Lie-oh-sell

The company I work for have rolled out a new (cheaper, most likely) fabric to incorporate into their designs.

Lyocell.

It's wood.

A customer (C) put it to me (M) *

C. Say, you, redhead, what material has been used to construct this garment?

M. Lyocell madam

C. What the devil is that?

M. Essentially a wood pulp, derived from ... (cut off mid schpeel)

C. WOOD? WOOD? I do not wish to wear a tree

M. I believe Stella McCartney uses such material, it's very strong - both when wet and dry (schpeel, schpeel, schpeel)

C. (bemused look, think she's buying it). Ah, I am environmentally friendly and green, I'll try ...

* This may or may not have been fabricated.

She did however note she was 'green'. That's obviously why her car was waiting outside, running on air presumably, much like the private jet it was taking her to.

Green, shpeen.

She sells sea-shells, on the sea shore.

Blue War.

I awoke in a cloud yesterday. A cloud of hate, despair and anguish. Not a typical Thursday feeling.

These sentiments are commonplace. They have been for 18 months. I blame the graduate gloom. Tempted to coin this as a medical condition. Ins & outs aside, it's limbo-like and to be frank, I'm damned well over it. Partially the reason I'm moving home to Manchester; to centre myself, in a non-tree-hugger way.

I should start acting 23, rather than 63.

What better way to cheer yourself up, than a jaunt to a museum. the Imperial War Museum.

From a young age, brother & I spent our summers at the Manchester Museum, camping around the country, watching spaghetti Westerns and re-enacting scenes from Rawhide. I studied History and Classics until I was 18 and take every opportunity to get to exhibitions that expand my historical knowledge. It relaxes me. Distracts me.

I was in a jotting mood. The journey was 40 minutes, had forgotten book, I had no option but to note anything of interest. Man alive, you could have a blog dedicated to the tube and the souls that ride upon it (I'm sure there is). Within my 40 minute trek;

Chauvinistic man noting how girls up North don't wear coats even in the blistering cold. Reason? They have thicker skin & less brain cells. I was tempted to correct the slaphead.

Korean lady deciphering a Dean Kootz book with a (Korean) dictionary. Within 20 minutes she still hadn't completed page 2. I fear for her.

Bloody accordion player, half-hearted attempt at a jolly tune. You'd think he'd go the whole hog, dress up in traditional dress, but oh no, he's donning Rockports, Kappa popper-tracksuit pants and I couldn't stand to look at his top half. Guilt tripped into giving him 20p.

Man-boy-gender bender sits opposite me; sporting satin trousers & a wife beater top. If I'm not mistaken he is a pop star in Eastern Asia. Most peculiar.

A school trip of about 20 pile on, all displaying rep caps. Oh I am glad I never had to. The striped blazers were enough for me. 'Deckchair' taunts still haunt.

I never realised 'Holborn' was pronounced 'HO-BURN'. Learn something new every day.

The Bakerloo line seats are most likely the comfiest seats the TFL has to offer, bouncy.

Another Korean deciphering. It's Harry Potter. I'd have recommended something light, like Biff, Chip & Kipper. We all have to start somewhere.

As I depart at Lambeth North, I'm stuck in a lift with some very olive skinned youths. I'd guess around the ages of 14-16 & they're most perplexed as to why I would wear a turban. They cut serious style, which angers me as at that age, I was still in jungle pants and Little Miss tops.

On the 5 minute stroll to the museum, it dawned on me. Half term. Can only mean E number charged miniatures running like it's going out of fashion. Ah, I've come this far.

As suspected; picnics, ice-lollys (I caved, had a Mini Milk), and small people, who if they were fully grown, would be considered lunatics.

Guns, unexploded bombs, battle tanks. It was all going on.

I never knew that MI5 was originally set up to combat Irish Nationalism Terrorists.

Enjoyed the phrase 'one mans terrorist is another mans freedom fighter'. Moving.

A display entitled 'War Story serving in Afghanistan' showed images of those in combat. Shallow as it sounds, I found most of the men rather attractive.

A Trigger Happy TV moment 'can't talk, I'm in the museum' echoed around floor 2. Chortle.

The Holocaust exhibition was superb. Stupendous. The medicine to my ailment (in a non sado masochistic way). It's a real treat. I doubt my life will be e'er displayed in a museum. Tesco uniform? Snaps from the early 90s? That time I was in Grazia? Doubtful.

