Diagnosis: over-charged Splenetic Sourness, characterised by Malodorous Humours

Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: the sound of my nose running, against a backdrop of Sigur Ros

Reasons not to go to work today:
I overslept.
I feel crappy.
I can't get more than five hours sleep a night, and no I haven't tried the Vodka Method yet.
I can't even remember what today's schedule at work is.
I can attempt to get a doctor's appointment again, and ask for hard mentaller's drugs. (No? You don't think I'm a mentallist? Sigh.)

It's something like one doctor per 2000 patients on the NHS in London, and where I live in East London, if you're not a pikey slag with 18 screaming kids covered in cigarette stub sores, you'll never get seen by anyone qualified. But I still need a sick certificate for last week, so I have to make attempt number 7 to get into the place.
In fact, the service is so shit that a while ago, I gave up and had no doctor for a year or two (the old doctor closed his practise and threw all the records away. Without telling me. Yes, I know that's not what they're supposed to do, but you try telling that to the overstuffed dragonish matrons who work the reception areas ... "don't you take that tone with me, missy" is a direct quote.) Didn't notice any difference at all in not having a doctor - it's no more difficult to get an appointment with a doctor who doesn't exist, after all - but then switched |genericjob| and 'doctor's details' is another of those official type things, like next of kin, that they rather worryingly require from you.
[I don't see what it has to do with standing around and being obstructive all day (which is basically what I'm paid for). If you take too much time off and get formal warnings, they only ever believe their doc, not yours, and their doc is waaaay easier to fool. Ooops, giving too much away?]

So anyway, I signed up to a new doctor. First time I went in, I was sick with flu, and underwent the usual barrage of unhelpful barked instructions. They didn't notice the breaking into a cold sweat, and when I began the pre-fainting sway, I got "what's wrong with you?!" Like...um....aren't you supposed to tell me?
Usually, though, it's simply a matter of not allowing you an appointment for the next four years minimum. I used to love receptionists' seething inexpressible hatred when you fix them with a steely eye and calmly say 'emergency'. However, that's a little unfair, so I don't do it anymore, I try to play by their game and their rules.

I stubbed my toe. It keeps bleeding. When can I see a doctor.
You want a nurse.
I want a doctor. When can I see him.
Sigh. Four weeks from now. (This line shortened by sixteen minutes to save bandwidth.)

Nowadays, if it's serious, I just give up on a five hour block of time and go straight to a hospital emergency room with my stubbed toe. The ones with a million red signs outside warning that if you waste their expensive time and resources with something your GP could have dealt with, they'll take legal action. But five hours sat in bits of blood, vom and pee next to a nice old mad tramp who thinks you're Satan is a lot shorter than five weeks of trying to remember that you stubbed your toe.
But you can't get a sick cert from a hospital A&E.

I did try the doctor's surgery last week, when I was more visibly ill than today:
visit one: the surgery is closed.
visit two: the surgery does not take bookings at this time.
visit three: you missed the earlier time, for when the surgery does not need a booking. We only take booked appointments now. No, we have no appointments for you to book.
visit four: it's our two hour long lunch hour. We've pulled down a riot-shutter.
visit five: we've switched our phonelines over to the fax machine. If you're really honestly sick, you'll find a way around this.
visit six: we've decided not to open our evening or weekend surgeries any more. Go away.

Given that I haven't even gained access to the building with any effectiveness yet, the chances look bleak. I've still got to grapple with the dangers posed by Sixteen Year Old Illiterate Receptionist, then make my way up to the battle against the forces of Dragon On Phone, and finally wage war against the Angry Dragon Patently In Love With Doctor Who Wants Him All For Her Sad Frosty Self.
But wait! I spent two days as a doctor's receptionist in Harley Street this summer. What hypocrisy! I chased one paying customer away for being late. Where do I fit into this easy, disgruntled sarcastic diatribe?
Dragon Who Doesn't Give A Fuck.
I'm going back to bed.

Sleepwatch: 5 hours.

Countdown

Mood:  down
Now Playing: Norah Jones, Coldplay, MOR indulgent stuff

Best quote of yesterday, from someone I work with:
"Maaaaan, while you were off, we was livin' The Life!"
In a fortnight's time, I get a week's holiday. Thank christ.

