Definitely not cool!

Ok, so, technically, I didn't buy a flat. Technically, they accepted my offer. Technically, they then reneged on the agreed offer in the hope that someone would come along and pay more. If I wanted to pay out an extra 5k or however much it is they want, I'd buy a better flat. I would need to put that 5k towards installing the fitted wardrobes that the flat does not have and making other improvements. Besides, my solicitor wouldn't even let me offer more because it is simply NOT WORTH IT!

So technically, I'm back to square one; only more pissed off and wary of this whole dodgy game. Yet another aspect of life about which I can say this. I think I'd describe it as ... hmmmm ... annoying! On the plus side, they did inform me before my surveyor went round this morning which means that I have avoided paying out money. If I had paid out money in this process, the next owner would most definitely be shelling out for new windows as well as fitted wardrobes.

Silver lining no. 1: I just got a pay increase. It was just a little one, but then I've never had a big one before (except when moving to this job) and I didn't even have to ask for it.

Silver lining no. 2: My friends are the best! No, really! These are the texts I have received this morning on the back of my news:

"Oh no! Such a shame. You will get somewhere even better! x"

"Greedy bint ... all will be well. x"

"It is a verbal agreement - can she do that? Bitch!"

"Oh for fuck's sake. Does no one have any decency anymore? Maybe u should call Phil and Kirstie?"

And, on the pay rise front:

"What did you do to deserve that, other than being absolutely brilliant that is? Love you. x"

The best part is, their personalities and attitudes are so brilliantly conveyed in these tiny messages. Love it.

Oh happier day!

Cool ...

... I just bought a flat. Technically, I haven't actually bought it. Technically, I made an offer and they accepted it and now my solicitor is about to start charging me for the work she's doing. It's all kind of exciting and a little bit scary, but mostly it's just cool.

I'm looking forward to moving in and making it my own. Oh yeah, and I've already drawn designs of the fitted wardrobes I'd like to have built in the bedroom. (Not surprisingly, they have little individual cubby-holes for all my shoes.)

Oh happy day!

Gillen's the name ...

... good old-fashioned hilarity's the game.

My busiest and most successful week yet in my new job meant I was on a bit of a high as I caught the 1600 to Liverpool (via York) to spend the weekend with Jennifer.

Our group presentation (the Big Brother spoof) at the departmental away day was extremely well-received, my knowledge of Bond films meant my group got all the answers to the energiser quiz, and my personal presentation on a Rough Guide for Chavs in Edinburgh went down a storm in the afternoon. In addition, the real work moved along at pace and I feel like I'm really starting to understand things. Nice one.

The social side of life was better yet with Sam and I enjoying a Bon Voyage meal at the Grain Store on Monday night, Mog and I enjoying an 'I need a rant' meal at the King's Wark on Wednesday night, and the dizzying combination of after-work drinks and the Tiny Monkey gig on Thursday. Thoroughly knackered, I stayed just long enough to applaud Keith and his fellow monkeys at the end of their set. Reading about the trials and tribulations of TM on Keith's blog over the past few months meant I was more nervous for them than I ever needed to be - they did indeed rock! Go the Monkey!

Friday at work was a bit of a joke as I turned up at 10am, went for lunch at 11.45, returned at 2.15pm and got a taxi to the station at 3.30. Various comments about allergies to pieces of office equipment, and work in general, ensued.

It took 4.5 hours to get to Lime Street but the wait was well worth it. A woman in an outrageously short, sparse and tacky outfit asked me a question as I was walking along the platform. I told Jen about it and she replied: "Oh yes, the fetching green number. I swear, until I moved here last month, I didn't realise that Atomic Kitten were actually classy and sophisticated." Oh how I've missed my friend.

