The Chronicles of Blah Blah Blah

Somebody stop the beeping....

2011-05-27T02:22:00.000-07:00

I think i am going to kill someone. I can't seem to lift my head out of my hands where i rest it in despair at the realisation that i am slowly losing my mind. For the last two days i have been forced to listen to erratic high pitched beeping at the hands of the fire alarm system at my work. So that you can understand the true extent of what i have been through, i have recorded the events and my emotions. I warn you, it's not pretty.

First let me set the scene. I'm temping in a reception of a classical music society. I answer phones, greet people and watch funny videos on YouTube. That has been the extent of my days for the last two weeks. Until yesterday....

Thursday
2:00pm - Something's beeping. I'll ignore it and it'll go away.

2:23pm - Probably should tell someone about that beeping seeing as it seems to be coming from serious looking alarm. Nah - important admin to do (Facebook).

2:30 - Guilt takes over. Peer round corner of reception at alarm and urge it to be quiet.

2:31 - Shushing it doesn't work. Man...going to have to call someone.

2:35 - Work out who to call. Ask her whether anything is on fire. She confirms that it isnt. Am relieved - don't want any casualties on my hands especially as i have been pretty flakey with signing visitors in and out.

2:50 - Lady confirms that there is a fault but no-one can come out to fix it until tomorrow morning. Brilliant. She laughs about it. I dont.

2:51 - Figure i should be positive about it seeing as we are going to be in each others company for the next three hours. Try and locate a beat in the beeping. No beat identified, just erratic screeching. Begin to rock back and forth in my chair.

3:00 - Come to the realisation that classical waiting room music (especially jazz flute) does NOT compliment alarm noises.

3:15 - Frantically search behind reception for cd player - need silence, need silence. Kick locked cupboard containing cd player, it doesn't open and i hurt my foot. Man sat in waiting room doesn't look impressed. Whatever.

4:15 - Last hour has been the slowest of my life. Have taken frequent breaks from behind the desk to just glare at the alarm urging it to stop. Its green light just blinks back at me mockingly as it continues its high pitched assault on my ear drums and my brain.

4:25 - Imagine what would happen if i kung-fu kicked the alarm. Imagine electrocution and after much debate decide that it probably isn't worth it.

4:37: No Mrs Fletcher, i do not know what a 'vibraphone' is. In fact, i think that you just created it to play with my mind and you are in fact the evil alarm gremlin who is watching my mental breakdown with glee and who has managed to get his hands on a mobile to continue my mental torment.

5:00 - One hour to go, begin a tally of minutes to have something else to focus on. Realise that i am shaking in fury.

5:09 - Snap pencil in half. It feels good.

5:17 - Go and stand in the pouring rain for a bit.

5:30 - Try and claw my way in to alarm box - no way in. Tap on glass for a bit just in case. Try putting my cup on it and drawing around it with a very sharp pencil in the effort to get through the glass. It doesn't work. Kick the wall.

5:31 - 29 minutes til home time.

5:33 - Decide to pace a bit to kill some time.

5:34 - Departing office workers look at the pacing receptionist with concern. Want to hurt them, they dont know what i've been through.

5:35 - 25 minutes until home time.

5:40 - 5:47 - Stare at nothing but clock. Realise that it must be the longest amount of time that i have ever looked at a clock for. Wonder whether i have broken some kind of record for clock watching. That would be cool.

5:48 - Google it and i haven't beaten any record. Spend about a minute being gutted.

5:49 - Realise that there is more to life than a world record for clock watching.

5:53 - Enough is enough. I pack my stuff and leave. Stick both my middle fingers up at alarm - makes me feel better but realise i'm swearing at an inanimate object and that it might be too late to save my mind.

What a day. It got to the stage where if any actual human had looked at me wrong i would have flipped out and smashed stuff up. when recalling the tale to my housemates they were most amused. The hilarity that ensued when a car alaram started going off on our street and didnt stop for about 2 hours only added to their fun and games.

I came to work this morning and there was a blissful silence filling the reception. I breathed a sigh of relief and settled down at my desk with a cuppa and a gossip website. Even the persistent phone calls weren't going to affect my positive mood.

And then, the beeping began again.

It was like a bad dream. The workman was busy trying to figure out what was going on and the repair process appeared to be a system of trial and error. He would try some things that would emit even louder noises and then something else which would result in the beeps taking on a chirping quality that caused me to wince.

The workman eventually informed me that he had done what he could but that as it was faulty he couldn't promise that it wouldn't start again. I practically ran at him as he attempted to make his escape.

"Please tell me there is something that i can do to shut it up. Please"

He looked at me, slightly confused, and guided me by the arm over to the alarm. I didn't want to look directly at it. This monster of torment who had haunted my dreams, made me chew all my nails off and made me snap my favourite pencil. I was like a petulent child forced to face their enemy who they had earlier kicked in the playground.

The kind chap informed me that all i needed to do was open the hatch (evidently very easy to do if you notice the fact that there is a key) and press the 'silence' button.

Now wouldn't that have been nice.

Grumpy Monday Morning

2011-05-09T08:47:00.000-07:00

As someone who recently came to the end of being employed there are definitely better ways to spend a Monday morning than fighting rush hour traffic to get across London in last nights clothes.

Okay, the sun was shining and that was undoubtedly lovely but when you are feeling rubbish about not having a job, hanging out on busy buses and tube carriages with smug workers nursing their Starbucks soy lattes whilst perusing the business section of whatever newspaper they choose to buy on their happy jaunt to work is not ideal. Don't they know that the Metro is free? Clearly not.

There i was in yesterday's clothes, which i had foolishly chosen in a hungover state, without considering the fact that i would have to cross London wearing them the very next morning. I also neglected to remember my toothbrush which was more unfortunate for my fellow travellers than for me.

I thought that the early start would be a good thing. I would be home by the time i would probably have pressed snooze until, fresh for a productive Monday of sending off perfectly worded job application after perfectly worded job application to people who would see my name in their inbox, exclaim "at last we've found her" and then proceed to offer me fortunes, champagne, diamonds and maybe a micro-pig for good measure.

Instead i was pressed up against suited and booted, employed folk who gave me looks as if to say: "seriously love, do you really think a Guns and Roses t-shirt and no make-up is really appropriate attire for the workplace?". You should have seen the pity in their eyes. At least it gave me a good reason to pop in the ipod, crank it up and for once not care about people hating me. They already did purely because i wasn't joining them in busting out my ipad to check the latest stocks and shares. Well that's what they want you to believe - I reckon they are sneakily reading Perez Hilton.

I emerged from the tube in a hideous mood, made all the worse by the power walkers striding down Brixton Hill chatting into their hands-free kits and sounding important. For intelligent, employed people don't they know that hands-free kits make you look crazy? Unless you're driving, pushing a pram or carrying a small child then they just seem a bit showy. It gives me a bit of a fright as well because as they approach me i think that it is me that they are asking to pick up their dry cleaning or re-schedule their meeting so they can play golf. In hindsight, i'd probably happily do that for them at this stage if they paid me enough...and threw in that micro pig.

As the lone person walking in the opposite direction from the tube, i was in such a bad mood that i wouldn't have been surprised if one of those thunder clouds you see over grumpy people in cartoons was directly above my head, just raining on me. To say that i was feeling sorry for myself is a minor understatement but then i realised that it doesn't matter where i am on a Monday morning, i'm miserable and at least at the end of my journey i got to sit on my sofa and watch One Tree Hill. I should count myself lucky.

You really want to talk to me when i look like this??

2011-04-06T02:23:00.001-07:00

Why is that one place that people seem to believe that it is a good idea to strike up conversation is the gym? I like a good chat as much as the rest of us, try and ask me a question on the street and, with the exception of charity workers who I avoid like the plague, I will stop for a second, consider the most appropriate and informative answer and I will practically sing it back to you. That’s the kind of helpful girl I am. Ask me directions and even if I haven’t the faintest idea, I will try my best to get you as close to that spot as possible or find someone else who can help you. But if you try and chat to me whilst I am red in the face, sweating and clearly out of breath then be warned, I will be rude.

