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Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Eye'll start a fight

My Telegraph Magazine (stolen from work) horoscope (read religiously) tells me change is afoot for Gemini's. ‘Do what you want for change,’ it reads. Hmm. I’m pretty sure I always do what I want and get in a strop if made to do otherwise. But I’ll take the advice and continue to do what I want, but with added vigor because now I know I am meant to do it, it’s in my signs.

Grimsby Telegraph, one of the local paper delights I sample on a daily basis, has another view. Their Russell Grant tells me to postpone chores, which I liked. Whatever you say Russell. But the Wolverhampton Express and Star told me Mars was taking charge of me and that I should dismiss doubts.

You might think these weird and varying takes on being a Gemini would put me off believing in all this stuff, but nope, it just makes me love it more. I don’t have to do chores, I can do whatever I want and take charge of my doubts. Or something. I’m not really reading it properly, just skim reading while I search for the complimentary bits and ignore the bits where it tells me I am sometimes neglectful of my loved ones. Pipe down Russel Grant! What do you know! If you haven't got anything constructive to say, don’t say it.

I do like being a Gemini though, it’s always worked well for me. We have two personalities, you see. That’s two people for the price of one. Bargain. We also have the gift of the gab, I was told once by a hippy with a joss stick. Went to school with a girl called Joss Stick. Nice girl, smelt a bit funny though.

In a nightclub around the time I wrote this entry in my beautiful notebook which my pesky nephew has since vandalised with his yobbish scrawlings, that is to say, a long time ago, (it takes me a long time to get the words from my notebook to the computer. It’s because I’m so busy with my dual personality. It’s tough being two people) Laurence managed to twat my eyeball with his dirty fingernail mid gesticulation. My contact lens flew out and my eye stung like a bee had bummed it. Or, I was to find out a month later, a flea had crawled inside it and biten me from under the lid. But that’s a story for another time. Right now, I was bleeding from my eye and running to the grotty loos with my contact lens on my tongue.

Evaluating the damage in the club loo, I was surprised to see Laurence had actually managed to draw blood from my eye ball. But even more shocking was the reaction I got from my new ‘homies’ in the loo. I think they were homies. Is there a new word for them since I left London and got a bit less street? My bitches. They were my bitches.

WHO HIT YOU? One screamed, puffing out her chest protectively, salivating at the thought of a good fight.

It all got a bit primeval then as the other girls, drawn by her shouts, gathered around me to assess the damage, plan revenge and offer me make up and tissues, for I may have been crying.

For extra attention.

No, it really did hurt.

A bit. I was drunk. I was getting a lot of attention.

Who was it? I’ll fucking have him! One shouts. She may have even punched her fist into her waiting, cupped hand, in anticipation.

You’re bleeding! I’ll deck him! She says.

Realising I was in the sort of nightclub where girls often ran into the loo in tears, blood dripping down their faces after another fight with a violent boyfriend, I realised I now had the power to get Laurence beaten up by a bunch of girls.

Now that would be funny.

It took a lot to resist describing him to my harem.

I would have done it, if Laurence wasn’t a fellow Gemini. That’s where my allegiance lies. With the Geminis. Sorry ladies.
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Thursday, August 14, 2008

Running through my mind

If I was paid to write a column, which is my Number One Dream Job ever ever ever in the whole world, surpassing being paid to shop, being paid to eat Thai food or even being paid to sunbathe (okay, maybe not. But it’s my number one dream job out of all the things that are actually jobs. Although I suppose someone somewhere is paid to do those things? Mystery shoppers – paid to shop. Those people in palaces that check the food before it’s served to royalty – paid to eat. Paris Hilton – paid to sunbathe. But I digress. I think I’ll close this bracket and get on with my original point.)

Then… (if you are still with me) Then I would have been fired.

When I was given this blog, I saw it as an excellent training ground for my eventual landing of said dream job. All I have to do is find something to talk about once a week, at the least, and post it up here for all to comment on.

But of late I’ve been slack, so slack I don’t deserve a column, the only thing I really want. But fret not, my loyal army of readers (my sister has subscribed and I know my mum reads it) for I am back with a vengeance. I am here today to talk about running.

Never been much of a fan. Think it’s stupid, actually. But then Apples, my new friend at work, not christened by that Coldplay knobber, but actually called Nicola Appleton, I call her Apples to differentiate her from the other Nicola in my life and also because I like Apples and I like Apples… Er…I’ve done it again. My digressions go on for so long I have to put a full stop and start the old sentence again.

But then Apples, my new friend at work, asked me if I wanted to go for a run with her.

Hell yeah! Bonding with new friend, sweating, new type of exercise.

Before I knew it, I’d paid £30 to sign up to the Bristol half marathon and was ‘in training’ three times a week. My five year old Nikes were beginning to look a little sorry for themselves so Hannah and I took a little diversion on our way to Wagamamas, finding ourselves in the most exciting experience of buying shoes either of us have ever had. And one of us was Hannah Doyle, the Sun Newspaper Shoe Horder of the Year.

Moti Running Shop (Whiteladies Road, Bristol, for those who want to experience this pleasure) lured us in with the scent of rubber soles, trendy running clothes and novel ‘you need this’ running equipment. £10 for a water bottle with a clever space for your key? Sold! £15 for (one pair of) socks with Achilles Heel protectors and extra padding for where your shoelaces apparently constantly rub? Sold!

But what really impressed us, more than the key holding water bottle and mini sachets of glucose for when you ‘hit the wall’ (running term, yar, running banter) was the fact they had a treadmill and each assistant was trained in telling you exactly what was right or wrong with your step and therefore what kind of insole you required.

So I hopped on the treadmill and did a little run, which the lady filmed.

Hannah had the very important role of protecting the screen from the early evening sunshine. Couldn’t have done it without her.

Then we watched the film of my run.

Do I step off to the left? Lean on the right? Land weird? No I bloody do not. According to the assistant, who Hannah was convinced was a lesbian, I had a perfect step. No insoles required.

Geed on by her compliments, it was at this stage that I splashed out on the water bottle, socks and sugar. I couldn’t help myself, my perfect step made me do it. Hannah and I both had our feet measured and Hannah had perfect size three feet. Not many people have identically sized feet, but Hannah did, because she is also perfect, we were told.

When I mentioned that my boyfriend was a bit cynical about the treadmill and the ‘diagnostic imaging’ of my step, the woman shot me a look of disgust, and it was at this stage that Hannah’s wonderment at her sexuality was secured. I’m sure she’s just protective of a job she loves and belivees in, I tell Hannah outside. No, she’s a lezzer, Hannah retorts.

High from the adrenalin of buying new shoes, we headed to Wags too giddy to even need a drink. I think we might have had carrot juice or something equally wholesome.

Four weeks later, and my back has packed in. I’ve given up running. Always thought it was rubbish anyway, just needed to spend £100 on shoes and gizmos to affirm this. Now I’m a swimmer. Bought a new swimming costume and goggles to reiterate to myself that I am now a swimmer.

Never did like swimming. Don’t like smelling of chlorine. I like coconuts. Coconuts and apples.
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