May 28, 2004

Girls on tour

So, we're off on footie tour to Bournemouth... dressed as superheroes... classy is as classy does. I'm sure I'll have loads to write about on Tuesday.... watch this space and have a lovely weekend.


May 27, 2004

My mate Charlie Brown

Charlie Brown is going bald.

Charlie Brown is so rubbish at football that he decided to become a ref.

Charlie Brown is a rubbish ref.

Charlie Brown can’t pass to feet to save his life.

Charlie Brown looks like a nodding dog when he’s had a few beers.

Charlie Brown wakes up on a tube in the Victoria Line sidings at 3am whenever he goes home drunk.

Charlie Brown once hung himself by his coat climbing over some railings and his mates had to unhook him.

Charlie Brown once put raspberry sauce on his chips by mistake at the seaside.

Charlie Brown couldn’t untie his own shoelaces after a wedding and his best mate had to do it for him.

Charlie Brown called me a geek last night when I told him about this blog.

Charlie Brown, this is my revenge. Enjoy the read.


May 26, 2004

If that's a salad box, then you're a fucking sex god!

I was feeling pretty healthy on my way back to the office after footie this lunchtime. I scored two, set up a couple more and ran around a fair bit.

Feeling a little hungry, I headed down to one of the local sandwich joints to pick up something to eat. At this point I would usually order a lard sandwich with extra lard and loads of mayonnaise but today I decided to change the habit of a lifetime.

I checked out the contents of the display counter. Mmmmmm, that salady stuff looks good, lots of variety, not just your plain old lettuce, tomato and cucumber but there’s roasted peppers, rocket, carrot and look at that chicken.

“One salad box please.”

“Ah, you play football again?”

Here we go!

“Yes, I played football. One salad box please, with chicken.”

“You play every day?”

“Twice a week. So, how much is the salad box?”

“I play football too. Where you play?”

Oh for fuck’s sake!

“Hyde Park. The sala…”

“Hyde Park? Where abouts?”

“Just in Hyde Park. Can I have a chicken salad box please? And a Lucozade.”

“You good footballer?”

“Can I have a salad box please? With chicken. And a Lucozade. Please.”

“One salad box.”

I watch him as he lifts a see-through box from the counter. But rather than heading for all the good yummy salad stuff, he heads for a tub full of huge iceberg leaves, as big as saucers, and layers four or five into the box, effectively filling three quarters of it with this shit plain crappy watery lettuce. Then he heads over to the yummy salad stuff. One teaspoon of sweet corn, one teaspoon of grated carrots, two tiny segments of roasted peppers, a tiny bit of coleslaw, two slices of chicken and he’s done.

“That’s five pound seventy please.”

“Can you put some more stuff in the box?”

“Is full. You and me, we play football one time. I teach you some moves. Five pound seventy please.”



Tiles, Boobies and my mate Trigger

In the words of Chris Martin

“Nobody said it was easy,
No one ever said it would be so hard.
I'm goin' back to the start”

That pretty much sums up our first ever attempt at tiling last night. Well actually I’m being a little hard on us here. I mean, Trigger (I’m no longer calling her Dave. Her comments remind me of Trigger from Only Fools and Horses. I mean, she thought Jesus was born on Easter Sunday) and I may have been there for three and a half hours and we may only have managed to lay seven tiles but at least they were straight, true and level! Only another 215 to go! Excellent!!!

Let me take you through the evening.

It didn’t start well. At ten to six the new sales guy asked me to show him the new website (still in developmental stages) and talk through my short and long term marketing plans. Plans? I wasn’t aware I had any. I spoke as quickly as I could and as soon as his curiosity had been satisfied I bombed home, picked up the car and headed to Trigger’s. Her little sister (adorable little six year old who keeps falling over and making me laugh) gave me the evils because I was taking her big sis away for the evening. Promises of chocolate assuaged the youngster and Trig and I headed for the flat.

To our delight the PVA unibond had bonded successfully and so we felt a celebratory ciggie was in order.

