The story of a girl who should have known better

Statues of Doom

2009-02-02T08:54:00.003Z

This childhood 'gem' turned up over the weekend in the course of a parental house clearout. I can only assume that Steven Moffat has taken to raiding Sussex homes in search of his Dr Who storylines.

I'll admit his title was an improvement.

Statues of Doom

Martha and Julia were walking through the park. It was a warm, sunny day, and the grass was shiny green. They were going round the park because four new statues had been put up, and they wanted to see them.

A few minutes later, Martha and Julia saw the statues. They were standing around a stone pillar, with their arms by their sides. Julia suggested that they should take a closer look.

Then, when they were by the statues, something willed them to step onto the pillar. They felt themselves stiffening. The statues creaked, and joined arms.

The next time the mayor came round, he was puzzled.

"How come there are six statues today, when there were only four yesterday?"

21st November 1989

Things I learned from a London cab driver

2009-01-20T13:04:00.004Z

I learned some important things from my cab driver today. I was on the way to a meeting with a colleague and we were discussing house prices when the driver chipped in.

“Ah, house prices are a sin,” he said. “But it’s no fluke you know. The government wanted us to get into debt so they made us take out mortgages that were six or seven times our salaries. It’s all part of their plan.”

“The government may have some culpability,” I said, cautiously, “but surely we as individuals are ultimately responsible for the decisions we make? If we choose to take out mortgages of 100%, don’t we have to accept the consequences?”

“That’s what they want you to think,” he said, giving me a very intense look in the rearview mirror. “But they’ve been working towards this for years. That’s why women’s lib was started, you know; no offence to you of course. The whole reason they allowed women to start work was so that they could tax them too. And now you’ve got two people working in a house, taxes have gone up, and the economy’s falling apart. Now we’re dependent on the government – we’re following in the footsteps of American policy, and you know why? Because of the politicians. They’re all part of the same group, the [B---]* group. They’re all in it – Blair, Brown, the Americans, Thatcher. It all started with Thatcher, of course – haven’t you ever wondered why they all pay her so much credit in public? Because of the [B—] group. They’re the ones who control global political policies and they’re the ones who decide the price of oil. That’s how they keep their power, you see.”

In the back of the cab things were getting a bit speechless. Unfortunately, it didn’t do us any good.

“You’ve gone very quiet on me,” he said accusingly. “You need to do research on this yourself, then you’ll understand. I found it all out on the internet, it’s all out there for anyone who wants to look for it. But they don’t think you’ll do that, so they don’t bother hiding it.”

Luckily, at this point we arrived at our destination.

I feel positively enlightened.

*eds note: I can’t remember what it’s called. Google for ‘secret rulers of the world’ if you want enlightenment; it's probably about as reliable as he was.

“First and the last of the Morgan SLRs”

2009-01-07T08:46:00.005Z

This week, after two years of very hard restoration work on the part of some of the country’s top Morgan mechanics (and I’m not just saying that because they patched up Connery after Emily made me run him into a pillar) the Morgan SLR is finally making its first public appearance at the RAC Club, where it will be on display for the rest of the week.

If you've been reading this blog for a while you may remember that I’ve talked about the SLR before. Since then I’ve learned a bit more about where it came from, courtesy of dad's research. It’s one of three SLRs designed and built in the early ‘60s by Sprintzel Lawrence Racing (can you guess where the name comes from now?:). Chris Lawrence, one of the brains behind the Morgan Aero, intended the car to be a high performing sports car based on the Morgan +4, whose chassis, suspension and running gear frankly kicked the competition to the kerb.

And it was worth it, right? This is one of the earliest photos dad's been able to get his mitts on, from (we think) the car's second incarnation - no pun intended.

Of course, as is the nature of such things, the car’s first owner wrote it off almost instantly. Chris then rebuilt it after the other two had been completed – making it both the first and last SLR made. It was raced competitively by a series of its owners and in the mid 70s was painted fire engine red by Sir Aubrey Brocklebank, after it and he were singed in a fuel leak which caught fire at Silverstone!

In the late 70s the car was then exported to the US by a gentleman called Bill Fink, who raced it at Monterey and other circuits for almost 30 years.

Two years ago its current owner (my esteemed parent) brought it back to the UK and had it restored to its original condition by various fabulous people* – just in time for this year’s Morgan Motor Company Centenary.

Isn’t she lovely?

*To name names: restoration and race preparation by Brands Hatch Morgans of Borough Green, Kent; bodywork by The Historic Coachworks (formerly Rod Jolley Coachbuilding) of Lymington, Dorset, and paintwork by Panel Craft Elite of Sittingbourne, Kent :)

Christmas, Commitment and Cooking

2008-12-17T11:11:00.015Z

The Boy and I moved another step closer to Serious Commitment with this weekend’s purchase of our very own Christmas tree. Given that my beloved flat, while awesomely located, is only about 2ft square, installing a whopping great tree may seem rash - but it’s an essential part of the festive season. What would I do with all that tinsel otherwise?

He looked rather alarmed when I told him that as far as I was concerned this was a much bigger relationship hurdle than moving in together. It’s the first time I’ve ever committed to joint tree ownership with a boy, whereas moving in together is something I’ve done with just about anyone in the past (with inevitably erratic results). Luckily he shook it off in time for Saturday night, when a bevvy of lovely ladies descended on us for an evening of wine, wine and a rather tasty three course meal whipped up, believe it or not, by the Boy himself.

For a man who doesn’t cook I have to say he did rather well – foie gras parfait followed by roast duck stuffed with wild boar, and tarte au citron for dessert. God bless Borough Market, says I; we’ll have do this entertaining lark more come the New Year.

Although given that I set the frying pan on fire last night trying to make pasta, I might leave the actual cooking part to him.

Mostly Harmless

2008-12-15T13:49:00.007Z

For about the last 12 months, in every photo of me taken after midnight, I seem to have my lips planted firmly on the cheeks of the nearest unfortunate soul - usually with a massive grin on my face and a half-empty glass sloshing around in my hand. In one or two forums this persistent trend has gained me a reputation that I suspect may be quite hard to shake, not to mention my own growing concern that I might be turning into some kind of crazy cougar wannabe.

This weekend, nursing yet another festive hangover and reviewing the latest batch of photos on Facebook, I realised the happy truth: it’s not that I’ve turned into some kind of minor sex pest, it’s actually all about the cheekbones.

No, really! Puckering up to the person next to me is the only absolutely guaranteed way of faking the bone structure that genetics failed to grant – and as an added bonus, it hides the second chin that certain relatives (who shall remain nameless) tell me is the curse of our family once we hit our late 20s. (Well, that and the raging alcoholism.)

I have to say, as strategies go, it’s really not that bad.

A moral tale (on slippery foundations)

2008-12-11T10:29:00.003Z

Well, O Best Beloved, I have had full-on horrible man flu for five days, during which time I missed the entire start of the festive season, including the annual reunion of my University posse - on what would, this year, have been the ten year anniversary of our first meeting. I am utterly gutted and therefore rather annoyed that this morning life added injury to insult by tripping me up on a piece of invisible ice outside Caffe Nero.

It did however teach me a valuable lesson: at the time I was thinking how irritating and noisy school children are and focusing my silent hatred on a particular group standing just in front of me. All of a sudden out went my feet and over I slid, cracking my elbows and throwing my ginormous coffee half way up the street. And who is it that rushes over to help me up and send me back to Caffe Nero for a free replacement? Yep, you guessed it. Those very same irritating and noisy school children, who actually turned out to be rather sweet. We slid up the street together to my office where I waved them goodbye and skated in with my tasty new coffee and a series of rather fine bruises up my elbow.

What do you mean, there's a moral to this story?

Oh so Special

2008-11-19T20:47:00.002Z

Let us pause for a moment to reflect on the unsung genius behind the Special K marketing campaign. Well, what's your first thought when a woman in red appears on your TV screen? For me at least it's always the same - "ah, must be Special K".

So ingrained is that pernicious “stay special” message that even when the newer chocolate-loaded or honey-soaked varieties find their way into my shopping basket they’re accompanied by a definite feeling of virtue, like I’ve made the healthy choice and picked up something really wholesome.

Today, munching Oats ‘n’ Honey out of the box as my virtuous post-dinner snack, it crossed my mind to wonder whether this was actually the case. 3% fat really sounds too good to be true: what’s the catch?

I can only assume it's stuffed with crack.

Plans and schemes

2008-11-10T09:36:00.003Z

For the next week and a half I’m a woman on a mission. Every day of this hard-earned leave I will do something extravagant, unjustifiable and completely credit-crunch inappropriate.

I’ve spent a relaxing weekend doing useful house things (aka clearing out the wardrobe for an influx of shiny new things) and making plans. The Boy du Jour is off work for the week too – actually, he's off work entirely, but that’s another story – but the upshot is that I have a partner in crime for all my brilliant ideas. Who knows, he may even have a few of his own ;)

"It's not that big of a deal"

2008-10-31T09:42:00.004Z

It’s been nearly two months since Almostalady Jr upped sticks and moved out to Philly to change the world with some mysterious branch of high-energy Physics. Reports of progress (which seems to be made mostly in local cocktail bars) are good, although I have yet to see any real commitment to online communication. Where, pray tell, is the blog? Where the Twitter feed? Surely a new ex-pat in the land of the free has some worthwhile news to share with friends and family at home, especially one week before an election that has the world waiting with baited breath?

Still, we make do with email and MSN, and even with this periodic communication I've become aware of a rather worrying situation. After only eight weeks away from the motherland, it appears my scholarly Cambridge-educated sister is losing her grip on the English language. The biggest sins so far? “That’s hella awesome” followed swiftly by “It’s not that big of a deal”.

It's not that big of a deal? Really? Dear lord, save us from the mangling of the English language by lazy Physicists. I can’t think of any way of curing her except by tying her to a chair over Christmas and reading her “Eats Shoots and Leaves” til her head explodes.

Speaking of which... happy Hallowe'en!

Three for three

2008-10-22T10:59:00.004+01:00

Hello, you lovely people. It's been a while since we've spoken!

In my absence it seems I've been tagged in a couple of quite entertaining memes - you'll have to indulge me over the next couple of days while I sift through the best of the bunch.

Some time ago I was tagged by Big Tim Bond in a remarkably prevalent meme started somewhere in the depths of Twitter. Now, let's see, how did it go...

My top 3 non-work websites
1. Gawker
Gawker really is second to none in the well-targeted bitchiness stakes. It can't be healthy to love a website this much and yet, somehow, I do.
2. Go Fug Yourself
Thank the lord for people who share my views on leggings. GFY is a bit of a pop culture phenomenon and deserves every bit of kudos that comes its way. Ever looked at red carpet starlets and wondered what on earth was going through their minds? My friend, you are not alone.
3. The Art of Manliness
In these politically sticky times it's just so gosh-darned hard for a man to know what it means to be a man. Want to Man Up like the real thing? This is the site for you. Sometimes funny, sometimes useful and sometimes just really thought-provoking.

Top 3 karaoke songs
I don’t karaoke, but if I did...
1. Grease Megamix – I don’t really feel this one needs any justification
2. Living on a Prayer – if I'm drunk enough to sing I’m going to want to sing this
3. Build me up Buttercup - the original and the best!

Top 3 cocktails
Making this decision is really what's taken the time. Seriously, just three?
1. The classic champagne cocktail
They call it classic for a reason - like an Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo, it will never go out of style. Just for heaven's sake don't try and make it with Cava.
2. Champagne Mojito
I have always loved Mojitos. Rum, mint, demerera sugar and club soda - could anything possibly be better? Well yes, as it happens. I met this little gem a few weeks ago when out with a client and it frankly made my day. Night. Whatever.
3. Cosmopolitan
Believe it or not, it's not always about the champagne. I love a good Cosmo - something I used to think was impossible to screw up until Emily took me bar hopping in Letchworth. I ask you - who in their right mind would put grenadine in a Cosmo? Still, that unfortunate experience aside, a well-made Cosmo is a thing of beauty.

I think I'm right in saying that there are still some people who haven’t shared their answers with the world... so take it away Polly and Rob!

Champagne Thursday...

2008-10-10T09:57:00.009+01:00

Last night I did something I haven't done in a long time: I got blitzed on a schoolnight.

Yes, yes, I know. I'm 29 now, I'm old enough to know better. I really don't think you should judge me too harshly though - those six bottles of champagne were just me doing my bit to hold up the economy. Keeping the money circulating, y'know?

However, the evening has reminded me of the many, many reasons I no longer go drinking with work. I distinctly recall revealing my Secret Plan for World Domination at some length to my unfortunate client; I also have dim recollections of telling some stories from my misspent youth that perhaps, with hindsight, would have been better left unmentioned.

It all gets a bit hazy towards the end and I have very little idea how or when I got home - although I do remember finding myself in Highbury some time around midnight. (I don't live in Highbury so to be honest your guess is as good as mine..)

What I do recall is a very unimpressed boyfriend waiting for me when I eventually stumbled through the front door. Apparently I called him several times en route to insist that he order me a pizza (I didn't want to do it myself) and while I don't recall exactly how the conversation went, he isn't really speaking to me this morning.

Which is a shame.

Someone also seems to have gone into a bit of a frenzy with the garlic and herb dip in my living room.

Good times all round :)

Star(bucks) People

2008-09-25T08:00:00.005+01:00

I spent a few productive hours on Tuesday morning hooked into the WiFi in Starbucks while the o2 store next door tried to fix my comatose mobile phone.

That much time in a coffeeshop makes for an interesting people watching exercise. Who are you, my Starbucks-bound friends, and what brings you to this high street store at 10.30 on a Tuesday morning?

A sad man in a business suit sat at the next table to mine for the best part of an hour, staring out of the window and occasionally scribbling a brief note in the dog-eared pad that sat beside him. Who are you, sad suited man? Are you a small part of the chaos in the City, escaping to your coffee-house haven to decide what to do next?

A group of screaming tweenie girls whirled in like banshees about 10.45, grabbed all the croissants left in the place and swept out, a distant cry of “he said WHAT” dissolving in their wake. The sad man watched them go and made a few notes on his pad.

A woman with a laptop came in and settled on one of the large twin sofas. We caught each other’s eye briefly, but she looked away before I could offer a co-conspiratorial smile. Two other women with enormous but empty pushchairs wheeled in and sat around her on the sofas, sipping milkless coffees and talking a bit too loudly for the comparative quiet of the morning. The woman with the laptop ignored them stoicly for a while but eventually gathered up her things and departed.

As she walked past me I couldn’t help noticing that her shoes needed reheeling.

By now the sad man was engaged in an industrious spot of notepad-scribbling. He barely looked up as two twenty-something creative types walked in, all trendy jeans and spiky hair. “I can’t believe she put that forward,” one of them was saying. “I mean, isn’t that exactly what she suggested for the campaign last year?”

Curiosity made me watch them to the counter, where they ordered eight takeaway coffees between them and left, trays in tow. One of them ran into a pushchair on the way out; he didn’t stop to apologise, but the women on the sofas barely noticed.

The sad man stopped scribbling again. Elbows on the table and chin in his hands he was staring out of the window and slowly sloshing the dregs of his coffee around the bottom of the cup. With a sigh, he got up to leave.

