose sheets somebody else has ironed.
• I should stand up straight. The combination of appalling posture and the weight of two bowling balls suspended from little straps over my shoulders means that I frequently have a bad back. This leads onto the next point........
• .........Spend money on decent bras that fit properly. See above comment re: bowling balls.
• "If you're that bored, tidy your room". In fact, never mind being bored. Rooms need tidying more often than once a decade. I have accepted this as fact, and will hopefully learn to implement it before I end up one of those crazy old people living in a house full of old newspapers and broken toasters.
• I do need to wear suncream. I went through several years of denial and sunburn before acknowledging that skin as pale as mine just will not tan like my friends' does. Embrace the pallor!
• "It'll give you nightmares". And whatever it was, it did. Every time. In fact it generally still does.
• The sexiest part of a man is the bit between his ears. My mum told me this when I came home from a teenage date with a boy who was very pretty but had no conversation whatsoever. I think she was a little relieved to discover I wasn't shallow enough to think this was ok.

And one thing she was wrong about.....

• "There's no such thing as a free lunch". Actually, sometimes people are generous enough of spirit that they will give you their time, lend you their laptop or buy you a blinky squirrel badge just for the joy of making your world a happier place!

That's why I brought a shawl

It was my cousin's wedding at the weekend so, in honour of the occasion, I bought a frock. As I waited in the hotel corridor for my mother to finish dithering about in her room, I was approached by an old lady. "Oh!" she said as she passed, "You look very beautiful!". Feeling, as I did, a little awkward in my blowsy dress, I was greatly cheered by this comment. Rather more bouyed, I made my way down to the lobby and went to join my grandmother. Her remark on the dress? "You'll freeze".

Sorry, sorry!

Yes, I know, I'm a terrible person. I have no computer at home, so the only chance I have to get on the internet for personal purposes is during my lunch hour at work. Unfortunately I consider eating to be far more important than writing, so you'll just have to do without my words of wisdom for the forseeable future. Alternatively, if you miss said wise words that much, you could buy me a laptop. No? Well then you've only yourself to blame.

Things that make me smile No. 79

It's not even 10 AM yet, and the air over my head is filled with discussion of copywritten indices, spread betting, footsies (yes, I know), and any number of other incomprehensible phrases. I need to stop being friends with geeks if I wish to maintain my sense of intellectual snobbery.

Things that make me smile no.78

I'm at a dinner party, and am being an extraordinarily bad guest, making the most of my host's laptop since there isn't a functional one in my house right now. I really must buy one of those.

Anyway, P has been taking advantage of a different aspect of H's hospitality by whipping out a tape measure to assess the proportions of her cat prior to building a model feline out of balsa wood. Said cat seems utterly unaffected by the process. If anything she appears to enjoy the attention.

Things that make me smile no.77

It's mildly entertaining to hurriedly throw on a random selection of clothing while running late in the morning, and then realise when you get to work that you look less 'cute and original' and more 'middle-aged Tory boy playing a game of golf'. Fore!

P.S. Note that I could have been negative about this fashion malfunction. Instead I am choosing to believe that it is amusing, not embarassing.

Correction

Apologies to anyone who was adversely affected by yesterday's post. A couple of concerned phone calls alerted me to the fact that I should not engage in such rants without adding a disclaimer, so here it is:

• I do not have many problems which would be classified as problems by people who have real problems.
• Those I do have are entirely of my own making.
• I will be fine.

Normal service will resume shortly - hopefully

I try to keep this blog lighthearted, as I'm sure most of my readers would rather hear about origami roadkill than the state of my brain. Sometimes, however, that means that a week goes by without me posting, as now, because there seems to be very little to be lighthearted about. The fact is that I'm having one of those times where it starts to feel like my life is crumbling around me, and I've lost all semblance of control over it. What with trying to sell the house, my long-term insomnia and far too many other issues which I am either unwilling or unable to discuss in this forum, the pressure of going about my day to day business is building uncontrollably. Any one of the things I'm currently dealing with would be manageable on their own, but I sincerely doubt my ability to cope with them all at once.

