This is my last tale of 2006 and it happened today as I was on my way to have my annual boozy Hogmany lunch with Mog. The table was booked for one o'clock at Vermillion, and I was running late.
I left my flat wearing jeans, knee-high brown leather riding boots, a black velvet jacket, my grey silk scarf and my new red hat. Very smart, I thought. I walked down the street and turned on to Easter Road. A man jogged up behind me, slightly out of breath. He was Asian, about 35 years old and carrying a couple of shopping bags.
He started asking me something, I'd assumed it was for directions but I was really struggling to make anything out of it. I grasped only random words: "I saw you... my wife and I ...three-piece suite ... would you be interested?"
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I really didn't get any of that."
He paused for breath and started again.
"I saw you coming out of Scorpio Leisure ..." (Scorpio Leisure being the Sauna/Massage Parlour on my street.)
Suddenly it all became clear, they weren't trying to sell me a three-piece suite at all!
"Oh no no no no," I quickly interrupted him, "I live next to Scorpio Leisure, but I certainly don't work there."
"Oh ... right. Er ... I'm sorry."
"No worries. Erm ... Happy New Year to you ... and er ... to your wife."
I arrived at The Scotsman a bit flustered. I wonder how much he'd have offered?
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Oh Henri!
I spent the week before Christmas in New York. It was a gift from my parents - not that they were banishing me or anything (although, at times I'm sure that would have been preferable for them), it was a family holiday.
It was my brother's first time in NYC so we did the Empire State and Statue of Liberty thing, but the weather was much nicer than last time so I didn't mind too much. We went to the Top of the Rock too, which was really good. I finally made it to Katz's Deli for pastrami on rye and a cherry soda - unbelievably good, and generally got to know the place much better than in previous visits.
In my experience, when faced with the New York welcome the trick is to maintain a poker-face and resist the urge to lash out while the rudest person in the world checks your passport. I swear, if they'd used staff from New York's airports as immigration officials on Ellis Island, most of the immigrants would have turned right around and sailed 12 weeks back across the Atlantic.
On my last trip, I encountered Sherrondah. She works behind the Ground Transportation desk at Newark. Upstairs, I'd purchased my ticket for the bus into the city and was told that Sherrondah would point me in the right direction regarding which stance to catch the bus. I made my way downstairs and asked Sherrondah my question. This is what happened:
Sherrondah: "They told y'upstairs."
Me: "Er... no. They didn't."
Sherrondah: "Yess dey dit."
Me: "No, they really didn't."
Sherrondah (with the irritating snake-neck popularised by the Riki Lake show): "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "No ... they ... did ... not."
Sherrondah: "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "You're clearly mistaken Sherrondah because if you really did have such powers of insight you wouldn't be stuck sitting on your fat ass behind the Ground Transportation desk at the FUCKING AIRPORT!!!"
This time I flew into JFK and was hoping things would be different. Not so. Enter Lapuzzo, the immigration officer. I swear he took 20 minutes to check four passports and take our index fingerprints, treating us like complete morons in the process. "M'am ... I nee-eed you (pointing at me) to place ... your (pointing at me again) RIGHT ... INDEX ... FINGER ... HERE (pointing at the touchpad)." I did so. After 20 seconds, Lapuzzo nodded - slowly - and said: "Goooood".
Oh ... my ... God!!!!
On our last day in NY, we all went our separate ways: my mum to Macy's, my brother to Bloomingdales, me to Fifth Avenue, and my dad to the Celtic supporters' club.
I visited Henri Bendel to buy some presents - mostly for myself. It's the most perfect place I've ever been. I floated around in a state of pure bliss. I stocked up on some M.A.C items, got a gorgeous grey merino cardigan and a Lotus home fragrance candle for Mog. I took Mog's pressie up to the third floor to have it gift wrapped and experienced a moment of unequaled pleasure. I used to think women who said shopping was better than sex just didn't know how good sex could be. Henri changed my mind.
It was my brother's first time in NYC so we did the Empire State and Statue of Liberty thing, but the weather was much nicer than last time so I didn't mind too much. We went to the Top of the Rock too, which was really good. I finally made it to Katz's Deli for pastrami on rye and a cherry soda - unbelievably good, and generally got to know the place much better than in previous visits.
In my experience, when faced with the New York welcome the trick is to maintain a poker-face and resist the urge to lash out while the rudest person in the world checks your passport. I swear, if they'd used staff from New York's airports as immigration officials on Ellis Island, most of the immigrants would have turned right around and sailed 12 weeks back across the Atlantic.
On my last trip, I encountered Sherrondah. She works behind the Ground Transportation desk at Newark. Upstairs, I'd purchased my ticket for the bus into the city and was told that Sherrondah would point me in the right direction regarding which stance to catch the bus. I made my way downstairs and asked Sherrondah my question. This is what happened:
Sherrondah: "They told y'upstairs."
Me: "Er... no. They didn't."
Sherrondah: "Yess dey dit."
Me: "No, they really didn't."
Sherrondah (with the irritating snake-neck popularised by the Riki Lake show): "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "No ... they ... did ... not."
Sherrondah: "Mmm, uh-huh, yess dey dit."
Me: "You're clearly mistaken Sherrondah because if you really did have such powers of insight you wouldn't be stuck sitting on your fat ass behind the Ground Transportation desk at the FUCKING AIRPORT!!!"
This time I flew into JFK and was hoping things would be different. Not so. Enter Lapuzzo, the immigration officer. I swear he took 20 minutes to check four passports and take our index fingerprints, treating us like complete morons in the process. "M'am ... I nee-eed you (pointing at me) to place ... your (pointing at me again) RIGHT ... INDEX ... FINGER ... HERE (pointing at the touchpad)." I did so. After 20 seconds, Lapuzzo nodded - slowly - and said: "Goooood".
Oh ... my ... God!!!!
On our last day in NY, we all went our separate ways: my mum to Macy's, my brother to Bloomingdales, me to Fifth Avenue, and my dad to the Celtic supporters' club.
I visited Henri Bendel to buy some presents - mostly for myself. It's the most perfect place I've ever been. I floated around in a state of pure bliss. I stocked up on some M.A.C items, got a gorgeous grey merino cardigan and a Lotus home fragrance candle for Mog. I took Mog's pressie up to the third floor to have it gift wrapped and experienced a moment of unequaled pleasure. I used to think women who said shopping was better than sex just didn't know how good sex could be. Henri changed my mind.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Police, camera, satisfaction
Dinner with Katie last Saturday didn't go quite to plan. I'd arranged to go through to Glasgow and stay over at hers. When I called on Saturday morning, Katie was suffering the after effects of a photographers' bash the night before. I offered to bring through some quality food and cook it. Katie sounded both pleased and relieved when she said "Thanks, Lisa."
I headed off to Real Foods to stock up on the various seeds and oils not abundant in my diet. The herbalist had recommended I swap regular tea for nettle tea. I told her there was no chance of me doing that. She laughed and agreed nettle tea was definitely an acquired taste. I left the store weighed down with bags of pumpkin seeds, linseeds, flax seed oil, and porridge oats, and went to meet my mum in John Lewis.
The plan had been to get some food from M&S and get over to Glasgow in time to watch Strictly Come Dancing. It was now an hour before the programme was to start and I still hadn't been to M&S. I told my mum I'd take the car rather than the train because I was going to be late. I stopped back at the flat to pick up a bottle of Vive Cliquot I'd bagged with 40% off at Thresher, and the car.
As I was driving out past the airport on my way to join the M8, I stopped at some traffic lights. It looked as if there was steam coming out of the bonnet. I rationalised that this was probably just due to the heat of the engine in relation to the cold air outside - like being able to see your breath on cold mornings. I drove on.
About a minute later, the car started to make a weird noise when I pushed down on the accelerator. I knew this wasn't good. I then clocked the temperature guage and noticed it was at boiling point (the temperature guage has never worked and normally sits firmly at freezing point so I never have cause to pay it any attention). Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'd just started on the M8 so I swung my car over towards the sliproad at Hermiston Gate. I was losing power, steam was definitely rising from the bonnet and the car was crying out. Then it just died, and I drifted to the edge of the road - about half way up the slip road.
The amount of steam now had me convinced that the car was going to blow up at any second, so I got out. And I had absolutely no idea what to do next. All I knew was that I wasn't a member of the AA or the RAC.
I'd like to point out that I'm in no way a pathetic or stupid girl, and I can change a tyre in 25 minutes. But I honestly didn't know what to do. So I called my mum. She didn't answer. I phoned my Granddad. He didn't answer. I phoned my uncle Sean - no answer. I called my brother. Thankfully he did answer. He told me he was in the pub and couldn't come to get me. I explained that I wasn't expecting anyone to come across to get me, I just wasn't clued up on breakdown etiquette. He asked me a few questions and I mentioned that there hadn't been any hot air coming from the blower. "You've got no water, you muppet." Liam said he'd keep trying to call mum for me.
Then my uncle Sean phoned back. I told him my story and he said: "You've blown your enginge. You'll need to get the car towed." I was absolutely freezing so I got back in the car. I called Katie and explained the situation and told her I still planned to get there.
Just at that, the police pulled up behind me. "Have you called anyone?", the policeman asked. "I phoned my mum." "Is she a mechanic like?", he laughed. "No, but she knows ... stuff," I said, a bit sheepishly.
They explained that they had to get my car over to the hard shoulder and pushed it across the road. They asked if I wanted to wait in their car and won me over with the mention of a working heater.
Because I was a 'code 25', officers Davie & Mark waited with me until the tow truck arrived. They were really helpful and talked me through what I should do if I find myself in a similar situation in future. They were so nice and friendly that I had to forgive them for playing back the video footage of me leaving my car so they could laugh at my red wellies.
The tow truck arrived and the police drove me back to Haymarket station just in time for the 9:04pm train to Queen Street.
Katie picked me up at the other end and we sat down to dinner at 10pm. I popped the cork on the champagne, saying that life was too short not to have champagne on a Saturday night. We toasted to: "making it against the odds", "crazy flatmates and not having to live with them" and "great friendships second time around."
It was worth the hassle.
I headed off to Real Foods to stock up on the various seeds and oils not abundant in my diet. The herbalist had recommended I swap regular tea for nettle tea. I told her there was no chance of me doing that. She laughed and agreed nettle tea was definitely an acquired taste. I left the store weighed down with bags of pumpkin seeds, linseeds, flax seed oil, and porridge oats, and went to meet my mum in John Lewis.
The plan had been to get some food from M&S and get over to Glasgow in time to watch Strictly Come Dancing. It was now an hour before the programme was to start and I still hadn't been to M&S. I told my mum I'd take the car rather than the train because I was going to be late. I stopped back at the flat to pick up a bottle of Vive Cliquot I'd bagged with 40% off at Thresher, and the car.
As I was driving out past the airport on my way to join the M8, I stopped at some traffic lights. It looked as if there was steam coming out of the bonnet. I rationalised that this was probably just due to the heat of the engine in relation to the cold air outside - like being able to see your breath on cold mornings. I drove on.
About a minute later, the car started to make a weird noise when I pushed down on the accelerator. I knew this wasn't good. I then clocked the temperature guage and noticed it was at boiling point (the temperature guage has never worked and normally sits firmly at freezing point so I never have cause to pay it any attention). Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'd just started on the M8 so I swung my car over towards the sliproad at Hermiston Gate. I was losing power, steam was definitely rising from the bonnet and the car was crying out. Then it just died, and I drifted to the edge of the road - about half way up the slip road.
The amount of steam now had me convinced that the car was going to blow up at any second, so I got out. And I had absolutely no idea what to do next. All I knew was that I wasn't a member of the AA or the RAC.
I'd like to point out that I'm in no way a pathetic or stupid girl, and I can change a tyre in 25 minutes. But I honestly didn't know what to do. So I called my mum. She didn't answer. I phoned my Granddad. He didn't answer. I phoned my uncle Sean - no answer. I called my brother. Thankfully he did answer. He told me he was in the pub and couldn't come to get me. I explained that I wasn't expecting anyone to come across to get me, I just wasn't clued up on breakdown etiquette. He asked me a few questions and I mentioned that there hadn't been any hot air coming from the blower. "You've got no water, you muppet." Liam said he'd keep trying to call mum for me.
Then my uncle Sean phoned back. I told him my story and he said: "You've blown your enginge. You'll need to get the car towed." I was absolutely freezing so I got back in the car. I called Katie and explained the situation and told her I still planned to get there.
Just at that, the police pulled up behind me. "Have you called anyone?", the policeman asked. "I phoned my mum." "Is she a mechanic like?", he laughed. "No, but she knows ... stuff," I said, a bit sheepishly.
They explained that they had to get my car over to the hard shoulder and pushed it across the road. They asked if I wanted to wait in their car and won me over with the mention of a working heater.
Because I was a 'code 25', officers Davie & Mark waited with me until the tow truck arrived. They were really helpful and talked me through what I should do if I find myself in a similar situation in future. They were so nice and friendly that I had to forgive them for playing back the video footage of me leaving my car so they could laugh at my red wellies.
The tow truck arrived and the police drove me back to Haymarket station just in time for the 9:04pm train to Queen Street.
Katie picked me up at the other end and we sat down to dinner at 10pm. I popped the cork on the champagne, saying that life was too short not to have champagne on a Saturday night. We toasted to: "making it against the odds", "crazy flatmates and not having to live with them" and "great friendships second time around."
It was worth the hassle.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The trouble with wellies
On Tuesday morning I opened my email at work. There was a note from my manager entitled 'Areas of improvement'. I knew it wasn't going to be good. This is what it said:
"It has recently been brought to my attention that there are certain areas of company policy that you are not following sufficiently.
Dress Code
1) Wellies are not permitted - even on casual Friday.
2) Stripey or excessively patterned tights are not permitted.
3) Crimped hair is not permitted
4) Generally, your dress on business days is too casual. Sometimes your tops are cut too low and your skirts are too short. This is not professional and does not create the right impression.
Organisation & Planning
Although you always get all your work done on time and to an exceptionally high standard, you are not organised in the way you go about it.
Please do all you can to remedy these points as soon as possible."
Oh my God. How ridiculous is that? I was stunned. There's nothing in the rules about crimped hair, patterened tights or even wellies. It's all at the manager's discretion. Admittedly, the wellies I wore the previous Friday on dress-down day may have been pushing it, but it's not like they're mucky, farm boots. They're knee-high, red rubber boots and they looked fab. The child in me now wants to find a pair of knee-high, red leather boots and wear those instead.
I immediately sent an email back, in which I stated that I believed I was one of the best put-together people in the whole department. There are a few people who wear the same clothes everyday (including the same shirt/blouse) - gross!
I went on: "One of the many problems with this company is that there are far too many people who concern themselves with being overly organised and not enough people capable of creative or independent thought. I have a different way of working, but if the job is done on time and to a satisfactory standard I don't believe there's a problem."
They continually tell me that they love the fact I'm different, but try to iron this out at every opportunity. The book is now open on how long I'll last.
"It has recently been brought to my attention that there are certain areas of company policy that you are not following sufficiently.
Dress Code
1) Wellies are not permitted - even on casual Friday.
2) Stripey or excessively patterned tights are not permitted.
3) Crimped hair is not permitted
4) Generally, your dress on business days is too casual. Sometimes your tops are cut too low and your skirts are too short. This is not professional and does not create the right impression.
Organisation & Planning
Although you always get all your work done on time and to an exceptionally high standard, you are not organised in the way you go about it.
Please do all you can to remedy these points as soon as possible."
Oh my God. How ridiculous is that? I was stunned. There's nothing in the rules about crimped hair, patterened tights or even wellies. It's all at the manager's discretion. Admittedly, the wellies I wore the previous Friday on dress-down day may have been pushing it, but it's not like they're mucky, farm boots. They're knee-high, red rubber boots and they looked fab. The child in me now wants to find a pair of knee-high, red leather boots and wear those instead.
I immediately sent an email back, in which I stated that I believed I was one of the best put-together people in the whole department. There are a few people who wear the same clothes everyday (including the same shirt/blouse) - gross!
I went on: "One of the many problems with this company is that there are far too many people who concern themselves with being overly organised and not enough people capable of creative or independent thought. I have a different way of working, but if the job is done on time and to a satisfactory standard I don't believe there's a problem."
They continually tell me that they love the fact I'm different, but try to iron this out at every opportunity. The book is now open on how long I'll last.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree
My Christmas tree has arrived. And it is spectacular. For the last few years, I've bought a real tree, but this time I've gone artificial. There are two reasons for this: First, the unavoidable pine shreddage that happens when trying to evict the real tree from my flat was something I didn't want to go through again; and, more importantly, real trees just aren't perfect enough. I like all the lights and decorations to hang exactly where I want them to and real trees just don't play ball.
I scoured the internet for the perfection I was seeking. Unsurprisingly perhaps, I found it at www.christmastreeland.com. The 'Fraser Fir' - "New to Christmas Tree Land for 2006, the Fraser fir is a truly stunning tree with a traditional Christmas tree shape. It's sure to bring the 'wow' factor into any home." I had to have it, but at £102.00 plus delivery - I wanted it for less. Xmas Direct came to the rescue with the same tree at £89.00 plus delivery. Nice.
Five minutes later and I'd ordered my tree for delivery on Saturday. Everything was going swimmingly. Chatting to my mum later on, I proudly told her of my purchase. "Yeah, it's 6.5 feet and 57" in diameter," I explained.
"57" in diameter? Lisa, that's pretty enormous. Are you sure that won't be too big?"
I got out my tape measure and realised that the tree I'd ordered was going to consume about half of my sitting room. Fuck. That would give the 'wow' factor alright. "wow! I can't believe you were dumb enough to order a tree too big for your house." "wow! I'm being suffocated by your enormous tree."
Back onto Xmas Direct. Yes, yes, yes! They had a slimline version for those with 'space issues'. 6ft, 39" diameter, £25 cheaper. I called and asked them to swap my Fraser Fir for a Fraser Fir Slimline. Done.
