Not So Much...

Not last weekend, but the weekend before, I spent a lovely 2 days in The Country with The Family. The Niece was on top form and we had a splendid time with Thomas (The Tank Engine) on Saturday with some face painting thrown in for good measure.

On Sunday we had a not such a splendid time with a weird lady and some puppets at “Three Billy Goats”. Half way through the show, The Sister asked The Niece “Are you enjoying it”. The answer? “Not so much”. I don’t blame her. It couldn’t have been duller if it tried.






This weekend just gone, I took The Mother to the matinee of Hamlet at Sadler’s Wells, with a Prix Fix at The Fish Shop for lunch.



Now, I would be lying if I said I knew the story of Hamlet off by heart, but I do know that there weren’t many Nazi’s in the version I read at school. However, David Nixon’s new version of the tale of revenge and betrayal took us to 1940’s occupied Paris with Hamlet as a young man returning home from the front line to find his dad dead and his mum married to his uncle. There are lots of Swastika flags and Nazi uniforms, Claudius is now the head of police and Poloniusa a member of the Gestapo; and, instead of drowning, Ophila meets her demise via a gang rape from a group of soldiers. Not so nice, a little bit crazy, but as is usual for the Northern, brilliantly produced, choreographed and danced.

Chillies

I bought some new pants last night on the way to the gym.

I bought three pairs.

For £10.

They are cotton and comfy and fit nice.

One pair is bright cerise and very very soft.

One pair is black and white and stripy, and has a little enamel cherry charm at the front. (I have them on right now.)

One pair is white with a little black ‘boudoir babe' design and lacy bits around the top with a pink ribbon.

I love my new pants.

They have cheered me up no end.

That is all for today.

Blog Tag

I have been blog-tagged by Scott Pack at Me and My Big Mouth.

It seems to be a sort of blog equivalent to the original chain letter type thing, which of course I’d normally dismiss and delete, but old habits regarding doing as Le Grande Fromage tells me to die hard… his wish has always been my command… so firstly I have to list six random things about myself.

One – I was number 2 in the Culture Club Fan Club. It was based above a shop in Northwood Hills, which by chance was where I went to my (second) secondary school, having been asked to leave my first… sort of. Wednesday was either “do PE” or “do community work” day. So when I was supposed to be either bouncing on a trampoline at the local sports hall or clearing up vomit at the Sunshine Home, I was infact hanging out at the CCFC office, posting out signed photos of George or Jon to other fans… oh happy happy days.

Two – NYJO (National Youth Jazz Orchestra) played at my 21st birthday bash. A beautiful version of “Somewhere” morphed into “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts”… I’ve always been rather busty.

Three – I am blessed with a very long tongue and can touch both my nose and chin with it…

Four – I was allegedly a budding mathematician in my youth, and was invited to attend a genius kid maths course which was held for two hours every Saturday morning at the Civic Centre in Uxbridge throughout the Summer of 1984 (or thereabouts). To this day I’m convinced my details got switched with some other nerd…

Five – My Sister and I used to fight terribly when we were little. I was a nasty piece of work, and prone to the fibbing to get myself out of trouble. I once bit her on the chest and swore blind that a blackbird had flown down from a tree and pecked her. She never told on me, and to this day I still feel guilty for it.

Six – I’ve done lots of different jobs in many different industries, but to this day my favourite ever place to work was behind the bar of a club Up Town in my very early 20’s. I was put in charge of the cocktail lounge, and can remember almost every recipe of the 72 drinks on the menu I created…

Right, six things listed I now have to nominate and tag six other people to do this …

Firstly, it’s got to be The Packfordshire himself.

Then the delightful and sexy Catherine Townsend .

My most favourite cake porn – and the people I’m going to get to do my wedding cupcakes.

The lady who once said I was efficient, utterly organised, bright, responsive and original, Emma from Snowbooks.

The Urban Bridesmaid blog , for no other reason than Boo and I might be booking her for the wedding…

And lastly, but not least-ly my ginger chum from the Big W.

So then, if these six people decide to play (although obviously Scott already has) the rules for them are:

To link back to me

Post these same rules on their blog

Write six random things on their own blog

Tag another 6 people in the post

Let those six people know they are being tagged, by leaving a comment on their blog

Then let me know when their own entry is posted….

Confused? You will be!

Dreaming

One of my favourite authors, Lisa Jewell, did a great 60 second interview in today’s Metro.

Gay Paris

On Saturday it was off on the Eurotrash again, this time to celebrate The Sisters 40th birthday with some champagne breakfast and lunch. Lovely time was had by us all - and here are some snaps to prove that.

Slick

Last night I took my lovely friend Louise to the Linbury Studio at the ROH to see Ballet Black , who I’ve heard of before, but never seen.

Blimey, they n'half slick.

Just six dancers, three ladies and three chaps form Ballet Black, and last night they treated us to just over an hour of amazing stage presence and class.

The first two dances were by far my favourites. Walk Through a Storm, the first classical piece by Richard Alston in 25 years was beautiful. All pointwork and pirouettes – it was both quirky and graceful, and the music (Beethoven) was perfect.
The second piece was Shobana Jeyasingh’s first ever creation – and it took my breath away. All red rubber skirts and tight denim body suits it was high energy and incredibly quick. It reminded me in some ways of “House of Flying Daggers”, in a very good way.

The 20 Year War

About 20 years ago my boyfriend at the time (former love-of-my-life) told me that I was just too damn fat for him to want to sleep with anymore, and threatened to leave me if I didn’t loose weight. I was probably a size 16/18 or so, and still had the relatively OK toned physique that an 18 year old can get away with. I joined a gym called Flex and stopped eating anything other than apples. After a while, I lost some weight and was a comfortable 14/16. Said boyfriend didn’t leave me, but did start sleeping with almost every other woman that crossed his path. Some 10 years later we finally split up. By then I was comfort eating morning, noon and night and he had got the women next door pregnant.

