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.





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."

And

"...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.'


Thursday, November 27, 2014

There's nothing to see here

By the end of today, I should have 45,009 lovely novelly words.

Unfortunately, I am currently 14,009 words behind.

Despite this crushing news, Carol's eye (Carol the BBC Weather lady) is getting better. THANK GOD.

Although I try not to be a shallow person, it's very difficult to eat your breakfast and catch up on the forecast looking at this:


Sorry Carol, but I don't make many demands for my small life, and I've found this a very difficult and stressful time.

I am so glad that she's on the mend.

So like I was saying, before you interrupted me, I'M SO BEHIND GUYS.

Also, one of my characters has turned into Gollum. Is it plagiarism if I change his name and cover him with fur? He's not obsessed with the ring either. He's obsessed with the internal destruction of my protagonist. Phew!

I'm off to that writing lock-in thingy magingey on Saturday and they've just sent me a goal setting worksheet. I don't really want to spend the whole day finishing my novel on admin and Gollum, so for the next three days I need to write 6333 words a day. Is it warm in here, or is it just me?

As if things couldn't get worse, on top of my floundering ability and Carol's eye, GingerBeard caused a double shop pile up. CAN YOU IMAGINE?

That's right, after I'd completed the shop for the week and had filled all of our space, GB turned up arms laden with bags. I nearly died of shock. Which would've been a real shame as then there would be even less people to eat the stupid amount of food. I wanted to positively reinforce this behaviour but at the same time, I was pissed about being inundated with broccoli.

So I had to go with, "I know your heart was in the right place, but this is offensive."

I don't think anyone's problems are as bad as mine. No one comments on my blogs, and I can only assume it'd due to a sense of awe and pity. Keep it coming.

ALSO

I fell asleep standing up in the shower this morning. Maybe I fainted? Probably due to the weight of all the tremendously crushing things in my life. Luckily I swayed into the glass partition, and managed to cling onto it as I woke up. The last thing I remember thinking about is the plot of my novel, which really goes most of the way to explaining it.

Luckily, the drama in my story is really ramping up; I've just written:

'I can’t read his face at all. This has always been a problem and makes me nervous in every conversation. At least, for once, he’s taken off his suit and tie, in exchange for some slack pants, with white paint marks from doing up the lounge last year.'


 I know, incredible, and I've not even edited it yet.


Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Smile like you mean it

I'm only 11,000 words behind.

I could be doing a lot better than this, but for my past two lunch breaks I've grabbed a coffee with my colleague and occasional friend JB instead.

Luckily, I've got the whole day free tomorrow for catch up, and I've set the alarm for 6am.

Will I get up though?

Or course I will.

But will I?

Who knows guys, who knows.

Isn't it always the thought that counts?

Things have got very exciting in it. I've moved on from break-ups in Nandos. There's now domestic violence in Tesco, AND you think a little girl has been taken from school, BUT SHE HASN'T.

Ramping up the drama.

As always my efforts to loosen up my mind, in hope that a few original thoughts might fall out, is resulting in some rather disturbing conversations, disturbing for me and those around me.

I can only apologise. It's part of my process. For you, you're scared, uncomfortable, and close to ending the friendship. For me I'm relived, impressed, and I might just end up with a novel which surpasses the subject of admin. Here's hoping.

In other news, I've been hanging out with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Two french guys claimed to have seen him some seven rows below us at The Book of Mormon. I spent the whole second half trying to recognise the back of his head. The first half was stupendous.

I especially liked how one woman said, "There's no way he'd be with us in the shit seats." And he was. Arnie was choosing to slum it with the commoners. And I for one, appreciate that.

Well I did, until the guy in front of me said, "Ooh yay, floor smartie," and ate his finding. Then I was just embarrassed for us all.

ALSO

I held a rather successful (if I do say so myself)  wine night at a posh bar. We did have 'All about the bass' on a speaker phone on repeat, let the female Gingers play fight in a corner, and stop a poor girl from leaving the bathroom until she answered questions about how her date was going. But the main thing guys, is that I didn't fall over, not once, didn't even totter. Or vomit. There was no vomit in sight. Well done me.

I've been to many, many events recently. It's not because I hate London and am desperately trying to stop myself from being one of those Monday morning commuters who looks across the rain splattered train tracks and decides to jump. IT'S REALLY NOT.

It's just because I love spending all my money. Yeah, that's the reason.

Luckily I don't even have to bother to smile anymore, because I've bought one of these signs from ebay. You should get one; they are very reasonably priced. Also, as if you need another reason, arguably a good work out for one of your arms.






Thursday, November 13, 2014

The puppet show


Oh bejesus guys - by midnight I'll be 7,640 words behind.

The only saving grace is that my last chapter is bloody stupendous - my protagonist gets dumped in Nandos.

GingerBeard says that I involve food in every chapter without fail like some obsessive fatty. But as he's only a fake Doctor, and not a writer, I don't take him very seriously.

To his credit, he is entertaining me. I took him on a surprise visit to Bath for his birthday. Well it was going to be a surprise, until the night before when I bellowed out, "So, when we get to Bath...Nooooooooo!!!"

I'd bought him a laptop and a bag for it to live in, but only taken the bag to Bath. He opened it and thanked me profusely saying, "That's so great, I'll go out and get a laptop for it."

And I was like, "What?"

GB: "To go with the bag."

Me: You think I've bought you a laptop bag without a  laptop?

GB: Yes, and I really like it.

Me: I've got you a laptop too!

GB: No you haven't.

Me: I really have.

GB: It's cool, I like the bag.

This is the kind of thing they were thinking of when they stated that relationships were hard work.

And anyway, who appreciates a bag for something they don't have?

I would've gone fucking nuts.