More often than not, I will be listening to some angry rock music at full volume so whenever this chatty person decides to try and engage me in some meaningless banter there are a couple of reasons why this angers me. Firstly, I will hesitate because I don’t know them, leading me to risk life and limb by looking behind me (very dangerous on the treadmill) to check whether they are in fact talking to me. Then I will have to remove my headphones. This just plain interrupts my flow and can result in a tripping hazard. Two reasons why hatred directed at the interrupter is a certainty.

I don’t know whether you have tried to talk when extremely out of breath? It isn’t easy. The most I can do is utter one syllable on my out breath and then as I try and hurry more oxygen into my lungs, I may be able to squeak another if you’re lucky. There is no way that I am going to be able to engage my brain enough to say something witty or insightful so therefore men out there – don’t try and chat me up at the gym.

I’m not going to pretend that this happens a lot. I have pretty much mastered the ‘don’t even think of talking to me look’. It involves looking angrily into the distance and trying to sweat as much as possible. The way I see it, the more that you sweat, the more people wont even want to go on the machine next to you and this is my end goal – keep everyone as far away as possible.

Now we’ve all seen Sex and the City – where handsome men just seem to materialise out of nowhere and ask the ladies out on dates no matter where they are, coffee shops, yoga classes, book stores. This doesn’t happen in real life. If these men were hot I wouldn’t try half as hard when exercising. I would actually think about what I wear rather than just throwing on the first pair of holey leggings that I can find and some stained vest top, inappropriate socks and what can only be described as hideous footwear. I cant afford sexy exercise gear, I’d rather eat. Also, dressing badly for the gym has become another defence mechanism which I assure you, if you are thinking about joining a gym in Brixton, you will need.

So remember, to avoid pesky chatty people in gyms around the world. Wear hideous clothing, terrible trainers, look angry and sweat as much as possible. It’s a tried and tested method.

Home "Worker"

2011-03-02T09:12:00.000-08:00

I dont know if any of you have ever worked from home but if you're anything like me then the term 'work' should be used lightly.

When i work from home, not much goes on. I literally become the most distracted person in the world. Sit me in an office, provide me with caffeine and i can concentrate the whole day long (aside from the obligatory facebook checks) and finish that to-do list which i dutifully write out every morning and work my way through. I scare myself with how productive i can be because i never thought i had it in me.

However, when i'm working from home i regress to the lazy student i once was. On days at home i would never dream of dressing in anything other than tracksuit bottoms, hoody and ironic fluffy slippers and in order to not be distracted by the TV i have to ensure that i don't look directly at it at any stage of the day otherwise my mind instantly wanders to the joys of daytime tv - which we all know is pretty damn joyful.

I think my inclination to laziness can be attributed to the comfiness of my sofa. My sofa is sent from heaven. Once you sit down any human being will find it hard to get back up again without feeling a deep sense of regret that their sitting experience is over. If any of you remember the cup-a-soup advert from yesteryear which featured a big, blue, fluffy cuddle monster that scurried around hugging people - well that is exactly what my sofa is like, apart from its not blue, or fluffy.

I manage to put away an insane amount during my days working from home. I can drink a lot of tea and coffee at the best of times but when at home i can drink pint after pint and then of course my fake working is interrupted at regular intervals with trips to the toilet and then after that, as i'm already up, i make another cup of tea. Its a hard cycle to break but atleast i'm hydrated.

I get really bored as well, even the allure of crossing things off my to-do list with multicoloured pens cant hold my attention. I find myself staring into space or out of the window or just wandering from area to area pondering life.

I hate cleaning but i would literally rather scrub that black hole down the side of my fridge that has never been cleaned than sit down and get to business on my work. If things aren't clean, i can't relax where as at weekends when nothing is expected of me, i can wallow in my own filth amongst the dishes and last nights pizza boxes and i feel nothing but joy that i can rest, safe in the knowledge that my flat is charmingly 'lived in'.

Anyway - my to-do list awaits and i'm sure that writing this would constitute a 'waste of time' so best be mature and act my 27 years and get back to it......maybe one more cup of tea first.

Your rabbit can do what??

2010-12-15T08:42:00.000-08:00

There is a lady at my current place of work who has a strange obsession. Rabbits.

It’s impossible not to notice her weird fetish – a mere stroll past her desk will have you staring in wonderment at her shrine to potentially the most pointless animal on the planet.

The array of different pictures of rabbits that she has is mind boggling – there are cartoon rabbits, rabbits sketched in pencil on fancy paper and there is even a watercolour of 2 rabbits frolicking in a meadow surrounded by buttercups.

It is so weird.

Her collection of rabbit art also encompasses humorous birthday cards with rabbits doing slightly wacky things like eating giant carrots and wearing sunglasses whilst drinking cocktails. Those crazy rabbits.

The lady in question has also managed to accumulate an impressive selection of newspaper cuttings which involve rabbits doing things that are worthy to get in the newspaper which I find it hard to get my head around. It must have been a slow news day that day.

I have to confess that there is one article that does look rather interesting even to a rabbit sceptic like myself. Unfortunately I have not been able to get close enough to confirm my suspicions but from craning my neck to get a good look, the centrepiece of her ‘Wall of Rabbits’ appears to be an article about a swimming rabbit. Now that is what I call news.

I suppose it makes sense that rabbits would be good swimmers seeing as they have massive feet but I fail to understand how their little hands would help them propel themselves through the water. Maybe these animals that sit around all day munching slightly-rotten veg are in fact harbouring a secret passion for busting out the goggles and swimming cap and doing a few lengths to blow off some steam. These clumsy animals who make us laugh with the ineffective way that they hop around, could in fact be incredibly graceful when gliding through the water. I just don’t see it but it does make me wonder how much more exciting people would consider rabbits if they could swim.

The more I thought about this, the more I just couldn’t fathom that a humble bunny wabbit would be able to swim so I decided to go in. With zero fear for my own safety around the lady who is obsessed with rabbits, I sauntered past and casually started up a conversation about the newspaper article. I also took a second to notice that she was writing with a pen that, naturally, had a rabbit on the end. Seriously, I could understand the obsession if it were about an animal that did something, you know, a shark, a tiger, maybe a horse but I just couldn’t get my head around her rabbit fetish.

Then I glanced away from the creepy pen and read the article…..

Rather than it being about a swimming rabbit as I originally anticipated, it was about a rabbit who had become an internet sensation for his amazing ability to balance things on his head including tea cups, fruit and waffles. Don’t believe me? Check it out here.

Now, I get the obsession. I eat my words. That is awesome. Where can I get one of those rabbit pens?

I just want to get home....

2010-12-14T09:46:00.000-08:00

I’m baffled. Why oh why do people insist on flocking to Oxford Street in London to do their Christmas shopping? It may well be iconic for being ‘the’ place to shop in London but I can tell you now, this place is hell on earth. In fact, if it was possible to kick Oxford Street in the shins or even pinch it on that extra painful bit behind the arm – then I would do it in an instant. I hate Oxford Street. Who cares if its Christmas.

I have just spent the last hour battling through the crowds hell bent on getting their festive shopping done even though there is not enough floor space in the whole area to accommodate the hoards of panic buying shoppers who’ve journeyed to London from around the country to snap up what is already available on their local high street. There are literally people everywhere and they all have a steely look of determination in their eyes which says; “get out of my way or I will trample you to the ground and then smack you upside the head with my 15 Primark bags”. Trust me, they mean it.

It’s like central London has been taken over by some kind of virus but instead of turning humans into zombies, it has turned them in to psychopathic shoppers who’s manners have been long forgotten.

Lets not forget that we are in England. We are known worldwide as having excellent manners. (that and binge drinking) Just watch any American film which has to briefly portray a room of British people and we are inevitably shown as tea drinking, crumpet eating posh twits who say please and thank you too much and more often than not, have suspicious facial hair. If those film makers could see us at Christmas time – they would seriously change their opinions.

I feel that I am one of the minority who have remembered that physical violence against ones peers is not the done thing and have clung on tight to the manners that my parents instilled in me. I know for one that if I bash into anyone on the street I don’t stop and glare at them menacingly daring them to stand up again just so that I can knock them down. Not like my fellow shoppers. No, I apologise profusely, even if I just grazed their handbag. My resolve is wearing thin though I tell you. If I trip over one more suitcase that someone has conveniently decided to bring with them to the busiest street in London, at rush hour, then I will not be responsible for my actions.

