I must admit, I was really pleased with my efforts training for my 10K over the tailend of the summer. However, I realise that doing this during the winter months is a whole different challenge. So, I decided to sign up for circuit training with the army - that'll motivate me.
I do it every Tuesday and Thursday evening. I get in from work at about 18:30, eat a spoonful of peanut butter, drink some water, and pull on my running gear. I run up to the park (it takes around 10 and half minutes) and then we run, crawl and exercise aorund in the mud for an hour, before I run home again (it takes about 12 minutes on the way back).
It's exhausting.
We get a coloured bib to wear (like back in my netball days) and we do a variety of exercises. I've learned a lot. For instance, I now know there a lots of different kinds of press-ups (regular, diamond, marine, seal, can-can, etc) and that I can't do any of them.
One night the instructor kept shouting "grenade", which meant we had to hit the deck and crawl like a commando. I was filthy. I had mud all over my face, in my hair and when I got home and peeled off my running tights - I had three distinctive stripes down the outside of either leg. Good branding. 'Date-guy' was coming round for dinner that night and arrived just before I got back. He got out of his car and genuinely thought I'd been in an accident. He ended up doing the cooking while I scrubbed the mud off myself. After dinner, I fell asleep almost immediately and he had to wake me up and tell me to go through to bed. The next morning he told me it had been a wonderful evening. I smiled and said "really?" and then I realised he was being sarcastic.
I think the worst exercise I've done is one where we had to lie down, roll over and jump up ... 30 times. I swear, by about half way through I didn't know where I was and was really just rolling in the mud and flopping about like a fish on the beach.
"Number 48, what are you doing?" "Number 48?" "Number 48!"
(Oh shit, I think that's me) "Erm ..."
"Are you actually having an epileptic fit?"
"Maybe."
Sometimes they tell us to run into the copse, find a branch and do 20 pull-ups. I told my mum this and she said "Oh, did you manage to find a branch that could hold you?". Funny.
It's tough and I dread going but it's fine when I get there. And, most importantly, I notice a difference in my fitness levels. So, I'm hoping it pays off when I do my runs next year.
Fingers crossed.
Showing posts with label embarrassment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label embarrassment. Show all posts
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Red and dangerous
The date was good. He phoned me two hours before we were due to meet for dinner. "I bet you're getting ready." "No I'm not. I'm quite chilled about these things. Probably won't start getting ready for another hour yet." "Uh huh."
Of course I was getting ready. I had an active charcoal face mask on as we were speaking.
"Are you nervous?" I decided to be honest. "A little bit." "Why?" "Well, I'm worried my mouth won't work." "Lisa, from what I've seen so far, that's not even a remote possibility." The cheek of him. I liked it. I decided to be more honest. "Hey, I was also thinking how funny it would be if I turned up for dinner dressed as a man from the 1920s. You know, with a tux, slicked back hair and a monocle." "hahaha. Now that would be hilarious." Oooh. I like him even more.
We had tapas and some fab red wine. My mouth worked fine. I hadn't noticed before, but he has lovely teeth. I like nice teeth. After dinner, we went to Bramble and laid down on this cushioned bed. He introduced me to a special kind of gin. I noticed he had nice shoes. We stayed out until 2am. He walked me home. I said: "I would invite you in, but I'm not a whore". He laughed and said: "We should definitely do this again."
The 10K was good. I'd been struggling to sleep on account of it all week and then Saturday morning arrived. I packed my bag and drove over to Fife. Joleen picked me up and we headed to Inverness. We checked into the hotel and headed into town for some dinner - preferably a pasta overload.
Inverness, however, was full to bursting with runners - and they all wanted a pasta overload. Jo and I walked round the town 3 times trying to find an Italian place that had space. We asked a man for directions and he was very keen to take us there himself - but that was probably because Jo tripped when she went over to speak to him and almost head-butted him in the 'nads. We tried everywhere else, before giving up and joining the queue at Bella Italia.
I didn't sleep at all that night. I was ridiculously nervous about the race, which is nuts. I wasn't running for anybody but myself. I wasn't even being sponsored. I didn't have to do it. At 6am my alarm went off.
Jo and the others were all doing the 5K and set off for the start about 2 hours before I was due to leave. At 0930, I arrived at the Royal Academy and we all had to follow these pipers about a kilometre to the start point. It was totally surreal. I kept thinking 'people are weird and they do weird things'. The race started in the middle of a new build housing scheme, which must have been joyous for those living there. It took about two minutes to reach the starting line after the gun had gone. As I crossed the line, I started my watch and my Ipod. I was off.