I wonder what else he's lying about, now that I know he's a really good actor. Probably loads of stuff. I'm pretty sure that the trust we've developed as a couple is disintegrating.

Could you tell him for me?

Thanks.

ALSO

Nia Edwards took me to see a Russian play last night. They promised English subtitles, but there was a good stretch in the middle where they couldn't be bothered. My interpretation of that bit, is that a giant girl was bitten in the vagina by a lion. They put a bowl under her bum, for her to bleed into, and then a real dog came over and drank some. Then she died. Then her boyfriend killed himself with a sword to the ribs. Then she came back to life and had a sleep over his body. And finally, her head fell off.

Nia's thoughts were close to mine, but she's certain that the girl was bitten everywhere, then peed herself in terror, and the dog drank her pee.

Either way, the main actor for the whole thing was a dog, and he gave the best dog performance I have ever seen.


At one point, they undid the male puppet's crotch and his penis fell out. They pumped it up with a  bicycle pump.

I think I liked it.

But I'll get back to your formally in a few weeks on that.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Park life

Yesterday, I was hit by a falling suitcase as I walked down a spiral staircase. No, it wasn't a magical, Alice In Wonderland staircase, or an especially dull dream.

This shit actually happens to me.

In my shock, and as the woman ran down to reclaim it, I turned and said, "Woah, easy there!"

As if she was responsible for a reckless horse.

Maybe I am secretly a suitcase tamer? Not such a secret one anymore!

I think I really need to try and be the person that doesn't experience things like this. I think it's known as being normal.

Any tips?

An old English teacher of mine often said that I was eccentric.

So maybe I only have myself to blame for the suitcase incident. Maybe I was walking in such a peculiar fashion, that the woman was trying to put me down for the greater good - end the horror.

It's possible.

ALSO

I'm starting to get over how awful my novel is. I don't mean that the writing's getting any better, it's not. Previously, I would've compared generating it to undergoing something painful without help, like getting a filling. Whereas now, I have taken the anaesthetic. Because I cannot complete this thing kicking and screaming my way through, and I have to complete it in order to uphold my thinning, pathetic wisp of a dream.

Otherwise, as discussed in an earlier blog, I will have to be an astronaut.

And the more I think about it, the more I worry about me as an astronaut. I think I've managed to become a bit spesh despite being in the company of  well turned out others, imagine what isolation would do to that. I bet the only thing that keeps me in check is public shame and embarrassment.



Guys, it's not looking awesome for me right now. I am precisely 4,663 words behind.

My main problem is that I'm trying to write something of value, which is also at least mildly entertaining/interesting. I'm also reading 'The shock of the fall' by Nathan Filer which is super, super good. Nathan is a mental health nurse and has used this knowledge to produce a novel. If I did that, I would have a novel about admin. I just don't think it's fair that some people have quite exciting lives, which they are able to use to inspire successful art.

Whereas I, am writing a novel which in the main, is about admin, and get hit by falling suitcases.

Yes, that's correct, the best fiction I have been able to generate follows a protagonist through which can be specifically described, as my work history.

I think if a lot of you comment on this post saying, 'Sounds like something I'd read.' and 'You've really landed on a gap in the market with that one,' then everything will be okay.

I don't want to pressure you, but I will blame you if I fail.



Wednesday, November 05, 2014

You crazy

I'd forgotten that one of the biggest jobs of Nano (aside from painfully extracting 1667 words a day) is when you realise that there are a few impossible writing days ahead. You do some basic maths and find that on the 5th November, you need to write 10,400 to be on target for the end of the week.

I'M HAVING SO MUCH FUN ALREADY.

I appreciate that I've been out of the writing game for some time, but guys my writing is BAD, I mean seriously AWFUL.

Every time I read it back, I do a mini sick.

I'm sure that this happened at the start of the other four novels - I've probably just blanked it out to protect myself.

At lot of the prep talks are about letting go, re-embracing the vast imagination you had as a child. My imagination is currently like the misplaced car key when you're trying to escape from zombies.

I'm frantically patting my brain down and screaming - 'WHERE IS IT? WHERE IS IT?'

My 9-5 life has gobbled it up. Nom nom.

Is it possible, that there's just nothing new to say?

I think that's way more likely than me just being a shit writer.

Maybe I'm just in a bad mood because I got kicked on the tube, and only mouthed 'Ow' but remained silent.

I'm a mime artist! I know just how Ariel felt now, when she traded her tail for legs with the sea witch, but found out that her voice was gone, and she couldn't tell Eric who she was.

It's really nice when you find that Disney can be relevant as an adult.

At least I seem to be fulfilling one compulsory part of NaNoWriMo:

 GOING COMPLETELY MENTAL.

Only 25 lovely days to go.

And now for this weeks, Sleep of the week, temporarily re-titled to Sleeps of the week.


It's only been submitted by Sand Man extraordinaire Nia Edwards!

For those of you who don't know Nia, here is a recent photo of her, from our night out at Dine in the Dark:


You can see from the Tube photo, that she has managed to knock out three defenseless commuters using only one pinch of magic sand.

What happens to them when they're asleep?

Only Nia can say.

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

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

I believe I can fly

Alright chumps?

My very first blog post in November 2011, was to announce that I would be taking part in NaNoWriMo (http://nanowrimo.org/). That is, the challenge to write 50,000 words in the month of November.

In fact, the entire point of this blog was to track my writing progress.

WHOOPS.

It's not really my fault that my real life is more comical and ridiculous than any fiction I could produce is it? If people would stop throwing ketchup at me from their car, letting me fall over, taking photos of my weird running face and sleeping on the tube, I'd probably be a renowned author by now.

NOT MY FAULT.

But just in case there is a remote chance that I'm responsible, I'm going to do NaNo this year. Yet another attempt to see if this writing lark is for me or not. Probs not.

