Countdown to 30

05.00: (yes, my day starts ridiculously early) Pack bag for gym. Waste half an hour on fruitless search for tit tape to wear with new dress. (Birthday is actually tomorrow, but will be taking day off work, so am celebrating with colleagues (ie milking attention) today.) Bought tit tape 6 weeks ago, feeling v smug at time at own supreme organisational skills. Have hidden tit tape in such a cunning hiding place that have bloody forgotten where I put it. Great – will have to go braless (SO not a good look with 30 year old drooping boobs)

08.00: Buy coffee from Prêt on way to office. Promptly spill half of it down new dress

08.15: Enter office. Hair has frizzed up into unflattering bouffant disaster

08.16: Catch sight of self in mirror. New over-the-knee socks with ribbon do not go with dress and are inappropriate for office. Get disapproving stares in lift.

08.20: Remove socks. Shit. Have not shaved legs for a long time

08.30: Pile of bday cards on desk. Unamused by gags about age. Less amused still by card from my mum containing cryptic but pointed message about hoping I finally achieve good things in my 30s (hope “achievement” does not mean production of grandchild)

08.32: Message from mother reminding me to call grandmother

08.35: Call grandmother (who had forgotten it was my bday). Spend 10 minutes explaining who I am, as she is having her hair done and has removed hearing aid (why answer bloody phone?!). She wishes me happy bday, then launches into lecture about how I must buy flat as it will radically change my life “because let’s face it, you’ve got nothing at the moment”

09.01: Have received picture of hire care driving in bus lane with penalty charge notice, in internal mail! Throw it in bin. Raaa!

10.30: Assistant has found tit tape! It has turned up in filing cabinet (how did it get there???)

11.15: E mail from EBS No 1 to say she will not be attending my bday party on Sat night. Probing reveals reason is she does not want to (bitch). She also gives me details of facial hair waxing beautician who will sort out my "little problem"

12.01: EBS No 2 e mails me to veto my gift list. She refuses to buy me clothes as she thinks I am “fashion victim” and need to focus on creating “capsule wardrobe” (She had a weekend job in Kookai while at university and thinks that makes her a fashion consultant)

13.00: Buy wheat free, yeast free, soya free, egg free, dairy free, sugar free bday cake to share with colleagues. They eye it dubiously.

14.00: Cake pronounced yummy by bashful colleagues. Lovely colleagues, as they all present me with Topshop vouchers. Hoorah!

15.00: Call best friend N in LA, who has just had baby. Have hour long conversation about her uterus

18.00: Back to gym (in anticipation of bday overindulgence). Drop weight on toe. Toenail promptly turns black. Oh god, hope can still wear wooden wedge platforms tomorrow.

19.30: Bump into friend J on train. Between my usually excessively loud voice, amplified by my blocked left ear, and his equally blocked ears, I end up announcing to entire carriage that I think a mutual friend of ours is gay and is having secret affair with J’s flatmate. Everyone in carriage v. amused. J v worried.

20.30: Meet my mum in Hampstead for dinner. She spends 10 frustrating minutes parking and reparking care, before accusing me of being “too thin” (when last week she smugly informed me that I would never be as thin as EBS No 2), wincing at my neckline (it’s very low”), and hypocritically declining food, instead favouring a peppermint tea, while I gorge myself on edamame

22.30: Male model returns home and taunts me about being old. I begin to hyperventilate and reach for the carton of duty-free Marlboros I bought S last week (she won’t mind). Male Model reminds me that smoking ages your skin. Raaa!

22.45: Call F in a panic. She is v chirpy and merry, being sickeningly well-balanced person (who has had plenty of time to deal with being 30, hahaha), and full of analyses on this week’s Question Time (shit – have missed entire programme). Turn on TV in time for This Week. Great – will see in my 30th Bday watching Michael bloody Portillo

23.15: Call my other friend F to analyse this week’s Grazia Magazine (friend from law school – trust me to find another budding lawyer who is equally obsessed with clothes). We discuss the current furore over Size 0 models and obsess over our weight, diets and exercise regimes, until Male Model walks in again, presents me with a birthday card I have just watched him writing out to me, and embraces me. I am feeling less ecstatic than I possibly should at being embraced by a 23 year old male model. Hmmm.