With my spirits lifted suitably, I stalked back to the tube station. I'd had fun. Despite looking a tad shady in a room full of children, with a notebook and pen. And turban.

Iams. Not just for cats.

If you pop a 'Will' over the top it's a surname. Splash a little Michelle into the mix & you've a star.

From Dawsons Creek to present, she's not always got it right (who the honk has?). I feel that the media really appreciate her for her fashion ineptness, without emotional baggage. Wise move with My Week with Marilyn, even wiser fashion choices moving on from its release. No snore-inducing gushing chronological back-tracking; a simple top 4. From 2012.

From last nights Paris premiere, in Dior. Naturally. Article image from Daily Mail.

BAFTA awards gown, economic in H&M. Sure it wasn't off the peg, but flip it. Grazia had the scoop.

Golden Globe Awards, Jason Wu. A wit-wu. Image from Fab-Sugar.

Venice Film Festival, wu-wu-wu. Jason, couture custody for you push-pop. Fab Sugar ref again.

Veneration.

It takes Two.

The local.

Fancy a pint at the local?

Local. Never had one.

Living my 'Local' dreams vicariously through Eastenders' The Vic and The Rovers Return on the cobbles of Coronation Street, the closest I got was a few bars at University, which in hindsight meant they were temporary locals. Shame.

Life is a cruel mistress.

I'd heard on the grapevine (Mothers pal) that the Royal Exchange offer the front row seats (unsure of technical term) at a snip for £9 on the day you wish to view. I twisted a darling friends arm and was confronted once more with the pure theatre in the round.

Is that a bar? A bar? Engraved with the heads of Elvis, Marylin (I assume) and one or two other 'greats', coupled with a sensational chandelier made from pint pots. This certainly created a pub-like atmosphere, right down to the sodden, 70's paisley carpet.

From the very first audible footstep, the duo Justin Moorhouse and Victoria Elliot were captivating. Populating no less than 14 characters between them, they placed the audience on an emotional rollercoaster that magnified life's passing moments into short blasts of passionately charged monologues and exchanges.

Centering the characters are the publican and landlady, acting as the neutral to the gears of the rest of the cards they epitomise everything I'd imagined, elements of Alfie Moon and Liz McDonald with a strong late 80s/ early 90's vibe. Kicking it old-school; before wine bars were acceptable, before cocktails were consumed outside of holidaying and before bar snacks included anything but peanuts and crisps. Nostalgic but relevant.

From turbulent domestic abuse to two apparently unhinged characters finding unrequited love, the 90 minutes zipped by at lightening speed as we were exposed to meaningful moments of individuals we've all noticed though perhaps not engaged with.

I found it compelling how Jim Cartwright exonerates those who blend into a pub-scene, the extras. It was light, engaging and celebrated the typically British 'local' tradition.

It's on til February the 25th. I couldn't recommend it more. The quality of the acting is exemplary, and the participation (don't be put off) is amusing to say the least. Noted as resembling a 'Cheetham Hill girl-band' was a particular highlight.

Booking information here.

Chalkboard.

Slid on a slush-puppie left from Mother Nature on the trudge home from the tube last night. First sight of London in 10 days, evidently missed.

My time at home (Manchester) threw one or two realities at me;

I drink 2 pints of skimmed milk a day. Minimum.
I can't stand eating alongside people who either chew with their mouth open or make a peep whilst chewing.
There's a group called overeaters anonymous. I should join. It's unnatural eating all this cereal & slurping all this milk.
My mother is a feeder. No joke. (I either blame her for or accuse her of all of the above)
Technology of the modern age is wasted on the majority of those aged 50+.

I'm being a negative nancy.

True friends are like family, but you can pick them. Rather than sour, shriveled blueberries whose taste can be sugarcoated temporarily (family party, once a year), my buddies are juicy, pack a punch and liven up an otherwise mediocre cocktail. Pals.

Mother is simply the nicest lady I've ever met. I could gush about her super-powers for a while, but that's a snore and to be honest she bugs the fluff out of me regularly.

I love tea. Northern tea. Last Tuesday I had 12 mugs, slip me on a building site.

Here's the quandary. I live in the capital & work as part of management in a retail environment. I'm not passionate about it, not by a long chalk. I'm energised by the branding, marketing and PR side of retail. I'm not sure how I've boxed myself off into this role. Like every Tom, Dick & Harry, I've done my fair share of internships. Most dire, some life enhancing and its those that fall into the latter that motivate me to carry on to achieve a f/t paid role.

