More chuckle-fuel for my inability to be a grown up.

So, I recently had two phones stolen. Separate incidents. Within ten days. Admittedly, I use the word stolen very loosely. Misplaced and not returned is a little closer. Welcome to Jo'burg, I thought.

(Though, in fairness, if I dropped my phone in Croydon or Hackney or some other cracky borough of London I'm fairly sure not only would I not get my phone back, but a pirate-y looking hoody armed with a flick knife and those stupid eyebrows with lines shaved out of them - number of mobiles thieved, perhaps - would probably loudly mock me with it before sloping off. Hoodies don't run.)

My parents, upon me timidly confessing the whole debacle over Skype, are now wildly concerned for my mental health. I've been reduced to a four year old. Every time I say I'm going out somewhere I get a flurry of panicked messages stating that I MUST make sure I zip my bag up, I MUST be careful when going down minor slopes (more on that later), I MUST not get my phone out in public and I MUST make sure I don't lob it on the braai. Honestly, I'm waiting for my mother to ask if I've made sure I've gone to the loo before getting in the car and whether I remembered to brush my teeth this morning. In their defence, managing to steal/lose/chuck two phones in the space of ten days is insufferably stupid. I'm just grumbling as I'm very aware that this will be remembered FOREVER. My mother is an elephant. (A beautiful, long limbed, Tai Chi practising elephant but a never-forgetting elephant nonetheless.) She still cheerfully, with just the teeniest hint of malice, recites to others about the time that I brutally savaged her Sounds of the Sixties cd. *coughs* A DECADE AGO.

Yes, I scratched it.

But I was fourteen and it was very uncool to complain about lame, grown up things like using a cd as a coaster when the girls in your dorm borrowed your stuff. This, however, has been used as a reason to NOT let me do something on countless, frankly irrelevant times.

Lottie: May I please have seconds?

Mummy: Nope. You scratched my Sounds of the Sixties cd.

***

Lottie: Henry just catapulted himself into my bedroom, without knocking, and repeatedly fired at my head with his BB gun.

Mummy: Well, you did scratch my Sounds of the Sixties cd.

***

Lottie: I think I might go and get my hair done this weekend, actually.

Mummy: YOU SCRATCHED MY SOUNDS OF THE SIXTIES CD.

***

You get the point.

So I know I'm not going to hear the last of this for a l-o-n-g time. In my defence, it all stems from an innate clumsiness, as opposed to carelessness. I will fall over anything. I will drop things. I will accompany all of these little foibles with a noise that sounds as if my voice is lunging dramatically as it wobbles out of my throat. I have never been, nor will I be, dainty. I'm rather like an over excitable springer spaniel that falls over itself a lot. It was quite cheek-squeezing adorable when I was eleven, only now that I'm twenty four it's exasperating. Cue my second mobile phone steal (the first one was stolen by a ninja - I didn't even notice as I merrily la la la-ed along to my ipod, the cruelty of the situation totally missed by my scatty self) of the ten days, that from henceforth we shall NEVER AGAIN MENTION, where I managed to fall over the most pathetically small decline on the road you've ever seen and whack my knee, rip my favourite jeans, bash my feet and bleed all over my Havainas in the process. Why I decided to break my fall with my knee is totally beyond me but there you go. I dropped the phone but was far too intent on doing the "jump up" that people do when you fall in public.

Note: People must not be able to witness your hideous, red faced shame for longer than about six seconds.

Hobbling down the road I discovered I had deposited my replacement phone on the floor along with my dignity and, despite doing an impressive Frankenstein-like lope back up the road, I was too late. It had gone. *sniffs*

So my wonky knee is ugly reminder enough of my alarmingly frequent acts of astounding intelligence. People's looks of abject horror and disbelief are not welcome, thank you very much. Richard Curtis would find the whole thing utterly captivating and write a deliriously funny yet touching in all the right parts screenplay about me. So there.

Faddy diets killed my bank balance.

I've become a Jeremy Kyle episode. *wails*

You see, I never seem to have any money.

Fine. Slight exaggeration. Sometimes I have money. But it's for such a short amount of time that I can basically break the average month down to three days of skipping, flashing (steady) huge smiles at strangers, cooing at small children in supermarkets and saying YES to everything - juxtaposed with twenty-seven murderous days of walking around with a permanently dejected air, sighing dramatically, claiming found pennies from between my sofa cushions and scowling at other people's far more exciting, MONEY FILLED plans.

Other then the glaringly obvious fact that I happen to work in an industry that pays you in penny sweets and buttons, I tried to work out why this was the case. Why do I never seem to have any money? That's right.

Faddy diets.

Some girls do shoes, others do Touche Eclat. I do 'interesting' ingredients. 'Interesting' ingredients and an uncomfortable relationship with my wobbly bits, however, burn a nasty little hole in my pocket. Listen small, vampiric Scottish woman off the telly with extraordinarily vein-y hands and an unhealthy relationship with poo, I know I should be DITCHING THE CARRRBS but spaghetti is cheap. Ok? As is bread. Ditto potatoes. Do you know what's not cheap though? Essence of Pekingese mango skin or dittany of soya linseed rye bread. Oil from the back of the Neolamprologus Brichardi Kipili fish or nuts rich in Vitamin something-or-other delicately transported by trained parakeets. All just what I should be consuming four portions of before breakfast to intensely detoxify me and turn me into one of those shiny-toothed, glossy haired people who get photographed laughing as they eat their salad. Apparently. Diets with those sort of food types are cooked up by bored, thin people intent on tormenting others and are only followed by Jennifer Aniston, Megan Fox or Superwoman - all of whom have the money (I imagine being Superwoman would pay relatively well) and the mental (in?)stability to do so. But I'm in advertising, which quite often means you are in fact a total sucker for advertising. *nods somberly* It's silly, but pretty pictures, nice typography and the assurance that spending oodles on organic, hand reared, lovingly smothered in kisses, sung-to morsels retrieved from the bottom of some unreachable sea bed will be the best thing for your body since sliced bread (hmm, in this context that's more than a little ironic) I totally fall for it.