The tree arrived yesterday at 0930. And I'm very pleased. I suspect I will be even more pleased when my lights and decorations are all hanging perfectly, and my feet are free of jaggy pine needles as the new year begins.
I scoured the internet for the perfection I was seeking. Unsurprisingly perhaps, I found it at www.christmastreeland.com. The 'Fraser Fir' - "New to Christmas Tree Land for 2006, the Fraser fir is a truly stunning tree with a traditional Christmas tree shape. It's sure to bring the 'wow' factor into any home." I had to have it, but at £102.00 plus delivery - I wanted it for less. Xmas Direct came to the rescue with the same tree at £89.00 plus delivery. Nice.
Five minutes later and I'd ordered my tree for delivery on Saturday. Everything was going swimmingly. Chatting to my mum later on, I proudly told her of my purchase. "Yeah, it's 6.5 feet and 57" in diameter," I explained.
"57" in diameter? Lisa, that's pretty enormous. Are you sure that won't be too big?"
I got out my tape measure and realised that the tree I'd ordered was going to consume about half of my sitting room. Fuck. That would give the 'wow' factor alright. "wow! I can't believe you were dumb enough to order a tree too big for your house." "wow! I'm being suffocated by your enormous tree."
Back onto Xmas Direct. Yes, yes, yes! They had a slimline version for those with 'space issues'. 6ft, 39" diameter, £25 cheaper. I called and asked them to swap my Fraser Fir for a Fraser Fir Slimline. Done.
The tree arrived yesterday at 0930. And I'm very pleased. I suspect I will be even more pleased when my lights and decorations are all hanging perfectly, and my feet are free of jaggy pine needles as the new year begins.
Monday, November 20, 2006
I don't feel like dancing (yeah right!)
I was supposed to have Friday off work, but deadlines (and a grumpy boss) meant that I had to drag myself in. To make things worse, I've got myself involved in some sort of crazy crimping charity challenge. A few of my colleagues have pledged very sizeable amounts of cash to charity if I can convince 10 senior managers to sport crimps before Christmas. Badges saying "Nice bit of crimpette" are already in production. My usually robust confidence has deserted me, but I don't want to walk away from a challenge. What's a girl to do?
Saturday was Scissor Sisters day and we headed to Newcastle. I met Kerry and her colleagues Sam and Alysoun at 10am, and headed for the bus station. When the time came to board, we were met by two ex-bouncers who seemed to be pissed off that they were now driving the National Express up and down to Hull everyday. "Yougothotfidinair?" the fat one asked. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he was asking because I wasn't allowed hot food on the bus or because he wanted to eat it, but I was slightly offended. If the image I'm projecting is that of a girl carrying pies and pasties around in her bag then I've gone seriously wrong somewhere. "No", I managed, setting my job quite firmly. I then attempted to board the bus. "Yer bag goes in the hold hen." Clearly my (genuine) LV weekend bag was doing me no favours and I'd been identified as a chav. Kerry nudged me and started feigning shock "Don't you know who I am? This is an LV sweetie."
I decided to challenge them and said I'd really prefer to take my bag on board. "Naw hen. Bag goes in the hold. Ye ca be drinking alcohol on the coach." Fuck - now I look like a bucky swigging, pie guzzling schemie. Don't Louis Vuitton realise the hassle their luggage causes respectable passengers on the National Express? No, right enough, it is something of a contradiction in terms. The bus then started to fill up with genuine schemies and the drivers revelled in the opportunity to be bouncers once again. One guy was asked to get back off the bus, whereupon the drivers told him that he had to "get onto this bus like a human being and not an eejit". Kerry started laughing and remarked that it was like being on a school trip. "Do you know what would be great," I said. "What?" "If instead of a book and this week's Economist in my bag, I had a little stove and a wok. Why no Mr Bus Driver, I don't have any hot food - (aside) not yet anyway, mwahahaha!"
We got into Newcastle at 1pm and got settled into the Hotel - which meant that Kerry and I had a snooze and ignored Sam knocking at our room door.My new Decleor eye mask went down a treat. Whereas Sinead had previously told me to refrain from wearing eye masks when rooming with her ("I can't sleep when I know you're wearing that weirdo eye mask, it's freaking me out."), Kerry laughed and said: "Check you, Joan Collins!"
After consuming a bottle of wine with dinner and ordering about 10 taxis to take us to the arena, we were there. The French Maid sketch from Tittybangbang ('Don't look at me, I'm shy!) had caught on as a source of great hilarity in the group. We repeated ad nauseum in our merry state. Upon seeing large numbers of gay and lesbian couples in the foyer at the gig, I altered this to: "Don't look at me, I'm bisexual, lesbian or gay." Kerry was mortified. "Shhhhh!"
The show was great with an excellent finale of 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' and 'Filthy Gorgeous.' The audience interaction was really good with lots of laughs - 'Laura' was dedicated to Laura Bush, and Ana Matronic wished every woman in the audience 45 minutes of uninterrupted cunnilingus. She wasn't clear about whether this was during the gig or afterwards, but I was touched by what I'm sure was a very genuine thought. And Jake was far too fanciable for very gay man. I'm beginning to worry about myself.
From the arena we took the slowest taxi ride ever to Buffalo Joe's. I wasn't expecting a great deal, but ended up having the best night out I've had in ages. The place was heaving, but there was plenty of bar staff. It was even better when four sexy half naked guys got up onto the bar and started dancing. I was shockingly thirsty and ordered the first soft drink I spied, which turned out to be 'Shark' energy drink. What the hey, it went down quickly and was very refreshing.
Upstairs there was enough room to dance. Dangerous given my penchant for shaking it all about, being merry from the wine and wired from the Shark. I went for it, unashamedly. Some people who were also dancing stopped to give me more space, then started cheering me on. Kerry and the others were bent double with laughter. At one point, a bald guy approached me. I stopped him short with one hand and said: "Don't look at me, I'm shy."
A little while later, a very nice Dubliner called Graham came over to tell me that I was "very, very lovely." He gave it a good go keeping up with me and didn't seem to be put off by my dancing like an absolute arse. If anything, he seemed to really like it. At about 01:30 we decided to head back to the hotel. Graham pleaded with me to stay and he made some excellent points in his argument. Alas, I decided it was not the night to claim Ana's kind wish for me.
Back in the room, Kerry and I chatted over our brilliant night. "When we come back next year, I bet they'll all be dancing like that," she laughed. I'd love to find out. Another trip is definitely on the cards for next year.
Saturday was Scissor Sisters day and we headed to Newcastle. I met Kerry and her colleagues Sam and Alysoun at 10am, and headed for the bus station. When the time came to board, we were met by two ex-bouncers who seemed to be pissed off that they were now driving the National Express up and down to Hull everyday. "Yougothotfidinair?" the fat one asked. To be honest, I wasn't sure if he was asking because I wasn't allowed hot food on the bus or because he wanted to eat it, but I was slightly offended. If the image I'm projecting is that of a girl carrying pies and pasties around in her bag then I've gone seriously wrong somewhere. "No", I managed, setting my job quite firmly. I then attempted to board the bus. "Yer bag goes in the hold hen." Clearly my (genuine) LV weekend bag was doing me no favours and I'd been identified as a chav. Kerry nudged me and started feigning shock "Don't you know who I am? This is an LV sweetie."
I decided to challenge them and said I'd really prefer to take my bag on board. "Naw hen. Bag goes in the hold. Ye ca be drinking alcohol on the coach." Fuck - now I look like a bucky swigging, pie guzzling schemie. Don't Louis Vuitton realise the hassle their luggage causes respectable passengers on the National Express? No, right enough, it is something of a contradiction in terms. The bus then started to fill up with genuine schemies and the drivers revelled in the opportunity to be bouncers once again. One guy was asked to get back off the bus, whereupon the drivers told him that he had to "get onto this bus like a human being and not an eejit". Kerry started laughing and remarked that it was like being on a school trip. "Do you know what would be great," I said. "What?" "If instead of a book and this week's Economist in my bag, I had a little stove and a wok. Why no Mr Bus Driver, I don't have any hot food - (aside) not yet anyway, mwahahaha!"
We got into Newcastle at 1pm and got settled into the Hotel - which meant that Kerry and I had a snooze and ignored Sam knocking at our room door.My new Decleor eye mask went down a treat. Whereas Sinead had previously told me to refrain from wearing eye masks when rooming with her ("I can't sleep when I know you're wearing that weirdo eye mask, it's freaking me out."), Kerry laughed and said: "Check you, Joan Collins!"
After consuming a bottle of wine with dinner and ordering about 10 taxis to take us to the arena, we were there. The French Maid sketch from Tittybangbang ('Don't look at me, I'm shy!) had caught on as a source of great hilarity in the group. We repeated ad nauseum in our merry state. Upon seeing large numbers of gay and lesbian couples in the foyer at the gig, I altered this to: "Don't look at me, I'm bisexual, lesbian or gay." Kerry was mortified. "Shhhhh!"
The show was great with an excellent finale of 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' and 'Filthy Gorgeous.' The audience interaction was really good with lots of laughs - 'Laura' was dedicated to Laura Bush, and Ana Matronic wished every woman in the audience 45 minutes of uninterrupted cunnilingus. She wasn't clear about whether this was during the gig or afterwards, but I was touched by what I'm sure was a very genuine thought. And Jake was far too fanciable for very gay man. I'm beginning to worry about myself.
From the arena we took the slowest taxi ride ever to Buffalo Joe's. I wasn't expecting a great deal, but ended up having the best night out I've had in ages. The place was heaving, but there was plenty of bar staff. It was even better when four sexy half naked guys got up onto the bar and started dancing. I was shockingly thirsty and ordered the first soft drink I spied, which turned out to be 'Shark' energy drink. What the hey, it went down quickly and was very refreshing.
Upstairs there was enough room to dance. Dangerous given my penchant for shaking it all about, being merry from the wine and wired from the Shark. I went for it, unashamedly. Some people who were also dancing stopped to give me more space, then started cheering me on. Kerry and the others were bent double with laughter. At one point, a bald guy approached me. I stopped him short with one hand and said: "Don't look at me, I'm shy."
A little while later, a very nice Dubliner called Graham came over to tell me that I was "very, very lovely." He gave it a good go keeping up with me and didn't seem to be put off by my dancing like an absolute arse. If anything, he seemed to really like it. At about 01:30 we decided to head back to the hotel. Graham pleaded with me to stay and he made some excellent points in his argument. Alas, I decided it was not the night to claim Ana's kind wish for me.
Back in the room, Kerry and I chatted over our brilliant night. "When we come back next year, I bet they'll all be dancing like that," she laughed. I'd love to find out. Another trip is definitely on the cards for next year.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Au revoir Ambassador
Apparently the Ambassador isn't having a dinner party this year.
He's packed up and gone, without even the hint of a goodbye. I must say, I never expected such bad manners from an old-school gent of the Ambassador's calibre. And what do we have in his place? Some Bondesque silhouettes vaulting GM Ferrero Rocher to a Cilla Black tune (no, not Surprise Surprise - though I think that might have been more fitting. The unexpected certainly hit me between the eyes. That's the surprise you see ... enough).
Yes it's much cooler, but I loved the cheese. Besides, there's no conclusion to the Ambassador's story. I mean, did he die? At one of his renowned parties? Admittedly, his character was severely under-developed, but I would have at least liked some conclusion. Now I'll be forever wondering whether or not anyone ever said: "Monsieur, with these Ferrero Rocher you are really taking de piss."
Everyone's gone Bond this season. What about that M&S ad? Twiggy, snowmobiles, Ice Bars and Dame Shirley doing Pink - fantastic.With this advert M&S are really spoiling us. That said, I still don't get the story of Twiggy and the younger models. I voiced this at work earlier this week. Anne assures me they're all just friends, but I'm not convinced. To me, and I've thought this from the very first ads, there's just something slightly off about Twiggy and all those younger women. I see Twiggy as a Fagin type character overseeing her younger charges. I think they're thieves. The new ad just proves that they've exhausted the pockets and purses of the American tourists on the London buses and have moved on to bigger and better things. High class jewel thieves - that's what they've graduated to. I tell you, Dame Shirley left the ice bar sans earrings that night! Twiggy? A jewel thief mastermind? Who'd have thought it?
He's packed up and gone, without even the hint of a goodbye. I must say, I never expected such bad manners from an old-school gent of the Ambassador's calibre. And what do we have in his place? Some Bondesque silhouettes vaulting GM Ferrero Rocher to a Cilla Black tune (no, not Surprise Surprise - though I think that might have been more fitting. The unexpected certainly hit me between the eyes. That's the surprise you see ... enough).
Yes it's much cooler, but I loved the cheese. Besides, there's no conclusion to the Ambassador's story. I mean, did he die? At one of his renowned parties? Admittedly, his character was severely under-developed, but I would have at least liked some conclusion. Now I'll be forever wondering whether or not anyone ever said: "Monsieur, with these Ferrero Rocher you are really taking de piss."
Everyone's gone Bond this season. What about that M&S ad? Twiggy, snowmobiles, Ice Bars and Dame Shirley doing Pink - fantastic.With this advert M&S are really spoiling us. That said, I still don't get the story of Twiggy and the younger models. I voiced this at work earlier this week. Anne assures me they're all just friends, but I'm not convinced. To me, and I've thought this from the very first ads, there's just something slightly off about Twiggy and all those younger women. I see Twiggy as a Fagin type character overseeing her younger charges. I think they're thieves. The new ad just proves that they've exhausted the pockets and purses of the American tourists on the London buses and have moved on to bigger and better things. High class jewel thieves - that's what they've graduated to. I tell you, Dame Shirley left the ice bar sans earrings that night! Twiggy? A jewel thief mastermind? Who'd have thought it?
Friday, November 10, 2006
Claws and crimps
Life? Manic? Yes! And not in the good way. Work has been so crazy that I've taken to avoiding my email and my phone like the plague. In some ways it's good because it's only ever pishy little stuff that comes via those channels, but in others it's bad because I now have something of a 'diva' attitude towards my tasks. "If it's not even remotely interesting baby, I ain't touching it."
Yesterday I ran a future planning session for my favourite clients. It went really well and I only mentioned taking my clothes off once. Today, I was filming in Leith. Oh there's no end to the glamour. A couple of months back I'd drawn up some storyboards (complete with stick men) in response to a client's request to make a film, and today it all became reality. My left hand was required for one of the scenes. The very same left hand that had an confidence-shattering experience in this month's company magazine.
Somehow I ended up being centre-spread. There are a number of things wrong with the picture:
1) It's enormous
2) It's a cut-out and as such is bereft of context
3) The photographer shot it from below
4) My left arm is outstretched and, as a result of point 4, appears hideously disproportionate to the rest of my body
5) I am wearing a (hideously disproportionate) chunky, gold bracelet on my (hideously disproportionate)left wrist.
6) I pity da fool.
The only saving grace is that there are staples and a crease down my face so people may not know it's me (I pray. Oh dear God, do I pray).
My colleagues have now nicknamed me 'the claw' and do the full on Toy Story thing every time I open my mouth.
Anyway, I saw today's film as a chance to recover. I was required to stack £2 coins. It doesn't sound very difficult, but I hadn't factored on stage fright. My hand began shaking like Sue-Ellen in the early years. I had to do four takes - dismal.
It was really interesting seeing the film come together. I also had to sit in on the voice-over recording which was really cool. The guy had an amazingly smooth voice, which reminded me of just how nasal mine is.
The last few weeks have been really good for catching up with my friends. Jen (who incidentally was pished at her work today)and I had a marathon phone sesh which was cynical yet optimistic. I also spoke to Kerry, who informed me that one of her budgies has 'croaked'and that she'd bought a replacement which is 'much brawer like'. We're heading off to see the Scissor Sisters in Newcastle next week and are trying to decide what to wear. I'm definitely going to crimp my hair. I've had crimped hair every day this week and it's been attracting a lot of attention. Jayne said:"Oh my goodness. I've not seen a crimp since 1987." To which I replied avec great gusto: "Well Jayne, you'll be seeing lot more of them as it's a key part of the look for this season. And as everyone around here takes their fashion leads from me, expect to see plenty more crimped heads around here next week." She laughed, but in a nervous kind of way.
Sinead emailed with a subject heading of "Colin Fry - Mon 13th, Playhouse", so we're going to see him. I'm looking forward to hearing repeated use of the word "passed-over". On the phone last night, Sinead told me that she'd sent the same email to Joleen and she'd written back saying: "Great! When & where?" Prone to Hulkesque outbursts, Sinead resisted and replied: "Mon 13th :) at the Playhouse :)". Well done that girl!
That's enough from me. I'm off to work on my fireside tartan.
Yesterday I ran a future planning session for my favourite clients. It went really well and I only mentioned taking my clothes off once. Today, I was filming in Leith. Oh there's no end to the glamour. A couple of months back I'd drawn up some storyboards (complete with stick men) in response to a client's request to make a film, and today it all became reality. My left hand was required for one of the scenes. The very same left hand that had an confidence-shattering experience in this month's company magazine.
Somehow I ended up being centre-spread. There are a number of things wrong with the picture:
1) It's enormous
2) It's a cut-out and as such is bereft of context
3) The photographer shot it from below
4) My left arm is outstretched and, as a result of point 4, appears hideously disproportionate to the rest of my body
5) I am wearing a (hideously disproportionate) chunky, gold bracelet on my (hideously disproportionate)left wrist.
6) I pity da fool.
The only saving grace is that there are staples and a crease down my face so people may not know it's me (I pray. Oh dear God, do I pray).
My colleagues have now nicknamed me 'the claw' and do the full on Toy Story thing every time I open my mouth.
Anyway, I saw today's film as a chance to recover. I was required to stack £2 coins. It doesn't sound very difficult, but I hadn't factored on stage fright. My hand began shaking like Sue-Ellen in the early years. I had to do four takes - dismal.
It was really interesting seeing the film come together. I also had to sit in on the voice-over recording which was really cool. The guy had an amazingly smooth voice, which reminded me of just how nasal mine is.