“Have a nice day,” I said to him on impulse, giving him my best-and-brightest smile, the one I keep for special occasions and presents I really wanted.

He looked around for a moment, surprised, before focusing on me. “Oh… thanks,” he said, and smiled back.

And then he was gone, and I got back to work.

Does sexism still exist?

2008-09-24T11:05:00.004+01:00

Emily posted about this a while ago and it’s been playing on my mind for a while.

I have a number of friends – most, interestingly, made through my professional rather than my personal life – who tease me affectionately about calling myself a feminist, and ask me why I think I need to defend a cause that our mothers already won.

So, after some thought, here’s my explanation.

I rarely experience sexism in either my personal or professional life. I’ve been very lucky. In fact, the only incident that springs instantly to mind is a business pitch from a year or two ago where I was the only woman in the room. The potential client – a 50-something white male, self-declared success story and “industry visionary” – sat at the head of the table, winked at me (or rather, at my cleavage) when I entered the room, and spent the rest of the pitch looking through me, cracking crude jokes and ending each one with “well of course if there wasn’t a young lady present I could tell you some REAL stories, ho ho ho”.

Just thinking about it is making my blood boil all over again. But that’s beside the point. The point is that I can count those experiences on one hand, and I try to remember every day that this is a rare, rare thing. I have friends in other industries who can top my little handful of stories with one petty insult for every day of their working lives, one comment that made them uncomfortable, one little example of how they’ve been taken for granted, put down, laughed at or patronised simply because they are women.

My friends and I represent a very, very small sample of the world. I try to remember that, too. I try to bear in mind the hundreds, thousands and millions of women who aren’t as fortunate as me. The unlucky ones who fall into a job where they are undervalued, sidelined and bullied because of their gender, or who find themselves in a destructive or abusive relationship they can’t escape from. And, of course, all of those who are born and brought up in cultures where being a woman automatically makes you a second-class citizen.

There’s no denying that those jobs, those relationships and those cultures exist. That’s why I can’t let the small slights go. To me, it’s just an insult I can shrug off; but it’s also part of a bigger, nastier picture that stretches across the world. And it’s not just the world three thousand miles away - this is the world just down your street, where these things are happening every day, whether we see them or not.

So yes, I’m a feminist, and I’m proud to say so. What does that mean? It means I believe that we are all equals, that we deserve the same opportunities in life, and that we should be be judged on something beyond our genders.

Sadly, that's still a lot to ask.

Mortal... Kombat?

2008-09-21T11:06:00.006+01:00

Thanks to Bateleur for bringing this video to my attention. A must for anyone who was brought up on the same heady mix of Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat as me.

I knew this was what happened when the cameras stopped rolling.

And while we're sharing... Hello, Kombat!

I'm not sure which is more twisted.

Hormonally yours

2008-09-16T07:51:00.010+01:00

Can you tell me why PMS is so bad? Really? Every single headache-inducing, broken-nighted time?

For me the bar-none worst bit has got to be the mood swings. Sunday/Monday was doubtless not improved by a lack of sleep out in gay Amsterdam (of which more later), but a bit of tiredness neither warrants nor excuses the split-second transition from homicidal rage to "someone ran over my cat" wobbly lower lip and tear-filled eyes.

Nor does it help knowing what's going on. You may well be able look at your grey-faced reflection in the PC screen and tell it that you know it's only hormones making you want to beat the postman to death with the photocopier toner cartridge - but it doesn't stop you wanting to do it.

The best solution I've found for when the Crazy descends is to consume vast quantities of chocolate as quickly as possible and let the endorphins do their thing. I'm told that to actually get any kind of high from chocolate you'd have to eat more than twice your body weight or something equally ridiculous - still, I'm prepared to give it a go. But surely there must be a better way to deal with it? Last week we recreated the Big Bang - can we not sort out PMS next?

Now I come to think of it, the Emergency Chocolate stashed in my desk drawer was actually provided by a forward-thinking colleague who sits next to me... perhaps my inner emotional turmoil isn't quite as discreet as I'd hoped.

(On the streets of) Philadelphia

2008-09-09T08:01:00.002+01:00

Even as we speak, my sister is sitting on a plane on the tarmac at Heathrow, waiting to take off for pastures new. It's a very big adventure - she's moving to Philadephia for two years to take up a post-doc position at Penn University.

People often ask me what it is my sister does. High-energy Physics is the answer, although that's about the sum total of my knowledge. She spends a not-inconsiderable period of time two miles underground in Canada (and sometimes Texas) looking at particles, but exactly what she's up to or why she's doing it has always been a bit of a mystery. At least it was, up until this weekend, when she admitted that her Physics crew is connected to the Physics crew who are trying to bring the Universe to an end on Wednesday. She kept that little gem to the last possible minute.

"If the Big Bang happened as we think, then the Universe was created from the collision of two forces," she explained for perhaps the hundredth time over lunch. "For every piece of matter, there has to be the same amount of anti-matter. Think of it this way: for every one Almostalady, there's an anti-Almostalady somewhere. We're just trying to find her."

"Doesn't sound like a very good idea to me," I muttered dubiously, poking the remains of dessert with my fork.

"What they're going to do is fire two different kinds of particles at each other to recreate what we think happened," she said, ignoring my glowers. "They're hoping to see the Higgs particle. Or get some more insight into the nature of antimatter."

"Isn't that rather like inviting the Apocalypse?"

"Would you like me to refill your wineglass?"

And so off she goes to associate with the great and the good of the Physics world. For the most part I'm looking at it not as losing a sister but gaining a holiday home 45 minutes from New York. Still, I'm a bit sad. It only feels like five minutes since her Starburst She-Ra doll kicked seven shades of crap out of my Thundercat Cheetara on the bedroom floor. Where does the time go?

On PR

2008-09-05T13:33:00.002+01:00

Contemplating work
Thinking that press releases
Should be in haiku.

Ladies of leisure

2008-09-04T08:03:00.016+01:00

Yesterday Dr Almostalady Jr and I were ladies of leisure, cruising through London town on my long extravagant pre-birthday treat. We're great believers in extended festivities; it's not the actual day for another month, but since she's leaving the country on Monday to pursue an academic career in the States she won't be around for the real thing. (Ungrateful wretch.)

We implemented a deeply strategic four phase plan for the day, rigorous in its extremes and demanding in its deliverables.

First phase: Shopping

For a successful sibling shopping trip you must follow a few golden rules:
1. You shall not go into shops that make both parties go 'meh'.
2. If one party has found something to try on, the other must try something too (or have something chosen for them by their companion).
3. You shall not go into Barratt's, for it is rubbish.
4. While frequently disputing the acceptable level of boob for office wear, you shall join together to mock people wearing clothes neither of you like.
5. You shall implement frequent booze breaks to maintain equanimity.

Which leads nicely into phase two...

Second phase: Tea for two

Loaded with bags, our next stop was for champagne tea at the Connaught. The house menu boasted a four course sandwich, scone and cake menu (I kid you not), deeply decadent chocolate petits fours and a specially hand-decorated treat for the birthday girl. Yum.

(Pic here for those who have been wondering what The New Haircut looked like. No no, not mine. Hers.)

Third phase: A little self improvement

Late afternoon saw us landing at the Earth salon for a lengthy hair and massage ritual. Three hours of intensive work on the part of my charming stylist resulted in a combination of colour which, while a bit Gothic, is vastly preferable to my natural shade which looks not unlike the dead leaf slush you get underfoot in late October.

Fourth phase: The curtain call

Last but not least, dinner near Charing Cross with maman, fresh from her early soiree at a friend's palatial Cheyne Walk abode. We spent a relaxed hour or so putting the world to rights over a few glasses of wine; also putting in place the first plans for next year's trip to Philadelphia. Only 45 minutes from NYC, or so they tell me.

And finally, home, and the end of a perfect day.

I really must have afternoon champagne more often.

Less fighting, fewer arguments…

2008-09-01T11:21:00.004+01:00

This weekend I had a MASSIVE fight with the Boy du Jour.

Let me set the scene.

I’m lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, when he bounces in and starts talking to me about something. In my fuzzy state all I’m picking up is a few key points – just enough to keep my end of the conversation up. That is, until a stray comment drifts across my consciousness: "So then there were less than there had been to start with!"

"Fewer," I mumble. "Fewer than there were to start with."

His brow creases. "What?"

"Less is a volume. Fewer’s a number. S’nothin. Sorry. What happened next?"

"But most people use less to mean numbers."

I’m starting to wake up a bit at this point. Those who know me will be aware that I have a love of the Red Pen and the big less vs fewer debate is a particular bugbear of mine, no less because I came to it shamefully late in life. "Well, then, most people are stupid."

"Why?"

"Because of the grammatical imperative-"

"Surely language is meant to evolve to reflect its usage?"

"Not if its usage is wrong!"

With hindsight, this is where it all started to go a bit tits up. Surely, the Boy said, the OED accepts new words every year based on their usage by we-the-people. So why doesn’t grammar work the same way?

Because we’d rapidly cease to understand each other, I explained crossly, and we’d end up with a nation of imbeciles who communicated only in grunts.

That’s a very narrow world view, he said. I think you’re wrong. We can’t be bound by the rules of a grammar system that makes no sense to anyone anymore. If no one uses it, we’re not wrong - the language is. And it needs to change.

Everything gets a bit hazy here; all I recall is thunder rolling and the red mist descending. And why? Because I couldn’t answer him. I knew with every fibre of my being that what he said was wrong and that I should smother him with the pillow before letting such poison spread into the world – but for the life of me I couldn’t articulate why. (So what exactly did I spend those three years at Oxford doing? Not learning to communicate, that’s for sure.)

So what do you think? Am I too constrained by my preconceived grammatical notions? Do we need to throw the rules of grammar out of the window to reflect the way the nation uses it today (no matter how stupid that may be)? Or – and I really do hope this is the case – does good grammar still have a case for me to argue?

Wii!

2008-08-29T09:07:00.004+01:00

My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!

Of course the Wii itself doesn't arrive til Saturday (complete with Lego Indiana Jones - all my geeky dreams come true at once) but at least that means I still have 24 hours left of my social life.

The question now is how to make the most of it...

Bridget Jones goes Digital

2008-08-28T09:29:00.001+01:00

Yesterday’s TechCrunch article sent me hot-footing over to Diary.com to take a look around.

For more years than I care to mention I’ve been an incurable keeper of diaries. Hidden under my bed at my parents’ house is a box full of the handwritten and badly locked diaries I kept as an angsty teenager; five plus years of LiveJournal and Blogger have shown that even having shed the angst I am still compelled to share every passing thought with someone else.

So what does Diary.com offer the compulsive diarist that Blogger doesn’t? To be honest, I’m still working that out. I can input my idle thoughts, pictures and videos into the main text box and out they come in my personal feed as a locked diary entry. Very simple and straightforward, no HTML sk1llz required – but then, you don’t have to be a genius to get the same result on Blogger.

In its favour, I can keep a number of different diaries for different people to see as well as the private one that’s visible only to me. I can Favourite the best entries in my own diary or one of the ones that my friends have Shared with me and track the comments where and however I want.

It’s interesting although at the moment I feel like I can do most of what it offers on LiveJournal too. And so far, with the beta test apparently quite newly under way, its Twitter-esque schematic make me feel rather like I’m talking to myself.

But maybe Diary.com will show its best side when there are a few more people there. TechCrunch thinks it will do well by attracting those people who don’t have the time, knowledge or inclination to set up a blog of their own.

Ok, so let’s find some nice people to explore it with. Any of you fine individuals care to join me? Don’t worry, I haven’t written anything compromising (yet).

No country for old men

2008-08-27T09:18:00.008+01:00

Hey, internet community. Yes, you lot. I've got a bone to pick with you.

For months now you've been telling me how amazing No Country For Old Men is. You've raved about the plot ("amazing"), the villain ("terrifying") and the acting ("standout"). And yet when I finally sat down to watch it this weekend, what did I find? Nothing but a long and pointless film with half a plot and a lot of self-indulgence. As for the acting - well, it was fine, if entirely swamped by the deadly mantle of what-is-the-point-of-this-interminable-movie that enveloped me after the first 45 minutes.

What a waste of Tommy Lee Jones!

At first I actually defended the film from the Boy, who had it pegged as a waste of time from the start (or, in his more diplomatic terms, "not all that gripping") but when it ended abruptly at what I thought must surely be the midpoint I had to give up. I mean, really, is this a masterpiece of modern cinema? Compared to LA Confidential? Lost in Translation? Hell, people, Little Miss Sunshine?

To me, no. It was the pale and bloodless (in all senses except, of course, the literal) echo of someone's good idea. And are you really telling me that dropping the soundtrack is enough to make a film Oscar-worthy?

But enough ranting. Let it suffice to say that on balance, I rate this film some way below Hellboy 2, which I saw the following night, and from which I escaped only by chewing off my own arm and beating the usher to death.

'Nuff said?

Sporting Mad

2008-08-26T08:09:00.003+01:00

Alright, I'm going to admit it: I hate sport. I hate it. I don't like running; I can't bear the gym; I am not a big fan of anyone's sweat, mine included.

But as the last year of my 20s looms inexorably into view I find that my metabolism, sluggish at the best of times, is grinding entirely to a halt. The evening glass(es) of wine are taking more of a toll than they used to on my expanding waistline and I fear that if I don't take action soon I will, one day, have to seriously consider giving up Champagne Thursdays.

Such horror is too great to bear!

So how best to reconcile myself to this distressing new development? Let's start by looking at the options chosen by some of my nearest and dearest:

Swimming - In a public pool full of small children's wee? Enough said I think.
Gym - Leads to inevitable sweaty expiration at the feet of the beautiful buff gym regulars. Also: v dull.
Karate - I'm mal-coordinated and not inclined to fighting fair.
Cycling - My sister borrowed my bike three years ago and let it get stolen. I'm too bitter to try again.
Running - Out of the question. I run like this.
Wii Fit - Easier said than done. Anyone care to point me in the direction of a stockist?
Rollerblading - Last time I tried this I ended up with my coat stuck in a car door driven by an acquaintance with a very sick sense of humour. I won't be going there again.
Dance - Hindered by the mal-coordination and the fact that if I'm going to do something I really expect to be excellent at it from the word go.

And so I find myself left in a rather difficult position. The way I see it there's only really one option left to me: I'm just going to have to give up food.

Now where's that bottle opener?

Putting it out there… Britain goes al fresco

2008-08-22T08:34:00.003+01:00

Thank you to Dollymix for yesterday's hard hitting article on sex in swimming pools. The world needs more of this kind of journalism.

It made me think about a particular phenomenon I've noticed among my friends of late. You see, in about the last 18 months, everyone's gone a bit... al fresco crazy. Not since our teens have so many just-one-glass-of-wine-I-promise meetings opened with the whispered confession - "you'll never guess where I did it last night!"

So where on earth has this strange trend come from, and how has it infected a group of well-brought-up middle-class ladies in their late 20s?

On the whole I'm inclined to think it's a cultural affair. We are British, after all, and surely the entire point of a British summer is to take your clothes off in inappropriate places, whether the weather invites it or not - witness half the men of London proudly displaying beer bellies over their shorts, despite the torrential rain. (Why is it never the six-packs who choose to let it all hang out?)