Ridiculous ingredient: I was hand crafted.

Me: Noooo.

Ridiculous ingredient: For reals. I was also lightly whipped and now nestle on something tousled and expensive and one of a kind.

Me: How exciting. I must have you. It'll make me all Nigella like if someone happens to rifle through my kitchen bin and finds your lovely, hypnotic wrapper.

Ridiculous ingredient: Well quite.

Just days after I'm back in the aisles wringing my hands as I gaze guiltily at the instant noodles for R6 - bargain - stocking up on tins of baked beans, wading through endless bowls of spaghetti, trying to decide what I can fashion out of an assortment of pickles and prunes and glaring at the offensive foods I gobbled in those three blissful days of dollar, that now taunt me prettily with their shiny packets and expensive price tags. I also have to battle with the knowledge that we have an entire cupboard in my office dedicated to crisps, biscuits, sweets and chocolate. Lunches are beginning to consist of crisp sandwiches without the bread (two can play at that game, Pret) and Quality streets. Gillian McKeith would have a fit.

So it seems like, until carrots have fancy labels on them and my inner faddy dieter moves out, I'm going to continue lurching from food joy - tra la la I'm bathing in food awesomeness - to food fail. Baked beans on toast is delicious. Baked beans on toast for twenty-seven days makes me want to walk in to Woolworths with a semi automatic.



* Oh and yes, the picture at the top bears absolutely no direct relevance to this post other then the fact that I like tacos (though I haven't had one in a-g-e-s) and I feel that said taco's sad little face resembles mine on my poor days. Besides, I have a frequent tendency to be tenuous and I only have three followers, so sod it.

Spanks. The final taboo?

I paid my first ever visit to a laundrette recently.

(No. I am not that lazy. I was staying with a friend who had put their washing machine into storage as he was moving down to Cape Town.)

So. Laundrette. I piled my clothes into a bag, lumped them through one of those whiplash inducing doors with a violent swing akin to a Venus Flytrap and gulped uncomfortably as I paid what seemed an awful lot for Macro-own-brand washing powder - not saying anything as only a true English person does. I was sifting through my clean laundry a few days later and noticed that something was missing. I wasn't even sure if I could prove it, either, as it was one of those places that neglects to write down what you handed in. (Apparently I went to a lucky dip dry cleaners.) What was worse, however, was that even if they had been clever enough to make a note of what I'd handed in, I'm not sure I could have gone back to ask after the missing item. What was it?

My spanks.

To the unassuming eye they are almost offensive ~ oyster coloured industrial sized underwear that promises to strap in even the most stubborn bulges ~ that you hoik right up to your bra. Bridget Jones knickers. Or possibly a small parachute if the occasion called for it.

I bought them as I was wearing an eye-wateringly tight dress for our big advertising awards, The Loeries, last October and I was too lazy to lay off the Sauvingnon Blanc and sneaky cheese scoffing. When I went to the till at Woolworths the cashier called her friend over so they could loudly mock my revolting choice in underwear and I shuffled, red faced, out of the door after giving up trying to explain it was for a special occasion (cue more cackling) and that I didn't usually wear a tent underneath my jeans. They're vile. But they're MAGIC. After hopping up and down with as much grace and dignity as I could muster (this was not a lot, sadly) I whipped my dress on and voila. The realisation of being able to wolf down food and drink as normal (I get depressed when I have to turn down canapes) gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my faux-flat stomach. Hooking up in said magic pants is not really an option, as you either have to brave hook up's face of horror as he lays eyes on your giant, flesh coloured panties or make a speedy dash to the bathroom first and take them off entirely, instantly morphing you into one of those people that goes out without wearing underwear. Like Britney. Truly, I only wear them if I'm wearing a skinny fit dress (this is rare: I tend to loaf around wearing leggings and oversized tops so I can continue to gobble food in the fashion that I'm accustomed) but I've formed a grudging admiration for them. I've even decided that they're actually vampy in an 80's Madonna meets Mad Men sort of way. *scrapes barrel*

But.

I still don't advertise that I'm wearing spanks. Why would you? It would be like marching through the streets brandishing a banner, so you could broadcast to the world that those creamy, caramel-y streaks in your hair were in fact done by Alessandro, last Thursday at 3, or that the delicious Mulberry tote you're parading to the envy of everyone else was actually acquired from a shady night market in Phuket next to knock off dvds. I'm not advocating lying for God's sake, just to be allowed to project a little white lie. Women should be entitled to a smidgen of mystery. So, tragically, my not-so-inner English has forbidden me from going back to the dry cleaners to ask after them. I say it's because it's too late, I don't have a slip to prove it, pre-Christmas rush means it's bound to be bursting with spanks blah blah blah - but I know it's because I'm too mortified to expose my little flesh-coloured lie to an unimpressed cashier with raised eyebrows and laughing eyes.

Festive Fuckery - Travelling 'hiccups'.

I learned two new things about me this holiday.

i) I am neither cool, calm nor collected in a 'situation'. In fact, I am a FLAPPER.

ii) My alcohol limit when air bound is significantly lower than normal. Stopping at, say, two bottles of rapidly necked wine is, in future, necessary in order to never again render my fellow passengers mute with horror as I snort-bark-squealed with laughter at children's films, swooned loudly at Javier Bardem and finally passed out in a drunken and no doubt snoring lump. Four bottles is greedy. Not festive.

These discoveries were borne out of England's inability to deal with snow. And we're talking inches here, not feet. Our green and pleasant was transformed into an icy tundra from as early as the end of November last year (hullo, Al Gore?) and subsequently morphed into a third world country. Buses ground to a halt, trains stopped running, the tube flopped over in pathetic defeat and more often then not people just stayed indoors. Typically British, we grumbled and sniped and moaned but similarly 'got on with it'. I, meanwhile, was basking in the sun over in the hot hemisphere, deliciously unaffected by the whole shambles aside from offering the occasional 'chin up' to friends and family who were losing small body parts to frost bite. I was due to fly back home for Christmas on the 20th of December. Plenty of time for the snow to melt, I thought. Bah humbug, said the weather.

