What really happened on Hogmany

We caught the number 47 bus to Fisherman's Wharf. Public transport is free tonight so we keep our money and move on up the bus. An old black guy with a huge afro was reclining along the seats talking to himself and winking at me with his one good eye. It was total pandamonium - everyone talking over each other, reciting monologues and calling out Happy New Years!

I'd been banging on about Dungeness Crabs since Vegas so when we spotted the Crab House we knew it was for us. Table for two? Come right in. Excellent, Shinster was up for sampling some crab so we ordered enough for two and a bottle of red wine.

"Och!" Sinead exclaims, "Does it not come prepared for you? I don't know about this Lis. It looks like too much hard work."

Just at that the couple at the next table - whom Shin had reliably informed me via an earlier cross-table whisper were "brits' - asked us if we were Scottish. We get chatting about our trip, their trip, old films, politics. At some point, I mention the Poll Tax (c'mon Lis, it's Hogmany and you're in San Francisco lighten up!). I can't quite remember how it happened but we end up joining them at their table and order mojitos.

They met through Friends Reunited after having gone out at school, split up, spent 25 years married to other people. Tina tells me she found him on the site and he'd written "any old mates, get in touch." She thought "I've mated with him. I'll get in touch." And here they are - together - married - and getting loused on cocktails with us.

We all run out to the pier to watch the fireworks at midnight and then onto the Sheraton for margaritas. Whilst washing my hands in the restroom, I notice they have turned a funny colour. Very, very red. Like they've been scalded. My arms still normal so this proves there's something wrong. Then I see my face in the mirror - argh! Totally pink but with white eyelids - weird. My neck and chest are all pink and blotchy too. I head back to the table to start to tell Sinead but she interrupts with "Lisa, ha ha ha, check your face. Ha ha ha."

David, obviously feeling sorry and embarrassed for me, tries to change the subject but Shin's all ready with the camera. I do my best 'aggrieved Daily Record reader' pose and the moment is captured.

The next thing I remember is waiting for a taxi, then running up the street and clambering into a taxi. I wasn't feeling all that well (on account of the allergic reaction no doubt) so I'd gone into silent mode. David and Tina are in the taxi with us and Shin is leaning forward to tell the driver where to take us. We're staying at a hotel on Van Ness Avenue. I could hear Sinead shouting Von Ness, Loch Ness, Loch Ness Monster. Inside I'm laughing but can't risk it out loud. The streets of San Francisco are not kind to someone feeling rather delicate in the back of a taxi - especially not when the driver is intent on recreating scenes from Bullit.

I wake up the next morning feeling a little worse for wear but getting battered by the wind going over the Golden Gate Bridge on an open top bus is surprisingly helpful.

Sinead would probably mention something about my throwing up into a plastic party hat whilst crossing the road, but that would be artistic license.

Hob Nobbing in Hollywood

As the plane came into land at LAX, I could see the Hollywood Hills, the Pacific Ocean and the biggest, widest, busiest roads ever. In the taxi to the hotel I got all excited and kept pointing out the street signs to Sinead - Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood and Vine, etc.

Saw the Kodak Theatre (home to the Oscars), Grauman's Chinese theatre (with all the hand and footprints), Walk of Fame..

Sinead freaked me out in the middle of the night by sitting up in her bed and telling me that we're not alone on this holiday - there's someone else with us. Then she lay back down and went to sleep again. Totally freaked me out. Couldn't sleep . What a weirdo!

Took a tour of the celeb houses - tack heaven, cruised down Rodeo Drive, hung out on Venice beach with the Baywatch lifeguards, and took a trip to the Santa Monica Pier.

We spent most of the time crying with laughter - so much fun and hilarity. LA was ace. Although there's no central hub like other cities, each separate area has its own hub and the contrast between each just makes LA so much more appealing and diverse.

The Spa Experience

Back on the Strip by 11am, we were still in shock from our early morning trip to the Canyon. I went back to the room to get my stuff for the spa experience I'd booked the preious evening and headed off to Mandara at the Paris Hotel.

When I booked my appointment, the receptionist had asked whether I wanted a man or a woman to give me my massage. i kinda wanted a man but felt that I'd sound too much like a filthy perv if I said that so I casually said: 'whatever suits.'

