tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-541469056831187432024-02-19T05:56:53.776+00:00WriterAtLunchWriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.comBlogger209125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-76685259844167834002017-03-31T15:40:00.001+01:002017-03-31T15:40:02.358+01:00Drink meThere aren't many things I like about my husband (as you may have already gathered) but there's one thing I like.<br />
<br />
Nay reader, love.<br />
<br />
And I mean LOVE.<br />
<br />
His Vitality membership. For those of you not blessed with this, it's essentially a membership (paid for by companies who love their employees) where the employee is rewarded with gifts when they exercise.<br />
<br />
Every time Ginger Beard completes a certain number of steps, Vitality rewards him with a Starbucks voucher. I then force him to send me said voucher and get free coffee.<br />
<br />
That's right, his getting fitter, supports me getting fatter (I love me a caramel macchiato).<br />
<br />
Here's what annoys me:<br />
<br />
When he's not moving.<br />
<br />
Because when his little, oddly shaped feet aren't dancing about, coffee is not on the menu.<br />
<br />
When he comes home from work and is all, '<i>How was your day? I missed you!</i>'<br />
<br />
I'm like, '<i>Shut up and start running. I don't have time for this shit</i>.'<br />
<br />
And then I push him out the door, and close my eyes, and try to forgive him for being slow.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I resent it when he sleeps.<br />
<br />
His sleeping benefits me not at all.<br />
<br />
This is what they meant when they told me that marriage would be tough I guess. You have to acknowledge their shortcomings and then try very, very hard, to change them.<br />
<br />
But I wonder if it would just be quicker to divorce him and then marry someone like Usain Bolt?<br />
<br />
Can you imagine that volume of coffee?<br />
<br />
I can. Despite the fact that due to to my excessively high volume of caffeine intake, my vision is strobing.<br />
<br />
Usain takes so many steps, that unlike Ginger Beard, he would have time to eat dinner and see his friends AND keep me in coffee.<br />
<br />
The best ideas come to me on Fridays. Good ol' Fridays.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-57476887332259029352017-02-17T10:28:00.000+00:002017-02-17T12:59:17.052+00:00Lose like a bossGuys, I am very clearly on a losing streak.<br />
<br />
Yes, you might use my choice of a life partner as evidence of this, but it's not something I'm ready to talk about.<br />
<br />
Just
as I was about to type out this post, I knocked an entire cup of tea
over my desk. Now, in all my clumsy years, never have I been able to
empty out the whole cup. Furthermore, never have I so expertly targeted
my phone, keyboard and mouse, so that when tilting these items slightly,
rivers of tea fell down to my socks.<br />
<br />
I am not surprised by this.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Because this week (and hopefully this week only) I am losing.<br />
<br />
Luckily, this is not unfamiliar territory to me. You don't get drive by ketchuped
in your youth and emerge from the experience thinking that luck is on
your side. No, you ready yourself for the next saucing. You make a
mental note to purchase a range of waterproof jackets and start to wash
your hair less frequently, because, well, you just never know when it's
coming. Only that <i>it is</i> coming.<br />
<br />
I started trying
to get fit this week, started with an early morning lane swim. When
they're cleaning the swim changing rooms, you can only use the dry
sports changing. Which is fine, until you return from the pool, and
realise there's no privacy, just one wide open room. I'm not good with
nudity.<br />
<br />
Despite my foul mouth, and love of all things dark and inappropriate, I want everyone's
bits (including my own) wrapped up and out of sight. It's the chink in
my otherwise shameless armour. My close family could not be more
different - and used to swan about, bathroom door wide open, tanning in
the garden stark naked. Whilst I would run quickly away from the
slightest sight of buttock.<br />
<br />
Thus began the mammoth
challenge of me trying to cover myself with my small towel, whilst
simultaneously trying to dry and dress. Luckily everyone else was in
front of me, so I just had to focus on covering my front (which is where
most of the offensive
articles are). So I was quite happy to bend over in order to dry my
toes etc. When I was fully dressed, I turned around to find that a full
length mirror was directly behind me.<br />
<br />
I've not yet made any friends at the pool.<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
Last
night I tried a Hula Hoop exercise class. I assumed (and I think it was
a fair assumption, judging by my masterful ability over the skipping
rope as a child and the level of dance moves I have thrown out in clubs
across the UK) that I would be simply marvellous.<br />
<br />
I was not marvellous.<br />
<br />
I was humiliated.<br />
<br />
When
I wasn't simulating aggressive sex with the invisible man, I was
picking my hoop off the floor. Picking it up, over and over, after it
had smacked into my shins, for an hour, whilst everyone else, fat or
thin, fit or not, and even my own 65 year old mother, performed
effortless spin magic.<br />
<br />
Keep smiling the instructor said.<br />
<br />
Keep
smiling? It was effort enough not to burst into tears folks. But I
didn't feel like uttering the truth, which would've been something like<br />
<br />
<i> 'I'm
sorry that I'm almost thirty and yet somehow crying like a hysterical
child in your class, but I'm losing a lot recently, including, since you
asked, being rejected from the Jerwood Writing Mentorship
Scheme, which I was foolishly holding up as some kind of last ditch
attempt to retain my sense of self as a writer. And I have mistakenly
assumed that if I came here tonight and smashed this hoola
hoop lark out the fucking park, then everything would be okay, but I
was wrong. Because I am very clearly shit. And very clearly red. And
life is not what Disney sold me. Not at all.'</i><br />
<br />
So I didn't cry.<br />
<br />
I HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A REALLY GREAT TIME.<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-72868250599664299512017-01-24T17:17:00.000+00:002017-01-24T17:17:02.383+00:00Yes Sir, No Sir.Been going through a bag of old school reports. Illuminating stuff. I was a very special thiirteen year old:<br />
<br />
History - '<i>I am enjoying our new topic on slavery</i>.'<br />
R.E - '<i>This year in R.E I have really enjoyed the topic on racism</i>.'<br />
<br />
Maybe this is why I don't have any friends who aren't both White and British. Who enjoys the historical struggles faced by ethnic minorities? ME.<br />
<br />
I was also a shitty fifteen year old:<br />
<br />
