Hidy-high.

Hidy-low.

How was it? Magical? White? (!) The most wonderful time of your year?

Or was is squabble filled, intoxicating (both ways) & false?

Mine was a mixture; a lot of nick-naks were received, infallibly bogus pleasantries exchanged but at the root of this suffocating few days there was pure joy.

Mother was a treat; laying on spreads, waiting on my small but demanding family without a groan, and her happiness was contagious.

I'll note a few amusing trinkets that were bestowed upon me & chit-chat about them some time in the near future;

Irish mouth spray; 'One spray & you'll be almost Leprechaun in accent'

Nautical note cards; not indie type images, 18th Century frights

Ice scraper with fur glove; I don't own a car

Inflatable beer bottle; hate the fluid

Slinky; best of a bad bunch

Still, my brother was blessed with 3 sets of blister plasters. Individually wrapped. How I laughed.

I was full as a Lord, complacent and blithe. It ticked the boxes.

Could've done without 'Ding Dong Merrily on High' on repeat throughout dinner though.

Heel.

Why do we say that to our non-communicative canines? Is it to draw them to our heels as I assume? If so, I find this quite offensive on their behalf.

I popped on some trotters today to scoot to an agency interview. A PA agency. I was put through my paces with speed, touch typing and SPG tests. I enjoyed it.

The outcome was 51 words per minute, minor mistakes in touch typing and bang on the money for SPG. I did not, however, receive a gold star. Foul play.

Leaving me disgruntled (it was too quick an application; I'll get no call, that I'm sure of), I took a stroll (heels still on) to the Royal Mail sorting office, Wood Green.

Helping several geriatrics as I went, I was feeling buoyant and almost festive. I slip into the 13 deep queue, amongst some Scots. Their banter was audible, though I couldn't decipher most. Filling my time with Tweets and e-mail deleting I admired the weather.

Slap my knee and call me Janet, who joins the line? Alex Zane no less. I freeze. I stare. I keep staring for a whole 10 people til I am poked in the arm to pass my parcel request over. I'm playing it cool, naturally.

His curls are taut, though I can only see a few as they're stuck under an OTT beanie. I could get used to it though, gun to my head & all that. The males facial hair is magnetic and his relaxed-casual get up is ... alluring. Is this love? Possibly.

It's not reciprocated. I'll tell you why;

The package I'm picking up, is not a package - it's a card. A monstrous card from my mother. All singing, all dancing Christmas humdinger. It's tinsel, baubles and gaiety that I've been avoiding. What's worse, I have to pay £1.12 for the pleasure of receiving the damned thing.

Bollocks, I don't have the cash, my shrapnel only reaches 90 pence.

I look to love of life. Nothing. Blank.

I look to postman. Request to try before I buy (open the card).

BOOM a crisp ten pound note. I pay with it.

Shuffle out & mourn the lost lust of Zane.

Heel.

Mr Men.

Never have I seen so many men.

Crimson faced, lamb-like in their demeanor, padding around a ladieswear store like priests in a lingerie department (for Father Ted fans).

I play a game (passes time). Imagining what their spouse looks like. When I ask 'can I get you a size?' if my idea is correct, there's no prize, but self satisfaction - ah but who can put a price on that?

Whilst on the subject, as a Christmas treat (used loosely) my boss bestowed her troop with Mr Men mugs. Mine was 'Little Miss Industrious'. That was the intention at least, for what it actually said was 'endustrious'.

SPG. If I weren't so inebriated I'd have said a line or two.

Holly.

Fact: I don't feel Christmas-like.

I hate the use of 'Crimbo'.

That may sound dejected. I wouldn't say I was. I am in fact enjoying the music. Radio2 & 6 are certainly the cinnamon on my morning latte*

My abode is void of tinsel (joy) but a lone card rack in my room is not in any way festively encouraging.

Perhaps it's because I'm away from home. Still, there's a few more days to get into the swing of holly. I won't give a blow by day account.

Regent Street is open til 8.30 tonight. Fan-bloody-tastic. Naaat.

*by latte, I mean hot chocolate.

Tweenage-kicks.

I need excitement.

I need it fast.

Melancholy has consumed. As of 90 minutes ago. Game. Set. Match.

I stood in a room. Complete with disco floor.

Optics were in full swing.

Hips synchronised.

Mind full of desire.

I left. Time constraints. Though the males rang my bell.

I'm charged. Electrically, sensually, the wind rips through my fascinator.

I was his.

I want to be, still.

Pain sears.

A policeman once dropped tea on my back. Scalded me.

That tea contained milk.

There's no chalk in this.

Burning appetite.

Plate, I offer. It's nibbled at & discarded.