THUD. I've gotten through to the final few in several prolific companies. Keep catching my ankle on the last hurdle. Must raise game.

I'm drained of energy, revenue and passion.

It's clear that if I were to undertake another unpaid internship I'd walk the next interview. Scratch cards aren't playing ball. Mothers bank balance is rouge tainted. Spiraling into retail disillusion.

I'm considering moving home. Bosom of the North. Re-think things; Centre my yang (?), escape to the country (ish) and admit defeat.

My mind resembles this, head/heart spiel;

I'd consider yoga to relax, but last time I went I got asked to leave (inflexibility is a distraction).

Manipulating the words slightly, I think David Attenborough is suggesting I move home, or become a nomadic herdsman;

'An understanding of the natural world and what's in it is a source of not only a great curiosity but great fulfillment'

Then again, I have read The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Life is heavy. But he was a bloody surgeon, at least that's a profession.

Fickle, me?

Vile Vuitton.

9 G&Ts last night.

Tender.

This hurt my eyes. Considerable amounts.

Found in Bournemouth. It's actually Vuitton. One question; why? Read the painful tale here.

Clone-Wed.

I heard that in France, instead of Saturdays & Sundays being rest days for school-goers, it was Wednesday and Sunday. I'm torn as to whether I like the idea but simultaneously nonplussed as I'll never have to try it.

Today was another day of rest for me.

Amusing myself by popping an exercise DVD on and chortling at my mothers lack of hand-eye coordination, coupled with a frantic search for a meaningless job my morning was lacking quality.

What else do narrow-minded hum-drum life living beings do on a Wednesday afternoon? Begins with an Orange. No citrus. No vitamins.

Being the stereotypical half-century she is, Mother plumped for the eye candy. Who needs a plot thinner than Geri circa 'It's Raining Men' when you have George Clooney? The Descendants. Apparently 7.7 on IMDB.

Not only did I face the assault course of geriatrics on the gangway but one of their brick-like 3310's hit me on the head and hip as they fumbled to their seats.

Settling in with my ginger chews and illegal diet Pepsi I was confident the feature wouldn't hold any resemblance to my last cinema trip (Shame. It was a second date. I had been warned. Note to self; take warnings. Never believe IMDB, an 8? Seriously?).

Blah, blah, blah trailer, blah, blah, blah really annoying signatures (directors of the BBFC - major irk of mine), trailer, blah, Orange advert, blah. BAM the line 'escape from reality. Cinema'. Blah, blah, blah film. Blah, blah, blah loud chewing and slurping from the elderly (includes Mother).

I cannot recall the characters names, nor do I wish to. Just the line 'escape from reality'. Surely, that's what we do each and every day. Hum-drum doesn't become radical whilst at the cinema. The cinema doesn't alleviate oppression from our lives. Advertising indicates our lives can be constantly improved, enhanced or transformed.

I type this after calling Mother to ask her to turn the TV down. I'm 20 feet away from her. Is this a taste of what to expect if I admit defeat and return to the family home? Whilst I may not wish to adopt the French educational rota, their philosophy and vigour for life enthuses me. Take Absurdist Albert Camus. His fundamental question in philosophy was to question whether suicide was the correct action to take against an absurd world. He died in 1960.

Spam.

Spam. *

When did it gain a double meaning? Monty Pythons 'Flying Circus' can be accredited with coining it's second meaning, around 1969. I would consider it slang. Which I usually despise but somehow 'spam' has escaped the grammar net.

It's rare that I despise the intended meaning but plump for it's younger sibling. Literary thrills.

Facing the facts, there is so much spam (literally in both cases). I wake up each morning with 27 e-mails I've unsubscribed from. Worming their way into my life.

People on the street asking for aid, spam.

Adverts for loans (APR 1000% naturally), spam.

Mindless chat with an insignificant individual, spam.

DM's from fake Twitter accounts, spam.

Jeremy Kyle, spam.

Apparently 7 million people will call in sick today. I've no need as I've escaped the rat-race for a week and today my agenda is Twitter scouring, a dentist appointment and dissuading my mother from a second bottle of wine, for she is not on holiday.

Oh & re-jigging priorities. Ostriches have the right idea; sand, head, bury.

On a lighter, subject related, note, I may have finally cajoled Mother into internet dating. The profiles are hilarious. Many males from 45-55 descibe themselves as 'earthy'. What in the world does that mean? Eco-warriors? Gardening enthusiasts? Or plain Neanderthals? I'm supervising the process, to ensure spamming is at a minimum. It's an enjoyable project.