Still, I hadn't expected the trend to go this far. My favourite recent stories, in no particular order:

-The back staircase in a Soho club
-Richmond Park
-The hard shoulder of the M25
-The changing room in John Lewis
-The car park at Hever Castle (you know who you are)

Is this happening to anyone else or am I just particularly blessed in my social circle?

(No, I'm not naming names, and no, I'm not admitting to any of those stories. Honestly, what kind of girl do you think I am?)

Why I don't read the glossies

2008-08-21T13:13:00.002+01:00

Words of wisdom from the girls at Go Fug Yourself:

"I canceled my Cosmo subscription a long time ago, once I realized that there is a finite number of sex tips in the universe."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Purple!

2008-08-18T11:30:00.000+01:00

It is a grey and miz'rable day in London town. I've decided to combat this dire state of affairs with a fetchingly tasteless pair of purple shoes and matching raincoat. But would a purple umbrella be over the top?

There's only one way to find out...

The internet is for... anonymous blogging!

2008-08-13T08:17:00.003+01:00

Last week Beth Harte posted an article about companies using false blogging personas to promote their products online. It's underhanded, it's dishonest and the response when a fake blogger is outed is never good - as the likes of Walmart have learned to their cost.

But a couple of the commentors on Beth's article took the theory one step further by calling for the end of anonymity on the internet. And no matter how I look at it, I can't make this a good thing.

Where would we be without Belle de Jour? Girl with a one-track mind? Waiter Rant? Barmaid Blogger? Each one built a huge and loyal following built while their "real" names were still unknown, built on the basis of the open and often graphically honest writing that gave us an insight into a world we didn't know about before. There's a delicious voyeurism in being given complete access to someone else's thoughts and experiences, and I'm not sure that any of them would have been able to do that if they hadn't had the protection of their anonymity to hide behind.

Sure, most of the early-days anonymous bloggers have been outed now. For some of them it was a shitty experience (I could cite Girl with a one track mind again here.) But how different would things have been if they'd started off under their own names? Wouldn't their experiences have been different, the stories they told altered by the fact that we could spot them in the street, their ability to be honest tarnished, to whatever extent, by the fact that their family/friends/colleagues would be watching and judging? Come to that, how can a call girl possibly turn tricks when her john knows that he's going to be blogged about that night? (Although I realise that might appeal to some.)

Anonymity gives you the chance to write without constraint and to write from the heart. It gives people who feel constrained by their own lives the opportunity to be completely honest about their experiences and their beliefs - and to do so without being haunted by it for the next fifteen years. As Beth says, the internet is a small and permanent place! When I look at my own "long tail" I'm horrified by the things that my teenage self posted cheerfully on the 'net, old Geocities sites and forum postings that make me want to swallow my tongue with shame. Would I want a future employer looking at the picture of me standing on a table at the Turf in Oxford wearing a long black coat and a red clown nose and waving a Bacardi breezer in either hand? No. But do I want to be able to share my life and my opinions with you here today? Yes, I do.

And yes, you only have my word that I'm a real person and not a secret corporate blogger with a Hidden Agenda. (Eat Kitkats. They make you a better person.) But if you enjoy reading what a nameless blogger has to say then why would you want to take away their anonymity and risk losing the very thing that appealed to you in the first place?

I think it would be a shame to lose anonymity if anonymity can grant freedom. And if it means that I have to treat my favourite blogs with the same pinch of salt that I use to read the tabloid papers, is that really such a bad thing?

When Good Parents Go Bad

2008-08-12T10:23:00.004+01:00

I saw a particularly nasty thing on the bus last night. It offended all of my bourgeois middle class sensibilities and it awoke my raging prejudice against parents with small children.

Getting onto a crowded bus on the way home from work I saw a little old lady trying to battle her way off. She had a pair of walking sticks that she leaned heavily on to help her walk and she was obviously having some difficulty. Most people at the bus stop noticed her too and we all stood aside to let her pass.

Yes, I said most. The exception to this was a father who can’t have been much older than 30 with his small child of 4 or 5 by the hand. He elbowed past us, pushing the child ahead of him with the words “come on now [Bobby]” and simply shoved the old lady out of his way. She stumbled against the side of the bus and another passenger helped her up again.

Without a word, the man and his child vanished into the bus, leaving only a closed mass of shoulders and backs behind them.

It reminded me of something I saw a couple of weeks ago in Giraffe in Clapham. (To be fair, I should have known better than to go to Giraffe, that haunt of spoilt brats and vile parents London-wide.) A waitress was standing by one of the tables in the crowded thoroughfare, taking the table’s order and blocking the narrow passage as she did. Into the restaurant walked a mother pushing a pram with a small child asleep in it. The mother waved at someone at the back of the restaurant and walked up to the waitress, who she’d have to pass to reach her friends. Did she ask her to move? Did she hell. Instead she gathered speed and simply rammed her pram into the waitress’s calves, not once – which might have been an accident – but twice. Twice!

Even if you haven't encountered the extremes above yourself I’m sure you’ve been pushed into the gutter by two parents with buggies stalking side-by-side along the pavement. Seriously, what is it with these people? Do they forget that there are other people out there in the world? Has no-one told them that having children does not give them the right to barge helter-skelter through the world without a single common courtesy? People have been having kids for a while now – it doesn’t make you all that special, my friend.

The whole thing makes me wish I could carry a cattle prod in my handbag. Then I, too, could be the bringer of instant karma.

Scalped!

2008-08-11T11:17:00.002+01:00

My hairdresser is an agent of karma.

On Saturday I went to lunch with my sister, who called me several times over the course of last week to relate in hysterical accents the story of "the world haircut in the world ever". I arrived at our date prepared for the worst and armed with details of hair extension companies, head scarves, tips for waxing and styling, and - let's be honest - just a bit of morbid curiosity. Had she really managed to find a haircut that would dwarf her big blue eyes and destroy the man-dazzling effects of her toned and curvy size eight figure?

... would I leapfrog into the role of prettier sister?

It was only for a second that the ungenerous thought crossed my mind, but it was enough. By the time the gorgeous elfin waif swept up to the table and begged me to tell her it wasn't as bad as she thought, the damage had been done.

(Just in case you wondered, she now looks not unlike this. Which - as you can imagine - is by no means a bad thing.)

On Sunday I went to my hairdresser, only to find that my usual stylist was off sick. With hindsight perhaps I should have taken the hint. New stylists invariably try to crop my hair - I have no idea why, crops look rubbish on me - and even the most stringent instruction cannot stop them. My Sunday replacement was no exception. "Just an inch off the bottom," I told her. "It needs tidying up but no more."

So why is it that I find myself facing the world with a bare and chilly neck? Why am I greeted with comments like "new haircut? gosh, it's very... short" as I walk into the office?

I'll tell you why, my friend. It's karma. Instant bloody karma.

Bah, humbug.

Tales from a Russian spa

2008-08-11T08:08:00.002+01:00

Lunching at the weekend with a female friend recently returned from a month of globe-trotting, we found ourselves exchanging tales of day spas we’d visited in far flung places.

“Monica and I found one in St Petersburg mostly through guess work,” she told me. “It took a couple of tries because they alternate male/female days and we had no way of checking before we got there which day was which. Eventually we walked into a reception room full of semi-clad women and realised we’d found the right place.”

It was an unusual experience.

“We didn’t have a word of Russian between us and the staff didn’t speak English. We paid our way in and walked into a locker room where a huge Russian mama frowned at us til we stripped off.

“No one else seemed to have towels so we went straight into the steam room where there were three or four other women. Each one was holding a birch stick and ritually slapping herself with it, up the arms, down the legs, up the stomach and down the back. They were giving us strange looks from the corner of their eyes and it didn’t take us long to realise that being without a birch stick was making us look a bit weird. But when we went back into the changing room the Russian mama had vanished with our locker keys! We had no choice but to go back out to the main reception and try to express through the medium of mime that we wanted two birch sticks and that towels would be quite nice too.

“I’m pretty sure they knew what we wanted from the start but who’d turn up the opportunity to laugh at naked charades?”

I retaliated with my tale of being rolled in black mud and having it washed off under a hose pipe by a Marrakesh woman who was almost certainly an army drill sergeant in her spare time, but it didn’t quite beat the Russian mimes.

“Were the birch sticks worth it?” I asked.

She looked thoughtful. “Actually, they were pretty good.”

Flagellation in the name of self-improvement: perhaps there’s something in it after all?

So you want to be a Superhero?

2008-08-05T07:51:00.005+01:00

On Sunday night, idly flicking through channels in search of something low-maintenance and trashy, I stumbled upon pure TV gold. The SciFi channel is not my usual haunt but for this particular show I think I may have to make an exception.

It's the latest reality show to be exported from the glorious US of A, designed and hosted by Spiderman creator and comic book legend Stan Lee and titled - wait for it - So you want to be a Superhero?

Reality show? Superheroes? Surely there's a bit of a credibility gap here?

Well, yes and no. The show invites normal people like you and I (well, almost like us) to dress up as their own home-made superheroes and prove their heroism on international TV. Each week they face a Terrible Task, sometimes set by Stan Lee and sometimes by a wicked arch-villain (series 2 boasts the hooded Dr Dark as the Foe du Jour) to test their teamwork and separate Heroes from Zeroes. The series winner has their hero drawn in a special limited edition comic book by the master himself. What more could any wannabe world-saver ask for?

You might well ask what kind of person would enter this show. And yes, there are a few people to laugh at - I might draw your attention to Monkey Woman from series 1. But there are people to laugh with, too, like the delightfully ditzy Ms Limelight or camply spandex-clad Parthenon from series 2 (perhaps unsurprisingly, the show boasts a lot of spandex), and one or two people who you find yourself cheering for despite yourself. I'm thinking particularly of Fat Momma, the runner-up of series 1 and by all accounts a bit of a shock hit with the American public.

Hey, I can see you giggling into your sleeve back there. But let's be honest for a minute - who wouldn't want to be a superhero? (Or maybe a villain. I've always suspected that villainy might be a bit more me.)

So you want to be a Superhero?: Sunday night on SciFi. Be there, or it's Pow! and Blam! for you…

The mystery of the haunted phone

2008-08-04T17:55:00.004+01:00

About nine months ago I upgraded my phone to the then-quite-fancy (if not totally new) Sony Ericsson k850i Cybershot. A nice chunky phone (although with a touch of "Grrr Manly" about it) incorporating a very nice 5 megapixel camera, it also boasted a partly touch-activated screen. It's been a handbag essential ever since - until this weekend, when it started to get a bit... funny.

It started on Saturday morning when I turned the phone on to find the screen flashing urgently. Apparently a ghost was pressing all the buttons on the touch screen at the same time; hmm, I thought, how curious. I cancelled the various text messages it was trying to send and deleted them, but no matter how often I did it, they kept reappearing. Curiouser!

Finally I managed to lock it (despite its best efforts to foil me) and watched it suspiciously for a while. Nothing changed so I stuck it back in my bag, only to retrieve it some hours later to find that it had autosaved 18 blank draft text messages to my lucky friend Al and had twice tried to call my sister in Latvia.

Even as I watched, it beeped with an incoming message - which I found myself entirely unable to access because the Invisible Presence was pressing buttons faster than I was. If I got even so far as the inbox screen for text messages it would start trying to delete things or asking me whether I really wanted to forward this message to everyone in my address book. And don't even get me started on trying to send a text; it's frankly impossible unless I want my contacts to receive a string of garbled half words from messages sent randomly partway through writing.

On the bright side, I can still make calls - barely - as long as I do it fast enough to prevent the poltergeist calling someone else while I'm flicking through my contact list.

I wonder if the o2 store staff can exorcise demons.

Pink wine

2008-07-28T11:19:00.002+01:00

Dear Mr Publican: it's time for us to have a chat about pink wine.

Yes, pink wine. I am not going to call it rosé and the sooner you accept this the happier we'll both be. It's rosé for the French and it's rosé for Bournemouth hen nights wearing their L-plates to the local Wetherspoons; I will have a glass of pink, thank you very much.

Secondly, when I say pink, I am looking neither for fluorescence nor for a barrel of sugar in my glass. It may be a barely-there touch of colour or it may be a richer shade, but if it looks or (heaven forbid) tastes like a children's drink I am going to entertain serious doubts about the quality of your establishment.

Whatever we decide to call it, we are at least in agreement that it should be served cold. Nonetheless, if you give it to me with ice in my glass, my friend, we will be having words. You can also be quite confident that you will one day wake up up in a special hell reserved solely for compulsive icers and people who mix red wine with cola.

Finally - and really I do feel that this should go without saying - if my friends and I order a bottle we do appreciate the fact that you've provided an ice bucket. But for heaven's sake, will you put it somewhere we can reach it? Either that or make sure you've got enough staff on hand to keep the glasses filled. Three girls and a bottle of wine? The last thing you want is for the glasses to run dry.

Am I really being so unreasonable?

Socks and sandals: the boys' summer dress dilemma

2008-07-24T22:33:00.003+01:00

The heat of our sweltering fourth floor office has driven the powers that be to implement an emergency dress code. From tomorrow the boys of the office will be breaking out of their suits and smarts into shorts and sandals… and maybe even socks?

No, I have more faith in them than that. Still, the choices for boys in the summer are surprisingly limited and I can't quite picture what the Men of the Agency will do with this new-found freedom. Not for them the easy escape of the sundresses or sleeveless t-shirts that are the saviours of women across the sweltering City; instead they must contend with the sartorial hurdles of shorts and casual Ts. Who really dares expose their knees to peers and bosses alike? And what will replace the leather shoes that have been the staple of the winter months - the scratty trainers that have sat by the door for the last eighteen months, or - heaven forbid - flipflops?

As the clock ticks towards 9am on Friday morning, the women of the agency will turn towards the door as one, asking themselves the killer question: who will get it wrong?

Poor boys, it does seem unfair. I'm sure the only other people who have it this hard in summer are the Goths.

Back to the Bonkbuster!

2008-07-22T14:58:00.004+01:00

I'm a bit restless this week; I think I need a project to keep me out of trouble. (Otherwise I’m only going to start Improving People’s Lives again, and we all know where that ends up.) Top of the list, where it’s been for three years, four co-authors and a whole HEAP of inspiration, is The Bonkbuster.

For those who don’t know, I come from an alarmingly literary family. To go through my life without a Great Work would make me something of an anomaly. (For all its wonders I don’t really count TheLadiesLoos as publication.) The problem is that I don’t have the attention span for a Real Book, the brain for a Thesis, the angst for A Great Opus or the inspiration for an Insight Into Society… I do, however, have a lot of very scandalous friends.

Well, you’ve to work within your means, right?

I think this could keep me busy and quiet for a couple of months at least. And as they say, everyone has at least one book in them (even if it’s shite). Would it really surprise anyone if this turned out to be mine?

Welcome to the Jungle

2008-07-21T09:07:00.004+01:00

Idly reflecting on a long Friday night train ride I found myself thinking about the many exotic characters I’ve met over the last few years in the wild world of the PR industry. And it crossed my mind that perhaps the time has come to chronicle a few of those encounters for the benefit of generations yet to come.

Just one small disclaimer before you start flaming my personal email: none of these are based on anyone in particular - unless, of course, you think it’s you and take it as a compliment. In that case, you’re right.

