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.

It took us nearly 4 hours

to erect, but we finally finished at 12.45am. The doors don't quite fit, and I'm too tired to put anything in it, but we have a wardrobe. One of two that we bought. It's lovely. But like fuck could it have taken just 60 minutes for two trained monkeys to build. The thing's a bloody beast, and it was touch and go for a minute that Stage 14 would result in anything resembling a drawer unit....How quickly we attempt the other one is anyone's guess. I reckon sometime before Christmas....2010.

Brime of Live...

I have been struck down in the brime of live with a stinky cold. My nasal passages have shrunk to nothingness and a pressure mask is covering my entire face with snot. Even my hair and eyelashes hurt.

Obv, have been a brave soldier and struggled into New Work – and am currently annoying the shite out of my co-workers with a never ending cough and snot-fest and every word I utter seems to begin with a D or a B. My desk buddy – the one who looks like Keira Knightley, but without the fucking pout – has both called me a Germoid, and given me a sachet of Lemsip – but I’m sure I heard her mutter under her breath for me to shut-the-fuck-up. Or am I just paranoid?

I know I’m proper ill cause all I want is a thick white bread Marmite sandwich. So I’ve eaten the two I made this morning for my packed lunch already. And I now want a Double Decker. And some cherryaid. From Happy Shopper.

Other stuff to report. The rearranging of NickNackery is still consuming my every waking (and sleeping) hour. I have a snagging list of 101 jobs to do still - ranging from getting a window cleaner, swapping Doctors, buying some new lounge curtains (am thinking mocha coloured…), building the rest of the new bedroom furniture, buying some new plants pots, getting a new kettle, treating Boo to a new tool box and making the extractor fan in the kitchen work.

I’m off to see The Family this weekend. That’s the plan anyway. Hopefully I’ll be feeling less feeble in the morning, and will be able to get my gander up for the 2 hour journey. Am desperate for some Neice time, and The Sister and I are planning a Thai meal out tomorrow night with booze – so obviously am loath to miss that!

Next week brings a trip to see a New Work customer in Brighton called… wait for it… Pussy. (I love my job). The Mother of the Bride is coming over on Wednesday afternoon to wait in for the various workmen that are due to the flat to fix things. The upstairs heater, the dripping tap, the chugging tap etc etc. And next week Saturday The Girls are out for beautiful friend Lorrie’s birthday fandango. We are going to have a nice grown up meal at Sam’s in Chiswick, then get Pie-Eyed-Paullina’s at Revolution down the road on vodka jelly shots… Sunday is, as you all know, Mother’s Day, so the tradition of taking The Mother for posh afternoon tea continues, with a trip to The Landmark Hotel for some Taittinger Champagne and cucumber sandwiches. Heaven.

An update on The Rules. It’s all gone a bit to pot to be honest. I’ve just been waylaid with other stuff. I’ve been shocking about recycling all my rubbish. I’ve got to clear up my new rubbish area first – god knows what’s been left down there by the previous occupant – and then I can start again properly. My hands are all dry and poorly with all the scrubbing and storage box building and moving. I will try and moisturize them more often. I’ve bought lunch from the shop most days for the past couple of weeks – but in fairness that’s cause I’ve been emptying the old cupboards and haven’t had time to fill the new cupboards properly yet. I will do. At some point. The finger nails are shot to bits, so no need to paint them. Will be dealing with the toes this weekend. I’ve scrubbed the body, but not moisturized it. It takes too bloody long. I’m a bit snakeskinny at the moment really. Squash, give or take, is my drink of choice during the day. But I’ve been having lots of lovely Diet Coke at home. I love it. I refuse to stop drinking it. Even if it is burning my stomach lining away little by little. And I have pretty much stuck to the three a day coffee regime. I haven’t walked briskly for about 3 weeks. I’m rubbish and I just cant be fucking bothered. I can’t do the slimy lip balm thing either. It just feels horrible. I don’t know how people do it. I do eat at the table. Except of course, when I’m eating in bed, standing up in the kitchen or on my lap on the sofa. I haven’t been in M&S – but that’s just cause I’m skint. I’ve lost my food diary and the carbs have found me. Save £250 a month - are you kidding me?!!?! As for going on a date with Boo once a month. All I can say is… huh?

That’s it for today. Must crack on. Think of me, and my poorly bunged up sinus region. Send me a cake. Or a Double Decker. I thank you.

In Like Flynn

Nearly two hours later than expected three 'yoofs' arrived in a van pretending to be from the reputable removal firm I had booked to carry out the moving house extravaganza. One ripped sofa, a badly damaged chest of drawers and a dented fridge door later and I had officially moved out of stinky studio into fabulous flat.

