Staying warm this winter

It's very cold in the flat tonight but I'm refusing to put on the fire or the radiators because it's still only September. Also, if I get into the habit of putting that fire on now, it'll be on all the time and, given the impending financial apocalypse, I really don't need my gas meter to start ringing up numbers with the speed and ferocity of an ambitious tele-sales executive.

Speaking of financial doom, I went out for cocktails on Friday night at The Scotsman and on Saturday night at Harvey Nick's. Lots of people were doing the same; you wouldn't think there was a credit crunch. It reminded me vaguely of those paintings depicting the Gilded Age of American excess just before the Great Depression kicked in. Uh-oh.

I have a date this week with someone I actually feel quite excited about. (I'm not looking for a relationship but since I'm not putting the fire on, I could really do with something to keep me warm.) I know, who'd have thought it? The last time I felt like this about someone I was 14, so it's a lot of fun. Even if it comes to nothing, it's good to know that I can still get excited. I was beginning to wonder. (p.s. 'Dave' and I have gone back to being 'just friends'. He accepted it with good grace and humour and said: "Yeah, you're much cooler when you're not going out with you." 'Dave', on the other hand, was exactly as cool as when he wasn't going out with me. I feel he has a lot to learn about women and I need to be more honest with myself.)

A colleague from work was telling me about a guy she's just started dating. He sounds hot and she's pretty excited. All excellent news. However, she was telling me about a dinner he'd cooked the night before. He made lobster. She was suspicious that he hadn't made it himself as cooking is 'neither a great interest nor skill' for him. "What does it matter whether he caught the lobster with his teeth or whether he scooped it out of a can, it's the thought that counts." "Oh I know, and it was really good. I just wish he'd be upfront if he didn't make it himself."

"Did you have a good night though?"
"Yeah, it was great. A really nice evening."
"Excellent."
"Except..."
"What?"
"Well, it was getting quite late so Steve offered to give me a lift home. And I said: 'Well, maybe I'll just stay'. He looked a bit startled and said: 'Erm... the thing is ... my mum's here'. I said: 'What? You're kidding!' I mean, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of his mum all night. 'Where is she?' 'Erm ... she's through in one of the bedrooms. She's visiting this weekend, but she didn't want to get in the way.' 'Right, well I'm not staying if your mum's here.' 'Yeah, I'll give you a lift.' So he gave me a lift home. I still don't think he cooked that lobster himself though. I wish he'd just say."
"Oh my God. Who cares about the fucking lobster? You're dating Norman Bates."

In other news:
1)I've got my race number and champion chip through for Sunday's big race. Very excited and nervous.
2)I received a text from Careth to say she and Mark are "expecting a 'bundle of joy' in March '09". Jen said she felt the '09 part was unnecessary unless Careth has turned into an elephant since we saw her last. I clearly missed the point as I thought their insurance policy was paying out.
3)Leanne is due to deliver baby number two any day now.
4)Sinead is loved-up and she and Saul are acting like Jonathan and Jennifer Hart. I don't just mean they're being all romantic and cosy, they're actually undertaking investigative assignments in and around Kirkcaldy.
5)My ex is getting married, again, (the fool) and wants to chat through some 'unresolved stuff' from our spectacularly short-lived attempt. I'm not doing it."

I'll let you know how I get on in the big race.

I beg to differ

Well ... it had to happen sooner or later and I'm surprised (and glad) it's taken as long as eight months. Work, over the last three weeks, has been turgid, frustrating, exasperating - and I feel like I've been fighting with everyone.

Issue 3 (henceforth to be known as 'the difficult third issue') was running smoothly. Then something that was supposed to happen on the 1st September (when the magazine was originally supposed to be out) was postponed until 5th October, which meant I couldn't mention it in the mag and had to find a new feature for two of the editions and another news story for the other two editions - this was the day before it was due to go to print. I managed it and breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, when all the copies of the magazine had been printed, dried and almost stitched, I received a phone call. "Lisa, what would be the cost/time implications of binning the magazine? We need to add a new double-page feature." I knew at that moment all bets were off and we'd be lucky to get a magazine out before the middle of October.

