So you think you can dance?

For some of us, those in their mid-teens and below, this is potentially the first time they've seen sunshine. Science classes UK wide are being modified to assure the children it's perfectly normal, and usually brief.

 I'm worried that if we pay it too much attention we'll scare it off. I think we should act all nonchalant, and dress for winter. Because we British have a habit of donning shorter than short shorts, greasing ourselves with factor fifty, and slapping a sausage on the barbecue upon the first sight of gleaming ray. Let's play hard to get, and then maybe once, just one time, we'll achieve more than 4 days of summer a year.

Have you heard anyone complaining that it's too warm? Of course you have, several times. Because as soon as it stops being too cold, it starts being too warm.

As I was enjoying aforementioned sun at the weekend, lying back on the grass, I was attacked, dear reader. I use the word attacked here, inferring to a kind of GBH incident of grand proportions. A good friend had given me a gift (free lip gloss with her magazine, but Clinique nonetheless). Ginger Beard had covered my trainers in the lip gloss, and the lip gloss layer in grass. My converse! My loyal companions on life's journey! Oh, and how they laughed at my sticky, pink feet! The bastards!

I'm currently scheming over how to get him back, and very keen to hear your suggestions. He doesn't read my blog, because he's too busy talking to pigs (I think he's a pig whisperer), so it's absolutely fine if you want to comment.

ALSO I am playing a game with Starbucks - name bingo. They've started to ask the name of each customer, to write on the cup, so that they can reluctantly yell out 'Hi Steve, here's your Caramel Mac to go!' The fun part is how they spell it. Today's variation is a 'J' with a 'G' on top of it, an 'e' bashed on top of both of them, and then 'ma'. Very exciting. Someone at work is planning to take six of his friends in to buy coffee, and pretend to be the seven dwarfs. They can probably do this straight faced because they are all accountants. I'm a bit annoyed, since this is a fabulous idea, and not one I came up with. I'd also be fascinated to see how they spell 'Grumpy' when my name is usually 'GJema'.

So there's this thing in London in like, hmmm, a summer month, where we learn to dance like the peeps in bollywood films, and then flash dance it up for charity. It sounds like an opportunity for maximum feel good/humiliation/expense. Who's in? Now that I think I can Zumba (I really can't) I'm going to do that instead (trading up on my usual Macarena/Saturday night remixed moves). Let's just totally do it guys, chums, invisible friends of mine. Huh? Yeah? FIT.

Don't talk about your cramp

A whole three people ended up here from a website selling generic drugs in India, naturally. My audience knows no bounds. I'm getting the impression blogger is lying to me about my traffic. Last week, I scoured several viewers from a Baby Monitor supplier.

I hope you realise that I've torn myself away from Dream Zoo to be here. That's right. I could be hunting down a mate for my monkey, and finding them a nice grassy spot to build a home together. But instead I'm here with you. And I really hope that counts for something. Ginger Beard has now been sucked into my addiction. Nothing makes him happier than when I produce my phone, after accumulating 90,000 and he gets to plan a land expansion. On Sunday, we sat for two hours, and caressed our joint venture, proving that existing in a fictional world makes you happier than facing your real one.

ALSO

I have cramp. I went into Starbucks, to look for drinks with high salt, because my lovely fake Doctor prescribed this to me. A barista asked me if he could help.

Me: Yes, do you have anything with a lot of salt?
Him: Let me look with you.
Me: Thanks.

*Looking commences*

Him: A lot of these have no salt.
Me: Oh, no, I need as much salt as possible.
Him (alarmed, and everyone looks up): But why?

What could I say? I had to tell the truth.

Me: I have cramp.

Then, suddenly, everyone who works there is looking for things with salt in, and discussing my cramp. I panic. I realise now, that crisps were the obvious choice. I shoved a smoothie at someone, and tried to pay on my Starbucks card. My face has turned against me and burning red. Why? Fucking face, chill your beef! But no, I'm blushing all over the place.

I didn't have enough money. But I didn't hear the first time he told me, so suddenly I'm being shouted at.

Him: You're £1 short!!!

And everyone is like, look at that salt deficient, cramping poor person.