Ten minutes of hot gossip, a chocolate bar and can of coke later, we made a start. We opted for the dry laying option so that we could practice and see where the pitfalls would be when we eventually got around to cementing the things down. We wanted to get this absolutely spot on and so we followed this guide using the little tile spacers (which apparently according to this person are called boobies) and off we went, tile by tile, booby by booby.

By tile 20, having successfully navigated a couple of corners, our confidence was sky high. Phrases like “piece of piss” and “what the fuck is all the fuss about” were being bandied about as if we’d been born with grouters in our hands. But then disaster struck. The boobies became harder to place and eventually they wouldn’t fit at all. We looked back over the tiles we’d laid and found that one, right near the beginning, had slipped and fucked up the rest of it.

Bollocks. Another cigarette, this time smoked with much dejection, and much debate ensued. What shall we do? Clearly we couldn’t carry on as the margin of error was going to get wider and wider and by the end of it we’d be “fucked” (a technical term we came to use over and over again). Eventually we decided that, seeing as the two rows along the walls were at right angles to each other and were straight we should stick them down. We had our edge. All we needed was the courage to cement it.

Out came the adhesive, out came the trowels and tentatively, with as much care and attention as two fuckwits could ever muster, we laid one tile after another. Trig and I took turns holding the boobies while the other placed the tile and lined it up. We had cement in our hair, on our elbows, faces, knees, legs and necks. It took patience, teamwork and concentration, but we did it.

At ten o’clock we were tired. We counted seven tiles all perfectly lined up and ready to be used as the basis for the rest. Another ciggie and we called it a night. Trig’s mum had made tea for us. Doesn't food taste great a) when it’s been made by someone else (with the obvious exception of my sister) and b) when it’s eaten after some hard graft?

Knackered, I dragged myself into the car and drove home.

“Hello,” my sister called as I fell into the flat.

“Urgh!” I replied, incapable of speech.

“How did it go?”

“Ugtzh!” I replied.

“There’s some Fat Bastard by the microwave”

“Thank fuck for that!”


May 25, 2004

Come Bond With Me

I feel better now that I have actually got my hands dirty. Yesterday I applied a primer to bond the floor in the kitchen and bathroom. PVA glue is like the glue I used at primary school, you know, the white stuff that you can peel from your hands when it dries? I used to love doing that!

K, who I will from now on refer to as Dave even though she is a girl (long story), helped me out and we got through it in no time at all.

I thought it would be difficult, but it wasn’t. I thought I’d have funny tales to tell today, but I don’t. It went on like a dream, took an hour to do and we were done! The only mildly amusing thing was the kneepads we wore to protect our delicate patellae. They’re BOUND to be on the catwalks next summer. Watch this space for pictures

Tonight I dry lay (does that sound rude to anyone else?) ALL the tiles just to make sure the layout I have planned in my head can be translated to reality. Does that make me anal or just healthily cautious? I’m not sure.

I’m setting up a fotopages site to document all the work I’m doing. I’ll post the link here soon.


May 24, 2004

Cup Final Day, 2004 - A day to remember

Telephone conversation. Last Wednesday.

Me: So what’s this pub like, eh?

My mate: You know, bit of an old man’s pub. Yellowing walls, dodgy carpet. But I called them and they’re definitely showing the match on the big screen. And it’s just by the tube, easy for everyone to get to. Fairly central. Nothing glamorous but it’ll do I reckon.

Me: But are you sure this pub’s going to be okay? I mean it’s only one stop away from The Den. Wouldn’t we be best watching the match somewhere else?

My mate (mocking): What? London Bridge’s not exactly Millwall heartland is it? I mean, the die-hard fans’ll be in Cardiff and all the others will be watching it in Bermondsey. (chuckles).

Me: Not being funny mate, but it’s one stop by tube from Bermondsey and one stop by train from South Bermondsey. Millwall are the closest team around. It’s still going to be Millwall territory. T and I will be supporting United and I don’t fancy getting my head kicked in.

My mate: Hehehe. Typical women. You ask me to choose a pub for the final, I choose one. I call them. They’re showing the match. And now you can’t make up your mind.

Me: Well I’ve never been there. If you think it’s going to be okay, I’ll send the mail out to everyone.

