Wednesday, April 01, 2015

All you can eat

Tres excited to find this in my inbox:

It's always nice to have some reassurance. Thanks Veronica.

After trying and failing to sleep to the sweet lullaby of a car alarm, I feel super duper great.

Did the wine help?

Probs not.

On the plus side, have discovered a great new game - take Ginger to extortionately priced afternoon tea, and watch him constantly calculate and try to eat his money's worth.

Me: How much now?

Ginger: I reckon about £30. How much is this again?

Me: £70.

Ginger: Waiter, can I please have some more?

Waiter: Of what sir?

Ginger: Everything.

He is still very upset with me. He never did figure out how to drink £70 worth of tea.


I've signed up to a writer's group tonight, but I don't have any paper, or a pen. Do you think that will reflect badly on me? One hour of the session is 'Free writing'. If I have to borrow the basic tools of my craft, the others might think I'm not a real writer, and just some big, phony, wannabe writer who actually works in admin.

I do however, have a stack of a post it notes, and I'm pretty sure that there's a famous poet who used to be a Dentist and write on his prescription pads.

Just done some research and looks like he was a Doctor. I guess I've never had a written prescription from the Dentist - just a verbal shake down. These days, Doctor's would have to resort to writing on the backs of their Google print outs, and would have all the space in the world, and could branch out into prose. Because that's all they give you, alongside the generic diagnosis, "I don't know what it is, but try some Ibuprofen."

William Carlos Williams had to write tiny poems. I was about to ridicule his name, but then I remembered that my middle name is my brother's first name, and realised that I have no ground whatsoever to stand on. My ground is completely gone. We have a lot in common - writing restrictions and spesh parents.


Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Home Alone

Ginger Beard has forgotten about me.

That's right guys, I am the five year old at the school gate, with a shaking bottom lip, a My Little Pony Lunchbox and a serious abandonment complex. All because the person who's supposed to look after me has become over-interested in an Argos catalogue, or, knowing Ginger, tripped over an untied shoe lace and face planted London.

I've asked one of the Sales Team to wait with me. I'm afraid to be alone here. They might turn all the lights off, or worse still, make the assumption that I'm happy to work in my free time.

We're supposed to meet for dinner pre a comedy gig.

Already I'm excited about my apology gift - usually a selection of cakes from the Humming Bird Bakery.

With every passing minute, the apology gift grows more impressive. Let's hope he forgets about me for another half an hour. That way, we will still have time to eat, and I can demand a puppy.

Nothing says sorry quite like a puppy that you can't really look after, and fall in love with a bit, before admitting your inadequacies as an owner, and returning in hysterical sobs.

Do you remember when I told you he had a run of forgetting I was in the bathroom with him, and turning the light off as he left? Yeah? I have to marry this shit. This is the rest of my life guys.

OMG The Sales Team person is leaving me. He should be like the teacher that has to bitterly stay behind and distract me with colouring in.

This is a fucking horror film.

I'm going to take pictures of myself looking sad and send them to him.

The I'm going to go to the comedy gig by myself, and see if any of the strange yet intriguing men there fancy getting married to me in September.


Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Smooth criminal

Guys, I just ate a whole chocolate orange, like it was actually an orange.

I don't know if there's a word for the start of that process, but there's a word for the end of it -obesity

I broke down each segment into a negative feeling I had, and then I ate them. I ate my delicious feelings.

I think I might be sick, but I'll try to finish this blog first.

So, some potential replacements for my lovely housemates, Fats & Fats, were shown round on Wednesday at 4pm.

At 3pm, I trashed the kitchen. I went to town.

It's possible that I over did it, because no one, not even feral monkeys, would live like that.

Hopefully it paid off though, because at 4:30pm, I had to clear it up again. Sucks.

Is this legal?

Google says that I can be sued if I am seen to be disrupting a potential business opportunity.

Therefore, I would like to add that I am a dirty, dirty slob, and would've left cheerios on the floor and tiny pieces of ham on the front of the fridge regardless of the showing.



There, that should cover me.

What else is new?

My legs buckled on the the underground when I took a duffel bag to the back of the calf.

I watched a blind man beat up a woman with his walking stick as he tried to negotiate a tunnel.

I was hit by the top of a cello in the neck.

I kicked a pigeon into the side of a bin.

I overheard this conversation in Sainsburys between a customer and the shop assistant packing her bags:

Customer: You know, the last time I was in here, something awful happened to me.

Cashier: What happened?

Customer: Someone pushed in front of me, and I complained, and he punched me in the head.

Cashier: In the head? I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: Yes. He assaulted me.

Cashier: I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: Your security guard escorted him out, and then he came back, and took me to my car, in case I was attacked again.

Cashier: I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: It's an awful world, when you just come out to get some basics, and you get punched.

Cashier: Do you have a Nectar card?

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

At home with weebles

Had a fight with Fats & Fats over the weekend, a.k.a the New Zealand contingent of our lovely house share.

Well that's not a very good nickname, I hear you cry, certainly not good enough to be applied twice.

But guys, it's symbolic, of their never-ending simplicity, and the shape of their bodies.

I took a photo of them for you.

Before you accuse me of being a bully, the blonde one is intensely racist, and the other Fats accepts her, racism and all.

They're leaving at the end of March.

I'm not sure if this knowledge has made them worse people - like there's only three weeks left of any repercussions, or if it's us. Either way, we are sparring every few days, and two arguments away from a knifing.

Ginger: Hey guys, can we please use one of the surfaces in here?

