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.

Saturday, 12 July 2014

Word Vomit

Putain de fucking merde.

Sitting on the sofa feeling like a shriveled little nut full of badness. The Fear is all around me, inside me, gathering in my head and stinging in my stomach.

ARGH.

Yesterday was the office summer party- we started out in a lovely restaurant where we were plied with alcohol and then we went to the park to play rounders, limbo and, erm, arm wrestling. There was lots more alcohol in the park- so much alcohol. I was fine in the park- being very loud and singing a tune for everyone to limbo to- but in no way one of the drunkest people there.

There's a new Italian lady who is amazing- in her first week she wore tiny pink dresses to work and see-through blouses and at the restaurant she got up to make a speech, even though nobody really knows who she is. She just said 'Thank you'.

So I was certainly not the most outrageous person there, ok?

We all went to the pub afterwards and one girl was so drunk she had to be put in a taxi and sent home. Then a new Northern guy in the office got quite aggressive and wanted to start on this lad from Essex who doesn't work for the company, but does filming for them or something... Apparently the Essex guy was being a bit of a dick and insulting everyone, but you can't go squaring up to people at an office party.

In the end I did a good job of sidestepping around said Northern guy making light of the situation. You know when someone wants to start a fight and for every step they take forward you take one towards them? You kind of get into a square dance until they realise they don't actually want to start a fight at all and actually the other person has snuck away from the party anyway.

I should have been absolutely fine and have had nothing to worry about today, but-

Loose lips sink ships, innit.

Oh god, just remembered I kept saying 'innit'...

I'm really trying to rationalise the situation and convince myself that I'll be ok, but I really don't know how bad it is/was.

I messaged Clare earlier and told her that I was feeling a bit paranoid and that I might have made a bit of a dick of myself. She said, "You're not paranoid darling, I'm sure you were a dick."

The whole thing started with me trying to be nice - the graphic design intern who was offered a permanent role at the same time as me was suddenly really upset. Let's call her Steph. She's my 'work friend' and so I took her round the corner (we were all stood outside the pub) to ask her what was wrong.

Steph said one of the freelancer designers had had 'a word' with her and told her that she's gone really quiet in the office since getting the role and that there have been meetings about it and that there were concerns she wasn't really 'into the role'.

(By the way- the other day when I said it should have been 'in to', it definitely should have been 'into'. It's always into, unless you walk in to see your mum getting it on with the milkman, or you creep in to avoid being seen, right?)

First of all, I'm dubious that 'they', whoever 'they' are, have had meetings about Steph not being a Chatty Cathy and also I don't think they would have involved the freelancer anyway.

Secondly, I'm surprised because we all sit next to each other and me and Steph always chat to the freelancer. Steph can be a bit quiet but not in a shy way, she's just not an 'in your face' person.

She was really, really crying and she's a few years younger than everyone else, I really don't know why the freelancer would say something to make her worry like that at the summer party. The freelancer always seems so nice as well.

To make Steph feel better I was talking to her for ages and ages but she was really, really upset. She said that the freelancer and 'another woman' we work with obviously didn't like her and I pointed out that I'm not sure if this other woman likes me either,she's quite hard to read. I told Steph not to care as she's not the sort of person she'd want to be friends with anyway... I was being a bit of a bitch to be honest.

We were talking to two other people as well and I don't know WHY I CAN'T KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT but I just kept talking and talking and I don't know why.

I'm really trying to be a better person and not judge other people or think badly of them and now I will seem like a massive two-faced arsehole.

I really don't want to get involved in 'office politics'.

Argh, This is exactly why I told myself I wouldn't get drunk at all during the party, because I have NO CONTROL over the words that come tumbling and stumbling blindly out of my mouth.

I have to go now, Ruth from Paris is in London for the weekend and she has free tickets to an exhibition.

Tell me it's going to be ok??

Oh yeah and of course my next blog post will be all about Paris.

I just wanted to put down what happened in words and see if it reads any better than it feels.

The silver lining is...