So the 20th of December rolled around and I walked into work to be greeted by an ugly no-fly message on SAA's website.

BUT IT'S CHRISTMAS, I wailed. (Cancelling flights is not what Jesus would do.) The next flight I could get on was Christmas Eve. Well bollocks to that. The only reason I managed to get through the next few hours was a continuous flow of caffeine swiftly followed by large glasses of wine. Sneaking onto the website around lunchtime it appeared that they were flying as normal, after all. Hurrah, I cheered. (Or it could have been more of a woozy whoop as I crashed forwards into my desk by that point.) I immediately cheered up and began planning what order I was going to eat my Christmas food in, day dreaming about mulling any alcohol I could lay my hands on and how frequently I could eat cheese for 'pudding'. Happy days. By 4 o'clock the website said they were off again, the robotic lady voice on the phone said they were on and I was getting indigestion with the confusion of it all. I drove anxiously to the airport, dragging my ancient, 'at least no-one will steal it' bag behind me to be told that yes, my flight was cancelled. Sorry. They would know by 2pm the following day if they would fly or not and, in the meantime, it was best really to hang around until then. I looked at the air stewardess and for a split second imagined yanking her over coiffed 'do sharply downwards so her lipsticked mouth smashed into the desk.

And then I cried.

Crying, friends, is magical. It makes people UNCOMFORTABLE. And when people are UNCOMFORTABLE they tend to go out of their way to do anything and everything to make you stop crying. Her eye twitched and she swallowed nervously, brushing imaginary wrinkles off her blazer. Bingo.

So I totally got on a flight. The ONLY flight leaving the country for England. God bless that glorious, overly made-up air stewardess. I want to say I'm not proud but I sort of am. I didn't bump anyone else off, just took a seat that someone, in all the confusion, didn't pitch up for. I did hit a small child in the face with my handbag as I sprinted, red faced and panting, through the airport though. Did feel a smidge guilty about that and his subsequent wail but I was not missing that plane.

This is the part where I ignore the need for a refreshing glass of water and instead thirstily guzzle copious bottles of wine. I became quite loud. I chatted animatedly to my neighbour. I snorted with glee at the in-flight entertainment.

AND THEN I GOT GROPED.

God was clearly watching when I walloped that small child. Apparently my seemingly shy and retiring neighbour, a spotty and rather smelly Afrikaans youth on his first trip to the UK, thought that, though I was drunkenly snoring, my body was screaming STROKE ME. Dozily emerging from my wine induced coma to be greeted by a moist-palmed paw clutching at my arm was immensely sobering. However, I am English, which meant I was absolutely incapable of leaning over and telling him where to shove it. Instead I mock woke up in an overly exaggerated way, complete with disorientated/I just had a horrible nightmare noise. (I may have been a little drunk still.) He looked at me earnestly like a small puppy and I wondered how him and my arm could have formed such an intense relationship in such a short space of time, before giving him a wobbly smile (you know, the kind you reserve for drunk homeless men who lurch towards you on the tube shouting about the aliens in their head) and dragging my rug between us to form some kind of barrier. Needless to say the rest of my flight was pretty nightmarish as my premature hangover bashed me over the head and I simultaneously strained away from Gropey, tattooing the arm rest into my left hand side and cricking my neck.

Oh (ho ho) but it doesn't stop there. After landing, running away from Gropey, collecting my bag
and enjoying a wonderfully cliche-ridden Christmas holiday full of log fires, scrabble battles, crumbly stilton, snowy dog walks, endless bottles of Merlot and tangerine smelling fingers I made my way back to the station to get to the airport. What's that? The train's been cancelled last minute because of overhead line problems and I'll need to take a round-the-houses replacement train before connecting somewhere else only to be picked up by a train that will similarly be delayed meaning I have to leg it (a - gain) through London, followed by a bag that will surrender it's rickety wheels to a snowy pavement, meaning I arrive at the boarding gate nine minutes after closing and subsequently miss my flight home?

Oh fuck this.





*** Here's to a 2011 of smooth travelling and, if not, guardian angels in the form of garishly made up air stewardesses that melt when you cry and move mountains to get you on planes ***

Karma : A sparkly, gold coated unicorn

I'm not actually sure if what I mean is in actual fact karma, but the title would have been less catchy or more like a tired old film title if I'd called it something more woolly and meandering. *Looks at current title. Narrows eyes at unicorn reference.* Ok. I know what you're thinking. But describing it as a sparkly, gold coated mythical creature is apt. Truly. I actually also wanted to photoshop myself onto a picture of a unicorn but my in design skills are non-existent and my drawing skills something small children snort with derision at. (Side note: In looking for a Captain fantastic picture of a unicorn on Google I came across - next to a dandy cowboy of a unicorn complete with 'tache and monocle - not one but two pictures of Barack Obama wrestling a bear whilst on a unicorn. Naked. I'm still trying to work out what the artist was trying to say, other then: PLEASE TOP UP MY CRAZY PILLS I JUST WOLFED THE LAST BOTTLE TO SUMMON THIS LITTLE BEAUTY.)

So. Karma, or it's lesser known brother - God of Looking Out For You - is great.

Something really embarrassing happened to me yesterday. We're talking *winces* hurl yourself off something very tall onto something sharp and pointy embarrassing. It materialised technologically but was, nevertheless, a muff punch of a blunder. I took a tentative toe dip into the slightly-cheeky-but-socially-accepted world of phone sex yesterday. I say toe dip, because I wasn't brave enough to actually call. Yep. I'm not a prude, but I am aware of my, erm, limitations. I am clumsy. I talk too much. I am as subtle as an escaped loon wielding a gun at your face. I am blah blah blah the list goes on... This is how I imagine a phone sex conversation of mine to go down.

Guy: So. What are you wearing?

