Noel

And just like that I say that a dinosaur on a bike reminds me of my boyfriend and he purchases me a dinosaur kigu. I would say that I heart it more than anything in the world (comfortable? Yes. Worn all Christmas? Yes? Room for a thousand mince pies? Definitely) but that would be crass.

Christmas was textbook so I won't bore you with the details, ate a lot, opened presents, watched the Royle Family Christmas Special, yawn, yawn etc etc.

Christmas does make everyone go a teeny bit mental though doesn't it? For example, on Christmas Eve I went in to town with my mum for some "quality time" (or ideas on what to get family we don't really like and only see once a year as well as the neighbours who are lovely but seem to think we don't eat as they constantly bring their leftovers around - which is just strange quite frankly). Having decided to purchase a fancy vase for the neighbours mum decided we had to buy flowers to go in said vase. Fair enough, I can see the logic in that. Off we went to M&S that fine purveyor of flowers. Now my mum loves lilies. Loves them. Even if they are a sign of death and their pollen stench actually puts my dad and sister off their food she persists in buying them. And I'm not sure if you know this but they're also a flower signifying death. I murmered this as she headed towards them for the neighbours. One of whom nearly DIED of Cancer this year (and for once I'm not even exaggerating for the sake of hilarity). No, no. I was not to be listened to. Only the finest white lilies for the neighbours, one of whom nearly died (did I mention that?). It is also important to mention that the flowers have a 10 day guarantee. They are M&S after all.

We get to the counter and she plonks them down. So far, so textbook. The nice lady scans them through and before Mum puts her card in to the magic machine she asks, "What happens if they die before the 10 days is up?". Do you think this woman has EVER been asked this question before? Ever? Well I can tell you the answer is probably NO. As I fell through the floor with embarrassment she did this, "Er, er. Well.". ER ER WELL was her answer. However, she recovered well from the initial answer and said, "Well I suppose you'd keep the receipt and then keep the plastic and then if they died bring them both back?". See my insertion of a question mark there? It wasn't an answer, it was a query to someone who wasn't there. Sensing trouble, a colleague bounded over to come to assistance but she was as useless as the first. Having managed to pick myself up off the floor and embarrassment beginning to abate in to wheezy laughing I felt it my Christmas duty to help a sister out. "Mum", I said, "If they die you say, oh dear those lovely flowers died although I am not ultimately shocked by this as ALL FLOWERS DIE WHICH IS THE POINT OF THEM". The woman looked at me gratefully. My mother, she did not. She punched me in the arm. The fleshy bit. At the top. Hard. In front of the M&S ladies. It must truly have been Christmas for the violence to begin. But the grateful look meant I continued. Because I was bringing Christmas Cheer. "Anyway, we're giving them to the neighbours. What are you going to do? On the 10th day of Christmas you're going to knock on the door and ask them if the flowers are still alive because if they're not you have the receipt and you can get some more? You. Are. Mental. So much so these nice ladies are going to go home tonight and tell their family about the mental lady asking what she should do when flowers die". The grateful lady piped up, "Oh no, we won't. It's a good question". But you could see on her face that she was totally going to tell her family. And I bet she totally did.

petitami

This reminds me of my boyfriend. I don't know why. He doesn't even ride a bike.

Just finished watching A Single Man. I cried. I loved it.

This is what I should do...

Jeudi

From time to time a day comes along that you expect to be standard and then it is all loveliness.

The other Tuesday I realised that the voucher I had for for a teapot of cocktails at a South London speakeasy ran out on the Sunday. And there was no way I was traipsing in to to Town on a Sunday. As if the Gods were smiling on me MonsieurB was venturing to the Smoke on the Thursday. It was decided. He would come with me for cocktails out of teapots and he'd enjoy it. God damn it.

Upon arriving at Waterloo MonsieurB had arranged a brass band in my honour. It seemed rude not to dance through the concourse in appreciation of his efforts. (The first sentence is a lie. The second sentence is not). Having tangoed to the underground we made our way to South Kensington. We hit Lamborghini but none of the cars took our fancy so we made our way to Sloane Street for secret speakeasy shenanigans. As we made our way down the road we passed The Conran Shop. In the window was a full on Swan Lake type ballerina who was dancing around. As soon as she saw us she did a wave. And then I did a wave. And then the posh lady opened the door for us to come in. And we continued walking because we are very, very poor.

We went in to an innocuous apartment block and found a black door with a large lantern outside. In we slid and rang the bell. A pair of eyes looked through the door. Saying the magic words ("We have a reservation") in we went.

Once we had our fricking massive teapot of cocktails it was present time. I love presents for no reason. Whilst wasting time MonsieurB had gone to Lucy In Disguise. I love Lily Allen. I think if we met in real life we'd be best friends. But we have never met in real life. And so we are not. But what I do have is the most beautifulest top from Lucy In Disguise in the most beautifulest bag ever. As if that wasn't enough the teapot cocktail came with teacups to drink out of. As if that wasn't enough they were HENDRICKS FRICKING GIN TEACUPS! Alas, I can not find them on the internets to buy and insist that everything I drink from now on comes out of them. Perhaps it's for the best. People may not appreciate Fosters out of teacups.