I beat someone in arm wrestle.




Friday, 4 July 2014

Back to Paris

I can't say much because I'm typing this at work- I'm hanging around until my coach at 9.30pm. My coach to Paris!! I'm going back for the weekend, I booked it kind of last minute and I'm still not sure how I feel… At the moment I feel like I'm going to get there and just be hysterical all weekend, walking around the streets I used to know, touching walls and crying.

ARGH.

I'm getting the coach back Sunday night, will arrive Monday morning on my 25th birthday.

Not sure how I feel.

A Lundi!

Saturday, 28 June 2014

Copywriting

Don't worry- if you've been losing sleep over the fact that I wrote 'into manageable chunks' in my last post instead of 'in to manageable chunks'- I've corrected it now. (Although one person has unfollowed me since my last post, I don't want to sound needy, but why? Why did you have to leave me and make me look less popular?)

Sometimes at work people ask me grammar questions- because I'm the copywriter and so should obviously know- and I have to really think about it or look online. Obviously not things like 'do we need to start this sentence with a capital letter?' but things that I never have to think about like 'Is eveningwear one word or two?'

(It sound obvious but can an advert say eveningwear as one word? Would a magazine say evening wear? Some shops say eveningwear, while others use two words...  Etc.)

Every tiny detail is important- I like that. Sometimes me and the senior copywriter (obviously if this were going in an advertorial it would be 'the senior copywriter and I' but this is my blog and it's vernacular, yeah?) are asked to produce or correct a sentence quickly and people don't understand why play around with it for ages and ages, asking important questions like 'Who will be reading it? Where will it be going? What will the other copy say?'

The other day a new account manager created two creative briefs, but didn't ask me or the senior copywriter (there's only two of us and I was going to write 'me and the other copywriter', but I won't in case she somehow finds my blog and thinks 'What a cheeky bitch, she didn't mention my superiority over her!') to get involved, as if we could just throw any old words on the design like alphabet-shaped confetti.

Look at me! Discussing my job and not having to mention drunk women threatening to 'die with me in a ditch' or scarecrow-men telling me they see the future and crying! I'm such a Young Professional!

How is it that I still don't have any money?

This month I was supposed to be going to Lovebox Festival- I really wanted to see Bonobo and Soul II Soul and Joy Orbison and Hannah Wants and Tom Trago and Norman Jay and Mount Kimbie and MIA and Nas and ASAP Rocky and Soul Clap BUT I can't, so stop going on about it.

This month I have to pay my deposit on my new house, so I'll just be skint for this month, hopefully and then at least I'll have a deposit in London for next time I move.

I love my new house. I won't give away my top secret location but I can walk to Brick Lane and it's also close to that pub I went to that turned out to be connected to the Kray Twins- it's proper East London, I've definitely found the area of London I like the most. I love coming off the tube and walking through the market and all the shops selling saris and shalwar kameez. It's like the area I grew up in...

Looks mistily into the distance as she reminisces... 

One day my friend Sabrina gave me one of her shalwar kameez, a pale blue one, and I wore it to the shops. She lived in Longsight which has a massive Muslim community- I really thought they'd have seen more white girls in a shalwar kameez, but everyone was staring at me. I kept forgetting what it was called so I made up a song that went:

Shalwar kamee-eez, shalwar kameez, I-went-to-the-shop-in-one-of-these, wearing a shalwar kameez.'

I can still remember the tune...

She shakes her head, waking from her reverie..

My foot's gone numb!

It's weird because my new housemate Mon (I met her through Sharris, who I met through TC and OJ- how weird is it that I have the life I have in London now because TC decided to comment on my blog?) has only ever lived with boys and she's friends with loads of boys and I have never really had any lad mates, unless you count Jen and Claire. In Paris it was quite rare for us to go out with a boy in the group and it would normally be someone's boyfriend or on occasion, someone's boyfriend's mate who was just there for the weekend and they would normally end up being my 'friend' than my friend...