Tomorrow, Harvardboy is coming over from Hamburg, so I'll be socialising with him and the ex-DH in the evening. Despite having spent years pointing out to each other that they've known each other longest, he has emailed me to let me know I shan't be automatically dropped. Which was considerate of him, but my current cynicism is so deeply ingrained by now, that I wonder what prompted it. As Vic pointed out, perhaps she intends to sell me half her friends?
Am making real attempts to not allow my sourfaced critical negative nature emerge in public till Thursday. Or Zero Hour, as I've been referring to it.

Sleepwatch: 4.5 hours

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Diagnosis: barely suppressed rage

Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: Frank Sinatra

Last night I got a break from acting as five hour trampoline for two insane cats who don't quite fit onto a single bed. (Apparently sleeping in the washing basket is quite the in-thing today, if you're a cat.)
You'd have thought this meant I get more sleep? No bloody chance. Took till 3am to get some shut eye, then all of that was wasted on weird nightmares. Which in itself would merely be irritating, but no; my nightmares would have to be bloody transparent even to a retard who spotted a flashcard titled 'Freud' in 1976.

Context: although splitting up with my ex-girlfriend, I've been doing my best to be reasonable. This involves being aloof when the waterworks start, not slagging her off to my friends, and being scrupulous about not blogging anything which would leave either of us feeling bad**.

The downside of being reasonable, as Briar pointed out yesterday, is the ensuing feelings of barely suppressed, simmering, near-homicidal rage.

Anyway, so last night I spent the twilight hours visualising limbs being torn apart (John Irving: 'The Fourth Hand' - not at all recommended), then continued the theme into the zzz-hours, with REM functions that involved me standing in front of a terrorist planted time-bomb.
My response to this obvious position of moral authority was to slowly and carefully kill in cold blood six potential bomb -defusers (is defusers a word?). I shot them one by one, and watched them scream and twist as they died.
When two were left, whimpering and crawling to get away, I quite deliberately, and without justification set off a semtex charge against my chest, exploding the incendiary device I was guarding, and killing everything within several miles.
[innocent girly face] Gee, I wonder what that dream means? [ end innocent girly face ]

I think I had better find some more rational way to express the anger I patently can't avoid feeling, before the cats find a premature end.

** I think we can safely say this phase is ending.

Sleepwatch: 3 hours.

Divorce Me 2

"I'll sell you my half of the furniture."

You'll what? You'll .... what?

You'll fucking what?

Things I wish I'd not said

(inspired by Looby's list of things he wished he *had* said, here are this month's things I wish I hadn't)

1.) (Being chatted up by gorgeous woman:)
GW: "I remember you, you have really long legs and you dance. Been dancing lately?"
Me: "Yes."
GW: "One syllable answers. Not good."
Me: "Oh."

2.) "The Chapman brothers might be as good as Goya one day. [...] Oh okay, alright, yes, you're right they're talentless and disgusting then. [...] Yeah, they're so over."

3.) "I liked Don Alfonso. I thought he had morals."

4.) (to a Trinidadian friend) "I've decided Trinidadian women are all high maintenance. Don't you agree?"

5.) (to people I don't really know, who had told me Alex Parks had won Fame Academy) "You fucking bastards."

6.) "okay, I'll take the cats."

7.) "I've been a c@#t all summer"

8.) "Your mate over there, has she got some sort of fucking problem? Miserable cow. [...] Oh, your Best Mate? Oh. No, no, she's lovely. Really."

9.) (on being asked if I'd done any dusting at all this summer) "Are you trying to feel fucking superior or something?"

10.) "When are you going to move out?"

11.) (talking to someone I manage about a senior manager) "FFS, stupid bitch. What's the difference? Premenstrual old hag."
(How do you spell m-i-s-j-u-d-g-e-d, again?)

Moral: don't blog drunk.

