Wednesday, June 03, 2015

We all make mistakes


This email is difficult for me. Initially I thought I should share it with all of you, because it sounds like such a great offer, and I don't want to be selfish. Then I realised it's a Re: email, which means I probably sent it to 24online.

I'll have to apologise to Ginger Beard. We're getting married in 12 weeks and I need to stop sending things like this out into the world.

I think marriage is about letting some of your flaws go, and trying to be a better person.

But the thing I'm most worried about is that 90% of my day job is checking mistakes in documents, and the grammar in that email header is shocking.

ALSO

I feel quite bad for Alan.

He only lives in the house at the start of the week, and then he goes back to Manchester. But if I see him, I run away, because it's nicer for me if he doesn't exist at all.

It's because he likes to have a conversation and ask how I am and generally, be nice, whereas I want as little interaction with the housemates as possible so that I can believe it's just me and Ginger in a 4 bed, 2 bath flat. Much better.

I've put my ice lollies in his freezer drawer, next to his sad loaf of brown bread. I hope he doesn't mind. I won't see him to ask.

I'm having a cocktail party on Saturday, so I've told everyone that they can't go in the lounge, and that it may get raucous. They're a very obliging lot. Fats and Fats wouldn't have stood for it but luckily I brutally murdered them they have moved out.

In other news, I sang Mr Bombastic by Shaggy at a company Karaoke night with one of the Directors. Familiar with those lyrics? No? Neither was I when I agreed. Some of the highlights:

'With my sexual physique Jah know me well built'

'You are the only young girl that can ring my bell'

Don't you tickle my foot bottom ha ha baby please

I want your loving gal give it like you should

It did get a cheer. I think everyone saw the lengths I'm prepared to go to, to get to the top, and they were impressed.

Apparently I also murdered Taylor Swift. But I don't remember that, because I'd been knocked almost unconscious with shame, humiliation and deep, deep regret.


Thursday, May 28, 2015

Something about Alan

Alan has moved in.

He replaces Fats and Fats (remember the grotesquely rotund New Zealanders I mentioned?)

I went out with an Alan once, in my first few months of University.

He told me he'd been asexual his whole life until he met me, and realised that he like girls. At the time, I just thought he was unusual. Looking back, I think he was really smart.

When I decided to end our brief romance, I told everyone we lived with first (it was a huge, renovated hunting lodge). He found out and decided that I couldn't end it if I couldn't find him.

For three days, whenever I saw him, he ran away.

Finally, I did the deed. He cried, and told me I was his sunshine.

THEN, RIGHT, CHECK THIS OUT:

He went home to Sunderland, slept with a girl from his Asexual Support Group (we'll address this later), got her pregnant, dropped out of our course, and got a job in Boots.

I'll try to find him on Facebook for you so I can give a real time update.

I'm sure that the Alan who has just moved into the Flat and I, will not share a similar story line. It's just made me feel a bit cautious of Alans.

Anyway, back to the asexual support group girl, what the frick happened there?

I like to think that seeing her friend in distress set off her latent sexuality, but I also feel pretty shitty about how my actions  ended up making a girl who doesn't fancy girls or boys have sex and a baby with a guy who doesn't fancy girls or boys.

And that ladies and gents, is more Hollyoaks, than Hollyaoks will ever be.

Wait.

If he liked me, does that mean I'm the perfect amalgamation of male and female OR, that I'm so far away from either, that he was attracted to me?

What do you think?

Tell me the truth.

I bet you're chuffed that I haven't blogged in such a long time, only to spring out from the woodwork and smack you with this beauty.

You're right, I've not slept much.


Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Does size matter?

I didn't think so until I received the email below, and now I feel totes insecure.


To make matters worse, I've got Gwendolyn on my back about my recent struggles:



And a potential date on the horizon:


If I want to impress Katina, I'm going to have to Enlarge It, that much is clear.

ALSO

Someone at my work claimed that they are inviting 33 men to their Stag Do. This prompted myself and my colleague and occasional friend JB, to take a look at what ours would look like if we had to invite 33 people of the same sex. Here are the highlights:

Mine:

I ran out of good friends at 8.

As a bonus, if you are female and want to know if you made it onto my list, and where you are ranked, just ask.

I have started addressing friends as numbers, like, "Hey, number 4, how's it going?" But no one seems to like it, which is weird. I think it's just honest. And if I was in anyone's top ten, I'd be made up, I'd probably celebrate. But I guess that's just the reaction of someone who only has 8 friends.



His:


This is a really fun activity for a rainy day, or just during working hours.

Also, next time you have a social clash on your calendar, you can consult your list, and cancel on the friend who's lower down. Maybe set a reminder to review it monthly in case things change.





Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Can't everyone just be friends?

I've got to be honest with you.

The only thing I really care about is the arrival of my deer head shaped hole punch from Berlin. It sits at the very heart of every wedding craft project I have devised.

So, if I come across as indifferent to you, and that I don't care, it's not like that, it's just because I've re-ordered my priorities, and decided you're not as important as a piece of expertly shaped metal.

I'M SORRY.

Every day I try to be a better person, but it's not working. I think it's time to admit that I'm not perfect (though I've been holding onto the assertion that I am, for some time).

If it helps, all of my colleagues want to kill me, because every time the office door bell rings I scream 'DEER PUNCH!' in a kind of boring, and pointless version of bingo.

But seriously, does anyone know where my fucking deer punch is? It's incredibly integral. I'm struggling to sleep.

Ginger was like, "Surely we can just go out to a shop and buy it."

But he is a bit stoopid and I had to tell him, "NO stoopid, it's really rare, and very intricate compared to others on the market. What's wrong with you?"

Please, don't feel sorry for me - we all have tough times.

In other news I made a new friend. He's called Rick, and he's in his late 60's and it's not weird.

We travelled on the tube together after I helped him sort his Oyster card out and covered the below topics. I'll leave you to decide who brought them up.

-Reasons why Cliff Richard is definitely not a 'poofter'
-Tips for gatecrashing private events
-How youth is wasted on the young.

This also happened (un-related)

Me: Oh look, one to add to your celebrity spot list - Sue Baker! (Shouted at Claire Balding).
Ginger: What? That's Claire Balding.
Me: Yeah, but they both look the same.
Ginger: No, they don't (Leads me away mortified).
Me: They do. They both have short hair.

And, I have these emails:


I think the emoticon Elane has used is really cute - nice touch. Elane and Sher are much more discreet pimps than Sexy Naughty Wives. I imagine that Elane and Sher have a multitude of legit businesses (like bakeries and letting agencies) and this is just something they do for fun on the side. Whereas Sexy Naughty Wives is really committed, and wants people to have no qualms about what's on offer.

I'm trying to think about what I've signed up for recently to warrant these offers. I've registered to vote - WOULDN'T BE SURPRISED IF THE TORIES WERE JUST SENDING ME THEIR USUAL SHIT.

I'M JOKING.

A bit.



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.

Gutted.

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.

Nice.

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.

Probs will, IT'S NOT LIKE I'M FORGETTABLE OR ANYTHING.




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.

I'M JOKING.

I'M SERIOUS.

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?