All the Right Things At all the Wrong Times

Well having giggled over D's truly resplendent list of phobias (my phobias, although I don't know the names, are 1) small, furry animals; 2) large, furry animals; 3) hotels having 'lost' my reservation and having to sleep in the street), I find myself being cast into a more reflective state of mind by L's post recounting her b'day. It was wonderful being altogether again, though it felt as if the evening drifted by far too quickly, and I got too drunk and let my mouth run away with me. Indeed, the whole evening was not helped by bloody Arsenal having a match and thus causing my local tube to be shut. Why oh why is a stupid sport allowed to disrupt thousands of peoples' existence(s)? I then had to run down to Highbury and Islington to catch the Victoria Line instead, in the pouring rain, and my make up applied in L's honour ran, and I turned up at P's late, with wet hair, and eye liner down my cheeks, while of course all other girls looked beautifully glamorous.

However, my main thought for this post is about how things never seem to happen at the right moments. So, for example, our super posh birthday tea turns into a Chinese takeout (but another random day may well yield a fun posh tea); or Marks and Spencers rather than Topshop stocks the best party dress (but Topshop will have other clothes, if we really want to shop there); what we want is there, but it is hidden away, and requires searching for, and then maybe it is not really meant for us. I will illuminate my comments by what happened today. My ex-boyfriend, Bertrand, and I, had organised many moons ago to catch up tonight over a curry on Brick Lane. Bertrand didn't exactly break my heart, but he perhaps cracked it slightly (maybe that's why I have been going slowly insane ever since we split up!) Anyway, he rang me today to tell me that at v short notice he was having to cancel our rendezvous. He began by saying that it was work related, and then told me that he and his current girlfriend had a huge row last night, that she told him she didn't want him to see me, that when I am on the phone to him I make him laugh more in an hour than she does in a month (she said this and that's why she doesn't want him to see me - and as Bertrand rightly guessed I did not mind in the least receiving this compliment). Of course, I was sad not to see Bertrand, but the whole incident was bitter sweet. Of course he should put his girlfriend's feelings before mine. Of course if they've had a row he should go home and patch it up. And of course he should want his girlfriend to be happy. He's finally grown up, and is behaving like a gentleman. Good for him. All the right words, but to a different girl, at a different time.

One Month Left of Twenty-Something Living

Oh God, have just realised that today is exactly ONE MONTH until my 30th bday. CRISIS! In my panic, I just ran to Topshop at lunchtime and bought some hideously unsuitable items (am professional person for God's sake), in vain attempt to cling on to youth. And I did the same on ASOS, accidentally placing 3 orders in my age-induced confusion. Oh WHY did I have to rediscover my inner teen just as it is all cruelly slipping away from me? It is just SO depressing.

And I can't find a funky gold-sequinned "birthday" dress that is not from Marks and Spencer (God that dress is all over the fashion press this week), as that would make me feel waaay too old.

It's really not helping that in the next room to me, I can hear my 21 year old assistant talking about her latest Size 6 pair of skinny jeans, while organising her wedding to her gorgeously fit South American boyfriend, when the only male company I have had this weekend is my gay friend K and a dreadful "investment wanker"-type bloke S and J tried to set me up with last night on the assumption that because we're the only singletons in their sea of smug married friends, we are clearly made for each other.

One month. ONE MONTH. One month to fit into a Size 8 pair of Victoria Beckham Rock & Republic jeans. (I've dropped my expectations - forget the novel or the Question Time panel - it's clearly not going to happen.)

My Phobias

As if I needed to prove how neurotic I am... here are a list of my phobias, taken from The Phobia Website

Agliophobia (Aglophobia) - fear of pain
Ailurophobia (Elurophobia; Felinophobia; Galeophobia; Gatophobia) – fear of cats
Atelophobia – fear of imperfection
Atychiphobia – fear of failure
Autodysomophobia – fear of one who has a vile odour (it’s a London thing; try using the tube)
Bacillophobia (Microbiophobia) – fear of microbes
Bacteriophobia – fear of bacteria
Hemaphobia (Hematophobia) – fear of blood
Ichthyophobia – fear of fish
Misophobia (Mysophobia) – fear of being contaminated with germs
Molysmophobia (Molysomophobia) – fear of dirt/contamination
Obesophobia (Pocrescophobia) – fear of gaining weight
Odynophobia (Odynephobia) – fear of pain
Rhytiphobia – fear of getting wrinkles
Seplophobia – fear of decaying matter
Soteriophobia – fear of dependence on others
Staurophobia – fear of crosses or the crucifix (not really a phobia; it just freaks me out a little – must be the guilty Jew in me)
Trypanophobia – fear of injections
Vaccinophobia – fear of vaccinationVerminophobia – fear of germs

I also have a fear of knives, but can't find the term for it.

