Happy Blue Year!

Just like last year, one can't help but feel that if you're not fat, hungover, and realising that you'll never be bothered to do anything, ever again, then you haven't embraced the true spirit of Christ, and his like, Mass.

Turns out making Christmas dinner is not as hard as everyone makes out. And this is all thanks to an appliance, which was a jolly good investment; a mother. They do get a bit pissy about you not using coasters. But if you leave the washing up for long enough, they just do it. Awesome.

I've also recently purchased a brother (previously I sold him to the States for a year). Not so recommended. It takes every Ad break as an opportunity to fart, employs balled up wrapping paper as a weapon, and relieves its bowels with the door open. DO NOT WASTE YOUR MONEY FOLKS. Just get a mum and be done with it. A mum will even watch Rude Tube with you, and get upset that number 1 is Justin Timberlake giving a girl a present of his dick in a box.

It's nice being indoors so much when the house is this God Damn festive. This year, my family have tish toshed at the idea of a Christmas tree, and opted instead for the more traditional potted fern (not decorated). We had all our presents  assembled around said 2 foot tall plant. Ah bless. It's not bah humbug. It's a recession. And it's not just the public sector who are feeling the pinch.

This is what 2012 looks like; everyone is over Christmas. That was like, so last year. They've been forced back into too tight office attire, forced to shove themselves onto cold, delayed trains. And they are pissed. Do not ask them to move from your booked seat. It's not worth it. The way they look at you is a promise, a memorising of your face. One day soon, they will track you down, and stab you, in the same way you have just apparently stabbed them.

There is approximately a four second pause where they stare, mortified, mouth agape, at you, a you is already fucking with their baby faced New Year. You Nazi. You January bastard.

I reflect fondly on Christmas Eve, when a walk through West Bridgford was like being on the set of a sickeningly cheesy American Santa related film. The children were laughing. Single mothers bellowed 'Good morning!' from across the road. Elderly men smiled to themselves and almost skipped along. But not now. Oh no, that won't happen again for another eleven months. Forget all about that sunshine. We're bitter now, tight lipped and offended. Driving like lunatics, manically swapping between lanes with complete disregard. So depressed, we find ourselves, in this windy, sodden month, that we don't much care to survive it.

I have somehow managed to cling on to a little cheer, for a whole eight days! Despite collecting a good few awkward moments, without which, I would not have this blog.

I was making my way to the lift at work, keeping pace with a blonde woman. A man shouted over from reception, 'Has anyone dropped a purple glove?'. I threw my hand in the air as I turned, 'Yes, that's mine!'. I assumed. It's rare to have purple gloves, and I walk around the world, littering it with my dropped possessions. Next to me, the blonde woman had also stopped, 'No it's not yours. It's my glove!'. I looked closer (my eyes are shitty mcshit shit). It was leather. I have wool gloves. 'Oh, yes,' I said, 'Not mine.' Then we shared a moment. All five of us: myself, the blonde, the glove finder, and two onlookers. And in that moment, four people looked at me and thought, that girl steals gloves, single gloves. She's a dirty little single glove stealer.

Luckily I'd been unconsciously  txting busty, instead of busy, to people all day. Because I am never too busty to see anyone. So I think my rep is safe.

We took her breath away.

Hey, so, if you go for a drive with your left wing mirror pushed in, turns out, it's okay as long as you never turn left. It is odd however that I didn't notice, if we agree that you're supposed to use them, and they're not (as I like to think of them) the cars ears. In my defence, the wing mirror ended up in this state because, thanks to Ginger Beard's experimental, diagonal parking, it was necessary to save its life.

What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.

Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.

Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.

My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.

I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.

Shut. Up!

I'll tell you what's nice; your first time on a motorway and you get hit by a sponge baton. That's nice. I didn't have a clue what it was at first, just that it had fallen off a truck, which it was previously tied to. It's not the best feeling. But it was alright in the end, what with it being practically a child's flotation device.

It's been a truly magical time back in good ol'Notts this weekend. I have an odd-shaped burn on my neck and chest which seems to resemble a trombone. Which can't be helped when you have a mother who considers factor 4 to be sunblock. I had a conversation with an old friend about seeing the Eiffel Tower whilst she's in New York - A bizarre idea we both seemed to convincingly share. I had a brief, passionate confrontation with a polish man, over some cafe seats in the sun, desperate to achieve the trombone tan.