And then we went home. And I went to work the next day. Ah well. It was nice whilst it lasted.

What's my name again? I mean, date again?

I actually walked around with this in my hand for 20 minutes today. Then I decided an art postcard based calendar may be a bit too much for my office. They think I'm quirky because I drink tea out of a teacup and saucer. Whatever would culture and art do to them?

Stars

This is the illustration for my star sign in this month's Vogue magazine. It is a scarily accurate depiction of a night out for me. I have actually ended up in a bin before. Ridiculous tights and clashing shoes? Standard.

Still to come: A story about teapots, gin teacups, surprise brilliant presents and getting a bit overexcited on a school night.

Hmm. I wonder if I can put blind people's lens...

...in to these. Because I really, really want them for Phili. Although I'll be piss poor when I arrive if I pur-chase them.

Rules of Attraction

It went something like this:

I saw this film at the cinema and it remains one of my favourite films. I purchased it and someone stole it. Alas, I can not remember who they are or I'd have hunted them down and killed them slowly, I mean asked for it back, by now. Anyway, I have now borrowed it from MoneyB. Yay. This is my favourite scene (I can't embed - how sad). I'm not sure why.

Oh Comely

I commute. A lot. I commute A. LOT. This means that I spend a lot of time doing one of these things;

1. Listening to a vast array of podcasts from all sorts of different sources which I have amassed over the last 3 years;
2. Listening to music (at the moment Warpaint is being listened to at least once a day);
3. Reading books I buy from charity shops or cheaply at the supermarché; and/or
4. Reading magazines because sometimes my brain needs to go, "bleugh", all over tat.

Around a month ago I came across Oh Comely magazine in the station Smiths. It had nice paper pages and wasn't filled with total tat so I thought I'd give it a whirl seeing as it was 2 weeks before the new Elle hit my doormat. I heart it so much that I hearted it on FB. And now I have purchased the 2 issues I have missed direct from the website. One issue arrived today. With free stickers of teacups. I know what you're thinking. I'm thinking it too. IT'S MEANT TO BE!

In other news: I have started working at a different department. Hopefully this means I won't be on the brink of insanity for the next 6 months like I was for the last 8. Hopefully this also means I'll be more inclined to blog again. Being on the brink of insanity means you can't really draw that much humour from day to day happenings. You just mentally scream FML. But no more! Normal service to resume. w00t w00t. Kisses.

17:49 at work...

How's your capacity for this week?

Well, seeing as it's ten to five on a Thursday and I'm at an infant approval hearing in the morning, not great.

*sniggers actually go around the office mexican wave style*

That's really rude

Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I was just answering your question.

That's really rude.

Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I was just answering your question (no, I've not accidentally typed the same thing twice. That happened)

I mean't next week.

Oh. You said this week

And so on and so forth until we get to the crux of the matter. Can I do some instructions to counsel. Yes. I can. Then she tells me the file. The file has 6 lever arches. And I have 4 days to do it. I didn't think it was possible to have any less respect for her. Oh! It is.


-- Posted from my iPhone

Lookalike

A Jarrod from Eagle v Shark lookalike has just got on the train. I might throw shoes at his head.


-- Posted from my iPhone

Doggies/Ikea

Yesterday a very surreal thing happened to me. I was lurking in WH Smith by the ruinously expensive magazines. Obviously I had no intention of buying any of them because they are ruinously expensive. And a guilt free flick means that I can basically read them in 10 minutes anyway.

Somewhere around abouts Britney dressing like a harajuku nightmare I heard the phrase, "I love doggies." I'll be honest. I was a bit offended. It seemed hideously close to my ear and I hoped that I wouldn't have to defend my own honour. I turned around to find that the pets magazines (no, I didn't know they existed either) are directly opposite hideously expensive in the Smith's aisles. I was then confronted with an extremely, extremely, terrifyingly, tall man with his back to me. "Who is this giant?" I asked myself. I moved to the side a little (a lot actually. I moved a fricking lot to see the giant) to gain better perspective on this freakishly tall man. When I got to a good view it was immediately obvious he was blind. And I mean that. If one wears sunglasses and has a white stick they are blind yes? Stood beside him was a Smith's employee. I'll give him this - he may be blind but he picked the best out of a bad bunch in the magazine aisle. He chose a normal looking young lady leaving behind a man who looked older than Father Time himself and a lady who looked like she could have been married to Father Time and the two of them were stone deaf. I know this because they were shouting at each other about where Glamour magazine should go. But I digress. Yes. For a blind man he sure has a 6th sense for helpful employees.

I won't lie. I should have moved off and not stared at the blind man in the magazine aisle but I was mesmerised by him. Perhaps it's my insane fear that one day my sight will deteriorate 0.5 more and I'll end up like that. The conversation went a bit like this:

Him: What doggie is it on the page?