Apart from being a filthy perv, the main reason I wanted a male therapist is because I thought he'd massage me harder. My back was in knots and I fet like I needed to be massaged to within an inch of my life. Of course, the danger is that being a man he may well have rubbed my shouders for a full two minutes before sighing loudly and saying 'right is that enough?' before slapping my back so hard I'd be forced to say 'Ok. Fine. Don't trouble yourself. And before youask the answer to your next question is no'.

Anyway, in the absence of a man I got the next best thing - Irina from the Eastern Block. 'What a handshake,' I thought to myself, 'this is going to be good'. It was. In fact, it was better than good. She spent 60 minutes trying to kill me and it really helped out the tension in my shoulders. 'How'sh presshure?' she asked from time to time. I was almost crying but I knew it was helping so I kept saying 'good'.

I felt like I was swaying from side to side and going in and out of conciousness but that was probably because oo hooshe was massaging my carotid artery at the time. Get this,she cracked my back twice. Woo hoo!

Next I had a facial with Elena. I'd like to point out that if anyone is in any way self-concious about their face or skin, never ever get a facial. I wasn't, but I am now! When asked, I told Elena my skin was dry and tight on account f the flying and stuff. "Anything else?" she asked. "Well, it does get congested and my pores block up." She started smugly nodding her head. "Ah yes. Your skin is dreadfully congested, I can see. Your pores are very deep and open, I can see. And you have severe wrinkles on your forehead, I can see." "OK, OK, I get it."

She told me the only hope was microdermabrasion - they give this to the people on extreme makeover - and even then it probably wouldn't be enough. Feeling hideous, I told her to do whatever was necessary so she scratched off 3 layers of skin and spent a full 30 minutes digging out blackheads from the corners of my nose with something sore and sharp.

Next she bandaged my face in a Japanese silk mask, which was a soothing relief after all the pain. When I finally saw the results, I was pretty impressed. It looked and felt like I had new skin. It was lighter, brighter and tighter. I put my cash-wear robe back on and went out to settle my bill. I'd rather not talk too much about that but Iwould like to point out that I resisted their efforts to sell me some ant-ageing face and body lotion - a steal at only $500!!!!

I felt like a new and immproved person as I strolled out the Casino and back to my hotel. Sinead had spent 10 quid going to a chav spa and seemed to have a great time. We swapped spa stories and Sinead said: "Wouldyoulike a sour fish?" So I said "OK."

It Gets Cold in the Desert

About an hour outside of Vegas, I was sitting on the plane's emergency chute storage box rotating my ankles and looking out of the window at the land below. I've never seen anything like it before. The landscape was just so different, I felt a million miles away from home. Result!When the plane landed I couldn't contain my giggles. The Las Vegas strip was in plain view and it looked mental. A pyramid, Eiffel Tower, New York skyline and a rollercoaster. Brilliant!

We caught a cab to our hotel and the driver pointed out some good eateries, bars and shopping malls. Bring it on. He also told us we could drink cocktails in the street and in cabs if we wanted to.

Our hotel, the Flamingo, is in a prime spot - just across from Caesar's Palace and the Bellagio. It's also hilariously kitsch. Faux marble and gold circa '62. We queued to check in and checked out the guests. People were dressed very casually - in jogging suits and pjamas - and the staff really weren't wearing much of anything. The women serving drinks and cigarettes were walking about in suit jackets, flesh coloured tights and stilettos. And nothing else! "You'd have to be really confident to walk about wearing that," Sinead offered. "I mean, they must know they're just wearing jackets. It's not like you'd ever leave the house, get to work and go 'oh look, I've just come out in my tights!"

We got to the front of the check-in queue where we met Michelle. "Would you like 2 queen beds or 1 king?" Michelle asked. "2 queens please," I said before turning to Sinead and saying "sorry". Michelle started laughing, but Sinead had been unprepared for my mischief and looked stunned. Michelle suddenly stopped laughing, obviously thinking poor Sinead had been unceremoniously dumped in reception. As we walked off to our room, Sinead said "you're a total bitch. Michelle thinks I'm some kind of bunny-boiling lesbo now." Mwa ha ha ha! Though I'm now holidaying in fear of retaliation from Sinead.