Filo is not what I'd envisioned.

W/E Whim.

Visitors are super. Especially when they're expected. You have time to prepare, plan and get into the visitor zone.

I had some over the weekend.

Pressure applied. I live in London, they reside in Manchester. It's assumed I live the high life, swanky bars, costly ('modern') cuisine, all done pleasantly hand in hand with our friend Moet.

In reality, it's grim. Damp scales the walls & my bank balance wouldn't match the upkeep of a Chihuahua .

Still, pride before a fall.

We meet, I pay for hotel. I even splurge on a £20 lipstick (adore it however, Nars' Velvet Matte). I suppress my shock at the purchase of a gillet at the price of 200. I even bite my tongue when a nail varnish is purchased for 24 smackers.

The only time 'no' was employed was at the suggestion of Japanese dining. Noodles : no-no.

Stalking down South Molton Street, waltzing the wings of Selfridges and developing a thirst for a sommelier to match an adequate tipple to my eats, including the noble Milkyway.

It felt indulgent, enthralling & it was refreshing not to feel vexed.

A worrier by nature, this felt liberating. In the industry I've immersed myself into wholeheartedly, I had held onto my logic. A frugal man once mentioned you should think of 3 questions on considering a purchase;

Do you want it?

Do you need it?

Can you afford it?

Fuck it.

Frivolity is fantastic *

Yes I may have to cut down on my fresh fruit & Diet Coke addiction, but man alive, had a blast.

Now whilst I shan't be setting up a B&B to welcome strangers, spontaneity is age apt. 2 days notice & I'm there (!).

*I shan't get into debt, I'm not that silly.

iPlayer.

Looking at the news, strands of social media and overhearing the local titter I can't help but think it's a repeat.

Life has become indistinguishable from BBC iPlayer. You've a section for everything, a time for everything; Eastenders & Corrie are still at war pre watershed, Tony Blackburn is still banging on about Pick of the Pops (I love it really) & fashion has turned into Dr Who - metallics are back in.

People say they live for the weekend, when really they live to laze. I'm as guilty of this as the next tweenager, but when you spend each day in a cycle of job applications, awaiting automated rejection & thinking you're better than a single room it's pretty dim.

I'm a communicator, I like to learn & then regurgitate.

A few geriatrics told me this is the time of my life. Jesus, if this is the prime I dread to think what's round the corner.

Still, off to a Tea & Coffee festival. I shant actually be sampling these tipples. Much like an Italian refusing to try frozen yoghurt, I cannot bring myself to trying anything other than breakfast tea.

You can take the girl out of the North ...

Like

I'm pretty much over FB. It's too promotionally orientated.

I posted the following status a few minutes ago;

Work experience / internship debate on Radio 2. Companies may say they employ candidates from all walks of life. Lies. The life walks of these interns have have been funded by the bank of M&D, & even then it takes them 2/3 years to get a full time job in their chosen field. Not what you know, it's who you know. Would LVMH choose an applicant with the postcode SW3, or SE13? It'll never change.

I had 21 'likes'.

On a lighter note, I came back from Manchester last night. It was easier that last time. Hard to leave what/who you love, but encouraging when you see another love of yours at the end of the tunnel.

Points make prizes.

Off to the Carnaby Street and Grazia shopping party later, 20% off & all that jazz. My new company are not doing nibbles or drinks, they said it's outdated. Is it?

Day One.

I've been interning on and off for 24 months (sounds shorter than 2 years). It's had it's extreme highs, and abyss-like lows.

I wouldn't swap it. Yet, I want more. Extracting the callousness, I see those from my past gaining permanent positions of note & I think, fuck. How did this happen? I have skillz (!); I am the PR Assistant package; first one in, last one out, knowledge of each facet of the public relations industry and I remain an intern.

Life is cruel.

Still, I'm leaving my current mundane, yet kooky, role for a challenge. From frying a goldfish to a carp.

It's with a relatively new boutique on Kingly Court. I'm the PR.

I like the sound of it.

Downside is it's unpaid & I'm the PR. The sole PR.

I've ideas, plans for look books, social media and press coverage. Yet, my contacts and complete know-how lack.

Either way, I don't like fish. I prefer bacon.

Plus this Greek sonny jim said a while back; 'You gotta have faith'. Bring it.

Keyrings.

I was bestowed a souvenir whilst at work this day.

A keyring.

I'm never sure what they symbolise; was it 3 for 10Euro (optimistic), or is it just a nice gesture. I'll plump for the latter.

A Parisian keyring. Not exactly the same ring to it as describing ones style as Parisian. Never the less, it unearthed a memory of my beloved Aunt Bernadette.

