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?

Weak Title.

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

IRKS

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.

WORKS

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.

Dinner/Drink Date Fail.

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

'SINGLE?'

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

'THERE ARE HUNDREDS OF SINGLES JUST LIKE YOU'

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.

HUNDREDS OF SINGLES LIKE ME? I HOPE NOT.

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.