More Derren-moaning

After Derren Brown failed miserably to stick me to my chair a few weeks back, it was with breath baited that I waited for Channel 4’s 3D week, and the promised extravaganza of 3D magic. Oh, how disappointed I was. When I didn’t have my eyes closed (the two guys eating pretend razor blades and sawing their arms up just made me feel sick), the 3D was so rubbish that all that happened was that I strained my eyes by sitting too close to the television (in a Poltergeist style) in a vain attempt to make it better. I saw more respectable 3D on a cereal packet in the 80s. Boo.

Burn, baby, burn

I was just standing in the kitchen at work and poured a cup full of boiling water over my hand. Unfortunately, there were three directors in the kitchen at the time so, as I am the epitome of professionality whilst in the office,* I had to hold in the barrage of bad language which I wanted to unleash. So, here it is:

sh*tfu*kb*ggery*b*stard!?!!!

*Apart from the fact that I'm writing a blog at 11.41 on a Tuesday morning.

I am NOT old enough to be his mother

Sarah, my flatmate, and I are going to buy a full-size cardboard cut-out of Edward Cullen instead of a Christmas tree this year. We think he’ll look very festive with some fairy lights and baubles draped artistically over him. Although, as Sarah pointed out, we may have to buy two to avoid one helluva custody battle when we have to move out…

PS Dan, if you're reading this and you call me a retard again I'm coming over to Stokey to sort you out.

Do-you-think-he-saurus

This is a poster from a train advertising all the fun things you can do in parks in London. Imagine my surprise when I read the small print. In case you can't read it in the image, it goes as follows:

“Here you can explore:

• Ancient woodlands • Delightful boating lakes

• Ferocious dinosaurs • Imaginative play areas

• Places to picnic • Wild nature reserves • Working farms”

FEROCIOUS DINOSAURS!?! Why are they keeping this Jurassic Park-style miraculous fun from us? Can we too have “An Adventure 65 Million Years In The Making”? Why is this not in massive letters at the top of the poster!?

Is it "Darren" with a typo? continued

I'm fine by the way.

Is it "Darren" with a typo?

I'm planning a night in with a large glass or two of red wine and Derren Brown tonight. Apparently he's going to stick the nation to their sofas (as far as I'm concerned this isn't much of a trick—getting me off my sofa would be more impressive). But, what if I get stuck there permanently? I am quite suggestible (at least, I always want to buy all those products you see in infomercials in the middle of the night—last week I got really excited about a mop). My flatmate is away for most of the weekend which means I could theoretically be stuck there for a full two days. If anyone's reading this, can you check I'm alright at some point over the weekend? Thanks.

RIP Patrick Swayze

Thank you for making my teenage years a bit more bearable.

Guh-gung... guh-gung...

Return of the Stalker AKA does anyone know Viggo Mortensen?

I have decided, as I seemingly have nothing better to do, to make it my mission in life to meet all of the actors in the Fellowship of the Ring. I've met (and bought a drink for) Sean Bean (who was drinking Baileys on ice—not very manly) and have been in the same room as Sir Ian McKellen (see video below). So that's two. My friend Lindsay saw Orlando Bloom (Legolas)on Holloway Road so I'm living vicariously through her and claiming that one too (though I would quite like to buy him a drink). My friend Tamsin went to school with Dominic Moynahan (Merry) and was once sent out of class by his dad (who was the teacher) so I'm having that one too. That just leaves me three hobbits (Elijah Wood, Sean Astin and Billy Boyd—though I don't mind skipping the last one), a dwarf (John Rhy-Davies) and the lovely Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen). Any one able to help (particularly with Viggo. Please)? God knows why I'm single.

All the fun of the fair

I was standing on a street corner with my sister on Saturday (waiting for a friend—we're not prostitutes), when I saw a man holding what looked like a goldfish in a bag. “Aw,” I thought, “how lovely, he must've won that at a fair somewhere. I wonder where, perhaps we could go...” (I had a bit of a hangover so my thoughts were rambling). Just as I was pointing it out to my sister, he got a bit nearer and I realised that it was a colostomy bag. Lovely.

One ring to rule them all

I have just spent most of this lovely sunny weekend in a darkened room with no windows. No, I haven't been arrested, I have been to see the three Lord of the Rings films back to back at the Imax. It started at midnight on Saturday night (it was quite weird going into town in jeans and a jumper carrying a cushion and being surrounded by drunken people in party clothes on their way home...) and finished at 10.30 on Sunday morning.

So, we're sitting there and listening to the announcement about where the loos are, etc., when they say that there's going to be a special guest. So I'm thinking, it's probably going to be some guy in a Gollum costume, or maybe someone from The Lord of the Rings: The Musical (which I've also seen). I turn around and guess who's coming down the stairs? It's only Sir Ian Mckellen! Fricking Gandalf!

Some may say I need to get out more, but it was one of the most memorable evenings I've had. And I've got it on video:

Amazing.

Yay! Mark 2

I would like to be the second to congratulate Kate and Will on their new baby boy via the medium of blog, as Dan already beat me to it. Congratulations guys!
And please call him Griff Griffiths.

Possibly the weirdest sentence in an email ever

“You know, Hugo's (not Theo) got an abalony (abalone?) knife and links to Indonesia. I'll look it up on Wikipedia.”

Consider yourself... slightly disappointed

Imagine my excitement when I saw that Wolf from Gladiators would be playing Fagin in the stage production of Oliver! Then I got a bit closer and realised that it was someone else entirely. How brilliant would Wolf have been!?!

Pesky bad eyesight.

Dr Terror's House of Horrors

I watched this 60s Hammer horror film over the weekend (in which Roy Castle got higher billing than Donald Sutherland—weird) which had the best line ever (delivered by Bernard Lee of Bond film fame whilst gazing into the middle distance):

“A plant like that... could take over the world.”

Genius.

Blame it on the spell check

From: Wilkin, Emma (SMG Europe) Sent: 28 May 2009 15:24

To: Hannah

Subject: Meeting this afternoon
Hello, I see that meeting room 3A is free at 3.30—shall we move our meeting there? I think they might be hovering in the cafe around this time which can be a bit distracting!

That word is supposed to be "hoovering". Although I wish they were hovering—that'd be much more interesting.

BEST. GAME. EVER.

Wii Lego Star Wars.

Is this for real?*

The following article was reproduced on the website Digital Spy (where I get all my important celeb gossip):

“Alec Baldwin has apologised for making a joke about wanting a Filipino mail-order bride to bear his children.
The 30 Rock star was branded 'arrogant' and 'insensitive' by a Philippines senator after making the comment during an appearance on The Late Show With David Letterman last week.
Writing on his Huffington Post blog, he said: 'I believe that most people understood that this was a joke and took it as such. (A dated reference, no doubt, and another sign of my advancing age). However, I do apologise to anyone who took offence.' He added: 'The comments of some Philippine government officials come as no surprise to me... Such anger and frustration about the issue of sex trafficking is understandable.' Senator Ramon Revilla, a former action movie star, had suggested that Baldwin would face 'mayhem' if he ventured to the Philippines following the remark.”

Now take a look at the advert to the right of the article.

Is this someone's idea of a joke or targetted key word advertising gone mad?

*Please note that I did get taken in by a news article about sat nav trainers on April Fool's Day, so my levels of gullibility are quite high...

This came from a carton of six eggs I bought:

So many comments and so little time...

I thought I had a stalker...

...but it turned out to be a wrong number.

Alarming

Walking to work from the tube I noticed a few funny looks, but didn't think anything of it. It wasn't until I got near my desk and took my head phones off that I realised my (100 decibel) rape alarm was going off in my bag. God knows how long it had been running.

Fame at last

Advert for a room

“i am loking for tenants non smoking that are profeshanal and responsable in maner.”

Obviously speaking English isn't a priority.

Lost Boys II: The Tribe

As a huge fan of the original (I was 13 when I watched it and it kicked off a life-long love for vampire films and literature), I was almost pant-wettingly excited about this. It was never going to fulfil the hype and is a very lacklustre affair. Nothing really happens (except for a lot of blood and boobies - sometimes at the same time). Corey Feldman reprises his role from the original and, bizarrely after years of abuse, looks and sounds almost exactly the same (even delivering the same lines at one point: "I think I should warn you all, when a vampire bites it, it's never a pretty sight. No two blood suckers go out the same way. Some yell and scream, some go quietly, some explode, some implode. But, all will try and take you with them.") So, it finished, the good guys killed the vampires surprisingly easily and I was quite disappointed. Then I watched the alternative endings. Haim and Feldman reunited! It was worth the rental just for that (there's also a mid-credits scene with them both, but I only realised this after I'd sent the DVD back - obviously). Apparently there may be another film in the offing... Lost Boys III: Return of the Coreys? Please let it be true!

Culture Vulture

This is me “enjoying” an exhibition with my sister at the Saatchi Gallery on the King's Road.

Nivea/Way too much time on my hands continued...

“Dear Emma,

Thank you for your e-mail regarding our recent Nivea For Men Silver Protect Deodorant advertisement.

We must apologise for the grammatical error on this advert and I can assure you this matter has been brought to the attention of our Marketing Department.

Thank you once again for taking the time and trouble in contacting us.

Yours sincerely

Eleanor Aston, Consumer Relations Advisor”

Quick soapbox moment

I generally try to avoid being too serious on here, but I'm feeling the need to draw your attention to the following. This is taken from

http://www.petrolprices.com/:

“In just 2 weeks fuel duty will rise again, bringing the total tax paid at the pumps to 71 pence in every pound - despite Prime Minister Gordon Brown promising not to raise fuel duty...

