Classy Scum

Everything is crunchy. The snow sparkles invitingly, making me wonder whether one could make snow ponies instead of snow angels, and what sort of contortion would be necessary for such a feat. Out of my window there are trees stretching up into the blue sky, gilded by the sun. Washing lines arch this way and that, leaning at precarious angles over the thickly covered garden.

I have a cork notice board in front of me, with white paper covering it like snow. Lists of things to do, people to talk to. Songs to write and late night brainwaves that in the morning seem to reflect just a mental dead calm. I have a bit of paper with a flight number and time scrawled in blue Biro. Ben is flying back from Nepal tomorrow, and I am dutifully going to meet his flight. I have spent some time trying to work out something amusing to write on a sign to hold up at arrivals, but all I can think of so far is some kind of lewd drawing, to embarrass him in front of all the other passengers. It won't be that embarrassing, though, as I am quite good at drawing.

I am relieved that he is coming back. Obviously I have missed him, etc., but also, in spite of my fierce making of friends and experiencing new things, I am beginning to hit a bit of a plateau. Initially it was terrifying, then brilliant. Now it's just, normal. I was worried about making female friends, but now I have some. Ones I text and have had coffees and drinks with, and one who even felt comfortable enough with me to ask me whether my breasts are real (answer: they are actually imaginary. This makes bra shopping easier). All this newness and adventure has been fun, but now it is all settling down a bit, and I have run out of things to make happen. Now I am just a bit (dare I say it?) bored. Ben can come back now. I have forged a bit of a life. A start, anyway. I love Manchester, and I hope that these things I have started will continue.

On Thursday I went to see Sam Sparro headlining a cabaret in the Manchester Academy. It was sponsored by Smirnoff and they were handing out all sorts of "wacky" paraphernalia: top hats, feather boas, fake eyelashes, transfer tattoos, large inflatable musical instruments. On arriving at the event we quickly had to make a choice between standing at the side sneering in a cool fashion, or just getting involved. My latent desire to be Sally Bowles quickly took over and I was soon flapping my eighteen foot eyelashes from beneath the brim of my hat whilst a willing young man pressed a large skull transfer tattoo onto my upper arm. Thea underwent the same treatment. Every so often her husband Nathan would appear from nowhere, having escaped the confines of the sound booth, and whisk her up in his arms, kissing her and spinning her around. At these times I smiled at them and danced with a little more solo mentalness.

I took loads of pictures on my phone. It was in my hand for most of the night until I decided to briefly attempt to be one of those people who can experience stuff without needing to document it for the sole purpose of re-living it on the bus the next day, and put it in my bag (which was on the floor).

A few hours later, Thea and I were back at their house. Nathan had to carry on working until the early hours, but Thea and I had jumped in a taxi, whereupon I had regaled both her and the lucky taxi driver with my best Sally Bowles singing. (The taxi driver said "cor*, you should be a professional singer, love!" Score! That's enough validation to keep me going for at least a month!)

*He didn't really say "cor!", but I put it in because I somehow feel that all taxi drivers should say "cor!", really.

Just about to go to bed, I was fishing about in my capacious bag, searching for my phone. Suddenly I was sunk by a familiar sinking feeling.

"Can you call my phone?" I asked Thea, wearily.

She did. Straight to voicemail.

Once again I have managed to lose my phone/have it stolen.

I have been relegated to my old (camera-less, old stickered) phone, which is disappointing. I have lost my numbers. I have lost all the pictures of Thea and myself peering up from beneath our fake lashes like coquettish inflatable guitar-sporting drag queens.

This week I have also been informed that I will not be starring as an elf this Christmas, due to being formerly employed by someone who doesn't understand that promising someone two days work and then retracting it is not good at any time of year, but over Christmas it is downright horrible.

So, £200 down on budget, I have been looking around desperately for pre-Christmas work, only to find nothing. So I have signed on. I am now, as my friend Kate put it, "very classy dole scum". Excellent. I am dole scum. I must nip down the shop to pick up a copy of The Daily Mail and ten B&H. (Middle class stereotyping? What? Where?)

Some nice stuff has happened. I have found another music project to get involved with, and have also heard that I get my pick of songs to do at my Very Exciting Gig at Pizza in the Park on the 19th December. My little sister is coming home from Paris for Christmas with her delightful French beau. Ben is back tomorrow. There is crispy snow on the ground and some tea to drink. I have to go on the dole for a bit, but I have been diligently paying taxes for the last five years so, yeah, I can cope.

Dole scum, yes, but classy dole scum. That's what's important.