The first part of the race was through the woods and it was very narrow. I had to weave in and out, running through ditches to get passed the other, slower, runners. By 4K, we were on the road. At 5K I checked my watch - 28 minutes. Pretty good. I suddenly felt comfortable. I knew I was going to make it. I just wanted to try and do it in under an hour. But I know nothing about pace. And soon after, I noticed that I was no longer passing anyone. They were all passing me. Well, apart from the ones who were stopping - right in front of me, arrgghh!
About 7KMTRS in, I was running alongside two girls in wedding dresses. They clearly weren't taking this seriously so I didn't want to be beaten by them. Then I remembered that I was dressed as a reject from FAME (red training bib emblazoned with my surname, and a red headband) and that people probably thought I was joking around too.
At 9KMTRS I got both excited and relieved. I checked my watch - 54 mins. I might just make it.
But, I swear, that last kilometre went on forever. I didn't think it was ever going to end. My thighs and my ass were really sore. And it was uphill. I got into the stadium and onto the track. I could see the finish line. Thank fuck. Then, hilariously (but somewhat annoyingly given that I struggled so much in that last kilometre) I sprinted like a mad woman and overtook pretty much everyone who was on the track. I didn't know I could get my legs that high. I crossed the line - 1:03. Not my target, but not too bad given that 8 weeks previously I barely made it from the car park to the swan pond.
Jo had snapped some pics of me on the track. Some of the funniest things I have ever seen. I look like a cross between Carl Lewis (all spread-fingered and mecahnical) and Rambo (red and dangerous). Oh yeah, and not in any way attractive.
So, next time, I will do it in under an hour.
Of course I was getting ready. I had an active charcoal face mask on as we were speaking.
"Are you nervous?" I decided to be honest. "A little bit." "Why?" "Well, I'm worried my mouth won't work." "Lisa, from what I've seen so far, that's not even a remote possibility." The cheek of him. I liked it. I decided to be more honest. "Hey, I was also thinking how funny it would be if I turned up for dinner dressed as a man from the 1920s. You know, with a tux, slicked back hair and a monocle." "hahaha. Now that would be hilarious." Oooh. I like him even more.
We had tapas and some fab red wine. My mouth worked fine. I hadn't noticed before, but he has lovely teeth. I like nice teeth. After dinner, we went to Bramble and laid down on this cushioned bed. He introduced me to a special kind of gin. I noticed he had nice shoes. We stayed out until 2am. He walked me home. I said: "I would invite you in, but I'm not a whore". He laughed and said: "We should definitely do this again."
The 10K was good. I'd been struggling to sleep on account of it all week and then Saturday morning arrived. I packed my bag and drove over to Fife. Joleen picked me up and we headed to Inverness. We checked into the hotel and headed into town for some dinner - preferably a pasta overload.
Inverness, however, was full to bursting with runners - and they all wanted a pasta overload. Jo and I walked round the town 3 times trying to find an Italian place that had space. We asked a man for directions and he was very keen to take us there himself - but that was probably because Jo tripped when she went over to speak to him and almost head-butted him in the 'nads. We tried everywhere else, before giving up and joining the queue at Bella Italia.
I didn't sleep at all that night. I was ridiculously nervous about the race, which is nuts. I wasn't running for anybody but myself. I wasn't even being sponsored. I didn't have to do it. At 6am my alarm went off.
Jo and the others were all doing the 5K and set off for the start about 2 hours before I was due to leave. At 0930, I arrived at the Royal Academy and we all had to follow these pipers about a kilometre to the start point. It was totally surreal. I kept thinking 'people are weird and they do weird things'. The race started in the middle of a new build housing scheme, which must have been joyous for those living there. It took about two minutes to reach the starting line after the gun had gone. As I crossed the line, I started my watch and my Ipod. I was off.
The first part of the race was through the woods and it was very narrow. I had to weave in and out, running through ditches to get passed the other, slower, runners. By 4K, we were on the road. At 5K I checked my watch - 28 minutes. Pretty good. I suddenly felt comfortable. I knew I was going to make it. I just wanted to try and do it in under an hour. But I know nothing about pace. And soon after, I noticed that I was no longer passing anyone. They were all passing me. Well, apart from the ones who were stopping - right in front of me, arrgghh!
