SUCH a cop-out. I know.

Instead of a post today I thought I'd copy and paste some snippets of emails and some whole emails that I found whilst browsing through my hotmail inbox. It's an activity that cheers me up. Mostly. I have strange friends. I meet nice and strange people. And some not so nice. I am not going to write context. Or correct spelling mistakes.


'leonie am so hung over ihave to leave this sodding room, got in at foour threw up and have been doing sodding drama texts all day and im about to crumble. will email tomorow when head isactually on my shoulders not up my arse,miss you loads say hi to jen love kay xxxps can not beleive your a dinner lady!!! do kids spit at you??? xxx'



'I had to write to Tim to get your e-mail. He asked me if I wanted all of them or just yours, what a weard question. Why would I want to write to the other two girls, that's just plane old silly.
How was your diving anyway, I do actually hope you enjoied it. you were going to Brisbane, right. Then you should visit Harvey Bay and Frasier Island and Byron Bay. In Harvey Bay I would recommend Smuglers rest. The staff was very frindly and very laid back. I didn't go to Byron Bay because it was full due to the easter holiday. I'll have to go now, since i'm out of coins. It's a very strange system.
Maybe I'll see you later or -if I'm lucky- maybe not.
Love Kasper.'


'I hope it all went brilliantly and that you are a few short steps away from mega stardom, but in a cool-jazzy-soulful-funky kinda way rather than a Britney Spears kind of shitty way. You know what I mean.'

'I want to try and apologise for the way I treated you... All I'm asking for is your friendship, and for you to forgive me for treating you so appaulingly.' (Editor's note: HA HA HA your spelling is shit)

'Let me know please. Actually, no pleases, I demand that you let me know and that the answer is positive. The Almighty Lord of Beer and Merriment'


'Flicking through my little book I find your email address above a badly drawn picture of an eye and mouth and opposite a poem about shining light into men's hearts signed with a skull and cross bones.'

'i think it's very bad that i've been back in harpenden for five or six weeks now and you've insisted on living in london. i want lally and jenny time biatch! what about this weekend? we could meet in london for lunch or something if you are free? or dinner even?'

'Is she a loser because she cries or because she is dressed like a fairy and is dancing for your entertainment whilst, at the same time, being a dog?'

'I am supremely, mind-numbingly bored. Game?'

'And the denial that your ‘little nip’ was actually an action of stubbornness and evilness astounds me…you hurt me bad but I’m over it and I forgive you…it’s time to forgive yourself!'


Bit bored of doing that now. Thanks for saying nice things yesterday, by the way. I'm still feeling a bit funny. I had a bit of chocolate earlier, though, which seemed to help things a little. It was only a single chocolate out of a box, so it didn't compound the ohmygodI'msofat feeling. I had coffee with a friend this lunchtime, which also helped.

I wish I didn't feel so fucking rubbish, though.

Prescription: Chocolate Buttons with a light dusting of Prozac.

It's a cyclical thing, I think. Me getting all depressed, I mean. I feel all hopeless again. I don't know whether maybe it's made worse by the fact that I can have weeks of being fine, of being better than fine. For me, better than fine is such an empowering thing. I go through periods of feeling so powerful. Like I am untouchable. I look around me and see all my friends and my family, I am happy. I don't hate my reflection, I don't blame myself for every tiny thing that goes wrong in the world. I see success for myself, see happiness and light in my future. For weeks on end. It feels amazing.

Sometimes I wake up and this positive, powerful feeling has simply evaporated. Like it has stolen away like a thief in the night, in its wake there is a void that I am shocked and overwhelmed by.
Sometimes it happens more slowly. Last Christmas I was on a high, and then over a period of two months I went so far downhill that I couldn't remember what it felt like to get up in the morning without feeling an instant craving for oblivion.

It got to the stage of the panic attacks and the insomnia, of the cutting myself off from my friends, the self-blame and paranoia. The whole period ended in a way that was totally out of my control and strange. Things changed without seeming like they had changed at all. I was still in the same job, I still had the same goals and ambitions, I had the same clothes. I chatted to people at work about the same things, got on the same trains and saw the same faces in the same sandwich shops. Somehow things began to look up. I stopped having panic attacks.

Then something else happened and I plummeted again, then something else and I plummeted again. Then things looked up and then nothing happened and I plummeted again, and it was horrible because this time there was no reason.

And now I have woken up this morning, after weeks of positivity, feeling that void again. It's not as bad as last time. I have had sleep and I think that's why it's not worse. It's more wanting to run away and hide- bad than slash my arms to bits- bad.

Why? Perhaps two crime episodes in the last week haven't helped. Also some encounters with someone from my past have shaken things up a bit. Also I'm moving into a flat in Oval (zone two, south, on the Northern Line) in the next few weeks and I'm worried about money and the fact that committing to it means that I have to stay at my job, even though I'm now working with a producer on a project that looks like it has good potential for actually going somewhere. I am worried that I won't have enough money to buy Christmas presents. I am worried that all my friends hate me and that I have no talent and that I'm fat and ugly and I have some horrible secret that even I don't know about and that it makes me a really horrible person.