Her: Er, it looks like a Poodle

Him: Is it big?

Her: Quite big

Him: How much of the page? How much of the page does it take up?

Her: Um, half?

Him: Ooooooh *gush, bleugh, gush, spurt* (I inserted the astericks I'm not sure if he actually was thinking that but it looked like it)

Him: Are there any German Shepherds? I love German Shepherds.

It was about now that I snapped out of my car crash rubbernecking like behaviour and decided I had better go and do the lottery in a genuinely futile (WHEN WILL I WIN? WHEN?) attempt to be able to afford a house, any house. A shack even. I found my friends hovering around the dailies stand. Checking up on the latest developments on X Factor no doubt (as an aside, does anyone else think that the people who are saying Gamu should stay in are probably the people who post on the Daily Mail website constantly about how immigrants should go home?). I breezed over clutching my (no doubt) winning lottery ticket and announced very loudly, "I think I just saw some sort of dog porn type behaviour," and recounted the above to them. I think their reaction was actually more shocking than the whole encounter. Instead of being shocked and disgusted by descriptions of dogs being read out to an excited young man they merely said, "If he's blind how does he know what a German Shepherd looks like?" I despair.

This evening I went to Ikea for the first time ever in the UK (I went once in Paris but it truly was a paltry size). I've been hankering after such an outing for quite a long time. When people speak of Ikea to me their eyes mist over and they clutch their breasts and talk of travel to a far away, hallowed land. Finally I arrived tonight. My first impression was that it was quite large. Massive in fact. In we walked. "I'm here!" I thought, "I can buy all sorts of useful plain shit!" I wandered around looking at lights ("You don't have enough room for lamps. And anyway, you've just bought a poodle light" - Thank you mother, crusher of light based dreams), I investigated sofa beds with an extra bit at the end making it a poor man's chaise longue ("That is nice but it'll probably be gone by the time you qualify and move out" - Thank you mother, bringer of brutal reality) and so on and so forth until we found the thing that we actually came for. And then it all went downhill.

I had to fill out some form that asked what aisle it was in and what location. But I wasn't in an aisle. The showroom is one LONG AISLE. So I wandered over to a nice looking lady with pink hair and asked her what aisle this was. She looked at me quizzically. I looked at her quizzically back thinking, "Ahh this must be some sort of Swedish based brow furrowing exercise." Those crazy Swedes. And I also thought, "Why is she looking at me quizzically? She fucking works here." She went to a computer and told me the aisle and location. I'll be honest. I was a bit confused. We were standing in the aisle. And the location. Why did she have to look up where we were standing on a computer. That's like me being at work and someone wandering in to the office and asking me where I'm based and me pulling out my iPhone to find out. But I said nothing. Because she worked there. And she knew best.

Onwards we went. And I got a bit tired and cranky. Mainly because I was hungry. I started to hate Ikea. It was a home based nightmare. I just wanted to get to the end. I'd got what I had come for. But I had to go through office, bedroom, quilts, home organisation (an oxymoron to a person like me), vases and general shit and plants before we got to the check outs. But we didn't get to the check outs. We got to a travelator. "Where are we going now?" I asked my mother, who had continued to brutalise me as we went around the shop metaphorically ripping out each and every hope I have for having a nice house by the way. "To get the stuff," she replied. "But we haven't give the sheet to the man," I said. "What man?" - "The man who gets our stuff for us and then leaves it at the checkout for us so we can pick it up, " I patiently explained to the old dear. And then she laughed. She laughed harder than I have seen her laugh in at least a week because she has been angry with my dad and she carries anger around with her like a handbag, never leaving her side. "There is no man, we go and get it ourselves," she said. My reply, "WHAT??!!!! I can't collect this stuff. It's heavy! And I am only little!" I think it was the, "I'm only little," that did it. She laughed for 5 minutes solidly. I know this because it took me that long to go BACK ON MYSELF and back in to the PRETEND HOUSE OF NIGHTMARES and find a trolley that would take our stuff. A trolley she told me to get I might add. Then when we finally got to the biggest, most epic box in the whole wide world it didn't fit in to the trolley. Like I said it wouldn't when I went to get the trolley in the first place and she shouted me down and told me to get a 'normal' trolley. And I did. You know why I did? Because, reader, I trusted her. Not only is she my mother. She has also been to Ikea TWO MORE TIMES THAN ME. We attempted to get the flat back in but it was like trying to get a life size replica of the Titanic on to the 4th plinth. It just wouldn't happen. So I was sent (even though it was not MY stupidity, sorry I mean, miscalculation) BACK THROUGH THE PRETEND HOUSE OF NOW NON STOP NIGHTMARES FOR A SECOND TIME. By the time we finally got to the checkout I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I didn't have time to hang around by this point. We were going to self checkout and I was going to check the shit out of this stuff. Ma handed me up a storage box and said, "Scan this 3 times". I did. Off we went to the car. And we unpacked the massive trolley in to the car. And it was then that we realised my mum really doesn't know how to count. "Oh," she said, "shit". Upon pressing it turns out she has put 6 boxes in the trolley not 3. So basically I am an accessory to a crime. I'm a burglar of a fake house. And guess what. *I* WENT BACK IN AND PAID FOR THE OTHER THREE. I'm never going to Ikea again. Ever.

