The tiny fridge demon

It wasn't by the way...that is, a tiny fridge demon. That was my first thought when I heard the screaming. Turns out it was a mouse getting caught in a trap behind the fridge.

A very disconcerting soundtrack when you're in a towel eating your Crunchy Nut cornflakes.

I immediately told Ginger, assuming that he would do a man thing.

He did not have any man things at his disposal. I have definitely married the wrong Geordie. Perhaps my mistake was to draw a husband from the Geordie pool full stop.

Google says, put it in a sandwich bag, seal it, and hit the mouse on the head with a hammer.

I AM STRUGGLING WITH THIS PRE 9AM.

Does anyone want to come round and sort this out? I ordered a frankly bizarre quantity of a rice in the week shop, and I'd be happy to give you a bag in exchange for a quick death (for the mouse, not me, though, if I think about it I am definitely at a point in London where if I can't escape soon I will request to be euthanised).

ALSO

I am getting very close indeed to my free Pret coffee. By which I mean that after I'd paid for a coffee and was waiting for it to be made, a different man asked me if I needed anything, and there was free coffee in his eyes.

SERIOUSLY. I could see it in them, all tantalizing and easy. I bet the next bitch in the line really got some.

SORRY. But I have a headache because the fridge demon thing really shit me up.

In other news, I ventured out into the world on Saturday night, by choice. This had a lot to do with the fact that on my last outing, I met two Irish brothers called Steven and Semen (pronounced Se-men, not See-men). Maybe it was a joke. I don't care, I had a STUPENDOUS time.

However on Saturday, this is the time I had:

After spilling his drink on me, man says: I'm not going to apologise.

Me: Why not?

Man: Because I'm a c**t.

I've left the asterix in for my mum.

I wasn't sure if it should be asterixis, but then I googled it - Asterixis (also called the flapping tremor, or liver flap) is a tremor of the hand when the wrist is extended, sometimes said to resemble a bird flapping its wings.

Me and Google are really not getting along today. BAD GOOGLE.

I can't read the words 'liver flap', I'm trying to drink a cappuccino here, ffs.

ALSO, I finished my novel, and early as well, which is probably a reflection of the low quality of my life throughout November. Bravo.

About three words were good. And I'm going to take those three words, and make a new novel out of them. Because I went to an editing masterclass last week and they basically said, re-write the shit, and re-write the shit, and re-write the shit, until you can see a slight glimmer of gold in it. Then you have a novel, and this takes approx four years.

The problem is that I need to have a published one before I'm thirty, because I really need to achieve something. I already have a failed marriage on my hands guys. That gives me two years to sort myself out.

Wish me luck.

Dear London

It just might help if I compose
A list of my main London woes
It's worth a try I guess, here goes:

What is this black stuff in my nose?

Fine yes, the city never sleeps
But roars awake with glass and beeps

Dawn chorus you are mighty shrill
Through my single glazed and sill

And lest we not forget the trains
Bright hearses for our spent remains

Grab me, grope me, push me hard
I'll pay you with my Oyster card

We have sunk in your dark belly
Sleepless nights and box set telly

On we march, persistent herd
'Privacy' a term absurd

Competition rough and rife
Dreaming of the country life

Thought it would be wondrous - Psych!
Drink your way through
And poor as you like

Pay up

I'm determined to get a free coffee from Pret - because nothing tastes better than free.

I'm trying out different personas to see if I can crack them.

This morning I was a nice person, like a seriously lovely person. I gave them my best smile (that's right my BEST one - I don't even whack this bad boy out for close family), and I was impeccably mannered. My eyes said, 'I see your value, you delightful coffee bringing person.' And behind my brief words, like 'Yes, please,' and 'Thank you,' I was saying, 'I do charity work, and am kind to children, the perfect candidate for one of your free coffees.'

BUT I DIDN'T GET ONE.

Last week I tried down and out. But there's a thin line between that, and grumpy. Luckily I once played Emmeline Pankhurst in a school play, and so acting is kind of my thing.

I tried to express that I was riddled with undeserved bad luck, in need of a caffeine fuelled break. I was like, 'look guys, life's shitting on me right now, and I'm not sure why. I'll probably kill myself. That is unless someone showed me a small gesture of kindness. Then I think I'd be just swell again.'


BUT I DIDN'T GET ONE.

I'm running out of personas, and fast.

There's nothing left do to but Google.