Fuel duty is set to rise by roughly 2 pence per litre on April 1st meaning that 66 pence of the average litre of fuel goes directly to the Treasury. Fuel tax goes into a central government tax pot. It's not necessarily allocated back out to motoring, so fuel tax can be spent on anything – the NHS, housing, pensions or even banking bailouts.

At the height of soaring pump prices Brown made a promise during Prime Minister's Questions on July 16th 2008 not to raise fuel duty for a year. He stated: 'In recognition of the problem people face with petrol, we are freezing duty on petrol for the full year.' Brown broke this promise in December 2008 when he added 2 pence per litre to fuel duty to offset the reduction of VAT to 15%... He is set to break the promise for a second time on April 1st when fuel duty on unleaded and diesel will rise 1.84 pence per litre. Including the additional 15% VAT on top this will make the rise at the pumps around 2 pence per litre.”

Lies, lies, lies. I don't know why the British people voted for him. Oh yeah, that's right—we didn't.

Okay, that's it.

Way too much time on my hands

“Dear Nivea,

I would like to complain about your current advert for Men's deodorant containing silver. It begins “Who would of thought...”. This is some of the worst grammar I've ever seen. It should be “Who would HAVE thought...” or, at the very least, “Who would've thought...”. Every time I see it on the tube I get really angry (as does the rest of the editorial department I work in). Perhaps employing a proofreader might be a good idea?

Best wishes,

Emma”

Yet another great day

First thing this morning I had a minor elbow-war with a man on the tube (you know, when you both jostle for space on the arm rest). I sort-of won, but I did have to sit with my arm at an exceedingly unnatural angle for the entirety of my tube journey meaning an achy shoulder for the rest of the day... still at least I proved my point!

Then, about half an hour ago, I knocked a pint of water over, completely soaking my lap, chair and legs (along with a piece of handwritten work related stuff which I've been looking for for ages and had only found a few minutes before—obviously now it's barely legible). I then spent 15 minutes under the hand-drier in the ladies, in some kind of weird yoga position (I think it was a crap version of downward facing dog) trying to dry my bottom. Oh, the humanity!

The Moomins

I've been watching The Moomins on DVD (the proper old-school sinister fuzzy felt ones—not the cartoon ones) and there's two foreign characters who turn up about half way through. No one speaks their language and I can only assume that they're seeking some kind of asylum. Due to the fact that no one can understand what they're saying, everyone calls them “Thingummy and Bob”. Genius.

PS Check out Moomin-Mama's handbag—I'd love to know what's in there.

PPS Next up, Dungeons & Dragons followed by Ullyses 31. I am very excited.

Random comments from this weekend

“As long as I concentrate and don't hit a penguin, it'll all be fine.”
“I'm sorry, I've only got one steering wheel.”

There were more but I've forgotten them.
I'm sorry, there's not much going on at the moment!

W(h)ine

This morning, as I got ready to trudge through the freezing sleet to the the tube station, where the trains probably wouldn't be working anyway, I noticed a stray wine bottle under the bed (yes, I know that sounds a bit dodgy) which I thought I should take down to the recycling. Having my hands full, I stuck it in my handbag for safe keeping.

It wasn't until I got to work and opened my bag in front of several colleagues at 9.30 in the morning that I realised I'd forgotten to put in the recycling. The more excuses I made, the more of an alcoholic I sounded.

Email gaffe of the week*

My very good friend Lindsay sent the following email to a colleague in Hong Kong. It was meant for her sister.

“stray gnome pube”

Brilliant. Here's hoping it gets lost in translation...

*Possibly the year—but we have only just got started.

Never been so frightened in my life

The sunglasses are hiding the fear in my eyes.

Another Emma special

In my usual organised fashion I decided to write myself a note yesterday to remind me to do something. Also as per usual, I didn't get it quite right.

Dominican Republican

I've just returned from a week in the Dominican Republic (where the people are, and I quote, 10% catholic and 90% alcoholic—I will be moving there shortly). No run-ins with customs which was a bonus for me (apart from being stumped by the fact that they don't accept their own currency in several places). The one time I did stack it though, the whole event was caught in glorious technicolur on DVD. Unfortunately it's not comedy enough to earn £250 on “You've Been Framed”.

Shortly after that my sister (accidentally) kicked a horse in the head, which would definitely have earned us 250 squid, but they didn't catch that bit. Pictorial evidence of horseriding to follow, but in the meantime, here is a picture of how most of the evenings were spent.

Look what I achieved at work today

I tried to do my face as well but someone walked in so I had to pretend to be cleaning a non-existent mark off the glass.

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii # 2

At the risk of royally humiliating myself, I thought that my loyal readership (of 2? Maybe 3 at a push) would enjoy the attached video of me on my Wii fit, hula hooping. Obviously.
Note my carefully chosen gym clothes—a pair of very flared jeans and a cardigan.

Lack of material

Due to the fact that nothing very interesting has happened to me recently, I thought I'd share this recent email exchange between myself and my sister. Lazy I know, but it made me laugh.

-----Original Message-----
From: Georgina Wilkin

Sent: 07 November 2008 09:44

To: Wilkin, Emma (SMG Europe)
Subject:

Morning, morning, morning! It's Friday! Are you still going to the pub after work? xxxx


-----Original Message-----

From: Emma Wilkin

Sent: 07 November 2008 09:45

To: Wilkin, Georgina - L

Subject: RE:

Hurray for Friday!
We most definitely are going to the pub after work. We're leaving here at 4.30 so will have pint in hand at at 4.32!
xxx


-----Original Message-----
From: Georgina Wilkin

Sent: 07 November 2008 09:56

To: Wilkin, Emma (SMG Europe)

Subject: RE:

Wonderful, I finish at 4 so will get there about 4.30 (if it's still okay for me to join you...?) I really fancy a pint!


-----Original Message-----
From: Wilkin, Emma (SMG Europe)

Sent: 07 November 2008 10:01

To: Georgina Wilkin

Subject: RE:

Course it is! Will be lovely to see you xx
PS Fancying a pint at 9.57 in the morning? And they say I'm


-----Original Message-----

From: Emma Wilkin

Sent: 07 November 2008 10:02

To: Wilkin, Georgina - L

Subject: RE:

... the alcoholic.
Sorry, pressed send before I'd finished. That's the booze.


-----Original Message-----
From: Georgina Wilkin

Sent: 07 November 2008 09:56

To: Wilkin, Emma (SMG Europe)

Subject: RE:

Ha ha, that was very funny, I just made a loud snorting noise when I read it and there's just me and a lady sitting in a very quiet reception... Ah well, it's friday.
I didn't mean I want a pint right now I just mean I know I'll want one tonight, so ease up boozy.
Xxx

Catalogue of disasters (# 28,569)

In the last few days I have:

• Worn massive heels for a whole day and night out and not even stumbled, then put on my flats for the walk home and promptly fell off a kerb and buggered my dodgy ankle for the gazillionth time;
• Run for a bus a few days later, tripped on a broken paving slab and twisted the other formerly good ankle, then not been able to fit on the bus anyway;
• Contracted the cold from hell (thank you Pops);
• Paid money off my credit card, only to realise a few days later that I had a digit wrong and have seemingly paid off some random’s credit card to the tune of 300 smackers.

On the plus side, I have lost three pounds and have tickets for The Mighty Boosh live show tomorrow. So it’s not all bad. Just mostly.

It was a mistake, honest!

I was just trying to access my Alliance and Leicester credit card account, the address of which is www.aandl.com. Instead of typing that, I entered www.anal.com. You can imagine what I got. I bet the boys in IT are having a field day.

Spot the typo revisited

It appears that Lufthansa have been reading my blog (or perhaps employing the use of a spell checker) as I saw their advert in the paper today and they have corrected the glaring spelling mistake in it (see below for original rant). Hurrah.

“S” is also for “Sh*t taste in music”

In light of Dan’s challenge to come up with my favourite songs by artists beginning with "S", here are my efforts (though I did cheat slightly by just going through the "S"s on my iPod). In no particular order:

Needles by System of a Down: Features the lyrics: "My tapeworm tells me what to do/My tapeworm tells me where to go/Pull the tapeworm out of your ass, hey." I think it might be about not doing drugs or the media or summink, but who cares when you’ve got lyrics like that. Great to sing along to in the car.

New Slang by The Shins: My favourite song ever. Makes me think of rainy days for some reason. It does lose a lot of points for once being featured in a Mcdonald’s advert though.

Plush by The Stone Temple Pilots: I first heard this song on The Chart Show one Saturday morning and I loved it from first listen. I think I was about 12 at the time. One of my all time favourites.

The Only Living Boy in New York by Simon and Garfunkel: Despite having been listening to Simon and Garfunkel for years, I’m ashamed to say that I only came across this a few years ago on the soundtrack to the film Garden State (which was also where I discovered The Shins—god bless Zach Braff). It’s basically Paul Simon having a go at Art Garfunkel for buggering off and leaving him on his own in New York. Bless.

Ghost Town by The Specials: There can’t be that many songs which are this good when the subject matter is Margaret Thatcher's policies which the band believed would increase the large-scale unemployment already present in the United Kingdom, particularly in Scotland and England's industrialised north and Midlands regions (yes, I did steal that from Wikipedia).

So, there you have it. I have been ribbed for my terrible taste in music on several previous occasions, but I stand by my choices. "My tapeworm tells me what to do...."

Spot the typo

This is an advert for Lufthansa. Perhaps we can blame it on the language barrier? Perhaps not.

Perhaps worse is that I think the bloke on the tube thought I was taking a picture of him.