Sleepwatch: 11 [desperate, sweaty, gasping, dehydrated, twisting] hours.

shocking email indiscretion

Mood:  bright
Now Playing: Shampoo on channel 5

I would normally be polite and circumspect about these things, but tonight I got home to unexpected email from people I think are ace, but loopy. An admirable place to be. I can only subscribe to mild dislocation from reality, myself. (shyah! right!) Here's the famed Lettuce's recommendations for an awful/worthy blog:

"Before I look at those, I think you should see this. It is thoroughly bad, so naturally I thought of you. URL deleted for being too serious and worthy
hell, you probably saw it years ago. Never mind. I have to blame this on you, I was very deliberately avoiding the whole blog thing until I became a casual reader of yours (not too sure about the beige/poo combo by the way) (Gotta agree with you there!) and was going to send you one I came across at the weekend - was googling for something and found this really well written diary which reminded me of you and my mate Dave. I also found a reference to myself in it which was just a little freaky. So, I was going to send it to you both, but it was mostly about football so I thought you'd get pissed off, being the only person I know who has attempted to confiscate a football by neatly drop kicking it onto an elevated railway line."

Well, I think that's fully deserved criticism, particularly about the poo, which I welcome back onto the front page. And I'm sure I didn't mean to drop kick the football onto the main line at Elephant and Castle.
Here's what DerbyshireDeviant said:

"[I] was also been a cunt during the summer all part and parcel of been memebers of the cunt club and if you've got to be a cunt you've got to be a cunt and thats all there is to it.HOORAY FOR CUNTS"

Now I know why I'm so messed up. Rah for strange friends!

Pop Quiz of the Damned

Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: Moira Jane's Cafe

Had bizarre zombie-infested nightmares, and woke up to find a cat staring at me.
The zombies were after me because I didn't know enough French, German or Physics, and right before they munched my face, they were going to take all my qualifications away. Thanks christ Vic knew some Physics, or I'd never have survived the test.
I haven't studied French, Physics or German since I was sixteen. But I've had nightmares where everything goes wrong and I lose my degree because I haven't studied them hard enough before. Perhaps at some deep level of my id, I retain some basic, chthonic knowledge that I haven't done any French, German or Physics homework for sixteen years. This, surely, could not go unpunished.

Another question solved: who hugs you awake from a nightmare? The droolingcat does. Awww.

Divorce Me 1

Mood:  vegas lucky
Now Playing: Definition of Sound

So we discussed who gets the cats. And it's me! Just like that. Really surprised me. Last year, the ex-DH spent sixteen hundred pounds on dialysis for sickgrumpycat (even my cats have pseudonyms), when I wanted her put down.
And, that, ladeezangennulmen, is how I qualified as primary cat-carer. Spose while junking one prior attachment, you can junk em all.

avoidance tactics

Mood:  rushed
Now Playing: giggling neighbours. Cripes, no music listed on here for a full week!

Crikey. All I did was post a link to a babelfishtwisted French version of the front page. Out of boredom. Bastards. You stuffed up my pretty pictures now. 260 page views. Remind me never to mark something 'Private' again.

I fully intended to go to my |genericjob| today, it would get me out of the house and give me something to conversationalise with my New Best Friends at the opera tomorrow, it would liven up my sad boring life (illustration: I spent last night piddling my pants laughing at all of Eurotrash's archived posts), and the exhaustion that |genericjob| usually induces would mean I got enough sleep tonight. (see, if I'm going out with crowds of lesbians on Saturday, the chances of me staying up till 5am Friday night, drinking myself stupid and then looking like Peggy Mitchell on a bad day are increased tenfold. My avoidance tactics are so predictable they've actually become repetitious.)
Plus, |genericwankercolleagues| might actually have been grateful.
I had at least attempted to prove my independence and sanity by walking to the corner shop for some tuna, last night (first time out of the house since Sunday), and felt distinctly unwell. It didn't help that it's Freshers week at QMW, so everybody else in the shop has New Funky Jeans, New Funky Trainers, New Funky Backpack, and makes desperately friendly eye contact for just that little bit too long. Always peps you up to wander, snot-nosed and stringy-haired into an impromptu episode of Dawsons Creek. I tried not to linger by the Pot Noodle, for fear of being sucked into an undergraduate puppy-eyed vortex. Bad enough the first time round.
So I did intend to go and work. The intention was about all that was left. I admit now that it was a bad idea to get pissed in the bath at midnight, not do any of the reading I need, piss about laughing at udate on MSN till about 2am, or to sit up playing with cats who kept fighting over bed-hogging cat-puddle formations till 3am.
The alarm went off at 4.30, ready for me to spring into the required reading. Predictable response.
Woke up again at 8am, which is the time I'm supposed to be pulling the car into the gates at |genericjob| and hastily rang in, to do the crappy 'weak as a flea' voice, not really assisted by my bloody phone zoning in and out of its near-death trance-like state. Causing me to yell in time honoured lusty fashion "can you hear me now?"
Oh well. They thanked me. I got guilts for a full ten seconds till I realised now I need a doctor's cert.