'Clive Schlee, chief executive of the coffee giant, revealed he has given his staff the power to hand out a coffee on the house to people they like or fancy.'


Shit the bed. That's where I've been going wrong - getting served by women, who are statistically unlikely to be both:

-Gay

AND

-Attracted to sour faced administrators.

GOD DAMN IT.

Conflicting advice:

''Don't try to flirt a freebie off a barista or try to make them feel sorry for you - it's all about radiating happiness, a wide smile, and spreading the joy.

Any advice for people who can't feel joy? Nope, not one bit,

I can do a lot of things - nice, sure, put upon, sure, BUT HAPPY? FUCKING HAPPY?

It's an absolute joke, and only one thing is clear to me; I will never get a free coffee from Pret.

The big yawn

Guys, I am stooopid.

I'm 5 days in to another NaNoWriMo - another November trying to have a life (oh alright, not much of one) and shove out 50,000 words of novelly goodness at the same time.

It hurts already. I think I'm sick.

What's that? You want to help? Well you can, by taking a look at the teeny business Ginger and I have just launched!

https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/OtherWonders

I definitely think that will aid me in my journey. ALSO I previously asked all of you directly for money, and now I'm giving you a product in return, which is a little thing I like to call, progress.

Today, I watched a smartly dresses business man step into the only puddle for MILES. And the water came up above his sock. And it gave me a spring in my step.

Probably the same tosser who loudly announced, 'Oh alright, whack another half mil on, to sweeten the deal,' as he passed me last night.

Luckily, the BBC have come up with a very discreet way of culling morons. Granted, a niche breed of morons - they type that need putting out of their misery - but morons all the same.

I think it's called Weather Watch - and the idea is that you send in notes on the weather, exactly where you are.

If you're interested, sign up here - http://www.bbc.co.uk/weatherwatchers

I'm going to hack into the database, and find where they live, and publish the addresses, and let the non-moronic public hunt them down. Think about it - the roads will be quieter. Lovely.

I'm not even shitting you, this is on the homepage -

How's the weather where you are?

Join the nation's favourite conversation.

God help us all. 

Frequent, maybe. I'll give them that - the nation's most frequent conversation. But FAVOURITE? FAVOURITE?

Who are these people?

Nevertheless, I'm intrigued. I read on.

There's a picture of a twister in the background. I guess it's important to know about a twister.ONE POINT TO YOU WEATHER FUCKERS.

I'm so angry. I think it's because I'm tired. I'M SO TIRED.

Love you all.

you are?

The Pret Threat

Just received the most aggressively fashioned, 'Take care,' of my life, and from a lady in Pret.

She was perfectly normal until the very last segment of our exchange, where she held my coffee back, tilted her chin forward, and deeply boomed those words. Everything around us slowed, as our eyes locked, and the warning soaked in.

So two things really:

1) If something awful happens to me today (which seems kind of inevitable now, ever since she delivered my fate over my crayfish salad), you'll know what the catalyst was.

And 2) Pret don't seem to give out free coffees to people they like (as I'd been misinformed) - they only give out free threats.

There was only one logical reaction; I took numerous forks. That's right, approaching the array of plastic cutlery, feeling hard done by, concerned, and having paid for my coffee, I took a chunky handful of forks.

UP YOURS PRET.

God, I really know how to stick it to the man.

My next novel (yeah, like I have a first) - 'Don't get angry, get even.'

Speaking of novels, it's that glorious time of year again where Nanowrimo is peeking up like some unwanted, ugly meerkat.

For those of you who haven't ingested my whinging in previous years, it's a national challenge to write 50,000 words in a month.

What's in it for me?

If successful, I get to print my own certificate, AND if I attend a write-in, the chances of attaining NaNo related stickers are high.

What's in it for you?

I go insane (Yes, that's right. It gets even worse than it is already).

For the first time ever, I also have a buddy, who I've managed to deceive into thinking it will be fun. Good for me. Want to go crazy too? http://nanowrimo.org/

Unlike last year, where I essentially gave someone Gollum from Lord of the Rings, as a sidekick, I'm going to do my very best to have ideas that I haven't stolen.

I even have my first line ready and waiting, 'My mum decided to die in my favorite place.'

Alright, so it's not exactly uplifting, but then you've very much come to the wrong blog if that's what you're after. And yes, my Mum will take it rather badly, and assume it's some kind of wish fulfillment on my part, but the life of a writer is a hard one my friends.