And I've been trying (ish) to like, become a fully qualified accountant. To be honest, I was hoping it would be a bit like, 'If Billy has two apples, then how many apples does Billy have?' Instead it's more like this: 'If  $%^&***  was translated into Latin, and then from Latin into musical notes, calculate the worth of X.'

Maybe I'm a bit special. Maybe after all these years of focusing on words, and grammar, and the technical construction of sonnets, the part of my brain reserved for logic has shrivelled. Part of the problem is that all the examples start with, 'You own a business called...' and I'm thinking about the interior design, and how I'd manage the staff, and how success would affect my wardrobe choices. Is that so wrong? Is it because I love 'The only way is Essex?' Should I give up accountancy, and take up Botox?

I'll get a tiny dog for my handbag, speak only in acronyms, and make predatory advances at unsuitable men.

I guess the last word on the subject was always going to be O.M.G.

Christmas time!

Ann Potts, who for those of you who don't know, was the ghost living in my apartment, receiving a rather alarming amount of post, has returned. She moved out for three or so months, but has found the outside world cold, and unresponsive. She has begun to request Christmas party brochures, to cheer herself up.

My favourite is one from The Village, 'Amazingly, it's that time again!' Is it? Isn't it just April? A time for watching rain hit windows?  'If you book a party of ten or more we will treat you to a complimentary bedroom.' Great, if you can get ten of your friends to commit to a Christmas event, in April, then you can all sleep in one, free room. Anyone available? Have plans yet? Sounds perfectly realistic.

'So don't waste any time'. Guys, we've only got eight months left! Shit! That's hardly time to eat a baguette, let alone schedule a party. I think we might just have to stay in this year.

How is one of the nights sold out? That's a lie. That has to be a lie. Will they stop at nothing to entice cash, from us poor, recession ridden smucks? Who are these people who've managed to convince their friends to commit years in advance? I can't get my friends to commit to a conversation.

In other news, Ginger Beard is a joke with legs.

Also, I keep forgetting that the car isn't a safe place to say anything you want, when the windows are down. I just can't help but express my opinion on how annoying that pedestrian is, as they have a leisurely stroll across the road. Ginger Beard keeps screaming (like a girl) "They can hear you!", as I shout, "What a dick, what the fuck are you doing? Yeah, you take your time. Don't worry about it. I don't have anywhere to be. You complete fuckjob." It's not road rage. It's constructive criticism.

Put your feet away!

It's finally over kids. No more crying on the drive home, as I delicately work my way through all the swear words I know in front of my aghast instructor. No more dry retching. No more old man in a yellow jacket plaguing my nightmares. No more, eat a banana for a burst of energy, put on my driving trainers, fasten my good luck necklace, can you read me that number plate?

There's just me, and my little tangerine friend, bumping into curbs, clipping wing mirrors, forgetting to indicate. Oh the joy.

It turns out I'm really good at driving. It turns out I'm really bad at parking. Everything's going to be A-ok.

I've also taken up a few new hobbies to fill the gap. I tidied up the flower beds in the sunshine, careful not to disturb the flowers. Then Ginger Beard told me the flowers were nettles. I kicked the nettles for their cunning deceit. I was wearing flip flops. I will not be gardening again.

I decided to make a big, artistic collage. Spent two hours running tests on the printer, and dropping it from various heights. Turns out, and this is rare, it's just out of ink. Have no spare ink. Decide not to be artist.

Try to become a cleaner. Cleaning too hard.

Decided to stop being Casper, and work on my tan. Sat on a hill and took my shoes off. Got called a slut by three chavs. Put shoes back on.

Also realised that I pretty much owe everyone I know a lift. I will practice not killing myself first, and get back to you.

What I am going to do, fo sho, is get back to that small, subservient dream of mine. Messing about with words and shit. Trying to become the next J K Rowling, without all the initial poverty. But first, I'm going to start training to become an accountant. I know, I do hate myself for being so predictable.

Does something smell fishy to you?

There's a centipede trapped under a mug in our kitchen. How long will it take to die? I could do with my mug back.