My mate: Look, J’s coming, right? Would I organise for my girlfriend to come to a pub where there’s going to be loads of trouble. Honestly mate, It’ll be fine. I saw the Ipswich game in there…

Me: Ipswich. It’s not exactly a controversial match is it?

My mate: Cheeky bitch. Look. Trust me. It’ll be fine. Just send the mail out.

Me: Okay. See you there then.

My mate: Actually, I won’t get there until after the match. I’ve been roped into a game of footie. J will be there with T. About 2pm? They’ll see you in there.

Me: Oh, right. See you then.

My Mate: Bye.


Fast forward to Cup Final day. Eight of us in pub: one Millwall, two United (including me), two neutrals, one father, one uncle and a Scottish mate. Pub full of dodgy looking characters all of whom are wearing Millwall shirts

Referee blows whistle.

Man with scar on his face starts shouting:

Scarface: Cam on you facking cants. You facking cants. Play the facking, canting ball. Millwall, fight for it. You facking bunch of cants. Don’t let the facking bunch of Manc cants get the ball. Kill him. KILL HIM!!!!

Me and T (fellow United supporter) exchanged worried glances.


Shot of Alex Ferguson. Millwall supporters standing next to Scotsman start shouting:

Millwall Fan 1: Facking Scottish cant. Facking red-nosed Scottish cant.

Millwall Fan 2: Cant. Fucking Scottish Cant. Facking break his face if I saw him.

Scottish mate goes pale and edges away slowly. Scottish mate does not utter a single word.


A black Millwall defender makes a crap clearance that ends up at Scholes’ feet.

Scarface: Stupid black facking monkey-boy cant.

Millwall Fan 1: Facking black barstud, can’t facking play for shit.

Millwall Fan 2: Facking black cant.

T (fellow united fan who also happens to be of Asian extraction) starts looking very scared and moves towards the centre of the group.


Gary Neville whips a ball into the box. Ronaldo heads it home. GOALLLLL!!!

Me: Bite my tongue and do everything in my power not to celebrate for fear of death. Go to toilet. Lock cubicle door and do a silent victory dance. Come back out looking composed.


Referee blows half-time whistle.

J: Hmmmmm. I think we should go and find another pub.

All: “Yes”, “absolutely”, “let’s go”, “there’s one next door”, “come on then”


In pub next door. Two eight year olds, one with Millwall shirt and one with United shirt, sit side by side. Everyone is nice.

Referee blows the final whistle. I cheer feeling un-intimidated


My Mate arrives after his match.

Me: Oh yeah, mate. Great choice of pub. Well done.

J: Yes, very well done dear. You nearly got us all killed.

R: Think you’d better buy this round mate. You’re not very popular right about now.

My Mate: Why? Was it a bit dodgy then?


May 19, 2004

Back of the net

She shoots, she scores, then she sets up two more. We won four goals to three. Not a bad debut methinks.


On the downside

Jonesy feels like she has two red-hot pokers burning into her ovaries.

On the upside

Jonesy is off to play footie with some rather fit blokes in Hyde Park. Better watch out for those sliding tackles.


May 18, 2004

Bite Sized Chunks

Overwhelmed. That’s been the trouble. The house stuff is overwhelming. The amount of money I have to spend is overwhelming. The extent of the work that I still need to do is overwhelming. I mean what’s a French drain for fuck’s sake???

But yesterday I had a minor victory. Very minor, but it served to boost my confidence.

The story begins on Sunday at 4pm and involved a meeting with the builder:

“So, as you see, we’ve made loads of progress but we found all this rubble under the floorboards, your walls are damp…”


“…the floor, well we had to raise that an inch, we’re going to have to replace three windows, they’re all rotten you see…”


“…your neighbours are going to have to replace their drains, your roof's fucked and leaking into the walls. Oh and by the way, where are the lights for the kitchen? I’ve got to put them in before I plaster over the ceiling.”

“Lights? For the kitchen? Erm…”

“Yeah, your lights. I had a look round but I couldn’t find them.”

“Right, I see. What sort of lights do I need?”

“Sup to you. Halogen, spot, eyeball, hanging, but if you go for halogen you’ll need more, if you go for hanging, well your ceiling's low, innit. Eyeballs can look good. Like I said, sup to you.”