Jennifer had a shocking cough. I'd always put her down as someone who's bite was every bit as bad, and probably worse, than her bark, alas, on this occasion she was reduced to a cliche. We enjoyed a Thai takeaway and some wine as we caught up on the immediate stuff. Jen showed me to my room, apologising for the fact that this was the only room the owners had neglected to decorate. The next morning after a fantastically comfortable night's sleep, I told Jennifer that the only thing the room was missing was a kitsch picture of the Virgin Mary above the bed. There was an unused picture hook in the correct place and I suspect this may have been the one item the owners took with them. I'm not sure if anyone else gets what I mean here, but some rooms just feel so Catholic. This was kind of how I imagine a priest's bedroom might look, only with Stargazer lilies for decoration as opposed to young boys.

Saturday afternoon was spent at the Docklands where Richard and Judy used to film, and the giant floating weather map was moored. Sadly both Richard and the oversized wobbling items have moved on. The former Miss Gillen and I enjoyed the offerings of the Tate while she told me about her lukewarm relationship with her married name. She is now Mrs Sloan, but doesn't like having to say it and is pretty convinced that when she booked a table for an upcoming meal the woman recorded her name as 'Slod'. Unfortunate.

Jen and I share a contempt for the pretentious wankfest that is modern art, but I have to admit the upper two floors of modern shite were an absolute Godsend after enduring the Turner exhibit on the ground floor. Jen overheard a couple discussing the merits of one of Turner's paintings: "The light in this painting is exceptional," said the woman. "Yes," agreed the man, "it has an almost ethereal quality wouldn't you say?". Shite! In my opinion, Turner and Constable are pretty much the same in that their paintings are dull, dreary, depressing and generally quite pish. Don't get me wrong, the art upstairs was 90% pish too, it's just that most people will actually admit it's pish while they seem to have to pretend that Turner and Constable are excellent examples of arty wonderfulness.

An early dinner of top notch tapas was thoroughly enjoyed before we headed off to Oddbins to stock up for an evening in front of the TV. As we drove back to Jen's, I noticed that the names of shops and bars in Liverpool were appallingly bad and difficult to fathom. There was McHale's Irish American Bar complete with a smog-rotted replica Statue of Liberty. Jen asked what made it Irish-American as opposed to just Irish. I had no answer other than perhaps they put pretzels rather than peanuts on the bar. There was also a shop called Kut-A-Bill. I have no idea what service it offered but did deduce that whatever it was, it was offered cheaply. Just in case the lame play on words didn't impress the idea of cheapness strongly enough, they opted to spell cut with a 'K'. Klassy. There was also some construction work going on under the banner of 'considerate construction'. Jen and I pondered what was so considerate about it and came up with the idea that perhaps the builders wore their belts tightly enough to keep their jeans from sliding half way down their arses.

Copious amounts of wine meant that our witticisms on Saturday night TV came thick and fast. Of course, with Celebrity Stars in their Eyes featuring Jade Goody and Charlene Tilton we couldn't fail.

On Sunday Jen showed me some pictures she and Derek had taken whilst living in Africa over the last couple of years. The scenery was truly stunning and the Rhinos were up-close and massive. A leisurely stroll through Sefton Park with some general musing and pondering of life was the perfect end to a much anticipated and enjoyable weekend.

It took 4.5 hours to get home on the train, but some quality time with a much admired and cherished friend was well worth travelling for.

Ice, ice, maybe

Emerging from my Decleor facial around 10 blackheads lighter, I feel my efforts on the ice should have been more aerodynamic. Alas, I was in fact pish.

Mog and I went along to Murrayfield to hook up with Katie/Cate and her friend Helen for a spot of ice skating. I hadn't been skating since I was 13 and a horrible boy called Scott followed me into the girls' toilets to try to persuade me to take my jeans off. Just in case you're thinking he might have actually been a nice boy who was really trying to aid me with any basic toilet skills I may have been lacking, his motives really weren't that altruistic. Anyway, it soooo didn't happen for him.

