Sunday, 21 September 2014

Autumn Soup

Summer definitely isn't coming back for a surprise encore- it's early evening and the sky is dark, the blackberries are finished... even the nettles are gone. My master plan this month was to live off nettle soup, due to an unfortunate decision to get rid of my monthly wages in various bars and supermarkets around London by the second week of the month; however, when my mum was here last weekend I asked her for the recipe and she said nettles are no good at this time of year.

Grass soup anyone?

Potatoes are a cheap soup ingredient but I can't use them anymore after a girl at work pointed out the leek and potato soup has the same texture as... I can't write the word. (Next time you put a spoonful in your mouth, ask yourself if you're going to spit or swallow and you'll know exactly what I mean.)

Anyway.

I haven't had much time to blog recently. I wanted to blog about the Irish pub me and B discovered, then Kate Bush, the end of my Paris trip, which- to be honest- I know I'm dragging out, but when I finish writing about it that will really be the end and now I don't know when I'll go back. If only I didn't drink alcohol or eat food or use toiletries and the tube wasn't so fucking expensive, I'd be going back and forth every weekend.

Sigh. This time of year is when I would always return to Paris, after spending three weeks in England then one week in Ibiza. It's weird that a year ago I moved back to England for good and this year, yet again, September is nearly over and I'm still not in Paris.

But.

I am sitting in my house, listening to last night's Craig Charles funk and soul radio show (it's on iPlayer) with my housemate  who is cooking us chilli and that's exactly what I imagined England would be like when I was sitting in that little room in Paris, needing a wee but listening at my front door to see if any of the neighbours were using it, cooking a chilli in the same room I slept in.

I've got so much space now, I could do a cartwheel across the living room, if I could do cartwheels. I could  definitely do a roly poly.

Is it weird that I think about Paris so much, even though I left a year ago?

In other news... I'm so happy Scotland decided to stay in the UK!!



Friday, 12 September 2014

Bush

Calm down, I'm not going to debate the issue of women's lady gardens again.

This is Bush as in Kate Bush as in Heathcliff, it's me it's Cathy I've come hooome.

There is so much I need to say- mainly that on Saturday me and B went to an 'IRA pub' (apparently it used to be) and danced to Irish pop music until 6 in the morning and didn't see anything wrong with it (I actually think the key to having a good time as a house and techno fan is to listen to house and techno in the privacy of your own home and then go out and listen to shockingly bad crap, high as a kite on Ronan Keating 'Life is a Rollercoaster' leaping about with not a care in the world- but for now I am too excited to write, I just want to dance around to Kate Bush.

It has just sunk in that I am going to see her on Saturday! (And I NEVER use exclamation marks.)

Argh I feel like a kid again. When my dad looked after me I used to make him put on mum's Kate Bush video and watch it over and over again. I wish music videos were still like this, and less full of naked girls holding goats:





Thursday, 4 September 2014

That Paris This Paris

I'm not being needy but, why have only two people written in my Au Pair forum? Why aren't au pairs flocking in their thousands to ask each other advice? Is it because I have overestimated the global market for a Left Bank Manc Au Pair Forum?

No.

No, that can't be it. I suppose you are all just thinking up really good questions to ask.

Sigh. Now's as good a time as any to finish talking about my return to Paris.

So, after walking in the warm rain and the morning quiet, and after reaching Julia's lovely apartment, built around a courtyard with a fig tree growing in it, I had a quick shower and went to the au pair family's house for breakfast.

Back on the metro- that strange staring at the door handle again and feeling like it was anchoring me between all my lives, that Paris and this Paris, me Then and me Now. Then the same walk from the metro station to the family's house that I used to do twice a day, shockingly familiar, like blasting myself into the past.

I know I keep going on about it, but I thought maybe I'd somehow found myself in an old self and was looking through old eyes at my old life. Maybe I was really sat on the couch in London, vividly remembering scooting round the crowds outside Monoprix, people stopping to look at the market stalls outside the entrance, then the narrow pavement and the fruit and veg shop on my right, glancing at the raspberries that always caught my eye as I walked past.

Then walking up to their blue front door, ringing the bell...

It was exactly the same. We fell into old patterns quickly- at first I ate croissants and chatted with the mum, but soon I was back on the living room floor, playing a ball game with the ten year old (now eleven) and the toddler (now a four year old, I think).

