Saturday, 28 January 2012

Weak Title.

There are too many grey areas in life. I'm sectioning into what irks & what works. This past few days;


Band wagon birds of a feather diets. Bet you a tenner she'll be back up in 5 months, on Daybreak, talking of her 'new plan'. Yo-yo - no-no.

Olympic Mascot. Horrified.

Jane bloody Beale (Eastenders) having the same coat as me. Get me wardrobe on the line. Toss-pots.

London Transport. I had to jump ship on 3 separate modes due to 'Technical Failures'. I'll technical failure you in a minute conductor.


The delicious designers are Simpson-ised. Divine. See the motley crew here.

The letter to Sainsburys from a toddler. Read full story here. Cockles of heart warmed slightly.

Sunday, 22 January 2012

Figs & Date.

Vague dating tips of the day.

Bring one bag. Keys, money, lipstick. That's it.
You might drink a drop too much & think you've lost that integral lipstain you cannot live without. Cue extracting all items from bag(s), including the other 4 lipstains you have, container you pop your soup in (unwashed), keyring you've never used but have a damn 'good' story about and a picture your 5 year old cousin drew for you.

Don't bring a purse.
If, like me, you keep every receipt, picture, cinema stub and teeny photograph, you should just bring your bank card, or better still a rounded figure that'll see you through the night. Like I said keys, money, lipstick. Otherwise, you may end up going through every little detail; how much your weekly shop is (item by item) and how you managed to get a school picture of your mother from 40 years ago ...

You're not on 'This is Your life'
Even if you feel a connection with said date, do not mention how you knew no music (bar Irish rebellion) pre 1997, how your parents told you your dog had died when in fact you weren't capable of looking after her, and a word to the wise, telling a date how your father left your mother is not acceptable. At least for the first year. Or never at all.

Hurdles. Line em up & watch me tumble.

This is by no means a full list. Scratching the surface more like.

Dinner/Drink Date Fail.

Meandering the streets of London, buses hound, tube stations glare and Hackney carriages chase.


I can't seem to speak to an individual for more that 20 minutes without my relationship status being brought up.


For the love of God.

I recently shed the skin of a two year relationship, got burnt by the rebound-guys inability to commit and all done whilst playing russian roulette with how many drinks it'll take to be just that 'tad' too drunk. I lost more often than not.

I've no concept of my limit. One bottle or three, if it's available I'll guzzle. I'm either stone cold (Steve Austin) sober or drunk as a skunk (love that nonsense).

Take Friday night. My hand has been asked for. He's 20. Cripes, that's younger than my brother. Aesthetically he looks older, that'll do for me. At 6 foot 5, some facial follicle ability and a large nose, I'm happy to have dinner with the chap. Let's call him Sam.

Sam meets me outside the Apple store. They say always tell someone where you're going, I did. He thinks we should dine straight off. I disagree, drinks are needed, it had been a long day. He might not date often, I'll let it slide. He buys the first round, fine. Man asks for lighter outside & then launches into how he kinda wished he had Autism so he wouldn't have feelings and lets us into the secret of his being touched up by a female taxi driver aged 15. Has this set the tone of the evening? Next stop taxidermy heaven. Second round, he buys, in that case I'll have a large*. A thief fingers my bag and breathes his pox-marked face stench on my freshly applied lipstick, twerp.

Two hours have gone by and I realise I don't know anything about Sam. Not that there have been any silences, I just don't shut up.

I've given the rundown on; my parents divorce, how many Xmas presents I received (44), why I'm not happy in my career, how I might change my name by deed-poll and mentioned my ex about 6 times, covering my tracks by calling him a 'friend'. Focus man, this is a date with a boy, not a mirror. I casually ask about his past (not that there's much of it), his family (only child ...) and his ambitions (mentions bands I've no idea of).

Somehow, it gets to 12, we've eaten Tapas (I know) that I had to choose - turned out I just ordered meat and now look like a cavewoman/Atkins enthusiast, and we're heading to a club. He stops to get cash, suppose I'd best put my hand in my pocket then.

I force feed wine as I wish to order a bottle but not consume (all of) it alone. I still manage 3/4 so value for money.

Apt choice of venue. The Bar close to Tottenham Court Road. We met in a 60s club, therefore it figures to go to one now.

And that, is where I should have thought 'let's end the night on a high, just go home'. Should've being the operative word. I remember; spilling drinks, smashing a wine glass, dancing on a table, opening a fire exit, demanding a drink off a stag party member and epitomising that annoying high pitched girl who wants to be chummy with everyone. I kiss him, he really is very young.

Pay back time, rolling in at 10am, smudged makeup, zero credibility and without the brooch on my coat or flower I'd cast into my hair. Touch of food poisoning to boot, clever clogs me.


Still, I remember his surname. & the fact he's not baptised. Might give FB friends a miss ...

*every time I drink, I swear I'll not drink wine as it's fattening. I'll just have G&T. The flesh is weak. Every time.

Thursday, 19 January 2012

S'Media killed the Privacy Star.

An ex of mine was featured in the Daily Snail today; 'Covered in tattoos and swigging a funnel of ale: Fresh pictures of the thug freed from court for showing remorse'. Catchy headline no?

Before you assume, my ex was not the 'thug', merely a dear chum of said thug.

I'll summarise the story. Three tattoo-laden boys (unemployed) are loitering, swigging cans & enjoying banter. Tanked up couple walk past, a sly look exchanged and alcohol fuelled arguement breaks out. Inked trio beat up (alleged) substance abuser. Injuries are sustained, trio hauled into court. 2 get off with community service & the other receives 27 months imprisonment.