Added to this, of course, is the overwhelming feeling of guilt I get every time I open a newspaper or turn on the television. How dare I be broken by what my friend Spike calls 'First-world problems', when natural disasters and national unrest dominate the news. I bet half the population of Japan would think themselves damn lucky right now to have a house to sell or a bed to lie awake in. With any luck my sense of perspective will re-assert itself soon, and I can go back to babbling about things that don't matter to anyone. In the meantime, I'm reinforcing the daily 'things that make me smile' posts in order to stomp on my negative mind-set. Watch this space for the most desperate grasping at positivity ever seen in this world or any other......

Things that make me smile no.76

This morning, on the way to work, I saw a squashed hedgehog on the road. Sitting next to it was an equally mangled origami frog. My mind instantly started concocting a story where hedgepig and paper frog set out together on an exciting, if surreal, adventure, only to be met with tragedy and disaster. Grimmest children's book ever?

Bravo!

There was a family of tourists on the tube today, all sat in a row. The row of seats opposite them was full of their bags. For some reason, every occupant of the extremely crowded carriage (myself included) decided to be enormously British and stand there, tutting and seething, but saying absolutely nothing to them about their rudeness. Then a delightful old man worked his way into the middle of the crowd, started depositing the bags on the floor, and waving one of his fellow travellers into each seat as he emptied it. When the father of the rude family objected, he turned to him and pointed out, with the utmost dignity, that he considered his fellow human beings to be more deserving of rest than a suitcase, that it was a pity the man didn't agree, but perhaps he would learn some manners when he grew up. It was a thing of beauty. I nearly gave him a round of applause.

Because I'm obedient like that

Sunday morning, and a baby is feeding me cheerios, while I sit on the sofa. Then she hands me something which is clearly not a cheerio....

Me: What's this?
Baby: Waisin.
Me: Oh, ok. Wait, where did it come from? Did you pick it up off the floor?
Baby: No.
Me: Are you sure?
Baby: Ess
Me: Are you sure it's not a dirty raisin?
Baby: Juss eat it!

So I did.

Fear is the mind killer

It occurs to me sometimes that I'm scared of an awful lot of things. Spiders are perfectly reasonable things to be afraid of; nasty, crawly things. The dark, as I have explained, is also an arguably rational fear. To a lesser extent I'm also bothered by injections, crowds and anything in the clown/doll/dummy range. None of these give me much difficulty on a day to day basis though. There are things, however, which cause me more trouble. For instance, I have a problem with paperwork - personal paperwork, I should say, as it doesn't seem to affect me at work - But opening my mail freaks me out, especially if it looks official, and filling in a form is enough to give me a panic attack. I'm dreading the census already! I also have a consuming fear of getting things wrong, to the point where I often have to force myself to do things that put me in a position to make mistakes. As these things include such everyday basics as Having a Job, Trying Anything New and Talking To People, it's fortunate that I generally succeed at this.

Alongside this list of, I imagine not uncommon, fears, is one rather odd one. Since I was little, many of my nightmares have in some way incorporated a certain kind of rock. It has a very specific dusty, faintly gritty texture, which I'm occasionally reminded of by the sound of things like scuffing shoes on pavement, and it's so dense and heavy that a piece of it, held in the hand, will tear though your palm like a lead weight through thinly stretched dough. Sometimes my dreams see me buried alive in a casket made of this stone, or scrabbling to move scraps of it or, on one memorable occasion, with a ring of it around my ankle, which held me underwater as I drowned. Sharing this was meant to be mildly humorous but, reading it back, I'm aware that it sounds more than a bit mental. Does anyone else find themselves nonsensically haunted by banal inanimate objects, or is it just me?

Shown up

F and I just got absurdly girly and twitchy about a large spider in the house. I eventually relocated it outside, but not without a certain amount of fuss. As I washed the spider feeling off my hands afterwards (even though I didn't touch it, this was very necessary), one of the babies kept up a soothing commentary.........iss okay, iss only spider, iss okay, iss only spider.........I suspect I was just out-grown-upped by a two year old.

Drat that cat!