The relief I experience at leaving the office at the end of the day is short lived. Inevitably, the tube is closed because of over crowding which means I have to get a bus. Fine. I’ve lived in London a while now, I can handle public transport issues, it goes hand in hand with any commute. What I cant handle is people charging at you from all angles, lost in their own thoughts of what to procure their loved ones for Christmas and all the while staring in wonderment at the (largely underwhelming) Christmas lights. The lights don’t make me feel Christmassy – they make me angry.

If any of you were avid ‘Gladiators’ watchers in the 90’s then I feel that you will understand what I go through everyday at 5 o’clock. Recall, if you will, the game ‘The Gauntlet’. The rules were easy. The competitor had to get to the other end of the track. Simples. However, in their way were 5 angry Gladiators with various weapons just waiting to take them down. My journey home is exactly the same – apart from no-one is wearing a leotard. The Gladiators are replaced with shoppers and the weapons are replaced with shopping bags, trolleys, suitcases, bikes, prams and anything large that’s going to hurt you if you collide with it. At least at the end of Gladiators you won something. Here, the only thing that you win is your right to walk down the street and get home in one piece.

The weird thing is that the crowds just don’t seem to subside – in fact, they seem to grow on a daily basis. The one thing that I am grateful for is that my hatred of Christmas shopping and members of the general public led me to complete all of my shopping in a record 1 hour and 10 minutes. I can only attribute what must be an international world record to my daily training on Oxford Streets’ own version of the Gladiators. At least it’s good for something.

Let it snow............

2010-12-02T11:57:00.000-08:00

For any of you who are lucky enough to be in warmer climes, think yourself lucky.

As we speak, I am in my house, the heating is up so high that the boiler is shaking with the physical exertion and I am wearing four different layers, tights and two pairs of socks. Brilliant.

No amount of hot chocolate is helping - in fact I am angry at all warm drink manufacturers who claim that their products can make you warm inside. They are lying, or they are targeting people who already have a body temperature of above freezing.

When I awoke on Tuesday morning, crawled out of bed, drank my obligatory pint of tea and noticed that it was snowing outside - I was full of joy. Snow! Who doesn't love it? It's magical and it's nearly Christmas. What more could we hope for?

The reality is entirely different.

Once you get past how pretty it is you realise that snow is nothing but a massive pain in the ass. Walking anywhere involves putting on as many layers as you can whilst still being able to do up your coat, wearing the only hat that you own and that you hate but that you are forced to wear otherwise the wind whistles into your ears and makes your brain say: " Amy, go back to bed". All this just to get some milk for your cereal.

It has made me realise why hibernation is a good idea. Our furry friends have it right. I would happily stay inside all winter and feast on the supplies that I had so cleverly been hoarding for the past months. I bet all those hibernating animals are drinking mulled wine in their nests, busting out their miniature nutcrackers to free those tasty delights that they have stored up and laughing at the stupidity of us humans.

Walking anywhere is an absolute nightmare. No matter how much grip your shoes have, walking on sheets of ice is not easy. People are falling over left right and centre. Ordinarily, I would find this highly amusing but its a whole different story when I too am one of those idiots. There is no avoiding it, you just have to learn to fall with grace...or convince yourself that that is what you are doing. My normal 10 minute jaunt to the tube station is now a 20 minute death slide of pain and humiliation.

Another annoyance which comes hand in hand with snow is that everyone seems to lose the ability to have a conversation about anything other than the snow and how disruptive it is to our transport system. BORED.

I appreciate that extreme weather is indeed a talking point but after you have established that, yes - it is cold and yep - journeys anywhere are a nightmare, can't we just stop talking about it and get on with being actual interesting people who have opinions and thoughts on anything aside from the weather?

I know I sound miserable but when you are running out of warm clothes, nothing clean will dry in your ice box of a flat and you have fallen down on average, thrice a day since Jack bloody Frost decided to stroll into town - you too would be cranky.

Now i'm off to fill up my hot water bottle, grab another pair of socks and have yet another hot chocolate.

You used to live with who???

2010-11-24T01:30:00.000-08:00

My friend is a teacher and there is a rumour going around her school which is potentially the most awesome thing that I have ever heard.

All of her students believe that for a while, she lived with bears.

Now is that not just the coolest thing that you have ever heard?

Unfortunately, there is absolutely no truth in the rumour but imagine everyone thinking that of you.

From what I have heard from her, the school that she teaches in is pretty much like hell on earth and the kids sound like mixtures of Stewie Griffin and Chuckie. Not somewhere that I would want to be - I've got a lot of admiration for her.

Another friend and I have been trying to encourage this friend to use this rumour to her advantage in order to freak out the kids and really put the fear of God into them.

We have suggested that she could make a real show of doing a bit of howling at home time. Picture the scene, the kids are all flooding out of the school gates, it's getting dark because it's winter and suddenly they hear a strange noise. They glance to the open window of her classroom and there she is, framed by the moonlight, howling. That would freak them out and no doubt make them behave a little better in class.

Please ignore the fact that bears don't really howl. I don't think that that really matters. The kids wont know that and a good howl really lets off some steam.

We also suggested that she should strategically place some framed photos of her hanging out with some bears on her desk, courtesy of Photoshop of course. She should make sure that the kids see them but if they ask any questions, she should just slowly remove the framed picture from her desk and slide it into her drawer and tell the class that she can't talk about it because the memories are just 'too painful'.

This tactic adds a 'tortured soul' vibe to the rumour. As though she wishes that she could still be hanging out in her cave with her bear family but instead she is there teaching them, meaning that she is doing them a favour and that there is a distinct chance that she could leave (or flip out) at any minute.

The way we see it, teenagers might be pretty gullible so surely playing with them a little bit would be lots of fun.

Other ideas that we had to mess with their heads were to be spotted chewing on raw meat as the kids enter the class or staring thoughtfully into the distance and when interrupted, answering them in bear speak. Some poetic license would be allowed here as i'm pretty sure that my friend doesn't know what bear speak is. I could be wrong though. Come to think of it, she does slightly resemble a bear.

I think of all the rumours that you could have going around about you, there is no doubt that this is the coolest that I have ever heard. If it's possible, it makes my friend even cooler than she is at the moment, which is ridiculously cool anyway. I kinda want to believe the rumours myself. In fact, I think that I might start trying to spread it myself.

Hey, by the way, did you know that my friend used to live with bears. Yeah....she's a total bad ass. I wouldn't recommend making her angry.

The advantages of being old....

2010-11-22T09:36:00.000-08:00

The other day I had to take on the Post Office. It's not a fun experience at the best of times but on Thursday last week, it was particularly joyless.

Basically the queue was a good 40 ft long and was going to take about an hour. Not my favourite activity but a necessary evil. Anyway, this cute little old lady wandered in, took a look at the line and obviously decided that it just wasn't for her. She walked to the front of the queue and was served immediately. No-one batted an eyelid.

I just kind of stared at her, as did a few others, but none of us spoke up. I mean, would you want to be the person that shouts at a frail old lady to join the back of the queue? I certainly wouldn't. Imagine if your raised voice played havoc with her nerves and affected her adversely. What would happen if your outrage at her actions triggered some kind of heart attack? Would you want that on your shoulders? I didn't and clearly, neither did anyone else.

Now this lady was savvy, she knew this was the case and this got me thinking about all the other stuff that you can get away with when you are old. I had to think of something to kill the queuing time. I am now quite looking forward to being old and I'm sure that you will too.

Here is my Top 5 Reason Why Being Old is Awesome!

1 - I figure that once you reach a certain age, you can totally get away with a spot of shoplifting. Like I said, no-one is going to accuse you of anything so you can pretty much get away with anything. In addition to this, when you are old (sorry for the sweeping generalisation) you often have one of those little trolleys which help you carry things - these would be perfect for hiding those bits and bobs that you may no longer want to pay for.

In addition to this, if you do get caught then you can just say that you forgot to pay - no one is going to say that you are lying. Also, the way I see it, the older you are, the more likely you are to have one of those mobility vehicles which help you get around - perfect getaway vehicle right there.

2 - We all like to have a little look (sometimes for too long) at people that we find attractive and there is no way that this is going to stop happening just because you have celebrated more birthdays than most. I for one will be using my age as a shield to act particularly pervy. For one, no one is going to accuse you of being sleazy and if they do, you can feign ignorance or maybe just say that you thought that you recognised them. They'll believe you. Who wouldn't believe a cute old lady?