You spin me right round

Have you ever stood on the metal plate of a bendy bus (the bit which rotates when it goes round corners—i.e. makes it bendy)? It's a bit like being on a very slow treadmill.
That's my exercise for the week sorted.

You get what you pay for

I went to Pizza Hut (classy I know—we had a 50 per cent off voucher) with my sister on Friday night. We had a table booked for 9 o'clock. We entered and I shouted “We have a table booked for 9” at the waiter over the screaming children and drunk people. So what does he do? Sits the two of us at a huge table for 9 people.

And this was Saturday night...

God definitely gave rock and roll to us.

Things you don't want to find on your chair

I had been sat on them for a good ten minutes or so before I realised.

Random thought of the day

“If I was wearing my new boots and I got stuck in the Labyrinth, I wonder if I would be able to run away from the Cleaners?”

Yes, that is the kind of rubbish which fills my head all day.

More pedantry

Less pedantry than actual anger at the myriad of typos and complete lack of any kind of coherent sentence structure in the below email received from an estate agent by my friend Jo's sister:

“I understand your concern over the market, and you may be right in thinking that the market could slow down a bit further (even dough a really doubt will go much further down). Why are you not making your math up, and taking in consideration further movement in the market you come up with an offer that you are comfortable with? Unfortunately the vendor is start thinking to rent the place out and sell it in few years when she could maximise her profit (she knows that the neighbour flat, also a 3 bed, was sold by us last year at 347k). If you are not happy with that, just feel free to contact us in couple of weeks and see whether the property still for sale.

Regards.”

Why she not learn speak English?

The London equivalent of a Diet Coke break

This is about as close as my office are ever going to get.

Pedantry

To the person who put together the temporary sign at Stratford Station—the plural of taxis is not “TAXI'S”. Go to the bottom of the class.

Down the plughole

Apologies for the lack of posts for a while. I seem to be behaving particularly well and am now always on the look out for potential hazards. A bit like Robocop.

This morning however, I was rinsing my hair (having washed it the night before) in the bathroom sink. I very carefully put the candle out on the side of the sink (my landlady is away and my flatmate and I can't turn the bathroom light on so we've been washing by candlelight—don't ask) so as not to set fire to my hair, then bent over the sink with the water running. Next thing I know my hair is being sucked down the plughole and has wrapped itself around the column down the drain. A full minute of struggling (and a face full of water) later, I manage to yank the majority of it out at the roots, resulting in a blocked sink and a sore scalp. Yet another great way to start the morning.

In other (good) news, I have just booked a trip to the Dominican Republic and will be staying here. I'll be back from New York for four days then off to the sunshine with my sister, all just before Christmas. I am not going to be at all smug though, as otherwise there's bound to be a hurricane, strip-search, international incident or other such unpleasantry.

The Best Olympic Interview Ever

This was an interview with Bryony Shaw who had just won a bronze medal in the wind surfing. It was broadcast at 6.50 this morning live on BBC 1:

Reporter: “So how do you feel about winning the medal?”
Bryony: “I'm so fucking happy!”

Worth the licence fee.

Conversation stoppers in the pub

“For a while all of my friends were getting married, and now they're all getting divorced. Soon they'll start dying.”

Look at my weird apple

Ooh. That's not quite right.

Things not to say when you're trying to chat someone up

“If you're interested in hearing a recording of me playing the Indian classical flute give me an email address I can forward it to.”

Err, I don't have an email address, sorry.

My favourite subject

Some arse has obviously sold my email address to god knows where as I'm getting vast amounts of spam at the moment. Rather than just deleting it, I've taken to keeping some of the ones with the more amusing subject lines. Here are some of my favourites so far (comments in italics are mine):

Chineses suffer from quantity, we enjoy quality Take me to China baby.

Man eats dog alive Then when you open the mail it says “IBM decides to try to buy over Dell to lower manufacturing cost of PCs”. Disappointing.

It is more. Thicker. Longer. More long. Obviously ran out of adjectives after “longer”.

Kristina Princess prowls for you What?

Size does matter! Now you’re just stating the obvious.

Please be informed that you should be extremely careful choosing your penis enlargement method. Duly noted. Thank you for the warning.

Cleanse your body today The subject line isn’t very funny but the fact it came from info@coloncleanse.com is.

Enjoy the juicy boobs Now there’s an offer I can refuse.

Fat Chinese Man Kills And Eats Brother Because He Was Hungry Fairly self explanatory.

r Methinks some more imagination should go into the subject lines.

Like puzzles Emma help solve crimes That's where the Met have been going wrong. Alert Scotland Yard!

The Dark Knight

I don't usually post film reviews on here (apart from that pervy one about 300 below), as I don't feel that I am at all qualified to influence anyone on what they should or shouldn't watch, but having just seen The Dark Knight, I'm feeling the need to comment on it. So here we go...

Hmmm. I was so ridiculously excited about this that I may have built up some absurd ideal in my brain which it was never going to live up to, but I was still slightly nonplussed by it.
The story goes that Batman hopes to give up the superhero gig and hand over his obligations to DA Harvey Dent, who also happens to be dating love-of-his-life Rachel (thankfully no longer played by the piece of wood which is Katie Holmes). The arrival of The Joker forces Batman to question all that he stands for… There’s also a slightly convoluted story about mob bosses which carries on from Batman Begins but I have to admit to having got a bit confused in places there (thankfully unravelled over a glass of wine in the pub post-mortem).
Don’t get me wrong, I will always be happy to pay to see Christian Bale in a rubber (sorry Kevlar) suit in glorious technicolour (okay, drained out dreary Gotham-colour) but by the end of the film his twenty-a-day Batman voice was starting to grate. It feels like he’s missing for large chunks of it and when he was on screen I just kept thinking “bring back the Joker”. Perhaps if Bale had got his top off a few more times I would have been more excited by his performance—unfortunately the several bare torso shots of Batman Begins were sadly missing.
Aaron Eckhart puts in a great performance as the new DA on the block, however his transformation from white knight (geddit?) (and perhaps look away here if you don’t want to know anything about the plot) into deformed psychotic is rather too quick for my liking. I also felt that he was somewhat wasted as a villain when you have Heath Ledger acting everyone else off the screen. This is totally Heath Ledger’s film—there’s not many actors who could manage to still look like a sinister master-criminal whilst wearing a red wig, nurse’s uniform and a badge reading “Matilda” (the name of Ledger’s daughter, fact-fans). From the minute he makes his entrance—and boy does he make an entrance, he takes over the whole screen. I was concerned that Ledger’s untimely demise would have coloured the reviews I’d read of his performance but that wasn’t the case. He is almost completely unrecognisable as the Joker and the lack of any tangible back story means that he is literally chaos personified. Or, as Alfred puts it “Some men just want to watch the world burn” (talking of Alfred they do make Michael Caine use the word “bloody” an awful lot—though luckily not in the same sentence as “doors” or “off”).
A bit part for Mandy from Hollyoaks was almost enough to make me not want to go. Thankfully I did blink and miss her.
My verdict is that Ledger’s performance alone is worth the extortionate cost of the cinema (not to mention the popcorn—4 quid?!?!).
It’s also bloody long, so take a cushion.

Me and Mii Shadow (and my sister's)

From Wikipedia:
“A Mii (pronounced/'mi : / me) is a digital avatar created by Nintendo for the Wii's Mii Channel. After creating them, they can be used as participating characters in certain games. Miis are customisable and allow the user to capture a likeness or caricature, or capture the personality of themselves and others.”

Weird things I've seen today...

...in and around my office. First up:

This is a large chili which appeared on the floor a few feet from my desk this morning. It seems a slightly odd mid-morning snack, though it did disappear not long after....

So then, on to number 2:

If you look closely you'll see that there was obviously some kind of gangland-balloon-man killing in Swiss Cottage today. Note the careful positioning of the body—is this to serve as a warning to other balloon-men not to step out of line?

Bizarre.

I'm blue da ba dee da ba daa...

I went for a couple of pints after work last night which meant the obligatory stop off on the way home for a tinkle. The loo in the shopping centre was shut, so I wondered down to Morrison's to partake of their facilities and also get myself something for supper. Imagine my surprise when I went into the loo to discover that they employ some bizarre kind of blacklight in there. I may be being quite stupid, but does anyone know why they do this? My first thought was that it was something to do with being able to see the dirt (or bloodstains—wouldn’t surprise me in Stratford) but none seemed visible and I find it very hard to believe that the Morrison's public toilet is that clean. Answers on a postcard please.

UPDATED: I happened to mention this to my friend Jo while I was writing it and she told me that apparently it's so that you can't do drugs in Morrison's supermarket. Sometimes I amaze even myself with what an innocent flower I am (see below).

I think I might stick to Sainsbury's in future.

And like a rubber ball, I come bouncing back to you

I lost my phone for the three hundredth time this weekend and the internet wasn't working at my flat so I had literally no way of getting in touch with anyone (apologies to everyone who thought I was dead). I even had to go up the road and use a payphone to wish my dad a happy Father's Day. I rang the pub we were in on Friday once I got into work today and had the use of a phone again and am very pleased to report that it is in there.

Don't worry though—there's always an embarrassing twist: the only way I could identify it to the landlady as my phone (as I couldn't remember the make, model or even colour of it!) was the fact that there is a slightly pervy picture of a half naked man as the background. Nice.

Thanks for the the emery continued AKA more things I've found in my shoe

Apologies for the bad quality photo.

Thank you Matthias

... for giving me what must become this blog's official mug.