Me: Oh, just my old leggings and an 'I ate a kilo of ribs at Thundergun rib house, watch out or I'll eat you too' tshirt.

*Awkward pause*

Me: Oh I see. Start again. Um, I'm wearing red, crotchless panties. Wait. Is that too far? Can one go too far in a conversation aimed entirely at getting the other person off? Should I say a thong instead? Are thongs very 90's?? *trails off* Maybe we should have a safe word. Like in S&M. Not that I've done S&M. Just seen it on tv. Normal tv that is, not weird porno tv. Though I suppose you've probably watched porn before so that's fine. No judgement here. Out of interest do you store all your porn on your external hard drive (they've come down in price so much over the last few years) or do you do it old school with magazines?

This is the part where the poor sod on the other end would hang up and subsequently reach for the bottle.

Nope. I sent a text. I spent a good thirty minutes composing those cheeky one hundred and sixty characters and sent it off, smug as only a first timer can be. NAILED IT, my inner me squeaked.

A few hours passed.

I started to worry that inner whore had got carried away and punched in the wrong number, sending it to someone else entirely. My stomach flip flopped and fizzled into a puddle as I checked, sweaty palmed, that I'd sent it to the correct person. (Image of self having to calm down a bemused and frankly upset Grandmother racing through my mind.) It was correct. Odd.

A few more hours passed. And the night. And then some more hours after that.

Oh dear. Was my slutty sms in fact totally rubbish? Checked it again. Nope. (I actually blushed a bit.) So... *reality of situation sinks in* Did I send a dirty message to a red-blooded male and get NO RESPONSE?! Yes. Yes, I did. Felt faintly vomit-y after that little eye popper of a conclusion. The real life equivalent of this would be like me trying to creep into his bed, all saucy like, before he kicked me out shouting UGH NO THANKS, BOG OFF at me.

But along came the Karma unicorn to save the day!

First, my bus was on time this morning. A small but definitely noteworthy event. Then, I went on to National Express to buy a train ticket from Norfolk to London at the end of December - inner dread settling on my breakfast as I realised my rail card had expired and rail prices had gone up by nightmarish proportions - and it cost me EIGHT POUNDS. Read it and weep my friends. I felt like I was sticking it to the man! Well, the train man at any rate. But wait, it gets better. Someone at work had a birthday and bought in a bowl, nay - a bucket, of mini doughnuts. I am the kind of person who hops wildly up and down when presented with free food. Free mini doughnuts?? I practically exploded in a shriek of sugary coated happiness before someone pointed out that all the creatives are getting treated to a freebie breakfast at Primi tomorrow morning by some production house. Get. Out of. Town. I also realised that a killer song I've been trying to remember for ages so I could download it, actually already existed in my iTunes. And then a fellow advertising mule mate of mine brought it to my attention that we now live closer to each other and must, must, must go and watch the new Harry Potter together. Dressed in cloaks.

Thank you Karma unicorn. I may have been spurned sexually but you fired lasers of awesomeness from your twirly horn of loveliness at me today.

Oh and it's two for one burgers tonight at Spur. Hells yeah.

****

Following day: the karma unicorn has come up trumps A - GAIN. Had my annual review this morning where I managed to wangle both a raise and a bonus out of my especially smiley ECD. Twinkly, lollipop flavoured rockets of magic are zoom zoom zooming towards me. Happy days.

your ears will have a FIELD DAY

I'm not a particularly attentive blogger. At all. Part of it is the sorry acknowledgment that the content will merely be an explosion of erratic, giddy words falling on top of one another detailing, in the main, food. And possibly the odd half hearted stab at a current affairs topic that will invariably lead back to, yes, food. The other part of it is that I am also actually lazier than I realise. This does make sense, however, as presumably most lazy people don't realise they're lazy. So technically it's not my fault. *trails off confusedly...*

Anyway.

I want to leap onto my friends' musical bandwagons and parrot my latest recommendations. I understand that some may consider this *gesticulates inverted comma signs wildly* copying, but I live under a rock and am simply not cool or quick enough to discover music on my own. Sadly, I seem to have a friend that EVERY TIME I proudly produce a song or a new artist to he's already got their album, read the latest interview in The Guardian and is going to see them, actually, in an intimate gig tomorrow night. His raised eyebrows and skinny jeans ooze louche. Louche people are the movers and shakers of the music industry. Not me, the personification of an over excitable springer spaniel.

So.

The five favourites my ears are loving listening to right now are:

James Blake - CMYK

Crystal Castles - Not in Love ft Robert Smith

LCD Soundsystem - Dance Yrself Clean

Pariah - The Slump

The xx - Basic Space (Pariah remix)


James Blake's voice is raw and earthy. Shut your eyes and drink in the plinky intro that moves deliciously into a sultry, dub step-y beat. His cover of Feist's "Limit to your Love" is, simply, beautiful and well worth a listen. Music for a long, dark bus journey along London's lamp lit streets. Crystal Castle's, "Not In Love," makes you warm and fuzzy in all the right places - Robert Smith's voice conjuring images of broken hearted teenagers crooning to his posters plastered over their bedroom walls. Gorgeous. As for LCD Soundsystem their new album, "This Is Happening" is beautifully crafted. Couldn't decide which track to put up as have been blasting the whole album through my earphones to be honest. But the whole thing is effortlessly cool and the music heaves and swells and fizzes as it dances through your body. It won't disappoint. Lastly there's Pariah, another young 'un playing with similar sounds to Blake. His remix of The xx's "Basic Space" is utter euphoric bliss, and his tunes are unassumingly beautiful, melodic yet twitchy.

There's also a Hot Chip "We Have Remixes" album coming out which promises to be very good - whack your email address into this link and get the Time Machine Remix Edit of "Hand Me Down Your Love" by Todd Edwards. Boom. Enjoy.

Over and out.

(See? Springer spaniel.)

My Blackberry turned me...

Nope, this is not some thinly veiled attempt to blog my waltz from 'the closet' in all its probable sparkly sequin covered, marching band flouncing, frantic arm flapping, rosy cheeked choirboy singing, white collared dove releasing glory.

