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.

Anyone?

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.

4) WEDDINGS

5) PRETTY LITTLE LIARS

That is all. Thanks for your time.



Friday, January 16, 2015

Fear and loathing

Just before Christmas, I bit into a piece of Rocky Road and it bent my brace.

Before you cry out, "Why Gemma, there is no such brace on your beautiful teeth!" It's my secret brace, along the inside of my bottom teeth.

I tried to ignore it.

Why?

A) I'm lazy
B) Don't trust strangers with power tools
C) Assumed it would fix itself.

No such luck.

So I made the sodding booking, and sat in the stupid chair with the special plastic glasses on and held the fairy tale mirror.

Things I like about my dentist.

A) I always have to wear the glasses - even when I'm having nothing done. She is worried that whatever is in my mouth is so horrendous, that when I open it lying down, what comes out will blind me.

B) I always have to hold the fairy tale mirror. This is so that when she asks me for £488754 I can't insist that she didn't do everything, because I watched ever torturous move.

It looks like this:


Because the brace had become unglued from three teeth, she insisted that it was a simple job of drilling the old glue away, and boshing on some new glue. The drill looked like this:


It was very painful. I did not like it. I kept trying really hard to relax my clasped hands, because I was losing sensation in my thumbs.

At my old dentists, we had a signal for when I was overwhelmed with agony - raising my left arm. This one isn't fussed.

The taste and smell of the construction project in my mouth, reminded me of when we made little motor boats in Design Technology at school.

I guess I should be grateful that she didn't look like this man:


As he is very inappropriate.

 I'm using this blog to work on showing and not telling. I hope you like it. Mostly, I just don't trust you to be able to picture the severity of my dentist appointment on your own.

Luckily, James took me out to dinner that night to celebrate my survival, and that it was all over.

Unluckily, I got food poisoning.

HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A GREAT DAY.


Monday, January 12, 2015

Eat, sleep, rave, repeat

Okay, so the title of this blog is not strictly true, if you want to be pedantic and look at the 'rave' part.

Unless that is, you're willing to open up the definition of rave to include:

'Dons PJ's, spends time with Kindle.'

In which case, I totes rave often.

Things are definitely on loop in my London life. Cue inappropriate touch from undesirable stranger:

A Japanese man steps on the tube, and puts both of his arms round me, feigning that this is only way he can possible hold on.

Me: Um, do you think you could possibly stand over there? *Pointing to large space.*

Japanese man: Shitty, shitty train! *Moves dramatically into free space*

Me: *Stunned*

I can only assume that on trains in Japan, men are used to receiving their ticket and then some. And as such, the poor man was driven to fury, when he found me to be unreceptive and frankly disgusted.

Look who got 100% in this IQ test!

http://www.travelinsurancedirect.com.au/tripwise/guide-to-japan/chikan-and-wandering-hands

'Public transport here is mostly trouble-free, but watch out for wandering hands.
Some female visitors report being drugged and assaulted or being subjected to incidents of “chikan” - groping on public transport.
TID customers get useful phrases to use to scare off attackers, plus details on how to report it when they buy a policy. 
Tripwise automatically updates with extended and exclusive content. Buy a policy now to upgrade immediately. 
Our advice to our customers helps them have a better trip.'

Jesus McJesus.
I really want to know what the useful phrases are, but I really don't want to take out a policy.
Thus, I have been forced to use my imagination.
Firstly, it has been proven that uttering. "Um, can you stand over there please?" works a treat. You're welcome.
I can also suggest:
"Get off me you fucking nutjob!"
"Police!"
"I have a gun and the safety is broken!"
"Dirty bastard alert!"
"Sisters, unite and help me!"
If you are female and thinking about going to Japan, I suggest that you learn several, if not all of these exclamations, and in Japanese.
Whatever you do, do not type 'Japanese women get drugged on trains?' into Google, at work. What is returned, if anything, exacerbates the issue.
It's only a matter of time before my willingness to fully research my blog topics, hits me squarely in the face.







Tuesday, January 06, 2015

Lon - done

I have an erratic and painful spasm in my right thigh - January bluesitous?