3 - People are more than willing to do things for you. Fancy a drink? Just ask someone and they'll grab it for you. Could murder a sandwich or a nice little glass of sherry? Just click your fingers and sure enough it'll be brought to you in the blink of an eye. It's like the whole world is your slave and that you are no longer expected to do anything for yourself. Awesome.

You won't even have to get yourself across the road because people will be constantly offering to help you. Maybe, if you ask nicely enough - they will carry you across. It will be your chance to feel like royalty.

4 - No-one expects you to work and this means that you are free to while away your days as you please. As someone who isn't a massive fan of a hard days work, I think that this would be particularly enjoyable.

5 - You can be as inappropriate as you want and no-one will judge you. It will all be based on the fact that you are old. Feel like copping a cheeky feel of that plumber who's come round to fix your sink? Do it. Feel like getting 23 cats? Once again, no problem. No longer wish to conform to societies norms and decide that it might be nice to ditch the cardigan and wear a spiderman costume instead? Cool. It will instantly make you the coolest old person in your area and potentially the whole world. It may even bring you a spot of fame.

I reckon the whackier the better. I hereby solemnly swear that should I be lucky enough to get to a ripe old age, I will use this as my excuse to fulfill all my slightly 'out there' ideas about what I would like to do.

So far, I plan to drink as much as I want, get myself a mobility vehicle with a suped-up engine so that I can flee from the scene of the crime after I decide that that pack of Doritos is just way to expensive, I will hire hot young work men to do stuff for me and wear as little clothing as possible and I will never, ever queue in a post office again.

Bliss.

Monday's really suck

2010-11-15T09:03:00.001-08:00

It's that time of the week again. Monday. Even the word fills me with dread and makes me feel slightly nauseous.

The feeling starts creeping up on me around 7.30 pm on a Sunday. Everyone can feel it, the end of the weekend of fun, friends and frivolity-you can't help but get a little glum. Another week is upon us, another 5 days where it's slightly frowned upon to drink excessively and go out dancing.

No matter what I have been up to over the weekend, Monday's always suck. This is for a multitude of reasons, allow me to elaborate.

Firstly, it's Monday which means that as a woman, this is the day that the diet officially starts again. It's no longer justifiable to eat a whole pot of ice cream, drink one too many sugary cocktails or eat a meal that weighs more than you do. Or in fact eat 46 chicken nuggets between three of you at the 24 hour McDonalds round the corner at 5am. Sadly, this is what I did this weekend. Classy. Ah well, as I said - the diet starts today. Bring on the lentils.

Somehow at the weekend, despite knowing that you shouldn't eat something - you use the fact that from Monday onwards you will be good, as an excuse. And, it's the perfect excuse. I feel that this demonstrates very aptly why weekends are so enjoyable. Anything can be justified.

Monday also signifies the day that you have to exercise. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy exercising as much as it's possible to enjoy exercising but when Monday comes around, I always feel pressure to do it and if you're anything like me, you'll also feel that pressure sucks.

I find that because everyone has the same idea, the gym is a flamin' nightmare. It's a battle for a machine. It becomes an out and out war to reach that treadmill before the next person hops on and if you dare to stay on the machine longer then the recommended '15 minutes at busy times' then you can feel the angry eyes staring at you and can hear the 'tap, tap, tap' of unhappy feet as they look at the clock and back at you and then to the clock again before emitting steam from their ears.

I've tried to beat the nightmare of the Monday evening gym by going swimming. Big Mistake. Unless you like being kicked in the head and ribs and having the person behind you's head way too close to your crotch for comfort then I would advise avoiding this too. Unless of course, you like that kind of thing.

No-one ever does anything fun on Monday's. It's the day of the week that all you want to do is come home and sit in front of the TV (after you've exercised and had a healthy dinner that is). If anyone even dreams of suggesting doing something they are always met with the same answer. A resounding 'No'. I like to be left to wallow in my Monday misery on my own with only the company of rubbish TV.

Another reason to hate Monday's is the fact that it's the day that you finally have to address that 'To-Do List'. Admit it, by Thursday and Friday your drive to cross things off the list has lessened and you just think 'Bugger it, i'll do it Monday'. Hence, Monday becomes the day that you put everything off until.

Basically, Monday is the day that you have to be sensible and that is why it sucks. I suppose that when it draws around, every week without fail, you will have to take joy from the simple things like crossing off your 'To-Do List' with multi-coloured pens. That's how I get myself through.

Worst Sunday EVER!!

2010-11-09T09:14:00.000-08:00

Picture the scene. You've spent Saturday celebrating a friends birthday until the wee hours, drunk way too much whiskey, crashed out on your friends sofa at god knows what time and been woken by the light streaming through the window and directly into your hungover eyes. It's way too early to be awake and you are badly in need of a cup of tea.

You brave the walk home and the disapproving looks from those who think, wrongly, that you have been up to no good which isn't a good start to any Sunday. Take a couple of headache tablets, change out of last nights clothes into your way more comfy pyjamas and drink that cup of tea that you had been fantasising about. Thank god that you have the whole day to sit on the sofa, not wash, watch rubbish TV and eat bad food.

Well what happened next really put a spanner in the works of my perfect Sunday plan.

Just as I was teetering on the cusp of a nice little nap my mate calls and says she's on her way over. Fine. Everyone likes some company. Especially when they are in the same hungover state as you. Maybe she would even cook for me or bring me a nice greasy treat like she normally did- lovely.

Now I live in the top floor flat and more often than not my paranoid neighbours downstairs like to double lock the front door. In the event of this, which happens way too much for my liking, whoever is unfortunate enough to answer the buzzer has to leave the comfort and warmth of the flat and go downstairs to let the caller in. It's an inconvenience.

Well, on this fateful Sunday, I was distracted by way too many things going on at once. I was hungover, had just kind of been dreaming (about food unsurprisingly), my friend was on the phone to me for last nights gossip and my other mate was at the door. Even for a highly capable woman - that is some serious multi-tasking.

I ran down the stairs to let her in and predictably, I forgot to put the door on the latch. As I was just out of reaching distance to stop the door closing, I realised my fatal error and flung my whole body back up the stairs and in the direction of the door. I was too late, the door clicked shut. Hitting the door at that speed really hurt.

I was locked out. In my pyjamas. And no shoes. Brilliant.

Needless to say what followed was a series of expletives that even I didn't know existed in my vocabulary and which, I can assure you, were not appropriate for God's day or for the neighbours in the next door flat who have a little baby. At that stage though, I didn't care.

Annoyingly, both my flat mates were out for the duration of the day doing some annoying male activity which involved going to Surrey and hitting balls around a field for an amount of hours that I just can't comprehend. Basically, I was not getting let in for a while.

Did I mention that I was in pyjamas.

We contemplated scaling the wall outside and breaking in to my flat mates room but the expense of repairing the damage was a concern. Apparently my other housemate had once shimmied up the drain pipe to the third floor window to gain entry but there was no way I was doing that. It would have ended in tears.

I instructed my mate to go back to her flat, pick me up some clothes and shoes and then come back and get me. She refused as she clearly found it amusing and thought that no-one in Brixton would care if I walked the street in PJ's and bare feet. It's a very valid point. I've seen much weirder.

So that's how I came to be walking down Brixton's busiest street in my bright green leopard print pyjama bottoms, bare feet, a vest top that is old and too big and my mates ultra stylish leather jacket. Not a look I hope to repeat again in the near future.

For those of you who care. I finally got back into my house at 10pm. Not ideal.

My new husband...

2010-11-04T02:32:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentleman... i would like to introduce you to my latest obsession. I'm concerned for my health and i am sure that you can see why.

This dude is Jon Kortajarena and if you hadn't guessed it, he's a male model...ranked number 8 in the World don't you know. I think that i love him.

You may have seen him gracing the walls of H & M and i heard rumours that he dated Madonna. Seriously, say what you will about Mads. She may have creepy veiny arms and be slightly frightening but she has AMAZING taste in men and if i was in her shoes, i too would abuse my status to date young, impressionable, male models. Who wouldn't?

Anyway, let me explain to you just how far my little obsession has gone...

