Category Archives: Uncategorized

August 12, 2011 · 10:38 am

Can’t you see I’m eating?

I’m sitting quietly in my local ice-cream shop. I have my laptop. I am modestly dressed. Pretty much the only interesting thing about me is the nearly rubbed off blue puma transfer tattoo I got with my 10p chewing gum. (And I put it on my arm, not my face or anything. And when I say ‘puma’ I mean the animal, not the sports brand. To be fair, it could be a leopard or a cheetah. All my big cat knowledge comes directly from luxury car adverts). The ice-cream server approaches. ‘Do you have a minute?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘I am so fed up with big companies.’ ‘Oh.’  That was all I said. ‘Oh.’ That’s barely even a word. I could have been half-way through reciting the alphabet in my head and accidentally let slip an ‘o’. (Though, realistically, I would have been saying ‘elemenopee’). The point is, I pay taxes! (I think I do, anyway. I don’t really open my payslips. I think money should be shown the respect it deserves and not looked at. Like a fairy). I’m a good, upstanding citizen! When I sit in an ice-cream shop at 8.30am I should be allowed to eat my breakfast in peace.

But no. It seems nowadays, complete strangers will come up to a person quietly eating their way through a nutritiously valuable sundae and talk at them. I can only assume that they are out-of-towners. I don’t mean to be rude, obviously, so have taken to nodding meekly while they explain the intricacies of their latest phone bill debacle or their views on Cameron’s leadership. When they pause to take breath I quietly explain that I suffer from what I like to call ‘situation specific audio inefficiency’, but have been lipreading and assume they want to know where the toilet is. I then point to this, and nod sagely to myself. I don’t know when London turned into Lynchburg, Tennessee, but until they start lacing my breakfast ice-cream with whiskey, I’m not putting up with it. They will know by my impeccably veiled disdain that there are still a few proper Londoners left.

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August 11, 2011 · 8:45 am

There’s always time for fun

I try to take those double decker tourist buses as much as possible. It is unfortunate that they only really stop at major tourist attractions, so I spend a great deal of time walking from Buckingham Palace to my gym. (Which is in Soho. And when I say ‘gym’, I mean this great sandwich shop). The point is (and I have ample time to consider and refine my position as I walk from the Tower of London), that tourists shouldn’t be the only ones having all the fun. Neither, for that matter, should children. I would like to talk today about re-appropriation.

1. 

You will know from yesterday’s blog that I am somewhat concerned about my sluttish therapist. I am a pragmatic person (I would try to be a caring person but that really seems like a lot of work) and have therefore alighted upon a practical solution. This very fetching duck hamper. Let me explain. You place this charming duck hamper in the corner of the room (or the center, if you are so inclined). At the end of the day, you remove your clothes and while holding them in one hand, with the other hand unzip the top of this duck. Its head then cheerily falls backwards, and it opens its gullet to receive your dirty garments. Who says housework can’t be fun?

2. If this endearing duck hamper does not appeal (I know some short-sighted people will not have included neon yellow into their bedroom colour scheme), may I suggest this:

It’s a basketball hamper! You stand on the other side of your bedroom and perform an elaborate strip-sport! Like I said, we mustn’t let the kids have all the fun.

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August 10, 2011 · 11:07 am

Not being a slut

‘I can’t understand how you can bear to live like this.’ ‘It doesn’t bother me. Look- that part of the floor is where I keep my underwear, and over there are the t-shirts. It’s creative order.’ ‘It’s disgusting. You live like a slut.’

I was shocked. And also surprised that my Mother’s vocabulary was so poor. ‘Mum, “slut” doesn’t mean you don’t keep your bedroom tidy,’ I helpfully explained. She wasn’t at all grateful for my help. It seems some people have no eye for ‘creative order’. Turns out, my Mother was right. Geoffrey Chaucer refers to a ‘sluttish’ gentleman in 1386 (or thereabouts- Chaucer’s dates are notoriously fluid), and the term ‘slutte’ in Middle English meant a ‘dirty, untidy or slovenly woman’. In any case, it is important to keep one’s bedroom clean.