For my (rather more prolific) non-PR readers: humour me this morning and tomorrow I'll tell you the story of the amazing transvestite I met at Angel station :)

Welcome to a strange, dark world…

The Sophisticat
Urbanis communicat
Impeccably groomed and perfectly presented at all times, the sophisticat seems somehow too elegant for the daily grind of work. Always at the top of their game, they are most often to be found running either their own agency or a large chunk of someone else’s. Always has a game plan.

Makes PR look good.

The Creative
Musa inspirata
At the heart of every phenomenally successful but equally risky PR stunt is the Creative. Own cousin to the Visionary, the Creative has a remarkable ability to pluck news stories from thin air, be it anything from “my Bran Flakes saved my life” to “I caught my cheating lover using sat nav”.

Media guru who secretly wants to pitch “I found Jesus in my pancake” story to new clients.

Will never, ever wear a suit.

The Tech Guru
Telecommicus notoriosus
Knows their sector inside out; likely to understand the client's business better than the client themselves. Chic or smart exterior inevitably hides party monster: approach on the dance floor at your own risk.

The Visionary
Propheticus communicatus
Has seen the future of PR and is dragging their clients towards it whether they like it or not. Often at their best when surrounded by boring non-Visionary types with clipboards and action lists.

May have been a TV evangelist in a previous life, but far more likely to be onto something this time around.

The Social Media Evangelist
Digitalis digitalis
Often if not invariably under 25. Networks on Twitter and in pubs. Can be identified by distinctive song: "you don't still use FaceBook, do you?"

Requires regular caffeine inputs to function at full capacity. Likely to evolve into the Visionary.

The Throwback
Egotistus erraticus
Never got over losing the infamous '80s PR lifestyle. Hates the word strategy and looks with suspicion on bizarre modern concepts like "deliverables” and “measurement”.

Easily identified by black Armani polo necks, long lunches and tendency to sniff uncontrollably after bathroom trips.

Highly endangered species.

The Motivator
Enthuiastica infectica
Comes in many guises but with one common theme – these are the people who really, really love what they do. In PR for the joy of the job, they will fight tooth and nail for what they believe and will infect those around them with their enthusiasm .

If you’re working with one, hold onto them for dear life; these people are worth their weight in gold.

I do, however, feel they deserve a better moniker.

-------------------------

But now the bell is chiming 9am, which means it's time to end our tour. Enjoy your stay, O Best Beloved, and please feel free to send me your own widlife spots to add to the menagerie...

Service interruption

2008-07-16T17:27:00.003+01:00

Dearests, I am not dead, merely laid out with the second lurgy of the fortnight. Am I not a sickly child?

Not according to this meme, I'm not:

almostalady --

[noun]:

A person of questionable sanity who starts their own cult

'How" will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Now there's a career path I never considered...

The Tyranny of Shoes!

2008-07-10T08:40:00.004+01:00

Altruistic "anti-shoe company" MBT wants to warn us of a terrible dictatorship under which many of us suffer without even knowing it. I speak of course of the Tyranny of Shoes - those abominable creations "which conspire with hard, flat surfaces to ruin your back".

Oh noes, a shoe conspiracy!

But never fear! MBT has an alternative, a shining beacon of hope that can "protect your spine, knees and hips... (and) tone your muscles and improve posture". Thanks be to heaven, there is salvation after all!

And to an extent, they do have a bit of a point. High heels, pointy toes and wedges of all kinds can be hard to walk in. We've all seen (and been) the girl wobbling uncomfortably down the street in footwear that looked beautiful on the shelf but somehow became just a bit ridiculous once it's on your feet. It throws your posture off and damnit, it hurts.

So why on earth do we do it? Because shoes are beautiful. Shoes are colourful. Shoes are fun. Shoes can turn an outfit from at-home-casual into cocktail-bar-smart. Shoes can make jeans red-carpet proof. And maybe most importantly of all, shoes will never treacherously fail to do up because you had pizza for dinner eight nights in a row.

By failing to take this into account MBT has missed a crucial point in the fight to free us from our self-inflicted burden. For those who missed it, the point is this: no one needs ugly shoes. I'll even go so far as to say it's morally irresponsible to suggest otherwise.

Anyway, if someone really wants to make a statement with their practical-but-ugly footwear (and by statement I mean "I got dressed in the dark") they can just reach for their Uggs.

Sorry, MBT. Close, but no cigar.

The Ladies' Loos

2008-07-09T08:28:00.003+01:00

In the last couple of weeks I've been reconnecting with some of the online communities I've let slide over the last year or so. Perhaps the most notable of those is the Ladies' Loos over on LiveJournal, and if you haven't been there, I heartily recommend it. Sorry boys... female members only :)

The Loos is a few years old now (Three? Four? Anyone care to correct me?). Since its first incarnation on Mono it's become an amazing and supportive place to talk about any and all issues that affects the lives of the women who make up its membership. Originally started, IIRC, for a small group of female friends to talk about the things they'd rather not put on their personal journals, it quickly blossomed via word of mouth and became a haven for women from any country and any kind of background to come together and share their lives, stories and advice.

Some 18 months ago (surely no more) the Loos even published its own advice book, based on all the questions, answers, advice and angst people had poured out over its life so far. I've still got a couple of copies somewhere; I'm inordinately proud of its existence and the fact that my name appears alongside some of the brightest and best women I could ever hope to encounter.

Yes, it's a protective and caring community; but it's never afraid of a fight. If you want to know what people really think of something you can go ahead and ask; but remember that in a room of almost a thousand women from around the world you're going to get some pretty impassioned views and some of them will inevitably be the polar opposite to your own. Despite this it's exceptionally rare to get trolls; every member is vouched for by other people within the community before they're given access to the posts, each one of which is locked by default (although you can set your own posts to public viewing if you want).

Last but not least, for those who want to ask a question or share something they don't want to be openly associated with, there is the ladiesloos_anon account which any member can log in to and use to post without revealing their RL ident.

It's a great place and I'm happy to be part of it. Every time I check back in I find I learn something about the world I didn't know before. The mystery and magic of women, by women, for women. It's pretty awesome stuff.

The Other F Word

2008-07-08T09:14:00.003+01:00

Via one of my favourite lunchtime blogs, Manolo's Shoe Blog, I have of late found myself foraging into a Strange New World. It's a world of women who are happy with the way they look despite not being The Perfect Ten - women who call themselves "fat" and like it.

The journey started with an innocent link to Manolo for the Big Girl, who in turn led me to the Fat Experience Project. Sitting there with my sandwich and my crisps I read some of the articles, frowned a bit, and read them again. Something was putting me on edge - not with anger, but with discomfort - and I couldn't work out what it was.

It took me a while to realise that the reason was simply because of the prolific use of the word Fat. But why on earth would that be? I don’t blink at the use of the word f*ck* (I use it a lot) and along with Eve Ensler of the Vagina Monologues I reclaimed the word c*nt a long time ago. But Fat really bothered me.

In a world where casual swearing is everywhere, is Fat the last taboo?

I have an affectionately insulting relationship with a number of my friends and it will always amuse me to yell "oi, slapper" across the street and watch them turn around to see who's calling. But we would never, under any circumstances, tease each other about the F word - it's just too damning. "Fat" has become synonymous with failure on a deeply personal and unforgiving level. It conjures up the image of someone who is lazy, who doesn’t control their eating and who doesn't care about their health - and to call someone fat suggests such a level of scorn that the relationship might never recover.

So when I first read the FEP comments it threw me a bit. Sweet baby J, I said to myself, these people are just admitting to Fat like it's a completely ok thing to be - not in a lack-of-self-esteem-I'm-miserable-help-me-please way – but simply saying that this is who I am, I'm "fat" and you know what? I like it. I don't eat badly, I exercise and keep fit, and this is the shape and the person that my biology makes me.

The more I read on, the more I liked what I saw. It made me wonder if Fat can be saved. Does it really have to be such a damnable insult? Can we ever turn it around to mean something more than it does today, namely failure in the eyes of an exacting and thin-obsessed society? Can't we bring it back to life for the sake of all those people who keep themselves fit, aren't eating themselves into an early grave and yet will never be the perfect 10, 12 or 14? (And don't give me any of your Rubenesque nonsense, either. We want Fat back and we ain't taking no cheap substitutes.)

Hell, we did it for c*nt, surely the F word is a piece of... um... cake?

*Asterixed for the sake of those who haven't yet liberated themselves from the male domination of our language - and those whose boss is reading over their shoulder ;)

Shiny like the sun

2008-07-04T17:01:00.003+01:00

You'll have to excuse the two days of silence, O Best Beloved; for 48 hours I've been migrained beyond belief and the computer screen has not been my friend. Oh for a day when the sun didn't shine so brightly!

Even now it's not doing me any favours, so to send us off into the weekend in a properly cheerful mood, here's a picture of the latest addition to the Almostalady shoe hall of fame:

Aren't they lovely? Doesn't everything seem just a little bit better?

Who are you?

2008-07-02T12:22:00.009+01:00

Personal identity is a funny thing.

Start with a few of the people you know. How many of them pop up in your head as "James the lawyer", "Pete and Lauren", or "Maya, she's always up for a few drinks"?

Each one of those labels categorises the person (or people) involved by a single aspect, reflecting only one part of the moods, characteristics, behaviours and attitudes that make them a whole. You know Maya's a laugh on a night out and she's always the person you call if you want a great evening, so that's how you tend to think of her. Now you think about it, the last time you introduced her to a friend you even said "this is Maya, you know, I've told you the stories!"

Of course you also know that Maya is also a fan of Shakespeare and long walks, works in a vet and wants to be a political campaigner; the new person, however, does not. Thus, Maya-the-party-girl becomes her persona to that new person. And my first question to you is this: if enough people think of her that way, will she eventually start to believe it too?

Now think about yourself. How do people introduce you? Are you the journalist, the accountant, the husband/wife/partner of Jim-who-you-met-earlier? And how do you introduce yourself? What's your answer to the inevitable "so who are you?"

Most of my friends would identify themselves by their jobs. "I'm Kate, I'm a lobbyist." A few of the newly-weds identify themselves by their spouse - "Oh, I'm Chris, that's my wife over there" - and it's always interesting to see what the first thing that comes to someone's mind will be.

But when you're asked that question, do you always answer the same way? Is there one aspect of you that's more important than the rest, or are you a mix of different characters depending on your mood and the circumstance? And is that response something you defined for yourself, or something that was defined by those around you? Do other people's expectations govern your behaviour? Does their reaction make you, on some level, live up to what they expect?

So many questions, so little time. Who is this person you've chosen to present? Is it a persona you put on to meet the world, or is it something the world has put on you? And if you take it away... what's left behind?

Most people I've put this to say that it shouldn't be a difficult question, that personal identity is more complex than that and "who I am" hangs on more than one or two delicate threads. But for a lot of people I think that primary or dominant persona can become such an important piece of the puzzle, governing how people react to them, what they do, who they meet and how they spend their time, that if you take it away it does leave behind a vacuum – a space that needs to be filled by something else lest self doubt roll in to fill up the gaps.

So is it dangerous to identify yourself too strongly with a single piece of your personal jigsaw? I suppose it depends on the person concerned. (We’ve all seen Spiderman, right?)

It’s not too much of struggle for me though. Who am I? ... I’m Almost a Lady :)

Oh, pants.

2008-06-30T11:29:00.003+01:00

As I arrived at Angel yesterday afternoon a stray gust of wind revealed to me that my nice new summer dress is in fact a tunic. Apologies to anyone at Angel late tea-time; I'm sure you wanted to see my pants about as much as I wanted to show them to you. (In other words... not a lot.)

So what do I do now? Do I brazen it out with black tights and heels and pray that we have a gust-free summer? Or do I relegate it sadly to the wardrobe as one of those impulse buys that just were not meant to be?

One thing I'm sure of: I ain't wearing it with no leggings.

Death by shopping

2008-06-27T14:12:00.000+01:00

Help help, I'm addicted to Ebay!

It started off with my beloved but barely-worn Manolos. Those were snapped up sharpish by a lovely young lady who wanted to wear them to her sister's wedding. And it started me thinking. What about all those Hobbs and Whistles dresses that I've never actually worn, sitting sadly in my spare wardrobe waiting for the moths to find them? What about the fairly sizeable percentage of my shoe collection that never gets worn? What about the shopping sprees that result in clothes that never even get the labels taken off? (I rarely make it back to the store in time to get a refund.)

Eventually I'm going to start selling things I actually like and what will I do then?

How can I stop??

Juggling knives

2008-06-26T09:01:00.003+01:00

Polyamory. I just don’t get it - for so, so many reasons.

One of my friends has recently given it up in favour of a more vanilla approach and I've been picking her brains on what attracted her to the multiple-partner lifestyle in the first place. I mean, the principle is great - if it works for you, why not - but where on earth do you find the time?

Before the Boy came along I maintained a healthy Dating Portfolio of gentlemen friends who would take me out to dinner and accompany me to the cinema and theatre when occasion demanded. I was never short of a plus one and the little black book was in quite good shape. My weeknights were busy, my weekends were full, and all was right with the world. (And yes, I do have a Rule about what constitutes a Portfolio lifestyle and what just constitutes sleeping around a lot… but that's a subject for another day.)

But none of them were relationships. None of them required more than an occasional phone call or email; they were fun, they were great company, and they didn't require maintenance, investment or, crucially, any kind of angst at all.

So how on earth do the polyamorists do it? How do they maintain two, three or four partners without going completely bonkers? Where do they find the time? The enthusiasm? The energy?

I don’t get it and I certainly couldn’t do it, even if I had the inclination. And I can't quite shake the feeling that if you're not the "primary partner", you're really just picking up someone else's sloppy seconds. Isn't that a bit squicky?

Pay It Forward

2008-06-25T09:26:00.000+01:00

Today I'm on a quest. Don't worry, it's not connected to yesterday's bitter anti-cycling rant: our two-wheeled buddies are safe from me, for the moment.

No, this is a rather more altruistic project. Over the course of the day I'm going to compliment three random people for no good reason - other than that I think there's something great about them, whether it's fabulous shoes, shiny hair, witty conversation (can Twitter be witty?) or something else I haven't thought of yet.

I'm going to do this for no good reason other than I've noticed that no one seems to smile in London any more. It's one thing on the tube on the way to work when everyone's a bit miserable, but it's different when it's the end of the day, the sun's shining and there's everything fine about the world. And what makes you smile more than a compliment you weren't expecting?

I'd like to enlist your aid in this project too. If you're reading read this today, the 25th June, then I’d like you to give someone else a compliment. Maybe it's a stranger, maybe a colleague, or maybe a friend who isn't expecting it. Make them smile. Maybe they'll pass it on.

Cyclists: first up against the wall

2008-06-24T11:30:00.003+01:00

Like everyone, I have a List. You know the List: the people who'll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes, if you have your way. Don't try and pretend otherwise, I know you've got one too.

Today there's a new entry at the top of my List: cyclists. Seriously, guys, can you please make up your minds whether you're a road vehicle or a pseudo-pedestrian? Yes, yes, I know - a road vehicle. That's your story and you're sticking to it, right?