Things we saw this lunchtime whilst sitting in the park

• A child first of all having a slash in the fountain, then doing a poo (yes, you heard me right) on the side of the fountain (my chocolate mousse didn’t seem all that appetising after that);


• A dog wearing shoes (I think they probably came from here. They cost £50. Yes, you heard that right too).

Ode to DC

This is a song* about my most hated colleague. He makes my life a misery. It should be sung to the tune of the chorus of “Because of you” by Kelly Clarkson and with a suitably pained expression.

Because of you... I want to gouge out my eyes with a letter opener...
Because of you... I want to go to your desk with a pump action shot gun...
Because of you... I find it hard to read my mail without breaking everything around me...
Because of you... I hate my job.

*Special thanks to Sarah for having the idea in the first place and coming up with the first line.

Am I turning into a chav?

Last night I watched “Britain's Got Talent” and really enjoyed it. It even made me cry a little bit.
Then, I downloaded an Ashlee (I even know the ridiculous spelling) Simpson track for my iPod.
I think I need help...

Thanks for the emery

Got to work this morning and found this in my shoe.

More lies from London Underground

I think you'll find it is.

Mutant moths

These were sitting on my car tyre last night. Despite much prodding they refused to move so I just had to drive off with them still attached. I think that they have perhaps overestimated the power of their camouflage.

Underage drinking

A couple of weekends ago, I went off to my parents' local Co-op with my sister to buy some beers. They refused to serve me as I didn't have any ID. Woo hoo! I look 12 years younger than I am!

Collapsing from Schnapps

This is something called a “Schnapps Stick”. It's a length of wood containing 32 different holes, each of which holds a shot of different flavoured Schnapps. We had two of these bad boys whilst out on a company meal. Sometimes I love my job.

Three day bender

I survived! Here's how it went:

Thursday night (gig):

Friday day (Anzac Day all day drinking sesh—despite not being Australian):

Friday night (still celebrating Anzac Day):















Saturday night (house party):
















Monday morning (work):

Nice trip

Last night at Oxford Circus tube, I tripped over a floor tile while I was reading the sign which said “Beware—uneven floor”.

Sorry Pops

Despite the fact that I am 30 years old, I would like to apologise to my father for my new tattoo as he seemed distinctly unimpressed on the telephone this weekend. It’s only small and can be easily covered up for formal occasions.

Special thanks to my sister for making me do deep breathing exercises to get the shakes to subside and also to the tattoo lady for not laughing at my nervousness. I was a bit concerned that I was going to end up with a big scribble on my forearm as I was wobbling all over the show.

Sung to the tune of “I’m coming out” by Diana Ross

“I’m moving out!
I want the world to know
No more of the psycho!
I’m moving out!
Into a flat that’s nice
With no more slugs or mice!”

Rising up to the challenge of our rivals

I am no longer the Trivial Pursuit champion.
It may be just desserts for doing a victory dance to “Eye of the Tiger” before we’d even started playing…

Speech impediment

Last week I was off home after another day at work of staring out of the window. A Very Important Person from Editorial walked past me. He’s one of those ones who always makes a point of acknowledging the minions like me when he goes past. So, he smiles and says hello. As he is a Very Important Person, obviously it pays to be polite and/or sycophantic if at all possible. Me being me, I had a quick debate in my head as to whether to say “Hi” or “Night” as I’m leaving. Instead of either of those, I smile beatifically at him and say: “Ni!”

Shower scene

WARNING FOR SARAH: If you're reading this, please note it contains references to slugs. You've been warned.

Last night I hopped in the shower. Washed my hair and face, etc., etc. Then, as I went to turn the shower off I noticed a slug floating around the plug hole (this is not unknown in my flat—the first time I had a bath there a huge slug crawled out of the overflow pipe and then fell in the bath with me... no, I'm not sure why I still live there either). In a very girly way, I shrieked, grabbed onto the shower curtain, which pinged off in several places, slipped a bit and narrowly missed knocking myself out on the bathroom cabinet. I finally got out of the bath, breathed a sigh of relief and turned to confront said slug. Then I realised that it was just a bit of slug-shaped plastic which had fallen off the shower fitting.

Mwah hah hah!!!

Laughing in the face of the unseasonable weather this weekend... Screw you snow!

A funny thing happened on the way to the tube station #2

I nearly got run over trying to run away from a drunk harmonica wielding tramp.

Okay, it’s not actually funny.

P.S. I couldn't find any nice pictures relating to tramps or being run over, so I decided on a gratuitous picture of Johnny Depp with his top off. Yum.

COME ON!!!

Last night I got the Wi Fitness Age down to 48. I'll be early-middle-aged before you know it.
Although I'm now in a whole new world of pain.

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

The only form of exercise I’m doing at the moment is boxing on Wii Sports (which is also great for venting my frustrations—doubly so as my randomly selected sparring partner yesterday was called Marco (see below)). I decided to calculate my “Wii Fitness Age” (which consists of a series of exercises like having to keep a tennis ball in play, hit certain pins on a bowling alley, etc.). Guess what it came out as? 53.

Then I did it the next day after three large glasses of red wine and it was 81.

Today...

My trousers are being held up by a paper clip.

It's amazing what you can do with office stationery.

St Valentine's Day Massacre (cont)

15. Marco: A mental Italian seed who doesn’t understand that stalking is illegal in the UK.
I quote: “hello....i'm waiting u...”. Sinister or what!?!

When thou art at Rome, do as they do at Rome

I've just been to Rome which I loved. These photos pretty much sum it up.

Rome on the first day:














blah
Rome on the last day:
blah

The Bogeyman

I was standing on the tube today when I felt something wet hit my face. I realised that it corresponded with the sound of the man opposite me sneezing. I looked up at him. Lodged in his beard were several globules of snot. Obviously the rest of them were now festooning my boat race.
Come on, give me a break!

St Valentine’s Day Massacre

Not that we’re at all bitter and twisted or anything about f*cking Valentine’s Day, but myself and my good friends Ann and Lindsay had an interesting conversation today which sprung from the following email from a fellow singleton:

“Unfortunately a slight drought, or bad seed has struck the man field. I blame a bad crop and some poor sowing on my part as one bad seed does tend to lead to another and affect the farming process in general. However, with some fresh seeds and a more positive farming effort on my part perhaps the reaping will improve sometime soon…”

We then compiled a list of the aforementioned bad seeds which can be seen below. Despite my esteemed colleagues' protestations, I have changed the names as I don’t wish to be sued.

You know who you are…

1. Greg: A seed that doesn’t respond to any farming and is only interested in its reproductive ability: will never sit well with any farmer.

2. Richard: A seed that thinks it will grow better than any other seed and that you are more interested in it than any other seed. Will eventually be cast aside by a wise farmer.

3. Russell: A seed that only responds when it feels like it and pretends to be interested in your farming, when really you know it’s not. Should be left to rot.

4. Ryan: A seed that is difficult to farm and really not worth the effort. Tends to spread itself through to other crops, even though it has no business in any field other than its own. As a consequence the farmer must use a harsh weed killer to try and stop it infecting good crops with its worthless rot.

5. James: A fat, balding seed.

6. Tom: A seed which grows into a beautiful strong flower, but may be poisonous: farmers are still awaiting test results.

7. Ryan II: A seed which somehow convinces you it is worth investing time into farming, often years. Beware of this seed as it is definitely not worth the investment. It lies about its growth and thinks it is more attractive than it is.

8. Enzo: A very poisonous seed, avoid at all costs—if the farmer makes contact with this toxic flower it may take years to recover.

9. Chris: A very charming and persuasive seed that will then pretend you don’t exist after it has got what it wants. This seed has severe issues, having never had a serious farmer in its life before. The seed is not young either.

10. Tim: A seed which jumps from serious farmer to serious farmer with only minimal gaps in between.

11. Dave: A seed that seems to need to be tended to by two farmers, but would rather the farmers don't know about each other.

12. Benedict: A strapping seed which looks as if it will turn out well but is unable to communicate with the farmer effectively. Eventually it will move to a different county (also comes with a smaller seed which is far too scary for your average farmer).

13. John: A seed which claims not to want a farmer, but which then runs away with a different, far uglier, farmer.

14. Any seeds that are too old, or from Liverpool or Greece. We would NOT recommend them to any potential farmers. They do not grow in accordance to normal expectations, and in fact think you are demanding too much if you even want them to respond at all.

The only way forward is some serious genetic modification…

Losing the plot

As quite a lot of this blog consists of me slagging off Transport for London, I thought I should include something nice about them. Yes, you did read that right. A week or so ago I lost my wallet. After much stressing and cancelling of cards, I got it all sorted, but was most upset about the wallet itself—this sweet little blue one with a robin on it which my parents had bought for me not very long ago. Anyway, I resigned myself to never seeing it again.

Then, last Saturday I got a letter from London Transport Lost Property Office (which I imagine is basically just full of stuff I've lost) saying that they had it and I could come pick it up. With only a £4 administrative charge. Which has got to be the cheapest thing TFL sell.

Even though I'd cancelled almost everything, it did mean that I didn't have to spend £22 pounds on a new driving licence and the £35 voucher which I'd got for Christmas was still in there. Don't despair though—just when I thought that karma was cutting me some slack, I discovered that not only was my car battery totally dead, I have to buy a new one which costs 60 english pounds. So I guess I'm about breaking even.