We opted to stay up and try to go the distance rather than falling asleep. Feeling refreshed after hot showers, we got dressed and went out for food. We immediately became aware of a number of things:

• It was absolutely baltic!!! like 6 degrees!!! Totally didn't pack for that and had to go to Gap to get a hoodie and a scarf. This also meant that I could pretty much only wear this for my whole time in Vegas. Nice!
• Nobody dresses up (no bad thing considering I'm too cold to take my hoodie off. "Hello Vegas, here are my nipples."). The slot machine junkies all wear velour jogging suits or pjamas. The hotels encourage this by selling them in the gift shops.
• The hotels are massive and it's impossible to find your way out. We regularly spend 20 plus minutes just trying to get out of the casino areas.
• We're so used to there being no smoking in public places that we take some sort of chemical reaction to it. Gambling and smoking seem to go together so we spend most of our time coughing and squinting our way through the casinos looking for an exit.

Anyway, we headed out to the Fashion Show Mall as we both fancied steak and I'd read about a good place called the Capital Grille (it's fancy cause they've added an 'e' on the end). We found it - eventually - though I could no longer feel my hands or feet. My medium-rare fillet mignon was perfection and a bottle of Frog's Leap zinfandel was smooth as you like. By coffee, we were both wilting and needed some sleep. "I can't walk back without a coat, hat, scarf and gloves," I said. "Me neither, let's get some clothes in the mall." It was 10pm and the shops we all still open. I love this place. I got a massively thick Hollister hoodie but we decided to get a cab back anyway.

We got up at 7am the next day and headed to the Bellagio for a buffet breakfast. We stocked up on loads of fresh fruit. I got a made-to-order omellette, followed by more fruit. Thoroughly stuffed, we set off. First stop was the Moroccan-themed mall where I bought a big man's scarf from Gap. I added this to the Hollister hoodie I was wearing. At least now I was able to go outside. Sinead saved me from foolishly buying a new camera by suggesting it was probably the batteries on their way out. So I bought new batteries instead. Whadda ya know, it now worked fine.

We went to New York New York - one of the hotels further south on the strip. It's hip and funky and it has a roller coaster. We paid our $15 and waited for the front seats. As the safety harness came down I said: "I've just realised it's five years since I've been on one of these. I feel older. I feel like I'm going to have to scream." "Don't be a woose Lis. No screaming OK?" As the car started its ascent I looked around. All I could see was mountains and desert - how surreal. Then came the massive drop. Suddenly Sinead started screaming and I couldn't stop laughing. There was a loop, a hang, a barrel-roll and a vortex. Excellent.

From there we progressed down the strip, going into all the hotels. We found it difficult to take it all in. Everything is huge and sumptuous and busy and noisy and totally fascinating. We realised that neither of us get the gambling thing. Maybe if I could play poker or black jack or something, but definitely not sitting at the slots constantly feeding coins in and hitting random buttons. Some people are literally plugged into the machines (they have little cards on extendable chains). I don't get the appeal but millions of people do so maybe I'm missing something.

We got half price tickets and went to see Legends in Concert. Free cocktail on arrival - quality. Ray Charles, The Supremes, Tom Jones and Elvis. The guy playing Elvis was totally hot and the guy playing Tom Jones was a sleaze and grossed me out, but not as much as a picutre of the real Tom Jones squatting in a pair of black speedos that they showed on a big screen while the guy was singing. I'm still having nightmares! Put it away Jones.

Get this, we took an early morning helicopter out to the Grand Canyon for a champagne breakfast. The most amazing experience of my life (and I've done a lot of drugs). We landed beside the Colorado River and took in the views. I can't even begin to do it justice. Awe-inspiring, spectacular, humbling, mad ...

Also went for a luxury spa at the Paris Hotel. Crazy experience which I will write up in more detail when I get a chance. Went to see the dancing fountains in front of the Bellagio. Totally beautiful. They did it to 'O Holy Night', nice and Christmassy.Went to the Celine Dion Shop. Hilarious. What a lot of shit. I can't believe that anyone buys any of that trash.

Loads more to tell you but in short it was totally surreal. I loved it. Not a fan of the gambling or casino stuff, but thought everything else was ace and had a blast.

It's only fun when it's good

I've not posted for a while, mostly because it would just be a rant about work and the idiots who insist on micro-managing to make it look like they're doing some. So I'm not going to go into it here. Besides, I've been quite busy so I must have other stuff to mention. Like ...

Overtime. Working pretty much every weekend between June and October. Any life outside of that? Well, no. I'm trying to stay afloat and fund a round the world trip. This means that not only do I need to make lots more money. I need to not spend anything either. Downside, absoltely no life. Upside, can't go out for dinner or drinks - so getting thinner.