So I had to put like, £70 on the card to prove that I'm financially stable.

Really stressful, and really expensive.

Klutz

With one week, I have managed to smash my phone screen, and snap the D string of my guitar, rendering both things pretty useless. It's true, that after twenty-four years of accidents, due mostly to my own stupidity, I should hardly register surprise.

Why do we so often choose to bypass that cautious, wizened voice? The one that taps us gently on the shoulder and warns. After all, it's usually right. Have we not heard it time and time again, offering its sound two pence at apt moments? It never gloats or boasts, because it, unlike us, is not remotely shocked at being ignored.

If achieving 'adult' or 'grown up' status is via a process of learning from your mistakes, then consider me approximately four years old. I live my life on whims, and with no apparent understanding that potentially risky situations will usually end with a loss of some kind. It always seems worth rolling the dice.

That's why the bed cover is stained with nail varnish, why my elbows are bruised from the attempted navigation of gaps, and why the vast majority of my possessions have been dropped, chipped, fractured, and killed off. When will I start to listen?

I feel that perhaps my life would be safer, and all the more pain free, if I sat on my hands at every opportunity. If I restrained them so that they couldn't damage. (I will try this - but not sure how it will go down in the office, only my productivity takes a dive). Other suggestions welcome.

I'm off to put some blood, sweat and tears into my latest novel - 'The Prick'. Excerpts will be arriving shortly. Watch this space........

I dream of Laura

Generating a nice bit of traffic from 'Stop smoking instantly.' I can only assume my blog is helping the nicotine obsessed kick the habit. Anyone out there throw a packet of fags away after each read? Do let me know (also, if decomposing lungs would help, I could arrange a picture wall?)

Speaking of addiction, yours truly has a little problem, I say little, because technically the physical size of it is very small. It's called Dream Zoo. And you can get it on your android, but you really shouldn't. It's not my fault. I'm from the tamgotchi generation. Remember those little bastards? We spent our youth feeding them, and cleaning up their digital shit, training ourselves in the fine art of motherhood, without even realising. Well now I've got loads of animals, a whole zoo of them! And I can breed them, and wash them, and even generate money from them. I'm just having a tricky time of pulling myself away.

It's beautiful escapism from the real world. I can pretty much convince myself that my main responsibility for the day is naming my giraffe and collecting funds for a land expansion. Of course I know what I need to do. I need to kill it. It's gone too far. Can you please steal my phone and get it done? I don't have the mental strength to do it myself.

I almost wish my problem was cigarettes, they would consume less of my day, and life (short term of course). It's quite sickening to think how much of my holiday I could've spent writing, but instead was on safari hunting for a mate for my pelican. HELP ME PLEASE.

In other news, mother dearest and I went to see Laura Marling last night, and I was speechless. Which those of you who know me well will realise, rarely happens. She was sooooo far away, and looked like a blonde wig on a broom, but it was good enough for me. Her awkward stage presence delighted. As did warm up act Pete Roe - check him out. She even covered a Neil Young song about heroin, which made me well up thinking about Dream Zoo. The band were good, but she didn't need them. She can stand there in her maxi dress, with an out of tune guitar and sing until you forget where you are.

Zumbariffic

For some reason, neither I nor Ginger Beard* can be bothered to buy cereal. Do we have the folded remnants of forty-two different varieties stuffed into one box? Why yes, yes we do. But will be ever desire a pic 'n' mix approach to breakfast? Certainly not.

As a result, ladies and gentlemen, I have come into the office and created my own breakfast: lemon green tea, grapes and a banana. After Zumba last night, I'm feeling so healthy I could do a cartwheel and survive (last time a cartwheel was attempted, it was not pretty, and could not walk properly for days).

I will not do this, but will instead drool over biscuits, which remain from Biscuit Monday. Will also smell green tea, but not drink it, and mush grapes into desk. Yum.

Unfortunately, I've got worse at Zumba. Yes of course I can still perform the kind of moves one might spot a prostitute using on a street corner luring in clientele. But that's a given when you've grown up in Nottingham (as well as being able to cope with being a shot and never really knowing who the father is.) I think the wine I drank last week made me 'think' I was alright. Now, in my complete sobriety, I see that I am a joke. But that's the power of beer goggles.