I really do need a new dream, just in case, a set of aspirations waiting in the wings.

GingerBeard once got a bit annoyed that we were getting too old for certain jobs:

'I can't be a professional football player anymore.'

Me: 'Yes, but you never wanted to be one.'

GB: 'And I can't be an astronaut anymore.'

Me: 'Since when did you want to be an astronaut?'

GB: 'No, I don't want to be either. The point is that if I wanted to be, I couldn't be.'

And this is why I don't understand Gingers.

Just to spite him, my back-up dream will now be to conquer outer space. On the NASA website, it explains that their correct name is space sailors, which I prefer. I think it would give me instant cool at parties. I am always searching for instant cool.


Basic requirements for an Astronaut Pilot include the following: 

1. Bachelor's degree from an accredited institution in engineering, biological science, physical science, or mathematics. An advanced degree is desirable. Quality of academic preparation is important. 

What's quite annoying, and very surprising, is that Ginger has achieved the first basic requirement. I don't think I'm far off with my Creative Writing degree, because I have probably written stories which include maths etc.

2. At least 1,000 hours pilot-in-command time in jet aircraft. Flight test experience is highly desirable.

Now, initially that sounds like a lot of hours, but I've worked out that if you fly constantly, you can do this in 41.6 days. It also says that you should be in command, but does not stipulate that being asleep stops you being in command. Maybe you can just hang around in the cockpit of an Easy Jet flight looking serious for a bit?

I don't know what flight test experience is, but I think it's testing if you can fly. I would be prepared to do this, which is desirable.

3. Ability to pass a NASA space physical which is similar to a military or civilian flight physical and includes the following specific standards:
  • Distant visual acuity: 20/100 or better uncorrected, correctable to 20/20 each eye.
  • Blood pressure: 140/90 measured in a sitting position.
  • Height between 62 and 75 inches.
I don't really understand a lot of this bit, but I'm pretty sure my eyes aren't up to scratch for NASA. This is not, as Ginger had previously stated, due to being old, but because I read a lot of books as a child in poor light. My Mum told me this and says I therefore brought it on myself.

Ginger does not wear glasses, and so I reckon that his visual acuity will be at least 99/100 or better uncorrected. Phew!

In summary, it doesn't seem that hard. It really is a lesson in thinking before you speak. I think that I will save up for laser eye surgery, just in case I decide to go for it.

I keep asking you guys for money and I never receive any. But I guess that because I have now been able to demonstrate the feasibility of me becoming a space sailor, you will reconsider.

Thank you in advance.




Friday, October 24, 2014

They call me Wallflower

I bet you'll all be relieved to know that my inexplicable injuries from Saturday are on the mend.

I say on the mend, but the wound, that's right WOUND on my knee will, without a shadow of a doubt, scar.

And in years to come, concerned strangers will gasp, put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and knowingly ask, 'Shark?'

As if things couldn't get any worse, in all probability, I will never be a leg model.

Those who are close to me will know that this was my back up dream.

Yes, if it turned out that I could not woo the world with my fiction, and win the Man Booker Prize five years in a row, I was going to get my legs out.

Probably for upmarket gigs, like Primarni, or Matalan.

Shattered dreams folks, shattered, tiny pieces on the floor at my feet (which are also a bit cut up) dreams.

As you may have come to expect from me, in times of trouble and despair, I would like to make a request for money. Money always makes me feel better. Give generously, holding onto the image of my horrific right leg, clad in a pair of reasonably priced shorts, being told by execs at Primarni, 'Shark bites just don't sell shorts.'

Brutal.

Absolutely brutal.

ALSO

Last night, me and GingerB were in the bathroom, going through the motions of our bedtime wind down. Beards were washed (mine), teeth were brushed. As is tradition, Ginger B would leave first, arms laden with his array of beauty products, and I would remain behind to floss.

Lovely.

However, last night, right, last night, he left the bathroom, and turned the light off on his way out. Then moments said, 'Oh sorry, I forgot about you.'

Moi, forgettable?

You'd think all of my recent clamouring for attention, i.e. despite spending 70% of Sat evening in complete darkness, managing to fall over twice in the 30% of complete viability, would infer that I was stuck fast in the memory of many.

Apparently not.

It does however make sense now as to why I was mowed down by a runner in Covent Garden, who's flabbergasted face accused me of coming out of nowhere. I think we had a fundamental disagreement about the speed involved in walking Vs running.

I'm fading away. I'm becoming a watermark.

All those mean people calling me 'Casper,' have finally cursed me. Once it existed as only a passing comment on my translucent, occasionally reflective skin tone, but now it has gone even further.

At least Casper had a castle, and a sort of girlfriend who never forgot him, and he was never assaulted by skinny men with massive backpacks (at least it was never documented in the films.)

I might see you soon, but you won't see me. It's been awesome (in parts).







Monday, October 20, 2014

Reasons not to dine in the dark

I really want to tell you what happened.

If nothing more, it will serve as an educational piece. 

But I don't think I can handle the truth.

It would be inaccurate to believe that what happens in the dark, stays in the dark, and much more accurate to say that when you leave the darkness, you find yourself changed in horrible ways and forever damaged.
No, this is not a Guillermo del Toro film.
Goddamit, this is my life.

Basically guys, don't think it's a good idea to get intoxicated and then head down into the pitch black with twelve of your friends, and your blind guide Christina, for a three course meal. And if you take nothing more away from this blog, at least take that.
The most significant sign that you're making a mistake, is if you fall down the stairs of the restaurant, when the lights are still very much on. I'm not going to say who did that, but it definitely wasn't me. I bruise like a peach.