"Why, then the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open"

I got off the tube at home last night as per usual. I walked down the stairs (as always concentrating hard and on the lookout for potential hazards—including men with folding bicycles) to the barriers. I place my ticket on the Oyster card thingy and it doesn’t work. Not unusual, so I wait a couple of seconds, ignoring the huffing and puffing of all the people running into me and each other in the queue behind, then put it back on the pad. It works and the gates open. Then, somehow, as I’m taking it off the pad, I manage to lob it behind me, over my shoulder and into the heaving mass of commuters behind me. Don’t know how, but I did. Now I’m in a quandary. The gates are open but do I go through now that my ticket is on the wrong side? Then I’ll have to ask them to let me back through without a ticket to retrieve mine from god knows where now it’s been kicked about by various Leytonstonians. What to do, what to do…?

Thankfully fate intervened (or rather the man behind me did) and I was pushed through by the big bloke following me. I stood on the other side for a moment looking forlorn, until a nice man who’d seen the entire incident handed me my ticket. With only the smallest of grins.

How to state the bleedin’ obvious

I was intrigued by an article on Sky News today entitled “How To Add 14 Years To Your Life”. I read on. Was this a new miracle cure for aging? A new cancer treatment?

No. I quote: “Giving up smoking, cutting down on booze and eating your greens can add as much as 14 years to your life”. I’m sorry, but don’t we all know that “boozing and fagging=bad” and “eating fruit and veg=good? And haven’t we all known it for years? It took Cambridge University 13 years to come to this conclusion. Don’t even get me started on the time and money that went into telling us something we already know.

Apologies, I think I’m on the verge of social comment there. I’ll go back to falling down tomorrow.

Rollin, rollin, rollin

I got three quarters of the way to work this morning only to discover a hair roller stuck in my scarf. Lucky I didn’t take someone’s eye out with that.

Things not to say to your boss

"Yes, I do enjoy the smell of a nice marker pen."

Falling down again

A few weeks ago I fell up the escalator at Bond Street. Not unusual in itself as I do this quite a lot, but this time I hurt myself quite a lot as can be seen from the picture (though this was before the bruising came up). I also twisted my ankle (which has never been the same since the infamous ligament tearing incident at university which put me out of action for weeks—I wasn't doing sport or anything, I was changing a CD whilst somewhat inebriated). So, my pins look like a small boy's legs at the moment i.e. covered in scabs and bruises. Then this morning, just as they're starting to heal up and look a bit better, I stacked it on the way to the tube station. Literally just fell over my own feet. Highly embarassing, especially as two guys walked past and laughed in my face as I was picking myself up—thanks for that*. Anyway, I've ripped my favourite skinny jeans and cut my knee so am back to small boy leg status again. Thank god it's winter so I don't have them on display. Then, I'm standing on the tube feeling very sorry for myself (and maybe trying not to cry a little bit) when the guy next to me opens his can of lager (yes LAGER at 7.45 in the morning) which sprays all over me. I arrived at work with a cut knee and stinking of booze. Here's hoping no one thinks it was my lager and organises an intervention.

*Do me a por favor—if you happen to see me falling over in the street, please don't laugh. I don't require picking up or dusting down or anything like that, but no laughter would be an added bonus. Ta.

I'm really sorry...

...about this picture but I had to put it up. I'm not sure how long it'll stay because I can't look at it for more than three or four seconds. I quote:

"Surgeons have removed a massive 4.5kg hairball from the stomach of a teenager in the United States. The 18 year old went to her doctor after complaining of stomach pains and vomiting. Doctors carried out a scan and were amazed to find the huge mass of hair blocking her entire stomach."

Eeughhh.

Innocent little flower (or should that be mushroom)

Having seen a large poster on the tube this morning for a film called “Shrooms”, I've just realised what the term actually means. Apologies for my ignorance/innocence.

Shrooming: [sh-room, -roo m]
-Verb
The act of using a broom to hammer on the ceiling of your flat whilst screaming “Shut up! Shut up!” at the top of your voice e.g “Yes, I had to shroom them at 6.30 on Saturday morning”.

New and interesting ways to pour drinks down yourself

Not content with simply knocking wine over like a normal person, I managed to carry out another classic earlier on this week. I’d had a horrible day at work and finally got home about 8.30 (which for me, is very late) and thought I’d have a nice glass or two of Vin de Table. Allow me to set the scene. I’m sitting on my bed watching a programme about really tall people (there wasn’t much on telly that night). My vino is on the bookcase next to the bed. I’m finally starting to relax after a very stressful day. Now, before I continue, let me explain a little about my bedroom set-up. One of my more ingenious inventions is a series of hooks nailed into the aforementioned bookcase to facilitate my getting dressed in the morning. Two of them are there for hanging jewellery on to avoid it getting tangled and one is for my hairdryer. Anyway, I am so engrossed in the programme about really tall people (one guy was over 8 feet!) that I don’t look as I reach for my wine. Being as I’m also trying to economise (got to afford all this wine to throw on the carpet) by not putting the heating on unless completely necessary, I’m wearing a cardigan with voluminous sleeves. The sleeve catches on the hook—as I bring the wine to my lips my arm is yanked backwards—wine is poured all over myself, my bookshelf, and my duvet. Cue much swearing, gnashing of teeth and cries of “Why do these things only happen to me!?!”

Then I watched the Pride of Britain awards and felt thoroughly guilty for making such a big fuss. Then I spilt another glass of wine on myself and the sofa while the credits for the Pride of Britain awards were rolling.

Possibly ill advised blog revamp

Hmmm. Think I should have left well alone.

You know you're getting old when... (#2)

...you turn down a date to go to a second hand book sale.

Aaargghhh! Aaargghhh! Aaargghhh!

That's it.

Catalogue of disasters

This week I:

• Fell up the escalator at Bond Street tube;
• Burnt my fingers picking up a baking tray without oven gloves (okay, we can chalk this up to stupidity rather than the Universe);
• Sat next to a REALLY smelly tramp on the Jubilee line—you try holding your breath for seven stops;
• Ate the label on my apple;
• Got hit in the face by a fellow Central Line passenger;
• Realised there is a slug living in my wardrobe (new tracks over my shoes every morning).
  

Headphone today, gone tomorrow

One of my pet hates (there are many) is my headphones getting tangled up on stuff. This happens at least once or twice a day—yesterday I nearly strangled myself when I spun round in my wheelie chair to speak to a colleague forgetting that they were round my neck. Last night however, took the biscuit. Picture the scene. I’m walking down the stairs at the station, weary after a day of hard work (alright, a day of work). A woman with a pushchair is coming up the stairs, so I move out of her way. As I do so, the wire of my headphones wraps itself around the folded bicycle that the man next to me is carrying. Being far too British to scream “Aaaargghhh! My headphone wire is caught around your folding bicycle!” I have to start running to keep up with the bloke who is walking a lot quicker than me. I hit the bottom of the stairs still running, round the corner, then just manage to unhook myself before the ticket barrier (that could have been interesting) and nonchalantly stroll off home.
Seriously, these things do only happen to me.

It could have been an epic poem...

Ode to the tube strike

Dear Bob Crow,
You make me want to throw

Myself under a train

Except there aren't any.

THE END

(until the next time anyway)

Pride comes before a sprawl

I went out on Friday for my usual binge drinking. I decided to leave fairly early and was walking back to Liverpool Street feeling very pleased with myself as not only was I pretty damn sober (at least compared to my usual Friday night state), I also had enough time before the last tube to spend a 20 pee wee at the station. So, I’m ambling along with my smug* face on, casting disapproving looks at all the people falling out of pubs and weaving along the pavement, when what happens? I think you may be able to guess. That’s it—I trip over absolutely nothing, stagger for a bit, arms pin wheeling, before coming to a stop on my hands and knees on the pavement. As I have done this outside a very smart office building, the cleaner and security guard very kindly come rushing out to pick me up, check I’m alright and dust me off. And what do I do? Continually shout “I’m not drunk” in their faces until they back away in terror. Then I limp back to Liverpool Street. Serves me right for being a smug b*stard.

*Some people might say that “not being drunk” is not a valid reason for smugness. However, I'm not friends with those types of people so don't care.

Poorly Pops

Continuing his penchant for catching Victorian illnesses, my poor dad has now come down with pneumonia. The last one was a quinsy—no, not an American medical examiner with a chesty cough (do you see what I did there?), but a rather nasty abcess in his throat. Thankfully he seems to be on the mend, but I would like to send a big “Get Well Soon” shout out to Daddy W. Cheaper than a card.

And remind him to steer clear of TB and syphilis.

RIP treacle

Even though it happened at least two weeks ago, I only realised this morning that I’m a bit upset that Mike Reid popped his clogs. Who else will be able to woo Pat now (who by the way shouldn’t be posh in real life – that’s just wrong) wearing nothing but a flashing dickie bow? And what excuse will Peggy have for belting Pat and saying “Git outta ma pub?” It’s the end of an Eastenders era.

Starting as I mean to go on

This morning I shaved one leg and forgot the other one, and then sat on a chocolate biscuit on the tube.

Of mice and men

I’ve been fairly quiet recently as nothing ridiculous has happened in the last few weeks. Until Saturday. I had a bit of a heavy week last week and managed to hit the pub on four out of five week-nights, so thought I would have a quiet day in the garden on Saturday, trying to get rid of the stripy legs I acquired after accidentally getting sunburnt whilst wearing a pair of three quarter length leggings. So there I am, happy as larry in my garden, lying on a sleeping bag reading my book, even managing to ignore the screaming children, police sirens and banging house music from next door. My flatmate comes out to join me and we have our usual whinge about men, money and life in general. Then she points out the fact that I may have positioned my new (only bought a month ago) sleeping bag over a dead mouse which she’d noticed a few days before (we can but hope it was the one from the kitchen (see below)). Sure enough, I gingerly lift up the part of the sleeping bag which I had been lying on only moments before to find the manky remains of a half decayed mouse. Oh, and a large dog poo.
Needless to say I still have stripy legs as the sunbathing didn’t seem massively appealing after that.