(See I say I know gay, and yet...)

Sidenote: To be honest, considering my new Blackberryness I probably would blog my new found sexuality were it ever to, um, change. you know. Um... *desperately tries to claw blog back into at least seeming smidgen of reality*

The point of this 'grubby pawed toddler showing his less than impressed mother the large worm he found in its death throes' information, is that I acquired a Blackberry a few months ago from a very good, very generous friend of mine. (Thank you, Sarah.) I've always been a bit of a snob when it comes to technology, something I ranted about in my first ever blog, and not in the cool, that is sooo last year, Apple way. In the way that smacks of a caveman that simply doesn't have the brain capacity to appreciate modernity. Don't get me wrong. I think Apple products are PRETTY. But apparently that's not the point. So, I've always insisted that having internet on your phone is just plain stupid and unnecessary and that no I don't want to see how you can access the latest news and events on your phone and update your facebook status and check the weather in Chulmleigh and take a picture to send to your Aunt Matilda in Australia and summon a personalised unicorn with the power of one button all at the same time. Thank you very much. But now I've actually got internet on my phone...

...well it's a whole different story. Facebook is horribly accessible. A friend makes a comment on a photo or someone sends me an invite to an event I'll never go to and WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA'AM. My phone trills and flashes a little blink-y red light at me instantly. No more squabbling over which actor was in what when Google is at your fingertips. Or ever getting lost, when a map shows you just how retarded your original route was and how clever this suggested new one is. Oh and I've started tweeting. Tweeting *blushes* quite a lot. About really quite trivial stuff.

Ok, that's not fair actually. If you'd witnessed that muffin based loveliness you would have taken a picture of it too. Don't get me wrong, I used the internet before. Obviously. I mean, my Grandparents use the internet. But I used it at my desk, on a computer, connected to a plug of some kind. Not all portable and cool and modern. And I'm not just a grudging convert either - I'd happily glaze my nipples and skip squealing through the streets, lauding the merits of internet on your phone. So essentially I'm a big, fat hypocrite. One little Blackberry and all my snide scoffing is thrown - nay, HURLED - out of the window. And the worst thing? I'm too smug, grinning like a loon, to actually stop tweeting rubbish or checking information on my phone when there's a perfectly good computer with a much larger screen just next to me. I'm like that nerd who FINALLY got invited to the party and is now running around like a small child at Christmas, on meth, wolfing down cake and snortsquealing (*hangs head* my speciality) as they run around the dance floor spraying crumbs and slowly turning purple with excitement.

And yes. I'm totally going to tweet this.

Warning - some may find the below distressing

I haven't blogged in a while. Consider it a combination of spending too much of my spare time chuckling at other people's blogs and remembering that I have a grown up, quite demanding job that takes up an inordinate amount of the rest of my time. Plus I seem to have had nothing interesting to say. At all. Nada. Which is sort of disappointing and a bit odd since I live in an exciting foreign country and all that.

(Anyway)

I read an article yesterday that chilled me to the very core. So moved was I by the news relayed to me by the Guardian online (it's not The Times but it'll do) that I felt compelled to send a strongly worded missive out into cyberspace. *Looks over at current number of followers (three) concedes that LETTER OF OUTRAGE may be overlooked somewhat* This news affects all that is British-y in us. It threatens our culture. It encroaches upon our childhood memories and creeps, Bogeyman like, into our happy days of yore. It's that nasty, bigger child on the beach that kicks over your painstakingly constructed sandcastle palace then skips off all innocent, chuckling cruelly. You know, of course, what I'm talking about. Yes. The possible sale of United Biscuits to some big, fat Chinese conglomerate.

To put it into context -- a sad farewell to Twiglets, Jaffa Cakes and Mini Cheddars. (There are heaps more but these are my favourite and, being my rant, the most important. Obviously.)

Ok, so nothing is set in stone but the 'in talks' with Bright Foods alone was enough to make me reach for the paper bag. I mean, good grief people. Is nothing sacred any more?! I won't bore you with the history (United Biscuits can trace it's roots back to 1830, employs 7000 in the UK alone, has sales of 1.3billion a year, operates out of 24 locations worldwide and is loved by tummies from Greece to Australia, Sweden to Nigeria - thank you Google) but what on earth will kiddies, students, stoners and gummy-toothed old people alike snack on now? Besides, when questioned on the above, a spokesman for Bright Foods merely issued the statement, "We are in talks about buying United Biscuits." Snore. Is this really who we want snatching up the very foundations of our youth? What's next? Marmite gets sold to a Peruvian philanthropist?? *swoons*

There are several other companies circling, however, notably Kellogs, Nestle, Kraft and some unnamed Indian chaps. I think, therefore, the only fair solution is to do some sort of a test. Bah humbug to who has the most dosh (I reckon the Chinese might have the edge there), United Biscuits must go to the most deserving. I think a quick pop quiz on the snacks, some recipe ideas and dip alternatives, favourite hours of the day to eat said snacks and why, hand sewn cushion cover of favourite snack, a 5000 word personal statement, best snack moment and poetic 'ode to a snack' should suffice. In iambic pentameter.


Here's hoping.

Ode to a shower singer/foot tapper/bus hummer

Well, it's a little late considering the shortlist of nominees for the controversial Mercury Prize was announced last week -- but I did my teeny weeny bit for the folk'ing fantastic Laura Marling a few months ago and now feel it's time for me to fly the flag for this glorious lot. Mumford and Sons.

Again, my musical vocabulary is somewhat wanting, but their debut album, 'Sigh No More,' is delicious. Believe the hype. Curl up with it, rewind and listen again and let it wash over you in all of its toe tapping glory. As my brother recommended them to me, my mind leapt to awkward country themed discos, clutching a sweaty Smirnoff Ice as my scuffed boots (NONSENSE. ARMY BOOTS ARE PRACTICALLY THE SAME, DARLING) and wilting cowboy hat navigated gingerly through grubby straw and leering, chubby hands. But those first, haunting notes, simple sweet lyrics and that voice that's both gravel and chocolate left all that behind.