Sleepwatch: 6 hours

Maintenant je suis un lapin malheureux

Mood:  suave
Now Playing: Not Radiohead, for sure

Private Blog for Pandy Pears.

Yidaho fried her kitten. I call that mean-spirited. Ickle puddy.

I weigh: 68.5kg.
An entire tub of Ben and Jerry's and all the fried food / custard / biscuits I can fit down the hatch = only 0.1 kg of pud. I think I inadvertently Atkinised it. Gah.

Quelle horreur! Pacman fait le sexe avec sa soeur!

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Political Jargon Bingo

Now Playing: freeview channel 45

I sublimate my desires by watching the Labour Party Conference (freeview channel 45! wa-heyyyy), and playing political jargon bingo. I couldn't in all honesty recommend it, but the nightmares that follow are exciting.

Card 1:
basic legal right
democratic society
justice in an unjust world
the 21st century
shoulder to shoulder

Card 2:
full defence counsel
benchmark
settle for nothing less
innocent people
as it is, not as it was seen

Card 3:
tyrannical
freedom of choice
18 years of Tory rule
succeeded for years
sexing up

Card 4:
the Euro does not need sexing up for me
no matter what you think of Margaret Thatcher
aims of equality and opportunity
we must be realistic
not just in the UK, not just in Europe

Card 5:
er, er, er
could everyone sit down for the moment
conference I invite you to consider
i fear disastrous consequences for the whole world
sisters!

Card 6:
lift three hundred million people out of poverty
it was great ....... to hear ....... that
this is crucial
getting ready and getting organised
the US would not concede

Card 7:
outward looking internationalism
UK must bear some of the blame
the courage to choose
reformed more deeply
this is a crunch time

Favourite part so far: The super-swish stylised bigscreen video speech (ie, no big hitters could be bothered to be present in person) to memorialise Michael Foot.
Camera 2 cuts to the ever less than photogenic Foot, and the old duffer isn't watching, he's intently scratching his arse.
That's what I call spin.

Mission Statement

Mood:  quizzical
Now Playing: Late night radio phone-in

I like smelly food;
I always want a kebab after a night on the piss;
When someone tells me a problem, I try to think of a solution instead of just sympathising;
I'm pushy, and I think what I think is the right thing to think (actually, that's just as female as male, innit?);
I find irrelevant debates good fun;
I assume housewives need to escape from their lives;
Find it quite awkward to talk about girly emotional stuff;
I shudder at the pity-me culture that allows people to do what the hell they like (one person I know shagged around her fiance, married him anyway, wouldn't take her meds, spent 20 hours a day online, became totally messed in the head, lived a totally self-centred self-obsessed life whilst ignoring husband, then shagged around some more. When he finally wised up and dumped her, it was all testament to how Truly Brave A Poppet She Is. Made me want to puke.)
(Yep, there'll be no more Pity Me posts on this, Your Daily Charlatan's Blog. Thank fuck for that.)
I really don't care what other people think (PMT apart, though);
No matter how voyeuristic anyone reading this feels, I'm never going to blog the stuff that's really important;
I pick the scabs on my scalp;
There's fifty-seven varieties of ageing curry sauce in my fridge. And an onion;
I love driving, and when you're in my car, then everyone behind is a wanker, and everyone in front is a fool;
I judge people on how they look. Always;
Doing the washing seems unnecessary until the basket is more than full:
Actually, when I lived in Balham, I used to chuck my dirty washing in the spare room and buy more clothes rather than go to the launderette down the street. Eventually, even when I threw the clothes out, the room smelt too much to let out to any lodger with a human physiognomy, and I moved out, leaving the rest of the dirty laundry where it was;
I make the first move (well, unless I really really fancy someone, then I'll be all girly and terrified);
I don't want kids or a marriage or a house with a garden - a brilliant record collection is far superior;
Speaking of which, my record collection is sorted by musical style and era. I look forward to the day when I'm so bored I sort by musical influence;
I own three hi-fis, four walkmans, three TV sets, two videos, one dvd player and three computers. This does not seem an unduly large amount;
I can't be fucked opening letters if they don't look interesting;
I luuuurve a good action movie;
Phone conversations should be short, and communicate information;
I worry what beer is acceptable to drink in the pub;
If I try keeping plants, they die;
Skirts are for girls;
Going out for a few jars means I won't be back till 5am tomorrow;
I can be very very very scary if I want to be. I tend not to want to be, but knowing that makes you more confident than most girls;
I eat my steak blue.