I've devised a list of what not to do, if you're stupid enough to attend this event:



-After falling down the stairs, don't sit at the table silently, until your neighbour says, 'Are you okay?' and say, 'Well I've been crying for a bit, but I think I'm nearly finished.' 

-Don't down wine like it's juice, just because the experience of not being able to see anything is closer than you've ever felt to your own inevitable death.

-Don't decide not to eat the food, just because it tastes disgusting. You will pay £75 for this evening, and all that wine on an empty stomach leads to some pretty humiliating decisions from you later. Eat up.

-Don't encourage the men getting their penises out at the dinner table. Or submit to the kiss rapists, running around trying to get some. In fact, don't even notice this is happening, until debrief the following day.

-Don't fall over in the road. Again, this wasn't me. Who could fall over and cry twice in one night? Someone else, that's who. Don't let everyone crowd around you while you hysterically howl and then to the question 'Is it one of those things where your upset at the shock, and you're actually fine?' admit 'Yes, I think you might be right.'

-Don't get taken home by an equally paralytic GingerBeard, devastated over your skinned knee (are you ten?), sob for the full journey, alternating between shouting 'There's something wrong with me!' and 'My tights are ruined!'

-Don't throw up on the platforms of three different tube stations.

-Don't walk around the flat you share with six strangers in your bra and pants.

-Don't spend all of Sunday throwing up and trying to understand the story your cuts and bruises are telling.

-Don't admit the above to your mother. Then don't write a blog so that everyone else knows about it as well.

In my absence, the below occurred, and I think you can agree that without me, the night went downhill:

A dwarf was rescued. I don't know from what. I've only got second hand snippets for you. Presumably one of them had to rescue the dwarf from another one of them.
They tried to break into a pub.
Laundry was done
Someone developed amnesia
The depravity which was born in the dark, continued into the light, inside numerous taxis and bars.






Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Spending time with Ginger

I stepped off the tube with GingerBeard last week and he said:

'I can't believe that guy just told me to shut-up.'

Me: 'What?'

GB: 'This guy wouldn't let me get off to the tube, so I said, "Step back", and he went, "Shut-up, shut-up. shut-up."'

Me: 'Tall guy, white shirt, sunglasses?'

GB: 'That's the one.'

'Don't worry,' I consoled, 'I hit him, hard'

Because he wouldn't let me get off the train either, so I used my sports bag as a weapon, and went for a thigh shot.

And that's why we are the best team ever. I like to think that as a rule, Ginger antagonises people, and then I come out of nowhere, and take them down.

Only one person gets to bully this Ginger Beard, and that's me.

Although it's a tad worrying that he seems to be imitating my behaviour with relish.

Par exemple (that's French):

Yesterday he elbowed a sitting man in the face, whilst trying to take off his coat. Said victim cradled his head, but didn't look up.

Me: You didn't apologise.

GB: I know. He's sitting forward.

Me: So?

GB: Everyone has their allocated space, and he has chosen to invade mine.

Me: Wow.

GB: Exactly.

I saw him in a different light. Like, previously I've stated that if he went to prison, he would quickly become the girlfriend of not one, but several men. I'd like to revise that, and suggest that he would be the guy scrambling across the cafeteria benches to stab someone in the eye with a plastic fork. That's certainly who he's becoming at any rate. I guess it's good for our relationship, in the sense that he would likely retain his sense of masculinity and stay faithful to me, but bad in that he would have several back to back life sentences and I'd never see him again.

Lots to think about there.

It looks like this rampage of harm, doesn't just stop at others. This happened earlier:

Me: You look really nice.

GB: Thanks. I guess I won't kill myself today then.

What a catch.







Friday, October 10, 2014

Crowd control

Something bad has happened in London.

And no, I'm not talking about the zillions of bad, commonplace things that happen every day (someone please get me out of here). I'm talking about the rain.

And not just any rain.

But rain that seems to have nourished the filthy London streets, encouraging the rapid growth of more bastard Londoners.

Where have they all come from?

Cyclists. Cyclists who are afraid of a little water.

I say, that you are only allowed to have one mode of commuting transport, and that you must commit to it, come rain or shine.

Either that, or every year, there's a series of obligatory tests, and if you fail too many, you die.

Did someone say, Hunger Games?

I mean, it's not like I watched the first and second film, thinking, wow, what an ingenious method of population control. But, think about it.

ALSO

Because I'm concerned that I'm on some kind of internet watch list for overuse of words like 'die, death, murder, stabbing', and my much cherished phrase, 'punch them in the face,' I'm going to quickly try and save myself by writing:

Kittens, sunshine, tupperware, peace, cuddles, M&S and love.

There, that should do it.

AND

I overheard this great conversation between a Putney Posho and her young son. I've given her a name but I'm pretty sure it's her real name.

Marabelle: 'Tell me Ridley, what is the presentation actually about?'

Ridley: 'Well, we each have to talk about a charity we believe in, and convince others to believe in it too.'

Marabelle: 'And what's your approach?'

Ridley: 'I'm going to talk about how rubbish the other kids' charities are.'

Marabelle: 'That's ridiculous. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.'

*Silence*

Marabelle: 'What's your charity?'

Ridley: 'Old people. Because loneliness is the most terrible thing that can happen to a person.'

Marabelle. 'It's really not. And I don't think children care about old people. They only care about animals, so I think you should change your charity.'

I LOVE THEM BOTH SO MUCH.

I mean, not in a creepy way, but in the way that I would throw my TV away if they promised to move in, and be invisible and quiet apart from the times that I request them to entertain me with their conversations.





Tuesday, October 07, 2014

Murder me this

So I went for a hungover run at the weekend back in my hometown Shottingham. It's the best kind of run going. Mostly you just drag your dry retching self around for 3-4k, have a bit of a cry and take numerous, almost constant breaks.