As expected the bed, wardrobes and new drawer unit didn’t arrive on time (in fact, they only came this morning) and the brand spanking new washing machine didn’t work – but bar that, everything went A. OK. Poor old Boo worked like a dog all weekend, and we are now so moved in, we’ve even got pictures up on the walls and a whole dedicated drawer of folded tea towels in the kitchen.

I’ve never had so much space.

It’s weird.

And a bit echo-y.

I’ve now got a whole separate room to go to bed in and a whole separate room to watch TV in.

It’s exhausting all this moving from room to room. Thank God it’s not a house – I’d be forced to pick a floor and stick to it.

Anyway, other than spending every minute of the day thinking about furniture arrangement, gas meter readings and dripping bathroom taps, I managed to finally finish the new Marian Keyes which is coming out in May. It has taken me an extraordinarily long time to wade through… and I’ve been trying to work out why. Firstly, it could be that I’ve had about 15 books on the go this past month – and I’m not very good at dipping in and out really. It could be because I’ve had an awful lot going on recently, which has seriously limited my available reading time. Or thirdly, and much more worryingly – it could be cause it just didn’t blow me away as much as every other book Marian Keyes has written. Now, don’t start getting all huffy, it is – as are all of her books – brilliant. It is funny with superb characters and a sensational plot. It’s beautifully observed with great prose and all that other “literary” clap trap that people use to pad out reviews that would otherwise just say “I loved it, you will too, and if you don’t, you are a fucking idiot!”. But I was left feeling a bit unfulfilled at the end, without the usual “Oh My God How Fantastic Was That?” euphoria I normally get. I don’t know, maybe I’m loosing my mind, maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m the fucking idiot – but you read it and then let me know – cause I’m at a loss to be honest….

My head is in a spin

Since I last wrote, the following has been occuring. I watched Toby Anstis doing a Body Attack class at the gym. Boy, that boy can bounce. (He no longer looks like this mind)

I went to a dead posh hospital with my dear friend Mel who got some bloody great news. If she ever tells a living sole that I cried like a baby, I will a) deny, b) deny, c) punch her in the chops.

I (finally) got offered a transfer from my stinky studio in stinky Southall - to a much larger, much cleaner, much less stinky flat in Olde Hanwell. Hurrah for me.

I went to the Orange Tree Theatre in Richmond to see my lovely friend's musical play "Next Door's Baby". It's great. Very funny, very touching - bloody catchy songs.

Boo and I spent an entire day shopping for furniture. We argued almost the entire time.

I started packing. I still am packing. I think the "stuff" is breeding.

I saw my beautiful neice. She sat on my lap to watch Aladdin. She's got very similar random fidgets to me and spent almost the entire film drawing circles on my legs with her little tiny hands.... I spent the entire film with a lump in my throat.

I carried on packing.

I ate an entire family bag of Maltesers in about 3 minutes.

I waited outside my new flat for 3 hours waiting for my new carpet to be fitted. Its lovely and bouncy and clean.

I did a bit more packing, and then a bit more.

I move tomorrow. I expect everything to go wrong. I am so not a half-full kind of a girl....

Tell me no lies

To celebrate the publication of my mate’s new book LITTLE WHITE LIES , her lovely publisher is offering someone – maybe YOU, the chance to win a weekend for two in a fab hip hotel in Brighton, plus £200 spending money! So, go to their web site to confess your own worst little white lie and enter the competition.

Also, go and buy the book tomorrow – it’s bloody great!

And whilst you're at it, why not grab yourself a couple of seats at the lovely Orange Tree Theatre in Richmond to see Bernie’s new musical play Next Door’s Baby which opens tonight and runs till 8th March.

RNA

Yesterday was the Romantic Novelist of the Year Award 2008 luncheon held at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. I’ve been to these "bit-of-a-do" functions twice before – both times at The Savoy, both times held in April. In a break from tradition for some reason it’s been bought forward to February – maybe to increase the sales and promotion potential at what must be the best possible gifting season for Romance - Valentine’s Day!

The longlist included such greats as Josie Lloyd & Emlyn Rees for The Seven Year Itch , Adele Parks for Young Wives’ Tales , Penny Vincenzi for An Absolute Scandal and Jo Jo Moyes for Silver Bay.

The winner was a well deserving Freya North for the brilliant Pillow Talk .

The Romantic Novelists' Association (RNA) was set up way back in the 1960’s to promote respect for the genre. For more information log onto their website. It's not all blue rinses, twin sets and pearls you know...