“I see. Yes. Quite. Okay, so when do you need them by?”


“Tuesday? Day after tomorrow?”


“No problem. I’ll go to B&Q tomorrow and drop them round in the evening.”

Fast-forward 28 hours of blind panic and multiple conversations about kitchen lighting with various friends none of whom actually had a clue.

I park nervously and head towards B&Q. I find the lighting aisle easily and locate the section marked “halogen down lights”. I’ve seen them on DIY SOS and if they’re okay with Nick Knowles, they’re okay with me. Dum di dum di dum. Oval, round, square, tilting, shiny chrome, matt chrome, white, black, small, medium, large, bathroom resistant…

Deep breath

Dum di dum di dum… ooooooooh… I ponder. ooooooooooh, yes. That might work.

Dial builder's number on mobile.

“John, it’s Jonesy. How you doing?”

“Alright mate, just in the pub spending me wages.”

“Nice one. John. I’m in B&Q. You got five minutes?”

“Yeah, no problem. What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve found a box of five tilting matt chrome halogen lights. I like them. Will they work in the kitchen?”

“Sound nice. You just gotta be careful. The 20 watt ones are naff. Really dark. Can’t see fuck all.”

“Let me check. Oh, these ones are 50 watt. Will they be okay?”

“No worries. You’ll be able to sunbathe under ‘em, mate.”

“Shall I get them then?”

“Sup to you.”

“I’ll get em. I’ll leave them by the toaster. Bye John.”

“Ta ta mate.”



May 17, 2004

Counting to Ten

I keep starting this post, changing my mind, deleting what I’ve written and starting again. That about sums me up at the moment. Indecisive, muddled, confused, unsettled. Nothing’s quite right but nothing’s wrong either. I’m feeling overwhelmed by everything that’s going on in my life and I’m struggling to get things into perspective.

The renovation is killing me slowly. Money that I don’t have is haemorrhaging from my account and the number of things I need to think about multiplies on an hourly basis. I don’t think there’s enough space in my brain to cope with it all. Radiators, drains, lights, kitchens, bathrooms, windows, skips, roofs, French drains, damp, tiles, cookers, money, money, money, money, MONEY!

I am all over the place and inside it’s just a big mess of confusion. I try and prioritise and think rationally but the circuits in my brain just fuse and the blind panic rises into my throat. Where’s that elastic band gone? I’ll have to start wearing it again.

Part of all this is that I’m feeling completely unsettled. I couldn’t ask for a better person to stay with while all the work is going on but the fact is I miss my own space. There are times where I just want to shut the door on the world, light some candles, put on some music and just be alone. Not in a depressed or upset kind of way, but just to be on my own with my thoughts, my books and my easy listening.

Saturday was the first time I’d spent more than 10 minutes on my own for about three weeks. I felt my shoulders easing during the course of the evening and Terry’s Eurovision ranting made me smile. I went to bed at eleven and fell asleep immediately. But then I woke up at 7am and whoosh, the tidal wave that is my to-do list flooded my thoughts and blind panic swept over me once again.

My parents are coming to stay with us from Thursday until Monday and no doubt this also means my brother will be coming up for a visit at some point. The thought of the four (maybe five) of us living together in that flat is sending my stress levels through the roof. I can’t imagine my sister is relishing the idea either.

I cannot wait to see my dad and to take him to the flat. His presence will calm me down and his fatherly hugs will reassure me. And my mum, she’s a caring woman who wants what’s best for her family. But how can I put this? We’re not exactly the world’s most functional family and spending prolonged periods of time together in a confined space never brings out the best in us. I’m preparing myself for the worst, that way I can only be pleasantly surprised.

So, in an effort to restore some semblance of calm, I’m closing my eyes, counting to ten, taking a deep breath and reminding myself that this is all just part of the process. At the end of it, I’ll have a flat that really will be my haven. It will all have been worth it when I can shut the door and really relax without ripping my feet on nails and without bits of walls and ceiling crumbling into my tea.