Calling London

There's nothing like a part-time job to teach you the value of money. And after spending four weekends ringing Londoners to ask them what they think of Ken Livingstone, I've been able to say no to my breakfast smoothie at the gym. It's yummy, but it costs £3.50 and that's about 40 minutes of autodialling and being told where to stick my phone.

I've spoken to some lovely sane people (and been complimented on my accent which is always nice), but I've also had some real crackpots. One guy told me that he didn't have time to answer my questions, but then spent 10 minutes telling me how much he disliked Alex Salmond. An elderly lady was so keen to give me accurate information that she started going through her filing system to tell me exactly which funds she's currently invested in. One woman answered her phone whilst apparently having sex - "bit busy at the moment love, bit busy. Call me later love, bit later". And at least 10 people complained that I'd called them during their Sunday dinner - which begs the question: Why did they answer the phone?

The people who work there are a real mixed bunch too - old, young, space cadets, skint actors, underpaid creatives and socially-inept academics. On Saturday I was sitting next to Klyne McDougal. Klyne is 17 and tackles each call like a Nazi giving orders in English. She shouts the script in monotone verbatim. "GOOD. AFTERNOON. MY. NAME. IS. KLYNE. I'M. CALLING. TO. ASK. YOU. SOME. QUESTIONS. ABOUT. YOUR. ATTITUDES. TOWARDS. KEN. LIVINGSTONE." At first I was bemused as to why she had more people agreeing to speak to her than I did, but then I realised it was because she's terrifying. If I answered the phone to that, I'd be convinced that the owner of the voice also had me in the sights of their sniper rifle!

On Friday I drove over to Fife to interview my Grandad about his life. I decided a while back that I wanted to know more about my family history and document my grandparents' thoughts and experiences. Besides being interesting, I figure it will be useful in writing my autobiography and making future appearances on Parky.

Mog cooked me dinner on Saturday night before we headed out to the cinema to see Notes on a Scandal. Sinead had gone to see it the previous evening and texted me the following review: "Notes on a Scandal is excellent. Only comment is, Judi Dench has massive nostrils and the bath scene will give me nightmares. That arm - yuk!" As always, Sinead's no nonsense review was spot on.

My long overdue cinema-fest continued on Sunday evening with a group outing to see Babel. It, unfortunately, was not excellent. I could see what it was trying to do, but it fell far short of the mark. There were moments of genius, but ultimately I felt that Crash did it much, much better.

What's in the box?

The financial review continued last week, and I got a bit over-ambitious (which is by no means a rare thing for me). Having found a suitable extra-job (thankfully, it does not involve Scorpio Leisure), I piled on the hours and totalled it all up until it looked like I could pay off my mortgage in five years. However, I decided that I did want to live after all and scaled back considerably.

After having faced the prospect of being mortgage-free at the tender age of thirty (two), I now felt slightly depressed that I'd never be able to pull it off. I needed something to lift my spirits again - quickly. So I decided to buy a tortoise. How very retro.

A tortoise would be the perfect addition to my flat. I mulled it over. (I'm sure it would be quite independent and be happy doing its own thing, no hair means less fluff on my carpet, it could eat all the fruit and veg I never get round to (a live recycling machine if you will), it would casually wander through to join me as I sit writing, I'd come home from work and it'd be wandering around, it wouldn't make any noise. It would be very much like my wooden giraffe but somewhat more mobile - perfect.)

I discovered I could buy one online for a discounted price of £99. And free delivery - even better. I'd have to get it delivered to work (as I wouldn't want it being punted about the Royal Mail depot) but I quite liked the thought of everyone asking: "What's in the box?" And my response: "A tortoise." Whereupon I would indeed reveal a tortoise.

My mum was distinctly unimpressed. "You're not getting a tortoise," she said with an exasperated sigh. "I'm an adult, with my own property, you can't tell me I'm not getting one." "You're not getting a tortoise." "But I think it'd be really cool." "Why don't you wait until you have a big house, with a big garden." "When I have a big house with a big garden I'll get a horse. The whole point of the tortoise is its lack of need for space." "Well, we'll see - maybe Santa will bring you one." "Stop implying that you have any influence on this decision." It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I can regress to my four-year old self in certain conversations with my mum. A hideous image of me dressed up like Bette Davis in 'Whatever happened to Baby Jane?' flashed into my mind, and I made a mental note not to discuss my wackier notions with my parents.