A good test of my mindset is my evening commute home along Putney bridge. A happy Gemma chooses to wander along on the side closest to the Thames, occasionally snapping away at a fetching sunset, and breathing in the fragrant, polluted air.

An unhappy Gemma drags her feet along the side closest to the road, hoping to be clipped by a cyclist and spun (undoubtedly) like an elegant ballerina, into the traffic, and put out my fucking misery.

Needless to say, this week, I'll be walking road side.

Things I missed about this Shity 

(Cleverly, I've amalgamated the words 'Shit' and 'City' to convey my displeasure at the location at which I currently reside. I'm probably the first person to have come up with this.)

1. The drip

If you're having a shower in my flat, at the same time that one of the other lovely residents (of which there are 6, excluding Ginger) is having theirs, than your experience becomes akin to sticking your head under a leaky tap. You cannot wash your hair on these days, because you do not have the thirty minutes required, for the drip to gently wash the shampoo out.

2. The journey

Oh the stood on toes, the rucksack to the gut! How I missed thee over the Christmas break! Thankfully, it wasn't long before the first assault, yesterday in fact. I was sitting down, playing on Candy Crush, trying to imagine that the whole thing was a regrettable, depressing nightmare, when I was struck on the nose by a handbag. The lady, upon arriving on the tube, was happy to let the leather monstrosity rock back and forth from her wrist, striking me with each sway. I said:

'Excuse me, I don't suppose you could put your bag on the floor. It keeps hitting me in the face.'

What did she do?

Apologise? Exhibit remorse? No, of course not. She trapped her tongue between her front teeth, and giggled at me, as if we were sharing some intimately fun and cheeky moment, then held the bag slightly away.

On a lighter note, I did receive this email today:


So if I do want to surprise my woman, I've got somewhere to turn for advice. Because I'm so helpful, I've included the full email address, should you wish to get in touch directly.

I'm also being stalked by an Italian wedding planner called Emile. She keeps sending me 34 page documents of terms and conditions for my b&b wedding, and pointing out in capitals that booking all of the bedrooms will only set me back £15,000.

It looks like my dream of saying I do to a ginger, at a bed and breakfast, is dead.

In her last correspondence, Emile asked me if I was ready to take my wedding seriously.

No, not as seriously as she takes stalking.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

You my side kick for life

Shortly after Ginger Beard proposed I told him:

'Things are going to change around here.'

Alas, when he told me he was heading out with with friends yesterday I thought to myself let him have one more night with friends before he never sees them again. That's the nice thing to do, a final farewell.

Because deep down, deep, deep, deep, deep down, I'm a nice person.

I immediately regretted it, when I looked up in the shower to find that a gigantic spider was walking along the ceiling to get me. Several of its legs kept losing grip on the plaster, and at points it would just dangle mockingly in front of my face.

I obvs couldn't take a picture, but I have located a replica:



I sang out, "Oh my God, oh my dear God!" in a loud, operatic style, thus discovering where the urban myth about the erotic powers of Herbal Essences had derived from.

Ginger Beard did not come to the rescue. And why not? Because I'd let him say goodbye to his mates.

Stupid me, I thought, he would've seen them in a year or so, at the wedding. That should've been enough.

And so, I was alone, and through the sheer terror of my situation, I was finally able to utilise the skills, that three plus years working in Resourcing had armed me with.

Firstly, I pulled off the domed cap of my shaving gel, reached up, and trapped the monster within it, flush to the ceiling. With my other hand, I deftly squashed the bottom of my tube of face wash flat, scooped this under the cap, and brought the trap down. I had the little fucker.

Now, I don't usually kill spiders. Why? Because as they die, they emit a message to all spiders within the vicinity, and that message is, "When she's asleep, I want you to crawl inside her mouth, and up her nose, and choke her to death with your bodies." I''M SERIOUS.

So I flushed him down the loo.

It's not really my fault, because we all know what spiders do once they've landed on your head:

1, Spit their babies into your ears.
2. Bite your eyes
3. Go to sleep under your skin

In a way, it was also me saying farewell. Farewell to independence, and really, having to look after myself ever again. After I hand in my notice at work, and start to live off his wage, I think I'm going to feel truly fulfilled.

So far I have won approx twenty disagreements, by simply removing the ring, and handing it back.

GENIUS.

Try it.