It’s all going to be fine… It’s all going to be fine… It’s all going to be fine… It’s all going to be fine…


May 14, 2004

Whistle a happy tune

Someone wolf-whistled me today. I was walking to work and this really quite fit and cheeky bloke in a van wolf-whistled at me and called me gorgeous.


According to the Little Book of Emancipation I’m supposed to be offended at this. Why? Someone just checked me out, liked what they saw and let me know. I defy anyone not to feel good about that. Even Ann Widdecombe would feel the little glow of flattery somewhere deep down.

So to the woman who would frown on me for undermining the “cause” I say remove the root vegetable from your arse and let me enjoy the compliment.


May 13, 2004

"She's just the devil in disguise"

There I stood at the tender age of 22, brushing down my new suit, checking my hair and breathing deeply to keep the nerves at bay. I took two steps, opened the door and walked through the threshold into my new career. Public Relations. It all sounded so very glamorous.

I’d spent the previous 18 months hopping from one crap job to another. My CV was varied, to say the least. I had been a gardener for Southwark Council, looking after all the borough’s parks with a team of Neanderthal men who regularly attended local BNP meetings. I worked in a Lebanese Sandwich Bar in Covent Garden but walked out after two weeks sticking two fingers up at my boss after he poked me in the arse with a skewer. I threw my set of keys at him as I left and the hairdressers from across the street whooped, cheered and gave me a free haircut to make me feel better.

I endured endless temping jobs, meeting and greeting, answering phones and organising filing systems whilst being ogled by pervy City types. I hoped I’d eventually figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I never did, but PR seemed like a fairly good idea in the meantime.

My new boss owned the small PR agency and he greeted me with a broad, welcoming smile. I really liked him. He’d put me at ease in the interview and peppered it with interesting questions such as “Princess Diana, fool or icon?” Looking back I wish I’d said “foolish icon” but much to my chagrin, I didn’t. Instead I wibbled meaningless drivel at him that must have somehow impressed as the job offer for Office Manager and PR Assistant arrived in the post the next day.

He showed me to my desk, made me a cup of tea and handed me an “office manual” to read. Once I’d visibly relaxed he introduced me to the rest of the team. He took me to each desk at a time, engaging all the while in light banter. One by one I met my colleagues all of whom seemed perfectly nice and I thought to myself that everything was going to be fine.

Suddenly I realised he’d missed someone out, a girl who looked only a little older than me and whose desk was at the back of the room tucked into the corner. He saw my inquisitive gaze and I felt him tense up.

“Ah, of course. How could I forget? Ah, um. Hmmm. Yes.”

He guided me over to her desk. Everyone was watching nervously.

“I’d like to introduce you to our Account Manager, Corina. Corina, this is our new assistant who’ll be helping us out.”

Corina raised her head and looked into my eyes. A nauseous, sinister feeling washed briefly over me and my knees felt weak.

“Oh, hello”, she sneered before looking away.

“Hmmmm, yes”, said my boss. “Let’s go and have another cup of tea.”

The sinister feeling subsided as he ushered me back down the room towards my desk. Curiosity got the better of me and I sneaked a peek back over my shoulder when she wasn’t looking. It seemed I could just make out a forked tongue as she yawned and a pair of vertical eyelids flicked quickly beneath her human ones.

I shuddered.

Over the next few days I began to get the measure of my new colleagues. Most were lovely but Corina? Well she was downright evil. The atmosphere changed when she entered the room. People retreated into their shells as she passed by and relaxed only once she had left the office again. She huffed and puffed and complained loudly about everything. Someone didn’t fill the kettle back up, someone left the spoon in the sugar, someone had moved the FT, someone had borrowed her stapler, someone was talking too loudly on the phone, someone had spelt her friend’s name wrong on a telephone message. A black cloud of woe followed this girl around and it was always someone else’s fault.

One afternoon I was sorting out the petty cash when I heard the unmistakeable sound of her intimidating gait as she walked menacingly towards my desk. I looked up and my heartbeat quickened. She looked angry. REALLY angry. I gulped.

“Er, hi Corina”, I greeted her meekly, my bowels loosening slightly.

“My paperclips are blue”, she hissed.

“Erm, sorry?” I ventured.