This was originally going to be called 'Things About Me That Seem Blokeish'**, till lemonpillows messaged me on MSN and said it sounded more like a mission statement.

**That probably just reveals how little lesbians actually know about blokes....

Food cures all evil

Mood:  caffeinated
Now Playing: slurping, gobbling, ice-creamy sounds

Gawd bless my yesterday-self. My whining, self-pitying, gratuitous self. Because in the gaps between attention seeking, and melancholy, I spent four - yes, four! - hours logging onto Tesco online and ordering groceries.
This means I had to crawl out of my stinking pit by lunchtime, to accept the delivery. Even better, I had to actually shower - a great service to humanity and the other beings who have to inhabit my airspace (mostly feline, but you never know).

Brushing my teeth and commiserating on the hard life I lead, I noticed that my lips are chafed. Strange. Was I attacking my own lips in the night, in a furious search for solace? Or did the bloody cat have at me with her claws when I missed the alarm again?

Aaaaaaaaanyway, as lemonpillows says, by this morning I had no memory whatsoever of what I'd ordered, just that it had taken four long, infuriating hours to do it, and that it had cost a bomb. Oh, and that I'd been drunkenly upbraided by ex-DH for not ordering her favourite brand of toothpaste (Bad Mexican Maid: but stuff it, when she pays for any of the food she eats, she can claim priority in toothpaste branding). Cue about eighty bulging carrier bags and one Nice Man who didn't mind carrying them up to the third floor ("it's my job miss" - bloody hell, the whole concept of 'uncomplaining' was enough to shock me from my stupor - I hadn't even tried The Ankle Excuse).

And --- praise --- benedicite --- gramercy to my Sick Self: I'd ordered everything a Sick Person could possibly require. No, not that sort of Sick!

Nine bottles of very expensive wine (shameful!);
Eighty-two sadbastardreadymeals (including five variants of Ocean Pie);
Four pots of ice cream (three low fat, one B&J Cookies n Cream, currently sinking into an insatiable hollow) (ie. my face);
Deep Heat anaesthetising sprain spray (yay! just in case there really was a sprain, which, dammit, there is) (Note to self: do not spray on face, even if depressed);
A billion English apples (that's the sort of thing I always presume will make me healthy - conveniently forgetting you have to eat them as well)
Great toast-making bread, crumpets, choccy biccies;
Quaker oats (so I can imagine a warm orange glow from the 1970s, protecting me from harm);
Every type of continental cheese I can eat (none of which would go into a fondue, but hell, I can work my way up) (sorry to Dave for the frequent references to cheese of late!);
Eggs! For the frying of! With Beans! and Toast!
Some German salami (to enable me to make my favourite salami and grilled feta sandwich, yay).

Now I am one happy bunny.
And what's more, listing these gustatory delights has knocked the blog entry where my girlfriend dumped me from the front page. So life does go on.

CNPS: 20
I weigh: 68.4kg (lemme see how much I can gain by tonight... hehehe)
The Gender Genie algorithm still says my blog is male. Dammit!!!!

fractured femur

Mood:  accident prone
Now Playing: my anguish filled screams, vying against neighbour's muffled telly sounds

Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow!

Not only is my nose running onto the keyboard, the cats are heat-seeking missiles (ie, pestering me constantly to sleep on my shoulder), and I emanated noxious fluid onto the sofa.
Further humiliation was to arrive when I tried to simultaneously uncross legs, avoid leaning on either cats, hop over PC, navigate items strewn across the furry rug, and take back to the kitchen the remains of an old sweetcorn tin (all the better for chucking up later) (I've degraded one day beneath sadbastardreadymeal).
Note to self: do not jump over things while carrying breakables when your leg has gone dead.