Hello. I am insane. Do not invite me into your home.

Does knowing you're insane make you any less insane? Interesting.

NO crime to report in the last 24 hours! And everyone dies of shock.

Hurray! Not for everyone dying of shock, no no no. Just for me not having accidentally witnessed any major drug busts or elaborate schemes to steal the Hope diamond, or falling prey to a international Crime Ring comprised entirely of dwarves and carnival folk who give their victims merciless chinese burns until the agree to sell their granny for crack. Or.. um.. something like that. No crime! For nearly 48 hours! It's a Thanksgiving miracle. Yes, no, I'm British and do not celebrate Thanksgiving, but it's an excuse for a miracle so I'm using it.

AND I went out on a date last night. AND there was wine! Hurray! There was also chocolate cake! Of which I ate the icing. It was a nice date, although I decided to wait before going all the way.By which I mean telling him the shit in the bag story from the other day, obviously. We went to Covent Garden and sat in a warm bar and, yes, it was nice. It was slightly disconcerting that he already knew loads about me from reading my website, but nevertheless I had a lovely evening. He walked me to my train and kissed me on the cheek and said that next time he'll take me for the whole dinner, not just dessert. Which, you know, nice.

And, in a smooth link-y manner, that links smoothly onto this:

The Friday Feast. Which is something Kelly always does and I thought I'd give it a whirl today, as well.

Appetizer What did you look like when you were a teenager?
I looked like I do now, but younger.
In my Early Teen Years I could never manage to keep my hair off my face, had lots of freckles and was quite tall for my age. I think I reached 5"5 at the age of 13 and remained that way. Although every so often I'll claim to be 5"6 to piss my sisters off, who are smaller than me and bitter as hell. Probably. Perhaps they are not bitter as hell and I made that up. They are small, though.
I used to be a skinny thing, all skinny legs and arms and everything. Skinny. Then: Oh! Hello breasts! You can stop growing now. Seriously, anytime. No, STOP! Oh. (Motherfuckers.) People would no longer describe me as 'a skinny thing'. Dammit.
In Léonie's Teens: The Later Years I looked like how I look now. Except that I didn't have this hunted 'everyone's out to rob me' glint in my eye. Ah, the age of innocence.
(gazes wistfully into the distance for a bit)


Salad Whose advice do you listen to?
Um. Really? Everyone's*. I don't necessarily follow it, but I do like to discuss things with people and get their opinions. Only if it coincides with my own, though. Obviously.
*Although there are a few people's advice I would dismiss pretty much out of hand. I would not, for example, go running to Katie Holmes for relationship advice. Nor would I request fashion tips from, say, this lady.

Soup Name a book you would like to memorize.
Haroun and The Sea Of Stories - Salman Rushdie.

Main Course How often are you sick?
I'm reading this to mean sick in the American use of the word - how often are you unwell - rather than the English one - how often do you vomit.
I don't think any more or less than the next person. I'm not someone who's always ill, like my friend Laura, who always has the 'flu or a broken ankle or a missing head or something. But neither am I someone who is NEVER ill, one of those 'ooh yes, I haven't been to the doctor since '86, and even then it was only to boast about how wonderfully WELL I am all the time' people.
And I don't vomit very often either. The last time I nearly did was when I had to clear entrails of mouse up after my friend Kate's cat brought them in as a treat. And then it was still only nearly.

Dessert Do you like or dislike change?
Oh that MASSIVELY depends, surely! If it's good change, like changing into a millionaire, or changing into a really nice dress or lots of change that actually makes up enough money to buy a lipstick then yes, I like change.
HOWEVER.
If it's bad change, like changing into a person with one leg, or changing into a blue nylon sack-dress with mould on it, or change in pennies when paying for a ticket with a massive queue of impatient people behind you, then, no. I do not like change.
Seriously, I think I'm the sort of person who is open to changes and fluctuations, but who likes to know what she's doing as a general rule.

And, um, that's it! What insights into my inner-workings we have all gleaned!

In other news that no one is remotely interested in:
-I am reading High Society by Ben Elton at the moment and I recommend it.
- I have three lip balms and two lipsticks in my bag at this moment. I'm not sure that's entirely normal.
- My skin is a bit dry, perhaps because it's REALLY REALLY CAPSLOCK-INDUCINGLY COLD outside.
- Euan, if you're reading this, thank you for your invitation to come out tonight, I would like to. Where are we going and will we be getting drunk and will there be cake because I had that last night and it was good.
- I am hungry. Why am I hungry? I shouldn't be hungry I can't afford it.

I have nothing else to write but I am feeling in an update-y kind of a mood so I might update later on.

Reverse this Curse. NOW.

Yesterday I returned back to the flat I am staying in. While Kate is on holiday. To feed her cats. For which I had to get spare keys the other day when my lovely, lovely bag and its contents disappeared in a puff of crime wave last Wednesday afternoon in a seemingly innocuous pub in old Camden Town.