As a child I was (& still am) inquisitive (nosey). I like to push personal boundaries, even if it ruffles feathers. If I could cast my eye over a blurb for those who I meet, it'd be a dream realised.

Still, back to the point, my Aunt is a hoarder; from jigsaws to junk jewellery, regardless of whether she bought it in 1978, it no longer works, or hasn't fit her this side of the millenium - she can't let go.

Under a rouse of needing the bathroom, I slipped into her lair & set about foraging. Forcing open a disused wardrobe I was showered with metal, plastic, and wood. A keyring kingdom.

I counted 84 that day. Bar 7 from the US, the rest were Europe based. Suggesting perhaps not a seasoned traveller. Yet receiving the souvenir this morning altered my perception of Bernadettes bizarre batch immediately; keyrings are perhaps missold as items to alert one to ones house keys alone. They infer a memory, whether it be yours or not. Much like a photo album (of which Bern has over 150) these keyrings made up a patchwork of her experiences, littered with the affectionate giving of symbols of others treasured memories.

I could think of worse things to bring back from holiday ...

Found on Woosk

Riff.

I saw a man last night. Busking at Oxford Street tube. He had one arm & essentially two elbows. Strumming the electric guitar. I felt torn; stare & guilt trip myself into giving shrapnel or sneak a glance and alienate this guy from the rest of the buskers.

It pains me to judge, but yet it's oh so natural.

I myself am from a family of mental and physical differences. Jesus.

In the end I momentarily gawped, til I recognised the riff. It was the Stones (favourites). Paint it Black.

Ironic.

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black

With flowers and my love, both never to come back

I see people turn their heads and quickly look away

Like a newborn baby it just happens everyday

Standing out. Sharing his talent.

It's not guilt I'm feeling. It's jealousy for his confidence. & his musical ability.

The TFL project works. Take a looky-see.

This image was from Google when I typed Busker. Like (or hate) it.

On ode to the brew.

I confessed recently that I (almost) prefer Eastenders to Coronation Street.

Now whilst some may view this as an act of shedding my Northern roots, I indefatigably disagree. I find the plots slightly more area apt now I'm a local.

This revelation has acumen.

I may prefer the Southern soap, but there's a Northern trait I cannot (& will not) shake. A brew. That gloriously emotionally charged, heart warming, honest beverage.

I dislike coffee excessively *

Saturday morning saw my heartbeat quicken, my forehead bear a bead of sweat. I'd run out of teabags.

MAN ALIVE.

I dislike herbal tea even more **, what's a girl to do.

Forreging around I struck gold. A chum had bought me a mug. A Moonpig mug.

Low and behold, what did it contain. A bloody brew enabler.

AH.

I silently placed my bets on the strength of the liquid it'd stir up. If a Tetleys was a 7 & a PG Tip an 8.5 I estimated Moonpig would be a 2.75.

I overestimated. It was a 2.

Still, my morning quota was par-filled & I could function.

Whilst I do not feel they should go into mass production, the bag certainly helped me out when my chips were down.

The 'Caf' can stick its lattes & cappuccinos. I'd choose 'Roys Rolls' - morning, noon & night.

* Bar coffee flavoured Roses, which seem to have been discontinued.

** all forms. BLEUGH.

Anna Kuchinsky

Oct-vember. Where does the time go. Jeepers.

With a noticeable chill in the air, swathes of synthetic material acting as barriers to the elements and a distinct urge to stay indoors to sip tea & mulled wine (!). I reluctantly ventured West, to Hammersmith, last Friday. Invited by an Estonian colleague, Anna, a captivating character; a look of beauty and a passionate opinions, I was intrigued to hear whether her voice matched.

Part of The European Jazz Festival and set in the Jazz Cafe POSK, a Polish cultural centre, I slipped in to an intimately exquisite room. A vibrant, bluesy atmosphere that oozed passion. Slipping into a chair I awaited the performance. Naturally nursing a whiskey on the rocks, donning a gold cocktail dress and hive.

A rich mix of cultures pouring in, the anticipation was tangible.

She entered, dazzling the tumble weed silent onlookers. Demure in black, with a thigh high split. Every inch the star.

Introducing her band, she eased us in slowly with Manhattan, roused our emotions with Infant Eyes, elated with Fascinating Rhythm and astonished with her version of Just Take Five.

Whilst I've seen Jazz in cities across the globe, the emotive nature of Annas work set itself apart from the aforementioned. Asking her how she would like her work to be perceived, Anna noted she wanted the audience to have 'that good feeling inside. You know what I mean? The feeling that makes you sing and dance and love and fly.'