Fair justice?

Lawyers doing their jobs is all.

Aside from knowing these males faces, I couldn't care less about the story. What has really shocked me, is the swiping of Social Media images and slapping on the tabloids virtual pages. Two, even three I can tolerate, but over 12? It's ridiculous.

Reporting is one facet, but has discriminating also leaked into the journalists job description?

Ink, tat, branding, call it what you like. It's a choice. A lifestyle choice. Recall me noting it was an ex? He's the one donning the blue hat.

I was disposed of through a cocktail of lack of tattoos, a hatred of thrash metal, and donning attire more Michelle Obama rather than Anette Johansson (of Shiva, whoever they are). Slight discrimination, but I wasn't going to call Teen Vogue or Mizz about it.

Chrapkowski (above) is spared prison, is jubliant about it and is made out to be an ale-swilling, white power hungry yob. I don't recall as many 'press' (Facebook) images being splashed and dragged through the mud when those involved in the riots were unduely spared sentences.

I sound like I care.

It's more the privicy invasion. Big Brother boundaries being breached. Surely The Daily Mail team have Z-list celebs to chase, you know, those who want a few crummy lines written about them. To tape into their portfolio/scrap book.

Perhaps we reveal too much? Social Media turns anti-social. I predict a riot.

Tuesday, 17 January 2012

Soup a soup, a tasty soup.

Croutons, croutons, carrot and corriander, Crunchy friends in a liquid broth. Ah Mighty Boosh. (video)

A bop here, a swig there, broken toe & an insatiable appetite for pea & mint soup. Sums up my weekend well.

I'm a fan of the sixties. Fact.
I went through a period of donning attire produced between 62&66. Fact.
Cilla is my hero. Fact.

The heaven of Madame Jojos not only hosts Tranny Shack but each Saturday Soho is ablaze with the nonpareil in polyester from the dearest decade of them all. Jubilant doesn't cover my temperament that evening. Intoxicated from the ambience. Thats a first.

Retail remains draining and dreary to boot. Interviews lined up like clay pigeons.

If I weren't in PR I'd think about dedicating my life to soups. I'm rather adventurous (chocolate & beetroot for example). The best tomato one I encountered was in Gretna Green. I cannot recall why I was there.

Still, this'll do for the moment;

Selfridges' comes to the rescue. You little beauties.

Thursday, 12 January 2012


When people ask whether I've I blog. I hesitate.

It can't be classed as a fashion fan ramble, nor a politically motivated schpiel. My posts aren't filled with product reviews nor do I fill pages with lists of beauty products that bow to 'splurge or save'.

It's a fleeting few words to de-load.

I'm interested in followers but I don't feel comfortable simultaneously.

Recently (brutally) dumped. I value that you can't post a broken heart on social media. Not that I have a broken heart, was only handful of dates. It's more the annoyance that I didn't get there first.


Tuesday, 10 January 2012

Paper Trail.

That awkward moment when a housemate (disliked) jumps into the bathroom whilst you gather your towel in hand. Frustrating.

I was in the gym for 7, I've gone from feeling smug to deprived of my extra hour in bed.

Still, working 11-8, couldn't be classed as a way to make a living. Another awkward schedule I'd like to remedy. The nature of retail. Retail schme-tail.

Flicking aimlessly through the virtual pages of the Daily Mail (judge) I can't see the wood for all the bloody celebri-trees. I don't want hardcore political, or economical pounding, just a light summary littered with images. I couldn't care less about yo-yo Katona, who's left TOWIE (lie) or the pathetic attempts to explain why Wozza stole some cheese.

The paper's a snorefest. Still tomorrows fish papers. Are they allowed to do that anymore?

Thursday, 5 January 2012


Yesterday was Braille day. I have a blind aunt. I never realised she was blind as Mother always taught us to treat her like a very special person because she wore glasses and walked differently.

I recall giving her a birthday present about 14 years ago. It was a white handbag. She thanked me for the black purse & it hit me. She only had 10% sight. It's now 0% and it breaks my heart.

My Aunt Margaret Mary. Blind and unable to walk or communicate effectively.

On a lighter note, I asked her recently if she'd like to learn Braille. She replied that she's far too busy at the day centre; not only does she have daily massages, but is a keen cook, artist and avid shopper. In the past year she has sampled pizza and pasta for the first time. Aged 54. In her opinion latte's should be priced at £1.

Just one of the gaggle.

Don't go back to Dalston.

2012, greetings.

Mine was relatively uneventful. Toiled til 6, dined at 7, arrived at a Holloway flat filled with East London strangers. Including;

I was donning this;

(God awful image, best of a disastrous bunch)

I mingled with my bottle of Cava, sipping through my straw, I was polite with a forced edgy streak. & still it boiled down to my questioning what 'cool' is.

At one point in my past 'cool' was pineapples;

She was an idol of mine to boot. Realistically, she's the reason my thatch is the shade it is.

This was cool;

Some remain cool, some don't (you choose).

The fact is, I'm never going to be cool. I try too hard to portray who I want to be*

Yet when the industry you're trying to be a part of looks fairly like those featured, I may have to slip into some ill fitting gear, dance to tunes without words and swig Red Stripe.

It really isn't what you know. This angers me.

Still; I did see that netting around the face is going to be big, plus beehives (thank's Ab Fab). I may be in luck, love a full circle I do.

I left the cave-like club we ended up at, achingly hip Dalston #Occupy The Future. End of days. at 12.17 and delved into my freezer for some frozen yoghurt.

*Kitty. I appear to be turning into Kitty. I'm 23.