'<i>My weakeness currently is 'apparently' in maths</i>.'<br />
<br />
It really was. I was shit at maths. A girl called Yasmin threatened to attack me if I didn't do her homework and I was like, '<i>Look, I'm sorry, because I really don't want to be stabbed, but you will fail maths if I do your homework</i>.' Then she laughed, and told everyone on our table that I was actually alright. And she never attacked me.<br />
<br />
Come to think of it, bad things happened to me regularly in maths. Like, once a boy touched my thigh by accident then turned a worrying shade of purple and never talked to me again. It's a shame because we used to have some top quality conversation. But I guess my legs are pretty intimidating at the best of times.<br />
<br />
Also one of my math's teachers was fired, becuase he was arrested for growing weed in his garage.<br />
<br />
I had to take extra math's lessons in my spare time. It's amazing that I have a healthy relationship with my mother.<br />
<br />
ALSO - and this is just a school thing in general, I once started a petition against the two most popular girls in school called the 'I hate Clare and Emma Petition.' I've changed their names in case they read this and come for me. I really don't think I understood what a petition was. But a lot of people signed it. And then Clare's sister found me and tried to throw me through a window on the second floor of the building. But my history teacher, drawn over by the crowd screaming for my blood, interrupted and saved my life. I can't remember his name, but he used to carry a large volume of pencils in his pockets which made him both a painful person to bump into in the corridor and a popular target for penis jokes. However, he was probably more well liked than me at this particular juncture.<br />
<br />
You might be thinking that I was very unpopular at school. But you'd be wrong. I bought my trousers from M&S, was only comfortable in flat shoes and was once in a band naievly named, 'Threesome.' I spent many lunch breaks on daddy long legs killing sprees (their small deaths made me feel safer in the world), and got very upset when people borrowed my gel pens, then failed to return them.<br />
<br />
That is all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-15225522133575563692016-10-25T16:36:00.000+01:002016-10-25T16:36:07.784+01:00You are what you eatAlright Chumps?<br />
<br />
As myself and the lovely Ginger Beard are soon to be in a new home, I've signed up to several Chester Facebook groups where people sell shit.<br />
<br />
And they are WONDERFUL. I don't mean that anything is useful or worth buying. But the bizareness of them keeps me chuckling throughout the day, like irrelvant but comforting colleagues.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2UKABX3wjmyfi7wJ4ZimSPFRD4rjLtrtxAw_wM9_5luF6EIzRDBieVSfLDdtGdwMtrb2IHTuWAtOxFTWv69Lq7x_32eRxdOv6YkCJDbLxB_YKMnPR1B_4GYlIKmfYVsyOseBZ0nuVdo/s1600/afsd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2UKABX3wjmyfi7wJ4ZimSPFRD4rjLtrtxAw_wM9_5luF6EIzRDBieVSfLDdtGdwMtrb2IHTuWAtOxFTWv69Lq7x_32eRxdOv6YkCJDbLxB_YKMnPR1B_4GYlIKmfYVsyOseBZ0nuVdo/s400/afsd.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
This is my favourite, for many reasons. Mainly becuase the lady selling this has titled it 'Children's book about dealing with divorce' and then provided a two-step, two book approach:<br />
<br />
<b>Step one:</b> Parents' divorce<br />
<br />
<b>Step two:</b> One parent kills other parent<br />
<br />
Don't worry - I have flagged it to the police.<br />
<br />
I really want to buy them, but not from this murderer so I looked the first one up on Amazon. One reviewer writes that the messages are positive, but that the cartoon children have grim expressions throughout.<br />
<br />
The little boy looks like a child David Bowie, so that's one thing he's got going for him, even if his parents don't love him enough anymore to stay together.<br />
<br />
No one has reviewed the death book. I imagine the child abuse hair cut of the cover model put them off.<br />
<br />
ANYWAY<br />
<br />
I went to see my dental hygienist today and she was all like,<br />
<br />
<i>'So, what's new with your mouth?'</i><br />
<br />
And I was like, <i>'I snapped my inside brace in half and you guys replaced it with fibre glass last week.'</i><br />
<br />
And she said, <i>'How on earth did you do that?'</i><br />
<br />
And I said: <i>'Sandwich.'</i><br />
<br />
And she looked and my teeth and said <i>'You're sustained a few traumas to the roof of your mouth.'</i><br />
<br />
And I was like, <i>'Yeah, hot potato.'</i><br />
<br />
And she was like, <i>'What?'</i><br />
<br />
And I was like, <i>'I burnt it eating a hot potato.'</i><br />
<br />
And I really don't think I can go back there, becuase these people don't think I can eat food responsibility.<br />
<br />
ALSO you hear that carbs are bad for you, and here we are thinking it's once they're dissolving within your stomach rather than during the initial entry into your face.<br />
<br />
Be careful. <br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-83544652088025499952016-08-08T14:25:00.002+01:002016-08-08T14:25:42.258+01:00Seeking a friendGood news guys - alongside the building, gut deep realisation that this marriage is just not going to work, I know have physical proof too.<br />
<br />
Our wedding rings are attacking us. Ginger was the first one to notice that the skin under his ring was looking proper dodge, like eczema on crack. Checking mine, revealed the same. Plus, if you squint, and then completely lie, the cracked skin spells out the word, 'Divorce'.<br />
<br />
Even though I am sure that we need to call it a day before our fingers fall off, I Googled it. Google thinks it's Wedding Ring Dermatitis, and not in fact, a symptom of the sham life we have concocted together. Google is wrong.<br />
<br />
It also claims that this is easily treatable. But you try evicting a desperate Geordie who sees you as a role model, and let me know how this turns out.<br />
<br />
This is what they say on Brides.com (a source of great wisdom):<br />
<br />
<i>'While you should definitely see a doctor or dermatologist if your
symptoms escalate, here are a few at-home remedies you can try first to
help resolve the rash -
<strong>Take your ring off.</strong>'</i><br />
<br />
They do provide a long list of remedies, but I'm only going to focus on the first one. And it's definitely not because I want to find out what calibre of man I can reel in, without the off-putting indication of my marriage on show.<br />
<br />
ALSO,<br />
<br />
How do you get friends?<br />
<br />
I mean OBVIOUSLY I have friends. But let's say, hypothetically that I've moved somewhere new, and I work from home, and am no longer in education, and don't really have any friends.<br />
<br />
How would one acquire some?<br />
<br />
