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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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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Grin and bear it

One of my favourite parts of the holiday was the hiring of a log cabin in the woods for a weekend. Rhianon and Christian left both their daughter and their dog with sitters and came for a weekend of drinking. I’m not one to rant and rave about my drinking exploits, but this was a hilarious weekend and one worth reciting.

Christian keenly packed a huge cool box for the weekend. What would one need for a weekend in the woods? Food? Water? Don’t be absurd. Beer and rum, that’s what.

Gareth and I went up to the mountains a day early to go mountain biking and tobogganing. To summarize, the biking was amazing: serene lakes, blissful sunshine and a lesson in bunny hopping (I was a natural. After that I wasn’t even scared to scale some bumps in the road that were AT LEAST a few inches big). The tobogganing was painfully slow, mosquito ridden, it rained on us and I was stuck within ear shot of the world’s worst family, painfully utilizing the world’s worst parenting skills, parenting the world’s most annoying brats. And it was expensive.

Nevermind, we got to the bottom and decided to make our way to the cabin before dinner so we knew where it was while we still had daylight on our side.

So we drove to the road in question without much ado. As we arrived at Covered Bridge Road, Gareth realised he’d left the instructions behind and we had no phone to contact the woman.

I think it was number 100 and something, he says confidently as we drive along. No, he says as we draw nearer, 400 and something. Definitely. As we approach the 400s, Gareth turns into every – single – driveway and declares that he has found our lodge.

It’s this one, it’s definitely this one, he says, jumping out of the car to go and find the key. The woman had told him she’d left the key under a chair on the porch. Every house in America has a chair on it’s porch, so you can imagine my despair as, in a country full of red necks with guns and a willingness to shoot, Gareth ran up to a dozen different houses and had a good nose about on their front porch.

Even if he found a key it wouldn’t mean we’d found our lodge and I can just picture us settling down to a nice hot cocoa as a surprised Jim Bob and his shotgun return home from a day of killing bears and eating beef jerky.

Luckily, the house we eventually settled upon did not seem to be occupied by a Jim Bob and the next day we were joined by Rhianon and Christian. Christian's got really big guns so I knew that once we were with him he could wrestle Jim Bob to the floor and we'd be declared victors of the lodge.

All too aware of the amount of booze Christian planned to consume, we set about playing an intrinsic drinking game commonly known as Cheat.

Each time you failed, you had to have a shot of Ameretto, until that ran out and we moved on to rum. I’d like to point out at this stage that Gareth and Christian were drinking Michelob LITE on the side of the shots, while Rhianon and I were on the rum.

Cheat came to an end and we tried 21 – a game where you go round in a circle counting up to 21. Sounds simple, until you add a torrent of ridiculous rules and a litre of rum.

Pretty soon, Christian was leaving a little something for the bears by throwing up everything he’d eaten for the last month in the back garden, Gareth was beating his sister up with a shoe and we were planning a walk in the woods to see if we could make the evening a little more memorable by having an encounter with some bears.

Gareth spent all the next day throwing up while Rhianon and I remained triumphant – not only did we drink more than the boys but we kept it down.

The next day we went for a walk in another strange town and found ourselves on a tour of a themed hotel. I desperately wanted to stay in the cinema suite (50ft plasma screen, watchable from a hot tub, private bar, giant bed, private bar, private bar, private bar) until Christian witnessed a guest complaining of getting tics in her neck while staying in the Camping suite and we realised a cheesy themed hotel probably wasn’t the most hygienic place to lay our heads. To be able to actually see all the seamen stains would be, as Gareth put it, a DNA inspector’s field day.

So we took a rain check, as they say over there, and drove home, via, just to make my weekend complete, a thai restaurant. Heaven. Heaven in a thai curry bowl.

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Mystic Meg

Strolling along the streets of BumMeQuick (or Umgunquik. Or something), arm in arm, the sun setting, we were a picture of romance… But as lovely as that sounds, it wasn’t enough for me. PALM READER! I screamed as I saw the overpriced gypsy waiting to rid me of my cash. See you later Gareth! I’m off to talk about me for half an hour!

Turned out mystic meg was actually a palm and face reader, much to my excitement. So for $30 I settled down for my reading.