A white blank page
and a swelling rage,
You did not think
when you sent me
to the brink,
You desired my attention
but denied my affections,

They. Are. The. Shit.

Not particularly eloquent, but sometimes there's just no point beating about the bush. Truly, buy the album. Listen to it. Then listen to it again. It doesn't get old, or tired, or dull. If anything, frankly, it gets better. I can't decide if I even want them to win the Mercury award. (Not many have escaped the aftermath of the poisoned chalice.) But I do want them, music snob that I am, to explode into the modern musical consciousness. To be recognised and celebrated for their talent. To not be resigned to the bargain bin at HMV or, God forbid, themed dances.

Besides, not just anyone can make a banjo sexy.

A bash at politics. Ish.

Behold. Doesn't he look all Prime Minister-y and delicious? Sadly - no offence, Dave - this is not our Prime Minister.

(DING DING DING. *the crowd cheers* Fine. Not exactly the finest display of parliamentary deconstruction, but at least applaud my tentative toe dip into political waters.)

Nope. The point of this picture is because Cameron is currently making his first official visit to America, as Prime Minister, to meet the effervescent Obama. And whilst newspapers up and down the country are either lampooning or lauding the 'special relationship,' my mind jumps to a rather different place. Two words.

'Love Actually.'

Tell me you're not already there, eyes shut, bum-in-chair wiggling, humming oh so enthusiastically before belting, I CAN FEEL YOU GETTING HOTTER. OH BABY. Fear not friends. You're not alone. Then, of course, I make the obvious leap to that picturesque moment in the snowy dusk where skinny, 'still had antennae fringe hair,' Keira is gazing sadly at a stack of dreamy message boards, blushing prettily to faux carol singing as Andrew Lincoln declares his patient and undying love for her - only to receive a cold peck on the cheek. (At this point you'll find me on my knees in front of the tv, wailing, HE LOVES YOU JUST THE WAY YOU ARE, NINNY, DITCH THE LOSER UPSTAIRS.) And from there I progress to Colin Firth marching through the cobbled streets of Portugal, all dark haired and determined, proposing in pigeon Portuguese in front of the entire restaurant. Then I drift to our thwarted but delicious and bespectacled Frenchie......

And then it all goes a bit hazy from there as I simultaneously praise Richard Curtis for his impeccable taste in casting and desperately attempt to claw my thoughts back to the supposed theme of this blog. Politics. Well, Politics. ISH. Emphasis on the ish. Because as many people scowl and scorn this supposed special relationship between the UK and America; try to decipher and translate what it even means, I drift off to that speech old Hugh delivered with such gusto in the film. Where he celebrated, "Shakespeare, Churchill, The Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter, David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to think of it," and it sort of makes me yearn for a similarly gutsy display of patriotism from Cameron.

I don't hate America. Far from it. In fact, Obama is kind of cool in a 'can't name your policies but you don't look like you'll shag your secretary or invade a Middle Eastern country' sort of way. Nor do I think it wise to expect our politics to play out like a Richard Curtis script. (Ok. Secretly I do. A little bit.) But I do think that, as we all hold our breath for reports from Washington, we should expect a steely determination and pride from Cameron to set the tone of his tenure that reflects the English people. A people that has had their fair share of hiccups but say RECESSION SESMESSION (what, people say that) and bah humbug to the loss of Rooney's striking foot. We are the people that wait chilly months on end for the sun before stripping off to bare goose-pimply skin in our lunch break, perched on a wobbling wooden bench in a full-to-bursting park. We're determined. Yes, we moan and grumble. Snipe and complain. But we don't give up. We stay resolute.

Hang on. There's a point here. Somewhere. (Note to self : next time, STICK TO FOOD.) Oh yes...

So a message to David Cameron from me -- Stand firm. Oh and don't be afraid to channel Hugh Grant.

Diplo - oh - oh

I dislike Diplo in so many ways. Actually, maybe dislike is a little strong. I 'meh' Diplo in so many ways. The snob in me thinks he can be a mite sell out-y at times, his Philly accent is tinny - ok, that's not particularly fair but admit it, after her cartoon-esque curves you scowl at Scarlett because of that voice - and his frighteningly constant twitter updates are downright cruel. No Diplo. I do not want to hear that you're swigging dark rum from the bottle as you salute hundreds of yelping fans behind your decks. On the beach. In the sunshine.

But ....

That boy knows how to party.

My lovely London girls and I rocked up to a Major Lazer gig on Wednesday, 26th May at Village Underground expecting a party. What we got was in fact a giant slap in the face with some Caribbean soul, champagne launched off a jiggling bottom, crowd surfing, sweat pouring off tangled, jumping limbs and daggering. Daggering that would make Samantha blush. I watched amazed - mildly horrified but also unable to tear my eyes away, car crash style - as Skerrit Boy climbed up the most precarious step ladder in all of Christendom, pulled his jeans down, waved his tackle around at the shrieking ladies of the audience then leapt - nay, DIVED - onto an excited slash terrified creature beneath him. Oh and then he jumped about a bit on top of her for good measure. What. Would. Mother. Say.

These boys hardly ever tour England so if you can - go, go, go, go, go, go, go. It was phenomenal. The music was great fun full of 90's classics and modern shaking, they definitely know what they're doing and have, more excitingly, brought an exoticism and new flavour to the genre. They're onto something. Just leave your sense of propriety at home. And possibly bring a flannel.

Fancy food.

I like pretty food. Look at that, erm, scallop and ... erm ... well look at it. Doesn't it look dainty and delightful? Oh yes it does. (Of course, if I was being r-e-a-l-l-y picky I'd make the portion about seven times bigger but hey, that's just me.) I think this lust for attractive nosh is sister to my utterly inappropriate method of supermarket shopping too. I am the prime target for those marketing moguls who yell on about fancy packaging to seduce the fools who amble idly down the aisles, casually picking up bright packages or items boasting the words 'rich,' 'stone baked,' 'parmesan crust,' *wipes mouth* and the like. Yep. I am a sucker for food porn.

