Grrr

Mood:  down
Now Playing: Primal Scream

Feel like crap today. Although bacon sarnies for brekkie helps. These emoticons at the top are annoying, aren't they? Makes me feel like an AOL teen-geekazoid. Perhaps today is a grown-up high heeled shoes day...

My inner child is sixteen years old!
Life's not fair! It's never been fair, but while adults might just accept that, I know something's gotta change. And it's gonna change, just as soon as I become an adult and get some power of my own.
How Old is Your Inner Child?
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Dave came over to show me how a proper cat-owner plays with, pays attention to and cuddles a cat yesterday. One cat loved him, the other cat disappeared from the face of the earth till he was out of the building. I have split personality cats!

Streaks of unsavoury things

Now Playing: Radio 4: John Humphries badgers politicians of a morning

Blogging before work... naughty.
Almost as naughty as breakfasting on toast and maple syrup each morning. yumzah!
This morning, I couldn't maintain the fiction that I wear a suit any longer. I've been trying to simplify my mornings so I can sleep four minutes later, by acquiring a range of non-descript black suits (fashion tips from John Major... hmm, odd lifestyle choice). But today I'm going to have to admit that I haven't done my homework, and I feel that somehow my clothing should reflect the disorganisation and chaos I feel within!
Unfortunately, choosing clothes at 6am is a pretty hit and miss affair. I ended up in tight stripey brown cords (hurrah for post-summer diets, at least they're tight as in skinny, not tight as in half your arse on display) and a yellow sweater. I'm always telling the DH off for wearing odd colour combi's - if someone wears red and brown, I dunno, it always reminds *me* of dysentery, somehow, no matter how nice the outfit.
Tried to up the smartness level with kinky boots, jackets, etc, but can't shake off the association.
Yellow + brown ..... bird poo .....

New and Improved

... although not noticeably so....

Mood:  mischievious
Now Playing: Radio 4 political review of the day

Damn angelfire disabled my blog for most of today and half of yesterday. Sorry. Apparently 70 hits a day is too much, so now I've spent $5 extending the bandwidth, and have slapped myself for sticking up photos with gay abandon. Too late to blog now, I've decided to try three times a week to get a minimum of 6 hours of sleep a night. If I can do that for two weeks in a row, I'm then going to try eating vegetables..... woohoo!
Booked tickets to go to Leeds on Saturday, where I shall go clubbing with vodka queen. Wahey! That should right the sleep index somewhat.
Now, shall I take some homework to bed or not....? Don't be stupid.

teevtime

Having a nice evening doing downtime, bunking Shakespeare (big Antony and Cleopatra deadline coming up, but all I can find in the thing is sex, and no politics), being cuddled by too many chilly cats, and feeling sleepy. So I'm watching mucho teev (no movieness for a week now, the teev will get lonely if I don't watch.)
The delights of channel five await me: 'Angel' (three series behind, so I get to watch all my old favourites again), 'The Curse of Friends Reunited' (will feel vindicated at not wanting to go to any reunions).
I'd list more, but the cats are fighting over who gets to lie on the warm keyboard and pull up all the keys; they've wiped six paragraphs by now, and at some point you have to accept that fate doesn't like this sort of a blog.
Ah well, it's altogether a more cuddly sort of unruly chaos than daytime presents.

smug mug

I only have two minutes before I have to be slaving away in work, so better blog quick, then hit the Blackwall Tunnel (anyone who's seen 28 Days Later, it's the tunnel full of swarming rats....I'm sure you can visualise rush hour traffic there)
I came in for some well-deserved criticism this weekend. So I'll respond in a self-serving, self-aggrandising, one-sided manner, now. After all, this is a blog, what else d'ye expect?

Firstly I have to rescind my criticisms of udate. I go on there and I have to laugh at the horror that awaits, because my profile is always browsed by 48 year old male(?!) perverts who ming. However, friends have proved by sending photos from there that others have a different experience, and in fact there are plenty of gorgeous, attractive, sane people on udate - they just don't mail or browse me. So there.
Also, it is apparently abysmal manners to relieve oneself on the floor in a nightclub. I have to point out that nobody saw, it was in a roped off VIP area. It was very very dark, and I *pray* they don't have CCTV. It was also the most jumped up arrogant smug wanker-filled place I've been to ina long time. What were they thinking, letting a commoner in?! Plus, I'm sorry! Will that do?