But since I've moved in with Mon there have been loads and loads of boys coming round to the house, in an almost constant stream. One night when people came round to watch the football and Mon wasn't home in time to let them in, I had to buzz boys in and I felt like I was in some kind of game show.

What kind of boy will buzz in next?

I think it's good, I think it make me a better writer. I like writing about women but if I have to drop in a male character he is normally a 2D characterure who either thinks, acts and talks suspiciously like a woman, or he upsets all the female characters for No Reason, or he's evil, or all three.

Anyway, I guess I've filled you in on my new house and new job. It seems as though a lot of people don't know what a copywriter is, I was trying to explain it to my dad and my nana over the phone and they kept passing the phone between one another, asking me loads of questions and sounding confused until finally my nana yelled IS IT IN AN OFFICE??? and I said yes and then she calmed down and said she was pleased for me.

Do you know what a copywriter is?

This is a copywriter.
I write copy- copy is the name of the words you read or hear in an advert. I really like it. The other day TC said "I said it would all work out and you didn't believe me, do you believe me now?" and I guess it has all worked out... I really like my job, but I didn't come to London to be a copywriter, I just kind of fell into it. It's a really nice office. We're starting a company blog, which obviously I enjoy (a lot)- and we have loads of occasions where there's free booze and nibbles, which I also enjoy (a lot).

As for my drama dream... Remember when I came to London to do my auditions? And I stood outside The Globe with Lauren and wondered if I would one day get to act on its stage?

Well I've given up on that. It was hard enough trying to earn enough money to afford fucking ridiculous London rent, never mind finding time to think about acting.

But.

I have started writing with Sharris- she's an actor and we have an idea that I'm quite excited about. It's good because like Mon, she has a lot of boy mates so when it comes to writing the male characters they might sound like actual men and they won't behave like Disney villains.

The reminds me- I saw Titus Andronicus at The Globe and I nearly fainted. This post has gone on for a very long time so I'll carry on in another post later. Me and Mon are going to the market to get fruit and veg. I'll leave you with a song to liven things up.




Thursday, 26 June 2014

Back to Blogging

I've been away for such a long time, I don't know how to begin catching up.

Hmm... How to get back into a blog?

I feel bewildered by the time-consuming task that lies ahead of me: writing up every thought I've had in the last twenty days (that's almost three weeks- so unbelievably sluttish* of me).

Like most daunting tasks, it's best to break up this blogging in to small, manageable chunks, so for now I'll go back to where I left off, even though that weekend in our Swanky Kensington Hotel was so, so long ago...

By the way. Look what Google did to my photographs without me even asking:


Apparently it's called an Auto Awesome photo. (It took two of my photos from my last post and stuck them together to create one photo of the same view, if you can't work it out.)

What's not so awesome though, is that my blog isn't connected to my Google + anymore, so how the hell did it get those two photos from my last post?

Anyway. When my mum was here for the weekend we went to Portobello Road Market. I went there years ago with a friend from uni, but I've not been since I moved to London. It feels like something out of a film (well, one film in particular).

It's the side of London I used to daydream about, but weirdly haven't thought about once since I moved here. It's not like Paris where the city of your imaginings swells around you soon as you step off the Eurostar, billowing around you every day and every night; in London reality just sits there like a puddle, or a patch of grey sky... even if you're drunk and star-spangled, London seems so sober.

Portobello Road Market feels a bit more cinematic, at least. I bought an old Levis denim jacket- the brainwashing effects of all that denim research I had to do for work still haven't worn off- and now I constantly ask myself what jacket I wore in the days before I owned a denim jacket.

(It's no replacement for my kimono, but- gee wizz- is my denim badboy**versatile.)

Later on we drank a huge amount of wine with my cousin Sophie and my mum's cousin- I know, it's like a riddle... If there are four cousins who are each related to the other three people in the group, but each of them is only the cousin of one person in the group and no two people in the group are cousins with the same cousin... then what the fuck is going on?