I even sort of do it with books too. If I'm in a library feeling adventurous enough to throw caution to the winds and NOT get a Richard and Judy voted book, I tend to just browse willy nilly, going for the books with the prettiest or most eye catching titles. Which, if you think about it, is quite funny when you ponder the ol' proverb about not judging a book by its cover. Hmm. Not sure what this says about me but ...

So. Me and my aesthetically charged appetite went for supper (oh and the boy and his wallet came too, of course) and what did I choose? The linguine with the cream AND gorgonzola in. Bacon AND chicken in. My saucer eyes could not be dissuaded. I was definitely going to eat it all. Even the fact that the rather petite waitress needed help just to carry the gargantuan bowl over to me couldn't stop me. DIG IN, I thought. (And yes, yes I did put extra parmesan on top.)

Later as I sat in the bathroom, my cheek resting against the cooling tiles and my tummy yelping furiously at me, I thought about my greed for fancy food. Creamy goodness is just evil wrapped up in an appealing disguise. I sighed loudly enough for Marc to poke his head around the door and deliver the entirely unhelpful line, 'Well I did warn you it would be too rich, didn't I?' before I furiously lobbed the Andrex twelve pack at his big, fat head. (Women are meant to have MYSTERY attached to them. This is clearly quite hard to keep up when your boyfriend catches you on the loo.) So yes, yes I was warned but did I heed? No. No, I did not. But I defy you to ignore the menu when something whipped and creamed and tousled into something beautiful is staring back at you.

Revolving restaurant of DOOM

Ok, so the title sounds dramatic but it was truly, truly one of the worst restaurant experiences of my life. And as a humble foodie obsessive, dedicated to the carbs cause this was shattering.

Yes, I was hanging out of my arse and thus unable to come to sensible eating decisions, or any sensible decisions come to think of it... but my friend, Holly, had come up from Cape Town and was jolly and perky as only the dead sober and moderate can be. (Witch). We decided lunch would be a very wise plan since I had only munched liquid calories in the last 24 hours and my skin was turning a funny colour. APPARENTLY I have Lonely Planet to thank for the subsequent horror... my friend leant over and squawked, 'ooh let's go to Revolving Roma!' It sounded quite fun and I wasn't in any position to discuss anything coherently so I just mumbled 'gafudidiparr' and off we went.

I hate it when people over use the term surreal. You know- when silly, sparkly creatures flick their hair and squeak "OHMYGODWEJUSTBUMPEDINTOEACHOTHER....sooooo surreal." Argh! No it's not! That's a coincidence airhead! *calms down* Anyway what followed actually warranted one of those comments. We emerged on the top floor of a rather shaky building, the restaurant slowly clunking it's way around as only a revolving restaurant born in the 80's can. What greeted us was part horrifying, part hilarious. It was like someone had vomited chintz everywhere. The walls were daubed with fat, slightly leery cherubs and nude Raphellite sort-of-beauties. Everything was in dark mahogony and the carpet bore a slightly exhausted it-was-fashionable-in-the-70's look. The Manager was the only person who took orders (ego trip anyone?) so we sat for forty five miserable minutes before we were graciously handed a menu. I, now almost dribbling from the night before's antics, decided that since I'd been bullied into this (I just wanted a burger) I would have to get hopelessly drunk again to survive Giuseppe's plastered on smile and Isabella's 90th birthday celebrations on the next table.

So I opted for pasta carbonara and a bucket of red wine. Simples. It's an Italian, isn't it? Oh dear. My carbonara arrived in a twee china bowl that looked like it should have been chucked many moons ago and the pasta was cold, covered in tomato and had SPAM in it. Wait a minute- didn't post war Britain eat spam? Hmm? Where was my crispy bacon, egg and cream? I wilted in horror, my headache screaming DON'TMAKEAFUSS as I attempted to wolf down my main course.

A part of me died that day.

I LOVE pasta and that horrid restaurant ruined it for me. Ok that's a lie, I'm definitely eating pasta again- as soon as possible actually- so I can reassure my poor tum that it still tastes nice really. And actually the decor was quite funny. In fact, the restaurant experience was akin to seeing that old relative of your's plastered at a wedding and groping as much bridesmaid bottom as possible. It's horrendous but sort of amusing at the same time. And I was hungover slash drunk throughout the experience. I would warn you all off it but I doubt you'll find yourself in Durban by the water, a little too close to the CBD for my liking, musing on the benefits of a fun afternoon out in an Italian that charmingly revolves around grey tower blocks. But just in case- DON'T DO IT. Lesson learnt.

FOLK'ING FANTASTIC

The new Laura Marling album, 'I speak because I can' is bloody wonderful. Truly. I've listened to it on repeat all morning and I seem to be liking it more and more each time.

The finish is incredibly professional whilst still retaining a vulnerable rawness. She's that bit more accessible than Joanna Newsom's bleating harp yet doesn't cross into the pop realm that other folk artists, such as Regina for one, seem to have slipped into.

I honestly don't know what more to say. I'm not a music critic so I can't wax lyrical about the subtle nuances that scream of a folk revival akin to the blah blah blah... but I love decent music and this, my friends, is decent. Lyricism like, Eye to eye, nose to nose / Ripping off each other's clothes in a most peculiar way, coupled with sitars, strings, eery howls and acoustic guitars ticks all the boxes.This is folk celebrating rural England in all its frost covered, blackberry foraging, dog walking, tea drinking, by-the-hearth warming glory. Bravo Laura- epic.

Spinning. (Apparently not as gentle as it sounds.)

Looking around the gym, all I could see was sweaty, red faced victims who looked like they'd happily trample over their own grandmother if it meant there was an easier way to work off last night's lasagna. Peeking through the window on my left were men heaving giant weights onto their shoulders- hmm, probably not- and in the other room, a terrifying man wielding a megaphone at a mass of exhausted, windmill arms. No.