Finally, the reason I blog is partly to practise writing more, because it's important for my job, but mostly so the DH, who is travelling without me in Australia for 7 months, knows that I'm only up to the usual stupid acts, nothing horrendous or naughty. I miss her, and she doesn't email enough, so I have to constantly check the time zones of visitors to the blog, and count up all the Australian ones - this is what makes me ramble on, half-fascinated and appalled about having foreign visitors.
Oh, and for Sue: Dave commented yesterday that it must have been intimidating growing up with me for a sister. Hah! Shyah, riiiiiiiight.....

Vee I Pee

On Friday I failed to secure entry to a Singalonga Sound of Music, or to a Singalonga Wizard of Oz, so met up with jatb and yidaho at Bellini (again! yummy food) in High Street Kensington (foreign readers: that's near Diana's old palace). They were both incredibly late, so I was wellied on pinot grigio by the time they got there, really wellied.
We got smashed, then attempted to gain entry to a member's club in Knightsbridge (or rather jatb flirted shamelessly, while the rest of us giggled at the bad plastic surgery of the members going in.) The doormen rejected us firmly and repeatedly, but did get us a cab and VIP entry to Funky Buddha in Mayfair.
I think I've read about it before in celeb magazines - the sort of Chinawhite type place that Meg Mathews type C lister slebs go to, and true to form, Hollyoaks actors were w**king on about their careers inside. I'm bloody surprised they let us in, actually, although at #20 for three drinks, perhaps not.
So posh C list celebs - they're all white, they all dress with a lot more care than me, and not a single one of them can dance at all. Nor do they even care!
I got utterly trollied, danced like a loon, then peed on the floor in the VIP lounge. Uncouth? Moi?

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Do I Know You?

Someone who chose the nickname 'secretsubmissive' has added me to his 'friends' list on udate, home of the terminally optimistic minger. This is what he put on his profile:

Where is the best place to go on a Date ? my Mistress s wish is my command.
Where will you be in 3 years from now ? Hopefully serving my Mistress
What really makes you happy and what makes you sad ? Being dominated and controlled by and serving pleasing and obeying a Dominant Female.

I reckon he's at least a high court judge. I've added him to my 'Friends' list, alongside the transvestite who browsed my pic a week ago.

On Thursday I tried to meet up with some lezzers who call themselves the 'East Benders', at Vespa Lounge. I had a nice, if brief time, but not being a terribly 'scene' homosexual, I have no idea where most lesbian clubs are, so it was a little difficult finding the place. (Note to postman: "Centrepoint" is not a terrifically specific address to give any establishment), and I was pretty late anyway.
Was only when I got there, to find a bar full of intimidating looking, pretty, young, slightly butch types playing pool that I realised I'd forgotten to establish:
a. any way of recognising them;
b. their real names.
This meant I had to go up to complete strangers serially, and introduce myself.
Things weren't looking particularly auspicious, when I started by ordering a bottled beer, because the barman, unprompted, informed me that Bud was #1.80 a bottle. Do I look poor?
Patently I do look poor, very very poor, because as he passed me the beer, he also kindly added that "for next time, Carlsberg is #1.60 a pint."
Beer safely in my poverty-stricken lesbian stomach, I proceeded to work the room. You have no real idea of what 'humiliating' entails until you have spent an evening alone in a bar, walking up to groups of strangers, and asking "Do I know you from the internet?"
Personally, I know loads of people I met via the internet, I'd merely be amused if the boot were on the other foot. But judging by the looks of sheer horror and disgust, this is not the general experience....
After a few of these encounters, I retired to the bar, to converse with the drunk pensioner who was watching 'Bad Girls' on the big screen, and to drink the remainder of my pikey poor people's beer.
As I sat and pondered if this were the most embarrassing hour of my life, or not, a new circle of hell emerged: anyone leaving the bar would first come up to me and pat my knee in a pitying fashion, whispering "I hope you find your internet friends" as they left.