Appareil Photo

Today I realised I haven't taken any pretty photos in a very long time. Sadface. I'm hoping once the 1st November passes I'll be more like myself as opposed to a cranky, tired version who either turns up to things late and leaves early or doesn't turn up at all. Alternatively you could put a key in my back and I'll be able to function like a little dolly.

Soutien-Gorge

I would very much like this so that I can ask people to check out my guns and it actually mean something.

Je Veux: Part Deux (II)

I have a thing for anatomically correct hearts. Sterling silver and £40 including p&p. I think I have found my 1 thing I am allowed to purchase per month for next month. w00t.

Coup de Foudre

I love Pat Butcher therefore I love these earrings. £25 though. Ouch.

Nouveau Amour

Don't get me wrong, I still very much heart Tara McPherson (in fact I was only looking at her book but 10 minutes ago) but you have to spread the love too right?

A Bank Holiday post will follow but summed up:

ReadingFreeStuffCarnivalWreckUpSailorJerryRedStripeVariousBandsTuborgScottPilgrimComingHomeToFindMessagesThatMakeYouFeelSlightlyLessSadAboutTheEndOfTheWeekend

Whitstable Wedding

❤ We went to a wedding in Whitstable and when we got there it was not very sunny but very windy. And I sat on the beach all day drinking beer whilst the boys painted a wall. Then we got in and realised that we looked like Rudolph the Red Faced Reindeer. Luckily I had foundation. Unluckily MonsieurB did not.

❤ Then it was the wedding and we sat on the beach with ghetto-blasters, cham-pag-ne, shot glasses, pretend blowjobs, stones, tears, cake tables, buffets, beach huts and dance offs. Then we all danced to on a ragga tip in our pretty dresses. Then Right Said Fred turned up and took all the glory. Those too sexy bastards.

❤ Then we sat at the beach hut all day drinking bucks fizz. Then we buried a man. Then someone put their bum on the man's head. Then we locked the man under the beach hut. And then the man kicked his way out. It sounds like we don't love the man but I think everyone loves the man. Then everyone went for food and we carried on drinking. Then we stopped for an oyster. Then we went to the pub and had lots of shots whilst all the girls screamed about horses and all the boys shook their heads in horror and admiration. Then MonsieurB made us all drink rum. I hate rum apart from the bit where I pretend I'm a pirate. Then I remember I'm not a pirate and fear I'm going to puke. And I could only be placated by a snickers. And maybe a punch in the head

❤ Then we had more beach hut fun but with fish and chip based fun. And then we went home. And I was sad. So I flew the Flag of Fun. Using a pair of expensive tights out of a car door.

❤ (I smoked *gasp*)

Je Veux

Je Veux Je Veux Je Veux Je Veux Je Veux Je Veux Je Veux Je Veux

Travail

Sometimes work is hard. Sometimes it's made more difficult by people belittling you because the only way they can assert their authority is by way of rampant misogyny. And it makes me angry. But then I think of trifle with 100s and 1000s on and remember that speaking to people like they're shit doesn't make you a bigger, cleverer person. It makes you a total wanker.

La Robe

Not too long ago I went shopping with a bad lady who forced me to try this on. She actually forced me in to it. At least, that's how I remember the story goes. Alas, it is this season's Whistles (I coveted the green version last season) and beautiful and makes me look 100x thinner than I actually am and it there follows that it is gazillions of pounds (£135 to be precise).

On a whim today I typed, 'Whistles Swallow Dress', in to Ebay. Damn you Ebay! Having only one listed in my size! BNWT to boot! Damn you Ebay for letting me bid on it! Damn you for letting me win! The silver cloud to this is that I picked it up for £50 (which is what you'd pay for a cotton dress in Topshop these days never mind 100% silk) and I'm selling shoes on Ebay at the moment so I reckon it'll have paid for itself by this time tomorrow. So I feel marginally less guilty. Marginally. Right. I'm off to throw myself on to some rocks and whip myself until I've not spent £50. (Or alternatively off to raid my wardrobe and find more shit to sell - Ta ra)

***EDIT***

I have just received this:

Hi there,
I'm afraid i have some bad news about the Whistles Dress :(

I put the dress in my attic room a fortnight ago under dust
covered hanging rail, however having just to the attic to fetch the
dress and package it for you, i am dismayed to discover its been
destroyed by moths. Absolutely ruined :( The dust cover had
fallen off and as the dress is silk its just covered in holes.