Landed fairly effectively, although with loud cracking sound as dead leg failed to hold upright, keeling me totally over, and pitching the contents of my sweetcorn tin everybloodywhere.
Spent five good minutes rolling around the rug ... clutching leg ... screaming ... waving off nosey cats (for whom this constitutes almost as much excitement as a litter change) ... screaming a bit more for effect. Then thought about it a bit, and realised I still couldn't feel my leg below the ankle.
This could of course mean that it was hanging by a thread. Tried a few more tentative screams, and felt to see if foot was still attached. Screamed instinctively when I touched it, and again a few times in case it hurt.
Decided to sprawl on the floor choking in putrefied sweetcorn juice, mangled limbs dangling until I starved to death and THEN the world would be sorry, but I became bored.
After a few seconds, the feeling came back to my leg, and I got up and cleared the sweetcorn away.

I swear I heard it crack.

BAD Mexican Maid!

Mood:  hug me
Now Playing: care in the community blokes making screaming noises in some dialect outside

Dammit, angelfire seems to have been up and down more than a tart's knickers this afternoon.

Blogwarning: I have flu, and therefore I am entitled to whinge constantly without recrimination.
I find it a little bizarre that I was more than happy to accept that I was skiving without any real excuse, but had to be forced under pressure to admit I was actually genuinely ill. Perhaps I'm even more arrogant than I thought.

Last night, when I retired to my [shitty little] [spare box] room [crammed with the ex's stinky spare washing] [and no space to stand], I had that awful feeling that you're not asleep, you're dead. You know when your limbs feel heavy enough to pull down through the bed? Mine felt like someone had lassoed them and they were shooting groundwards at high speed.
So, to take my mind off the snivelling and self-pity, I decided to mentally blog myself to sleep, with a spot of whingeing, snivelling self-pity, and thought up things that feel deeply scarey about being single again:

I'm not sure if I have anywhere to live;
Never going on holiday again;
Or if you do, then being the person the waiter pities in the restaurant (I know this is a stupid thing, but something jatb said once in an amusing diatribe about Israel made me think of it);
Living with an ex-DH is sending me insane;
Particularly since it's me who has to do all the cooking, shopping and cleaning so far - I've renamed myself: the Mexican Maid;
Actually, that should be: the Bad Mexican Maid - while suffering the worst flu / mild cold ever, I only managed to provide three breakfast options this morning.
Bad, bad, bad, BAD Mexican Maid!
Christ! Perhaps *that* time was the last sex I ever had?!
My mates have already set up two blind dates. Bastards;
Which is hypocritical of me, because I've already chatted up four women;
Unsuccessfully;
Actually, the Bad Mexican Maid thing has all the hallmarks of a Future Fetish;
If ex-DH opts for the best case scenario and offers to let me buy her out of the joint mortgage, then I need to come up with something like seventy thousand knicker to stay here;
Which means opening letters from banks ever;
Oh, how DULL;
Never being hugged back to sleep after a nightmare.

[end maudlin tosh]
For the record these fookin stupid emoticon things at the top of each post are ARSE and NOT TRUE! So there. :o)

online dating

Mood:  amorous
Now Playing: screams of horror

Another day off work, with mild stomach ache. Sometimes. What a wuss, eh? I'm hoping the image of me as 'unreliable' is being sharpened in their minds.
Spent the day worrying that one of the search terms that led to my blog in the last month was "nude girls spreadsheets".
This led me to check into udate, and update my pictures and profile. I widened the age range of potentials to 18-99 years old, and specified a particular liking for tubbies.
Here's my profile:

Sarsparilla: female, London (UK), Korean, 240lbs+;
Over 6ft 6, small/petite build,I don't like children, ethnicity: other;
Hair: Not much left, black eyes, beard & moustache, single, gay, looking for marriage, stunning looking, masters degree, occupation: celebrity, annual income over #1K;
Left Wing Extremist, no religious beliefs, I drink to excess, maxed out with tattoos, maxed out with body piercings, 1 or 2 pieces of jewellery, I take drugs to excess, non-smoker;
Won't cook, won't clean, won't do housework, love food shopping, hate all other shopping, won't garden or do DIY, depend upon others to clean up for me;
Quite feminine, not really warm, not at all caring, not at all supportive, not really understanding, extremely aggressive;
Extremely successful, ambitious, extrovert, impatient, I am angry all the time;
I am not really intelligent, not at all faithful, not really passionate, fitness fanatic, pride in my appearance? Not really;
Not really spiritual, extremely superstitious, I'm a sex bomb, who's not at all deep, and anything goes;
I'm not at all reliable, I have no willpower, am extremely selfish, am always late. Sorry, I'm not at all spontaneous;
I dislike the following forms of food: English, Italian, fast, pizza, Japanese, Indian, Chinese, French and McDonalds. I like to eat KFC cuisine;
I hate bars, pubs, clubs, movies, the theatre, museums, raves and discos, and The Arts are above my head, I'm afraid. There's nothing better than a walk in the park;
I hate reading, and only take the Financial Times, Telegraph and News of the World daily. My TV tastes run to game shows, game shows and game shows; I also enjoy magazines about automotives, housekeeping and religion;
I play bowling, boxing and disabled sports, but only enjoy watching wrestling;
The best place to go on a date with me is Embankment, and three years from now I shall be in Brazil, working as a gravedigger;
What really really makes me happy is licking gingivitis from teeth.

In fifteen minutes, 43 blokes suddenly checked me out. One look at 'MarquisDeSuave's handsome wrinkles and bulging packet, and I swore never to brush my teeth again.

Just lettin' ya know, girls, where you're going wrong......

Another day on the road

Mood:  not sure
Now Playing: sound financial advice which I will not follow

Just got in after six hours driving Duch to Oxfordshire and back, (via a stopoff at my parents' in Wiltshire for refuelling - human - and some wild pony poo chocolate) to be vetted by a Mad Cat Breeder for suitability. She's buying a Maine Coon kitten - the ones that look like weirdly still tigers and grow to about 35 pounds. Jeez!
Right now, it's an adorable bundle of damp smelly whiskers that mewls and bounces and scratches. Whereas Mad Cat Breeder's whiskers rustled with annoyance if we even so much as moved, and her fur well nigh stood on end as she waved us off with dire stories of how that friend of Duch (me) had dangerous, sickly, plague ridden cats who would murder her kitten one day, "mark my words". I am saving up for the bell to warn Duch of my proximity, in future, so she be ready with the bleach and plastic socks.

Last night was great fun, wandering around olden time East End boozers, full of crooning old blokes who looked like Jack Duckworth - I visited The George at Terminus, The Ten Bells, where you were on permanent display to armies of visiting Americans doing the rather morbid Jack the Ripper walking tour (although I rather preferred to think it was me they were pointing at, it was the dilapidated old Hoxton trendy wine bar that has replaced the pub, cleverly keeping eight of the original tiles for historical relevance), the Brick Lane Beigel Bake, The Approach, and The Palm Tree's late night singalonga old joanna lock-in.
Martin was terribly interesting company, whereas I was bloody blotto yet again, and spent most of the evening bothering Dave with drunken texts, apparently, while he tried to concentrate on delivering a competent fondue party. Why he would attempt such an insane undertaking is patently his business, and I was wrong to assume he had lost all sense of proportion and sanity, and quite deeply wrong to assume these could be regained in a Hoxton pub.

< == Two new blogs on the blog roll over there.
Yidaho and JATB are two (real life) (!) friends of mine who have been secretly blogging without allowing me to look at what they're written. I know it's customary for bloggers to pretend a degree of humility, (what this ole blog? no, no, no, surely nobody would read it...) but really, that's an outdated ritual that no-one ever believes.
Writing a blog is in and of itself an exercise in arrogance constrained by irrelevance. Embrace the lunacy! Be proud of the insensitivity. And blog more.
I want to see at least one divorce and two family feuds from these two blogs by Christmas, gels.

High Drama

Mood:  surprised
Now Playing: Not Cosi Fan bloody Tutte
Fuckit! Went to the ENO (at the sodding Barbican, which is a sod to get to), ordered interval drinks, found the vertiginous precipice 'pon which I'd booked my cheap seats, then me and Martin proceeded to attempt to bully six shy 19 year old girls out of their seats, all the while clutching the safety pole in a mild panic, when I looked back at the bloody ticket.

October.