March 31, 2004
Things I have to do to my kitchen and bathroom
Remove existing units, sink, bathroom suit, tiles
Replace all floorboards
Mend all walls
Knock a door through a wall
Brick up a doorway
Tile floors
Tile bathroom walls
Buy new kitchen units, sink, cooker, hob
Fit new kitchen
Buy new bathroom suite
Install new bathroom suite
Replace electrics
Move the plumbing a little
Build stud wall
Buy 3 doors
Hang three doors
Move boiler (possibly)
Build stud wall
Think I’m going to be sick…
March 30, 2004
… I love London Town
The wonderful Peter points out that most London bloggers don’t have many nice things to say about their fair city and having read back through my archives I can see exactly what he means. And yet today I want to sing its praises from the rooftops because it’s such a beautiful day and I love London in the Springtime.
Fair enough, the commute is shit and the people can be grumpy bastards, but London is apparently one of the greenest cities in the world and I work a stone’s throw from one of it’s biggest green spaces:
A colleague suggested we take a turn around the Serpentine in Hyde Park over lunch today. I looked out, saw the sun and immediately agreed. It took an hour and we must have covered only a fraction of the park. The sun warmed my back and I found myself peeling of my jacket to walk in my t-shirt. We ambled by the water passing moorhens, ducks, geese, rabbits and squirrels.
It made me realise how much I take this city for granted and how I have let myself get weighed down by the bad stuff without stopping to appreciate my surroundings. I work a short walk from Oxford Street and Marble Arch to the North, Hyde Park to the West, Green Park and Buckingham Palace to the South, Trafalgar Square and Nelson’s Column to the East. Westminster, the Thames and the London eye are just half an hour away on foot. I walk past these on a weekly, if not daily basis without even noticing them when people travel from all corners of the globe to visit these landmarks.
I complain that my commute is terrible and my job is shite, but I have such a good time outside work. Last weekend I went out in Soho, this weekend I’ll be in Covent Garden, the weekend after I can go for quiet drinks by the river or I can wander down to Greenwich Observatory, look out over East London and laugh sardonically at the Dome.
I work in a great part of London and so rather than grab a sandwich and work through my lunch, rather than going to Starbucks to read the paper, rather than disappearing into Marks & Spencer to buy a ready meal, I should make the most of what is around me. I have an hour everyday to explore in a different direction and seek out something new and interesting.
Then I can tell you all about what I find.
March 29, 2004
Elvis has left the building
I feel like a deflated balloon left to shrivel up after all the fun has stopped. I guess this is the price I pay for having a blinding weekend. I find myself sat despondently at my desk, trying to come to terms with the fact that I actually have to work for living. What’s that all about eh? Someone fucked up the weekend/weekday balance somewhere along the line.
In terms of sport, it was a mixed bag. Though the rugby was atrocious, I’ve found that Ben Cohen is still the living embodiment of the term “fit as fuck"!
And while the English national team went tits up in France, the committee of a certain South London women’s footie team convened to discuss the finer points of club management… and drink beer. I hope someone took notes because I don’t remember past point three on the agenda when I enthusiastically agreed to arrange the club tour over the summer. Methinks someone was secretly buying me Stella rather than Fosters.
And yesterday we bowed out of the cup in a valiant battle with Tottenham Hotspurs first ladies team. Man, they were fucking massive. Huge. And so fit, fast and just generally a very, very good side. No wonder they’re three division above us. We battled hard though, and they had to earn their victory. They did put five past us, but they put twelve past one of the teams in their own division. So, we have a lot to be proud of.
In our own inimitable style, the team retired to the local boozer to drink beer, play drinking games and sing the occasional song.
Cue the sore head and tired body today.
I’ve just cancelled my plans for the next few days and am drinking ginger tea in quite possibly a vain effort to cleanse my body, mind and soul. I think what I really need is my bed though.