Fine, if that's the case, I'll treat you like a road vehicle when I'm in my car, and I'll do the same when I'm on foot. But you're going to have to make a couple of commitments to me, too. You're going to have to stop at red lights; you're going to have to indicate when you turn. You're going to have to stop riding silently up behind me on the pavement before screaming to a halt and swearing at me when I unsuspectingly veer a bit to the side and narrowly escape the pleasure of your full aluminium-framed weight in the small of my back.

And no, I don't feel any need to apologise for the generalisation; not when I'm greeted almost every morning by the cry of "bloody pedestrians" from some wretched cyclist as they rocket along the pavement or roar across a red light six inches away from me.

I'd like to think that we can get on ok if we both stick to the rules. But don't test me, people. I have a big stick and I'm not afraid to use it.

Boy of the year?

2008-06-23T14:57:00.001+01:00

This weekend the Boy and I celebrated our one year anniversary at Le Pont de la Tour, the ex-Conran restaurant at Butler's Wharf.

We drank champagne as the sun went down behind Tower Bridge, laughed over the year gone and speculated wildly about the ones to come. Devoted waiting staff ferried caviar (mine) and oysters (his) to and from the table as we talked and talked. (I know, I know, but I'm just not designed to live on a budget.) Afterwards, we walked back to London Bridge station along the riverside under the moon, all talked out, enjoying the night.

It was a wonderful evening. It was over the top, it was unnecessary, it was ridiculously extravagant, and it was perfectly us.

To celebrate, and as my anniversary present to him, I’ve had a lock put on the inside of the front door. He's earned a bit of freedom by now.

The Prisoner: Redux

2008-06-19T11:52:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I accidentally locked the Boy du Jour into the flat for the second time. In protest he shaved his beard off, which was a very strange thing to come home to. I was so surprised that I walked straight into the (closed) kitchen door, knocking myself silly and narrowly escaping a self-inflicted black eye.

On the plus side, once the severity of the de-bearding had been explained, the building's managing agents agreed to pay for the cost of getting the lock fixed. Small mercies, right?

Goodbye Manolo

2008-06-17T12:26:00.003+01:00

I am so very sad today.

Last night I finally bit the bullet and put my dearly beloved Manolo Blahnik heels onto ebay. It hurt, it really did; but for the last six months they've just been sitting in my shoe racks unworn and unappreciated, and something that lovely should really be on display. I firmly believe that designer shoes were made to be worn and it turns out that these, as beautiful as they are, just don't work with the rest of my wardrobe.

Oh, my achey breaky heart!

Never too late for extensions: the Agyness Deyn "look"

2008-06-16T10:51:00.004+01:00

Agyness Deyn (is that how you spell it? I can't be bothered to check) has a lot to answer for. I passed no fewer than five women on the way to work today all sporting Agyness-esque cropped bleach-blonde hair. Alas, none of them had taken into account that very few people can pull that look off. Hell, it's questionable whether even Agyness herself can do it - and when that's the case, mere mortals should certainly be steering clear.

So sayeth the bitter brunette.

What friends are for

2008-06-12T11:39:00.001+01:00

I have to confess that I’m a little disappointed in my friends.

Over the last couple of months I’ve been getting to know the Boy du Jour’s posse, and one of the things I like most is that they’re obviously a tight knit bunch. That’s not just an idle comment: at the Boy’s birthday party a few weeks ago, one of his friends took me to one side and quietly let me know that “if you ever hurt him, I’ll have to kill you”.

I teased the friend in question about it a bit on last week’s holiday and to his credit he wasn’t all that embarrassed. A couple of the other people listening even chimed in with their own contributions – albeit of a rather lower standard (you know who you are, Mr “I’ll poo in your bed”).

I came away from the conversation rather touched at the loyalty the Boy’s crew have to each other. But it made me think – where are my friends in all this? What threats has the Boy had to warn him off breaking my tender and fragile heart? If I’m honest, I’m a bit disappointed in the sisterhood. I’d expected better.

Still, never too late, right? :)

Is there a Dr in the house?

2008-06-11T18:11:00.013+01:00

Why yes, yes there is – Miss Almostalady Jr, actually, who yesterday survived her Viva with flying colours and is now only a few pieces of red tape away from being an official and honest-to-God Doctor of Physics, and high-energy super awesome Physics at that.

I headed up to Oxford after work yesterday to join the celebrations. I met the Physics group at the lab where they were drinking champagne and eating chunks of a rather suspicious-looking cake. “They baked it specially,” Dr G told me happily. “It’s in the shape of our super duper experimental somethingorother*.”

For your edification, O Best Beloved, the super duper experimental somethingorother looks something like this:

I didn’t say anything til we got to the restaurant for dinner. The staff pushed together a long table and a round table for us to sit together and the physicists clapped their hands together happily. “The table is shaped like the super duper experimental somethingorother too!” they cried. “Hurrah!”

“No it’s not,” said my two glasses of wine on an empty stomach. “”It’s a big cock. You do all realise that, right?”

Silence. Eventually, tentatively… laughter.

Still, the night warmed up from there with the help of several bottles of wine and a cocktail stop at Old Orleans, a cheese-tastic haunt of mine from student days. Most of the group cried off at midnight, pleading work the next day, but Dr G and I had no such problem. So on from there we went to a student bar rock night, where I nearly gave the bar staff apoplexy by insisting they dig out their one bottle of Laurent Perrier and put it on ice for us. We danced our socks off til some time after 3 and eventually, cheerful and knackered, retired back to Dr G's flat.

The lady of the hour:

The lady of the hour plus friends:

The lady of the hour plus champagne...

The lady of the hour plus balloons!

Congratulations Dr G!

*this is, obviously, not exactly what she said

What I Did On My Holidays

2008-06-10T08:11:00.006+01:00

After all that drama we finally got away from London to spend (almost) a week in the grounds of the rather lovely Shropshire-based Combermere Abbey with a mixed group of friends – partly the University crew and partly from the Boy du Jour’s circle, all brought together by J and B, the only couple brave enough to organise such a diverse (ed: crazy) group of people.

The grounds of the Abbey included not only an extensive garden, woods and honest-to-God maze, but also a large lake where the braver members of the group swam on sunnier days. Unfortunately I watched Lake Placid one too many times in my misspent youth and preferred to keep away from the murky waters, sticking instead to exploring the woods and climbing trees in an inefficient and deeply inelegant fashion.

The relaxation schedule was pretty intense. A small group of slackers took a day off to head to the local spa, while a few more dedicated individuals had treatments done in the comfort of their own cottages (an on-site service provided by the Abbey’s staff). Another great convenience of the holiday was the honour bar facility where you could pick up all of life’s little essentials, from beef bourguignon and potato dauphinoise to local wines and beer, sticky toffee pudding and all the ice cream in the world – 24 hours a day. (The beer ran out on day two and wasn’t restocked for almost 48 hours; I’m not sure they’d really expected the Boy and friends.)

Another brave posse ventured out on Thursday to the Hawkstone Follies, expecting an easy two hour stroll with some nice caves to explore at the end. How wrong we were! Hawksmere is not only atrociously mapped (and very, very easy to get lost in), it’s a three hour round trip that’s uphill all the way.

The caves, once we found them, were very fine, with all the winding underground passages and mysterious caverns you could ask for – but by the time you’ve slogged out there and realised there’s no quick route back, the heart does rather sink. Still, we held it together 'til the very last minute, when one of the party went missing after a rash decision to take a route marked “short cut”.

Alas, if there was one thing we’d learned by then, it was not to trust the signs. Some time later a sad little text arrived as the rest of us sat in the sunshine outside the visitor centre, eating ice cream. “Lost in hills and attacked by trolls. What now?”

Eventually we gave up and sent the park rangers in with their Land Rover to pick him up. Really, at a time like that, surely even a man can ask for directions?

All in all, an excellent holiday. Time to start planning the next one, methinks...

Leaving London: a story in 28 hours

2008-06-09T09:40:00.007+01:00

I'm back from holiday!

Believe me, the exclamation point is justified. The first 28 hours of the holiday, you see, saw me and the Boy du Jour (I can’t believe no one has pointed out the atrocious grammar in his name yet) attempt to leave London several times and succeed in getting a grand total of three and a half miles from the front door.

How is this possible? Oh, it’s surprisingly simple. It started when Connery’s engine went on strike some three miles up the A1. The first we knew of it were the plumes of smoke billowing out of the engine – mostly grey but sporting a few ominous strands of black. On with the hazard lights and over into the bus lane we went, to await the RAC’s arrival an hour or so later.

Action shot:

Now the RAC is a fine institution but the Morgan was a bit beyond their skills. After another two hour’s exploring and a lengthy discussion between the RAC, my dad and my garage (thank god for mobile phones) we agreed that nothing more could be done. Connery would need to be taken down to the garage for them to make him well again. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll go get the train today and I’ll take Connery down next Friday.”

It took a further hour to get Connery home, engine rigged with a 20-amp fuse and a spare battery plugged in and sitting on the passenger seat to keep him running. The RAC man tailed me back with luggage and Boy transferred to his van, and eventually we deposited the broken car at home. Well, at least I'd (sort of) pre-warned the Boy about Connery’s tendency to shed his essential guts en route.

So onto the number 73 bus and off to Euston we went, only to find that we’d missed cheap fares by about six minutes. Never mind, can’t be helped; we parted with a small fortune for our tickets and had just enough time to whisk round M&S for a picnic and still get on the 3.48 train.

That’s when the train manager’s voice cracked into life over the speakers. “There’s a slight delay on the departure time. Please accept our apologies.”

Whatever. It didn’t bother me unduly at that point (I was already halfway down my first mini bottle of wine) but about 20 minutes later it became more of a problem. “Unfortunately there’s been a fatality at Kings Langley,” we were told. “No trains are currently leaving Euston. We have no estimated time for departure. Please look for alternative routes to your destination.”

The Boy and I looked at each other in horrified silence for a moment, and then the giggles started. Still, we stuck it out for another half hour and finished up the picnic before bowing to the inevitable and going home to get very, very drunk.

Our eventual conclusion was simple. London is an fabulous city and it’s essential for the stability of the nation that its fabulousity levels are maintained at all times. Obviously on Friday a large proportion of fabulous people had left town and the powers that be just couldn’t risk us going too.

Seems reasonable enough to me.

So the next morning we sallied out again, this time to National Car Hire on Pentonville Road. They had a car but they also had a three hour queue which we took turns to stand in while the other went for coffee and a bit of fresh air. But then, at long, long last, we were off to Shropshire, sat nav in hand and bloody determination in mind.

Holiday, here we come!

Holding page (maybe)

2008-05-29T21:58:00.008+01:00

For the next week I will be going deep into the untamed wilderness, far (so far!) from PC and laptop that I may not be able to share my usual flurry of deep and meaningful thoughts with you, O Best Beloved. (That would be Shropshire - a small and discreet break with a dozen or so of my bestest buds.)

I haven't yet mastered Blogger on the CrackBerry so this is likely to be a fond farewell from me for now, favoured reader. But I leave you with a picture of my Best Boy and Number One Shipmate for the week: yes, Connery and I are together again!

Yes, it was raining when I took that picture. And yes, even if rains tomorrow, we'll be driving with the roof down... that's just the way the Morgan crew roll!

(I may give the Boy a few more drinks before I break that particular bit of news.)

"I wanna make love in this club"

2008-05-29T08:10:00.000+01:00

Oh Usher, Usher, Usher.

Do you really think the women of the world are so smitten by your (admittedly very fine) cheekbones that we can't tell you're suggesting we get busy in a skanky club toilet?

(Women of the world - you had noticed that, right?)

Wii? Ow!

2008-05-27T14:02:00.007+01:00

Today's moral tale concerns the Wii Board, that device of Terrible Power and Unknown Mysteries. Approach with care, mortal friends, lest you too become a victim of the beast!

It seemed like such an innocent thing when I first stepped on it on Sunday afternoon, fun and friendly, with chatty comments coming out of the TV screen as it warmed itself up. But little did I know of the tortures it contained.

A few clicks in I found myself faced with an alarmingly cutesie six-inch tall version of myself with big eyes and a weirdly shaped nose. This bizarre character encouraged me to input my vital statistics, but upon doing so (to my horror) the little bugger promptly swelled up to full-scale Buddha-belly proportions. "Blimey, you're a bit of a lardarse, aren't you?" the Wii Board said with a snigger (or at least I'm pretty sure that's what I heard).

Next was the posture and balance analysis: rather traumatically, it turns out that I list irrecovably to the left. "You didn't come to me a moment too soon," said the voice beneath my feet. "How on earth have you stayed standing up this long?"

A few clicks of a button later and I managed to find something that didn't upset me too much: a hula hooping game. Just swivel your hips as fast as you can and lean over to catch the new hoops thrown your way by two other (equally twee) mini-people. So far so good; so very good, in fact, that after ten minutes I figured I had that one cracked and switched over to the step aerobics programme.

What was I thinking? Step aerobics? I can't even do those in real life. Within thirty seconds I'd fallen off the wretched thing twice and was prepared to put the Wii remote through the Wii screen and the Board itself right out the window.

So back to the hula hoops it was and win I (eventually) did. With only minimal drama and a few broken furnishings I shattered the existing records to become the afternoon's Super Hula Champ. Who would have thought swivelling would turn out to be my secret superpower?

But I'm paying it for today, O Best Beloved. I'm broken, utterly broken. My left thigh has cramps in places it never knew existed and I'm hobbling myself trying to correct the leftwards-lurch that I'm suddenly convinced everyone else has known about for the last 28 years of my life. Oh, the humanity!

There's no hope for me now, I fear; there's only choice left in my listing, hobbledy life. I'm just going to have get a Board of my own.

A radical clothes initiative (and a bit more Indiana Jones)

2008-05-23T12:02:00.007+01:00

Ladies of the world! I know that you secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) want to be thinner. Believe me, of all people, I really do feel your pain. You cling onto the size you think you should be for dear life and you work your ass off (alas, if only that were true) to stay there. You suspect that if you were to change the size of your dress, somehow everyone would know, would whisper about it behind your back and point accusing fingers as you walk past.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we inflict on our gorgeous bods a lifetime of VPL, too-tight shirts, circulation-restricting sleeves that leave incriminating red marks on our arms, skirts that sit three and a half inches above our waists, jackets that squish boobs into shapes they never wanted to be and - worse than all of these sins together - the dreaded Camel Toe?

But no more. Today, ladies, I'm here with a bold and daring message: free yourself from the constraints of your clothes!

Woah - slow down back there, I'm not suggesting we all get naked. Jeez, none of us needed to see that. All I'm saying is that maybe, just once in a while, we should open our minds to the idea that - dare I say it - we might actually look better if we swallow our pride and wear the clothes that fit.

A bit radical, I know, but I really think I'm onto something here.

Phew! So with that crazy proposition out of the way, let's get back to the important stuff: Indie was great. My inner fangirl is in a very happy place today. Sure, it was bit improbable in places (weren't they all?) and a little over the top, but it had lots of lovely touches and a lot of laughs. There's also one heck of a drinking game in the making for all of the knowing reference to the earlier films. Let's put it this way: you'd be over the limit very, very quickly.

I can't really say much more without spoiling it. Go see it and make up your own minds ;)

Sigh. I love you, Indie. Never leave us.