Would like to blog, and have so many things to blog about, but I'm actually desperate for a good old East End pie n mash, and the market closes at four, so you'll have to wait.

Once I'm sated with eels in green liquor, then I'll be back....

'snot

I'm meant to be meeting some women about a mile east of here in around ten minutes, for a drink. The drink will take place about a mile west of here.
It seems silly to go one way then back the other, and this logical flaw in the plan is making me drag my feet in getting ready. Actually, that's a little specious: I know full well I'm the world's worst time keeper (witness: my oldest friends always always arrange meetings places that offer chairs, refreshments and magazines for the wait.) In fact, am sitting about, blogging, in a work suit and a crumpled white shirt, and sneezing copiously. Then wondering if I can get away without washing the 'snailtrails' off. Ew. Not the best midweek drink outfit I've ever seen, however well trimmed me pants are.
I warned them I might be late, also (another poor justification for dawdling) and rentawitch promised to text me their location if I didn't make the first assignation spot in time.

Five minutes till I'm sposed to be there. Hmm.
I could get changed. Into something clean, say.

Look snotty, crumpled and spod-like, or look better dressed but possibly miss the whole thing?

Tomorrow, somebody I know (I dare not say their name, for fear of embarrassing them to David Kelly proportions) is going to go to the Singalonga Sounda Music with me. I shall spend my Friday night in the company of singing drunken transvestite nuns! How do you solve a problem like Maria, indeed.

Chips with gravitas pliz

I've been trying to push my luck at work, to test my new theory that I've achieved new gravitas and standing just by having lived longer than I had last year. My theory involves pissing about blatantly, or robbing them blind, and waiting to see if they actually comment, much less object.

Round 1 - blatant four hour tea break in the office with feet up, biccies and a paper, when working against a deadline.
Me half a point, jatb half a point. Somebody came by and 'offered' to meet my deadline for me twice (see yesterday's blog), then sighed and went off and started the work without me.
Round 2 - Setting up a tv in my room, and watching Trisha on full volume with the doors open, when working against a deadline.
Me two points, jatb nil points.
Round 3 - Nicking the tv and giving it away to a friend.
Haven't developed the bottle to do this yet....
Round 4 - Performing hits from corny musicals in the corridors when up against a deadline.
Rounds 5 and 6 - yet to be invented.

I'm on Round 4 tomorrow, and I've bet jatb a fiver that if I continue in this vein, they'll not even mention that my behaviour is becoming a little odd by Friday.

Adding weight to the spurious smell of 'gravitas' is the repeat of yesterday's promotion convo, today. I hadn't looked that eager, so they went away and sweetened the deal for me (bastards! I don't want to do it, but greed and curiosity are pulling me, pulling me doooooowwwwwwwwn....)
It's a bit like last Easter, when I lost all interest in working for a living and disappeared for two weeks straight, then turned up back at work again. Quite contrary to the bollocking and marching orders I had expected, suddenly I could do no wrong - I'd gone in a trice from 'gullible wage slave loser' to 'management material written all over her'. They sent me on all these courses about becoming a senior manager.
Weird, huh? In a 1940s BBC information film I'd be the twitching dumbshow visual behind the double-barrelled announcer "Workers! Don't make effort at work. Promotions is gained by disassociation from the working class. Act as though you are no longer dependent on money. If you appear too unstable to make a living, you will be admired and feted by your betters."
Today's deal is double the money, and I don't have to do my current job at the same time, like before. That surprised the heck out of me (I hadn't been negotiating, I genuinely don't want to do it.) I'm holding out for no responsibility for mistakes, and all confrontational situations taken off my hands. Cos I'm a delicate sensitive flower.

So, here's where my luck patently migrated from:
CNPS - 19. Still.
Celebdaq - 32677th place.

Fat Bob. Bob the Blob. Fat Blobby Bastard Bob.