March 27, 2004
Witho's Syndrome
In her blog Witho recently talked about how guilty she feels having a lie in now that she has left her job. I suffer from this guilty feeling too, but because I'm working I only suffer from it at weekends. Now, it doesn't matter what time I went to bed or how much I had to drink, my brain will wake my body up at 8am every weekend morning. Frankly it does my nut! Most people will simply turn over and fall back to sleep. But not me. Oh no! My mind starts wandering over all those things I should be doing, about how weekends are too short and shouldn't be squandered. Angst seeps into my conciousness, my body becomes restless and I toss and turn, trying to shake off the wakefulness until finally I succomb.
But what do I do then? Do I jump up gleefully, get dressed and do constructive "stuff"? No. Instead I just make a cuppa, wander into the living room and watch shite telly for 3 hours while curled up in a blanket. And i'm usually shattered because I haven't had enough sleep and certainly haven't let my body replenish itself after a long week of work and play. But yet I can sit there watching SMTV (which was soooo much better with Ant and Dec) and feel not an iota of guilt. Why? Why is it that I can't get back to sleep because the feeling that I ought to be doing something is so strong and yet I can move 4 metres, switch on a machine and immediately the guilt vanishes.
Well, this morning I woke up at 8 and my head was a little sore from last night. I was exhausted having only had 6 hours of drunken sleep. I prayed to the god of slumber but he wasn't listening and the resltessness started to take a firm hold. I was about to get up and take my tired, withered and sickly body to the settee when a thought came to me. The reason I don't feel guilty when sat in front of the box is because my mind is being distracted. So, what if I put on my clock radio, say on Radio 2, a nice comforting and unobtrusive station and just lie in bed and listen? Within ten minutes I was snoozing guiltlessly once more... and I didn't wake up until 11.30.
You know what? I feel fucking brilliant for it.
March 25, 2004
Ladies and Gentlemen, we are sorry to announce that we couldn't run a train set, let alone a rail network
Excuse me one moment but am I right in thinking that there are at least two unemployed people in the UK? I am right aren’t I? It’s not just my imagination. I’ve seen the dole queue with my own eyes.
So can anyone help me understand why my train was cancelled this morning due to STAFF FUCKING SHORTAGES? If there are at least two unemployed people in this fucking country and it takes two people to move a train from A to B, then why the cunting fuck don’t Network South East employ them, train them up (no pun intended) so that I can get to work ON TIME without having to pack on to ONE train with TWO trainloads of people.
March 24, 2004
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News just in from HMV
Michael Bolton's greatest hits is at number 40 in the album charts while Englebert Humpadinck is crooning loves songs from the 13th spot. What the bulbous fuck is going on there then???
quote of the month
So, anthony (my gorgeous lump of oooooozing treacle) and I just had a boozy lunch. Upon asking him what he thought of his new sales manager "The Evil Goblin", he replied:
"Frankly my dear, he needs to be fucked up the arse with a massive dildo and dumped on the street."
I love you anthony.
grrrrrrrr
A pet hate
I bought a bacon bagel and tea on the way to work... and the tea leaked... and the bottom of the bag got soggy... and the tea fell out on a zebra crossing. The bagel was safe though... phew
March 19, 2004
Oh the sweet irony
Two years ago this girl joined the footie team, and she heralded the start of the gay revolution. Until then we had been primarily a straight team and now we’re mixed. Not that sexuality has ever been an issue for the team, it’s just the way things pan out, isn’t it?
Anyway, when she joined the team she thought I was gay and it took a fair amount of beer and chats for her to accept that I wasn’t. We had a laugh about it the other week when she said “I can’t believe I thought you were gay, because you are SO un-gay it’s unbelievable”.
Two years on and this girl is one of my best mates. The other night we were in the pub sinking a couple of beers. The conversation went something like this.
Me: *Sigh*
Her: What’s up?
Me: Well, I’ve been thinking about whether I’m gay or not.