Nice.

I passed a girl who was having a nose bleed onto the reeds. A bit later on, she lapped me.

But it's alright really, because from what I've seen, there are only two other runners in Shottingham, which means I win bronze.

And it's great, because they have this thing there, called space. It allows you to move about without being struck by an over-excited dog/child/cyclist/person. Come to think of it, I've been hit by all of those things.

On the way back, when I was walking, my mum pulled up in the car, and I was like, 'Hey, you've just caught me during my warm down, my post run warm down.'

And she was like, 'Sure.'

Because she knew, that my purple face was more a product of the numerous French Martinis, than of actual, physical effort.

SORRY MUM.

Also, I've started fighting with some of my flatmates, because they are being complete tards.

Partial tard, I could handle. But you can't continue to be a complete tard and expect nothing to happen.

It started when I reached for a kitchen knife and got:

Chump:Oh, you can't use that knife.

Me: What?

Chump: We will be using that knife in a bit.

Me: Honestly, I can use any of the knives.

Chump: How long will you be?

Me: I'll just use another-

Chump: How long with the knife?

Then I stabbed her twice in the gut, wiped the blade on her apron and said, 'All done.'

I'M JOKING. It's called wishful thinking guys. In this specific example, what I'm saying is that I would really like to commit a murder, but I'm restrained by the criminal justice system and a fear of being too pretty to be safe in prison.

Last night, we went to put some fish in the oven and:

Chump: Oh, can you not put that in, because it will make my food smell.

Me: No it won't. It's covered.

Chump: I'd really prefer-

Me: It's fine. *Put fish in oven*

Chump tutted at length. But I think she could tell that I'd had a bitch of a day, and was willing to forgo previously mentioned fears of stabbing fallout.

 Then Chump got her chumpy boyfriend to empty the bins whilst we were cooking.

Luckily, Ginger and I were heading out to watch Gone Girl, in which there is a significant amount of actual murder and staged murder. It really helped ease some of the tension within.

It's making me think - maybe I shouldn't be around knives, like, at all. Can someone please sedate me before I cause harm to others/myself?

Or pay for me to attend a meditation retreat?

Or kill for me?




Friday, October 03, 2014

Still firmly in the zone

The zone face is back!

It's a bit of a surprise really, because it was a fun run.

Am I having fun here?











Or here, where I've decided to close my eyes?












It's hard to say.

From the low quality of these pictures, it appears that I have horrendous sun burn, or (one could assume) I am red faced from the sheer exertion. It's just paint guys! No one has ever called my physical fitness into question!

Maybe my little glum, pissed off face is simply a reaction to a shit event. I bet my good friend Carly wasn't enjoying herself either.




















Oh, guess she was.

Luckily, I pull it back right at the end, and they have caught my 'I will not die here today, not like this' expression perfectly:


THANKS PHOTOGRAPHER.

It's a shame about my disfigured hand. I wonder what happened there. My hand looks alright at the moment.




Friday, September 26, 2014

Oh, I don't think so sunshine

Very much enjoyed the overheard conversation this morning. I say overheard, but he was willingly sharing it.

Knowing London, it was probably improv theatre of some kind.

I especially liked how the posh Putney folk ran away up the platform in panic, but Ginger Beard and myself leaned in.

'I'm not spending a single second with that fucking evil bitch.'

'I will no longer dance to all of her tunes!'

'I can't go round there Mum; I'll kick the shit out of her family.'

Lovely man. And a real treat to get the impression that he is single. Unfortunately I did not have an opportune moment to request his number.

So unfair.

SLEEP OF THE WEEK!

Yet again, someone has fallen asleep around Nia Edwards. Nia - I can only assume that you use up all of your fascinating conversation on me.

This is Maurice. I've made him massive. He's probably also made himself massive.



A few things are going on here.

1) He's just been to an all you can eat buffet and consumed twice his weight in chicken wings. Throughout, he cleverly swiped the occasional chicken wing into his bag. He is now hugging his booty closely for numerous reasons:

A) Warmth
B) To keep the great memories of lunch close
C) To remind himself how great dinner will be.

2) The woman to his right is moment's away from fully kicking off that shoe, and seductively caressing his shin with her bare foot. She can smell the chicken, and she's hungry.

But look at him; Maurice ain't sharing that chicken with anyone.



Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Don't kiss me please

I'm writing a novel!

Okay, maybe not right this second.

And maybe I found it in a folder entitled '2009' and have spent the past few hours merely editing, but still.

I'm sure that at some point I'll actually write a new bit.

And I'm not remotely paralysed by the possibility that the best writing I'll ever produce was born in 2009, and will forever remain in 2009, not at all.

Why are you so judgey all of a sudden, huh?

ANYWAY

I've signed up for a one day writing retreat in November. The jist is that you get locked in a room for seven hours with no internet and lots of cake, and you have to hand over your mobile.

I'm pretty sure you can leave when you want, but I'm going to pretend it's like prison.

I'm optimistic that by forcing myself to face my biggest fear - the bright, white blank page (or worse - my own writing closely resembling a Dan Brown novel - eek) I will find out whether or not I really want to do this anymore.

Because maybe I want to be an accountant instead, or a retail assistant, or something equally interesting.

Hopefully not.

I don't know if any of you lot have a dream that you only ever talk about, and never actually work for, but it's really, really hard.

There's a chance that I'll head to the retreat, throw up and go home. Maybe I could write a story about it!

ALSO

I was recently in Berlin, and Ginger Beard got shitty with me, because I kissed him in the Holocaust Memorial.

Is that bad?

I'm not talking a frenchie.

I'm talking a peck.

Can you not peck when you're learning about genocide?

Is it possibly my mother's fault for not raising me properly?