It turns out that when I left my bedroom yesterday afternoon, I accidentally shut the cat in there. This wouldn't have been such a catastrophe (cat-astrophe!) if I'd come home last night, but unfortunately I spent the night, as is my wont, on a friend's sofa, and Molly's plight apparently wasn't discovered until this morning. I tentatively ventured into the room when I got home this evening, hoping against hope that she'd had some self-control. No such luck. She crapped smack bang in the middle of my bed. I briefly toyed with the idea of being a sensible, practical non-wasteful person, and getting on with a highly distressing laundry session, but it turns out that both my bedspread and my duvet are dry clean only. I just couldn't bear the thought of going to the dry cleaners, proffering a stinking bin bag, and requesting that they clean faeces from my bedding. Plus, would I ever have been able to sleep under that duvet again, knowing what I knew? So I threw it all in the bin. I know, I know, there are freezing children in the Arctic circle who would think themselves lucky to have a cat-turd coated duvet, and I've probably just done more than my fair share towards destroying the planet by swelling the contents of a landfill, but I'm prepared to accept that. Now I need to buy a new duvet. What the hell is a tog, anyway?

Sexual Nature

Last night L and I went to the Sexual Nature exhibition at the Natural History Museum. Here we learned many interesting facts about animal courtship and *snigger* mating. We also learned that it is necessary to physically move away from stuffed angora rabbits if one is to obey the 'do not touch' sign (and if one didn't that would lead to anarchy, no?), and that Isabella Rossellini is a complete loon. The exhibition was dotted with video screens showing short films of said loon simulating graphic sex while dressed up as various different animals. Attempts to find an example on youtube have just led to extreme excitement, as it turns out there are lots more than were shown at the exhibition. Be warned. These are genuinely weird and may scar you for life.

I would definitely recommend the exhibition if you're one of those people (like me) who likes to dot a conversation with fascinating facts about echidnas, much to the bemusement of the decidedly uninterested people who unsuspectingly set you off. I enjoyed it anyway, even if it has left me with the vague impression that men ought to be building me bowers, presenting me with pebbles and inflating their neck wattle to extraordinary proportions in order to earn my affection.

Tick tock

One of the interesting side effects of long term insomnia is a certain shortness of temper. Now, it has to be pointed out that I wasn't exactly the most equable person to start off with. I'd love to be one of those serenely placid people who glide through life full of smiles; patting small children on the head, handing out sage advice and comforting platitudes as if they were sweeties. Unfortunately this is no very accurate self-portrait of my character. Instead I range from the fretful, nervy peevishness of a Victorian woman who needs her corsets loosening a bit, to the hysterical, frustratedly sobbing rage of......well.......a slightly more expressive Victorian woman, whose husband will probably have her packed off to an asylum very shortly, there to spend the rest of her life in a white flannel nightgown and a drug-addled haze. This being the case on a day to day basis, you can imagine my current state of instability, given that I'm able to count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I've slept through the night in the last two months. My fuse is shorter than Ronnie Corbett's inside leg measurement. Mustering up enough self-control and civility to last me through each day is getting harder and harder, and I'm sure it's not just my present state of mind that makes people seem so much more ill-mannered and demanding lately. Fortunately I'm still clinging to enough rationality to summon up reserves of politeness for the woman who turned up half an hour late for her appointment to view the house this evening. If she decides to buy the house all will be forgiven. And if she doesn't? Well, they do say that the best indication of good manners is in refraining from commenting on other people's bad ones, so I'm actually proving myself the better person. Except I just did comment on her bad manners, which makes me as bad as her. Does it count as moderately self-restrained to be pleasant at the time, and refrain until after the event from pointing out either her tardiness or the fact that she failed to apologise for it, or does it just make me mannerless and two-faced? Be warned that answering this question incorrectly will put you at risk of my wrath.

Erm.......

Is it me, or is it a little bit creepy to hear someone say 'You dropped something', turn around to pick up your oyster card, turn further and see that the person who alerted you to its loss has a white stick and a dog in a yellow jacket?

I've heard that somewhere before....

You know how I'm crap at taking a compliment? Apparently it runs in the family...

Baby: Ardie Megs you look piddy.
Me: Thank you, darling. So do you.
Baby: (Plucking at her pyjamas) My not look piddy.

Your wish is my command

If I found a magic lamp, the genie would be moving on to his next client before he even had time to stretch out the lamp compression cricks. I already know exactly what I want.