Me and the ten year old plaited each other's hair and discussed the never-ending saga of her tempestuous friendship triangle (the latest: the other two were spending the summer flitting between each other's country houses in France and Mallorca, they didn't invite my girl- bitches).

The four year old kept showing me a photo on the iPad of him and his dad on holiday, taken from the back as they both have a wee. In the photo they are both naked. The mum pretended not to notice, which made it even more awkward.

I love how I can teach the little boy English phrases in about five minutes- I'm not just saying this because I looked after him, but he is so clever. During the ball game me and his sister would shout 'Who wants the ball?' 'Me!' 'You?' 'Get the ball!' and after twenty minutes he'd understand what we were saying and he'd start saying the same phrases as us.

I suspect the parents think I'm a bit touched, because after making awkward conversation with them for five minutes, I wondered off to talk about lions and dancing with the kids, just like I used to when I worked for them.

(They looked at me a bit weirdly and said I looked different... when I saw myself in the mirror later on, I realised that my pupils looked like two fucking moons- shouldn't have taken that Valium so close to Paris.)

The parents disappeared upstairs and without thinking, I helped myself to a glass of water like I used to and stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the kids playing. The dad came downstairs and laughed when he saw me- I forgot I haven't worked for them for a year. I was acting like it was just another night at work.

After I'd said goodbye (thinking I'd see them again one day, but who knows if I will), it only took me half a second to decide what to do next. I wasn't meeting Abby for a couple of hours, so I got the metro back to Saint-Philippe du Roule- my old metro stop.

I went to look at my old front door and as I got there, it opened. My old neighbour stepped out and glanced at me across the street. I don't know if he recognised me or not. I felt like a ghost, observing a life that used to be mine.

I know, I know... I can't quite grasp the fact that things change and time moves on, but god it was so weird. I took the shortcut to Place du Concorde- the same way I would walk twice a week when I came home from my morning class in the nursery- and it felt like I was walking through ghost-versions of me, all our eyes on the trees, all our feet on the pavement, all of us/me walking simultaneously, around everywhere, blurry and almost invisible and then all concentrated in me, in that moment.

Ok I'm freaking myself out now.

Also my housemate is on her way back from kickboxing with some McDonald's for our tea.

Before I go...

TC and OJ and everyone in their disco circle went to Wilderness Festival this summer and I couldn't go due to the fact that I got back from Spain the day before (really it was because I'd spent all my money on alcohol and kimonos). When they got back everyone kept telling me about Greg Wilson's set on the Saturday night and he's put it on Soundcloud.

It's SOOOO GOOOD.

This is the reason I have been having private discos in my living room:





Tuesday, 26 August 2014

London Nights Out

Listening to a Spotify playlist my mum recommended to me... I'm enjoying it a lot, it makes me feel like I'm in a cocktail bar in the late 90s and it's really sophisticated even though everyone's wearing backless halterneck tops and stretchy trousers.

Let's pretend we're listening to the same thing at the same time- I'm writing and you're reading and we're both shoulder-dancing to this, yeah?


You may have noticed that I have set up a forum on here for au pairs to ask me and each other questions about au pairing stuff. You may also have noticed that nobody has fucking written on it, so I might delete it. I get asked for help all the bloody time in comments and on Twitter, yet now I've put myself out there as an Au Pair Agony Aunt everyone seems to have solved their own sodding problems, or at least they've suddenly decided Left Bank Manc is not the place to seek help...

It is!

Anyway.

I can't MAKE you write on my forum, but if you have any queries/questions/qualms about au pair life... write on my forum svp.

Now.

I haven't done a 'writing about my weekend' for ages, it seems really self-centred and manic somehow and yet-

-that is how I started this blog I suppose, so I am going to try and get back into it. First let me go off on a strenuously-linked tangent...

My cousin Sophie's friend Becky, who I have met many times over the years, has been reading my blog for a while (in fact Sophie said she is a FAN of my blog but that's not really for me to repeat and act like a smug dick about) and once she told me that what she loves about my blog is the Random Nights Out I describe.

(Hold on, I am going somewhere with this, I'm not just relaying compliments, I promise.)