Her: Oh yeah?
Me: Yeah.
Her: What’s on your mind then.
Me: Well, two of my best mates are lesbians, right?
Her: Yeah…
Me: And I hang out with lesbians a lot, right?
Her: Yeah…
Me: And I spend time in gay and lesbian bars, right?
Her: Yeah…
Me: So surely it would be easier if I were a lesbian, right?
Her: But you fancy men.
Me: Yeah, but I’m just thinking that, because I hang around with lesbians it would be easier for me to pull and stuff. I mean, you don’t get many straight men in lesbian bars do you. So maybe if I, you know, were a lesbian, then it would kind of solve my dating issues.
Her: But you’re not a lesbian and you can’t be a lesbian just because it’s easier.
Me: For fuck's sake, you always pick nits, don’t you?
Her: Another beer?
Me: Go on then.
March 18, 2004
VAT: Value Added by Twats
I’ve been stewing on this over lunch and have launched into a number of diatribes with some poor unfortunates, most of whom have been men.
Why the fuck are tampons, sanitary towels and all things related to the menstrual cycle subject to VAT?
I choose to wear make-up so am happy to pay VAT on that. I choose to remove the hair from my legs, underarms and bikini line, so I’ll happily lie in that bed. But I do not by any stretch of the imagination choose to bleed from my womb every 31 days. I do not choose to worry about ruining good underwear. I do not choose to put a brick in my knickers and a cotton wool torpedo in my vagina and I cannot see why I should have to pay tax for the pleasure of doing so.
March 13, 2004
It's a bitch
Well, typically, I've been working like a bastard all week only to come down with the flu at the weekend.
Bollocks.
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Well, typically, I've been working like a bastard all week only to come down with the flu at the weekend.
Bollocks.
March 12, 2004
Leakage
My head is leaking from every orifice. Eyes are streaming and snot pours in abundance from both nasal passages. Full to bursting with mucus… so many shades of yellow and green.
Phlegm clings desperately to the lining of my lungs as I painfully hack it up.
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My head is leaking from every orifice. Eyes are streaming and snot pours in abundance from both nasal passages. Full to bursting with mucus… so many shades of yellow and green.
Phlegm clings desperately to the lining of my lungs as I painfully hack it up.
March 11, 2004
Nightmare in London
I’d been in London for about two years before I started work as a receptionist in a Graphic Design consultancy in Covent Garden. The printers we used were three units down from us and there was this particular guy, I’ll call him Phil because I can’t remember his name, who I struck an immediate chord with. We hung out after work in Soho for a couple of weeks and then one evening… we snogged. Oooooooooooh!!!
What I liked about this guy is that he had his own style, very, very slightly 80s but without being dated. He died his short hair black and it looked good, not naff. He wore those punky shoes; at least I think they were punky. The black ones with the thick wiggly soles and laces. The rest of his clothes were pretty understated.
We went out a few more times and eventually he asked me over to watch a video and to stay the night. A couple of evenings later, we left work together and headed for his place Brixton stopping off for a takeaway.
I was excited and nervous at the same time but over the course of the evening these emotions were going to turn into shock, horror… and even terror. I shall explain:
As we entered the house, a slightly sinister feeling came over me. The place was dark and dingy and I couldn’t put my finger on what I thought was wrong. He took me into the living room to introduce me to his flatmate.
“Hi guys, this is Laura. Laura, this is my flatmate, Biff and his girlfriend Cyborg (or something fucking weird like that).
Now Biff had an electric green mohican and leather studded bands round his neck and wrists. Cyborg had a bolt through her nose, about 400 earrings and a scar down her cheek that I had a feeling wasn’t accidental. She was clad in purple fish net tights, a black skirt and a blood red baggy jumper. I felt slightly out of place in my black suit.