You should do it! It's a fabulous lesson in humiliating yourself in public.

Have you ever been holding a cup of water, and your handbag, and trying to get into your house, poured that water into your handbag? No? Highly recommended.

I'm holding off on my reading of Sylvia Plath's journals, because I'm worried I'll reach the same conclusion that she herself was drawn to: putting my head in an oven. And I've still got a lot more people I wish to annoy, and handbags I'd like to ruin, before meeting such a heated end.


*Ginger Beard - for those who are unaware, is my lesser, more ginger other half. He thinks that he's a doctor, but really he plays around with pigs all day or something, taking their knees away. It's really quite sad. If you would like to make a donation to me, to help me cope with this, it will be accepted.

Nice shoes

Today I sniffed my hand cream and gave it a little squeeze. It shot into my nostril. I don't know if you've ever tried to snort Nivea, but I wouldn't recommend it.

So Zumba.....all the better for a glass of rose (downed) and a pizza (downed). I would thoroughly recommend this, or any class, if you're not one for commitment when it comes to exercise. The shame of quitting would be too much, so you have to dance on. I did go purple. For my colleagues, who are not aware of just how dramatic my skin can be, this came as a bit of a shock. One did attempt to comfort me - 'At least you can see it's having an affect.'

I did shake it, both like Shakira, and because of what my momma gave me. I did not shake it very well. To be fair, I stood behind a man who moved his hips like a he should be at a strip bar, living a luxury lifestyle from tips alone. My focused face was also a point of much amusement. Is it so bad that my features gravitate towards a central point when I concentrate? Luckily, I am used to this, as Ginger Beard laughs at it, when I watch TV (mostly political dramas like Vampire Diaries).

What's great about when you exercise for one week, is that you can now start dabbling in the below phrases:

'In my spare time, I hit the gym, hard.'

'I feel like I spend my whole damn life on a treadmill. But one does have to tend to the temple.'

'You should go to the gym more.'

You can also call other people fat, because all you have now is muscle.

On the train, this lady let her daughter stand on me, because she was chasing imaginary fairies. And because her quest was so vital, it was okay for her to commit GBH. Parenting skills people!

It was nice to see you today. I like your shoes.

Drive by splash back

When you haven't exercised for three months, and you decide to do a 30minute fat burner programme on the bike, there's one inevitable question:

Have you broken your arse?

And the answer is always going to be - Yes.

Last time this happened to me, there was no one witness my attempt to get off. This time there was a girl, a running a girl. And though her back was to me, my reflection was in the TV screen she was facing. I waited a while, just sitting there, until the feeling returned to my legs. Then I fell to the left, and hoped my feet would remember that they hold my body up.

I considered getting some water. The water was just too God damned far away. I did a very fancy shuffle to the car, and people crossed the road to avoid me.

Tonight is Zumba night with work. If they find my daily conduct inept, wait until they see my dancing. Secretly (because I can be very subtle) I am going to mix the Macarena in with a bit of Saturday night, and repeat for the full hour.

I'm a little bit scared, because this one time, at band camp, my friend said, 'Hey, fancy trying out this dance class?', and I said, 'that sounds like a swell idea, buddy'. And we went. And it turned out to be an advanced class. And I was HUMILIATED. Because while everyone else had obviously been born wearing ballet shoes, and had memorised the full routine from Cats, I only knew how to tussle up my hair, and wind it on down to the floor (after growing up in Oceana nightclub, single). This did not really agree with my personal mantra, of always trying to be awesome.

It's quite lucky then, that my legs still don't work, and just in time for tonight's debacle.

Oh, don't worry - of course I'll remember to write, and tell you just how horrific it really was. You know you can rely on me.

Like the other day, when I chucked a jug of hot water at the windscreen, and Ginger Beard chose that moment to put the wipers on, and it all shot back into my face. And those early morning commuters, once so desperate to speed into work, slowed down to take in the dripping girl, and chuckled behing the wheel. THANKS.