We started out at/in/on (I don't know which... we were just there, you know what I mean) the South Bank, then we went to a little pub at the back of Waterloo and all of a sudden a funny look came over my mum and I knew she was suddenly completely and ridiculously drunk.

It was so sudden- one minute we were having a very loud, heated debate about Israel and Palestine (which mainly involved me yelling NOT TO THE DETRIMENT OF OTHERS THOUGH, MUM! after the word 'detriment' came to me in a flash of inspiration) and the next minute I had to take her home, supporting her as we walked and standing behind her on the escalator so she didn't topple backwards.

We said goodbye to my cousin and her cousin, then my mum said she needed a wee. You have to pay 30p to use the loos in Waterloo (I feel like I should attempt a loo pun, but I'm tired and anyway, I should know better) and we had 60p. Mum wasted her 30p by being incapable of getting through the barriers effectively, so I helped her through with our last 30p and waited for her outside.

I waited and waited.

And waited.

I gave a confused Texan lady 10p I found in my pocket so she could get through...

And then I waited.

Eventually I climbed over the barriers and marched into the toilets, ready to kick down some doors in case mum had passed out or choked on her own sick. She was just stood by the sinks, smiling into the distance and clutching her handbag at chest-height like a little girl pretending to be a Grown Up Lady in a play.

Somehow I manged to get us both back to the hotel and ordered room service, because I've never had it and may never have it again! The next day we had breakfast in our rooms, perched on the ends of our bed like that scene in Sex and the City where that guy leaves Carrie some money after they have sex.

Right. That's pretty much the end of my post now, I'm tired but I have a lot more to blog about and to prove it I will write down some notes for myself here, so I don't forget:

- Terry Richardson
- American Apparel owner being sacked
- Paris
- Spain
- Titus Adronicus
- Online dating
- My new house

And inevitably:

- Eyebrows
- Cats
- Myself

*as in the old fashioned use of the word, like "She knew all the latest jazz tunes and looked swell in a beaded flapper dress, but she was a sluttish housekeeper". I don't mean I've been too busy slagging about to blog.

**Can't decide if My Denim Badboy is the title of a millionaire-making raunchy novel series, or the headline of a Take A Break story.

Friday, 6 June 2014

NICE TIMES FOR YOU and NICE TIMES FOR OTHERS

Whaa it's bun a rrreeeel laaang tyme missy, whatchoo bun doin?

I bun rrreeeel buzzy sur. Tha's wha I aint done ma blog fur a short while yes sur.

Guess what accent I'm doing.

I haven't blogged for so long, but I have started a couple of times and given up. First let's have what I wrote a few days ago. Maybe I should put it in italics so you can differentiate between THEN and NOW, but reading so much in italics might peck yer head so I won't bother. Try and remember that this is NOW and now this is THEN though, k?

THEN
Lots to say but so tired. The little cat is snoozing next to me and making my eyes all itchy and swollen, but I don't want to move her. Before she was sat on my lap and when I stood up, thinking she would leap off, she just clung on with her claws while I walked around, half-holding her and half-holding my back, like some monstrous pregnant woman with her baby growing on the outside and the baby being a cat.

Ergh.

Now I'll tell you about the lovely hotel I stayed in with my mum. We got 'a good rate' because my mum's cousin works for the hotel, but I can't tell you what her job is or you might be able to Google her and use the information to do voodoo on us. I won't tell you the name of the hotel, but I will say that it looks over Kensington Gardens and Kensington Palace, where my good friends Will and Kate live with their Royal Baby.

I was so excited on the Friday. I'd been Googling the hotel all day, looking at photos of the rooms and reading about the restaurants. There's is a Chinese one on the top floor that Time Out named on their list of 'restaurants with the best views of London'. It looked quite expensive though and I was a bit alarmed when mum sent me a text to say we were booked in there for 8pm. I told her to cancel the booking and explained that it was really dear and she just said, 'Hopefully Cousin* will get a good discount! If not that's a lot of prawn crackers!'

Hmmm.

The hotel was VERY SWANKY in my opinion and as I have not stayed in many swanky hotels, perhaps my opinion counts for SHIT.