I've begun to draft an ad for the paper (but maybe I'll just put it online because no friend of mine is going to be the kind of person who reads the paper. But then again maybe they married a smarty pants fake Doctor like I did, and their husband reads it and is all like, 'Hey, honey, there's a girl just like you in the paper. She doesn't have any friends either!':<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Girl without friends, seeks friends. Those who do not entirely confirm to the below criteria should not waste their time:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">- Watches/has previously watched/is prepared to watch, all eleven seasons of Grey's Anatomy. (That's all I can really talk about these days).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">-Enjoys brief walks on flat terrain.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">- Drinks coffee (I don't really trust people who don't rely on the stimulation of legal drugs).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">-Has a substantially unattractive partner (am considering divorce and do not want to target your partner as a rebound and thus destroy the friendship before it's really had a chance).</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-8184686898629666592016-05-30T15:21:00.004+01:002016-05-30T15:23:38.294+01:00Shiny and newOne of the best things about moving to a new place is the possibility of reinvention. You have to create a new existence for yourself; potentially a new job, new friends, a new lifestyle, and so, you might as well take up the opportunity to create a new you in the process.<br />
<br />
I desire to be the kind of person who is instrumental in the team's Pub Quiz victory, the one who can go deep into the well of their knowledge and return, to much acclaim, with the right answer.<br />
<br />
And people would say things like, 'Bloody hell, I knew Gemma was an expert on starting unsuccessful online businesses, but I had no idea that she also had such an impressive grasp on Victorian Britain!'<br />
<br />
And I would blush, but not too much, because I am not really that humble about it.<br />
<br />
And then they would quit our quiz team out of shame and shake their fist at their own poor quality education and wonder how my brain could be so big, and yet my head, so small.<br />
<br />
YES.<br />
<br />
But when I went to the pub quiz, a strange thing happened; I didn't know any of the answers. Now, my first complaint is that there weren't any thick questions, you know, questions for the thicker individual, which is surely a staple of the pub quiz. Questions which give inferior minds a chance to take part and not feel like completely redundant morons.<br />
<br />
My second complaint is that not a single question centred around any of my numerous abilities:<br />
<br />
-Spontaneous poetry<br />
-Self-deprecation<br />
-Discussing things to an insane and tedious level of intricacy.<br />
<br />
In other words kids, it was a fucking joke.<br />
<br />
No one else seemed to have a problem with answering, but I very much doubt that they are a match for my impressive mind - a mind which undertook many hours of extra Math lessons and then totally bossed it by just scraping a C.<br />
<br />
Ginger Beard was very supportive at first, and my sense of humour did a great job of inflating and creating a protective barrier between the truth and my ego, for a time.<br />
<br />
But when Ginger marched me to Waterstones, and made me buy several stimulating books on general knowledge, I knew that my sensational good looks and above par dinner table manners, were no longer enough for him.<br />
<br />
If this marriage was going to survive it's first fragile year, I would have to up my game. And so I did three, crucial things. I threw my unread copy of Glamour magazine in the bin (not before removing the free samples within), I ordered glasses with extra large frames from Specsavers and I hid those awful, boring books so that they couldn't hurt anyone, anymore.<br />
<br />
Then I realised, it's okay, I don't need to be a genius, because I'm going to be an artist. And art doesn't have time for history, or geography, or any of the other subject matters which I know absolutely nothing about. You take some paint, and you bosh it somewhere, and you demand a lot of money. So I went to a drinking and painting evening. And my canvas is so bad, that Ginger has hung it up in the lounge to make him feel better about himself.<br />
<br />
Join me for the next blog, when I will further engage in activities which only serve to confirm my failings!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-69563096687759585052016-03-17T12:06:00.001+00:002016-03-17T12:06:30.986+00:00And the Lord saidOne of my housemates is creating his own religion. At least that's what he's calling it. I prefer, cult.<br />
<br />
He helpfully left a ton of notes (a first draft perhaps) of it in the bathroom. But if he's reading it when taking a dump, it doesn't bode well - showing very little respect indeed for his own work.<br />
<br />
If I was a better, more forward-thinking person, I would've taken photos. Because the delightful find has now disappeared.<br />
<br />
Every page addressed the reader as 'You,' and instructed them on how to live their lives according to his new, invented cult.<br />
<br />
I'm going to knock on his door over the weekend and ask to join.<br />
<br />
Hopefully their is a challenging, and yet fun, initiation process.<br />
<br />
I've always wanted to truly belong somewhere and now is my chance.<br />
<br />
He's the same housemate who we caught listening to 'Walking in the air' from 'The Snowman' at crazy volume last week.<br />
<br />
He's very posh and, evidently, very special.<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
WE'RE LEAVING LONDON. That's right, leaving, evacuating ship, abandoning the big smoke, (I've had to start looking for synonyms), parting ways, saying goodbye.<br />
<br />
The danger here, is assuming that my life will become immediately better in 7,000 ways. What if it's not? What if I end up missing being yelled at about the bin rota, or craving the grey blur of a mouse as it darts behind the fridge?<br />
<br />
What will I have left to complain about?<br />
<br />
Oh, oh wait, there's still Ginger Beard. At ease people, at ease.<br />
<br />
Ginger's new company has offered him a relocation budget. I am going to buy:<br />
<br />
-Moving shoes - shoes which are equally sensible and stylish, often referred to as, 'The moving girl's shoes.'<br />
<br />
-Moving snacks - high in calories and fat so that we can maintain momentum.<br />
<br />
-Moving puppies. Because no one can do a good job of shifting their shit from London to Chester without an array of over-excited Collie-Cross Spaniels.<br />
<br />
And bottle of Disaronno, to take the edge off being in a small van with Ginger for four hours. Because he might want to discuss our sham of a marriage in front of my occasional friend and historic colleague JB.<br />
