This entry is brought to you by the word merrrgh.

Merrrgh. I am hungover today. The world is an unfamiliar and bizarre place in which, as a general rule, people do not tuck me into bed enough.

On the bus this morning I'm pretty sure I sat on someone's lap by accident in a minor lapse of concentration. I also may or may not have made some rather ill-advised fashion choices. I should have known that today is clearly NOT the day for the floor length shot silk burgundy taffeta number I threw on after stumbling out of the shower in the manner of a tramp, but the alcohol was still lapping at my eyelids and I was finding it hard to see. Ahem.

What did I do to deserve such a hangover? Well. I went to Camden to see a band called Until She Says Sorry (which, interestingly enough, is the message my hangover is trying to get across. Ok, ok! Liver? I'm sorry. Better?). They were fantastic as usual and there was jumping and singing and a cover of that Team America song where people say 'fuck yeah' an awful lot. And we all sat there with our pints of beer being all sloshy over our wrists and watched them jump and shout and sing and had a jolly good time. Fuck yeah.

But, Oh Woe Is Me I am paying for it now. Why the beer? Why? It makes me all drunk and then I think I'm funny and clever and say things like 'yes I can map read and can get us from Camden to Shoreditch in a mere flash because I did A-level Geography- hand me that A-Z' and then promptly prove myself to be spectaularly wrong about that. And then it makes me wake up (and, obviously I use that phrase in the loosest possible manner) and feel like my head has been run over by an average to large sized tank and Celine Dion is wailing My Heart Will Go On into my right ear and won't shut up. And that, my friends, is some serious pain.

Also. £3.40 a pint? That's like, a million dollars (ish) a pint. And I had lots of pints. I'm not liking them there maths.

BUT. But but but it was all worth it because a) I wasn't the drunkest there and b) the band was grrreat and fun and c) I'm not telling you because it's a secret but if you come up and stand very close I'll whisper it in your ear and then blow in it really hard because that's the sort of person I am.

You noticed how I'm not mentioning my crush today? Well. I'm not because SOMETIMES PEOPLE UNEXPECTEDLY READ MY BLOG AND I DON'T KNOW IT.
Like, I got an email from my ex's new girlfriend. She reads it. And is probably feeling a little strange that I have written about her on the Internet when I haven't replied to her email but hey, there is no logic to my actions and I don't believe I ever pretended there was. Don't worry, I won't mention your name or post your email on the site, because that would be strange, and I am not yet that strange.

Anyway, my point is that if he reads this he'll know it's him I'm talking about, and my cool will be blown, and I don't want to compound that further.
(I know what you're thinking. You're all thinking Léonie? Seriously? ANY COOL LEFT ANYWAY?)

But I can't think about it, or anything else today as Celine is back in my ear and is warming up for a hearty rendition of Think Twice.

Merrrgh.

In which I am elegantly discreet

So, this crush. It's not really a crush, so much as an attraction. Is that the same thing?

Disclaimer: I don't want a boyfriend (listen very carefully and you will hear the male population of London shedding a small tear [possibly of relief but we'll bypass that]).

My last boyfriend was a poor example of the genre, or a perfect example, depending upon how cynical you're feeling.
Two weeks after he dumped me over the phone (which was marginally better than when he dumped me the time before that, which was, to all intents and purposes, in a text message) he got together with a girl I had considered to be quite a close friend. They are still together. The problem I had with it was simply that neither of them saw fit to let me know.
Er, THANKS GUYS.
I haven't mentioned this before now because I was more than a little humiliated by the whole affair, and also because I felt like, oh shit what if they were to READ this and then they'd KNOW how I FELT and, that would be like admitting FAILURE... but then, I can reason to myself, they must know that they hurt me by ignoring my existence. And chances are they are not going to read this. So why shouldn't I write about it?

That last bit was a bit rambling, I grant you. But you get the gist of the thing. Not the worst betrayal in the world, not by a long shot. I wanted out of the relationship anyway, and could have accepted their glorious union (odd turn of phrase there) if they'd been a bit more open to me about it. But it did rather put me off men for a while.

But now? Well, still not looking for a boyfriend (although, Zach? Mr Braff? If you're there? This excludes you. You I would certainly make an exception for. Love me!) but I am beginning to take small inching steps towards being interested in men again. I am also thinking that maybe there might be some fool out there that might be interested in me.

Just a little bit. (Blushes in a coy, demure, Jane Austen-like manner)

So this crush? It's not really a crush, so much as a vague feeling about someone. Someone who, I think, doesn't really have that much of an interest in me. Or maybe he does. I don't know.
HOW ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW?
And don't say 'ask', or 'be up front' because that can only happen with people who are much cooler than I am, and no doubt better dressed. By which I mean Samantha from Sex in the City, obviously. And anyway I don't want to ask, because I don't want to be his girlfriend. No. Maybe I'm just reverting back to my Old Ways.

I know this hasn't been very descriptive. Maybe you wanted to know details? Sorry, I cannot, I am WAY too shy. He is sexy and funny, and I am happy to go on having a crush on him without getting anything out of it, because I am alright by myself. In fact, I am better than that. I like being on my own and independent, marching around my city on whatever whim takes me, not a care in the world.

The fact that it's going to be sunny and in the mid-twenties this week, however, might pose a problem. I know that for some people this would be deemed as hat-scarf-and-mittens-on-elastic-through-your-anorak wintry. But for me and for the rest of London it is sleeveless-tops-pints-on-the-pavement-doing-a-conga-in-sombreros summery.