The last few weeks have been really good for catching up with my friends. Jen (who incidentally was pished at her work today)and I had a marathon phone sesh which was cynical yet optimistic. I also spoke to Kerry, who informed me that one of her budgies has 'croaked'and that she'd bought a replacement which is 'much brawer like'. We're heading off to see the Scissor Sisters in Newcastle next week and are trying to decide what to wear. I'm definitely going to crimp my hair. I've had crimped hair every day this week and it's been attracting a lot of attention. Jayne said:"Oh my goodness. I've not seen a crimp since 1987." To which I replied avec great gusto: "Well Jayne, you'll be seeing lot more of them as it's a key part of the look for this season. And as everyone around here takes their fashion leads from me, expect to see plenty more crimped heads around here next week." She laughed, but in a nervous kind of way.
Sinead emailed with a subject heading of "Colin Fry - Mon 13th, Playhouse", so we're going to see him. I'm looking forward to hearing repeated use of the word "passed-over". On the phone last night, Sinead told me that she'd sent the same email to Joleen and she'd written back saying: "Great! When & where?" Prone to Hulkesque outbursts, Sinead resisted and replied: "Mon 13th :) at the Playhouse :)". Well done that girl!
That's enough from me. I'm off to work on my fireside tartan.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Not funny
Today at work I said something, out loud, which disturbed everyone. Donna has bought an 8-bed mansion or something on a similar scale of grandeur. There's only her and her 2 kids so she doesn't really need all those bedrooms.
Anne said "I wonder why Donna needs a house as big as that?"
and I said: "because she doesn't have a penis."
I thought that was quite funny, but apparently you're not supposed to say 'penis' in the workplace. Unless, I guess, if you work at the GUM clinic or something.
Anne said "I wonder why Donna needs a house as big as that?"
and I said: "because she doesn't have a penis."
I thought that was quite funny, but apparently you're not supposed to say 'penis' in the workplace. Unless, I guess, if you work at the GUM clinic or something.
Friday, October 20, 2006
It's my birthday and I'll lie if I want to
Today I turned 27 - nothing spectacular as ages go. It was a very, very lovely birthday though. I had a fair few cards to open. Mog had already gifted me with a beautiful baby blue leather toiletries bag from Crabtree & Evelyn the night before. I got a handful of congratulatory text messages and my Grandad called to tell me he was coming over to Edinburgh to take me out for lunch.
I set off for work - looking mighty fine for a 27 year old (if I may say so myself). I stopped in at Tenkos to get some croissants and muffins for my team-mates. When I arrived, there was a card waiting for me - Little Miss Sunshine no less!
My Grandad had offered to take me to lunch at The Dome, but I find it overpriced for lunch and thought he'd really prefer my suggestion anyway. He did and so we headed to Monster Mash on Thistle Street. He stopped outside to read the menu and was loving those prices! He said he fancied the steak pie and I warned him that it was HUGE. "Ah, but this is my main meal of the day," he protested. Whatever, it was his call. The steak pie arrived. "Bloody hell, will you look at the size o' that? I'll never manage all that!" But he did. Unfortunately, he didn't have any room for the pudding he'd been eyeing up.
I headed back to work and did nothing for an hour and a half, then headed home at 4pm. I set about getting myself ready for my girls' night. Sinead pitched up with some beautiful flowers and a train station-rage story about a very rude man who had knocked her over and felt her wrath.
Leanne arrived at the door after spending some time in next door's stairwell. We all enjoyed a few glasses of syder brut - a very delicious and elegant cider. I was thrilled to open Leanne's present and find 'The Crimson Petal and the White' which I am dying to start reading. The Elizabeth Arden eight-hour cream will also come in very handy fighting the signs of aging I'm sure.
We took a cab to Gurkha Brigade because it was pouring down. Mog arrived seconds later. Katie had called to say she would be late. 40 minutes later she burst through the door looking every inch the drowned rat. It was the most dramatic entrance ever and met with laughter from us and most of the restaurant. A quick spruce up in the ladies room and she was back to her gorgeous self. We proceeded to have a rioutous night which mostly involved my friends taking the piss at my expense. Sinead told us about Betty the guide dog and her unfortunate accident in one of Fife Council's meeting rooms.
We headed on to City where Sinead had wangled us onto the guest list under an assumed name. It was all very exciting. It was plenty busy and Boogie & Dingo from Forth One were on the decks. We were all enjoying a boogie of our own when it occured to us that everyone else seemed really young. A guy danced his way over and started giving me some chat. He looked young - really young. I asked him how old he was. 17 apparently!!! I told him I was old enough to be his mother. "That's stretching it a bit," Mog said. "Not if it were a Daily Record headline," I replied.
After about an hour and a half, (45 minutes of which was spent trying to get into the locked room with the seats), we all admitted to feeling a bit too old and headed back to mine for a cup of tea.
We put Katie in the Mastermind chair and 'cubed' her. The results were interesting.
All in all, it turned out to be quite a spectacular birthday. 27 feels right.
I set off for work - looking mighty fine for a 27 year old (if I may say so myself). I stopped in at Tenkos to get some croissants and muffins for my team-mates. When I arrived, there was a card waiting for me - Little Miss Sunshine no less!
My Grandad had offered to take me to lunch at The Dome, but I find it overpriced for lunch and thought he'd really prefer my suggestion anyway. He did and so we headed to Monster Mash on Thistle Street. He stopped outside to read the menu and was loving those prices! He said he fancied the steak pie and I warned him that it was HUGE. "Ah, but this is my main meal of the day," he protested. Whatever, it was his call. The steak pie arrived. "Bloody hell, will you look at the size o' that? I'll never manage all that!" But he did. Unfortunately, he didn't have any room for the pudding he'd been eyeing up.
I headed back to work and did nothing for an hour and a half, then headed home at 4pm. I set about getting myself ready for my girls' night. Sinead pitched up with some beautiful flowers and a train station-rage story about a very rude man who had knocked her over and felt her wrath.
Leanne arrived at the door after spending some time in next door's stairwell. We all enjoyed a few glasses of syder brut - a very delicious and elegant cider. I was thrilled to open Leanne's present and find 'The Crimson Petal and the White' which I am dying to start reading. The Elizabeth Arden eight-hour cream will also come in very handy fighting the signs of aging I'm sure.
We took a cab to Gurkha Brigade because it was pouring down. Mog arrived seconds later. Katie had called to say she would be late. 40 minutes later she burst through the door looking every inch the drowned rat. It was the most dramatic entrance ever and met with laughter from us and most of the restaurant. A quick spruce up in the ladies room and she was back to her gorgeous self. We proceeded to have a rioutous night which mostly involved my friends taking the piss at my expense. Sinead told us about Betty the guide dog and her unfortunate accident in one of Fife Council's meeting rooms.
We headed on to City where Sinead had wangled us onto the guest list under an assumed name. It was all very exciting. It was plenty busy and Boogie & Dingo from Forth One were on the decks. We were all enjoying a boogie of our own when it occured to us that everyone else seemed really young. A guy danced his way over and started giving me some chat. He looked young - really young. I asked him how old he was. 17 apparently!!! I told him I was old enough to be his mother. "That's stretching it a bit," Mog said. "Not if it were a Daily Record headline," I replied.
After about an hour and a half, (45 minutes of which was spent trying to get into the locked room with the seats), we all admitted to feeling a bit too old and headed back to mine for a cup of tea.
We put Katie in the Mastermind chair and 'cubed' her. The results were interesting.
All in all, it turned out to be quite a spectacular birthday. 27 feels right.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
ok so, Hong Kong was good (Part 2)
I slid my fankled feet into a pair of flip flops and covered this monstrosity with a very long dress. What the hay! We dined at 'Dong' before heading down to the Peninsula Hotel to partake of a few champagne cocktails in the Felix bar. The place was uber-cool with amazing views across the harbour to Hong Kong Island.
On day 2, I tried my hand at haggling (though enjoyed more success when I communicated verbally). I went into a shop just off Nathan Road to get a memory stick for my camera. The over-zealous sales assistant told me I had "lovely temples". "Excuse me?" came my rather shocked response. "Your temples," he tried again, "are lovely. Beautiful temples. Very big." I was about to get up and leave when it dawned on me that he meant 'dimples'. "Aahh dimples!" I smiled back, "yes, thank you."
The dimples got me in trouble later that day when I made my perpetual mistake of smiling and saying hello to the wrong person, who then followed us around for about an hour and sat two rows behind us on the Star Ferry back to Kowloon.
High tea at the Peninsula Hotel was a wonderful treat. It was very old school with the waiting staff in colonial style uniforms. We partook of a lovely pot of Afternoon Tea and several fancies. My feet thanked me privately for the rest.
Day 3 was full-on and whatever love-fest my feet and I engaged in the previous day was gone. We visited the Bank of China tower, caught the tram up to the Peak, took a sangpang ride at Aberdeen Harbour. It was all very authentic and traditional, apart from the fact that the fisherman spent the majority of the time on his mobile phone. We caught the bus to the ferry terminal, took a tram to a temple, trampled along the world's longest sky-walk and stopped in at the museum of tea; where I learned about the ancient art of tea-making and Steve Irwin's unfortunate death (I was going to use the word 'untimely' but then I remembered the things this man used to do with crocodiles and snakes - strewth!). After some very authentic cusine (crispy fried duck - skin only? I'll pass on that thanks.) I actually hobbled back to the hotel. My feet had become so swollen that my sandals had cut into the skin leaving a sore, and very red, welt that ran half way around my foot. I looked like I'd escpaed from a chain gang. To make matters worse, the extreme humidity had resulted in not only a shocker of a demi-wave, but some thigh-chafing - aow, aow, aow.
Next up:
We play ping pong in Bangkok
& Break the bank at Vertigo.
On day 2, I tried my hand at haggling (though enjoyed more success when I communicated verbally). I went into a shop just off Nathan Road to get a memory stick for my camera. The over-zealous sales assistant told me I had "lovely temples". "Excuse me?" came my rather shocked response. "Your temples," he tried again, "are lovely. Beautiful temples. Very big." I was about to get up and leave when it dawned on me that he meant 'dimples'. "Aahh dimples!" I smiled back, "yes, thank you."
The dimples got me in trouble later that day when I made my perpetual mistake of smiling and saying hello to the wrong person, who then followed us around for about an hour and sat two rows behind us on the Star Ferry back to Kowloon.
High tea at the Peninsula Hotel was a wonderful treat. It was very old school with the waiting staff in colonial style uniforms. We partook of a lovely pot of Afternoon Tea and several fancies. My feet thanked me privately for the rest.
Day 3 was full-on and whatever love-fest my feet and I engaged in the previous day was gone. We visited the Bank of China tower, caught the tram up to the Peak, took a sangpang ride at Aberdeen Harbour. It was all very authentic and traditional, apart from the fact that the fisherman spent the majority of the time on his mobile phone. We caught the bus to the ferry terminal, took a tram to a temple, trampled along the world's longest sky-walk and stopped in at the museum of tea; where I learned about the ancient art of tea-making and Steve Irwin's unfortunate death (I was going to use the word 'untimely' but then I remembered the things this man used to do with crocodiles and snakes - strewth!). After some very authentic cusine (crispy fried duck - skin only? I'll pass on that thanks.) I actually hobbled back to the hotel. My feet had become so swollen that my sandals had cut into the skin leaving a sore, and very red, welt that ran half way around my foot. I looked like I'd escpaed from a chain gang. To make matters worse, the extreme humidity had resulted in not only a shocker of a demi-wave, but some thigh-chafing - aow, aow, aow.
Next up:
We play ping pong in Bangkok
& Break the bank at Vertigo.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Jen & Gary update
I had dinner with Leanne last night at Muang Thai on Hanover Street. After my holiday stories and Leanne's great news around her job (and, of course, a totally cool update on all the new things baby Ella can do since I saw her last), Leanne confessed that she'd recently checked Jen & Gary's blog.
You may remember Jen & Gary as the couple I slated in one of my previous entries. At the time, Leanne and I had a good old bitch about Jen and how pathetic she was. That was before Leanne read their blog in its entirety and informed me that they were struggling to conceive and Jen really wanted fertility treatment but Gary said she had to get a job first.
We went from feeling sorry for Gary having to put up with her, to agreeing that he probably got some sick pleasure from encouraging this in her. Poor Jen!
Anyway, last night I found out (from Leanne) that they are going for the fertility treatment. "How lovely!" I said. "I hope he never leaves her."
"So do I," Leanne agreed, "but I suspect he probably will." I nodded in quiet agreement.
"But," said Leanne, "by that time she may have her baby and the dogs she loves, and be perfectly content without Gary"
"I think that might be the Nirvana an increasing number of women are searching for," I said having read an article on this a while ago. "Kinda like 'I love you, thank you, goodbye'."
Getting back to the subject of lovely togetherness, congratulations to Careth & Mark who got engaged a few weeks ago. Luckily, Mark got a very good review in my blog. I will encourage them to start up a 'Careth & Mark' blog where they can update their readers, much in the same way as Jen & Gary do, on home improvements, weeding the garden, lime-squeezing and other lovey-dovey stuff. Oooh, oooh, oooh, maybe they'd be up for a transatlantic 'wife-swap' for a TV special. Yes, I think it just might work.
You may remember Jen & Gary as the couple I slated in one of my previous entries. At the time, Leanne and I had a good old bitch about Jen and how pathetic she was. That was before Leanne read their blog in its entirety and informed me that they were struggling to conceive and Jen really wanted fertility treatment but Gary said she had to get a job first.
We went from feeling sorry for Gary having to put up with her, to agreeing that he probably got some sick pleasure from encouraging this in her. Poor Jen!
Anyway, last night I found out (from Leanne) that they are going for the fertility treatment. "How lovely!" I said. "I hope he never leaves her."
"So do I," Leanne agreed, "but I suspect he probably will." I nodded in quiet agreement.
"But," said Leanne, "by that time she may have her baby and the dogs she loves, and be perfectly content without Gary"
"I think that might be the Nirvana an increasing number of women are searching for," I said having read an article on this a while ago. "Kinda like 'I love you, thank you, goodbye'."
Getting back to the subject of lovely togetherness, congratulations to Careth & Mark who got engaged a few weeks ago. Luckily, Mark got a very good review in my blog. I will encourage them to start up a 'Careth & Mark' blog where they can update their readers, much in the same way as Jen & Gary do, on home improvements, weeding the garden, lime-squeezing and other lovey-dovey stuff. Oooh, oooh, oooh, maybe they'd be up for a transatlantic 'wife-swap' for a TV special. Yes, I think it just might work.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
ok so, Hong Kong was good
Part 1
On Friday 1st September, I got up at the frightful time of 05:45. My flight wasn't until 1pm, but I had some copywriting to do for a dearly valued client. I finished it, emailed it and shutdown the laptop just in time to dance around to Scissor Sisters on Radio Two.
Now, last year I went to Mexico with 14 pairs of shoes, 8 books (2 hardbacks) and a clothes mountain the European Union could have used to dress the entire population of Bosnia (though they do seem to prefer those 80's numbers. I remember seeing some Bosnian refugees on a news item one night and mistook it as confirmation that the cast of FAME were reuniting). My case weighed in at 32kg. It was not something I wanted to repeat this year. So, I packed only 3 pairs of shoes, 1 book, and a small selection of clothes that I conceded would render me neither well nor properly dressed. My case weighed in at 26kg. How disappointing! So much sacrifice and still classified as 'heavy'. It seems packing has more in common with dieting than I'd previously realised (or, indeed, ever thought about).
At the airport my case was labelled orange and 'heavy', and we were on our way. After a short wait in London, we were Hong Kong bound. I looked down at my boarding pass where it had the words 'world traveller' after my name. How very appropriate; it sent me into a state of acute giddiness. Of course, 'world traveller' is British Airways' way of saying 'plebian, economy, schemie, steerage girl', but it is definitely a nicer way of saying it and I felt good about myself as I adjusted my slightly longer-than-average femora into my incredibly cramped seat.
Five hours into the flight my ankles felt funny. Kinda, well, ... tight. I got up to do some exercises at the back of the plane where I discovered that my ankles had in fact swelled to three times their normal size. They were sore and movement was limited, and I felt like a candidate on 'Diet Doctors'.
I fell asleep on the way from the airport to the hotel (most probably avec ma bouche ouvrez-vous) and was reliably informed that we'd crossed the longest road and rail carrying suspension bridge in the world (Tsing Ma Bridge). Upon arrival at the Hotel on Kowloon, I whipped off my clothes, put my PJ's on and snuggled into bed. Waking up some four hours later, I was stunned by the size of my ankles. I swear to God, with a pair of American Tan tights and some brogues I would have passed as an 80 year old. My comments met with agreeable laughter.
In Part Two
How will our heroine cope with fankles?
Why are the Hong Kongers so fascinated with her 'temples'?
and will she get a decent cup of tea?
Stay tuned!
On Friday 1st September, I got up at the frightful time of 05:45. My flight wasn't until 1pm, but I had some copywriting to do for a dearly valued client. I finished it, emailed it and shutdown the laptop just in time to dance around to Scissor Sisters on Radio Two.
Now, last year I went to Mexico with 14 pairs of shoes, 8 books (2 hardbacks) and a clothes mountain the European Union could have used to dress the entire population of Bosnia (though they do seem to prefer those 80's numbers. I remember seeing some Bosnian refugees on a news item one night and mistook it as confirmation that the cast of FAME were reuniting). My case weighed in at 32kg. It was not something I wanted to repeat this year. So, I packed only 3 pairs of shoes, 1 book, and a small selection of clothes that I conceded would render me neither well nor properly dressed. My case weighed in at 26kg. How disappointing! So much sacrifice and still classified as 'heavy'. It seems packing has more in common with dieting than I'd previously realised (or, indeed, ever thought about).