“I’m just off to change out of my work clothes”, said Phil, leaving me with Biff and Cyborg to exchange pleasantries. Well, I soon discovered that Biff hadn’t watched the England match the night before. In fact he thought football was nothing more than a metaphor for war and if he could have his way, he’d burn all footballers to death. Zog on the other hand, just didn’t like talking so it was with some relief that I turned to watch Phil come back into the room. Relief soon turned to shock as I took in what he was wearing: tight red satin trousers and a tight black t-shirt emblazoned with the word “death” in fake blood. Nice.
“So Biff”, said Phil. “What film did you get?”
I was hoping for something exciting, perhaps a thriller or an action adventure. I waited expectantly.
“The Omen”, said Biff.
“Cool”, said Phil. “Haven’t seen that for a couple months.”
“Fuck,” I thought.
You see, I really hate horror films. Anything to do with the supernatural scares the holy shit out of me. I watched American Werewolf in London when I was thirteen and had difficulty sleeping for two years and full moons still make me uneasy. My old flat mate talked me into seeing The Blair Witch Project in the cinema. I slept with the light on for 3 nights in a row. The Omen, like The Exorcist is a film I planned on NEVER seeing. This was very, very bad news.
Phil turned all the lights off and pressed play.
About an hour and a half later, I was a broken woman. My pride had made me keep sit through it and by doing so had destroyed my psyche. I was a wreck and when Phil suggested we go to bed, I just nodded meekly and followed him.
When Phil led me into his room and flicked the light on I was absolutely gob smacked. Where to start? It was painted in black and red with a gold chandelier hanging from the ceiling and matching candelabras on the mantelpiece behind which hung an enormous gothic mirror. An animal skin rug covered the floor and a moose’s head hung from the wall.
I checked my watch. 2pm. Too late to get home any way other than a taxi, and I was broke. I resigned myself to staying the night, already devising ways to ward off Phil’s advances when we went to bed. And OH MY FUCKING HOLY CHRIST, what a bed! Cast iron with black satin sheets!!!
The bed was next to the window and I could see that it was beginning to rain. I got in, and moved as close to the edge as I could. Phil got in after me but I think he could sense my discomfort as he gave me a quick kiss, put his arm round me and fell asleep. I, on the other hand, was absolutely wide-awake, images of The Omen, Damien and 666 racing round my mind.
The rain started to come down harder hitting the window next to me. I was staring wide-eyed at the dark shadow of the moose’s head when all of a sudden lightening struck revealing the room, for just a second, in all it’s gruesome glory. I think I screamed, I can’t remember. Phil didn’t even move. Lightening struck again and again and I was rigid with terror. Eventually, at around 5am, the storm passed and I spent the next two hours trying to pull myself together until the alarm went off at 7am.
Phil opened his eyes and yawned.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes”. I leaped out of bed wide-eyed.
“Are you ok?”
“I’m fine. Just wonderful. Shall we go to work now?”
Half an hour later, walking to the tube ,I asked him if he’d heard the storm?
“Lightening?” he sounded dismayed. “Awww no. I didn’t. Damn, I love lightening!”
“You surprise me”, I said. “Listen, Phil…” I wanted to break it to him gently. “You know, you’re a nice guy and everything, and don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but I don’t think we have that much in common. Do you mind if we just stay friends…”
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I’d been in London for about two years before I started work as a receptionist in a Graphic Design consultancy in Covent Garden. The printers we used were three units down from us and there was this particular guy, I’ll call him Phil because I can’t remember his name, who I struck an immediate chord with. We hung out after work in Soho for a couple of weeks and then one evening… we snogged. Oooooooooooh!!!
What I liked about this guy is that he had his own style, very, very slightly 80s but without being dated. He died his short hair black and it looked good, not naff. He wore those punky shoes; at least I think they were punky. The black ones with the thick wiggly soles and laces. The rest of his clothes were pretty understated.
We went out a few more times and eventually he asked me over to watch a video and to stay the night. A couple of evenings later, we left work together and headed for his place Brixton stopping off for a takeaway.