About 7KMTRS in, I was running alongside two girls in wedding dresses. They clearly weren't taking this seriously so I didn't want to be beaten by them. Then I remembered that I was dressed as a reject from FAME (red training bib emblazoned with my surname, and a red headband) and that people probably thought I was joking around too.
At 9KMTRS I got both excited and relieved. I checked my watch - 54 mins. I might just make it.
But, I swear, that last kilometre went on forever. I didn't think it was ever going to end. My thighs and my ass were really sore. And it was uphill. I got into the stadium and onto the track. I could see the finish line. Thank fuck. Then, hilariously (but somewhat annoyingly given that I struggled so much in that last kilometre) I sprinted like a mad woman and overtook pretty much everyone who was on the track. I didn't know I could get my legs that high. I crossed the line - 1:03. Not my target, but not too bad given that 8 weeks previously I barely made it from the car park to the swan pond.
Jo had snapped some pics of me on the track. Some of the funniest things I have ever seen. I look like a cross between Carl Lewis (all spread-fingered and mecahnical) and Rambo (red and dangerous). Oh yeah, and not in any way attractive.
So, next time, I will do it in under an hour.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
What's that?
Leanne and Ella (who is almost three. Now that's scary as she was mere weeks old when this blog first started) came round to my place for lunch yesterday. Despite my general incompetence with children, it was actually really good. Ella didn't want to go!! What a result.
She's at a brilliant stage where she's really inquisitive, listens in on your conversations then asks what all the words she doesn't understand mean. Brilliant fun - for me (as the non-parent) anyway. I enjoyed trying to throw in as many big words as possible: "Mummy, what's supposition? negotiate? lacklustre? existentialism?"
Ella was also asking me why I had or didn't have certain things. "Lisa, why do you have a that car up there?" (I have a model red Dodge Viper that I got for my 17th birthday because it was my dream car. I had been secretly hoping for the keys to a Dodge Viper, alas ...) "it's an aspirational item Ella." "Mummy, what's aspirational?" "Mummy, does Lisa play with that car?" "Sometimes Ella, when I'm really lonely I bring it down and drive it around the floor." "Mummy, Lisa talks rubbish."
"Lisa, what's in this cupboard?" "Oh, that's where I keep all my ex-husbands." "Mummy, what's an ex-husband?" "Lisa!"
The best bit though, was something that I didn't instigate at all. Ella decided to start asking Leanne about the imminent arrival of her baby brother or sister. "But how will my baby get out mummy?" (Brilliant.) Leanne is trying not to make-up nonsense stories for Ella so this was going to be fun. "Well, there's a hole that the baby can come out." (Nice work Leanne.) "But where is the hole?" (hahahahaha.) "Well, it's underneath mummy's tummy." (good recovery.) "Can I see the hole please mummy?" (Argh! Unexpected return.) "No." (Sometimes no other answer will do.)
She's at a brilliant stage where she's really inquisitive, listens in on your conversations then asks what all the words she doesn't understand mean. Brilliant fun - for me (as the non-parent) anyway. I enjoyed trying to throw in as many big words as possible: "Mummy, what's supposition? negotiate? lacklustre? existentialism?"
Ella was also asking me why I had or didn't have certain things. "Lisa, why do you have a that car up there?" (I have a model red Dodge Viper that I got for my 17th birthday because it was my dream car. I had been secretly hoping for the keys to a Dodge Viper, alas ...) "it's an aspirational item Ella." "Mummy, what's aspirational?" "Mummy, does Lisa play with that car?" "Sometimes Ella, when I'm really lonely I bring it down and drive it around the floor." "Mummy, Lisa talks rubbish."
"Lisa, what's in this cupboard?" "Oh, that's where I keep all my ex-husbands." "Mummy, what's an ex-husband?" "Lisa!"
The best bit though, was something that I didn't instigate at all. Ella decided to start asking Leanne about the imminent arrival of her baby brother or sister. "But how will my baby get out mummy?" (Brilliant.) Leanne is trying not to make-up nonsense stories for Ella so this was going to be fun. "Well, there's a hole that the baby can come out." (Nice work Leanne.) "But where is the hole?" (hahahahaha.) "Well, it's underneath mummy's tummy." (good recovery.) "Can I see the hole please mummy?" (Argh! Unexpected return.) "No." (Sometimes no other answer will do.)
Friday, July 25, 2008
The elephant at the funeral
As a general rule, funerals are not amusing.