At the airport my case was labelled orange and 'heavy', and we were on our way. After a short wait in London, we were Hong Kong bound. I looked down at my boarding pass where it had the words 'world traveller' after my name. How very appropriate; it sent me into a state of acute giddiness. Of course, 'world traveller' is British Airways' way of saying 'plebian, economy, schemie, steerage girl', but it is definitely a nicer way of saying it and I felt good about myself as I adjusted my slightly longer-than-average femora into my incredibly cramped seat.
Five hours into the flight my ankles felt funny. Kinda, well, ... tight. I got up to do some exercises at the back of the plane where I discovered that my ankles had in fact swelled to three times their normal size. They were sore and movement was limited, and I felt like a candidate on 'Diet Doctors'.
I fell asleep on the way from the airport to the hotel (most probably avec ma bouche ouvrez-vous) and was reliably informed that we'd crossed the longest road and rail carrying suspension bridge in the world (Tsing Ma Bridge). Upon arrival at the Hotel on Kowloon, I whipped off my clothes, put my PJ's on and snuggled into bed. Waking up some four hours later, I was stunned by the size of my ankles. I swear to God, with a pair of American Tan tights and some brogues I would have passed as an 80 year old. My comments met with agreeable laughter.
In Part Two
Stay tuned!
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
"Bollocks" ...
... is what I said when I got off the phone from Emergency 5. Apparently, my laptop has "motherboard trouble". Even I knew this was bad news. The advice is to get a new laptop. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.
Monday, September 25, 2006
The World Traveller returneth
Hello. I am in a state of lovely, yummy bliss. I got back to Edinburgh last week and have been walking on a cloud ever since. Hmmmm, niceness.
Unfortunately, my laptop has decided that it doesn't like me quite so chilled-out and has wantonly caught some nasty computer virus, now informing me that it plans to remain shut-down for the purpose of self-protection. Surely, as the owner of said laptop, it's for me to decide whether or not it should be protected? Have I done such an awful job taking care of it, that it has had to take matters into its own cursors? Anyway, as a result, I'm writing this from work. Naughty.
Last week was mostly spent working and sleeping. As a rule, I'm never in bed before midnight, but since returning from holiday I've enjoyed some marathon slumber sessions. On Monday, I retired at 3pm and slept until 6am on Tuesday. On Thursday, I was snuggled up by 8:30pm and on Friday by 9pm. Now, this is good in the sense that I resolved to get more sleep as part of my spa journey - rethink my life sessions, but bad in the sense that I'm not 90. I think there's room for a bit of balance here.
I also vowed to obliterate the following things from my life: CSI (in all its ghastly forms); Air Crash Investigation/Seconds from Disaster (No, the fact that it's on National Geographic does not mean it is a positive force in your life); Columbo (What is wrong with you? You've seen them all twice anyway) and Deal or No Deal (No Deal Noel - unless it's one of the episodes with the rumored jackpot winners).
This should - in theory - leave me with plenty of time in which to update my blog and work on the book. Annoyingly, the laptop isn't playing ball, but I'll still be sure to detail all the best bits from my trip (yes, even the really embarrassing stuff - cringe, cringe).
Unfortunately, my laptop has decided that it doesn't like me quite so chilled-out and has wantonly caught some nasty computer virus, now informing me that it plans to remain shut-down for the purpose of self-protection. Surely, as the owner of said laptop, it's for me to decide whether or not it should be protected? Have I done such an awful job taking care of it, that it has had to take matters into its own cursors? Anyway, as a result, I'm writing this from work. Naughty.
Last week was mostly spent working and sleeping. As a rule, I'm never in bed before midnight, but since returning from holiday I've enjoyed some marathon slumber sessions. On Monday, I retired at 3pm and slept until 6am on Tuesday. On Thursday, I was snuggled up by 8:30pm and on Friday by 9pm. Now, this is good in the sense that I resolved to get more sleep as part of my spa journey - rethink my life sessions, but bad in the sense that I'm not 90. I think there's room for a bit of balance here.
I also vowed to obliterate the following things from my life: CSI (in all its ghastly forms); Air Crash Investigation/Seconds from Disaster (No, the fact that it's on National Geographic does not mean it is a positive force in your life); Columbo (What is wrong with you? You've seen them all twice anyway) and Deal or No Deal (No Deal Noel - unless it's one of the episodes with the rumored jackpot winners).
This should - in theory - leave me with plenty of time in which to update my blog and work on the book. Annoyingly, the laptop isn't playing ball, but I'll still be sure to detail all the best bits from my trip (yes, even the really embarrassing stuff - cringe, cringe).
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Not so Keane on Jesus
Okay, so no Keane. They have decided to cancel their concert in Princes Street Gardens on account of exhaustion. Big bunch of girls. I prefer Snow Patrol anyway - so there!
This week has been busy but not necessarily with anything particularly exciting. For that reason I should probably stop this entry right here. But I won't because, well, it's never stopped me in the past and I'm here now - writing stuff.
Work has been good. Very busy, which keeps my mind off fun things and my eyes off the clock. I've designed a suite of posters to promote the marketing department internally. I wanted to get across the idea that the department now had the staff and the time to do some proper marketing. That we are 'open for business again', so to speak.
The first poster I came up with said 'Back again' with a nice smiley picture of Jesus. I loved it and think Jesus is an underused marketing tool in the financial services sector. However, I opted for self-censorship and relegated 'Jesu' to my drawer. He has now been replaced by Dirty Den in one poster and Bobby from Dallas in another. Quality.
I was asked to come up with some creative ideas for a short movie file promoting pensions. I'm actually quite excited about this, which is now depressing me. How bad must it be when I'm excited by pensions? I think I'll go slash my wrists with my Coldplay CD. (Repeat to self: my job pays the bills!)
Leanne and I had dinner at David Bann on Tuesday night. It was so good we didn't bother going to see a Festival show as planned. Instead, we ordered the Amaretto Marscarpone cheesecake and took our time over it. It was an excellent night made more so by the realisation that food, wine and chat with a good friend is preferable to a professional comedian.
On Thursday evening, I endured my first hockey training session. Two hours, three minor injuries and a static wheeze later I hobbled home. Truly knackered, I immediately drew a hot bubble bath and indulged my desperate muscles. Hopefully, the addition of fitness training on Tuesdays will mean the sessions get easier. I live in hope.
I treated myself to an afternoon showing of 'Easy Living' at the Filmhouse during my lunch hour on Friday. I expected it to be quite empty, but Cinema 1 was rammed. It was top-quality screwball and I loved every minute of it. When the boy and the girl get together at the end, his long disapproving father gives him a job. He tells the girl she has a job too - "cooking my breakfast." What a proposal! I returned to work in a delightful mood for the rest of the day.
The office summer BBQ on Friday night was really quite pish. It was pouring with rain, there was a poor turnout, I was about the only one dancing and I left my umbrella in the club at the end of the night.
Saturday was much better. Another great film at the Filmhouse (The Laughing Policeman) and dinner with Sinead afterwards. I was ravenous and longing for a steak, so we eventually ended up at the Smokestack in Leith. My medium-rare fillet steak and chips went down an absolute treat. We chatted deeply for hours until we realised that Sinead might miss the last train. A taxi to Waverely meant she was just in time for her rowdy journey home.
Today I depressed myself by reading all about the Horn of Africa. (How much for that Russian AK-47? Why sir, that'll set you back three cows. And the US M-16? Oh, that'll be five cows. Well I'll take that then since there's no vegetaion to feed my cows and an M-16 will do a better job of shifting the 6,000 desperate souls who are sleeping on my football field-sized plot of land. Maybe it'll convince them to head for the port and try to secure passage to the Yemen in a death-trap steel container on a rickety ship that's likely to sink with the loss of all life before the appearance of the Yemeni officials forces the smugglers to toss their human cargo into the carnivore-infested waters or maybe they'll join me in a war with the Ethiopians across the desert. That Bin Laden guy sure speaks a lot of sense.) It's a mire of such complete desolate hopelessness that I don't think there's even the hint of a solution. Governments aren't talking about it - not so much because they don't care (which they don't), but more so because their shocking impotence would be laid bare for all to see. The Middle East is child's play compared to this.
But that's too depressing a note on which to end this entry. Sinead said to me last night: "When something doesn't go to plan, people have a tendency to set themselves in a pessimistic frame of mind. They think things can only ever be worse, but a lot of the time things turn out better than they could have imagined." From the long list of personal success stories I've been acquiring, I know that's true. She was talking in the context of a personal issue rather than a global one, but it would be pretty damn skippy if the world got a break too.
This week has been busy but not necessarily with anything particularly exciting. For that reason I should probably stop this entry right here. But I won't because, well, it's never stopped me in the past and I'm here now - writing stuff.
Work has been good. Very busy, which keeps my mind off fun things and my eyes off the clock. I've designed a suite of posters to promote the marketing department internally. I wanted to get across the idea that the department now had the staff and the time to do some proper marketing. That we are 'open for business again', so to speak.
The first poster I came up with said 'Back again' with a nice smiley picture of Jesus. I loved it and think Jesus is an underused marketing tool in the financial services sector. However, I opted for self-censorship and relegated 'Jesu' to my drawer. He has now been replaced by Dirty Den in one poster and Bobby from Dallas in another. Quality.
I was asked to come up with some creative ideas for a short movie file promoting pensions. I'm actually quite excited about this, which is now depressing me. How bad must it be when I'm excited by pensions? I think I'll go slash my wrists with my Coldplay CD. (Repeat to self: my job pays the bills!)
Leanne and I had dinner at David Bann on Tuesday night. It was so good we didn't bother going to see a Festival show as planned. Instead, we ordered the Amaretto Marscarpone cheesecake and took our time over it. It was an excellent night made more so by the realisation that food, wine and chat with a good friend is preferable to a professional comedian.
On Thursday evening, I endured my first hockey training session. Two hours, three minor injuries and a static wheeze later I hobbled home. Truly knackered, I immediately drew a hot bubble bath and indulged my desperate muscles. Hopefully, the addition of fitness training on Tuesdays will mean the sessions get easier. I live in hope.
I treated myself to an afternoon showing of 'Easy Living' at the Filmhouse during my lunch hour on Friday. I expected it to be quite empty, but Cinema 1 was rammed. It was top-quality screwball and I loved every minute of it. When the boy and the girl get together at the end, his long disapproving father gives him a job. He tells the girl she has a job too - "cooking my breakfast." What a proposal! I returned to work in a delightful mood for the rest of the day.
The office summer BBQ on Friday night was really quite pish. It was pouring with rain, there was a poor turnout, I was about the only one dancing and I left my umbrella in the club at the end of the night.
Saturday was much better. Another great film at the Filmhouse (The Laughing Policeman) and dinner with Sinead afterwards. I was ravenous and longing for a steak, so we eventually ended up at the Smokestack in Leith. My medium-rare fillet steak and chips went down an absolute treat. We chatted deeply for hours until we realised that Sinead might miss the last train. A taxi to Waverely meant she was just in time for her rowdy journey home.
Today I depressed myself by reading all about the Horn of Africa. (How much for that Russian AK-47? Why sir, that'll set you back three cows. And the US M-16? Oh, that'll be five cows. Well I'll take that then since there's no vegetaion to feed my cows and an M-16 will do a better job of shifting the 6,000 desperate souls who are sleeping on my football field-sized plot of land. Maybe it'll convince them to head for the port and try to secure passage to the Yemen in a death-trap steel container on a rickety ship that's likely to sink with the loss of all life before the appearance of the Yemeni officials forces the smugglers to toss their human cargo into the carnivore-infested waters or maybe they'll join me in a war with the Ethiopians across the desert. That Bin Laden guy sure speaks a lot of sense.) It's a mire of such complete desolate hopelessness that I don't think there's even the hint of a solution. Governments aren't talking about it - not so much because they don't care (which they don't), but more so because their shocking impotence would be laid bare for all to see. The Middle East is child's play compared to this.
But that's too depressing a note on which to end this entry. Sinead said to me last night: "When something doesn't go to plan, people have a tendency to set themselves in a pessimistic frame of mind. They think things can only ever be worse, but a lot of the time things turn out better than they could have imagined." From the long list of personal success stories I've been acquiring, I know that's true. She was talking in the context of a personal issue rather than a global one, but it would be pretty damn skippy if the world got a break too.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Sofa so good
Festival excellence. Jen made the trip up from Liverpool and we both made the most of the weekend.
My shin pads, gum shield, hockey stick and pink hockey glitter ball all arrived in time for Thursday's game, and I noticed a marked difference in my willingness to get 'stuck in'. My blue gum shield makes me look particularly attractive and, according to its instructions, I can 'breathe, talk and spit!". Oh how people will flock to me.
After the game, I had a rather embarrassing encounter with a friend of a friend. As we said our goodbyes, I saw he intended to kiss me on the lips. Uncomfortable with this, I lowered my head to silently plead with the ground to open up and swallow me. Unfortunately, Mr Trying-His-Luck had decided to part his lips, which meant I ended up with my nose in his mouth. Hello, awkward!
Kelly, Tim, Kate, Steven and I headed out for drinks at Baroque after work on Friday. I'd only intended to stay for one but ended up just walking straight from the pub to the station to meet Jen. We dropped Jen's stuff off at the flat then headed out to Shapla for an Indian takeaway. We started the weekend as we meant to go on by ordering the 'special' lentils as a side dish.
It was so good to catch-up and even better over some great food and wine. We chatted non-stop about all manner of things until about 2:45am. Jen slept on the new sofa and informed me that it is most comfortable.
On Saturday, we bought almond croissants from the Manna House and fought our way along Princes Street. As we were heading out to Careth's new house for her house-warming party, we stopped in at M&S to buy a gift. We opted for a gorgeous fuschia orchid, which Jen christened Olivier, and a bottle of pink cava. After eating our sandwiches and croissants, and indulging in the sun in the gardens, we stopped at the bus stop to catch the no. 22. I had the honour of carrying Olivier through the thronging masses and noted that he was attracting a fair bit of attention. "Absolutely beautiful" exclaimed one woman, to which Jen remarked: "Olivier! You cad!"
We then decided to carry out a little psychological experiment to see how many smiles we could induce by casually placing Olivier in front of people's faces. It was remarkable. I noted he drew almost as many smiles from men as he did women, though it was only old ladies who actually commented on his beauty. Jen would identify prime candidates for a comment and I would try to keep Olivier in their faces for as long as possible. We thoroughly amused ourselves in this way for about 20 minutes. At which point we realised that there were no buses on Princes Street. We walked to Lothian Road, by way of a massive (and unintentional) diversion, where we waited another 20 minutes before the no 22 picked us up and took us to Careth's new place.
We presented Careth with her gifts (voici Olivier!) and had the privilege of meeting her boyfriend, Mark, for the first time. He is a lovely guy and both Jen and I confided that we were pleased Careth had someone as wonderful as she deserves. Happiness!
A delicious meal at The Apartment, followed by a stroll across the Meadows brought us to Bristo Square. We went to see a comedienne called Carrie Quinlan who was very likeable and quite funny, but who Jen and I agreed, could have got a lot more out of the material. The highlight of our weekend came at 22:40pm when we went to see Simon Amstell. He opened up with the line: "Matel brought out wheelchair Barbie a few years ago", and it was a great show. As we walked home, Jen and I both admitted we kinda fancied him which adds yet another gay guy to my list.
On Sunday, we took a leisurely stroll along by the Water of Leith and stopped in at the King's Wark for some breakfast. Jen made her train by the skin of her teeth and I looked forward to another Monday morning spent at work - yeah right!
Next week: The film festival, Snow Patrol & Keane.
My shin pads, gum shield, hockey stick and pink hockey glitter ball all arrived in time for Thursday's game, and I noticed a marked difference in my willingness to get 'stuck in'. My blue gum shield makes me look particularly attractive and, according to its instructions, I can 'breathe, talk and spit!". Oh how people will flock to me.
After the game, I had a rather embarrassing encounter with a friend of a friend. As we said our goodbyes, I saw he intended to kiss me on the lips. Uncomfortable with this, I lowered my head to silently plead with the ground to open up and swallow me. Unfortunately, Mr Trying-His-Luck had decided to part his lips, which meant I ended up with my nose in his mouth. Hello, awkward!
Kelly, Tim, Kate, Steven and I headed out for drinks at Baroque after work on Friday. I'd only intended to stay for one but ended up just walking straight from the pub to the station to meet Jen. We dropped Jen's stuff off at the flat then headed out to Shapla for an Indian takeaway. We started the weekend as we meant to go on by ordering the 'special' lentils as a side dish.
It was so good to catch-up and even better over some great food and wine. We chatted non-stop about all manner of things until about 2:45am. Jen slept on the new sofa and informed me that it is most comfortable.
On Saturday, we bought almond croissants from the Manna House and fought our way along Princes Street. As we were heading out to Careth's new house for her house-warming party, we stopped in at M&S to buy a gift. We opted for a gorgeous fuschia orchid, which Jen christened Olivier, and a bottle of pink cava. After eating our sandwiches and croissants, and indulging in the sun in the gardens, we stopped at the bus stop to catch the no. 22. I had the honour of carrying Olivier through the thronging masses and noted that he was attracting a fair bit of attention. "Absolutely beautiful" exclaimed one woman, to which Jen remarked: "Olivier! You cad!"
We then decided to carry out a little psychological experiment to see how many smiles we could induce by casually placing Olivier in front of people's faces. It was remarkable. I noted he drew almost as many smiles from men as he did women, though it was only old ladies who actually commented on his beauty. Jen would identify prime candidates for a comment and I would try to keep Olivier in their faces for as long as possible. We thoroughly amused ourselves in this way for about 20 minutes. At which point we realised that there were no buses on Princes Street. We walked to Lothian Road, by way of a massive (and unintentional) diversion, where we waited another 20 minutes before the no 22 picked us up and took us to Careth's new place.
We presented Careth with her gifts (voici Olivier!) and had the privilege of meeting her boyfriend, Mark, for the first time. He is a lovely guy and both Jen and I confided that we were pleased Careth had someone as wonderful as she deserves. Happiness!