And so I am 30.

Passion For Fashion

I love fashion. LOVE it. High waistlines, rock band t-shirts, metallic hues, the colour grey, tulip skirts, skinny jeans, empire line dresses, flowing headscarves, wooden wedge heels… hell, even egg-shaped silhouettes, dog tooth print and navy take on a new, aesthetically pleasing, must-have air with the onset of the new season. (I mean navy! What’s the point? Either produce items of clothing in black, or choose a nice colour, not muted, drab, “I-shop-at-Next-or-somewhere-equally-boring” navy.)

When I walk into a clothes shop (esp. Topshop – see most of my posts!), something happens to me. I am possessed by a mad, panicked desire to buy everything, and all sense of budget and restraint escapes me completely.

Every week, I scour the pages of Grazia, ingest all the information, then scuttle off in search of the latest hot items (last week, it was high-waisted jeans and a funky little bag-belt thing from River Island (the jeans look vile on me, and I have nothing to wear with the belt, so spending the relatively small amount of money on the belt would inevitably be a false economy).

And it’s not just clothes (and shoes and accessories…). I am a complete skin-care and make-up junkie. My bathroom looks like Selfridges make-up hall (although sadly smaller and with far fewer products, but you get the picture).

And so 2 years and some £10, 000 (so far) into law school, I am left wondering: what is my real vocation? Do I want to stay here, a cog in the corporate machine, climbing the endless ladder, working 12 hour plus days, only to bang my head on that glass ceiling, destroy my social life and put an end to any remote possibility of ever managing to have a relationship? Or, should I dust off my quill and return to the barely-started path (a few years ago) of writing, go down the creative road and combine it with my love of fashion and beauty?

No: I am definitely doing the right thing. I want all of this; it’s a perfect channel for my innate workaholism. I enjoy the thrill of being intellectually challenged every day, of being pushed to my limits, of having a huge ladder to climb. I even derive a perverse pleasure from fighting (against? Within?) the patriarchal corporate order.

And I can do it all without batting so much as a mascara-coated eyelash.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to Topshop to view the new collections.

Dear Gordon

Dear Gordon,

So it looks like you're finally going to get to be Prime Minister. How you must be nearly sick with the excitement. No longer having to be the also ran, you can move your wife and two wee boys into the flat at number 10 - oh, but you've done that already. Still, you care a lot about working families, don't you? Indeed on Breakfast at Frost you said, "we have created stability in this country, and now we must ensure that the benefits go particularly to young couples who want to own their own homes, who find that house prices have been high, who could benefit from low interest rates, but they need some help to get on to the first rung of the housing ladder."

I'm just wondering, Gordon, since when has being attractive to a member of the opposite (or even maybe the same - but I doubt you include those couples) sex been a criteria for government help? Imagine the dole office - sorry love, you might not have a job, but you're a bit ugly, so we can't give you any dole money.

I'm also a bit puzzled as to why young couples need more help than young single people, when they at least have the benefit of a joint income? Oh, I get it. Single people are so tragic they can just rot away in bedsits. After all, they haven't discovered the joys of family life yet--unlike you, Gordo.

And why might those house prices be so high? You're Chancellor so maybe you could tackle that one? You've kept the 1996 deregulation of the money markets, only count inflation on things like baked beans and trousers rather than houses so you can pretend we live in a low inflation economy, you preside over tax relief for multiple home ownership and the buying up of good quality housing stock for investment rather than to be a home, and then whitter on about the government helping out, when it created the bloody mess in the first place. Those who bought 10 or 15 years ago have done very well out of the arrangement, but if I want a home, I guess I should lose some weight, get down the local nightclub, and pick up some dodgy bloke and get him to impregnate me. Never mind that I pay £1000s in tax each year, the only way Gordo will think I'm worthwhile is if I shack up with someone because then I won't be a hard-working individual but part of a 'hard-working family'.