Skeptical Gareth had been allowed in, she obviously didn’t sense his complete disbelief at her abilities, and sat beside me. I wanted him there so he could see how right she could be without even knowing me, and perhaps after this he could be a bit less cynical and a bit more into palm readings and things. Maybe.

Laying my hands in front of her, she got to work.

You like your job…but you sometimes hate it. Good work Sherlock. Carry on.

Sometimes, you are strong for others. Sometimes, you feel weak, she said, looking up at me for approval.

There is something holding you back from reaching your potential at work. You want to achieve great things but you aren’t in the right job yet.

So, I’m 25 and walked in here a bit drunk and therefore assertively – and somehow she’s concluded that I’m not in the right job yet but have the potential to do something– how the devil did she know?

I was beginning to lose faith. I could see Gareth was bored as hell and was already forming his barrage of criticism for when we left. I so didn’t want him to be right, I love this kind of thing, but the woman was ridiculous.

You are worried about one of your parents, she continued.

No, not at all, I replied. They’re alright.

Don’t worry about them. They are okay, and are good for each other, they have a strong relationship.

By this time I couldn’t be bothered to tell her that my parents were in fact no longer an item.

Your hands are telling me you have no faith, she says, looking at me with worry. Well, at least my hands have got something right. Yes, that’s right, the lines on my hands tell no lies – I don’t believe in god.

But, she stutters, where do you think we came from? Evolution, I say proudly.

EVOLUTION? She nearly faints. That’s it, I’ve done it now, I’ve insulted the reader of my future. Does she have the power to change my future too? Will she put a spell on me?

No. Instead she boots me out after five minutes of a reading, ushering words about how I have to find faith to find my way. As we shuffle out I, for the first time, see all the god paraphernalia adorning her walls. Whoops. Insulted the palm reader. Good job.

But you haven’t even looked at my face yet! I exclaimed as she began to pack away hurriedly.

You have a strong jaw line, she dismisses, clearly done with me. I didn’t think to ask for money money back, I just skedaddled, my tail between my legs.

Gareth just smiled. He didn’t have to say ‘you see, Kim? It’s all a load of rubbish and I told you it was and you just wasted $30 on it.’ He didn’t have to. His smile said it all.

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The Mile High Club

Oh dear. Why wasn’t I blessed with hand writing you can read the next day? Or the next week? As I stare at the many pages of notes I made on my holiday with a blank blink, I’m having trouble deciphering the codes and abbreviations which I no doubt at the time thought were ingenious and would be no bother to interpret at a later date. What the hell does z wiggle wiggle ts mean? Probably something like ‘and then we scaled the mountain, the clouds dense and the thunder close, unsure of our future we drove on into the eye of the storm, people screaming, crying, running in the opposite direction all around us, but we had no fear because our friend had recently met Jack Bauer himself and we had a lot to live up to…’ but who knows. Whatever sonorous marvels I may have penned is never to be known. It’s just z wiggle wiggle ts now and forever more.

I shall have to work from memory.

Gareth and I have just returned from America. It was wonderful. We did so much that I felt like we were away for months, and I wish we were. We really did climb a mountain, a mile-high mountain no less. (Ok, in a car. Our car climbed the mountain. We listened to the tour CD and looked out of the window) We visited all sorts of peculiar towns and beaches. We went to Canada. We ate in posh restaurants and a few not so posh. In one, you were encouraged to throw monkey nuts on the floor. We ate a lot of food. That’s basically all we did – eat. If Gareth and I moved to America I reckon it’d only take us a month to start looking like someone had stuck a pump in us and blown up the balloon. The special K diet was out the window, the eat-whatever-Gareth-does diet was passed through the window of every drive-by we drove by. It was great.

To my alarm, random strangers in America just start talking to each other while waiting for a train. Imagine! When I recognise people on my commute, I just pray we’ll all keep our eyes down and no one will speak because I don’t want to have to spend every morning speaking to people.

On our train ride into Boston a mother was telling her young son about her home town, York. A woman passing through turns in delight and says ‘I used to teach in York!’ to which the other woman engages enthusiastically about the Class of ’86 until they exhaust all similarities and the passing woman continues on her way. If that had happened to me, in England, I’d have given her a startled look for deeming herself worthy of joining in my conversation, mumbled a response and then slagged her off for her friendliness.