I am so upset, and i am so very sorry to have to tell you this. I
guess i know i shall no longer leave things in my attic :(

I have also informed ebay, as not only is this dress ruined, a
couple of others that i had just sold tonight were also up there.
But this dress was the most expensive.

Apologies again

Translation: I really don't want to sell a dress that I paid £135 for £50. Fucking bitch (that's not part of the translation. That's me. Telling the truth. Bitch)

***DOUBLE FRICKING EDIT***

My Dad is actually a genius. "Why don't you just ask her to email you a photo of the damage then decide if you want it still? If she doesn't email then she's bluffing and report her"

If I end up

with hair like this later I'll be happy. If I end up looking like her I'll run off and join the nuns cos it'd be a bloody miracle.

Random

I went for tea today with a pregnant lady and an engaged lady. It was utterly refreshing to totally not talk about work for a whole hour and a quarter. We mostly talked about babies and weddings. I am neither pregnant nor engaged but I still found it all very exciting. Conversation drifted from babies to being hormonal and crying at the drop of a hat at nothing. My take on this is if you want to have a cry just let it all out. You'll feel 10000 times better even if you're sat on your own crying at someone finding their dream kitchen on Grand Designs. Yes. It's irrational and pointless but sometimes you need a good old cry.

Other times you need a good old cry for very real reasons. And then, more than ever, you should go for it. I'm talking snot running down your face, wailing and bawling until you're all done and you can clean yourself up and have a lovely cup of tea. And know that your friends are there to listen to you and help you out. But know this, take the piss and only ever moan and never be grateful for the good things you do have and take snide sideswipes at your friends for not giving up their families and lives for your 24/7 moaning and you'll be alone. And no one will care. I saw it happen to a work colleague and it wasn't pretty.

In other news:

Gisele has been talking to Harper's Bazaar. She wants a worldwide law forcing every mother to breast feed her child. If it's possible to be apoplectic on a train then I was. I'm not going to insult your intelligence by going deeply in to why Gisele is a total fucking bint that clearly doesn't think before she opens her mouth but the following things occurred to me in the first 30 seconds after I read that statement (THIRTY SECONDS);

1: Not all women produce enough milk to satisfy their babies so sometimes you have to top them up with formula to stop them from being in a perpetual state of hunger;

2: Some babies don't latch on properly and there is not the resources (in the UK at least) for midwives to spend a protracted amount of time with new mothers to help them so the mothers give up and go on to formula - see above reasoning. [And I know this to be a fact as it happened to a friend of mine]; and

3: Some babies can't have breast milk because of an allergy.

I was indifferent to Gisele previously. Now I think she's a generalising fool who needs to realise every mother and child are different and what worked for her doesn't work for everyone. I wonder if the reporter followed that answer up with, "So tell me, multi million dollar contract commanding Gisele, how *do* you have the time, energy and cash with your hectic job, probable support from PAs, maids and drivers to raise a child and maintain that envious figure of yours and why can't normal minions manage what comes so easily to you?"

Est ce-que je peux voir l'argent svp?

So you're probably wondering where all the XX and wedding photos are right? Right? Well life got in the way and I'm still waiting to upload them. I apologise profusely.

Life in particular has a habit of ensuring my Roman Epic-like commute sometimes enters the realms of ridiulousness. I'm not sure if you noticed but last week that happened. I don't want to do this in to TFL updates with MademoiselleB because if you wanted those I imagine you'd go and hang around a tube station but that's what you're going to get today I'm afraid. If you're not up for it then please may I suggest alighting at the next stop where by you can access various other modes of transport off of this blog. Thank you.

Lately the Victoria line has been so bad that I often wonder if would be quicker to take the Orient Express through London to get from North to South. I like the fact that TFL acknowledge this by putting up posters saying they're sorry. It's nice to have an apology. Kinda pointless when nothing gets done to remedy what they were apologising about in the first place though.

Last Thursday, after the slowest trip through London known to man, I arrived at Vauxhall looking forward to catching a Southwest train that without fail, WITHOUT FAIL, arrives 1 minute ahead of schedule and then leaves the station 30 seconds ahead of schedule. So the 07:46 leaves at 07:45. I'm not proud and I'm not a liar. I'm happy to admit that the first few times I got that train I thought the guard was fucking with me.

However, on that fateful morning the train gods really were taking the total piss out of my life. I sat at Vauxhall station for 90 minutes. Trains went to Waterloo (admittedly heinously tardy) but didn't seem to come back to Vauxhall. Where were all the trains going? To the train depot in the sky? Oh look, the 08:16 to Shepperton is delayed. That's a relief. The preceding 4 trains to Shepperton have been cancelled. Hmm. Shame it doesn't say when it's been delayed until because....oh. Oh no. Oh dear. Oh golly gosh well now I really am very cross. It's been cancelled. That makes 5 trains. No matter. I'll get a train to a nearby station and get the...oh. That one's been cancelled too. For the 6th time.