I was excited and nervous at the same time but over the course of the evening these emotions were going to turn into shock, horror… and even terror. I shall explain:
As we entered the house, a slightly sinister feeling came over me. The place was dark and dingy and I couldn’t put my finger on what I thought was wrong. He took me into the living room to introduce me to his flatmate.
“Hi guys, this is Laura. Laura, this is my flatmate, Biff and his girlfriend Cyborg (or something fucking weird like that).
Now Biff had an electric green mohican and leather studded bands round his neck and wrists. Cyborg had a bolt through her nose, about 400 earrings and a scar down her cheek that I had a feeling wasn’t accidental. She was clad in purple fish net tights, a black skirt and a blood red baggy jumper. I felt slightly out of place in my black suit.
“I’m just off to change out of my work clothes”, said Phil, leaving me with Biff and Cyborg to exchange pleasantries. Well, I soon discovered that Biff hadn’t watched the England match the night before. In fact he thought football was nothing more than a metaphor for war and if he could have his way, he’d burn all footballers to death. Zog on the other hand, just didn’t like talking so it was with some relief that I turned to watch Phil come back into the room. Relief soon turned to shock as I took in what he was wearing: tight red satin trousers and a tight black t-shirt emblazoned with the word “death” in fake blood. Nice.
“So Biff”, said Phil. “What film did you get?”
I was hoping for something exciting, perhaps a thriller or an action adventure. I waited expectantly.
“The Omen”, said Biff.
“Cool”, said Phil. “Haven’t seen that for a couple months.”
“Fuck,” I thought.
You see, I really hate horror films. Anything to do with the supernatural scares the holy shit out of me. I watched American Werewolf in London when I was thirteen and had difficulty sleeping for two years and full moons still make me uneasy. My old flat mate talked me into seeing The Blair Witch Project in the cinema. I slept with the light on for 3 nights in a row. The Omen, like The Exorcist is a film I planned on NEVER seeing. This was very, very bad news.
Phil turned all the lights off and pressed play.
About an hour and a half later, I was a broken woman. My pride had made me keep sit through it and by doing so had destroyed my psyche. I was a wreck and when Phil suggested we go to bed, I just nodded meekly and followed him.
When Phil led me into his room and flicked the light on I was absolutely gob smacked. Where to start? It was painted in black and red with a gold chandelier hanging from the ceiling and matching candelabras on the mantelpiece behind which hung an enormous gothic mirror. An animal skin rug covered the floor and a moose’s head hung from the wall.
I checked my watch. 2pm. Too late to get home any way other than a taxi, and I was broke. I resigned myself to staying the night, already devising ways to ward off Phil’s advances when we went to bed. And OH MY FUCKING HOLY CHRIST, what a bed! Cast iron with black satin sheets!!!
The bed was next to the window and I could see that it was beginning to rain. I got in, and moved as close to the edge as I could. Phil got in after me but I think he could sense my discomfort as he gave me a quick kiss, put his arm round me and fell asleep. I, on the other hand, was absolutely wide-awake, images of The Omen, Damien and 666 racing round my mind.
The rain started to come down harder hitting the window next to me. I was staring wide-eyed at the dark shadow of the moose’s head when all of a sudden lightening struck revealing the room, for just a second, in all it’s gruesome glory. I think I screamed, I can’t remember. Phil didn’t even move. Lightening struck again and again and I was rigid with terror. Eventually, at around 5am, the storm passed and I spent the next two hours trying to pull myself together until the alarm went off at 7am.
Phil opened his eyes and yawned.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes”. I leaped out of bed wide-eyed.
“Are you ok?”
“I’m fine. Just wonderful. Shall we go to work now?”
Half an hour later, walking to the tube ,I asked him if he’d heard the storm?
“Lightening?” he sounded dismayed. “Awww no. I didn’t. Damn, I love lightening!”