Indiana Jones and the last pair of Jimmy Choos

2008-05-22T09:20:00.006+01:00

I'm trying very hard not to get too excited about Indiana Jones this evening (tickets procured by the Boy at short notice through what I suspect were rather nefarious means). It's harder than you'd think. It's not even that I fancy Harrison Ford (although, come on, you know you would. Yes, even now) - but I really love a good adventure.

At least, I love the idea of it. I kinda hate to admit it, but the character I've identified the most with in the whole series was not feisty Marion Ravenwood but flighty Willie in the Temple of Doom. The poor girl spends the entire film teetering around in impractical footwear, oscillating between rage and panic - and I'm pretty sure that if a dashing adventurer swept me away tomorrow the same thing would very quickly happen to me. Ye gods, I can barely imagine the state of my hair after a week without a proper shower.

Still, it's best to be prepared. I have a couple of friends who are convinced that the apocalypse will be on us any day now - and given that I saw a group of schoolgirls at the bus stop this morning wearing thigh-high socks, I'm starting to think they may be right. They've planned pretty extensively for it, right up to tagging the people they want to join them in their post-disaster survival group. The Boy du Jour has been tapped up as camp defence (he's a dab hand at shooting zombies, even if it is only in an arcade) and I was touched when they invited me to come along too. Nonetheless, I had to regretfully decline; I'm not really cut out for post-Apocalypse living and, if I'm honest, a world without Jimmy Choo is not a world for me.

Unless Indie's on board, of course.

The Fountain of Youth

2008-05-21T09:16:00.010+01:00

Maybe it's because I'm now approaching my fourth decade at a rate of knots, but I've started noticing anti-ageing adverts everywhere I go. Billboards, bus shelters, TV and online - pro-this and anti-that, full of phenodactylamines and god only knows what else.

I'm not all that bothered by them. I'm quite interested in watching the lines start to creep over my face; they're the mark of a life well-lived and I see no reason to start being ashamed of them now, whatever Andy McDowell would have me believe.

But the ad I saw this morning really took my breath away. "Try R-," purred the just-turned-30 Twiglet on screen. "This uplifting facial treatment can make you look almost ten years younger in a matter of minutes. Results from the first use." So far so standard... but it was the next bit that caused me to nearly stab myself in the eye with my mascara brush. "Do not try and use R- at home. This acid wash treatment should only be applied by a trained professional."

Dear lord, people, acid? Really? Isn't that rather like having your face licked by one of Sigourney Weaver's aliens? Or maybe I'm just being melodramatic - perhaps washing your face in acid really is the obvious next step in denying the aging process...

The advent of Scary Sadshaw

2008-05-20T13:26:00.001+01:00

I feel a bit like I'm betraying my people by admitting this, but nonetheless: this is perhaps the funniest article I've read on Gawker all year.

Beware the oestrogen riots!

The trials of Bridget Jones, part 1

2008-05-19T13:37:00.010+01:00

... in which full-on crazy rears its head (and sadly not for the first time).

Over the weekend the Boy du Jour chose to share with me those bits of Thursday night that are (still) a little hazy in my memory. Apparently when I arrived home I had mascara smeared down my face and was in the midst of a full-on white wine hysteria fit about all my friends* leaving the country.

"Everyone's leaving me!" I howled. "They're all going off out of the country and I'm going to be ALL on my OWN! But there's still you! You can never leave! Promise you'll never leave! Why would you do that? Why would you be so mean? Why? Why?"

He tells me that this was not the most attractive side of me he has ever seen; for my part, I can only assume I'd mistaken him for the Domino's pizza delivery man.

(*Actually just Emily and my sister. I'm a little prone to exaggeration.)

The Prisoner

2008-05-16T12:24:00.011+01:00

Yesterday was not a good day for the Boy du Jour.

He'd decided to work home so that he could come out for a few drinks with me and Miss Wearmouth (now, alas, counting down her last few days as a UK citizen) after hours. He was working so hard that he didn't even try to leave the house til 8pm - so it wasn't til then that he discovered that I'd actually locked him into the flat.

Look, it's not as bad as it sounds.

Ok… maybe it is.

For reasons best known to themselves, the previous owners of my flat decided to install a Chubb lock that you can only access from outside the flat. Yesterday morning, a little frazzled and in a hurry to get to work, I double locked the door behind me, as I've been doing for the last year of living on my own. I didn't even realise I'd done it til I picked up seventeen voicemails from the prisoner sometime after 8pm, which would be about the time he discovered there was no food in the house other than a rather elderly packet of noodles.

However, while the cupboards were bare, I did have six bottles of really rather nice wine brought over a few weeks ago by dad and the Wicked Stepmother. At some stage in the evening (probably some time between my claim that I'd be "home right away" at around 8.32pm and my actual arrival at 11.54), the Boy unearthed these bottles and not unreasonably decided to claim them as a forfeit. By the time Emily and I eventually trailed in, bearing pizza and apologies, he seemed to be coping rather well with captivity.

You'd think that after an experience like that he'd have insisted on leaving the house at the same time I did this morning - but apparently that lesson is still to be learned. He's in bed with a stinking hangover... honestly, some people have no restraint!

Boys (and girls) and toys: the Morgan SLR

2008-05-14T14:14:00.010+01:00

Those who have looked at my Twitter profile have probably guessed that I'm a bit of a Morgan fan. This is true: my best beloved Connery (a Morgan +8 with racing pedigree) is nothing short of a god among cars.

As is often the case, the weakness for classic cars is a family failing. With the Roadster, +8 and 3-wheeler under their belts, the latest project chez parents is Morgan's first real racing car, the SLR, lovingly constructed by hand (as they all are) and one of only three of its kind. (Pedants may point out that there was an original prototype as well, but I'd remind them that was built on a Triumph chassis so barely counts as a Morgan at all;)

Around two years ago dad tracked down the first of the three ("the most original", he assured me when I asked). It was in a pretty run down state and needed a lot of love to restore it to its original glory. And lo and behold, as of this week, it's back in one piece.

Ladies and gentleman, for your delight and delectation, the newly reconstructed Morgan SLR!

The only question now is what colour to paint it...

Hotel Babylon?

2008-05-13T12:04:00.005+01:00

Yesterday the Boy du Jour turned 28 (bless his cotton socks). We dined with his family in the East Croydon branch of Bella Italia and told tall tales over garlic bread and pizza.

At some point over the course of the meal the Boy's father revealed that in his younger days he had helped out as a part-time valet at a top London hotel, where his own dad had been head doorman for some years. "The pay was appalling," he told us, "but the tips were incredible - dad would come home with a 2 kilo jar of Beluga caviar and that would be all we had for dinner. One evening he couldn't even afford the bus fare home so had to walk from Piccadilly Circus to Putney carrying a brace of pheasants and two bottles of champagne under his arm."

We listened with eyes the size of saucers as he rolled out story after story. "The PR parties were the worst", he said. "They'd come in, drink themselves silly and then throw a strop when the hotel ran out of champagne. In the end, dad used to put cheap white wine through the Soda Stream and give them that instead. They never noticed."

And it wasn't just the plebs who were on the receiving end of the tricks of the trade. One of the worst kept secrets in London A-list circles was Princess Margaret's liking for a tipple or two. The rule in the hotels was simple: serve her an alcoholic drink, lose your job. But how to refuse royalty? Barmen across the capital put their heads together and came up with the answer: carefully pre-prepared martini glasses with rims rubbed in gin. The glass reeked of booze - and the drinker never knew that the actual content was tonic water and lime. "It's something they'll still do today if someone's had one too many," he told us.

Hammer Horror star Peter Cushing was another familiar face on the 5-star scene. "Dad always said he was the perfect gentleman," the Boy's father said. "He would never make extravagant demands or interrupt a conversation; he would always wait his turn, like he was just any man off the street."

He also had a particular quirk. "Mr Cushing would always put a white glove on his right hand to hold his cigarette . Since he was a chain smoker that meant the glove was on and off once every four minutes."

Last but not least was a story of his own. "One summer I was standing in for their usual valet for a bit of extra cash. Liz Taylor was in the hotel and had sent a dress out to be dry cleaned. It was covered in sequins from top to toe - but when I went to pick it up every single sequin had melted off. All that was left was a few smudges and a lot of twists of thread that had held the sequins in place. I was horrified and so was the hotel manager. Eventually, they sent me, the temp, up to the penthouse to hand the dress back - because I was easy to sack if she threw a fit."

Eventually he made his way through the maids and security staff and found himself in the presence of Miss Taylor herself. "I handed her the dress and for a moment she was completely silent - before laying into the designer and telling me exactly what she thought of the quality of Parisian dressmaking. I walked out of the room with my job intact and a tip to boot. The hotel manager couldn't believe it."

At this point I asked if she had been as beautiful as they say, and had I not been looking out for it I would never have noticed the tiny glance he shot his wife before he replied. "You know, I didn't really notice."

So that's where the Boy gets his tact from.

Friday treats

2008-05-09T13:51:00.002+01:00

This lovely dress from Warehouse fell into my hands this lunchtime, crying out to be bought. And who am I to say no?

The top is (beautifully) fitted and the waist definition helped along by a large bow in the back. The skirt stops just above the knee and is rather poofier than the picture suggests thanks to a double layer of white netting. It's amazingly flattering - and in the time it took me to queue and pay for it, three other people had picked one up, so I suspect it won't be in store for long.

I shall be taking it on its first trip out with the Boy and his friends tonight. Wish me luck ;)

Good season / bad season

2008-05-09T10:23:00.001+01:00

Without a doubt, 'tis the season to be ginger. When the sun comes out I almost regret the many years and hundreds of pounds I've spent beating the errant copper tones out of my hair - because it's on days like these that the redheads really come into their own. And it's like they've all come out of hibernation at once; everywhere you look there are flame-topped halos sailing proudly down the street.

I have ginger envy! Maybe it's time to get the henna out again.

But what about the Goths? I can't imagine they have a lot of fun at this time of year. I passed a couple (a gaggle? a murder? how do you pluralise Goths?) on the way to work and even at 8.30 in the morning they looked very sweltery indeed. All that black can't help, and what do you do when your makeup starts to run? Do they kick you out of Slimelight if you turn up in a summer dress? And what about the massive bovver boots? Don't your feet just get a bit... nasty?

I can't really picture an appropriate summer uniform for someone who spends the winter wrapped up in seventeen layers of velvet and lace. Maybe some lunch hour research is in order.

FOX?

2008-05-08T14:18:00.000+01:00

Spotted from a taxi window: a gorgeous woman in sweats with her hair tied back in a ponytail, jogging along outside St Paul's Cathedral. Somehow, despite the heat, she was a picture of grace - right up until the moment the cab turned left and I saw the word FOX emblazoned in large black letters across the back of her tracksuit trousers.

Why, god, why?

Mr and Mrs Smith

2008-05-07T14:51:00.002+01:00

I've finally got around to becoming a Mr and Mrs Smith member and I have to say I'm already pretty impressed. The site is the essential starting point for anyone planning a naughty weekend or a romantic break and I haven't yet found a hotel on there that I wouldn't enjoy staying in. It has the feel of something that's been carefully handpicked by someone who cares about what they're doing.

I'm sure that when I first came across the company they were UK only but it seems they've expanded globally - ski hotels, safari hotels, exotic locations; beautiful boutique venues in (pretty much) whatever country you care to name. As a member you get access to a new section of the site with various special deals and the like, and best of all, each booking you make comes with a little something extra - a bottle of champagne on arrival at the hotel being one of their (and indeed my) favourites.

Entry level membership is only £10 for the year or you can splash out on one of the fancier packages with additional perks like travel deals and VIP events. Either way, lots of fun.

Things not to say when drunk, part 2,000,000(b)

2008-05-06T08:43:00.003+01:00

This weekend, after a couple of drinks (ed: somewhere between eight and ten) I decided to share with the Boy my thoughts on where our relationship is going. We’d been swapping news of a pair of friends whose relationship is stretched to the limits over the question of marriage – she wants to get hitched, he thinks she should get knotted – and (I think) I (probably) just wanted to make sure that we weren’t going to end up in the same situation.

The finer nuances of the conversation are a little fuzzy but the gist remains both with me and, alas, with the Boy. We now know that:

1. I consider two to two to two-and-a-half years to be the optimum time for a marriage proposal. From him. To me.
2. Pizza Express is not an acceptable venue. I do at least know where this one came from – my most memorable proposal was from a deeply misguided young man who seemed to think that it would be a good idea if he went down on one knee in the Regent Street branch of Pizza Express. Over lunch. On a Tuesday.
3. One ring = two months’ salary. This was apparently a bit of a discussion point since the Boy is under the (mistaken) impression that one month is still acceptable. Maybe it’s just as well I brought it up when I did...

Apparently I’m also quite taken with the idea of running away to Las Vegas and being married by Elvis, though I think the Boy may be taking some artistic license with that one.

Although these details are all a little hazy, I do recall dancing merrily down the Canonbury Road with the Boy following patiently behind. (Please note: I cannot dance.) When we reached Essex Road station we stopped and I shared at some length my views on the world. “You know,” the Boy said, with a sigh, as he encouraged me across the road, one arm around my waist to stop me accidentally running out in front of a truck (as I sometimes do when overexcited), “It’s at times like these that I realise I love every weird, difficult, boozed-up bit of you. And I can’t help judging myself a bit for it.”

The romantic fool.

Leggings: Just Say No!

2008-05-02T13:33:00.002+01:00

Look, if this relationship is going to go anywhere, we need to get a few things straight.

1. Leggings are wrong. Just. Say. No.

2. If you really must indulge, please bear this in mind: leggings are not transparent.

3. If they're transparent, they're tights.

4. If you wear tights with a waist length t-shirt you are, in effect, walking down the street semi-naked. You have now become Lindsay Lohan. Is that really what you wanted to achieve?

A time of crisis

2008-05-02T09:21:00.004+01:00

Drama, disaster and horror of horrors: this morning I hated almost all of my shoes. How can a girl hold her head up high without confidence in her footwear?

Luckily there are always the Parisian flats to fall back to save the day - otherwise who knows what might have happened!

It does however make me think that it may be time to visit the spring/summer collections. One perfect pair of Choos should see me through the next sartorially challenging months - or perhaps, as so many people have told me, it's time to play away from home and pay a long-overdue visit to Mr Louboutin.

Decisions, decisions...

The Nemesis Programme

2008-04-30T10:17:00.005+01:00

I have of late noticed a space in my life, a sad and empty void nagging away at the back of my mind. This morning I finally identified it for what it is: I am, for the first time in several years, lacking a Nemesis.

Over the years it's inevitable that one develops rivalries with members of the same (or occasionally the opposite) sex. Generally you share at least the fringes of the same social and professional circles, just enough that you run into each other every couple of months. You probably didn't get on all that well to begin with, although you could never quite put your finger on why.

The Nemesis relationship itself can be triggered by anything from the most trivial of events to the most unforgivable. Perhaps you overlapped one too many boyfriends for comfort; perhaps she married your ex-lover; perhaps she became NBF* to your OBF** or perhaps it's something as ostensibly insignificant as sharing too much history - perhaps she can, unforgivably, remember you when you had hair the size of Pluto, pock marked skin and braces. It may not even be a specific event: maybe she's just your polar opposite - a fresh-bread-baking, skipping-through-the-meadows, Brownie-pack-leading sprite whose giggling, child-like existence puts your hackles up to the ceiling.