I was right. Twice this week, the head of the company, has read the article and given the constructive feedback that it is "pish". Meanwhile, I'm fielding calls from around the world from people demanding to know when the magazine will be out and why it is delayed. The first question, I can't answer and the second one I'm not allowed to answer.

The delayed magazine has implications for a massive world-wide project being done by another department, so they call me about 30 times a day asking for an update. I kept telling them I didn't have one, but when I did they'd be the first to know. But, when the second 'pish' comment came through yesterday I was told I wasn't allowed to tell them we still hadn't found a resolution. Brilliant.

Then, the cherry on the top of my cake, completely out of left-field one of my colleagues asked me if 'Dave' was 'the one'. I laughed and told her I didn't subscribe to the concept of 'the one'. She said: "Do you want him to father your children?" I said: "God no, I don't want anyone to do that." And she said: "Oh you will."

I was completely shocked. I knew she wasn't meaning to be horrible or anything so I didn't stab her with my fork. Instead, I just laughed and said: "Well maybe I will, and maybe I won't, but I'm not going to go around making decisions based on how I might or might not feel in future. Maybe I won't be looking after grandchildren, maybe I'll be scuba diving somewhere exotic, maybe I'll be dictating best-selling novels - maybe I'll be dictating them to my grandchildren. Who knows?"

Could you imagine how crap your life would be if you made all your decisions based on how you think you might feel when you're retired? I'd be miserable because I'd be pumping all my money into a pension, which would mean I'd look like shit, never go on holiday, never go out for dinner or drinks, and never get my red sports-car. I might even have married someone I didn't fancy just because they were sensible and dependable and put all their money in a pension too. I might have had children. I might spend my days fretting about the fact that I might get to retiring and wonder what my life's all been about - because it certainly wasn't about me.

Lisa, your writing is pish and your life is pitiful. Ha, ha, ha - I beg to differ.

Inbreeding

Last Wednesday I discovered why I am enjoying work so much.

Everyone in our team was on a half-day Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) course. I had confirmed, that which I already knew. I am an ENFP. A big one. It means I have lots of ideas that I become quite passionate about, but I don't really like data or details or deadlines. Apparently my preference for "not planning nor organising nor being pinned down" is off the scale. The head of the department looked at this and said: "that's interesting, considering the job you're doing. You must be very good at pretending to be something else." Too true.

Even better, my boss is an ENFP too. And, in our wider team, there are so many other ENFPs that our team type is also ENFP. It's like I've been welcomed home.

A common feature of people given those four letters is their hatred of routine. I hate routine. Although I have to admit I feel so much more in control when I adopt one. I find it difficult to choose my lunch every day. Even when I mix it up a bit and try the deli instead of the cafeteria or Tesco, I'm still paralysed at the point of having to choose something. It all feels so boring and same-y. On Tuesday, we went to the cafeteria and I said to Alice: "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is a baked potato. Maybe if I had more drama in my lunch I wouldn't have to inject so much ...

...into the rest of my life." "Maybe Lisa. Maybe."

Last weekend I spent practically the whole of Sunday on the computer researching my ancestry. This was after I'd roamed around Restalrig trying to find my car. I'd never been to Restalrig before so that was ... interesting. The other side of the stadium is like a whole different world.

Sunday had started when I got up and made breakfast for 'Dave' and I. Whilst we were arguing about long-life shopping bags, my blackberry buzzed and he called me a 'corporate whore'. It's all so romantic I'm fighting to contain my flowery prose. Anyway, he was heading home and I was going to buy something nice for my lunch to reward myself for all the family history research I was going to be doing.

When we got outside, I noticed that there were no cars in the street and realised there must be a football match on. My car wasn't there either. 'Dave' headed on home and I went to ask the policeman where my car was. "What's your registration?" "Er ... no." I replied shaking my head. I honestly don't know what my car registration is. Pathetic. But as I said at the start of this entry, I'm not so hot on the details.

"Can you phone your partner to get it?"
"It's OK, I've got a note of it in the flat. I'll just pop up and get it."
"Just give your partner a call, it'll be quicker."
"Er ... I don't have a 'partner'."
"Oh, right, was that not your partner? I thought ..."
"He's not my 'partner'."
"Oh. OK. He looked like he might be your partner."
"Well he's not. It's not that .... Anyway, it's my flat and it's my car and he doesn't know any more about it than I do. OK?"
"OK."
"I'll just go get that reg number for you."
"Well if you tell me what kind of car it is that'll do."