About 15 years ago I joined Weight Watchers (for the first time), and lost about 2 stone by religiously following the suggested daily food plans. I became THE MOST boring food commentator ever… (e.g. – Do you know how many points are in that apple/tablespoon of peas/chunk of cheese/portion of pasta?...) and it was almost a relief to give it all up and start eating cakes again.

About 10 years ago I was living with my gay best friends and they coerced, encouraged and supported me back down to a size 16/18. At that time I was single and had the confidence of a woman half my size. I had lovers coming out of my ears and had the best time of my life. I was also pro-plus-ing off my nut every day.

About 7 years ago I met Boo. I stopped being single. My gay best friends had long since abandoned me and the carbs then found me. I got happy, got lazy and got fat.

Just over 5 years ago my dad died. I stopped working out, I stopped caring, I stopped stopping when I was full. I was never full. I ate and ate, and I ate all the wrong things. It neither bought my dad back, or filled the whole he left. But I carried on eating anyway.

In January last year I stopped smoking and started eating more.

In February last year my worst fears were confirmed when Boo (the actual love-of-my-life) admitted that he struggles to find me physically attractive anymore. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t either.

Almost exactly one year ago I started my food/weight/exercise spreadsheet, and weighed 104kg. I kept up the spreadsheet for about a month. I lost pretty much no weight, despite filling in the spreadsheet every day.

At the beginning of this year I started writing everything down in a lovely red notebook. I was about 15 ½ stone. That lasted about a month. I got bored and lazy.

I registered with my new doctors’ surgery today. I weigh 111kg. Nearly 18 stone. Twice the weight I should be.

I now feel hopeless and lost as well as bored and disgusted. I hate myself for not having that switch that most people seem to have that makes them
a) stop eating when they are full
b) stick to three good meals and two small snacks a day
c) eat healthily
d) keep treats as a rarity rather than a rule

My friends are as kind and supportive as any friends could be. They try and encourage and they listen and they all offer their help and advice all the time. They are all good looking and various shades of slim and toned. I’m not saying they don’t all have their issues – God knows they do – but none of them can possibly know just how it feels to be 18 stone, because not one of them is over 11 at a push.

I am due to get married in just over a year. I do not want to wear a size 22 wedding dress, but I just don’t know what to do.

Almost worth the licence fee.

Monday, I watched the controversial Immigration: The Inconvenient Truth with the rather dreamy Rageh Omaar. Investigating how immigration has affected the UK, Rageh used Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech from 40 odd years ago as a starting point to find out whether his visions of future Britain have come true. Some of the results of the specially commissioned yougov survey about the opinions of the native white population really didn’t surprise me, what did though was the views of some of the settled second or third generation immigrants towards newcomers… who knew that that level of anger and resentment was floating about? I look forward to Parts 2 and 3 with great interest.


Tuesday saw the long awaited return of Gay Breast Lover Gok Wan, and his How to Look Good Naked. Now some clever wag as already suggested the best way to look good naked it to turn the light off – but Gok believes that with some Spanx support pants and self perception alteration any women can feel good about herself regardless of size, shape and imagined flaws…

I was tempted to apply to the show once, until I saw the length of the application process and gave up. Some shrink would probably have a field day with that little admission. I do however genuinely love seeing these women who start the show standing in front of the 360° mirror in their awful sports bras and grey old lady pants, and emerge like butterflies by the end of the show in heels and corsets shouting about how damn sexy they look. By association I to believe that I can look good naked – until I remember I don’t own any Spanx, I can’t walk in high heels, and I don’t have a 35 year old gay man hanging about eager to tell me how great my bangers are….

If only…

Then tonight its episode 3 of The Apprentice. Personally I think The Sugar made a right balls up last week – from the edited cuts we saw Shazia was stitched up like a kipper by Jenny Celery – but I’m hoping that tonight’s pub challenge episode is a killer – as long as my horse isn’t the victim…

Books stuff on TV on your PC...how do they do that?

Those tinkers at Borders have launched Bookzone TV. It’s bloody great. I logged on today for the first time and was delighted to see a whole section dedicated to Chick Lit featuring interviews with, amongst others, Katie Fforde, Josie Lloyd & Emlyn Rees, Belinda Jones, Jane Moore, Kate Harrison and Fiona Neill…

One fly in the ointment is that it’s also got the most annoying presenter, former host of “Loose Women”, Nina Sebastiane, who spends most of the time interviewing Fiona Neill by talking about herself. Tut. On the plus side that sexy minx from GMTV news Jasmin Lowson is one of the guest interviewers…my she’s a fine looking women.

If you get a spare few moments, log yourself onto bookzone.tv and watch TV at your desk. How novel. (See what I did there?)

I am a buffoon

Why oh why I didn’t read “My Best Friend’s Girl” by Dorothy Koomson when I got the proof from Time Warner (remember them?) in May 2006, I will now never know. Maybe it was because I don’t so much like the name Dorothy. Maybe it was because I don’t so much like kids. Maybe it was because I am clearly a buffoon, cause it’s cracking. And yes, I know Richard & Judy said that before me….

The book tells the story of Kamryn who, following the death of her best friend Adele, takes in her daughter Tegan. We learn what Adele did to break Kamryn heart, we get to know her ex-fiancé Nate, and we meet new love Luke…and along the way we see Kam’s relationship with Tegan grow and grow. Other reviews I have read about the book say it’s funny and quirky. I didn’t find that so much – but I did find it incredibly well written - a beautiful story, told beautifully.

Dorothy Koomson has a really nice website – have a look yourself. Oh, and buy the book – or you can borrow my proof if you want?

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.