<br />
I'm happy to discuss it with JB directly, but I don't want Ginger to be mouthing of without my total inebriation, all like, 'JB, I'm so unhappy, Gemma is more attractive and intelligent than me, and I'm struggling with it.'<br />
<br />
Quit your jibber jabber fool.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-41259199081174621082016-02-19T09:03:00.003+00:002016-02-19T09:03:46.124+00:00Brutal Beard 2To get some context, you might need to read the post just before this one.<br />
<br />
According to my colleagues, I have smug wife face.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDdw7Yw-1M_4FXEfQw1nKejz6GCzukcprSgiq4jqUXEMRhNMaQWFv0MABIQSKbk1OQUmklWrQkiopnqw7KLv11BCg-AtaBJBO2kS0xY3pd0N4FNRv4nblqZ-hZ5GXu-jJfY3CwvFpe8I/s1600/email+3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRDdw7Yw-1M_4FXEfQw1nKejz6GCzukcprSgiq4jqUXEMRhNMaQWFv0MABIQSKbk1OQUmklWrQkiopnqw7KLv11BCg-AtaBJBO2kS0xY3pd0N4FNRv4nblqZ-hZ5GXu-jJfY3CwvFpe8I/s640/email+3.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ5mrlcsQaUh5wW44dnJrdEWfZQhHiwXMVt1wywN2_5Ysn_jflOUqpTDzp6C_ub_MJc3FfE05jwEFTl8qVZuMy4ANEU00Hao6EdTwmPDoQmIt0FTNg10b28-QdEsRfUUOVc6SarB2eVA/s1600/email+4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ5mrlcsQaUh5wW44dnJrdEWfZQhHiwXMVt1wywN2_5Ysn_jflOUqpTDzp6C_ub_MJc3FfE05jwEFTl8qVZuMy4ANEU00Hao6EdTwmPDoQmIt0FTNg10b28-QdEsRfUUOVc6SarB2eVA/s640/email+4.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It's not often that I get to be proud of the Ginger I married. Let's all embrace this brief moment.WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-64877611770599575352016-02-18T08:31:00.003+00:002016-02-18T08:31:44.490+00:00Brutal BeardThe title of this blog (if you're wondering) is Ginger Beard's new name, purely based on the hilarious email he decided to send the estate agency who run our flat.<br />
<br />
Let's start with the one I sent....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04Y-vbUh56dc0b8zxDojpS2cR-ITPt3O2Nwq9QxMcT_RFNO-zSxHdUYzNgCOH9YPoJT-139nc3AuLGLMV1QfldlqDYvq1j60d-A_B7yeJ29UpcoWJlbTB8p3Uvuq75BoJVYZVk0s3CB8/s1600/email+1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj04Y-vbUh56dc0b8zxDojpS2cR-ITPt3O2Nwq9QxMcT_RFNO-zSxHdUYzNgCOH9YPoJT-139nc3AuLGLMV1QfldlqDYvq1j60d-A_B7yeJ29UpcoWJlbTB8p3Uvuq75BoJVYZVk0s3CB8/s640/email+1.png" width="640" /></a><br />
And swiftly move on to Brutal Beard's response...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3P3Z8gup_f_67v9_AT-JNL6Ecb9sh0pHJLXyg3BUvTuYbf39Ygb-JWQaF1tm9HnT6ToCXjwE9exbGkFLubtYfW2SECrbV9m2o6djg95KPrKdZZTVYCi2gGOEZiqKEVnp3mFVOpIsKyB4/s1600/email+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3P3Z8gup_f_67v9_AT-JNL6Ecb9sh0pHJLXyg3BUvTuYbf39Ygb-JWQaF1tm9HnT6ToCXjwE9exbGkFLubtYfW2SECrbV9m2o6djg95KPrKdZZTVYCi2gGOEZiqKEVnp3mFVOpIsKyB4/s640/email+2.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Modern romance Ladies and Gents, modern fucking romance.WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-38383362499038707022016-01-29T09:02:00.000+00:002016-01-29T09:02:58.347+00:00Do the right thingI've completely given up on receiving a free coffee from Pret.<br />
<br />
Just before Christmas I realised that they only give them out to minorities, after hearing that my ginger friend Jen got one. Well, natural brunettes with an alarming amount of white hair need coffee too.<br />
<br />
But they are not, evidently, going to be getting it free from Pret anytime soon.<br />
<br />
I've instead been building up the courage to offer one of the array of Big Issue sellers outside of the place, a drink.<br />
<br />
I know it sounds ridiculous, but although most people only require for courage for one or a mixture of the following ventures:<br />
<br />
-Saying hard things<br />
-Tough times<br />
-Climbing a mountain<br />
<br />
I need to summon courage for the little things. After building up to this act for months, I finally thought, 'Here we are, today is the day!'<br />
<br />
And so I did what any other reasonable, commuting woman would do, with charity in her heart and an occasionally acknowledged anxiety disorder, I approached him from behind.<br />
<br />
That's right, coffee and a heart attack, I am too kind.<br />
<br />
I then essentially yelled at his back, <i>'I'm just going to get myself a hot drink, would you like one?'</i><br />
<br />
And he said, <i>'No, I've just had one thank you.'</i><br />
<br />
WHICH COMPLETELY THREW ME.<br />
<br />
I mean he might as well have spoken in Latin (that's right people, a dead language).<br />
<br />
The thing with me is that I tend to think over, in intricate detail, a range of likely scenarios. And if someone dares to stray from the script, which they've never seen, then I am, in a word, FLUMMOXED<br />
<br />
I said, <i>'Are you sure?'</i><br />
<br />
He said, <i>'Yes, thank you though.'</i><br />
<br />
I stood there for a bit, silently.<br />
<br />
Should I have offered food? I'm not sure. It's bothering me. What if he was waiting for me to offer a ham and cheese twist, and I failed him?<br />
<br />
Ginger has a great story, where he offered a homeless man a falafel kebab, straight out of the shop. The guy looked inside the wrapping, made a face, threw the thing in the bin and lit a cigarette.<br />
<br />
I think it comes down this horrible feeling we have of, <i>finally, I'm doing something good, it's a small thing, but I'm giving back</i>, being met with, in essence, rejection.<br />
<br />
Elation that gets smacked down.<br />
<br />
There's nothing mean about what these two men did. It's just sometimes we can forget that they have a right, just as we do, to say no, to have preferences, to not be, as we assume, desperate for anything they can get.<br />
<br />
Wow, that was deep. I went deep, and it felt weird.<br />
<br />
Let's get shallow; you look pretty.<br />
<br />
Better<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-73878673110066047492015-11-30T08:43:00.001+00:002015-11-30T08:43:33.810+00:00The tiny fridge demonIt 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.<br />
<br />
A very disconcerting soundtrack when you're in a towel eating your Crunchy Nut cornflakes.<br />
<br />
I immediately told Ginger, assuming that he would do a man thing.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Google says, put it in a sandwich bag, seal it, and hit the mouse on the head with a hammer.<br />
<br />
I AM STRUGGLING WITH THIS PRE 9AM.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
SERIOUSLY. I could see it in them, all tantalizing and easy. I bet the next bitch in the line really got some.<br />
<br />
SORRY. But I have a headache because the fridge demon thing really shit me up.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
However on Saturday, this is the time I had:<br />
<br />
After spilling his drink on me, man says: <i>I'm not going to apologise</i>.<br />
<br />
Me: <i>Why not?</i><br />
<br />