But if it's a more distant family member who had been suffering for quite sometime and you're not as grief-stricken as you might be in other cases, and you couple that with the fact you've got a family like mine in attendance ... well then, there will probably be, at least at some point, embarrassed giggling.
At the end of March my Gran's older sister died. I got a text from my mum at work. It was mostly about something else but had that news tagged onto the end of it in a kind of Trevor MacDonald 'And finally' type way.
I sent a text back asking my mum if she thought I should go to the funeral. 'If you can, that would be best' came the reply. My mum doesn't normally make any demands of me so that was akin to her saying 'yes, you really should.'
Luckily, the funeral was on Easter Monday and I was off work so I didn't have to use one of my holidays. Then it struck me that the funeral would be in the church. I mean the church. It was a major thing for me because the last time I was in that church was for my own wedding. I hadn't set foot in it since that day and I wasn't sure how I'd react. Maybe I'd get there and I wouldn't be able to do it. Maybe I'd start crying. Well, crying at a funeral that's not too weird. Maybe I'd be OK.
I went out to Katy's leaving night on the Friday and noticed a missed call from my mum on my way home. I called her back.
Mum: I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Ask me what?
Mum: I didn't want to ask you, but you're dad said I should let you decide.
Me: Decide what?
Mum: Your gran asked your dad if you'd say a few words about her sister at the funeral.
Me: What? Seriously?
Mum: I know. I know. I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Doesn't gran think it might be hard enough for me coming back to the church without having to walk down the aisle, stand up on the altar and face everyone?
Mum: I know darling. I don't think you should do it. It's far too much for you.
Me: It is. I thought I was doing really well with actually going. Now if I don't do this, I'll feel like a big failure.
Mum: You're not a failure. I'll just say that you're not doing it.
Me: Yeah. Besides, I don't even really know Gran's sister. What would I say? I normally just make stuff up when I have to speak, but that's not really appropriate at a funeral. I'd probably end up saying something like: 'It's a little known fact, but Margaret was a talented gymnast who was on her way to competing at the Rome Olympics'. I mean, that's interesting and poetic, and good speech material, but it's not true.
In the end, the funeral was fine and there was no swell of nostalgia or pain or any feeling at all really, when I walked into the church. I was sitting next to my dad who nudged me when the priest walked past.
Me: What is it?
Dad: Did the priest give you a wee nod there?
Me: I don't think so. I wasn't really looking.
Dad: Aye, aye, he was. He just gave you a wee nod there as went past just to say 'I see you and I know you and eh, thanks for coming and I acknowledge you and eh, aye'.
Me: Right.
At the graveside I was standing with Liam and my younger cousins Claire, Michael and Nicole. Liam asked Claire who the guy with my cousin Nicolas was. "That's his pal George," Michael said. "He brought his friend to his Gran's sister's funeral? What's going on there?" "I know," said Michael, "it looks a bit gay eh?" "I'll say" said Liam. Michael shouted Nicolas over. "Nick, Nick, where's ... eh ... George?" Nicolas came over. "Eh, he's over there. How?" "Aye, we're just thinking it looks a bit gay eh?" "Piss off."
Afterwards we went to the golf club for tea and sandwiches. I didn't really want to be there, but thought it would be rude if I didn't show face, especially as my mum and dad had left for Barcelona after the church service. I was sitting at the end of a long table full of my Gran's sisters-in-law and cousins. Thankfully, Liam, Claire and Cameron were next to me.
Isobel, my auntie Karen's mother-in-law, smiled and said 'you're looking well Lisa'. I smiled back, said thanks and hoped nobody else would take too much notice of me. However, with my dad's auntie Margaret from Zambia in attendance there was never going to be any chance of that. In a booming theatrical voice (think Elaine C Smith after 35 years of White Mischief in the African sun) and from the other end of the table she said "And when do we get to read the book you've written about that bastard?"
My cousin Claire has always had the rather impressive ability of being able to speak without moving her lips at all. "Oh my God, oh my God, I can't believe this. This is excruciating. She better stop now. Oh my God, Lis. Oh my God." Liam, my wonderfully supportive baby brother, was creasing himself with laughter. "Haha. Quality."
I smiled back at her. "It's not about him," I said, "it's about me."
"Good for you. Stick it right up him." I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "This is unbelievable," Claire said to me, still without moving her lips. "Does it even have to be mentioned at all?" Margaret must have made a few more comments that I didn't hear, because my gran put on her firm tone when she said: "Margaret."
