Christmas, Commitment and Cooking

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

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)

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

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

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"

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

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...

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

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?

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?

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

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

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

Contemplating work
Thinking that press releases
Should be in haiku.

Ladies of leisure

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…

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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!

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

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!

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

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?

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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?

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.

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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"

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

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?

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

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

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!