A delicious meal at The Apartment, followed by a stroll across the Meadows brought us to Bristo Square. We went to see a comedienne called Carrie Quinlan who was very likeable and quite funny, but who Jen and I agreed, could have got a lot more out of the material. The highlight of our weekend came at 22:40pm when we went to see Simon Amstell. He opened up with the line: "Matel brought out wheelchair Barbie a few years ago", and it was a great show. As we walked home, Jen and I both admitted we kinda fancied him which adds yet another gay guy to my list.
On Sunday, we took a leisurely stroll along by the Water of Leith and stopped in at the King's Wark for some breakfast. Jen made her train by the skin of her teeth and I looked forward to another Monday morning spent at work - yeah right!
Next week: The film festival, Snow Patrol & Keane.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Lesbian, Prostitute or Lesbian Prostitute?
Ah le weekend! It came with a huge sigh of relief and a good deal of anticipation.
Departure Lounge had been in the diary for some weeks and Kerry's Caribbean party had been in for even longer. I left work early on Friday and spent a long time pampering myself and getting ready. I wanted to make an effort for Departure Lounge and decided to liven up my outfit just a tad. It was a black t-shirt with an open back so I decided to wear it back-to-front - as you do. For a splash of colour (and, mostly, to cover my bra) I wrapped a blue/green/yellow scarf around my breasts. I was pleased with the look and set off for The Scotsman hotel to meet Katie.
I walked into the North Bridge Brasserie and everybody stared. While my attire was perfectly acceptable for a Departure Lounge party girl, I looked a bit too much like a working girl for The Scotsman. It was 2For 1 on champagne cocktails so I took the liberty of ordering raspberry bellinis. Katie showed up and we filled each other in on recent events. We headed down to the Ladies' room before we left, where Katie told me the most outrageous feminine hygiene story I've ever heard.
At The Caves, we were duly stamped with the word 'entered' on our wrists, given some balloons and headed upstairs for a gin & tonic. Not long after, Lawrence and his friend Dave showed up. We got stuck in about the Sambuca and I confided in Katie that I was "totally pished". Downstairs, I got my groove back and shook it on the dancefloor. My top started to slide down to reveal my bra - not a good look. I discreetly managed to fix it and continued to dance whilst holding it in place. Unfortunately, my jeans are a little too big and they ended up halfway down my arse - an even worse look. Hey ho! It was still a great night.
Outside, Katie and I disuaded some Danish tourists from wasting their time and headed off with Lawrence, Dave and Marc for a game of golf in some secret gardens. We waited until 4.30am for it to get a bit lighter and crept into the walled garden. It was one of the coolest places I've ever been. It was massive and had spectacular views to Arthur's Seat. The early morning mist only made it more romantic. I'm so getting myself a key for that place one day.
I got back to my flat around 6am and slept until 8.45am when Kelly collected me to play in a hockey tournament. It was not one of my better performances and I collapsed into bed on getting back to my flat.
Kerry's Caribbean party was kicking off at 3.30pm, which was now an hour ago, and I still had to make my outfit. I scooped out a pineapple and made it into a bikini top. I then used the top of the pineapple as a hat. How cute! Sinead called to find out where the hell I was. I explained that I'd been playing golf until 6am and then played in a hockey tournament at 9am, so was understandably knackered.
I arrived at Kerry's at 6.30pm, to a full swing calypso. The place looked great and everyone had made a big effort with the dressing up. Katie showed up as a treasure chest, which Sinead remarked was "very lateral". Kerry asked if it was true that I'd been playing golf and hockey. I said that it was, to which she replied "What? Like a big lesbian?" The music was great, the cocktails were like rocket-fuel and the chat had everybody rolling on the floor.
I spent Sunday at my parents' place. It was really, really nice. We took a walk to the fruit farm, got some gorgeous raspberries and strawberries, had some ice cream in the sun and walked home again. My dad was on really good form, which I was glad about after last Thursday's lock-out episode. I fell asleep outside in the sun for a bit and then we headed out for dinner.
All in all, it was a fantastic weekend, but I think I need an extended rest to recover.
Departure Lounge had been in the diary for some weeks and Kerry's Caribbean party had been in for even longer. I left work early on Friday and spent a long time pampering myself and getting ready. I wanted to make an effort for Departure Lounge and decided to liven up my outfit just a tad. It was a black t-shirt with an open back so I decided to wear it back-to-front - as you do. For a splash of colour (and, mostly, to cover my bra) I wrapped a blue/green/yellow scarf around my breasts. I was pleased with the look and set off for The Scotsman hotel to meet Katie.
I walked into the North Bridge Brasserie and everybody stared. While my attire was perfectly acceptable for a Departure Lounge party girl, I looked a bit too much like a working girl for The Scotsman. It was 2For 1 on champagne cocktails so I took the liberty of ordering raspberry bellinis. Katie showed up and we filled each other in on recent events. We headed down to the Ladies' room before we left, where Katie told me the most outrageous feminine hygiene story I've ever heard.
At The Caves, we were duly stamped with the word 'entered' on our wrists, given some balloons and headed upstairs for a gin & tonic. Not long after, Lawrence and his friend Dave showed up. We got stuck in about the Sambuca and I confided in Katie that I was "totally pished". Downstairs, I got my groove back and shook it on the dancefloor. My top started to slide down to reveal my bra - not a good look. I discreetly managed to fix it and continued to dance whilst holding it in place. Unfortunately, my jeans are a little too big and they ended up halfway down my arse - an even worse look. Hey ho! It was still a great night.
Outside, Katie and I disuaded some Danish tourists from wasting their time and headed off with Lawrence, Dave and Marc for a game of golf in some secret gardens. We waited until 4.30am for it to get a bit lighter and crept into the walled garden. It was one of the coolest places I've ever been. It was massive and had spectacular views to Arthur's Seat. The early morning mist only made it more romantic. I'm so getting myself a key for that place one day.
I got back to my flat around 6am and slept until 8.45am when Kelly collected me to play in a hockey tournament. It was not one of my better performances and I collapsed into bed on getting back to my flat.
Kerry's Caribbean party was kicking off at 3.30pm, which was now an hour ago, and I still had to make my outfit. I scooped out a pineapple and made it into a bikini top. I then used the top of the pineapple as a hat. How cute! Sinead called to find out where the hell I was. I explained that I'd been playing golf until 6am and then played in a hockey tournament at 9am, so was understandably knackered.
I arrived at Kerry's at 6.30pm, to a full swing calypso. The place looked great and everyone had made a big effort with the dressing up. Katie showed up as a treasure chest, which Sinead remarked was "very lateral". Kerry asked if it was true that I'd been playing golf and hockey. I said that it was, to which she replied "What? Like a big lesbian?" The music was great, the cocktails were like rocket-fuel and the chat had everybody rolling on the floor.
I spent Sunday at my parents' place. It was really, really nice. We took a walk to the fruit farm, got some gorgeous raspberries and strawberries, had some ice cream in the sun and walked home again. My dad was on really good form, which I was glad about after last Thursday's lock-out episode. I fell asleep outside in the sun for a bit and then we headed out for dinner.
All in all, it was a fantastic weekend, but I think I need an extended rest to recover.
Friday, July 28, 2006
My short fuse
Last week started with a bang.
As I was leaving my flat on Monday morning, the lights in my hall blew their fuse. This knocked out the lights in my bedroom, bathroom and sitting room. Now, over the last few weeks I've done more drilling, hammering and screwing than a Robot Wars groupie, so I took this latest development in my stride. That was until I discovered that my fusebox was actually installed personally by Michael Faraday. Oh no, there were no little switches that needed to be flicked up, instead there were circuit boards, magnets and copper wires. I was just about to phone the museum to see if one of the curators would be able to help when I remembered my Grandad gets back from holiday on Monday. So next week people, I'll be learning a valuable (well, at least until I get my flat rewired) new skill.
Slightly miffed that I'd been unable to get my lights back on, I consoled myself with the fact that I would be questioning the Chief Executive of my company in a few hours time. Running late for absolutely everything in my life, I decided to get to the meeting 15 minutes early. I opened up my calendar to check which room we were in only to discover that the meeting had started 15 minutes previously. Shit!
I briefly considered not going but remembered I'd told everyone in my team about it and they'd be expecting me to report back. I almost convinced myself I could "just make up his answers" as he was unlikely to say anything controversial anyway. Finally though, I decided to bite the bullet and turn up late.
I walked into a room where about 20 people were sitting round a board table. I apologised for my lateness as I tried to scan the room for a spare seat. Not seeing any I pulled up the one next to the CEO at the head of the table. He looked somewhat startled and immediately started to move his chair away. Keen to make up for lost time, I proceeded to bombard him with questions about his vision for the company - pointing out that none of it had made its way down to the marketing department. He tried desperately to involve the other people in the room, but they had nothing to say so he was pretty much left with me. He spoke about the company's talent management plans, saying that truly talented people were very difficult to manage but if managed correctly they proved to be a great return. He then turned to me and asked "are you difficult to manage?", to which I of course replied, "extremely."
All in all, the meeting didn't go too badly considering I was late, barged into the room, almost sat on his lap and then told him exactly what I thought of his company.
On Tuesday, my team had a 'blue sky' planning session. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of thinking this might actually be a 'blue sky' planning session. My manager met each and every one of my suggestions with a "no" or a "well, that wouldn't be possible for at least another 12 months". Needless to say, I became frustrated and went 'nice girl postal'. We challenged each other back and forth for a full 15 minutes before my manager just told me the discussion was over. I've realised that here, the term 'blue sky' actually means 'things that we might not have time for in the next year' but in no way means 'thinking ahead and being innovative'. I'm so going to struggle with this.
I battled my way through the remainder of the week. Metaphorically for the most part, but actually during Thursday's hockey game. A Phil Mitchell look-a-like on the opposing team took his stick off my right shin. Stunned from the sheer pain of it, I then stumbled backwards, fell over and grazed my left knee. Annoyingly, I wasn't wearing any shinguards and couldn't really complain. (I have since ordered shinpads and a gumshield - a good idea, I'm sure).
I rushed back from hockey, got changed and buzzed Leanne in as she was coming round to see the new flat for the first time. About 5 minutes later, I realised that she had no way of knowing which flat was mine (no name, no number) so I opened the door and stuck my head out. Right enough, she was heading up to the next floor so I leaned out further to call to her and - click!
That would be the sound of my door locking shut behind me. I was now out in the hallway sans keys, money, mobile phone and anything that might be of any use to me at all. I borrowed Leanne's phone to call my mum as she is the only other person with a key to the flat. Her line was engaged so I called my gran to ask her to let my mum know when she got off the phone. Leanne and I popped across to Tinellis for some dinner. My gran called back to say that my mum was at work and my dad was going to call her to let her know.
Five minutes later my dad called. This is an accurate re-typing of our conversation:
Me: Hello?
Dad: What's happening?
Me: You were calling mum, you tell me what's happening.
Dad: I've phoned mum at her work. What's happening?
Me: What do you mean 'what's happening'?
Dad: I believe you're locked out.
Me: (Through gritted teeth) You know I'm locked out. You know I need mum to bring my keys over - you tell me what's happening.
Dad: You're locked out? How did that happen?
Me: It was an accident. I leaned out of my door too far and it locked behind me.
Dad: I take it there was drink involved?
Me: (Thinking only on your part you crazy psycho fool and now raising my voice) No. I was just back from hockey, I hadn't had a chance to have a "hmpnhing (mumbled curse) drink". (I now signal the waiter to top up my wine.)
Dad: So you're fit to drive then?
Me: (exploding, people in restaurant looking) Yes I'm fit to drive and I have my car keys but I just thought it would be funny to get mum to drive over and ... Do you honestly think I'd be asking mum to drive over if I had my "hmphnhing" car keys in my hand? They're in the "hmphnhing" flat with everything else.
At this point, understandably, the call ended. Leanne and I had a delicious meal and a good laugh despite all the surrounding tension. My mum (star that she is) got over at about 11pm with the keys and let us into the flat.
Unfortunately, I couldn't really show Leanne the flat as the fusebox was still awaiting my Grandad's expertise and we were pretty much in the dark.
Roll on the weekend.
As I was leaving my flat on Monday morning, the lights in my hall blew their fuse. This knocked out the lights in my bedroom, bathroom and sitting room. Now, over the last few weeks I've done more drilling, hammering and screwing than a Robot Wars groupie, so I took this latest development in my stride. That was until I discovered that my fusebox was actually installed personally by Michael Faraday. Oh no, there were no little switches that needed to be flicked up, instead there were circuit boards, magnets and copper wires. I was just about to phone the museum to see if one of the curators would be able to help when I remembered my Grandad gets back from holiday on Monday. So next week people, I'll be learning a valuable (well, at least until I get my flat rewired) new skill.
Slightly miffed that I'd been unable to get my lights back on, I consoled myself with the fact that I would be questioning the Chief Executive of my company in a few hours time. Running late for absolutely everything in my life, I decided to get to the meeting 15 minutes early. I opened up my calendar to check which room we were in only to discover that the meeting had started 15 minutes previously. Shit!
I briefly considered not going but remembered I'd told everyone in my team about it and they'd be expecting me to report back. I almost convinced myself I could "just make up his answers" as he was unlikely to say anything controversial anyway. Finally though, I decided to bite the bullet and turn up late.
I walked into a room where about 20 people were sitting round a board table. I apologised for my lateness as I tried to scan the room for a spare seat. Not seeing any I pulled up the one next to the CEO at the head of the table. He looked somewhat startled and immediately started to move his chair away. Keen to make up for lost time, I proceeded to bombard him with questions about his vision for the company - pointing out that none of it had made its way down to the marketing department. He tried desperately to involve the other people in the room, but they had nothing to say so he was pretty much left with me. He spoke about the company's talent management plans, saying that truly talented people were very difficult to manage but if managed correctly they proved to be a great return. He then turned to me and asked "are you difficult to manage?", to which I of course replied, "extremely."
All in all, the meeting didn't go too badly considering I was late, barged into the room, almost sat on his lap and then told him exactly what I thought of his company.
On Tuesday, my team had a 'blue sky' planning session. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of thinking this might actually be a 'blue sky' planning session. My manager met each and every one of my suggestions with a "no" or a "well, that wouldn't be possible for at least another 12 months". Needless to say, I became frustrated and went 'nice girl postal'. We challenged each other back and forth for a full 15 minutes before my manager just told me the discussion was over. I've realised that here, the term 'blue sky' actually means 'things that we might not have time for in the next year' but in no way means 'thinking ahead and being innovative'. I'm so going to struggle with this.
I battled my way through the remainder of the week. Metaphorically for the most part, but actually during Thursday's hockey game. A Phil Mitchell look-a-like on the opposing team took his stick off my right shin. Stunned from the sheer pain of it, I then stumbled backwards, fell over and grazed my left knee. Annoyingly, I wasn't wearing any shinguards and couldn't really complain. (I have since ordered shinpads and a gumshield - a good idea, I'm sure).
I rushed back from hockey, got changed and buzzed Leanne in as she was coming round to see the new flat for the first time. About 5 minutes later, I realised that she had no way of knowing which flat was mine (no name, no number) so I opened the door and stuck my head out. Right enough, she was heading up to the next floor so I leaned out further to call to her and - click!
That would be the sound of my door locking shut behind me. I was now out in the hallway sans keys, money, mobile phone and anything that might be of any use to me at all. I borrowed Leanne's phone to call my mum as she is the only other person with a key to the flat. Her line was engaged so I called my gran to ask her to let my mum know when she got off the phone. Leanne and I popped across to Tinellis for some dinner. My gran called back to say that my mum was at work and my dad was going to call her to let her know.
Five minutes later my dad called. This is an accurate re-typing of our conversation:
Me: Hello?
Dad: What's happening?
Me: You were calling mum, you tell me what's happening.
Dad: I've phoned mum at her work. What's happening?
Me: What do you mean 'what's happening'?
Dad: I believe you're locked out.
Me: (Through gritted teeth) You know I'm locked out. You know I need mum to bring my keys over - you tell me what's happening.
Dad: You're locked out? How did that happen?
Me: It was an accident. I leaned out of my door too far and it locked behind me.
Dad: I take it there was drink involved?
Me: (Thinking only on your part you crazy psycho fool and now raising my voice) No. I was just back from hockey, I hadn't had a chance to have a "hmpnhing (mumbled curse) drink". (I now signal the waiter to top up my wine.)
Dad: So you're fit to drive then?
Me: (exploding, people in restaurant looking) Yes I'm fit to drive and I have my car keys but I just thought it would be funny to get mum to drive over and ... Do you honestly think I'd be asking mum to drive over if I had my "hmphnhing" car keys in my hand? They're in the "hmphnhing" flat with everything else.
At this point, understandably, the call ended. Leanne and I had a delicious meal and a good laugh despite all the surrounding tension. My mum (star that she is) got over at about 11pm with the keys and let us into the flat.
Unfortunately, I couldn't really show Leanne the flat as the fusebox was still awaiting my Grandad's expertise and we were pretty much in the dark.
Roll on the weekend.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Too much sun
I hate moving, but I do love the new flat, which hopefully means it'll be a considerable amount of time before I move on. I think the bathroom is my favourite room. It's bright, cool, airy and very tidy (thanks in large part to my half-price cabinet from John Lewis). Sam was back from the States a few weeks ago and stopped by for a visit. He gave it the thumbs up and, since Sam has just about the best taste of anyone I know, I was very, very pleased.
Work has been going well and I've made a very good impression on my boss. I got a big old gold star for being 'pro-active' and have accepted the praise with good grace and a (slightly) guilty conscience. As with most stories, there's a whole other side to this one - which I won't go into here as it's positively scandalous.
On Friday, we went out to Tonic for drinks in celebration of Kelly's birthday. I think I recall my gin & tonic costing me £4.20. After a couple of rounds of cocktails we moved on to Ablo, then the Outhouse before ending up in Pivo. It was one of those really great nights where nothing especially exciting happens but everybody is in a constant state of mellow bliss.