Perhaps I'm just full of my own importance...

...or maybe there is an actual conspiracy. Either way, was it really necessary for every single person who got onto my carriage of the Central Line this morning to hit me in the face with their book/umbrella/gym kit? Not only that, but as I was dozing with my head against the glass partition, every time they did so I bashed my head on it and almost had a heart attack. I was a gibbering wreck by the time I got to the office.

It’s official…

I am a massive wuss. Having failed to convince anyone that I am under 1.3m tall there were no excuses left. I survived 0–80mph in less than 2.0 seconds, ending up at a height of 205 feet then plummeting back down again. I was also winched 100ft in the air then fired back to earth at 75km per hour with a G-Force of 5.5. I pretty much hated every second of it (apart, bizarrely, from hurtling straight down at 80mph—that was quite fun), but managed not to throw up (although it was a close run thing) which was impressive considering we'd had quite a few unnecessary pints in the pub the night before so I wasn't feeling my best—even the car journey made me feel slightly queasy. We then had quite a few unnecessary pints between rides, but thankfully they just served to imbue me with lots of much needed false bravado. Thank god for the amber nectar.

It's a mystery

I went to my home from home of Tescos last night. I'm absolutely skinted this month following the usual combination of buying too many clothes/books/booze, so I thought I would economise and get my lunch stuff for today and next week. So I brought myself a big pack of yoghuts (amongst other things). When I got home I put one of them in a bag along with some sandwiches and fruit in readiness for grabbing out of the fridge on the way out the door in the morning. Imagine my dismay this morning as I grabbed the bag, only to discover that overnight, IN THE FRIDGE, the yoghurt had somehow opened itself, then run all around the inside of the carrier bag, smearing its innards all over my carefully prepared sandwiches and fruit. As I obviously only realised this after I'd stuck my hand in the bag I now stink of strawberry yoghurt. I think I preferred smelling like my dad.

And yes, it is a bit of a slow news day.

“Normal service resumption will be resumed in a minute”*

Three words for you: Central Line derailment.
Four more words: Rail replacement bus service.
'Nuff said.

*Jubilee line train driver this morning

Is this fun?

“Travel to dizzying heights of 205ft on the ride that accelerates from 0–80mph in less than 2.0 seconds.”
“Be winched 100ft in the air before being fired back to earth at 75km per hour with a G-Force of 5.5—the most a person can stand!”
Nope, not a training programme for the Marines, but Thorpe Park where I’m going in a couple of weeks. On a date.

Let’s hope he likes green women.

Having a break

I had a KitKat for lunch today (not just a KitKat—other stuff too). Half of each finger was wafer and half was pure chocolate. Quality control obviously weren't paying attention.

And that is the most exciting thing that's happened to me all week.

Question

Why do tube doors have "Open" buttons on them? They never work and all the doors always open anyway. Is it so us Londoners can spot the tourists?

Hopefully not the Lynx effect...

I smell lovely today. Unfortunately, this is down to the fact that I used my dad’s Ralph Lauren Polo shower gel, so I also smell very manly. Ah well.

PS Not actually me in picture

Bin and gone

Before I start (and you may have gathered this already from previous posts) I'm not getting on very well with my flat at the moment (or my flatmate). I am still trying to be a good tenant though and airing my room as instructed, trying to be as quiet as I can, and generally clean and tidy. So, last night I thought that I would bleach/clean the kitchen caddy thing which thoughtful Leytonstone council provide us with to put all our organic waste in for composting. I expect you can imagine what a bin full of mouldy food smells like, so it's not the nicest job in the world. So, I fill it up with a mixture of hot soapy water and bleach and leave it for a bit to soak. An hour or so later I go back into the kitchen to take it out to the garden and pour it down the drain. But I forgot about the gammy finger (see below)... As I pick it up with both hands I knock said finger, howl in pain and lose my grip on the caddy. For a split second I thought I had it as I managed to keep hold of the lid. But, Waltham Forest Council caddies are not made of strong stuff. The lid breaks away from its hinges, spewing forth its contents all over the kitchen floor, cupboards and some of the living room carpet (not to mention my slippers). So in one fell swoop I have managed to scream twice very loudly (once for the finger and once for the wet slippers—the latter may have been a curse) and soak the whole kitchen in minging bin water. What a good tenant I am.

Although I may have drowned the mouse.

Blood, wine, mice and tears

Just to set the scene, it's been a bit like the ten plagues of Egypt in my flat recently, though without the dead children (although if I get my hands on our noisy neighbours…). We’ve got falling down fences, aforementioned noisy neighbours, slugs, damp and various other maladies. Not to mention a flatmate who appears to be in the midst of some kind of nervous breakdown and is intent on taking me down with her.

Anyway, last night I was sitting watching some telly, as per usual, and decided on a glass of wine. Picking up the wine box I realised that I was down to the dregs. Now there is an art to extracting wine from the corners of a wine box (don't mock—I've scrounged up a whole glass from those corners before). It involves mainly brute force along with a sharp kitchen knife. So, last night I go to carry out this task as I have many times before (though not that many - I'm no alkie). I’m sure you can guess what’s coming. I get through the cardboard no problem, then just as I thrust the knife through the silver bag, I also thrust it into my finger, lopping quite a large chunk off the side. Blood is spurting everywhere (and for once in my life I’m not exaggerating—it was like something out of Carrie—this is NOT like that time I thought I had meningitis which turned out to be an allergic reaction to some deodorant). I manage not to panic, bite my lip like the brave soldier I am and go off to get some loo roll. Then as I’m sitting on the sofa trying to staunch the flow with reams of toilet paper, a bloody great mouse appears out of nowhere and belts across the kitchen floor. Did it wait until I was incapacitated? You decide.
Ah well, at least it gives me blog material. And hopefully no permanent scarring.

Old lady

The Cosmo 10 minute workout now appears to have broken my hip.

Things I hate today # 4... mainly just a bit of a moan

Despite the fact that it’s Friday and I should theoretically be in quite a good mood, I’m not and here are the reasons why:

• Facebook—it makes me feel inadequate and socially inept. And so far the only blast from the past I’ve had was a rude email from a guy who stalked me a few years back. Yay.
• Waltham Forest Council—why would you put a woman with four children in a very small upstairs flat with wooden floors? And why would you do it in the one above my flat?
• The guy on the tube this morning who insisted on pressing his pelvis against my hip all the way to Liverpool Street—it really wasn’t that busy…
• The man who came round yesterday and said that there is no damp in my flat—try telling that to the mould on my shoes.

I think that that’s it for now, but it is only nine in the morning so I’m sure I’ll have some more before the day is done.

Some lovely pictures from Canada

Some flowers

Nina posing as a soldier

Nina posing as a totem pole

Me being a tourist

[Insert hilarious caption]

Normal service is resumed

I fell on my face on Haverstock Hill on Friday night. It was the now patented full length sprawl, although this one had the added feature of being into the only puddle on the whole of the hill. Thankfully nothing but my already severely dented pride was hurt. And big kudos to my friend Sarah for not howling with laughter until she'd made sure I was alright.

And in other news, in my never-ending quest to find a means of exercising which doesn't involve swim suits, going anywhere or other people, on Saturday I decided to do the Cosmo ten minute workout. Oh my god, the next day I could barely move. And I only did eight minutes as I had no idea what a “bicep curl” is (I'm such an exercise virgin). Just thank god it wasn't a fifteen minute work out. I would have needed an ambulance.

Random quotes from my Canada trip

• “I can't see any trees big enough to build a totem pole from.”
• “Look—there's a mini tornado.”
• “Do you want to go in the Theatre of Origins?”
• “I think we should start a Madonna/Oasis tribute band.”
• “It must have been a really big dog that did that poo.”
• “That person's fallen off their mushroom.”

Not so super-market

I went to the joy that is Tescos last night. I’m off to Canada for two weeks of R&R with my lovely sister next week, so I just needed to get a few bits and bobs to keep me going. You know, rush in and out, spend 20 quid or so. Yeah right. The actual shopping experience wasn’t too bad, bar the usual small children under the wheels of the trolley every now and again. Then I arrived at the checkout. The nice man in front of me actually handed me one of the next customer things rather that the usual Leytonstonian custom of making me sprawl over all of their shopping to get it. I’m merrily putting things onto the conveyor belt when I notice that my packet of frozen veggies is split. So, I pick it up and hotfoot it over to the frozen section to get one which isn’t. Duly done, I run back to my checkout where the man in front of me is now paying. I now also have a man behind me (who I pass the next customer thingie too).
Then I look down into my trolley to put the last of the bits onto the conveyor belt when I notice something strange. There appear to be sausages all over the bottom of the trolley. I realise then that my sausage packet has also split, depositing frozen bangers all over the place. I rescue the one making a break for freedom via the child seat in the trolley, chuck them all back in the bag and race back to the frozen section. My mind goes blank – all the freezer doors are steamed up—where are the sausages? Finally I locate them (in the freezer called “Burgers” natch) and swap my broken bag for a fresh one. I turn to rush back to the till. Oh god, the man who was in front of me has left and the man who was behind me obviously got bored of my strange obsession with running to and from the frozen section and has also gone. Which one is it?!? Thankfully one of the sausages did make it to the floor and I spot it under one of the tills so know it must be mine. Phew. So, frozen food crises over, I pay my money (and am aghast to find it costs almost 50 quid) and make my way home.
And realise I’ve forgotten to get three out of the four ingredients I wanted for dinner that evening. Sigh.

Oi Rhys, leave it!