Tweet, tweet.

* there's a museum. A Spam museum. Man alive.

Awkward the Aardvark.

'A successful man is one who can lay a firm foundation with the bricks others have thrown at him' David Brinkley (US Journalist)

Success is an integral part to ones life, agree? Examples;

You have to kiss a few (thousands) frogs to find a prince.

Your mother brought you up the 'right' way.

A member of management actually remembers your name or calls you Victoria rather than Vicky (personal irk)

The dictionary defines it as

'The accomplishment of an aim or purpose'

Relevance - I've applied for over 200 sought after jobs in the PR Industry. Gaining interviews for 5 top in-house outfits I sail through to the last three. At the crucial moment, I walk away with egg on my head & a battered/bruised ego. None the wiser as to how I could improve my chances for the next time.

At this moment in time there may not be a next time.

Still, shan't hark about that ultimate snore. Though I'm still on the same subject;

If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again. I bloody hate this phrase, not only for its smug truth, but its repetitive use of 'try'. The amount is vexing.

My dearest chum called me a serial man-catcher last night. I seem to cast my net, let all the ripe ones go, and devour the stragglers caught in the net. The lame ones. It's a talent.

Whilst purchasing a single lemon last night I came face to face with one said wet fish. Let's call him Neil.

Self service till, I'm pressing buttons, flailing my arms and calling for help, Neil walks up behind me & says 'don't you hate awkward situations'. Dear Lord, I'm out of my skin scared, no room for awkward. As the seconds drag by, I'm forced to engage in the single most stiff exchange of my life.

Perhaps I should elaborate on the relationship, pre-lemon incident.

Saturday night, traditionally known as binge-drinking bender night. I'm indulging, casting my net, reeling no-one back but acting my clumsy flirty self anyway. A terribly well-spoken man-boy speaks to me, fast forward 5 hours, we're on the bus home together (we share the same postcode, I'm not that easy). I go in for coffee (stop thinking what you're thinking) & he offers a massage (shocked you right?) and I accept. It was delightful. I fall asleep, wake up and return home.

Simple enough it would seem.

Oh contraire.

My first text from him ' '. Blank. Followed by a 'stop'. Who is this lunatic? I reply confused, then gain the response 'Thinking about me'.

It's humorous, and a novel way of engaging in conversation. I'll flirt mildly.

BAM, I'm hit with racy texts (vomit inducing), about how much he wants to X me, how I really turned him on (the mirror told otherwise) and noting a whole host of 'saucy' (loosely used) phrases.

I berate his shameful way with words and an apology ensues. For 3 days. A sample of his apology;

'I would walk barefooted through the belly of Hades over miles of crushed glass carrying a ten stone weight just to have you here next to me tonight'

'Just to let you know that a piece of me will die inside if I never feel the warmth of your touch again'

Baring in mind I'm not responding to these texts bar one to say 'please never contact me again'.

A week or two passes, I chortle at the ridiculousness of the texts and delete the number. It's like there was an alarm going off at my doing of this; I warn you, you shouldn't read the below on a full stomach;

'I know that right now its hard for anyone to recognise when they meet the person they want to share their lives with. Especially with the overload of information and male congestion in London. I think that mother nature provides food for every little bird in the world but that doesn't mean it will drop in its nest. People are the same way. WIth that in mind I cannot help but look into the future and see a young woman asking her grandmother for advice in matters of the heart'

It gets worse.

'You look at your granddaughter with love in your eyes, speaking in a kind voice, recalling moments from your youther when you weren't sure whether your heart was melting for the right man. Then you smile and tell her to trust her heart even if her mind says no. Because there was a time when a young man was desperately trying to get your attention but for reason he could not find his way into your heart. Just before you decided to put an end to his misery he wrote a compelling letter straight from his heart. And thats when you knew he was the man who deserved your love. ... ... ... (there's so much) ... ... Had he given up at first I wouldn't be talking to about matters of the heart my dear girl, for that young man was none other but your grandfather'.

I repeat, we were in eachothers company for 6 hours. I was intoxicated.

This is why I had the most awkward moment in a long time whilst purchasing a single lemon. What an apt basket I had.

Assuming his aim was to gain the title of ultimate strange-being 2012, he's succeeded. Perhaps I can take Brinkley's quote literally and throw bricks at Neil. One brick per cringe-inducing text.

God loves a trier ...