“You surprise me”, I said. “Listen, Phil…” I wanted to break it to him gently. “You know, you’re a nice guy and everything, and don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but I don’t think we have that much in common. Do you mind if we just stay friends…”
March 09, 2004
Slobbing Out
Right now on my living room floor, there is the following:
A sports bag, open with sweatshirt hanging out.
A poster tube – empty
The box my new cordless phone came in – empty
The packing the phone was protected by, splayed out across the floor
The jobs and money section of The Guardian – open
A pair of tracksuit bottoms
A pair of footie shorts
A pair of astro boots
A pair of flipflops
An ashtray
An instruction booklet
All my clothes from last night
My breakfast dishes
My lunch dishes
My handbag – contents spilled out
Some avocado skins
A plug
My passport
An empty Dixons carrier bag
An empty tub of humous
My mobile
The Norah Jones CD case with CD on floor next to it.
Think perhaps I should clean up a little
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Right now on my living room floor, there is the following:
A sports bag, open with sweatshirt hanging out.
A poster tube – empty
The box my new cordless phone came in – empty
The packing the phone was protected by, splayed out across the floor
The jobs and money section of The Guardian – open
A pair of tracksuit bottoms
A pair of footie shorts
A pair of astro boots
A pair of flipflops
An ashtray
An instruction booklet
All my clothes from last night
My breakfast dishes
My lunch dishes
My handbag – contents spilled out
Some avocado skins
A plug
My passport
An empty Dixons carrier bag
An empty tub of humous
My mobile
The Norah Jones CD case with CD on floor next to it.
Think perhaps I should clean up a little
March 04, 2004
Pretentious touchy feely musical moment
I'm having an arse of a week at work and on more than one occasion have felt like either
a) smashing my monitor over any number of my colleagues heads
b) sobbing like a baby
But I just remembered this by old Bob Marley, guaranteed to cheer me up anytime. Close your eyes and conjour up the beautiful four bar intro and then let your mind wander over the lyrics...
Rise up this mornin',
Smiled with the risin' sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin' sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true,
Sayin',"This is my message to you-ou-ou"
Singin': "Don't worry 'bout a thing,
'Cause every little thing gonna be all right."
Singin': "Don't worry (don't worry) 'bout a thing,
'Cause every little thing gonna be all right!"
True; the chances of seeing the risin' sun in London, let alone three birds anywhere, especially on your doorstip, are pretty remote, but it's nice to dream, innit?
*wanders off humming*
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I'm having an arse of a week at work and on more than one occasion have felt like either
a) smashing my monitor over any number of my colleagues heads
b) sobbing like a baby
But I just remembered this by old Bob Marley, guaranteed to cheer me up anytime. Close your eyes and conjour up the beautiful four bar intro and then let your mind wander over the lyrics...
Rise up this mornin',
Smiled with the risin' sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin' sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true,
Sayin',"This is my message to you-ou-ou"
Singin': "Don't worry 'bout a thing,
'Cause every little thing gonna be all right."
Singin': "Don't worry (don't worry) 'bout a thing,
'Cause every little thing gonna be all right!"
True; the chances of seeing the risin' sun in London, let alone three birds anywhere, especially on your doorstip, are pretty remote, but it's nice to dream, innit?
*wanders off humming*
March 03, 2004
I'm sat here with a glass of Shiraz in one hand and a fag in the other, which is interesting because i stopped smoking last week and I'm not drinking until Friday!
Oh well. Back to the drawing board.
But i had to. Footballers Wives was on and it was so awful. I mean, I've never seen it before, so I had to find out what all the fuss was about and I just don't fucking get it. What a pile of utter, UTTER shite.
I swear to god, how is a girl supposed to stay sane when she's subjected to so much shit on the telly. I'm trying to take it easy, not over exert myself, not burn the candle at both ends. But telly like that is enough to send me straight back down the pub.