“My paperclips, the ones you ordered for me, they’re blue. I asked for red ones.”

She put the box of paperclips on my desk and folded her arms expectantly. I looked over at my boss but he looked away and stared intently out of the window at something obviously very fascinating indeed.

“Oh, I see. Yes. Well, you see they didn’t have any red ones in stock so I ordered some blue ones and when they get red ones in, probably next week, they promised to send some over. You see? I just bought you blue ones in the mean time.” I waited nervously for her response.

“Oh, GREAT”, she huffed. “So now I have to use BLUE ones do I? Well that’s just GREAT!”

“Erm…” I ventured, somewhat speechless.

“Well, when you get the RED ones in, you’ll just have to go through ALL my files and swap them with the BLUE ones, won’t you?”

“But why can’t you just use the blue ones? What’s wrong with blue?”

“What’s wrong with blue? WHAT’S WRONG WITH BLUE?” She had her hands on her hips and was glaring down at me. An evil glow emanated from her flesh and her vertical eyelids flicked once more. “IT’S NOT RED! THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG WITH IT!”

She turned away slowly but kept staring at me. I saw the vertical lids go again and tears welled up in my eyes.

“Oh for god’s sake. You’re not going to bloody cry are you? Jesus!” She cast a withering look over to my boss as she walked back to her desk shaking her head slowly.

It was then that I knew I was working with the Antichrist.


May 12, 2004

A Mayfair Misfit

Apart from the Aston Martin DB7 Vantage that has been parked outside my building all week, Mayfair has very little going for it in my humble opinion. I take many a lunchtime stroll in search of inspiration but the sterile streets sap me of all creativity and I return to my desk a deflated and defeated soul. Oppressive buildings frown on me as I pass as if they can somehow tell that my bank balance is going infrared and they’re trying to intimidate “my sort” off their affluent streets.

It’s not the wealth that I object to. Believe me, if I woke up one morning richer than the Sultan of Brunei, you wouldn’t find me complaining. You just wouldn’t find me donning a mink coat and shopping for milk at Harrods.

In Mayfair conformity is key and The Establishment is everything. It’s just not the sort of place where you can say, “well that went down like a shit sandwich” and get a giggle. God forbid you have a sense of humour. Life is not for joking daahling. It’s for Gucci!

It’s all so hideously two-faced with it. No one would actually admit that they consider themselves superior. That’s not the British way. Instead, they’ll smile thinly as they gallantly hold the door for you, just like Mama taught them. Nevertheless you’ll spot the repulsed gaze as it takes in the frayed H&M jacket, the scruffy Adidas trainers and the seven week old roots in your hair. “It’s all about the grooming”, they’ll be thinking as if you're a workhorse that has accidentally made its way onto an Arabian stud farm.

Mayfair lacks depth and inner beauty. The people are shallow, the streets staid. Give me South East London any day with its markets, its history and its wide-open spaces.


May 11, 2004


There is a person that, for the purposes of this little ditty, I will call the fucker. It’s not because I want to protect the person’s identity. No. I’d like to find this fucker and get this fucker nicked. I’m calling this person the fucker because I don’t know whether this person is a “he” or “she”.

I’m also calling this person the fucker because this fucker nicked my handbag last night. THE FUCKER.

There I was in a sit down drinking establishment on Piccadilly catching up with a mate, chewing the cud, talking a lot of shite, laughing, smiling and sharing a nice cold Pinot Grigio.

11 o’clock and along comes the bill. Hang on! Where is my handbag? Is it wedged safely next to the wall where only a small chimney sweep of a child could wriggle through? Is it fuck! BECAUSE SOME FUCKER NICKED IT.

The contents of my handbag (well it was more of a shoulder hold all type thing) were:

·My favourite trousers. £30
worthless – worn

·A particularly nice t-shirt. £20
worthless – worn

·A belt. £5
worthless – falling to bits

·Underwear. £25
worthless – it would be just wrong

·All my make up. Some of which I bought yesterday lunch and hadn’t even worn yet. Probably worth about £50 in total.
worthless – used

·Moisturiser. £5
worthless – used

·My disc man. £20
worthless – scratched to fuck

·5 CDs. £50
worthless – broken covers with no sleeves

·My diary. £4. Not a lot but now I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing.