Miss Mog and I checked in our shoes and were duly given the familiar Commie-issue boots avec blade. While the murky blue colour was no surprise, I had forgotten just how heavy those things were. It was akin to having a couple of 1970's Volvos wrapped round your feet, in that they were that shade of blue, ridiculously heavy, inexcusably ugly and there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hades that you could make anything resembling a turn sans power steering.

Mog had informed me that she was the 'best in class' and was rather shocked upon discovering that she was actually a bit crap at it now. Mog moved stiffly and tentatively; like someone regaining the use of their legs after many years in traction. "Fuck!" she exclaimed, "I can't believe how pish I am at this."

I skated around for a couple of laps; far too fast, I might add, given my obvious lack of skill. I knocked over two men (neither good-looking enough to warrant further discussion here), three couples-in-love (they deserved it!) and kept getting stuck behind very small children and having to touch them so they'd move out of the way. The previous two confessions rendered me the most annoying person on the ice, while the latter just made me look like some sad, would-be kiddy-snatcher.

My feet started to ache after 25 minutes and two minutes after that I realised I had a whopping blister on each foot. I limped off to sit in the stand with the sick and the housebound and was somewhat pleased when Mog joined me moments later. I say 'somewhat' because it was actually very amusing watching the look of concentration and dismay on her face as she jerked her way round the rink.

We decided we would be as well subjecting ourselves to the full experience and opted next for slush-puppies in the cafe. It was one of those eateries which serves food and drink in primary colours only. For anyone who has not had a slush-puppy in years, I'd like to point out that they still lose their flavour a quarter of the way in and, our parents were right, they are a COMPLETE WASTE OF MONEY!

We queued to get our shoes back and my socks got wet in the changeover. Afterwards, Mog and I decided to go to the travel agents and look into booking our luxury spa holiday in the Far East. Somehow, I think that's more our style.

Lights, camera, exfoliation

The job continues to go well and I've been tasked with a couple of meaty and interesting projects. After scripting and producing my team's take on Big Brother for the departmental away day, we shot the video last Tuesday night after work. Everybody got into the spirit of things and brought along great props - wine bottles, sunglasses, even a little silver suitcase. Yvonne shared her husband's reaction when she had told him she'd be working late on Tuesday night as she picked up her overnight bag complete with dressing gown stuffed in. My colleague Lisa was playing Davina and totally blew us away. She ad-libed her way through the interviews like a true pro and really brought the proceedings to life. We used the lift doors to portray us leaving the big brother house and even had the papparazzi waiting - complete with flashing digital cameras.

The real work comes in with overhauling my department's pages on the company website and re-thinking a particular suite of literature that isn't being used to full effect. Time will tell whether this goes as well as my film production talents.

I thought my week was off to a bad start when I rushed up to donate blood and was told that my flow was "a bit slow today," but that they were sure they'd "be able to do something with it." As the guy took the needle out of my arm and lifted up the bag of blood I'd offered, I was embarrassed to see that there was almost nothing there. I apologised for my crapness and the guy told me it was a simple case of self-preservation and not to bother stressing myself. But still, I thought it was a worrying sign. On Monday night I cooked dinner for my aunt and uncle in their flat. It was a really good night and I enjoyed chatting to them. It's nice to be able to have a friendship like that with family members. On Wednesday night, I was off to Sygn again for food and drinks with Mog and Debs. It was great catching up with Debs because I hadn't seen her since well before Christmas. On Thursday, my mum took me out for dinner before we went off to view some flats. She really liked the one I like, so it's just a question of whether I have enough money to do anything about it.

By Friday, I was knackered so it was a night of quiet bliss. I treated myself to an Indian takeaway, scoffed it and immediately regretted so when I discovered my ability to move had been seriously impaired. I swear that stuff expands and swells as soon as it makes contact with my stomach. Since I clearly wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, I read this week's Economist until I fell asleep. There was an interesting article on the lack of burial space in Britain (see previous entry).