Either way, she's Not Your Kind of People, and your occasional run-ins and frosty encounters have delighted and horrified bystanders in equal parts for the last few years. But what to do when the relationship peters out, when she no longer excites that spark of irritation, and when - horror of horrors - you actually find yourself getting on quite well? Oh, the emptiness! The sense of loss!

But fear not. For those who, like me, are currently lacking a suitable candidate for their own Nemesis Programme, I have developed a brief guide to identifying a new arch-rival - because we all need a bit of (un)healthy competition in our lives.

The Nemesis Programme

Your chosen candidate should be pretty, but not too pretty - enough to stop you from eating that fifth slice of chocolate cake, but not so much that you have any real fear of being outclassed by her unexpected arrival at a mutual friend's birthday bash.
She should be newsworthy (and I don't mean tabloid headlines). A good Nemesis will provide a source of gossip and conversation for you and your friends for months or even years to come. Oh my god, did you hear what she did? Did you see what she wore? Can you believe what she's like? (A Nemesis who flies discreetly below the radar is never going to generate any real satisfaction.)
She should, like Mary Poppins, be no more than practically perfect. If you can't find a loophole through which your scorn can slip you're just setting yourself up for a losing battle and a bad self esteem trip. For example: Cameron Diaz would be a Bad Choice.
Your mutual acquaintances should be arranged on both sides of the argument. You can't pick someone who no-one has time for; where's the challenge in that? Where's the fun? Ideally you want about a 40/60 split - enough people on your side that you can have a good bitchfest, but enough on hers that you can work up a decent head of steam over the number of people who Just Don't See What She's Really Like.
It has to be mutual. If she secretly wants to be your friend then she's not really a Nemesis and you're just throwing rocks into an open window. But if you're fairly sure she's thinking the same about you, you could be onto a winner.
Know your Nemesis. If she's got a way with barbed compliments and you have a five-minute delay on your witty comebacks, you'll need plenty of pre-preparation time. Equally, if she has a group of large and hairy devoted male friends, make sure you have a really good innocent expression for when they come to have A Quiet Word with you.
Never forget: dealing with your Nemesis does not exempt you from the Rules of Life. Slanging matches are not the picture of grace; always be polite. Any woman worth her salt can make her opinion on someone perfectly clear while never straying from the most blameless of conversation. (Although, to be fair, practise makes perfect on this one.)

I could go on, but the real joy of the Nemesis program is finding out what works best for you. Just one word of warning, though: make sure you check each application carefully. Are they a potential arch-rival or are you just hiding the fact that you fancy the pants off them? (We are not a romcom.)

Ah, the good old days. I have my eye out for a replacement, you know... let me know if you spot anyone suitable.

*New Best Friend
**Old Best Friend

The wit and wisdom of women

2008-04-29T11:26:00.000+01:00

Overheard on the bus this morning: "So I told him, yeah, if you want to keep me til we're married, you'd better start putting your hand in your pocket once in a while, you know what I mean?"

Wise words indeed.

Hiding the evidence

2008-04-27T16:09:00.002+01:00

This weekend the Boy went away to play with some of his more unsuitable friends. Like any reasonable woman would, I took advantage of his absence to book myself in for a 90 minute deep tissue massage at the Ki Mantra salon.

I walked in to be greeted by a six foot three African god with muscles layered on muscles and an open, friendly smile. The smile put me at my ease – maybe a bit too much. It wasn’t til the massage started that I realised that I should have been more concerned with the muscles.

Ninety minutes of pummelling later he had worked every knot and every clunk into putty and found my stress centre – the lower lower back. Yes, you heard it. My bum is stressed.

By the time I got home I was exhausted and barely able to move; last night I slept restlessly and my muscles squeaked with pain every time I shifted. But today? Today I feel great. My neck is looser. My back is no longer aching. There's just one challenge I need to address before the Boy comes home – and that’s the fact that I have enormous bruises in an unmistakeable handprint walking up my spine from bum to waist.

Er, honey, it was like this…

It Could Be You

2008-04-25T12:32:00.000+01:00

That LiveJournal debate

2008-04-23T14:59:00.006+01:00

Ever read something that made you sick with disgust?

The concept itself is bad enough. What horrifies me the most is the number of comments saying not just that this is okay, but that any man or woman has the right to ask me if they can touch my boobs. To me that is not only offensive but also unpleasant and, if it were to come from a stranger, downright threatening.

LiveJournal is in a frenzy over this post and with reason. It's a frightening indictment of the world we live in when what I want matters more than your feelings about your own body. Because what it ultimately says is that your body is here solely for their amusement - and that's just not right.

Does blogging about something really make you an expert?

2008-04-22T14:31:00.006+01:00

Teh interweb is a marvellous thing. It gives us a voice and it gives us a platform to express our opinions. We love it, and there are now so many millions of blogs being created every day that no one can really be bothered to count them anymore.

Imagine that plethora of voices reaching out across the ether, sharing their thoughts on politics, on the media, on relationships, on shoes, hell, on the weather. Some of them have been going for years, creating little pods of self-referential knowledge, referencing and cross-referencing each other, more and more thoughts thrown out there into the clutter of cyberspace.

But does that really make them worthwhile? Does the sheer length of time you've spent talking about something make you an expert, a self-appointed social commentator? I'm not sure. Is the Oxford Circus preacher a serious religious analyst, just because he's been there for so many years? Would you really expect the Daily Telegraph to seek out his opinion for an in-depth discussion on the state of the Catholic Church, or the declining Anglican congregation?

Maybe you would if he was a blogger. If he'd been putting his opinions out there via RSS feed and not a loudspeaker, who knows where he'd be today. More and more it seems to me that being a blogger makes your opinion worthwhile; apparently, the platform gives credibility to the content. And what a platform it is!

In its favour, blogging has given many silent voices a chance to be heard. Think of the war zone bloggers; think of the escorts (led by the inimitable Belle de Jour); and all the other societies and sub-sets of societies who have been brought to the public's attention in a way that a decade ago they couldn't even have dreamed of. I'm not arguing with the value of that. But on the other hand… on the other hand, you have Me, the ego. The voice that repeats persistently: if I can be heard, surely I must be worth listening to?

Take me as an example. You see, I know that I can run everyone else's lives much better than they can. I can improve their clothes, their hair, their shoes and probably their love lives to boot. (Not yours, of course; you, O Best Beloved, are my honourable exception.)

Of course I may, heaven forbid, be wrong. Perhaps my shoes are just as bad as the Uggs and Crocs that threaten to overwhelm our streets. But either way, does giving me a blog really make my opinion any more valid? Wouldn't that just be a bit crazy?

And yet every day we have national press and magazines including comment from "leading bloggers", people who have nothing to say that makes them stand out from the crowd, nothing to add that any one of the readers couldn't have added for themselves. But somehow, because they said it online, in this exciting medium that all of a sudden is sitting firmly within the mainstream mindset, it has more value.

Some industries are more guilty than others. Where once there was a handful, there are now scores of marketing blogs analysing the industry, discussing the latest trends and critiquing competitive campaigns - many written by people with more years of University than they've had in the industry, and for the sole purpose of self promotion. Am I claiming that's a bad thing? Not necessarily. It doesn't invalidate their viewpoints, and surely the beauty of blogging is that it can bring each and everyone of these new and unique viewpoints out from under their bushels.

But neither does it validate those viewpoints. It remains just an opinion and we, O Best Beloved, are no more or less than we were before we put it there. Uploading it into the uncaring void does not make you an expert on your topic - and especially not when it's a topic that rests firmly on the foundations of self-promotion.

I wouldn’t take this post too seriously, though. You've only got my word for it, after all, and what am I? Just another blogger floating out there in endless cyberspace. Who made me the expert?

Just an ordinary girl

2008-04-16T12:05:00.016+01:00

Somehow I missed this article from Caitlin Moran on the amount of time most people spend having sex. The average (3 to 13) minutes doesn’t sound too unreasonable - any less than three minutes and you have to wonder whether was really worth your while getting your kit off in the first place; any more than about thirty and you're either going Tantric or, let's be honest, you're just not doing it right.

One of Caitlin's comments in particular rang a bell with me. Sexual one-upmanship - we've all been guilty of it. Think about your teens and early 20s: wasn't the most important thing to claim not only the most notches on your bedpost but also the most outlandish and flamboyant sexual escapades to make your friends scream in delighted horror when you related them in their full technicolour glory? ("But how DID you get the duct tape off again? What did the vicar say? Has your mother forgiven you yet?")

If I run the gamut of my social circle today I find submissives, doms, switches, exhibitionists, voyeurs, fetishists and more, each outdoing the last in their unusual sexual practices. Special snowflakes one and all, open-minded to anything that comes their way - unless, of course, you want to just have sex. What, no rubber? No leather? No live-action video streaming? Good god, woman, what kind of freak are you?

It's not just sex it's happening to, either. In most things, this social circle is as open-minded as they come. If I was polyamorous they'd love me for it; if I decided to paint my face white, dreadlock my hair and invest in dayglo Lycra they'd accept me as a Cybergoth. The problem is that I don’t do any of that - I like my "vanilla" lifestyle. And it's when I say that that they look at me in disgust. You don't want an alternative lifestyle? You aren't stretching the boundaries of society and challenging the status quo? What are you, some kind of bimbo?

There's always the temptation to lie, to make up some extravagant fantasy or sexual fetish so that they can sigh with relief and accept me again. But instead, inspired by Caitlin's article, I think it's time to come out of the closet. So here, O best beloved, is my confession.

I like high heels. I like champagne. I like my fast car, I like my Islington flat and I like extravagant, brightly coloured cocktails. I follow fashion (albeit with limited success) and I go to members' only bars. I enjoy my PR job and damnit, I love my Jimmy Choos. I'm happy to admit that I aspire to the Sex and the City lifestyle and - most shocking of all - I can say all of this and still have a fully-functioning brain.

So here's the bottom line. If I can accept your two girlfriends, your four boyfriends and your need to be beaten with a cat-o-nine-tails three times a week, then you're going to have to learn to live with my lifestyle choices too. And if the Boy comes home tonight and proposes 13 minutes of vanilla-as-you-like missionary style sex I'm not going to kick him out of the bedroom, because I'm pretty damn sure we're both going to enjoy it.

(Still, I'm keeping the handcuffs on the bedpost... just in case.)

Wedding jitters

2008-04-15T10:55:00.005+01:00

No, not mine! Honestly, what kind of girl do you think I am?

In a few scant days I will be walking down the aisle as Best Wench to C, the bride whose hen night we celebrated a fortnight ago. For her it's an enormous adventure as she takes the next step into the rest her life with the man she loves and for me, it's a wonderful chance to celebrate a good friend.

It is, however, not without its challenges. Ranking high on the list is my vertiginous choice of footwear, a beautiful pair of bronze peep toe heels which are the one extravagance in an otherwise demure and bridesmaid-appropriate outfit. Five inches of stiletto-heeled confidence? Yes. Disaster waiting to happen? Possibly.

But even that precarious balancing act isn't the one that's really keeping me awake at night: it's the company we'll be keeping. You see, C's friendship group is quite expansive, and I've mixed with her posse on and off for several years now.

Can you see where this is going?

... yes, I'm going to be walking down the aisle in front of a whole herd of fully paid-up members of the Ex-Boyfriend Club. Hurrah!

Any girl would want to look her best when she faces down those ravening hordes, but alas, it is not to be. The Best Wench's dress has been carefully selected to complement the bride's stunning antique gold gown and most definitely not to knock anyone's socks off on its own account - exactly as it should be, I hasten to add. But I can't shake the feeling that no matter how friendly I may be with the exes, on some deep, dark level nothing would please them more than for me to trip over my hem and tumble down the aisle like a gigantic taffeta landslide - as long as I do it in a way that doesn't detract from C, of course.

There really should be some kind of law passed to keep ex-boyfriends away from social engagements. No wonder this country's going to pot.

PR genius?

2008-04-14T10:02:00.005+01:00

Ashley Highfield leaves the BBC for Kangaroo - only a week after kicking the bandwidth debate firmly back into the front pages of the national media. Nice moves, my friend, whether they're yours or the BBC's quick thinking PR team.

But enough of this sordid gossip! Let us return to our usual highbrow tone: ladies and gentlemen, I present for your delight and edification the latest of the essential Rules for Life. This was in fact one of the first Rules ever to be set in stone, but I think it bears repeating. Oh, how I'd love to say that this little gem isn't based on real life experience!... but sadly, that would be a lie.

It comes in three parts, so pay attention, girls. You really can't afford to miss this.

6a. If you must wear the ill-advised minidress you bought in your teens, avoid at all costs sitting on the ground.
6b. If you have no choice but to sit on the ground, do at least try to keep your knees together.
6c. If you really, really must sprawl on the grass, for heavens' sake get a bikini wax.

Alas, the memory alone brings a tear to my eye.

Fragmented thoughts

2008-04-11T10:58:00.005+01:00

I have the most terrible giggles this morning. I'm busy multitasking between two of the big things on my to do list - an analysis of the uses of colour in the creative industries over the last 50 years and an introductory media pitch for a sexy new client in the online video arena (it's true - digital media gets all the fun stuff) - but every now and then I have to put the phone down and just have a good snicker to myself.

I can only assume it's the sunshine getting into my bones - and possibly also the fact that I'm only 24 hours away from having a shiny new house slave. Sorry, did I say slave? I meant equal and respected live-in partner. After all, as anyone who's met the Boy will have noticed, he's really very resistant to being walked over. (I think that's one of the reasons we get on so well.)

Pffft. Partner. I hate that word. How unromantic can you be? Although I suppose it could be worse - I'll never forget meeting the at-the-time-boyfriend of a schoolfriend's mum and being introduced with the unforgettable words "darling, this is my long-term boff".

Boff. Now there's a word we need to bring back into circulation.

Mmm, tasty

2008-04-10T08:15:00.002+01:00

Well I never. Apparently 7am is the peak time to leave my flat. Suddenly, instead of the hordes of yummy mummies pushing their squealing offspring through the gates, the development is rolling in sharply dressed, chisel-jawed, 30-something Adonises. Why did I not think of this before? Of course the mummies aren't doing it alone; someone has to be bringing home the bacon while they're taking little Alexander to his pre-school improvement group. ("He's terribly smart for his age, you know.")

The yummy mummies and I have an unspoken agreement to keep a polite distance from each other, and have done ever since I was invited to join their select group and they discovered (oh the shame!) that I worked for a living. But not so the tasty dads. They're a charming crew, given to holding doors open and initiating early morning chats as we stroll up the road towards Angel. The fact that I'm quite obviously off to work is a bit of a novelty for them and they take it with rather more good humour than their wives.

I feel a bit bad that I can't really tell them apart, but one tight-bodied Adonis really is much like another at that time of morning.

The countdown begins

2008-04-08T09:03:00.004+01:00

Oh, and in case you haven't been counting, it's now only four days (FOUR DAYS) 'til the Boy du Jour ups sticks and moves (a small selection of) his worldly goods into the Angel UberFlat. In preparation I've cleared out a sizeable chunk of the second wardrobe, including a big selection of clothes I'd completely forgotten I owned. What on earth was I thinking? What use would I ever have for a cropped evening jacket in gold brocade, a faux satin DJ or a frankly bizarre blue and brown netting tent-dress? (I blame Monsoon for that one: I get a bit overexcited when they get new stock in, no matter what it actually looks like.)