A few weeks ago I was on a Random Night Out with Glasgow Laura, which had started out as a picnic with Clare and her new Gentleman Friend and a couple of his friends, which had started out as a lovely day with Ruth from Paris- she hadn't been in Paris the week before when I was visiting, but luckily happened to be visiting London the weekend after- and basically a whole day of drinking turned into me and Laura alone, stumbling through the ridiculously dark dance floor of The Nest trying to make out if we were stood next to any boys or just stranded on our own in the middle of a midnight-black club.

I honestly haven't had the desire to 'pull' on a night out for years and years and YEARS, but that night for Some Reason we were both determined to meet a couple of Likely Lads and take them back to my house- to do what with, I have NO IDEA, but certainly not what you're thinking.

Needless to say, we didn't have any luck and soon I was in a sulk, drunk and squinting in the dark. I suddenly remembered that I hated both men and crowded clubs, so suggested to Laura we called it a night.

Laura asked me to try one thing before we went home- she asked me to go across the road with her to a bar called Birthdays and see if that was any better...

It was packed with boys, as far as the eye could see. They were all going down into the basement but they'd stopped letting people in without a stamp and the bouncers were refusing to give out the much-coveted 'basement stamps'. As we found this out, I noticed someone walking past in the crowd...

Becky!

It was Becky and her friend- they were having a bit of a weird night too. We ended up combining our nights out and Becky became a part of one of my Random Nights Out she's told me she likes reading about so much. We went back into The Nest and danced for hours. Laura started 'snogging' a boy on the dance floor, old-school style, until a very irate girl bounced up and screamed at them both.

Being Lovely Girls, me and Becky asked her what was wrong and she told us she was supposed to be seeing the guy Laura was 'getting off with' (I cringe talking about these things, now I am so mature and spinster-like). We told her that Laura would never do that in front of another girl, so we told Laura and she walked away.

We are such nice girls.

The guy was really angry and kept saying he hadn't been seeing the girl for ages...

Oh it was all very silly.

That's why I don't like going to clubs anymore. We all went back to mine (me, Laura, Becky and her friend who had just moved to London that day) and got fucked, which is my new favourite thing to do. I love living in a house where we can bring people back and have mini-discos in the living room.

Becky and her pal left at 7am and Laura stayed over. The next day we woke up at the same time and both of our phones had run out of battery. As we waited for them to charge up, we discussed plans for breakfast and spending the day watching shit TV.

We didn't realise the day had already been and gone- when my phone came on, it showed the time as 7pm. I thought there must be something wrong with my phone, but then Laura's phone switched on and said 7pm too. We checked the TV downstairs and it was indeed 7pm- we'd slept for 12 hours and missed the whole of Sunday. Laura had to get the train home (she lives on the outskirts of London now) and I had to get ready for work the next day.

So, there you go. That wasn't what I set out to blog about but I feel like I've caught up a little bit from the last few weeks of my blogging hiatus.

Now I just need to tell you about the rest of Paris and this weekend- I went to SW4 and carnival with Nat, with no sleeping in between, just a mini disco in the living room, my favourite London venue.




Saturday, 16 August 2014

THE NEWS OF THE WORLD SUMMER BUMBER SPECIAL

If my mind is a make believe magazine, then here are the top stories I would have been running this summer:

**TOP STORY**
PRAYING MANTIS LOVES 3D GLASSES 

I have been meaning to share this for a while. I'm not sure if it's because this story is genuinely as funny as I think it is, or whether it's due to a lack of strenuous partner-based physical activity that has rendered me in a near-constant state of hysteria: but I cannot look at the photo without laughing uncontrollably.

I'm actually not ready to look at it yet and I want to delay your gratification, so I'm going to insert the photo at the end. First you can have a description and then finally you will see that the real thing is 100 times better than what you were imagining.

A few months ago, scientists made a teeny tiny pair of 3D glasses and stuck them onto the face of a praying mantis (with beeswax, not superglue), their reason being that praying mantises are the only known insect that can see in 3D. Don't you think their time would have been better spent making 3D glasses for insects whose ability to see the world in 3D has yet to be discovered?

You know praying mantises can see in 3D, why did you need to make him a little pair of glasses?

Claire pointed out that there is absolutely no scientific reason for the glasses to be cut into a shape resembling human glasses either- they could have just stuck one big lens on his face. The two-lens shape was just to take the piss.