My gran decided to take this opportunity to apologise for asking me to speak at the mass for her sister. "I just wasn't thinking. And then when your dad said ... I just couldn't get over it. I was so angry at myself for not thinking. The priest was round last night and I said 'Oh Father, you'll never believe what I've gone and done. I wasn't even realising this would be her first time back in the Church'. He was asking after you, you know. He was wondering how you're getting on and if you've met someone else yet."
(I'd heard about priests not giving you long between children, but I figured they'd take a different stance on time between husbands. Obviously, I'd figured wrong.)
"And I just said 'well no Father. Not yet.' And he said to me: 'but she will. She's a lovely girl and she'll get somebody nice I'm sure of it.' So there you are." Liam was laughing so hard some of his cider was running out from his mouth. Claire had gone manic with embarrassment for me and was saying things like: "Lis, I need to get you out of here. This is unbelievable. We'll just get up and walk towards that door. I've seen the quickest route and we can just go for it."
My gran wasn't done though. She put her hand on top of mine and said: "The Father would like to see you married again. And I'd like to see you married again." (I'm thinking 'oh my God, why??? Why would you wish that on me? I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm happy with my freedom and my lack of responsibility and my casual, albeit sometimes embarrassing, sexual encounters'.)
Everyone at the table was listening by this point and expressing various degrees of the pity head tilt. My Gran's brother had joined the table and said in extreme disbelief: "Have you not met anyone new yet?" "Hahaha (nervous laughter) ... not especially no." He turned to the rest of the table and said: "you sometimes find that with the really braw lassies though don't you? It's sometimes the really bonnie ones that struggle." At this point Liam spat out his drink and was in the grip of a full-on belly laugh. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and point out that I wasn't struggling, I was actually choosing not to get too involved with anyone, and to give my gran a detailed list of exactly what I'd been up to so she could pass it on to the Priest.
But I just smiled and said "thanks uncle Mike, there's a compliment in there somewhere ... I think."
But if it's a more distant family member who had been suffering for quite sometime and you're not as grief-stricken as you might be in other cases, and you couple that with the fact you've got a family like mine in attendance ... well then, there will probably be, at least at some point, embarrassed giggling.
At the end of March my Gran's older sister died. I got a text from my mum at work. It was mostly about something else but had that news tagged onto the end of it in a kind of Trevor MacDonald 'And finally' type way.
I sent a text back asking my mum if she thought I should go to the funeral. 'If you can, that would be best' came the reply. My mum doesn't normally make any demands of me so that was akin to her saying 'yes, you really should.'
Luckily, the funeral was on Easter Monday and I was off work so I didn't have to use one of my holidays. Then it struck me that the funeral would be in the church. I mean the church. It was a major thing for me because the last time I was in that church was for my own wedding. I hadn't set foot in it since that day and I wasn't sure how I'd react. Maybe I'd get there and I wouldn't be able to do it. Maybe I'd start crying. Well, crying at a funeral that's not too weird. Maybe I'd be OK.
I went out to Katy's leaving night on the Friday and noticed a missed call from my mum on my way home. I called her back.
Mum: I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Ask me what?
Mum: I didn't want to ask you, but you're dad said I should let you decide.
Me: Decide what?
Mum: Your gran asked your dad if you'd say a few words about her sister at the funeral.
Me: What? Seriously?
Mum: I know. I know. I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Doesn't gran think it might be hard enough for me coming back to the church without having to walk down the aisle, stand up on the altar and face everyone?
Mum: I know darling. I don't think you should do it. It's far too much for you.
Me: It is. I thought I was doing really well with actually going. Now if I don't do this, I'll feel like a big failure.
Mum: You're not a failure. I'll just say that you're not doing it.
Me: Yeah. Besides, I don't even really know Gran's sister. What would I say? I normally just make stuff up when I have to speak, but that's not really appropriate at a funeral. I'd probably end up saying something like: 'It's a little known fact, but Margaret was a talented gymnast who was on her way to competing at the Rome Olympics'. I mean, that's interesting and poetic, and good speech material, but it's not true.
In the end, the funeral was fine and there was no swell of nostalgia or pain or any feeling at all really, when I walked into the church. I was sitting next to my dad who nudged me when the priest walked past.
Me: What is it?
Dad: Did the priest give you a wee nod there?
Me: I don't think so. I wasn't really looking.
Dad: Aye, aye, he was. He just gave you a wee nod there as went past just to say 'I see you and I know you and eh, thanks for coming and I acknowledge you and eh, aye'.