Man: Because <i>I'm a c**</i>t.<br />
<br />
I've left the asterix in for my mum.<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure if it should be asterixis, but then I googled it - <span style="background-color: white; color: #6a6a6a; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18.2px;">A</span><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #6a6a6a; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2px;">sterixis</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2px;"> (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.</span></b><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me and Google are really not getting along today. BAD GOOGLE.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;">I can't read the words 'liver flap', I'm trying to drink a cappuccino here, ffs.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;">ALSO, I finished my novel, and early as well, which is probably a reflection of the low quality of my life throughout November. Bravo.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;">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.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;">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.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;">Wish me luck.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-72236803908987520192015-11-12T13:07:00.000+00:002015-11-12T13:07:15.710+00:00Dear LondonIt just might help if I compose<br />
A list of my main London woes<br />
It's worth a try I guess, here goes:<br />
<br />
What is this black stuff in my nose?<br />
<br />
Fine yes, the city never sleeps<br />
But roars awake with glass and beeps<br />
<br />
Dawn chorus you are mighty shrill<br />
Through my single glazed and sill<br />
<br />
And lest we not forget the trains<br />
Bright hearses for our spent remains<br />
<br />
Grab me, grope me, push me hard<br />
I'll pay you with my Oyster card<br />
<br />
We have sunk in your dark belly<br />
Sleepless nights and box set telly<br />
<br />
On we march, persistent herd<br />
'Privacy' a term absurd<br />
<br />
Competition rough and rife<br />
Dreaming of the country life<br />
<br />
Thought it would be wondrous - Psych!<br />
Drink your way through<br />
And poor as you likeWriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-65713491905834804562015-11-10T08:38:00.000+00:002015-11-10T08:38:12.541+00:00Pay upI'm determined to get a free coffee from Pret - because nothing tastes better than free.<br />
<br />
I'm trying out different personas to see if I can crack them.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
BUT I DIDN'T GET ONE.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
<br />
BUT I DIDN'T GET ONE.<br />
<br />
I'm running out of personas, and fast.<br />
<br />
There's nothing left do to but Google.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">'</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.'</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
Shit the bed. That's where I've been going wrong - getting served by women, who are statistically unlikely to be both:<br />
<br />
-Gay<br />
<br />
AND<br />
<br />
-Attracted to sour faced administrators.<br />
<br />
GOD DAMN IT.<br />
<br />
Conflicting advice:<br />
<br />
'<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'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.</span><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Any advice for people who can't feel joy? Nope, not one bit,</span><div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I can do a lot of things - nice, sure, put upon, sure, BUT HAPPY? FUCKING HAPPY?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It's an absolute joke, and only one thing is clear to me; I will never get a free coffee from Pret.</span></div>
WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-59531425177128411082015-11-05T09:08:00.001+00:002015-11-05T09:08:49.374+00:00The big yawnGuys, I am stooopid.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It hurts already. I think I'm sick.<br />
<br />
What's that? You want to help? Well you can, by taking a look at the teeny business Ginger and I have just launched!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/OtherWonders">https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/OtherWonders</a><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Probably the same tosser who loudly announced, '<i>Oh alright, whack another half mil on, to sweeten the deal</i>,' as he passed me last night.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I think it's called Weather Watch - and the idea is that you send in notes on the weather, exactly where you are.<br />
<br />
If you're interested, sign up here - http://www.bbc.co.uk/weatherwatchers<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'm not even shitting you, this is on the homepage -<br />
<br />
<h2 class="banner__title" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Bligh; font-size: 3rem; margin: 0px 0px 0.5rem; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
How's the weather where you are?</h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; line-height: 30px; text-align: center;"><b>Join the nation's favourite conversation.</b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; line-height: 30px; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 30px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">God help us all. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 30px; text-align: center;">Frequent, maybe. I'll give them that - the nation's most frequent conversation. But FAVOURITE? FAVOURITE?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 30px; text-align: center;">Who are these people?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 30px; text-align: center;">Nevertheless, I'm intrigued. I read on.</span></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm so angry. I think it's because I'm tired. I'M SO TIRED.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Love you all.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 30px; text-align: center;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; line-height: 30px; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<h2 class="banner__title" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Bligh; font-size: 3rem; margin: 0px 0px 0.5rem; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: white;">you are?</span></h2>
<div class="intro-message" style="box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 10px; text-align: center;">
<div class="banner__text" style="box-sizing: inherit; color: white; font-size: 1.5rem; line-height: 1.25; text-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.4) 2px 2px 11px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-5744386519996005062015-10-21T08:47:00.002+01:002015-10-21T08:47:16.820+01:00The Pret ThreatJust received the most aggressively fashioned, 'Take care,' of my life, and from a lady in Pret.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So two things really:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
