Fucking Crow

I hear rumour of yet another strike planned by members of the RMT (and TSSA) over a row about staff safety (or was that pensions? or job descriptions? or the fact that they have to buy their own Rich Tea fucking biscuits? or not wear dangly earrings?)…

Now I know (and you know) that I know nothing (absolutely nothing) about politics or current affairs, but I do know that seemingly every fucking year Bob Fucking Crow gets the 7,000 odd members of his union all fired up about something to do with working for the Tube resulting in misery for days on end for us customers (as I pay a massive amount of money every year to wait in the rain for ½ hour whilst being told there is a “good service operating on all lines” before squeezing myself into a dirty, stinky, rat piss drenched compartment and then sitting in a tunnel waiting for signals to fail; I am a customer).

Granted, if I was part of a union that could bring 99% of the working population of London, the Government, the Mayor and all those fucking over-paid useless gob-shites that run the transport network to their knees every 5 minutes, I would probably be delighted to get yet another few days off to piss about – however, I don’t.

I come from the old school whereby you go to work, on time, suitably attired, every single day without causing a fuss. I’ve never sought compensation for harassment cause my boss told me to do something. I’ve never tried to sue for mental anguish because I got upset that my boss didn’t say please, and I’ve never gone on strike cause of some load of old tosh about uniforms, or shifts, or teabags or pens or whatever… I mean, for the love of God if you don’t want to do the job anymore just fucking don’t. Leave. Get another job. Do something else with your life.

But please don’t fucking insult me by going on strike cause you say that your safety is being put at risk because LU want to close some more ticket offices … I mean isn’t it actually just my inconvenience that I can’t buy my £120 a month ticket from the ticket office and instead have to use the billion pound ticket machines that I’ve help pay for… so what’s that got to do with your safety you bloody sherkas? You didn't go on strike when nearly all the bloody toilets got closed did you? Oh no. That, to you, wasn't a safety issue was it? The fact that sometimes my journey takes so fucking long I nearly piss myself before I can get to a loo doesn't concern you at all... that particular slip hazzard doesn't even cross your mind does it? Do you think I'm stupid? If you worked in the toilets and not the ticket office you would have gone on strike then wouldn't you? Oh yes, THEN it would have been a safety issue wouldn't it?

Oh and whilst I’m at it – listen to this quote from the TSSA general secretary - "This is a dispute about the safety of our Tube system. The last people we want to hit are the travelling public but this seems to be the only way we can make LU listen." Cock.

Slummy Reader

It’s an outrageous thing to say – but say it I will. There is a down side to getting crate loads of lovely free books whilst working for The Big W. I have discovered it. This very morning.

I finished reading The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy in the bath this morning. I got to the last page and thought “Hang on there one cotton picking minute…I’ve read that line before” and then I cursed for a bit and all wet and sloppy and naked went to my new fabulous bookcase that Boo built for me, and my eyes scanned the shelves. Left and right. Right and left. And there, winking, smirking and batting its eyelids at me was the original proof I’d read back in February 2006. I thought I’d done a sterling job with the whole ‘keep the actual, ditch the proof’ exercise when I moved in to the new place. But no. One little duplicate got past my cataloguing obsession. Damn it. I’ve now wasted precious reading time that I could have spent on one of the other trillion books that I promised Boo I would read before he would let me buy any more…. and that includes a ban on buying the new Sophie Kinsella, Jenny Colgan, Veronica Henry and Cecelia Ahern!! I ask you! Could not be more pissed off if I tried. But you would think, would you not, that at some point before the very last page, I would have realised that I’d been down the Slummy Mummy route before? So is that an indication that I really loved the book and it felt new and fresh despite being a re-read, or an indication that I have, in fact, the brain of a goldfish, or much much more worryingly, an indication that I’ve read so much mummy lit that I can’t distinguish one from another…

Not so much.

Last Thursday was The Mother of the Brides birthday so I took her for an early bird special at Clos Maggorie and then onto the Coliseum to see the most hotly anticipated dance event of the Season. Back in August 1999 I was privileged enough to see the Stars of the New York Ballet at the RFH, but the entire New York Ballet hasn’t appeared in London for some 25 years. So you can imagine how excited I was to get a couple of seats for Programme 3 which promised to be spectacular…

Was it the best darn thing I ever did see?

Not so much to be honest. I had kind of forgotten that the NYB dance Balanchine…and I’d forgotten that I’m not really that keen on that sort of defined, robotic movement… Don’t get me wrong some of it was amazing, and it’s so incredibly precise and quick that some of it did take my breath away. But am I sorry that I only caught the one performance? Not so much to be honest.

New Plan?

I have reached a defining decision making moment I think…

Despite the fact that I have ballooned to a size 22 and weigh over 17 stone, despite the fact that in three months I have to both run 10k for charity and buy my wedding dress, and despite the fact that I have never felt more disgusting or repugnant in all my years - I have already eaten a Cadbury Crème Egg, two home baked rolls with butter, 2 pears, 1 apple, 1 plum and a portion of left over stir fry noodles today.

I think I need to just accept the fact that I will never look or feel good enough to have sex again and never again wear clothes that I have chosen because I like them as opposed to because they fit.

I will instead just buy lots of Spanx underwear, stop moaning and crying about my size and weight, and die a hideous slow death as a result of high blood pressure, heart disease or diabetes.

Good plan?

TV Heaven

I didn’t get to watch the final of DoI 3 (being in Brussels as I was) but I have been tipped off that that blond bird who was in Hear'say won. Am obviously pissed off cause my Michael Underwood replacement – Zhara from Corry – made it to the final, and I would have been quid’s in if she’d done the honours. Ho. Hum.