Something fantastic happened while I was having my Decleor facial on Saturday morning. As well as the darkened room, soothing music and pleasing aromatherapy oils, the beauty therapist actually tackled my blackheads. It was the ultimate indulgence; lying there in a blissful state of utter relaxation and having someone attend to the needs of my individual pores.

Hopefully this rejuvenating experience will give my tired body the kick-start it needs to get through next week. If not, I don't think I'll be donating much blood, sweat or tears anytime soon.

No room to bury-all

Britain is in the midst of a serious corpse crisis!

According to this week's Economist, a great many of our cemeteries are officially full-up. Part of the problem is that, because "local authorities are not obliged to provide burial space, nobody knows how many cemeteries Britain has, opened or closed". Apparently, undertakers are having to travel further afield to bury their customers, and local authorities charge them up to four times more for burying non-residents. The average burial now costs a staggering £3,307. Cremation, which actually disposes of 72% of Britons, is cheaper, but not enough people want it. Since almost 3/4 of the population is opting for cremation and there is still a struggle for burial space, I guess it is a pretty serious problem.

Maybe we can take a car pooling or illegal immigrants approach and get more people squashed in together; 36-feet under! To popularise the idea, we can run adverts encouraging grieving relatives to partner up their beloved dead. I see a nice range of glossy full-page bleeds reading: "Go on. Like they're even going to know." To avoid the (forever unrealised) unpleasantness of being buried in beside a rubbish family, we can encourage 'arranged burials' where the families spend years taking tea together and analysing each other's business and bank accounts.

To cap it all, there could be a radio jingle to the theme from Rawhide: "Pile 'em up, stick 'em down, squish 'em in, nice and tight, leave 'em low, gotta go, spend the cash that's my right. Squish 'em in - bon-a-fide (jazz hands finish).

Alternative suggestions welcomed.

Adventures in babysitting (part 2)

I really must be getting more responsible in my old age; this is the second time in as many weeks that someone has entrusted their kids to me. Mog and I babysat for Moranna's two boys who were so lovely they actually took themselves off to bed at 9pm. At first I was really chuffed that they were so well behaved, but then I started to worry that it was because I was so boring. I kept checking with Mog and saying: "Do you think they had a good time though?". Mog pointed out that it wasn't a date and maybe I should just shut up. So I did.

Week two in the new job vastly improved upon the first. I definitely feel like I'm getting to grips with the various systems and processes. My creative streak was invited out to play when my team started discussing our presentation for the department away day. After brainstorming some (very good) ideas, one of my colleagues told me I was born to do this job. "Yes", I replied, "if there was a job entitled 'Director of Fannying-about' it would be mine." I'm even starting to enjoy the whole 'finance' aspect of my job and was thoroughly engrossed in a presentation on inheritance tax and trust funds on Friday. I can't believe I just shared that with you - how sad am I?

On Tuesday night I went to a 'fashion event' at John Lewis. It was a seasonal update from the same woman who told me my hair colour was 'wrong'. I enjoyed a preview of the latest fashions for the season, champagne (in a plastic cup, because I was late) and an hour to peruse the shop floor. Although I had promised myself I wouldn't buy anything - I came home with 2 (adorable) skirts and one very pretty top. I felt guilty about blowing my monthly budget until half-way through my second G&T with Moranna afterwards.

Hooked up with Sinead on Friday night for more tapas. She had a conference over in Edinburgh and attended in the stead of one the local councillors. Hilariously, when she called to explain this to the conference organisers they assumed she was a councillor herself so she had to go out and buy a cheap shiny suit and some big bling jewellery to carry off the duplicity.

On Saturday morning my hair was dyed darker and, therefore, closer to my natural colour in an attempt to cut my 6 weekly maintenance costs. It got the thumbs up from both Sinead and Mog. On Sunday, I went to look at some flats and saw one that I really like. Fingers crossed, it gets a seal of approval from the surveyor.