I'd like to pretend that I remained calm about this but I'm not a liar. Nor am I a very calm person by nature. So I went bat shit crazy. I noticed that some trains were coming from the magic Waterloo. So in I marched to the waiting room, stood in the middle and commenced a soliloquy that would not have been out of place in Othello. If Southwest trains was Iago. And my destination was my Desdemona.

Everyone! I have noticed something! The trains are being delayed right?

I paused for a response. I was eyed with suspicion. Fair enough. I had a suitcase and I was dressed like I'd just had tea with the Queen. Undeterred, I ploughed on

Then they're cancelled? Yes? (No pause here - I learned my lesson) THEN (here comes the genius) a train goes through the station with people on it but it doesn't stop here. The guards are practically useless

Here, a lady interrupted and said, No. You're wrong. They *are* useless. I thought I'd welcome some interaction but turns out I'm actually like Obama. Or Cameron. My pauses are rhetorical. Shut up lady. It's my time to shine.

I continued, I think that they're sending the trains out of Waterloo but they're sending them to the really busy stations and out in to the suburbs as quickly as possible and missing out stations close to London as we can get the tube.

Recognition dawned on people's faces whilst they realised that perhaps the mad Queen tea lady was speaking some sense.

Look! Here comes a train to Waterloo. It's coming right now! Who's coming with me?

With that an army (a couple) of people got up and joined me in a mini riot of jostling on to a train. I won't lie. If I started off in Othello I ended up in Jerry Maguire. My suitcase was my goldfish (FAR too heavy to hold above my head mind) and the crazy people that actually followed me were my Renées. Without that child with the glasses and a lisp.

When I finally got to Waterloo (vindicated) I had a nice sit down on a train. After 20 minutes of waiting. I was so angry I'm pretty shocked I didn't have a heart attack. It's good to know I can start a riot when I want to though.

In other news: I like The Like. A lot.

I also acquired The Suburbs today. I think it's a grower. But a good'un.

An open letter to TFL & South West Trains

Dear both,

You are monumentally rubbish. Embarrassingly rubbish. I understand you have PA systems at your stations. May I be so bold as to suggest you use them? Kfanks.


-- Posted from my iPhone

I'll Take That

I write like

James Joyce

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I analysed one of my blog posts and apparently I write like James Joyce. Score!

Front

I know I promised a wedding related blogpost but I'm on my way home and I've stopped off in WH Smith and need to share.

This evening I purchased Vogue and Front. I buy Front for my boyfriend because I want to read it before he does. I find it witty, informative about bands I tend to like with a sprinkling of brilliant and equally awful tattoos. I buy Vogue because I covet clothes I cannot afford but I know will filter down to the High Street in around 6 months time - maybe quicker if one shops in Primark. (No Primark judgment btw. Just an observation)

I am unsure of whether I'm a feminist or not as it means different things to different people. What I do know I am is someone who wishes for the sexes to be equal. To me buying Front does not offend these sensibilities. Yes, there are naked women in it but they're not objectified as sluts like in some publications. They whack their tits out, answer some titillating questions (see what I did there?) and then the next page could be lifted from The Sunday Times tech page. Such is life. I don't bash Front for this because I find Cosmopolitan and More magazine so much more offensive...and lest we forget they're aimed at me, the one over here with the vagina. At least Front doesn't advise their readers what to wear to attract a hottie, followed by a spread on how to keep them happy in bed, followed by how to exact revenge when they dump you. Moreover, at least Front doesn't pretend to be something it's not. Summed up like that it's not as bad as it could be is it?

What's worse is a blogger recently commented on the vacuous nature of More and their staff retaliated by requesting their readers to cuss said blogger. Pathetic isn't it?

What wins at being pathetic though is the reaction I received from the Smith's man this evening. He appeared to find my purchases equally hilarious and something else which I am unsure of but ultimately it culminated in him tittering at me in a leering and lecherous manner that made me quite unsettled. As he brushed my palm to give me my change I nearly vomited in to the £1 pile of confectionary he was trying to flog along with my smut. This is not the first time this has happened either. So I say to you men of Smiths - it's for my boyfriend although I appreciate a good rack as much as the next person because I'm a lover, not a hater.




Oh and: I've got the Vikki Blows nautical issue MonsieurB. You know I can't resist a nautical theme.


-- Posted from my iPhone

Location:St Albans,United Kingdom

Cette semaine

I went to see the XX and then I went to a wedding in Whitstable. I had a fine time at both things. I'm currently frying eggs on my chest as I got proper windburn. I have felt like I have taken a shit load of valium all day along with shaky legs and an inability to concentrate. I'd have gone with the flow if I wasn't at work. But I was. So I wanted to go to bed and die. Which is exactly what I'm gonna do now. Photos and anecdotes to follow - mwah mwah

Bologna

So last weekend I packed up my (very small) bag to go to Bologna to see Anne in Italy. I was very excited as;

1: I've never been to Italy;

2: It has been some time since I have seen Anne in real life as opposed to email; and

3: I've not been out of the country (Ireland doesn't count) for around 18 months and I was in much need of a change of scenery.