I got a taxi home at 3:30am, decided I was a bit peckish and could also do with a nice cup of tea. I made myself a slice of toast and a brew. Sometime later, I discovered that I was watching 'Murder She Wrote'. It was 45 minutes into the programme, the toast and tea were long gone, and I suddenly had the clarity to ask myself what the hell I was doing watching Murder She fucking Wrote at 4:30am. I instructed myself to "get to bed" and promptly did so.
After a largely sleepless night (someone had decided to do step-training in the stairwell, in stiletto heels - at 5am) I got up with a bit more of a hangover than I'd bargained for and decided I needed some form of carbohydrate. I decided to walk to The Manna House on Easter Road for one of the best almond croissants in the city. On my way there I was looking at all the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs when I realised I was struggling to read/understand one of them. I got a bit closer and could clearly make out the letters, but still couldn't make sense of it. I had a mini-panic and began to think I was still drunk or perhaps suffering from sunstroke. Alas, I finally worked out that it was written in Polish (a good example in illustrating why capitalisation is important). It was in English on one side and Polish in the other, which I found remarkably helpful for a nation largely unable to offer help in any language but English. Go us!
The remainder of Saturday was spent shopping (I bought the perfect pair of blue sparkly sandals), walking/lying in the sun and generally making the most of my weekend.
Work has been going well and I've made a very good impression on my boss. I got a big old gold star for being 'pro-active' and have accepted the praise with good grace and a (slightly) guilty conscience. As with most stories, there's a whole other side to this one - which I won't go into here as it's positively scandalous.
On Friday, we went out to Tonic for drinks in celebration of Kelly's birthday. I think I recall my gin & tonic costing me £4.20. After a couple of rounds of cocktails we moved on to Ablo, then the Outhouse before ending up in Pivo. It was one of those really great nights where nothing especially exciting happens but everybody is in a constant state of mellow bliss.
I got a taxi home at 3:30am, decided I was a bit peckish and could also do with a nice cup of tea. I made myself a slice of toast and a brew. Sometime later, I discovered that I was watching 'Murder She Wrote'. It was 45 minutes into the programme, the toast and tea were long gone, and I suddenly had the clarity to ask myself what the hell I was doing watching Murder She fucking Wrote at 4:30am. I instructed myself to "get to bed" and promptly did so.
After a largely sleepless night (someone had decided to do step-training in the stairwell, in stiletto heels - at 5am) I got up with a bit more of a hangover than I'd bargained for and decided I needed some form of carbohydrate. I decided to walk to The Manna House on Easter Road for one of the best almond croissants in the city. On my way there I was looking at all the 'For Sale' and 'To Let' signs when I realised I was struggling to read/understand one of them. I got a bit closer and could clearly make out the letters, but still couldn't make sense of it. I had a mini-panic and began to think I was still drunk or perhaps suffering from sunstroke. Alas, I finally worked out that it was written in Polish (a good example in illustrating why capitalisation is important). It was in English on one side and Polish in the other, which I found remarkably helpful for a nation largely unable to offer help in any language but English. Go us!
The remainder of Saturday was spent shopping (I bought the perfect pair of blue sparkly sandals), walking/lying in the sun and generally making the most of my weekend.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
You may remember me ...
... I used to write a blog.
This is the longest I have gone between blog entries, which means that I have broken one of my New Year's resolutions. Not the first, I might add - that one died on January 2nd when I ate something consisting of more than 100 calories . Still, six months is pretty good going and I'm back on the wagon.
I'd love to say that my non-blogging was due to an active, exciting and thoroughly full life. Alas, it's mostly down to the biggest dose of inertia ever. I also went slightly crazy for a few weeks due to a particularly annoying and persistent cold/flu virus. It hung around for about 4 weeks, but never made me ill enough to take a day off work.
A strange response (I actually said the words "so many people would love to catch my germs" aloud during a meeting at work, and now - understandably - people think I'm weird. God damn my self-love) got me to thinking that I could sell my virus on E-bay. People have sold individual baked beans to the highest bidder so I felt sure I was onto a winner. I attempted to secure buy-in to this notion from a few of my colleagues, but failed miserably.
My ideas for web-based money making refused to die and I came up with something else as I was building a wardrobe with a friend. "I bet there's an appetite on the internet for watching women engaged in manual labour," I stated. "Eh? What on earth are you on about?" followed her natural response. "I once saw this programme about the sex industry and how there was an appetite out there for the most bizarre things. Some guys paid to access a site with videos of women bursting balloons. There was even a group of men who got off watching women fall over or have minor accidents whilst going about their daily business. So I'm thinking we could set up a web-cam and let people pay to watch us build this wardrobe." She looked at me like I was insane. "Don't you see, this is brilliant," I continued. "We could make money from doing all the stuff that we have to do anyway. Who cares if some weirdo gets off watching us? As long as I don't have to take my clothes off, touch myself or touch anyone else then I'm game. We could call the site - 'Build it and they will cum'." "Of all the things you've ever come out with," she stated calmly, "this is the strangest. I really worry about you sometimes." I still think it's brilliant.
I got the keys for my new flat and set about moving my belongings with all the gusto of a nineteenth century Iowa farm boy. My introduction to the neighbours had none of the grace I had envisaged, as I lugged box after box up the stairs wheezing, sighing and shaking whenever I stopped. Adding to my embarrassment was the fact that my (gentle) perspiration meant I was sporting a demi-wave to rival that of a young Frank Sinatra.
The flat is lovely and instantly felt like home. I was lying in front of the fireplace reading my book as I waited for a delivery. I had one of those moments where you feel so blissfully content you hope you remember it forever. My favourite task so far has been buying art and taking it off to be framed. Julie, my designer friend, produced a big poster of one of her designs for the living-room wall. It looks just fab.
Julie actually convinced me to get out of bed at 5:30am last Tuesday to attend a business networking event. It was out in Corstorphine and I got lost. I stopped in the car park of the Maybury hotel, getting a few suspicious looks from the drivers of the other few cars also in there. I had the uncomfortable notion that I had inadvertently stumbled upon some early morning dogging session. Luckily, Jules responded to my message and gave me directions to my desired destination.
Writeink is coming along slowly but nicely. The business cards are being printed and I've had my first lots of 'official' money, which will come in very handy in paying for September's Asia trip.
This is the longest I have gone between blog entries, which means that I have broken one of my New Year's resolutions. Not the first, I might add - that one died on January 2nd when I ate something consisting of more than 100 calories . Still, six months is pretty good going and I'm back on the wagon.
I'd love to say that my non-blogging was due to an active, exciting and thoroughly full life. Alas, it's mostly down to the biggest dose of inertia ever. I also went slightly crazy for a few weeks due to a particularly annoying and persistent cold/flu virus. It hung around for about 4 weeks, but never made me ill enough to take a day off work.
A strange response (I actually said the words "so many people would love to catch my germs" aloud during a meeting at work, and now - understandably - people think I'm weird. God damn my self-love) got me to thinking that I could sell my virus on E-bay. People have sold individual baked beans to the highest bidder so I felt sure I was onto a winner. I attempted to secure buy-in to this notion from a few of my colleagues, but failed miserably.
My ideas for web-based money making refused to die and I came up with something else as I was building a wardrobe with a friend. "I bet there's an appetite on the internet for watching women engaged in manual labour," I stated. "Eh? What on earth are you on about?" followed her natural response. "I once saw this programme about the sex industry and how there was an appetite out there for the most bizarre things. Some guys paid to access a site with videos of women bursting balloons. There was even a group of men who got off watching women fall over or have minor accidents whilst going about their daily business. So I'm thinking we could set up a web-cam and let people pay to watch us build this wardrobe." She looked at me like I was insane. "Don't you see, this is brilliant," I continued. "We could make money from doing all the stuff that we have to do anyway. Who cares if some weirdo gets off watching us? As long as I don't have to take my clothes off, touch myself or touch anyone else then I'm game. We could call the site - 'Build it and they will cum'." "Of all the things you've ever come out with," she stated calmly, "this is the strangest. I really worry about you sometimes." I still think it's brilliant.
I got the keys for my new flat and set about moving my belongings with all the gusto of a nineteenth century Iowa farm boy. My introduction to the neighbours had none of the grace I had envisaged, as I lugged box after box up the stairs wheezing, sighing and shaking whenever I stopped. Adding to my embarrassment was the fact that my (gentle) perspiration meant I was sporting a demi-wave to rival that of a young Frank Sinatra.
The flat is lovely and instantly felt like home. I was lying in front of the fireplace reading my book as I waited for a delivery. I had one of those moments where you feel so blissfully content you hope you remember it forever. My favourite task so far has been buying art and taking it off to be framed. Julie, my designer friend, produced a big poster of one of her designs for the living-room wall. It looks just fab.
Julie actually convinced me to get out of bed at 5:30am last Tuesday to attend a business networking event. It was out in Corstorphine and I got lost. I stopped in the car park of the Maybury hotel, getting a few suspicious looks from the drivers of the other few cars also in there. I had the uncomfortable notion that I had inadvertently stumbled upon some early morning dogging session. Luckily, Jules responded to my message and gave me directions to my desired destination.
Writeink is coming along slowly but nicely. The business cards are being printed and I've had my first lots of 'official' money, which will come in very handy in paying for September's Asia trip.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Teeth, hips and sips of tea
So it is true that the only thing harder to find these days than decent help is an NHS dentist.
My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!
At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.
Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.
We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.
I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.
One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.
Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.
As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.
Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.
By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.
Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.
As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).
On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.
Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.
I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.
I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.
My old dentist decided to go private so I found myself tasked with finding a replacement. I called NHS Direct and was given the number of a service which would list all the dentists in my area accepting NHS patients. There are, as it turns out, only three dentists in the 'Edinburgh area' who are willing to take on NHS patients; one in Morningside, one in Craigmillar and one in Portobello. As I don't consider Portobello to be in the 'Edinburgh area' and a visit to a Craigmillar dentist would probably result in my teeth being knocked out on the way, I opted for the dentist in Morningside. I made an appointment and took a bus out there in my lunch-hour. My dentist told me he'd been living in Marbella for the last eight years and had made a fortune, and that's why he was now offering NHS care; doing his bit for society and all that. It didn't stop him from trying to encourage me to opt for a few private treatments though!
At the risk of sounding a bit like 'Jen' of 'Jen & Gary' infamy, another task I found difficult and stressful was shopping with a baby and an 8-year old. It's not that I've ever looked on parenting as a walk in the park, it's just that seeing your university flat-mate doing it really puts things into perspective.
Leanne had told me some time ago that she could do with some new clothes, especially as she is returning to work following maternity leave. She admitted that six months of parenting had left her slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of clothes-shopping and I, in true Trinny&Susannah style, volunteered my fashionista services.
We finally got round to Leanne's shopping trip last Saturday. It was supposed to be just us, but then Craig was paintballing for his nephew's 21st birthday and couldn't look after Ella. Then Skye, Craig's 8-year old daughter, wanted to come with us too.
I met Leanne and the kids at the Gallery cafe. We started our shopping experience in Next. Right away, it was difficult navigating the shop floor with the buggy. Getting the buggy into the changing rooms was even more problematic. Skye was really well behaved, but - like any child - still needs to be listened to and interacted with. Ella is a superstar, but got a bit upset when she woke up. As a result, Leanne tried on items of clothing as quickly as she could, I held Ella and soothed her while offering feedback on Leanne's outfits, and we both tried our best to chat to Skye.
One shop down and Ella needed to be fed, watered and changed. We went to Debenhams cafe. Leanne and Ella took the elevator. Skye wanted to use the escalator, so I went with her. An hour later and we hit another shop. To save the effort of taking the buggy round, I did a quick reconnaissance of Per Una but found nothing doing.
Skye had been an angel, so Leanne agreed to take her to Jenners toy department. Once inside, I realised the time and hassle it would be for us to take Ella downstairs, so I offered to wait in the perfumery department with the buggy. Leanne was visibly relieved.
As I was walking around the store, I struggled to weave in and out of the displays and became convinced that I was going to knock everything over if I didn't get out NOW! I struggled to open the shop doors, struggled to get the buggy through, and, finally, struggled down the two front steps and into the sunshine.
Lastly, we ventured onto Dorothy Perkins, Principles and Top Shop - which is the least buggy-friendly shop in the world. (Strange considering it is the M&S of teenage mums.) The elevators were so old that I had to fight to get the buggy into the lift. By this point we were all tired, thirsty and hungry. I, in my non-mother state, suggested we go to Vin Caffe. This was a bad idea. There was no plain food that Skye liked. The tables were cramped and the toilets were all the way upstairs - sans baby-changing facilities - making it difficult for Leanne to change Ella.
By this time, Leanne had to be getting back to start Ella's bedtime routine. We said goodbye and Leanne almost wept with gratitude. After only a few hours as an extra pair of hands, I could see why. I now completely understand why some women give birth and then never ever want to leave the house again.
Saturday night, I headed out to Hendrick's to meet Mog and Kwan-Nga. Mog had invited us out to a football awards dinner that one of her colleagues was involved in. We went upstairs in the Golfe Tavern, to a room that smelt ominously of sweaty men, farts and chicken wings. In an effort to create some sort of air circulation, we danced solidly for the next three hours. Afterwards I began to fear my style of dancing might make me a prime candidate for a hip replacement in the not too distant future.
As we walked home, my hips, thighs and knees were all still singing. I think my problem is that I dance from the hips down, with all my movement concentrated in the thigh department (which, I know, sounds like some pretty weird dancing).
On Sunday morning I woke up, still aching and barely able to move, and thought "this is what Harrison Ford must feel like these days". I then realised I hadn't put my incontinence pants on and had to pull the emergency chord for help.
Andrew came to visit and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll along the Water of Leith, followed by a Peroni and a lemon sorbet in Pizza Express. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time Andrew left. Determined not to be thwarted in my bid for jogging-suit & DVD combo heaven this Sunday, I applied the jogging-suit, turned off both phones and flicked the buzzer to privacy.
I settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea. The window was open. I could hear the birds quietly chirping and nothing else. The sun was just starting to go down and the air was still. I took a sip of tea, let my head fall back against the sofa and almost had an orgasm from the sheer bliss of it all. I tried to imprint that moment into my memory.
I succeeded; in the short term at least, because I recaptured it at work on Monday morning and spent the rest of the day in afterglow.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Work-Life balance
Admittedly, the first week back from holiday is always an uphill struggle. I, however, am 'touching the void' (i.e. my flexi-time has just plummeted through a crevass and my broken-spirit is in no state to pull it back.) Last week's working hours look like this - M 4:45, T 6:24, W 6:38, T 7:01, and F 5:13. It makes me feel slightly better that my inability to drag myself into work before 10am was due more to my busy social calendar than my lazy lard ass.
Sunday night was the first chance I'd had to see Mog since I got back from New York and, quite frankly, the withdrawal symptoms were more than I could take. Sometimes I think I depend on Mog - she's like Jekyll to my Hyde (NOT jelly to my hide as one perv who shall remain nameless once suggested). We dined at La Favorita before heading off to see Prime at the cinema. It was a good few cuts-above the usual offerings of the chick-flick genre and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
The family dinner in Fife on Wednesday was also significantly better than usual. My little cousins, being older now, have better chat and made for a most enjoyable evening. Although, one of my uncles did say he "preferred my hair when it was white". I'd like to state for the record that my hair has never been white. Very, very blonde yes, but never white. I also thought it was nice of him to tell me this now that my hair is no longer blonde. Eh ... cheers.
The midweek late-nights continued into Thursday when I met with Moranna at the Living Room for drinks, dinner and a much-needed catch-up. Moranna was half an hour late so I spent my time praying that no one I knew was in there to see me sipping a lonely champagne cocktail in true 'stood-up' fashion. The nice waitress took pity on me and brought me some olives and houmus to numb the pain. Once Moranna arrived, we proceeded to have a great night. I had a fantastic plate of baby squid with wasabi slaw. Oh baby!
On Friday, I stayed in and ordered the best Indian takeaway I have ever had. It was from Shapla on Easter Road. The mango chutney was really fresh and had great big chunks of fruit in it, while the raitha was thick and had freshly sliced cucumber strips on top. Annoyingly, I then remembered that I was going out for an Indian meal on Saturday night. D'oh.
In the afternoon, I drove out to Leanne and Craig's for their BBQ. I met lots of their friends and had conversations about whether it was acceptable and wise to eat king-prawn shit; cosmetic surgery for women who want the skin surrounding their vaginas to appear younger, puppetry of the penis and, most socially unacceptable of all, Big Brother.
I drove back home, had a quick shower and raced up to Native State to meet with the Ladies for a girls' night/Helen's hen night. We ate in Khushis and I had some amazing prawns (whose shit I didn't even think about). The meal was excellent and we then headed on to Negociants where we hoped to see Helen complete all the dares we'd listed for her. Sadly, Helen was having none of it and ended up farming her dares out to the rest of us, who were all so merrily pished that we happily obliged. As a result, I kissed all the girls and made two of them cry. Then I was persistently chatted-up by a complete random with fido dido hair.
On Sunday, I felt a little worse for the wear and lounged about for ages before walking down to Ocean Terminal. I bought myself some Greek yoghurt and Cherry Compote from M&S and almost giggled with indulgent pleasure at my newly hatched plan to head home, put on my jogging-suit (a misnomer if ever there was one), watch Calendar Girls and eat my yoghurt dessert very, very slowly.
My fantasy became reality and I was happily indulging when the buzzer went. My first thought was the same thought whenever my buzzer goes "It won't be for me." I ignored it until it buzzed again. I buzzed the person in and waited behind the door to see who it was. I heard heavy footsteps bounding upstairs and then I saw Alex. This was most unexpected and now I was caught in my jogging-suit (which I don't feel comfortable with anyone seeing me in, hence the fact that it has never been for a jog - except to the fridge and back during a break on CSI:Miami) with a dessert in my hands - the picture of a sad fat-fest surely? It could only have been worse had I been eating a tub of ice-cream, the jogging-suit was too small and I'd spilt ice cream on it.