On the plus side I also rediscovered the dress I wore for my 25th birthday party (which is only five minutes ago, for the record) and it looks fab, arguably rather more so than it did when I was 25. Is that even possible?

High tea and tasselled nipples

2008-04-08T08:30:00.006+01:00

Last Saturday was my friend C’s hen party, organised by Best Wench yours truly.

The day started with some proper old-fashioned civilisation – high tea at Fortnum and Mason’s, surrounded by layered silver trays piled high with sinful pastries, crust-free sandwiches and, of course, plenty of pink champagne. Several hours, a small pause and a quick change later and off we whirled to the evening’s entertainment at new favourite haunt Volupte, where Mama Jo King and her bevvy of lovelies entertained us over dinner with the twirling of tassled nipples and some really fabulous renditions of old classics including Shirley Bassey’s Big Spender and the inimitable Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend (ah, so true).

So today I'm thinking that it may be time to give up the day job and run away to join a burlesque theatre. The only problem with this marvellous idea is the conflict with my previous plan B, which was running away to sea to become a pirate. The two can't be completely incompatible, though - burlesque piracy, anyone?

Rules for life: contd.

2008-04-01T10:01:00.000+01:00

5. Contrary to popular belief, chocolate is not the answer.

The spring is sprung, the grass is riz

2008-03-31T08:20:00.003+01:00

And here we are on another fine Monday morning. Rather like the Red Queen, I find myself with six impossible things to do before breakfast. Fantastic.

Unfortunately my focus is quite distracted by the woman on the bus opposite me with the horrible shoes. By now my postion on Ugg boots should be clear (Just Say No) but I'd like to add to that forbidden list all shoes with turned up toes. It may have worked on the Sultan's Grand Vizier, honey, but it does nothing whatsoever for you.

You know, I sometimes think I should give up the day job and just concentrate my efforts on Improving Other People's Lives. It's important to play to one's strengths after all.

Jailhouse rock

2008-03-28T08:34:00.004Z

I blame Elvis.

No no, I do. It's perfectly reasonable. If not for him, "one quick drink" wouldn't have turned into three bottles of wine and a pizza the size of my head. (And me with a bridesmaid's dress to zip up in less than a month...)

Whose idea it was to capture the midnight boogy on video we may never know. Oh hang on... yes we do.

The good news is that I haven't yet hit the hangover. I'm riding high on the tails of the third bottle and with a bit of luck that and a large coffee will see me through the day.

However. Sometime around bottle two (and well into the booze texting zone) I came upon a terrible thought. Once the Boy and I are cohabiting, who will I text at random times of night with my pearls of alcoholic wisdom? Who will reap the benefit of my 4am insights into the meaning of life? (I like to share these moments when they come upon me.)

I'm going to have to give it some serious thought.

A boy? a Boy??

2008-03-27T18:26:00.004Z

Oh my god, I have to share my flat with a BOY. A BOY! You know, the ones that aren't girls! The ones with the big feet and the beer and the strange music and the hairgel and the general BOYness! What about all my lovely girl things? What if they catch Boyism?? What if I do???

Oh my god! Where will I put on my facemasks? Where will I keep the Secret Boxes full of memorabilia of Boyfriends Past? What if he finds the bodies under the patio? What on earth will he say when he discovers that not all of my underwear is boyfriend friendly??

Oh my GOD, what if he has Secret Memorabilia too? (... if it's in my flat, it's fair game, right?)

A short history of blogs

2008-03-27T08:05:00.004Z

So I've been blogging for … err… about five years now. For the last couple of years it's been restricted access only, locking specific bits of my life to specific audiences. Funny what blogging does to the way you think.

As time went on it's become a useful way to decant the singsong of random throughts from my head into the ether, and under pressure from friends (you know who you are) I recently moved across to Blogger, where I could feed my idle thoughts out into the uncaring void. Hello, uncaring void.

Despite my best intentions I've never shut down either of my previous blogs. One of them I still use occasionally to peer into other people's lives (you know you would) and the other has too much history to be easily disposable. I keep meaning to download it, but it just seems a bit much like hard work. You see, those are my memoirs. The adventures, the scandal, the trauma - the blood and sweat (mine) and the tears (others'). The sordid details (and aren't you glad I don't feel the need to share those anymore?). Give me a few more years and you'll see them on a bookshelf somewhere. The names will be changed... but you'll know who I am.

If you're really lucky, you may even be one of the people who receives the discreet little note asking exactly how much it's worth to have your escapades left out...

Rules for life

2008-03-26T12:42:00.004Z

This post is the first in an occasional series introducing you to my Rules for Life.

It crossed my mind while talking to the Boy last night that I live my life according to a set of very clear but hitherto unwritten rules. I'm going to ease you in gently with a few of the most crucial, and over the next few weeks I'll introduce the others as the occasion demands. Some of them will seem obvious and some more obscure, but trust me: they're all there for a good reason.

Almost a Lady's rules for life (part the first)

Always keep at least one bottle of emergency champagne in the fridge. When the emergency comes, a single bottle is unlikely to resolve it without moral support.
Try to maintain the semblance of good manners at all times: rude people are appallingly dull. If forced into close quarters with one, don't panic. Restrain yourself to a frosty smile, be unfailingly polite, and leave them with the impression that you were faintly bored with everything they said.
If you're over 25 think very, very carefully before you put on that miniskirt. It's not just about whether you can wear it; it's whether you should. You're an adult now and you have a responsibility to the public welfare.
If you must lie, lie outrageously. It's more fun for everyone that way.

There are plenty more; after all, it's a complicated world, and there are lots of traps for the unwary 20something to fall into. Armed with these four starter rules you are at least prepared for most of the dramas the week may bring - and if it all goes t*ts up there's always the Veuve to fall back on.

God bless the Widow.

Rubbish

2008-03-20T14:23:00.001Z

I feel a bit rubbish today. There's no real reason for it... it's just a bit of a grump that I don't seem to be able to shake.

It's not helped by the fact that someone has replaced all of my clothes with horrible unflattering rags, which was more than a bit provoking when I eventually dragged myself out of bed this morning. And as for my hair - alas, if only "dragged through a hedge backwards" was the look I'd set my heart on.

I can only assume that the world is conspiring against me.

And then there were two

2008-03-17T10:45:00.003Z

I have news.

On Saturday night, as we sipped champagne and snorted Bolivian cocaine from the naked body of a dusky exotic beauty, the Boy du Jour asked me to move in with him. I laughed casually, flicked my long golden hair back out of my face and told him that I supposed it might be quite fun.

Well... some of the above is not strictly speaking true. In fact it happened over Sunday lunch at La Tasca in Angel, and I was so surprised/excited/scared/happy that I pretty much burst into tears on the spot. (And I'm brunette.)

Luckily the Boy knows me well enough to understand that the floods of tears meant yes, and as a result from the middle of April my shiny new bachelorette pad will be acquiring a second resident. At first it's just a four week trial to see how it goes; it may turn out that we can't stand that much of each other, in which case he'll still have his house in Croydon to retreat to and we can cut our losses before it spoils the rest of the relationship. And if it does work... well, that's a kettle of fish which we'll deal with when we get there.

I've only told a small handful of people so far. I like having it as my secret; it's like installing insulation against the rest of the week and the rest of the world. Me and the Boy, sharing the flat! How cool is that?

I think I'm going to be sick.

90% angel, 10% paint

2008-03-13T12:59:00.001Z

I swear I had no idea this painting lark could be so hard. It's exhausting! And getting the paint to go where you want is surprisingly challenging. Last night I'm pretty sure that more paint ended up on me than on the actual wall. Or on the carpet, despite it being covered in plastic sheets. Or on the skirting board. Or in the next room, lord only knows how that happened.

It's also possibly the most fun I've ever had on my own, except for that time I tried to barricade my ex-flatmate into her room using only frozen chips and fishfingers. Heh heh. Yeah, that was pretty cool too.

Jumping mad

2008-03-11T09:52:00.007Z

I saw Jumper last night with Boy du Jour. And ooh, it annoyed me something chronic.

I don't demand a lot from my movies - my all-time faves are Deep Blue Sea and Lake Placid, for heaven's sake - and as long as something blows up I'm generally pretty happy. But this film has managed to piss me off on a lot of levels and if I don't rant about it my head may just explode.

The basic premise is the classic tale of the school geek who discovers he has An Amazing Power. He gets a bit carried away with the excitement and becomes a selfish, arrogant tosser who lives the high life by breaking into banks and generally behaving like someone who needs a good slapping. So far so good - a time-honoured set up enabling him to learn An Important Lesson, start to Use his Power For Good and ultimately to Win The Girl who had been Too Cool for him at school.

But that's too much like hard work for this particular piece of movie magic. Instead, he simply walks into the bar where she's working and says "hey, it's me, I'm no longer geeky and I've got loads of money. Want to go to Rome?"

She hesitates for - actually, no, she doesn't even hesitate. Next thing we know they're on a plane to Rome, where she falls onto the bed with squeals of glee and her legs in the air. No, it's not an exaggeration; that's exactly what she does.

So let's recap. We've ascertained that he's an arrogant tosser and she's just a straightforward marketable commodity. Nice. I'm starting to suspect that he's not meant to be a classic "save the world" kind of hero - perhaps he's a Loveable Rogue, a Dashing Antihero in the mould of James Bond (who, let's face it, is a sexist pig - but a sexist pig who you can't help loving). A hero who you suspect isn't actually that "nice" a person, but you really want him to win anyway... like Professor Snape. (... or is that just me?)

On that premise, what Our Hero needs now is a Real Baddy to allow him to show his True Colours and prove that he's more than just some jumped up little clot. But instead, it turns out that he's being chased by people who also think he's behaving like a selfish twat and would really quite like him to stop. (I think that's pretty fair; hell, I'd have shot him too, and I didn't have nearly as much provocation as they did.)

The bottom line is that nothing changes over the entire course of the film. He behaves like a twat from start to finish. He finds a fellow-jumper who he treats phenomenally badly and leaves tied to an electricity pylon (and that's the last we see of the friend - for all we know he's still there). He stops the baddies in a rather improbable fashion and goes back to the lifestyle he had at the start (albeit now with the girl in tow), all the while protesting "but I'm not hurting anyone, why do they want to kill poor misunderstood little me?"

I'm not going to go into the bad plotting or the ridiculous ending (but can someone explain WHY it's better to leave his nemesis to dehydrate and starve to death in a tiny cave in the middle of the Grand Canyon than to drop him into the sea? And if he does survive, what was the point of doing it in the first place? He's just going to keep coming after you!). Instead I'm mostly focused on the portrayal of women, and particularly of the heroine, which I think was shoddy and degrading. He bought her for the price of a trip to Rome and yet we're still supposed to believe that she'd hang around being shot at and kidnapped (she's a singularly useless girl who seems incapable of doing anything other than occasionally look soulfully at the camera) because she "really cares for him". Ah yes, that old chestnut: money can indeed buy you the genuine and honest love of beautiful women who wouldn't look twice at you in your schooldays.

Honestly, what a sexist piece of claptrap! Someone else obviously thought so too - and gave us the ham-fisted addition of his mother as a token "strong female character", which I darkly suspect is what she was intended to be. That little plan was a total failure, by the way; she's as useless as the heroine, and appears so fleetingly (and with so little conviction) that she's barely worth mentioning at all.

Rachel Bilson, you're better than this.

That's two hours of my life I'm never going to get back.

It's alive!

2008-03-10T11:16:00.003Z

Despite frizzing my hair, blowing my umbrella to shreds and melting my makeup, the London storm has found favour by stranding Boy du Jour at my house for the day.

He rocked up around lunchtime yesterday (not-so-fresh from a friend's wedding) to help me start the Great Paintworks in the flat and then stayed the night, intending to head back to the deep dark South at first light. But when first light broke it came with claps of thunder, pouring rain and a thoroughly buggered transport system. So instead of kicking him out into the wilderness (as tempting as it was) I've hooked him up to the internet and left him snugly ensconsed on the sofa under the guise of "working from home".

I can't help thinking the lightning may have struck a bit too close to home though since the last messages we exchanged suggested that instead of doing work he was actually cleaning my kitchen and scraping yesterday's paint off the paint brushes.

What kind of crazy domestic world have we slipped into?

Cultural what now?

2008-03-07T09:50:00.007Z

Banksy has picked the side of my development to create his latest masterpiece. I say "masterpiece" with a certain amount of irony, since leaving the house that morning with a friend I'd turned to her with a certain amount of snarkiness and said "what the effing blank is that meant to be then?"

"I think it's probably a Banksy," she said wisely.

Only hours later she was proved right, and by the time the day ended I found myself clearing a path to the side gate through a crowd of muppets with cameraphones.

To you it may be art but to me it's home, damnit! ... it's not bad for a bit of cultural one-upmanship, though ;)

Of paint and parties

2008-03-04T10:04:00.003Z

I spent a chunk of this weekend throwing paint around my flat. The walls have ended up splattered with about sixteen different colours, or more strictly speaking sixteen different shades of the same colour. Who knew decorating would be such a challenge?

By the end I did at least have some kind of resolution. I have two rather chic modern/neutral bedrooms and a phenomenally tasteless living room which I darkly suspect will become my pride and joy. The only question now is who's going to do the painting and when they're going to find time to do it - what, you didn't think I was going to do it myself, did you??

In a little over a month I'm due to be maid of honour (or rather Best Wench, thankyouverymuch) at a friend's wedding. As if walking down the aisle without tripping over my own feet wasn't hard enough, it turns out I can't currently do up the zip on my bridesmaid's dress. And so we enter a month of dieting to try and rectify the situation. My diets have in the past met with mixed success, but hopefully the thought of waddling along behind my friend with safety pins holding my dress together will prove sufficient motivation.

Before then, of course, I have to finish organising the hen night. Of which, O Best Beloved, more later...

A breath of fresh insanity when all you have is air

2008-02-26T09:42:00.003Z

It's cold out there and on any other day I might want to crawl home to bed and retire underneath the duvet. But not today: on Friday I got the promotion I've worked towards for the last two years, and so today I'm more enthused and happy than I've been for many a moon. Oh frabjous day, and so forth.

Celebrations started unexpectedly on Saturday morning when the Boy du Jour turned up on my doorstep with the makings of breakfast-in-bed and the Saturday papers. Even better, he then encouraged me to play two hours of PlayStation (which he hates) without a word of complaint while I kept up a running commentary on pretty much every single scene change. While I kicked seven shades of crap out of my pixellated opponent he drank coffee, read the Times and rolled his eyes at me every now and again. (Which I choose to take as a sign of affection.)

Eventually, martyred to the limits of any man's endurance, he unplugged me so that we could scoot off and spend the night with some Winchester-based friends of his. Lovely people and a great example of the kind of relationship I aspire to; our host rustled up a fantastic three course meal while his girlfriend had a beer and a gossip with us. Of course my Boy nearly bust a gut laughing when I suggest he used this as his new role model, but c'est la vie. He made up for it by not breathing a word on Sunday when a combination of slight hangover and extreme hormones encouraged me to insist on a four meal day with a sushi break partway through.

Love me, love my crazy eating.