When I approached the flat at about 11.15 pm I saw that the blue burglar light was a-flash flash flashing on the side of the house.

Oh.

Great.

I called Dan for advice.

We decided that I should go in the flat, but stay on the phone to him. That way, I figured, if anyone leapt out at me I'd be able to commentate in a pithy and entertaining way. Live fear! Hurray. Or perhaps Dan would be able to shout at them really loudly down the phone and scare them. Or something. Anyway I had to go in and it seemed preferable to going in without being on the phone. Dan put me on speakerphone so he could continue making his pies or doing some needlepoint or whatever he does when he's alone.

I walked through the flat, flicking the lights on. Nope. No evidence of intruders. Must be the alarm playing up. The cats were catting around my feet and they didn't mention any crimes of any sort. It must be ok, I said to the sound of pastry being rolled on the other end of the phone.

I mean obviously except for the gaping hole and littering of smashed glass where someone has kicked the window in. Apart from that it looks perfectly norma.... oh. Um. Ah.

I think I cried at that point. Through my sobs I came to the conclusion that the alarm had scared them away as soon as the window was kicked in and that they hadn't taken anything. The neighbour confirmed this, and said that the police had been and said the same thing. So all that I needed to do was secure the flat so I wouldn't get murdered in my bed. Which, yes I know, is a terrible thing to say, but this is London and shit seems to go down here and I am not taking any chances.

So I stopped crying and looked around for a bit of wood and some nails, whilst Dan said things like "Have a look around. Can you see a bit of wood and some nails?" and paused in his housewifely activities. (I'm going to stop with the housewife remarks. I'm only doing it because recently Dan made a pie and... and I don't know why that was funny but leave me alone I have very little joke material when I'm being robbed so damned much all the time.)

Anyway, I couldn't. Find any. So I did what any grown up woman of independent means would do in a situation like this. I called my Daddy. Who got into his car and drove for nearly an hour to come and put big hearty bits of wood over afore-mentioned gaping hole in wall so that his seemingly be-cursed middle daughter didin't get attacked in the night.

By the time he left it was 2.30 am, and by the time I was happy enough to go to sleep it was now, at work the next day when I am no longer a-frighted, just very, very tired.

I feel like this MUST be karma. Is this karma? What can I do to reverse this? Does anyone have any orphans I can smile pityingly at, and into whose grubby little hands I can press a shiny new shilling? Or a puppy with a broken leg that I can rehabilitate using just the power of my love and generosity of spirit? Or something?

Come on. ANYTHING.

This'll cheer you right up.

I wroted a little post about my weekend and then the computer went like this: HA HA I am all powerful and I happen to be in a bit of a bad mood so FUCK YOU I am just going to have a little sleep and oops! Were you writing something? That you hadn't saved? Goodness I am SO terribly sorry. (Snigger)

So I can't be arsed to re-write it.

I will sum up:

FRIDAY: In the studio with a producer. Singing. Had nice dinner. Actually I am a bit hungry now, but that isn't relevant to Friday so I won't mention it.
SATURDAY: Met my friend Chris, went shopping. I bought shoes for £9 and some gloves for £12. He bought me lunch and we walked up and down Brick Lane where the vintage shops live. We went to the pub and got drunk, went to his halls of residence and watched a film where Denzel Washington does something terribly brave and noble and people shed tears of first fear, then joy and admiration. As I recall we said awfully witty and derisive things about it, but it could not conceal the fact that we both wanted to see what happened at the end. Oh, and we had pizza. And wine. Then I got the tube home.
SUNDAY: Went to a housewarming party in West Hampstead. I had heard rumour of mulled wine and nice food, so I made an extra special effort to get there on time and managed to only arrive forty minutes late. I was not disappointed in the mulled wine and food stakes. (I'm still quite hungry, although it isn't relevant to Sunday either so I am still not mentioning it.)

So that's that.

What I REALLY want to talk about today is something I heard on the radio yesterday. Which is one of the funniest stories I have ever, ever heard. Usually I am not one to participate in stories involving this sort of thing. But. Oh this is good.

I was listening to Radio One yesterday afternoon, more specifically to the Scott Mills show. At the very beginning of the show Scott announces that he has received an email from a girl called Natalie, and that he is going to call her and try to persuade her to tell her story on air.

He calls her. Begs, pleads with her to tell her story. She refuses point blank. She says that the story is too embarrassing, that she has changed her mind and just cannot bring herself to talk about the experience she wrote to him about. Scott tries to convince her, offers to send her things, freebies, tickets, anything she wants. But, no. She just won't. He hangs up the phone, saying that he'll call her back and try again in twenty minutes. Which he does. And, much to his delight, she caves. This is what she said. Natalie's story. On live radio.