I live by a H & M shop where there are lifesized posters of Mr Kortajarena. That's right - lifesized. If i stand close enough, it's like he's actually there. Only problem is that i have to spend a lot of time hanging out in the male section and seeing as i'm there without a man, i just look suspicious. I have tried standing in the womans section and just peering round to take a peek but that just makes me look even weirder. Also, taking photos of photos of men isn't exactly normal behaviour and when i asked the assistant what they do with the posters after they are done, she just looked at me like i was mental. I just think that she wants them for herself.

Up until about a month ago, i had never heard of this guy and then i was walking along and he was there, 10ft tall on the back of a bus. That's the day my life changed forever.... well maybe that's a bit over the top.

Now, i'm not fooling myself. I know that it will never happen but just in case, i have popped a picture of him looking as dashing as ever on my fridge so that every time i feel a bit peckish and head for the fridge. I look at him and think 'maybe you shouldn't eat that Amy' and then he smiles at me and the world is right again.

Don't worry too much, it hasn't quite reached the stage of me doctoring photos of him so that i can be in them too but i assure you that this is not because i don't want to, it's because i lack the technical know-how. Sad, i know.

I don't know what it is about him that i like so much, maybe its the chiselled jaw, or the big brown eyes, the fact that he is Spanish or maybe its because he describes himself on his website as 'the ultimate romantic' (that's right, i went on the website) or maybe it's because he is the exact polar opposite of my rubbish ex-boyfriend but whatever it is, it's working.

Now i just need to hatch some world-class plan to get him to fall in love with me.... any suggestions? Maybe step one would be to stop being so creepy. I can't make any promises.

Dancing when we're old...

2010-11-02T04:00:00.001-07:00

One thing that always makes me think when I'm out and about on an evening is how we, as a generation, dance on a night out.

I've been known to pull out a lunge or two and occasionally I like to revert to an old favorite,the robot,I'm surprisingly good. It seems nowadays that the more ridiculous a dance move the better.

This got me thinking, how are we going to dance when we're old? I love seeing older people take to the floor and actually dance to choreographed steps-it looks so classy.

What are we going to do when we're older? Bump and grind? It would be seriously dangerous to try and pull out 'the worm' at 70 and let's be honest, we're not exactly going to have the stamina for the running man.

If you take a step back from the dancefloor when you are out next and observe the kind of moves people pull out, I'm positive it will get you thinking too. Imagine all those people being in their 70's!

Gone are the romantic days when a gentleman would try and woo a potential love interest by showing off his cha cha cha or his foxtrot. Now guys think that all they have to do is stand way too close behind a girl and try and grind with her and they are in. Seems a bit lazy to me.

Imagine if guys are still trying this when we're old-think how embarrassed our kids will be.

I know that people of our era are good at breakdancing and hip hop but I doubt that even the most athletic members of 'Diversity' will still be able to perform backflips and spin on their heads when they're rocking a walking stick.

We're doomed. Dancefloors everywhere in 50 years time will feature a bunch of lunging, grinding, breakdancing pensioners. Now in my opinion that beats Streetdance 3D.

Socks appeal

2010-10-26T10:22:00.001-07:00

I've got a problem. I can never throw anything away. It doesn't matter how old and rubbish it's got, I always think that I can get a couple more wears out of it.

Normally I can't.

This affliction of mine comes to light when I'm running out of the house in the morning and I am delayed to the point of lateness by my inability to find a pair of socks without a hole in.

I don't know about you, but I hate spending money on socks. It just feels wasted. And the idea of sewing them up is just plain laughable. In my eyes, it's an inconvenience that I won't address until I absolutely have to.

We've all been there. You find, what appears to be your only clean pair of socks (never a matching pair) and annoyingly they have holes in them. I particularly hate it when the holes are located in just the right spot so that your poor toe spends the entirety of its day being cold and rubbing on the inside of your shoe.

The problem is that as socks are inevitably the last thing that you put on, you're in a rush so you have zero time to faff around trying to find another pair so you try and twist the sock where the hole is and tuck it in between your toes. It's as if you think that you can trick the sock into not knowing that it has the potential to aggravate you for the whole day.

This is not a solution and it just plain uncomfortable. I always find that the time that the makeshift solution takes to unravel is just about the amount of time it takes you to get far enough away from your house that you can't face going back.

This results in a day spent taking your socks off and trying to reposition them. It never works, no matter how you twist them and it's seriously irritating.

The strange thing is that i will spend the whole day being annoyed at the failure of my socks to do their one and only job and spend the whole day planning how i will remove them and burn them at the first opportunity because they have been so annoying. Instead, i get home, peel them off and think 'Oh, they'll do for one more wear'.

It's like i enjoy playing the 'find a hole free sock' game with myself and i don't even realise it. It's like my own, way more tame and much less risky version of Russian Roulette.

Living on the edge.

It doesn't end there...

2010-10-21T07:28:00.001-07:00

Sadly for me, my humiliation in front of celebrities doesn't end with Jason Orange. I appear to have a unique ability to do the exact opposite of what I should actually do in the situations that I find myself in. Let me explain....

I write a bit of showbiz news in the mornings. I love it. It means that I can unashamedly read all the gossip sites and not feel guilty because it's my job. You name it, I read it. My general rule is the trashier, the better. All hail Perez Hilton, now that dudes one hell of a bitch.

Anyway, as well as writing gossip I have to attend the odd party to weasel some info out of celebs direct from the horses mouth. I am not very good at this. I'm just not comfortable with asking celebs that I've only just met about their love lives. It's none of my business. This clearly isn't the right attitude for an aspiring showbiz journalist-hence why I'm not doing it full time!

I prefer to engage the celebs in a bit of banter to see what they are like. This can often result in me coming across as a little bit weird but hey, I'd rather be weird
than nosey. Unfortunately for me, this seriously lowers my prospects of finding a rich and famous husband.

One day I was at a launch of something or other in the penthouse of a swanky hotel in Mayfair and I had been sent there with the task of interviewing the Hollywood actor who was the face of the launch.

When my time came to snag him for a couple of questions I was already a few glasses of free champers in and was slightly overwhelmed by his floppy hair and posh accent, plus I hadn't really prepared any questions as, in my typical style, I was just planning on winging it. In hindsight, probably a mistake.

So I was ushered over to where he was standing and like I said he was VERY dashing. He proved his smooth superstarness by taking me by the hand and kissing it. At this stage, I truly understood the meaning of going weak at the knees. I know, so lame. I'm pathetic.

What happened next is up there with the most embarrassing moments of my life. When said Hollywood actor kissed my hand, I was so taken aback that some part of my brain took over and decided it was a good idea to kiss his hand in return.

God, it's even embarrassing to write it.

He looked at me in shock and said 'well that's certainly the first time any journalist has done that.'

I responded with 'I just wanted to make you to feel special' which, luckily for me, he found hilarious.

Despite kissing his hand, I kind of managed to salvage the situation. I was red faced throughout the interview and there was bemused crowd of fellow journalists standing around eagerly awaiting what i would attempt at the end of my interview, perhaps a curtsey...

The interview was pretty much a write off, he spent the whole time teasing me about my odd behaviour and we just discussed the weirdest things that journalists had done when meeting him. I was top of that leaderboard.

At least that's something to be proud of....

Drunk eating...

2010-10-16T10:32:00.001-07:00

It's no secret that a few bevvies make you hungry but why is it that after putting even a couple of drinks away that you can eat your body weight in under 0.2 seconds.

When sober, I would never dream of eating a whole deep fried chicken but give me 4 or 5 vodkas and I find myself capable of consuming 4 peoples normal amount of food in record time.

For example, the other night, me and 4 mates had drunk 3 or 4 bottles of red over some scintillating conversation and on the way home I was inexplicably drawn to brixton kfc, normally a place that I would avoid at all costs.

My only concern whilst ordering my meal which consisted of a chicken burger, 2 individual pieces of chicken and a corn on the cob, was that it also came with chips! Like I needed chips! It seemed vital at the time.

I persuaded myself that I wouldn't eat it all but to my sheer horror I managed to inhale it in 2 minutes. I even adopted a 2 handed eating style to ensure maximum paw to mouth speed-something that I would never dream of doing whilst entirely compus mentus.