UP YOURS PRET.<br />
<br />
God, I really know how to stick it to the man.<br />
<br />
My next novel (yeah, like I have a first) - 'Don't get angry, get even.'<br />
<br />
Speaking of novels, it's that glorious time of year again where Nanowrimo is peeking up like some unwanted, ugly meerkat.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
What's in it for me?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
What's in it for you?<br />
<br />
I go insane (Yes, that's right. It gets even worse than it is already).<br />
<br />
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? <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/">http://nanowrimo.org/</a><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I even have my first line ready and waiting, 'My mum decided to die in my favorite place.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I must boldly go where...oh wait..I'm plagiarizing again.<br />
<br />
Better quit while I'm ahead.WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-35243790197875927762015-10-08T09:01:00.000+01:002015-10-08T09:01:23.062+01:00A shiny, new leafGuys it's so grim; another new housemate.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
He said, '<i>I love violence</i>.'<br />
<br />
The other one, Alan, announced that London had broken him, whilst stuffing his face with Burger King fries. '<i>I fucking hate it. It's fucking shit. Fuck this</i>.'<br />
<br />
What a charming, mentally stable bunch.<br />
<br />
In other news, Ginger isn't talking to me because I watched the Bake Off final without him.<br />
<br />
I'm still laughing at my mug two years after I've bought it:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3C0aHPxYoZqFhuIju51l1FWnU-vcpza2mRW2bT4bEauK7XwifR5-LCFIQ8nwqfEfbUjZqXSKbwM8vfEaAawqe0-Z7boTS6UWQIwQGhcaZOsTBFu6gNOQ9vydCxBBridvQxCw0b7miq4Y/s1600/mug.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3C0aHPxYoZqFhuIju51l1FWnU-vcpza2mRW2bT4bEauK7XwifR5-LCFIQ8nwqfEfbUjZqXSKbwM8vfEaAawqe0-Z7boTS6UWQIwQGhcaZOsTBFu6gNOQ9vydCxBBridvQxCw0b7miq4Y/s1600/mug.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And</span> I've decided to donate the majority of my hair to charity.<br />
<br />
That's right people, I've done something nice.<br />
<br />
I keep telling colleagues,'<i>You might have noticed, my hair is short, because I've given it TO CHARITY</i>.'<br />
<br />
And their like, '<i>Yeah, I know, I saw on Facebook</i>.'<br />
<br />
And I'm like, '<i>Right exactly, I just wanted to give something back to the community. Just do the right thing you know?</i>'<br />
<br />
And they make an excuse to leave.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Oh! Maybe I'll stop lying and blaming my mistakes on others!<br />
<br />
No, not that last one. That last one doesn't sit right.<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-33453288702315569032015-09-22T08:58:00.002+01:002015-09-22T08:58:57.477+01:00Baby Mama (not me)Now guys, I don't condone bullying in any form.....<br />
<br />
BUT<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
That's why I took photos of a woman who thought her doll was a real baby.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsKewX9bq545CRrTrIo0UWNrK9fNjLByyww1E1twfyONdD70Y2GiNkK6JVXwcZYiv5DUCmMU0fvN1Zb59RRriG8Ui91D35zpmzoHOYWEGHsd8Bii_3cwtHjCRYbSX2kvmQFkqzcwBypY/s1600/baby+moma.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsKewX9bq545CRrTrIo0UWNrK9fNjLByyww1E1twfyONdD70Y2GiNkK6JVXwcZYiv5DUCmMU0fvN1Zb59RRriG8Ui91D35zpmzoHOYWEGHsd8Bii_3cwtHjCRYbSX2kvmQFkqzcwBypY/s640/baby+moma.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I didn't say they were good photos.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
When she got to the counter, she set the doll down.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And I was all 'POST THE BABY, POST THE BABY!'<br />
<br />
But she didn't, which was the first of several disappointments for me that day.<br />
<br />
NOW, as stipulated, I'm talking about this so that we can learn to embrace difference. So I did some research.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
How are they reborn? I can only imagine that there are dead babies inside the plastic, now reborn as dolls.<br />
<br />
'<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2c2c; font-family: 'PT Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;">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.'</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2c2c; font-family: 'PT Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2c2c; line-height: 26px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This blog is writing itself!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2c2c; line-height: 26px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2c2c; font-family: 'PT Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;">“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.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2c2c; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;">Some of it's actually quite sad, and involves a lot of trauma.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;">I FEEL LIKE A BIT OF A DICK.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;">I think we've all grown through this experience (it's also too much work for me to start again with this blog).</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;">Just remember team, a reborn doll's for life, not just for Christmas.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #2c2c2c; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2c2c; font-family: 'PT Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: 26px;"><br /></span>
WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-16850771114145881092015-08-25T09:00:00.001+01:002015-08-25T09:00:47.471+01:00Runaway brideA few things guys.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
'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.'<br />
<br />
SERIOUSLY.<br />
<br />
He's actually alright to live with.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Ginger traced the source to Alan's cupboard and found a liquidized banana.<br />
<br />
I emailed Alan, and surprisingly I was quite nice! I managed to squash down my inner bitch for the entire correspondence!<br />
<br />
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!'<br />
<br />
Ha ha. Ha ha.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
SOZ.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It's about time I asked myself that question.<br />
<br />
Shall we put it to a vote?<br />
<br />
Or I could flip a coin?<br />
<br />