"I went out on Saturday night and met this guy. We clicked somehow, I liked him. We flirted, and by the end of the night we were together. I don't usually do this, but I went home with him. We had a great night, and I didn't regret going back to his because I really liked him and didn't think of it as a one night stand. I had to go into work on the Sunday, early, so I got up before he woke up. I went into his bathroom to get ready to leave, and I needed the toilet. Like, um, a, you know, number two. So I, um, went. But the thing was, I quickly discovered that the toilet wouldn't flush. I kept trying but it wouldn't. And it had started to smell. Really, really bad.
I kept trying to flush it, but it just wouldn't.
So I started to panic.
I couldn't face just leaving it there, stinking. I just couldn't. So I found a plastic bag that was lying there and, well, scooped it. I wrapped it in toilet roll, planning to get rid of it on my way home. So I made to exit, quickly.
I thought I'd just write a little note for him, so I found a bit of paper on the kitchen table and wrote a note, just saying I had a great time, I'd love to see you again soon, here's my number. I signed it with a kiss and left the house.
I was halfway home before I realised that I'd left the bag on the table. Next to the note."

I have not laughed so much for so, so long. Thank you, Natalie. Thank you. I bow to you.

"I had a great time, I'd love to see you again. Oh, and by the way? Here's a nice bag with some of my shit in it. Enjoy!"

Fucking genius. Made my whole week.

Wednesday Do-s and Don't-s

DO (Oh by all means, do):

- Take the day off work
- Go to London Zoo
- Take an attractive man along with you (who did call, as it happens)
- Look at animals (for which it is very handy to be in a zoo)
- Feel like the lions somehow KNOW that they are your namesake and also that perhaps if you were faced with one in a jungle-battle it would also somehow KNOW that you are an honorary lion and are not to be harmed.
- Not necessarily test this theory.
- Go to a lovely pub in Camden (The Edinboro Castle) (it's so lovely!) and have Irish coffee to warm up. Mmmm. (oh, the loveliness!) (because nice plush old-fashioned luxurious but trendy and sofas and Irish coffee and Irish man [Sarah: please stop laughing at me] [self: please stop with the parentheses thing it's not really funny no one likes it])
- Go out to Soho and get drunk

DON'T (take my word for this - I know you've got to learn your own lessons in life but TRUST ME I know what I'm talking about and yes this may be only the time that has ever happened so go with it - do it for me and I promise I'll stop writing rambling sentences that make no sense even to me):

- Have your bag stolen in aforementioned lovely pub.

(Intejection here. So, I'm in this pub at about 4.30pm. We'd been out walking around London Zoo and it had been one of those days in which the sky is ice-blue: sharp and beautiful. Autumn leaves thick and prolific. In short, a perfect day to be wandering around Regent's Park and then wandering around the zoo marvelling at thick snakes and laughing delightedly at monkeys. By four o'clock the zoo was closing, and we were freezing, despite my earlier grand claim that I 'do not really feel the cold'. [HA. I was freezing. I'm not sure whether maybe I thought that such a claim would be impressive. I know it isn't. Um.. anyway.] So we wandered down to the pub, this lovely, lovely place with fairy lights, rich sofas and an atmosphere that reminds you that to be alive and free on a beautiful autumn day in London, that is a good thing. We ordered two Irish coffees, I went to the toilet to check I didn't have lion shit all over my face or some other such disaster the likes of which would not surprise me at all. I did not. It was panning out to be one of those lovely days in which, even though there are plenty of opportunities to HAVE lion shit on your face, you don't, and life is good.

UNTIL. Oh ho ho.

I walked over to the sofa, took off my jacket and sat down.
THERE WAS NO ONE ELSE IN THE WHOLE AREA. NOT ONE PERSON AT ALL.
The nice barlady brought us our coffees and we wrapped our hands around them, tasting the rich whiskey taste through the coffeeness. And lo! It was good.
Well. I needed lip balm. I always need lipbalm and it was a sign of me having a nice time that I hadn't got it out of my bag as yet. I reached down for my bag, which I had placed by my feet.
I reached, my eyes not moving from that chap sitting opposite me on the sofa.
I felt around a bit.
IN VAIN, PEOPLE.
Oh how we laughed.
Because, and excuse me feeling the need to reiterate:
THERE WAS NO ONE ELSE IN THE WHOLE AREA. NOT ONE PERSON AT ALL.

Goodbye little phone with all my numbers and some lovely photos on you! Goodbye little cash card with access to my overdraft! Goodbye book I'm halfway through! Goodbye important and expensive items of make-up! And, oh! Goodbye as well to KEYS to the flat I am staying in while my friend Kate is on holiday so that I can feed her cats! GOODBYE TO ALL OF YOU!

Why HELLO ever increasing propensity to attract crime!

Fuck, is what I think I may have repeated once or twice.

So that was that. Lots of phonecalls later I had sorted everything out, but I was still money-less, phone-less, really-nice-bag-less, key-less.

So I did what any sensible rational person would do.

I got drunk.

So anyway, back to that list...)