It made me wonder about what other inappropriate things I've been doing, maybe things that no one has flagged.

Like, I've started yawning and putting an open fist over my mouth, instead of laying my hand flat. Do you see what I'm saying here? I'm basically creating a tunnel for people to see into my mouth.

I'm also the only person I know who was thrown out of The Brownies. Apparently it was for stealing. I didn't get a fair trial. I actually think it was a cheap plot by the other brownies, who were intimidated by what a great brownie I was.

THE POINT IS....

I used to think my manners were pretty top notch. But maybe I'm just a disrespectful thief?

It's not like I kissed him in Dubai.

If I'd kissed him in Dubai, he'd be naked in the shower block of an all male prison, with a group of stocky males asking if he wanted to be friends.


I'm pretty sure that was inappropriate. Sorry.





Monday, September 08, 2014

Sleep of the Week - Sophie



Light up fatty
Don't you worry
As I inhale
In breathless hurry
The plume of smoke
From your pink pout
Resist the urge
To put it out
On your face.





WOW. Is it me, or do I become a better poet everyday? It never once occurred to me, during my three year Creative Writing Degree, that poetry was my forte, but it's looking likely.

And not just any poetry - aggressive poetry. Poetry with punch. Did I just stumble upon the title of my first anthology? One thinks so!

When I finally snap and stab someone, my sobbing mother will offer up these darling poems to the police, crying, 'It's all there officer!'

I had the occasional cigarette growing up (this confession is why my Mum will be so happy to dob me in after the stabbing), but I've developed a real aversion to the selfish smoker, who suggests, nay insists that you share the experience with them.

WELL THANKS

Since the odds are stacked against me for dying of my own stupidity, clumsiness and alcoholism, I really don't need this on top.

Mum, it's okay, I'm joining in with Dry September, from today actually. I'm calling it Partially Dry September. Do you want to sponsor me?

Anyway, it's only bloody time for Sleep of the Week! Another blinder submitted by Nia Edwards. It could be assumed that people regularly fall into deep sleep in her company. But I don't think anyone would assume that. Not one person.




This is Sophie.

She is completely dedicated to her sleep.

She has nothing left to give to anyone.

If you held a puppy in front of her face, and a gun to the puppy's face and shouted 'Wake up or the puppy gets it!', the puppy would get shot, and it's likely, shot in the face.

It's also nice to see a girl spread her legs on the tube. Look, you know what I mean. Men typically spread their legs as wide as physically possible, close to pelvic dislocation (check out massive knee on her right). Actually, is that a giant? Is it?

Sophie is owning it.

Good for you Soph.



Thursday, September 04, 2014

Animate this

Just eaten a Muller fruit corner with a fork - recommend.

The spoons are all reallllly far away, and it drastically increased how long it took me to eat it, generating the welcome illusion that it was massive.

ALSO

I am really sick

Okay, so not in a death bed way, not even really in a bed way, as I'm at work. But in the way you can be so, so, so sick, and yet still fully function.

We've all been there.

The real disadvantage of my illness, other than looking like a complete, snotty joke, is that the main casualty is my IQ. In that, I've become incredibly thick.

Either that, or the virus is acting like a kind of reducer, seeing me unable to keep up all the usual effort I go to, to appear remotely intelligent.

I spoke to someone this morning, and tried to convey this symbol <

Me: It's like, it's like an arrow pointing at something to the left.

Man: A less than symbol?

Me: Great, thanks for that.

Almost as fun as when this happened last week:

Man: I've sent you the password, it's 'password.'

Me: Yes I know. I've tried it and it doesn't work.

Man: Password. That's P-A-S-S-W-O-R-D

I'd of killed him, but I'm too professional.

Oooh, maybe I could just stab him, or render him unable to speak using a punch to the mouth. I'm not too professional for either of those things.

Okay, so maybe I'm thick and aggressive.

ALSO

Does anyone know someone who's an animator? I've decided that I'm ready to be a successful writer now. I think it's because I've managed to write two poems in a month. Anyway, and I have this animation that could do with the help of someone.....someone, talented.

At about 2am Sunday morning, I downloaded some software and made the first bit:




But I don't think it's going to cut the mustard. Partly because the software has about six clip art images, and I think I've used them all in one go.

Is anyone better at animation than me?

Even a tad better?

THANKS.











Thursday, August 28, 2014

To bee or not to bee?

To bee or not to bee?


I am a loyal worker bee
I do not serve the likes of me
There is more merit to my life
For all my youth
I serve the hive

I am a cheery worker bee
I do not feel the misery
In which I note some others writhe
I am content
I serve the hive

I am an eager worker bee
I rise at 6, and break at 3
And when I leave the place at 5
It is complete
I serve the hive

I am a focused worker bee
It's only sometimes that I see
That despite my innate drive
There's little else
But serve the hive

I am a fearful worker bee
I can't afford what you call 'free'
And so I can never strive
For anything
But serve the hive

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Moronika

I wrote this in my head on the way to work:

Moronika won't look up
At some point or other
With her phone in one hand
And her cig in the other

A phone that's been dropped
Thank God for phone cover

And cigs put out
On the hem lines of dresses
And little girl's tresses
But it helps her to deal
With the ongoing stresses
Of life


Which I think just about exhibits my three year Creative Writing degree, whilst at the same time, managing to convey my attitude towards my fellow Londoner. Isn't that just lovely.

ALSO

I was recently told by my occasional friend and colleague JB, that my blog is like a sandwich with no filling, in that I never provide an opinion on anything. To address this promptly, I am offering forth my top five opinions of the moment, duly titled:

HOT THOUGHTS

1. The best part of my job, is that there is a life size cardboard cut out of Ryan Reynolds in the room. He's looking at me right now, and he's saying, 'Soon Gemma, soon.' Thanks Ryan, I believe in you.