Also, due to my unnatural obsession with my teeth (I won't be friends with you unless your gnashers are perfect) I never drink soft drinks, but when inebriated, the sugary goodness that comes from a litre of sprite is like some kind of herbal nectar sent to soothe my soul.

I don't expect to ever be able to explain it. All I know is that when stumbling home on a Friday night, it's of vital importance to do so with my eyes closed. There is just way too much temptation and I have way too little will power.

It proves tricky at 5 in the morning I tell you!

Way to act cool Amy ....

2010-10-13T13:54:00.001-07:00

Recently I was lucky enough to encounter one of my childhood crushes in person and to say that I acted uncool would be the biggest understatement of the decade. I was embarrassing on a whole different level. I was so embarrassing that even he was embarrassed and that just embarrassed me even further. You could say that it was a vicious cycle of embarrassment.

Let me start from the beginning. I was working at an exhibition in London launching a new product for my company. I wasn't happy about the situation, no one likes to work on the weekend and despite the fact that I was working early every day, I didn't let it interrupt my social life and proceeded to get drunk most nights meaning that I wasn't necessarily 'all there' when this incident happened. At least, that's my excuse for acting like such a massive loser. That or the 5 coffees I'd had by lunchtime.

Anyway, it was my job to chat to the public about our product, encourage people to try it etc. Well, whilst taking a break from having the same conversation about the product that I had been having for the last 4 days, I looked up and spotted Jason Orange! That's right, the break-dancing, bad boy from Take That and more importantly, the only member of the band still single.

This was serious business. The way I saw it, this was my opportunity to marry someone from Take That which had always been a dream of mine. When Robbie got married I cried genuine tears because I had grown up convinced that me and him were mean't for each other. I was adamant I had to utilise this opportunity to the fullest.

27 year old Amy told me to flirt with him and lure him in. Unfortunately for me 11 year old Amy was in control of this situation and as soon as we made eye contact I took a massive deep breath which slowly but surely turned into a kind of scream/excited gasp and my hands immediately flew up to my mouth to stop me from screaming 'I love you Jason' and then undoubtedly bursting into tears like any self-respecting Take That fan would.

I'm sad to say that he clocked me doing this. He obviously identified that I was on the brink of an outburst so he added fuel to the fire by winking at me. At this stage, I went bright red and had to walk away. I'm such a loser.

After he had left the stand, I ran to my co-workers jumping up and down screeching at, what I had previously believed, was an impossibly high pitched level, shook them and said 'oh my god, oh my god, that was Jason Orange' while I just kind of shook with the sheer overwhelmingness of it. I kid you not, it took me well over 10 minutes to calm down. Just imagine if it had been Robbie? I probably would have passed out.

I wish that could tell you that that is where my humiliation ended. I can't. He obviously identified the entertainment value in me and decided to come back for more.

I was determined to redeem myself so as he came back round I took a deep breath and launched my attack. I asked him if he would like to try out my chair. He didn't want to. So then....sigh....I tried to lure him by informing him that if he so wished he could 'get one in orange'.

That's right, I made an orange themed joke to a man named Orange. Not cool. To top it all off, I coupled my lame ass joke with a hand gesture which involved waggling my fingers at him whilst moving my arms in a circular motion. Think lame relative making a lane joke and having to identify that it is in fact a joke by making that gesture or by saying 'boom boom'.

Now it wasn't all bad. He did laugh but I would hazard a guess that it was more out of sympathy than actually being amused. At least that's one thing you can say for Jase, he was nice. I on the other hand should have been immediately escorted from the building by 'the cool police' who had clearly identified that I was an outsider.

The thing that disturbs me most is that I wasn't even aware that I still harboured insane fan tendencies towards them. I thought I had grown up. I was wrong.

Hopefully for his sake, I won't bump into Phillip Schofield, he wouldn't stand a chance.

Save me a seat ....

2010-10-12T10:59:00.001-07:00

We've all been there. You have had the day from hell, your boss spoke to you like you're stupid and to top it all off you were weak and ended up glancing sideways at the salad that you had so lovingly prepared before pushing it aside and reaching for that bag of crisps. The naughty kind. None of this snack-a-jack malarkey.

Just when you think that things can't get worse, you manage to force yourself into a seat on the tube and then you find yourself sat next to 'that person'. The one who seems hell bent on making your journey home as unpleasant as humanly possible.

You know the kind, music too loud and more often than not, offensively rubbish. On more than one occasion I have found my self seated next to someone who seems to enjoy Eminem shouting at him and the whole carriage for the duration of the journey. Just what I want to listen to after a day of staring at a computer screen; tales of domestic violence and plots to kill your mum or the mother of your child. Easy listening indeed.

These passengers can normally be identified by their liking for stinky fast food, the need to carry what no human would consider a normal amount of bags and a voice so loud that people on the street can hear them and even they are thinking 'jeez-can we just bring it down a notch'.

They can also be identified by their tendency to sit with their legs as far apart as possible. It just can't be comfortable or good for your hips. Listen men, we are fully aware that you have something in between your legs that we lack but is it entirely necessary to keep your knees so far apart? It's not like if you bring them an inch closer together that the world will end or that they will wage holy war on one another.

Well it dawned on me the other day that I am in fact that person. I am the one that you would no doubt like to elbow in the face when no one is watching.

The realisation hit me when I noticed a middle aged lady looking at me in disgust. I immediately saw the look and checked myself to ensure that everything was buttoned as it should be and that nothing was on display that wouldn't be appropriate for a rush hour journey but everything appeared to be in order. That 's when it hit me this woman wasn't disgusted by my appearance she was extremely irritated by my music.

Let me explain. Recently, I have developed a bit of a weird obsession with Aerosmith. I firmly believe that they are the greatest band of all time and until the moment when I saw this ladies eyes bulging dangerously whilst she glared at me and tried to keep her breathing steady, I couldn't comprehend that not everyone wants to listen to Steven Tyler screaming at 8 in the morning. She definitely made that point clear with her crazy eyes and sweaty brow. I have no doubt that if she had a weapon she would have happily used it on me...repeatedly.

My aggravating behavior doesn't end there I'm afraid. I'm often in a rush and to ensure that I stick to my life rule of never missing a meal, sometimes I have to grab a bite on the tube. I don't know what it us but whenever I'm about to indulge in some tube eating all I crave is spicy or stinky stuff. Think samosa or tuna. I can't fight it, it must be proven that whilst indulging in some sub-terranean snacking it is necessary for it to have more stench than when above ground.

I've also got a tendency to carry way too many bags. Maybe it's a comfort thing, maybe it spawns from the fact that I can pretty much guarantee that I will get a seat as I live at the start of the tube line. It's not my fault other passengers don't make as sensible location choices. No doubt a few of my fellow passengers become enraged when they manage to crowbar themselves into the tube carriage only to discover that some inconsiderate chick playing her music way too loud has all her bags on the floor in front of her. Well, I'm not going to put them all on my lap am I? How would I read Stylist then?

Sometimes I like to mix things up and carry something overly large and inappropriate during rush hour. The other day it was a cake. A giant cheesecake which unsurprisingly I was prepared to protect with my life and I made this clear. I had an awkward exchange with a lady who wanted to get by me and I had no objection to this but we both kept moving in the same direction trying to get out of each others way and then she decided to take matters into her own hands and came straight at me. She was attacking me and my cheesecake. Fortunately i managed to duck away from her lunge protecting my prize but blocking her from getting on to the train.

The carriage door closed and she gave me a death stare and stormed off. Oops. Another nemesis to add to my collection.

Don't get me wrong, I do feel guilty about my behavior and no one likes making enemies but the way I see it, if we all blasted our music and ate chicken tikka sandwiches then I'm pretty sure rush hour would be way more fun. Think about it.

Apologies...

2010-10-09T06:22:00.000-07:00

For any of you out there who still bother to check this site from time to time, i apologise from the bottom of my heart for being absolutely shit and not writing anything for months. What can i say? I'm lazy and job hunting just got in the way. Don't you just hate it when that happens?

From now on, i will be writing regular posts and will endeavour to make you laugh any chance i get.

In the meantime, here is a picture of me being wowed by a stripper to make you smile and so you can understand what i have been up to. Now we're even!

The lengths i go to....