- Get drunk, convince yourself that the chap you spent the day with doesn't really like you at all, and flirt ruthlessly with other men to make yourself feel better about your IMAGINARY rejection.
- Be a massive idiot who pre-empts rejection to the extent where you confuse and baffle someone who just spent the day with you.

I am SUCH an idiot, because, you know, it turns out he DID kind of like me and I am just a fucking fuckwit who is just silly. But, you know, it was alright in the end.

(IMPORTANT INFORMATION: This is NOT, repeat NOT a boyfriend situation. The person in question is not a permanent resident of this country and THAT IS FINE. [Have you noticed that I've now teamed writing everything in parentheses with massively over-employing the USE OF EMPHATIC CAPITAL LETTERS?])

But, yeah whatever. My bag got stolen. I fucked up with a man. My God both are just so massively surprising that my head has literally spun right off.

It's alright, though, I am laughing really. Through a two-hours-of-sleep-and-eighty-zillion-glasses-of-wine-induced hangover.

Oh, and while I'm here: Sarah, I hope your interview went well. I'd text you, but, well, you know.

You've just got to ask youself: Was it worth it?

Oh God.

Please send a bed to me.

I have had two hours of sleep and my head just fell off and rolled under my desk and I'm not sure I can reach it with my foot.

Coffee is my only friend.

I may be paranoid but I have a suspicion that rocking up to work forty-five minutes late, looking like I went to a trendy club/bar until three am and am dying inside isn't necessarily the way to make friends and influence people in a work-based situation.

Fucking wine. Curse you, Bacchus.

Oh, though, last night I got a round from the bar and the barman refused to charge me for it.

At the time it was nice, but now, in the cold light of hangover-induced paranoia it seems much more sinister.

A pity round, no doubt. He could tell I had to work in not-very-many-hours-time and felt sorry for me. Bastard.

My life is HARD today. TRICKY. Logic has gone on a little holiday along with its close friends, Sanity and Reason.

I had fun, though.

I wonder whether he'll call?

My wine glass of creativity is all dry today.

Instead of coming up with something original I have nicked a meme from the Lovely Miss Kelly. Yes, it's a cop out. Deal with it.

1. What time is it? 10.39 am
2. What is your name? Léonie Kate Higgins
3. Any nicknames? Lé (by FAR the most common), Lains, Lally, Lals, Sniggih (Higgins backwards) Sniggles, Higgs, Higgsie, Lay-on-me (it just gets FUNNIER the more times you hear it)
4. Mother's name? Ailsa
5. What is your Favourite drink? Non-alchoholic: Sparkling water or coffee. Alcoholic: wine (white or red or rosé depending on mood/situation)
6.(a) Tattoos? Yes. One on my lower back - my own design
(b) Body piercing? Ears and nose
7. How much do you love your job-scale of 1 to 10? My day job? Five. Or six on a good day. Nine sometimes, when there's wine.
8.Birthplace: Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire
9. Favourite vacation spot: Don't know. New Zealand I think. Or perhaps Greece.
10. Ever been to Africa? No. Would like to, though.
11. Stolen any traffic signs? Don't think so.
12. Ever been in a car accident? No.
13. Croutons or Bacon bits? Probably bacon bits.
14. 2 Door or 4 Door car? I don't really understand the question. Which would I be? Or which would I have? I don't know. I don't drive.
15. Salad Dressing? Yes, French dressing.
16. Favourite Pie? I... I don't think I have one. Dan made apple pie the other day even though he is a 23 year old man not a 55 year old housewife and it was really nice, so maybe that one.
17. Favourite Number? 56.
18. Favourite Movie? True Romance
19. Favourite Colour? Blue-y Green
20. Favourite Holiday? Ooh. Pre-uni travels. 6 months holiday? You can't go wrong.
21. Favourite Food? Either steak or jam doughnuts. Porbably not a combination of the two, though.
22. Favourite day of the week? Friday. Actually either Friday or Saturday evening pre-going out, at about 6 pm.
23. Favourite brand of body soap? No. I don't know. I've had a little think and I can't decide. Something that smells like fruit, probably.
24. Favourite TV show? I like things like Friends and Scrubs, but I also LOVE watching things like CSI or Without a Trace. Serious cop dramas. Or Murder mystery-types.
25. Toothpaste? Oh yes, very important. Oh, which type? Colgate Something or Other.
26. Most recently read book? Dress Your Family In Corduroy And Denim, David Sedaris. Brilliant. Am now reading Nights At The Circus by Angela Carter. I love Magic Realism, and Angela Carter is WONDERFUL.
.27. Favourite Smell? There's a certain men's cologne that sometimes I catch and it reminds me of being happy. I don't know what it is, though. I like the smell of freshly ground coffee as well, but I'm not going to say it as it's too much of a cliché.
28. What do you do to relax? Um.. Post on my blog? Read, watch TV. Go out with friends.
29. Favourite Fast Food? Do sandwiches count? Otherwise... I don't really eat fast food.
30. When was your last hospital visit? For me? Can't remember. Ages ago. Not for me, though, it was to take a friend to hospital to check in the psychiatric ward. Which, you know, was great. We had a great time. She's ok now, though.
31. Message to your friends reading this: What are you doing at the weekend? Shall we go out and get drunk?
32. How do you see yourself in 10 years? No idea. I don't.
33. What do you do when you are bored? Read. Or phone someone up and annoy them.
34. What presents do you enjoy receiving? Like Kelly, I would say that the best presents are ones that show that someone has really thought about it and got something personal and special, as opposed to just having spent the obligatory amount of money and produced something run-of-the-mill and boring. I have been given some really shit gifts in the past, thoughtless and general. Not that I'm ungrateful, you know, obviously. I'm not really a spoilt brat, honest.
35. What time is it now? 11.15 am

