Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Buzz off

People (or specifically, men) keep dropping loose change at my feet.

Do I look like I offer some kind of service? And judging by the variation in coins, an array of services?

Or maybe, as I've been in flip flops every time, they want to help me buy some real shoes.

"Please put your feet away in shoes!!'

It happened again this morning, in Boots. A fifty pence piece landed on my big toe. I said to the man, 'I would get it, but...' and gestured to all of the £1 chicken mayo sandwiches in my arms.

That's right guys, bulk buying £1 sandwiches, that's where I've ended up in life.

But oh what a bargain!


A man grabbed my bum in Habitat.

Am I just a piece of meat to you guys, huh?

Is it because I wear respectable dresses in the day?


I had a lot of fun at the weekend, a kind of mischievous, addictive fun. James asked me to give him a list of pre-made decorative items that I'd bought for the wedding. It went a little like:

Me: Fifty brass keys, imported from the States.

GingerB: What?

Me: Keys James, American keys.

GingerB: For doors?

Me: *Sigh* For decoration.

GingerB: Where for?

Me: Oh my God, around, on surfaces.

GingerB: What else?

Me: Ten peacock feathers.

James: Fucking hell.

Hours of entertainment. Turns out, he had no idea about what I've been doing. And what I've been doing is spending all of our hard earned cash on overpriced objects that we will really struggle to re-use or re-sell.

What a team.

Recently, I found a bumblebee in my pants. A lot of you know this - you read it on Facebook. But unlike you guys, who can just mildly giggle, then move on with your lives, I can't. And why is that?

Because I found a bumblebee, a BUMBLEBEE, in my pants, IN MY PANTS.

I can't just brush that off. I can't just pretend that everything is normal now. I'm a compulsive pants checker. Just my own pants to clarify. I'm not going to volunteer to start checking your pants too. Check your own.

You really should. Why? Because there might just be a bumblebee chillaxing in them. #couldhavedied.

Think about it.

Friday, July 03, 2015

Inappropriate on so many levels

So, Alan took my shower slot.

It was just one time, but one time too many.

There's a chance I've killed him in my sleep because that was two weeks ago and I've not see him since.

Have you seen him?

He's very subtle. Like a puff of faint smoke.  I can't tell you anything further about him, as I've not taken an interest thus far.

Someone should probably make sure he's alright.


I took some photos of these people sleeping because they looked so cute. It's really weird (of me, I mean). I couldn't help it. And I guess it doesn't help that they're of a similar ethnic origin. And I guess it's really offensive of me in general. But they just seem so cosy. I'm particularly fond of the father son combo sleep. Here they are!


I only had my flippin' floopin' Hen Do, and it was 'wee yourself in your pants and don't care' good. That's right guys, so good that if your pants were sopping wet with your own wee, you'd still be smiling.


- Ieva drowning but (and this is important), not dying. I mean, her heart probably stopped for a few seconds because the rest of us assumed her head would pop up again at some point, and watched. When it did dawn on me that I was about to lose an office buddy who regularly supplies me with cherry yoghurts and dried apples, I went in for the rescue.

Thankfully, those school experiences in the pool really paid off. You remember the ones - treading water in your PJ's, picking up heavy bricks from the floor. Invaluable. Which is why my panicked brain knew the only possible action was a good ol' bum lift. So I grabbed on to that bum, and pushed up with all my might. Not everyone is good under pressure guys. It's important to know your limits.

- Letting people draw all over my arms in pink permanent marker.
-Drinking these and being hangover free - https://www.faustspotions.com/
-My favourite female ginger nearly capsizing a boat we were in - on land.
-Champagne near the train toilets and telling men off for not putting the seat back down.
-Everyone confessing their dark secrets - the dirty scumbags,


Don't appreciate this email from Hobbycraft (sorry Mum).

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.


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.


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.


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.


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:


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.