Yes, Gordo, can't wait for you to be PM!

The Penalty of Honesty and Frugality

10.30 this morning; my office, London. The phone rings. It’s my managing director:

MD: Uh, D, I’ve got H here from Accounts. Apparently you hired a car back in August for company business?

I rack my brains. Oh yes, I did hire a car. I would have happily taken the train to the back and beyond of the English countryside, but every time I do so, I end up spending ALL of Saturday taking long, circuitous routes around the whole country as every single railway line apparently needs to be repaired on the days I use the train. When the tracks themselves are ok, the train usually breaks down. So yes, I hired a car.

MD: Apparently, you were caught driving in a bus lane? You have incurred a penalty charge of £85.

Me: WHATTTT???????

MD: There’s a picture here of the car.

Me: Splutter! Rant! Bloody penalty charge people!

MD: Uh, I’ll just send H down to you. She will give you the notice, and you can, um, uh… appeal or deal with it or whatever

“…or deal with it or whatever”?????? £85? Eighty five pounds? EIGHTY FIVE POUNDS? I am NOT paying it. I am NOT paying £85. I have not got £85. I am very sorry, but I travel the world sans cesse for this bloody company, and when I submit my expenses, I never charge so much as an extra apple to the company. I have a (male, middle-aged, of course) colleague who openly watches porn in hotels he stays at and charges it to the company. I rarely take taxis on company business (in Hong Kong last week, I took the Metro everywhere). I will happily (well, unhappily actually, but fairly graciously) take indirect flights if it means I will keep within my travel budget. I don’t eat dinner or drink alcohol, which saves the company an enormous amount of money, especially compared to my gluttonous, bordering-on-alcoholic colleagues.

AND THEY WANT ME TO PAY AN EIGHTY FIVE POUND BLOODY PENALTY CHARGE?

No bloody way.

Overheard at the B.L.

Tuesday lunchtime. I am sat on the British Library terrace listlessly eating my salad.

In front of me are two men. Man number 1 has his back to me, so I can't see him well. He appears to be 60 something. He is called Paolo. Man number 2 is wearing motorbike leathers, has a small beard, a shaved head, a pierced eyebrow, and tattoos. He is an OUT GAY man. And doesn't he want the world to know it.

Man number 1: mumble mumble.
Man number 2: is this a round about way of asking me how it's going?
1: Yes.
2: yes, I'm very pleased with it. The shoot went really well the other day.
1: Shoot?
2: You know, I'm taking photos to promote it.
1: mumble mumble.
2: It's a toy.
1: mumble doll mumble?
2: No, a sexual TOY. It's a TOY.
1: (even more quietly) mumble mumble.
2: Well, you can just explore what you want to do with it. Men and men can use it, or women and women, or men and women. Individuals OR GROUPS can use it.
1: (choking now) huh huh mumble.
2: yes, they all got really excited on the shoot. It was beautiful to see.
1: Huh? (barely making a sound).
2: It's actually very GOOD to STIMULATE the PROSTATE. All the medical research shows that gay men are LESS LIKELY to die of prostate cancer. It's because they play with their PROSTATES (practically shouting by now).
1: silence
2: Yes, of course, they are more aware of sexual health, but EVERYONE should PLAY WITH THEIR PROSTATE. My toy will help them, it's not just about fun, it's such a great invention...
1: has a drink of water
2: is that a spot on your face?

I left to go and consider the health of my prostate, even though I am female, and in no doubt whatsoever about man number 2's sexual preferences.

Pinch, Punch... First Day of the Month

So it's now September. Summer is officially over. I always feel that the onset of autumn heralds changes and new beginnings.

For me, it is turning 30 later this month (oh god, it still makes me want to cry). For F, being in London for the next few months, working on her latest masterpiece and working up a cultural storm in her usual manner. Also, as per her last post, coming to some very sound realisations about her ex-boyfriend B. (Although frankly F, I think you are v forgiving - I saw B on a Northern Line train the other day and hid behind a pole so that I wouldn't have to talk to him). P - on the other side of the pond... well, we'll wait and see what new beginnings emerge.