I must boldly go where...oh wait..I'm plagiarizing again.

Better quit while I'm ahead.

A shiny, new leaf

Guys it's so grim; another new housemate.

All you really need to know about this one, is that when I said, 'We've just been to see Legend at the cinema, very violent.'

He said, 'I love violence.'

The other one, Alan, announced that London had broken him, whilst stuffing his face with Burger King fries. 'I fucking hate it. It's fucking shit. Fuck this.'

What a charming, mentally stable bunch.

In other news, Ginger isn't talking to me because I watched the Bake Off final without him.

I'm still laughing at my mug two years after I've bought it:

And I've decided to donate the majority of my hair to charity.

That's right people, I've done something nice.

I keep telling colleagues,'You might have noticed, my hair is short, because I've given it TO CHARITY.'

And their like, 'Yeah, I know, I saw on Facebook.'

And I'm like, 'Right exactly, I just wanted to give something back to the community. Just do the right thing you know?'

And they make an excuse to leave.

Guys, I just feel, that I have become a better, wholesome person, and I can't wait to see what the goodness in me does next.

Maybe I'll start helping people with their heavy suitcases on stairs, instead of walking quickly past, thinking, 'Can't carry it? Don't bring it.'

Maybe I'll do the pots for once, when I'm staying at Mum's, instead of deciding that I'm on holiday so it wouldn't be right.

Oh! Maybe I'll stop lying and blaming my mistakes on others!

No, not that last one. That last one doesn't sit right.

Baby Mama (not me)

Now guys, I don't condone bullying in any form.....

BUT

I do think a little debate around why people do weird things, so that we can better understand and appreciate their unique qualities, is healthy.

That's why I took photos of a woman who thought her doll was a real baby.

I didn't say they were good photos.

It's hard to be discreet in a queue at the Post Office. I didn't want anyone to think that I was taking pictures in order to ridicule her. What they don't capture, and I apologise for this, is how she kept bouncing the thing up and down and shushing it.

When she got to the counter, she set the doll down.

And the guy at the counter was like MOTHERFRICKIN CHRIST, SHE THINKS IT'S ALIVE. And his eyes went massive and he couldn't speak.

And I was all 'POST THE BABY, POST THE BABY!'

But she didn't, which was the first of several disappointments for me that day.

NOW, as stipulated, I'm talking about this so that we can learn to embrace difference. So I did some research.

And to my horror (I mean, wonderfully open mind) I found an article from 2012 about a shop in Birmingham that sells lifelike dolls, called 'reborn babies'. That's right ladies and gents, another reason not to go to Birmingham.

How are they reborn? I can only imagine that there are dead babies inside the plastic, now reborn as dolls.

'For those who crave absolute realism, Suzanne can even add an electronic device that mimics a heartbeat or make the chest rise and fall to simulate breathing.'

This blog is writing itself!

“I like to make sure my customers are in baby ­heaven from the minute they step through the door, so the shop always smells of baby powder,” she says.

Some of it's actually quite sad, and involves a lot of trauma.

I FEEL LIKE A BIT OF A DICK.

I think we've all grown through this experience (it's also too much work for me to start again with this blog).

Just remember team, a reborn doll's for life, not just for Christmas.

Runaway bride

A few things guys.

Bruce (my tomato plant) has eight little sproglets. You won't care about this, but for me, it's a reason to get up in the morning.

ALSO

Alan made a serious faux pas recently. If you can't remember him (and why would you), the poor little beige man. He's the newest member of the palace I live in, over zealous about running and evening meals.

'What you eating? What's in that? Sausage? Do I smell sausage? I ran an 8 in 4 which is 0.2 seconds off my personal best. Can't go wrong with a bit of sausage.'

SERIOUSLY.

He's actually alright to live with.

Apart from recently we had a fruit fly epidemic. Thank God I had Bruce to look forward to at work, because my mornings were suddenly full of fly spray and sweeping up tiny bodies.

Ginger traced the source to Alan's cupboard and found a liquidized banana.

I emailed Alan, and surprisingly I was quite nice! I managed to squash down my inner bitch for the entire correspondence!

I refrained from saying, 'Are you fucktarded?' and signed off with a lightly comical, 'Wanted to let you know, in case you were looking forward to a banana!'

Ha ha. Ha ha.

I have a lot of friends that go around managing to be nice most of the time, and I don't get it. I observe and try to imitate, but I just can't pull it off.

SOZ.