I described the experiment to Claire and Jen but they couldn't imagine how ridiculous the actual photo would be, which is why I hope you don't accidentally see it until the end of this post. All I will say is that they showed the praying mantis a 3D film of flies coming at his face and he obviously LOVED it.


PEOPLE WENT CRAZY FOR CRAP AND BORING AND MAGAZINES COULDN'T STAND IT

If you don't know what Normcore is, it's people wearing shit clothes like unflattering 'mom jeans', shit trainers and t-shirts with 'unhip' logos on. It's all about throwing any old crap on and not caring what you look like. Of course this doesn't bode well for the magazine industry, so many of them tried to say that Normcore was a minimal way of dressing- white shirts and tailored trousers rather than leggings and a faded top that has happy cartoon bananas on it, or something.

Normcore isn't really a subculture or a trend or a new way of dressing, it's just a group of cool people who don't care what they look like, or rather, they do care what they look like, but they know they'll look cool in anything and so take advantage of this fact and make a point of wearing really shit, boring clothes.

Before I heard the word Normcore, I saw a girl at a party in Paris (it was the one in the mad little house that had once been a brothel and still had velvet and mirrors everywhere), with no make-up on, wearing a t-shirt that looked kind of like a crop top- but you could tell that really, it was just too small for her- and unflattering jeans. Me and Julia agreed that she looked like she'd found the clothes on the floor and thrown them on, which is what made her look so. achingly. cool. 

You can't copy that old fashioned, arty, sloppy, 'out there' cool. You either have it or you don't. But magazines can't sell that, so they pretended that Normcore was a thing and created everything from Normcore home decor to Normcore weddings and honeymoons to Normcore sandwiches (granted- that was a piss-take, but I can't remember any other examples right now). Even The Daily Mail got on board.

I myself have jumped on the bandwagon and created Normcore Photography. Here's my first collection. It's called 'Pics'. 

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 "IMG_20140816-00589"

I was going to ask if Vice were interested in publishing Pics, but I see Normcore has already evolved into Avant Bland.

 I know what you're thinking- isn't Normcore just how people dressed in the 90s, except back then you were allowed to wear what you wanted without having to create a media buzzword to describe it?

YES.



**AND FINALLY**
THE FREAKY SCI-FI FUTURE IS HERE

I don't know why more people aren't worried about this. Hoverbikes EXIST, there are sneaky robots that can assemble themselves from flat pack and they are planning to build fucking cities that float on the sea, like in the terrifying film (to me as a child anyway) Waterworld.

Also, this week I went to see the Human Harp at the Roundhouse- it's an instrument that musicians attach to a building and to themselves, then play the strange music of whatever giant structure they are attached to. Lauren got free tickets to a preview of Imogen Heaps' Reverb festival and took me for the free food and drink I mean THE CULTURE.

I've never listened to Imogen Heap but she did a couple of acoustic songs on the piano and I like her voice. I don't know if the Human Harp is really beautiful or really creepy (it doesn't help that the name reminds me of the Human Centipede)- I couldn't believe the eerie notes were coming from the structure of the building. The notes were deep and cold, like the metal structure of the building I suppose. I wonder what it sounded like when they played the Brooklyn Bridge?

The atmosphere was only ruined slightly when one of the 'moveicians' (as the artist who created the Human Harp called them) became detached from the instrument. He just carried on moving about on his own, as if he had just walked into the space and decided to randomly perform a piece of modern dance.

Anyway. Everything's gone a bit sci-fi. What's next, praying mantises in 3D glasses??









Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Me, myself and Jonathan.

There's a scattering of leaves on the pavements and blackberries in my backyard and I think this is the longest time I haven't blogged for.

It's been almost a month. I've been on holiday for two weeks with my mum and my brother, a proper beach holiday, in Spain. My mum booked it ages ago, luckily before I was offered a job otherwise I wouldn't have been allowed to go (no holidays during the three months probation period, which coincidentally is up this week).

I never even finished blogging about Paris. It's too overwhelming to work backwards and write everything I've been meaning to blog about these past weeks, so I'll start by typing up something I scribbled down while on holiday. I might make notes on it too, as if I am the editor, commenting on my own thoughts as I write them down and read them back to myself at the same time, like a Mental.

Maybe I will develop split-personality disorder and my all-encompassing egotism will segment my identity into the writer, editor and reader of a make-believe magazine, a relatively new title called My Thoughts. I could even write in letters of warm praise and hatemail when moved to. Let's hope I don't.