But perhaps the biggest and the best new beginning is reserved for L. Today, at the tender age of 32 (yes, I know, but it's all relative!) she is officially crowned Professor. Well done darling; we are all thrilled, and so proud of your fantastic achievements. Champagne all round!

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!

Streetwars in London

It's not big.
It's not clever.
It's not advisable in this age of heightened terrorist alerts.
But it looks like a bloody good laugh.

Streetwars comes to London

I know how they make it so creamy

So a quick post before my golden two weeks in Devon draws to an end. I can hardly complain as I'm about to fly off to Italy for a week with J and J (how confusing!) but it really has been absolutely wonderful here, helped undoubtedly by the balmy weather. J came down for a few days before and I took great delight in showing her all the lovely things to do in the area - we went for long tramps through the woods, to the beaches, the coves, the harbours, the pubs... Our best day was probably yesterday when we went to try out John Burton Race's restaurant The New Angel, as seen on Channel 4 (www.newangel.co.uk). It IS pricey - more so than anywhere else I've ever eaten - but oh my God, the food was amazing. Maybe I have a severely uneducated palate as a woman we got chatting to in the lounge area told us she was "most disappointed" and that her partner, Jean-Jacques, made far better foie gras. Not having Jean-jacques as my partner, I had to content myself with a wonderful, buttery, slippery, creamy rich foie gras courtesy of Mr Burton Race and his minions. This was accompanied by wonderful earthy black pudding, an incredibly honey sauce, and rocket that cut through the fat and gave a wonderful tang to the whole dish. J and I ate in rapt silence. For my main, I had the loin of pork, served with a wrapped pork belly, and lovely crisp cruncy apples and greens. Unfortunately it also came with beetroot (yuck) so J polished that off for me. She had the lamb - two generous size servings of best end, with a herb crust, and a pea puree that was minty with a real fresh kick - so good you could eat a whole bowl of it by itself. For pudd, I had raspberry millefeuille with pistachio ice cream and raspberry sorbet, and J had the cheese board (with incredibly pongy camembert). Our quibbles are that the foie gras was maybe a touch too rich - you really didn't need so much, and the starter at £12 could maybe have stood a bit of trimming in size and price. Also the staff (all French!), while v professional, did not explain the cheese selection well - a problem in most posh places (saying "it's blue cheese" is NOT enough. They should explain provenence, type of milk used, maturity etc). The wine list was v good too, and lots of reasonably priced bottles before you had to push the boat out.
The most memorable part of the evening was when we retired in manner of nineteenth century gentlemen to the smoking lounge. We got into all sorts of conversations, including one with a man who'd had a terrible motorbike accident (but my scar was better than his) and a gentleman who told us his three favourite activites in life were food, sex and cricket. He bought me a huge armagnac, so my head hurts today. But oh it was worth it, a real experience, and v good fun. We laughed all the way home on the ferry, and our peals of laughter drifted over the peaceful river and made me think that a good friend, a good meal, and a warming drink (especially when bought for one) are really the staff of life.

Noisy Neighbours

Hmmm - I wonder if writing letters of complaint in poem form meets with a more efficient response? I will let you know - I've sent the "Oh Ken" poem off to the mayor's office, and here's another one, to my local council.

It started some weeks ago,
And continued many nights in a row,
For above me live some boys
Who make a lot of noise
All night long –
It’s very wrong

Around eleven-thirty
I hear them get flirty
With some girls who are there
And they really don’t care
Who it annoys –
Well, after all, they are boys!

Around midnight
They start to play-fight
It’s the noise I can’t bear
I don’t know how they dare
Then I hear the doors slam
They don’t give a damn

I cannot take any more –
This banging on the floor
Lying in my bed
I can hear it above my head
Their endless screams
Even permeate my dreams

They play music too loud
But I am too proud
To go up there in pyjamas
They’d think me bananas
And anyway – as a single gal
I can’t confront them without a pal

So what did I do?
I contacted you
The Dept of Environmental Health
Which receives a great wealth
From our council tax –
And this gets up our backs

At this I must moan –
‘cos when I picked up the ‘phone
There was nobody there –
Do you not care
About noise at night?
Why must I fight?