I saw Rhys Ifans AGAIN yesterday. Not once but twice, both times outside my office. I think he may be stalking me after our last encounter.

All quiet on the Western front...?

I have been ill all weekend so only left my flat for ten minutes on Saturday to go up the road and spend ten English pounds on tissues, throat sweets and cough mixture (which didn't even work). I had to cancel two nights out and the beautiful weather was entirely wasted on me as I sat on the sofa wrapped in a blanket for the duration of the weekend, shivering and blowing my nose. You will be pleased to hear that I did however manage to come a cropper despite not actually going outside. I was watching a particularly rubbish sci fi film on Film4, when I decided I needed to replenish my tissue supply which involved leaving the living room and going into my bedroom. As the terranauts were in the process of navigating a field of gargantuan diamonds I maybe rushed more than was strictly necessary. As I'm sure you can guess, I launched into my patented full length sprawl down the ONE step to my bedroom, resulting in bruised shins and an impressive carpet burn. Thankfully not on my forehead, as has happened before.

Poor me.

A funny thing happened on the way to the tube station...

...I saw a man changing the tyre on his motorbike. What's funny about that, I hear you ask? He was wearing a boater and a mini skirt, that's what.

In, out, in, out, shake it all about

Tuesday morning:
7.30 Get out of bed to discover crippling stomach pain
7.31-7.45 Debate whether or not to go into work
7.45 Decide to soldier on despite crippling pain as have too much to do
7.50 Receive text from flatmate saying that Central Line suspended so spend a further 5 minutes debating if crippling stomach pain and lack of transport are enough of a reason not to go into work
7.55 Decide will go, but will wait a while in hope that searing agony/transport issues will die down by 8.45
8.45 Leave flat
8.50 Board Central Line train
8.55 Still at home station on train
9.00 Still here
9.05 Finally leave station
9.15 Arrive at Mile End to be told that we will be remaining in the platform due to a “faulty train at Bethnal Green”
9.25 Still there and advised to “alight and change where necessary”. Lots of people leave the train. I get a seat and decide to stay where I am. How long can it take to remove a train from service?
9.30 Still here and now “strongly” advised to “alight and change where necessary”. Decide to follow said advice and leave train to catch a Hammersmith and City train. Cross platform.
9.31 Announcement “The westbound Central line train will be departing in one minute”. Race back across platform to once empty train which is now magically full of commuters. Viciously eyeball the woman now sitting in what was my seat.
9.34 Arrive at Bethnal Green. Announcement “This train will be remaining in the platform due to a person being taken ill on a train at Liverpool Street” (selfish bastard).
9.35 Begin crying
Eventually arrive at work sometime later.

You’ve just got to laugh.

Private dancer # 2

I left for work exceptionally early today as I thought I’d like to get stuck in traffic jams sooner rather than later tonight when I try to get back to Colchester for the Easter break and some quality family time. So, I’m walking down the road to the tube station feeling quite carefree due to the fact that there are four lie-ins coming my way (and the quality family time natch) when I notice the man ahead of me who is doing full on Gene Kelly-Singin’-in-the-Rain dancing, with a little bit of Michael Jackson thrown in for good measure. As he rounds the corner and goes out of view I speed up—I want to see more of this dancing in the street as it has put a smile on my face. But, as I get round the corner… he’s gone! Was he a figment of my fevered imagination? An apparition put there to make me smile first thing in the morning…? We’ll never know.

Alright, he’d actually just crossed over to the other side of the road and was now walking normally, but for a moment I was genuinely shocked. And that was a much better ending to the story don’t you think?

Star gazing

I saw Rhys Ifans in the pub on Friday. He's a proper movie star. But even more exciting than that and, dare I say it, even more exciting than getting drunk with Sean Bean a few months back (yes, I did!) I saw that bloke who was in Neighbours and Heartbreak High in Hackney on Sunday. Now that's what I call a good celeb spot.

Tube-i-grip

When I was on the way home from the pub with my good friend Fiona, I was disgusted to see the contents of the attached picture. Yes, that is a man with his hand down his trousers on a crowded tube train. (And yes I did take this on my mobile possibly meaning that all of the passengers thought that I was an even bigger pervert than him.) The girl with the crutch standing next to him appeared to be his girlfriend and did not seem at at all perturbed by the fact that her boyfriend was fondling himself in front of a train full of people (nor by the fact that he appeared to be wearing at least two pairs of pants). Is this really acceptable tube behaviour? In fact, is this even acceptable anywhere behaviour, except in your living room when NO ONE ELSE IS THERE. I despair, I really do.

Standing in the way of control

I recently purchased a pair of Marks & Sparks control pants to help me out with a particularly slinky outfit. For the princely sum of £16 I was promised “a sculpted shape, thanks to the innovative firm control design” and a reduction of up to two sizes. What they don't tell you is that that extra flesh has to go somewhere which in my case appeared to be just under my boobs. So rather than the svelte silhouette I was going for, this was what I ended up with:

Just lovely.

Things I’m loving this week

Ladies—feast your eyes on this
With 300 Frank Miller and Zack Snyder appear to have done the seemingly impossible and created a film from a graphic novel which will appeal to both adolescent boys and “grown up” ladies such as myself. One look at the poster should explain why. There’s 299 more of them like that don’t you know.

I love him all year round
The lovely Simon Pegg. Mainly for bringing us the wonders that are Hot Fuzz, Spaced and Shaun of the Dead but this was what finally did it: “The scene in episode 1.5 [of Spaced] where Tim, Daisy and Brian watch the original Star Wars trilogy features the Ewoks' song from the end of the original version of Star Wars: Episode VI—Return of the Jedi heard off-screen. The show's producers were unable to obtain permission to use the actual music, so Simon Pegg wrote down the entire song's lyrics from memory and then performed it with Edgar Wright and Nick Frost.”

Yes, yes, I know I’m a total geek—I never tried to deny it. Simon, we're a match made in heaven!

Musical epiphanies
Following on from my gargantuan obsession with Ben Folds after discovering Songs for Silverman I am now championing the cause of The Shins who I think everyone should now be listening to. New Slang made me cry like a small child when I first heard it. Go and buy it now.

Falling down and How the mighty have fallen

I fell over on the tube today. Not your average stumble, but a full on arms-wheeling, grabbing onto nearly passengers, dropping your bag, accident. It was my own fault due to having my iPod on too loudly and being so engrossed in my book (okay, desperately trying to remember what had happened in the fifty pages I’d read whilst slightly tipsy on the way home from the pub the night before) that I didn’t hear the doors closing. Thankfully one of my flailing arms did eventually connect with the bar thing so I managed to just about stay on my feet. Much blushing and apologising later and all was right with the world again. Although the Legolas bookmark did make another break for freedom. Pesky elves.

And in other news, what on earth is Huey (once dubbed the coolest man in the world) from the Fun Loving Criminals doing on The Underdog Show, where celebrities are judged on their dog-caring skills? This strikes me as neither Fun nor Criminal.

What are the chances?

Allow me to set the scene. I’m in my kitchen about to put on my marigolds and commence the washing up. “Relocation Relocation” is playing in the living room. Suddenly I hear Kirsty say “Oh Phil, any excuse to get your top off.” In the name of science I decide to go and have a look at Phil in a hot tub. As I’m gazing at the TV I realise that my marigold will not fit over the wooden bangle I’m wearing (a present from my sister’s trip to Thailand). I remove said bangle and lob it at the sofa whilst still transfixed by Phil in the hot tub. It lands at one end of the sofa and then (in slow motion) rolls the full length of it (a good three feet or so), somehow turns when it reaches the other end, then falls off the front, landing directly on the full pint glass of water on the floor, completely shattering it into microscopic pieces which I will be picking out of the carpet for weeks to come.

Narrow escape AKA maybe there is a god?

I was just coming out of the loo door into the main office when I realised that the whole back of my skirt was tucked into the top of my tights so my ENTIRE behind was on show. Thankfully I realised just in time and was able to back into the loo to sort it out. Think I will stick to trousers in the future.

Nice trip… or how it feels to be constantly thwarted

I decided to go into work early today as I am extremely dedicated. And I want to leave early. So I duly got out of bed at 6.30 and wandered bleary eyed around the flat attempted to find some clothes. Imagine my dismay to find that I had obviously waded through some kind of melted candle on Friday night as one of my favourite boots was covered in white candle wax. Thinking this is probably not the best impression to give in the important meeting I have to go to today, I stood for several minutes with the hairdryer and some kitchen roll, trying to dislodge said wax. (This added five minutes or so onto my usual getting ready time). I then thought I’d better check boot number two for wax, only to find that while my right foot was walking through melted wax, my left foot was evidently in some kind of deep puddle, as there was a tidemark round the whole of the boot and the sole appeared to have rotted and split straight across the middle. Cue shoe crisis—averted in approx. 10 minutes with the discovery of a forgotten pair of black boots. Slightly goth, but will do the job under long trousers.
So, I’m now up to about ten minutes before the time I’d usually leave anyway. So I rush out of the house, and fail to spot the potential death trap right in front of me. Is it a gang of muggers, I hear you ask? A speeding car? A large piece of debris? No, it’s one of those pieces of plastic that they use to wrap around boxes so you can carry them (I don’t even know what they’re called). Before you can say “these things only ever happen to me”, it’s wrapped itself around my feet and I’m doing a comedy stagger down the pavement before finally giving up and skidding to a halt on my hands and knees on the wet pavement whilst watching the contents of my bag (including several hundred tampons—they must have been breeding) strew themselves in a six foot radius around my person. Thankfully there wasn’t anyone in the immediate vicinity so I managed to maintain a small shred of dignity by picking myself and all of my tampons up and making my way to the tube station. I have skinned my knee and both my hands which wasn’t the best start to the day. And I got into work slightly later than normal anyway.