Particularly Lovely

Ex-Le Grande Fromage and 'the most powerful man in the books trade' says I am a Lovely Person. So there. I feel all warm and special.

Best £15 you ever did spend

If ever you find yourself in Covent Garden of an evening, and have 15 quid in your pocket which you were about to waste on some old bag of old shite – get yourself to the Royal Opera House and ask for seat L46 or L47 in the Amphitheatre instead.

Myself and Lady Mileham were agog with wonder at the view, the building, the beauty of it all…Sylvia is, admittedly, complete and utter nonsense, but the quality of the dancing (that’s the Royal for you), the music (Delibes), the set and the costumes was superb. One of the most amazing Pas De Deux I have ever seen as well. Zenaida Yanowsky must have the longest legs in the world, and it was just such a privilege to watch an hour and a half of her graceful elegance for 16p a minute. 16p a minute?! I ask you.

Bits and Bobs

So, Micheal Underwood is out of DOI3. At least my Sunday nights are my own again.

Bumped into my friend The Man That Can Carry a Washing Machine Up Stairs All By Himself last night on the train. Damn that man is fine. How or why he is still single is a complete mystery. I fear even Miss Marple would struggle to solve it.

Tonight was due to be January Date Night with Boo. I had booked us a couple of tickets to see

"Sylvia" at the Royal Opera House as an early birthday present for him. As is so often the case, it has morphed into a fantastic night out instead with my friend Lady Mileham. We are even going for some early dinner first. Every cloud and all that….

The 2008 Rules are progressing ok all in all. I’ve lost 9 pounds so far by following a calorie controlled diet. Not as hungry as one might expect having literally slashed my intake in half since 2nd January, but I would sell my kidney for a loaf of

tiger bread right now.

Have had a small victory against The Man regarding rubbish and recycling, and The House now has two wheelie bins and two recycling boxes. How They expected a building that houses 4 flats to successfully dispose of 4 black bags of rubbish a week into a bin that only houses (according to their own website!) 2-3 bags is beyond me – but now each flat can get rid of all their rubbish and recyling waste each week without being forced to leave a big old heap of black bags and washed out baked bean tins piled high in the garden.

Nails are still painted, hands still moisturized – lips however are a bit dry, cause I really really can’t stand the slimy balm…

The whole shopping/lunch/3 for 2 offer thing is ticking along nicely too. Packed lunches rule, and the bottled squash is almost becoming a habit…although obviously Diet Coke will always be the juice of the Gods as far as I'm concerned, and I miss it so much it hurts....

Get Fresh at the Weekend

Friday night was Girls Night In. We had a plethora of carpet party buffet nibblets. There were a lot of bottles of wine floating around. And so much naughtiness and laughing that I believe I may have wet myself a little bit.

Saturday was a Conditioning class at The Gym. It was fab, and my bum is still a little “bruised”. I still can’t get the grips with The Plank. Why do I not feel it in my stomach at all, despite holding my belly button to my spine and keeping my back flat? The only place I feel it is in my arms. You try balancing 17 stone of fat on your elbows and tell me it don’t hurt.

Saturday afternoon Boo and I had a 6 hour argument about our future whilst driving around looking at places to live. We are both, obviously, in the right. Me more than him though. I just want us to live together, and believe that I could live in a shed as long as we are in it together. He however, thinks that we should hold out for something that ticks all the necessary boxes. He is, of course, completely practical and completely right. But then so am I. I currently live in a studio, next door to a house that is occupied by ex-offenders with both mental health issues and drug problems. Seriously. One of them is awake all night, smoking and hacking his lungs up in the back garden. Every hour on the hour I am woken by the most vomit inducing sounds you can imagine. I am at the end of my tether, and want to either kill myself or him. We also have a rodent problem in the back garden. They live in an old air raid shelter that can’t be removed. They torment my every waking hour with their little squeaks and scratches. Add into the mix the never ending loud coming and goings from my nearest next door neighbour – who’s constant stream of visitors ring my door bell at all hours of the day and night to gain entrance to the building cause she is too doped up to hear her own bell… so trust me I when I say ANYWHERE would be better than where I am now. We stopped arguing after I had had a bath, read a bit more of This Charming Man and cooked us both a Quorn Quarterpounder in a bread roll. Bread. Delicious. We then curled up and watched a movie, and decided that we get on so much better when we are in bed. Outside just doesn’t suit us.

Sunday morning saw a leisurely get up, followed by some 50% discount late lunch at Yo Sushi! in Fulham with 2 of The Girls. Home in time to see Michael Underwood survive another week in Dancing on Ice, despite a braces incident.