Only to find
That you’re not very kind;
It’s acceptable for –
Between daytime hours of nine and four -
Neighbours to make noise
Just like those boys

I don’t wish to deflect
But to this I object
There is no way
That during the day
I would wish to complain
Or launch a campaign

Against any noisy lad –
However bad –
But it is simply not correct
To assume I’m a woman kept
Do not sneer –
I have a career!

It makes me fume
How you assume
We are around during the day
And for this we should pay
We did you elect*
And you must us protect

But what did you say
We can help you no way –
Even though you pay
We just do as we may
For you the solution
Is to speak to Noise Pollution

So: you pass the buck
You just don’t give a
F
U
C
K
I gave Noise Pollution a ring
Though they too wouldn’t do a thing

So I went to the top
And called in a cop
But they don’t care
Unless the neighbours dare
To indulge in mugging
Or illegal drugging

I just wanted to mention
This terrible tension
Council of Tories
I’m asking you please,
Make the upstairs tenants
Do their just penance

* Not me – I would never vote Tory!

Oh, Ken

Oh Ken
Is it just you, then
Or is it all men -
Who promise one thing
Only to bring
Misery and pain
Again and again?

You’ve increased the bus fare
And it doesn’t end there
Regarding the tube
You’ve made a big boob
For though we can see -
For example with P-PP -
You’re under government constraints,
I’ve a number of complaints
I would like to address
And put you under duress

Now first of all
I’m not very tall
So I constantly find
People aren’t very kind:
I am trampled upon –
This goes on and on –

Oh Ken,
I hate it when -
Without asking if they may -
People shove me out the way
It’s such a farce -
If I try to pass
They hit me on the
A
R
S
E
And it causes a ruck
When I find myself stuck
Beneath someone’s arm pit –
I can’t stand it

Daily I’m met
With such poor etiquette
We’re penned in like cattle
Why’s it a battle?
I’m making a fuss
‘cos there are too many of us –
On the trains we need chairs
(And in the stations, less stairs!)

Another issue to raise
Is the constant delays
I’m very dismayed
That I’m constantly delayed
And in relation
To the poor communication –
I cannot believe
There is no reprieve

I also can’t stand
Stations being unmanned
I can’t take any more
It’s become quite a bore

The
Rat-infested
Underground
Is a bit
Like a pit
And the smell
Is just hell

You charge us too much
And it really is such
A bloody cheek
What I spend in a week
On
Tube
Fares

But what’s even worse
Than the strain on my purse
Is that it’s too bloody hot!
You leave us to rot
And get wet
And drenched in sweat
Please make it your mission
To air condition
The
Underground

Oh Ken
You and your men
You’re in City Hall
Having a ball -
And in London bars –
Where are you – on Mars?
Don’t you realise
That the demise
Of Blair’s Labour Brits
(They’ve become such gits)
Reveals a problem that lies
In the rise
Of
Champagne
Socialism?

Oh Ken, do you care?
Have I made you aware
Of my nightmare?

I voted for you
But you haven’t pulled through
I know your job is tough
But I’ve had quite enough
So do a favour to us all:
Go back to City Hall
And make a resolution
To find a solution

I can no longer wait
So just sort it out, mate!

We're having a heat wave...

oof, my wish list is entirely heat wave related.

1) Outsize sunglasses with tortoiseshell rims and arms. Only way in which I wish to emulate Ms. Beckham

2) Continious supply of Luscombe's organic "hot" ginger beer (drank gallons of it at pub yesterday, at £2.40 a pop I'd be better off sticking to Stella, but it is GORGEOUS) - and I should say the hot refers to the quantity of ginger, not the temp. of the drink

3) Gorgeous buff surfer dude boyfriend to accompany me to beach, and who would enjoy it as much as I do, and not complain about the heat/ his irish skin burning easily.