I should consider getting out of it as lightly as I got into it really.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'll sleep on it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-6680666963568017922015-08-17T08:52:00.001+01:002015-08-17T08:52:35.379+01:00Hostess with the mostessToday is a very special day for me. Very special indeed.<br />
<br />
Today, I am going to poke the bear.<br />
<br />
Don't turn this into something dirty; I know what you're like.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying I've brought a gun to work.<br />
<br />
Let's all calm down.<br />
<br />
I'm saying that a grotesque douche bag is going to be taking bullets to the face all day.<br />
<br />
HA HA HA HA HA.<br />
<br />
I'm so excited, it hurts. The suspense is causing me physical pain.<br />
<br />
What a great Monday.<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
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 '<i>Look at you Gemma, you've made a salad. And it seems to be such a great salad. Well done.'</i> I opened the fridge and got taken out by a landslide.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
'<i>Oh dear. Hope you are okay</i>.'<br />
<br />
Wha?<br />
<br />
I COULD HAVE DIED.<br />
<br />
What an awful way to go, crushed by kitchen trays and chopping boards. I deserve better than that.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
19 DAYS GUYS.<br />
<br />
Until the streets are flooded with the tears of men who realise they're no longer in the running.<br />
<br />
Gutted.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I get it. Do what you need to.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Very nice work indeed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-65258938327133284632015-07-21T11:47:00.001+01:002015-07-21T11:47:52.615+01:00Buzz offPeople (or specifically, men) keep dropping loose change at my feet.<br />
<br />
Do I look like I offer some kind of service? And judging by the variation in coins, an array of services?<br />
<br />
Or maybe, as I've been in flip flops every time, they want to help me buy some real shoes.<br />
<br />
"Please put your feet away in shoes!!'<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
That's right guys, bulk buying £1 sandwiches, that's where I've ended up in life.<br />
<br />
But oh what a bargain!<br />
<br />
ALSO,<br />
<br />
A man grabbed my bum in Habitat.<br />
<br />
Am I just a piece of meat to you guys, huh?<br />
<br />
Is it because I wear respectable dresses in the day?<br />
<br />
ALSO,<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Fifty brass keys, imported from the States.<br />
<br />
<b>GingerB</b>: What?<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Keys James, American keys.<br />
<br />
<b>GingerB:</b> For doors?<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> *Sigh* For decoration.<br />
<br />
<b>GingerB:</b> Where for?<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b>Oh my God, around, on surfaces.<br />
<br />
<b>GingerB:</b> What else?<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Ten peacock feathers.<br />
<br />
<b>James:</b> Fucking hell.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
What a team.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Because I found a bumblebee, a BUMBLEBEE, in my pants, IN MY PANTS.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
You really should. Why? Because there might just be a bumblebee chillaxing in them. #couldhavedied.<br />
<br />
Think about it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-51569304771193818422015-07-03T15:35:00.004+01:002015-07-03T15:35:51.728+01:00Inappropriate on so many levelsSo, Alan took my shower slot.<br />
<br />
It was just one time, but one time too many.<br />
<br />
There's a chance I've killed him in my sleep because that was two weeks ago and I've not see him since.<br />
<br />
Have you seen him?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Someone should probably make sure he's alright.<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZeqDUcTOpZNDlvQz4GKO-jj4qizmK6TRkRbYLJV_l4ogvsRxGpmeYb6EB7hB9G7vzlKFEzwD4NyMeREn0jTOR0vALrNxPylGHDqAQ_2LcYpxixV3WWd5OUzDPKU95QGDjWn3BVc5FUE/s1600/sdsa.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZeqDUcTOpZNDlvQz4GKO-jj4qizmK6TRkRbYLJV_l4ogvsRxGpmeYb6EB7hB9G7vzlKFEzwD4NyMeREn0jTOR0vALrNxPylGHDqAQ_2LcYpxixV3WWd5OUzDPKU95QGDjWn3BVc5FUE/s400/sdsa.png" width="217" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBsnLKgJ6u5TGgFSvlAHWkzxE2IR3g1VYLNioyijjq9H-kjlNW-jiFCCl6eXWWCGobtnGlr4xKaP1b7Hecfq9rozKtEEpzOvZuktGcswqfHexqVZvEIxiZ3gruLQ94fD1g5VwxuY9koMg/s1600/wqeq.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBsnLKgJ6u5TGgFSvlAHWkzxE2IR3g1VYLNioyijjq9H-kjlNW-jiFCCl6eXWWCGobtnGlr4xKaP1b7Hecfq9rozKtEEpzOvZuktGcswqfHexqVZvEIxiZ3gruLQ94fD1g5VwxuY9koMg/s400/wqeq.png" width="292" /></a></div>
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Highlights:<br />
<br />
- 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
- Letting people draw all over my arms in pink permanent marker.<br />
-Drinking these and being hangover free - <a href="https://www.faustspotions.com/">https://www.faustspotions.com/</a><br />
-My favourite female ginger nearly capsizing a boat we were in - on land.<br />
-Champagne near the train toilets and telling men off for not putting the seat back down.<br />
-Everyone confessing their dark secrets - the dirty scumbags,<br />
<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
Don't appreciate this email from Hobbycraft (sorry Mum).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf9MmYmkrOuy0ADuEKlq4VpBr9YhlSNVqQsHZv1sRCYFUsaZHLetFHrFd8Y-Kg6bCxI0aiiDpHrTy6pCOt2t9nAMc6xls1QcXJo1t8xKtvc1YtsPnec0oi7DbDIRyXjPUcEqBTra9pHg/s1600/qweqew.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="40" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLf9MmYmkrOuy0ADuEKlq4VpBr9YhlSNVqQsHZv1sRCYFUsaZHLetFHrFd8Y-Kg6bCxI0aiiDpHrTy6pCOt2t9nAMc6xls1QcXJo1t8xKtvc1YtsPnec0oi7DbDIRyXjPUcEqBTra9pHg/s640/qweqew.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-3457560143826367282015-06-03T14:38:00.000+01:002015-06-03T14:38:39.867+01:00We all make mistakes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyrh3b1fuNGbvFviSrhhG-PvR_0GJFJCFittmH3_pbfBUXhPq7n9KCBOfW564IKkP7EJEwJ0Tfs53unfao2ovPKdqS6g3xoR_m2N2_Z0CbjEzcM6s8bVsC22ZBhD0yyWI7IkZq5WmM9Y/s1600/problems.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="51" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyrh3b1fuNGbvFviSrhhG-PvR_0GJFJCFittmH3_pbfBUXhPq7n9KCBOfW564IKkP7EJEwJ0Tfs53unfao2ovPKdqS6g3xoR_m2N2_Z0CbjEzcM6s8bVsC22ZBhD0yyWI7IkZq5WmM9Y/s640/problems.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I think marriage is about letting some of your flaws go, and trying to be a better person.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
I feel quite bad for Alan.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <strike>I brutally murdered them</strike> they have moved out.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
