Three. Trois. Tres.

Blind Melon said three is a magic number. I'm not so sure myself. Super sweet video though.

I have to use a PC at work

I use a Mac at home

Perhaps if I used a typewriter another time, then in fact three would be the magic number.

1. This time last week I was into my seventh hour of drinking. I was half way through a stretch that saw me on my very knees the next day. It was the Grand National, what's a lady to do? Act demure? Sophisticated? If you'll pardon the pun, nay, nay. Have you been to Aintree? The Daily Mail captured the overall ambience of it all remarkably well in 'and they're off'. Streaky tans, figures crying out for Spanx and a level of intoxication that the local high street is used to 12 hours later. A heady mix of people-watching, pink champagne and watching races on the screen in the drinks tent. Despite being 75 steps from the course. 9.30am - 1.30am quaffing. Jesus.

In total the day cost me £300. I should've watched the neigh-neighs.

Male at work got the two that are sadly no longer with us is the sweepstake. I hope he's not a regular gambler.

2. A dear friend of mine turned a quart-century. The shade of her foundation has gained the title of Native American, the racism is removed as she's Chinese. It's all very hoo-hah. A cake was bought, it blew my mind.

3. I had a colonic. My digestive system is a devil. It was excellent, but did little. I certainly couldn't complain about the level of professionalism and service I received. Based in the Northern Quarter, Manchester, Spa Satori. The therapist was, though a chatterbox, clued up & had the gift of putting one at ease in a rather embarrassing situation. Amusing. Highly recommended.

It's Record Store Day. The pooch and I are off to rummage.

Irky Worky

In the last hour I've had an irking time:

Someone said 'LOL' to me - it's like canned laughter, I know you didn't find it funny.
I heard the word queef. I wanted to vomit.
A homeless chappy asked me for a cigarette, then chastised me for my point blank 'no'.
I forgot my phone this morning and so asked someone the time, he told me to piss off. Like I was going to steal his fake Rolex.
On answering the phone, I was called Vicky. Which came out more Vick-eh.
I admitted to a partner of the firm that I was internet dating. Any office cred I had, has evaporated.

Week-end. End.

Ship Ahoy.

File nails, file paper, file nails. It's my second day in a new job. Receptionist, administrator and tea maker. I’ve learnt that I’m a natural at binding, have no sense of direction when it comes to finding stationary cupboards and I cannot use a cafetiere. This is not complaining might I note, merely a description. I’m grateful to have a job.

It’s not an occupation, more a stimulus to kickstart my considering of life choices; what do I want to do?

Since 2008 Fashion PR has been torturing me with its partisanship: from its penchant for employing (yet not paying) never-worked-a-day-in-their-life carbon copy labelled rah-rahs (note, discrimination) to it’s sheer nepotistical structuring. Note, discrimination. Work hard, bitch harder. I might know a thing or two about PR, but if you’ve not got the labels or you’re not sporting the trend that suits you least then you’re out. Once you’re in, you have to meddle, air other peoples laundry publically, snipe, drink til you’re ‘wah-wah’ and what for? To be forgotten. For when you’re out, you’re out. Simple as.

I am bitter, but at the same time, I’m moving on. Thinking further afield.
Longevity and fashion are, after all, ‘frenemies’.

Hummus

Last day of unemployment, or as Mother calls it, 'freedom'.

I noted in a tweet that 'strolling' was my only mantra of the day. & it hasn't disappointed.

Whilst at a pedestrian crossing a dog called Hummus attempted to get under my (unbelievably) wide-legged trousers &hump my leg.

I got wold-whistled by the local tramp, who was riding a bike.

I lied to the beautician as to why I'd not been for a wax in so long. Said I've been traveling. Mortifying.

A gypsy came to my door with a paving spiel. He littered the 5 minute conversation with 'ya know?', had that mock-Irish accent and fulfilled the stereotypical mould of a 'My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding' male.