Have a nice wekkend, y'all.

Um... I just wrote a little non-poem

I Have.

I have good
friends

I have a good
family

I have a good
heart

I have a good
mind

To
just
start

Being
a
little
bit

Happier.

I hate you, nature

I was going to say that if you're a boy you won't want to read this, but fuck it, I think you should know.

Periods are horrible.

They make me feel the following:

1. Teary
2. Tired
3. Filled with inexplicable wrath towards inanimate objects that jump out in front of me and bite me right on the shins
4. Snappish
5. Fat like a.. like a whale with a thyroid problem
6. Confused and dizzy and unable to come up with similes that make sense
7. Despairing about seemingly insignificant things like making a list and it not coming to ten
8. Pain-y in the stomachular area
9. Pain-y in the kneecular area
10. Upset about things like not quite knowing what I want for lunch and having made up some words

Also I keep forgetting to do things that people ask me to do and then people ask me whether I've done them and I feel a bit scared that I haven't done them yet (the thing, not the person asking) and it all just gets a little bit much to cope with.


Being a girl is great mostly. I like it. But this? SUCKS. And it's EVERY FUCKING MONTH.

I am cross. Get in my way and I will beat you the hell up and then probably ask for a hug and frisk you for chocolate, sandwiches and the like.


UPDATE: I had pizza for lunch with my friend. Pizza! On a TUESDAY! Imagine. If my mother were not alive, well and at Whipsnade Zoo she would be turning in her grave. It was nice pizza, it had Italian meats (peperoni, salami, and parma ham) parmasan cheese, and then I may or may not have added an anchovy or two.
I can say with 100% certainty that I am not pregnant, but I may cannot use that same percentage with regards my sanity.
This has helped all points apart from number five, which is now the reigning point.

Unscathed. It's a miracle.

First and foremost: I AM ALIVE. I SURVIVED. All my limbs are in tact. I still have my head. Both eyes are firmly in their sockets.

So, I am alright.

PHYSICALLY.

However, I think the stress of last Thursday may have scarred me irrevocably. Let me tell you all about it.

THURSDAY: D-DAY.
10 am (Lie-in!)
Alarm: Beeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beep! Beepy-beep! Bee..? Hello? Hey! (takes deep breath) BEEEP!
Self: Wha...? But? Lie-in? WHY AM I STILL EXAHUSTED? (shakes fist at Heavens, Cruel Deities and the like) Sob.

Anyway, I got up. Trial One of the Day Of Tribulations.

Hung around. Stressing, sorting things out.
Doing things like making piles of things on my bed. Neat piles. Then accidentally putting something not relevant to the pile on the pile and then having to start again with a new pile. Then losing my phone in the piles and ruining the piles by throwing things around trying to find my phone and then having to start again with a new pile. Then placing some things in a bag, realising that I probably did not need my phone charger or Beatles coasters and starting again. In a new bag. I think I might've been a touch nervous.
This only went on for a couple of hours.

I managed to shower and do my hair and get dressed and stuff. The plan was, get to Mike's(guitarist) flat to go through the one original song we were doing, which, at the last minute was to be a song he's written for this film project we'd done six months ago. My song was not ready to be performed. I could have done it but there was no time to teach it to my band. I wanted to try but it was deemed too much. I was not bitter in any way. Except for lots of ways.

Anyway. The soundcheck was at three thirty. In The Marquee Club in Leicester Square.

3.30pm: In Highgate. This, for the uninitiated, is not The Marquee Club in Leicester Square. It's somewhere else in London.
Stress levels: fair to high.

4.15pm: In café in Highgate. Staring at clock with eyes wide open so as to deter un-grown up singing lady tears.
Stress levels: high to unfair.

4.45pm: Still in café. Got on the phone to gig organiser man. He told me not to worry. Be there by five thirty and you'll be ok, he reassured me.
Stress levels: fair.

5pm: Mike's flat. Just. Fuck. Tried to go through song. Also other song we hadn't rehearsed.
Although both Highgate and Leicester Square are on the Northern Line, we had a very, very heavy keyboard to carry, as well as my bag and Mike's guitar. It is about ten minutes from Mike's to the station. Also: hilly.
It was also at about the this stage that I realised that I had had WAY too much caffeine and was shaking and feeling a bit on the funny side. Not ha ha. Oh no. Funny peculiar.
Stress levels: High. A bit like the sky. That high.