Me: Right.
At the graveside I was standing with Liam and my younger cousins Claire, Michael and Nicole. Liam asked Claire who the guy with my cousin Nicolas was. "That's his pal George," Michael said. "He brought his friend to his Gran's sister's funeral? What's going on there?" "I know," said Michael, "it looks a bit gay eh?" "I'll say" said Liam. Michael shouted Nicolas over. "Nick, Nick, where's ... eh ... George?" Nicolas came over. "Eh, he's over there. How?" "Aye, we're just thinking it looks a bit gay eh?" "Piss off."
Afterwards we went to the golf club for tea and sandwiches. I didn't really want to be there, but thought it would be rude if I didn't show face, especially as my mum and dad had left for Barcelona after the church service. I was sitting at the end of a long table full of my Gran's sisters-in-law and cousins. Thankfully, Liam, Claire and Cameron were next to me.
Isobel, my auntie Karen's mother-in-law, smiled and said 'you're looking well Lisa'. I smiled back, said thanks and hoped nobody else would take too much notice of me. However, with my dad's auntie Margaret from Zambia in attendance there was never going to be any chance of that. In a booming theatrical voice (think Elaine C Smith after 35 years of White Mischief in the African sun) and from the other end of the table she said "And when do we get to read the book you've written about that bastard?"
My cousin Claire has always had the rather impressive ability of being able to speak without moving her lips at all. "Oh my God, oh my God, I can't believe this. This is excruciating. She better stop now. Oh my God, Lis. Oh my God." Liam, my wonderfully supportive baby brother, was creasing himself with laughter. "Haha. Quality."
I smiled back at her. "It's not about him," I said, "it's about me."
"Good for you. Stick it right up him." I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "This is unbelievable," Claire said to me, still without moving her lips. "Does it even have to be mentioned at all?" Margaret must have made a few more comments that I didn't hear, because my gran put on her firm tone when she said: "Margaret."
My gran decided to take this opportunity to apologise for asking me to speak at the mass for her sister. "I just wasn't thinking. And then when your dad said ... I just couldn't get over it. I was so angry at myself for not thinking. The priest was round last night and I said 'Oh Father, you'll never believe what I've gone and done. I wasn't even realising this would be her first time back in the Church'. He was asking after you, you know. He was wondering how you're getting on and if you've met someone else yet."
(I'd heard about priests not giving you long between children, but I figured they'd take a different stance on time between husbands. Obviously, I'd figured wrong.)
"And I just said 'well no Father. Not yet.' And he said to me: 'but she will. She's a lovely girl and she'll get somebody nice I'm sure of it.' So there you are." Liam was laughing so hard some of his cider was running out from his mouth. Claire had gone manic with embarrassment for me and was saying things like: "Lis, I need to get you out of here. This is unbelievable. We'll just get up and walk towards that door. I've seen the quickest route and we can just go for it."
My gran wasn't done though. She put her hand on top of mine and said: "The Father would like to see you married again. And I'd like to see you married again." (I'm thinking 'oh my God, why??? Why would you wish that on me? I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm happy with my freedom and my lack of responsibility and my casual, albeit sometimes embarrassing, sexual encounters'.)
Everyone at the table was listening by this point and expressing various degrees of the pity head tilt. My Gran's brother had joined the table and said in extreme disbelief: "Have you not met anyone new yet?" "Hahaha (nervous laughter) ... not especially no." He turned to the rest of the table and said: "you sometimes find that with the really braw lassies though don't you? It's sometimes the really bonnie ones that struggle." At this point Liam spat out his drink and was in the grip of a full-on belly laugh. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and point out that I wasn't struggling, I was actually choosing not to get too involved with anyone, and to give my gran a detailed list of exactly what I'd been up to so she could pass it on to the Priest.
But I just smiled and said "thanks uncle Mike, there's a compliment in there somewhere ... I think."
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.
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.
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.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Who's afraid of ...
some time off - finally!
I certainly packed it in last week. Much the same as I do at the self-service olive bar in Sainsbury's, I added more and more and stubbornly forced down the lid. A few people looked on astounded as I, somewhat more harassed than usual, got it all together - eventually.
Work was busy. I am truly a magnet for loose ends. In every job, I accumulate masses of them, and always in addition to a messy desk - a really messy desk. At 5pm on my last day my colleagues expressed concern (does it still qualify as concern if they are laughing heartily?) when they noticed I hadn't even started to clear my desk. Employing my trademark tidying move (large bin bag in one hand; full-span, catch-all sweeping manoeuvre with the other arm), I was done by 7pm.