I recently had an appointment with my therapist, and then popped back the next day to see her again. (I like to check she’s doing ok). We were halfway through the session when I noticed that she was wearing the EXACT same outfit as the day before. Same t-shirt, same blazer, same trousers. I could not believe that she had come straight from her walk of shame to our meeting. I knew this was a delicate situation, but felt that with my vast reserves of tact and sensitivity I was well up to the task. ‘Are you wearing the same shirt as YESTERDAY?’ ‘What?’ ‘Yes, are you wearing the same shirt?’ I raised my eyebrows to let her know subtly that I too, was a woman of the world. Though of a world where I was made to tidy my bedroom. ‘I’ve changed my trousers.’ Apparently she had woken up late, wanted to fit in a run, was rushing and picked up yesterday’s shirt from the floor. ‘Excuse me, did you say “from the floor”?’ ‘Yes.’ My therapist is a slut.

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August 5, 2011 · 11:20 am

Boris and Me

I rode on a Boris Bike for the first time yesterday.

I have lots of feedback. For a start, why is Barclays sponsoring them? I understand why Barclays sponsors football (I assume they sponsor football as I’m constantly getting asked if I want tickets to matches- unfortunately in order to win said tickets I have to see my balance, so no chance). Barclays sponsors football in the same way that ING sponsors Lewis Hamilton- to seem cool and sporty. It’s only fair, given that their offices are filled with men who ‘pretty much certainly could have played for England. You know, if I hadn’t been interested in annuities.’ But there’s nothing cool or sporty about Boris Bikes. They’re the English version of the Segway.

I imagine they’re ridden by the same people who only swim with their heads constantly above the water. The only physical exertion one gets riding a Boris Bike is the frustratingly difficult initial tussle to remove the bloody thing from its dock. They claim it’s attached magnetically, but as a child I played with magnets constantly and let me tell you, that kind of pull is more likely to come from a crocodile rolling a man over in the water to his death.

(I have long considered the lack of research into ‘death by crocodile’ a disgrace. This Summer I started to complete my research grant proposal, but I’m not sure my assertion that I’m a fully trained epidemiologist was entirely convincing). The Boris Bike reaches max speeds of a steady walking pace. I assume this is so its riders can swerve alarmingly close to the pavement as they chat to their friends. There are 2 rubber handles which are preposterously far apart. I felt like a failed extra for ‘Easy Rider’. To be honest, the only thing I liked about my Boris Bike ‘adventure’ (I use the term adventure in its original sense- to refer to the japes had by the Famous Five, highlights of which include crushed crisps and hard-boiled eggs), was when I returned the bloody thing to a docking station in Regents Park, and smugly rode over the ‘No Cycling Allowed’ sign to get to the dock.

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August 3, 2011 · 1:28 pm

100 hours of solitude

I think I’d probably like to work at home. Here in the office, you see, people keep wandering about. There is the constant threat that they will ask why I have 14 YouTube videos cued up. My boss really has no boundaries. Perhaps I shall go and work for Netflix. I hear they have an unlimited holiday quota and don’t require receipts for expenses. I imagine their office is filled with people who used to want to be MPs. My life in the office is a constant battle. There’s someone who every single morning puts in two slices of bread, toasts them, and leaves them in the toaster.

The conditions here are intolerable. Yesterday the peanut butter ran out. If I worked from home, I would most likely arise naturally at 6.30am and go for a bracing 10mile run. I have tried running into the office, but other people have complained about my sweaty, short shorts wearing appearance at 10.45. (It’s so FAR to the office. I had to have a few rest stops and wait for some buses). Once again, I really wish my boss would appreciate my boundaries. Yesterday, he asked me how my project was coming along. I spent a good 6 minutes cheerfully talking about how difficult it is to make the perfect mixtape these days while he nodded sagely. He then quietly sent me an email asking about my ‘other’ project, for our client. I spend far too much of my day thinking about other people like these ‘clients’. I need to streamline. If I worked at home, my productivity would soar. I would finally finish learning the Justin Timberlake ‘Like I love you’ choreography.