My app reminds me that I'm getting married in 11 days. I think if I am going to change my mind, pre the 10 day mark is fine, and anything after that is quite disruptive. With this in mind, I'm going to have a long hard think today about whether or not I actually want to do this.

It's about time I asked myself that question.

Shall we put it to a vote?

Or I could flip a coin?

I should consider getting out of it as lightly as I got into it really.

Ohhh, I could take Ginger on Jeremy Kyle, and let Jeremy decide. But maybe he's fed up with having so many angry Geordies' on his show already.

I'll sleep on it.

Hostess with the mostess

Today is a very special day for me. Very special indeed.

Today, I am going to poke the bear.

Don't turn this into something dirty; I know what you're like.

I'm basically going to approach a bear I don't happen to like very much (like a ninja) and let loose into his face with an AK-47.

I'm not saying I've brought a gun to work.

Let's all calm down.

I'm saying that a grotesque douche bag is going to be taking bullets to the face all day.

HA HA HA HA HA.

I'm so excited, it hurts. The suspense is causing me physical pain.

What a great Monday.

ALSO

I held a dinner party on Saturday, with the intention of hosting a very civilised affair. I am so naive. It didn't help that at the exact moment I was feeling smug, along the lines of 'Look at you Gemma, you've made a salad. And it seems to be such a great salad. Well done.' I opened the fridge and got taken out by a landslide.

Some badly placed items, mostly made from metal, fell onto my face. Smugness destroyed. I messaged the guy I was renting from and he said:

'Oh dear. Hope you are okay.'

Wha?

I COULD HAVE DIED.

What an awful way to go, crushed by kitchen trays and chopping boards. I deserve better than that.

I drank a lot of wine, to train my liver and kidneys for the wedding. Alcohol push ups. We then spent approximately five hours miming to 10 second song slips and videoing it. And they say I've forgotten how to party.

19 DAYS GUYS.

Until the streets are flooded with the tears of men who realise they're no longer in the running.

Gutted.

Two men have recently handed in their notices at work, and we all know why - they can't stand to watch me go through with it. They need to remove themselves.

I get it. Do what you need to.

Ginger Beard also survived his Stag Do on Saturday. I was very surprised when one of them wasn't curled up on the doorstep, and even more so when there wasn't a trail of blood along the hallway. When I located them and asked them what the hell they thought they were playing at, one of his brothers held up his tapped and black hand, and mentioned 4 hours in A&E. Only then could I relax, happy in the knowledge that they had done things properly. They made Ginger vomit in the street. Someone was pushed into a car.

Very nice work indeed.

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!

ALSO,

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?

ALSO,

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.

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.

ALSO

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!

ALSO

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.

Highlights:

- 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,


ALSO

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

We all make mistakes

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

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

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

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

ALSO

I feel quite bad for Alan.

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

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

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

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

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

'With my sexual physique Jah know me well built'

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

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

I want your loving gal give it like you should

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

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

Something about Alan

Alan has moved in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THEN, RIGHT, CHECK THIS OUT:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait.

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

What do you think?

Tell me the truth.

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

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

Does size matter?

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

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

And a potential date on the horizon:

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

ALSO

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

Mine:

I ran out of good friends at 8.

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

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

His:

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

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

Can't everyone just be friends?

I've got to be honest with you.

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

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

I'M SORRY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This also happened (un-related)

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

And, I have these emails:

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

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

I'M JOKING.

A bit.

All you can eat

Tres excited to find this in my inbox:

It's always nice to have some reassurance. Thanks Veronica.

After trying and failing to sleep to the sweet lullaby of a car alarm, I feel super duper great.

Did the wine help?

Probs not.

On the plus side, have discovered a great new game - take Ginger to extortionately priced afternoon tea, and watch him constantly calculate and try to eat his money's worth.

Me: How much now?

Ginger: I reckon about £30. How much is this again?

Me: £70.

Ginger: Waiter, can I please have some more?

Waiter: Of what sir?

Ginger: Everything.

He is still very upset with me. He never did figure out how to drink £70 worth of tea.

Gutted.

I've signed up to a writer's group tonight, but I don't have any paper, or a pen. Do you think that will reflect badly on me? One hour of the session is 'Free writing'. If I have to borrow the basic tools of my craft, the others might think I'm not a real writer, and just some big, phony, wannabe writer who actually works in admin.

I do however, have a stack of a post it notes, and I'm pretty sure that there's a famous poet who used to be a Dentist and write on his prescription pads.