Don't worry, my Site Stats Psychosis can't last much longer. All it takes is someone in the real, offline world to explain quietly how silly it is or give a disapproving look, and that usually quells the thing for a whole month.
But not yet.......... he he.
I dickered with the Guestmap ==> and turned everyone's icons into something different, amongst other things. I'm a pink rabbit now.
It seemed funny at the time.

Today I knew I had a huuuuuge amount of carrying very very heavy things to do. Enough to fill most of the day.
So, eager to get started and prove my mettle, I sat in the general office and read my newspaper frantically from 8am till 1.30pm in the hopes that I was a senior enough figure for nobody to question this (tee hee! Worked! This is A Bad Sign).
But eventually, Peachykeenyboy pointed out that if I simply asked absolutely everybody to help, it wouldn't take long. I agreed, and voted to wait another hour while I worked up the strength to ask; so he, being peachykeeny and all, went and asked everybody for me. That's helpful, but it's also just too peachykeeny.
I pointed out that it was really lunchtime-ish and I should wait till I'd finished the whole paper, so they all started it up without me. That gave me guilts, so I had to join in.
It took about four hours or so of really really hard physical work. We carted up around 8000 chunky A4 sized hardback books. (yes, it's actually part of my job to count the things... ffs - thankfully it's such a ridiculous concept that nobody can ever be bothered to check.) That's up four double flights of stairs. when you've pretty much walked to the car and back three times a week all summer it's no joke.
At one point the stairs were chocka with 6 people who were hot, tired, carrying too many things too far. No words were possible in that stifling muggy heat, so the entire stairwell sounded like a bad porno movie.

In fact, after three and a half hours everyone else (i.e., those who had no vested interest in carrying books/shortening natural life span) quite understandably sloped away, leaving me with about 400 books left. I did two more super huge piles, then nearly had an aneurism on the stairs. Like, proper puffy! I had to climb out of peachkeenyboy's window and sit on the roof till I could breathe again. (Christ, what's the point of never having smoked if all those 20 a day bastards don't have to lie on the roof for 20 minutes to calm down?)
I had no idea I had gotten so bloody unfit again. Well, okay, slight exagg: I knew I hadn't moved far for weeks; I knew I had put on six pounds - a Bad Thing - but to come across as Buster Blood Vessel for walking up and down stairs a few times?
This might be serious. This might involve Actual Exercise. . . . .

Shattered

In my wisdom (aka already disoriented and confused from lack of sleep), I decided to stay up all night on Sunday, to sort out my body clock by overloading it.
Just about getting to the grinding teeth stage now, veer from hot to cold alternately, and my vision flashies at the periphery. I've already emailed insults to about thirty undeserving people; my rudeness filter (unreliable and wavering at the best of times) is completely broked till I get some sleep.
For some reason, everything I eat is either protein overload (fresh burger with fried egg / mayo topping), caffeinated (espresso, instant [spit], filter, latter, coke, tea, even Maxpax) or 65% sugar, aka raspberry jam with extra pips (hey, I'm dazed, it tookone had more sugar content than the Duchy of Cornwall 62% sugar content jam).

I mangled^H^H^H^delivered three hours of training and presentations to 13 people in this sad bedraggled state - think I got away with it ... they only seemed to stare at me and shake their heads three times. Was it totally obvious my disconnected mumbling bore no relation to logic? Yet I still got offered another promotion! Weirdos. Have refused this one twice already last year.
Will refuse again, of course - would rather work on attaining sanity than cash. I can't even mumble coherently in public, and they want me to be in charge? Bloody idiots.
I'm a born underling, an idler, a grumbling malcontent. How could I bloody function if I were the Evil Boss against whom I plot, fume and betray at every chance?

Tomorrow I'm going to nick a widescreen telly. It's true! I need to find me a gullible fool, though, for the getaway. It's for Duch and I'll wager she'll pay me in foooooooooooooooood.

Disclaimer: don't bumming well blame me if this entry makes no sense. Blame time, blame jobs blame clockwatchers. You malcontent.
I'm off to bed, up with the caffeine at six!

Squirt!