I would work out how to flip an omelet without turning it into a soggy, unappetising mess. I would finally have the time to go through the dictionary and learn all the good insults. (I’m currently stuck on ‘A’, so calling my colleagues arrogant apes pretty regularly). As you can see, I would finally be able to WORK.

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August 2, 2011 · 1:26 pm

Ferociously slutty

I am slightly scared of ferociously slutty people. The people who wear underwear as outerwear, who wander around casually dressed in the odd fig leaf and so on. I have so many questions. What do they do with all the bits of themselves they don’t want other people to see? Are these wobbly, dimpled bits carefully removed and slung into their over-sized handbags? (They always have oversized handbags. It’s the rule).

(The baby is smiling because it is being carried inside a handbag the size of a normal dining room)

Do they shun wardrobes and instead keep this season’s wardrobe in a carefully co-ordinated shoebox? It’s all very perplexing. I wouldn’t mind if they went about naked. Naked, that’s absolutely fine. It’s this conspicuous attention seeking that I fear. It’s so cunning. ‘Oh, I see you staring at me, you bourgeois clothed lady. I see you looking and wondering where I am storing my shoebox-wardrobe. But see-I am not naked at all! I am wearing knickers. Yes, knickers. I am completely appropriately dressed. Oh, and I am also wearing some flip flops. Luckily, I am very slender so I myself do not flop about at all. Oh, how charmingly ironic!’

I also have some questions about where these women shop. Do they really go into Rigby & Peller and say, ‘no, that’s great, I’ll wear this now. Can you just take the tags off please?’ (I wonder sometimes if the shop assistants have become confused and removed the actual garment, leaving this poor woman to wander the streets in impeccably bought security tags. It would certainly explain the tassels).

I myself have tried valiantly. Unfortunately my cleaner keeps re-gifting my new, slutty clothes to my younger sister. ‘Is good for young people, yes? You, no good.’ It seems I am also slightly scared of my cleaner. And I have certainly never seen her knickers.

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August 1, 2011 · 1:30 pm

Captain America

I’m personally a big fan of double denim (denim shirt meets denim jeans).

I also like hamburgers ( I would insert a picture but I fear for lunch I will probably be eating a slightly bruised banana and some baked beans so no need to torture myself. I would go to Tesco but I went there last week and was distracted by the ice-cream, spent £14 on ice-cream and had to jog home with the ice-cream slowly melting as it bashed against my leg). I like over-sized portions, I like Ray-Bans, I like the Dixie Chicks. Oh- and I like it when Americans pronounce their words all wrong (for the smug feeling of superiority, obviously.I’m just trying to reassert British dominance after the Space Race debacle). It’s Mawwwwwdalliiinnn, sillies. Please be logical. I like how Americans are simultaneously entirely unhampered by discretion and crippled with puritanical censure. This leads to brilliant scenarios such as American families, all dressed identically in ‘OUR FAMILY ARE WINNERS! YOUR FAMILY SUCKS! SUCK ON THIS, OTHER FAMILIES!’ t-shirts walking down Brighton Pier and gasping in horror at the friendly penis-shaped lollipops. My favourite thing about Americans, however, is their absolute and heart-wrenching belief in VIP status. This is the nation that invented the Fast Pass for Disneyland.

(The Fast Pass allows richer people to skip queues for rides). They created a VIP queue for children! This is fantastic! It really is never too early to learn that money can indeed ‘make dreams come true’. (Formerly ‘the happiest place on earth, Disneyland is now ‘where dreams come true’. I think ‘happiness’ was too inclusive). Last Friday I was invited to a private tour of the Tate Modern. Only Americans could find a way to PAY to visit a FREE museum. What can I say? God Bless America.