2010-07-16T06:37:00.000-07:00

I love living in London and living in Brixton in particular. There is always something to look at, be it that crazy person attacking the bus with his walking stick (more common in Brixton than you might imagine) or a couple of cyclists having a fight with a van driver over his erratic driving technique. It's the spice of life.

One MAJOR problem about living here is the stupid amounts of charity workers prowling the High Street trying to get you to sign up to donate money to various worthy causes.

Being unemployed, i am not exactly their prime target but i'm there and that's all that matters to these blood suckers! There is no way of avoiding them, they line both sides of the road, and wait for you to make a mistake so that they can pounce.

I have developed a vareity of techniques for avoiding them and thus not having to make up some useless excuse which makes me look like a cheap skate and thus a bad person. Of course i care about the starving children in Africa and yes, yes - that puppy does indeed look terribly skinny but i just can't be giving away money seeing as i have absolutely none of my own.

I don't want them to know this though.

In my opinion, they make one fundamental error. Bright clothing. A true professional can spot them a mile off and formulate exactly the right method of counter attack.

Here are a few of my faves:

1 - The "I'm in the middle of a telephone conversation"

This is the best and by far my most used method of avoiding them. I spot their brightly coloured t-shirt and smiling face and pull out my phone and pretend that i am answering potentially the most important phone call of my life.

They must see people pretend to do this all the time but i've become a master. The conversations that i have with the pretend caller on the other line are oscar worthy. Depending on my mood and how much energy i have, sometimes i argue with the person on the other end;

"NO - OF COURSE I'M NOT DOING THAT! ARE YOU MAD? WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

Sometimes i even brazenly make eye contact with the charity worker and raise my eyebrows indicating that this telephone conversation is a serious inconvenience to me and that i would much rather be talking to them and of course donating at least a fiver a week to whatever charity they are touting.

I usually shrug apologetically and carry on shouting at my imaginary enemy whilst gesticulating wildly with my free hand to indicate just how completely out of order they are being thus completing the lie adequately.

I should really consider a career in acting.

Other times - i keep it really low key and just mutter into the phone, sheepish of the fact that i am pretending to be speaking to someone and nervous that one of my mates will choose that fateful moment to call me and embarass me beyond belief. It hasn't happened yet.

Sometimes i just laugh because i haven't the energy to think of anything to say so i act as though the person on the other line said something highly amusing and i can't stop laughing. Lazy i know...and slightly creepy when you think about it.

The problem is with fake conversations is that you have to ensure that they come to a logical conclusion. You cant just walk past and immediately pop your phone back in your pocket. That would be a school boy error. They would see that the telephone call was a farce and follow you down the street and expose you for being a liar. Therefore i find myself continuing the fake phone malarkey until i am well out of earshot. Sometimes i continue it all the way home just to make sure.

Not really...

Another problem arises when you can't locate your phone quick enough or you have left it at home. In this case i have developed another foolproof tactic which works but again makes you look slighty weird.

2 - The "Look at anything but them"

I find that looking at the sky is good. It not only makes you appear dreamy and thoughtful but there is also lots of cool stuff up there. There's always some building you havent noticed or a pair of disguarded trainers hanging off an electricity line.

I do warn you though - it can result in injuries and angering of fellow pedestrians.

I also like to pretend that i am particuarly interested in that approaching bus or a fellow pedestrian - sometimes i even wave to an imaginary companion as if i am just about to begin a conversation thus making me too busy to stop and chat.

I didn't claim that any of these tactics made you look cool and it can result in some awkward exchanges with people who think you are waving at them but it's a price that i am willing to pay.

3 - The "Handbag Rummage"

Another tried and tested method is losing that tiny thing that you urgently need to locate at precisely the moment that the waterproof coat wearing student lunges at you holding a handful of brochures.

I like to get my head as close to inside the bag as possible and have a real rummage like i have lost something very dear to me.

This diversionary tactic is very useful and if they try and stop you despite this they are clearly being rude because you are in the middle of something and you can just say no and continue foraging.

4 - The "Crossover"

Simple. You spot them and you cross the road. Only problem with this is that there are usually rival charity workers working the other side of the street so it can get pretty dangerous.

I wouldn't recommend this one.

The fact that i have given this so much thought is clearly an indicator that i have too much time on my hands and fake phone calls should surely be one of the first signs of madness after hairy palms.

BUT, i guarantee you they all work like a charm and if you live in London or have ever visited our fair city - you know that it is entirely necessary.

You could of course just politiely decline...but where's the fun in that!

Someone get the girl another drink!

2010-05-14T09:13:00.000-07:00

I was at a nightclub this weekend and whilst standing waiting at the bar crushed between girls being too loud and guys trying to look down your top - I got to thinking. Granted not the usual activity done on a Saturday night in a nightclub. This demonstrated that clearly I had not drunk enough. Hence why I was standing at the bar. Something caught my eye though – the Cloak Room!

Random I know, I should probably have been trying to check out the potential hotties that were in the same queue as me but I wasn’t interested. My mind wandered and I started thinking about how old fashioned it is to call a cloak room a cloak room. I mean, who wears a cloak nowadays? I suppose that there is Dracula or Harry Potter or perhaps even Sherlock Holmes but I didn’t see any of them standing at the bar. What a shame! That would have made for some interesting conversation!

This caused me to consider the fact that Harry Potter could in fact be in the nightclub and I would be none the wiser because Harry has the ultimate cloak, the Rolls Royce of the cloak world. The Invisibility Cloak! Wow. In actual fact Harry Potter could be standing right next to me and I wouldn’t know. This in turn resulted in me doing a little twirl to see whether anything out of the ordinary was happening in the immediate vicinity. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t spot anything. Not really surprising really seeing as it would be a pretty crappy invisibility cloak if a slightly drunk girl could see you. That’s probably when I decided that there was no need to stand in the queue because I was clearly drunk enough.

I returned to the dance floor but couldn’t stop thinking about how awesome it would be if everyone in the club were in fact people who wear cloaks! i.e Superheroes. They would be way more interesting than the group of sweaty open shirted men on a stag do who insisted on dancing so close to me and my friends!

I reckon that if you were a superhero you would have way better chat up lines than any of the general public. Obviously there would be no need to even chat people up because you could simply use your mind control methods to persuade people to kiss you or freeze people with your laser vision and cop a feel. Oh how much more simple trying to pull someone would be if you had super powers!

Imagine the chat up lines:

“Hey my name’s superman – I can make you fly…..no, no, I actually can”

or:

“If I move that chair with my mind, will you come home with me tonight? Ok done!”

How about:

“Need a light” and then they would use their fire hands to light your cigarette!

AMAZING. Humans would not stand a chance.

I know that it makes me sound terribly slutty but all of the above would work on me. I mean, who wouldn’t fancy a superhero. Plus, superheroes are generally pretty hot. Fact. Maybe with the exception of that dude from the Fantastic 4 who’s orange. He’s not really my type.

So basically, if there was a nightclub which only allowed people in who wore actual cloaks, I’m pretty sure that it would be way more of an interesting place than the club that I was in in Newquay. But I suppose if you were in a nightclub full of wizards, witches, superheroes and detectives then it would be way more dangerous than your average nightspot.

So in conclusion, I think that its misleading to call it a cloak room where there are in actual fact no cloaks in there. They should call it a coat room and be done with it.

At that stage, my friend handed me another drink and I quickly forgot about superheroes and cloaks! Probably for the best!

Listful thinking.....

2010-04-23T06:05:00.000-07:00

Oh the woes of searching for jobs! So bloody time consuming. I wake up early due to the daily texts from my house mate instructing me to get my lazy ass out of bed and get a job and then after atleast 2 cups of tea, I get cracking. I don’t tear myself away from the laptop at all apart from to top up my caffeine levels and of course to get my daily dose of facebook. Well, a girls gotta slack off occasionally!

Why is it that you can apply for what seems like a million jobs and you only hear back from one and that’s usually a rejection. In my calculations that means that all the other people that you have applied to don’t even deem you worthy of a response. To say that that is soul destroying is an understatement to say the least.

However, there is one massive benefit of job hunting and that’s lists. I LOVE THEM. I think that on average I make about 4 lists per day. I make a list of what I am going to do that day, a list of what I have done, a list of the lists that I need to make and of course a list of the jobs that I have applied for. It’s a list bonanza.