On Thursday Laylo, Amy and I set out in the Mini-Mobile straight from work. Our efforts to leave at 16:30 were hampered somewhat by an incompetent but no matter, we're going on holiday and what's leaving half an hour later between friends.

Then I got us lost. And we sat on the big road that goes from London to the M1 via Hanger Lane for around an hour. In the baking heat. With only one window able to open. But no matter, we're going on holiday!

We finally got to our first destination encompassing food and cocktails. I did a historical tour of the city encompassing an abbey, a wall, a really old street, some fake windows and a Tudor house that I couldn't actually find. Ah well. Cocktails will make my historical tour complete. And it did. Out we sat in the English Summer sun. Alas, the calm was punctuated by a very drunk, very odd man wandering around the garden seemingly look for some friends. Please note some friends. Not *his* friends. Luckily my off the cuff intelligence spared us from him sitting with us. I rebutted his advances with the age old, "Errrrrrr my boyfriend is meeting us". Which was a semi lie. There was a vague plan for us to meet him but he got drunk far away instead. Treat em mean, keep em keen and all that.

So the odd man decided to tell 2 of the 3 girls that they were pretty. The 3rd girl was pretty stoic about the rejection. To be honest, he was quite scruffy. However, it was the waggling of his crotch in the 2 lucky ladies direction that was a sight to behold. He added that he would give them "a large portion". It was about then that I truly lamented my quick fire wit and wished he had sat with us.

Arriving home we decided it would be absolutely brilliant to stay up until 1 even though we had to leave for the airport at 3:30. Basically, when I crawled out of bed I actually felt sick. If I had know what would have met us at Stansted I would have stayed in bed.

We had no real option but to fly Ryanair and due to my absolute abhorrence of Ryanair I absolutely refuse to check in bags (It's a long story but the short version is my whole family once nearly got thrown off for being rowdy about duty free, carry on baggage and whether duty free is carry on at all. We were let on but my Irish father was called a racist against the Irish by the Irish man at Dublin airport which, for the avoidance of doubt, is in Ireland).

We put our bags through that crazy machine and it turns out all 3 of us were liquid criminals. No. Really. Criminals. My arse actually clenched when the woman approached me to berate me for daring to take on, hang on, steady yourself, a 200ml can of deodorant. I know. I've let my family down, I've let my friends down, but most of all I let myself down. There is no word to describe the lady (lady is used at a stretch) who checked my bag as a total and utter twunt (or twatcunt, whichever you prefer). It appeared that she was mortally offended by my inability to sift my liquids and took it quite personally as opposed to how I believe a normal person would take it - this is my shit fucking job and I am a drone whose job has the one perk of taking confiscated liquids home that are expensive at the end of the day because I am a badly paid pikey.

She commenced our exchange with the winning line, "Have you flown in the last 4 years?". I won't bore you with all the exchange because I'll start to shake with anger like I did at FIVE IN THE MORNING IN THE AIRPORT. But the upshot was that dry shampoo is a liquid. I also managed to not lose my temper and spoke properly and correctly at all times. Which I know means that I sound really patronising. It's the little things. This meant that when she asked me some inane question and I started answering it fully and politely, pronouncing my words properly and using long words like I was taught at law school, she lost her rag with me and told me to be quiet as she didn't like my attitude. I asked politely, what attitude and that I was actually only speaking to answer her question. Politely. She opened and closed her mouth a few times like a guppy. I assumed that I was allowed to speak from then on.

It was unfortunate for her that really my deodorant was too big and she decided that dry shampoo was a liquid because that's literally all she managed to get off of me to throw away but she tried. Boy did she try. It would not be unfair to say that she kept me there for 10 minutes going through my bag and fucking up my packing. The highlights for me were:

Her attempting to put a packet of bobby pins in the pile of liquids and arguing with me over whether they were liquids. In the end I tipped them out. It's difficult to say whether it was the metallic clatter with which they hit the counter or whether the fact that once they were out they were BLATANTLY METAL BOBBY PINS WHICH ARE SOLID that made her concede defeat.

She then took my sun block which I use for my tattoos and attempted to put it in the liquids pile. Perhaps it was the embarrassment from the bobby pin encounter which made her actually open the lid to inspect the item when I said it was solid as opposed to arguing blindly with me as she had previously. Back it went in to the allowed pile.

Sensing that MAC glitter might be expensive she took a punt and chucked it in to the liquid pile. By this point I thought it easier to speak in small words with as few syllables as possible so I said, "That's not a liquid." She wasn't giving this up easily. Oh no. Who knew a 50 year old woman would be in to red MAC glitter? "Is it a gel?" I replied in the negative. Not to be bested by this well spoken upstart she tipped a little out to prove her point. Negative. No point proved. It was quite clearly just glitter in a jar. I could have told her she was an idiot at this point but I decided against it. I wanted to get to Italy. So I settled for a smug smile.