Everyone is so enthusiastic over here – the shoppers and shop keeps. It’s tiring. Rhianon, Gareth’s sister and my tour guide, poses the notion that it is all superficial and that if you ever try and get some real customer service, you’ll end up tearing your hair out.. which, a week or so later, we were to find out all too painfully… but to tell that story would be to jump to the end of the trip, which would not be at all chronological and would get me in all sorts of a muddle so for now I’ll just affirm that yes, the customer service was terrible and had Gareth on the phone to Continental airlines for over an hour, (I’ve got a new name for Continental Airlines…I’ll give you a clue, you just exchange the first vowel for another vowel) while he tried to alter our flight plan, to no avail.

I, in support, ate my dinner. But I felt his pain.

Whoops, just told the story. Nevermind, it wasn’t that exciting anyway. I’ll move on to something riveting now. Mile high mountains and bear wrestling, that sort of thing.

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And the beat goes on

And the beat goes on…

Hows your special gay diet? My lunch buddy Nick asked today.

Together we had revolutionalised the office lunch. We’d made it worth eating. Salads have been given a make over, wraps were orgasmic and cous cous was actually worth looking forward to.

But I’ve dumped her in favour of cereal and she thinks I’m stupid. I am stupid. I am just doing it because Hannah said she was and I thought it sounded like a challenge.

Today I bought 3 new cereals and introduced Hannah to the wonders of soya milk. It’s better for you than milk, apparently. And it doesn’t taste like a cow’s bum.

I am enjoying the diet. I’m not getting as hungry as I thought I would. But tomorrow I’m out on the road and I’m a trifle scared that I’m going to have to eat real food and the Special K gods are going to strike down upon me with great vengeance and glorious anger.

I wrote the above on the 14th April. It is now the 27th May and I’m pleased to say the diet worked, I now like porridge.

It worked to make me more aware of what I ate, more boring about what I could eat, and more guilty if I sinned. It worked at making me lose my lunch buddy, destroy more rain forests with my consumption of soya milk and become boringly neurotic about calories.

It also worked to shave off a few pounds, but when you have lost your lunch buddy and there’s no trees left, who cares for pounds?

Hehehe. I do. I thinly do.

1st June – no more diet chat. My June resolution is to stop talking about food and public transport. It’s rubbish. From now on my blogs will be filled with the scrumptious stuff of summer, as it is summer now, I will write only about sunshine and hacky sac and holidays and how June is the best month in the whole calender of months because it means I get to have a birthday.

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Tally Ho

So I had a bright idea on Friday while I was busy counting down the hours till playtime. As I was about to embark on a 48 hour bender for Laurence’s birthday, I knew I’d be drinking enough to write home about. And so, rather than rant on about how a train was late or a ticket inspector dared to demand my ticket, I thought I would do a little observing of my drinking habits.

I’ve never monitored how much I drink when out on the lash, but I often wonder why I don’t stop drinking when drunk, why it just becomes automatic to keep going to the bar, and why, when I care so much about calories, I don’t care what I drink. (it’s liquid, how can it be fattening?)

So my brainwave was, to do a little tally in my notebook, like they do in prison, for every drink I consumed over the weekend. Not to try and control it, but to try and see how much I consume. I hear the government thinks three drinks and over is binge drinking, so they’ll be in for a treat when this tally adds up.

By the time Mike and I arrived for dinner at Laurence’s house on Friday night, I was already drunk. We’d had a few on the train and then bumped into a friend of ours on the walk to Lazza’s, (recognised by his bottom.) and as I had hardly eaten all day (hungover from the night before and couldn’t stomach anything…) the wine had gone straight to my head.

Arrived at Laurence’s, delicious tuna steak dinner, few more bottles of wine, relatively early night to save ourselves for the following, bigger, evening. Did I once remember to tally in my notebook? Did I hell. I’m guessing I managed two bottles of wine. Take that, Gordon Brown.

Saturday, Lazza had arranged for proceedings to kick off at the Sports Bar at 3pm. The idea of starting that early daunted me, and I knew I’d be the first to sleep if I did, so I went for lunch and shopping with my Ma and Sis first. Why not just drink soft drinks for the first few hours, suggested my sister. Er, no, it doesn’t really work like that, Tammi. Laurence would never allow it.

