Wednesday, 28 December 2011


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.

Thursday, 22 December 2011


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.


Wednesday, 21 December 2011

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.

Thursday, 15 December 2011


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.

Tuesday, 13 December 2011


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.