·Doorkey to my sister’s place.
Pointless – they can’t trace me back there.

·This book . I'm 3 pages from the end and now I won’t know what happens. If anyone has it perhaps they could photocopy the last chapter for me?
£2 maximum in a used book fayre

·My wallet. This contained £5 in coins. My cashcard (cancelled). My nectar card with 10 points. My gym membership card (like I used that much). My Blockbuster card (ah well, I owe them a tenner anyway). Business cards (they know where I work).

·The handbag itself
worthless – five years old and falling to bits. Broken zips, rubbish velcro.

Total cost of everything I lost.

Total the fucker could make.



May 07, 2004

Out of sorts and a bit fucked off

All’s cool in Camp Jones except this undercurrent of anxiety I’ve been feeling. I get this from time to time and it will pass. There’s a technique I learnt when I was seeing the counsellor that helps keep it at bay. It involves a rubber band that I wear round my wrist which I ping against my skin whenever my thoughts run away with me. I’ve been wearing it about a week now.

I just need to keep things in perspective. This whole house thing isn’t the biggest deal is it? I just feel a little unsettled. I can’t wait until my flat becomes the little haven I want it to be. Soon. Soon! The stress is spilling over into other areas. I’m pretty hyperactive at work (perhaps I should cut down on the tea) and I’m getting stressed about other things, too!

This is the basic pattern at the moment:

Get on tube; mind relaxes; start thinking about my flat; start worrying about the kitchen; “it’s going to fall down; I won’t be able to afford the work; they’ll take me to court; I’ll end up in jail. FUCK FUCK FUCK”

PING! PING! PING! Calm down. It’ll be okay, things will work out. It’s all going to be just fine and think of how much value you’ll be adding to the flat. Now, pick up the paper and start reading about Jordan’s autobiography. The mindless drivel will distract you.

Tonight I have to give a speech at the club dinner. I hate public speaking. My heart speeds up, my mouth goes dry. Everything I want to say disappears as my mind goes blank. I’m trying to write the speech now but every time I start thinking about it, this happens:

“Everyone will be looking at you. They expect you to be funny. You’ll feel nauseous. Your hands will be shaking and they’ll all be able to tell because you’ll be holding your crib sheet. You’ll forget what to say. Your voice will tremble. No one will laugh at your jokes. Should I watch what I drink or will that help me relax. It’s all going to go wrong.”

PING! PING! PING! Pull yourself together girl. Relax. Everything will be okay.



May 06, 2004

Strangely Zen-Like

Despite the fact that my kitchen and bathroom have been reduced to a pile of rubble and despite the fact that my uncle and his mate the builder have told me that it’s about twice as bad as we originally thought and despite the fact that I will have to move out for about a month rather than a fortnight and despite the fact that I probably don’t have enough money to pay for all the work, despite all these things I’m feeling remarkably calm and relaxed. Which is odd, I think you’ll agree.

Perhaps it’s because there’s no going back or perhaps it’s because I know I’ll make money on this in the long run.

Smacks a little of denial though, doesn't it?


May 04, 2004

Life outside the closet

So, Sunday I got drunk at a bbq with my mates and told them about this blog. Thankfully I'd read through it the week before and deleted all the nasty, shallow, bitchy, two-faced, personal stuff I’ve ever written about them, especially the part where I slagged off the managers when they dropped me from the first eleven. Sorry guys, now you’ll never know what I really think… hehehehehe.

Seriously though, they all thought it was a good idea and they didn’t look at me like I’d grown an extra head. If anything, they wondered why I’d never said anything about it before. To be honest, I think it had something to do with giving them even more ammunition for taking the piss. And I was right… I got it in the neck all night from a certain northerner I know, who knows I don’t mind really.

Enough of that. I was going to write some more about the bbq, specifically about how we made complete arses out of ourselves playing drinking games. But I’m in bed feeling shit with a head cold and asthma so I’ll wait until I’m feeling a bit better. I want to do the night justice. Hey, don’t worry guys; I’ll protect your identities… for a price!


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