Maniac

MonsieurB calls me a maniac but really the joke is on him because I'm his girlfriend and he has to deal with me. On a daily basis. 

It has been an epically long time since August. I'm ready to hibernate. I'm keeping my eyes on the prize til Friday when I have a week off. In the interim, I have a shed load of socialising to do as well as Christmas shopping. Highlight of the Christmas season has been Friends' Christmas (not a re-run of David Schwimmer et al) and receiving a teacup based fascinator. Some people in the pub cussed it. MonsieurB was going to knock them out. I was knocked out on gin so didn't really give a shit about the haters. Who were wearing Jack Wills. I rest my case. 

Basically I don't think you understand how much I want this. It's totally impractical. Shorts with long sleeves and a high neck. It's a nonsense! But I am determined to get my legs out whilst I can because soon I'll be old and no one wants to see wrinkly thighs. 

DISCLAIMER: I will not be buying this because it is £150 and even that is a step too far for me. I will stalk ebay looking for it. After I have been to the shop to try it on to make sure I get the right size. 

[As a total aside I made a friend in a make up shop today. She was lovely. And made me look human having been told by a work colleague that I still look sick and I should go home at lunch, or immediately, whichever I preferred. We bonded over a love of Smashbox Primer, Sali Hughes and trying to run our mascaras out to buy the new YSL mascara. I like shop girls who pretend to be your friend. But not too much of a friend. Just enough.]

The last week has been hellish. H.E.L.L.I.S.H.

Feeling a bit peaky on Tuesday I went to work commenting on my way through the door first thing how I felt a bit wrong. Fast forward 5 hours later and I was at Conference excusing myself in front of clients to run to the bathroom and barf like a model backstage at Chanel. 

Crawling home on the train I thought a good sleep would do me a good. It didn't. Cue 4 days of being unable to keep anything in me at all. ANYTHING. I basically crawled out of bed to the bathroom, emptied my stomach of everything within and then crawled back to bed to sleep. The only time I wasn't asleep was when my stomach cramped so much the pain woke me up and I knew I had to crawl to the bathroom again. For four days. FOUR DAYS. It got so bad my lips were chapped to ras and I couldn't drink enough to keep myself going. You know you're in trouble when you lie down and you feel like you've got a pain in kidneys that's akin to Ryan Gosling kicking you like you've just tried to kill him a lift in Drive. 

So the obvious thing to do when you've not kept water in for over 48 hours and you're not even thinking about food is to go to the doctor.

Me: Can I have an emergency appointment please?

Receptionist: Why?

WHY? WHY? Because I fancied coming to your place of disease to pick up disease for giggles. I heart disease.

Me: I've not been able to keep anything down for over 48 hours

Receptionist: Have you tried starving yourself?

Me: *silent* *withering silence* *ongoing silence* *still going*

Receptionist: Er....starving? Yourself? Starving?

Me: *more silence* - Yes. *pause* I've tried starving myself

Receptionist: Oh. You had better come in then

Oh had I? Do you think? Do you fucking think you stupid fucking bitch?

To make this clear. This is the same surgery that wrote me a shitty letter about going for a smear test and the dangers of lady garden cancer and the like. I went along like I should have. Then never got a result. Ringing up I was assured no result was good news. Whilst I appreciate the 'no news is good news' mantra when it comes to, I don't know, the delivery of a parcel by Royal Mail my lady garden is a bit of a different story so I asked for written confirmation anyway. Then the receptionist IN THE SAME CALL actually READ the screen and found out that they had sent me a letter for a test by accident and I'm not due til May next year. I commented that that's fine, surely it'll just start to run from my last one and what's my result. Guess what. Because I wasn't due and only went because of their FUCK UP they didn't bother testing my swab. 

For the ones with vaginas here let me say this again:

They. Didn't. Test. My. Swab. 

After. Writing. Me. A. Shitty. Letter.

And. I. Went. For. A. Pointless. Test. 

I know, I know ladies. Unclench your vaginas now. I felt your sympathy clench. I did. And thanks. It's much appreciated. 

Turns out though the doctors aren't much better. Literally crying in the doctor's room because the merest sip of water was exiting me more quickly than it had entered and I had never been this ill before I was calmly told that I would have to be like this for ten days (that's 10. TEN. The number after nine, 9) before they'd worry. Now I'm no doctor. Or a nurse. But on those survival programmes and I don't know, ANY HOSPITAL PROGRAMME ON THE TELEVISION they say that five days without water causes your main organs to start to shut down. So I hazarded a guess and decided that after ten days I'd be dead. My mum, who is an ITU nurse, confirmed this. Whilst standing on helplessly whilst her eldest child cried and writhed in agony in a bed that was beginning to take on a MademoiselleB shaped hole where I'd lay for so long. 

