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.

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.


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.


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!

'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!"
"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.


Try it.

Thursday, December 04, 2014

Are you sitting comfortably?

As annoying as it is to be penned in by two broad shouldered men on the tube (may be your idea of a swell time - not judging), I tend to blame the narrow seats, think of a creative way to retrieve my phone from my pocket, and accept it. Super wide thighs is where I draw the line.

So I was chuffed, nay, thrilled, to discover that in NYC, this type of alarming and selfish behaviour is being challenged.

Officials might even be making train announcements:

"Shut your legs boys!"  Or something similar. I can't get hold of any exact wording at the present time.

The campaign has been titled, 'Something new, something fresh.' Totes bizarre. 

Why do so many men do this? Do they all have mega schlongs?

One man has commented on the article -  #Freethepenis. 

Free it all you like, but not to the point where I become familiar with it.

It has provoked a lot of American men to go crazy with rage and demand that fat women stop wearing tight clothes, and low tops. 

I particularly like this one from a nice, Christian lady -  "I have a pretty thorough understanding of what's between a man's legs, and, believe me, most of ya'lls knees can touch just fine."


"...spread his legs further and further apart, like he was about to bring a life into the world."

I'm not taking sides. I hate everyone on the tube, just for being there, and thus don't discriminate.

My consistent anger is such that if anyone does anything remotely nice to me during the commute, it's almost guaranteed that I will cry. Not usually at the time, but when I'm remembering it later that day.

One time I cried at a man because I was having a claustrophobic panic attack and he told me that everything would be alright. He was with his two young kids, who weren't crying, but they were probably emotionally stable.

A runner high fived me on Sunday. I don't know why. But I was super smug, because Ginger Beard had been ignored. GB said, "I definitely thought he was trying to hit you."

Two perspectives there, one from someone who is desperately trying to see the lingering good in mankind, and one who 100%, every god damn day, kill me know please, HATES London.

Tuesday, December 02, 2014

The birds and the bees

Sometimes your friends make drunken mistakes, and other people suffer.

When my friends were drunk, they decided to buy expensive tickets to a James Blunt concert.

When one of them "couldn't" make it, it was left to me, dear reader, to man up, and take the other.

What I didn't realise is that there would be no turning back.

I'm afraid to say that I:

1. Had a good time
2. Thought he was funny
3. Liked the new material

It's too late for me. But it's not too late for you. Beef up your iPod with something street, like Miley Cyrus, and try to move on with your life.

I'll just be over here, getting, well, more than a little teary at 'Goodbye My lover.'

If you don't know that song, things are looking very good for you indeed.

I asked Google, "How can I be more street?" But it is only willing to tell me how to be more street smart, or how to be a street fighter.

Tip number 10 for how to be more street smart is, "If in doubt, run and shout."

If I shouted and ran away every time I doubted myself, my throat would erode, and no one would ever catch me.

Maybe this isn't the best website. There's a quiz on here to decide if you want to lose your virginity or not:

3. You've Got a Plan If You or Your Sweetie Gets Pregnant

That's a pretty disgusting turn of phrase. I don't think I would want to have sex after reading that. 

7. You're Prepared to Have a Terrible Time

A terrible time? Probs doing it wrong.

8. You're OK With Having Your Partner in Your Life Forever

That is some heavy shit.

If you've found these questions useful prompts, please feel free to visit the site here:

It's only time for blimin' Sleep of the week!!

This weeks' is extra special. Firstly, because I'm in it. I've circled my face, because I don't want you to miss me.

Secondly, because it's dedicated to one of Ginger Beard's colleagues who said that it was inappropriate and unfair to take pictures of sleeping people on the tube. I'd like to address this by saying that people can take my photo, whether I'm asleep or awake, and ridicule me online whenever they do so wish. There, that should do it.

This is Michelle. She is dreaming that she is kissing her teen crush - Paul Jesmond. In reality, she is kissing her own bag. 

If I'm not mistaken, this is the very same girl who was going to try and seduce the guy with a bag full of chicken, with a cheeky leg rub:

Michelle's only gone and got her own chicken now, and by the looks of it, significantly more.

Good for you Michelle!

Still sponsored by Durex - 'Respect it, Protect it.'