Anyway, Alex had popped round because he was in the area and he'd wondered if I'd heard from Sam. I filled him on Sam's latest email and then he invited me out for a few drinks with him and his friend Dave. Caught in full-flow sad git mode, I felt embarrassed enough into agreeing to meet him at the pub after I'd got changed and pulled myself together.
After a lengthy catch-up, I was invited to Pivo but, with my flexi balance (and complete physical, emotional and mental exhaustion) in mind, I sensibly declined.
I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. At 10am, Mog sent a text inviting me to the pub for some Gin after work. Needless to say, Tuesday was a late start too.
Sunday night was the first chance I'd had to see Mog since I got back from New York and, quite frankly, the withdrawal symptoms were more than I could take. Sometimes I think I depend on Mog - she's like Jekyll to my Hyde (NOT jelly to my hide as one perv who shall remain nameless once suggested). We dined at La Favorita before heading off to see Prime at the cinema. It was a good few cuts-above the usual offerings of the chick-flick genre and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
The family dinner in Fife on Wednesday was also significantly better than usual. My little cousins, being older now, have better chat and made for a most enjoyable evening. Although, one of my uncles did say he "preferred my hair when it was white". I'd like to state for the record that my hair has never been white. Very, very blonde yes, but never white. I also thought it was nice of him to tell me this now that my hair is no longer blonde. Eh ... cheers.
The midweek late-nights continued into Thursday when I met with Moranna at the Living Room for drinks, dinner and a much-needed catch-up. Moranna was half an hour late so I spent my time praying that no one I knew was in there to see me sipping a lonely champagne cocktail in true 'stood-up' fashion. The nice waitress took pity on me and brought me some olives and houmus to numb the pain. Once Moranna arrived, we proceeded to have a great night. I had a fantastic plate of baby squid with wasabi slaw. Oh baby!
On Friday, I stayed in and ordered the best Indian takeaway I have ever had. It was from Shapla on Easter Road. The mango chutney was really fresh and had great big chunks of fruit in it, while the raitha was thick and had freshly sliced cucumber strips on top. Annoyingly, I then remembered that I was going out for an Indian meal on Saturday night. D'oh.
In the afternoon, I drove out to Leanne and Craig's for their BBQ. I met lots of their friends and had conversations about whether it was acceptable and wise to eat king-prawn shit; cosmetic surgery for women who want the skin surrounding their vaginas to appear younger, puppetry of the penis and, most socially unacceptable of all, Big Brother.
I drove back home, had a quick shower and raced up to Native State to meet with the Ladies for a girls' night/Helen's hen night. We ate in Khushis and I had some amazing prawns (whose shit I didn't even think about). The meal was excellent and we then headed on to Negociants where we hoped to see Helen complete all the dares we'd listed for her. Sadly, Helen was having none of it and ended up farming her dares out to the rest of us, who were all so merrily pished that we happily obliged. As a result, I kissed all the girls and made two of them cry. Then I was persistently chatted-up by a complete random with fido dido hair.
On Sunday, I felt a little worse for the wear and lounged about for ages before walking down to Ocean Terminal. I bought myself some Greek yoghurt and Cherry Compote from M&S and almost giggled with indulgent pleasure at my newly hatched plan to head home, put on my jogging-suit (a misnomer if ever there was one), watch Calendar Girls and eat my yoghurt dessert very, very slowly.
My fantasy became reality and I was happily indulging when the buzzer went. My first thought was the same thought whenever my buzzer goes "It won't be for me." I ignored it until it buzzed again. I buzzed the person in and waited behind the door to see who it was. I heard heavy footsteps bounding upstairs and then I saw Alex. This was most unexpected and now I was caught in my jogging-suit (which I don't feel comfortable with anyone seeing me in, hence the fact that it has never been for a jog - except to the fridge and back during a break on CSI:Miami) with a dessert in my hands - the picture of a sad fat-fest surely? It could only have been worse had I been eating a tub of ice-cream, the jogging-suit was too small and I'd spilt ice cream on it.
Anyway, Alex had popped round because he was in the area and he'd wondered if I'd heard from Sam. I filled him on Sam's latest email and then he invited me out for a few drinks with him and his friend Dave. Caught in full-flow sad git mode, I felt embarrassed enough into agreeing to meet him at the pub after I'd got changed and pulled myself together.
After a lengthy catch-up, I was invited to Pivo but, with my flexi balance (and complete physical, emotional and mental exhaustion) in mind, I sensibly declined.
I woke up on Monday morning feeling like I'd been hit by a truck. At 10am, Mog sent a text inviting me to the pub for some Gin after work. Needless to say, Tuesday was a late start too.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
The good life
As told by Jen & Gary .
What do you think?
To be fair, I have issues too but I tend to keep them to myself and I am working on them. I swear, I haven't killed someone for their liver since last autumn and that's pretty good going.
Anyway, the blog in question is entitled 'Jen & Gary' but I'm not convinced Gary does any posting. My hunch is that Gary probably doesn't even know about it.
The tagline reads: 'We are a young, vibrant couple who enjoy life', but from reading the post headed 'Are we spoiled?' I think it should really say 'I desperately want a baby. Like, NOW!'
"Having the extra time and energy to spoil the man I love makes the best marriage I can think of! [Ahh, shucks] We can devote all of our time to each other, instead of splitting our attention among three kids and their after school activities [which she so desperately wants to do].
I love making breakfast in bed for my husband and he likes to make breakfast in bed for me too!. [Aaahhh! int that cute?]
I rub his back several nights a week. [How romantic Jen. I hope it isn't on account of indigestion because when that trapped wind starts to move ...]
I make his favorite meals. I am truly interested in his hobbies ....for the most part (which we can indulge in because we don’t have kids to spend our hard earned cash on!) [Oh how she wishes she had kids so she doesn't have to spend her weekends fly-fishing or attending Star Trek conventions.]
And I am just as spoiled as he is [Really she is]. I get regular foot massages. Last night I asked for a squeeze of fresh lime juice in my water, and he happily obliged [Oh how lucky she is. Surely most men would not have honoured such an arduous request and instead rubbed the lime into her face James Cagney style.]
We love doing special things for each other that I don’t usually see parents doing, simply because their schedules get filled up with other things. But if we want to go to bed a little early for some “couple time,” [Oh my God! They actually call it 'couple-time'] we do it. [Moreover, I'd be worried if she did see 'parents' having 'couple-time']
If we want to take a long bath together on a Sunday afternoon, we can. We can be spontaneous without calling a babysitter. Marriage isn’t about each partner giving 50%. I’d say it’s close to 100%. [100% leaves no room for anything else sweetie.]
And it sure is easier to do when you don’t have kids. Yep, I guess you would considered us SPOILED! [I can think of far more appropriate words than 'spoiled' honey.]
What do you think?
To be fair, I have issues too but I tend to keep them to myself and I am working on them. I swear, I haven't killed someone for their liver since last autumn and that's pretty good going.
Anyway, the blog in question is entitled 'Jen & Gary' but I'm not convinced Gary does any posting. My hunch is that Gary probably doesn't even know about it.
The tagline reads: 'We are a young, vibrant couple who enjoy life', but from reading the post headed 'Are we spoiled?' I think it should really say 'I desperately want a baby. Like, NOW!'
"Having the extra time and energy to spoil the man I love makes the best marriage I can think of! [Ahh, shucks] We can devote all of our time to each other, instead of splitting our attention among three kids and their after school activities [which she so desperately wants to do].
I love making breakfast in bed for my husband and he likes to make breakfast in bed for me too!. [Aaahhh! int that cute?]
I rub his back several nights a week. [How romantic Jen. I hope it isn't on account of indigestion because when that trapped wind starts to move ...]
I make his favorite meals. I am truly interested in his hobbies ....for the most part (which we can indulge in because we don’t have kids to spend our hard earned cash on!) [Oh how she wishes she had kids so she doesn't have to spend her weekends fly-fishing or attending Star Trek conventions.]
And I am just as spoiled as he is [Really she is]. I get regular foot massages. Last night I asked for a squeeze of fresh lime juice in my water, and he happily obliged [Oh how lucky she is. Surely most men would not have honoured such an arduous request and instead rubbed the lime into her face James Cagney style.]
We love doing special things for each other that I don’t usually see parents doing, simply because their schedules get filled up with other things. But if we want to go to bed a little early for some “couple time,” [Oh my God! They actually call it 'couple-time'] we do it. [Moreover, I'd be worried if she did see 'parents' having 'couple-time']
If we want to take a long bath together on a Sunday afternoon, we can. We can be spontaneous without calling a babysitter. Marriage isn’t about each partner giving 50%. I’d say it’s close to 100%. [100% leaves no room for anything else sweetie.]
And it sure is easier to do when you don’t have kids. Yep, I guess you would considered us SPOILED! [I can think of far more appropriate words than 'spoiled' honey.]
Saturday, May 20, 2006
(Herpes) Simplex in the city
Upsettingly, the coldsore continued to plague me all last week. On Monday it grew bigger. On Tuesday it grew scabbier. On Wednesday it turned greener and on Thursday I laughed and it got stuck to my top lip and was yanked off. Then it started to bleed. My discomfort was made worse due to the fact that I was in a meeting when this happened. Still it was better than the scab falling into somebody else's tea or - even worse - my own, which had been my primary concern all week.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
By the time I landed at Newark on Saturday afternoon, my shameful pox was a rapidly dimming memory. This was partly due to my excitement at being in NYC again and partly due to the amazing powers of Tiger Balm. My Grandma always kept a little jar of Tiger Balm handy. It was administered to my chest when I was suffering with the Cold as a child. It was melted into a bowl of boiling water when my nose was blocked. It was applied to burns and scrapes and scratches, and, by my own hand, it was rubbed liberally around my eyes and nose when I wanted to skip school. Unfortunately, as anyone who has ever come within three feet of the stuff will know, it smells about as medicinal as anything can so my efforts to avoid school never actually succeeded.
Anyway because I'm nostalgic and because the stuff really works, I've always kept a little jar handy too. So, when a colleague at work recommended I use Tiger Balm on my coldsore I saw no reason not to give it a go. I swear this is true, during the course of a seven hour flight my coldsore shrunk to at least a quarter of its original size. Oh miracle balm!
I love New York. Within 10 minutes of walking slowly down the streets and staring up at every building I could, I was fighting the urge to be absorbed into its thronging masses and leave everything else behind. To be honest, this feeling pops up in almost every city I've ever visited, but it's always stronger in the Big Apple. I know I could live there; maybe not forever, but soon and for six months at least.
On Sunday something highly cool happened. First of all, I went to High Mass at St Patrick's (not so cool) where his eminence - el Cardinale - stopped to shake my hand and ask where I was from. I told him, we had a little chat and then he blessed me (This was highly cool - for my gran). Anyway, after Mass I hoofed it up to Times Square because I wanted to buy discount tickets for a show. I really wanted to see Wicked and was disappointed not to see it listed on the tickets board. On asking one of the representatives, they laughed and said they never got Wicked tickets. I decided to walk to the Gershwin where Wicked is playing to see if I could get tickets for the Sunday matinee. There was a queue of people so I got in line. I then overheard the man in front of me explaining to someone that this was the line for the 'lottery'. I asked him what he meant by the 'lottery' and he told me that every show is completely sold out for months and the best hope anyone had of getting a ticket was to enter this lottery. I went up to the desk, wrote my name on a slip of paper and handed it over. The names of the lucky 12 would be called at 1pm. As it was a quarter to, I decided to hang around.
On the hour, the guy spun the barrel and pulled out 12 tickets. There were about 200 people waiting in the hope that they'd hear their name. My name was the eleventh to be called out (Ok, that was the highly cool bit). There was a lot of cheering and congratulating. I showed my ID and collected two front row tickets at a cost of $25 each. Even the cheapest seats are usually $60 so this was a pretty good deal. To top all this, my mum stood in the cancellation line and got the last cancellation ticket - also with a fantastic seat. As I was waiting in the foyer, people kept coming up and saying "congratulations" to me and asking me how I felt. A few people who witnessed this then asked if I was in the show. I felt pretty good and was excited about seeing the show, but felt my response would have been more adequate had I managed to lay my hands on some 'completely-over-the-top-happy pills'.
One of the things I love most about being in America is that I can ham it up and be 'super-happy' and 'super-nice' and no one thinks I'm weird. I sometimes do this here, but people often think I'm taking the piss - which, admittedly, I often am.
The show was a big fat glorious pantomime and I loved every minute of it. It's the story of the Wicked Witch and Glinda the Good before Dorothy showed up in Oz. There weren't too many references or jokes about the film which was good, and when there were they were subtle and clever. Example:
Nessarose: (At party) "What's in this punch?"
Bok: "Apples and lemons and pears."
Nessarose: "Oh my!"
A perfect day was finished off with dinner in a revolving restaurant. I had one frozen raspberry and strawberry margarita and a blueberry and raspberry bellini before dinner, so it was a very, very good meal.
My other highlight was a trip to Serendipity for a Frrrrozen Hot Chocolate. Apparently, they are Oprah's fave and if you saw one you'd understand about the whole yo-yo weight thing. I swear all my efforts at the gym have been completely overwritten by just one these babies. It was so worth it though.
I got a fair amount of shopping in, and with an exchange rate that's just shy of $2 for £1 who wouldn't? I got a gorgeous pair of Cole Haan black thong sandals with $200 off and fabulous bag which I'm totally in love with. On a less pleasing note, I got railroaded by a beauty counter assistant in Bloomingdales who sat me in her chair and told me she knew I used face moisturiser on my delicate eye area (totally true, but who has time to switch moisturisers half way through?). She sold me (I know, I know) some clinical eye gel which she repeatedly assured me would combat the signs of aging. I had made no inquiry as to its anti-aging qualities. Then, while I was still in her chair, she tilted her head to the right and said: "and how are you doing with the rest of your skin care?"
I'm sat there with a smaller but still noticeable coldsore, a number of spots visible to someone in extreme close proximity and some dry patches I attribute to running myself slightly ragged before I left for NY. Still, I didn't want to be sold any more stuff so I mumbled "fine, thanks."
She tilted her head to the left, looked at me sadly and said very sweetly: "Really? You sure honey?"
I resisted and left with my eye gel and credit card intact. My self-esteem did not fare quite so well. However, one wolf-whistle, compliment and harassment for my room number later and I felt a good deal better.
And when I woke up this morning, my coldsore was gone.Unfortunately,the slight rash I discovered around my delicate eye area leads me to suspect that I may be allergic to the eye gel.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Coldsore, warm heart
I was on the bus, on my way to collect the car I'd abandoned in favour of wine the night before. Slightly hungover, and with a whopping great coldsore on the right-hand side of my bottom lip, I'd quickly pulled my hair back and put on my specs. Neither looking nor feeling my best, the plan was to get the car as quickly as possible with as few people seeing me as possible.
As the bus neared my stop, I stood up to press the button and leave my seat. Just then, I noticed that the guy in front was moving his hand back - also to press the button I presumed. However, he ended up pressing my left breast instead.
This was something of a shock for us both.
He apologised immediately and I was mortified but said it was quite alright (how awfully British of me).
Now off the bus and walking along the road, I heard someone saying "excuse me, miss". I turned round and saw that it was my public transport groper. He informed me that he hadn't known the bus was going this way and could I tell him the best bus to get to Morningside. I told him that he was almost there and basically just had to follow the road for 10 minuntes. He asked if I was going his way and I said I wasn't. Then he asked if I was from Edinburgh. Not wanting to get into anything resembling a conversation, I said 'yes'. He asked me to guess where he was from. I told him that I'd guess somewhere in West Africa but didn't know exactly where. He pressed me (not quite like before, thankfully) for a country so I hedged my bets and picked the most populous one - Nigeria. And what do you know, I was right. He told me his name was Eugene and he was studying Engineering. He asked me a bit about myself and then, as I said goodbye and went to cross the road, he said:
"So when can I see you again?"
"Perhaps, you'll bump into me in the street or grope me on another bus journey," I replied, then feared he'd think it was an invitation.
"Oh no," said he, "the chances are too slim. Can I have your number?"
"Oh no," said I, "the number can never be given. Things are in God's hands now."
"I like that," he said. "It has been a wonderful pleasure to meet you miss and now I will let you go on your way."
"Likewise," I replied.
As I crossed the road I couldn't help but smile. I'm not saying I particularly like being felt-up by strangers (although there was that one time ... when I was feeling really low ...) and having to make small-talk with them is worse still, but I really wasn't looking my best and it cheered me up that some poor soul didn't seem to mind. And besides, at least he wasn't a stark raving loon like the person my friend Jen had the pleasure of meeting recently. She emailed me with the details of her encounter, which I will share with you now.
Hey Lisa.
As soon as this happened I immediately thought of you - not because you are a Scouse reprobate, but because I really wished you were there to share in the moment. Given your enjoyment of Liverpool's eccentricities, I knew you'd have appreciated it.
I was walking across town last week, having been sent to another building to get my photie took for my security pass (yes, I have started work, it's not just a strange hobby). It was a nice sunny day, and I was just strolling along minding my own business when I stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
A local gentleman struck up conversation with me, which went a little like this:
Scouse Gent: 'Don't touch that button!'
Me: 'OK...er, why not?'
Scouse Gent: 'Have you ever thought about all the people who have probably picked their nose and then pressed that button?'
Me: Well, no, not really...'
Scouse Gent: 'Yeah, picked their nose and then pressed that button! Picked their nose!'(By now - praise the Lord - the green man has deigned to make an appearance and I am defying everything I learned en route to my First Aid badge in the Brownies to get across the road)
Scouse Gent: 'And then you go home and tuck into a nice cream cake. After your fingers have been on that button!'
Me: (now running) 'Hahahahahahaha!'
Scouse Gent: 'A nice cream cake! Cream cake! CREAM CAKE!!'
Lisa, I swear, he kept shouting cream cake at me until he was a small speck in the distance.What the hell is going on in this city?!?!