Now I’ve just thrown half a mug of coffee in my lap. Joy.

One year closer to 30

Just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who came along to the O Bar on Friday to help me drown my sorrows at being another year older. I had a great night topped off by a drunken and overcrowded ride in a rickshaw. I've decided that I'm not having any more birthdays from this point on so thanks for making it a good 'un!

PS Special thanks to Kate and Will for not only going to the shop for a bumper pack of paracetamol on Saturday morning, but also for making copious amounts of tea along with one of the best bacon and egg sandwiches I've ever had the pleasure of consuming. God bless you both.

Things we lost on Friday*:

• One mobile (NOT MINE!!!!)
• A pair of earrings
• One coat
• A book
• A CD
• A necklace
• A cardigan
• A few hundred pounds
• Several million brain cells

*Everything (other than the coat, sterling and the brain cells) has amazingly been retrieved via various methods, mainly by various people finding them in their bags/pockets then indulging in much email detective work to figure out who they belong too.

SERIOUSLY... anyone for an apocalypse?

Now look what happened: “Australia's capital Canberra is reeling from a violent hailstorm which deposited a metre of ice across the city. Canberra's weather is one of many examples of freak conditions across the globe” (Sky News). I'm actually getting a bit worried now. Next thing you know we'll have Pestilence, War, Famine and Death galloping along the Heathrow flightpath and the Whore of Babylon setting up shop at King's Cross. Oo-er.

Bridget Jones moment

I read a statistic which says that only 9 per cent of men and 2 per cent of women meet their future spouses in bars/nightclubs. I find this somewhat depressing. Where exactly do they meet them then? Having found out from bitter experience that dipping your pen in the company’s ink (or vice versa I suppose in my case—apologies for that somewhat graphic image), I’d like to avoid that, so what does that leave me with? Answers on a postcard please.

And this isn't just an excuse for having to go on a Google hunt for a picture of Colin Firth and Hugh Grant. Honest.

Anyone for an apocalypse?

Guatemala City, Guatemala: "The pit opened up on Friday, February 23, emitting foul odours. Witnesses said the ground shook before it appeared. "

Things I hate today #3

Nadine Baggott, celebrity beauty editor. Grrr.

Has the world gone mental?

Three excerpts from Sky News today:

• “An adult collossal squid with eyes as big as dinner plates has been caught in New Zealand ... If calamari rings were made from it they'd be the size of tractor tyres.”


• “Parents struggling to cope with losing a baby are easing their grief with replica dolls of their lost children.The lifelike models, called Reborn Dolls, have a mechanical beating heart, realistic hair and even veins...”


• “An Italian man is suspected of hiding his dead father's body in a freezer for two years so that he could carry on collecting the old man's pension.”

And don't even get me started on Britney Spears.

Private dancer

Today there was a man on the tube asleep standing up. He was holding onto the pole in the middle between the two rows of seats and kept swaying from side to side like an inebriated pole dancer. At one point he went so far over backwards that he almost had his head in some guy’s lap. Not only was it hilarious but it also provided one of those rare moments when Londoners on public transport actually smile at each other.

You know you're getting old when...

...you'd rather watch 'Relocation Relocation' than The Brit Awards.

Wherever I lay my hat

* Following leaving my favourite woolly hat at a house party on Friday night/Saturday morning, I decided to purchase a new one via the internet as not having a hat means that it’s too cold to go shopping for a new one (what a lie—it was laziness pure and simple). Anyway, the new hat arrived yesterday complete with a free pack of L’Oreal PerfectSlim** anti-cellulite patches. Nope, I can’t figure out the connection either.
In the name of science obviously (because I don’t have an ounce of cellulite on my body) I thought I’d try one out last night. They’re about the size of a paperback book with one sticky side and one slightly fluffy one and you have to leave it on for a maximum of eight hours. Apparently it sends pure caffeine into the skin which “works to break down the fatty build up”. Nice. So I settled into bed and slapped one on my stomach. It felt LOVELY. Very hard to explain, but kind of cold and hot at the same time. And a bit tingly. Dunno if it did anything for the cellulite (which I don’t have any of, as stated above) but who cares! Who needs a man when you have massive caffeine patches.

*No reason for the Orlando picture—I just think he’s pretty. And not eleven years younger than me.
**Please note the L’Oreal product placement. I’m hoping they might read this and send me some free stuff. After all, this blog is read by at least one people.

Things I hate today #2

• BBC weather—do they have a bag of weather symbols which they take it in turns to stick their hands in? Either that or they look out of the window and then put the exact opposite on the website.
• My lying iPod battery icon—despite reading half full when I left the flat this morning it ran out three stops into my tube journey. Due to having had persistently elbowed the man next to me in the ribs putting the damn headphones on in the first place I couldn’t do it again taking them off so had to stand there like a lemon with headphones in and no music playing.
• Door slamming competitions with my flatmate.
• The woman in Tescos who rummaged in the freezer for five minutes, then got her ready meal, and walked off leaving the freezer door wide open. Bitch.
• Tescos generally.

Interesting iPod shuffle juxtaposition of the day

mObscene by Marilyn Manson, followed by Somewhere Over the Rainbow by the lovely Judy Garland. Bet she's spinning in her grave as we speak. And so's he probably.

Simple pleasures

Not having to use a gravy boat to wash with this morning. Ahhhhh.

Restoration of faith in humanity

I thought I should post something positive on here as for some reason it does all seem a bit doom and gloom. A few weeks ago I lost my mobile after a night on the sauce in Soho. Being the usual disorganised person that I am, I didn’t get around to doing anything about reporting the loss. On Saturday night I received a phone call from my dad telling me that he’d just been called by a barman who had my mobile, so could I give him a call back about retrieving it. I was, quite frankly, gob smacked that someone had gone to the trouble to go through the phonebook and then call my dad about it. I was also very impressed that said barman didn’t laugh at the facts that: (a) I had to ask him for quite detailed directions as well as the name of the bar in which he worked as I couldn’t remember where or what it was; and (b) the fact that I am a 28 year old woman whose father is listed as “Daddy” in her mobile. Anyhoo, handover was completed a few days later and me and my mobile were reunited.
Then I went and lost it again a week later in Covent Garden and it hasn’t been seen since. Hey ho.

Snow joke (sorry)

Despite the fact that my shower last night consisted of a bucket filled up with water from the kettle and a gravy boat (I’m nothing if not innovative) I awoke this morning in good spirits, determined not to let the inevitable travel chaos due to the snow (any excuse London Transport) get me down. A look out of the window filled me with childish joy, unusually for snow in London which generally just means that I fall over on the way to work, get really wet and the tubes don’t work.
After a leisurely breakfast and the usual issue over which shoes to wear I set off into snowy Leytonstone. Managing to not fall over and not get hit in the face with a snowball by any of the six foot tall school children on the way to the tube constituted two minor miracles. Even the woman who kept wiping her wet bag on me or the guy with his elbow in my boob all the way to Holborn didn’t dampen my spirits.
But then, it all went tits up. After standing for the usual eight stops I finally got a seat opposite a rather nice looking young man. I pretended to read my book whilst trying to catch his eye. Eye caught as planned, a few cheeky looks were exchanged. Then, disaster struck. As I stood up to get off the train, I managed to somehow throw my book at the nice looking guy, narrowly missing his eye. Then it fell on the floor in the puddle at his feet. Thankfully it was Jane Austen, so I might have been able to pull off some kind of sexy, clumsy intellectual type thing, if it wasn’t for the Legolas bookmark which fell out and landed in his crotch. As he handed it to me he gave me a sympathetic smile, obviously meant to make me feel better about my total geekiness. It didn’t.

Things I hate today #1

• When my headphones get caught up on other people on the tube. What’s that about?
• When the guy that I had a pervy dream about last night turns out to be eleven years my junior (I’m 28 by the way, so that isn’t as bad as it sounds).
• My flatmate cleaning. I know I should be pleased about that, but she does it in a way designed purely to make me feel guilty. Examples include: putting all of my drying up away in the thirty seconds which I’ve been in the loo; doing my washing up when I’m not looking; putting my still damp washing away; and sweeping the leaves out of the front garden at five in the morning because she “couldn’t sleep”. Telling me she was “on a roll” after doing it doesn’t make it better either.
• Writing “and usually dies” instead of “and usually does” in very important emails to very important people.

The beginning...

Well, this is my first blog. A catchy title I'm sure you'll agree. After years of bottling everything up at the ridiculousness that happens to me, a minor incident last night which caused me to burst into tears on the escalator between the Jubilee and Central lines at Bond Street station, inspired me to vent my spleen in the hope that it will stop me spontaneously combusting in my bedroom one evening. Following a slight tangle betwixt scarf and headphones in the tube carriage I wasn't up on my feet as quickly as I should have been. By the time I got to the door it had already been open for at least two seconds (as I'm sure you're aware, tube time is like dog/human years—one minute=five) and one woman had got on. The seven other people behind her, including a freakishly tall man accompanied by a freakishly fat woman, proceeded to form a human shield between me and the platform. Despite my plaintive "excuse me"s they refused to let me through, until I was forced to throw myself at said shield using my army surplus rucksack as a battering ram, in a move which Jonny Wilkinson would have been proud of. Though thankfully without the fat lip (only because the fat woman missed me).
So, here it is. And even if no one ever reads it, if it stops me becoming a small pile of ashes on my bedroom floor, I'll consider it a success.