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July 28, 2011 · 11:32 am

In which I try to be organised

Yesterday I was asked if I would like tickets for ‘Little Howard’s Big Show’.

Unfortunately, I assumed the show was ‘Russell Howard’s Good News’,

and had to spend much of yesterday afternoon scrabbling around looking for small children. It is surprising how difficult it is to lay your hands on small children at short notice.

Today, I got a very thoughtful email from my friend, reminding me that ski carriage charges are set to increase from £30 to £35 in August. Patting myself on the back for being so organised, I quickly emailed the ski holiday rep and asked to add ski carriage ‘at this month’s rate’ to my holiday booking. It was all terribly grown-up. The ski holiday rep dutifully emailed back, and I thought I should just quickly check what ‘ski carriage’ was. Ah. Trouble is, I don’t have any skis. So ‘ski carriage’ seems a bit excessive. I had to send the following email:

Hi,

I am so sorry, but would I be able to remove the ski carriage? I just remembered that I will not be able to take my skis on this trip.

(BECAUSE I DON’T OWN ANY SKIS).

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July 27, 2011 · 1:03 pm

There are RULES in the sauna

I just popped out for a sauna. It is highly possible that I have terrible sauna etiquette. For a start, I look fantastic naked. (Especially lying down, when all the fat is cunningly sucked away by gravity*). To make the other sauna people feel better about themselves, I take a very relaxed approach. I like to start by spreading out as much as possible, but the sauna ledges are disarmingly shallow, so occasionally one of my arms flops off. I am extremely stoic by nature, but obviously greet such MIND-BLOWING pain with a litany of ouches. I keep the other arm slung across my face, as a defence against both those fat hot water drops that plummet from the ceiling, and envious eyes. Occasionally, in a moment of daring, I raise both my arms in the air to reassure myself that my ballet teacher was wrong, and I would have made a spectacular ballerina. (I was 5, and I was distracted during my ballet recital by the raucous and uncontrolled laughter from my parents).(My parents took an oddly relaxed approach to a ballet recital dress code)

The real trouble with the sauna is that there’s nothing to do. So I like to make helpful remarks to the other sauna people, ‘ooh, terribly hot in here, isn’t it?’ and ‘I wonder how many of those little tiles there are on the walls. Shall we count them? I’ll start.’ I can see now that perhaps I’m not the model sauna-goer. (Ironically, given my naked model-like looks). But I reassure myself that I am far better than the lady in the sauna today, who came in and raised her legs:

 (Like this, but NAKED)

DO NOT COME INTO THE SAUNA HAVING BEEN RECENTLY IMPREGNATED. Really, I could see the other sauna people longing for us to return to counting the little wall tiles.

* I am a scientist.

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July 26, 2011 · 11:42 am

I’m terribly ‘down-to-earth’

I have decided to model my outward appearance on Angelina Jolie in ‘The Tourist’:

I imagine this will result in higher dry-cleaning bills, but as a young professional living in London, I can’t help but think how suitable this outfit will be. For instance, I could store my Oyster card permanently in my gloves. I would probably save 3 seconds per tube journey. (As the new ASDA adverts state, ‘that can really add up’). I’m a little worried about the size of her clutch, but with my fearsome cape I doubt anyone would try to steal my laptop. Unfortunately I woke up this morning and realised I didn’t have any clean tights (what do you MEAN, those are her BARE legs? Where are the BRUISES?), so I’ve had to resort to my usual Tuesday outfit. However, I have noticed in interviews that the Jolie-Pitts are a very ‘down to earth’ family, and therefore I am dedicating today’s lunch to them:

Don’t worry. It comes out of the tin, and looks like this:

I imagine Shiloh has been looking forward to her lunch all day.

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