Anyway.

Talking to mum about her sex life while we stood in the sea (ed/me: I really hope she never reads this), having the careful conversation a teenage daughter and her mum would have, only not exactly in the roles you would expect. I had nothing to contribute to the conversation, only the mysterious smile I have perfected, which I throw at my nana when she says ARE YOU COURTING? YOU WANT SOMEONE WHO'S KIND, A KIND FELLER. I CAN'T TELL YA THE LIFE I HAD WITH HIM. EY? SO ARE YA COURTING? 

How to say I am all dried up? 25 and all dried up and finished? I have let my belly hair grow wild and free (ed: true), why not? My best option now is to work really hard and Concentrate On My Career so that one day I can afford to keep a young gentlemen. 

I won't need him all the time, but when I do he'll bloody well be there. That's what I'll expect from all the holidays, new clothes and headshots I'll be shelling out for. Of course he'll be attracted to me as well (ed: keep telling yourself that sweetheart)- but the financial incentives mean I don't have to worry about him being unreliable. We have an arrangement. At least, that's what I'll yell at him one day from the shadows of my villa in Monaco. 

Not at first. I'll try to be breezy, at first. 

I'll swill my drink around, so the ice cubes clink together like a diamond in a loose setting (ed: nice simile, pal).

"Leaving already?" I'll ask.

It will be intended to sound casual but will come out grudgingly and accusatory. He'll reply, trying to placate me in the beginning and then fuck it, he's had enough now, he's told himself he can't do this any more. He can't quite believe it as he grabs his bag and walks away from-

"The best thing that ever happened to you!" I'll yell.

"Jonathan? JONATHAN????"

But he'll be gone and I'll be alone, with just his name hanging in the air for company, before it fades forever. (ed: my heart bleeds)

Well.

At least I don't have to worry about that for a few years yet. Talking of dating or NOT dating...

Before I left London I met B in Regent's Park after work and we lay in the sunshine, working out how to set me up a Tinder account on her iPhone. Eventually B cracked it and we had hours of fun, swiping yes to the right and no to the left. We started chatting to people we'd matched with and carried on all the way home on the bus. Suddenly it was time for B to get off the bus, taking her iPhone and my Tinder account with her.

"B, you'll stop chatting to boys now as me, won't you?"

"I might have a little play." she said.

And she did!

Bloody hell, I've gone on a bit. It goes on for pages and pages... mostly talking about how I was ill before I came on holiday. I'll tell you in a couple of sentences what I have somehow managed to stretch into hundreds in my notebook.

The night before I went to Spain, I was supposed to get the train to Manchester. Thirty minutes before I finished work, I felt really dizzy and my balance went funny. My vision was blurred and I got really confused. I tried to walk out into reception and couldn't walk in a straight line, then I fell over a bit. I started to panic because I was worried about getting the tube in rush hour with my big case.

The girl on reception and the office manager saw I was ill, sat me down and called the NHS helpline. Then someone tried to make me eat chocolate (in case I was low on sugar) and I had to scramble to the toilet to be sick.

They called a car to take me to the station but traffic was so bad and we almost didn't make it. The driver was overtaking everyone and getting yelled at by taxi drivers. He shouted back at a couple of them "She needs to be at the station for 6!"

I made my train and fell asleep straight away. When I woke up I felt better for about five minutes until the itching started. I've had it since my birthday and it's a mystery. Sometimes it wakes me up in the night and I can't sleep, it's like a burning sensation all over my body there's no rash, no redness, nothing.

Sometimes I'll wake up in the middle of the night and spend an hour looking on the internet, searching for 'itch with no rash pins and needles'. So far I've convinced myself I am diabetic or anemic and in the cold light of day, I'll think I'm probably having an allergic reaction to something I've eaten.

As for the dizzy sickness...

The day before I had my episode at work I'd eaten a piece of chocolate cake that was ten days old, so it could have been that.

On the bright side I am very tanned and I had a lovely holiday!

Oh and by the way- I deleted Tinder as soon as I got back from holiday. It is definitely not for me. I don't want to chat to people I don't know through weird messages. When people ask me 'how are you doing' and 'what are you up to' I really have no idea what to say.

These are the fundamentals of conversation and I just cannot be arsed with them. Roll on the villa in Monaco.