I received a message on the dating site I'm on (regret):

saintordevil: welcome to manchester-would luv to chat-gd taste in music,v attractive and a redhead mmmm

He's obviously not read my profile one jot. I read his;

Unhappily married but trapped and unable to leave for the sake of the children.

No closeness and little sex in the relationship.
Stressful family and work situation and in need of an occasional release and distraction.
Only avaialable on a limted basis-mainly daytimes.
I'm looking for a friend with benefits

VILE.

Me: Heres a few tips:

Either stay married and don't stray or leave. Children aren't an excuse.
Learn to spell.
Read profiles before you send your spiel.

saintordevil: Thank you for the advice,sorry if I offended you.Still welcome to our great city.I can spell perfectly well and amazingle i know the abbreviations too! If you ever need a tour let me know and you are still very attractive. Good luck

GOOD LORD. If he gets a date & I don't I'll eat my hat.

It's only 4.55. I, I, I, me, me, me.

G&T. Date Me.

7 days post-event.

Took the plunge and arranged my first date. Virtually.

Since joining a well known dating site I've been separating the wheat from the chaff. It's 94% chaff. I'm pretty sure 75 percent of those who've messaged me haven't read my profile and I'd go as far to say they message hundreds of single ladies with the same 'hey there ;)'. Fucking hate emoticons.

Of the 6% I'm left with, I'll admit, I wasn't optimistic.

A sudden bubbling of assertiveness saw me message 2 males I found attractive. Males I thought might like to take me out. Like a lone lady at the bar approaching a lone male, I challenged protocol and made the first move.

I got a few replies & even started up a little rally of messages. A light-hearted bit of hoopla.

With little patience, I moved things briskly along. & so last Wednesday the meeting came to be.

What I knew so far:

Aged 27

Graphic Designer

Own flat in Manchester

Allergic to apples

My being early for everything is sometimes disadvantageous. Not tonight.

I slipped into a central bar, ordered a G&T when I gained a tap at my shoulder. My dearest friend. I'll admit, I hadn't told her. It was for fear of a real ribbing, which I obviously got when she learned the reasoning for me being there. Still, it was a relief to have someone to listen to my woes until he arrived.

Arrive he did. Dressed in Fred Perry, slim fit jeans, dreamily-excellent desert boots complimented by slightly 80s clipped hair. He was 2 inches shorter than he had noted but his face more than made up for it. He had said he had an athletic body, but he looked more toothpick like to me. That face, as I've said, more than made up for it.

As friend exited, the obligatory thumbs up were whipped out. I wonder if he saw.

30 minutes in, he's bought me a drink. Point. I've found out his background, respired in the most delightful scent and decided that the positioning of his ear piercing didn't mean he was gay. Point.

As I spoke of my various travels, I omitted several details that included my being there with boyfriends, which may have made me out to be more independent than I am. Not to fear. Yet as I weaved a (teeny) web of deceit I began to fluster.

Me: "wow it's hot in here"

Him: "not really, it's probably because you're not breathing much. You're talking quite a lot"

I'm fully aware that I talk incessantly when nervous, but never have I wished to be Zippy from Rainbow before.

It was going relatively well and we went to a few more bars. Engaging banter. He offers a bottle of plonk, I'm tempted, but remember last time I consumed wine on a date, "I'll just have a G&T ta".

Walked me to my mode of transport at 12 & leans in for a kiss, I peck on cheek. Slightly awkward. Suprisingly I didn't turn into a pumpkin.

Since this parting we have text infrequently. I broached going out again (no patience) and he said he'd try and squeeze me in. I think not. I told the sonny to jog on.

This isn't to say I'm disheartened. I might tone down my frank approach to first dates and perhaps hold back when admitting I hate sandwiches and sushi, but overall it's about your own confidence and character. I must say, not overly enamored by virtual dating. Tad contrived.

He was a bit camp.

Bitter? Me?

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.

Arthur. Attractive name?