Wonderful Weekend

Had FANTASTIC weekend chez K, with S. Spent entire weekend being silly and giggly and immature - have not laughed so much in ages, and it was just what I needed. Now - goodbye to summer and back to reality.

Happy Birthday, Lovely L!

C
So – lovely dinner last night at The Wapping Project, to celebrate L’s birthday. Arrived at P’s for pre-dinner drinks (my new silver skirt clinging unflatteringly to my body, following encounter with torrential rain outside), to be told by an exasperated P that diet or no diet, teetotal or not, I would not get away with not drinking champagne. Luckily, no heavy-duty arm twisting was needed, but it’s been so long since I had a drink, it only took half a glass to get me pissed.

I love the Wapping Project. Set in a converted hydraulic power station, there’s always something new and different on, and last night was no different. Currently on display is a Deborah Turberville exhibition – highly recommended, especially the little pencil-scrawled notes alongside some fab pics from old copies of Vogue and W Magazine, one of which is taken from Proust (A La Recherche, I’m pretty sure), and sent shivers down my spine, as it made me think about time and memories, and – less profoundly to anyone but me – how I really don’t want to turn 30 next month, and just want to embrace my inner teen and iron out my face and neck and force every last bit of skin on my body up a good 10 inches. Oh god, it’s just so depressing. I did spend rather a lot of time last night bemoaning how old I look and how young I feel.

One thing that did make me giggle was the mention of Diana Vreeland, who had given Turberville an editorship at Harper’s Bazaar. Last Christmas, someone gave me a calendar along the theme of “Wild Words from Wild Women”, which includes a quote from a different woman for each day of the year. One of them I liked so much, it is tacked to my noticeboard in my office. It’s from Diana Vreeland, “the fiercely idiosyncratic fashion editor”, and reads:

“People who eat white bread have no dreams”

Love it.

Other news: have discovered ASOS. Clothes are dirt cheap, and whenever I see my sister (not the evil bitch, with whom I have now fallen out, probably irrevocably – the other one), she is always wearing something new, funky and not cheap-looking, and it has come from ASOS.

Am reading – and LOVING - Fashion Babylon.

Plans for Bank Holiday (and believe me, it couldn't get more depressing) - off to Dorchester this evening with V (don't ask - although we did see Prince Charles and Tessa Jowell last time we were there, but that's about as exciting as it's ever going to get), then Northampton with S, to see K (again, don't ask), but we always have the best laugh together. Haven't seen K since S threw a fantastic party a couple of Christmases ago and hired a bouncy castle. (The castle overturned, following much over-zealous jumping during the course of a very merry evening, and I woke up under it the following morning.) Then am invited to smug barbeque at S&J's, to mingle with their smug friends, and celebrate their recent purchase of a smug new house. Can't wait...

My Weekend as a Folky

So weirdly enough I spent last weekend in a field, for yes, dear Reader, I was partaking in what has now become an estival ritual for us UK dwellers - the summer festival. Strange how in countries where it is sunny all the time, they are quite happy to do these sorts of things indoors, whereas we insist on sleeping under a thin sheet of nylon to get our live music kicks. I haven't camped since I was 18, and that was with the Guides (where you have to re-approximate civilisation by creating washing up stands out of bamboo sticks and string - this is actually true, and no exaggeration), so this was a bit of new one on me. I was attending the Fairport Cropredy Convention, and very good fun it was too, even if I am not a true folk person at heart (it all sounds a bit the same to me after a while). The highlight music wise was Friday evening when 10cc played (I love my 80s cheese too) and also thanks to my Dad I also knew all the words to all the Hollies stuff they played (that the bloke from 10cc actually wrote). The highlight flirting wise was Saturday evening when I met a very nice boy called Adam (unfortunately he didn't introduce himself to me by saying "Madam, I'm Adam", which I think should be obligatory if that is your name). The highlight overall was my return on Sunday. I had slept in all my clothes as it was so cold, I hadn't washed my hair for three days, my jeans were stained with mud and (if you looked carefully enough) blood (trust my stupid period to arrive when I am camping and have no spare trousers), I was wearing a wool hat and a Guatemalan embroided top, and a pair of walking boots also covered in mud and grass. I know for a fact I must have looked ill/homeless/like three kinds of shit because on the way home I got offered a seat on the tube TWICE!!! Yes, twice! I have cracked how you get people to give up a seat for you on the tube!