Crazily, I'd arranged to meet Duncan and Moranna for a bite to eat before heading to an 8'clock appointment I'd made months ago. As I locked up the office for the last time at 7pm, I realised I had one hour in which to get from Leith to the west end - eat something - and then get to Marchmont. It was certainly ambitious (pronounced stew-pid).
I was in Pizza Express by 7.15 and managed to fit in a diet coke and some bruschetta before it was time to leave. I was sitting in traffic trying to head up Lothian Road when a man driving a van in the opposite direction rolled down his window and tried to tell me something. I spent about 30 seconds pressing the button to lower my window without any success, only to discover that I was repeatedly locking and unlocking the doors. I figured he was trying to tell me the hold-up was serious so I jumped into action. After a concerning number of illegal driving manoeuvres and repetitive strain injury in the middle finger of my right hand, I arrived at my appointment slightly late and excessively agitated.
I was far more organised the next day as I flew down to London to spend the weekend with Andrew. I was starving by the time I arrived at Paddington and decided to get a breakfast bagel. I sat down and began to eat it when I realised the man sitting opposite was watching me intently. He started rocking back and forward in his seat before leaving. I relaxed - a little - and then spotted him coming back. He sat down opposite me again, outstretched his arms and held the front cover of the magazine out towards me whilst continuing to stare intently. It was not the most comfortable eating experience I've ever had.
Andrew and I met outside his workplace (the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square) and he told me I was just in time to see the 'crazy pigeon-feeding woman'. As if by magic, she appeared armed with two large bags of grain. She scooped some up in her hand and about 3,000 pigeons descended on her - it was horribly fascinating. She walked round in a circle letting the grains fall through her fingers and the pigeons continued to land on top of the trail. It would have made an excellent Art-Attack. The wind generated by the pigeons' wings caused her skirt to flap. It took Andrew .000025 seconds to point out that she was wearing red knickers. I hadn't noticed at first, so spent a few moments with my head tilted trying to get a better view. I can now confirm she was wearing red knickers. We also had a bit of a discussion about whether or not she was really a man, or at least had been at some point. It was hard to get a good look at her face through the fog of pigeons but I noted she was wearing alarmingly bright red lipstick (surely the true travesty of the transvestite/transexual). Andrew suggested that she was maybe just trying to accessorize with the knickers. We remain undecided.
That night I slept in a tented room with a cat on my head. It was not the most comfortable sleeping experience I'd ever had (but it was still better than the time that guy died on top of me). Andrew and I sailed down to Greenwich swigging on our Red Bulls like a right pair of chavs (or pikeys as they say 'dan sath'). We headed to the Apollo Theatre that night with Lulu (the older woman Andrew lives with - she has a jewellery empire). We saw Kathleen Turner in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. It's undoubtedly the finest piece of theatre I've ever seen. Bill Irwin played George to Turner's Martha and stole the show. Go see it! We got the tube home debating how depressing the ending really is (for me - not really, for Andrew and Lulu - somewhat more).
On Sunday Andrew took me to Tate Britain to see the Gothic Nightmares exhibition. It was really busy which made it quite difficult to get round things properly. I liked a few of the paintings but found the display quite repetitive. Andrew decided to embarrass me while I was looking at the erotic section by loudly exclaiming that he knew he'd find me checking out the dirty stuff. To be honest, it was my favourite bit. I also liked Chris Ofili's Upper Room which consists of thirteen large paintings of the same monkey in a different colour. The pictures stand on elephant dung supports. I thought it was funky and cool and pretty fantastic as far as modern art goes. Andrew thinks I'm a philistine. We did agree on how much we both hated Constable though. Andrew pointed out that Constable influenced the impressionists and I said that I could see that they had copied his blurry style but they were better cause at least their landscapes and people were bright and colourful and less depressing. I'm so glad none of the Tate's hard-core faithful overheard me. I may have been thrown out for embarrassing them with such a high-level and intellectual analysis.
I caught the late flight home on Sunday night, looking forward to a whole week off. Sheer bliss.
I certainly packed it in last week. Much the same as I do at the self-service olive bar in Sainsbury's, I added more and more and stubbornly forced down the lid. A few people looked on astounded as I, somewhat more harassed than usual, got it all together - eventually.