But the views were far from shit! They were amazing and to prove it I have a photo taken on my Crapberry to show you.






In the bottom photo you can just make out the Shard and in the top photo you can see Kensington Palace. I could look right into Kate and William's bedroom and one night I looked across to see that they were both waving at me, so I shut the curtains. The above sentence is a whopping big lie (that sounds like something out of a Jacqueline Wilson novel) but the below sentence is all truth:

The Chinese restaurant was amazing.

NOW
It was three floors above our room (we were on the 7th floor, naturally) and with a panoramic view from three sides. We ordered the Beijing duck which is like Peking duck but less crispy and dry, more fatty and sizzling. It came with pancakes, plum sauce, cucumber ect that you get with Peking duck and also with garlic paste and other things I can't remember that traditionally come with Beijing duck.

They brought it to the table to carve and for 'an appetiser' (depending on which way you look at it) they sliced off some fatty bits of skin and told us to dip them in sugar. I know this sounds disgusting but it was delicious. I know it's awful but hot fat is one of my favourite things to eat. (That's what I most miss about living on my own- sitting on my bed in my knickers and eating the burnt bits of lamb fat from the pan... Wow. Perhaps it is a GREAT THING I no longer live on my own.)

After the pancake course, they turn the rest of the duck into something else, you can choose between a noodle or rice dish. The duck on its own would be quite a lot of food but we ordered loads and loads of dishes and the chef sent some things for my mum's cousin too for us to try...

Looking back it was maybe too much food.

The cocktails were really good too, I had a lychee martini. My mum's cousin and her boyfriend (they've been together for decades) like to eat and drink, a lot. I wondered why we don't see more of them. At the end of the meal, my mum's cousin paid for everything, just whipped out her card and paif for the ridiculous amounts of food and drink.

Me and my mum protested (although my pleas were a little halfhearted, if I'm honest) and said,

"Look, I don't have any kids and I earn a lot of money."

And do you know what?

I want that. I want to spend all my money on food and drink and take everyone out for meals. I love kids but I think I'll always love hot fat dipped in sugar more and that is the revolting reality.

Kids are expensive and we are only bringing them into this world to live in a terrifying post-apocalyptic wasteland, if comic books are to believed. (They are, right?) Earth's drawing to a close now, things are wrapping up. Winding down. It's all about nice times and donating money to try and help homeless people and those in third world countries have nice times too.

Hang on hang on hang on hang on hang on HANG ON a minute:

MAYBE I SHOULD GET INTO POLITICS????

NICE TIMES FOR YOU and NICE TIMES FOR OTHERS, that will be my manifesto. (Maybe I will add something about eyebrow upkeep, racism and child-mauling dogs** at a later date, just to prove my politics have got depth.)

Anyway. Back to the hotel.

The next morning we woke up to lovely views then went down for breakfast. Obviously it took us a while to fully take advantage of the wide selection of breakfast foods on offer, so by the time we left the breakfast room was empty. The waiters seemed to be in a hurry to make everyone leave and as we walked out I saw an old man that I recognised. Before I could think who he was, I saw mum's face and she looked- and there's no other word for it- starstruck.

"Do you know who that was????? That was Omar Sharif!"

She wanted to go back and ask him for a photo but I wouldn't let her. She did, however, post on Facebook that we had breakfast with Omar Sharif.

He's like a real, old Hollywood star!

"Oh he's so handsome." my mum kept saying.

He still is, you know. Apparently he was in London to see the Hull game, because he's a big supporter. No, really.

I better go now, I'm supposed to be packing because...

I'm moving tomorrow! I'll tell you about it soon. For now here is a soppy video of scenes from Dr Zhivago (played by Omar Sharif, if you have no idea what I'm talking about) put to tinkly music.

SPOILER ALERT: Don't watch it if you know the story of Dr Zhivago


*She doesn't her cousin 'Cousin', I have protected her name for Vague Purposes... although I think it sounds quite nice and Shakespearean actually.

