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 ...

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.

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.