I would like the world to know, all at least, my five readers, that Busabi is the best restaurant in the whole world, and I get sad just thinking about how long it will be until I next get to eat there. I had monkfish thai green curry and it was so good I don't even see the point in other food. It is a sin that there are no Busabi's outside of London.

Arrived at the Sports Bar (the worst pub I’ve ever had to go in. Disgusting. Chicken wings and snake bite everywhere.) at 5pm and started with a cider. I was right, Laurence and his beer swilling, sexist, racist mates were already drunk and I was very pleased the infallible Mike was there for me to sit under the wing of.

And so the night went on. I decided I was bored of always drinking rose so drank high percentage cider all night, at the same speed I’d drink rose. I don’t remember much.

Tammi wouldn’t let me take my massive camera to the pub because she, for some reason, thought I’d get really pissed and mislay it. I don’t know what gave her that impression. As I complained this to Gareth, he pointed out that rather than having no pictures of the night, I'd have no pictures of the night AND no camera if I'd taken it. Stupid other people always being right with their clever suggestions and their smug rightness.

But being without a camera meant I had to try and remember the funny things that happened instead. And for some reason, I started remembering things as if they were photos. I have snapshots in my mind, hazy memories, of Mike doing terrible cartwheels down a cobbled street to try and impress a street performer who had just done 5 flips and a somersault. Bemused, the performer didn’t really get why Mike got a louder cheer. Laurence and Willy G impersonating Jack Bauer on the London Underground (it involves pretending your fingers are guns and doing a lot of roly poly’s while shouting ‘Jack Bauer’ a lot), Laurence wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and my dress (we were playing 4 Kings) Laurence’s balls falling out of his boxer shorts… I’m glad that’s just a mental picture and doesn’t have to be inflicted on anyone else’s eyes. They were very pink and I don’t think I’ve ever shut my eyes more quickly. Scarred for life.

My memory comes back in glimpses. I vaguely remember trying to do a citizen’s arrest on a policeman because he wouldn’t let me pee in his hat while pretending I was pregnant. (apparently that’s the law). We picked up a Polish girl on the Underground and Laurence brought her back to the flat. Brave girl. We started playing 4 kings, for which I was rubbish because my energy had been sapped by all the cider and I wanted to sleep. I guess when you are not trying to sleep with a Polish girl you don’t have the energy to sing Bruce Springsteen songs and down Vodka. Maybe I just don't like vodka. Maybe Laurence is an alcoholic. But I stayed up long enough to swap clothes with Laurence and watch Mike and Laurence kiss.

In the morning, Mike went to check on Roma, our new Polish friend. All I can say is, today could have gone very differently. It could have gone like this:

Well, officer, we met her on the tube, she was sober, she’d been at work. We took her back to the flat where she drank most of a bottle of vodka. No, we'd never met her before. Why is she wearing Mike’s trousers and a bra? It was a game, officer. She must have passed out. Now she’s dead. Choked on her own vomit. But we didn’t mean any harm, Laurence just likes bringing girls back to his flat in the hopes that they will sleep with him. Please can we go home now?

Luckily, although she had been sick in her sleep and the sick was down her bra, in her hair, on her face, and quickly seeping through the sheets, mattress protector and mattress, the girl was alive. Whoop whoop! The girl was alive.

She refused the offer of a shower as I think she knew Mike and I were leaving and she’d have to be alone with Laurence. So she came with us to the tube, sick still highly visible in her hair.

What a lovely weekend. I feel so enriched, so wholesome and so soulful. Did I remember to tally my drinks the second night either? Thank goodness, no. I don’t want to know. I don’t even like drinking anymore. Mike and I had a long discussion about how bored of it we are. I want to wake up without a headache, my skin having not aged ten years over night, the smell of kebab not still permeating the room. I want to rise, do something fun that I’ll remember with my day, and if I do spend money I want it to be on something I can still hold the next day, not something that makes me wake up with nothing to show for myself but a new set of bruises.

So I’m giving it all up and eloping. Aren’t we, Gareth?

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