And I fear that it might not bode so well, considering the effect that has on me.

(That noise you just heard? That was the male population of London locking their doors, bolting their windows, and fastening their chastity belts.)

Inspired By Muses

Two song titles I have come up with, both of which are taken directly from some of my friends' utterances in the last week:

Love's For Pussies
Don't Mess With Granny

There were others, but I've forgotten them because my brain's like one of those things, you know, those things with the little holes in..

Embrace the Narcissism!

Thank you, Euan, for that delightful post and its inclusion of some pictures of me looking.. well.. as much as I hate to admit it.. just like I look most of the time. I would like to point out that I was drunk. Which, yes, I suppose, is how I look most of the time.

Today I want to write a fun, funny post about something interesting. I wanted entertaining wittcisms to leap from my brain in the manner of a leapy thing leaping from something (I left my analogies on the train this morning). And, you know, I always believe that if you want something enough and your heart is pure, you will get it. I'm very like Britney that way.

Alas. It has not happened. I have nothing. But, nevertheless I will write, because, hey, if I'm going to be bored and uninspired then you sure as hell are too.

So I will tell you all some Things I have been a-thinking.

I maybe should not have eaten that Mars Ice Cream just now. It was clearly Satan, incarnated into a chocolate-y caramel-y way. I have ballooned up and just had to roll myself to the water cooler.

My best friend in the world who is called Jenny and who was once described to me by one of my other friends as "like you but funnier", got a 1st in her degree. She's a clever one, that little minx.

My friend Chris has gone to Berlin for three months to work for some important paper and be all clever and German. I will miss him. Chris, I will miss you! Email lots please!

Being in an office in 30 degree heat in the middle of a city not designed for hot weather with no air conditioning is not conducive to work of any kind.

I was walking along yesterday and as I was strolling in my 'let's take eeeeencey weeeeeency little steps to put off going back to the office' manner, I noticed some workmen a bit further along the pavement were talking about me. I continued, and as I passed them, I overheard one say to the other "Nah mate, I think they're REAL!". I whipped around, smacked him in the face, pinned him to the floor with my stilletto heel trapping his windpipe, and growled "You ever look at me or my rack again? I will take your tiny excuse for a manhood and make a finger puppet with it. Hear me, you ugly-as-shit motherfucker?"*

*Or I might just have carried on walking. You decide.

I have been watching Kill Bill (both volumes) far too much recently and it may or may not have given me a slightly elevated sense of my own physical prowess.

I have a crush. That's all I'm saying.

I just spoke to a lady on the phone who ended the conversation with the word 'cheersies!'. Awesome.

I am going to see Coldplay on Tuesday at Crystal Palace. Last Sunday I went to see U2 at Twickenham. Cool? Cool. (What? What was that? Yes, don't be silly, of course you care. Otherwise you wouldn't be reading, dumbass.)

I think I might have a dangerous and inexplicable addiction to Mars Ice Creams.

I think that might be the entire content of my brain today. There you have it.

Cheersies!!

I am not Léonie

Hello there,

I am not Léonie. My name is Euan. Two weeks ago I met Léonie for a lovely drink, along with some other fantastically attractive people. We had laughs and drinks and fun - in fact, the whole kit and caboodle.

After a few refreshing glasses of ginger ale and lime cordial, the following exchange took place...

Léonie: Euan, so listen right, you're fantastically attractive right?
Euan: Well, yes, thank you for noticing, I believe I am. *blushes attractively*
Léonie: And I know I'll never be as fantastically attractive as you but do you think... *sigh* ...do you think that - one day - I could ever be perceived as being remotely attractive?

Awkward pause.

Euan: Sweet, simple girl! Reach into your heart and discover what you already know! Such ambitions of attractiveness lie far beyond your reach.
Léonie: Oh Euan, you speak the truth. I have known this for some time. Let's get squiffy and maybe I can forget about my wretched ugliness.
Euan: Yes, let's *both* try to forget about your wretched ugliness.
Léonie: Agreed.
Euan: Of course, you're beautiful on the inside.
Léonie: Fantastically beautiful?
Euan: No.*

*Exchange may not be entirely accurate

Cutting a long story short, later that evening Léonie ferociously demanded that I take lots and lots of pictures of her for this delightful blog. And as some kind of miracle worker, I managed to take some pictures where she doesn't look half bad.

Here are the pictures. Bask in Léonie's beauty.


"Sexy"


"Half-hearted"


"Think wistful."


"I shall not pose."


"Happier times"


"Huh?"


"Mymmmmmuuh"


"Pretty Léonie"


"Look at my bust. It's very nice."


"Sassy."

I hope you enjoyed this little collection.

Wistfully yours,

Euan


In which I have good intentions but no staying power

Well. As you all know (how would you? Of course you don't know. I just wanted to write that. Forgive me.) I am a sucker for a challenge*.

* This is not true. If anyone ever says in a 'don't get too excited I'm about to ask you to do something REALLY SHIT' tone of voice "I've got a challenge for you", my instinctive reaction is to freeze, stand very still like a statue and stay that way until they go away.

Well anyway. I could delete all that because a) it is rambling and stupid and b) I have used an asterisk in an inappropriate way and my God I HATE that. See? You see what I mean? I don't HATE that! I don't even hate it in lower case. I am clearly deranged and if anyone knows a really good lobotomist I would be grateful.

(Takes deep breath. Sucks in passing fly. Hacks up lungs. Wonders what life means. Concludes that it means nothing. Balefully chews on fly.)

Leah has kindly included me on her meme-y thingy. Which is lovely of her, and I shall play along like the good girl I know myself not to be but maybe once could have been had I not been infused with Satan at a very early age.

So here goes.

The rules:Remove the blog at #1 from the following list and bump everyone up one place; add your blog's name in the #5 spot. You need to link to each of the other blogs for the desired cross-pollination of your chosen blogs.

1JustAskJudy
2.Angie at HomeGrown
3. Mistress Mary
4. Lakeline...I don't know
5. Léonie..sometimes funny

And the idea is to list five things you miss from your childhood. Nice idea, isn't it? (say yes.)
I'm not sure that the following are things I miss, necessarily, but they are certainly things I remember and that I loved, so that counts.

1. The Snails.
Odd place to start, I grant you. This is what came into my head first, and to be honest in this head of mine, where the wastelands are barren and the tumbleweed is free to roam, I have to take any idea I get and run with it. My sisters (Alex [older] and Sophie [younger]) and I used to, as children, collect snails. We had watched the snails in horror for some time now. We could not quite believe that these slow benevolent creatures, without a cruel bone in their bodies (yes, I know, snails don't have bones. It's an EXPRESSION! Leave me alone. No, no, come back! This means nothing without you!) were being picked up by great big feathery assassins and literally BEATEN to death on stones and other hard things. Imagine. Just slithering along thinking about how nice it was to have a little house on your VERY OWN BACK and look where I've been you can see my little trail sparkling and glistening in the sunlight and then WHAM! It's over. But, we imagined, not after a considerable amount of pain. This bothered us. Well, it probably bothered Alex. I worshipped my Big Sister more than ANYTHING so I imagine I just nodded fervently and cried imitation tears, while Sophie just picked her nose or lifted up her dress or something. So we Did Something About It. Oh yes. We decided that we, the Higgins sisters of Hertfordshire, England, were going to save these poor, under-appreciated beasts from their plight. So we got plasters from the first aid box in the house, and neatly stuck a band-aid over the shell of every snail we could find. That way, we reasoned, the birds would not be able to crack the shells to get to the vulnerable, squishy snaily bit inside. HA! Take THAT Mother Nature! We also decided to steal bricks from the neighbours' walls and build a little house for them. Our collection was renowned throughout the whole of our garden for being the BEST and probably also the coolest. We fed them on cereal. Primarily muesli. Specifically Alpen. They loved it.
The whole shebang came to a rather abrupt halt when we tried to smuggle them to Granny's house in a cardboard box and they escaped in the car. Since then my sisters and I are banned from taking wild animals in the car with us anywhere. Or, in fact, keeping wild animals in brick cages and feeding them on Alpen. Even though it's for their own good. This has put a dampner on many budding relationships for the three of us, I can tell you.

2. Piano Lessons.
I play the cello, my sisters both play the violin. Alex also plays the piano and guitar because she is cooler than Sophie and I, who spend our time shopping and writing bollocks on the Interweb, respectively. Anyway. I had piano lessons when I was little, and I do NOT play the piano now. (No, I am too modest. I can bash out a mean 'bit before I Dreamed A Dream from Les Mis')
Anyway. The reason is that I had some fucking strange piano teachers. I don't know how my mother found them. Maybe she was skimming through the Yellow Pages and came across a particularly moving advert about the plight of bizarre and unnerving music teachers and decided to do her bit for them. Much like my sisters and the snails. Maybe she could get some kind of wristband.
Anyway. Piano teacher #1. Mr Sexton. (Oh, come on. You know it's funny. It's a name, right, but it has the word SEX in it! See? Funny.)
He was, I'm sure a perfectly normal person. It's just that, at the age of ten, certain things freak you out a little more than they would now when you've matured into a sensible well-adjusted adult. (Don't laugh like that! This may be the Internet, but I can STILL HEAR YOU)
Mr Sexton had a skin condition on his face. It might've been bad ezcema, but to my untrained eye it was just this peel-y flake-y rash-y lurgy. And he had VERY strange glasses as well. I think they were tinted. NOT normal. Anyway so the upshot of it was that he couldn't see very well, because the room was a bit dark, and I have to presume that he might have been a little blind. He had to lean right over the keyboard as I was thumping out my C major scale, so that his face was quite close to mine, and he would dab at the red flake-iness with an oversized hanky, causing bits of skin to fall, like elegant snowflakes, onto my hands. I know, and I know I knew then, that it is Not On to mock people because they have strange skin allergies, or funny glasses for that matter. But his skin was coming off all over my hands, people. Now I don't know about you, but for me that is not conducive to good learning.
So we moved on. To Miss Saunders. A lady who had a very dark house with a large, heavy wooden door that opened with a definite creak, smacking of all things Scoody-Doo to my young eyes. She had huge oil paintings of various saints all over the piano-lesson room, whose eyes almost definitely were following me and only me. Miss Saunders drank hot water, plain. And smelled funny. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Miss Saunders turned out to be the leader of a cult. And even though it was some kind of suburban, Middle England breed of cult, it was definitely, and unmistakably a cult.
Piano lessons trailed off after that.

3. The Next Door Girl Gang.
The NDGG (oh yes, we were acronyming it up back then) came about when we discovered that we had lots of girls living in the next door houses to ours. To the left, there was Charlotte and Sophie. To the right, Anna. And in the house to the right of Anna there was Sarah, Becky and Lottie (who, just to through a bit of spanner in the works, had a dog called Sophie). We had a big tree in our garden, in which we sat every weekend, all weekend long. We had to sit in age order - a rule imposed by Alex, and adhered to strictly. In case you are at all interested, the order of seating was as follows:
Alex
Me (second! score!)
Charlotte
Sarah
Becky
Big Sophie ( my sister)
Little Sophie (next door)
Lottie
Actually though, thinking about it, Sarah was older than me, and Becky was older than Charlotte. And Lottie older than Big Sophie. So, in reality, it was just an order that had very little to do with age, and more to do with superiority. We used to sit in our ranks up the tree, ordering the little ones to go and get drinks, snacks, and, in fact, anything we desired, while we reclined in the upper branches, necking vodka and getting smacked up to the eyeballs. Ah, the heady days of youth. Actually I can't really remember what exactly we did in that tree. I remember concocting elaborate games, our favourite of that ilk being a game called "The Queen of Sheba", not quite as romantic as you might think. As I recall it involved running very fast from place to place, taking hostages and using weapons. There might have been an ultimate prize to be captured, but there might well not have been. That game was disturbingly similar to another game, imaginatively titled "War". I think there might have been more weaponary and a larger field of play. You know the old adage - gratuitous violence and heavy artillery: That's what little girls are made of.

Hmm.. This is supposed to be a list of things I miss about my childhood. So, technically I can't tell you about the time I broke my nose on my knee whilst attempting to execute a particularly challenging feat of gymnastics on the sofa (read: a head over heels with a run up). I remember the tragic thing being that I had put my new leotard on especially for the occasion and when my stupid nose exploded on my knee my leotard got blood all over it and had to be thrown away. My gymnastics career came to a rather abrupt halt at that point, I seem to recall.

Right. So. I suppose there are a lot of things about my childhood that I miss, but unlike Leah my things are not really specific. My memory tends to be a bit erractic - I have impressions of things rather that specific, detailed recollections of particular people or places. Almost like it is a lot clearer if I happen to catch a distant memory without meaning to, but the minute I try to focus to closely on it it disappears. There are a couple of things that stand out. Listening to my Mum's pregnant stomach and trying very hard to hear my little sister moving. Seeing Sophie when she had just been born and mentally registering that she appeared to be in a shopping trolley with a blanket in it. Going on holiday as a family and always singing " We're All Going On A Summer Holiday" very loudly, even if we were going skiing. Naming my hamster 'Apple' and my toy cat 'Elephant'. It was grey. That still makes sense to me. Being made to do cello practice everyday, even if I was ill (Mark - if you're reading this, you know I mean 'cello).

Actually there is loads of stuff. Much of it about my sisters as well. Like the time Alex skipped into a lamp-post, or when Sophie leapt wildly from Granny's sofa and went straight through the glass coffee table.

But... I am going to pass the torch now as I'm getting bored a little bit. I think maybe it's because of the seven hours sleep I've had in the last48 hours. But it was all worth it - I went to see U2 in concert last night at Twickenham and they rocked. And my ticket was free with work (my job has its perks) so it made all the more special and exciting.

So here are my nominations for continuing the meme:

Bug (don't give up! Here is some stuff to write about!)
Doug
Jenny
Number1hypocrite

That's it for this post. I have limped through my leg of the relay race, let everyone down by being the slowest member (Ha! Meme-ber!) of the team. But here it is, the baton. Do with it what you will.

When Good Technology Goes BAD

Last weekend I went to Oxford to visit my good friend Mark. One of the reasons Mark is one of my good friends is the propensity he seems to have to make me laugh. A lot.
For example.

The scene: Sunday morning. Mark's room. I was in Mark's bed. Yes, I know, but it's ok because he was on a futon on the floor. Anyway, that's not what made me laugh.
Alarm clock on Mark's phone: Beep beep beepy beep WAKE UP I am very annoying aren't I beep beep (continues in same vein)
Mark: Wha...? huh..? but..? (presses a button frantically)
Alarm clock on Mark's phone: (sullen silence)

Silence.

Mark: Zzzzzz
Léonie: (Elegant ladylike slumber)
Alarm clock on Mark's phone: (triumphantly) Beep beep beepy HA HA thought you'd got rid of me didn't you HA HA BEEEEEEP..
Mark: Just.. fuck it.. wha..? Motherfu.. (picks up phone. Presses snooze button.) Oh. That was RUDE.
Léonie: (through dreams of butterflies and rainbows [probably]) What was rude?
Mark: My phone just told me to snooze off.

Well. It made me laugh.

I had a lovely weekend. Took Monday off from work and hung out in Oxford, getting drunk and pretending that, like Mark, I was still at University and had just finished my finals. My favourite part was either the cheap cocktails, the croquet (which, as it turns out, I am shit at. I enjoyed it anyway. The true mark of a good sports person I think. Not caring that you're shit. Or maybe not. Whatever.) or the Sunday night thing with the live music. I had a fantastic time. So, Mark, thank you.

I am thrilled to be back at work though. I really am. Th-r-illed. I have discovered that if I ignore The Phone That Eternally Rings it is more annoying than actually answering it. I have also discovered that people don't like it when you follow them round the office for hours on end trying to tread on the backs of their shoes.

And also... actually no. That's all I learned. I want a cocktail and a short, lazy game of croquet, please.

Some things are worse than being Ugly.

Well. Aren't you guys all just LOVELY? Thank you for telling me I'm pretty (you didn't actually say that? Oh. Well, never mind, in my head you did and we ALL know that that is the important thing here). Maybe Euan will show us the pictures anyway, as to be quite honest I have no qualms about being mocked in public. Mock away!

Maybe, to clarify this, I should tell you about the Most Embarrassing Thing That Ever Happened To Me. Oh bejesus this was bad. I mean, worse than the time I was dancing on a bar in Greece and fell backwards into the bar only to be caught by some barmen and subsequently chucked out of the bar in front of all the uber-cool people I was dancing with. Or the time I walked past a hot guy who was sitting at a table, trying to be cool and nonchalant but also simultaneously all sexy, only to have a girl run up to me a second later to tell me I had blood all over the back of my skirt. Or the time I worked in a banana factory in Australia (just don't even ask) and was shouted at in front of many, many people by the staff manager who told me I was incompetent and couldn't even pack a box of bananas correctly because ARE YOU STUPID don't you know they should go in at at 45 DEGREE ANGLE otherwise they BEND (or something)?

So. Yeah. The setting for this particular tale is Paris. When I was 18 I lived in Paris for three months, working translating shit English to French and back again, just for the hell of it. Or maybe there was a purpose but it was always a little bit hazy to me. My last day of the three month jaunt was something, I felt, to be celebrated. And, to be honest I'd had enough of sitting in cafés on my own, wearing a black beret, reading Nietzsche, smoking Gauloises and generally looking a bit mysterious and French. I wanted to do things English style. Which, those of you who hail from abroad-y places, you may think means sipping tea and trying not to get any jam from our scones onto our floral Laura Ashley dresses, but this would be a misapprehension. No, English style means getting well and truly hammered. Ever read The Sun or some other horrible British tabloid? Yes? Then you know what I mean.

Anyway so I got hammered on God knows what with God knows who and went God knows where. Anyway I have recollections of weaving through crowded rooms (and it seems likely that I would've been weaving throught the empty ones, too) getting in cars with French men (it's ok, I was not alone, there was an American girl called Shannon there with me who assured me she was very sensible and would look after me. Although, in hindsight, the only word she knew in French was 'poulet', so I think we might've been a bit screwed in any situation involving "communication") and generally being a drunkard.

The next day. Oh holy mother of all that is good, pure, and French (contradiction in terms? You decide). I'd say I woke up, but I'm not sure that would quite be the term for it. I think that Consciousness popped into my inert body, had a quick look around and decided it had better places to be, so made a swift exit. This happened a few times until it stuck around long enough for me to prise open my eyes with a fork and wonder who the Hell I was and whether maybe I was actually in Hell, because this sort of pain surely must be accompanied by little fuckers with horns and red unitards stabbing me with pitchforks. I squinted painfully at the room, and yes, it was thankfully my own (I had a boyfriend at the time, and that would have been BAD) and the lump on my floor was not an alcohol soaked pile of clothes it was, in fact, Shannon.

Then I slowly creaked my head around (trying not to disturb the hoards of tiny people with cymbals, blackboards to scrape nails on and VERY bad tempers who I had to assume had set up residence in there) and had a look at the time.

I should remind you that this was the day I was leaving. After three months of living in one flat (with a very strange flatmate, but that's another story for another day) and what with the fact that my name and the word 'tidy' are rarely to be heard in a sentence that does not also involve words 'why the fuck can't she just be a little more', the packing part of the moving day debacle was a bit of a hurdle. Which is a little bit like saying that being in a cave 30 metres underground in the middle of the Arctic with only a pair of earmuffs and some vigourous star jumps to warm yourself up with would be a bit nippy.

There was stuff EVERYWHERE. My stuff. Like all the original stuff had suddenly started breeding and producing all sorts of new hybrids of stuff that was little by little taking over my flat, then Paris, and would shortly conquer the entire world.

I think must've stood up at some point, and waded throught the omnipresent stuff to the kitchen, and got myself some water. Shannon must've left. It's a little hazy. I started to pack (read: fling things wildly into various suitcases and bags) all the while necking water in a desperate bid to get my hangover to stop torturing me ruthlessly. I assume I got dressed. I may have showered but it seems unlikely. The flinging and necking (of water) and hammering on the eyeballs by hangover and low moaning sounds continued for a while, until a little thought that had been swimming around in my alcohol-soaked brain finally surfaced, coughing and spluttering.

My train. The one that was taking me back home to sunny (HA) cheery (double HA) London town. When was it? And how would I get there? And what time was it? My questions could be answered in quick succession. My train was leaving at 2.15pm. I had too many bags to get the Metro so I would have to call a cab. It was 1.30pm.

Merde.

I called a taxi. The man told me in a smug manner that he'd be there as soon as he could, but that it would take at least forty minutes to get to the Gare du Nord (the train station I needed to get to in ten minutes).

Right. Ok. So, all I needed to do, I reasoned whilst slugging down the water, desperately trying to control the waves of nausea and wiping away the vodka-like sweat from my pale greeny-yellow face, was get my stuff downstairs and wait on the street for the taxi, get into the taxi shouting 'allez allez' at the top of my voice, get the train, get home without incident, and die there.

Can you guess that might not have been what ended up happening? Yes? You have NO idea (unless I've told you this story before, in which case just pretend you haven't and don't spoil it for everyone else).

My flat was six floors up. There was no lift. It was a spiral staircase. I had two huge suitcases and a large bag. I was wearing a floor length black winter coat that I couldn't fit into my cases.

I ran down the stairs with one case, trying not to fall over and DIE, burst panting out onto the street, only to see my taxi pulling off round the corner. No, surprisingly enough the French are NOT known for their patience, or for their customer service. So, I ran back upstairs, called the taxi company to persuade the taxi driver with better tings to do to come THE FUCK BACK and pick me up. Back down the stairs with suitcase number two and large bag. Back up to get my handbag and make sure I'd locked the doors. Back down to see if the taxi had arrived. Back up to call and ask why the taxi hadn't arrived. Back up to hide the keys in the place I'd said I would.
Back down.

SIX FLOORS. Did I mention the SIX FLOORS? Spirally? Basically, take the worst hangover you have EVER had, put on a huge coat, and then run around in a little circle for about half an hour dragging really heavy things, and you still will have no idea of the torturous pain I endured. Oh, I know, it was self-inflicted, but that made it worse because my whole body was screaming "YOU! YOU did this! I HATE you!" and that made me all guilty as well.

By the time I got into the taxi it was 1.55pm. I just broke down. Through amounts of snot and tears never previously witnessed, I explained my plight to the taxi man and asked him to DRIVE as FAST as he could to the Gare du Nord otherwise the poor little English girl (read: disorganized drunkard) would never make it home. I'm not sure whether it was out of pity, or maybe out of a fear that his cab would be rendered useless by the snot and tears, but he really put his foot on it. Which, in Paris, is a TOTALLY different thing from going fast in the UK or the US, or anywhere else. In Paris a lot of people have really shitty cars, even if they're very well off, because, quite simply, there is NO POINT having a nice car to drive in Paris. It will quickly get battered and/or squished by the hoardes of other cars going a trillion and one miles per hour and squeezing into spaces that most British motorcyclists would view as a bit of a challenge.
So, we flew across the city, my tears quickly replaced by a horrified expression as we ducked and dove through the jammed streets and, miraculously screeched up to the station in one piece.

Time check. 2.10pm. A fucking miracle.

I leapt out of the cab, heaving my bags out, paying the driver and casting wildly around for some indication of where to go and necking a little more water. I saw the signs for the Eurostar and followed them, dragging my three huge bags along with me. Now, the Gare du Nord is absolutely HUGE. Cavernous. As I attempted to run through the massive station, pulling my bags along behind me, trying not to trip over my coat and bump into any of the hundreds of people who constituted the seemingly endless throng, I began to feel VERY VERY nauseous.
I don't know whether it was
a) the alcohol
b) the lack of sleep
c) the frenzied packing
d) the running up and down six flights of spiral stairs five times
e) the wearing of an inappropriately heavy and long winter coat
f) the million mile an hour taxi ride
g) the fear of missing my train and being forced to live with strange flat mate for the rest of my life
h) all of the above
but the nausea began to feel a little overwhelming. And then? A lot overwhelming.

Oh bollocks, I thought quietly to myself, whilst still running towards the Eurostar check-in desk.
I'm going to be sick.

So. Toilet, I thought. But I couldn't leave my bags and if I did go then I would definitely miss my train and I reckoned I had just enough time to make it as it was. Right. Next option. Bin. There was a bin about ten metres to my left.

I went for it.

I didn't make it.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen. I threw up on the floor of one of the largest train stations in Europe.
I just couldn't cope with the fact that I had just vomited in public, surrounded by hundreds of sensible, non-vomiting people who would, quite rightly, be appalled by my disgusting behaviour. So I just crouched down, put my head in my hands and sobbed. I couldn't bring myself even to look up. When you were little did you ever have that thing where you believed that if you wanted to hide from somebody all you had to do was scrunch your eyes together really tightly and they wouldn't be able to see you? I think that must've been what happened. I was so humiliated that I couldn't open my eyes for fear of facing the reactions of my fellow human beings who would have far too much decorum and self-respect to go around hurling in full view of, oooh, let's say at least four hundred people.

Somebody called security I think, because some burly French men came and sat me on a bench and asked me questions. I tried to explain that I HAD to get on my train. They gently explained back that, mademoiselle, of course you can get on your train. Or, at least you would have been able to had your train not already left five minutes ago.

Cue sobbing.

But fear not. The story ends well. The burly French men got me on another train leaving half an hour later. They cleaned up my vomit (oh God) and fed me a tuna baguette (which I promptly threw back up. Yes, in the toilet this time). They carried my stuff onto the train for me and generally helped me out. I got back to London. I sobbed some more. I slept.

So. That was a very long winded way of saying that I really am not in a position to care whether some slightly unflattering photos of me appear on the Internet. I have vomited in front of hundreds of people and watched as someone else cleaned it up.

There can be nothing worse. Unless you have some story to top it? If you do, please share it. I can laugh about that now, five years on. Let me laugh at you too.

Euan. Post the pictures if you can/dare. Do your worst.

If, however, you happen to be a Parisian, and by some fluke you have in your possession a picture of me, eighteen years old, wearing a floor length formal coat and cowering in a pool of my own sick, please do me a favour and destory it. The world just does not need that.

Hmm.. nice tits, shame about the face.

Think, Léonie. THINK. There must be SOMETHING interesting in your life that is worth talking about on the Internet whilst everyone around you gets on with their 'work' and talks to their 'friends'. I can't concentrate while that phone on my desk keeps ringing, I wish someone would pick it up, for fuck's sake. Do people not know I'm trying to be CREATIVE?

Oh, don't worry, I use the word 'creative' in the loosest possible sense.

I was advised yesterday that I should have a photo of myself on this site. Euan spent a LONG while taking photos of me with his digital camera, but apparently the Drunk In A Pub look isn't my best. We spent a long while doing this

Him: Ok, do... Sexy!
Me: Ok. I can do Sexy. Once a boy kissed me you know! And I've had sex. Yeah, Sexy I can TOTALLY nail (laughs at own joke).
Him: (Bizzarely not laughing as much. Humourless bastard.)
Me: (Sexy pose)
Him: (Takes photo. Inspects.) (Silence)
Me: Let me see! You know, because I FELT Sexy in that so... (inspects photo).. Oh. Ah. Not so much with the Sexy then.
Him: Er.. no. Possibly more with the drunk.
Me: But.. wha.. why aren't I Sexy? I FELT Sexy!
Him: You ARE Sexy. You're the most beautiful woman I have ever, ever seen and if we weren't such good friends I would want to marry you immediately. Oh, and also? You're funny. And cool. And have really good shoes.*
Me: (sniff) Well, let's try Happy. (Smiles)
Him: (Takes photo) (Inspects) (Pauses) Oh. Maybe we'll delete this one...
Me: I wanna see let me loo.. (inspects).. Oh. Why are my teeth funny? And my fringe looks silly. Oh (rends at garments) woe is me! At this rate I may NEVER become America's Next Top Model!**
Him: Stop rending at your garments. Right. You? Are ugly. And I? Am bored. Now drink your pint and shut up or I'll go and find someone with infinitely better shoes than you to talk to.


*Euan, if you're reading? We both know that actually you looked at me blankly and darkly muttered something about my 'personality', but I prefer my version and it's my blog so HA HA I will say what I like.
**This is a joke. Of course I will.

So. In short? No photo. I am, gentle reader, whatever you want me to be. And for my part I would like you to know that, in my mind you are all wearing naughty nun costumes and bear a striking resemblance to Hugo from Four Weddings and a Funeral.

I have to go now because, apparently I am supposed to pick up my phone, and in even more shocking news, EARN my money! Yes. My life is so HARD. Send me wine. Or plastic surgery vouchers. Or maybe (you cheap bastard) a paper bag with some holes cut for my eyes.

(sob)

She sheepishly returns..

Oh! HI! There you are. Do you know what? I just wandered off for a while and got all cyber-lost so I couldn't post. Also I tried out the 'real' world for a bit. And do you know what I discovered? It sucks. Don't bother is my advice. Although to be perfectly honest my advice may be sometimes a little off the mark. (Seriously. I taught George W everything he knows.)

I was just up to stuff, like, you know, things. Nothing THAT exciting. Well, I got my nose re-piereced, and it bled all over my face all day yesterday. It was quite fun because, even though it REALLY didn't hurt, I adopted a mournful expression so that people would feel sorry for me and buy me chocolate, or maybe plasters. The tube was fun. I could tell people just wanted me AWAY from them pretty darned sharpish. I responded (naturally) by rubbing my face up and down their entire horrifiedly inert body and doing an elaborate dance involving some red handkerchiefs (to symbolize the blood, see).

Crossing the road was fun. Drivers appeared to speed up when they saw me about to step out, as if they were thinking, well, she's obviously been in one horrific accident today, let's finish her off. Anyway. Underneath the gore the little stud looks very lovely, thank you very much.

I'm just so tired. That's the real reason I haven't been writing. I can't really sleep. Except for right now. Right now I feel like I could REALLY sleep. But right now also happens to be one of those times when sleep would be Frowned Upon. Not that I blog at work or anything. Just so we're clear on that. But you can tell I'm tired right? Because of the. Short sentences?

I'll think off something good, I promise. Don't hate me, or get too bored or throw me into your cyber trash with a resounding ring. I'll won't let you down! Starting tomorrow I'll be your best friend. We'll have friendship bands and pass notes and swap the contents of our lunch boxes.

But first I think I'll just have a little nap right here on my keyboard..hduwajf;agfeadbjah...zzzzzzz.....

It's all fun and games.

This'll be a quick one because I am VERY busy and important and my time is like single, attractive, funny non-fucked up men. Very rare.

The gig I went to last night with Chris ( and his friends Matt and David) was AMAZING.
Say it like this A. MAY. ZZZING. No, out loud. Go on you shy little minx, right out loud with gusto.
Good.
That was how it was.
Great atmosphere, great music. We loved it.
It was on a completely different scale from the previous night's entertainment, which I felt was a good thing because they were both awesome in separate ways. So I've had a fun week, what with the music-y bits and the seeing the friends-y parts and all. Which is nice, because I got some kind of odd news this week. Stuff that I knew, but didn't KNOW know, you know? And it was a bit strange. BUT it's alright. I'm alright. The fun of this week has helped me and for that I am grateful.

(adopts Forrest Gump style accent)

And that's all I have to say about that.

I am going to meet Paul after work for drinks. We will probably bitch and laugh and tell each other that it's cool to be different. I've also just found out Harry's coming too. Awesome.
Then I am going to spend some quality time with my precious, sexy new computer. Mmm... techie loving.

So, all and sundry, have a lovely weekend. Even if you're the people that make me go all Gump-ish, have a good weekend. Just don't come anywhere near me.

Seizing the day - all the cool kids are doing it.

You know yesterday? Yes? When I said I was going swimming after work? Can you guess what I'm about to tell you?

I should explain something really.. I'm sure that I am not alone in possessing two sides to myself. One side could, I suppose, be described as my 'conscience'. This is a part of me that is all pretty and nice, and dressed in tumbling linen gowns adorned with daisy chains. It floats around my brain saying things like 'do exercise, it's good for you and you'll feel so much better in yourself, especially if you get an early night as well' and then hums a pretty tune and skips away lovingly. Unfortunately the other side of me isn't quite so friendly. This part dresses in skin-tight leather, wears big, fat steel capped boots and carries a rather intimidating-looking whip. This is a part that goes around saying (in thunderous tones) "Don't be so fucking BORING! Drink some beer! Listen to music! Getting drunk and fat is the ONLY WAY FORWWRD. And you? Totally know it." And, as you may be able to work out, the latter part can TOTALLY kick the former's namby-pamby ass.

In short, my friends, I did not go swimming. No. My swimming costume and towel are tucked neatly and drily under my desk, where they will no doubt fester unnoticed forever. I went to a VERY cool gig at the Mean Fiddler with my VERY cool friend Steve and his mate Tom. To see this band. Yes, a ten piece Nordic band. They were fantastic and surprisingly hairy.

I drank the beer and ate the food and generally had a lovely time. Then stayed at Steve's so I am wearing the same clothes as I wore yesterday. Honestly. Sheer unadulterated CLASS.

Something funny happened to me on the way to this gig last night though. I was in Tesco's, just minding my own business at the checkout, when I kind of noticed the man at the till next to me looking at me. I left the shop and had started towards Picadilly Circus, when I noticed the same man walking about two steps behind me. He sped up and stopped me and we had the following interchange:

Him: Hi. This is strange I know but.. well.. are you doing anything tonight?
Me: Um.. hi. Well yes I am actually I'm going to meet a friend.
Him: Oh. Ok. Well could I take you out some other night then?
Me: Er.. no, thank you for asking though, I think.. well.. no. Thanks.
Him: Oh. Alright then. Bye then.
Me: Bye!

Now. This all looks quite sweet doesn't it? A stranger bravely asking out a girl he sees in the street on a whim? Yes, I agree. And when I read that little bit of dialogue I think, actually, that's quite charming really.

BUT. The thing was this. He had obviously been a bit peckish, so had popped into Tesco to get something to eat. And he had selected as his snack of choice, a great big pie. So as he was asking me out in this rather endearing fashion, he quite literally was doing it through a face full of meat pie.

I beg you. Tell me. WHY? Why pie? I mean, any chance he had with me just disappeared in a little puff pastry puff when I saw the, well, just the pie-y-ness of the whole situation. Strange.

So. The fun doesn't stop at last night. Tonight I'm going to see Beck in concert in Hammersmith with Chris. Much more of the fun-ness. I do like the fun-ness even though I know it's not a word really. I could probably deal with marginally less of the pie-y-ness though.

Aside from that it WAS nice to be asked out in that manner. Even if it is through a mouthful of re-constituted beef.

It may look like a post, but really? It's just words.

I have nothing to say. I haven't written anything since Friday, and you know why that is? It's because I have dried up. Not that I was ever particulary, ahem, free-flowing, but now? It turns out that I don't even have Funny. I am a shell of a human being.

Not that I haven't been having fun. I have been having fun. Cavorting and frolicking and the like.

But I tried to write yeterday, got halfway through and my brain just kind of went like this: meh. If a brain could shrug nonchalantly and stare into space, that's what mine would've done. And now it's just kind of picking at its nails and scuffing its feet on the ground and being VERY petulant. It needs discipline. A Firm Hand. So I will make my brain do Complicated Sums until it learns how to behave.

2542x44755 = ?

Brain: Alright, alright enough! I am an ARTSY type of brain. I do things like Pontificate. I Contemplate Important Things About The Universe. Sometimes I have even been known to Philosophicate. And make up words. But MATHS? I laugh in the face of Maths. I will behave myself.

So my brain is trying.

I will write a list of Things.

1. My new computer came. It's an iMac and it is pretty and SEXY and I am going to marry it. We will elope to Xfsatiztan, a little known country in the Middle East, and the only country to legally recognise the purity of the union between a Woman and her Computer.

2. I am tired today. I think it's because I stayed up most of the night whispering sweet nothings to my new computer/boyfriend/fiancé.

3. I am going swimming tonight. I know, I know. Rock and fucking roll.

4. I VERY nearly spent £90 on clothes before 9am this morning. I didn't in the end but it was a close shave.

5. I miss my little sister, who is in Paris and would DEFINITELY have been able to find some way of justifying buying two dresses before work on a Wednesday morning.

6. I had a really strange dream last night. About an ex-boyfriend mainly, but also all my friends were gansters and my Dad was trying to do an Elvis impression but couldn't decide which song to sing. My subconscious is actually less strange than my normal conscious brain. Concerning.

7. I just hurt my lip with my nail. Ow. I hate it when there's no one to blame but myself. I blame Tony Blair.

I so wanted to find ten Things to say but I will have to settle for a meagre seven because I suspect that secretly my brain is preoccupied with that sum from earlier on and is SEVERLY diminished in capacity.

So. How are YOU today? Are you well? Do you maybe have a secret crush on an inanimate object that you would like to share with the Internet? Do you blame Tony for my nail-sustained lip injury? Share.