Now I’m sure that the girls out there that can relate to this – there is something about list writing which is not only fun but also allows you to feel organised which in turn makes you feel like you are some kind of high powered executive, business woman type and then that means that your day has been a success. And, if you are lucky you will have a variety of coloured pens or pencils so that you can make the list pretty too. Wow, I feel excited just thinking about it.

I have a special book just for lists – I think that it’s as essential as a diary. I mean, if I was to use just normal pieces of paper for my lists then there would be no way that I would be able to keep track of all of the sub-categories of lists that I have. I would misplace them and then I would never be able to complete my tasks which I have deemed pressing enough to list so that I make sure that they are done. And oh the feeling of success when I complete something that I can then tick off the list. In fact, I confess that I pop a few easy things on the list so that I can instantly tick a couple of items off so that I immediately feel like I am achieving something. For those of you out there who would classify themselves as ‘list novices’ I would recommend starting the list with *make list. Then you can tick that off straight away, preferably with a different coloured pen, and then the day of productiveness can begin.

If there was a job being advertised for a ‘list maker’ then I have no doubt that I would have that shizzle in the bag. I may not be qualified for much else but when it comes down to lists I have an extensive portfolio and an impressive back catalogue. In hindsight, maybe if I spent more time applying for actual jobs that exist and less time writing lists and pondering the wonder that would be a job being a list maker then maybe I would be employed right now. Wow. That was wordy.

Is 26 that old?

2010-04-15T05:20:00.000-07:00

So today I had my first realisation that I am getting old. It wasn’t pretty. I’ve been getting grey hair for a while now – I’m doomed, my parents are both very grey haired and have been for a long time and my brother, who is only a couple of years older than me, is what he likes to call “a silver fox”. Well, that’s a matter of opinion! For me then, it’s only a matter of time. The thing with grey hair is that you can pull it out, pout for half and hour and then get on with your life. My realisation was not as easy to shake off. The problem? Justin Bieber!

Now is it just me or is this “pop sensation” actually only 12? I admit that he is cute – in a kind of Chip and Dale Chipmunk way - but he is surely nowhere near old enough to be singing about love and the like – what would his Mother say if she knew that he was getting up to mischief with girls? Isn’t that illegal?

Shouldn’t he be frolicking around on his scooter or maybe building a tree house with his mates? Surely he shouldn’t be giving girls sexy looks and twirling around on those shoes which clearly have wheels (very obviously dangerous) all whilst wearing clothes that are way too big!

One thing that I do like about him is that he has very well blow dried hair – its all feathery and well looked after which makes me feel confident that his Mum did it for him and is clearly enforcing the rule that you shouldn’t leave the house with wet hair or you will get a cold. He also has very clean teeth. His parents are clearly enforcing the majority of the important rules.

One thing that i have observed is that it seems as though every photo that i found of him involves him swearing at me! (See above) So his parents are good at stopping him get a cold but when it comes to teaching him basic manners they're not doing such a good job.

I am well aware of how old this makes me sound but I’m only 26 which means that I should be still allowed to enjoy a bit of cheesy pop music and be allowed to fancy the singers. People like Justin Bieber are making this hard! This Bieber dude looks like my little brother – only without the inevitable grey hair!

The thing I’m worried about is that recently I have found myself singing along to his songs – it’s like this 16 year old who looks 8 is following me around. I’m fighting it but I’m sure that soon I’ll probably buy the t-shirt! Well if I’m going grey I’ll just have to fight it by liking totally inappropriate pop music.

Happy to be home.....

2010-04-13T03:42:00.000-07:00

As you will know from my last 2 posts – I have returned to London. I can safely say that I am loving it - apart from the cold. I naively believed that as its April that the sun would be shining and it would soon be sandals and sundress weather. How wrong I was. I don’t know whether I am just acclimatising but at the moment it is more than necessary to wear woolly socks, boots, gloves and a hat / scarf combo which leaves no space for the wind to whistle around the back of my neck. I seem to spend all the time when I am out of my bed, shivering, eating soup or drinking tea. That’ll teach me to be so bloody optimistic about the English weather. The major upset is that, what I thought would be a permanent flip-flop tan-line, appears to be fading in front of my eyes. It’s upsetting. I’d just grown to love it.

It’s good to be back in the Motherland and the joy that the simple things are bringing me is crazy. The other day whilst wandering into Superdrug – I think that I let out a little squeal of delight to be back there. You can literally get everything that you want in there. For the record, I’m definitely a Superdrug not a Boots girl – so much cheaper! Also, the joy that is Pound Shops! Whoever came up with that deserves a cuddle and a cup of tea from the entire country. Why would you shop anywhere else but there if you can get pretty much anything you need. Granted, the quality isn’t that great but for a pound you can’t really grumble can you!

I’m living in Brixton at the moment and not only is there a pound shop but when I ventured further down the street the other day I discovered a 99p shop and when at my mates house in Hackney, I saw a 98p shop! Things just keep getting better and better! If anyone knows of a 97p shop – please let me know. Every little helps when you are broke and unemployed!

I know that this will no doubt wear off, but at the moment I am finding everyone so friendly – I am literally having conversations with everyone. They probably think I’m bonkers but it’s just so nice to hear accents that aren’t Australian everywhere! For that comment, I am a bad person and I apologise but at the moment it’s so true! I’m pretty sure that its not totally normal behaviour to smile at everyone but I cant seem to stop at the moment. I must look like a crazy person.

I’m finding it pretty cool to be somewhere with old style buildings, lots of things to look at and lots of people. This isn’t necessarily very practical because I wander around looking at things that aren’t the pavement in front of me and there are a hell of a lot more people in London than there are in Perth and therefore the percentage chance of colliding with someone is much greater. It’s happened a few times but I can’t seem to drag my eyes from all the stuff there is to look at. I’m like a child! A really tall child, who’s dressed in a million layers!

I’m going to make sure that I make the most of this child like open eyed wonder because I’m sure that as soon as it starts to rain and I am employed, I will avoid eye contact, not notice anything but my computer screen all day and not engage total strangers in conversation. Until then though, if you’re in Brixton and you bash into a girl who is smiling and staring at that tree – don’t be mean.

Long Haul Hell.....

2010-04-09T01:51:00.000-07:00

I don’t know about you – but I hate long haul flights. I seem to be the unluckiest person in the world when it comes to flying. I’ve had flights delayed, cancelled, been put in hotels over night, had to sleep in airports and been wedged in between overweight people who seem to be experiencing some extreme flatulence. Its not fun and it all seems so much worse because you are tired and always feel as though you need to clean your teeth.

There must be something about me that encourages people to start up conversations with me. I’m not unfriendly but realistically when embarking on a 25 hour journey to the other side of the world – I am not looking to make friends. I am looking to watch as many of the free movies as I can, drink all of the free booze that I am offered and try to snatch whatever snippets of sleep I can. I don’t want to talk about where other people have been and how their holiday was. So basically unless you are some super hot millionaire who can make me laugh, I will be giving one-word answers. It’s nothing personal – it’s just how I roll.

I watched a lot of TV as a kid and still do now and I appear to have been falsely lead to believe that by now there should be some form of teleporting available to the general public. Its been featured on screen for years and if it isn’t possible then that is just plain misleading! Think how much easier it would be if you could pop to the airport and just teleport to desired country! How much easier would that be than checking in bags, waiting for hours, being dehydrated and getting cramp! I hope that there are people working away in an important laboratory somewhere trying to figure this out. It would change the world.

Wherever there is a negative there always has to be a positive and this is sleeping tablets. They actually work. I feel slightly angry with myself that I have only just discovered their magical powers. Seriously, they knock you out and allow you to sleep in any position that you may have contorted yourself into AND you have awesome dreams. I have no doubt that I was shouting in my sleep and potentially participating in some sleep violence if my dream was anything to go by – it was truly terrifying. It made a day in the life of Jason Bourne seem like a walk along a tropical beach at sunset. There were guns, bombs, kidnappings, sex. It was excellent. If only I could remember the plot I would have a blockbuster movie on my hands.

I would definitely recommend popping a couple of pills to anyone seeing as your options are thus; you can stay awake and listen to idiots talking shit or watch movies featuring talking cartoon dogs or you can take a tablet pass out and dream as though you are a superhero. I know which one I would choose.