**I'd just like to clarify that I would be very opposed to racism and child-mauling dogs and enthusiastically pro eyebrow upkeep.

Sunday, 25 May 2014

Disco Cat

I've managed to hold off for a while, but it's time to blog about cats again. The little cat I am currently living is like an eccentric old lady. If I don't let her sit on my lap, she will sit on my wrist or my elbow, my shoulder or my laptop.





(I know what you're thinking and no, I don't change my bedding very often. Also, I haven't forgotten about Rushdie. I really hope he is happy and having a lovely time. I miss him a lot.)

Sometimes I have been sat there for about an hour, gradually losing all feeling in my arm, until the woman I'm lodging with gets up and says, "For god's sake, I love her but this is ridiculous. She's just a cat" and she moves her away for me. This is more due to the fact that, for the first time in ages, I am really, really allergic to this little cat.

But she loves to come in my bed and get under the covers with me! And curl up next to my neck! Twice I have woken up and the whites of my eyes have turned to jelly, bulging around the iris and threatening to spill out of the sockets.

I don't think my eyes would ever spill out, but that's what it feels like. They look like watery eggs that haven't been cooked properly. What's that pudding called? Bilbiblub? Ooh I like that, it's almost onomatopoeic. Her eyes had turned to bilbiblub. I've had to go to work a couple of times looking like a swamp monster with two bulgy eyes, half-closed. 

I'm trying really hard not to let this little cat into my room. That meant listening to her meowing outside my door this morning for what must have been a solid hour. She's very persistent. I know you are fascinated by cats as much as I am so here is the transcript:

EEEEOOOOW.
EEEEEOOOOW.
EEEOOOOOWWWWW!!!!
Eeeoooww?
Eeeooow.
Eeeeeoow.
Eeow :(

...

EEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!
EEEOOOWWW!
EEEOOOW.
EOOOOWWW???
EOW?
EEOOW?
EEOOW???
Eeeoow.
Eooow?
Eoooww?
EEOOWWW???
Eow :(
Eowwwwwww :(
Eow :(

...

Eow?

....

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW!!!

At that point I leapt out of bed and let her in. I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and she followed me (then overtook me, so she could stop on each step and yell EEEOOOWWW again when I tried to step over her). She led me to her empty bowl and I felt a bit bad- she just wanted food.

I am such an egomaniac.

Let me quickly talk some more on cats. Next door have SEVEN CATS. Now we all know I love cats and I love the number seven (everything is seven, TC told me the other day that after my birthday- the 7th of the 7th, there are exactly 177 days left in the year!) but even I think seven cats is too many cats and not a great use of the number seven.

The seven cats dig up my landlady's garden and poo in it, plus they are like a family gang and they attack her poor little cat, making her too scared to go out of the house alone, so understandably my landlady chases them out of her garden yelling death threats. She urged me to do the same, but I'm too embarrassed to shout at them, so I just run at them.

The other day I ran at them and went back inside the house, then turned around to see their little faces peering round the corner of the hedge like a cartoon, to see if I had gone.

They are a bit scary to be honest.

Sometimes I'll see one looking at me through the window and the next thing you know, three of four of them have snuck in the garden for a poo or a casual sit down. They're crafty. And somehow, even though I chase them away, they know I don't mean it and two seconds later they are all back in the same position, either pooing or casually sitting down, reveling in their feline power.

Spot the cat through my bedroom window:



I've just realised I have written quite a long blog post about cats, and I wanted to write about last weekend before I go out. I'm going to a daytime disco rave today. I know I link everything back to Paris but it reminds me of last year, when me and Kayt went to Coco Beach.

God, just read the old blog post and Coco Beach was actually the end of April. But it was so hot and sunny! Talk about looking back on things through rose-tinted glasses though, on the way home from Coco Beach we were chased back to Kayt's by a pervy horrible man- literally chased, we were running really fast and so was he. His mates just hung around as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

But that was then and now is now and today I am going to be... a disco dancer.