There was then some debate about dry shampoo as I had assumed it was compressed powder in a can as opposed to a liquid proper but in any event I conceded defeat. As I pointed out to her, this *is* her job. Her specialist subject is liquids after all. She attempted to prove her point by shaking the shampoo can actually in my face (as in if she had shook it, it would have taken out my glasses and an eyeball) but made clear my distaste at her shaking by saying, woooooooooah. She apologised. An apology! From the mardy arse liquid cow! Roll out the banners, this is truly a day for rejoicing! Then I went to duty free.

I've written quite enough about the preceding events so I will cut to the chase and state that the flight was uneventful and we made it in one piece to Bologna. But not quite as liquidy.

Alas, we were unable to check in to the hotel until 14:00 so Anne and her lovely boyfriend, Andrea, attempted to check us in early but to no avail. We dumped our bags and they brought us in to old Bologna to have a wander around whilst they did some errands and we could meet later.

It was fucking boiling. 40 degrees. To have some cover we decided to go and see a church. There was a bizarre lady hanging around the entrance who seemingly couldn't speak at all. As we attempted to enter she tapped us on the shoulders. Ah yes. Old school. No entry to churches unless our shoulders are covered. Whilst this seemed odd as the practice is as antiquated as wearing a hat to mass on a Sunday I whacked my cardigan on. Did I mention it's 40 degrees? Again we tried to pass - the 3 of us not unlike Billy Goats Gruff - but the troll, I mean lady, wanted money for safe passage. Having just got off the plane none of us had anything smaller than a 20. Bollocks. I mean, oh no, seeing as we're in a house of God. Luckily MammyB had given me some change and I chucked a fiver in to her paper cup. In we walked. Isn't it lovely? So peaceful? Who is this man walking towards us shooing us out? It appears he's a priest or a deacon? What is this? It's 12:00 and the church will shut for 2 hours. So we have paid a fiver to come in to a church for 10 minutes. Wow. We were properly shafted. Then I had a think about it and thought about how churches give sanctuary and I've never paid to enter a church. Oh. We were shafted by a gypsy. Great. And it's 40 degrees. And I'm wearing a fucking cardigan.

We killed some time with lunch and managed to go back to the hotel for a nap. Then we got up and went on an adventure in to the hills that surround Bologna. It was beautiful and (finally) just the right temperature although the ice cold bottles of Corona that were thoughtfully provided by our hosts went some way to making the trip more pleasant.

We then drove up to the top of the hills to a massively beautiful church before coming back down and having dinner at Andrea's house on the terrace overlooking Bologna old town.

Finishing dinner we went for a wander around the streets and had possibly the best ice cream I have actually ever eaten. We ended up on sort of palazzo square thing where there was a bar and a DJ. I'm not sure if this has been previously documented but I love to dance. And it was very clear that we were English and everyone else in the place was Italian. Whilst we were going for it a la Lady Gaga the Italians were dancing exactly like that Mystery Jets video I posted a while ago, all 80s foot shuffle. Loved it.

When we made it back home we passed out and got up the next day. There had been talk of this tower and climbing this tower and I wasn't so fussed about the 40 degree heat when thinking about this tower. It's probably because the heat made my brain turn in to mashed potato and forget the meaning of the word tower. Long story short, there are two massive fricking towers that you can climb to see amazing views. Typically, the smaller of the two is leaning so you can't climb it because it's dangerous. So the upshot is this:

See that 4th photo? See that really fucking massive tower on the right hand side? *I* gave money to *someone else* for the "privilege" of climbing *that tower*. Let me repeat that:

*I* gave money to *someone else* for the "privilege" of climbing *that tower*.

I am a fucking mentalist. The only upside is that when I got to the top there was a lovely breeze which kinda made it worthwhile. The view was also pretty special. Then *I* climbed *back down* the massive fucking tower and nearly passed out.

To placate me we went and ate pizza that was actually bigger than my head. And we had one each. And obviously I didn't finish it. We then wandered around looking for a bar and came across one pretty close to our hotel. Off we went inside for some mojitos. And stumbled across a merry band of people who actually wouldn't look out of place in what I imagine the Voltari from those Twilight novels were like as teens. Or maybe a Dan Brown novel extras. They were wearing robes with lots of badges attached and there was a Queen (as in a woman in charge, not a screechy gay man, although she was pretty fucking screechy) and they were downing red wine. There was some sort of hierarchy and it seemed that a man with no hat, no cape and no badges but who was part of the group was being slung out of the bar because someone superior to him decided he didn't want him there. Now I can't speak Italian so I'm sure you're wondering how I know this. I know this because they were pouring red wine on his head from a great height and he looked pretty cross about it. Where as in London this would have been sorted out with some fisticuffs and a night in the cells this is evidently not how they roll in Italy. Out came the screechy Queen (imagine Queenie from Blackadder. Yes? You're there). She screeched a bit and he fucked off. Done. And then we headed home to ensure that the spectacle we had just witnessed was us not tripping our nuts off from intense heat and pizza overload.