New Work sweepstake number two is about to kick off. I love The Apprentice. I don’t care what anyone says. It’s bloody great fun. I fear however, that my lucky dip candidate Sara Dhada is going to be trouble. Anyone who says things like "I’m a true example of pure class and elegance. I don’t try to be glamorous – I'm just naturally like that" is bound to be a complete and utter pain in the arse, and I already hate her a little bit. However, I'm thanking my lucky stars that I didn't pick this gobshite out of the hat.... is that a wig on it's head???

Are you Belscheek?

There was much more to see, eat, drink and do in Brussels than I had imagined. Lots of gorgeous architecture, raspberry beer, moules, waffles....it was all good. The Sister and I managed to not strangle The Mother, and a thoroughly good time was had by all.

Here are a couple of snaps for your viewing pleasure.

Thirteen

Many many many moons ago, ex Le Grande Fromage, the Most Important Man in the Booktrade, and almost completely bald chap Scott Pack recommended Thirteen on his (in)famous blog as being the best thing he read in 2007.

It took me bloody ages to open the copy I had.... and I finally finished it a wee while ago.

It completely baffled me I have to say and as someone who's not so bright - I was both confused and delighted by it. The author was a taxi driver in Brighton in real REAL life, and this novel is a first person narrative of Stephen Bardot, a, wait for it, taxi driver in Brighton who permanently works the night shift following his family business collapsing and a bout of extreme depression.

I am relatively well acquainted with the lack of sleep phenomenon that effects those of us blessed with either guilt induced insomnia, weak bladders, or just stupid get-up/go-to-bed ratios - that is; that the brain is a wild and crazy thing that can turn the world on its head if it feels a touch fat-i-gay. So the notion that there is a particular state of mind to be reached when excruciatingly tired - Thirteen - doesn’t seem all that unbelievable to me. The idea that what is really real, and what is Thirteen real can become so all discombobulated and merge into one state of extreme consciousness also didn’t strike me as completely unbelievable - and as such I completely bought into the premise of this book....

It kind of scared me a bit as well as making me smile gently at times, and all together I was left feeling strangely warmed at the end...is it the best book I've read so far in 2008? No. But then, I know nothing about nothing.

What (not) a difference a week makes

Has been nearly 7 whole days since I last blogged. Where on earth, or indeed, what on earth I've been doing is a mystery.

To summarise. That wagon I said I had fallen off of, and climbed back onto (again) appears to have melted away below me - and I am now firmly back riding the carb donkey. (For example - Boo and I ate some 18 packets of crisps on Sunday). I can't even bring myself to go on (and on and on) about it again. So I won't. Bored doesn't even begin to cover it.

Friday last, The Girls and I went round Birthday Girl Lorrie's to sample some of her special Nana's Italian Recipe Pasta Sauce. It's amazing how she can make a few tins of tommy-artoes, some garlic, some oil and some sprigs of green stuff taste so damn good. She did us a nice salad and some garlic balls as well - and treated us to a special Lemon Torte from Waitrose. The most amazing thing of the night was though that firstly we all ate around a table for pretty much the first time ever (how grown up are we) and secondly Lady Beves had seconds. Yes, seconds. Of pasta. The world has gone crazy I tell you.

Saturday morning was assigned to The Chores. There was laundry, ironing, tidying, the never ending de-fuzzing, shopping... even a touch of cooking. Then Boo came on over, and we quickly changed into our jim-jam-jarma-pegs for some serious down-time. We didn't change out of them there PJ's till Monday morning. Bliss.

Nothing to report this week - yet - but am expecting much excitment over the next few days. New Work is holding its Annual Conference tomorrow in a cinema. I will go to sleep dreaming of popcorn and Slush Puppies tonight. New Work is then celebrating its 21st birthday with a big old fandango on Thursday night. I am imagining a cheese and pineapple hedgehog and some cake. I trust I won't be disappointed. I am then off to celebrate The Mother's 65th birthday with The Sister in Brussels. We are partaking of some Champagne Bar at St Pancras before boarding the Eurotrash, and staying in a god-damn gorgeous hotel .... I am imagining hours of chocolate choosing, buying and eating.... Oh God.

Lorrie Banana

We (The Girls) celebrated Lorrie's birthday on Saturday by the way.

We know it was a successful night, by the fact that we got asked to move from our table in the restaurant to the bar.

Here are some photo's of the night.

How beautiful are all my friends....??

Do you see why I have such issues with self loathing now?!

Gutted

I fell of The Rules wagon about a month ago. I know. You must be shocked and horrified, amazed and bemused at that news. Me…? Not so much really.

But today, I’ve woken up all positive and ready to commit again.

Again.

So, to remind myself as much as you – here they are again.

1. Do not buy groceries from M&S, and ensure all groceries I do buy are ones on special or on offer in some way.
2. Recycle as much of my rubbish as I can.
3. Moisturise and scrub my hands and my body (and my lips) and keep my toe and finger nails painted and looking fabulous.
4. Take packed lunches to work as much as possible, and drink at least two big bottles of squash a day (instead of diet coke) and limit the coffee to three mugs a day.
5. Do a 15 minute brisk walk every day.
6. Always eat my dinner at the table and use my food diary to log my daily calorie intake, which should total 2000 a day max.
7. Save £200 into the Wedding Fund a month, and go out with Boo once a month….

See, not hard. Not particularly complicated or difficult. And yet – seemingly impossible to stick to.