I was explaining all this to some friends on Thursday night. I don't think any of them were really getting it. Sinead looked at me like she'd heard about as much as she could take and said: "I don't think you're in a fit state to have a pet ... hearing you talk about it being like a wooden thing that moves about."

"Don't worry," I said, "I'm not actually getting one. I found out that you need to buy a special tortoise table, a UV lamp and lots of 'natural' obstacles to place around your house in order to exercise the thing. That's a bit more complicated and messy than I'd originally thought. And also, I realised that it'd have to excrete all the leftover veg I fed it, so - again - more messy than I thought."

Hopefully though, my two jobs and my round-the-world trip will occupy me enough to keep me from ever actually buying livestock over the Internet.

Seasonal Accounting Defecit

January is the worst month and if I could, I would replace it with a better one. A month in Jamaica perhaps. But since I can't, I've developed my own method of coping with it. This includes booking a week's holiday in Santorini (with a moped and 5 days of scuba diving) and the planning of a 5 week round-the-world trip with stops in Las Vegas-San Francisco-The Cook Islands-New Zealand-Australia-and Kuala Lumpur. The only downside is that I'm about to start pushing drugs to school kids in order to fund this.

I drew a life map to help me discover/focus on what it is I want to achieve in the short-medium term. This is what I came up with:

• Fitter (happier) healthier - my gym sessions and seed consumption, I feel, is an excellent start.
• Get a grip on finances - desperately needed since I have no concept of budget - at all. I once queried with exasperation the price of my weekly grocery shop. The checkout assistant leaned forward and pointed out, in conspiratorial whisper, that I'd spent £16 on fruit juices. I now drink a lot more tap water and blend my own smoothies. Still, there's a long way to go.
• Travel - This is mainly why the point above is so important. I want to be able to take at least one fantastic and far-flung trip every year. This year OZ, next year South America.
• Writing - Must, must, must finish writing book. Fingers crossed this will lead to Jessica Fletcher-style life of glamour, wealth and intrigue. Though, hopefully, point 1 in this list will mean that the glamour is less mauve tapered trousers with elasticated waists, and more Nicole Fahri evening dresses. And that, facially, I won't resemble an over-stewed teabag. (Note to self: extra suncream whilst travelling.)
• Back to Uni - For a conversion course in something more useful like psychology. I've realised I quite enjoy talking to people and it would be good if I could do this for a living (if Jessica Fletcher thing doesn't come off right away). I figure if I become a psychological counsellor, I'd have a job I enjoy more and also a potentially fantastic source of information for my books.

So that's pretty much what the life map looks like. I think the financial stuff underpins it all though, so I'm currently looking at ways to boost my income. I underwent a financial review at my bank last week. I'd pre-empted the pain by doing a thorough review myself beforehand - scary stuff. At the bank, I was asked a series of questions about my aspirations. Luckily, I'd already mapped out my life and knew that "maintaining current lifestyle and travelling" was all I was really interested in. They asked how much I'd need for my holidays and I took a rough guess at about £3K - £4k. Needless to say, their little graphs came back with a shortfall in the short-, medium- and long-term. But this was obvious as all I'd done was tell them that I wanted to spend more money than I actually had - duh! So I need to get a pay rise of more than 5K (after tax) or work an extra 20 hours a week, every week, for a year. That's actually quite depressing, because the first one doesn't have a snowball's chance in Hades and the second one would involve more work. Hmm.

That said, I do feel a whole lot better for knowing what I want and what I have to do to achieve it. Which is about all there is to smile about given the utter shitness of this weather.

Ha Ha Happy New Year!

My first post of the new year comes courtesy of a giggle I had on Easter Road at 06:45 this morning. I was on my way to the gym and headed up past Iceland. A gigantic lorry was outside the shop, delivering an abundance of frozen ... stuff.

As anyone who owns a TV will know "...mums go to Iceland" is the theme of the store's branding. Perhaps less well known is its use of the little freezer symbol as an asterisk for related straplines.

The strapline emblazoned along this particular HGV was supposed to say:

"*because mums are heroes!"

I say "supposed" because some ingenious person(s) had completely obliterated the 'e' and the 'r', so that it now read:

"*because mums are h oes!"

Kerry Katona can't argue with that. And that's why I go to Sainsbury's.