4) Endless supply of mindless magazines to leaf through, esp. biba. French magazines are made for beach reading. Also a couple of interesting yet easy read books.

5) A Mitty James adult beach towelling robe (check them out on www.mittyjames.co.uk). They are beautiful. In fact, I'd like the entire range - the shorts, the parka. And even a child to dress in the ridiculously cute towelling poncho.

6) Huge slices of watermelon

7) a boat to sunbathe on and jump into the sea from

8) Large snorkel and mask. So I could swim in the sea without worrying about losing my contact lenses.

9) A cool box full of cool stella artois and group of trendy young friends to drink stella with.

10) Portable barbecue, and group of trendy young friends to eat barbecue foods with.

11) eternal free use of sunloungers at beach, not just when have leg in cast like last year (though still v grateful to lovely beach attendants at Broadsands for that)

12) ability to make dogs, cats and seagulls leave me alone while at beach or in pub gardens or in own back garden (have been harrassed by all 3 in last 2 days!)

13) Love my red silk sunhat the girls bought me years ago, but would like another, big, straw hat with scarf round it

Of course if I get all this, it will start to rain!

Wish List

I really really really want this.

And this.

Gilgamesh

Went to FAB new bar/restaurant last night - Girls, you would LOVE it. They're a bit up themselves, and the service was atrocious, but the venue is fantastic - and so good to have somewhere like this close to home - and I'm sure they'll iron out any problems in due course. Oh, and I bumped into one of my sisters there (the one who thinks she's a socialite), so it must be uber-cool. So guess where we're going to hold my (now scarily imminent) bday dinner?

Check it out

Last Weekend in Belfast

So this weekend just gone was my last weekend in Belfast for a few months, as I try desperately to pack up my life into two teeny tiny bags that weigh less than 25kg, and persuade myself than I can live without the 100s of CDs, American sitcom DVD boxsets, Italian film posters, back copies of Biba and Private Eye, various kitsch knick knacks, photos, and two bookcases worth of books that adorn my flat. I always seem to end up throwing away furniture, clothes, and bedding, and keeping half empty shampoo bottles (but is an amazing shampoo I bought in Sephora in New York and makes even my hair less frizzy) and photos of ex-boyfriends I haven't seen for 10 years (the boyfriends, not the photos). I spent my time washing, ironing and folding clothes while watching the tennis. However, I must also say a strange nostalgia swept over me. I was meeting J and her ex-boyfriend B in the Duke of York on Saturday night and bizarrely actually got there early (practically a first for me) and was sat in the back bar, looking at all the lovely coloured mirrors with their adverts for Bushmills whiskey, and the poem by Yeats engraved on the wall, and the scratched dark old wood, and the mismatched stools and the old men sipping Guinness while young boys pushed round them to get their designer lagers, hearing the buzz of chatter from the main bar, and felt a sudden rush of love and affection for the city of Belfast (and I'd only had one sip of my pint). Couldn't quite believe it was my last Belfast night out with J for quite a while. Then later I went on to meet a different group of friends in Radio K, a strange night as it was quite empty - a combination of the university term ending and the 12th this Wednesday meaning everyone has left town. Ended up flirting lots with "Gunther", a half German, half Northern Irish boy of my acquaintance. He's a funny one - he's extremely flirtatious and even asked me about Ballymena boy, so he was obviously on the scene last time we spoke, and I was amazed he'd remembered. But we've never snogged - it's all just very childish (holding hands, suggestive comments, massaging necks, sitting on lap, rubbing cheeks, dancing together). I'm not sure if this is just Gunther's way with everybody - but I don't think so - but I always feel there is this expectation from the group something will happen, but it never has. Anyway, all this to say my last weekend was fun, and funny, and made me realise I will miss Belfast terribly in some ways. Now is this just the way we always are when faced with change - overcome with nostalgia for an experience, even when not all of it is great? I still have times of feeling intensely lonely and isolated here, so it is not as if everything is rosy. But it has been my life for the last few years, and even though I will be back in February, this break feels long enough to be significant, and to be removing me from a place that has become my home, almost despite myself.