Irritatingly, one of my former colleagues called to say that the dodgy guy from 'Networking?' (see below) had called to ask for my new contact details. They didn't pass them on but he said he'd "track me down himself." Every night, when I leave work, I have a look around; half expecting him to be lurking suspiciously in a Milk Tray man gone to seed kind of way.

New job, new jargon

It is official. I am a number. 698 to be precise.

Week one of the new job is now firmly tucked under my belt, along with the quality offerings of the cafeteria (in a somewhat less firm, tummy-jiggling way). On Tuesday afternoon I almost swan-dived from the third floor window from the sheer boredom of the induction, but by Wednesday I was getting down to some work and got back to chewing my pen rather than my proximal phalanx.

I must say, coming from a company employing 5 people to one that employs almost everyone in Edinburgh is something of a culture shock. I feel like I'm back at school - although this is most likely exacerbated by the fact that the cafeteria has big long tables and I've been washing down my lunch with a carton of milk. I actually felt 'shy' (curb your laughter please, it does happen to me occasionally) for the first couple of days.

I have to wear a security pass (with a photo that makes my hair look positively yellow and my complexion like that of a long-term heroin addict. The photo does, however, boast a particularly nice smile that detracts from the other stuff. Thank goodness for small mercies). I have to clock in and out at lunchtimes and use my security pass to pay for lunch. The first thing I did on day one was to check the intranet to find out what and where I get discount. It turns out I am now entitled to 20% off at my hairdresser - bonus.

All my colleagues are very, very nice and pretty darn funny. As of yet, no one has revealed themselves to be a nutter. They do all talk in acronyms though and I'm finding that a bit baffling. I imagine it's not too dissimilar to being in government during the FDR administration. Apart from that, I can't believe how much easier this job is than my last one and the fact that I'm being paid so much more for doing it - big fat bonus.

Last Saturday night was good fun (for the most part). Sam cooked dinner at his flat for me, Ali G, Ali Al-J, Helen, Antonio and Anabel. He made a top-notch cassoulet, and poached pears for dessert. The banter was very interesting and I felt somewhat overwhelmed by the intellectual content. I responded (as I always do in such situations) by drinking copious amounts of red wine. When the red wine ran out, I moved onto whisky - putting a serious dent in Sam's collection of malts. Never a good move. Flashbacks on Sunday lead me to believe I got so pished I attempted to "hold court" (cringe, cringe) and moved from topic to topic with the speed of a gazelle and the clarity of John Prescott. At 4:30 am I was challenging Ali G to a "whisky-downing" contest. Thankfully, Sam stopped me and put me to bed.

I woke up some four hours later in a thoroughly deep state of remorse (oh yeah, and sick as a dog). The post-binge self-loathing and guilt kicked in. Sam received a text about me being "an unholy mess of a girl(???)", while Mog got one that simply said: "I am dead. Charity donations to AA in lieu of flowers". By 6pm that evening, things were definitely better. Sam and I went to the Cameo to see Capote. It was excellent - definitely one of the best films I've seen in the last few years.

On Monday night, after my first day of work, I met up with Mog, Moranna, Laura and Jo for some eats and drinks at Sygn. Deb couldn't make it as her one good lung was playing up, which was a real pity cause I haven't seen her for ages. On Tuesday, I had my first stint of babysitting for Ella. Leanne and Craig took themselves out for a meal and a couple of drinks. Ella didn't make a peep all night (she is truly the best baby ever!) and I told Leanne this when she called at 11pm to ask for a wee bit longer. "She is still alive though, right?" she asked. I hadn't checked on her until this point and did so when I got off the phone. The bedroom was really dark and I couldn't see her cot so it took me quite a while to locate her. When I did she was making little baby breathing sounds (so sweet) so I went back to watching TV.

Cartons of milk, feelings of shyness and evenings spent babysitting - I do indeed feel like a 14 year old again. Next thing you know I'll be sporting an alice band.