I prefer it to Chad. It has more grit and less bleach.

Despite being severely under the weather I forced myself to the Royal Exchange to view 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning'. When I say forced, I mean I was chauffeured there, back and was treated to ice-cream at the interval.

Sat on the banquettes, staring at the simple set, I had relatively no idea what was in store, bar being informed that I might see nudity and it was an adaptation of a 1960 film. Ignorant, I know.

From the moment that ducktail was revealed, I was enthralled.

It's a timeless subject: male tweenager sees himself as a big fish in a boring, non eventful pond. Controversially playing with the (attractive) mice whilst the cat's away and sowing his wild oats in any field open to him.

Arthur was said said subject last night; ale swilling, sharply dressing cock of the walk.

Aside from technology, the scene captured from Nottingham in the 50s is as relevant as a scene of today in any city. Congruent even. His dissatisfaction and resentment at life is tangible. His nonchalant swagger yet passionate opinionated bursts stand juxtaposed, enveloped in a confused, youthful exterior.

Faced with unwanted pregnancy, a loveless job and socio-political pressures Perry Fitzpatrick held down the characters' several identities remarkably. Coupled with an unnervingly gripping cast which included: Chanel Cresswell (This is England), Clare Calbraith (Heartbeat), David Crellin (Coronation Street), Jo Hartley (This is England), Graeme Hawley (Coronation Street), Ryan Pope plus some seriously talented individuals.

Hats off to the set designer Anna Fleischle and the directors in all guises.

Apt title: whilst we were watching him on a night out, becoming more and more inebriated, disillusioned and muddling through the one man party; not caring who he offended, spilt drinks on or hurt we patiently waited until came the morning. The hangover. The misery and pain: reality. Were we applauding the comeuppance? Or rooting for the anti-hero?

Shortly after leaving I tweeted:

"Saturday Night, Sunday Morning at @rxtheatre was better than a Beechams for my cold. The leading guy can rub Vicks on my chest anytime ..."

I was a tad too flippant perhaps. It blew me away and it's on til the April 7.

PEEE-DERRR

Despite being as nasal as Alex Borstein*, laden with fluey symptoms and a burnt index finger**, I managed to drag my sorry self to The Manchester Fashion Network event at Harvey Nichols, 'An Evening with Fiona McIntosh'.

With a strict one drink per person sign, I was fleetingly tempted to throw a few more Beechams down my razor bladed throat with a goblet of plonk, yet found myself with a glass of water in hand.

Cramped, yet optimistic.

Guided through a brief biopsy of McIntosh's life, I was distracted by her necklace, the failure of the microphone from presenter Katie Poperwell and the clash of prints, styles and try-hard attitudes from those in attendance.

With no fashion background to speak of, the lady is a marvel, bringing us Grazia in 2005. If I were her, I could die a contented female, yet her ambition and drive has seen her harness the re-branding of My Wardrobe and consult for several of the most prestigious titles in fash-land. You wouldn't think it, in an alluring way.

The notion of cultural differences between Grazias was engaging: France is the chicest of the plastics, Germany the most impressionable, Australia the most health conscious and Russia the most delusional. Next to launch is the South African Grazia, groundbreaking and certainly one to monitor post-May.

Most of what she spoke of was relatively simple to comprehend, and her advice was succinct, precise and void of 'floral notes'. Dealing in facts:

Be consistent
Know your brand, stay true to it, no deviation
Media and retail are mashing, deal with it
Mediocre websites don't cut the mustard

Then she lost me. The Q&A saw some snore inducing questions but the last one jolted. Internships and her views. In a roundabout way she said that the ones who do anything get ahead suceed, they need to realise that their palms won't be crossed with gold and be assured their talent won't go unnoticed. Codswallop.

I do love a good event. Especially when I'm as crabby as I was last night.

*voice of Lois from Family Guy
** deliriously made a quiche, I burnt the finger when I was putting it in. Lord.