1) Peace on Earth. I'm aware that this makes me sound like a Miss World contestant, but it's a wonderfully all-encompassing good wish, which allows me to be as selfish as I like with my other two wishes.

2) The power of teleportation. This would also be my chosen super power were I to be dropped into a particularly accommodating and open-to-suggestions vat of nuclear waste. I'd never have to pay for a holiday again. I could go anywhere I wanted on Earth (which would also be conveniently peaceful thanks to my first wish), and then zap myself home at the end of the day to sleep in my own bed. I would also be able to eliminate the daily commute to work which, given recent public transport based events, would be a real boon.

3) This is the controversial one. I would wish to be beautiful. I know this is a horribly shallow attitude, but it's what I would want. There is actual research that shows that attractive people are more likely to get the jobs they apply for, pay rises, in fact anything they ask for. I suspect this may be partly down to the increased confidence that comes from being attractive. I spend massive amounts of time, at work and in my social life, with women who are quite extraordinarily beautiful, and I'm sure my confidence would be much higher if I felt myself their equals. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that looks are the most important thing about a person....not even close! I would never swap my intelligence or my sense of humour for a pretty face, but if I had a wish going spare, to use in whatever frivolous manner I chose, this is what I would go for. I daresay quite a few people will judge me for saying it. After all, it taps into a huge worm-filled can regarding social and cultural attitudes to women and to appearance in general. I suspect most will understand though. After all, out of all the amazing, intelligent, outspoken women I know, I can only think (off the top of my head) of two or three who don't worry about the way they look. Why not eliminate that, if you had the genie?

Things that make me smile no.75

Two year olds tend to run to "I want! I want!" as a means of expressing desire. I got home today to be asked "Ardie Megs, pease may I bowwow your horsie?". Aw! How can I refuse you anything when you ask so nicely?

How to give yourself a heart attack

Accidentally delete every email in your inbox, including the hundreds which you will, inevitably, need to refer back to at some point in the future. Then sit there and pray for the fifteen minutes it takes your, apparently crashed, email programme to reluctantly restore them all from the trash box.

I was almost tempted!

The scene......A woman stands, in her pyjamas, on her front lawn, with dripping wet hair and no shoes on. Under one arm she holds an angry cat. In the other hand is a dead pigeon. A passing man stops and stares.......

Me: What?
Man: Is that a pigeon?
Me: Yes.
Man: Why do you have a pigeon?
Me: I thought I'd have it for dinner.
Man: Seriously?
Me: No.
Man: Would you like to come for a drink with me? You can bring your pigeon...

Flower power

My new bath salts smell lovely, but the chopped up bits of flowers in the bottle look less 'rose petal bath in the honeymoon suite of a swanky hotel', and more 'someone dumped their garden compost in my tub'.

Fly paper for freaks

My epic series of crazy people on public transport continued today, as I watched a woman methodically tear fragments from her Evening Standard and eat them. Hygienic!

I love my friends

P: I've been having trouble with my dauphinoise lately.
E: That may be the gayest thing that's been said in North London today. And that includes all our talk about cock.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

In 2011 I have slept through the night twice. I've had periods of insomnia since I was a teenager, but this is getting ridiculous. I feel lucky if I manage four hours of sleep a night. I can't remember ever being so exhausted, and it shows. My dark circles are like inky thumbprints smeared under my eyes. I'm always pale, but lately I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the windows of the tube, and I don't even look like the same species as the people around me. I look like something that's been left underwater too long; the bloated, water-bleached corpse of some long-dead fish. The very fact that I'm comparing myself to a piscine cadaver is probably a good sign that I'm going a little crazy with tiredness. In my defence, it's gone two in the morning, I've been trying to get to sleep for nearly four hours, and this is fast becoming the norm. You'd be rambling too.

Things that make me smile No.74

Having one of the babies make her mummy bring her back down from halfway up the stairs because she wants me to give her a goodnight kiss. It's nice to be wanted.

Things that make me smile No.73

The sunrise this morning was stunning: streaks of concrete grey and the washed out blue of old denim, with a candyfloss froth of peach. I admired it for a while, and then realised I was dressed in that exact combination of colours. Joy!