Quite.
As the bus neared my stop, I stood up to press the button and leave my seat. Just then, I noticed that the guy in front was moving his hand back - also to press the button I presumed. However, he ended up pressing my left breast instead.
This was something of a shock for us both.
He apologised immediately and I was mortified but said it was quite alright (how awfully British of me).
Now off the bus and walking along the road, I heard someone saying "excuse me, miss". I turned round and saw that it was my public transport groper. He informed me that he hadn't known the bus was going this way and could I tell him the best bus to get to Morningside. I told him that he was almost there and basically just had to follow the road for 10 minuntes. He asked if I was going his way and I said I wasn't. Then he asked if I was from Edinburgh. Not wanting to get into anything resembling a conversation, I said 'yes'. He asked me to guess where he was from. I told him that I'd guess somewhere in West Africa but didn't know exactly where. He pressed me (not quite like before, thankfully) for a country so I hedged my bets and picked the most populous one - Nigeria. And what do you know, I was right. He told me his name was Eugene and he was studying Engineering. He asked me a bit about myself and then, as I said goodbye and went to cross the road, he said:
"So when can I see you again?"
"Perhaps, you'll bump into me in the street or grope me on another bus journey," I replied, then feared he'd think it was an invitation.
"Oh no," said he, "the chances are too slim. Can I have your number?"
"Oh no," said I, "the number can never be given. Things are in God's hands now."
"I like that," he said. "It has been a wonderful pleasure to meet you miss and now I will let you go on your way."
"Likewise," I replied.
As I crossed the road I couldn't help but smile. I'm not saying I particularly like being felt-up by strangers (although there was that one time ... when I was feeling really low ...) and having to make small-talk with them is worse still, but I really wasn't looking my best and it cheered me up that some poor soul didn't seem to mind. And besides, at least he wasn't a stark raving loon like the person my friend Jen had the pleasure of meeting recently. She emailed me with the details of her encounter, which I will share with you now.
Hey Lisa.
As soon as this happened I immediately thought of you - not because you are a Scouse reprobate, but because I really wished you were there to share in the moment. Given your enjoyment of Liverpool's eccentricities, I knew you'd have appreciated it.
I was walking across town last week, having been sent to another building to get my photie took for my security pass (yes, I have started work, it's not just a strange hobby). It was a nice sunny day, and I was just strolling along minding my own business when I stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
A local gentleman struck up conversation with me, which went a little like this:
Scouse Gent: 'Don't touch that button!'
Me: 'OK...er, why not?'
Scouse Gent: 'Have you ever thought about all the people who have probably picked their nose and then pressed that button?'
Me: Well, no, not really...'
Scouse Gent: 'Yeah, picked their nose and then pressed that button! Picked their nose!'(By now - praise the Lord - the green man has deigned to make an appearance and I am defying everything I learned en route to my First Aid badge in the Brownies to get across the road)
Scouse Gent: 'And then you go home and tuck into a nice cream cake. After your fingers have been on that button!'
Me: (now running) 'Hahahahahahaha!'
Scouse Gent: 'A nice cream cake! Cream cake! CREAM CAKE!!'
Lisa, I swear, he kept shouting cream cake at me until he was a small speck in the distance.What the hell is going on in this city?!?!
Quite.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
The art of ...pleasing oneself
This is perhaps the hardest art of all to conquer - especially if you'd like to remain on speaking terms with people. It's taken me many years, but I now consider myself a master.
It feels wonderful to skillfully avoid ever again being caught in the 'I so don't want to be here but can't ever say' trap that has dogged me most of my life.
On Friday night I was doing some work for my "uncle".
OK, so actually he is really my uncle. I just added inverted commas to make it sound more exciting. Hey, I said it was the "hardest art", not the most exciting one.
Anyway, I was looking over and editing his biography for his CV. You might think this doesn't sound much like someone who is pleasing herself, but the fact that I told him I could either invoice him for £60 (family discount rate) or he and my aunt could take me out to dinner is a big step forward for me.
By Saturday I'd really gotten into the swing of things. I took myself off the gym at 10am, enjoyed (no, seriously) a vigorous workout (pulse rate of 80%. Burn that chunk baby) and was getting changed when Mog called me. I fumbled about in my bag and finally answered my phone.
Me: "Hey. Hi. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Hello?"
Me: "Yeah. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Oh, hi, sorry did I wake you?"
Me: "Did you what me? Wake me? No! I'm at the gym. I've just finished my work out!
Mog: "Oh!"
Me: "Oh yes!"
After a somewhat stilted and mildly offensive start, Mog explained the arrangements for her birthday night out. For a change, she wanted to keep things informal and low-key (must be her age kicking in). She'd decided to go to the 7 o'clock showing ofThe Squid and the Whale at the Cameo, which pleased me greatly as it was a film I've been eagerly anticipating, followed by food at Coconut Grove (I've never had a bad night in there yet). So, with Saturday evening taken care of, I took myself first to Waterstones for a good old browse and then to Celeste for a luxury manicure.
Celeste is aptly named. Every single appointment is a heavenly experience. As the nice lady was massaging my hands in such a way that I was on the cusp of doubting my sexuality, I was reading their brochure to see what else was on offer. And they do Decleor. Oh yes. Decleor facials, Decleor massages and, best of all, Decleor tanning. Bring on the summer.
Looking over the waxing options on offer, I got a fit of the giggles. (Technically, it's not a good thing when someone is painting your nails and your shoulders start going like a road-digger.) There were those old tried and tested chestnuts, as follows:
REGULAR BIKINI WAX (£14)
The area around and under the pant line is waxed. A basic wax if you wear regular knickers.
BRAZILIAN BIKINI WAX (£26)
By far the most popular. A landing strip is left neat. A must for all who wear thongs.
BOLLYWOOD (£30)
In between Brazilian and Hollywood. Not all off but nearly.
HOLLYWOOD BIKINI WAX (£36)
The whole area is waxed. We guarantee it will be the best and most thorough wax you've ever had. Our most popular and requested treatment ever.
Plus one ridiculous addition:
TIFFANY BIKINI WAX (from £40)
This is a whole Hollywood wax with diamontes artistically placed for that special date!
Yes, that special date when you want to scare him half to death. Can you imagine?
Him: "Jesus Karaoke Star Christ! There's spiky things all over your ...you know ... thing."
Her: "That's right darling."
Him: "They spell out something. Yeah, it looks like your ... you know ... thing is trying to tell me something. I'll need to get closer to make out the words."
Her:"Go right ahead darling."
Him: "I... told you ... not ... to put your ... wet towel on ... the bed. You bastard."
Her: "That's right darling. And remember, these babies cut through glass. Any wrong moves and you could be in big trouble."
Yet again, Diamonds prove they really are a girl's best friend.
After my indulgent experience, I went to the Cameo to buy tickets for the film we were going to see that evening. I did so and noticed that a French film called Hidden (Cache) was about to start. I decided just to go ahead and buy a ticket as my day was open to go exactly as I desired.
The film was very French in that it had lots of scenes that added nothing to the plot. French films are funny like that. If an American film showed someone getting undressed for bed, closing the curtains and lying down you'd probably expect them to be murdered, or at least to die peacefully in their sleep or something. Not so with the French film. It also ended abruptly with almost no resolution, which I enjoy because I get to spend the rest of the day pondering over what happened, why it happened and what the future looked like for the characters involved. It was very, very good. Afterwards, I took myself off to a little deli called 'Made in France' where I did my pondering over a goat's cheese and saucisson baguette. It was sheer bliss.
Annoyingly I arrived at the Cameo that evening at 10 past seven. I had all the tickets and everyone was waiting. I'd had a nightmare with taxis and ended up having to drive. I got grid-locked at the bottom of Lothian Road and then had to park almost on Strathern Road because there were no spaces nearer to the cinema. I hate, hate, hate being late for films so I was really pissed off with myself. I had to hot-foot it across the links, going back for my shoe twice. Anyway, we took our seats in time for the last trailer, which was pretty good timing considering it was actually so woefully bad.
The Squid and the Whale was excellent and I highly recommend it. Jeff Daniels' pompous assertions on literature, people and more are worth the ticket price alone. I now want to describe everything as "the fillet (pronounced 'fill-ay') of the neighbourhood" or "the fillet of Dickens' work".
The Coconut Grove was also fantastic with plenty of atmosphere and even better food. It was a most fitting start to Mog's 28th year.
It feels wonderful to skillfully avoid ever again being caught in the 'I so don't want to be here but can't ever say' trap that has dogged me most of my life.
On Friday night I was doing some work for my "uncle".
OK, so actually he is really my uncle. I just added inverted commas to make it sound more exciting. Hey, I said it was the "hardest art", not the most exciting one.
Anyway, I was looking over and editing his biography for his CV. You might think this doesn't sound much like someone who is pleasing herself, but the fact that I told him I could either invoice him for £60 (family discount rate) or he and my aunt could take me out to dinner is a big step forward for me.
By Saturday I'd really gotten into the swing of things. I took myself off the gym at 10am, enjoyed (no, seriously) a vigorous workout (pulse rate of 80%. Burn that chunk baby) and was getting changed when Mog called me. I fumbled about in my bag and finally answered my phone.
Me: "Hey. Hi. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Hello?"
Me: "Yeah. ... Hello?"
Mog: "Oh, hi, sorry did I wake you?"
Me: "Did you what me? Wake me? No! I'm at the gym. I've just finished my work out!
Mog: "Oh!"
Me: "Oh yes!"
After a somewhat stilted and mildly offensive start, Mog explained the arrangements for her birthday night out. For a change, she wanted to keep things informal and low-key (must be her age kicking in). She'd decided to go to the 7 o'clock showing ofThe Squid and the Whale at the Cameo, which pleased me greatly as it was a film I've been eagerly anticipating, followed by food at Coconut Grove (I've never had a bad night in there yet). So, with Saturday evening taken care of, I took myself first to Waterstones for a good old browse and then to Celeste for a luxury manicure.
Celeste is aptly named. Every single appointment is a heavenly experience. As the nice lady was massaging my hands in such a way that I was on the cusp of doubting my sexuality, I was reading their brochure to see what else was on offer. And they do Decleor. Oh yes. Decleor facials, Decleor massages and, best of all, Decleor tanning. Bring on the summer.
Looking over the waxing options on offer, I got a fit of the giggles. (Technically, it's not a good thing when someone is painting your nails and your shoulders start going like a road-digger.) There were those old tried and tested chestnuts, as follows:
REGULAR BIKINI WAX (£14)
The area around and under the pant line is waxed. A basic wax if you wear regular knickers.
BRAZILIAN BIKINI WAX (£26)
By far the most popular. A landing strip is left neat. A must for all who wear thongs.
BOLLYWOOD (£30)
In between Brazilian and Hollywood. Not all off but nearly.
HOLLYWOOD BIKINI WAX (£36)
The whole area is waxed. We guarantee it will be the best and most thorough wax you've ever had. Our most popular and requested treatment ever.
Plus one ridiculous addition:
TIFFANY BIKINI WAX (from £40)
This is a whole Hollywood wax with diamontes artistically placed for that special date!
Yes, that special date when you want to scare him half to death. Can you imagine?
Him: "Jesus Karaoke Star Christ! There's spiky things all over your ...you know ... thing."
Her: "That's right darling."
Him: "They spell out something. Yeah, it looks like your ... you know ... thing is trying to tell me something. I'll need to get closer to make out the words."
Her:"Go right ahead darling."
Him: "I... told you ... not ... to put your ... wet towel on ... the bed. You bastard."
Her: "That's right darling. And remember, these babies cut through glass. Any wrong moves and you could be in big trouble."
Yet again, Diamonds prove they really are a girl's best friend.
After my indulgent experience, I went to the Cameo to buy tickets for the film we were going to see that evening. I did so and noticed that a French film called Hidden (Cache) was about to start. I decided just to go ahead and buy a ticket as my day was open to go exactly as I desired.
The film was very French in that it had lots of scenes that added nothing to the plot. French films are funny like that. If an American film showed someone getting undressed for bed, closing the curtains and lying down you'd probably expect them to be murdered, or at least to die peacefully in their sleep or something. Not so with the French film. It also ended abruptly with almost no resolution, which I enjoy because I get to spend the rest of the day pondering over what happened, why it happened and what the future looked like for the characters involved. It was very, very good. Afterwards, I took myself off to a little deli called 'Made in France' where I did my pondering over a goat's cheese and saucisson baguette. It was sheer bliss.
Annoyingly I arrived at the Cameo that evening at 10 past seven. I had all the tickets and everyone was waiting. I'd had a nightmare with taxis and ended up having to drive. I got grid-locked at the bottom of Lothian Road and then had to park almost on Strathern Road because there were no spaces nearer to the cinema. I hate, hate, hate being late for films so I was really pissed off with myself. I had to hot-foot it across the links, going back for my shoe twice. Anyway, we took our seats in time for the last trailer, which was pretty good timing considering it was actually so woefully bad.
The Squid and the Whale was excellent and I highly recommend it. Jeff Daniels' pompous assertions on literature, people and more are worth the ticket price alone. I now want to describe everything as "the fillet (pronounced 'fill-ay') of the neighbourhood" or "the fillet of Dickens' work".
The Coconut Grove was also fantastic with plenty of atmosphere and even better food. It was a most fitting start to Mog's 28th year.
Monday, May 01, 2006
'Two shags'
is what John Prescott has been re-christened following the revelation of his two-year affair. This was one of two things that made me laugh out loud this week. The other was a Chinese takeaway menu that landed on the carpet beneath my letterbox on Saturday morning. Alongside the always amusing photographs of extravagantly yet unappetisingly displayed food (when was the last time your chow mein arrived in half a pineapple? And would you ever want it to?) were the words 'Alcoholic Takeaway' - brilliant. "I'll have one jakey in stained clothes and two neds 'oot their heids' on buckie please."
Following on from Jeff & Dev's Sunday lunch, Keith & Ashley hosted us last Sabbath day. Dinner was delicious and dessert was the most amazing banoffee pie I've ever tasted. My enthusiatic critique caught Keith's attention and he spent the duration of dessert apologising for his inappropriate comment. It really was good pie though.
Another heavenly pudding was sampled on Thursday night at
Black Bo's with Leanne. It was chocolate and chilli brownie with vanilla and hazelnut ice cream. Oh, it was class. Catching up with Leanne is always good. Whereas I give advice by way of endless analogy, Leanne can put things immediately in perspective with one sentence; and it's never a patronising one either. I don't know why, but I'm always surprised when my friends say something that makes clear just how well they really know me. It was like this with Leanne on Thursday when she said: "I don't think you'll get any answers from it. In fact, I think it'll do you more harm than good. But I know you're still going to do it anyway." Bang on the money.
I had a half day at work on Friday and took myself off to the gym at 1pm. I feel compelled to go every day since the instructor assessed my body fat situation and looked like she was amazed I'd managed to squeeze out the door of my flat. Needless to say, I could hardly move for the first four hours on Saturday morning (this was made worse by another visit to the gym). Mog and I had lunch in the sunshine followed by a big ice cream and a little walk.
At 7pm we caught the train through to Glasgow to celebrate Katie's birthday. It was a most ambient affair with generous helpings of curry and an excellent crowd. Around Midnight, we headed, quite literally, round the corner to a club. We walked straight in - sans entrance fee - and proceeded to have a cracking time. A night in da club wouldn't be the same for Katie and I without at least one dance-off. This time the tune was 'Don't cha' by the Pussycat Dolls and my demure wrist-flick sent someone's bottle of beer raining across the dance floor. Bonus points.
We headed home around 3am and Mog and I headed straight to bed. I was truly knackered and my muscles were truly aching by this point. The rest of the party stayed up chatting until 6 or so which meant Mog and I were annoyingly bushy-tailed the next morning. A truly scrumptious brunch of French Toast, bacon and Maple syrup was scoffed before Mog and I caught the train home.
Good times.
Following on from Jeff & Dev's Sunday lunch, Keith & Ashley hosted us last Sabbath day. Dinner was delicious and dessert was the most amazing banoffee pie I've ever tasted. My enthusiatic critique caught Keith's attention and he spent the duration of dessert apologising for his inappropriate comment. It really was good pie though.
Another heavenly pudding was sampled on Thursday night at
Black Bo's with Leanne. It was chocolate and chilli brownie with vanilla and hazelnut ice cream. Oh, it was class. Catching up with Leanne is always good. Whereas I give advice by way of endless analogy, Leanne can put things immediately in perspective with one sentence; and it's never a patronising one either. I don't know why, but I'm always surprised when my friends say something that makes clear just how well they really know me. It was like this with Leanne on Thursday when she said: "I don't think you'll get any answers from it. In fact, I think it'll do you more harm than good. But I know you're still going to do it anyway." Bang on the money.
I had a half day at work on Friday and took myself off to the gym at 1pm. I feel compelled to go every day since the instructor assessed my body fat situation and looked like she was amazed I'd managed to squeeze out the door of my flat. Needless to say, I could hardly move for the first four hours on Saturday morning (this was made worse by another visit to the gym). Mog and I had lunch in the sunshine followed by a big ice cream and a little walk.
At 7pm we caught the train through to Glasgow to celebrate Katie's birthday. It was a most ambient affair with generous helpings of curry and an excellent crowd. Around Midnight, we headed, quite literally, round the corner to a club. We walked straight in - sans entrance fee - and proceeded to have a cracking time. A night in da club wouldn't be the same for Katie and I without at least one dance-off. This time the tune was 'Don't cha' by the Pussycat Dolls and my demure wrist-flick sent someone's bottle of beer raining across the dance floor. Bonus points.
We headed home around 3am and Mog and I headed straight to bed. I was truly knackered and my muscles were truly aching by this point. The rest of the party stayed up chatting until 6 or so which meant Mog and I were annoyingly bushy-tailed the next morning. A truly scrumptious brunch of French Toast, bacon and Maple syrup was scoffed before Mog and I caught the train home.
Good times.
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