What's funnier that Ginger Beard being slightly stressed? Ginger Beard being really stressed becuase I'm in charge of the phone Sat Nav, and I've incorrectly directed him onto the busy motor way. Funnier still? His abusive languge when we're on a massive roundabout, and my mum calls me, cancelling the sat nav. "Where the FUCK are we going? GEMMA, GEMMA, what the FUCK is happening?"

I had a great time.

Did you?

A few of us went to Harvester on Sunday morning to try and recover from our fish hangovers (we'd been to Loch Fyne). But it turns out they don't do breakfast, so at 11am we were helping ourselves to the salad cart. What an adventure, salad before noon.

I tried an oyster for the very first time. So did Dave. I think Dave is still being sick. I enquired into his health last night but heard nothing. Maybe he's dead. Death by oyster, it's not very manly Dave is it?

Also, the waitress had a personality, which I wasn't initially bothered about (having one is pretty common place). It's her decision to show it that was offensive. She was trying to be funnier than us. I don't go to restaurants to be outwitted. They also took the piss out of me, by charging £11 for scampi, but serving it in newspaper. Luckily, the newspaper article was about fifteen people dying in a horrendous accident. Every eaten chip revelaed another grotesque detail.

The table next to us, consisting of three middle age women, were fascinated. They all moved over and stopped talking, in order to devote themesleves to us entirely. It was very 'The only way is Essex', with slightly paler girls, with slightly smaller boobs, who despire their numerous qualifications, still appeared to be incredibley gullable and dippy. We decided to discuss where we would hide the body. Then we talked about dogging. Then I invited them to my Pants Party.

Fishy love to you all,

WriterAtLunch

Don't worry, I'm a professional.

How did you spend our one day of British Summer? Did you wear shorts? Hmm? Did you?

Did you get out the paddling pool, and dust off your flip flops?

25th March, sunshine, R.I.P.

I'll tell you what I did, on that glorious one-of-a-kind day. I failed my driving test, again.

HA HA HA HA. It's getting rather more amusing with each fail.

I got off to a rather bad start when I was instructed to put the window down. Have I ever put the window down in this car? No. I just pressed the confusing little buttons next to the handle. Nothing happened. I eventually figured out the futuristic technology, and alas - window down. Which is fine, isn't it, if the buttons I'd so happily tried first, in my pot-luck approach, had not been to adjust the wing mirrors. The left of which is now facing the road.

I'm pretty sure I died. I think I'm using up my nine cat lives on these tests.

It's alright I consoled myself, that mirror was only perfectly adjusted for your left reverse. I'm sure that won't come up. Let's just hit these buttons again at random and see what happens.

What was nice though, is that the strangled choking/gurgling/mucus snorting sounds from the examiner (which I can only diagnose as a chest infection, due to my limited time watching ER) acted as a  kind of radio replacement.

I have developed a really detailed, justifiable story as to why I failed. The short of it being, trying to drive on the wrong side of the road on a Dual Carriageway. You'll just have to take my word for it, that it was an unavoidable and savvy move.

HOWEVER, only 4 minors.

So I don't know why he couldn't just get over it.

He said, 'Was that your first test?'

I said, 'No, my fourth.'

He said, 'Oh, right.'

Roll on number five, and a few less suicidal turns.

Batman Returns

Our local chinese takeaway, they appreciate us so much, they gave us a calendar.

It's nice to know that you're financially supporting an entire family.

In fact, I appreciate them so much, I'm going to cook them a lasagne.

In other news, I failed my driving test again. But it would appear that the car accident, in most peoples' eyes, made it impossible for me to pass. Which is nice. It's not just that I can't drive.
It would seem that in times of adversity, we show our true selves. And it's only when that gold bastard decided to intimately share my lane, that I realised who I am. A lean, mean, killing machine. "Shall we get him Dave? I could go after him. We could get him." Dave looked at me. I looked at Dave. He said yes.

I was like Batman, when his batmobile is getting an MOT, so he's driving a Suzuki Swift. Like Batman, but when he can't wear his bat mask because it gets in the way of his glasses. Batman, but restricted due to legislation, to stick to 40mph, even when pursuing a deadly criminal. So we lost Goldie Locks. But I've got a taste for a whole new way of life. And I'm moving to Gotham City. And every time Ginger Beard puts a light on, I momentarily assume it's the blinding appearance of the Bat Signal.

I've got to go now, and make a difference to the people of this cold, bleak world. Should you need me, look to the sky.