Spent a long lazy breakfast reading other people's blogs. There's some hilarious writing out there.

Then I added a Guestmap to the blogrings below.

It's a lovely little thing. Please please please pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease will you pin on the map where you're reading from? *huuuuuuuge grin*
Right, I'm going to pour all the washing up liquid out of the bottle now, and play target wars with rubber duckies in the bath... *cough* ... I mean, write that document, yes, course, shyah, right, I mean do some work.

Grumpy Blog

Can't decide if today was good or bad.

On the good side, I managed to get up at ten this morning. On the bad side, the virtue all belongs to the Sikh festival-goers eight doors down who hired the steel band and amplifiers.
However, waking up to see late festival goers dressed up to the nines in orange turbans and amazing jewel encrusted saris is a pretty lively way to start the day, and it puts me in with a better chance of waking up by eight or nine tomorrow.

On the good side, Tajik Girl, who I vaguely recognise from somewhere, and who has the best job I've heard of for ages, invited me to her party tonight. On the bad side, I didn't even tell her I wasn't going to go, because I couldn't think of a polite or amiable enough way to say I have hugely self-pityingly gross PMT. It seems quite pathetic as excuses go, although I don't think I'd have made good company tonight.
However, wallowing in supremely maudlin tearjerkers tonight was nice; I watched Angela's Ashes (which Tess made me read, to her everlasting praise). Also, Etre Et Avoir, which is sposed to be excellent, is on digital on Monday night.

On the good side, I spent a serious amount of money on a great wool pinstripe suit for work. On the bad side, your friendly distorting changing room mirror tells me I haven't done any real exercise this summer, and I need to lose 4-6 pounds at least.
However, I'll be on my feet dashing and diving all day from Monday; and the amount of energy I'm burning should take a vertiginous leap. It shouldn't really take more than a fortnight if I'm stern with myself.

On the good side, I got some really gorgeous monkfish tail cheap yesterday (dead scrumptious and 'spensive, it was). On the bad side, I had to rip / hack / saw / tear a thick gelatinous membrane from the fish first, which was so slimy, rubbbery, and gruesome, that I had to keep the tap running and rinse my hands every four seconds to keep from retching.
However, although I'll never ever cook tamarind curry monkfish ever again, now that I know just how bloody difficult that fish is, I'll enjoy it all the more in restaurants.

On the bad side, I still find myself incapable of getting started on the document I need to write and print by Monday. On the good side, the sheer weight of 14 hours of displacement activities means that my flat is now spotless - no, really spotless -inside and out.
However, my first burst of ironing in seven years or so reminded me of how pointless an activity it is. Why can't shirts iron themselves? They have arms.

I dunno. On the good side, I think it was a good day, that my sour mood is determined to interpret badly. On the bad side, I just tried to end on a positive note, there, and then coughed up half a monkfish on the screen. Am I Laurel? Or Hardy? I think both.

Watching Me Watching You

In a fit of boredom brought about by no alcohol and not going out last night, I had another bout of Site Stats Mania. My Mania only extended far enough today to look at a few stats for yesterday evening/late afternoon, thankfully. (Some readers will know that previous episodes have resulted in actual spreadsheets.)
There's a fair contingent of Americans who read this blog, which I find weird. You're very welcome to read, if you're American - I'm just puzzled about what quite so many Americans can be getting from one woman's pissed ramblings about being bored in Tower Hamlets. If any American readers want to add a comment, I'll put up blurry photos of London landmarks, in return.
I also noticed a single, fairly regular reader from Baghdad, to whom I'd like to offer a warm welcome. Whoever you are, hope you're safe.
The denizens of three UK universities allowed some pause in the furious stimulation of their cortex to log on. Must have been downtime! People also popped in from Trinidad, Australia and Singapore. Bet it's not 19 degrees and raining there.

Normally, I'd wait till I was blotto, preferably with someone I originally know from online, so the geek accusations can only let fly in a mild fashion, to admit to my Site Stats Psychosis. In fact, the only real reason I have to blog about my site stats is to ask one particular person to log on from elsewhere.
To whoever logged on from a US Government computer network last Monday - couldn't it wait? Till you got home? Please? Cos your stats are really scaring me......