Obviously I'm not dead. Slowly, I started to keep things down. I'm still not 100% but at least I'm not so tired I can't even contemplate going downstairs to get a drink. And I can literally eat like a sparrow, little and often and really bland food. But at least I'm not dead. No thanks to my fricking GP. 

Good Deeds

Whilst Selfridges always has a place in my heart there is no doubt that I am a little bit in love with Liberty. I think it started with their Tea restaurant (that has sadly departed although I got to have a champagne afternoon tea with Maddison before it did. Sick amounts of food, light on the wallet). 

It has then continued as they always stock lovely quirk and I love me a bit of quirk. Until the start of this year they stocked the most beautiful wallets from a NZ designer. I was obsessed with them. Every time I went in I'd stand and um and ah over them before deciding £120 was too much for a wallet when I had a perfectly serviceable UO one. 

Then I got a fake Marc Jacobs one (all the culture of the Philippines was not lost on me, no Siree). And then it was stolen. I'm quite zen about it now. I still lament the loss of

1: A photograph of me and MonsieurB looking quite, quite Chinese. He always hated it. I wouldn't be surprised if paid someone to nick my wallet he hated it that much

2: A fortune cookie fortune that read, "You are extremely attractive to the opposite sex"

3: My Nandos card that was one stamp away from a whole chicken

The rest is replacable. The above is not. 

Whilst surfing ASOS last night I found they are now stocking said beautiful wallets. Still for £120 but reduced to £77 in one of their current and numerous 25% off sales. I decided to check out the main site for myself to see if I could get it any cheaper. Low and behold my favourite (and limited edition) is in the sale. Probably because it was designed in 2006 and she really needs to get rid of them. 

I duly added it to my cart for 28 euros and went to pay. But Paypal done a messy and charged me 28 US dollars. Which is much less than 28 euros. I could have mugged off an independent designer whose work I've coveted for 3 years. I could have. But I didn't. I emailed her and asked her if Paypal had fucked up or if she was being extra generous. Guess what Paypal is evil.

She said in her email though, "Thank you so much for your honestly and letting me know about this fault". And that was a nice feeling. So yeah. Then a work colleague gave me a hug for being a good person. Then I walked out of the office and bitched about how much I hate this girl who wants my desk. So much so that she actually comes around to my desk on a daily basis and blatantly asks me to my face when I'm going to be leaving. She is a massive, massive twat. (And the world is right again).

Also. I really want that Bart Simpson bustier. More than life itself. But I reckon I could get Illustration Monkey, I mean MonsieurB, to do a better Bart than that and then I can do some rinky dink attachment to a H&M special and Voila - $40 saved. Which is probably how much it would cost to do it myself. But you know. Let's not dwell on that. 

Bon Anniversaire/HOW MUCH?

This weekend MonsieurB and I spent a late 30th celebration few days in Shoreditch House and general fancypantsness. Generally it was lovely apart from MonsieurB throwing a very small strop because I am a BadGirlfriend. I'd disagree. Would a BadGirlfriend book The Ivy so he would SHUT UP saying how a good girlfriend would book it for his 30th? No. She would not. So I'm a QuasiBadGirlfriend. Which is fine by me. 

And briefly:

-> The staff in Shoreditch House are incredibly rude. And they need to put their cups and saucers in the dishwasher more often

-> I was an actual GLUTTON the whole weekend but it's not every day you get to eat perfect ox cheek or have roast potatoes with burgers of have a three course meal at The Ivy which is amazeballs from start to finish. 

-> I was mainly a BadGirlfriend for getting drunk, coming in at 4ish am and insisting I wasn't drunk and then drinking red wine in bed. When MonsieurB had to be up at 8ish am. And not telling him I would be back late. In my defence I assumed he'd be in bed so didn't text him. Yeah. I'm a QuasiBadGirlfriend. 

-> Which means the AP knickers that have Love, Honour and Disobey embroidered on the back of them sum up perfectly our relationship. 

Bacon Lube

For the pork lover in your life - or not in your life as the case may be.

 via Jezebel

Update

So you can get an idea. I'm sat here in my pretty dress and shoes on. They match perfectly. I have greasy hair and look like someone's mental old aunt. 

NOW the sartorial dilemma is to tight or not to tight. I say not tight as if I wear black tights I'll look I'm off to a funeral. If I wear a coloured tight I'll look like The Saturdays. Yeah. Funeral over Saturdays every time. My sister says black tight. But I'm fashion forward. So I'm going to go not tight and realise that 

1: It's just one fucking night

2: There will be no photographic evidence of said night

3: No one cares anyway

4: If it was my wedding it would be a different matter entirely

So my meltdown is over. And the more I look at "those fucking boots" as they are now known in Mademoiselle/Monsieur/B land the more they will go with in my wardrobe. I've already put them with a lovely pencil skirt. Perhaps it's time I had one pair of not completely whackjob mental shoes. Just the one.