Work was busy. I am truly a magnet for loose ends. In every job, I accumulate masses of them, and always in addition to a messy desk - a really messy desk. At 5pm on my last day my colleagues expressed concern (does it still qualify as concern if they are laughing heartily?) when they noticed I hadn't even started to clear my desk. Employing my trademark tidying move (large bin bag in one hand; full-span, catch-all sweeping manoeuvre with the other arm), I was done by 7pm.
Crazily, I'd arranged to meet Duncan and Moranna for a bite to eat before heading to an 8'clock appointment I'd made months ago. As I locked up the office for the last time at 7pm, I realised I had one hour in which to get from Leith to the west end - eat something - and then get to Marchmont. It was certainly ambitious (pronounced stew-pid).
I was in Pizza Express by 7.15 and managed to fit in a diet coke and some bruschetta before it was time to leave. I was sitting in traffic trying to head up Lothian Road when a man driving a van in the opposite direction rolled down his window and tried to tell me something. I spent about 30 seconds pressing the button to lower my window without any success, only to discover that I was repeatedly locking and unlocking the doors. I figured he was trying to tell me the hold-up was serious so I jumped into action. After a concerning number of illegal driving manoeuvres and repetitive strain injury in the middle finger of my right hand, I arrived at my appointment slightly late and excessively agitated.
I was far more organised the next day as I flew down to London to spend the weekend with Andrew. I was starving by the time I arrived at Paddington and decided to get a breakfast bagel. I sat down and began to eat it when I realised the man sitting opposite was watching me intently. He started rocking back and forward in his seat before leaving. I relaxed - a little - and then spotted him coming back. He sat down opposite me again, outstretched his arms and held the front cover of the magazine out towards me whilst continuing to stare intently. It was not the most comfortable eating experience I've ever had.
Andrew and I met outside his workplace (the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square) and he told me I was just in time to see the 'crazy pigeon-feeding woman'. As if by magic, she appeared armed with two large bags of grain. She scooped some up in her hand and about 3,000 pigeons descended on her - it was horribly fascinating. She walked round in a circle letting the grains fall through her fingers and the pigeons continued to land on top of the trail. It would have made an excellent Art-Attack. The wind generated by the pigeons' wings caused her skirt to flap. It took Andrew .000025 seconds to point out that she was wearing red knickers. I hadn't noticed at first, so spent a few moments with my head tilted trying to get a better view. I can now confirm she was wearing red knickers. We also had a bit of a discussion about whether or not she was really a man, or at least had been at some point. It was hard to get a good look at her face through the fog of pigeons but I noted she was wearing alarmingly bright red lipstick (surely the true travesty of the transvestite/transexual). Andrew suggested that she was maybe just trying to accessorize with the knickers. We remain undecided.
That night I slept in a tented room with a cat on my head. It was not the most comfortable sleeping experience I'd ever had (but it was still better than the time that guy died on top of me). Andrew and I sailed down to Greenwich swigging on our Red Bulls like a right pair of chavs (or pikeys as they say 'dan sath'). We headed to the Apollo Theatre that night with Lulu (the older woman Andrew lives with - she has a jewellery empire). We saw Kathleen Turner in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. It's undoubtedly the finest piece of theatre I've ever seen. Bill Irwin played George to Turner's Martha and stole the show. Go see it! We got the tube home debating how depressing the ending really is (for me - not really, for Andrew and Lulu - somewhat more).
On Sunday Andrew took me to Tate Britain to see the Gothic Nightmares exhibition. It was really busy which made it quite difficult to get round things properly. I liked a few of the paintings but found the display quite repetitive. Andrew decided to embarrass me while I was looking at the erotic section by loudly exclaiming that he knew he'd find me checking out the dirty stuff. To be honest, it was my favourite bit. I also liked Chris Ofili's Upper Room which consists of thirteen large paintings of the same monkey in a different colour. The pictures stand on elephant dung supports. I thought it was funky and cool and pretty fantastic as far as modern art goes. Andrew thinks I'm a philistine. We did agree on how much we both hated Constable though. Andrew pointed out that Constable influenced the impressionists and I said that I could see that they had copied his blurry style but they were better cause at least their landscapes and people were bright and colourful and less depressing. I'm so glad none of the Tate's hard-core faithful overheard me. I may have been thrown out for embarrassing them with such a high-level and intellectual analysis.
I caught the late flight home on Sunday night, looking forward to a whole week off. Sheer bliss.
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