Honestly! He told me the car had been removed to Marionville Road and that would take about 15 minutes to walk to.

"I'll give you a lift if you like."
"No thanks. I'm fine with walking."
"But it's raining. I'll give you a wee lift round."
"No. It's fine. I could do with the exercise."

After picking up my car and my lunch, I set about the family history research. My paternal grandfather's mum's side of the family had been causing me problems. I'd located her death certificate and got her parents' names from that, but I couldn't find their marriage certificate. They've recently opened up a whole new set of records so I was able to get my great-grandparents' wedding certificate for 1932. This gave the same names for my great-great grandparents, but didn't give their wedding date ... because they never got married. (Oooh! How unconventional. I love it. However, that said, marriage certificates do make family history research much easier. So I now have a second pro for marriage. The first being that a well-crafted gift and guest list can furnish your entire flat. Still, that's 2 pros against 304 cons.) Apparently, my great-great grandad later committed suicide by sticking his head in a gas oven, but I've yet to find anything to support this. Maybe he did get married after all.

My mum's dad's side of the family is a headache too. They are all called James and Christina Thomson. All of them. So you get a guy called James Thomson marrying a woman called Christina Thomson (yes, same surname) and his parents are listed on his wedding certificate as James Thomson and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson), and her parents are listed as James and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson). Arrrggghhh! I phoned my mum to tell her that I've finally found an explanation for her squint pinky fingers. Disturbing. My great-great-great-great grandad on this side died of 'softening of the brain caused by sunstroke'. In Buckhaven?

Anyway, that's enough for now. I'll tell you about my embarrassing toe cleavage problems (no doubt due to the horrific levels of inbreeding amongst my ancestors) next time.

When beauty regimens go bad

Two months ago this guy came round to mine. Don't get too excited, I did know him - we'd been out a few times (a decent number of times). Let's call him Dave. I did. It's not his name and he did get quite annoyed, but names have never been my strong point.

Anyway, we had a lovely evening. He cooked. We skipped dessert. We headed through to the bedroom (insert 80s synth and saxophone music here). We were standing by the bed, I was facing 'Dave'. I reached down behind me and pulled back the duvet. My bedspread is red (this isn't just girly detail by the way, it's an important factor). Suddenly, Dave stopped kissing me. I noticed his expression had changed.

"What is it?" I asked.
He moved his head forward to indicate in the direction of the bed. "Eh, what's that?"
I froze. Even though I knew there was nothing weird or dodgy in my bed, I was reluctant to turn around. Eventually I did and I was totally shocked by what I saw.

There were numerous 'white patches' on my red fitted sheet. 'Oh my God, what the hell is that' I silently floundered. "Erm ... eh ... it's not what it looks like," I finally managed.

"Well, that is what it looks like."
"Well, it's not. It's definitely not. I mean I haven't. And if I had, I would have washed the sheets."
"Well, what is it then?"

My mind ticked over furiously. I couldn't think what it might be. C'mon, c'mon, what is it. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally clicked into place.

"Aha," I ventured victoriously. I turned back to face Dave with a proud smile. "It's heel cream!" I remembered that I'd been putting it on my heels every night. You're supposed to put socks on after you've applied it, but I loathe wearing socks in bed so I'd opted to dangle my feet over the edge until it had been absorbed. Obviously, I hadn't waited long enough and some of it had been absorbed by my sheets.

"Heel cream? What the fuck is heel cream?"
"It's cream, for putting on your heels so they're all silky and smooth in the summer."

Dave didn't look convinced.

"Look! I'll show you." I pulled open the top drawer on my bedside table and pulled out the heel cream. "See?" I said rattling the box.

He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at my open drawer. I looked down.

Next to the heel cream were three boxes of condoms.

"There was a three for two offer on at Boots," I offered sheepishly.

He burst out laughing and we lay down on the bed.

"I'm definitely not going to have to pay you after this am I?"

We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep.