Friday, May 27, 2005

Hussification. Sextastic. Basically on HEAT.

Number of sexy men I flirted shamelessly with today BEFORE 9 am: 3

Reasons I should not be single when it's hot and sunny: Oh, thousands.

On the tube. Sexy man. BRAZEN eye-contact. On the street. Sexy man. More eye-contact and a hint of a smile. In a shop. Sexy man. Full sex.

Did I ever mention that sometimes I exaggerate for comedy value?

Does everyone get that thing of when it's all hot and sunny you suddenly feel all.. well.. you know, you feel all sexual? It can't just be me. I know some people hate the hot weather, and some people see it as simply a great sunbathing opportunity, and fair enough. But in me it triggers a response of raging lust. I just want to find a sexy man and like... you know (yeah ok this 'coy' routine is fooling nobody, I know) have lots of the sex and kissing and games and fun things. Don't get me wrong, I do resist this urge to leap wildly on strangers, but the urge is nevertheless there and, frankly, it worries me a little. What would happen if I lived in a hot country? Doesn't bear thinking about. (Oh, but I DO think about it. Part of the problem, I suppose.)

Please send sex toys or cold showers.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch Changes! And small dogs.

So, anyway, it occured to me that my blog might be getting a bit boring. Where, I hear you ask, are the tantalising tales of my promiscuity and darstardly deeds that used to keep you entertained for at least a minute a day? Have I stopped going out? Has my social life dried up so much that I can't even manage to twist it into something that even so much as RESEMBLES fun and frolics? Am I, in short, GROWING UP?!

HA. Let's all take a moment to have a good hearty laugh about that one.

No, fair reader, I am doing nothing of the sort.

I have been trying to re-focus myself. To gain some perspective, see the bigger picture, to re-channel my energies and become a more illuminated, content human being.


And I have come up with plans. Oh yes. There are Plans and they are Varied and Interesting (and, many would suggest, Ill-Advised).

Before I unveil these spangly beperfumed Plans, I will do a brief, non-bullet-pointed summary of La Vie de la Léonie in these recent times.

My friends Bec and Paul (of 'commenting' fame) moved into a LOVELY flat last weekend. It is in West Kensington, and but a throw of a stone from the tube station. I was going to write that I helped them move, but they read this and I would feel all guilty writing that when they know and I know that all I REALLY did was get in the way and drink wine. I did little to help. But I was there, my moral support was there and I got rid of all that pesky, pesky wine that would otherwise have clogged up all that important moving space.

After that I went to a party. I got there at midnight and stayed up listening to jazz till 5am at which point I promptly fell asleep on the floor of the dining room on a rug.

On Sunday I hung around, read Cosmo. Did the quizzes. I am
a) A liar who tells her friends what they want to hear and only has afore-mentioned friends because I tell them they're pretty, and
b) An exhibitionist in bed.
Hmm. Both of those I will choose to view in a flattering light. Oh and also? You look HOT today. Nice dress.

What else?

Last night I went to the theatre. It was a one woman production that the actress had devised herself, about Billie Holiday, and it was fantastic. Also at one point there was a little dog on stage and it was funny. Yes, I am a discerning theatre-goer (but the dog was tiny and kept scratching and then looking around the stage VERY suspiciously, like it might've been thinking "Ok. Not sure QUITE where I am and who the hell ALL THOSE PEOPLE are, but I will just sit here for a while and.. ooh itchy itchy scratchy scratchy... la la I'm a dog" or something.). Anyway it was good.

Oh and another day Pippa and I went to her house, ate pizza and brownies and drank wine. We watched 'How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days' and wondered vaguely how we got to be us and Kate Hudson got to be her and marvelled (through our mouthfuls of chocolate brownie) at the sheer injustice of it. Oh, don't get me wrong, Pippa and I are HOT (and apparently I'm an exhibitionist in bed so I'm a pretty damned good catch) but Kate? We're not Kate.

And not much else has happened really.

I watched some good TV and got an email from Chris about potentially living on a houseboat on the Thames (YES. Just yes.) and have discussed at length the upcoming weekend's debacles. Also one morning the shower was really cold. But not to worry. I coped. I managed. I'm here.

And also? I have Plans. Remember the Plans?

Come September I am OUT OF HERE. I don't know where yet, but I am leaving the country for at least a month, to be on my own, meet all sorts of new people and LIVE THE FUCKING DREAM.

Maybe Europe?
Maybe South America?
Maybe your house?

I'm going. And in the interim I am going to save money, sing my little heart out and generally have fun and get pissed and see my friends.

Do you think these are good Plans? Where shall I go? I am SO excited. My life is taking a turn people. I am an exhibitionist in bed, so what can go wrong?

The world will FUCKING LOVE ME.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005


So, just because EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD can manage to be technologically better, cooler and therefore smugger than I am, it doesn't mean I'm a bad person, right?

There's an old wizened lady sitting in a tunnel in a Himalayan mountain, eyes shut and hands bound together and guarded by a vigilant and ancient goat, who hasn't seen the light of day for three hundred years (in fact, neither the lady nor the goat have seen the light of day for that long because he is so damned vigilant), who is laughing at me because she is more technologically adept than I am.

I am officially shit.

I just spent AGES trying to do the link-y bit of my page. I even had my special 'concentrating' face on for the occasion. I was so excited to re-publish and look at the beautiful links I, and I alone, had created. And low and behold? NOTHING. NADA. (sob)

My face is now composed in a manner that some refer to as 'woeful', or 'sad'. Others may refer to it as 'pathetic', or even 'butt-ugly', but that is beside the point.

Shit, I tell you.

Maybe you, you who is much, much better and cooler than I am can help me?

Monday, May 23, 2005

There is nothing like a really good tag.

How lovely.

These two lovely ladies have tagged me! I thought that maybe being tagged meant I had to run up to the nearest person and slap them on the shoulder before running away as fast as my little scabby knees could carry me while they then look around for the next person to tag while everyone else runs away screaming with snot runnng down their faces, until someone blows a whistle and we all have to go inside and learn our times tables until home time.
But apparently it is something much more sophisticated than that and it means I have to talk about myself even more. And you ALL know how much I HATE doing that (read: I am a narcissistic bitch).

So.. I think the deal is that I answer the following questions then pass on the questions to someone else in the wonderful blogging parallel universe we have created, who then passes them on again and we end up with a wonderful chain of friends-who-could-be-really-ugly-but-we'll-never-know-because-we'll-never-meet.

Right then. Here I go with the questions.

1) Total volume of music files on my computer.
I have just ordered a NEW I-mac with lots of exciting software and Midi things and a microphone and fancy machinery-finery. I am going to use it to write music on. It isn't here yet and so I have NO music yet. I steal other people's because I am a stealing thieflet and have low morals.

2) The last CD I bought was:
Hmm (ruminations and chin-stroking)... Maybe Keane? Yes I think it was. But I was given two jazz CDs, one from a friend who went to New York and the other from my parents who went to New Orleans, so they're my newest.

3) Song playing right now:
Not sure what's it's called because I'm semi-listening to the radio, but it sounds quite melancholy and angsty. Could be any number of things.

4) Five songs I listen to a lot and that mean a lot to me:

1) Summertime (the jazz standard) . I know, I know, it's a cliché. But I love Love LOVE singing this song. I must've sung this a million squillion times in my life, and you can do it straight, swung, ballad-y, latin-y.. anyhow, anywhere, anytime. Just the way I like it (sorry, couldn't help that one).

2) My Funny Valentine (also jazz standard). Beautiful song. There isn't a specific time, place or person that I associate with this one. I just know I'm happy when I sing it.

3) Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley. Such a haunting song - it makes me cry. It also shuts me up which is a very useful thing to know how to do.

4) America - Simon and Garfunkel. When I was travelling round South-East Asia and Australia with my BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD (real name Jenny), there was a time for ages when we had no access to music. I mean, we heard music in various forms of course. But there was no way for us to choose what music we listened to, we just had to deal with whatever anyone else wanted. At one point we had a long conversation about our favourite songs, and we both loved this song very very much. Sometimes when we were in strange places and on our own, we would sit and sing America very quietly to ourselves/each other and it would, quite simply, make us feel happy.
We got to Brisbane, where I got a job working in a bar, and so I had a dorm with some people who had been living there for a while so they had acquired a stereo. Jenny and I went to the nearest music shop and bought a copy of a Simon and Garfunkel album with America on it. When everyone had gone out, we sat on my bed and leant out of the window, and put the CD on the stereo. We put it straight onto America. Then we listened to the song over and over, and for some reason both of us were crying. Now, when I listen to that song it reminds me of Jenny, of travelling, of feeling a long way from home but that being alright because you have someone next to you that you will always love, and who makes you feel like you could do anything.

5) Well.. not sure. There are a few contenders. Layla by Eric Clapton. The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face by Roberta Flack. Anything and everything recorded by Aretha or Ella. Ditto Queen. I can't choose. Don't make me!

6) Which people am I going to pass this baton on to?
Bug because she's cool and I think it's cool that this goes from the US, to the UK to Australia!
Monkey Typist because she's a fellow Londoner..

Oh can I just pass it to everyone? In the world? Isn't that one of the joys of the Internet? To invade everyone's privacy and have to power to bombard anyone and everyone with interesting information (read: useless crap)?

Thank you, Career Woman and Housewife for tagging me, it is lovely that you want to know what I think, I feel honoured and special. Not, like special-school special, just special.

As I said, how lovely.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

In which I WILL NOT SHUT UP. Sorry.

(Today's post will be entirely conducted in an appalling mock-Swedish accent. If you don't know how that might sound chances are you never will because a) you can't hear me because I am writing not speaking and b) I'm not convinced that such an accent even exists.)

In my profile I wrote that my favourite books were The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams and Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie. I don't know if you've read either of them, or if you're REALLY lucky, both of them, but you should.
Stop reading my bullshit and go and find these books and then love me for the rest of your Adams/Rushdie enhanced life.

The reasons I love these books so much is that I have this strange reaction when I am reading a book. I don't know if this is just me that this happens to, or whether everybody experiences the same and, duh, I'm so THICK how could I not know that was normal, but..
So if I'm halfway through a book and I'm walking around trying to attempt some kind of normal
'existence', and all the while my whole consciousness has adopted the narrative style of the book I'm reading at the time.
The book in question will be lounging in my bag, winking seductively at me in a brazen manner, tantalizing me with the notion that I could just stop, sit down in the street and indulge wantonly in some hardcore book-reading action.
My brain on the other hand? Has sucked in the narrative style of the (I must say, rather sluttish) piece of literature and is claiming it as its own.
Examples, you say? (Oh you didn't? You said shut the fuck up and give us more quizzes? Tough. You're getting examples.)

Er.. right so I have this guilty passion for bad crime thrillers. Preferably complete with rebellious but brilliant police detectives and hauntingly evil sociopathic murderers. And also, inevitably, depressingly predictable storylines. When I've been sucked into one of those I cannot help but walk around feeling VERY suspicious of things. I develop a habit of catching things out of the corner of my eye that I feel are familiar but can't quite place, and feel certain that they will become relevant as other things unfold. I also watch people intently, quietly believing to myself that I, and only I, can tell that they are certainly off home to slice and dice and wreak havoc in the suburbs somewhere, as if I might be some sort of brilliant but unruly cop. Furthermore I become HIGHLY distrusting of anyone who looks like they might be thinking in italics, because EVERYONE knows that this is what evil sociopaths do.

(Or do they?)

So that is one example. Another is that when I was doing my English Literature degree I opted to write an essay on Labyrinths, by Jorge Luis Borges. The title gives you some indication of the nature of the book. To say it's a little bit slippery would be a similar understatement to saying, for example, that fitting an entire herd of buffalo in your pocket would be a wee bit tricky. Throughout the collection of stories you do get the unmistakable impression that Borges himself is crouching somewhere just out of sight, sniggering to himself with glee as you attempt to wrap your mind around his baffling prose. Anyway, my point is that when I was spending my days focussed on Labyrinths I was a bit of a gibbering mess, as my brain simply couldn't cope with seeing everything through his carefully constructed room of mirrors. Think he had the last laugh with that one.

I love the books I love because of the way they make me see my world. Douglas Adams is a genius. His wit and comic timing is rivalled only possibly by PG Wodehouse, but I still prefer Adams. Everything, to him, is funny. He himself points out how different the world is when you look at it from just three feet to the left. Just genius.
In Haroun and the Sea of Stories the world is a beautiful, magical place that is limited only by the boundaries of imagination. Anything you can imagine exists in this book, and I think the whole thing is about the power of the human imagination and its never-ending capacity for stretching and illuminating everything that we see as 'normal'. They are both incredibly well constructed, the type of book that is startlingly simple to read and absorb but only because it so so finely and elaborately woven.

I am writing all this bollocks because sometimes I feel like I have too much of a propensity to view the world in a comic, colourless and even humourless way. The only things that can drag me away from this is the notion that there exists somewhere a whole ocean that is made up of every story that has ever existed, or will ever exist, or that the human beings came to Earth through a freak accident involving thousands of marketing executives, hairdressers and telephone santitizers, who had been expelled from their home planet.
This my not make any sense to you if you haven't read these books, but please. Trust me on this. Even if you're not like me and don't go around stealing narrative styles and trussing them up in your own consciousness, both of these books will change your view of the world, and help you live a little easier in it.

Tell me. Are there any books that you love and think I should read?

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

I am so many things. But mainly:

I am..


I, single-handedly, fight macaroni in all its forms. I argue AGAINST macaroni. I DEFY macaroni.

If I saw some macaroni (and I spit at the word, over my shoulder like someone in the Mafia) I would protest against it (snaps fingers) like THAT.

In case you think I have finally flipped and gone over to the dark side of the Crazy, I haven't (well, not as manifested in this particular example).

Paul (or should I say the heart-shaped armadillo) sent me this quiz.

So... what are you? I want to know.

(Unless you are macaroni, in which case I shut my eyes up tight, squash my fingers into my ears and sing protest songs loudly in your general direction)

How to convince your co-workers that you are a dirty stop-out in six easy steps.

1. Wear the same clothes as you did the day before. This may sound obvious. But to really pull off this look you have to be wearing trousers that get baggier as you wear them, so after a day they are falling down just a bit. After two days? They must be so loose that everytime you stand up or, heaven forbid, try and walk anywhere, you have to loop your thumbs through the top as if you might unexpectedly break into a Dick Van Dyke-style kicky dance.
2. Have lip balm smeared over your face in lieu of moisturiser, because it is either that or watching as your face cracks off and shatters into little pieces on the floor. This will achieve a pleasant 'oily', or 'greasy' look. Either Vaseline or the stuff they gave you to put on your tattoo, called Tattoo Goo, will do this nicely.
3. Sit at your desk motionless for at least half an hour, preferably staring/squinting at some point in the middle distance, even though you bought the office milk on your way in to work so nobody can have tea or cereal until you stand the fuck up and kicky-dance your way to the kitchen.
4. Get caught trying surreptitiously to put make up on at your desk, cowering behind your computer getting foundation all over the place because your motor-skills have been seriously compromised by alcohol and lack of sleep.
5. Have terrible hair. Constantly remind yourself that, actually, your hair always looks this terrible and your co-workers would think it much more odd if you had good hair one day. Feel a bit glum about this for a while until you forget what you were feeling glum about. Resume staring/squinting.
6. Crawl under you desk and curl up as small as you can. Shut your eyes very, very tight. Hope fiercely that if you can't see your co-workers, they can't see you.

Easy, see?
This, of course, is all pure speculation, and certainly NOT from first hand experience.
I am chirpy, immaculately dressed, and have sleek, groomed hair. I had ten hours solid sleep, rose at six, did some yoga, went for a short invigorating jog then had some muesli, followed by a refreshing shower and a meeting with my stylist.

Monday, May 16, 2005

In which Hip-ness runs in the family

Well. Well, well well.

I told my Dad about my tattoo. The conversation went a little something like this :

Me: Daaaaad? (wheedling tone. He knows that wheedling tone. It usually infers I am going to ask for money/a pony/more money)
Dad: (suspicious, a little bit disarmed. I could practically hear the beginnings of a scream starting in his brain.) Yes..?
Me: You love me, right?
Dad: (Oh bloody hell) Er.. yes.
Me: I've got something to tell you (smiling ear to ear in a 'don't worry I'm not pregnant' manner) that you might.. er.. not.. like so much. I mean, not that you'll, you know, actively, like DIS-like it, I mean, I just want to know..
Dad: (get the hell on with it - bloody middle children, so attention seeking - neither of us is getting any younger) Yes? What is it? (This is it. This is what's going to kill me.)
Me: Is there anything I could do that would make you cut me out of your life, turn your back, refuse to acknowledge me as a daughter? Anything that might make you shield you eyes from me in a dramatic gesture and extradite me from the house for evermore, never to be talked of and hailed in future generations as 'she whom we speak not of'?
Dad: Honestly?
Me: Er.. yes?
Dad: No.
Me: Good.
(Show him tattoo. Brace myself for disapproval at least, if not utter disgust and horror.)
Dad: Oh.
Is that real?
Me: Yeah.
Dad: Oh.
(a beat)
Dad: That's okay. It's quite nice really. Did you design it yourself?

Me = confused.
My Dad = unexpectedly really cool.

Hmm. Turns out, I don't know everything about everything. No, don't shake your head like that in vehement disagreement, I think it might be true.
Haven't told my mother yet though.

Maybe, horror of horrors, I am actually growing up, and my parents don't need to approve everything I do.

No, can't be that.

There is nothing else for it.

Tonight I'm going after that pony.

Friday, May 13, 2005

The Day The Internet Ate My Post: A Tragedy

I wrote an entry. It disappeared.

Where did it go? Who has it? Do you have it? Why did you steal it?

I know it's Friday the Thirteenth and Bad Things will happen and I must just accept this.

But I weep nevertheless.

(You'd've liked the entry, it might even have been the best yet. But alas. It is gone.)


It's like, i'm still me, but just, like, better...

NOW I can do it. NOW I am ready. In EXACTLY the right mood to be writing about the things I don't like.
Because I am CROSS. I can hardly type. (Okay, massive exaggeration there, I can type easily. But I am a bit nervous that I will vomit with frustration all over the keyboard.)

I'm just going to start. Don't argue. Seriously. You like your head? Wanna keep it? Yes? Well, don't argue.

1. Being patronised by WANKERS who think that because they're older than me and hold more important positions than me that they are cleverer than me. They are NOT cleverer than me. If they had half a FUCKING brain in their UGLY heads they would know how to be polite. Actually, not necessarily polite. But shouting, tutting, lack of 'please' and 'thank you' and barking orders at me like I'm some kind of very low ranking army officer/servant a la Baldrick from Blackadder? Not Clever.
I have an arts degree. I am not good at maths, granted. But I am NOT FUCKING STUPID please do not treat me like I am.
(Ten points to anyone who can guess what's pissed me off today)
2. Wasps. They are the evil warlords of the Insect Kingdom and I don't trust them.
3. People who state the obvious too much. Like, for example, people quite frequently tell me I am well-endowed. Breast wise. And I have friend who's very tall, and these people can't stop themselves pointing this out to her. "Oh!" they say, struggling a bit because clearly their brain has been having difficulty since the full frontal lobotomy, " Er.. you're very tall, aren't you?" at which point she steps on their head, or I batter them to death with my enormous jugs.
Where will this stop? Why? Why would you do this? I AM AWARE that I have fabulously full funbags (sorry). Please do not point this out to me. Otherwise, maybe I will retaliate. With a comment about that huge mole on your neck, maybe, or the massive penis growing out of your forehead.
4. Being tickled. I will cry.
5. Tom Cruise. He just REALLY annoys me. I think it's because he seems to exude arrogance from every smug little pore. Also I have a sneaking suspicion he is always thinking about how he might fry your retinas with the reflection from his teeth at any moment, then bite you on the knee.
6. Rude people. Hang on, think I might have mentioned that one.
7. Not being able to think of anything else that annoys me. I know there is more stuff. There has to be. I have been assured many times that I am not one of those incessantly sunny people who looks on the bright side all the time. I am bitter and cynical and mean. With nothing to be bitter and cynical and mean about! That is a tragedy, folks. Oh wait, no, I can think of one more thing.
8. When, on labels, signs and things, people use inappropriate apostrophes. It floods me with rage. I get all high and mighty and start orating about the decline of language and grammar and stuff. Then when I have noticed that all my friends have been quietly slinking away from me in embarrassment, I have to remind myself that I am not so smart, and don't even know how to use a semi-colon. But it still annoys me.

Enough. Enough. I am turning myself into a pessimistic twisted old lady just through this post and it's bad. Just one more actually..

9. The fact that the 'list of things that piss me off' is the most clichéd of blog posts. And yet it feels so natural. And then people comment and write what pisses them off and we all get angry and bitchy but it's ok because on the Internet we are FREE and can say what we like and love and hate at whim and nobody can get cross (except maybe the ex-boyfriends) and we can all live happily ever after and there will be world peace and bunnies and unlimited Hula Hoops for all, even Americans who aren't usually allowed them, and.. and.. (breathe) stuff.

Will we all just take a moment to notice the progression that has taken place here, in the space of this one post. At the beginning I was nasty (narrowing of eyes) mean (sharpening of claws) and hated the world (cracking of whip..[oooh]). Now I am Mary Poppins.

Witness the power of the blog. This is like Extreme Makeover: The Personality Episode.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

A Tale of Polyester and Sheer Will Power

Today I plan on writing a little bit about things that are Not Liked By Léonie. But first I will quickly tell you about something from my journey to work this morning that made me laugh. And, even though I neglected to actually list this on the.. well.. list (what? it can be a verb AND a noun? that's just baffling), things that make me laugh should be top of the list of stuff Liked By Léonie.
Right, so yeah. I was at Kings Cross tube this morning, on the Glory that is the Northern Line Southbound Platform. Waiting patiently to squeeze myself onto a train I stood, shoulder to shoulder, forehead to forehead, toe to toe with a million and twenty other people, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Because that is The Way. Walk into station, adopt sullen 'tube face', refuse to acknowledge anyone else's existence, even though you are practically dry-humping them by the end of your journey.
Anyway.. yes. This morning I was on the platofrm and one train came and there was no room to squezze on, even in the most slippery crouched-between-a-fat-guy's-bum-cheeks way (I cannot believe I just wrote that. That is disgusting, and I sincerely hope you don't have that image in your head ALL DAY LONG.). So I stepped back. As did most other people who, like me, know that that getting to work three minutes late is not a massive tragedy, and could even be seen as a blessing. But for this one guy just in front of me? It was IMPERATIVE that he got on that train. I assume his life was at stake there, because there must have been a bloody good reason for the sheer desperation this poor man was afflicted with. He was also afflicted with shiny polyester suit and a rather large bag. And he was quite tall. And more than a little bit sweaty.

So he jammed himself on to this train. There really was no room to jam a six foot something sweaty man in a shiny suit carrying a large bag, but he wouldn't give up. He pressed himself onto the other passengers, heaving and shoving, sweating and jostling, while they (obviously) all looked away and pretended it wasn't happenning. He was on. His bag? It just wouldn't fit. He tried shoving it, jostling and heaving it. But to no avail. The Man was getting quite irate by this stage and was clearly terrified that the doors would sweep shut and trap his bag, depositing it on the tracks to be ransacked by curious tube mice.
I would've given up sheepishly at this point. But Our Man? He must've been raised in a military household, such was his ferocious tenacity. He was NOT giving up.
He decided to hook his leg over his bag. This took quite a bit of fairly acrobatic manoeuvering and balancing as he lifted his leg and climbed onto his bag, his polyester-clad thigh sticking precariously out of the door. He wobbled dangerously and did a kind of little jumpy thing to try and squash himself, and the bag, which was now clamped between his shiny, shiny legs.
The doors started to shut
He pushed himself once more, in manner of a woman giving birth being told that ONE MORE BIG PUSH should do it, and the doors swept shut.
As the train, Our Man and his Bag (that deserves a capital after all it has been through) swept off into the tunnel, the rest of us standing on the platform, who, in all honesty, were feeling a bit exhausted and sweaty ourselves, burst out laughing.
Ah there's nothing like a bit of laughter at someone else's pain to really bond a group of Londoners.

It really started my day off well, I thought. Just the hooking, and the sweating, and the polyester-ness of it all. It was joyous.

Maybe you had to be there really. I wish you had been. Then I wouldn't have had to waste your time forcing you to read this post about a Man and his Bag. Sorry about that.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Léonie: Contrite.

One more time (join in with me here) :

Not always.
Not always at all.
But, if I have offended YOU? I was definitely exaggerating on THAT bit. I won't say lying, but maybe I exaggerate from time to time to make myself seem that touch cooler.
Hey, I don't care.
I think it works.

This is the ONLY resemblance I will ever bear to a nun

Things I like:
(I'm only writing this so that I can move swiftly onto the things I dislike/hate, but I didn't want you to think I'm a horrible negative person who sees everything through a haze of apathy and/or disgust. Actually is it possible to be apathetic and disgusted at the same time? Hmm. Discuss.)
1. (I would just like to share with you the fact that I have been sitting here, fingers poised over the keyboard, for a good five minutes now and cannot think of anything important enough for the No. 1 spot. Oh hang on, I know..)
1. Singing
2. Putting things in parentheses (as this post would suggest.. oh.. there I go again)
3. Getting flowers. Although I always seem to make them die really quickly.
4. Shoes (shudder of pleasure)
5. Lipbalm/gloss/stick/stuff.
6. Any kind of sun-beach-sea-pool-hotty mcfitty-tan-cocktail combination
7. Books and the reading thereof.
8. Using words like 'thereof' in a possibly completely misguided way, and yet still feeling just a little bit proud.
9. Beer and wine and spirits and, in fact, most drinks. Not peach schnapps though. Bad memories.
10. Friday late afternoons, and drinking beer therein.
11. Point eight again. Therein. That's what I'm talking about..
12. The guy on the train the other day who said to me, out of the blue, seemingly with nothing to gain: "You look really great by the way". Isn't that nice? I did have my Angelina Jolie mask and body-costume on, though, thinking about it.
13. Being right. I am often so very wrong.
14. Painting my nails blood red and then going around for a couple of days gesticulating wildly and feeling a little like Cruella De-Ville.
15. Coffee. Mmm..
16. My tattoo. It's so permanent, perky and pretty.
17. Alliteration, apparently.
18. Watching Scrubs and laughing out loud a lot, then pretending a little bit that I am Zach Braff's girlfriend. We'd have so much fun. I could follow him around and laugh at his jokes and he could like, listen to me sing, and buy me flowers, lip products and shoes. I don't see a problem with that.
19. London in the sun. It's so wildly unpredictable. Everyone strolls around defiantly wearing inappropriately summery clothes (even though it's actually quite cold) as if to proclaim to the rest of the world (who are obviously watching us Londoners through a long telescope): "HA! SEE! We CAN get balmy days and rippling heat just like the rest of you. We're not fools for living in this country. And this short sleeve right here is PROOF of that. Now, please excuse me, I need to go and take my pneumonia medication".
20. Salt and vinegar Hula Hoops.

There must be other things, raindrops on kittens and whiskers on roses, things like that.

I'm going to post this and then have a good think about things I don't like. But firstly I want to ask you, do you like things? What things do you like? (You are not allowed to say Zach Braff, he is mine. But you can share my Hula Hoops if you like.)

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Cheerier? Yes. Making any more Sense? Maybe not so much.

Firstly I really want to say thank you for your comments on yesterday's post. I know it was a bit of a jumbled mess of words, as it turns out my 'stream of consciousness narrative' (oh, I use the term loosely) isn't quite as streamy as, say, Virginia Woolf's. Maybe it's more like a 'stagnant pool of consciousness' or 'whirlpool', or even 'cesspool' of consciousness. And there I go again with the inexplicably long sentences. Sigh.

My point is, thank you. Your comments and emails really helped me regain some sense of perspective. I basically have decided that I don't want to dwell on the events of the weekend. I am making a choice to exclude all that shit from my life and move on properly. I could go further into it, and there is still a part of me that wants to explain in detail what happened, just so you can all gasp in horror and tell me to burn/staple things places and tell me I'm great and deserve more, but... no. It's better for all of us if I just say that I was hurt, and then again and again, and, frankly, I'm not putting myself in that position any more.

Except for when I deliberately put myself in the hands of bizarre eastern European men with drills. Ah. Yes.

So. Strange this happened to me today (and it's only 11.07am! Jam-packed, I tell you)
This morning I was marching confidently (read: stumbling blindly) out of the tube station on my way to work, and my peripheral gaze landed upon someone I recognized. My brain being dangerously coffee-deprived as it was, I couldn't quite place him. My thought process may well have gone something like this.
Brain: (blank blank blank-y blank) People in way. Sun in eyes. Sunglasses. Ah, better, can see.
People people people (blank blank) person person pers..wait.. back..baaack.. him! Who's he? Celebrity? No. Relation? No. Ex-boyfriend (panic mildly)? No. (PHEW)
Sooo.. blank. Blanker.
Ah HA. Got it.

It was somebody I met three years ago. In New Zealand.

I KNOW. That's far, far away from Old Street tube station.

I debated for a couple of moments as to whether I should go and tap him on the shoulder and say Hi. I assessed what state my hair was in (not good. Had been using my sunglasses to push my fringe [or bangs if you're 'merican] out of my eyes, so it was a bit stick-y out-y) what I was wearing (could've been better, shabby in general) and my capacity for conversation (well, that's always a gamble at best).
Then I thought oh, stop being such a big GIRL and go and say hello. So I tapped him on the arm and he turned around, took his earphones out and looked at me extremely quizzically. As if to say "I have no idea whether there is a reason you just did that but there sure as hell better be one, and it had better be good".
So I said, tentative to the extreme,"er.. Olly.. right?" (big smile, hopeful expression) and he looked baffled and a little scared and nodded confusedly. I started to panic a little bit at this point, because if it had been the wrong person that would be embarrassing, but fine, laughable. More kind of, Oh silly me! than anything else. But if I recognized him and he WAS who I thought he was and I was just a blur to him.. more embarrassing. Because (did I mention?) I have to admit, there was a little.. ahem.. flirtation with this guy when we met (read: full sex [kidding] [I'm so not kidding] [no.. I am]). So I don't want him to have forgotten me.

But. Luckily for my ego..

" Léonie! Oh sorry! Hi!.." and a conversation ensued.

Thank The Lord and All His Seraphims (I thought to myself. My ego does not need any more shit).

And he is a bit of a Hotty McFitty. Not that I am looking, of course, but it was nice. As if the Universe had sighed wearily and said to itself "Oh there's nothing else for it. I think we're going to have to give this one a Sign. It's ok, she'll pay for it later when she gets held captive by those rabid monkeys and is forced to teach them French for three years whilst standing on her head. I guess we can do this for her now."

I mean, I really am NOT, repeat NOT interested in starting anything with anyone*. But it kind of made me aware that there was so much of my life before this particular period of time that has hurt me so much, and that, if I am to follow logic, there will be more exciting stuff to come as well.

Also I think you'll agree that it is ALWAYS nice when a Hotty McFitty that you may or may not have slept with three years ago remembers your name...

*To clarify, I really don't believe that just because this guy just about remembered my name (more of an impressive feat that you might think, though), it NECESSARILY means he's in love with me and wants to bear my children (or whatever).

Sunday, May 08, 2005

Lock Up Your Sons

Just lock them up.
Men are twunts who are bred to destroy my soul.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Some exes are nice and pretty

Dan got cross with me for telling you that all exes are mean and nasty.

Sorry Dan.

Also he wanted me to make up a pseudonym for him. I think he just wants to sound racy and a bit mysterious.

Sorry.. er.. And? (That's an anagram. It'll take you a while to work it out. Hang in there.)

For the record:
Sometimes I exaggerate for comedy value.
Dan is nice.


Scritching the Atch

And I'm BACK IN THE GAME! High fives all round. I can stop weeping into my Nescafé now. I couldn't reach my blog and it was quite upsetting. Strange how quickly I feel a little bit dependent on being able to share my crap with the Internet. I nearly had to start actually talking to real people for a moment there.. Phew narrow escape.

In the last couple of (barren, blogless) days I feel like I should've achieved something. Invented something, maybe. Unearthed something, or had an epiphany and shouted Eureka! about something. In truth? Yeah, not so much.
I do have a bit of advice to share though, just a little spot of information for you to to write on your hand this sunny Friday.

If you get a tattoo, beware. It will Itch like a Bitch. Mine does. And everyone will say to you NO! Naughty recent tattoo-ee. Do not even let the idea of scratching flutter through your mind. Because if you do you will DIE (or something, not sure of the details).

Here's what to do, in a number of easy steps.

1) Find a mosquito. Just a simple one, doesn't have to be all fancy, like that one in Jurassic Park. Just your basic, friendly neighbourhood mossie.
2) Ask it to suck your blood. It should be willing to do this without too much bother.
3) Wait.
4) It will itch.
5) Scratch it till it bleeds. Then, when it bleeds, clean off the blood (maybe you could give the excess to the mosquito? That might be a nice gesture) and scratch some more.
6) Enjoy!

By following this procedure you will promptly forget all about the tattoo and start concentrating on the itch you can actually scratch! Eureka!

I know, I know, pure genius. Stay in school kids. One day you might be as clever as I am.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005


Don't like 'em.
(Some of them I actually do like, but for the purposes of this post I am going to generalize and pretend I hate them all.)
There are certain things that someone can do or say which make you put down your book/candyfloss/swarthy Italian man and say, hang on, just wait a minute there cowboy. What the HELL was I doing with (insert name of ex here)? Why did I waste my time with this pathetic excuse for a human person? At which precise point did I lose all respect for myself? Who exactly IS this swarthy Italian and why have I been carrying him around with me all day? (That happened to anyone else? No? Just me? Ah.)

So the trigger for this is not actually one of my own experiences, although I am relatively certain that I'll find some way to slide one in there at some point.
My friend, let's call her Sally (her name isn't Sally. Don't worry, Gemma, all identities have been chang.. oh.. shit..ah fuck that).
Anyway she's just split up with her boyfriend of three years and they were living together so with that there are all the logistical troubles to add to the emotional ones. It's tricky. Now my friend Sal-emma (that's code, by the way) is being very brave, very soldierish. She knows that it is for the best and she knows he wasn't good enough for her. He wasn't. She's beautiful, a real bombshell, vivacious, funny, well-dressed. She has AMAZING hair. Sometimes I lie awake at night trying to work out a cunning way of stealing her hair and attaching it to my own head without her noticing, but so far, well, since I eliminated the Grand Sellotape Plan, I have had nothing.
Anyway, I digress.
I stayed at her house last night (yes, that was step one of the GS Plan, but I chose not to implement it, given the circumstances) and we went into her bedroom armed with some Jack Daniels and some serious swear-words to use in an ex-boyfriend slamming way, and there was a letter on her bed.
She picked it up while I was shaking up the Diet Coke (I live on the edge and embrace risk). She sat and read it slowly, her face going all still and kind of blank. I stood watching her read and as she got to near the bottom her nostrils started to flare. Now, anyone that knows Gem-ly knows that this is a Bad Sign. It's literally a physical manifestation of her hatred and I have seen it before, but rarely and with consequences.

It turned out that her ex had written loads and loads of really patronising CRAP in this letter.. I quote
"the right guy's out there for you, hang in there"
Fuck you
"keep smiling, your smile's too great not to use"
And your Mum
"I'd still like it if we could go to the cinema from time to time, and if I could come to your house-warming"
And your entire extended family and all their pets

So this made her angry, pissed off, upset and all the rest. But the nostril flaring? Came at this point:
"So if you could leave my washing out for me to come and collect that'd be great, thanks."
Yeah sure, I'll do that. And I tell you what I'll have a great big FUCKING smile on my face while I do it, shall I?
She flew into a rage like flies fly into those buzzy blue things. Meaning that it was inevitable and made a lot of quite unpleasant noise.
So, I mean, honestly. Was he always like that, taking her for granted, making her feel unappreciated and assuming she'd always just take care of him and do stuff for him without a second thought?
Yes, apparently. Somehow she assumed that it was alright, that she just did the housework-y stuff and he just, didn't. That she got him birthday presents and cards and shit, and he just, like, didn't. Not one birthday present for those three years.
I hate exes. I have to see one of mine this weekend and I REALLY don't want to. The most recent one, the one who screwed me over. I just don't want to see him. But I have to.
Screw the exes. Lock 'em in a cage while we get on with our lives and get drunk on Jack Daniels.
You agree?

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Holy Shit McShit

Have you ever seen/owned those Mac eyeshadow powders in the little pots? You know, the loose powder?
I did.
Once upon a time.
Not now though.
Because it has just exploded all over my bag.
That stuff doesn't want to go anywhere in a hurry. It's stuck. I have brown all over my hands and arms and face, in my eyes, up my nose, under my nails. Every nook and cranny.
Holy shit.

Body Art, Polish-style

It's Tuesday. Monday just didn't exist this week. There was certainly a Sunday, oh yes. But then, after that Sunday, there was a whole other Sunday! Imagine. Two Sundays.
The weather was glorious on Saturday. I know that because I was outside for most of the day wandering around Camden trying my best to feel relaxed and calm like everybody else. I plastered an 'it's the weekend' smile across my face and tried to stop thinking about huge needles coming to rip out my soul, and concentrate on the beautiful jewellery, various food stalls and not getting my bag nicked by dodgy Camden-ites, like everyone else. But the fear? It was omnipresent. It danced around in my brain singing at the top of its voice, whilst poking me with it's jabby fingers everytime I so much as picked up a pretty bracelet or gazed longingly at the crepes with Nutella.
To be honest, when three o'clock came around it was a bit of a relief. I understood totally that the anticipation of an event is usually much more agonizing than the event itself, for example when I got my nose pierced, my finals, my degree results, sex. (Okay, sex? Not sure why my fingers chose to type that but I'm sure it actually provides some fascinating insight into my subconscious and that Freud himself would have a thing or two to say about it so I might leave it in).
It was hot. The tattoo place was hot. I was hot. Also with heat rash.
I tried so hard to look cool, because I was sure that all the people in the place were like "what the hell's that girl doing hanging around here? She's so fucking Middle Class. Ha look how nervous she looks. I had MY first tattoo to celebrate my fifth birthday...".
Trust me on this, I didn't think I was cool.
Interestingly enough, the guy who the Universe had selected to perform this feat of art that will, I hasten to remind you, last for my WHOLE LIFE, yeah, that guy? Couldn't speak any English. Think he was maybe Polish, which is all well and good, and I hear Poland is very pleasant and that Polish is a beautiful language. I, however, do NOT speak Polish. I was in a bit of a state, I was talking nervously at a rate of, oh, I'd say about six gadzillion words a minute. I talked to everyone, primarily to Kirsten, who'd come with me for support. I also talked to my Drill-Man, my Polish non-English speaking Drill-Man. I asked him he had done this before? was the drill rusty? was everyone this nervous before their first tattoo? was I by far the wussiest person he'd ever done? He stared at me with pale eyes and answered me thus: "Yes. No. No. Yes".
I was like, er, Oh.
THANKS Drill-Man, really calmed me down there. I feel so much more comfortable knowing you really care. He also tickled me at one point. You know when someone pinches your waist?Yes, well, I HATE that. Do that to me and I cry. Fucking Drill-Man did that as he was revving up his drill. (It sounds like I am exaggerating. I wish I was. My life is actually LIKE THIS. Sob.)
So then he drilled...
It took about 25 mins and I just talked the whole time, like a bad radio DJ.
Kirsten held my hands and we both went through our separate pains. Mine was the man with the drill (yes yes, I know it's a needle but it sounds like a drill) on my back, hers was the combination of my hand crushing and my INCESSANT talking talking talking. I think I had a better deal than her actually. She couldn't stop shaking for about an hour afterwards. I was fine. You do the maths. Sorry, Kirsten.
It looks lovely, I love it. All credit to the Polish Drill-Man, he did well. I am taking very good care of it, as instructed by some of you guys and also The Internet, and also a man I spoke to whilst hammered on Sunday (the first one) who had tattoos all over him and whom I decided (quite logically I think) must be an expert and therefore grilled him, much to the chargrin of his girlfriend.
So that's that. I haven't told my parents, as they're out of the country for two weeks. Not sure what they'll say when I unveil it, if I have the guts to. Any tips for that one? Shout it through a mega-phone from an underground bunker a mile away and then run for the hills? Be all 'whatever' about the whole thing, because, if we're honest I am 23 and therefore shouldn't really be scared?
Tricky one.
So I really must do some work now (read: I'll be back in five).