'<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;">With my sexual physique Jah know me well built'</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;">'</span><span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;">You are the only young girl that can ring my bell'</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;">Don't you tickle my foot bottom ha ha baby please</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;">I want your loving gal give it like you should</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #ccccdd; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;">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.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;">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.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 13.3999996185303px; line-height: 19.1428565979004px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-14698087969915409852015-05-28T17:49:00.003+01:002015-05-28T17:49:32.628+01:00Something about AlanAlan has moved in.<br />
<br />
He replaces Fats and Fats (remember the grotesquely rotund New Zealanders I mentioned?)<br />
<br />
I went out with an Alan once, in my first few months of University.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
For three days, whenever I saw him, he ran away.<br />
<br />
Finally, I did the deed. He cried, and told me I was his sunshine.<br />
<br />
THEN, RIGHT, CHECK THIS OUT:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'll try to find him on Facebook for you so I can give a real time update.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to the asexual support group girl, what the frick happened there?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And that ladies and gents, is more Hollyoaks, than Hollyaoks will ever be.<br />
<br />
Wait.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
What do you think?<br />
<br />
Tell me the truth.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
You're right, I've not slept much.<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-79829909996858449082015-04-29T14:43:00.000+01:002015-04-29T14:44:10.467+01:00Does size matter?I didn't think so until I received the email below, and now I feel totes insecure.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9WqEKXEmixwkrIbNlxNVvDLjN3-VK9wPmVQWexM16TW603jdeztEF43vCDhTZf31PQckszte7s8QyAtheNl3oNMZV1dt0wihmqpGVC5DGTbbAlzmNv1K-HfTclDHy78iSbx7F6Rc3-0/s1600/erwer.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9WqEKXEmixwkrIbNlxNVvDLjN3-VK9wPmVQWexM16TW603jdeztEF43vCDhTZf31PQckszte7s8QyAtheNl3oNMZV1dt0wihmqpGVC5DGTbbAlzmNv1K-HfTclDHy78iSbx7F6Rc3-0/s1600/erwer.png" height="27" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
To make matters worse, I've got Gwendolyn on my back about my recent struggles:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEWFJn-zN3GmLTZdmBl6xPLA50nv37tcY5y8C5WGMmOCHnz3MixdfqmVk5_Eip8-MkO6zSviKqq9lFHnmF0nrZe60uHv0cET9tnbxmCANZKhrg8axk75EZhyphenhyphenSEa2UC6YcGB_SuHE7Mp4/s1600/weq.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEWFJn-zN3GmLTZdmBl6xPLA50nv37tcY5y8C5WGMmOCHnz3MixdfqmVk5_Eip8-MkO6zSviKqq9lFHnmF0nrZe60uHv0cET9tnbxmCANZKhrg8axk75EZhyphenhyphenSEa2UC6YcGB_SuHE7Mp4/s1600/weq.png" height="24" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
And a potential date on the horizon:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70WfPtMxm8ilIWJ6feeT0xIIvES3LgcfQB0jesGFCR87zJmqDzBSzzlGo6zYSISM9_wRbclKOtSswZCtynH1w-2GueRViWP8_hMs_1NHDYtNI2qCUuRMydFC2xZePG52tpx64eZNJUSM/s1600/sdaaw.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70WfPtMxm8ilIWJ6feeT0xIIvES3LgcfQB0jesGFCR87zJmqDzBSzzlGo6zYSISM9_wRbclKOtSswZCtynH1w-2GueRViWP8_hMs_1NHDYtNI2qCUuRMydFC2xZePG52tpx64eZNJUSM/s1600/sdaaw.png" height="22" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
If I want to impress Katina, I'm going to have to Enlarge It, that much is clear.<br />
<br />
ALSO<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<b>Mine:</b><br />
<br />
I ran out of good friends at 8.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sLlLNafDPz2wP_AUtcxcFpU_TTxiyMrTyMNxFKVx6X9HtR-AfkB-it8MCQDvDSOKpqUaBgG4EPXgBW809F7EDWyTJPSsyOmrYb0bYfqXylA8gTEAZ1794LYIxpiT_yEYA20yvOftnsw/s1600/weqe.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sLlLNafDPz2wP_AUtcxcFpU_TTxiyMrTyMNxFKVx6X9HtR-AfkB-it8MCQDvDSOKpqUaBgG4EPXgBW809F7EDWyTJPSsyOmrYb0bYfqXylA8gTEAZ1794LYIxpiT_yEYA20yvOftnsw/s1600/weqe.png" height="179" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
His:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFm2_e07_M0ZdYUUn_04kMtECZQIOKtJztIeluNsk2a8FJjkhMrJhiWy0zkk6B_lH2saLysGi08rYfT6hc9wljaG2X-ffgWsas5ut5adf14nGY7uSrArUXnMfbRYh_Fbc_KUJNKuLflM/s1600/JBstag.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFm2_e07_M0ZdYUUn_04kMtECZQIOKtJztIeluNsk2a8FJjkhMrJhiWy0zkk6B_lH2saLysGi08rYfT6hc9wljaG2X-ffgWsas5ut5adf14nGY7uSrArUXnMfbRYh_Fbc_KUJNKuLflM/s1600/JBstag.png" height="176" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This is a really fun activity for a rainy day, or just during working hours.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54146905683118743.post-3666540232423520592015-04-15T17:19:00.000+01:002015-04-15T17:19:08.856+01:00Can't everyone just be friends?I've got to be honest with you.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'M SORRY.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But seriously, does anyone know where my fucking deer punch is? It's incredibly integral. I'm struggling to sleep.<br />
<br />
Ginger was like, "Surely we can just go out to a shop and buy it."<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
Please, don't feel sorry for me - we all have tough times.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
-Reasons why Cliff Richard is definitely not a 'poofter'<br />
-Tips for gatecrashing private events<br />
-How youth is wasted on the young.<br />
<br />
This also happened (un-related)<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Oh look, one to add to your celebrity spot list - Sue Baker! (Shouted at Claire Balding).<br />
<b>Ginger:</b> What? That's Claire Balding.<br />
<b>Me:</b> Yeah, but they both look the same.<br />
<b>Ginger:</b> No, they don't (Leads me away mortified).<br />
<b>Me:</b> They do. They both have short hair.<br />
<br />
And, I have these emails:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsDI9ZU0IVuCpsm56n2MBslfhyDMrxzTCiftRzMGYqcA9R18fIeEwd2Rq2iBcACHVz9hlQdg6XYivF7PfqChxMIn7Il-UNyman57OL7bYD0Cy-MEuvp-YI-VCxZg92ARp7EQ1DFesUO4/s1600/blogg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsDI9ZU0IVuCpsm56n2MBslfhyDMrxzTCiftRzMGYqcA9R18fIeEwd2Rq2iBcACHVz9hlQdg6XYivF7PfqChxMIn7Il-UNyman57OL7bYD0Cy-MEuvp-YI-VCxZg92ARp7EQ1DFesUO4/s1600/blogg.png" height="97" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'M JOKING.<br />
<br />
A bit.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WriterAtLunchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05690274743631045948noreply@blogger.com0