5.15pm: Turns out, there are no taxis in London. We prepared to leave. I was carrying my bag which was heavy and Mike's guitar which was also heavy, one strapped across each shoulder. Hello, pretty little bruised shoulders and collar bone. Walked like marching marchers to the train station, me mumbling the words to songs between each sharp intake of breath, and Mike staggering behind, the keyboard acting as a big, heavy, metal sail. Which, you know, is always fun.
Stress levels: Having a little chat with some birds about how thin the atmosphere gets this high up.

5.50pm: Arrived at Marquee Club. Rush. We were rushing so much that all we needed was a couple of fur-trimmed hats and some existential boredom and we would've fitted smoothly into a production of The Three Sisters. Good Lord that was a bad joke, I am truly sorry.
Sound check. Fine. I was worried about the fact that we were only doing one original song and the other bands would laugh at us and call me names and be mean, generally. Voicing this worry provoked only laughter and variations on the "it'll be fine" theme from the band.
Stress levels: Beginning to shakily slip downwards like a child inching its way down a slide, clutching the sides with its be-mittened hands and using its feet to take little steps, so as to prevent full-slidage.

6.30pm: Sound check finished. Musicians decided, because they're musicians, that the best course of action to calm me down and make sure I knew the words was to take me to the pub and feed me beer. And, because I don't believe in arguing with men, I demured. We stood in the pub, me learning the words to songs and tipping Amstel down my throat, and the band just doing the latter. I got changed. I decided to wear the basque and waistcoat, but instead of the tight pencil skirt and heels I opted for the ripped denim skirt and boots, because it was much more of that sort of a night.
Stress levels: As alcohol levels rose, the stress levels reached a medium plateau and decided to hang around there for a while.

7.45pm: Decided we should probably head over through Leicester Square to the venue. Got there. Saw that about thirty of my friends were there. It was like a party, everyone chatting and catching up. I was so, so so very touched by the fact that so many people turned up to support me. It was lovely. There were friends from home and friends from uni and from work. As soon as I saw all my friends I did this: reeeelaaaax. It may not, however, have seemed like that to them. When I'm nervous I either talk loads and loads or not at all.
On Thursday I went for the hihowareyouthankyousomuchforcomingyeah
I'mnervousIdon'tthinkIknowthewordsandwhatifIfallovernadyes
mybandaretherethey'retheoneshangingoutbythestageyesthedrunklooking
onessoanywayyoulookwellIlikeyourhairdoesmymakeuplookokIfeelabitsickisthatvodkacan
Ihavesomeplease option.
Stress levels: trying to socialise added to the stress a little, but it was also lovely to see so many supportive people. So, still hovering around the plateau.

8.15pm: On stage. I was introduced by a guy who said that the experience of listening to me sing was like that of having a beautiful woman lick your ear. Which I took to mean that listening to me sing gives you a wet, slimy ear, but apparently he meant it as a compliment.
So the first song was Mike's song, which we did not really get a chance to practice. It quickly became apparent that neither of us could really remember it. Improvisation. Oh shit. Apparently you couldn't tell, which, you know, is a miracle.
Rest of the songs were good, and I could see my friends smiling, hear them cheering, see them nudge each other when I hit a particularly good note or did a little dance, which I suspect I did quite a bit. The dancing, I mean. I'm far too modest to admit to having TOTALLY NAILED all the notes in all the songs. BOTH my sisters were there, too. Hurray.
Stress levels: Way overtaken by fun, happy, holycrapIlovebeingonstage levels.

8.45pm: Left stage. Band seemed really happy with the gig, although they insisted that I had carried them. Whatever. They were awesome. I ran headlong into my army of friends, and proceeded to get hammered. I talked to some music type people as well, but mainly I got drunk and had a fun, fun old time.
Stress levels: Lower than a Hilton's morals.

Later That Night: Drunk. There may have been giggling.
Stress levels: Drowned.

I have more to tell you. About the four hours I spent in Topshop, Oxford Circus on Friday waiting for Impish Sophie Sister. About the Interesting Conversation I had with an Interesting Man in Topshop. About the Russian restaurant I went to with Euan and two of his friends on Saturday night which had a funny menu and a man with a electronic keyboard in the corner who entertained us by playing along to the demo tracks on his keyboard and thrilled us with his tie-dyed T-shirt. But I am all typed out and want to go and eat soup.

I hope you all had a nice weekend. I saw a grand total of one firework.

This does not merit a title. No, sir.

The main thing I would like to talk about is the one thing that I am so bored of talking about and thinking about that every time I start to talk/think about it I want to take up a hobby, knitting sausage dogs out of spaghetti, maybe, or walking grapes*.

*Sometimes I worry about how my brain works. Or, as the case may be, doesn't.