2.Did Rolf do it? Can you be a paedophile, and spend years trying to help sick puppies? Is he a sick puppy that no one helped? (This is less of an opinion, and more of an insight into my daily upset).

3. Did Cliff do it? Can you be a paedophile, and star in a rather stupendous film about a girl, who pretends to be a boy, and hides on a bus, culminating in a musical summer holiday? (see above).

4. Double denim never works.

5. I like blue cheese the best.

Ta Da! Take that occasional friend and colleague!

You wanted depth and you got it, perhaps too much, perhaps you regret it.

Perhaps I need to broaden my horizons, and develop opinions outside of celebrity paedos, celebrities in general, denim, and cheese.

But that's for me to decide.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

You've got a little something on your....

So this is pretty gross.

But I didn't do it, I just witnessed it.

A girl stood up from what became the only available seat on the tube. Myself and forty-seven others had been following her recent twitching and gathering of bags with excited eyes.

But then, oh no, what's on the seat?

All forty-seven of us silently agreed: semen.

She had obviously decided that it was worth sitting on dried (one hopes) semen for half an hour, if it meant that she didn't have to stand.

In an unprecedented respectful, orderly queue, people came over, jubilant, skipping, spotted the monstrosity and decided they couldn't do it.

After five or so minutes of this behaviour, a woman dressed in sporty gear approached, assessed the situation, and after staring boldly at the disbelieving onlookers, sat down with a bounce.

I guess she was dressed for rough conditions.

We judged her, we thought, 'you dirty, dirty bitch.' Our legs grew tired.

And the morale of the story is - It's better to stand than sit on unclaimed semen, because it can never be dry enough for your peace of mind.

Mum - I'd like to apologise for the theme of this blog, but I've found the sharing of it quite therapeutic. It's also a rather good social commentary. Do you remember when men were merely pressing their penises against my shoulder on the tube? Well look at them now! I might see if The Sun Newspaper fancies a little write-up.

ANYWAY

I feel like I need to make this better.

Here's a cute puppy:


Oh wait sorry, that's just a picture of a puppy eating another puppy.

Here you go:







This one actually looks really scared. Maybe he's afraid that he'll be exhausted travelling to work one day, and won't be able to sit down because a pervert has ejaculated everywhere.

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

Big, fat bully

Last I night I dreamt that I got arrested for taking crack cocaine.

I was quite impressed with the reactions of my friends and I, as two policeman came upon us as we were chilling out with taxi drivers on a picnic bench. We promptly tossed the asthmatic inhalers over our shoulders and froze. Now, I don't know if you can take crack cocaine that way, and I'm not going to research it.

Not at work anyway.

THEN

I was beaten up under interrogation, because I stated the reason I'd turned to drugs as 'to ease the beautiful sadness in my soul.'

Fair enough law enforcement, fair enough.

I was thinking this morning that it's a real miracle I wasn't beaten up in school. I had all the expected traits and more so:

Brace? Check
Overweight? Check
Bad skin? Check
Orange Hair? Check

But if we're honest here, who hasn't had orange hair at some point! I mean, really.

HOW WAS I NOT BULLIED?

I did try bullying out for myself. That's right reader, yours truly was not always as saintly.

I asked all my friends to stand on a man hole cover with me, and when the victim tried to stand there also I said: *slightly paraphrased*

'Oh no. Not you. This is the cool square.'

And she was like:

'What? Don't be ridiculous.'

And I was like:

'It's the God's honest truth of the matter. You can only stand here if you're cool. So you can't stand here.'

And when she tried to defy my instructions, my minions and I pushed her back.

SO MEAN.

But, you know, they were clearly set parameters. And I'm pretty sure that it was only for entire lunch break that day.

Oh, you know what?

This one time, I started a petition called, 'The I hate Claire and Jenny petition,' and managed to accrue an impressive number of signatures in support.

They were the two most popular girls in my year at the time, so I guess I was a part-time bully AND a jealous psycho.

It turned out that one of their sisters was a much feared mental. And word quickly reached me that she intended to throw me through a window. A third floor window. Luckily, our humanities teacher who kept a lot of pencils in his deep pockets, and thus looked like he had lots of thin penises, rescued me during her first attempt.

PHEW!

I've changed their names because I'm still scared.

I think I started the petition when they insulted my perm.

I should really add 'perm' to the above list of traits a person possesses that set them up for being bullied.

Wow, I've learnt a lot about myself. I feel better.

Do you feel better?


Friday, August 01, 2014

She sells sea shells

Does anyone else have hobbies that never progress?

Every few months I pick up my guitar and try to teach myself the chords to Radiohead's 'High and Dry.'

Mostly because I want to play it at cool house parties at 3am, having nonchalantly picked up the hosts guitar in front of a crowd of eager, wet eyed spectators.

And in the morning people will be like, 'Do you remember that girl who played us amazing music?'

And I will shrug and be like, 'Yeah, that was me, no big deal.'

And my whole life will be altered from that point.

There are however instances, where revealing something about yourself at a house party at 3am, is not the best decision.

Like when a guy sat down next to me on the sofa once and said, 'I have six toes on one foot.' And everyone got involved, and they had to turn the lights on and stop the music. And the horror basically ruined the party.

I'd like to say it was a safe place for difference, but I think he'd of been better off contacting 'Embarrassing bodies' and not mistaking it for a great relationship icebreaker.

ANYWAY

The point is, I don't think I'll ever be able to play a song on my guitar.

This is why Gingerbeard resents the space it takes up in our tiny bedroom. Sometimes this happens:

Ginger: Can we please sell your guitar?

Me: No we cannot. I'm learning to play it.

Ginger: No you're not. You never play it. In fact, I can hardly make it out for the dust.