Just done some research and looks like he was a Doctor. I guess I've never had a written prescription from the Dentist - just a verbal shake down. These days, Doctor's would have to resort to writing on the backs of their Google print outs, and would have all the space in the world, and could branch out into prose. Because that's all they give you, alongside the generic diagnosis, "I don't know what it is, but try some Ibuprofen."

William Carlos Williams had to write tiny poems. I was about to ridicule his name, but then I remembered that my middle name is my brother's first name, and realised that I have no ground whatsoever to stand on. My ground is completely gone. We have a lot in common - writing restrictions and spesh parents.

Nice.

Home Alone

Ginger Beard has forgotten about me.

That's right guys, I am the five year old at the school gate, with a shaking bottom lip, a My Little Pony Lunchbox and a serious abandonment complex. All because the person who's supposed to look after me has become over-interested in an Argos catalogue, or, knowing Ginger, tripped over an untied shoe lace and face planted London.

I've asked one of the Sales Team to wait with me. I'm afraid to be alone here. They might turn all the lights off, or worse still, make the assumption that I'm happy to work in my free time.

We're supposed to meet for dinner pre a comedy gig.

Already I'm excited about my apology gift - usually a selection of cakes from the Humming Bird Bakery.

With every passing minute, the apology gift grows more impressive. Let's hope he forgets about me for another half an hour. That way, we will still have time to eat, and I can demand a puppy.

Nothing says sorry quite like a puppy that you can't really look after, and fall in love with a bit, before admitting your inadequacies as an owner, and returning in hysterical sobs.

Do you remember when I told you he had a run of forgetting I was in the bathroom with him, and turning the light off as he left? Yeah? I have to marry this shit. This is the rest of my life guys.

OMG The Sales Team person is leaving me. He should be like the teacher that has to bitterly stay behind and distract me with colouring in.

This is a fucking horror film.

I'm going to take pictures of myself looking sad and send them to him.

The I'm going to go to the comedy gig by myself, and see if any of the strange yet intriguing men there fancy getting married to me in September.

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

Smooth criminal

Guys, I just ate a whole chocolate orange, like it was actually an orange.

I don't know if there's a word for the start of that process, but there's a word for the end of it -obesity

I broke down each segment into a negative feeling I had, and then I ate them. I ate my delicious feelings.

I think I might be sick, but I'll try to finish this blog first.

So, some potential replacements for my lovely housemates, Fats & Fats, were shown round on Wednesday at 4pm.

At 3pm, I trashed the kitchen. I went to town.

It's possible that I over did it, because no one, not even feral monkeys, would live like that.

Hopefully it paid off though, because at 4:30pm, I had to clear it up again. Sucks.

Is this legal?

Google says that I can be sued if I am seen to be disrupting a potential business opportunity.

Therefore, I would like to add that I am a dirty, dirty slob, and would've left cheerios on the floor and tiny pieces of ham on the front of the fridge regardless of the showing.

I'M JOKING.

I'M SERIOUS.

There, that should cover me.

What else is new?

My legs buckled on the the underground when I took a duffel bag to the back of the calf.

I watched a blind man beat up a woman with his walking stick as he tried to negotiate a tunnel.

I was hit by the top of a cello in the neck.

I kicked a pigeon into the side of a bin.

I overheard this conversation in Sainsburys between a customer and the shop assistant packing her bags:

Customer: You know, the last time I was in here, something awful happened to me.

Cashier: What happened?

Customer: Someone pushed in front of me, and I complained, and he punched me in the head.

Cashier: In the head? I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: Yes. He assaulted me.

Cashier: I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: Your security guard escorted him out, and then he came back, and took me to my car, in case I was attacked again.

Cashier: I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: It's an awful world, when you just come out to get some basics, and you get punched.

Cashier: Do you have a Nectar card?

At home with weebles

Had a fight with Fats & Fats over the weekend, a.k.a the New Zealand contingent of our lovely house share.

Well that's not a very good nickname, I hear you cry, certainly not good enough to be applied twice.

But guys, it's symbolic, of their never-ending simplicity, and the shape of their bodies.

I took a photo of them for you.

Before you accuse me of being a bully, the blonde one is intensely racist, and the other Fats accepts her, racism and all.

They're leaving at the end of March.

I'm not sure if this knowledge has made them worse people - like there's only three weeks left of any repercussions, or if it's us. Either way, we are sparring every few days, and two arguments away from a knifing.

