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.