Yes. Of course. The Gig. What else could it be?

(world weary sigh, ill-befitting one so young and with such nice boots)

(I said boots)

(sicko)

It's a case of there being nothing else to do to prepare other than eat as little as possible for the next 48 hours so I feel all slim and sexy. Although I am much more of the 'keep your strength up' school of thought, mainly because it means I can eat biscuits. High strength with biscuits as opposed to slim and sexy with no biscuits. Sensible and wholesome, I am.

I am worried because of the following things:

- Look. LOOK! It's too scary for me. All I really want is a quiet corner and a book.
- What if I forget the words
- What if I get laughed at because I'm doing mainly covers
- What if I fall over on stage
- What if my friends have a rubbish time and blame me
- What if the rest of the band have a rubbish time and hate it and never want to play with me again
- What if word goes out how shit I am and the music industry hates me for ever
- What if my hair goes funny
- What if I accidentally try to make a joke instead of singing and it doesn't go down well at all

And loads of other bits and pieces and knits and fleeces.

It's so boring so I will tell you other things.

I stole a Diet Coke from Pret. I was sitting there and I had a sandwich and was reading my book and there was a can of Diet Coke that had been sitting there for an hour! Ish. People came and went and nobody took it and I thought HA! Fuck you, corporations! And nicked it.
I don't even like Diet Coke, but I'm drinking it in little sips, as I may not like the taste of watered down fake sugar, but I sure as hell DO like the taste of victory.

I have RED KNEE HIGH boots on today. They are flat, though, which negates the hookerishness of them. Probably.

It is 16.37. And DARK. Like night. Like my soul. Or something. Whatever.

I am drinking the (illegal) Diet Coke in bigger sips now. I definitely don't like it. But it reminds me of my best friend Jenny, who loves it and would swim in a big, big cup of it if she could, and if she could have a shower afterwards. It also makes me feel a bit rebellious and like a convict on the run from the law. Which I am not because I rarely steal stuff or kill people, and am always polite and smile at policemen, which, if you are wearing knee high red leather boots, sometimes looks a bit suspect.

I am staring at a massive signed framed photo of Kylie. I do this everyday. Then I eat biscuits. Oh, just so you know, the photo is in front of my desk, on the wall, it is not just a strange ritual.

The Diet Coke, and also this post, is done. I like neither, but have nevertheless finished both.

A funny thing.

Last night after I left work I was walking to Moorgate train station. I had my phone in my hand and I had been trying to call my friend to see how her day had gone, and had just spoken to my other friend to see whether she was getting the train back with me. Incidentally, she wasn't. Because she had managed to lock herself in her office and set off the burglar alarm.
Anyway.
I was walking, just walking along. I walked past this man. Average height, dark hair, quite good-looking, wearing a suit. I felt his eyes on me as I walked by, up and down, not a particularly nice feeling. I continued for a few steps before I heard a voice say
"Excuse me? Hello?"
I turned around and saw the man standing facing me, looking at me with a quizical expression on his face. As I looked at him he took a couple of paces towards me.
He spoke in a foreign accent, and softly, a little smile playing across his face.
"I know you. Yes? We've met before, I think."
"Er... no" I shook my head. "I don't think so. No, we haven't."
Another step towards me. "Yes. Yes, we have. In a bar. Where do you go out?"
I started to answer, but before I could say that, no we hadn't and I think I don't go to the same sorts of places as he did, I don't think, he stopped me.
"You have been out in the West End? Around Covent Garden? To pubs?"
"Well, yes, but everyone has..."
"Ah yes, you have, I remember you. We met. In a pub. I would never forget eyes like those."
Looking directly at my breasts, of course.
In my head I laughed the laugh of a woman who knows when she's being chatted up, but kind of doesn't mind because she's had a shit day and it's nice to be complimented, even if it is in a really, really cheesy way.
"So" he murmured, taking another step towards me, "what's your name?"
I responded to his questions, I flirted a bit. Because, well, you've got to admire the guts of the man. As it were. Not literally. Not like, "Why sir! What attractive intestines you have!". You know what I mean.
He asked me where I work, told me he was a banker, pausing for me to be impressed.
As anyone knows, the words "I am a banker" followed by a pause for impressed sounds from women is loosely translatable as "I am rich and if you sleep with me I will buy you stuff".
Anyway. I didn't sleep with him. Nor did I continue talking to him for very much longer. Nor did he buy me stuff. I should've at least hung in there for a key fob or an ice-cream, or something.

Paul called me a minute after to suggest a glass of wine and a catch-up, and when I recounted the tale to him, his reaction was to ask whether the man was English, and then when I replied that no, he wasn't, Paul said "Oh, well. There you go then.".

I had a little think, and I don't think I know ANY British men who would approach a girl on the street at six thirty on a Monday evening. I must admit I found it off-putting. I don't like being smoothed at, it disconcerts me. I like my men humble. Reverential. You know, kind of bashful.

No, I'm just joking.

Mainly.