Wednesday, 16 July 2014

My Paris

Let's banish all thoughts of fleshy torches and sweaty, sunburnt men getting blow jobs in Magaluf (if you don't know what I'm talking about, see my last post) and cast our minds back to Paris.

The memory of that weekend is shimmering before me, but my eyes are so tired from staring at the screen as I typed my furious rant earlier that I'm not sure I can blog for long.

With no time to loose, let's close our eyes quickly and open them to see-

-me, sitting on a plastic chair in Victoria coach station, feeling a little bit drunk.

I pulled a box of couscous out of my bag triumphantly, only to discover I had lost the plastic fork somehow between leaving Marks and Spencer's and checking in.

Hell is being so hungry that you feel sick, staring at a box of couscous and deciding whether to eat it with a pen or a piece of paper.

No- hell is other people, on a coach, for nine hours.

I only took a small bag with me so I was one of the first people on- that's my top tip for coach travel, because if you have to queue up and put your bag in the luggage compartment, you lower your chances of bagging a window seat and nobody wants to be an Aisle Kyle, or a No-View Hugh.

Ok that's enough of the coach journey, it was bad enough the first time round- I don't want to live it again.

As we got to the coach station it all became familiar, the pale grey industrial buildings and that early morning Paris light. I was first off the coach and marching to the metro before most people had grabbed their bags, but it didn't help me- there was a huge queue for tickets, held up by a man in a cowboy hat struggling to understand how the machine worked.

Two Romany travellers lured away half the queue with the promise of another ticket office, but I ignored them, smug in my non-touristy knowledge that it would be some kind of scam. Just as I was beginning to worry that maybe I should have, erm, told everyone else in the queue not to follow the fake metro workers, I realised the machine only took coins and I didn't have any.

The coach station isn't far from Julia's, so I decided to walk instead, hoping there would be some kind of pedestrian crossing underneath the périphérique - there isn't.

Luckily I didn't get that far to find out, because as I rounded the corner I came to a long tunnel where the two Romany Travellers were loitering. They looked a bit sheepish as I walked past. Bloody hell what have they actually done with those twenty people they led down here ten minutes ago? I wondered. When I reached the end of the tunnel, I saw that there was in fact, another ticket office and it was open.

I bought a Ticket Jeune (3,80 euros for all day travel, amazing compared to London), asked for a pen and wished the ticket seller a good day. I realised that although my transformation into fully-fledged Parisien never happened (and was never going to) like I hoped, at least I have become a person who is Dead Good at visiting Paris.

(By the way, Julia told me that the Romany Travellers do actually have metro tickets to sell that the government gives them- I always thought it was a scam.)

On the metro I couldn't stop looking at the door handle- I felt like I'd been looking at it forever and had never stopped looking at it. I'll probably say this word a lot as I write about Paris- but it was so surreal.

I was there sitting on the metro, visiting Paris after a year away and at the same time I was sitting on the metro a couple years ago, struggling to imagine life beyond Paris and at the same time I was sitting here now, imagining it.

Maybe that dirty door handle was a bridge across space and time, or maybe it was the valium I'd taken three hours before (my friend gave me one so I could sleep through the night, but I couldn't take it until we got off the ferry in case I fell asleep and the coach left without me). Whatever the case, it was like I'd never left and like I wasn't there at the same time.

Coming up from the metro...

If I was a character in a film I'd hate myself, but I was almost overcome with the city as I reached the top of the metro stairs and saw it before me as a picture I was stepping into. It was raining softly and the streets were empty, just like the streets I used to walk through on my way home sometimes just after the sun had come up. I walked in the warm silence (and only had to look at my map once) feeling so happy and calm.

Julia's flatmate opened the door in his underpants and told me to make myself at home before going back to bed. I love Julia's apartment- I think I talked about it just before I left, but it's built around a courtyard, the hallway made of windows that let light into every room.

I had a shower and then ran out again to go and meet my old au pair family. I'd contacted them at the last minute and the mum had halted their going on holiday the night before so the kids could see me for a quick breakfast. (They were only driving to their country house, but still I thought it was nice.)