Ginger: Hey guys, can we please use one of the surfaces in here?

Blonde Fats: No.

Ginger: Are you using that laptop on the table?

Blonde Fats: Yes. And who uses a table for cutting food on. It's a fucking table.

Me: It's a fucking kitchen.

Other Fats: You can go near the sink.

Ginger: You are both pathetic.

We were getting really excited about the prospect of them leaving/dying. Until this email arrived:

More? More of them? I sent out an S.O.S to the others:

No one replied.

I'm on my own with this.

After years of trying to suppress my inner weird, I've got to find a way to let it all hang out.

Do you like my email owl photo? I think it conveys a mixture of shock and judgement.

I'll be very receptive to any ideas of sabotage that you can offer. I'm not really interested in ones that require a huge amount of set-up, because Wednesday is my pretend-to-be-a-writer-day, and I need as much time, looking at my laptop, and pretending to be a writer, as possible.

CHEERS xg

Write it off

The week's already a roaring success.

Spent the majority of the morning trying to conceal two green fairies on my face.

Needless to say, Ginger purchased me a Kinder Egg Surprise, in which resided a Tinkerbell stamp ring. I tested the capabilities of aforementioned ring on my right palm, shortly before falling asleep.
In the night, I have lovingly cradled my own face, and thus marked it with two very well defined sprites in luminescent green.

Only slightly less humiliating than Friday morning, which saw me projectile vomit down the side of a Tesco Express.

I've been trying really hard to get my shit together in 2015, but I'm afraid that the forecast for this year is looking much worse than for the last.

Is anyone out there who has mastered elegance, poise and integrity, willing to take me on as a protege?

I can do better. Really. And eventually, convenience shops everywhere will be safe from my binge drinking.

Anyone?

I don't have any money. I've spent it all on the wedding and alcohol (obvs), but I can pay you in the business cards of over-enthusiastic photographers.

Ginger and I stumbled out of the National Wedding Show yesterday, like babies from the trauma of the womb. So much glitter, so much pink, so many promises of everlasting memories. I guess that doesn't really paint an accurate picture of childbirth, but I'm not a writer anymore guys, I work in admin.

The point is, it was pretty disgusting. And I got a headache, and conned into a massage from a body builder. As I sat down for my presumed free rub, he said,

"The way it works, is that people pay what they think I deserve, which is usually £10-£20."

And I thought, well that's £10 of my Lambrini dosh down the pooper.

Then I watched Ginger's lovely, autumnal face level with mine, and an overjoyed girl place her hands on his shoulders. Well that's £20 of my Lambrini dosh down the pooper.

It's weird being enthusiastically jiggled in front of people eating their over-priced baguettes, mere metres away. Probably won't do that again.

On the plus side, after entering fifty competitions, we probably will win a honeymoon in Jamaica, and a crate of Baileys.

Totes worth it.

Sleep of the week - Hall of fame

This is the best sleep of the week I will ever take.

I don't know where to go from here

Should I shut down the feature?

It feels like I should.

It's what Barnie (the dog in the photo). would want.

I think they are best friends.

I'm sorry that my finger is slightly in shot - I was overexcited by the potential.

It was a really busy tube, and lots of people kept heading over, staring at the sleeping duo, and deciding not to engage.

But I really wanted someone to say, "Can you please move your dog?"

Londoners are cowards.

If I was a more awesome person, I would've picked the dog up, and sat back down with it on my lap.

But I'm not.

Plus, Barnie and Barry were emitting a strange smell.

We also have Barry later in the week, on his way to a Safari:

The man loves a bit of beige.

It's nice that he has trimmed his beard.

But where the fuck is Barnie?

Oh, oh I get it, a weathered Londoner has sat on him, and by the looks of it, Barry has then sat a bit on her. Seems fair.

Who the hell is this guy:

No one likes him. I think it's because his shoelaces are made of brown linguine pasta. Or maybe because he's cupping himself.

Is anyone awake? It doesn't look like it guys.

I am, I've hardly slept. But I don't think you can tell.

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.

4) WEDDINGS

5) PRETTY LITTLE LIARS

That is all. Thanks for your time.

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.

Why?

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.

HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A GREAT DAY.

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!

http://www.travelinsurancedirect.com.au/tripwise/guide-to-japan/chikan-and-wandering-hands

'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!"

"Police!"

"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.

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.