I made sure I missed every episode of "I'm a cunt, get me out of here", and I can't bear those two slags who grab some poor unsuspecting person, tell them they have the dress sense of a maths teacher and give them two grand to spend on some overpriced rags I wouldn't let Ann Widdecombe wear.
I dunno. I've been going out alot recently, and I've been craving a night in front of the telly, chilling out and winding down, but the crap that's on is just pissing me off instead. Do i care what the National Trust is doing to the Rothschilds country manor? Not really, no. And ER??? Well, how unlikely is it that a helicopter will crash into a casualty department? Oh, I forgot. It's america.
So on that note, I'm turning off the telly, putting on some Norah Jones and just spending some time with me and my thoughts, such as they are.
Which is what I should have done all along.
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Oh well. Back to the drawing board.
But i had to. Footballers Wives was on and it was so awful. I mean, I've never seen it before, so I had to find out what all the fuss was about and I just don't fucking get it. What a pile of utter, UTTER shite.
I swear to god, how is a girl supposed to stay sane when she's subjected to so much shit on the telly. I'm trying to take it easy, not over exert myself, not burn the candle at both ends. But telly like that is enough to send me straight back down the pub.
I made sure I missed every episode of "I'm a cunt, get me out of here", and I can't bear those two slags who grab some poor unsuspecting person, tell them they have the dress sense of a maths teacher and give them two grand to spend on some overpriced rags I wouldn't let Ann Widdecombe wear.
I dunno. I've been going out alot recently, and I've been craving a night in front of the telly, chilling out and winding down, but the crap that's on is just pissing me off instead. Do i care what the National Trust is doing to the Rothschilds country manor? Not really, no. And ER??? Well, how unlikely is it that a helicopter will crash into a casualty department? Oh, I forgot. It's america.
So on that note, I'm turning off the telly, putting on some Norah Jones and just spending some time with me and my thoughts, such as they are.
Which is what I should have done all along.
March 02, 2004
Recharge
Being single after my last relationship has been a blessing. Four months down the line I have my space back; I have room to relax, to look after myself and to concentrate on me.
There are days, though, when I miss having someone around to give me a hug, to fall asleep and wake up with, to wink at me, to give me a quick kiss at the traffic lights. Those days are few and far between, but I’m having one of them today. I guess it’s the fall out from this weekend when a couple of friends turned to me because they know I’ve been through a lot and will understand them. I didn’t really look after myself though. I just moved from one person in crisis to another without taking time out for me.
I’ve cancelled all my plans until Friday... time to veg out, listen to music and recharge the batteries.
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Being single after my last relationship has been a blessing. Four months down the line I have my space back; I have room to relax, to look after myself and to concentrate on me.
There are days, though, when I miss having someone around to give me a hug, to fall asleep and wake up with, to wink at me, to give me a quick kiss at the traffic lights. Those days are few and far between, but I’m having one of them today. I guess it’s the fall out from this weekend when a couple of friends turned to me because they know I’ve been through a lot and will understand them. I didn’t really look after myself though. I just moved from one person in crisis to another without taking time out for me.
I’ve cancelled all my plans until Friday... time to veg out, listen to music and recharge the batteries.
March 01, 2004
Fat Free... whatever
When it comes to comfort food, forget the fat free options. Don't do what I just did. Don't make loads of buttery mash and heady, sumptious onion gravy only to accompany it with sainsbury's be good to yourself fucking sausages. I may have felt incredibly pious paying for them at the checkout, but they're about as tasty as Quorn, and Quorn mings.
Goodnight one and all
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When it comes to comfort food, forget the fat free options. Don't do what I just did. Don't make loads of buttery mash and heady, sumptious onion gravy only to accompany it with sainsbury's be good to yourself fucking sausages. I may have felt incredibly pious paying for them at the checkout, but they're about as tasty as Quorn, and Quorn mings.
Goodnight one and all