Working For a Living? Who, Me??

Nothing much to say today. It's terribly boring trying not to drink and not to eat and not to pick your nose all at the same time.
My six week holiday is done today: just the weekend left, then I'm back at work. Unfortunately for me, I agreed to write a really really huge document, print 30 copies then lead a training session on Monday. So prevaricating and procrastinating has begun in earnest.
Things I didn't bother to do this summer: (as well as the actual work I just mentioned)
I really should have gone in today, to see if the #150 file that I need has been thrown away, after I left it in a pile labelled 'throw this away'. I guess if it has been, I'll just blame someone else. *big grin, tosses hair*
My two offices were also moved in July, and I didn't bother putting anything away, so it presumably still looks like a building site. The walls are colourful, though! Guess I have some shifting to do. Gah. Anyway, the immediate issue is changing my sleep patterns: right now I sleep from about 6am till 3pm. My hours will shift this year to 8.15-2.45 (ooh, lovely long afternoons free to watch loads of movies, rah) - which sounds disturbingly like shift work to me. I live 12 miles from where I work, so I'd have to be out of the house by seven in the morning - sounds like torture right now! On Monday, I'll probably be home by the time I'd normally get up.

Spoke to the DH in Sydney yesterday; apparently she's seen just one non-white face in the whole city so far. No-one in Oz/Sydney seems to think this is weird. The place sounds more like early 1990s Jo'burg, quite frankly.
She's gone to a women rugby player's ball tonight. I have no idea what that involves, but I can't help thinking of fat white muddy arms and taffeta! Tee hee.

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This is my blogchalk: United Kingdom, London, East London, Bow, English, German, Vanessa, Female, 31-35, Literature / Movies, Food / Eating / Drinking. Read THIS blog:

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Back to Reality

Five minor shocks today:

The hangover from hell;
What the HELL was I thinking writing blog entries about poo?
The TV licence man believing my story, chatting about the weather, and apologising for disturbing me;
Realising that I spent 3 hours on a mobile phone call to France last night;
Banging scratching noises emanating from a kitchen cupboard - opened it to see four creepy little yellow eyes glaring angrily at me.

Base bodily functions

If you're of a sensitive disposition, you might like to look away now.

I've been feasting on coffee, all-bran, hot curry, raw fish and platefulls of sashimi all week.

This is the super-spiced curry that Vic recommended I make, for added visual effect.

So now I've just had the hugest poo I've ever seen, like cement. It goes beyond poo, it's probably a national security threat. Bliminy, I didn't think fish could do that! I was almost tempted to mimic Avid Merrion's coat hanger trick for a while there.
Hmmm, this blog's becoming rather base, too many purged food groups by far. I'm going to lose all my proddy readers.
Never blog after ten hours out on the piss!

Evolution Rocks!

I am so-o-o-o proud.

My cat just puked out of the window. This time a fortnight ago, it was my pillow. Last week, it was over the rug. But today... not in a bucket, not in the sink, not the bog or the bin. Not the windowsill, or on the window pane. But out through the window.

This, truly, is evolution at work. Fookin fadabbydozi!

PS. Decided to go with the pseudonyms. So now all the names are changed. Well, most of them. If you don't know who you are, check your diary to see what you did wrong, and when.

This entry is dedicated to Swansea John

Dammit! I forgot to blog for Tuesday. Indolence, pure indolence.
I didn't have anything to blog, anyway, except to put up fmc's video message to Swansea John. (If your PC is a crap one, right click and 'save', John.)
Believe me, we're both veh veh veh drank in that video.
Tomorrow, I'm meeting Looby for lunch in Maida Vale. (that link should appeal to his self-abnegation.)
I should really be working, but I'm trying desperately to avoid stressing the final week of the hols away, as I do every year - when I have a week or even a day of hols normally, I don't whinge about it or spend it thinking I've wasted my time. I just live it up. But every summer, the final week is just one long round of nightmares and attrition.
Wish I knew what the DH was doing.