With her mother spotting Annas raw talent aged 11, she was encouraged to study classical vocals in her home of Estonia. Moving onto jazz, she felt confident and her passions were energised. By 2008, Anna was noted as a musical talent throughout Estonia.

A chance meeting with Toby Stone, late 2010, planted visions of London, storming the music scene as she had done in Estonia; taking a leap of faith, into the unknown. February saw this vision realised and embracing the unfamiliar Anna set out to overcome all obstacles, including the language barrier.

Fast forward to 21 October 2011. With a confident breath, Anna announced an Estonian song;Pigiling. About a young bird; unsure of itself. Unsure of the world. Apprehensive about its future. Feeling harsh realities on bursting the homely bubble. & yet daring to make a move. Take the world on. Do what she was meant to do ...

... I advocate Anna in the same capacity. Taking the leap and flying as she is most definately meant to.

Simply a cynosure.

A must see luminary. Anna Kuchinsky.

Mind the 10 Gaps.

I hate the way you talk to me, And the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots And the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick, It even makes me rhyme. I hate the way you're always right, I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, Even worse when you make me cry I hate it when you're not around, And the fact that you didn't call But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you, Not even close… Not even a little bit… Not even at all.

Are there 10 I hates? YES.

It'd be refreshing to be faced with this rather than a void.

Nigh.

White.

Mind black. Anger white. Areas of grey.

Profanities. Expletives. A malediction.

Truth is. When all's said & done. To be happy, bask in complacency even. You have to be content. Meandering through with the occasional buoy (pun intended) the Bubble Tea pearls burst & you're left with a familiar bitterness.

I've forced my astigmatism to it. Desolation.

I'm a jealous girl. Grass is greener.

Failing.

Flailing.

I recused a brick in my bed clothes when I was 9.

Career.

Desperation.

Pride.

24 months departed.

I despise emoticons.

Wink.

Lighter octave. Like;

From Vogue

Boris Bell.

I've returned from a journey. Spiritual? I hear you ask. Nay. Found yourself? I see you're getting bored. Nay.

I've been on my first Boris Bike.

Despite being called a wanker, dangerous idiot & a slow coach. I enjoyed it. All 51 minutes. Cycling past London Zoo, Albany Street and Harley Street, I couldn't change gears, my foot slipped more times than I have fingers and toes & this looking over your shoulder malarkey? Balance is not a virtue.

The reason for my late night ride was a colleagues bid to cycle Europe. Organising an hours jaunt to enhance her vigour for the trip, I signed up as an apathetic support. As the time drew close, naturally original enthusiasts depleted, & when, at 8.45pm came, three were left.

I admire a goal.

I set myself a challenge.

Cycling isn't for me.

BBikes don't have a bell

I too have a goal. & in supporting my peer, I gather momentum for my own.

Wonder whether Boris has peddled those metal contraptions.

Udder.

Today;

Pink Berry watermelon flavoured frozen yoghurt at Selfridges

'Exotic' Solero

Muller Light

Popsicle

Mini Milk

Frozen yoghurt pot

Milk me already.

Imagine '33' in an Irish Accent.

Since 29 August. 33 days ago. Jeepers.

I've been working 2 jobs & feel like I could be an honorary member of City High. Perhaps without the rock smoking, stripper, child combination. Meh, I'll plump for being an honorary member of The Beatles, as I have in fact been working like a dog.

33 days in 33 words:

Working; 2 jobs: Hobbs (Team Leader) & Beyond Retro (PR)

Watching; The Great British Bake Off & Appropriate Adult

Walking; behind snappy-happy tourists

Listening; Moira Stuart 'Strong & Sassy'

Recalling; what a 'day off' feels like.

This isn't a complaint as I adore being busy. Yet the term 'day of rest' elicits on my mind quite mockingly.

Images I've enjoyed include;

A WWI US Army Infantry military jacket came into Beyond Retro.

Priced at £170, it has all original features, including a terribly itchy fabric.

A debate broke out as to whether this image is of the jackets original owner (I like to believe it is indeed)

The Start Up Britain bus campaign; I went. For 2 minutes & found it all very against start up. I may voice my opinions at the next one (!)

On Cheshire Street (off Brick Lane) this plimsole shop exists. In all its magnificence. I've seen a flat capped older male residing there. I've yet to pluck up the courage to enquire about his powerful marketing expertise.

Stroud Green, Finsbury Park. Taken 3 weeks ago, double rainbow. Deliciously precious.

Dined at Le Mercury, Islington. I've ne'r written about my food fancies on this blog before but GEE WHIZ, this was off the richter scale. Comes highly recommended, in both piquant and purse terms.