Me: *Unzips bag, strums one dust laden string, re zips bag* There, see.

TOLD

Besides which, I think my half finished patchwork cushion, half-finished photo mobile, fifty unread books, and four pairs of unrealistically heeled (and thus unwearable) boots would be lonely without that guitar.

He doesn't really GET me guys. Seven years, and I am still so unknown.

It almost makes me want to listen to that boxset of 'Learn French' CD's that I bought, and like, learn French.

But I don't think I will.

Not just yet.

God, I could deliver one hell of a top notch carboot some day. You lucky buggers.




Tuesday, July 22, 2014

In the zone

Sometimes, I get in the zone.

It's a very serious and professional place, which allows me to perform at the top of my game.

Do you know what it looks like, to be in the zone?

No?

Here you go. I like to think of this as my 'zone spectrum'.


And I guess when I say 'spectrum' I really mean 'consistent zone face.'

My expression, upon closer inspection would be more befitting sad news from a close friend or just sheer devastation at having misplaced my keys. The top left face in particular is emitting a kind of throw away plea for rescue, but in my eyes you can see that I know, no one will come.

Can you believe it, I was having a good time.

I'll try and find pictures of what my face is capable of when I'm having a bad time.

Oh, here we go:

 Wasp in the food. Seriously bad times.




Thursday, July 17, 2014

The ugly truth

There's something I've been hiding from you.

And it's preventing us from becoming close.

I had a forceps birth. That's right kids. That's right.

My Mum was too posh to push.

I'M JOKING.

I mean, I don't know, I don't remember. Maybe she's lying when she says it was essential.

The point is that as I direct result I:

1) Have a scar on my parting.

2)Have a flat head at the back, which I fondly refer to as 'The skate ramp.'

I can't wear hats.

I also Googled 'Forcep Birth' to give me an idea of what I went through.

Look what I went through!


Is that even legal? I doubt it.

No wonder my head is weirdly shaped. You try standing in a stables while the staff have a whispered, panic conference on why none of the helmets fit.

People, I did
some research. I wanted to know more:

'Forceps look a bit like two stainless steel salad servers that fit together.'

I AM NOT A SALAD.

'Though it may look worrying, any marks on your baby are usually temporary, and will clear up on their own within a week or so.'


SCARRED I TELL YOU!


I find the story of my birth just as disturbing as I find Amazon reminding me that I was recently shopping for picnic blankets, in the middle of it.





There really is no privacy left in this world. But it is a very nice blanket indeed.


ANYWAY

The reason I'm trying to work through these issues with you, is that I recently injured myself by trying to stand up from the bed after eating lunch. I couldn't move my head and thought I'd dislocated my collarbone, as it was suddenly not level.

The Doctor said (and I'm slighty paraphrasing): 'You have fucked your neck up a bit, but your collarbone is fine. From what I can tell, it has always been asymmetrical.' WHAT?

And then I realised - yes - just another horrific injury from Mother's decision to let them forcep me.

'Mechanical Trauma
An external injury can damage the bone tissue, causing inflammation and hypertrophy of a certain part of the collarbone. Every bone injury should X-rayed as there is always a possibility of fracture. Improper positioning of fractured parts can lead to deformation and collarbone asymmetry.'
SECRETS AND LIES
That's right mother, mechanical trauma. You bastard.
I mean, it does say that it can be normal, but I doubt it.
Readers, I want to assure you that my tiny Mum has made many wonderful decisions in her life. This was not one of them.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Liar, Liar

Sooooo...

I'm finding it tremendously difficult to remember important things.

Please consider this your one and only apology for when I miss:

*Your wedding
*Your birthday
*The speech where you tell me how upset you are that I missed something.

MY BAD

Someone told me today that I'm not allowed to use the phrase 'ball ache' because I don't understand what I'm talking about.

I'm pretty confident that my imagination is vast enough for me to imagine having a ball or two, and then imagine that, that ball or two is aching.

Is that weird? I think I just made things weird.

Anyway, the point I was making (stop distracting me) is that I'm pretty much just setting fire to huge wads of cash by purchasing tickets to events that I don't show up at, and for trains I never needed. My current theory is split personality disorder. Where one of my personalities wants to travel to Bristol for an Osmond Brothers Reunion concert, and my second personality is like, 'Woah, I don't fucking think so sunshine.'

Between the two of them, (wait, the two of me? The two of us). Between us, we ain't going nowhere, but we are managing to spend all our money in the process. NICE WORK GEMMAS.

I've been playing my sick card daily to try and reap some of it back. It's a great card. I just didn't create it with this kind of regularity in mind. For you to truly understand, we must go back, way way back, to the birth of the sick card.

A now ex-employer had paid for me to get a train to Birmingham. I was late to the station, probably for an exceptionally valid reason. So I queued up in the hapless queue (for those who are afraid of machines) and psyched myself up to influence my way into a free, later ticket.

That did not happen. What did happen (and this really lends itself to the split personality discussion we had earlier) is this.

Me: "Hi," *Eyes fill with tears* "I'm so sorry. I've missed my train, because I had to get off the tube."

Lady: "How come?"

Me: "To throw up. To violently throw up."

Lady: "Oh dear."

Me: "Yes, I know, all over the platform."

Lady: "Wow."

Me: "Can I please have a new ticket?"

I got a ticket.

Thinking about it, there was this other time in my early twenties where I was late to work, again for a top notch reason, and so I sat on a wall down the road and tried to feel sick. It worked. When I got into the shop they made me lie down and couldn't believe how pale I was. It worked so well, that an hour later, I had to go home sick.

You know, I auditioned for drama school and got rejected.

IDIOTS.

Does anyone else believe their own lies? Talk to me; it's a completely private space. I promise.