I'm so so tired, but it's been nice thinking about Paris again. I'm going to sit in the dark crying my eyes out to the Amelie soundtrack and then go to bed:



Silky Sordid Slags

DISCLAIMER: I've just been thinking about how I get a lot of comments from teenage au pairs and I don't want any young girls to read this and think I am advocating performing sexual acts in public with strangers for free drinks- I personally think that is a VERY BAD IDEA. My point is that if what this girl did is so 'disgusting' and 'dirty' why are the men not being judged in the same way?

To the person who found my blog by searching 'fucking in taffeta tube'- I sincerely hope you found what you were looking for, but I doubt it very much.

Unless (I have just been for a wee and had a thought)- you were searching for 'fucking in a taffeta tube' because you actually had sex with someone in a taffeta tube over the weekend and now you are worried the whole sordid/silky episode might have found its way on to the internet??

In that case I sincerely hope you don't find what you were looking for.

That reminds me- Today at lunch I got a bit worked up discussing a recent incident that has been in the British media...  A video is circulating the internet of a girl on holiday in Magaluf giving blow jobs to 24 men in a bar, in exchange for a cheap bottle of cava during one of those seedy sex games so prevalent on the sick-strewn strips of tacky Brit-invaded beach resorts.

There was an article in The Evening Standard this week discussing 'British identity' and the journalist compared the girl in the video to young British Muslims going to the Middle East for terrorist training. He said the girl was wrong for 'trying to please 24 men' just as the jihadists were for trying to find their own identity in terrorism.

Now- personally, I wouldn't dole out 24 blow jobs because it just ain't my style kiddo, but if I think about it logically- is putting 24 willies in your mouth isn't as bad as wanting to blow people up?

Also, the way The Evening Standard used the phrase 'please men' made it sound like she was stumbling around on her knees with cartoon love hearts flashing in her eyes, convinced one of the men was going to be so impressed with his blow job that he'd ask her to marry him.

I don't think she was trying to 'please' anyone- I reckon she really wanted the free drink and also was just really drunk. Yes, maybe after the event she was devastated because a bar full of people (and then the whole internet) saw her do something stupid and maybe she felt really sad and degraded-

In that case she's a victim and we need to make sure this kind of thing stops happening. Also, if she's a victim, then surely the men in the video should be called out as disgusting bastards and the organisers of the event should be punished?

Alternatively, maybe she actually doesn't care about the fact that she had 24 willies in her mouth and is more bothered about the fact that now, thanks to the internet, her mum might see exactly what she got up to on her drink-fulled holiday to Shagaluf?

Why do people do people find that second possibility so hard to believe? As if there's NO WAY a girl could do ANYTHING SEXUAL and not feel like a dirty evil disgusting skanky slutty slag.

You can't have it both fucking ways- either the girl is a victim and the men taking advantage are the villains in the story, or the girl is not a victim and there are no villains in the story.

She can't be both a victim and a villain, ashamed and the nation's shame, taken advantage of and deserving, punishable.

Punishable by stoning.

I'm so pissed off. Sick of girls talking about slags and sluts and 'disrespect'. Apparently if you have sex with a man you don't respect yourself... and if a man has sex with you he doesn't respect you.

At least in the sixties when women had sex outside of marriage they would get accused of being a promiscuous harlot and everyone was secretly jealous of their daring, fun social lives- now girls are labelled as mad sad drunks trying to shag their way through their terrible heartache until they drop dead alone in their tiny, damp flat full of cats and Sex and the City DVDs.

I'm glad I've taken myself out of the whole shebang, to be honest.

I have now smashed my Casual Sex Motorbike into smithereens and littered the pieces in the Thames. Some say I might have cut my nose off to spite my face and that perhaps I have been wading into the river each night, looking in vain for the broken shards so I can piece it back together again and go for a spin in the moonlight, but they can mind their own business.

Anyway.

At work I have been doing a lot of research into our new client- a very upmarket sex toy for very fashionable ladies. Unfortunately in my research I have come across some very downmarket toys for very unfashionable gentlemen and what I have found has made me rethink the whole of mankind.

I won't show photos because I actually can't bring myself to look at them again but I will give you a vague visual so you can share in my horror.

From the outside it looks like a torch, but when you take off the cap you find, not a beaming flash of light, but a hole of creepy, silicone-cushioned darkness. Yes. What you're picturing is just about right. Now I will give you the name so that the image being formed by your suffering imagination can be completed- it's not a flashlight, it's a Fleshlight.

I'm going to have a cup of tea and then I might blog about Paris.