Suddenly, in front of me, I spotted some smiley people on bikes. Perfect. Everyone knows that exercising on a machine is easier. What I didn't spot was that the walls were soundproof and that, sauntering in to the warm up all jack-the-lad like, the ear shatteringly loud, German techno was masking people's groans of pain (and the occasional and frankly unnecessary 'whoop' from the instructor) and the smiles were actually grimaces of pain. Ah. Well, too late to back out now. I sidled onto my seat (ouch, these saddles were NOT made for people with normal sized bottoms) and started pedalling...

I will be honest, fellow bloggers, I did not immediately take to it like the proverbial duck. I was enjoying myself in a weird sort of sado-masochistic way, but I was huffing and puffing over my handlebars in a small wheezing lump, my eyes crossed as I grunted most unlady like through the session. For future reference- DO NOT choose to sit/collapse next to someone who is quite obviously a regular. (Ways to spot this include smooth legs- both boys and girls- professional cycling kit/trainers and an eager smile plastered over their face resembling that of Hitler's at a book burning.) The man and his giant muscles on my right was pedalling like billy-oh so I tried to take a leaf out of his book and use him as motivation. Well, I never knew you could have a heart beat in your head. I think in fact that's your body giving you a thump to warn you it's about to keel over but...

Anyway one hour later of sprints, climbs and several muttered voodoo curses from yours truly I surprised myself by being MILDLY DISAPPOINTED when the she-devil bought us to a stop. Truly. I was so flushed (no seriously, I was purple) with pride that I positively bounded out of the studio. (Actually I really wouldn't recommend bounding. Bambi legs is a very real consequence of post spinning and enthusiastically leaping off your bike only to collapse in a puddle on the floor does rather dent your gym rep.)

Well, that was about six weeks ago now and I've been two or three times a week since. Not bad, hey? (I'm the kind of person who ditches the diet three days in maintaining I'LL START NEXT MONTH, so this new found discipline is alarmingly refreshing.) I still want to throttle my instructor about seven minutes in and find any sort of climbing after utter torture- even my bed poses a worrying feat when I consider how on earth me and my jelly legs are going to clamber in- but once you hit your stride and find the beat to cycle to it becomes bizarrely enjoyable and I'd highly recommend it to all of you who want to eat fun, normal things (you want me to give up carbs?! Oh the horror...) and not live off celery and diet coke for eternity.

Blog no. 1. (Be nice. We all have to start somewhere.)

So. This being my first blog (blog or Blog? Right that's done it, ballsed it up in the first six words.) I feel there's a lot of pressure riding on this first sentence. *wipes brow* Having never written one of these before I can safely say I genuinely have no clue what I'm doing, and the fact that it was my GRANDFATHER who recommended I write one of these on moving to South Africa (in an almost jaunty 'two fingers up' to my youth) just makes it worse...

I'm a romantic. Yep. I may have grown out of the admittedly childish habit of pushing squirming boyfriends TO INCITE DRAMA (Cathy and Heathcliff eat your tragedy-on-the-Yorkshire-moors hearts out) but I still haven't really embraced computers fully. I mean, they're great. Obviously. I'll tweet the hell out of my day to day trivial nothings and upload photo after serial tagger photo on Facebook, but the trust just isn't there. Do you know what I mean? It's like you just don't know if, at any given minute, your computer isn't just going to go- 'Nah, had enough of this lengthy and precious piece you've been labouring over for hours.' And suddenly you're confronted by the blank screen. That blank screen or worse, that evil little note, (sister to the "Did you mean..." Google search prompter) "Windows has had to unexpectedly close..." that stares smugly at you whilst you wail dramatically and contemplate lifting the thing clean out of the sockets and lobbing it out of the window. Unexpected?? I'm not prepared to put my work in the hands of an erratic psychopath who may just UNEXPECTEDLY turn itself off.

So, my romantic inclinations push me to write things. You know. Properly, by hand. This may not be either right or time effective, but it's raw in a sort of- scribbling pieces by candle light as you struggle to stay warm eating your baked beans out of the tin way. Don't laugh. Anyone who read Jilly Cooper and Jane Austen- yes at the same time- found this romantic too. (Admittedly, my near unnatural and unquenchable greed means I'd probably switch the baked beans for goats cheese stuffed lamb rack, potatoes dauphinoise and spinach mourne followed by a wheel of crumbly stilton but still, you get the overall effect.)

Basically- there really should be a point to this rambling- I'm a little suspicious of computers. Not in a 'I have dozens of cats and believe aliens abducted JK' way. I just acknowledge my very limited knowledge of the inner workings of a computer. More specifically, what to do when they die on you. But, since moving to South Africa and the advertising industry I seem to be surrounded by Mac sad tops. (Yes, yes, the bitterness is very closely related to the teary revelation that I cannot afford one of these beauties.)

Unfortunately it's not quite the Mad Men of my fantasies. It is, however, full of Nike Dunks and graffiti-ed walls. Of quirky office additions like climbing walls. Of people who sit at their desks, vulture-like, their eyes narrowed in concentration (or from being stoned...), dressed in graphic tees and hole ridden jeans- dinosaurs of the advertising world of yesterday who terrify with their astounding creativity and determination that they can still pull off that 90's skater cap. (Truly, I never saw so much facial hair or Marvell themed attire before I moved into this industry.) So in essence, my aversion to electronic creativity is about as out of place as a Hummingbird Bakery cake wielding fanatic at a Weight Watchers meeting. And so, fellow bloggers, I like to think of this as my first, Bambi-shakey step into modernity. See how 'in touch' I am now, eh? Y-e-a-h.


*Seriously, I finally know how those contestants feel on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire.' The let's-ease-you-in-gently question- What is the capital of France? comes up, and suddenly they're squawking I'LL PHONE A FRIEND PLEASE! My mind seems to have kindly emptied itself somewhere and I've subsequently gone from, 'On a good day she had a tendency to move from mildly irritating to passably amusing' to pond fodder. Oh dear. Here's to 'second time lucky'...