Blonde Fats: No.

Ginger: Are you using that laptop on the table?

Blonde Fats: Yes. And who uses a table for cutting food on. It's a fucking table.

Me: It's a fucking kitchen.

Other Fats: You can go near the sink.

Ginger: You are both pathetic.

We were getting really excited about the prospect of them leaving/dying. Until this email arrived:

More? More of them? I sent out an S.O.S to the others:

No one replied.

I'm on my own with this.

After years of trying to suppress my inner weird, I've got to find a way to let it all hang out.

Do you like my email owl photo? I think it conveys a mixture of shock and judgement.

I'll be very receptive to any ideas of sabotage that you can offer. I'm not really interested in ones that require a huge amount of set-up, because Wednesday is my pretend-to-be-a-writer-day, and I need as much time, looking at my laptop, and pretending to be a writer, as possible.


Monday, February 23, 2015

Write it off

The week's already a roaring success.

Spent the majority of the morning trying to conceal two green fairies on my face.

Needless to say, Ginger purchased me a Kinder Egg Surprise, in which resided a Tinkerbell stamp ring. I tested the capabilities of aforementioned ring on my right palm, shortly before falling asleep.
In the night, I have lovingly cradled my own face, and thus marked it with two very well defined sprites in luminescent green.

Only slightly less humiliating than Friday morning, which saw me projectile vomit down the side of a Tesco Express.

I've been trying really hard to get my shit together in 2015, but I'm afraid that the forecast for this year is looking much worse than for the last.

Is anyone out there who has mastered elegance, poise and integrity, willing to take me on as a protege?

I can do better. Really. And eventually, convenience shops everywhere will be safe from my binge drinking.


I don't have any money. I've spent it all on the wedding and alcohol (obvs), but I can pay you in the business cards of over-enthusiastic photographers.

Ginger and I stumbled out of the National Wedding Show yesterday, like babies from the trauma of the womb. So much glitter, so much pink, so many promises of everlasting memories. I guess that doesn't really paint an accurate picture of childbirth, but I'm not a writer anymore guys, I work in admin.

The point is, it was pretty disgusting. And I got a headache, and conned into a massage from a body builder. As I sat down for my presumed free rub, he said,

"The way it works, is that people pay what they think I deserve, which is usually £10-£20."

And I thought, well that's £10 of my Lambrini dosh down the pooper.

Then I watched Ginger's lovely, autumnal face level with mine, and an overjoyed girl place her hands on his shoulders. Well that's £20 of my Lambrini dosh down the pooper.

It's weird being enthusiastically jiggled in front of people eating their over-priced baguettes, mere metres away. Probably won't do that again.

On the plus side, after entering fifty competitions, we probably will win a honeymoon in Jamaica, and a crate of Baileys.

Totes worth it.

Friday, February 06, 2015

Sleep of the week - Hall of fame

This is the best sleep of the week I will ever take.

I don't know where to go from here

Should I shut down the feature?

It feels like I should.

It's what Barnie (the dog in the photo). would want.

I think they are best friends.

I'm sorry that my finger is slightly in shot - I was overexcited by the potential.

It was a really busy tube, and lots of people kept heading over, staring at the sleeping duo, and deciding not to engage.

But I really wanted someone to say, "Can you please move your dog?"

Londoners are cowards.

If I was a more awesome person, I would've picked the dog up, and sat back down with it on my lap.

But I'm not.

Plus, Barnie and Barry were emitting a strange smell.

We also have Barry later in the week, on his way to a Safari:

The man loves a bit of beige.

It's nice that he has trimmed his beard.

But where the fuck is Barnie?

Oh, oh I get it, a weathered Londoner has sat on him, and by the looks of it, Barry has then sat a bit on her. Seems fair.

Who the hell is this guy:

No one likes him. I think it's because his shoelaces are made of brown linguine pasta. Or maybe because he's cupping himself.

Is anyone awake? It doesn't look like it guys.

I am, I've hardly slept. But I don't think you can tell.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Obsessed much

Totes sorry that I've not written in a while.

This is what you've missed:

1) Ginger Beard trying to make new friends:

2) My whole life dissolving into two areas - Weddings, and Pretty Little Liars (TV show).

I don't really have anything to offer people, unless it falls into one of the above. Usually, I combine them. If I start a conversation with you, and the topic falls outside of these subjects, wow, you got lucky punk.

What I didn't realise, was how quickly I would hone the skill of turning every interaction into a discussion about the wedding.

They say: 'Can you tell me how to get to Covent Garden?'
I say: 'Covent Garden is a location. My wedding has a location. I will show you on Google Maps."

So that's what you're gonna get folks - just so we're clear. If you've made social plans with me, and you didn't enjoy that made up quote, cancel the plans.

Oh, and I guess I should give you an example of the alternative chat - 'Pretty Little Liars', then you will have all the facts.

*Spoiler alert*

Me: 'Don't you just hate it how like, Aria is in love with her teacher, but like, they can't be together, and then like, her brother is going through these intense emotional difficulties, and they still haven't figured out who murdered Alison with the shovel?'

Consider yourself warned.

I've also applied to be a blogger on LoveMyDress, and cited this blog as an example of my work. Do you think they will consider me now that I've posted a photo of my boyfriend's face up the backside of an artificial, skinned cow?

I hope so.

3) Pretty much making it through dry January. It was a success, if you consider these things to be successful:

-Not really having any fun
-Not really being any fun
-Remembering stuff.



That is all. Thanks for your time.